_MY JOURNEY TO DAMASCUS_
(1869–1870)
The East is a Career.
DISRAELI’S “_Tancred_.”
I shall not readily forget the evening of Thursday, December 16, 1869. I
had a terrible parting from my dear ones, especially from my mother. As
a Frenchman would say, “Je quittais ma mère.” We all dined together—the
last dinner—at five o’clock, and three hours later I set out for the
station. My brothers and sister came down to Victoria to see me off, and
at the last moment my brother Rudolph decided to accompany me to Dover,
for which I was truly thankful. It was a wild night, and the express to
Dover rushed through the raging winter storm. My mind was a curious
mixture of exultation and depression, and with it all was a sense of
supernormal consciousness that something of this had been enacted
before. About a fortnight previously I dreamed one of my curious dreams.
I thought that I came to a small harbour, and it was as black as night,
and the wind was sobbing up mournfully, and there were two steamers in
the harbour, waiting. One refused to go out, but the other went, and
came to grief. So in the train, as we tore along, I prayed silently that
I might have a sign from Heaven, and it should be that one captain
should refuse to go. Between my prayers my spirits rose and fell. They
rose because my destination was Damascus, the dream of my childhood. I
should follow the footsteps of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Lady Hester
Stanhope, the Princess de la Tour d’Auvergne, that trio of famous
European women who lived of their own choice a thoroughly Eastern life,
and of whom I looked to make a fourth. They fell because I was leaving
behind me my home, my family, and many dear ties in England, without any
definite hope of return.
We arrived at Dover, and walked to the boat, and could hardly keep on
our legs for the wind. When I set out to embark, lo! there were two
steamers. The Ostend boat refused to go out; the other one was preparing
to start. Now I was most anxious to sail without an hour’s delay, but I
turned to my brother and said, “Rody, if it is my duty to go I will go,
for I do not like to stay on my own responsibility. I am scrupulous
about Dick’s time and money, and he told me to lose no time.” The answer
was, “Duty be damned! I won’t let you go.” Still I hesitated, and as I
was between the ways an old sailor stepped out of the darkness as I
stood on the quay, and said, “Go home, missie; I haven’t seen such a
night this forty year.” I remembered my dream, and decided.
I turned into the nearest shelter, a small inn opposite the boats, so as
to be able to start at daylight; and the result justified my foresight.
The captain of the first vessel, by which I had intended to go, went
out. After shipping awful seas, and being frightfully knocked about, he
moored some way off Calais Pier; but the sea and the wind drove the boat
right on to it, and carried away one of the paddles, the tiller, and
hurt several passengers. The waves drove her backwards and forwards on
to the pier like a nutshell for half an hour, and she was nearly going
down, but some smacks hauled her off and out to sea again. She beat
about all night, and returned to Dover in a pitiable plight, having
neither landed the passengers nor the baggage.
It was thus I met her when I embarked on the other boat at nine o’clock
the next morning. The weather was terribly rough even then, but at least
we had the advantage of daylight. We had a rough passage, the sea
mountains high; but we reached Calais eventually, where I managed to get
some food at the buffet, such as it was, but I had to sit on the floor
with a plate on my lap, so great and rude was the crowd. The boat
accident caused me to miss my proper train to Marseilles, and to lose
two of my many trunks. It would almost seem as if some malignant spirit
had picked these two trunks out, for the one contained nearly all my
money, and the other all my little comforts for the journey. I had to
decide at once between missing my passage at Marseilles and forsaking my
missing trunks. I decided to go on, and leave them to look after
themselves. Six months later they turned up at Damascus safe and sound.
We travelled through the weary night and most of the next day, and only
reached Marseilles at 5 p.m., after having met with many _contretemps_
and discomforts. I at once went on board, arranged my cabin, did all my
little business, and went back alone to the hotel to have a hot bath and
a cutlet, having been nearly forty-eight hours on the road without rest
or stopping.
Our ship was one of the P. & O. floating hotels, superbly fitted. We
steamed out from Marseilles at half-past nine the next morning. It was a
great pleasure to exchange the fogs and cold of England for the climate
of the sunny, smiling south, the olive groves, and the mother-o’-pearl
sea; yet these beauties of Nature have no meaning in them when the heart
feels lonely and desolate, as mine did then.
