THE LIFE OF
CAPTAIN
SIR RICHARD F. BURTON,
K.C.M.G., F.R.G.S.
BY HIS WIFE,
ISABEL BURTON.
WITH NUMEROUS PORTRAITS, ILLUSTRATIONS,
AND MAPS.
_IN TWO VOLUMES_.
VOL. I.
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, LD.
1893.
[Illustration: RICHARD BURTON IN HIS TENT IN AFRICA.]
CONSECRATION.
TO MY EARTHLY MASTER,
WHO IS WAITING FOR ME ON HEAVEN'S FRONTIERS.
Whilst waiting to rejoin you, I leave as a message to the World we
inhabited, the record of the Life into which both our lives were
fused. Would that I could write as well as I can love, and do you
that justice, that honour, which you deserve! I will do my best, and
then I will leave it to more brilliant pens, whose wielders will feel
less--and write better.
Meet me soon--I wait the signal!
ISABEL BURTON.
FOREWORD.
"No man can write a man down except himself."
In speaking of my husband, I shall not call him "Sir Richard," or
"Burton," as many wives would; nor yet by the pet name I used for him
at home, which for some reason which I cannot explain was "Jemmy;" nor
yet what he was generally called at home, and what his friends called
him, "Dick;" but I will call him Richard in speaking of him, and "I"
where he speaks on his own account, as he does in his private journals.
I always thought and told him that he destroyed much of the interest of
his works by hardly ever alluding to himself, and now that I mention
it, people may remark it, that in writing he seldom uses the pronoun
_I_. I have therefore drawn, not from his books, but from his private
journals. It was one of his asceticisms, an act of humility, which the
world passed by, and probably only thought one of his eccentricities.
In his works he would generally speak of himself as the Ensign, the
Traveller, the Explorer, the Consul, and so on, so that I often think
that people who are _not_ earnest readers never understood _who_ it
was that did this, thought that, or saw the other. If I make him speak
plainly for himself, as he does in his private journals, but never to
the public, it will give twenty times the interest in relating events;
so I shall throughout let him speak for himself where I can.
In early January, 1876, Richard and I were on our way to India for a
six months' trip to visit the old haunts. We divided our intended
journey into two lots. We cut India down the middle, the long way on
the map, from north to south, and took the western side, leaving the
eastern side for a trip which was deferred, alas! for our old age and
retirement. We utilized the voyage out (which occupied thirty-three
days in an Austrian Lloyd, used as a Haj, or pilgrim-ship), and also
the voyage back, in the part of the following pages which refers to his
early life, he dictating and I writing.
In 1887, when my husband was beginning to be a real invalid, he lent
some of these notes to Mr. Hitchman (who asked leave to write his
biography), Richard promising not to tread upon his heels by his own
Autobiography till he should be free from service in 1891. It will not,
I think, do any harm to the reading public to reproduce it with more
detail, because only seven hundred people got Mr. Hitchman's, who did
not by any means use the whole of the material before he returned it,
and what I give is the original just as Richard dictated it, and it is
more needful, because it deals with a part of his life that was only
known to himself, to me only by dictation; because everything that he
wrote of himself is infinitely precious, and because to leave to the
public a sketch of an early Richard Burton is desirable, otherwise
readers would be obliged to purchase Mr. Hitchman's, as well as this
work, in order to make a perfect whole.
I must take warning, however, that when Mr. Hitchman's book came out,
part of the Press found this account of my husband's boyhood and youth
charming, and another part of the Press said that I was too candid,
and did nothing to gloss over the faults and foibles of the youthful
Burtons; they doubted the accuracy of my information--I was informed
that my style was too rough-and-ready, and of many others of my
shortcomings. In short, I was considered rather as writing against my
own husband, whilst both sides of the Press in their reviews assumed
that I wrote it; this charmed Richard, and he would not let me refute.
Not one word was mine--it was only dictation, and peremptory dictation
when I objected to certain self-accusations. I beg leave to state
that I did not write one single word; I could not, for I did not know
it--and all that the family objected to, or considered exaggerated,
will not be repeated here. Before entering on these pages, I must warn
the reader not to expect the goody-goody boy nor yet the precocious
vicious youth of 1893. It is the recital of a high-spirited lad of the
old school, full of animal spirits and manly notions, a lively sense
of fun and humour, reckless of the consequences of playing tricks,
but without a vestige of vice in the meaner or lower forms--a lad, in
short, who _would_ be a gentleman and a man of the world in his teens,
and who, from his foreign travel, had seen more of life than boys do
brought up at home.
I do not begin this work--the last important work of my life--without
fear and trembling. If I can perform this sacred duty--this labour of
love--well,--I shall be glad indeed, but I begin it with unfeigned
humility. I have never needed any one to point out to me that my
husband was on a pedestal far above _me_, or anybody else in the world.
I have known it from 1850 to 1893, from a young girl to an old widow,
_i.e._ for forty-three years. I feel that I cannot do justice to his
scientific life, that I may miss points in travel that would have
been more brilliantly treated by a clever man. My only comfort is,
that his travels and services are already more or less known to the
public, and that other books will be written about them. But if I am
so unfortunate as to disappoint the public in _this_ way, there is one
thing that I feel I _am_ fit for, and that is to lift the veil as to
the _inner_ man. He was misunderstood and unappreciated by the world
at large, during his life. No one ever thought of looking for the real
man beneath the cultivated mask that generally hid all feelings and
belief--but now the world is beginning to know what it _has_ lost. The
old, old, sad story.
He shall tell his own tale till 1861, the first forty years, annotated
by me. Whilst dictating to me I sometimes remarked, "Oh, do you think
it would be well to write this?" and the answer always was, "Yes! I do
not see the use of writing a biography at all, unless it is the exact
truth, a very photograph of the man or woman in question." On this
principle he taught me to write quite openly in the unconventional and
personal style--being the only way to make a biography interesting,
which we _now_ class as the Marie Bashkirtcheff style. As you will
see, he always makes the worst of himself, and offers no excuse. As a
lad he does not know what to do to show his manliness, and all that a
boy should, ought, and does think brave and honourable, be it wild or
not, all that he does.
What appals me is, that the task is one of such magnitude--the enormous
quantity of his books and writings that I have to look through, and,
out of eighty or more publications, to ascertain what has seen the
light and what has not, because it is impossible to carry the work of
forty-eight years in one's head; and, again, the immense quantity of
subjects he has studied and written upon, some in only a fragmentary
state, is wonderful. My wish would be to produce this life, speaking
only of him--and afterwards to reproduce everything he has written
that has not been published. I propose putting all the heavier matter,
such as pamphlets, essays, letters, correspondence, and the _résumé_
of his works--that is, _what portion shows his labours and works for
the benefit of the human race_--into two after-volumes, to be called
"Labours and Wisdom of Richard Burton." After his biography I shall
renew _his_ "Arabian Nights" with his Forewords, Terminal Essay, and
Biography of the book in such form that it can be copyrighted--it is
now protected by _my_ copyright. His "Catullus" and "Pentamerone" are
now more or less in the Press, to be followed by degrees by all his
unpublished works. His hitherto published works I shall bring out as
a Uniform Library, so that not a word will be lost that he ever wrote
for the public. Fortunately, I have kept all his books classified as he
kept them himself, with a catalogue, and have separate shelves ticketed
and numbered; for example, "Sword," "Gypsy," "Pentamerone," "Camoens,"
and so on.
If I were sure of life, I should have wished for six months to look
through and sort our papers and materials before I began this work,
because I have five rooms full. Our books, about eight thousand, only
got housed in March, 1892, and they _are_ sorted--but not the papers
and correspondence; but I fancy that the public would rather have a
spontaneous work sooner, than wait longer. If I live I shall always go
on with them. I have no leisure to think of style or of polish, or
to select the best language, the best English,--no time to shine as
an authoress. I must just think aloud, so as not to keep the public
waiting.
