In April, 1552, he set sail with a little band of apostles for an expedition to China. A shipwreck drove them to Malacca, where they were persecuted and detained. The Governor sent Xavier's vessel, the Santa Cruz, to trade at the island of San Chan (Sancian), off the coast of China, with orders to erect no buildings, save shelters of mats and branches. Xavier resolved to embark with the three companions he had kept back—a Chinese, a young Indian, and a lay brother, and after great storms and difficulties Sancian was reached—a desolate sandy region invested only by tigers. To please the Governor of Malacca, the merchants and men on board all turned against Xavier; they denied him sufficient food, and he was struck down by fever.
One morning of late November, 1552, amidst a breaking surf, a boat was lowered from the ship's side, and made towards the island where they had abandoned Xavier. The lay brother, the Chinese, the Indian, and one Portuguese merchant named Alvarez, ascended a sandy hillock and hurried to the prostrate body of a man. There, on a bed of sand, lay the great apostle of the Indies, his head, grey with toil and suffering, exposed to wind and sun. His face was flushed with fever, his thin hands clasped his crucifix, and beside him was a little knapsack containing the necessaries for Mass. They bore him to a shed of mats and leaves; they bled him, but, being ignorant, pricked a vein which only produced convulsions, and the operation was twice repeated. He was delirious, and muttered only, "My Lord and my God! Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me! O most Holy Trinity! Queen of Heaven, show thyself a Mother!" He came to his senses, smiling sweetly, and thanking those around him, and told them his end was near. At two o'clock on Friday, December 2nd, 1552, he kissed his crucifix, and saying, with a gleam of joy upon his face, "In Thee, O Lord, I have hoped; let me not be confounded for ever," life departed. He was forty-six years of age, and these events happened 343 years ago.
What makes the freshness of the body at the present time extraordinary, is that the merchant Alvarez put the body in a large Chinese chest, filled up with unslaked lime to consume the flesh, and they buried it, set up a cross, and two heaps of stones at the head and feet. The following 17th of February, two months and a half later, by the Captain's orders, the coffin was uncovered; but when the lime was taken off, the body was found ruddy and flesh-coloured as though asleep, and on making a puncture the blood flowed, and the priestly vestments were unhurt. In June it was taken to Malacca, where the whole place (except the Governor who had persecuted him, whose name was D'Atayde, and who mocked at it) came to meet it in procession; then it was conveyed to Goa, and all Goa went twenty miles out to sea to receive the body, with great pomp and ceremony. This happened on the 15th of March, 1554. He was already canonized by the people, but Pope Paul V. beatified him, and he was canonized by Gregory XV. in 1622, and promulgated by Urban VIII.
This place had a great attraction for Richard, and this was the third pilgrimage he had made here since 1844.
Baldæus, a Protestant, in his "History of the Indies," says, "Had Xavier been of the same religion as ourselves, we should have esteemed and honoured him as another St. Paul;" and he concludes his elegy thus: "Oh that it had pleased God that, being what you were, you had been, or might have been, one of us!" Hakluyt, a Protestant, and Tavernier, a Huguenot, and many other Protestants, speak equally in his praise.
In 1221 the Inquisition was introduced by Pope Innocent IV., and in 1255 by Pope Alexander III. It found little favour in France, Italy, and Germany; but in the thirteenth century it crept into Spain; but it was in Portugal where it grew and flourished, and in 1478 became cruel. In the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, Torquemada, the great Chief Inquisitor, worked it up to its maximum of full energy and bloodthirsty ferocity; but it did not reach Goa till 1560, eight years after the death of Xavier. This vile institution is said to have existed two hundred and fifty years, and the last person burnt was a Jesuit named Malagrida, about 1732. Every writer says that Goa was the very worst City of the Inquisition. It was used for all manner of private spites, and political intrigues under the name of religion. It was this that caused the Portuguese to lose India, as no one who could fly from it would run the risk of staying, and ships did not even like to call in port. We were very much impressed by the booming of the Cathedral bell, which had tolled so many to their auto da fé.
The Rev. Dr. Claude Buchanan, Vice-Provost of the College of Fort William of Calcutta, went there in 1808, and worried the Inquisitors considerably, which he could afford to do, as Buchanan's regiment, the 78th Highlanders, was at Panjim, only eight miles off, and would have blown the Inquisitors and their Holy Office into the air if he had been touched. Even Buchanan said that "Xavier was counted a first-rate man even amongst the English." He was there after it had been abolished in 1770, but it was re-allowed under great restrictions in the reign of Donna Maria (1779), until its final and total abolition. Colonel Adams of the 78th, when Buchanan went up to Old Goa, said, half in joke, half in earnest, "If we don't hear from you in three days, I shall march the 78th up and take the Inquisition by assault."
