CHAPTER XI.

DECLINE IN OUR WELL-BEING.

END OF 1883.

A change now came over our circumstances for the worse, and here we

begin the last seven years of his life, three and a half years of

long gout sicknesses, on and off, without any suspicion of danger,

though much suffering, and three and a half years after that, when

every moment was a fear. He began now to notice in his journals when

he heard the first nightingale, when the first cuckoo note in spring,

and for some time past he had noticed the first swallow, and the first

flight of swallows, and then their departure, with increasing sadness.

For these twenty-two years of our married life I had made, as I said,

our morning tea at any time from three o'clock in the morning up to

half-past five, and if I came home late from any party, I found it was

not worth while to go to bed; but now he began to have it at six and

6.30. On the 16th Miss Bishop had to go.

We went up very much to Opçina, where Richard got better and could

walk. Mrs. Learmouth and family came to Trieste for a while, and then

Mr. Steigand came to stay with us, and our old friend and Governor,

Baron Pino.

He notices the death of Captain Mayne Reid on the 31st of October.

[Sidenote: _Richard's First Bad Attack of Gout_.]

On the 31st of November Richard really got so bad he alarmed me, for he

nearly fainted, and I got the master of the Opçina Inn (Daneu) to help

me to bring him down to Trieste, and had rooms prepared on the _other_

side of our house; and about four hours after, in his new warm room,

he got perfectly well. It was a curious kind of gout, because he would

seem to be in agonies of pain, and after trying no end of things, one

would suddenly hit upon something quite simple that took it all away.

He was well enough in a day or two to lunch on board the _Bokhara_,

and also the P. and O. _Gwalior_. We got tired of consulting doctors,

and we sent for the wife of the _Schinder_ (the dog-slaughterer), who

lived up in the forest of Prevald, and was reported to be a wise woman.

She said that Richard had _mandrone_, or flying pains. The worst was,

that as soon as he was a little bit better he would forget what he had

suffered, and commit some little imprudence, like going out in the

_Bora_; it was so hard for him to believe he ever could be an invalid.

We went out a great many drives, which did him more good than anything.

Sometimes he would pay visits. We used to go to Miramar and sit out in

the gardens.

I found the best way was to take him about a great deal to different

places. I always contrived that he saw plenty of people, asking amusing

people to dine or breakfast. I got then an attack of peritonitis that

kept me in bed for a week; fortunately Richard and I were never ill at

the same time, and I was up and able to attend him when he got his gout

back again.

In the night of the 19th, the Admiralty (situated below our house) took

fire, and the roof was burnt out.

We were able also to keep our St. Silvester with the Gutmansthals, but

so many people had gone away, that it was not the same as the year

before.

On the 6th of December, 1883, he puts the following notice in his

journal in red ink:--

"To-day, eleven years ago, I came here; what a shame!!!"

He notices the death of Richard Doyle the 11th of December.

1884.

At this time we were far from being well off, and we were obliged to

incur many expenses for Richard's illness; besides which, I hoped he

would get change of air. It may be imagined, therefore, that when the

news of the death of an aunt by marriage who did not care very much

for me, and whom I very seldom saw, reached me that I received the

intelligence that she had left me a legacy of £500 with pleasure.

All the early part of the year we had a bad time of it. Richard had

insisted on going back to the big room, and once he had put on a damp

coat. I always think that foreign doctors do not understand English

constitutions, which can never stand starving, and they do always

starve you. He went on alternately better and worse.

In all these attacks I never left his room, day or night, and I

frequently used to disobey orders as to diet. When he was free from

pain he was immensely cheerful, and used to laugh like a schoolboy at

his doctor, who _would_ speak English for the sake of learning and

practising it. "What him eat to-day?" "Pheasant, doctor!" He plunged

his hands into his hair as if he were going to tear it all out. "What

for you give him the wild?" (German, _das wild_, meaning game). One

day after about six months he said, "You sall give him ten drops of

rum in a tumbler of water for his dinner!" Peals of laughter came from

the sick-bed. "Ach! das ist gut to hear him laugh like dat? Vat for he

laugh?" I answered, "Because he gets a brandy-grog fit for a sailor

every night, or he would have been a dead man long ago." More tearing

of the hair and real displeasure. When he got over that illness he was

a veritable skeleton; his legs were like two sticks of sealing-wax.

On the 4th of February Richard lost the use of his legs. After this

he got better and better, and we were quite cheerful till the 14th of

March. He had been moved on to a divan in the drawing-room, upon which

we had made a bed, for change of air. He was so well that I thought I

might take a walk in the garden, when a servant came flying after me

to tell me that he was faint. I rushed up again, and found him very

bad, and sent off for two doctors. They gave him twenty-five drops

of digitalis three times at intervals of fifty minutes, and for two

days and nights I never left his side. What the doctors had feared was

a clot of blood arising to the heart, and I shall never forget the

anguish of that time. What it _really_ was, though we did not know it

then, was flatulence round the heart, which would have been brought

away by drinking boiling water; but after two days he was so well that

we could wheel him about the house in a chair. The following day he had

very bad attacks of the same, and then he seemed to get quite well. He

again had one bad attack, and then all was well. From that he rallied

wonderfully, and he began to walk.

On the 27th of March he was allowed to go out for a drive, but even

that gave him a little fresh cold. He was allowed then to sit in the

garden. I had a machine constructed to carry him up and down stairs,

and a wheel-chair in the garden, so that he could drive about and get

out and walk a few steps with the help of my arm and a stick, if he

liked.

We had a present from home of good claret and good port. He was awfully

fond of port, and when he got his first glass he said, "Ah! that puts

life into a man." Mr. George Paget came, and Mr. and Mrs. Phipps from

the Embassy in Vienna, and Mr. Fahie from Persia, and we took drives.

Richard was able to tidy his books again. The doctor came for the last

time (regularly) on the 8th of April. He then went through a course of

sulphur baths in the house.

During this eight months' illness he had had a bad attack of pain, and

I had a mattress by his bed, and if he slept, I slept; if he was awake,

I was by him; but I had been thirty-six hours on duty, without taking

my clothes off, trying to alleviate the pain by various things until

he slept. I then threw myself on the mattress and slept a dead sleep,

and, as he told me afterwards, he woke up with the pain and groaned,

and heard a sleepy voice issuing from my mattress, saying, "Oh, offer

it up, dear; offer it up." I was unconscious of all this, but when

after some hours I really woke, I thought he was swearing very hard,

but at last I distinguished, him saying exactly in the same tones as if

he were swearing, "Offer it up, dear; offer it up." I asked him what

he meant, and then he told me, and he said that he had laughed so much

that it had quite done him good, and he often afterwards used this

expression instead of rapping out an oath when the pain came.

All this time until the 4th of June, Richard was able to be wheeled

out, and to walk and sit in the garden, and to take drives with me.

He was very patient, very gentle, and very cheerful too; except when

he was actually suffering, and we observed rigidly all the doctor's

daily orders, whether sulphur baths or medicines, only reserving the

right of plenty of plain wholesome food, and some claret, a very

occasional glass of port, a nightly glass of grog, and the very

essence of beef by simmering the meat in a jar put into a saucepan of

boiling water, or squeezing the meat in a lemon squeezer, and plenty

of Brand's strengthening things for invalids. I began to perceive that

the drainage left much to be desired, and I was very troublesome to my

poor dear landlord, who was a personal friend; but he always stoutly

maintained that the smells were in my nose, and that he could not pull

down the house to please me, and it was three years before I got what I

wanted.

Richard notes with sorrow the death of Admiral Glyn on February 16th.

On the 1st of April, 1884, he began his "Arabian Nights" (Calcutta

edition), taking it up from the material already collected with

Dr. Steinhaüser thirty years before, and I volunteered to work the

financial part of it. His journal shows him to be very sorry for the

death of Trübner, of the great publishing house in Ludgate Hill, and

also for Charles Reade, the novelist and dramatist, who was a good

friend of ours, and who died on April 10th.

[Illustration: RICHARD BURTON IN HIS BEDROOM AT TRIESTE. _Here he began

his "Arabian Nights," 1st April, 1884. In this room he died on 30th

October, 1890. By Albert Letchford._]

On the 15th of April, 1884, we had to call in an amanuensis to begin to

copy the "Arabian Nights," as, what with attending Richard night and

day, and doing all his correspondence and business, I got no time to

copy.

[Sidenote: _His Leave of Absence_.]

In May he obtained leave of absence, but was too weak to leave for

a little while after its arrival. An incident happened which it is

perhaps silly to relate, but which is uncomfortable when you have

sick and dying people in the house. One girl in the house had died of

consumption, and my husband was lying ill. The day the girl died, all

the bells in the house kept ringing without hands, and continued for

about ten days, to our great discomfort, and there were blows on the

doors, as if somebody was going round with a stick. We could see the

bell-pulls moving, but no hands touching them. It caused the deceased

girl's family great fear, and was very uncanny.

We were able to start on the 4th of June. We had a very trying

journey to Graz, which is halfway to Vienna; the train was a regular

buck-jumper. Richard was quite done up three or four hours before

arriving. On getting out he could hardly stand, and his head was

whirling. The Hôtel Daniele was only just across the road, and leaning

on me he managed to get there; I left the baggage at the station till

afterwards. We stayed the whole of the next day to rest him, but had a

very miserable time of it, and then went on to Vienna, which he bore

very well, for it was a quiet, agreeable journey, but he had had quite

enough of it when we arrived at the Erzherzog Karl Hotel.