Yet on the whole I had a very pleasant passage from Marseilles to
Alexandria. We had not more than fifty passengers on board, all
Anglo-Indians, and middling class. I got a very nice cabin forward, all
to myself, with my maid. The ship was full of young married couples
going out to India. They were not used to ships, and were evidently
unaware of the ventilators at the top of the cabin, so at night one got
the full benefit of their love-making. One night, for instance, I heard
a young bride fervently calling upon her “Joey” to kiss her. It was
amusing at first, but afterwards it became rather monotonous. I did not
know a soul on board with whom I could exchange ideas, and I kept as
much as possible to myself without appearing rude. I was asked to choose
my place at table, and I humbly chose one some way down; but the captain
asked me to move up to the seat of honour on his right hand, and I felt
quite at a loss to account for the distinction, because not a soul on
board knew anything about me. I did not find the captain, though, a bad
companion. He was a short, fat, dark, brisk little man, just the sort of
man a captain and a sailor should be. I am glad to say he had not the
slightest idea of being unduly attentive. The conversation was dull at
table. The ladies talked chiefly about Colonel “This” and Captain
“That,” peppering their conversation with an occasional Hindustani word,
a spice of Anglo-Indian gossip, and plentiful regimentalisms, such as
“griffin,” “tiffen,” “the Staff,” and “gymkhana,” all of which was Greek
to me.
Take it all round, the six days’ passage was not so bad. I particularly
admired the coast of Sicily, the mountains rising one above another,
Etna smoking in the distance, the sea like glass, and the air adding a
sensuous charm, a soft, balmy breeze like the Arabian seas. Yet, as I
had been spoiled by Brazilian scenery, I did not go into the same
ecstasies over it as my fellow-passengers. We spent Christmas Eve as our
last night on board. In the evening we went in for snapdragon and other
festivities of the season, and tried to be as merry as we could. The
ship could not go into the harbour of Alexandria at night; it has a
dangerous entrance; so we sent up our rockets and blue-lights, and
remained outside the lighthouse till dawn.
[Illustration: THE BOULEVARD, ALEXANDRIA.]
On Christmas Day morning I first set my foot on Eastern ground. We
steamed into the harbour of Alexandria slowly; everybody was going on to
India except me, and I landed. The first thing I did was to go straight
to a telegraph office and pay nineteen shillings and sixpence for a
telegram to Richard at Beyrout, which of course arrived there after I
did. I cannot say that I was struck with Alexandria; in point of fact, I
mentally called it “a hole,” in vulgar parlance. I went to the Hôtel de
l’Europe, a second-rate hotel, though one of the best in Alexandria. It
was not so bad as might have been expected. In the afternoon we made a
party up to see Pompey’s Pillar and Cleopatra’s Needle and the bazars
and other things. But I am bound to say that, on the whole, I thought
Alexandria “neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring.” It was a
sort of a jumble of Eastern and Western, and the worst of each. The only
amusing incident which happened to me there was when two dragomans got
up a fictitious quarrel as to who should take me to the bazars. Of
course they appealed to me, and I said, “You may both come, but I shall
only pay one.” Whereupon they fastened upon each other tooth and nail,
tore each other’s clothes, and bit each other’s cheeks. These two,
though I never suspected it at the time, were, it appeared, in the habit
of thus dealing with ladies and missionaries and amiable English
tourists; and they always got up this farce, because, to avoid a street
fight, the kind-hearted looker-on would generally employ and pay them
both, and perhaps give them a tip in addition to calm them down. But I
innocently did the right thing without knowing it. I had so often seen
negroes fight with knives in Brazil that the spectacle of two dragomans
biting each other’s cheeks appeared to me to be supremely ridiculous. I
laughed, and waited patiently until one of them pretended to be very
much hurt. Then turning to the other, I said, “You seem the better man;
I will take you”; and they were both very much crestfallen.
I spent the evening alone in my small room at the hotel. A strange
Christmas truly.
Next morning I went on board the Russian _Ceres_, which was bound for
Beyrout, a three days’ passage. It was an uneventful journey. The best
thing about the boat was the _caviare_, which was delicious. The deck
was simply filthy, as it was crowded with Orientals from every part of
the East, all nations and creeds and tongues. But it was the most
interesting part of the ship to me, as I had always been dreaming of the
East. Each of these Eastern families had their mattresses and their
prayer-carpets, on which they seemed to squat night and day. No matter
how rough or how sea-sick, they were always there saying their prayers,
or devouring their food, or dozing, or reclining on their backs.
