The Life of Captain Sir Richard F. Burton, volume 2 (of 2) / By His Wife, Isabel Burton

"St. James's Hotel, Piccadilly, W.

"January 2nd, 1887.

"Dear Friend Ally Sloper,

"I was quite overcome to find that you had elected me a member of the Sloperies. I felt that I had really 'awoke and found myself famous,' and that my poor husband, who had spent thirty-two years in translating and perfecting the 'Arabian Nights,' wasn't in it at all. I did not feel at all like the bellows to the organ, or the fly on the wheel. Everybody says that since I have received the diploma I give myself such dreadful airs that nobody can live with me. When I have calmed down again, and grown used to my new honours, I will strive always to deserve the good opinion and confidence of the Sloperies, by emulating all that is best and noblest in the world, and doing the most useful work I can find for my remaining years.

"Yours always truly,

"Isabel Burton, F.O.S."

Then Richard received a diploma, and sent the following:—

"Cannes, February 23rd, 1887.

"Dear Old Man,

"Excuse the familiarity of the address. You know that we have been friends for years, and I know that you have often done me a good turn. But really this last honour is overwhelming to a man who has some sense of shame remaining. 'F.O.S.!' I must try to 'live up' to that.

"Ever yours sincerely,

"R. F Burton, F.O.S."

A little incident happened (summer, 1887), trifling of its kind, but it made us sorry, as we were both fond of animals. A swallow built its nest in my study, and I had a pane of glass cut out of the window to enable it to come in and out. The five eggs were already laid and in process of hatching, when one of the birds died. It fell down dead, and the other bird kept trying to lift the dead body from the ground to the nest, but it was too heavy. We buried the dead swallow in our garden, and put up a little wooden epitaph; but the poor bereaved surviving swallow sat on the edge of the nest all the summer, looking at the eggs, until it flew away with the general departure of the swallows. When it had gone, we blew and strung the eggs, and hung them in the chapel. We preserved this nest sacredly, in the hopes others would come, and I hope it is there still. It made Richard a little superstitious, which superstition was verified.

We now prepared for our summer holiday. It began to be most dreadfully hot, and there were two cases of suspected cholera. One day arrived the two Princesses Hohenlöhe, Princess Taxis, and Prince Palavacini, and the Comte de Brazza to tea. These impromptu visits did Richard a great deal of good.

All this time we were treating him with electricity, and sponging in the morning and evening, and he seemed to get on wonderfully.

In June, Richard had two slight attacks—one a shaking of the legs, and one a staggering in the garden. These would have been, probably, fits if he had not been taken such immense care of. The chief thing he suffered from (it had been coming on for four years, had now declared itself in an aggravated form, and which there is no doubt finally killed him) was flatulent gases round the heart, which it was very difficult to get rid of, which assumed all the appearance of heart-complaint, and which caused the last struggle with life. I see so many people suffering from this nowadays, who do not know what it is, that it is good to mention it. He had one little room close to his bedroom, whose only light came from stained-glass doors. This was fitted up as an Oriental smoking-room, with divans, and well lit up with many Oriental lamps, was exceedingly pretty, and safe from draughts. Here every morning was put his full-length bath, which he could take, aided by the doctor and me, without fear of catching cold; and when he was dried and wrapped up, he would lie on the divan, and smoke and think out his day's manuscript, or receive a friend.

On the 26th of June we lost Madame Luisa Serravallo-Minelli, the nice girl who used to study the Akkas with him, and who had long since married Mr. Minelli.

During the whole of his illness, one of the kindest visitors to us was the Archduke Ludwig Salvator, who lived opposite us at the other side of Muggia Bay, constantly paid him a visit, and always sent his magnificent publications to him; for the Archduke is not only an author, but a first-rate artist, and illustrates his own books.

"As a rule, the climate of Trieste has no spring; winter modified continues till the summer suddenly sets in; and in this July, 1887, the heat was abnormal. So on the 15th we set off to find summer quarters. 'We' meant my wife and I, Dr. Leslie, and Lisa, my wife's maid, who occupied a very peculiar position. The father was an Italian of Verona, had seceded to Austria, and when Austria left that part of Italy he came to live near Trieste. He had house and servants, carriages and horses, but he sacrificed everything for the 'cause.' The Italians would have none of him, the Austrians did not want him, and between two stools he came to the ground. He was either a baron in Verona, or Austria made him a baron for services. This title, of course, extended to the whole family; but the pension was only £60 a year, and they lived an hour from Trieste like peasants, and in a peasant's cottage. The sons found employment, and the daughters remained at home, but Lisa, being a girl of spirit, wanted to see something of the world, and she attached herself to my wife, retaining her title as Baroness.