Colonel Primrose came, and we saw Sir Augustus and Lady Paget, and our

friends the Pinos. Two days afterwards Richard began to feel quite

different, and he enjoyed so much seeing Sir Augustus and Lady Paget.

She is one of the most charming, the cleverest, and most sympathetic

of women. We left Vienna on Tuesday, the 10th, by an early train, and

he was able to bear a pleasant journey of nine hours to Maríenbad,

although I must say that the only two objects of interest between

Vienna and Maríenbad are Prince Schwarzenberg's castle and the storks

sitting on their nests on the cottage roof-tops. We went to Klinger's

Hotel, and here he rapidly progressed, and went through the cure. We

found Miss Bishop here, which was a great pleasure. She took us in

hand, and literally drove us out for long walks. Richard was delighted

with the wild strawberries, myosotis, buttercups, and daisies, and

enjoyed Maríenbad very much. I found the Society for Protection of

Animals, founded in 1882, very flourishing, and gave the dog-prizes.

When we went for the first time on the promenade to hear the band, he

looked round for a minute, and said, "My God, what a lot of Jews! Why,

the whole of Noah's Ark is turned out here!" And they really did look

just like the little figures out of Noah's Ark. Mr. J. J. Aubertin

now arrived, so that we were four in party. From here we visited

Königswort, Prince Metternich's place. It was a very pleasant life,

strolling about in the forests, reading together, and occasionally

having a professor to read German to us, making occasional expeditions,

such as to Podhorn and Tepl. There was a very pretty concert of eight

Spanish students, paying their way with guitar and bandurria. They sang

lovely little Spanish songs, and charmed everybody very much. We made

one excursion to Eger to see the Schloss, and the small interesting

collection, which details the whole tragedy of Wallenstein at the

Rathhaus. In our absence two griefs happened at Trieste. One was the

death, on the 8th of June, of a very peculiar little child, whom we

had taken a great fancy to and a great interest in, but whose story

would not come well into this book. She had foretold her own death on

this day three months before, when in good health. The other was of a

poor Irish lady, who had made an unfortunate marriage, and was bravely

earning her living in Trieste by giving lessons. She got suddenly

ill, and the doctor on visiting her, seeing that she had no means of

comfortable nursing, advised she should accompany him to the hospital.

She did, and she died almost immediately, and had to be buried within a

few hours, and what hurt us more than all was that nobody knew it till

it was over. Maríenbad never agreed with me, and I had to let Richard

and Mr. Aubertin go over to Carlsbad without me, but they were only

absent a day.

A very interesting and peculiar person we used always to meet every

year, was a second Cuthbert Bede from Oxford, whose real name was Mr.

Robert Laing.

On return after the cure, we went back for a few days to Vienna,

and then left as if we were returning to Trieste, but descending at

Pöltschach, from which is a pleasant drive to Roitsch-Sauerbrunn in

Steiermark, where we did a _nach-kur_. This place is not at all well

known. There is no town, but there are rows of houses for patients,

bathing and drinking places, a good Kur-saal, a Catholic chapel, a good

restaurant, a large garden and shady walks running between the two rows

of buildings, where the band plays twice a day. It is surrounded by

lovely woods and mountains, and a large level country to drive upon.

It is very pleasant in summer. You never see any English there, but

plenty of Austrians, Italians, Hungarians, Slavs, and Jews. We there

had the pleasure of constantly seeing Monsignor Strossmayer, who is

an ultra-Slav and a sort of Prince Archbishop, almost a small Pope

in his own country. We saw a great deal also of the Baroness von Vay

Wurmbrandt, the great spiritualist. Here we stayed till the 3rd of

September, leading the pleasant idle life usual at that kind of bath.

We found a bath-chair which accompanied us on all our walks; we drove

out, made excursions, and read and wrote under the trees.

[Sidenote: _We return to Trieste--Streams of Visitors_.]

On the 3rd of September we left Sauerbrunn for Trieste, and went

on the 4th to meet Lord Northbrook, with Sir Evelyn Baring, Lord

Wolseley, Major Wardropp and Major Macdonald, Lord Airlie, Lord Charles

Beresford, Colonel Swaine, and others. The _Iris_ came in to fetch

them. Mr. George Paget, Mr. Egerton, and Major Hoare also arrived, and

lastly the Marchese and Marchesa di Guiccioli, best known to us through

Byron, though that is not a source of pride to the family. Mr. and Mrs.

Percival, Professor Sayce, and Mr. Myers, _en route_ to Egypt, were the

next visitors, and we enjoyed their week's stay very much. Arrived also

Dr. MacDouall the author, Lady Baring, Artin Yakoob Pasha and his wife,

Madame Nubar Pasha, and Mr. Rowett, a great merchant from Rangoon,

married to a friend of ours, Miss Ritterbandt; then came Colonel Wynne,

Lady Fitzgerald, Mr. Quirk, Mrs. Reginald Talbot, Miss Wortley, and the

travellers, Mr. James and Mr. Lort-Philips, _en route_ to Somali-land.

So we had a lively time.

There were earthquakes all this month. The next sad thing was that

Everard Primrose wrote to ask us to take his passage for Egypt, that

he wanted to go to the Soudan; and he came down with Colonel Gerard,

stayed a day and a night at Trieste, and we saw them off to join the

Camel-corps in the Soudan on the 3rd of October. He promised on his

return to stay a fortnight with us, as we had so often stayed with

him. We never saw him again. He ought never to have gone; but his high

spirit and breeding would not let him be a drawing-room soldier when

there was service going on. A delicate man, and accustomed to luxury

(especially such a life as that of military _attaché_ at Vienna),

left him no strength to throw off fever, under such hardships and

disadvantages as were his lot, when it took hold of him. Again we went

for a short visit to Monfalcone, Duino, and Aquilea.

Being the Consul's wife, I had a good many funny experiences, and met

with all possible classes and characters. One of the annoyances of a

Consul, and, if they are women, of his wife, is that everybody who is

not strictly honest, and is fond of making delightful journeys abroad,

of which he or she boast loudly when they go back, starts with just

enough money to take them out of England. They then go to the first

Consul, represent themselves in distress, and get him to pass them

on to the next Consul; and they make quite a beautiful tour in this

way. But the poor Consul hardly ever sees a penny of the money back,

and after a little experience he begins to be harder, and small blame

to him. My particular grievance was, that every girl who was too

vivacious to stay at home, would always come abroad to look for work,

as a governess, secretary, or companion. Some were regular swindlers,

some were anything but nice, and some were poor inoffensive creatures

who would not have embarked on the enterprise if they had known what

they would have to go through; but seven out of nine were generally

very odd.

After having seen all our friends off, we went up to Opçina, where I

sent out thirty-four thousand circulars for the "Arabian Nights."

[Sidenote: _Richard's Second Attack of Gout_.]

Towards the end of December, Richard had a fresh breaking out of the

gout; we found that rubbing him with cod-liver oil did him a lot of

good. It was a sad Christmas, but he got better the day after Christmas

Day; only, as he would walk about without much clothing, and would

eat sucking pig, he went back to bed ill; so then we tried Mattei's

remedies, and his electricity. On the 15th of December we lost a great

friend in the Duchess of Somerset.

On St. Silvester night we were not able to keep our usual engagement.

We had one glass of champagne together in his room, and the servants

went through a very usual ceremony in Trieste of forming procession,

and chevying the evil spirits with sticks and brooms out of the house

down the stairs, and out of the street door, and inviting the good

spirits and good luck to come and dwell with us.

Richard notices poor Sir Charles Sebright's death, aged seventy-seven,

on the 10th of October.

One of Richard's great delights was the setter at Opçina (so often

mentioned), named Fazán. He was so fond of us that on Saturday, as he

was perfectly sure we should arrive about four, about two o'clock he

would go to the wood stack, draw a great block of wood out with his

teeth, and carry it to Daneu, the master of the inn, and, wagging his

tail, would run and put it down before the stove, as much as to say,

"Light the fire; they will be cold when they come up;" then he would

fetch another bit, and come and sit before the gate at about half-past

three to wait for our arrival, and he never left us, night or day,

as long as he was there. During Richard's gout attacks it frequently

occurs in his journals, "I feel too well to-day to be altogether

right;" and next day, surely, he would have some attack of gout. It was

so difficult for him to understand that he could not do what he did

when he was twenty-five, and to get him to train down to what he could

do, not what he _used_ to do.

We now tried a new thing that seemed very good, and that is fusel oil,

which is of the dregs of whisky; it is deadly poison to drink, but it

acts splendidly on gouty limbs; and then we tried sulphur foot-baths.

1885.

All this January and part of February Richard was ill, and I began to

implore him to throw up the Service, and to live where best suited him,

even in a small way, as of course we should have been very, very poor,

and at any rate, I said, "One winter _may_ be an accident, but two

winters is a caution; and you must never winter here again." He said,

"No; I quite agree with you there; we will never winter here again; but

I won't throw up the Service until I either get Marocco, or they let me

retire on full pension." And I then said, "When we go home that is what

we will try for, that you may retire _now_ on full pension, which will

only be six years before your time."

On the 17th of January he mourns Colonel Burnaby's death.

He was delighted in February with reading a German author, who began

his book thus: "Der Geruch der rosen verpestet die Lüft und die

verdammten Nachtigallen heulen die ganze Nacht."