From the time of my husband's becoming a real invalid--February,
1887--whilst my constant thoughts reviewed the dread To Come--the
catastrophe of his death--and the subsequent suffering, I have been
totally incapable, except writing his letters or attending to his
business, of doing any good literary work until July, 1892, a period of
five years, which was not improved by four attacks of influenza.
Richard was such a many-sided man, that he will have appeared different
to every set of people who knew him. He was as a diamond with so many
facets. The tender, the true, the brilliant, the scientific,--and to
those who deserved it, the cynical, the hard, the severe. Loads of
books will be written about him, and every one will be different;
and though perhaps it is an unseemly boast, I venture to feel sure
that mine will be the truest one, for I have no interest to serve, no
notoriety to gain, belong to no party, have nothing to sway me, except
the desire to let the world understand what it once possessed, what it
has lost. With many it will mean _I_. With me it means _HIM_.
When this biography is out, the public will, theoretically, but not
practically, know him as well as I can make them, and all of his
friends will be able after that to put forth a work representing that
particular facet of his character which he turned on to them, or which
they drew from him. He was so great, so world-wide, he could turn a
fresh facet and sympathy on to each world. I always think that a man is
one character to his wife at his fireside corner, another man to his
_own_ family, another man to _her_ family, a fourth to a mistress or an
amourette--if he have one,--a fifth to his men friends, a sixth to his
boon companions, and a seventh to his public, and so on _ad infinitum_;
but I think the wife, if they are happy and love each other, gets the
pearl out of the seven oyster-shells.
I fear that this work will be too long. I cannot help it. When I
embarked on it I had no conception of the scope: it was a labour of
love. I thought I could fly over it; but I have found that the more
I worked, the more it grew, and that the end receded from me like the
mirage in the desert. I only aim at giving a simple, true recital
without comment, and at fairness on all questions of whatever sort. I
am very personal, because I believe the public like it. I want to give
Richard as I knew him at home. I apologize in advance to my readers if
I am sometimes obliged to mention myself oftener than they and I care
about; but they will understand that our lives were so interwoven,
so bound together, that I should very often spoil a good story or an
anecdote or a dialogue were I to leave myself out. It would be an
affectation that would spoil my work.
I am rather disheartened by being told by a literary friend that the
present British public likes its reading "in sips." How _can_ I give
a life of seventy years, every moment of which was employed in a
remarkable way, "in sips"? It is impossible. Though I must not detail
much from his books, I want to convey to the public, at least, what
they were about; striking points of travel, his schemes, wise warnings,
advice, and plans for the benefit of England--then what about "sips"?
It must not be dry, it must not be heavy, nor tedious, nor voluminous;
so it shall be personal, full of traits of character, sentiments and
opinions, brightened with cheerful anecdotes, and the more serious part
shall go into the before-mentioned two volumes, the "Labours and Wisdom
of Richard Burton."
I am not putting in many letters, because he generally said such
personal things, that few would like them to be shown. His business
letters would not interest. To economize time he used to get expressly
made for him the smallest possible pieces of paper, into which he used
to cram the greatest amount of news--telegram form. He only wrote much
in detail, if he had any literary business to transact.
One of my greatest difficulties, which I scarcely know how to express,
is, that which I think the most interesting, and which most of my
intimates think well worth exploring; it is that of showing the dual
man with, as it were, two natures in one person, diametrically opposed
to each other, of which he was himself perfectly conscious. I had a
party of literary friends to dinner one night, and I put my manuscript
on the table before them after dinner, and I begged them each to take
a part and look over it. Feeling as I do that the general public never
understood him, and that his mantle after death seemed to descend
upon my shoulders, that everything I say seems to be misunderstood,
and that, in some few eyes, I can do nothing right, I said at the end
of the evening, "If I endeavour to explain, will it not be throwing
pearls to swine?" (not that I meant, dear readers, to compare _you_ to
swine--it is but an expression of thought well understood). And the
answer was, "Oh, Lady Burton, _do_ give the world the ins and outs
of this remarkable and interesting character, and let the swine take
care of themselves." "If you leave out by order" (said one) "religion
and politics, the two touchstones of the British public, you leave
out the great part of a man." "Mind you gloss over nothing to please
anybody" (said a second). I think they are right--one set of people
see one side, and another see another side, and neither of the two
will comprehend (like St. Thomas) anything that they have not seen
and felt; or, to quote one of Richard's favourite mottoes from St.
Augustine, "Let them laugh at me for speaking of things which they do
not understand, and I must pity them, whilst they laugh at me." So I
must remain an unfortunate buffer amidst a cyclone of opinions. I can
only avoid controversies and opinions _of my own_, and quote his and
his actions.
These words are forced from me, because I have received my orders, if
not exactly from the public, from a few of the friends who profess to
know him best. I am ordered to describe Richard as a sort of Didérot
(a disciple of Voltaire's), who wrote "that the world would never be
quiet till the last king was strangled with the bowels of the last
priest,"--whereas there was no one whom Richard delighted more to
honour than a worthy King, or an honest straightforward Priest.
There _are_ people who are ready to stone me, if I will not describe
Richard as being absolutely without belief in anything; yet I really
cannot oblige them, without being absolutely untruthful. He was a
spade-truth man, and he honestly used to say that he examined every
religion, and picked out its pearl to practise it. He did not scoff at
them, he was perfectly sincere and honest in what he said; nor did he
change, but he _grew_. He always _said_, and innumerable people _could_
come forward, if they had the courage--I could name some--to say that
they have heard him declare, that at the end of all things there were
only two points to stand upon--NOTHING and CATHOLICISM; and many
_could_, if they _would_, come forward and say, that when they asked
him what religion he was, he answered Catholic.
He _never was_, what is called _here_ and _now_ in England, an
Agnostic; he was a Master-Sufi, he practised Tasáwwuf or Sufi-ism,
which combines the poetry and prose of religion, and is mystic. The
Sufi is a profound student of the different branches of language and
metaphysics, is gifted with a musical ear, indulges in luxuriant
imagery and description. They have a simple sense--a _double entendre_
understood amongst themselves--God in Nature,--Nature in God--a
mystical affection for a Higher Life, dead to excitement, hope, fear,
etc. He was fond of quoting Sayyid Mohammad Hosayn's motto, "It is
better to restore one dead heart to Eternal Life, than Life to a
thousand dead bodies."
I have seen him receive gratuitous copies of an Agnostic paper in
England, and I remember one in particular--I do not know who wrote
it,--it was very long, and all the verses ended with "Curse God the
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." I can see him now reading it--and
stroking his long moustache, and muttering, "Poor devil! Vulgar beast!"
He was quite satisfied, as his friends say, that we are not gifted with
the senses to understand the origin of the Mysteries by which we are
surrounded, and in this nobody agrees more thoroughly than I do. He
likewise said he believed there was a God, but that he could not define
Him; neither can I, neither can you, but _I_ do not want to. Great
minds tower above and see into little ones, but the little minds never
climb sufficiently high to see into the Great Minds, and never did Lord
Beaconsfield say a truer thing, speaking of religion than when he said,
"_Sensible men never tell_." As I want to make this work both valuable
and interesting, I am not going into the unknown or the unknowable,
only into what he knew--what I know; therefore I shall freely quote
his early training, his politics, his Mohammedanism, his Sufi-ism, his
Brahminical thread, his Spiritualism, and all the religions which he
studied, and nobody can give me a sensible reason why I should leave
out the Catholicism, except to point the Spanish proverb, "that no one
pelts a tree, unless it has fruit on it," but were I to do so, the
biography would be incomplete.
Let us suppose a person residing inside a house, and another person
looking at the house from the opposite side of the street; you would
not be unjust enough to expect the person on the outside to describe
minutely its inner chambers and everything that was in it, because he
would have to take it on trust from the person who resided inside,
but you _would_ take the report of the man living outside as to the
_exterior_ of the house. That is exactly the same as my writing my
husband's history. Do you want an edition of the inside or an edition
of the outside? If you do not want the truth, if you order me to
describe a Darwin, a Spencer, a John Stuart Mill, I can do it; but it
will not be the home-Richard, the fireside-Richard whom _I_ knew, the
two perfectly distinct Richards in one person; it will be the man as
he was at lunch, at dinner, or when friends came in, or when he dined
out, or when he paid visits; and if the world--or, let us say, a small
portion of the world,--is so unjust and silly as to wish for untrue
history, it must get somebody else to write it. To me there are only
two courses: I must either tell the truth, and lay open the "inner
life" of the man, by a faithful photograph, or I must let it alone, and
leave his friends to misrepresent him, according to their lights.