"We stayed a day or two at Adelsberg. It is a delightful place, but there is something so peculiarly electrical about it, it never agreed with either of us. We also found the world-famous caves were spoiled by the electric light, and we who had known the weird and subterranean state, deeply regretted the old wax candles. We again left for Laibach, the capital of Carniola, in whose lowlands once a large lake (already mentioned) was full of pfahlbauten (pile villages), and where the enormous number of prehistoric relics were lately found.

"The next stage was by the Great Southern Railway to Pöltschach, and thence a beautiful drive to Rohitsch-Sauerbrunn, an hour and a half in the interior; but the great heat thoroughly tired me out, and I had a fortnight of bad health. A little sketch of Sauerbrunn may not be unacceptable, as an Englishman rarely finds his way to the place.[2] A small bad-ort, or bathing-place, has been laid out in the valley of the little stream, surrounded on all sides by densely wooded hills. On one side is the long line of buildings containing the Kursaal, the restaurant, and the baths where red-hot masses of iron are cooled in water by way of forming a chalybeate. Opposite is a row of buildings to contain visitors, and between the two, headed by a little Catholic church, are flower-gardens, with a band-stand, where lawn-tennis is not yet known. Two little temples covered the sources. A long promenoir contains shops, prolonging the public buildings to the east, and a scatter of village finishes the sketch. The visitors who fill the place during June, July, and August are from all the provinces of Austria, principally Hungarians, Croats, and Bohemians, with a few Triestines, some from Fiume, a few Roumanians, Turks, Greeks, and many Jews. The life, as may be imagined, is simple enough. They rise before the sun, walk about drinking the waters, and flock to the restaurant for rolls and café au lait. Then comes the bath, after which they sit under the trees, reading, writing, working, talking, smoking, and playing cards and dominoes until twelve. Then back to the restaurant for a déjeuner à la fourchette, which is really a dinner. The cooking was tolerable, the wines too, and the price half that of Maríenbad. After dinner comes siesta, in the afternoon strolling, more water-drinking, and listening to the band, the more active taking a walk to the top of the hills, or a drive up the carriageable roads. Then more water-drinking, and, lastly, a light supper between six and eight; and, unless there was a dance or a concert or a conjurer in the Kursaal, all were in bed soon after nine. At ten the place was as silent as the grave. The morrow was da capo.

"If not gay, it was peaceful and exceedingly restful to the tired brains, especially to the Herr Professor, who could only afford one month of utter dolce far niente after eleven of hard drudgery. The visitors vary from six to twelve thousand. The nicest drives are Rohitsch, to Pöltschach, and Marein, Graf Atems Schloss, Kostránitz, and Maríen Kirche. At Stoinschegg, a short walk, is a distiller of sligovic, which is the spirit-drink of the country, and he produces all sorts of liqueurs, of which prunes are the basis. Here we met our old friend Mr. Thayer, of Trieste. We hired a bath-chair and two men, so that we could walk, and when I was tired I could get in and rest and be drawn about, and so could my wife alternately.

"The peacefulness of this sort of life was broken by only four occurrences worth noticing. One was two violent thunderstorms, preceded by a sudden fall of hail as large as eggs. My wife and I, though four yards from shelter, were hard hit before reaching it. It broke all the tiled roofs like an earthquake or a bombardment. You could see into the interiors through the rags and tatters. It destroyed the crops, and the roads were strewed with large branches of trees. People came from all parts with broken heads; and the peasants brought in lumps of jagged ice that had fallen on the mountains, which, even after they had been melted by their hands and pockets for an hour, weighed ten deccas, or five ounces. The smooth ones were like goose's eggs, and the children played at ball with them for several hours. The first was on the 23rd of July, and after the people had rebuilt their roofs and premises it occurred again on the 14th of August, and did the same amount of damage. We had never seen anything like it, and when my wife, by my directions, wrote it to the English papers, the public disbelieved it, and said 'that the Burtons had been seeing wonderful things and telling wonderful tales.' It is a very curious, and not altogether unpleasant sensation, that of not being believed when you are speaking the truth. I have had great difficulty in training my wife to enjoy it, and frequently, for her instruction, have told a true story to a party of people and have been jeered at, or people have looked askance at me; and immediately after I have told them a most fantastic lie to punish them, they have gaped, and said, 'How wonderful! how interesting!'