We were now writing the index of the "Arabian Nights," I at dictation.

On Thursday, the 12th, I said to him, "Now mind, to-morrow is _Friday,

the 13th_; it is our unlucky day, and we have got to be very careful."

[Sidenote: _Gordon's Death_.]

But when Friday, the 13th, came, we heard of poor Gordon's death,

which had taken place Monday, January the 26th, and they had been

keeping it from us. We both collapsed altogether, were ill all day, and

profoundly melancholy. I remembered, too, that at the time that Gordon

had been sent out, it was a toss up whether Richard or Gordon should

go. Richard had just begun to break up (he was fifty-five), and I knew

that if he was sent he would get up out of his sick bed to go, and

think himself perfectly capable of undertaking the expedition; and I

remember writing privately to the Foreign Office, to let them know how

ill he was. Richard at that time expressed a hope that they would not

send Gordon without five hundred soldiers to back him, and the neglect

of this, whether from economy, or whether Gordon refused it, was the

sole cause of the failure. Richard could talk of nothing else, and he

fretted a great deal about it. In one of the illustrated papers there

was a picture of Gordon lying deserted in the desert, his Bible in one

hand, his revolver in the other, and the vultures sitting around. When

Richard saw it he said with great emotion, "Take it away! I can't bear

to look at it. I have had to feel that myself; I know what it is." But

the more the news came in, the less he believed in Gordon's death,

and he died believing that Gordon (disgusted at the cruel treatment

of being abandoned to his fate) had escaped by the missing boat, and

would come out Congo-wards, but that he would never let himself be

rediscovered, nor reappear in England--and Gordon was quite the man to

do it.

I quote this prematurely, because it concerns the present subject:--

"IS GORDON DEAD?

"Trieste, April 29, 1887.

"I have just received a note from the Rev. Mr. Robert W. Felkin, dated

Edinburgh, April 2nd. Under the supposition that I am proceeding with

an expedition to the Soudan in order to discover General Charles

Gordon, he encloses me a note from a youth whom he educated in England

for some years, and whom he has now placed at the American Mission

School at Assiout. It dates from as far back as November 28, 1886.

"The following is the extract:--

"'There was a man came from Khartoum and said that he was one of

General Gordon's soldiers; he came into class (school) and the master

asked him many questions, and he said that General Gordon had a

steamboat and went down to South, and there was a Turkish soldier

whose face was like his, and they killed him and said it was General

Gordon.

"'He said a great many things about Gordon's soldiers, that they were

not able to use their guns because they were so weakened with hunger.

"'(Signed) SULAYMAN KABSUN.'

"I see with pleasure that Mr. Felkin never thought that the evidence

proved Gordon's death, and conceives many ways to explain his escape.

"RICHARD F. BURTON."

London _Figaro_, September 26th, 1887.

"I am not surprised," says a correspondent, "to hear that Sir Richard

Burton has from the first maintained that Gordon is not dead. He was

Gordon's intimate friend, and, being of the same stamp, having lived

the same kind of glorious life, and had the same experience of his

country's neglect, is more likely to know than others what Gordon, in

disgust at the treatment he received from the Government, could and

might do. Moreover, as Sir Richard Burton says, no two of the several

accounts of Gordon's death are alike. He is sure to have had a picked

lot of attached followers, who, as well as one steamer, are missing."

A correspondent wrote: "A friend called in the other day to see Sir

Richard Burton, and remarked, 'Why, Burton, if Gordon turns up, the

Government will begin to believe in your knowledge. You will be a

made man.' Burton replied with his usual quiet 'Ye--es,' stroking his

chin thoughtfully; 'for God's sake, my dear fellow, don't say anything

about it. The Foreign Office will only say what a damned beast I was

to know it when _they_ never even suspected it!'"

Spring comes very soon in Trieste, and we were able to sit and walk out

a great deal in the garden. We now had a very nice telephone, which put

_us_ in comfortable communication with the whole of the City, and it

was very useful, as we lived out of and above it.

On the 14th of April he notices the death of his enemy, Major-General

Rigby of Zanzibar, and then poor Rogers Bey, regretted by us both, and

then of Nachtigall the traveller.

[Sidenote: _Colonel Primrose's Death_.]

One morning in April I had a letter, a very cheerful one, from Everard

Primrose, to say that he expected to be back in April, as he was very

seedy; and that he would come and stay with us for a fortnight _en

route_ home. I was just preparing his room, and looking round to see

if I could do anything to make it prettier, when a telegram was put

into my hand announcing his death. Richard and I were both terribly

cut up, and we did not go for a very long time to Vienna, for we had

lost our best friend there, and it would have made it too melancholy.

On the 9th of May he rejoices that Mr. Gerald Fitzgerald, Director of

Public Accounts in Egypt, is made a K.C.M.G., as "he married the elder

daughter of our dear friend Lord Houghton," adding, "Dear old fellow,

how pleased he will be!" On the 11th of May he mourns Douglas Jerrold,

and was touched at the account of Mr. Fred Fargus's death, better known

as Hugh Conway.

This summer the English opened a lawn-tennis club, which was very

amusing. Our Consular chaplain played lawn tennis like a boy of twenty.

[Sidenote: _Leave to England_.]

Richard having obtained "leave" (after a second attack of gout), and

as I was the proud possessor of £500, we started gaily for London on

the 19th of May, and went on board the _Tarifa_ for Venice; it was a

Cunarder. Here we saw a great number of friends, and met Lord Lytton

at Lady Layard's. We were neither of us well, in different ways, and

Richard was ordered to go by sea, and I by land; so, after a couple of

days at Venice, I saw Richard off in the _Tarifa_ for Liverpool, and I

prepared to come over the Mont Cenis to London; but when I got back to

the hotel, I found a telegram from a man I knew, one of what Richard

used laughingly to call "my wife's pious pals," who said, "If you want

to see a girl exorcised of the devil, come at once to Bologna." I went

down to the station, only instead of taking my ticket for London, I,

naturally, wild with curiosity, and knowing I had plenty of time, took

it at once for Bologna.

I stayed there three days. I do not think I am quite at liberty to

give an account of what I saw, in these criticizing times, but it was

wonderfully interesting, and I had a thorough insight into mediæval

Italy, which I renew whenever I get the chance, as it is more than

interesting. After three days I went on thence to Milan to see the

Certosa of Pavia, one of the most glorious architectural relics in

Europe, and from there I went to Pusiano, a now hidden "sanctuary" that

will one day become famous to all the world. Pusiano is a village of

one street, on the borders of a beautiful little lake, with villages

and churches on the opposite bank; it is situated in the Lake Country,

and there one lives with the peasantry in primitive style. I stayed

there three whole days; it is beautiful in summer, but a terrible snow

desolation in winter. It is quite off the railway line, and one gets to

it in a little country cart. When I got back to Milan I embarked for

home by the St. Gothard, Bâle, to Paris. Paris was black with people in

mourning for Victor Hugo. It was his funeral next day; soldiers lined

the streets, artillery commanded the two ends of the streets to fire

on the people if the red flag was raised. I had much difficulty in

getting to the station, for besides being in a hurry to get home, I did

not want to be shut up in Paris alone, if anything occurred. Arrived

at Boulogne, the passenger-boat was gone, so I took the cargo-boat

at one in the night, and arrived at 4.30 a.m. at Folkestone, where

the custom-house kept me till about six, searching for dynamite in my

baggage, and I arrived in town on the 2nd of June. Somehow I put my

arm out, and had to go back to Hutton the bone-setter. Richard did not

arrive till twelve days after me.

He was delighted when he got on board the _Tarifa_ on the 19th. He

then notices the death of Victor Hugo in Paris on May 23rd. He seemed

to enjoy the journey thoroughly, and to have got quite rid of the gout

the moment he left. He was always thoroughly happy on board a ship,

and so sorry when the voyage was over. He never knew what sea-sickness

was. He could eat enough for three on board, and when the ship was

rolling right round in the water, he would balance himself, holding the

ink-bottle in one hand, and writing with the other.

He used to go away by himself and make pilgrimages; I know of about

ten he made to various places. Once, in 1875, he left town to go into

the country for a week, and to my surprise I received a private letter

from him from Paray le Monial, the place once so talked about in

the papers as a pilgrimage-place of St. Mary Margaret Alacoque and

the Sacred Heart.[1] He had gone there to make a pilgrimage all by

himself, and brought me back some medals and rosaries. He used to go

into every church. He made a pilgrimage on this voyage to St. Nicholas

of Bari, and brought me a lot of curios. The ship's course went by way

of Venice, Fiume, Bari, Naples, Palermo, and Malaga, where they found

cholera, and then to Gib. and Lisbon. He arrived in high spirits on the

14th of June.

Here I may remark that he kept two sets of journals. The public

set contained remarks on the weather, scraps out of newspapers,

and "Varia" (notes of what he reads), the people he writes to, the

people he receives letters from, and public news. In the private

set, come notices on his and my health at one side, what he and I

did, obituaries, his sentiments about things in concentrated notes,

condemnations of things, and scraps of poetry on the circumstances here

and there.

