It is very curious the ignorance with which he was occasionally met. An educated man from Vienna asked him one day if he had ever been to Africa, and an educated Englishwoman, after living nearly eighteen years with him in Trieste, asked him the same question, and was not aware that he had ever written a book. I think that gives people some idea of his modesty.

He had a great objection personally to cremation, although he thought it a clean and healthy thing; but he said with his usual joke at a serious thing, "I do not want to burn before I have got to;" and secondly, "When a fellow has been quartered for seven years or more close to a Hindú smáshán, or burning-ground, it reminds him so painfully of the unpleasant smell of roast Hindú" (which pervaded his quarters when he was a struggling ensign or lieutenant). He used to carry a stick, which it was a pain to lift, to exercise the muscles of his arms; his Damascus pipe held a quarter of a pound of tobacco; his elephant-guns, with which he used to trot about Africa, of twenty-four pounds, which carried a four-ounce ball, I can only just lift; and, on the other hand, and later on in life, he would buy such diminutive things that they were almost more fit for a doll's house than for a man.

His handwriting, as everybody knows, was so small as to be almost invisible, and he used jokingly to say that the printers struck work when one of his manuscripts went in. They used to make hideous mistakes, and he used to abuse them in what he jokingly called "langwidge" all down the margins, and one day a firm sent up a foreman to say that the men declined to go on if they were abused in that manner. I was sent to interview the man, and we both laughed so much we could hardly speak, but he said he would go back and try to pacify them. Richard used always to say that a wee writing, as if done with a pin, betokened a big, strong man; a bold, dashing hand, as if written with the poker, was always a tiny, golden-haired, baby-faced woman.

Sometimes, when people annoyed Richard in little ways, I would say, "Never mind; why do you take notice of such little things?" and he invariably answered, "I am like an elephant's trunk; I can pick up a needle and root up a tree."

In his latter days, though his eyes were as soft and as brilliant and youthful as they could be, he only required spectacles just at the very end to read his own writing or small print, and the oculist found that he had two quite different eyes, which had been complained of in Madame Gutmansthal's picture, showing what a true artist she was. The right required No. 50 convex, and the left eye 14 convex. He turned to me and said, "I always told you that I was a dual man, and I believe that that particular mania when I am delirious is perfectly correct."

Description of Richard in Egypt.

Cutting from the Argonaut.

Descriptions from Other Sources.

Edwin de Leon, for many years Consul-General of the United States in Egypt, thus writes of the late Sir Richard Burton:—

"Richard Burton was self-reliant, self-sustained, seeking no support from heaven or earth, substituting self-will for faith and strenuous effort for Divine assistance; endowed by nature with a frame of iron and muscles of steel, he was an athlete who might have figured in the arena in Greek or Roman times. Audacious in speech and act, and fond of shocking the prejudices of those with whom he talked, he was the expounder of the most outrageous paradoxes possible to conceive. He was eminently a social animal; loved the pleasures of the table, and would talk with a friend all night in preference to going to bed, and in the Chaucerian style. Yet, with women, I never knew him even hint an indelicacy; for the charm of his conversation was to them very great, he had so much to tell. In his earlier days he was a strikingly handsome man, and even since his face had been scarred and furrowed by wounds and trials, there yet lingered on that expressive countenance the 'faded splendour wan' which had survived his youth. Among his personal habits was that of carrying in his hand an iron walking-stick, as heavy as a gun, to keep his muscles properly exercised, and a blow from his fist was like a kick from a horse. Mind and muscle with him were equally strong propellers, and the animal nature as vigorous as the intellectual. He had the faculty of making staunch friends and bitter enemies, and many of each. Burton had a curious characteristic which he shared with Lord Byron—that of loving to paint himself much blacker than he really was, and to affect vices, much as most men affect virtues, and with the same insincerity. In one of his shipwreck stories, after describing how they all suffered from the pangs of hunger, and the wolfish glances they began to cast on each other from time to time as the days wore on and no relief came, dropping his voice to a mysterious whisper, almost under his breath he added, 'The cabin-boy was young and fat, and looked very tender, and on him, more than on any other, such looks were cast, until——' Here he paused, looked around at the strained and startled faces of his auditors, in which horror was depicted, and then abruptly concluded, as though dismissing a disagreeable memory, 'But these are not stories to be told at a cheerful dinner-party, in a Christian country, and I had best say no more. Let us turn to some more cheerful subject.' Of course he was pressed to continue and complete his story, but stubbornly refused; leaving his hearers in a most unsatisfactory state of mind as to the dénouement of the unfinished narrative."

Description of Richard in his Study at Trieste.

Cutting from Life.

"Though standing nearly six feet high, he did not look a tall man, his broad shoulders, deep chest, and splendidly developed limbs deceiving the eye as to his real height. His hands and feet were small. His hair was of the deepest black, and was always worn close-cropped. In the East he went with his head clean shaven, covered with a fez and a white cap underneath it. As a talker he was unrivalled. His voice was soft and musical, contrasting strangely with the commanding tones which one would fancy necessary for him whose life so often depended on the power of his tongue over uncivilized men. His laugh was like the rattle of a pebble thrown across a frozen pond. While the best of ordinary men never aspire to know more than something of everything, and everything of something, he might almost without exaggeration be said to know everything of everything. He was an especial favourite of young men, who would literally sit at his feet as he talked. To all he was the kindest and truest of friends, and the brightest and most uncomplaining of companions in spite of his many disappointments.

"His literary work was always a labour of love with him, and those in the next room would often hear a hearty laugh burst from him as he lighted on the quaint conceit of some Oriental chronicler."

He was a man dearly loved by all Eastern races, by children and servants, and animals; he never made a mistake about character, and often when I have been quite delighted with people he has warned me against them, and forbidden me to have anything to do with them. I have never known him wrong in his estimate.