"The second event was meeting with Monseigneur Strossmayer, the great Slav Archbishop, whose head-quarters are at Diakovar, where he has erected a palace and a guest-house. He is a little king in his own country, but is sometimes looked coldly upon by Austria, on account of his leaning towards Russia and Panslavism. He is a man of simple, affectionate, and patriarchal manners, and out of his Cabinet shows nothing of the politician or diplomatist; there is no doubt that he is one of the leading men of that part of the world in the present century. He was very kind to us. He took an especial affection for me, and visited me every day, when I was unable to leave my room.

"The third event was the reading of Dr. Salusbury's treatment by drinking nearly boiling water, which seemed to act like magic. I had been suffering from frequent pain and faintness, and I feared that I had something the matter with my heart.

"On August 29th, I saw my wife drinking some hot water, and asked her to give me some of it. No sooner had I got the cup than I exclaimed almost involuntarily, 'Oh, what a comfort!' I continued that treatment, and from that day faintness and trouble of the heart changed their character, and were no longer a terror to me. My strength increased, so that I could soon comfortably take long walks. Would that we had thought of it and tried it in 1884, in my first attack of gout!

Some of our Royalties come to Trieste.

"The fourth event was the arrival of the English Squadron, on September 9th, at Trieste, with the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh, Prince George of Wales, the Marquis of Lorne, and Prince Louis of Battenberg. We wanted to return to Trieste and do more than our usual duty on the occasion, and contribute to the festivities in honour of the Royalties bringing the town of Trieste and the fleet into harmonious relation. This had been our pleasant duty for many years past, and now, on this, the grandest occasion of all, we were condemned to be absent. The doctor sternly forbade anything of the kind; he would not guarantee my life for half a day if I had to put on uniform, go on board, and be present at official receptions. The authorities kept telegraphing for my wife, but she would not leave me for an hour, so we both wrote our explanations and excuses to the royal secretaries, and through them offered our house to her Imperial Highness, who graciously accepted it, if need arose. I ordered our home to be put in suitable order, a major domo to be sent for from Vienna, the flag to be hoisted, a cold buffet always to be laid, the house to be illuminated every night, and was only disappointed on return to find that no Royalty, not even any of the officers, had honoured us by using the house.

"The Governor of Steiermark, Graf Gundaker Würmbrandt and the Gräfin, came over to see us, and also the Fabers."

On the 5th of September occurred the first of a series of a stopping of our horses, which happened three times during these years. We drove to look for the Chapel of Loretto. On the way back it was quite light in the afternoon; the horses, which were going a good pace, suddenly stopped still, backed, trembled, and sweated all over, and snorted and sobbed from their hearts. Nothing would induce them to go on, though the coachman flogged them. We all had to get out, and there was nothing to be seen to frighten them. I went to their heads, and patted and soothed them, while Dr. Leslie took care of Richard. They then bounded on for thirty yards or so, and we followed on foot and got in, and they went quite well. The coachman said he had driven for twenty years, and he had often read of these things, but he had never seen them.

We were now reading Mr. Stanley's book on Africa under the trees at Sauerbrunn.

On the 25th Richard bewails the death of Gozzadini, archæologist of Bologna.

"I strongly advise future visitors," he writes, "to leave Sauerbrunn the first week in September, as the rain and cold sets in, and the place becomes as deserted and melancholy as a ball-room after a ball. We did not want to return home, in spite of the Triestine proverb—

'Prima pioggia d'Agosto
Rinfresca mar e bosco.'

We left Sauerbrunn on September 18th, and we broke our journey by a three days' visit to Abbazia, near Fiume, called in the high-falutin style, the 'Austrian Riviera.' We went with the object of choosing our rooms for the winter, and we one and all fell ill in consequence of the horrible drains in the main courtyard of the Stephanie Hotel; but we decided, and decided wrongly, that the evil would be abated during the winter season.

"We had now a visit at Trieste from Mr. Gibbs, of Egypt and Vienna, Mr. Ellis and Mr. Krause from Vienna.

"On our return home Dr. Leslie had an offer of what seemed a very good post, a yachting tour to India and China with a great man, and he wanted very much to accept it, for our present way of life was necessarily rather tame to a strong young man, accustomed to expeditions, who would have been just the thing for us in our old travelling days, but he must have found it hard to subdue himself to our changed conditions."

Richard clamoured hard not to have any more doctors; he felt that we might do without, but I was now thoroughly broken down myself. I was unable to take anything that might be called a walk. Driving was sometimes very painful to me, and it would not have been safe to let him go alone. I could not be the same use that I had always hitherto been, though I could keep him company in the house, and be his secretary and nurse him, but I frequently turned faint and required assistance. I could not stoop to give him his bath, or shampoo him, and we were too far from the town to get an immediate doctor in emergency, so I begged him to bear with it a little bit longer, as he had done for the past seven months. I heard that Dr. Grenfell-Baker, who had been so kind to us at Cannes, was in bad health, that his health had driven him from London practice, and that he was looking for a travelling appointment, and I begged to be allowed to write and ask him to accept ours. I obtained permission, and he relieved Dr. Leslie on October 15th, 1887.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHANGES.