Occasionally they chanted their devotions through their noses. I could
not help laughing at the sound; and when I laughed they did the same. I
used to bring all the sweets out of the saloon for the children, so they
were always glad to see me. The other passengers thought it passing
strange that I should elect to spend the whole of my days with “Eastern
rabble.”
We passed Port Said and got to Jaffa in about two days. I was not
impressed with Jaffa. The town looks like dirty, well-rubbed dice
running down the side of a conical-shaped, green hill. Here I sent
another telegram to Damascus to Richard—the Russian Vice-Consul kindly
took charge of it—but all the same it never reached its destination,
though I am certain it was not the Consul’s fault. At Jaffa we picked up
an Effendi and his harím, and two Italian musicians, who played the
concertina and guitar. The latter pair confided in me, and said they had
made a _mariage de cœur_, and were really very hard up, in fact
dependent on their talent; so I hit on a plan to help them. I asked the
captain to let us have a little music after breakfast and dinner. They
played, and I carried round the plate, and my gleanings paid their
passage and something more. As for the Effendi’s harím she was carefully
veiled and wrapped up in an _izár_, or sheet, and confined to her cabin,
except when she was permitted at rare intervals to appear on deck. Her
Effendi jealously watched her door, to see that nobody went in but the
stewardess. However, she freely unveiled before me. I was not impressed
with her charms, and I thought what a fine thing the sheet and the veil
would be to some of our European women. There is an irresistible
suggestion of concealed charm about them. It was my first experience of
a real harím.
On the third day, very early, we anchored off Beyrout. The town as
viewed from the water’s edge is beautiful. Its base is washed by the
blue Mediterranean. It straggles along the coast and crawls up part of
the lower hills. The yellow sand beyond the town, and the dark green
pine forests which surround it, contrast well with the deep blue bay and
the turquoise skies. It is backed by the splendid range of the Lebanon.
The air is redolent with the smell of pine wood. Every town in the East
has its peculiar odour, and when once you have been in one you can tell
it blindfold afterwards. I went ashore, and put up at a clean and
comfortable hotel facing the sea, which was kept by a Greek. This hotel
later on came to be to my eyes the very centre of civilization; for
during our sojourn at Damascus Beyrout was our Biarritz, and this little
hotel the most luxurious house in Syria. Here I had breakfast, and after
that I called on our Consul-General. His wife was ill in bed, but he
asked me kindly to remain to luncheon, and showed me how to smoke my
first narghíleh. I was very anxious to start at once for Damascus, but
the diligence had gone. So I had to stop, willy-nilly, for the night at
Beyrout. In the evening the Duchesse de Persigny arrived from Damascus,
and sent me word that she would like to dine with me. Of course I was
delighted. She gave me some news of Richard, and enlivened my dinner
very much by anecdotes of Damascus. She was a very witty, eccentric
woman, as every one knows who had to do with her when she was in
England. She had many adventures in Damascus, which she related to me in
her racy, inimitable way. It didn’t sound so bad in French, but I fear
her humour was a trifle too spicy to bear translation into plain English
prose. When I got to Damascus, I heard a good deal more about her
“goings on” there.
I went to bed, but not to sleep, for it seemed to me that I was at the
parting of the ways. To-morrow I was to realize the dream of my life. I
was to leave behind me everything connected with Europe and its petty
civilization, and wend my way to “The Pearl of the East.” As soon as you
cross the Lebanon Range you quit an old life for a new life, you forsake
the new world and make acquaintance with the old world, you relapse into
a purely oriental and primitive phase of existence.
Early the next morning “the private carriage” which the Consul-General
had kindly obtained for me, a shabby omnibus drawn by three old screws,
made its appearance. I was to drive in it over the Lebanons, seventy-two
miles, to Damascus; so I naturally viewed it with interest, not
unmingled with apprehension. Quite a little crowd assembled to see me
off, and watched with interest while my English maid, a large pet St.
