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by Isabel Lady Burton & W. H. Wilkins

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Title: The Romance of Isabel Lady Burton Volume II

Author: Isabel Lady Burton & W. H. Wilkins

Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6402]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on December 5, 2002]
[Date last updated: December 28, 2002]

Edition: 10

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ISABEL LADY BURTON V II ***




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THE ROMANCE OF ISABEL LADY BURTON VOL. II.

    The Story of Her Life

   Told In Part by HERSELF
 and In Part by W. H. WILKINS



VOLUME TWO.


CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

  BOOK II. (Continued).

    CHAPTER.

       XI.    IN AND ABOUT DAMASCUS.

       XII.   EARLY DAYS AT DAMASCUS.

       XIII.  THROUGH THE DESERT TO PALMYRA.

       XIV.   BLUDAN IN THE ANTI-LEBANON.

       XV.    GATHERING CLOUDS.

       XVI.   JERUSALEM AND THE HOLY LAND.

       XVII.  THE RECALL.

       XVIII. THE TRUE REASONS OF BURTON'S RECALL.

       XIX.   THE PASSING OF THE CLOUD.

       XX.    EARLY YEARS AT TRIESTE.

       XXI.   THE JOURNEY TO BOMBAY.

       XXII.  INDIA.

       XXIII. TRIESTE AGAIN.

       XXIV.  THE SHADOWS LENGTHEN.

       XXV.   GORDON AND THE BURTONS.

       XXVI.  THE SWORD HANGS.

       XXVII. THE SWORD FALLS.


  BOOK III.   WIDOWED.

    CHAPTER.

       I.   THE TRUTH ABOUT "THE SCENTED GARDEN."

       II.  THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.

       III. THE TINKLING OF THE CAMEL'S BELL.




BOOK II.   WEDDED (Continued).


CHAPTER XI.  IN AND ABOUT DAMASCUS.  (1870).


    When I nighted and day'd in Damascus town,
    Time sware such another he ne'er should view;
    And careless we slept under wing of night,
    Till dappled morn 'gan her smiles renew,
    And dewdrops on branch in their beauty hung
    Like pearls to be dropt when the zephyr blew,
    And the lake was the page where birds read and wrote,
    And the clouds set points to what breezes roll.

                      _Alf Laylah wa Laylah_ (Burton's"Arabian Nights").


During the first weeks at Damascus my only work was to find a suitable
house and to settle down in it.  Our predecessor in the Consulate had
lived in a large house in the city itself, and as soon as he retired he
let it to a wealthy Jew.  In any case it would not have suited us, nor
would any house within the city walls; for though some of them were quite
beautiful--indeed, marble palaces gorgeously decorated and furnished
after the manner of oriental houses--yet there is always a certain sense
of imprisonment about Damascus, as the windows of the houses are all
barred and latticed, and the gates of the city are shut at sunset.  This
would not have suited our wild-cat proclivities; we should have felt as
though we were confined in a cage.  So after a search of many days we
took a house in the environs, about a quarter of an hour's ride from
Damascus, high up the hill.  Just beyond it was the desert sand, and in
the background a saffron-hued mountain known as the Camomile Mountain;
and camomile was the scent which pervaded our village and all Damascus.
Our house was in the suburb of Salahiyyeh, and we had good air and light,
beautiful views, fresh water, quiet, and above all liberty.  In five
minutes we could gallop out over the mountains, and there we pitched
our tent.

I should like to describe our house at Salahiyyeh, once more, though I
have described it before, and Frederick Leighton once drew a sketch of
it, so that it is pretty well known.  Our house faced the road and the
opposite gardens, and it was flanked on one side by the Mosque and on the
other by the Hammam (Turkish Bath), and there were gardens at the back.
On the other side of the road were apricot trees, whose varying beauty of
bud and leaf and flower and fruit can be better imagined than described.
Among these apricot orchards I had a capital stable for twelve horses,
and a good room attached to it for any number of _saises_, or grooms; and
beyond that again was a little garden, through which the river wended its
way.  So much for the exterior.  Now to come indoors.  As one entered,
first of all came the courtyard, boldly painted in broad stripes of red
and white and blue, after the manner of all the courtyards in Damascus.
Here too splashed the fountain, and all around were orange, lemon, and
jessamine trees.  Two steps took one to the _liwan_, a raised room open
one side to the court, and spread with carpets, divans, and Eastern
stuffs.  It was here, in the summer, I was wont to receive.  On the
right side of the court was a dining-room, when it was too hot to live
upstairs.  All the rest of the space below was left to the servants and
offices.  Upstairs the rooms ran around two sides of the courtyard.  A
long terrace occupied the other two sides, joining the rooms at either
end.  This terrace formed a pleasant housetop in the cool evenings.  We
spread it with mats and divans, and used to sit among the flowers and
shrubs, and look over Damascus and sniff the desert air beyond.

Of course this house was not the Consulate, which was in the city, close
to the Serai, or Government House.

I think the charm of our house lay chiefly in the gardens around it.
We made a beautiful arbour in the garden opposite--a garden of roses
and jessamine; and we made it by lifting up overladen vines and citrons,
and the branches of lemon and orange trees, and supporting them on a
framework, so that no sun could penetrate their luxuriant leafage.
We put a divan in this arbour, which overlooked the rushing river; and
that and the housetop were our favourite places to smoke on cool summer
evenings.

By this time you will probably have discovered my love for animals, and
as soon as I had arranged our house at Damascus the first thing I did was
to indulge in my hobby of collecting a menagerie.  First of all we bought
some horses, three-quarter-breds and half-breds.  Thorough-bred Arabs,
especially mares, were too dear for our stable, and would have made
us an object of suspicion.  In the East, where there are official hands
not clean of bribes, an Arab mare is a a favourite bribe, and I had many
such offers before I had been at Damascus long; but I refused them all.
Richard always gave me entire command of the stable, and so it was my
domain.  Living in solitude as I did very much, I discovered how
companionable horses could be.  There was no speech between us, but I
knew everything they said and thought and felt, and they knew everything
I said to them.  I did not confine my purchases entirely to horses.
I bought a camel and a snow-white donkey, which latter is the most
honourable mount for grand visiting.  I also picked up a splendid Persian
cat in the bazars, and I had brought over with me a young pet St.
Bernard dog, two brindle bull-terriers and two of the Yarborough breed,
and I added later a Kurdish pup.  I bought three milk goats for the
house, and I had presents of a pet lamb and a _nimr_ (leopard), which
became the idol of the house.  The domestic hen-yard was duly stocked
with all kinds of fowls, turkeys, geese, ducks, and guinea-fowls, and in
the garden and on the terrace and the house-top I kept my pigeons.  This
collection was my delight.  I cannot say that they were a happy family.
After a time I trained them into living together in something like
harmony, but it took a very long time.  I added to my family also from
time to time half-famished dogs which I had rescued from the streets, or
ill-treated and broken-down donkeys, which I purchased from some cruel
master.  In the course of time it became a truly wonderful gathering.

The animals in the East seem to me to be almost more intelligent than
those at home.  They certainly have a way of showing their likes and
dislikes very strongly.  When I first came to Damascus, fond though I was
of animals, I found that most of them shied at me.  I do not think that
they had been accustomed to an Englishwoman at close quarters.  For
instance, I went for a walk one day, and met a small boy leading a donkey
laden with radishes, as high as a small tree.  I suppose that I was
strange-looking, for at the sight of me the donkey kicked up his heels
and threw all the radishes about a hundred yards around.  The poor little
boy set up a howl.  I ran to help him, but the more I tried the more the
donkey ran away, and at last I understood by signs that the donkey was
shying at me, so I threw the boy a coin and retreated, and sent another
boy to help him.  We called to an old man riding a shabby-looking horse,
but the moment the horse saw me it did exactly the same thing, and nearly
flung the old man off.  My sides ached with laughing.  Fancy being so
queer that the animals take fright at one!

I think before I go further I ought to give some general idea of the
city of Damascus as it appeared to me.  I have already said that my first
sight of the city was one of disappointment; but when I got to know it
better its charm grew upon me, and I shall never till I die like any
place so well.  Damascus, as I suppose every one knows, is the largest
town in Syria.  In shape it is rather like a boy's kite, with a very long
tail.  The tail of the kite is the Maydan, the poorest part of Damascus,
but rich in ruined mosques and hammams, and houses which at first sight
look as though they are in decay.  But when we got to know these houses
better, we found that marble courts, inlaid chambers, arabesque ceilings,
often lay behind the muddy exteriors.  The city itself is divided into
three districts: the Jewish in the southern part, the Moslem in the
northern and western, and the Christian in the eastern.  The Moslem
quarter is clean, the Christian quarter dirty, and the Jewish simply
filthy.  I often had to gallop through the last-named holding my
handkerchief to my mouth, and the kawwasses running as though they had
been pursued by devils.  Everywhere in Damascus, but especially in this
quarter, the labyrinthine streets are piled with heaps of offal, wild
dogs are gorged with carrion, and dead dogs are lying about.  One must
never judge Damascus, however by externals: every house has a mean aspect
in the way of entrance and approach.  This is done purposely to deceive
the Government, and not to betray what may be within in times of looting.
You often approach through a mean doorway into a dirty passage; you then
enter a second court, and you behold a marvellous transformation.  You
find the house thoroughly cleaned and perfumed, paved courts with marble
fountains and goldfish, orange and jessamine trees, furniture inlaid with
gold and ebony and mother-o'-pearl, and stained-glass windows.  In the
interior of one of the most beautiful houses I visited in Damascus the
show-room was very magnificent, upholstered in velvet and gold, and with
divans inlaid with marble, mother-o'-pearl, ebony, and walnut, and there
were tesselated marble floors and pavements and fountains; but _en
revanche_, God knows where they sleep at all.  One of the ladies I went
to call on first was a very pretty bride, only a fortnight married.  She
was gaudily dressed, with about 2,000 pounds sterling worth of diamonds
on her head and neck, but the stones were so badly set they looked like
rubbish.  She strolled from side to side in her walk, which is a habit
very chic.

Notwithstanding her internal grandeur, Damascus is but a wreck of her
former splendour, albeit a beautiful wreck.  Ichabod! her glory has
departed; not even the innumerable domes and minarets of multitudinous
mosques can reinstate her.

I think I ought to touch on the bazars, as they form such an integral
part of the  life of Damascus.  Many of them were very beautiful, all
huddled together in a labyrinth of streets, and containing almost
everything which one could want.  I used to love to go with my Arab maid
and wander through them.  There was the saddlery bazar, where one could
buy magnificent trappings for one's Arab steeds, saddle-cloths embossed
with gold, bridles of scarlet silk, a single rein which makes you look as
if you were managing a horse by a single thread, and bridles of silver
and ivory.  There was a shoemaker's bazar.  How different from a shoe
shop in England!  The stalls were gorgeous with lemon-coloured slippers,
stiff red shoes, scarlet boots with tops and tassels and hangings, which
form part of the Bedawin dress.  There was a _marqueterie_ bazar, where
one found many lovely things inlaid with choice woods, mother-o'-pearl,
and steel.  And there was the gold and silver bazar, where the smiths sat
round in little pens, hammering at their anvils.  Here one could pick up
some most beautiful barbarous and antique ornaments, filigree coffee-cup
holders, raki cups of silver inlaid with gold, and many other beautiful
things too numerous to mention.  There was another bazar where they sold
attar and sandle-wood oil; and yet another where one could buy rich
Eastern stuffs and silks, the most beautiful things, which would make a
fine smoking suit for one's husband, or a _sortie de bal_ for oneself.
Here also you can buy izars to walk about the bazars _incognita_.  They
are mostly brilliantly hued and beautifully worked in gold.  There was
also the divan, where one bought beautiful stuffs, gaudy Persian rugs,
and prayer-carpets for furnishing the house.  There was the bazar where
one bought henna, wherewith to stain the hands, the feet, and the finger-
nails.  And last, but by no means least, there was the pipe or narghileh
bazar, which contained the most beautiful pipe-sticks I ever saw, and the
most lovely narghilehs, which were made in exquisite shapes and of great
length in the tube.  The longer the _narbish_, or tube, the higher your
rank, and the greater compliment you pay to your guest.  I used to order
mine to be all of dark chocolate and gold, and to measure from four to
six yards in length, and I never had less than twelve narghilehs in the
house at once, one of which I kept for my own particular smoking, and a
silver mouthpiece which I kept in my pocket for use when visiting.  I
cannot hope in a short space to exhaust the treasures of these gorgeous
bazars.  I can only say in conclusion that there were also the bazars for
sweetmeats, most delectable; for coffee, of which one never tastes the
like out of Damascus; and every kind of _bric-a-brac_.

No account of Damascus, not even a bird's-eye-view, would be complete
without some mention of the great Mosque, whither I was wont now and
again to repair.  When I went, I of course took off my boots at the
entrance, and put on my lemon-coloured slippers, and I was always careful
to be as respectful and as reverent as if I were in my own church, and to
never forget to tip when I went out.  The Mosque was a magnificent
building, with a ceiling of beautiful arabesques; the floor of limestone
like marble, covered with mats and prayer-carpets.  One of the  most
beautiful domes had windows of delicately carved wood, whose interstices
were filled with crystal.  There was a large paved court with a marble
dome and fountain; and there were three minarets, which it was possible
to ascend and from them to look down upon Damascus.  It was up one of
these minarets that the Duchesse de Persigny ascended, and when prayer
was called she refused to come down.  The Shaykh sent all kinds of
emissaries and entreaties, to whom she replied: "Dites as Shaykh que je
suis la Duchesse de Persigny, que jet me trouve fort bien ici, et que je
ne descendrai que quan cela me plaira."  She did not please for three-
quarters of an hour.  She also visited _cafes_ which Moslem women do not
visit, and shocked the kawwasses so much that they begged the French
Consul not to send them to guard her, as they were losing their
reputation!  But to return to our muttons.  This superb Mosque has
alternately served as a place of worship for many creeds: for the Pagans
as a temple, for the Christians as a cathedral, and for the Moslems as a
mosque.  Like Damascus, it has had its vicissitudes, and it has been
taken captive by Babylonians, Greeks, Persians, Assyrians, and Turks.

The Hammam, Or Turkish Bath, is another feature of Damascus, and was one
of my favourite haunts.  I first went to the Hammam out of curiosity, and
was warmly welcomed by the native women; but I was rather shocked.  They
squat naked on the floor, and, despoiled of their dress and hair and
make-up, are, most of them, truly hideous.  Their skins are like
parchment, and baggy; their heads as bald as billiard-balls.  What little
hair they have is dyed an orange red with henna.  They look like witches
in Macbeth, or at least as if they had been called up from out of the
lower regions.  They sit chatting with little bundles of sweets and
narghilehs before them.  An average Englishwoman would look like an
_houri_ amongst them; and their customs were beastly, to use the mildest
term.  The Hammam was entered by a large hall, lit by a skylight, with a
huge marble tank in the centre and four little fountains, and all around
raised divans covered with cushions.  Here one wraps oneself in silk and
woollen sheets, and after that proceeds to pass through the six marble
rooms.  The first is the cold room, the next warmer, the third warmer
still, until you come to the _sudarium_, the hottest room of all.  First
they lather you, then they wash you with a _lif_ and soap, then they
douche you with tubs of hot water, then they shampoo you with fresh
layers of soap, and then douche again.  They give you iced sherbet,
and tie towels dipped in cold water round your head, which prevent
you fainting and make you perspire.  They scrub your feet with pumice-
stone, and move you back through all the rooms gradually, douche you
with water, and shampoo you with towels.  You now return to the large
hall where you first undressed, wrap in woollen shawls, and recline
on a divan.  The place is all strewn with flowers, incense is burned
around, and a cup of hot coffee is handed and a narghileh placed in
your mouth.  A woman advances and kneads you as though you were bread,
until you fall asleep under the process, as though mesmerized.  When
you wake up, you find music and dancing, the girls chasing one another,
eating sweetmeats, and enjoying all sorts of fun.  Moslem women go
through a good deal more of the performance than I have described.
For instance, they have their hair hennaed and their eyebrows plucked.
You can also have your hands and feet hennaed, and, if you like it, be
tattooed.  The whole operation takes about four hours.  It is often
said by the ignorant that people can get as good a hammam in London
or Paris as in the East.  I have tried all, and they bear about as
much relation to one another as a puddle of dirty water does to a
pellucid lake.  And the pellucid lake is in the East.

Then the harims.  I often spent an evening in them, and I found them
very pleasant; only at first the women used to ask me such a lot of
inconvenient questions that I became quite confused.  They were always
puzzled because I had no children.  One cannot generalize on the subject
of harims; they differ in degree just as much as families in London.  A
first-class harim at Constantinople is one thing, at Damascus one of the
same rank is another, while those of the middle and lower classes are
different still.  As a rule I met with nothing but courtesy in the
harims, and much hospitality, cordiality, and refinement.  I only
twice met with bad manners, and that was in a middle-class harim.
Twice only the conversation displeased me, and that was amongst the
lower class.  One of the first harims I visited in Damascus was that
of the famous Abd el Kadir (of whom more anon), which of course was
one of the best class.  He had five wives: one of them was very pretty.
I asked them how they could bear to live together and pet each other's
children.  I told them that in England, if a woman thought her husband
had another wife or mistress, she would be ready to kill her and strangle
the children if they were not her own.  They all laughed heartily at me,
and seemed to think it a great joke.  I am afraid that Abd el Kadir was
a bit of a Tartar in his harim, for they were very prim and pious.

So much for the city of Damascus.

In the environs there were many beautiful little roads, leading through
gardens and orchards, by bubbling water, and under the shady fig and
vine, pomegranate and walnut.  You emerged from these shady avenues on
to the soft yellow sand of the desert, where you could gallop as hard
as you pleased.  There were no boundary-lines, no sign-posts, nothing
to check one's spirits or one's energy.  The breath of the desert
is liberty.




CHAPTER XII.  EARLY DAYS AT DAMASCUS.  (1870).


    Though old as history itself, thou art fresh as breath of spring,
    blooming as thine own rosebud, as fragrant as thine own orange
    flower, O Damascus, Pearl of the East!


As soon as we had settled in our house I had to accustom myself to the
honours of my position, which at first were rather irksome to me; but
as they were part of the business I had to put up with them.  I found my
position as the wife of the British Consul in Damascus very different
from what it had been in Brazil.  A consul in the East as _envoye_ of
a Great Power is a big man, and he ranks almost as high as a Minister
would in Europe.  Nearer home a consul is often hardly considered to be
a gentleman, while in many countries he is not allowed to go to Court.
In the East, however, the Consular service was, at the time I write, an
honoured profession, and the _envoyes_ of the Great Powers were expected
to keep up a little state, especially the English and the French.  They
had a certain number of Consular dragomans, or gentleman secretaries, in
distinction to the travelling dragoman, who bears the same relation as a
courier in Europe.  They also had a certain number of kawwasses, who look
like cavalry soldiers.  The Consulate at Damascus was then quite like a
diplomatic post, and I felt like a Minister's wife, and was treated
accordingly.  For instance, every time I went outside my door I was
attended by four kawwasses, with swords and uniforms much ornamented,
also a dragoman interpreter.  The duty of these four attendants was to
clear the way before and behind me, and I assure you it was far more
pain than pleasure to me to see mules, horses, donkeys, camels, little
children, and poor old men thrust out of the way, as if I were sacred and
they were all dirt.  How they must have cursed me!  I told my kawwasses
that I did not wish them to show themselves officious by doing more than
was absolutely necessary for the dignity of the British Consulate and the
custom of the country.  But their escort certainly was necessary to a
great extent.  When the common people saw a kawwass, they knew one was of
importance, and made way for one; otherwise a woman could not walk the
streets of Damascus without being molested: even the famished herds of
dogs seemed to know the difference between kawwass and no kawwass.  The
danger from dogs was that they collected and ran in packs, and you were
almost caught in the eddy of wild and half-starved dogs if you were
not guarded.

I hate pomp and ceremony of all kinds, except where it is absolutely
necessary; but in this case I could not dispense with it.  The French
Minister's wife was hissed in the streets of Constantinople because she
chose to dispense with her escort.  A Protestant clergyman's wife was
nearly struck by a Turkish soldier for brushing against him with her
petticoats, thus rendering him, according to his religion, unclean.
Besides, women in the East want a guard.  A missionary young lady who
came up in the _coupe_ of the diligence from Beyrout to Damascus had an
unpleasant experience.  A Persian, who called himself a gentleman, was
inside, and kissed her all the way up.  She, poor little idiot! saw no
way out of the transaction, but came and threw herself on Richard's
protection several days after, and there was an ugly row.  She had the
Persian arrested, and tried him.  If anybody had tried that sort of game
on with me, I should have made an example of him myself, and taken the
law in my own hands, whoever he was.  An escort was therefore necessary.
I can understand how some consuls' wives, sometimes vulgar, ill-
conditioned women, might get elated at this newly acquired importance,
and presume upon it until they became unbearable.  I found the lack of
privacy very trying at first, but I was anxious to bear it because I
saw that English influence at Damascus required lifting a great many
pegs higher than our predecessor left it.  The only member or our
English _noblesse_ the people had hitherto known in Damascus was Lady
Ellenborough, of whom more anon.

As soon as we were settled down I had to begin my receptions.  I fixed my
reception day on Wednesday; and it was no trifle, for the visitors came
all day long.  One native lady told me indignantly that she had been to
see me three times on my reception day, and had been refused.  I said,
"When did you come? and how could it happen that I had never heard of
it?"  She answered almost angrily, "I came at daylight, and again at
sunrise, and again at eight o'clock."  I said it was rather early; and
though I was an early riser, it was just possible that I had not made
a suitable toilet to receive her.  On my reception day the dragomans
interpreted for me.  The kawwasses, in full dress of scarlet and gold,
kept guard by turns, and the servants were engaged incessantly in
bringing up relays of narghilehs, chibouques, cigarettes, sweet-meats,
sherbet, Turkish coffee and tea.  My visitors sat on the divans, cross-
legged or not, according to their nation, and smoked and chatted.  If
there were Moslem women, I had two separate reception-rooms, and went
from one to the other, as the women will not unveil before strange men.
It was a most tiring day; for not only did people come all through the
day, but I was obliged to concentrate all my thought not to make a
mistake in etiquette.  There were many grades and ranks to be considered,
and the etiquette in receiving each guest was different according to the
rank.  The dragoman in attendance upon me would whisper until I knew it,
"One step," or "Two steps," or "Half across the room," or "The door."
I thus knew exactly the visitor's rank, and by what term to address him,
from the lowest to the highest.  Of course, in receiving natives, the
method of receiving men and women was different.  I advanced to meet
the women; we mutually raised our finger-tips to our hearts, lips, and
foreheads.  They then seized my hand, which I snatched away to prevent
their kissing it (it sounds rude, but it isn't; it is the essence of
politeness), and I kissed them on both cheeks.  I personally removed
their veils and their izars.  When they took their leave, I reveiled
them, and accompanied them to the door.  With the men I did not shake
hands: we saluted at a distance.  If my visitor was a well-bred man, he
would not expect me to rise, but would come and kiss my hand, and had to
be pressed two or three times before he would consent to sit down.  The
only man I was in the habit of rising for was the Wali, or Governor-
General of Syria, because he represented the Sultan, and he in his turn
paid me a similar respect.  When he left, I accompanied him to the door
of the room, but never to the street door.  Moreover, it was _de rigueur_
every time a visitor came that coffee, tea, or sherbet should be offered
him, and that I should take it with him and drink first.  It was a custom
with the natives, and I could not omit it; but when I first held my
receptions I found it a great tax upon me, and mixing so many drinks gave
me indigestion.  Afterwards I grew more wary, and merely moistened my
lips.  Another thing I used to do at my earlier receptions was to make
tea and coffee and carry them round myself, while the dragomans would
lazily sit and look on.  I didn't understand this at all, so I told them
to get up and help me, and they willingly handed tea and coffee to any
European, man or woman, but not to their native ladies, who blushed,
begged the dragomans' pardon, and stood up, looking appealingly at me,
and praying not to be served.  So I found it the easiest thing to wait
on the native women myself, though I felt very indignant that any man
should feel himself degraded by having to wait on a woman.

I must now mention three of my principal visitors, each of whom
afterwards played a large part, though a very different part, in
our life at Damascus.

First of all was the Wali, or Governor-General of Syria.  I received him
in state one day.  He came in full uniform with a great many attendants.
I seated him in proper form on a divan with pipes and coffee.  He was
very amiable and polite.  He reminded me of an old tom-cat: he was
dressed in furs; he was indolent and fat, and walked on his toes and
purred.  At first sight I thought him a kind-hearted old creature, not
very intelligent and easily led.  The last quality was true enough; for
what disgusted me was that Syria was really governed by dragomans, and
the Wali or other great man was a puppet.  For instance, if the Consul
wanted to see the Wali, he had to send one of his dragomans to the Wali's
dragomans, and they arranged between them just what they liked.  The two
chief men met each other, attended by two dragomans, who reported every
word of the conversation round Damascus.  These men easily made people
enemies; and the lies, mischief, and scandal they originated were beyond
imagination.  I have said that my first impression of the Wali was as of
a well-fed cat; but I soon discovered that the cat had claws, for he
quickly became jealous of Richard's influence, and during our two years'
sojourn at Damascus he was one or our worst enemies.

Another, and the most interesting of all the personages who attended my
receptions, was Lady Ellenborough, known at Damascus as the Honourable
Jane Digby El Mezrab.[1]  She was the most romantic and picturesque
personality: one might say she was Lady Hester Stanhope's successor.
She was of the family of Lord Digby, and had married Lord Ellenborough,
Governor-General of India, a man much older than herself, when she was
quite a girl.  The marriage was against her wish.  She was very unhappy
with him, and she ran away with Prince Schwartzenburg when she was only
nineteen, and Lord Ellenborough divorced her.  She lived with Prince
Schwartzenburg for some years, and had two or three children by him, and
then he basely deserted her.  I am afraid after that she led a life for
a year or two over which it is kinder to draw a veil.  She then tired of
Europe, and conceived the idea of visiting the East, and of imitating
Lady Hester Stanhope and other European ladies, who became more Eastern
than the Easterns.  She arrived at Beyrout, and went to Damascus, where
she arranged to go to Baghdad, across the desert.  For this journey a
Bedawin escort was necessary; and as the Mezrab tribe occupied the
ground, the duty of commanding the escort devolved upon Shaykh Mijwal,
a younger brother of the chief of this tribe.  On the journey the young
Shaykh fell in love with this beautiful woman, and she fell in love with
him.  The romantic picture of becoming a queen of the desert suited her
wild and roving fancy.  She married him, in spite of all opposition,
according to the Mohammedan law.  At the time I came to Damascus she was
living half the year in a house just within the city gates; the other
half of the year she passed in the desert in the tents of the Bedawin
tribe, living absolutely as a Bedawin woman.  When I first saw her she
was a most beautiful woman, though sixty-one years of age.  She wore one
blue garment, and her beautiful hair was in two long plaits down to the
ground.  When she was in the desert, she used to milk the camels, serve
her husband, prepare his food, wash his hands, face, and feet, and stood
and waited on him while he ate, like any Arab woman, and gloried in so
doing.  But at Damascus she led a semi-European life.  She blackened her
eyes with kohl, and lived in a curiously untidy manner.  But otherwise
she was not in the least extraordinary at Damascus.  But what was
incomprehensible to me was how she could have given up all she had in
England to live with that dirty little black--or nearly so--husband.  I
could understand her leaving a coarse, cruel husband, much older than
herself, whom she never loved (every woman has not the strength of mind
and the pride to stand by what she has done); I could understand her
running away with Schwartzenburg; but the contact with that black
skin I could not understand.  Her Shaykh was very dark--darker than a
Persian, and much darker than an Arab generally is.  All the same, he
was a very intelligent and charming man in any light but as a husband.
That made me shudder.  It was curious how she had retained the charming
manner, the soft voice, and all the graces of her youth.  You would have
known her at once to be an English lady, well born and bred, and she was
delighted to greet in me one of her own order.  We became great friends,
and she dictated to me the whole of her biography, and most romantic and
interesting it is.  I took a great interest in the poor thing.  She was
devoted to her Shaykh, whereat I marvelled greatly.  Gossip said that he
had other wives, but she assured me that he had not, and that both her
brother Lord Digby and the British Consul required a legal and official
statement to that effect before they were married.  She appeared to be
quite foolishly in love with him (and I fully comprehend any amount of
sacrifice for the man one loves--the greater the better), though the
object of her devotion astonished me.  Her eyes often used to fill with
tears when talking of England, her people, and old times; and when we
became more intimate, she spoke to me of every detail of her erring but
romantic career.  It was easy to see that Schwartzenburg had been the
love of her life, for her eyes would light up with a glory when she
mentioned him, and she whispered his name with bated breath.  It was his
desertion which wrecked her life.  Poor thing! she was far more sinned
against than sinning.

Our other friend at Damascus was the famous Abd el Kadir.  Every one
knows his history: every one has heard of his hopeless struggles for the
independence of Algeria; his capture and imprisonment in France from 1847
to 1852, when he was set free by Louis Napoleon on the intercession of
Lord Londonderry.  More than that Louis Napoleon was magnanimous enough
to pension him, and sent him to Damascus, where he was living when we
came, surrounded by five hundred faithful Algerians.  He loved the
English, but was very loyal to Louis Napoleon.  He was dark, and a
splendid-looking man with a stately bearing, and perfectly self
possessed.  He always dressed in snow white turban and _burnous_, with
not a single ornament except his jewelled arms, which were superb.  He
was every inch a soldier and a sultan, and his mind was as beautiful
as his face.  Both he and Richard were Master-Sufi, and they greatly
enjoyed a talk together, both speaking purest Arabic.

When I look back on those dear days and friends in Damascus, my eyes fill
and my heart throbs at the memories which crowd upon me.  When I think of
all those memories, none is dearer to me than the recollection of the
evenings which we four--Lady Ellenborough, Abd el Kadir, Richard, and
myself--used to spend together on the top of our house.  Often after my
reception was over and the sun was setting, we used to ask these two to
stay behind the others and have a little supper with us, and we would go
up to the roof, where it was prepared, and where mattresses and the
cushions of the divans were spread about, and have our evening meal; and
after that we would smoke our narghilehs, and talk and talk and talk far
into the night, about things above, things on the earth, and things under
the earth.  I shall never forget the scene on the housetop, backed as it
was by the sublime mountain, a strip of sand between it and us, and on
the other three sides was the view over Damascus and beyond the desert.
It was all wild, romantic, and solemn; and sometimes we would pause in
our conversation to listen to the sounds around us: the last call to
prayer on the minaret-top, the soughing of the wind through the mountain-
gorges, and the noise of the water-wheel in the neighbouring orchard.

I have said we smoked, and that included Lady Ellenborough and myself.
I must confess to the soft impeachment, despite insular prejudices; and
I would advise any woman who sojourns in the East to learn to smoke, if
she can.  I am no admirer of a big cigar in a woman's mouth, or a short
clay; but I know of nothing more graceful or enjoyable than a cigarette,
and even more so in the narghileh, or even the chibouque, which, however,
is quite a man's pipe.

I must add that when we were in the East Richard and I made a point of
leading two lives.  We were always thoroughly English in our Consulate,
and endeavoured to set an example of the way in which England should be
represented abroad, and in our official life we strictly conformed to
English customs and conventions; but when we were off duty, so to speak,
we used to live a great deal as natives, and so obtained experience of
the inner Eastern life.  Richard's friendship with the Mohammedans, and
his perfect mastery of the Arabic and Persian languages and literature,
naturally put him into intimate relations with the oriental authorities
and the Arab tribes, and he was always very popular among them, with
one exception, and that was the Turkish Wali, or Governor, aforesaid.
Richard was my guide in all things; and since he adapted himself to the
native life, I endeavoured to adapt myself to it also, not only because
it was my duty, but because I loved it.  For instance, though we always
wore European dress in Damascus and Beyrout, we wore native dress in the
desert.  I always wore the men's dress in our expeditions in the desert
and up the country.  By that I mean the dress of Arab men.  This is not
so dreadful as Mrs. Grundy may suppose, as it was all drapery, and does
not show the figure.  There was nothing but the face to show the curious
whether you were a man or a woman, I used to tuck my _kuffiyyah_ up to
only show my eyes.  When we wore Eastern clothes, we always ate as the
Easterns ate.  If I went to a bazar, I frequently used to dress like a
Moslem woman with my face covered, and sit in the shops and let my Arab
maid do the talking.  They never suspected me, and so I heard all their
gossip and entered into something of their lives.  The woman frequently
took me into the mosque in this garb, but to the harim I always went in
my European clothes.  Richard and I lived the Eastern life thoroughly,
and we loved it.

We went to every kind of ceremony, whether it was a circumcision, or a
wedding, or a funeral, or a dervish dance, or anything that was going
on; and we mixed with all classes, and religions, and races, and tongues.
I remember my first invitation was to a grand _fete_ to celebrate the
circumcision of a youth about ten years of age.  He was very pretty,
and was dressed in gorgeous garments covered with jewellery.  Singing,
dancing, and feasting went on for about three days.  The ceremony took
place quite publicly.  There was a loud clang of music and firing of guns
to drown the boy's cries, and with one stroke of a circular knife the
operation was finished in a second.  The part cut off was then handed
round on a silver salver, as if to force all present to attest that
the rite had been performed.  I felt quite sick, and English modesty
overpowered curiosity, and I could not look.  Later on, when I grew more
used to Eastern ways, I was forced to accept the compliment paid to the
highest rank, and a great compliment to me as a Christian, to hold the
boy in my arms whilst the ceremony was being performed.  It was rather
curious at first to be asked to a circumcision, as one might be asked
to a christening in England or a "small and early."

For the first three months of my life at Damascus I only indulged in
short excursions, but Richard went away on longer expeditions, often for
days, sometimes on business and sometimes to visit the Druze chiefs.  I
have said that our house was about a quarter of an hour from Damascus,
and whilst Richard was away on one of these expeditions I broke through
a stupid rule.  It was agreed that I could never dine out or go to a
_soiree_ in Damascus, because after sunset the roads between Damascus and
our house on the hillside were infested with Kurds.  I was tired of being
"gated" in this way, so I sent to the Chief of Police, and told him I
intended to dine out when I chose and where I chose, and to return at
all hours--any hours I pleased.  He looked astonished, so I gave him a
present.  He looked cheerful, and I then told him to make it his business
that I was never to be attacked or molested.  I showed him my revolver,
and said, "I will shoot the first man who comes within five yards of me
or my horse."  I went down twice to Damascus while Richard was away the
first time, and I found all the gates of the city open and men posted
with lanterns everywhere.  I took an escort of four of my servants, and
I told them plainly that the first man who ran away I would shoot from
behind.  I came back one night at eleven o'clock, and another at two
o'clock in the morning, and nothing happened.

When I knew that Richard was coming back from the desert, I rode out to
meet him about eight miles.  I did not meet him until sunset.  He said
he knew a short cut to Damascus across the mountains, but we lost our
way.  Night came on, and we were wandering about amongst the rocks and
precipices on the mountains.  We could not see our hands before our
faces.  Our horses would not move, and we had to dismount, and grope
our way, and lead them.  Richard's horse was dead-beat, and mine was
too fiery; and we had to wait till the moon rose, reaching home at
last half dead with fatigue and hunger.

Our daily life at Damascus, when we were not engaged in any expedition
or excursion, was much a follows: We rose at daybreak.  Richard went
down every day to his Consulate in the city at twelve o'clock, and
remained there till four or five.  We had two meals a day--breakfast
at 11 a.m., and supper at dusk.  At the breakfast any of our friends and
acquaintances who liked used to drop in and join us; and immediately
after our evening meal we received friends, if any came.  If not, Richard
used to read himself to sleep, and I did the same.  Of Richard's great
and many activities at Damascus, of his difficult and dangerous work,
of his knowledge of Eastern character and Eastern languages, of his
political and diplomatic talents, all of which made him just the man
for the place, I have written elsewhere.  Here I have to perform the
infinitely harder task of speaking of myself.  But in writing of my
daily life at Damascus I must not forget that my first and best work
was to interest myself in all my husband's pursuits, and to be, as far
as he would allow me to be, his companion, his private secretary, and
his _aide-de-camp_.  Thus I saw and learnt much, not only of native life,
but also of high political matters.  I would only say that my days were
all too short: I wish they had been six hours longer.  When not helping
Richard, my work consisted of looking after my house, servants, stables
and horses, of doing a little gardening, of reading, writing, and
studying, of trying to pick up Arabic, of receiving visits and returning
them, of seeing and learning Damascus thoroughly, and looking after the
poor and sick who came in my way.  I often also had a gallop over the
mountains and plains; or I went shooting, either on foot or on horseback.
The game was very wild round Damascus, but I got a shot at redlegged
partridges, wild duck, quail, snipe, and woodcock, and I seldom came
home with an empty bag.  The only time I ever felt lonely was during
the long winter nights when Richard was away.  In the summer I did not
feel lonely, because I could always go and smoke a narghileh with the
women at the water-side in a neighbour's garden.  But in the winter it
was not possible to do this.  So I used to occupy myself with music or
literature, or with writing these rough notes, which I or some one else
will put together some day.  But more often than not I sat and listened
to the stillness, broken ever and anon by weird sounds outside.

So passed our life at Damascus.


NOTES:

1. Miss Stisted speaks of her as "Jane Digby, who capped her wild
   career by marrying a camel-driver," and animadverts on Lady Burton
   for befriending her.  The Shaykh was never a camel-driver in his
   life, and few, I think, will blame Lady Burton for her kindness
   to this poor lady, her countrywoman, in a strange land.




CHAPTER XIII.  THROUGH THE DESERT TO PALMYRA.  (1870).


    Who is this that cometh up from the wilderness, leaning
      upon her beloved?

                                    _The Song of Solomon_.

    The oracles are dumb;
    No voice or hideous hum
    Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.

                                                MILTON.


Richard had wished ever since he came to Damascus to visit Palmyra, or
Tadmor, in the wilderness.  It is about one hundred and fifty miles
distant in the open desert.  His main reason for going there was his
private wish to explore, but it was also his official duty to open up the
country, now infested with hordes of wild Bedawin tribes, who attacked,
robbed, and killed right and left.  Several Englishmen had been to
Palmyra, but always with a large escort of the tribe of El Mezrab,
and Richard wanted to break through the system which this tribe had
of practically levying blackmail upon travellers, which often meant as
much as six thousand francs, as each man in the escort costs about 2
pounds sterling a head.  We decided therefore to go without any Bedawin
escort, to show that it could be done, and thus to throw open this most
interesting part of Syria to travellers.  At first a lot of people
wanted to join us in the expedition; but when it came to the point they
gradually sneaked away, and many of them wept and wished us good-bye,
and thought it madness.  Indeed, so much was said that I set out with
more than a suspicion that we were marching to our deaths.  But Richard
wished it, and that was enough for me.  He never permitted any obstacle
to hinder his progress.  He made up his mind to travel without the tribe
of El Mezrab, and he gave me the option of going with him, and I said,
as I always said, "I will follow you to the death."  It was rather funny
to find the excuses which people made for not going with us.  One had
business in Beyrout, another was ill, the third had married, and so on.
So when the day of departure dawned (April 1; I had been in Damascus
three months) our faithful friends dwindled down to two--the Russian
Consul, and a French traveller, the Vicomte de Perrochel.

On the morning of our departure we had a very lively breakfast.  As I
have said, it was our custom to let our friends drop in for this meal,
and on this occasion we found ourselves surrounded by every kind of
Eastern figure.  They evidently thought us mad--especially me.  My dress
was very picturesque, and I was vain enough to turn myself round and
round, at their request, that they might view it, which they did with
cries of admiration.  It consisted of large yellow button boots and
gaiters, and English riding-habit with the long ends of the skirt
tucked in to look like their Eastern baggy trousers, an Eastern belt
with revolver, dagger, and cartridges.  My hair was all tucked up
under the _tarbash_, and I wore one of the Bedawin veils to the waist,
only showing a bit of face.  The veil was of all colours, chiefly gold
braid, bound by a chocolate and gold circlet near the forehead.  Richard
slung over my back and round my neck a whistle and compass, in case of my
being lost.  I had brought out two first-rate horses, both stallions, one
half-bred, the other three-quarters; they were called Salim and Harpash.
An Arab was to ride one, and lead the second when I was riding something
else.  The first stallion would be good for travelling and fighting, and
the second for bolting, if needful.  I knew I had to ride erect half a
day at a stretch, which meant about fifteen or twenty miles.

We set forth with great pomp and ceremony; for the Mushir, or Commander-
in-chief, and a large cavalcade saw us out of the city, and exchanged
affectionate farewells outside the gates, evidently not expecting to see
us again.  This being the first day, we made only a three hours' march;
it cleared us of Damascus and its environs, and we camped early on the
edge of the desert.  I cannot convey to you the charm of a Syrian camp.
I shall never forget my first night in the desert.  The horses were all
picketed about; the men were lying here and there in the silvery
moonlight, which lit up our tripod and kettle; and the jackals howled
and capered as they sniffed the savoury bones.  People talk of danger
when surrounded by jackals, but I have always found them most cowardly;
they would run away if a pocket-handkerchief were shaken at them.  It
was the prettiest thing to see them gambolling about in the moonlight;
but after we had turned in a strange effect was produced when a jackal,
smelling the cookery, ran up round the tent, for the shadow on the white
canvas looked as large as a figure exaggerated in a magic lantern.
During my first night under canvas I was awakened by hearing a pack
coming--a wild, unearthly sound.  I thought it was a raid of the Bedawin
rushing down upon us, and that this was the war-cry; but the weird yell
swept down upon us, passed, and died away in the distance.  I grew to
love the sound.

The next morning the camp began stirring at dawn.  It was bitterly cold.
We boiled water and made some tea.  We hurried our dressing, saw the
animals fed and watered, tents struck, things packed up, and the baggage
animals loaded and sent on ahead with orders to await us at Jayrud.  We
always found it better to see our camp off ahead of us, otherwise the men
loitered and did not reach the night-halt in time.  We started a little
later.  The way to Jayrud was across a sandy plain, with patches of
houses here and there, and a village at long intervals.  A village on
the outskirts of the desert means twenty or thirty huts of stones and
mud, each shaped like a box, and exactly the same colour as the ground.
We breakfasted in a ruined mosque.  After that we started again, and came
to a vast plain of white sand and rock, which lasted until we reached
Jayrud.  It was about fifteen hours' ride from Damascus.  A little way
outside Jayrud we were caught in a sand-storm, which I shall never
forget.  Richard and I were both well mounted.  When it came on, he made
a sign in which direction I was to go.  There was no time to speak, and
we both galloped into the storm as hard as we could pelt.  The sand and
wind blinded me, and I had no idea where I was going.  Once I did not see
that I was riding straight at a deep pit; and though Arab horses seldom
or never leap, mine cleared it with one bound.  After that I was wiser,
and I threw the reins on Salim's neck, for his eyes were better than
mine.  This continued for three hours, and at last we reached Jayrud,
where we had arranged to halt for the night.

Jayrud is a large clean village in the middle of the salt and sandy
plain.  We stopped for the night with Da'as Agha, who was a border
chieftain, and a somewhat wild and dangerous character, though Richard
knew how to tame him.  His house was large and roomy, with spacious walls
and high-raftered ceilings.  While we were at supper crowds of villagers
collected to see us, and the courtyard and the house were filled with and
surrounded by all sorts of guests from different Bedawin tribes.  Camels
were lying about, baggage was piled here and there, and horses were
picketed in all directions; it was a thoroughly oriental picture.

An unpleasant incident happened.  I had engaged a confidential man as a
head servant and interpreter.  He was an Arab, but he spoke French.  He
was an exceedingly clever, skilful man, and Richard told him off to wait
on me during the journey, and to ride after me when needful.  When we got
to Jayrud, as soon as I dismounted, I took Richard's horse and my own and
walked them up and down to cool.  As soon as my man and another came up I
gave them the reins, saying, "After our hard ride in the sand-storm take
as much care of the horses as though they were children."  He answered,
"Be rested, Sitti"; but an unpleasant smile came across his face, which
might have warned me.  I ought to have mentioned that three times since
we had set out from Damascus he had ridden short across me when we were
at full gallop.  The first time I begged him not to do so, as it was
very dangerous, and the second time I threatened him, and the third
time I broke my hunting-whip across his face.  He merely said, "All
is finished," and hung back.  However, I did not think anything more
of it, and I went in and had my supper.  While we were eating, and my
back was turned, he threw the reins of my horse to a bystander, and,
drawing a sword, he cut the throat of the good, useful, little horse
which I had hired for him, and which he had been riding all day.  I
saw people running, and heard a certain amount of confusion while I
was eating; but being very tired and hungry, I did not look round.
Presently somebody let it out.  I rose in a rage, determined to
dismiss the man at once; but Richard checked me with a word, and
pointed out the unwisdom of making him an open enemy, and desired
me to put a good face on the matter till the end of the journey.
The explanation of the little beast's conduct was this.  He had really
wanted to ride a thorough-bred horse, but it was ridden instead by my
dragoman's brother, and his rage had been uncontrollable when he saw the
coveted animal caracolling before him.  Moreover, he had a spite against
me, and he thought that if he killed his own horse I should give him a
better one, by some process of oriental reasoning which I do not pretend
to understand.  However, he was, mistaken, for I mounted him after that
on the vilest old screw in the camp.

Next morning we woke early.  Mules, donkeys, camels, horses, and mares
were screaming and kicking, and the men running about cursing and
swearing.  In such a Babel it was impossible to feel drowsy.  I felt very
faint as we set out from Jayrud.  The salt marshes in the distance were
white and glistening, and the heat spread over them in a white mist which
looked like a mirage bearing fantastic ships.  We breakfasted at the next
village, Atneh, in a harim, the women having all gone out.  It was the
house of a bride, and she had hung all her new garments round the walls,
as we display our wedding presents _pour encourager les autres_.  When
the women came back, the men retired from the harim.  Atneh was the last
settlement, the last water, the last human abode between Jayrud and
Karyatyn--a long distance.  After this we had a lengthy desert ride in
wind and rain, sleet and hail, and the ground was full of holes; but it
was a splendid ride all the same.  The Arabs, in their gaudy jackets,
white trousers, and gold turbans, galloped about furiously, brandishing
and throwing their lances, and playing the usual tricks of horsemanship
--_jerid_.  We met a terrible storm of thunder and lightning, and
between-whiles the fiery sun sent down his beams upon a parched plain.
The desert ground was alternately flint, limestone, and smooth gravel;
not a tree or shrub, not a human being or animal, was to be seen.  The
colours were yellow sand and blue sky, blue sky and yellow sand, yellow
and blue for ever.

We arrived at dusk at the spot where we had told our advance guard to
pitch the tents.  We found everything ready, and after our horses were
cared for we dined.  That night for the first time we slept in our
clothes, with revolvers and guns by our sides.  The men took turns to
keep watch, so that we might not be surprised by a Ghazu, a tribe
of six or seven hundred Bedawin, who go out for marauding purposes.  The
Ghazis charge furiously, with their lances couched.  If you have the
pluck to stand still until they are within an inch of your nose, and ask
what they want, they drop their lances; for they respect courage, but
there is no mercy if you show the white feather.  We meant to say to
them, "We are the English and Russian Consuls travelling on business.
If you touch us, there will be consequences; if you want a present you
shall have it; but you are not to shame us by taking our horses and arms,
and if you insist we well fight."  There was a driving wind that night,
and I feared the exposure and hardship if the tents were blown down and
the fire blown out, as it threatened.  We could scarcely keep a lamp or
candle alight.  No Ghazis came.

We rose next morning in the cold, dark, misty, and freezing dawn.  We had
some difficulty in starting our camp; the horses were shivering, and the
muleteers and camel-men objected.  We had a long and lonely ride through
the same desolate valley plain as yesterday, banked on either side in the
distance by naked, barren mountains, and we were very thankful when the
sun came out.  We breakfasted at a ruined khan, and changed our horses.
Then we rode on and on, seemingly for an age, with no change; not a bird
nor a tree nor a sound save the clattering of our horses' hoofs.  At
length, when within an hour of Karyatayn, we got a little excitement.
On slightly rising ground about five miles off we espied, by the aid
of field-glasses, something which we discovered to be a large party of
mounted Bedawin.  We sounded our whistles, and our stragglers came in
till we all were collected.  I ought to mention here that from the time
of our leaving Damascus, stragglers had joined us continually from every
village.  Naturally the number of our camp-followers became great, until
we assumed a most formidable appearance, numbering nearly eighty in all.
As soon as our stragglers reached us we formed a line, and the opposite
party did the same.  They then galloped to meet us, and we did likewise.
When within a quarter mile of each other we pulled up, and they pulled
up.  We fully expected a charge and a skirmish, so we halted in a line
and consulted; they did the same.  Three of us then rode out to meet
them; three horsemen of their line then did likewise.  They hailed us,
and asked us who we were and what we wanted.  We told them we were the
English and Russian Consuls passing to Palmyra, and asked in our turn who
they were.  They replied that they were the representatives of the Shaykh
of Karyatayn, and his fighting men, and that they bore invitations to us.
They then jumped down from their horses and kissed my hand.  We were
greeted on all sides, and escorted in triumph to the village; the men
riding _jerid_--that is, firing from horseback at full speed, hanging
over by one stirrup with the bridle in their mouths, quivering their long
lances in the air, throwing and catching them again at full gallop,
yelling and shouting their war-cries.  It was a wild and picturesque
scene.  So we entered Karyatayn, went to the house of the Shaykh, and
dispatched a note to him.

His dwelling was a big mud house, with a large reception-room, where we
found a big fire.  There was a separate house for the harim, which
appeared numerous, and I was to sleep there in a room to myself.  Before
dinner, while we were enjoying the fire and sitting round the rug, a fat
young Turkish officer entered with an insolent look.  Thinking he had
come with a message from Omar Beg, a Hungarian brigadier-general in the
Turkish service who was stationed here, we saluted in the usual manner.
Without returning it, he walked up, stepped across us, flung himself on
our rug, leaned on his elbow, and with an impertinent leer stared in our
faces all round until he met Richard's eye, which partook of something
of the tiger kind, when he started and turned pale.  Richard called out,
"Kawwasses!"  The kawwasses and two wardis ran into the room.  "Remove
that son of a dog."  They seized him, fat and big as he was, as if he had
been a rabbit; and although he kicked and screamed lustily, carried him
out of the house.  I saw them give him some vicious bumps against the
walls as they went out of the door into the village, where they dropped
him into the first pool of mud, which represented the village horse-pond.
By-and-by Omar Beg came down to dine with us.  We all sat round on the
ground and ate of several dishes, chiefly a kid stuffed with rice and
pistachios.  After dinner we reported to Omar Beg the conduct of his
_sous-officier_, and he said that we had done very well, and he was
glad of the opportunity of making an example of him, for he was a bad
lot; and a Turkish soldier when he is bad is bad indeed.  He had
committed a gross insult against us, and it is always best in the
East to resent an insult at once.

Our next day was a pleasant, lazy day, during which we inspected
Karyatayn at our leisure.  We rested, read, and wrote, and made a few
extra preparations for the march.  I went to call on the wife of Omar
Beg, who was the daughter of the well-known German _savant_ Herr
Mordtmann.  She was living with her husband quite contentedly in this
desolate place, in a mud hut, and her only companions were a hyena and
a lynx, which slept on her bed.  The hyena greeted me at the gate; and
though I was not prepared for it, I innocently did the right thing.  It
came and sniffed at my hands, and then jumped up and put its paws on my
shoulder and smelt my face.  "Oh," I thought, "if it takes a bit out of
my cheek, what shall I do?"  But I stood as still as a statue, and tried
not to breathe, looking steadily in its eyes all the while.  At last it
made up its mind to be friendly, jumped down, and ran before me into the
house.  Here I found the lynx on the divan, which sprang at me, mewed,
and lashed its tail till Madame Omar came.  She was a charming German
lady; but her husband kept her secluded in the harim like a Moslem woman.
She told me I had done quite the right thing with the hyena.  If people
began to scream, it took a pleasure in frightening them.  I found this
out a little later, for it got into Richard's room, and I found him, the
Russian Consul, and the Vicomte de Perrochel all sitting on the divan
with their legs well tucked under them, clutching their sticks, and
looking absurdly uncomfortable at the _affreuse bete_, as the Vicomte
called it.

I had had a tiring day, and was glad to go to the harim that night and
turn into my little room.  But, alas! no sooner had I got in there than
about fifty women came to pay me a visit.  By way of being gracious, I
had given a pair of earrings to the head wife of the Shaykh, and that
caused the most awful jealousy and quarrelling among them.  I was dying
to go to bed, but they went on nagging at one another, until at last a
man, a husband or a brother, came of his own accord to tell them to take
leave, and upon their refusing he drove them all out of the room like a
flock of sheep.  Fortunately I had a bolt to my door, so that I was able
to shut them out.  My sleep, however, was very much disturbed, for they
kept on trying the doors and the shutters nearly all night.  They have an
intense curiosity concerning European women, and during my toilet next
morning I could see fifty pairs of eyes at fifty chinks in the windows
and doors.  It was really very embarrassing, because I could not tell the
sex of the eyes, though I imagined that they belonged to my visitors of
the night before.  Dressing as I did __en Amazone_ seemed to afford them
infinite glee; and when I arrived at the cloth nether garments of my
riding-habit, they went into shrieks of laughter.  However, I put a bold
face on it, and sallied forth to the square of the village, where I found
the rest of our party.  Our horses were being led up and down by the
soldiers; our camels with water in goats' skins, and our baggage beasts,
our camp-followers, and our free-lances, were drawn up on one side.  Omar
Beg accompanied us out of the village with a troop of cavalry, and
started us with forty dromedaries, each carrying two soldiers.  The
cavalcade looked very fine, and when Omar Beg took his leave of us we
were about one hundred and sixty strong.

We had a long day's march through the desert.  It was very hot.  We
went through a wild defile, rested, and climbed up a mountain.  We then
returned to the plains, and in the afternoon we saw a mirage--castles and
green fields.  We were late in finding our tents, and very tired.  Again
we did not undress, but slept with our weapons by our sides.

The next morning we set out again at 6:30.  We rode towards a mountain
in the distance, and defiled by a picturesque and dangerous ledge amongst
craggy peaks.  We had heard that the Bedawin knew of a well hereabouts,
and we determined to find it.  We discovered it, and so abolished the
worst difficulty which travellers had to undergo in visiting Palmyra.  We
rested by the well, which was full of the purest water.  When sitting by
it, we heard guns echoing like thunder in the mountains.  We thought it
might mean a Bedawin attack; but probably it was a signal, and they found
us too strong.  They were on our track the whole time.  After an hour we
descended once more into the arid plain, and rode on and on.  At last we
descried dimly the khan which was to be our night halt.  It seemed quite
close, but the nearer we rode the farther it seemed.  We reached it at
last, a fine old pile, deserted and solitary, which looked splendid in
the sunset.  Our camp by moonlight will ever live in my memory: the black
tents, the animals picketed, the camels resting, the Turkish soldiery
seated around, and the wild men and muleteers singing and dancing.

On this night, as on all nights, I had always plenty to do.  It was
Richard's business to take the notes and sketches, observations and maps,
and to gather all the information.  I acted as his secretary and _aide-
de-camp_.  My other business was to take care of the stable, see that
the horses were properly groomed, and look after any sick or wounded men.
My duties varied according to the place in which we halted for the night.
If it were near an inhabited place, Richard sat in state on his divan,
and received the chiefs with narghilehs and sherbet.  I saluted, and
walked off with the horses, and saw that they were properly groomed
and fed.  Sometimes I groomed my own horse and Richard's too, if I did
not feel sure that they would be properly attended to.  I would then go
back to my husband, sit on the divan at a respectful distance and in a
respectful attitude, speak if spoken to, and accept, if invited, a little
sherbet or a narghileh.  I then saluted, went again to see that the
horses were properly picketed for the night, prepared my husband's
supper, and returned to his tent for supper and bed; and the next day
the same over again.  So far as I could I made myself useful, and
adapted myself to my surroundings as an Eastern woman would have done.

The next day, our eighth from leaving Damascus, we went out of camp at
6.30, and rode over the hot stony desert for five hours.  Suddenly we
descried a small lake, but about one hundred and fifty Bedawin were there
before us.  At first we thought it was a Ghazu; but we found afterwards
that it was only a party of one hundred and fifty watering their animals;
they could not attack us until they had time to collect their men, and
mustered some six hundred strong.  However, they looked "nasty"; and as
our stragglers were all over the place, to attract their attention, and
bring us together, asked Richard's leave to make a display of _tir_.
We put an orange on a lance-point seventy yards off.  I had the first
shot.  By good luck I hit, and by better luck still they did not ask for
a second, which I might have missed, so that I came off with a great
reputation.  Everybody fired in turns, and all our people came up by
degrees, until we mustered enough to fight any Ghazu, if necessary.  We
then formed into a single line, and rode until the remainder of the day.
We approached Palmyra thus, cheering and singing warsongs; and I am sure
that we must have looked very imposing.

The first sight of Palmyra is like a regiment of cavalry drawn up in a
single line; but as we got nearer gradually the ruins began to stand out
one by one in the sunlight, and a grander sight I have never looked upon,
so gigantic, so extensive, so desolate was this splendid city of the dead
rising out of, and half buried in, a sea of sand.  One felt as if one
were wandering in some forgotten world.

The Shaykh of Palmyra and his people came out to greet us, and he
conducted us to his house.  We approached it over the massive blocks
of stone that formed the pavement and by a flight of broad steps.  The
interior of Palmyra resembles a group of wasps' nests on a large scale,
clinging to the gigantic walls of a ruined temple.  The people were
hideous, poor, ragged, dirty, and diseased, nearly every one of them
afflicted with ophthalmia.  What have the descendants of the great
Zenobia done to come to this?  We dined at the Shaykh's house, and had
our coffee and pipes.  Later we returned to our camp, which consisted of
our five tents and ten for the eighty soldiers.  It was picturesquely
placed, close to the east of the grand colonnade of Palmyra, for the
sake of being near the wells, and the animals were picketed as much as
possible in the shelter, for during our sojourn there we suffered from
ice and snow, sirocco, burning heat, and furious sou'westers.  We had
two sulphurous wells, one to bathe in, and the other to drink out of.
Everybody felt a little tired, and we went to bed early.  It was the
first night for eight days that we had really undressed and bathed and
slept, and it was such a refreshment that I did not wake for twelve
hours.  My journal of the following morning contains a very short notice.
We were considerably refreshed, and attended to our horses and several
camp wants.  We lounged about till breakfast and wrote our diaries.  It
was scorchingly hot weather.  We were here for five days, so we did not
begin serious work until noon.

So many travellers have described Palmyra that it is not necessary for me
to describe it again, and I suppose that everybody knows that at one time
it was ruled over in the days of its splendour by Zenobia, a great queen
of the East.  She was an extraordinary woman, full of wisdom and heroic
courage.  She was conquered by the Romans after a splendid reign, and the
Emperor Aurelian caused her to be led through Rome bound in fetters of
gold.  The city must once have been magnificent, but it was now a ruin.
The chief temple was that of the Sun.  The whole city was full of columns
and ruined colonnades.  One of the great colonnades is a mile long.

I saw something of the inner life of Palmyra, the more so because I wore
a dress very much like that of a man.  So attired I could go almost where
I liked, and enter all the places which women are not deemed worthy to
see.  My chief difficulty was that my toilet always had to be performed
in the dead of night.  The others never appeared to make any, except in
the stream, which was too public for me, and I did not wish to appear
singular.

In another way my masculine garment had its drawbacks, for I always used
to forget that they regarded me as a boy, and I never could remember not
to go into the harims.  Once or twice I went into them, and the women ran
away to hide themselves screaming and laughing at my appearance; and I
remember once or twice, on being remonstrated with, pointing to my chin
to plead my youth, and also my ignorance of their customs.  I passed
Palmyra as Richard's son; and though it was a little awkward at first,
I soon fell into my part, and remembered always to be very respectful
to my father, and very silent before him and the elders.  Often in my
character of boy I used to run and hold Richard's stirrup as he alighted
from his horse, and sat on the edge of the divan while he talked to the
Shaykhs of Palmyra.  I always tried to adapt myself as far as possible
to the customs of the country where I found myself, and I think I may
say without flattery that I had a good many capabilities for being a
traveller's wife.  I could ride, walk, swim, shoot, and defend myself
if attacked, so that I was not dependent on my husband; and I could also
make myself generally useful--that is to say, I could make the bed,
arrange the tent, cook the dinner, if necessary wash the clothes by
the river-side, and mend them and spread them to dry, nurse the sick,
bind and dress wounds, pick up a smattering of the language, make the
camp of natives respect and obey me, groom my own horse, saddle him,
learn to wade him through the rivers, sleep on the ground with the
saddle for a pillow, and generally to rough it and do without comforts.

We spent five days at Palmyra.  The first was devoted to a general
inspection of the place.  The second we visited the Temple of the Sun
and the Towers of the Tombs.  These latter are tall square towers, four
storeys in height; and each tower contains apertures for bodies like a
honeycomb.  I noticed that all the carving was of the rudest and coarsest
kind.  There was no trace of civilization anywhere, no theatre, no forum,
nothing but a barbarous idea of splendour, worked out on a colossal scale
in columns and temples.  The most interesting thing was the Tombs.  These
were characteristic of Palmyra, and lined the wild mountain-defile
entrance to the city, and were dotted about on the mountain-sides.  It
was a City of Tombs, a City of the Dead.  I was much struck too with the
dirtiness of the people of Palmyra, which dirtiness results in
pestilence, ophthalmia, and plagues of flies.

