I can never forget what Austria in general, and Trieste in particular, did in Richard's honour, nor could I ever say enough of the kindness, delicacy, courteousness, affection, and esteem shown to me, his desolate widow. I asked for nothing, for I felt how difficult was the question. I only asked that he might not be put in the ground, but into some chapelle ardente, from whence I might take him home as soon as I could arrange to leave. To my great contentment and lasting gratitude, I found that the Bishop had conceded to him all the greatest ceremonies of the Church, and the authorities a gorgeous military funeral, such as is only accorded to Royalty—an honour never before accorded to a foreigner. One half-Englishman came and made some objections on behalf of a small section of English, and claimed him for the much-abhorred place in the little English Protestant cemetery, and said that they would not come to the Funeral or the Church if it was to be Catholic. But Dr. Baker gallantly took our part, and told this person in very plain terms what he thought about it, and that they had better stay away, so that I never even heard of the annoyance till it was over.

The coffin was covered with the Union Jack and his sword; his insignia and medals were borne on a cushion, and a second hearse was hid in garlands and flowers. The Consular corps for the first time suspended their rule, and in full uniform surrounded and walked on each side of the hearse as pall-bearers. At their own special request, a company representing the crew of a large English ship, which had just arrived in port, made a conspicuous part of the cortège. I came next, but I was too stunned to notice details; but they tell me that no funeral has been equal to it in the memory of any one living, not even Maria Theresa's, ex-Queen of Spain, in 1873. It was not, as in England, a case of six or eight hundred attending; there are one hundred and fifty thousand in Trieste, and every one who could drive or walk, from the highest authorities to the poorest, turned out. The Governor with his Staff, the principal Military and Naval officers, Civil Authorities and Consular corps, were all in uniform, and every flag in the town and harbour was at half-mast.

If I were to live to be a hundred years old, to my dying day there will be photographed on my mind, the sun setting red in the sea over the burial-ground; the short, beautiful oration of his friend Attilio Hortis, who was commissioned by the local Government to speak, but whose voice was broken. The orphanage children then sang, with sweet tremulous voices, the hymn "Dies ira, dies illa," and sobs were heard all around. I alone was tearless; I felt turned to stone. The coffin was placed in a small chapel in the burial-ground, where I remained behind the rest.

"Ellati Zaujuhá ma'ahá b'tadir el Ramar b'asbiha."
"(The woman who has her husband with her (i.e. at her back) can turn the moon with her finger.")

"El Maraa min ghayr Zaujuhá mislahá tayarán maksús el Jenáhh."
("The woman without her husband is like a bird with one wing.")

I can never forget—but all unhappy widows will understand me—my horrible return to my empty shell, the house, leaving him in the burial-ground, which but sixty-three hours before had been a beautiful and much-loved home. Two days later the guardian of the cemetery had his own bedroom draped, adorned, and consecrated as a chapelle ardente, and the coffin was conveyed there, the other chapel being too public. It was always decorated with lights and flowers, and I had free access to go and pray by him, and I was allowed to keep him there for the three months I was preparing to leave Trieste. Everything possible was done in consideration of my feelings, everything possible was spared me, and when an Austrian official proceeding was necessary, it was done with the delicacy and nobility which is the stamp of that country.

On the Thursday after his death, a eulogy of Richard was delivered in the Diet of Trieste by Dr. Cambon, who praised him as "an intrepid explorer, a gallant soldier, an honour to the town of Trieste, which is especially indebted to him for his researches into the history of the province of Istria." The House adjourned as a mark of respect for the deceased hero.

He and I had our peculiar ideas, and I was determined, if I could, to carry them out. He hated darkness so much that he never would have the blind down, lest he might lose a glimpse of light from twilight to dawn. He has got the very thing he wanted, only of stone and marble instead of canvas—to be buried in a tent above ground; to have sun, and light, and air, trees, birds, and flowers; and he has love, tears, prayers, and companionship even in the grave. His tent is the only one in the world, and it is by far the most beautiful, most romantic, most undeathlike resting-place in the wide world.

Cutting from Black and White, June 20th, 1891.