Dr. Baker had a most unpleasant journey. Not having done it before, he came with full confidence, without a greatcoat, without a brandy flask, without food, and as soon as he arrived on the Karso, he found a Bora that nearly upset his train. After fifteen hours of this, though the house was well built with immensely thick walls, the Bora sounded as if it too was just going to be carried away, and two earthquakes were not a pleasant greeting; but a warm welcome, a comfortable room, a good supper and hot grog, soon restored him. It was quite winter, and there was snow on the Risano. A number of friends and acquaintances, old and new, flocked through Trieste, which somewhat enlivened the dull season. Amongst others, Sir Cecil Domville, naval attaché; and an epoch was made by a visit likewise from Dr. and Mrs. Schlieman, of Troy. Princess Wrede also arrived at nine a.m. to take her coffee in a rush from Graz to Trieste.

We were very sorry to lose Dr. Leslie, he was so genial and good-humoured—one of the best-hearted men that ever lived. I may say a man who would go twenty miles out of his way to do you a service, and—great praise—he never said a word against anybody; above all, he had a true reverence for Richard.

Our days at Trieste, after Richard got ill, were passed in the following way:—Instead of getting up, as we used to do, at any time from three to half-past five, we rose at seven, had a breakfast of tea, bread and butter, and fruit on a little table near a window, where he used to feed the sparrows and other garden-birds on the window-sill, so that an almond tree which brushed up to the window was covered with them waiting, and, as he remarked, "they were quite imperious in their manners if he did not attend to them at once." He then wrote his journals—two sets, one private, which was kept in a drawer in my room, and one public ephemeris of notes, quotations, remarks, news, and weather memoranda; then he would fall to to his literature. At nine o'clock the doctor would come in, and as I, being ill, could no longer stoop to help with his bath and toilette, Dr. Leslie, and afterwards Dr. Baker, superintended the bath and the electric foot-bath; but he shaved himself and dressed himself. During the bath he would frequently read out to them passages from what he was writing. The toilette finished, he resumed his literature till half-past ten, when, if the weather permitted, he would go out for a good walk with the doctor.

At twelve o'clock we had breakfast, which was really luncheon, after which he smoked (always the tobacco of the country—those long, thin, black cigars with a straw down the middle), and played with the kitten, and talked. He was very cheerful and enjoyed his meals. He would then lie on his bed with a book, and sleep perhaps for an hour, and then get up and do more literature. A little after three, if it was winter, he would go for another walk in the garden, or, if bad weather, into the hall, or in the summer-time, at about five o'clock, for a good long drive, or very often an excursion in the neighbourhood, and was always accompanied by the doctor or me, or both of us. Tea was at four, a sit-down tea, which was purposely made into a meal of all sorts of fruits, cake, sweets, and jam, because it was the hour for our intimates to pour in, and he enjoyed it. If any friends, English or other, were passing through Trieste, they lunched and dined with us. He liked company, and it did him a great deal of good; and he always used to say "that he liked to see his fellow-creatures, at hotels and public places, for instance, even if he did not want to mix with them;" but generally all the nice men in the hotel collected round him, smoking and listening to his conversation. After tea and talk and walk were over, he went to his room and worked steadily till seven, or half-past, when we had dinner.

He enjoyed his dinner, after which he sat in an armchair and smoked and talked. Glorious talk and sweet musical voice that we shall never hear again on earth—a perfect education to those who had the boon of hearing him! Sometimes, if the nights were fine, we used to sit on our verandah overlooking the sea and mountains, and watch the moon and stars through a telescope planted there for the purpose. At nine o'clock at night he retired; the doctor again helped him to undress, and then left for the night; and I said night prayers with him, and we talked awhile. He would ask me for a novel—he always said "he cooled his head with a novel when the day's work was done"—and we went to bed, he reading himself to sleep. Sometimes he did not sleep well and was restless, and sometimes very well; but in all cases far better than he had ever done before he was an invalid. We had an electric bell between our beds, so that if he was restless it woke me.

On the 30th of October he mourns the death of Mr. Henry Levick, the first European to take up his abode at Suez, where he lived forty-one years. He pioneered the Mail Service through Egypt, assisted in arranging the Overland route, often accompanying the mails across the desert. He was the first English Consul at Suez, was packet-agent and postmaster to her Majesty, and agent for the late Government of India. The widow and numerous children have been left to starve for the last six years. She is now head of the English Hospital for Trained Nurses in Paris, 34, Rue de Prony Parc Monceau, and sadly in need of kindness and patronage.