Buchanan did forget to write, and, at the end of three days, the Colonel sent him a note begging of him to come down to Panjim every night to sleep in the fortress (a ride of eight miles), on account of the unhealthiness of Goa. In 1812 the letters of the King from Lisbon ordered liberty of conscience and total annihilation of the Inquisition, being, as the King said, "so terrifying to all nations, so contrary to the true spirit of the Institution, so opposed to the original pious intention of his august and royal ancestors." The Conde de Sarzedas wrote thanking the King, and begging that he might also burn the enormous quantity of processes and documents, as too great scandals would result therefrom; so we have lost about forty thousand procés, inexhaustible matter for historians, novelists, and dramatic writers, showing the manners and customs of those centuries in Portuguese India.
It only shows what the Catholic religion is, and that "Hell's gates cannot prevail against Christ's Church," when the Faith could stand unmoved and flourish under three centuries of this tribunal of fire and woe, composed of serpents in its own bosom, traitors in the camp; worse than internal civil war, covering even its own members with infamy. From this monster's brutal claw all fled,—Godliness, Manliness, and Nature.
Moreover, Arabs, Persians, Armenians, Jews, and Indians found the Christian God even more cruel than Brahma or Allah; they deserted the country and commerce, and fled from low envy, vile cowardice, and calumny, which dealt brutally and safely—like vivisection—not with crime alone, but with the most trivial actions of their home-life. Sufficed a little success in an enterprise, a few more thousands, a gallant action winning praise, a rise in the social scale, public esteem for a good work done,—anything that raised a man above his fellows was quite enough.
It is, perhaps, the same now, as far as evil tongues and pens can wag, and will always be, and people wince with moral pain; but it breaks no bones, scorches no skin, and the object of envy may still breathe fresh air and light, and enjoy life and liberty, though a few soi-disant friends may fall away. Nay, the fact of being of a different race, tongue, and creed, a variance of opinion, family rivalries, an unhappy love, a little spite or jealousy,—all was turned to account, all was of use to denounce one's enemy on a religious ground. It was enough for a "familiar" to open his mouth to make people lose their judgment and reason.
I have had a sight of all the documents existing, exclusively Goanese, by the present descendants of the Inquisitors, and the authorities of that time.
We had a charming Portuguese dinner with Dr. Da Gama. Our last evening Mr. Major took us an excursion in his boat to Cazalem. We coasted along for an hour and sang glees under a fine moon, accompanied by a heavy swell, and we were carried ashore through the surf on native shoulders, and passed a very merry evening.
At last the time came round for us to leave Goa. The steamers are due once a fortnight, but this one was long past her time. At last we had a telegram to say, "The steamer would pass Goa at midnight." We started in a large open boat in the evening with Mr. Major, his secretary, four men to row and one to steer. We rowed down the river in the evening, and then across the bay for three hours against wind and tide to open sea, bow on to heavy rollers, and at last reached the mouth of the bay, where is the fort. We remained bobbing about in the sea, in the trough of the big waves, for a considerable time. A violent storm of rain, thunder, and lightning came on, and Mr. Major proposed we should put back to the fort, at the entrance of the bay, and take shelter under some arches, which we did. Then we went to sleep, leaving the secretary and the boatwála to watch for the steamer.
At 1.30 I was awoke by the sound of a gun booming across the water. I sprang up and roused the others; but the storm was so heavy we could see no lights, and returned to sleep. We ought to have gone off when the gun fired; the ship had been laying to for us for three-quarters of an hour. If the ship went without us, we should have lost our passage to Europe, we should have been caught in the monsoon, we should have had to return another fortnight to Goa, of which we were heartily tired, and knew by heart, only to renew the same a fortnight hence. We were soon under way again, and by-and-by saw the lights of the steamer about three miles off. Knowing the independence of these captains, the monopoly, and the futility of complaints, and seeing that my husband and Mr. Major slept, I began to be very disagreeable with the boat-hook. I got the secretary to stand in the bows and wave a lamp on a pole. I urged the boatwálas with perpetual promises of bakshish. Everybody else was leaving it to Kismet. Our kind host had been holloaing at the boatwálas the whole evening because the boat was dirty, and making them bale out the horrid-smelling bilge water, and now we wanted him, he was sound asleep and as good as gold. "Can't you shout?" I cried to him; "they might hear you. You can shout loud enough when nobody wants you to." At last, after an hour's anxiety, we reached the ship, and heavy seas kept washing us away from the ladder. No one had the energy to hold on to the rope, or to take the boat-hook to keep us to her, so at last I did it myself; my husband roaring with laughter at their supineness, and at me making myself so disagreeably officious and energetic. An English sailor threw me a rope. "Thanks," I said, as I took advantage of an enormous wave to spring on to the ladder. "I am the only man in the boat to-night." All came on board with us, and we had a parting stirrup-cup, and said farewell, and often after, our good host and his wife used to write to me, and call me the "only man in the boat."