It has been threatened to me that if I speak the truth I am to reap
the whirlwind, because others, who claim to know my husband _well_,
see him quite in a different light. (I know many people intimately,
but I am quite incompetent to write their lives--I am only fit to do
that for the man with whom I lived night and day for thirty years;
there are three other people who could each write a small section of
his life, and after those nobody; I do not accept the so-called general
term "friend.") I shall be very happy indeed to answer anybody who
attacks me, who is brave enough to put his or her name; but during
the two years I have been in England I have hardly had anything but
anonymous communications and paragraphs signed under the brave names of
"Agnostic," or "One who knows," so I have no man or woman to deal with,
but empty air, which is beneath my contempt. This is a very old game,
perhaps even more ancient than "Prophesy, O Christ, who it was that
struck Thee!" but it is cowardly and un-English--that is, if England
"stands where she did." I would also remind you of the good old Arab
proverb, that "a thousand curses never tore a shirt."
I would have you remember that I gain _nothing_ by trying to describe
my husband as belonging to _any particular religion_. If I would
describe him as an English Agnostic--the last new popular word--the
small band of people who call themselves his intimate friends, and who
think to honour him by injuring me, would be perfectly satisfied. I
should have all their sympathy, and my name would be at rest, both in
Society and in the Press. I have no interest to serve in saying he was
a Catholic more than anything else; I have no bigotry on the question
_at all_. If he did something Catholic I shall say it, and if he did
something Mohammedan or Agnostic I shall equally say it.
It is also a curious fact, that the people who are most vexed with me
on this score, are men who, before their wives, mothers, sisters, are
good Protestants, and who go twice to the Protestant church on Sundays,
but who are quite scandalized that my husband should be allowed a
religion, and are furious because I will not allow that Richard Burton
was their Captain. No, thank you! it is not good enough: he was not,
never _was_ like _any_ of you--nor can I see what it can possibly be to
you what faith, or no faith, Richard Burton chose to die in, and why
you threaten me if I speak the truth! _We_ only knew _two_ things--the
beautiful mysticism of the East, which, until I lived here, I thought
was Agnosticism, and I find it is _not_; and calm, liberal-minded Roman
Catholicism. The difference between you and Richard is--you, I mean,
who admired my husband--that you are not going anywhere,--according to
your own Creed you have nowhere to go to,--whilst _he_ had a God and
a continuation, and said he would wait for me; he is only gone a long
journey, and presently I shall join him; we shall take up where we left
off, and we shall be very much happier even than we have been here.
Of the thousands that have written to me since his death, everybody
writes, "What a marvellous brain your husband had! How modest about
his learning and everything concerning himself! He was a man never
understood by the world." It is no wonder he was _not_ understood
by the World; his friends hindered it, and when one who knew him
thoroughly, offers to _make_ him understood, it is resented.
The Press has recently circulated a paragraph saying that "I am not
the fittest person to write my husband's life." After I have finished
these two volumes, it will interest me very much to read those of the
competent person, who will be so kind as to step to the front,--with a
name, please, not anonymously,--and to learn all the things I do not
know.
He, she, or it, will write what he said and wrote; I write what he
_thought_ and _did_.
ISABEL BURTON.
29_th May_, 1893.
NOTE.--I must beg the reader to note, that a word often has
several different spellings, and my husband used to give them a turn
all round. Indeed, I may say that during the latter years of his life
he adopted quite a different spelling, which he judged to be correcter.
In many cases it is caused by the English way of spelling a thing, and
the real native way of spelling the same. For English Meeanee, native
way Miani. The battle of Dabba (English) is spelt Dubba, Dubbah, by the
natives. Fulailee river (English) is spelt Phuleli (native). Mecca and
Medina have sometimes an _h_ at the end of them. Karrachee is Karáchi.
Sind is spelt Sind, Sindh, Scind, Scinde; and what the Anglo-Indians
call Bóbagees are really Babárchis, and so on. I therefore beg that
the spelling may not be criticized. In quoting letters, I write as the
author does, since I must not change other people's spelling.--I. B.
[TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE.--The page headings of the original
edition have been converted into sidenotes in this digital edition.
Typographical and other obvious errors have also been corrected, but
the variations in the spelling of proper names, etc., mentioned above
remain.]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
THE EARLY DAYS OF RICHARD F. BURTON.
Family history--The Napoleon Romance--The Louis XIVth
Romance.
CHAPTER II.
RICHARD'S BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD.
Richard Burton's early life--At Tours--His first
school--Trips--Grandmammas Baker and Burton--Aunt
G.--They leave Tours.
CHAPTER III.
THE CHILDREN ARE BROUGHT TO ENGLAND.
School at Richmond--Measles disperse the
school--Education at Blois--They leave Blois
for Italy--Pisa--Siena--Vetturino-travelling
--Florence--Shooting--Rome in Holy Week
--Sorrento--Classical games--Chess--Naples
--Cholera--Marseille--Pau--Bagnières de
Bigorres--Contrabandistas--Pau education--Argélés--The
boys fall in love--Drawing--Music--The baths of
Lucca--The boys get too old for home--Schinznach and
England--The family break up.
CHAPTER IV.
OXFORD.
Practical jokes--Friends--Fencing-rooms--Manners and
customs--Food and smoking--Drs. Newman and Pusey--Began
Arabic--Play--Town life--College friends--Coaching
and languages--Latin--Greek--Holidays--The Rhine to
Wiesbaden--The Nassau Brigade--The straws that broke the
camel's back--Rusticated.
CHAPTER V.
GOING TO INDIA.
He gets a commission and begins Hindostani--He goes
to be sworn in at the India Office.
CHAPTER VI.
MY PUBLIC LIFE BEGINS.
The voyage and arrival--The sanitarium--His
moonshee--Indian Navy--English bigotry--Engages
servants--Reaches Baroda--Brother officers--Mess
--Drill--Pig-sticking--Sport--Society--Feeding
--Nautch--Reviews--Races--Cobden and Indian history
--Somnath gates--Outram and Napier--He learns Indian
riding and training--Passes exams. in Hindostani
--Receives the Brahminical thread--On the march--Embarks
for Sind--Karáchi, Sind--He passes in Maharátta.
CHAPTER VII.
THE REMINISCENCES WRITTEN FOR MR. HITCHMAN IN 1888--INDIA.
A later chapter on same events differently told--His
little autobiography--His books on India--Burying a
Sányasi--His Indian career practically ends.
CHAPTER VIII.
ON RETURN FROM INDIA.
Boulogne--Bayonet exercise--Meets me at Boulogne at
school--His famous journey to Mecca and El Medinah--His
start from Alexandria to Cairo--Twelve days in an open
Sambúk--Ten days' ride to Mecca--Moslem Holy Week--The
all-important crisis--His safe return--On board an English
ship--Interesting letters--The Kasîdah--The end of the
Kasîdah--Christian Poetry.
CHAPTER IX.
HARAR--THE MOSLEM ABYSSINIA--THE TIMBUCTOO OF EAST AFRICA,
THE EXPLORATION OF WHICH HAD BEEN ATTEMPTED IN VAIN BY
SOME THIRTY TRAVELLERS.
He starts for Harar in Somali-land--Preparations
at Zayla--Desert journey--He enters the city
in triumph--Interview with the Amir--Has great
success--Damaging reports--He leaves Harar safely--A
fearful desert journey--Want of water--They reach
Berberah--Join Speke, Herne, Stroyan--He sails for
Aden--Returns with forty men--They are attacked--A
desperate fight--Richard and Speke desperately wounded.
CHAPTER X.
WITH BEATSON'S HORSE.
