I have seen many cases of this kind during thirty years of Consular life, and personally I was always acting the part of Job's wife, but unsuccessfully. Richard had no chance of rising to his proper position; he was much too good. The "light of God" was upon him. The Home Authorities heard all the complaints; he did not report to them the good he did, but I will cry it from the house-tops until all hear it. He gained respect and influence over all classes. All the good and the poor loved and trusted him; the bad feared him. He had pre-eminently the Divine gift of pity. He had some talisman for attracting the people; and when they got a written order from him, they would kiss it and put it on their heads as if it were a Sultan's Firman. He was more than equal to his position if he had been only commonly backed up at home.

With so many races, creeds, and tongues, all at variance, in an Oriental intriguing focus, it is impossible to please everybody. You cannot well walk down the street without treading upon somebody's toes. It is difficult for a man who does his duty in a hotbed of corruption to be universally popular, and there are some whose disapproval is a proof of integrity. One must have a straight line of duty. If a person wants you to do something wrong, and you act uprightly and refuse, they are sure to write to some great personage at home, to ask them to complain at head-quarters. They never mention what they asked you to do—what bribe they offered—but invent something against you. If they are listened to, they can always keep you in hot water, as cela encourage les autres.

"To R. F. B.

"Ever remember, 'tis Pretension rules
Half men, three-thirds of women—to wit, the fools.
In yonder coterie see, my friend, yon pair
Of vapid witlings waging wordy war,
While female senates hear, in trembling awe,
This thing and that thing laying down the law.
Murmured applause shall fill each greedy ear,
Of 'Charming man!' 'Delightful, clever dear!'
And Lady Betty lends her sweetest smile
T' inflame their ardour and their toils beguile.
Yet those same lips no word of worth afford
To thy true heart, strong brain, quick pen, sharp sword.
Pine not, brave soul! he whom such trifles vex,
Unfit to serve, much less can rule the sex.
Ask not the remedy—go, win a name,
Famous or infamous, 'tis much the same;
For silly girls and shallow youths make game
Of God-like nature, all unknown to fame;
But souls select, instinctive, recognize
Congenial spirits unmarked to vulgar eyes.
You asked what caused this egotistic strain—
The fit is on me; let me here explain.
Fools, seeing in youth a hero's value spurned,
Ignored a heart and soul that fondly yearned
And burned for honours honourably earned;
His teens long passed, exiled in distant land,
A noble heart held out the long-sought hand,
Taught him to labour, strengthened him to wait
The turn of fortune's tide that makes us great.
Nor years' long lapse, nor change, nor fate can raze
From Mem'ry's page those words of kindly praise.
If one man's name on our heart's page be penned,
'Tis his—no need to name our true best friend."[10]
——Isabel Burton.

Some of us are left in the world to fight our battle. There are strong souls who can resist all attacks; nothing overthrows them, nothing can even hurt them. The devil makes war upon the world, but especially upon them. Nevertheless, it is as hard for a brave spirit to hold its own, and see its fancied treasures falling away from it in the hour of need, as for a gallant and successful general, on the eve of victory, in the turn of the battle, to be deserted by his troops, and left, in spite of his own qualities, to disgrace and death.

My old friend Charles Reade told us that "in less than two hundred years the first stone of honesty in biography" will have to be laid, and then he proceeds to relate how his "hero and martyr" has been treated by the world; how he had earned the gold medal of the Humane Society twice, and the silver twelve times; how he has never received either, but is a blind and destitute old man, living in a chimney corner, deserted and forgotten by the world, and shunned by those he has saved; how his only public honour is being permitted to cross a certain bridge without paying the common toll, from whose waters beneath he has saved so many lives at the risk of his own. He describes his hero as one of Nature's gentlemen, fit company for an Emperor, a man without his fellow, who adorns our country. He was earning thirty shillings a week when charity towards his fellow-creatures induced him to throw away his sight for the public good, and the parish allows him three and sixpence a week. He tells us that he better deserves every order and decoration the State can bestow than does any gentleman or nobleman whose bosom is a constellation; "yet," he says proudly, "not a cross or ribbon has ever ascended from the vulgar level. Why? because," he adds, "this world, in the distribution of glory, is a heathen in spite of Christ, a fool in spite of Voltaire." I quote Charles Reade's story to show that nowadays England does not confer honour on merit in any class of life. The higher and lower orders share the same fate. Honours follow a certain red-tape routine, not noble deeds, and often mock their wearer; whilst many a noble brow looks up to heaven with patient, uncomplaining dignity, adorned only by God and Nature, and by a life of chivalrous actions. The English public are, however, seldom wrong when once they know the truth, and perhaps the best and truest honour is their good verdict.

Whilst here, we saw the Oriental papers every fortnight, and all the accounts we read of our old home were of "Arab raids, of insults to Europeans, of miserable, starving people, of sects killing one another in open day, of policemen firing recklessly into a crowd to wing a flying prisoner, and a general fusilade in the streets; of sacked villages, and plundered travellers." We read of Salahíyyeh spoken of as a "suburb of Damascus, which enjoys an unenviable reputation;" of innocent Salahíyyeh men being shot down by mistake for criminals, "because the people of Salahíyyeh are such confirmed ruffians, that they are sure to be either just going to do mischief or just returning from it." That is the place where for two or more years we slept with open doors and windows, and I freely walked about alone throughout the twenty-four hours, even when my husband was absent, and left with Moslem servants.

Having lifted any possible cloud which may have hung over the real history of Richard's removal from his Eastern post—the only suitable one he ever held—it is unnecessary for me to enter into any further explanation of the causes of the base detractions from which he has suffered. His case is not altogether a new one in the human history, and the true explanation—the only real explanation—of it, which can face the light of day, has been admirably expressed in the lines written by the most brilliant statesman the Foreign Office ever sent to the East—the "great Eltchi," whom I and all lovers of the Orient speak of with admiration, respect, and pride—Lord Stratford de Redcliffe—and which are applicable to Richard in every sense, except that, so far from ever "spurning the gaping crowd," he always sacrificed himself for the poor, the ignorant, and the oppressed.

"Nay, shines there one with brilliant parts endowed,
Whose inborn vigour spurns the gaping crowd?
For him the trench is dug, the toils are laid,
For him dull malice whets the secret blade.
One fears a master fatal to his ease,
Or worse, a rival born his age to please;
This dreads a champion for the cause he hates,
That fain would crush what shames his broad estates.
Leagued by their instincts, each to each is sworn;
High on their shields the simpering fool is borne."[11]

END OF VOL. I.