"A tomb shaped like an Eastern tent stands amidst alien palms in a little corner of English earth beside the Thames. Within that tomb, in the churchyard at Mortlake on Monday last, one of the greatest Englishmen of the reign was laid to rest. Under happier conditions and in a freer age Richard Burton might have founded an Empire; had his life been passed in the service of some great Continental Power, Richard Burton would have received much honour from the State while he lived, much honour from the State at his death. It is somewhat disheartening to think that, because he lived in our time and gave his services to the Government, he died a Consul at Trieste—a desert eagle in a cage—with his genius almost unrecognized by the State; to think that after his death it was left to his widow and his friends to bear him to his grave with such ceremony as they deemed fitting. He was placed in his tomb with the most solemn rites of the Catholic faith, in the presence of many of those who knew him best and loved him most—and no one knew him well, who did not love him. The great career is over; the life of endless adventure, tireless enterprise, unfading courage, is done, and Mortlake earth holds the bones of the hero."

"Rapt though he be from us,
Virgil salutes him, and Theocritus;
Catullus, mightiest-brained Lucretius, each
Greets him, their brother, on the Stygian beach;
Proudly a gaunt right hand doth Dante reach;
Milton and Wordsworth bid him welcome home;
Bright Keats to touch his raiment doth beseech;
Coleridge, his locks aspersed with fairy foam,
Calm Spencer, Chaucer suave,
His equal friendship crave:
And godlike spirits hail him guest, in speech
Of Athens, Florence, Weimar, Stratford, Rome.
——"William Watson.

"October 15, 1892."

Finding my purse would be too slender to carry it out, and as friends started subscriptions for me,[4] I secured my ground, made my design, and set sculptors at work in the cemetery in which, for the last forty years, most of my people have been buried, and which he himself had chosen.

"Beautiful rest where the willows weep,
Beautiful couch where the moss lies deep,
Beautiful life that earns beautiful sleep."

My desire was to embody the beautiful idea found in the tombs of Lydia and Lycia, and which is enshrined in the Taj Mahal at Agra. The early tomb-builders had doubtless some connection with Nomads, and embodied the conception that the home in death should be like that of the home on earth. For this reason I feel, the public have not quite understood the beauty of my mausoleum-tent. I wished to embody the poetry contained in my husband's "Kasîdah," with the religion he wished to die in. I have sent to the desert for strings of camel-bells, which will hang across the tent, and like an Æolian harp when the wind blows, the tinkle of the camel-bells may still sound near him. I have asked Major J. B. Keith, in his "Monograph on Indian Architecture," which will include tentage and tombs, to explain my meaning in his "Great Tents of Antiquity" better than I have done for myself.

I felt the necessity, in my altered circumstances, of trying to arouse myself, that I might do what I knew he would wish me to do—to leave Trieste, and carry out all that we should have done had he been alive. I lost all at once; my beautiful home had been my pride—it had to be given up. The money, except a little patrimony, died with my husband. I had to say good-bye to all the friends I had loved for eighteen years. Lisa, my confidential maid upon whom I entirely depended, to whom I owed all my personal comfort, who managed everything for me, and who alone knew all my belongings, I had to part with, for reasons which I do not wish to mention here. We had always had what was playfully called a very large "staff" in our house in my husband's life. The Master being dead—if I had been a sensible woman—I should have cleared my house out directly after the funeral; but I was too absorbed with the horrors of my now desolate position, and I had neither sense nor heart enough to make any changes. From this arose complications, misunderstandings, and heart-burnings enough to make life still more unbearable. We all know what one bad bit of yeast does to a loaf of bread. I shut myself up entirely alone in my husband's rooms for sixteen days, sorting and classifying his manuscripts, packing and arranging his books, and carrying out all his last wishes and written instructions. What a terrible time it was I passed in the midst of these relics, shutting myself away in solitude, and rejecting all offers of assistance, as I could not bear any one to witness what I had to go through, and also there were many private papers which I knew nobody ought to see but myself, and much that he particularly desired me to burn if anything happened to him.

The only letters Richard had not yet answered, and which would have been answered the following Thursday, were—A. Jameson, of Riverbank, Newmilns, Ayrshire, Scotland; Miss Bird, 49, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square; John Addington Symonds, Am Hof, Davos-Platz, Switzerland; M. Zotenberg, of the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris; Lady Stisted, Grazeley, Gypsy Hill, S.E.; Dr. F. Steingass, 6, Gairloch Road, Camberwell, S.E.; George Faber, our English Consul at Fiume; J. J. Aubertin, 33, Duke Street, St. James's.