Bernard dog, my baggage, and myself were all squeezed into the omnibus
or on top of it. The Consul-General sent his kawwass as guard. This
official appeared a most gorgeous creature, with silver-mounted pistols
and all sorts of knives and dangling things hanging about him. He
rejoiced in the name of Sakharaddín, which I pronounced “Sardine,” and
this seemed to afford great amusement to the gaping crowd which had
assembled to see me off.
The drive from Beyrout to Damascus was charming, and it lasted two days.
First we drove over the Plain of Beyrout, behind the town. The roadside
was lined with cactus hedges and rude _cafés_, which are filled on
Sundays and holidays by all classes. They go to smoke, sip coffee and
_raki_, and watch the passers-by. Immediately on arriving at the foot of
the Lebanon, we commenced a winding, steep ascent, every turn of which
gave charming views of the sea and of Beyrout, which we did not lose
sight of for several hours. We wound round and round the ascent until
Beyrout and the sea became invisible. The cold made me hungry, and I
refreshed myself with some bread, hard-boiled eggs, and a cigarette.
“Sardine” was keeping Ramadan, but the sight of these luxuries tempted
him, and he broke his fast. I couldn’t help offering him something, he
looked so wistful! At last we reached the top, and a glorious wintry
sunset gave us a splendid view. It was of course midwinter, and one saw
little of the boasted fertility of the Lebanon. After the beauties of
Brazil the scenery looked to me like a wilderness of rock and sand,
treeless and barren; the very mountains were only hills. I could not
help contrasting the new world and the old. In Brazil, though rich in
luxuriant vegetable and animal life, there is no history—all is new and
progressive, but vulgar and _parvenu_; whereas Syria, in her abomination
of desolation, is the old land, and she teems with relics of departed
glory. I felt that I would rather abide with her, and mourn the past
amid her barren rocks and sandy desert, than rush into the progress and
the hurry of the new world.
We descended the Lebanon at a full canter into the Buká’a Plain. On the
road I met three strangers, who offered me a little civility when I was
searching for a glass of water at a khan, or inn. As I was better
mounted than they, I said that in the event of my reaching our
night-halt first I would order supper and beds for them, and they
informed me that every house on the road had been _retenue_ for me, so
that I was really making quite a royal progress. I was able to keep my
promise to them. The halt was at Shtora, a little half-way inn kept by a
Greek. The three travellers soon came up. We supped together and spent a
pleasant evening. They turned out to be a French _employé_ at the
Foreign Office, a Bavarian minister on his travels, and a Swedish
officer on leave.
The next morning we parted. My new acquaintances set out in an opposite
direction, and I went on to Damascus. We trotted cheerfully across the
rest of the Buká’a Plain, and then commenced the ascent of the
Anti-Lebanon. To my mind the Anti-Lebanon, off the beaten track, is
wilder and more picturesque than the other range. The descent of the
Anti-Lebanon we did at a good pace, but it seemed a long time until we
landed on the plain Es Sáhará. That reached, compensation for the ugly
scenery we had to pass through began when we entered a beautiful
mountain defile, about two hours from Damascus. Here, between mountains,
runs the road; and the Barada—the ancient Abana, they say—rushes through
the mountains and by the roadside to water the gardens of Damascus.
Between Salahíyyeh and Damascus is a quarter of an hour’s ride through
gardens and orchards. I had heard of them often, and of the beautiful
white city, with her swelling domes, tapering minarets, and glittering
golden crescents looming against the far horizon of the distant hills.
So I had heard of Damascus, so I had pictured it, and so I often saw it
later; but I did not see it thus on this my first entrance to it, for it
was winter. As we rumbled along the carriage road I asked ever and
again, “Where are the beautiful gardens of Damascus?” “Here,” said the
kawwass, pointing to what in winter-time and to English eyes appeared
only ugly shrubberies, wood clumps, and orchards. I saw merely scrubby
woods bordered by green, which made a contrast to the utter sterility of
Es Sáhará. We passed Dummar, a village which contains several summer
villas belonging to the Wali (the Governor-General of Syria) and other
personages. The Barada ran along the right of the road, and gradually
broadened into the green Merj, which looked then like a village common.
And thus I entered Damascus.