On the 31st of October we were inundated with anonymous letters, which made us angry (I thought then that it was only a Triestine amusement, but I found out, twenty-three months ago, that it was equally common in England, and twice as coarse); the object then being to make us clear out our house of everybody in it that we wanted.

On November 17th he deplores the death of Colonel Valentine Baker.

The Empress now arrived at Miramar for a little rest and seclusion.

"On the 1st of December my wife and I, accompanied by Dr. Grenfell Baker, returned to Abbazia to avoid the fearful Boras of Trieste, and to shelter in the supposed mild climate of the Austrian Riviera. It is only a few hours' rail distant, but you must rise at four a.m., though with a decent train it could be done in two hours. We were, however, doomed to disappointment. On December 7th the snow began and lasted two months; the earth was covered, and the pine and bay trees, the local boast of the place, were so broken and bent under its weight, that many of the undergrowths did not recover. There are two sorts of cur-orts (health resorts); the first is when everything is planned out for the comfort and cheeriness of the invalid, as in Switzerland and the Riviera, and the second one is when ambition upstarts barely out of its swaddling clothes, unformed and without a prospect of ever becoming better. Then they are expensive, uncomfortable, and are merely traps laid by money-grubbers for unhappy invalids, who ought never to go where they cannot rough it, but where healthy people may manage to live in dullness and discomfort, and of this category are Abbazia and Hammám R'irha in N. W. Africa.

"At Abbazia you rise early, drink coffee, walk, breakfast at twelve in the restaurant, siesta, walk or drive, dine at 7.30, and retire to your bedroom. There is no public room or meeting-place, no newspapers, except in a tiny room. There is charming society, the Austrian and Hungarian cousinhood, some of which we enjoyed very much; but it is a clique. The Jews and Americans doré theirs. The harmless and inoffensive people who go there for imaginary baths and waters creep in to meals and out again and disappear. Hence a serious occupation or a study is a necessity. I got Father Josef Janc, the Catholic priest, to come and read German with me in the evenings, and I had my literature—my two last volumes of supplemental 'Arabian Nights;' my wife the same. We varied our time by driving to Castua, Moschenizza, Ika, Sovrana, and to Fiume to see the Count and Countess Hoyos and family and Mr. and Mrs. Whitehead (whose father gave us an occasional field-day with the torpedos), and our colleague, the English Consul Mr. Faber and his family. We walked, drove, lounged about smoking in the grounds. The views are beautiful. The winds are not boisterous, as at Trieste. Fiume is an hour away, and the boundary between my jurisdiction and Faber's lies halfway—Abbazia being in my jurisdiction. Fiume is as dull as ditchwater, with one fifth-class hotel. Your room in the hotel at Abbazia may be comfortable, but the food becomes worse and worse as the visitors increase, and the sanitary arrangements, the bread and water, are fearfully bad.

"To give some idea of its primitive state in 1887-88, although I had been Consul here for fifteen years, they refused to take my cheque, because 'they did not know who "Coutts" was.' There is no promenoir, no wandelbahn, no kur-salon, in fact no public rooms. There is a fine large dining-room, where, unless you are an archduke, you may not smoke for fear of spoiling the gilding; consequently you are driven into a kind of estaminet, where at 8.30 you can cut the reek of tobacco and food with a knife. A head director often visits Abbazia, but he is never at home to strangers, knowing that they only seek him to make complaints. The management is under an Austrian, not a Swiss. The appointment is always given to an employé of the Südbahn, which owns the place, and not to a hôtelier, therefore he naturally does not know his work. And Austria in such matters is fifty years behind Switzerland. The British grumbler (who has made Switzerland) is still more almost unknown in the dual kingdom. The dullness of life is almost incredible, and what gaieties there are—the Christmas tree, the New Year's Day ball, the concert of Tyrolians, and the gypsy band—as in all irregulated establishments, turned everything topsy-turvy, and converted stagnation into utter misery."

We had a visit at Abbazia from the Dowager Lady Galway, and Richard had an attack of gout when the snow came on, and on the 19th we had an earthquake.

On the 14th he got another slight attack of gout in both feet. Gout now became a trimestral attack, which the doctor considered to be a safety-valve for the head and general health, provided it was a healthy gout in the feet. The thermometer was at zero, and we had almost perpetually such awful snow for two months, and the comforts were so primitive, that we disliked it, and we wrote together a little pamphlet on it.