The third day two officers, the Shaykh of Palmyra and another, dined
with us in our tents, and after dinner we strolled about the ruins by
moonlight, and when we were tired we sat down in a large ring on the
sand, and the soldiers and muleteers danced a sword-dance with wild cries
to musical accompaniments and weird songs.  I shall never forget the
exceeding beauty of the ruins of Palmyra by moonlight.  The following
day we explored the caves, and found human bones and things, which I
helped Richard to sort, much to the disgust of the Vicomte de Perrochel,
who was shocked at my want of sensibility, and said that a Frenchwoman
would certainly have had hysteria.  We also explored the ruins, and wrote
descriptions of our journey to Palmyra.  We had all retired to rest, when
I was aroused by hearing a roaring like that of a camel.  I ran out of
my tent to see what was the matter; and being guided by a noise to the
servants' quarters, I found the kitchen assistant in convulsions, and
the rest holding him down.  It was a Syrian disease, a sort of epilepsy.
They all wanted to tread on his back, but I would not let them do it.
I got some hot brandy and restoratives, and gave him a good dosing
between his clenched teeth.  The result was he came to in an hour and
a half, sensible, but very tipsy; but he managed to kiss my hand and
thank me.  The last day was Easter Sunday.  We performed our Sunday
service in one of the ruined temples, we wrote our journals, and
prepared for departure on the morrow.  The next day we left Palmyra.
We should have done better to have remained there fifteen days instead
of five.  I wish we had taken ropes and ladders, planks to bridge over
broken staircases, and a crowbar.  We might then have thoroughly examined
three places which we could not otherwise do: the Palace of the Pretty,
the Palace of the Maiden, and the Palace of the Bride, the three best
Tower Tombs.

We left camp at dawn, and a terribly hot day it was.  We encamped at
8 p.m. in a mountain defile.  We were all dead-beat, and so were the
horses.  At night I had fever, and a hurricane of wind and rain nearly
carried our tents away.  On the second day we rode from dawn to sunset,
with the driving wind and the sand in our faces, filling eyes, ears,
nose, and mouth.  I felt so cold, tired, and disheartened, that as
I sat in my saddle and rode along I cried for about two hours, and
Richard and the others laughed at me.  Whilst I was crying we saw a
body of mounted Bedawin dodging about in the mountains.  So I
dried my eyes, and rode on as hard as I could pelt until we reached
Karyatayn at sunset; but I had to be lifted off my horse, and could
not stand for minutes.

All clamoured to rest one day at Karyatayn.  We had already been riding
for two days hard, and were simply done up.  The muleteers mutinied, and
said that their backs were broken and their beasts dead-beat.  There was
only one person in the camp not tired, and that was Richard, who seemed
made of cast iron.  He said, "You may all remain here, but I shall ride
on to Damascus alone, for on Friday the English and Baghdad mails come
in, and I must be at my post."  All the responsibility then fell upon me,
for they all said if I would remain they would be glad.  But the idea of
Richard riding on alone through the desert infested with Bedawin was not
to be entertained by me for one moment, so I said, "On we go."

The next morning we left early.  I tried at first to ride in the panniers
of one of the camels; but it bumped me so unmercifully that after half an
hour I begged to be let down.  Camel-riding is pleasant if it is at a
long trot; but a slow walk is very tedious, and I should think that a
gallop would be annihilation.  When I got down from my camel, I mounted
my horse, and galloped after the rest, and in time got to my place behind
Richard.  I always rode a yard or two behind him.  In the East it would
not have been considered respectful for either wife or son to ride beside
a husband.  We got to Jayrud at dark, and we saw hovering near us a
party of Bedawin, armed and mounted; they eventually retired into the
mountains.  But when we got back to Damascus, we heard that all through
our journey the bandits had been watching us, and would have attacked us,
only they were afraid that our rifles would carry too far.

The next day was the last.  We started at sunrise, and rode all day,
reaching home at 8 p.m.  I had not realized the beauty of Damascus until
then.  After all those days in the desert it seemed a veritable garden
of Paradise.  First of all we saw a belt of something dark lining the
horizon; then we entered by degrees under the trees, the orchards, and
the gardens.  We smelt the water from afar like a thirsty horse; we heard
its gurgling long before we came to it; we scented and saw the limes,
citrons, and watermelons.  We felt a mad desire to jump into the water,
to eat our fill of fruit, to lie down and sleep under the delicious
shade.  At last we reached our door.  The house seemed to me like a
palace of comfort.  A warm welcome greeted us on all sides; and as
every one (except Richard) and all the horses were dead-beat, they all
stayed with us for the night.




CHAPTER XIV.  BLUDAN IN THE ANTI-LEBANON.  (1870).


    Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field;

    Let us lodge in the villages.  Let us get up early to the
    vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender
    grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth: there will I give
    thee my loves.

    The mandrakes give a smell, and at our gates are all manner
    of pleasant fruits, new and old, which I have laid up for thee,
    O my  beloved.

                                             _The Song of Solomon_.


During the next few weeks at Damascus there was an outbreak of cholera,
which gave me a great deal of trouble at the time.  Several people died
in great agony, and I did what I could to check the outbreak.  I made the
peasants wash and fumigate their houses and burn the bedding, and send
to me for medicine the moment a person was taken ill.  Fortunately these
precautions checked the spread of the disease; but along the cottages at
the river-side there was also an epidemic of scarlet fever more difficult
to keep within bounds.  I secured the services of a kind-hearted French
surgeon, who attended the patients, and I myself nursed them.  I wore
an outside woollen dress when attending cases, and this I hung on a
tree in the garden, and never let it enter my house.  I also took a bag
of camphor with me to prevent infection.  However, after a time I was
struck down by one of those virulent, nameless illnesses peculiar to
Damascus, which, if neglected, end in death, and I could not move without
fainting.  An instinct warned me to have a change of air, and I
determined to go to Beyrout.  Two hours out of Damascus I was able to
rise, and at the half-way house at Buka'a I could eat, and when I arrived
at Beyrout after fourteen hours' journey I felt almost well.  I had three
weeks' delicious sea-bathing at Beyrout; and while there we kept Her
Majesty's birthday at the Consulate-General with great pomp and ceremony.
We also made several little expeditions.  Richard went farther afield
than I did, to Tyre, Sidon, Carmel, and Juneh.  I was too weak to go
with him, which I regretted very much, as I would have given a great
deal to have visited the grave of Lady Hester Stanhope.

On June 14 we turned our faces homewards to Damascus, and as we journeyed
over the Lebanons and descended into the plain I could not help feeling
the oriental charm of the scene grow upon me.  Beyrout is demi-
fashionable, semi-European; but Damascus is the heart of the East, and
there is no taint of Europeanism about it.  As I was nearing Damascus in
the evening I fell in love with it.  The first few weeks I had disliked
it, but gradually it had grown upon me, and now it took a place in my
heart from which it could never be thrust forth.  I saw how lovely it
was, bathed in the evening sun, and it seemed to me like home--the
home that I had dreamed of in my childhood long ago.  I cannot tell what
worked this charm in me; but henceforth my affections and interests, my
life and work, knitted and grew to that Damascus home of ours, where I
would willingly have remained all my days.  I knew that mine was to be
the wanderer's life, and that it is fatal for the wanderer to make ties
and get attached to places or things or people; but in spite of this
presentiment, I greedily drank in whilst I could all the truths which
the desert breathes, and set my hands to do all the good work they
could find, until they were full to overflowing.

Ten days after our return to Salahiyyeh we had a severe shock of
earthquake.  Richard and I were sitting in an inner room, when suddenly
the divan began to see-saw under us, and the wardrobe opposite to bow
down to us.  Fortunately no harm was done; but it was an unpleasant
sensation, like being at sea in a gale of wind.

As Damascus began to be very hot about this time we moved to our summer
quarters at Bludan, about twenty-seven miles across country from
Damascus in the Anti-Lebanon.  It was a most beautiful spot, right up
in the mountains, and comparatively cool.  We threaded the alleys of
Bludan, ascended steep places, and soon found ourselves beyond the
village, opposite a door which opened into a garden cultivated in ridges
up the mountain.  In the middle stood a large barn-like limestone
hall, with a covered Dutch verandah, from which there was a splendid
view.  This was our summer-house; it had been built by a former consul.
Everybody who came to see us said, "Well, it is glorious; but the thing
is to get here."  It was a veritable eagle's nest.

We soon settled down and made ourselves comfortable.  The large room was
in the middle of the house, looking on to the verandah, which overhung
the glorious view.  We surrounded it with low divans, and the walls
became an armoury of weapons.  The rooms on either side of this large
room were turned into a study for Richard, a sleeping-room, and a study
and dressing-room for me.  We had stabling for eight horses.  There
were no windows in the house, only wooden shutters to close at night.
The utter solitude and the wildness of the life made it very soothing
and restful.

One of my earliest experiences there was a deputation from the shaykhs
and chiefs of the villages round, who brought me a present of a sheep,
a most acceptable present.  Often when alone at Bludan provisions
ran short.  I remember once sending my servants to forage for food,
and they returned with an oath, saying there was nothing but "Arab's
head and onions."  I don't know about the Arab's head, but there was
no doubt about the onions.  I often used to dine off a big raw onion
and an oatmeal cake, nothing being forthcoming.

In many ways our days at Bludan were the perfection of living.  We used
to wake at dawn, make a cup of tea, and then sally forth accompanied
by the dogs, and take long walks over the mountains with our guns in
search of sport.  The larger game were bears, gazelles, wolves, wild
boars, and a small leopard.  The small game nearer home were partridges,
quail, and woodcock, with which we replenished our larder.  I am fond
of sport; and, though I say it, I was not a bad shot in those days.  The
hotter part of the day we spent indoors reading, writing, and studying
Arabic.  At twelve we had our first meal, which served as breakfast and
luncheon, on the terrace.  Sometimes in the afternoon native shaykhs or
people from Beyrout and Damascus would come and visit us.  When the sun
became cooler, all the sick and poor within fifteen or sixteen miles
round would come to be doctored and tended.  The hungry, the thirsty,
the ragged, the sick, and the sore filled our garden, and I used to
make it my duty and pleasure to be of some little use to them.  I seldom
had fewer than fifteen patients a day, half of them with eye diseases,
and I acquired a considerable reputation as a doctor.  We used to dine
at seven o'clock on the terrace.  After dinner divans were spread on
the housetop, and we would watch the moon lighting up Hermon whilst the
after-dinner pipe was being smoked.  A pianette from Damascus enabled
us to have a little music.  Then I would assemble the servants, read
the night prayers to them, with a little bit of Scripture or of Thomas
a Kempis.  The last thing was to go round the premises and see that
everything was right, and turn out the dogs on guard.  And so to bed.
Richard used to ride down into Damascus every few days to see that all
was going well; so I was often left alone.

I must not linger too long over our life at Bludan.  Mr. E. H. Palmer,
afterwards Professor of Arabic at Cambridge, and Mr. Charles Tyrwhitt-
Drake, who had done much good work in connexion with the Palestine
Exploration, came to us about this time on a visit, and we made many
excursions from Bludan with them, some short and some long.  We used
to saunter or gypsy about the country round, pitching our tents at
night.  I kept little reckoning of time during these excursions.  We
generally counted by the sun.  I only know that we used to start at
dawn, and with the exception of a short halt we would ride until sunset,
and often until dusk, and sleep in the desert.

One of our most interesting excursions was to Ba'albak, which is far
more beautiful, though smaller, than Palmyra; and it can be seen
without danger--Palmyra cannot.  The ruins are very beautiful.  The
village hangs on to the tail of the ruins--not a bad village either,
but by comparison it looks like a tatter clinging to an empress's
diamond-bespangled train.  The scenery around is wild, rocky, and barren.

When we arrived at Ba'albak, the Governor and the chief people rode out
to receive us.  Our horses' hoofs soon rang under a ruined battlement,
and we entered in state through the dark tunnels.  Horses were neighing,
sabres were clanking; it was a noisy, confusing, picturesque scene.  We
tented for the night in the midst of the grand court of the ruins.  In
the morning the ladies of the Governor's harim paid me a visit in my
tent.  With their blue satin and diamonds, they were the most elaborately
dressed women I had seen for a long time.  We stayed at Ba'albak several
days, and explored the ruins thoroughly.  It is the ancient Heliopolis.
One of the most striking things amid its rocky tombs and sepulchral caves
and its Doric columns and temples was the grand old eagle, the emblem of
Baal.  On Sunday I heard Mass at the Maronite chapel, and returned the
call of the ladies aforesaid.  In the evening we dined with the Governor,
who illuminated his house for us.  We passed a most enjoyable evening.
I spent most of the time in the harim with the ladies.  They wished me
to tell them a story; but as I could not recite one fluently in Arabic,
the Governor allowed me as a special favour to blindfold our dragoman,
and take him into the harim as an interpreter, the Governor himself being
present the whole time to see that the bandage did not come off.  One
night Mr. Drake and I lit up the ruins with magnesium.  The effect was
very beautiful.  It was like a gigantic transformation scene in a desert
plain.  Every night the jackals played round our tents in the moonlight,
and made the ruins weird with strange sights and sounds.

We left Ba'albak at dawn one morning, and rode to the source of the
Lebweh.  The water bursts out from the ground, and divides into a dozen
sparkling streams.  Of all the fountains I have ever seen, there is not
one so like liquid diamonds as this.  We picketed our horses under a big
tree, and slept for a while through the heat of the day.  At 4.30 p.m.,
when it was cooler, we rode on again to Er Ras.  When we arrived we met
with a furious rising wind.  We stopped there for the night, and the next
morning galloped across the plain to Buka'a.  We had a long, tiring ride,
finally reaching a clump of trees on a height, where we pitched our camp.
The Maronite chiefs were _jeriding_ in the hollow.  They came to dinner
with us, and I gave them a present of some cartridges, which appeared to
make them very happy.

The next day we continued to ride up a steep ascent.  At last we stood
upon a mountain-range of crescent form, ourselves in the centre, and
the two cusps to the sea.  Turning to the side which we had ascended and
looking below, the horizon was bounded by the Anti-Lebanon, with the
plain of Buka'a and the ruins of Ba'albak beneath and far away.  From
this point we could see the principal heights of the Lebanon, for which
we were bound, to make excursions from the Cedars.  We had a painful
descent for an hour and a half, when we reached the famous Cedars of
Lebanon, and camped beneath them.  We pitched our tents among the Cedars,
under the largest trees.  They are scattered over seven mounds in the
form of a cross.  There are five hundred and fifty-five trees, and they
exude the sweetest odours.  We spent a very pleasant time camping under
their grateful shade.

At last the day came for our party to break up, Mr. Palmer and Mr.
Tyrwhitt-Drake _en route_ for England and Richard and I to return to
Bludan.  So we parted.

It took Richard and myself many days to get back to our home.  After
parting with our friends, we resolved to visit the Patriarch, Primate
of Antioch and of all the East; and escorted by a priest and the shaykh
we travelled by way of a short cut and terrible descent of three hours.
It was no better than a goat-path.  We at last arrived at Diman, the
summer residence of the Patriarch, a conventual yet fortress-like
building on an eminence commanding a view of the whole of his
jurisdiction.  We were charmed with the reception which his Beatitude
gave us.  We were received by two bishops and endless retainers.  The
Patriarch, dressed in purple, sat in a long, narrow room like a covered
terrace.  We of the Faith knelt and kissed his hands, and the others
bowed low.  His Beatitude seemed delighted with Richard, and at dinner
he sat at the head of the table, with me on his right and Richard on
his left.  We then went to see the chapel and the monks, and the view
from the terrace, where we had coffee.  His Beatitude gave me a number
of pious things, amongst others a bit of the true Cross, which I still
wear.

After we left the Patriarch's we found a dreadful road.  Our horses
had literally to jump from one bit of rock to another.  It consisted
of nothing but _debris_ of rocks.  The horses were dead-beat long before
we had done our day's work, and we had to struggle forward on foot.
Night found us still scrambling in the dark, worn out with fatigue
and heat.  I felt unable to go another step.  At last, about nine
o'clock, we saw a light, and we hoped it was our camp.  We had yet
some distance to go, and when we reached the light we found a wretched
village of a few huts.  It was so dark that we could not find our way
into the shedlike dwellings.  We had lost our camp altogether.  At
last, by dint of shouting, some men came out with a torch and welcomed
us.  Tired as I was, I saw all the horses groomed, fed, watered and
tethered in a sheltered spot for the night.  We were then able to
eat a water-melon, and were soon sound asleep on our saddle-cloths
in the open.

The next day's ride was as bad.  The scenery, however, was very wild
and beautiful.  We breakfasted at the place we ought to have arrived
at the previous night, and then we resumed our second bad day in the
Kasrawan, the worst desert of Syria.  The horses were tired of jumping
from ledge to ledge.  We passed some Arab tents, and camped for the
night.

The following morning we rode to the top of Jebel Sunnin, one of the
three highest points in Syria, and we had another six hours of the
Kasrawan, which is called by the Syrians "The road of Genna."  We
were terribly thirsty, and at last we found a little khan, which gave
us the best _leben_ I ever tasted.  I was so thirsty that I seemed as
if I could never drink enough.  I could not help laughing when, after
drinking off my third big bowl, the poor woman of the khan, in spite
of Arab courtesies, was obliged to utter a loud "Mashallah!"  We were
still surrounded by amphitheatre-shaped mountains, with the points to
the Sea of Sidon.  The sunset was splendid, and the air was cool and
pleasant.  We debated whether to camp or to go on; but the place was
so tempting that we ended by remaining, and were repaid by a charming
evening.

The next day we rode quietly down the mountains.  We enjoyed a grand
view and a pleasant ride, but it was as steep as a railway-bank; and we
came at last to another little khan, where we breakfasted.  The Anti-
Lebanon rose on the opposite side.  Miss Ellen Wilson, who had a
Protestant mission at Zahleh in this district, asked us to her house,
and we accepted her hospitality for the night, instead of remaining in
our tents.  We stayed at Miss Wilson's for a few days; and we visited
and were visited by the Governor of Zahleh, the Bishop, and other
dignitaries.  Richard was taken with fever.  I nursed him all night,
and caught the complaint.  We both suffered horribly, in spite of
every attention on the part of our friends.  Richard soon shook off
his illness, but I did not; I fancied I could not get well unless I
went home to Bludan.

So at sunset on August 11, after we had been at Miss Wilson's rather more
than a week, our horses were made ready.  I was lifted out of bed and put
into a litter.  We wound out of Zahleh, descended into the plain, and
began to cross it.  I was so sorry for the men who had to carry my litter
that I begged to be allowed to ride.  I told my Arab stallion Salim to
be very quiet.  We went at foot's pace till 1 o'clock a.m. in bright
moonlight across the plain.  Then we passed regular defiles, where once
or twice the horses missed their footing, and struck fire out of the
rocks in their struggles to hold up.  At two o'clock in the morning I
felt that I was going to drop out of my saddle, and cried for quarter.
The tents were hastily half pitched, and we lay down on the rugs till
daylight.  By that time I had to repair to my litter again, but I felt
so happy at coming near home that I thought I was cured.  As we neared
Bludan I was carried along in the litter, and I lay so still that
everybody thought that my corpse was coming home to be buried.  The
news spread far and wide, so I had the pleasure of hearing my own
praises and the people's lamentations.

We had not long returned to Bludan before a great excitement arose.
When we had been home about a fortnight, on August 26, Richard received
at night by a mounted messenger two letters, one from Mr. Wright, chief
Protestant missionary at Damascus, and one from the chief dragoman at
the British Consulate, saying that the Christians at Damascus were in
great alarm; most of them had fled from the city, or were flying, and
everything pointed to a wholesale massacre.  Only ten years before
(in 1860) there had been the most awful slaughter of Christians at
Damascus; and though it had been put down at last, the embers of hatred
were still smoldering, and might at any time burst into a flame.  Now it
seemed there had been one of those eruptions of ill-feeling which were
periodical in Damascus, resulting from so many religions, tongues, and
races being mixed up together.  The chief hatred was between the Moslems
and the Christians, and the Jews were fond of stirring up strife between
them, because they reaped the benefit of the riot and anarchy.  It
appeared that the slaughter day was expected on August 27--on the
morrow.  It had been so timed.  All the chief authorities were absent
from Damascus, as well as the Consuls, and therefore there would be
nobody to interfere and nobody to be made responsible.  We only got
notice on the night before, the 26th.  Richard and I made our plans
and arrangements in ten minutes, and then saddled the horses and cleaned
the weapons.  Richard would not take me to Damascus, however, because,
as he said, he intended to protect Damascus, and he wanted me to protect
Bludan and Zebedani.  The feeling that I had something to do took away
all that remained of my fever.  In the night I accompanied Richard down
the mountain.  He took half the men, and left me half.  When we got
into the plain, we shook hands like two brothers, and parted, though
it might have been that we should never see one another again.  There
were not tears, nor any display of affection, for emotion might have
cost us dear.

Richard rode into Damascus, put up his horse, and got to business.
When he stated what he had heard, the local authorities affected to be
surprised; but he said to them, "I must telegraph to Constantinople
unless measures are taken at once."  This had the desired effect, and
they said, "What will you have us do?"  He said, "I would have you post
a guard of soldiers in every street, and order a patrol at night.  Issue
an order that no Jew or Christian shall leave their houses until all is
quiet."  These measure were taken at once, and continued for three days;
not a drop of blood was shed, and the flock of frightened Christians who
had fled to the mountains began to come back.  In this way the massacre
at Damascus was averted.  But I may mention that some of the Christians
who had run away in panic to Beyrout, as soon as they were safe, declared
that there had been no danger whatever, and they had not been at all
frightened.  I grieve to say it, but the Eastern Christian is often a
poor thing.  But all this is to anticipate.

When I had parted from Richard in the plain, I climbed up to my eagle's
nest at Bludan, the view from which commanded the country, and I felt
that as long as our ammunition lasted we could defend ourselves, unless
overpowered by numbers.  Night was coming on, and of course I had not
the slightest idea of what had happened at the previous massacre of
Christians at Damascus; and flying, excited stragglers dropped in, and
from what they said one would have supposed that Damascus was already
being deluged in blood, and that eventually crowds of Moslems would
surge up to Bludan and exterminate us also.  I fully expected an attack,
so I collected every available weapon and all the ammunition.  I had
five men in the house; to each one I gave a revolver, and a bowie-knife.
I put one on the roof with a pair of elephant guns carrying four-ounce
balls, and a man to each of the four sides of the house, and I commanded
the terrace myself.  I planted the Union Jack on the flagstaff at the top
of the house, and I turned my bull terriers into the garden to give
notice of any approach.  I locked up a little Syrian girl whom I had
taken into my service, and who was terribly frightened, in the safest
room; but my English maid, who was as brave as any man, I told off to
supply us with provisions and make herself generally useful.  I then
rode down the hill to the American Mission and begged them to come up
and take shelter with me, and then into the village of Bludan to tell
the Christians to come up to me on the slightest sign of danger.  I
gave the same message to the handful of Christians at Zebedani.  I rode
on to the Shaykhs, and asked them how it would be if the news proved
true.  They told me that there would be a fight, but they also said,
"They shall pass over our dead bodies before they reach you."  It was
a brave speech and kindly meant; but if anything had happened I should
have been to the fore.  I did not wish the Shaykhs to think I was afraid,
or wanted their protection against their co-religionists.

When all preparations were completed, I returned to the house, and we
waited for three days.  Nobody came, except more flying stragglers with
exaggerated news.  After having made all my preparations, I can hardly
explain my sensations, whether they were of joy or of disappointment.
The suspense and inaction were very trying.  I was never destined to do
anything worthy of my ancestress, Blanche Lady Arundell, who defended
Wardour Castle against the Parliamentary forces.

During the three days we were in suspense a monster vulture kept hovering
over our house.  The people said it was a bad omen, and so I fetched my
little gun, though I rather begrudged the cartridge just then; and when
it was out of what they call reach, I had the good luck to bring it down.
This gave them great comfort, and we hung the vulture on the top of the
tallest tree.

At last at midnight on the third day a mounted messenger rode up with
a letter from Richard, saying that all was well at Damascus, but that
he would not be back for a week.

After this excitement life fell back into its normal course at Bludan,
and the only variations were small excursions and my doctoring.  _A
propos_ of the latter, I can tell some amusing anecdotes.  Once a girl
sent to me saying she had broken her leg.  I had a litter constructed,
hired men, and went down to see her.  When I came near the place where
she was, I met her walking.  "How can you be walking with a broken leg?"
I said.  She lifted up her voice and wept; she also lifted up her
petticoat and showed me a scratch on her knee that an English baby
would not have cried for.  Sometimes women would come and ask me for
medicine to make them young again, others wished me to improve their
complexions, and many wanted me to make them like Sarai of old.  I
gently reminded them of their ages, and said that I thought that at
such a time of life no medicines or doctors could avail.  "My age!"
screamed one: "why, what age do you take me for?"  "Well," I answered
politely, "perhaps you might be sixty" (she looked seventy-five).  "I
am only twenty-five," she said in a very hurt tone of voice.  "Well
then," I said, "I congratulate you on your early marriage, for your
youngest daughter is seventeen, and she is working in my house.  Anyway
it is really too late to work a miracle."

On another occasion I received a very equivocal compliment.  A woman came
to me and begged for medicines, and described her symptoms.  The doctor
was with me, but she did not know him.  He said in French, "Do not give
her anything but a little effervescing magnesia.  I won't have anything
to do with her; it is too late, and risks reputation."  I did as he
bade me, simply not to seem unkind.  The next day she was dead.  Soon
afterwards a young man of about twenty came to me and said, "Ya Sitti,
will you give me some of that nice white bubbling powder for my
grandmother that you gave to Umm Saba the day before yesterday?  She
is so old, and has been in her bed these three months, and will neither
recover nor die."  "Oh thou wicked youth!" I answered; "begone from
my house!  I did but give Umm Saba a powder to calm her sickness, for
it was too late to save her, and it was the will of Allah that she
should die."

I will here mention again my little Syrian maid, to whom I had taken a
fancy at Miss Wilson's Mission, where I first met her, and I took her
into my service.  She was a thorough child of Nature, quite a little
wild thing, and it took me a long time to break her into domestic habits.
She was about seventeen years of age, just the time of life when a girl
requires careful guiding.  When she first came to us, she used to say
and do the queerest things.  Some of them I really do not think are
suited to ears polite; but here are a few.

One day, when we were sitting at work, she startled me by asking:

"Lady, why don't you put your lip out so?" pouting a very long under-lip.

"Why, O Moon?"

"Look, my lip so large.  Why all the men love her so because she pout."

"But, O Moon, my lip is not made like yours; and, besides, I never think
of men."

"But do think, Lady.  Look, your pretty lip all sucked under."

I know now how to place my lip, and I always remember her when I sit
at work.

On another occasion, seeing my boxes full of dresses and pretty trinkets,
and noticing that I wore no jewellery, and always dressed in riding-
habits and waterproofs for rough excursions, and looked after the stables
instead of lying on a divan and sucking a narghileh, after the manner of
Eastern women, she exclaimed:

"O Lady, Ya Sitti, my happiness, why do you not wear this lovely dress?"
--a _decolletee_ blue ball-dress, trimmed with tulle and roses.  "I hate
the black.  When the Beg will come and see his wife so darling, he will
be so jealous and ashamed of himself.  I beg of you keep this black till
you are an old woman, and instead be joyful in your happy time."

After she had been in the house a fortnight, her ideas grew a little
faster; and speaking of an old sedate lady, and hoping she would do
something she wished, she startled me by saying, "If she do, she do;
and if she don't, go to hell!"

The girl was remarkably pretty, with black plaits of hair confined by
a coloured handkerchief, a round baby face, large eyes, long lashes,
small nose, and pouting lips, with white teeth, of which she was very
proud: a temperament which was all sunshine or thunder and lightning
in ten minutes.  She had a nice, plump little figure, encased in a
simple, tight-fitting cotton gown, which, however, showed a stomach
of size totally disproportionate to her figure.  Seeing this, I said
gently:

"O Moon, do wear stays!  When you get older, you will lose your pretty
figure.  You are only seventeen, and I am past thirty, and yet I have
no stomach.  Do let me give you some stays."

She burst into a storm of tears and indignation at being supposed to
have a fault of person, which brought on a rumbling of the stomach.
She pointed to it, and said:

"Hush! do you hear, Lady?  She cry because she is so great."

Our kawwass having picked up a little bad language on board ship from
the sailors, was in the habit of saying wicked words when angry, and
the Moon imitated him.  The Moon, on being told to do something one
day by my English maid, rapped out a volley of fearful oaths, and my
maid fled to me in horror.  I was obliged to speak very seriously to
the Moon, and told her that these were bad words used by the little
gutter-boys in England when they had bad parents and did not know God.

Our dragoman, I regret to say, once took liberties with her.  She
complained to me.

"O Lady, all the men want my lip and my breast.  Hanna he pulled me, and
I told him, 'What you want?  I am a girl of seventeen.  I have to learn
how I shall walk.  You know the Arab girl.  Not even my brother kiss me
without leave.  Wait till I run and tell Ya Sitti.'"

This frightened Hanna, a man like a little old walnut, with a wife and
children, and he begged her not to do so.  But she came and told me, and
I replied:

"O Moon, the next time he does it, slap his face and scream, and I will
come down and ask him what he takes my house to be.  He shall get more
than he reckons on."

There was a great deal of ill-feeling simmering between the Moslems and
Christians all this summer, and there were many squabbles between them.
Sometimes the Christians were to blame, and needlessly offended the
susceptibilities of the Moslems.  I was always very careful about this,
and would not eat pig for fear of offending the Moslems and Jews, though
we were often short of meat, and I hungered for a good rasher of bacon.
I used to ride down to Zebedani, the next village to Bludan, to hear
Mass, attended by only one servant, a boy of twenty.  The people loved
me, and my chief difficulty was to pass through the crowd that came to
kiss my hand or my habit, so I might really have gone alone.  I would
not mention this but that our enemies misreported the facts home, and
it went forth to the world that I behaved like a female tyrant, and
flogged and shot the people.  How this rumour arose I know not, for I
never shot anybody, and the only time I flogged a man was as follows.
I do not repent it, and under similar circumstances should do the same
over again.

One day I was riding alone through the village of Zebedani; as usual
every one rose up and saluted me, and I was joined by several native
Christians.  Suddenly Hasan, a youth of about twenty-two, thrust himself
before my horse; the natives dropped on their knee, praying me not to
be angry, and kissed my hands, which meant, "For Allah's sake bear it
patiently!  We are not strong enough to fight for you."  By this time
quite a crowd had collected, and I was the centre of all eyes.  "What
is the meaning of this?" I asked Hasan.  "It means," he answered, "that
I want to raise the devil to-day, and I will pull you off your horse
and duck you in the water.  I am a Beg, and you are a Beg.  Salute me!"
Salute him indeed!  I did salute him, but hardly in the way he bargained
for.  I had only an instant to think over what I could do.  I knew that
to give him the slightest advantage over me would be to bring on a
Consular and European row, and a Christian row too, and that if I evinced
the smallest cowardice I should never be able to show my face again.  I
had a strong English hunting-whip, and was wearing a short riding-habit.
So I sprang nimbly from my saddle, and seized him by the throat, twisting
his necktie tightly, and at the same time showering blows upon his head,
face, and shoulders with the butt-end of my whip till he howled for
mercy.  My servant, who was a little way behind, heard the noise at this
moment, and, seeing how I was engaged thought that I was attacked, and
flew to the rescue.  Six men flung themselves upon him, and during
the struggle his pistol or blunderbuss went off, and the ball whizzed
past our heads to lodge in the plaster wall.  It might have shot me as
well as Hasan, though afterwards this fact was used against me.  The
native Christians all threw themselves on the ground, as they often
do when there is any shooting.  The brother of Hasan then dragged him
howling away from me.  I mounted my horse again, and rode on amid the
curses of his brothers.  "We will follow you," they shouted, "with sticks
and stones and guns, and at night we will come in a party and burn your
house, and whenever we meet an English son of a pig we will kill him."
"Thank you for your warning," I said; "you may be quite sure I shall be
ready for you."

I went home and waited to see if any apology would be offered, but none
came.  The Shaykhs came up, and the Christians told me if I allowed this
insult to pass in silence they would be unable to stay in the village,
they were too few.  I waited, however, some time, and then wrote an
account of the affair and sent it to Damascus to the Wali.  The Wali,
who at that time was not ill-disposed towards Richard, behaved like a
gentleman.  He expressed regret at the incident, and sent soldiers up to
burn and sack the home of Hasan and his family, but I interceded and got
them off with only a few weeks' imprisonment.  The father of the youth
Hasan, accompanied by about fifty of the principal people, came up to
beg my pardon the morning after the insult.  I, however, received them
coldly, and merely said the affair had passed out of my hands.  But I
begged them off all the same.

There was a sequel to this story, which I may as well mention here.
The following summer, when we were at Bludan, Hasan and I became great
friends.  One day, after doctoring him for weak eyes, I said, "What
made you want to hurt me, O Hasan, last summer?"  He replied, "I don't
know; the devil entered my heart.  I was jealous to see you always
with the Shaykhs and never noticing us.  But since I have got to know
you I could kill myself for it."  He had an excellent heart, but was
apt to be carried off his head by the troubles of the times.  I may
mention that I reported the matter to the Consul-General, who had also
received the story in another form; to wit, that I had seen a poor
Arab beggar sitting at my gate, and because he did not rise and salute
me I had drawn a revolver and shot him dead.  This is a specimen of
Turkish falsehood.




CHAPTER XV.  GATHERING CLOUDS.  (1870-1871).


    One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward;
      Never doubted clouds would break;
    Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph
      Held, we fall to rise again; are baffled, to fight better;
                          Sleep, to wake!

                                                   BROWNING.


In October Richard and I left Bludan to return to our winter quarters at
Salahiyyeh, Damascus.  But as we were in a mood for excursions, we went
by a longer and roundabout route.  We had a delightful ride across the
Anti-Lebanon, and then we went by way of Shtora across a mountain called
Jebel Baruk, and then a long scramble of six hours led us to the village
of Baruk, a Druze stronghold in a wild glen on the borders of the Druze
territory.  We did not find our tents; but it did not signify, as we
were among friends and allies, who welcomed us.  We went at once to the
Shaykh's house.  Richard was always friendly with the Druzes; and as
they played an important part in our life at Damascus, I think that I
had better give some description of them.  They are a fine, brave people,
very athletic.  The men are tall, broad, and stalwart, with splendid
black eyes, and limbs of iron.  They have proud and dignified manners,
and their language is full of poetry.  They wear a long blue garment
and a white veil.  The whole face is hidden except one eye.  I remember
once asking them if it took a long time to decide which was the prettier
eye, at which small joke they were much amused.

We remained for the night with the Shaykh, and had breakfast with him in
the morning, and then went on to Mukhtara, which is the centre of the
Lebanon Druzes.  It was a most interesting ride; and whilst we were still
in the barren plain a band of horsemen came out to meet us in rich Druze
dress, and escorted us through a deep defile, and then up a rocky ascent
to a Syrian palace, the house of the Sitt Jumblatt, which is situated in
olive groves on the heights.  Arrived at the house, we were cordially
received by the Sitt Jumblatt--a woman who was the head of the princely
family of the Lebanon Druzes--with all the gracious hospitality of the
East, and with all the well-bred ease of a European _grande dame_.  She
took us into the reception-room, when water and scented soap were brought
in carved brass ewers and basins, incense was waved before us, and we
were sprinkled with rose-water, whilst an embroidered gold canopy was
held over our heads to concentrate the perfume.  Coffee, sweets, and
sherbet were served, and then I was shown to a very luxurious room.

The following morning we spent in visiting the village schools and
stables, and in listening to the Sitt's grievances, on which she waxed
eloquent.  At night we had a great dinner, and after dinner there were
dancing and war-songs between the Druzes of the Lebanon and the Druzes
of the Hauran.  They also performed pantomimes and sang and recited
tales of love and war until far into the night.

The next day we started early.  I was sorry to leave, for the Sitt
Jumblatt and I had formed a great friendship.  We rode to B'teddin, the
palace of the Governor of the Lebanon, where we were received with open
arms.  Five hundred soldiers were drawn up in a line to salute us, and
the Governor, Franco Pasha, welcomed us with all his family and suite.
After our reception we were invited to the divan, where we drank coffee.
Whilst so engaged invisible bands struck up "God Save the Queen"; it was
like an electric shock to hear our national hymn in that remote place--
we who had been so long in the silence of the Anti-Lebanon.  We sprang
to our feet, and I was so overcome I burst into tears.

In the morning we rode back to Mukhtara, where we went to the house of
the principal Druze Shaykh, and were most graciously received.  I love
the Druzes and their charming, courteous ways.  Whilst staying here we
made several excursions, and among others we ascended Mount Hermon.
The Druze chiefs came from all parts to visit us.

After some days we left.  Richard was to go home by a way of his own, and
I was to return escorted by a Druze Shaykh.  Poor Jiryus, my _sais_,
walked by my side for a mile when I started, and after kissing my hand
with many blessings, he threw his arms round Salim's neck and kissed
his muzzle.  Then he sat down on a rock and burst into tears.  Richard
had dismissed him for disobeying orders.  My heart ached for him, and
I cried too.

Shaykh Ahmad and I descended the steep mountain-side and then galloped
over the plain till we came to water and some Bedawin feeding their
flocks.  The Shaykh gave one fine fellow a push, and roughly ordered him
to hold my horse and milk his goats for me.  The man refused.  "What,"
I said very gently, "do you, a Bedawin, refuse a little hospitality to
a tired and thirsty woman?"  "O Lady," he replied quickly, "I will do
anything for you--you speak so softly; but I won't be ordered about by
this Druze fellow."  I was pleased with his manliness, and he attended
to my wants and waited on me hand and foot.

We camped out that night, and the night after.  I was always fond of
sleeping in the tent, and would never go into the house unless compelled
to do so.  This time, however, our tents were pitched on low ground close
to the river, with burning heat by day and cold dews by night.  So I got
the fever, and I lay in a kind of stupor all day.  The next morning I
heard a great row going on outside my tent.  It turned out to be the
Druze Shaykh and our dragoman quarrelling.  Shortly after Shaykh Ahmad
came into my tent, and in a very dignified way informed me that he wished
to be relieved of his duty and return home.  I laughed, and refused to
allow him to depart.  "What, O Shaykh," said I, "will you leave a poor,
lone woman to return with no escort but a dragoman"; and he immediately
recanted.

Richard joined me here for a night, and then in the morning went off
by another route to explore some district round about.  I also did some
exploring in another direction.

So we went on from day to day, camping about, or rather gypsying, in the
desert among the Bedawin.  I got to love it very much.  I often think
with regret of the strange scenes which became a second nature to me: of
those dark, fierce men, in their gaudy, flowing costumes, lying about in
various attitudes; of our encampments at night, the fire or the moonlight
lighting them up, the divans and the pipes, the narghilehs and coffee; of
their wild, mournful songs; of their war-dances; of their story-telling
of love and war, which are the only themes.  I got to know the Bedawin
very well during that time, both men and women; and the more I knew them
the better I liked them.

I remember one night, when Richard and I were in our tent, we lay down on
our respective rugs, and I put out the light.  Suddenly Richard called to
me, "Come quick!  I am stung by a scorpion."  I struck a match and ran
over to his rug, and looked at the place he pointed to; but there was a
mere speck of blue, and I was convinced it was only a big black ant.  He
did not mind that, so I lay down again.  Hardly had I done so when he
called out, "Quick, quick, again!  I know it is a scorpion."  I again
struck a light, ran over, plunged my hand inside his shirt near the
throat, and drew it out again quickly with a scorpion hanging by its
crablike claws to my finger.  I shook it off and killed it; but it did
not sting me, being, I suppose, unable to manage a third time.  I rubbed
some strong smelling salts into Richard's wounds, and I found some
_raki_, which I made him drink, to keep the poison away from his heart.
He then slept, and in the morning was well.

While we were gypsying about in this way we received an invitation to a
Druze wedding at Arneh, near Mount Hermon.  Richard went to it one way
and I another.  Whenever we separated, the object was to get information
of both routes to our meeting-place, and thus save time and learn more.
On meeting, we used to join our notes together.

The wedding was a very pretty one.  The bridegroom was a boy of fifteen;
and the bride, a Shaykh's daughter, was about the same age.  There was
a great deal of singing and dancing, and they were all dressed in their
best costumes and jewellery.  I was invited to the harim of the bride's
house, where we had a merry time of it.  Whilst we were enjoying our fun
the girls blew out all our lights, and we were left in the darkness.  The
bride ran and threw her arms round me, for protection perhaps, and then
commenced such a romping and screaming and pinching and pulling that I
hardly knew where I was.  It was evidently considered a great frolic.
After a few minutes they lit the candles again.  At last the bride, robed
in an izar and veiled, mounted a horse astraddle, and went round to pay
her last visit to her neighbours as a maiden.  Coming back, the bride
and the bridegroom met in the street, and then we all adjourned to her
father's house, where there were more ceremonies and festivities.  At
midnight we formed a procession to take the bride to her bridegroom's
house, with singing, dancing, snapping of fingers, and loud cries of
"Yallah! Yallah!" which lasted till 2 a.m.  Then the harim proceeded
to undress the bride.  We were up all night, watching and joining in
different branches of festivities.

The wedding over, we returned home to Salahiyyeh by slow stages.  It was
a terribly hot road through the desert.  I suffered with burning eyeballs
and mouth parched with a feverish thirst.  I know nothing to equal the
delight with which one returns from the burning desert into cool shades
with bubbling water.  Our house seemed like a palace; and our welcome
was warm.  So we settled down again at Damascus.

We had a troublesome and unpleasant time during the next few months,
owing to a continuation of official rows.  There were people at Damascus
always trying to damage us with the Government at home, and sending lying
reports to the Foreign Office.  They were most unscrupulous.  One man,
for instance, complained to the Foreign Office that I had been heard to
say that I had "finished my dispatches," meaning that I had finished the
work of copying Richard's.  Imagine a man noting down this against a
woman, and twisting it the wrong way.

I think that the first shadow on our happy life came in July of this
year, 1870, when I was at Bludan.  An amateur missionary came to
Damascus and attempted to proselytize.  Damascus was in a very bad
temper just then, and it was necessary to put a stop to these
proceedings, because they endangered the safety of the Christian
population.  Richard was obliged to give him a caution, with the result
that he made the missionary an enemy, and gave him a grievance, which
was reported home in due course.

Another way in which we made enemies was because Richard found it
necessary to inform the Jews that he would not aid and abet them in their
endeavours to extort unfair usury from the Syrians.  Some of the village
Shaykhs and peasantry, ignorant people as they were, were in the habit
of making ruinous terms with the Jews, and the extortion was something
dreadful.  Moreover, certain Jewish usurers were suspected of exciting
massacres between the Christians and the Moslems, because, their lives
being perfectly safe, they would profit by the horrors to buy property
at a nominal price.  It was brought to the notice of Richard about this
time that two Jewish boys, servants to Jewish masters who were British-
protected subjects, had given the well-understood signal by drawing
crosses on the walls.  It was the signal of the massacre of 1860.  He
promptly investigated the matter, and took away the British protection
of the masters temporarily.  Certain Israelite money-lenders, who hated
him because he would not wink at their sweating and extortions, saw in
this an opportunity to overthrow him; so they reported to some leading
Jews in England that he had tortured the boys, whom he had not, in point
of fact, punished in any way beyond reproving them.  The rich Jews at
home, therefore, were anxious to procure our recall, and spread it
about that we were influenced by hatred of the Jews.  One of them had
even the unfairness to write to the Foreign Office as follows:

"I hear that the lady to whom Captain Burton is married is believed to
be a bigoted Roman Catholic, and to be likely to influence him against
the Jews."

In spite of woman's rights I was not allowed to answer him publicly.
When I heard of it, I could not forbear sending a true statement of
the facts of the case to Lord Granville, together with the following
letter:


                                          "H. B. M. CONSULATE, DAMASCUS,
                                                "November 29, 1870.

"MY LORD,

"I have always understood that it is a rule amongst gentlemen never to
drag a lady's name into public affairs, but I accept with pleasure the
compliment which Sir ---- ---- pays me in treating me like a man, and the
more so as it enables me to assume the privilege of writing to you an
official letter, a copy of which perhaps you will cause to be transmitted
to him.

"Sir ---- ---- has accepted the tissue of untruths forwarded by three
persons, the chief money-lenders of Damascus, because they are his co-
religionists.  He asserts that I am a bigoted Roman Catholic, and must
have influenced my husband against them.  I am not so bigoted as Sir
---- ----; for if three Catholics were to do one-half of what these three
Jews have done, I would never rest until I had brought them to justice.
I have not a prejudice in the world except against hypocrisy.  Perhaps,
as Damascus is divided into thirty-two religions, my husband and I are
well suited to the place.  We never ask anybody's religion, nor make
religion our business.  My husband would be quite unfitted for public
life if he were to allow me to influence him in the manner described,
and I should be unworthy to be any good man's wife if I were to attempt
it.  My religion is God's poor.  There is no religious war between us
and the Jews, but there is a refusal to use the name of England to aid
three rich and influential Jews in acts of injustice to, and persecution
of, the poor; to imprison and let them die in gaol in order to extort
what they have not power to give; and to prevent foreign and fraudulent
money transactions being carried on in the name of Her Majesty's
Government.  Also it has been necessary once or twice to prevent
the Jews exciting the Moslems to slaughter, by which they have never
suffered, but by which they gratify their hatred of the Christians, who
are the victims.  I think nobody has more respect for the Jewish religion
than my husband and myself, or of the Jews, as the most ancient and once
chosen people of God; but in all races some must be faulty, and these
must be punished.  There are three mouths from which issue all these
complaints and untruths; and what one Jew will say or sign the whole
body will follow without asking a question why or wherefore, nor in
Damascus would their consent be asked.  It is a common saying that
'everybody says yes to them because they have the money.'  These three
men count on the influence of men like Sir ---- ----, and one or two
others, and impose upon their credulity and religious zeal to get their
misdeeds backed up and hidden.  But will such men as these protect a
fraudulent usurer because he is a Jew?

"I enclose a true statement of the case, and also some private letters,
one from our chief and best missionary, which will show you something
of the feeling here in our favour.

                   "I have the honour to be, my Lord,
                                  "Your most obedient and humble servant,
                                                        "ISABEL BURTON.
"To the Earl Granville, etc., etc.,
"Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs."


To this I can only add: if the Shylocks of Damascus hated me, so much
then more to my credit.

There were many temptations to turn us from the path of right, if we
had a mind to go.  Politics at Damascus were most corrupt, and bribes
were freely offered to us both from all sides.  They did not seem to
understand our refusal of anything of the kind.  It had evidently been
the custom.  Richard had as much as 20,000 pounds sterling offered him
at once, and personally I had no end of temptations to accept money when
I first came to Damascus.  If we had taken gold and ignored wrongs, we
might have feathered our nests for ever, and doubtless have retired with
much honour and glory.  But we would not.  In this way I refused several
Arab horses which I would have given worlds to accept, for I was
passionately fond of Arab horses, and could not afford to buy them;
but as we should have been expected to do unjust things in return, or
rather to allow unjust things to be done, I refused them.  I had more
jewels offered me than I should have known what to do with, but refused
them all; and I take some credit to myself in this matter, because I
might have accepted them as gifts without any conditions, and I like
diamonds as much as most women, or rather I like their value.

In November we had quite an event in Damascus--the wedding of the Wali's
daughter.  It was the most splendid wedding I ever beheld.  It lasted
five days and nights.  The men celebrated it in one house, and the
women in another.  We mustered several hundred in all.  I was among the
_intimes_, and was treated _en famille_.  By my side throughout was Lady
Ellenborough, looking like an oriental queen, and the charming young wife
of our Italian Consul, whose dress was fresh from Italy.  The dresses
were wonderful in richness, diamonds blazing everywhere.  But one custom
took my fancy: the best women wore simply a plain cashmere robe and no
ornaments, but loaded all their jewels on one or two of their slaves,
who followed them, as much as to say, "If you want to see all my fine
things, look behind me; it is too great a bore to carry them myself."

On the eve of the wedding there was a long procession of female
relatives, and we all sat round in the large hall.  Every woman in the
procession bore branches of lights; and the bride was in the middle, a
beautiful girl of fifteen or sixteen.  Her magnificent chestnut hair
swept in great tresses below her waist, and was knotted and seeded with
pearls.  She was dressed in red velvet, and blazed all over with precious
stones.  Diamond stars were also glued to her cheeks, her chin, and her
forehead.  And they were rather in the way of our kissing her, for they
scratched our faces.  She was a determined-looking girl, but she had been
crying bitterly, because she did not want to be married.  She sat on the
divan, and received our congratulations sullenly, looking as though she
would rather scream and scratch.

On the marriage morn we were up betimes.  The harim had begged of me to
wear an English ball-dress, that they might see what it was like.  I
said, "I will do what you ask, but I know that you will be shocked."
"Oh no," they replied; "we are quite sure we shall be delighted."  So
I wore a white glace silk skirt, a turquoise blue tunic and corsage,
the whole affair looped up and trimmed with blush roses, and the same
flowers in my hair.  Thus arrayed I appeared before the harim.  They
turned me round and round, and often asked me if I were not very cold
about the shoulders; if it were really true that strange men danced with
us and put their arms round our waists, and if we didn't feel dreadfully
ashamed, and if we really sat and ate and drank with them.  I could not
answer all these questions over and over again, so I said I would
describe a European ball by interpreter.  They hailed the idea with
delight.  I stood up and delivered as graphic an account as I could
of my first ball at Almack's, and they greeted me at intervals with
much applause.

The marriage was a simple but most touching ceremony.  We were all
assembled in the great hall.  The Wali entered, accompanied by the women
of the family; the bride advanced, weeping bitterly, and knelt and kissed
her father's feet.  The poor man, with emotion, raised her and clasped a
girdle of diamonds round her waist, which was before ungirdled; it was
part of her dower.  No one could unclasp it but her husband, and this
concluded the ceremony.  Shortly afterwards the bride was borne in
procession to the congratulations of all the women present.  After about
half an hour she was conducted to a private room by a female relative,
and the bridegroom to the same room by a male relative.  The door was
shut, and the band played a joyous strain.  I asked what was going to
happen, and they told me that the bridegroom was allowed to raise her
veil, to unclasp her belt, and to speak a few words to her in the
presence of their relatives.  This was the first time they had really
seen one another.  What an anxious moment for a Moslem woman!

Shortly after this we went on an expedition to visit the Wuld Ali, a
chief who was much dreaded by those of other tribes.  Richard and I rode
into the encampment alone.  When first the tribe saw our two dusky
figures galloping across the sand in the evening, they rode out to meet
us with their lances couched; but as soon as they were close enough to
recognize Richard they lowered their weapons, jumped off their horses and
kissed our hands, galloped in with us, and held our stirrups to alight.
I need not say that we received all the hospitality of a Bedawin life.
Richard wanted to patch up a peace between the Wuld Ali and the Mezrab
tribe, but in this he did not succeed.

We had a delightful ride when leaving one encampment for another, and
several of the Bedawin accompanied us.  As we mounted Richard whispered
to me, "Let's show those fellows that the English can ride.  They think
that nobody can ride but themselves, and that nothing can beat their
mares."  I looked round, and saw their thorough-bred mares with their
lean flanks.  I did not know how it would be with our half-breds; but
they were in first-rate condition, full of corn and mad with spirits.
So I gave Richard my usual answer to everything he said: "All right;
where you lead I will follow."  As soon as the "Yallah!" was uttered for
starting, we simply laid our reins on our horses necks, and neither used
spur nor whip nor spoke to them.  They went as though we had long odds on
our ride.  We reached the camp for which we were bound an hour and a half
before the Bedawin who were to have come with us.  Neither we nor our
horses had turned a hair.  Their mares were broken down, and the men were
not only blown and perspiring, but they complained bitterly that their
legs were skinned.  "Ya Sitti," said one, "El Shaitan himself could not
follow you."  "I am sorry," I replied, "but our _kaddishes_ would go;
_we_ wanted to ride with _you_."

When we returned from this expedition we went to Beyrout, where we spent
our Christmas.  We ate our Christmas dinner with the Consul-General, and
his dragoman told me an astounding story about myself which was news to
me, as such stories generally are.  He said that, a certain Jewish usurer
at Damascus had told him that, when I met his wife at the wedding of the
Wali's daughter, I tore her diamonds off her head, flung them on the
ground, and stamped on them, saying that they were made out of the blood
of the poor.  I was amused at this monstrous fabrication, but I was also
annoyed.  In England there may be much smoke but little fire, but in the
East the smoke always tells that the fire is fierce, and one must check
a lie before it has time to travel far.  Knowing what certain Jews in
England had reported about me before, I lost no time in putting matters
to rights with the authorities, and dispatched the following letter to
the Foreign Office:


                                                     "January 27, 1871.

"MY LORD,

"I trust you will exempt me from any wish to thrust myself into public
affairs, but it is difficult for Captain Burton to notice anything in an
official letter concerning his wife, neither can we expect the Damascus
Jews to know the habits of gentlemen.  They respect their own harims, yet
this is the second time I am mentioned discreditably in their public
correspondence.  In one sense it may be beneficial, as I can give you a
better idea of the people Captain Burton has to deal with than official
language allows of, and from which my sex absolves me.

"My offences against the Jews are as follows:

"I once said 'Not at home' to ---- ---- because I heard that he had
written unjust complaints to the Government about my husband.  Later on
the Wali gave a _fete_ to celebrate the marriage of his daughter.  I was
invited to the harim during the whole feast, which lasted five days and
nights.  The Wali's harim and the others invited made, I dare say, a
party of three hundred and fifty ladies.  I need not say that men were
not admitted; their festivities were carried on in another house.  The
---- harim was amongst the invited.  As I supposed that they knew nothing
of what was going on, I was not desirous of mortifying them by any
coldness in public, and accordingly I was as cordial to them as I had
always been.  On the last day the wife of ---- separated herself from her
party, and intruded herself into the Consulesses' divan.  We were all
together; but there was often a gathering of the Consulesses for the sake
of talking more freely in European languages, Turkish being the language
spoken generally, and Arabic being almost excluded.  I received her very
warmly, begging her to be seated, and conversed with her; but she would
talk of nothing but her husband's business.  I said to her, 'Pray do not
let us discuss this now; it is not the time and place in public, where
all can hear us.'  She replied, 'I want to talk of this and nothing else.
I came for that only.'  I said, 'You are a good woman, and I like you,
and do not want to quarrel with you.  Why speak of it?  We are two women.
What do we know of business?  Leave it for our husbands.'  She replied,
'I know business very well, and so do you.  I will speak of it.'  I then
said, 'If you do, I fear I shall say something unpleasant.'  She replied,
'I do not mind that, and I will come and see you.'  I said, 'Pray do; I
shall be delighted.'  And so we shook hands and parted.

"Six weeks after I came to Beyrout, and found that it was popularly
reported by the Jews that I had torn Madame ----'s diamonds from her hair
on this occasion, thrown them on the ground, and stamped upon them.  ----
---- arrived soon after me; and hearing from some mutual friends that
this report had reached me, he came to see me, and told me that it had
been invented by his enemies.  I replied that I thought it very likely,
and that he need not mind.  He then told me that his family, and his wife
in particular, were very fond of me, and that she had recounted our
interview at the wedding to him just as above, and as a proof of their
friendly feelings they were coming to see me to invite me to a _soiree_.

   "With many regrets for trespassing so long on your valuable time,
                             "I am, my Lord,
                                    "Your faithful and obedient servant,
                                                          "ISABEL BURTON.
"The Earl Granville,
"Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs."


A gentleman, Mr. Kennedy, from the Foreign Offices at home, was staying
at the Consul-General's at Beyrout, so we thought it right to invite him
to Damascus, and he accepted our invitation a few weeks later.

As this was an official visit we made every preparation.  I met him at
Shtora, the half-way house between Beyrout and Damascus, and travelled
with him in the diligence.  At the last station we found the Wali's
carriage and a troop of soldiers as a guard of honour, and we then
journeyed in it to our house.  The next morning Mr. Kennedy visited
the Consulate, and apparently found everything straightforward and
satisfactory, and he paid official calls with Richard.  During the
next few days I showed him most of the sights of Damascus, and one
evening I gave a large _soiree_ in his honour.  Mr. Kennedy was fain to
own that in its way it was unique.  He had never seen a party like the
one I was able to assemble.  We had thirty-six different races and creeds
and tongues: grey-bearded Moslems, fierce-looking Druzes, a rough Kurdish
chief, a Bedawin shaykh, a few sleek Jewish usurers, every one of the
fourteen castes of Christians, the Protestant missionaries, and all the
Consuls and their staffs; in fact, everything appertaining to public
life and local authority, culminating in the various Church dignitaries,
bishops, and patriarchs.  The triple-roomed hall, with fountains in the
middle, lighted with coloured lamps; the bubbling of the water in the
garden; the sad weird music in the distance; the striking costumes; the
hum of the narghilehs; the guttural sound of the conversation; the
kawwasses in green, red, blue, and gold, gliding about with trays of
sherbet, sweets, and coffee,--all combined to make the quaintest scene.

I should like to mention an anecdote here.  In the garden next to ours
there was a large wooden door, which swung always on its hinges.  It
made such a noise that it kept Mr. Kennedy awake at night.  The garden
belonged to an old woman, and I asked her to have her gate fastened.  She
sent back an answer that she could not, as it had been broken for years,
and she had not the money to spare to mend it.  So I took the law into
my own hands.  The next night Mr. Kennedy slept well.  At breakfast he
remarked the circumstance, and asked how I had managed about the door.
"If you look out of the window," I answered, "you will see it in the
courtyard.  I sent two kawwasses yesterday to pull it down at sunset."
He put on that long official face, with which all who are in the service
of Her Majesty's Government are familiar, and said, "Oh, but you must
really not treat people like that.  Supposing they knew of these things
at home?"  "Suppose they did!" I said, laughing.  I had ordered that,
after Mr. Kennedy's departure that day, the gate was to be replaced and
mended at my expense.  The next time the old woman saw me she ran out
exclaiming, "O thou light of my eyes, thou sunbeam, come and sit a little
by the brook in my garden, and honour me by drinking coffee; and Allah
grant that thou mayest break something else of mine, and live for ever;
and may Allah send back the great English Pasha to thy house to bring me
more good luck!"  However, the "great English Pasha" did not return, for
that evening a mounted escort with torches and the Wali's carriage came
to convey him and myself to the _gare_ of the diligence, and we reached
Beyrout that evening.

Nothing of importance happened at Damascus during the next few months.
It was a terribly cold winter.  We were pleasantly surprised by the
arrival of Lord Stafford and Mr. Mitford, to whom we showed the sights.
We had a few other visitors; but on the whole it was a sad winter, for
there was famine in the land.  The Jewish usurers had bought up wheat and
corn cheap, and they sold grain very dear; it was practically locked up
in the face of the starving, dying multitude.  It was terrible to see the
crowds hanging round the bakers' shops and yearning for bread.  I used to
save all the money I could--alas that I could not save more!--and telling
a kawwass and man to accompany me with trays, I used to order a couple
of sovereigns' worth of bread and distribute it in the most destitute
part of our suburb.  I never saw anything like the ravenous, hungry
people. They would tear the trays down, and drag the bread from one
another's mouths.  I have sat by crying because I felt it mockery to
bring so little; yet had I sold everything we possessed, I could not
have appeased the hunger of our village for a single day.  I wondered
how those men who literally murdered the poor, who kept the granaries
full, and saw unmoved the vitals of the multitude quivering for want,
could have borne the sight!  Surely it will be more tolerable for the
cities of the Plain in the day of judgment than for them.




CHAPTER XVI.  JERUSALEM AND THE HOLY LAND.  (1871).


  Thy servant take pleasure in her stones, and favour the dust thereof.

                                                         Psalm cii. 14.


It had long been our desire to visit Palestine and the Holy Land
thoroughly, and so in March, 1871, we determined to set out.  Richard
wished me to go by sea and meet him at Jerusalem, as he was going by land
with Mr. Drake, who had now returned from England; so I travelled across
to Beyrout, with the intention of going from there by sea to Jaffa at
once.  But when I reached the harbour of Beyrout there was such a rough
sea that I judged it better to wait for another steamer.  So I put up
at the hotel at Beyrout, where I made my first acquaintance with Cook's
tourists.  They swarmed like locusts over the town, in number about
one hundred and eighty; and the natives said of them, "These are not
travellers; these are Cookii."  Certainly they were a menagerie of
curious human bipeds.  I lunched and dined with them every day at the
_table d'hote_, and mingled with them as freely as possible, for they
interested me greatly, and I used try and classify them much as an
entomologist would classify his beetles and insects.  One lady of
forbidding appearance was known as "the Sphinx."  When on an expedition,
it was the custom to call the "Cookii" at 5 a.m., and strike the tents
at six.  It appears that her bower falling at the stroke of six disclosed
the poor thing in a light toilet, whence issued a serious quarrel.  She
wore an enormous, brown, mushroom hat, like a little table, decorated all
over with bunches of brown ribbon.  Then there was a rich vulgarian, who
had inveigled a poor gentleman into being his travelling companion, in
return for his expenses.  And didn't he let us know it!  This was his
line of conversation at the dinner table: "You want wine, indeed!  I
dare say.  Who brought you out, I should like to know?  No end of
expense.  Who pays for the dinner?  Who paid for the ticket?  What do
I get in return?  No end of expense."  And so on, and so on.  I longed
to drop a little caustic into Dives, but I was afraid that poor Lazarus
would have to pay for it afterwards.

I embarked on the next steamer bound for Jaffa.  She was the smallest,
dirtiest, and most evil smelling I have ever boarded, and that is saying
a good deal.  We had a horrid night, very rough, and the first-class
cabin became so abominable that I joined the deck passengers, and I
longed to be a drover and lie with the cattle.  My little Syrian maid
was with me, and she was very ill.  Jaffa was a rough place for landing,
but we accomplished it after some little difficulty.  It is a pretty,
fez-shaped town on the hillside.