We had been six months in India, and had made the most of it, and the day of departure came round. We were glad and sorry—glad to leave the intolerable heat, to escape the coming monsoon; sorry to leave the ever-increasing interest and the daily accumulating friends. We generally chose Austrian-Lloyd's steamers. They owned at that time a fleet of sixty-nine keel, covering twenty-two different lines, reasonable in charges. An Italian cuisine, everything clean, with a certain style and refinement. They are safe ships, and their sailors, mostly Dalmatians, are a brave seafaring race, quiet, docile, and sober, stalwart, honest, and civil, and mind their ship in a storm.
On calm nights, say a delightful evening with balmy air, crescent moon, with its attendant star, our Dalmatian crew sing better than many a usual opera chorus, though quite untutored. They are thorough sailors, gay in fine weather, hard-working and brave in the worst of storms, and never drink. I know nothing pleasanter than a voyage in Austrian-Lloyd's in fine weather with few passengers. This time, however, we were physically uncomfortable. The boats were not fitted for regular English passengers from India. They steam very slow—eight knots an hour. They then carried no stewardess or doctor; they do now. Then they had no ice or soda-water, no skylight for wind-sails, only one awning instead of three, no punkahs and tatties. I believe all that is changed. So we were seventeen English passengers, and we fried alive in the Indian Ocean and the Red Sea.
The average English people, if not made comfortable at sea, are as troublesome as a mustard plaster—nothing was right. They wanted their huge lumps of beef and mutton four times a day; they ate up all the provisions like locusts, and drank the cellar dry almost before we got to Aden. What would last Italians and Greek six weeks, does not last an Englishman one.
Italians and Greeks have quite another form of being troublesome. They would send every half-hour for the captain to ask if there is any danger; if the sea and wind are going down; to say that they feel very bad, and ask him what they shall take. He, with the greatest good nature, instead of giving them the hearty "blessing" that ours would, recommends a little eau sucrée, and says we shall be in smooth water in another hour, though he knows quite well that the glass is down, and that we are going straight into a gale, which will last several days.
Richard and I were exceedingly comfortable, as we always were, and it amused us to hear "our boys," as we called our English fellow-passengers, swearing at the Triestine stewards in Hindostani, and talking louder and louder in the hopes of being understood. We used to hear all day shouts of, "Where is Captain Burton? where is Mrs. Burton?" We were wanted to interpret. We were the connecting link between Austrian-Lloyd's and the discontented Britishers. But at last we all became exceedingly jolly. We slept on deck in rows, and read and talked. In the evening we sang glees and duets. We women abolished toilette for white tea-gowns.
After a very pleasant time, albeit very rough weather, Richard and I left the ship at Suez, and were soon surrounded by a little band of Richard's old friends of Mecca days. We put off, with them, afterwards to the Arabian shore, to rest after our journey at "Moses' Wells," about three miles in the Arabian desert—the scene of poor Palmer, Gill, and Charington's departure. It was a lovely scene, with its blue sea, yellow sands, azure sky, and pink and purple mountains. The sun was hot, but the pure desert air blew in our faces, as we went across the sand to the picturesque spot. The wells or springs are surrounded by tropical verdure, intermingled with Fellah huts. The most romantic spot of all is a single tiny spring, under an isolated palm tree, standing all alone on a little hillock of sand and desert, far from all else, as if that tree and that spring had been created for each other to live alone. It was delightful after India and the rough voyage. We took our kayf there with the Arabs, who gave us delicious coffee and narghílehs, and we rode camels. We were there at the time of Abdul Assiz's death.
After stopping some time at Cairo, Alexandria, and Ramleh, we embarked for Trieste on another Lloyd's, which carried Jamrach and his menagerie. During our stay in Cairo, we saw a great deal of poor Marquis de Compiègne (afterwards shot in a duel), Dr. Schweinfürth, and Marietta Bey and the Bulak Museum; poor John Wallis, legal Consul, once editor of the Tablet; Baron de Kremer, our old Austrian colleague at Damascus, afterwards Minister of Finance at Vienna (now dead). We found the voyage very cold, even in July, after India. We first went to Candia, passing Gavdo, Cape Spaltra, the two islands Cerigotto and Cerigo.
