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Title: The Life of Captain Sir Richard F. Burton - By his Wife Isabel Burton
Author: Burton, Isabel, Lady
Language: English
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THE LIFE OF

CAPTAIN

SIR RICHARD F. BURTON,

K.C.M.G., F.R.G.S.

BY HIS WIFE,

ISABEL BURTON.

WITH NUMEROUS PORTRAITS, ILLUSTRATIONS,

AND MAPS.

_IN TWO VOLUMES_.

VOL. I.

LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, LD.

1893.

[Illustration: RICHARD BURTON IN HIS TENT IN AFRICA.]



CONSECRATION.

TO MY EARTHLY MASTER,

WHO IS WAITING FOR ME ON HEAVEN'S FRONTIERS.

Whilst waiting to rejoin you, I leave as a message to the World we
inhabited, the record of the Life into which both our lives were
fused. Would that I could write as well as I can love, and do you
that justice, that honour, which you deserve! I will do my best, and
then I will leave it to more brilliant pens, whose wielders will feel
less--and write better.

Meet me soon--I wait the signal!

ISABEL BURTON.



FOREWORD.

"No man can write a man down except himself."


In speaking of my husband, I shall not call him "Sir Richard," or
"Burton," as many wives would; nor yet by the pet name I used for him
at home, which for some reason which I cannot explain was "Jemmy;" nor
yet what he was generally called at home, and what his friends called
him, "Dick;" but I will call him Richard in speaking of him, and "I"
where he speaks on his own account, as he does in his private journals.
I always thought and told him that he destroyed much of the interest of
his works by hardly ever alluding to himself, and now that I mention
it, people may remark it, that in writing he seldom uses the pronoun
_I_. I have therefore drawn, not from his books, but from his private
journals. It was one of his asceticisms, an act of humility, which the
world passed by, and probably only thought one of his eccentricities.
In his works he would generally speak of himself as the Ensign, the
Traveller, the Explorer, the Consul, and so on, so that I often think
that people who are _not_ earnest readers never understood _who_ it
was that did this, thought that, or saw the other. If I make him speak
plainly for himself, as he does in his private journals, but never to
the public, it will give twenty times the interest in relating events;
so I shall throughout let him speak for himself where I can.

In early January, 1876, Richard and I were on our way to India for a
six months' trip to visit the old haunts. We divided our intended
journey into two lots. We cut India down the middle, the long way on
the map, from north to south, and took the western side, leaving the
eastern side for a trip which was deferred, alas! for our old age and
retirement. We utilized the voyage out (which occupied thirty-three
days in an Austrian Lloyd, used as a Haj, or pilgrim-ship), and also
the voyage back, in the part of the following pages which refers to his
early life, he dictating and I writing.

In 1887, when my husband was beginning to be a real invalid, he lent
some of these notes to Mr. Hitchman (who asked leave to write his
biography), Richard promising not to tread upon his heels by his own
Autobiography till he should be free from service in 1891. It will not,
I think, do any harm to the reading public to reproduce it with more
detail, because only seven hundred people got Mr. Hitchman's, who did
not by any means use the whole of the material before he returned it,
and what I give is the original just as Richard dictated it, and it is
more needful, because it deals with a part of his life that was only
known to himself, to me only by dictation; because everything that he
wrote of himself is infinitely precious, and because to leave to the
public a sketch of an early Richard Burton is desirable, otherwise
readers would be obliged to purchase Mr. Hitchman's, as well as this
work, in order to make a perfect whole.

I must take warning, however, that when Mr. Hitchman's book came out,
part of the Press found this account of my husband's boyhood and youth
charming, and another part of the Press said that I was too candid,
and did nothing to gloss over the faults and foibles of the youthful
Burtons; they doubted the accuracy of my information--I was informed
that my style was too rough-and-ready, and of many others of my
shortcomings. In short, I was considered rather as writing against my
own husband, whilst both sides of the Press in their reviews assumed
that I wrote it; this charmed Richard, and he would not let me refute.
Not one word was mine--it was only dictation, and peremptory dictation
when I objected to certain self-accusations. I beg leave to state
that I did not write one single word; I could not, for I did not know
it--and all that the family objected to, or considered exaggerated,
will not be repeated here. Before entering on these pages, I must warn
the reader not to expect the goody-goody boy nor yet the precocious
vicious youth of 1893. It is the recital of a high-spirited lad of the
old school, full of animal spirits and manly notions, a lively sense
of fun and humour, reckless of the consequences of playing tricks,
but without a vestige of vice in the meaner or lower forms--a lad, in
short, who _would_ be a gentleman and a man of the world in his teens,
and who, from his foreign travel, had seen more of life than boys do
brought up at home.

I do not begin this work--the last important work of my life--without
fear and trembling. If I can perform this sacred duty--this labour of
love--well,--I shall be glad indeed, but I begin it with unfeigned
humility. I have never needed any one to point out to me that my
husband was on a pedestal far above _me_, or anybody else in the world.
I have known it from 1850 to 1893, from a young girl to an old widow,
_i.e._ for forty-three years. I feel that I cannot do justice to his
scientific life, that I may miss points in travel that would have
been more brilliantly treated by a clever man. My only comfort is,
that his travels and services are already more or less known to the
public, and that other books will be written about them. But if I am
so unfortunate as to disappoint the public in _this_ way, there is one
thing that I feel I _am_ fit for, and that is to lift the veil as to
the _inner_ man. He was misunderstood and unappreciated by the world
at large, during his life. No one ever thought of looking for the real
man beneath the cultivated mask that generally hid all feelings and
belief--but now the world is beginning to know what it _has_ lost. The
old, old, sad story.

He shall tell his own tale till 1861, the first forty years, annotated
by me. Whilst dictating to me I sometimes remarked, "Oh, do you think
it would be well to write this?" and the answer always was, "Yes! I do
not see the use of writing a biography at all, unless it is the exact
truth, a very photograph of the man or woman in question." On this
principle he taught me to write quite openly in the unconventional and
personal style--being the only way to make a biography interesting,
which we _now_ class as the Marie Bashkirtcheff style. As you will
see, he always makes the worst of himself, and offers no excuse. As a
lad he does not know what to do to show his manliness, and all that a
boy should, ought, and does think brave and honourable, be it wild or
not, all that he does.

What appals me is, that the task is one of such magnitude--the enormous
quantity of his books and writings that I have to look through, and,
out of eighty or more publications, to ascertain what has seen the
light and what has not, because it is impossible to carry the work of
forty-eight years in one's head; and, again, the immense quantity of
subjects he has studied and written upon, some in only a fragmentary
state, is wonderful. My wish would be to produce this life, speaking
only of him--and afterwards to reproduce everything he has written
that has not been published. I propose putting all the heavier matter,
such as pamphlets, essays, letters, correspondence, and the _résumé_
of his works--that is, _what portion shows his labours and works for
the benefit of the human race_--into two after-volumes, to be called
"Labours and Wisdom of Richard Burton." After his biography I shall
renew _his_ "Arabian Nights" with his Forewords, Terminal Essay, and
Biography of the book in such form that it can be copyrighted--it is
now protected by _my_ copyright. His "Catullus" and "Pentamerone" are
now more or less in the Press, to be followed by degrees by all his
unpublished works. His hitherto published works I shall bring out as
a Uniform Library, so that not a word will be lost that he ever wrote
for the public. Fortunately, I have kept all his books classified as he
kept them himself, with a catalogue, and have separate shelves ticketed
and numbered; for example, "Sword," "Gypsy," "Pentamerone," "Camoens,"
and so on.

If I were sure of life, I should have wished for six months to look
through and sort our papers and materials before I began this work,
because I have five rooms full. Our books, about eight thousand, only
got housed in March, 1892, and they _are_ sorted--but not the papers
and correspondence; but I fancy that the public would rather have a
spontaneous work sooner, than wait longer. If I live I shall always go
on with them. I have no leisure to think of style or of polish, or
to select the best language, the best English,--no time to shine as
an authoress. I must just think aloud, so as not to keep the public
waiting.

From the time of my husband's becoming a real invalid--February,
1887--whilst my constant thoughts reviewed the dread To Come--the
catastrophe of his death--and the subsequent suffering, I have been
totally incapable, except writing his letters or attending to his
business, of doing any good literary work until July, 1892, a period of
five years, which was not improved by four attacks of influenza.

Richard was such a many-sided man, that he will have appeared different
to every set of people who knew him. He was as a diamond with so many
facets. The tender, the true, the brilliant, the scientific,--and to
those who deserved it, the cynical, the hard, the severe. Loads of
books will be written about him, and every one will be different;
and though perhaps it is an unseemly boast, I venture to feel sure
that mine will be the truest one, for I have no interest to serve, no
notoriety to gain, belong to no party, have nothing to sway me, except
the desire to let the world understand what it once possessed, what it
has lost. With many it will mean _I_. With me it means _HIM_.

When this biography is out, the public will, theoretically, but not
practically, know him as well as I can make them, and all of his
friends will be able after that to put forth a work representing that
particular facet of his character which he turned on to them, or which
they drew from him. He was so great, so world-wide, he could turn a
fresh facet and sympathy on to each world. I always think that a man is
one character to his wife at his fireside corner, another man to his
_own_ family, another man to _her_ family, a fourth to a mistress or an
amourette--if he have one,--a fifth to his men friends, a sixth to his
boon companions, and a seventh to his public, and so on _ad infinitum_;
but I think the wife, if they are happy and love each other, gets the
pearl out of the seven oyster-shells.

I fear that this work will be too long. I cannot help it. When I
embarked on it I had no conception of the scope: it was a labour of
love. I thought I could fly over it; but I have found that the more
I worked, the more it grew, and that the end receded from me like the
mirage in the desert. I only aim at giving a simple, true recital
without comment, and at fairness on all questions of whatever sort. I
am very personal, because I believe the public like it. I want to give
Richard as I knew him at home. I apologize in advance to my readers if
I am sometimes obliged to mention myself oftener than they and I care
about; but they will understand that our lives were so interwoven,
so bound together, that I should very often spoil a good story or an
anecdote or a dialogue were I to leave myself out. It would be an
affectation that would spoil my work.

I am rather disheartened by being told by a literary friend that the
present British public likes its reading "in sips." How _can_ I give
a life of seventy years, every moment of which was employed in a
remarkable way, "in sips"? It is impossible. Though I must not detail
much from his books, I want to convey to the public, at least, what
they were about; striking points of travel, his schemes, wise warnings,
advice, and plans for the benefit of England--then what about "sips"?
It must not be dry, it must not be heavy, nor tedious, nor voluminous;
so it shall be personal, full of traits of character, sentiments and
opinions, brightened with cheerful anecdotes, and the more serious part
shall go into the before-mentioned two volumes, the "Labours and Wisdom
of Richard Burton."

I am not putting in many letters, because he generally said such
personal things, that few would like them to be shown. His business
letters would not interest. To economize time he used to get expressly
made for him the smallest possible pieces of paper, into which he used
to cram the greatest amount of news--telegram form. He only wrote much
in detail, if he had any literary business to transact.

One of my greatest difficulties, which I scarcely know how to express,
is, that which I think the most interesting, and which most of my
intimates think well worth exploring; it is that of showing the dual
man with, as it were, two natures in one person, diametrically opposed
to each other, of which he was himself perfectly conscious. I had a
party of literary friends to dinner one night, and I put my manuscript
on the table before them after dinner, and I begged them each to take
a part and look over it. Feeling as I do that the general public never
understood him, and that his mantle after death seemed to descend
upon my shoulders, that everything I say seems to be misunderstood,
and that, in some few eyes, I can do nothing right, I said at the end
of the evening, "If I endeavour to explain, will it not be throwing
pearls to swine?" (not that I meant, dear readers, to compare _you_ to
swine--it is but an expression of thought well understood). And the
answer was, "Oh, Lady Burton, _do_ give the world the ins and outs
of this remarkable and interesting character, and let the swine take
care of themselves." "If you leave out by order" (said one) "religion
and politics, the two touchstones of the British public, you leave
out the great part of a man." "Mind you gloss over nothing to please
anybody" (said a second). I think they are right--one set of people
see one side, and another see another side, and neither of the two
will comprehend (like St. Thomas) anything that they have not seen
and felt; or, to quote one of Richard's favourite mottoes from St.
Augustine, "Let them laugh at me for speaking of things which they do
not understand, and I must pity them, whilst they laugh at me." So I
must remain an unfortunate buffer amidst a cyclone of opinions. I can
only avoid controversies and opinions _of my own_, and quote his and
his actions.

These words are forced from me, because I have received my orders, if
not exactly from the public, from a few of the friends who profess to
know him best. I am ordered to describe Richard as a sort of Didérot
(a disciple of Voltaire's), who wrote "that the world would never be
quiet till the last king was strangled with the bowels of the last
priest,"--whereas there was no one whom Richard delighted more to
honour than a worthy King, or an honest straightforward Priest.

There _are_ people who are ready to stone me, if I will not describe
Richard as being absolutely without belief in anything; yet I really
cannot oblige them, without being absolutely untruthful. He was a
spade-truth man, and he honestly used to say that he examined every
religion, and picked out its pearl to practise it. He did not scoff at
them, he was perfectly sincere and honest in what he said; nor did he
change, but he _grew_. He always _said_, and innumerable people _could_
come forward, if they had the courage--I could name some--to say that
they have heard him declare, that at the end of all things there were
only two points to stand upon--NOTHING and CATHOLICISM; and many
_could_, if they _would_, come forward and say, that when they asked
him what religion he was, he answered Catholic.

He _never was_, what is called _here_ and _now_ in England, an
Agnostic; he was a Master-Sufi, he practised Tasáwwuf or Sufi-ism,
which combines the poetry and prose of religion, and is mystic. The
Sufi is a profound student of the different branches of language and
metaphysics, is gifted with a musical ear, indulges in luxuriant
imagery and description. They have a simple sense--a _double entendre_
understood amongst themselves--God in Nature,--Nature in God--a
mystical affection for a Higher Life, dead to excitement, hope, fear,
etc. He was fond of quoting Sayyid Mohammad Hosayn's motto, "It is
better to restore one dead heart to Eternal Life, than Life to a
thousand dead bodies."

I have seen him receive gratuitous copies of an Agnostic paper in
England, and I remember one in particular--I do not know who wrote
it,--it was very long, and all the verses ended with "Curse God the
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost." I can see him now reading it--and
stroking his long moustache, and muttering, "Poor devil! Vulgar beast!"
He was quite satisfied, as his friends say, that we are not gifted with
the senses to understand the origin of the Mysteries by which we are
surrounded, and in this nobody agrees more thoroughly than I do. He
likewise said he believed there was a God, but that he could not define
Him; neither can I, neither can you, but _I_ do not want to. Great
minds tower above and see into little ones, but the little minds never
climb sufficiently high to see into the Great Minds, and never did Lord
Beaconsfield say a truer thing, speaking of religion than when he said,
"_Sensible men never tell_." As I want to make this work both valuable
and interesting, I am not going into the unknown or the unknowable,
only into what he knew--what I know; therefore I shall freely quote
his early training, his politics, his Mohammedanism, his Sufi-ism, his
Brahminical thread, his Spiritualism, and all the religions which he
studied, and nobody can give me a sensible reason why I should leave
out the Catholicism, except to point the Spanish proverb, "that no one
pelts a tree, unless it has fruit on it," but were I to do so, the
biography would be incomplete.

Let us suppose a person residing inside a house, and another person
looking at the house from the opposite side of the street; you would
not be unjust enough to expect the person on the outside to describe
minutely its inner chambers and everything that was in it, because he
would have to take it on trust from the person who resided inside,
but you _would_ take the report of the man living outside as to the
_exterior_ of the house. That is exactly the same as my writing my
husband's history. Do you want an edition of the inside or an edition
of the outside? If you do not want the truth, if you order me to
describe a Darwin, a Spencer, a John Stuart Mill, I can do it; but it
will not be the home-Richard, the fireside-Richard whom _I_ knew, the
two perfectly distinct Richards in one person; it will be the man as
he was at lunch, at dinner, or when friends came in, or when he dined
out, or when he paid visits; and if the world--or, let us say, a small
portion of the world,--is so unjust and silly as to wish for untrue
history, it must get somebody else to write it. To me there are only
two courses: I must either tell the truth, and lay open the "inner
life" of the man, by a faithful photograph, or I must let it alone, and
leave his friends to misrepresent him, according to their lights.

It has been threatened to me that if I speak the truth I am to reap
the whirlwind, because others, who claim to know my husband _well_,
see him quite in a different light. (I know many people intimately,
but I am quite incompetent to write their lives--I am only fit to do
that for the man with whom I lived night and day for thirty years;
there are three other people who could each write a small section of
his life, and after those nobody; I do not accept the so-called general
term "friend.") I shall be very happy indeed to answer anybody who
attacks me, who is brave enough to put his or her name; but during
the two years I have been in England I have hardly had anything but
anonymous communications and paragraphs signed under the brave names of
"Agnostic," or "One who knows," so I have no man or woman to deal with,
but empty air, which is beneath my contempt. This is a very old game,
perhaps even more ancient than "Prophesy, O Christ, who it was that
struck Thee!" but it is cowardly and un-English--that is, if England
"stands where she did." I would also remind you of the good old Arab
proverb, that "a thousand curses never tore a shirt."

I would have you remember that I gain _nothing_ by trying to describe
my husband as belonging to _any particular religion_. If I would
describe him as an English Agnostic--the last new popular word--the
small band of people who call themselves his intimate friends, and who
think to honour him by injuring me, would be perfectly satisfied. I
should have all their sympathy, and my name would be at rest, both in
Society and in the Press. I have no interest to serve in saying he was
a Catholic more than anything else; I have no bigotry on the question
_at all_. If he did something Catholic I shall say it, and if he did
something Mohammedan or Agnostic I shall equally say it.

It is also a curious fact, that the people who are most vexed with me
on this score, are men who, before their wives, mothers, sisters, are
good Protestants, and who go twice to the Protestant church on Sundays,
but who are quite scandalized that my husband should be allowed a
religion, and are furious because I will not allow that Richard Burton
was their Captain. No, thank you! it is not good enough: he was not,
never _was_ like _any_ of you--nor can I see what it can possibly be to
you what faith, or no faith, Richard Burton chose to die in, and why
you threaten me if I speak the truth! _We_ only knew _two_ things--the
beautiful mysticism of the East, which, until I lived here, I thought
was Agnosticism, and I find it is _not_; and calm, liberal-minded Roman
Catholicism. The difference between you and Richard is--you, I mean,
who admired my husband--that you are not going anywhere,--according to
your own Creed you have nowhere to go to,--whilst _he_ had a God and
a continuation, and said he would wait for me; he is only gone a long
journey, and presently I shall join him; we shall take up where we left
off, and we shall be very much happier even than we have been here.

Of the thousands that have written to me since his death, everybody
writes, "What a marvellous brain your husband had! How modest about
his learning and everything concerning himself! He was a man never
understood by the world." It is no wonder he was _not_ understood
by the World; his friends hindered it, and when one who knew him
thoroughly, offers to _make_ him understood, it is resented.

The Press has recently circulated a paragraph saying that "I am not
the fittest person to write my husband's life." After I have finished
these two volumes, it will interest me very much to read those of the
competent person, who will be so kind as to step to the front,--with a
name, please, not anonymously,--and to learn all the things I do not
know.

He, she, or it, will write what he said and wrote; I write what he
_thought_ and _did_.

ISABEL BURTON.

29_th May_, 1893.


NOTE.--I must beg the reader to note, that a word often has
several different spellings, and my husband used to give them a turn
all round. Indeed, I may say that during the latter years of his life
he adopted quite a different spelling, which he judged to be correcter.
In many cases it is caused by the English way of spelling a thing, and
the real native way of spelling the same. For English Meeanee, native
way Miani. The battle of Dabba (English) is spelt Dubba, Dubbah, by the
natives. Fulailee river (English) is spelt Phuleli (native). Mecca and
Medina have sometimes an _h_ at the end of them. Karrachee is Karáchi.
Sind is spelt Sind, Sindh, Scind, Scinde; and what the Anglo-Indians
call Bóbagees are really Babárchis, and so on. I therefore beg that
the spelling may not be criticized. In quoting letters, I write as the
author does, since I must not change other people's spelling.--I. B.

[TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE.--The page headings of the original
edition have been converted into sidenotes in this digital edition.
Typographical and other obvious errors have also been corrected, but
the variations in the spelling of proper names, etc., mentioned above
remain.]



CONTENTS.



CHAPTER I.

THE EARLY DAYS OF RICHARD F. BURTON.

Family history--The Napoleon Romance--The Louis XIVth
Romance.


CHAPTER II.

RICHARD'S BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD.

Richard Burton's early life--At Tours--His first
school--Trips--Grandmammas Baker and Burton--Aunt
G.--They leave Tours.


CHAPTER III.

THE CHILDREN ARE BROUGHT TO ENGLAND.

School at Richmond--Measles disperse the
school--Education at Blois--They leave Blois
for Italy--Pisa--Siena--Vetturino-travelling
--Florence--Shooting--Rome in Holy Week
--Sorrento--Classical games--Chess--Naples
--Cholera--Marseille--Pau--Bagnières de
Bigorres--Contrabandistas--Pau education--Argélés--The
boys fall in love--Drawing--Music--The baths of
Lucca--The boys get too old for home--Schinznach and
England--The family break up.


CHAPTER IV.

OXFORD.

Practical jokes--Friends--Fencing-rooms--Manners and
customs--Food and smoking--Drs. Newman and Pusey--Began
Arabic--Play--Town life--College friends--Coaching
and languages--Latin--Greek--Holidays--The Rhine to
Wiesbaden--The Nassau Brigade--The straws that broke the
camel's back--Rusticated.


CHAPTER V.

GOING TO INDIA.

He gets a commission and begins Hindostani--He goes
to be sworn in at the India Office.


CHAPTER VI.

MY PUBLIC LIFE BEGINS.

The voyage and arrival--The sanitarium--His
moonshee--Indian Navy--English bigotry--Engages
servants--Reaches Baroda--Brother officers--Mess
--Drill--Pig-sticking--Sport--Society--Feeding
--Nautch--Reviews--Races--Cobden and Indian history
--Somnath gates--Outram and Napier--He learns Indian
riding and training--Passes exams. in Hindostani
--Receives the Brahminical thread--On the march--Embarks
for Sind--Karáchi, Sind--He passes in Maharátta.


CHAPTER VII.

THE REMINISCENCES WRITTEN FOR MR. HITCHMAN IN 1888--INDIA.

A later chapter on same events differently told--His
little autobiography--His books on India--Burying a
Sányasi--His Indian career practically ends.


CHAPTER VIII.

ON RETURN FROM INDIA.

Boulogne--Bayonet exercise--Meets me at Boulogne at
school--His famous journey to Mecca and El Medinah--His
start from Alexandria to Cairo--Twelve days in an open
Sambúk--Ten days' ride to Mecca--Moslem Holy Week--The
all-important crisis--His safe return--On board an English
ship--Interesting letters--The Kasîdah--The end of the
Kasîdah--Christian Poetry.


CHAPTER IX.

HARAR--THE MOSLEM ABYSSINIA--THE TIMBUCTOO OF EAST AFRICA,
THE EXPLORATION OF WHICH HAD BEEN ATTEMPTED IN VAIN BY
SOME THIRTY TRAVELLERS.

He starts for Harar in Somali-land--Preparations
at Zayla--Desert journey--He enters the city
in triumph--Interview with the Amir--Has great
success--Damaging reports--He leaves Harar safely--A
fearful desert journey--Want of water--They reach
Berberah--Join Speke, Herne, Stroyan--He sails for
Aden--Returns with forty men--They are attacked--A
desperate fight--Richard and Speke desperately wounded.


CHAPTER X.

WITH BEATSON'S HORSE.

The Crimea--End of Crimea--Beatson's trial.


CHAPTER XI.

BETWEEN THE CRIMEA AND THE LAKE REGIONS OF CENTRAL AFRICA.

We become engaged--The story of Hagar Burton--Hagar
Burton, the Gipsy--Our strange parting.


CHAPTER XII.

HIS EXPLORATION OF THE LAKE REGIONS, TAKING CAPTAIN SPEKE
AS SECOND IN COMMAND.

Preliminary canter--Hippopotamus shooting--Our first fever.


CHAPTER XIII.

THE REAL START FOR TANGANYIKA IN THE INTERIOR.

A long march--Marsh fever--They ascend from Zungomero
to a better climate--From lovely scenery to fœtid
marshes--Ants--The war-cry of the Wahúmba--Evil
reports--Game--Vermin--A hard jungle march--Description
of caravans and difficulties--Reptiles--Ill and attended
by a witch--Partial paralysis--Blindness--Elephants--The
crossing of the great river Malagarázi.


CHAPTER XIV.

OUR REWARD--SUCCESS.

Scenery--In an Arab craft to Ujiji--More Scenery
--After twenty-seven days Speke returns--A fight--Are
received with honour--A caravan arrives--Geographical
remarks--Troublesome following--Forest on fire--He
sends Speke to find the Nyanza--The Chief Suna--Richard
collects a vocabulary--Speke returns and the differences
arose--Richard soliloquizes on Speke's change of
front--For geographers--The kindness of Musa Mzuri and
Snay bin Amir--Speke's illness--They cross the "Fiery
Field"--An official wigging--Christmas Day, 1858--Speke
leaves Richard ill, but apparently friendly.


CHAPTER XV.

RICHARD AND I MEET AGAIN.

We try to effect a reconciliation between Speke and
Richard--My appeal to my mother--My letter to my
mother--Not a success--News of Richard and subsequent
return--A family council decides the matter--Our
wedding--We are received at home again--A delightful
London season--Fire at Grindlay's--Delightful days at
country houses--Richard goes to West Africa.


CHAPTER XVI.

WEST COAST OF AFRICA--RICHARD'S FIRST CONSULATE.

The West African negroes--The black man is raised above
the white man--Richard inaugurates a better state of
things--Method of protecting the negro--Teaching fair
treatment for the negro--West African gold.


CHAPTER XVII.

HIS FIRST LEAVE.

We sail for West Africa--We land at Madeira--Yellow
fever--The peak of Teneriffe--I return home--Richard sent
as H.M.'s Commissioner to Dahomè--Dahomè and Richard's
travels--His travels, business, etc., on the West Coast.


CHAPTER XVIII.

HOME.

Speke's death--Some lines I wrote on Richard and
Speke--Richard's "Stone Talk"--Gaiety--Winwood
Reade--We go to Ireland--Richard and Sir Bernard
Burke--Bianconi--The anthropological farewell dinner--Lord
Derby's speech as chairman--Richard returns thanks--He
speaks his mind about the Nile.


CHAPTER XIX.

SANTOS, SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL--RICHARD'S SECOND CONSULATE.

We explore Portugal--I rejoin him at Rio de
Janeiro--Arrival at Santos and São Paulo--Life in
Brazil--Brazilian life--Life at Rio--The Barra for
contrast--To the mines in Minas Gerães--We go down the big
mine--Below--Chico and I start on a fifteen days' ride
alone--The landlord of the hotel is mystified--Richard
dangerously ill--Mesmerizing--Regatta--We leave
Brazil--Richard goes south--Lord Derby gives Richard
Damascus--His carbine pistol--Pleasant days in
Vichy and Auvergne--The Fell Railway--Geographical
disagreeables--Work--The Nile--Still the Nile--I sail for
Damascus.


CHAPTER XX.

DAMASCUS--HIS THIRD CONSULATE.

I find Richard has had a cordial reception--We go to
Palmyra, or Tadmor in the desert--We go without an
escort--Tadmor--Camp life--Our travelling day--Night
camps--Return home after desert--Native life--The Arabic
library at Damascus--The library--The environs of
Damascus--How our days were passed--Our reception day
--A most interesting and remarkable woman--A romantic
history--Richard's love for children--Richard's notes
on our wilder travels--The Tulúl el Safá--Our home in
the Anti-Lebanon--Our day--With Drake and Palmer in
the Lebanon--Religious disturbances--Holo Pasha gives
us a panther--The Druzes--Their stronghold--We camp at
the Waters of Merom--Richard is stung by a scorpion
--Explorations of unknown tracts--I prevent Rashíd
Pasha's intentions taking effect--Rashíd's intrigue
about the Druzes--The manner in which we are received in
villages--Remarks on the journey--Kurdish dogs--Excursions
to unknown tracts--Troubles from a self-appointed zealot
--Usurers very troublesome--A Jehád threatened--Jews
--Usurers try to remove Richard--Letters of indignation
and sympathy--Jews--Omar Bey's fine mare--Horse-breeding
--The Holy Land.


CHAPTER XXI.

RELIGION.

Shádilis--Sufis becoming Catholics--They are tried and
condemned--And persecuted--The Protestant converts--The
Shádilis--Richard quotes Mr. Gladstone--Letters approving
his conduct--Richard's answer and remarks--He leaves--I
take a night ride across country--We were stoned at
Nazareth--General information--Salih's description of
Richard--Letters showing the state of Syria after his
recall--The interval I remained as a hostage--I leave the
Anti-Lebanon--Wind up at Damascus--I get fever--Eventually
reach home--He gets an _amende_--We become
penniless--Small jottings--Death of my mother--Richard
accepts Trieste--The old story of shooting people, and a
newer one--The truth--Difficulty of English officials
doing their duty--Conclusion of his Damascus career.



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


RICHARD BURTON IN HIS TENT.

LUNGE AND CUT IN CARTE (INSIDE).

RICHARD BURTON, AS HAJI ABDULLAH, EN ROUTE TO MECCA.

MECCA AND THE KA'ABAH, OR THE HOLY GRAIL OF THE MOSLEMS.

BURTON'S SKETCH MAP OF AFRICA.

MINIATURE OF RICHARD BURTON.

RICHARD BURTON. _By Louis Desanges._

ISABEL BURTON. _By Louis Desanges._

FACSIMILE LETTER.

THE MAN WHO WINS.

THE CHIEF OFFICER OF RICHARD'S BRIGADE OF AMAZONS.

CRUCIFIX FROM DAHOMÈ.

MAPS OF AFRICA.

CARBINE PISTOL.

OUR DESERT CAMP.

THE BURTONS' HOUSE IN SALAHÍYYAH, DAMASCUS.
_By Sir Frederick Leighton._

SALAHÍYYAH, DAMASCUS IN THE OASIS.

THE BURTONS' HOUSE-ROOF AT DAMASCUS AND THE ADJOINING
MOSQUE-MINARET.

THE BURTONS' HOUSE AT BLUDÁN, IN ANTI-LEBANON.



THE LIFE OF SIR RICHARD BURTON.


CHAPTER I.

THE EARLY DAYS OF RICHARD F. BURTON.

_By himself. Copied from his private Journals._

    "He travels and expatriates; as the bee
    From flower to flower, so he from land to land,
    The manners, customs, policy of all
    Pay contributions to the store he gleans;
    He seeks intelligence from every clime,
    And spreads the honey of his deep research
    At his return--a rich repast for _me!_"


GENEALOGY AND FAMILY.


Autobiographers generally begin too late.

Elderly gentlemen of eminence sit down to compose memories, describe
with fond minuteness babyhood, childhood, and boyhood, and drop the pen
before reaching adolescence.

Physiologists say that a man's body changes totally every seven years.
However that may be, I am certain that the moral man does, and I cannot
imagine anything more trying than for a man to meet himself as he was.
Conceive his entering a room, and finding a collection of himself at
the several decades. First the puking squalling baby one year old, then
the pert unpleasant schoolboy of ten, the collegian of twenty who, like
Lothair, "knows everything and has nothing to learn." The _homme fait_
of thirty in the full warmth and heyday of life, the reasonable man of
forty, who first recognizes his ignorance and knows his own mind, of
fifty with white teeth turned dark, and dark hair turned white, whose
experience is mostly disappointment with regrets for lost time and
vanished opportunities. Sixty when the man begins to die and mourns
for his past youth, at seventy when he _ought_ to prepare for his long
journey and never does. And at all these ages he is seven different
beings not one of which he would wish to be again.

[Sidenote: _Family History._]

First I would make one or two notes on family history.

My grandfather was the Rev. Edward Burton, Rector of Tuam, in Galway
(who with his brother, eventually Bishop Burton, of Killala, were the
first of our branch to settle in Ireland). They were two of the Burtons
of Barker Hill, near Shap, Westmoreland, who own a common ancestor
with the Burtons of Yorkshire, of Carlow, and Northamptonshire. My
grandfather married Maria Margaretta Campbell, daughter, by a Lejeune,
of Dr. John Campbell, LL.D., Vicar-General of Tuam. Their son was my
father, Lieut.-Colonel Joseph Netterville Burton, of the 36th Regiment,
who married a Miss (Beckwith) Baker, of Nottinghamshire, a descendant,
on her mother's side, of the Scotch Macgregors. The Lejeune above
mentioned was related to the Montmorencys and Drelincourts, French
Huguenots of the time of Louis XIV. To this hangs a story which will
be told by-and-by. This Lejeune, whose real name was Louis Lejeune,
is supposed to have been a son of Louis XIV. by the Huguenot Countess
of Montmorency. He was secretly carried off to Ireland. His name
was translated to Louis Young, and he eventually became a Doctor of
Divinity. The royal, or rather morganatic, marriage contract was
asserted to have existed, but has disappeared. The Lady Primrose of
that date, who was a very remarkable personage, and a strong ally of
the Jacobites, protected him and conveyed him to Ireland.

The Burtons of Shap derive themselves from the Burtons of Longnor, like
Lord Conyngham and Sir Charles Burton of Pollacton, and the two above
named were the collateral descendants of Francis Pierpoint Burton,
first Marquis of Conyngham, who gave up the name of Burton. The notable
man of the family was Sir Edward Burton, a desperate Yorkist who was
made a Knight Banneret by Edward IV. after the second battle of St.
Albans, and who added to his arms the Cross and four roses.

The Bishop of Killala's son was Admiral J. Ryder Burton, who entered
the Navy in 1806. He served in the West Indies, and off the North
Coast of Spain, when in an attack on the town of Castro, July, 1812,
he received a gunshot wound in the left side, from which the ball was
never extracted. From 1813 to 1816 he served in the Mediterranean
and Adriatic, and was present at the bombardment of Algiers, when he
volunteered to command one of the gunboats for destroying the shipping
inside the Mole. His last appointment was in May, 1820, to the command
of the _Cornelian_ brig, in which he proceeded in early 1824 to
Algiers, where, in company with the _Naiad_ frigate, he fell in with
an Algerine corvette, the _Tripoli_, of eighteen guns and one hundred
men, which, after a close and gallant action under the batteries of the
place, he boarded and carried. This irascible veteran at his death was
in receipt of a pension for wounds. He was Rear Admiral in 1853, Vice
Admiral in 1858, and Admiral in 1863. He married, in 1822, Anna Maria,
daughter of the thirteenth Lord Dunsany; she died in 1850, leaving
one son, Francis Augustus Plunkett Burton, Colonel of the Coldstream
Guards. He married the great heiress Sarah Drax, and died in 1865,
leaving one daughter, Erulí, who married her cousin, John Plunkett, the
future Lord Dunsany.

My father, Joseph Netterville Burton, was a lieutenant-colonel in the
36th Regiment. He must have been born in the latter quarter of the
eighteenth century, but he had always a superstition about mentioning
his birthday, which gave rise to a family joke that he was born in
Leap Year. Although of very mixed blood, he was more of a Roman in
appearance than anything else, of moderate height, dark hair, sallow
skin, high nose, and piercing black eyes. He was considered a very
handsome man, especially in uniform, and attracted attention even in
the street. Even when past fifty he was considered the best-looking man
at the Baths of Lucca. As handsome men generally do, he married a plain
woman, and, "Just like Provy," the children favoured, as the saying is,
the mother.[1]

In mind he was a thorough Irishman. When he received a commission in
the army it was on condition of so many of his tenants accompanying
him. Not a few of the younger sort volunteered to enlist, but when they
joined the regiment and found that the "young master" was all right,
they at once ran away.

The only service that he saw was in Sicily, under Sir John Moore,
afterwards of Corunna, and there he fell in love with Italy. He was
a duellist, and shot one brother officer twice, nursing him tenderly
each time afterwards. When peace was concluded he came to England and
visited Ireland. As that did not suit him he returned to his regiment
in England. Then took place his marriage, which was favoured by his
mother-in-law and opposed by his father-in-law. The latter, being a
sharp old man of business, tied up every farthing of his daughter's
property, £30,000, and it was well that he did so. My father, like too
many of his cloth, developed a decided taste for speculation. He was a
highly moral man, who would have hated the idea of _rouge et noir_, but
he gambled on the Stock Exchange, and when railways came out he bought
shares. Happily he could not touch his wife's property, or it would
speedily have melted away; yet it was one of his grievances to the end
of his life that he could not use his wife's money to make a gigantic
fortune. He was utterly reckless where others would be more prudent.
Before his wedding tour, he passed through Windermere, and would not
call upon an aunt who was settled near the Lakes, for fear that she
might think he expected her property. She heard of it, and left every
farthing to some more dutiful nephew.

He never went to Ireland after his marriage, but received occasional
visits from his numerous brothers and sisters.

The eldest of the family was the Rev. Edward Burton, who had succeeded
to the living. He wasted every farthing of his property, and at
last had the sense to migrate to Canada, where he built a little
Burtonville. In his younger days he intended to marry a girl who
preferred another man. When she was a widow with three children, and
he a widower with six children, they married, and the result was
eventually a total of about a score. Such families do better than is
supposed. The elder children are old enough to assist the younger
ones, and they seem to hang together. My father's sisters, especially
Mrs. Mathews, used to visit him when in England, and as it was known
that he had married an heiress, they all hung to him, apparently,
for themselves and their children. They managed to get hold of all
the Irish land that fell to his share, and after his death they were
incessant in their claims upon his children. My mother was Martha
Baker, one of three sister co-heiresses, and was the second daughter.
The third daughter married Robert Bagshaw, Esq., M.P. for Harwich, and
died without issue. The eldest, Sarah, married Francis Burton, the
youngest brother of my father. He had an especial ambition to enter
the Church, but circumstances compelled him to become military surgeon
in the 66th Regiment. There was only one remarkable event in his life,
which is told in a few very interesting pages by Mrs. Ward, wife of
General Ward, with a short comment by Alfred Bate Richards, late editor
of the _Morning Advertiser_, who, together with Andrew Wilson, author
of the "Abode of Snow," who took it up at his death, compiled and put
together a short _résumé_ of the principal features of my life, of
which some three hundred copies were printed, in pamphlet form and
circulated to private friends.

[Sidenote: _The Napoleon Romance._]

 "FACTS CONNECTED WITH THE LAST HOURS OF NAPOLEON.


 "On the night of the 5th of May, 1821, a young ensign of the 66th
 Regiment, quartered at St. Helena, was wending his solitary way
 along the path leading from the plain of Deadwood to his barracks,
 situated on a patch of table-land called Francis Plain. The road was
 dreary, for to the left yawned a vast chasm, the remains of a crater,
 and known to the islanders as the 'Devil's Punchbowl;' although the
 weather had been perfectly calm, puffs of wind occasionally issued
 from the neighbouring valleys; and, at last, one of these puffs having
 got into a gully, had so much ado to get out of it, that it shrieked,
 and moaned, and gibbered, till it burst its bonds with a roar like
 thunder--and dragging up in its wrath, on its passage to the sea, a
 few shrubs, and one of those fair willows beneath which Napoleon,
 first Emperor of France, had passed many a peaceful, if not a happy,
 hour of repose, surrounded by his faithful friends in exile.

 "This occurrence, not uncommon at St. Helena, has given rise to an
 idea, adopted even by Sir Walter Scott, that the soul of Napoleon had
 passed to another destiny on the wings of the Storm Spirit; but, so
 far from there being any tumult among the elements on that eventful
 night, the gust of wind I have alluded to was only heard by the few
 whose cottages dotted the green slopes of the neighbouring mountains.
 But as that fair tree dropped, a whisper fell among the islanders that
 Napoleon was dead! No need to dwell upon what abler pens than mine
 have recorded; the eagle's wings were folded, the dauntless eyes were
 closed, the last words, '_Tête d'armée_,' had passed the faded lips,
 the proud heart had ceased to beat...!!

 "They arrayed the illustrious corpse in the attire identified with
 Napoleon even at the present day; and among the jewelled honours of
 earth, so profusely scattered upon the breast, rested the symbol of
 the faith he had professed. They shaded the magnificent brow with the
 unsightly cocked hat,[2] and stretched down the beautiful hands in
 ungraceful fashion; every one, in fact, is familiar with the attitude
 I describe, as well as with a death-like cast of the imperial head,
 from which a fine engraving has been taken. The cast is true enough to
 Nature, but the character of the engraving is spoiled by the addition
 of a laurel-wreath on the lofty but insensate brow.

 "About this cast there is a _historiette_ with which it is time the
 public should become more intimately acquainted; it was the subject
 of litigation, the particulars of which are detailed in the _Times_
 newspaper of the 7th September, 1821, but to which I have now no
 opportunity of referring. Evidence, however, was unfortunately wanting
 at the necessary moment, and the complainant's case fell to the
 ground. The facts are these:--

 "The day after Napoleon's decease, the young officer I have alluded
 to, instigated by emotions which drew vast numbers to Longwood House,
 found himself within the very death-chamber of Napoleon. After the
 first thrill of awe had subsided, he sat down, and on the fly-leaf
 torn from a book, and given him by General Bertrand, he took a rapid
 but faithful sketch of the deceased Emperor. Earlier in the day, the
 officer had accompanied his friend, Mr. Burton, through certain paths
 in the island, in order to collect material for making a composition
 resembling plaster of Paris, for the purpose of taking the cast with
 as little delay after death as possible. Mr. Burton having prepared
 the composition, set to work and completed the task satisfactorily.
 The cast being moist, was not easy to remove; and, at Mr. Burton's
 request, a tray was brought from Madame Bertrand's apartments,
 Madame herself holding it to receive the precious deposit. Mr. Ward,
 the ensign alluded to, impressed with the value of such a memento,
 offered to take charge of it at his quarters till it was dry enough
 to be removed to Mr. Burton's; Madame Bertrand, however, pleaded so
 hard to have the care of it, that the two gentlemen, both Irishmen
 and soldiers, yielded to her entreaties, and she withdrew with the
 treasure, which she _never afterwards would resign_.

 "There can scarcely, therefore, be a question that the casts and
 engravings of Napoleon, now sold as emanating from the skill and
 reverence of Antommarchi, are from the original taken by Mr. Burton.
 We can only rest on circumstantial evidence, which the reader will
 allow is most conclusive. It is to be regretted that Mr. Burton's cast
 and that _supposed_ to have been taken by Antommarchi were not _both_
 demanded in evidence at the trial in 1821.

 "The engraving I have spoken of has been Italianized by Antommarchi,
 the name inscribed beneath being _Napoleone_.

 "So completely was the daily history of Napoleon's life at St.
 Helena a sealed record, that, on the arrival of papers from England,
 the first question asked by the islanders and the officers of the
 garrison was, 'What news of Buonaparte?' Under such circumstances
 it was natural that an intense curiosity should be felt concerning
 every movement of the mysterious and ill-starred exile. Our young
 soldier one night fairly risked his commission for the chance of a
 glimpse behind the curtain of the Longwood windows, and, after all,
 saw nothing but the imperial form from the knees downwards. Every
 night at sunset a _cordon_ of sentries was drawn round the Longwood
 plantations. Passing between the sentinels, the venturesome youth
 crept, under cover of trees, to a lighted window of the mansion.
 The curtains were not drawn, but the blind was lowered. Between the
 latter, however, and the window-frame were two or three inches of
 space; so down knelt Mr. Ward! Some one was walking up and down the
 apartment, which was brilliantly illuminated.[3] The footsteps drew
 nearer, and Mr. Ward saw the diamond buckles of a pair of thin shoes,
 then two well-formed lower limbs, encased in silk stockings; and,
 lastly, the edge of a coat, lined with white silk. On a sofa at a
 little distance was seated Madame Bertrand, with her boy leaning
 on her knee; and some one was probably writing under Napoleon's
 dictation, for the Emperor was speaking slowly and distinctly. Mr.
 Ward returned to his guard-house satisfied with having _heard the
 voice of Napoleon Buonaparte_.

 "Mr. Ward had an opportunity of seeing the great captive at a distance
 on the very last occasion that Buonaparte breathed the outer air. It
 was a bright morning when the serjeant of the guard at Longwood Gate
 informed our ensign that 'General Buonaparte' was in the garden on
 to which the guard-room looked. Mr. Ward seized his spy-glass, and
 took a breathless survey of Napoleon, who was standing in front of
 his house with one of his Generals. Something on the ground attracted
 his notice; he stooped to examine (probably a colony of ants, whose
 movements he watched with interest), when the music of a band at a
 distance stirred the air on Deadwood Plain; and he who had once led
 multitudes forth at his slightest word now wended his melancholy way
 through the grounds of Longwood, to catch a distant glimpse of a
 British regiment under inspection.

 "We have in our possession a small signal book which was used at St.
 Helena during the period of Napoleon's exile. The following passages
 will give some idea of the system of vigilance which it was thought
 necessary to exercise, lest the world should again be suddenly
 uproused by the appearance of the French Emperor on the battle-field
 of Europe. It is not for me to offer any opinion on such a system,
 but I take leave to say that I never yet heard any British officer
 acknowledge that he would have accepted the authority of Governor
 under the burden of the duties it entailed. In a word, although every
 one admits the difficulties and responsibilities of Sir Hudson Lowe's
 position, all deprecate the system to which he considered himself
 obliged to bend.

 "But the signal-book! Here are some of the passages which passed from
 hill to valley while Napoleon took his daily ride within the boundary
 prescribed:--

 "'General Buonaparte has left Longwood.'

 "'General Buonaparte has passed the guards.'

 "'General Buonaparte is at Hutt's Gate.'

 "'General Buonaparte is missing.'

 "The latter paragraph resulted from General Buonaparte having, in
 the course of his ride, turned an angle of a hill, or descended some
 valley beyond the ken, for a few minutes, of the men working the
 telegraphs on the hills!

 "It was not permitted that the once Emperor of France should be
 designated by any other title than '_General_ Buonaparte;' and, alas!
 innumerable were the squabbles that arose between the Governor and
 his captive, because the British Ministry had made this puerile order
 peremptory. I have now no hesitation in making known the great Duke's
 opinion on this subject, which was transmitted to me two years ago,
 by one who for some months every year held daily intercourse with his
 Grace, but who could not, while the Duke was living, permit me to
 publish what had been expressed in private conversation.

 "'I would have taken care that he did not escape from St. Helena,'
 said Wellington: 'but he might have been addressed by any name he
 pleased.'

 "I cannot close this paper without saying a word or two on the
 condition of the buildings once occupied by the most illustrious and
 most unfortunate of exiles.

 "It is well known that Napoleon never would inhabit the house which
 was latterly erected at Longwood for his reception; that, he said,
 'would serve for his tomb;' and that the slabs from the kitchen
 _did_ actually form part of the vault in which he was placed in his
 favourite valley beneath the willows, and near the fountain whose
 crystal waters had so often refreshed him.

 "This abode, therefore, is not invested with the same interest as his
 real residence, well named the 'Old House at Longwood;' for a more
 crazy, wretched, filthy barn, it would scarcely be possible to meet
 with; and many painful emotions have filled my heart during nearly
 a four years' sojourn on 'The Rock,' as I have seen French soldiers
 and sailors march gravely and decorously to the spot, hallowed in
 their eyes, of course, by its associations with their invisible but
 unforgotten idol, and degraded, it must be admitted, by the change it
 has undergone.

 "Indeed, few French persons can be brought to believe that it ever was
 a decent abode; and no one can deny that it must outrage the feelings
 of a people like the French, so especially affected by associations,
 to see the bedchamber of their former Emperor a dirty stable, and the
 room in which he breathed his last sigh, appropriated to the purpose
 of winnowing and thrashing wheat! In the last-named room are two
 pathetic mementoes of affection. When Napoleon's remains were exhumed
 in 1846, Counts Bertrand and Las Casas carried off with them, the
 former a piece of the boarded floor on which the Emperor's bed had
 rested, the latter a stone from the wall pressed by the pillow of his
 dying Chief.

 "Would that I had the influence to recommend to the British
 Government, that these ruined and, I must add, desecrated, buildings
 should be razed to the ground; and that on their site should be
 erected a convalescent hospital for the sick of all ranks, of
 _both_ services, and of _both_ nations. Were the British and French
 Governments to unite in this plan, how grand a sight would it be to
 behold the two nations shaking hands, so to speak, over the grave of
 Napoleon!

 "On offering this suggestion, when in Paris lately, to one of the
 nephews of the first Emperor Napoleon, the Prince replied that 'the
 idea was nobly philanthropic, but that England would never listen
 to it.' I must add that his Highness said this 'rather in sorrow
 than in anger;' then, addressing Count L----, one of the faithful
 followers of Napoleon in exile, and asking him which mausoleum
 _he_ preferred,--the one in which we then stood, the dome of the
 _Invalides_, or the rock of St. Helena,--he answered, to my surprise,
 'St. Helena; for no grander monument than that can ever be raised to
 the Emperor!'

 "Circumstances made one little incident connected with this, our visit
 to the _Invalides_, most deeply interesting. Comte D'Orsay was of the
 party; indeed it was in his elegant _atélier_ we had all assembled,
 ere starting, to survey the mausoleum then being prepared for the
 ashes of Napoleon. Suffering and debilitated as Comte D'Orsay was,
 precious, as critiques on art, were the words that fell from his lips
 during our progress through the work-rooms, as we stopped before the
 sculptures intended to adorn the vault wherein the sarcophagus is to
 rest. Ere leaving the works, the Director, in exhibiting the solidity
 of the granite which was finally to encase Napoleon, struck fire
 with a mallet from the magnificent block. 'See,' said Comte D'Orsay,
 'though the dome of the _Invalides_ may fall, France may yet light a
 torch at the tomb of her Emperor.' I cannot remember the exact words,
 but such was their import. Comte D'Orsay died a few weeks after this.

 "Since the foregoing was written, members of the Burton family
 have told me, that, after taking the cast, Mr. Burton went to his
 regimental rounds, leaving the mask on the tray to dry; the back of
 the head was left on to await his return, not being dry enough to take
 off, and was thus overlooked by Madame Bertrand. When he returned he
 found that the mask was packed up and sent on board ship for France in
 Antommarchi's name. From a feeling of deep mortification he took the
 back part of the cast, reverently scraped off the hair now enclosed
 in a ring, and, overcome by his feelings, dashed it into a thousand
 pieces. He was afterwards offered by Messrs. Gall and Spurzheim
 (phrenologists), one thousand pounds sterling for that portion of the
 cast which was wanting to the cast so called Antommarchi's. Amongst
 family private papers there was a correspondence, read by most members
 of it, between Antommarchi and Mr. Burton, in which Antommarchi stated
 that he knew Burton had made the plaster and taken the cast. Mrs.
 Burton, after the death of her husband and Antommarchi, thought the
 correspondence useless and burnt it; but the hair was preserved under
 a glass watch-case in the family for forty years. There was an offer
 made about the year 1827 or 1828 by persons high in position in France
 who knew the truth to have the matter cleared up, but Mr. Burton was
 dying at the time, and was unable to take any part in it, so the
 affair dropped.

       *       *       *       *       *

 "THE BUST OF BUONAPARTE.

 "_Extract from the 'New Times' of September_ 7_th,_ 1821.


 "On Wednesday a case of a very singular nature occurred at the Bow
 Street Office.

 "Count Bertrand, the companion of Buonaparte in his exile at St.
 Helena (and the executor under his will), appeared before Richard
 Birnie, Esq., accompanied by Sir Robert Wilson, in consequence of a
 warrant having been issued to search the residence of the Count for
 a bust of his illustrious master, which, it was alleged, was the
 property of Mr. Burton, 66th Regiment, when at St. Helena.

 "The following are the circumstances of the case:--

 "Previous to the death of Buonaparte, he had given directions to his
 executors that his body should not be touched by any person after his
 death; however, Count Bertrand directed Dr. Antommarchi to take a bust
 of him; but not being able to find a material which he thought would
 answer the purpose, he mentioned the circumstances to Mr. Burton, who
 promised that he would procure some if possible.

 "The Englishman, in pursuance of this promise, took a boat and picked
 up raw materials on the island, some distance from Longwood. He made a
 plaster, which he conceived would answer this purpose. When he showed
 it to Dr. Antommarchi he said it would not answer, and refused to have
 anything to do with it, in consequence of which Mr. Burton proceeded
 to take a bust himself, with the sanction of Madame Bertrand, who was
 in the room at the time. An agreement was entered into that copies
 should be made of the bust, and that Messieurs Burton and Antommarchi
 were to have each a copy.

 "It was found, however, that the plaster was not sufficiently durable
 for the purpose, and it was proposed to send the original to England
 to have copies taken.

 "When Mr. Burton, however, afterwards inquired for the bust, he was
 informed that it was packed and nailed up; but a promise was made,
 that upon its arrival in Europe, an application should be made to the
 family of Buonaparte for the copy required by Mr. Burton.

 "On its arrival, Mr. Burton wrote to the Count to have his promised
 copy, but he was told, as before, that application would be made to
 the family of Buonaparte for it.

 "Mr. Burton upon this applied to Bow Street for a search warrant in
 order to obtain the bust, as he conceived he had a right to it, he
 having furnished the materials and executed it.

 "A warrant was issued, and Taunton and Salmon, two officers, went to
 the Count's residence in Leicester Square. When they arrived, and
 made known their errand, they were remonstrated with by Sir Robert
 Wilson and the Count, who begged they would not act till they had an
 interview with Mr. Birnie, as there must be some mistake. The officers
 politely acceded to the request, and waived their right of search.

 "Count Bertrand had, it seems, offered a pecuniary compensation to
 Mr. Burton for his trouble, but it was _indignantly refused by that
 officer_, who persisted in the assertion of his right to the bust as
 his own property, and made application for the search warrant.

 "Count Bertrand, in answer to the case stated by Mr. Burton, said that
 the bust was the property of the family of the deceased, to whom he
 was executor, and he thought he should not be authorized in giving
 it up. If, however, the law of this country ordained it otherwise, he
 must submit; but he should protest earnestly against it.

 "The worthy magistrate, having sworn the Count to the fact that he was
 executor under the will of Buonaparte, observed that it was a case out
 of his jurisdiction altogether, and if Mr. Burton chose to persist in
 his claim, he must seek a remedy before another tribunal.

 "The case was dismissed, and the warrant was cancelled.

       *       *       *       *       *

 "The sequel to the Buonaparte story is short; Captain Burton (in
 1861) thinking that the sketch, which was perfect, and the lock
 of hair which had been preserved in a family watch-case for forty
 years, would be great treasures to the Buonapartes, and should be
 given to them, begged the sketch of General and Mrs. Ward, and the
 hair from the Burtons; he had the hair set in a handsome ring, with
 a wreath of laurels and the Buonaparte bees. His wife had a complete
 set of her husband's works very handsomely bound, as a gift, and in
 January, 1862, Captain Burton sent his wife over to Paris, with the
 sketch, the ring, and the books, to request an audience with the
 Emperor and Empress, and offer them these things, simply as an act
 of civility--for Captain and Mrs. Burton in opinion and feeling were
 Legitimists. Captain Burton was away on a journey, and Mrs. Burton had
 to go alone. She was young and inexperienced, and had not a single
 friend in Paris to advise her. She left her letter and presents at the
 Tuileries. The audience was not granted. His Imperial Majesty declined
 the presents, and she never heard anything more of them. They were
 not returned. Frightened and disappointed at the failure of this, her
 first little mission at the outset of her married life, she returned
 to London directly, where she found the Burton family anything but
 pleased at her failure and her want of _savoir faire_ in the matter,
 having unwittingly caused their treasure to be utterly unappreciated.
 She said to me on her return, 'I never felt so snubbed in my life, and
 I shall never like Paris again;' and I believe she has kept her word.

 "OXONIAN."

Francis Burton, alluded to in these pages, returned to England after
the death of Napoleon, married one of the three co-heiress (Baker)
sisters, and died early, leaving only two daughters. One died, and the
other, Sarah, became Mrs. Pryce-Harrison.

[Sidenote: _The Louis XIVth Romance._]

Nor was this the only little romance in our Burton family, as the
following story taken from family documents tends to show. Here is the
Louis XIV. history--

 "With regard to Louis XIV. there are one or two curious and
 interesting legends in the Burton family, well authenticated, which
 make Richard Burton great-great-great-grandson of Louis XIV. of
 France, by a morganatic marriage; and another which would entitle him
 to an English baronetcy, dating from 1622.

 "One of the documents in the family is entitled, 'A Pedigree of the
 Young family, showing their descent from Louis XIV. of France,' and
 which runs as follows:--

 "Louis XIV. of France took the beautiful Countess of Montmorency from
 her husband and shut him up in a fortress. After the death of (her
 husband) the Constable de Montmorency, Louis morganatically _married_
 the Countess. She had a son called Louis le Jeune, who 'was brought
 over to Ireland by Lady Primrose,' then a widow. This Lady Primrose's
 maiden name was Drelincourt, and the baby was named Drelincourt after
 his godfather and guardian, Dean Drelincourt (of Armagh), who was the
 father of Lady Primrose. He grew up, was educated at Armagh, and was
 known as Drelincourt Young. He married a daughter of Dean Drelincourt,
 and became the father of Hercules Drelincourt Young, and also of Miss
 (Sarah) Young, who married Dr. John Campbell, LL.D., Vicar-General of
 Tuam (_ob_. 1772). Sarah Young's brother, the above-mentioned Hercules
 Young, married and had a son George, a merchant in Dublin, who had
 some French deeds and various documents, which proved his right to
 property in France.

 "The above-named Dr. John Campbell, by his marriage with Miss Sarah
 Young (rightly Lejeune, for they had changed the name from French to
 English), had a daughter, Maria Margaretta Campbell, who was Richard
 Burton's grandmother. The same Dr. John Campbell was a member of the
 Argyll family, and a first cousin of the 'three beautiful Gunnings,'
 and was Richard Burton's great-grandfather.

 "These papers (for there are other documents) affect a host of
 families in Ireland--the Campbells, Nettervilles, Droughts, Graves,
 Burtons, Plunketts, Trimlestons, and many more.

 "In 1875 _Notes and Queries_ was full of this question and the various
 documents, but it has never been settled.

 "The genealogy runs thus:--

 "Louis XIV.

 "_Son_, Louis le Jeune (known as Louis Drelincourt Young), by Countess
 Montmorency; adopted by Lady Primrose[4] (see Earl of Rosebery), and
 subsequently married to a daughter of Drelincourt, Dean of Armagh.

 "_Daughter_, Sarah Young; married to Dr. John Campbell, LL.D.,
 Vicar-General of Tuam, Galway.

 "_Daughter_, Maria Margaretta Campbell; married to the Rev. Edward
 Burton, Rector of Tuam, Galway.

 "_Son_, Lieutenant-Colonel Joseph Netterville Burton, 36th Regiment.

 "_Son_, Richard Burton, whose biography I am now relating.

 "There was a Lady Primrose buried in the Rosebery vaults, by her
 express will, with a little casket in her hands, containing some
 secret, which was to die with her; many think that it might contain
 the missing link.

 "The wife of Richard Burton received, in 1875, two very tantalizing
 anonymous letters, which she published in _Notes and Queries_, but
 which she has never been able to turn to account, through the writer
 declining to come forward, _even secretly_.

 "One ran thus:--


  "'MADAM,--There is an old baronetcy in the Burton family to
  which you belong, dating from the reign of Edw. III.[5]--I rather
  believe _now in abeyance_--which it was thought Admiral Ryder Burton
  would have taken up, and which after his death can be taken up by your
  branch of the family. All particulars you will find by searching the
  Heralds' Office; but I am positive my information is correct.--From
  one who read your letter in _N. and Q_.


 "She shortly after received and published the second anonymous letter;
 but, though she made several appeals to the writer in _Notes and
 Queries_, no answer was obtained, and Admiral Ryder Burton eventually
 died.


  "'MADAM,--I cannot help thinking that if you were to have
  the records of the Burton family searched carefully at Shap, in
  Westmoreland, you would be able to fill up the link wanting in your
  husband's descent, from 1712 to 1750, or thereabouts. As I am _quite
  positive_ of a baronetcy _being in abeyance_ in the Burton family,
  and that _an old one_, it would be worth your while getting all the
  information you can from Shap and Tuam--the Rev. Edward Burton, Dean
  of Killala and Rector of Tuam, whose niece he married was a Miss
  Ryder, of the Earl of Harrowby's family, by whom he had no children.
  His second wife, a Miss Judge, was a descendant of the Otways, of
  Castle Otway, and connected with many leading families in Ireland.
  Admiral James Ryder Burton could, if he _would_, supply you with
  information respecting the missing link in your husband's descent. I
  have always heard that _de Burton_ was the proper family name, and I
  saw lately that a _de Burton_ now lives in Lincolnshire.

  "'Hoping, madam, that you will be able to establish your claim to the
  baronetcy,

  "'I remain, yours truly,

  "'A READER OF _N. and Q_.

  "'P.S.--I rather think also, and advise your ascertaining the _fact_,
  that the estate of Barker Hill, Shap, Westmoreland, by the law of
  _entail_, will devolve, at the death of Admiral Ryder Burton, on your
  husband, Captain Richard Burton.'

 "From the Royal College of Heralds, however, the following information
 was forwarded to Mrs. Richard Burton:--

  "'There _was_ a baronetcy in the family of Burton. The first was Sir
  Thomas Burton, Knight, of Stokestone, Leicestershire; created July
  22nd, 1622, a baronet, by King James I. Sir Charles was the last
  baronet. He appears to have been in great distress--a prisoner for
  debt, 1712. He is supposed to have died without issue, when the title
  became extinct--at least nobody has claimed it since. If your husband
  can prove his descent from a younger son of any of the baronets, he
  would have a right to the title. The few years must be filled up
  between 1712 and the birth of your husband's grandfather, which was
  about 1750; and you must prove that the Rev. Edward Burton, Rector of
  Tuam in Galway, your husband's grandfather (who came from Shap, in
  Westmoreland, with his brother, Bishop Burton, of Tuam), was descended
  from any of the sons of any of the baronets named.'"[6]

[1] N.B.--This I deny. Richard was the handsomest and most attractive
man I have ever seen, and Edward, though smaller, was very
good-looking, but there is no doubt that Richard grew handsomer every
year of his life, and I can remember Maria exceedingly attractive so
far back as 1857.--I. B.

[2] "The coffin being too short to admit this array in the order
proposed, the hat was placed at the feet before interment."

[3] "Napoleon's dining-room lamp, from Longwood, is, I believe, still
in the possession of the 91st Regiment, it having been purchased by the
officers at St. Helena in 1836."

[4] "This Lady Primrose was a person of no small importance, and
was the centre of the Jacobite Society in London, and the friend of
several distinguished people; and as she was connected on her own side
and her husband's with the French Calvinists, she may very likely
have protected Lejeune from France to Ireland, and he would probably
have, when grown up, married some younger Drelincourt--as such were
undoubtedly the names of the parents of Sarah Young, who married Dr.
John Campbell. We can only give the various documents as we have seen
them."

[5] "This is an error of the anonymous writer. Baronetcies were first
created in 1605."--I. B.

[6] N.B.--We never had the money to pursue these enquiries. But should
they ever be sifted, the proper heir, since my husband is dead, will be
Captain Richard St. George Burton, of the "Black Watch." We made out
all the links, except twelve years from 1712. It is said that Admiral
Ryder Burton himself was the author of those two anonymous letters to
me. My husband often used to say there were only two titles he would
care to have. Firstly, the old family baronetcy, and the other to be
created Duke of Midian.--ISABEL BURTON.



CHAPTER II.

RICHARD'S BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD.


[Sidenote: _Richard Burton's Early Life._]

I was born at 9.30 p.m., 19th March (Feast of St. Joseph in the
calendar), 1821, at Barham House, Herts, and suppose I was baptized
in due course at the parish church. My birth took place in the same
year as, but the day before, the grand event of George IV. visiting
the Opera for the first time after the Coronation, March 20th. I was
the eldest of three children. The second was Maria Catherine Eliza,
who married Henry, afterwards General Sir Henry Stisted, a very
distinguished officer, who died, leaving only two daughters, one of
whom, Georgina Martha, survives. Third, Edward Joseph Netterville, late
Captain in the 37th Regiment, unmarried.

The first thing I remember, and it is always interesting to record a
child's first memories, was being brought down after dinner at Barham
House to eat white currants, seated upon the knee of a tall man with
yellow hair and blue eyes; but whether the memory is composed of a
miniature of my grandfather, and whether the white frock and blue sash
with bows come from a miniature of myself and not from life, I can
never make up my mind.

Barham House was a country place bought by my grandfather, Richard
Baker, who determined to make me his heir because I had red hair, an
unusual thing in the Burton family. The hair soon changed to black,
which seems to justify the following remarks by Alfred Bate Richards in
the pamphlet alluded to. They are as follows:--

 "Richard Burton's talents for mixing with and assimilating natives of
 all countries, but especially Oriental characters, and of becoming as
 one of themselves without any one doubting or suspecting his origin;
 his perfect knowledge of their languages, manners, customs, habits,
 and religion; and last, but not least, his being gifted by nature
 with an Arab head and face, favoured this his first enterprise"
 (the pilgrimage to Mecca). "One can learn from that versatile
 poet-traveller, the excellent Théophile Gautier, why Richard Burton
 is an Arab in appearance; and account for that incurable restlessness
 that is unable to wrest from fortune a spot on earth wherein to repose
 when weary of wandering like the desert sands.

 "'There is a reason,' says Gautier, who had studied the Andalusian
 and the Moor, 'for the fantasy of nature which causes an Arab to be
 born in Paris, or a Greek in Auvergne; the mysterious voice of blood
 which is silent for generations, or only utters a confused murmur,
 speaks at rare intervals a more intelligible language. In the general
 confusion race claims its own, and some forgotten ancestor asserts
 his rights. Who knows what alien drops are mingled with our blood?
 The great migrations from the table-lands of India, the descents of
 the Northern races, the Roman and Arab invasions, have all left their
 marks. Instincts which seem _bizarre_ spring from these confused
 recollections, these hints of distant country. The vague desire of
 this primitive Fatherland moves such minds as retain the more vivid
 memories of the past. Hence the wild unrest that wakens in certain
 spirits the need of flight, such as the cranes and the swallows feel
 when kept in bondage--the impulses that make a man leave his luxurious
 life to bury himself in the Steppes, the Desert, the Pampas, the
 Sahara. He goes to seek his brothers. It would be easy to point out
 the intellectual Fatherland of our greatest minds. Lamartine, De
 Musset, and De Vigny are English; Delacroix is an Anglo-Indian; Victor
 Hugo a Spaniard; Ingres belongs to the Italy of Florence and Rome.'

 "Richard Burton has also some peculiarities which oblige one to
 suspect a drop of Oriental, perhaps gipsy, blood. By gipsy we must
 understand the pure Eastern."

My mother had a wild half-brother--Richard Baker, junior, a
barrister-at-law, who refused a judgeship in Australia, and died a
soap-boiler. To him she was madly attached, and delayed the signing of
my grandfather's will as much as possible to the prejudice of her own
babe. My grandfather Baker drove in his carriage to see Messrs. Dendy,
his lawyers, with the object of signing the will, and dropped dead, on
getting out of the carriage, of ossification of the heart; and, the
document being unsigned, the property was divided. It would now be
worth half a million of money.

When I was sent out to India as a cadet, in 1842, I ran down to see
the old house for the last time, and started off in a sailing ship
round the Cape for Bombay, in a frame of mind to lead any forlorn hope
wherever it might be. Warren Hastings, Governor-General of India, under
similar circumstances threw himself under a tree, and formed the fine
resolution to come back and buy the old place; but _he_ belonged to
the eighteenth century. The nineteenth is far more cosmopolitan. I
always acted upon the saying, _Omne solum_ _forti patria_, or, as I
translated it, "For every region is a strong man's home."

Meantime my father had been obliged to go on half-pay by the Duke of
Wellington for having refused to appear as a witness against Queen
Caroline. He had been town mayor at Genoa when she lived there, and her
kindness to the officers had greatly prepossessed them in her favour;
so, when ordered by the War Office to turn Judas, he flatly refused. A
great loss to himself, as Lord William Bentinck, Governor-General of
India, was about to take him as aide-de-camp, and to his family, as
he lost all connection with the army, and lived entirely abroad, and,
eventually coming back, died with his wife at Bath in 1857. However, he
behaved like a gentleman, and none of his family ever murmured at the
step, though I began life as an East Indian cadet, and my brother in a
marching regiment, whilst our cousins were in the Guards and the Rifles
and other crack corps of the army.

[Sidenote: _At Tours._]

The family went abroad when I was a few months old, and settled at
Tours, the charming capital of Touraine, which then contained some two
hundred English families (now reduced to a score or so), attracted
by the beauty of the place, the healthy climate, the economy of
living, the facilities of education, and the friendly feeling of the
French inhabitants, who, despite Waterloo, associated freely with the
strangers.

They had a chaplain, the Rev. Mr. Way (whose son afterwards entered the
Indian army; I met him in India, and he died young); their schoolmaster
was Mr. Clough, who bolted from his debts, and then Mr. Gilchrist, who,
like the Rev. Edward Irving, Carlisle's friend (whom the butcher once
asked if he couldn't assist him), caned his pupils to the utmost. The
celebrated Dr. Brettoneau took charge of the invalids. They had their
duellist, the Honourable Martin Hawke, their hounds that hunted the
Forest of Amboise, and a select colony of Irishmen, Messrs. Hume and
others, who added immensely to the fun and frolic of the place.

At that period a host of these little colonies were scattered over the
Continent nearest England; in fact, an oasis of Anglo-Saxondom in a
desert of continentalism, somewhat like the society of English country
towns as it was in 1800, not as it is now, where society is confined to
the parson, dentist, surgeon, general practitioners, the bankers, and
the lawyers. And in those days it had this advantage, that there were
no snobs, and one seldom noticed the _aigre discorde_, the _maladie
chronique des ménages bourgeoises_. Knowing nothing of Mrs. Grundy, the
difference of the foreign colonies was that the _weight_ of English
respectability appeared to be taken off them, though their lives were
respectable and respected. The Mrs. Gamps and Mrs. Grundys were not so
rampant. The English of these little colonies were intensely patriotic,
and cared comparatively little for party politics. They stuck to their
own Church because it _was_ their Church, and they knew as much about
the Catholics at their very door, as the average Englishman does of the
Hindú. Moreover, they honestly called themselves Protestants in those
days, and the French called themselves Catholics. There was no quibble
about "their being Anglo-Catholics, and the others Roman-Catholics."
They subscribed liberally to the Church, and did not disdain to act
as churchwardens. They kept a sharp look-out upon the parson, and one
of your Modern High Church Protestants or Puseyites or Ritualists
would have got the sack after the first sermon. They were intensely
national. Any Englishman in those days who refused to fight a duel
with a Frenchman was sent to Coventry, and bullied out of the place.
English girls who flirted with foreigners, were looked upon very much
as white women who permit the addresses of a nigger, are looked upon
by those English who have lived in black countries. White women who do
these things lose caste. Beauséjour, the château taken by the family,
was inhabited by the Maréchale de Menon in 1778, and eventually became
the property of her _homme d'affaires_, Monsieur Froguet. The dear old
place stands on the right bank of the Loire, halfway up the heights
that bound the stream, commanding a splendid view, and fronted by a
French garden and vineyards now uprooted. In 1875 I paid it a last
visit, and found a friend from Brazil, a Madame Izarié, widow of my
friend the French Consul of Bahía, who had come to die in the house of
his sister, Madame Froguet.

Tours was in those days (1820-30) the most mediæval City in France.
The western half of the city, divided from the eastern by the Rue
Royale, contained a number of old turreted houses of freestone, which
might have belonged to the fifteenth century. There also was the tomb
of the Venerable St. Martin in a crypt, where lamps are ever burning,
and where the destroyed cathedral has not yet been rebuilt. The
eastern city contained the grand Cathedral of St. Garcien, with its
domed towers, and the Archévêché or Archbishop's palace with beautiful
gardens. Both are still kept in the best order. In forty-five years the
city has grown enormously. The southern suburbs, where the Mall and
Ramparts used to be, has become Boulevards Heurteloup and Béranger;
and "Places," such as that of the Palais de Justice, where cabbage
gardens fenced with paling and thorn hedges once showed a few pauper
cottages defended by the fortifications, are now Crescents and Kiosks
for loungers, houses with tall mansarde roofs, and the large railway
station that connects Tours with the outer world. The river, once
crossed by a single long stone bridge, has now two suspension bridges
and a railway bridge, and the river-holms, formerly strips of sand,
are now grown to double their size, covered with trees and defended by
stone dykes.

I remember passing over the river on foot when it was frozen, but
with the increased population that no longer happens. Still there are
vestiges of the old establishments. The Boule d'Or with its Golden
Ball, and the Pheasant Hotel, both in the Rue Royale, still remain.
You still read, "Maison Piernadine recommended for _is_ elegance, _is_
good taste, _is_ new fashions of the first choice." Madame Fisterre,
the maker of admirable apple-puffs, has disappeared and has left no
sign. This was, as may be supposed, one of my first childish visits. We
young ones enjoyed ourselves very much at the Château de Beauséjour,
eating grapes in the garden, putting our Noah's ark animals under the
box hedges, picking snail-shells and cowslips in the lanes, playing
with the dogs--three black pointers of splendid breed, much admired by
the Duke of Cumberland when he afterwards saw them in Richmond Park,
named Juno, Jupiter, and Ponto. Charlotte Ling, the old nurse, daughter
of the lodge-keeper at Barham House, could not stand the absence of
beef and beer and the presence of kickshaws and dandelion salad, and
after Aunt Georgina Baker had paid us a visit, she returned with her
to Old England. A favourite amusement of us children was swarming up
the tails of our father's horses, three in number, and one--a horse
of Mecklenburg breed--was as tame as an Arab. The first story Aunt
Georgina used to tell of me was of my lying on my back in a broiling
sun, and exclaiming, "How I love a bright burning sun!" (Nature
speaking in early years). Occasional drawbacks were violent storms of
thunder and lightning, when we children were hustled out of our little
cots under the roof, and taken to the drawing-room, lest the lightning
should strike us, and the daily necessity of learning the alphabet and
so forth, multiplication table, and our prayers.

I was intended for that wretched being, the infant phenomenon, and so
began Latin at three and Greek at four. Things are better now. Our
father used to go out wild-boar hunting in the _Forêt d'Amboise_, where
is the château in which Abd-el-Kadir was imprisoned by the French
Government from 1847 to 1852, when he was set free by Napoleon III.,
at the entreaties of Lord Londonderry. (It is said that his Majesty
entered his prison in person and set him free. Abd-el-Kadir, at
Damascus, often expressed his obligations to the English, and warmly
welcomed any English face. On one occasion I took a near relation of
Lord Londonderry's to see him, and he was quite overcome.) My father
was periodically brought home hurt by running against a tree. Sport was
so much in vogue then as to come between the parson and his sermon.

[Sidenote: _His First School._]

This pleasant life came to a close one day. We were three: I was six,
Maria four, and Edward three. One morning saw the hateful school-books
fastened with a little strap, and we boys and our little bundle were
conveyed in a small carriage to the town, where we were introduced
into a room with a number of English and French boys, who were sitting
opposite hacked and ink-spotted desks, looking as demure as they could,
though every now and then they broke out into wicked grins and nudges.
A lame Irish schoolmaster (Clough) smiled most graciously at us as
long as our father was in the room, but was not half so pleasant when
we were left alone. We wondered "what we were doing in that _Galère_,"
especially as we were sent there day after day, and presently we learnt
the dread truth that we were at school at the ripe ages of six and
three. Presently it was found that the house was at an inconvenient
distance from school, and the family transferred itself to the Rue de
l'Archévêché, a very nice house in the north-eastern corner of what is
still the best street in the town (Rue Royale being mostly commercial).
It is close to the Place and the Archbishop's palace, which delighted
us, with small deer feeding about the dwarf lawn.

Presently Mr. Clough ran away, leaving his sister to follow as best she
could, and we were transferred to the care of Mr. John Gilchrist, a
Scotch pedagogue of the old brutal school, who took an especial delight
in caning the boys, especially with a rattan or ferula across the palm
of the hand; but we were not long in discovering a remedy, by splitting
the end of the cane and inserting a bit of hair. We took lessons in
drawing, dancing, French, and music, in which each child showed its
individuality. Maria loved all four; Edward took to French and music
and hated drawing; I took to French and drawing, and hated music and
dancing. My brother and I took to the study of Arms, by nature, as soon
as we could walk, at first with popguns and spring pistols and tin and
wooden sabres, and I can quite well remember longing to kill the porter
at five years old, because he laughed at our _sabres de bois_ and
_pistolets de paille_.

I was a boy of three ideas. Usually if a child is forbidden to eat
the sugar or to lap up the cream he simply either obeys or does the
contrary; but I used to place myself before the sugar and cream and
carefully study the question, "Have I the courage not to touch them?"
When I was quite sure of myself that I had the courage I instantly
rewarded resolution by emptying one or both. Moreover, like most
boys of strong imagination and acute feeling, I was a resolute and
unblushing liar; I used to ridicule the idea of my honour being any
way attached to telling the truth, I considered it an impertinence the
being questioned, I never could understand what moral turpitude there
could be in a lie, _unless it was told for fear of the consequences_ of
telling the truth, or one that would attach blame to another person.
That feeling continued for many a year, and at last, as very often
happens, as soon as I realized that a lie was contemptible, it ran into
quite the other extreme, a disagreeable habit of scrupulously telling
the truth whether it was timely or not.[1]

The school was mostly manned by English boys, sprinkled with French,
and the mixture of the two formed an ungodly article, and the Italian
proverb--

    "Un Inglese Italianato
    È un Diavolo incarnato"

may be applied with quite as much truth to English boys brought up
in France. To succeed in English life, boys must be brought up in a
particular groove. First the preparatory school, then Eton and Oxford,
with an occasional excursion to France, Italy, and Germany, to learn
languages, not of Stratford-atte-Bowe, and to find out that England is
not the whole world. I never met any of my Tours schoolfellows save
one--Blayden Edward Hawke, who became a Commander in the Navy, and died
in 1877.

We boys became perfect devilets, and played every kind of trick despite
the rattan. Fighting the French gutter-boys with sticks and stones,
fists, and snowballs was a favourite amusement, and many a donkey-lad
went home with ensanguined nose, whilst occasionally we got the worst
of it from some big brother. The next favourite game was playing
truant, passing the day in utter happiness, fancying ourselves Robinson
Crusoes, and wandering about the strip of wood (long since doomed to
fuel) at the top of the Tranchée. Our father and mother went much into
the society of the place, which was gay and pleasant, and we children
were left more or less to the servants. We boys beat all our bonnes,
generally by running at their petticoats and upsetting them. There was
one particular case when a new nurse arrived, a huge Norman girl, who
at first imposed upon this turbulent nursery by her breadth of shoulder
and the general rigour of her presence. One unlucky day we walked to
the Faubourg at the south-east of the town, the only part of old Tours
now remaining; the old women sat spinning and knitting at their cottage
doors, and remarked loud enough for us boys to hear, "Ah ça! ces
petits gamins! Voilà une honnête bonne qui ne leur laissera pas faire
des farces!" Whereupon Euphrosyne became as proud as a peacock, and
insisted upon a stricter discipline than we were used to. That forest
walk ended badly. A jerk of the arm on her part brought on a general
attack from the brood; the poor bonne measured her length upon the
ground, and we jumped upon her. The party returned, she with red eyes,
torn cap, and downcast looks, and we hooting and jeering loudly, and
calling the old women "Les Mères Pomponnes," who screamed predictions
that we should come to the guillotine.

Our father and mother had not much idea of managing their children; it
was like the old tale of the hen who hatched ducklings. By way of a
wholesome and moral lesson of self-command and self-denial, our mother
took us past Madame Fisterre's windows, and bade us look at all the
good things in the window, during which we fixed our ardent affections
upon a tray of apple-puffs; then she said, "Now, my dears, let us go
away; it is so good for little children to restrain themselves." Upon
this we three devilets turned flashing eyes and burning cheeks upon our
moralizing mother, broke the windows with our fists, clawed out the
tray of apple-puffs, and bolted, leaving poor mother a sadder and a
wiser woman, to pay the damages of her lawless brood's proceedings.

Talking of the guillotine, the schoolmaster unwisely allowed the boys,
by way of a school-treat, to see the execution of a woman who killed
her small family by poisoning, on condition that they would look away
when the knife descended; but of course that was just the time (with
such an injunction) when every small neck was craned and eyes strained
to look, and the result was that the whole school played at guillotine
for a week, happily without serious accidents.[2]

[Sidenote: _Trips._]

The residence at Tours was interrupted by occasional trips, summering
in other places, especially at St. Malo. The seaport then thoroughly
deserved the slighting notice, to which it was subjected by Captain
Marryat, and the house in the Faubourg was long remembered from its
tall avenue of old yew trees, which afforded abundant bird's-nesting.
At Dieppe the gallops on the sands were very much enjoyed, for we were
put on horseback as soon as we could straddle. Many a fall was of
course the result, and not a few broken heads, whilst the rival French
boys were painfully impressed by the dignity of spurs and horsewhips.

[Sidenote: _Grandmamma Baker._]

At times relations came over to visit us, especially Grandmamma Baker
(Grandmamma Baker was a very peculiar character). Her arrival was a
signal for presents and used to be greeted with tremendous shouts of
delight, but the end of a week always brought on a quarrel. Our mother
was rather thin and delicate, but our grandmother was a thorough old
Macgregor, of the Helen or the Rob Roy type, and was as quick to resent
an affront as any of her clan. Her miniature shows that she was an
extremely handsome woman, who retained her good looks to the last. When
her stepson, Richard Baker, jun., inherited his money, £80,000, he went
to Paris and fell into the hands of the celebrated Baron de Thierry.
This French friend persuaded him to embark in the pleasant little
speculation of building a bazaar. By the time the walls began to grow
above ground the Englishman had finished £60,000, and, seeing that a
million would hardly finish the work, he sold off his four greys and
fled Paris post-haste in a post-chaise. The Baron Thierry followed him
to London, and, bold as brass, presented himself as an injured creditor
at grandmamma's pretty little house in Park Lane. The old lady replied
by summoning her servants and having him literally kicked downstairs in
true Highland fashion. That Baron's end is well known in history. He
made himself king of one of the Cannibal Islands in the South Sea, and
ended by being eaten by his ungrateful subjects.

Grandmamma Baker was determined to learn French, and, accordingly,
secured a professor. The children's great delight was to ambuscade
themselves, and to listen with joy to the lessons. "What is the sun?"
"Le soleil, madame!" "La solelle." "Non, madame. Le so--leil." "Oh,
pooh! La solelle." After about six repetitions of the same, roars
of laughter issued from the curtains--we of course speaking French
like English, upon which the old lady would jump up and catch hold of
the nearest delinquent and administer condign punishment. She had a
peculiar knack of starting the offender, compelling him to describe a
circle of which she was the centre, whilst, holding with the left hand,
she administered smacks and cuffs with the right; but, as every mode
of attack has its own defence, it was soon found out that the proper
corrective was to throw one's self on one's back, and give vigorous
kicks with both legs. It need hardly be said that Grandmamma predicted
that Jack Ketch would make acquaintance with the younger scions of her
race, and that she never arrived at speaking French like a Parisian.

[Sidenote: _Grandmamma Burton._]

Grandmamma Burton was also peculiar in her way. Her portrait shows the
regular Bourbon traits, the pear-shaped face and head which culminates
in Louis Philippe's. Although the wife of a country clergyman, she
never seemed to have attained the meekness of feeling associated with
that peaceful calling. The same thing is told of her as was told
of the Edgeworth family. On one occasion during the absence of her
husband, the house at Tuam was broken into by thieves, probably some
of her petted tenantry. She lit a candle and went upstairs to fetch
some gunpowder, loaded her pistols, and ran down to the hall, when
the robbers decamped. She asked the raw Irish servant girl who had
accompanied her what had become of the light, and the answer was that
it was standing on the barrel of "black salt" upstairs; thereupon
Grandmamma Burton had the pluck to walk up to the garret and expose
herself to the risk of being blown to smithereens. When my father
returned from service in Sicily, at the end of the year, he found the
estate in a terrible condition, and obtained his mother's leave to take
the matter in hand. He invited all the tenants to dinner, and when
speech time came on, after being duly blarneyed by all present, he made
a little address, dwelling with some vigour upon the necessity of being
for the future more regular with the "rint." Faces fell, and the only
result was, that when the rent came to be collected, he was fired at
so frequently (showing that this state of things had been going on for
some sixty or seventy years), that, not wishing to lead the life of the
"Galway woodcock," he gave up the game, and allowed matters to take
their own course.

[Sidenote: _Aunt G._]

Another frequent visitor was popularly known as "Aunt G."--Georgina
Baker, the younger of the three sisters, who was then in the heyday
of youth and high spirits. An extremely handsome girl, with blue eyes
and dark hair and fine tall figure, she was the life of the house as
long as her visits lasted. Her share of the property being £30,000, she
had of course a number of offers from English as well as foreigners.
On the latter she soon learned to look shy, having heard that one of
her rejected suitors had exclaimed to his friend, "Quelle dommage,
avec cette petite ferme à vendre," the wished-for farm, adjoining his
property, happening then to be in the market. Heiresses are not always
fortunate, and she went on refusing suitor after suitor, till ripe
middle age, when she married Robert Bagshaw, Esq., M.P. for Harwich.
She wanted to adopt me, intending to accompany me to Oxford and leave
me her property, but this project had no stay in it. At the time she
was at Tours, Aunt G. had a kind of "fad" that she would marry one
of her brother-in-law Burton's brothers. Her eldest sister Sarah had
married my uncle Burton, elder brother of my father, who, sorely
against his wish, which pointed to the Church, had been compelled by
the failure of the "rint" to become an army surgeon--the same who had
the disappointment at St. Helena.

At last it became apparent that Tours was no longer a place for us
who were approaching the ticklish time of teens. All Anglo-French
boys generally were remarkable young ruffians, who, at ten years of
age, cocked their hats and loved the ladies. Instead of fighting and
fagging, they broke the fine old worked glass church windows, purloined
their fathers' guns to shoot at the monuments in the churchyards, and
even the shops and bazaars were not safe from their impudent raids.
The ringleader of the gang was a certain Alek G----, the son of a
Scotchmen of good family, who was afterwards connected with or was the
leading spirit of a transaction, which gave a tablet and an inscription
to Printing House Square. Alek was very handsome, and his two sisters
were as good looking as himself. He died sadly enough at a hospital
in Paris. Political matters, too, began to look queer. The revolution
which hurled Charles X. from the throne, produced no outrages in quiet
Tours, beyond large gatherings of the people with an immense amount
of noise, especially of "_Vive la Chatte!_" (for La Charte), the good
_commères_ turning round and asking one another whom the Cat might be
that the people wished it so long a life; but when Casimir Périer had
passed through the town, and "the three glorious days of July" had
excited the multitude, things began to look black, and cries of "_À
bas les Anglais!_" were not uncommon. An Englishmen was threatened
with prison because the horse he was driving accidentally knocked
down an old woman, and a French officer of the line, who was fond of
associating with English girls, was grossly insulted and killed in a
dastardly duel by a pastrycook.

[Sidenote: _They leave Tours._]

At last, after a long deliberation, the family resolved to leave Tours.
Travelling in those days, especially for a large family, was a severe
infliction. The old travelling carriages, which had grown shabby in
the coach-house, had to be taken out and furbished up, and all the
queer receptacles, imperial, boot, sword-case, and plate-chest, to be
stuffed with miscellaneous luggage. After the usual sale by auction, my
father took his departure, perhaps mostly regretted by a little knot
of Italian exiles, whom he liked on account of his young years spent
in Sicily, and whose society not improbably suggested his ultimate
return to Italy. Then began the journey along the interminable avenues
of the old French roads, lined with parallel rows of poplars, which
met at a vanishing point of the far distance. I found exactly the same
thing, when travelling through Lower Canada in 1860. Mighty dull work
it was, whilst the French postilion in his seven-league boots jogged
along with his horses at the rate of five miles an hour, never dreaming
of increasing the rate, till he approached some horridly paved town,
when he cracked his whip, like a succession of pistol shots, to the awe
and delight of all the sabots. Very slow hours they were, especially as
the night wore on, and the road, gleaming white between its two dark
edges, looked of endless length. And when at last the inn was reached,
it proved very unlike the inn of the present day. A hard bargain had
to be driven with a rapacious landlady, who, if you objected to her
charges, openly roared at you with arms akimbo, "that if you were not
rich enough to travel, you ought to stay at home." Then the beds had to
be inspected, the damp sheets to be aired, and the warming-pans to be
ordered, and, as dinner had always to be prepared after arrival, it was
not unusual to sit hungry for a couple of hours.

The fatigues of the journey seriously affected my mother's health,
and she lost no time in falling very ill at Chartres. Then Grandmamma
Baker was sent for to act _garde-malade_, and to awe the children, who
were wild with delight at escaping school and masters, with the weight
of her sturdy Scotch arm. The family passed through Paris, where the
signs of fighting, bullets in the walls, and burnt houses, had not been
wholly obliterated, and were fortunate enough to escape the cholera,
which then for the first time attacked Europe in its very worst form.
Grandmamma Baker was very nearly as bad, for she almost poisoned her
beloved grandchildren, by stuffing our noses and mouths full of the
strongest camphor whenever we happened to pass through a town. The
cold plunge into English life was broken by loitering on the sands of
Dieppe. A wonderful old ramshackle place it was in those days, holding
a kind of intermediate place between the dulness of Calais and the
liveliness of "Boolone," as the denizens called it. It wanted the fine
hotels and the _Établissement_, which grew up under the Second Empire,
but there was during the summer a pleasant, natural kind of life,
living almost exclusively upon the sands and dipping in the water,
galloping about on little ponies, and watching the queer costumes of
the bathers, and discussing the new-comers. Though railways were not
dreamt of, many Parisians used to affect the place, and part of the
French nature seems to be, to rush into the sea as soon as they see it.

[1] N.B.--From that he became a man wholly truthful, wholly
incorruptible, who never lost his "dignity," a man whose honour and
integrity from the cradle to the grave was unimpeachable.--I. B.

[2] N.B.--This kind of _indulgence_ should never be allowed by parents
or tutors. During our eighteen years in Austria, there were some
parents up the Slav district who allowed their two eldest children, boy
and girl, six and seven, to see the pigs killed for a treat. They saw
everything, to the hanging up of the pigs ready for buying. Next day
the mother went down to the Trieste market, father to work, and the
children were left in charge of the cottage. When the parents got near
the cottage in late afternoon, the two children ran out and said, "We
have had such fun, mamma; we have played all day at killing pigs, and
we have done baby beautifully, and he squealed at first just like a
real pig." The horrified parents rushed in, and found truly that baby
was beautifully done, hanging up by the legs, his poor little stomach
kept open by a bit of wood just like a real pig, and had been dead for
hours.--I. B.



CHAPTER III.

THE CHILDREN ARE BROUGHT TO ENGLAND.


Landing in England was dolorous. Grandmamma Baker inflated her
nostrils, and, delighted at escaping from those _crapauds_ and their
kickshaws, quoted with effusion her favourite Cowper, "England, with
all thy faults, I love thee still." The children scoffed. The air
of Brighton, full of smoke and blacks, appeared to them unfit for
breathing. The cold grey seas made them shudder. In the town everything
appeared so small, so prim, so mean, the little one-familied houses
contrasting in such a melancholy way with the big buildings of Tours
and Paris. We revolted against the coarse and half-cooked food, and,
accustomed to the excellent Bordeaux of France, we found port, sherry,
and beer like strong medicine; the bread, all crumb and no crust,
appeared to be half baked, and milk meant chalk and water. The large
joints of meat made us think of Robinson Crusoe, and the vegetables
_cuite à l'eau_, especially the potatoes, which had never heard of
_"Maître d'hôtel"_ suggested the roots of primitive man. Moreover,
the national temper, fierce and surly, was a curious contrast to the
light-hearted French of middle France. A continental lady of those
days cautioned her son, who was about to travel, against ridicule in
France and the _canaille_ in England. The little children punched one
another's heads on the sands, the boys punched one another's heads
in the streets, and in those days a stand-up fight between men was
not uncommon. Even the women punched their children, and the whole
lower-class society seemed to be governed by the fist.

[Sidenote: _School at Richmond._]

My father had determined to send his boys to Eton to prepare for
Oxford and Cambridge. In the mean time some blundering friend had
recommended him a preparatory school. This was kept by the Rev.
Charles Delafosse, who rejoiced in the title of Chaplain to the Duke
of Cumberland, a scion of royalty, who had, apparently, very little
to do with the Church. Accordingly, the family went to Richmond, the
only excitement of the journey being the rage of the post-boys, when we
boys on the box furtively poked their horses with long sticks. After
sundry attempts at housing themselves in the tiny doll-rooms in the
stuffy village, they at last found a house, so called by courtesy,
in "Maids of Honour Row," between the river and the Green, a house
with a strip of garden fronting it, which a sparrow could hop across
in thirty seconds. Opening upon the same Green, stood that horror of
horrors, the school, or the "Establishment," as it would _now_ be
called. It consisted of a large block of buildings (detached), lying
between the Green and the Old Town, which has long been converted into
dwelling-houses. In those days it had a kind of paling round a paddock,
forming a long parallelogram, which enclosed some fine old elm trees.
One side was occupied by the house, and the other by the school-room.
In the upper stories of the former, were the dormitories with their
small white beds, giving the idea of the Lilliput Hospital; a kind of
outhouse attached to the dwelling was the place where the boys fed
at two long tables stretching the whole length of the room. The only
decoration of the palings were names cut all over their inner surfaces
and rectangular nails at the top, acting as _chevaux de frise_. The
school-room was the usual scene of hacked and well-used benches and
ink-stained desks, everything looking as mean and uncomfortable as
possible.

