“I am going to-morrow, with a guard of fifty men, to Patras in the Morea, and thence to Athens, where I shall winter.  Two days ago I was nearly lost in a Turkish ship of war, owing to the ignorance of the captain and crew, though the storm was not violent.  Fletcher yelled after his wife, the Greeks called on all the saints, the Mussulmans on Alla; the captain burst into tears and ran below deck, telling us to call on God; the sails were split, the main-yard shivered, the wind blowing fresh, the night setting in, and all our chance was to make Corfu, which is in possession of the French, or (as Fletcher pathetically termed it) ‘a watery grave.’  I did what I could to console Fletcher, but finding him incorrigible, wrapped myself up in my Albanian capote (an immense cloak), and lay down on deck to wait the worst.[129] I have learnt to philosophise in my travels, and if I had not, complaint was useless.  Luckily the wind abated and only drove us on the coast of Suli, on the main land, where we landed, and proceeded, by the help of the natives, to Prevesa again; but I shall not trust Turkish sailors in future, though the Pacha had ordered one of his own galliots to take me to Patras.  I am therefore going as far as Missolonghi by land, and there have only to cross a small gulf to get to Patras.

“Fletcher’s next epistle will be full of marvels:  we were one night lost for nine hours in the mountains in a thunder-storm,[130] and since nearly wrecked.  In both cases Fletcher was sorely bewildered, from apprehensions of famine and banditti in the first, and drowning in the second instance.  His eyes were a little hurt by the lightning, or crying (I don’t know which), but are now recovered.  When you write, address to me at Mr. Strane’s, English consul, Patras, Morea.

“I could tell you I know not how many incidents that I think would amuse you, but they crowd on my mind as much as they would swell my paper, and I can neither arrange them in the one, nor put them down on the other except in the greatest confusion.  I like the Albanians much; they are not all Turks; some tribes are Christians.  But their religion makes little difference in their manner or conduct.  They are esteemed the best troops in the Turkish service.  I lived on my route, two days at once, and three days again in a barrack at Salora, and never found soldiers so tolerable, though I have been in the garrisons of Gibraltar and Malta, and seen Spanish, French, Sicilian, and British troops in abundance.  I have had nothing stolen, and was always welcome to their provision and milk.  Not a week ago an Albanian chief, (every village has its chief, who is called Primate,) after helping us out of the Turkish galley in her distress, feeding us, and lodging my suite, consisting of Fletcher, a Greek, two Athenians, a Greek priest, and my companion, Mr. Hobhouse, refused any compensation but a written paper stating that I was well received; and when I pressed him to accept a few sequins, ‘No,’ he replied; ‘I wish you to love me, not to pay me.’  These are his words.