I must here notice making at this time acquaintance with three very

interesting people. One was a gentleman who would not like to be

named, the leader of a religious sect, who conceals his name under

the _soubriquet_ of the "Recorder," and who is the St. Paul of their

belief in a second advent--he publishes a book called "The Mother, or

the Woman clothed with the Sun;" and another was Dr. Anna Kingsford,

who became my fast friend, and who used to let me work with her in

regard to the protection of animals. She was tall, fair, delicate,

soft, refined, exceedingly pretty, beautifully dressed, of the highest

possible culture, combining the education and courage of both man and

woman. I made her acquaintance at an Anti-vivisection meeting, with

Lord Shaftesbury in the chair, and the Bishop of Oxford present, a very

little while before Lord Shaftesbury's death. The third interesting

person was Mr. George Lewis.

[Sidenote: _Arabian Nights_.]

Now, we had come to London partly for Richard's health, and partly

to bring out the "Arabian Nights." The translating, writing, and

correcting devolved upon him; the copying fell to a lady amanuensis;

the financial part devolved upon me. It was said that there was no

room for a new edition, but every previous edition was imperfect, and

mostly taken from Professor Galland's French version, made a hundred

and eighty years ago, and adapted for civilization. This in itself was

an abridgment, and turns a most valuable ethnographical work into a

collection of fairy tales. Mr. Torrens was the nearest to the original,

but he only got as far as fifty tales. Mr. Lane, whose works are so

popular, has only given us half the tales, and he substituted popular

fairy tales. Mr. John Payne was excessively good, but he was limited

to five hundred copies, and his profession forbade his being quite so

daring as Richard.

Richard's object was not only to produce an absolutely literal

translation, but to reproduce it in an absolutely Arabian manner. He

preserved the strict divisions of the Nights, he kept to the long

unbroken sentences in which the composer indulged. Being perfect master

of both languages, he could imitate the rhythmic prose which is a

characteristic of the Arabic. He furnished it only to scholars, and at

a prohibitive price. He gave a most literal rendering of the Oriental

phrases and figures. Richard called it the "Walling of the Horizon,"

the orientation being strictly preserved, instead of being Anglicized.

The choicest phrases, the sacred preservation of them, speaks for

itself. He kept the swing, the wave of Arab poetry, which one can only

liken in its melancholy to the sound of an Æolian harp balanced on a

tree-branch. He loved his work, and he was sorry when it was finished.

In many of the stories of other translators, he used to say, "the very

point which enables you to understand the action is left out, because

the translator was afraid of Mrs. Grundy. Arab ideas of morality are

different from European, and if we are to understand the Arabs, and if

the 'Nights' are to be of any value from an anthropological point of

view, it can only be written as I have written it. I think it is such a

disgrace that our Rulers should rule so many million Easterns, and be

as ignorant of them as if they lived in a far-away planet; and it is

to give _them_ a chance of knowing what they are about, that I leave

this legacy to the Government. I have not only preserved the spirit of

the original, but the _mechanique_. The metrical portion has been very

difficult, because Arab poetry is quite different to English. An Arab

will turn out sentence after sentence before he comes to his rhyme.

"I don't care a button about being prosecuted, and if the matter comes

to a fight, I will walk into court with my Bible and my Shakespeare

and my Rabelais under my arm, and prove to them that, before they

condemn me, they must cut half of _them_ out, and not allow them to be

circulated to the public."

Richard then found that it was a popular idea that "Ali Baba, and the

Forty Thieves" and "Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp" belonged to the

"Arabian Nights," whereas they do not, and he found a collection of

similar tales sufficient to produce six Supplemental volumes. At first

I rather objected to his risking the "Arabian Nights," from a passage

written by himself in his "First Footsteps in East Africa," page 36--

"When Arabs are present, I usually recite or read a tale from 'The

Thousand and One Nights,' that wonderful work so often translated, so

much turned over, and so little understood at home. The most familiar

book in England, next to the Bible, it is one of the least known, the

reason being that about one-fifth is utterly unfit for translation;

and the most sanguine Orientalist would not dare to render literally

more than three-quarters of the remainder, consequently the reader

loses the contrast--the very essence of the book--between its

brilliancy and dulness, its moral putrefaction and such pearls as--

'Cast the seed of good works on the least fit soil;

Good is never wasted, however it may be laid out.'

And in a page or two after such divine sentiment, the ladies of

Baghdad sit in the porter's lap, and indulge in a facetiousness which

would have killed Pietro Aretino before his time." (This was written

in 1855, thirty years before.)

But, on his explaining to me his new idea about its usefulness, its

being so good for the Government, I was glad, and I helped him in

every way I possibly could. It was also agreed, in order to secure

him against piracy, and in order not to limit to a thousand people

what the many should enjoy, that they should not lose this deep well

of reading and knowledge, beside which the flood of modern fiction

flows thin and shallow, that I should reproduce all my husband's

original text, excluding only such words as were not possible to put

on the drawing-room table. Mr. Justin Huntly McCarthy, jun., helped

me a little, so that out of the 3215 original pages, I was able to

copyright three thousand pages of my husband's original text, and

only exclude two hundred and fifteen. Richard forbade me to read

them till 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. The language is so wonderful, the expression so

graceful, the rendering of thought as well as words so accurate, the

poetry so fresh and charming. Orientalists tell me that they learnt

more Orientalism by these volumes than by years of hard study, and

that it greatly facilitated their study of Arabic. He translated from

the Calcutta edition, the Boulak, the Hindostani, and the Breslau. The

Wortley Montagu manuscript was refused him by the Bodleian Library,

even under the charge of Dr. Rost, but he got one in Paris.

Richard said that "a student of Arabic, who reads the 'Nights' with

his version, will not only be competent to join in any conversation

in Arabic, but to read the popular books and newspapers, and to write

letters to his friends; he will also possess a _répertoire_ of Arab

manners and customs, beliefs and practices, which are not found

in books. My endeavour was to give them the original text without

detracting from its merits." This grand Arabian work I consider my

husband's "Magnum Opus;" it is a masterpiece; it is the real thing,

not the drawing-room tales which have been _called_ the "Arabian

Nights" for so long. The home student can realize what the Arab is, and

understand those people, Egyptians, Syrians, and others, of whose "life

behind the scenes" Britons know so very little.

I do not know whether to be amused or provoked because people are

prejudiced against "Lady Burton's edition of the 'Arabian Nights,'"

as a milk-and-water thing. I did not write nor translate it; it is

_Richard Burton's_ "Arabian Nights," with a coarse word or two cut

out here and there, and a Society word introduced, but in nowise

altering the text (when I say a Society word, I mean of course an Arab

Society word, not an English one); and my name was only put upon it to

copyright and protect my husband's from piracy.

We had no reason, in a financial point of view, to regret our venture.

A publisher offered Richard £500 for it, but I said, "No, let me do

it." It was seventeen months' hard work, but we found (no matter how)

the means of printing and binding and circulating. We were our own

printers and our own publishers, and we made between September, 1885,

and November, 1888, sixteen thousand guineas, six thousand of which

went towards publishing, and ten thousand into our own pockets; and

it came just in time to give my husband the comforts and luxuries and

freedom that gilded the five last years of his life. When he died there

were four florins left, which I put in the poor-box.

WHAT ALL THE WORLD SAID.

_Athenæum_, February 6th, 1886.

"TO RICHARD F. BURTON.

"_ On his Translation of the 'Arabian Nights.'_

"Westward the sun sinks, grave and glad; but far

Eastward, with laughter and tempestuous tears,

Cloud, rain, and splendour as of Orient spears,

Keen as the sea's thrill toward a kindling star

The sundawn breaks the barren twilight's bar

And fires the mist and slays it. Years on years

Vanish, but he that hearkens eastward hears

Bright music from the world where shadows are.

"Where shadows are not shadows. Hand-in-hand

A man's word bids them rise and smile and stand

And triumph. All that glorious Orient glows

Defiant of the dusk. Our twilight land

Trembles; but all the heaven is all one rose,

Whence laughing love dissolves her frosts and snows.

----"ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE."

_Morning Advertiser_, September 15th, 1885.

"As the holiday season draws to a close, the publishers' announcements

of 'new books' fill column after column of the organs chosen from

these special _communiqués_. But there is one work which is not

entered in these lists, though for years scholars, and many people

who are not scholars, have been looking for it with an eagerness

which has left far behind the ordinary curiosity which is bestowed

on the greatest of contributions to current literature. And to-day

the chosen few who are in possession of the volume in question are

examining it with an interest proportionate to the long toil which

has been bestowed on its preparation. We refer to Captain Burton's

translation of the 'Arabian Nights' Entertainments,' now entitled

'The Book of the thousand Nights and a Night,' of which the first

tome has just been issued. There will be ten in all, so that it must

be well on for two years before the entire series can be in the hands

of those who have subscribed for it. For the book is not published.

It is even questionable whether a copy will be in the British Museum

or the Bodleian, unless those institutions have entered their names

in advance. It is printed 'by the Kamashastra Society of Benares for

private subscribers only,' and Captain Burton, in a circular sent with

the first volume, earnestly begs that it will not be permitted to fall

into the hands of any save scholars and students of Moslem manners.

For years and years the 'Arabian Nights' have been a sort of nursery

companion. But it is, perhaps, unnecessary to tell any one acquainted

in the slightest degree with Oriental romances that the 'Alf Laylah

wa Laylah' in its unabridged form is, despite the popularity which it

enjoys as a 'child's book,' emphatically not for the entertainment

of boys and girls. Hitherto, however, all of the editions have been

imperfect and more or less colourless versions of the original. They

have been prepared for the drawing-room, and even Mr. Payne inserted

a Latin word here and there rather than search Captain Grose's

'Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue' for its equivalent. Captain Burton

scorns any such namby-pambyism. In the Arabic a spade is usually

called a spade, and in the latest English translation it is never

designated an agricultural implement. Moreover, the endless footnotes

which the editor appends, speak with much freedom of many things

usually avoided as themes for conversation in polite society, though

they throw a flood of light on hundreds of features of Oriental life

on which, since travellers have been compelled to write for 'refined'

audiences, the student has failed to be informed.