He had a wonderful prescience of things and events, even of those things of which he knew the least. I might quote a little common instance of so trite a thing as the "Argentines." I had some money in Argentines—not much, only a few hundreds—and one day without any rhyme or reason he ordered me to take them out. I thought to myself that if a first-rate lawyer and a first-rate broker put them in, that it must be right, and that Richard, being anything but a business man, could not possibly know anything about it, so I did not write the letter. Six months later he gave me a call; I went into his room. "Did you ever write that letter that I desired you to write, taking your money out of the Argentines?" "No, Jemmy," I said; "you know you know nothing about business, and it is a good percentage." He said very sternly, "Go and bring your pen and paper directly, and sit down here, and write it before me, and I will post it myself." He dictated to me a most imperative letter to my lawyer, desiring him to withdraw the money the moment he received the letter, without stopping to write back any questions. It was done, and my lawyer wrote me back a very aggrieved letter at my want of confidence in the judgment of his broker, and bitterly complained that I had lost £14. I gave it to Richard, who was delighted. A fortnight later the smash came. To show how kind-hearted he is, he called me and said laughingly, "I forbid you to write and taunt your lawyer; I know it is an awful temptation." He was so extremely punctiliously conscientious in his conduct to other people, so full of kindnesses and consideration for the feelings and peculiarities of other people.

I know that he is appreciated already, but not yet understood. His nobility of nature and chivalry belonged to the Knights of the Middle Ages. His science, erudition, and broad views belong to sixty years hence; his misfortune was not belonging to his Time, and hence the many failures during his life.

CHAPTER XI.

DECLINE IN OUR WELL-BEING.

END OF 1883.

A change now came over our circumstances for the worse, and here we begin the last seven years of his life, three and a half years of long gout sicknesses, on and off, without any suspicion of danger, though much suffering, and three and a half years after that, when every moment was a fear. He began now to notice in his journals when he heard the first nightingale, when the first cuckoo note in spring, and for some time past he had noticed the first swallow, and the first flight of swallows, and then their departure, with increasing sadness. For these twenty-two years of our married life I had made, as I said, our morning tea at any time from three o'clock in the morning up to half-past five, and if I came home late from any party, I found it was not worth while to go to bed; but now he began to have it at six and 6.30. On the 16th Miss Bishop had to go.

We went up very much to Opçina, where Richard got better and could walk. Mrs. Learmouth and family came to Trieste for a while, and then Mr. Steigand came to stay with us, and our old friend and Governor, Baron Pino.

He notices the death of Captain Mayne Reid on the 31st of October.

On the 31st of November Richard really got so bad he alarmed me, for he nearly fainted, and I got the master of the Opçina Inn (Daneu) to help me to bring him down to Trieste, and had rooms prepared on the other side of our house; and about four hours after, in his new warm room, he got perfectly well. It was a curious kind of gout, because he would seem to be in agonies of pain, and after trying no end of things, one would suddenly hit upon something quite simple that took it all away. He was well enough in a day or two to lunch on board the Bokhara, and also the P. and O. Gwalior. We got tired of consulting doctors, and we sent for the wife of the Schinder (the dog-slaughterer), who lived up in the forest of Prevald, and was reported to be a wise woman. She said that Richard had mandrone, or flying pains. The worst was, that as soon as he was a little bit better he would forget what he had suffered, and commit some little imprudence, like going out in the Bora; it was so hard for him to believe he ever could be an invalid.

We went out a great many drives, which did him more good than anything. Sometimes he would pay visits. We used to go to Miramar and sit out in the gardens.

I found the best way was to take him about a great deal to different places. I always contrived that he saw plenty of people, asking amusing people to dine or breakfast. I got then an attack of peritonitis that kept me in bed for a week; fortunately Richard and I were never ill at the same time, and I was up and able to attend him when he got his gout back again.

In the night of the 19th, the Admiralty (situated below our house) took fire, and the roof was burnt out.

We were able also to keep our St. Silvester with the Gutmansthals, but so many people had gone away, that it was not the same as the year before.

On the 6th of December, 1883, he puts the following notice in his journal in red ink:—

"To-day, eleven years ago, I came here; what a shame!!!"

He notices the death of Richard Doyle the 11th of December.

1884.

At this time we were far from being well off, and we were obliged to incur many expenses for Richard's illness; besides which, I hoped he would get change of air. It may be imagined, therefore, that when the news of the death of an aunt by marriage who did not care very much for me, and whom I very seldom saw, reached me that I received the intelligence that she had left me a legacy of £500 with pleasure. All the early part of the year we had a bad time of it. Richard had insisted on going back to the big room, and once he had put on a damp coat. I always think that foreign doctors do not understand English constitutions, which can never stand starving, and they do always starve you. He went on alternately better and worse.

In all these attacks I never left his room, day or night, and I frequently used to disobey orders as to diet. When he was free from pain he was immensely cheerful, and used to laugh like a schoolboy at his doctor, who would speak English for the sake of learning and practising it. "What him eat to-day?" "Pheasant, doctor!" He plunged his hands into his hair as if he were going to tear it all out. "What for you give him the wild?" (German, das wild, meaning game). One day after about six months he said, "You sall give him ten drops of rum in a tumbler of water for his dinner!" Peals of laughter came from the sick-bed. "Ach! das ist gut to hear him laugh like dat? Vat for he laugh?" I answered, "Because he gets a brandy-grog fit for a sailor every night, or he would have been a dead man long ago." More tearing of the hair and real displeasure. When he got over that illness he was a veritable skeleton; his legs were like two sticks of sealing-wax.

On the 4th of February Richard lost the use of his legs. After this he got better and better, and we were quite cheerful till the 14th of March. He had been moved on to a divan in the drawing-room, upon which we had made a bed, for change of air. He was so well that I thought I might take a walk in the garden, when a servant came flying after me to tell me that he was faint. I rushed up again, and found him very bad, and sent off for two doctors. They gave him twenty-five drops of digitalis three times at intervals of fifty minutes, and for two days and nights I never left his side. What the doctors had feared was a clot of blood arising to the heart, and I shall never forget the anguish of that time. What it really was, though we did not know it then, was flatulence round the heart, which would have been brought away by drinking boiling water; but after two days he was so well that we could wheel him about the house in a chair. The following day he had very bad attacks of the same, and then he seemed to get quite well. He again had one bad attack, and then all was well. From that he rallied wonderfully, and he began to walk.

On the 27th of March he was allowed to go out for a drive, but even that gave him a little fresh cold. He was allowed then to sit in the garden. I had a machine constructed to carry him up and down stairs, and a wheel-chair in the garden, so that he could drive about and get out and walk a few steps with the help of my arm and a stick, if he liked.

