Lips, I bequeath thee to a Carnificiall reward, where a hempen Rope will soon dispatch thy snarling slander, and free my toylesome Travailes and now painefull Labours, from the deadly Poyson of thy sharpe edged calumnies, and so goe hang thy selfe; for I neither will respect thy Love, nor regard thy Malice: and shall ever and alwayes remaine,
To the Courteous still Observant:
And to the Criticall Knave as he deserveth.
WM. LITHGOW
The Prologue to the Reader, from William Lithgow’s The Totall Discourse of the Rare Adventures, and Painefull Peregrinations of long nineteene yeares Travailes from Scotland … etc. ed. 1640. Lithgow has recently been republished, so I have included none of his travels; however, he says what so many travellers feel on meeting with a doubtful reception at home, and says it with so much force and ability that he must be included: furthermore, I had the good luck many years ago to pick up a battered copy of the 1640 edition for fourpence, so I feel that I have a certain property in him.
There are some men, who will scarce believe anything but what they see, and at the same time will not stir an inch from home to be inform’d.
These sort of creatures are not to be satisfied as to the credibility of any thing beyond their own capacities. But for those who only seek a reasonable testimony and probability to believe things …
(THE TRANSLATOR OF HAMEL, A DUTCHMAN WRECKED OFF KOREA, 1653)
A JOURNEY THROUGH THE CRIMEA TO CONSTANTINOPLE
Lady Craven was the daughter of the fourth Earl of Berkeley; she was born in 1750, and in 1767 she was married to William Craven, afterwards the sixth Earl of Craven.
She and her husband did not agree; in 1780, after she had borne six children, they separated and Lady Craven left England. In the following years she travelled extensively: in a series of letters to her great friend the Margrave of Anspach she described France, Italy, Austria, Poland, Russia, Turkey and Greece, which she visited in turn. She published the letters in London in 1789.
Lord Craven died in 1791, and Lady Craven married the Margrave, whose wife had died shortly before.
From about 1777 until long after her marriage with the Margrave Lady Craven managed to attract a great deal of ill-natured scandal. Her beauty may have had as much to do with this as anything else, although it must be allowed that she was uncommonly indiscreet: she was exceptionally beautiful, as one may see from the portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds, Romney and Vigée le Brun.
Lady Craven wrote some plays and her memoirs. Walpole, who admired her very much, printed her comedy The Somnambule at Strawberry Hill. Her memoirs appeared in 1826; if you enjoy reading the Lady Craven of the travels it is a mistake to read the Margravine’s memoirs.
Lady Craven died at Naples in 1828.
This extract is taken from A Journey through the Crimea to Constantinople. In a Series of Letters from the Right Honourable Elizabeth Lady Craven, to his Serene Highness the Margrave of Brandebourg, Anspach, and Bareith. Written in the Year MDCCLXXXVI. London: Printed for G. G. J. and J. Robinson, Pater Noster Row. MDCCLXXXIX. In order to get Lady Craven to her journey’s end it was necessary to cut quite a lot out of her account, particularly the extraneous matter, like her copied history of the Crimea. It was a pity, but without it she would have been too long for inclusion. In this case I have not put in the usual dots—the scars of editing—which point the excisions, partly because they spoil the continuity of the text, which I have endeavoured to preserve, and partly because they would conflict very much with Lady Craven’s own system of punctuation.
VIENNA, DECEMBER 14, 1785
I CAME, as I told you I was advised, by a new road; but I should imagine from the difficulties I met with it was the worst,—It is true, some of them were owing to rivers, which, swelled by the late rains, are become torrents which have carried whole villages and many miles of the road before them—
I set out from Venice on the 30th of last month, going by water to Mestre, where my coach and horses met me—
Trevisa, which is the place I next slept at, I arrived at with much difficulty; my coach drawn with ten horses and four oxen—and you can form to yourself no idea of the obstinacy, and provoking phlegm of a German postillion or postmaster—At one place, tired of the snail-like pace I went, I hired a traineau of a peasant, and went on before my carriage—It seems there is an order at every frontier town in Germany, not to suffer strangers who travel without post-horses, to leave the town without staying in it two hours—this the German postmaster did not choose to tell me—nor did he refuse me another traineau and horses, but sat with two other fat Germans playing at cards, without deigning to give me any other answer than Patienza, to any thing I could say to him—when I recollect the scene of these three fat men playing at cards, their figures, and all I said in Italian to persuade the man and his patienza I could die with laughing; however, in about an hour, an officer came in; who looking at me some time, said, Parlez vous Français?—Mon Dieu, oui Monsieur, says I; and I found, the post-master’s deafness proceeded from his not being able to talk Italian very well, French not at all—so he took me for an impatient boy—and sent me to Coventry—When the gentleman called me Miladi, these three fat Germans deigned to look at me, for I must tell you that in this country, the respect paid to our sex is such, that it is enough for a woman to speak, she is obeyed immediately—and I had a traineau—and six horses for my coach ready in an instant. One night I slept at Klagenfurt, a large town, where one of the Emperor’s unmarried sisters lives—I am arrived here at last, through a very beautiful country; but must observe, that whoever wrote L. M.—’s Letters (for she never wrote a line of them) misrepresents things most terribly—I do really believe, in most things they wished to impose upon the credulity of their readers, and laugh at them—The stoves of this country, which she praises so much, are the most horrid invention you can conceive. The country people in Germany seem to fear the cold very much; the casements of their windows are double; and there being no chimney in the rooms, there is no vent for fumes of any sort—so that the breath of the inhabitants of them rests in drops of steam on all the tables, etc. and the stink and suffocating heat that assails the traveller’s senses when he enters any room, particularly where people are, cannot be conceived. I do not believe the German women, of the lower order, are very gentle tempers—for several of them flew into the most violent passions, when I opened a door or window—and shut them again immediately—My only resource upon these occasions was to go out into the yard—
In this town, the German ladies are handsome, accomplished, and civil to a degree you have no idea of; several of them, besides possessing many other languages, read, write, and speak English well; most of the Germans are naturally musicians, and I am sure a young Englishman, with good manners, may every evening here pass his hours in a circle of handsome and accomplished women of the first rank—I have seen no place yet I should so much wish my son to come to as Vienna—Sir Robert Keith assures me he has presented above four hundred noblemen and gentlemen, young countrymen of mine, and has never had reason to complain of them, while we hear and see constantly the follies of the Anglais at Paris, where they go to ruin themselves, equally with the Duchesse or the fille d’opera, and only to be laughed at.
The ladies are tall and fair—more handsome than pretty—There is a great supper at Prince Galitzin’s every Sunday night; and at Prince Par’s every Monday; the first is the Russian minister, who does great honour to his court, by his sense and politeness here—
P.S. I cannot help adding, that the questions asked travellers by the guards at the frontier towns are most ridiculous—are you married or not?—Do you travel for your pleasure or upon business?—Your name and quality?—It put me in mind of a