We glide by Cape Matapan on the Greek coast. We passed Cabrera and Sapienza. We leave the lighthouse on Strophades to the left, and reach Zante, which is a lovely island, with a large picturesque town, and where mareschino is made. We run between Cephalonia and Ithaca (of Ulysses); then we change the Greek coast for Acarnania, and pass Santa Maura, or Leucadia, with "Sappho's Leap." We changed then to the Albanian coast, gloriously green to the water's edge, with, cliff and cave, with the Cimariote hills, and its wild people and their lawless legends behind them. We passed two islands, Anti Paxo and Paxo, to Corfú. After we leave Corfú, we coast along Albania, passing Capo Linguetta and Isole Sasseno; then we changed to the Dalmatian coast, to Bocca di Cattaro and Ragusa, afterwards the islands of Lagosta and Cazza; then Lissa, where two great battles were fought, one 13th of March, 1811, and the other 20th of July, 1866. Then we passed the islands of Spalmadore, Lesina, Incoronati, and Grossa; then Punta Biancha, and the island of Sansego. Here we changed to Istria, and are upon our own ground, beginning with Punta di Promontore and Pola, our great Austrian naval station, with its Coliseum and interesting ruins. Then Rovigno and Parenzo, harbour towns on the coast. At Punto Salvore we enter our own "Gulf of Trieste," passing Pirano, which we can see from our own windows, and finally Trieste. The coming into Trieste is very sweet from the sea. The beautiful little City, nestled in its corner in the mountains at the very top of the Adriatic, seemed to us the greenest and most beautiful spot we had ever beheld, after hot India and barren Egypt and Arabia. The hills plumaged to the sea, dotted with white villages and villas; Miramar standing well out to sea in the warm haze; the splendid Carniola Mountains on the opposite side, still slightly tipped with snow, were most refreshing to our eyes, and we settled down in our little home with a feeling of rest, and enjoyed our ever-warm reception from our Trieste friends after our sea voyage.
[1] I put this story in the New Review last November. Hardly had I done so when it was claimed by an American for Professor Henry, of the Smithsonian Institute at Washington. It could hardly have happened to two men, and Richard was much too witty to need to copy. It happened at eleven o'clock on the 22nd of April, 1876. I was present, saw it with my own eyes, heard it with my own ears, and thinking it too good to be forgotten wrote it down there and then. The Archbishop and I mentioned it in letters a few months ago.—I. B.
[2] Richard always took Goanese boys on his wildest travels, and they were always true to him.
CHAPTER IV.
A QUIET TIME AT TRIESTE.
On our return from India, Richard produced "Sind Revisited" (2 vols., 1877) and "Etruscan Bologna" (1 vol.), which had been some time in preparation, but had not found a publisher.
After this, Richard and I pursued a quiet, literary life, and I studied very hard. We began to translate Ariosto. It was summer, so we swam a great deal, and then we went up to the village inn at Opçina, of which I have already spoken. And we took a great interest in the Slav school-children—about two hundred and twenty boys and girls. We used to amuse ourselves with going in the evening to look at a Sagra (the peasants' dances at one or other of the villages in the Karso), where they dance, and sing, and drink, and play games. On the 1st of August I had a great sorrow, in which Richard participated. I had taken out to Syria a couple of Yarborough fox-terriers. "Nip" was one of their offspring (one of five, born on the 24th of June, 1871, in Syria). She accompanied me to England, and then through France, Italy, Germany, to Trieste; then again all over Italy and Germany, back to England, to Arabia, India, and Egypt. In India (in April, 1876) she suddenly lost her eyesight from the heat. We nursed her for over three months, and tried everything. She had four doctors, but she died on the 1st of August, 1876, and is buried in Mr. Brock's garden, Campagna Hill, viâ St. Vito, Trieste. She had to be chloroformed, as she was in such pain, and there was no hope for her. I put up a little tombstone to her memory, much to the rage of the peasants, who were also very angry at her little sealskin coat in winter, and her cradle to sleep in; they considering that I treated her like a Christian, which was true. The cradle had its mattress and pillow, sheets, blankets, and curtain; and God help anybody who ventured to touch that cradle, except to make it, like our beds, with the utmost respect.
During this month, while we were out swimming, there was a cry of "Shark!" We swam for our lives to the baths; but one young man had been drawn down by his foot, and either the shark was a small one, or the cries frightened it, and the swimmer was strong, for he managed to save himself with a mangled foot. But some time before there had been a man sitting, dangling his naked legs in the water at the edge of a boat lashed to the quay, close to the hotel windows, and a shark had wriggled itself up, and bit one leg off by the thigh. The poor fellow died in a couple of hours from the fright and loss of blood, so there is a "shark scare" every year, and swimming is not an unmitigated joy.
We also had a delightful habit of not dining, but all our intimates would appoint to meet at one café or another, where we supped out in the open air, at separate little tables—say each party of fifteen its own table—where, the garden being illuminated, we ordered the fare of the country, and the country wine, and smoked cigarettes. We would meet about nine, stay till eleven or twelve, and disperse to our homes. It was so sociable. There is nothing of this kind in England. There was, about a mile and a half from Trieste, a village on the shore, called San Bartolo, where we used to do the same thing on a larger scale. We would be thirty or forty, have a fiddle and a harp, and dance afterwards in the open by moonlight. About this time we had the great pleasure of a visit from Mrs. (now Lady) Kirby Green, and her sister; also Mr. Hamilton Aïdé, Mr. Matthews, our late Home Secretary, Miss Yule, so famous for military tactics; also the Stillmans. Richard was lucky enough to get an occasional trip with Baron Pino, our delightful Governor, on the Pelagosa, the Government yacht.