"Burton and Speke.

"To the Editor of the Times.

"Sir,—In the Times of the 21st inst. there is a notice of the death of Sir Richard Burton, an extract from which I give here: 'To the unhappy dispute between Burton and Speke, which gave rise to such bitter feeling, it is not necessary to do more than allude.' I do not myself see why your readers should have any doubt as to which of the two travellers was to blame for this 'unhappy dispute,' neither why a slur should rest on the memory of Speke, one of the most upright men I ever knew—brave, noble, and true.

"Burton's instructions from the Royal Geographical Society were:—

"'The great object of the expedition is to penetrate from Kilwa, etc., and to make the best of your way to the Lake of Nyassa, etc. Having obtained all the information you require here, you are to proceed northwards, etc., towards the source of the Bahr-el-Abiad (White Nile), which it will be your next great object to discover. You will be at liberty to return to England by descending the Nile, or you may return by the route you advanced.'

"On his return from Unyanyembe after discovering Lake Tanganyika, his companion, Speke, wished him to follow up the above instructions, but Burton, using strong language, declared 'he was not going to see any more lakes.' Hence Speke went north alone and discovered the Victoria Nyanza, returning to Unyanyembe with his twenty followers. The discovery of this lake seems to have been galling to Burton; it created a 'bitter feeling,' and few words were exchanged by them during the remaining part of the journey to the East Coast. Things went from bad to worse. Speke was too generous to publish what occurred at this time, but he communicated grave charges against Burton to his relatives and to the Geographical Society, and the judgment of the Society was shown in the fact of their selecting Speke, and not Burton, to complete his discoveries.

"The two travellers had no sympathies, their natures entirely differed. Speke observed and mapped and collected the specimens of natural history. He was the geographer and sportsman of the expedition. Burton knew little of these matters. He excelled in his own line, made copious notes by day and by night of all he saw and heard; he had the gift of languages; while surrounded by natives he amused them, won their confidence, and so obtained those stores of information which have been since transferred to something like eighty volumes. He travelled with three heavy cases of books for consultation. These included a work on the Upper Nile, which would have been of important service to Speke—had he ever seen it!

"A sore subject of 'quarrel' was the non-payment of the Wanyamezi porters who had accompanied them to their own 'Land of the Moon.' These men did not receive their just wages, in consequence of which upwards of a hundred of the same race deserted the next expedition, which was in command of Captain Speke and me.

"Under the above circumstances, and many more I could name, no one will feel surprised that 'unhappy disputes' and 'bitter feeling' existed between the two travellers, and I cannot see how it can be said of Sir Richard Burton that 'no man ever succeeded better with the natives of Africa and Asia.' Neither do I agree with the writer of the article that he was 'a man of real humanity,' when I consider his treatment of his companion and his native followers.

"My long-dead friend's honour is too dear to me to allow a shade of doubt to rest on his honoured name; therefore, with all respect for those who mourn the more recently dead, I ask your insertion of this in your valued paper.

"I have the honour to be your obedient servant,

"J. A. Grant, Lieut-Col.

"Househill, Nairn, October 25th."

"In my earliest agony after my husband's death, Colonel Grant's letter to the Times was the first that caught my eyes, and the bitter cry arose to my lips—

'He had not dared to do it,
Except he surely knew my lord was dead;'

and I read no more. I do regret that he had not written this letter any time within the last thirty-one years, that my husband might have heard and answered the 'grave charges' of which Colonel Grant speaks now, but of which Richard Burton never heard; but he is not dead so long as I live.

"Now that Burton and Speke are together above, there are only two below who may venture to give an opinion on the matter—Colonel Grant and I.[5] If I live, my future work will be to write my husband's life; but as that will take me some time, I cannot have the public misled until then. I know I am right in saying that, whatever the Royal Geographical Society may have thought then, they have since learned the truth, and know what a true and valuable member they possessed in Richard Burton, of which they have now given me most gratifying proofs. No one can speak so truly as I can, because I possess all Richard Burton's private journals; I know all the secrets of his life for the past thirty-five years. I have all Speke's letters, and the copies of my husband's to him. Men do not tell everything to their men-friends. I knew Speke, and I am less offended with Colonel Grant because I believe him honest and staunch, and that he says what he thinks he knows. I will give the résumé of my knowledge, trying to avoid detail.