"Yet, admitting that the 'Nights' are often coarse and indelicate,

and sometimes even gross, it is a mistake to suppose that they are

demoralizing in the same way that a French novel of the Zola type

is, or might be. Indeed, what we would call its impropriety is only

a reflection of the _naïve_ freedom with which talk is to this day

carried on in the family circles of the East. They see no harm in what

we should regard as indecency. So that when Captain Burton prefaces

his unbowdlerized version with the Arab proverb, 'To the pure in

heart all things are pure,' he presents perhaps the best defence he

could against the attack which it is quite possible may be made on

him for devoting many years of his life to what he terms 'a labour of

love.' One hundred and eighty years have passed since Galland, the

French Orientalist, published his version in twelve small volumes.

But though even at that time it was not thought proper to issue a

verbatim edition--so far as the accessible manuscripts permitted--the

best scholars of the age did not hesitate to pronounce them forgeries.

In brief, they were regarded in much the same light that Macpherson's

'translations' of 'Ossian's Poems' were at a later date. But the less

critical world cared very little whether Antony Galland had invented

them or merely translated them from some 'unknown Arab writer.' They

eagerly read these wondrous stories. Europe was on fire with delight

at anything so unconventional, so entirely undidactic, so completely

without any religious, moral, or philosophical purpose, and which

delineated the primitive manners and customs of the East. The fine

gentlemen and gay ladies could talk about nothing else than 'jins'

or genii, as they were called after the French fashion, viziers--or

'Wazirs,' as Captain Burton has it--caves of jewels, underground

palaces, enchanters and kalendars, princes of black islands, and kings

in disguise. The terrible justice of the Kazi, or Cadai, as he used

to be called, and the equally fearful vengeance of the husband who

is at last undeceived, were revelations to the easy-going, utterly

corrupt Europe of the _ancien régime_. Edition after edition appeared,

though in nearly every case these so-called fresh versions were little

more than translations, more or less abridged, from Galland. Of

late, however, several more or less complete editions have appeared.

Among them may be mentioned those of Torrens, Lane, Payne. Torrens

was, however, a poor Arabic scholar, and though Lane was a better

one--if not quite so good as he afterwards became--he was, like his

predecessors, in terror of offending propriety. Hence, though some

simple folk supposed that his language was sufficiently plain, it only

required the consultation of the Breslau, the Bulak, or the Calcutta

edition of the original to be convinced to the contrary. Mr. Payne

brought out a nine-volumed translation for the Villon Society. But it

was printed solely for private subscribers, and though issued at seven

guineas cannot now be procured under twenty-five or thirty when a copy

accidentally comes into the market. Payne was, however, not much more

than an amateur Arabist, and his practical acquaintance with Arabs and

the East was simply _nil_. Captain Burton, it is unnecessary to remind

any one, is in a very different case. Thirty-three years ago he went

in the disguise of an Indian pilgrim to Mecca and Al-Medinah, and no

one capable of giving the world the result of his experience has so

minute, so exhaustive a knowledge of Arab and Oriental life generally.

Hence the work now begun only a limited number of students can ever

see, and it is simply priceless to any one who concerns himself as

marking an era in the annals of Oriental translation.

"But what may possibly interest many almost as much as the stories

and notes, is the almost sad preface in which the Editor tells the

tale of his toils. In 1852 he began this translation at Aden. His

friend Dr. Steinhaüser, to whose memory it is dedicated, was to

undertake the prose, while Burton accepted the metrical portion of

the book as his share of the task. But Steinhaüser died, 'and after

the fashion of Anglo-Indians his valuable manuscripts left at Aden

were dispersed,' and very little of his labour reached his colleague.

But fitfully the work progressed amid a host of obstructions. In

deadly Consulships in West Africa and Brazil, in livelier ones in

Damascus and Trieste, the business went on, just as it had gone on

less systematically in Somali-land and Central Africa. And, toilsome

though the task unquestionably was, it was lightened by the pleasant

memories it recalled. Many a time and oft, after the day's journey

was over, he had gathered the Arabs around him, and read or recited

these tales to them, until the tears trickled down their cheeks, and

they rolled on the sand in uncontrollable delight. 'Nor was it only in

Arabia that the immortal "Nights" did me such notable service. I found

the wildlings of Somali-land equally amenable to their discipline;

no one was deaf to the charm, and the two women cooks of my caravan

on its way to Harar were incontinently dubbed by my men "Shehrazade"

and "Deenarzade."' Yet as his labour approached the period when it

ought to appear in print, prudent friends hinted at the danger he

ran of injuring his professional advancement. 'Literary labours,

unpopular with the vulgar and half-educated, are not likely to help

a man up the ladder of promotion. But common sense suggested to me

that, professionally speaking, I was not a success, and at the same

time that I had no cause to be ashamed of my failure. Philister can

pardon anything but superiority. The prizes of competitive service

are monopolized by certain "pets" of the _médiocratie_ and prime

favourites of that jealous and potent majority, the mediocrities,

who know "no nonsense about merit." It is hard for an outsider to

realize how perfect is the monopoly of commonplace, and to comprehend

how fatal a stumbling-stone that man sets in the way of his own

advancement who dares to think for himself, or who knows more or

does more than the mob of gentlemen-employés who know very little,

and who do even less.' This is bitter, but not more severe than the

way Captain Burton has been treated by his Country, if not by his

Countrymen, deserves. It is simply disgraceful that a man of his

great achievements and colossal learning should have been neglected

by successive Governments when pretenders and 'mediocrities' were

being honoured and rewarded for doing little or nothing. After the

death of Major Morrice--such has been our encouragement of Arabic

knowledge--there was not an English official in the Suakin camp

capable of speaking Arabic. Not one understood native customs.

'Moslems,' writes Burton, 'are not to be ruled by raw youths who

should be at school and college instead of holding positions of

trust and emolument. He who would deal with them successfully must

be, firstly, honest and truthful, and, secondly, familiar with and

favourably inclined to their manners and customs, if not to their law

and religion.' In 'Alf Laylah wa Laylah' the means of obtaining this

knowledge lies."

_St. James's Gazette_, September 12th.

"One of the most important translations to which a great English

scholar has ever devoted himself is now in the press. For three

decades Captain Burton has been more or less engaged on his

translation of the 'Arabian Nights,' the latest of the many versions

of that extraordinary story which has been made into English, the only

one at all worthy of a great original."

_Home News_, September 18th.

"Captain Burton has begun to issue the volumes of his subscription

translation of the 'Arabian Nights,' and its fortunate possessors

will now be able to realize the full flavour of Oriental feeling.

They will now have the great storehouse of Eastern folklore opened to

them, and Captain Burton's minute acquaintance with Eastern life makes

his comments invaluable. In this respect, as well as in the freeness

of the translation, the version will be distinguished from its many

predecessors. Captain Burton's preface, it may be observed, bears

traces of soreness at official neglect. Indeed, it seems curious that

his services could not have been utilized in the Soudan, when the want

of competent Arabic scholars was so severely felt."

ORIGINAL VERSE.

I have never read, nor do I intend to read, at his own request, and

to be true to my promise to him, my husband's "Arabian Nights." But

I have read the reviews, some with pride and some with pain, while

all the private letters of congratulation have been a great source of

gratification to me; and I have gathered all together, _pro_ and _con_,

which form an interesting book.

Out of a thousand picked scholars it is something to be able to assert

that all the men whose good opinion is worth having, are loud in

its praise. I think a man who gives years of study to a great work,

purely with the motive that the rulers of his country may thoroughly

understand the peoples they are governing by millions, and who gives

that knowledge freely and unselfishly, and who while so doing runs the

gauntlet of abuse from the vulgar, silly Philistine, who sees what the

_really_ pure and modest never see, deserves great commendation. To

throw mud at him because the mediæval Arab lacks the varnish of _our_

world of to-day, is as foolish as it would be not to look up because

there are a few spots on the sun.

TO RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON.

"_The Thousand Nights and a Night._"

Adown the welkin slant the snows and pile

On sill and balcony; their feathery feet

Trip o'er the landscape, and pursuing sleet,

Earth's brow beglooming, robs the lift of smile:

Lies in her mourning-shroud our Northern Isle,

And bitter winds in battle o'er her meet;

Her world is death-like, when, behold! we greet

Light-gleams from morning-land cold grief to guile:

A light of golden mine and orient pearl,

Vistas of fairy-land, where Beauty reigns

And Valiance revels; cloudless moon, fierce sun,

The wold, the palm-tree; cities; hosts; a whirl

Of life in tents and palaces and fanes:

The light that streams from "Thousand Nights and One."

----ISABEL BURTON.

Tangier, Morocco, February 19.

"CAPTAIN BURTON'S 'ARABIAN NIGHTS.'