An amusing little incident happened in connection with my learning Italian. I wanted very much to go through the Italian classics with a professor. My professor was a Tuscan, a gentleman, a Christian, and a celebrated Dantesque scholar, but a priest who had unhappily fallen away from his vocation. He gained great fame and applause amongst litterati for his declamations of Dante. I used to read beforehand the canto for the night, in Bohn's English translation; then he would declaim it to me in Italian, acting it unconsciously all the while; then I used to read it aloud in Italian, to catch his pronunciation, and as I read he stopped me and explained every shade of Dante's thoughts and meaning. When he came to that part where the souls in hell are crying out and scratching themselves, he also kept crying out and scratching himself. It was evening, as he had only that time to spare. Richard had gone to bed, and I had left the door open between us. All of a sudden he called out loudly, "What the devil is that noise—what is the matter?" "Oh," I said in English, "it is only Rossi acting the damned souls in hell for me." Peals of laughter came from the bed. The master naturally asked what was the matter, and he was so shy after that, that it spoilt my lessons. I could never get him to act any more, as he had been doing it quite unconsciously.[1] Richard was also very fond of a good opera, and we often went if there was a new piece.
On the 15th of October, 1876, we had a delightful excursion to Salvore to see the new excavations and castellieri; Baron and Baroness Pino made a party in the Government yacht, and gave us a charming breakfast. Coming back, instead of getting in in early afternoon, we got lost in a fog, and did not get back till eleven o'clock, when we found ourselves grating against the lighthouse. I have a remembrance of that day in the shape of a marble paper-weight with its little history engraved on it, given to me by the excavator, Cav. Richetti, civil engineer.
We used to have a great many spiritualistic séances at Monsieur and Madame Jules Favre's, brother of Léon Favre. All the spiritualists used to collect here.
We went a trip to Fiume and Agram, and to Gorizia, two hours' express from Trieste in the Karso, as I wanted to make a "spiritual retreat" at the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, but under a Dalmatian Jesuit. Gorizia is a pretty, striking, picturesque cathedral town. It covers a hill, some hillocks, and a part of a fertile plateau in the heart of the Carniola Mountains, surrounded by ranges of wooded Istrian mountains, which are also encircled by a higher snow-capped range (the Carniola range). It is small, cheerful, primitive, with salubrious air, especially good for nerves and chest complaints; it is composed entirely of Churches, Monasteries, and Convents, church dignitaries, and all sorts of ecclesiastics and nuns—a Prince Archbishop being the Chief—and a few pious old ladies—a resident local aristocracy. The river Isonzo, the boundary between Austria and Italy, glides through the valley, making the sea green with its outflow, sometimes as far as Duino. It is a magnificent scene in the sunset, when it lights up the snow, bathing it in purple, red, and gold, till the whole panorama seems on fire. There is a great pilgrimage place called Monte-Santo on a grizly top, with church and monastery, where Richard and I have often been together. This Deaf and Dumb Institution is a large Convent with a garden. It has a little chapel dedicated to the Sacred Heart, seven sisters of Notre Dame, a padre who is Director, a second priest, and a professor who is an aspirant for the priesthood, a number of servants, and a hundred and fifty children, deaf and dumb boys and girls. Everything is done by signs; the prayers, the studies, the sermon; even plays are acted in signs. The education is reading, writing, arithmetic, catechism, plain work, fancy work, drawing, illustrating, church work; the boys help in the garden, and the padre keeps fish, rabbits, and bees. They call him "papa." He is quite devoted to his bees, and being a highly educated man, Richard used to pass a great deal of time with him and the bees.
After my retreat was over, I had the honour and the pleasure of being sent for—unfortunately Richard had left—by the Comte and the Comtesse de Chambord (Henri Cinq of France). By far the most interesting figure was this now departed relic of ancient chivalry, who lived a great part of the year here, the focus of a small Court, with an entourage of Legitimates. They sent for me twice, and desired that I should dine with them. I had to explain to the Chamberlain that I had only the dress I was travelling in, but they said that that did not in the least matter; so I dined there, and the King honoured me by putting me on his right hand. He was most cordial and in good spirits, and talked incessantly, and was afterwards so gracious as to send me autographed portraits of himself and the Queen. He had known my mother before she was married, and had danced with her, I suppose, as a little boy; but he told me of it when I was at Venice with part of my family in 1858, when he made our six weeks' stay very happy.