"When Richard Burton was preparing for his lake journey into Africa (1856) I was just engaged to him, and John Hanning Speke, his friend, wanted to accompany him as second in command. Burton applied for him, and, after difficulties, leave was granted. Speke had been already with him to Somali-land, and knew perfectly well what travelling with Burton meant, and was glad to go again. Speke was not then, nor did he pretend to be, a geographer, a scientist, an explorer; he was a first-rate sportsman, and he meant to shoot, to get ivory and specimens for natural history, to collect the fauna and animals north of the Line in Africa, but he never gave the Nile a thought. That was Richard's hobby. Richard advised him to coach up all that would be most useful on the journey, in case one of them should fall sick; and he did, for all the world knows what a terrible journey they had pioneering and cutting their way, with no money, no comforts, no support, or protection. That was in days when exploring meant losing your life at a moment's notice, perishing of hunger, thirst, privation, fever, hostile natives, wild beasts, and reptiles. There was no picnicking on champagne and truffles then, no 'riding to Tanganyika in a bath-chair.' It was work for men. They were both fearfully ill on and off. They were great friends, and called each other Dick and Jack.

"All the spare time in tents Richard helped Speke with his scientific instruments, correcting up journals and maps, and learning the languages as spoken there. When Speke was ill Burton tended him like a woman, and when Burton was ill Speke did not repay him in kind. There were no quarrels, but Speke had a peculiarity which, when once Richard had become familiar with, he respected, but found a little trying—there being only two of them. Speke would be silent for days, when Richard would find out that he had unconsciously given some little offence which Speke had treasured up. Many people have that temperament. When they had been absent over two years, and Speke had got well, but Richard was down with fever, Speke was impatient to go on; Richard therefore sent him forward in the direction of Nyanza, which was Speke's great discovery, and he eventually came back triumphant, saying he had 'discovered the sources of the Nile.' Richard said, 'It seems almost too good to be true.' Speke, being well, wanted naturally to return, and push on, but Richard said to him, 'I am a much older man than you, Jack, and I am not getting better. You will be ill again, and I unable to nurse you, and we shall both be down at once, much further from home, our money and stores giving out, our followers discontented. Consent to our return, and we will go home, recruit our health, report what we have done, get some more money, return together and finish our whole journey.'

"Speke agreed, and they set out on the return journey to the coast, and when they reached Aden, Richard being too weak for the journey, and Speke impatient to get to England, Richard agreed to come on by the next steamer. There was no quarrel up to this. As regards the non-payment of the negroes, it was thus: The porters were to receive a certain pay for their services, and an extra reward if they behaved well. They behaved ill, and therefore Richard, being the Chief, decided that they should receive their pay only, but not their reward, because he said, 'If they are rewarded for their ill-doing, they will behave ill to us when we return, and to any future travellers, being certain of their money, no matter what their conduct. They will not respect us, but only think we act from fear.' Speke at first objected, but then said it was right; so did Consul Rigby. They both changed afterwards to suit circumstances. Any one who is used to negroes will know that if they behaved well to Speke and Grant afterwards, and others who followed, it was because of this mulct which Burton had the courage to stand by, and receive the blame at home for. My husband was lavish of his money, and when any one of his dependents had to be punished he used to say, 'I will do anything sooner than dock their pay.' To me it sounds supremely ridiculous to speak of such a thing in connection with his name. Now, when Richard and Speke parted, it was on the best of terms. Richard said, 'I shall hurry up, Jack, as soon as I can,' and Speke's parting words—the last he ever spoke to him—were, 'Good-bye, old fellow. You may be quite sure I shall not go up to the Royal Geographical Society until you come to the fore and we appear together; make your mind quite easy about that.' I need not say that the appearance of Speke alone in London gave us the keenest anxiety. Here comes in the quarrel.