"A friend lately asked Captain Burton why he was bringing out his

translation so soon after another and a most scholarly one. He

answered, 'Orientalists are anxious to have the real Eastern work. I

had received sundry letters saying--Let us know what the mediæval Arab

was. If he was exalted and good, let us see it. If he was witty, let

us hear it. If he was uncultivated and coarse, still let us have him

to the very letter. We want once for all the real thing. We want a

mediæval Arab, telling the tales and legends of his own country, and

showing the world what he has remained whilst the West has progressed

in culture and delicacy.--Now, I will do this by notes and a running

commentary, enabling the student to read between the lines, and

perfectly to understand much of what he would otherwise pass over

without understanding. I am determined subscribers shall learn from my

work what they cannot find in any other, and to make it a repertory of

Eastern knowledge, by no means intended for the many-headed, but for

the few who are not too wise to learn, or too omniscient to acquire

knowledge. I regret more than I can say the coarseness of the Arabic,

but I consider it not less my duty to translate it word for word. My

Oriental renderings will make it quite different from all the other

translations, and I shall leave nothing for any other man in the

future to do.'"

R. F. B.

"PANTAGRUELISM OR PORNOGRAPHY?

"To the Editor of the _Pall Mall Gazette_.

"Sir,--Your correspondent 'Sigma' has forgotten the considerable

number of 'students' who will buy Captain Burton's translation as

the only literal one, needing it to help them in what has become

necessary to many--a masterly knowledge of Egyptian Arabic. The

so-called 'Arabian Nights' are about the only written halfway house

between the literary Arabic and the colloquial Arabic, both of

which they need, and need introductions too. I venture to say that

its largest use will be as a grown-up school-book, and that it is

not coarser than the classics in which we soak all our boys' minds

at school. The Arabic classics are not in Egyptian-Arabic, which

varies much from Syrian and other branches of the language, and a

thorough knowledge of the daily customs and family life of Egypt is a

knowledge, however repulsive, to be conscientiously sought by all who

are either administrators or philanthropists in Egypt.

"I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

"ANGLO-EGYPTIAN.

"September 14th."

_Glasgow Times_, 24th November, 1888.

(Anent the Bodleian refusal and the biography of his book.)

The _Glasgow Times_ says, "But the chapter is something more than

that. It is a remarkable addition to the history of the 'Quarrels

of Authors.' Sir Richard Burton, as we have before indicated, is a

good hater, and he smites his enemies hip and thigh. The enemies are

rather numerous, and some of them, it must be admitted, were scarcely

worth powder and shot, but the way in which the old fighting man and

traveller (he still seems to retain all the energy characteristic

of both) 'goes for' them is refreshing in the extreme. But though

Sir Richard has a good many enemies, he has also a large number of

friends, and if he is liberal and forcible in retort, he is lavish in

acknowledgment of kindly words and of help however slight."

Sir Richard Burton says, "All this is utterly unfair. It allows the

unfortunate public no chance of learning the truth. The narrator may

be honest and honourable, but he dare not state the facts, nor has he

the courage of his own opinions. If he did, 'Society' would turn upon

him with the usual 'Oh no, we never mention him,' and his name never

would be heard unless accompanied by a snarl or a sneer. The fact is,

England's chronic disease is Religiosity in the few, and Hypocrisy in

the many.

"RICHARD F. BURTON.

"Hôtel Meurice, Paris, July 17th, 1888."

"REPRINTS OF THE 'ARABIAN NIGHTS.'

"The Granville, Ramsgate, August 13th, 1888.

"I have given to the public, under my wife's superintendence and name,

the pure unadulterated article. But the tastes of civilization ever

incline to the worked-up, which has the advantage of art applied to

nature. At Trieste we often offer our English friends a _petit verre_

of real gin distilled from the juniper berry, and now unprocurable at

home; and we enjoy the wry mouths made by those who are accustomed to

Hollands and Old Tom.

"The main difficulty, however, is to erase the popular impression

that the 'Nights' is a book for babies, a 'classic for children;'

whereas its lofty morality, its fine character-painting, its artful

development of the story, and its original snatches of rare poetry,

fit it for the reading of men and women, and these, too, of no puerile

or vulgar wit. In fact, its prime default is that it flies too high.

"RICHARD F BURTON."

A literary friend writes to Lady Burton: "The omissions are so deftly

done, and the _pruning so slight_, that the book ought to be read

in every English house, in every English-speaking land. The English

alone is an education. If I wanted young folk to learn a good style, I

would train them on the 'Nights.' I would give passages to the Board

Schools."

[Sidenote: _London again_.]

As soon as Richard arrived, in June, 1885, he put himself under Dr.

Foakes, in South Street, for gout. On the 29th of June there was

a meeting at the University of London. Richard and Mr. James, the

African traveller, spoke. On the 1st of July we went to the Hermetic

Society, where Anna Kingsford lectured on "The Communion of Saints."

We worked very hard at our "Arabian Nights," and all our time over and

above we went into Society, were very gay, and enjoyed ourselves very

much; we also went to see the _Mikado_ several times, which we enjoyed

extremely. We often went to the "Inventories," as we knew the Chief

of the Electric light, Sir Francis Bolton, and we used to go up into

his station, and see the lights turned off and on. Richard thought the

trees and lights very pretty, and especially the electric lilies under

the water, and the moon prettier still.

On the 21st of July we had a very merry family party for my father's

eighty-sixth birthday. He made a speech, and after dinner sang a little

song of which he was very fond. He had a lovely tenor voice even

then--true and sweet. It was the last happy family meeting, for on the

25th, at nine o'clock in the morning, he had a paralytic stroke without

any warning of ill health.

This year I made a long speech in St. James's Hall, concerning

appealing to the Pope for a circular letter for the Protection of

Animals (9th of July).

The following was not my speech, but my sentiments, which I mean to

quote.

"I thought that his Holiness might be induced graciously to concede

such an order for the benefit of mankind. The man who begins by so

small a thing as kindness to the beast who is working by his side the

livelong day, acquires habits of mildness with his wife and children.

Having patience, he loses the habit of oaths and blasphemies. It is

fury that makes men drink. From drink follows spending money, cards,

and low company. If a man is kind to his beast he lets it rest on

Sunday. That means that he is keeping the Sunday holy and free from

servile work. That day's rest saves his health and prolongs his life,

besides benefiting his soul. If a man is kind to his beast it lasts

longer, and enables him to do more work, and earn more wages. Not only

is he able to feed it better (its only reward), but he can keep his

wife and family respectably. They rise in the world's esteem, and to

a higher position. Hence kindness to animals is a small beginning of

great things, and is not unworthy even of a Pope's patronage."

On the 3rd of July we went to Lady Hooker's garden-party at Kew, and

there met, amongst others, the Gordons, who were so kind to us in the

Brazilian mines. She died soon after.

On the 19th of July we lunched with Lord Houghton, and little thought

we should not see him again. On the 11th of August we had the

misfortune to lose him. Richard paid several visits to Oxford, but

returned in time for Lord Houghton's funeral service at St. Margaret's,

Westminster Abbey, on the 18th of August, and his sorrow for this good

friend occupies a whole page of his journal. We also had the pleasure

of seeing an old friend, Sir Edwin Arnold, one of the most delightful

of Eastern poets, who gave me his "Light of Asia." Carlo Pellegrini

came several times to lunch with us, in reality wishing to caricature

Richard in _Vanity Fair_, which he did--but it was one of his few great

failures.

The first volume of the "Arabian Nights" came out on the 12th

of September, 1885, and the sixteenth volume, the last of the

supplementals, on the 13th of November, 1888; thus in a period of

three years we had produced twenty-two volumes--the ten originals, the

six supplementals, and my six volumes, _i.e._ so-called mine. We paid

several visits to Richard's sister and niece, Lady and Miss Stisted,

at Norwood, and we went to Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot at Upper House,

Guildford, where we met some very pleasant people; then we went to

Wardour, to Lord Arundell's. About this time Mr. H. H. Johnson, Artist,

Consul, African traveller, and universal favourite with everybody,

was occupying his beautiful little flat in Victoria Street, and gave

us some pleasant teas. We brought out our little translation from the

Brazilian of "Iraçema" and "Manoel de Moraes, the Convert," at our own

expense. The _Punch_ and _Vanity Fair_ caricatures came out on the

22nd, Thursday.

[Sidenote: _Richard's Programme for Egypt_.]

On the 28th of October we went down to Hatfield, where there was a

large party in the house. On this occasion Lord Salisbury wanted

privately to know what Richard's programme would be for Egypt, and he

wrote out the following for him:--

"First and far away, annex Egypt and all its territory entirely; but

if the Government does not decide on this bold stroke, at least have

no half-measures.

"Secondly, if not annexation, recall Ismail, ex-Khedive, Arábi Pasha,

and Mr. Wilfrid Blunt, and, if _they take an oath of allegiance_ to

your Government, make Ismail your English Viceroy, with a guard of

honour only. Send Arábi as the Governor of Sudan, and Mr. Wilfrid

Blunt to Darfur.

"Oblige the Sudanese to give up their arms, and abolish the useless

expense of the Egyptian Army and Navy.

"Garrison with English troops Alexandria, Cairo, Suez, Ismailíyyeh,

Port Said, Suákin, Masáwwah, one fortress at Perim, one at Rossier

(the point between Suez and Akabah), and one fortress on the Akabah

side.

"Put the bulk of the army (say five thousand men) in Khartum. Make

Valentine Baker Military Governor of Khartum (it should, of course,

have been Gordon, if he had not unfortunately been killed last

January).