This was the kind of Dotheboys Hall, to which, in those days, gentlemen
were contented to send their sons, paying a hundred a year, besides
"perquisites" (plunder): on the Continent the same treatment would be
had for £20.

The Rev. Charles was a bluff and portly man, with dark hair and short
whiskers, whose grand aquiline nose took a prodigious deal of snuff,
and was not over active with the rod; but he was no more fit to be a
schoolmaster than the Grand Cham of Tartary. He was, however, rather a
favourite with the boys, and it was shrewdly whispered, that at times
he returned from dining abroad half-seas over. His thin-lipped wife
took charge of the _ménage_, and looked severely after the provisions,
and swayed with an iron sceptre the maid-servants, who had charge of
the smaller boys. The ushers were the usual consequential lot of those
days. There was the handsome and dressy usher, a general favourite with
the fair; the shabby and mild usher, despised by even the smallest boy;
and the unfortunate French usher, whose life was a fair foretaste of
Purgatory.

Instead of learning anything at this school, my brother and I lost much
of what we knew, especially in French, and the principal acquisitions
were, a certain facility of using our fists, and a general development
of ruffianism. I was in one perpetual scene of fights; at one time I
had thirty-two affairs of honour to settle, the place of meeting being
the school-room, with the elder boys sitting in judgment. On the first
occasion I received a blow in the eye, which I thought most unfair, and
having got my opponent down I proceeded to hammer his head against the
ground, using his ears by way of handles. My indignation knew no bounds
when I was pulled off by the bystanders, and told to let my enemy stand
up again. "Stand up!" I cried, "after all the trouble I've had to get
the fellow down." At last the fighting went on to such an extent, that
I was beaten as thin as a shotten herring, and the very servant-maids,
when washing me on Saturday night, used to say, "Drat the child! what
has he been doing? he's all black and blue." Edward fought just as well
as I did, but he was younger and more peaceable. Maria says that I was
a thin, dark little boy, with small features and large black eyes, and
was extremely proud, sensitive, shy, nervous, and of a melancholy,
affectionate disposition. Such is the effect of a boys' school after a
few months' trial, when the boys learn to despise mother and sisters,
and to affect the rough as much as possible, and this is not only in
England, but everywhere where the boy first escapes from petticoat
government. He does not know what to do to show his manliness. There is
no stronger argument in favour of mixed schools, up to a _certain age_,
of boys and girls together.

At the little Richmond theatre we were taken to see Edmund Kean, who
lived in a cottage on the Green. He had gentle blood in his veins,
grandson (illegitimate) of George Savile, Marquis of Halifax, and
that accounted for his Italian, or rather un-John-Bull appearance,
and for his fiery power. I saw him in his famous Richard III. _rôle_,
and remember only what old Colley Grattan described, "Looks bloated
with brandy, nose red, cheeks blotched, and eyes blood-shot." He was
drinking himself to death. His audience appeared not a little afraid of
him; perhaps they had heard of the Guernsey scene, where he stood at
the footlights and flashed out, "Unmannered dogs! stand ye where _I_
command."

Our parents very unwisely determined to correct all personal vanity
in their offspring by always dwelling upon our ugliness. My nose was
called cocked; it was a Cross which I had to carry, and was a perpetual
plague to me; and I was assured that the only decent feature in my face
was my teeth. Maria, on account of her fresh complexion, was called
Blousabella; and even Edward, whose features were perfect, and whom
Frenchmen used to stop and stare at in the streets, and call him "Le
petit Napoleon," was told to nauseousness that "handsome is as handsome
does." In later life we were dressed in a marvellous fashion; a piece
of yellow nankin would be bought to dress the whole family, like three
sticks of barley sugar. Such was the discipline of the day, and nothing
could be more ill-judged; it inflicted an amount of torment upon
sensitive children which certainly was not intended, but which had the
very worst effect.

If we children quarrelled, and turned up our noses at the food in
English hotels, what must have been our surprise at the food of an
English school? Breakfast at 8 a.m., consisting of very blue milk and
water, in chipped and broken-handled mugs of the same colour. The
boys were allowed tea from home, but it was a perpetual battle to get
a single drink of it. The substantials were a wedge of bread with a
glazing of butter. The epicures used to collect the glazing to the end
of the slice in order to convert it into a final _bonne bouche_. The
dinner at one o'clock began with stickjaw (pudding) and ended with
meat, as at all second-rate schools. The latter was as badly cooked as
possible, black out and blue inside, gristly and sinewy. The vegetables
were potatoes, which could serve for grapeshot, and the hateful carrot.
Supper was a repetition of breakfast, and, at an age when boys were
making bone and muscle, they went hungry to bed.

Occasionally the pocket-money and tips were clubbed, and a "room"
would go in for a midnight feed of a quartern loaf, ham, polony, and
saveloys, with a quantity of beer and wine, which generally led to
half a dozen fights. Saturday was a day to be feared on account of its
peculiar pie, which contained all the waifs and strays of the week.
On the Sunday there was an attempt at plum-pudding of a peculiarly
pale and leaden hue, as if it had been unjustly defrauded of its
due allowance of plums. And this dull routine lasted throughout the
scholastic year. School hours were from seven till nine, and ten to
one, and three to five, without other changes, save at the approach
of the holidays, when a general burst of singing, locally called
"challenging," took place. Very few were the schoolfellows we met in
after life. The ragged exceptions were Guildford Onslow, the Claimant's
friend. Tuckey Baines, as he was called on account of his exploits
on Saturday pie, went into the Bombay army, and was as disagreeable
and ill-conditioned as when he was a bully at school. He was locally
celebrated for hanging the wrong Mahommad, and for his cure for Sindee
litigiousness, by making complainant and defendant flog each other in
turn. The only schoolboy who did anything worthy, was Bobby Delafosse
(who was appointed to the 26th Regiment, N.I.), who showed immense
pluck, and died fighting bravely in the Indian Mutiny. I met him in
Bombay shortly before I went off to the North-West Provinces, but my
remembrances of the school were so painful, that I could not bear to
recognize him. In fact, that part of life, which most boys dwell upon
with the greatest pleasure, and concerning which, most autobiographers
tell the longest stories--school and college--was ever a nightmare to
us. It was like the "Blacking-shop" of Charles Dickens.

[Sidenote: _Measles disperse the School._]

Before the year concluded, an attack of measles broke out in the
school, several of the boys died, and it was found necessary to
disperse the survivors. We were not hard-hearted, but we were delighted
to get home. We worked successfully on the fears of Aunt G., which was
assisted by my cadaverous appearance, and it was resolved to move us
from school, to our infinite joy. My father had also been thoroughly
sick of "Maids of Honour Row" and "Richmond Green." He was sighing for
shooting and boar-hunting in the French forests, and he felt that he
had done quite enough for the education of the boys, which was turning
out so badly. He resolved to bring us up abroad, and picked up the
necessary assistance for educating us by tutor and governess. Miss
Ruxton, a stout red-faced girl, was thoroughly up in the three R's, and
was intended to direct Maria's education. Mr. Du Pré, an undergraduate
at Exeter College, Oxford, son of the Rector of Berkhampstead, wanted
to see life on the Continent, and was not unwilling to see it with a
salary. He was an awkward-looking John Bull article, with a narrow
forehead, eyes close together, and thick lips, which secured him a
perpetual course of caricaturing. He used to hit out hard whenever he
found the caricatures, but only added bitterness to them. Before he had
been in the family a week, I obliged him with a sketch of his tomb and
the following inscription:--

    "Stand, passenger! hang down thy head and weep,
    A young man from Exeter here doth sleep;
    If any one ask who that young man be,
    'Tis the Devil's dear friend and companion--Du Pré"--

which was merely an echo of Shakespeare and John à Combe, but it showed
a fine sense of independence.

I really caught the measles at school, and was nursed by Grandmamma
Baker in Park Street. It was the only infantine malady that I ever
had. The hooping-cough only attacked me on my return from Harar, when
staying with my friend Dr. Steinhaüser at Aden, in 1853. As soon as
I was well enough to travel, the family embarked at the Tower Wharf
for Boulogne. We boys scandalized every one on board. We shrieked,
we whooped, we danced for joy. We shook our fists at the white
cliffs, and loudly hoped we should never see them again. We hurrah'd
for France, and hooted for England, "The Land on which the Sun ne'er
sets--nor rises," till the sailor who was hoisting the Jack, looked
upon us as a pair of little monsters. In our delight at getting away
from school and the stuffy little island, we had no idea of the
disadvantages which the new kind of life would inflict on our future
careers. We were too young to know. A man who brings up his family
abroad, and who lives there for years, must expect to lose all the
friends who could be useful to him when he wishes to start them in
life. The conditions of society in England are so complicated, and
so artificial, that those who would make their way in the world,
especially in public careers, must be broken to it from their earliest
day. The future soldiers and statesmen must be prepared by Eton and
Cambridge. The more English they are, even to the cut of their hair,
the better. In consequence of being brought up abroad, we never
thoroughly understood English society, nor did society understand us.
And, lastly, it is a _real_ advantage to belong to some parish. It is a
great thing, when you have won a battle, or explored Central Africa, to
be welcomed home by some little corner of the Great World, which takes
a pride in your exploits, because they reflect honour upon itself. In
the contrary condition you are a waif, a stray; you are a blaze of
light, without a focus. Nobody outside your own fireside cares.

No man ever gets on in the world, or rises to the head of affairs,
unless he is a representative of his nation. Taking the marking
characters of the last few years--Palmerston, Thiers, Cavour, and
Bismarck--what were they but simply the types of their various
nationalities? In point of intellect Cavour was a first-rate man,
Thiers second-rate, Palmerston third-rate, whilst Bismarck was
strength, Von Moltke brain. Their success in life was solely owing to
their representing the failings, as well as the merits of their several
nationalities. Thiers, for instance, was the most thoroughbred possible
_épicier_, and yet look at his success. And his death was mourned even
in England, and yet he was the bitterest enemy that England ever had.
His Chauvinism did more than the Crimean War to abolish the prestige
of England. Unhappily for his Chauvinism, it also thoroughly abolished
France.

Mr. Du Pré, the tutor, and Miss Ruxton, the governess, had their work
cut out for them. They attempted to commence with a strict discipline;
for instance, the family passing through Paris lodged at the Hôtel
Windsor, and they determined to walk the youngsters out school fashion.
The consequence was that when the walk extended to the boulevards, the
young ones, on agreement, knowing Paris well, suddenly ran away, and
were home long before the unfortunate strangers could find their way,
and reported that their unlucky tutor and governess had been run over
by an omnibus. There was immense excitement till the supposed victims
walked in immensely tired, having wandered over half Paris, not being
able to find their way. A scene followed, but the adversaries respected
each other more after that day.

The difficulty was now where to colonize. One of the peculiarities of
the little English colonies was the unwillingness of their denizens to
return to them when once they had left them. My father had been very
happy at Tours, and yet he religiously avoided it. He passed through
Orleans--a horrid hole, with as many smells as Cologne--and tried to
find a suitable country house near it, but in vain; everything seemed
to smell of goose and gutter. Then he drifted on to Blois, in those
days a kind of home of the British stranger, and there he thought
proper to call a halt. At last a house was found on the high ground
beyond the city, which, like Tours, lies mainly on the left bank of
the river, and where most of the English colonists dwelt. There is no
necessity of describing this little bit of England in France, which
was very like Tours. When one describes one colony, one describes them
all. The notables were Sir Joseph Leeds, Colonel Burnes, and a sister
of Sir Stamford Raffles, who lived in the next-door villa, if such a
term may be applied to a country house in France in 1831. The only
difference from Tours was, there was no celebrated physician, no pack
of hounds, and no parson. Consequently service on Sundays had to be
read at home by the tutor, and the evening was distinguished by one of
Blair's sermons. This was read out by us children, each taking a turn.
The discourse was from one of Blair's old three volumes, which appeared
to have a soporific effect upon the audience. Soft music was gradually
heard proceeding from the nasal organs of father and mother, tutor and
governess; and then we children, preserving the same tone of voice,
entered into a conversation, and discussed matters, until the time came
to a close.

[Sidenote: _Education at Blois._]

At Blois we were now entering upon our teens; our education was
beginning in real earnest. Poor Miss Ruxton soon found her task
absolutely impossible, and threw up the service. A schoolroom
was instituted, where time was wasted upon Latin and Greek for
six or seven hours a day, besides which there was a French
master--one of those obsolete little old men, who called themselves
_Professeurs-ès-lettres_, and the great triumph of whose life was that
he had read Herodotus in the original. The dancing-master was a large
and pompous oldster, of course an _ancien militaire_, whose kit and
whose capers were by contrast peculiarly ridiculous, and who quoted at
least once every visit, "Oh, Richard! oh, mon roi!" He taught, besides
country dances, square and round, the Minuet de la Cour, the Gavotte
de Vestris, and a Danse Chinoise, which consisted mainly in turning
up thumbs and toes. The only favourite amongst all those professors
was the fencing-master, also an old soldier, who had lost the thumb
of his right hand in the wars, which of course made him a _gauché_ in
loose fencing. We boys gave ourselves up with ardour to this study,
and passed most of our leisure hours in exchanging thrusts. We soon
learned not to neglect the mask: I passed my foil down Edward's throat,
and nearly destroyed his uvula, which caused me a good deal of sorrow.
The amusements consisted chiefly of dancing at evening parties, we
boys choosing the tallest girls, especially a very tall Miss Donovan.
A little fishing was to be had, my father being a great amateur. There
were long daily walks, swimming in summer, and brass cannons, bought in
the toy shops, were loaded to bursting.

The swimming was very easily taught; in the present day boys and
girls go to school and learn it like dancing. In our case Mr. Du Pré
supported us by a hand under the stomach, taught us how to use our arms
and legs, and to manage our breath, after which he withdrew his hand
and left us to float as we best could.

This life lasted for a year, till all were thoroughly tired of it.
Our father and mother were imperceptibly lapsing into the category
of professed invalids, like people who have no other business in
life, except to be sick. This was a class exceptionally common in the
unoccupied little English colonies that studded the country. It was
a far robuster institution than the Parisian invalid, whose object
in life was to appear _maladive et souffrante_. The British _malade_
consumed a considerable quantity of butcher's meat, but although he
or she always saw death in the pot, they had not the moral courage to
refuse what disagreed with them. They tried every kind of drug and
nostrum known, and answered every advertisement, whether it agreed
with their complaint or not. Their _table de nuit_ was covered with
bottles and gallipots. They dressed themselves three or four times a
day for the change of climate, and insensibly acquired a horror of
dining out, or passing the evening away from home. They had a kind
of rivalry with other invalids; nothing offended them more than to
tell them that they were in strong health, and that if they had been
hard-worked professionals in England, they would have been ill once a
year, instead of once a month. Homœopathy was a great boon to them, and
so was hydropathy. So was the grape-cure and all the humbug invented
by non-professionals, such as hunger-cure and all that nonsense.

Our parents suffered from asthma, an honest and respectable kind of
complaint, which if left to itself, allows you, like gout, to last till
your eightieth year, but treated systematically, and with the aid of
the doctor, is apt to wear you out. Grandmamma Baker, who came over to
Blois, compared them in her homely Scotch fashion to two buckets in a
well. She was very wroth with my father, when, remembering the days of
his youth, he began to hug the idea of returning to Italy and seeing
the sun, and the general conclusion of her philippics ("You'll kill
your wife, sir") did not change his resolution. She even insinuated
that in the olden day there had been a Sicilian young woman who
received the Englishman's pay, and so distributed it as to keep off
claims. So Grandmamma Baker was sent off to her beloved England, "whose
faults she still loved."

[Sidenote: _They leave Blois for Italy._]

The old yellow chariot was brought out of the dusty coach-house once
more, and furbished up, and, after farewell dinners and parties all
round, the family turned their back on Blois. The journey was long,
being broken by sundry attacks of asthma, and the posting and style
of travel were full of the usual discomforts. In crossing over the
Tarare a drunken postilion nearly threw one of the carriages over the
precipice, and in shooting the Pont de St. Esprit the steamer nearly
came to grief under one of the arches. We stayed a short time in Lyons,
in those days a perfect den of thieves. From Avignon my tutor and I
were driven to the Fountain of Vaucluse, the charming blue well in
the stony mountain, and the memories of Petrarch and Laura were long
remembered. The driver insisted upon a full gallop, and the protests of
the unfortunate Englishman, who declared every quarter of an hour that
he was the father of a large family, were utterly disregarded.

The first view of Provence was something entirely new, and the escape
was hailed from the flat fields and the long poplar avenues of Central
France. Everything, even the most squalid villages, seemed to fall
into a picture. It was something like a sun that burst upon the rocks.
The olive trees laden with purple fruit were a delight after the
apples and pears, and the contrast between the brown rock and the blue
Mediterranean, was quite a new sensation. At Marseilles we embarked
for Leghorn, which was then, in Italy, very much what Lyons was in
France. It was the head-quarters of brigands. Indeed it was reported
that a society existed, whose members were pledged to stab their
fellow-creatures, whenever they could do it safely. And it was brought
to light by the remorse of a son, who had killed his father by mistake.
The Grand Duke of Tuscany, with his weak benevolence, was averse to
shedding blood, and the worst that these wretches expected was to be
dressed in the red or the yellow of the Galeotti, and to sweep the
streets and to bully the passenger for _bakshish_. Another unpleasant
development was the quantity of vermin,--even the washerwoman's head
appeared to be walking off her shoulders. Still there was a touch of
Italian art about the place, in the days before politics and polemics
had made Italian art, with the sole exception of sculpture, the basest
thing on the Continent: the rooms were large, high, and airy, the
frescoes on the ceiling were good, and the pictures had not been sold
to Englishmen, and replaced by badly coloured daubs, and cheap prints
of the illustrated paper type.

[Sidenote: _Pisa._]

After a few days, finding Leghorn utterly unfit to inhabit, my father
determined to transfer himself to Pisa. There, after the usual delay,
he found a lodging on the wrong side of the Arno--that is to say, the
side which does not catch the winter sun--in a huge block of buildings
opposite the then highest bridge. Dante's old "Vituperio delle gante"
was then the dullest abode known to man, except perhaps his sepulchre.
The climate was detestable (Iceland on the non-sunny, Madeira on the
sunny side of the river), but the doctors thought it good enough
for their patients; consequently it was the hospital of a few sick
Britishers upon a large scale. These unfortunates had much better
have been left at home instead of being sent to die of discomfort in
Tuscany, but there they would have died upon the doctor's hands. The
dullness of the place was something preternatural.

The Italians had their own amusements. The principal one was the opera,
a perfect den of impurity, where you were choked by the effluvia of
_pastrane_ or the brigands' cloaks, which descended from grandfather to
grandson. The singing, instrumentation, and acting were equally vile,
but the Pisani had not the critical ferocity of the Livornesi, who
were used to visit the smallest defect with "Torni in iscena, bestia!"
The other form of amusement was the conversazione. Here you entered
about six o'clock, and found an enormous room, with a dwarf sofa and an
avenue of two lines of chairs projecting from it perpendicularly. You
were expected to walk through the latter, which were occupied by the
young women, to the former, upon which sat the dowagers, and after the
three _saluts d'usage_ and the compliments of the season, you backed
out by the way you came in, and then passed the evening leaning over
the back of the chair of the fair dame whose _cavaliere servente_ you
were supposed to be. Refreshments were an occasional glass of cold
water; in luxurious houses there were water ices and sugared wafers.
They complain that we English are not happy in society without eating,
and I confess that I prefer a good beefsteak to cold water and water
ices.

There was no bad feeling between the Italians and English; they simply
ignored one another. Nothing could be shadier than the English colony
at Pisa. As they had left England, the farther they were the more
wretched they became, till they reached the climax at Naples. They
had no club, as at Tours, and they met to read their _Gagliani_ at a
grocer's shop on the Lung' Arno. They had their parson and doctor and
their tea-caddies, but the inhospitable nature of the country--and
certainly Italy is the least given to the savage virtue--seemed to have
affected the strangers. Equally unknown were the dinner-parties of
Tours and the hops of Blois. No one shot and no one fished. A madman
used to plunge through the ice on the Lung' Arno in midwinter, but most
of them contented themselves with promenading the Quai and basking in
its wintry sun till they returned to their stuffy rooms. A good many of
them were half-pay officers. Others were Jamaican planters, men who had
made their fortunes in trade; the rest were nondescripts whom nobody
knew. At times some frightful scandal broke out in consequence of some
gentleman who had left his country for his country's good.

The discomforts of Pisa were considerable. The only fireplace in
those days was a kind of brazier, put in the middle of the room. The
servants were perfect savages, who had to be taught the very elements
of service, and often at the end of the third day a great burly peasant
would take leave, saying, "Non mi basta l'anima!" My father started a
fearful equipage in the shape of a four-wheeled trap, buying for the
same a hammer-headed brute of a horse which at once obtained the name
of "Dobbin." Dobbin was a perfect demon steed, and caused incalculable
misery, as every person was supposed to steal his oats. One of us
boys was sent down to superintend his breakfast, dinner, and supper.
On journeys it was the same, and we would have been delighted to see
Dobbin hanged, drawn, and quartered. We tried riding him in private,
but the brute used to plant his forelegs and kick up and down like a
rocking-horse. The trap was another subject of intense misery. The
wheels were always supposed to be wanting greasing, and as the natives
would steal the grease, it was necessary that one of us should always
superintend the greasing. There is no greater mistake than that of
trying to make boys useful by making them do servant's work.

The work of education went on nimbly, if not merrily. To former
masters was added an Italian master, who was at once dubbed "Signor
No," on account of the energy of his negation. The French master
unfortunately discovered that his three pupils had poetic talents; the
consequence was that we were set to write versical descriptions, which
we hated worse than Telemachus and the _Spectator_.

And a new horror appeared in the shape of a violin master. Edward took
kindly to the infliction, worked very hard, and became an amateur
almost equal to a professional; was offered fair pay as member of an
orchestra in Italy, and kept it up after going into the Army, till
the calls of the Mess made it such a nuisance that he gave it up; but
took to it again later in life _con amore_. I always hated my fiddle,
and after six months it got me into a terrible scrape, and brought the
study to an untimely end. Our professor was a thing like Paganini,
length without breadth, nerves without flesh, hung on wires, all hair
and no brain, except for fiddling. The creature, tortured to madness
by a number of false notes, presently addressed his pupil in his
grandiloquent Tuscan manner, "Gli altri scolari sono bestie, ma voi
siete un Arci-bestia." The "Arci" offended me horribly, and, in a fury
of rage, I broke my violin upon my master's head; and then my father
made the discovery that his eldest son had no talent for music, and I
was not allowed to learn any more.

Amongst the English at Pisa we met with some Irish cousins, whose
names had been Conyngham, but they had, for a fortune, very sensibly
added "Jones" to it, and who, very foolishly, were ashamed of it
ever after. There was a boy, whose face looked as if badly cut out
of a half-boiled potato, dotted with freckles so as to resemble a
goose's egg. There was a very pretty girl, who afterwards became
Mrs. Seaton. The mother was an exceedingly handsome woman of the
Spanish type, and it was grand to see her administering correction to
"bouldness." They seemed principally to travel in Italy for the purpose
of wearing out old clothes, and afterwards delighted in telling how
many churches and palaces they had "done" in Rome per diem. The cute
Yankee always travels, when he is quite unknown, in his best bib and
tucker, reserving his old clothes for his friends who appreciate him.
Altogether the C.J.'s were as fair specimens of Northern barbarians
invading the South, as have been seen since the days of Brennus.

[Sidenote: _Siena._]

The summer of '32 was passed at Siena, where a large rambling old house
was found inside the walls. The venerable town, whose hospitality was
confined to an inscription over the city gate, was perhaps one of
the dullest places under heaven. No country in the world shows less
hospitality--even Italians amongst themselves--than Italy, and in the
case of strangers they have perhaps many reasons to justify their
churlishness.

Almost all the English at Siena were fugitives from justice, social
or criminal. One man walked off with his friend's wife, another with
his purse. There was only one old English lady in the place who
was honourable, and that was a Mrs. Russell, who afterwards killed
herself with mineral waters. She lived in a pretty little _quinta_
outside the town, where moonlight nights were delightful, and where
the nightingales were louder than usual. Beyond this amusement we had
little to do, except at times to peep at the gate of Palone, to study
very hard, and to hide from the world our suits of nankin. The weary
summer drew to a close. The long-surviving chariot was brought out, and
then Dobbin, with the "cruelty van," was made ready for the march.

[Sidenote: _Vetturino-Travelling._]

Travelling in _vetturino_ was not without its charm. It much resembled
marching in India during the slow old days. It is true you seldom
progressed along more than five miles an hour, and uphill at three.
Moreover, the harness was perpetually breaking, and at times a horse
fell lame; but you saw the country thoroughly, the _vetturino_ knew
the name of every house, and you went slowly enough to impress
everything upon your memory. The living now was none of the best; food
seemed to consist mostly of omelettes and pigeons. The pigeons, it is
said, used to desert the dove-cotes every time they saw an English
travelling-carriage approaching. And the omelettes showed more hair in
them than eggs usually produce. The bread and wine, however, were good,
and adulteration was then unknown. The lodging was on a par with the
food, and insect powder was not invented or known. Still, taking all in
all, it is to be doubted whether we are more comfortable in the Grand
Hotel in these days when every hotel is grand, when all mutton is _pré
salé_, when all the beer is bitter, when all the sherry is dry.

It was now resolved to pass the Holy Week at Rome, and the only events
of the journey, which went on as usual, were the breaking down of
Dobbin's "cruelty van" in a village near Perugia, where the tutor and
boys were left behind to look after repairs. We long remembered the
peculiar evening which we passed there. The head ostler had informed
us that there was an opera, and that he was the _primo violino_. We
went to the big barn, that formed the theatre. A kind of "Passion
play" was being performed, with lengthy intervals of music, and all
the mysteries of the faith were submitted to the eyes of the faithful.
The only disenchanting detail was, that a dove not being procurable,
its place was supplied by a turkey-cock, and the awful gabbling of the
ill-behaved volatile caused much more merriment than was decorous.

We, who had already examined Voltaire with great interest, were
delighted with the old Etruscan city of Perugia, and were allowed a
couple of hours' "leave" to visit Pietro di Aretino's tomb, and we
loitered by the Lake Thrasimene.

[Sidenote: _Florence._]

The march was short, and the family took a house on the north side of
the Arno, near the Boboli Gardens, in Florence. The City of Flowers
has always had a reputation beyond what it deserved. Though too fair
to be looked upon except upon holidays, it has discomforts of its
own. The cold, especially during the _Tramontana_ blowing from the
Apennines, is that of Scotland. The heat during the dog-days, when the
stone pavements seem to be fit for baking, reminds one of Cairo during
a _Khamsin_, and the rains are at times as heavy and persistent as
in Central Africa. The Italians and the English, even in those days,
despite all the efforts of the amiable Grand Duke, did not mix well.

Colonies go on as they begin, and the Anglo-Florentine flock certainly
has contained, contains, and ever will contain some very black sheep.
They were always being divided into cliques. They were perpetually
quarrelling. The parson had a terrible life. One of the churchwardens
was sure to be some bilious old Indian, and a common character was to
be a half-pay Indian officer who had given laws, he said, to millions,
who supported himself by gambling, and induced all his cronies to drink
hard, the whispered excuse being, that he had shot a man in a duel
somewhere. The old ladies were very scandalous. There were perpetual
little troubles, like a rich and aged widow being robbed and deserted
by her Italian spouse, and resident old gentlemen, when worsted at
cards, used to quarrel and call one another liars. Amongst the number
was a certain old Dr. Harding who had a large family. His son was sent
into the army, and was dreadfully wounded under Sir Charles Napier in
Sind. He lived to be Major-General Francis Pim Harding, C.B., and died
in 1875.

Another remarkable family was that of old Colonel de Courcy. He had
some charming daughters, and I met his son John when he was in the
Turkish Contingent and I was Chief of the Staff of Irregular Cavalry in
the Crimea.

Still Florence was always Florence. The climate, when it was fine, was
magnificent. The views were grand, and the most charming excursions
lay within a few hours' walk or drive. The English were well treated,
perhaps too well, by the local Government, and the opportunities of
studying Art were first-rate. Those wonderful Loggie and the Pitti
Palace contained more high Art than is to be found in all London,
Paris, Berlin, and Vienna put together, and we soon managed to become
walking catalogues. A heavy storm, however, presently broke the
serenity of the domestic atmosphere at Siena.

[Sidenote: _Shooting._]

We boys had been allowed to begin regular shooting with an old
single-barrelled Manton, a hard-hitter which had been changed from
flint to percussion. We practised gunnery in secret every moment we
could, and presently gave our tutor a specimen of our proficiency. He
had been instituting odious comparisons between Edward's length and
that of his gun, and went so far as to say that for sixpence he would
allow a shot at fifty yards. On this being accepted with the firm
determination of peppering him, he thought it better to substitute his
hat, and he got away just in time to see it riddled like a sieve. We
then began to despise shooting with small shot.

Our parents made a grand mistake about the shooting excursions,
especially the mother, who, frightened lest anything should occur, used
to get up quarrels to have an excuse to forbid the shooting parties, as
punishment. It was soon found out and resented accordingly.

We hoarded the weekly francs which each received, we borrowed Maria's
savings, _i.e._ the poor girl was never allowed to keep it for a
day, and invested in what was then known as a "case of pistols."
My father--who, when in Sicily with his regiment, had winged a
brother-officer, an Irishman, for saying something unpleasant, had
carefully and fondly nursed him, and shot him again as soon as ever
he recovered, crippling him for life--saw the turn that matters were
taking, and ordered the "saw-handles" to be ignominiously returned
to the shop. The shock was severe to the _pun d'onor_ of we two Don
Quixotes.

I have a most pleasant remembrance of Maria Garcia, a charming young
girl, before she became wife and "divine devil" to the old French
merchant Morbihan. Both she and her sister (afterwards Madame Viardot)
were going through severe training under the old Tartar of a father
Garcia, who was, however, a splendid musician and determined to see his
girls succeed. They tell me she had spites and rages and that manner of
thing in after life, but I can only remember her as worthy of Alfred de
Musset's charming stanza.

[Sidenote: _Rome in Holy Week._]

After a slow but most interesting drive we reached the Eternal City,
and, like all the world, were immensely impressed by the entrance at
the Porto del Popolo. The family secured apartments in the Piazza di
Spagna, which was then, as it is now, the capital of English Rome.
Everything in it was English, the librarian, the grocer, and all the
other little shops, and mighty little it has changed during the third
of a century. In 1873, when my wife and I stayed there, the only points
of difference observed were the presence of Americans and the large
gilded advertisements of the photographers. The sleepy atmosphere was
the same, and the same was the drowsy old fountain.

At Rome sight-seeing was carried on with peculiar ardour. With "Mrs.
Starke" under the arm, for "Murray" and "Baedeker" were not invented in
those days, we young ones went from Vatican to the Capitol, from church
to palazzo, from ruin to ruin. We managed to get introductions to the
best studios, and made acquaintance with all the shops which contained
the best collections of coins, of cameos, of model temples, in
rosso-antico, and giallo-antico, and of all the treasures of Roman Art,
ancient and modern. We passed our days in running about the town, and
whenever we found an opportunity, we made excursions into the country,
even ascending Mount Soracte. In those days Rome was not what it is
now. It was the ghost of the Imperial City, the mere shadow of the
Mistress of the world. The great Forum was a level expanse of ground,
out of which the half-buried ruins rose. The Coliseum had not changed
for a century. The Palatine hill had never dreamt of excavation. The
greater part of the space within the old walls, that represents the
ancient City, was a waste, what would in Africa be called bush, and it
was believed that turning up the ground caused fatal fevers. It had
no pretensions to be a Capital. It wanted fortifications; the walls
could be breached with six-pounders. The Tiber was not regulated, and
periodically flooded the lower town. The Ghetto was a disgrace. Nothing
could be fouler than the Trastevere: and the Leonine City, with the
exception of St. Peter's and the Vatican, was a piggery.

At Rome there was then very little society. People met when doing the
curiosities, and the principal amusements were conversaziones, when the
only conspicuous object was some old Cardinal sitting in red, enthroned
upon a sofa. Good old Gregory XVI. did not dislike foreigners, and
was even intimate with a certain number of heretics, but _that_ could
not disperse the sleepy atmosphere of the place, whilst the classes
of society were what the satirical French duchesse called, 'une
noblesse de Sacrament'--and yet it was the season of the year. Then,
as now, the wandering world pressed to Rome to see ceremonies of the
Holy Week, to hear the music of the Sistine Chapel, to assist at the
annual conversion of a Jew at St. John of Lateran, to walk gaping
about at the interior of St. Peter's, and to enjoy the magnificent
illuminations, which were spoiled by a high wind, and a flood of rain.
Nothing could be more curious than the contrast between the sons of
the Holy City and the barbarians from the North, and the far West,
when the Pope stood in the balcony delivering his benediction _urbi et
orbi_; the English and Irish Catholics seemed to be overwhelmed with
awe whilst the Romans delivered themselves of small jokes, very audible
withal, upon the mien and the demeanor of the Vecchierello. Inside the
great cathedral the crowd used to be of the most pushing kind, and
young priests attempted to scale one's shoulders. Protestant ladies
consumed furtive sandwiches, and here and there an aged sightseer was
thrown down and severely trampled upon. In fact, there was a perfect
opposition between the occasion of the ceremony and the way it was
carried out.

It was necessary to leave Rome in time to reach Naples before the hot
season began, and return to summer quarters. In those days the crossing
of the Pontine Marshes was considered not a little dangerous. Heavy
breakfasts were eaten to avoid the possible effect of malaria upon an
empty stomach, and the condemned pistols were ostentatiously loaded to
terrify the banditti, who were mostly the servants and hangers-on of
the foul little inns.

At Terracina we found an Englishman temporarily under arrest. This
was Mr. St. John, who had just shot in a duel Count Controfiani. The
history of the latter was not a little curious. He was a red-haired
Neapolitan, extremely plain in appearance, and awkward in manner, but
touchy and sensitive in the extreme. His friends and his acquaintances
chose to make a butt of him, little fancying how things were going to
end. One day he took leave of them all, saying that he was going to
travel for some years. He disguised himself with a wig, and hid in
the suburbs, practising pistol-shooting, foil, and broadsword. When
satisfied with his own progress, he reappeared suddenly in society,
and was received with a shout of ironical welcome, "Ecco il nostro bel
Controfiani." He slapped the face of the ringleader, and in the duel
which followed cut him almost to pieces. After two or three affairs
of the kind, his reputation was thoroughly made, even in a City where
duelling was so common as Naples. At last, by some mischance, he met
St. John at Rome, and the two became intimate. They used to practise
pistol-shooting together, and popular report declares that both
concealed their game. At last a quarrel arose about some young person,
and Controfiani was compelled to fight at the pleasure of a member of
the Royal family of Naples, of whose suite he was. The duel was to be
_à la barrière_, first shot at twenty-five paces, and leave to advance
twelve, after standing the fire. The delay was so great that the
seconds began to show signs of impatience, when St. John levelled his
pistol, and hit his adversary in the flank, above the hip. Controfiani
had the courage to plug his wound with the forefinger of his left hand,
and had the folly to attempt advancing, mortally wounded as he was. The
movement shook him, his hand was unsteady; his bullet whizzed past St.
John's head, and he was dead a few hours later.

The family halted a short while at Capua, then a quiet little country
town, equally thoughtless of the honours of the past, or the fierce
scenes that waited it in the future; many years afterwards my friend
Blakeley of the Guns, and I, offered the Government of King Francis, to
go out to rifle the cannon, which was to defend them against Garibaldi
and his banditti. Unfortunately the offer came too late, It would have
been curious had a couple of Englishmen managed, by shooting Garibaldi,
to baffle the plans which Lord Pam. had laid with so much astuteness
and perseverance.

[Sidenote: _Sorrento._]

At Naples a house was found upon the Chiaja, and after trying it for
a fortnight, and finding it perfectly satisfactory and agreeing to
take it for the next season, the family went over to Sorrento. This,
in those days, was one of the most pleasant _villegiature_ in Italy.
The three little villages that studded the long tongue of rock and
fertile soil, were separated from one another by long tracts of orchard
and olive ground, instead of being huddled together, as they are now.
They preserved all their rural simplicity, baited buffalo-calves in
the main squares, and had songs and sayings in order to enrage one
another. The villas scattered about the villages were large rambling
old shells of houses, and Aunt G. could not open her eyes sufficiently
wide when she saw what an Italian villa really was. The bathing was
delightful; break-neck paths led down the rocks to little sheltered
bays with the yellowest of sands, and the bluest of waters, and old
smugglers' caves, which gave the coolest shelter after long dips in
the tepid seas. There was an immense variety of excursion. At the
root of the tongue arose the Mountain of St. Angelo, where the snow
harvest, lasting during summer, was one perpetual merry-making. There
were boating trips to Ischia, to Procida, to romantic Capri, with its
blue grotto and purple figs, to decayed Salerno, the splendid ruin,
and to the temples of Pæstum, more splendid still. The shooting was
excellent during the quail season; tall poles and immense nets formed
a _chevaux de frise_ on the hilltops, but the boys went to windwards,
and shot the birds before they were trapped in the nets, in the usual
ignoble way. In fact, nothing could be more pleasant than Sorrento in
its old and uncivilized days. Amongst the amusements at Sorrento, we
indulged ourselves with creeping over the Natural Arch, simply because
the Italians said, "Ma non è possibile, Signorini." It was a dangerous
proceeding, as the crumbling stone was ready at every moment to give
way.

[Sidenote: _Classical Games._]

Amongst other classical fads, we boys determined to imitate Anacreon
and Horace. We crowned ourselves with myrtle and roses, chose the
prettiest part of the garden, and caroused upon the best wine we could
afford, out of cups, disdaining to use glasses. Our father, aware of
this proceeding, gave us three bottles of sherry, upon the principle
that the grocer opens to the young shopboy his drawers of figs and
raisins. But we easily guessed the meaning of the kind present, and
contented ourselves with drinking each half a bottle a day, as long
as it lasted, and then asked for more, to the great disgust of the
donor. We diligently practised pistol-shooting, and delighted in
cock-fighting, at which the tutor duly attended. Of course the birds
fought without steel, but it was a fine game-breed, probably introduced
of old by the Spaniards. It not a little resembles the Derby game-cock,
which has spread itself half over South America.

[Sidenote: _Chess._]

There was naturally little variety in amusements. The few English
families lived in scattered villas. Old Mrs. Starke, Queen of Sorrento,
as she loved to be called, and the authoress of the guide book, was the
local "lion," and she was sketched and caricatured in every possible
way in her old Meg Merrilies' cloak. Game to the last, she died on the
road travelling. An Englishman, named Sparkes, threw himself into one
of the jagged volcanic ravines that seam the tongue of Sorrento; but
there is hardly a place in Italy, high or low, where some Englishman
has not suicided himself. A painter, a Mr. Inskip, brought over an
introduction, and was very tipsy before dinner was half over. The
Marsala wine supplied by Iggulden & Co. would have floored Polyphemus.
The want of excitement out of doors, produced a correspondent increase
of it inside. We were getting too old to be manageable, and Mr. Du
Pré taking high grounds on one occasion, very nearly received a good
thrashing. My father being a man of active mind, and having nothing in
the world to do, began to be unpleasantly chemical; he bought Parke's
"Catechism;" filled the house with abominations of all kinds, made
a hideous substance that he called soap, and prepared a quantity of
filth that he called citric acid, for which he spoiled thousands of
lemons. When his fit passed over it was succeeded by one of chess, and
the whole family were bitten by it. Every spare hour, especially in
the evening, was given to check and checkmating, and I soon learned
to play one, and then two games, with my eyes blindfolded. I had the
sense, however, to give it up completely, for my days were full of
Philidor, and my dreams were of gambits all night.

The dull life was interrupted by a visit from Aunt G. She brought
with her a Miss Morgan, who had been governess to the three sisters,
and still remained their friend. She was a woman of good family in
Cornwall, but was compelled, through loss of fortune, to take service.

Miss Morgan was very proud of her nephew, the Rev. Morgan Cowie, who
was senior Wrangler at Cambridge. He had had the advantage of studying
mathematics in Belgium, where in those days the entering examination of
a College was almost as severe as the passing examination of an English
College. She was also very well read, and she did not a little good in
the house. She was the only one who ever spoke to us children as if we
were reasonable beings, instead of scolding and threatening with the
usual parental brutality of _those days_. That unwise saying of the
wise man, "Spare the rod and spoil the child," has probably done more
harm to the junior world than any other axiom of the same size, and
it is only of late years that people have begun to "spoil the rod and
spare the child." So Miss Morgan could do with the juniors what all the
rest of the house completely failed in doing. The only thing that was
puzzling about her was, that she could not play at Chess. Aunt G. waxed
warm in defence of her friend, and assured the scoffers that "Morgan,
with her fine mind, would easily learn to beat the whole party." "Fine
mind!" said the scoffers. "Why, we would give her a Queen."

[Sidenote: _Naples._]

Naples after Sorrento was a Paris. In those days it was an exceedingly
pleasant City, famous as it always has been for some of the best cooks
in Italy. The houses were good, and the servants and the provisions
were moderate. The Court was exceedingly gay, and my father found a
cousin there, old Colonel Burke, who was so intimate with the King,
known as "Old Bomba," as to be admitted to his bedroom. There was also
another Irish cousin, a certain Mrs. Phayre, who for many years had
acted duenna to the Miss Smiths (Penelope and Gertrude). Penelope had
always distinguished herself in Paris by mounting wild horses in the
Bois de Boulogne, which ran away with her, and shook her magnificent
hair loose. She became a favourite at the Court of Naples, and amused
the dull royalties with her wild Irish tricks. It is said that, on
one occasion, she came up with a lift instead of the expected _vol au
vent_, or pudding. She ended by marrying the Prince of Capua, greatly
to the delight of the King, who found an opportunity of getting rid
of his brother, and put an end to certain scandals. It was said that
the amiable young Prince once shot an old man, whom he found gathering
sticks in his grounds, and on another occasion that he was soundly
thrashed by a party of English grooms, whom he had insulted in his
cups. The happy pair had just run away and concluded the "triple
alliance," as it was called (this is a marriage in three different
ways, in order to make sure of it; Protestant, Catholic, and Civil),
when our family settled in Naples, and they found Mrs. Phayre and
Gertrude Smith, the other sister, in uncomfortable State, banished
by the Court, and harassed by the police. All their letters had been
stopped at the post-office, and they had had no news from home for
months. My father saw them carefully off to England, where Gertrude,
who had a very plain face and a very handsome figure, presently married
the rich old Lord Dinorben. Poor Miss Morgan also suffered considerably
at Naples from the stoppage of all her letters; she being supposed
at least to be a sister of Lady Morgan, the "wild Irish girl," whose
writings at that time had considerably offended the Italian Court.

Naples was perhaps the least strict of all the Italian cities, and
consequently it contained a colony, presided over by the Hon. Mrs.
Temple, Lady Eleanor Butler, Lady Strachan, and Berkeley Craven, who
would somewhat have startled the proprieties of another place. The
good-natured Minister was the Hon. Mr. Temple, Lord Palmerston's
brother, who cared nothing for a man's catechism provided he kept
decently clear of scandal. The Secretary of Legation was a Mr.
Kennedy, who married a Miss Briggs, and died early. These were great
friends of the family. On the other hand, the Consul, Captain Galway,
R.N., was anything but pleasant. He was in a perpetual state of rile
because his Consular service prevented his being received at Court;
moreover, he heard (possibly correctly) that Mrs. Phayre and her two
_protégées_ were trying to put Colonel Burton in his place. He was also
much troubled by his family, and one of them (the parson) especially
troubled him. This gentleman having neglected to provide for a young
Galway whose mamma he had neglected to marry, the maternal parent took
a position outside the church, and as the congregation streamed out,
cried in a loud voice, pointing to the curate, "Him the father of my
child." Another element of confusion at Naples was poor Charley Savile,
Lord Mexborough's son, who had quarrelled himself out of the Persian
Legation. He was a good hand with his sword, always ready to fight, and
equally ready to write. He always denied that he had written and sent
about some verses which all Naples attributed to him, and they were
certainly most scandalous. Of one lady he wrote--

    "Society courts her, wicked old sinner,
    Yet what won't man do for the sake of a dinner?"

Of another he wrote--

             "You look so demure, ma'am,
             So pious, so calm,
             Always chanting a hymn,
             Or singing a psalm.
    Yet your thoughts are on virtue and heav'n no more
    Than the man in the moon--you dreadful young bore."

This pasquinade led to some half-dozen challenges and duels. It was
severe, but not worse than society deserved. Naples has never been
strict; and about the forties it was, perhaps, the most dissolute City
on the Continent. The natives were bad, but the English visitors were
worse. In fact, in some cases their morals were unspeakable.

There was a charming family of the name of Oldham. The father, when
an English officer serving in Sicily, had married one of the beauties
of the island, a woman of high family and graceful as a Spaniard. The
children followed suit. The girls were beautiful, and the two sons
were upwards of six feet in height, and were as handsome men as could
well be seen. They both entered the army. One, in the 2nd Queen's, was
tortured to death by the Kaffirs when his cowardly soldiers ran away,
and left him wounded. The other, after serving in the 86th in India,
was killed in the light cavalry charge of Balakalava. The families
became great friends, and I met them both in India.

Naples was a great place for excursions. To the north you had Ischia
and the Solfatara, a miniature bit of Vulcanism somewhat like the
Geyser ground in Iceland, where ignoramuses thought themselves in the
midst of untold volcanic grandeur. Nothing could be more snobbish than
the visit to the Grotto del Cane, where a wretched dog was kept for
the purpose of being suffocated half a dozen times a day. There I was
determined to act dog, and was pulled up only in time to prevent being
thoroughly asphyxiated. The Baths of Nero are about equal to an average
Turkish _Hammám_, but nothing more. To the south the excursions were
far more interesting.

Beyond Herculaneum, dark and dingy, lay Pompeii, in those days very
different from the tame Crystal Palace affair that it is now. You
engaged a cicerone as best you could; you had nothing to pay because
there were no gates; you picked up what you liked, in shapes of bits
of mosaic, and, if you were a swell, a house or a street was opened
up in your honour. And overlaying Pompeii stood Vesuvius, which was
considered prime fun. The walking up the ash cone amongst a lot of
seniors, old men dragged up by _lazzaroni_, and old women carried up
in baskets upon _lazzaroni's_ backs, was funny enough, but the descent
was glorious. What took you twenty minutes to go up took four minutes
to go down. Imagine a dustbin magnified to ten thousand, and tilted up
at an angle of thirty-five degrees; in the descent you plunged with
the legs to the knees, you could not manage to fall unless you hit a
stone, and, arrived at the bottom, you could only feel incredulous that
it was possible to run at such a rate. We caused no end of trouble,
and I was found privily attempting to climb down the crater, because
I had heard that an Englishman had been let down in a basket. Many of
these ascents were made; on one occasion during an eruption, when the
lava flowed down to the sea, and the Neapolitans with long pincers were
snatching pieces out of it to stamp and sell, we boys, to the horror of
all around, jumped on the top of the blackening fire stream, burnt our
boots, and vilely abused all those who would not join us.

At Naples more was added to the work of education. Caraccioli, the
celebrated marine painter, was engaged to teach oil-painting; but he
was a funny fellow, and the hours which should have been spent in
exhausting palettes passed in pencil-caricaturing of every possible
friend and acquaintance. The celebrated Cavalli was the fencing-master;
and in those days the Neapolitan school, which has now almost died out,
was in its last bloom. It was a thoroughly business-like affair, and
rejected all the elegances of the French school; and whenever there was
a duel between a Neapolitan and a Frenchman, the former was sure to
win. We boys worked at it heart and soul, and generally managed to give
four hours a day to it. I determined, even at that time, to produce
a combination between the Neapolitan and the French school, so as to
supplement the defects of the one by the merits of the other. A life of
very hard work did not allow me any leisure to carry out my plan; but
the man of perseverance stores up his resolve, and waits for any number
of years till he sees the time to carry it out. The plan was made in
1836, and was completed in 1880 (forty-four years).[1]

My father spared no pains or expense in educating his children. He
had entered the army at a very early age. Volunteers were called for
in Ireland, and those who brought a certain number into the field
received commissions gratis. The old Grandmamma Burton's tenants'
sons volunteered by the dozen. They formed a very fair company, and
accompanied the young master to the wars; and when the young master got
his commission, they all, with the exception of one or two, levanted,
bolted, and deserted. Thus my father found himself an officer at the
age of seventeen, when he ought to have been at school; and recognizing
the deficiencies of his own education, he was determined that his
children should complain of nothing of the kind. He was equally
determined they none of them should enter the army; the consequence
being that both the sons became soldiers, and the only daughter married
a soldier. Some evil spirit, probably Mr. Du Pré, whispered that the
best plan for the boys would be to send them to Oxford, in order that
they might rise by literature, an idea which they both thoroughly
detested. However, in order to crush their pride, they were told that
they should enter "Oxford College as sizars, poor gentlemen who are
supported by the alms of the others." Our feelings may be imagined.
We determined to enlist, or go before the mast, or to turn Turks,
banditti, or pirates, rather than undergo such an indignity.

Parthenope was very beautiful; but so true is English blood, that
the most remarkable part of it was "Pickwick," who happened to make
his way there at the time of the sojourn of our family. We read with
delight the description of the English home. We passed our nights, as
well as our days, devouring the book, and even "Ettore Fieramosca" and
the other triumphs of Massimo d'Azelio were mere outsiders compared
with it; but how different the effect of the two books--"Pickwick,"
the good-humoured caricature of a boy full of liquor and good spirits,
and the "Disfida di Barletta," one of the foundation-stones of Italian
independence.

At last the house on the Chiaja was given up, and the family took a
house inside the City for a short time. The father was getting tired
and thinking of starting northwards. The change was afflicting. The
loss of the view of the Bay was a misfortune. The only amusement was
prospecting the streets, where the most extraordinary scenes took
place. It was impossible to forget a beastly Englishman, as he stood
eating a squirting orange surrounded by a string of gutter-boys. The
dexterity of the pickpockets, too, gave scenes as amusing as a theatre.
It was related of one of the Coryphæi that he had betted with a friend
that he would take the pocket-handkerchief of an Englishman, who had
also betted that no man born in Naples could pick his pocket. A pal
walked up to the man as he was promenading the streets, flower in
button-hole, solemnly spat on his cravat, and ran away. The principal,
with thorough Italian politeness, walked up to the outraged foreigner,
drew his pocket-handkerchief and proceeded to remove the stain,
exhorted the outraged one to keep the fugitive in sight, and in far
less time than it takes to tell, transferred the handkerchief to his
own pocket, and set out in pursuit of the _barbaro_.

[Sidenote: _Cholera._]

The _lazzaroni_, too, were a perpetual amusement. We learned to eat
maccaroni like them, and so far mastered their dialect, that we could
exchange chaff by the hour. In 1869 I found them all at Monte Video
and Buenos Ayres, dressed in _cacciatore_ and swearing "M'nnaccia
l'anima tua;" they were impressed with a conviction that I was myself a
_lazzarone_ in luck. The shady side of the picture was the cholera. It
caused a fearful destruction, and the newspapers owned to 1300 a day,
which meant say 2300. The much-abused King behaved like a gentleman.
The people had determined that the cholera was poison, and doubtless
many made use of the opportunity to get rid of husbands and wives and
other inconvenient relationships; but when the mob proceeded to murder
the doctors, and to gather in the market square with drawn knives,
declaring that the Government had poisoned the provisions, the King
himself drove up in a phaeton and jumped out of it entirely alone, told
them to put up their ridiculous weapons, and to show him where the
poisoned provisions were, and, seating himself upon a bench, ate as
much as his stomach would contain. Even the _lazzarone_ were not proof
against this heroism, and viva'd and cheered him to his heart's content.

My brother and I had seen too much of cholera to be afraid of it. We
had passed through it in France, it had followed us to Siena and Rome,
and at Naples it only excited our curiosity. We persuaded the Italian
man-servant to assist us in a grand escapade. He had procured us the
necessary dress, and when the dead-carts passed round in the dead of
the night, we went the rounds with them as some of the _croquemorts_.
The visits to the pauper houses, where the silence lay in the rooms,
were anything but pleasant, and still less the final disposal of the
bodies. Outside Naples was a large plain, pierced with pits, like the
silos or underground granaries of Algeria and North Africa. They were
lined with stone, and the mouths were covered with one big slab, just
large enough to allow a corpse to pass. Into these flesh-pots[2] were
thrown the unfortunate bodies of the poor, after being stripped of the
rags which acted as their winding-sheets. Black and rigid, they were
thrown down the apertures like so much rubbish, into the festering heap
below, and the decay caused a kind of lambent blue flame about the
sides of the pit, which lit up a mass of human corruption, worthy to
be described by Dante.

Our escapades, which were frequent, were wild for strictly brought up
Protestant English boys--they would be nothing now, when boys do so
much worse--but there were others that were less excusable. Behind the
Chiaja dwelt a multitude of syrens, who were naturally looked upon as
the most beautiful of their sex. One lady in particular responded to
the various telegraphic signs made to her from the flat terrace of the
house, and we boys determined to pay her a visit. Arming ourselves with
carving-knives, which we stuffed behind our girdles, we made our way
jauntily into the house, introduced ourselves, and being abundant in
pocket-money, offered to stand treat, as the phrase is, for the whole
neighbourhood. The orgie was tremendous, and we were only too lucky
to get home unhurt, before morning, when the Italian servant let us
in. The result was a correspondence, consisting in equal parts of pure
love on our side and extreme debauchery on the syrens'. These letters,
unfortunately, were found by our mother during one of her Sunday
visitations to our chambers. A tremendous commotion was the result. Our
father and his dog, Mr. Du Pré, proceeded to condign punishment with
the horsewhip; but we climbed up to the tops of the chimneys, where the
seniors could not follow us, and refused to come down till the crime
was condoned.

This little business disgusted our father of Naples, and he resolved to
repair to a pure moral air. Naples is a very different place now; so
is all the Italy frequented by travellers, and spoiled by railways and
officialdom.

In 1881 a distinguished officer, and a gentleman allied to Royalty,
wrote as follows: "You threw some doubts on the efficiency of the
Italian posts, and I believe you; I don't think I was ever so glad
to get home. At Malta it looks so clean after the filth of Naples. I
think Italy, the Italians, their manners, customs, and institutions,
more damnable every time I see them, and feel sure you will meet with
less annoyance during your travels on the Gold Coast, than I met with
coming through Italy. Trains crowded, unpunctual; starvation, filth,
incivility, and extortion at every step; and, were it not that there
are so many works of art and of interest to see, I doubt if any one
would care to visit the country a second time."

(Here is an account of a purchase made to transfer home.) "A small
table was packed in a little case, and firmly nailed down. At the
station they refused to let it go in the luggage van, unless it were
corded, _lest it might be opened en route_. The officials offered to
cord it for _bakshish_, which was paid, but the cord not put on. They
cut open my leather bag, and tried to open my portmanteau, but when I
called this fact to the notice of the station-master at Rome, he simply
turned on his heel and declined to answer. At Naples they opened the
little case, because furniture was subject to octroi; and, on leaving,
the case was again inspected, lest it might contain a picture (they
were not allowed to leave the country)." It is no longer the classical
Italy of Landor, nor the romantic Italy of Leigh Hunt, nor the ideal
Italy of the Brownings, nor the spiritualized Italy of George Eliot,
nor the everyday Italy of Charles Lever. They thought they were
going to be everything when they changed Masters, but they have only
succeeded in making it a noisy, vulgar, quarrelsome and contentious,
arrogant, money-grasping Italy, and the sooner it receives a sound
drubbing from France or Austria the better for it. It will then reform
itself.

[Sidenote: _Marseille._]

The family left Naples in the spring of 1836. The usual mountain of
baggage was packed in the enormous boxes of the period, and the Custom
House officers never even opened them, relying, as they said--and did
in those good old days--upon the word of an Englishman, that they
contained nothing contraband. How different from the United Italy,
where even the dressing-bag is rummaged to find a few cigars, or an
ounce of coffee. The voyage was full of discomforts. My mother, after
a campaign of two or three years, had been persuaded to part with her
French maid Eulalie, an old and attached servant, who made our hours
bitter, and our faces yellow. The steamer of the day was by no means
a floating palace, especially the English coasting steamers, which
infested the Mediterranean. The machinery was noisy and offensive.
The cabins were dog-holes, with a pestiferous atmosphere, and the
food consisted of greasy butter, bread which might be called dough,
eggs with a perfume, rusty bacon, milkless tea and coffee, that might
be mistaken for each other, waxy potatoes, graveolent greens _cuite
à l'eau_, stickjaw pudding, and cannibal haunches of meat, charred
without, and blue within.

The only advantage was that the vessels were manned by English crews,
and in those days the British sailor was not a tailor, and he showed
his value when danger was greatest.

We steamed northwards in a good old way, puffing and panting, pitching
and rolling, and in due time made Marseille.

The town of the Canebière was far from being the splendid City that
it is now, but it always had one great advantage, that of being in
Provence. I always had a particular propensity for this bit of Africa
in Europe, and in after life in India for years, my greatest friend,
Dr. Steinhaüser, and myself indulged in visions of a country cottage,
where we would pass our days in hammocks, and our nights in bed, and
never admit books or papers, pens or ink, letters or telegrams. This
retreat was intended to be a rest for middle age, in order to prepare
for senility and second childhood. But this vision passed into the
limbo of things imagined (in fact, the vision of two hard-working and
overworked men), and I little thought that at fifty-five I should be a
married man, still in service, still knocking about the world, working
hard with my wife, and poor Steinhaüser dead fifteen years ago.

To return. However agreeable Provence was, the change from Italians
to French was not pleasant. The subjects of Louis Philippe, the
Citizen-King, were rancorous against Englishmen, and whenever a
fellow wanted to get up a row he had only to cry out, "These are the
_misérables_ who poisoned Napoleon at St. Helena." This pleasant little
scene occurred on board a coasting steamer, between Marseille and
Cette, when remonstrance was made with the cheating steward, backed
by the rascally captain. Cette was beginning to be famous for the
imitation wines composed by the ingenuity of Monsieur Guizot, brother
of the _austère intrigant_. He could turn out any wine, from the
cheapest Marsala to the choicest Madeiran Bual.

But he did his counterfeiting honestly, as a little "G" was always
branded on the bottom of the cork, and Cette gave a good lesson about
ordering wines at hotels. The sensible traveller, when in a strange
place, always calls for the _carte_, and chooses the cheapest; he knows
by sad experience, by cramp and acidity of stomach, that the dearest
wines are often worse than the cheapest, and at best that they are
the same with different labels. The proprietor of the hotel at Cette,
had charged his _dame de comptoir_ with robbing the till. She could
not deny it, but she replied with a _tu quoque_: "If I robbed you I
only returned tit for tat. You have been robbing the public for the
last quarter of a century, and only the other day you brought a bottle
of ordinaire and _escamoté'd_ it into sixteen kinds of _vins fin_."
The landlord thought it better to drop the proceedings. From Cette we
travelled in hired carriages (as Dobbin and the carriages had been
sold at Naples) to Toulouse. We stayed at Toulouse for a week, and I
was so delighted with student life there, that I asked my father's
leave to join them. But he was always determined on the Fellowship at
Oxford. Our parents periodically fell ill with asthma, and we young
ones availed ourselves of the occasion, by wandering far and wide over
the country. We delighted in these journeys, for though the tutor was
there, the books were in the boxes. My chief remembrances of Toulouse
were, finding the mistress of the hotel correcting her teeth with
_table d'hôte_ forks, and being placed opposite the model Englishman
of Alexandre Dumas and Eugène Sue. The man's face never faded from my
memory. Carroty hair, white and very smooth forehead, green eyes, a
purple-reddish lower face, whiskers that had a kind of crimson tinge,
and an enormous mouth worn open, so as to show the protruding teeth.

[Sidenote: _Pau--Bagnières de Bigorres._]

In due time we reached Pau in the Pyrenees, the capital of the Basses
Pyrénées, and the old Bearnais. The little town on the Gave de Pau was
no summer place. The heats are intense, and all who can, rush off to
the Pyrénées, which are in sight, and distant only forty miles. Our
family followed suit, and went off to Bagnières de Bigorres, where we
hired a nice house in the main Square. There were few foreigners in
the Bagnières de Bigorres; it was at that time a thoroughly French
watering-place. It was invaded by a mob of Parisians of both sexes, the
men dressed in fancy costumes intended to be "truly rural," and capped
with Basque bonnets, white or red. The women were more wonderful still,
especially when on horseback; somehow or other the Française never
dons a riding-habit without some solecism. Picnics were the order of
the day, and they were organized on a large scale, looking more like a
squadron of cavalry going out for exercise than a party of pleasure.
We boys obtained permission to accompany one of those caravans to the
Brêche de Roland, a nick in the mountain top clearly visible from the
plains, and supposed to have been cut by the good sword "Joyeuse."

[Sidenote: _Contrabandistas._]

Here we boys were mightily taken with, and tempted to accept the offer
made to us by, a merry party of _contrabandistas_, who were smuggling
to and fro chocolate, tobacco, and _aguardienta_ (spirits). Nothing
could be jollier than such a life as these people lead. They travelled
_au clair de la lune_, armed to the teeth; when they arrived at the
hotels the mules were unloaded and turned out to grass, the guitar,
played _à la Figaro_, began to tinkle, and all the young women, like
"the Buffalo girls," came out to dance. Wine and spirits flowed freely,
the greatest good humour prevailed, and the festivities were broken
only sometimes by "knifing or shooting."

We also visited Tarbes, which even in those days was beginning to
acquire a reputation for "le shport;" it presently became one of the
centres of racing and hunting in France, for which the excellent
climate and the fine rolling country admirably adapted it. It was no
wonder that the young French horse beat the English at the same age.
In the Basque Pyrénées a colt two years old is as well grown as a
Newmarket weed at two and a half.

When the great heat was over, the family returned to Pau, where they
found a good house over the arcade in the Place Gramont. Pau boasts of
being the birthplace of Henry IV., Gaston de Foix, and Bernadotte.
Strangers go through the usual routine of visiting the Castle, called
after the Protestant-Catholic King, Henry IV.; driving to Ortez, where
Marshal Soult fought unjustifiably the last action of the Peninsular
War; and of wandering about the flat, moor-like _landes_, which not
a little resemble those about Bordeaux. The society at Pau was an
improvement upon that of Naples. The most remarkable person was Captain
(R.N.) Lord William Paget, who was living with his mother-in-law
(Baroness de Rothenberg), and his wife and children, and enjoying
himself as usual. Though even impecunious, he was the best of boon
companions, and a man generally loved. But he could also make himself
feared, and, as the phrase is, would stand no nonsense. He had a
little affair with a man whom we will call Robinson, and as they were
going to the meeting-place he said to his second, "What's the fellow's
pet pursuit?" "Well!" answered the other, "I don't know--but, let me
see--ah, I remember, a capital hand at waltzing." "Waltzing!" said
Lord William, and hit him accurately on the hip-bone, which spoilt his
saltations for many a long month. Years and years after, when both were
middle-aged men, I met at Shepherd's Hotel, Cairo, his son, the boy
whom I remembered straddling across a diminutive donkey--General Billy
Paget. He had also entered the Anglo-Indian army, and amongst other
things had distinguished himself by getting the better (in an official
correspondence) of General John Jacob, the most obstinate and rancorous
of men. "Billy" had come out to Egypt with the intention of returning
to India, but the Red Sea looked so sweltering hot and its shores so
disgustingly barren, that he wrote to Aden to recall his luggage, which
had been sent forward, then and there retired from the service, married
a charming woman, and gave his old friends a very excellent dinner in
London.

There were also some very nice L'Estranges, one of the daughters a very
handsome woman, some pretty Foxes, an old Captain Sheridan, with two
good-looking daughters, and the Ruxtons, whom we afterwards met at Pisa
and the Baths of Lucca. Certain elderly maidens of the name of Shannon
lived in a house almost overhanging the Gave de Pau. Upon this subject
O'Connell, the Agitator, produced a _bon mot_, which is, however, not
fit for the drawing-room. Pau was still a kind of invalid colony for
consumptives, although the native proverb about its climate is, "that
it has eight months winter, and four of the Inferno." Dr. Diaforus acts
upon the very intelligible system of self-interest. He does not wish
his patients to die upon his hands, and consequently he sends them
to die abroad. In the latter part of the last century he sent his
moribunds to Lisbon and to Montpellier, where the _vent de bise_ is as
terrible as a black east wind is in Harwich.

Then he packed them off to Pisa, where the tropics and Norway meet, and
to damp, muggy, reeking Madeira, where patients have lived a quarter
of a century with half a lung, but where their sound companions and
nurses suffer from every description of evil which attend biliousness.
They then found out that the dry heat of Teneriffe allowed invalids to
be out after sunset, and, lastly, they discovered that the dry cold
of Canada and Iceland, charged with ozone, offers the best chance
of a complete cure. I proposed to utilize the regions about the
beautiful Dead Sea, about thirteen hundred feet below the level of
the Mediterranean, where oxygen accumulates, and where, run as hard
as you like, you can never be out of breath. This will be the great
Consumptive Hospital of the future.

[Sidenote: _Pau Education._]

At Pau the education went on merrily. I was provided with a French
master of mathematics, whose greasy hair swept the collar of the
_redingote_ buttoned up to the chin. He was a type of his order. He
introduced mathematics everywhere. He was a red republican of the
reddest, hating rank and wealth, and he held that _Le Bon Dieu_ was not
proven, because he could not express Him by a mathematical formula, and
he called his fellow-men _Bon-Dieusistes_. We were now grown to lads,
and began seriously to prepare for thrashing our tutor, and diligently
took lessons in boxing from the Irish groom of a Captain Hutchinson,
R.N. Whenever we could escape from study we passed our hours in the
barracks, fencing with the soldiers, and delighting every _piou-piou_
(recruit) by our powers of consuming the country spirit (the white and
unadulterated cognac). We also took seriously to smoking, although, as
usual with beginners in those days, we suffered in the flesh. In the
later generation, you find young children, even girls, who, although
their parents have never smoked, can finish off a cigarette without the
slightest inconvenience, even for the first time.

Smoking and drinking led us, as it naturally does, into trouble. There
was a Jamaica Irishman with a very dark skin and a very loud brogue,
called Thomas, who was passing the winter for the benefit of his chest
at Pau. He delighted in encouraging us for mischief sake. One raw snowy
day he gave us his strongest cigars, and brewed us a bowl of potent
steaming punch, which was soon followed by another. Edward, not being
very well, was unusually temperate, and so I, not liking to waste it,
drank for two. A walk was then maliciously proposed, and the cold air
acted as usual as stimulant to stimulant. Thomas began laughing aloud,
Edward plodded gloomily along, and I got into half a dozen scrimmages
with the country people. At last matters began to look serious, and
the too hospitable host took his two guests back to their home. I
managed to stagger upstairs; I was deadly pale, with staring eyes, and
compelled to use the depressed walk of a monkey, when I met my mother.
She was startled at my appearance, and as I pleaded very sick she put
me to bed. But other symptoms puzzled her. She fetched my father, who
came to the bedside, looked carefully for a minute at his son and heir,
and turned upon his heel, exclaiming, "The beast's in liquor." The
mother burst into a flood of tears, and next morning presented me with
a five-franc piece, making me promise to be good for the future, and
not to read Lord Chesterfield's "Letters to his Son," of which she had
a dreadful horror. It need hardly be said that the five francs soon
melted away in laying in a stock of what is popularly called "a hair of
the dog that bit."

What we learnt last at Pau was the Bearnais dialect. It is a charmingly
naïve dialect, mixture of French, Spanish, and Provençale, and
containing a quantity of pretty, pleasant songs. The country folk were
delighted when addressed in their own lingo. It considerably assisted
me in learning Provençale, the language of Le Geysaber; and I found
it useful in the most out-of-the-way corners of the world, even in
Brazil. Nothing goes home to the heart of a man so much as to speak to
him in his own _patois_. Even a Lancashire lad can scarcely resist the
language of "Tummas and Mary."

[Sidenote: _Argélés._]

At length the wheezy, windy, rainy, foggy, sleety, snowy winter passed
away, and the approach of the warm four months, warned strangers to
betake themselves to the hills. This time the chosen place was Argélés.
In those days it was a little village, composed mainly of one street,
not unlike mining Arrayal in Brazil, or a negro village on the banks
of the Gaboon. But the scenery around it was beautiful. It lay upon a
brawling stream, and the contrast of the horizontal meadow-lands around
it, with the backing of almost vertical hills and peaks, thoroughly
satisfied the eye. It had cruel weather in winter time, and a sad
accident had just happened. A discharged soldier had reached it in
midwinter, when the snow lay deep and the wolves were out, and the
villagers strongly dissuaded him from trying to reach his father's
home in the hills. He was armed with his little _briquet_, the little
curved sword then carried by the French infantry soldiers, and he
laughed all caution to scorn. It was towards nightfall; he had hardly
walked a mile, before a pack came down upon him, raging and ravening
with hunger. He put his back to a tree, and defended himself manfully,
killing several wolves, and escaped whilst the carcases were being
devoured by their companions; but he sheathed his sword without taking
the precaution to wipe it, and when he was attacked again it was glued
to the scabbard. The wolves paid dearly for their meal, for the enraged
villagers organized a battue, and killed about a score of them as an
expiatory sacrifice for the poor soldier.

We two brothers, abetted by our tutor, had fallen into the detestable
practice of keeping our hands in by shooting swifts and swallows, of
which barbarity we were afterwards heartily ashamed. Our first lesson
was from the peasants. On one occasion, having shot a harmless bird
that fell among the reapers, the latter charged us in a body, and being
armed with scythes and sickles, caused a precipitous retreat. In those
days the swallow seemed to be a kind of holy bird in the Bearnais,
somewhat like the pigeons of Mecca and Venice. I can only remember that
this was the case with old Assyrians and Aramæans, who called the swift
or devilling the destiny, or foretelling bird, because it heralded the
spring.

[Sidenote: _The Boys fall in Love._]

There was a small society at Argélés, consisting chiefly of English and
Spaniards. The latter were mostly refugees, driven away from home by
political changes. They were not overburdened with money, and of course
looked for cheap quarters. They seemed chiefly to live upon chocolate,
which they made in their own way, in tiny cups so thick and gruelly,
that sponge-cake stood upright in it. They smoked cigarettes with
maize-leaf for paper, as only a Spaniard can. The little cylinder hangs
down as if it were glued to the smoker's lower lip. He goes on talking
and laughing, and then, by some curious movement of a muscle developed
in no other race, he raises the weed to the horizontal and puffs out
a cloud of smoke. They passed their spare time in playing the guitar
and singing party songs, and were very much disgusted when asked to
indulge the company with Riego el Cid. There was a marriage at Argélés,
when a Scotch maiden of mature age married M. Le Maire, an old French
_mousquetaire_, a man of birth, of courtly manners, and who was the
delight of the young ones, but his _plaisanteries_ are utterly unfit
for the drawing-room. There was also a Baron de Meydell, his wife, her
sister, and two very handsome daughters. The eldest was engaged to a
rich young planter in the Isle of Bourbon. We two lads of course fell
desperately in love with them, and the old father, who had served in
the Hessian Brigade in the English army, only roared with laughter when
he saw and heard our _polissoneries_. The old man liked us both, and
delighted in nothing more than to see us working upon each other with
foil and sabre. The parting of the four lovers was something very sad,
and three of us at least shed tears. The eldest girl was beyond such
childishness.

As the mountain fog began to roll down upon the valley, our father
found that his poor chest required a warmer climate. This time we
travelled down the Grand Canal du Midi in a big public barge, which
resembled a Dutch _trekschuyt_. At first, passing through the locks was
a perpetual excitement, but this very soon palled. The L'Estranges were
also on board, and the French part of the company were not particularly
pleasant. They were mostly tourists returning home, mixed with a fair
proportion of _commis-voyageurs_, a class that corresponds with, but
does not resemble, our commercial traveller. The French species seems
to have but two objects in social life: first, to glorify himself, and
secondly, to glorify Paris.

Monsieur Victor Hugo has carried the latter mania to the very verge of
madness, and left to his countrymen an example almost as bad as bad can
be. The peculiarity of the _commis-voyageur_ in those days, was the
queer thin varnish of politeness, which he thought it due to himself
to assume. He would help himself at breakfast or dinner to the leg,
wing, and part of the breast, and pass the dish to his neighbour when
it contained only a neck and a drumstick, with a pleased smile and a
ready bow, anxiously asking "Madame, veut elle de la volaille?" and he
was frightfully unprogressive. He wished to "let sleeping dogs lie,"
and hated to move quiet things. It almost gave him an indigestion to
speak of railways. He found the diligence and the canal boat quite fast
enough for his purpose. And in this to a certain extent he represented
the Genius of the Nation.

With the excellent example of the Grand Canal du Midi before them, the
French have allowed half a century to pass before they even realized
the fact that their rivers give them most admirable opportunities for
inland navigation, and that by energy in spending money they could have
a water line leading up from Manches to Paris, and down from Paris
to the Mediterranean. In these days of piercing isthmuses, they seem
hardly to have thought of a canal that would save the time and expense
of running round Spain and Portugal, when it would be so easy to cut
the neck that connects their country with the Peninsula. The rest of
the journey was eventless as usual. The family took the steamer at
Marseille, steamed down to Leghorn, and drove up to Pisa. There they
found a house on the south side of the Lung' Arno, belonging to a widow
of the name of Pini. It was a dull and melancholy place enough, but it
had the advantage of a large garden that grew chiefly cabbages. It was
something like a return home; a number of old acquaintances were met,
and few new ones were made.

[Sidenote: _Drawing._]

The studies were kept up with unremitting attention. I kept up drawing,
painting, and classics, and it was lucky for me that I did. I have
been able to make my own drawings, and to illustrate my own books.
It is only in this way that a correct idea of unfamiliar scenes can
be given. Travellers who bring home a few scrawls and put them into
the hands of a professional illustrator, have the pleasure of seeing
the illustrated paper style applied to the scenery and the people of
Central Africa and Central Asia and Europe. Even when the drawings
are carefully done by the traveller-artist, it is hard to persuade
the professional to preserve their peculiarities. For instance, a
sketch from Hyderabad, the inland capital of Sind, showed a number of
mast-like poles which induced the English artist to write out and ask
if there ought not to be yards and sails. In sending a sketch home of a
pilgrim in his proper costume, the portable Korán worn under the left
arm narrowly escaped becoming a revolver. On the chocolate-coloured
cover of a book on Zanzibar, stands a negro in gold, straddling like
the Colossus of Rhodes. He was propped crane-like upon one leg,
supporting himself with his spear, and applying, African fashion, the
sole of the other foot to the perpendicular calf.

[Sidenote: _Music._]

But music did not get on so well. We all three had good speaking
voices, but we sang with a "_voce di gola_," a throaty tone which
was terrible to hear. It is only in England that people sing without
voices. This may do very well when chirping a comic song, or
half-speaking a ballad, but in nothing higher. I longed to sing, began
singing with all my might at Pau in the Pyrenees, and I kept it up at
Pisa, where Signor Romani (Mario's old master) rather encouraged me,
instead of peremptorily or pathetically bidding me to hold my tongue.
I wasted time and money, and presently found out my mistake and threw
up music altogether. At stray times I took up the flageolet, and other
simple instruments, as though I had a kind of instinctive feeling how
useful music would be to me in later life. And I never ceased to regret
that I had not practised sufficiently, to be able to write down music
at hearing. Had I been able to do so, I might have collected some two
thousand motives from Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and have
produced a musical note-book which would have been useful to a Bellini,
or Donizetti, or a Boito.

We had now put away childish things; that is to say, we no longer broke
the windows across the river with slings, or engaged in free fights
with our coevals. But the climate of Italy is precocious, so, as the
Vicar of Wakefield has it, "we cocked our hats and loved the ladies."
And our poor father was once appalled by strange heads being put out of
the windows, in an unaccustomed street, and with the words, "Oh! S'or
Riccardo, Oh! S'or Edoardo."

Madame P----, the landlady, had three children. Sandro, the son, was a
tall, gawky youth, who wore a _cacciatore_ or Italian shooting-jacket
of cotton-leather, not unlike the English one made loose, with the
tails cut off. The two daughters were extremely handsome girls, in
very different styles. Signorina Caterina, the elder, was tall, slim,
and dark, with the palest possible complexion and regular features.
Signorina Antonia, the younger, could not boast of the same classical
lines, but the light brown hair, and the pink and white complexion,
made one forgive and forget every irregularity. Consequently I fell in
love with the elder, and Edward with the latter. Proposals of marriage
were made and accepted. The girls had heard that, in her younger days,
mamma had had half a dozen strings to her bow at the same time, and
they were perfectly ready to follow parental example. But a serious
obstacle occurred in the difficulty of getting the ceremony performed.
As in England there was a popular but mistaken idea that a man could
put a rope round his wife's neck, take her to market, and sell her like
a quadruped, so there was, and perhaps there is still, in Italy, a
legend that any affianced couple standing up together in front of the
congregation during the elevation of the Host, and declaring themselves
man and wife, are very much married. Many inquiries were made about
this procedure, and at one time it was seriously intended. But the
result of questioning was, that _promessi sposi_ so acting, are at once
imprisoned and punished by being kept in separate cells, and therefore
it became evident, that the game was not worth the candle. This is
like a Scotch marriage, however--with the Italian would be binding in
religion, and the Scotch in law.

Edward and I made acquaintance with a lot of Italian medical students,
compared with whom, English men of the same category were as babes,
and they did us no particular good. At last the winter at Pisa ended,
badly--very badly. The hard studies of the classics during the day,
occasionally concluded with a revel at night. On one hopeless occasion
a bottle of Jamaica gin happened to fall into the wrong hands. The
revellers rose at midnight, boiled water, procured sugar and lemons,
and sat down to a steaming soup tureen full of punch. Possibly it was
followed by a second, but the result was that they sallied out into the
streets, determined upon what is _called_ a "spree." Knockers did not
exist, and Charleys did not confine themselves to their sentry-boxes,
and it was vain to ring at bells, when every one was sound asleep.
Evidently the choice of amusements was limited, and mostly confined to
hustling inoffensive passers-by. But as one of these feats had been
performed, and cries for assistance had been uttered, up came the watch
at the double, and the revellers had nothing to do but to make tracks.
My legs were the longest, and I escaped; Edward was seized and led
off, despite his fists and heels, ignobly to the local _violon_, or
guard-house. One may imagine my father's disgust next morning, when he
was courteously informed by the prison authorities that a _giovinotto_
bearing his name, had been lodged during the night at the public
expense. The father went off in a state of the stoniest severity to the
guard-house, and found the graceless one treating his companions in
misfortune, thieves and ruffians of every kind, to the contents of a
pocket-flask with which he had provided himself in case of need. This
was the last straw; our father determined to transfer his head-quarters
to the Baths of Lucca, and then to prepare for breaking up the family.
The adieux of Caterina and Antonia were heartrending, and it was agreed
to correspond every week. The journey occupied a short time, and a
house was soon found in the upper village of Lucca.

[Sidenote: _The Baths of Lucca._]

In those days, the Lucchese baths were the only place in Italy that
could boast of a tolerably cool summer climate, and a few of the
comforts of life. Sorrento, Montenero, near Leghorn, and the hills
about Rome, were frequented by very few; they came under the category
of "cheap and nasty." Hence the Bagni collected what was considered to
be the distinguished society. It had its parson from Pisa, even in the
days before the travelling continental clergyman was known, and this
one migrated every year to the hills, like the flight of swallows, and
the beggars who desert the hot plains and the stifling climate of the
lowlands. There was generally at least one English doctor who practised
by the kindly sufferance of the _then_ Italian Government. The Duke
of Lucca at times attended the balls; he was married, but his gallant
presence and knightly manner committed terrible ravages in the hearts
of susceptible English girls.

The queen in ordinary was a Mrs. Colonel Stisted, as she called
herself, the "same Miss Clotilda Clotworthy Crawley who was" so rudely
treated by the wild Irish girl, Lady Morgan. I was also obliged to
settle an old score with her in after years in "Sinde, or the Unhappy
Valley." And so I wrote, "She indeed had left her mark in literature,
not by her maudlin volume, 'The Byeways of Italy,' but by the abuse of
her fellow authors." She was "the sea goddess with tin ringlets and
venerable limbs" of the irrepressible Mrs. Trollope. She also supplied
Lever with one of the characters which he etched in with his most
corrosive acid. In one season the Baths collected Lady Blessington,
Count D'Orsay, the charming Lady Walpole, Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett
Browning, the poetess, whose tight _sacque_ of black silk gave us
youngsters a series of caricatures. There, too, was old Lady Osborne,
full of Greek and Latin, who married her daughter to Captain Bernal,
afterwards Bernal Osborne. Amongst the number was Mrs. Young, whose
daughter became Madame Matteucci, wife of the celebrated scientist and
electrician of Tuscany. She managed, curiously to say, to hold her
own in her new position. Finally, I remember Miss Virginia Gabriell,
daughter of old General Gabriell, commonly called the "Archangel
Gabriel." Virginia Gabriell, "all white and fresh, and virginally
plain," afterwards made a name in the musical world, composed beautiful
ballads, published many pieces, and married, and died in St. George's
Hospital by being thrown from a carriage, August 7, 1877. She showed
her _savoir faire_ at the earliest age. At a ball given to the Prince,
all appeared in their finest dresses and richest jewellery. Miss
Virginia was in white, with a single necklace of pink coral. They
danced till daylight; and when the sun arose, Miss Virginia was like a
rose amongst faded dahlias and sunflowers.

There was a very nice fellow of the name of Wood, who had just married
a Miss Stisted, one of the nieces of the "Queen of the Baths," with
whom all the "baths" were in love. Another marking young person was
Miss Helen Crowley, a girl of the order "dashing," whose hair was the
brightest auburn, and complexion the purest white and red. Her father
was the Rev. Dr. Crowley, whose Jewish novel "Salathiel" made a small
noise in the world; but either he or his wife disliked children, so
Miss Helen had been turned over to the charge of aunts. These were
two elderly maiden ladies, whose agnosticism was of the severest
description. "Sister, what is that noise?" "The howling of hymns,
sister." "The beastly creatures," cried she, as "Come across hill and
dale" reached her most irreverent ears. I met both of these ladies
in later life, and it was enough to say that all three had terribly
changed.

Amongst the remarkable people we knew were the Desanges family, who
had a phenomenon in the house. A voice seemed to come out of it of
the very richest volume, and every one thought it was a woman's. It
really belonged to Master Louis, who afterwards made for himself so
great a name for battle-scenes (The Desanges' Crimea and Victoria Cross
Gallery) and also for portraits.[3] The voice did not recover itself
thoroughly after breaking, but sufficient remained for admirable comic
songs, and no man who ever heard them came away from "Le Lor Maire" and
"Vilikens et sa Dinah" without aching sides. There was another learned
widow of the name of Graves, whose husband had been a kinsman of my
father. Her daughter prided herself upon the breadth of her forehead
and general intellectuality. She ended by marrying the celebrated
historian Von Ranke. Intellectual Englishwomen used to expect a kind
of intellectual paradise in marrying German professors. They were to
share their labours, assist in their discoveries, and wear a kind of
reflected halo or gloria, as the moon receives light from the sun; but
they were perfectly shocked when they were ordered to the kitchen, and
were addressed with perhaps "Donner--Wetter--Sacrament" if the dinner
was not properly cooked.

These little colonies like the "Baths of Lucca" began to decline
about 1850, and came to their Nadir in 1870. Then they had a kind
of resurrection. The gambling in shares and stocks and loans lost
England an immense sum of money, and the losses were most felt by that
well-to-do part of the public that had a fixed income and no chance
of ever increasing it. The loss of some five hundred millions of
pounds sterling, rendered England too expensive for a large class, and
presently drove it abroad. It gained numbers in 1881, when the Irish
Land Bill, soon to be followed by a corresponding English Land Bill,
exiled a multitude of landowners. So the little English colonies, which
had dwindled to the lowest expression, gradually grew and grew, and
became stronger than they ever did.

[Sidenote: _The Boys get too Old for Home._]

It was evident that the Burton family was ripe for a break up. Our
father, like an Irishman, was perfectly happy as long as he was the
only man in the house, but the presence of younger males irritated him.
His temper became permanently soured. He could no longer use the rod,
but he could make himself very unpleasant with his tongue. "Senti come
me li rimangia quei poveri ragazzi!" (Hear how he is chawing-up those
poor lads!) said the old Pisan-Italian lady's-maid, and I do think
now that we were not pleasant inmates of a household. We were in the
"Sturm und drang" of the teens. We had thoroughly mastered our tutor,
threw our books out of the window if he attempted to give a lesson in
Greek or Latin, and applied ourselves with ardour to Picault Le Brun,
and Paul de Kock, the "Promessi Sposi," and the "Disfida di Barletta."
Instead of taking country walks, we jodelled all about the hillsides
under the direction of a Swiss scamp. We shot pistols in every
direction, and whenever a stray fencing-master passed, we persuaded him
to give us a few hours of "point." We made experiments of everything
imaginable, including swallowing and smoking opium.

The break-up took place about the middle of summer. It was
comparatively tame. Italians marvelled at the Spartan nature of the
British mother, who, after the habits of fifteen years, can so easily
part with her children at the cost of a lachrymose last embrace, and
watering her prandial beefsteak with tears. Amongst Italian families,
nothing is more common than for all the brothers and sisters to swear
that they will not marry if they are to be separated from one another.
And even now, in these subversive and progressive days, what a curious
contrast is the English and the Italian household. Let me sketch one
of the latter, a family belonging to the old nobility, once lords of
the land, and now simple proprietors of a fair Estate. In a large
garden, and a larger orchard of vines and olives, stands a solid old
house, as roomy as a barrack, but without the slightest pretension of
comfort or luxury. The old Countess, a widow, has the whole of her
progeny around her--two or three stalwart sons, one married and the
others partially so, and a daughter who has not yet found a husband.
The servants are old family retainers. They consider themselves part
and parcel of the household; they are on the most familiar terms with
the family, although they would resent with the direst indignation the
slightest liberty on the part of outsiders. The day is one of extreme
simplicity, and some might even deem it monotonous. Each individual
leaves his bed at the hour he or she pleases, and finds coffee, milk,
and small rolls in the dining-room. Smoking and dawdling pass the hours
till almost mid-day, when _déjeuner à la fourchette_, or rather a young
dinner, leads very naturally up to a siesta. In the afternoon there is
a little walking or driving, and even shooting in the case of the most
energetic. There is a supper after nightfall, and after that dominoes
or cards, or music, or conversazione, keep them awake for half the
night. The even tenor of their days is broken only by a festival or a
ball in the nearest town, or some pseudo Scientific Congress in a City
not wholly out of reach; and so things go on from year to year, and all
are happy because they look to nothing else.

[Sidenote: _Schinznach and England._]

Our journey began in the early summer of 1840. My mother and sister
were left at the Baths of Lucca, and my father, with Mr. Du Pré, and
Edward and I, set out for Switzerland. We again travelled _vetturino_,
and we lads cast longing eyes at the charming country which we were
destined not to see again for another ten years. How melancholy we
felt when on our way to the chill and dolorous North! At Schinznach I
was left in charge of Mr. Du Pré, while my father and brother set out
for England direct. These Hapsburg baths in the Aargau had been chosen
because the abominable sulphur water, as odorous as that of Harrogate,
was held as sovereign in skin complaints, and I was suffering from
exanthémata, an eruption brought on by a sudden check of perspiration.
These eruptions are very hard to cure, and they often embitter a man's
life. The village consisted of a single Establishment, in which all
nationalities met. Amongst them was an unfortunate Frenchman, who had
been attacked at Calcutta with what appeared to be a leprous taint. He
had tried half a dozen places to no purpose, and he had determined to
blow his brains out if Schinznach failed him. The only advantage of the
place was, its being within easy distance of Schaffhausen and the falls
of the Rhine.

When the six weeks' cure was over, I was hurried by my guardian across
France, and Southern England, to the rendezvous. The Grandmother and
the two aunts, finding Great Cumberland Place too hot, had taken
country quarters at Hampstead. Grandmamma Baker received us lads with
something like disappointment. She would have been better contented had
we been six feet high, bony as Highland cattle, with freckled faces,
and cheek-bones like horns. Aunt Georgina Baker embraced and kissed her
nephews with effusion. She had not been long parted from us. Mrs. Frank
Burton, the other aunt, had not seen us for ten years, and of course
could not recognize us.

We found two very nice little girl-cousins, who assisted us to pass
the time. But the old dislike to our surroundings, returned with
redoubled violence. Everything appeared to us so small, so mean, so
ugly. The faces of the women were the only exception to the general
rule of hideousness. The houses were so unlike houses, and more like
the Nuremberg toys magnified. The outsides were so prim, so priggish,
so utterly unartistic. The little bits of garden were mere slices, as
if they had been sold by the inch. The interiors were cut up into such
wretched little rooms, more like ship-cabins than what was called rooms
in Italy. The drawing-rooms were crowded with hideous little tables,
that made it dangerous to pass from one side to the other. The tables
were heaped with nick-nacks, that served neither for use or show. And
there was a desperate neatness and cleanness about everything that
made us remember the old story of the Stoic who spat in the face of
the master of the house because it was the most untidy place in the
dwelling.

[Sidenote: _The Family break up._]

Then came a second parting. Edward was to be placed under the charge
of the Rev. Mr. Havergal, rector of some country parish. Later on, he
wrote to say that "Richard must not correspond with his brother, as
he had turned his name into a peculiar form of ridicule." He was in
the musical line, and delighted in organ-playing. But Edward seemed to
consider the whole affair a bore, and was only too happy when he could
escape from the harmonious parsonage.

In the mean time I had been tried and found wanting. One of my father's
sisters (Mrs. General D'Aguilar, as she called herself) had returned
from India, after an uninterrupted residence of a score of years, with
a large supply of children of both sexes. She had settled herself
temporarily at Cambridge, to superintend the education of her eldest
son, John Burton D'Aguilar, who was intended for the Church, and who
afterwards became a chaplain in the Bengal Establishment. Amongst her
many acquaintances was a certain Professor Sholefield, a well-known
Grecian. My father had rather suspected that very little had been
done in the house, in the way of classical study, during the last two
years. The Professor put me through my paces in Virgil and Homer, and
found me lamentably deficient. I did not even know who Isis was! worse
still, it was found out that I, who spoke French and Italian and their
dialects like a native, who had a considerable smattering of Bearnais,
Spanish, and Provençale, barely knew the Lord's Prayer, broke down in
the Apostles' Creed, and had never heard of the Thirty-nine Articles--a
terrible revelation!

[1] "The Sword," in three large works nobly planned out, when after the
first part was brought out, death frustrated the other two.--I. B.

[2] There are three hundred and sixty-five of these pits, one for every
day in the year.--I. B.

[3] In 1861 he painted Richard's and my portraits as a wedding
gift.--I. B.



CHAPTER IV.

OXFORD.


As it was Long Vacation at Oxford, and I could not take rooms at
once in Trinity College, where my name had been put down, it was
necessary to place me somewhere out of mischief. At the intervention
of friends, a certain Doctor Greenhill agreed to lodge and coach me
till the opening term. The said doctor had just married a relation of
Dr. Arnold, of Rugby, and he had taken his bride to Paris, in order
to show her the world and to indulge himself in a little dissecting.
Meanwhile I was placed _pro tem._ with another medical don, Dr. Ogle,
and I enjoyed myself in that house. The father was a genial man, and he
had nice sons and pretty daughters. As soon as Dr. Greenhill returned
to his house in High Street, Oxford, I was taken up there by my father,
and was duly consigned to the new tutor. Mr. Du Pré vanished, and was
never seen again.

The first sight of Oxford struck me with a sense of appal. "O Domus
antiqua et religiosa," cried Queen Elizabeth, in 1664, standing
opposite Pembroke College, which the Dons desecrated in 1875. I could
not imagine how such fine massive and picturesque old buildings as the
colleges could be mixed up with the mean little houses that clustered
around them, looking as if they were built of cardboard. In after days,
I remembered the feeling, when looking at the Temple of the Sun in
Palmyra, surrounded by its Arab huts, like swallows' nests planted upon
a palace wall. And everything, _except_ the colleges, looked so mean.

The good old Mitre was, if not the only, at least the chief hostelry of
the place, and it had the outward and visible presence of a pot-house.
The river with the classical name of Isis, was a mere moat, and its
influent, the Cherwell, was a ditch. The country around, especially
just after Switzerland, looked flat and monotonous in the extreme. The
skies were brown-grey, and, to an Italian nose, the smell of the coal
smoke was a perpetual abomination. Queer beings walked the streets,
dressed in aprons that hung behind, from their shoulders, and caps
consisting of a square, like that of a lancer's helmet, planted upon
a semi-oval to contain the head. These queer creatures were carefully
shaved, except, perhaps, a diminutive mutton-cutlet on each side of
their face, and the most serious sort were invariably dressed _in
vestibus nigris aut sub fuscis_.

Moreover, an indescribable appearance of donnishness or incipient
donnishness pervaded the whole lot. The juniors looked like schoolboys
who aspired to be schoolmasters, and the seniors as if their
aspirations had been successful. I asked after the famous Grove of
Trinity, where Charles I. used to walk when tired of Christ Church
meadows, and which the wits called Daphne. It had long been felled, and
the ground was covered with buildings.

At last term opened, and I transferred myself from Dr. Greenhill to
Trinity College.