"On board the same ship with Speke, part of the way home, was Laurence Oliphant. I liked Laurence Oliphant, so did Richard, and so did and do hundreds in London, and I am ashamed to write anything against a dead man, but I must do it to defend my own. He got hold of and poisoned Speke's mind against Richard. He said 'that Burton was a jealous man, and being Chief of the expedition he would take all the glory of Nyanza, which, he said, was undoubtedly the true source of the Nile, for himself; that if he were in Speke's place he would go up to the Royal Geographical Society at once, and get the command of the second expedition; that he would back him, and get others to.' Speke resisted at first, but his vanity prevailed, and carried him along until one thing after another was piled up against the unconscious absentee.[6] I grieve to say that these were neither the first friends nor the last that Laurence Oliphant sundered with no apparent settled object. He worked upon Speke till he planted the seed of bitter enmity against Richard to the end. I mentioned this to Mr. Stanley in August, 1890, at Maloja, and he replied, 'How very odd; he did exactly the same to me!' When Richard arrived, this information was the first that greeted him—that his friend and companion had cast him off, and become his enemy. He had gone up to the Royal Geographical Society, and secured all the honour of the expedition, and had been appointed to command the second expedition with Colonel Grant.

"I shall never forget Richard Burton as he was then. He had had twenty-one attacks of fever, was partially paralyzed, and partially blind; he was a mere skeleton, with brown yellow skin hanging in bags, his eyes protruding, and his lips drawn away from his teeth. I used to support him about the Botanical Gardens for fresh air, and sometimes convey him away almost fainting in a cab. The Government and the Royal Geographical Society looked coldly on him. The Indian Army brought him under the reduction; he was almost penniless, and he had hardly a friend to greet him. 'Jack' was the hero of the hour, the Stanley of 1859-64. This was one of the martyrdoms of that uncrowned king's life, and I think that but for me he would have died. He never abused Speke as a mean man would have done; he used to say, 'Jack is one of the bravest fellows in the world. If he has a fault, it is overweening vanity and being so easily flattered. In good hands, he would be the best of men. Let him alone; he will be very sorry some day, though that won't mend my case.' It is interesting to mark in their letters how they descend from 'dear Jack' and 'dear Dick' to 'dear Burton' and 'dear Speke,' until they become 'sir.' Now I must tell you, in Speke's favour, that the injury once done to his friend and the glory won for himself, he was not happy with it.

"Speke and I had a mutual friend—a lady well known in society as Kitty Dormer (Countess Dormer). Through her auspices, Speke and I met, and also exchanged many messages, and we nearly succeeded in reconciling Burton and Speke, and would have done, but for the anti-influences around him. He said to me, 'I am so sorry, and I don't know how it all came about. Burton was so kind to me, nursed me like a woman, taught me such a lot, and I was so fond of him, but it would be too difficult for me to go back now.' And upon that last sentence he always remained.

"At last came the British Association Meeting (Bath, September, 1864). We had been married in 1861, and were back on leave from the West Coast of Africa. Laurence Oliphant conveyed to Burton that Speke had said that if Burton appeared on the platform at Bath (which was, as it were, Speke's native town) he would kick him. I remember Richard's answer: 'Well, that settles it. By God, he shall kick me;' and so to Bath we went. There was to be no speaking on Africa the first day, but the next day was fixed for the great discussion between Burton and Speke. The first day we went on to the platform close to Speke. He looked at Richard and at me, and we at him. I shall never forget his face. It was full of sorrow, of yearning, and perplexity. Then he seemed to turn to stone. After a while he began to fidget a great deal, and exclaimed half aloud, 'Oh, I cannot stand this any longer.' He got up to go out. The man nearest him said, 'Shall you want your chair again, sir? May I have it? Shall you come back?' And he answered, 'I hope not,' and left the hall. The next day a large crowd was assembled for this famous discussion. All the distinguished people were with the Council; Burton alone was excluded, and stood on the platform, we two alone, he with his notes in his hand. There was a delay of about twenty-five minutes, and then the Council and speakers filed in and announced the terrible accident out shooting that had befallen poor Speke shortly after his leaving the hall the day before. Burton sank into a chair, and I saw by the workings of his face the terrible emotion he was controlling and the shock he had received. When called upon to speak, in a voice that trembled he spoke of other things and as briefly as he could. When we got home, he wept long and bitterly, and I was for many a day trying to comfort him.

"Yours obediently,

"Isabel Burton."