The Crimea--End of Crimea--Beatson's trial.
CHAPTER XI.
BETWEEN THE CRIMEA AND THE LAKE REGIONS OF CENTRAL AFRICA.
We become engaged--The story of Hagar Burton--Hagar
Burton, the Gipsy--Our strange parting.
CHAPTER XII.
HIS EXPLORATION OF THE LAKE REGIONS, TAKING CAPTAIN SPEKE
AS SECOND IN COMMAND.
Preliminary canter--Hippopotamus shooting--Our first fever.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE REAL START FOR TANGANYIKA IN THE INTERIOR.
A long march--Marsh fever--They ascend from Zungomero
to a better climate--From lovely scenery to fœtid
marshes--Ants--The war-cry of the Wahúmba--Evil
reports--Game--Vermin--A hard jungle march--Description
of caravans and difficulties--Reptiles--Ill and attended
by a witch--Partial paralysis--Blindness--Elephants--The
crossing of the great river Malagarázi.
CHAPTER XIV.
OUR REWARD--SUCCESS.
Scenery--In an Arab craft to Ujiji--More Scenery
--After twenty-seven days Speke returns--A fight--Are
received with honour--A caravan arrives--Geographical
remarks--Troublesome following--Forest on fire--He
sends Speke to find the Nyanza--The Chief Suna--Richard
collects a vocabulary--Speke returns and the differences
arose--Richard soliloquizes on Speke's change of
front--For geographers--The kindness of Musa Mzuri and
Snay bin Amir--Speke's illness--They cross the "Fiery
Field"--An official wigging--Christmas Day, 1858--Speke
leaves Richard ill, but apparently friendly.
CHAPTER XV.
RICHARD AND I MEET AGAIN.
We try to effect a reconciliation between Speke and
Richard--My appeal to my mother--My letter to my
mother--Not a success--News of Richard and subsequent
return--A family council decides the matter--Our
wedding--We are received at home again--A delightful
London season--Fire at Grindlay's--Delightful days at
country houses--Richard goes to West Africa.
CHAPTER XVI.
WEST COAST OF AFRICA--RICHARD'S FIRST CONSULATE.
The West African negroes--The black man is raised above
the white man--Richard inaugurates a better state of
things--Method of protecting the negro--Teaching fair
treatment for the negro--West African gold.
CHAPTER XVII.
HIS FIRST LEAVE.
We sail for West Africa--We land at Madeira--Yellow
fever--The peak of Teneriffe--I return home--Richard sent
as H.M.'s Commissioner to Dahomè--Dahomè and Richard's
travels--His travels, business, etc., on the West Coast.
CHAPTER XVIII.
HOME.
Speke's death--Some lines I wrote on Richard and
Speke--Richard's "Stone Talk"--Gaiety--Winwood
Reade--We go to Ireland--Richard and Sir Bernard
Burke--Bianconi--The anthropological farewell dinner--Lord
Derby's speech as chairman--Richard returns thanks--He
speaks his mind about the Nile.
CHAPTER XIX.
SANTOS, SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL--RICHARD'S SECOND CONSULATE.
We explore Portugal--I rejoin him at Rio de
Janeiro--Arrival at Santos and São Paulo--Life in
Brazil--Brazilian life--Life at Rio--The Barra for
contrast--To the mines in Minas Gerães--We go down the big
mine--Below--Chico and I start on a fifteen days' ride
alone--The landlord of the hotel is mystified--Richard
dangerously ill--Mesmerizing--Regatta--We leave
Brazil--Richard goes south--Lord Derby gives Richard
Damascus--His carbine pistol--Pleasant days in
Vichy and Auvergne--The Fell Railway--Geographical
disagreeables--Work--The Nile--Still the Nile--I sail for
Damascus.
CHAPTER XX.
DAMASCUS--HIS THIRD CONSULATE.
I find Richard has had a cordial reception--We go to
Palmyra, or Tadmor in the desert--We go without an
escort--Tadmor--Camp life--Our travelling day--Night
camps--Return home after desert--Native life--The Arabic
library at Damascus--The library--The environs of
Damascus--How our days were passed--Our reception day
--A most interesting and remarkable woman--A romantic
history--Richard's love for children--Richard's notes
on our wilder travels--The Tulúl el Safá--Our home in
the Anti-Lebanon--Our day--With Drake and Palmer in
the Lebanon--Religious disturbances--Holo Pasha gives
us a panther--The Druzes--Their stronghold--We camp at
the Waters of Merom--Richard is stung by a scorpion
--Explorations of unknown tracts--I prevent Rashíd
Pasha's intentions taking effect--Rashíd's intrigue
about the Druzes--The manner in which we are received in
villages--Remarks on the journey--Kurdish dogs--Excursions
to unknown tracts--Troubles from a self-appointed zealot
--Usurers very troublesome--A Jehád threatened--Jews
--Usurers try to remove Richard--Letters of indignation
and sympathy--Jews--Omar Bey's fine mare--Horse-breeding
--The Holy Land.
CHAPTER XXI.
RELIGION.
Shádilis--Sufis becoming Catholics--They are tried and
condemned--And persecuted--The Protestant converts--The
Shádilis--Richard quotes Mr. Gladstone--Letters approving
his conduct--Richard's answer and remarks--He leaves--I
take a night ride across country--We were stoned at
Nazareth--General information--Salih's description of
Richard--Letters showing the state of Syria after his
recall--The interval I remained as a hostage--I leave the
Anti-Lebanon--Wind up at Damascus--I get fever--Eventually
reach home--He gets an _amende_--We become
penniless--Small jottings--Death of my mother--Richard
accepts Trieste--The old story of shooting people, and a
newer one--The truth--Difficulty of English officials
doing their duty--Conclusion of his Damascus career.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
RICHARD BURTON IN HIS TENT.
LUNGE AND CUT IN CARTE (INSIDE).
RICHARD BURTON, AS HAJI ABDULLAH, EN ROUTE TO MECCA.
MECCA AND THE KA'ABAH, OR THE HOLY GRAIL OF THE MOSLEMS.
BURTON'S SKETCH MAP OF AFRICA.
MINIATURE OF RICHARD BURTON.
RICHARD BURTON. _By Louis Desanges._
ISABEL BURTON. _By Louis Desanges._
FACSIMILE LETTER.
THE MAN WHO WINS.
THE CHIEF OFFICER OF RICHARD'S BRIGADE OF AMAZONS.
CRUCIFIX FROM DAHOMÈ.
MAPS OF AFRICA.
CARBINE PISTOL.
OUR DESERT CAMP.
THE BURTONS' HOUSE IN SALAHÍYYAH, DAMASCUS.
_By Sir Frederick Leighton._
SALAHÍYYAH, DAMASCUS IN THE OASIS.
THE BURTONS' HOUSE-ROOF AT DAMASCUS AND THE ADJOINING
MOSQUE-MINARET.
THE BURTONS' HOUSE AT BLUDÁN, IN ANTI-LEBANON.
THE LIFE OF SIR RICHARD BURTON.
CHAPTER I.
THE EARLY DAYS OF RICHARD F. BURTON.
_By himself. Copied from his private Journals._
"He travels and expatriates; as the bee
From flower to flower, so he from land to land,
The manners, customs, policy of all
Pay contributions to the store he gleans;
He seeks intelligence from every clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return--a rich repast for _me!_"
GENEALOGY AND FAMILY.
Autobiographers generally begin too late.
Elderly gentlemen of eminence sit down to compose memories, describe
with fond minuteness babyhood, childhood, and boyhood, and drop the pen
before reaching adolescence.
Physiologists say that a man's body changes totally every seven years.
However that may be, I am certain that the moral man does, and I cannot
imagine anything more trying than for a man to meet himself as he was.