Then my University life began, and readers must be prepared not to be
shocked at the recital of my college failures, which only proves the
truth of what I said before, that if a father means his boy to succeed
in an English career, he must put him to a preparatory school, Eton or
Oxford, educate him for his coming profession, and not drag his family
about the Continent, under governesses and tutors, to learn fencing,
languages, and become wild, and to belong to nowhere in particular as
to parish or county.

In the autumn term of 1840, at nineteen and a half, I began residence
in Trinity College, where my quarters were a pair of dog-holes, called
rooms, overlooking the garden of the Master of Balliol. My reception
at College was not pleasant. I had grown a splendid moustache, which
was the envy of all the boys abroad, and which all the advice of Drs.
Ogle and Greenhill failed to make me remove. I declined to be shaved
until formal orders were issued to the authorities of the college.
For I had already formed strong ideas upon the Shaven age of England,
when her history, with some brilliant exceptions, such as Marlborough,
Wellington, or Nelson, was at its meanest.

[Sidenote: _Practical Jokes._]

As I passed through the entrance of the College, a couple of brother
collegians met me, and the taller one laughed in my face. Accustomed
to continental decorum, I handed him my card and called him out. But
the college lad, termed by courtesy an Oxford man, had possibly read
of duels, had probably never touched a weapon, sword or pistol, and
his astonishment at the invitation exceeded all bounds. Explanations
succeeded, and I went my way sadly, and felt as if I had fallen amongst
_épiciers_. The college porter had kindly warned me against tricks
played by the older hands, upon "fresh young gentlemen," and strongly
advised me to "sport my oak," or, in other words, to bar and lock my
outer door. With dignity deeply hurt, I left the entrance wide open,
and thrust a poker into the fire, determined to give all intruders the
warmest possible reception. This was part and parcel of that unhappy
education abroad. In English public schools, boys learn first "to
take," and then "to give." They begin by being tossed, and then by
tossing others in the blanket. Those were days when practical jokes
were in full force. Happily it is now extinct. Every greenhorn coming
to college or joining a regiment, was liable to the roughest possible
treatment, and it was only by submitting with the utmost good humour,
that he won the affection of his comrades, and was looked upon as a
gentleman. But the practice also had its darker phase. It ruined many a
prospect, and it lost many a life. The most amusing specimen that _I_
ever saw was that of a charming youngster, who died soon after joining
his Sepoy regiment. The oldsters tried to drink him under the table at
mess, and had notably failed. About midnight, when he was enjoying his
first sleep, he suddenly awoke and found a ring of spectral figures
dancing round between his bed and the tent-walls. After a minute's
reflection, he jumped up, seized a sheet, threw it over his shoulders,
and joined the dancers, saying, "If this is the fashion I suppose I
must do it also." The jokers, baffled a second time, could do nothing
but knock him down and run away.

The example of the larky Marquis of Waterford, seemed to authorize all
kinds of fantastic tricks. The legend was still fresh, that he had
painted the Dean of Christ Church's door red, because that formidable
dignitary had objected to his wearing "pink" in High Street. Another,
and far more inexcusable prank, was his sending all the accoucheurs in
the town, to the house of a middle-aged maiden lady, whose father, a
don, had offended him. In the colleges they did not fly at such high
game, but they cruelly worried everything in the shape of a freshman.
One unfortunate youth, a fellow who had brought with him a dozen of
home-made wine, elder and cowslip, was made shockingly tight by brandy
being mixed with his port, and was put to bed with all his bottles
disposed on different parts of his person. Another, of æsthetic tastes,
prided himself upon his china, and found it next morning all strewed in
pieces about his bed. A third, with carroty whiskers, had them daubed
with mustard, also while in a state of insensibility, and had to have
them fall, yellow, next morning under a barber's hands.

I caused myself to be let down by a rope into the Master of Balliol's
garden, plucked up some of the finest flowers by the roots, and
planted in their place great staring marigolds. The study of the old
gentleman's countenance when he saw them next morning was a joy for
ever. Another prank was to shoot with an air-cane, an article strictly
forbidden in college, at a brand-new watering-pot, upon which the old
gentleman greatly prided himself, and the way which the water spirted
over his reverend gaiters, gave an ineffable delight to the knot of
mischievous undergraduates who were prospecting him from behind the
curtain. I, however, always had considerable respect for the sturdy
common sense of old Dr. Jenkins, and I made a kind of amends to him in
"Vikram and the Vampire," where he is the only Pundit who objected to
the tiger being resurrectioned. Another neat use of the air-cane, was
to shoot the unhappy rooks, over the heads of the dons, as they played
at bowls; the grave and reverend signiors would take up the body, and
gravely debate what had caused the sudden death, when a warm stream of
blood, trickling into their shirts, explained it only too clearly. No
undergraduate in college could safely read his classics out loud after
ten o'clock p.m., or his "oak" was broken with dumb-bells, and the
dirty oil lamp, that half lit the stairs, was thrown over him and his
books.

[Sidenote: _Friends._]

I made amends to a certain extent for my mischief by putting my
fellow-collegians to bed, and I always maintain that the Welshmen were
those who gave me the most trouble.

The Oxford day, considered with relation to the acquisition of
knowledge, was a "fast" pure and simple--it began in the morning
with Chapel, during which time most men got up their logic. We then
breakfasted either in our rooms, or in large parties, where we consumed
an immense quantity of ham, bacon, eggs, mutton chops, and indigestible
muffins. We then attended a couple of lectures, and this was Time
completely thrown away. We were then free for the day, and every man
passed his time as he best pleased. I could not afford to keep horses,
and always hated the idea of riding hired hacks. My only amusements
therefore were walking, rowing, and the school-at-arms. My walks
somehow or other always ended at Bagley Wood, where a pretty gypsy girl
(Selina), dressed in silks and satins, sat in state to receive the
shillings and the homage of the undergraduates. I worked hard, under
a coach, at sculling and rowing; I was one of the oars in the College
Torpid, and a friend and I challenged the River in a two-oar, but
unfortunately both of us were rusticated before the race came off.

My friend in misfortune belonged to an eminent ecclesiastical family,
and distinguished himself accordingly. Returning from Australia,
he landed at Mauritius without a farthing. Most men under the
circumstances would have gone to the Governor, told their names, and
obtained a passage to England. But the individual in question had far
too much individuality to take so commonplace a step. He wrote home to
his family for money, and meanwhile took off his coat, tucked up his
sleeves, and worked like a coolie on the wharf. When the cheque for
his passage was sent, he invited all his brother coolies to a spread
of turtle, champagne, and all the luxuries of the season, at the swell
hotel of the place, and left amidst the blessings of Shem and the curse
of Japhet. Another of my college companions--the son of a bishop,
by-the-by--made a cavalry regiment too hot to hold him, and took his
passage to the Cape of Good Hope in an emigrant ship. On the third day
he brought out a portable roulette table, which the captain sternly
ordered off the deck. But the ship was a slow sailer, she fell in with
calms about the Line, and the official rigour was relaxed. First one
began to play, and then another, and at last the ship became a perfect
"hell." After a hundred narrow escapes, and all manner of risks by
fire and water, and the fists and clubs of the enraged losers, the
distinguished youth landed at Cape Town with almost £5000 in his pocket.

[Sidenote: _Fencing-rooms._]

The great solace of _my_ life was the fencing-room. When I first
entered Oxford, its only _salle d'armes_ was kept by old Angelo, the
grandson of the gallant old Italian, mentioned by Edgeworth, but who
knew about as much of fencing as a French collegian after six months
of _salle d'armes_. He was a priggish old party too, celebrated for
walking up to his pupils and for whispering stagely, after a salute
with the foil, "This, sir, is not so much a School of Arms as a
_School of Politeness_." Presently a rival appeared in the person of
Archibald Maclaren, who soon managed to make his mark. He established
an excellent saloon, and he gradually superseded all the wretched
gymnastic yard, which lay some half a mile out of the town. He was
determined to make his way; he went over to Paris, when he could,
to work with the best masters, published his systems of fencing and
gymnastics, and he actually wrote a little book of poetry, which he
called "Songs of the Sword." He and I became great friends, which
friendship lasted for life. The only question that ever arose between
us was touching the advisability or non-advisability of eating sweet
buns and drinking strong ale at the same time. At the fencing-rooms I
made acquaintance, which afterwards became a life-long friendship, with
Alfred Bates Richards. He was a tall man, upwards of six feet high,
broad in proportion, and very muscular. I found it unadvisable to box
with him, but could easily master him with foil and broadsword. He was
one of the few who would take the trouble to learn. Mostly Englishmen
go to a fencing school, and, after six weeks' lessons, clamour to be
allowed to fence loose, and very loose fencing it is, and is fated
always to be. In the same way, almost before they can fix their
colours they want to paint _tableaux de genre_, and they have hardly
learnt their scales, when they want to attempt _bravura_ pieces. On
the Continent men work for months, and even years, before they think
themselves in sight of their journey's end. A. B. Richards and I often
met in after life and became intimates.[1] His erratic career is well
known, and he died at a comparatively early age, editor of the _Morning
Advertiser_. He had raised the tone of the Licensed Victuallers' organ
to such a high pitch that even Lord Beaconsfield congratulated him upon
it.

A. B. Richards was furious to see the treatment my services received;
he always stood up bravely for me--his fellow-collegian, both with word
and pen--in leaders too.

[Sidenote: _Manners and Customs--Food and Smoking._]

The time for "Hall," that is to say for college dinner, was five p.m.,
and the scene was calculated to astonish a youngster brought up on the
Continent. The only respectable part of it was the place itself, not
a bad imitation of some old convent refectory. The details were mean
in the extreme, and made me long for the meanest _table d'hôte_. Along
the bottom of the Hall, raised upon a dwarf dais, ran the high table,
intended for the use of fellows and fellow-commoners. The other tables
ran along the sides. Wine was forbidden, malt liquor being the only
drink. The food certainly suited the heavy strong beers and ales brewed
in the college. It consisted chiefly of hunches of meat, cooked after
Homeric or Central African fashion, and very filling at the price. The
vegetables, as usual, were plain boiled, without the slightest aid to
digestion. Yet the college cooks were great swells. They were paid
as much as an average clergyman, and put most of their sons into the
Church. In fact, the stomach had to do the whole work, whereas a good
French or Italian cook does half the work for it in his saucepans. This
cannibal meal was succeeded by stodgy pudding, and concluded with some
form of cheese, Cheshire or double Gloucester, which painfully reminded
one of bees'-wax, and this was called dinner. Very soon my foreign
stomach began to revolt at such treatment, and I found out a place in
the town, where, when I could escape Hall, I could make something of a
dinner.

The moral of the scene offended all my prepossessions. The
fellow-commoners were simply men, who by paying double what the
commoners paid, secured double privileges. This distinction of castes
is odious, except in the case of a man of certain age, who would not
like to be placed in the society of young lads. But worse still was
the gold tuft, who walked the streets with a silk gown, and a gorgeous
tassel on his college cap. These were noblemen, the offensive English
equivalent for men of title. _Generosus nascitur nobilis fit._ The
Grandfathers of these noblemen may have been pitmen or grocers, but
the simple fact of _having_ titles, entitled them to most absurd
distinctions. For instance, with a smattering of letters, enough to
enable a commoner to squeeze through an ordinary examination, gold
tuft took a first class, and it was even asserted that many took their
degrees by merely sending up their books. They were allowed to live
in London as much as they liked, and to condescend to college at the
rare times they pleased. Some Heads of Colleges would not stoop to this
degradation, especially Dean Gaisford of Christ Church, who compelled
Lord W---- to leave it and betake himself to Trinity; but the place
was, with notable exceptions, a hotbed of toadyism and flunkeyism.
When Mr. (now Sir Robert) Peel first appeared in the High Street, man,
woman, and child stood to look at him because he was the son of the
Prime Minister.

After dinner it was the custom to go to wine. These desserts were
another abomination. The table was spread with a vast variety of fruits
and sweetmeats, supplied at the very highest prices, and often on
tick, by the Oxford tradesmen,--model sharks. Some men got their wine
from London, others bought theirs in the town. Claret was then hardly
known, and port, sherry, and Madeira, all of the strong military ditto
type, were the only drinks. These wines were given in turn by the
undergraduates, and the meal upon meal would have injured the digestion
of a young shark. At last, about this time, some unknown fellow, whose
name deserved to be immortalized, drew out a cigar and insisted on
smoking it, despite the disgust and uproar that the novelty created.
But the fashion made its way, and the effects were admirable. The
cigar, and afterwards the pipe, soon abolished the cloying dessert, and
reduced the consumption of the loaded wines to a minimum.

But the English were very peculiar about smoking. In the days of
Queen Anne it was so universal that dissident jurymen were locked up
without meat, drink, or tobacco. During the continental wars it became
un-English to smoke, and consequently men, and even women, took snuff.
And for years it was considered as disgraceful to smoke a cigar out
of doors as to have one's boots blacked, or to eat an orange at Hyde
Park Corner. "Good gracious! you don't mean to say that you smoke in
the streets?" said an East Indian Director in after years, when he met
me in Pall Mall with a cigar in my mouth. Admiral Henry Murray, too,
vainly endeavoured to break through the prohibition by leading a little
squad of smoking friends through Kensington Gardens. Polite ladies
turned away their faces, and unpolite ladies muttered something about
"snobs." At last the Duke of Argyll spread his plaid under a tree in
Hyde Park, lighted a cutty pipe, and beckoned his friends to join him.
Within a month every one in London had a cigar in his mouth. A pretty
lesson to inculcate respect for popular prejudice!

After the dessert was finished, not a few men called for cognac,
whisky, and gin, and made merry for the rest of the evening. But
what else was there for them to do? Unlike a foreign University, the
theatre was discouraged; it was the meanest possible little house,
decent actors were ashamed to show themselves in it, and an actress of
the calibre of Mrs. Nesbitt appeared only every few years. Opera, of
course, there was none, and if there had been, not one in a thousand
would have understood the language, and not one in a hundred would
have appreciated the music. Occasionally there was a concert given by
some wandering artists, with the special permission of the college
authorities, and a dreary two hours' work it was. Balls were unknown,
whereby the marriageable demoiselles of Oxford lost many an uncommon
good chance. A mesmeric lecturer occasionally came down there and
caused some fun. He called for subjects, and amongst the half-dozen
that presented themselves was one young gentleman who had far more
sense of humour than discretion. When thrown into a deep slumber, he
arose, with his eyes apparently fast closed, and, passing into the
circle of astonished spectators, began to distribute kisses right and
left. Some of these salutations fell upon the sacred cheeks of the
daughters of the Heads of Houses, and the tableau may be imagined.

[Sidenote: _Drs. Newman and Pusey._]

This dull, monotonous life was varied in my case by an occasional
dinner with families whose acquaintance I had made in the town. At Dr.
Greenhill's I once met at dinner Dr. (afterwards Cardinal) Newman and
Dr. Arnold. I expected great things from their conversation, but it was
mostly confined to discussing the size of the Apostles in the Cathedral
of St. Peter's in Rome, and both these eminent men showed a very dim
recollection of the subject. I took a great fancy to Dr. Newman, and
used to listen to his sermons, when I would never give half an hour to
any other preacher. There was a peculiar gentleness in his manner, and
the matter was always suggestive. Dr. Newman was Vicar of St. Mary's,
at Oxford, and used to preach, at times, University sermons; there
was a stamp and seal upon him, a solemn music and sweetness in his
tone and manner, which made him singularly attractive, yet there was
no change of inflexion in his voice; action he had none; his sermons
were always read, and his eyes were ever upon his book; his figure was
lean and stooping, and the _tout ensemble_ was anything but dignified
or commanding, yet the delivery suited the matter of his speech, and
the combination suggested complete candour and honesty; he said only
what he believed, and he induced others to believe with him.[2] On the
other hand, Dr. Pusey's University sermons used to last for an hour
and a half; they were filled with Latin and Greek, dealt with abstruse
subjects, and were delivered in the dullest possible way, and seemed to
me like a _mauvais rêve_ or nightmare.

[Sidenote: _Began Arabic._]

At Dr. Greenhill's, too, I met Don Pascual de Gayangos, the Spanish
Arabist. Already wearying of Greek and Latin, I had attacked Arabic,
and soon was well on in Erpinius's Grammar; but there was no one to
teach me, so I began to teach myself, and to write the Arabic letters
from left to right, instead of from right to left, _i.e._ the wrong
way. Gayangos, when witnessing this proceeding, burst out laughing,
and showed me how to copy the alphabet. In those days, learning Arabic
at Oxford was not easy. There was a Regius Professor, but he had
other occupations than to profess. If an unhappy undergraduate went
up to him, and wanted to learn, he was assured that it was the duty
of a professor to teach a class, and not an individual. All this was
presently changed, but not before it was high time. The Sundays used
generally to be passed in "outings." It was a pleasure to get away from
Oxford, and to breathe the air which was not at least half smoke.

Another disagreeable of Oxford was, the continuous noise of bells. You
could not make sure of five minutes without one giving tongue, and in
no part of the world, perhaps, is there a place where there is such a
perpetual tinkling of metal. The maddening jangle of bells seems to
have been the survival of two centuries ago. In 1698 Paul Heutzner
wrote: "The English are vastly fond of great noises that fill the air,
such as the firing of cannon, drums, and the ringing of bells, so that
it is common for a number of them that have got a 'glass' in their
heads, to go up into some belfry, and ring the bells for hours together
for the sake of exercise."

A favourite Sunday trip used to be to Abingdon, which, by the wisdom of
the dons in those days, was the railway station of Oxford. Like most
men of conservative tendency, who disliked to move quiet things, who
cultivated the _status quo_, because they could hardly be better off,
and might be worse off, and who feared nothing more than innovations,
because these might force on enquiring into the disposal of the
revenues and other delicate monetary questions, they had fought against
the line with such good will, that they had left it nearly ten miles
distant from the town. Their conduct was by no means exceptional;
thousands did the same. For instance, Lord John Scott, determined to
prevent the surveyor passing through his estate, engaged a company of
"Nottingham Lambs," and literally strewed the floor of the porter's
lodge with broken surveying instruments. Mrs. Partington cannot keep
out the tide with her rake, and the consequence was that Oxford was
obliged to build a branch line, and soon had to lament that she had
lost the advantage of the main line.

The Rev. Thomas Short was at that time doing Sunday duty at Abingdon.
He was not distinguished for ability as a college tutor, but he was
a gentlemanly and kind-hearted man; he was careful not to be too
sharp-eyed when he met undergraduates at Abingdon. They generally
drove out in tandems, which the absurd regulations of the place kept
in fashion, by forbidding them. No one would have driven them had they
not possessed the merits of stolen fruit. I, having carefully practised
upon "Dobbin" in my earlier days, used thoroughly to enjoy driving. In
later years I met with my old tutor, the Rev. Thomas Short, who lived
to a great age, and died universally respected and regretted by all who
knew him.[3]

At last the lagging autumnal term passed away, and I went up to my
grandmother and aunts in Great Cumberland Place. It was not lively; a
household full of women only, rarely is.

The style of Society was very promiscuous. The Rev. Mr. Hutchins, the
clergyman under whom the family "sat" in the adjoining Quebec Chapel,
introduced me to the eccentric Duke of Brunswick, who used to laugh
consumedly at my sallies of high spirits. Lady Dinorben, with whom Mrs.
Phayre still lived, gave me an occasional invitation. The aunts' near
neighbours were old General Sutherland of the Madras Army, whose son
Alick I afterwards met in the Neilgherry Hills. Mr. Lawyer Dendy was
still alive, and one of his sons shortly after followed me to India
as a Bombay civilian. Another pleasant acquaintance was Mrs. White,
wife of the colonel of the 3rd Dragoons, whose three stalwart sons
were preparing for India, and gave me the first idea of going there.
A man who dances, who dresses decently, and who is tolerably well
introduced, rarely wants invitations to balls in London, and I found
some occupation for my evenings.

[Sidenote: _Play._]

But I sadly wanted a club, and in those days the institution was not as
common as it is now. At odd times I went to the theatres, and amused
myself with the humours of the little "Pic" and the old Cocoa-Nut
Tree. But hazard is a terrible game. It takes a man years to learn it
well, and by that time he has lost all the luck with which he begins.
I always disliked private play, although I played a tolerable hand at
whist, _écarté_, and piquet, but I found it almost as unpleasant to
win from my friends as to lose to my friends. On the other hand, I
was unusually lucky at public tables. I went upon a principle, not a
theory, which has ruined so many men. I noted as a rule that players
are brave enough when they lose, whereas they begin to fear when
they win. My plan, therefore, was to put a certain sum in my pocket
and resolve never to exceed it. If I lost it I stopped, one of the
advantages of public over private playing; but I did not lay down any
limits to winning when I was in luck; I boldly went ahead, and only
stopped when I found fortune turning the other way.

[Sidenote: _Town Life--College Friends._]

My grandmother's house was hardly pleasant to a devoted smoker; I was
put out on the leads, leading from the staircase, whenever I required
a weed. So I took lodgings in Maddox Street, and there became as it
were a "man about town." My brother Edward joined me, and we had, as
the Yankees say, "A high old time." It appeared only too short, and
presently came on the Spring Term, when I returned to my frouzy rooms
in Trinity College; and I had not formed many friendships in Trinity
itself. It had made a name for fastness amongst the last generation of
undergraduates, and now a reaction had set in. They laughed at me, at
my first lecture, because I spoke in Roman Latin--real Latin--I did not
know the English pronunciation, only known in England. The only men of
my own college I met in after life, were Father Coleridge, S.J., and
Edward A. Freeman, of Somerleaze, the historian.

Mrs. Grundy had then just begun to reign, inaugurated by Douglas
Jerrold with "What will Mrs. Grundy say?" This ancient _genitrix_
highly disapproved of my foreign ways, and my expressed dislike to
school and college, over which I ought to have waxed sentimental,
tender, and æsthetic; it appeared to her little short of blasphemy.
I had a few friends at "Exeter," including Richards, and three
at Brasenose, then famous for drinking heavy beers and ales as
Bonn or Heidelberg, especially on Shrove Tuesday, when certain
verses chaffingly called the "Carmen seculare" used to be sung.
But I delighted in "Oriel," which, both as regards fellows and
undergraduates, was certainly the nicest college of _my_ day. There I
spent the chief part of my time with Wilberforce, Foster, and a little
knot, amongst whom was Tom Hughes (afterwards Tom Brown). We boxed
regularly, and took lessons from Goodman, ex-pugilist and pedestrian,
and actual tailor, who came down to Oxford at times. We had great fun
with Burke--the fighting man--who on one occasion honoured Oxford with
his presence. The "Deaf 'un," as he was called, had a face that had
been hammered into the consistency of sole-leather, and one evening,
after being too copiously treated, he sat down in a heavy armchair, and
cried out, "Now, lads! half a crown a hit." We all tried our knuckles
upon his countenance, and only hurt our own knuckles.

Balliol (it was chiefly supplied from Rugby) then held her head
uncommonly high. As all know, Dr. Arnold had made the fortune of Rugby,
and caused it to be recognized among public schools. During his early
government the Rugbyites had sent a cricket challenge to Eton, and
the Etonians had replied "that they would be most happy to send their
scouts;" but as scholarship at Eton seemed to decline, so it rose
in Rugby and Oxford. Scholarship means £ _s. d._ At Balliol I made
acquaintance with a few men, whose names afterwards made a noise in the
world. They all belonged to a generation, collegically speaking, older
than myself. Coleridge (now Lord Coleridge) was still lingering there,
but he had taken his bachelor's degree, and his brother, afterwards
a Jesuit and author of many works, was a scholar at Trinity. Ward of
Balliol, who also became a Catholic, was chiefly remarkable for his
minute knowledge of the circulating library novels of the Laura-Matilda
type. He suffered from insomnia, and before he could sleep, he was
obliged to get through a few volumes every night. Lake of Balliol, then
a young don, afterwards turned out a complete man of the world; and
there is no need to speak of Jowett, who had then just passed as B.A.,
and was destined to be Master of Balliol.

[Sidenote: _Coaching and Languages._]

Oxford between 1840 and 1842 was entering upon great changes. The
old style of "fellow," a kind of survival of the Benedictine monks,
was rapidly becoming extinct, and only one or two remained. Men who
lived surrounded by their books on vertical stands, were capable of
asking you if "cats let loose in woods would turn to tigers," and
tried to keep pace with the age by reading up the _Times_ of eight
years past. But a great deal of reform was still wanted. Popular
idea about Oxford was, that the Classic groves of Isis were hotbeds
for classical _Scholasticism_, whilst Cambridge succeeded better in
Mathematics, but I soon found out that one would learn more Greek and
Latin in one year at Bonn and Heidelberg than in three at Oxford. The
college teaching, for which one was obliged to pay, was of the most
worthless description. Two hours a day were regularly wasted, and those
who read for honours were obliged to choose and to pay for a private
coach. Amongst the said coaches were some _drôles_, who taught in very
peculiar ways, by Rhymes, not always of the most delicate description.
One celebrated coach, after lecturing his blockheads upon the subject,
we will say, of Salmanizer, would say to them, "Now, you fellows,
you'll forget in a day everything that I've been teaching you for the
last hour. Whenever you hear this man's name, just repeat to yourselves
---- and you'll remember all about it."

The worst of such teaching was, that it had no order and no system.
Its philology was ridiculous, and it did nothing to work the reasoning
powers. Learning foreign languages, as a child learns its own, is
mostly a work of pure memory, which acquires, after childhood, every
artificial assistance possible. My system of learning a language in two
months was purely my own invention, and thoroughly suited myself. I got
a simple grammar and vocabulary, marked out the forms and words which
I knew were absolutely necessary, and learnt them by heart by carrying
them in my pocket and looking over them at spare moments during the
day. I never worked more than a quarter of an hour at a time, for after
that the brain lost its freshness. After learning some three hundred
words, easily done in a week, I stumbled through some easy book-work
(one of the Gospels is the most come-atable), and underlined every
word that I wished to recollect, in order to read over my pencillings
at least once a day. Having finished my volume, I then carefully
worked up the grammar minutiæ, and I then chose some other book whose
subject most interested me. The neck of the language was now broken,
and progress was rapid. If I came across a new sound like the Arabic
_Ghayn_, I trained my tongue to it by repeating it so many thousand
times a day. When I read, I invariably read out loud, so that the ear
might aid memory. I was delighted with the most difficult characters,
Chinese and Cuneiform, because I felt that they impressed themselves
more strongly upon the eye than the eternal Roman letters. This,
by-and-by, made me resolutely stand aloof from the hundred schemes for
transliterating Eastern languages, such as Arabic, Sanscrit, Hebrew,
and Syriac, into Latin letters, and whenever I conversed with anybody
in a language that I was learning, I took the trouble to repeat their
words inaudibly after them, and so to learn the trick of pronunciation
and emphasis.

The changes which followed 1840 made an important difference in the
value of fellowships. They were harder to get and harder to keep.
They were no longer what the parlous and supercilious youth defined
them, "An admirable provision for the indigent members of the middle
classes." The old half-monk disappeared, or rather he grew his
moustachios, and passed his vacations "sur le Continong." But something
still remains to be done. It is a scandal to meet abroad in diplomacy,
and other professions, a gentleman belonging to the _bene nati, bene
vestiti, modice docti_ of "All Souls'," drawing, moreover, his pay
for doing nothing. The richest University in the world is too poor to
afford the host of professors still required, and it is a disgrace that
an English University, whose name means the acquisition of universal
knowledge, should not be able to teach Cornish, Gaelic, Welsh, and
Irish, the original languages of the island. Again, the endowment of
research, a _sine quâ non_, is simply delayed because money is not
forthcoming. A little sensible economy would remedy this, and make
Oxford what she ought to be, a Seat of Learning--not, as the old
fellows of Christ Church define it, "A place to make rather ignorant
gentlemen." The competition fellowships at Oxford were started in 1854,
which changed the whole condition of things.

During this term I formally gave up my intention to read for a first
class. _Aut primus aut nullus_ was ever my motto, and though many
second-class men have turned out better than many first-class men, I
did not care to begin life with a failure. I soon ascertained the fact
that men who may rely upon first classes are bred to it from their
childhood, even as horses and dogs are trained. They must not waste
time and memory upon foreign tongues. They must not dissipate their
powers of brain upon anything like general education. They may know the
-isms, but they must be utterly ignorant of the -ologies; but, above
all things, they must not indulge themselves with what is popularly
called "_The World_." They must confine themselves to one straight
line, a college curriculum, and even then they can never be certain of
success. At the very moment of gaining the prize their health may break
down, and compel them to give up work. I surprised Dr. Greenhill by
my powers of memory when I learned Adam's "Antiquities" by heart. But
the doctor, who had not taken a class himself, threw cold water on my
ambition--perhaps the best thing he could do--and frankly told me that,
though I _could_ take a first class, he could by no means answer that I
_would_. The fellows of Trinity were nice gentlemanly men, but I by no
means wished to become one of the number. My father had set his heart
upon both sons being provided for by the Universities, and very often
"when fathers propose, sons dispose."

My disgust at the idea of University honours was perhaps not decreased
by my trying for the two scholarships, and failing to get them.

[Sidenote: _Latin--Greek._]

I attributed my non-success at University College (where I was beaten
by a man who turned a chorus of Æschylus into doggerel verse) chiefly
to my having stirred the bile of my examiners with my real (Roman)
Latin. At times, too, the devil palpably entered into me, and made me
speak Greek Romaically by accent, and not by quantity, even as they
did and still do at Athens. I had learnt this much from one of the
Rhodo-Kanakis Greek merchants at Marseille, so that I could converse in
Latin and Greek as spoken as well as ancient Latin and Greek.

The history of the English pronunciation of Latin is curious. In
Chaucer it was after the Roman fashion, in Spencer the English A
appears, and the change begins to make itself felt under the succession
of Queen Elizabeth. It is most probable that this was encouraged by
the leaders of education, in order more thoroughly to break with
Rome. The effect was, that after learning Greek and Latin for twenty
years, a lad could hardly speak a sentence, because he had never been
taught to converse in the absurdly _called_ Dead Languages, and if
he did speak, not a soul but an Englishman could understand him. The
English pronunciation of Latin vowels, happens to be the very worst
in the world, because we have an O and an A which belongs peculiarly
to English, and which destroys all the charms of those grand-sounding
vowels.

Years after I was laughed at at Oxford, public opinion took a turn,
and Roman pronunciation of Latin was adopted in many of the best
schools. I was anxious to see them drop their absurd mispronunciation
of Greek, but all the authorities whom I consulted on the subject,
declared to me that schoolmasters had quite enough to do with learning
Italianized Latin, and could not be expected to trouble themselves with
learning Athenianized Greek. I had another most quixotic idea, which
was truly breaking one's head against a windmill. I wanted the public
to pronounce Yob for Job, Yericho for Jericho, Yakoob for Jacob, and
Yerusalem for Jerusalem. The writers of the Anglican version, must
certainly have intended this, and it is inconceivable how the whole
English public dropped the cognate German pronunciation of J, and took
to that of France and Italy.

[Sidenote: _Holidays._]

At last the dreary time passed away, and a happy family meeting was
promised. My father brought my mother and sister from Pisa to Wiesbaden
in Germany, and we boys, as we were still called, were invited over
to spend the Long Vacation. We were also to escort Mrs. D'Aguilar,
who with two of her daughters were determined to see the Rhine. One of
the girls was Emily, who died soon. The other was Eliza, who married a
clergyman of the name of Pope, and whose son, Lieutenant Pope of the
24th Queen's, died gallantly at Isandula; though surrounded by numbers,
he kept firing his revolver and wounding his enemies, till he received
a mortal wound by an assegai in the breast. This was on January 22nd,
1879. In the end of 1875 he came to Folkestone, to take leave of my
wife and me, who were going out to India. We both liked him very much.

In those days travellers took the steamer from London Bridge, dropped
quietly down the Thames, and, gaining varied information about the
places on both sides of it, dined as usual on a boiled leg of mutton
and caper sauce, and roast ribs of beef with horse-radish, and slept
as best they could in the close boxes called berths or on deck; if the
steamer was in decent order, and there was not too much head wind, they
could be in the Scheldt next morning.

Our little party passed a day at Antwerp, which looked beautiful from
the river. The Cathedral tower and the tall roofs and tapering spires
of the churches around it made a matchless group. We visited the
fortifications, which have lately done such good work, and we had an
indigestion of Rubens, who appeared so gross and so fleshy after the
Italian school. Mrs. D'Aguilar was dreadfully scandalized, when, coming
suddenly into a room, she found her two nephews at romps with a pretty
little _soubrette_, whose short petticoats enabled her to deliver the
sharpest possible kicks, while she employed her hands in vigorously
defending her jolly red cheeks. The poor lady threw up her hands and
her eyes to heaven when she came suddenly upon this little scene, and
she was even more shocked when she found that her escort had passed the
Sunday evening in the theatre.

From Antwerp we travelled to Bruges, examined the belfry, heard the
chimes, and then went on to Cologne. A marvellous old picturesque place
it was, with its combination of old churches, crumbling walls, gabled
houses, and the narrowest and worst-paved streets we had ever seen.
The old Cathedral in those days was not finished, and threatened never
to be finished. Still there was the grand solitary tower, with the
mystical-looking old crane on the top, and a regular garden growing out
of the chinks and crannies of the stonework. Coleridge's saying about
Cologne, was still emphatically true in those days, and all travellers
had recourse to "Jean Marie Farina _Gegenüber_." What a change there is
now, with that hideous Gothic railway bridge, and its sham battlements,
and loopholes to defend nothing, with its hideous cast-iron turret
over the centre of the church, where the old architect had intended a
light stone lantern-tower, with the ridiculous terrace surrounding the
building, and with the hideous finials with which the modern German
architects have disfigured the grand old building!

[Sidenote: _The Rhine to Wiesbaden._]

At Cologne we took the steamer and ran up the river. A far more
sensible proceeding than that of these days, when tourists take the
railway, and consequently can see only one side of the view. The river
craft was comfortable, the meals were plentiful, the Piesporter was a
sound and unadulterated wine, and married remarkably well with Knaster
tobacco, smoked in long pipes with painted china bowls. The crowd, too,
was good-tempered, and seemed to enjoy its holiday. Bonn, somehow or
other, always managed to show at least one very pretty girl, with blue
porcelain eyes and gingerbread-coloured hair. Then came the Castle Crag
of Drachenfels and the charming Siebengebirge, which in those days were
not spoiled by factory chimneys. We landed at Mainz, and from there
drove over to the old Fontes Mattiace, called in modern day Wiesbaden.

It has been said that to enjoy the Rhine one must go to it _from_
England, not the other way from Switzerland; and travellers' opinions
are very much divided about it, some considering it extremely grand,
and others simply pretty. I was curious to see what its effect upon me
would be after visiting the four quarters of the globe; so, in May,
1872, I dropped down the river from Basle to the mouth. The southern
and the northern two-thirds were uninteresting, but I found the
middle as pretty as ever, and, in fact, I enjoyed the beautiful and
interesting river more than when I had seen it as a boy.

I found the middle, beginning at Bingen, charming. Bishop Hatto's
Tower had become a cockneyfied affair, and the castles, banks, and
islands were disagreeably suggestive of Richmond Hill. But Drachenfels,
Nonnenswerth, and Rolandseck, were charming, and I quite felt the
truth of the saying, that this is one of the paradises of Germany.
At Düsseldorf the river became old and ugly, and so continued till
Rotterdam.

Wiesbaden in those days was intensely "German and ordinary," as Horace
Walpole says. It was a kind of Teutonic Margate, with a _chic_ of its
own. In the days before railways, this was the case with all these
"Baths," where people either went to play, or to get rid of what the
Germans call _eine sehr schöne corpulenz_, a corporation acquired by
stuffing food of three kinds, salt, sour, or greasy, during nine or ten
months of the year. It was impossible to mistake princely Baden-Baden
and its glorious Black Forest, for invalid Kissingen or for Homberg,
which combined mineral waters and gambling tables. Wiesbaden was
so far interesting that it showed the pure and unadulterated summer
life of middle-class Germans. There you see in perfection the grave
blue-green German eye.

You are surprised at the frequency of the name of Johann. Johann was
a servant; Johannes, a professor; Schani, a swell; Jean, a kind of
_fréluqué_; Hans, a peasant; and Hansl, a village idiot. Albrecht,
with flat occiput, and bat-like ears, long straight hair and cap,
with unclean hands, and a huge signet ring on his forefinger, with a
pipe rivalling the size of a Turkish _chibouque_, took his regular
seat on one of the wooden benches of the promenade, with Frau Mutter
mending his stockings on one side, and Fraülein Gretchen knitting
mittens on the other. This kind of thing would continue perhaps for ten
seasons, but on the eleventh you met Albrecht, _au petit soins_, with
Mütze as his bride, and Gretchen being waited upon by her bridegroom
Fritz, and then everything went on as before. Amongst the women the
_kaffee-gesellschaft_ flourished, when coffee and scandal took the
place of scandal and tea, the beverage which I irreverently call
"chatter-water." The lady of the house invites two or three friends
to come and bring their work and drink a cup of coffee. Before the
hour arrives the invitations most likely number twenty. They dress in
afternoon promenade toilette, which was very unadorned at Wiesbaden,
and they drop in one by one--much kissing and shaking of hands and
uncloaking; then each one pulls out knitting, or various pieces of
work, which are mutually admired, and patterns borrowed, and then they
fall to upon children, servants, toilettes, domestic economy, and the
reputations of such of their friends as are not there. This goes on for
hours, only interrupted by the servant wheeling in a table covered with
coffee, cakes, sweetmeats, jam, and _kugelhupf_.

In the evening there was often a dance at the Kursaal--admirable
waltzing, and sometimes quadrilles with steps. Here the bald old
Englishman, who in France would collect around him all the old ladies
in the room to see him dance, was little noticed. The hearty and homely
Germans danced themselves, even when they had grey hair.

Our family found a comfortable house at Wiesbaden, and the German
servants received the "boys," as we were still called, with
exclamations of "Ach! die schöne schwarze kinder." We paid occasionally
furtive visits to the Kursaal, and lost a few sovereigns like men. But
our chief amusement was the fencing-room. Here we had found new style
of play, with the _schläger_, a pointless rapier with razor-like edges.
It was a favourite student's weapon, used to settle all their affairs
of honour, and they used it with the silly hanging guard. Some of them
gave half an hour every day to working at the post, a wooden pillar
stuck up in the middle of the room and bound with vertical ribbons of
iron.

When we were tired of Wiesbaden, we amused ourselves with wandering
about the country. We visited the nearer watering-places. The first was
Schwalbach, "the Swallows' Brook," where the rusty waters turned all
our hair red. We then went off to Schlangenbad, "the Snakes' Bath,"
whose Kalydor made the Frenchman fall in love with himself. These
waters had such a reputation, that one lady (of course she was called a
Russian Princess) used to have them sent half across Europe for daily
use.

In those days there were not many English in these out-of-the-way
places, and the greater number were Oxford and Cambridge men. They
were learning German and making the most extraordinary mistakes.
One gentleman said that the German particles were difficult, but he
made a great confusion of the matter. Amongst others, there were the
daughters of Archbishop Whately, at that time very nice girls. We
then returned to Wiesbaden, and went over to Heidelberg, which is so
charmingly picturesque. Here we found a little colony of English, and
all fraternized at once.

[Sidenote: _The Nassau Brigade._]

We "boys" wanted to enter one of the so-called brigades, and chose
the Nassau, which was the fightingest of all. An Irish student, who
was one of the champions of the corps, and who had distinguished
himself by slitting more than one nose, called upon us, and, over
sundry _schoppes_ of beer, declared that we could not be admitted
without putting in an appearance at the Hirschgasse. This was a little
pot-house at the other side of the river, with a large room where
monomachies were fought. The appearance of the combatants was very
ridiculous. They had thick felt caps over their heads, whose visors
defended their eyes. Their necks were swathed in enormous cravats, and
their arms were both padded, and so were their bodies from the waist
downwards. There was nothing to hit but the face and the chest. That,
however, did not prevent disagreeable accidents. Sometimes too heavy
a cut went into the lungs, and at other times took an effect upon
either eye. But the grand thing was to walk off with the tip of the
adversary's nose, by a dexterous upward snick from the hanging guard.
A terrible story was told of a duel between a handsome man and an ugly
man. Beauty had a lovely nose, and Beast so managed that presently it
was found on the ground. Beauty made a rush for it, but Beast stamped
it out of all shape. There was a very little retreating in these
affairs, for the lines were chalked upon the ground. The seconds stood
by, also armed with swords and protected with masks, to see that there
was nothing like a _sauhieb_ or unfair cut. A medical student was
always present, and when a cut went home, the affair was stopped to
sew it up. Sometimes, however, the artery shrank, and its patient was
marked with a cross, as it was necessary to open his cheek above and
below in order to tie it up.

A story is told of a doctor who attended a students' duel, when the
mask fell, and one of them lost his nose. The doctor flew at it and
picked it up, and put it in his mouth to keep it warm, whipped out his
instruments, needle and thread, and so skilfully stitched on the nose,
and stopped it with plaster, that the edges united, and in a few weeks
the nose was as handsome and useful as ever.

We boys did not see the fun of this kind of thing, and when our Irish
friend told us what the ordeal was, we said that we were perfectly
ready to turn out with foils or rapiers, but that we could not stand
the paddings. Duels with the broadsword, and without protection, were
never fought except on desperate occasions. Our friend promised to
report it to the brigade, and the result was that some time afterwards
we were introduced to a student, who said that he knew a little
fencing, and should like to try a _botte_ with us. We smelt a rat,
as the phrase is, and showed him only half of what we could do. But
apparently that was enough, for our conditions were not accepted, and
we were not admitted into the Nassau Brigade.

At Heidelberg I told my father that Oxford life did not in any way
suit me. I pleaded for permission to go into the Army, and, that
failing, to emigrate to Canada or Australia. He was inexorable. He
was always thinking of that fellowship. Edward, too, was deadly tired
of Dr. Havergal, and swore that he would rather be a "private" than
a fellow of Cambridge. However, he was sent _nolens volens_ to the
University on the Cam, and there he very speedily came to grief. It
was remarked of him, before the end of the first term, that he was
never seen at Chapel. His tutor sent for him, and permitted himself
strong language on this delinquency. "My dear sir," was the reply, "no
party of pleasure ever gets me out of bed before ten o'clock, and do
you _really, really_ think that I am going to be in Chapel at eight
o'clock?" "Are you joking, or is that your mature decision?" said the
tutor. "My very ripest decision," said Edward, and consequently he was
obliged to leave college without delay.

When the visit was over, and the autumnal term was beginning, I left
Germany and steamed down the Rhine. Everything that I saw made me less
likely to be pleased at the end of my journey. However, there was no
choice for it. I arrived in London, and found my grandmother and aunts
still at the seaside, in a house over the cliff at Ramsgate. Ramsgate
I rather liked. There were some very handsome girls there, the Ladies
P----t, and the place had a kind of distant resemblance to Boulogne.
The raffles at the libraries made it a caricature of a German Bath.
I wandered about the country; I visited Margate, where the tone of
society was perfectly marvellous, and ran about the small adjacent
bathing-places, like Broadstairs and Herne Bay. This brought on the
time when I was obliged to return to Oxford.

I went there with no good will, and as my father had refused to
withdraw me from the University, I resolved to withdraw myself.

[Sidenote: _The Straws that broke the Camel's Back._]

My course of action was one of boyish thoughtlessness. Reports of
wine-parties were spread everywhere, whispers concerning parodies on
venerable subjects, squibs appeared in the local papers--in those days
an unpardonable offence--caricatures of Heads of Houses were handed
about, and certain improvisations were passed from mouth to mouth. I
had a curious power of improvising any number of rhymes, without the
slightest forethought; but the power, such as it was, was perfectly
useless to me, as it was accompanied with occasional moments of
nervousness, when I despaired, without the slightest reason whatever,
of finding the easiest rhyme. Probably the professional Italian, who
declaims a poem or a tragedy, labours under the perfect conviction that
nothing in the world can stop him. And then it is so much easier to
rhyme in Italian than in English; so my efforts were mostly confined to
epigrams and epitaphs, at wines and supper-parties, and you may be sure
that these brilliant efforts did me no good.

This was the beginning of the end. My object was to be rusticated, not
to be expelled. The former may happen in consequence of the smallest
irregularity, the latter implies ungentlemanly conduct. I cast about
in all directions for the safest line, when fortune put the clue
into my hands. A celebrated steeplechaser, Oliver the Irishman, came
down to Oxford, and I was determined to see him ride. The collegiate
authorities, with questionable wisdom, forbad us all to be present at
the races, and especially at what they called "the disgraceful scenes
of 'race ordinaries.'" Moreover, in order to make matters sure, they
ordered all the undergraduates to be present at the college lecture, at
the hour when the race was to be run.

A number of high-spirited youngsters of the different colleges swore
that they would not stand this nonsense, that it was infringing the
liberty of the subject, and that it was treating them like little boys,
which they did not deserve. Here, doubtless, they were right. But, well
foreseeing what would be the result, they acted according to the common
saying, "In for a penny, in for a pound;" so the tandem was ordered to
wait behind Worcester College, and when they should have been attending
a musty lecture in the tutor's room, they were flicking across the
country at the rate of twelve miles an hour. The steeplechase was a
delight, and Oliver was very amusing at the race ordinary, although he
did not express much admiration for the riding of what he called "The
Oxford lads."

[Sidenote: _Rusticated._]

Next morning there was eating of humble-pie. The various culprits
were summoned to the Green Room and made conscious of the enormity
of the offence. I secured the respect of the little knot by arguing
the point with the college dignitaries. I boldly asserted that there
was no moral turpitude at being present at a race. I vindicated the
honour and dignity of collegiate men by asserting that they should not
be treated as children. I even dropped the general axiom "that trust
begets trust," and "they who trust us elevate us." Now, this was too
much of a good thing, to commit a crime, and to declare it a virtuous
action. Consequently, when all were rusticated, I was singled out
from the _Hoi polloi_, by an especial recommendation not to return to
Oxford from a Rus. Stung by a sense of injustice, I declared at once
that I would leave the college, and expressed a vicious hope, that
the caution-money deposited by my father would be honestly returned
to him. This was the climax. There was a general rise of dignitaries,
as if a violent expulsion from the room was intended. I made them my
lowest and most courtly bow, Austrian fashion, which bends the body
nearly double, wished them all happiness for the future, and retired
from the scene. I did not see Oxford again till 1850, when, like the
prodigal son, I returned to Alma Mater with a half-resolution to finish
my terms and take my bachelor degree.[4] But the idea came too late.
I had given myself up to Oriental studies, and I had begun to write
books. Yet I was always glad, during my occasional visits home, to call
at my old college, have a chat with the Reverend and Venerable Thomas
Short, and to breakfast and dine with the dons who had been bachelors
or undergraduates at the time of my departure.

The way in which I left Oxford was characteristic of the rest. One of
my rusticated friends, Anderson of Oriel, had proposed that we should
leave with a splurge--"go up from the land with a soar." There was now
no need for the furtive tandem behind Worcester College. It was driven
boldly up to the college doors. My bag and baggage were stowed away
in it, and with a cantering leader and a high-trotting shaft-horse,
which unfortunately went over the beds of the best flowers, we started
from the High Street by the Queen's Highway to London, I artistically
performing upon a yard of tin trumpet, waving adieu to my friends, and
kissing my hand to the pretty shop-girls. In my anger I thoroughly felt
the truth of the sentiment--

    "I leave thee, Oxford, and I loathe thee well,
    Thy saint, thy sinner, scholar, prig, and swell."

Alfred Bates Richards, Dick's college mate, wrote in after years: "It
is a curious reflection at school for any boy or any master, 'What
will become of the boy? Who will turn out well? who ill? Who will
distinguish himself? who will remain in obscurity? Who live? who die?'
I am sure, though Burton was brilliant, rather wild, and very popular,
none of us foresaw his future greatness, nor knew what a treasure we
had amongst us."

[1] He began and wrote the "Career of R. F. Burton," printed by
Waterlow, and brought it up to 1876. We deeply regretted him.--I. B.

[2] Richard always said that if _all_ Catholics were like Dr. Newman,
nearly every thinking person would become Catholic.--I. B.

[3] I can remember, in later years, Richard going to see him, and
when he was so old he had almost to be supported, gazing at him with
affection and moist eyes.--I. B.

[4] How often I have heard him regret that he did not do this, and I
can testify that at the bottom of his heart he loved Oxford, but he
could not obey his father, and also carry out the destiny for which he
was best fitted and obliged to follow.--I. B.



CHAPTER V.

GOING TO INDIA.


Arriving in London, I was received by the family harem with some
little astonishment, for they already knew enough of "terms" to
be aware that the last was unfinished. I was quite determined to
have two or three days in peace, so I thoroughly satisfied all the
exigencies of the position by declaring that I had been allowed an
extra vacation for taking a double-first with the very highest honours.
A grand dinner-party was given, quite the reverse of the fatted
calf. Unfortunately, amongst the guests was the Rev. Mr. Phillips, a
great friend of mine, who grinned at me, and indirectly ejaculated,
"Rusticated, eh?" The aunts said nothing at the time, but they made
inquiries, the result of which was a tableau.

This Phillips was the brother of Major-General Sir B. T. Phillips, who
served long and well in the Bengal army, was rather a noted figure as a
young-old man in London, and died in Paris in 1880.

You will say that these are wild oats with a vengeance, but most thus
sow them, and it is better that they should sow them in early youth.
Nothing is more melancholy than to see a man suddenly emancipated from
family rule, and playing tricks when the heyday is passed. Youth is
like new wine that must be allowed to ferment freely, or it will never
become clear, strong, and well flavoured.

[Sidenote: _He gets a Commission and begins Hindostani._]

I was asked what I intended to do, and I replied simply that I wished
to go into the Army, but that I preferred the Indian service, as it
would show me more of the world, and give me a better chance of active
service. There was no great difficulty in getting a commission. The
Directors were bound not to sell them, but every now and then they
would give a nomination to a friend, and my friend did not throw away
the chance. My conviction is that the commission cost £500.

It was arranged that I should sail in the spring, and meanwhile I
determined to have a jolly time. I made a number of new acquaintances,
including old Mr. Varley, the artist, of whom I was very fond. He had
just finished a curious book that he called "Zodiacal Physiognomy,"
in order to prove that every man resembled, after a fashion, the sign
under which he was born. Readers will kindly remember, that in the
old Zodiacs, all the figures were either human or bestial. Mr. Varley
was a great student of occult science, and perhaps his favourite was
astrology. It is curious how little London knows of what goes on in the
next-door house. A book on "Alchemy" was printed, and the curious fact
came out, that at least one hundred people in London were studying the
philosopher's stone.

Mr. Varley drew out my horoscope, and prognosticated that I was to
become a great astrologer; but the prophesy came to nothing, for,
although I had read Cornelius Agrippa and others of the same school at
Oxford, I found Zadkiel quite sufficient for me. Amongst the people
that I met was the Rev. Robert, popularly called Satan Montgomery,
who had come up from Scotland deadly tired of Glasgow punch, and was
making a preaching campaign. He had written a quantity of half-nonsense
verses, which were very much admired by his feminine devotees, and
which were most savagely mangled by Lord Macaulay in the _Quarterly_.
He was an effective figure in the pulpit; he had a very pale face, and
tolerably straight features, very black hair, and very white hands,
with a large diamond and a very white pocket-handkerchief.

He had, to a marvellous extent, what is vulgarly called the "gift of
the gab;" he spoke for an hour without a moment's hesitation. But there
was something solid below all this froth, and he had carefully read up
all the good old theological works. The women, including the aunts,
went literally mad; they crowded the little Gothic chapel, they mobbed
as he came in and went out, and they literally overwhelmed him with
slippers, chest-protectors, and portable articles to administer the
Sacrament. His reign was short; he married, came up to London, took
a chapel, subsided into the average popular preacher, and soon died.
Amongst others that I met was a certain Robert Bagshaw from Calcutta,
who was destined afterwards to marry my aunt Georgina Baker. I managed
to offend him very much. He was rather boasting of a new dress-coat,
when I delicately raised the tail, and said, "You don't mean to say
that you call _this_ a coat?"

With all this wasting of time, I kept my eye steadily fixed upon the
main chance. I gave up boxing at Owen Swift's, and fencing at Angelo's,
and spent all my spare time in learning Hindostani with old Duncan
Forbes. A very curious old Scotchman it was. He had spent a year or
so in Bombay, and upon the strength of it, he was perfect master of
Oriental languages. He had two passions: one was for smoking a huge
meerschaum, stuffed with the strongest possible tobacco, and the other
was for chess, concerning which he published some, at that time, very
interesting and novel studies.

Perhaps his third passion was not quite so harmless; it was simply
for not washing. He spoke all his Eastern languages with the broadest
possible Scotch accent; and he cared much more for telling anecdotes,
than for teaching. However, he laid a fair foundation, and my _then_
slight studies of Arabic, secured me the old man's regard. He published
a number of books, and he certainly had not the _suaviter in modo_. He
attacked Eastwick, the Orientalist, in the most ferocious style.

[Sidenote: _He goes to be sworn in at the India Office._]

Presently the day came when I was to be sworn in at the India House.
In those days the old building stood in Leadenhall Street, and gave
Thackeray a good opportunity of attacking it as the "Hall of Lead;" a
wonderful dull and smoky old place, it was, with its large and gorgeous
porter outside, and its gloomy, stuffy old rooms inside, an atmosphere
which had actually produced "The Essays of Elia." In those days it
kept up a certain amount of respect for itself. If an officer received
a gift of a sword, he was conducted by the tall porter to the general
meeting of the Directors, and duly spoken to and complimented in form;
but as times waxed harder, the poor twenty-four Kings of Leadenhall
Street declined from Princes into mere _Shayhks_. They actually sent
a Sword of Honour to one of their officers by a street messenger, and
the donee returned it, saying, he could, not understand the _manner_
of the gift; and so it went on gradually declining and falling, till
at last the old house was abandoned and let for offices. The shadowy
Directors flitted to the West End, into a brand-new India House, which
soon brought on their Euthanasia.

My bringing-up caused me to be much scandalized by the sight of my
future comrades and brother officers, which I will presently explain.
The Afghan disaster was still fresh in public memory. The aunts had
been patriotic enough to burst into tears when they heard of it; and
certainly it was an affecting picture, the idea of a single Englishman,
Dr. Brydone, riding into Jellalabad, the only one of thirteen thousand,
he and his horse so broken as almost to die at the gates.

Poor General Elphinstone, by-the-by, had been my father's best man at
his marriage, and was as little fitted for such field service, as Job
was at his worst. Alexander Burns was the only headpiece in the lot. He
had had the moral courage to report how critical the position was; but
he had not the moral courage to insist upon his advice being taken,
and, that failing, to return to his regiment as a Captain.

MacNaghten was a mere Indian civilian. Like too many of them, he had
fallen into the dodging ways of the natives, and he distinctly deserved
his death. The words used by Akbar Khan, by-the-by, when he shot him,
were, "Shumá mulk-e-má mí gírid" ("So you're the fellow who've come to
take our country").

But the result of the massacre was a demand for soldiers and officers,
especially Anglo-Indians. Some forty medical students were sent out,
and they naturally got the name of the "Forty Thieves." The excess of
demand explained the curious appearance of the embryo cadets when they
met to be sworn in at the India House. They looked like raw country
lads, mostly dressed in home-made clothes, and hair cut by the village
barber, country boots, and no gloves. So, my friend, Colonel White's
son, who was entering the service on the same day, and I looked at one
another in blank dismay. We had fallen amongst young Yahoos, and we
looked forward with terror to such society. I was originally intended
for Bengal, but, as has been seen, I had relations there. I was not
going to subject myself to surveillance by my uncle by marriage, an old
general of invalids. Moreover, one of my D'Aguilar cousins was married
to a judge in Calcutta. I was determined to have as much liberty as
possible, and therefore I chose Bombay. I was always of opinion that a
man proves his valour by doing what he likes; there is no merit in so
doing when you have a fair fortune and independent position, but for a
man bound by professional ties, and too often lacking means to carry
out his wishes, it is a great success to choose his own line and stick
to it.

The next thing to do was to obtain an outfit. This was another great
abuse in those days. As the friends of the Directors made money by
the cadets' commissions to the friends, the friends made money by
sending them to particular houses. The unfortunate cadets, or rather
their parents, were in fact plundered by everything that touched them.
The outfit, which was considered _de rigueur_, was absurdly profuse.
Dozens upon dozens of white jackets and trousers, only fit to give
rheumatism--even tobacco, niggerhead, and pigtail, as presents for the
sailors. Even the publishers so arranged that their dictionaries and
grammars of Hindostani should be forced upon the unhappy youths.[1] The
result was absolutely ridiculous. As a rule, the bullock trunks were
opened during the voyage, the kit was displayed, and on fast ships
it was put down as a stake at cards. Stories are told of sharp hands
landing in India after winning half a dozen outfits, which literally
glutted the market. Guns, pistols, and swords, and saddles were of the
most expensive and useless description, and were all to be bought much
better, at a quarter the price, in any Indian port.

The average of the voyage lasted four months. Two or three changes of
suits only, were necessary, and the £100 outfit was simply plunder to
the outfitter.

An unusual article of outfit was ordered by me, and that was a wig from
Winter in Oxford Street. In early life I found the advantage of shaving
my head, enabling me to keep it cool, when it was usually in the other
condition.

An old Joe Miller was told in Bombay about a certain Duncan Grey,
a Scotch doctor, who was famous for selling hog-mane ponies to
new-comers. He was in medical attendance upon the cadets, and took the
opportunity of pocketing his wig, and persuading them that shaved heads
were the official costume. He accompanied them for the first official
visit, and as they were taking off their caps he whipped on his wig,
and presented to the astonished Commanding Officer half a dozen utterly
bald pates, which looked as if they belonged to as many lunatics.

My only companion was a bull-terrier of the Oxford breed, more bull
than terrier. Its box-head and pink face had been scratched all over
during a succession of dog-fights and various tussles with rats. It was
beautifully built in the body, and the tail was as thin as a little
finger, showing all the vertebræ. The breed seems to have become almost
extinct, but I found it again at Oxford when I went there in 1850. The
little brute bore a fine litter of pups, and died in Gujarat, as usual
with every sign of old age, half-blind eyes, and staggering limbs. The
pups grew up magnificently. One, which rejoiced in the name of Bachhûn,
received the best of educations. He was entered necessarily on mice,
rats, and _Gilahris_, or native squirrels, which bite and scratch
like cats. He was so thoroughly game, that he would sally out alone
in the mornings, and kill a jackal single-handed. He was the pride of
the regiment, and came as usual to a bad end. On one of my journeys,
dressed as a native, I had to leave him behind in charge of my friend
Dr. Arnold, surgeon of the regiment. Dr. Arnold also, when absent,
confided him to the care of a brother-medico, Dr. Pitman, who had
strict opinions on the subject of drugs. The wretch actually allowed
the gallant little dog to die of some simple disease, because he would
not give him a dose of medicine belonging to the Company.

[1] Our boxes were stuffed with Wellington's despatches, Army
Regulations, Mill's ponderous "History of India," and whatever the
publisher chose to agree upon with the outfitter.



CHAPTER VI.

MY PUBLIC LIFE BEGINS.

      "Wanted: Men.
    Not systems fit and wise,
    Not faiths with rigid eyes,
    Not wealth in mountain piles,
    Not power with gracious smiles,
    Not even the potent pen;
      Wanted: Men.

      "Wanted: Deeds.
    Not words of winning note,
    Not thoughts from life remote,
    Not fond religious airs,
    Not sweetly languid prayers,
    Not love of scent and creeds;
      Wanted: Deeds.

      "Men and Deeds.
    Men that can dare and do;
    Not longing for the new,
    Not pratings of the old:
    Good life and action bold--
    These the occasion needs,
      Men and Deeds."
           ----DUNCAN MACGREGOR.


The next thing was to choose a ship, and the aunts were directed by
their friend of the commission, to the _John Knox_ (Captain Richard B.
Cleland), sailing barque, belonging to Messrs. Guy and Co. I was to
embark at Greenwich; the family harem went down with me. I was duly
wept over, and I dropped down the river with the scantiest regret
(except for my relatives) for leaving Europe, on June 18th, 1842.

My companions were Ensign Boileau, of the 22nd Regiment, Ensign
Thompson, of the Company (line), and Mr. Richmond, going out to a
commercial house in Bombay.[1]

There was an equal number of the other sex--a lady calling herself Mrs.
Lewis, and three sturdy wives of sergeants. Fortunately also, there
were three native servants who spoke Hindostani.

[Sidenote: _The Voyage and Arrival._]

The voyage began as usual by a straight run down the Channel, and a
June weather passage along the coasts of Europe and Africa. There were
delays in the Doldrums and calms near the Line. Neptune came on board
as usual, but there was very little fun, the numbers being too small.
At such times troubles are apt to break out on board. The captain,
Richard Cleland, was one of the best seamen that ever commanded a ship,
yet his career had been unlucky--as Vasco da Gama said to Don Manoel,
"Men who are unfortunate at sea should avoid the affairs of the sea."
He had already lost one ship, which was simply ill-fortune, for no
seaman could be more sober or more attentive to his duty. He managed,
however, to have a row on board, called upon the cadets to load their
pistols and accompany him to the forecastle, where he was about to make
a mutineer a prisoner. These were very disagreeable things to interfere
with, and the Supreme Court of Bombay always did its best to hang an
officer if a seaman was shot on these occasions; one man in particular
had a narrow escape.

The discipline on the ship was none of the best. Captain Cleland had
begun early, and determined to establish a raw, and invited me to put
on the gloves with him. The result was that the tall lanky Scotchman,
who was in particularly bad training, got knocked into a cocked hat.
Then arose the usual troubles amongst the passengers. Normally on
such voyages, all begin by talking together, and end by talking with
themselves. Of course there were love passages, and these only made
matters worse. The chief mate, a great hulking fellow, who ought to
have hit like Tom Spring, but whose mutton fist could not dent a pat
of butter, was solemnly knocked down on quarter-deck for putting in
his oar. Then followed a sham duel, the combatants being brought up at
midnight, and the pistols loaded with balls of blackened cork instead
of bullets. During the day there were bathings along the ship in a
sail, to keep out the sharks; catching of sharks and flying-fish, and
massacring of unhappy birds. I, however, utilized my time by making
the three native servants who were on board, talk with me, and by
reading Hindostani stories from old Shakespeare's text-book. I made a
final attempt to keep up musical notation, and used the flageolet to
the despair of all on board; but the chief part of my time was passed
in working at Hindostani, reading all the Eastern books on board,
gymnastics, and teaching my brother youngsters the sword. There was
also an immense waste of gunpowder, for were not all these young
gentlemen going out to be Commanders-in-Chief?

The good ship _John Knox_ ran past the Cape in winter, and a
magnificent scene it was. Waves measuring miles in length came up from
the South Pole, in lines as regular as those of soldiers marching
over a dead plain. Over them floated the sheep-like albatrosses, whom
the cadets soon tired of shooting, especially when they found that it
was almost impossible to stuff the bird. The little stormy petrels
were respected, but the Cape pigeons were drawn on board in numbers,
with a hook and a bit of bait. Nothing could be brighter than the
skies and seas, and the experience of what is called "a white gale"
gave universal satisfaction. It came down without any warning, except
ploughing up the waters, and had not Captain Cleland been on deck and
let go his gear, most of the muslin would have been on the broad bosom
of the Atlantic.

There was little interest in sailing up the eastern coast of South
Africa. We saw neither the coast nor Madagascar, but struck north-east
for the western coast of India. The usual tricks were played upon
new-comers. They had been made to see the Line by a thread stretched
over a spy-glass, and _now_ they were told to smell India after a
little oil of cloves had been rubbed upon the bulwarks!

When the winds fell, the cadets amused themselves with boarding the
_pattymars_, and other native craft, and went ferreting all about
the cabins and holes, to the great disgust of the owners. They gaped
at the snakes, which they saw swimming about, and were delighted
when the _John Knox_, one fine night, lumbered on her way through
nets and fishing stakes, whose owners set up a noise like a gigantic
frog concert. Next morning, October 28th, the Government pilot came
on board; excited questions were put to him, "What was doing in
Afghanistan? What of the war?" At his answer all hopes fell to zero.
Lord Ellenborough had succeeded Lord Auckland. The avenging army had
returned through the Khaybar Pass. The campaign was finished. Ghuzni
had fallen, the prisoners had been given up. Pollock, Sale, and Pratt
had been perfectly successful, and there was no chance of becoming
Commanders-in-Chief within the year.

I never expected to see another Afghan War, and yet I did so before
middle age was well over.

    "Thy towers, Bombay! gleam bright, they say,
    Against the dark blue sea,"

absurdly sings the poet. It was no picture like this we saw on the
morning of the 28th of October, 1842, when our long voyage ended. The
bay so celebrated appeared anything but beautiful. It was a great splay
thing, too long for its height, and it had not one of the beautiful
perpendiculars that distinguish Parthenope.

The high background is almost always hid by the reek that rises
during the day, and the sun seems to burn all the colour out of the
landscape. The rains had just ceased, yet the sky seemed never clear,
and the water wanted washing. After this preliminary glance, the
companions shook hands, and, not without something of soreness of
heart, separated, after having lived together nearly five months. I
went to the British Hotel in the Fort, then kept by an Englishman named
Blackwell, who delegated all his duty to a Parsee, and never troubled
himself about his guests. A Tontine Hotel had been long proposed,
but there is a long interval between sayings and doings in India.
The landing in a wretched shore-boat at the unclean Apollo Bunder,
an absurd classicism for Palawa Bunder, was a complete disenchanter.
Not less so to pass through the shabby doorway in the dingy old
fortifications, which the Portuguese had left behind them when the
island was ceded to Charles II. The bright Towers were nowhere, and
the tower of a cathedral that resembled a village church, seemed to be
splotched and corroded as if by gangrene.

Bombay was in those days the most cosmopolitan City in the East,
and the Bhendi Bazaar, the centre of the old town, was the most
characteristic part of all--perhaps more characteristic than were those
of Cairo or Damascus. It was marvellously picturesque with its crowds
of people from every part of the East, and its utter want of what is
called civilization, made it a great contrast to what it became a score
of years afterwards. Englishmen looked at it with a careless eye, as a
man scours his own property, but foreigners (Frenchmen like Jacquemont,
and Germans like Von Orlich) were delighted with its various humours,
and described them in their most picturesque style. Everything looked
upon a pauper scale.

The first sight of a Sepoy nearly drove me back to the _John Knox_. I
saw an imitation European article; I saw a shako, planted on the top
of a dingy face, and hair as greasy as a Chinese's. The coat of faded
scarlet seemed to contain a mummy with arms like drumsticks, and its
legs, clad in blue dungaree, seemed to fork from below its waist; and
yet this creature in his national dress, was uncommonly picturesque,
with his long back hair let down, his light jacket of white cotton, his
salmon-coloured waistcloth falling to his ankles, in graceful folds,
and his feet in slippers of bright cloth, somewhat like the _piéd
d'ours_ of the mediæval man-at-arms. The hotel was an abomination.
Its teas and its curries haunted the censorium of memory for the rest
of man's natural life. The rooms were loose boxes, and at night
intoxicated acquaintances stood upon chairs and amused themselves by
looking over the thin cloth walls. I stood this for a few days till
I felt sick with rage. I then applied to the garrison surgeon, in
those days Dr. J. W. Ryan, popularly known as Paddy Ryan.[2] He was a
good-natured man; he enquired copiously about my Irish relations and
connections, knew something of Lord Trimleston, and removed me from the
foul hotel, to what in those days was called the Sanitarium.

[Sidenote: _The Sanitarium._]

The Sanitarium was a pompous name for a very poor establishment. About
half a dozen bungalows of the semi-detached kind, each with its bit of
compound or yard, fronted in a military line Back Bay, so famous for
wrecks. The quarters consisted of a butt and ben, an outer room and an
inner room, with unattached quarters for servants. They were places in
which an Englishman tolerably well off would hardly kennel his dogs,
and the usual attendants were lizards and bandicoot rats. As each
tenant went away he carried off his furniture, so it was necessary to
procure bed, table, and chairs. That, however, was easily done by means
of a little Parsee broker, who went by the name of "The General," and
who had plundered generations after generations of cadets. He could
supply everything from a needle to a buggy, or ten thousand rupees
on interest, and those who once drank his wine never forgot it. He
was shockingly scandalized at the sight of my wig. Parsees must touch
nothing that come from the human body.

[Sidenote: _His Moonshee._]

He recommended as _moonshee_, or language-master, a venerable old
Parsee priest, in white hat and beard, named Dosabhai Sohrabji, at that
time the best-known coach in Bombay. Through his hands also generations
of griffins have passed. With him, as with all other Parsees, Gujarati
was the mother tongue, but he also taught Hindostani and Persian, the
latter the usual vile Indian article. He had a great reputation as a
teacher, and he managed to ruin it by publishing a book of dialogues
in English and these three languages, wherein he showed his perfect
unfitness. He was _very_ good, however, when he had no pretensions, and
in his hands I soon got through the Akhlak-i-Hindi and the Tota-Kaháni.
I remained friends with the old man till the end of his days, and the
master always used to quote his pupil, as a man who could learn a
language running.

The Sanitarium was not pleasantly placed. In latter days the foreshore
was regulated, and a railroad ran along the sea. But in 1842 the
façade was a place of abominations, and amongst them, not the least,
was the _Smashán_, or Hindú burning-ground. The fire-birth was
conducted with very little decency; the pyres were built up on the
sands, and heads and limbs were allowed to tumble off, and when the
wind set in the right quarter, the smell of roast Hindú was most
unpleasant. The occupants of the Sanitarium were supposed to be
invalids, but they led the most roystering and rackety life. Mostly
they slept in the open, under mosquito-curtains, with a calico ceiling,
and a bottle of cognac under the bed. One of these, who shall be
nameless, married shortly after, and was sturdily forbidden by his wife
to indulge in night draughts when he happened to awake. He succumbed,
but pleaded permission to have an earthen gugglet of pure water. The
spouse awoke one night in a state of thirst, which she proceeded to
quench, and was nearly choked by a draught of gin-and-water compounded
in what are called nor'-wester proportions, three of spirit to one
of water. One of the invalids led me into all kinds of mischief,
introducing me to native society of which the less said the better.

The Governor of Bombay at the time was Colonel Sir George Arthur, Bart,
K.C.H., who appears in "Jack Hinton, the Guardsman." He was supposed
to be connected with the Royal Family through George IV., and had
some curious ideas about his visitors "backing" from the "Presence."
The Commander-in-Chief was old Sir Thomas Macmahon, popularly called
"Tommy." He was one of the old soldiers who had served under the Duke
of Wellington, who had the merit of looking after his friends, as well
as looking up his enemies; but he was utterly unfit for any command,
except that of a brigade. It would be impossible to tell one tithe
of the stories current about him. One of his pet abominations was
a certain Lieutenant Pilfold, of the 2nd Queen's, whose commanding
officer, Major Brough, was perpetually court-martialling. Pilfold
belonged to that order of soldiers which is popularly called "the
lawyer," and invariably argued himself out of every difficulty. Pilfold
was first court-martialled in 1840, then 1841, and 1844, when, after
being nearly cashiered, he changed into a regiment in Australia, and
died. At last he revenged himself upon the Commander-in-Chief by
declaring that "as hares go mad in March, so Major-Generals go mad in
May"--the day when "Tommy" confirmed one of the court-martials, that
was quashed from home.

[Sidenote: _Indian Navy._]

The Bombay Marine, or, as the officers preferred it to be called,
"The Indian Navy," had come to grief. Their excellent superintendent,
Admiral Sir Charles Malcolm, was a devoted geographer; in fact, he was
the man who provoked the saying, "Capable of speaking evil, even of
the Equator." Under his rule, when there was peace at sea, the officers
were allowed ample leave to travel and explore in the most dangerous
countries, and they did brilliant service. Their names are too well
known to require quotation. But Sir Charles was succeeded by a certain
Captain Oliver, R.N., a sailor of the Commodore Trunnion type, and a
martinet of the first water. He made them stick to their monotonous and
wearisome duties in the Persian Gulf, and in other places, popularly
said to be separated by a sheet of brown paper. He was as vindictive as
he was one-ideaed, and the service will never forget the way in which
he broke the heart of an unfortunate Lieutenant Bird.

[Sidenote: _English Bigotry._]

Captain Cleland, of the _John Knox_, had introduced me to his sister,
Mrs. Woodburn, who was married to an adjutant of the 25th Regiment
of Sepoys, and she kindly introduced me to Bombay society. I stood
perfectly aghast in its presence. The rank climate of India, which
produces such a marvellous development of vegetation, seems to have
a similar effect upon the Anglo-Indian individuality. It shot up,
as if suddenly relieved of the weight with which society controls
it in England. The irreligious were marvellously irreligious, and
the religious no less marvellously religious. The latter showed the
narrowest, most fanatic, and the most intolerant spirit; no hard-grit
Baptist could compare with them. They looked upon the heathen around
them (very often far better than themselves) as faggots ready for
burning.[3] They believed that the Parsees adored the sun, that the
Hindús worshipped stocks and stones, and that the Mohammedans were
slaves to what they called "the impostor Mahomet." They were not more
lenient to those of their own blood who did not run on exactly the
same lines with them. A Roman Catholic, as they called him, was doomed
to perdition, and the same was the case with all non-church-going
Protestants. It is hardly to be wondered at if, at times, they lost
their wits. One man, who was about the wildest of his day, and who was
known as the "Patel" of Griffin-gaon, suddenly got a "call." He used to
distinguish himself by climbing a tree every morning, and by shouting
with all his might, "Dunga Chhor-do, Jesus Christ, Pakro," meaning,
"Abandon the world, and catch hold of the Saviour." This lasted for
years, and it ended in his breaking down in the moral line, and dying
in a mad-house.

The worst of all this was, that in 1842, there were very few white
faces in Bombay, and every man, woman, and child knew his, her, or
its religious affairs, as well as their own. It was, in fact, a
garrison, not a colony. People lived in a kind of huge barracks.
Essentially a middle-class society, like that of a small county town
in England, it was suddenly raised to the top of a tree, and lost its
head accordingly. Men whose parents in England were small tradesmen, or
bailiffs in Scotland, found themselves ruling districts and commanding
regiments, riding in carriages, and owning more pounds a month than
their parents had pounds a year. Those who had interest, especially in
Leadenhall Street, monopolized the best appointments, and gathered in
clans at the Residency, as head-quarters were called. They formed the
usual ring--a magic circle into which no intruder was admitted, save by
the pain _fort et dure_ of intermarriage. The children were hideously
brought up, and, under the age of five, used language that would make a
porter's hair stand on an end. The parents separated, of course, into
cliques. At that time Bombay was ruled by two Queens, who in subaltern
circles went by the name of "Old Mother Plausible," and "Old Mother
Damnable."

To give a taste of "Mother Damnable's" quality: I had been waltzing
with a girl, who, after too much exertion, declared herself fainting. I
led her into what would at home be called the cloak-room, fetched her a
glass of water, and was putting it to her lips, when the old lady stood
at the door. "Oh dear! I never intended to interrupt you," she said,
made a low bow, and went out of the room, positively delighted. "Mother
Plausible's" style was being intensely respectable. She was terribly
"exercised" about a son at Addiscombe, and carefully consulted every
new cadet about his proficiency in learning. "But does he prefer the
classics?" she asked a wild Irishman. "I don't know that he does," was
the answer. "Or mathematics?" The same result. "Or modern languages?"
"Well, no!" "Then what does he do?" "Faix," said the informant,
scratching his head for an idea, "he's a very purty hand at football."

But it was not only Society that had such an effect upon me. I found
the Company's officers, as they were called, placed in a truly ignoble
position. They had double commissions, and signed by the Crown, and
yet they ranked with, but after, their brothers and cousins in the
Queen's service. Moreover, with that strange superciliousness, which
seems to characterize the English military service, and that absence
of brotherhood which distinguishes the Prussian and Austrian, all
seemed to look down upon their neighbours. The Queen's despised the
Company, calling them armed policemen, although they saw as much, if
not much more service, than the Queen's in India. The Artillery held
its head above the Cavalry, the Cavalry above the Line, and, worse
still, a Company's officer could not, except under very exceptional
circumstances, rise above a certain rank. Under the circumstances, I
ventured to regret that I had not entered the Duke of Lucca's Guards.
India had never heard of the Duke of Lucca, or his Guards, and when
they heard the wild idea--

    "Their inextinguished laughter rent the skies."

For instance, they had no hopes of becoming local Commanders-in-Chief,
and the General Commander-in-Chief of the East Indies was carefully
put out of their reach. None but Englishmen would have entered such a
service under such conditions. A French _piou-piou_, with his possible
marshal's bâton in his knapsack, would have looked down upon it with
contempt; but England, though a fighting nation, is not a military
people, or rather _was_ not until Louis Napoleon made it necessary
that they should partially become so. At the end of six weeks or
so, I received orders to join my regiment, which was then stationed
at Baroda, in Gujarat. In those days there were no steamers up the
coast, and men hired what were called _pattymars_.[4] As the winds
were generally northerly, these tubs often took six weeks over what a
civilized craft now does in four days.

[Sidenote: _Engages Servants._]

The happy family embarked from Bombay. I preferred engaging
Goanese-Portuguese servants, as they were less troublesome than Hindús
and Mussulmans. I had engaged an excellent _buttrel_, named Salvador
Soares, who was _major domo_ over the establishment, for at that time
a subaltern never had less than a dozen servants. The sail northwards,
with all its novelties, was delightful, and I made a point of landing
every evening to see all that I could see upon the way. And so I had my
first look at Bassein, Broach, and Surat, the latter a kind of nursery
of the Anglo-Indian Empire. After a fortnight or so the _pattymar_
reached the Tankaria-Bunder, the mud-bank where travellers landed to
reach Baroda. Then came the land march of four days, which was full
of charms for a Griffin. I had utterly rejected the so-called Arab
horses--bastard brutes from the Persian Gulf--which were sold at the
Bombay bomb-proofs then at extravagant prices of five hundred rupees,
now doubled, and had contented myself with Kattywar horses. This
was a bright dun, with black stripes and stockings, a very vicious
brute, addicted to all the sins of horseflesh, but full of spirit as a
thoroughbred. Master and horse got on thoroughly well, and the gallant
animal travelled everywhere, till it was killed on the Neilgherry Hills
by a heavy fall on its side on the slippery clay. The marching was at
the rate of about twelve or fifteen miles a day, and the leisure hours
gave ample opportunity of seeing everything on and off the road.

To the traveller from Europe, Gujarat in winter was a novel spectacle.
The ground, rich black earth, was almost flat, and was covered with
that vivid leek-like verdigris green, which one associates with early
spring in the temperates. The little villages, with their leafy huts,
were surrounded and protected by hedge milk-bush, green as emeralds,
and nothing could be more peaceful or charming than the evening hour,
when the flocks and herds were returning home, and the villagers were
preparing for supper and sleep, with a sky-blue mist overhanging the
scene. A light veil, coloured like Damascene silver, hung over each
settlement, and the magnificent trees, compared with which the oaks in
Hyde Park appeared like shrubs, were tipped by peacocks screaming their
good-night to the sun. How curious that the physiologist will assert
that the nose has no memory! That light cloud was mostly composed of
cow-chips smoke, and I could never think of Gujarat without recalling
it; even the bazar always suggested spices and cocoa-nut oil.

Again I was scandalized by the contrast of the wretched villages under
English rule, and those that flourished under the Gaikwar. After the
boasting of Directorial speeches, and their echoes in the humbug press,
I could not understand this queer contrast of fiction and fact. I
made inquiries about it from every one, and immensely disgusted the
Company's Resident, Mr. Boyd, by my insistence, but a very few weeks
explained the matter to me. The Anglo-Indian rule had no elasticity,
and everything was iron-bound; it was _all rule_ without exception. A
crack young Collector would have considered himself dishonoured had he
failed to send in the same amount of revenues during a bad season, as
during the best year. It was quite different with the natives. After a
drought or an inundation, a village would always obtain remission of
taxes, it being duly understood that a good harvest would be doubly
taxed, and this was the simple reason why the natives preferred their
own to foreign rule. In the former case they were harried and plundered
whenever anything was to be got out of them, but in the mean time
they were allowed to make their little piles. Under the English they
were rarely tortured, and never compelled to give up their hardly won
earnings, but they had no opportunity of collecting the wherewithal for
plunder.

[Sidenote: _Reaches Baroda--Brother Officers._]

On the fourth day I arrived at my head-quarters, Baroda, and found
myself lodged in the comfortless travellers' bungalow. Here I was duly
inspected by my brother officers--Major H. James, then commanding
the 18th Bombay Native Infantry, Captain Westbrooke, second in
command, Lieutenant MacDonald, who was married, Lieutenant and
Adjutant Craycroft, Lieutenant J. J. Coombe, Ensign S. N. Raikes, and
Assistant-Surgeon Arnott, and a few others present. One wing of the
corps, containing a greater number of officers, had been stationed for
some time at Mhow, on the borders of the Bengal Presidency, and the
rest, as usual in those days, were on the Staff, that is, on detached
employment, some in Civil employ, and others in the Corps called
Irregulars.

[Sidenote: _Mess._]

The first night at Mess was an epoch, and the old hands observed that
I drank no beer. This was exceptional in those days. Malt liquor had
completed the defeat of brandy pawnee and the sangaree (sherry, etc.,
with water, sugar, and spices) affected by a former generation, and
beer was now king. The most moderate drank two bottles a day of strong
bottled stuff supposed to have been brewed by Bass and Allsopp, but too
often manipulated by the Parsee importer. The immoderate drank a round
dozen, not to speak of other liquors. The messes in those days were
tolerably rich, and their _godowns_, or stores, generally contained a
fair supply of port, sherry, and Madeira. "Drink beer, think beer" is
essentially true in India. Presently the bloating malt liquor began to
make way for thin French wines, claret, and Burgundy, and a quarter of
a century afterwards, the Anglo-Indian returned to brandy pawnee with
a difference. The water was no longer plain water, but soda-water,
that is, carbonic-acid gas pumped into well water, and every little
station had its own manufactory. Consequently the price declined from
eighteenpence to twopence a bottle, and most men preferred the "peg,"
as it is called, which is probably one of the least harmful. I adhered
manfully to a couple of glasses of port a day. Paddy Ryan at Bombay
had told me that the best tonic after fever, was a dozen of good port.
I soon worked out the fact, that what would cure fever, might also
prevent it, and consequently drank port as a febrifuge. It was the same
with me on the West Coast of Africa, where during four years of service
I came off well, when most other men died.

[Sidenote: _Drill._]

I was duly introduced to the drill-ground, where I had not much to
learn. Yet I studied military matters with all my might, for the
ominous words "tail of the Afghan storm" were in many men's mouths.
I had taught myself, with the assistance of books, the mysteries of
goose-step and extension movements, and perpetual practice with the
sword had made the other manœuvres easy to me. Having lodged myself in
what was called a bungalow, a thatched article not unlike a cowshed,
and having set up the slender household, I threw myself with a kind of
frenzy upon my studies. I kept up the little stock of Arabic that I had
acquired at Oxford, and gave some twelve hours a day to a desperate
tussle with Hindostani. Two _moonshees_ barely sufficed for me. Sir
Charles J. Napier in 1842 was obscurely commanding at Poonah. Presently
he was appointed to the Command in Sind, and all those who knew the old
soldier looked forward to lively times. Brevet-Major Outram, of the
23rd N.I., had proceeded to England on December 13th, 1842, and had
returned to India in February, 1843. This rapid movement also had an
ominous sound. The military day was then passed in India as follows:--

Men rose early, for the sun in India keeps decent hours (not like the
greater light in England, which in summer seems to rise shortly after
midnight, and in winter shortly before noon). The first proceeding was
a wash in cold water and a cup of tea. After that the horse was brought
round saddled, and carried the rider to the drill-ground. Work usually
began as soon as it was light, and lasted till shortly after sunrise.
In the Bengal Presidency the officers used to wash their teeth at three
a.m., and scarcely ever saw the face of the sun. Consequently the
Qui-hyes, or Bengalis, died like sheep upon a march where much exposure
was necessary.

In India the sun requires a little respect. It is not wise, for
instance, to wade through cold water with the rays beating upon the
upper part of the body, but it is always advisable to accustom one's
self to sunshine. After the parade was over, the officers generally
met at what was called a coffee shop, where one of the number hung out
_Choti-hazri_ or little breakfast--tea or _café au lait_, biscuit,
bread and butter, and fruit. After that, the heavy work of the day
being done, each proceeded to amuse himself as he best could; some to
play at billiards, others for a day's sport.

Some few youths in the flush of Griffinhood used to mount their
tattoos (ponies) and go out "peacocking," that is to say, calling upon
officers' wives. With the usual Indian _savoir vivre_, visiting hours
were made abominable. Morning calls began at eleven o'clock, when the
_beau sexe_ was supposed to be in war-paint, and ended at two, when
it was supposed to sit down to tiffin. The ride through the burning
sun, followed by a panting _ghorewalla_, and the self-preservation in
a state of profuse perspiration, were essentials of peacocking, which
soon beat off the most ardent admirers of the white fair sex. The
latter revenged itself for anything like neglect in the most violent
way, and the consequence was that, in those days, most men, after their
first year, sought a refuge in the society of the dark fair. Hence in
the year of grace 1842 there was hardly an officer in Baroda who was
not more or less morganatically married to a Hindí or a Hindú woman.
This could be a fertile ground for anecdote, but its nature forbids
entering into details.

These irregular unions were mostly temporary, under agreement to
cease when the regiment left the station. Some even stipulated that
there were to be no children. The system had its advantages and
disadvantages. It connected the white stranger with the country and
its people, gave him an interest in their manners and customs, and
taught him thoroughly well their language. It was a standing joke in
my regiment that one of the officers always spoke of himself in the
feminine gender. He had learnt all his Hindostani from his harem. On
the other hand, these unions produced a host of half-castes, mulattos,
"neither fish nor fowl, nor good red herring," who were equally
despised by the races of both progenitors.

[Sidenote: _Pig-sticking._]

Baroda was not a great place for pig-sticking. The old grey boars
abounded, but the country was too much cut up by deep and perpendicular
hillocks, which were death to horse and man. I invested in an old
grey Arab, which followed the game like a bloodhound, with distended
nostrils, and ears viciously laid back. I began, as was the cruel
fashion of the day, by spearing pariah dogs for practice, and my first
success brought me a well-merited accident. Not knowing that the
least touch of the sharp leaf-like head is sufficient to kill, I made
a mighty thrust with my strong-made bamboo shaft, which was carried
under the arm, Bombay fashion, not overhand, as in Bengal. The point
passed through the poor brute and deep into the ground. The effect of
the strong elastic spear was to raise me bodily out of the saddle, and
to throw me over the horse's head. It was a good lesson for teaching
how to take first blood. The great centres for pig-sticking were in
the Deccan and in Sind. The latter, however, offered too much danger,
for riding through tamarisk bushes is much like charging a series of
well-staked fishing-nets. Baroda, however, abounded in wild beasts;
the jackals screamed round the bungalows every night, and a hyæna
once crossed, in full day, the parade ground. One of the captains
(Partridge) cut it down with his regimental sword, and imprudently
dismounted to secure it. The result was a bite in the arm which he had
reason long to remember.

[Sidenote: _Sport._]

The sport all about Baroda was excellent, for in the thick jungle to
the east of the City, tigers were to be shot, and native friends would
always lend their elephants for a day's work. In the broad plains to
the north, large antelopes, called the _nilghai_, browsed about like
cows, and were almost as easy to shoot, consequently no one shot them.
It was different with the splendid black buck, sly and wary animals,
and always brought home in triumph. Cheetahs, or hunting leopards, were
also to be had for the asking. As for birds, they were in countless
numbers, from the huge adjutant crane, and the _sáras_ (_antigoni_),
vulgarly called _Cyrus Gries antigone_, which dies if its mate be shot,
and the peacock, which there, as in most parts of India, is a sacred
bird, to the partridge, which no one eats because it feeds on the road,
the wild duck, which gives excellent shooting, and the snipe, equal to
any in England. During the early rains quails were to be shot in the
compounds, or yards, attached to the bungalows. In fact, in those days,
sensible men who went out to India took one of two lines--they either
shot, or they studied languages.

Literature was at a discount, although one youth in the Bombay Rifles
was addicted to rhyme, and circulated a song which began as follows:--

    "'Tis merry, 'tis merry in the long jungle grass,
      When the Janwars around you fly,
    To think of the slaughter that you will commit,
      On the beasts that go passing by"--

this being the best stanza of the whole.

The 18th Bombay Infantry was brigaded with the 4th Regiment, _alias_
Rifles, under the command of Major C. Crawley. These Sepoys, in
their dingy green uniform, which seemed to reflect itself upon their
chocolate-coloured cheeks, looked even worse than those dressed in red.

There was also a company called Golandaz, a regular native artillery,
commanded by a Lieutenant Aked. Gunners are everywhere a peculiar
race, quite as peculiar as sailors. In India they had the great merit
of extreme attachment to their weapons, which, after a fashion, they
adored as weapons of destruction. "One could hit a partridge with a gun
like this," said a pink-faced youngster to a grizzly old cannonier.
"A partridge!" cried the veteran. "This does not kill partridges;
it smashes armies, slaughters Cities, and it would bring down Shiva
himself." And in Baroda City the Gaikwar had two guns, to which regular
adoration was offered. They were of massive gold, built around steel
tubes, and each was worth about £100,000. Yet the company of Native
Artillery was utterly absurd in European eyes. Nothing more beautiful
than the Gujarat bullocks, with their noble horns and pure white coats.
Europe has seen them in the _cascine_ of Tuscany. But it was truly
absurd to see these noble animals dragging a gun into position at a
shambling and dislocated trot. Satirical subalterns spoke of the "cow
batteries." In these days all, of course, are horsed.

[Sidenote: _Society._]

There was no such thing as society at Baroda. The Station was commanded
by an old Brigadier, named Gibbons, who had no wife, but a native
family. He was far too infirm to mount a horse; he never received,
ignored dinners either at home or abroad, and lived as most General
Officers did in those days. But he managed to get into a tremendous
row, and was removed from his Command for losing his temper, and
beating a native Chief of the Bazar about the head, with a leg of
mutton.

Hospitalities used to be exchanged between the corps on certain
ceremonious occasions, but a Mess dinner was the extent of sociability.
As in all small Societies, there were little tiffs, likings, and
dislikings. But the age of duelling had passed away, especially after
the fatal affairs of Colonel Fawcet of the 55th Regiment, and his
brother-in-law, Mr. Monro.

[Sidenote: _Feeding._]

A most pernicious practice, common in those days, was that of eating
"tiffin"--in other words, a heavy luncheon--at two, which followed
the normal breakfast, or _pakki-hazri_, at nine. Tiffin was generally
composed of heavy meats and the never-failing curry, washed down with
heavy bottled beer, was followed by two or three Manilla cheroots, and
possibly by a siesta. Nothing could be more anti-hygienic than this. It
is precisely the same proceeding by which the liver of the Strasbourg
goose is prepared for _pâté de foie gras_. The amount of oxygen present
in the air of India, is not sufficient to burn up all this carbon,
hence the dingy complexions and the dull dark hair which distinguished
Anglo-Indians on their return home. I contented myself with a biscuit
and a glass of port, something being required to feed the brain, after
the hard study of many hours.

The French in India manage these things much better. They keep up their
natural habits, except that they rise very early, take a very light
meal, chiefly consisting of _café noir_, and eat a heavy breakfast at
eleven. Between that and dinner, which follows sunset, they rarely
touch anything, and the consequence is that they return with livers
comparatively sound. But Anglo-Indian hours of meals were modelled upon
those of England, and English hours are laid down by the exigencies of
business. Hence the Briton, naturally speaking, breakfasts at nine.
As he rises late and has little appetite at that hour, he begins the
work of the day upon such a slender basis as tea, bread and butter, an
egg, or a frizzle of bacon. It was very different in the days of Queen
Elizabeth, as certainly the beefsteaks and beer produced a stronger
race. But in those days all rose early and lived much in the open air.

During the fine weather there was generally something to do on the
parade ground, shortly before sunset, after which the idlers mounted
their nags and took a lazy ride. The day ended at Mess, which was also
characteristically Indian. It was a long table in the Mess bungalow,
decorated with the regimental plate, and surmounted by creaking
punkahs, that resembled boards horizontally slung, with a fringe
along the lower part. A native, concealed behind the wall, set these
unpleasant articles in movement, generally holding the rope between two
toes. At the top of the table sat the Mess President, at the bottom
the Vice, and their duty was to keep order, and especially to prevent
shop-talking. The officers dressed like so many caterpillars in white
shell-jackets, white waistcoats, and white overalls, were a marvellous
contrast to the gorgeous Moslem _Khidmatgars_, who stood behind them,
with crossed arms, turbans the size of small tea-tables, waist-shawls
in proportion. The dinner consisted of soup, a joint of roast mutton
at one end, and boiled mutton or boiled fowls at the other, with
vegetables in the side dishes. Beef was never seen, because the cow
was worshipped at Baroda, nor was roast or boiled pork known at native
messes, where the manners and customs of the unclean bazar pig were
familiar to all, and where there were ugly stories about the insults to
which his remains were exposed on the part of the Mohammedan scullions.
At times, however, a ham made its appearance, disguised under the name
of "Wilayati Bakri," _Anglicè_ "Europe mutton."

This substantial part of the dinner always concluded with curry,
accompanied by dry fish, Bombay ducks, and _papris_ (assafœtida cake).
Anglo-Indians appreciate curry too much to allow it, as in England, to
precede other dishes, and to rob them of all their flavour. After this
came puddings and tarts, which very few men touched, as they disagreed
with beer, and cheese, which was a universal favourite. Coffee, curious
to say, was unknown, ice was rare, except at the Residency, and tin
vegetables, like peas and asparagus, had only lately been invented.
Immediately after cheese, all lit their cigars, which in those days
were invariably Manillas. They cost only twenty rupees a thousand, so
few were driven to the economy of the abominable Trichinopoly, smoked
in Madras. Havanas were never seen, pipes were as little known, and
only the oldsters had an extensive article, with a stand two feet high
and a pipe twenty feet long, in which they smoked a mixture called
Guraku. This was a mingling of tobacco, with plantains, essence of
roses, and a dozen different kinds of spices, that gave a very peculiar
perfume. The Hookah was, however, then going out of fashion, and
presently died the death. It is now as rarely seen in Anglo-India, as
the long _chibouque_ at Constantinople.