We had a present from home of good claret and good port. He was awfully fond of port, and when he got his first glass he said, "Ah! that puts life into a man." Mr. George Paget came, and Mr. and Mrs. Phipps from the Embassy in Vienna, and Mr. Fahie from Persia, and we took drives. Richard was able to tidy his books again. The doctor came for the last time (regularly) on the 8th of April. He then went through a course of sulphur baths in the house.

During this eight months' illness he had had a bad attack of pain, and I had a mattress by his bed, and if he slept, I slept; if he was awake, I was by him; but I had been thirty-six hours on duty, without taking my clothes off, trying to alleviate the pain by various things until he slept. I then threw myself on the mattress and slept a dead sleep, and, as he told me afterwards, he woke up with the pain and groaned, and heard a sleepy voice issuing from my mattress, saying, "Oh, offer it up, dear; offer it up." I was unconscious of all this, but when after some hours I really woke, I thought he was swearing very hard, but at last I distinguished, him saying exactly in the same tones as if he were swearing, "Offer it up, dear; offer it up." I asked him what he meant, and then he told me, and he said that he had laughed so much that it had quite done him good, and he often afterwards used this expression instead of rapping out an oath when the pain came.

All this time until the 4th of June, Richard was able to be wheeled out, and to walk and sit in the garden, and to take drives with me. He was very patient, very gentle, and very cheerful too; except when he was actually suffering, and we observed rigidly all the doctor's daily orders, whether sulphur baths or medicines, only reserving the right of plenty of plain wholesome food, and some claret, a very occasional glass of port, a nightly glass of grog, and the very essence of beef by simmering the meat in a jar put into a saucepan of boiling water, or squeezing the meat in a lemon squeezer, and plenty of Brand's strengthening things for invalids. I began to perceive that the drainage left much to be desired, and I was very troublesome to my poor dear landlord, who was a personal friend; but he always stoutly maintained that the smells were in my nose, and that he could not pull down the house to please me, and it was three years before I got what I wanted.

Richard notes with sorrow the death of Admiral Glyn on February 16th.

On the 1st of April, 1884, he began his "Arabian Nights" (Calcutta edition), taking it up from the material already collected with Dr. Steinhaüser thirty years before, and I volunteered to work the financial part of it. His journal shows him to be very sorry for the death of Trübner, of the great publishing house in Ludgate Hill, and also for Charles Reade, the novelist and dramatist, who was a good friend of ours, and who died on April 10th.

On the 15th of April, 1884, we had to call in an amanuensis to begin to copy the "Arabian Nights," as, what with attending Richard night and day, and doing all his correspondence and business, I got no time to copy.

Colonel Primrose came, and we saw Sir Augustus and Lady Paget, and our friends the Pinos. Two days afterwards Richard began to feel quite different, and he enjoyed so much seeing Sir Augustus and Lady Paget. She is one of the most charming, the cleverest, and most sympathetic of women. We left Vienna on Tuesday, the 10th, by an early train, and he was able to bear a pleasant journey of nine hours to Maríenbad, although I must say that the only two objects of interest between Vienna and Maríenbad are Prince Schwarzenberg's castle and the storks sitting on their nests on the cottage roof-tops. We went to Klinger's Hotel, and here he rapidly progressed, and went through the cure. We found Miss Bishop here, which was a great pleasure. She took us in hand, and literally drove us out for long walks. Richard was delighted with the wild strawberries, myosotis, buttercups, and daisies, and enjoyed Maríenbad very much. I found the Society for Protection of Animals, founded in 1882, very flourishing, and gave the dog-prizes. When we went for the first time on the promenade to hear the band, he looked round for a minute, and said, "My God, what a lot of Jews! Why, the whole of Noah's Ark is turned out here!" And they really did look just like the little figures out of Noah's Ark. Mr. J. J. Aubertin now arrived, so that we were four in party. From here we visited Königswort, Prince Metternich's place. It was a very pleasant life, strolling about in the forests, reading together, and occasionally having a professor to read German to us, making occasional expeditions, such as to Podhorn and Tepl. There was a very pretty concert of eight Spanish students, paying their way with guitar and bandurria. They sang lovely little Spanish songs, and charmed everybody very much. We made one excursion to Eger to see the Schloss, and the small interesting collection, which details the whole tragedy of Wallenstein at the Rathhaus. In our absence two griefs happened at Trieste. One was the death, on the 8th of June, of a very peculiar little child, whom we had taken a great fancy to and a great interest in, but whose story would not come well into this book. She had foretold her own death on this day three months before, when in good health. The other was of a poor Irish lady, who had made an unfortunate marriage, and was bravely earning her living in Trieste by giving lessons. She got suddenly ill, and the doctor on visiting her, seeing that she had no means of comfortable nursing, advised she should accompany him to the hospital. She did, and she died almost immediately, and had to be buried within a few hours, and what hurt us more than all was that nobody knew it till it was over. Maríenbad never agreed with me, and I had to let Richard and Mr. Aubertin go over to Carlsbad without me, but they were only absent a day.

A very interesting and peculiar person we used always to meet every year, was a second Cuthbert Bede from Oxford, whose real name was Mr. Robert Laing.

On return after the cure, we went back for a few days to Vienna, and then left as if we were returning to Trieste, but descending at Pöltschach, from which is a pleasant drive to Roitsch-Sauerbrunn in Steiermark, where we did a nach-kur. This place is not at all well known. There is no town, but there are rows of houses for patients, bathing and drinking places, a good Kur-saal, a Catholic chapel, a good restaurant, a large garden and shady walks running between the two rows of buildings, where the band plays twice a day. It is surrounded by lovely woods and mountains, and a large level country to drive upon. It is very pleasant in summer. You never see any English there, but plenty of Austrians, Italians, Hungarians, Slavs, and Jews. We there had the pleasure of constantly seeing Monsignor Strossmayer, who is an ultra-Slav and a sort of Prince Archbishop, almost a small Pope in his own country. We saw a great deal also of the Baroness von Vay Wurmbrandt, the great spiritualist. Here we stayed till the 3rd of September, leading the pleasant idle life usual at that kind of bath. We found a bath-chair which accompanied us on all our walks; we drove out, made excursions, and read and wrote under the trees.