Conceive his entering a room, and finding a collection of himself at
the several decades. First the puking squalling baby one year old, then
the pert unpleasant schoolboy of ten, the collegian of twenty who, like
Lothair, "knows everything and has nothing to learn." The _homme fait_
of thirty in the full warmth and heyday of life, the reasonable man of
forty, who first recognizes his ignorance and knows his own mind, of
fifty with white teeth turned dark, and dark hair turned white, whose
experience is mostly disappointment with regrets for lost time and
vanished opportunities. Sixty when the man begins to die and mourns
for his past youth, at seventy when he _ought_ to prepare for his long
journey and never does. And at all these ages he is seven different
beings not one of which he would wish to be again.
[Sidenote: _Family History._]
First I would make one or two notes on family history.
My grandfather was the Rev. Edward Burton, Rector of Tuam, in Galway
(who with his brother, eventually Bishop Burton, of Killala, were the
first of our branch to settle in Ireland). They were two of the Burtons
of Barker Hill, near Shap, Westmoreland, who own a common ancestor
with the Burtons of Yorkshire, of Carlow, and Northamptonshire. My
grandfather married Maria Margaretta Campbell, daughter, by a Lejeune,
of Dr. John Campbell, LL.D., Vicar-General of Tuam. Their son was my
father, Lieut.-Colonel Joseph Netterville Burton, of the 36th Regiment,
who married a Miss (Beckwith) Baker, of Nottinghamshire, a descendant,
on her mother's side, of the Scotch Macgregors. The Lejeune above
mentioned was related to the Montmorencys and Drelincourts, French
Huguenots of the time of Louis XIV. To this hangs a story which will
be told by-and-by. This Lejeune, whose real name was Louis Lejeune,
is supposed to have been a son of Louis XIV. by the Huguenot Countess
of Montmorency. He was secretly carried off to Ireland. His name
was translated to Louis Young, and he eventually became a Doctor of
Divinity. The royal, or rather morganatic, marriage contract was
asserted to have existed, but has disappeared. The Lady Primrose of
that date, who was a very remarkable personage, and a strong ally of
the Jacobites, protected him and conveyed him to Ireland.
The Burtons of Shap derive themselves from the Burtons of Longnor, like
Lord Conyngham and Sir Charles Burton of Pollacton, and the two above
named were the collateral descendants of Francis Pierpoint Burton,
first Marquis of Conyngham, who gave up the name of Burton. The notable
man of the family was Sir Edward Burton, a desperate Yorkist who was
made a Knight Banneret by Edward IV. after the second battle of St.
Albans, and who added to his arms the Cross and four roses.
The Bishop of Killala's son was Admiral J. Ryder Burton, who entered
the Navy in 1806. He served in the West Indies, and off the North
Coast of Spain, when in an attack on the town of Castro, July, 1812,
he received a gunshot wound in the left side, from which the ball was
never extracted. From 1813 to 1816 he served in the Mediterranean
and Adriatic, and was present at the bombardment of Algiers, when he
volunteered to command one of the gunboats for destroying the shipping
inside the Mole. His last appointment was in May, 1820, to the command
of the _Cornelian_ brig, in which he proceeded in early 1824 to
Algiers, where, in company with the _Naiad_ frigate, he fell in with
an Algerine corvette, the _Tripoli_, of eighteen guns and one hundred
men, which, after a close and gallant action under the batteries of the
place, he boarded and carried. This irascible veteran at his death was
in receipt of a pension for wounds. He was Rear Admiral in 1853, Vice
Admiral in 1858, and Admiral in 1863. He married, in 1822, Anna Maria,
daughter of the thirteenth Lord Dunsany; she died in 1850, leaving
one son, Francis Augustus Plunkett Burton, Colonel of the Coldstream
Guards. He married the great heiress Sarah Drax, and died in 1865,
leaving one daughter, Erulí, who married her cousin, John Plunkett, the
future Lord Dunsany.
My father, Joseph Netterville Burton, was a lieutenant-colonel in the
36th Regiment. He must have been born in the latter quarter of the
eighteenth century, but he had always a superstition about mentioning
his birthday, which gave rise to a family joke that he was born in
Leap Year. Although of very mixed blood, he was more of a Roman in
appearance than anything else, of moderate height, dark hair, sallow
skin, high nose, and piercing black eyes. He was considered a very
handsome man, especially in uniform, and attracted attention even in
the street. Even when past fifty he was considered the best-looking man
at the Baths of Lucca. As handsome men generally do, he married a plain
woman, and, "Just like Provy," the children favoured, as the saying is,
the mother.[1]
In mind he was a thorough Irishman. When he received a commission in
the army it was on condition of so many of his tenants accompanying
him. Not a few of the younger sort volunteered to enlist, but when they
joined the regiment and found that the "young master" was all right,
they at once ran away.
The only service that he saw was in Sicily, under Sir John Moore,
afterwards of Corunna, and there he fell in love with Italy. He was
a duellist, and shot one brother officer twice, nursing him tenderly
each time afterwards. When peace was concluded he came to England and
visited Ireland. As that did not suit him he returned to his regiment
in England. Then took place his marriage, which was favoured by his
mother-in-law and opposed by his father-in-law. The latter, being a
sharp old man of business, tied up every farthing of his daughter's
property, £30,000, and it was well that he did so. My father, like too
many of his cloth, developed a decided taste for speculation. He was a
highly moral man, who would have hated the idea of _rouge et noir_, but
he gambled on the Stock Exchange, and when railways came out he bought
shares. Happily he could not touch his wife's property, or it would
speedily have melted away; yet it was one of his grievances to the end
of his life that he could not use his wife's money to make a gigantic
fortune. He was utterly reckless where others would be more prudent.
Before his wedding tour, he passed through Windermere, and would not
call upon an aunt who was settled near the Lakes, for fear that she
might think he expected her property. She heard of it, and left every
farthing to some more dutiful nephew.
He never went to Ireland after his marriage, but received occasional
visits from his numerous brothers and sisters.
The eldest of the family was the Rev. Edward Burton, who had succeeded
to the living. He wasted every farthing of his property, and at
last had the sense to migrate to Canada, where he built a little
Burtonville. In his younger days he intended to marry a girl who
preferred another man. When she was a widow with three children, and
he a widower with six children, they married, and the result was
eventually a total of about a score. Such families do better than is
supposed. The elder children are old enough to assist the younger
ones, and they seem to hang together. My father's sisters, especially
Mrs. Mathews, used to visit him when in England, and as it was known
that he had married an heiress, they all hung to him, apparently,
for themselves and their children. They managed to get hold of all
the Irish land that fell to his share, and after his death they were
incessant in their claims upon his children. My mother was Martha
Baker, one of three sister co-heiresses, and was the second daughter.
The third daughter married Robert Bagshaw, Esq., M.P. for Harwich, and
died without issue. The eldest, Sarah, married Francis Burton, the
youngest brother of my father. He had an especial ambition to enter
the Church, but circumstances compelled him to become military surgeon
in the 66th Regiment. There was only one remarkable event in his life,
which is told in a few very interesting pages by Mrs. Ward, wife of
General Ward, with a short comment by Alfred Bate Richards, late editor
of the _Morning Advertiser_, who, together with Andrew Wilson, author
of the "Abode of Snow," who took it up at his death, compiled and put
together a short _résumé_ of the principal features of my life, of
which some three hundred copies were printed, in pamphlet form and
circulated to private friends.
[Sidenote: _The Napoleon Romance._]
"FACTS CONNECTED WITH THE LAST HOURS OF NAPOLEON.
"On the night of the 5th of May, 1821, a young ensign of the 66th
Regiment, quartered at St. Helena, was wending his solitary way
along the path leading from the plain of Deadwood to his barracks,
situated on a patch of table-land called Francis Plain. The road was
dreary, for to the left yawned a vast chasm, the remains of a crater,
and known to the islanders as the 'Devil's Punchbowl;' although the
weather had been perfectly calm, puffs of wind occasionally issued
from the neighbouring valleys; and, at last, one of these puffs having
got into a gully, had so much ado to get out of it, that it shrieked,
and moaned, and gibbered, till it burst its bonds with a roar like
thunder--and dragging up in its wrath, on its passage to the sea, a
few shrubs, and one of those fair willows beneath which Napoleon,
first Emperor of France, had passed many a peaceful, if not a happy,
hour of repose, surrounded by his faithful friends in exile.