We passed a beautiful mosque, with the dome flanked by two slender
minarets. I scarcely noticed it at the time, for I drove with all haste
to the only hotel in Damascus—“Demetri’s.” It is a good house with a
fine courtyard, which has orange and lemon trees, a fountain full of
goldfish in it, and a covered gallery running round it. All this would
have been cool and pleasant in the summer, but it was dark, damp, and
dreary that winter evening. I must own frankly that my first impression
of Damascus was not favourable, and a feeling of disappointment stole
over me. It was very cold; and driving into the city as I did tired out,
the shaky trap heaving and pitching heavily through the thick mire and
slushy, narrow streets, filled with refuse and wild dogs, is, to speak
mildly, not liable to give one a pleasant impression.
[Illustration: DAMASCUS, FROM THE DESERT.]
However, all my discomfort, depression, and disappointment were soon
swallowed up in the joy of meeting Richard, who had also put up, pending
my appearance, at this hotel. He came in about an hour after my arrival,
and I found him looking ill and worn. After our first greetings were
over he told me his reception at Damascus had been most cordial, but he
had been dispirited by not getting any letters from me or telegrams.
They all arrived in a heap some days after I came. And this explained
how it was that he had not come to meet me at Beyrout, as I had expected
him to do. In fact, I had felt sorely hurt that he had not come. But he
told me he had gone to Beyrout over and over again to meet me, and I had
not turned up, and now the steamer by which I had arrived was the only
one which he had not gone to meet. He was feeling very low and sad about
my non-appearance. It was therefore a joyful surprise for him when he
came in from his lonely walk to find me settled down comfortably in his
room. Though he greeted me in that matter-of-fact way with which he was
wont to repress his emotions, I could _feel_ that he was both surprised
and overjoyed. He had already been three months at Damascus, and the
climate and loneliness had had a bad effect upon him, both mentally and
physically. However, we had a comfortable little dinner, the best that
“Demetri’s” could give us, which was nothing special, and after dinner
was over we warmed ourselves over a _mangal_, a large brass dish on a
stand, full of live charcoal embers. Then we had a smoke, and began to
discuss our plans for our new home.
It had taken me fifteen days and nights without stopping to come from
London to Damascus.
END OF VOL. I.
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
-----
Footnote 1:
The name of Arundell of Wardour appears in the official Austrian lists
of the Counts of the Empire. The title is still enjoyed by Lord
Arundell and all the members of the Arundell family of both sexes.
Lady Burton always used it out of England, and took rank and
precedence at foreign courts as the Countess Isabel Arundell (of
Wardour). She used to say, characteristically: “If the thing had been
bought, I should not have cared; but since it was given for a brave
deed I am right proud of it.”
Footnote 2:
The greater part of Book I. is compiled from Lady Burton’s unfinished
autobiography, at which she was working the last few months of her
life. The story is therefore told mainly in her own words.
Footnote 3:
Two only now survive: Mrs. Fitzgerald and Mrs. Van Zeller.
Footnote 4:
_Life of Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife.
Footnote 5:
It is necessary here to defend Lady Burton against herself. She was
certainly not “ugly”; for she was—a friend tells me who knew her at
this time—a tall and beautiful girl, with fair brown hair, blue eyes,
classic features, and a most vivacious and attractive manner. Nor
could she correctly be called a “schoolgirl”; for though she was
taking some finishing lessons in French, music, etc., she was more
than nineteen years of age, and had been through a London season.
Footnote 6:
_Vide_ Burton’s _First Footsteps in Africa_.
Footnote 7:
Burton alludes to this prejudice against him in the original (1886)
edition of his _Arabian Nights_, “Alf Laylah wa Laylah,” Terminal
Essay, Section D, pp. 205, 206.
Footnote 8:
_Laméd_, one of Lady Burton’s books of private devotion.
Footnote 9:
At this point Lady Burton’s autobiography ends—cut short by her death.
Henceforward, when she speaks in the first person, it will be from her
papers and letters, of which she left a great number. She was sorting
them when she died. But I have felt justified in repeating the story
of her marriage in her own words, as no other pen could do justice to
it.
Footnote 10:
Miss Stisted’s _Life of Burton_.
Footnote 11:
Lady Burton also, during the last years of her life, admitted that she
had made a mistake in judging her mother’s opposition too harshly. She
often said to her sister, “I am so sorry I published those hard things
I wrote of dear mother in my Life of Dick. It was her love for me
which made her do it. I will cut it out in the next edition.”