On the 9th of January, 1888, we were made very unhappy by reading Lady Marian Alford's death in the papers, which we felt very badly. She was the kindest friend we had in London, and Richard said, "I believe by the time we get back to London nearly all our old friends will be dead."

It is a custom here on Shrove Tuesday night to ring all the church bells at eleven o'clock, to make the rich people leave off eating meat preparatory to Ash Wednesday (Lent), and to give the poor time to eat up the refuse before midnight.

Richard was gouty off and on all this snow-time. On the 18th the Crown Prince, poor Prince Rudolf, came to the hotel and stayed forty-eight hours; on the 21st we were further put in sorrow by the news of the death, at the early age of forty-one, of dear Anna Kingsford. She was a lady doctor, Anti-vivisectionist, advocate of vegetarianism, President of the Theosophical Society, and founder of the Hermetic Society for the study of religion and philosophy. Both Richard and I became very nervous as the 26th came round, the anniversary of his fit, but it passed off without any trouble.

On the 19th of February, 1888, he deplores the death of the Rev. George Percy Badger, D.C.L., the eminent Oriental scholar, at seventy-three.

We were now reading "Mohammed Benoni," the work of Mr. Pedicaris, of Marocco.

On the 12th of March, 1888, he notices "the first swallows over the sea at sunset."

Mr. Thayer wrote to the Tribune from Trieste, under date of March 17—

"Lady Burton's expurgated edition of 'The Thousand Nights and One Night' is now complete in six handsome volumes. The last of the copy for Sir Richard's supplementary volumes of the 'Nights' will be sent to England next week. His motto has been for forty years, 'Without haste, without rest,' and as soon as the 'Nights' are ended, he will begin in earnest, what must prove to be a work of remarkable interest, his autobiography. His life, detailed by himself, if his conversation affords the means of judging, must be as fascinating as a romance. Its scenes range from the jungles of India to the tropical swamps of South America, from the snows of Iceland to the mephitic moraines of Central and Western Africa. Two years ago, his health was so broken that his friends feared he might not be able even to complete the 'Nights,' and we quite despaired of ever enjoying his autobiography; but now the case is happily altered, for, though still far from well, through the care and solicitude of his noble wife and his excellent physician, we have every reason to hope that his enormous power of continuous mental labour will carry him through the work."

On the 19th of March, 1888, his sixty-seventh birthday, Richard finished his last volume of the supplemental "Nights" (the sixteenth volume), but it did not come out till the 13th of November, 1888, and during the intervening months he corrected proofs, and began writing what he called "chow-chow"—odds and ends that he had been waiting to finish up. We were exceedingly relieved, because he had always had such a fear of not living to keep his engagements, and we had received money for it.

On the 2nd of April we began a second "reviewers reviewed" on the "Arabian Nights" critics (the first one was on the "Lusiads;" Richard having been roughly handled, had raised our ire).

On the 7th of April we had to deplore the loss of our good kind friend, R. Mackay Smith, of Edinburgh, and on the same date of Lady Margaret Beaumont, another of our kindest friends.

On the 9th of April he was rather agitated about some lost papers. I have spoken at length of a peculiarity he had of hiding things, and latterly especially he could not remember where he put them. Then he had to call me, and I was frequently several hours hunting for them. I have a particular prayer that I always say when I cannot find anything, and it has occasionally happened that the lost thing was found immediately, so he used to call me in an agitated way, saying, "Come here, I want that prayer directly; I have lost such and such." On the 11th of May we had the pleasure of a visit from our old friend, Frederick Foster Arbuthnot, of 18, Park Lane, who stayed with us some days.

"After four months of snow, alternating with the Scirocco, the damp, depressing, and ozone-wanting gift of Northern Africa, we left Abbazia on the 5th of March, 1888, disappointed in the hope of staying there till the end of the month. The train which conveyed us passed through walls of snow ten or twelve feet high on either side. Passing friends made the stay in Trieste in spring very delightful, but unusual heat set in on the 9th of May, and gave the signal for departure. In consideration of the state of my health, the Foreign Office, though it would not release me, was kind enough to let me judge of when I could or could not stay at Trieste; in fact, an informal sick certificate. As the summer was premature and I could not stay, I thought I might as well go back to England and see my supplemental 'Nights' brought out, so on May 16th we went to Venice, Milan—where we called, on the 20th, on the Emperor and Empress of Brazil (who had been most truly kind to us during our four years' stay in their country; the Emperor was then thought to be dying, so we did not see them, nor did we ever see them again), and we arrived at Varese. Under Signor Marini and his English wife this was an exceptional place, the centre of a charming country, geographically a neutral ground between the uplands of Swiss Ticino, pretty, pleasant, and picturesque, and the lowlands of the Italian-Milanese flats, which are flat and admirably fertile.