From there we visited Bertoldstein,—the station Feldbach,—the post town Fehring. The castle, bought by Safvet Pasha (Count Kossichsky) some twenty-six years ago, is an interesting feudal and melancholy looking place, where he reunites the comfort of Europe with Egyptian romance.[2] It is at the top of a hill, and there is a very beautiful drive to Gleichenberg, where there are waters and baths, very much frequented by Austrians, and a small theatre that was exceedingly amusing, and here we saw daily some of the best Austrian society, and heard some of the native music beautifully sung by them. The Pasha kept plenty of thoroughbred horses, chiefly black stallions, which he used to have paraded round the court of the house for our inspection, a boy to each horse. We frequently had to move out of the way, and to stand where their heels could not touch us; it was as much as the boys could do to hold them. I never saw a more perfect whip; he always drove four-in-hand, and the roads are so narrow, the drop at each side so deep, that you could not help wondering what would happen if we met anything, and I do not believe sometimes you could have put a sheet of paper between the vehicles. We enjoyed ourselves here very much for a few days, and then we returned to Graz. Then Richard went up to Karlsbad, paid a visit to Maríenbad, and then to Teplitz as a Nach-kur; then he went to Prague and Linz, then to Stein, then to Klagenfurt, and back to Trieste, when we began to write more biography.
At this time Boïto's "Mefistofele" came to Trieste, and we both agreed that we had never heard anything like it, and never would again. You must be a musician to appreciate. The first time you feel almost confused, but new beauties develop with each hearing.
Midian.
In his old Arab days, wandering about with his Korán, forty years ago, Richard came upon a gold land in that part of Arabia belonging to Egypt. He was a romantic youth, with a chivalrous contempt for filthy lucre, and only thought of "winning his spurs;" so, setting a mark upon the place, he turned away and passed on. After twenty-five years, seeing Egypt distressed for gold, he asked for "leave," and he went back to Cairo, and imparted his secret to the Khedive. Uncle Gerard furnished him with the means of going. His Highness equipped an Expedition in a few days, and sent him there to rediscover the land (end of 1876). He has given an account of that trip in the "Gold Mines of Midian" and the "Ruined Midianite Cities," 1878.
The Khedive engaged him to come back the following winter, 1877, with a view to learning every item concerning this rich old country, and applied to the Foreign Office for the loan of him for the winter, which being granted, he set out in October, 1877, in command of a new Expedition, on a much larger scale, and was out seven months in the desert of Arabia, doing hard work. He discovered a region of gold and silver, zinc, antimony, sulphur, tin, copper, porphyry, turquoise, agate, lead, and six or seven commoner metals, extending some hundreds of miles either way, and pearls on the coast, a Roman temple, and thirty-two mining Cities. The Expedition mapped and planned and sketched the whole country, and brought back abundance of the various metals for assay or analysis. The ancients had only worked forty feet, whereas with our appliances we might have gone down twelve hundred.
The Khedive was charmed; he made splendid contracts with my husband, so that, with the commonest luck, not only Egypt would have become rich, but my husband would have been a millionaire in a very few years, and he used to say jokingly that he would be Duke of Midian, the only title he had ever wished for. To our great misfortune Ismail Khedive abdicated just as the third Expedition was about to come off, in 1878-9. The new Khedive, Tewfik, did not consider himself bound by any act of his father's; the English Government (it is hardly worth while to remark) was not likely to give Richard a chance of anything good, and instead of being able to carry out the enterprise, he lost all the money which we had advanced and partly borrowed for paying expenses which we were sure would be refunded.[3] His second interesting work on this expedition was the "Land of Midian Revisited" (2 vols., 1879).
In all the expeditions that my husband has undertaken to different mines the minerals are there, but there has been too much dishonesty by those employed to carry it out, for my husband ever to have had his proper share, as Explorer, Discoverer, and Reporter, or Leader of these Expeditions. Every man has been for feathering his own nest, even in a small way, regardless of the public good, and where any other nation has been mixed up, it has cheated in favour of its own country. All these mines will be worked some day, and men will profit largely, but the one who deserved to reap good, is dead, and his widow will be dead before the day comes round.
AKKAS.
Between the first and second Expedition we had a large party from Egypt—Prince Battikoff, Safvet Pasha, Count and Countess della Sala, and others, and there were grand doings on board the Ceylon (a Peninsular and Oriental steamer) for the Queen's birthday. We also had the pleasure of giving a little dinner to Salvini, who came to act there for a week—a little party of eight, which included H.R.H. the Duke of Würtemburg and Mr. George Smart. Then we went to Verona for a while to see the two Akkas brought by Gessi from Africa; Richard's object was, that it was very difficult to get hold of this important little race. These were two males, and there was one at Trieste, a female, which had been brought to his notice by Mdlle. Luisa Serravallo, the daughter of our principal chemist, a very charming family, and she a delightful girl, profoundly educated and serious, who was studying this specimen together with the language, and Richard took a great interest in it. He wanted to see what the effect would be of bringing the Akka boys and girl into each other's presence, but through the jealousy of the people who owned the respective treasures it was not to be managed.