Being the Consul's wife, I had a good many funny experiences, and met with all possible classes and characters. One of the annoyances of a Consul, and, if they are women, of his wife, is that everybody who is not strictly honest, and is fond of making delightful journeys abroad, of which he or she boast loudly when they go back, starts with just enough money to take them out of England. They then go to the first Consul, represent themselves in distress, and get him to pass them on to the next Consul; and they make quite a beautiful tour in this way. But the poor Consul hardly ever sees a penny of the money back, and after a little experience he begins to be harder, and small blame to him. My particular grievance was, that every girl who was too vivacious to stay at home, would always come abroad to look for work, as a governess, secretary, or companion. Some were regular swindlers, some were anything but nice, and some were poor inoffensive creatures who would not have embarked on the enterprise if they had known what they would have to go through; but seven out of nine were generally very odd.

After having seen all our friends off, we went up to Opçina, where I sent out thirty-four thousand circulars for the "Arabian Nights."

1885.

All this January and part of February Richard was ill, and I began to implore him to throw up the Service, and to live where best suited him, even in a small way, as of course we should have been very, very poor, and at any rate, I said, "One winter may be an accident, but two winters is a caution; and you must never winter here again." He said, "No; I quite agree with you there; we will never winter here again; but I won't throw up the Service until I either get Marocco, or they let me retire on full pension." And I then said, "When we go home that is what we will try for, that you may retire now on full pension, which will only be six years before your time."

On the 17th of January he mourns Colonel Burnaby's death.

He was delighted in February with reading a German author, who began his book thus: "Der Geruch der rosen verpestet die Lüft und die verdammten Nachtigallen heulen die ganze Nacht."

We were now writing the index of the "Arabian Nights," I at dictation.

On Thursday, the 12th, I said to him, "Now mind, to-morrow is Friday, the 13th; it is our unlucky day, and we have got to be very careful."

But when Friday, the 13th, came, we heard of poor Gordon's death, which had taken place Monday, January the 26th, and they had been keeping it from us. We both collapsed altogether, were ill all day, and profoundly melancholy. I remembered, too, that at the time that Gordon had been sent out, it was a toss up whether Richard or Gordon should go. Richard had just begun to break up (he was fifty-five), and I knew that if he was sent he would get up out of his sick bed to go, and think himself perfectly capable of undertaking the expedition; and I remember writing privately to the Foreign Office, to let them know how ill he was. Richard at that time expressed a hope that they would not send Gordon without five hundred soldiers to back him, and the neglect of this, whether from economy, or whether Gordon refused it, was the sole cause of the failure. Richard could talk of nothing else, and he fretted a great deal about it. In one of the illustrated papers there was a picture of Gordon lying deserted in the desert, his Bible in one hand, his revolver in the other, and the vultures sitting around. When Richard saw it he said with great emotion, "Take it away! I can't bear to look at it. I have had to feel that myself; I know what it is." But the more the news came in, the less he believed in Gordon's death, and he died believing that Gordon (disgusted at the cruel treatment of being abandoned to his fate) had escaped by the missing boat, and would come out Congo-wards, but that he would never let himself be rediscovered, nor reappear in England—and Gordon was quite the man to do it.

I quote this prematurely, because it concerns the present subject:—

"Is Gordon dead?

"Trieste, April 29, 1887.

"I have just received a note from the Rev. Mr. Robert W. Felkin, dated Edinburgh, April 2nd. Under the supposition that I am proceeding with an expedition to the Soudan in order to discover General Charles Gordon, he encloses me a note from a youth whom he educated in England for some years, and whom he has now placed at the American Mission School at Assiout. It dates from as far back as November 28, 1886.

"The following is the extract:—

"'There was a man came from Khartoum and said that he was one of General Gordon's soldiers; he came into class (school) and the master asked him many questions, and he said that General Gordon had a steamboat and went down to South, and there was a Turkish soldier whose face was like his, and they killed him and said it was General Gordon.

"'He said a great many things about Gordon's soldiers, that they were not able to use their guns because they were so weakened with hunger.

"'(Signed) Sulayman Kabsun.'

"I see with pleasure that Mr. Felkin never thought that the evidence proved Gordon's death, and conceives many ways to explain his escape.

"Richard F. Burton."

London Figaro, September 26th, 1887.

"I am not surprised," says a correspondent, "to hear that Sir Richard Burton has from the first maintained that Gordon is not dead. He was Gordon's intimate friend, and, being of the same stamp, having lived the same kind of glorious life, and had the same experience of his country's neglect, is more likely to know than others what Gordon, in disgust at the treatment he received from the Government, could and might do. Moreover, as Sir Richard Burton says, no two of the several accounts of Gordon's death are alike. He is sure to have had a picked lot of attached followers, who, as well as one steamer, are missing."

A correspondent wrote: "A friend called in the other day to see Sir Richard Burton, and remarked, 'Why, Burton, if Gordon turns up, the Government will begin to believe in your knowledge. You will be a made man.' Burton replied with his usual quiet 'Ye—es,' stroking his chin thoughtfully; 'for God's sake, my dear fellow, don't say anything about it. The Foreign Office will only say what a damned beast I was to know it when they never even suspected it!'"

Spring comes very soon in Trieste, and we were able to sit and walk out a great deal in the garden. We now had a very nice telephone, which put us in comfortable communication with the whole of the City, and it was very useful, as we lived out of and above it.

On the 14th of April he notices the death of his enemy, Major-General Rigby of Zanzibar, and then poor Rogers Bey, regretted by us both, and then of Nachtigall the traveller.

Richard having obtained "leave" (after a second attack of gout), and as I was the proud possessor of £500, we started gaily for London on the 19th of May, and went on board the Tarifa for Venice; it was a Cunarder. Here we saw a great number of friends, and met Lord Lytton at Lady Layard's. We were neither of us well, in different ways, and Richard was ordered to go by sea, and I by land; so, after a couple of days at Venice, I saw Richard off in the Tarifa for Liverpool, and I prepared to come over the Mont Cenis to London; but when I got back to the hotel, I found a telegram from a man I knew, one of what Richard used laughingly to call "my wife's pious pals," who said, "If you want to see a girl exorcised of the devil, come at once to Bologna." I went down to the station, only instead of taking my ticket for London, I, naturally, wild with curiosity, and knowing I had plenty of time, took it at once for Bologna.