"Station one Man-of-War at each of the following posts:--Alexandria,

Port Said, Suez, Suákin, Masáwwah; a gunboat at Perim, Rossier,

Ismailíyyeh, and one close to Akabah; say two gunboats in the Suez

Canal, and two in the Red Sea to look after the Slave-trade.

"Banish Ismail's sons for ten years; the only one of his family worth

anything is Hossein, not Hassan. Hossein is too clever, Hassan is a

fool, but Tewfik is the worst. If anything happens to Ismail, replace

him by Hossein. Do not do things bit by bit, or the Egyptians and

Sudanese will destroy them bit by bit.

"Collect all your material, and put the whole _régime_ in action the

same day.

"Forbid Slave-trade, and hang at the next tree or nearest yardarm all

Slave-dealers caught red-handed after date of proclamation. All cases

of treachery should be dealt with in the same summary way, whether

Pasha or Fellah. Two hangings would suffice to stop the whole, and

would be the true, short, and only merciful way to exterminate slavery.

"Teach Ismail and Arábi and Mr. Wilfrid Blunt what their conduct and

that of every official in the country would have to be, and make them

_take their oath_ before appointing them.

"Exempt five years' taxes to the whole land, save a small nominal

tax to keep up your right. Order your employés to make the natives

understand that these five years are conceded that they may have time

to recover and improve and prosper, but that after five years the

taxes will again be put on.

"When you begin to take your taxes again, allow them to be collected

by the natives, with only sufficient superintendence from your own men

to avoid being cheated, but do not interfere as to the _manner_ of it,

as no European could ever extract a piastre from a Native.

"But spend the first five years' collection on the country. Help

them to improve themselves; give them full religious liberty. Instil

humanity to man and beast by preaching, example, and schools.

"Give them the freedom of Foreign Trade; foster National Industries;

build yourselves harbours and docks and fortresses in the

Mediterranean, the Suez Canal, the Red Sea, and especially lighthouses

in the Red Sea.

"You should make roads and railways, encourage irrigation, form wells

every six hours' march throughout the country, employ native labour.

"Form Sudanese troops (as in India), officered by English.

"Give waste lands to settlers (our Emigrants) intermarrying with

natives. Provide them with looms, and encourage all manufacture,

native and foreign.

"After seven years, give them a free press; they are not fit to have

_any_ press just now.

"The first five years you would have to spend your own money largely.

"The second five years spend _their_ own upon these improvements.

"The third five years it would not only be self-paying, but give you

large returns.

"This programme should be the 'labour of love' of your Governors and

employés, besides their appointed duty.

"If England has still backbone enough to do this, in ten years' time

you will not only possess a flourishing country, and your road to

India, but the money you will have spent, as well as that which has

been lost through the past three years' blundering and weakness,

will come back to you a hundred-fold, and the Souls of all our best,

bravest, and noblest men, who have been uselessly murdered, and who

lie buried in the sands, will be at rest, and bless God that _at last_

they have died for a holy end.

"I wish I were exhorting in favour of Syria, instead of Egypt; but

I feel convinced that such a grand and startling policy would be so

appreciated in England that the Government who had courage to do it

might defy anything."

In the course of the preparation of the "Arabian Nights," we became

acquainted with Dr. Steingass, who afterwards brought out a Persian

and Arabic dictionary, and who I strongly recommend to anybody wanting

honest Eastern literary assistance. He assisted in correcting the

proofs.

On the 20th of June Richard deplores the death of Mr. Vaux, M.A.,

F.R.S. We made acquaintance with Mr. C. Heron Allen, who was then very

much engaged on Palmistry. Richard notices seeing Schapira several

times. We also had a visit from Mr. C. Doughty, the African traveller.

On the 27th of July he dined with the Gentlemen-at-Arms. For a while

he took up Volapük, but that he did not stick to, as he did not believe

it would be of any use.

On the 13th of September he notices the death of General Sir A.

Horsford, an old friend.

On the 9th of October his friend Mr. Bernard Quaritch gave a large

dinner in Richard's honour, with all the principal _literati_

(masculine) to meet him, and it appears to have been very enjoyable.

Richard made a speech, and read out the story of "Ali the Persian" from

the "Nights." (We also had a very pleasant dinner with Mr. and Mrs.

Bancroft, where we met a great many charming people.)

[Sidenote: _He asks for Tangier_.]

On the 21st of October, 1885, he applied for Marocco, hearing that Sir

John Drummond-Hay was about to retire, and it was the one thing he had

stayed on in the service, in the hopes of getting. His letter was as

follows:--

"MY LORD,

"Having been informed that Sir John Drummond-Hay proposes retiring

from Marocco, I venture to think that your Lordship will consider

that my knowledge of Arabic, and of the East, perhaps would make me

a suitable successor to him. I need hardly remind you that, during

a term of twenty-five years in the Consular Service, I have never

received a single step of promotion, nor, indeed, have I ever applied

for it.

"I am, etc.,

"RICHARD F BURTON."

This was backed up by about fifty of the best names in England, and it

seemed as if it was as good as promised to him.

He notices calling on Colonel Kitchener, and remarked that he was

rather like Charley Drake.

[Sidenote: _Parts with my Father_.]

On the 20th of November, 1885, he went round to pay his farewell

visits, and lastly to my father. Now, although my father was paralyzed,

and confined to his room, he was comparatively in no danger of death,

and the doctors had assured me, that if we went away, and returned as

we intended the following June, that they believed we should find my

father alive, and no worse, if not better, than at present; but when

Richard went to wish him good-bye, something seemed to come over them,

and Richard knelt down and asked his blessing, and asked him to pray

for him. My father put his hand upon his head with great emotion, and

blessed him fervently, and Richard left the room with the tears running

down his cheeks. My father died shortly after, and his last prayer was

for Richard and for me--he never spoke after that.

[Sidenote: _Goes to Marocco_.]

On the 21st of November Richard started for Marocco in Forwood's

steamer _Mequinez_, from St. Katherine's Wharf. I accompanied him

on board. He was advised to go, and to leave me to bring out some

volumes of the "Arabian Nights." I brought out up to No. 7, which

were corrected ready for press, and joined him in January. He had for

fellow-passengers the Perdicaris family of Tangier, and Mrs. Leared,

wife of a former friend, Dr. Leared, Fakhri Bey, and others. It seems

to have been squally. They were eight days getting to Gibraltar.

At Gibraltar he saw Mr. Melford Campbell, who was full of the lost

treasure in Vigo Bay. He thought he alone knew the secret of where the

lost treasure was, and he was too jealous to combine with Richard in

raising the means of finding it. Seeing that, Richard drew back, and

whatever secret there was on his side, perished with him, as he died

some time after. On the 30th Richard arrived at Tangier.

It was now the election-time, and my father, who was paralyzed, and

who was a strong Conservative, went nearly out of his mind, because he

could not go down to the polling-place and vote. He ordered himself

to be dressed, and a brougham to be sent for, though the doctor said

it would kill him, and I was only able to quiet him by assuring him

that a _statement_ would be received in _his_ case; and I drew it up,

and he signed it. A pious fiction, which served to prolong his life

for a little bit. Then I paid visits to Garswood (the Gerards') and

to Knowsley. During this time I was getting the four volumes of the

"Nights" out, which I was left for. I was dreadfully spied upon by

those who wished to get Richard into trouble about it, and once an

unaccountable person came and took some rooms in the same lodgings with

me after Richard left, but I settled with the landlord that either I

should leave, or that person should not have the rooms; and of course

he did not hesitate between the two, so I took the whole of his rooms

for the remainder of my stay.

WHAT THE WORLD SAID ABOUT MAROCCO.

_Pictorial World_, March 13th.

"'We sincerely trust that the present Government will not fail, amidst

other acts of justice and good works, to bestow some signal mark of

her Majesty's favour upon Captain Richard Burton, one of the most

remarkable men of the age, who has displayed an intellectual power and

a bodily endurance through a series of adventures, explorations, and

daring feats of travel, which have never been surpassed in variety

and interest by any one man.' 'Twas thus that our contemporary, the

_Morning Advertiser_, concluded a leader a few weeks ago on one whom

it rightly called 'A Neglected Englishman.' The protest, however,

has passed unnoticed by the powers that are. The gallant Captain

still remains in the comparatively humble position of her Majesty's

Consul at Trieste, while men whose claims upon their country cannot

be compared to his are constantly receiving far more important

appointments. Others wear the honours which he should have worn.

Captain Speke's services in the East were duly recognized--Captain

Burton's were not; yet Speke was Burton's lieutenant, and it was

to the latter's guidance that the former owed not a little of his

success. Burton discovered Lake Tanganyika, which he declared

contained the Sources of the Nile; Burton it was who exposed the

horrible massacre at Jeddah; Burton explored the Pacific coast,

crossed the Andes, navigated the river San Francisco, gathering most

valuable information, political, geographical, and scientific, on the

way. The same intrepid traveller made that extraordinary pilgrimage

to Mecca and Medina. Again, Burton originated the system of bayonet

exercise which is now in use in the British army, and the same

gentleman has given us some of the most interesting and instructive

books of travel that were ever penned. And yet, forsooth, an obscure

Consulate is considered a fitting reward for such services! Let Mr.

Disraeli's administration look to it."

_Manchester Courier_, October 18th, 1889.