[Sidenote: _Nautch._]

The Mess dinner sometimes concluded with a game of whist, but a wing
of a native Corps had not officers enough to make it interesting.
After a _quantum sufficit_ of cheroots and spirits and water, the
members of the Mess broke up, and strolled home, immensely enjoying
the clear moonlight, which looked as if frost were lying on the
emerald green of Gujarat. On festive occasions there was a _Nach_,
which most men pronounced "Nautch." The scene has often been described
in its picturesque aspect. But it had a dark side. Nothing could be
more ignoble than the two or three debauched and drunken musicians,
squealing and scraping the most horrible music, and the _figurantes_
with Simiad or apish faces, dressed in magnificent brocades, and
performing in the most grotesque way. The exhibition gave one a shiver,
yet not a few of the old officers, who had been brought up to this
kind of thing, enjoyed it as much as the Russians, of the same epoch,
delighted in the gypsy _soirées_ of Moscow, and ruined themselves with
Madeira and Veuve Clicquot.

It was very different during the rains, which here, as in most parts of
the western lowlands of India, were torrential, sometimes lasting seven
days and seven nights, without an hour's interruption. The country
was mostly under water, and those who went to Mess had to protect
themselves with waterproofs; and if they wished to save their horses
from the dangerous disease called _barsáti_, had to walk to and fro
with bare legs and feet.

[Sidenote: _Reviews._]

This even tenor of existence was varied by only two things. The first
was the annual reviews, when old General Morse came over from Ahmedabad
to inspect the Corps, preparations for which ceremony had been going
on for a couple of months. These old officers were greatly derided by
the juniors, chiefly because their brains seemed to have melted away,
and they had forgotten almost everything except drill, which they had
learnt in their youth. This old General in particular prided himself
upon his Hindostani, and suffered accordingly. "How would you say 'Tell
a plain story,' General?" "Maydan-ki bát bolo"--which means, "Speak a
word of a level country."

[Sidenote: _Races._]

Another great event were the annual Races. Even here, however, there
was a division of the small Society. They were encouraged by the
Company's Resident, Mr. Boyd, and by Major Henry Corsellis, who had
come up with his wife to take command of the regiment. They were
discouraged, on the other hand, by Major Crawley, of the 4th Rifles,
who invariably had a picnic during the Race week. The reason, however,
was not "principle," but some quarrel about an old bet. I was one of
the winners at the Welter Stakes, having beaten an experienced rider,
Lieutenant Raikes.

The state of things at Baroda was not satisfactory. The French govern
their colonies too much, the English too little. The latter, instead
of taking their stand as the Masters, instead of declaring, _Sic volo,
sic jubeo, sit pro ratione voluntas,_ seemed, in Baroda at least, to
rule on sufferance: they were thoroughly the Masters of the position;
they could have superseded the Gaikwar, or destroyed the town in a
week. But the rule of the Court of Directors was not a rule of honour.

The officers in Cantonments, distant only half an hour's ride from
the Palace, were actually obliged to hire _rámosis_ (Paggis) to
protect their lives and properties. These men were simply professed
thieves, who took blackmail to prevent their friends and relations from
plundering. In the bungalows, on the borders of the camp, a couple of
these scoundrels were necessary. In two bungalows, officers had been
cut down, and the one in which I lived showed, on the door-lintel,
sabre cuts. Officers were constantly robbed and even murdered when
travelling in the districts, and the universally expressed wish was,
that some Director's son might come to grief, and put an end to this
miserable state of things. Now, these things _could_ have been put a
stop to by a single dispatch of the Court of Directors to the Resident
at Baroda. They had only to make the Gaikwar and the Native Authorities
answerable for the lives and property of their officers. A single
hanging and a few heavy fines would have settled the business once
and for ever; but, I repeat, the Government of the Court of Directors
was not a rule of honour, and already the hateful doctrine was being
preached, that "prestige is humbug."

[Sidenote: _Cobden and Indian History._]

The officers marvelled at the proceedings of their Rulers, and
marvelled without understanding things. Little could they know what was
going on at home. Here Mr. Richard Cobden, one of the most single-sided
of men, whose main strength was that he embodied most of the weakness,
and all the prejudice, of the British middle-class public, was watching
the affairs of India with a jealous and unfriendly eye, as a Military
and Despotic Government, as an acquisition of impolitic violence and
fraud, and as the seat of unsafe finance. India appeared to him utterly
destitute of any advantage either to the natives or to their foreign
masters.

He looked upon the East India Company in Asia as simply monopoly, not
merely as regards foreigners, but against their own countrymen. He
openly asserted that England had attempted an impossibility in giving
herself to the task of governing one hundred millions of Asiatics.
Rumours of an Asiatic war were in the air, especially when it was
known that Lieut.-Colonel Stoddart and Captain Conolly had been foully
murdered by the Amir of Bokhara. He declared (as if he had been taken
into supernatural confidence), that God and His visible Natural Laws
have opposed insuperable obstacles to the success of such a scheme. His
opinion as a professional reformer was, that Hindostan must be ruled
by those that live on that side of the globe, and that its people will
prefer to be ruled badly by its own colour, kith, and kin, than subject
itself to the humiliation of being better governed by a succession of
transient intruders from the Antipodes. He declared that ultimately,
of course, Nature (of which he knew nothing) will assert the supremacy
of her laws, and the white skins will withdraw to their own latitudes,
leaving the Hindús to the enjoyment of the climate, for which their
dingy skins are suited.

All this was the regular Free-trade bosh, and the Great Bagsman would
doubtless have been thunderstruck, had he heard the Homeric shouts of
laughter with which his mean-spirited utterances were received by every
white skin in British India. There was not a subaltern in the 18th
Bombay N.I. who did not consider himself perfectly capable of governing
a million Hindús. And such a conviction realizes itself--

    "By the sword we won the land,
    And by the sword we'll hold it still;"

for every subaltern felt (if he could not put the feeling into words)
that India had been won, _despite England_, by the energy and bravery
of men like himself. Every history tells one so in a way that all can
understand. The Company began as mere traders, and presently they
obtained the right of raising guards to defend themselves. The guards
naturally led to the acquisition of territory. The territory increased,
till its three centres, Bengal, Madras, and Bombay, became centres of
little Kingdoms.

The native Princes were startled and frightened. They attacked their
energetic neighbours, with more or less success, and the intruders
became more intrusive than before. Next day they began to elect
Governors, and Governor-Generals. Whenever a new man was sent out from
England, the natives, after the fashion of their kind, thought that
they saw an opportunity, and, losing their fear of the old Governor,
declared war against the new one. The latter assembled an army, and
duly reported the fact home. It took from eight to nine months before
the document was received and answered. The general tone of the reply
was a fierce diatribe against territorial aggrandizement, but in the
mean time a great battle or two had been fought, a province had been
conquered and duly plundered, and a large slice of territory had been
added to Anglo-Indian rule. This is the way in which British Empire in
the East arose, and probably this was the least objectionable way. For
when the Company rose to power, it began to juggle native Princes out
of their territory, to deny the right of adopting a sacred privilege
amongst the Hindús, and to perpetrate all kinds of injustice. A fair
example was the case of the Rajah of Patara, and the same proceedings
in Oudh, led to the celebrated Mutiny in 1857, and nearly wrecked
British dominion in India.

At last a bright day dawned. The whole of the little Cantonment was
electrified by the news of the battle of Meeanee, which had been fought
on February 21st, 1843. After a number of reverses truly humiliating
to British self-esteem, the Sun of Victory had at last shone upon her
bayonets. Sir Charles Napier had shown that, with a little force of
mixed Englishmen and Sepoys, he could beat the best and bravest army
that any Native Power could bring into the field. It was a gallant
little affair, because the few white faces had done nearly the whole
work. The Sepoys, as usual, had behaved like curs, and five of their
officers had been killed, to one of the Queen's service.

Then, on March 25th, followed the battle of Dabba, and Sind fell into
the power of the English, and Major Outram returned to England on
April 1st. Then arose the great quarrel between the two great men.
The general opinion of the time was, that the Bayard of India, as his
future enemy had called him, wished _himself_ to depose the Ameers,
and resented the work being done by another. His (Major Outram's) own
writings show, that he found them unfitted to rule, and that he had
proposed the most stringent remedies. But when these were carried out
by another man, he ranged himself in the ranks of the opposition.
Sir Charles Napier and his free-spoken brother, Sir William, had
been bitterly opposed to the twenty-four little Kings in Leadenhall
Street, and had never hesitated to express their opinions. One of
their energetic dicta was, that every rupee has a blood-spot on it,
and that wash as you will, the cursed spot will not out. Talking of
which, by-the-by, I, in one of those pungent epigrams, which brought me
such abundance of "good will (?)," wrote as follows, referring to the
£60,000 which Sir Charles Napier cleared by way of prize money:--

    "Who, when he lived on shillings, swore
    Rupees were stained with Indian gore,
    And 'widows' tears' for motto bore,
                            But Charley?

    "And yet who, in the last five years,
    So round a sum of that coin clears,
    In spite of 'gore' and 'widows' tears,'
                            As Charley?"

Major Outram again left India for England. The Court of Directors
persuaded him to become their champion, against their old enemy, Sir
Charles Napier. The latter was very strong, for he was thoroughly
supported by the new Governor-General (Lord Ellenborough), in
opposition to all others, and thoroughly identified himself with
the Army, and the Army adored him accordingly. One of his sayings,
"_Kacheri_ (or Court-House) hussar," alluding to the beards or the
mustachios of the civilians, caused a perfect tornado of wrath
amongst the black coats of India. He was equally free-spoken in his
condemnation of the politicals. The Court of Directors did not dare to
recall him at once, but they riled with impotent rage.

[Sidenote: _Somnath Gates._]

Amongst other cabals that they brought against him was the affair of
the Somnath Gates. Few people understood the truth of the question in
that day, and most who did, have not forgotten it. These famous doors,
which had been carried off in the year A.D. 1023 from a Hindú temple
in Gujarat by the great warrior, Mahmoud of Ghazni, had been matters
of dispute years before Lord Ellenborough's time. As early as 1831,
when Shah Shuja was in treaty with Runjeet Singh, of the Panjab, for
aid to recover his throne, one of the conditions of the latter, was
the restoration of the Gates of Somnath. Probably the Rajah, like the
Governor-General, was utterly ignorant of the fact that the ruins of
the Moon Temple have entirely perished. On that occasion, however,
the Shah reminded the Hindú of an old prophesy which foreboded the
downfall of the Sikh empire, or the withdrawal of the Gates from the
warrior's tomb at Ghazni. They were removed to India at the end of
1842, and in September, 1843, the Sikh empire practically collapsed
with the murder of Sher Singh--a curious case of uninspired prophecy.
The Gates were removed by General Mott, acting under the orders of the
Governor-General, on March 10th, 1843; they were deposited in Agra,
where they were kept, and may even now be kept, in an old palace in
the Fort, formerly used as an arsenal by the British.[5] The venerable
relics ought long ago to have been sent to the South Kensington Museum.

[Sidenote: _Outram and Napier._]

The feud between Sir Charles Napier and Major Outram, divided Western
Anglo-India into two opposing camps. Major Outram belonged to a family
of mechanics, from whose name came the tramways, and he had begun his
service in the Bombay marine. He was presently transferred to the
Native Infantry, and carved out a career for himself. His peculiar
temperament gave him immense power amongst the wild Bhíls and other
tribes, whom he had been sent, as it were, to civilize. He was a short,
stout man, anything but prepossessing in appearance, but of immense
courage and most violent temper. A story is told concerning him and
his brother, who, in a dispute at a tiger-hunt, turned their rifles
against each other. He hated to be outdone, or even to be equalled. On
one occasion, when he found a man who could spring into the lake, off
the house terrace, like himself, he made a native raise him upon his
shoulders, and so managed to outdo the rival jumper. He was immensely
generous and hospitable, living quite in the native way, with a troupe
of _Nach_ girls to pass the evening. He always acted upon impulse, and
upon generous impulses. On one occasion, when marching past, at the
head of his troops, he was grossly insulted by a villager, whereupon he
turned to and administered condign chastisement to the villagers. When
transferred to Sind, he had denounced the Ameers in the severest way;
in fact, his account of them, as political, seemed to justify their
being dethroned. But, as I said, when that operation was performed by
another than himself, he suddenly turned round and denounced the deed.
He was a Scotchman, and was by no means wanting in that canniness
which teaches a man which side his bread carries the butter. He was
thoroughly impressed with the axiom that "bluid is thicker than water,"
and always promoted, if he could, the interests of a countryman, to the
detriment of others. Sir Charles Napier, on the other hand, belonged
to that exceptional order of Scotchmen, who are chiefly remarkable for
having nothing of the Scotchman about them. He was utterly deficient
in prudence, he did not care a fig how many enemies he made, and his
tongue was like a scorpion's sting. He spoke of Sir James Hogg as "that
Hogg," alluding to the Hindostani word _suar_ ("pig"), one of the most
insulting words in the language. He spoke of Dr. Buist, a Scotch editor
at Bombay, as "the blatant beast of the Bombay _Times_." In fact, he
declared war to the knife.

On the other hand, Outram's friends were not idle. He had a large
party of his own. Men liked his courage, his generosity, his
large-heartedness, and his utter disregard for responsibility. He
could also write, in a dull, thick style, it is true, but thoroughly
intelligible to the multitude, and quite unlike the style, like
polished steel, that was so doughtily used by Sir William Napier.
Become a politician, the "Bayard" did not improve; in fact, two or
three dodges were quoted about him which added very little to his
reputation. I had no reason to like him. In his younger days, thirsting
for distinction, Outram was ambitious to explore the Somali country,
then considered the most dangerous in Africa, but when I proposed to
do so, he openly opposed me. This was, however, perhaps natural, as he
was then commanding at Aden.

As soon as I had passed my drill I was placed in charge of a Company,
and proceeded to teach what I had just learnt. I greatly encouraged
my men in sword exercise, and used to get the best players to my
quarters for a good long bout every day. The usual style in India is
a kind of single-stick, ribbonded with list cloth, up to the top,
and a small shield in the left hand. The style of work seems to
have been borrowed from the sword-dance of some civilized people,
like the Bactrian-Greeks. The swordsman begins with "renowning it,"
vapouring, waving his blade, and showing all the curious _fantasie_
that distinguish a Spanish Espada. Then, with the fiercest countenance,
he begins to spring in the air, to jump from side to side, to crouch
and to rush forwards and backwards, with all the action of an excited
baboon. They never thought of giving "point:" throughout India the
thrust is confined to the dagger. The cuts, as a rule, were only
two--one in the shoulder, and the other, in the vernacular called
_kalam_, at the lower legs. Nothing was easier than to guard these
cuts, and to administer a thrust that would have been fatal with steel.
I gave a prize every month, to the best swordsman, wrestler, and
athlete, generally some gaudy turban. But, although I did my best, I
never could teach them to use a foil.

[Sidenote: _He learns Indian Riding and Training._]

These proceedings excited not a little wonder amongst my brother subs,
but much more when I sent for a _Chábu Sawar_, or native jockey,
and began to learn the Indian system of riding, and of training the
horse. As a rule, this was absurdly neglected in India. Men mostly
rode half-broken Arabs, and many an annual review showed the pleasant
spectacle of a commanding officer being run away with in one direction,
and the second in command in another. And when it came to meeting
Indians in the field, the Englishman was at a terrible disadvantage. An
old story is told of an encounter between an Indian and English cavalry
officer, who had been offended by the remarks of the former. They
charged, sword in hand, in presence of their regiments, and both were
equally skilful in parrying the enemy's attack; presently, however, the
Britisher found himself in a fix, the native with his sharp light blade
having cut the horse's reins, without hurting either horse or man. This
is a favourite native ruse. Whereupon the English officer drew his
pistol and disloyally shot the Indian, who in his lingering illness,
which ended fatally, declared that he never meant to hurt the English
officer, but only to prove his own words, that he was not his equal in
swordsmanship or horsemanship. Light chains were afterwards adopted to
accompany the leather bridle. The English officer deeply regretted the
event, and it was hushed up; but such acts are never quite buried.

A similar manslaughter took place during one of the Sind campaigns. An
officer, who shall be nameless, attacked a Beluch chief, who, being
mounted upon a tired mare, made no attempt to fly. The Englishman, who
had some reputation as a swordsman, repeatedly bore down upon him,
making a succession of cuts, which the opponent received upon his blade
and shield. At last, being unable to win fairly, the Englishman, who is
now high in command, drew his pistol and shot him, and, curious to say,
was not court-martialled!

[Sidenote: _Passes Exams. in Hindostani._]

At last I considered myself thoroughly qualified to pass in Hindostani,
and in early April, 1843, obtained leave from the Commander-in-Chief
to visit Bombay for the purpose of examination. I made the same march
from Baroda to Tankaria-Bunder, and then found a _pattymar_ for Bombay.
The sail southwards, despite the extraordinary heat of the season, was
perfectly charming. The north-east monsoon, about drawing to its end,
alternated with the salt sea-breeze and the spicy land-breeze, the
former justly called "The Doctor." The sky was deep blue, unflecked
by a single cloud, and the sea bluer, still hardly crisped by the
wind. There was perfect calm inside and outside the vessel. No posts
and no parades. The living was simple enough, consisting chiefly of
rice, curry and _chapatís_, with the never-failing tea and tobacco.
Tea in India is better than in England, although of inferior quality,
because it has less sea voyage. The native servants, however, have a
peculiar way of brewing it, and those who have once drunk a sneaker, or
double-sized cup, full of Indian tea, will never forget it. Sensible
men, therefore, brew their tea for themselves.

Despite landing almost every evening, the voyage down coast occupied
only six or seven days. This time I hired a tent, with the aid of the
old Parsee General, and pitched in the Strangers' Lines. They extended
southwards from the Sanitarium, along the shore of Back Bay, and were
not, as now, huddled up into a little space on the other side of the
road. With the assistance of old Dosabhai Sohrabji I worked up the last
minutiæ of the language, and on May 5th appeared in the Town Hall,
where the examinations were held.

These were not without a certain amount of difficulty. The candidate
was expected to make a written translation, to read and translate
_vivâ voce_ from a native book, to read a written letter, often vilely
scrawled, and to converse with the _moonshee_, Mohammed Makba, a
Concani Mussulman, whose son I afterwards met in 1876. I was fortunate
in my examiner. Captain Pope, who formerly held that position, had been
made Assistant-Commissary-General, and could no longer indulge his
pet propensity of plucking candidates. The committee was composed of
Major-General Vans-Kennedy and three or four nobodies. The former was
an Orientalist after a fashion, knew a great deal of books, and much
more of native manners and customs. In fact, he lived in their society,
and was, as usual, grossly imposed upon. Whenever a servant wanted
"leave," he always begged permission to leave a _badli_, or substitute,
to do his work, and when number one returned, number two remained.
Consequently, the old man was eaten up by native drones. He lived
amongst his books in a tumble-down bungalow, in a tattered compound,
which was never repaired, and he had a slight knowledge of Sanscrit
and Arabic, an abundant acquaintance with Hindostani and Persian, and
general Oriental literature.

The one grievance of his life was his treatment by Sir John
(afterwards Lord) Keane. This Western barbarian came out to India
when advanced in years, and, imbued with a fine contempt "of the
twenty-years-in-the-country-and-speak-the-language man," he could not
understand what was the use of having officers who did nothing but
facilitate the study of Orientalism, and he speedily sent off Colonel
Vans-Kennedy to join his regiment. The latter was deeply in debt, as
usual, under his circumstances; his creditors tolerated him at the
Presidency, where they could lay ready claws upon his pay, but before
he could march up country, he was obliged to sell, for a mere nothing,
his valuable library of books and manuscripts, which had occupied him
a lifetime in collecting. He was a curious spectacle, suggesting only
a skeleton dressed in a frock-coat of worn-out blue cloth uniform, and
he spoke all his languages with a fine broad lowland accent, which is,
perhaps, Orientally speaking, the best.

I passed my examination the first of twelve. Next to me was Ensign
Robert Gordon, of the 4th Bombay Rifles, and Ensign Higginson, of the
78th Highlanders. The latter brought to the Examination Hall one of
the finest Irish brogues ever heard there. I had been humble enough
before I passed, but, having once got through, I was ready to back my
knowledge against the world. This was no great feat on my part, as I
had begun Arabic at Oxford, and worked at Hindostani in London, and
on board the ship, and had studied for twelve hours a day at Baroda.
Before I quitted the Presidency, I had an unpleasantness with a certain
Dr. Bird, a pseudo-Orientalist, who, after the fashion of the day, used
the brains of _moonshee_ and _pandit_ to make his own reputation. I
revenged myself by lampooning him, when, at the ripe age of forty-five,
he was about to take to himself a spare-rib. The line began--

    "A small grey bird goes out to woo,
      Primed with Persian ditties new;
    To the gardens straight he flew,
      Where he knew the rosebud grew."
  $/

We afterwards met in London, and were very good friends.

Dr. Bird only regretted that he had wasted his time on native
languages, instead of studying his own profession. He practised
medicine for a short time in London, and died.

I left Bombay on May 12th, and rejoined my regiment just before
the burst of the south-west monsoon. This was a scene that has
often been described in verse and prose. It was a prime favourite
with the Sanscrit poets, and English readers are familiar with it
through Horace Hayman Wilson's Hindú theatre. But the discomforts
of the season in a cowshed-like bungalow were considerable;
you sat through the day in a wet skin, and slept through the night
with the same. The three months were an alternation of steaming
heat and damp, raw cold.

The rains are exceptionally heavy in Gujarat, and sometimes
the rainpour lasted without interval for seven days and seven
nights. This is mostly the case in the lowlands of India, especially
at Bombay and other places, where the Gháts approach the coast.
Throughout the inner plateau, as at Poonah, the wet season,
which the Portuguese call winter, with its occasional showers and
its bursts of sunshine, is decidedly pleasant. The brown desolation
of the land disappears in a moment, and is replaced by a
brilliant garb of green. The air is light and wholesome, and the
change is hailed by every one; but at Baroda there were torments
innumerable. The air was full of loathsome beings, which
seemed born for the occasion--flying horrors of all kinds, ants
and bugs, which persisted in intruding into meat and drink. At
Mess it was necessary to have the glasses carefully covered, and it
was hardly safe to open one's mouth. The style of riding to a
dinner has been already described. There was no duty, and the
parade-ground was a sheet of water. Shooting was impossible,
except during the rare intervals of sunshine; and those who did not
play billiards suffered from mortal _ennui_.

I now attacked with renewed vigour the Gujarati language, spoken
throughout the country, and by the Parsees of Bombay and elsewhere.
My teacher was a Nagar Brahman, named Him Chand. Meanwhile
I took elementary lessons of Sanscrit, from the regimental _pandit_.
Every Sepoy Corps, in those days, kept one of these men, who was a
kind of priest as well as a schoolmaster, reading out prayers, and
superintending the nice conduct of Festivals, with all their complicated
observances. Besides these men, the Government also supplied
schoolmasters, and the consequence was, that a large percentage of
young Sepoys could read and write. I once won a bet from my
brother-in-law Stisted, by proving that more men in the 18th Bombay
Native Infantry than in the 78th Queen's could read and write. In
the latter, indeed, they occasionally had recruits who could not
speak English, but only Gaelic.

[Sidenote: _Receives the Brahminical Thread._]

Under my two teachers I soon became as well acquainted, as a
stranger can, with the practice of Hinduism. I carefully read up
Ward, Moor, and the publications of the Asiatic Society, questioning
my teachers, and committing to writing page after page of notes, and
eventually my Hindú teacher officially allowed me to wear the _Janeo_
(Brahminical thread). My knowledge, indeed, not a little surprised
my friend Dr. H. G. Carter, who was secretary to the Asiatic Society
at Bombay. On June 26th, 1843, I was appointed interpreter to
my regiment, which added something--a few rupees, some thirty a
month--to my income. My brother officers now began to see that
I was working with an object. When I returned from Bombay, they
had been surprised at my instantly resuming work, and not allowing
myself a holiday. They grumbled not a little at having so unsociable
a messmate.

About that time, too, I began to acquire the ominous soubriquet
of "The White Nigger," and what added not a little to the general
astonishment was, that I left off "sitting under" the garrison Chaplain,
and transferred myself to the Catholic Chapel of the chocolate-coloured
Goanese priest, who adhibited spiritual consolation to the
_bultrels_ (butlers and head-servants) and other servants of the camp.[6]
At length, on August 22nd, 1843, I again obtained leave "to
proceed to Bombay to be examined in the Guzerattee language."
This time I was accompanied on the journey by Lieutenant R. A.
Manson, who was on like business, to the Presidency. The march
was detestable. We could hardly ride our horses through the
sticky and knee-deep mud of Gujarat. So we fitted up native carts
with waterproof tilts, and jogged behind the slow-paced steers on
the high-road to Broach. Here we found a detachment of a native
Corps, living the usual dull, monotonous life.

Hence we proceeded to Surat, once the cradle of the British
power in India, and afterwards doomed to utter neglect. Its
masterful position for trade secured it from utter ruin, but no thanks
to its rulers. Here we again took a _pattymar_, and dropped down
the river, _en route_ to the Presidency. But this time it was very
different voyaging. The south-west monsoon was dead against us,
and nothing could be more ominous than the aspect of the weather.
We reached Bombay on September 26th, just in time to avoid the
_Elephanta_, or dangerous break up of the rainy monsoon. Little
Manson, who had been wrecked when coming out in Back Bay, was
in an extreme state of nervousness, and I was prepared for any
risk when I saw the last sheets of lightning hung out by the purple-black
clouds. The examination took place on October 16th, 1843,
again in presence of old General Vans-Kennedy and the normal
three or four nobodies, and I again passed first, distancing my
rival, Lieutenant C. P. Rigby, of the 16th Bombay N.I. I wished
to remain in Bombay to await my regiment, then under orders for
Sind, but on the 10th of November I was ordered north, and yet
the corps had received orders to march on November 23rd.

The break up of the Cantonment produced all manner of festivities.
The two Corps took leave of one another, and passed the last
night in the enjoyment of a stupendous _Nach_, or Nautch.

[Sidenote: _On the March._]

A March with a regiment in those days was a pleasure. The first
bugle sounded shortly after midnight, and presently came the
signal--

    "Don't you hear the general say,
    'Strike your tents and march away'?"

After a few days' practice, the camp was on the ground and ready packed
for starting on carts and camels, within a few minutes. Naturally loose
marching was the rule. The men were only expected to keep in Companies,
and the officers, with rifles in their hands, rode before, behind, or
alongside of them. In this way many a head of game made its appearance
at the regimental Mess. The Marches seldom exceeded fifteen miles
a day; at the end of the stage the Sepoys were drawn up into line,
inspected, and told off to pitching the tents. Breakfast was generally
eaten by the officers shortly after sunrise, and the morning air gave
fine appetites. The food was generally carried in a _dúli_, a kind of
portable palanquin, primarily intended for the sick and wounded. After
the tents were pitched most men were glad to have a short sleep. They
assembled again at Tiffin, and its objectionable properties disappeared
during the march. They then amused themselves with shooting, or
strolling about the country, till Mess hour. The officers' wives were
always present at dinner, and no smoking was allowed until they had
disappeared. After mess, men were only too glad to turn in, and to get
as much sleep as they could before the morning bugle.

The regiment embarked in a native craft at Tankaria-Bunder, and on
December 26th, 1843, encamped on the Esplanade, Bombay. They were
in the highest spirits, for all expected to see service. The wing
from Mhow had been ordered to rejoin head-quarters, and the same was
the case with the Staff officers, Captains Jamieson and Partridge,
Lieutenants MacDonald, Hough, Compton, and Ensign Anderson. Needless
to say that the latter were in high dudgeon at leaving their fat
appointments.

[Sidenote: _Embarks for Sind._]

On New Year's Day of 1844, the corps embarked on board the H.E.I.
Company's steamship _Semiramis_, generally known as the "Merry
Miss." She was commanded by Captain Ethersey, who ended badly. His
"'aughtiness," as the crew called it, won him very few friends. And now
I come to the time when I began to describe my experiences in print.
The first chapter of "Scinde; or the Unhappy Valley" gives a facetious
account of this voyage.

On board the _Semiramis_ I made a good friend in Captain Walter Scott,
of the Bombay Engineers, who had been transferred from Kandesh, to
take charge of the Survey in Lower Sind, by general order of November
23rd, 1843. He was a handsome man in the prime of life, with soft blue
eyes, straight features, yellow hair, and golden-coloured beard. Withal
he not a little resembled his uncle, "The Magician of the North," of
whom he retained the fondest remembrance. He preserved also the trick,
wholly unintentional, of the burr and the lisp, the former in the
humorous parts, and the latter in the tenderer part of his stories. He
was an admirable conversationist, and his anecdotes were full of a dry
and pawky humour, which comes from north of the Tweed. Yet, curious
to say, when he took pen in hand his thoughts seemed to fly abroad.
His lines were crooked, and his sentences were hardly intelligible.
Something of this was doubtless owing to his confirmed habit of cheroot
smoking, whilst he was writing, but it was eminently characteristic of
the man.

Walter Scott was a truly fine character. His manners were those
of a gentleman of the Old School, and he never said a disagreeable
word or did an ungraceful deed. A confirmed bachelor, he was not at
all averse to women's society; indeed, rather the contrary. He was
generous, even lavish to the extreme, and he was quite as ready to
befriend an Englishman, as a "brither Scot." These two latter qualities
seemed to distinguish a high-bred Scotchman, whilst the English and
Irish gentleman preserved the characteristics of his nationality,
of course refining it and raising it to the highest standard. The
Scottish gentleman seems to differ not only in degree, but in kind,
and to retain only the finer qualities of his race. This is not
speaking of the aristocracy, but of the finer nature, which is the
nature of a true gentleman. Whereas the common herd errs in excess of
canniness and cautiousness, keeps a keen eye upon the main chance, and
distrusts everything and everybody. The select few are rather rash than
otherwise, think less of gain than of a point of honour, and seem to
believe all other men as true-hearted and high-spirited as themselves,
as well as utterly destitute of religious fanaticism.

Walter Scott's favourite reading was old history and romance. He was
delighted to meet with a man who was acquainted with Hollingshed and
Froissart. Moreover, he had sent to Italy for a series of books upon
the canalization of the valley of the Po, and was right glad to find a
man who had been in that part of the world, and could assist him by his
knowledge of Italian. And I capped the good effect I had upon him, by
quoting some of the finest of his uncle's lines, which end with--

    "I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed."

The little voyage, beautiful outside the ship, and stiff and prim
within, ended on the fourth day. The _Semiramis_ ran past Manora Head
and anchored near the Bar, which in those days was as bad as bad could
be. My first impressions of the country, a marvellous contrast to
Gujarat and Bombay, were as follows:--

[Sidenote: _Karáchi, Sind._]

 "In those days Sind was in the most primitive state. The town, or
 rather village, of Karáchi was surrounded by a tall wall of guy swish,
 topped with fancy crenelles, and perpendicularly striped with what the
 Persians call _Da mágheh_, or nostril holes, down which the besieged
 could pour hot oil, or boiling water. Streets there were none; every
 house looked like a small fort, and they almost met over the narrow
 lanes that formed the only thoroughfares. The bazar, a long line
 of miserable shops, covered over with rude matting of date leaves,
 was the only place comparatively open. Nothing could exceed the
 filthiness of the town; sewers there were none. And the deodorization
 was effected by the dust. The harbour, when the tide was out, was a
 system of mud-flats, like the lagoons of Venice, when you approach
 them by the Murazzi. A mere sketch of a road, which in these days
 would be called a Frere highway, led from the nearest mud-bank to the
 Cantonment. The latter was in its earliest infancy. The ground of hard
 clay was still covered with milk-bush and desert vegetation, and only
 here and there a humble bungalow was beginning to be built. There was
 no sign of barracks, and two race-courses were laid out before any one
 thought of church or chapel.

 "Yet Karáchi showed abundant sign of life. Sir Charles Napier
 thoroughly believed in its future, and loudly proclaimed that in
 a few years it would take the wind out of Bombay sails. The old
 Conqueror himself was temporarily staying there. He had his wife and
 two handsome daughters. His personal staff was composed of his two
 nephews, Captain William Napier and Lieutenant Byng. In his general
 Staff he had Major Edward Green, Assistant Adjutant-General, for
 Quarter-Master-General; Captain MacMurdo, who afterwards married his
 daughter; a civilian named Brown, _alias_ 'Beer' Brown; Captain Young,
 of the Bengal army, as his Judge Advocate-General; and Captain Preedy
 for his Commissary-General. The latter was the son of a violent old
 officer in the Bombay army, and of whom many a queer story was told.
 One of them is as follows:--He was dining at a Dragoon mess at Poonah,
 when they began to sing a song which had been written by an officer of
 the regiment, and which had for refrain--

    'Here's death to those
    Who dare oppose
    Her Majesty's Dragoons.'

 Old Preedy well knew that in the affair alluded to, the Dragoons,
 having ventured into a native village, had been soundly thrashed by
 the villagers. After patiently hearing the song out, he proposed
 to give the villagers a turn, but he had hardly finished his first
 verses--

    'Success to who
    Dare to bamboo
    Her Majesty's Dragoons.'

 before he was duly kicked out of the Mess.

 "Karáchi was then swarming with troops. The 78th Highlanders were
 cantoned there, and were presently joined by the 86th, or 'County Down
 Boys.' Both consumed a vast quantity of liquor, but in diametrically
 different ways. The kilts, when they felt fou, toddled quietly to bed,
 and slept off the debauch; the brogues quarrelled and fought, and
 made themselves generally disagreeable, and passed the night in the
 guard-house. There was horse artillery and foot artillery, and the
 former, when in uniform, turned out in such gorgeous gingerbread-gold
 coats, that gave a new point to the old sneer of 'buying a man at
 your own price, and selling him at his own,' and there were native
 regiments enough to justify brigade parades on the very largest scale."

The 18th was presently ordered off to Gharra, a desolate bit of rock
and clay, which I described as follows:--

 "Look at that unhappy hole--it is Gharra.

 "The dirty heap of mud-and-mat hovels that forms the native village is
 built upon a mound, the _débris_ of former Gharras, close to a creek
 which may or may not have been the 'western outlet of the Indus in
 Alexander's time.' All round it lies a--

    'windy sea of land:'--

 salt, flat, barren rock and sandy plain, where eternal sea-gales
 blow up and blow down a succession of hillocks--warts upon the foul
 face of the landscape--stretching far, far away, in all the regular
 irregularity of desolation.

 "You see the cantonment with its falling brick lines outside, and its
 tattered thatched roofs peeping from the inside of a tall dense hedge
 of bright green milk-bush."

We were obliged to pitch tents, for there was no chance of lodging in
the foul little village, at the head of the Gharra creek. Under the
circumstances, of course, the work was very hard.

A sandstorm astonished an English visitor considerably.

 "When we arose in the morning the sky was lowering, the air dark; the
 wind blew in puffs, and--unusual enough at the time of the year--it
 felt raw and searching. If you took the trouble to look towards the
 hills about eight a.m. you might have seen a towering column of sand
 from the rocky hills, mixed with powdered silt from the arid plains,
 flying away as fast as it could from the angry puffing Boreas.

 "The gale increases--blast pursuing blast, roaring and sweeping round
 the walls and over the roofs of the houses with the frantic violence
 of a typhoon. There is a horror in the sound, and then the prospect
 from the windows! It reminds one of Firdausi's vast idea that one
 layer has been trampled off earth and added to the coats of the
 firmament. You close every aperture and inlet, in the hope of escaping
 the most distressing part of the phenomenon. Save yourself the
 trouble, all such measures are useless. The finer particles with which
 the atmosphere is laden would pass without difficulty through the
 eye of a needle; judge what comfortable thoroughfares they must find
 the chinks of these warped doors and the crannies of the puttyless
 munnions.

 "It seems as though the dust recognized in our persons kindred
 matter. Our heads are powdered over in five minutes; our eyes, unless
 we sit with closed lids, feel as if a dash of cayenne had been
 administered to them; we sneeze like schoolboys after a first pinch of
 'blackguard;' our epidermises are grittier than a loaf of provincial
 French bread, and washing would only be a mockery of resisting the
 irremediable evil.

 "Now, Mr. Bull, if you wish to let your friends and old cronies at
 home see something of the produce of the East, call for a lighted
 candle, and sit down to compose an 'overland letter.' It will take you
 at least two hours and a half to finish the four pages, as the pen
 becomes clogged, and the paper covered every few minutes; moreover,
 your spectacles require wiping at least as often as your quill does.
 By the time the missive comes to hand it will contain a neat little
 cake of Indus mud and Scinde sand moulded in the form of paper. Tell
 Mrs. Bull that you went without your tiffin--lunch I mean--that you
 tried to sleep, but the novel sensation of being powdered all over
 made the attempt an abortive one--that it is impossible to cook during
 a dust-storm--and that you are in for a modification of your favourite
 'intramural sepulture,' if the gale continues much longer. However,
 your days are safe enough; the wind will probably fall about five or
 six in the afternoon,--it is rare that it does not go down with the
 sun--and even should it continue during the night, it will be a farce
 compared to what we are enduring now."

[Sidenote: _He passes in Maharátta._]

There was great excitement on June 20th, 1844, when the Sepoys of the
64th Regiment mutinied at Shikapur and beat their officers. The station
was commanded by Major-General Hunter, C.B. Most of his experience was
in studs. When campaigning with Sir Charles Napier, the latter sent to
him for something to eat, and the reply was a ham and a round of press
beef. The "devil's brother," as the Sindís called him, cut a slice out
of the ham and another out of the beef, and then sent the remainder
back to the owner. On June 27th a general order established vernacular
examination, making it every officer's duty to learn something more
or less of the language. In September I went down to Bombay to pass
an examination in Maharátta, and on October 15th I distanced some six
competitors.

       *       *       *       *       *

Richard produced another Chapter on India when he was sick, in 1888,
for Mr. Hitchman, which is the one the biographer used, having objected
to some of the other parts, whilst I have used the original manuscript
just as it was given to me in 1876.

[1] The general orders of the Commander-in-Chief--

"To rank from date of sailing from Gravesend to the ship by which they
proceeded in the following order, viz.:--

"Charles Thompson, per barque _John Knox_         June 18, 1842.
Richard Francis Burton, per barque _John Knox_    June 18, 1842.
The latter appointed to the 14th Regiment B.N.I.  Sept. 24, 1842.
The latter transferred to 18th B.N.I.             Oct. 25, 1842.
No. 106, date of arrival at Bombay                Oct. 28, 1842."

[2] He was assistant garrison surgeon, serving under Superintendent
Surgeon A. C. Kane. The latter's name evidently subjected him to a
variety of small witticisms, especially when he was called in to treat
a certain A. Bell.

[3] Amongst natives, caste is so powerful in India that it even affects
Mlenchha, or outcast races.

[4] For description of _pattymar_, see "Goa and Blue Mountains," by R.
F. Burton.

[5] Colonel Yule gives an illustration of these gates in his second
volume of "Marco Polo."

[6] I was at this time a child in the schoolroom; we had no knowledge
of each other's existence; I therefore had no part in the matter. He
did not tell me of it until we had been married for some time, as
he wished, he said, to see if _he_ was paramount in _my_ mind, and
that I would make the sacrifice for him, which was necessary for our
marriage later on. He then said, "that if a man _had_ a religion, it
must be the Catholic; it was the religion of a gentleman--a terrible
religion for a man of the world to live in, but a good one to die in."
I have often wondered that this step never excited any comment; he
wrote of it freely; he spoke of it freely until his latter years; but
as he did not like _me_ to do so, I never did. Nobody ever dared to
question his action till after he was dead; but when the master-mind,
the witty tongue was powerless, when the scathing pen the strong right
sword-arm could no longer wield, people fell foul of me for speaking of
it as a simple and natural fact. I never called him a devout practical
Catholic; I only said he was received into the Church, and that he
meant to have its rites at the time of his death.--I. B.



CHAPTER VII.

THE REMINISCENCES WRITTEN FOR MR. HITCHMAN IN 1888--INDIA.


[Sidenote: _A Later Chapter on same events differently told._]

When I landed at Bombay (October 28th, 1842), "Momba Devi" town was a
marvellous contrast with the "Queen of Western India," as she thrones
it in 1887; no City in Europe, except perhaps Vienna, can show such a
difference. The old Portuguese port-village _temp. Caroli Secundi_,
with its silly fortifications and useless esplanade, its narrow alleys
and squares like _places d'armes_, had not developed itself into
"Sasson-Town," as we may call the olden, and "Frére-Town" the modern
moiety.

Under the patriarchal rule of the Court of Directors to the Hon. East
Indian Company, a form of torpidity much resembling the paternal
government of good Emperor Franz, no arrangements were made for the
reception of the queer animals called "cadets." They landed and fell
into the knowing hands of some rascals; lodged at a Persian tavern,
the British Hotel, all uncleanliness at the highest prices. I had a
touch of "seasoning sickness," came under the charge of "Paddy Ryan,"
Fort Surgeon and general favourite, and was duly drafted into the
Sanitary Bungalow--thatched hovels facing Back Bay, whence ever arose
a pestilential whiff of roast Hindú, and opened the eyes of those
who had read about the luxuries of the East. Life was confined to a
solitary ride (at dawn and dusk), a dull monotonous day, and a night in
some place of dissipation--to put it mildly--such as the Bhendi bazar,
whose attractions consisted of dark young persons in gaudy dress,
mock jewels, and hair japanned with cocoa-nut oil, and whose especial
diversions were an occasional "row"--a barbarous manner of "town and
gown." But a few days, of residence had taught me that India, at least
Western India, offered only two specialities for the Britisher; first
_Shikar_ or sport, and secondly, opportunities of studying the people
and their languages. These were practically unlimited; I found that
it took me some years of hard study before I could walk into a bazar
and distinguish the several castes, and know something of them, their
manners and customs, religion and superstitions. I at once engaged a
venerable Parsee, Dosabhai Sohrabji, also a _mubid_, or priest, as
his white cap and coat showed, who had coached many generations of
_griffs_, and under his guidance dived deep into the "Ethics of Hind"
(Akhlak-i-Hindi) and other such text-books.

This was the year after the heir-apparent was born; when Nott, Pollock,
and Sale revenged the destruction of some 13,000 men by the Afghans;
when the Chinese War broke out; when Lord Ellenborough succeeded
awkward Lord Auckland; and when Major-General Sir Charles J. Napier,
commanding at Poonah, was appointed to Sind (August 25th, 1842),
and when his subsequent unfriend, Brevet-Major James Outram, was on
furlough to England; lastly, and curious to say, most important of all
to me, was the fact that "Ensign Burton" was ranked and posted in the
G. G. O. of October 15th, 1842, to the 18th Regiment, Bombay N.I.

Nor was I less surprised by the boasting of my brother officers (the
Sepoys had thrashed the French in India and elsewhere, they were the
flower of the British army, and so forth)--fine specimen of _esprit
de corps_ run mad, which was destined presently to change its tone,
after 1857. Meanwhile this loud brag covered an ugly truth. We officers
of the Indian army held her Majesty's commission, but the Company's
officers were looked upon by the Queen's troops as mere auxiliaries,
locals without general rank, as it were black policemen. Moreover the
rules of the service did not allow us to rise above a certain rank.
What a contrast to the French private, who carries a Marshal's baton in
his knapsack!

Captain Cleland introduced me to his sister, the wife of a
field-officer, and she to sundry of her friends, whose tone somewhat
surprised me. Here and there a reference was made to my "immortal
soul," and I was overwhelmed with oral treatises upon what was expected
from a "Christian in a heathen land." And these ladies "talked shop,"
at least, so it appeared to me, like non-commissioned officers. After
_Shikar_ and the linguistics, the only popular pursuit in India is
(I should think always was) "Society." But indigestible dinners are
not pleasant in a Turkish bath; dancing is at a discount in a region
of eternal dog-days; picnics are unpleasant on the "palm-tasselled
strand of glowing Ind," where scorpions and cobras come uninvited;
horse-racing, like Cicero's "Mercaturi," to be honoured, must be on a
large scale; the Mess tiffin is an abomination ruinous to digestion and
health; the billiard-table may pass an hour or so pleasantly enough,
but it becomes a monotonous waste of time, and the evening bands, or
meet at "Scandal Point," is open to the charge of a deadly dullness.

Visits become visitations, because that tyrant Madam Etiquette
commanded them about noon, despite risk of sunstroke, and "the ladies"
insisted upon them without remorse of conscience. Needless to say that
in those days the _Gym-hánah_ was unknown, and that the Indian world
ignored lawn-tennis, even croquet.

Another point in Bombay Society at once struck me, and I afterwards
found it in the Colonies and most highly developed in the United
States. At home men and women live under an incubus, a perfect system
of social despotism which is intended to make amends for an unnatural
political equality, amongst classes born radically unequal. Abroad, the
weight is taken off their shoulders, and they result of its removal is
a peculiar rankness of growth. The pious become fanatically one-idea'd,
pharisaical, unchristian, monomaniacal. The un-pious run to the other
extreme, believe nothing, sneer at the holies, "and look upon the mere
Agnostic as a 'slow coach.'" Eccentricity develops itself Bedlam-wards.
One of my friends had a mania and swore "By my halidom." Another had
an image of Gánpati over his door, which he never passed without
the prayer, "Shri ganeshayá Hamahá" ("I bow to auspicious Janus").
A third, of whom I heard, had studied Aristotle in Arabic, and when
shown the "Novum Organon," asked, indignantly, "who the fellow might
be that talked such stuff." And in matters of honesty the social idea
was somewhat lax; to sell a spavined horse to a friend was considered
a good joke, and to pass off plated wares for real silver was looked
upon as only a trifle too "smart." The Press faithfully reflected
these nuances with a little extra violence and virulence of its own.
By-the-by, I must not forget making the acquaintance of a typical
Scot, Dr. Buist (afterwards Sir Charles Napier's "blatant beast of the
_Bombay Times_"). He wrote much (so badly that only one clerk could
read it) and washed little; and as age advanced he married a young wife.

After a month or so at Bombay, chiefly spent in mugging "Hindostani,"
and in providing myself with the necessaries of life--servants, headed
by Salvador Soares, a handsome Goanese; a horse, in the shape of a
dun-coloured Kattywár nag; also a "horsekeeper," a dog, a tent, and
so forth--I received my marching orders and set out to "join" my own
corps. The simple way of travelling in those days before steam and rail
was by palanquin or _pattymar_. I have described the latter article
in "Goa," and I may add that it had its advantages. True it was a
"slow coach," creeping on seventy or eighty miles a day, and some days
almost stationary; it had few comforts and no luxuries. I began by
actually missing "pudding," and have often smiled at the remembrance
of my stomach's comical disappointment. _En revanche_, the study of
the little world within was most valuable to the "young Anglo-Indian,"
and the slow devious course allowed landing at places rarely visited
by Europeans. During my repeated trips I saw Diu, once so famous in
Portuguese story, Holy Dwarká, guarded outside by sharks and filled
with fierce and fanatic mercenaries, and a dozen less interesting spots.

The end of this trip was Tankária-Bunder, a small landing in the Bay of
Cambay, a most primitive locale to be called a port, where a mud-bank,
adapted for a mooring-stake, was about the only convenience. It showed
me, however, a fine specimen of the _Ghora_, or bore, known to our
Severn and other rivers--an exaggerated high tide, when the water
comes rushing up the shallows like a charge of cavalry. Native carts
were also to be procured at Tankária-Bunder for the three days' short
march to Baroda, and a mattress spread below made the rude article
comfortable enough for young limbs and strong nerves.

Gujarat, the classical Gujaráhtra, a land of the Gujar clan, which
remained the Syrastrena Regio of Arrian, surprised me by its tranquil
beauty and its vast natural wealth. Green as a card-table, flat as
a prairie, it grew a marvellous growth of trees, which stunted our
English oaks and elm trees--

                        "to ancient song unknown,
    The noble sons of potent heat and flood"--

and a succession of fields breaking the glades, of townlets and
villages walled by luxuriant barriers of caustic milk-bush (euphorbia),
teemed with sights and sounds and smells peculiarly Indian. The sharp
bark of Hanu the Monkey and the bray of the _Shankh_ or conch near
the bowery pagoda were surprises to the ear, and less to the nose was
the blue vapour which settled over the hamlets morning and evening, a
semi-transparent veil, the result of _Gobar_ smoke from "cow-chips."
A stale trick upon travellers approaching India by sea was to rub a
little sandal oil upon the gunwale and invite them to "smell India,"
yet many a time for miles off shore I have noted that faint spicy
odour, as if there were curry in the air, which about the abodes of man
seems to be crossed with an aroma of drugs, as though proceeding from
an apothecary's store. Wondrous peaceful and quiet lay those little
Indian villages, outlaid by glorious banyan and pipal trees, topes or
clumps of giant figs which rain a most grateful shade, and sometimes
provided by the piety of some long-departed Chief with a tank of cut
stone, a _baurá_ or draw-well of fine masonry and large dimensions. But
what "exercised" not a little my "Griffin" thoughts was to note the
unpleasant difference between villages under English rule and those
belonging to "His Highness the Gaikwar" or cowkeeper; the penury of the
former and the prosperity of the latter. Mr. Boyd, the then Resident at
the local court, soon enlightened me upon the evils of our unelastic
rule of "smart Collectors," who cannot and dare not make any allowance
for deficient rainfall or injured crops, and it is better to have
something to lose, and to lose it even to the extent "of being ousted
of possessions and disseized of freehold," with the likely hope of
gaining it again, than to own nothing worth plundering.

The end of the march introduced me to my corps, the 18th Regiment,
Bombay Native Infantry, whose head-quarters were in Gujarat, one wing
being stationed at Mhow, on the Bengal frontier.

The officer commanding, Captain James (C.V.), called upon me at the
Travellers' bungalow, the rudimentary Inn which must satisfy the
stranger in India, suggesting the while such sad contrast, and bore me
off to his bungalow, formally presented me at Mess--then reduced to
eight members besides myself--and the Assistant-Surgeon Arnott put me
in the way of lodging myself. The regimental Mess, with its large cool
Hall and punkahs, its clean napery and bright silver, its servants each
standing behind his master's chair, and the cheroots and hookahs which
appeared with the disappearance of the "table"-cloth, was a pleasant
surprise, the first sight of comfortable home-life I had seen since
landing at Bombay. Not so the Subalterns' bungalow, which gave the idea
of a dog-hole at which British Ponto would turn up his civilized nose.
The business of the day was mainly goose-step and studying the drill
book, and listening to such equivocal words of command as "Tandelees"
(stand at ease) and "Fiz-bagnat" (fix bayonets). Long practice with
the sword, which I had began seriously at the age of twelve, sometimes
taking three lessons a day, soon eased my difficulties, and led to the
study of native swordsmanship, whose grotesqueness and buffoonery can
be rivalled only by its insufficiency.[1]

The wrestling, however, was another matter, and not a few natives in my
Company had at first the advantage of me, and this induced a trial of
Indian training, which consisted mainly of washing down balls of _Gur_
(unrefined sugar) with bowls of hot milk hotly spiced. The result was
that in a week I was blind with bile. Another set of lessons suggested
by common sense, was instruction by a _chábuhsawar_, or native jockey.
All nations seem to despise one another's riding, and none seem to
know how much they have to learn. The Indian style was the merit of
holding the horse well in hand, making him bound off at a touch of the
heel, stopping him dead at a hand gallop, and wheeling him round as
on a pivot. The Hindú will canter over a figure-of-eight, gradually
diminishing the dimensions till the animal leans over at an angle of
45°, and throwing himself over the off side and hanging by the heel to
the earth, will pick up sword or pistol from the ground. Our lumbering
chargers brought us to notable grief more than once in the great Sikh
War. And as I was somewhat nervous about snakes, I took lessons of a
"Charmer," and could soon handle them with coolness.

The _Bibi_ (white woman) was at that time rare in India; the result was
the triumph of the _Búbú_ (coloured sister). I found every officer in
the corps more or less provided with one of these helpmates.

We boys naturally followed suit; but I had to suffer the protestations
of the Portuguese _padre_, who had taken upon himself the cure and
charge of my soul, and was like a hen who had hatched a duckling. I
had a fine opportunity of studying the _pros_ and _cons_ of the _Búbú_
system.

_Pros_: The "walking dictionary" is all but indispensable to the
Student, and she teaches him not only Hindostani grammar, but the
syntaxes of native Life. She keeps house for him, never allowing him
to save money, or, if possible, to waste it. She keeps the servants in
order. She has an infallible recipe to prevent maternity, especially if
her tenure of office depends on such compact. She looks after him in
sickness, and is one of the best of nurses, and, as it is not good for
man to live alone, she makes him a manner of home.

The _disadvantages_ are as manifest as the advantages. Presently, as
overland passages became cheaper and commoner, the _Bibi_ won and the
_Búbú_ lost ground. Even during _my_ day, married men began, doubtless
at the instance of their wives, to look coldly upon the half-married,
thereby showing mighty little common sense. For India was the classic
land of Cicisbeism, where husbands are occupied between ten a.m. and
five p.m. at their offices and counting-houses, leaving a fair field
and much favour to the sub unattached, and whose duty often keeps
the man sweltering upon the plains, when the wife is enjoying the
_somer-frisch_ upon "the Hills." Moreover, the confirmed hypocrite and
the respectable-ist, when in power, established a kind of inquisitorial
inquiry into the officer's house, and affixed a black mark to the
name of the half-married. At last the _Búbú_ made her exit and left a
void. The greatest danger in British India is the ever-growing gulf
that yawns between the governors and the governed; they lose touch of
one another, and such racial estrangement leads directly to racial
hostility.

The day in Cantonment-way is lively. It began before sunrise on the
parade-ground, an open space, which any other people but English
would have converted into a stronghold. Followed, the baths and the
_choti-hazri_, or little breakfast, the _munshi_ (language-master), and
literary matters till nine o'clock meal. The hours were detestable,
compared with the French system--the _déjeuner à la fourchette_, which
abolished the necessity of lunch; but throughout the Anglo-American
world, even in the places worst adapted, "business" lays out the day.
After breakfast, most men went to the billiard-room; some, but very
few, preferred "peacocking," which meant robing in white-grass clothes
and riding under a roasting sun, as near the meridian as possible, to
call upon "regimental ladies," who were gruff as corporals when the
function was neglected too long. The dull and tedious afternoon again
belonged to _munshi_, and ended with a constitutional ride, or a rare
glance at the band; Mess about seven p.m., possibly a game of whist,
and a stroll home under the marvellous Gujarat skies, through a scene
of perfect loveliness, a paradise bounded by the whity-black line.

There was little variety in such days. At times we rode to Baroda
City, which seemed like a Mansion, to which the Cantonment acted as
porter's Lodge. "Good Water" (as the Sanskritists translate it) was
a walled City, lying on the north bank of the Vishwamitra river, and
containing some 150,000 souls, mostly hostile, who eyed us with hateful
eyes, and who seemed to have taught even their animals to abhor us. The
City is a _mélange_ of low huts and tall houses, grotesquely painted,
with a shabby palace, and a _Chauk_, or Bazar, where four streets
meet. At times H.M. the Gaikwar would show us what was called sport--a
fight between two elephants with cut tusks, or a caged tiger and a
buffalo--the last being generally the winner--or a wrangle between
two fierce stallions, which bit like camels. The cock-fighting was,
however, of a superior kind, the birds being of first-class blood,
and so well trained, that they never hesitated to attack a stranger.
An occasional picnic, for hunting, not society, was a most pleasant
treat. The native Prince would always lend us his cheetahs or hunting
leopards, or his elephants; the jungles inland of the city swarmed with
game, from a snipe to a tiger, and the broad plains to the north were
packs of _nilghai_ and the glorious black buck. About twenty-eight
miles due east, rises high above the sea of verdure the picturesque
hill known as Pávangarh, the Fort of Eolus, and the centre of an old
Civilization. Tanks and Jain temples were scattered around it, and
the ruins of Champenír City cumbered the base. In a more progressive
society, this place, 2500 feet high, and cooler by 18° to 20° F.,
would have become a kind of sanitarium. But men, apparently, could not
agree. When the Baroda races came round, Major C. Crawley, commanding
the 4th Bombay Rifles, used, in consequence of some fancied slight, to
openly ride out of cantonment; and Brigadier Gibbons, the commander,
did nothing for society. But the crowning excitement of the season was
the report of Sir Charles Napier's battle of Miani (February 21st),
followed by the affair of Dubba (March 25th), the "tail of the Afghan
War." The account seemed to act as an electric shock upon the English
frame, followed by a deep depression and a sense of mortal injury at
the hands of Fate in keeping us out of the fray.

At length, in April, 1843, I obtained two months' leave of absence
to the Presidency, for the purpose of passing an examination in
Hindostani. The function was held at the Town Hall. Major-General
Vans-Kennedy presided, a queer old man as queerly dressed, who
had given his life to Orientalism, and who had printed some very
respectable studies of Hinduism. The examining _munshi_, Mohammed
"Mucklá," was no friend to me, because I was coached by a rival, old
Dosabhai, yet he could not prevent my distancing a field of eleven.
This happened on May 5th, and on May 12th I had laid in a full supply
of Gujarati books, and set out by the old road to rejoin.

If Baroda was dull and dreary during the dries, it was mortal during
the rains. I had been compelled to change my quarters for a bigger
bungalow, close to the bank of the _nullah_ which bounded the camp
to the east and fed the Vishwamitra. It was an ill-omened place; an
English officer had been wounded in it, and the lintel still bore
the mark of a sabre which some native ruffian had left, intending
to split a Serjeant's head. Other quarters in the cantonment were
obliged to keep one _ramosi, alias_ Paggi, a tracker, a temporarily
reformed thief who keeps off other thieves; my bungalow required two.
An ignoble position for a dominant race, this openly paying blackmail
and compounding felony. The rule of the good Company was, however, not
a rule of honour, but of expediency, and the safety of its officers
was little regarded; they were stabbed in their tents, or cut down by
dacoits, even when travelling on the highways of Gujarat. Long and
loudly the survivors hoped that some fine day a bishop or a Director's
son would come to grief, and _when this happened at last_ the process
was summarily stopped. Indeed, nothing was easier to find than a
remedy. A heavy fine was imposed upon the district in which the outrage
was committed. By such means, Mohammed Ali of Egypt made the Suez
Desert safer than a London street, and Sir Charles Napier pacified
Sind, and made deeds of violence unknown--by means not such as Earl
Russell virtually encouraged the robber-shepherds of Greece to plunder
and murder English travellers.

The monsoon,[2] as it is most incorrectly termed, completely changes
the tenor of Anglo-Indian life. It is ushered in by a display of
"insect youth" which would have astonished Egypt in the age of the
plagues, "flying bugs," and so forth. At Mess every tumbler was
protected by a silver lid. And when the downfall begins it suggests
that the "fountains of the great deep" have been opened up. I have
seen tropical rains in many a region near the Line, but never anything
that rivals Gujarati. Without exaggeration, the steady discharge of
water buckets lasted literally, on one occasion, through seven days
and nights without intermission, and to reach Mess we had to send our
clothes on, and to wear a single waterproof, and to gallop through
water above, around, and below at full speed. This third of the year
was a terribly dull suicidal time, worse even than the gloomy month
of November. It amply accounted for the card-table surface and the
glorious tree-clump of the Gujarat--

    "The mighty growth of sun and torrent-rains."

Working some twelve hours a day, and doing nothing but work, I found
myself ready in later August for a second trip to the Presidency, and
obtained leave from September 10th to October 30th (afterwards made to
include November 10th) for proceeding to Bombay, and being examined in
the Guzerattee language.[3]

This time I resolved to try another route, and, despite the warning of
abominable roads, to ride down coast _viâ_ Baroch and Surat. I had not
been deceived; the deep and rich black soil, which is so good for the
growth of cotton, makes a mud truly terrible to travellers. Baroch, the
Hindú Brighu-Khatia, or Field of Brighú, son of Brahma, is generally
made the modern successor of Ptolemy and Arrian's "Barygaza," but there
are no classic remains to support the identification of the spot, nor
indeed did any one in the place seem to care a fig about the matter.
A truly Hindú town of some twelve thousand souls on the banks of the
Nerbudda, it boasted of only one sight, the _Kabir-bar_, which the
English translated "Big Banyan," and which meant, "Banyan-tree of (the
famous ascetic and poet) Das Kabir." I remember only two of his lines--

             "Máyá mare na man mare, mar mar gaya sarir"
    ("Illusion dies; dies not the mind, though body die and die")--

_Máyá_ (illusion) being sensuous matter, and old Fakirs express the
idea of the modern Hylozoist,[4] "All things are thinks." The old tree
is hardly worth a visit, although it may have sheltered five thousand
horsemen and inspired Milton, for which see the guide-books.

Surat (Surashtra = good region), long time the "Gate of Meccah," where
pilgrims embarked instead of at Bombay, shows nothing of its olden
splendour.

This was the nucleus of British power on the western coast of India in
the seventeenth century, and as early as May, 1609, Captain Hawkins, of
the _Hector_, obtained permission at Agra here to found a factory for
his half-piratical countrymen, who are briefly described as "Molossis
suis ferociores." They soon managed to turn out the Portuguese,
and they left a Graveyard which is not devoid of some barbaric
interest--Tom Croyate of the Crudities, however, is absent from it. At
Surat I met Lieutenant Manson, R.A. He was going down to "go up" in
Maharátta, and we agreed to take a _pattymar_ together. We cruised down
the foul Tapti river--all Indian, like West African, streams seem to be
made of dirty water--and were shown the abandoned sites of the Dutch
garden and French factory, Vaux's Tomb, and Dormus Island. We escaped
an _Elephanta_ storm, one of those pleasant September visitations
which denote the break up of the "monsoon," and which not unfrequently
bestrews the whole coast of Western India with wreckage. This time I
found lodging in the Town Barracks, Bombay, and passed an examination
in the Town Hall before General Vans-Kennedy, with the normal success,
being placed first. The process consisted of reading from print (two
books), and handwriting, generally some "native letter," and of
conversing and of writing an "address" or some paper of the kind.

Returning Baroda-wards, whence my regiment was transferred to our
immense satisfaction to Sind, I assisted in the farewell revelries,
dinners and _Naches_, or native dances--the most melancholy form in
which Terpsichore ever manifested herself.

By far the most agreeable and wholesome part of regimental life in
India is the march; the hours are reasonable, the work not too severe,
and the results, in appetite and sleep, admirable. At Bombay we
encamped on the Esplanade, and on January 1st, 1844, we embarked for
Karáchi on board the H.E.I.C.'s steamer _Semiramis_, whose uneventful
cruise is told in "Scinde, or the Unhappy Valley," chap. I, "The Shippe
of Helle." Yet not wholly uneventual to me.

On board of the _Semiramis_ was Captain Walter Scott, Bombay Engineers,
who had lately been transferred from commanding in Candeish to the
superintendence of the Sind Canals, a department newly organized by
the old Conqueror of "Young Egypt," and our chance meeting influenced
my life for the next six years. I have before described him. With
short intervals I was one of his assistants till 1849. We never had a
diverging thought, much less an unpleasant word; and when he died, at
Berlin, in 1875, I felt his loss as that of a near relation.

Karáchi, which I have twice described, was in 1844 a mere stretch of
a Cantonment, and nothing if not military; the garrison consisting of
some five thousand men of all arms, European and native. The discomfort
of camp life in this Sahara,[5] which represented the Libyan Desert,
after Gujarat, the Nile Valley, was excessive, the dust-storms were
atrocious,[6] and the brackish water produced the most unpleasant
symptoms. Parades of all kinds, regimental and brigade, were the rule,
and Sir Charles Napier was rarely absent from anything on a large scale.

The Conqueror of Scinde was a noted and remarkable figure at that time,
and there is still a semi-heroic ring about the name. In appearance
he was ultra-Jewish, a wondrous contrast to his grand brother, Sir
William; his countrymen called him Fagan, after Dickens, and his
subjects, Shaytan-á-Bhái, Satan's brother, from his masterful spirit
and reckless energy. There is an idealized portrait of him in Mr. W. H.
Bruce's "Life" (London, Murray, 1885), but I much prefer the caricature
by Lieutenant Beresford, printed in my wife's volume, "A.E.I." Yet
there was nothing mean in the Conqueror's diminutive form; the hawk's
eye, and eagle's beak, and powerful chin would redeem any face from
vulgarity.

Sir Charles, during his long years of Peninsular and European service,
cultivated the habit of jotting down all events in his diary, with
a _naïveté_, a vivacity, and a fulness which echoed his spirit, and
which, with advancing years, degenerated into intemperance of language
and extravagance of statement. He was hard, as were most men in those
days, upon the great Company he termed the "Twenty-four Kings of
Leadenhall Street"--"ephemeral sovereigns;" he quoted Lord Wellesley
about the "ignominious tyrants of the East."

In his sixtieth year he was appointed to the command of Poonah
(December 28th, 1841), and he was so lacking in the goods of this world
that a Bombay house refused to advance him £500. He began at once to
study Hindostani, but it was too late; the lesson induced irresistible
drowsiness, and the _munshi_ was too polite to awaken the aged scholar,
who always said he would give Rs. 10,000 to be able to address the
Sepoys. On September 3rd, 1842, he set off to assume his new command
in Upper and Lower Sind, and he at once saw his opportunity. Major
Outram had blackened the faces of the Amirs, but he wanted to keep the
work of conquest for himself, and he did not relish its being done by
another. He, however, assisted Sir Charles Napier, and it was not till
his return to England in 1843 that he ranged himself on the side of the
Directors, whose hatred of the Conqueror grew with his success, and
two factions, Outramists and Napierists, divided the little world of
Western India.

The battles of Miani and Dubba were much criticized by military
experts, who found that the "butcher's bill" did not justify the
magnificent periods of Sir William Napier. This noble old soldier's
"Conquest of Scinde" was a work of _fantaisie_; the story was admirably
told, the picture was perfect, but the details were so incorrect, that
it became the subject of endless "chaff" even in Government House,
Karáchi. The corrective was an official report by Major (afterwards
General) Waddington, B.O. Eng., which gave the shady, rather than the
sunlit side of the picture. And there is still a third to be written.
Neither of our authorities tell us, nor can we expect a public document
to do so, how the mulatto who had charge of the Amir's guns had been
persuaded to fire high, and how the Talpur traitor who commanded the
cavalry, openly drew off his men and showed the shameless example
of flight. When the day shall come to publish details concerning
disbursement of "Secret service money in India," the public will learn
strange things. Meanwhile those of us who have lived long enough to see
how history is written, can regard it as but little better than a poor
romance.

However exaggerated, little Miani taught the world one lesson which
should not be forgotten--the sole plan to win a fight from barbarians,
be they Belochis, Kafirs, or Burmese. It is simplicity itself; a sharp
cannonade to shake the enemy, an advance in line or _échelon_ as the
ground demands, and a dash of cavalry to expedite the runaways. And
presently the victory led to organizing the "Land Transport Corps"
and the "Baggage Corps," two prime wants of the Indian army. Here Sir
Charles Napier's skill as an inventor evolved order out of disorder,
and efficiency from the most cumbrous of abuses. The pacification of
the new Province was marvellously brought about by the enlightened
despotism of the Conqueror. Outram had predicted ten years of guerilla
warfare before peace could be restored; Sir Charles made it safer than
any part of India within a year, and in 1844, when levelling down the
canals, I was loudly blessed by the peasants, who cried out, "These men
are indeed worthy to govern us, as they work for our good."

But Sir Charles Napier began India somewhat too late in life, and
had to pay the penalty. His mistakes were manifold, and some of them
miserable. When preparing for the "Truhkee campaign," he proposed to
content himself with a "_Numero-cent_" tent for a Commander-in-Chief!
When marching upon Multan, his idea was to quarter the Sepoys in the
villages, which would have been destroyed at once; and it was some time
before his Staff dared put it in this light.

From over-deference to English opinion, he liberated all the African
slaves in Sind and turned them out to starve; it would have been wiser
to "free the womb," and forbid importation. He never could understand
the "Badli system," where a rich native buys a poor man to be hanged
for him who committed the crime, and terribly scandalized Captain
Young, the civilian Judge Advocate-General, by hanging the wrong man.
Finding that the offended husband in Sind was justified by public
opinion for cutting down his wife, he sent the unfortunate to the
gallows, and the result was a peculiar condition of society. On one
occasion, the anonymas of Hyderabad sent him a deputation to complain
"that the married women were taking the bread out of their mouths."

Sir Charles was a favourite among the juniors, in fact, amongst all who
did not thwart or oppose him. He delighted in Rabelaisian _bon-mots_,
and the _Conte grivois_, as was the wont of field-officers in his day;
his comment upon a newspaper's "peace and plenty at Karáchi" was long
quoted.

After a month of discomfort at Karáchi, rendered more uncomfortable
by the compulsory joining of six unfortunate Staff-officers who lost
their snug appointments in India,[7] we were moved to Gharra--"out of
the frying-pan into the fire"--a melancholy hole some forty miles by
road north of Head-quarters, and within hearing of the evening gun. I
have already described its horror.[8] Our predecessors had not built
the barracks or bungalows, and we found only a parallelogram of rock
and sand, girt by a tall dense hedge of bright green milk-bush, and
surrounded by a flat of stone and gravel, near a filthy village whose
timorous inhabitants shunned us as walking pestilences.

This, with an occasional temperature of 125° F., was to be our "house"
for some years. As I had no money wherewith to build, I was compelled
to endure a hot season in a single-poled tent, pitched outside the
milk-bush hedge; and after, to escape suffocation, I was obliged to
cover my table with a wet cloth and pass the hot hours under it.
However, energy was not wanting, and the regimental _pandit_ proving
a good school-master, I threw away Sindi for Maráthá; and in October,
1844, I was able to pass my examination in Maráthá at the Presidency,
I coming first of half a dozen. About this time Southern Bombay was
agitated by a small mutiny in Sáwantwádi, and the papers contained a
long service-correspondence about Colonels Outram and Wallace, the
capture of Amanghar, and Lieutenant Brassy's descent on Shiva Drug. I
at once laid in a store of Persian books, and began seriously to work
at that richest and most charming of Eastern languages.

On return to Karáchi, I found myself, by the favour of my friend Scott,
gazetted as one of his four assistants in the Sind "Survey," with
especial reference to the Canal Department; my being able to read and
translate the valuable Italian works on hydro-dynamics being a point
in my favour. A few days taught me the use of compass, theodolite, and
spirit-level, and on December 10th, 1844, I was sent with a surveying
party and six camels to work at Fulayli (Phuleli) and its continuation,
the Guni river. The labour was not small; after a frosty night using
instruments in the sole of a canal where the sun's rays seemed to
pour as through a funnel, was decidedly trying to the constitution.
However, I managed to pull through, and my surveying books were
honoured with official approbation. During this winter I enjoyed some
sport, especially hawking, and collected material for "Falconry in the
Valley of the Indus."[9] I had begun the noble art as a boy at Blois,
but the poor kestrel upon which I tried my "'prentice hand" had died
soon, worn out like an Eastern ascetic by the severities of training,
especially in the fasting line. Returning northwards, I found my Corps
at Hyderabad, and passing through the deserted Gharra, joined the
Head-quarters of the Survey at Karáchi in April.

Here I made acquaintance with Mirza Ali Akhbar, who owed his rank (Khan
Bahádur) to his gallant conduct as Sir Charles Napier's _munshi_ at
Miani and Dubba, where he did his best to save as many unfortunate
Beloch braves as possible. He lived outside the camp in a bungalow
which he built for himself, and lodged a friend, Mirza Dáud, a
first-rate Persian scholar. My life became much mixed up with these
gentlemen, and my brother officers fell to calling me the "White
Nigger." I had also invested in a Persian _munshi_, Mirza Mohammad
Musayn, of Shiraz; poor fellow, after passing through the fires of
Scinde unscathed, he returned to die of cholera in his native land.
With his assistance I opened on the sly three shops at Karáchi,[10]
where cloth, tobacco, and other small matters were sold exceedingly
cheap to those who deserved them, and where I laid in a stock of native
experience, especially regarding such matters as I have treated upon
in my "Terminal Essay" to the "Thousand Nights and a Night,"[11] but
I soon lost my _munshi_ friends. Mirza Dáud died of indigestion and
patent pills at Karáchi; I last saw Mirza Ali Akhbar at Bombay, in
1876, and he deceased shortly afterwards. He had been unjustly and
cruelly treated. Despite the high praises of Outram and Napier for
the honesty and efficiency of Ali Akhbar,[12] the new commission had
brought against the doomed man a number of trumped-up charges, proving
bribery and corruption, and managed to effect his dismissal from the
service. The unfortunate Mirza, in the course of time, disproved them
all, but the only answer to his application for being reinstated was
that what had been done could not now be undone. I greatly regretted
his loss. He had promised me to write out from his Persian notes a
diary of his proceedings during the conquest of Scinde; he was more
"behind the curtain" than any man I knew, and the truths he might have
told would have been exceedingly valuable.

Karáchi was, for India, not a dull place in those days. Besides our
daily work of planning and mapping the surveys of the cold season,
and practising latitudes and longitudes till my right eye became
comparatively short-sighted, we organized a "Survey Mess" in a bungalow
belonging to the office "Compound." There were six of us--Blagrave,
Maclagan, Vanrenin, and afterwards Price and Lambert--and local
society pronounced us all mad, although I cannot see that we were
more whimsical than our neighbours. I also built a bungalow, which
got the title of the "Inquisition," and there I buried my favourite
game-cock Bhujang (the dragon), who had won me many a victory--people
declared that it was the grave of a small human. I saw much of Mirza
Husayn, a brother of Agha Khan Mahallati, a scion of the Isma'iliyah,
or "Old Man of the Mountain," who, having fled his country, Persia,
after a rebellion, ridiculous even in that land of eternal ridiculous
rebellions, turned _condottière_, and with his troop of one hundred
and thirty ruffians took service with us and was placed to garrison
Jarak (Jerruch). Here the Belochis came down upon him, and killed
or wounded about a hundred of his troop, after which he passed on
to Bombay and enlightened the Presidency about his having conquered
Scinde. His brother, my acquaintance, also determined to attack Persia
_viâ_ Makran, and managed so well that he found himself travelling to
Teheran, lashed to a gun carriage. The Lodge "Hope" kindly made me
an "entered apprentice," but I had read Carlisle, "The Atheistical
Publisher," and the whole affair appeared to me a gigantic humbug,
dating from the days of the Crusades, and as Cardinal Newman expressed
it, "meaning a goose club." But I think better of it now, as it still
serves political purposes in the East, and gives us a point against
our French rivals and enemies. As the "Scinde Association" was formed,
I was made honorary secretary, and had no little correspondence with
Mr. E. Blyth, the curator of the Zoological Department, Calcutta. Sir
Charles Napier's friends also determined to start a newspaper, in order
to answer the Enemy in the Gate, and reply to the "base and sordid
Bombay faction," headed by the "Rampant Buist," with a strong backing
of anonymous officials.

The _Karrachee Advertiser_ presently appeared in the modest shape of
a lithographed sheet on Government foolscap, and, through Sir William
Napier, its most spicy articles had the honour of a reprint in London.
Of these, the best were "the letters of Omega," by my late friend
Rathborne, then Collector at Hyderabad, and they described the vices
of the Sind Amirs in language the reverse of ambiguous. I did not keep
copies, nor, unfortunately, did the clever and genial author.

This pleasant, careless life broke up in November, 1845, when I started
with my friend Scott for a long tour to the north of Sind. We rode by
the high-road through Gharra and Jarak to Kotri, the station of the
Sind flotilla, and then crossed to Hyderabad, where I found my Corps
flourishing. After a very jolly week, we resumed our way up the right
bank of the Indus and on the extreme western frontier, where we found
the Beloch herdsmen in their wildest state. About that time began to
prevail the wildest reports about the lost tribes of Israel (who were
never lost), and with the aid of Gesenius and Lynch I dressed up a very
pretty grammar and vocabulary, which proved to sundry scientists that
the lost was found at last. But my mentor would not allow the joke
to appear _in print_. On Christmas Day we entered "Sehwán," absurdly
styled "Alexander's Camp." Here again the spirit of mischief was too
strong for me. I buried a broken and hocussed jar of "_Athenæum_
sauce," red pottery with black Etruscan figures, right in the way of
an ardent amateur antiquary; and the results were comical. At Larkháná
we made acquaintance with "fighting FitzGerald," who commanded there,
a magnificent figure, who could cut a donkey in two; and who, although
a man of property, preferred the hardships of India to the pleasures
of home. He had, however, a mania of blowing himself up in a little
steamer mainly of his own construction, and after his last accident he
was invalided home to England, and died within sight of her shores. At
Larkháná the following letter was received:--

 "Karáchi, January 3, 1846.

 "MY DEAR SCOTT,

 "The General says you may allow as many of your assistants as you
 can spare to join their regiments, if going on service, with the
 understanding that they must resign their appointments and will not be
 reappointed, etc.

 "(Signed) JOHN NAPIER."

This, beyond bazar reports, was our first notice of the great Sikh War,
which added the Punjab to Anglo-India. This news made me wild to go. A
carpet-soldier was a horror to me, and I was miserable that anything
should take place in India without my being in the thick of the fight.
So, after a visit to Sahkar Shikarpúr and the neighbourhood, I applied
myself with all my might to prepare for the Campaign. After sundry
small surveyings and levellings about Sahkar (Sukhur), I persuaded
Scott, greatly against the grain, to send in my resignation, and called
upon General James Simpson, who was supposed to be in his dotage, and
was qualifying for the Chief Command in the Crimea.

My application was refused. Happily for me, however, suddenly appeared
an order from Bengal to the purport that all we assistant-surveyors
must give sureties. This was enough for me. I wrote officially, saying
that no man would be bail for me, and was told to be off to my corps;
and on February 23rd, I marched with the 18th from Rohri.

Needless to repeat the sad story of our disappointment.[13] It was a
model army of thirteen thousand men, Europeans and natives, and under
"Old Charley" it would have walked into Multan as into a mutton-pie.
We had also heard that Náo Mall was wasting his two millions of gold,
and we were willing to save him the trouble. Merrily we trudged through
Sabzalcote and Khanpur, and we entered Baháwalpur, where we found the
heart-chilling order to retire and to march home, and consequently
we marched and returned to Rohri on April 2nd; and after a few days'
halt there, tired and miserable, we marched south, _viâ_ Khayrpur,
and, after seventeen marches, reached the old regimental quarters in
Mohammad Khan Ká Tándá, on the Fulayli river.[14]

But our physical trials and mental disappointments had soured our
tempers, and domestic disturbances began. Our colonel was one Henry
Corsellis, the son of a Bencoolen civilian, and neither his colour nor
his temper were in his favour. The wars began in a small matter.

I had been making doggrel rhymes on men's names at Mess, and knowing
something of the commanding officer's touchiness, passed him over.
Hereupon he took offence, and seeing well that I was "in for a row,"
I said, "Very well, Colonel, I will write your Epitaph," which was as
follows--

    "Here lieth the body of Colonel Corsellis;
    The rest of the fellow, I fancy, in hell is."

After which we went at it "hammer and tongs."

I shall say no more upon the subject; it is, perhaps, the part of my
life upon which my mind dwells with least satisfaction. In addition
to regimental troubles, there were not a few domestic disagreeables,
especially complications, with a young person named Núr Jan. To make
matters worse, after a dreadful wet night my mud bungalow came down
upon me, wounding my foot.[15] The only pleasant reminiscences of the
time are the days spent in the quarters of an old native friend[16]
on the banks of the beautiful Phuleli, seated upon a felt rug, spread
beneath a shadowy tamarind tree, with beds of sweet-smelling _rayhan_
(basil) around, and eyes looking over the broad smooth stream and the
gaily dressed groups gathered at the frequent ferries. I need hardly
say that these visits were paid in native costume, and so correct was
it, that I, on camel's back, frequently passed my Commanding Officer
in the Gateway of Fort Hyderabad, without his recognizing me. I had
also a host of good friends, especially Dr. J. J. Steinhaüser, who, in
after years, was to have accompanied me, but for an accident, to Lake
Tanganyika, and who afterwards became my collaborateur in the "Thousand
Nights and a Night."

The hot season of 1846 was unusually sickly, and the white regiments
at Karáchi, notably the 78th Highlanders, suffered terribly. Hyderabad
was also threatened, but escaped better than she deserved. In early
July I went into "sick quarters," and left my regiment in early
September, with a strong case. At Bombay my friend Henry J. Carter
assisted me, and enabled me to obtain two years' leave of absence to
the Neilgherries.

My _munshi_, Mohammed Husayn, had sailed for Persia, and I at once
engaged an Arab "coach." This was one Haji Jauhur, a young Abyssinian,
who, with his wife, of the same breed, spoke a curious Semitic dialect,
and was useful in conversational matters. Accompanied by my servants
and horse, I engaged the usual _pattymar_, the _Daryá Prashád_ ("Joy
of the Ocean"), and set sail for Goa on February 20th, 1847. In three
days' trip we landed in the once splendid capital, whose ruins I have
described in "Goa and the Blue Mountains" (1851). Dom Pestanha was
the Governor-General, Senhor Gomez Secretary to Government, and Major
St. Maurice chief aide-de-camp, and all treated me with uncommon
kindness. On my third visit to the place in 1876, all my old friends
and acquaintances had disappeared, whilst the other surroundings had
not changed in the least degree.

From Goa to Punány was a trip of five days, and from the little Malabar
Port, a terrible dull ride of ten days, halts and excursions included,
with the only excitement of being nearly drowned in a torrent,
placed me at Conoor, on the western edge of the "Blue Mountains." At
Ootacamund, the capital of the sanitarium, I found a friend, Lieutenant
Dyett, who offered to share with me his quarters. Poor fellow! he
suffered sadly in the Multan campaign, where most of the wounded came
to grief, some said owing to the salt in the silt, which made so many
operations fatal; after three amputations his arm was taken out of
the socket. I have noted the humours of "Ooty" in the book before
mentioned, and I made myself independent of society by beginning the
study of Telugu, in addition to Arabic.

But the sudden change from dry Scinde to the damp cold mountains
induced in me an attack of rheumatic ophthalmia, which began at the
end of May, 1847, and lasted nearly two years, and would not be shaken
off till I left India in March, 1849. In vain I tried diet and dark
rooms, change of place, blisters of sorts, and the whole contents of
the Pharmacopœia; it was a thorn in the flesh which determined to
make itself felt. At intervals I was able to work hard and to visit
the adjacent places, such as Kotagherry, the Orange Valley, and St.
Catherine's Falls.[17] Meanwhile I wrote letters to the _Bombay
Times_, and studied Telugu and Toda as well as Persian and Arabic, and
worked at the ethnology of Hylobius the Hillman, whose country showed
mysterious remains of civilized life, gold mining included.

"Ooty" may be a pleasant place, like a water-cure establishment to
an invalid in rude health; but to me nothing could be duller or more
disagreeable, and my two years of sick leave was consequently reduced
to four months. On September 1st, 1847, glad as a partridge-shooter,
I rode down the Ghát, and a dozen days later made Calicut, the old
capital of Camoens' "Jamorim," the Samriry Rajah. Here I was kindly
received, and sent to visit old Calicut and other sights, by Mr.
Collector Conolly, whom a Madras civilianship could not defend from
Fate. A short time after my departure he was set upon and barbarously
murdered in his own verandah, by a band of villain _Moplahs_,[18] a
bastard race got by Arab sires on Hindú dams. He was thus the third of
the gallant brothers who came to violent end.

This visit gave me a good opportunity of studying on the spot the most
remarkable scene of "The Lusiads," and it afterwards served me in good
stead. The _Seaforth_, Captain Biggs, carried me to Bombay, after
passing visits to Mangalore and Goa, in three days of ugly monsoon
weather. On October 15th I passed in Persian at the Town Hall, coming
out first of some thirty, with a compliment from the examiners; and
this was succeeded by something more substantial, in the shape of an
"honorarium" of Rs. 1000 from the Court of Directors.

This bright side of the medal had its reverse. A friend, an Irish
medico, volunteered to prescribe for me, and strongly recommended
frictions of citric ointment (calomel in disguise) round the orbit
of the eye, and my perseverance in his prescription developed ugly
symptoms of mercurialism, which eventually drove me from India.

My return to Scinde was in the s.s. _Dwárká_, the little vessel which,
in 1853, carried me from Jeddah to Suez, and which, in 1862, foundered
at the mouth of the Tapti or Surat river. She belonged to the Steam
Navigation Company, Bombay, and she had been brought safely round the
Cape by the skipper, a man named Tribe. That "climate" had demoralized
him. He set out from Karáchi without even an able seaman who knew the
Coast; the Captain and his Mate were drunk and incapable the whole way.
As we were about to enter the dangerous port, my fellow-passengers
insisted upon my taking Command as Senior Officer, and I ordered the
_Dwárká's_ head to be turned westward under the easiest steam, so that
next morning we landed safely.

My return to head-quarters of the Survey was a misfortune to my
comrades; my eyes forbade regular work, and my friends had to bear my
share of the burden. However, there were painless intervals when I
found myself able to work at Sindí under Munshi Nandú, and at Arabic
under Shaykh Háshim, a small half-Bedawin, who had been imported by me
from Bombay. Under him also I began the systematic study of practical
Moslem divinity, learned about a quarter of the Korán by heart, and
became a proficient at prayer. It was always my desire to visit Meccah
during the pilgrimage season; written descriptions by hearsay of its
rites and ceremonies were common enough in all languages, European as
well as native, but none satisfied me, because none seemed practically
to know anything about the matter. So to this preparation I devoted all
my time and energy; not forgetting a sympathetic study of Sufi-ism,
the _Gnosticism_ of Al-Islam,[19] which would raise me high above the
rank of a mere Moslem. I conscientiously went through the _chillá_,
or quarantine of fasting and other exercises, which, by-the-by,
proved rather over-exciting to the brain. At times, when overstrung,
I relieved my nerves with a course of Sikh religion and literature:
the good old priest solemnly initiated me in presence of the swinging
_Granth_, or Naná Shah's Scripture. As I had already been duly
invested by a strict Hindú with the _Janeo_, or "Brahminical thread,"
my experience of Eastern faiths became phenomenal, and I became a
Master-Sufi.

There was a scanty hope of surveying for weak eyes; so I attempted
to do my duty by long reports concerning the country and the people,
addressed to the Bombay Government, and these were duly printed in its
"Selections," which MSS. I have by me. To the local branch of the Royal
Asiatic Society, there were sent two papers, "Grammar of the Játakí
or Mulltani Language," and "Remarks on Dr. Dorn's Chrestomathy of the
Afghan Tongue."[20] Without hearing of Professor Pott, the _savant_
of Halle (and deceased lately), I convinced myself that the Játs of
Scinde, a race which extends from the Indus's mouth to the plains of
Tartary, give a clue to the origin of the Gypsies as well as to the
Getæ and Massagetæ (Great Getæ).

And this induced me to work with the Camel men, who belong to that
notorious race, and to bring out a grammar and vocabulary.

Indeed the more sluggish became my sight, the more active became my
brain, which could be satisfied only with twelve to fourteen hours a
day of alchemy, mnemonics, "Mantih," or Eastern logic, Arabic, Sindi,
and Panjábi. In the latter, official examinations were passed before
Captain Stack, the only Englishman in the country who had an inkling of
the subject.

The spring of 1848, that most eventful year in Europe, brought us two
most exciting items of intelligence. The proclamation of the French
Republic reached us on April 8th, and on May 2nd came the news of the
murder of Anderson and his companion by Náo Mall of Multan.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: _His Little Autobiography._]

Richard wrote a little bit of autobiography about himself in 1852. In
case all may not have seen it, and many may not remember it, I here
insert it.


 RICHARD BURTON'S LITTLE AUTOBIOGRAPHY.


 "The only scrap of autobiography we have from Richard Burton's pen,"
 said Alfred Richard Bates, "was written very early in life, whilst in
 India, and dates thirty years ago. It is so characteristic it deserves
 to be perpetuated:--

 "I extract the following few lines from a well-known literary
 journal as a kind of excuse for venturing, unasked, upon a scrap of
 autobiography. As long as critics content themselves with bedevilling
 one's style, discovering that one's slang is 'vulgar,' and one's
 attempts at drollery 'failures,' one should, methinks, listen silently
 to their ideas of 'gentility,' and accept their definitions of wit,
 reserving one's own opinion upon such subjects. For the British
 author in this, our modern day, engages himself as clown in a great
 pantomime, to be knocked down, and pulled up, slashed, tickled, and
 buttered _à discrétion_ for the benefit of a manual-pleasantry-loving
 Public. So it would be weakness in him to complain of bruised back,
 scored elbows, and bumped head.

 "Besides, the treatment you receive varies prodigiously according to
 the temper and the manifold influences from without that operate upon
 the gentleman that operates upon you. For instance--

 "''Tis a _failure_ at being _funny_,' says surly Aristarchus, when,
 for some reason or other, he dislikes you or your publisher.

 "'It is a _smart_ book,' opines another, who has no particular reason
 to be your friend.

 "'Narrated with _freshness of thought_,' declares a third, who takes
 an honest pride in 'giving the devil his due.'

 "'Very _clever_,' exclaims the amiable critic, who for some reason or
 another likes you or your publisher.

 "'There is _wit_ and _humour_ in these pages,' says the gentleman who
 has some particular reason to be your friend.

 "'Evinces considerable _talent_.'

 "And--

 "'There is _genius_ in this book,' declare the dear critics who in any
 way identify themselves or their interests with you.

 "Now for the extract:--

 "'Mr. Burton was, it appears, stationed for several years in Sind
 with his regiment, and it is due to him to say that he has set a
 good example to his fellow-subalterns by pursuing so diligently his
 inquiries into the language, literature, and customs of the native
 population by which he was surrounded. We are far from accepting all
 his doctrines on questions of Eastern policy, especially as regards
 the treatment of natives; but we are sensible of the value of the
 additional evidence which he has brought forward on many important
 questions. For a young man, he seems to have adopted some very extreme
 opinions; and it is perhaps not too much to say, that the fault from
 which he has most to fear, not only as an author, but as an Indian
 officer, is a disregard of those well-established rules of moderation
 which no one can transgress with impunity.'

 "The greatest difficulty a raw writer on Indian subjects has to
 contend with, is a proper comprehension of the _ignorance crasse_
 which besets the mind of the home-reader and his oracle the critic.
 What a knowledge these lines _do_ show of the opportunity for study
 presented to the Anglo-Indian subaltern serving with his corps! Part
 of the time when I did duty with mine we were quartered at Ghárrá,
 a heap of bungalows surrounded by a wall of milk-bush; on a sandy
 flat, near a dirty village whose timorous inhabitants shunned us as
 walking pestilences. No amount of domiciliary visiting would have
 found a single Sindian book in the place, except the accounts of the
 native shopkeepers; and, to the best of my remembrance, there was not
 a soul who could make himself intelligible in the common medium of
 Indian intercourse--Hindostani. An ensign stationed at Dover Castle
 might write 'Ellis's Antiquities;' a _sous-lieutenant_ with his corps
 at Boulogne might compose the 'Legendaire de la Morinie,' but Ghárrá
 was sufficient to paralyse the readiest pen that ever coursed over
 foolscap paper.

 "Now, waiving, with all due modesty, the unmerited compliment of
 'good boy,' so gracefully tendered to me, I proceed to the judgment
 which follows it, my imminent peril of 'extreme opinions.' If there
 be any value in the 'additional evidence' I have 'brought forward on
 important questions,' the reader may, perchance, be curious to know
 how that evidence was collected. So, without further apology, I plunge
 into the subject.

 "After some years of careful training for the Church in the north
 and south of France, Florence, Naples, and the University of Pisa,
 I found myself one day walking the High Street, Oxford, with all
 the emotions which a Parisian exquisite of the first water would
 experience on awaking--at 3 p.m.--in 'Dandakaran's tangled wood.'

 "To be brief, my 'college career' was highly unsatisfactory. I began
 a 'reading man,' worked regularly twelve hours a day, failed in
 everything--chiefly, I flattered myself, because Latin hexameters
 and Greek iambics had not entered into the list of my studies--threw
 up the classics, and returned to old habits of fencing, boxing, and
 single-stick, handling the 'ribbons,' and sketching facetiously,
 though not wisely, the reverend features and figures of certain
 half-reformed monks, calling themselves 'fellows.' My reading also ran
 into bad courses--Erpenius, Zadkiel, Falconry, Cornelius Agrippa, and
 the Art of Pluck.

 "At last the Afghan War broke out. After begging the paternal
 authority in vain for the Austrian service, the Swiss Guards at
 Naples, and even the _Légion étrangère_, I determined to leave
 Oxford, _coûte qui coûte_. The testy old lady, Alma Mater, was easily
 persuaded to consign, for a time, to 'country nursing' the froward
 brat who showed not a whit of filial regard for her. So, after two
 years, I left Trinity, without a 'little go,' in a high dog-cart,--a
 companion in misfortune too-tooing lustily through a 'yard of tin,' as
 the dons started up from their game of bowls to witness the departure
 of the forbidden vehicle. Thus having thoroughly established the fact
 that I was fit for nothing but to be 'shot at for sixpence a day,' and
 as those Afghans (how I blessed their name!) had cut gaps in many a
 regiment, my father provided me with a commission in the Indian army,
 and started me as quickly as feasible for the 'Land of the Sun.'