"This occurrence, not uncommon at St. Helena, has given rise to an
idea, adopted even by Sir Walter Scott, that the soul of Napoleon had
passed to another destiny on the wings of the Storm Spirit; but, so
far from there being any tumult among the elements on that eventful
night, the gust of wind I have alluded to was only heard by the few
whose cottages dotted the green slopes of the neighbouring mountains.
But as that fair tree dropped, a whisper fell among the islanders that
Napoleon was dead! No need to dwell upon what abler pens than mine
have recorded; the eagle's wings were folded, the dauntless eyes were
closed, the last words, '_Tête d'armée_,' had passed the faded lips,
the proud heart had ceased to beat...!!
"They arrayed the illustrious corpse in the attire identified with
Napoleon even at the present day; and among the jewelled honours of
earth, so profusely scattered upon the breast, rested the symbol of
the faith he had professed. They shaded the magnificent brow with the
unsightly cocked hat,[2] and stretched down the beautiful hands in
ungraceful fashion; every one, in fact, is familiar with the attitude
I describe, as well as with a death-like cast of the imperial head,
from which a fine engraving has been taken. The cast is true enough to
Nature, but the character of the engraving is spoiled by the addition
of a laurel-wreath on the lofty but insensate brow.
"About this cast there is a _historiette_ with which it is time the
public should become more intimately acquainted; it was the subject
of litigation, the particulars of which are detailed in the _Times_
newspaper of the 7th September, 1821, but to which I have now no
opportunity of referring. Evidence, however, was unfortunately wanting
at the necessary moment, and the complainant's case fell to the
ground. The facts are these:--
"The day after Napoleon's decease, the young officer I have alluded
to, instigated by emotions which drew vast numbers to Longwood House,
found himself within the very death-chamber of Napoleon. After the
first thrill of awe had subsided, he sat down, and on the fly-leaf
torn from a book, and given him by General Bertrand, he took a rapid
but faithful sketch of the deceased Emperor. Earlier in the day, the
officer had accompanied his friend, Mr. Burton, through certain paths
in the island, in order to collect material for making a composition
resembling plaster of Paris, for the purpose of taking the cast with
as little delay after death as possible. Mr. Burton having prepared
the composition, set to work and completed the task satisfactorily.
The cast being moist, was not easy to remove; and, at Mr. Burton's
request, a tray was brought from Madame Bertrand's apartments,
Madame herself holding it to receive the precious deposit. Mr. Ward,
the ensign alluded to, impressed with the value of such a memento,
offered to take charge of it at his quarters till it was dry enough
to be removed to Mr. Burton's; Madame Bertrand, however, pleaded so
hard to have the care of it, that the two gentlemen, both Irishmen
and soldiers, yielded to her entreaties, and she withdrew with the
treasure, which she _never afterwards would resign_.
"There can scarcely, therefore, be a question that the casts and
engravings of Napoleon, now sold as emanating from the skill and
reverence of Antommarchi, are from the original taken by Mr. Burton.
We can only rest on circumstantial evidence, which the reader will
allow is most conclusive. It is to be regretted that Mr. Burton's cast
and that _supposed_ to have been taken by Antommarchi were not _both_
demanded in evidence at the trial in 1821.
"The engraving I have spoken of has been Italianized by Antommarchi,
the name inscribed beneath being _Napoleone_.
"So completely was the daily history of Napoleon's life at St.
Helena a sealed record, that, on the arrival of papers from England,
the first question asked by the islanders and the officers of the
garrison was, 'What news of Buonaparte?' Under such circumstances
it was natural that an intense curiosity should be felt concerning
every movement of the mysterious and ill-starred exile. Our young
soldier one night fairly risked his commission for the chance of a
glimpse behind the curtain of the Longwood windows, and, after all,
saw nothing but the imperial form from the knees downwards. Every
night at sunset a _cordon_ of sentries was drawn round the Longwood
plantations. Passing between the sentinels, the venturesome youth
crept, under cover of trees, to a lighted window of the mansion.
The curtains were not drawn, but the blind was lowered. Between the
latter, however, and the window-frame were two or three inches of
space; so down knelt Mr. Ward! Some one was walking up and down the
apartment, which was brilliantly illuminated.[3] The footsteps drew
nearer, and Mr. Ward saw the diamond buckles of a pair of thin shoes,
then two well-formed lower limbs, encased in silk stockings; and,
lastly, the edge of a coat, lined with white silk. On a sofa at a
little distance was seated Madame Bertrand, with her boy leaning
on her knee; and some one was probably writing under Napoleon's
dictation, for the Emperor was speaking slowly and distinctly. Mr.
Ward returned to his guard-house satisfied with having _heard the
voice of Napoleon Buonaparte_.
"Mr. Ward had an opportunity of seeing the great captive at a distance
on the very last occasion that Buonaparte breathed the outer air. It
was a bright morning when the serjeant of the guard at Longwood Gate
informed our ensign that 'General Buonaparte' was in the garden on
to which the guard-room looked. Mr. Ward seized his spy-glass, and
took a breathless survey of Napoleon, who was standing in front of
his house with one of his Generals. Something on the ground attracted
his notice; he stooped to examine (probably a colony of ants, whose
movements he watched with interest), when the music of a band at a
distance stirred the air on Deadwood Plain; and he who had once led
multitudes forth at his slightest word now wended his melancholy way
through the grounds of Longwood, to catch a distant glimpse of a
British regiment under inspection.
"We have in our possession a small signal book which was used at St.
Helena during the period of Napoleon's exile. The following passages
will give some idea of the system of vigilance which it was thought
necessary to exercise, lest the world should again be suddenly
uproused by the appearance of the French Emperor on the battle-field
of Europe. It is not for me to offer any opinion on such a system,
but I take leave to say that I never yet heard any British officer
acknowledge that he would have accepted the authority of Governor
under the burden of the duties it entailed. In a word, although every
one admits the difficulties and responsibilities of Sir Hudson Lowe's
position, all deprecate the system to which he considered himself
obliged to bend.
"But the signal-book! Here are some of the passages which passed from
hill to valley while Napoleon took his daily ride within the boundary
prescribed:--
"'General Buonaparte has left Longwood.'
"'General Buonaparte has passed the guards.'
"'General Buonaparte is at Hutt's Gate.'
"'General Buonaparte is missing.'
"The latter paragraph resulted from General Buonaparte having, in
the course of his ride, turned an angle of a hill, or descended some
valley beyond the ken, for a few minutes, of the men working the
telegraphs on the hills!
"It was not permitted that the once Emperor of France should be
designated by any other title than '_General_ Buonaparte;' and, alas!
innumerable were the squabbles that arose between the Governor and
his captive, because the British Ministry had made this puerile order
peremptory. I have now no hesitation in making known the great Duke's
opinion on this subject, which was transmitted to me two years ago,
by one who for some months every year held daily intercourse with his
Grace, but who could not, while the Duke was living, permit me to
publish what had been expressed in private conversation.
"'I would have taken care that he did not escape from St. Helena,'
said Wellington: 'but he might have been addressed by any name he
pleased.'
"I cannot close this paper without saying a word or two on the
condition of the buildings once occupied by the most illustrious and
most unfortunate of exiles.
"It is well known that Napoleon never would inhabit the house which
was latterly erected at Longwood for his reception; that, he said,
'would serve for his tomb;' and that the slabs from the kitchen
_did_ actually form part of the vault in which he was placed in his
favourite valley beneath the willows, and near the fountain whose
crystal waters had so often refreshed him.
"This abode, therefore, is not invested with the same interest as his
real residence, well named the 'Old House at Longwood;' for a more
crazy, wretched, filthy barn, it would scarcely be possible to meet
with; and many painful emotions have filled my heart during nearly
a four years' sojourn on 'The Rock,' as I have seen French soldiers
and sailors march gravely and decorously to the spot, hallowed in
their eyes, of course, by its associations with their invisible but
unforgotten idol, and degraded, it must be admitted, by the change it
has undergone.