I stayed there three days. I do not think I am quite at liberty to give an account of what I saw, in these criticizing times, but it was wonderfully interesting, and I had a thorough insight into mediæval Italy, which I renew whenever I get the chance, as it is more than interesting. After three days I went on thence to Milan to see the Certosa of Pavia, one of the most glorious architectural relics in Europe, and from there I went to Pusiano, a now hidden "sanctuary" that will one day become famous to all the world. Pusiano is a village of one street, on the borders of a beautiful little lake, with villages and churches on the opposite bank; it is situated in the Lake Country, and there one lives with the peasantry in primitive style. I stayed there three whole days; it is beautiful in summer, but a terrible snow desolation in winter. It is quite off the railway line, and one gets to it in a little country cart. When I got back to Milan I embarked for home by the St. Gothard, Bâle, to Paris. Paris was black with people in mourning for Victor Hugo. It was his funeral next day; soldiers lined the streets, artillery commanded the two ends of the streets to fire on the people if the red flag was raised. I had much difficulty in getting to the station, for besides being in a hurry to get home, I did not want to be shut up in Paris alone, if anything occurred. Arrived at Boulogne, the passenger-boat was gone, so I took the cargo-boat at one in the night, and arrived at 4.30 a.m. at Folkestone, where the custom-house kept me till about six, searching for dynamite in my baggage, and I arrived in town on the 2nd of June. Somehow I put my arm out, and had to go back to Hutton the bone-setter. Richard did not arrive till twelve days after me.

He was delighted when he got on board the Tarifa on the 19th. He then notices the death of Victor Hugo in Paris on May 23rd. He seemed to enjoy the journey thoroughly, and to have got quite rid of the gout the moment he left. He was always thoroughly happy on board a ship, and so sorry when the voyage was over. He never knew what sea-sickness was. He could eat enough for three on board, and when the ship was rolling right round in the water, he would balance himself, holding the ink-bottle in one hand, and writing with the other.

He used to go away by himself and make pilgrimages; I know of about ten he made to various places. Once, in 1875, he left town to go into the country for a week, and to my surprise I received a private letter from him from Paray le Monial, the place once so talked about in the papers as a pilgrimage-place of St. Mary Margaret Alacoque and the Sacred Heart.[1] He had gone there to make a pilgrimage all by himself, and brought me back some medals and rosaries. He used to go into every church. He made a pilgrimage on this voyage to St. Nicholas of Bari, and brought me a lot of curios. The ship's course went by way of Venice, Fiume, Bari, Naples, Palermo, and Malaga, where they found cholera, and then to Gib. and Lisbon. He arrived in high spirits on the 14th of June.

Here I may remark that he kept two sets of journals. The public set contained remarks on the weather, scraps out of newspapers, and "Varia" (notes of what he reads), the people he writes to, the people he receives letters from, and public news. In the private set, come notices on his and my health at one side, what he and I did, obituaries, his sentiments about things in concentrated notes, condemnations of things, and scraps of poetry on the circumstances here and there.

I must here notice making at this time acquaintance with three very interesting people. One was a gentleman who would not like to be named, the leader of a religious sect, who conceals his name under the soubriquet of the "Recorder," and who is the St. Paul of their belief in a second advent—he publishes a book called "The Mother, or the Woman clothed with the Sun;" and another was Dr. Anna Kingsford, who became my fast friend, and who used to let me work with her in regard to the protection of animals. She was tall, fair, delicate, soft, refined, exceedingly pretty, beautifully dressed, of the highest possible culture, combining the education and courage of both man and woman. I made her acquaintance at an Anti-vivisection meeting, with Lord Shaftesbury in the chair, and the Bishop of Oxford present, a very little while before Lord Shaftesbury's death. The third interesting person was Mr. George Lewis.

Now, we had come to London partly for Richard's health, and partly to bring out the "Arabian Nights." The translating, writing, and correcting devolved upon him; the copying fell to a lady amanuensis; the financial part devolved upon me. It was said that there was no room for a new edition, but every previous edition was imperfect, and mostly taken from Professor Galland's French version, made a hundred and eighty years ago, and adapted for civilization. This in itself was an abridgment, and turns a most valuable ethnographical work into a collection of fairy tales. Mr. Torrens was the nearest to the original, but he only got as far as fifty tales. Mr. Lane, whose works are so popular, has only given us half the tales, and he substituted popular fairy tales. Mr. John Payne was excessively good, but he was limited to five hundred copies, and his profession forbade his being quite so daring as Richard.

Richard's object was not only to produce an absolutely literal translation, but to reproduce it in an absolutely Arabian manner. He preserved the strict divisions of the Nights, he kept to the long unbroken sentences in which the composer indulged. Being perfect master of both languages, he could imitate the rhythmic prose which is a characteristic of the Arabic. He furnished it only to scholars, and at a prohibitive price. He gave a most literal rendering of the Oriental phrases and figures. Richard called it the "Walling of the Horizon," the orientation being strictly preserved, instead of being Anglicized. The choicest phrases, the sacred preservation of them, speaks for itself. He kept the swing, the wave of Arab poetry, which one can only liken in its melancholy to the sound of an Æolian harp balanced on a tree-branch. He loved his work, and he was sorry when it was finished.

In many of the stories of other translators, he used to say, "the very point which enables you to understand the action is left out, because the translator was afraid of Mrs. Grundy. Arab ideas of morality are different from European, and if we are to understand the Arabs, and if the 'Nights' are to be of any value from an anthropological point of view, it can only be written as I have written it. I think it is such a disgrace that our Rulers should rule so many million Easterns, and be as ignorant of them as if they lived in a far-away planet; and it is to give them a chance of knowing what they are about, that I leave this legacy to the Government. I have not only preserved the spirit of the original, but the mechanique. The metrical portion has been very difficult, because Arab poetry is quite different to English. An Arab will turn out sentence after sentence before he comes to his rhyme.

"I don't care a button about being prosecuted, and if the matter comes to a fight, I will walk into court with my Bible and my Shakespeare and my Rabelais under my arm, and prove to them that, before they condemn me, they must cut half of them out, and not allow them to be circulated to the public."