 "So, my friends and fellow-soldiers, I may address you in the words
 of the witty thief--slightly altered from Gil Blas--'Blessings on the
 dainty pow of the old dame who turned me out of her house; for had she
 shown clemency I should now doubtless be a dyspeptic Don, instead of
 which I have the honour to be a lieutenant, your comrade.'

 "As the Bombay pilot sprang on board, twenty mouths agape over the
 gangway, all asked one and the same question. Alas! the answer was
 a sad one!--the Afghans had been defeated--the avenging army had
 retreated! The twenty mouths all ejaculated a something unfit for ears
 polite.

 "To a mind thoroughly impressed with the sentiment that

    'Man wants but little here below,
    Nor wants that little long,'

 the position of an Ensign in the Hon. E. I. Company's Service is a
 very satisfactory one. He has a horse or two, part of a house, a
 pleasant Mess, plenty of pale ale, as much shooting as he can manage,
 and an occasional invitation to a dance, where there are thirty-two
 cavaliers to three dames, or to a dinner-party when a chair
 unexpectedly falls vacant. But some are vain enough to want more, and
 of these fools was I.

 "In India two roads lead to preferment. The direct highway is
 'service;'--getting a flesh wound, cutting down a few of the enemy,
 and doing something eccentric, so that your name may creep into a
 despatch. The other path, study of the languages, is a rugged and
 tortuous one, still you have only to plod steadily along its length,
 and, sooner or later, you must come to a 'staff appointment.' _Bien
 entendu_, I suppose you to be destitute of or deficient in Interest
 whose magic influence sets you down at once a heaven-born Staff
 Officer, at the goal which others must toil to reach.

 "A dozen lessons from Professor Forbes and a native servant on board
 the _John Knox_ enabled me to land with _éclat_ as a griff, and to
 astonish the throng of palanquin bearers that jostled, pushed, and
 pulled me at the pier head, with the vivacity and nervousness of
 my phraseology. And I spent the first evening in company with one
 Dosabhai Sohrabji, a white-bearded Parsee, who, in his quality of
 language-master, had vernacularized the tongues of Hormuzd knows how
 many generations of Anglo-Indian subalterns.

 "The corps to which I was appointed was then in country quarters
 at Baroda, in the land of Gujerat; the journey was a long one, the
 difficulty of finding good instructors there was great, so was the
 expense, moreover fevers abounded; and, lastly, it was not so easy to
 obtain leave of absence to visit the Presidency, where candidates for
 the honours of language are examined. These were serious obstacles to
 success; they were surmounted, however, in six months, at the end of
 which time I found myself in the novel position of 'passed interpreter
 in Hindostani.'

 "My success--for I had distanced a field of eleven--encouraged me
 to a second attempt, and though I had to front all the difficulties
 over again, in four months my name appeared in orders as qualified to
 interpret in the Guzerattee tongue.

 "Meanwhile the Ameers of Sind had exchanged their palaces at
 Haydarábád for other quarters not quite so comfortable at Hazareebagh,
 and we were ordered up to the Indus for the pleasant purpose of
 acting police there. Knowing the Conqueror's chief want, a man who
 could speak a word of his pet conquest's vernacular dialect, I had
 not been a week at Karáchee before I found a language-master and a
 book. But the study was undertaken _invitâ minervâ_. We were quartered
 in tents, dust-storms howled over us daily, drills and brigade
 parades were never ending, and, as I was acting interpreter to my
 regiment, courts-martial of dreary length occupied the best part of
 my time. Besides, it was impossible to work in such an atmosphere of
 discontent. The seniors abhorred the barren desolate spot, with all
 its inglorious perils of fever, spleen, dysentery, and congestion of
 the brain, the juniors grumbled in sympathy, and the Staff officers,
 ordered up to rejoin the corps--it was on field service--complained
 bitterly of having to quit their comfortable appointments in more
 favoured lands without even a campaign in prospect. So when, a month
 or two after landing in the country, we were transferred from
 Karáchee to Ghárrá--purgatory to the other locale--I threw aside Sindí
 for Maharattee, hoping, by dint of reiterated examinations, to escape
 the place of torment as soon as possible. It was very like studying
 Russian in an English country-town; however, with the assistance of
 Molesworth's excellent dictionary, and the regimental _pundit_, or
 schoolmaster, I gained some knowledge of the dialect, and proved
 myself duly qualified in it at Bombay. At the same time a brother
 subaltern and I had jointly leased a Persian _moonshee_, one Mirza
 Mohammed Hosayn, of Shiraz. Poor fellow, after passing through the
 fires of Sind unscathed, he returned to his delightful land for a
 few weeks, to die there!--and we laid the foundation of a lengthened
 course of reading in that most elegant of Oriental languages.

 "Now it is a known fact that a good Staff appointment has the general
 effect of doing away with one's bad opinion of any place whatever. So
 when, by the kindness of a friend whose name _his_ modesty prevents
 my mentioning, the Governor of Sind was persuaded to give me the
 temporary appointment of Assistant in the Survey, I began to look with
 interest upon the desolation around me. The country was a new one, so
 was its population, so was their language. After reading all the works
 published upon the subject, I felt convinced that none but Mr. Crow
 and Captain J. MacMurdo had dipped beneath the superficies of things.
 My new duties compelled me to spend the cold season in wandering over
 the districts, levelling the beds of canals, and making preparatory
 sketches for a grand survey. I was thrown so entirely amongst the
 people as to depend upon them for society, and the 'dignity,' not
 to mention the increased allowances of a Staff officer, enabled me
 to collect a fair stock of books, and to gather around me those who
 could make them of any use. So, after the first year, when I had
 Persian at my fingers'-ends, sufficient Arabic to read, write, and
 converse fluently, and a superficial knowledge of that dialect of
 Punjaubee which is spoken in the wilder parts of the province, I began
 the systematic study of the Sindian people, their mariners and their
 tongue.

 "The first difficulty was to pass for an Oriental, and this was as
 necessary as it was difficult. The European official in India seldom,
 if ever, sees anything in its real light, so dense is the veil which
 the fearfulness, the duplicity, the prejudice, and the superstitions
 of the natives hang before his eyes. And the white man lives a life
 so distinct from the black, that hundreds of the former serve through
 what they call their 'term of exile' without once being present at
 a circumcision feast, a wedding, or a funeral. More especially the
 present generation, whom the habit and the means of taking furloughs,
 the increased facility for enjoying ladies' society, and, if truth be
 spoken, a greater regard for appearances, if not a stricter code of
 morality, estrange from their dusky fellow-subjects every day more and
 more. After trying several characters, the easiest to be assumed was,
 I found, that of a half-Arab, half-Iranian, such as may be met with in
 thousands along the northern shore of the Persian Gulf. The Sindians
 would have detected in a moment the difference between my articulation
 and their own, had I attempted to speak their vernacular dialect,
 but they attributed the accent to my strange country, as naturally
 as a home-bred Englishman would account for the bad pronunciation
 of a foreigner calling himself partly Spanish, partly Portuguese.
 Besides, I knew the countries along the Gulf by heart from books, I
 had a fair knowledge of the Shiah form of worship prevalent in Persia,
 and my poor _moonshee_ was generally at hand to support me in times
 of difficulty, so that the danger of being detected--even by a 'real
 Simon Pure'--was a very inconsiderable one.

 "With hair falling upon his shoulders, a long beard, face and hands,
 arms and feet, stained with a thin coat of henna, Mirza Abdullah of
 Bushire--your humble servant--set out upon many and many a trip. He
 was a _bazzaz_, a vendor of fine linen, calicoes, and muslins--such
 chapmen are sometimes admitted to display their wares, even in the
 sacred harem, by 'fast' and fashionable dames--and he had a little
 pack of _bijouterie_ and _virtù_ reserved for emergencies. It was
 only, however, when absolutely necessary that he displayed his
 stock-in-trade; generally, he contented himself with alluding to it on
 all possible occasions, boasting largely of his traffic, and asking a
 thousand questions concerning the state of the market. Thus he could
 walk into most men's houses, quite without ceremony; even if the
 master dreamed of kicking him out, the mistress was sure to oppose
 such measure with might and main. He secured numberless invitations,
 was proposed to by several papas, and won, or had to think he won, a
 few hearts; for he came as a rich man and he stayed with dignity, and
 he departed exacting all the honours. When wending his ways he usually
 urged a return of visit in the morning, but he was seldom to be found
 at the caravanserai he specified--was Mirza Abdullah the Bushiri.

 "The timid villagers collected in crowds to see the rich merchant in
 Oriental dress, riding spear in hand, and pistols in holsters, towards
 the little encampment pitched near their settlements. But regularly
 every evening on the line of march the Mirza issued from his tent and
 wandered amongst them, collecting much information and dealing out
 more concerning an ideal master--the Feringhee supposed to be sitting
 in State amongst the _moonshees_, the Scribes, the servants, the
 wheels, the chains, the telescopes, and the other magical implements
 in which the camp abounded. When travelling, the Mirza became this
 mysterious person's factotum, and often had he to answer the question
 how much his perquisites and illicit gains amounted to in the course
 of the year.

 "When the Mirza arrived at a strange town, his first step was to
 secure a house in or near the bazar, for the purpose of evening
 _conversazioni_. Now and then he rented a shop, and furnished it
 with clammy dates, viscid molasses, tobacco, ginger, rancid oil, and
 strong-smelling sweetmeats; and wonderful tales Fame told about these
 establishments. Yet somehow or other, though they were more crowded
 than a first-rate milliner's rooms in town, they throve not in a
 pecuniary point of view; the cause of which was, I believe, that the
 polite Mirza was in the habit of giving the heaviest possible weight
 for their money to all the ladies, particularly the pretty ones, that
 honoured him by patronizing his concern.

 "Sometimes the Mirza passed the evening in a mosque listening to the
 ragged students who, stretched at full length with their stomachs on
 the dusty floor, and their arms supporting their heads, mumbled out
 Arabic from the thumbed, soiled, and tattered pages of theology upon
 which a dim oil light shed its scanty ray, or he sat debating the
 niceties of faith with the long-bearded, shaven-pated, blear-eyed,
 and stolid-faced _genus loci_, the _Mullah_. At other times, when
 in merrier mood, he entered uninvited the first door whence issued
 the sounds of music and the dance;--a clean turban and a polite bow
 are the best 'tickets for soup' the East knows. Or he played chess
 with some native friend, or he consorted with the hemp-drinkers and
 opium-eaters in the _estaminets_, or he visited the Mrs. Gadabouts and
 Go-betweens who make matches amongst the Faithful, and gathered from
 them a precious budget of private history and domestic scandal.

 "What scenes he saw! what adventures he went through! But who would
 believe, even if he ventured to detail them?[21]

 "The Mirza's favourite school for study was the house of an elderly
 matron on the banks of the Fulailee River, about a mile from the
 Fort of Haydarábád. Khanum Jan had been a beauty in her youth, and
 the tender passion had been hard upon her--at least judging from the
 fact that she had fled her home, her husband, and her native town,
 Candahar, in company with Mohammed Bakhsh, a purblind old tailor, the
 object of her warmest affections.

 "'Ah, he is a regular old hyæna now,' would the Joan exclaim in her
 outlandish Persian, pointing to the venerable Darby as he sat in the
 cool shade, nodding his head and winking his eyes over a pair of
 pantaloons which took him a month to sew, 'but you should have seen
 him fifteen years ago, what a wonderful youth he was!'

 "The knowledge of one mind is that of a million--after a fashion. I
 addressed myself particularly to that of 'Darby;' and many an hour
 of tough thought it took me before I had mastered its truly Oriental
 peculiarities, its regular irregularities of deduction, and its
 strange monotonous one-idea'dness.

 "Khanum Jan's house was a mud edifice, occupying one side of a
 square formed by tall, thin, crumbling mud walls. The respectable
 matron's peculiar vanity was to lend a helping hand in all manner
 of _affaires du cœur_. So it often happened that Mirza Abdullah was
 turned out of the house to pass a few hours in the garden. There he
 sat upon his felt rug spread beneath a shadowy tamarind, with beds of
 sweet-smelling basil around him, his eyes roving over the broad river
 that coursed rapidly between its wooded banks and the groups gathered
 at the frequent ferries, whilst the soft strains of mysterious,
 philosophical, transcendental Hafiz were sounded in his ears by the
 other Mirza, his companion; Mohammed Hosayn--peace be upon him!

 "Of all economical studies this course was the cheapest. For tobacco
 daily, for frequent draughts of milk, for hemp occasionally, for
 four months' lectures from Mohammed Bakhsh, and for sundry other
 little indulgences, the Mirza paid, it is calculated, the sum of six
 shillings. When he left Haydarábád, he gave a silver talisman to the
 dame, and a cloth coat to her protector: long may they live to wear
 them!"

       *       *       *       *       *

 "Thus it was I formed my estimate of the native character. I am as
 ready to reform it when a man of more extensive experience and greater
 knowledge of the subject will kindly show me how far it transgresses
 the well-established limits of moderation. As yet I hold, by way of
 general rule, that the Eastern mind--I talk of the nations known to me
 by personal experience--is always in extremes; that it ignores what
 is meant by 'golden mean,' and that it delights to range in flights
 limited only by the _ne plus ultra_ of Nature herself. Under which
 conviction I am open to correction.

 "RICHARD F. BURTON."

[Sidenote: _His Books on India._]

Richard's works on India are--A grammar of the Játakí, or Belochi
dialect. Here I would remark he mixed with the Játs of Sind, a race
extending from the mouth of the Indus to the plains of Tartary, and
who _he_ believed to be the origin and head of the numerous tribes
of Oriental gypsies, and he worked with the Camel men to assimilate
himself with them. The next work was a grammar of the Mooltanee
language, "Notes on the Pushtû, or Afghan Dialect," Reports to Bombay,
(1) "General Notes on Sind," (2) "Notes on the Population of Sind."

These were all _preparatory_ to becoming an author, and were brought
out in 1849 by the Royal Asiatic Society, Bombay branch, and the
Government Records. I have a single copy of each, but they must be out
of print; meantime he prepared "Goa and the Blue Mountains," 1 vol.;
"Scinde, or the Unhappy Valley," 2 vols.; and "Sindh and the Races that
inhabit the Valley of the Indus," 1 vol.; but these did not appear
until 1851.

"Scinde, or the Unhappy Valley," is, I think, the freshest, most witty
and spirited thing I ever read. He had not been to war with the critics
and Mrs. Grundy then, and there is all the boy's fun and fire in it.
"Falconry in the Valley of the Indus" was produced in 1852, and is
worthy of any sportsman's attention. That is Van Voorst's, now Gurney
and Jackson, whom Richard used to say was the only honest publisher he
ever met. It is _not_ out of print. In 1870 appeared "Vikram and the
Vampire," 1 vol. These tales are thoroughly witty, and make those laugh
heartily who have lived in the East, but it was a great amusement to
Richard and me, when the publisher, having accepted "Vikram," which
is full of "chaff," said to me with a long face, "My eldest boy and I
read over some of the tales last night, and we were so disappointed we
could not laugh." I could not help saying drily, "No, I dare say you
couldn't."

The last book on India was "Sind Revisited," 2 vols., 1877. It was
written in maturer years and after hard experience of the world. It
may be more valuable, but to my mind has not the sparkle of twenty-six
years earlier. All these eight or ten books, including my own
"A.E.I."--"Arabia, Egypt, and India"--brought out in 1879, I boiled
down into Christmas books for boys. I took my manuscript (enough for
three Christmas books) to David Bogue, King William Street, Strand,
and went abroad, and the next thing I heard was, that David Bogue was
bankrupt, and my manuscript had disappeared.

I give a few pages in the appendixes out of his first book on Scinde as
a sample. One describes his visit to the village of a Scindian chief,
a perfect picture of an Oriental visit; the other is a description of
a cock-fight. After his transfer to the Goanese Church, his bungalow
was nicknamed the "Inquisition," and there he buried Bhujang, when his
favourite game-cock departed this life, and people declared it was
a baby's grave. For all that my husband _said_ of India, he talked
exactly as Mr. Rudyard Kipling writes, and when I read him, I can
hear Richard talking; hence I knew how true and to the point are his
writings. Also I think Mr. Kipling must have taken his character of
"Strickland" from my husband, who mixed with, and knew all about, the
natives and their customs, as Strickland did.

During those first seven years in India, Richard passed in Hindostani,
Guzaratee, Persian, Maharattee, Sindhee, Punjaubee, Arabic, Telugu,
Pushtû (Afghan tongue), with Turkish and Armenian. In 1844 he went to
Scinde with the 18th Native Infantry, and Colonel Walter Scott put him
on Sir Charles Napier's staff, who soon found out what he was worth,
and turned his merits to account, but he accompanied his regiment to
Mooltan to attack the Sikhs. He became much attached to his Chief; they
quite understood each other, and remained together for five years.
Richard's training was of the uncommon sort, and glorious as it was,
dangerous as it was, and romantic as it will ever be to posterity, he
did not get from dense and narrow-minded Governments those rewards
which men who risk their lives deserve, and which would have been
given to the man who took care of "number one," and who, with average
stupidity, worked on red-tape lines. He was sent out amongst the wild
tribes of the hills and plains to collect information for Sir Charles.
He did not go as a British officer or Commissioner, because he knew he
would see nothing but what the natives chose him to see; he let down a
curtain between himself and Civilization, and a tattered, dirty-looking
dervish would wander on foot, lodge in mosques, where he was venerated
as a saintly man, mix with the strangest company, join the Beloch and
the Brahui tribes (Indo-Scythians), about whom there was nothing then
known. Sometimes he appeared in the towns; as a merchant he opened a
shop, sold stuffs or sweetmeats in the bazar. Sometimes he worked with
the men in native dress, "Játs" and Camel men, at levelling canals.

When Richard was in India he at one time got rather tired of the daily
Mess, and living with men, and he thought he should like to learn
the manners, customs, and habits of monkeys, so he collected forty
monkeys of all kinds of ages, races, species, and he lived with them,
and he used to call them by different offices. He had his doctor, his
chaplain, his secretary, his aide-de-camp, his agent, and one tiny one,
a very pretty, small, silky-looking monkey, he used to call his wife,
and put pearls in her ears. His great amusement was to keep a kind of
refectory for them, where they all sat down on chairs at meals, and the
servants waited on them, and each had its bowl and plate, with the food
and drinks proper for them. He sat at the head of the table, and the
pretty little monkey sat by him in a high baby's chair, with a little
bar before it. He had a little whip on the table, with which he used
to keep them in order when they had bad manners, which did sometimes
occur, as they frequently used to get jealous of the little monkey, and
try to claw her. He did this for the sake of doing what Mr. Garner is
now doing, that of ascertaining and studying the language of monkeys,
so that he used regularly to talk to them, and pronounce their sounds
afterwards, till he and the monkeys at last got quite to understand
each other. He obtained as many as sixty words, I think twenty more
than Mr. Garner--that is, leading words--and he wrote them down and
formed a vocabulary, meaning to pursue his studies at some future time.
Mr. Garner has now the advantage of phonographs, and all sorts of
appliances. Had Richard been alive, he could have helped him greatly.
Unfortunately his monkey vocabulary was burnt in Grindlay's fire. He
also writes--but this was with his regiment--

 [Sidenote: _Burying a Sányasi._]

 "Amongst other remarkable experiments made by me, a Sányasi, whom I
 knew, talked to me about their manner of burying themselves alive.
 I said I would not believe it unless I saw it. The native therefore
 told me that he would prove it, by letting me try it; but that he
 should require three days for preparation, and hoped for a reward.
 Accordingly for three days he made his preparations by swallowing
 immense draughts of milk. I refused to put him in a coffin, or to
 bury him in the earth, lest he should die; but he lay down in a
 hammock, rolled his tongue up in his throat, and appeared to be dead.
 My brother officers and I then slung him up to the ceiling by four
 large hooks and ropes, lying comfortably in the hammock, and, to avoid
 trickery, one of us was always on guard day and night, each taking two
 hours' watch at a time. After three weeks we began to get frightened,
 because if the man died there would be such a scandal. So we lowered
 him down, and tried to awake him. We opened his mouth and tried to
 unroll his tongue into its natural position. He then, after some time,
 woke perfectly well. We gave him food, paid him a handsome reward, and
 he went away quite delighted, offering to do it for _three months_, if
 it pleased us."

Richard would be in a dozen different capacities on his travels,
but when he returned, he was rich with news and information for Sir
Charles, for he arrived at secrets quite out of the reach of the
British Army. He knew all that the natives knew, which was more
than British officers and surveyors did. General MacMurdo consulted
his journals and Survey books, which were highly praised by the
Surveyor-General. He was frequently in the presence of and speaking
before his own Colonel without his having the slightest idea that it
was Richard.

Sir Charles Napier liked decision; he hated a man who had not an
answer ready for him. For instance, a young man would go and ask him
for an appointment. Sir Charles would say, "What do you want?" The
youth of firm mind would answer, "An Adjutancy, Sir." "All right,"
said Sir Charles, and he probably got it. But "Anything you please,
Sir Charles," would be sure to be contemptuously dismissed. On
returning from his native researches, Sir Charles would ask Richard
such questions as: "Is it true that native high-class landowners, who
monopolize the fiefs about the heads of the canals, neglect to clear
out the tails, and allow Government ground and the peasants' fields to
lie barren for want of water?"

"Perfectly true, Sir."

"What would be my best course then?"

"Simply to confiscate the whole or part of those estates, Sir."

"H'm! You don't mince matters, Burton."

He once asked Richard how many bricks there were in a newly built
bridge (an impossible question, such as are put to lads whom the
examiner intends to pluck). Richard, knowing his foible, answered,
"229,010, Sir Charles." He turned away and smiled. Another time he
ordered a review on a grand scale to impress certain Chiefs--

"Lieutenant Burton, be pleased to inform these gentlemen that I propose
to form these men in line, then to break into échelon by the right,
and to form square on the centre battalion," and so on, for about
five minutes in military technical terms, for which there were no
equivalents in these men's dialects.

"Yes, Sir," said Richard, saluting.

Turning to the Chiefs, Richard said, "Oh, Chiefs! our Great Man is
going to show you the way we fight, and you must be attentive to the
rules." He then touched his cap to Sir Charles.

"Have you explained all?" he asked.

"Everything, Sir," answered Richard.

"A most concentrated language that must be," said Sir Charles, riding
off with his nose in the air.

[Sidenote: _His Indian Career practically ends._]

After seven years of this kind of life, overwork, overstudy, combined
with the hot season, and the march up the Indus Valley, told on
Richard's health, and at the end of the campaign he was attacked by
severe ophthalmia, the result of mental and physical fatigue, and he
was ordered to take a short rest. He utilized that leave in going to
Goa, and especially to Old Goa, where, as he said himself, he made a
pilgrimage to the tomb of St. Francis Xavier, and explored the scenes
of the Inquisition. At last news reached him that another campaign
was imminent in Mooltan, that Sir Charles Napier would take command;
Colonel Scott and a host of friends were ordered up. He writes as
follows:--

 "I applied in almost suppliant terms to accompany the force as
 interpreter. I had passed examinations in six native languages,
 besides studying others, Multani included, and yet General Auchmuty's
 secretary wrote to me that this could not be, as he had chosen for the
 post Lieutenant X. Y. Z., who had passed in Hindustani.

 "This last misfortune broke my heart. I had been seven years in India,
 working like a horse, volunteering for every bit of service, and
 qualifying myself for all contingencies. Rheumatic ophthalmia, which
 had almost left me when in hopes of marching northward, came on with
 redoubled force, and no longer had I any hope of curing it except
 by a change to Europe. Sick, sorry, and almost in tears of rage, I
 bade adieu to my friends and comrades in Sind. At Bombay there was no
 difficulty in passing the Medical Board, and I embarked at Bombay for
 a passage round the Cape, as the Austral winter was approaching, in a
 sixty-year-old teak-built craft, the brig _Eliza_, Captain Cory.

 "My career in India had been in my eyes a failure, and by no fault of
 my own; the dwarfish demon called 'Interest' had fought against me,
 and as usual had won the fight."

[1] Those curious upon the subject will consult my "Book of the Sword,"
vol. i. p. 163. Remember, young swordsman, these people never give
point and never parry it.

[2] The word is a Portuguese "corruption" of _mausim_, in Arabia a
season, and _per excellentiam_ the sailing season. Thence it was
transferred to the dry season, when the north-eastern trade-winds blow
upon the Indian Ocean. But popular use transferred the name to the
south-western rainy winds, which last from June to September.

[3] On June 26th, 1843, "Ensign Burton" appeared in orders as
"Regimental Interpreter."

[4] See "Humanism _versus_ Theism, or Solipsism (Egoism)--Atheism,"
letters by Robert Lewin, M.D. London: Freethought Publishing Company,
1887.

[5] "Scinde, or the Unhappy Valley," 2 vols.; and "Sind Revisited,"
1877.

[6] "Scinde," chapter iv.

[7] "Scinde," vol. i. p. 252.

[8] Ibid., p. 89.

[9] It was brought out in 1852, by my friend John Van Voorst, of
Paternoster Row, who, after a long and honourable career, retired at
the ripe age of eighty-four to take well-merited rest. He has proved
himself to me a phœnix amongst publishers. "Half profits are no profits
to the author," is the common saying, and yet for the last thirty years
I have continually received from him small sums which represented my
gains. Oh that all were so scrupulous!

[10] "Falconry in the Valley of the Indus," pp. 100, 101.

[11] Vol. x. p. 205, _et seqq._

[12] See, in vol. i. p. 53 of "Sind Revisited," Sir Charles's outspoken
opinion.

[13] "Scinde," vol. ii. p. 258, etc.

[14] "Sind Revisited," vol. i. p. 256, shows how I found my old home in
1876.

[15] "Scinde," vol. i. p. 151.

[16] "Falconry," pp. 103-105.

[17] "Goa," etc., p. 355.

[18] See Ibid., p. 339.

[19] This stuck to him off and on all his life.--I. B.

[20] Written with the assistance of a fine old Afghan _mullah_, Akhund
Burhan al-Din.

[21] This was the manner in which he excelled in Eastern life and
knowledge, and knew more than all your learned Orientalists and men
high in office. I wish he would have written a personal novel about
these scenes, but I never could induce him to do so. First he thought
that they would never suit Mrs. Grundy, and though he could retain a
crowd of friends around him till the small hours of the morning to
listen to his delightful experiences, in print he never could be got to
talk about himself.--I. B.



CHAPTER VIII.

ON RETURN FROM INDIA.


[Illustration: LUNGE AND CUT IN CARTE (INSIDE).]

When Richard came home, he first ran down full of joy to visit all
his relations and friends. He then went to Oxford with half a mind to
take his degree. He was between twenty-eight and twenty-nine years of
age. In 1850 he went back to France, and devoted himself to fencing.
To this day "the Burton _une-deux_" and notably the _manchette_ (the
upward slash, disabling the swordarm, and saving life in affairs of
honour), earned him his _brevet de pointe_ for the excellence of his
swordsmanship, and he became a _Maître d'armes_. Indeed, as horseman,
swordsman, and marksman, no soldier of his day surpassed him, and very
few equalled him. His family, that is his father, mother and sister,
with her two children--her husband being in India, and his brother
Edward in the 37th Regiment (Queen's)--went to Boulogne, like all the
rest of us, for change, quiet, and economy, and there he joined them.

[Sidenote: _Boulogne._]

_We_ did exactly the same, the object being to put me and my sisters
into the Sacré Cœur to learn French. Boulogne, in those days, was a
very different town to what it is now. It was "the home of the stranger
who had done something wrong." The natives were of the usual merchant,
or rich _bourgeoisie_ class; there was a sprinkling of local _noblesse_
in the Haute-Ville; the gem of the natives in the lower class were the
Poissardes, who hold themselves entirely distinct from the town, are
a cross between Spanish and Flemish, and in _those_ days were headed
by a handsome "Queen" called Caroline, long since dead. The English
colony was very large. The _créme_, who did not mix with the general
"smart people," were the Seymours, Dundases, Chichesters, Jerninghams,
Bedingfelds, Cliffords, Molyneux-Seels, and ourselves. Maybe I have
forgotten many others.

The rest of the colony, instead of living like the colonies that
Richard describes at Tours, used to walk a great deal up and down the
Grand Rue, which was the fashionable lounge, the Rue de l'Écu, the
Quai, and the Pier. The men were handsome and smart, and beautifully
dressed, with generally an immense amount of white shirt-front, as in
the Park, and the girls were pretty and well dressed. So were the young
married women in those days. The Établissement was a sort of Casino,
where everybody passed their evening, except the _créme;_ they had
music, dancing, cards, old ladies knitting, and refreshments, and it
was the hotbed, like a club, of all the gossip and flirtation, with an
occasional roaring scandal.

The hardship of _my_ life and that of my sisters, was, that our mother
would never let us set foot inside of it, which was naturally the
only thing we longed to do, so that we had awfully dull, slow lives.
Here Richard brought out his "Goa," his two books on Scinde, and his
"Falconry," and prepared a book that came out in 1853, "A Complete
System of Bayonet Exercise," of which, I regret to say, the only copy
I possessed has been lost with the manuscript at David Bogue's. People
were _now_ beginning to say that "Burton was an awfully clever young
fellow, a man of great mark, in fact the coming man." Whilst I am
speaking of that system of bayonet exercise, I may say that it was, as
all he did, undervalued _at the time_, but still it has long been the
one used by the Horseguards. Colonel Sykes, who was Richard's friend,
sent for him, and sharply rebuked him with printing a book that would
do far more harm than good.

[Sidenote: _Bayonet Exercise._]

It was thought that bayonet exercise would make the men unsteady in the
ranks. The importance of bayonet exercise was recognized everywhere
_except_ in England. Richard detected our weak point in military
system, and he knew that it would be the British soldier's forte when
properly used. Richard was not "in the ring," but when that was proved,
his pamphlet was taken down from the dusty pigeon-hole, and a few
modifications--not improvements--were added, so as to enable a just and
enlightened War Office, not to send him a word of thanks, a compliment,
an expression of official recognition, which was all his soul craved
for, but a huge letter from the Treasury, with a seal the size of a
baby's fist, with a gracious permission to draw upon the Treasury for
the sum of one shilling.

Richard always appreciated humour. He went to the War Office at
once, was sent to half a dozen different rooms, and, to the intense
astonishment of all the clerks, after three-quarters of an hour's very
hard work he drew his shilling, and instead of framing it, he gave it
to the first hungry beggar that he saw as soon as he came out of the
War Office.

"Lord love yer, sir," said the beggar.

"No, my man, I don't exactly expect Him to do _that_. But I dare say
you want a drink?"

He did not lead the life that was led by the general colony at
Boulogne. He had a little set of men friends, knew some of the French,
had a great many flirtations, one very serious one. He passed his days
in literature and fencing: at home he was most domestic; his devotion
to his parents, especially to his sick mother, was beautiful.

My sisters and I were kept at French all day, music and other studies,
but were frequently turned into the Ramparts, which would give one a
mile's walk around, to do our reading; then we had a turn down the
Grande Rue, the Rue de l'Écu, the Quai, and the Pier at the fashionable
hour, for a treat, or else we were taken a long country walk, or a long
row up the river Liane in the summer time, where we occasionally saw a
Guingette; but we were religiously marched home at half-past eight to
supper and bed, unless one of the _créme_ gave a dull tea-party.

[Sidenote: _Meets me at Boulogne at School._]

One day, when we were on the Ramparts, the vision of my awakening brain
came towards us. He was five feet eleven inches in height, very broad,
thin, and muscular;[1] he had very dark hair, black, clearly defined,
sagacious eyebrows, a brown weather-beaten complexion, straight Arab
features, a determined-looking mouth and chin, nearly covered by an
enormous black moustache. I have since heard a clever friend say "that
he had the brow of a God, the jaw of a Devil." But the most remarkable
part of his appearance was, two large black flashing eyes with long
lashes, that pierced you through and through. He had a fierce, proud,
melancholy expression, and when he smiled, he smiled as though it hurt
him, and looked with impatient contempt at things generally. He was
dressed in a black, short, shaggy coat, and shouldered a short thick
stick as if he was on guard.

He looked at me as though he read me through and through in a moment,
and started a little. I was completely magnetized, and when we had got
a little distance away I turned to my sister, and whispered to her,
"That man will marry _me_." The next day he was there again, and he
followed us, and chalked up, "May I speak to you?" leaving the chalk
on the wall, so I took up the chalk and wrote back, "No, mother will
be angry;" and mother found it,--and _was_ angry; and after that we
were stricter prisoners than ever. However, "destiny is stronger than
custom." A mother and a pretty daughter came to Boulogne, who happened
to be a cousin of my father's; they joined the majority in the Society
sense, and one day we were allowed to walk on the Ramparts with them.
There I met Richard, who--agony!--was flirting with the daughter; we
were formally introduced, and the name made me start. I will say why
later.

I did not try to attract his attention; but whenever he came to the
usual promenade I would invent any excuse that came, to take another
turn to watch him, if he was not looking. If I could catch the sound
of his deep voice, it seemed to me so soft and sweet, that I remained
spell-bound, as when I hear gypsy-music. I never lost an opportunity
of seeing him, when I could not be seen, and as I used to turn red and
pale, hot and cold, dizzy and faint, sick and trembling, and my knees
used to nearly give way under me, my mother sent for the doctor, to
complain that my digestion was out of order, and that I got migraines
in the street, and he prescribed me a pill which I put in the fire. All
girls will sympathize with me. I was struck with the shaft of Destiny,
but I had no hopes (being nothing but an ugly schoolgirl) of taking
the wind out of the sails of the dashing creature, with whom he was
carrying on a very serious flirtation.

In early days Richard had got into a rather strong flirtation with
a very handsome and very fast girl, who had a vulgar, middle-class
sort of mother. One day he was rather alarmed at getting a polite
but somewhat imperious note from the mother, asking him to call upon
her. He obeyed, but he took with him his friend Dr. Steinhaüser, a
charming man, who looked as if his face was carved out of wood. After
the preliminaries of a rather formal reception, in a very prim-looking
drawing-room, the lady began, looking severely at him, "I sent for you,
Captain Burton, because I think it my dooty to ask what your intentions
are, with regard to my daughter?" Richard put on his most infantile
face of perplexity as he said, "Your dooty, madam--" and, then, as if
he was trying to recall things, and after a while suddenly seizing
the facts of the case, he got up and said, "Alas! madam, strictly
dishonourable," and shaking his head as if he was going to burst into
tears at his own iniquities, "I regret to say, strictly dishonourable;"
and bowed himself out with Dr. Steinhaüser, who never moved a muscle
of his face. Richard had never done the young lady a scrap of harm,
beyond talking to her a little more than the others, because she was
so "awfully jolly," but the next time he met her he said, "Look here,
young woman, if I talk to you, you must arrange that I do not have
'mamma's dooty' flung at my head any more." "The old fool!" said the
girl, "how like her!"

The only luxury I indulged in was a short but heartfelt prayer for
him every morning. I read all his books, and was seriously struck as
before by the name when I came to the Játs in Scinde--but this I will
explain later on. My cousin asked him to write something for me, which
I used to wear next to my heart. One night an exception was made to
our dull rule of life. My cousins gave a tea-party and dance, and "the
great majority" flocked in, and there was Richard like a star amongst
rushlights. That was a Night of nights; he waltzed with me once, and
spoke to me several times, and I kept my sash where he put his arm
round my waist to waltz, and my gloves. I never wore them again. I did
not know it then, but the "little cherub who sits up aloft" is not
_only_ occupied in taking care of poor Jack, for I came in also for a
share of it.


MECCA.


[Sidenote: _His Famous Journey to Mecca and El Medinah._]

Whilst leading this sort of life, on a long furlough, Richard
determined to carry out a project he had long had in his head, to study
thoroughly the "inner life of the Moslem." He had long felt within
himself the qualifications, both mental and physical, which are needed
for the exploration of dangerous regions, impossible of access, and
of disguises difficult to sustain. His career as a dervish in Scinde
greatly helped him. His mind was both practical and imaginative; he set
himself to imagine and note down every contingency that _might_ arise,
and one by one he studied each separate thing until he was master
of it. As a small sample he apprenticed himself to a blacksmith; he
learned to make horseshoes and shoe his horse.

To accomplish a journey to Mecca and Medinah quite safely in those
days (1853) was almost an impossibility, for the discovery that he was
_not_ a Mussulman would have been avenged by a hundred Khanjars. It
meant living with his life in his hand, and amongst the strangest and
wildest companions, adopting their unfamiliar manners, and living for
perhaps nine months in the hottest and most unhealthy climate, upon
repulsive food, complete and absolute isolation from all that makes
life tolerable, from all civilization, from all his natural habits--the
brain at high tension, never to depart from the _rôle_ he had adopted.

He obtained a year's leave on purpose, and left London as a Persian,
for, during the time, he had to assume and sustain _several_ Oriental
characters. Captain Grindlay, who was in the secret, travelled to
Southampton and Alexandria as his English interpreter. John Thurburn,
who, curiously to say, was also the host of Burckhardt till he died,
and was buried in Cairo, received Richard at Alexandria. He and his
son-in-law, John Larking, of the Firs, Lee, Kent, were the only
persons throughout the perilous expedition who knew of his secret. He
went to Cairo as a dervish, and he lived there as a native, till (as
he told me) he actually believed himself to be what he represented
himself to be, and then he felt he was safe, and he practised on his
own country-people the finding out that he was unrecognizable. He had
wished to cross the whole length of Arabia, but the Russian War had
caused disturbances, which might have delayed him over his year's leave.

In those days it was almost impossible to visit the Holy City as one
of the Faithful. First, there was the pilgrim-ship to embark on; then
there were long desert caravan marches, with their privations and their
dangers; then there was the holy shrine, the Ka'abah, to be visited,
and all the ceremonies to be gone through, like a Roman Catholic Holy
Week at Rome. Burckhardt, the Swiss traveller, did get in, but he
never could see the Ka'abah, and he confessed afterwards that he was
so nervous that he was unable to take notes, and unable to write or
sketch for fear of being detected, whereas Richard was sketching and
writing in his white _burnous_ the whole time he was prostrating and
kissing the holy Stone. He did not go in mockery, but reverentially.
He had brought his brain to believe himself one of them. Europeans,
converted Moslems, have of late gone there, but they have been received
with the utmost civility, consistent with coldness, have been admitted
to outward friendship, but have been carefully kept out of what they
most wished to know and see, so that Richard was thus the only European
who had beheld the inner and religious life of the Moslems as one of
themselves.

Amongst the various Oriental characters that Richard assumed, the
one that suited best was half-Arab, half-Iranian, such as throng the
northern shores of the Persian Gulf. With long hair falling on his
shoulders, long beard, face and hands, arms and legs browned and
stained with a thin coat of henna, Oriental dress, spear in hand, and
pistols in belt, Richard became Mirza Abdullah, el Bushiri. Here he
commenced his most adventurous and romantic life, explored from North
to South, from East to West, mixed with all sorts of people and tribes
without betraying himself in manners, customs, or speech, when death
must often have ensued, had he created either dislike or suspicion.

I here give a slight sketch from his private notes, and for fuller
details refer the reader to his "Pilgrimage to Mecca and El Medinah," 3
vols., with coloured illustrations, published in 1855, and which made a
great sensation. Although he has been the author of some eighty books
and pamphlets, I think that this original edition of three volumes is
the one that his name should live by, and it will be the first of the
Uniform Library with the Meccan Press. The Uniform Library means a
reproduction of all his hitherto published works, and eventually his
unpublished ones, so that the world may lose nothing of what he has
ever written.

As I have said, on the night of the 3rd of April, 1853, a Persian
Mirza, accompanied by an English interpreter, Captain Henry Grindlay,
of the Bengal Cavalry, left London for Southampton, and embarked
on the P. and O. steamer _Bengal_. The voyage was profitable but
tedious; Richard passed it in resuming his Oriental character, with
such success, that when he landed at Alexandria, he was recognized and
blessed as a true Moslem by the native population.

[Illustration: RICHARD BURTON AS HAJI ABDULLAH, EN ROUTE TO MECCA.]

John Thurburn and his son-in-law, John Larking, received him at their
villa on the Mahmudíyah Canal, but he was lodged in an outhouse, the
better to deceive the servants. Here he practised the Korán and prayer,
and all the ceremonies of the Faith, with a neighbouring Shaykh. He
also became a _hakím_, or doctor, and called himself Shaykh Abdullah,
preparing to be a dervish. The dervish is a chartered vagabond; nobody
asks why he comes, where he goes; he may go on foot, or on horseback,
or alone, or with a large retinue, and he is as much respected
without arms, as though he were armed to the teeth. "I only wanted," he
said, "a little knowledge of medicine, which I _had_, moderate skill in
magic, a studious reputation, and enough to keep me from starving." He
provided himself with a few necessaries for the journey.

When he had to leave Alexandria he wrote--

 "Not without a feeling of regret, I left my little room among the
 white myrtle blossoms and the rosy oleander flowers with the almond
 scent. I kissed with humble ostentation my good host's hand, in
 the presence of his servants. I bade adieu to my patients, who now
 amounted to about fifty, shaking hands with all meekly, and with
 religious equality of attention; and mounted in a 'trap' which looked
 like a cross between a wheelbarrow and a dog-cart, drawn by a kicking,
 jibbing, and biting mule, I set out for the steamer, the _Little
 Asthmatic_.

 [Sidenote: _His Start from Alexandria to Cairo._]

 "The journey from Alexandria to Cairo lasted three days and nights.
 We saw nothing but muddy water, dusty banks, sand, mist, milky sky,
 glaring sun, breezes like the blasts of a furnace, and the only
 variation was that the steamer grounded four or five times a day, and
 I passed my time telling my beads with a huge rosary. I was a deck
 passenger. The sun burnt us all day, and the night dews were raw and
 thick. Our diet was bread and garlic, moistened with muddy water from
 the canal. At Cairo I went to a caravanserai. Here I became a Pathán.
 I was born in India of Afghan parents, who had settled there, and I
 was educated at Rangoon, and sent out, as is often the custom, to
 wander. I knew all the languages that I required to pass me, Persian,
 Hindostani, and Arabic. It is customary at the shop, on the camel, in
 the Mosque, to ask, 'What is thy name? Whence comest thou?' and you
 must be prepared. I had to do the fast of the Ramazan, which is far
 stricter than the Catholics' Lent, and in Cairo I studied the Moslem
 faith in every detail. I had great difficulty in getting a passport
 without betraying myself, but the chief of the Afghan college at the
 Azhar Mosque contrived it for me. I hired a couple of camels, and
 put my Meccan boy and baggage on one, and I took the other. I had an
 eighty-four mile ride in midsummer, on a bad wooden saddle, on a bad
 dromedary, across the Suez Desert.

 "Above, through a sky terrible in its stainless beauty, and the
 splendours of a pitiless blinding glare, the simoom caresses you like
 a lion with flaming breath. Around lie drifted sand-heaps, upon which
 each puff of wind leaves its trace in solid waves, frayed rocks, the
 very skeletons of mountains, and hard unbroken plains, over which he
 who rides is spurred by the idea that the bursting of a waterskin, or
 the pricking of a camel's hoof, would be a certain death of torture; a
 haggard land infested with wild beasts and wilder men; a region whose
 very fountains murmur the warning words, 'Drink and away!'

 "In the desert, even more than upon the ocean, there is present
 Death, and this sense of danger, never absent, invests the scene of
 travel with a peculiar interest.

 "Let the traveller who suspects exaggeration leave the Suez road, and
 gallop northwards over the sands for an hour or two; in the drear
 silence, the solitude, and the fantastic desolation of the place, he
 will feel what the desert _may_ be. And then the oases, and little
 lines of fertility--how soft and how beautiful!--even though the
 Wady-el-Ward ('the Vale of Flowers') be the name of some stern flat
 in which a handful of wild shrubs blossom, while struggling through a
 cold season's ephemeral existence.

 "In such circumstances the mind is influenced through the body.
 Though your mouth glows, and your skin is parched, yet you feel no
 languor,--the effect of humid heat; your lungs are lightened, your
 sight brightens, your memory recovers its tone, and your spirits
 become exuberant. Your fancy and imagination are powerfully aroused,
 and the wildness and sublimity of the scenes around you, stir up all
 the energies of your soul, whether for exertion, danger, or strife.
 Your _morale_ improves; you become frank and cordial, hospitable
 and single-minded; the hypocritical politeness and the slavery
 of Civilization are left behind you in the City. Your senses are
 quickened; they require no stimulants but air and exercise; in the
 desert spirituous liquors excite only disgust.

 "There is a keen enjoyment in mere animal existence. The sharp
 appetite disposes of the most indigestible food; the sand is softer
 than a bed of down, and the purity of the air suddenly puts to flight
 a dire cohort of diseases.

 "Here Nature returns to Man, however unworthily he has treated
 her, and, believe me, when once your tastes have conformed to the
 tranquillity of such travel, you will suffer real pain in returning to
 the turmoil of civilization. You will anticipate the bustle and the
 confusion of artificial life, its luxuries and its false pleasures,
 with repugnance. Depressed in spirits, you will for a time after your
 return feel incapable of mental or bodily exertion. The air of Cities
 will suffocate you, and the careworn and cadaverous countenances of
 citizens will haunt you like a vision of judgment.

 "I was nearly undone by Mohammed, my Meccan boy, finding my sextant
 amongst my clothes, and it was only by Umar Effendi having read a
 letter of mine to Haji Wali that very morning on Theology, that he was
 able to certify that I was thoroughly orthodox.

 "When I started my intention had been to cross the all but unknown
 Arabian Peninsula, and to map it out, either from El Medinah to
 Maskat, or from Mecca to Makallah on the Indian Ocean. I wanted to
 open a market for horses between Arabia and Central India, to go
 through the Rubá-el-Khali ('the Empty Abode'), the great wilderness
 on our maps, to learn the hydrography of the Hejaz, and the
 ethnographical details of this race of Arabs. I should have been very
 much at sea without my sextant. I managed to secrete a pocket compass.

 "The journey would have been of fifteen or sixteen hundred miles,
 and have occupied at least ten months longer than my leave. The
 quarrelling of the tribes prevented my carrying it out. I had
 arranged with the Beni Harb, the Bedawin tribe, to join them
 after the Pilgrimage like a true Bedawin, but it _meant_ all this
 above-mentioned work; I found it useless to be killed in a petty
 tribe-quarrel, perhaps, about a mare, and once I joined them it would
 have been a point of honour to aid in all their quarrels and raids.

 [Sidenote: _Twelve Days in an Open Sambúk._]

 "At Suez we embarked on a _Sambúk_, an open boat of about fifty tons.
 She had no means of reefing, no compass, no log, no sounding-line,
 no chart. Ninety-seven pilgrims (fifteen women and children) came
 on deck. They were all barefoot, bare-headed, dirty, ferocious, and
 armed. The distance was doubled by detours; it would have been six
 hundred miles in a straight line. Even the hardened Arabs and Africans
 suffered most severely. After twelve days of purgatory, I sprang
 ashore at Yambú; and travelling a fortnight in this pilgrim-boat gave
 me the fullest possible knowledge of the inner life of El Islam.
 However, the heat of the sun, the heavy night dews, and the constant
 washing of the waves over me, had so affected one of my feet that I
 could hardly put it to the ground.

 "Yambú is the port of El Medinah, as Jeddah is that of Mecca. The
 people are a good type, healthy, proud, and manly, and they have
 considerable trade. Here I arranged for camels, and our Caravan hired
 an escort of irregular cavalry--very necessary, for, as the tribes
 were out, we had to fight every day. They did not want to start till
 the tribes had finished fighting; but I was resolved, and we went.
 Here I brought a _shugduf_, or litter, and seven days' provisions
 for the journey, and here also I became an Arab, to avoid paying the
 capitation tax, the _Jizyát_.

 "We eventually arrived at El Hamra, the 'Red Village,' but in a
 short while the Caravan arrived from Mecca, and in about four hours
 we joined it and went on our way. That evening we were attacked by
 Bedawi, and we had fighting pretty nearly the whole way. We lost
 twelve men, camels, and other beasts of burden; the Bedawi looted the
 baggage and ate the camels.

 "One morning El Medinah was in sight. We were jaded and hungry; and
 we gloried in the gardens and orchards about the town. I was met at
 El Medinah by Shaykh Hamid, who received me into his family as one of
 the faithful, and where I led a quiet, peaceful, and pleasant life,
 during leisure hours; but of course, the pilgrimage being my object,
 I had a host of shrines to visit, ceremonies to perform, and prayers
 to recite, besides the usual prayers five times a day; for it must
 be remembered that El Medinah contains the tomb of Mahommad." (For
 description see Burton's 'Mecca and El Medinah,' 3 vols.)

 "The Damascus Caravan was to start on the 27th Zu'l Ka'adah (1st
 September). I had intended to stay at El Medinah till the last moment,
 and to accompany the _Kafilat el Tayyárah_, or the 'Flying Caravan,'
 which usually leaves on the 2nd Zu'l Hijjah, two days after that of
 Damascus.

 "Suddenly arose the rumour that there would be no _Tayyárah_,[2] and
 that all pilgrims must proceed with the Damascus Caravan or await the
 _Rakb_.[3] The Sheríf Zayd, Sa'ad, the robbers' only friend, paid
 Sa'ad an unsuccessful visit. Sa'ad demanded back his shaykhship, in
 return for a safe conduct through his country; 'otherwise,' said he,
 'I will cut the throat of every hen that ventures into the passes.'

 "The Sheríf Zayd returned to El Medinah on the 25th Zu'l Ka'adah.
 (30th August). Early on the morning of the next day, Shaykh Hamid
 returned hurriedly from the bazar, exclaiming, 'You must make ready at
 once, Effendi! There will be no _Tayyárah_. All Hajis start to-morrow.
 Allah will make it easy to you! Have you your water-skins in order?
 You are to travel down the Darb el Sharki, _where you will not see
 water for three days!_'

 "Poor Hamid looked horror-struck as he concluded this fearful
 announcement, which filled me with joy. Burckhardt had visited and
 described the Darb el Sultani, the 'High' or 'Royal Road' along
 the coast; but _no_ European had as yet travelled down by Harún el
 Rashíd's and the Lady Zubaydah's celebrated route through the Nejd
 Desert. And here was my chance!

 "Whenever he was ineffably disgusted, I consoled him with singing the
 celebrated song of Maysúnah, the beautiful Bedawin wife of the Caliph
 Muawíyah." (Richard was immensely fond of this little song, and the
 Bedawin screams with joy when he hears it.)

    "'Oh, take these purple robes away,
    Give back my cloak of camel's hair,
    And bear me from this tow'ring pile
    To where the black tents flap i' the air.
    The camel's colt with falt'ring tread,
    The dog that bays at all but me,
    Delight me more than ambling mules,
    Than every art of minstrelsy;
    And any cousin, poor but free,
    Might take me, fatted ass, from thee.'[4]

 "The old man was delighted, clapped my shoulder, and exclaimed,
 'Verily, O Father of Moustachios, I will show thee the black Tents of
 my Tribe this year.'

 [Sidenote: _Ten Days' Ride to Mecca._]

 "So, after staying at Medinah about six weeks, I set out with the
 Damascus Caravan down the Darb el Sharki, under the care of a
 very venerable Bedawin, who nicknamed me 'Abú Shuwárib,' meaning,
 'Father of Moustachios,' mine being very large. I found myself
 standing opposite the Egyptian gate of El Medinah, surrounded by my
 friends--those friends of a day, who cross the phantasmagoria of
 one's life. There were affectionate embraces and parting mementoes.
 The camels were mounted; I and the boy Mohammed in the litter or
 _shugduf_, and Shaykh Nur in his cot. The train of camels with the
 Caravan wended its way slowly in a direction from north to north-east,
 gradually changing to eastward. After an hour's travel, the Caravan
 halted to turn and take farewell of the Holy City.

 "We dismounted to gaze at the venerable minarets and the green dome
 which covers the tomb of the Prophet. The heat was dreadful, the
 climate dangerous, and the beasts died in numbers. Fresh carcases
 strewed our way, and were covered with foul vultures. The Caravan was
 most picturesque. We travelled principally at night, but the camels
 had to perform the work of goats, and step from block to block of
 basalt like mountaineers, which being unnatural to them, they kept up
 a continual piteous moan. The simoom and pillars of sand continually
 threw them over.

 "Water is the great trouble of a Caravan journey, and the only remedy
 is to be patient and not to talk. The first two hours gives you the
 mastery, but if you drink you cannot stop. Forty-seven miles before
 we reached Mecca, at El Zaríbah, we had to perform the ceremony of
 _El Ihram_, meaning 'to assume the pilgrim garb.' A barber shaved us,
 trimmed our moustachios; we bathed and perfumed, and then we put on
 two new cotton cloths, each six feet long by three and a half broad.
 It is white, with narrow red stripes and fringe, and worn something as
 you wear it in the baths. Our heads and feet, right shoulder and arm,
 are exposed.

 "We had another fight before we got to Mecca, and a splendid camel
 in front of me was shot through the heart. Our Sheríf Zayd was an
 Arab Chieftain of the purest blood, and very brave. He took two or
 three hundred men, and charged them. However, they shot many of our
 dromedaries, and camels, and boxes and baggage strewed the place; and
 when we were gone the Bedawi would come back, loot the baggage, and
 eat the camels. On Saturday, the 10th of September, at one in the
 morning, there was great excitement in the Caravan, and loud cries of
 'Mecca! Mecca! Oh, the Sanctuary, the Sanctuary!' All burst into loud
 praises, and many wept. We reached it next morning, after ten days and
 nights from El Medinah. I became the guest of the boy Mohammed, in the
 house of his mother.

 [Sidenote: _Moslem Holy Week._]

 "First I did the circumambulation at the Haram. Early next morning I
 was admitted to the house of our Lord; and we went to the holy well
 Zemzem, the holy water of Mecca,[5] and then the Ka'abah, in which
 is inserted the famous black stone, where they say a prayer for
 the Unity of Allah. Then I performed the seven circuits round the
 Ka'abah, called the _Tawaf_. I then managed to have a way pushed for
 me through the immense crowd to kiss it. While kissing it, and rubbing
 hands and forehead upon it, I narrowly observed it, and came away
 persuaded that it is an aerolite. It is curious that almost all agree
 upon one point, namely, that the stone is volcanic. Ali Bey calls it
 mineralogically a 'block of volcanic basalt, whose circumference is
 sprinkled with little crystals, pointed and straw-like, with rhombs of
 tile-red felspath upon a dark ground like velvet or charcoal, except
 one of its protuberances, which is reddish.' It is also described as
 'a lava containing several small extraneous particles of a whitish and
 of a yellowish substance.'

 "All this time the pilgrims had scorched feet and burning heads, as
 they were always uncovered. I was much impressed with the strength
 and steadfastness of the Mohammedan religion. It was so touching to
 see them; one of them was clinging to the curtain, and sobbing as
 though his heart would break.[6] At night I and Shaykh Nur and the boy
 Mohammed issued forth with the lantern and praying-carpet.

 "The moon, now approaching the full, tipped the brow of Abú Kubáya,
 and lit up the spectacle with a more solemn light. In the midst stood
 the huge bier-like erection--

                         'Black as the wings
    Which some spirit of ill o'er a sepulchre flings!'

 except where the moonbeams streaked it like jets of silver falling
 upon the darkest marble. It formed the point of rest for the eye;
 the little pagoda-like buildings and domes around it, with all their
 gilding and framework, faded to the sight. One object, unique in
 appearance, stood in view--the temple of the one Allah, the God of
 Abraham, of Ishmael, and of their posterity. Sublime it was, and
 expressing by all the eloquence of fancy the grandeur of the one idea
 which vitalized El Islam, and the strength and steadfastness of its
 votaries.

 "One thing I remarked, and think worthy of notice, is that ever since
 Noah's dove, every religion seems to consider the pigeon a sacred
 bird; for example, every Mosque swarms with pigeons; St. Mark's, at
 Venice, and the same exists in most Italian market-places; the Hindoo
 pandits and the old Assyrian Empire also have them; whilst Catholics
 make it the emblem of the Holy Ghost.

 "The day before I went to Arafat, I spent the night in the Mosque,
 where I saw many strange sights. One was a negro possessed by the
 devil. There, too, he prayed by the grave of Ishmael. After this
 we set out for Arafat, where is the tomb of Adam. (I have seen two
 since--one at Jerusalem, and one in the mountains behind Damascus.)

 "It was a very weary journey, and, with the sun raining fire on our
 heads and feet, we suffered tortures. The camels threw themselves on
 the ground, and I myself saw five men fall out and die. On the Mount
 there were numerous consecrated shrines to see, and we had to listen
 to an immensely long sermon. On the great festival day we stoned the
 Devil, each man with seven stones washed in seven waters, and we
 said, while throwing each stone, 'In the name of Allah--and Allah is
 Almighty--I do this in hatred of the Devil, and to his shame.' There
 is then an immense slaughter of victims (five or six thousand), which
 slaughter, with the intense heat, swarms of flies, and the whole space
 reeking with blood, produces the most noisome vapours, and probably is
 the birthplace of that cholera and small-pox which generally devastate
 the World after the Haj. _Now_ we were allowed to doff the pilgrim's
 garb.

 "We all went to barbers' booths, where we were shaved, had our beards
 trimmed and our nails cut, saying prayers the while; and, though we
 had no clothes, we might put our clothes over our heads, and wear our
 slippers, which were a little protection from the heat. We might then
 twirl our moustachios, stroke our beards, and return to Mecca. At the
 last moment I was sent for. I thought, 'Now something is going to
 happen to me; now I am suspected.'

 [Sidenote: _The All-important Crisis._]

 "A crowd had gathered round the Ka'abah, and I had no wish to stand
 bare-headed and bare-footed in the midday September sun. At the cry
 of 'Open a path for the Haji who would enter the House!' the gazers
 made way. Two stout Meccans, who stood below the door, raised me in
 their arms, whilst a third drew me from above into the building.
 At the entrance I was accosted by several officials, dark-looking
 Meccans, of whom the blackest and plainest was a youth of the Benu
 Shaybah family, the true blood of the El Hejaz. He held in his hand
 the huge silver-gilt padlock of the Ka'abah, and presently, taking
 his seat upon a kind of wooden press in the left corner of the hall,
 he officially inquired my name, nation, and other particulars. The
 replies were satisfactory, and the boy Mohammed was authoritatively
 ordered to conduct me round the building, and to recite the prayers. I
 will not deny that, looking at the windowless walls, the officials at
 the door, and a crowd of excited fanatics below--

    'And the place death, considering who I was,'

 my feelings were of the trapped-rat description, acknowledged by the
 immortal nephew of his uncle Perez. A blunder, a hasty action, a
 misjudged word, a prayer or bow, not strictly the right shibboleth,
 and my bones would have whitened the desert sand. This did not,
 however, prevent my carefully observing the scene during our long
 prayer, and making a rough plan with a pencil upon my white _ihram_.

 [Illustration: MECCA AND THE KA'ABAH, OR THE HOLY GRAIL OF THE
 MOSLEMS.]

 "I returned home after this _quite_ exhausted, performed an elaborate
 toilet, washing with henna and warm water, to mitigate the pain the
 sun had caused on my arms, shoulders, and breast, head and feet, and
 put on my gayest clothes in honour of the festival. When the moon
 rose, there was a second stoning, or lapidation, to be performed, and
 then we strolled round the coffee-houses. There was also a little
 pilgrimage to undertake, which is in honour of Hagar seeking water for
 her son Ishmael.

 "I now began to long to leave Mecca; I had done everything, seen
 everything; the heat was simply unendurable, and the little room where
 I could enjoy privacy for about six hours a day, and jot my notes
 down, was a perfect little oven.[7]

 "I slowly wended my way with a Caravan to Jeddah, with donkeys and
 Mohammed; I must say that the sight of the sea and the British flag
 was a pleasant tonic. I went to the British Consulate, but the
 Dragomans were not very civil to the unfortunate Afghan.

 [Sidenote: _His Safe Return._]

 "So I was left kicking my heels at the Great Man's Gate for a long
 time, and heard somebody say, 'Let the dirty nigger wait.' Long inured
 to patience, however, I did wait, and when the Consul consented to see
 me, I presented him with a bit of paper, as if it were a money order.
 On it was written, 'Don't recognize me; I am Dick Burton, but I am
 not safe yet. Give me some money' (naming the sum), 'which will be
 returned from London, and don't take any notice of me.' He, however,
 frequently afterwards, when it was dark, sent for me, and, once safe
 in his private rooms, showed me abundance of hospitality. Necessity
 compelled me living with Shayk Nur in a room (to myself), swept,
 sprinkled with water, and spread with mats.

 [Sidenote: _On Board an English Ship._]

 "When I went out in gay attire, I was generally mistaken for the Pasha
 of El Medinah. After about ten days' suspense, an English ship was
 sent by the Bombay Steam Navigation Company to convey pilgrims from
 El Hejaz to India, so one day the Afghan disappeared--was supposed to
 have departed with other dirty pilgrims, but in reality, had got on
 board the _Dwárká_,[8] an English ship, with a first-class passage; he
 had emerged from his cabin, after washing all his colouring off, in
 the garb of an English gentleman; experienced the greatest kindness
 from the Commander and Officers, which he much needed, being worn out
 with fatigue and the fatal fiery heat, and felt the great relief to
 his mind and body from being able to take his first complete rest in
 safety on board an English ship; but was so changed that the Turkish
 pilgrims, who crowded the deck, never recognized their late companion
 pilgrim."

He ends his personal narrative of his sojourn in El Hejaz thus:--

 "I have been exposed to perils, and I have escaped from them; I have
 traversed the sea, and have not succumbed under the severest fatigues;
 but they with fatal fiery heat have worn me out, and my heart is moved
 with emotions of gratitude that I have been permitted to effect the
 objects I had in view."

An Irish missionary wrote of my husband after he was dead:--

 "At Damascus Burton began a new chapter, but he was not permitted
 to start with a clean page. Two incidents in his previous record
 foreshadowed him, and hampered him in his efforts to make the best of
 his new Consulate. He had offended the religious susceptibilities of
 both Mohammedans and Christians, and he found himself confronted with
 bitter, unreasoning prejudice.

 "It is a question of how far Burton's Oriental disguise concealed
 the Englishman in his pilgrimage to Mecca. I never conversed with a
 Mohammedan who had accompanied Burton on that journey, but I have
 seen Arabs who saw Palgrave on his way to Nejd, and his attempts to
 pose as a native were a constant source of amusement to all with whom
 he came in contact. Burton's Oriental cast of face helped him when
 putting on the outward appearance of a Bedawin, but at no period of
 his life could he have passed for an Arab one second after he began
 to speak.[9] On the pilgrimage to Mecca, Burton would be known as a
 devout British Mohammedan, just as easily as we recognize an Arab
 convert on a missionary platform, notwithstanding the efforts of the
 schoolmaster and the tailor to transform him into an Englishman. And
 as a perverted Englishman, Burton would be as welcome in the Hajj as a
 converted Arab would be in Exeter Hall."

This is a ridiculous paragraph, and spoils an otherwise splendid
article. The writer speaks fairly good Syrian Christian Arabic with
an Irish accent, but he is not conversant with the Arabic of scholars
and high-class Mohammedans, and he does not know a word of Persian,
Hindostani, Afghani, Turkish, or any of the other ten Oriental
languages, in which my husband passed his pilgrimages. I think native
testimony is best. I can remember, at a reception at Lady Salisbury's,
the Persian Ambassador and his suite following Richard about the
whole evening, and when I joked them about it, they said, "It is such
an extraordinary thing to us, to see any foreigner, especially an
Englishman, speaking our language like ourselves. He might have never
been out of Teheran; he even knows all the slang of the market-place as
well as we do." When he arrived in Damascus, his record was perfectly
clean with the Mohammedans, and the only bitter, unreasoning prejudice
was in the breast of Christian missionaries, and Christian Foreign
Office employés, whose friends wanted the post. Burton and Palgrave
were quite two different men, as silver and nickel. I know exactly the
_sort_ of Arabic Palgrave spoke.

In the days that Richard went to Mecca, _no_ converted Englishman
would have been received as _now_. As to his Arabic, Abd el Kadir told
me--and, mind, he was _the_ highest cultivated and the most religious
Moslem in Damascus; the only Sufi, I believe--that there were only
two men in Damascus whose Arabic was worth listening to; one was my
husband, and the other was Shaykh Mijwal El Mezrab, Lady Ellenborough's
Bedawin husband. We may remember that at Jeddah his life was saved
by being mistaken for the Pasha of El Medinah, and when he went to
the departure of the Haj at Damascus, as he rode down the lines in
frock-coat and fez, he was accosted by more than one as the Pasha of
the Haj; and when the mistake was explained, and he told them who he
was, they only laughed and said, "Why don't you come along with us
again to Mecca, as you did before?" He was looked upon by _all_ as a
friend to the Moslem. He _never_ profaned the sanctuaries of Mecca and
Medina, and so far from being unpopular with the Moslems, he received
almost yearly an invitation to go back with the Haj, and no opposition
would have been made to him had he made another pilgrimage to the
jealously guarded Haramayn or the holy Cities of the Moslems. Even _I_
am always admitted to the Mosques with the women for _his_ sake.

There was no tinsel and gingerbread about anything Richard did; it was
always true and real.

[Sidenote: _Interesting Letters._]

In further support of the above I quote two letters, one from _Sporting
Truth_.

 "I had the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with the late Sir Richard
 Burton, familiarly known among his friends as 'Ruffian Dick.' Not
 that there was anything offensive meant by that epithet. Indeed, in
 his case, it had a playfully complimentary significance. There were,
 in the old days, as many readers of _Sporting Truth_ will recollect,
 two familiar pugilists who went by the nicknames respectively of the
 'Old' and 'Young Ruffian.' The term referred purely to their style of
 fighting, and was not intended to convey the idea that they were any
 less decent or civilized members of society than their neighbours.
 For much the same reason was Sir Richard Burton dubbed 'Ruffian
 Dick' by his pals. He was, without doubt, a terrible fighter, and
 fought in single combat more enemies than perhaps any man of his
 time. A man of peculiar temper, too, and strong individuality, with
 a wholesome contempt for Mrs. Grundy and all her ways. But his great
 distinguishing feature was his courage. No braver man than 'Ruffian
 Dick' ever lived. His daring was of that romantic order which revels
 in danger for danger's sake. No crisis, however appalling, could shake
 his splendid nerve. He was as cool when his life hung on a hair's
 breadth, as when he sat smoking in his own snuggery.

 "I know of nothing in the annals of adventure to surpass his memorable
 journey to Mecca with the Mohammedan pilgrims. None but a follower of
 the true Prophet had ever penetrated the shrine where the coffin of
 Mohammed swings between earth and heaven. No eyes but those of the
 faithful were permitted to gaze upon that holy of holies. Certain and
 speedy death awaited any infidel who should profane with his footsteps
 those sacred precincts, or seek to pry into those hidden mysteries.
 There were secret passwords among the pilgrims, by which they could
 detect at once any one who was not of the true faith; and detection
 meant instant death at the hands of the enraged fanatics. Yet all
 these difficulties and dangers--apparently insurmountable--did not
 deter Ruffian Dick from undertaking the perilous enterprise. He went
 through a long course of preparation, studied all the minute ways of
 the Arabs--he already spoke their language like a native--professed
 the Mohammedan religion, acquired the secret passwords, and then
 boldly joined the great annual procession of pilgrims to the shrine of
 the Prophet.

 "How perfect his disguise was, the following anecdote will show. On
 his return from the pilgrimage to Mecca, his leave had expired, and
 he had to return to India at once without time to rig himself out
 with a fresh outfit. One evening a party of officers were lounging
 outside Shepherd's Hotel, at Cairo. As they sat talking and smoking,
 there passed repeatedly in front of them an Arab in his loose flowing
 robes, with head proudly erect, and the peculiar swinging stride of
 those sons of the desert. As he strode backwards and forwards he
 drew nearer and nearer to the little knot of officers, till at last,
 as he swept by, the flying folds of his burnous brushed against one
 of the officers. 'Damn that nigger's impudence!' said the officer;
 'if he does that again I'll kick him.' To his surprise the dignified
 Arab suddenly halted, wheeled round, and exclaimed, 'Well, damn it,
 Hawkins, that's a nice way to welcome a fellow after two years'
 absence.' 'By G--d, it's Ruffian Dick,' cried Hawkins. And Ruffian
 Dick it was, but utterly transformed out of all resemblance to a
 European. His complexion was burned by the sun to a deep umber tint,
 and his cast of features was more Oriental than English, so that in
 the robes of an Arab he might well pass for one of that nomad race."

Here is the second, from _Allen's Indian Mail_.


 "THE LATE SIR RICHARD BURTON.

 "To the Editor of the _Times_ of India.


 "SIR,

 "Unlike your correspondent, Mr. Levick (of Suez), questioning Sir
 Richard's visit to Medinah in 1853, I merely want to say that in Sir
 Richard the scientific world has lost a bright star. In linguistic
 attainments there was not his equal in the world. He could not only
 speak the languages, but act so well that his most intimate friends
 were often deceived. I was often witness to this feat of his while
 at Kurrachee in 1847, as I happened to be employed under Dr. Stocks,
 botanist, in Sind, as his botanical draughtsman. Sir Richard (then
 a lieutenant) and the doctor occupied the same bungalow. I had
 necessarily to work in the hall, and consequently had the opportunity
 of seeing and admiring his ways. He was on special duty, which in his
 case meant to perfect himself for some political duty, by mastering
 the languages of the country. When I knew him he was master of half
 a dozen languages, which he wrote and spoke so fluently that a
 stranger who did not see him and heard him speaking would fancy he
 heard a native. His domestic servants were--a Portuguese, with whom
 he spoke Portuguese and Goanese, an African, a Persian, and a Sindi
 or Belochee. These spoke their mother tongue to Sir Richard as he
 was engaged in his studies with _moonshees_, who relieved each other
 every two hours, from ten to four daily. The _moonshees_ would read
 an hour and converse the next, and it was a treat to hear Sir Richard
 talk; one would scarcely be able to distinguish the Englishman from a
 Persian, Arabian, or a Scindian.

 "His habits at home were perfectly Persian or Arabic. His hair was
 dressed _à la Persian_--long and shaved from the forehead to the top
 of the head; his eyes, by some means or other he employed, resembled
 Persian or Arabian; he used the Turkish bath and wore a cowl; and when
 he went out for a ride he used a wig and goggles. His complexion was
 also thorough Persian, so that Nature evidently intended him for the
 work he afterwards so successfully performed, namely, visiting the
 shrine of the Prophet Mohammed--a work very few would have undertaken
 unless he was a complete master of himself.

 "I was a witness to his first essay in disguising himself as a poor
 Persian, and taking in his friend Moonshee Ali Akbar (the father of
 Mirza Hossein, solicitor of this City). The _moonshee_ was seated
 one evening in an open space in front of his bungalow in the town of
 Kurrachee, with a lot of his friends enjoying the evening breeze, and
 chatting away as Persians are wont to do. Sir Richard, disguised as a
 Persian traveller, approached them, and after the usual compliments,
 inquired for the rest-house, and, as a matter of course, gave a long
 rigmarole account of his travels and of people the _moonshee_ knew,
 and thus excited his curiosity and got him into conversation; and
 when he thought he acted his part to perfection, bid him the time and
 left him, but did not go far when he called out to the _moonshee_ in
 English if he did not know him. The _moonshee_ was completely taken
 aback; he did not know where the voice (his friend Burton's) came
 from, till he was addressed again, and a recognition took place, to
 the great astonishment of the _moonshee_ and his friends. Such a
 jovial companion Sir Richard was, that his bungalow was the resort of
 the learned men of the place, amongst whom I noticed Major (afterwards
 General) Walter Scott, Lieutenant (and now General) Alfred De Lisle,
 Lieutenant Edward Dansey of Mooltan notoriety, Dr. Stocks, and many
 others, but who, with the exception of General De Lisle, are all gone
 to their home above, where Sir Richard has now followed. May their
 souls rest in peace!

 "Some time or other Lady Burton may write a memoir of Sir Richard's
 life, and a slight incident as the one I have related may be of use to
 her, and if you think as I do, and consider it worth inserting in a
 corner of your paper, I shall be very much obliged to you if you will
 do so.

 "Yours, etc.,

 "WALTER ABRAHAM.

 "October 31, 1891."

On the return journey from Mecca, when Richard could secure any
privacy, he composed the most exquisite gem of Oriental poetry, that
I have ever heard or imagined, nor do I believe it has its equal,
either from the pen of Hafiz, Saadi, Shakespeare, Milton, Swinburne,
or any other. It is quite unique; it is called the Kasîdah, or the
"Lay of the Higher Law," by Haji Abdu el-Yezdi. It will ride over the
heads of most, it will displease many, but it will appeal to all large
hearts and large brains for its depth, height, breadth, for its heart,
nobility, its pathos, its melancholy, its despair. It is the very
perfection of romance, it seems the cry of a Soul wandering through
space, looking for what it does not find. I have read it many times
during my married life, and never without bitter tears, and when I read
it now, it affects me still more; he used to take it away from me, it
impressed me so. I give you the poem here in full.

It reminds me more than any other thing of the Rubáiyát of Omar
Khayyâm, the astronomer-poet of Khorasán, known as the tent-maker,
written in the eleventh century, which poem was made known by Mr.
Edward Fitzgerald in about 1861, to Richard Burton, to Swinburne, and
Dante Rossetti. Richard at once claimed him as a brother Sufi, and said
that all his allusions are purely typical, and particularly in the
second verse--

                      II.
    "Before the phantom of False morning died,
    Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
      'When all the temple is prepared within,
    Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?'"

Yet the "Kasîdah" was written in 1853--the Rubáiyát he did not know
till eight years later.

[Sidenote: _The Kasîdah._]

I shall reproduce the "Kasîdah" in its entirety, with its fifteen pages
of copious annotations, in the Uniform Library of Sir Richard's works
which I am editing. I give the annotations in the Appendix.

It is a poem of extraordinary power on the nature and destiny of Man,
anti-Christian and Pantheistic. So much wealth of Oriental learning has
rarely been compressed into so small a compass.

                             "Let his page
   Which charms the chosen spirits of the age,
   Fold itself for a serener clime
   Of years to come, and find its recompense
   In that just expectation."
                           ----SHELLEY.

"Let them laugh at me for speaking of things which they do not
understand; and I must pity them while they laugh at me."----ST.
AUGUSTINE.

          *       *       *       *       *

                            TO THE READER.

The Translator has ventured to entitle a "Lay of the Higher Law" the
following Composition, which aims at being in advance of its time; and
he has not feared the danger of collision with such unpleasant forms
as the "Higher Culture." The principles which justify the name are as
follows:--

The Author asserts that Happiness and Misery are equally divided and
distributed in the world.

He makes Self-cultivation, with due regard to others, the sole and
sufficient object of human life.

He suggests that the affections, the sympathies and the "divine gift
of Pity" are man's highest enjoyments.

He advocates suspension of judgment, with a proper suspicion of
"Facts, the idlest of superstitions."

Finally, although destructive to appearance, he is essentially
reconstructive.

For other details concerning the Poem and the Poet, the curious reader
is referred to the end of the volume (_i.e._ the Appendix).


       THE KASÎDAH (COUPLETS) OF HAJI ABDU EL-YEZDI.

                  A LAY OF THE HIGHER LAW.


   The hour is nigh; the waning Queen walks forth to rule the later night;
   Crown'd with the sparkle of a Star, and throned on orb of ashen light:

   The Wolf-tail[10] sweeps the paling East to leave a deeper gloom behind,
   And Dawn uprears her shining head, sighing with semblance of a wind:

   The highlands catch yon Orient gleam, while purpling still the lowlands lie;
   And pearly mists, the morning-pride, soar incense-like to greet the sky.

   The horses neigh, the camels groan, the torches gleam, the cressets flare;
   The town of canvas falls, and man with din and dint invadeth air:

   The Golden Gates swing right and left; up springs the Sun with flamy brow;
   The dew-cloud melts in gush of light; brown Earth is bathed in morning-glow.

   Slowly they wind athwart the wild, and while young Day his anthem swells,
   Sad falls upon my yearning ear the tinkling of the Camel-bells:

   O'er fiery waste and frozen wold, o'er horrid hill and gloomy glen,
   The home of grisly beast and Ghoul,[11] the haunts of wilder, grislier men;--

   With the brief gladness of the Palms, that tower and sway o'er seething plain,
   Fraught with the thoughts of rustling shade, and welling spring, and rushing rain;

   With the short solace of the ridge, by gentle zephyrs played upon,
   Whose breezy head and bosky side front seas of cooly celadon;--

   'Tis theirs to pass with joy and hope, whose souls shall ever thrill and fill
   Dreams of the Birthplace and the Tomb,--visions of Allah's Holy Hill.[12]

   But we? Another shift of scene, another pang to rack the heart;
   Why meet we on the bridge of Time to 'change one greeting and to part?

   We meet to part; yet asks my sprite, Part we to meet? Ah! is it so?
   Man's fancy-made Omniscience knows, who made Omniscience nought can know.

   Why must we meet, why must we part, why must we bear this yoke of MUST,
   Without our leave or askt or given, by tyrant Fate on victim thrust?

   That Eve so gay, so bright, so glad, this Morn so dim, and sad, and grey;
   Strange that life's Registrar should write this day a day, that day a day!

   Mine eyes, my brain, my heart, are sad,--sad is the very core of me;
   All wearies, changes, passes, ends; alas! the Birthday's injury!

   Friends of my youth, a last adieu! haply some day we meet again;
   Yet ne'er the self-same men shall meet; the years shall make us other men:

   The light of morn has grown to noon, has paled with eve, and now farewell!
   Go, vanish from my Life as dies the tinkling of the Camel's bell.

          *       *       *       *       *

   In these drear wastes of sea-born land, these wilds where none may dwell but He,
   What visionary Pasts revive, what process of the Years we see:

   Gazing beyond the thin blue line that rims the far horizon-ring,
   Our sadden'd sight why haunt these ghosts, whence do these spectral shadows spring?

   What endless questions vex the thought, of Whence and Whither, When and How?
   What fond and foolish strife to read the Scripture writ on human brow;

   As stand we percht on point of Time, betwixt the two Eternities,
   Whose awful secrets gathering round with black profound oppress our eyes.

   "This gloomy night, these grisly waves, these winds and whirlpools loud and dread:
   What reck they of our wretched plight who Safety's shore so lightly tread?"
   Thus quoth the Bard of Love and Wine,[13] whose dream of Heaven ne'er could rise
   Beyond the brimming Kausar-cup and Houris with the white-black eyes;

   Ah me! my race of threescore years is short, but long enough to pall
   My sense with joyless joys as these, with Love and Houris, Wine and all.

   Another boasts he would divorce old barren Reason from his bed,
   And wed the Vine-maid in her stead;--fools who believe a word he said![14]

   And "'Dust thou art to dust returning,' ne'er was spoke of human soul"
   The Soofi cries, 'tis well for him that hath such gift to ask its goal.

   "And this is all, for this we're born to weep a little and to die!"
   So sings the shallow bard whose life still labours at the letter "I."

   "Ear never heard, Eye never saw the bliss of those who enter in
   My heavenly Kingdom," Isâ said, who wailed our sorrows and our sin:

   Too much of words or yet too few! What to thy Godhead easier than
   One little glimpse of Paradise to ope the eyes and ears of man?

   "I am the Truth! I am the Truth!" we hear the God-drunk gnostic cry
   "The microcrosm abides in ME; Eternal Allah's nought but I!"

   Mansûr[15] was wise, but wiser they who smote him with the hurled stones;
   And, though his blood a witness bore, no wisdom-might could mend his bones.

   "Eat, drink, and sport; the rest of life's not worth a fillip," quoth the King;
   Methinks the saying saith too much: the swine would say the self-same thing?

   Two-footed beasts that browse through life, by Death to serve as soil design'd,
   Bow prone to Earth whereof they be, and there the proper pleasures find:

   But you of finer, nobler stuff, ye, whom to Higher leads the High,
   What binds your hearts in common bond with creatures of the stall and sty?

   "In certain hope of Life-to-come I journey through this shifting scene"
   The Zâhid[16] snarls and saunters down his Vale of Tears with confi'dent mien.

   Wiser than Amrân's Son[17] art thou, who ken'st so well the world-to-be,
   The Future when the Past is not, the Present merest dreamery;

   What know'st thou, man, of Life? and yet, for ever 'twixt the womb, the grave,
   Thou pratest of the Coming Life, of Heav'n and Hell thou fain must rave.

   The world is old and thou art young; the world is large and thou art small;
   Cease, atom of a moment's span, to hold thyself an All-in-All!

          *       *       *       *       *

   Fie, fie! you visionary things, ye motes that dance in sunny glow,
   Who base and build Eternities on briefest moment here below;

   Who pass through Life like cagèd birds, the captives of a despot will;
   Still wond'ring How and When and Why, and Whence and Whither, wond'ring still;

   Still wond'ring how the Marvel came because two coupling mammals chose
   To slake the thirst of fleshly love, and thus the "Immortal Being" rose;

   Wond'ring the Babe with staring eyes, perforce compell'd from night to day,
   Gript in the giant grasp of Life like gale-borne dust or wind-wrung spray;

   Who comes imbecile to the world 'mid double danger, groans, and tears;
   The toy, the sport, the waif and stray of passions, error, wrath and fears;

   Who knows not Whence he came nor Why, who kens not Whither bound and When,
   Yet such is Allah's choicest gift, the blessing dreamt by foolish men;

   Who step by step perforce returns to countless youth, wan, white and cold,
   Lisping again his broken words till all the tale be fully told:

   Wond'ring the Babe with quenched orbs, an oldster bow'd by burthening years,
   How 'scaped the skiff an hundred storms; how 'scaped the thread a thousand shears;

   How coming to the Feast unbid, he found the gorgeous table spread
   With the fair-seeming Sodom-fruit, with stones that bear the shape of bread:

   How Life was nought but ray of sun that clove the darkness thick and blind,
   The ravings of the reckless storm, the shrieking of the ravening wind;

   How lovely visions 'guiled his sleep, aye fading with the break of morn,
   Till every sweet became a sour, till every rose became a thorn;

   Till dust and ashes met his eyes wherever turned their saddened gaze;
   The wrecks of joys and hopes and loves, the rubbish of his wasted days;

   How every high heroic Thought that longed to breathe empyrean air,
   Failed of its feathers, fell to earth, and perisht of a sheer despair;

   How, dower'd with heritage of brain, whose might has split the solar ray,
   His rest is grossest coarsest earth, a crown of gold on brow of clay;

   This House whose frame be flesh and bone, mortar'd with blood and faced with skin,
   The home of sickness, dolours, age; unclean without, impure within;

   Sans ray to cheer its inner gloom, the chambers haunted by the Ghost,
   Darkness his name, a cold dumb Shade stronger than all the heav'nly host.

   This tube, an enigmatic pipe, whose end was laid before begun,
   That lengthens, broadens, shrinks and breaks;--puzzle, machine, automaton;

   The first of Pots the Potter made by Chrysorrhoas' blue-green wave;[18]
   Methinks I see him smile to see what guerdon to the world he gave!

   How Life is dim, unreal, vain, like scenes that round the drunkard reel;
   How "Being" meaneth not to be; to see and hear, smell, taste and feel.

   A drop in Ocean's boundless tide, unfathom'd waste of agony;
   Where millions live their horrid lives by making other millions die.

   How with a heart that would through love, to Universal Love aspire,
   Man woos infernal chance to smite, as Min'arets draw the Thunder-fire.

   How Earth on Earth builds tow'er and wall, to crumble at a touch of Time;
   How Earth on Earth from Shinar-plain the heights of Heaven fain would climb.

   How short this Life, how long withal; how false its weal, how true its woes,
   This fever-fit with paroxysms to mark its opening and its close.

   Ah! gay the day with shine of sun, and bright the breeze, and blithe the throng
   Met on the River-bank to play, when I was young, when I was young:

   Such general joy could never fade; and yet the chilling whisper came
   One face had paled, one form had failed; had fled the bank, had swum the stream;

   Still revellers danced, and sang, and trod the hither bank of Time's deep tide,
   Still one by one they left and fared to the far misty thither side;

   And now the last hath slipt away yon drear Death-desert to explore,
   And now one Pilgrim worn and lorn still lingers on the lonely shore.

   Yes, Life in youth-tide standeth still; in Manhood streameth soft and slow;
   See, as it nears th abysmal goal how fleet the waters flash and flow!

   And Deaths are twain; the Deaths we see drop like the leaves in windy Fall;
   But ours, our own, are ruined worlds, a globe collapst, last end of all.

   We live our lives with rogues and fools, dead and alive, alive and dead,
   We die 'twixt one who feels the pulse and one who frets and clouds the head:

   And,--oh, the Pity!--hardly conned the lesson comes its fatal term;
   Fate bids us bundle up our books, and bear them bod'ily to the worm:

   Hardly we learn to wield the blade before the wrist grows stiff and old;
   Hardly we learn to ply the pen ere Thought and Fancy faint with cold:

   Hardly we find the path of love, to sink the Self, forget the "I,"
   When sad suspicion grips the heart, when Man, _the_ Man, begins to die:

   Hardly we scale the wisdom-heights, and sight the Pisgah-scene around,
   And breathe the breath of heav'enly air, and hear the Spheres' harmonious sound;

   When swift the Camel-rider spans the howling waste, by Kismet sped,
   And of his Magic Wand a wave hurries the quick to join the dead.[19]

   How sore the burden, strange the strife; how full of splendour, wonder, fear;
   Life, atom of that Infinite Space that stretches 'twixt the Here and There.

   How Thought is imp'otent to divine the secret which the gods defend,
   The Why of birth and life and death, that Isis-veil no hand may rend.

   Eternal Morrows make our Day; our _Is_ is aye _to be_ till when
   Night closes in; 'tis all a dream, and yet we die,--and then and THEN?

   And still the Weaver plies his loom, whose warp and woof is wretched Man
   Weaving th' unpattern'd dark design, so dark we doubt it owns a plan.

   Dost not, O Maker, blush to hear, amid the storm of tears and blood,
   Man say Thy mercy made what is, and saw the made and said 'twas good?

   The marvel is that man can smile dreaming his ghostly ghastly dream;--Better
   the heedless atomy that buzzes in the morning beam!

   O the dread pathos of our lives! how durst thou, Allah, thus to play
   With Love, Affection, Friendship, all that shows the god in mortal clay?

   But ah! what 'vaileth man to mourn; shall tears bring forth what smiles ne'er brought;
   Shall brooding breed a thought of joy? Ah hush the sigh, forget the thought!

   Silence thine immemorial quest, contain thy nature's vain complaint
   None heeds, none cares for thee or thine;--like thee how many came and went?

   Cease, Man, to mourn, to weep, to wail; enjoy thy shining hour of sun;
   We dance along Death's icy brink, but is the dance less full of fun?

          *       *       *       *       *

   What Truths hath gleaned that Sage consumed by many a moon that waxt and waned?
   What Prophet-strain be his to sing? What hath his old Experience gained?

   There is no God, no man-made God; a bigger, stronger, crueller man;
   Black phantom of our baby-fears, ere Thought, the life of Life, began.

   Right quoth the Hindu Prince of old,[20] "An Ishwara for one I nill,
   Th' almighty everlasting Good who cannot 'bate th' Eternal Ill:"

   "Your gods may be, what shows they are?" Hear China's Perfect Sage declare;[21]
   "And being, what to us be they who dwell so darkly and so far?"

   "All matter hath a birth and death; 'tis made, unmade and made anew;
   "We choose to call the Maker 'God':"--such is the Zâhid's owly view.

   "You changeful finite Creatures strain" (rejoins the Drawer of the Wine)[22]
   "The dizzy depths of Inf'inite Power to fathom with your foot of twine;"

   "Poor idols of man's heart and head with the Divine Idea to blend;
   "To preach as 'Nature's Common Course' what any hour may shift or end."

   "How shall the Shown pretend to ken aught of the Showman or the Show?
   "Why meanly bargain to believe, which only means thou ne'er canst know?

   "How may the passing Now contain the standing Now--Eternity?--
   "An endless _is_ without a _was_, the _be_ and never the _to-be?_

   "Who made your Maker? If Self-made, why fare so far to fare the worse?
   "Sufficeth not a world of worlds, a self-made chain of universe?

   "Grant an Idea, Primal Cause, the Causing Cause, why crave for more?
   "Why strive its depth and breadth to mete, to trace its work, its aid to 'implore?

   "Unknown, Incomprehensible, whate'er you choose to call it, call;
   "But leave it vague as airy space, dark in its darkness mystical.

   "Your childish fears would seek a Sire, by the non-human God defin'd,
   "What your five wits may wot ye weet; what _is_ you please to dub 'design'd;'

   "You bring down Heav'en to vulgar Earth; your Maker like yourselves you make,
   "You quake to own a reign of Law, you pray the Law its laws to break;

   "You pray, but hath your thought e'er weighed how empty vain the prayer must be,
   "That begs a boon already giv'en, or craves a change of Law to see?

   "Say, Man, deep learnèd in the Scheme that orders mysteries sublime,
   "How came it this was Jesus, that was Judas from the birth of Time?

   "How I the tiger, thou the lamb; again the Secret, prithee, show
   "Who slew the slain, bowman or bolt or Fate that drave the man, the bow?

   "Man worships self: his God is Man; the struggling of the mortal mind
   "To form its model as 'twould be, the perfect of itself to find.

   "The God became sage, priest and scribe where Nilus' serpent made the vale;
   "A gloomy Brahm in glowing Ind, a neutral something cold and pale:

   "Amid the high Chaldean hills a moulder of the heavenly spheres;
   "On Guebre steppes the Timeless-God who governs by his dual peers:

   "In Hebrew tents the Lord that led His leprous slaves to fight and jar;
   "Yahveh,[23] Adon or Elohim, the God that smites, the Man of War.

   "The lovely Gods of lib'ertine Greece, those fair and frail humanities
   "Whose homes o'erlooked the Middle Sea, where all Earth's beauty cradled lies,

   "Ne'er left its blessèd bounds, nor sought the barb'arous climes of barb'arous gods
   "Where Odin of the dreary North o'er hog and sickly mead-cup nods:

   "And when, at length, 'Great Pan is dead' uprose the loud and dol'orous cry
   "A glamour wither'd on the ground, a splendour faded in the sky.

   "Yea, Pan was dead, the Nazar'ene came and seized his seat beneath the sun,
   "The votary of the Riddle-god, whose one is three and three is one;

   "Whose sadd'ening creed of herited Sin split o'er the world its cold grey spell;
   "In every vista showed a grave, and 'neath the grave the glare of Hell;

   "Till all Life's Po'esy sinks to prose; romance to dull Real'ity fades;
   "Earth's flush of gladness pales in gloom and God again to man degrades.

   "Then the lank Arab foul with sweat, the drainer of the camel's dug,
   "Gorged with his leek-green lizard's meat, clad in his filthy rag and rug,

   "Bore his fierce Allah o'er his sands and broke, like lava-burst upon
   "The realms where reigned pre-Adamite Kings, where rose the grand Kayânian throne.[24]

   "Who now of ancient Kayomurs, of Zâl or Rustam cares to sing,
   "Whelmed by the tempest of the tribes that called the Camel-driver King?

   "Where are the crown of Kay Khusraw, the sceptre of Anûshirwân,
   "The holy grail of high Jamshîd, Afrâsiyab's hall?--Canst tell me, man?

   "Gone, gone, where I and thou must go, borne by the winnowing wings of Death,
   "The Horror brooding over life, and nearer brought with every breath:

   "Their fame hath filled the Seven Climes, they rose and reigned, they fought and fell,
   "As swells and swoons across the wold the tinkling of the Camel's bell."

          *       *       *       *       *

   There is no Good, there is no Bad; these be the whims of mortal will:
   What works me weal that call I 'good,' what harm and hurts I hold as 'ill:'

   They change with place, they shift with race; and, in the veriest span of Time,
   Each Vice has worn a Virtue's crown; all Good was banned as Sin or Crime:

   Like ravelled skeins they cross and twine, while this with that connects and blends;
   And only Khizr[25] his eye shall see where one begins, where other ends:

   What mortal shall consort with Khizr, when Musâ turned in fear to flee?
   What man foresees the flow'er or fruit whom Fate compels to plant the tree?

   For Man's Free-will immortal Law, Anagkê, Kismet, Des'tiny read
   That was, that is, that aye shall be, Star, Fortune, Fate, Urd, Norn or Need.

   "Man's nat'ural State is God's design"; such is the silly sage's theme;
   "Man's primal Age was Age of Gold"; such is the Poet's waking dream:

   Delusion, Ign'orance! Long ere Man drew upon earth his earli'est breath
   The world was one contin'uous scene of anguish, torture, prey and Death;

   Where hideous Theria of the wild rended their fellows limb by limb;
   Where horrid Saurians of the sea in waves of blood were wont to swim:

   The "fair young Earth" was only fit to spawn her frightful monster-brood;
   Now fiery hot, now icy frore, now reeking wet with steamy flood.

   Yon glorious Sun, the greater light, the "Bridegroom" of the royal Lyre,
   A flaming, boiling, bursting mine; a grim black orb of whirling fire:

   That gentle Moon, the lesser light, the Lover's lamp, the Swain's delight,
   A ruined world, a globe burnt out, a corpse upon the road of night.

   What reckt he, say, of Good or Ill who in the hill-hole made his lair,
   The blood-fed rav'ening Beast of prey, wilder than wildest wolf or bear?

   How long in Man's pre-Ad'amite days to feed and swill, to sleep and breed,
   Were the Brute-biped's only life, a perfect life sans Code or Creed?

   His choicest garb a shaggy fell, his choicest tool a flake of stone;
   His best of orn'aments tattoo'd skin and holes to hang his bits of bone;

   Who fought for female as for food when Mays awoke to warm desire;
   And such the lust that grew to Love when Fancy lent a purer fire.

   Where _then_ "Th' Eternal nature-law by God engraved on human heart"?
   Behold his simiad sconce and own the Thing could play no higher part.