We remained twenty-four hours in Jaffa, and then rode on to Ramleh.
The gardens around this town were exceedingly beautiful, groves of orange
trees, citrons and pomegranates.  We soon entered the Plain of Sharon.
The whole road was green and pretty.  The country was a beautiful carpet
of wild flowers.  We reached Ramleh early, and I went at once to the
Franciscan Monastery.  The monk who acted as porter received me very
stiffly at first, until he knew all about me, and then he became very
expansive.  They put my Syrian girl and me into a clean bedroom with
embroidered muslin curtains and chintz tops.  At night the monastery was
full, and we were served by the monks.  When I saw the company assembled
in the refectory at supper, I did not wonder at the porter receiving me
with such caution.  They snorted and grunted and spat and used their
forks for strange purposes.  If I had not been so hungry, I could not
have eaten a bit, though I am pretty well seasoned through living with
all kinds of people.

We started early next morning in delightful weather, and I was highly
excited by our near approach to Jerusalem.  There were several other
travellers along the road, all bound for the Holy City.  We occupied
seven and a half hours on the journey.  We passed two _cafes_ on the
road, impromptu donkey sheds, where we found good Turkish coffee and
narghilehs; and there were shady groves, and fields of marigolds,
poppies, and such-like.  At last I reached the crest of the hill, and
beheld Jerusalem beneath me.  I reined in my horse, and with my face
towards the Sepulchre gazed down upon the city of my longing eyes
with silent emotion and prayer.  Every Christian bared his head;
every Moslem and Jew saluted.  We rode towards the Jaffa Gate, outside
of which were stalls of horses and donkeys, and a motley crowd,
including lines of hideous-looking lepers.  I went to the Damascus
Hotel, a comfortable and very quiet hostel, with no tourists or trippers,
of which I was glad, for I had come on a devotional pilgrimage.  In the
evening I was able to sit on the terrace and realize the dream of my
life.  The sun was setting on the Mount of Olives, where our Saviour's
feet last touched the earth; the Arch of Ecce Homo lay beneath; the
Cross of the Sepulchre caught the ruddy glow; out beyond were the
Mountains of Moab, purple and red in the dying day; and between me
and them, deep down I knew, lay the Dead Sea.

My reverie was awakened by the arrival of Richard with the horses and
the _sais_ and Habib.  Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake was with him.

The next morning we were out early.  First we rode to see the Stone of
Colloquy on the road to Bethany, so called because it is believed that,
when Martha came to tell Jesus that her brother Lazarus was dead, the
Saviour sat upon this stone whilst He conversed with her.  It is a little
table of rock about a yard long.  We then went over a jagged country to
Bethany, a short hour's journey from Jerusalem.  Bethany is now nothing
but a few huts and broken walls in a sheltered spot.  We went to see
the tomb of Lazarus, which is a small empty rock chamber.  About forty
yards to the south we were shown the supposed house of Martha and Mary.
We passed a little field where Christ withered the tree, marked by an
excavation in the rock, where there is always a fig.  The way we returned
to Jerusalem was that by which Jesus rode upon the ass in triumph upon
Palm Sunday, down the Mount of Olives, and in at the Golden Gate of
the Temple.

On the south of the American cemetery there is a little spot of desolate
land, which is the site of a house where, when all was over, our blessed
Lady lived with St. John.  Here she passed her last fifteen years; here
she died at the age of sixty-three, and was buried near the Garden of
Gethsemane.  All that remains of the site of this small dwelling are
some large stones, said to be the foundations.  We then visited the
Coelnaculum, or the room of the Last Supper.  An ancient church, which
is now converted into a mosque, is built on the site of the Last Supper
room.  It is a long hall with a groined roof, and some say that it is
the actual site, built with other materials.  We then visited the house
of Caiaphas, and in the afternoon we sat in the English burial-ground
on Mount Zion, talking and picking a flower here and there.

Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake was our dear friend and travelling companion.  He
was a young man full of promise for a brilliant Eastern and scientific
career.  He was tall, powerful, fair, manly, distinguished for athletic
and field sports; his intellectual qualities, and his mastery of
languages, Arabic and others, were so great that he made me wonder how
at twenty-four years of age a young man could know so much.  He was a
thorough Englishman, the very soul of honour.

I should weary and not edify if I were to describe all we saw at
Jerusalem.  I have written of it more fully elsewhere,[1] and I can
never hope to convey the remarkably vivid way in which it brought
home to me the truth of the Gospel narrative.  But I think there are
two spots which I ought to describe: one is the Calvary Church, and
the other is the Holy Sepulchre.

There are six holy spots on Mount Calvary.  In the church itself, about
four or five yards on the right hand, at the head of the staircase before
you advance up the church, the black-and-white rose in the marble shows
where our Saviour was stripped.  Three yards farther, before an altar, a
slab covers the spot where they nailed Him to the Cross; and a little
farther on, at the High Altar, the Sacrifice was consummated.  The High
Altar is resplendent; but one wishes it were not there, for all one's
interest is concentrated upon a large silver star underneath it.  On
hands and knees I bowed down to kiss it, for it covered the hole in the
rock where the Cross, with our dying lord upon it, was planted.  I put my
arm into the hole, and touched it for a blessing.  On the right hand is
the hole of the good thief's cross, and on the left the bad thief's, each
marked by a black marble cross.  The cleft in the solid rock which opened
when "Jesus, crying with a loud voice, gave up the ghost," and "the earth
quaked and the rocks were rent," is still visible.  You can see it again
below, in the deepest part of the church, where lies Adam's tomb.  The
surface looks as if it were oxidized with blood, and tradition says that
this colour has ever remained upon it.

We will now proceed from Calvary to the Holy Sepulchre.  Entering the
Basilica, the vast church where the Holy Sepulchre is, we find a little
chapel enclosing the grave.  It stands under the centre of the great
dome, which covers the whole Basilica.  The Holy Sepulchre itself, all of
it cut in one solid rock, consists of a little ante-chamber and an inner
chamber containing a place for interment.  It is carved out of the stone
in the form of a trough, which had a stone slab for a covering, and it is
roofed by a small arch, also cut in the rock.  When St. Helena prepared
for building the Basilica with the Holy Sepulchre and Calvary, she
separated the room containing the sacred tomb from the mass of rock, and
caused an entrance vestibule to be carved out of the remainder.  Would
that St. Helena had contented herself with building indestructible walls
round the sacred spots and left them to Nature, marking them only with a
cross and an inscription!  They would thus have better satisfied the love
and devotion of Christendom, than the little, ornamented chapels which
one shuts one's eyes not to see, trying to realize what had once been.
In the middle is the stone on which the angel sat when it was rolled back
from the Sepulchre.  Christians of every race, tongue, and creed burn
gold and silver lamps day and night before the grave, so that the chapel
inside is covered with them, and priests of each form of Christian
faith officiate here in turn.  The exterior of the Sepulchre is also
covered with gold and silver lamps, burnt by different Christians.
Fifteen lamps of gold hang in a row about the grave itself.  The Turks
hold the keys.  In going in or coming out all kneel three times and kiss
the ground.  After you cross the vestibule, which is dark, you crouch to
pass through the low, rock-cut archway by which you enter the tomb.  You
kneel by the Sepulchre, which appears like a raised bench of stone; you
can put your hands upon it, lean your face upon it, if you will, and
think and pray.

I was in Jerusalem all through Holy Week, from Palm Sunday until Easter
Day, and I attended all the services that I could attend, and so kept the
week of our Lord's Passion in the Holy City.  On Good Friday I went to
the "Wailing-place of the Jews" by the west wall of the enclosure around
the Mosque of Omar, an old remain of the Temple of Solomon, and listened
to their lamentations, tears, prayers and chants.  They bewailed their
city, their Temple, their departed glory, on the anniversary of the day
when their crime was accomplished and Christ was crucified.  The scene
and the hour made me think deeply.  I shall never forget either the scene
in the Basilica on Holy Saturday, when the Patriarch undressed to show
that he had nothing with him to produce the Greek fire, and bared his
head and feet, and then, in a plain surplice, entered the Sepulchre
alone.  Five minutes later the "Sacred Fire" issued, and a really
wonderful scene followed.  All the congregation struggled to catch the
first fire.  They jumped on each other's heads, shoulders, and backs;
they hunted each other round the church with screams of joy.  They
pass it to one another; they rub it over their faces, they press it
to their bosoms, they put it in their hair, they pass it through their
clothes, and not one of this mad crowd feels himself burnt.  The fire
looked to me like spirits on tow; but it never went out, and every part
of the Basilica is in one minute alight with the blaze.  I once believed
in this fire, but it is said now to be produced in this manner: In one of
the inner walls of the Sepulchre there is a sliding panel, with a place
to contain a lamp, which is blessed, and for centuries the Greeks have
never allowed this lamp to go out, and from it they take their "Sacred
Fire."  Richard was assured by educated Greeks that a lucifer box did
the whole business, and that is probable; but be that so or not, there
was a man-of-war waiting at Jaffa to convey the "Sacred Fire" to St.
Petersburg.

It was later on in the day, after we had made an excursion to see the
Convent of the Cross, that Richard, Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake, and I went
off to explore the Magharat el Kotn, also called the Royal Caverns.  They
are enormous quarries, the entrance to which looks like a hole in the
wall outside Jerusalem, not far from the Gate of Damascus.  We crept
in, and found ourselves lost in endless artificial caves and galleries.
Richard and Mr. Drake were delighted with them; but I soon left the
enthusiasts, for the caves did not interest me.  I had kept Lent fasting;
I had attended all the long ceremonies of Holy Week; and I was therefore
very tired on this day, Holy Saturday, the more so because I had not
only attended my own Church's ceremonies, but all those of every sect
in, Jerusalem.  So I gave up exploring the caves, and sauntered away to
the northernmost point of Mount Bezetha, and saw the Cave of the Prophet
Jeremias.  It was here that he wrote his Lamentations.

I then climbed up to a large cave somewhat to the left, above that of
Jeremias, where I could look down upon Jerusalem.  Here, worn out with
fatigue, fasting, and over-excitement, I lay down with my head upon the
stone, and slept a long sleep of two hours, during which time I dreamed
a long, vivid dream.  Its details in full would occupy a volume.  Byron
says: "Dreams in their development have breath and tears and torture and
the touch of joy.  They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts and look
like heralds of eternity.  They pass like the spirits of the past; they
speak like sibyls of the future."  The spirit of Jeremias might have
touched the stone upon which I slept, or Baruch might have dwelt there.
I dreamed for hours, and then I awoke.  A goat-herd had entered the cave,
and I half fancy he had shaken me, for he looked scared and said,
"Pardon, Ya Sitti; I thought you were dead."

The bells of the Sepulchre were giving out their deep-tongued notes and
re-echoing over the hills.  I looked at my watch; it was the Ave Maria--
sunset.  I came back with a rush to reality; all my dream views vanished,
and the castles in the air tumbled down like a pack of cards.  Nothing
remained of my wondrous dream, with its marvellous visions, its stately
procession of emperors, kings, queens, pontiffs, and ministers--nothing
remained of them all, but only my poor, humble self, private and obscure,
still to toil on and pray and suffer.  I had to rouse myself at once, and
almost to run, so as to pass the gates before I was locked out of the
city for the night.  No one would have thought of looking for me in the
cave.  I should certainly have been reported as murdered.  When I arrived
home it was long past sunset, but Richard and Mr. Tyrwhitt-Drake had not
returned from their visit to the Caves of Magharat el Kotn.  The gates of
Jerusalem were shut, and I felt seriously alarmed, lest they should have
met with some accident; so before settling myself to write my dream, I
ordered my horse and rode back to the Damascus Gate to propitiate the
guard and to post a kawwass at the gate, that I might get into the city
again.  It was pitch dark; so I went down myself to the caves, which were
miles long and deep, with lights and ropes.  After a quarter of an hour's
exploration I met them coming back, safe.  As soon as we got home I
locked myself in my room and wrote down the incidents of my dream.

The next morning, Easter Sunday, I was up before dawn, and had the
happiness of hearing two Masses and receiving Holy Communion in the
Sepulchre.  I was the only person present besides the celebrant and the
acolyte.  During the day we walked round about Jerusalem, and visited
many sacred spots.

On Easter Monday in the afternoon we rode over bad country to the Cave
of St. John the Baptist, where he led the life of a hermit and prepared
for his preaching.  It was a small cave, and there is a bench in it
cut in the stone, which served the Baptist as a bed.  The priests now
celebrate Mass on it.

On Easter Tuesday one of Her Majesty's men-of-war arrived at Jaffa, and
a number of sailors rode up to Jerusalem in the evening, and kept high
festival.  It sounded strange in the solemn silence of the Holy City to
hear the refrains of "We won't go home till morning" until past midnight.
But a truce to sentiment; it did me good to hear their jolly English
voices, so I ordered some drink for them, and sent a message to them to
sing "Rule Britannia" and "God save the Queen" for me, which they did
with a hearty good-will.  They made the old walls ring again.

On Wednesday we went to Bethlehem.  There is a monastery over the holy
places where the Nativity took place.  You descend a staircase into the
crypt, which must have formed part of the old khan, or inn, where Mary
brought forth our Lord.  The centre of attraction is a large grotto, with
an altar and a silver star under it, and around the star is written, "Hic
de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est."  The manger where the animals
fed is an excavation in the rock.

The next day, having exhausted the objects of interest in and about
Bethlehem, we continued our travels.  We rode on to Hebron, an ancient
town lying in a valley surrounded by hills.  The houses are old and
ruinous.  One cannot go out upon one's roof without all the other roofs
being crowded, and cries of "Bakshish" arise like the cackle of fowls.
There is a mosque of some interest, which we explored; but it was very
disappointing that Richard, who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca, and who
was considered as having a right to enter where Moslems enter, could not
be admitted by the Hebronites to the cave below the mosque, the only part
which was not visited by travellers.  The answer was, "If we went, you
should go too; but even we dare not go now.  The two doors have been
closed, one for seventy years, and the other for one hundred and fifty
years."  Speaking generally, we found Hebron a dirty, depressing place,
full of lazy, idle people, and a shaykh told us that there was not a
Christian in the place, as though that were something to be proud of.

On Low Sunday we left Hebron and rode back to Jerusalem, where I enjoyed
several days quietly among the holy sites.  While we were there we were
invited by the Anglican Bishop Gobat to a _soiree_, which we enjoyed very
much indeed, including Mr. Holman Hunt.

On April 24 we left Jerusalem.  Quite a company went with us as far
as Bir Ayyub--Joab's Well.  Then our friends rode back to Jerusalem;
Richard and Mr. Tyrwhitt-Drake went in another direction; and I
remained alone with servants, horses, and baggage.  I sent them on
in advance, and turned my horse's head round to take a long, last
look at the sacred walls of Jerusalem.  I recited the psalm "Super
flumina Babylonis illic sedimus," and then after a silent meditation
I galloped after my belongings.

After half an hour's riding through orchards and grass I came to a wide
defile two or three miles long, winding like a serpent, and the sides
full of caves.  I climbed up to some to describe them to Richard.
The country was truly an abomination of desolation, nothing but naked
rockery for miles and miles, with the everlasting fire of the sun
raining upon it.

There was a monastery in the defile at the end, a Greek Orthodox
monastery.  They say that whatever woman enters the monastery dies.  I
had a great mind to enter it as a boy, for I was very curious to see it.
However, I thought better of it, and pulled the ends of my habit out of
my big boots and presented myself at the door of the monastery in my own
character.  The monk who played janitor eyed me sternly, and said, "We do
not like women here, my daughter; we are afraid of them."  "You do not
look afraid, Father," I said.  "Well," he answered, laughing, "it is
our rule, and any woman who passes this door dies."  "Will you let me
risk it, Father?" I asked.  "No, my daughter, no.  Go in peace."  And he
slammed the door in a hurry, for fear that I should try.  So I strolled
off and perched myself on an airy crag, from which I could look down upon
the monastery, and I thought that at any rate the monks liked to look at
the forbidden article, woman, for about sixty of them came out to stare
at me.  When Richard and Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake arrived, they were
admitted to the monastery, and shown over everything, which I thought
very hard, and I was not greatly reconciled by being told that there
was really nothing to see.  We camped here for the night.  The sun was
still tinting the stone-coloured hills, the dark blue range of Moab,
when a gong sounded through the rocks, and I saw flocks of jackals
clamber up to the monastery to be fed, followed by flights of birds.
The monks tame all the wild animals.

Next day we went off to the Dead Sea.  We had read in guide-books that
the way to it was very difficult, but we did not believe it.  I wish we
had, for our ride to it across the desert was terrible.  The earth was
reeking with heat, and was salt, sulphurous, and stony.  We were nearly
all day crossing the Desert of Judah, and at last our descent became so
rugged and bad that our baggage mules stuck fast in the rocks and sand.
We had to cut away traps and cords, and sacrifice boxes to release them.
We could see the bright blue Dead Sea long before we reached it, but
we had to crawl and scramble down on foot as best we could under the
broiling sun.  It reminded me more of a bleak and desolate Lake Geneva
than anything else.  While we were waiting for the mules and baggage we
tried to hide from the sun, and tied the horses to bits of rocks.  Then
we plunged into the sea, and had a glorious swim.  You cannot sink.  You
make very little way in the water, and tire yourself if you try to swim
fast.  If a drop of the water happens to get into your eye, nose, or
mouth, it is agonizing; it is so salt, hard, and bitter.  Next day I felt
very ill from the effects of my bath.  In the first place, I was too hot
to have plunged into the cold water at once; and, in the second place,
I stopped in too long, because, being the only woman, and the place of
disrobing being somewhat public, the others kept out of sight until I
was well in the water, and when the bath was ended I had to stay in the
water until Richard and Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake had gone out and dressed,
all the time keeping my head of course discretely in the other direction,
so that by the time they had finished I had been nearly an hour in the
Dead Sea, and the result was I suffered from it.  After bathing we dined
on the borders of the sea.  The colours of the water were beautiful, like
the opal; and the Mountains of Moab were gorgeous in the dying light.

The next day we rode over very desolate country to Neby Musa, the so-
called tomb of Moses, and we camped for the night on the banks of the
Jordan.  I was very feverish, weak, and ill.  All the others bathed in
the sacred river, but I only dipped my head in and filled three bottles
to bring home for baptisms.  I was most anxious to bathe in Jordan, and
I cried with vexation at not being able to do so in consequence of my
fever.  In the cool of the following afternoon we rode to Jericho, which
consists of a few huts and tents; a small part of it is surrounded by
pleasant orchards.  It was hard to imagine this poor patch of huts was
ever a royal city of palaces, where cruel Herod ruled and luxurious
Cleopatra revelled.

Next morning we rode out of the valley of the Jordan, which, fringed with
verdure, winds like a green serpent through the burning plain of the
desert.  We encamped for the night at Bethel, where Jacob dreamed of his
ladder.  I felt so ill--all that Dead Sea again--that it was proposed
that we should ride on to Nablus next day, about ten hours distant, and
that we should encamp there for four or five days to let me recover.

We rode over endless stony hills, relieved by fruitful valleys.  I felt
very ill, and could scarcely go on; but at last we arrived at our camping
ground.  It was by a stream amidst olive groves and gardens outside
Nablus.  As this was the boundary between the Damascus and the Jerusalem
consular jurisdiction, we now considered ourselves once more upon our own
ground.  We stayed at Nablus four days, and visited all the places of
interest in it and around it, which I have not time to dwell upon now.

We left Nablus in the early morning, and after a delightful ride through
groves and streams we entered Samaria, where, however, we did no more
than halt for a space, but rode on to Jennin, where we camped for the
night.  There were several other camps at Jennin besides our own--two
of Englishmen, and likewise an American and a German camp--five camps
in all.  We had quite a foregathering in the evening; and a glorious
evening it was, with a May moon.  The little white village with its
mosque peeped out of the foliage of palm trees and mulberry groves.

We left early next morning, and rode to Scythopolis, where we camped.

The next morning Richard and Mr. Drake went on ahead to take some
observations; I jogged on more leisurely behind, and our camp was sent
on to Nazareth.  Everywhere the earth was beautifully green, and carpeted
with wild flowers.  The air was fresh and balmy, and laden with the
scents of spring.  I passed the black tents of some Arabs, who gave me
milk to drink.  We also passed one well, where we watered the horses.
It was a perfect day, but I was alone.  We rode on until we came to Nain,
and thence to Endor.  Here we reposed under some fig trees for an hour,
and were twice insulted for so doing.  The district around Nazareth was
very turbulent.  First came some "big-wig" with a long name, who,
thinking I was only an Englishwoman, told me to "get up," and said he
"didn't care for consuls, nor English, nor dawwasses."  A poor woman
standing by begged me to go out again into the sun, and not shade myself
under the figs, and thus displease this great man.  You see, when I was
sitting down, he thought that by my voice and face I was a woman, and
as long as my servants only addressed me in coarse Arabic he bounced
accordingly.  But when I arose in my outraged dignity, and he saw my
riding-habit tucked into my boots, he thought that I was a boy, or rather
a youth; and I flourished my whip and cried, "You may not, O Shaykh, care
for consuls, nor English, nor kawwasses, but I am going to make you care
for something."  Thereupon he jumped up as nimble as a monkey, and ran
for his life.  Then the villagers, thinking me the better man of the two,
brought milk for driving him away.  He was soon succeeded by a fellah
with half a shirt, who came out of his way to insult a stranger, and
asked me by what right we sat under the shady figs; but the _sais_
gave him a knock with his knobbed stick, and after that we were left
in peace.  Endor consists of about twenty wretched huts on the side of
a hill, and the women look like descendants of the original witch.  I
went to a big fountain where crones were drawing water, dreadful old
women, who accused me of having the Evil Eye, which made my servant very
nervous.  Blue eyes are always considered to be dangerous in the East.
I said, "You are quite right, O ye women of Endor;  I was born with the
Evil Eye"; whereupon they became very civil, that I might not hurt them.
We then descended into the plain between Endor and Nazareth, and it was
so hot and close that I fell asleep on my horse for fully an hour.  At
last we reached the Vale of Nazareth.  I was glad to ride into the camp,
where I found all our former travellers.  They were very hospitable, and
gave me shelter until our tents were pitched.  The camps were all pitched
in a small plain without the town.  Our camp was near the Greek Orthodox
Church, and hidden from the others by a slight eminence.

At sunrise next morning a Copt wanted to enter my tent, either for
stealing or some other purpose.  I was still in bed, half awake, and I
heard the servants tell him to go.  He refused, and was very insolent.
He took up stones, and threw them, and struck the men.  The noise awoke
me thoroughly.  I got up, and watched the proceedings through the top of
my tent wall.  I called out to my servants to leave him alone; but by
this time they were angry, and began to beat the Copt.  A little affair
of this sort among the people would hardly be noticed in the usual way;
but as ill-luck would have it, the Greeks, whom it didn't concern, were
coming out of church, and seeing a quarrel they joined in it and sided
with the Copt.  Our servants were only six, and the Greeks were one
hundred and fifty.  Richard and Mr. Tyrwhitt-Drake, hearing the noise,
ran out of their tents half dressed to see what was the matter, and said
and did everything to calm the people.  They were received with a hail-
storm of stones, each the size of a melon, which seemed to darken the air
for several minutes.  A rich and respectable Greek called out, "Kill them
all; I'll pay the blood money."  Our Druze muleteer called out, "Shame!
This is the English Consul of Damascus on his ground."  Another Greek
shouted, "So much the worse for him."  I put on some clothes while the
fighting was going on, and watched Richard.  As an old soldier accustomed
to fire, he stood perfectly calm, though the stones hit him right and
left.  Most men under such pain and provocation would have fired, but
he contented himself with marking out the ringleaders, to take them
afterwards.  I ran out to give him two six-shot revolvers, but before
I got within stone's reach he waved me back; so I kept near enough to
carry him off if he were badly wounded, and put the revolvers in my
belt, meaning to have twelve lives for his if he were killed.  Seeing
that he could not appease the Greeks, and three of the servants were
badly hurt, and one lay for dead on the ground, Richard pulled a pistol
out of Habib's belt and fired a shot into the air.  I understood the
signal, and flew round to the other camps and called all the English
and Americans with their guns.  When they saw a reinforcement of ten
armed English and Americans running down to them, the cowardly crew
of one hundred and fifty Greeks turned and fled.  But for this timely
assistance, we none of us should have been left alive.  The whole
affair did not last ten minutes.

We found out afterwards that the cause of the Greek ill-feeling
originated with the Greek Orthodox Bishop of Nazareth, who had snatched
away a synagogue and cemetery from British-protected Jews, against which
arbitrary proceeding Richard had strongly protested.  Richard went later
in the day to report what had happened to the Turkish official, the
Kaim-makam, and to ask for redress, but he was unable to do anything.
He had only twelve zaptiyeh (policemen), armed with canes!  So we had
to wait at Nazareth five days, until Richard sent to St. Jean d'Acre for
soldiers.  The Greeks were at first very insolent; but when they found
that Richard was in earnest about having the offenders punished, they
came in a body to beg pardon.  The Bishop also sent to say that he
deeply regretted the part he had taken.  But whilst the Greeks were so
occupied in our presence, they were manufacturing the most untruthful
and scandalous report of the affair, which they sent to Damascus and
Beyrout, to St. Jean d'Acre and to Constantinople, which was signed
and sealed by the Bishop and endorsed by the Wali of Syria, who
never waited or asked for one word of explanation from Richard.

The Greeks said, in their report, that we began the quarrel, and many
other things absolutely false.  For instance, they stated that Richard
fired upon them several times when they were playing games; that he
entered the church armed to profane it, tore down the pictures, broke
the lamps, and shot a priest; and that I also went forth in my nightgown,
and, sword in hand, tore everything down, and jumped and shrieked upon
the _debris_, and did many other unwomanly things.  This report was
actually signed and sealed by the Bishop and by the Wali, and forwarded,
unknown to us, to Constantinople and London.  Naturally Richard's few
enemies at home tried to make capital out of the accident.

The whole day after the brutal attack upon us we had to do all the work
of our tents and the cooking and attend to our horses ourselves.  Even if
we had wished to move away from Nazareth we could not have done so with
four of our servants disabled and helpless.  Dr. Varden and myself were
entirely occupied with the suffering men.  Richard and Mr. Tyrwhitt-Drake
took charge of the tents and horses, and the doctor sent me a woman to
help to cook, as it was necessary to prepare soup and invalid food for
the wounded, who, in consequence of their injuries, suffered from fever.
Richard's sword arm was injured by stones, and the sprained muscles were
not thoroughly cured for two years afterwards.   Besides this, we had to
be prepared for a night attack of revenge.  And what with the whispering
of the Turkish soldiers, who had come from St. Jean d'Acre, the evident
excitement prevailing in the town, and the barking of dogs, the nights
were not peaceful enough to admit of sleep.

On May 10 we left Nazareth, and every one came out to see our departure.
Our exit was over a steep country composed of slabs of slippery rock, but
we soon got into a better district, over flowery plains, now and then
varied by difficult passes and tracks.  We camped for the night by the
Lake of Tiberias, the Sea of Galilee.  Next day we hired a boat and went
round the lake.  Towards night there was a glare behind the mountains, as
if some town in the neighbourhood was on fire.  We could not sleep in
consequence of the stifling heat, and flies and mosquitoes were numerous.
The day after I went off to the hot baths of Hamath, or Emmaus.  They
were salt and sulphuric.  In the middle of the bath-house was a large
marble basin, through which the water passed, with little rooms around.
Here people bathed for bone-aches.  The women advised me to enter
cautiously.  I laughed; and by way of showing them that Englishwomen were
accustomed to water and were not afraid, I plunged in for a swim.  But I
soon repented.  I felt as if I had jumped into boiling water.  My skin
was all burnt red, and I began to faint.  However, on leaving the bath I
felt much invigorated, and lost all the fever and illness resulting from
my swim in the Dead Sea.

The next morning we galloped round the northern end of the Sea of
Galilee.  In the afternoon we rode to Safed, where we camped for the
night.  Safed is a town of considerable size, and surrounded by beautiful
gardens.  There is a large Jewish quarter, and from the hour of our
coming the Jews were all hospitality and flocked to our tents to greet
us.  It was very hot at Safed in the daytime; and when we left the next
day we had a most trying ride across a country burnt black with the
recent prairie fire.  We encamped for the night in a lonely spot, which
turned out to be a perfect paradise for mosquitoes, spiders, scorpions,
and other pests, but a perfect hell for us.  We could do nothing but wrap
ourselves up completely in sheets, and walk up and down all night long by
the camp-fires, while the jackals howled outside.  When the morning light
came, we were able to laugh at one another's faces, all swollen with
bites and stings.  Mine was like the face one sees in a spoon.

I need not dwell upon the next three days, because they were all exactly
alike.  We rode all day and camped at night until the morning of May 19
dawned.  We halted for breakfast under a favourite fig tree, where were
shade, water, and grass.  We then ambled for three and a half hours over
the barren plain, until at last we arrived on the borders of the green
groves around Damascus.  We entered our own oasis.  Oh how grateful were
the shade, the cool water, and the aromatic smells!  One hour more and we
entered our own little paradise again, and met with a cordial greeting
from all.  It was a happy day.  I did not know it then, but our happy
days at Damascus were numbered.


NOTES:

1. The Inner Life of Syria, Palestine, and the Holy Land, by Isabel
   Burton, 2 vols.




CHAPTER XVII.  THE RECALL.  (1871).


              I call to mind the parting day
              That rent our lives in twain.

                      ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH (Burton's "Arabian Nights").


On returning to Damascus, Richard made the necessary explanations
concerning the riot at Nazareth to the authorities, and he concluded
that the "village row" was ended.  I also wrote a full and accurate
account of the affair to Sir Henry Elliot, our Ambassador at
Constantinople (who had kindly expressed his willingness to hear
from me when I had anything special to communicate), to supplement
Richard's report.  Sir Henry had telegraphed to know what it all meant.

As Richard had still a fortnight's leave on hand, he thought he would
use it by going to return the visit of the Druzes, who had paid us many
friendly visits during our two years' sojourn at Damascus, and had asked
Richard to come and see them in the Hauran.  He called upon the Wali
before his departure, and told him of his projected visit.  The Wali
expressed his gladness, and said, "Go soon, or there will be no water."
He also wrote to the Consul-General at Beyrout to acquaint him of his
intention, and started with Mr. Tyrwhitt-Drake.

I was left behind.  A few days after Richard had gone, the Wali, with
whom I had always been on friendly terms, wrote me an extraordinary
letter.  He accused Richard of having made a political meeting with the
Druze chiefs in the Hauran, and of having done great harm to the Turkish
Government.  I knew that he had done nothing of the kind, and so I wrote
to the Wali and told him that he had been deceived, and asked him to wait
until Richard came home.  I pointed out to him how fond people were of
inventing and circulating falsehoods to make mischief between him and the
Consuls.  He pretended to be satisfied.  But a Turkish plot had been laid
on foot of which I knew nothing.  A disturbance had been purposely
created between the Bedawin and the Druzes, which enabled the Turkish
Government to attack the Druzes in the Hauran.  The Wali let Richard go
in order to accuse him of meddling.  The fact was, the Wali had intended
a little campaign against the Druzes, and was endeavouring, by means
known only to the unspeakable Turk, to stir up sedition among them,
in order to have an excuse for slaughtering them; but Richard had,
unknowingly, spoiled the whole plan by counselling the Druzes to submit.
It was that which made the Wali so angry, for it spoilt his plot; and he
reported that Richard meddled with Turkish affairs and agitated for his
recall.  I wrote again to Sir Henry Elliot, stating the true facts of the
case.  For, as I told our Ambassador, I heard that the "Home Government
is actually contemplating pleasing a handful of bad people, headed by the
Wali, by probably removing my husband from the very place for which his
natural gifts and knowledge fit him," and I asked him, who knew the East,
to acquaint Lord Granville how matters stood.

One day while Richard was still away, a European, who was a favourite of
the Wali, asked me what day Richard would return to Damascus, and by what
road.  I asked why he wanted to know.  "Because," he said, "my child is
to be baptized, and I want him to be present."  I found out the next day
that the christening was fixed for the day before Richard's return, and I
was asked; so that the man had not given me the true reason for wanting
to know when Richard was coming back.  I scented danger, and by a trusty
messenger I instantly dispatched a warning to Richard to "look out for
tricks."  By God's blessing it was in time.  Richard changed his road,
and from a concealed shelter he watched the progress of a Ghazu, or armed
band, beating the country, looking for some one.  By whom they were sent,
whom they were looking for, and for what fell purpose may be imagined.

My heart was torn with anxiety.  Nevertheless I went to the christening,
and kept a calm exterior.  I felt a qualm when a certain Greek said to
me, with a meaning, unpleasant smile, "There is a telegram or something
important arrived for you."  "Oh, is there?" I said coolly; "well, I dare
say I shall get it when I go home."  Presently a kawwass came in, and
saluted and said, "The Consul is returned, Sitti, and wants you."  Making
my excuses, I retired from the festivities; and jumping on my horse, I
galloped home, where I found Richard safe and sound.  The telegram, which
was quite unimportant, did not arrive until several hours later.  Had the
Ghazu fallen in with Richard, the verdict would have been, "Fallen a prey
to his wild and wandering habits in the desert."  But it was not God's
will that he should be removed in this way.

About this time the trouble with the Shazlis also came to a head.  The
Shazlis were Sufis, or mystics, esoterics of El Islam, who tried to
spiritualize its material portions.  Richard was most interested in them,
and he used to study them and their history.  The mystic side of their
faith especially appealed to him.  He thought he saw in it a connexion
between Sufiism in its highest form and Catholicism; and indeed it was
so.  He followed it up unofficially, disguised as a Shazli, and unknown
to any mortal except myself.  He used to mix with them, and passed much
of his time in the Maydan at Damascus with them.  Many of the Shazlis
were secretly converted to Christianity in the spring of 1870.  It was
only natural that it should be so, for there was a link between the
highest form of Sufiism and the true Catholic Church.  Before long the
news of these conversions leaked out, and the Wali determined to crush
conversion, because it would add to European influence, of which he was
already jealous, and he persecuted and imprisoned the converts.  Richard
endeavoured to protect them, and thus brought himself into conflict with
the Wali.

Richard thought very seriously of this revival of Christianity in Syria,
and wrote to the Protestant missionaries about it.  He also wrote to Sir
Henry Elliot and to Lord Granville on the subject, so impressed was he
with its vigour and vitality.  And indeed there was a remarkable revival
going on below the surface.  The persecutions to which the Shazlis had
been subjected had caused the movement to grow with redoubled force, and
the number of converts increased from day to day.  Many were secretly
baptized, and many more were yearning for baptism.  Richard knew all
this, and sympathized with the converted Shazlis heart and soul.  Indeed
I think he was never nearer a public profession of Catholicity than at
that time.  What he might have done for them, if he had had the chance,
I know not; but the chance was denied him.

The next week or two went by without anything important happening.  On
June 25 we went by the Wali's invitation to a grand review at El Haneh,
the first ever seen in Syria.  Nothing could exceed the kindness and
courtesy of the Wali.  Indeed every one was very kind to me, the only
woman present.  We had fireworks and dinner, and then wild native dances,
and after a pleasant drive home to Damascus in Abd el Kadir's carriage.

About this time the heat was very great; not a breath of air was
stirring, night or day.  We felt like the curled-up leaves of a book.
Food or sleep was impossible to us.  Every one who could fled from
Damascus.  I refused to go to summer quarters because Richard could
not go too, and I would not shirk anything he had to bear.  At last,
however, I fell ill of fever, and Richard sent me away to Bludan.

One night, when I was sitting alone, I heard a great noise against the
door.  I seized the only thing handy, a big stick, and ran out.  A large
serpent had been attracted by a bowl of milk put on the terrace for my
large white Persian cat, who was valiantly defending her milk against
the snake.  It raised up its long neck and hissed at me; but I hit it
with my stick a foot away from its tail, which is the proper place to
paralyze a snake.  It tried to make away, but was unable, and then I
killed it.  It was two yards and a half long, and as thick as a child's
arm.  It had a flat head, and was of a bluish silver colour.  Another
night, when I went up to the housetop, a large wolf sprang over my head.
I ran in for my gun, but though I was not gone an instant the wolf was
out of my reach.  After a few weeks Richard came up and joined me at
Bludan with Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake.

During this summer we made many excursions to pleasant spots around
Bludan, and we used to invite the Shaykhs and principal people to meet
us.  We would choose a spot near water, or near Bedawin tents, or a
melon plantation; and arriving at the appointed place, we would eat and
drink, make a fire, roast and prepare our coffee, and have a siesta.
These impromptu picnics were very pleasant, and we always found the
Bedawin charming.  Those days were very pleasant ones; our lives were
peaceful, useful, and happy.  But suddenly there came a bolt from the
blue.  On August 16, 1871, the blow fell.

That morning at Bludan the horses were saddled at the door, and we were
going for a ride, when a ragged messenger on foot stopped to drink at the
spring, and then came up to me with a note.  I saw it was for Richard,
and took it into the house to him, never thinking what it contained.
It was a curt letter from the Vice-Consul of Beyrout, informing Richard
that, by orders of his Consul-General, he had arrived at Damascus the
previous day, and had taken charge of the Consulate.

Richard and Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake were in the saddle in five minutes,
and galloped into Damascus without drawing rein.  Richard would not let
me go with him.  A few hours later a mounted messenger came back to
Bludan with these few written words: "Do not be frightened.  I am
recalled.  Pay, pack, and follow at convenience."  I was not frightened;
but I shall never forget what my feelings were when I received that note.
Perhaps it is best not to try to remember them.

The rest of the day I went about trying to realize what it all meant.
When I went to bed that night, my mind was full of Richard, and I had
one of my dreams, a terribly vivid dream.  I dreamed that Something
pulled me by the arm.  I sat up in bed, and I could still see and feel
it, and it said in a loud whisper "Why do you lie there?  Your husband
wants you.  Get up and go to him."

I lay down again, and tried to sleep; but again it happened, and yet
again--three successive times; and big drops of sweat were on my
forehead.  My English maid, who slept in the room, said, "Are you walking
about and talking, madam?"  "No," I said; "but somebody is.  Are you?"
"No," she answered, "I have not stirred; but you've been talking in
your sleep."

I could bear it no longer, for I believed that the Presence was real.
I sprang out of bed, dressed, went to the stable, saddled my horse,
and though everybody said I was mad, and wanted to thrust me back to
bed again, I galloped out into the night.

I rode for five hours across country, as though it were a matter of life
and death, over rock and through swamps, making for Shtora, the diligence
station.  I shall never forget that night's ride.  Those who know the
ground well will understand what it meant to tear over slippery boulders
and black swamps in the darkness of the night.  My little horse did it
all, for I scarcely knew where I was going half the time.  But no one
will ever persuade me that in that ride I was alone.  Another Presence
was with me and beside me, and guarded my ways, lest I dashed my foot
against a stone.

Three or four of my servants were frightened, and followed me afar off,
but I did not know it then.  At last I came in sight of Shtora, the
diligence station.  The half-hour's rest had expired, the travellers had
taken their places, and the diligence was just about to start.  But God
was good to me.  Just as the coachman was about to raise his whip, he
turned his head in the direction whence I was galloping.  I was hot,
torn, and covered with mud and dust from head to foot; but he knew me.
I was too exhausted to shout, but I dropped the reins on my horse's neck,
and held up both my arms as they do to stop a train.  The coachman saw
the signal, he pulled in his horses and took me into the diligence, and
told the ostler to lead my dead-beat horse to the stable.

The diligence rumbled over the Lebanon, and reached Beyrout twenty-four
hours before the steamer sailed--the steamer by which Richard was going
back to England.  For when once he had received his recall, he never
looked behind him, nor packed up anything, but went straight away from
Damascus, though it was the place where he had spent two of the happiest
years of his life.  As the diligence turned into Beyrout I caught sight
of him, walking alone about the streets, and looking sad and serious.
Not even a kawwass was sent to attend him, though this is always the
usual courtesy paid a Consul in the East, nor was there any show of
honour or respect.  The jackals are always ready to slight the dead
lion.  But I was there, thank God; and he was so surprised and rejoiced
when he greeted me that his whole face was illuminated.  But he only
said, "Thank you.  Bon sang ne peut mentir."  We had twenty-four hours
to take comfort and counsel together.  It was well that I was with
him.  Everybody called, and everybody regretted, except our Consul-
General, who cut us.  The French Consul-General made us take up our
abode with him for those twenty-four hours.  I do not know whether
Richard felt the neglect or not.  I only know that I felt it terribly.
Any Consul with one atom of good feeling would at least have paid his
fallen colleague proper respect until he had quitted Eastern ground;
but the disgrace was to himself, not to Richard.

At four o'clock the following day I went on board the steamer off to
England.  On returning to the quay, I found his faithful servant Habib,
who had also followed Richard all the way, but had arrived just ten
minutes too late, only in time to see the steamer go out.  He flung
himself down on the quay in a passion of tears.

I took the night diligence back to Damascus.  In spite of the August
weather it was a cold, hard, seven hours' drive over the Lebanon.  I had
brought nothing with me; my clothes were dry and stiff, and I was dead
tired.  On the road I passed our honorary dragoman.  From sheer habit I
called out to him, but he shook his head and rode on.  It was one of my
reminders that "Le roi est mort."  I suppose the rule extends everywhere,
but perhaps the king's widow feels it most.  It was not all like this
though, for I shall never forget the kindness which was showered upon
me by many during my last days in Syria.

In due time I arrived at the khan, or diligence station, where I had
left my horse two days previously.  I slept there for two hours.  Early
next morning I rode to see a friend, who kindly insisted on my staying a
day with her.  Here Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake, a kawwass, and servant and
horse met me, and escorted me back to Bludan.  I arrived home ill, tired,
and harassed.  I was thankful to find there a woman friend who had come
over to keep me company.  She was as much grieved as I was myself, and
we wept together.

After the insults and neglect which had been meted out to us at Beyrout,
I expected in Damascus, where official position is everything, and where
women are of no account, that I should be, figuratively speaking,
trampled underfoot.  I was mistaken.  I can never describe the gratitude,
affection, and respect which were showered upon me during my last days in
Syria.  The news of our recall spread like wildfire.  All the surrounding
villagers poured in.  The house and gardens at Bludan were always full of
people--my poor of course, but others too.  Moslems flung themselves on
the ground, shedding bitter tears, and tearing their beards with grief
for the loss of the man whose life the Wali had the audacity to report
they wished to take.  They kept asking, "What have we done that your
Government should take him away from us?"  "Let some of us go over to
your land, and kneel at the feet of your Queen, and pray that he may
be sent back to us again."  This thing went on for days and days, and I
received from nearly all the country round little deputations of Shaykhs,
who bore letters of affection or condolence or praise.  I loved Syria so
dearly it broke my heart to leave it, and always with me was the gnawing
thought: How shall I tear the East out of my heart, and adapt myself
again to the bustling, struggling, everyday life of Europe?

I lost no time in settling our affairs at Bludan.  I paid all the
bills, packed Richard's boxes and sent them to England, broke up
our establishment at Bludan, and had all that was to accompany me
transferred to Damascus.

Two nights before I left Bludan I had another dream.  Again Something
came to me in the night, and pulled me and whispered, "Go and look after
that Bedawi boy, whose grandmother took him away when you were treating
him for rheumatic fever."  I was tired and miserable, and tried to sleep.
I was pulled again.  I remonstrated.  A third time I was pulled by the
wrist.  "Go, go, go!" said the voice.  "I will go," I answered.  At dawn
I rode out in the direction where I knew his tribe was encamped.  After
three hours I saw some black tents in the distance, but before I got to
them I met an old crone with a burden covered with sacking on her back.
"Is that the boy?" I asked.  "Yes," she said; "he is very bad, and wanted
to be taken to you so I was bringing him."  I got down from my horse, and
assisted her to lay the boy on the sand.  I saw that death was near; he
looked so wistfully at me with his big black eyes.  "Is it too late?" he
whispered.  "Yes, my boy, it is," I said, taking hold of his cold hand.
"Would you like to see Allah?"  "Yes," he said, "I should.  Can I?"
"Are you very sorry for the times you have been naughty and said bad
words?"  "Yes," he said; "if I get well, I will be better and kinder
to grandmother."  I parted his thick, matted hair, and, kneeling, I
baptized him from the flask of water I always carried about at my side.
"What is that?" asked the old woman, after a minute's silence.  "It is
a blessing," I answered, "and may do him good."  I remained with him
until he seemed insensible.  I could not wait longer, as night was
coming on; so I rode back, for I could do no good.  I felt sure he
would not see the sun rise.

When all my sad preparations were finished at Bludan, I bade adieu to
the Anti-Lebanon with a heavy heart, and for the last time, choking
with emotion, I rode down the mountain and through the Plain of Zebedani,
with a very large train of followers.  I had a sorrowful ride into
Damascus.  Just outside the city gates I met the Wali, driving in
state with all his suite.  He looked radiant, and saluted me with
much _empressement_.  I did not return his salute.  However, the next
time we met I had the laugh of him, for he looked very much less
radiant a few days later, when the news of his own recall reached
him.  He fought hard to stay; and I do not wonder, for he had a
splendid position.  But none of Richard's enemies have ever flourished.

At Damascus I had to go through the same sad scenes, on a much larger
scale, that I had gone through at Bludan.  Many kind friends, native and
European, came to stay about me till the last; in fact, my farewells
threatened to assume the character of a demonstration.  This I was most
anxious to avoid.  My one anxiety now was to get away as quietly as
possible.  I made my preparations for departure from Damascus in the
same way as I had done at Bludan.  I arranged to sell everything, pay
all debts, and pack and dispatch to England our personal effects.  I
made innumerable adieux, and tried to make provision and find a happy
home for every single being, man or beast, that had been dependent
on us.

Two Moslems came to me, and offered to shoot down certain official
enemies of mine from behind a rock as they passed in their carriage.
A Jew also came to me, and offered to put poison in their coffee.  I
declined both offers, which they did not seem to understand; and they
said that I was threatened and in danger, but I slept in perfect
security, with all the windows and doors open.  My last act was to go
into our little chapel, and dress it with all the pious things in my
possession.  When the day of the sale of our goods arrived, I could
not bear to sit in the house; so I went up to the mountain behind, and
gazed down on my Salahiyyeh in its sea of green, and my pearl-like
Damascus and the desert sand, and watched the sunset on the mountains
for the last time.

My preparations for departure necessarily took some time.  But Richard
having gone, I had no place, no business, at Damascus, and I felt that
it would be much better taste to leave.  I began to perceive that the
demonstrations in our favour were growing, and threatened to become
embarrassing.  The Moslems were assembling in cliques at night, and were
having prayers in the mosques for Richard's return.  They continually
thronged up to the house with tears and letters begging him to return,
and I saw that my presence and my distress excited them the more.

Unfortunately I did not complete everything until September 12, which
obliged me to brave the unlucky 13th.  As half the town wanted to
accompany me part of the road, and I was afraid that a demonstration
might result, I determined to slip away quietly by night.  Abd el Kadir
and Lady Ellenborough were in the secret, and they accompanied me as
far as the city gates, where I bade them an affectionate farewell.
The parting with Lady Ellenborough affected me greatly.  I was the poor
thing's only woman friend.  As she wrung my hand these were her last
word: "Do not forget your promise if I die and we never meet again."[1]
I replied, "Inshallah, I shall soon return."  She rode a black thorough-
bred Arab mare; and as far as I could see anything in the moonlight,
her large sorrowful blue eyes, glistening with tears, haunted me.

It was thus, accompanied on my journey by Mr. Drake and two faithful
dragomans, who had never deserted me, and who put themselves and all
they possessed at my disposal, that I stole away from Damascus an hour
before dawn.

I shall never forget that ride across the desert.  I felt my heart sink
as I jogged along for weary miles, wishing mental good-byes to every
dearly loved object.  I had felt fever coming on for some days, but I
had determined not to be ill at Damascus.  Now that I had left it,
however, a reaction set in.  When I reached that part of the Lebanon
looking down upon the sea far above Beyrout, my fever had increased to
such an extent that I became delirious, and I had to be set down on the
roadside.  Half an hour farther on the road was the village of my little
Syrian girl, who was accompanying me back to England.  I was carried to
her father's house and lay there for ten days very ill, and was nursed
by her and my English maid.  It was a trying time; but the whole family
showed me every kindness and attention, and I had every comfort that the
place could afford.  Many friends, both English and native, came to visit
me from Beyrout and from the villages round about.  From here I wrote a
long letter to Lord Derby, who had appointed us to Damascus, stating the
true facts of the case, and exposing the falsehoods, so far as I knew
them, which had led Lord Granville to weakly consent to our recall.  I
never rested till that cloud was lifted.

I went down to Beyrout as soon as I was well enough to move, and embarked
in the Russian ship _Ceres_; the same ship, strange to say, that had
brought me from Alexandria to Beyrout, when I first turned my face
towards Damascus.  As we were about to steam out an English vice-consul
in the Levant gaily waved his hand to me, and cried out, "Good-bye, Mrs.
Burton; I have been sixteen years in the service, and I have known twenty
scoundrels go unpunished, but I never saw a consul recalled except for
something disgraceful--certainly never for an Eastern pasha.  You will
find it is all right when you get home; they would hardly do such a
thing to a man like Burton."

We arrived at Alexandria, and I went to a hotel.  I dislike Alexandria
very much, and was glad to get away on board of a P. & O., the _Candia_,
to Southampton.  It was all right as far as Malta, but after that we had
some very rough weather.  At last our ship sighted the lights of Portland
Bill, and I knew that I was at home again.  These lights at night look
like two great eyes, and there is always excitement when they are first
seen.  All the English on board rushed on deck and cheered Hurrah!  It
is odd how we exiles love our country, our home, and our friends; it is
curious how little they think about us.

On October 14, 1871, I landed again in Old England.


NOTES:

1. Lady Ellenborough referred to her biography, which she had dictated
   to Lady Burton--the true story of her life, which Lady Burton had
   promised to publish for her, to clear away misrepresentations.  In
   consequence of difficulties which subsequently arose Lady Burton
   did not publish it.




CHAPTER XVIII.  THE TRUE REASONS OF BURTON'S RECALL.


    No might nor greatness in mortality
    Can censure 'scape: back-wounding calumny
    The whitest virtue strikes.  What king so strong,
    Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?

                                                   SHAKSPEARE.


At this point of the narrative it is necessary to turn aside to deal with
Miss Stisted's impeachment of Lady Burton, in the matter of her husband's
recall from Damascus.

Miss Stisted asserts that the true cause of Burton's recall was Isabel
his wife, who had espoused with more zeal than discretion the cause of
the Shazli converts to Christianity.  She adds: "And while her husband,
continually absent exploring or attending to the duties of his Consulate,
knew nothing, or next to nothing, about her dangerous proceedings, she
impressed upon the people that she acted with his full permission and
approval."[1]  It was (according to Miss Stisted) Isabel's "imprudence
and passion for proselytizing" which so enraged the Moslems and the
Turkish authorities against Burton that they clamoured for his recall.
Thus it is argued that "the true cause of the terrible crash in 1871"
was Isabel, and Isabel alone.

This, in brief, is the sum and substance of Stisted's indictment of Lady
Burton on this point.  She makes her accusation without adducing a scrap
or shred of evidence in support of it, and she makes it in the teeth
of the most positive evidence on the other side.  Let us examine her
charges in the light of facts.

Fortunately, in searching for the true reasons of Burton's recall from
Damascus, I am not dependent, like Miss Stisted, on a mere opinion of my
own, nor am I dependent on the testimony of Lady Burton, which, though
correct in every detail, might be refused acceptance, on the plea that
it was biassed.  The true reasons are to be found in an official Blue
Book,[2] which contains a review of the whole case.  This book publishes
the complete correspondence, official and otherwise, for and against
Burton, and comprises a review of his Consulship at Damascus from the
time he was appointed, in November, 1869, to the day of his recall, in
August, 1871.

It is impossible to read this correspondence dispassionately without
wondering how it was that Burton was not removed from his post at
Damascus before.  In the brief space of two years he seems to have
managed to set against himself almost every creed, nationality, and
interest in Damascus.  From the time he went there to the day he was
recalled it was little but one long strife.  Complaints to his Consul-
General at Beyrout, to his Ambassador at Constantinople, to his Chief
at the Foreign Office, were incessant; and as they came not from one
part of the community of Damascus only, but from several, it is a marvel
that the authorities at the Foreign Office, who love nothing better than
that things should run, or seem to run, smoothly at the embassies and
consulates, were so patient and long-suffering.  That they were so
forbearing was, I think, largely due to his wife--this same Isabel
who, according to Miss Stisted, was responsible for her husband's
recall and the consequent ruin of his official career.  It was Isabel
who fought Burton's battles on every charge against him, and she
defended him against every attack.  Her letters to Lord Granville,
to Sir Henry Elliot, Ambassador at Constantinople, to the Consul-
General at Beyrout, to Lord Derby and other influential friends in
England, and to the permanent officials at the Foreign Office,
explaining and defending her husband's action in every particular,
are marvels of special pleading.  They are not published, because
they would fill volumes; but they can be produced, if necessary.

My contention is, that Isabel had nothing to do with her husband's
recall from Damascus.  On the contrary, had it not been for her, he
would have been recalled long before.  I also submit that she had
very little to do in the matter of the Shazlis, and that little she
did with her husband's full consent and approval.  Burton alone was
responsible for his recall in that he managed to offend nearly every
part of the community at Damascus, and so gave the Turkish authorities,
who disliked him from the first, an excuse for demanding his recall.
I do not say the he was wrong in every instance--far from it; he was
often in the right; only it is possible to do the right thing in the
wrong way, and this Burton generally did.

And now for the proofs.  It is necessary to begin at the beginning.
From the first Burton took up his work at Damascus with "pinioned arms,"
to use his own phrase.  In other words, he started with a prejudice
against him.  Lord Derby (then Lord Stanley), as we know, gave him the
appointment; but before it was confirmed Lord Clarendon succeeded Lord
Stanley at the Foreign Office, and in the interval Burton's enemies,
chiefly Protestant missionaries, who feared he was anti-missionary,
took steps to work upon Lord Clarendon to prevent his appointment going
forward.  So strong and influential was this opposition that Lord
Clarendon sent for Burton specially, and had a long conversation with
him.  He told him that "very serious objections" to his appointment at
Damascus had reached the Foreign Office, and, although he allowed the
appointment to go forward, on receiving from Burton assurances that the
objections were unfounded, he warned him that, if the feeling stated to
exist against him on the part of the authorities and people at Damascus
should prevent the proper performance of his Consular duties, it would
be the duty of the Government immediately to recall him.

In a subsequent letter Lord Clarendon directed his Secretary to repeat
to Burton what he had already told him verbally.[3]

To this letter Burton replied: "I once more undertake to act with unusual
prudence, and under all circumstances to hold myself, and myself only,
answerable for the consequences.[4]

Whether or not he acted with "unusual prudence" the following will show:

1.  _His difference with the English missionaries_.--The first
unpleasantness occurred in June and July, 1870, with the Superintendent
of the British Syrian School at Beyrout.  This gentleman, who was a
Protestant missionary, came to Damascus to proselytize, and to distribute
tracts among the Moslems, and doubtless acted with little discretion.
Burton reprimanded him, and reported him to the Foreign Office.  In this
no doubt he was right; but his manner of doing it apparently inflamed
many against him, especially the wife of the missionary aforesaid, who
vigorously espoused her husband's cause, and in this was supported
officially by the Consul-General at Beyrout.  The matter blew over for
a time, but the attack was renewed again in 1871, and there was constant
friction going on the whole time of Burton's sojourn at Damascus between
himself and the missionary and his wife and their friends, who were very
influential persons in Syria.

2.  _His squabble with the Druzes_.--This occurred in 1870.  Here we
find Burton protecting the missionaries against certain Druzes, who had
plundered and maltreated two English missionaries travelling amongst
them.  Burton's method of punishing the Druzes was summary.  He wished
to impose a fine upon them.  This the Consul-General at Beyrout refused
to impose, and again Burton came into conflict with his Consul-General.
It was obvious that, whether the Druzes deserved to be fined or not,
the man to impose the fine was not the British Consul, but the Turkish
Governor-General, as they were Turkish subjects.  In this matter
therefore, although Burton acted with the best intentions, he exceeded
his jurisdiction.

3.  _His dispute with the Jews_.--This was one of the most serious
affairs in which Burton was engaged; and here again, though there is no
doubt that he was perfectly right in what he did, his manner of doing it
gave dire offence.  He curbed the rapacity of some Jewish money-lenders,
under British protection, who wished to "sweat" the native peasantry for
the payment of their unjust debts, and desired the British Consul to help
them in their extortions.  This Burton rightly refused to do.  And a
little later he arrested two Jewish boys, servants of British-protected
Jews, for drawing crosses on the walls--the usual sign for an outbreak of
Christian persecution at Damascus--and took away temporarily the British
protection from their masters.  This gave the usurers the opportunity
they had been waiting for, and they wrote to the Foreign Office an untrue
and unjust report, saying that the Consul was full of hatred against the
Jews, and demanding his recall.  Lord Granville sent a special letter,
requesting to know the truth of these charges, which he described as
"most serious."  Fortunately Burton was able to satisfy him, and the
storm blew over.  But the Jews neither forgot it nor forgave him.

4.  _The Greeks stone him at Nazareth_.--Lady Burton has already given
a long account of this incident, and there is no reason to doubt the
correctness of her description.  Here we find that the Greek Bishop
and his people disliked Burton because he had exposed a fraudulent
transaction of theirs with the Jews.  But whatever was the cause, there
was no doubt that they were opposed to him; and the riot, which arose
from an apparently accidental cause, was really an outbreak of bitterly
hostile feeling against the British Consul.  The Greek Bishop of Nazareth
at once drew up a grossly exaggerated report of the proceedings, which
was endorsed by the Wali of Syria, and forwarded to the authorities at
home.  Will it be believed that Burton never sent home any report of
the affair until some weeks afterwards, when he returned to Damascus,
and found a telegram awaiting him from the British Ambassador at
Constantinople, asking what it all meant?  His silence in this matter
though not intentional, created the very worst impression among the
authorities at home.  Sir Henry Elliot wrote to Isabel subsequently:

"I received versions of the affair from different quarters, without
having a word of explanation from Captain Burton, from whom I got
letters of a date much subsequent to the occurrence."[5]

Considering how very fond Burton was of referring all sorts of questions
on the internal government of Syria, with which he had nothing to do, to
his Ambassador at Constantinople, his silence on this occasion, in a
matter with which he had all to do, was, to say the least, somewhat
unfortunate.

5.  _His dispute with the Wali_.--The Wali (the Turkish Governor-General
of Syria) was, from the first, exceedingly jealous of Burton, because of
his knowledge of Eastern affairs, and his habit of interfering with the
internal government of the country, with which he had no concern.
Corrupt though Turkish rule undoubtedly was, and is, it was not part of
the British Consul's duty to be perpetually meddling in disputes between
the Wali and his subjects.  Sir Henry Elliot wrote to Isabel, in reply
to a letter of hers excusing her husband:

"I should not be frank if I allowed you to suppose that your letters
had satisfied me that there were not grounds for the complaints which
have been made of Captain Burton going beyond the proper attributions
of a Consul, who ought to be very careful to avoid encroaching upon the
domain of the legitimate authorities, who are for the administration of
their district, when he is not.  He can be of great service as long as
there is a proper understanding with the Government, but a very dangerous
state of things is created if he makes himself a rival authority to whom
the disaffected think that they can look for redress."[6]

This (there is no doubt about it) Burton was always doing; and his
knowledge of oriental affairs and methods made him all the more
formidable to the Wali.  Matters came to a head when Burton went to
visit the Druzes in the Hauran, a month or two before his recall.  By
some means or other he spoiled the Wali's game in that quarter; and
this incensed the Governor so much against him that he tried first to
have him assassinated in the desert, and that failing, demanded his
recall.  Of the incident Burton himself says:

"I was not aware that the Wali (Governor-General) had a political move
in the Hauran which he did not wish me to see, or that, seeing, it was
the signal for him to try and obtain my recall.[7]

If this matter had stood alone, perhaps it would not have been sufficient
ground for his recall; but coming as it did on the top of all the others,
it was, I think, the most potent factor.