Richard then found that it was a popular idea that "Ali Baba, and the Forty Thieves" and "Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp" belonged to the "Arabian Nights," whereas they do not, and he found a collection of similar tales sufficient to produce six Supplemental volumes. At first I rather objected to his risking the "Arabian Nights," from a passage written by himself in his "First Footsteps in East Africa," page 36—

"When Arabs are present, I usually recite or read a tale from 'The Thousand and One Nights,' that wonderful work so often translated, so much turned over, and so little understood at home. The most familiar book in England, next to the Bible, it is one of the least known, the reason being that about one-fifth is utterly unfit for translation; and the most sanguine Orientalist would not dare to render literally more than three-quarters of the remainder, consequently the reader loses the contrast—the very essence of the book—between its brilliancy and dulness, its moral putrefaction and such pearls as—

'Cast the seed of good works on the least fit soil;
Good is never wasted, however it may be laid out.'

And in a page or two after such divine sentiment, the ladies of Baghdad sit in the porter's lap, and indulge in a facetiousness which would have killed Pietro Aretino before his time." (This was written in 1855, thirty years before.)

But, on his explaining to me his new idea about its usefulness, its being so good for the Government, I was glad, and I helped him in every way I possibly could. It was also agreed, in order to secure him against piracy, and in order not to limit to a thousand people what the many should enjoy, that they should not lose this deep well of reading and knowledge, beside which the flood of modern fiction flows thin and shallow, that I should reproduce all my husband's original text, excluding only such words as were not possible to put on the drawing-room table. Mr. Justin Huntly McCarthy, jun., helped me a little, so that out of the 3215 original pages, I was able to copyright three thousand pages of my husband's original text, and only exclude two hundred and fifteen. Richard forbade me to read them till he blotted out with ink the worst words, and desired me to substitute, not English, but Arab Society words, which I did to his complete satisfaction. The language is so wonderful, the expression so graceful, the rendering of thought as well as words so accurate, the poetry so fresh and charming. Orientalists tell me that they learnt more Orientalism by these volumes than by years of hard study, and that it greatly facilitated their study of Arabic. He translated from the Calcutta edition, the Boulak, the Hindostani, and the Breslau. The Wortley Montagu manuscript was refused him by the Bodleian Library, even under the charge of Dr. Rost, but he got one in Paris.

Richard said that "a student of Arabic, who reads the 'Nights' with his version, will not only be competent to join in any conversation in Arabic, but to read the popular books and newspapers, and to write letters to his friends; he will also possess a répertoire of Arab manners and customs, beliefs and practices, which are not found in books. My endeavour was to give them the original text without detracting from its merits." This grand Arabian work I consider my husband's "Magnum Opus;" it is a masterpiece; it is the real thing, not the drawing-room tales which have been called the "Arabian Nights" for so long. The home student can realize what the Arab is, and understand those people, Egyptians, Syrians, and others, of whose "life behind the scenes" Britons know so very little.

I do not know whether to be amused or provoked because people are prejudiced against "Lady Burton's edition of the 'Arabian Nights,'" as a milk-and-water thing. I did not write nor translate it; it is Richard Burton's "Arabian Nights," with a coarse word or two cut out here and there, and a Society word introduced, but in nowise altering the text (when I say a Society word, I mean of course an Arab Society word, not an English one); and my name was only put upon it to copyright and protect my husband's from piracy.

We had no reason, in a financial point of view, to regret our venture. A publisher offered Richard £500 for it, but I said, "No, let me do it." It was seventeen months' hard work, but we found (no matter how) the means of printing and binding and circulating. We were our own printers and our own publishers, and we made between September, 1885, and November, 1888, sixteen thousand guineas, six thousand of which went towards publishing, and ten thousand into our own pockets; and it came just in time to give my husband the comforts and luxuries and freedom that gilded the five last years of his life. When he died there were four florins left, which I put in the poor-box.

What all the World said.

Athenæum, February 6th, 1886.

"TO RICHARD F. BURTON.

" On his Translation of the 'Arabian Nights.'

"Westward the sun sinks, grave and glad; but far
Eastward, with laughter and tempestuous tears,
Cloud, rain, and splendour as of Orient spears,
Keen as the sea's thrill toward a kindling star
The sundawn breaks the barren twilight's bar
And fires the mist and slays it. Years on years
Vanish, but he that hearkens eastward hears
Bright music from the world where shadows are.

"Where shadows are not shadows. Hand-in-hand
A man's word bids them rise and smile and stand
And triumph. All that glorious Orient glows
Defiant of the dusk. Our twilight land
Trembles; but all the heaven is all one rose,
Whence laughing love dissolves her frosts and snows.
——"Algernon Charles Swinburne."

Morning Advertiser, September 15th, 1885.

"As the holiday season draws to a close, the publishers' announcements of 'new books' fill column after column of the organs chosen from these special communiqués. But there is one work which is not entered in these lists, though for years scholars, and many people who are not scholars, have been looking for it with an eagerness which has left far behind the ordinary curiosity which is bestowed on the greatest of contributions to current literature. And to-day the chosen few who are in possession of the volume in question are examining it with an interest proportionate to the long toil which has been bestowed on its preparation. We refer to Captain Burton's translation of the 'Arabian Nights' Entertainments,' now entitled 'The Book of the thousand Nights and a Night,' of which the first tome has just been issued. There will be ten in all, so that it must be well on for two years before the entire series can be in the hands of those who have subscribed for it. For the book is not published. It is even questionable whether a copy will be in the British Museum or the Bodleian, unless those institutions have entered their names in advance. It is printed 'by the Kamashastra Society of Benares for private subscribers only,' and Captain Burton, in a circular sent with the first volume, earnestly begs that it will not be permitted to fall into the hands of any save scholars and students of Moslem manners. For years and years the 'Arabian Nights' have been a sort of nursery companion. But it is, perhaps, unnecessary to tell any one acquainted in the slightest degree with Oriental romances that the 'Alf Laylah wa Laylah' in its unabridged form is, despite the popularity which it enjoys as a 'child's book,' emphatically not for the entertainment of boys and girls. Hitherto, however, all of the editions have been imperfect and more or less colourless versions of the original. They have been prepared for the drawing-room, and even Mr. Payne inserted a Latin word here and there rather than search Captain Grose's 'Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue' for its equivalent. Captain Burton scorns any such namby-pambyism. In the Arabic a spade is usually called a spade, and in the latest English translation it is never designated an agricultural implement. Moreover, the endless footnotes which the editor appends, speak with much freedom of many things usually avoided as themes for conversation in polite society, though they throw a flood of light on hundreds of features of Oriental life on which, since travellers have been compelled to write for 'refined' audiences, the student has failed to be informed.