We had a little excursion in the Pelagosa, the Government yacht, to Zara, to Lissa, and Cazza—a little trip of ten days.
One evening we started for Adelsberg, where we paid the usual visit to the caves, and from where there are charming drives. We drove to Idria, a pretty village with its church, through a magnificent country, with splendid gorges, magnificently wooded (chiefly pines), exceedingly fertile, with trout rivers, and delicious air. We descended the quicksilver mine, and saw the whole of its workings. Idria is also famed for its beautiful lace, which is exceedingly cheap, and which you see sold in various parts of Europe with wonderful names attached to it. We then visited the castle of Windisgrätz. We had a very merry time, for we were a large party of English, and we had all sorts of fun.
There was a great joke against Richard, who wanted to inspect a place for scientific reasons which were above the comprehension of the rest of the party. It was one of those mysterious grounds in the Karso where rivers, and even small lakes, disappear and rise up in some other place, changing their ground as the swallows change air, at certain seasons; but he did not tell them this, and they thought they were going to see something wonderful. We drove and drove all day, in carts without springs, over hill and dale and stones, until we were half dead, and across a sort of jolting common, and then we came to a little building that might have been a protection for cattle in bad weather. We all got out and went anxiously into this building, and saw nothing but the objectionable signs of cattle having been there, and Richard (who was our guide) looked round in a profound meditation, and then he nodded his head, and muttered these few words, "I see, I see; I am perfectly satisfied;" and then he turned round, and we all mounted our wretched carts again to the next possible roadside "tap," where our horses were fed and rested, and we got some eggs and rice and beer, and then we all laughed immensely and chaffed him about having brought us all that way to see—what? I joined the others for fun; but then I knew, because he had told me. The place had a very long Slav name, Zerknick-something, but they all christened it "Shirkins," and it has remained so ever since. From this we went on to Graz, a beautiful place halfway between Trieste and Vienna, which is the paradise of the younger and poorer branches of the aristocracy, and retired officers, military and naval. Some wag christened it Pensionville.
On Return.
One of the papers on May 16th, and I think it was the Daily News, wrote as follows:—
"We referred yesterday to the latest discovery of Captain Richard Burton, who is surely the most fortunate of modern voyagers, as he is certainly the most widely travelled. The Highlands of Brazil, the kingdom of Dahomey, the fever-stricken shores of Eastern Africa, the Equatorial Lakeland whence flow the waters of the Nile, Scinde and the Punjaub, the ruined cities of Etruria, Iceland, and Hecla, the City of the Mormons, the country of the Druzes, the unknown land of El Aláh, with as many Cities as there are days in the year—all these are places not only visited, but described by a writer whose wealth of information seems unparalleled. Almost alone among Christian travellers, he has penetrated into the most sacred places of the most fanatic people; has witnessed the secret rites of Hindoos; has worshipped as a Moslem among Moslems in the City which received the fugitive Prophet, and may wear the green turban of a pilgrim, because he has performed the ritual of Islam at the Kaaba of Mecca, and has also received the Brahminical thread. His books of travel, united, form almost as many volumes as may be found in Hakluyt's Collection, Purchas's 'Pilgrims,' or Pinkerton's 'Voyages.' The wanderings of this modern Ulysses cover an area of a good quarter of the habitable globe and a period of forty years. He is one of those who have kept alive the glorious tradition of English adventure. There are Geographical Societies in every European country, but none can show so long a list of achievements as our own. There are travellers of France, Germany, Italy, and Russia to be found in every far-off corner of the earth, but none who have done so much as our own men. And now, to add to his long catalogue of honourable and successful voyages, the gallant Captain reports that he has restored an ancient California to the World, and that is none other than the Land of Midian."
Midian means the district which in the Bible covers the peninsula of Sinai, and the country east of the Gulf of Akabah, east of the river Jordan, into which the Midianites fled before the Three Hundred, and comprises that great desert south and east of the Euphrates, through which the modern Midianites, who are the present Bedawi, with their cattle and black tents still wander. Their manners and customs are just the same, only guns have taken the place of the bow, coffee and tobacco have been brought in; a sort of veneer of Mohammedan doctrine is added to the ancient patriarchal faith, still keeping its own traditions.