There was another little annoyance too about this time--that is, just
before Burton's recall.  It had reference to the case of one Hasan, a
Moslem converted to Christianity, whom the Wali wanted to punish, but
whom Burton protected against him.  Burton's action in this matter was
chivalrous and generous no doubt, but it did not tend to make him any
better friends with the Wali at a time when the irritation between them
was already at its height.  With regard to what followed, I think that
I had better give Burton's own words, as they will show very distinctly
what were the culminating causes of his recall:

"He (the Wali) actually succeeded in causing the Foreign Office to
confine me to Damascus at a time when the climate was peculiarly hot
and unwholesome--mid-July.  I was suffering from fever, and the little
English colony was all in summer quarters.  He affected to look upon a
trip to the Hauran as an event pregnant with evil to his administration,
and actually composed a circular from me to the Druzes.  I was actually
compelled, in return, to make known Rashid Pasha's maladministration of
Syria, his prostitution of rank, his filling every post with his own
sycophants, who are removed only when they have made money enough to
pay for being restored; his fatuous elevation of a Kurdish party; his
perjuries against the Druzes; his persistent persecution of Moslem
converts to Christianity in the teeth of treaties and firmans; his own
sympathy with the Greeks, and through them with Russia; and, finally,
his preparations for an insurrection in Syria, should Egypt find an
opportunity of declaring her independence.  I meanwhile continued to
push my demand for the six million piastres claimed by British subjects
in Syria.  My list shows a grand total of eleven, and of these five are
important cases.  On July 4, 1871, I wrote to the Foreign Office and to
the Ambassador, urging that a Commission be directed to inquire into the
subject and to settle the items found valid.  I expressed a hope that I
might be permitted personally to superintend the settlement of these
debts, with whose every item the study of twenty-one months had made
me familiar, and another six months would have seen Syria swept clean
and set in order.  On August 16, 1871, I was recalled suddenly, on
the ground that the Moslems were fanatical enough to want my life.
I have proved that to be like all the rest of Rashid Pasha's reports--
utterly false."[7]

With regard to the reasons given by Lord Granville for Burton's recall, I
may say that, in a letter which he sent under Flying Seal, dated July 22,
1871, and which reached Burton on the day of his recall, he recapitulated
the dispatch written to Burton by Lord Clarendon on his appointment to
Damascus, reminding him of the conditions under which he was appointed to
the post, and saying that the Turkish Government in regard to his recent
conduct and proceedings rendered it impossible that he should allow him
to continue to perform any Consular functions in Syria, and requesting
him to make his preparations for returning to England with as little
delay as possible.[8]

I think that the foregoing statements will fully explain the true reasons
which led to the recall of Burton from Damascus.  It will be seen that in
the above charges against Burton the question of the Shazlis does not
enter; and in the face of all this evidence, how is it possible to
maintain that Isabel was the true cause of her husband's recall?  The
converted Shazlis, whose cause she is supposed to have espoused with
fanatical zeal, hardly entered into the matter at all.  Indeed, in
the whole of the Blue Book from which I have quoted, there is only one
reference to the Shazlis, and that is in a letter which Burton addressed
to Sir Henry Elliot on the revival of Christianity among them.  Miss
Stisted says that Burton was as likely to assist in increasing the number
of the Syrian Christians, "of whom he had the lowest opinion," "as to
join in a Shakers' dance."  Yet in this letter to his official chief
Burton dwells at length on the revival of Christianity in Syria, and
calls attention to the persecution and increasing number of the converted
Shazlis, and asks for instructions as to what he is to do.  "The
revival," he says, "is progressing," and "this persecution," and he
regards it in the "gravest Light."[10]  Also in a special letter to
the Protestant missionaries Burton writes:

"Meanwhile I take the liberty of recommending to your prudent
consideration the present critical state of affairs in Syria.  A movement
which cannot but be characterized as a revival of Christianity in the
land of its birth seems to have resulted from the measure adopted by
the authorities and from the spirit of inquiry which your missions
have awakened in the breasts of the people.  The new converts are now
numbered by thousands: men of rank are enrolling themselves on the
lists, and proselytizing has extended even to the Turkish soldiery."[11]

All this bears out Isabel's statement that her husband was interested in
the Shazlis; but, all the same, it does not enter into the question of
the recall.  Even if it did, so far from acting without her husband's
consent in this matter (and she really did very little), she did nothing
without his approval, for he actively sympathized in the case of the
Shazlis.  His letters to the missionaries and to Sir Henry Elliot form
proof of this; and in face of this documentary evidence the "Shakers'
dance" theory does not hold good.  Miss Stisted, however, makes her
assertion without any evidence, and says that Lord Granville evaded the
main question when sounded on the subject of Burton's recall.  How she
became aware of the inner mind of Lord Granville is not apparent, and
under the circumstances dispassionate readers will prefer the testimony
of the Blue Book to her cool assumption of superior knowledge.  Something
more than mere assertion is needed to support a charge like this.

Equally baseless too is the insinuation against Isabel contained in the
following passage:

"Significant enough it is to any unprejudiced reader that the next
appointment [i.e. of Burton's] was to a Roman Catholic country.[12]

The "unprejudiced reader" would probably see the significance in another
light--the significance of refusing to appoint Burton again to a
Mohammedan country, and of repeatedly refusing him the post he coveted
at Morocco.

None of these accusations or innuendoes against Isabel can be entertained
when confronted with sober facts; they are in short nothing but the
outcome of a jealous imagination.  Isabel the cause of her husband's
recall, the ruin of his career!  She through whose interest Burton had
obtained the coveted post at Damascus; she who fought his battles for him
all round; she who shielded him from the official displeasure; she who
obeyed his lightest wish, and whose only thought from morning to night
was her husband's welfare and advancement; she who would have died for
him,--this same woman, according to Miss Stisted, deliberately behind her
husband's back ran counter to his wishes, fanned the flame of fanaticism,
and brought about the crash which ruined his career!  Was there ever a
more improbable charge?  But the accusation has overshot the mark, and,
like the boomerang, it returns and injures no one but its author.


NOTES:

1. Miss Stisted's Life of Sir Richard Burton, p. 360.  This book was
   published December, 1896, eight months after Lady Burton's death.

2. The Case of Captain Burton, Late K. B. M. Consul at Damascus.
   Clayton & Co., Parliamentary Printing Works, 1872.

3. _Vide_ Letter from Foreign Office to Captain Burton, June 19,
   1869 (Blue Book, p. 2).

4. Letter of Captain Burton to Foreign Office, June 21, 1869
   (Blue Book, p. 2).

5. Letter from Sir Henry Elliot to Lady Burton, July 12, 1871.

6. Letter from Sir Henry Elliot to Lady Burton, July 12, 1871.

7. Blue Book, p. 75.

8. Blue Book, pp. 140, 141.

9. _Vide_ Letter from Lord Granville to Captain Burton, under
   Flying Seal, care of Consul-General Eldridge, July 22, 1871
   (Blue Book, p. 109).

10. _Vide_ Letter of Captain Burton to Sir Henry Elliot, July 14,
    1871 (Blue Book, pp. 95, 96).

11. Letter from Captain Burton to the Rev. E. B. Frankel, Rev. J. Orr
    Scott, Miss James, Rev. W. Wright, and Rev. John Crawford, Bludan,
    July 19, 1871 (Blue Book, p. 92).

12. Miss Stisted's Life of Burton, p.364.




CHAPTER XIX.  THE PASSING OF THE CLOUD.  (1871-1872).


    Tell whoso hath sorrow
    Grief shall never last:
    E'en as joy hath no morrow,
    So woe shall go past.

                                   ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                                      (Burton's "Arabian Nights").


The recall from Damascus was the hardest blow that ever befell the
Burtons.  They felt it acutely; and when time had softened the shock, a
lasting sense of the injury that had been done to them remained.  Isabel
felt it perhaps even more keenly than her husband.  The East had been the
dream of her girlhood, the land of her longing from the day when she and
her lover first plighted their troth in the Botanical Gardens, and the
reality of her maturer years.  But the reality had been all too short.
To the end of her life she never ceased to regret Damascus; and even when
in her widowed loneliness she returned to England twenty years after the
recall, with her life's work well-nigh done, and waiting as she used to
say, for the "tinkling of his camel's bell," her eyes would glow and her
voice take a deeper note if she spoke of those two years at Damascus.  It
was easy to see that they were the crowning years of her life--the years
in which her nature had full play, when in the truest sense of the term
she may be said to have lived.  From the time they left Damascus, though
there were many years of happiness and usefulness in store for her
husband and herself, things were never quite the same again.  The
recall seems to mark a turning-point in her life.  Many of the dreams
and enthusiasms of her youth were gone, though her life's unfinished
work and stern reality remained.  To use her own words, "Our career
was broken."

Isabel felt the slur on her husband which the recall involved more
acutely than he.  Burton, though stung to the quick at the treatment the
Foreign Office meted out to him for doing what he conceived to be his
duty (and certainly the manner of his recall was ungracious almost to
the point of brutality), was not a man given to show his feelings to the
world, and he possessed a philosophy which enabled him to present a calm
and unmoved front to the reverses of fortune.  With his wife it was
different.  She was not of a nature to suffer in silence, nor to sit
down quietly under a wrong.  As she put it, "Since Richard would not
fight his own battles, I fought them for him," and she never ceased
fighting till she had cleared away as much as possible of the cloud
that shadowed her husband's official career.

On arriving in London, she set to work with characteristic energy.  It
was a very different home-coming to the one she had anticipated.  Two
years before she had set out in the best of health and spirits, with
every prospect of a long and prosperous career at Damascus for her
husband and herself.  Now, almost without warning, they had come home
with their prospects shattered and their career broken.  Nevertheless
these untoward circumstances served in no way to weaken her energies;
on the contrary, they seemed to lend her strength.

She found her husband occupying one room in an obscure hotel off
Manchester Square, engaged as usual with his writings, and apparently
absorbed in them.  He seemed to have forgotten that such a place as
Damascus existed.  She found that he had accepted his recall literally.
He had made no defence to the Foreign Office, nor sought for any
explanation.  He had treated the affair _de haut en bas_, and had
left things to take their course.  He in fact expressed himself to
her as "sick of the whole thing," and he took the darkest view of the
future.  "Are you not afraid?" he asked her, referring to their gloomy
prospects.  "Afraid?" she echoed.  "What, when I have you?"  This was
the day she came back.  He did not refer to the subject again, but
returned to his manuscripts, and apparently wanted nothing but to be
left alone.

But his wife knew him better; she knew that deep down under his seeming
indifference there was a rankling sense of injustice.  Her first step was
to arouse him to a sense of the position.  To discuss verbally matters
of this kind with him, she had learnt by experience, was not easy; so
she wrote to him to the following effect, and put the note between the
leaves of a book he was reading:

"You tell me you have no wish to re-enter official life.  Putting my own
interests quite out of the question, when there are so few able men, and
still fewer gentlemen, left in England, and one cannot help foreseeing
very bad times coming, it makes one anxious and nervous to think that
the one man whom I and others regard as a born leader of men should
retire into private life just when he is most wanted.  Now you are
not going to be angry with me; you must be scolded.  You have fairly
earned the right to five or six months of domestic happiness and
retirement, but not the right to be selfish.  When the struggle comes
on, instead of remaining, as you think, you will come to the fore and
nobly take your right place.  Remember I have prophesied three times
for you, and this is the fourth.  You are smarting under a sense of
injustice now, and you talk accordingly.  If I know anything of men
in general, and you in particular, you will grow dissatisfied with
yourself, if your present state of inaction lasts long."

What the immediate result of this remonstrance was it is not possible to
say; but Isabel's next move was to go down to the Foreign Office, where
she was already well known as one with whom the usual official evasions
were of no avail.  She always called herself "a child of the Foreign
Office," and she had many friends there among the permanent officials.
She brought every influence she could think of to bear.  She went to
the Foreign Office day after day, refusing to take "No" for an answer,
until at last she simply forced Lord Granville to see her; and when he
saw her, she forced him to hear what she had to say.  The interview
resulted in his saying "that he would be happy to consider anything she
might lay before him on the subject of Captain Burton's recall from
Damascus."  He could hardly have said less, and he could not well have
said more.  However, she took him very promptly at his word.  She
occupied herself for three months in getting up her husband's case,
and in inducing him to consent to its being put clearly before Lord
Granville.  By way of going to the root of the matter she insisted on
knowing from the Foreign Office the true reasons of his recall.  They
gave her a long list--the list set forth in the previous chapter.  She
answered them point by point.  Burton of course helped, and the thing
was done in his name.  The whole matter was subsequently published in
the form of a Blue Book--the book before referred to.

The controversy between Isabel and the Foreign Office, if it can so be
called, ended in January, 1872, three months after her return to England;
and it terminated in a dialectical triumph for her, and the offer of
several small posts for her husband, which he indignantly refused.
Among others, Burton was offered Para, but would not take it.  "Too
small a place for me after Damascus," he said.

The Burtons went into inexpensive lodgings, and waited for the brighter
days which were slow in dawning.  With characteristic pride and
independence they kept their difficulties to themselves, and none
knew how hard their struggle was at this time.  The Burtons received a
good deal of kindness in the way of hospitality.  There was a general
impression that they had been unfairly treated by the Government, and
their friends were anxious to make it up to them.  They paid many
pleasant visits; among others, to one of their kindest friends, Lady
Marian Alford.  At her house they met Lord Beaconsfield; and at one of
her parties, when the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Edinburgh were
present, by request of the hostess Burton dressed as a Bedawin shaykh,
and Isabel as a Moslem woman of Damascus.  She was supposed to have
brought the Shaykh over to introduce him to English society; and though
many of those present knew Burton quite well, none of them recognized him
in his Arab dress until he revealed himself.  The Burtons also attended
a banquet at the Mansion House, which interested them more than a little;
and when they wanted to make remarks--and they were in the habit of
expressing themselves very freely--they spoke Arabic, thinking no
one would understand it.  Suddenly a man next them interrupted their
criticisms by saying also in Arabic, "You are quite right; I was just
thinking the same thing": the which shows how careful one should be at
public dinners.

Early in June, 1872, Burton sailed for Iceland at the request of a
certain capitalist, who wished to obtain reports of some sulphur mines
there, and who promised him a liberal remuneration, which eventually he
did not pay.  He, however, paid for Burton's passage and travelling
expenses; but as he did not pay for two Isabel was unable to accompany
her husband, and during his absence she took up her abode with her father
and mother.  Afterwards she was very glad that she had done this.  For
some time past the health of Mrs. Arundell had given cause for anxiety.
She had been a confirmed invalid since her stroke of paralysis ten years
before, but she had borne up marvellously until the last few months, when
it was visible to every one that she was failing.  The end came very
suddenly.  Her dearly loved daughter Isabel was with her at the last.
The loss of her mother, to whom she was devotedly attached, was a severe
blow to Isabel.  Mrs. Arundell was a woman of strength of character,
ability, and piety, and possessed rare qualities of head and heart.
It is scarcely necessary to say that the little cloud which had arisen
between mother and daughter on the occasion of Isabel's marriage had
long since passed away; indeed it was of the briefest duration, and
Mrs. Arundell came to love Burton as a son, and was very proud of him.

At the end of June, about ten months after the date of the recall from
Damascus, official favour smiled upon the Burtons again.  Lord Granville
wrote and asked Isabel if her husband would accept the Consulate of
Trieste, just vacant by the death of Charles Lever, the novelist.

Isabel was praying by her mother's coffin that their troubles might
pass away when the letter arrived, and it came to her like an answer
to prayer, for their prospects were just then at their gloomiest.  She
at once wrote to her husband in Iceland, and was able soon after to
send his acceptance of the post to Lord Granville.

Trieste, a small commercial consulate with 600 pounds sterling a year
salary and 100 pounds office allowance, was a sad drop after Damascus,
at 1,000 pounds a year and work of a diplomatic order.  But the Burtons
could not afford to refuse the offer, for their needs were pressing, and
they took it in the hope of better things, which never came.  Burton had
a great desire to become Consul at Morocco, and he thought Trieste might
lead thither.  Alas! it did not; and the man who had great talents, a
knowledge of more than a score of languages, and an unrivalled experience
in the ways of Eastern life and oriental methods, was allowed to drag out
eighteen years in the obscurity of a second-rate seaport town, where his
unique qualifications were simply thrown away.  He had had his chance,
and had lost it.  He was not a "safe man"; and England, or rather the
Government, generally reserves--and wisely--the pick of the places in the
public service for "safe men."  Officialdom distrusts genius--perhaps
rightly; and Burton was a wayward genius indeed.  However, at Trieste
he could hardly get into hot water.  The post was a purely commercial
one; there was no work which called for any collision with the local
authorities.  Austria, the land of red tape, was very different to Syria.
There was no Wali to quarrel with; there were no missionaries to offend,
no Druzes or Greeks to squabble with; and though there were plenty of
Jews, their money-lending proclivities did not come within the purview
of the British Consul, and the Austrian authorities would have resented
in a moment the slightest meddling with their jurisdiction.  But if
Burton could do no harm, he could also do little good; and his energies
were cribbed, cabined, and confined.  On the other hand, he was following
at Trieste a distinguished man in Charles Lever, and one who, like
himself, had literary tastes.  It is impossible to deny that Lord
Granville showed discrimination in appointing him there at the time.
Trieste was virtually a sinecure; the duties were light, and every
liberty was given to Burton.  He was absent half his time, and he paid
a vice-consul to do most of his work, thus leaving himself ample leisure
for travel and his literary labours.  If his lot had been thrown in a
more active sphere, his great masterpiece, _Alf Laylah wa Laylah (The
Arabian Nights)_, might never have seen the light.

Isabel and her husband lost no time in making preparations for their
departure.  In the month of September Burton returned from Iceland, and
the third week in October he left England for Trieste by sea.  His wife
was to adhere to her usual plan of "pay, pack, and follow"--to purchase
in London the usual stock of necessary things, and follow as soon as
might be by land.

In November Isabel crossed the Channel, and ran straight through to
Cologne.  At Cologne she saw the sights, and proceeded by easy stages
down the Rhine to Mayence, and thence to Frankfort.  From Frankfort she
went to Wurzburg, where she called on the famous Dr. Dollinger.  Thence
to Innsbruck, and so to Venice.  The last occasion was during the tour
which she had taken with her sister and brother-in-law before her
marriage.  She says: "It was like a dream to come back again.  It was
all there as I left it, even to the artificial flowers at the _table
d'hote_: it was just the same, only less gay and brilliant.  It had lost
the Austrians and Henry V. Court.  I was older, and all the friends I
knew were dispersed."  Her first act was to send a telegram to Trieste
announcing her arrival, and the next to gondola all over Venice.  Towards
evening she thought it would be civil to call on the British Consul, Sir
William Perry.  The old gentleman, who was very deaf, and apparently
short-sighted, greeted her kindly, and mumbled something about "Captain
Burton."  Isabel said, "Oh, he is at Trieste; I am just going to join
him."  "No," said Sir William, "he has just left me."  Thinking he was
rather senile, she concluded that he did not understand, and bawled
into his ear for the third time, "I am Mrs. Burton, not Captain Burton,
just arrived from London, and am on my way to join my husband at
Trieste." "I know all that," he said impatiently.  "You had better come
with me in my gondola; I am just going to the _Morocco_ now, a ship that
will sail for Trieste."  Isabel said, "Certainly"; and much puzzled, got
into the gondola, and went on board.  As soon as she got down to the
ships saloon, lo! there was her husband writing at a table.  "Halloo!"
he said; "what the devil are you doing here?"  "Halloo!" she said; "what
are _you_ doing here?"  And then they began to explain.  It turned out
that neither of them had received the other's telegrams or letters.

A few days later they crossed over to Trieste.  The Vice-Consul and the
Consular Chaplain came on board to greet them, but otherwise they arrived
at Trieste without ceremony; in fact, so unconventional was their method
of arrival, that it was rumoured in the select circles of the town that
"Captain Burton, the new Consul, and Mrs. Burton took up their quarters
at the Hotel de la Ville, he walking along with his gamecock under his
arm, and she with her bull-terrier under hers."  It was felt that they
must be a very odd couple, and they were looked at rather askance.  This
distrust was probably reciprocated, for at first both Isabel and her
husband felt like fish out of water, and did not like Trieste at all.




CHAPTER XX.  EARLY YEARS AT TRIESTE.  (1872-1875).


    Turn thee from grief nor care a jot,
    Commit thy needs to fate and lot,
    Enjoy the present passing well,
    And let the past be clean forgot.
    For what so haply seemeth worse
    Shall work thy weal as Allah wot;
    Allah shall do whate'er he will,
    And in his will oppose him not.

                  ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH(Burton's "Arabian Nights").


Isabel soon began to like Trieste; the place grew upon her, and later
she always spoke of it as "my beloved Trieste."  She has left on record
in her journal her early impressions:


"Trieste is a town of threes.  It has three quarters: the oldest, Citta
Vecchia, is filthy and antiquated in the extreme.  It has three winds:
the _bora_, the winter wind, cold, dry, highly electrical, very exciting,
and so violent that sometimes the quays are roped, and some of the walls
have iron rails set in, to prevent people being blown into the sea;
the _sirocco_, the summer wind, straight from Africa, wet, warm, and
debilitating; and the _contraste_, which means the two blowing at once
and against each other, with all the disadvantages of both.  It has
three races: Italians, Austrians, and Slavs.  They are all ready to
cut each other's throats, especially the Italians and the Austrians;
and the result is that Trieste, wealthy though she is, wants all modern
improvements, simply because the two rival parties act like the two
bundles of hay in the fable, and between them the ass starves.  North
of Ponte Rosso is Germania, or the Austrian colony, composed of the
authorities, the _employes_, and a few wealthy merchants who had a crazy
idea of Germanizing their little world, an impossible dream, for there
are twelve thousand Italians in Trieste, who speak a sort of corrupted
Venetian.  One thousand of these are very rich, the others very poor.
However, whether rich or poor, the _Italianissimi_ hate their Austrian
rulers like poison; and in this hatred they are joined by the mass of
the wealthy Israelites, who divide the commerce with the Greeks.  The
wealthy _Italianissimi_ subscribe handsomely to every Italian charity
and movement, and periodically and anonymously memorialize the King
of Italy.  The poor take a delight in throwing large squibs, called by
courtesy 'torpedoes,' amongst the unpatriotic petticoats who dare to
throng the Austrian balls; for though Trieste is Austrian nominally, it
is Italian at heart.  The feud between the Italians and the Austrians
goes to spoil society in Trieste; they will not intermingle.  The Slavs
also form a distinct party.

"I found these discordant elements a little difficult to harmonize at
first.  But Richard desired me to form a neutral house, as at Damascus,
where politics and religion should never be mentioned, and where all
might meet on a common ground.  I did so, with the result that we had
friends in all camps.  There was an abundance of society of all kinds:
Austrian, Italian, and what Ouida has called the _haute Fuiverie_.  We
were in touch with them all, and they were all good-natured and amiable.
Society in Trieste did not care whether you were rich or poor, whether
you received or did not receive; it only asked you to be nice, and it
opened its arms to you.  I dare say my visiting list, private and
consular, comprised three hundred families; but we had our own little
_clique intime_, which was quite charming, and included some sixty or
seventy persons.

"We women had what Richard used to call 'hen parties' (_Kaffee
gesellschaft_), which is really five o'clock tea, where we would dance
together, play, sing, recite, and have refreshments; but a man, except
the master of the house, was never seen at these gatherings.  _En
revanche_, we had plenty of evening entertainments for both sexes.

"Some curious little local customs still lingered at Trieste.  One of
them was, when two friends or relations met in society, after embracing
affectionately, they were wont to drop one another an elaborate curtsey.
The visiting hours were from twelve till two, an impossible time; and
men were expected to call in white cravats, kid gloves and evening dress.
When I first came to Trieste, I was often invited _en intime_ to
afternoon tea, and was told to come 'just as you are, my dear.'  I took
the invitation literally of course; and when I arrived, I used to find
the other ladies _decolletees_, and blazing with diamonds.  I remember
feeling very awkward at appearing in an ordinary costume, but my hostess
said to me, 'You know, my dear, we are so fond of our jewels; it gives
us pleasure to dress even for one another; but do not do it if it bores
you.' However, later I always took care to do it, on the principle that
when one is at Rome one should do as Rome does.  Apart from these little
social peculiarities Trieste was the most hospitable and open-hearted
town, and people entertained there, if they entertained at all, on a
lavish scale and right royally.

"The population of Trieste was very interesting, though a strange medley.
To the east of the town the Wallachian _cici_, or charcoal-dealers,
wore the dress of the old Danubian homes whence they came.  Then there
was the Friulano, with his velvet jacket and green corduroys (the most
estimable race in Trieste).  He was often a roaster of chestnuts at the
corners of the street, and his wife was the best _balie_ (wet nurse).
She was often more bravely attired than her mistress.  The Slav market-
women were also very interesting.  I loved to go down and talk with them
in the market-place.  They drove in from neighbouring villages with their
produce for sale in a kind of drosky, the _carretella_ as it was called,
with its single pony harnessed to the near side of the pole.  Some of
the girls, especially those of Servola, were quite beautiful, with a
Greek profile, and a general delicacy of form and colour which one would
hardly expect to find amongst the peasantry.  But their eyes were
colourless; and their blonde hair was like tow--it lacked the golden ray.
The dresses were picturesque: a white triangular head-kerchief, with
embroidered ends hanging down the back; a bodice either of white flannel
picked out with splashes of colour, or of a black glazed and plaited
stuff; a skirt of lively hue, edged with a broad belt of even livelier
green, blue, pink, or yellow; white stockings; and short, stout shoes.
The ornaments on high days and holidays were gold necklaces and crosses,
a profusion of rings and pendants.  This of course was the _contadina_,
or peasant girl.  Opposed to her was the _sartorella_, or little
tailoress, which may be said to be synonymous with the French _grisette_.
I always called Trieste _Il Paradiso delle Sartorelle_, because the
_sartorella_ was a prominent figure in Trieste, and Fortune's favourite.
She was wont to fill the streets and promenades, especially on _festa_
days, dressed _a quatre epingles_, powdered and rouged and _coiffee_
as for a ball, and with or without a veil.  She was often pretty, and
generally had a good figure; but she did not always look 'nice'; and
her manners, to put it mildly, were very _degagees_.  There were four
thousand of these girls in Trieste, and they filled the lower-class
balls and theatres.  There was a _sartorella_ in every house, off and
on.  For example, a family in Trieste always had a dress to make or
petticoat, and the _sartorella_ came for a florin a day and her food,
and she worked for twelve hours, leaving off work at six, when she began
her 'evening out.'  I am fain to add the _sartorella_ was often a sort
of whited sepulchre.  She was gorgeously clad without, but as a rule
had not a rag, not even a chemise, underneath, unless she were 'in luck.'
'In luck,' I grieve to say, meant that every boy, youth, and man in
Trieste, beginning at twelve and up to twenty-five and twenty-eight, had
an _affaire_ with a _sartorella_; and I may safely assert, without being
malicious, that she was not wont to give her heart--if we may call it
so--gratis.  She was rather a nuisance, because there was always some
mending or sewing to be done.  She generally turned the servants' heads
by telling them that she was going to be married to a real _graf_ (count)
as soon as he was independent of his parents--a sort of King Cophetua
and the Beggar Maid over again, I suppose.

"Trieste was a beautiful place, especially the view round the bay.  The
hills were covered with woodland and verdure; the deep blue Adriatic was
in the foreground, dotted with lateen sails; and the town filled the
valley and straggled up the slopes.  The sky was softly blue on a balmy
day; the bees and birds, the hum of insects, the flowers and fresh air,
and the pretty, animated peasants, combined to form a picture which made
one feel glad to live.

"The charm of Trieste is that one can live exactly as one pleases.
Richard and I drew out a line for ourselves when we first went to
Trieste, and we always kept to it as closely as we could.  We rose at
3 or 4 a.m. in summer, and at 5 a.m. in winter.  He read, wrote, and
studied all day out of the consular, and took occasional trips for his
health; and I learned Italian, German, and singing, and attended to my
other duties.  We took our daily exercise in the shape of an hour's
swimming in the sea, or fencing at the school, according to the weather.
What with reading, writing, looking after the poor, working for the
Church or for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,
my day was all too short.

"The prettiest thing in Trieste was the swimming school.  It was moored
out at the entrance to the harbour.  We used to reach it in a boat, and
get hold of Tonina, the old woman who provided us with the _camerino_,
or little stall to undress in, and who would grin from ear to ear at
our chaff and the thought of her _bakshish_.  The women's costumes were
short trousers, with bodice or belt of blue serge or white alpaca trimmed
with red.  We plunged into the great _vasca_ or basin, an acre of sea,
bottomless, but enclosed on all sides with a loaded net, to keep out the
sharks.  There were twelve soldiers to teach beginners.  They used to
begin with a pole and rope, like a fishing-rod and line, and at the end
of the rope was a broad belt, which went round the waist of the beginner,
and you heard the incessant, 'Eins, zwei, drei' of the drill.  Next they
would lead the beginners round the edge of the basin with a rope, like
pet dogs.  But we adepts in swimming plunged in head first from a sort
of trapeze, or from the roofs of the dressing-rooms, making a somersault
on the way.  The swimmers did the prettiest tricks in the water.  Young
married women met in the middle to shake hands and hold long
conversations.  Scores of young girls used to romp about, ducking each
other under and climbing on each other's backs for support, and children
of three or four used to swim about like white-bait, in and out, among
us all.  One stout old lady used to sit lazily in the water, like a
blubber fish, knitting, occasionally moving her feet.  We used to call
her 'the buoy,' and held on to her when we were tired."


It was the custom of Isabel and her husband, whenever they went to a new
place, to look out for a sort of sanatorium, to which they might repair
when they wanted a change or were seedy or out of sorts.  Thus, when
Burton was sent to Santos, they chose Sao Paulo; when they were at
Damascus, they pitched on Bludan; and as soon as they arrived at
Trieste, they lighted upon Opcina.  Opcina was a Slav village high above
Trieste, and about an hour's drive from it.  This height showed Trieste
and the Adriatic spread out like a map below, with hill and valley and
dale waning faintly blue in the distance, and far away the Carnian Alps
topped with snow.  There was an old inn called Daneus's, close to an
obelisk.  They took partly furnished rooms, and brought up some of their
own furniture to make up deficiencies and give the place a homelike air.
It was their wont to come up to Opcina from Saturday to Monday, and get
away from Trieste and worries.  They always kept some literary work on
hand there; and sometimes, if they were in the mood for it, they would
stay at Opcina for six weeks on end.  The climate was very bracing.

Isabel always looked back on these few first years at Trieste as pleasant
ones.  After the storm and stress of Damascus, and the anxiety and
depression consequent upon their recall, she found Trieste a veritable
"restful harbour."  They varied their life by many journeys and
excursions.  Their happy hunting-ground was Venice.  Whenever they could
they would cross over there, order a gondola, and float lazily about the
canals.  She says of this time: "We lived absolutely the jolly life of
two bachelors, as it might be an elder or a younger brother.  When we
wanted to go away, we just turned the key and left."

It was not until they had been at Trieste six months that they settled
down in a house, or rather in a flat at the top of a large building
close to the sea.  They began their housekeeping with very modest ideas;
in fact, they had only six rooms.  But Burton and his wife were fond
of enlarging their boundaries, and in course of time these six rooms
grew until they ran round the whole of the large block of the building.
Here they lived for ten years, and then they moved to the most beautiful
house in Trieste, a palazzo a little way out of the town.

One of their first expeditions was to Loretto.  Thence they went to
Rome, where they made the acquaintance of the English Ambassador to
the Austrian Court and his wife, Sir Augustus and Lady Paget, with whom
they remained great friends all the time they were at Trieste.  Isabel
also met Cardinal Howard, who was a cousin of hers.  He was one of her
favourite partners in the palmy days of Almack's, when he was an officer
in the Guards and she was a girl.  Now the whirligig of time had
transformed him into a cardinal and her into the wife of the British
Consul at Trieste.  As a devout Catholic Isabel delighted in Rome and
its churches, though the places which she most enjoyed visiting were the
Catacombs and the Baths of Caracalla.  At Rome she got blood-poisoning
and fever, which she took on with her to Florence, where they stayed for
some little time.  At Florence they saw a good deal of Ouida, whom they
had known for some years.  From Florence they went to Venice, crossed
over to Trieste just to change their baggage, and then proceeded to
Vienna.  There was a great Exhibition going on at Vienna, and Burton
went as the reporter to some newspaper.  They were at Vienna three weeks,
and were delighted with everything Viennese except the prices at the
hotel, which were stupendous.  They enjoyed themselves greatly, and
were well received in what is perhaps the most exclusive society in
Europe.  Among other things they went to Court.  Isabel attended as
an Austrian countess, and took place and precedence accordingly, for
the name Arundell of Wardour is inscribed in the Austrian official
lists of the Counts of the Empire.  There was a difficulty raised
about Burton, because consuls are not admissible at the Court of
Vienna.  Isabel was not a woman to go to places where her husband
was not admitted, and she insisted upon having the matter brought
before the notice of the Emperor, though the British Embassy clearly
told her the thing was impossible--Burton could not be admitted.  When
the Emperor heard of the difficulty through the court officials, he
at once solved it by saying that Burton might attend as an officer of
the English army.  The incident is a trifling one, but it is one more
illustration of the untiring devotion of Isabel to her husband, and
her sleepless vigilance that nothing should be done which would seem
to cast a slur upon his position.[1]

When the Burtons returned to Trieste, Charles Tyrwhitt-Drake, who had
been with them much at Damascus, and had accompanied them on their tour
in the Holy Land and many other journeys in the Syrian Desert, arrived.
The visit of their friend and fellow-traveller seemed to revive their old
love of exploration as far as the limits of Trieste would admit, and
among other excursions they went to see a great _fete_ at the Adelsberg
Caverns.  These caves were stalactite caverns and grottoes not far from
Trieste, and on the day of the _fete_ they were lighted by a million
candles.  One of the caverns was a large hall like a domed ballroom, and
Austrian bands and musicians repaired thither, and the peasants flocked
down in their costumes, and made high revelry.  Burton maintained that
these caves were the eighth wonder of the world, but the description of
them here would occupy too much space.  Suffice it to say, in the words
of Isabel, "When God Almighty had finished making the earth, He threw all
the superfluous rocks together there."  From these caves they went to
Fiume, and explored the Colosseum there, which, though not so famous as
that of Rome, almost rivals it in its ruins and its interest.  Another
excursion was to Lipizza, the Emperor of Austria's stud farm.  It was
about two hours from Trieste, and the stables and park were full of herds
of thorough-bred mares, chiefly Hungarians and Croats.  Lipizza was
always a favourite drive of the Burtons.

"Charley's" visit revived many memories of Damascus, and he was the
bearer of news from many friends there.  He seemed to bring with him
"a breath from the desert," and they were loath to let him go.  They
accompanied him to Venice, where he took his leave of them; and they
never saw him again.  He died the following year at Jerusalem, at the
age of twenty-eight.  He was buried in the English burial-ground on
Mount Zion, the place where they had all three sat and talked together
and picked flowers one afternoon three years before.  It was largely
at his suggestion that Isabel determined to write her _Inner Life of
Syria_, and she unearthed her note-books and began to write the book
soon after he left.  He was a great friend, almost a son to them, and
they both felt his loss bitterly.

About this time Maria Theresa, Contessa de Montelin, ex-Queen of Spain,
when she was on her death-bed, sent for Isabel, and charged her to keep
up, maintain, and promote certain pious societies which she had started
in Trieste.  One of these was "The Apostleship of Prayer," whose members,
women, were to be active in doing good works, corporally and spiritually,
in Trieste.  This guild was one of two good works to which Isabel chiefly
devoted herself during her life at Trieste.  The other was a branch of
the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and the care of
animals generally, a subject always very near her heart.  "The
Apostleship of Prayer," the legacy of the Queen of Spain, so grew under
Isabel's hand that the members increased to fifteen thousand.  They
elected her president, and she soon got the guild into thorough working
order, dividing the members into bands in various quarters of the city
of Trieste.

There is not much to relate concerning Isabel's life at Trieste for the
first few years.  It was uneventful and fairly happy: it would have been
quite happy, were it not for the regret of Damascus, where they were then
hoping to return, and the desire for a wider sphere of action.  Both she
and her husband managed to keep in touch with world in a wonderful way,
and did not let themselves drop out of sight or out of mind.  One of the
reliefs to the monotony of their existence was that, whenever an English
ship came into port with a captain whom they knew, they would dine on
board and have the delight of seeing English people, and they generally
invited the captain and officers and the best passengers back again.  The
Burtons had a good many visitors from England, most of them well-known
personages, who, when they stopped at Trieste, a favourite resting-
place for birds of passage, always made a point of calling upon them.
Among others was Lord Llandaff, then Mr. Henry Matthews, who had many
things in common with Isabel.  Owing to their lives being cast on
different lines, they only saw one another at intervals, but they
always entertained a feeling of mutual friendship.  From the many
letters he wrote to her I am permitted to publish this one:


                                             TEMPLE, December 28, 1875.

"DEAR MRS. BURTON,

"Of course I have not forgotten you.  I never forget.  Was it last week,
or sixteen years ago, that you were standing in this room with the
chequered sunlight shining through the Venetian blind upon you, as you
discoursed about Heaven and Grace and an attorney in the City who was
not one of the elect?

"I never knew you were in Venice this autumn, and, as it happened, it
was fortunate I did not go to Trieste to see you, since you were away.
I grieve very much to hear of your bad health.  It seems to me you do too
much.  The long list of occupations which you call 'repose' is enough to
wear out any constitution, even one which is so admirably knit as yours.
Don't be like the lady in Pope's satire, and 'die of nothing but a rage
to live.'  There is one part of your labours, however, for which I, with
all the rest of the world, shall be thankful; and that is your new book.
I shall look for it with impatience, and feel sure of its success.

"I wish you were not going to Arabia; but I know how you understand and
fulfil the part of wife to a knight-errantry of discovery.  Be as prudent
and sparing of yourself as you can.

                                "Yours ever,
                                      "HENRY MATTHEWS."


After they  had been at Trieste two years, at the end of 1874 Burton
proposed that his wife should go to England and transact some business
for him, and bring out certain books which he had written.  He would join
her later on.  Isabel was exceedingly unwilling to go; but "whenever he
put his foot down I had to do it, whether I would or no."  So she went,
and arrived in London in December, after an uneventful journey.

Isabel found her work cut out for her in London.  Her husband had given
her several pages of directions, and she tried to carry them out as
literally as possible.  She had to see a number of publishers for one
thing, and to work up an interest in a sulphur mine for another.  She
says: "I got so wrapped up in my work at this time that sometimes I
worked for thirteen hours, feeling my head whirling, and being quite
alarmed.  Then I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to eat all
day."  She had also the proof-sheets to correct of her own book, which
was going through the press.  She was in London without her husband for
four months, and during that time she had a great shock.  A paragraph
appeared in _The Scotsman_ announcing Burton's death, and speaking
of her as his widow.  She telegraphed to Trieste at once, and packed
up.  Just as she was starting she got a telegram from him saying, "I
am eating a very good dinner at _table d'hote_."

Early in May Burton joined her on a lengthy leave of absence, and they
did a great deal of visiting, and enjoyed themselves generally.  Isabel's
_Inner Life of Syria_ was published at this time, and she was very
anxious about it.  It had taken sixteen months to write.  The evening
of the day on which it made its appearance she went to a party, and the
first person she saw whom she knew was a well-known editor, who greeted
her with warm congratulations on her book.  She says, "It made me as
happy as if somebody had given me a fortune."

The favourable reception which was accorded to _The Inner Life of Syria_,
which was largely devoted to a defence of her husband's action when
Consul at Damascus, encouraged Isabel to proceed further on his behalf.
So she wrote to, or interviewed, every influential friend she knew, with
a view of inducing the Government to make Burton K. C. B., and she
prepared a paper setting forth his claims and labours in the public
service, which was signed by thirty or forty of the most influential
personages of the day.  She also induced them to ask that Burton should
either return to Damascus, or be promoted to Morocco, Cairo, Tunis, or
Teheran.  Unfortunately her efforts met with no success, though she
renewed them again through another source three years later.  In one
sense, however, she succeeded; for though she could not convert the
Government to her view, the press unanimously took up the cause for
Burton, and complained that the Government did not give him his proper
place in official life, and called him the "neglected Englishman."  As
for Burton himself, he took no part in this agitation, except to thank
his friends and the press generally for their exertions on his behalf.

They went down to Oxford at Commemoration to visit Professor Jowett and
others.  At Oxford they met with an ovation.  In London they passed a
very pleasant season, for private personages seemed anxious to make up
for official neglect.  Among other celebrated people whom they met was
Mr. Gladstone, at Lord Houghton's.  Of Burton's meeting with Mr.
Gladstone Isabel relates the following: "Very late in the evening
Mrs. Gladstone said to me, 'I don't know what it is; I cannot get Mr.
Gladstone away this evening'; and I said to her, 'I think I know what
it is; he has got hold of my husband, Richard Burton, and they are both
so interested in one another, and have so many points of interest to
talk over that I hope you will not take him away.'"

The season over, Burton started on another trip to Iceland; and Isabel
was left alone, during which time she paid some visits to the Duke and
Duchess of Somerset at Bulstrode, always kind friends of hers, and to
Madame von Bulow at Reigate.  Madame von Bulow was the wife of the
Danish Minister in London, and one of Isabel's most intimate friends--
a friendship which lasted all her life.

When Burton returned from Iceland, he went off to Vichy for a cure, and
rejoined his wife in London in the autumn; and they went out a great
deal, chiefly in scientific, literary, and artistic circles.  This year
was in some respects one of the pleasantest of Isabel's life.  Her book
had come out, and was a great success; she had been _feted_ by all her
friends and relations; and though her efforts to obtain promotion for
her husband had not met with the success which they deserved, yet the
kind encouragement which she received from influential friends, who,
though not members of the Government, were yet near the rose, made her
hope that better days were soon to come.

In December Burton, finding that he had still six months' leave, asked
his wife where she would like to go best.  She answered, "India."  It
had long been her desire to go there with her husband, and get him to
show her all the familiar spots which he had described to her as having
visited or lived at during his nineteen years' service in India.  Burton
was delighted with the idea.  So they got a map, cut India down the
middle lengthways from Cashmere to Cape Comorin, and planned out how
much they could manage to see on the western side, intending to leave
the eastern side for another time, as the season was already too far
advanced for them to be able to see the whole of India.


NOTES:

1. Lady Burton thus describes her visit to the Austrian Court:

  "I was very much dazzled by the Court.  I thought everything was
   beautifully done, so arranged as to give every one pleasure, and
   somehow it was the graciousness that was in itself a welcome.  I
   shall never forget the first night that I saw the Empress--a
   vision of beauty, clothed in silver, crowned with water-lilies,
   with large rows of diamonds and emeralds round her small head and
   her beautiful hair, and descending all down her dress in festoons.
   The throne-room is immense, with marble columns down each side--
   all the men arranged on one side and all the women on the other,
   and the new presentations with their ambassadors and embassadresses
   nearest the throne.  When the Emperor and Empress came in, they
   walked up the middle, the Empress curtseying most gracefully and
   smiling a general gracious greeting.  They then ascended the
   throne, and presently the Empress turned to our side.  The
   presentations first took place, and she spoke to each one in
   her own language, and on her own particular subject.  I was quite
   entranced with her beauty, her cleverness, and her conversation.
   She passed down the ladies' side, and then came up that of the
   men, the Emperor doing exactly the same as she had done.  He
   also spoke to us.  Then some few of us whose families the Empress
   knew about were asked to sit down, and refreshments were handed
   to us--the present Georgina Lady Dudley sitting by the Empress.
   It was a thing never to be forgotten to have seen those two
   beautiful women sitting side by side.  The Empress Frederick of
   Germany--Crown Princess she was then--was also there, and sent
   for some of us on another day, which was in many ways another
   memorable event, and her husband also came in."(_Life of Sir
   Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. ii., pp. 24, 25).




CHAPTER XXI.[1]  THE JOURNEY TO BOMBAY.  (1875-1876).


    As we meet and touch each day
    The many travellers on the way,
    Let every such brief contact be
    A glorious helpful ministry--
    The contact of the soil and seed,
    Each giving to the other's need,
    Each helping on the other's best,
    And blessing each, as well as blest.


On December 4, 1875, we left London for Trieste, _en route_ for India.
It was not a cheerful day for saying good-bye to Old England and dear
friends.  There was a fog as black as midnight, thick snow was lying
about the streets, and a dull red gloom only rendered the darkness
visible and horrible.  The great city was wrapped in the sullen
splendours of a London fog.  "It looks," said Richard, "as if the
city were in mourning for some great national crime."  "No," I
said, "rather let us think that our fatherland wears mourning for
our departure into exile once more."  I felt as if I could never
rise and face the day that morning.  However, we _had_ to go, so there
was nothing to do but put our shoulders to the wheel.  We lunched with
my father and family by lamplight at one o'clock in the day.  We
prolonged the "festive" meal as much as we could, and then set out,
a large family party, by the 4.45 train to Folkestone.  We all had
supper together at Folkestone, and enjoyed ourselves immensely.  The
next day my relations wished me good-bye--always a hard word to say.
One parting in particular wrung my heart: I little thought then I
should meet no more my brother Rudolph, the last of my four dear
brothers, all of whom died young by untoward accidents.  It was strange
I was always bidding good-bye to them every three or four years.  One
ought to have been steeled to parting by now.  Nevertheless every time
the wrench was as keen as ever.

We stopped in Folkestone until Tuesday, and then Richard and I got into
a sleigh, which took us over the snow from the hotel to the boat.  We
had a very cold crossing, but not a rough one; and as we neared Boulogne
we even saw a square inch or so of pale blue sky, a sight which, after
London, made us rejoice.

The old port at Boulogne stretched out its two long lean arms to our
cockle-shell steamer, as though anxious to embrace it.  I thought, as
we came into the harbour, how much of this quaint old town had been
bound up with my life.  I could never see it without recalling the two
years which I had spent in Boulogne years ago, and going over again in
my mind the time when I first saw Richard--the day of my life which will
always be marked with a great white stone.  He was a young lieutenant
then on furlough from India, who had seen nothing of life but one
hurried London season.

We stayed at Boulogne two days, and wandered about all over the place
together, calling back to our memory the scenes of our bygone youth.
We walked on the old Ramparts where we first made acquaintance, where
Richard used to follow my sister Blanche and myself when we were sent
out to learn our lessons _al fresco_.  We even saw the wall where he
chalked up, "May I speak to you?" and I chalked back, "No; mother will
be angry."  I hunted out my little brother's grave too, and planted it
with fresh rose trees; and I visited my old friend Carolina, the Queen
of the Poissardes.  She was still a beautiful creature, magnificent in
her costume.  She reminded me of a promise I had made her in the old
days, that if ever I went to Jerusalem I would bring her a rosary.  I
little dreamt then that I should marry Richard Burton, or that he would
be Consul at Damascus, or that I should go to Jerusalem.  Yet all these
things had come to pass.  And so I was able to fulfil my promise, to
her great delight.

From Boulogne we went to Paris, which I found terribly changed since the
Franco-German War.  The marks of the terrible Siege were still burnt upon
its face; and this applied not only to the city itself, but to the
people.  The radical changes of the last five years, and the war and
the Commune, had made a new world of Paris.  The light, joyous character
of the French was no doubt still below the surface, but the upper crust
was then (at least so it struck me) one of sulkiness, silence, and
economy run mad, a rage for lucre, and a lust _pour la revanche_.  Even
the women seemed to have given up their pretty dresses, though of course
there were some to be seen.  Yet things were very different now to what
they had been under the splendours of the Second Empire, that Empire
which went "like a dream of the night."  The women seemed to have become
careless, an unusual thing in Parisiennes: they even painted badly; and
it is a sin to paint--badly.  I am afraid that I am one of the very
few women who do not like Paris.  I never liked it, even in its palmy
days; and now at this time I liked it less than ever.  I was so glad
to leave at the end of the week, and to move out of the raw, white fog
sunwards.  We had a most comfortable journey from Paris to Modane, and
the officials at the Customs seemed to delight in irritating and
insulting one.  When I was passing into the custom-pen, I was gruffly
addressed, "On ne passe pas!"  I said, "On ne passe pas?  Comment on
ne passe pas?"  The only thing wanting, it seemed, was a visiting-card;
but the opportunity of being safely insolent was too tempting to the
Jack-in-office for him to pass it over.  I could not help feeling glad
these braves had never reached Berlin; they would have made Europe
uninhabitable.  France was charming as an empire or as a monarchy, but
as a brand-new republic it was simply detestable.

We went on to Turin, where we stayed for a day or two; and while here
I sent a copy of my _Inner Life of Syria_ to the Princess Margherita
of Savoy, now Queen of Italy, who was pleased to receive the same very
graciously.  From Turin we went to Milan, where we lapsed into the
regular routine of Italian society, so remarkable for the exquisite
amenity of its old civilization (as far as manners are concerned), and
for the stiffness and mediaeval semi-barbarism of its surroundings.
As an instance of this we had occasion to call on a personage to whom
we had letters of introduction.  We sent in our letters with a visiting-
card by the porter, asking when we should call.  The reply was, "Va
bene," which was pleasant, but vague.  We took heart of grace, and asked
at the door, "Is the Signor Conte visible?"  The janitor replied, "His
Excellency receives at 8 o'clock p.m."  We replied, "At that time we
shall be on the railway."  The domestic, with leisurely movement, left
us in the hall, and dawdled upstairs to report the remarkable case of
the importunate English.  By-and-by he returned, and showed us into the
saloon, a huge, bare, fireless room, with a few grotesque photographs
and French prints on the walls, and a stiff green sofa and chairs.
The Signor Conte kept us waiting twenty minutes, whilst he shaved and
exchanged his dressing-gown for the suit of sables which is the correct
raiment of the Latin race.  Nothing could be more polished than his
manners.  He received us with a cordiality which at once won our hearts.
But we were introduced to him by a bosom friend; our pursuits and tastes
were the same.  Why then could not he ask us up to his cosy study to
give us coffee and a cigarette?  "Sarebbe proprio indecente" ("It would
really be too rude"), was the reply, although both he and we would have
liked it extremely.  So for want of time to crack this hard nutshell we
never got at the kernel.

From Milan we went to Venice, which we found enveloped in a white fog,
with a network of lagoons meandering through streets of the foulest mud.
Venice is pre-eminently a hot-weather city.  In winter, with her cold
canals and wet alleys, deep rains and dense mists, her huge, unwarmed
palaces, and her bare, draughty hotels, she is a veritable wet place of
punishment.  We stayed in Venice for some days, and made several pleasant
acquaintances.  I had with me a German maid, who had never seen Venice.
She went in a gondola for the first time, and was at the highest pitch of
excitement at finding that all was water.  She marvelled at the absence
of cabs and dust, and exclaimed perpetually, "Nothing but water, water
everywhere"; which we naturally capped with, "But not a drop to drink,"
until I believe she fancied that drink was the only thing we English
ever thought of.

On December 23 we went across to Trieste by the midnight boat, and next
morning I was at Trieste again, my much-loved home of four years and a
half.  I found it all to a hair as I had left it just a year ago, for I
had been absent twelve months in England.  Christmas Night, however, was
a little sad.  We had accepted an invitation for a Christmas dinner, and
had given the servants leave to go out to see their friends; but Richard
was unfortunately taken ill, and could not dine out, and he went to bed.
Of course I stayed with him; but we had nobody to cook for us, nor
anything to eat in the house except bread and olives.  I went to the
pantry and foraged, and with this simple fare ate my Christmas dinner
by his bedside.

We stopped in Trieste eight days, just to pack up and complete
arrangements for our tour; and on the last day of the old year we left
for Jeddah.  We were aware that we were starting for India two or three
months too late, and would have to encounter the heat and fatal season
to accomplish it; but as Richard said, "Consuls, like beggars, can't be
choosers," and we were only too glad to be able to go at all.  Everybody
was most kind to us, and a lot of friends came to a parting midday
dinner, and accompanied us to our ship to see us off.  The Government
boat, containing the _Capitaine du Port_ and the sailors, in uniform,
took us to our ship, an honour seldom accorded to any but high Austrian
officials; and the Duke of Wurtemberg, Command-in-chief at Trieste, and
several others came to wish us "God-speed."  I shall never forget their
kindness, for I appreciated the honour which they did to Richard.  It
is strange how much more willing those in authority abroad were to do
him justice than the Government at home.

The run from Trieste to Port Said occupied six days and six nights.  Our
ship was the Calypso (Austrian Lloyd's), a good old tub, originally built
for a cattleboat.  We were the only passengers, and, with the captain and
his officers, we made a family party, and I was never more comfortable
on board ship in my life.  The voyage to Port Said has been so often
described that I need not dwell upon it again.  We had fair weather for
the first five days, and then there was a decided storm, which, however,
did not last long.  One gets so knocked about in a steamer that baths are
impossible; one can only make a hasty toilet at the most, being obliged
to hold on to something, or be knocked the while from one end of the
cabin to the other; one dines, so to speak, on the balance, with the food
ever sliding into one's lap.  Our boat danced about throughout the voyage
in a most extraordinary manner, which made me think that she had but
little cargo.  I spent most of the time on deck, "between blue sea and
azure air," and I did a good deal of reading.  I read Moore's _Veiled
Prophet of Khorassan_ and other books, including _Lalla Rookh_ and _The
Light of the Harim_; also Smollet's _Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, which_
I found coarse, but interesting.  Some one told me that a course of
Smollett was more or less necessary to form one for novel-writing, so
I took that and _The Adventures of Roderick Random_ on board to study,
in case I should ever write a novel.  I felt rather displeased when
Smollett's Lady of Quality married her second husband, and quite
_bouleversee_ long before I arrived at her fifteenth lover.

Port Said shows itself upon the southern horizon in two dark lines, like
long piles or logs of wood lying upon the sea, one large and one small.
These are the white town and the black town, apparently broken by an
inlet of sea, and based upon a strip of yellow sand.  The sea is
most unwholesome and stagnant.  The houses of Port Said looked like
painted wooden toys.  The streets were broad, but the shops were full of
nothing but rubbish, and were surround by dogs and half-naked, dark-brown
gutter-boys.  There is a circular garden in the centre of the European
part, with faded flowers, and a kiosk for the band to play in.  The most
picturesque and the dirtiest part is the Arab town, with its tumble-down
houses and bazar.  The people wear gaudy prints and dirty mantles
bespangled with gold.  There were a great many low-class music-halls and
gambling- and dancing-saloons.  Port Said is in fact a sort of Egyptian
Wapping, and I am told the less one knows about its morals the better.

While we were strolling about the Arab part, my German maid, who was in
an Eastern place for the first time, came upon a man filling a goat-skin
with water.  She saw a pipe and the skin distending, and heard the sound.
She often heard me say how cruel the Easterns were to animals; and
knowing my tenderness on that point, she ran after me in a great state
of excitement, and pulled my arm, crying out, "_O Euer Gnaden_!  The
black man is filling the poor sow with gas!  Do come back and stop him!"

The next morning early we began to steam slowly up the long ditch called
the Canal, and at last to the far east we caught a gladdening glimpse of
the desert--the wild, waterless Wilderness of Sur, with its waves and
pyramids of sand catching the morning rays, with it shadows of mauve,
rose pink, and lightest blue, with its plains and rain-sinks, bearing
brown dots, which were tamarisks (manna trees).  The sky was heavenly
blue, the water a deep band of the clearest green, the air balmy and
fresh.  The golden sands stretched far away; an occasional troop of
Bedawin with their camels and goats passed, and reminded me of those
dear, dead days at Damascus.  It all came back to me with a rush.  Once
more I was in the East.  I had not enjoyed myself so much with Nature
for four years and a half.  With the smell of the desert air in our
nostrils, with Eastern pictures before our eyes, we were even grateful
for the slowness of the pace at which we travelled.  They were the
pleasantest two days imaginable, like a river picnic.  We reached Suez,
with its air of faded glory, at length; and there we shipped a pious
pilot, who said his prayers regularly, and carefully avoided touching
my dog.  Of course he was from Mecca; but, unhappily for his reputation,
the first night spent at Jeddah gave him a broken nose, the result of
a scrimmage in some low coffee-house.

At last we neared Jeddah, the port of Mecca.  The approach was
extraordinary.  For twenty miles it is protected by Nature's breakwaters,
lines of low, flat reefs, barely covered, and not visible until you are
close upon them.  There was no mark or lighthouse save two little white
posts, which might easily be mistaken for a couple of gulls.  In and out
of these reefs the ship went like a serpent.  There was barely passage
for it between them; but of course no pilot would attempt it save in
broad daylight.  At length we reached the inner reef.  We found the open
roadstead full of ships, with hardly room to swing, and a strong north-
west wind, so that we could not get a place.  We ran right into the
first at anchor, the _Standard_, a trading-ship of Shields, built of
iron.  Richard and I were standing on the bridge, and he touched my
arm and said:

"By Jove!  We're going right into that ship."

"Oh no," I answered; "with the captain and the pilot on the bridge, and
all the crew in the forecastle, it can only be a beautiful bit of
steering.  We shall just shave her."

The words were scarcely out of my mouth when smash went our bulwarks like
brown paper, and our yardarms crumpled like umbrellas.  I had jokingly
threatened with the "thirteenth" the day before, but they had laughed
at me.

"Il tredici!" shouted the second officer, as he flew by us.

The crews of both ships behaved splendidly, and the cry on board our ship
was, "Where is the English captain?  I do not see him."

"No," we answered, "you do not see him, but we can hear him."  And sure
enough there he was all right, and swearing quite like himself.  There is
nothing like an Englishman for a good decisive order; and who can blame
him if he adds at such times a little powder to drive the shot home?

We were about three hours disentangling ourselves.

I was delighted with my first view of Jeddah.  It is the most _bizarre_
and fascinating town.  It looks as if it were an ancient model carved in
old ivory, so white and fanciful are the houses, with here and there a
minaret.  It was doubly interesting to me, because Richard came here by
land from his famous pilgrimage to Mecca.  Mecca lies in a valley between
two distant ranges of mountains.  My impression of Jeddah will always be
that of an ivory town embedded in golden sand.

We anchored at Jeddah for eight days, which time we spent at the British
Consulate on a visit.  The Consulate was the best house in all Jeddah,
close to the sea, with a staircase so steep that it was like ascending
the Pyramids.  I called it the Eagle's Nest, because of the good air and
view.  It was a sort of bachelors' establishment; for in addition to the
Consul and Vice-Consul and others, there were five bachelors who resided
in the building, whom I used to call the "Wreckers," because they were
always looking out for ships with a telescope.  They kept a pack of bull-
terriers, donkeys, ponies, gazelles, rabbits, pigeons; in fact a regular
menagerie.  They combined Eastern and European comfort, and had the usual
establishment of dragomans, kawwasses, and servants of all sizes, shapes,
and colour.  I was the only lady in the house, but we were nevertheless a
very jolly party.

Our first excursion was to Eve's Tomb, as it is called, a large curious
building in a spacious enclosure.  Two or three holy people are buried
here, and the place commands a lovely view of the distant mountains,
beyond which lies Mecca.

The inhabitants of Jeddah are very interesting in many ways.  There are
some two hundred nautch-girls there; but they are forbidden to dance
before men, though I have heard that the law can be evaded on occasions.
In the plains there are two different types of Arabs: the, Bedawin, and
the "settled men."  The latter are a fine, strong, healthy race, though
very wild and savage.  We used frequently to ride out into the desert and
make excursions.  I would have given anything to have gone to Mecca.  It
was hard to be so near, and yet to have to turn round and come back.
There was a rumour that two Englishmen had gone up to Mecca for a lark,
and had been killed.  This was not true.  But all the same Mecca was not
safe for a European woman, and it was not the time to show my blue eyes
and broken Arabic on holy ground.  I therefore used to console myself
by returning from our expeditions in the desert through the Mecca Gate
of Jeddah, and then riding through the bazars, half dark and half lit,
to see the pilgrims' camels.  The bazars literally swarmed with a
picturesque and variegated mob, hailing from all lands, and of every
race and tongue.  We were not interfered with in any way; though had it
been 1853, the year when Richard went to Mecca, to have taken these rides
in the desert, and to have walked through the Mecca Gate, would most
certainly have cost us our lives.  I also saw the khan where Richard
lived as one of these pilgrims in 1853, and the minaret which he sketched
in his book on Mecca.  While we were at Jeddah the Governor and all those
who knew the story of his pilgrimage to Mecca called on us, and were
very civil.

Our days at Jeddah were very pleasant ones.  In the evening we used to
sit outside the Consulate, and have some sherry and a cigarette, and play
with the dogs.  One evening Richard came in and discovered me anxiously
nursing what I thought was a dying negro.  He was very angry, for he
found him to be only drunk, and there was a great shout of merriment
among all our colony in the Consulate--"my boys," as I used to call
them--when the truth came out.  These terrible boys teased the negro
by putting snuff up his nose.  They were awful boys, but such fun.  They
were always up to all sorts of tricks.  When the food was bad, they used
to call the cook in, and make him eat it.  "What's this?" they would
say.  "No! no!  Massa; me lose caste."  "Hold your tongue, you damned
scoundrel!  Eat it directly."  One day it was seven big _smoked_ onions
which the cook had to consume.  I am bound to say that it had a good
effect upon him, for the table was certainly excellent after this.  I
wish we could follow some such plan in England with our cooks.  Even
more did I wish we could do so at Trieste.  I thought the dogs were
worse than the boys.  There were about ten bull-dogs in the house.
They used to worry everything they saw, and sent every pariah flying
out of the bazars.  Since I left Jeddah I heard that the natives had
poisoned all these dogs, which I really think served the boys right,
but not the dogs.  I remember too, on one or two occasions, when we were
riding out Meccawards, my horse was so thin and the girths so large that
my saddle came round with me, and I had a spill on the sand, which
greatly delighted the boys, but did not hurt me.

I was so sorry to part with them all; we were good friends together.
But after eight exceedingly pleasant days at Jeddah we received notice
to embark, and we had to say good-bye and go on board the _Calypso_.
The sea was very rough, and I sat on a chair lashed to the deck.  The
_Calypso_ was bound for Bombay, and had taken on board at Jeddah and
stowed away some eight hundred pilgrims, who were returning to India from
Mecca.  They were packed like cattle, and as the weather was very rough
the poor pilgrims suffered terribly.  The waves were higher than the
ship.  I crawled about as well as I could, and tried to help the pilgrims
a little.  The second day one of them died, and was buried at sunset.  I
shall never forget that funeral at sea.  They washed the body, and then
put a strip of white stuff round the loins, and a bit of money to show
that he is not destitute when he arrives in the next world.  Then they
tied him up in a sheet, and with his head and feet tied he looked just
like a big white cracker.  He was then laid upon a shutter with a five-
pound bar of iron bound to his feet, and after a short Arabic prayer they
took him to the side and hurled him over.  There was no mourning or
wailing among the pilgrims.  On the contrary, they all seemed most
cheerful over this function; and of course, according to their way of
thinking, a man would be glad to die, as he went straight to heaven.
But I am bound to say that it had a most depressing effect upon me,
for we had twenty-three funerals in twelve days.  They seemed to take
it very much as a matter of course; but I kept saying to myself, "That
poor Indian and I might both be lying dead to-day.  There would be a
little more ceremony over me, and (not of course including my husband)
my death would cast a gloom over the dinner-table possibly a couple of
days.  Once we were shunted down the ship's side, the sharks would eat us
both, and perhaps like me a little better, as I am fat and well fed, and
do not smell of cocoa-nut oil; and then we would both stand before the
throne of God to be judged--he with his poverty, hardships, sufferings,
pilgrimage, and harmless life, and I with all my faults, my happy life,
my luxuries, and the little wee bit of good I have ever done or ever
thought, to obtain mercy with; only equal that our Saviour died for
us both."