"Varese is a charming place; a beautiful hotel with lovely grounds, scenery, and splendid spring and autumn climate, and easily got at, where we met many friends. Hence during the spring and autumn, it attracted a host of English, who all, save a very few, took flight in summer and winter; but the management soon changed, and what became of the Hôtel Excelsior under the Italian committee I could not say. I only know that the Marinis have opened an hotel, and are doing very well, in Via Tritone, Rome. The interests of the place were private theatricals in the evening, and the procession of Corpus Christi in the picturesque little town. There was also much interest in prehistoric villages and collections. The departure was not comfortable to Lucerne. Most travellers would have returned to Milan, and started direct by the St. Gothard Railway. We, wanting to see the country, determined to drive to Chiasso, a horrid little frontier town where we were to pick up the train, and where one wishes a glad adieu to Italy.

"The drive from Varese to Chiasso on the 1st of June was delightful. A beautiful country of deep-wooded hill and vale, abounding with acacia and yellow broom, and peopled with cuckoos and hoopoes. We dined at the buffet in the open. We were directed not to the buffet at Chiasso, which is excellent in food and wine, and can supply bedrooms, but to a wretched soi-disant hotel, St. Michele, fit only for the roughest of peasants, with the prices of milords. The wonderful mountain scenery at St. Gothard, with its rich valley and snow peaks, its long tunnel under the venerable well-known hospice, Mont St. Bernard, and its marvellously engineered line, whose windings look on paper like sundry pairs of spectacles, with its green hills, glaciers, rockery, and waterfalls, and rushing river below in the depths, is too familiar to the general public to bear description, but the glorious mountain air, the kindly ways of the people, and the contrast of the Swiss frontier custom-house with the horrors of Italy, left a most grateful impression.

"On the evening of the 2nd of June we found rooms at the Schweizer-hof, Herren Haüser, who have made this the model establishment of Switzerland, and one may say of the world. I had not seen Lucerne since 1840—when I was a boy, and my tutor took me to drink the waters of Schinznach, en route to Oxford—so to me it was quite a new world. Herr Haüser could, however, show me the remains of the three humble inns, belonging to that proto-historic period since the Lake country has become the playground of Europe, and art has assisted nature in making it like the transformation scene of an opera—un décor de théâtre. Here everything is done for the comfort and delectation of the travelling idler. Under the crispy air and bluest of skies grand piles of hotel rise from the margin of the blue lake, looking upon semicircles of forest and mountain crowned by snow peaks, nestling villages and villas in groves of pink chestnut blossom, steamers flying gaudy flags, which are illuminated at night with coloured lamps. On the left a dwarf eminence is crowned by the Cathedral, which contains a remarkable life-size crucifix and an alto relievo of the death of the Blessed Virgin.

"On the right towers the naked and jagged cone of the cloud-capped mountain Piliatus, which has become Pilatus, has bred a host of grisly legends which the gaunt rock and its lakelet on the summit have suggested. Behind the town still runs the enceinte of mediæval wall, with its picturesque towers surmounted here and there by grotesque figures. Lucerne is essentially a three-days' place. Next day there was a procession of virgins in white and soldiers saluting, etc. The first things you visit are the two quaint wooden bridges and paintings of Holbein's 'Dance of Death.' Then you climb the Drei Linden hill for a panorama of the place; you must ascend in the funicular railway the Gat hill, and wander through the pine forests. You perhaps visit the public library, which contains not books but musty fusty documents, and you walk through the absurd museum, which does not even boast of a catalogue. On the second day you take the steamer to Vitznau, and ascend the Rigi by the far-famed railway. We always compare the engines of these lift-railways to a huge praying mantis. The panorama is worth seeing; the land lies below your feet in the shape of an embossed map. Rigi Staffel has the best climate.

"On the third day you are in local honour bound to hire a two-horse carriage, and to drive about the environs to see the scenery; and then you must railway up to Pilatus. We all differed in our estimate of the lake. I could not admire it. As a piece of water, it is cut into various sections by projecting points, and reminded me of some large river of the upper Mississippi. My wife, on the contrary, was enchanted with the Lucerne end of it, and found a great delight in lazing up and down in the steamers. With Dr. Baker everything Swiss is sacred; it is his Eden, and must not be touched by hand profane. Lucerne must, however, be seen during the season; at other times it is like the inside of a theatre at early morning. We went back to it in March, 1889, and saw it at its worst, when deep snow covered the ground, and the roads were slushy and uncared for, when the streets were deserted, when the people showed homely faces, and their ugly German did not sound so unmusical. The local aristocracy of hotel-keepers and shop-keepers seemed hurt by the presence of strangers, and applying for entrance to a public building was looked upon almost as a grievance. The moral was, avoid Lucerne when not in gala dress.