   Yet, as long ages rolled, he learnt from Beaver, Ape and Ant to build
   Shelter for sire and dam and brood, from blast and blaze that hurt and killed;

   And last came Fire; when scrap of stone cast on the flame that lit his den,
   Gave out the shining ore, and made the Lord of beasts a Lord of men.

   The "moral sense," your Zâhid-phrase, is but the gift of latest years;
   Conscience was born when man had shed his fur, his tail, his pointed ears.

   What conscience has the murderous Moor, who slays his guest with felon blow,
   Save sorrow he can slay no more, what prick of pen'itence can he know?

   You cry the "Cruelty of Things" is myst'ery to your purblind eye,
   Which fixed upon a point in space the general project passes by:

   For see! the Mammoth went his ways, became a mem'ory and a name;
   While the half-reasoner with the hand[26] survives his rank and place to claim.

   Earthquake and plague, storm, fight and fray, portents and curses man must deem
   Since he regards his self alone, nor cares to trace the scope, the scheme;

   The Quake that comes in eyelid's beat to ruin, level, 'gulf and kill,
   Builds up a world for better use, to general Good bends special Ill:

   The dreadest sound man's ear can hear, the war and rush of stormy Wind
   Depures the stuff of human life, breeds health and strength for humankind:

   What call ye them or Goods or Ills, ill-goods, good-ills, a loss, a gain,
   When realms arise and falls a roof; a world is won, a man is slain?

   And thus the race of Being runs, till haply in the time to be
   Earth shifts her pole and Mushtari-men[27] another falling star shall see:

   Shall see it fall and fade from sight, whence come, where gone no Thought can tell,--
   Drink of yon mirage-stream and chase the tinkling of the Camel-bell!

          *       *       *       *       *

   All Faith is false, all Faith is true: Truth is the shattered mirror strown
   In myriad bits; while each believes his little bit the whole to own.

   What is the Truth? was askt of yore. Reply all object Truth is one
   As twain of halves aye makes a whole; the moral Truth for all is none.

   Ye scantly-learned Zâhids learn from Aflatûn and Aristû,[28]
   While Truth is real like your good: th' Untrue, like ill, is real too;

   As palace mirror'd in the stream, as vapour mingled with the skies,
   So weaves the brain of mortal man the tangled web of Truth and Lies.

   What see we here? Forms, nothing more! Forms fill the brightest strongest eye,
   We know not substance; 'mid the shades shadows ourselves we live and die.

   "Faith mountains move" I hear: I see the practice of the world unheed
   The foolish vaunt, the blatant boast that serves our vanity to feed.

   "Faith stands unmoved"; and why? Because man's silly fancies still remain,
   And will remain till wiser man the day-dreams of his youth disdain.

   "'Tis blessèd to believe"; you say: The saying may be true enow
   An it can add to Life a light:--only remains to show us how.

   E'en if I could I nould believe your tales and fables stale and trite,
   Irksome as twice-sung tune that tires the dullèd ear of drowsy wight.

   With God's foreknowledge man's free will! what monster-growth of human brain,
   What pow'ers of light shall ever pierce this puzzle dense with words inane?

   Vainly the heart on Providence calls, such aid to seek were hardly wise
   For man must own the pitiless Law that sways the globe and sevenfold skies.

   "Be ye Good Boys, go seek for Heav'en, come pay the priest that holds the key;"
   So spake, and speaks, and aye shall speak the last to enter Heaven,--he.

   Are these the words for men to hear? yet such the Church's general tongue,
   The horseleech-cry so strong so high her heav'enward Psalms and Hymns among.

   What? Faith a merit and a claim, when with the brain 'tis born and bred?
   Go, fool, thy foolish way and dip in holy water burièd dead![29]

   Yet follow not th' unwisdom-path, cleave not to this and that disclaim;
   Believe in all that man believes; here all and naught are both the same.

   But is it so? How may we know? Happily this Fate, this Law may be
   A word, a sound, a breath; at most the Zâhid's moonstruck theory.

   Yes Truth may be, but 'tis not Here; mankind must seek and find it There,
   But Where nor _I_ nor _you_ can tell, nor aught earth-mother ever bare.

   Enough to think that Truth can be: come sit we where the roses glow,
   Indeed he knows not how to know who knows not also how to 'unknow.

          *       *       *       *       *

   Man hath no Soul, a state of things, a no-thing still, a sound, a word
   Which so begets substantial thing that eye shall see what ear hath heard.

   Where was his Soul the savage beast which in primeval forests strayed,
   What shape had it, what dwelling-place, what part in nature's plan it played?

   This Soul to ree a riddle made; who wants the vain duality?
   Is not myself enough for me? what need of "I" within an "I"?

   Words, words that gender things! The soul is a new-comer on the scene;
   Sufficeth not the breath of Life to work the matter-born machine?

   We know the Gen'esis of the Soul; we trace the Soul to hour of birth;
   We mark its growth as grew mankind to boast himself sole Lord of Earth:

   The race of Be'ing from dawn of Life in an unbroken course was run;
   What men are pleased to call their Souls was in the hog and dog begun:

   Life is a ladder infinite-stepped, that hides its rungs from human eyes;
   Planted its foot in chaos-gloom, its head soars high above the skies:

   No break the chain of Being bears; all things began in unity;
   And lie the links in regular line though haply none the sequence see.

   The Ghost, embodied natural Dread of dreary death and foul decay,
   Begat the Spirit, Soul and Shade with Hades' pale and wan array.

   The Soul required a greater Soul, a Soul of Souls, to rule the host:
   Hence spirit-powers and hierarchies, all gendered by the savage Ghost.

   Not yours, ye Peoples of the Book, these fairy visions fair and fond,
   Got by the gods of Khemi-land[30] and faring far the seas beyond!

   "Th' immortal mind of mortal man"! we hear yon loud-lunged Zealot cry;
   Whose mind but means his sum of thought, an essence of atomic "I."

   Thought is the work of brain and nerve, in small-skulled idiot poor and mean;
   In sickness sick, in sleep asleep, and dead when Death lets drop the scene.

   "Tush!" quoth the Zâhid, "well we ken the teaching of the school abhorr'd
   "That maketh man automaton, mind a secretion, soul a word."

   "Of molecules and protoplasm you matter-mongers prompt to prate;
   "Of jelly-speck, development and apes that grew to man's estate."

   Vain cavil! all that is hath come either by Mir'acle or by Law;--
   Why waste on this your hate and fear, why waste on that your love and awe?

   Why heap such hatred on a word, why "Prototype" to type assign,
   Why upon matter spirit mass? wants an appendix your design?

   Is not the highest honour his who from the worst hath drawn the best;
   May not your Maker make the world from matter, an it suit His best?

   Nay more, the sordider the stuff the cunninger the workman's hand:
   Cease, then, your own Almighty Power to bind, to bound, to understand.

   "Reason and Instinct!" How we love to play with words that please our pride;
   Our noble race's mean descent by false forged titles seek to hide!

   For "gift divine" I bid you read the better work of higher brain,
   From Instinct diff'ering in degree as golden mine from leaden vein.

   Reason is Life's sole arbiter, the magic Laby'rinth's single clue:
   Worlds lie above, beyond its ken; what crosses it can ne'er be true.

   "Fools rush where Angels fear to tread!" Angels and Fools have equal claim
   To do what Nature bids them do, sans hope of praise, sans fear of blame!

          *       *       *       *       *

   There is no Heav'en, there is no Hell; these be the dreams of baby minds;
   Tools of the wily Fetisheer, to 'fright the fools his cunning blinds.

   Learn from the mighty Spi'rits of old to set thy foot on Heav'en and Hell;
   In life to find thy hell and heav'en as thou abuse or use it well.

   So deemed the doughty Jew who dared by studied silence low to lay
   Orcus and Hades, lands of shades, the gloomy night of human day.

   Hard to the heart is final death: fain would an _Ens_ not end in _Nil_;
   Love made the senti'ment kindly good: the Priest perverted all to ill.

   While Reason sternly bids us die, Love longs for life beyond the grave:
   Our hearts, affections, hopes and fears for Life-to-be shall ever crave.

   Hence came the despot's darling dream, a Church to rule and sway the State;
   Hence sprang the train of countless griefs in priestly sway and rule innate.

   For future Life who dares reply? No witness at the bar have we;
   Save what the brother Potsherd tells,--old tales and novel jugglery.

   Who e'er return'd to teach the Truth, the things of Heaven and Hell to limn?
   And all we hear is only fit for grandam-talk and nursery-hymn.

   "Have mercy, man?" the Zâhid cries, "of our best visions rob us not!
   "Mankind a future life must have to balance life's unequal lot."

   "Nay," quoth the Magian, "'tis not so; I draw my wine for one for all.
   "A cup for this, a score for that, e'en as his measure's great or small:

   "Who drinks one bowl hath scant delight; to poorest passion he was born;
   "Who drains the score must e'er expect to rue the headache of the morn."

   Safely he jogs along the way which "Golden Mean" the sages call;
   Who scales the brow of frowning Alp must face full many a slip and fall.

   Here èxtremes meet, anointed Kings whose crowned heads uneasy lie,
   Whose cup of joy contains no more than tramps that on the dunghill die.

   To fate-doomed Sinner born and bred for dangling from the gallows-tree;
   To Saint who spends his holy days in rapturous hope his God to see;

   To all that breathe our upper air the hands of Dest'iny ever deal,
   In fixed and equal parts, their shares of joy and sorrow, woe and weal.

   "How comes it, then, our span of days in hunting wealth and fame we spend?
   "Why strive we (and all humans strive) for vain and visionary end?"

   Reply; mankind obeys a law that bids him labour, struggle, strain;
   The Sage well knowing its unworth, the Fool a-dreaming foolish gain.

   And who, 'mid e'en the Fools, but feels that half the joy is in the race
   For wealth and fame and place, nor sighs when comes success to crown the chase?

   Again: In Hind, Chin, Franguestân that accident of birth befell,
   Without our choice, our will, our voice: Faith is an accident as well.

   What to the Hindu saith the Frank: "Denier of the Laws divine!
   However godly-good thy Life, Hell is the home for thee and thine."

   "Go strain the draught before 'tis drunk, and learn that breathing every breath,
   "With every step, with every gest, some thing of life thou do'est to death."

   Replies the Hindu: "Wend thy way for foul and foolish Mlenchhas fit;
   "Your Pariah-par'adise woo and win; at such dog-Heav'en I laugh and spit.

   "Cannibals of the Holy Cow! who make your rav'ening maws the grave
   "Of Things with self-same right to live;--what Fiend the filthy license gave?"

   What to the Moslem cries the Frank? "A polygamic Theist thou!
   "From an impostor-Prophet turn; thy stubborn head to Jesus bow."

   Rejoins the Moslem: "Allah's one tho' with four Moslemahs I wive,
   "One-wife-men ye and (damnèd race!) you split your God to Three and Five."

   The Buddhist to Confucians thus: "Like dogs ye live, like dogs ye die;
   "Content ye rest with wretched earth; God, judgment, Hell ye fain defy."

   Retorts the Tartar: "Shall I lend mine only ready-money 'now,'
   For vain usurious 'Then' like thine, avaunt, a triple idiot Thou!"

   "With this poor life, with this mean world I fain complete what in me lies;
   I strive to perfect this my me; my sole ambition's to be wise."

   When doctors differ who decides amid the milliard-headed throng?
   Who save the madman dares to cry: "'Tis I am right, you all are wrong"?

   "You all are right, you all are wrong," we hear the careless Soofi say,
   "For each believes his glimm'ering lamp to be the gorgeous light of day."

   "_Thy_ faith why false, _my_ faith why true? 'tis all the work of Thine and Mine,
   "The fond and foolish love of self that makes the Mine excel the Thine."

   Cease then to mumble rotten bones; and strive to clothe with flesh and blood
   The skel'eton; and to shape a Form that all shall hail as fair and good.

   "For gen'erous youth," an Arab saith. "Jahim's[31] the only genial state;
   "Give us the fire but not the shame with the sad, sorry blest to mate."

   And if your Heav'en and Hell be true, and Fate that forced me to be born
   Force me to Heav'en or Hell--I go, and hold Fate's insolence in scorn.

   I want not this, I want not that, already sick of Me and Thee;
   And if we're both transform'd and changed, what then becomes of Thee and Me?

   Enough to think such things may be; to say they are not or they are
   Were folly: leave them all to Fate, nor wage on shadows useless war.

   Do what thy manhood bids thee do, from none but self expect applause;
   He noblest lives and noblest dies who makes and keeps his self-made laws.

   All other Life is living Death, a world where none but Phantoms dwell,
   A breath, a wind, a sound, a voice, a tinkling of the Camel-bell.

          *       *       *       *       *

   How then shall man so order life that when his tale of years is told,
   Like sated guest he wend his way; how shall his even tenour hold?

   Despite the Writ that stores the skull; despite the Table and the Pen;[32]
   Maugre the Fate that plays us down, her board the world, her pieces men?

   How when the light and glow of life wax dim in thickly gath'ering gloom,
   Shall mortal scoff at sting of Death, shall scorn the victory of the Tomb?

   One way, two paths, one end the grave. This runs athwart the flow'ery plain,
   That breasts the bush, the steep, the crag, in sun and wind and snow and rain:

   Who treads the first must look adown, must deem his life an all in all;
   Must see no heights where man may rise, must sight no depths where man may fall.

   Allah in Adam form must view; adore the Maker in the made
   Content to bask in Mâyâ's smile,[33] in joys of pain, in lights of shade,

   He breaks the Law, he burns the Book, he sends the Moolah back to school;
   Laughs at the beards of Saintly men; and dubs the Prophet dolt and fool.

   Embraces Cypress' taper-waist; cools feet on wavy breast of rill;
   Smiles in the Nargis' love-lorn eyes, and 'joys the dance of Daffodil;

   Melts in the saffron light of Dawn to hear the moaning of the Dove;
   Delights in Sundown's purpling hues when Bulbul woos the Rose's love.

   Finds mirth and joy in Jamshid-bowl; toys with the Daughter of the vine;
   And bids the beauteous cup-boy say, "Master I bring thee ruby wine!"[34]

   Sips from the maiden's lips the dew; brushes the bloom from virgin brow:--
   Such is his fleshly bliss that strives the Maker through the Made to know.

   I've tried them all, I find them all so same and tame, so drear, so dry;
   My gorge ariseth at the thought; I commune with myself and cry:--

   Better the myriad toils and pains that make the man to manhood true,
   This be the rule that guideth life; these be the laws for me and you:

   With Ignor'ance wage eternal war, to know thy self for ever strain,
   Thine ignorance of thine ignorance is thy fiercest foe, thy deadliest bane;

   That blunts thy sense, and dulls thy taste; that deafs thine ears, and blinds thine eyes;
   Creates the thing that never was, the Thing that ever is defies.

   The finite Atom infinite that forms thy circle's centre-dot,
   So full-sufficient for itself, for other selves existing not,

   Finds the world mighty as 'tis small; yet must be fought the unequal fray;
   A myriad giants here; and there a pinch of dust, a clod of clay.

   Yes! maugre all thy dreams of peace still must the fight unfair be fought;
   Where thou may'st learn the noblest law, to know that all we know is nought.

   True to thy Nature, to Thyself, Fame and Disfame nor hope nor fear:
   Enough to thee the small still voice aye thund'ering in thine inner ear.

   From self-approval seek applause: What ken not men thou kennest, thou!
   Spurn ev'ry idol others raise: Before thine own Ideal bow:

   Be thine own Deus: Make self free, liberal as the circling air:
   Thy Thought to thee an Empire be; break every prison'ing lock and bar:

   Do Thou the Ought to self aye owed; here all the duties meet and blend,
   In widest sense, withouten care of what began, for what shall end.

   Thus, as thou view the Phantom-forms which in the misty Past were thine,
   To be again the thing thou wast with honest pride thou may'st decline;

   And, glancing down the range of years, fear not thy future self to see;
   Resign'd to life, to death resign'd, as though the choice were nought to thee.

   On Thought itself feed not thy thought; nor turn from Sun and Light to gaze,
   At darkling cloisters paved with tombs, where rot the bones of bygone days:

   "Eat not thy heart," the Sages said; "nor mourn the Past, the buried Past;"
   Do what thou dost, be strong, be brave; and, like the Star, nor rest nor haste.

   Pluck the old woman from thy breast: Be stout in woe, be stark in weal;
   Do good for Good is good to do: Spurn bribe of Heav'en and threat of Hell.

   To seek the True, to glad the heart, such is of life the HIGHER LAW,
   Whose difference is the Man's degree, the Man of gold, the Man of straw.

   See not that something in Mankind that rouses hate or scorn or strife,
   Better the worm of Izrâil[35] than Death that walks in form of life.

   Survey thy kind as One whose wants in the great Human Whole unite;[36]
   The Homo rising high from earth to seek the Heav'ens of Life-in-Light;

   And hold Humanity one man, whose universal agony
   Still strains and strives to gain the goal, where agonies shall cease to be.

   Believe in all things; none believe; judge not nor warp by "Facts" the thought;
   See clear, hear clear, tho' life may seem Mâyâ and Mirage, Dream and Naught.

   Abjure the Why and seek the How: the God and gods enthroned on high,
   Are silent all, are silent still; nor hear thy voice, nor deign reply.

   The Now, that indivis'ible point which studs the length of infinite line
   Whose ends are nowhere, is thine all, the puny all thou callest thine.

   Perchance the law some Giver hath: Let be! let be! what canst thou know?
   A myriad races came and went; this Sphinx hath seen them come and go.

   Haply the Law that rules the world allows to man the widest range;
   And haply Fate's a Theist-word, subject to human chance and change.

   This "I" may find a future Life, a nobler copy of our own.
   Where every riddle shall be ree'd, where every knowledge shall be known;

   Where 'twill be man's to see the whole of what on Earth he sees in part;
   Where change shall ne'er surcharge the thought; nor hope deferr'd shall hurt the heart.

   But!--faded flow'er and fallen leaf no more shall deck the parent tree;
   And man once dropt by Tree of Life what hope of other life has he?

   The shatter'd bowl shall know repair; the riven lute shall sound once more;
   But who shall mend the clay of man, the stolen breath to man restore?

   The shiver'd clock again shall strike; the broken reed shall pipe again:
   But we, we die, and Death is one, the doom of brutes, the doom of men.

   Then, if Nirwânâ[37] round our life with nothingness, 'tis haply best;
   Thy toils and troubles, want and woe at length have won their guerdon--Rest.

   Cease, Abdû, Cease! Thy song is sung, nor think the gain the singer's prize;
   Till men hold Ignor'ance deadly sin, till man deserves his title "Wise:"[38]

   In Days to come, Days slow to dawn, when Wisdom deigns to dwell with men,
   These echoes of a voice long stilled haply shall wake responsive strain;

   Wend now thy way with brow serene, fear not thy humble tale to tell;--
   The whispers of the Desert-wind; the Tinkling of the Camel's bell.

                             טלם


[Sidenote: _The End of the Kasîdah--Christian Poetry._]

But then, again, a year later I find amongst his writings:--

    "Man wendeth to his long, long home,
      About the streets the mourners go;
    Behold the tomb, and hereby mete
      The length and depth of mortal woe.
    Thou hast nor lover, kin, nor friend!
      The deepest grief hath shallows.

    "Ah yes, thou hast; but close thine eyes
      Upon this world and gaze above.
    There, and there only, shalt thou find
      Unchanging and unmeasured love.
    Then dare the way, and meekly bend
      Thy footsteps t'ward the heavenly Friend.

                      "Dies Iræ!
    Lord, Saviour, God, my only stay,
    Desert me not that dreadful day."

Richard's idea was that every man, by doing all the good he could in
this life, always working for others, for the human race, always acting
"Excelsior," should leave a track of light behind him on this World as
he passes through. His idea of God was so immeasurably grander than
anything people are _usually_ taught to think about God. It always
seemed to him that we dwindled God down to our own mean imaginations;
that we made something like ourselves, only bigger, and far crueller.
There is some truth in this; we are always talking about God just as
if we understood Him. His idea of a Divine Being was so infinite, so
great, that to pray to Him was an impertinence; that it was monstrous
that we should expect Him to alter one of His decrees, because _we_
prayed for it; that He was a God of big universal love, but so far off,
as to be far above anything we can understand. These were the _utmost_
extent of his _own_ Agnostic fits.

Almost contemporary with these sentiments, I find the following
verses:--

    1.
    "Bright imaged in the glassy lake below,
      Crisped by the zephyrs' nimble run,
    I saw two sister stars appear.
      I looked above, there shone but one;
    Then fled the zephyrs, and my eye
    The sole reflection could descry.

    2.
    "Then rising high, the crescent skiff
      Thro' the deep azure rolled its way;
    On earth a misty shadow lay,
      While all of heaven was bright and gay.
    Then waxed the night cloud thin and rare,
    And died within its home, the air.

    3.
    "Thus senses that improve the soul
      To deadliest error oft give birth;
    Dust-born, they grovel and apply
      To highest heaven low rubs of earth,
    Fell fatal masters where they sway,
    Obedient slaves when taught t' obey.

    4.
    "Nor let th' immortal "I" depend
      On Reason, blind and faithless guide,
    Who knowing nothing knoweth all
      Of mortal folly--human pride;
    Not thus may truth be wooed and won--
    A _reasonable_ creed is none.

    5.
    "Who then thy falt'ring steps may lead
      O'er the wild waste of doubt and fear,
    Where sense and reason shed no ray?
      The marks and glooms what light may clear?
    Shall nature tread a law-girt course,
    While man walks earth a living corpse?

    6.
    "Ah, no! there is a heavenly guide
      That leads, directs this fragile clay;
    We call it spirit, soul, and life,
      Let mortal call it as he may;
    Man, go not far, seek not elsewhere;
    Search that within--Truth dwelleth _there_."

He was always in one of the two extremes, meaning _All_ or _Nothing_.
It is what we Catholics call "resisting of Divine grace;" it is
what Agnostics would call "resisting a temptation," or the correct
shibboleth, I believe, is "upholding his integrity," _i.e._
disbelieving in God and another _world_, which he _never did_ at any
time of his life.

[1] He was so broad and muscular that he did not look more than five
feet nine--but he really was two inches taller, and the one complaint
of his life was not to be able to grow another inch to make six feet.

[2] "The _Tayyárah_, or 'Flying Caravan,' is lightly laden, and travels
by forced marches."

[3] "The _Rakb_ is a dromedary-caravan, in which each person carries
only his saddle-bags. It usually descends by the road called El Khabt,
and makes Mecca on the fifth day."

[4] "By the term 'fatted ass' the intellectual lady alluded to her
royal husband."

[5] N.B.--I have still got some of Richard's bottles of this holy
water, if any one would wish to analyze it.--I. B.

[6] N.B.--I found in later years he had recently copied into this part
of his journal, from some paper, "The Meditations of a Hindu Prince and
Sceptic," by the author of "The Old Pindaree"--

     "All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never have trod,
     Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and steps of a God?
     Westward across the ocean, and Northward ayont the snow,
     Do they all stand gazing, as ever? and what do the wisest know?

     "Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarm,
     Like the wild bees heard in the treetops, or the gusts of a gathering storm;
     In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are seen,
     Yet we all say, 'Whence is the message? and what may the wonders mean?'

     "Shall I list to the word of the English, who came from the uttermost sea?
     'The secret, hath it been told you? and what is your message to me?'
     It is nought but the wide-world story how the earth and the heavens began;
     How the gods are glad and angry, and a Deity once a man.

     "I had thought, 'Perchance in the cities where the rulers of India dwell,
     Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle the earth with a spell,
     They have fathomed the depths we float on, or measured the unknown main:'
     Sadly they turn from the venture, and say that the quest is vain.

     "Is life, then, a dream and delusion? and where shall the dreamer awake?
     Is the world seen like shadows on water? and what if the mirror break?
     Shall it pass, as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is gathered and gone,
     From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning are level and lone?

     "Is there nought in the heavens above, whence the hail and the levin are hurled,
     But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the rolling world?--
     The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence and sleep
     With the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, and the voices of women who weep."

[7] I have only given the barest outlines of what took place, referring
my readers to the original, because, as there were between fifty and
fifty-five mosques, besides other places, and various interesting
ceremonies to be performed in each one, there would be no room for
anything else; and the same may be said of El Medinah.--I. B.

[8] On the _Dwárká_, before he had time to go down to the cabin and
change his clothes, one of his English brother officers, who was on
board the ship, gave him a sly kick, and said, "Get out of the way,
you dirty nigger." He often told me how he longed to hit him, but did
not dare to betray himself. He was also part of the way in the Red Sea
with my cousin William Strickland, a priest, and he used to tease him
by sitting opposite to him, reciting his Korán out loud, while William
was saying his breviary also out loud. At last one day Strickland got
up, saying, "Oh, my God, I can't stand this much more," and afterwards
these two became great friends.--I. B.

[9] This is absolutely untrue. Since Richard's death, two Englishmen,
out of jealousy, have made this remark--one only knew Syrian Christian
Arabic; the other, the dialect of Suez.

[10] The false dawn.

[11] The Demon of the Desert.

[12] Arafât, near Mecca.

[13] Hâfiz of Shirâz.

[14] Omar-i-Khayyâm, the tent-maker poet of Persia.

[15] A famous Mystic stoned for blasphemy.

[16] The "Philister" of "respectable" belief.

[17] Moses in the Korán.

[18] The Abana, River of Damascus.

[19] Death in Arabia rides a Camel, not a pale horse.

[20] Buddha.

[21] Confucius.

[22] The Soofi or Gnostic opposed to the Zâhid.

[23] Jehovah.

[24] Kayâni--of the race of Cyrus; old Guebre heroes.

[25] Supposed to be the Prophet Elijah.

[26] The Elephant.

[27] Mushtari: the Planet Jupiter.

[28] Plato and Aristotle.

[29] I think he is alluding, though he has not expressed it, to the
Marcionites' heresy of baptizing for the dead. The Marcionites were
heretics who lived at Sinope, A.D. 150. Marcian came to Rome and
believed in principles similar to the Manichæans. When a man died,
one of the Marcionites sat on his coffin, and another asked him if he
were willing to be baptised, and he answered, "Yes," upon which he was
baptised. These heretics quoted Paul (1 Cor. xv. 29): "Else what shall
they do which are baptised for the dead, if the dead do not rise at
all? why are they then baptised for the dead?"--ISABEL BURTON.

[30] Egypt; Kam, Kem, Khem (hierogl.), in the Demotic Khemi.

[31] Jehannum, Gehenna, Hell.

[32] Emblems of Kismet, or Destiny.

[33] Illusion.

[34] That all the senses, even the ear may enjoy.

[35] The Angel of Death.

[36] The "Great Man" of the Enochites and the Mormons.

[37] Comparative annihilation.

[38] "Homo sapiens."



CHAPTER IX.

HARAR--THE MOSLEM ABYSSINIA--THE TIMBUCTOO OF EAST AFRICA, THE
EXPLORATION OF WHICH HAD BEEN ATTEMPTED IN VAIN BY SOME THIRTY
TRAVELLLERS.


Richard returned up the Red Sea to Egypt, and much enjoyed the rest
and safety for a short time, and then returned to Bombay, his leave
being up; but the wandering fever was still upon him, and as the most
difficult place for a white man to enter was Harar, in Somali-land,
Abyssinia, he determined that that should be his object. It is
inhabited by a very dangerous race to deal with, and no white man had
ever penetrated to Harar. The first white man who went to Abyssinia
was kept prisoner till he died. The East India Company had long wished
to explore it, because Berberah, the chief port of Somali-land, is the
safest and best harbour on the western side of the Indian Ocean--far
better than Aden. They went to work with that strange mixture of
caution and generosity with which they treated those of their servants
who stepped out of what Richard calls their "quarter-deck" routine,
that is, to let him go as a private traveller, and the Government to
give him no protection, but would allow him to retain the same pay that
he would enjoy whilst on leave. Dr. Carter and others refused to do
more than to coast along in a cruiser.

Richard applied for Lieutenant Herne, of the 1st Bombay Fusiliers,
Lieutenant Stroyan, Indian Navy, and Lieutenant Speke, 46th Bengal
Native Infantry. Herne was distinguished by his surveys, photography,
and mechanics on the west coast of India, in Scinde, and on the Punjaub
rivers; Stroyan as amateur surveyor; and Speke, collector of the Fauna
of Tibet and the Himalayas and sportsman. Assistant-Surgeon Ellerton
Stocks, botanist, traveller, and a first-rate man in all ways, died
before the expedition started.

Jealousy, as usual, immediately rose up in opposition. First, Sir
James Outram, Political Resident at Aden, called it a tempting of
Providence, and Dr. Buist, the editor of the _Bombay Times_, was told
to run down the Somali Expedition, in which task he was assisted by the
unpopular chaplain. This was not very gratifying to four high-spirited
men; so, instead of using Berberah as a base of operations, then
westward to Harar, and then south-east to Zanzibar, the Resident
changed the whole scheme and made it fail. Herne was to go to Berberah,
where he was joined later by Stroyan. Speke was to land in a small
harbour called Bunder Guray, and to trace the watershed of the Wady
Nogal, to buy horses and camels, and collect red earth with gold in it;
but his little expedition failed through his guide's treachery. Herne
and Stroyan succeeded. Richard reserved for himself the post of danger.
Harar was as difficult to enter as Mecca. It is the southernmost
masonry-built settlement in North Equatorial Africa. He would go as an
Arab merchant. Harar had never been visited, has its own language, its
own unique history and traditions. The language was unwritten, but he
wrote a grammar, and a vocabulary in which the etymology is given, and
there he had enough savage anthropology to interest him. He writes--

 "In the first place, Berberah is the true key of the Red Sea, the
 centre of East African traffic, and the only safe place for shipping
 upon the Western Erythræan shore, from Suez to Guardafui, backed by
 lands capable of cultivation, and by hills covered with pine and other
 valuable trees, enjoying a comparatively temperate climate, with a
 regular, though thin monsoon. This harbour has been coveted by many a
 foreign conqueror. Circumstances have thrown it into our arms, and if
 we refuse a chance, another and a rival nation will not be so blind.
 [We have since given it away, and kept the far inferior Aden.] We are
 bound to protect the lives of subjects on this coast. In 1825 the crew
 of the _Mary Ann_ brig was treacherously murdered by the Somal. They
 continued in that state, and if to-morrow a Peninsular and Oriental
 Company steamer by any chance fell into their power, it would be
 the same history. Harar, scarcely three hundred miles distance from
 Aden, is a counterpart of the ill-famed Timbuctoo. A tradition exists
 that with the entrance of the first Christian, Harar will fall. All
 therefore who have attempted it were murdered. It was therefore a
 point of honour with me to utilize my title of Haji, by entering this
 City, visiting its Ruler, and returning in safety, after breaking the
 Guardian's spell."

[Sidenote: _He starts for Harar in Somali-land._]

This exploration of Harar was one of Richard's most splendid and
dangerous expeditions, and, for some reason or other, the least
known; the reason being, as I think, that his pilgrimage to Mecca was
still making a great noise, and that the Crimean War had cropped
up, deadening the interest in all _personal_ adventure. He therefore
thought himself fortunate in being able to persuade Lord Elphinstone,
Governor of Bombay, to patronize an expedition into Somali-land.

He was away four months. The journey was useful; at least, it has
proved so to the Egyptians, to the English, and now to the Italians.
He sailed away, leaving Herne, Stroyan, and Speke, each engaged on his
respective work, and arrived at Zayla.

 "My ship companions," he writes, "were the wildest of the wild, and
 as we came into port Zayla a barque came up to give us the bad news.
 Friendship between the Amir of Harar and the Governor of Zayla had
 been broken; the road through the Eesa Somal had been closed by the
 murder of Masúd, a favourite slave and adopted son of Sharmarkay;
 all strangers had been expelled the City for some misconduct by the
 Harar chief; moreover, small-pox was raging there with such violence
 that the Galla peasantry would allow neither ingress nor egress. The
 tide was out, and we waded a quarter of a mile amongst giant crabs,
 who showed gristly claws, sharp coralline, and seaweed so thick as to
 become almost like a mat. In the shallower pacts the sun was painfully
 hot even to my well-tried feet. I was taken immediately to the
 Governor at Zayla, a fellow Haji, who gave me hospitality.

 "The well-known sounds of El Islam returned from memory. Again the
 melodious chant of the _muezzin_--no evening bell can compare with it
 for solemnity and beauty--and in the neighbouring Mosque, the loudly
 intoned 'Amin' and 'Allaho Akbar,' far superior to any organ, rang in
 my ear. The evening gun of camp was represented by the _nakkarah_, or
 kettle-drum, which sounded about seven p.m. at the southern Gate; and
 at ten a second drumming warned the paterfamilias that it was time
 for home, and thieves and lovers, that it was the hour for bastinado.
 Nightfall was ushered in by the song, the dance, and the marriage
 festival--here no permission is required for 'native music in the
 lines'--and muffled figures flitted mysteriously through the dark
 alleys.

       *       *       *       *       *

 "After a peep through the open window, I fell asleep, feeling once
 more at home.

 [Sidenote: _Preparations at Zayla._]

 "I was too much of an Arab to weary of the endless preparations for
 forming a caravan. I used to provide myself with a Korán and sit
 receiving visitors, and would occasionally go into the Mosque, my
 servant carrying the prayer carpet, three hundred pair of eyes staring
 at me, and after reciting the customary two-bow prayer, in honour of
 the Mosque, I would place a sword and rosary before me, and, taking
 the Korán, read the cow-chapter, No. 18, in a loud and twanging voice.
 This is the character I adopted. You will bear in mind, if you please,
 that I am a Moslem merchant, a character not to be confounded with the
 notable individuals seen on ''Change.' Mercator, in the East, is a
 compound of tradesmen, divine, and T.G. Usually of gentle birth, he is
 everywhere welcomed and respected; and he bears in his mind and manner
 that, if Allah please, he may become Prime Minister a month after he
 has sold you a yard of cloth. Commerce appears to be an accident, not
 an essential, with him, yet he is by no means deficient in acumen.
 He is a grave and reverend seignior, with rosary in hand and Korán
 on lip; is generally a pilgrim; talks at dreary length about Holy
 Places; writes a pretty hand; has read and can recite much poetry;
 is master of his religion; demeans himself with respectability; is
 perfect in all points of ceremony and politeness, and feels equally at
 home whether Sultan or slave sit upon his counter. He has a wife and
 children in his own country, where he intends to spend the remnant of
 his days; but 'the world is uncertain'--'Fate descends, and man's eyes
 seeth it not'--'the earth is a charnel-house;' briefly, his many old
 saws give him a kind of theoretical consciousness that his bones may
 moulder in other places but his fatherland.

 "For half a generation we have been masters of Aden, filling Southern
 Arabia with our calicos and rupees--what is the present state of
 affairs there? We are dared by the Bedouins to come forth from behind
 our stone walls and fight like men in the plain,--British _protégés_
 are slaughtered within the range of our guns,--our allies' villages
 have been burned in sight of Aden,--our deserters are welcomed and
 our fugitive felons protected,--our supplies are cut off, and the
 garrison is reduced to extreme distress, at the word of a half-naked
 bandit,--the miscreant Bhagi, who murdered Captain Mylne in cold
 blood, still roams the hills unpunished,--gross insults are the sole
 acknowledgements of our peaceful overtures,--the British flag has been
 fired upon without return, our cruisers being ordered to act only on
 the defensive,--and our forbearance to attack is universally asserted
 and believed to arise from mere cowardice. Such is, and such will be,
 the opinion and the character of the Arab!

 "I stayed here for twenty-six days, rising at dawn; then went to
 the Terrace to perform my devotions, and make observation of my
 neighbours; breakfast at six, then coffee, pipe, and a nap; then
 receive visitors, who come by dozens with nothing to do or say. When
 they were only Somal, I wrote Arabic, or extracted from some useful
 book. When Arabs were there, I would recite tales from the 'Arabian
 Nights,' to their great delight. At eleven, dinner, more coffee and
 pipes; then the natives would go to sleep, and I wrote my journals and
 studies. At about two p.m. more visitors would come, and at sunset
 again to the Terrace, or walk to a mosque, where games are going on,
 or stroll to a camp of Bedawi. The Gates are locked at sunset, and the
 keys are carried to the Haji. It is not safe to be without the City
 later. Then comes supper.

 "After it we repair to the roof to enjoy the prospect of the far
 Tajarrah Hills and the white moonbeams sleeping upon the nearer sea.
 The evening star hangs like a diamond upon the still horizon; around
 the moon a pink zone of light mist, shading off into turquoise blue
 and a delicate green-like chrysopraz, invests the heavens with a
 peculiar charm. The scene is truly suggestive; behind us, purpling in
 the night air and silvered by the radiance from above, lie the wolds
 and mountains tenanted by the fiercest of savages, their shadowy
 mysterious forms exciting vague alarms in the traveller's breast.
 Sweet as the harp of David, the night-breeze and the music of the
 water comes up from the sea; but the ripple and the rustling sound
 alternate with the hyæna's laugh, and the jackal's cry, and the wild
 dog's lengthened howl.

 [Sidenote: _Desert Journey._]

 "This journey, which occupied nearly four months, was to be through a
 savage, treacherous, ferocious, and bloodthirsty people, whose tribes
 were in a constant state of blood-feud. The party consisted of nine,
 an _abban_ or guide, three Arab matchlock men, two women cooks, who
 were called Shehrazade and Deenarzade after the 'Arabian Nights,' a
 fourth servant, and a Bedawin woman to drive a donkey, which camels
 will follow and which is the custom. We had four or five mules,
 saddled and bridled, and camels for the baggage. Every one wept over
 us, and considered us dead men. The _abban_ objected to some routes on
 account of avoiding tribes with which he had a blood-feud."

This was, as I have said, far the most dangerous of Richard's
explorations, quite as difficult as Mecca, and far more difficult than
anything Stanley has ever done, with his advantages of men, money,
and luxuries. The women seemed to be much hardier than the men; they
carried the pipe and tobacco, led the camels, adjusted the burdens, at
the halt unloaded the cattle, disposed the baggage, covered them with a
mat tent, cooked the food, made tea and coffee, and bivouacked outside
the tent.

He writes--

 "The air was fresh and clear; and the night breeze was delicious
 after the stormy breath of day. The weary confinement of walls made
 the weary expanse a luxury to the sight, whilst the tumbling of the
 surf upon the near shore, and the music of the jackal, predisposed to
 sweet sleep. We now felt that at length the die was cast. Placing my
 pistols by my side, with my rifle butt for a pillow, and its barrel as
 a bed-fellow, I sought repose with none of the apprehension which even
 the most stout-hearted traveller knows before the start. It is the
 difference between fancy and reality, between anxiety and certainty;
 to men gifted with any imaginative powers the anticipation must ever
 be worse than the event. Thus it happens, that he who feels a thrill
 of fear before engaging in a peril, exchanges it for a throb of
 exultation when he finds himself hand to hand with the danger."

The description of the journey is filled in his notes by being hindered
and almost captured by Bedawi, lamed with thorns, the camels casting
themselves down from fatigue, famishing from hunger, and, worse, from
thirst--the only water being sulphurous, which affected both man and
beast--and attacks from lions, sleep being disturbed by large ants,
three-quarters of an inch long, with venomous stings. Everywhere
they went, everybody wept over them, as dead men. He finds time,
nevertheless, to remark, that at the height of 3350 feet he found a
buttercup and heard a woodpecker tapping, that reminded him of home. He
describes a sham attack of twelve Bedawi, who, when they saw what his
revolver could do, said they were only in fun.

At one of the kraals he gives an account of how, being surrounded by
Somals, they were boasting of their shooting, and of the skill with
which they used the shield, but they seemed not to understand the
proper use of the sword.

 "Thinking it was well to impress them with the superiority of arms, I
 requested them to put up one of their shields as a mark. They laughed
 very much, but would not comply. The Somal hate a vulture, because it
 eats the dead and dying; so, seeing a large brown bare-necked vulture
 at twenty paces distance, I shot it with my revolver; then I loaded a
 gun with swan-shot, which they had never seen, and, aiming at a bird
 that they considered far out of gunshot distance, I knocked it over
 flying. Fresh screams followed this marvellous feat, and they said,
 'Lo! he bringeth down the birds from heaven.' Their Chief, putting his
 forefinger in his mouth, praised Allah, and prayed to be defended from
 such a calamity; and always after, when they saw me approach, they
 said, 'Here comes the Shaykh who knows knowledge.' I then gave a stick
 to the best man; I provided myself in the same way, and allowed him
 to cut at me as much as ever he liked, easily warding off the blows
 with a parry. After repeated failures, and tiring himself enormously,
 he received a sounding blow from me upon the least bony part of his
 person. The crowd laughed long and loud, and the knight-at-arms
 retired in confusion.

 "Every now and then we got into difficulties with the Bedawi, who
 would not allow us to proceed, declaring the land was theirs. We
 did not deny the claim, but I threatened sorcery, death, and wild
 beasts, and foraging parties to their camels, children, and women.
 It generally brought them to their senses. They would spit on us for
 good luck, and let us depart. Once a Chief was smitten by Shehrazade's
 bulky charms, and wanted to carry her off. Once in the evening we came
 upon the fresh trail of a large Habr Awal cavalcade, which frightened
 my companions dreadfully. We were only nine men and two women, to
 contend against two hundred horsemen, and all, except the Hammal and
 Long Guled, would have run away at the first charge. The worst of the
 ride was over rough and stony road, the thorns tearing their feet and
 naked legs, and the camels slipping over the rounded pebbles.

 "The joy of coming to a kraal was great, where the Chiefs of the
 village appeared, bringing soft speech, sweet water, new milk, fat
 sheep and goats, for a _tobe_ of Cutch canvas. We passed a quiet,
 luxurious day of coffee and pipes, fresh cream and roasted mutton.
 After the great heats and dangers from horsemen on the plain, we
 enjoyed the cool breeze of the hills, cloudy skies, and the verdure of
 the glades which refreshed our beasts. Here I shot a few hawks, and
 was rewarded with loud exclamations of 'Allah preserve thy hand! may
 thy skill never fail thee before the foe.' A woman ran away from my
 steam kettle, thinking it was a weapon. They looked upon my sunburnt
 skin with a favour they denied to the lime-white face. The Somali
 Bedawi gradually affiliated me to their tribes.

 "At one village the people rushed out, exclaiming, 'Lo! let us look at
 the Kings;' at others, 'Come and see the white man; he is the Governor
 of Zayla.' My fairness (for, brown as I am, I am fair to them) and the
 Arab dress made me sometimes the ruler of Aden, the Chief of Zayla,
 the Haji's son, a boy, an old woman, a man painted white, a warrior in
 silver armour, a merchant, a pilgrim, a head priest, Ahmed the Indian,
 a Turk, an Egyptian, a Frenchman, a Banyan, a Sheríf, and, lastly, a
 calamity sent down from heaven to weary out the lives of the Somal.
 Every kraal had its own conjecture.

 "On December 9th, I rode a little off my way to visit some ruins,
 Darbíyah Kola, or Kola's Fort, so called on account of its Galla
 queen. There were once two cities, Aububah, and they fought like the
 Kilkenny cats till both were eaten up. This was about three hundred
 years ago, and the substantial ruins have fought a stern fight with
 Time.

 "Remnants of houses cumber the soil, and the carefully built wells are
 filled with rubbish. The palace was pointed out to me, with its walls
 of stone and clay, intersected by layers of woodwork. The Mosque is
 a large, roofless building, containing twelve square pillars of rude
 masonry, and the _mihrab_, or prayer niche, is denoted by a circular
 arch of tolerable construction. But the voice of the _muezzin_ is
 hushed for ever, and creepers now twine around the ruined fane. The
 scene was still and dreary as the grave; for a mile and a half in
 length all was ruins--ruins--ruins.

 "Leaving this Dead City, we rode towards the south-west between two
 rugged hills. Topping the ridge, we stood for a few minutes to observe
 the view before us. Beneath our feet lay a long grassy plain--the
 sight must have gladdened the hearts of our starving mules--and for
 the first time in Africa horses appeared grazing free amongst the
 bushes. A little further off lay the Aylonda Valley, studded with
 graves and dark with verdure. Beyond it stretched the Wady Haráwwah,
 a long gloomy hollow in the general level. The background was a bold
 sweep of blue hill, the second gradient of the Harar line, and on its
 summit, closing the western horizon, lay a golden streak, the Marar
 Prairie. Already I felt at the end of my journey.

 "It was not an unusual thing in the dusk to see a large animal
 following us with quick stealthy strides, and that I, sending a rifle
 ball as correctly as I could in the direction, put to flight a large
 lion.

 "The nearer I got to Harar, the more I was stopped by parties of
 Gallas, and some went on to report evil of me, and many threats were
 uttered. The 'End of Time' in the last march turned tail. 'Dost thou
 believe me to be a coward, O Pilgrim?' 'Of a truth I do,' I answered.
 Nothing abashed, and with joy at his heart, he hammered his mule with
 his heel, and rode off, saying, 'What hath man but a single life, and
 he who throweth it away, what is he but a fool?'"

He gives a good account of elephant-hunting, but they did not get
near any. The water was in some places so hard it raised lumps like
nettle-stings, and they had to butter themselves. At one place the
inhabitants flocked out to stare at them. He fired his rifle by way
of salute over the head of the prettiest girl. The people, delighted,
exclaimed, "Mod! Mod! honour to thee!" and he replied with shouts of
"Kulliban! may Heaven aid thee!"

 "When there is any danger a Somali watchman sings and addresses
 himself in dialogue, with different voices, to persuade thieves that
 several men are watching. Ours was a spectacle of wildness as he
 sat before the blazing fire. The 'End of Time' conceived the jocose
 idea of crowning me King of the country, with loud cries of 'Buh!
 Buh! Buh!' while showering leaves from a gum tree and water from a
 prayer-bottle over my head, and then with all solemnity bound on my
 turban. I was hindered and threatened in no end of places, and my
 companions threatened to desert me, saying, 'They will spoil that
 white skin of thine at Harar.' Still I pushed on. The Guda Birsi
 Bedawi number ten thousand spears.

 "One night we came upon a sheet of bright blaze, a fire threatening
 the whole prairie.

 "At last came the sign of leaving the Desert. The scene lifted, and we
 came to the second step of the Ethiopian highlands. In the midst of
 the valley beneath ran a serpentine of shining waters, the gladdest
 spectacle we had yet witnessed. Further in front, masses of hill
 rose abruptly from shady valleys, encircled on the far horizon by
 a straight blue line of ground resembling a distant sea. Behind us
 glared the desert. We had now reached the outskirts of civilization,
 where man, abandoning his flocks and herds, settles, cultivates, and
 attends to the comforts of life.

 "We saw fields, with lanes between, the daisy, the thistle, and the
 sweet-briar, settled villages, surrounded by strong _abatis_ of
 thorns, which stud the hills everywhere, clumps of trees, to which
 the beehives are hung, and yellow crops of holcus, or grain. The
 Harvest-Home-song sounded pleasant to my ears, and, contrasting with
 the silent desert, the hum of man's habitation was music. They
 flocked out to gaze upon us, unarmed, and welcomed us. We bathed in
 the waters, on whose banks were a multitude of huge Mantidæ, pink and
 tender green. I now had ample time to see the manners and customs of
 the settled Somali, as I was conducted to the cottage of the Gerad's
 pretty wife, and learned the home, and the day, and the food. They
 spoke Harari, Somali, Galla, Arabic, and dialects. My kettle seems to
 have created surprise everywhere.

 "Here the last preparations were made for entering this dreadful
 City. All my people, and my camels, and most of my goods, had to be
 left here for the return journey, and it was the duty of this Chief
 (Gerad) to accompany me. I happened to hear one of them say, 'Of what
 use is his gun? Before he could fetch fire I should put this arrow
 through him.' I wheeled round, and discharged a barrel over their
 heads, which threw them into convulsions of terror. The man I had now
 to depend upon was Adan bin Kaushan, a strong wiry Bedawin. He was
 tricky, ambitious, greedy of gain, fickle, restless, and treacherous,
 a cunning idiot, always so difficult to deal with. His sister was
 married to the father of the Amir of Harar, but he said, 'He would as
 soon walk into a crocodile's mouth as go into the walls of Harar.'
 He received a sword, a Korán, a turban, an Arab waistcoat of gaudy
 satin, about seventy _tobes_, and a similar proportion of indigo-dyed
 stuff--he privily complained to me that the Hammal had given him but
 twelve cloths. A list of his wants will best explain the man. He
 begged me to bring him from Berberah a silver-hilted sword and some
 soap, one thousand dollars, two sets of silver bracelets, twenty guns
 with powder and shot, snuff, a scarlet cloth coat embroidered with
 gold, some poison that would not fail, and any other little article
 of luxury which might be supposed to suit him. In return he was to
 present me with horses, mules, slaves, ivory, and other valuables: he
 forgot, however, to do so before he departed.

 "Whilst we were discussing the project, and getting on satisfactorily,
 five strangers well mounted rode in. Two were citizens, and three were
 Habr Awal Bedawi, high in the Amir's confidence; they had been sent to
 settle blood-money with Adan. They then told him that I, the Arab, was
 not one who bought and sold, but a spy; that I and my party should be
 sent prisoners to Harar. Adan would not give us up, falsely promising
 to present our salaams to the Amir. When they were gone he told me how
 afraid he was, and that it was impossible for him to conduct me to the
 City. I then relied upon what has made many a small man Great, my good
 star and audacity.

 "Driven to bay, I wrote an English letter from the Political Agent
 at Aden, to the Amir of Harar, intending to deliver it in person; it
 was 'neck or nothing.' I only took what was necessary, Sherwa the son
 of Adan, the Bedawi Actidon and Mad Said, and left everything behind
 me, excepting some presents for the Amir, a change of clothes, an
 Arab book or two, a few biscuits, ammunition, and a little tobacco.
 I passed through a lovely country, was stopped by the Gallas, and by
 the Habr Awal Bedawi, who offered, if we could wait till sunrise, to
 take us into the City; so I returned a polite answer, leading them
 to expect that I should wait till eight a.m. for them. I left my
 journals, sketches, and books in charge of Adan.

 [Sidenote: _He enters the City in Triumph._]

 "The journey was hard, and I encountered a Harar Grandee, mounted
 upon a handsomely caparisoned mule, and attended by servants. He was
 very courteous, and, seeing me thirsty, ordered me a cup of water.
 Finally arriving, at the crest of a hill, stood the City--the end
 of my present travel--a long, sombre line, strikingly contrasting
 with the white-washed towns of the East. The spectacle, materially
 speaking, was a disappointment; nothing conspicuous appeared but two
 grey minarets of rude shape; many would have grudged exposing three
 lives to win so paltry a prize. But of all that have attempted it,
 none ever succeeded in entering that pile of stones; the thoroughbred
 traveller will understand my exultation, although my two companions
 exchanged glances of wonder. Stopping while my companions bathed, I
 retired to the wayside and sketched the town. We arrived at three
 p.m., and advancing to the gate, Mad Said accosted a warder whom he
 knew, sent our salaams to the Amir, saying we came from Aden, and
 requested the honour of audience. The Habr Awal collected round me
 _inside_ the town, and scowling, inquired why we had not apprised them
 of our intention of entering the City; but it was 'war to the knife,'
 and I did not deign to answer.


 TEN DAYS AT HARAR--THE MOST EXCITING TRIAL OF ALL.


 "We were kept waiting half an hour, and were told by the warder to
 pass the threshold. Long Guled gave his animal to the two Bedawi,
 every one advising my attendants to escape with the beasts, as we
 were going to be killed, on the road to this African St. James. We
 were ordered to run, but we leisurely led our mules in spite of the
 guide's wrath, entered the gate, and strolled down the yard, which was
 full of Gallas with spears, and the waiting gave me an opportunity to
 inspect the place. I walked into a vast hall, a hundred feet long,
 between two long rows of Galla spearmen, between whose lines I had
 to pass. They were large half-naked savages, standing like statues,
 with fierce movable eyes, each one holding, with its butt end on the
 ground, a huge spear, with a head the size of a shovel. I purposely
 sauntered down them coolly with a swagger, with my eyes fixed upon
 their dangerous-looking faces. I had a six-shooter concealed in my
 waist-belt, and determined, at the first show of excitement, to run up
 to the Amir, and put it to his head, if it were necessary, to save my
 own life.

 [Sidenote: _Interview with the Amir._]

 "The Amir was like a little Indian Rajah, an etiolated youth about
 twenty-four or twenty-five years old, plain, thin bearded, with a
 yellow complexion, wrinkled brows, and protruding eyes. His dress was
 a flowing robe of crimson cloth, edged with snowy fur, and a narrow
 white turban tightly twisted round a tall conical cap of red velvet,
 like the old Turkish headgear of our painters. His throne was a
 common Indian _kursi_, or raised cot, about five feet long, with back
 and sides supported by a dwarf railing; being an invalid, he rested
 his elbow upon a pillow, under which appeared the hilt of a Cutch
 sabre. Ranged in double line, perpendicular to the Amir, stood the
 'Court,' his cousins and nearest relations, with right arms bared
 after the fashion of Abyssinia.

 "I entered this second avenue of Galla spearsmen with a loud 'Peace
 be upon ye!' to which H.H. replying graciously, and extending a hand,
 bony and yellow as a kite's claw, snapped his thumb and middle finger.
 Two chamberlains stepping forward, held my forearms, and assisted me
 to bend low over the fingers, which, however, I did not kiss, being
 naturally averse to performing that operation upon any but a woman's
 hand. My two servants then took their turn: in this case, after the
 back was saluted, the palm was presented for a repetition.[1] These
 preliminaries concluded, we were led to, and seated upon a mat in
 front of the Amir, who directed towards us a frowning brow and an
 inquisitive eye.

 "I made some inquiries about the Amir's health: he shook his head
 captiously, and inquired our errand. I drew from my pocket my own
 letter: it was carried by a chamberlain, with hands veiled in his
 _tobe_, to the Amir, who, after a brief glance, laid it upon the
 couch, and demanded further explanation. I then represented in Arabic
 that we had come from Aden, bearing the compliments of our _Daulah_,
 or Governor, and that we had entered Harar to see the light of
 H.H.'s countenance: this information concluded with a little speech
 describing the changes of Political Agents in Arabia, and alluding to
 the friendship formerly existing between the English and the deceased
 Chief Abubakr.

 "The Amir smiled graciously.

 "This smile, I must own, was a relief. We had been prepared for
 the worst, and the aspect of affairs in the Palace was by no means
 reassuring.

 "Whispering to his Treasurer, a little ugly man with a baldly shaven
 head, coarse features, pug nose, angry eyes, and stubbly beard, the
 Amir made a sign for us to retire. The _baisé main_ was repeated,
 and we backed out of the audience-shed in high favour. According to
 grandiloquent Bruce, 'the Court of London and that of Abyssinia are,
 in their principles, one;' the loiterers in the Harar palace-yard, who
 had before regarded us with cut-throat looks, now smiled as though
 they loved us. Marshalled by the guard, we issued from the precincts,
 and, after walking a hundred yards, entered the Amir's second palace,
 which we were told to consider our home. There we found the Bedawi,
 who, scarcely believing that we had escaped alive, grinned in the joy
 of their hearts, and we were at once provided from the Chief's kitchen
 with a dish of _shabta_, holcus cakes soaked in sour milk, and thickly
 powdered with red pepper, the salt of this inland region.

 "When we had eaten, the Treasurer reappeared, bearing the Amir's
 command that we should call upon his Wazir, the Gerad Mohammad. We
 found a venerable old man, whose benevolent countenance belied the
 reports current about him in Somali-land. Half rising, although his
 wrinkled brow showed suffering, he seated me by his side upon the
 carpeted masonry-bench, where lay the implements of his craft--reeds,
 inkstands, and whitewashed boards for paper--politely welcomed me,
 and, gravely stroking his cotton-coloured beard, desired to know my
 object in good Arabic.

 "I replied almost in the words used to the Amir, adding, however, some
 details, how in the old day one Madar Faríh had been charged by the
 late Sultan Abubakr with a present to the Governor of Aden, and that
 it was the wish of our people to re-establish friendly relations and
 commercial intercourse with Harar.

 "'Khayr Inshallah! it is well, if Allah please!' ejaculated the Gerad.
 I then bent over his hand, and took leave.

 "Returning, we inquired anxiously of the Treasurer about my servants'
 arms, which had not been returned, and were assured that they had
 been placed in the safest of storehouses, the Palace. I then sent a
 common six-barrelled revolver as a present to the Amir, explaining its
 use to the bearer, and we prepared to make ourselves as comfortable
 as possible. The interior of our new house was a clean room, with
 plain walls, and a floor of tamped earth; opposite the entrance were
 two broad steps of masonry, raised about two feet, and a yard above
 the ground, and covered with hard matting. I contrived to make upon
 the higher ledge a bed with the cushions which my companions used
 as _shabracques_, and after seeing the mules fed and tethered, lay
 down to rest, worn out by fatigue and profoundly impressed with the
 _poésie_ of our position. I was under the roof of a bigoted prince
 whose least word was death; amongst a people who detest foreigners;
 the only European that had ever passed over their inhospitable
 threshold; and, more than that, I was _the fated instrument of their
 future downfall_."

He gives a very detailed account of the City of Harar, its inhabitants,
and all he saw during his ten days there, for which I refer people to
"First Footsteps in East Africa," one large volume, 1856. He says--

 "The explorer must frequently rest satisfied with descrying from
 his Pisgah, the knowledge which another more fortunate is destined
 to acquire. _Inside_ Harar, I was so closely watched, that it was
 impossible to put pen to paper. It was only when I got back to Wilensi
 that I hastily collected the grammatical forms, and a vocabulary which
 proves that the language is not Arabic; that it _has_ an affinity with
 the Amharic. Harar has its own tongue, unintelligible to any save the
 citizens. Its little population of eight thousand souls is a distinct
 race. A common proverb is, 'Hard as the heart of Harar.' They are
 extremely bigoted, especially against Christians, and are fond of a
 religious war, or _jehád_, with the Gallas. They hold foreigners in
 hate and contempt, and divide them into two classes, Arabs and Somal.

 "The Somals say that the State dungeon is beneath the palace, and
 that he who once enters it lives with unkempt beard and untrimmed
 nails till the day when death sets him free. There is nothing more
 terrible; the captive is heavily ironed, lies in a filthy dungeon, and
 receives no food, except what he can obtain from his own family, or
 buy or beg from his guards. The Amir has bad health; I considered him
 consumptive. It is something in my favour that, as soon as I departed,
 he wrote to the acting Political Resident at Aden, earnestly begging
 to be supplied with a Frank physician, and offering protection to any
 European who might be persuaded to visit his dominions. His rule was
 severe, if not just, and it has all the prestige of secrecy. Even the
 Gerad Mohammad, even the Queen Dowager, are threatened with fetters if
 they offer uncalled-for advice. His principal occupation is spying his
 many stalwart cousins, indulging in vain fears of the English and the
 Turks, amassing treasure by commerce and cheating.

 "The Amir Ahmed is alive to the fact that some State should hedge in
 a Prince. Neither weapons nor rosaries are allowed in his presence;
 a chamberlain's robe acts as spittoon; whenever anything is given
 to or taken from him his hand must be kissed; even on horseback two
 attendants fan him with the hems of their garments. Except when
 engaged on the Haronic visits, which he, like his father, pays to
 the streets and byways at night, he is always surrounded by a strong
 body-guard. He rides to Mosque escorted by a dozen horsemen, and a
 score of footmen with guns and whips precede him; by his side walks
 an officer, shading him with a huge and heavily fringed red-satin
 umbrella--from India to Abyssinia the sign of princely dignity. Even
 at his prayers, two or three chosen matchlockmen stand over him with
 lighted fusees. When he rides forth in public, he is escorted by a
 party of fifty men; the running footmen crack their whips and shout,
 'Let! Let!' (Go! go!), and the citizens avoid stripes by retreating
 into the nearest house, or running into another street.

 [Sidenote: _Has Great Success._]

 "Immediately on our arrival we were called upon by all sorts of Arabs;
 they were very civil to me at first, but when the Amir ceased to send
 for me, just as at civilized Courts, they prudently cut me. The moment
 the Amir sent for me, my Habr Awal enemies, seeing the tide of fortune
 setting in my favour, changed their tactics, and proposed themselves
 as my escort to return to Berberah, which I politely refused. They
 did me all the harm they could, but my good star triumphed. After one
 day's rest, I was summoned to wait upon the Gerad Mohammad, who was
 Prime Minister. Sword in hand, and, followed by my two attendants, I
 walked to the Palace, and found him surrounded by six counsellors;
 they were eating _jat_, which has somewhat the effect of hashish.

 "He sat me by his right hand on the dais, where I ate _jat_, being,
 fortunately, used to these things, and fingered the rosary. Then
 followed prayer, and then a theological discussion, in which,
 fortunately, I was able to distinguish myself. My theology won general
 approbation and kind glances from the elders. In a very short time I
 was sent for by the Amir, and this time was allowed to approach the
 outer door with covered feet. I entered as ceremoniously as before,
 and the prince motioned me to sit near the Gerad, on a Persian rug to
 the right of the throne; my attendants on humble mats at a greater
 distance. After sundry inquiries of what was going on at Aden, the
 Resident's letter was suddenly produced by the Amir, who bade me
 explain its contents, and wished to know if it was my intention to buy
 and sell at Harar. I replied, 'We are neither buyers nor sellers; we
 have become your guests to pay our respects to the Amir, who may Allah
 preserve, and that the friendship between the two Powers may endure.'
 The Amir was pleased, and I therefore ventured to hope that the Prince
 would soon permit me to return, as the air of Harar was too dry for
 me, and that we were in danger of small-pox, then raging in the town,
 and through the Gerad, the Amir said, 'The reply will be vouchsafed,'
 and the interview was over.

 "I sent my salaam to one of the Ulema, Shaykh Jámi; he accepted the
 excuse of health and came to see me. He was remarkably well read in
 the religious sciences, and a great man at Mecca, with much influence
 with the Sultan, and employed on political Missions amongst the
 Chiefs. He started with the intention of winning the Crown of Glory by
 murdering the British Resident at Aden, but he was so struck with the
 order of justice of our rule, he offered El Islam to that officer, who
 received it so urbanely, that the simple Eastern, instead of cutting
 the Kaffir's throat, began to pray fervently for his conversion. We
 were kindly looked upon by a sick and decrepid eunuch, named Sultán. I
 used to spend my evenings preaching to the Gallas.

 [Sidenote: _Damaging Reports._]

 "The Gerad Mohammad was now worked upon by the Habr Awal, my enemies,
 to make inquiries about me, and one of the Ayyal Gedíd clan came up
 and reported that three brothers[2] had landed in the Somal country,
 that two of them were anxiously waiting at Berberah the return of
 the fourth from Harar, and that, though dressed like Moslems, they
 were really English spies in Government employ, and orders were
 issued for cutting off Caravans. We, however, were summoned to the
 Gerad's, where, fortunately for me, I found him suffering badly from
 bronchitis. I saw my chance. I related to him all its symptoms, and
 told him that if I could only get down to Aden, I could send him
 all the right remedies, with directions. He clung to the hope of
 escaping his sufferings, and begged me to lose no time. Presently
 the Amir sent for him, and in a few minutes I was sent for alone.
 A long conversation ensued about the state of Aden, of Zayla, of
 Berberah, and of Stamboul. The Chief put a variety of questions about
 Arabia, and every object there; the answer was that the necessity of
 commerce, confined us to the gloomy rock Aden. He used some obliging
 expressions about desiring our friendship, and having considerable
 respect for a people who built, he understood, large ships. I took the
 opportunity of praising Harar in cautious phrase, and especially of
 regretting that its coffee was not better known amongst the Franks.
 The small wizen-faced man smiled, as Moslems say, the smile of
 Umar;[3] seeing his brow relax for the first time, I told him that,
 being now restored to health, we requested his commands for Aden. He
 signified consent with a nod, and the Gerad, with many compliments,
 gave me a letter addressed to the Political Resident, and requested me
 to take charge of a mule as a present. I then arose, recited a short
 prayer, the gist of which was that the Amir's days and reign might be
 long in the land, and that the faces of his foes might be blackened
 here and hereafter, bent over his hand, and retired. Returning to the
 Gerad's levée-hut, I saw by the countenances of my two attendants that
 they were not a little anxious about the interview, and comforted them
 with the whispered word, 'Achha!' (all right!)

 "Presently appeared the Gerad, accompanied by two men, who brought
 my servants' arms, and the revolver which I had sent to the prince.
 This was a _contretemps_. It was clearly impossible to take back the
 present; besides which, I suspected some _finesse_ to discover my
 feelings towards him. The other course would ensure delay. I told the
 Gerad that the weapon was intended especially to preserve the Amir's
 life, and, for further effect, snapped caps in rapid succession, to
 the infinite terror of the august company. The Minister returned to
 his Master, and soon brought back the information that, after a day or
 two, another mule should be given to me. With suitable acknowledgments
 we arose, blessed the Gerad, bade adieu to the assembly, and departed
 joyful; the Hammal, in his glee, speaking broken English, even in the
 Amir's courtyard.

 "Shaykh Jámi was rendered joyful by the news he told me when I
 arrived; he had been informed that in the Town was a man who had
 brought down the birds from heaven, and the citizens had been thrown
 into a great excitement by my probable intentions. One of the
 principal Ulema, and a distinguished Haji, had been dreaming dreams in
 my favour, and sent their salaams. My long residence in the East had
 made me grateful to the learned, whose influence over the people, when
 unbiased by bigotry, is for the good. On January 11th, I was sent for
 by the Gerad, and given the second mule; he begged me not to forget
 his remedies as soon as I reached Aden, and I told him that I would
 start on the morrow. I scarcely had got in, when there were heavy
 showers and thunder. When I got up to mount early on Friday morning,
 of course a mule had strayed; then Shaykh Jámi would not go till
 Monday. Now, as I had been absent from my goods and chattels a whole
 fortnight, as the people at Harar are immensely fickle, as you never
 know the moment that the Amir may change his mind, for all African
 Cities are prisons on a large scale--you enter by your own will, but
 you leave by another's--I longed to start; however, the storms warned
 me to be patient, and I deterred my departure till next morning.

 [Sidenote: _He leaves Harar safely._]

 "Long before dawn on Saturday, January 13th, the mules were saddled,
 bridled, and charged with our scanty luggage. After a hasty breakfast
 we shook hands with old Sultán, the eunuch, mounted and pricked
 through the desert streets. Suddenly my weakness and sickness left
 me--so potent a drug is joy--and, as we passed the Gates, loudly
 salaaming to the warders, who were crouching over the fire inside, a
 weight of care and anxiety fell from me like a cloak of lead.

 "Yet I had time, on the top of my mule, for musing upon how melancholy
 a thing is Success. Whilst failure inspirits a man, attainment reads
 the sad prosy lesson that all our glories

    'Are shadows, not substantial things.'

 Truly said the _sayer_, 'Disappointment is the salt of life'--a
 salutary bitter which strengthens the mind for fresh exertion, and
 gives a double value to the prize.

 "This shade of melancholy soon passed away. We made in a direct line
 for Kondura. At one p.m. we safely threaded the Gallas' pass, and
 about an hour afterwards we exclaimed, 'Alhamdulillah,' at the sight
 of Sagharrah and the distant Marar Prairie. Entering the village,
 we discharged our firearms. The men gave cordial _poignées de
 mains_--some danced with joy to see us return alive; they had heard
 of our being imprisoned, bastinadoed, slaughtered; they swore that
 the Gerad was raising an army to rescue or revenge us--in fact, had
 we been their kinsmen, more excitement could not have been displayed.
 Lastly, in true humility, crept forward the "End of Time," who, as he
 kissed my hand, was upon the point of tears.

 "A pleasant evening was spent in recounting our perils, as travellers
 will do, and complimenting one another upon the power of our star.

 "At eight next morning we rode to Wilensi, and as we approached, all
 the villagers and wayfarers inquired if we were the party that had
 been put to death by the Amir of Harar.

 "Loud congratulations and shouts of joy awaited our arrival. The
 Kalendar was in a paroxysm of delight; both Shehrazade and Deenarzade
 were affected with giggling and what might be blushing. We reviewed
 our property and found that the One-eyed had been a faithful steward,
 so faithful indeed that he had wellnigh starved the two women.
 Presently appeared the Gerad and his sons, bringing with them my
 books; the former was at once invested with a gaudy Abyssinian
 _tobe_ of many colours, in which he sallied forth from the cottage
 the admired of all admirers. The pretty wife, Sudíyah, and the good
 Khayrah were made happy by sundry gifts of huge Birmingham ear-rings,
 brooches and bracelets, scissors, needles, and thread. The evening as
 usual ended in a feast.

 "We were obliged to halt a week at Wilensi to feed, for both man and
 beast to lay in a stock of strength for the long desert march before
 us, to buy onions, tobacco, spices, wooden platters, and a sort of
 bread called _karanji_. Here I made my grammar and vocabulary of the
 Harari tongue, under the supervision of Mad Said and Ali the poet, a
 Somali educated at Harar, who knew Arabic, Somali, Galla, and Harar
 languages.

 "On January 21st I wanted to start, but Shaykh Jámi appeared with
 all the incurables of the country. Nobody can form an idea of the
 difficulties that an Eastern will put in your way when you want to
 start, and unfortunately in nine cases out of ten the ruses they have
 resort to, _do_ prevent your starting. Now, in this case, I decided
 that talismans were the best and safest medicines in these mountains.
 The Shaykh doubted them, but when I exhibited my diploma as a
 Master-Sufi, a new light broke in upon him and his attendants. 'Verily
 he hath declared himself this day!' whispered each to his neighbour,
 sorely mystified. Shaykh Jámi carefully inspected the document, raised
 it reverently to his forehead, muttered prayers, and owned himself my
 pupil.

 [Sidenote: _A Fearful Desert Journey._]

 "Now, however, all my followers had got some reason why they could
 not go, so I sauntered out alone, attended only by the Hammal, and,
 in spite of the Chief summoning me to halt, I took an abrupt leave
 and went off, and entered the Marar Prairie with pleasure. The
 truants joined us later on, and we met a party whose Chief, a Somali,
 expressed astonishment at our escaping from Harar, told us that the
 Berberi were incensed with us for leaving the direct road, advised us
 to push on that night, to 'ware the bush, whence the Midjans would
 use their poisoned arrows. The Berberi had offered a hundred cows
 for our person dead or alive. Then my party sat down to debate; they
 palavered for three hours. They said that the camels could not walk,
 that the cold of the prairies was death to man, till darkness came on.
 Experience had taught me that it was waste of time to debate overnight
 about dangers to be faced next day, so I ate my dates, drank my milk,
 and lay down to enjoy sweet sleep in the tranquil silence of the
 desert. Although I did not know it till after my return from Berberah,
 Gerad Adan was my greatest danger. If his plotting had succeeded it
 would have cost him dear, but would also have proved fatal to me.
 The 23rd of January passed in the same manner, and the explanation
 I had with my men was, that on the morrow at dawn I would cross the
 Marar Prairie by myself; and we started at dawn on the 24th, giving a
 wide berth to the Berberis, whose camp-fires were quite visible at a
 distance. As we were about to enter the lands of the Habr Awal, our
 enemies, a week would elapse before we could get protection. We had
 resolved to reach the coast within the fortnight, instead of which a
 month's march was in prospect. Suddenly Beuh appeared, and I proposed
 to him that he should escort the Caravans to Zayla, and that I and the
 two others who had accompanied me to Harar would mount our mules, only
 carrying arms and provisions for four days. I pushed through the land
 of our enemies the Habr Awal. In the land we were to traverse every
 man's spear would be against us, so I chose the desert roads, and
 carefully avoided all the kraals. It was with serious apprehension
 that I pocketed all my remaining provisions--five biscuits, a few
 limes, a few lumps of sugar. Any accident to our mules, any delay
 would starve us; we were traversing a desert where no one would sell
 us meat or milk, and only one water-bottle in the whole party.

 [Sidenote: _Want of Water._]

 "We rode thirty-five miles over awful tracks. Our toil was rendered
 doubly dreadful by the Eastern traveller's dread--the demon of Thirst
 rode like Care behind us--for twenty-four hours we did not taste
 water, the sun parched our brains, the mirage mocked us at every
 turn, and the effect was a species of monomania. As I jogged along
 with eyes closed against the fiery air, no image unconnected with the
 want suggested itself. Water ever lay before me, water lying deep in
 the shady well, water in streams bubbling icy from the rock, water in
 pellucid lakes inviting me to plunge and revel in their treasures. Now
 an Indian cloud was showering upon me fluid more precious than molten
 pearl, then an invisible hand offered a bowl for which the mortal part
 would gladly have bartered years of life. Then--drear contrast!--I
 opened my eyes to a heat-reeking plain, and a sky of that eternal
 metallic blue so lovely to painter and poet, so blank and death-like
 to us, whose χαλον [Greek: chalon] was tempest, rain-storm, and the
 huge purple nimbus. I tried to talk--it was in vain; to sing--in vain;
 vainly to think; every idea was bound up in one subject--water.[4]

 "As a rule, twelve hours without water in the desert during hot
 weather kill a man. We had another frightful journey to the next
 water. I never suffered severely from thirst but on this expedition;
 probably it was in consequence of being at the time but in weak health
 so soon after Mecca. A few more hours and the little party would have
 been food for the desert beasts. We were saved by a bird. When we
 had been thirty-six hours without water we could go no further, and
 we were prepared to die the worst of all deaths. The short twilight
 of the tropics was drawing in, I looked up and saw a _katta_, or
 sand-grouse, with its pigeon-like flight, making for the nearer hills.
 These birds must drink at least once a day, and generally towards
 evening, when they are safe to carry water in their bills to their
 young. I cried out, 'See, the _katta_! the _katta_!' All revived at
 once, took heart, and followed the bird, which suddenly plunged down
 about a hundred yards away, showing us a charming spring, a little
 shaft of water, about two feet in diameter, in a margin of green. We
 jumped from our saddles, and men and beasts plunged their heads into
 the water and drank till they could drink no more. I have never since
 shot a _katta_.

 "With unspeakable delight, after another thirty hours, we saw in the
 distance a patch of lively green: our animals scented the blessing
 from afar, they raised their drooping ears, and started with us at
 a canter, till, turning a corner, we suddenly sighted sundry little
 wells. To spring from the saddle, to race with our mules, who now
 feared not the crumbling sides of the pits, to throw ourselves into
 the muddy pools, to drink a long slow draught, and to dash the water
 over our burning faces, took less time to do than to recount. A calmer
 inspection showed a necessity for caution; the surface was alive with
 tadpoles and insects: prudence, however, had little power at that
 time--we drank, and drank, and then drank again. As our mules had
 fallen with avidity upon the grass, I proposed to pass a few hours
 near the wells. My companions, however, pleading the old fear of
 lions, led the way before dark to a deserted kraal upon a neighbouring
 hill. We had marched this time about thirty hours _eastward_, and had
 entered a safe country belonging to the Bahgoba, our guide's clan.

 "There is nothing so dreadful as crossing a country full of blocks
 and boulders piled upon one another in rugged steps, and it was such
 a ravine, the Splügen of Somali-land, that we had to dismount. To a
 laden camel it is almost impossible; the best-fed horses, mules, or
 asses, having to perform the work of goats instead of their own, are
 worn out by it after a few hours; and this was what I and my party
 had to do, and often the boulders were covered with thorns two inches
 long, tipped with wooden points as sharp as a needle. After three days
 of hard travelling in this way we saw the face of man--some shepherds,
 who fled at our approach. We then followed an undulating growth of
 parched grass, shaping our course for Jebel Almis, to sailors the
 chief landmark of this coast, and for a certain thin blue stripe
 on the far horizon,--the sea,--upon which we gazed with gladdened
 eyes. That night we arrived at a kraal, unsaddled, and began to make
 ourselves comfortable, when we found we had fallen upon the Ayyal
 Shirdon, our bitterest enemies. They asked, 'What tribe be ye?' I
 boldly answered, 'Of Habr Gerhagis.' Thereupon ensued a war of words;
 they rudely insisted on knowing what had taken us to Harar, when a
 warrior armed with two spears came forward, recognized the 'End of
 Time,' and they retired but spoke of fighting. So we made ready with
 our weapons and bade them come on; but while they were considering,
 we saddled our mules and rode off. We stopped at three villages, and
 the Hammal failed to obtain even a drop of water from his relations.
 It was most distressful, as men and beasts were faint from thirst,
 so I determined to push forward for water that night. Many times the
 animals stopped,--a mute hint that they could go no further;--but
 _I_ pushed on, and the rest had learned to follow without a word.
 The moon arose, and still we tottered on. About midnight--delightful
 sound!--the murmur of the distant sea. Revived by the music, we pushed
 on more cheerily. At three in the morning we found some holes which
 supplied us with bitter water, truly delicious after fifteen hours'
 thirst. Repeated draughts of this element, and coarse stubbly grass,
 saved us and our mules. Rain came on, but we slept like the dead.
 At six, we resumed our march, going slowly along the seacoast, and
 at noon we were able to sit on the sands and bathe in the sea. Our
 beasts could hardly move, and slippery mud added to their troubles.
 At three p.m. we again got a patch of grass, and halted the animals
 to feed; and a mile further some wells, where we again rested them,
 watered them, finished our last mouthful of food, and prepared for a
 long night march.

 [Sidenote: _They reach Berberah--Join Speke, Herne, Stroyan._]

 "We managed to pass all our enemies in the dark, and they cursed the
 star that had enabled us to slip unhurt through their hands. I was
 obliged to call a halt within four miles of Berberah; the animals
 could not move, neither could the men, except the Hammal and I, and
 they all fell fast asleep on the stones. As soon as we could go on,
 a long dark line appeared upon the sandy horizon, the silhouettes of
 shipping showing against sea and sky. A cry of joy burst from every
 mouth. 'Cheer, boys, cheer! our toils here touch their end.' The 'End
 of Time' still whispered anxiously lest enemies might arise; we wound
 slowly and cautiously round the southern portion of the sleeping town,
 through bone-heaps, and jackals tearing their unsavoury prey, straight
 into the quarter of the Ayyal Gedíd, our protectors. Anxiously I
 inquired if my comrades had left Berberah, and heard with delight that
 they were there. It was two o'clock in the morning, and we had marched
 forty miles.

 "I dismounted at the huts where my comrades were living. A glad
 welcome, a dish of rice, and a glass of strong waters made amends for
 past privations and fatigue. The servants and the wretched mules were
 duly provided for, and I fell asleep, conscious of having performed a
 feat which, like a certain ride to York, will live in local annals for
 many and many a year.

 "Great fatigue is seldom followed by long sleep. Soon after sunrise
 I woke, hearing loud voices, seeing masses of black faces, and tawny
 wigs. The Berberah people, who had been informed of our five-day ride,
 swore that the thing was impossible, that we _had_ never, _could_
 never have been near Harar, but were astonished when they found it
 was true. I then proceeded to inspect my attendants and cattle. The
 former were delighted, having acquitted themselves of their trust;
 the poor mules were by no means so easily restored. Their backs were
 cut to the bone by the saddle, their heads drooped sadly, their hams
 showed dread marks of the spear-point. I directed them to be washed in
 the sea, to be dressed with cold-water bandages, and copiously fed.
 Through a broad gap, called Duss Malablay, appear in fine weather the
 granite walls of Wagar and Gulays, 5700 feet above the level of the
 sea. Lieutenant Herne found it would make an admirable sanitarium.
 The emporium of Eastern Africa has a salubrious climate, abundance
 of sweet water, a mild monsoon, a fine open country, an excellent
 harbour, a highly productive soil, is the meeting-place of commerce,
 has few rivals, and for half the money wasted on Aden, might have
 been covered with houses, gardens, and trees. My companions and I,
 after a day's rest, made some excursions. We had a few difficulties
 about our _Abans_, or protectors. We did not choose to be dictated
 to, so there was a general council of the elders. It took place upon
 the shore, each Chief forming a semicircle with his followers,
 all squatting on the sand, with shield and spear planted upright
 in the ground. I entered the circle sword in hand, and sat down in
 their midst. After much murmuring had gone on the Chief asked, in a
 loud voice, 'Who is thy protector?' The reply was, 'Burhale Nuh,'
 followed by an Arabic speech as long as an average sermon, and then,
 shouldering my blade, I left the circle abruptly. It was a success;
 they held a peace conference, and the olive waved over the braves of
 Berberah. On the 5th of February, 1855, I left my comrades _pro tem._,
 and went on board _El Kásab_, or the Reed, the ill-omened name of our
 cranky craft, and took with me the Hammal, Long Guled, and the 'End
 of Time,' who were in danger, and rejoiced at leaving Berberah with
 sound skins. I met with opposition at landing. I could not risk a
 quarrel so near Berberah, and was returning to moralize on the fate
 of Burckhardt--after a successful pilgrimage refused admittance to
 Aaron's tomb at Sinai--when a Bedawin ran to tell us that we might
 wander where we pleased.

 [Sidenote: _He sails for Aden._]

 "The captain of the _Reed_ drew off a great deal further than I
 ordered, and when I went down to go on board, the vessel was a mere
 speck upon the sea horizon. He managed to cast anchor at last, after
 driving his crazy craft through a bad sea. I stood on the shore making
 signs for a canoe, but he did not choose to see me till about one p.m.
 As soon as I found myself on quarter-deck--

 "'Dawwír el farmán!' (Shift the yard!) I shouted, with a voice of
 thunder.

 "The answer was a general hubbub. 'He surely will not sail in a sea
 like this?' asked the trembling captain of my companions.

 "'He will!' sententiously quoth the Hammal, with a Burleigh nod.

 "'It blows wind,' remonstrated the _rais_.

 "'And if it blew fire?' asked the Hammal, with the air _goguenard_,
 meaning that from the calamity of Frankish obstinacy there was no
 refuge.

 "A kind of death-wail rose, during which, to hide untimely laughter,
 I retreated to a large drawer in the stern of the vessel, called a
 cabin. There my ears could distinguish the loud entreaties of the
 crew, vainly urging my attendants to propose a day's delay. Then one
 of the garrison, accompanied by the Captain, who shook as with fever,
 resolved to act forlorn hope, and bring a _feu d'enfer_ of phrases to
 bear upon the Frank's hard brain. Scarcely, however, had the head of
 the sentence been delivered, before he was playfully upraised by his
 bushy hair and a handle somewhat more substantial, carried out of the
 cabin, and thrown, like a bag of biscuit, on the deck.

 "The case was hopeless. All strangers plunged into the sea--the
 popular way of landing in East Africa--the anchor was weighed, the ton
 of sail shaken out, and the _Reed_ began to dip and rise in the yeasty
 sea laboriously, as an alderman dancing a polka.

 "For the first time in my life I had the satisfaction of seeing the
 Somal unable to eat--unable to eat mutton!! In sea-sickness and
 needless terror, the Captain, crew, and passengers abandoned to us
 all the baked sheep, which we three, not being believers in the Evil
 Eye, ate from head to trotters with especial pleasure. That night the
 waves broke over us. The 'End of Time' occupied himself in roaring
 certain orisons which are reputed to calm stormy seas; he desisted
 only when Long Guled pointed out that a wilder gust seemed to follow,
 as in derision, each more emphatic period. The Captain, a noted
 reprobate, renowned on shore for his knowledge of erotic verse and
 admiration of the fair sex, prayed with fervour; he was joined by
 several of the crew, who apparently found the charm of novelty in the
 edifying exercise. About midnight a _sultan el bahr_, or sea-King--a
 species of whale--appeared close to our counter; and as these animals
 are famous for upsetting vessels in waggishness, the sight elicited a
 yell of terror, and a chorus of religious exclamations.

 "On the morning of Friday, the 9th of February, 1855, we hove in
 sight of Jebel Shamsan, the loftiest peak on the Aden crater. And ere
 evening fell, I had the pleasure of seeing the faces of friends and
 comrades once more.

       *       *       *       *       *

 [Sidenote: _Returns with Forty Men._]

 "If I had 'let well alone,' I should have done well; but I wanted
 to make a new expedition Nile-wards, _viâ_ Harar, on a larger and
 more imposing scale. For that I went back to Aden. On April 7th,
 1855, I returned successful. Lieutenant King, Indian Navy, commanded
 the gunboat _Mahi_, and entered the harbour of Berberah with us on
 board. I was in command of a party of forty-two men, armed, and we
 established an agency, and selected the site of our camp in a place
 where we could have the protection of the gunboat; but the Commander
 of the schooner had orders to relieve another ship, and so could not
 remain and superintend the departure of the Expedition. It was the
 time after the Fair, and one might say that Berberah was empty, and
 that there was scarcely any one but ourselves. Our tents were pitched
 in one line--Stroyan's to the right, Herne and myself in the middle,
 and Speke on the left. The baggage was placed between our tents, the
 camels were in front, the horses and mules behind us. Two sentries
 all night were regularly relieved and visited by ourselves. We were
 very well received, and they listened with respectful attention to a
 letter, in which the Political Resident at Aden enjoined them to treat
 us with consideration and hospitality. We had purchased fifty-six
 camels; Ogadayn Caravan was anxious for our escort. If we had departed
 then, perhaps all would have been well; but we expected instruments
 and other necessaries by the mid-April mail from Europe. Three days
 afterwards, a craft from Aden came in with a dozen Somals, who wanted
 to accompany us, and fortunately I feasted the Commander and the crew,
 which caused them to remain. We little knew that our lives hung upon
 a thread, and that had the vessel departed, as she would otherwise
 have done, the night before the attack, nothing could have saved us.
 Between two and three a.m. of April 19th, there was a cry that the
 enemy was upon us, three hundred and fifty strong. Hearing a rush of
 men, like a stormy wind, I sprang up, and called for my sabre, and
 sent Herne to ascertain the force of the foray. Armed with a 'Colt,'
 he went to the rear and left of the camp, the direction of danger,
 collecting some of the guards--others having already disappeared--and
 fired two shots into the assailants. Then finding himself alone, he
 turned hastily towards the tent; in so doing, he was tripped up by
 the ropes, and, as he arose, a Somali appeared in the act of striking
 at him with a club. Herne fired, floored the man, and, rejoining me,
 declared that the enemy was in great force and the guard nowhere.
 Meanwhile, I had aroused Stroyan and Speke, who were sleeping in the
 extreme right and left tents. The former, it is presumed, arose to
 defend himself, but, as the sequel shows, we never saw him alive.
 Speke, awakened by the report of firearms, but supposing it to be the
 normal false alarm--a warning to plunderers--remained where he was;
 presently, hearing clubs rattling upon his tent, and feet shuffling
 around, he ran to my _rowtie_, which we prepared to defend as long as
 possible.

 [Sidenote: _They are attacked--A Desperate Fight._]

 "The enemy swarmed like hornets, with shouts and screams, intending to
 terrify, and proving that overwhelming odds were against us. It was by
 no means easy to avoid in the shades of night the jobbing of javelins,
 and the long, heavy daggers thrown at our legs from under and through
 the opening of the tent. We three remained together; Herne knelt by
 my right, on my left was Speke guarding the entrance, I stood in the
 centre, having nothing but a sabre. The revolvers were used by my
 companions with deadly effect; unfortunately there was but one pair.
 When the fire was exhausted, Herne went to search for his powder-horn,
 and, that failing, to find some spears usually tied to the tent-pole.
 Whilst thus engaged, he saw a man breaking into the rear of our
 _rowtie_, and came back to inform me of the circumstance.

 "At this time, about five minutes after the beginning of the affray,
 the tent had been almost beaten down--an Arab custom, with which we
 were all familiar--and had we been entangled in its folds, like mice
 in a trap, we should have been speared with unpleasant facility. I
 gave the word for escape, and sallied out, closely followed by Herne,
 with Speke in the rear. The prospect was not agreeable. About twenty
 men were kneeling and crouching at the tent entrance, whilst many
 dusky figures stood further off, or ran about shouting the war-cry,
 or with shouts and blows drove away our camels. Among the enemy were
 many of our friends and attendants; the coast being open to them,
 they naturally ran away, firing a few useless shots, and receiving a
 modicum of flesh-wounds.

 "After breaking through the mob at the tent entrance, imagining
 that I saw the form of Stroyan lying upon the sand, I cut my way
 with my sabre towards it amongst dozens of Somal, whose war-clubs
 worked without mercy, whilst the Balyuz, who was violently pushing
 me out of the fray, rendered the strokes of my sabre uncertain.
 This individual was cool and collected. Though incapacitated by a
 sore right thumb from using the spear, he did not shun danger, and
 passed unhurt through the midst of the enemy. His efforts, however,
 only illustrated the venerable adage, 'Defend me from my friends.'
 I mistook him in the dark and turned to cut him down; he cried
 out in alarm. The well-known voice stopped me, and that instant's
 hesitation allowed a spearman to step forward, and leave his javelin
 in my mouth, and retire before he could be punished. Escaping as by
 a miracle, I sought some support. Many of our Somal and servants
 lurking in the darkness offered to advance, but 'tailed off' to a man
 as we approached the foe. Presently the Balyuz reappeared, and led
 me towards the place where he believed my three comrades had taken
 refuge. I followed him, sending the only man that showed presence of
 mind, one Golab of the Yusuf tribe, to bring back the _Aynterad_ craft
 from the Spit into the centre of the harbour. Again losing the Balyuz
 in the darkness, I spent the interval before dawn wandering in search
 of my comrades, and lying down when overpowered with faintness and
 pain. As the day broke, with my remaining strength I reached the head
 of the creek, was carried into the vessel, and persuaded the crew to
 arm themselves and visit the scene of our disasters.

 "Meanwhile, Herne, who had closely followed me, fell back, using the
 butt-end of his discharged six-shooter upon the hard heads around
 him. In so doing he came upon a dozen men, who, though they loudly
 vociferated, 'Kill the Franks who are killing the Somal!' allowed him
 to pass uninjured.

 "He then sought his comrades in the empty huts of the town, and at
 early dawn was joined by the Balyuz, who was similarly employed. When
 day broke, he also sent a negro to stop the native craft, which was
 apparently sailing out of the harbour, and in due time he came on
 board. With the exception of sundry stiff blows with the war-club,
 Herne had the fortune to escape unhurt.

 "On the other hand, Speke's escape was in every way wonderful.
 Sallying from the tent, he levelled his 'Dean and Adams' close to an
 assailant's breast. The pistol refused to revolve. A sharp blow of a
 war-club upon the chest felled our comrade, who was in the rear and
 unseen. When he fell, two or three men sprang upon him, pinioned his
 hands behind, felt him for concealed weapons--an operation to which he
 submitted in some alarm--and led him towards the rear, as he supposed,
 to be slaughtered. There, Speke, who could scarcely breathe from the
 pain of the blow, asked a captor to tie his hands before instead of
 behind, and begged a drop of water to relieve his excruciating thirst.
 The savage defended him against a number of the Somal who came up
 threatening and brandishing their spears. He brought a cloth for the
 wounded man to lie upon, and lost no time in procuring a draught of
 water.

 "Speke remained upon the ground till dawn. During the interval he
 witnessed the war-dance of the savages--a scene striking in the
 extreme; the tallest and largest warriors marching with the deepest
 and most solemn tones, the song of thanksgiving. At a little distance
 the grey uncertain light disclosed four or five men lying desperately
 hurt, whilst their kinsmen kneaded their limbs, pouring water upon
 their wounds, and placing lumps of dates in their stiffening hands.[5]
 As day broke, the division of plunder caused angry passions to rise.
 The dead and dying were abandoned. One party made a rush upon the
 cattle, and with shouts and yells drove them off towards the wilds.
 Some loaded themselves with goods; others fought over pieces of
 cloth, which they tore with hand and dagger; whilst the disappointed,
 vociferating with rage, struck at one another and brandished their
 spears. More than once during these scenes a panic seized them; they
 moved off in a body to some distance; and there is little doubt that,
 had our guard struck one blow, we might still have won the day.

 [Sidenote: _Richard and Speke desperately wounded._]

 "Speke's captor went to seek his own portion of the spoil, when a
 Somal came up and asked in Hindostani what business the Frank had in
 their country, and added that he would kill him if a Christian, but
 spare the life of a brother Moslem. The wounded man replied that he
 was going to Zanzibar, that he was still a Nazarene, and therefore
 that the work had better be done at once. The savage laughed, and
 passed on. He was succeeded by a second, who, equally compassionate,
 whirled a sword round his head, twice pretending to strike, but
 returning to the plunder without doing damage. Presently came another
 manner of assailant. Speke, who had extricated his hands, caught the
 spear levelled at his breast, but received at the same moment a blow
 which, paralyzing his arm, caused him to lose his hold. In defending
 his heart from a succession of thrusts, he received severe wounds
 on the back of his hand, his right shoulder, and his left thigh.
 Pausing a little, the wretch crossed to the other side, and suddenly
 passed his spear clean through the right leg of the wounded man.
 The latter, 'smelling death,' then leapt up, and, taking advantage
 of his assailant's terror, rushed headlong towards the sea. Looking
 behind, he avoided the javelin hurled at his back, and had the good
 fortune to run, without further accident, the gauntlet of a score of
 missiles. When pursuit was discontinued, he sat down, faint from loss
 of blood, upon a sandhill. Recovering strength by a few minutes' rest,
 he staggered on to the town, where some old women directed him to us.
 Then, pursuing his way, he fell in with the party sent to seek him,
 and by their aid reached the craft, having walked and run at least
 three miles, after receiving eleven wounds, two of which had pierced
 his thighs. A touching lesson how difficult it is to kill a man in
 sound health![6] My difficulty was, with my comrades' aid, to extract
 the javelin which transfixed my jaws. It destroyed my palate and four
 good back teeth, and left wounds on my two cheeks.