I can hardly express what I suffered during the fortnight's voyage on
board the pilgrim-ship.  It was an experience which I would never repeat
again.  Imagine eight hundred Moslems, ranging in point of colour through
every shade from lemon or _cafe au lait_ to black as ebony; races from
every part of the world, covering every square inch of deck, and every
part of the hold fore and aft, packed liked sardines, men, women, and
babies, reeking of cocoa-nut oil.  It was a voyage of horror. I shall
never forget their unwashed bodies, their sea-sickness, their sores, the
dead and the dying, their rags, and last, but not least, their cookery.
Except to cook or fetch water or kneel in prayer, none of them moved
out of the small space or position which they assumed at the beginning
of the voyage.  Those who died did not die of disease so much as of
privation and fatigue, hunger, thirst, and opium.  They died of vermin
and misery.  I shall never forget the expression of dumb, mute, patient
pain which most of them wore.  I cannot eat my dinner if I see a dog
looking wistfully at it.  I therefore spent the whole day staggering
about our rolling ship with sherbet and food and medicines, treating
dysentery and fever.  During my short snatches of sleep  I dreamt of
these horrors too.  But it was terribly disheartening work, owing to
their fanaticism.  Many of them listened to me with more faith about
food and medicines because I knew something of the Koran, and could
recite their Bismillah and their call to prayer.

At last we arrived at Aden, where a troop of Somali lads came on board,
with their bawling voices and their necklaces and their mop-heads of
mutton wool, now and then plastered with lime.  They sell water,
firewood, fowls, eggs, and so forth.  We landed at Aden for a few hours.
It is a wild, desolate spot; the dark basalt mountains give it a sombre
look.  Richard and I spent some hours with the wife of the Governor, or
Station Commandant, at her house.  It was terribly hot.  I think it was
Aden where the sailors reappeared who had died and gone to a certain
fiery place; and on being asked why they came back, they replied that
they had caught cold, and had got leave to come home and fetch their
blankets!

We returned at half-past four in the afternoon to our ship and the
pilgrims.  The weather that night became very rough, and during the night
a Bengali fell overboard.  His companion, who witnessed the accident,
said nothing; and on being asked later where he was, replied casually,
"I saw him fall overboard about three hours ago."  Such are the ways of
these peculiar pilgrims.  They have no more sympathy for one another
than cattle.  None would give a draught of water to the dying; and as
for praying over the corpses before throwing them overboard, if they
could help it they would scarcely take the trouble.  It was too rough
all the next day for reading or writing; and to add to our discomfort
two Russian passengers got drunk, and fought at the table, and called
each other "liar and coward," "snob and thief," "spy and menial," and
other choice epithets.  However, their bark was worse than their bite,
for they cooled down after they had succeeded in upsetting us all.

I staggered about on deck for the next few days as much as possible, and
again did what I could for pilgrims; but our Russian passengers aforesaid
brought me word later that when those who must in any case have expired,
died, the others said it was I who poisoned them; and that was all the
thanks I got for my pains.  If it were so, I wonder why did the whole
ship run after me for help?  One old man said, "Come, O bountiful one,
and sit a little amongst us and examine my wife, who has the itch, and
give her something to cure it."  But I got wary, and I said, "If I were
to give her any medicine, she will presently die of weakness, and I
shall be blamed for her death."  However, I did what I could.  In some
of the cases I asked my maid to come and help me; but she turned away
in disgust, and said, "No thank you; I have the nose of a princess, and
cannot do such work."  And really it was horrible, for many came to me
daily to wash, clean, anoint, and tie up their feet, which were covered
with sores and worms.

On January 30 a north-east wind set in with violence.  Every one was
dreadfully sick.  The ship danced like a cricket-ball, and the pilgrims
howled with fright, and six died.  The next day the weather cleared up,
and it lasted fine until we reached Bombay.  We had a delightful evening,
with balmy air, crescent moon, and stars, and the Dalmatian sailors sang
glees.  That day another pilgrim died, and was robbed.  His body was
rifled of his bit of money as he lay dying, and they fought like cats
before his eyes for the money he had been too avaricious to buy food
with and keep himself alive.

At last, betimes, on February 2, the thirty-third day after leaving
Trieste, a haze of hills arose from the eastward horizon, and we knew it
to be India.  Then the blue water waxed green, greenish, and brown, like
to liquid mud.  The gulls became tamer and more numerous, and jetsam and
flotsam drifted past us.  We sighted land very early.  As we were running
in the pilot came alongside, and called up to the captain, "Have you any
sickness on board?"  The answer was, "Yes."  "Then," said the pilot, "run
up the yellow flag.  I will keep alongside in a boat, and you make for
Butcher's Island" (a horrible quarantine station).  I was standing on the
bridge, and, seeing the yellow flag hoisted, and hearing the orders, felt
convinced that there was a mistake.  So I made a trumpet with my hands,
and holloaed down to the pilot, "Why have you run up that flag?  We have
got no disease."  "Oh yes you have; either cholera or small-pox or yellow
jack."  "We have nothing of the sort," I answered.  "Then why did the
captain answer 'Yes'?" he replied.  "Because it is the only English word
he knows," I cried.  Then he asked me for particulars, and said he would
go off for the doctor, and we were to stand at a reasonable distance from
Bombay.  This took place in a spacious bay, surrounded by mountains,
a poor imitation of the Bay of Rio.  Presently the doctor arrived.
Richard explained, and we were allowed to land.  I shall never forget
the thankfulness of the pilgrims, or the rush they made for the shore.
They swarmed like rats down the ropes, hardly waiting for the boats.
They gave Richard and me a sort of cheer, as they attributed their
escape from quarantine to our intervention.  Indeed, if we had been
herded together a few more days, some disease must have broken out.

And thus we set foot in India.




CHAPTER XXII.  INDIA.  (1876).


    Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
    My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee.

                                                GOLDSMITH.


On arriving at Bombay, we housed ourselves at Watson's Esplanade Hotel, a
very large building.  We went to see the sights of the town, and I was
very much interested in all that I saw, though the populace struck me as
being stupid and uninteresting, not like the Arabs at all.  As I was new
to India I was much struck by the cows with humps; by brown men with
patches of mud on their foreheads, a stamp showing their Brahmin caste;
by children, and big children too, with no garments except a string of
silver bells; and by men lying in their palanquins, so like our hospital
litter that I said, "Dear me!  The small-pox must be very bad, for I see
some one being carried to the hospital every minute."  The picturesque
trees, the coloured temples, and the Parsee palaces, garnished for
weddings, also impressed themselves upon my mind.

The next day we made an excursion to see the Caves of Elephanta.  These
caves are on an island about an hour's steaming from Bombay.  They are
very wonderful, and are natural temples, or chapels, to Shiva in his
triune form, Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, and other gods, and are carved
or hewn out of the solid rock.  The entrance to the caves is clothed
with luxuriant verdure.

The day following a friend drove us with his own team out to Bandora,
about twelve miles from Bombay, where he had a charming bungalow in a
wild spot close to the sea.  We drove through the Mahim Woods--a grand,
wild, straggling forest of palms of all kinds, acacias, and banyan trees.
The bungalow was rural, solitary, and refreshing, something after the
fashion of the Eagle's Nest we had made for ourselves at Bludan in the
old days in Syria.  Towards sunset the Duke of Sutherland (who, then
Lord Stafford, had visited us at Damascus) and other friends arrived,
and we had a very jolly dinner and evening.  It was the eve of a great
feast, and young boys dressed like tigers came and performed some native
dancing, with gestures of fighting and clawing one another, which was
exceedingly graceful.

The feast was the _Tabut_, or Muharram, a Moslem miracle play; and on
our return to Bombay I went to see it.  I had to go alone, because
Richard had seen it before, and none of the other Europeans apparently
cared to see it at all.  The crowd was so great I had to get a
policeman's help.  They let me into the playhouse at last.  The whole
place was a blaze of lamps and mirrors.  A brazier filled with wood
was flaring up, and there was a large white tank of water.  It was an
extraordinary sight.  The fanaticism, frenzy, and the shrieks of the
crowd made a great impression on me.  The play was a tragedy, a passion
play; and the religious emotion was so intense and so contagious that,
although I could not understand a word, I found myself weeping with
the rest.

Among other things, during our stay at Bombay, we went to the races at
Byculla, a very pretty sight, though not in the least like an English
racecourse.  The Eastern swells were on the ground and in carriages, and
the Europeans in the club stand.  There was only one good jockey, and
whatever horse he rode won, even when the others were more likely.  There
was an Arab horse which ought to have beaten everything, but the clumsy
black rider sat like a sack and ruined his chances.  I saw that at once,
and won nine bets one after another.

We went to a great many festivities during our stay at Bombay.  Among
other things we breakfasted with a Persian Mirza, who knew Richard when
he was at Bombay in 1848.  After breakfast--quite a Persian feast--I
visited his harim, where we women smoked a narghileh and discussed
religious topics, and they tried to convert me to El Islam.  I also
went to the wedding feast of the daughter of one of the most charming
Hindu gentlemen, whose name is so long that I do not quote it, a most
brilliant entertainment.  I also went to some steeplechases and a garden
party at Parell (Government House).  There was a large attendance, and
much dressing; it was something like a mild Chiswick party.  I amused
myself with talking to the Bishop.  I also went to the Byculla ball,
which was very well done.  While at Bombay I saw the mango trick for the
first time.  It is apt to astonish one at first to see a tree planted and
grow before one's eyes without any apparent means to accomplish it.  The
Indian jugglers are clever, but I have seen better at Cairo.  We were
tired of the child being killed in the basket, and the mango trick soon
became stale.

On February 21 we left Bombay for Matheran, up in the mountains.  We went
by train to Narel; but the last stage of the journey, after Narel, had to
be performed on horseback, or rather pony-back.  We rode through seven
miles of splendid mountain scenery, an ascent of two thousand seven
hundred feet.  Carriages would not come here unless they were carried
upon the head like the philanthropist's wheelbarrows by the Africans of
Sierra Leone.  Our road was very rough, and our ponies stumbled and
shied at the dogs.  I was badly dressed for the occasion.  My small
hired saddle cut me; it was loose, and had too long a stirrup; and
although we were only two hours ascending, and six hours out, I was
tired by the time we arrived at Matheran.

The next day we were up betimes.  I was delighted with the wooded lanes
and the wild flowers, the pure atmosphere, and the lights and shadows
playing on the big foliage.  We looked down on magnificent ravines among
buttressed-shaped mountains.  The fantastic Ghats rose up out of the
plain before us.  On clear days there was a lovely view of Bombay and
the sea with the bright sun shining upon it.  The scenery everywhere
was grand and bold.  We made several excursions in the neighbourhood,
and I found the natives, or jungle people, very interesting.

On the 23rd we left Matheran.  We started early in the morning for Narel,
walked down the steep descent from Matheran, then rode.  We arrived hot
and a little tired at Narel station, and the train came in at 10 a.m.  We
mounted the break, and much enjoyed the ascent of the Highlands, arriving
in about three hours at Lanauli on the Bhor Ghat.  At Lanauli we found a
fairly comfortable hotel, though it was terribly hot.  What made the heat
worse was that most of the houses at Lanauli were covered with corrugated
-iron roofs which were bad for clothes, as they sweated rusty drops all
over the room, which left long stains on one's linen and dresses.  I
came away with everything ruined.  The air was delicious, like that of
Sao Paulo or Damascus in the spring.

The next morning we were up and off at dawn to the Karla Caves.  There
was brought to the door at dawn for Richard a jibbing, backing pony, with
vicious eyes, and for me a mangy horse like a knifeboard, spavined, with
weak legs, and very aged, but nevertheless showing signs of "blood."  On
top of this poor beast was a saddle big enough for a girl of ten, and I,
being eleven stone, felt ashamed to mount.  However, there was nothing
else to be done.  We rode four miles along the road, and then crossed a
river valley of the mountains.  Here we descended, and had to climb a
goatlike path until we came to what looked like a gash or ridge in the
mountain-side, with a belt of trees.  When we got to the top, we sat
on the stones, facing one of the most wonderful Buddhist temples in
India.  It was shaped just like our cathedrals, with a horseshoe roof of
teak-wood, which has defied the ravages of time.  The Brahmins keep this
temple.  On either side of the entrances are splendid carved lions,
larger than life.  A little temple outside is consecrated by the Brahmins
to Devi.  We were not allowed to go nearer to this goddess than past a
triangular ornament covered with big bells; but they lit it for us and
let us peep in, and it disclosed a woman's face and figure so horribly
ugly as to give one a nightmare--a large, round, red face, with
squinting eyes, open mouth, hideous teeth, and a gash on her cheek
and forehead.  She is the Goddess of Destruction, and is purposely
made frightful.

It was very hot returning.  My poor horse suddenly faltered, giving a
wrench to my back, and bringing my heart into my mouth when it almost sat
down behind.  We passed troops of Brinjari, whose procession lasted for
about two miles.  This is a very strong, wild race, which only marries
among its own tribe.  The women were very picturesquely dressed, and
glared at me defiantly when I laughed and spoke to them.  They carried
their babies in baskets on their heads.  We got home about 11 a.m., so
that we had made our excursion betimes.

After breakfast and bath we went to the station.  Soon our train came
up, and after a two and a half hours' journey through the Indrauni river
valley we arrived at Poonah.  The next day we drove all about Poonah,
and went to see the Palace of the Peshwas, in the Indian bazar.  It is
now used as a library below and a native law courts above.  Then we went
to Parbat, the Maharatta chief's palace.  There are three pagodas in
this building, and one small temple particularly struck me.  As it was
sunset the wild yet mournful sound of tom-tom and kettle and cymbal and
reed suddenly struck up.  I could have shut my eyes and fancied myself
in camp again in the desert, with the wild sword-dances being performed
by the Arabs.

The following day at evening we left Poonah for Hyderabad.  We travelled
all night and next day, and arrived towards evening.  Hyderabad lies
eighteen hundred feet above sea-level.  As most people know, it is by
far the largest and most important native city in India, and is ruled
over by our faithful ally the Nizam.  Richard and I were to be the
guests of Major and Mrs. Nevill; and our kind friends met us cordially
at the station.  In those days Major Nevill was the English officer who
commanded the Nizam's troops; and though he ranked as Major, he was
really Commander-in-chief, having no one over him except Sir Salar Jung.
Mrs. Nevill was the eldest daughter of our talented predecessor in the
Consulate at Trieste, Charles Lever, the novelist.  She was most
charming, and a perfect horsewoman.  We had delightful quarters in Major
Nevill's "compound."  The rooms were divided into sleeping- and bath-
rooms, and tents were thrown out from either entrance.  The front opened
into the garden.  Two servants, a man and a woman, were placed at our
disposal.  In short, nothing was wanting to our comfort.  That night
we went to a dinner-party and ball at Government House--Sir Richard and
Lady Meade's.

Next morning we were up betimes, and out on elephants to see the town.
It was my first mount on an elephant, and my sensations were decidedly
new.  The beasts look very imposing with their gaudy trappings; and as
we rode through Hyderabad we were most cordially greeted by all.  The
houses were flat, something like those of Damascus; and the streets
were broad and spanned by high arches, whose bold simplicity was very
striking.  The Nizam's palace, at least a mile long, was covered with
delicate tracery; and many a mosque, like lacework, rose here and there.
But the _cachet_ of all in Hyderabad was size, boldness, and simplicity.

After inspecting the town we proceeded to the palace of Sir Salar Jung.
We found him a noble, chivalrous, large-hearted Arab gentleman, of the
very best stamp; and throughout our stay at Hyderabad he was most kind
to us.  His palace contained about seven courts with fountains, and was
perfectly magnificent; but unfortunately, instead of being furnished with
oriental luxury, which is so grand and rich, it was full of European
things--glass, porcelain, and bad pictures.  One room, however, was
quite unique: the ceiling and walls were thickly studded with china--
cups, saucers, plates, and so forth--which would have aroused the envy
of any china-maniac in London.  Sir Salar entertained us to a most
luxurious breakfast, and when that was over showed us a splendid
collection of weapons, consisting of swords, sheaths, and daggers,
studded with gorgeous jewels.  After that we inspected the stables,
which reminded me somewhat of the Burlington Arcade, for they were
open at both ends, and the loose boxes, where the shops would be,
opened into a passage running down the centre.  There were about a
hundred thorough-bred Arab and Persian horses.  When we left Sir
Salar, he presented me with four bottles of attar of roses.

The next few days formed a round of festivity.  There were breakfasts,
dinner-parties at the Residency and elsewhere, with a little music to
follow, and many excursions.  Sir Salar Jung lent me a beautiful grey
Arab, large, powerful and showy.  He had never before had a side-saddle
on, but he did not seem to mind it a bit.  Among other places we visited
the palace of the Wikar Shums Ool Umara, one of the three great
dignitaries of the Nizam's country, where we were received with great
honour by a guard of soldiers and a band of music.  The Wikar was a thin,
small, well-bred old gentleman, with a yellow silk robe and a necklace of
large emeralds.  He was attended by a fat, jolly son in a green velvet
dressing-gown, and one tall, thin, sallow-faced youth, who looked like
a bird with the pip.  We had a capital breakfast.  The hall was full of
retainers and servants, who pressed me to eat as they served the dishes,
and "Take mutton cutlet, 'im very good" was whispered in my ear with an
excellent English accent.  We then visited the jewellery of the palace,
a most beautiful collection; and the sacred armour, which surpasses
description.  At last we saw something unique--an ostrich race.  The
man mounts, sits back, puts his legs under the wings, and locks his
feet under the breast.  The birds go at a tremendous pace, and kick
like a horse.

The next day we witnessed an assault-of-arms.  There were about two
hundred performers, and three hundred to look on.  There were some very
good gymnastics, sword exercises, single-stick, and so on.  They also
showed us some cock-fighting, and indeed all sorts of fighting.  They
fight every kind of animal, goats, birds, even quails and larks, which
are very plucky, and want to fight; but they pull them off if they
want to ill-use one another too much.  I did not care to see this,
and went away.

The next day we drove to the country palace of the Amir el Kebir.  He was
the third of the three great men in Hyderabad, who jointly managed the
Nizam's affairs.  The other two were Sir Salar Jung, Regent and Prime
Minister, and the Wikar Shums Ool Umara.  They were all relations of the
Nizam.  Here again was a beautiful palace in gardens, full of storks,
pigeons, and other birds.  Besides birds, there were flowers; and all
the gardens and terraces were covered with honeysuckle.  We inspected
the town also, each riding on a separate elephant.  And when that was
over every one went back to breakfast with the Amir; and a charming
breakfast it was, with delicious mangoes.  Our host wore a lovely
cashmere robe, like a dressing-gown, and gorgeous jewels.

Our last recollections of Hyderabad were brilliant, for Sir Salar Jung
gave a magnificent evening _fete_.  One of the large courts of the palace
was illuminated: the starlight was above us, the blaze of wax lights and
chandeliers lit up every hall around the court, and coloured lamps and
flowers were everywhere.  There was a nautch, which I thought very
stupid, for the girls did nothing but eat sweetmeats, and occasionally
ran forward and twirled round for a moment with a half-bold, semi-
conscious look; and only one was barely good-looking.  Perhaps that is
the nautch to dance before ladies; but in Syria, I remember, they danced
much better without being "shocking."  We had a most delicious dinner
afterwards, at which we were waited on by retainers in wild, picturesque
costumes.  When that was over, the band played.  We walked about and
conversed, were presented with attar of roses, and went home.

In the morning we struck out for Secunderabad.  It was a prosperous
European station, with three regiments, but nothing interesting.  We
proceeded on elephants to Golconda, a most interesting place; but as
no European has ever been permitted to enter it, I can only describe
what we were allowed to see without.  We viewed the town from outside,
and saw a hill covered with buildings.  The throne-hall, with arched
windows, they say is a mere shell.  The King's palace and defences
occupy the mound which is in the midst of the town.  The town proper is
on the flat ground.  It is surrounded by walls, battlements and towers,
and reminded me of old Damascus and Jerusalem.  In it dwells many an old
feudal chief.  Past these walls no European or Christian has ever been
allowed.  The Tombs of the Kings are very ancient, and are situated
outside the town.  We were admitted to these, and they reminded me
of the Tower Tombs of Palmyra.  They were enormous domes, set on a
square, broad base, the upper section beautifully carved, or covered
with Persian tiles, which bore Arabic and Hindustani inscriptions.
Abdullah's tomb and that of his mother are the best.  The prevailing
style in both is a dome standing on an oblong or square, both of grey
granite.  The predominant colour is white, and in some cases picked out
with green.  There was also a beautiful garden of palm trees and a
labyrinth of arches.  We wandered about this romantic spot, of which we
had heard so much, and thought of all the mines and riches of Golconda.
It was a balmy night when we were there; fireflies spangled the domed
tombs in the palm gardens, lit by a crescent moon.  I could not forget
that I was in the birthplace of the famed Koh-i-noor.

We returned to Hyderabad, and next morning we rose at four o'clock, and
took the train at seven to return to Bombay.  Our kind host and hostess,
the Nevills, and Sir Richard Meade, the Governor, came to see us off.
We had a comfortable carriage, and the railway officials were most kind
and civil; but the heat was so great that they were walking up and down
periodically to arouse the passengers, as they have occasionally been
found dead, owing to the heat; and two or three cases happened about
that time.

When we got down to Bombay, we found it all _en fete_ for the departure
of the Prince of Wales, who was then doing his celebrated Indian tour.
I shall never forget the enthusiasm on that occasion.  The Prince was
looking strong and well, brown, handsome, and happy, and every inch a
Royal Imperial Prince and future Emperor.  He went away taking with him
the hearts of all his subjects and the golden opinions of all true men
and women.

We stayed at Bombay some little time, and among other things we visited
the Towers of Silence, or Parsee charnel-house, the burying-place of the
"Fire Worshippers," which are situated on a hill-summit outside Bombay.
We ascended by a giant staircase, half a mile long, overhung by palms and
tropical vegetation.  We obtained a splendid view of Bombay from this
eminence, which we should have enjoyed had it not been that the palms
immediately around us were thick with myriads of large black vultures,
gorged with corpses of the small-pox and cholera epidemic, which was then
raging in Bombay.  The air was so heavy with their breath that (though
people say it was impossible) I felt my head affected as long as we
remained there.  These myriads of birds feed only on corpses, and of
necessity they must breathe and exhale what they feed upon.  They
fattened upon what bare contact would kill us; they clustered in
thousands.  This burying-place, or garden, was full of public and private
family towers.  The great public tower is divided into three circles,
with a well in the middle.  It has an entrance and four outlets for
water.  First, there is a place for clothes, and a tank, like a huge
metal barrel lying on its side.  Here the priests, who are the operators,
leave their garments.  A large procession of Parsees, having accompanied
the body as far as this spot, turn and wait outside the tower.  The
priests then place the body, if a man, in the first circle; if a woman,
in the second circle; if a child, in the third: in the centre there is
the door, well covered with a grating.  The priests then stay and watch.
The vultures descend; they fly round the moment they see a procession
coming, and have to be kept at bay until the right moment.  The body is
picked clean in an hour by these vultures.  It is considered very lucky
if they pick out the right eye first instead of the left, and the fact
is reported by the priests to the sorrowing relatives.  When the bones
are perfectly clean, a Parsee priest pushes them into the well.  When
rain comes, it carries off the ashes and bones; and the water runs
through these four outlets, with charcoal at the mouths to purify it,
before entering and defiling the earth, which would become putrid and
cause fever.  The Parsees will not defile the earth by being buried in
it, and consider it is an honour to have a _living sepulchre_.  The
vultures have on an average, when there is no epidemic, about three
bodies a day, so that they can never be said to starve.  The whole
thing struck me as being revolting and disgusting in the extreme, and
I was glad to descend from this melancholy height to Bombay.

We had a good deal of gaiety during our stay in Bombay, and every one
was most kind.  We saw many interesting people, and made many pleasant
excursions which were too numerous to be mentioned in detail here.  I
have given a description of the Parsee burial-ground, and I think at
the risk of being thought morbid that I must also describe our visit
to the Hindu Smashan, or burning-ground, in the Sonapur quarter, where
we saw a funeral, or rather a cremation.  The corpse was covered with
flowers, the forehead reddened with sandalwood, and the mouth blackened.
The bier was carried by several men, and one bore sacred fire in an
earthenware pot.  The body was then laid upon the pyre; every one walked
up and put a little water in the mouth of the corpse, just as we throw
dust on the coffin; they then piled more layers of wood on the body,
leaving it in the middle of the pile.  Then the relatives, beginning
with the nearest, took burning brands to apply to the wood, and the
corpse was burned.  The ashes and bones are thrown into the sea.  It
was unpleasant, but not nearly so revolting to me as the vultures in
the Parsee burying-ground.  All the mourners were Hindu except ourselves,
and they stayed and watched the corpse burning.  Shortly the clothes
caught fire, and then the feet.  After that we saw no more except a
great blaze, and smelt a smell of roasted flesh, which mingles with
the sandalwood perfume of Bombay.  The Smashan, or burning-ground, is
dotted with these burning-places.

A very interesting visit for me was to the Pinjarpole, or hospital for
animals sick, maimed, and incurable.  It was in the centre of the native
quarter of Bombay, and was founded forty years ago by Sir Jamsetji
Jijibhoy, who also left money for its support.  I was told that the
animals here were neglected and starved; but we took them quite unawares,
and were delighted to find the contrary the case.  There were old
bullocks here that had been tortured and had their tails wrung off,
which is the popular way in Bombay of making them go faster.  There
were orphan goats and calves, starving kittens and dogs.  The blind,
the maimed, the wounded of the animal creation, here found a home.  I
confess that I admire the religion that believes in animals having a
kind of soul and a future, and permits their having a refuge where at
least no one can hurt them, and where they can get food and shelter.
God is too just to create things, without any fault of their own, only
for slow and constant torture, for death, and utter annihilation.

Turning now to society at Bombay, and indeed Indian society generally,
I must say that it is not to be outdone for hospitality.  There is a
certain amount of formality about precedence in all English stations,
and if one could only dispense with it society would be twice as charming
and attractive.  I do not mean of course the formality of etiquette and
good-breeding, but of all those silly little conventions and rules which
arise for the most part from unimportant people trying to make themselves
of importance.  Of course they make a great point about what is called
"official rank" in India, and the women squabble terribly over their
warrants of precedence: the gradations thereof would puzzle even the
chamberlain of some petty German court.  The Anglo-Indian ladies of
Bombay struck me for the most part as spiritless.  They had a faded,
washed-out look; and I do not wonder at it, considering the life they
lead.  They get up about nine, breakfast and pay or receive visits,
then tiffen, siesta, a drive to the Apollo Bunder, to hear the band, or
to meet their husbands at the Fort, dine and bed--that is the programme
of the day.  The men are better because they have cricket and polo.  I
found nobody stiff individually, but society very much so in the mass.
The order of precedence seemed to be uppermost in every mind, and as
an outsider I thought how tedious "ye manners and customs of the
Anglo-Indians" would be all the year round.

I found the native populace much more interesting.  The great mass
consists of Konkani Moslems, with dark features and scraggy beards.  They
were clad in chintz turbans, resembling the Parsee headgear, and in long
cotton coats, with shoes turned up at the toes, and short drawers or
pyjamas.  There were also Persians, with a totally different type of
face, and clothed in quite a different way, mainly in white with white
turbans.  There were Arabs from the Persian Gulf, sitting and lolling in
the coffee-houses.  There were athletic Afghans, and many other strange
tribes.  There were conjurers and snake-charmers, vendors of pipes and
mangoes, and Hindu women in colours that pale those of Egypt and Syria.
There were two sorts of Parsees, one white-turbaned, and the other whose
headgear was black, spotted with red.  I was much struck with the immense
variety of turban on the men, and the _choli_ and headgear on the women.
Some of the turbans were of the size of a moderate round tea-table.
Others fit the head tight.  Some are worn straight, and some are cocked
sideways.  Some are red and horned.  The _choli_ is a bodice which is
put on the female child, who never knows what stays are.  It always
supports the bosom and she is never without it day or night, unless
after marriage, and whilst she is growing it is of course changed to
her size from time to time.  They are of all colours and shapes,
according to the race.  No Englishwoman could wear one, unless it
were made on purpose for her; but I cannot explain why.

Bombay servants are dull and stupid.  They always do the wrong thing for
preference.  They break everything they touch, and then burst into a
"Yah, yah, yah!" like a monkey.  If you leave half a bottle of sherry,
they will fill it up with hock, and say, "Are they not both white wines,
Sa'b?"  If you call for your tea, the servant will bring you a saucer,
and stare at you.  If you ask why your tea is not ready, he will run
downstairs and bring you a spoon, and so on.  As he walks about barefoot
you never hear him approach.  You think you are alone in the room, when
suddenly you are made to jump by seeing a black face close to you, star-
gazing.  If you have a visitor, you will see the door slowly open, and
a black face protruded at least six times in a quarter of an hour.  They
are intensely curious, but otherwise as stolid as owls.

On April 16 we started for Mahabaleshwar, the favourite of all the
sanatoria in India, save the Neilgherries, which are so far off as to
be a very expensive journey from Bombay.  Mahabaleshwar, in the Western
Ghats, is therefore largely visited by Europeans from Bombay.  We left
Bombay by the 1.15 express train, reaching Poonah in seven hours.  The
air was like blasts out of a heated furnace.  We dined at Poonah at a
very comfortable inn.  The distance from Poonah to Mahabaleshwar was
seventy five miles by road; so as we were going on the same evening we
ordered a trap, and after dinner we set forth.

I cannot say it was a comfortable journey, for the springs of the trap
were broken, and projections were sticking through the hard, narrow
cushions in all directions into our unhappy bodies.  Nevertheless we
enjoyed the drive very much.  It was a charming night, the moon late,
being in first quarter.  We saw a great Moslem _fete_ coming out of
Poonah at night.  The hills were illuminated in patterns and letters.
We slept when it was dark, and I remember we drank a great deal of water,
for it was a most thirsty night.  At 6 a.m. we passed a wayside bungalow
at Soorool, where we brought out our basket and tea, and had milk from
the cow belonging to the old soldier who kept the bungalow.  At the foot
of the third steep mountain, Pasarni, we passed through Wye (Wahi), one
of the prettiest and most interesting places, with the prettiest women
in Western India, besides being a village of temples and holy tanks.
The general effect of the temples, which were strewn about in all sizes
and shapes, was that of a series of _blancmange_ moulds.

At Wahi we alighted from the trap, and our ascent up the steep Pasarni
Ghat was performed for us by sixteen coolies.  It occupied us about
two hours, and was very hot and dusty, and cruelly hard work; but the
coolies did it much better than horses could have done.  Once we came
to a travelling bungalow, and stopped a few minutes to tie up some of
our broken springs.  After this we were very tired, and the last
thirteen miles seemed almost insupportable.  At last we entered the
verdure of Mahabaleshwar at the summit, 4,780 feet above sea-level
but the inaccessibility of the place is compensated for by its interest
when you arrive there, just as Palmyra is more precious than Ba'albak.

When at last we arrived we were thoroughly tired out.  We dined, and
went to bed.  We had been out twenty-five hours, and had had no sleep
for forty-one hours.  I did not even remember the end of my dinner, and
I have no recollection of how I got into bed for very sleepiness.  We
lodged at the Mahabaleshwar Hotel, which was very cheap, clean, and
comfortable.

The next morning we were up at 5 a.m., and drove in a _tonga_, a sort
of tea-cart, with small _tattoo_ ponies, to Elphinstone Point, and to
see the temples.  It was a most enjoyable excursion; but it was quite
spoiled for me by the brutal way in which the driver beat the poor
little "tats" with his thick cowhide whip.  It was misery to me.  I
got quite nervous; I bullied the driver, took his whip away, promised
_bakshish_ if he would not do it, and finally tried to drive myself.
Then the foolish ponies stood stock-still directly I took the reins,
and would not budge without the whip.  At this point Richard cut
in, and swore at the driver for being so cruel, and scolded me for
spoiling an excursion by my ridiculous sensibilities.  Then my fox-
terrier put in her oar, and tried to bite the coachman for beating
the ponies; and not being allowed, she laid her head on my shoulder
and went into hysterics--the tears actually ran down her cheeks.  We
had a grand view from Elphinstone Point, and the temples also were
interesting.  We were glad to get back again at 9 a.m., for the sun
was very trying.  We made several pleasant excursions during our stay,
and people were very kind.  All the same, I did not greatly care for
Mahabaleshwar.  There was too much society; one could not ruralize
enough.  "Sets" are the rule, and priggishness is rampant, even in
the primeval forest.  Our visit was a brief one, and then we returned
to Bombay.

After two days at Bombay Richard and I set sail in the British Indian
Steamship Company's _Rajpootna_ for distant and deserted Goa, a thirty-
six hours' passage.  It was a calm, fine evening when we started, but
intensely hot.  The next day there was a heavy swell, and many were
ill.  I went to bed thoroughly tired out, expecting to land the next
morning.  About five o'clock, as the captain told me overnight not to
hurry myself, I got up leisurely.  Presently a black steward came down,
and said:

"Please, ma'am, the agent's here with your boat to convey you ashore.
The captain desired me to say that he's going to steam on directly."

I was just at the stage of my toilet which rendered it impossible for
me to open the door or come out, so I called through the keyhole:

"Please go with my compliments to the captain, and beg him to give me
ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, and tell my husband what is the
matter."

"I will go, ma'am," he answered; "but I am afraid the captain can't wait.
It is his duty to go on."

"Go!" I shouted; and he went.

In two minutes down came the negro again.

"Captain says it's impossible; in fact the ship's moving now."

Well, as we were tied to time and many other things, and could not afford
to miss our landing, I threw on a shawl and a petticoat, as one might in
a shipwreck, and rushed out with my hair down, crying to the steward:

"Bundle all my things into the boat as well as you can; and if anything
is left, take it back to the hotel at Bombay."

I hurried on deck, and to my surprise found that the steamer was not
moving at all.  Richard and the captain were quietly chatting together,
and when they saw me all excited and dishevelled they asked me the
cause of my undress and agitation.  When I told them, the captain said:

"I never sent any message of the kind.  I told you last night I should
steam on at seven, and it is now only five."

I was intensely angry at the idea of a negro servant playing such a
practical joke.  I was paying 10 pounds sterling for a thirty-six
hour's passage; and as I always treated everybody courteously, it
was quite uncalled for and unprovoked.  I thought it exceedingly
impertinent, and told the captain so.  Nevertheless he did not trouble
to inquire into the matter.  The Bishop of Ascalon, Vicar-Apostolic at
Bombay, was on board, and I told him about it, and he said that he had
been treated just in the same way a year before on the same spot.  The
idea that such things should be allowed is a little too outrageous.
Suppose that I had been a delicate and nervous passenger with heart
complaint, it might have done me a great deal of harm.

A large boat arrived to take us and our baggage ashore.  We were cast
adrift in the open sea on account of a doubtful shoal.  We had eight
miles to row before we could reach Goa.  Fortunately there was no storm.
We rowed a mile and a half of open sea, five miles of bay, and one and a
half of winding river, and at last landed on a little stone pier jutting
a few yards into the water.  We found a total absence of anything at
Goa but the barest necessaries of life.  There was no inn and no tent.
We had either to sleep in our filthy open boat, or take our tents and
everything with us.  Goa is not healthy enough to sleep out _al fresco_.
Fortunately a kind-hearted man, who was the agent of the steamers, and
his wife, seeing the plight we were in, conceded us a small room in
their house with their only spare bed.  Luckily we had one of those
large straw Pondicherry reclining-chairs, which I just bought from
the captain of the steamer, and a rug; so Richard and I took the bed
in turns night about, the other in the chair.  We did not mind much,
for we had come to see Goa, and were used to roughing it better out of
doors than inside.  There was little to be bought in Goa; but all that
the residents had to give they offered with alacrity.  It is the worst
climate I ever was in, and I have experienced many bad ones.  The
thermometer was not nearly so high as I have known it in other places,
but the depression was fearful.  There was not a breath of air in Goa
even at night, and the thirst was agonizing; even the water was hot,
and the more one drank the more one wanted: it was a sort of purgatory.
I cannot think how the people manage to live there: the place was simply
_dead_; there is no other word for it.  Of all the places I have ever
been to, in sandy deserts and primeval forests, Goa was the worst.
However, Richard wanted to revisit it, and I wanted to see it also with
a particular object, which was to pay my respects to the shrine of the
Apostle of India, St. Francis Xavier, which is situated in Old Goa.

We hired the only horse in the country, a poor old screw of a pony,
broken down by mange and starvation and sores; and we harnessed him to
the only vehicle we could find, a small open thing of wood made in the
year 1 B.C., with room for two persons only.  The wheels were nearly
off, and the spring of one side was broken.  The harness was made of
old rusty chains and bits of string tied together.  Our coachman and
footman were two boys in little dirty shirts, with something round
the loins kept together with bits of twine, and bare legs peeping
out underneath like two sticks of chocolate.

Our first drive was to Cazalem, a place which reminded me of the Barra
at Santos, in Brazil.  Here several Europeans lived, I mean native
Portuguese, mainly officials of the Government.  As Richard wrote a book
about Goa when he was there some thirty years before, there is not much
that I can add to his description of the place.

Our next drive was to Old Goa, where is the tomb of St. Francis Xavier.
Nothing is left of Old Goa but churches and monasteries.  In the
distance, with its glittering steeples and domes, it looks a grand place;
but when we entered it, I found it to be a city of the dead--indeed
it was the very abomination of desolation.  The Bom Jesus is the church
dedicated to St. Francis Xavier, my favourite saint, on account of his
conversion of so many unbelievers.  It is after the same pattern as all
other Portuguese churches, a long, whitewashed, barn-shaped building.
The object of my devotion, the tomb, is contained in a recess on a side
of the altar dedicated to Xavier, and consists of a magnificently carved
silver sarcophagus, enriched with _alto relievi_, representing different
acts of the Saint's life.  Inside is a gold box containing the remains
of the Saint, shown to people with a great feast once in a century.

We made many excursions around and about Goa.  In consequence of the
dreadful climate they had of course to be either very early or very late.
I shall never forget the moonlight scenery of the distant bay.  The dull
grey piles of ruined, desolate habitations, the dark hills clothed with a
semi-transparent mist, the little streams glistening like lines of silver
over the plain, and the purple surface of the creek--such was our night
picture of Goa.  We made two boat expeditions together--one to see a
coffee plantation, in which is a petrified forest.  Each expedition
occupied two or three days.  We embarked for the first in a filthy
boat, full of unmentionable vermin, and started down the river in the
evening, with storms of thunder and lightning and wind preluding the
monsoon.  On arrival we toiled up two miles of steep, rocky paths
through cocoa groves.  At the bottom of the hill was a little rivulet,
and pieces of petrified wood were sticking to the bank.  As we ascended
the hill again we found the petrification scattered all over the ground;
they were composed chiefly of palms and pines; and most interesting they
were.  We returned from this expedition with our skins in a state of
eruption from the bites of the lice and the stings of the mosquitoes.

Our last day at Goa was a very pleasant one.  We had received a telegram
saying the steamer would pass outside Goa at midnight, and would pick us
up for the return journey to Bombay.  These steamers are due once in a
fortnight, and this one was long past her time.  Everybody was sorry that
we were leaving, and we had great hospitality.  In the morning we were
entertained at breakfast by a gentleman who owned the largest and the
best house in Goa.  We had every variety of native food and fruit in
abundance, good cool air and water--the latter produced by hanging the
earthen water-bottles in the window, clothed with wet hay or grass.  We
were, in all, ten at table, native and European.  Then the heat came on,
and we had to retire.  In the evening we were taken for an excursion
in a boat to Cazalem.  We coasted along for an hour, and sang glees
under a fine moon, accompanied by a heavy swell.  We were carried ashore
on the shoulders of the natives, and were heralded first by the watch-
dogs and then by the European inmates, who did not expect us.  They
were assembled in the verandah playing cards by the light of torches.
We passed a merry evening and returned to Goa by carriage.  The seat
gave way, and we had to sit on the edges.

On our return the night was dark, but we at once started in a large open
boat, with four men to row and one to steer, to reach our steamer bound
for Bombay, which, as I have already explained, did not pass nearer Goa
than eight miles.  We rowed down the river, and then across the bay for
three hours, against wind and tide, bow on to heavy rollers, and at last
reached the mouth of the bay, where is the Fort.  We remained bobbing
about in the open sea in the trough of the great waves for a considerable
time, and a violent storm of rain, thunder, and lightning came on, so we
put back to the Fort to find shelter under some arches.  Then we went to
sleep, leaving the boat _wala_ to watch for the steamer.

At 1.30 I was awakened by the sound of a gun booming across the water.  I
sprang up and aroused the others; but we could not see the lights of the
steamer, and turned to sleep.  An officer passed out of the Fort, and I
fancied he said to another man that the ship was in; but he only looked
at us and passed on.  Presently I felt more fidgety, and making a trumpet
of my hands I called out to the Secretary, who answered back that the
ship had been laying to three-quarters of an hour, and that we should
have gone off when the gun fired.  People are so lazy and indolent in
this climate that he did not trouble to let us know it before, though
he was left there for that purpose.  If we had not happened to have the
mails and the agent with us in the boat, the ship would have gone on
without us, which would have been an appalling disaster.  So I stirred
them up, and we were soon under way again and out to sea.  By-and-by
I saw the lights of the steamer, which looked about three miles off.
Knowing the independence of these captains and the futility of
complaints, I trembled lest the steamer should put farther to sea,
and determined that no effort of mine should be spared to prevent it.

Richard slept or pretended to sleep, and so did some of the others; but
I managed adroitly to be awkward with the boat-hook, and occasionally to
prick their shins.  I urged the boat _walas_ on with perpetual promises
of _bakshish_.  Everybody except myself was behaving with oriental calm,
and leaving it to Kismet.  It was of no use doing anything to Richard,
so I pitched into the Secretary, who really had been most kind.

"Can't you shout 'Mails?'" I cried to him, as we got nearer.  "They
might hear you.  You can shout loud enough when nobody wants to hear
you."

At last, after an hour of anxiety, we reached the ship; but heavy seas
kept washing us away from the ladder.  No one had the energy to hold on
to the rope, or hold the boat-hook to keep us close to her, so at last
I did it myself, Richard laughing all the while at their supineness, and
at my making myself so officious and energetic.  But it was absolutely
necessary.  An English sailor threw me the rope.  "Thanks," I cried, as
I took advantage of an enormous wave to spring on to the ladder; "I am
the only man in the boat to-night."  All came on board with us, and we
had a parting stirrup-cup, in which they drank my health as "the only
man in the boat."  We then said farewell to our friends and to Goa.

We stayed at Bombay no longer than was absolutely necessary, and we
embarked on our return journey to Trieste in the Austrian Lloyd's
_Minerva_.  It was an uneventful voyage, take it altogether.  There
were a good many passengers on board, who grumbled greatly at the food,
as the manner is, and it was certainly a very hot and uncomfortable
voyage.  We stopped at Aden again, and passed Jeddah.  Thence we
steamed to Suez, where we anchored.

Here Richard and myself and six others left the ship to have a little
run through Egypt, and we were soon surrounded by a number of Richard's
old friends of the Mecca days.  It was a lovely evening when we landed,
familiar to all who know Suez, with its blue sea, yellow sands, azure
sky, and pink-and-purple mountains.  Our visit was to Moses' Wells,
about three miles in the Arabian Desert--a most picturesque spot,
surrounded by tropical verdure, intermingled with fellah huts.  The
most romantic spot was a single tiny spring under an isolated palm
tree, all alone on a little hillock of sand in the desert, far from
all else.  I said to Richard, "That tree and that spring have been
created for each other, like you and I."  We took our _kayf_ for some
hours with the Arabs, and we had some delicious Arab coffee and
narghileh with them.

We remained a fortnight in Egypt, or rather more; and after then we
embarked in another Lloyd's, the _Apollo_, for Trieste, where we
arrived very quickly.  I was glad to get back to the beautiful little
city again, to receive the ever-warm greetings of our friends.




CHAPTER XXIII.  TRIESTE AGAIN.  (1876-1880).


    The busy fingers fly; the eyes may see
    Only the glancing needle that they hold;
    But all my life is blossoming inwardly,
    And every breath is like a litany;
    While through each labour, like a thread of gold,
    Is woven the sweet consciousness of thee.


On their return from India Isabel and her husband settled down at
Trieste, and pursued for the most part a quiet literary life.  It
was summer, and they swam a good deal by way of recreation, and went
frequently to Opcina.  They started a habit of not dining at home,
and of asking their intimates to meet them at one _cafe_ or another,
where they would sup in the open air, and drink the wine of the
country and smoke cigarettes.  These pleasant evenings were quite a
feature of their life at this time.  Their house too became the centre
of many a _reunion_, and a Mecca to which many a literary pilgrim and
social, scientific, and political celebrity turned his steps when
travelling by way of Trieste.  There is no better description of the
Burtons' life at Trieste at this time than that which appeared in _The
World_ in 1877, written by Burton's old Oxford friend, Mr. Alfred Bates
Richards.  Lady Burton has quoted it in full in her Life of her husband;
but I think that a small part of it which relates to herself will bear
repeating here:

"Captain and Mrs. Burton are well, if airily, lodged in a flat composed
of ten rooms, separated by a corridor, with a picture of our Saviour, a
statuette of St. Joseph with a lamp, and the Madonna with another lamp
burning before it.  Thus far the belongings are all of the Cross; but
no sooner are we landed in the little drawing-rooms than signs of the
Crescent appear.  Small, but artistically arranged, the rooms, opening in
to one another, are bright with oriental hangings, with trays and dishes
of gold and silver, brass trays and goblets, chibouques with great amber
mouthpieces, and all kinds of Eastern treasures mingled with family
souvenirs.  There is no carpet; but a Bedawin rug occupies the middle of
the floor, and vies in brilliancy of colour with Persian enamels and bits
of good old china.  There are no sofas, but plenty of divans covered with
Damascus stuffs.  Thus far the interior is as Mussulman as the exterior
is Christian; but a curious effect is produced among the oriental _mise
en scene_ by the presence of a pianoforte and a compact library of well-
chosen books.  There is too another library here, greatly cherished by
Mrs. Burton; to wit, a collection of her husband's work in about fifty
volumes.  On the walls there are many interesting relics, medals, and
diplomas for honour, one of which is especially prized by Captain Burton.
It is the _brevet de pointe_ earned in France for swordsmanship.  Near
this hangs a picture of the Damascus home of the Burtons, by Frederick
Leighton.

"As the guest is inspecting this bright bit of colour, he will be aroused
by the full strident tones of a voice skilled in many languages, but
never so full and hearty as when bidding a friend welcome.  The speaker,
Richard Burton, is a living proof that intense work, mental and physical,
sojourn in torrid and frozen climes, danger from dagger and from
pestilence, 'age' a person of good sound constitution far less than
may be supposed. . . .

"Leading the way from the drawing-rooms, or divans, he takes us through
bedrooms and dressing-rooms furnished in Spartan simplicity, with the
little iron bedsteads covered with bear-skins, and supplied with writing-
tables and lamps, beside which repose the Bible, the Shakspeare, the
Euclid, and the Breviary, which go with Captain and Mrs. Burton on all
their wanderings.  His gifted wife, one of the Arundells of Wardour, is,
as becomes a scion of an ancient Anglo-Saxon and Norman Catholic house,
strongly attached to the Church of Rome; but religious opinion is never
allowed to disturb the peace of the Burton household, the head of which
is laughingly accused of Mohammedanism by his friends.  The little rooms
are completely lined with rough deal shelves, containing perhaps eight
thousand or more volumes in every Western language, as well as in Arabic,
Persian, and Hindustani.  Every odd corner is piled with weapons, guns,
pistols, boar-spears, swords of every shape and make, foils and masks,
chronometers, barometers, and all kinds of scientific instruments.  One
cupboard is full of medicines necessary for oriental expeditions or for
Mrs. Burton's Trieste poor, and on it is written 'The Pharmacy.'  Idols
are not wanting, for elephant-nosed Gumpati is there cheek by jowl with
Vishnu.

"The most remarkable objects in the room just alluded to are the rough
deal tables, which occupy most of the floor space.  They are almost like
kitchen or ironing tables.  There may be eleven of them, each covered
with writing materials.  At one of them sits Mrs. Burton, in morning
_neglige_, a gray choga--the long loose Indian dressing-gown of camel's
hair--topped by a smoking-cap of the same material.  She rises and greets
her husband's old friend with the cheeriest voice in the world.  'I see
you are looking at our tables; every one does.  Dick likes a separate
table for every book, and when he is tired of one he goes to another.
There are no tables of any size in Trieste, so I had these made as soon
as I came.  They are so nice.  We may upset the ink-bottles as often as
we like without anybody being put out of the way.  These three little
rooms are our "den," where we live, work and receive our _intimes_; and
we leave the doors open, so that we may consult over our work.  Look at
our view!'  From the windows, looking landward, one may see an expanse
of country extending over thirty or forty miles, the hills covered with
foliage, through which peep trim villas.  Beyond the hills higher
mountains dotted with villages, a bit of the wild Karso peering from
above.  On the other side lies spread the Adriatic, with Miramar, poor
Maximilian's home and hobby, lying on a rock projecting into the blue
water, and on the opposite coast are the Carnian Alps, capped with snow.
'Why we live so high up,' explained Captain Burton, 'is easily explained.
To begin with we are in good condition, and run up and down stairs like
squirrels.  We live on the fourth story because there is no fifth.  If
I had a _campagna_, and gardens and servants, and horses and carriages,
I should feel tied, weighed down in fact.  With a flat and two or three
maid-servants one has only to lock the door and go.  It feels like "light
marching order," as if we were always ready for an expedition; and it is
a comfortable place to some back to.  Look at our land-and-sea-scape: we
have air, light, and tranquillity; no dust, no noise, no street smells.
Here my wife receives something like seventy very intimate friends every
Friday--an exercise of hospitality to which I have no objection save one,
and that is met by the height we live at.  There is in every town a lot
of old women of both sexes, who sit for hours talking about the weather
and the scandal of the place and this contingent cannot face the stairs.'
. . .

"The _menage Burton_ is conducted on the early rising principle.  About
four or five o'clock our hosts are astir, and already in their 'den,'
drinking tea made over a spirit-lamp, and eating bread and fruit, reading
and studying languages.  By noon the morning's work is over, including
the consumption of a cup of soup, the ablution without which no true
believer is happy, and the obligations of a Frankish toilet.  Then comes
a stroll to the fencing-school, kept by an excellent broadswordsman, and
old German trooper.  For an hour Captain and Mrs. Burton fence in the
school, if the weather be cold; if it be warm, they make for the water,
and often swim for a couple of hours.

"Then comes a spell of work at the Consulate.  'I have my Consulate,' the
chief explains, 'in the heart of the town.  I do not want my Jack Tar in
my sanctum; and when he wants me he has generally been on the spree, and
got into trouble.'  While the husband is engaged in his official duties,
the wife is abroad promoting a Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to
Animals, a necessary institution in southern countries, where, on the
purely gratuitous hypothesis that the so-called lower animals have no
soul, the utmost brutality is shown in the treatment of them.  'You
see,' remarks our host, 'that my wife and I are like an elder and younger
living _en garcon_.  We divide the work.  I take all the hard and the
scientific part, and make her do all the rest.  When we have worked all
day, and have said all we have to say to each other, we want relaxation.
To that end we have formed a little "Mess" with fifteen friends at the
_table d'hote_ of the Hotel de la Ville, where we get a good dinner and
a pint of the country wine made on the hillside for a florin and a half.
By this plan we escape the bore of housekeeping, and are relieved from
the curse of domesticity, which we both hate.  At dinner we hear the
news if any, take our coffee, cigarettes, and _kirsch_ outside the hotel,
then go home and read ourselves to sleep, and to-morrow _da capo_.'"

This summer, while at Gorizia, Isabel saw again the Comte de Chambord
(Henri V. of France) and the Comtesse.  She had been received by them
at Venice before her marriage, and they remembered her and sent for her.
They were staying at Gorizia with a small Court.  Isabel had an audience
of them twice, and they desired that she should dine with them.  She had
to explain that she had nothing but a travelling-dress; but they waived
that objection, and allowed her to "come as she was."  This incident
will seem a small thing to many; but it was a great thing to Isabel,
for like many members of old English Catholic families, she was a strong
Legitimist, and she appreciated the kindness which was shown to her by
this king and queen _de jure_ with their shadowy Court and handful of
faithful followers, more than if they had come into their own and
received her royally at the Tuileries.

A little later Burton took it into his head to make an expedition to
Midian in Arabia.  Many years before, in his Arab days, Burton had come
upon this golden land (though at that time he thought little of gold
and much of reputation); and a quarter of a century later, seeing Egypt
suffering from lack of the precious metal, and knowing that Midian
belonged to Egypt, he asked leave of the Foreign Office to go to Cairo,
where he imparted his views on the subject of the wealth of the mines
of Midian to Khedive Ismail.  His Highness was so much impressed that
he equipped an expedition in a few days, and sent Burton to explore
the land.  His report of the possibilities of the Mines of Midian was
so promising that the Khedive engaged him to come back the following
winter, and himself applied to the English Foreign Office for the loan
of Burton's services.  Burton accordingly went again to Midian, and
discovered the region of gold and silver and precious stones.  He
sketched the whole country, planned an expedition, and brought back
various metals for analysis.  The Khedive was delighted with the prospect
of wealth untold, and he made contracts with Burton which, had they been
carried out, would have placed him and his wife in luxury for their
lives.  It used to be a joke with the Burtons at this time that they
would die "Duke and Duchess of Midian."  Unfortunately Ismail Khedive
abdicated just when the third expedition was about to come off, and the
new Khedive, Tewfik, did not consider himself bound by any act of his
father.  The English Government would not stir in the matter, and so
Burton not only lost his chance of realizing a large fortune, but also
the money which he and his wife had got together for paying expenses in
connexion with the expedition, and which they thought would surely have
been refunded.  The only gain was that Burton wrote some interesting
books on the Land of Midian, its history, and its inhabitants.  Until
the day of her death Lady Burton never ceased to believe in the vast
wealth which was lying waste in the Mines of Midian, and used to wax
quite enthusiastic about it.

Isabel was anxious to accompany her husband on his first expedition
to Midian; but as there was not enough money for both of them, she had
to make the usual sacrifice and stay at home.  During her husband's
absence she spent most of her time at Opcina and up in the mountains,
as she was busily engaged in correcting the proofs of one of his books.

When Burton started on his second expedition to Midian, it was arranged
between him and his wife that, as Ismail Khedive was in such a very good
humour, Isabel should make her way out to Cairo, and induce the Khedive
to send her after her husband to Midian.  She was eager and impatient to
start, and as soon as she could possibly complete her arrangements she
went on board an Austrian Lloyd's and made the voyage from Trieste to
Alexandria.  When she arrived at the latter place, she found a letter
from her husband, "You are not to attempt to join me unless you can do
so in proper order."  This rather upset her plans, as she did not know
what "proper order" meant.  She therefore went on at once to Cairo, made
her representations in the proper quarter, and then returned to Suez.
After remaining there some time in a state of great impatience, she was
informed that a ship was going to be sent out, and that she was to have
the offer of going in her, though it was intimated to her privately that
the Khedive and the Governor, Said Bey, very much hoped that she would
refuse.  She had no intention of refusing, and the next morning she
went down to the ship, which was an Egyptian man-of-war, the _Senaar_.
It was to anchor off the coast until the expedition returned from the
desert, and then bring them back.  The captain, who was astonished at
her turning up, received her with honour.  All hands were piped on deck,
and a guard and everything provided for her.  Notwithstanding their
courtesy, Isabel's woman's instinct told her that she was a most
unwelcome guest--far more unwelcome than she had anticipated.  She
saw at once that the situation was impossible, and prepared to beat
a graceful retreat.  So, after looking round the quarters prepared
for her, she thanked the captain and officers exceedingly for their
courtesy, and explained, to their evident relief, that she would not
trouble them after all.  She returned to the town, took some small
rooms at the Suez Hotel, and applied herself to literary work.  The
reason she gave as an excuse for her change of mind was that her
expedition would be too dangerous, as she would have to cross the
Red Sea in an open _sambuk_ with head-winds blowing, and then to find
her way alone across the desert upon a camel to Midian.  The danger,
however, would hardly have weighed with her, for she was always
careless of her own safety.  The real reason was that she was afraid
of injuring her husband's prospects with the Khedive.

She was at Suez some time.  At last, after many weeks, the Governor sent
her a slip of paper saying, "The _Senaar_ is in sight."  It was the ship
by which Burton returned.  She went on board to welcome him, and found
him looking very ill and tired.  The Khedive sent a special train to
meet him on his return from Midian, and the Burtons went at once to
Cairo, where they were received with great _eclat_.

From Cairo the Burtons went back to Trieste, or rather to Opcina, for
a brief rest, and then proceeded to London.  From London they went to
Dublin, where they joined the annual meeting of the British
Association.  Burton delivered several lectures, and Isabel was busy
writing her _A. E. I._ (_Arabia, Egypt, and India_).  From Dublin they
returned to London, which they made their headquarters for some time,
breaking their stay in town by many country visits.  The most memorable
of these was a visit to Lord and Lady Salisbury at Hatfield, where they
again met Lord Beaconsfield, who, strange to say, though he had much in
common with the Burtons--notably a love of the East and mysticism, and
had a liking for them, and for Isabel especially, with whom he was wont
to discuss her favourite _Tancred_, his book--never did anything for
them, though he must have known better than most men how Burton was
thrown away at a place like Trieste.  Perhaps Burton's strong anti-
Semitic views had something to do with the neglect.

It was during this stay in London that the Burtons attended a meeting
on spiritualism, at which Burton read a paper.  On the subject of Lady
Burton's attitude towards spiritualism we shall have something to say
later; but it is better to interpolate here a speech which she made at
this meeting, as it explains her views in her own words:

"It appears to me that spiritualism, as practised in England, is quite a
different matter to that practised in the East, as spoken of by Captain
Burton.  Easterns are organized for such manifestations, especially the
Arabs.  It causes them no surprise; they take it as a natural thing, as
a matter of course; in short, it is no religion to them.  Easterns of
this organization exhale the force; it seems to be an atmosphere
surrounding the individual; and I have frequently in common conversation
had so strong a perception of it as to withdraw to a distance on any
pretext, allowing a current of air to pass from door or window between
them and myself.  There is no doubt that some strange force or power is
at work, trying to thrust itself up in the world, and is well worthy of
attention.  When I say 'new,' I mean in our hemisphere.  I believe it
to be as old as time in Eastern countries.  I think we are receiving it
wrongly.  When handled by science, and when it shall become stronger
and clearer, it will rank very high.  Hailed in our matter-of-fact
England as a new religion by people who are not organized for it, by
people who are wildly, earnestly seeking for the truth, when they have
it at home--some on their domestic hearth, and others next door waiting
for them--it can only act as a decoy to a crowd of sensation-seekers,
who yearn to see a ghost as they would go to a pantomime; and this can
only weaken and degrade it, and distract attention from its possible
true object--science.  Used vulgarly, as we have all sometimes seen it
used, after misleading and crazing a small portion of sensitive persons,
it must fall to the ground."[1]

Early in February, 1879, her book _A. E. I._ came out, and the publisher
was so pleased with it that he gave a party in honour of the authoress.
There were seventeen guests, and there were seventeen copies of the book
piled in a pyramid in the middle of the table.  After supper one was
given to each guest.  They must have made a merry night of it, for
Isabel notes that the gaieties began at 11 p.m. and did not end until 5
a.m.  Notwithstanding this auspicious send-off, the book did not reach
anything like the success achieved by her first work, _The Inner Life
of Syria_.

The longest leave comes to an end, and it was now time to return to
Trieste.  Burton started ahead as was his wont, leaving his wife to
"pay, pack, and follow."  She paid and she packed, and when she was
leaving the house to follow a beggar woman asked her for charity.  She
gave her a shilling, and the woman said, "God bless you!  May you reach
your home without an accident."  She must have had the Evil Eye; for
the day after, when Isabel arrived in Paris, en route for Trieste, she
tumbled down the hotel stairs from top to bottom, arriving at the bottom
unconscious.  She was picked up and put to bed.  When she came to herself
she exclaimed, "Do not send the carriage away; I must get my work done
and go on."  But when she attempted to rise, she fainted again.  The
visible injuries resolved themselves into a bad sprain and twisted ankle.
After the fourth day she had herself bound up and conveyed to the train.
She travelled straight through to Turin.  There she had to be carried to
an inn, as she was too ill to go on.  The next day she insisted on being
packed up again, and travelled to Mestre.  The heat was intense, and she
had to wait four hours in the wretched station at Mestre, during which
she suffered great pain.  Then she travelled on by the _post-zug_, a
slow train, and arrived at Trieste at half-past eight in the morning
where her eyes were gladdened by seeing her husband waiting to receive
her on the platform.  She was carried home and promptly put to bed.

This illustrates the literal way in which she used to obey her husband's
slightest directions.  He told her to follow him "at once," and she
followed him, not even resting on account of her accident.  In fact
it is absolutely true to say that nothing short of death would have
prevented her from carrying out his slightest instructions to the
letter.