There were old servants to be placed out, many people dependent on us, institutions of which I was President to be wound up, debts to be paid, old friends to say good-bye to. My husband's and my personal effects, his library and manuscripts, were packed in two hundred and four cases. Having been eighteen years at Trieste, I felt there would be a meanness in selling, so I furnished the orphanage, and a few rooms for Lisa, and gave away everything where I thought it would be most useful or most valued; and this, with constant visits to my beloved in the chapelle ardente, which was half an hour's drive away, occupied fourteen weeks, though I got up at six and worked till ten p.m. I never rested, and it was a life of torture. I used to wake at four, the hour he was taken ill, and go through all the horrors of his three hours' illness until seven. I prayed for supernatural strength of soul and body, and it was really given to me.

I became almost listless as to exterior things; I suppose that is always the way with a deep-sea grief. I had a little relief by the coming of my cousin Canon Waterton, of Carlisle, and he, by leave from the Vatican, said Mass in our chapel, gave me Communion every morning, stayed with us a month, and helped me wonderfully with the books and manuscripts. He is a highly educated man of good family, living in the best society, was educated in France, so he was a fitting person to consult on many points, to which no one else there could have helped me. I should like to say a word of parting with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, whose affairs I wound up before leaving, because the history is rather curious, and will interest a large body of people who subscribed to it. I had employed four active men; the rest of the Society was nominal. One of these men died of apoplexy one month after my husband; the second had a stroke of paralysis and died immediately after I left; the third fell into a well, and his body was not found till several days; the fourth was very ill of blood-poisoning, had to be sent away, but has since returned and is well—five of us put hors de combat, as I was stricken down with grief. I left a complete chart of directions as to how the remaining money, 1916 florins, should be employed, after which there would be no more funds, and the work closed. The remaining man is Inspector Mottek, of the police, and one new man, both of whom I can trust. The money is under control of the bank, the accounts are sent to me every three months. It has lasted two years and three months, and I believe there are a few florins still left. This will comfort my numerous donors.

On the 20th of January, 1891, I had to go to the Sant' Anna Cemetery to see the beloved remains prepared, and conveyed on board the Cunard steamer Palmyra at the New Port. The remains had been placed in a leaden shell, with a glass over the face; this was again closed in a very handsome coffin of steel and gilt. On this day it was put into a plain white deal case, two inches thick, dovetailed, and secured with iron clamps and screws, and painted in black—"To the Rev. Canon Wenham, Catholic Church, Mortlake, S.W., Surrey, England." The case was filled with sawdust, in which, according to Austrian law, a bottle of carbolic acid was poured, which has rather stained the coffin. (I cannot think who could have started the irreverent report in the press that it was a piano-case.) Accompanied by the Vice-Consul, Mr. Cautley, I proceeded to the steamer, and saw the precious case lowered, and put into a dry and secured place. Poor good Louis Marcovich, the guardian of the cemetery, would not take one single penny of the present that I had prepared for him, for giving up his bedroom for three months. He only said, clasping my hand, "Don't send it me, because I shall only send it back again. I have got a nice consecrated room to die in;" which he did, poor fellow, about a year later. May God reward him for his good work!

"A TRIESTE.

"Quando la sera piano sprofonda
Il sol nell' onda—solcando il mar,
Presso la riva d' un mesto addio
Il suol natio—vo' a salutar.

"Veggo le case, le ville, i monti,
Che ai bei tramonti—pajono d' or
E 'l scosso mare che con dolcezza
Bagna e accarezza—le sponde ancor.

"Qua e là pur veggo qualche nocchiero
Che con leggero—legno va e vien,
E qualche vela che al debil raggio
Tributa omaggio—nell' ampio sen.

"Mentre la sera man mano imbruna
Veggo la luna—nel ciel vagar,
Dietro alle nubi va lentamente,
Poi, di repente—si specchia in mar.

"Indi apparire veggo una stella
Lieve ma bella—d' aureo splendor,
E poi dell' altre formano in cielo
Screziato un velo—di luce e d' or.

"Poi, da lontano; la u' v' è Trieste
Debili e meste—sovra il terren
Veggo brillare mille più e mille
Vaghe scintille—che van che vien.