"Yet, admitting that the 'Nights' are often coarse and indelicate, and sometimes even gross, it is a mistake to suppose that they are demoralizing in the same way that a French novel of the Zola type is, or might be. Indeed, what we would call its impropriety is only a reflection of the naïve freedom with which talk is to this day carried on in the family circles of the East. They see no harm in what we should regard as indecency. So that when Captain Burton prefaces his unbowdlerized version with the Arab proverb, 'To the pure in heart all things are pure,' he presents perhaps the best defence he could against the attack which it is quite possible may be made on him for devoting many years of his life to what he terms 'a labour of love.' One hundred and eighty years have passed since Galland, the French Orientalist, published his version in twelve small volumes. But though even at that time it was not thought proper to issue a verbatim edition—so far as the accessible manuscripts permitted—the best scholars of the age did not hesitate to pronounce them forgeries. In brief, they were regarded in much the same light that Macpherson's 'translations' of 'Ossian's Poems' were at a later date. But the less critical world cared very little whether Antony Galland had invented them or merely translated them from some 'unknown Arab writer.' They eagerly read these wondrous stories. Europe was on fire with delight at anything so unconventional, so entirely undidactic, so completely without any religious, moral, or philosophical purpose, and which delineated the primitive manners and customs of the East. The fine gentlemen and gay ladies could talk about nothing else than 'jins' or genii, as they were called after the French fashion, viziers—or 'Wazirs,' as Captain Burton has it—caves of jewels, underground palaces, enchanters and kalendars, princes of black islands, and kings in disguise. The terrible justice of the Kazi, or Cadai, as he used to be called, and the equally fearful vengeance of the husband who is at last undeceived, were revelations to the easy-going, utterly corrupt Europe of the ancien régime. Edition after edition appeared, though in nearly every case these so-called fresh versions were little more than translations, more or less abridged, from Galland. Of late, however, several more or less complete editions have appeared. Among them may be mentioned those of Torrens, Lane, Payne. Torrens was, however, a poor Arabic scholar, and though Lane was a better one—if not quite so good as he afterwards became—he was, like his predecessors, in terror of offending propriety. Hence, though some simple folk supposed that his language was sufficiently plain, it only required the consultation of the Breslau, the Bulak, or the Calcutta edition of the original to be convinced to the contrary. Mr. Payne brought out a nine-volumed translation for the Villon Society. But it was printed solely for private subscribers, and though issued at seven guineas cannot now be procured under twenty-five or thirty when a copy accidentally comes into the market. Payne was, however, not much more than an amateur Arabist, and his practical acquaintance with Arabs and the East was simply nil. Captain Burton, it is unnecessary to remind any one, is in a very different case. Thirty-three years ago he went in the disguise of an Indian pilgrim to Mecca and Al-Medinah, and no one capable of giving the world the result of his experience has so minute, so exhaustive a knowledge of Arab and Oriental life generally. Hence the work now begun only a limited number of students can ever see, and it is simply priceless to any one who concerns himself as marking an era in the annals of Oriental translation.

"But what may possibly interest many almost as much as the stories and notes, is the almost sad preface in which the Editor tells the tale of his toils. In 1852 he began this translation at Aden. His friend Dr. Steinhaüser, to whose memory it is dedicated, was to undertake the prose, while Burton accepted the metrical portion of the book as his share of the task. But Steinhaüser died, 'and after the fashion of Anglo-Indians his valuable manuscripts left at Aden were dispersed,' and very little of his labour reached his colleague. But fitfully the work progressed amid a host of obstructions. In deadly Consulships in West Africa and Brazil, in livelier ones in Damascus and Trieste, the business went on, just as it had gone on less systematically in Somali-land and Central Africa. And, toilsome though the task unquestionably was, it was lightened by the pleasant memories it recalled. Many a time and oft, after the day's journey was over, he had gathered the Arabs around him, and read or recited these tales to them, until the tears trickled down their cheeks, and they rolled on the sand in uncontrollable delight. 'Nor was it only in Arabia that the immortal "Nights" did me such notable service. I found the wildlings of Somali-land equally amenable to their discipline; no one was deaf to the charm, and the two women cooks of my caravan on its way to Harar were incontinently dubbed by my men "Shehrazade" and "Deenarzade."' Yet as his labour approached the period when it ought to appear in print, prudent friends hinted at the danger he ran of injuring his professional advancement. 'Literary labours, unpopular with the vulgar and half-educated, are not likely to help a man up the ladder of promotion. But common sense suggested to me that, professionally speaking, I was not a success, and at the same time that I had no cause to be ashamed of my failure. Philister can pardon anything but superiority. The prizes of competitive service are monopolized by certain "pets" of the médiocratie and prime favourites of that jealous and potent majority, the mediocrities, who know "no nonsense about merit." It is hard for an outsider to realize how perfect is the monopoly of commonplace, and to comprehend how fatal a stumbling-stone that man sets in the way of his own advancement who dares to think for himself, or who knows more or does more than the mob of gentlemen-employés who know very little, and who do even less.' This is bitter, but not more severe than the way Captain Burton has been treated by his Country, if not by his Countrymen, deserves. It is simply disgraceful that a man of his great achievements and colossal learning should have been neglected by successive Governments when pretenders and 'mediocrities' were being honoured and rewarded for doing little or nothing. After the death of Major Morrice—such has been our encouragement of Arabic knowledge—there was not an English official in the Suakin camp capable of speaking Arabic. Not one understood native customs. 'Moslems,' writes Burton, 'are not to be ruled by raw youths who should be at school and college instead of holding positions of trust and emolument. He who would deal with them successfully must be, firstly, honest and truthful, and, secondly, familiar with and favourably inclined to their manners and customs, if not to their law and religion.' In 'Alf Laylah wa Laylah' the means of obtaining this knowledge lies."

St. James's Gazette, September 12th.

"One of the most important translations to which a great English scholar has ever devoted himself is now in the press. For three decades Captain Burton has been more or less engaged on his translation of the 'Arabian Nights,' the latest of the many versions of that extraordinary story which has been made into English, the only one at all worthy of a great original."

Home News, September 18th.