"We left on the 9th of June, and remarked the meanness of the station; and at the first sight, which subsequent experience confirmed, the Swiss railways generally, for accommodation and convenience, have not kept pace with the hotels and all their other luxuries. The Anglo-Americans especially are full of gibes at the crawling trains. Arrived at Berne, we found the Berne station (Swiss capital) the worst of any metropolis in Europe, an Inferno in the hot, and a well in the cold season; a cave of the winds, at all times damp, draughty, and dangerous. It reminded us of York a quarter of a century ago. We returned from Berne to Ouchy through a charming country of vineyards, orchards, and smiling fields. Thirty years ago my wife was here as a girl with a married brother and sister, when it was the smallest of places, and a little inn, which then stood on the borders of the lake, was the best accommodation. Now the large Beau Rivage, with its fine grounds, ought to attract many travellers, but it is said not to pay its expenses, the reason probably being that it is managed by a company.

Aigle.

"Reserving Lausanne for future inspection, we went on to Aigle, passing through mountains, and skirting the south-east horn of the lake. This favourite summering-place showed itself at its worst. The rains were unceasing, and the muddiness of the roads made driving and walking equally unpleasant. Despite the weather, we managed, however, a few of the nearest trips. We drove up the valley of the Rhone, went to Bex, Trocadero, Villar, Bouvret, Diableret, and by rail to Montreux. We walked up to the Roman tower, at the St. Triphon-Ollon quarries, famed for its black marble, and inspected the Gorge de Trient, which twenty years ago was not a show place, and has now become a wonder, and yet no wonder; for it is a most impressive sight, with narrow-planked bridges, lining the steep sides of a perpendicular cliff six hundred feet high, with two hundred and forty feet of boiling, swirling torrent rushing beneath you, and it is a fifteen minutes' walk through this more or less dark place to the roaring waterfalls. My wife thought it a grand sight, and was very much impressed, and said she felt so small, and that she would not go in there by herself for anything. I must say I thought but little of it, but it is a dreadful place for nervous people, and a dizzy one for the bilious. There were Americans photographing, and guides firing pistols to show the echo. The annual receipts from visitors is eight thousand francs.

"We visited the Augustinian monastery of St. Maurice, which will be alluded to later on. The weather, instead of behaving better, became worse, and as the house suddenly filled with people, it by no means improved the service or the cuisine. After a month's stay, we determined to take sudden leave, and on the 12th of July departed to Geneva. A delightful change of climate—for here summer had set in. We put up at the Continental, and I enjoyed breakfasting with Professor Karl Vogt. But I could not stand a fearful automatic grind-organ, the size of an average clothes-press, which raised its abominable voice immediately after dinner, and never ceased till it had run down. This was explained by the Continental being an American institution, and after all the grind-organ, like the street band, is kept up by the suffrages of the majority. We will speak again of Geneva on our return."

I must remark about Aigle that there is besides the village a large hotel situated in a valley surrounded by mountains, and where the Dent du Midi was so clear that it seems as if you could touch it. It was a very amusing place, and we met a number of very nice people; we stayed a month because Dr. Baker's mother and very charming sister came there to meet him. Here we were reading "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and Richard was perfectly delighted with it, and afterwards we had a contrast in Rénan's "Apôtres."

I need not say that wherever we were, and Switzerland was no exception to the rule, that every excursion that was possible to make was made, and everything that could be seen was seen—it did not matter if it was mushroom-growing, cigarette-making, or Swiss milk condensed. We not only stayed at our head-quarters, but we knew the country pretty well all round.

One of the most delightful excursions was driving up the Valley of the Rhône to St. Maurice. We used to get a capital little breakfast and a good bottle of Dole du Valais at a hotel pension, kept by a Dalmatian at Aigle. We had a very nice Curé at Aigle, the Abbé Stercky, who became a friend of Richard's.

Richard enjoyed all these things very much. Part of the time, however, it rained, and then he used to get melancholy and ill. On the 12th of July we had had enough of it, and went to Geneva, where his delight was to go and take a huge middle-day dinner with the old Professor Karl Vogt and his numerous family, without either the doctor or me. The Professor was a very jovial person, and his jolly fat laugh used to sound all over house and garden, and the dinner lasted from at least twelve till four. They were simple and kind-hearted people, and they thoroughly appreciated Richard.