"Talvolta io sento flebili tocchi,
Poi, dei rintocchi—qua e la mandar
Un cupo suono che giunge a meta
Per l' aere cheta—lento a vagar.

"E allor contento penso a quel lido
Mio dolce nido—di pace e amor
E sospirando dico t' è degno
II tronco e il regno—di quel splendor.

"Terra diletta se un qualche giorno
A te ritorno—di vita pien,
Allor baciare in dolce pianto
Ti voglio tanto—caro terren."
——S. di G. Sfetez.

My first care on arriving in England was to go and see Richard's sister and niece, and acquaint them with all the circumstances and my intentions. I arrived in London on the 7th of February, 1891, and having no home, went to the Langham for a few days to look about for a lodging. At the Langham my three sisters were waiting for me.

On the 9th I immediately went to Messrs. Dyke, 49, Highgate Road, to inspect the monument, and to give orders respecting everything, and found, to my great distress, that, owing to the severity of the weather, it would be difficult to say when we could get the remainder of the Forest of Dean stone. On the 10th I went to Mortlake, chose my ground and had it pegged out, made arrangements with Canon Wenham, and on the 11th my sister, Mrs. Gerald Fitzgerald, and I went to Liverpool. I cannot say how ill I felt, and as soon as I arrived at Liverpool I had to go to bed. Friends began to arrive from different parts of England. Lord and Lady Derby, my best and kindest friends, had been so kind as to have everything seen to for me at Liverpool, and the Captain and the officers of the ships, the authorities of the dockyard, and the London and North-Western Company outvied each other in civility and courteous attention in the arrangements that were made for us.

The Palmyra (after a journey as smooth as a lake) arrived on the 12th of February, 1891, at midnight, and we were told to be on board at nine next morning. Carriages for my party, and a small hearse, were ready to convey us to the ship. We went on board, and were courteously received by the Captain, and the case containing the coffin was brought up and placed on a small bridge. I forgot the people when I saw my beloved case, and I ran forward to kiss it. Canon Waterton said a few prayers. The Captain, officers, and men knew my husband, and many of the dockyard men were Catholics. They all bowed their heads, the Catholics answered the prayers, and there were audible sobs all round. The case was conveyed to the hearse, and we proceeded to the station, where it was immediately put into a separate compartment next to the two saloons reserved for me and my party.

When we arrived at Euston we found a duplicate of these conveyances waiting to take us and the body to Mortlake. We unpacked the case, but Canon Wenham, who had gone out, kept us an hour and three-quarters. The evening was cold and damp, and by torchlight, with a prayer, we conveyed him to rest in the crypt under the altar of the church. I remained some time praying there, and then we all dispersed, my sister and myself going back to the Langham. The reaction, after all I had gone through, set in; there was no more call upon my courage. I was safe in England and amongst my own people; there was nothing more to be done for Richard till the funeral.

"Poor had been my life's best efforts,
Now I waste no thought or breath;
For the prayer of those who suffer
Has the strength of love and death."

My altered circumstances, and the looking into and facing my future, had also to be borne. From my sick bed I dictated answers to some two thousand letters, mostly of sympathy, writing out different business cases, and preparing for the funeral. Meantime the Queen had, in consideration of my husband's services, to my great gratitude and surprise, allowed me a pension of £150 a year.[7]

I would not have asked for anything for myself, but I thought that the British nation would take a pride in helping me to raise the characteristic monument so long wished for, to a man they so honoured, and who had devoted his life to the nation's interest in so many ways as he had done; and more so as I had over a thousand cuttings from newspapers and hundreds of letters saying that the nation wished his memory to be honoured by a testimonial. Nor was I disappointed, as, during the eight months, from his death to his final burial at Mortlake, I was helped by £668 towards it.[8]

On the 30th of April I was well enough to be transferred to a lodging, where my sister and I lived together; for the Langham was getting too gay, too full for me, nor could I afford it. Here I had privacy, quiet, and cheapness.

The funeral was finally fixed for Monday, the 15th of June, at eleven o'clock, and the final completions were only ended two hours before the ceremony began.

It is planted round with trees and flowers, and has a background of linden trees. It is, I think, the most beautiful little burial-ground in England, especially in summer time. In fact, it is so covered with flowers and embedded in trees as to look almost foreign, by its pretty little church and presbytery.