"Captain Burton has begun to issue the volumes of his subscription translation of the 'Arabian Nights,' and its fortunate possessors will now be able to realize the full flavour of Oriental feeling. They will now have the great storehouse of Eastern folklore opened to them, and Captain Burton's minute acquaintance with Eastern life makes his comments invaluable. In this respect, as well as in the freeness of the translation, the version will be distinguished from its many predecessors. Captain Burton's preface, it may be observed, bears traces of soreness at official neglect. Indeed, it seems curious that his services could not have been utilized in the Soudan, when the want of competent Arabic scholars was so severely felt."

Original Verse.

I have never read, nor do I intend to read, at his own request, and to be true to my promise to him, my husband's "Arabian Nights." But I have read the reviews, some with pride and some with pain, while all the private letters of congratulation have been a great source of gratification to me; and I have gathered all together, pro and con, which form an interesting book.

Out of a thousand picked scholars it is something to be able to assert that all the men whose good opinion is worth having, are loud in its praise. I think a man who gives years of study to a great work, purely with the motive that the rulers of his country may thoroughly understand the peoples they are governing by millions, and who gives that knowledge freely and unselfishly, and who while so doing runs the gauntlet of abuse from the vulgar, silly Philistine, who sees what the really pure and modest never see, deserves great commendation. To throw mud at him because the mediæval Arab lacks the varnish of our world of to-day, is as foolish as it would be not to look up because there are a few spots on the sun.

TO RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON.
"The Thousand Nights and a Night."

Adown the welkin slant the snows and pile
On sill and balcony; their feathery feet
Trip o'er the landscape, and pursuing sleet,
Earth's brow beglooming, robs the lift of smile:
Lies in her mourning-shroud our Northern Isle,
And bitter winds in battle o'er her meet;
Her world is death-like, when, behold! we greet
Light-gleams from morning-land cold grief to guile:

A light of golden mine and orient pearl,
Vistas of fairy-land, where Beauty reigns
And Valiance revels; cloudless moon, fierce sun,
The wold, the palm-tree; cities; hosts; a whirl
Of life in tents and palaces and fanes:
The light that streams from "Thousand Nights and One."
——Isabel Burton.
Tangier, Morocco, February 19.

"Captain Burton's 'Arabian Nights.'

"A friend lately asked Captain Burton why he was bringing out his translation so soon after another and a most scholarly one. He answered, 'Orientalists are anxious to have the real Eastern work. I had received sundry letters saying—Let us know what the mediæval Arab was. If he was exalted and good, let us see it. If he was witty, let us hear it. If he was uncultivated and coarse, still let us have him to the very letter. We want once for all the real thing. We want a mediæval Arab, telling the tales and legends of his own country, and showing the world what he has remained whilst the West has progressed in culture and delicacy.—Now, I will do this by notes and a running commentary, enabling the student to read between the lines, and perfectly to understand much of what he would otherwise pass over without understanding. I am determined subscribers shall learn from my work what they cannot find in any other, and to make it a repertory of Eastern knowledge, by no means intended for the many-headed, but for the few who are not too wise to learn, or too omniscient to acquire knowledge. I regret more than I can say the coarseness of the Arabic, but I consider it not less my duty to translate it word for word. My Oriental renderings will make it quite different from all the other translations, and I shall leave nothing for any other man in the future to do.'"

R. F. B.

"Pantagruelism or Pornography?

"To the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette.

"Sir,—Your correspondent 'Sigma' has forgotten the considerable number of 'students' who will buy Captain Burton's translation as the only literal one, needing it to help them in what has become necessary to many—a masterly knowledge of Egyptian Arabic. The so-called 'Arabian Nights' are about the only written halfway house between the literary Arabic and the colloquial Arabic, both of which they need, and need introductions too. I venture to say that its largest use will be as a grown-up school-book, and that it is not coarser than the classics in which we soak all our boys' minds at school. The Arabic classics are not in Egyptian-Arabic, which varies much from Syrian and other branches of the language, and a thorough knowledge of the daily customs and family life of Egypt is a knowledge, however repulsive, to be conscientiously sought by all who are either administrators or philanthropists in Egypt.

"I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

"Anglo-Egyptian.

"September 14th."

Glasgow Times, 24th November, 1888.

(Anent the Bodleian refusal and the biography of his book.)

The Glasgow Times says, "But the chapter is something more than that. It is a remarkable addition to the history of the 'Quarrels of Authors.' Sir Richard Burton, as we have before indicated, is a good hater, and he smites his enemies hip and thigh. The enemies are rather numerous, and some of them, it must be admitted, were scarcely worth powder and shot, but the way in which the old fighting man and traveller (he still seems to retain all the energy characteristic of both) 'goes for' them is refreshing in the extreme. But though Sir Richard has a good many enemies, he has also a large number of friends, and if he is liberal and forcible in retort, he is lavish in acknowledgment of kindly words and of help however slight."

Sir Richard Burton says, "All this is utterly unfair. It allows the unfortunate public no chance of learning the truth. The narrator may be honest and honourable, but he dare not state the facts, nor has he the courage of his own opinions. If he did, 'Society' would turn upon him with the usual 'Oh no, we never mention him,' and his name never would be heard unless accompanied by a snarl or a sneer. The fact is, England's chronic disease is Religiosity in the few, and Hypocrisy in the many.

"Richard F. Burton.

"Hôtel Meurice, Paris, July 17th, 1888."

"Reprints of the 'Arabian Nights.'

"The Granville, Ramsgate, August 13th, 1888.

"I have given to the public, under my wife's superintendence and name, the pure unadulterated article. But the tastes of civilization ever incline to the worked-up, which has the advantage of art applied to nature. At Trieste we often offer our English friends a petit verre of real gin distilled from the juniper berry, and now unprocurable at home; and we enjoy the wry mouths made by those who are accustomed to Hollands and Old Tom.

"The main difficulty, however, is to erase the popular impression that the 'Nights' is a book for babies, a 'classic for children;' whereas its lofty morality, its fine character-painting, its artful development of the story, and its original snatches of rare poetry, fit it for the reading of men and women, and these, too, of no puerile or vulgar wit. In fact, its prime default is that it flies too high.

"Richard F Burton."

A literary friend writes to Lady Burton: "The omissions are so deftly done, and the pruning so slight, that the book ought to be read in every English house, in every English-speaking land. The English alone is an education. If I wanted young folk to learn a good style, I would train them on the 'Nights.' I would give passages to the Board Schools."