 "When we three survivors had reached the craft, Yusuf, the Captain,
 armed his men with muskets and spears, landed them near the camp,
 and ascertained that the enemy, expecting a fresh attack, had fled,
 carrying away our cloth, tobacco, swords, and other weapons. The
 corpse of Stroyan was then brought on board. Our lamented comrade
 was already stark and cold. A spear had traversed his heart, another
 had pierced his abdomen, and a frightful gash, apparently of a
 sword, had opened the upper part of his forehead. The body had been
 bruised with war-clubs, and the thighs showed marks of violence after
 death. This was the severest affliction that befell us. We had lived
 together like brothers. Stroyan was a universal favourite, and his
 sterling qualities of manly courage, physical endurance, and steady
 perseverance had augured for him a bright career, thus prematurely cut
 off. Truly melancholy to us was the contrast between the evening when
 he sat with us full of life and spirits, and the morning when we saw
 amongst us a livid corpse.

 "We had hoped to preserve the remains of our friend for interment at
 Aden. But so rapid were the effects of exposure that we were compelled
 most reluctantly, on the morning of the 20th of April, to commit them
 to the deep, Herne reading the Funeral Service.

 "Then, with heavy hearts, we set sail for the near Arabian shore,
 and, after a tedious two days, carried our friends the news of the
 unexpected disaster.

 "RICHARD F. BURTON."

When Speke wrote the manuscript of this affair, and in _Blackwood_, and
also in his book on the "Sources of the Nile," he said that _he_ was
the Head of the Expedition; _he_ had given the order for the night, it
was before _him_ the spies were brought, _he_ was the first to turn
out, and no one but _he_ had the courage to defend himself. It is
hardly worth while to contradict it. It is obvious that this expedition
could only be commanded by a man who knew Arabic and some of the other
languages, of which he was perfectly ignorant.

So the results of this Expedition, to sum up in short, were, that they
barely escaped being caught like mice in a trap, by having their tents
thrown down upon them, the four fought bravely against three hundred
and fifty Bedawi, poor Stroyan was killed, Herne was untouched, Richard
and Speke were desperately wounded, though they all cut their way
gallantly through the enemy. Poor Speke had eleven wounds, and Richard,
with a lance transfixing his jaws, which carried away four back teeth
and part of his palate, wandered up and down the coast suffering from
his wounds, fever, hunger, and thirst consequent on the wounds; but
they met, they carried off the dead body of their comrade, and were
taken on board the native dhow or boat, which the fortunate accident
of Richard's hospitality had retained there just half an hour, long
enough to save them, and the natives sacked their property. They were
so badly wounded, he had to return to England, and here his wounds
soon healed and he picked up health. He rendered an account of his
explorations before the Royal Geographical Society.[7] After a month's
rest, he obtained leave to volunteer for the Crimea. Here I would
rather give his own original manuscript word for word, because it is so
fresh, and, in a few pages, gives a better insight into outspoken truth
than many other large volumes.

[1] In Abyssinia, according to the Lord of Geesh, this is a mark of
royal familiarity and confidence.

[2] "Speke, Herne, and Stroyan."

[3] "Because it was reported that he had never smiled but once."

[4] I often thought Grant Allen, in the third volume of "The Devil's
Die," drew his account of the journey of Mohammed Ali and Ivan Royle
from Eagle City through the desert to Carthage on the edge of the
desert from Richard's journey from Harar; it is so like it--but he told
me he did not.--I. B.

[5] "The Somal place dates in the hands of the fallen to ascertain the
extent of injury. He that cannot eat that delicacy is justly decided to
be _in articulo_."

[6] "In less than a month after receiving such injuries, Speke was on
his way to England. He never felt the least inconvenience from the
wounds, which closed up like indiarubber."

[7] He began to prepare his public account of Harar in "First Footsteps
in East Africa," one large volume, which, however, did not see the
light till 1856. It might have been called "Harar," to distinguish it
from the trial trip previous to the Great Lake Expedition.



CHAPTER X.

WITH BEATSON'S HORSE.


[Sidenote: _The Crimea._]

The Crimean War is an affair of the last generation; thirty years'
distance has given it a certain perspective, and assigned its proper
rank and place in the panorama of the nineteenth century. Estimates
of its importance, of course, vary; while one man would vindicate its
_péripéties_ on the plea of being the first genuine attempt to develop
the European Concert, to create an International tribunal for the
discouragement of the modern revival of _La Force prime le droit_,
and for the protection of the weak minority, others, like myself,
look upon it as an unmitigated evil to England. It showed up all her
characteristic unreadiness, all her defects of organization. It proved
that she could not _then_ produce a single great _sailor_ or _soldier_.
It washed her dirty linen in public, to the disgust and contempt of
Europe; and, lastly, it taught her the wholly novel and unpleasant
lesson of "playing second fiddle" (as the phrase is) to France.
Considered with regard to her foreign affairs, this disastrous blunder
lost us for ever the affection of Russia, our oldest and often our only
friend amongst the continentals of Europe. It barred the inevitable
growth of the northern Colossus in a southern direction, and encouraged
her mighty spread to the south-east, India-wards, at the same time
doubling her extent by the absorption of Turcomania.

The causes which led to the war are manifold enough. Some are trivial
enough, like the indiscreet revelation of Czar Nicholas' private talk,
talk anent the "Sick Man," by the undiplomatic indiscretion of the
diplomatist, Sir Hamilton Seymour. Others are vital, especially the
weariness caused by a long sleep of peace which made England, at once
the most unmilitary and the most fighting of peoples, "spoil for a
row." The belief in the wretched Turk's power of recuperation and even
of progress had been diffused by such authorities as Lords Palmerston
and Stratford de Redcliffe, and, _en route_ to the war, I often
heard, to my disgust, British officers exclaim, "If there ever be a
justifiable campaign (in support of the unspeakable Turk!) it is this."

Outside England, the main moving cause was our acute ally Louis
Napoleon, whose ambition was to figure arm-in-arm in the field with
the nation which annihilated his uncle. But he modestly proposed
that France should supply the army, England the navy, an arrangement
against which, even now, little can be said. Here, however, our jaunty
statesman stepped in; Cupidon (Lord Palmerston), the man with the straw
in his mouth, the persistent "Chaffer" of wiser men that appreciated
the importance of the Fenian movement, the opposer of the Suez
Canal,[1] the Minister who died one day and was forgotten the next,
refused to give up the wreath of glory; and, upon the principle that
one Englishman can fight three Frenchmen, sent an utterly inadequate
force and enabled the French to "revenge Waterloo." French diplomatists
were heavily backed against English; a nervous desire to preserve the
_entente cordiale_ made English Generals and Admirals (as at Alma and
the bombardment of Sebastopol) put up with the jockeying and bullying
measures of French officers. And the alliance ended not an hour too
soon.

After French successes and our failures the _piou-piou_ would cry
aloud, "Malakoff--yes, yes; Redan--no, no;" whereto Tommy Atkins
replied with a growl, "Waterloo, ye beggars!" And the English medal
distributed to the _troupier_ was pleasantly known as the "Médaille de
Sauvetage." At the end of the disastrous year '56 England had come up
smiling, after many a knock-down blow, and was ready to go in and win.
But Louis Napoleon had obtained all _he_ wanted, the war was becoming
irksome to _his_ fickle lieges; so an untimely peace was patched up,
and England was left to pay the piper by the ever-increasing danger to
India.

After the disastrous skirmish with the Somali at Berberah, it is no
wonder that I returned to England on sick certificate, wounded and
sorely discomfited. The Crimean War seemed to me some opportunity
of recovering my spirits, and, as soon as my health permitted, I
applied myself to the ungrateful task of volunteering. London then
was in the liveliest state of excitement about the Crimean bungles,
and the ladies pitilessly cut every officer who shirked his duty. So
I read my paper about Harar before the Royal Geographical Society,
and had the pleasure of being assured by an ancient gentleman, who
had never _smelt_ Africa, that when approaching the town Harar I had
crossed a large and rapid river. It was in vain for me to reject this
information. Every one seemed to think he must be right.[2]

Having obtained a few letters of introduction, and remembering that
I had served under General James Simpson, at Sakhar, in Sind, I
farewelled my friends, and my next step was to hurry through France,
and to embark at Marseille on board one of the Messageries Impériales,
bound for Constantinople. Very imperial was the demeanour of her
officers. They took command of the passengers in most absolute style,
and soundly wigged an Englishman, a Colonel, for opening a port, and
shipping a sea. I was ashamed of my fellow-countryman's tameness, and
yet I knew him to be a brave man. The ship's surgeon was Dr. Nicora,
who afterwards became a friend of ours at Damascus, where he died
attached to the French sanitary establishment; he talked much, and
could not conceal his Anglophobia and hatred of the English. The only
pleasant Frenchman on board was General MacMahon, then fresh from his
Algerian campaign, and newly transferred to the Crimea, where his
fortunes began.

It was a spring voyage on summer seas, and in due time we stared at
the Golden Horn, and lodged ourselves at Missiri's Hôtel. The owner,
who had been a dragoman to Eöthen, presumed upon his reputation, and
made his house unpleasant. His wine, called "Tenedos," was atrocious,
his cookery third rate, and his prices first rate. He sternly forbade
"gambling," as he called card-playing, in his house, private as well
as public; and we had periodically to kick downstairs the impudent
dragomans who brought us his insolent messages. However, he had
some excuse. Society at Missiri's was decidedly mixed; "bahaduring"
was the rule, and the extra military swagger of the juveniles,
assistant-surgeons, commissariats, and such genus, booted to the
crupper, was a caution to veterans.

At Stamboul, I met Fred Wingfield, who was bound to Balaclava, as
assistant under the unfortunate Mr. Commissary-General Filder, and had
to congratulate myself upon my good fortune. We steamed together over
the inhospitable Euxine, which showed me the reason for its sombre name.

The waters are in parts abnormally sweet, and they appear veiled in a
dark vapour. Utterly unknown the blues, amethyst and turquoise, of that
sea of beauty, the Mediterranean; the same is the case with the smaller
Palus Meotis--Azoff. After the normal three days we sighted the Tauric
Chersonese, the land of the Cimmerians and Scythians, the colony of the
Greek, the conquest of Janghiz and the Khans of Turkey, and finally
annexed by Russia after the wars, in which Charles XII. had taught the
Slav to fight. We then made Balaclava (Balik-liwa, "Fish town"), with
its dwarf fjord, dug out of dove-coloured limestones, and forming a
little port stuffed to repletion with every manner of craft.

But it had greatly improved since October 17, 1854, when we first
occupied it and formally opened the absurdly so-called siege, in which
we were as often the besieged as the besiegers. Under a prodigiously
fierce-looking provost-marshal, whose every look meant "cat," some
cleanliness and discipline had been introduced amongst the suttlers and
scoundrels who populated the townlet. Store-ships no longer crept in,
reported cargoes which were worth their weight of gold to miserables,
living

    "On coffee raw and potted cat,"

and crept out again without breaking bulk. A decent road had been run
through Kadikeui (Kazi's village) to camp and to the front, and men no
longer sank ankle-deep in dust, or calf-deep in mud. In tact, England
was, in the parlance of the "ring," getting her second wind, and was
settling down to her work!

The unfortunate Lord Raglan, with his _courage antique_, his
old-fashioned excess of courtesy, and his nervous dread of prejudicing
the _entente cordiale_ (!) between England and France, had lately died.
He was in one point exactly the man _not_ wanted. At his age and with
one arm and many infirmities, he could not come up to the idea of Sir
Charles Napier's model officer under the same circumstances, "eternally
on horseback, with a sword in his hand, eating, sleeping, and drinking
in the saddle."

But with more energy and fitness for command he might have deputed
others to take his place. A good ordinary man, placed by the folly of
his aristocratic friends in extraordinary circumstances, he was fated,
temporarily, to ruin the prestige of England. He began by allowing
himself to be ignobly tricked by that shallow intriguer, Maréchal de
Saint Arnaud (_alias_ Leroy). At Alma he was persuaded to take the
worst and the most perilous position; his delicacy in not disturbing
the last hours of his fellow Commander-in-Chief prevented his capturing
the northern forts of Sebastopol, which Todleben openly declared were
to be stormed by a _coup de main_; and allowed Louis Napoleon, in
the _Moniteur_, to blame England only for the _lâches_ of the French,
after the "last of European battles fought on the old lines," etc. At
Inkermann, where the Guards defended themselves, like prehistoric men,
with stones, Lord Raglan allowed his whole army to be surprised by the
Russians, and to be saved by General Bosquet, with a host of Zouaves,
Chasseurs, and Algerian rifles. No wonder that a Russian general
declared, "The French saved the English at Inkermann as the Prussians
did at Waterloo, and all Europe believed that France would conquer both
Russia and England, the first by arms and the second by contrast." The
"thin red line" of Balaclava allowed some national chauvinism, but that
was all to be said in its favour, except that the gallantry of the men
was to be equalled only by the incompetency of their Chiefs.

I passed a week with Wingfield and other friends, in and about
Balaclava, in frequent visits to the front and camp. A favourite
excursion from the latter was to the Monastery of St. George, classic
ground where Iphigenia was saved from sacrifice. There was a noble view
from this place, a foreground of goodly garden, a deep ravine clad with
glorious trees, a system of cliffs and needles studding a sandy beach,
and a lovely stretch of sparkling sea. No wonder that it had been
chosen by a hermit, whose little hut of unhewn blocks lay hard by; he
was a man upwards of sixty apparently, unknown to any one, and was fed
by the black-robed monks. At Kadikeui also I made the acquaintance of
good Mrs. Seacole, Jamaican by origin, who did so much for the comfort
of invalids, and whom we afterwards met with lively pleasure at Panámá.

The British cavalry officers in the Crimea were still violently excited
by reports that Lord Cardigan was about returning to command; and I
heard more than one say, "We will not serve under him." And after
a long experience of different opinions on the spot, I came to the
following conclusion:--The unhappy charge of the "Six Hundred" was
directly caused by my old friend, Captain Nolan of the 15th Hussars. An
admirable officer and swordsman, bred in the gallant Austrian Cavalry
of that day, he held, and advocated through life, the theory that
mounted troops were an overmatch for infantry, and wanted only good
leading to break squares and so forth. He was burning also to see the
Lights outrival the Heavies, who, under General Scarlett, had charged
down upon Russians said to be four times their number. Lord Lucan
received an order to take a Russian 12-gun battery on the Causeway
Heights, from General Liprandi, and he sent a verbal message by Nolan
(General Airey's aide-de-camp) to his brother-in-law, Lord Cardigan,
there being bad blood between the two.

Nolan, who was no friend to the hero of the Black Bottle, delivered
the order disagreeably, and when Lord Cardigan showed some hesitation,
roughly cut short the colloquy with, "You have your commands, my Lord,"
and prepared, as is the custom, to join in the charge. Hardly did it
begin, than he was struck by a shot in the breast, and, as he did not
fall at once, some asked Lord Cardigan where he was, and the reply
came, "I saw him go off howling to the rear." During the fatal charge
Lord Cardigan lost his head, and had that _moment de peur_ to which
the best soldiers are at times subject. He had been a fire-eater with
the "Saw-handles," and the world expected too much of him; again, a
man of ordinary pluck, he was placed in extraordinary circumstances,
and how few there are who are _born_ physically fearless. I can count
those known to me on the fingers of my right hand. Believing that his
force was literally mown down, he forgot his duty as a Commanding
Officer, and instead of rallying the fugitives, he thought only of
_sauve qui peut_. Galloping wildly to the rear, he rushed up to many
a spectator, amongst others to my old Commander, General Beatson,
nervously exclaiming, "You saw me at the guns?" and almost without
awaiting a reply, rode on. Presently returning to England, he had not
the sound sense and good taste to keep himself in the background; but
received a kind of "ovation," as they call it, the ladies trying to
secure hairs from his charger's tail by way of keepsake. Of course he
never showed his face in the Crimea again. The tale of this ill-fated
and unprofessional charge has now changed complexion. It is held up
as a _beau fait d'armes_, despite the best bit of military criticism
that ever fell from soldier's lips: "_c'est beau, mais ce n'est pas la
guerre_," the words of General Bosquet, who saved the poor remnants of
the Lights.

At head-quarters I called upon the Commander-in-Chief, General Simpson,
whom years before I had found in charge of Sakhar, Upper Sind, held by
all as wellnigh superannuated. He was supposed to be one of Lever's
heroes, the gigantic Englishman who, during the occupation of Paris,
broke the jaw of the duelling French officer, and spat down his throat.
But age had told upon him, mentally as well as bodily, and he became
a mere plaything in the hands of the French, especially of General
Pélissier, the typical Algerian officer, who well knew when to browbeat
and when to cajole. "Jimmy Simpson," as the poor old incapable was
called, could do nothing for me, so I wrote officially at once to
General Beatson, whom I had met at Boulogne, volunteering for the
Irregular Cavalry then known as "Beatson's Horse," and I was delighted
when my name appeared in orders. Returning to Constantinople, I called
upon the Embassy, then in summer quarters at Therapia, where they had
spent an anxious time. The gallant Vukados, Russianized in Boutákoff,
a Greek, who, in the nineteenth century, belonged to the heroic days
of Thermopylæ and Marathon, and who was actually cheered by his
enemies, with the little merchant-brig the _Wladimir_, alias _Arciduca
Giovanni_, had shown himself a master-breaker-of-blockades, and might
readily have taken into his head to pay the Ambassador a visit.

I looked forward to a welcome and found one; a man who had married
my aunt, Robert Bagshaw, of Dovercourt, M.P., and quondam Calcutta
merchant, who had saved from impending bankruptcy the house of
Alexander and Co., to which Lady Stratford belonged.

Nothing quainter than the contrast between that highly respectable
middle-class British peer and the extreme wildness of his surroundings.
There were but two exceptions to the general rule of eccentricity--one,
Lord Napier and Ettrick with his charming wife, and the other, Odo
(popularly called "O don't!") Russell, who died as Lord Ampthill,
Ambassador to Berlin. It was, by-the-by, no bad idea to appoint this
high-bred and average talented English gentleman to the Court of Prince
Bismarck, who disliked and despised nothing more thoroughly than the
pert little political, the "Foreign Office pet" of modern days.

Foremost on the roll stood Alison, who died Minister at Teheran.
He was in character much more a Greek than an Englishman, with a
peculiar _finesse_, not to put too fine a point upon it, which made
him highly qualified to deal with a certain type of Orientals. He knew
Romaic perfectly, Turkish well, Persian a little, and a smattering of
Arabic; so that, most unlike the average order of ignorant secretaries
and attachés, he was able to do good work. He seemed to affect
eccentricity, went out walking with a rough coat with a stick torn
from a tree, whence his cognomen "The Bear with the Ragged Staff," and
at his breakfasts visitors were unpleasantly astonished by a weight
suddenly mounting their shoulders in the shape of a bear-cub with cold
muzzle and ugly claws. He managed to hold his own with his testy and
rageous old Chief, and the following legend was told of him:--"Damn
your eyes, Mr. Alison, why was not that despatch sent?" "Damn your
Excellency's eyes, it went this morning." Miladi also seemed to regard
his comical figure with much favour. At Teheran he did little good,
having become unhappily addicted to "tossing the elbow," which in an
evil hour was reported home by my late friend Edward Eastwick; and
he married a wealthy Levantine widow, who predeceased him. On this
occasion he behaved uncommonly well, by returning all her large fortune
to her family.

Next to him in office, and far higher in public esteem, ranked Percy
Smythe, who succeeded his brother as Lord Strangford. Always of the
weakest possible constitution, and so purblind that when reading he
drew the paper across his nose, he fulfilled my idea of the typical
linguist in the highest sense of the word; in fact, I never saw his
equal except, perhaps, Professor Palmer, who was murdered by Arábi's
orders almost within sight of Suez. Strangford seemed to take in a
language through every pore, and to have time for all its niceties and
eccentricities: for instance, he could speak Persian like a Shirázi,
and also with the hideous drawl of a Hindostani. Yet his health sent
him to bed every night immediately after dinner, for which he was more
than once taken severely to task by Lady Stratford. He dressed in the
seediest of black frock-coats, and was once mightily offended by a
Turkish officer, who, overhearing us talking in Persian about "Tasáwaf"
(Sufi-ism), joined in the conversation. He treated me with great regard
because I was in the gorgeous Bashi-Bazouk uniform, blazing with gold,
but looked upon Lord Strangford with such contempt that the latter
exclaimed, "Hang the fellow! Can't he see that I am a gentleman?" I
then told him that an Eastern judges _entirely_ by dress, and that,
as I was gorgeous, I was supposed to be the swell, and that, as his
coat was very shabby, he was taken for a poor interpreter, probably my
dragoman, and induced him to change for the future.

Some years afterwards, when he came to the title, he married Emily
Beaufort, the result of reviewing her book "Syrian Shrines," etc. The
choice was a mistake; she was far too like him in body and mind, with
a strong dash of Israelitish blood, to be a success matrimonially
speaking. Had he taken to wife a comely "crummy" little girl with
blue eyes, barley-sugar hair, and the rest to match, he might have
lived much longer. But the lady was an overmatch for him. When she
was a little tot of twelve I saw her at the head of her father's, the
hydrographer's table, laying down the law of professional matters to
grey-headed Admirals. The last of the Staff was General Mansfield,
an ill-conditioned and aggressive man, who held General Beatson in
especial dislike for "prostitution of military rank." I have the most
unpleasant remembrance of him; he afterwards became Commander-in-Chief
of the Army in India, and his conduct in the "Affair of the Pickles"
ought to have caused the recall of "Lord Sandhurst."

The Ambassador, whose name was at that time in every mouth, was as
remarkable in appearance as in character and career. When near sixty
years of age he had still the clear-cut features and handsome face
of his cousin, whom he loved to call the "Great Canning," and under
whom, he, like Lord Palmerston, had began official life as private
secretary. One of the cleanest and smoothest shaven of old men, he had
a complexion white and red as a Westphalia ham, and his silver locks
gave him a venerable and pleasing appearance; whilst his chin, that
most characteristic feature, showed, in repose, manliness, and his
"Kaiser-blue" eye was that of the traditional Madonna, only at excited
moments the former tilted up with an expression of reckless obstinacy,
and the latter flashed fire like an enraged feline's. The everyday look
of the face was diplomatic, an icy impassibility (evidently put on, and
made natural by long habit); but it changed to the scowl of a Medusa in
fits of rage, and in joyous hours, such as sitting at dinner near the
beautiful Lady George Paget--whose like I never saw--it was harmonious
and genial as a day in spring.

Such was the personal appearance of the man who, together with the
Emperor Nicholas, one equally, if not more remarkable, both in body and
in mind, set the whole Western World in a blaze. I heard the origin
of the blood-feud minutely told by the late Lord Clanricarde, one of
the most charming _raconteurs_ and original conversationalists ever
met at a London dinner-table. Mr. Stratford Canning became, in early
manhood, _Chargé d'affaires_ at Constantinople, and took a prominent
part in the Treaty of Bucharest, which the Czar found, to speak mildly,
unpalatable. However, some years after, when the Embassy at St.
Petersburg fell vacant, the Emperor refused to receive this _personâ
ingrata_, and aroused susceptibilities which engendered a life-long
hatred and a lust for revenge. Lastly, after the affair of 1848, the
"Eltchi" persuaded his unhappy tool, the feeble-minded Sultan, Abd
Al-Majid, whom he scolded and abused like a naughty schoolboy, now by
threats then by promises, to refuse giving up the far-famed Hungarian
refugees. This again became well known to all the world, and thus
a private and personal pique between two elderly gentlemen of high
degree, involved half Europe in hideous war, and was one of the worst
disasters ever known to English history, by showing the world how
England could truckle to France, and allow her to play the leading part.

Lord Stratford had, as often happens to shrewder men, completely
mistaken his vocation. He told me more than once that his inclination
was wholly to the life of a _littérateur_, and he showed himself unfit
for taking any, save the humblest, _rôle_ among the third-rates. He
had lived his life in the East without learning a word of Turkish,
Persian, or Arabic.

He wrote "poetry," and, amid the jeers of his staff, he affixed to a
rustic seat near Therapia, where once Lady Stratford had sat, a copy of
verses beginning--

    "A wife, a mother to her children dear,"

with rhyme "rested here," and reason to match. After his final return
home he printed a little volume of antiquated "verse or _worse_" with
all the mediocrity which the gods and the columns disallow, and which
would hardly have found admittance to the poet's corner of a country
paper. His last performance in this line was a booklet entitled, "Why
I am a Christian" (he of all men!), which provoked a shout of laughter
amongst his friends. They owned that, mentally, he was a fair modern
Achilles--

    "Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis acer;"

but of his "Christianity," the popular saying was, "He is a Christian,
and he never forgives." His characteristic was vindictiveness; he could
not forget (and here he was right), but also he could not forgive (and
here he was wrong). One instance: he tried to hunt out of the service
Grenville Murray, whose "Roving Englishman" probably owed much of its
charm to Dickens's staff in _Household Words_. Yet Murray, despite
all his faults, was a capable man, and a Government more elastic and
far-seeing and less "respectable" than that of England, would have
greatly profited by his services. Lord Stratford could not endure
badinage, he had no sense for and of humour; witness the scene between
him and Louis Napoleon's Ambassador, General Baraguay d'Hilliers,
recorded by Mr. Consul Skene in his "Personal Reminiscences." He
abhorred difference of opinion, and was furious with me for assuring
him that "Habash" and "Abyssinia" are by no means equivalent and
synonymous terms; he had been enlightening the "Porte" with information
that Turkey had never held a foot of ground in "Habash," when the
Turk, as my visit to Harar showed, had been an occupant, well hated,
as he was well known. And when in a rage he was not pleasant; his eyes
flashed fury, his venerable locks seemed to rise like the quills of
a fretful porcupine, he would rush round the room like a lean maniac
using frightful language--in fact, "langwidge," as the sailor hath
it--with his old dressing-gown working hard to keep pace with him,
and when the fit was at its worst, he would shake his fist in the
offender's face.

The famous Ambassador struck me as a weak, stiff-necked, and violent
old man, whose strength physically was in his obstinate chin,
together with a "pursed-up mouth and beak in a pet," and morally in
an exaggerated "respectability," iron-bound prejudices, and profound
self-esteem. He had also a firm respect for rank and the divine right
of Kings; witness his rage, when the young naval lieutenant, Prince of
Leiningen, was ordered by a superior officer to "swab decks." He lived
long enough to repent the last step of his official life. After peace
was concluded, a visit to the Crimea greatly disgusted him. With a kind
of bastard repentance, he quoted John Bright and the Peace Party in his
sorrow at having brought about a Campaign whose horrors contrasted so
miserably with its promised advantages.

In the next Russian-Turkish War he remembered that some ten thousand
English lives and £80,000,000 had been sacrificed to humble Russia,
whose genius and heroism had raised her so high in the opinion of
Europe, only to serve the selfish ends of Louis Napoleon, to set up
Turkey and the Sultan ("Humpty-dumpty," who refused to be set up),
and to humour the grudges of two rancorous old men. So he carefully
preached non-intervention to England. He took his seat in the House of
Lords, but spoke little, and when he spoke he mostly broke down. Of
his literary failures I have already spoken. Yet this was the "Great
Eltchi" of Eöthen, a man who gained a prodigious name in Europe,
chiefly by living out of it.

After seeing all that was to be seen at Therapia and Constantinople, I
embarked on an Austrian Lloyd steamer, and ran down to the Dardanelles,
then the head-quarters of the Bashi-Bazouks. The little town shared in
the factitious importance of Gallipoli, and other places more or less
useful during the war; it had two Pashas, Civil and Military, with a
large body of Nizam or Regulars, whilst the hillsides to the north were
dotted with the white tents of the Irregulars. General Beatson had
secured fair quarters near the old windmills, and there had established
himself with his wife and daughters. I at once recognized my old
Boulogne friend, although slightly disguised by uniform. He looked like
a man of fifty-five, with bluff face and burly figure, and probably
grey hair became him better than black. He always rode English chargers
of good blood, and altogether his presence was highly effective.

There had been much silly laughing at Constantinople, especially
amongst the grinning idiot tribe, about his gold coat, which was said
to stand upright by force of embroidery. But here he was perfectly
right, and his critics perfectly wrong. He had learnt by many
years' service to recognize the importance of show and splendour
when dealing with Easterns. And no one had criticised the splendid
Skinner or General Jacob of the Sind Horse, for wearing a silver
helmet and a diamond-studded sabretache. General Beatson had served
thirty-five years in the Bengal army, and was one of the few amongst
his contemporaries who had campaigned in Europe during the long peace
which followed the long war. In his subaltern days he had volunteered
into the Spanish Legion, under the Commander, General Sir de Lacy
Evans. After some hard fighting there, and seeing not a few adventures,
he had returned to India. When the Crimean War broke out he went to
Head-quarters at once, and, for the mere fun of the thing, joined in
the Heavy Cavalry charge.

In October, 1854, the Duke of Newcastle, then Minister of War,
addressed him officially, directing him to organize a Corps of
Bashi-Bazouks, not exceeding in number four thousand, who were to
be independent of the Turkish Contingent, consisting of twenty-five
thousand Regulars under General Vivian. So, unfortunately for himself,
he had made the Dardanelles his Head-quarters, and there he seemed to
be settled with his wife and family. Mrs. Beatson was a quiet-looking
little woman, who was reputed to rule her spouse with a rod of iron in
a velvet case; and the two daughters were charming girls who seemed
to have been born on horseback, and who delighted in setting their
terriers at timid aides-de-camp, and teaching their skittish little
Turkish nags to lash out at them when within kicking distance. General
Beatson at once introduced me to his Staff and officers, amongst whom
I found some most companionable comrades. There were two ex-Guardsmen,
poor Charles Wemyss, who died years after, chronically impecunious,
in London, and Major Lennox-Berkeley, who is still living. Of the
Home army were Lieut.-Colonel Morgan, ex-cavalry man, and Major
Synge. The Indian army had contributed Brigadier-General De Renzi,
Brett, Hayman, Money, Grierson, and others. Sankey, whom I had known
in Egypt, and whose family I had met at Malta, had been gazetted as
lieutenant-colonel. There was also poor Blakeley of the Gun, who
afterwards died so unhappily of yellow fever at Chorillos, in Perú.

But there were unfortunately black sheep among the number.
Lieut.-Colonel Fardella had only the disadvantage of being a Sicilian,
but Lieut.-Colonel Giraud, the head interpreter, was a Smyrniote and
a Levantine of the very worst description, and, worse still, there
was a Lieut.-Colonel O'Reilly, whose antecedents and subsequents were
equally bad. He had begun as a lance-corporal in one of her Majesty's
regiments, which he had left under discreditable circumstances. In the
Bashi-Bazouks he joined a faction against General Beatson, and when
the war was over he openly became a Mussulman, and entered the Turkish
service. He left the worst of reputations between Constantinople and
Marocco, and Englishmen had the best reason to be ashamed of him. In
subsequent years to the Massacre of Damascus, the English Government
had chosen out Fuad Pasha, a witty, unscrupulous, and over-clever Turk,
and proposed him as permanent Governor-General of the Holy Land, or
to govern in a semi-independent position, like that of the Khedive of
Egypt.

No choice could be worse, except that of the French, who favoured with
even more inaptitude, by way of a rival candidate, their Algerian
captive, the Emir Abd el Kadir, one of the most high-minded, religious,
and honourable of men, who was utterly unfit to cope with Turkish
roguery and Syrian rascaldom. The project fell through, but till his
last day Fuad Pasha never lost sight of it, and kept up putting in an
appearance, by causing perpetual troubles amongst the Bedawi and the
Druzes.

This man O'Reilly was one of his many tools, and at last, when he had
brought about against the Turkish Government an absurd revolt of naked
Arabs, upon the borders of the Hamah Desert, he was taken prisoner and
carried before Rashíd Pasha, then the Governor-General, and in his
supplications for pardon he had the meanness to kneel down and kiss the
Turk's foot.

But worse still was the position of the affairs which met my eyes
at the Dardanelles. Everything had combined to crush our force of
Irregulars. First, there was the Greek faction, who naturally hated
the English, and adored the Russians, and directed all the national
genius to making the foreigners fail. Their example was followed by the
Jews, many of them wealthy merchants at the Dardanelles, who in those
days, before the Juden-hetze, loved and believed in Russia and had
scanty confidence in England. The two Turkish pashas were exceedingly
displeased to see an _Imperium in Imperio_, and did their best to
breed disturbance between their Regulars and the English Irregulars.
They were stirred up by the German Engineers, who were employed upon
the fortifications of the Dardanelles, and who strongly inoculated
them with the idea that France and England aimed at nothing less than
annexation.

Hence the Pashas not only fomented every disturbance, but they
supplied deserters with passports and safe-conducts. The French played
the friendly-foelike party; the envy, jealousy, and malice of the
_Gr-r-r-ande Nation_ had been stirred to the very depths by the failure
of their Algerine General Yousouf in organizing a corps of Irregulars,
and they saw with displeasure and disgust that an Englishman was going
to succeed. Accordingly Battus, their wretched little French Consul for
the Dardanelles, was directed to pack the local Press at Constantinople
(which was almost wholly in the French interests) with the falsest
and foulest scandals. He had secured the services of the _Journal
de Constantinople_, which General Beatson had with characteristic
carelessness neglected to square, and his cunningly concocted scandals
found their way not only into the Parisian, but even into the London
Press.

But our deadliest enemies were of course those nearest home. Mr.
Calvert was at that time Vice-Consul for the Dardanelles, and he openly
boasted of its having been made by himself so good a thing that he
would not exchange it for a Consulate General. I need not enter into
the subsequent career of this man, who, shortly after the Crimean War,
found his way into a felon's jail at Malta, for insuring a non-existing
ship. He had proposed to General Beatson a contract in the name of
a creature of his own, who was a mere man of straw, and it was at
once refused, because, although Mr. Vice-Consul Calvert might have
gained largely thereby, Her Majesty's Government would have lost in
proportion. This was enough to make a bitter enemy of him, and he was
a manner of Levantine, virulent and scrupulous as he was sharp-witted.
He also had another grievance. In his Consulate he kept a certain
Lieutenant Ogilvie, who years after fought most gallantly in the
Franco-German War, and was looked upon, after he was killed, as a sort
of small national hero.

He and his agents were buying up cattle for the public use, and it
was a facetious saying amongst the "Buzoukers," as the Bashi-Bazouk
officers were called, that they had not left a single three-legged
animal in the country. It is no wonder that the reports of these men
had a considerable effect upon Lord Stratford, who was profoundly
impressed with the opinions of unhappy Lord Raglan, the Commander,
who by weak truckling to the French, a nettle fit only to be grasped,
had more than once placed us in an unworthy position. He was angrily
opposed to the whole scheme; it was contrary to precedent: Irregulars
were unknown at Waterloo, and the idea was offensive, because unknown
to the good old stock and pipe-clay school. Moreover, but for a
Campaign these men are invaluable to act as eyes and feelers for a
regular force. The English soldier, unless he be a poacher--by-the-by,
one of the best of them--cannot see by night; his want of practice
gives him a kind of "noctilypia," and he suffers much from want of
sleep. His Excellency already had his own grievance against General
Beatson, being enormously scandalized by a letter from the Irregular
officer casually proposing to hang the Military Pasha of the
Dardanelles, if he continued to intrigue and report falsely concerning
his force. And I must confess the tone of the General's letter was
peculiar, showing that he was better known to "Captain Sword" than
to "Captain Pen." When he put me in orders as "Chief of the Staff" I
overhauled his books and stood aghast to see the style of his official
despatches. He was presently persuaded, with some difficulty, to let me
mitigate their candour under the plea of copying, but on one occasion
after the copy was ready I happened to look into the envelope, and I
found--

 "P.S.--This is official, but I would have your Lordship to know that I
 also wear a black coat."

Fancy the effect of a formal challenge to combat, "pistols for two and
coffee for one," upon the rancorous old man of Constantinople, whose
anger burnt like a red-hot fire, and whose revenge was always at a
white heat! I took it out, but my General did not thank me for it.

The result of these scandalous rumours was, that Lord Stratford deemed
fit to send down the Dardanelles (for the purpose of reporting the
facts of the case) a certain Mr. Skene. I have no intention of entering
into the conduct of this official, who had been an officer in the
English army, and who proposed to make himself comfortable in the
Consulate of Aleppo! He has paid the debt of Nature, and I will not
injure his memory. Suffice it to say, that he was known on the spot to
be taking notes, that every malignant won his ear, and that he did not
cease to gratify the Ambassador's prejudices by reporting the worst.

General Beatson was peppery, like most old Indians, and instead of
keeping diplomatically on terms with Mr. Skene, he chose to have a
violent personal quarrel with him. Consequently Mr. Skene returned
to Constantinople, and his place was presently taken by Brigadier T.
G. Neil, who shortly appeared in the same capacity--note-taker. His
offensive presence and bullying manner immediately brought on another
quarrel, especially when he loudly declared that "he represented
Royalty," and that he was a universal unfavourite with Beatson's
Horse. He afterwards served in the Indian Mutiny, and there he ended
well. He made an enormous reputation at home by recklessly daring to
arrest a railway clerk, and he was shot before his incapacity could be
discovered.

I was also struck with consternation at the condition of Beatson's
Horse, better known on the spot as the "Bashi-Bazouks." The correct
term in Turkish is _Bāsh Buzuk_, equivalent to _Tête-pourrie_; it
succeeded the ancient _Dillis_, or madmen, who in the good old times
represented the Osmanli Irregular Cavalry. It was the habit of those
men in early spring, when the fighting season opened, to engage
themselves for a term to plunder and loot all they could (and at this
process they were first-rate hands), and to return home when winter
set in. General Beatson wisely determined that his four thousand
sabres should be wholly unconnected with the twenty-five thousand
men of the Turkish Contingent. He wished to raise them in Syria,
Asia Minor, Bulgaria, and other places, regiment them according to
their nationalities, and to officer them, like Sepoy regiments, with
Englishmen and Subalterns of their own races.

The idea was excellent, but it was badly carried out, mainly by
default of the War Office, which had overmuch to do and could not
be at the trouble of sending out officers. So the men, whose camps
looked soldier-like enough, were left lying on the hillsides, and
Satan found a very fair amount of work for them. This was, however,
chiefly confined to duelling, and other such pastimes. The Arnauts or
Albanians, who generally fight when they are drunk, had a peculiar
style of monomachy. The principals, attended by their seconds and by
all their friends, stood close opposite, each holding a cocked pistol
in their right hand and a glass of _raki_, or spirits of wine, in their
left. The first who drained his draught had the right to fire, and
generally blazed away with fatal effect. It would have been useless
to discourage this practice, but I insisted on fair play. Although
endless outrages were reported at Constantinople, very few really
took place: only one woman was insulted, and robbery with violence
was exceptionally rare. In fact, the _Tête-pourries_ contrasted most
favourably with the unruly French detachments at Gallipoli, and with
the turbulent _infirmiers_ of the Nagara Hospital. With the English
invalids at the Abydos establishment no disputes ever arose.

The exaggerated mutinies were mere sky-larking. After a few days'
grumbling, a knot of "Rotten Heads" would mount their nags with immense
noise and clatter, and, loudly proclaiming that they could stand the
dullness of life no longer, would ride away, hoping only to be soon
caught. But the worst was, I could see no business doing; there were no
morning roll-calls or evening parades, no drilling or disciplining of
men, and the General contented himself with riding twice a day through
the camp, and listening to many grievances. However, as soon as I was
made "Chief of the Staff," I persuaded him that this was not the thing,
and induced him to establish all three, and to add thereto a riding
school for sundry officers of infantry who were not very firm in the
saddle, and also to open a School of Arms for the benefit of _all_
(the last thing a British officer learns is, to use his "silly sword");
and the consequence was, that we soon had a fine body of well-trained
sabres, ready to do anything or to go anywhere.

The _Maître d'armes_ was an Italian from Constantinople, and he began
characteristically by proposing to call out the little Consul Battus,
while another purposed making love to Madame! Alas! it was too late.
On September 12th, a gunboat, dressed in all her colours, steamed at
full speed down the Dardanelles, and caused an immense excitement in
camp. The news flew like wildfire that Sebastopol had been captured.
It proved, to say the least, premature, and the details filled every
Englishman with disgust. I need not describe the grand storming of the
Malakoff, which gave Pélissier his _bâton de Maréchal_, or the gallant
carrying of the Little Redan by Bourbaki. But our failure at the Great
Redan was simply an abomination. Poor old Jemmy Simpson was persuaded
by Pélissier to play the second part, and to attack from the very
same trench as that which sent forth the unsuccessful assault of June
18th. About half the force required was sent, and these were mostly
regiments which had before suffered severely, and the bravest of them
could only stand up to be shot down, instead of sneaking, as not a few
did, in the trenches. Lastly, instead of leading them himself, the
Commander-in-Chief sent General Wyndham, whose gasconade about putting
on his gloves under fire seems to be the only item of this disgraceful
affair which appears known to and remembered by the British public. The
result of our attack was simply a _sauve qui peut_, and (_proh pudor!_)
the Piedmontese General Cialdini was obliged to order up one of his
brigades to save the British.

Continentals attributed this systematic paucity of our troops to the
most urgent emergencies, either to inconsiderate national parsimony,
or to overweening contempt for the enemy. It was nothing of the kind;
it resulted from the normal appointment of thoroughly incapable
Commanders. The private soldier was perfectly right, who volunteered
before Lord Raglan that he and his comrades were perfectly ready to
take Sebastopol by storm, under the Command of their own officers, if
not interfered with by the _Generals_.

I now thought that I saw my way to a grand success, and my failure was
proportionally absurd. This was nothing less than the relief of Kars,
which was doomed to fall by famine, to the Russians. Pélissier and the
Frenchmen were long-sighted enough to know the culminating importance
of this stronghold as a _pierre d'échappe_ in the way of Russia, and
possibly, or rather probably, they had orders from home. However, they
managed to keep Omar Pasha and his Turkish troops in the Crimea, where
this large force were compelled to lie idle, instead of being sent
to attack the Trans-Caucasian provinces, where they might have done
good service. So when Omar Pasha, on the 29th of September, gloriously
defeated the Russians before the walls of Kars, his victory was
useless, and he was compelled to retire. Had the affair been managed
in other ways, England might have struck a vital blow at Russia, by
driving her once more behind the Caucasus, and by putting off for many
a year the threatened advance upon India, which is now one of our
_cauchemars_.

Meanwhile the reports concerning the siege of Kars, whose gallant
garrison was allowed to succumb to famine, cholera, and the Russians,
were becoming a scandal. It was reported that General Williams, who,
with the Hungarian General Metz, was taking a prominent part in the
defence, addressed upwards of eighty officials to Lord Stratford
without receiving a single reply; in fact, as Mr. Skene's book shows,
the great man only turned them into ridicule. However, the "Eltchi"
feared ultimate consequences, and wrote to Lieut.-General (afterwards
Sir) Robert J. Hussey-Vivian, to consult him concerning despatching
on secret errand the Turkish Contingent, consisting, as it may be
remembered, of twenty-five thousand Nizam or Regulars, commanded by a
sufficiency of British officers.

The answer was that _no_ carriage could be procured. Vivian, who was
a natural son of Lord Vivian's, had seen some active service in his
youth, but he was best known as an Adjutant-General of the Madras army,
a man redolent of pipe-clay and red tape, and servilely subject to the
Ambassador. So I felt that the game was in _my_ hands, and proceeded
in glorious elation of spirits to submit my project for the relief of
Kars to his Excellency. We had already 2640 sabres in perfect readiness
to march, and I could have procured _any quantities_ of carriage. The
scene which resulted passes description. He shouted at me in a rage,
"You are the most impudent man in the Bombay Army, Sir!" But I knew
him, and understood him like Alison, and did not mind. It ended with,
"Of course you'll dine with us to-day?"

       *       *       *       *       *

It was not until some months afterwards that I learnt what my unhappy
plan proposed to do. Kars was doomed to fall as a make-weight for the
capture of half of Sebastopol, and a Captain of Bashi-Bazouks (myself)
had madly attempted to arrest the course of _haute politique_.

The tale of the fall of Kars is pathetic enough. While the British
officers dined with General Mouravieff, the gallant Turkish soldiers
were ordered to _pile_ arms and march off under escort, and, dashing
their muskets to the ground, they cried, "Perish our Wazirs who have
even shamed us with this shame." And the disastrous and dishonourable
result brought about by our political inaptitude has never ceased to
weaken our prestige in Central Asia. Civilized Turks simply declared
that an officer of artillery, sent out as Commissioner by England, had
unwarrantably interfered with the legitimate command of Kars, where
Turkey had a powerful army and an important position; and that by
keeping the soldiers behind walls, when he knew the City could not be
saved, he had lost both Army and City. The criticism was fair and sound.

General (afterwards Sir) W. F. Williams of Kars was at first in huge
indignation, and declared that he would persuade the Government to
impeach Lord Stratford. But on the way he was met by an offer of
the Command at Woolwich, which apparently made him hold his peace.
He was somewhat an exceptional man. For years an instructor of the
Turkish Artillery, then English member of the mixed Commission for
the topography of the Turko-Persian frontier, and finally Queen's
Commissioner with the Turkish army at Kars, he had never learnt a
word of Turkish. Of course he was hustled into the House of Commons.
Whenever a man makes himself known in England that is apparently his
ultimate fate. But he fell flatly, as even Kars did, before the sharp
tongue of Bernal Osborne. During some debate on the Chinese question,
he had assured the House that he was an expert, because he had had much
experience of Turkish matters. "Oh, the fall of Kars!" cried the wit;
and the ex-Commissioner was extinguished for ever.

Lord Stratford, I suppose by way of consoling _me_, made an indirect
offer, through Lord Napier and Ettrick, about commissioning me to pay
an official visit to Schamyl, whom some call "The Patriot," and others
"The Bandit," of the Caucasus. The idea was excellent, but somewhat
surprised me. Schamyl had lately been accused, amongst other atrocious
actions, of flogging Russian ladies whom he had taken prisoners, and
I could not understand how Lord Stratford, who had an unmitigated
horror of all Russian cruelties, and who always expressed it in the
rawest terms, could ally himself with such a ruffian. Possibly the
political advantages in his opinion counterbalanced his demerits,
for, had Schamyl been fairly supported, the Russian conquest of the
great mountains might have been retarded for years. I consulted on the
subject Alison and Percy Smythe, and both were of the same opinion,
namely, that although there were difficulties and dangers, involving
a long ride through Russian territory, the task might have been
accomplished. They relied greatly upon the ardent patriotism of the
Circassian women who then filled the harems of Constantinople. I should
not have seen a single face, except perhaps that of a slave-girl, but
I should have been warmly assisted with all the interest the fair
patriots could make. So I began seriously to think of the matter. But
the first visit to Lord Stratford put it entirely out of my head. I
asked his Excellency what my reply was to be, should Schamyl ask me
upon what mission I came. "Oh, say that you are sent to report to
_me_." "But, my lord, Schamyl will expect money, arms, and possibly
troops, and what am I to reply if he asks me about it? Otherwise he
will infallibly set me down for a spy, and my chance of returning to
Constantinople will be uncommonly small."

However, the "Eltchi" could not see it in that light, and the project
fell through.

Here also, although somewhat out of place, I may relate my last chance
of carrying out a project upon which I was very warm, namely, to assist
Circassia and to attack Georgia.

On returning to London I received a hint that Lord Palmerston had still
some project of the kind, and was willing that I should be employed
on it. So I wrote a number of letters, which I was allowed to publish
in the _Times_, upon the subject of levying a large force of Kurdish
Irregular Cavalry, and these being supported by the excellent work of
Sir Henry Rawlinson, found favour with the public. But presently came
the Franco-Russian peace of 1856. France, who had won all the credit
of the mismanaged Campaign because she washed her dirty linen at home,
and who had left all the discredit to England, whose practice was the
opposite, lost all interest in the war. Louis Napoleon was thoroughly
satisfied with what he had done, and Russia, after a most gallant
and heroic defence of her territory, wanted time to heal her wounds.
Accordingly the Treaty of Paris was entered into, the result being
that, fifteen years afterwards, when France was in her sorest straits,
Russia, with the consent of England (!), tore up that treaty and threw
it in our face.

After this fruitless visit to Constantinople, I returned post haste to
the Dardanelles, where I found the Bashi-Bazouks, like the unfortunate
Turks at Kars, in a state of siege. On the morning of the 26th of
September we were astounded to see the Turkish Regulars drawn out in
array against us, Infantry supported by the guns, which were pointed at
our camp, and patrols of Cavalry occupying the rear. Three War-steamers
commanded the main entrance of the Town, and the enemy's outposts were
established within three hundred yards of the 1st Regiment of Beatson's
Horse, evidently for the purpose of ensuring a sanguinary affair.
The inhabitants had closed their shops, and the British Consulate
was deserted. The steamer _Redpole_ was sent off in hottest haste to
Constantinople with a report that a trifling squabble between the
French _infirmiers_ and the Bashi-Bazouks had ended in deadly conflict,
and that the most terrible consequences were likely to ensue.

General Beatson at once issued an order to his men, who were furious at
this fresh insult, and requested permission to punish the aggressors by
taking the enemy's guns; and by means of his officers _he restrained
the natural anger of his much-suffering men_.

The result was a triumph of discipline, and not a shot was fired that
day. About four p.m. the Military Pasha, ashamed of his attitude,
marched the Regulars back to their barracks, but he did not fail to
complain to Constantinople of General Beatson's order, keeping his men
in camp "till the Turkish authorities should have recovered from their
panic and _housed_ their guns." But the _Redpole_ had also carried from
the English and French Consuls an exaggerated account of the state of
affairs, and earnestly requesting a reinforcement. The reply was an
order from Lieut.-General Vivian removing General Beatson from command,
and directing him to make it over to Major-General Richard Smith, who
appeared at the Dardanelles on September 28th, supported by a fresh
body of Nizam; and, lest any insult might be omitted, three hundred
French soldiers had been landed at the Nagára Hospital to attack us in
the rear.

[Sidenote: _End of Crimea._]

General Beatson was at the time suffering from an accident, and was
utterly unfitted for business. So Major Berkeley and I collected as
many of the officers as we could at head-quarters, and proposed to go
in a body to General Smith and lay the case before him. We assured him
that all the reports were false, and proposed to show him the condition
and the discipline of the Bashi-Bazouks; we also suggested that
Brigadier-General Brett might be directed to assume temporary Command
of the Force, until fresh orders and instructions should be received
from General Vivian. Of course General Smith could not comply with our
request, so we both declared that we would send in our resignations.
After an insult of the kind, we felt that we could no longer serve with
self-respect. It was this proceeding, I suppose, which afterwards gave
rise to a report that I had done my best to cause a Mutiny.

On the last day of September General Beatson, with his Chief of Staff
and military Secretary, left the Dardanelles for ever. Arrived at
Buyukdere, a report was sent to General Vivian, and he presently came
on board, where a lengthened communication passed between the Generals.
Rumours of a Russian attack had induced a most conciliatory tone.
General Vivian appeared satisfied with the explanation, and listened
favourably to General Beatson's urgent request for permission to return
at once to the Dardanelles. He asked expressly if the "Buzouker" could
keep his men in order. The answer was a _decided affirmative_, which
appeared to have considerable weight with him, and he expressed great
regret for having, under a false impression, written an unfavourable
letter to Lord Panmure, the tone of whose correspondence had been most
offensive. He stated, however, that nothing could be done without the
order of her Majesty's Ambassador; and, promising to call upon him for
instructions, he left the steamer about midday, declaring that he would
return in the course of the afternoon. After a few hours appeared,
instead of General Vivian, a stiff official letter, directed to General
Beatson. The interview with Lord Stratford had completely altered the
tone of his official conduct.

On the 12th of October General Beatson reported officially to Lords
Panmure and Stratford the efficient state of his force, concerning
which General Smith had written most favourably. An equally favourable
view was expressed in the public press by that Prince of War
Correspondents, William H. Russell, whose name in those days was quoted
by every Englishman. General Beatson begged to be sent on service,
offering, upon his own responsibility, to take up transports, and to
embark his men for Eupatoria, Yinikali, Batum, Balaclava, or--that
unhappy Kars. To this no reply was returned.

Nothing now remained to be done, and on the 18th of October we left
Therapia _en route_ to England.

[Sidenote: _Beatson's Trial._]

The sequel to this affair was sufficiently remarkable. General Beatson
came home and attempted to take civil proceedings against his enemies.
Chief amongst them was Mr. Skene--one of the Consuls already referred
to--who, from the inception of General Beatson's scheme, had shown
himself most bitterly opposed to it, and who had used all his influence
to make General Beatson's position untenable.

Afterwards he chose to say that, "when General Smith arrived at the
Dardanelles, General Beatson assembled the Commanding Officers of the
regiments, and actually endeavoured to persuade them to make a mutiny
in the regiments against General Smith, and against the authority of
Vivian. Two of these Commanding Officers then left the room, saying
they were soldiers, and they could not listen to language which they
thought most improper and mutinous. These two were Lieut.-Colonels
O'Reilly and Shirley. General Beatson subsequently had a sort of
round robin prepared by the Chief Interpreter, and sent round to the
different officers, in the hope that they would sign it, refusing to
serve under any other General than himself. Both of these mutinous
attempts are said to have originated from Captain Burton, who it also
appears kept the order from Lord Panmure, placing the Irregular Horse
under Lieut.-General Vivian, for three whole weeks unknown to any one
but General Beatson, and the order was not promulgated until after
General Smith had arrived."

General Beatson went into the witness-box and categorically denied the
charges made against him.[3] I followed and gave evidence to the same
effect, as did also General Watt; but there was a great difficulty in
proving the publication of the libel, the War Office, then represented
by Mr. Sidney Herbert, refusing to produce certain letters. Mr. Skene
was very ably defended by Mr. Bovill (afterwards Lord Chief Justice),
Mr. Lush (afterwards a judge), and Mr. Garth, and he brought forward
a considerable number of witnesses, including General Vivian himself.
Their evidence, however, tended rather to establish the case against
him (Skene), so that he was compelled to plead that his libel was a
privileged communication. Mr. Baron Bramwell confined himself in his
summing-up strictly to the legal aspects of the case, but he allowed
his view of Mr. Skene's conduct to be very distinctly understood.

The jury (a special one), after half an hour's deliberation, returned
a verdict for the defendant on the technical ground, but added a rider
to their verdict, expressive of their disgust at Mr. Skene for having
refrained from retracting his charges against General Beatson when he
found how utterly without foundation they were. The verdict of the jury
was confirmed on appeal, but it was generally felt that General Beatson
had fully vindicated his character, and had very successfully exposed
the conspiracy against the Irregulars, which had ended so disastrously
for him and for his officers. The characters of the plaintiff and the
defendant respectively may be estimated from one small circumstance.
Beatson began his action just as the Indian Mutiny broke out, and being
reasonably refused an extension of leave for the purpose of prosecuting
it, went out to India. When the Mutiny was suppressed he obtained six
months' leave, without pay, for the purpose of prosecuting his case.
Mr. Skene had obtained the appointment of Consul at Aleppo, and could
have reached England in a fortnight, but he chose to remain at his
Consulate, though there would have been no difficulty in obtaining
leave of absence on full pay. Under such circumstances, it was perhaps
hardly worth while for his counsel to dwell upon the cruelty of pushing
on this case in his absence, a complaint for which the presiding
judge somewhat emphatically declared _that there was not the smallest
foundation_.

[1] Here, however, "Pam" was in the right. He foresaw that if the
Canal was once made, England would cling to Egypt, and never again
have a Crimean War. He also appreciated the vast injury which would
accrue to our Eastern monopoly. But he never would or could do anything
_sérieusement_, and he would humbug his countrymen with such phrases
as a "ditch in the sand." He knew as well as any man that the project
was feasible, and yet he persuaded Admiral Spratt and poor Robert
Stephenson to join in his little dodge. I lost his favour for ever by
advocating the Canal, and by proposing to assist the emigration of
Fenian emigrants, at the expense of that fatal humbug, the "Coffin
Squadron" on the West Coast of Africa.

[2] How often one has to witness this in learned societies!--I. B.

[3] Richard was not altogether lucky, as far as promotion went, about
his Chiefs. Sir Charles Napier had seen what stuff he was made of, and
had utilized and praised him to the utmost, but Napier's patronage was
not in those days a recommendation, because he was always fighting some
big-wig at home, and high officials who are ruffled up are quite as
dangerous as fighting Sikhs or Afghans. He then served under General
Beatson, who, like Napier, was always plunging into hot water; but
Richard was devoted to his Chiefs, who well deserved his loyalty, and
in this instance Richard gave valuable evidence on his old Commander's
behalf. He was very amusing in the witness-box; he was so cool and
ready, and always worried his cross-examiner into a white heat of rage,
playing with him as a cat does a mouse, when the lawyer was doing his
best to bewilder him, and make him contradict himself, especially when
Richard got him into a network of military terms, the cross-examiner
being rather at sea among its technicalities. I can see him now,
just as he used to be in the fencing school; he would play with his
adversary, just as if he was carving a chicken, and tire him out long
before the real play began, so that an ill-tempered man would almost
spit himself with rage, if the button had not been on.

It was good to see him under cross-examination. Bovill, subsequently
Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, was leading counsel on the other
side, and was so ill-advised as to attempt to browbeat Richard. His
failure was naturally disastrous. A very simple answer of Richard's
quite upset Bovill. "In what regiment did you serve under the
plaintiff?" "Eh?" "In what regiment, I say----" "In no regiment." After
playing with counsel for a minute or two, Richard let him know that he
had served in a "corps." Bovill was still further discomfited in the
course of the trial, by a manœuvre of Edwin James, who was managing
Beatson's case. James coolly got up while Bovill was speaking for the
defence, declared he could not stay and listen to such stuff, and left
the court for a while. It is only fair to add that Bovill won the
case.--I. B.



CHAPTER XI.

BETWEEN THE CRIMEA AND THE LAKE REGIONS OF CENTRAL AFRICA.

   "Aye free, aff-hand your story tell,
       When wi' a bosom crony;
    But still keep something to yoursel'
       Ye scarcely tell to ony."
                         ----BURNS.


As soon as Richard was well home from the Crimea, and had attended
Beatson's trial, he began to turn his attention to the "Unveiling of
Isis," in other words, "Discovering the sources of the Nile, the Lake
Regions of Central Africa," on which his heart had long been set, and
he passed most of his time in London working it up.

One summer day, in August, 1856, thirty-seven years ago, we had not
gone out of town, and I was walking in the Botanical Gardens with my
sister, Blanche Pigott, and a friend, and Richard was there, walking
with the gorgeous creature of Boulogne--then married. We immediately
stopped and shook hands, and asked each other a thousand questions
of the four intervening years, and all the old Boulogne memories and
feelings which had lain dormant, but not extinct, returned to me. He
asked me before I left if I came very often to the Botanical Gardens,
and I said, "Oh yes, we always come and read and study here from eleven
to one, because it is so much nicer than staying in the hot rooms at
this season."' "That is quite right," he said. "What are you studying?"
I had that day with me an old friend, Disraeli's "Tancred," the book of
my heart and tastes, which he explained to me. We were there about an
hour, and when I had to leave, as I moved off, I heard him say to his
companion, "Do you know that your cousin has grown charming? I would
not have believed that the little schoolgirl of Boulogne would have
become such a sweet girl;" and I heard her say, "Ugh!" with a tone of
disgust.

Next day, when we got there, he was also there--alone--composing poetry
to show to Monckton-Milnes on some pet subject, and he came forward,
saying laughingly, "You won't chalk up 'Mother will be angry' now,
will you, as you did when you were a little girl?" Again we walked and
talked. This went on for a fortnight--I trod on air.

[Sidenote: _We become engaged._]

At the end of a fortnight he asked me "if I could dream of doing
anything so sickly as to give up Civilization, and if he could obtain
the Consulate at Damascus, to go and live there." He said, "Don't
give me an answer _now_, because it will mean a very serious step for
you--no less than giving up your people, and all that you are used to,
and living the sort of life that Lady Hester Stanhope led. I see the
capabilities in you, but you must think it over." I was so long silent
from emotion--it was just as if the moon had tumbled down and said, "I
thought you cried for me, so I came"--that he thought I was thinking
worldly thoughts, and said, "Forgive me! I ought not to have asked so
much." At last I found my voice, and said, "I don't _want_ to 'think
it over'--I have been 'thinking it over' for six years, ever since I
first saw you at Boulogne on the Ramparts. I have prayed for you every
day, morning and night. I have followed all your career minutely. I
have read every word you ever wrote, and I would rather have a crust
and a tent with _you_ than be Queen of all the world. And so I say now,
Yes! YES! YES!" I will pass over the next few minutes. Then he
said, "Your people will not give you to me." I answered, "I know that,
but I belong to myself--I give myself away." "That is all right," he
answered; "be firm, and so shall I."

After that he came and visited a little at our house as an
acquaintance, having been introduced at Boulogne, and he fascinated,
amused, and pleasantly shocked my mother, but completely magnetized my
father and all my brothers and sisters. My father used to say, "I don't
know what it is about that man, but I can't get him out of my head, I
dream about _him every night_."

Cardinal Wiseman and Richard had become friends in early days.
Languages had brought them together, and the Cardinal now furnished him
with a special passport, recommending him to all the Catholic Missions
in wild places all over the World, with special letters describing him
as a Catholic Officer.

[Sidenote: _The Story of Hagar Burton._]

I now think I must introduce to you two cuttings from the _Journal of
the Gypsy Lore Society_. The first was an obituary after his death,
January, 1891; the other was a small contribution from me, throwing a
light on his Gypsy interests, and this will explain better than any
other way why I was so impressed on hearing his name when we were
introduced, and why I was so startled at his pursuit and mingling with
the Jats, the aboriginal Gypsies in India, mentioned in my Boulogne
recital.


 OBITUARY IN THE "GYPSY LORE SOCIETY JOURNAL," JANUARY, 1891.


 "Not only this Society, but the whole civilized world, has recently
 had to mourn the death of our distinguished fellow-member, Sir Richard
 Francis Burton. Of the many events of his eventful life it is needless
 to speak here. As soldier, explorer, linguist, and man of letters (the
 writer of about eighty more or less bulky volumes), he made himself
 separately famous. 'His most famed achievement--the pilgrimage to
 Mecca and Medina in the character of an Afghan Muslim--was,' says one
 writer, 'an achievement of the first order. To consider it without a
 wondering admiration is impossible: so vast is the amount involved
 of hardihood and self-confidence, of linguistic skill and histrionic
 genius, of resourcefulness and vigilance and resolve.'

 "But the aspect in which he may most suitably be regarded in these
 pages, is that of a student of the Gypsies, to whom he was affiliated
 by nature, if not actually by right of descent.

 "Whether there may not be also a tinge of Arab, or, perhaps, of Gypsy
 blood in Burton's race, is a point which is perhaps open to question.
 For the latter suspicion an excuse may be found in the incurable
 restlessness which has beset him since his infancy, a restlessness
 which has effectually prevented him from ever settling long in any one
 place, and in the singular idiosyncrasy which his friends have often
 remarked--the peculiarity of his eyes. 'When it (the eye) looks at
 you,' said one who knows him well, 'it looks through you, and then,
 glazing over, seems to see something behind you. Richard Burton is
 the only man (not a Gypsy) with that peculiarity, and he shares with
 them the same horror of a corpse, death-bed scenes, and graveyards,
 though caring little for his own life.' When to this remarkable fact
 he added the scarcely less interesting detail that 'Burton' is one
 of the half-dozen distinctively Romany names, it is evident that
 the suspicion of Sir Richard Burton having a drop of Gypsy blood in
 his descent--crossed and commingled though it be with an English,
 Scottish, French, and Irish strain--is not altogether unreasonable.

 "Unreasonable or not, it can hardly be said that this constitutes a
 firm basis on which to rear a theory of Gypsy lineage. Yet Burton
 himself acknowledged a certain Gypsy connection, though, it will
 be noticed, he does not say the affinity was that of blood, in the
 following extract from a letter to Mr. J. Pincherle, accepting that
 gentleman's dedication of his Romany version of the 'Song of Songs'
 (_I Ghiléngheri Ghilia Salomuneskero_). 'Dear Mr. Pincherle,' writes
 Sir Richard, 'I accept the honour of your dedication with the same
 frankness with which you accompanied its offer. And indeed, I am not
 wholly dissociated from this theme; there is an important family of
 Gypsies in foggy England, who, in very remote times, adopted our
 family name. I am yet on very friendly terms with several of these
 strange people; nay, a certain Hagar Burton, an old fortune-teller
 (_divinatrice_), took part in a period of my life which in no small
 degree contributed to determine its course.'

 "Whether such slight indications as these really point to a Gypsy
 line of descent or not, there can be no question as to the interest
 which Sir Richard Burton took in Gypsy lore. Apart from his various
 well-known published accounts of the Jats and other tribes of the
 Indus Valley, he had a work specially entitled 'The Gypsies,' which
 his biography of 1887 announces as then 'in course of preparation.'
 The materials of this work are now, we understand, in the possession
 of Lady Burton, and we trust that they will some day see the light.
 Sir Richard was himself one of the original members of the Gypsy Lore
 Society, in which he always took a deep interest; and a letter which
 he wrote to the secretary, only five days before his death, concludes
 with the good wish--'All luck to the Society; I will not fail to do
 what little I can.'

 "His death, which was very sudden, took place on October 20th last,
 while he still held the office of British Consul at Trieste. The
 high esteem in which he was held by the citizens of Trieste, not
 only on account of his official position and the great name which
 he had made for himself in the world of science, but also for those
 personal qualities which had won their regard, is amply testified by
 the sincere expressions of regret which accompanied the last honours
 there paid to his memory. At the time of his death Sir Richard Burton
 was sixty-nine years of age, having been born at Barham House,
 Hertfordshire, on March 19th, 1821."


 "AN EPISODE FROM THE LIFE OF SIR RICHARD BURTON, BY HIS WIFE.


 "In our obituary notice of the late Sir Richard Burton, mention was
 made of a certain Gypsy named Hagar Burton, who, Sir Richard stated,
 had been instrumental, to some extent, in shaping his destiny. This
 reference has been fully explained by Lady Burton, who, in favouring
 us with some account of her illustrious husband, writes as follows:--

 "'In the January number of the _Gypsy Lore Journal_ a passage is
 quoted from "a short sketch of the career" of my husband (a little
 black pamphlet) which half suspects a remote drop of Gypsy blood in
 him. There is no proof that this was ever the case, but there is no
 question that he showed many of their peculiarities in appearance,
 disposition, and speech--speaking Romany like themselves. Nor did we
 ever enter a Gypsy camp without their claiming him: "What are you
 doing with a black coat on?" they would say, "why don't you join us
 and be our King?"

 "'He had the peculiar eye, which looked you through, glazed over and
 saw something behind, and is the only man, not a Gypsy, with that
 peculiarity. He had the restlessness which could stay nowhere long,
 nor own any spot on earth--the same horror of a corpse, death-bed
 scenes, and graveyards, or anything which was in the slightest degree
 ghoulish, though caring but little for his own life--the same aptitude
 for reading the hand at a glance. With many, he would drop it at once
 and turn away, nor would anything induce him to speak a word about it.

 "'You quote a letter of his to Mr. James Pincherle, a dear old friend
 of ours, where he relates the influence that a Gypsy, named Hagar
 Burton, had upon his life. I will now tell you the story, which will
 reappear in his biography, if I live to finish it.

 [Sidenote: _Hagar Burton the Gipsy._]

 "'When I was a girl in the schoolroom in the country, I was
 enthusiastic about Gypsies, Bedouin Arabs, everything Eastern and
 mysterious, and especially wild, lawless life. Disraeli's "Tancred"
 was my second Bible. I was strictly forbidden to associate with the
 Gypsies in our lanes, which was my delight. When they were only
 travelling tinkers or basket-menders I was very obedient, but wild
 horses would not have kept me out of the camps of the Oriental, yet
 English-named, tribes of Burton, Cooper, Stanley, Osbaldiston, and
 one other whose name I forget. My particular friend was Hagar Burton,
 a tall, slender, handsome, distinguished, refined woman, of much
 weight in the tribe. Many an hour have I passed with her (she called
 me Daisy), and many a little service I did them when any of them were
 sick, or had got into a scrape with the squires, anent poultry or eggs
 and other things. At last a time came when we were to go to school
 in France, and my departure was regretted by them. The last day but
 one I ever saw Hagar, she cast my horoscope, and wrote it in Romany.
 The rest of the tribe presented me with a straw flycatcher of many
 colours, which I still have. The horoscope was translated to me by
 her, and I give you the most important part concerning my husband--

 "'"You will cross the sea, and be in the same town with your Destiny,
 and know it not. Every obstacle will rise up against you, and such a
 combination of circumstances, that it will require all your courage
 and energy and intelligence to meet them. Your life will be like one
 always swimming against big waves, but God will always be with you,
 so you will always win. You will fix your eye on your polar star, and
 you will go for that without looking right or left. _You will bear
 the name of our Tribe, and be right proud of it. You will be as we
 are, but far greater than we._ Your life is all wandering, change,
 and adventure. One soul in two bodies, in life or death; never long
 apart. Show this to the man you take for your husband.--HAGAR
 BURTON."

 "'In June, 1856, I went to Ascot. I met Hagar and shook hands with
 her. "Are you Daisy Burton yet?" was her first question. I shook my
 head--"Would to God I were!" Her face lit up. "Patience, it is just
 coming." She waved her hand, being rudely thrust from the carriage. I
 never saw her since, but I was engaged to Richard two months later.

 [Sidenote: _Our Strange Parting._]

 "'After we were engaged, I gave him the horoscope in Romany. It was
 before he set out in October, 1856, with Speke, for the discovery of
 Tanganyika. We had been engaged for some weeks. One day in October
 we had passed several hours together, and he appointed to come next
 day, at four o'clock in the afternoon. I went to bed quite happy, but
 I could not sleep at all. At two a.m. the door opened, and he came
 into my room. A current of warm air came towards my bed. He said,
 "Good-bye, my poor child. My time is up, and I have gone, but do not
 grieve. I shall be back in less than three years, and _I am your
 destiny_. Good-bye."

 "'He held up a letter--looked long at me with those Gypsy eyes, and
 went slowly out, shutting the door. I sprang out of bed to the door,
 into the passage--there was nothing--and thence into the room of one
 of my brothers. I threw myself on the ground, and cried my heart out.
 He got up, asked me what ailed me, and tried to soothe and comfort
 me. "Richard is gone to Africa," I said, "and I shall not see him for
 three years." "Nonsense," he replied; "you have only got a nightmare.
 You told me he was coming at four in the afternoon." "So I did; but
 I have seen him, and he told me this; and if you wait till the post
 comes in, you will see I have told you truly." I sat all the night in
 my brother's armchair, and at eight o'clock, when the post came in,
 there was a letter to my sister, Blanche Pigott, enclosing one for me.
 "He had found it too painful to part, and had thought we should suffer
 less that way, begged her to break it gently to me, and to give me the
 letter" (which assured me we should be reunited in 1859--as we were,
 on the 22nd May of that year). He had left London at six o'clock the
 previous evening, eight hours before I saw him in the night.

 "'This is the story of Hagar Burton. We have mixed a great deal since
 with Gypsies, in all parts of the world, and have sought her in vain.
 The other Gypsies have chiefly warned us of having to fight through
 our lives, and to be perpetually on guard against treacheries and
 calumnies "_chiefly through jealous men and nasty women_." Well, we
 have mostly left them to God, and they nearly always come to grief. I
 may add that all that Hagar Burton foretold came true, and I pray God
 it may be so to the end, _i.e._ "never long apart" in Life _or_ Death.

 "'ISABEL BURTON.'"

Richard traced for me a little sketch of what he expected to find in
the Lake Regions (see below).

[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF AFRICA.]

That last afternoon I had placed round his neck a medal of the Blessed
Virgin upon a steel chain, which we Catholics commonly call "the
miraculous medal." He promised me he would wear it throughout his
journey, and show it me on his return. I had offered it to him on a
gold chain, but he had said, "Take away the gold chain; they will cut
my throat for it out there." He did show it me round his neck when he
came back; he wore it all his life, and it is buried with him.

What made my position more painful was, that he knew that I should
not be allowed to receive any letters from him, and therefore it was
not safe to write often, and then only to say what others might read.
He left to me, at my request, the task of breaking the fact of my
engagement to my people, when, where, and how I pleased, as it would be
impossible to marry me until he came back. I would here insert a little
poem he wrote on leaving--

    "I wore thine image, Fame,
    Within a heart well fit to be thy shrine!
    Others a thousand boons may gain,
                 One wish was mine--

    "The hope to gain one smile,
    To dwell one moment cradled on thy breast,
    Then close my eyes, bid life farewell,
                 And take my rest!

    "And now I see a glorious hand
    Beckon me out of dark despair!
    Hear a glorious voice command,
                'Up, bravely dare.

    "'And if to leave a deeper trace
    'On earth, to thee, Time, Fate, deny;
    'Drown vain regret, and have the grace
                'Silent to die.'

    "She pointed to a grisly land,
    Where all breathes death--earth, sea, and air!
    Her glorious accents sound once more:
                'Go, meet me there!'

    "Mine ear will hear no other sound,
    No other thought my heart will know.
    Is this a sin? 'Oh, pardon, Lord!
                'Thou mad'st me so.'

"R. F. B.

"_September_, 1856."



CHAPTER XII.

HIS EXPLORATION OF THE LAKE REGIONS, TAKING CAPTAIN SPEKE AS SECOND IN
COMMAND.


MY FOREWORD.


It was the Royal Geographical Society which induced Lord Clarendon,
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, to supply Richard with funds
for an exploration of the then utterly unknown Lake Regions of Central
Africa. In October, 1856, he set out for Bombay, applied for Captain
Speke, and landed at Zanzibar on December 19th, 1856. Lieut.-Colonel
Hamerton, her Majesty's Consul at Zanzibar, was very good to them;
they made a tentative expedition from January 5th to March 6th, 1857,
about the Mombas regions. They got a bad coast fever, and returned
to Zanzibar. They then set out again into the far interior, into
which only one European, Monsieur Maizan, a French naval officer, had
attempted to penetrate; he was cruelly murdered at the outset of his
journey.

It was the first successful attempt to penetrate that country, and laid
the foundation for others. It was the base on which all subsequent
journeys were founded; Livingstone, Cameron, Speke and Grant, Sir S.
Baker, and Stanley carried it out. Where Richard found the rudest
barbarians, Church missions have been established, and commerce, and
now a railway is proposed to connect the coast with the Lake Regions.
This expedition brought neither honour nor profit to Richard; but the
world is not likely to forget it; the future will be more generous and
juster than the past or present. During these African explorations,
Richard was attacked by fever twenty-one times, by temporary paralysis
and partial blindness. On his return he brought out "The Lake Regions
of Equatorial Africa," 2 vols., 1860, and the Royal Geographical
Society devoted the whole of their thirty-third volume to its recital
(Clowes and Son). Richard's book was translated into French by Madame
H. Loreau, and republished in New York by Fakir, 1861. It will
shortly be added to the Uniform Library in preparation. In May, 1859,
the moment he returned to England, he immediately proposed another
Expedition, which, however, the Royal Geographical Society gave to
his disloyal companion, who completely and wilfully spoiled the first
Expedition as far as lay in his power.


 ZANZIBAR; AND TWO MONTHS IN EAST AFRICA.

 (From his own notes.)

 _Preliminary Canter._


 "Of the gladdest moments, methinks, in human life, is the departing
 upon a distant journey into _unknown_ lands. Shaking off with one
 effort the fetters of habit, the leaden weight of routine, the cloak
 of carking care, and the slavery of Civilization, Man feels once more
 happy. The blood flows with the fast circulation of youth, excitement
 gives a new vigour to the muscles, and a sense of sudden freedom adds
 an inch to the stature. Afresh dawns the morn of life, again the
 bright world is beautiful to the eye, and the glorious face of Nature
 gladdens the soul. A journey, in fact, appeals to Imagination, to
 Memory, to Hope--the sister Graces of our moral being.

 "The shrill screaming of the boatswain's whistle, and sundry shouts
 of, 'Stand by yer booms!' 'All ready, for'ard?' 'Now make sail!'
 sounded in mine ears with a sweet significance.


 ZANZIBAR.


 "Our captain decided, from the absence of Friday flags on the
 Consular Staffs, that some great man had gone to his long home. The
 _Elphinstone_, however, would not have the trouble of casting loose
 her guns for nothing with H.H. the Sayyid of Zanzibar's ensign--a
 plain red--at the fore, and the Union at the main, she cast anchor
 in Front Bay, about half a mile from shore, and fired a salute of
 twenty-one. A gay bunting thereupon flew up to every truck, and the
 brass cannon of the _Victoria_ roared a response of twenty-two. We had
 arrived on the fortieth, or the last day of mourning.

 "When 'chivalry' was explained to the late ruler, Said of Zanzibar
 (1856), as enlightened a prince as Arabia ever produced, and
 surrounded by intrigue, he was shrewd enough to remark 'that only the
 _siflah_ (low fellows) interfere between husband and wife.'

 "Peace to his soul! he was a model of Arab princes, a firm friend to
 the English nation, and a great admirer of the 'Malikat el Aazameh,'
 our most gracious Majesty Queen Victoria.

 "The unworthy merchants of Zanzibar, American and European, did their
 best to secure for us the fate of M. Maizan, both on this and on a
 subsequent occasion, by spreading all manner of reports amongst the
 Banyans, Arabs, and Sawahilis.

 "Considering the unfitness of the season, we were strongly advised to
 defer exploration of the interior until we had learned something of
 the coast, and for that purpose we set out at once, for a two or three
 months' cruise.

 "If we, travellers in transit, had reason to be proud of our
 countryman's influence at Zanzibar, the European and American
 merchants should be truly thankful for it. Appointed in 1840 H.B.M.'s
 Consul and H.E.I. Co.'s agent at the court of H.H. Sayyid Said, and
 directed to make this island his Head-quarters, Colonel Hamerton
 found that for nine years not a British cruiser had visited it, and
 that report declared us to be no longer Masters of the Indian seas.
 Slavery was rampant. Wretches were thrown overboard, when sick, to
 prevent paying duty; and the sea-beach before the town, as well as
 the plantations, presented horrible spectacles of dogs devouring
 human flesh. The Consul's representations were accepted by Sayyid
 Said; sundry floggings and confiscation of property instilled into
 slave-owners the semblance of humanity. The insolence of the negro
 was as summarily dealt with. The Arabs had persuaded the Sawahilis
 and blacks that a white man is a being below contempt, and the 'poor
 African' carries out the theory. Only seventeen years have elapsed
 since an American Trader-Consul, in consular cocked hat and sword, was
 horsed upon a slave's back, and solemnly 'bakered' in his own consular
 house, under his own consular flag. A Sawahili would at any time enter
 the merchant's bureau, dispose his sandalled feet upon the table, call
 for a cognac, and if refused, draw his dagger. Negro fishermen would
 anchor their craft close to a window, and, clinging to the mast, enjoy
 the novel spectacle of Kafirs feeding.

 "_Now_ an Englishman here is even more civilly treated than at one of
 our Presidencies. This change is the work of Colonel Hamerton, who,
 in the strenuous and unremitting discharge of his duties, has lost
 youth, strength, and health. The iron constitution of this valuable
 public servant--I have quoted merely a specimen of his worth--has been
 undermined by the terrible fever, and at fifty his head bears the
 'blossoms of the grave,' as though it had seen its seventieth summer.

 "The reader asks, What induced us to take a guide apparently so
 little fit for rough-and-ready work? In the first place, the presence
 of Said bin Salim el Lamki was a pledge of respectability. And
 lastly, a bright exception to the rule of his unconscientious race,
 he _appears_ truthful, honest, and honourable. I have never yet had
 reason to suspect him of a low action. 'Verily,' was the reply, 'whoso
 benefiteth the beneficent becometh his Lord; but the vile well-treated
 turneth and rendeth thee.' I almost hope that he may not deceive us in
 the end.

 "The traveller in Eastern Africa must ever be prepared for three
 distinct departures--the little start, the great start, and the start.

 "On the 10th of January we ran through the paradise of verdant banks
 and plateaus, forming the approach to Pemba,[1] and halted a day
 to admire the Emerald Isle of these Eastern seas. In A.D. 1698 the
 bold buccaneer, Captain Kidd, buried there his blood-stained hoards
 of precious stones and metal, the plunder of India and the further
 Orient. The people of Pemba have found pots full of gold lumps,
 probably moulded from buttons that the pirate might wear his wealth.

 "On the heights of Chhaga, an image or statue of a long-haired
 woman, seated in a chair and holding a child, is reported to remain.
 Iconolatry being here unknown, the savages must have derived them from
 some more civilized race--Catholic missionaries.

 "The Mazrui, a noble Arab tribe, placed themselves under British
 protection in their rebellion against the late Sayyid. They
 were permitted to fly our flag--a favour for which, when danger
 disappeared, they proved themselves ungrateful; and a Mr. Reece was
 placed at Mombas to watch its interests. The travellers lamented that
 we abandoned Mombas: had England retained it, the whole interior would
 now be open to us. But such is the history of Britain the Great: hard
 won by blood and gold, her conquests are parted with for a song.

 "The very Hindús required a lesson in civility. With the _Wali_, or
 Governor, Khalfan bin Ali, an Omani Arab of noble family, we were on
 the best of terms. But the manifest animus of the public made us feel
 light-hearted, when, our inquiries concluded, we bade adieu to Mombas.

 "The people of Eastern Intertropical Africa are divided by their
 occupations into three orders. First is the fierce pastoral nomad,
 the Galla and Masai, the Somal and the Kafir, who lives upon the
 produce of his cattle, the chase, and foray. Secondly rank the
 semi-pastoral, as the Wakamba, who, though without fixed abodes, make
 their women cultivate the ground. And the last degree of civilization,
 agriculture, is peculiar to the Waníka, the Wasumbára, and the various
 tribes living between the coast and the interior lakes.

 "The Waníka, or Desert race, is composed of a Negritic base, now
 intimately mixed with Semitic blood.

 "When that enlightened Arab statesman, H.E. Ali bin Nasir, H.H. the
 Imaum of Muscat's Envoy Extraordinary to H.B. Majesty, was Governor of
 Mombas, he took advantage of a scarcity to feed the starving Waníka
 from the public granaries. He was careful, however, to secure as
 pledges of repayment, the wives and children of his debtors, and he
 lost no time in selling off the whole number. Such a feat was probably
 little suspected by our countrymen, when, to honour enlightened
 beneficence, they welcomed the Statesman with all the triumphs of
 Exeter Hall, presented him with costly specimens of Government,
 and sent him from Aden to Zanzibar in the H.E.I. Co.'s brig of war
 _Tigris_. This Oriental votary of free trade came to a merited end.
 Recognized by the enraged savages, he saw his sons expire in torments;
 he was terribly mutilated during life, and was put to death with all
 the refinements of cruelty.

 "A report, prevalent in Mombas--even a Sawahili sometimes speaks the
 truth--and the march of an armed party from the town which denoted
 belief in their own words, induced my companions and myself to hasten
 up once more to the Rabai Hills, expecting to find the mission-house
 invested by savages. The danger had been exaggerated, but the inmates
 were strongly advised to take temporary shelter in the town. Left
 Kisulodiny on the 22nd of January, 1857. Some nights afterwards,
 fires were observed upon the neighbouring hills, and Waníka scouts
 returned with a report that the Masai were in rapid advance. The wise
 few fled at once to the _kaza_, or hidden and barricaded stronghold,
 which these people prepare for extreme danger. The foolish many said,
 'To-morrow morning we will drive our flocks and herds to safety.' But
 ere that morning dawned upon the world, a dense mass of wild spearmen,
 sweeping with shout and yell, and clashing arms, by the mission-house,
 which they either saw not or they feared to enter, dashed upon the
 scattered villages in the vale below, and left the ground strewed
 with the corpses of hapless fugitives. When driving off their cattle,
 the Masai, rallying, fell upon them, drove them away in ignominious
 flight, and slew twenty-five of their number.

 "Jack[2] and I landed at Wasin, and found the shore crowded with
 a mob of unarmed gazers, who did not even return our salaams: we
 resolved in future to keep such greetings for those who deserved
 them. Abd-el-Karím led us to his house, seated us in chairs upon a
 terrace, and mixed a cooling drink in a vase not usually devoted to
 such purpose. There is no game on the island, or on the main. In the
 evening we quitted the squalid settlement without a single regret.

 "Our _nakhoda_ again showed symptoms of trickery; he had been allowed
 to ship cargo from Mombas to Wasin, and, Irish-like, he thereupon
 founded a right to ship cargo from Wasin to Tanga. Unable to disabuse
 his mind by mild proceedings, I threatened to cut the cable.

 "At last, having threaded the _báb_, or narrow rock-bound passage
 which separates the bluff headland of Tanga Island from Ras Rashíd on
 the main, we glided into the bay, and anchored in three fathoms of
 water, opposite, and about half a mile from, the town.

 "Tanga Bay extends six miles deep by five in breadth. The entrance is
 partially barred by a coralline bank, the ancient site of the Arab
 settlement.

 "We landed on the morning of the 27th of January, and were met upon
 the sea-shore, in absence of the Arab Governor, by the _Diwans_ or
 Sawahili Headmen, the _Jemadar_ and his Belochies, the Collector of
 customs, Mizan Sahib, a daft old Indian, and other dignitaries. They
 conducted us to the hut formerly tenanted by M. Erhardt; brought
 coffee, fruit, and milk; and, in fine, treated us with peculiar
 civility. Here Sheddad built his City of brass, and encrusted the
 hill-top with a silver dome that shines with various and surpassing
 colours.

 "The mountain recedes as the traveller advances, and the higher he
 ascends the higher rises the summit. At last blood bursts from the
 nostrils, the fingers bend backwards, and the most adventurous is
 fain to stop. Amongst this Herodotian tissue of fact and fable, ran
 one fine thread of truth: all testified to the intense cold.

 "They promised readily, however, to escort me to one of the ancient
 Cities of the coast.

 "Setting out at eight a.m. with a small party of spearmen, I walked
 four or five miles south of Tanga, on the Tangata road, over a country
 strewed with the bodies of huge millepedes, and dry as Arabian sand.

 "I assumed an Arab dress--a turban of portentous circumference, and a
 long henna-dyed shirt--and, accompanied by Said bin Salim, I went to
 inspect the scene.

 "The wild people, Washenzy, Wasembára, Wadígo, and Waségeju, armed as
 usual, stalking about, whilst their women, each with baby on back,
 carried heavy loads of saleable stuff, or sat opposite their property,
 or chaffered and gesticulated upon knotty questions of bargain.

 "The heat of the ground made my barefooted companions run forward
 to the shade, from time to time, like the dogs in Tibet. Sundry
 excursions delayed us six days at Tanga.

 "Five hours of lazy sailing ran us into Tangata, an open road between
 Tanga and Pangany. Here we delayed a day to inspect some ruins, where
 we had been promised Persian inscriptions and other wonders.

 "We spent the remainder of the day and night at Tangata, fanned by the
 north-east breeze, and cradled by the rocking send of the Indian Ocean.

 "At five a.m. on the 3rd of February we hoisted sail, and slipped down
 with the tepid morning breeze to Pangany, sighting Maziny Island, its
 outpost, after three hours' run. Soon after arrival I sent Said bin
 Salim, in all his bravery, on shore with the Sayyid of Zanzibar's
 circular letter to the _Wali_ or Governor, to the _Jemadar_, to
 the Collector of customs, and the different _Diwans_. All this
 preparation for a mere trifle! We were received with high honour. The
 _Diwans_ danced an ancient military dance before us with the pomp and
 circumstance of drawn swords, whilst bare-headed slave-girls, with
 hair _à la Brutus_, sang and flapped their skirts over the ground,
 with an affectedly modest and downcast demeanour. After half an hour's
 endurance, we were led into the upper-storied house of the Wali
 Meriko, a freedman of the late Sayyid Said, and spent the evening in a
 committee of ways and means.

 "African villages are full of bleared misery by day, and animated
 filth by night, and of hunting adventures and hair-breadth escapes,
 lacking the interest of catastrophe.

 "We arose early in the morning after arrival at Pangany, and repaired
 to the terrace for the better enjoyment of the view.

 "If it had half-a-dozen white kiosks, minarets, and latticed
 summer-houses, it would almost rival that gem of creation, the
 Bosphorus.

 "The settlement is surrounded by a thorny jungle, which at times
 harbours a host of leopards. One of these beasts lately scaled the
 high terrace of our house, and seized upon a slave-girl. Her master,
 the burly black _Wali_, who was sleeping by her side, gallantly caught
 up his sword, ran into the house, and bolted the door, heedless of the
 miserable cry, 'B'ana, help me!' The wretch was carried to the jungle
 and devoured. The river is equally full of alligators, and whilst we
 were at Pangany a boy disappeared.

 "Of course the two tribes, Wasumbara and Wazegura, are deadly foes.
 Moreover, about a year ago, a violent intestine feud broke out
 amongst the Wazegura, who, at the time of our visit, were burning and
 murdering, kidnapping, and slave-selling in all directions.

 "The timid townsmen had also circulated a report that we were bound
 for Chhaga and Kilimanjaro: the Masai were 'out,' the rains were
 setting in, and they saw with us no armed escort. They resolved
 therefore not to accompany us.

 "With abundance of money--say not less than £5000 per annum--an
 exploring party can trace its own line, pay the exactions of all
 Chiefs; it can study whatever is requisite; handle sextants in
 presence of negroes, who would cut every throat for one inch of
 brass; and, by travelling in comfort, can secure a very fair chance
 of return. Even from Mombas or from Pangany, with an escort of one
 hundred matchlock-men, we might have marched through the Masai
 plunderers to Chhaga and Kilimanjaro. But pay, porterage, and
 provisions for such a party would have amounted to at least £100 per
 week; a month and a half would have absorbed our means. Thus it was,
 gentle reader, that we were compelled to rest contented with a visit
 on foot to Fuga, for we had only one thousand pounds.

 "Presently the plot thickened. Muigni Khatib, son of Sultan Kimwere, a
 black of most unprepossessing physiognomy, with a 'villanous trick of
 the eye, and a foolish hanging of the nether lip,' a prognathous jaw,
 garnished with cat-like moustaches and cobweb beard, a sour frown, and
 abundant surliness by way of dignity, dressed like an Arab, and raised
 by El Islam above his fellows, sent a message directing us to place in
 his hands what we intended for his father. This Chief was travelling
 to Zanzibar in fear and trembling. He had tried to establish at his
 village, Kirore, a Romulian asylum for runaway slaves, and, having
 partially succeeded, he dreaded the consequences. The Beloch _Jemadar_
 strongly urged us privily to cause his detention at the islands, a
 precaution somewhat too Oriental for our tastes. We refused, however,
 the _muigni's_ demand in his own tone. Following their Prince, the
 dancing _Diwans_ claimed a fee for permission to reside; as they
 worded it, '_el adah_'--the habit; based upon an ancient present from
 Colonel Hamerton; and were in manifest process of establishing a local
 custom which, in Africa, becomes law to remotest posterity. We flatly
 objected, showed our letters, and in the angriest of moods threatened
 reference to Zanzibar. Briefly, all began to beg bakhshish; but I
 cannot remember any one obtaining it.

 "Weary of these importunities, we resolved to visit Chogway, a Beloch
 outpost, and thence, aided by the _Jemadar_ who had preceded us
 from Pangany, to push for the capital village of Usumbara. We made
 preparations secretly, dismissed the 'Riami,' rejected the _Diwans_
 who wished to accompany us as spies, left Said bin Salim and one
 Portuguese to watch our property in the house of Meriko, the Governor,
 who had accompanied his _muigni_ to Zanzibar, and, under pretext of a
 short shooting excursion, hired a long canoe with four men, loaded it
 with the luggage required for a fortnight, and started with the tide
 at eleven a.m. on the 6th of January, 1857.

 "First we grounded; then we were taken aback; then a puff of wind
 drove us forward with railway speed; then we grounded again.

 "And now, while writing amid the soughing blasts, the rain, and the
 darkened air of a south-western monsoon, I remember with yearning
 the bright and beautiful spectacle of those African rivers, whose
 loveliness, like that of the dead, seems enhanced by proximity to
 decay. We had changed the agreeable and graceful sandstone scenery,
 on the sea-board, for a view novel and most characteristic. The
 hippopotamus now raised his head from the waters, snorted, gazed
 upon us, and sank into his native depths. Alligators, terrified by
 the splash of oars, waddled down with their horrid claws, dinting
 the slimy bank, and lay like yellow logs, measuring us with small,
 malignant, green eyes, deep set under warty brows. Monkeys rustled the
 tali trees. Below, jungle--men and woman--

    'So withered, so wild in their attire,
    That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth,
    And yet are on't.'

 And all around reigned the eternal African silence, deep and
 saddening, broken only by the curlew's scream, or by the breeze
 rustling the tree-tops, whispering among the matted foliage, and
 swooning upon the tepid bosom of the wave.

 "We sat under a tree till midnight, unsatiated with the charm of the
 hour. The moon rained molten silver over the dark foliage of the wild
 palms, the stars were as golden lamps suspended in the limpid air,
 and Venus glittered diamond-like upon the front of the firmament. The
 fireflies now sparkled simultaneously over the earth; then, as if by
 concerted impulse, their glow vanished in the glooms of the ground. At
 our feet lay the black creek; in the jungle beasts roared fitfully;
 and the night wind mingled melancholy sounds with the swelling
 murmuring of the stream.

 "The tide flowing about midnight, we resumed our way. The river then
 became a sable streak between lofty rows of trees. The hippopotamus
 snorted close to our stern, and the crew begged me to fire, for the
 purpose of frightening 'Sultan Momba'--a pernicious rogue. At times we
 heard the splashing of the beasts as they scrambled over the shoals;
 at others, they struggled with loud grunts up the miry banks. Then
 again all was quiet. After a protracted interval of silence, the
 near voice of a man startled us in the deep drear stillness of the
 night, as though it had been some ghostly sound. At two a.m., reaching
 a clear tract on the river side--the Ghaut or landing-place of
 Chogway--we made fast the canoe, looked to our weapons, and, covering
 our faces against the heavy, clammy dew, lay down to snatch an hour's
 sleep. The total distance rowed was about 13.5 miles.