Richard's Midian was an utterly unknown country along the east coast of the Gulf of Akabah, one of the two narrow inlets in which the Red Sea ends. When I say unknown, it has been practically unvisited and its shores unexplored until now. There is abundant evidence of a former population and a cultivated period; there are ruins of large towns, of solid masonry, roads cut in the rock, aqueducts five miles long; remains of massive fortresses with artificial reservoirs, all the signs of a busy and a prosperous period, when fleets with richly laden cargoes came to and fro. The rocks are full of mineral wealth—gold, silver, tin, antimony, and many other rich things, just as in the gold districts elsewhere. The sands of the streams yield gold, and the ancient mining works lie destroyed round every town, heaps of ashes close to the mineral furnaces. There are mines of turquoises. This hoard of possible wealth would have set up Ismail Khedive and Egypt for ever, if she could only have worked it. Richard began to be called in fun the "new Pharaoh's new Joseph."
These seas were once bright with trade and craft and cargoes from every part of the Eastern World. The mines flourished with the trade, and doubtless perished through the same causes. First the struggle between the Persians and Heraclius, and then the Moslem conquest.
Richard went first to Moilah, thence to Aynunah Bay. Every ruined town had its mining works, dams for washing of sand and crushed rock, and gold-washing vessels. Then they went to Makna, written "Mugua" in the maps, the Capital of the land, as far as Jebel Hassani, and he found it much like ancient California. These gold and precious stones producing parts of Arabia were closed up four thousand years ago, and present the appearance of having been suddenly left, in consequence of earthquake or some great volcanic evolution. They found a black sand containing a very clear oxide of tin, and a large stone engraved with antique inscriptions, which they copied.
At the first expedition there was not money enough for us both to go, so I had to make the sacrifice and stay behind.
On the 19th we went on board the Espero, the Khedive having summoned him to Egypt, where the work of organization went on, and they landed at Tur (where he had landed in 1853), and went to Arafat, and to El Muwáylah and Shermá, to Jebel el Abyaz, and innumerable other places.
I spent my time partly in Trieste, but mostly in the rural (Opçina) inn away up in the mountains, engaged in correcting the proofs of one of his books. One day a party of friends came up to look after me, as they said they wondered what on earth I was doing, it being the gay time in Trieste, and I absent from everything; and they found me occupied in rather a curious way, which gave rise to a great deal of chaff. I had assembled a large party of all the country priests of the Karso, some of them very curious, and I was giving them a dinner to amuse myself, and the contrast between them (mostly Slavs) and the "swell" party from Trieste was rather absurd. I never heard the end of that dinner. "So this is the way you pass your time out here?" they all said to me. "What a curious taste!" All my real days were taken up with protection of cruelty to animals in the Karso, which is very bad, and writing. I used to take tremendous long walks over the mountains. The landlady of the inn also gave me enough to do. She and her husband were a spoony, gawky boy and girl. They had just had their first baby (we had known their grandfather and their father and mother). She was only sixteen, and knew absolutely nothing; so when she was occupied in running after her boy-husband, this baby was flung in swaddling clothes down upon the stone floor, anywhere, and left to bawl its heart out for food or care of any sort, and I began to perceive that it was dying; so I took it from her, and kept it entirely under my own care. I passed three weeks with that child in my arms. I dressed it in English baby clothes with flannel, and I fed it and doctored it till it got quite well. By the time she had a second she had grown wiser, and adopted my nursery ways instead of her own.
While I was waiting I had one of my annual fêtes, giving prizes for humanity to animals. It took place in the great hall called del Ridotto, decorated with flags, and was well filled with the Authorities, my friends, and crowds of people. The military band played, the Governor was President, and he and the Committee and I sat at a big table on the platform covered with the usual green cloth. There were a great many speeches; I made mine in Italian, and spoke for nearly three-quarters of an hour. The prizes were thirty of twenty-five florins, six of twenty florins, two of fifteen florins, one of ten florins, and we gave away many decorations and diplomas. I had the honour of receiving a medal and many kisses and congratulations from my friends.
I had the great pleasure of receiving Miss Irby and Miss Johnstone, who were doing such admirable work in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and which was most interesting to hear about, and also again a visit from the Stillmans. I had one more sorrow to go through. Léon Favre and his wife, our French Consul-General, had always been most kind to us, and during my husband's absence I was always counted upon for their Sunday dinner. The Sunday before I had been up there, and we had been thirteen at table, which I, being a superstitious woman, strongly objected to, but I was laughed out of it. The following Sunday I went as usual to dinner, when the maid-servant who opened the door informed me, with tears, that her mistress had been dead just an hour. Léon Favre is now dead, so that my remarks cannot agitate him, but when I saw her I was of opinion that she was not dead. The eyes were closed and the mouth shut exactly as in sleep, and no one had either bound up the jaw or closed the eyes. I called her husband, who was devoted to her, and told him; but he declared that the doctors had been called in, and certified that she was dead. The next day I went again, and had the same feeling about it, and another great friend of hers, independently of me, went upstairs and made a great fuss. However the doctors said she was dead, and she was buried. She had died of heart disease.
I got very good news shortly about the Expedition, which put me in good spirits.