Footnote 12:
_Life of Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. i., p. 337.
Footnote 13:
This chapter is a condensed account of Lady Burton’s marriage, as
related by herself in her Life of her husband, with some fresh
material added.
Footnote 14:
From her devotional book _Laméd_.
Footnote 15:
She wrote in her book _Laméd_ in 1864: “All has been carried out by
God’s help, with the only exception that He saw it was not good to
give us children, for which we are now most grateful. Whatever happens
to us is always for the best.”
Footnote 16:
Miss Alice Bird, who knew Sir Richard and Lady Burton for many years,
has told me the following details about the wedding. The Birds were
friends of the Arundell family, and Isabel came to them and told them
how matters stood with regard to Mrs. Arundell’s opposition and her
ill-health, and asked if she might be married from their house, and
so, to use her own phrase, “throw the mantle of respectability over
the marriage,” to prevent people saying that it was a runaway match.
Dr. Bird and his sister gladly consented; they accompanied her to the
church, and when the ceremony was over the newly wedded couple
returned to their house in Welbeck Street, where they had a simple
luncheon, which did duty for the wedding breakfast.
After luncheon was over Isabel and her husband walked off down Welbeck
Street to their lodging in St. James’s, where they settled down
without any fuss whatever. She had sent her boxes on ahead in a
four-wheeler. That evening a bachelor friend of Burton’s called in at
the lodging in St James’s, and found Isabel seated there, in every
sense mistress of the situation, and Burton proudly introduced her as
“My wife.” They did not send the friend away, but kept him there to
smoke and have a chat with them.
Footnote 17:
Letter to Foreign Office, March 27, 1861.
Footnote 18:
_Life of Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. i., pp. 348,
349.
Footnote 19:
The chapters on Madeira and Teneriffe are compiled from manuscripts
which Lady Burton wrote on her return from Teneriffe in 1863, but
which her husband would not allow her to publish.
Footnote 20:
[On reading through this manuscript with Mr. Wilkins, I am struck with
the coincidence that it was on Passion Sunday, March 22, 1896
(thirty-three years later), that my dear sister, Lady Burton, died.—E.
FITZGERALD.]
Footnote 21:
“Laurence Oliphant conveyed to Richard that Speke had said that ‘if
Burton appeared on the platform at Bath’ (which was, as it were,
Speke’s native town) ‘he would kick him.’ I remember Richard’s
answer—‘Well, _that_ settles it! By God! he _shall_ kick me’; and so
to Bath we went. There was to be no speaking on Africa the first day,
but the next day was fixed for the ‘great discussion between Burton
and Speke.’ The first day we went on the platform close to Speke. He
looked at Richard and at me, and we at him. I shall never forget his
face. It was full of sorrow, of yearning and perplexity. Then he
seemed to turn to stone. After a while he began to fidget a great
deal, and exclaimed half aloud, ‘Oh, I cannot stand this any longer!’
He got up to go out. The man nearest him said, ‘Shall you want your
chair again, sir? May I have it? Shall you come back?’ and he
answered, ‘I hope not,’ and left the hall. The next day a large crowd
was assembled for this famous discussion. All the distinguished people
were with the Council; Richard _alone was excluded_, and stood on the
platform—_we two alone_, he with his notes in his hand. There was a
delay of about twenty-five minutes, and then the Council and speakers
filed in and announced the terrible accident out shooting that had
befallen poor Speke shortly after his leaving the hall the day before.
Richard sank into a chair, and I saw by the workings of his face the
terrible emotion he was controlling and the shock he had received.
When called upon to speak, in a voice that trembled, he spoke of other
things and as briefly as he could. When we got home he wept long and
bitterly, and I was for many a day trying to comfort him.” (_Life of
Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. i., p. 389.)
Footnote 22:
Afterwards the Right Hon. Sir Edward Thornton, H.B.M. Minister at
Washington, sometime Ambassador at St. Petersburg, etc.
Footnote 23:
Yet the mine was almost destroyed by fire some six months after our
visit.
Footnote 24:
_The Highlands of Brazil_, by Richard Burton.
Footnote 25:
The chapters on Damascus are compiled from letters and diaries of Lady
Burton, and from some of the rough manuscript notes from which she
wrote her _Inner Life of Syria_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Re-indexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end
of the last chapter.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
5. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.