The accident which she met with in Paris turned out to be more serious
than she had at first supposed.  It was a long time before she could
leave her bed.  She had injured her back and ankle very badly, and she
underwent a long course of massage and baths; but she never permanently
got quite well again.  She said herself, "Strength, health, and nerve I
had hitherto looked upon as a sort of right of nature, and supposed that
everybody had them; I never felt grateful for them as a blessing, but I
began to learn what suffering was from this date."  Henceforth we see her
not as the woman who was ready to share any dare-devil adventure or hair-
breadth escape, and who revelled in a free and roving life of travel,
but rather as the wife, whose thought now turned more than ever to the
delights of home, and how to add to her husband's domestic comforts.

Expressions of sympathy and goodwill were called forth by her accident
from friends far and wide.  Among others, Lady Salisbury wrote:


                           "CHALET CECIL, PUYS, DIEPPE,  September 22.

"DEAR MRS. BURTON,

"We were all very sorry to hear of your misfortunes, and I hope that the
Viennese doctors and their baths have now cured you and restored you to
perfect health.  It was indeed most trying to have that accident at Paris
just as you were recovering from your illness in London.  I suppose you
are now thinking of the preparations for your Egyptian trip, unless the
new Khedive has stopped it, which he is not at all likely to have done,
as its success would redound so much to his own advantage.  We have been
here for the last two months, and are beginning to think our holiday is
over, and that we ought to go back to England again.

"Of course we have all been talking and thinking of nothing but Cabul
lately.  The Afghans really seem like the Constantinople dogs, quite
untamable.  I suppose we shall soon hear of the English troops entering
Cabul and all the horrors of the punishment, which, as is usual in such
cases, is almost sure to fall on the innocent instead of the guilty.

"This country seems very prosperous.  People are rich and orderly, and
every one seems as busy and happy as possible; the harbour is full of
ships, and new houses are being built and new shops opened; and,
according to M. Waddington, who was here the other day, this is the
same all over France.  What is the real truth about Count A----'s
resignation?  Is it health or weariness, or what is it?  We are all
puzzled at it here.  I suppose Prince Bismarck's visit will lead to
some _eclaircissement_.

"We hear occasionally from Lord Beaconsfield, who seems very well.  He
is at Hughenden.  We often think of the pleasant days you spent with us
at Hatfield when he was there.

  "With kind regards to Captain Burton and your self from us all,
                  "Believe me very sincerely yours,
                                            "G. SALISBURY."


In the autumn Isabel went to Venice on a brief visit; but had to return
shortly, as Burton had made up his mind to go once more to Egypt to try
his luck about the Midian Mines.  There was nothing for her to do but to
see him off (there was no money for two) and remain behind to spend her
Christmas alone at Trieste.

Soon after the new year Isabel began to get ill again.  She had not
really recovered from her fall in Paris nine months before.  The doctors
advised her to see a bone-setter.  She wrote and told her husband, who
was then in Egypt, and he replied by telegram ordering her to go home
to London at once.  She reached London, and went through a course of
medical treatment.  She notes during this dreary period a visit from
Martin Tupper, who came to see her on the subject of cruelty to animals.
(Burton always joked with his wife about "Tupper and the animals.")
He presented her with a copy of his _Proverbial Philosophy_, and also
wrote her the letter which is reproduced here:


                                        "WEST CROYDON, January 17, 1880.

"MY DEAR MADAM,

"I hope you will allow a personal stranger, though haply on both sides
a book friend, to thank you for your very graphic and interesting _A.
E. I._ travels; may the volume truly be to you and yours an everlasting
possession!  But the special reason I have at present for troubling you
with my praise is because in to-day's reading of your eleventh chapter I
cannot but feel how one we are in pity and hope for the dear and innocent
lower animals so cruelly treated by their savage monarch, man, everywhere
during this evil aeon of the earth.  To prove my sympathy as no new
feeling, I may refer your kindly curiosity to my Proverbial Chapters
on 'The Future of Animals,' to many of my occasional poems, and to the
enclosed, which I hope it may please you to accept.  You may like to
know also, as a kindred spirit (and pray don't think me boastful), that
years ago, through a personal communication with Louis Napoleon, I have
a happy reason to believe that the undersigned was instrumental in
stopping the horrors of Altorf, besides other similar efforts for poor
animals in America and elsewhere.  I believe, with you, that they have
a good future in prospect (perhaps in what is called the millennial era
of our world), that they understand us and our language, especially as
to oaths, and that those humble friends will be met and known by us in
our happier state to come.

"But I must not weary you with what might be expanded into a treatise;
I am confident we agree; and I know in my own experiences (as doubtless
you do in yours) that the poor horses and dogs we have pitied and helped,
love and appreciate and may hereafter be found capable of rewarding--in
some small way--those who are good to them in this our mutual stage of
trial.

"With my best regards then, and due thanks, allow me to subscribe myself
                  "Your very sincere servant,
                                    "MARTIN F. TUPPER."


Isabel was anxious about her husband, as things in Egypt were in a very
unsettled condition.  Ismail Khedive had now abdicated, and Tewfik had
succeeded him.  This, as we know, upset Burton's plans; he got no farther
than Egypt on his way to Midian, and remained at Alexandria eating out
his heart in despair at his bad luck.  One night on coming home from
dinner he was attacked by a band of roughs, who hit him over the head
from behind with a sharp instrument.  It was supposed to be foul play
with a motive, as the only thing they stole was his divining-rod for
gold, which he carried about with him, and they did not take his money.
He kept the loss a secret, in order that it should be no hindrance to
him if he had the chance to go back to work the Mines of Midian.  But
that chance never came.  He returned to Trieste, and did not let his
wife know of the assault until she joined him there on her return
from London.

In the meantime she had not been idle.  Despite her ill-health when in
London she had been agitating for her husband's promotion, and had built
high hopes on the kind interest of Lord Beaconsfield and Lord Salisbury.
Unfortunately for her Lord Beaconsfield's last Administration collapsed
in April with a crash, and her hopes were buried in the ruins.  Lord
Granville, who had recalled Burton from Damascus, succeeded Lord
Salisbury at the Foreign Office, and she knew that she could not hope
for much from Lord Granville.  When she saw the turn the General Election
of 1880 had taken, she made a last despairing effort to induce the out-
going Government to do something for her husband before the Ministers
gave up their seals.  She received the following kind letter from Lady
Salisbury:


                              "HATFIELD HOUSE, HATFIELD, HERTS, April 18.

"MY DEAR MRS. BURTON,

"I received your note here yesterday, and fear it is too late to do
anything, as the lists went in yesterday, and Lord Beaconsfield is
with the Queen to-day.  So we must bear our misfortunes as best we
can, and hope for better days.  I cannot help feeling that this change
is too violent to last long.  But who can say?  It is altogether so
astonishing.  As regards Captain Burton, I hope you will not lose
anything.  So valuable a public servant will, I hope, be sure of
recognition whatever Government may be in office.

    "With our united kind regards to him and to you,
                   "Yours very sincerely,
                                 "G. SALISBURY."


It was a sad home-coming for Isabel; for not only were her hopes, so
near fruition, dashed to the ground, but she found her husband very ill
from the effects of his accident and from gout.  The first thing she did
was to send for a doctor, and take him off to Opcina.  It is sad to note
that from this time we find in their letters and diaries frequent
complaints of sickness and suffering.  They, who had rarely known what
illness meant, now had it with them as an almost constant companion.
From Opcina they went to Oberammergau to see the Passion Play, which
impressed them both very much, though in different ways.  Isabel wrote
a long description of this play, which has never been published.  Burton
also wrote an account, which has seen the light.  When they returned to
Trieste, they had a good many visitors, among others the late Mr. W. H.
Smith and his family.  He was always a kind friend to Isabel, as indeed
he was to every one he liked.  And that (like Lord Beaconsfield, Lord
Salisbury, Lord Clarendon, Lord Derby, and many other leading statesmen)
he had a high opinion of her abilities is, I think evident from the
following letter.  Men do not write in this way to stupid women:


                             "3, GROSVENOR PLACE, S.W., March 1, 1881.

"DEAR MRS. BURTON,

"Your kind letters have reached us since our arrival here.  We were
earlier in our return than we had at first intended, as Parliament was
called together so soon; but our house was not ready, and my family had
to stay in the country for some little time.  It is very good of you to
send me the _Lusiads_.  I am keeping them for those delightful days
of quiet and enjoyment which are to be had sometimes in the country,
but not in these stormy days in London.  Are we to have peace and quiet?
Ireland will be sullenly quiet now under coercion, after having been
stimulated by oratory almost to madness.  South Africa is a very serious
matter indeed.   I am told the Dutch colonists within the Cape will
remain loyal; but our reputation as an invincible race suffers with all
the natives.  And then the European East, nothing at present can look
blacker, and all because of passionate words and hatred.  I am afraid
too we are low in the estimation of the people of the West, and likely
to remain so.

"Your good Christmas wishes reached us long after the New Year; but
we had a very pleasant Christmas at Malta with many of our old naval
friends, and we spent our New Year's Day at a little port in Elba.
What a charming island it is!  Small, no doubt; but not a bad prison
for an Emperor if he had books and papers and some powers of self-
control.  Coming up to Nice we had very heavy weather; but the yacht
behaved well, and it was certainly pleasanter at sea with a strong
easterly wind than on shore.

"There is to be a great Candahar debate in the Lords to-night.  Lord
Lytton speaks remarkably well--as an old debater would--and great
interest is felt in the event.  All the same Candahar will be given
up; and some time hence, if we have soldiers left, we shall probably
have to fight our way back again to it.

"Pray give our united kind regards to Captain Burton.  I shall be so
glad to hear any news if anything transpires at Trieste.

                                        "Yours very sincerely,
                                                      "W. H. SMITH."


NOTES:

1. Speech at the British National Association of Spiritualists,
   December 13, 1878.




CHAPTER XXIV.  THE SHADOWS LENGTHEN.  (1887-1885).


    O tired heart!
         God Knows,
    Not you nor I.


The next four or five years were comparatively uneventful.  There
was little hope of promotion from the new Government, so the Burtons
resigned themselves to Trieste with what grace they might; and though
they were constantly agitating for promotion and change, neither the
promotion nor the change came.  Burton hated Trieste; he chafed at the
restricted field for his energies which it afforded him; and had it not
been for frequent expeditions of a more or less hazardous nature, and
his literary labours, life at the Austrian seaport would have been
intolerable for him.  With Isabel it was different.  As the years
went on she grew to love the place and the people, and to form many
ties and interests which it would have been hard for her to break.
Notwithstanding this she warmly seconded her husband's efforts to
obtain from the Foreign Office some other post, and she was never weary
of bringing his claims before the notice of the Government, the public,
and any influential friends who might be likely to help.  Indeed the
record of her diary during these years is one of continuous struggle
on her husband's behalf, which is varied only by anxiety for his health.

"I am like a swimmer battling against strong waves," she writes to a
friend about this time, "and I think my life will always be thus.  Were
I struggling only for myself, I should long before have tired; but since
it is for my dear one's sake I shall fight on so long as life lasts.
Every now and then one seems to reach the crest of the wave, and that
gives one courage; but how long a time it is when one is in the depths!"

To another friend she wrote:

"We have dropped into our old Triestine lives.  We have made our Opcina
den very comfortable.  We have taken the big room and Dick's old one,
opened them, and shut the end one, which is too cold, and put in lamps,
stoves, and stores and comforts of all kinds; in fact partly refurnished.
I am much better, and can walk a little now; so I walk up half-way from
Trieste on Saturday, Dick all the way; Sunday Mass in village, and walk;
and Monday walk down.  We keep all the week's letters for here (Opcina)
and all the week's newspapers to read, and do our translations.  I have
begun _Ariosto_, but am rather disheartened.  We have set up a _tir au
pistolet_ in the rooms, which are long enough (opened) to give twenty-two
paces, and we have brought up some foils.  The Triestines think us as
mad as hatters to come up here, on account of the weather, which is
'seasonable'--_bora_, snow, and frozen fingers.  I am interesting myself
in the two hundred and twenty badly behaved Slav children in the village.
Dick's _Lusiads_ are making a stir.  My Indian sketches and our
Oberammergau have gone to the bad.  My publisher, as I told you, took
to evil ways, failed, and eventually died December 10.  However, I hope
to rise like a phoenix out of the ashes.  The rest of our week is passed
in fencing three times a week, twice a week Italian, twice a week German.
Friday I receive the Trieste world from twelve noon to 6 p.m., with
accompaniments of Arab coffee, cigarettes, and liqueurs.  Dick is
always grinding at literature as usual; so what with helping Dick
(we are studying something together), literature, looking after the
little _menage_, and philanthropic business, Church work, the animals,
and the poor, I am very happy and busy, and I think stronger; albeit
I have little rest or _amusement_, according to the doctor's ideas.
In fact I have a winter I love, a quiet Darby and Joan by our fireside,
which I seldom get."[1]

The principal event at Trieste in 1881 appears to have been the arrival
of the British squadron in July.  Burton and his wife were always of
a most hospitable nature; they would have spent their last penny in
entertaining their friends.  The first thing they did on the arrival
of the squadron was to invite the captains and officers of every ship
to an evening _fete champetre_ and ball at Opcina.  In addition to
this they sent out about eight hundred invitations to the captains
and officers of the Austrian navy and other men-of-war anchored at
Trieste, the officers of the Austrian regiments stationed there, the
Governor and Staff, and the Austrian authorities, the Consular corps,
and all their private friends, to the number of about one hundred and
fifty of the principal people of Trieste.  They turned the gardens of
the little inn at Opcina into a sort of Vauxhall or Rosherville for the
occasion.  There were refreshment tents, and seats, and benches, and
barrels of wine and beer, and elaborate decorations of flowers, and
coloured lamps and flags, and no end of fireworks.  When the eventful
evening arrived, and everything was in full swing, the weather, which had
been perfectly fine heretofore, broke up with the startling suddenness
which is peculiar to the Adriatic.  The heavens opened, and to the
accompaniment of thunder and lightning the rain descended in torrents,
flooding the tents, quenching the illuminations, and reducing the whole
ground to a Slough of Despond.  The guests naturally rushed for shelter
to the little inn, which was much too small to accommodate them.  The
police made for the barrels of beer, and were soon incapable of keeping
order, and a mob of villagers who had assembled to witness the
festivities from without, broke through the barricades, made a raid
on the refreshment tent, smashed the dishes, and carried off all the
best things to eat and drink.  Burton took it very philosophically; but
Isabel, overcome with vexation and disappointment, burst into tears.
The sight, however, of the raiders soon turned her grief to anger.
She pulled herself together, got a party of young braves, sallied forth
into the grounds, and made a rush for the tent.  With her little band
she rescued all that was left of the food and drink, and then cleared
away the furniture in the lower part of the inn, told the band to play,
and set her guests dancing, while she rigged up an impromptu supper-
room in the garret.  This spirited conduct soon restored the chaos to
something like order.  The guests--the majority of whom were English--
unconscious of the havoc which had been wrought, enjoyed themselves
right merrily, and the party did not break up until five o'clock in
the morning.

The British squadron, both officers and men were well received at
Trieste, and became most popular during their stay there.  Isabel made
great friends with the sailors, and she rescued one of them from what
might have been a serious squabble.  One day she saw a sailor picking
the apples off a tree in the Austrian Admiral's garden, which overhung
the road.  The sentry came out, and a crowd of people assembled.  Jack
Tar looked at them scornfully, and went on munching his apple until they
laid hands on him, when he gave a sweeping backhander, which knocked one
or two of them over.  Everything was ripe for a row, when Isabel stepped
in between the combatants, and said to the sailor, "I am your Consul's
wife, and they are trying to make you understand that these are the
Austrian Admiral's apples, and you must not eat them."  The sailor
apologized, said he did not know he had done any wrong, and did not
understand what they were all jabbering about; and he saluted and went.
Then Isabel explained to the sentry, and generally poured oil on the
troubled waters.  The sailor told the story to his comrades, and thus
she became very popular among them.  The sailors liked Trieste so much
that, when the squadron was to leave, eighteen of them did not join
their ship; and when they were caught Isabel went and interceded for
them, and begged the captain not to punish them severely.  He said,
"Oh no, the darlings; wait till I get them on board ship!  I will have
them tucked up comfortably in bed with nice hot grog."  Whether her
intercession availed is not related.

In August, 1881, the Burtons started on a trip somewhat farther afield
than was their wont for short expeditions.  They went up to Veldes, a
lovely spot, where there was a good inn and first-rate fishing.  Burton
was absent without leave from the Foreign Office; and though he had left
the Consulate in charge of the Vice-Consul, his conduct was, officially
speaking, irregular, and both he and his wife were afraid of meeting any
one they knew.  The first person they saw at the inn was the Chaplain
of the British Embassy at Vienna, who might have reported the absentee
Consul to his Ambassador.  Burton bolted up to bed to avoid him; but
Isabel thought that the better plan would be to take the bull by the
horns.  So she went to the Chaplain, and made a frank confession that
they were truants.  He burst out laughing, and said, "My dear lady, I
am doing exactly the same thing myself."  She then went upstairs, brought
Burton down again, and the three had a convivial evening together.

After this they went on by stages to Ischl, where they parted company,
Burton going to Vienna, and Isabel to Marienbad for a cure.  Her stay
at Marienbad she notes as mainly interesting because she made the
acquaintance of Madame Olga Novikoff.  Her cure over, with no good
result, she joined her husband at Trieste.  They stopped there one night
to change baggage, and went across to Venice, where there was a great
meeting of the Geographical Congress.  Burton was not asked to meet his
fellow-geographers, or to take any part in the Congress.  The slight was
very marked, and both he and his wife felt it keenly.  It was only one
more instance of the undying prejudice against him in certain quarters.
They met many friends, including  Captain Verney Lovett Cameron.  In
November Burton went with him to the west coast of Africa, to report on
certain mines which Burton had discovered when Consul at Fernando Po.
Isabel was anxious to accompany them; but it was the usual tale, "My
expenses are not paid, and we personally hadn't enough money for two,
so I was left behind."

The first part of 1882 Isabel spent without her husband, as he was absent
on the Guinea coast.  She fretted very much at his long absence, and
made herself ill with disappointment because she was not able to join
him.  The following letter shows _inter alia_ how much she felt the
separation[2]:

"I was so pleased you liked the scourging I gave the reviewers.[3]  No
one has answered me, and it has well spread.  I don't know how they
could.  All Dick's friends were very glad.  The Commentary is out, two
vols. (that makes four out and four to come).  The 'Reviewers Reviewed'
is a postscript to the Commentary, and the Glossary is in that too.  I
wrote the 'Reviewers' at Duino in June last, and I enjoyed doing it
immensely.  I put all the reviews in a row on a big table, and lashed
myself into a spiteful humour one by one, so that my usually suave pen
was dipped with gall and caustic.  You will have had my last, I think,
from Marienbad.  I then joined Dick at Vienna, where we spent a few
days; and then went to Venice for the _fetes_, which were marvellous,
and the Queen was lovely.  Then we came home, and had two charming,
quiet, delicious months together; and to my joy he gave up dining out
and dined at home _tete-a-tete_; but of course it was overshadowed by
the knowledge of the coming parting, which I feel terribly this time,
as I go on getting older.  We left together in the Cunarder _Demerara_.
Her route was Trieste, Venice, Fiume, Patras, Gibraltar, England.  By
dropping off at Fiume I got ten days on board with him.  He leaves her
at Gibraltar about the 7th; goes to Cadiz, Lisbon, Madeira, and Axim on
the West Coast.  He has to change ship four times, and this is a great
anxiety to me in this stormy weather.  God keep him safe!  Once at Axim,
the mines are all round the coast, and then I dread fever for him.  He
wishes to make a little trip to the Kong Mountains, and then I fear
natives and beasts.  Perhaps Cameron will be with him; but _entre nous_
Cameron is not very solid, and requires a leading hand.  If all goes
well (D.V., and may He be merciful), we are to meet in London in March,
and I hope we shall get a glimpse of you.

"I am, as you may think, fearfully sad.  I have been nowhere; I neither
visit, nor receive, nor go out.  Men drink when they are sad, women fly
into company; but I must fight the battle with my own heart, learn to
live alone and work, and when I have conquered I will allow myself to
see something of my friends.  I dreaded my empty home without children
or relatives; but I have braved the worst now.  I am cleaning and tidying
his room, putting each thing down in its own place; but I won't make it
luxurious this time; I have learnt by experience."

Isabel passed the next three months at Trieste busily studying, writing,
and carrying out the numerous directions contained in her husband's
letters.

Early in April her doctor discovered that she had the germs of the
internal complaint of which she ultimately died.  She had noticed all the
year that she had been getting weaker and weaker in the fencing-school,
until one day she turned faint, and the fencing-master said to her, "Why,
what's the matter with you?  Your arms are getting quite limp in using
the broad-sword."  She did not know what was the matter with her at the
time; but soon after she became so ill that she had to take to her bed,
and then her doctor discovered the nature of the malady.  She did not go
to the fencing-school any more after that.  In the Life of her husband,
speaking of the matter, Lady Burton says that her internal complaint
possibly resulted from her fall downstairs in Paris in 1879; but in
talking the matter over with her sister, Mrs. Fitzgerald, a year
or two before her death, she recalled another accident which seems the
more likely origin of her distressing malady.  Once when she was riding
alone in the woods in Brazil she was pursued by a brigand.  As she was
unarmed, she fled as fast as her horse would carry her.  The brigand
gave chase, and in the course of an hour's exciting ride Isabel's horse
stumbled and threw her violently against the pommel of her saddle.
Fortunately the horse recovered its footing, and she was able to get
safely away from her pursuer; but the bruise was a serious one (though
she thought little of it at the time), and many years later she came to
the conclusion that this was the probable origin of her illness.

The third week in April she left Trieste for England to meet her husband,
who was due at Liverpool in May.  While she was in London she consulted
an eminent surgeon on the subject of her illness, which was then at its
beginning.  He advised an operation, which he said would be a trifling
matter.  There is every probability, if she had consented, that she
would have recovered, and been alive to this day.  But she had a horror
of the knife and anaesthetics.  Nevertheless she would have braved them
if it had not been for another consideration, which weighed with her most
of all.  She knew that an operation of this kind would lay her up for
some time, and she would not be able to look after her husband on his
return from his long absence.  She was afraid too that the knowledge of
her illness might worry him, so for his sake she refused the operation,
and she kept the knowledge of her malady a secret from him.  It is
perhaps a little far-fetched to say that by doing this she sacrificed
her life for her husband's sake, yet in a sense she may be said to have
done so.  Her first thought, and her only thought, was always of him,
and it is literally true to say that she would at any moment cheerfully
have laid down her life that he might gain.

Isabel went to Liverpool to meet Burton on his return from Africa.  He
came back with Captain Lovett Cameron.  There was a great dinner given
at Liverpool to welcome the wanderers.  The next day the Burtons went to
London, where they stayed for a couple of months through the season, met
many interesting people, and were entertained largely.  On the last day
of July they returned to Trieste.

In September Isabel went again to Marienbad for the baths, which did
her no good.  While there she wrote a letter to _Vanity Fair_ anent a
certain article which spoke of Burton and his "much-prized post."  She
took occasion to point out his public services, and to show that the
"much-prized post" was "the poor, hard-earned, little six hundred a
year, well earned by forty years' hard toil in the public service."
On returning to Trieste, she entertained many friends who arrived there
for the Exhibition, and after that settled down to the usual round again.

In October Burton was suddenly ordered by the Foreign Office to go to
Ghazzeh in Syria in search of Professor Palmer, their old friend and
travelling companion, who was lost in the desert.  There was then a
chance of his being still alive, though the bodies of his companions
had been found.  Burton's knowledge of the Bedawin and Sinai country
was of course specially valuable in such a quest.  He started at once.

After he had left Isabel went into retreat at the Convent della Osolini
at Gorzia.  The following were among her reflections at this period[4]:

"In retreat at last.  I have so long felt the want of one.  My life
seems to be like an express train, every day bringing fresh things
which _must_ be done.  I am goaded on by time and circumstances, and
God, my first beginning and last end, is always put off, thrust out of
the way, to make place for the unimportant, and gets served last and
badly.  This cannot continue.  What friend would have such long-enduring
patience with me?  None!  Certainly less a king! far less a husband!
How then?  Shall God be kept waiting until nobody else wants me?  How
ashamed and miserable I feel!  How my heart twinges at the thought of
my ingratitude, and the poor return I make for such favours and graces
as I have received!  God has called me into retreat once more, perhaps
for the last time.  He has created an unexpected opportunity for me,
since my husband has been sent to look for poor Palmer's body.  I
thought I heard Him cry, 'Beware!  Do not wait until I drive you to
misfortune, but go voluntarily into solitude, prepare for Me, and
wait for Me, till I come to abide with you.'

"I am here, my God, according to Thy command; Thou and I, I and Thou,
face to face in the silence.  Oh, speak to my heart, and clear out from
it everything that is not of Thee, and let me abide with Thee awhile!
Not only speak, but make me understand, and turn my body and spirit
and soul into feelings and actions, not words and thoughts alone.

"My health and nerves for the past three years have rendered me less
practical and assiduous in religion than I was.  Then I used to essay
fine, large, good works, travel, write, and lead a noble and virile
life.  Now I am weaker, and feel a lassitude incidental to my time
of life, and I seem to have declined to petty details, small works,
dreaming, and making lists and plans of noble things not carried out.
It looks like the beginning of the end.

"I ask for two worldly petitions, quite submitted to God's will" (1) That
I may be cured, and that Dick and I may have good, strong health to be
able to work and do good--if we are destined to live.  (2) That if it
be God's will, and not bad for us we may get a comfortable independence,
without working any more for our bread, and independent of any master
save God."

Isabel returned to Trieste when her retreat was concluded; and soon
after--much sooner than she expected--her husband returned to her.

When he reached Gazzeh, Burton found Sir Charles Warren already in the
field, and he did not want to be interfered with, so that Burton came
home again and spent Christmas with his wife at Trieste.  Thus ended
1882.  Isabel notes: "After this year misfortunes began to come upon
us all, and we have never had another like it."

Early next year the Burtons left their flat in Trieste, where they had
been for over ten years.  Something went wrong with the drainage for one
thing, and Burton took an intense dislike to it for another; and when
he took a dislike to a house nothing would ever induce him to remain in
it.  The only thing to do was to move.  They looked all over Trieste in
search of something suitable, and only saw one house that would do for
them, and that was a palazzo, which then seemed quite beyond their
means; yet six months later they got into it.  It was a large house
in a large garden on a wooded eminence looking out to the sea.  It
had been built in the palmy days of Trieste by an English merchant
prince, and was one of the best houses in the place.  It had a good
entrance, so wide that it would have been possible to drive a carriage
into the hall.  A marble staircase led to the interior, which contained
some twenty large rooms, magnificent in size.  The house was full of air
and light, and the views were charming.  One looked over the Adriatic,
one over the wooded promontory, another towards the open country, and
the fourth into gardens and orchards.

The early part of 1883 was sad to Isabel by reason of her husband's
failing health and her own illness.  In May she went alone to Bologna,
at her husband's request, for she then told him of the nature of her
illness, to consult Count Mattei, of whom they had heard much from
their friend Lady Paget, Ambassadress at Vienna.  When she arrived
at Bologna, she found he had gone on to Riola, and she followed him
thither.  Mattei's castle was perched on a rock, and to it Isabel
repaired.

"First," she says, "I had to consult a very doubtful-looking mastiff;
then appeared a tall, robust well-made, soldierlike-looking form in
English costume of blue serge, brigand felt hat, with a long pipe, who
looked fifty, and not at all like a doctor.  He received me very kindly,
and took me up flights of stairs, through courts, into a wainscoted oak
room, with fruits and sweets on the table, with barred-iron gates and
drawbridges and chains in different parts of the room, that looked as
if he could pull one up and put one down into a hole.  He talked French
and Italian; but I soon perceived that he liked Italian better, and
stuck to it; and I also noticed that, by his mouth and eyes, instead
of fifty, he must be about seventy-five.  A sumptuous dinner-table
was was laid out in an adjoining room, with fruit and flowers.  I told
him I could not be content, having come so far to see him, to have only
a passing quarter of an hour.  He listened to all my long complaints
about my health most patiently, asked me every question; but he did not
ask to examine me, nor look at my tongue, nor feel my pulse, as other
doctors do.  He said that I did not look like a person with the complaint
mentioned, but as if circulation and nerves were out of order.  He
prescribed four internal and four external remedies and baths.  I wrote
down all his suggestions, and rehearsed them that he might correct any
mistakes."[5]

After the interview with Count Mattei Isabel did not remain at Riola,
but with all her medicines returned to Trieste.  The remedies were not,
however, of any avail.

In June Isabel presided over a _fete_ of her Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Animals, and made a long speech, in which she reviewed the
work from the beginning, and the difficulties and successes.  She wound
up as follows:

"May none of you ever know the fatigue, anxiety, disgust, heartaches,
nervousness, self-abnegation and disappointments of this mission, and
the small good drawn out of years of it; for so it seems to me.  Old
residents, and people living up the country, do say that you would not
know the town to be the same it was eleven years ago, when I first came.
They tell me there is quite a new stamp or horse, a new mode of working
and treatment and feeling.  I, the workwoman, cannot see it or feel it.
I think I am always rolling a stone uphill.  I know that you all hear
something of what I have to put up with to carry it out--the opposition,
and contentions, treachery, abuse, threats and ridicule; and therefore
I all the more cherish the friendly hand such a large assembly has
gathered together to hold out to me to-day to give me fresh courage.
You all know how fond I am of Trieste; but it is the very hardest place
I ever worked in, and eleven years of it have pretty nearly broken me up.
Nevertheless I shall always, please God, wherever I am, 'open my mouth
for the dumb,' and adhere to my favourite motto: 'Fais ce que dois,
advienne que pourra.'"

For the first time this summer Isabel and her husband found the swimming
in the sea, which had been one of their favourite recreations at Trieste,
no longer agreed with them, and they came reluctantly to the conclusion
that their swimming must go the way of the fencing, and that the days
of their more active physical exercises were over.  For the first time
also in all the twenty-two years of their married life they began to
shirk the early rising, and now no longer got up at 3 or 4 a.m., but
at the comparatively late hour of 6 or 6.30 a.m.  In November Burton
had a serious attack of gout, which gave him agonies of pain; and it
was at last borne in upon him that he would have to make up his mind
henceforth to be more or less of an invalid.  Simultaneously Isabel
was ill from peritonitis.  There seemed to be a curious sympathy
between the two, which extended to all things, even to their physical
health.  On December 6 Burton put the following in his diary in red
ink: "_This day eleven years I came here.  What a shame!_"

Early in 1884 Isabel came in for a small legacy of 500 pounds sterling,
which was useful to them at the time, as they were far from being well
off, and had incurred many expenses consequent on their change of house.
She expended the whole of it in additional comforts for her husband
during his illness, which unfortunately seemed to get more serious as
time went on.  In February he quite lost the use of his legs for eight
months, which of necessity kept him much in the house.  It was during
this period that he began his great work _Alf Laylah wa Laylah_, or _The
Arabian Nights_.  When I say he began it, that is not strictly speaking
correct, for he had been gathering material for years.  He merely took
in hand the matter which he had already collected thirty years before.
He worked at it _con amore_, and it was very soon necessary to call in
an amanuensis to copy his manuscript.

This year was uneventful.  They were absent from Trieste a good deal on
"cures" and short excursions.  Burton's health gave him a great deal of
trouble; but whenever he was well enough, or could find time from his
official duties, he devoted himself to his translation of _The Arabian
Nights_.  Isabel also worked hard in connexion with it in another way.
She had undertaken the financial part of the business, and sent out no
less than thirty-four thousand circulars to people with a view to their
buying copies of the book.

In January and February, 1885, Burton was so ill that his wife implored
him to throw up the Consular Service, and live in a place which suited
him, away from Trieste.  Of course that meant that they would have to
live in a very small way; for if they gave up their appointment at that
time and forfeited the salary, they would have been very poor.  Still,
so impressed was Isabel that the winter in Trieste did not agree with
her husband, that she said, "You must never winter here again"; but he
said, "I quite agree with you there--we will never winter here again;
but I won't throw up the Service until I either get Morocco or they let
me retire on full pension."  She then said, "When we go home again, that
is what we will try for, that you may retire on full pension, which will
be only six years before your time."  Henceforth she tried for only two
things: one, that he might be promoted to Morocco, because it was his
pet ambition to be Consul there before he died, the other, failing
Morocco, he should be allowed to retire on full pension on account of
his health.  Notwithstanding that she moved heaven and earth to obtain
this latter request, it was never granted.

In the meantime they were busy writing together the index to _The
Arabian Nights_.  On Thursday, February 12, she said to him, "Now
mind, to-morrow is Friday the 13th.  It is our unlucky day, and we
have got to be very careful."

When the morning dawned, they heard of the death of one of their
greatest friends, General Gordon, which had taken place on January 26
at Kartoum; but the news had been kept from them.  At this sad event
Isabel writes, "We both collapsed together, were ill all day, and
profoundly melancholy."


NOTES:

1. Letter to Miss Bishop from Opcina, January 17, 1881.
2. Letter to Miss Bishop from Trieste, December 5, 1881.
3. This refers to _Camoens: the Commentary, Life, and Lusiads_.
   Englished by R. F. Burton.  Two vols.  Containing a Glossary,
   and Reviewers Reviewed, by Isabel Burton.  1880.
4. From her devotional book _Lamed_, pp. 28, 29.
5. _Life of Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol.ii., p. 248.




CHAPTER XXV.  GORDON AND THE BURTONS.


    Oh! bring us back once more
    When the world with faith was filled;
    Bring back the fervid zeal,
    The hearts of fire and steel,
    The hands that believe and build.


The mention of Gordon's death suggests that this would be the fittest
place to bring to notice the relations which existed between him and
the Burtons.  Their acquaintance, which ripened into a strong liking
and friendship, may be said to have existed over a period of ten
years (from 1875 to 1885), from the time when Gordon wrote to ask Burton
for information concerning Victoria Nyanza and the regions round about,
to the day when he went to his death at Kartoum.  Long before they met
in the flesh, Gordon and Burton knew each other in the spirit, and
Gordon thought he saw in Burton a man after his own heart.  In many
respects he was right.  The two men were curiously alike in their
independence of thought and action, in their chivalrous devotion to
honour and duty, in their absolute contempt for the world's opinion,
in their love of adventure, in their indifference to danger, in
their curious mysticism and fatalism, and in the neglect which each
suffered from the Government until it was too late.  They were both
born leaders of men, and for that reason indifferent followers,
incapable of running quietly in the official harness.  Least of all
could they have worked together, for they were too like one another in
some things, and too unlike in others.  Burton saw this from the first,
and later Gordon came to see that his view was the right one.  But it
never prevented either of them from appreciating the great qualities
in the other.

The correspondence between Gordon and the Burtons was voluminous.  Lady
Burton kept all Gordon's letters, intending to publish them some day.  I
am only carrying out her wishes in publishing them here.  Both Gordon and
Burton were in the habit of writing quite freely on men and things, and
therefore it has been found necessary to suppress some of the letters;
but those given will, I think, be found of general interest.

The first letter Gordon wrote to Burton was about fifteen months after
he had taken up the Governorship of the Equatorial Provinces.  It was
as follows:


              "BEDDEN, SOUTH OF GONDORKORO[1] 23 MILES, "July 17, 1875.

"MY DEAR CAPTAIN BURTON,

"Though I have not had the honour of meeting you, I hope you will not
object to give me certain information which I imagine you are most
capable of doing.  I will first relate to you my proposed movements.
At this moment I am just starting from this station for the South.
You are aware that hitherto the Nile from about eighteen miles south
of Gondokoro to the junction of it with the Unyame Hor (Apuddo, Hiameye,
Dufte, or Mahade, as different people call it) has been considered
impassable and a torrential stream.  Being very much bothered with the
difficulties of the land route for this distance, I thought I would
establish ports along the river, hoping to find it in steps with
portions which might be navigable, instead of what it was supposed
to be--viz. a continuous rapid.  Happily I came on the river at the
commencement of its rise at end of March, and found it navigable as
far as Kerri, which is forty-six miles south of Gondokoro, and about
forty miles north of the point where the Nile is navigable to the lake.
As far south as one can see from Kerri the river looks good, for the
highlands do not approach one another.  I have already a station at
Mahade, and one at Kerri, and there remains for me to make another
midway between Kerri and Mahade, to complete my communication with the
lake.  I go very slowly, and make my stations as I proceed.  I cannot
reconnoitre between Kerri and Mahade, but am obliged, when once I move,
to move for a permanent object.  If I reconnoitred, it would cost me
as much time as if I was going to establish myself permanently, and
also would alarm the natives, who hitherto have been quiet enough.
I do not think that there are any properly so-called cataracts between
Kerri and the lake.  There may be bad rapids; but as the bed of the
river is so narrow there will be enough water for my boats, and if the
banks are not precipices I count on being able to haul my boats through.
We have hauled them through a gap sixty-five yards wide at Kerri, where
the Nile has a tremendous current.  Now Kerri is below the junction of
the Nile and the Asua; while Mahade, where all agree the other rapids
are, is above the junction; so that I may hope at Mahade to have a less
violent current to contend with, and to have the Asua waters in some
degree cushioning up that current.  I have little doubt of being able
to take my steamer (the one constructed by Baker's[2] engineers at
Gondokoro) up to Kerri, for I have already there boats of as great a
draught of water.  From Mahade it is some one hundred and thirty miles to
Magungo.  About seventy miles south of Mahade a split takes place in the
river: one branch flows from east, another from west.  I imagine that to
north of the lake a large accumulation of aquatic vegetation has taken
place, and eventually has formed this isle.  Through this vegetation the
Victoria Nile has cut a passage to the east, and the lake waters have
done this to the west.  Baker passed through a narrow passage from the
lake to Victoria channel.  From Magungo to the Victoria Nile is said to
be a torrent to within eighteen miles of Karuma Falls.  Perhaps it is
also in steps.  Karuma Falls may be passable or not.  And then we have
Isamba and Ripon Falls.  If they are downright cataracts, nothing remains
but to make stations at them, and to have an upper and a lower flotilla.
If they are rapids, there must be depth of water in such a river in the
rainy season to allow of the passage of boats, if you have power to stem
the current.

"I now come to Victoria Nyanza; and about this I want to ask you some
questions--viz. What is the north frontier of Zanzibar?  And have we
any British interests which would be interfered with by a debouch of
the Egyptians on the sea?  Another query is, if the coast north of the
Equator does not belong to Zanzibar, in whose hands is it?  Are the
Arabs there refugees from Wahhabees of Arabia?--for if so, they would
be deadly hostile to Egypt.  To what limit inland are the people
acquainted with partial civilization, or in trade with the coast, and
accordingly supplied with firearms?  Could I count on virgin native
tribes from Lake Baringo or Ngo to Mount Kenia--tribes not in close
communication with the coast Arabs?

"My idea is, that till the core of Africa is pierced from the coast
but little progress will take place among the hordes of natives in
the interior.  Personally I would wish a route to sea, for the present
route is more or less hampered by other governors of Provinces.  By
the sea route I should be free.  The idea is entirely my own; and I
would ask you not to mention it, as (though you are a consul and I have
also been one) you must know that nothing would delight the Zanzibar
Consul better than to have the thwarting of such a scheme, inasmuch
as it would bring him into notice and give him opportunity to write to
F. O.  I do not myself wish to go farther east than Lake Baringo or Ngo.
But whether Egypt is allowed a port or not on the coast, at any rate
I may be allowed to pass my caravans through to Zanzibar and to get
supplies thence.

"When I contrast the comparative comfort of my work with the miseries
you and other travellers have gone through, I have reason to be
thankful.  Dr. Kraft talks of the River Dana--debouching into sea
under the name of river--as navigable from Mount Kenia.  If so--and
rivers are considered highways and free to all flags--I would far
sooner have my frontier at Mount Kenia than descend to the lower lands.

         "Believe me, with many excuses for troubling you,
                                    "Yours sincerely,
                                             "C. G. GORDON."


Burton, who possessed a great and personal knowledge of the Nile Basin
and the tribes inhabiting it, cordially answered Gordon's letter, giving
him full information and many valuable hints.  Henceforward the two men
frequently corresponded, and got to know one another very well on paper.
The next letter of Gordon's which I am permitted to give was written the
following year:


                                             "LARDO, October 12, 1876.

"MY DEAR CAPTAIN BURTON,

"Thank you for your letter July 13, which I received proceeding from the
Lake Albert to this place.  I came down from Magungo here in eight days.
This is a great comfort to me, and I am proud of my road and of the
herds of cattle the natives pasture along either side of it without fear.
I have been up the Victoria Nile--viz. Lake Mesanga.  It is a vast lake,
but of still shallow water.  The river seems to lose itself entirely in
it.  A narrow passage, scarcely nine feet wide, joins the north end of
the Victoria Nile near Mrooli; and judging from the Murchison Falls--
which are rapids, not falls--I should say Victoria Lake and Victoria
Nile contribute very little to the true Nile.  The branch Piaggia saw
is very doubtful.  I could not find it, and the boatmen seem very hazy
as to its existence.  As for Gessi's branch north of Albert Lake, I
could not find that either.  And, _entre nous_, I believe in neither
of the two branches.  The R. G. S. will have my maps of the whole
Nile from Berber to Urmdogani on a large scale, and they will show the
nature of the river.  I go home on leave (D.V.) in January for six
months, and then come out again to finish off.  You would learn my
address from Cox & Co., Craig's Court.  I would be glad to meet you;
for I believe you are not one of those men who bother people, and who
pump you in order that they, by writing, might keep themselves before
the world.  If it was not such a deadly climate, you would find much
to interest you in these parts; but it is _very deadly_.  An Arab at
Mtesa's[4] knows you very well.  He gave the Doctor a letter for you.
His name is either Ahmed bin Hishim or Abdullah bin Habib.  I have had,
_entre nous_, a deal of trouble, not yet over, with Mtesa, who, as they
will find out, is a regular native.  I cannot write this, but will tell
you.  Stanley knows it, I expect, by this time.  The Mission will stay
there (Mtesa's) about three months: that will settle them, I think.

                            "Believe me, with kind regards
                                                "Yours sincerely,
                                                       "C. G. GORDON."


Shortly after this, in December, Gordon determined to resign his official
position and return to England, as he had great difficulty in adjusting
matters, so far as finances were concerned, with the Governor-General at
Kartoum.  He went to Cairo, and announced his intention of going home
to the Khedive (Ismail), who, however, induced him to promise that he
would return to Egypt.  Burton wrote to ask Gordon to come, on his
journey back to England, round by way of Trieste, and talk over matters.
Gordon replied as follows:


                                "ON BOARD 'SUMATRA', December 17, 1876.

"MY DEAR CAPTAIN BURTON,

"I received your kind note as I was leaving for Brindisi.  I am sorry
I cannot manage the Trieste route.  I am not sure what will be my fate.
Personally, the whole of the future exploration, or rather opening, of
the Victoria Lake to Egypt has not a promising future to me, and I do not
a bit like the idea of returning.  I have been humbugged into saying
I would do so, and I suppose must keep my word.  I, however, have an
instinctive feeling that something may turn up ere I go back, and so
feel pretty comfortable about it.  I gave Gessi a letter to you.  He
is a zealous and energetic, sharp fellow.  I shall not, however, take
him back with me even if I go.  I do not like having a man with a
family hanging on one.

                                  "Believe me,
                                          "Yours sincerely,
                                                      "C. G. GORDON."


Burton then wrote to Gordon, urging him to write a book on his
experiences in Equatorial Africa, and asking what his intentions were
about returning.  In his reply Gordon first broaches the idea which he
afterwards returned to again and again--namely, that Burton should take
up work in Egypt.


                         "7, CECIL STREET, STRAND, January 12, 1877.

"Thank you for your kind note.  Gessi wrote to me from Trieste, dating
his letter only 'Trieste,' and I replied to that address, so I suppose
the postoffice know him.  Yes; I am back, but I have escaped persecution.
Wilson I have heard nothing of.  I have not the least intention of
publishing anything.[6]  My life and work there was a very humdrum one;
and, unlike you, I have no store of knowledge to draw on.  (I may tell
you your book was thought by us all out in Africa as by far the best
ever written.)  I am not going back to H. H.  It is a great pang to me,
I assure you; but it is _hopeless, hopeless_ work.  Why do not you take
up the work?  You may not be so sensitive as I am.

                              "Good-bye, and believe me,
                                          "Yours very truly,
                                                     "C. G. GORDON."


Gordon duly returned to Egypt, for the Khedive held him to his promised
word.  He was made Governor-General of the Soudan, Darfur, and the
Equatorial Provinces, which were now reunited into one great whole.
It was necessary for good administration that Gordon should have three
governors under him, one for the Soudan proper, one for the Equatorial
Provinces, and one for Darfur.  As soon as Gordon had arranged matters
with the Khedive and entered upon his Governor-Generalship he wrote to
Burton, offering him the post of Governor-General of Darfur.


                                   "OOMCHANGA, DARFUR, June, 21, 1877.

"MY DEAR CAPTAIN BURTON,

"You now, I see, have 600 pounds sterling a year, a good climate, quiet
life, good food, etc., and are engaged in literary inquiries, etc.,
etc.  I have no doubt that you are very comfortable, but I cannot think
entirely satisfied with your present small sphere.  I have therefore
written to the Khedive to ask him to give you Darfur as Governor-General,
with 1,600 pounds a year, and a couple of secretaries at 300 pounds a
year each.  Darfur is _l'enfer_.  The country is a vast sand plain, with
but little water; the heat is very great; there is little shooting.  The
people consist of huge Bedawin tribes, and of a settled population in the
larger villages.  Their previous history under the Sultans would show
them fanatical.  I have not found them the least so; in fact I think
them even less so than the Arabs of Cairo.  If you got two years' leave
from H.M.'s Government, you would lose nothing.  You know the position of
Darfur; its frontier through Wadi is only fifteen days from Lake Tchad.
On the other side of Lake Tchad you come on another sultanate, that of
Bowmon, and you then near the Gulf of Guinea.  Darfur is healthy.  You
will (D.V.) soon have the telegraph to your capital, El Tascher.  If
the Khedive asks you, accept the post, and you will do a mint of good,
and benefit these poor people.  You will also see working out curious
problems; you will see these huge tribes of Bedawins, to whom the Bedawin
tribes of Arabia are as naught; you will trace their history, etc.; and
you will open relations with Wadai Baginni, etc.  I know that you have
much important work at the Consulate, with the ship captains, etc., and
of course it would not be easy to replace you; but it is not every day
you use your knowledge of Asiatics or of Arabia.  Now is the time for
you to make your indelible mark in the world and in these countries.
You will be remembered in the literary world, but I would sooner be
remembered in Egypt as having made Darfur.  I hope, if his Highness
writes to you, you will ask for two years' leave and take the post
as Governor-General.  You are Commandant of Civil and Military and
Finance, and have but very little to do with me beyond demanding what
you may want.

                  "Believe me,
                            "Yours sincerely,
                                       "C. G. GORDON."


Burton's reply was very characteristic:


"MY DEAR GORDON,

"You and I are too much alike.  I could not serve under you, nor you
under me.  I do not look upon the Soudan as a lasting thing.  I have
nothing to depend upon but my salary; and I have a wife, and you
have not."


Perhaps too Burton was a little annoyed at Gordon apparently taking it
for granted that he would jump at Darfur.  Much as he loathed Trieste
and the life of forced inaction there, he felt this might be to exchange
the frying-pan for the fire.  Pending Burton's answer, Gordon followed
up his first letter by two more:


                                     "OOMCHANGA, DARFUR, June 27, 1877.

"MY DEAR BURTON,

"Thanks for your letter May 9, received to-day.  I have answered. . . .
_Would you be bothered with him?_  I feel certain you would not.  What
is the use of such men in these countries; they are, as Speke was to you,
infinitely more bother than use.  Then why do you put him on me?  I have
had enough trouble with them already.

"You will have my letter about Darfur.  I must say your task will not
be pleasant; but you talk Arabic, which I do not; and you will have much
to interest you, for most of the old Darfur families are of Mohammed's
family.

"I dare say you wonder how I can get on without an interpreter and not
knowing Arabic.  I do not believe in man's free-will, and therefore
believe all things are from God and preordained.  Such being the case,
the judgments or decisions I give are fixed to be thus or thus, whether
I have exactly hit off all the circumstances or not.  This is my raft,
and on it I manage to float along, thanks to God, more or less
successfully.  I do not pretend my belief could commend itself to any
wisdom or science, or in fact anything; but as I have said elsewhere,
a bag of rice jolting along these roads could, if it had the gift of
speech, and if it were God's will, do as well as I do.  You may not
agree with me.  Keep your own belief.  I get my elixir from mine--viz.
that with these views I am comfortable, whether I am a failure or not,
and can disregard the world's summary of what I do, or of what I do
not do.

                                             "Yours sincerely,
                                                       "C. G. GORDON."


                                                 "DARA, July 18, 1877.

"MY DEAR BURTON,

"I have got round to Dara _via_ Toashia, and hope in four or five days
to get to Tascher.  The _soi-disant_ Sultan Haroun is said to have left
Tamee.  The people are very good.  The Fors, or original natives of the
land, are the only people partially in revolt.  Dar For is the land of
Fors, as Dar Fertit is the land of the Fertits.  You would find much to
interest you here, for the Ulemas are well-read people, and know the old
history.  I found a lot of chain armour here, just like the armour of
Saladin's people, time of the Crusades, with old helmets, some embossed
with gold.  They were taken from the Sultan Ibrahim's bodyguard when he
was killed.  The sheep are wonderful; some with a regular mane.  The
people would delight in the interest you would take in them.  When the
Egyptians took the country here, they seized an ancient mosque for a
mug.  I have given it back and endowed it.  There was a great ceremony,
and the people are delighted.  It is curious how these Arab tribes came
up here.  It appears those of Biernan and Bagerini came from Tripoli;
the others came up the Nile.  The Dar Fertit lies between these semi-
Mussulman lands and the Negro lands proper.  On the border are the
Niam-Niam, who circumcise.  I suppose they took it from these Arab
tribes.  I only hope you will come up.  You will (D.V.) find no great
trouble here by that time, and none of the misery I have had.

                           "Believe me,
                                  "Yours sincerely,
                                          "C. G. GORDON."


A few weeks later Burton's laconic refusal of Darfur reached Gordon.
That Gordon was nettled a little is apparent from the opening paragraph
of the following letter.  But he was far too just not to understand;
and so far from resenting Burton's frankness, as a lesser man might
have done, this incident only served to make him appreciate his rare
qualities the more:


                                  "EN ROUTE TO BERBER, October 19, 1877.

"MY DEAR CAPTAIN BURTON,

"1,600 pounds or indeed 16,000, would never compensate a man for a year
spent actively in Darfur.  But I considered you, from your independence,
one of Nature's nobility, who did not serve for money.  Excuse the
mistake--if such it is.

"I am now going to Dongola and Assouan, and thence to Massowah to see
Johannis,[7] and then to Berberah _vis-a-vis_ Aden, near your old
friends the Somalis.  (Now there is a government which might suit you,
and which you might develop, paying off old scores by the way for having
thwarted you; it is too far off for me to hope to do anything.)  I then
return to Kartoum, and then go to Darfur and return to Kartoum, and then
go to the Lakes.  Why do people die in these countries?  Do not you, who
are a philosopher, think it is due to moral prostration more than to the
climate?  I think so, and have done so for a long time.  My assistant,
Prout,[8] has been lingering on the grave's brink for a long time, and
I doubt if he will go up again.  I have no fear of dying in any climate.
'Men now seek honours, not honour.'  You put that in one of your books.
Do you remember it?  How true it is!  I have often pirated it, and not
acknowledged the author, though I believe _you_ stole it.  I see Wilson
is now Sir Andrew.  Is it on account of his father's decease?  How is
he?  He wanted to come out, but he could not bear the fatigue.  All
these experiments of the King of the Belgians will come to grief, in
spite of the money they have; the different nationalities doom them.
Kaba Rega,[9] now that we have two steamers on Lake Albert (which, by
the way is, according to Mason, one hundred and twenty miles longer
than Gessi made it), asks for peace, which I am delighted at; he never
was to blame, and you will see that, if you read how Baker treated him
and his ambassadors.  Baker certainly gave me a nice job in raising him
against the Government so unnecessarily, even on his own showing (_vide_
his book _Ismailia_).  _Judge justly_.  Little by little we creep on
to our goal--viz. the two lakes; _and nothing can stop us, I think_.
Mtesa is very good friends, and agrees much more with us than with
your missionaries.  You know the hopelessness of such a task, till
you find a St. Paul or St. John.  Their representatives nowadays want
so much a year and a contract.  It is all nonsense; no one will stay
four years out there.  I would like to hear you hold forth on the idol
'Livingstone,' etc., and on the slave-trade.  Setting aside the end to
be gained, I think that Slave Convention is a very just one in many
ways towards the people; but we are not an over-just nation towards
the weak.  I suppose you know that old creature Grant, who for seventeen
or eighteen years has traded on his wonderful walk.  I am grateful to
say he does not trouble me now.  I would also like to discuss with you
the wonderful journey of Cameron, but we are too far apart; though when
you are at Akata or For, I shall be at Berenice or Suakin.  It was very
kind of you offering me Faulkner.  Do you remember his uncle in R. N.?
Stanley will give them some bother; they cannot bear him, and in my
belief rather wished he had not come through safe.  He will give them
a dose for their hard speeches.  He is to blame for _writing_ what he
did (as Baker was).  These things may be done, but not advertised.  I
shall now conclude with kind regards,

                             "Yours sincerely,
                                       "C. G. GORDON."


While Lady Burton was alone at Suez in the March of the following year
(1878), waiting to meet her husband on his return from the expedition
to Midian, Gordon arrived there.  He of course hastened to make the
acquaintance of Burton's wife.  He stayed a week at Suez, and during
that time Isabel and he saw one another every day.  She found him "very
eccentric, but very charming.  I say eccentric, until you got to know
and understand him."  A warm friendship sprang up between the two, for
they had much to talk about and much in common.  They were both Christian
mystics (I use the term in the highest sense); and though they differed
on many points of faith (for Isabel held that Catholicism was the highest
form of Christian mysticism, and in this Gordon did not agree with her),
they were at one in regarding religion as a vital principle and a guiding
rule of life and action.  They were at one too in their love of probing


    Things more true and deep
    Than we mortals know.


With regard to more mundane matters, Gordon did not scruple to pour cold
water on the Burtons' golden dream of wealth from the Mines of Midian,
and frankly told Isabel that the "Midian Myth" was worth very little, and
that Burton would do much better to throw in his lot with him.  Isabel,
however, did not see things in the same light, and she was confident of
the future of Midian, and had no desire to go to Darfur.  When Burton
returned from Midian in April, and he and his wife went to Cairo at
the request of the Khedive, they saw a good deal of Gordon again.  He
and Burton discussed affairs thoroughly--especially Egyptian affairs--
and Gordon again expressed his regret that Burton did not see his way to
joining him.  When Burton was in London later in the year, he received
the following letter from Gordon, in which he renewed his offer,
increasing the the salary from 1,600 pounds to 5,000 pounds a year.


                                              "KARTOUM, August 8, 1878.

"MY DEAR BURTON,

"Please date, or rather put address on your letters.  Thanks for yours
of July 4, received to-day.  I am very sorry Mrs. Burton is not well,
but hope England has enabled her to regain her health.  My arrangement
is _letter for letter_.  If you write, I will answer.  I wish you could
undertake the Government of Zeyla,  Harar, and Berberah, and free me of
the bother.  Why cannot you get two years' leave from F. O., then write
(saying it is a suggestion) to H.H., and offer it?  I could give, say,
5,000 pounds a year from London to your Government.  Do do something
to help me, and do it without further reference to me; you would lift
a burthen off my shoulders.  I have now to stay at Kartoum for the
finances.  I am in a deplorable state.  I have a nasty revolt of
Slandralus at Bahr Gazelle, which will cost me some trouble; I mean
not to fight them, but to blockade them into submission.  I am now
hard at work against the slave caravans; we have caught fifteen in
two months, and I hope by a few judicious hangings to stop their work.
I hanged a man the other day for making a eunuch without asking H.H.'s
leave.  Emin Effendi, now Governor of Equator Province, is Dr. Sneitzer;
but he is furious if you mention it, and denies that is his name to me;
he declares he is a Turk.  There is something queer about him which I
do not understand; he is a queer fellow, very cringing in general, but
sometimes bursts out into his natural form.  He came up here in a
friendless state.  He is perhaps the only riddle I have met with in
life.  He is the man Amspldt spoke to you about.  Amspldt was a useless
fellow, and he has no reason to complain of Emin Effendi.  I have sent
Gessi up to see after the slave-dealers' outbreak.  He was humble
enough.  Good-bye!  Kind regards to Mrs. Burton.

                                             "Yours sincerely,
                                                      "C. G. GORDON."


Burton again refused, giving the same reasons as before, and reiterating
his opinion that the existing state of affairs in the Soudan could not
last.  Gordon, seeing his decision was not to be shaken, acquiesced,
and did not ask him again.  Moreover he was losing faith in the Soudan
himself.  A few months later we have him writing as follows:


                                           "KARTOUM, November 20, 1878.

"MY DEAR BURTON,

"Thanks for your letter of October 6, received to-day.  I have not
forgotten the manuscript from Harar, nor the coins.

"I wish much I could get a European to go to Berberah, Zeyla, and Harar,
at 1,200 pounds, or 1,500 pounds, a really good man.  They keep howling
for troops, and give me a deal of trouble.  Our finances take up all my
time; I find it best to look after them myself, and so I am kept close
at work.  We owe 300,000 pounds floating debt, but not to Europeans, and
our _present_ expenditure exceeds revenue by 97,000 pounds.

"Rossit, who took your place in Darfur, died the other day there, after
three and a half months' residence; he is a serious loss to me, for the
son of Zebahr with his slave-dealers is still in revolt.  Cairo and
Nubia never take any notice of me, nor do they answer my questions.

"I have _scotched_ the slave-trade, and Wyld of Jeddah says that
scarcely any slaves pass over, and that the people of Jeddah are
disgusted.  It is, however, only _scotched_.  I am blockading all
roads to the slave districts, and I expect to make the slave-dealers
now in revolt give in, for they must be nearly out of stores.  I have
indeed a very heavy task, for I have to do everything myself.  Kind
regards to Mrs. Burton and yourself.

                               "Believe me,
                                       "Yours sincerely,
                                                    "C. G. GORDON."

"P.S.--Personally I am very weary and tired of the inaction at Kartoum,
with its semi-state, a thing which bores me greatly."


The following year Burton's prescience proved true.  The Soudan was
"not a lasting thing," so far as Gordon was concerned.  Ismail Khedive
had abdicated, and Tewfik his son ruled in his stead; and Gordon,
dissatisfied with many things, finally threw up his post on account
of the Slave Convention.  Though he placed his resignation in the
Khedive's hands, Tewfik begged him to undertake a mission to Abyssinia.
While he was on the journey he wrote the following to Burton:


                                        "EN ROUTE TO MASSOWAH, RED SEA,
                                                  "August 31, 1879.

"MY DEAR BURTON,

"Thanks for several little notes from you, and one from Mrs. Burton, and
also for the papers you sent me.  I have been on my travels, and had not
time to write.  An Italian has egged on Johannis to be hostile, and so I
have to go to Massowah to settle the affair if I can.  I then hope to go
home for good, for the slave-hunters (thanks to Gessi) have collapsed,
and it will take a long time to rebuild again, even if fostered by my
successor.  I like the new Khedive immensely; but I warn you that all
Midian guiles will be wasted on him, and Mrs. Burton ought to have taken
the 3,000 pounds I offered her at Suez, and which she scoffed at, saying,
'You would want that for gloves.'  Do you wear those skin coverings to
your paws?  I do not!  No, the days of Arabian Nights are over, and stern
economy now rules.  Tewfik seeks 'honour, not honours.'  I do not know
what he will do with the Soudan; he is glad, I think (indeed feel sure),
I am going.  I was becoming a too powerful Satrap.  The report at Cairo
was that I meditated rebellion even under Ismail the 'Incurable,' and
now they cannot imagine why I am so well received by the new Khedive.

                                      "Believe me,
                                            "Yours sincerely,
                                                    "C. G. GORDON."


Gordon was not the only one who suffered by the change of Khedive.
Burton, as Gordon had foretold, came to grief over the Mines of Midian,
for Tewfik declined to be bound by any promise of his father; and though
Burton went to Egypt to interview the Khedive, to see if he could do
anything, his efforts were of no avail.  Meanwhile Isabel, who had come
to London mainly for medical treatment, was moving heaven and earth to
see if she could induce the English Government to stir in the matter;
but they naturally declined.  Isabel wrote to Gordon, who had now come
home from Egypt, on this and other matters.  She received from him the
following letters in answer to her request and inquiries concerning the
state of affairs in Egypt:


                                                  "U.S. CLUB, PALL MALL,
                                                             "4.2.80.

"MY DEAR MRS. BURTON,

"You write to an orb which is setting, or rather is set.  I have no
power to aid your husband in any way.  I went to F. O. to-day, and, as
you know, Lord ---- is very ill.  Well! the people there were afraid of
me, for I have written hard things to them; and though they knew all,
they would say naught.  I said, 'Who is the personification of Foreign
Office?'  They said, 'X is.'  I saw 'X'; but he tried to evade my
question--_i.e._ Would F. O. do anything to prevent the Soudan falling
into chaos?  It was no use.  I cornered him, and he then said, '_I am
merely a clerk to register letters coming in and going out_.'  So then
I gave it up, and marvelled.  I must say I was surprised to see such a
thing; a great Government like ours governed by men who dare not call
their souls their own.  Lord ---- rules them with a rod of iron.  If
your husband would understand that F. O. at present is Lord ---- (and he
is _ill_), he would see that I can do nothing.  I have written letters
to F. O. that would raise a corpse; it is no good.  I have threatened
to go to the French Government about the Soudan; it is no good.  In
fact, my dear Mrs. Burton, I have done for myself with this Government,
and you may count me a feather, for I am worth no more.  Will you send
this on to your husband?  He is a first-rate fellow, and I wish I had
seen him long ago (scratch this out, for he will fear I am going to
borrow money); and believe me, my dear Mrs. Burton (pardon me about
Suez),

                                         "Yours sincerely,
                                                   "C. G. GORDON."