"Indeed, few French persons can be brought to believe that it ever was
a decent abode; and no one can deny that it must outrage the feelings
of a people like the French, so especially affected by associations,
to see the bedchamber of their former Emperor a dirty stable, and the
room in which he breathed his last sigh, appropriated to the purpose
of winnowing and thrashing wheat! In the last-named room are two
pathetic mementoes of affection. When Napoleon's remains were exhumed
in 1846, Counts Bertrand and Las Casas carried off with them, the
former a piece of the boarded floor on which the Emperor's bed had
rested, the latter a stone from the wall pressed by the pillow of his
dying Chief.
"Would that I had the influence to recommend to the British
Government, that these ruined and, I must add, desecrated, buildings
should be razed to the ground; and that on their site should be
erected a convalescent hospital for the sick of all ranks, of
_both_ services, and of _both_ nations. Were the British and French
Governments to unite in this plan, how grand a sight would it be to
behold the two nations shaking hands, so to speak, over the grave of
Napoleon!
"On offering this suggestion, when in Paris lately, to one of the
nephews of the first Emperor Napoleon, the Prince replied that 'the
idea was nobly philanthropic, but that England would never listen
to it.' I must add that his Highness said this 'rather in sorrow
than in anger;' then, addressing Count L----, one of the faithful
followers of Napoleon in exile, and asking him which mausoleum
_he_ preferred,--the one in which we then stood, the dome of the
_Invalides_, or the rock of St. Helena,--he answered, to my surprise,
'St. Helena; for no grander monument than that can ever be raised to
the Emperor!'
"Circumstances made one little incident connected with this, our visit
to the _Invalides_, most deeply interesting. Comte D'Orsay was of the
party; indeed it was in his elegant _atélier_ we had all assembled,
ere starting, to survey the mausoleum then being prepared for the
ashes of Napoleon. Suffering and debilitated as Comte D'Orsay was,
precious, as critiques on art, were the words that fell from his lips
during our progress through the work-rooms, as we stopped before the
sculptures intended to adorn the vault wherein the sarcophagus is to
rest. Ere leaving the works, the Director, in exhibiting the solidity
of the granite which was finally to encase Napoleon, struck fire
with a mallet from the magnificent block. 'See,' said Comte D'Orsay,
'though the dome of the _Invalides_ may fall, France may yet light a
torch at the tomb of her Emperor.' I cannot remember the exact words,
but such was their import. Comte D'Orsay died a few weeks after this.
"Since the foregoing was written, members of the Burton family
have told me, that, after taking the cast, Mr. Burton went to his
regimental rounds, leaving the mask on the tray to dry; the back of
the head was left on to await his return, not being dry enough to take
off, and was thus overlooked by Madame Bertrand. When he returned he
found that the mask was packed up and sent on board ship for France in
Antommarchi's name. From a feeling of deep mortification he took the
back part of the cast, reverently scraped off the hair now enclosed
in a ring, and, overcome by his feelings, dashed it into a thousand
pieces. He was afterwards offered by Messrs. Gall and Spurzheim
(phrenologists), one thousand pounds sterling for that portion of the
cast which was wanting to the cast so called Antommarchi's. Amongst
family private papers there was a correspondence, read by most members
of it, between Antommarchi and Mr. Burton, in which Antommarchi stated
that he knew Burton had made the plaster and taken the cast. Mrs.
Burton, after the death of her husband and Antommarchi, thought the
correspondence useless and burnt it; but the hair was preserved under
a glass watch-case in the family for forty years. There was an offer
made about the year 1827 or 1828 by persons high in position in France
who knew the truth to have the matter cleared up, but Mr. Burton was
dying at the time, and was unable to take any part in it, so the
affair dropped.
* * * * *
"THE BUST OF BUONAPARTE.
"_Extract from the 'New Times' of September_ 7_th,_ 1821.
"On Wednesday a case of a very singular nature occurred at the Bow
Street Office.
"Count Bertrand, the companion of Buonaparte in his exile at St.
Helena (and the executor under his will), appeared before Richard
Birnie, Esq., accompanied by Sir Robert Wilson, in consequence of a
warrant having been issued to search the residence of the Count for
a bust of his illustrious master, which, it was alleged, was the
property of Mr. Burton, 66th Regiment, when at St. Helena.
"The following are the circumstances of the case:--
"Previous to the death of Buonaparte, he had given directions to his
executors that his body should not be touched by any person after his
death; however, Count Bertrand directed Dr. Antommarchi to take a bust
of him; but not being able to find a material which he thought would
answer the purpose, he mentioned the circumstances to Mr. Burton, who
promised that he would procure some if possible.
"The Englishman, in pursuance of this promise, took a boat and picked
up raw materials on the island, some distance from Longwood. He made a
plaster, which he conceived would answer this purpose. When he showed
it to Dr. Antommarchi he said it would not answer, and refused to have
anything to do with it, in consequence of which Mr. Burton proceeded
to take a bust himself, with the sanction of Madame Bertrand, who was
in the room at the time. An agreement was entered into that copies
should be made of the bust, and that Messieurs Burton and Antommarchi
were to have each a copy.
"It was found, however, that the plaster was not sufficiently durable
for the purpose, and it was proposed to send the original to England
to have copies taken.
"When Mr. Burton, however, afterwards inquired for the bust, he was
informed that it was packed and nailed up; but a promise was made,
that upon its arrival in Europe, an application should be made to the
family of Buonaparte for the copy required by Mr. Burton.
"On its arrival, Mr. Burton wrote to the Count to have his promised
copy, but he was told, as before, that application would be made to
the family of Buonaparte for it.
"Mr. Burton upon this applied to Bow Street for a search warrant in
order to obtain the bust, as he conceived he had a right to it, he
having furnished the materials and executed it.
"A warrant was issued, and Taunton and Salmon, two officers, went to
the Count's residence in Leicester Square. When they arrived, and
made known their errand, they were remonstrated with by Sir Robert
Wilson and the Count, who begged they would not act till they had an
interview with Mr. Birnie, as there must be some mistake. The officers
politely acceded to the request, and waived their right of search.
"Count Bertrand had, it seems, offered a pecuniary compensation to
Mr. Burton for his trouble, but it was _indignantly refused by that
officer_, who persisted in the assertion of his right to the bust as
his own property, and made application for the search warrant.
"Count Bertrand, in answer to the case stated by Mr. Burton, said that
the bust was the property of the family of the deceased, to whom he
was executor, and he thought he should not be authorized in giving
it up. If, however, the law of this country ordained it otherwise, he
must submit; but he should protest earnestly against it.
"The worthy magistrate, having sworn the Count to the fact that he was
executor under the will of Buonaparte, observed that it was a case out
of his jurisdiction altogether, and if Mr. Burton chose to persist in
his claim, he must seek a remedy before another tribunal.
"The case was dismissed, and the warrant was cancelled.
* * * * *
"The sequel to the Buonaparte story is short; Captain Burton (in
1861) thinking that the sketch, which was perfect, and the lock
of hair which had been preserved in a family watch-case for forty
years, would be great treasures to the Buonapartes, and should be
given to them, begged the sketch of General and Mrs. Ward, and the
hair from the Burtons; he had the hair set in a handsome ring, with
a wreath of laurels and the Buonaparte bees. His wife had a complete
set of her husband's works very handsomely bound, as a gift, and in
January, 1862, Captain Burton sent his wife over to Paris, with the
sketch, the ring, and the books, to request an audience with the
Emperor and Empress, and offer them these things, simply as an act
of civility--for Captain and Mrs. Burton in opinion and feeling were
Legitimists. Captain Burton was away on a journey, and Mrs. Burton had
to go alone. She was young and inexperienced, and had not a single
friend in Paris to advise her. She left her letter and presents at the
Tuileries. The audience was not granted. His Imperial Majesty declined
the presents, and she never heard anything more of them. They were
not returned. Frightened and disappointed at the failure of this, her
first little mission at the outset of her married life, she returned
to London directly, where she found the Burton family anything but
pleased at her failure and her want of _savoir faire_ in the matter,
having unwittingly caused their treasure to be utterly unappreciated.