"The truth about Sir Richard Burton, whose versatility is only

equalled by his thoroughness and solidity, is that he is far too

able for the Foreign Office. That very superior department does

not want able men; it wants persons of average--below rather than

above--ability, who will prostrate themselves like a fire-worshipper

to the rising orb of day, before 'the Office.' It hates like poison

the clever Secretary or Consul who obtains praise or reputation in

any other way than through Downing Street. Personally, I rather like

Foreign Office clerks when they are off duty; but when they put on

official 'side,' and array themselves in war-paint, especially when

they commit themselves to foolscap paper with large margins, they

always remind me of Thackeray's 'Ranville Ranville, Esq., of the

Foreign Office, who was such an ass, and so respectable.'"

_Society_, October 28th, 1889.

"It has at least seemed good to those who are set in authority over us

to do something for that accomplished, indefatigable, and patriotic

Englishman, Sir Richard Burton. No man has in his way done more for

the country than this intrepid traveller and humane man. Yet his

reward hitherto has been simply that worthless title which is flung

as a bone to a hungry dog, to those Court lackeys who assist in the

establishment of Imperial institutes, or emerging from the digger

and sheep-washing stage, amass a pile in Australia, and, returning

to their native land, put a price on their loyalty or their party

services. In honouring a man like Sir Richard Burton, the nation

reflects honour upon itself."

_Whitehall Review_, July 15th.

"Sir Richard Burton, K.C.M.G., is at present in London, on one of

those rare, brief visits which are the special delight of all who

have the fortune to be acquainted with Al-Haji Abdullah. Friends

and admirers of the famous pilgrim will hear with pleasure that Sir

Richard is in excellent health, and that, with the indefatigable

energy which is characteristic of this modern amalgamation of the

wanderer and the scholar, of Odysseus and Aristotle, he is rapidly

bringing to a conclusion his famous translation of the 'Arabian

Nights,' and organizing the issue of a popular edition of the

same, adapted for the lasses and lads of the Latin lyrist. Sir

Richard is, however, we regret to say, one further victim of the

administrative blunders of the existing--if it can now be called

existing--Government. As every one knows, Sir Richard Burton is

without a peer in his knowledge of the languages, manners, customs,

habits, and thoughts of the great races of the East. He has been in

places where but half a dozen Europeans have ever penetrated, he has

perilled his life again and again in the pursuit of knowledge, he

has amassed more stories of information on all things Oriental than

probably a single scholar or any six scholars ever gained before, he

has enriched literature with some of its most valued works on Eastern

subjects. He is the very man to be employed in some of our great

Eastern dependencies, but he has been kept in Trieste, where his

special talents are of little avail, for long enough; and now, when

he is especially desirous of obtaining the Marocco Legation, he is

passed over, and the place given to an obscure official. It is simply

a scandal.

"It is true that we are a stiff-necked, narrow-minded race. We require

to have genius cried out from the house-tops before we would recognize

it amongst us; and, as usual, such recognition comes too late,

regretfully. 'You must teach us better things.'"

_Evening Post_, November 1st, 1888.

"Sir Richard Burton and Lady Burton were interviewed as they passed

through Paris with regard to the news from Lille, announcing the death

of Henry Stanley. Sir Richard said, 'I don't believe that Stanley is

dead yet. It is just as I told you last August. When everybody thinks

the time has come to pull out their handkerchiefs and weep over him,

he will amaze us all by turning up safe and sound and smiling.'"

From the _Bat_.

"BURTON THE BEWILDERING.

"At long last, those who are high in office seem to have made up

their minds that it was time to bestow some sign of official favour

upon Captain Burton. None too soon, certainly. For more than a

generation Captain Burton has been one of the most remarkable of

living Englishmen. In a life that has already run pretty close to the

span of the Psalmist, he has laboured with a fiery energy at work

which no other living Englishmen could or would have accomplished.

Thirty years ago all Europe, ay, all the civilized, and much of the

uncivilized, world, was holding its breath in amazement at the record

of the adventurous Briton, who had made his way, guided only by his

genius and his stout heart, into the very core of Mohammedanism,

into that sacred and secret city into which through all time only

half a dozen men who were not the devotees of Islam were ever able

to penetrate. There is something peculiarly fascinating in the story

of that daring enterprise, of the lonely, gallant English gentleman

converting himself with a skill more marvellous than enchantment into

the Caboolee pilgrim and medicine man, and invading Meccah, inspired

by the passion for strange knowledge, and supported only by his own

strong will and unfailing courage. In the Oriental legend two angels

always attend upon the body of a man. It is only stretching the

Eastern fancy a little further to declare that Azreel, the Oriental

angel of death, was Burton's closest companion during that eventful

pilgrimage. 'A blunder, a hasty action, a misjudged word, and the

wanderer's bones would have whitened the desert sand,' and the world

would have been the poorer by one of the most brilliant books of

travel ever written, by a whole library of other books, and by a whole

history of deeds scarcely less daring. There is, indeed, a familiar,

we may almost call it a famous story, to the effect that Burton, when

within the walls of the sacred city, did perform a common action after

the fashion of the Frank and not of the Moslem, that he saw a true

believer watching him curiously, and that for fear of accidents he

promptly 'went for' that true believer, and killed him on the spot,

on the 'dead men tell no tales' principle. That anecdote has formed

the text for scores of arguments. Men have wrangled fiercely over the

question it suggests as to whether a traveller placed in such imminent

and deadly peril was or was not justified in slaying the spectator of

his mistake, on the chance that such spectator might betray him. The

argument remains to afford food for contest, but the story on which

it is founded has vanished into nothingness. For Captain Burton has

assured the City and the world, in a note to one of the recent volumes

of his 'Arabian Nights,' that the whole thing is fiction, a canard, a

literary wild duck of the wildest.

"Meccah, and the record of the pilgrimage thereto, would haw been

venture enough and renown enough for an ordinary lifetime. It is

merely an episode in the active and literary career of Captain Burton.

Into the generation that has come and gone since the Sheikh Abdullah

shook the dust of Meccah from off the soles of his sacrilegious feet,

where has Burton not been and what has he not done? He has gone hither

and thither 'like the wind's blast, never resting, homeless'--now to

the Land of Midian, now to the Gold Coast for gold, now dwelling in

Damascus, now in the dim and dangerous Cameroons, now in Trieste,

and now in Marocco. With all this, as if possessed by a very demon

of work, he has found time to store his brain with a most marvellous

multiplicity of learning, and to write a very Alexandrian library of

books on all manner of strange and widely differing subjects. Every

one of his travels has been made the theme for a long, but never too

long, record. He has translated the lengthy 'Lusiads' of Camoens with

the same lightness of heart with which most men would sit down to

scratch off a leading article. He has given the world that monument

of fascinating knowledge on a fascinating subject, 'The Book of

the Sword,' to which the erudition and research of a long lifetime

might well appear to have been devoted. He has imported grotesque

devil tales from Hindostan. He has written under the thin disguise

of a Persian bard--a disguise as thin as that of Bodensted's 'Mirza

Shaffy'--a wonderful poem which speculates upon the life of man

in something of the spirit of Fitzgerald's 'Omar Khayyam.' He has

translated, for the benefit of the curious and initiated few, a Hindoo

work on 'Martial Relationships,' which is one of the eccentricities

of literature. Now, in what would be called, were he any one else but

Richard Burton, his old age, he is bringing out his great translation

of the 'Arabian Nights,' one of the most valuable contributions that

have ever been made to the literature of Oriental investigation.

"Was there ever a more bewildering man than this modern Admirable

Crichton, who can speak more languages than Mezzofanti--it is a treat

to hear him troll out some Persian love-ditty or Arabic desert-song

in their guttural originals--who has been everywhere, who can fight

with every weapon, who is something of a doctor, and something of a

wizard, and something of a philosopher. The English Government, in

whose service he has passed his life, has scarcely made the best use

of him. He knows more about Eastern countries and Eastern peoples,

and can speak more Eastern languages than probably any living man,

and therefore a wise Administration planted him, during many recent

years of Eastern complication, in which he might have rendered

splendid service to the State, in an Italo-Austrian town, where the

mouse-coloured cattle recall the Campagna, and neighbouring Miramar

suggests the luckless lord of Mexico, and where Burton's special

knowledge was well-nigh of no avail. He is happier now beneath the

blue Marocco skies. There, with the white domes and the spreading

palms of the East ever in his eyes, he can peacefully finish what

is, perhaps, the greatest labour of his life--his version of those

marvellous tales which have delighted the Orient for cycles, and which

have profoundly influenced European thought and literature for nearly

two centuries."

[Sidenote: _He waits for me at Tangier_.]

November 28th, in Marocco, Richard mourns the death of our good old

friend, the Duke of Somerset. He settled down at the hotel close to the

sea, called on every one, got out his work, and waited for me.

His journals do not show him to have been very taken with Marocco.

Before he had been there two days, everybody ran to him with all their

little political intrigues and private spites. There did not seem to

be two people in the place who really liked or trusted one another.

The principal house to go to for grandeur was, of course, Sir John

Drummond-Hay's; but the only really enjoyable house was Perdicaris',

who had a semi-European, semi-Oriental establishment, and the Oriental

part was a dream. He painted very beautifully, was very talented, and

his devotion to his wife was ideal. In December Richard found the air

simply splendid. However, he was not long in Tangier before he began to

feel gouty again.

[1] It is a curious thing that he never missed the chance of a

pilgrimage to any holy shrine.