                                              "HOTEL TAUCAN, LAUSANNE,
                                                         "12.3.80.

"MY DEAR MRS. BURTON,

"Excuse my not answering your kind note of 5.3.80 before; but to be
quiet I have come abroad, and did not have a decided address, so I
only got your letter to-day.  I will come and see you when I (D.V.)
come home; but that is undecided.  Of course your husband failed with
Tewfik.  I scent carrion a long way off, and felt that the hour of my
departure from Egypt had come, so I left quietly.  Instead of A (Ismail),
who was a good man, you have B (Tewfik), who may be good or bad, as
events will allow him.  B is the true son of A; but has the inexperience
of youth, and may be smarter.  The problem working out in the small
brains of Tewfik is this: 'My father lost his throne because he scented
the creditors, I may govern the country as I like.'  No doubt Tewfik
is mistaken; but these are his views, backed up by a ring of pashas.
Now look at his Ministry.  Are they not aliens to Egypt?  They are all
slaves or of low origin.  Put their price down:


     Riaz Pasha, a dancing-boy of Abbas Pasha, value. . . . 350
     A slave, Osman, Minister of War, turned out by me. . . 350
     Etc., etc., etc., each--five  . . . . . . . . .350 = 1,750
                                                  Total = 2,450


So that the value of the Ministry (which _we_ think an enlightened one)
is 490 pounds.  What do they care for the country?  Not a jot.  We
ought to sweep all this lot out, and the corresponding lot at Stamboul.
It is hopeless and madness to think that with such material you can do
anything.  Good-bye.  Kind regards to your husband.

                                 "Believe me,
                                        "Yours sincerely,
                                                   "C. G. GORDON."


                                                        "PARIS, 2.4.80.

"MY DEAR MRS. BURTON,

"Thanks for your telegram and your letter.  Excuse half-sheet (economy).
No, I will not write to Cairo, and your letters are all torn up.  I am
going to Brussels in a few days, and after a stay there I come over to
England.  I do not like or believe in Nubar.  He is my horror; for he
led the old ex-Khedive to his fall, though Nubar owed him everything.
When Ismail became Khedive, Nubar had 3 pounds a month; he now owns
1,000,000 pounds.  Things will not and cannot go straight in Egypt,
and I would say, 'Let them glide.'  Before long time elapses things
will come to a crisis.  The best way is to let all minor affairs rest,
and to consider quietly how the ruin is to fall.  It must fall ere
long.  United Bulgaria, Syria France, and Egypt England.  France would
then have as much interest in repelling Russia as we have.  Supposing
you got out Riaz, why, you would have Riaz's brother; and if you got
rid of the latter, you would have Riaz's nephew.  Le plus on change,
le plus c'est la meme chose.  We may, by stimulants, keep the life in
them; but as long as the body of the people are unaffected, so long
will it be corruption in high places, varying in form, not in matter.
Egypt is usurped by the family of the Sandjeh of Salonique, and (by
our folly) _we_ have added a ring of Circassian pashas.  The whole lot
should go; they are as much strangers as we would be.  Before we began
muddling we had only to deal with the Salonique family; now we have added
the ring, who say, '_We are Egypt_.'  We have made Cairo a second
Stamboul.  So much the better.  Let these locusts fall together.  As
well expect any reform, any good sentiment, from these people as water
from a stone; the extract you wish to get does not and cannot exist in
them.  Remember I do not say this of the Turkish peasantry or of the
Egyptian-born poor families.  It is written, Egypt shall be the prey
of nations, and so she has been; she is the servant; in fact Egypt
does not really exist.  It is a nest of usurpers.

                                      "Believe me,
                                               "Yours sincerely,
                                                       "C. G. GORDON."


A day or two after the date of this last letter Gordon returned to
London, and went several times to see Isabel, who was ill in lodgings
in Upper Montagu Street, and very anxious about her husband and the
Midian Mines.  Gordon's prospects too were far from rosy at this time,
so that they were companions in misfortune.  They discussed Egypt and
many things.  Isabel writes: "I remember on April 15, 1880, he asked
me if I knew the origin of the Union Jack, and he sat down on my
hearth-rug before the fire, cross-legged, with a bit of paper and
a pair of scissors, and he made me three or four Union Jacks, of
which I pasted one in my journal of that day; and I never saw him
again."[10]  She also writes elsewhere; "I shall never forget how
kind and sympathetic he was; but he always said, 'As God has willed
it, so will it be.'"

In May Burton wrote to Lord Granville, pointing out that Riaz Pasha was
undoing all Gordon's anti-slavery work, and asking for a temporary
appointment as Slave Commissioner in the Soudan and Red Sea, to follow
up the policy of anti-slavery which Gordon had begun.  This Lord
Granville refused.

Gordon went to many places--India, China, the Cape--and played many parts
during the next three years; but he still continued to correspond with
Isabel and her husband at intervals, though his correspondence referred
mainly to private matters, and was of no public interest.  In 1883 he
wrote the following to Burton from Jerusalem, anent certain inquiries
in which he was much interested:


                                              "JERUSALEM, June 3, 1883.

"MY DEAR BURTON,

"I have a favour to ask, which I will begin with, and then go on to other
subjects.  In 1878 (I think) I sent you a manuscript in Arabic, copy of
the manuscript you discovered in Harar.  I want you to lend it to me
for a month or so, and will ask you in sending it to register it.  This
is the favour I want from you.  I have time and means to get it fairly
translated, and I will do this for you.  I will send you the translation
and the original back; and if it is worth it, you will publish it.  I
hope you and Mrs. Burton are well.  Sorry  _s.d_. pounds sterling keep
you from the East, for there is much to interest here in every way, and
you would be useful to me as an encyclopaedia of oriental lore; as it
is, Greek is looked on by me as hieroglyphics.

"Here is result of my studies: The whole of the writers on Jerusalem,
with few exceptions, fight for Zion on the Western Hill, and put the
whole Jerusalem in tribe Benjamin!  I have worked this out, and to me
it is thus: The whole question turns on the position of En-shemesh,
which is generally placed, for no reason I know of, at Ain Hand.  I
find Kubbat el Sama, which corresponds to Baethsamys of the Septuagint,
at the north of Jerusalem, and I split Jerusalem by the Tyropoean
Valley (_alias_ the Gibeon of Eden, of which more another time).

"Anyway one can scarcely cut Judah out of Jerusalem altogether; yet that
is always done, except by a few.  If the juncture is as I have drawn it,
it brings Gibeon, Nob, and Mizpah all down too close to Jerusalem on the
Western Hills.  This is part of my studies.  Here is the Skull Hill north
of the City (traced from map, ordnance of 1864), which I think is the
Golgotha; for the victims were to be slain on north of altar, not west,
as the Latin Holy Sepulchre.  This hill is close to the old church of
St. Stephen, and I believe that eventually near here will be found the
Constantine churches.

"I have been, and still am, much interested in these parts, and as it is
cheap I shall stop here.  I live at Ain Karim, five mile from Jerusalem.
There are few there who care about antiquities.  Schink, an old German,
is the only one who is not a bigot.  Have you ever written on Palestine?
I wondered you never followed up your visit to Harar; that is a place
of great interest.  My idea is that the Pison is the Blue Nile, and
that the sons of Joktan were at Harar, Abyssinia, Godjam; but it is not
well supported.

"The Rock of Harar was the platform Adam was moulded on out of clay from
the Potter's Field.  He was then put in Seychelles (Eden), and after Fall
brought back to Mount Moriah to till the ground in the place he was taken
from.  Noah built the Ark twelve miles from Jaffa, at Ain Judeh; the
Flood began; the Ark floated up and rested on Mount Baris, afterwards
Antonia; he sacrificed on the Rock (Adam was buried on the Skull Hill,
hence the skull under the cross).  It was only 776 A.D. that Mount Ararat
of Armenia became the site of the Ark's descent.  Koran says Al Judi
(Ararat) is holy land.  After Flood the remnants went east to Plain of
Shimar.  Had they gone east from the Al Judi, near Mosul, or from
Armenian Ararat, they could never have reached Shimar.  Shem was
Melchizedek, etc., etc.

"With kind regards to Mrs. Burton and you, and the hope you will send
me the manuscript,

                               "Believe me,
                                     "Yours sincerely,
                                              "C. G. GORDON."

"P.S.--Did you ever get the 1,000 pounds I offered you on part of
ex-Khedive for the Mines of Midian?"


Some six months after the date of this letter Gordon left England for
the Soudan, and later went to Kartoum, with what result all the world
knows.  Burton said, when the Government sent Gordon to Kartoum, they
failed because they sent him alone.  Had they sent him with five hundred
soldiers there would have been no war.  It was just possible at the time
that Burton might have been sent instead of Gordon; and Isabel, dreading
this wrote privately to the Foreign Office, unknown to her husband, to
let them know how ill he then was.

The Burtons were profoundly moved at the death of Gordon; they both felt
it with a keen sense of personal loss.  Isabel relates that in one of the
illustrated papers there was a picture of Gordon lying in the desert, his
Bible in one hand, his revolver in the other, and the vultures hovering
around.  Burton said, "Take it away!  I can't bear to look at it.  I have
had to feel that myself; I know what it is."  But upon reflection Burton
grew to disbelieve in Gordon's death, and he died believing that he had
escaped into the desert, but disgusted at his betrayal and abandonment
he would never let himself be discovered or show himself in England
again.  In this conviction Burton was of course mistaken; but he had
formed it on his knowledge of Gordon's character.

I am aware that this chapter dealing with Gordon and his letters is
something of an interpolation, and has little to do with the main thread
of the story; but Lady Burton wished it to be so, and its irrelevance
may be pardoned for the sake of the light it throws upon the friendship
which existed between three very remarkable personages, each curiously
alike in some respects, and in others widely dissimilar.


NOTES:

1. Gondokoro was the seat of Government of the Province of the Equator.
2. Sir Samuel Baker, whom Gordon succeeded as Governor of the tribes
   which inhabit the Nile Basin in 1874.
3. Romalus Gessi (Gessi Pasha), a member of Gordon's staff.
4. Mtesa, King of Uganda.
5. Mr. Rivers Wilson.
6. Nevertheless he permitted Dr. Birkbeck Hill to edit and publish
   his letters in 1881, which give a good account of his work in
   Central Africa.
7. Johannis, King of Abyssinia.
8. Colonel Prout, of the American army, for some time in command of
   the Equatorial Provinces.
9. King of Unyoro, a powerful and treacherous savage.  Sir Samuel
   Baker attempted to depose him, but Kaha Rega maintained his power.
10. _Life of Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, col. ii., p. 177.




CHAPTER XXVI.  THE SWORD HANGS.  (1885-1890).


    Life is no holiday: therein
    Are want and woe and sin,
    Death with nameless fears; and over all
    Our pitying tears must fall.

    The hour draws near, howe'er delayed or late,
    When, at the Eternal Gate,
    We leave the words and works we call our own,
    And lift void hands alone.

    For love to fill.  Our nakedness of soul
    Brings to that gate no toll:
    Giftless we come to Him who all things gives;
    And live because He lives.

                                           WHITTIER.


In May, 1885, Isabel started with her husband for England.  They
travelled together as far as Venice, and here as often, they parted,
and went their separate ways.  Burton was ordered to go by sea for
his health, and his wife arranged to proceed by land.  She went round
by way of Bologna, and thence travelled _via_ Milan and Paris, and
arrived in London on June 2.  Her husband joined her twelve days later.

They had two objects in coming to London at this time--one was to
consult physicians concerning Burton's health, the other to make
arrangements concerning _The Arabian Nights_.  The production of this
book may be described as a joint affair; for though the lion's share of
the work of translating, writing, and correcting proofs devolved upon
Burton alone, the financial part of the work fell upon his wife, and
that it was a big thing no one who has had any experience of writing or
publishing would deny.  There were several editions in the field; but
they were all abridged or "Bowdlerized" ones, adapted more or less for
"family and domestic reading."  Burton's object in bringing out this
great work was not only to produce a literal translation but to
reproduce it faithfully in the Arabian manner.  He preserved throughout
the orientation of the verses and figures of speech instead of
Anglicising them.  It is this, combined with his profound oriental
scholarship, his fine old-world style, and the richness, variety, and
quaintness of vocabulary, which has given to his original edition its
unique value.

In Burton the immortal tales had at last found a translator who would
do them justice, and who was not afraid of prejudices of Anglo-Saxon
Puritanism.  Burton's view of this matter is sufficiently expressed in
the following speech: "I do not care a button about being prosecuted;
and if the matter comes to a fight, I will walk into court with my
Bible and my Shakspeare and my Rabelais under my arm, and prove to them
that before they condemn me they must cut half of _them_, and not allow
them to be circulated to the public."[1]  He expressed his views in this
matter to his wife; and though at his wish she did not read the original
edition of _The Arabian Nights_, she set to work to help him in every
way that she could.  In fact it may be truly said that it was she who
did all the difficult work of evading the "vigilance" of certain
persons, and of arranging for the publication of this important book.
In order that her husband's original text might be copyrighted, she
herself brought out an expurgated edition, which was called the
"Household Edition."  By this means she was enabled to copyright three
thousand pages of her husband's original text, and only excluded two
hundred and  fifteen.  She says, "Richard forbade me to read these
pages until he blotted out with ink the worst words, and desired me
to substitute not English but Arab society words, which I did to his
complete satisfaction."  Of course to bring out a work of this kind,
and to bear the whole burden of the labour and initial expense of
it, was no ordinary task, and it is to Isabel's efforts and to her
marvellous business capacity that the credit of publishing the book
is due.  From a financial point of view the Burtons had no reason to
regret their venture.  At the beginning a publisher had offered Burton
500 pounds for the book; but Isabel said, "No, let me do it."  It was
seventeen months' hard work, and during that time they had to find
the means for printing and binding and circulating the volumes as they
came out.  The Burtons were their own printers and their own publishers,
and they made between September, 1885, and November, 1888, sixteen
thousand guineas, six thousand of which went towards the expenses of
publishing and ten thousand guineas into their own pockets.  Isabel
writes, "It came just in time to give my husband the comforts and
luxuries and freedom which gilded the last five  years of his life.
When he died there were four florins left, which I  put into the
poor-box."

They had a very pleasant season in London.  They were mainly occupied in
preparing _The Arabian Nights_; but their labours over for the day, they
went out in society a great deal.  Perhaps the most noteworthy event at
this time was that Isabel made a long speech at St. James's Hall at a
meeting for the purpose of appealing to the Pope for a Circular Letter
on the subject of the protection of animals.  The meeting was in vain.

The first volume of _The Arabian Nights_ came out on December 12, 1885,
and the sixteenth volume, the last of the Supplementals, on November
13, 1888.  Thus in a period of three years they produced twenty-two
volumes--namely, ten Originals, six Supplementals, and Lady Burton's
six volumes of the Household Edition.

In October, 1885, they went down to Hatfield on a visit to Lord and Lady
Salisbury.  A week before this Burton, having heard that Sir John
Drummond Hay, Consul at Morocco, was about to retire, applied for the
post.  It was the one thing that he had stayed on in the Consular Service
in hope of obtaining.  He wrote a letter to the Foreign Secretary, which
was backed up by about fifty of the best names in England, whom his wife
had canvassed; and indeed it seemed that the post was as good as assured
to him.  In the third week in November Burton started for Morocco in
order to spy out the promised land, or rather the land which he hoped
would have been his.  Isabel was left behind to bring out some volumes
of _The Arabian Nights_.  She brought them out up to the seventh volume,
and then made ready to join her husband at Gibraltar on his way to
Tangiers in January.  She says _a propos_ of her labours in this
respect: "I was dreadfully spied upon by those who wished to get
Richard into trouble about it, and once an unaccountable person came
and took rooms in some lodgings which I took after Richard left, and
I settled with the landlord that I should leave or that person should
not have the rooms, and of course he did not have any hesitation between
the two, and I took the whole of the rooms during my stay."

In January, 1886, just as she was leaving London, she received a telegram
from her husband saying that there was cholera at Gibraltar, and she
could get no quarantine there, and would not be allowed to land.  But
she was not a woman to be stopped; so she at once telegraphed to Sir
John Ayde, who was then commanding Gibraltar, and asked if he would
allow a Government boat to take her off the P. & O. and put her straight
on the Morocco boat.  He telegraphed back, "Yes," whereat she rejoiced
greatly, as she wanted especially to reach her husband in time for them
to celebrate their Silver Wedding together.  When she arrived at
Gibraltar, Burton, who was staying there, came off in a boat to meet
her, and they called together on Sir John Ayde to thank him for his
kindness.  A few days later the news came to them that the Government
had at last recognized Burton's public services.  It came in the form
of a telegram addressed to "Sir Richard Burton."  Isabel says: "He
tossed it over to me, and said, 'Some fellow is playing me a practical
joke, or else it is not for me.  I shall not open it, so you may as well
ring the bell and give it back again.'"  His wife said, "Oh no; I shall
open it if you don't."  So it was opened.  It was from Lord Salisbury,
conveying in the kindest terms that the Queen, at his recommendation,
had made him K.C.M.G. in reward for his services.  He looked very
serious and quite uncomfortable, and said, "Oh, I shall not accept it."
She said, "You had better accept it, Jemmy, because it is a certain
sign that they are going to give you the place--Tangiers, Morocco."

There is only one thing to be said about this honour--it came too late.
Too late for him, because he had never at any time cared much for these
things.  "Honour, not honours" was his motto; and now the recognition of
his services, which might have been a great encouragement ten of fifteen
years earlier, and have spurred him on to fresh efforts, found him broken
by sickness, and with life's zest to a great extent gone.  Too late for
her because her only pleasure in these things was that they reflected
credit upon her husband; and if he did not appreciate them, she did not
care.  Yet of course she was glad that at last there had come some return
for her unceasing efforts, and some admission, though tardy, of the
services which her husband had rendered.  It was a sign too that the
prejudice against him in certain quarters was at last lived down.  She
wrote to a friend:

"You will have seen from the papers, and I know what pleasure it will
give you, that the Conservatives on going out made Dick Sir Richard
Burton, K.C.M.G. . . . . The Queen's recognition of Dick's forty-four
years of service was sweetly done at last, sent for our Silver Wedding,
and she told a friend of mine that she was pleased to confer something
that would include both husband and wife."

The Burtons crossed over to Morocco from Gibraltar in a flat-bottomed
cattle-tug, only fit for a river; and as the sea was exceedingly heavy,
and the machinery had stopped, the sailors said for want of oil, the
seas washed right over the boat, and the passage was prolonged from two
hours to five.  They made many excursions round about Tangiers; but on
the whole they were disappointed with Morocco.  They disliked Tangiers
itself, and the Consulate seemed to them a miserable little house after
the palazzo at Trieste.  Lady Burton had expected to find Tangiers a
second Damascus; but in this she was sorely disappointed.  She wrote to
a friend from there, "Trieste will seem like Paris after it.  It has
none of the romance or barbaric splendour of Damascus.  Nevertheless,"
she says, "I would willingly have lived there, and put out all my best
capabilities, if my husband could have got the place he wanted, and for
which I had employed every bit of interest on his side and mine to
obtain."  They received a great deal of hospitality in Tangiers, and
inspected the place and the natives thoroughly.  Most of the people
looked forward to welcoming them.

On their departure they went to Genoa, which they reached after a rough
voyage, and thence they proceeded by easy stages to Trieste.  Lady
Burton arrived home alone at ten o'clock in the evening; and as she
was accustomed to be met by a crowd of friends on her return, she was
surprised to find no one to meet her.  When she got to the house, their
absence was explained.  Three telegrams were handed to her.  The first
was, "Father very ill; can you come?" the second was, "Father died to-
day"; the third, "Father buried to-day at Mortlake."  As her friends
were unaware of her address the telegrams had not been forwarded, and
they had kept away, so as not to intrude on her grief.  The blow was
not altogether unexpected, for Mr. Arundell had been ill for some time;
but it was none the less severe, for she had always been devotedly
attached to her father, and his house had been made a rallying-point
for them when they were wont to return home.

They remained at Trieste three months, during which time the English
colony presented them with a silver cup and congratulations on their
hardly earned honours.  Then, as Burton had to consult a particular
manuscript which would supply two volumes of his "Supplemental"
_Arabian Nights_, they left again for England.  On their return to
London they took up their work where they had left it a few months
before.  In July they had the mortification of finding that Lord
Rosebery had given away the coveted post of Morocco, which had been
as good as promised to them by Lord Salisbury, to some one else.  It
was during their few months' absence from England that the change
of Government had taken place, and Lord Salisbury's brief-lived
Administration of 1886 had yielded place to a Liberal Government.
Such are the vicissitudes of official life.  Had Lord Salisbury been
in office, Sir Richard would  probably have got Morocco.  It was perhaps
all for the best that he did not get the post, although it was a sore
disappointment to them at the time.  Even Lady Burton came to take this
view.  She writes: "I sometimes now think that it was better so, and
that he would not have lived so long had he had it, for he was decidedly
breaking up.  The climate did not appear to be the one that suited him,
and the anxiety and responsibilities of the post might have hurried on
the catastrophe. . . . It was for the honour of the thing, and we saw
for ourselves how uneasy a crown it would be."

Perhaps there was another reason too, for when Lady Burton remonstrated a
Minister wrote to her in friendly chaff: "We don't want to annex Morocco,
and we know that you two would be Emperor and Empress in about six
months."  This was an evident allusion to the part which they had played
during their brief reign at Damascus.  At Trieste there was no room for
the eagles to soar; their wings clipped.

Seeing that the last hope was over, and the one post which Sir Richard
Burton had coveted as the crown of his career was denied him, his wife
set to work to induce the Government to allow him to retire on his
pension four years before his time.  She had good grounds for making
this request, for his health was breaking, and this last disappointment
about Morocco seemed to have broken him even more.  When he told her that
it was given to another man, he said, "There is no room for me now, and
I do not want anything; but I have worked forty-four years for nothing.
I am breaking up, and I want to go free."  So she at once set to work
to draw up what she called "The Last Appeal," enumerating the services
which her husband had rendered to his country, and canvassing her friends
to obtain the pension.  The petition was backed as usual by forty-seven
or fifty big names, who actively exerted themselves in the matter.  It
was refused notwithstanding that public feeling and the press seemed
unanimously in favour of its being granted.  The ground on which it was
refused, apparently, was that it was contrary to precedent, and that it
was not usual; but then the case was altogether an unusual one, and Sir
Richard Burton was altogether an unusual man.  Even supposing that there
had been a difficulty about giving him full Consular pension, it would
have been easy for the Government, if they had been so minded, to have
made up to him the sum--only a few hundred pounds a year--from the Civil
List, on the ground of his literary and linguistic labours and services.
It should be added that this petition was refused both by Liberal and
Conservative Governments, for Lord Salisbury's second Administration
came into office before the Burtons left England.  But there was this
difference: whereas Lord Rosebery reprimanded Burton for his frequent
absence from his post, Lord Salisbury was very indulgent in the matter
of leave.  He recognized that Burton's was an exceptional case, and gave
him exceptional privileges.

They remained in London until the end of the year, and on January 4.,
1887, they left England for Cannes, where they spent a few pleasant
weeks, rejoicing in the sun and blue sea and sky.  They enjoyed a good
deal of society at Cannes, where they met the Prince of Wales and many
friends.  On Ash Wednesday occurred the earthquake which made such a
commotion on the Riviera at the time, and of which Sir Richard Burton
gave the following account:

"A little before 6 a.m., on the finest of mornings, with the smoothest
of seas, the still sleeping world was aroused by a rumbling and shaking
as of a thousand express trains hissing and rolling along, and in a few
minutes followed a shock, making the hotel reel and wave.  The duration
was about one minute.  My wife said to me, 'Why, what sort of express
train have they got on to-day?'  It broke on to us, upheaving and making
the earth undulate, and as it came I said, 'By Jove! that is a good
earthquake.'  She called out, 'All the people are rushing out into the
garden undressed shall we go too?'  I said, 'No, my girl; you and I
have been in too many earthquakes to show the white feather at our age.'
'All right,' she answered; and I turned round and went to sleep again."

The result of the earthquake was a great and sudden exodus from Cannes,
and indeed from all the Riviera.  Visitors fled in panic, but Sir Richard
and Lady Burton went about their usual business, and were amused at
seeing the terrified people rush off to the railway-station, and the
queer garments in which they were clad.  Shortly after Lady Burton was
terribly frightened from another cause.  Her husband had an epileptic
fit, and it was some time before she and the doctors could bring him
round again.  Henceforth it became necessary for them to have always
with them a resident doctor.  They both of them disliked the idea of
having a stranger spying about them very much; but it was inevitable,
for the epilepsy was a new development, and as Burton says, "My wife
felt, though she had successfully nursed me through seven long illnesses
since our marriage, that this was a case beyond her ken."  So Dr. Ralph
Leslie was telegraphed for, and came out from England to Cannes, where
he joined them.  Then commenced what they called their _Via Crucis_ to
Trieste.  Lady Burton thus describes her troubles at that time:

"On February 23 we were shaken to a jelly by the earthquakes--three
strong shocks and three weeks of palpitating earth in the Riviera.  On
February 26 my poor darling Dick had an epileptic fit, or, more properly
speaking, an epileptiform convulsion, which had lasted about half an
hour, and endangered his life.  I had six doctors and two nurses, and
we watched and tended him for fifteen days; and I telegraphed for an
English doctor to England by express, who came, and lives and travels
with us, as Richard insisted on coming to Trieste, not to England,
and will return with us.  It took us, _after his arrival_, twenty-
eight days to accomplish the twenty-eight hours of express between
Cannes and Trieste in toil, anguish, and anxiety.  We arrived April
5 at home in rest and comfort.  He has been making daily progress to
health.  He is now out walking with his doctor.  We had a  consultation
a few days ago.  He will always require _great care and watching_ all
his life--diet and internal health; must not climb, as his heart is
weak, nor take Turkish baths, nor overwork; and he may so live fifteen
years, but he may die any moment of heart disease.  And I need not say
that I shall never have a really happy, peaceful moment again.  In the
midst of this my uncle,[3] who was like my father to me, was found dead
in his bed.  Then I have had a bad lip and money losses, and altogether
a bad time of it."[4]

At Trieste Burton led the life of a confirmed invalid, and his wife
attended him with unfailing devotion, which was in no way abated by the
presence of the resident doctor "a disagreeable luxury," as she called
him.  They used to sit a good deal under their favourite linden tree
in the garden and receive visitors.  Burton's love for his wife, always
deep, though never demonstrative, seems to have shown itself more at
this time; and in the few remaining years he came to lean on her more
and more, making her his _confidante_ in all things.  In June they
celebrated the Jubilee of Queen Victoria, and owing to her husband's
illness, nearly all the arrangements fell upon Lady Burton.  It was
she who drew up the address which was sent to Her Majesty, and she also
prepared the speech to deliver in case her husband was too unwell to
attend the public dinner in celebration of the event.  As Lady Burton
has been accused of being such a bigoted Roman Catholic, it is only
fair to mention that on this auspicious occasion she accompanied her
husband to the official service in the Anglican Church.  Her loyalty
to her Queen was unswerving.  She was not required to make the speech,
as Burton was well enough to be carried down to the dinner, and he
delivered the oration.  It was the only occasion on which he ever wore
his Order of St. Michael and St. George.  The effort was so great that
he had to be carried upstairs again the moment his speech was over.

The rest of 1887 was chiefly taken up by a dreary record of failing
health.  The Burtons went away for a summer holiday as usual, and during
their absence from Trieste many English Royalties arrived there with the
squadron; but they were unable to receive them.  On their return Dr.
Leslie had to leave them, and his place was supplied by another doctor.
It became more than ever necessary that a medical man should be in
attendance, for Lady Burton seemed to suffer in sympathy with her
husband, and as he got worse she became worse too.  She writes about
this time: "I am unable to take anything which might be called a walk.
Driving was sometimes very painful to him, and it would not have been
safe to let him go alone."  It was one of her sorest trials that she
could not minister to her husband as formerly; but disease had laid
its hand on her too.  Their life at Trieste at this time was naturally
uneventful.  Instead of getting up, as they used to do, and beginning
their labours in the small hours of the morning, the Burtons now rose at
seven, and did as much literary work as they could until nine, when the
doctor would come in.  At twelve o'clock they had breakfast, and after
that the time was devoted either to more literary work or recreation.
At four they would receive any friends who came to see them.  At half-
past seven they dined no longer at the hotel as formerly, but at home;
and at nine o'clock they retired to rest.  It was about this time that
Sir Richard finished the last volume of his "Supplemental" _Arabian
Nights_.  The weather was so bad at Trieste, and his health so uncertain,
that the Foreign Office again gave him leave.

He and his wife came by a roundabout route to England, and saw many
old friends.  On October 15 they went down to Folkestone, where they
stayed a few days with his relatives.  They crossed on October 26 to
Boulogne.  It was Sir Richard's last visit to England; he never saw
his country again.

At Boulogne they visited once more the old haunts where they had met for
the first time years ago, and renewed acquaintance with the scenes of
their vanished youth.  It is worthy of notice how often husband and wife
went to Boulogne together during their married life.  It seemed as
though the place was endeared to them by the recollection that it was
here that they had first come together.  From Boulogne they went to
Switzerland, where they passed Christmas.  When they were at Montreux
they celebrated their wedding day (January 22), and the people in the
hotel overwhelmed them with presents and flowers and pretty speeches.
Lady Burton says, "I got quite choky, and Richard ran away and locked
himself up."  A rather ludicrous incident occurred here.  They were
expecting a visit from the famous Elisee Reclus.  Lady Burton prepared
herself to receive him with honour, and she had beforehand been warned
of his little peculiarities.  Suddenly the door was thrown open, and
some one was announced whose name she did not catch.  She greeted the
new-comer with effusion, saying, "Dear Monsieur Reclus, I am so
delighted to make your acquaintance; such a pleasure to know such
a distinguished man."  Her greeting was acknowledged with equal
effusion by her visitor, who then proceeded to pull a key out of his
pocket, and went up to the clock.  Lady Burton was somewhat surprised,
but she put it down to a great man's peculiarity; so she went on talking
to him, and explaining the pleasure which it would give Sir Richard to
make his acquaintance, when the door was opened again,and the servant
announced, "Monsieur Reclus."  The man she had been talking to was
the clockwinder.

From Montreux they toured about Switzerland for some few weeks, and in
March they returned again to Trieste, where they remained off and on
until November.

During the summer Burton's health, fortified by continual change of air
and scene, improved a good deal.  The Foreign Office was most indulgent
in the amount of liberty which it gave to him.  Lord Salisbury was now
at the head of affairs; and though the Government did not see their way
to allowing Burton to retire on full pension, they granted him what was
almost the same thing--frequent and extended leaves; and it must be
remembered too the time of his Consular service was now fast drawing
to a close.  Lady Burton always said that, next to Lord Derby, Lord and
Lady Salisbury were their best friends.  About this time Lady Salisbury
wrote to her:


                      "HATFIELD HOUSE, HATFIELD, HERTS, July 21, 1880.

"MY DEAR LADY BURTON,

"I am very glad to hear so good an account of you and Sir Richard.  We
are here as busy as usual at this time of year.  We have had great doings
for the Shah, who is still in this country.  He dined and slept here one
night about a fortnight ago, and we had a garden-party for him next day.
He behaved very well, and gives me the idea of being an able man; though
whether he will think England a stronger friend than Russia remains to be
seen.  I sometimes fear he will carry away a greater idea of our riches
and luxury than of our strength, but _qui vivra, verra_.

"We are now up to our lips in a royal marriage.  It is to take place next
Saturday, and will I dare say be a very pretty sight.  The young lady[5]
is very happy by all accounts, and looks quite radiant.  Politics are
pretty quiet, and there are as few mistakes made as you can expect in
the fourth year of a government.  I think we are rather losing in London,
but are gaining in other places.  On the whole all things are very quiet.
With kind regards to Sir Richard,

                                    "Believe me,
                                         "Yours very sincerely,
                                                      "G. SALISBURY."


In November the Burtons started, _via_ Brindisi, for Malta, where they
passed a pleasant month, met many friends, and enjoyed themselves very
much.  From Malta they went to Tunis, and renewed their acquaintance
with the Bedawin and the Arab tents.  It was their last glimpse of the
desert life which they loved so well.  Among other places they visited
the ruins of Carthage, and made as many excursions into the interior as
it was possible, considering the state of Sir Richard's health.  From
Tunis they went by train to Algiers, starting on the journey at 5.15
on a cold January morning.  When they reached Algiers, they were
delighted with it at first; but they soon tired.  Even an expedition
to the baths of Hammam R'irha did not reconcile them to the place, and
they left it early in March, going by boat to Marseilles, and then
travelling homewards by way of the Riviera to Genoa, and thence to
Venice.  They crossed to Trieste the following day, having been absent
more than four months.

They remained at Trieste until July 1, when they started for their
last summer trip.  The heat in Trieste during July and August is almost
insupportable.  They went to Innsbruck, Zurich, Davos Platz, Regatz,
and other places.  They were counting the months to the day when Burton
would complete his term in the Consular Service, and would be permitted
to retire on his pension.  From Zurich Lady Burton wrote to a friend[6]:

"We go back (D.V.) September 1 or thereabouts, stay three months, and
then winter in Greece and Constantinople.  In March Dick's service is
ended, and between that and August we pack up, settle our affairs, and
come home for good.  In one sense I am glad, because he yearns for a
little flat in London; we shall be in the land of good advice and
nourishment; and, God willing, I shall have brought him home safe and
sound after thirty years' perils and dangers by health and land and sea.
On the other hand, it is a wrench to give up my nice home.  I have the
whole of the second and top floor now, and I have made it so pretty, and
I love Trieste and the life of my friends.  I don't know how I shall
concentrate myself and my belongings into a vulgar little flat--on
small means.  If you see any flat likely to suit us, let me know."

It was during this time in Switzerland that Burton made his wife his
literary executrix.  He called her into his room one day, and dictated
to her a list of private papers which he wished to be burned in the
event of his death, and gave her three signed documents, one of which
ran as follows:


"In the event of my death, I bequeath especially to my wife, Isabel
Burton, every book, paper, or manuscript, to be overhauled and examined
by her only, and to be dealt with entirely at her own discretion, and in
the manner she thinks best, having been my sole helper for thirty years.

                      (Signed) "RICHARD F. BURTON."


On September 7 they returned to Trieste together for the last time.
They were both very much better for the good air in Switzerland, and
settled down again to their quiet literary life, full of occupations
for the present and plans for the future.  Lady Burton was especially
busy during these six weeks in helping her husband to sort and arrange
his manuscripts and papers, and he worked as usual at three or four
books at a time, especially his _Scented Garden_, which was now
nearing completion.

I should like to interpolate here a beautiful and characteristic letter
Lady Burton wrote, on October 10, to a friend, Madame de Gutmansthal-
Benvenuti, who had just lost her husband:

"You need no letter from me to tell you how my heart is grieving for you,
and with you, in this greatest trial woman can ever know--the trial
before which my own head is ever bowed down, and my heart shrinking from
in terror.  And it has fallen on you, my best and dearest friend.  But
you have such consolations.  He was a religious man, and died with the
Sacraments, and you are sure of a happy meeting, just as if he had gone
on a journey to wait for you; but _more surely to meet_ than if he had
gone on an earthly journey.  You have your dear children to live for,
and that must now be your _only_ thought, and taking care of your health
for that purpose.  All of us, who love you, are thinking of you and
praying for you."

Ten days later the trial she so much dreaded had come upon her.  And
here for a space Lady Burton will speak in her own words.


NOTES:

1. He actually compiled a book of quotations from the Bible and
   Shakspeare for use in case of need, which he called _The Black Book_.
2. Letter to Miss Bishop from Tangiers, Morocco, February 16, 1886.
3. The late Lord Gerard.
4. Letter to Miss Bird from Trieste, April 10, 1887.
5. The Duchess of Fife.
6. Letter to Miss Bishop, July 21, 1890.




CHAPTER XXVII.  THE SWORD FALLS.  1890.


    Life is a sheet of paper white,
    Whereon each one of us may write
    His word or two, and then comes night.

                                     LOWELL.


"Let me recall the last happy day of my life.  It was Sunday, October
19, 1890.  I went out to Communion and Mass at eight o'clock, came back,
and kissed my husband at his writing.  He was engaged on the last page
of _The Scented Garden_, which had occupied him seriously only six
actual months, not thirty years, as the press said.   He said to me,
'To-morrow I shall have finished this, and I promise you that I will
never write another book on the subject.  I will take to our biography.'
And I said, 'What a happiness that will be!'  He took his usual walk
of nearly two hours in the morning, breakfasting well.

"That afternoon we sat together writing an immense number of letters,
which, when we had finished, I put on the hall table to be posted on
Monday morning.  Each letter breathed of life and hope and happiness;
for we were making our preparations for a delightful voyage to Greece
and Constantinople, which was to last from November 15 to March 15.  We
were to return to Trieste from march 15 till July 1.  He would be a free
man on March 19, and those three months and a half we were to pack up,
make our preparations, wind up all our affairs, send our heavy baggage
to England, and, bidding adieu to Trieste, we were to pass July and
August in Switzerland, arrive in England in September, 1891, look for
a little flat and a little cottage, unpack, and settle ourselves to
live in England.

"The only difference remarkable on this particular Sunday, October 19,
was, that whereas my husband was dreadfully punctual, and with military
precision as the clock struck we had to be in our places at the table at
half-past seven, he seemed to dawdle about the room putting things away.
He said to me, 'You had better go in to table'; and I answered, 'No,
darling, I will wait for you'; and we went in together.  He dined well,
but sparingly; he laughed, talked, and joked.  We discussed our future
plans and preparations, and he desired me on the morrow to write to Sir
Edmund Monson, and several other letters, to forward the preparations.
We talked of our future life in London, and so on.  About half-past nine
he got up and went to his bedroom, accompanied by the doctor and myself,
and we assisted him at his toilet.  I then said the night prayers to him,
and whilst I was saying them a dog began that dreadful howl which the
superstitious say denotes a death.  It disturbed me so dreadfully that
I got up from the prayers, went out of the room, and called the porter
to go out and see what was the matter with the dog.  I then returned,
and finished the prayers, after which he asked me for a novel.  I gave
him Robert Buchanan's _Martyrdom of Madeleine_.  I kissed him and got
into bed, and he was reading in bed.

"At twelve o'clock, midnight, he began to grow uneasy.  I asked him what
ailed him, and he said, 'I have a gouty pain in my foot.  When did I have
my last attack?'  I referred to our journals, and found it was three
months previously that he had had a real gout, and I said, 'You know that
the doctor considers it a safety-valve that you should have a healthy
gout in your feet every three months for your head and your general
health.  Your last attack was three months ago at Zurich, and your next
will be due next January.'  He was then quite content; and though he
moaned and was restless, he tried to sleep, and I sat by him magnetizing
the foot locally, as I had the habit of doing, to soothe the pain, and
it gave him so much relief that he dozed a little, and said, 'I dreamt
I saw our little flat in London, and it had quite a nice large room in
it.' Between whiles he laughed and talked and spoke of our future plans,
and even joked.

"At four o'clock he got more uneasy, and I said I should go for the
doctor.  He said, 'Oh no, don't disturb him; he cannot do anything.'
And I answered, 'What is the use of keeping a doctor if he is not to
be called when you are suffering?'  The doctor was there in a few
moments, felt his heart and pulse, found him in perfect order--that
the gout was healthy.  He gave him some medicine and went back to bed.
About half-past four he complained that there was no air.  I flew
back for the doctor, who came and found him in danger.  I went at once,
called up all the servants, sent in five directions for a priest,
according to the directions I had received, hoping to get one; and the
doctor, and I and Lisa[1] under the doctor's orders, tried every remedy
and restorative, but in vain.

"What harasses my memory, what I cannot bear to think of, what wakes me
with horror every morning from four till seven, when I get up, is that
for a minute or two he kept on crying, "Oh, Puss, chloroform--ether--or
I am a dead man!'  My God!  I would have given him the blood out of my
veins, if it would have saved him; but I had no answer, 'My darling, the
doctor says it will kill you; he is doing all he knows.'  I was holding
him in my arms, when he got heavier and heavier, and more insensible,
and we laid him on the bed.  The doctor said he was quite insensible,
and assured me he did not suffer.  I trust not; I believe it was a clot
of blood to the heart.

"My one endeavour was to be useful to the doctor, and not impede his
actions by my own feelings.  The doctor applied the electric battery
to the heart, and kept it there till seven o'clock; and I knelt down
at his left side, holding his hand and pulse, and prayed my heart out
to God to keep his soul there (though he might be dead in appearance)
till the priest arrived.  I should say that he was insensible in thirty
minutes from the time he said there was no air.

"It was a country Slav priest, lately promoted to be our parish priest,
who came.  He called me aside, and told me that he could not give
Extreme Unction to my husband, because he had not declared himself; but
I besought him not to lose a moment in giving the Sacrament, for the soul
was passing away, and that I had the means of satisfying him.  He looked
at us all three, and asked if he was dead, and we all said no.  God was
good, for had he had to go back for the holy materials it would have been
too late, but he had them in his pocket, and he immediately administered
Extreme Unction--_'Si vivis,'_ or _'Si es capax,'_ 'If thou art alive'--
and said the prayers for the dying and the departing soul.  The doctor
still kept the battery to the heart all the time, and I still held the
left hand with my finger on the pulse.  By the clasp of the hand, and a
little trickle of blood running under the finger, I judged there was a
little life until seven, and then I knew that . . . I was alone and
desolate for ever."[2]

       *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

I have given the foregoing in Lady Burton's own words, as unfortunately a
fierce controversy has raged round her husband's death-bed, and therefore
it is desirable to repeat her testimony on the subject.  This testimony
was given to the world in 1893, when all the witnesses of Sir Richard
Burton's death were living, and it was never publicly contradicted or
called into question until December of last year (1896), eight months
after Lady Burton's death, when Miss Stisted's book made its appearance.
In consequence of the attack made upon Lady Burton by her niece, which
has been repeated and echoed elsewhere, it is necessary to defend Lady
Burton on this point, since she is no longer able to defend herself.
But I should like to reiterate that the question of Sir Richard Burton's
religion did not enter into the original scheme of this book.  I only
approach it now with reluctance, and that not so much for the purpose of
arguing as to what was Sir Richard Burton's religion (that was a matter
for himself alone) as of upholding the good faith of his wife.  In view
also of the peculiar bitterness of the _odium theologicum_, perhaps
it may be permitted me to say at the outset that I have no prejudice on
this subject.  I am not a Roman Catholic, and therefore cannot be accused
of approaching the controversy with what Paley was wont to call an
"antecedent bias."

In this I have the advantage of Miss Stisted, who appears to be animated
by a bitter hostility not only against her aunt but against the Church of
Rome.  In her book she asserts that Sir Richard Burton died before the
priest arrived on the scene, and that the Sacrament of Extreme Unction
was administered to a corpse.  She also goes on to say:


    The terrible shock of so fatal a termination to what seemed an
    attack of little consequence, would have daunted most Romanists
    desirous of effecting a death-bed conversion.  It did not daunt
    Isabel.  No sooner did she perceive that her husband's life was
    in danger, than she sent messengers in every direction for a
    priest.  Mercifully, even the first to arrive, a man of peasant
    extraction, who had just been appointed to the parrish, came
    too late to molest one then far beyond the reach of human folly
    and superstition.  But Isabel had been too well trained by
    the Society of Jesus not see that a chance yet remained of
    glorifying her Church--a heaven-sent chance which was not to
    be lost.  Her husband's body was not yet cold, and who could
    tell for certain whether some spark of life yet lingered in
    that inanimate form?  The doctor declared that no doubt existed
    regarding the decease, but doctors are often mistaken.  So
    hardly had the priest crossed the threshold than she flung
    herself at his feet, and implored him to administer Extreme
    Unction.  The father, who seems to have belonged to the
    ordinary type of country-bred ecclesiastic so common abroad,
    and who probably in the whole course of his life had never
    before availed himself of so startling a method of enrolling
    a new convert, demurred.  There had been no profession of
    faith, he urged; there could be none now, for--and he hardly
    liked to pronounce the cruel words--Burton was dead.  But
    Isabel would listen to no arguments, would take no refusal;
    she remained weeping and wailing on the floor, until at last,
    to terminate a disagreeable scene, which most likely would
    have ended in hysterics he consented to perform the rite.
    Rome took formal possession of Richard Burton's corpse, and
    pretended, moreover, with insufferable insolence, to take
    under her protection his soul.  From that moment an
    inquisitive mob never ceased to disturb the solemn chamber.
    Other priests went in and out at will, children from a
    neighbouring orphanage sang hymns and giggled alternately,
    pious old women recited their rosaries, gloated over the
    dead, and splashed the bed with holy water; the widow, who
    had regained her composure, directing the innumerable
    ceremonies. . . . After the necessary interval had elapsed,
    Burton's funeral took place in the largest church in  Trieste,
    and was made the excuse for an ecclesiastical triumph of a
    faith he had always loathed.[3]


These statements of Lady Burton and Miss Stisted have been placed one
after another, in order that the dispassionate reader may be able to
judge not only of their conflicting nature, but of the different spirit
which animates them.  Lady Burton writes from her heart, reverently,
as a good woman would write of the most solemn moments of her life, and
of things which were to her eternal verities.  Would she be likely to
perjure herself on such a subject?  Miss Stisted writes with an
unconcealed animus, and is not so much concerned in defending the purity
of her uncle's Protestantism as in vilifying her aunt and the faith to
which she belonged.  It may be noted too that Miss Stisted has no word of
womanly sympathy for the wife who loved her husband with a love passing
the love of women, and who was bowed down by her awful sorrow.  On the
contrary, with revolting heartlessness and irreverence, she jeers at her
aunt's grief and the last offices of the dead.  We may agree with the
doctrines of the Church of Rome, or we may not; the solemn rites may be
unavailing, or they may be otherwise; but at least they can do no harm,
and the death-chamber should surely be sacred from such vulgar ribaldry!
Good taste, if no higher consideration, might have kept her from mocking
the religious convictions of others.

Miss Stisted's indictment of Lady Burton on this point falls under
three heads:

First, that Sir Richard was dead before the priest arrived.

Secondly, that he was never a Catholic at all, and so his wife acted in
bad faith.

Thirdly, that he "loathed" the Catholic religion.

It is better to deal with these charges _seriatim_.

With regard to the first, we have the positive and public testimony of
Lady Burton, which was never contradicted during her lifetime, to the
effect that her husband was alive when the Sacrament of Extreme Unction
was administered to him.  As, however, this testimony had been publicly
called in question, though not until eight months after her death, we
obtained through the kindness of the Baroness Paul de Ralli, a friend of
Lady Burton at Trieste, the following written attestation from the priest
who attended Sir Richard Burton's death-bed, and who is still living:


DECLARATION.[4]

"On October 20, 1890, at six o'clock in the morning, I was called in
to assist at the last moments of Sir Richard Burton, British Consul.

"Knowing that he had been brought up, or born in, the Evangelical
religion, before repairing to his house I went to see Dr. Giovanni
Sust, the Provost of this Cathedral, in order to find out from him
what I was to do in the matter.  He replied that I should go, and
act accordingly as the circumstances might seem to require.

"So I went.

"Entering into the room of the sick man, I found him in bed with the
doctor and Lady Burton beside him.

"At first sight it seemed that I was looking, not at a sick man, but
rather at a corpse.  My first question was, 'Is he alive or dead?'  Lady
Burton replied that he was still living, and the doctor nodded his head,
to confirm what she had said.

"And in fact the doctor was seated on the bed holding in his hands the
hand of Sir Richard Burton to feel the beat of his pulse, and from time
to time he administered some _corroborante_,[5] or gave an injection.
Which of these two things he did I cannot now recollect, but it was
certainly one or the other of them.  These are things which one would
certainly not do to a corpse, but only to a person still living; or if
these acts were performed with knowledge that the person in question was
already dead, they could not be done without laying oneself open to an
accusation of deception, all the more reprehensible if put in operation
at such a solemn moment.

"In such a case all the responsibility would fall upon the doctor in
charge, who with a single word, or even a sign given secretly to the
priest, would have been able to prevent the administration of the Holy
Sacrament of Extreme Unction.

"The second observation which I made to Lady Burton was one concerning
religion--namely, "That whoever was of the Evangelical persuasion could
not receive the Holy Sacraments in this manner."

"To this observation of mine she answered that some years ago he had
received Extreme Unction, being, if I mistake not, at Cannes, and that
on this occasion he had abjured the heresy and professed himself as
belonging to the Catholic Church.  On such a declaration from Lady
Burton, I did that which a minister of God ought to do, and decided
to administer to the dying man the last comforts of our holy religion.
As it seemed to me that there was not much time to lose, I wished
to administer the Extreme Unction by means of one single anointing on
the forehead, as is done in urgent cases; but Lady Burton said that
death was not so imminent; therefore she begged me to carry out the
prescribed ceremony of Extreme Unction.

"This completed, together with the other customary prayers for the
dying, I took my departure.  I returned to the house of the Provost,
Dr. Sust, and laid everything before him, and he said I had done
quite right.

"In a certificate of death drawn up by the Visitatore dei Morti,[6]
Inspector Corani, in the register, under the head of religion, is written
'Catholic.'  The funeral also was conducted according to the rites of the
Catholic Church.  I am convinced that Sir Richard Burton really became
a Catholic, but that outwardly he did not wish this to be known, having
regard to his position as a Consul to a Government of the Evangelical
persuasion; and I have built up the hope that the innumerable prayers
for her husband's conversion and good works of his pious wife Lady
Burton will have been heeded by that Lord who said unto us, 'Pray,
and your prayers shall be answered,' and that his soul will now have
been received by the good God, together with that of the saintly lady
his wife.

"One question I permit myself to ask of those who have now published
the Life of Sir Richard Burton, which is this, 'Why did they not publish
it during the lifetime of Lady Burton?  Who better than she would have
been able to enlighten the world on this point of much importance?  Why
publish it now when she is no longer here to speak?'

                             "Trieste, January 12, 1897,
                                         "PIETRO MARTELANI,

                     "Formerly Parish Priest of the B.V. del Soccorso,
                 now Prebenday and Priest of the Cathedral of Triest."[7]


I am further able to state that the gross travesty of Lady Burton's grief
--"her weeping and wailing on the floor," etc., etc.--is the outcome of a
malevolent imagination, from which nothing is sacred, not even a widow's
tears.  Lady Burton bore herself through the most awful trial of her
life with quietude, fortitude, and resignation.

And now to turn to the second charge--to wit, that Sir Richard was never
a Catholic at all; from which, if true, it follows that he was in fact
"kidnapped" by his wife and the priest on his death-bed.

If this charge did not involve a suggestion of bad faith on the part of
Lady Burton, I should have ignored it; for I hold most strongly that a
man's religion is a matter for himself alone, a matter between himself
and his God, one in which no outsider has any concern.  Burton himself
took this view, for he once said: "My religious opinion is of no
importance to anybody but myself.  No one knows what my religious views
are.  I object to confession, and I will not confess.  My standpoint is,
and I hope ever will be, the Truth, as it is in me, known only to
myself."[8]  This attitude he maintained to the world to the day of his
death; but to his wife he was different.  Let me make my meaning quite
clear.  I do not say Burton was a Catholic or that he was not; I offer
no opinion.  But what I do assert with all emphasis is that _he gave
his wife reason to believe that he had become a Catholic_; and in this
matter she acted in all good faith, in accordance with the highest
dictates of her conscience and her duty.  Burton knew how strongly his
wife felt on this subject, and how earnest were her convictions.  He
knew that his conversion to Catholicism was her daily and nightly
prayer.  These considerations probably weighed with him when he signed
the following paper (reproduced in facsimile on the opposite page).  He
signed it on the understanding that she was to keep it secret till he
was a dying man:


                                          "GORIZIA, February 15, 1877.

"Should my husband, Richard Burton, be on his death-bed unable to
speak I perhaps already dead--and that he may wish to have the grace to
retract and recant his former errors, and to join the Catholic Church,
and also to receive the Sacraments of Penance, Extreme Unction, and
Holy Eucharist, he might perhaps be able to sign this paper, or make
the sign of the cross to show his need.

                                         (signed) "RICHARD F. BURTON."


I do not analyse the motives which led Burton to sign this paper.  He may
have done it merely to satisfy his wife (for, from the Agnostic point of
view, the Sacraments would not have mattered much either way), or he may
have done it from honest conviction, or from a variety of causes, for
human motives are strangely commingled; _but that he did sign it there
is no doubt_.  Lady Burton, at any rate, took it all in good faith, and
acted accordingly in sending for the priest; the priest, on receiving
her assurance, acted in good faith in administering to Sir Richard Burton
the last rites of the Church; and the Bishop of Trieste also acted in
good faith in conceding to him a Catholic funeral.  It is difficult to
see how any of them could have acted otherwise.

Lastly, it has been asserted that Sir Richard Burton "loathed" the Roman
Catholic Church; and though he was indifferent to most religions, he
entertained a "positive aversion" to this one, and therefore to "kidnap"
him on his death-bed was peculiarly cruel.  I have read most of Burton's
writings, and it is true, especially in his earlier books, that he girds
against what he conceives to be certain abuses in the Roman Catholic
Church and her priesthood in out-of-the-way countries; but then he
attacks other forms of Christianity and other religions too.  He had
a great hatred of cant and humbug under the cloak of religion, and
denounced them accordingly.  There is nothing remarkable in this.  We
all denounce cant and humbug in the abstract, often most loudly when we
are humbugs ourselves.  If Burton attacked Christianity more than other
religions, and Catholicism more than other forms of Christianity, he
probably did so because they came more in his way.  His religious acts
generally appear to have been guided by the principle of "When one is
at Rome, do as Rome does."  He was a Mohammedan among Mohammedans, a
Mormon among Mormons, a sufi among the Shazlis, and a Catholic among
the Catholics.  One thing he certainly was not in his later years--a
member of the Church of England.  He was baptized and brought up in the
Anglican Communion.  He entered at Trinity College, Oxford, and he joined
the Indian army as a member of the Church of England; but when he was
at Goa in 1847 he left off "sitting under" that garrison chaplain and
betook himself to the Roman Catholic chapel, and availed himself of the
ministrations of the Goanese priest.  From that time, except officially,
he never seems to have availed himself of the services of the Church of
England.  I do not unduly press the point of his attendance at the Roman
Catholic chapel at Goa, for it may simply have meant that Burton merely
went to the chapel and worshipped as a Catholic among Catholics, just as
when he was at Mecca he worshipped as a Mohammedan among the Mohammedans;
but it tells against the theory that he "loathed" Catholicism, as the
same necessity did not exist at Goa as at Mecca.  It was a purely
voluntary act on his part.  Henceforward it would seem that, so far from
being prejudiced against Catholicism, Burton was always coquetting with
it; and if he took any religion seriously at all, he may be said to have
taken this one seriously.  The following facts also go to prove this
theory.  He married a Catholic wife, of whose strong religious views he
was well aware.  Before the marriage he signed a paper to the effect that
his children, if any, should be brought up in the Roman Catholic faith.
He obtained and used the following letter from Cardinal Wiseman, with
whom he was on friendly terms:


                                                "LONDON, June 28, 1856.

"DEAR SIR,

"Allow me to introduce to you Captain Burton, the bearer of this note,
who is employed by the Government to make an expedition to Africa, at
the head of a little band of adventurers.  Captain Burton has been
highly spoken of in the papers here; and I have been asked to give
him this introduction to you as a Catholic officer.

          "I am, dear Sir,
                 "Yours sincerely in Christ,
                                 "N. CARD. WISEMAN.

"COLONEL HAMMERTON," etc., etc., etc.


He habitually wore a crucifix, which his wife had given him, next his
skin; he championed the cause of the Catholic converts in Syria; and
when staying with his wife's family, he would frequently attend a
service in a Roman Catholic church, and behave in all things as a
Catholic worshipper.  I am not saying that these things prove that
Burton was a Catholic, but they afford strong presumptive evidence
that he had leanings in the direction of Catholicism; and undoubtedly
they go to prove that he did not "loathe" the Catholic religion.  One
thing is certain, he was too much of a scholar to indulge in any vulgar
prejudice against the Roman Catholic Church, and too much of a gentleman
to insult her priests.

After all there is nothing inherently improbable in Burton's conversion
to Catholicism.  Most of his life had been spent in countries where
Catholicism is practically the only form of Christianity; and such a
mind as his, if on the rebound from Agnosticism, would be much more
likely to find a refuge in the bosom of the Roman Catholic Church than
in the half-way house of Evangelical Protestantism.  To a temperament
like Burton's, steeped in Eastern mysticism and Sufiism, Catholicism
would undoubtedly have offered strong attractions; for the links between
the highest form of Sufiism and the Gospel of St. John, the _Ecstasis_
of St. Bernard, and other writings of the Fathers of the Church who
were of the Alexandrian school, are well known, and could hardly have
been ignored by Burton, who made a comparative study of religions.

This, however, is by the way, and has only an indirect bearing on his
wife's action.  She, who knew him best, and from whom he had no secrets,
believed that, in his later years at least, her husband was at heart a
Catholic.  He gave her ample grounds for this belief, and she acted upon
it in all good faith.  That he may have deceived her is possible, though
not probable; but that she would have deceived a priest of her Church at
the most solemn moment of her life, and on one of the most sacred things
of her religion, is both impossible and improbable.  The whole nature of
the woman, her transparent truthfulness, her fervent piety, rise up in
witness against this charge, and condemn it.  And to what end would she
have done this thing?  No one knew better than Lady Burton that there is
One whom she could not deceive; for with her the things invisible were
living realities, and the actualities of this life were but passing
things which come and fade away.


NOTES:

1. Lady Burton's maid, now dead.
2. _Life of Sir Richard Burton,_ by Isabel his wife, vol. ii.,
   pp. 410-414.  This work was published in May, 1893.
3. Miss Stisted's Life of Burton, pp. 409-414.
4. Translated from the Italian.
5. A tonic, a strengthening restorative.
6. An official (generally a physician) who visits the dead, and
   assures himself that the death is real, and not an apparent one.
7. The Baroness Paul de Ralli, who procured the above attestation
   from the priest, sent it in the first instance to Cardinal
   Vaughan together with the following letter:

                                 "TRIESTE, AUSTRIA, January 19, 1897.

    "MY LORD CARDINAL,

    "There has lately been published a so-called 'true' Life of the
    late Sir Richard Burton, written by his niece.  Since my letter
    to _The Catholic Times_, which appeared in the issue of December
    24, it has been pointed out to me that it would be well if I
    could procure a written attestation of the priest who gave Extreme
     Unction to the late Sir Richard Burton.  I am authorized by
    Monseigneur Sterk to place in the hands of your Eminence the
    enclosed manuscript, written by Monseigneur Martelani, who is
    now Prebendary of the Cathedral here.  As an intimate friend of
    the Burtons, I beg to say that everything said about the life of
    the Burtons at this place in the 'true' life has been written by
    dictation, and, furthermore, that I could name the authoress's
    informant, which makes the book worthless for those who know the
    source from which the authoress has gathered her information--the
    same source which has made Lady Burton's life hideous from the
    day of her husband's death to the time she left this place.
    As regards those who claim to have known all about Sir Richard
    Burton--'They knew the man well,'etc.--allow me to point out
    that the exoteric subtleties of his character were only exceeded
    by the esoteric; and to what an extent this is true is only known
    to those who were at the same time his friends and his wife's
    intimate friends, of whom there are several here beside myself.
    My position at the Villa Gosslett was perhaps a little exceptional.
    Having come here from England in 1875 after my marriage, I was
    looked upon by the Burtons as a sort of ex-subject of theirs.

                    "Believe me to be, my Lord Cardinal,
                              "Yours faithfully,
                                      "CATHERINE DE RALLI."

8. Speech at the Anthropological Society, London, 1865.




BOOK III.  WIDOWED.  (1890-1896).


    "_El Maraa min ghayr Zaujuga mislaha tayaran maksus el Jenakk._"
     ("The woman without her husband is like a bird with one wing.")



CHAPTER I.  THE TRUTH ABOUT "THE SCENTED GARDEN."


    Now I indeed will hide desire and all repine,
    And light up this my fire that neighbours see no sign:
    Accept I what befalls by order of my Lord,
    Haply he too accept this humble act of mine.

                                        ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                                   (_Burton's "Arabian Nights"_).


Sir Richard Burton's funeral was attended by a great crowd of mourners
and representatives of every class in Trieste.  The Austrian
authorities accorded him military honours, and the Bishop of Trieste
conceded all the rites of the Church.  His remains were laid, with much
pomp and circumstance, in their temporary resting-place--a small chapel
in the burial-ground--until his widow could take them back with her to
England.  The funeral over, Lady Burton returned to her desolate house--
a home no longer, for the loved presence which had made the palazzo a
home, as it would have made a home to her of the humblest hut on earth,
was gone for ever.  The house was but an empty shell.  Sir Richard
Burton's death had been so sudden and unexpected that none of Lady
Burton's near relatives, her sisters, were able to reach her in time;
and though they had telegraphed to her offering to come at once, she
had replied asking them not to undertake the journey.  And so it came
about that, in this hour of sorest trial, she was absolutely alone.
She had no one to turn to in her grief; she had no children's love to
solace her; she had no son to say, "Mother, lean on me"; no daughter
to share her sorrow.  Friends she had in plenty, and friends such as
the world rarely gives, but they could not intrude their sympathy
overmuch at such a time as this.  Moreover, she had concentrated all
her affections on her husband; she had lived so entirely for him, and
in him, that she had not formed any of those intimate friendships in
which some women delight.  She had, in short, put all her earthly
happiness in one frail barque, and it had foundered.