She said to me on her return, 'I never felt so snubbed in my life, and
I shall never like Paris again;' and I believe she has kept her word.
"OXONIAN."
Francis Burton, alluded to in these pages, returned to England after
the death of Napoleon, married one of the three co-heiress (Baker)
sisters, and died early, leaving only two daughters. One died, and the
other, Sarah, became Mrs. Pryce-Harrison.
[Sidenote: _The Louis XIVth Romance._]
Nor was this the only little romance in our Burton family, as the
following story taken from family documents tends to show. Here is the
Louis XIV. history--
"With regard to Louis XIV. there are one or two curious and
interesting legends in the Burton family, well authenticated, which
make Richard Burton great-great-great-grandson of Louis XIV. of
France, by a morganatic marriage; and another which would entitle him
to an English baronetcy, dating from 1622.
"One of the documents in the family is entitled, 'A Pedigree of the
Young family, showing their descent from Louis XIV. of France,' and
which runs as follows:--
"Louis XIV. of France took the beautiful Countess of Montmorency from
her husband and shut him up in a fortress. After the death of (her
husband) the Constable de Montmorency, Louis morganatically _married_
the Countess. She had a son called Louis le Jeune, who 'was brought
over to Ireland by Lady Primrose,' then a widow. This Lady Primrose's
maiden name was Drelincourt, and the baby was named Drelincourt after
his godfather and guardian, Dean Drelincourt (of Armagh), who was the
father of Lady Primrose. He grew up, was educated at Armagh, and was
known as Drelincourt Young. He married a daughter of Dean Drelincourt,
and became the father of Hercules Drelincourt Young, and also of Miss
(Sarah) Young, who married Dr. John Campbell, LL.D., Vicar-General of
Tuam (_ob_. 1772). Sarah Young's brother, the above-mentioned Hercules
Young, married and had a son George, a merchant in Dublin, who had
some French deeds and various documents, which proved his right to
property in France.
"The above-named Dr. John Campbell, by his marriage with Miss Sarah
Young (rightly Lejeune, for they had changed the name from French to
English), had a daughter, Maria Margaretta Campbell, who was Richard
Burton's grandmother. The same Dr. John Campbell was a member of the
Argyll family, and a first cousin of the 'three beautiful Gunnings,'
and was Richard Burton's great-grandfather.
"These papers (for there are other documents) affect a host of
families in Ireland--the Campbells, Nettervilles, Droughts, Graves,
Burtons, Plunketts, Trimlestons, and many more.
"In 1875 _Notes and Queries_ was full of this question and the various
documents, but it has never been settled.
"The genealogy runs thus:--
"Louis XIV.
"_Son_, Louis le Jeune (known as Louis Drelincourt Young), by Countess
Montmorency; adopted by Lady Primrose[4] (see Earl of Rosebery), and
subsequently married to a daughter of Drelincourt, Dean of Armagh.
"_Daughter_, Sarah Young; married to Dr. John Campbell, LL.D.,
Vicar-General of Tuam, Galway.
"_Daughter_, Maria Margaretta Campbell; married to the Rev. Edward
Burton, Rector of Tuam, Galway.
"_Son_, Lieutenant-Colonel Joseph Netterville Burton, 36th Regiment.
"_Son_, Richard Burton, whose biography I am now relating.
"There was a Lady Primrose buried in the Rosebery vaults, by her
express will, with a little casket in her hands, containing some
secret, which was to die with her; many think that it might contain
the missing link.
"The wife of Richard Burton received, in 1875, two very tantalizing
anonymous letters, which she published in _Notes and Queries_, but
which she has never been able to turn to account, through the writer
declining to come forward, _even secretly_.
"One ran thus:--
"'MADAM,--There is an old baronetcy in the Burton family to
which you belong, dating from the reign of Edw. III.[5]--I rather
believe _now in abeyance_--which it was thought Admiral Ryder Burton
would have taken up, and which after his death can be taken up by your
branch of the family. All particulars you will find by searching the
Heralds' Office; but I am positive my information is correct.--From
one who read your letter in _N. and Q_.
"She shortly after received and published the second anonymous letter;
but, though she made several appeals to the writer in _Notes and
Queries_, no answer was obtained, and Admiral Ryder Burton eventually
died.
"'MADAM,--I cannot help thinking that if you were to have
the records of the Burton family searched carefully at Shap, in
Westmoreland, you would be able to fill up the link wanting in your
husband's descent, from 1712 to 1750, or thereabouts. As I am _quite
positive_ of a baronetcy _being in abeyance_ in the Burton family,
and that _an old one_, it would be worth your while getting all the
information you can from Shap and Tuam--the Rev. Edward Burton, Dean
of Killala and Rector of Tuam, whose niece he married was a Miss
Ryder, of the Earl of Harrowby's family, by whom he had no children.
His second wife, a Miss Judge, was a descendant of the Otways, of
Castle Otway, and connected with many leading families in Ireland.
Admiral James Ryder Burton could, if he _would_, supply you with
information respecting the missing link in your husband's descent. I
have always heard that _de Burton_ was the proper family name, and I
saw lately that a _de Burton_ now lives in Lincolnshire.
"'Hoping, madam, that you will be able to establish your claim to the
baronetcy,
"'I remain, yours truly,
"'A READER OF _N. and Q_.
"'P.S.--I rather think also, and advise your ascertaining the _fact_,
that the estate of Barker Hill, Shap, Westmoreland, by the law of
_entail_, will devolve, at the death of Admiral Ryder Burton, on your
husband, Captain Richard Burton.'
"From the Royal College of Heralds, however, the following information
was forwarded to Mrs. Richard Burton:--
"'There _was_ a baronetcy in the family of Burton. The first was Sir
Thomas Burton, Knight, of Stokestone, Leicestershire; created July
22nd, 1622, a baronet, by King James I. Sir Charles was the last
baronet. He appears to have been in great distress--a prisoner for
debt, 1712. He is supposed to have died without issue, when the title
became extinct--at least nobody has claimed it since. If your husband
can prove his descent from a younger son of any of the baronets, he
would have a right to the title. The few years must be filled up
between 1712 and the birth of your husband's grandfather, which was
about 1750; and you must prove that the Rev. Edward Burton, Rector of
Tuam in Galway, your husband's grandfather (who came from Shap, in
Westmoreland, with his brother, Bishop Burton, of Tuam), was descended
from any of the sons of any of the baronets named.'"[6]
[1] N.B.--This I deny. Richard was the handsomest and most attractive
man I have ever seen, and Edward, though smaller, was very
good-looking, but there is no doubt that Richard grew handsomer every
year of his life, and I can remember Maria exceedingly attractive so
far back as 1857.--I. B.
[2] "The coffin being too short to admit this array in the order
proposed, the hat was placed at the feet before interment."
[3] "Napoleon's dining-room lamp, from Longwood, is, I believe, still
in the possession of the 91st Regiment, it having been purchased by the
officers at St. Helena in 1836."
[4] "This Lady Primrose was a person of no small importance, and
was the centre of the Jacobite Society in London, and the friend of
several distinguished people; and as she was connected on her own side
and her husband's with the French Calvinists, she may very likely
have protected Lejeune from France to Ireland, and he would probably
have, when grown up, married some younger Drelincourt--as such were
undoubtedly the names of the parents of Sarah Young, who married Dr.
John Campbell. We can only give the various documents as we have seen
them."
[5] "This is an error of the anonymous writer. Baronetcies were first
created in 1605."--I. B.
[6] N.B.--We never had the money to pursue these enquiries. But should
they ever be sifted, the proper heir, since my husband is dead, will be
Captain Richard St. George Burton, of the "Black Watch." We made out
all the links, except twelve years from 1712. It is said that Admiral
Ryder Burton himself was the author of those two anonymous letters to
me. My husband often used to say there were only two titles he would
care to have. Firstly, the old family baronetcy, and the other to be
created Duke of Midian.--ISABEL BURTON.