Hitherto we have followed her through her wedded life, that beautiful
union which was more like a poem than an ordinary marriage.  We have
seen how the love which she bore her husband had sanctified her life,
and his, lifting it above and beyond the ordinary love of men and women,
glorifying all things, even her meanest tasks, for they were done in
love's holy name.  We have seen how she knew no fear, spared herself
no pain, heeded no rebuff in the service of the man she loved.  We have
followed her in journeyings often, in perils of sea, in perils of
robbers, in perils of the heathen, in perils of the wilderness, in
weariness and sorrow, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, and
besides these things that were without, bearing those secret sorrows--
"my beloved secret cross," she called them--which are known only to
the soul and its God.  We have seen all this, the full, perfect glorious
life which she lived by the side of the man she loved; in the brief
survey of the few broken years left to her on earth, we shall henceforth
see her alone--alone, yet not alone, for the Divine love went with her,
and with her also was ever present the memory of an earthly love, a
love purified and holy, growing nearer and nearer to the love of the
perfect day.

If we were to search the wide world over, ransack history, dive deep into
the annals of the past, I doubt if there would be found any more perfect
example of unselfish love than that which is exemplified in the wedded
life of this woman.  With her it was always "Richard only."  It is with
this thought in our minds that we approach her crowning act of self-
sacrifice, her last supreme offering on the altar of love.  I refer to
the act whereby she deliberately sacrificed the provision her husband
had made for her, and faced poverty, and the contumely of her enemies,
for the sake of his fair memory.

Lady Burton's first act after her husband's death was to lock up his
manuscripts and papers to secure them against all curious and prying
eyes--a wise and necessary act under the circumstances, and one which
was sufficient to show that, great though her grief was, it did not rob
her for one moment of her faculties.  As soon as her husband's funeral
was over, she went back to his rooms, locked the door securely, and
examined carefully all his books and papers, burning those which
he had desired to be burnt, and sorting and classifying the others.
Among the manuscripts was Sir Richard's translation of the notorious
_Scented Garden, Men's Hearts to Gladden, of the Shaykh el Nafzawih_,
which he had been working at the day before his death, completed all
but one page, and the proceeds of which he had told his wife were to
form her jointure.  As his original edition of _The Arabian Nights_
had brought in 10,000 pounds profit, the _Scented Garden_, beside which
_The Arabian Nights_ was a "baby tale," might reasonably have been
expected to have produced as much, if not more.  Indeed, a few days
after Sir Richard's death, a man offered Lady Burton six thousand
guineas down for the manuscript as it stood, and told her that he
would relieve her of all risk and responsibility in the matter.  She
might, therefore, easily have closed with this offer without any one
being the wiser, and if she had been inclined to drive a bargain,
she would doubtless have had no difficulty in securing double the
price.  As her husband's death had reduced her to comparative poverty,
the temptation to an ordinary woman, even a good and conscientious
woman, would have been irresistible; she could have taken the money,
and have quieted her conscience with some of those sophistries which
we can all call to our aid on occasion.  But Lady Burton was not an
ordinary woman, and the money side of the question never weighed with
her for one moment.  How she acted at this crisis in her life is best
told by herself.


"My husband had been collecting for fourteen years information and
materials on a certain subject.  His last volume of _The Supplemental
Nights_ had been finished and out on November 13, 1888.  He then gave
himself up entirely to the writing of this book which was called
_The Scented Garden_, a translation from the Arabic.  It treated of a
certain passion.  Do not let any one suppose for a moment that Richard
Burton ever wrote a thing from the impure point of view.  He dissected
a passion from every point of view, as a doctor may dissect a body,
showing its source, its origin, its evil, and its good, and its proper
uses, as designed by Providence and Nature, as the great Academician
Watts paints them.  In private life he was the most pure, the most
refined and modest man that ever lived, and he was so guileless himself
that he could never be brought to believe that other men said or used
these things from any other standpoint.  I, as a woman, think
differently.  The day before he died he called me into his room and
showed me half a page of Arabic manuscript upon which he was working,
and he said, 'To-morrow I shall have finished this, and I promise you
after this I will never write another book upon this subject.  I will
take to our biography.'  I told him it would be a happy day when he
left off that subject, and that the only thing that reconciled me to
it was, that the doctors had said that it was so fortunate, with his
partial loss of health, that he could find something to interest and
occupy his days.  He said, 'This is to be your jointure, and the
proceeds are to be set apart for an annuity for you'; and I said, 'I
hope not; I hope you will live to spend it like the other.'  He said,
'I am afraid it will make a great row in England, because _The Arabian
Nights_ was a baby tale in comparison to this, and I am in communication
with several men in England about it.'  The next morning, at 7 a.m., he
had ceased to exist.  Some days later, when I locked myself up in his
rooms, and sorted and examined the manuscripts, I read this one.  No
promise had been exacted from me, because the end had been so unforeseen,
and I remained for three days in a state of perfect torture as to what
I ought to do about it.  During that time I received an offer from a
man whose name shall be always kept private, of six thousand guineas
for it.  He said, 'I know from fifteen hundred to two thousand men who
will buy it at four guineas, _i.e._ at two guineas the volume; and as
I shall not restrict myself to numbers, but supply all applicants on
payment, I shall probably make 20,000 pounds out of it.'  I said to
myself, 'Out of fifteen hundred men, fifteen will probably read it
in the spirit of science in which it was written; the other fourteen
hundred and eighty-five will will read it for filth's sake, and pass
it to their friends, and the harm done may be incalculable.'  'Bury it,'
said one adviser; 'don't decide.'  'That means digging it up again and
reproducing at will.'  'Get a man to do it for you,' said No. 2; 'don't
appear in it.'  'I have got that,' I said.  'I can take in the world,
but I cannot deceive God Almighty, who holds my husband's soul in His
hands.'  I tested one man who was very earnest about it: 'Let us go
and consult So-and-so'; but he, with a little shriek of horror, said,
'Oh, pray don't let me have anything to do with it; don't let my name
get mixed up in it, but it is a beautiful book I know.'

"I sat down on the floor before the fire at dark, to consult my own
heart, my own head.  How I wanted a brother!  My head told me that sin
is the only rolling stone that gathers moss; that what a gentleman, a
scholar, a man of the world may write when living, he would see very
differently to what the poor soul would see standing naked before
its God, with its good or evil deeds alone to answer for, and their
consequences visible to it for the first moment, rolling on to the end
of time.  Oh for a friend on earth to stop and check them!  What would
he care for the applause of fifteen hundred men now--for the whole
world's praise, and God offended.  My heart said, 'You can have six
thousand guineas; your husband worked for you, kept you in a happy home
with honour and respect for thirty years.  How are you going to reward
him?  That your wretched body may be fed and clothed and warmed for a few
miserable months or years, will you let that soul, which is part of your
soul, be left out in cold and darkness till the end of time, till all
those sins which may have been committed on account of reading those
writings have been expiated, or passed away perhaps for ever?  Why, it
would be just parallel with the original thirty pieces of silver!'  I
fetched the manuscript and laid it on the ground before me, two large
volumes' worth.  Still my thoughts were, Was it a sacrilege?  It was
his _magnum opus_, his last work that he was so proud of, that was to
have been finished on the awful morrow--that never came.  Will he rise
up in his grave and curse me or bless me?  The thought will haunt
me to death, but Sadi and El Shaykh el Nafzawih, who were pagans,
begged pardon of God and prayed not to be cast into hell fire for
having written them, and implored their friends to pray for them to
the Lord, that He would have mercy on them.  And then I said, 'Not
only not for six thousand guineas, but not for six million guineas
will I risk it.'  Sorrowfully, reverently, and in fear and trembling,
I burnt sheet after sheet, until the whole of the volumes were
consumed."[1]


As to the act itself I am not called upon to express any opinion.  But
there can be no two opinions among fair-minded people as to the heroism,
the purity, and the sublime self-sacrifice of the motives which prompted
Lady Burton to this deed.  Absolutely devoted to her husband and his
interests as she had been in his lifetime, she was equally jealous of his
honour now that he was dead.  Nothing must tarnish the brightness of his
good name.  It was this thought, above all others, which led her to burn
_The Scented Garden_.  For this act the vials of misrepresentation and
abuse were poured on Lady Burton's head.  She was accused of the "bigotry
of a torquemada, the vandalism of a John Knox."  She has been called
hysterical and illiterate.  It has been asserted that she did it from
selfish motives, "for the sake of her own salvation, through the
promptings of a benighted religion," for fear of the legal consequences
which might fall upon her if she sold the book, for love of gain, for
love of notoriety, for love of "posing as a martyr," and so on, and so
on.  She was publicly vilified and privately abused, pursued with
obscene, anonymous, and insulting letters until the day of her death.
In fact, every imputation was hurled at her, and she who might have
answered all her persecutors with a word, held her peace, or broke it
only to put them on another track.  It was not merely the act itself
which caused her suffering; it was the long persecution which followed
her from the day her letter appeared in _The Morning Post_ almost to
the day she died.  How keenly she felt it none but those who knew her
best will ever know.  A proud, high-spirited woman, she had never
schooled herself to stay her hand, but generally gave her adversaries
back blow for blow; but these cowardly attacks she bore in silence,
nay more, she counted all the suffering as gain, for she was bearing
it for the sake of the man she loved.

And this silence would never have been broken, and the true reasons
which led Lady Burton to act as she did would never have been told to
the world, had it not been that, after her death, a woman, whom she had
never injured by thought, word, or deed, has seen fit to rake up this
unpleasant subject again, for the purpose of throwing mud on her memory,
impugning her motives, and belittling the magnitude of her sacrifice.
It is solely in defence that the truth is now told.

I have never read Sir Richard's translation of _The Scented Garden_,
for the simple reason there is none in existence (notwithstanding all
that has been said to the contrary); the only two copies were destroyed
by his widow.  But I have read another translation of the book, mainly
the work of a man who was also an Orientalist and a distinguished
soldier, which, though doubtless inferior to Burton's, is more than
sufficient to give one full knowledge of the character of the book.
I have read also Burton's original and unexpurgated edition of _Alf
Laylah wa Laylah_ and his Terminal Essay, including the Section which
is omitted in all later editions, and certain other unpublished notes
of his on the same subject.  Lady Burton also talked with me freely on
the matter.  I know therefore of what I speak, and am not in the same
position as Lady Burton's latest accuser, who declares with quite
unnecessary emphasis that she has never read _The Arabian Nights_,
and of course never saw the burnt manuscript of _The Scented Garden_.
She is therefore obviously disqualified to express any opinion on
the subject.

So far as I can gather from all I have learned, the chief value of
Burton's version of _The Scented Garden_ lay not so much in his
translation of the text, though that of course was admirably done,
as in the copious notes and explanations which he had gathered together
for the purpose of annotating the book.  He had made this subject a
study of years, though his actual translation of it only took him
eighteen months.  The theme of _The Scented Garden_ is one which is
familiar to every student of Oriental literature.  Burton, who was
nothing if not thorough in all he undertook, did not ignore this.  In
fact, one may say that from his early manhood he had been working at
it, as he commenced his inquiries soon after his arrival in India.
Lady Burton, it will be seen, says he "dissected a passion from every
point of view, as a doctor may dissect a body, showing its source, its
origin, its evil, and its good, and its proper uses, as designed by
Providence and Nature"; that is, Burton pursued his inquiries on this
subject in the same spirit as that which has animated Kraft-Ebbing and
Moll, and other men of science.  But from what I have read in _The
Arabian Nights_ and elsewhere, it seems to me that Burton's researches
in this direction were rather of an ethnological and historical character
than a medical or scientific one.  His researches had this peculiarity,
that whereas most of the writers on this subject speak from hearsay,
Burton's information was obtained at first hand, by dint of personal
inquiries.  Thus it came about that he was misunderstood.  For a man,
especially a young soldier whose work is not generally supposed to
lie in the direction of scientific and ethnological investigation,
to undertake such inquiries was to lay himself open to unpleasant
imputations.  His contemporaries and comrades in India did not
understand him, and what people do not understand they often dislike.
In his regiment he soon incurred odium, and a cloud of prejudice
enveloped him.  Unfortunately, too, he was not overwise; and he had
a habit of telling tales against himself, partly out of bravado, which
of course did not tend to improve matters.  People are very apt to be
taken at their own valuation, especially if their valuation be a bad
one.  It must not be supposed that I am giving countenance, colour, or
belief to these rumours against Burton for a moment: on the contrary,
I believe them to be false and unjust; but false and unjust though
they were, they were undoubtedly believed by many, and herein was
the gathering of the cloud which hung over Burton's head through the
earlier part of his official career.  To prove that I am not drawing
on my own imagination with regard to this theory, I quote the following,
told in Burton's own words:--

"In 1845, when Sir Charles Napier had conquered and annexed Sind, . . .
it was reported to me that Karachi, a townlet of some two thousand souls,
and distant not more than a mile from camp. . . . Being then the only
British officer who could speak Sindi, I was asked indirectly to make
inquiries, and to report upon the subject; and I undertook the task on
the express condition that my report should not be forwarded to the
Bombay Government, from whom supporters of the conqueror's policy could
expect scant favour, mercy, or justice.  Accompanied by a Munshi, Mirza
Mohammed Hosayn Shiraz, and habited as a merchant, Mirza Abdullah the
Bushiri passed many an evening in the townlet, visited all the porneia,
and obtained the fullest details, which were duly dispatched to
Government House.  But the 'Devil's Brother' presently quitted the
Sind, leaving in his office my unfortunate official; this found its way
with sundry other reports to Bombay, and produced the expected result.
A friend in the Secretariat informed me that my summary dismissal had
been formally proposed by one of Sir Charles Napier's successors, whose
decease compels me _parcere sepulto_, but this excess of outraged
modesty was not allowed."[2]

Burton was not dismissed from the Service, it is true, but the
unfavourable impression created by the incident remained.  He was
refused the post he coveted--namely, to accompany the second expedition
to Mooltan as interpreter; and seeing all prospect of promotion at an
end for the present, he obtained a long furlough, and came home from
India under a cloud.  Evil rumour travels fast; and when he went to
Boulogne (the time and place where he first met Isabel), there were
plenty of people ready to whisper ill things concerning him.  When he
returned to India two years after, notwithstanding his Mecca exploit,
he found prejudice still strong against him, and nothing he could do
seemed to remove it.  His enemies in India and at home were not slow
to use it against him.  One can trace its baleful influence throughout
his subsequent career.  Lady Burton, whose vigilance on her husband's
behalf never slept, and who would never rest until she confronted
his enemies, got to know of it.  When I know not, in what way I know
not, but the fact that sooner or later she did get to know of it is
indisputable.  How she fought to dispel this cloud none but herself
will ever know.  Official displeasure she could brave, definite charges
she could combat; but this baseless rumour, shadowy, indefinite,
intangible, ever eluded her, but eluded her only to reappear.  She
could not grasp it.  She was conscious that the thing was in the air,
so to speak, but she could not even assume its existence.  She could
only take her stand by her husband, and point to his blameless life
and say,  "You are all the world to me; I trust you and believe in you
with all my heart and soul."  And in this her wisdom was justified,
for at last the calumny died down, as all calumnies must die, for
lack of sustenance.

When _The Arabian Nights_ came out, at which she had worked so hard
to manage the business arrangements, Lady Burton did not read the book
throughout; she had promised her husband not to do so.  She had perhaps
a vague idea of some of its contents, for she raised objections.  He
explained them away, and she then worked heart and soul to ensure its
success.  The success which the book achieved, and the praise with which
it was greeted, were naturally gratifying to her, and did much to dispel
any objections which she might have had, especially when it is remembered
that this book yielded profits which enabled her to procure for her
husband every comfort and luxury for his declining years.  It has been
urged against her that she was extravagant because, when Burton died,
only four florins remained of the 10,000 pounds which they had netted
by _The Arabian Nights; but when it is borne in mind that she spent
every penny upon her husband and not a penny upon herself, it is not
possible that the charge of extravagance can be maintained against
her--certainly not in a selfish sense.

When Burton took to translating _The Scented Garden_, he acquainted
his wife to some extent with its contents, and she objected.  But he
overcame her objections, as he had done before, and the thought that
the money would be needed to maintain her husband in the same comfort
as he enjoyed during the last few years weighed down her scruples;
besides which, though she had a general idea that the book was not
_virginibus purisque_, she had no knowledge of its real character.
When therefore she read it for the first time, in the lonely days of
her early widowhood, with the full shock of her sudden loss upon her,
and a vivid sense of the worthlessness of all earthly gain brought
home to her, she naturally did not look at things from the worldly
point of view.  She has told with graphic power how she sat down with
locked doors to read this book, and how she read it through carefully,
page by page; and it must be remembered that it was not Burton's
translation alone which she read, but also the notes and evidence
which he had collected on the subject.  Then it was that the real
nature of its contents was brought home to her, and she determined
to act.  It has been said that she only "half understood" what she
read.  Alas! she understood but too well, for here was the nameless
horror which she had tried to track to earth leaping up again and
staring her in the face.  She knew well enough what interpretations
her husband's enemies--those enemies whom even the grave does not
silence--would place upon this book; how they would turn and twist
it about, and put the worst construction upon his motives, and so
blur the fair mirror of his memory.  Burton wrote as a scholar and
an ethnologist writing to scholars and ethnologists.  But take what
precautions he would, sooner or later, and sooner rather than later
the character of his book would ooze out to the world, and the ignorant
world judges harshly.  So she burnt the manuscript leaf by leaf; and
by the act she consummated her life sacrifice of love.

I repeat that her regard for her husband's memory was her supreme reason
for this act.  That there were minor reasons is not denied: she herself
has stated them.  There was the thought of the harm a book of this kind
might do; there was the thought of her responsibility to God and man;
there was the thought of the eternal welfare of her husband's soul.
She has stated, "It is my belief that by this act, if my husband's soul
were weighed down, the cords were cut, and it was left free to soar to
its native heaven."  It is easy to sneer at such a sentiment as this,
but the spiritual was very real with Lady Burton.  All these minor
considerations, therefore, weighed with her in addition to the
greatest of them all.  On the other hand, there came to her the thought
that it was the first time she had ever gone against her husband's
wishes, and now that he was dead they were doubly sacred to her.  The
mental struggle which she underwent was a terrible one: it was a
conflict which is not given to certain lower natures to know, and
not knowing it, they can neither understand nor sympathize.  I make
bold to say that the sacrifice which she made, and the motives which
prompted her to make it, will stand to her honour as long as her name
is remembered.

There remain two other considerations: the first is--Why did she make
this act known to the world at all?  Surely it would have been better
from every point of view to have veiled it in absolute secrecy.  She
has given the answer in her own words: "I was obliged to confess this
because there were fifteen hundred men expecting the book, and I did not
quite know how to get at them; also I wanted to avoid unpleasant hints by
telling the truth."  In other words, there was a large number of Burton's
supporters, persons who had subscribed to _The Arabian Nights_, and
all his literary friends, with whom he was in constant communication,
who knew that he was working at _The Scented Garden_, and were eagerly
expecting it.  Lady Burton burned the manuscript in October, 1890; she
did not make her public confession of the act in _The Morning Post_
until June, 1891, nearly nine months after the event.  During all this
time she was continually receiving letters asking what had become of the
book which she knew that she had destroyed.  What course was open to her?
One answer suggests itself: send a circular or write privately to all
these people, saying the book would not come out at all.  But this was
impossible because she did not know all of "the little army of her
husband's admiring subscribers"; she neither knew their names nor
their addresses; and apart from the endless worry and difficulty of
answering letters which such a course would have entailed, a garbled
version of the facts would be sure to have leaked out, and then she
would have had to contradict the misstatements publicly.  Or perhaps
spurious copies of _The Scented Garden_ professing to be Sir Richard's
translation might have been foisted upon the public, and she would have
been under the necessity of denouncing them.  So she argued that it was
best to have the thing over and done with once for all, to make a clean
breast of it, and let the world say what it pleased.  In this I cannot
but think that she was right, though she often said, "I have never
regretted for a moment having burned it, but I shall regret all my
life having made it known publicly, though I could hardly have done
otherwise.  I did not know my public, I did not know England."  Here I
think she was wrong in confusing England with a few anonymous letter-
writers and scurrilous persons; for however opinions may differ upon
the act itself, its wisdom or unwisdom, all right-thinking people
honoured her for the sacrifice which she had made.  They would have
honoured her even more if they had known that she had done it for the
sake of her husband's name!

Her latest and most malevolent accuser, Miss Stisted, has also urged
against her that by this act she conveyed a "wrong impression concerning
the character of the book," and so cast a slur upon her husband's memory.
A wrong impression!  The ignorance and animus of this attack are obvious.
The character of the manuscript was well known: it was the translation of
a notorious book.

The story of Burton's inquiries in this unpleasant field was known too,
if not to the many at least to the few, and his enemies had not scrupled
to place the worst construction on his motives.  His wife knew this but
too well, and she fought the prejudice with sleepless vigilance all the
years of her married life, and by this last act of hers did her best to
bury it in oblivion.  Surely it is cruelly unjust to say that it was she
who cast the slur!

And now to refer to another matter.  Miss Stisted animadverts on Lady
Burton's having sold the library edition of _The Arabian Nights_ in 1894
"with merely a few excisions absolutely indispensable."  "Coming as
it did so soon," she says, "after her somewhat theatrical destruction
of _The Scented Garden_," this act "could not be permitted to pass
unchallenged."  She not only charges Lady Burton with inconsistency,
but hints at pecuniary greed, for she mentions the sum she received.
Yet there was nothing inconsistent in Lady Burton's conduct in this
connexion.  On the contrary, it is one more tribute to her consistency,
one more proof of the theory I have put forward in her defence, for the
excisions which Lady Burton made were only those which referred to the
subject which was the theme of _The Scented Garden_.  Lady Burton was
no prude: she knew also that her husband did not write as "a young
lady to young ladies"; but she drew the line at a certain point, and
she drew it rigidly.  By her husband's will she had full power to
bring out any editions she might please of _The Arabian Nights_ or any
other book of his.  She therefore sanctioned the library edition with
certain excisions, and the reasons which prompted her to make these
excisions in _The Arabian Nights_ were the same as those which led
her to burn _The Scented Garden_.


NOTES:

1. Lady Burton's letter to _The Morning Post_, June 19, 1891.
2. Vol. X. _Arabian Nights_, Terminal Essay, Section D,
   pp. 205, 206, 1886.




CHAPTER II.  THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.  (1890-1891).


    Not yet, poor soul!  A few more darksome hours
    And sore temptations met and overcome,
    A few more crosses bravely, meekly carried,
    Ere I can proudly call the tried one home.
    Nerve then thy heart; the toil will soon be done,
    The crown of self-denial nobly earned and won.

                           From Lady Burton's Devotional Book "Tan."


Lady Burton remained at Trieste three months after her husband's death.
We have seen how she spent the first weeks of her bereavement, locked
up with his manuscripts and papers.  During that time she would see no
one, speak to no one.  When her work was done, all her husband's wishes
as to the disposal of his private papers carried out, and the manuscripts
duly sorted and arranged, she came out from her seclusion, and put
herself a little in touch with the world again.  She was deeply touched
at the sympathy which was shown to her.  The Burtons had been so many
years at Trieste, and were so widely known there and respected, that
Sir Richard's death was felt as a public loss.  A eulogy of Sir Richard
was delivered in the Diet of Trieste, and the House adjourned as a mark
of respect to his memory.  The city had three funeral requiems for him,
and hundreds of people in Trieste, from the highest to the lowest, showed
their sympathy with his widow.  Her friends rallied round her, for they
knew that her loss was no ordinary one, and she had consigned to the
grave all that made life worth living for her.  Nor was this sympathetic
regard confined to Trieste alone; the English press was full of the "dead
lion," and the dominant note was that he had not been done justice to
while he was alive.  Lady Burton was greatly gratified by all this, and
she says a little bitterly: "It shows how truly he was appreciated except
by the handful who could have made his life happy by success."

Her first public act after her husband's death was a defence of his
memory.  She had fought so hard for him when living that it seemed only
natural to her to go on fighting for him now that he was beyond the reach
of praise or blame.  Colonel Grant had written a letter to _The Times_
anent an obituary notice of Sir Richard Burton, in which he defended
Speke, and spoke of the "grave charges" which Speke communicated against
Burton to his relatives and to the Geographical Society.  Lady Burton
saw this letter some time after it appeared.  She knew well enough
what it hinted at, and she lost no time in sending a reply wherein
she defended her husband's character, and prefaced her remarks with
the characteristic lines:


                          He had not dared to do it,
                    Except he surely knew my lord was dead.


Lady Burton had soon to face, in these first days of her widowhood, the
problem of her altered circumstances.  With her husband's death his
salary as a Consul came to an end, and there was no pension for his
widow.  For the last three or four years, since they had netted
10,000 pounds by _The Arabian Nights_, the Burtons had been living
at the rate of 3,000-4,000 pounds a year, and had kept up their palazzo
at Trieste and a large staff of servants, in addition to continually
travelling _en prince_, with all the luxuries of the best hotels,
servants, and a resident doctor who always accompanied them.  Lady
Burton had sanctioned this expenditure because she wished, as she
said, to give her husband every comfort during his declining days.
Moreover, Burton had looked forward to _The Scented Garden_ to
replenish his exchequer.  Now Lady Burton found herself face to
face with these facts: the whole of the money of _The Arabian Nights_
was gone, her husband's salary was gone, _The Scented Garden_ was
gone, and there was nothing left for her but a tiny patrimony.  It was
therefore necessary that she should rouse herself to a sense of the
position.  She did so without delay.  She determined as far as possible
to carry out the plans which she and her husband had made when they were
looking forward to his retirement to leave Trieste, to return to London,
take a little flat, and occupy herself with literary work.  It was a
sore pang to her to give up the beautiful home on which she had expended
so much care and taste, and to part with her kind friends at Trieste,
many of whom she had known for eighteen years.  At Trieste she was a
personage.  Every one knew her and loved her.  She knew well enough that
when she came back to London after such a long absence, except by a few
faithful friends, she might be forgotten and overlooked in the rush and
hurry of modern life.  Nevertheless her course was plain; she had but one
desire; that was to get away from Trieste as quickly as might be, take
her husband's remains with her, and lay them to rest in English soil, a
rest which she hoped to share with him before long.

After her husband's funeral at Trieste, Lady Burton's first step should
have been the dismissal of her house-hold, except one or two servants.
She did not feel equal to this, however, and difficulties arose which
are touched on in the following letter:

"From the time I lost my all, my earthly god of thirty-five years, in
two hours, I have been like one with a blow on the head.  I cannot write
about him; I must tell of myself.  Having been eighteen years in Trieste,
it was difficult to leave so many dependent on me, so many friends to
bid farewell, so many philanthropic works to wind up the affairs of, and
I had to settle twenty rooms full of things I could not throw away.  It
took me fourteen weeks to do it.  During that time I swam in a sea of
small horrors--wickedness, treachery, threats; but my Triestine friends
stuck to me.  The authorities behaved nobly, and I pulled through and
got off."[1]

The next few months were busy ones for Lady Burton.  It is hard under any
circumstances to break up a home of eighteen years, and harder still when
it has to be done as economically and expeditiously as possible.  She
placed out all her old and trusted servants; she endeavoured to find
friends to take on the care of many of the aged and poor people who were
more or less dependent on her; she wound up the institutions of which she
was President; she paid her debts, and said good-bye to all her friends.
She refused to sell any of the furniture or effects of the home she had
loved so well.  She said it would be like selling her friends.  So she
packed the few things she thought she would want to furnish her flat
in London, and all her manuscripts, and she gave away the rest of the
furniture where she thought it would be useful or valued.  These duties
occupied her fourteen weeks in all, and she worked every day early and
late, the only break in her labours being her frequent visits to the
_chapelle ardente_ where the remains of her husband were reposing,
preparatory to being carried to England.  The only comfort to her in
this time of sorrow was a visit from her cousin, Canon Waterton of
Carlisle, a scholarly and cultured ecclesiastic, who, in addition to
providing her with spiritual consolation, also gave her much valuable
advice as to the disposition of the books and manuscripts.  In order
to guard against any misconception, however, I should like to add that
Canon Waterton did not come to Trieste until some time after _The
Scented Garden_ had been burned.  That act, in spite of all that
has been said to the contrary, was entirely Lady Burton's own act,
influenced by no priest, layman, or any person whatever.  She spoke
of it afterwards as a secret between herself and the dead husband.

So this year (1890) the saddest in Lady Burton's life, came to an end.
On January 20, 1891, she caused her husband's remains to be removed from
the chapel and conveyed on board the Cunard steamer _Palmyra_.  She
herself was going to England by the quicker route overland.

Her work now being done, a few days later Lady Burton left Trieste for
the last time.  The evening before her departure twenty of her friends
came up to spend the last hours with her.  She walked round every room,
recalling her life in her happy home.  She visited every nook and cranny
of the garden; she sat under the linden tree where she and her husband
had spent so many quiet hours, and she gazed at the beautiful views for
the last time.  This went on till the time came for her to leave.  Many
friends came to accompany her to the station.  When she arrived she
found that she had to face quite a demonstration.  All the leading
people in Trieste and the authorities of the city, all the children
of the orphanage in which she had taken so keen an interest, all the
poor whom she had helped, and all her private friends, who were many,
were there to bid her good-bye and offer her flowers.  She says: "It
was an awful trial not to make an exhibition of myself, and I was
glad when the train steamed out; but for a whole hour, ascending the
beautiful road close to the sea and Miramar and Trieste, I never took
my misty eyes off Trieste and our home where I had been so happy for
eighteen years."

On arriving in England, Lady Burton's first care was to go and see Sir
Richard's sister and niece, Lady and Miss Stisted, and acquaint them with
the circumstances of her husband's death, and her intentions.  We will
draw a veil over that meeting.  She then went on to London and stayed at
the Langham Hotel, intending to remain there a few days until she could
find a lodging.  At the Langham her three sisters were waiting for her.

Two days after her arrival in London, Lady Burton went to see about
a monument to her husband.  This monument has been already described,
and it is unnecessary to repeat the description at any length here.
Suffice it to say that it is a tomb, shaped like an Arab tent, of dark
Forest of Dean stone, lined inside with white Carrara marble.  The
tent is surmounted by a large gilt star, and over the flap door is a
white marble crucifix.  The fringe is composed of gilt crescents and
stars.  The door supports an open book of white marble: on one page
is an inscription to Sir Richard Burton; the opposite page was then
left blank.  Lady Burton had the tomb fitted up with an altar and
other accessories, so as to make it as much like a _chapelle ardente_
as possible, while preserving its Eastern character.  There was room
in the tent for two coffins, those of her husband and herself.  Finding
that her purse was too slender to carry out this somewhat elaborate
design, Lady Burton was encouraged by her friends to ask for a
public subscription, with the result that she received the greater
part of the money, but the appeal was not responded to as it might
have been.

She found that, owing to the state of the weather, the monument could
not be completed for some months, but she selected the site in Mortlake
Cemetery, the spot which she and her husband had chosen many years
before, and had the ground pegged out.  The next day, though very ill,
she, with her sister Mrs. Fitzgerald, went down to Liverpool to meet her
husband's remains, which were arriving by sea.  Lord and Lady Derby, who
had always been her kind friends, had arranged everything for her, and
the next morning Lady Burton went on board ship.  She says, "I forgot
the people when I saw my beloved case, and I ran forward to kiss it."
It was taken to the train, and to Mortlake, where they arrived that
evening.  The coffin was conveyed by torchlight to a temporary resting-
place in the crypt under the altar of the church, where it remained
until the tent was erected.  The same evening Lady Burton returned to
London, and, her work being done, the reaction set in.  She broke down
and took to her bed that night, where she remained for many weeks.
She says "I cannot describe the horror of the seventy-six days enhanced
by the fog, which, after sunlight and air, was like being buried alive.
The sense of desolation and loneliness and longing for him was cruel,
and it became


                     The custom of the day
                     And the haunting of the night.


My altered circumstances, and the looking into and facing my future,
had also to be borne."

In the meantime her friends, notably the Dowager Lady Stanley of
Alderley, the Royal Geographical and other Societies, had not been idle,
and her claims had been brought before the Queen, who was graciously
pleased to grant Lady Burton a pension of 150 pounds a year from the
Civil List.  This pension, which she enjoyed to the day of her death,
came to her as a surprise, and was not due to any effort of her own.
She would never have asked anything for herself: the only thing she
did ask for was that the nation should help her in raising a monument
to her husband's honour; but, as we have seen, the nation was somewhat
lukewarm on that point.

At the end of April Lady Burton recovered sufficiently to leave the
hotel, and joined her sister, Mrs. Fitzgerald.  She was chiefly occupied
during the next few months in looking out for a house, and in completing
the arrangements for her husband's final resting-place.  About the middle
of June the tent was finished.  Sir Richard Burton's remains were
transferred from the crypt under the church to the mausoleum where they
now rest.  At the funeral service Lady Burton occupied a _prie-dieu_
by the side, and to the right was Captain St. George Burton, of the
Black Watch, a cousin of Sir Richard.  There was a large gathering of
representatives of both families and many friends.  The widow carried
a little bunch of forget-me-nots, which she laid on the coffin.  This
simple offering of love would doubtless have been far more acceptable
to the great explorer than the "wreath from Royalty" the absence of
which his latest biographer so loudly deplores.

When the ceremony was over, Lady Burton went away at once to the country
for a ten days' rest to the Convent of the Canonesses of the Holy
Sepulchre, New Hall, Chelmsford, where she had been educated, and which
had received within its walls many of the Arundells of Wardour.  She
left New Hall much refreshed and invigorated in mind and body, and for
the next month was busy arranging a house which she had taken in Baker
Street.  She moved into it in September, 1891, and so entered upon the
last chapter of her life.


NOTES:

1. Letter to Madame de Gutmansthal-Benvenuti, from London, March 1, 1891.




CHAPTER III.  THE TINKLING OF THE CAMEL'S BELL.  (1891-1896).


Friends of my youth, a last adieu! haply some day we meet again;
Yet ne'er the self-same men shall meet; the years shall make us
  other men:

The light of morn has grown to noon, has paled with eve, and
  now farewell!
Go, vanish from my Life as dies the tinkling of the Camel's bell.

                                         RICHARD BURTON (_The Kasidah_).


The next few months Lady Burton mainly occupied herself by arranging in
her new house the things which she had brought with her from Trieste.
When all was finished, her modest quarters in Baker Street were
curiously characteristic of the woman.  Like many of the houses in her
beloved Damascus, the one in Baker Street was unpretentious, not to say
unprepossessing, when viewed from without, but within totally different,
for Lady Burton had managed to give it an oriental air, and to catch
something of the warmth and colouring of the East.  This was especially
true of her little drawing-room, which had quite an oriental aspect.
Eastern curtains veiled the windows, the floor was piled with Persian
carpets, and a wide divan heaped with cushions and draped with bright
Bedawin rugs ran along one side of the room.  There were narghilehs
and chibouques, and cups of filigree and porcelain for the dispensing
of delectable Arab coffee.  Quaint brackets of Morocco work, Eastern
pictures, portraits, Persian enamels, and curios of every description
covered the walls.  The most striking object in the room was a life-
size portrait of Sir Richard Burton, dressed in white, with a scarlet
cummerbund, flanked on either side by a collection of rare books, most
of them his works.  Many other relics of him were scattered about the
room; and all over the house were to be found his books and pictures,
and busts of him.  In fact, she made a cult of her husband's memory, and
there were enough relics of him in the house to fill a little museum.

In this house Lady Burton settled down with her sister, Mrs. Fitzgerald,
to her daily life in England, which was mostly a record of work--arduous
and unceasing work, which began at 10.30 in the morning, and lasted till
6.30 at night.  Sometimes, indeed, she would work much later, far on into
the night, and generally in the morning she would do a certain amount of
work before breakfast, for the old habit of early rising clung to her
still, and until her death she never broke herself of the custom of
waking at five o'clock in the morning.  At the top of her Baker Street
house Lady Burton built out a large room, or rather loft.  It was here
she housed her husband's manuscripts, which she knew, as she used to
say, "as a shepherd knew his sheep."  They lined three sides of the
room, and filled many packing-cases on the floor.  To this place she
was wont to repair daily, ascending a tortuous staircase, and finally
getting into the loft by means of a ladder.  Later she had to abandon
this steep ascent, but so long as it was possible she scaled the ladder
daily, and would sit on a packing-case surrounded by her beloved
manuscripts for hours together.

Lady Burton was scarcely settled in Baker Street before her sister (the
one next to her in age), Mrs. Smyth Pigott, of Brockley Court, Somerset,
died.  She had to go down to Weston-super-Mare for the funeral.  When
that was over she came back to Baker Street, where she remained over
Christmas.  She wrote to a friend of hers about this time:

"I dream always of my books and the pile of work.  I am worrying on as
well as I can with my miscellaneous writing.  Fogs have kept us in black
darkness and pea-soup thickness for five days without a lift, and with
smarting eyes and compressed head I have double work at heart.  I passed
Christmas night in the Convent of the Holy Souls.  I went in my cab--
the streets were one sheet of ice--and two flambeaux on each side.  In
Regent's Park the fog was black and thick.  We had communion and three
masses at midnight.  It was too lovely: in the dead silence a little
before midnight you heard the shepherd's pipe, or reed, in the distance,
and echo nearer and nearer, and then the soft, clear voices burst into
'Glory be to God in the Highest,' and this was the refrain all through
the service.  I passed the time with our Lord and my darling, who had
many masses said for him in London and all over England that night.  I
am better and have stronger nerves, and am perhaps more peaceful."[1]

In January, 1892, Lady Burton went down to her cottage at Mortlake, which
she called "Our Cottage."  In taking this house she had followed the plan
which her husband when living had always adopted, of having a retreat a
little way from their work, where they could go occasionally for rest and
change.  They had intended to follow this plan when they settled down in
London.  Another motive drew Lady Burton to Mortlake too: this cottage
was close to the mausoleum of her husband, and she could visit it when
she chose.  It was a tiny cottage, plainly but prettily furnished.  Most
of her relics and curios were housed at Baker Street, and this place
had few associations for her beyond those which connected it with her
husband's grave.  The cottage was covered with creepers outside, and
trees grew all round it.  She had a charming little garden at the back,
in which she took a good deal of pride; and when the summer came she had
a big tent erected in the garden, and would sit there for many hours
together, doing her work and frequently taking her meals out there.
She had always lived an outdoor life, and this tent recalled to her
the days in the East.  Here, too, she received a great many friends
who found their way down to Mortlake; she was fond of asking them to
come and take tea with her in her tent.  From this arose a silly
rumour, which I mention only to contradict, that Lady Burton was in
the habit of receiving her visitors in her husband's tomb, which, as
we have seen, was also fashioned like an Arab tent, though of stone.

Lady Burton stayed down at Mortlake for a few months, and came back
to Baker Street in March, 1892, where she remained for two or three
months.

For the first year of her life in England she lived like a recluse,
never going out anywhere except on business or to church, never
accepting an invitation or paying visits; but about this time she
gradually came out of her seclusion, and began to collect around
her a small circle of near relatives and friends.  Always fond of
society, though she had now abjured it in a general sense, she could
not live alone, so in addition to the companionship of her favourite
sister Mrs. Fitzgerald, who lived with her and shared all her thoughts,
she widened her circle a little and received a few friends.  She was
fond of entertaining, and gave many little informal gatherings, which
were memorable from the grace and charm of the hostess.  Lady Burton
was always a picturesque and fascinating personality, but never more
so than in these last years of her life.  She possessed a fine and
handsome presence, which was rendered even more effective by her
plain black dress and widow's cap, with its long white veil which
formed an effective background to her finely cut features.  She
reminded me of some of the pictures one sees of Mary Stuart.  I do
not think the resemblance ceased altogether with her personal appearance,
for her manners were always queenly and gracious; and when she became
interested in anything, her face would light up and her blue eyes would
brighten, and one could see something of the courage and spirit which she
shared in common with the ill-fated queen.  She was a most accomplished
woman and a clever linguist.  She could write and speak fluently French,
Italian, Arabic, and Portuguese.  German she knew also, though not so
well, and she had more than a smattering of Yiddish.  She was well-read
in the literature of all these (save Yiddish, of course), yet never was
a woman less of a "Blue-stocking."  She was a brilliant talker, full
of wit and charm in her conversation, and there was nothing she liked
better than to relate, in her inimitable way, some of her many adventures
in the past.  In fact, though singularly well-informed on all the current
questions of the hour, one could see that her heart was ever in the past,
and her thoughts seldom strayed far from her husband.  Thus it came
about, after his death as in his life, she devoted herself wholly to
glorifying his name, and I do not think it is any disparagement to Sir
Richard Burton to say that his personality would never have impressed
itself upon the public imagination in the way it did, if it had not
been for the efforts of his wife.

In the summer of this year Lady Burton went to Ventnor, and also paid a
few visits, and in the autumn she stayed at Ascot with her sister Mrs.
Van Zeller, whose husband had just died.  In November she went to
Mortlake, where she settled down in earnest to write the biography of
her husband, a work which occupied her eight months.  When once she
began, she worked at it morning, noon, and night, from early till late,
and except for a flying visit to Baker Street for Christmas, she never
ceased her labours until the book was finished at the end of March, 1893.
She wrote to a friend at this time:

"I finished the book last night, and have never left Mortlake.  It has
taken me eight months.  I hope it will be out the end of May.  I do not
know if I can harden my heart against the curs,[2] but I can put out my
tongue and point my pen and play pussy cat about their eyes and ears.
I am to have six months' rest, but you know what that means."[3]

Lady Burton received a substantial sum from the publishers for the book,
and it was published in May.  The success which it achieved was immediate
and unqualified, and, what is more, deserved, for with all its faults it
is a great book--the last great work in the life of the woman who never
thought of self, and her supreme achievement to raise aloft her husband's
name.  Its success was very grateful to Lady Burton's heart, not on her
own account, but her husband's; in fact, it may be said to have gilded
with brightness the last years of her life.  She felt now that her work
was done and that nothing remained.  She wrote to a friend early in the
New Year (1894)[4]:

"I have had my head quite turned by the great success of my book.  First
came about a hundred half-nasty, or wholly nasty, critiques; then the
book made its way.  I had three leading articles, over a thousand
charming reviews, and have been inundated with the loveliest letters and
invitations. . . . With my earnings I am embellishing his mausoleum, and
am putting up in honour of his poem, _Kasidah_, festoons of camel bells
from the desert, in the roof of the tent where he lies, so that when I
open or shut the door, or at the elevation of the Mass, the 'tinkling
of the camel bell' will sound just as it does in the desert.  On January
22 I am going down to pass the day in it, because it is my thirty-third
wedding day, and the bells will ring for the first time.  I am also
carrying out all his favourite projects, and bringing out by degrees
all his works hitherto published or unpublished, as of the former
only small quantities were published, and these are mostly extinct.
If God gives me two years, I shall be content.  I live in my little
_chaumiere_ near the mausoleum on the banks of the Thames for the six
good months of the year, and in my warm dry home in London six bad
months, with my sister.  You cannot think how the picture of Richard
by you was admired at the Grosvenor Gallery, and I put your name over
it.  I have now got it home again, and I thought he smiled as I brought
him back in the cab for joy to get home. . . . There is a great waxwork
exhibition in England which is very beautifully done (Tussaud's).  They
have now put Richard in the Meccan dress he wore in the desert.  They
have given him a large space with sand, water, palms, and three camels,
and a domed skylight, painted yellow, throws a lurid light on the scene.
It is quite life-like.  I gave them the real clothes and the real
weapons, and dressed him myself.  When it was offered to him during his
life, his face beamed, and he said, 'That will bring me in contact with
the people."

The other works of Sir Richard's which Lady Burton brought out after
the Life of her husband included _Il Pentamerone_ and  _Catullus_.  She
also arranged for a new edition of his _Arabian Nights_, and she began
what she called the "Memorial Library," which was mainly composed of
the republication of half-forgotten books which he had written in the
days before he became famous.  She also recalled, at great pecuniary
sacrifice to herself, another work which she thought was doing harm to
his memory, and destroyed the copies.

Upon the publication of the Life of her husband Lady Burton was
overwhelmed with letters from old acquaintances who had half-forgotten
her, from tried and trusted friends of her husband and herself, and from
people whom she had never known, but who were struck by the magnitude
of her self-sacrificing love.  All these letters were pleasant.  But
she also received a number of letters of a very doubtful nature, which
included begging letters and applications requesting to see her from
quacks and charlatans of different kinds, who by professing great
admiration for her husband and veneration for his memory, thought they
would find in Lady Burton an easy prey.  In this they were mistaken.
Although generous and open-hearted as the day, she always found out
charlatans in the long run.  She used to say she "liked to give them
rope enough."  Unfortunately, though, it must be admitted that Lady
Burton had the defects of her qualities.  Absolutely truthful herself,
she was the last in the world to suspect double-dealing in others, and
the result was that she sometimes misplaced her confidence, and put her
trust in the wrong people.  This led her into difficulties which she
would otherwise have avoided.

The publication of the Life of her husband seemed also to arouse a
number of dormant animosities, and it led, among other things, to a
large increase in the number of abusive and insulting letters which
she received from anonymous writers, chiefly with regard to her burning
of _The Scented Garden_.  They gave her great pain and annoyance.  But
many approved of her action, and among others who wrote to her a generous
letter of sympathy was Lady Guendolen Ramsden, the daughter of her old
friends the Duke and Duchess of Somerset.  I give Lady Burton's reply
because it shows how much she appreciated the kindness of her friends:


                                                   "October 31, 1893.

"MY DEAR LADY GUENDOLEN,

"I cannot tell you what pleasure your very kind letter gave me.  I feared
that you and all your family had forgotten me long ago.  I was, and so
was Richard, very much attached to the Duke and Duchess; they always made
us welcome, they always made us feel at home.  I delighted in the Duke--
so clever, so fascinating, and he was my _beau ideal_ of a gentleman of
the Old School, whilst the kindness of heart, the high breeding, and the
wit of the Duchess attached us both greatly to her.  You were such a very
young girl that I knew you the least, and yet you are the one to be kind
to me now.  The ones I knew best were poor Lord St. Maur and Lady Ulrica.
Let me now thank you for speaking so truly and handsomely of my dear
husband, and your kindness and sympathy with me and my work.  It is
quite true!  If you knew what a small section of people have made me
suffer, and the horrible letters that they have written me, you would
feel sorry to think that there were such people in the world, and when
I reflect that it was that class of people who would have received the
manuscript with joy, I know how right I was to burn it.  It was not the
_learned_ people, as you imagine, who regret this, because there was no
learning to be gained from it.  My dear husband did it simply to fill
our purse again.  The people who were angry were the people who loathe
good, and seek for nothing but that class of literature.  My husband
had no vicious motive in writing it; he dissected these things as a
doctor would a body.  I was calculating what effect it would have on
the mass of uneducated people who _might_ read it.  I did receive many
beautiful letters on the subject, and the papers have more or less never
let me drop, but often much blame.  I was so astonished to find myself
either praised or blamed; it seemed to me the  natural thing for a woman
to do; but I see now how mistaken I was to have confessed it, and to
imagine it was my duty to confess, which I certainly did.  I know that
he, being dead, would not have wished it published; if so, why did he
leave it to me? . . . You are quite right; it has pleased me more
than I can say that you should approve and confirm my ideas, and I am
so thankful that the Life has succeeded.  I got my best reward in a
review which said that 'Richard Burton's widow might comfort herself,
as England now knew the man inside and out, that she had lifted every
cloud from his memory, and his fame would shine as a beacon in all
future ages.'  I remember so well the party at Lady Margaret Beaumont's.
I can shut my eyes and see the whole dinner-table; we were twenty-five
in party.  And I remember well also the party at Bulstrode.  If I am
alive in the summer, I shall be only too glad to pass a few days with
you at Bulstrode, if you will let me.  I feel that a talk to you would
carry me back to my happy days.

                "Believe me, with warmest thanks,
                             "Yours sincerely,
                                      "ISABEL BURTON."


After the publication of the Life of her husband Lady Burton spent
most of her time at Baker Street, with intervals at Mortlake, and a
few visits to friends, including Lady Windsor, Lord Arundell of Wardour,
Lady Guendolen Ramsden at Bulstrode, and Canon Waterton at Carlisle.
The year which followed (1894) may be said to have been her last active
year, and it was the pleasantest year of her life in England.  The
success which had attended her book had brought her more into contact
with the world than she had been at any time since her husband's death,
and she saw that there was a field of usefulness still before her.
This was the year in which she saw most friends, entertained most,
and went about most.  Her health, never good, seemed to rally, and
she was far less nervous than usual.  She may be said about this time
to have taken almost to literature as a profession, for she worked
at it eight hours every day, in addition to keeping up a large
correspondence, chiefly on literary and business matters.  She went
frequently to the play, got all the new books, and kept herself well
in touch with the current thought of the day.  She was not in sympathy
with a good deal of it, and her way of expressing her opinions was
delightfully frank and original.  Despite her abiding sense of her
loss, there was nothing morbid about Lady Burton.  She was bright
and cheerful, full of interest in things, and perfectly happy in
the society of her dearly loved sister.

I think that here one might mention a few characteristics of Lady Burton.
She was always very generous, but her generosity was not of the kind
which would commend itself to the Charity Organization Society.  For
instance, she had an incurable propensity of giving away to beggars in
the street.  She never let one go.  The result was that she frequently
returned home with an empty purse; indeed, so aware was she of her
weakness, she took out little money with her as a rule, so that she
might not be tempted too far.  When people remonstrated with her on this
indiscriminate almsgiving, she used to say, "I would rather give to ten
rogues than turn one honest man away; I should be amply repaid if there
were one fairly good one amongst them."  She was very fond of children
--that is, _en bloc_; she did not care to be troubled with them at too
close quarters.  She often took out the poor children of the Roman
Catholic schools to treats on Wimbledon Common.  She would hire drags,
and go up there for the afternoon with them.  She never forgot them at
Christmas, and she would always set aside a day or two for buying them
toys.  Her way of doing this was somewhat peculiar.  She had been so
used to buying things of itinerant vendors in the streets abroad that
she could not break herself of the habit in England.  So, instead of
going to a toy shop, she used to take a four-wheel cab, and drive slowly
down Oxford Street and Regent Street; and whenever she came across a
pedlar with toys on a tray, she would pull up her cab and make her
purchases.  These purchases generally took a good deal of time, for
Lady Burton had been so much in the habit of dealing at bazars in the
East that she was always under the impression that the pedlars in
England asked double or treble what they really thought they would get.
The result was a good deal of bargaining between her and the vendors.
She used to make wholesale purchases; and during her bargaining,
which was carried on with much animation, a crowd assembled, and
not infrequently the younger members of it came in for a share of
the spoils.

To the day of her death she always felt strongly on the subject of
the prevention of cruelty to animals, and indeed engaged in a fierce
controversy with Father Vaughan on the subject of vivisection.  She
was never tired of denouncing the "barbarism of bearing-reins," and
so forth.  When she went out in a cab, she invariably inspected the
horse carefully first, to see if it looked well fed and cared for; if
not, she discharged the cab and got another one, and she would always
impress upon the driver that he must not beat his horse under any
consideration when he was driving her.  She would then get into the
cab, let the window down, and keep a watch.  If the driver forgot
himself so far as to give a flick with his whip, Lady Burton would
lunge at him with her umbrella from behind.  Upon the cabby remonstrating
at this unlooked-for attack, she would retort, "Yes, and how do you like
it?"  On one occasion though she was not consistent.  She took a cab
with her sister from Charing Cross Station, and was in a great hurry
to get home.  Of course she impressed as usual upon the Jehu that he
was not to beat his horse.  The horse, which was a wretched old screw,
refused, in consequence, to go at more than a walking pace; and as
Lady Burton was in a hurry to get back, and was fuming with impatience
inside, she at last forgot herself so far as to put her head out of the
window and cry to the driver, "Why don't you beat him?  Why don't you
make him go?"

In politics Lady Burton described herself as a progressive Conservative,
which, being interpreted, would seem to signify that, though she was
intensely conservative with regard to the things which she had at heart,
such as religion and the importance of upholding the old _regime_, she
was exceedingly progressive in smaller matters.  Her views on social
questions especially were remarkably broad, and it may safely be said
that there never was a woman who had less narrowness or bigotry in her
composition.  She was fond of saying, "Let us hear all sides of the
question, for that is the only way in which we can hope to arrive at
the truth."

I should like to add a few words as to her spiritual life, because it
entered so profoundly into all that she said and did, that no record of
her would be complete which ignored it.  We have seen how in every crisis
of her life, through all her perils, trials, and difficulties, she turned
instinctively to that Source where many look for strength and some find
it.  Lady Burton was one of those who found it: though all else might
fail her, this consolation never failed.  In her fervent faith is to be
found the occult force which enabled her to dare all things, hope all
things.  We may agree with her religious views or not, but we are
compelled to admit their power to sustain her through life's battle.
The secret of her strength was this: to her the things spiritual and
invisible--which to many of us are unreal, however loudly we may
profess our belief in them--were living realities.  It is difficult
for some of us perhaps, in this material, sceptical world of ours,
to realize a nature like hers.  Yet there are many such, and they
form the strongest proof of the living force of Christianity to-day.
"Transcendental," the world remarks, with a sneer.  But who is there
among us who would not, an he could, exchange uncertainty and unrest
for the possession of a peace which the world cannot give?  There are
some natures who _can_ believe, who _can_ look forward to a prize so
great and wonderful as to hold the pain and trouble of the race of
very small account when weighed against the hope of victory.  Lady
Burton was one of these; she had her feet firm set upon the everlasting
Rock.  The teaching of her Church was to her divinest truth.  The
supernatural was real, the spiritual actual.  The conflict between the
powers of light and the powers of darkness, between good angels and evil
angels, between benign influences and malefic forces, was no figure of
speech with her, but a reality.  In these last years of her life more
especially the earthly veil seemed to have fallen over her eyes.  She
seemed to have grasped something of the vision of the servant of Elisha,
for whom the prophet prayed: "_Lord, I pray Thee, open his eyes, that he
may see.  And the Lord opened the eyes of the young man; and he saw: and,
behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire round about
Elisha_."

Because of all this, because her religion was such an actuality to her,
is, I think, due half the misunderstandings which have arisen with regard
to Lady Burton's attitude towards so-called "spiritualism."  She always
held that Catholicism was the highest form of spiritualism--using the
word in its highest meaning--and from this attitude she never wavered.
She had lived much in the East, and had come much into contact with
oriental occult influences, but what she saw only served to convince
her more of the truths of her religion.  Lady Burton was a Christian
mystic, not in the vulgar sense of the word, but only in the sense that
many devout and religious women have been Christian mystics too.  Like
Saint Catherine of Sienna, Saint Teresa, and other holy women, she was
specially attracted to the spiritual and devotional aspect of the
Catholic Faith.  Neither did her devotion to the spiritual element
unfit her for the practical side of things: quite the contrary.  Like
Saint Teresa, side by side with her religious life, she was a remarkably
shrewd woman of business.  It need scarcely be added that between so-
called "spiritualism" as practised in England and the Catholicism of
Lady Burton there was a great gulf fixed, and one which she proved to
be unbridgable.  This lower form of spiritualism, to use her own words,
"can only act as a decoy to a crowd of sensation-seekers, who yearn
to see a ghost as they would go to see a pantomime."  Such things she
considered, when not absolutely farcical, worked for evil, and not for
good.  As she wrote to a friend:

"That faculty you have about the spirits, though you may ignore it, is
the cause of your constant misfortunes.  I have great experience and
knowledge in these matters.  As soon as you are happy these demons of
envy, spite, and malicious intention attack you for evil ends, and ruin
your happiness to get hold of your body and soul.  Never practise or
interest yourself in these matters, and debar them from your house by
prayer and absolute non-hearing or seeing them. . . . Do not treat my
words lightly, because I have had experience of it myself, and I had
untold misfortune until I did as I advise you.  The more God loves you,
the more will this spirit hate and pursue you and want you for his own.
Drive him forth and resist him. . . . There is a spiritualism (I hate
the word!) that comes from God, but it does not come in this guise.
This sort is from the spirits of evil."[5]

I have dwelt on this side of Lady Burton's character in order to
contradict many foolish rumours.  During the last years of her life in
England, when her health was failing, she was induced against her better
judgment to have some dealings with certain so-called "spiritualists,"
who approached her under the plea of "communicating" with her husband,
thus appealing to her at the least point of resistance.  Lady Burton
told her sister that she wanted to see "if there was anything in it,"
and to compare it with the occultism of the East.  In the course of
her inquiries she unfortunately signed certain papers which contained
ridiculous "revelations."  On thinking the matter over subsequently,
the absurdity of the thing struck her.  She came to the conclusion that
there was nothing in it at all, and that, as compared with the occultism
of the East, this was mere _kindergarten_.  She then wished to recall
the papers.  She was very ill at the time, and unable to write herself;
but she mentioned the matter to her sister at Eastbourne a short time
before her death, and said, "The first thing I do when I get back to
London will be to recall those silly papers."  She was most anxious to
return to London for this purpose; but the day after her return she
died.  Mrs. Fitzgerald at once communicated with Lady Burton's dying
wishes to the person in whose charge the papers were, and requested
that they should not be published.  But with a disregard alike for
the wishes of the dead and the feelings of the living, the person
rushed some of these absurd "communications" into print within a few
weeks of Lady Burton's death, and despite all remonstrance was later
proceeding to publish others, when stopped by a threat of legal
proceedings from the executors.

Early in 1895 Lady Burton was struck down with the prevailing epidemic
of influenza; and though she rallied a little after a month or two,
she never recovered.  She was no longer able to walk up and down
stairs without assistance, or even across the room.  Her decline
set in rapidly after this illness; for the influenza gave a fresh
impetus to her internal malady, which she knew must be fatal to her
sooner or later.  She remained in Baker Street a sad invalid the
first six months of the year, and then she recovered sufficiently to
be removed to Eastbourne for a change.  It was in July that I saw her
last, just before she left for Eastbourne.  She asked me to come and
see her.  I went one Sunday afternoon, and I was grieved to see the
change which a few months had worked in her.  She was lying on a couch
in an upper room.  Her face was of waxen whiteness, and her voice weak,
but the brave, indomitable spirit shone from her eyes still, and she
talked cheerfully for a long time about her literary labours and her
plans and arrangements for some time ahead.

At Eastbourne she took a cottage, and remained there from September,
1895, to March 21, 1896.  It was evident to her sister and all around
her that she was fast failing; but when ever she was well enough she
did some work.  At this time she had begun her autobiography.  When
she was free from pain, she was always bright and cheerful, and enjoyed
a joke as much as ever.

Early in the New Year, 1896, she became rapidly worse, and her one wish
was to recover sufficiently to go home.  One of the last letters she ever
wrote was to her friend Madame de Gutmansthal-Benvenuti:

"I never forget you, and I wish our thoughts were telephones.  I am very
bad, and my one prayer is to be able to get home to London.  The doctor
is going to remove me on the first possible day.  I work every moment I
am free from pain.  You will be glad to hear that I have had permission
from Rome for Mass and Communion in the house, which is a great blessing
to me.  I have no strength to dictate more."[6]

The second week in March Lady Burton rallied a little, and the doctor
thought her sufficiently well to be removed to London.  She accordingly
travelled on March 21.  She was moved on a bed into an invalid carriage,
and was accompanied by her sister, who never left her side, and the
doctor and a priest.  She was very cheerful during the journey; and
when she got to Victoria, she said she felt so much better that she
would walk along the platform to the cab.  Mrs. Fitzgerald got out
first; but on turning round to help her sister, she found that she
had fainted.  The doctor administered restoratives; and when she had
recovered a little, she was carried to a cab, and driven to her house
in Baker Street.

Towards the evening she seemed better, and was glad to be back in her
familiar surroundings again.  She kept saying to her sister, "Thank God,
I am at home again!"  She had a haunting fear latterly at Eastbourne
that she would not have the strength to come home.  By this time it was
of course known that she could not possibly recover, and the end would
only be a question of a little time.  But that evening no one thought
that death was imminent.  During the night, however, she grew worse.

The next morning (Passion Sunday, March 22) her sister saw a great change
in her.  She asked her what she wished, and Lady Burton answered, "It
depends on whether I receive the Last Sacraments."  The priest was
summoned at once, and administered Extreme Unction and the Holy Viaticum.
She followed all the prayers, and was conscious to the last.  When all
was over, she bowed her head and whispered, "Thank God."  A smile of
peace and trusting came over her face, and with a faint sigh she breathed
her last.  She had heard the "tinkling of his camel's bell."

       *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

She was buried in the little cemetery at Mortlake one bright spring
afternoon, when all Nature seemed waking from its winter sleep.  She was
laid to rest in the Arab tent by the side of him whom she had loved so
dearly, there to sleep with the quiet dead until the great Resurrection
Day.  She was buried with all the rites of her Church.  The coffin was
taken down to Mortlake the evening before, and rested before the altar
in the little church all night.  The next morning High Mass was
celebrated in the presence of her relatives and friends; and after
the Benediction, the procession, headed by the choir singing _In
Paradiso_, wound its way along the path to the mausoleum, where the
final ceremony took place.  As the door was opened, the camel bells
began to tinkle, and they continued ringing throughout the ceremony.
They have never rung since.  The door of the tent is now closed, and
on the opposite page of the marble book which sets forth the deeds and
renown of her husband are written these words only:

                             Isabel his Wife.


NOTES:

1. Letter to Miss Bishop, December 27, 1891.
2. Burton's enemies.
3. Letter to Miss Bishop from Mortlake, March 25, 1893.
4. Letter to Madame de Gutmansthal-Benvenuti, January 10, 1894.
5. Letter of Lady Burton written from Trieste to Mrs. Francis Joly,
   April 17, 1890.
6. Holywell Lodge, Eastbourne, March 12, 1896.







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