 "Fifty stout fellows, with an ambitious leader and a little money,
 might soon conquer the whole country, and establish there an absolute
 monarchy.

 "These Beloch mercenaries merit some notice. They were preferred, as
 being somewhat disciplinable, by the late Sayyid Said, to his futile
 blacks and his unruly and self-willed Oman Arabs. He entertained from
 one thousand to fifteen hundred men, and scattered them over the
 country in charge of the forts. The others hate them--divisions even
 amongst his own children was the ruler's policy--and nickname them
 'Kurara Kurara.' The _Jemadar_ and the Governor are rarely on speaking
 terms. Calling themselves Belochies, they are mostly from the regions
 about Kech and Bampur. They are mixed up with a rabble rout of Afghans
 and Arabs, Indians and Sudies, and they speak half a dozen different
 languages. Many of these gentry have left their country for their
 country's good. A body of convicts, however, fights well. The Mekrani
 are first-rate behind walls; and if paid, drilled, and officered, they
 would make as 'varmint' light-bobs as Arnauts. They have a knightly
 fondness for arms. A 'young barrel and an old blade' are their
 delight. All use the matchlock, and many are skilful with sword and
 shield.

 "Having communicated our project to the _Jemadar_ of Chogway, he
 promised, for a consideration, all aid; told us that we should start
 the next day; and, curious to relate, kept his word.

 "A start was effected at five p.m., every slave complaining of his
 load, snatching up the lightest, and hurrying on regardless of what
 was left behind. This nuisance endured till summarily stopped by an
 outward application easily divined. The evening belling of deer and
 the clock-clock of partridge struck our ears. In the open places were
 the lesses of elephants, and footprints retained by the last year's
 mud. These animals descend to the plains during the monsoon, and in
 summer retire to the cool hills. The Belochies shoot, the wild people
 kill them with poisoned arrows. More than once during our wanderings
 we found the grave-like trap-pits, called in India, _ogi_.

 "Tusks weighing 100 lbs. each are common, those of 175 lbs. are not
 rare, and I have heard of a pair whose joint weight was 560 lbs.

 "At Makam Sayyid Sulayman--a half-cleared ring in the thorny
 jungle--we passed the night in a small babel of Belochies. One recited
 his Korán; another prayed; a third told funny stories; whilst a fourth
 trolled lays of love and war, long ago made familiar to my ear upon
 the rugged Asian hills. This was varied by slapping lank mosquitoes
 that flocked to the camp-fires; by rising to get rid of huge black
 pismires, whose bite burned like a red-hot needle; and by challenging
 two parties of savages, who, armed with bows and arrows, passed
 amongst us.

 "Tongway is the first offset of the mountain-terrace composing the
 land of Usumbara. It rises abruptly from the plain, lies north-west
 of, and nine miles, as the crow flies, distant from, Chogway. The
 summit, about two thousand feet above the sea-level, is clothed with
 jungle, through which, seeking compass-sights, we cut a way with our
 swords.

 "The climate appeared delicious--even in the full blaze of an African
 and tropical summer; and whilst the hill was green, the land around
 was baked like bread-crust.

 "The escort felt happy at Tongway, twice a day devouring our rice--an
 unknown luxury; and they were at infinite pains to defer the evil hour.

 "Petty pilferers to the backbone, they steal, like magpies, by
 instinct. On the march they lag behind, and, not being professional
 porters, they are restive as camels when receiving their load. One of
 these youths, happening to be brother-in-law--after a fashion--to the
 _Jemadar_, requires incessant supervision to prevent him burdening
 the others with his own share. The guide, Muigni Wazira, is a huge,
 broad-shouldered Sawahili, with a coal-black skin; his high, massive,
 and regular features look as if carved in ebony, and he frowns like a
 demon in the 'Arabian Nights.'

 "A prayerless Sheríf, he thoroughly despises the Makapry or Infidels;
 he has a hot temper, and, when provoked, roars like a wild beast. He
 began by refusing his load, but yielded, when it was gently placed
 upon his heavy shoulder, with a significant gesture in case of
 recusance.

 "Rahewat, the Mekrani, calls himself a Beloch, and wears the title
 of Shah-Sawar, or the Rider-king. He is the _chelebi_, the dandy and
 tiger of our party. A 'good-looking brown man,' about twenty-five
 years old, with a certain girlishness and affectation of _tournure_
 and manner, which bode no good, the Rider-king deals in the externals
 of respectability; he washes and prays with pompous regularity, combs
 his long hair and beard, trains his bushy moustache to touch his eyes,
 and binds a huge turban. Having somewhat high ideas of discipline, he
 began with stabbing a slave-boy by way of a lesson.

 "The Rider-king, pleading soldier, positively refuses to carry,
 anything but his matchlock, and a private stock of dates, which he
 keeps ungenerously to himself. He boasts of prowess in vert and
 venison: we never saw him hit the mark, but we missed some powder and
 ball.

 "The gem of the party is Sudy Mubárak, who has taken to himself the
 cognomen of 'Bombay.' His sooty skin, and teeth pointed like those
 of the reptilia, denote his Mhiav origin. He is one of those rare
 'Sudies' that delight the passengers in an Indian steamer. Bombay,
 sold in early youth, carried to Cutch by some Banyan, and there
 emancipated, looks fondly back upon the home of his adoption, and
 sighs for the day when a few dollars will enable, him to return. He
 has ineffable contempt for all 'jungly niggers.' His head is a triumph
 of phrenology. He works on principle, and works like a horse, openly
 declaring that not love of us, but attachment to his stomach, make
 him industrious. He had enlisted under the _Jemadar_ of Chogway. We
 thought, however, so highly of his qualifications, that persuasion
 and paying his debts induced him, after a little coquetting, to take
 leave of soldiering and follow our fortunes. Sudy Bombay will be our
 head gun-carrier, if he survives his present fever, and, I doubt not,
 will prove himself a rascal in the end.

 "During the first night all Bombay's efforts were required to prevent
 a _sauve qui peut_.

 "On the 10th of February, after a night of desert silence, we arose
 betimes, and applied ourselves to the work of porterage. Our luggage
 again suffered reduction. It was, however, past six a.m. when, forming
 Indian file, we began to descend the thorn-clad goat-track which spans
 the north-east spur of Mount Tongway. Overhead floated a filmy canopy
 of sea-green verdure, pierced by myriads of sunbeams, whilst the azure
 effulgence above, purified as with fire, from mist and vapour set the
 picture in a frame of gold and ultramarine. Painful splendours! The
 men began to drop off. None but Hamdan had brought a calabash. Shaaban
 clamoured for water. Wazira and the four slave-boys retired to some
 puddle, a discovery which they wisely kept to themselves, leaving the
 rest of the party to throw themselves under a tree and bush upon the
 hot ground.

 "As the sun sank westward, Wazira joined us with a mouthful of lies,
 and the straggling line advanced. Our purblind guide once more lagged
 in the rear, yielding the lead to old Shaaban. This worthy, whose
 five wits were absorbed in visions of drink, strode blunderingly
 ahead, over the Wazira Hills and far away. Jack, keeping him in
 sight, and I in rear of both, missed the road. Shortly after sunset
 we three reached a narrow _fiumara_, where stood, delightful sight!
 some puddles bright with chickweed, and black with the mire below.
 We quenched our thirst, and bathed our swollen feet, and patted, and
 felt, and handled the water as though we loved it. But even this
 charming occupation had an end. Evidently we had lost our way. Our
 shots and shouts remained unanswered. It would have been folly to
 thread the thorny jungle by the dubious light of a young moon. We
 therefore kindled a fire, looked at our arms, lay down upon a soft
 sandy place, and certain that Shaaban would be watchful as a vestal
 virgin, were soon lulled to sleep by the music of the night breeze,
 and by the frogs chanting their ancient querele upon the miry margins
 of the pools. That day's work had been little more than five leagues.
 But--

    'These high wild hills and rough uneven ways
    Draw out the miles.'

 "Our guide secured, as extra porters, five wild men, habited in
 primitive attire. Their only garment was a kilt of dried and split
 rushes or grass. All had bows and poisoned arrows, except one, who
 boasted a miserable musket and literally a powder-horn, the vast
 spoils of a cow. The wretches were lean as wintry wolves, and not
 less ravenous. We fed them with rice and ghee. Of course they asked
 for more, till their stomachs, before like shrunken bladders, stood
 out in the shape of little round bumps from the hoop-work of ribs.
 We had neglected to take their arms. After feeding, they arose, and
 with small beady eyes, twinkling with glee, bade us farewell. Though
 starving they would not work. A few hours afterwards, however, they
 found a hippopotamus in the open, killed it with their arrows, and
 soon left nothing but a heap of bones and a broad stain of blood upon
 the ground.

       *       *       *       *       *

 "Arrived at Kohoday, the elders, as we landed, wrung our hands with
 rollicking greetings, and those immoderate explosive laughings which
 render the African family to all appearance so 'jolly' a race.

 "We were shown, on the mountain-pass of Usumbara, the watch-fire which
 is never extinguished; and the Mzegura chief, when supplying us with a
 bullock, poked his thumb back towards the hills and said, with a roar
 of laughter, that already we had become the King's guests. Our Beloch
 guard applauded this kindred soul, patted him upon the shoulder, and
 declared that, with a score of men of war like themselves, he might
 soon become lord of all the mountains.

 "Our parting was pathetic. He swore he loved us, and promised, on our
 return, the boat to conduct us down the river; but when we appeared
 with empty hands, he told the truth, namely, that it is a succession
 of falls and rapids.

 "At five p.m., passing two bridges, we entered Msiky Mguru, a Wazegura
 village distant twelve miles from Kohoday. It is a cluster of hay-cock
 huts, touching one another, built upon an island formed by divers
 rapid and roaring branches of the river. The headman was sick, but
 we found a hospitable reception. We spent our nights with ants and
 other little murderers of sleep which shall be nameless. Our hosts
 expressed great alarm about the Masai. It was justified by the sequel.
 Scarcely had we left the country when a plundering party of wild
 spearmen attacked two neighbouring villages, slaughtering the hapless
 cultivators, and, with pillage and pollage, drove off the cows in
 triumph.

 "After an hour's march we skirted a village, where the people
 peremptorily ordered us to halt. We attributed this annoyance to
 Wazira, who was forthwith visited with a general wigging. But the
 impending rain sharpened our tempers; we laughed in the faces of our
 angry expostulators, and, bidding them stop us if they could, pursued
 our road.

 "Presently ascending a hill, and turning abruptly to the north-east,
 we found ourselves opposite, and about ten miles distant from, a tall
 azure curtain, the mountains of Fuga. Water stood in black pools, and
 around it waved luxuriant sugar-canes. In a few minutes every mouth
 in the party was tearing and chewing at a long pole. This cane is of
 the edible kind. The officinal varieties are too luscious, cloying,
 and bilious to be sucked with impunity by civilized men. After walking
 that day sixteen miles, at about four p.m. a violent storm of thunder,
 lightning, and raw south-west wind, which caused the thermometer to
 fall many degrees, and the slaves to shudder and whimper, drove us
 back into the _bandany_, or palaver-house of a large village. The
 place swarmed with flies and mosquitoes. We lighted fires to keep off
 fevers.

 "Sunday, the 15th of February, dawned with one of those steady little
 cataclysms, which, to be seen advantageously, must be seen near the
 Line. At eleven a.m., weary of the steaming _bandany_, our men loaded,
 and in a lucid interval set out towards the Fuga Hills,[3] to which we
 walked for economy sake. As we approached them, the rain shrank to a
 spitting, gradually ceased, and was replaced by that reeking, fetid,
 sepulchral heat which travellers in the tropics know and fear. The
 slippery way had wearied our slaves, though aided by three porters
 hired that morning; and the sun, struggling through vapour, was still
 hot enough to overpower the whole party.

 "Issuing from the dripping canopy, we followed a steep goat-track,
 fording a crystal burn, and having reached the midway, sat down to
 enjoy the rarefied air, and to use the compass and spyglass. The
 view before us was extensive, if not beautiful. Under our feet the
 mountains fell in rugged folds, clothed with plantain fields, wild
 mulberries, custard-apples, and stately trees, whose lustrous green
 glittered against the ochreous ground. The sarsaparilla vine hung
 in clusters from the supporting limbs of the tamarind, the toddy
 palm raised its fantastic arms over the dwarf coco, and bitter
 oranges mingled pleasant scent with herbs not unlike mint and sage.
 Below, half veiled by rank streams, lay the yellow Nika or Wazegura
 wilderness, traversed by a serpentine of trees denoting the course of
 the Mkomafi affluent. Far beyond we could see the well-wooded line of
 the Lufu river, and from it to the walls of the southern and western
 horizon stretched a uniform purple plain.

 "The three fresh porters positively refused to rise unless a certain
 number of cloths were sent forward to propitiate the magnates of
 Fuga. This was easily traced to Wazira, who received a hint that
 such trifling might be dangerous. He had been lecturing us all that
 morning upon the serious nature of our undertaking. Sultan Kimwere was
 a potent monarch, not a Momba. His Ministers and councillors would,
 unless well paid, avert from us their countenances. We must enter with
 a discharge of musketry to awe the people, and by all means do as we
 are bid. The Belochies smiled contempt, and, pulling up the porters,
 loaded them, deaf to remonstrance.

 "Resuming our march after a short halt, we climbed rather than walked,
 with hearts beating from such unusual exercise, up the deep zigzag of
 a torrent. Villages then began to appear perched like eyries upon the
 hilltops, and the people gathered to watch our approach. At four p.m.
 we found ourselves upon the summit of a ridge. The Belochies begged
 us to taste the water of a spring hard by. It was icy cold, with a
 perceptible chalybeate flavour, sparkled in the cup, and had dyed its
 head with rust.

 "The giant flanks of Mukumbara bound the view. We stood about four
 thousand feet above the sea-level, distant thirty-seven miles from
 the coast, and seventy-four or seventy-five along the winding river.
 There is a short cut from Kohoday across the mountains; but the route
 was then waterless, and the heat would have disabled our Belochies.

 "After another three-mile walk along the hill flanks, we turned a
 corner and suddenly sighted, upon the opposite summit of a grassy
 cone, an unfenced heap of hay-cock huts--Fuga. This being one of the
 Cities where ingress is now forbidden to strangers, we were led by
 Wazira through timid crowds that shrank back as we approached, round
 and below the cone, to four tattered huts, which superstition assigns
 as the 'travellers' bungalow.' Even the son and heir of great Kimwere
 must abide here till the lucky hour admits him to the presence and
 the Imperial City. The cold rain and sharp rarefied air rendering any
 shelter acceptable, we cleared the huts of sheep and goats, housed our
 valuables, and sent Sudy Bombay to the Sultan, requesting the honour
 of an interview.

 "Before dark appeared three bareheaded _mdue_, or 'Ministers,' who
 in long palaver declared that council must squat upon two knotty
 points--_Primo_, Why and wherefore we had entered the country _viâ_
 the hostile Wazegura? _Secundo_, What time might be appointed by his
 Majesty's _mganga_, or medicine-man, for the ceremony? Sharp-witted
 Hamdan at once declared us to be European wizards, and _waganga_ of
 peculiar power over the moon and stars, the wind and rain. Away ran
 the Ministers to report the wonder.

 "The _mganga_, who is called by the Arabs _tabib_, or doctor, and by
 us priest, physician, divine, magician, and medicine-man, combines, as
 these translations show, priestly with medical functions.

 "At six p.m. the Ministers ran back and summoned us to the 'Palace.'
 They led the way through rain and mist to a clump of the usual huts,
 half hidden by trees, and overspreading a little eminence opposite to
 and below Fuga.

 "Sultan Kimwere half rose from his cot as we entered, and motioned
 us to sit upon dwarf stools before him. He was an old, old man,
 emaciated by sickness. His head was shaved, his face beardless, and
 wrinkled like a grandam's; his eyes were red, his jaws disfurnished,
 and his hands and feet were stained with leprous spots. Our errand
 was inquired and we were welcomed to Fuga. As none could read the
 Sayyid of Zanzibar's letter, I was obliged to act secretary. The
 centagenarian had heard of our scrutinizing stars, stones, and trees.
 He directed us at once to compound a draught which would restore him
 to health, strength, and youth. I replied that our drugs had been left
 at Pangany. He signified that we might wander about the hills and seek
 the plants required. After half an hour's conversation, Hamdan being
 interpreter, we were dismissed with a renewal of welcome.

 "On our return to the hovels, the present was forwarded to the Sultan
 with the usual ceremony. We found awaiting us a fine bullock, a
 basketful of _sima_--young Indian corn pounded and boiled to a thick
 hard paste--and balls of unripe bananas, peeled and mashed up with
 sour milk. Our Belochies instantly addressed themselves to the making
 of beef, which they ate with such a will that unpleasant symptoms
 presently declared themselves in camp. We had covered that day ten
 miles--equal, perhaps, to thirty in a temperate climate and a decent
 road. The angry blast, the groaning trees, and the lashing rain, heard
 from within a warm hut, affected us pleasurably, and I would not have
 exchanged it for the music of Verdi. We slept the sweet sleep of
 travellers.

 "The African Traveller, in this section of the nineteenth century, is
 an animal overworked. Formerly, the reading public was satisfied with
 dry details of mere discovery; was delighted with a few latitudes and
 longitudes. Of late, in this, as in other pursuits, the standard has
 been raised. Whilst marching so many miles _per diem_, and watching
 a certain number of hours _per noctem_, the traveller, who is in
 fact his own general, adjutant, quarter-master, and executive, is
 expected to survey and observe--to record meteorology, hygrometry, and
 hypsometry--to shoot and stuff birds and beasts, to collect geological
 specimens, to gather political and commercial information, to advance
 the infant study ethnology, to keep accounts, to sketch, to indite
 a copious legible journal, to collect grammar and vocabularies, and
 frequently to forward long reports which shall prevent the Royal
 Geographical Society napping through evening meetings. It is right,
 I own, to establish a high standard which insures some work being
 done; but explorations should be distinguished from railway journeys,
 and a broad line drawn between the feasible and the impossible. The
 unconscionable physicist now deems it his right to complain, because
 the explorer has not used his theodolite in the temple of Mecca, and
 introduced his sympiesometer within the walls of Harar. An ardent
 gentlemen once requested me to collect beetles, and another sent me
 excellent recipes for preserving ticks.

 "These African explorations are small campaigns, in which the
 traveller, unaided by discipline, is beset by all the troubles,
 hardships, and perils of savage war. He must devote himself to
 feeding, drilling, and directing his men to the use of arms and
 the conduct of a Caravan, rather than the study of infusoria and
 barometers. The sight of an instrument convinces barbarians that the
 stranger is bringing down the sun, stopping rain, causing death, and
 bewitching the land for ages. Amidst utter savagery such operations
 are sometimes possible; amongst the semi-civilized they end badly.
 The climate also robs man of energy as well as health. He cannot, if
 he would, collect ticks and beetles. The simplest geodesical labours,
 as these pages will prove, are unadvisable. Jack has twice suffered
 from taking an altitude. Why is not a party of physicists sent out to
 swallow the dose prescribed by them to their army of martyrs?

 "The rainy monsoon had set in at Fuga. Heavy clouds rolled up from
 the south-west, and during our two days and nights upon the hills
 the weather was a succession of drip, drizzle, and drench. In vain
 we looked for a star; even the sun could not disperse the thick raw
 vapours that rose from the steamy earth. We did not dare to linger
 upon the mountains. Our Belochies were not clad to resist the
 temperature--here 12° lower than on the coast; the rain would make the
 lowlands a hotbed of sickness, and we daily expected the inevitable
 'seasoning-fever.' In the dry monsoon this route might be made
 practicable to Chhaga and Kilimanjaro. With an escort of a hundred
 musketeers, and at an expense of £600, the invalid who desires to
 avail himself of this 'sanitarium,' as it is now called by the Indian
 papers, may, if perfectly sound in wind, limb, and digestion, reach
 the snowy region, if it exist, after ten mountain-marches, which will
 not occupy more than a month.

 "The head-quarter village of Usumbara is Fuga, a heap of some five
 hundred huts, containing, I was told, three thousand souls. It is
 defenceless, and composed of the circular abodes common from Harar to
 Timbuctoo.

 "On Monday, the 16th of February, we took leave of, and were duly
 dismissed by, Sultan Kimwere. The old man, however, was mortified
 that our rambles had not produced a plant of sovereign virtue against
 the last evil of life. He had long expected a white _mganga_, and now
 two had visited him, to depart without even a trial! I felt sad to
 see the wistful lingering look with which he accompanied 'Kuahery!'
 (farewell!) But his case was far beyond my skill.

 "None of Sultan Kimwere's men dared to face the terrible Wazegura.

 "We descended the hills in a Scotch mist and drizzle, veiling every
 object from view. It deepened into a large-dropped shower upon the
 fœtid lowlands. That night we slept at Pasunga; the next at Msiky
 Mguru; and the third, after marching seventeen miles--our greatest
 distance--at Kohoday.

 "Our Belochies declared the rate of marching excessive; and Hamdan,
 who personified 'Master Shoetie, the great traveller,' averred that he
 had twice visited the Lakes, but had never seen such hardships in his
 dreams.

 "With some toil, however, we coaxed him into courage, and joined on
 the way a small party bound for Pangany. At one p.m. we halted to
 bathe and drink, as it would be some time before we should again sight
 the winding stream. During the storm of thunder and lightning which
 ensued, I observed that our savage companions, like the Thracians of
 old Herodotus, and the Bheels and coolies of modern India, shot their
 iron-tipped arrows in the air.

 "About four p.m. we found ourselves opposite Kizanga, a large Wazegura
 village on the right bank of the river. From Kizanga we followed the
 river by a vile footpath. The air was dank and oppressive; the clouds
 seemed to settle upon the earth, and the decayed vegetation exhaled a
 feverish fœtor. As we advanced, the roar of the swollen stream told
 of rapids, whilst an occasional glimpse through its green veil showed
 a reefous surface, flecked with white froth. Heavy nimbi purpled the
 western skies, and we began to inquire of Wazira whether a village was
 at hand.

 "About sunset, after marching fifteen miles, we suddenly saw tall
 cocos--in these lands the 'traveller's joy'--waving their feathery
 heads against the blue eastern firmament. Presently, crossing a
 branch of the river by a long bridge, we entered an island settlement
 of Wazegura. This village, being upon the confines of civilization,
 and excited by wars and rumours of wars, suggested treachery to
 experienced travellers. Jack and I fired our revolvers into trees, and
 carefully reloaded them for the public benefit. The sensation was such
 that we seized the opportunity of offering money for rice and ghee. No
 provision, however, was procurable. Our escort went to bed supperless;
 Hamdan cursing this _Safar kháis--Anglicè_, rotten journey. Murad Ali
 had remained at Msiky Mguru to purchase a slave without our knowledge.
 A novice in such matters, he neglected to tie the man's thumb, and
 had the exquisite misery to see, in the evening after the sale, his
 dollars bolting at a pace that baffled pursuit. We then placed our
 weapons handy, and were soon lulled to sleep, despite smoke, wet beds,
 and other plagues, by the blustering wind and the continuous pattering
 of rain.

 "At sunrise on Friday, the 20th of February, we were aroused by the
 guide; and, after various delays, found ourselves on the road about
 seven a.m. This day was the reflection of the last march. At nine a.m.
 we stood upon a distant eminence to admire the falls of the Pangany
 river. Here the stream, emerging from a dense dark growth of tropical
 forest, hurls itself in three huge sheets, fringed with flashing
 foam, down a rugged wall of brown rock. Halfway the fall is broken
 by a ledge, whence a second leap precipitates the waters into the
 mist-veiled basin of stone below. These cascades must be grand during
 the monsoon, when the river, forming a single horseshoe, acquires a
 volume and a momentum sufficient to clear the step which divides the
 shrunken stream. Of all natural objects, the cataract most requires
 that first element of sublimity--size. Yet, as it was, this fall,
 with the white spray and bright mist, set off by black jungle, and a
 framework of slaty rain-cloud, formed a picture sufficiently effective
 to surprise us.

 "As we journeyed onwards the heat became intense. The nimbi hugged
 the mountain tops. There it was winter; but the sun, whose beams shot
 stingingly through translucent air, parched the summer plains. At
 ten a.m. our Belochies, clean worn out by famine and fatigue, threw
 themselves upon the bank of a broad and deep ravine, in whose sedgy
 bed a little water still lingered. Half an hour's rest, a cocoa-nut
 each, a pipe, and, above all things, the _spes finis_, restored their
 vigour. We resumed our march over a rolling waste of green, enlivened
 by occasional glimpses of the river, whose very aspect cooled the
 gazer. Villages became frequent as we advanced, far distancing our
 Belochies. At three p.m., after marching fourteen miles, we sighted
 the snake-fence and the pent-houses of friendly Chogway.

 "The _Jemadar_ and his garrison received us with all the honours
 of travel, and admired our speedy return from Fuga. As at Harar, a
 visitor can never calculate upon a prompt dismissal. We were too
 strong for force, but Sultan Kimwere has detained Arab and other
 strangers for a fortnight before his _mganga_ fixed a fit time for
 audience. Moreover, these walking journeys are dangerous in one point:
 the least accident disables a party, and accidents will happen to the
 best-regulated expedition.

 "Our feet were cut by boots and shoes, and we had lost 'leather' by
 chafing and sunburns. A few days' rest removed these inconveniences.
 Our first visit was paid to Pangany, where Said bin Salim, who had
 watched his charge with the fidelity of a shepherd's dog, received us
 with joyous demonstrations. After spending a day upon the coast, we
 returned, provided with _munitions de bouche_ and other necessaries,
 to Chogway, and settled old scores with our escort. Then, as the
 vessel in which we were to cruise southward was not expected from
 Zanzibar till the 1st of March, and we had a week to spare, it was
 resolved to try a fall with Behemoth.[4]

 [Sidenote: _Hippopotamus Shooting._]

 "Captain Owen's officers, when ascending streams, saw their boats torn
 by Behemoth's hard tusks; and in the Pangany, one 'Sultan Momba,' a
 tyrant thus dubbed by the Belochies in honour of their friend the
 Kohoday chief, delighted to upset canoes, and was once guilty of
 breaking a man's leg.

 "Behold us now, O brother in St. Hubert, dropping down the stream in a
 _monoxyle_, some forty feet long, at early dawn, when wild beasts are
 tamest.

 "As we approach the herds, whose crests, flanked with small
 pointed ears, dot the mirrory surface, our boatmen indulge in such
 vituperations as 'Mana marira!' (O big belly!) and 'Hanamkia!' (O
 tasteless one!) In angry curiosity the brutes raise their heads, and
 expose their arched necks, shiny with trickling rills. Jack, a man
 of speculative turn, experiments upon the nearest optics with two
 barrels of grape and B shot. The eyes, however, are oblique; the
 charge scatters, and the brute, unhurt, slips down like a seal. This
 will make the herd wary. Vexed by the poor result of our trial, we
 pole up the rippling and swirling surface, that proves the enemy to
 be swimming under water towards the further end of the pool. After a
 weary time he must rise and breathe. As the smooth water undulates,
 swells, and breaches a way for the large black head, eight ounces of
 lead fly in the right direction. There is a splash, a struggle; the
 surface foams, and Behemoth, with mouth bleeding like a gutter-spout,
 rears, and plunges above the stream. Wounded near the cerebellum, he
 cannot swim straight. At last a _coup de grâce_ speeds through the
 air; the brute sinks, gore dyes the surface purple, and bright bubbles
 seethe up from the bottom. Hippo is dead. We wait patiently for his
 reappearance, but he appears not. At length, by peculiar good luck,
 Bombay's sharp eye detects an object some hundred yards down stream.
 We make for it, and find our "bag" brought up in a shallow by a spit
 of sand, and already in process of being ogled by a large fish-hawk.
 The hawk suffers the penalty of impudence. We tow our defunct to the
 bank, and deliver it to certain savages, whose mouths water with the
 prospect of hippopotamus beef. At sundown they will bring to us the
 tusks and head picked clean, as a whistle is said to be.

 "The herd will no longer rise; they fear this hulking craft; we must
 try some 'artful dodge.' Jack, accompanied by Bombay, who strips to
 paddle in token of hot work expected, enters into a small canoe, ties
 fast his shooting-tackle in case of an upset, and, whilst I occupy one
 end of the house, makes for the other. Whenever a head appears an inch
 above water, a heavy bullet 'puds' into or near it; crimson patches
 adorn the stream; some die and disappear, others plunge in crippled
 state, and others, disabled from diving by holes drilled through
 their noses, splash and scurry about with curious snorts, caused
 by breath passing through their wounds. At last Jack ventures upon
 another experiment. An infant hippo, with an imprudence pardonable at
 his years, uprears his crest; off flies the crown of the kid's head.
 The bereaved mother rises for a moment, viciously regards Jack, who
 is meekly loading, snorts a parent's curse, and dives as the cap is
 being adjusted. Presently a bump, a shock, and a heave send the little
 canoe's bows high in the air. Bombay, describing a small parabola
 in frog-shape, lands beyond the enraged brute's back. Jack steadies
 himself in the stern, and as the assailant, with broad dorsum hunched
 up and hogged like an angry cat, advances for another bout, he rises,
 and sends a bullet through her side. Bombay scrambles in, and, nothing
 daunted, paddles towards the quarry, of which nothing is visible but
 a long waving line of gore. With a harpoon we might have secured her;
 now she will feed the alligators or the savages.

 "The Belochies still take great interest in the sport, as Easterns
 will when they see work being done. They force the boatmen to obey us.
 Jack lands with the black woodmen, carrying both 'smashers.' He gropes
 painfully through mangrove thicket, where parasitical oysters wound
 the legs with their sharp edges, and the shaking bog admits a man to
 his knees. After a time, reaching a clear spot, he takes up position
 behind a bush impending the deepest water, and signals me to drive
 up the herd. In pursuit of them I see a hole bursting in the stream,
 and a huge black head rises with a snort and a spirt. 'Momba! Momba!'
 shout the Belochies, yet the old rogue disdains flight. A cone from
 the Colt strikes him full in front of the ear; his brain is pierced;
 he rises high, falls with a crash upon the wave, and all that flesh
 'cannot keep in a little life.' Momba has for ever disappeared from
 the home of hippopotamus; never shall he break nigger's leg again.
 Meanwhile the herd, who, rubbing their backs against the great canoe,
 had retired to the other end of the pool, hearing an unusual noise,
 rise, as is their wont, to gratify a silly curiosity. Jack has two
 splendid standing shots, and the splashing and circling in the stream
 below tell the accuracy of the aim.

 "We soon learned the lesson that these cold-blooded animals may be
 killed with a pistol-ball if hit in brain or heart; otherwise they
 carry away as much lead as elephants. At about ten a.m. we had slain
 six, besides wounding I know not how many of the animals. They might
 be netted, but the operation would not pay in a pecuniary sense; the
 ivory of small teeth, under four pounds each, is worth little. Being
 perpetually pop-gunned by the Belochies, they are exceedingly shy, and
 after an excess of bullying they shift quarters. We returned but once
 to this sport, finding the massacre monotonous, and such cynegetics
 about as exciting as partridge-shooting.

 "On Thursday, the 26th of February, we left 'the bazar.' Jack walked
 to Pangany, making a route survey, whilst I accompanied the _Jemadar_
 and his tail in our large canoe.

 [Sidenote: _Our First Fever._]

 "For two days after returning to the coast we abstained from exercise.
 On the third we walked out several miles, in the hottest of suns, to
 explore a cavern, of which the natives, who came upon it when clearing
 out a well, had circulated the most exaggerated accounts. Jack already
 complained of his last night's labour--an hour with the sextant upon
 damp sand in the chilly dew. This walk finished the work. On entering
 the house we found the Portuguese lad, who had accompanied us to Fuga,
 in a high fever. Jack was prostrated a few hours afterwards, and next
 day I followed their example.

 "As a rule, the traveller in these lands should avoid exposure and
 fatigue beyond a certain point, to the very best of his ability. You
 might as well practise sitting upon a coal-fire as inuring yourself
 (which green men have attempted) to the climate. Dr. B----, a Polish
 divine, who had taken to travelling at the end of a sedentary life,
 would learn to walk bareheaded in the Zanzibar sun; the result was a
 sunstroke. Others have paced barefooted upon an exposed terrace, with
 little consequence but ulceration and temporary lameness. The most
 successful in resisting the climate are they who tempt it least, and
 the best training for a long hungry march is repose, with good living.
 Man has then stamina to work upon; he may exist, like the camel, upon
 his own fat. Those who fine themselves down by exercise and abstinence
 before the march, commit the error of beginning where they ought to
 end.

 "Our attacks commenced with general languor and heaviness, a lassitude
 in the limbs, a weight in the head, nausea, a frigid sensation
 creeping up the extremities, and dull pains in the shoulders. Then
 came a mild, cold fit, succeeded by a splitting headache, flushed
 face, full veins, vomiting, and an inability to stand upright.
 Like 'General Tazo' of Madagascar, this fever is a malignant
 bilious-remittent. The eyes become hot, heavy, and painful when turned
 upwards; the skin is dry and burning, the pulse full and frequent,
 and the tongue furred; appetite is wholly wanting (for a whole week
 I ate nothing), but a perpetual craving thirst afflicts the patient,
 and nothing that he drinks will remain upon his stomach. During the
 day extreme weakness causes anxiety and depression; the nights are
 worse, for by want of sleep the restlessness is aggravated. Delirium
 is common in the nervous and bilious temperament, and if the lancet
 be used, certain death ensues; the action of the heart cannot be
 restored. The exacerbations are slightly but distinctly marked (in my
 own case they recurred regularly between two and three a.m. and p.m.),
 and the intervals are closely watched for administering quinine, after
 due preparation. This drug, however, has killed many, especially
 Frenchmen, who, by overdosing at a wrong time, died of apoplexy.

 "Whilst the Persians were at Zanzibar they besieged Colonel Hamerton's
 door, begging him to administer Warburg's drops, which are said to
 have a wonderful effect in malignant chronic cases. When the disease
 intends to end fatally, the symptoms are aggravated; the mind wanders,
 the body loses all power, and after perhaps an apparent improvement,
 stupor, insensibility, and death ensue. On the other hand, if yielding
 to treatment, the fever, about the seventh day, presents marked signs
 of abatement; the tongue is clearer, pain leaves the head and eyes,
 the face is no longer flushed, nausea ceases, and a faint appetite
 returns. The recovery, however, is always slow and dubious. Relapses
 are feared, especially at the full and change of the moon; they
 frequently assume the milder intermittent type, and in some Indians
 have recurred regularly through the year. In no case, however, does
 the apparent severity of the fever justify the dejection and debility
 of the convalescence. For six weeks recovery is imperfect; the liver
 acts with unusual energy, the stomach is liable to severe indigestion,
 the body is lean, and the strength wellnigh prostrated. At such
 times change of air is the best of restoratives; removal, even to a
 ship in the harbour, or to the neighbouring house, has been found
 more beneficial than all the tonics and the preventatives in the
 Pharmacopœia.

 "In men of strong nervous diathesis the fever leaves slight
 consequences, in the shape of white hair, boils, or bad toothaches.
 Others suffer severely from its secondaries, which are either visceral
 or cerebral. Some lose memory, others virility, others the use of
 a limb; many become deaf or dim-sighted; and not a few, tormented
 by hepatitis, dysentery, constipation, and similar disease, never
 completely recover health.

 "Captain Owen's survey of the Mombas Mission, and of our numerous
 cruisers, proves that no European can undergo exposure and fatigue,
 which promote the overflow of bile, without undergoing the
 'seasoning.' It has, however, one advantage--those who pass the ordeal
 are acclimatized; even with a year's absence in Europe, they return
 to the tropics with little danger. The traveller is always advised
 to undergo his seasoning upon the coast before marching into the
 interior; but after recovery he must await a second attack, otherwise
 he will expend in preparation the strength and bottom required for the
 execution of his journey. Of our party the Portuguese boy came in for
 his turn at Zanzibar. The other has ever since had light relapses; and
 as a proof that the negro enjoys no immunity, Seedy[5] Bombay is at
 this moment (June 8th) suffering severely.

 "The Banyans intended great civility; they would sit with us for
 hours, asking, like Orientals, the silliest of questions, and thinking
 withal that they were 'doing the agreeable:' repose was out of the
 question. During the day, flies and gnats added another sting to
 the mortifications of fever. At night, rats nibbled at our feet,
 mosquitoes sang their song of triumph, and a torturing thirst made
 the terrible sleeplessness yet more terrible. Our minds were morbidly
 fixed upon one point, the arrival of our vessel; we had no other
 occupation but to rise and gaze, and exchange regrets as a sail hove
 in sight, drew near, and passed by. We knew that there would be no
 failure on the part of our thoughtful friend, who had written to
 promise us a _battela_ on the 1st of March, which did not make Pangany
 till the evening of the 5th of March.

 "After sundry bitter disappointments, we had actually hired a Banyan's
 boat that had newly arrived, when the expected craft ran into the
 river. Not a moment was to be lost. Said bin Salim, who had been a
 kind nurse, superintended the embarkation of our property. Jack, less
 severely treated, was able to walk to the shore; but I--alas for
 manliness!--was obliged to be supported like a bedridden old woman.
 The worst part of the process was the presence of a crowd. The Arabs
 were civil, and bade a kindly farewell. The Sawahili, however, audibly
 contrasted the present with the past, and drew dedecorous conclusions
 from the change which a few days had worked in the man who bore a
 twenty-four pound gun, my pet four-ounce.[6]

 "All thoughts of cruising along the southern coast were at an end.
 Colonel Hamerton had warned us not to despise bilious-remittents; and
 evidently we should not have been justified in neglecting his caution
 to return, whenever seized by sickness. With the dawn of Friday,
 the 6th of March, we ordered the men to up sail; we stood over for
 Zanzibar with a fine fresh breeze, and early in the afternoon we found
 ourselves once more within the pale of Eastern civilization. _Deo
 gratias!_ our excellent friend at once sent us to bed, whence, gentle
 reader, we have the honour to make the reverential salaam."

[1] The distance between Bombay and Zanzibar is two thousand five
hundred miles.

[2] Jack was Speke's christian name.

[3] One of the places forbidden to strangers.

[4] Hippopotamus.

[5] He was originally Sudy, but afterwards they dubbed him Seedy.--I. B.

[6] These two guns I still treasure.--I. B.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE REAL START FOR TANGANYIKA IN THE INTERIOR.


 "When we left Zanzibar the Sultan of Zanzibar and the Sawahil and his
 sons came on board with three letters of introduction. One was to
 Musa Mzuri, the Indian _doyen_ of the merchants settled at Unyamwezi;
 secondly, a letter to the Arabs there resident, and thirdly, one to
 all his subjects who were travelling in the interior. I carried, in an
 _étui_ round my neck, the diploma of the Shaykh El Islam of Mecca, and
 a passport from Cardinal Wiseman to all the Catholic missionaries. His
 Highness the Sultan Said of Muscat had died on his way from Arabia to
 Zanzibar. The party, besides Jack and I, were two Goanese boys, two
 negro gun-carriers, the Seedy Mubárak Mombai (Bombay), his brother,
 and eight Beloch mercenaries appointed by the Sultan. Lieut.-Colonel
 Hamerton, her Majesty's Consul at Zanzibar, a friend of mine, gave
 me all particulars and recommendations, and enlisted in my favour
 the Sayyid Sulayman bin Hamid bin Said (the noble Omani, 'who never
 forgets the name of his Grandsire'), landed us upon the coast, and
 superintended our departure, attended by Mr. Frost, the apothecary
 attached to the Consulate.

 "My desire was to ascertain the limits of the Sea of Ujiji,
 Tanganyika, or Unyamwezi Lake, to learn the ethnography of its tribes,
 and determine the export of the produce of the interior. The Foreign
 Office granted £1000, and the Court of Directors allowed me two years'
 leave of absence to command the Expedition. Consul Hamerton warned us
 against Kilwa, where any one attempting to open the interior ran the
 danger of being murdered.

 [Sidenote: _A Long March._]

 "We landed at Wale Point, about eighty-four miles distant from the
 little town of Bagamóyo. We wanted to engage one hundred and seventy
 porters, but we could only get thirty-six, and thirty animals were
 found, which were all dead in six months, so we had to leave part of
 our things behind, greater part of the ammunition, and our iron boat.
 The Hindoos were faithful to their promise to forward everything, but,
 great mistake, received one hundred and fifty dollars for the hire of
 twenty-two men to start in ten days; we went on, obliged to trust, but
 we did not get them for eleven months. We paid various visits to the
 hippopotamus haunts, and had our boat uplifted from the water upon
 the points of two tusks, which made corresponding holes in the bottom.
 My escort were under the impression that nothing less than one hundred
 guards, one hundred and fifty guns, and several cannon would enable
 them to fight a way through the perils of the interior. We were warned
 that for three days we must pass through savages, who sat on the
 trees, and discharged poisoned arrows into the air with extraordinary
 dexterity (meaning the Amazons); that they must avoid trees (which was
 not easy in a land all forest); that the Wazaramo had sent six several
 letters forbidding the white man to enter their country, and that they
 buried their provisions in the jungle, that travellers might starve;
 that one rhinoceros kills two hundred men; that armies of elephants
 attack camps by night; that the craven hyæna is more dangerous than a
 Bengal tiger.

 "We owed all our intrigues to a rascal named Ramji, who had his own
 commerce in view, and often to our _Ras Kaptan_, or Caravan leader,
 Said bin Salim, who did not wear well. The varnish soon melted, and
 showed him as great a liar and thief as his men. At times it is good
 to appear a dupe, to allow people to think and to say that you are a
 muff, chronicling a vow that they shall change places with you before
 the end of the game. I confided to Mr. Frost two manuscripts addressed
 through the Foreign Office, one to Mr. John Blackwood of Edinburgh,
 the other to Mr. Norton Shaw, of the Royal Geographical Society.
 Blackwood's arrived safe, Norton Shaw's in six years.[1] I took a
 melancholy leave of my warm-hearted friend, Lieut.-Colonel Hamerton,
 who had death written on his features. He looked forward to death
 with a feeling of delight, the result of his Roman Catholic religious
 convictions, and, in spite of my entreaties, he _would_ remain near
 the coast till he heard of our safe transit through the lands of the
 dangerous Wazaramo. This courage was indeed sublime, an example not
 often met with. After this affecting farewell we landed at Kaolé. I
 insisted that Ladha, the Collector of customs, and Ramji, his clerk,
 should insert in the estimate the sum required to purchase a boat
 upon the Sea of Ujiji. Being a Hindoo, he thought I was ignorant of
 Cutchee, so the following conversation took place:--

 "_Ladha_. Will he ever reach it?

 "_Ramji_. Of course not. What is _he_ that he should pass through
 Ugogo? (a province about halfway).

 "So I remarked at once that I _did_ intend to cross Ugogo, and also
 the Sea of Ujiji, that I did know Cutchee, and that I was even able
 to distinguish between the debits and the credits of his voluminous
 sheets. The worst loss that I had was that my old and valued
 friend, Dr. Steinhaüser, civil surgeon at Aden, sound scholar, good
 naturalist, skilful practitioner, with rare personal qualities, which
 would have been inestimable, was ill and could not come. His Highness
 the late Sayyid Said, that great ally of the English nation, had made
 most public-spirited offers to his friend, Lieut.-Colonel Hamerton,
 for many years. Lieut.-Colonel Hamerton's extraordinary personal
 qualities enabled him to perform anything but impossibilities amongst
 the Arabs, and he was dying. Finally, as Indian experience taught
 me, I was entering the 'unknown land' at the fatal season when the
 shrinking of the waters after the wet monsoon would render it a hotbed
 of malaria, but I was tied by scanty means and a limited 'leave;' it
 was neck or nothing, and I determined to risk it. All the serving men
 in Zanzibar Island and the East African coast are serviles. There is
 no word to express a higher domestic. There was no remedy, so that I
 paid them wages, and treated them as if they were free men. I had no
 power to prevent my followers purchasing slaves, because they would
 say, 'We are allowed by our law to do so;' all I could do was to see
 that their slaves were well fed and not injured; but I informed all
 the wild people that Englishmen were pledged against slavery, and I
 always refused all slaves offered as presents.

 "In eighteen days we accomplished (despite sickness and every manner
 of difficulty) a march of one hundred and eighteen indirect statute
 miles, and entered K'hutu, the safe rendezvous of foreign merchants,
 on the 14th of July. On the 15th we entered Kiruru, where I found a
 cottage, and enjoyed for the first time an atmosphere of sweet, warm
 smoke." (In all Richard's wilder travels in damp places, he laid such
 a stress upon "sweet, warm smoke.") "Jack (that is, Speke), in spite
 of my endeavours, would remain in the reeking miry tent, and laid the
 foundations of the fever which threatened his life in the mountains of
 Usagára.

 [Sidenote: _Marsh Fever._]

 "As soon as we reached Dut'húmi, where we were detained nearly a week,
 the malaria brought on attacks of marsh fever. In my case it lasted
 twenty days." (In all Richard's fever fits, and for hours afterwards,
 both now and always, he had a queer conviction of divided identity,
 never ceasing to be two persons, who generally thwarted and opposed
 each other, and also that he was able to fly.) "Jack suffered still
 more; he had a fainting-fit which strongly resembled a sunstroke,
 and it seemed to affect him more or less throughout our journey. Our
 sufferings were increased by the losses of our animals, and we had
 to walk, often for many miles, through sun, rain, mud, and miasmatic
 putridities. The asses shy, stumble, rear, run away, fight, plunge
 and pirouette when mounted; they hog and buck till they burst their
 girths; they love to get into holes and hollows; they rush about like
 pigs when the wind blows; they bolt under tree-shade when the sun
 shines; so they have to be led, and if the least thing happens the
 slave drops the halter and runs away.

 "The Zanzibar riding-asses were too delicate and died; we were then
 reduced to the half-reclaimed beast of Wamyamwezi. As to the baggage
 animals, they were constantly thrown, and the Beloch only grumbled,
 sat down, and stared. They stole the ropes and cords; they never were
 pounded for the night, nobody counted them, and we were too ill to
 look after it. We were wretched; each morning dawned with a fresh load
 of care and trouble, and every evening we knew that another miserable
 morrow was to dawn, but I never relinquished the determination to
 risk everything, myself included, rather than to return unsuccessful.
 At Dut'húmi, two Chiefs fought, and the strongest kidnapped five of
 his weaker neighbour subjects. I could not stand by and see iniquity
 done without an attempt, so I headed a little Expedition against the
 strong, and I had the satisfaction of restoring the rescued, the five
 unhappy stolen wretches, to their hearths and homes, and two decrepit
 old women, that had been rescued from slavery, thanked me with tears
 of joy" (Richard lightly calls this "an easy good deed" done), "after
 which I was able, though with swimming head and trembling hands, to
 prepare a report for the Geographical Society.

 "On the 24th of July we were able to move on under the oppressive
 rain-sun. From Central K'hutu to the base of the Usagára Mountains
 there were nothing but filthy heaps of the rudest hovels, built in
 holes of the jungle. Their miserable inhabitants, whose frames are
 lean with constant intoxication, and whose limbs are distorted by
 ulcerous sores, attest the hostility of Nature to Mankind.

 "Arrived at Zungomero, we waited a fortnight for the twenty-two
 promised porters. It was a hotbed of pestilence, where we nearly
 found wet graves. Our only lodging was the closed eaves of a hut; the
 roof was a sieve, the walls all chinks, and the floor a sheet of mud.
 The Beloch had no energy to build a shed, and became almost mutinous
 because we did not build it for them.

 "Our life here was the acme of discomfort; we had pelting showers,
 followed by fiery sunshine, which extracted steam from the grass,
 bush, and trees. My Goanese boys got a mild form of 'yellow Jack,'
 and I was obliged to take them into my hut, already populated with
 pigeons, rats, flies, mosquitoes, bugs, and fleas. We were weary of
 waiting for the porters and baggage, so we prepared our papers, and
 sent them down by a confidential slave to the coast. Jack and I left
 Zungomero on the 7th of August. We were so weak, we could hardly sit
 our asses, but we were determined to get to the nearest ascent of the
 Usagára Mountains, a march of five hours, and succeeded in rising
 three hundred feet from the plain, ascending its first gradient.

 [Sidenote: _They ascend from Zungomero to a Better Climate._]

 "This is the frontier of the second region, or Ghauts. There was no
 vestige of buildings, nor sight nor sound of Man. There was a wondrous
 change of climate at this place, called Mzizi Maogo; strength and
 health returned as if by magic, even the Goanese shook off their mild
 'yellow Jack.' Truly delicious was the escape from the nebulous skies,
 the fog-driving gusts, the pelting rain, the clammy mists veiling a
 gross growth of fœtor, the damp raw cold rising as it were from the
 earth, and the alternations of fiery and oppressive heat; in fact,
 from the cruel climate of the river valley, to the pure sweet mountain
 air, alternately soft and balmy, cool and reviving, and to the aspect
 of clear blue skies, which lent their tints to highland ridges well
 wooded with various greens.

 "Dull mangrove, dismal jungle, and monotonous grass were supplanted
 by tall solitary trees, amongst which the lofty tamarind rose
 conspicuously graceful, and a card-table-like swamp, cut by a network
 of streams, nullahs, and stagnant pools, gave way to dry healthy
 slopes, with short steep pitches and gently shelving hills. The beams
 of the large sun of the Equator--and nowhere have I seen the Rulers
 of Night and Day so large--danced gaily upon blocks and pebbles of
 red, yellow, and dazzling snowy quartz, and the bright sea-breeze
 waved the summits of the trees, from which depended graceful llianas
 and wood-apples large as melons, whilst creepers, like vine tendrils,
 rising from large bulbs of brown-grey wood, clung closely to their
 stalwart trunks. Monkeys played at hide-and-seek, chattering behind
 the bolls, as the iguana, with its painted scale-armour, issued
 forth to bask upon the sunny bank; white-breasted ravens cawed
 when disturbed from their perching places, doves cooed on the
 well-clothed boughs, and hawks soared high in the transparent sky. The
 field-cricket chirped like the Italian cicala in the shady bush, and
 everywhere, from air, from earth, from the hill-slopes above, and from
 the marshes below, the hum, the buzz, and the loud continuous voice of
 insect life, through the length of the day, spoke out its natural joy.
 Our gypsy encampment lay

    'By shallow rivers, to whose falls
    Melodious birds sing madrigals.'

 By night, the soothing murmurs of the stream at the hill's base rose
 mingled with the faint rustling of the breeze, which at times, broken
 by the scream of the night-heron, the bellow of the bull-frog in
 his swamp home, the cynhyæna's whimper, and the fox's whining bark,
 sounded through the silence most musical, most melancholy. Instead of
 the cold night rain, and the soughing of the blast, the view disclosed
 a peaceful scene, the moonbeams lying like sheets of snow upon the
 ruddy highlands, and the stars hanging like lamps of gold from the
 dome of infinite blue. I never wearied with contemplating the scene,
 for, contrasting with the splendours around me, still stretched in
 sight the 'Slough of Despond,' unhappy Zungomero, lead-coloured above,
 mud-coloured below, wind-swept, fog-veiled, and deluged by clouds that
 dared not approach these Delectable Mountains.

 "All along our way we were saddened by the sight of clean-picked
 skeletons, and here and there the swollen corpses of porters who had
 perished in this place by starvation. A single large body which
 passed us but yesterday had lost fifty of their number by small-pox,
 and the sight of their deceased comrades made a terrible impression.
 Men staggering on, blinded by disease, mothers carrying on their
 backs infants as loathsome as themselves. The poor wretches would
 not leave the path, as every step in their state of failing strength
 was precious. He who once fell would never rise again. No village
 would admit a corpse into its precincts, no friend or relation would
 return for them, and they would lie till their agony was ended by
 the raven, the vulture, and the fox. Near every kraal were detached
 huts set apart for those seized with the fell disease. Several of our
 party caught the infection, and must have thrown themselves into some
 jungle, for when they were missed we came back to look and there was
 no sign of them. The further we went on, the more numerous were the
 corpses. Our Moslems passed them with averted faces, and with the low
 'La haul!' of disgust, and a decrepit old porter gazed and wept for
 himself. At the foot of the 'Goma Pass' we found the outlying huts for
 the small-pox, and an old kraal, where we made comfortable for the
 night. All around peeped the little beehive villages of the Wakaguru
 and the Wakwivi.

 "When we arrived at Rufuta I found that nearly all our instruments had
 been spoilt or broken, the barometer had come to grief, no aneroid
 had been sent from Bombay, and we had chiefly to get on with two
 bath thermometers. Zonhwe was the turning-point of the expedition's
 difficulties. The 17th of August, as we went on, the path fell
 easily westwards down a long grassy jungly incline, cut by several
 water-courses. At noon I lay down fainting in the sandy bed of the
 Muhama nullah, meaning the 'Palmetto' or 'Fan-palm,' and keeping
 Wazira and Mabruki with me, I begged Jack to go on, and send me back
 a hammock from the halting-place. The men, who were partly mutinous
 and deserting, suddenly came out well; they reappeared, led me to a
 place where stagnant water was found, and showed abundant penitence.
 At three o'clock, as Jack did not send the hammock, I remounted and
 passed through another 'Slough of Despond' like Zungomero, and found
 two little villages, and on a hillside my caravan halted, which had
 been attacked by a swarm of wild bees. At Muhama we halted three days,
 and forded the Makata, and pursuing our march next day, I witnessed
 a curious contrast in this strange African nature, which is ever in
 extremes, and where extremes ever meet, where grace and beauty are
 seldom seen without a sudden change to a hideous grotesqueness.

 [Sidenote: _From Lovely Scenery to Fœtid Marshes._]

 "A splendid view charmed me in the morning. Above lay a sky of purest
 azure, flaked with fleecy opal-tinted vapours floating high in the
 empyrean, and catching the first roseate smiles of the unrisen sun.
 Long lines, one bluer than the other, broken by castellated crags and
 towers of the most picturesque form, girdled the far horizon; the
 nearer heights were of a purplish-brown, and snowy mists hung like
 glaciers about their folds. The plain was a park in autumn, burnt
 tawny by the sun or patched with a darker hue where the people were
 firing the grass--a party was at work merrily, as if preparing for an
 English harvest home--to start the animals, to promote the growth
 of a young crop, and, such is the popular belief, to attract rain.
 Calabashes, palmyras, tamarinds, and clumps of evergreen trees, were
 scattered over the scene, each stretching its lordly form over subject
 circlets of deep dew-fed verdure. Here the dove cooed loudly, and the
 guinea-fowl rang its wild cry, whilst the peewit chattered in the open
 stubble, and a little martin, the prettiest of its kind, contrasted by
 its nimble dartings along the ground, with the vulture wheeling slowly
 through the upper air. The most graceful of animals, the zebra and the
 antelope, browsed in the distance; now they stood to gaze upon the
 long line of porters, then, after leisurely pacing, with retrospective
 glances, in an opposite direction, they halted motionless for a
 moment, faced about once more to satiate curiosity, and lastly,
 terrified by their own fancy, they bounded in ricochets over the plain.

 "About noon the fair scene vanished as if by enchantment. We suddenly
 turned northwards into a tangled mass of tall fœtid reeds, rank
 jungle, and forest. One constantly feels, in malarious places,
 suddenly poisoned as if by miasma; a shudder runs through the frame
 and a cold perspiration, like a prelude for a fainting fit, breaks
 from the brow. We came upon the deserted--once flourishing--village
 of Wasagara, called Mbumi. The huts were torn and half burnt, the
 ground strewed with nets and drums, pestles and mortars, cots and
 fragments of rude furniture; the sacking seemed to be about ten days
 old. Two wretched villagers were lurking in the jungle, not daring to
 revisit the wreck of their own homes. The demon of Slavery reigns over
 a solitude of his own creation; can it be, that by some inexplicable
 law, where Nature has done her best for the happiness of Mankind, Man,
 doomed to misery, must work out his own unhappiness?

 [Sidenote: _Ants._]

 "Next day our path was slippery as mud, and man and beast were
 rendered wild by the cruel stings of a small red ant and a huge black
 pismire. They are large headed; they cannot spring, but show great
 quickness in fastening themselves to the foot or ankle as it brushes
 over them. The pismire is a horse-ant, about an inch in length, whose
 bulldog head and powerful mandibles enable it to destroy rats and
 mice, lizards and snakes; its bite burns like a pinch of a red-hot
 needle. When it sets to work, twisting itself round, it may be pulled
 in two without relaxing its hold. As the people stopped to drink they
 were seized by these dreadful creatures, and suddenly began to dance
 and shout like madmen, pulling off their clothes, and frantically
 snatching at their lower limbs. In the evening it was like a savage
 opera scene. One would recite his Korán, another pray; a third told
 funny stories; a fourth trolled out in a minor key lays of love and
 war that were familiar to me upon the Scindian hills. This was varied
 by slapping away the black mosquitoes, ridding ourselves of ants, and
 challenging small parties of savages who passed us from time to time
 with bows and arrows.

 "Now we also began to suffer severely from the tzetze fly, which is
 the true _Glossina morsitans_. It extended from Usagara westward as
 far as the Central Lakes. It has more persistency of purpose than
 an Egyptian fly; when beaten off, it will return half a dozen times
 to the charge. It cannot be killed except by a smart blow, and its
 long sharp proboscis draws blood through a canvas hammock. The sting
 is like an English horse-fly and leaves a lasting trace. This land
 is eminently fitted for breeding cattle and for agriculture, which,
 without animals, cannot be greatly extended. Why this plague should
 have been placed here, unless to exercise human ingenuity, I cannot
 imagine. Perhaps some day it will be exterminated by the introduction
 of some insectiferous bird, which will be the greatest benefactor that
 Central Africa ever knew. The brown ant has cellular hills of about
 three feet high, whereas in Somali-land they become dwarf ruins of
 round towers. When we reached Rumuma the climate was new to us, after
 the incessant rains of the Maritime Valley, and the fogs and mists
 of the Rufuta range; but it was in extremes--the thermometer under
 the influence of dewy gusts sank in the tent to 48° F., a killing
 temperature in these latitudes to half-naked and houseless men. During
 the day it showed 90° F.; the sun was fiery, and a furious south wind
 coursed through skies purer and bluer than I had ever seen in Greece
 or Italy.

 "When we were ill our followers often mutinied, and would do nothing,
 but stole and lost our goods, and would not work. Sometimes, though
 they carried the water, they would refuse us any. Jack was as ill
 as I was. We reached Rubeho, the third and westernmost range of the
 Usagára Mountains, and here we were welcomed with joy, and given milk
 and butter and honey, a real treat. Here we were in danger of being
 attacked by the Wahúmba. Next day a Caravan arrived, under the command
 of four Arab merchants, of which Isa bin Hijji was most kind, and did
 us good service. I was always at home when I got amongst Arabs. They
 always treat me practically as one of themselves. They gave us useful
 information for crossing the Rubeho range, and superintended our
 arrangements. When they went away I charged them not to spread reports
 of our illness. I saw them depart with regret. It had really been a
 relief to hear once more the voice of civility and sympathy.

 [Sidenote: _The War-cry of the Wahúmba._]

 "Our greatest labour was before us. Trembling with ague, with swimming
 heads, ears deafened by weakness, and limbs that would hardly support
 us, we contemplated with dogged despair the perpendicular scramble
 over the mountains and the ladders of root and boulder, up which we
 and our starving, drooping asses had to climb. Jack was so weak that
 he had three supporters; I, having stronger nerves, managed with one.
 We passed wall-like sheets of rock, long steeps of loose white soil
 and rolling stones. Every now and then we were compelled to lie down
 by cough and thirst and fatigue; and when so compelled, fires suddenly
 appeared on the neighbouring hills. The War-cry rang loud from hill
 to hill, and Indian files of archers and spearmen, streaming like
 lines of black ants, appeared in all directions down the paths. It
 was the Wahúmba, who, waiting for the Caravans to depart, were going
 down to fall fiercely on the scattered villages in the lowlands, kill
 the people, and to drive off the cattle, and plunder the villages of
 Inengé. Our followers prepared to desert us, but, strange to say, the
 Wahúmba did not touch us. By resting every few yards, and clinging to
 our supporters, we reached the summit of this terrible path after six
 hours, and we sat down amongst aromatic flowers and bright shrubs,
 to recover strength and breath. Jack was almost in a state of coma,
 and could hardly answer. The view disclosed a retrospect of severe
 hardships past and gone.

 "We eventually arrived, after more walking, at a place called the
 Great Rubeho, where several settlements appeared, and where poor Jack
 was seized with a fever fit and dangerous delirium; he became so
 violent that I had to remove his weapons, and, to judge from certain
 symptoms, the attack had a permanent cerebral effect. Death appeared
 stamped upon his features, and yet our followers clamoured to advance,
 _because it was cold_. This lasted two nights, when he was restored
 and came to himself, and proposed to advance. I had a hammock rigged
 up for him, and the whole Caravan broke ground. We went on ascending
 till we reached the top of the third and westernmost range of the
 Usagára Mountains, raised 5700 feet above sea level, and we begin to
 traverse Ugogi, which is the halfway district between the Coast and
 Unyanyembe, and stands 2760 feet above sea level, and the climate of
 Ugogi pleases by its elasticity and its dry healthy warmth.

 [Sidenote: _Evil Reports._]

 "The African traveller's fitness for the task of Exploration depends
 more upon his faculty of chafing under delays and kicking against the
 pricks than upon his power of displaying the patience of a Griselda
 or a Job. Another Caravan of coast Arabs arrived. They brought news
 from the sea-board, and, wondrous good fortune, the portmanteau
 containing books, which a porter, profiting by the confusion when they
 were attacked by bees, had deposited in the long grass at the place
 where I directed the slaves to look for it. Some half-caste Arabs had
 gone forward and spread evil reports of us. They said we had each
 one eye and four arms; we were full of magic; we caused rain to fall
 in advance, and left droughts in our rear; we cooked water-melons,
 and threw away the seeds, thus generating small-pox; we heated and
 hardened milk, thus breeding a murrain amongst cattle; our wire,
 cloth, and beads caused a variety of misfortunes; we were Kings of the
 Sea, and therefore white-skinned and straight-haired, as are all men
 who live in salt water, and next year we would seize their land.

 [Sidenote: _Game._]

 "As far as _our_ followers were concerned, there was not a soul to
 stand by Jack and me except ourselves. Had anything happened we must
 have perished. We should have been as safe with six as with sixty
 guns, but six hundred stout fellows, well armed, might march through
 the length and breadth of Central Africa." (Richard said when the
 Government sent Gordon to Khartoum they failed because they sent him
 _alone_. Had they sent him with five hundred soldiers there would
 have been no war.) "And now a word to sportsmen in this part of
 Africa. Let no future travellers make my mistake. I expected great
 things without realizing a single hope. In the more populous parts
 the woodman's axe and the hunter's arrows have melted away game. Even
 where large tracks of jungle abound with water and forage, the notes
 of a bird rarely strike the ear, and during the day's march not a
 single large animal will be seen. In places such as the park-lands
 of Dut'húmi, the jungles and forests of Ugogi and Mgunda Mk'hali,
 the barrens of Usukuma, and the tangled thickets of Ujiji, there is
 abundance of noble game--lions, leopards, elephants, rhinoceroses,
 wild cattle, giraffes, gnus, zebras, quaggas, and ostriches; but the
 regions are so dangerous that a sportsman cannot linger. There is
 miasma, malaria, want of food, rarely water, no camels, and every
 porter would desert, whilst the extraordinary expense of provision and
 of carriage would be the work of a very rich man. As for us, we could
 only shoot on halting days at rare periods, and there is nothing left
 but the hippopotamus and the crocodile of the seacoast.

 [Sidenote: _Vermin._]

 "On the 8th of October we fell in with a homeward-bound Caravan headed
 by Abdullah bin Nasib, who was very, very kind to us. He kindly halted
 a day that we might send home a mail, and gave me one of his riding
 animals, and would take nothing for it except a little medicine. We
 left K'hok'ho, a foul strip of crowded jungle, where we were stung
 throughout the fiery day by the tzetze fly, swarms of bees, and
 pertinacious gadflies, where an army of large poisonous ants drove us
 out of the tent by the wounds which they inflicted between the fingers
 and other tender parts of the body, till kettles of boiling water
 persuaded them to abandon us. These ant-fiends made the thin-skinned
 asses mad with torture. In this ill-omened spot my ass Seringe, the
 sole survivor of the riding animals brought from Zanzibar, was so
 torn by a hyæna that it died of its wounds, and fifteen of my porters
 deserted, so that I thought that it was no use continuing my weary
 efforts and anxiety about baggage.

 [Sidenote: _A Hard Jungle March._]

 "I gave Jack my good donkey, because he was worse than I was, and I
 took one of the poor ones, and found that I must either walk or leave
 valuable things behind. Trembling with weakness, I set out to march
 the length of the Mdáburu jungle. The memory of that march is not
 pleasant. The burning sun and the fiery reflected heat arising from
 the parched ground--here a rough, thorny, and waterless jungle, where
 the jessamine flowered and the frankincense was used for fuel; there a
 grassy plain of black and sun-cracked earth--compelled me to lie down
 every half-hour. The water-gourds were soon drained by my attendant
 Beloch; and the sons of Ramji, who, after reaching the resting-place,
 had returned with ample stores for their comrades, hid their vessels
 on my approach. Sarmalla, a donkey-driver, the model of a surly negro,
 whose crumpled brow, tightened eyes, and thick lips, which shot out
 on the least occasion of excitement, showed what was going on within
 his head, openly refused me the use of his gourd, and--thirst is even
 less to be trifled with than hunger--found ample reason to repent
 himself of the proceeding. Near the end of the jungle I came upon a
 party of the Beloch, who, having seized upon a porter belonging to a
 large Caravan of Wanyamwezi that had passed us on that march, were
 persuading him, half by promises and half by threats, to carry their
 sleeping mats and their empty gourds.

 "Towards the end of that long march I saw with pleasure the kindly
 face of Seedy Bombay, who was returning to me in hot haste, leading
 an ass and carrying a few scones and hard-boiled eggs. Mounting, I
 resumed my way, and presently arrived at the confines of Mdáburu,
 where, under a huge calabash, stood our tent, amidst a kraal of grass
 boothies, surrounded by a heaped-up ridge of thorns.

 "We left Ugogi and pursued our way to 'Mgunda Mk'hali,' a very wild
 part, and at last got to Jiwella Mkoa, the halfway house. We were
 cheered by the sight of the red fires glaring in the kraal, but Jack's
 ass, perhaps frightened by some wild beast which we did not see,
 reared high in the air, bucked like a deer, broke his girths, and
 threw Jack, who was sick and weak, heavily upon the hard earth. Our
 people had become so selfish that they always attended to themselves
 first, and Said bin Salim, the leader, actually refused to give us a
 piece of canvas to make a tent. Bombay made a memorable speech: 'If
 you are not ashamed of your Master, O Said, be at least ashamed of his
 servant,' which had such an effect that he sent the whole awning, and
 refused the half which I sent back to him.

 "The three Tribes of this part are the Wagogo (the Wamasai), the
 Wahúmba, and the Wakwafi, who are remarkable for their strength and
 intelligence, and for their obstinate and untamable characters. They
 only sell their fellow tribesmen when convicted of magic, or from
 absolute distress, and many of them would rather die under the stick
 than work. The Wagogo are thieves; they would rob during the day, are
 importunate beggars, and specify their long lists of wants without
 stint or shame. An Arab merchant once went out to the Wahúmba to buy
 asses. He set out from Tura in Eastern Unyamwezi, and traversing
 the country of the wild Watatúru, arrived on the eighth day at the
 frontier district, I'ramba, where there is a river which separates
 the tribes. He was received with civility, but none have ever since
 followed his example.

 "As we neared Unyanyembe the porters became more restive under their
 light loads, their dignity was hurt by shouldering a pack, and day
 after day, till I felt weary of life, they left their burdens upon the
 ground. At Rubuga I was visited by an Arab merchant, who explained
 something which had puzzled me. Whenever an advance beyond Unyanyembe
 was spoken of, Said bin Salim's countenance fell. The merchant asked
 me if I thought the Caravan was strong enough to bear the dangers of
 the road between that and Ujiji, and I replied that I did, but even
 if I did not, I should go on. The perpetual risk of loss, discourages
 the traveller in these lands. In a moment papers which have cost
 him months of toil may be scattered to the winds. Collectors should
 _never_ make them on the _march upwards_, but on their _leisurely
 return_. My field and sketch-books were entrusted to an Arab merchant
 who preceded me to Zanzibar. Jack sent down maps, papers, and
 instruments, and I my vocabularies, ephemeris, and drawing-books,
 which ran no danger, except from Hamerton's successor, who seemed
 careless.

 "The hundred and thirty-fourth day from leaving the coast, after
 marching over six hundred miles, we prepared to enter Kázeh. I was
 met by Arabs who gave me the Moslem salutation, and courteously
 accompanied me. I was to have gone to the _tembe_ kindly placed at my
 disposal by Isa bin Hijji and the Arabs met at Inengé, but by mistake
 we were taken to that of Musa Mzuri, an Indian merchant, for whom
 I bore an introductory letter, graciously given by H.H. the Sayyid
 Majjid of Zanzibar. Here I dismissed the porters, who separated to
 their homes. What a contrast between the open-handed hospitality
 and the hearty good will of this truly noble race (Arabs), and the
 niggardliness of the savage and selfish African! It was heart of
 flesh after heart of stone. They warehoused my goods, disposed of my
 extra stores, and made all arrangements for my down march on return.
 During two long halts at Kázeh, Snay bin Amir never failed to pass
 the evening with me, and, as he thoroughly knew the country all
 around, I derived immense information from his instructive and varied
 conversation.

 "Here were the times when Jack was at such a disadvantage from want
 of language; he could join in none of these things, and this made
 him, I think, a little sour, and partly why he wished to have an
 expedition of his own. Snay bin Amir was familiar with the language,
 the religion, the manners, and the ethnology of all the tribes. He
 was of a quixotic appearance, high featured, tall, gaunt, and large
 limbed. He was well read, had a wonderful memory, fine perceptions,
 and passing power of language. He was the stuff of which I could make
 a friend, brave as all his race, prudent, ready to perish for honour,
 and as honest as he was honourable. At Unyanyembe the merchants
 expect some delay, because the porters, whether hired at the coast or
 at Tanganyika, here disperse, and a fresh gang has to be collected.
 When Snay bin Amir and Musa Mzuri, the Indian, settled at Kázeh,
 it was only a desert; they built houses, sunk wells, and converted
 it into a populous place. The Arabs here live comfortably and even
 splendidly. The houses are single-storied, but large, substantial, and
 capable of defence. They have splendid gardens; they receive regular
 supplies of merchandise, comforts, and luxuries from the coast; they
 are surrounded by troops of concubines and slaves, whom they train to
 divers crafts and callings. The rich have riding asses from Zanzibar,
 and the poorest keep flocks and herds. When a stranger appears he
 receives _hishmat l'il gharib_, or 'the guest welcome.' He is provided
 with lodgings, and introduced by the host to the rest of the society
 at a general banquet. A drawback to their happiness is the failure of
 constitution. A man who escapes illness for a couple of months boasts,
 and, as in Egypt, no one enjoys robust health. The residents are very
 moderate in their appetites, and eat only light dishes that they may
 escape fever.

 [Sidenote: _Description of Caravans and Difficulties._]

 "From Unyanyembe there are twenty marches to Ujiji upon the
 Tanganyika, seldom accomplished under twenty-five days. The two
 greatest places are, first, Msene; the second is the Malagarázi
 river; but now I bade adieu for a time to the march, the camp, and
 the bivouac, and was comfortably housed close to my new friend,
 Shakyh Snay bin Amir. You are all familiar with the Arab Kafilah
 and its hosts of litters, horses, camels, mules, and asses; but the
 porter-journeys in East Africa have, till this year of my arrival,
 escaped the penman's pen. There are three kind of Caravans. These are
 the Wanyamwezi, the Wasawahili free men, and lastly that of the Arabs.
 That of the Arabs is splendid, and next to the Persian, he is the most
 luxurious traveller in the East. A veteran of the way, he knows the
 effects of protracted hardship and scarcity upon a wayfarer's health;
 but the European traveller does not enjoy it, because it marches by
 instinct rather than reason. It dawdles, it hurries, it lingers,
 losing time twice. It is fatal to observation, and nothing will induce
 them to enable an Explorer to strike into an unbeaten path, or to
 progress a few miles out of the main road. Malignant epidemics attack
 Caravans, and make you repent joining them. For the rest, the porters,
 one and all, want to eat, drink, sleep, carry the lightest load or
 none at all; for the slightest service they want double pay; they lose
 your mules and your baggage; they steal what they can; they desert
 when they can; they run away when there is the slightest danger. When
 it is safe, they are mutinous and insolent, because you are dependent
 on them. If you come to a comfortable place, you cannot dislodge them;
 if you come to a dangerous place, they will not give the necessary
 time for food or sleep, or resting the animals. Everything is done to
 get as much out of you as possible, to do as little as they can for
 it; gain and self are almost their only thoughts. Bombay proved more
 or less an exception. During our journey from start to finish, there
 was not one, from Said bin Salim, the leader, to the very porter,
 except Bombay and the two Goanese Catholics, who did not attempt to
 desert.

 "About five p.m. the camp was fairly roused, and a little low chatting
 commences. The porters overnight have promised to start early, and
 to make a long wholesome march; but, 'uncertain, coy, and hard to
 please,' the cold morning makes them unlike the men of the warm
 evening, and so one of them will have fever. In every Caravan there is
 some lazy lout and unmanageable fellow whose sole delight is to give
 trouble. If no march be in prospect, they sit obstinately before the
 fire, warming their hands and feet, and casting quizzical looks at
 their fuming and fidgety employer. If all be unanimous it is vain to
 tempt them; even soft sawder is but 'throwing comfits to cows,' and we
 return to our tent. If, however, there be a division, a little active
 stimulating will cause a march. They hug the fire till driven from it,
 when they unstack the loads piled before our tents and pour out of
 camp or village. Jack and I, when able, mount our asses; we walk when
 we can, but when unable for either we are borne in hammocks. The heat
 of the ground, against which the horniest sole never becomes proof,
 tries the feet like polished leather boots on a quarter-deck in the
 dog-days near the Line. Sometimes, when in good humour, they are very
 sportive. When two bodies meet, that commanded by an Arab claims the
 road. When friendly caravans meet, the two _kirangozis_ sidle up with
 a stage pace, a stride and a stand, and, with sidelong looks, prance
 till they arrive within distance; then suddenly and simultaneously
 'ducking,' like boys 'giving a back,' they come to loggerheads and
 exchange a butt violently as fighting rams. Their example is followed
 by all with a rush and a crush, which might be mistaken for the
 beginning of a fight; but it ends, if there be no bad blood, in shouts
 of laughter.

 "When a Unyamwezi guide is leader of a Caravan the _kirangozi_
 deliberately raises his plain blood-red flag, and they all follow him.
 If any man dares to go before him, or into any but his own place, an
 arrow is extracted from his quiver to substantiate his identity at the
 end of the march.

 "The Wamrima willingly admit strangers into their villages, and the
 Wazaramo would do the same, but they are constantly at feud with the
 Wanyamwezi, and therefore it is dangerous hospitality. My Goanese
 boys, being 'Christians,' that is to say, Roman Catholics, consider
 themselves semi-European, and they will not feed with the heathenry,
 so there are four different messes in the Camp. The dance generally
 assumes, as the excitement increases, the frantic semblance of a ring
 of Egyptian dervishes. The performance often closes with a grand
 promenade, all the dancers being jammed in a rushing mass, a _galop
 infernale_, with features of satyrs, and gestures resembling aught
 but human. Sometimes they compose songs in honour of me. I understand
 them, and the singers know that I do. They sing about the Muzungú
 Mbáya, 'the wicked white man;' to have called me a '_good_ white man'
 would mean that one was a natural, an innocent, who would be plucked
 and flayed without flinching; moreover, despite my wickedness, it
 was always to _me_ that they came for justice and redress if any one
 bullied or ill-treated them.

 "The Caravan scene at night is often very impressive. The dull red
 fires flickering and forming a circle of ruddy light in the depths of
 the black forest, flaming against the tall trunks, and defining the
 foliage of the nearer trees, illuminate lurid groups of savage men,
 in every variety of shape and posture. Above, the dark purple sky,
 studded with golden points, domes the earth with bounds narrowed by
 the gloom of night. And, behold, in the western horizon, a resplendent
 crescent, with a dim, ash-coloured globe in its arms, and crowned by
 Hesperus, sparkling, like a diamond, sinks through the vast space in
 all the glory and gorgeousness of Eternal Nature's sublimest works.
 From such a night, methinks, the Byzantine man took his device, the
 crescent and the star.

 [Sidenote: _Reptiles._]

 "At Kázeh, as in Ugogi and everywhere else, the lodgings are a
 menagerie of hens, pigeons, rats, scorpions, earwigs (the scorpions
 are spiteful), and in Ugogi there is a green scorpion from four to
 five inches long, which inflicts a torturing wound. Here they say that
 it dies after inflicting five consecutive stings, and kills itself if
 a bit of stick be applied to the middle of its back. House crickets
 and cockroaches are plentiful, as well as lizards, and frightful
 spiders weave their webs. One does not count ticks, flies of sorts,
 bugs, fleas, mosquitoes, and small ants, and the fatal bug of Miana,
 which vary in size, after suction, from almost invisible dimensions
 to three-quarters of an inch. The bite does not poison, but the
 irritation causes sad consequences. Huts have to be sprinkled with
 boiling water to do away with some of these nuisances.

 [Sidenote: _Ill and attended by a Witch._]

 "It is customary for Caravans proceeding to the Tanganyika to remain
 for six weeks or two months at Unyanyembe for repose and recovery
 from the labours they are supposed to have endured, to enjoy the
 pleasures of 'civilized society,' to accept the hospitality offered
 by the Arabs. All our party, except Jack and I, considered Unyanyembi
 the end of the exploration, but to us it merely meant a second point
 of departure easier than the first, because we had gained experience.
 We had, however, a cause of delay. Jack had become strong, but all
 the rest got ill. Valentine, my Goanese boy, was insensible for three
 days and nights from bilious fever, and when he recovered Gaetano got
 it and was unconscious. Then followed the bull-headed slave, Mabruki,
 and lastly Bombay, while the rest of the following, who had led a very
 irregular life, began to pay the penalty of excess. They brought us
 a _mganga_, or witch, who doctored us. However, we got distressing
 weakness, liver derangement, burning palms, tingling soles, aching
 eyes, and alternate chills of heat and cold, and we delayed till the
 1st of December, during which we learnt a lot of necessary things.

 "My good Snay bin Amir sent into the country for plantains and
 tamarinds, and brewed a quantity of beer and plantain wine. He lent me
 valuable assistance concerning the country and language, and we were
 able, through him, to learn all about the Nyanza or Northern Lake,
 and the maps forwarded from Kázeh to the Royal Geographical Society
 will establish this fact, as they were subsequently determined, after
 actual exploration, by Jack. Snay bin Amir took charge of all the
 letters and papers for home, and his energy enabled me afterwards to
 receive the much-needed reserve of supplies in the nick of time.

 "On the 15th we went on to Yombo, where I remarked three beauties who
 would be deemed beautiful in any part of the world. Their faces were
 purely Grecian, they had laughing eyes, their figures were models for
 an artist, like the bending statue that delights the world, cast in
 bronze. These beautiful domestic animals smiled graciously when, in my
 best Kinyamwezi, I did my _devoir_ to the sex, and a little tobacco
 always secured for me a seat in the 'undress circle.'

 "On the 22nd of December Jack came back, and we left on the 23rd of
 December, and marched to the district of Eastern Wilyankuru; and there
 we again separated, and I went on alone to Muinyi Chandi, and my
 people were very troublesome. Said bin Salim, believing that my days
 were numbered, passed me on the last march without a word. The sun was
 hot, and he and his party were hastening to shade, and left me with
 only two men to carry the hammock in a dangerous jungle, where shortly
 afterwards an Arab merchant was murdered. On Christmas Day I mounted
 my ass, passed through the western third of the Wilyankuru district,
 and was hospitably received by one Salim bin Said, surnamed Simba the
 Lion, who received me with the greatest hospitality. He was a large,
 middle-aged man, with simple and kindly manners, and an honesty of
 looks and words which rendered his presence extremely prepossessing.

 "The favourite dish in this country is the _pillaw_, or _pilaf_, here
 called _pulao_; and here I want to digress. For the past century,
 which concluded with reducing India to the rank of a British province,
 the proud invader has eaten her rice after a fashion which has secured
 for him the contempt of the East. He deliberately boils it, and after
 drawing off the nutritious starch, or gluten, called _conjee_, which
 forms the perquisite of the Portuguese or his pariah cook, he is fain
 to fill himself with that which has become little more nutritious
 than the prodigal's husks. Great, indeed, is the invader's ignorance
 upon that point. Peace be to the manes of Lord Macaulay, but listen
 to and wonder at his eloquent words: 'The Sepoys came to Clive, not
 to complain of their scanty fare, but to propose that all the grain
 should be given to the Europeans, who required more nourishment than
 the natives of Asia. The thin gruel, they said, which was strained
 away from the rice, would suffice for themselves. History contains no
 more touching instance of military fidelity, or of the influence of a
 commanding mind.' Indians never fail to drink the _conjee_. The Arab,
 on the other hand, mingles with his rice a sufficiency of _ghee_ to
 prevent the extraction of the 'thin gruel,' and thus makes the grain
 as palatable and as nutritious as Nature intended it to be--and dotted
 over with morsels of fowl, so boiled that they shredded like yarn
 under the teeth.

 "Shaykh Masud boasted of his intimacy with the Sultan Msimbira, whose
 subjects had plundered our portmanteau, and offered, on return to
 Unyanyambe, his personal services in ransoming it. I accepted with
 joy, but it afterwards proved that he nearly left his skin in the
 undertaking. The climate of Kíríra, where I arrived on the 27th of
 December, is called by the Arabs a medicine, and I spent a delicious
 night in the cool Barzah after the unhealthy air of Kázeh. Three
 marches more brought me to Msene, where I was led to the _tembe_ of
 one Saadullah, a low-caste Msawahili, and there I found Jack, looking
 very poorly. We were received with great pomp and circumstance; the
 noise was terrific, and Gaetano, Jack's boy, was so excited by the
 scene that he fell down in an epileptic fit, which fits returned
 repeatedly.

 "On the 10th of January we left, and arrived at Mb'hali, and passed
 through dense jungle, and eventually came to Sorora and Kajjanjeri,
 and here we were freshly ill from miasma. About three in the afternoon
 I was forced to lay aside my writing by an unusual sensation of
 nervous irritability, which was followed by a general shudder as
 in the cold paroxysm of fevers. Presently my extremities began to
 weigh, and began to burn as though exposed to a glowing fire, and my
 jack-boots became too tight and heavy to wear. At sunset the attack
 reached its height. I saw yawning wide to receive me--

    'Those dark gates across the wild
    That no man knows.'

 My body was palsied, powerless, motionless; the limbs appeared to
 wither and die; the feet had lost all sensation, except a throbbing
 and a tingling as if pricked by needle points, the arms refused to
 be directed by will, and to the hands the touch of cloth and stone
 was the same. Gradually the attack spread upwards till it seemed to
 compress my ribs, and stopped short there. This at a distance of
 two months of any medical aid, and with the principal labour of the
 expedition still in prospect! If one of us was lost, I said to myself,
 the other might survive to carry home the results of the exploration,
 which I had undertaken with the resolve either to do or die. I had
 done my best, and now nothing appeared to remain for me but to die as
 well.

 [Sidenote: _Partial Paralysis. Blindness. Elephants._]

 "It was partial paralysis, brought on by malaria, well known in India.
 I tried the usual remedies without effect, and the duration of the
 attack presently revealed what it was. The contraction of the muscles,
 which were tightened like ligatures above and below the knees, and
 those λύταγούνατα [Greek: lytagounata], a pathological symptom
 which the old Greek loves to specify, prevented me from walking to
 any distance for nearly a year; the numbness of the hands and feet
 disappeared more slowly, but the _Fundi_ predicted that I should be
 able to move in ten days, and on the 10th I again mounted my ass. At
 Usagozi, Jack, whose blood had been impoverished, and whose system had
 been reduced by many fevers, now began to suffer from inflammation of
 the eyes, which produced an almost total blindness, rendering every
 object enclouded by a misty veil. Goanese Valentine suffered the
 same on the same day, and subsequently, at Ujiji, was tormented by
 inflammatory ophthalmia. I suffered in a minor degree. On the 3rd of
 February we debouched from a jungle upon the river plain; the swift
 brown stream, there fifty yards broad, was swirling through the tall
 wet grasses of its banks on our right hand, hard by our track. Upon
 the off-side, a herd of elephants in Indian file broke through the
 reed fence in front of them.

 [Sidenote: _The Crossing of the Great River Malagarázi._]

 "The Malagarázi, corrupted by speculative geographers to
 Mdjigidgi--the uneuphonious terminology of the 'Mombas Mission
 Map'--to 'Magrassie,' and to 'Magozi,' has been wrongly represented
 to issue from the Sea of Ujiji. According to all travellers in these
 regions, it rises in the mountains of Urundi, at no great distance
 from the Kitangure, or river of Karagwah; but whilst the latter,
 springing from the upper counterslope, feeds the Nyanza, or Northern
 Lake, the Malagarázi, rising in the lower slope of the equatorial
 range, trends to the south-east, till it becomes entangled in the
 decline of the Great Central African Depression--the hydrographical
 basin first indicated in his address of 1852 by Sir Roderick I.
 Murchison, president of the Royal Geographical Society of London.[2]
 Thence it sweeps round the southern base of Urundi, and, deflected
 westwards, it disembogues itself into the Tanganyika. Its mouth
 is in the land of Ukaranga, and the long promontory behind which
 it discharges its waters is distinctly visible from Kawele, the
 head-quarters of Caravans in Ujiji. The Malagarázi is not navigable;
 as in primary and transition countries generally, the bed is broken
 by rapids. Beyond the ferry the slope becomes more pronounced, branch
 and channel islets of sand and verdure divide the stream, and as every
 village near the banks appears to possess one or more canoes, it is
 probably unfordable. The main obstacle to crossing it on foot, over
 the broken and shallower parts near the rock-bars, would be the number
 and the daring of the crocodiles.

 "The _mukunguru_ of Unyamwezi is the severest seasoning-fever in this
 part of Africa; it is a bilious-remittent lasting three days, which
 reduces the patient to nothing, and often followed by a long attack of
 tertian type. The consequences are severe and lasting, even in men of
 the strongest nervous diathesis; burning and painful eyes, hot palms
 and soles, a recurrence of shivering and flushing fits, extremities
 alternately icy cold, then painfully hot and swollen, indigestion,
 sleeplessness, cutaneous eruptions, fever sores, languor, dejection,
 all resulting from torpidity of liver, from inordinate secretion of
 bile, and shows the poison in the system. Sometimes the fever works
 speedily; some become at once delirious, and die on the first or
 second day.

 "From Tura to Unyamwezi the Caravans make seven marches of sixty
 geographical miles. The races requiring notice in this region are
 two--Wakimbu and the Wanyamwezi."

[1] Some of these things disappeared in a very singular manner, and
one was very curiously fated. It was missed here, and came home to me
in six years. Later on, in 1863, it again disappeared for six years.
It was stolen at Fernando Po in 1863; it was marked by somebody on a
bit of parchment, "Burton's Original Manuscript Diary, Africa, 1857."
Colonel Maude, the Queen's Equerry, saw it outside an old book-shop,
was attracted by the label on the Letts's Diary. He bought it for a few
shillings, called on Lord Derby, and left it in the hall, forgetting
it. Lord Derby, coming down, saw the book, recognized my handwriting,
wrote to Colonel Maude for permission to restore the private diary to
its rightful owner. We happened to be in town. He kindly called and
gave it back to us, so that journal twice disappeared for six years,
but had to come home. Who shall say there is no destiny in this?

[2] "The following notice concerning a discovery which must ever be
remembered as a triumph of geological hypothesis, was kindly forwarded
to me by the discoverer:--

"'My speculations as to the whole African interior being a vast watery
plateau-land of some elevation above the sea, but subtended on the east
and west by much higher grounds, were based on the following data:--

"'The discovery in the central portion of the Cape Colony, by Mr. Bain,
of fossil remains in a lacustrine deposit of Secondary age, and the
well-known existence on the coast of loftier mountains known to be of
a Palæozoic or Primary epoch, and circling round the younger deposits,
being followed by the exploration of the Ngami Lake, justified me in
believing that Africa had been raised from beneath the ocean at a
very early geological period; and that ever since that time the same
conditions had prevailed. I thence inferred that an interior network of
lakes and rivers would be found prolonged northwards from Lake Ngami,
though at that time no map was known to me showing the existence of
such central reservoirs. Looking to the west as to the east, I saw
no possibility of explaining how the great rivers could escape from
the central plateau-lands and enter the ocean except through deep
lateral gorges, formed at some ancient period of elevation, when the
lateral chains were subjected to transverse fractures. Knowing that
the Niger and the Zaire, or Congo, escaped by such gorges on the west,
I was confident that the same phenomenon must occur upon the eastern
coast, when properly examined. This hypothesis, as sketched out in
my 'Presidential Address' of 1852, was afterwards received by Dr.
Livingstone just as he was exploring the transverse gorges by which
the Zambesi escapes to the east, and the great traveller has publicly
expressed the surprise he then felt that his discovery should have been
thus previously suggested.'"



CHAPTER XIV.

OUR REWARD--SUCCESS.


 "At length we sight the Lake Tanganyika, or the 'Sea of Ujiji.' The
 route before us lay through a howling wilderness laid waste by the
 fierce Watuta. Mpete, on the right bank of the Malagarázi river, is
 very malarious, and the mosquitoes are dreadful. We bivouacked under
 a shady tree, within sight of the ferry. The passage of this river
 is considered dangerous on account of attacks of the tribes. At one
 place I could only obtain a few corn cobs, and I left the meat,
 with messages, for the rear. In the passages of the river our goods
 and chattels were thoroughly sopped. After a while, from a hillside
 we saw, long after noon, the other part of our Caravan, halted by
 fatigue, upon a slope beyond a weary swamp; a violent storm was
 brewing, and the sky was black, and we were anxious and sorry about
 them.

 "On the 13th February, after about an hour's march, I saw the _Fundi_
 running forward, and changing the direction of the Caravan, and I
 followed him to know _why_ he had taken this responsibility upon
 himself. We breasted a steep stony hill, sparsely clad with thorny
 trees, which killed Jack's riding ass. Our fagged beasts refused to
 proceed. 'What is that streak of light which lies below?' said I to
 Bombay. 'I am of opinion,' said Bombay, 'that that _is the_ water you
 are in search of.' I gazed in dismay; the remains of my blindness, the
 veil of trees, a broad ray of sunshine illuminating but one reach of
 the lake, had shrunk its fair proportions. I began to lament my folly
 in having risked life and lost health for so poor a prize, to curse
 Arab exaggeration, and to propose an immediate return to explore the
 Nyanza, or Northern Lake.

 [Sidenote: _Scenery._]

 "Advancing a few yards, the whole scene suddenly burst upon my view,
 filling me with admiration, wonder, and delight. Nothing I in sooth
 could be more picturesque than this first view of Tanganyika Lake, as
 it lay in the lap of the mountains, basking in the gorgeous tropical
 sunshine. There were precipitous hills, a narrow strip of emerald
 green, a ribbon of glistening yellow sand, sedgy rushes, cut by the
 breaking wavelets, an expanse of light, soft blue water foam thirty to
 thirty-five miles wide, sprinkled by crisp tiny crescents of snowy
 foam, with a background of high broken wall of steel-coloured mountain
 flecked and capped with pearly mist, sharply pencilled against the
 azure sky, yawning chasms of plum-colour falling towards dwarf hills,
 which apparently dip their feet in the wave. One could see villages,
 cultivated lands, fishermen's canoes on the water, and a profuse
 lavishness and magnificence of Nature and vegetation. The smiling
 shores of this vast crevasse appeared doubly beautiful to me after the
 silent and spectral mangrove-creeks on the East African sea-board, and
 the melancholy monotonous experience of desert and jungle scenery,
 tawny rock and sun-parched plain, or rank herbage and flats of black
 mire. Truly it was a revel for Soul and Sight! Forgetting toils,
 dangers, and the doubtfulness of return, I felt willing to endure
 double what I had endured; and all the party seemed to join with me in
 joy. Poor purblind Jack found nothing to grumble at, except the 'mist
 and glare before his eyes.' Said bin Salim looked exulting--_he_ had
 procured for me this pleasure; the monoculous _Jemadar_ grinned his
 congratulations, and even the surly Beloch made civil salaams.

 [Sidenote: _In an Arab Craft to Ujiji._]

 "As soon as we were bivouacked, I proceeded to get a solid-built Arab
 craft, capable of containing thirty or thirty-five men, belonging to
 an absent merchant. It was the second largest on the lake, and being
 too large for paddling, the crew rowed, and at eight next morning we
 began coasting along the eastern shore of the lake in a north-westerly
 direction, towards the Kawele district. The picturesque and varied
 forms of the mountains rising above and dipping into the lake were
 clad in purplish blue, set off by the rosy tints of the morning, and
 so we reached the great Ujiji. A few scattered huts in the humblest
 beehive shape represent the Port town. This fifth region includes
 the alluvial valley of the Malagarázi river, which subtends the
 lowest spires of the highlands of Karagwah, and Urundi, the western
 prolongation of the chain which has obtained, _probably_ from African
 tradition, the name of 'Lunar Mountains.'

 "At Ujiji terminates, after twelve stages, the transit of the fifth
 region. The traveller has now accomplished a hundred stages, which
 with necessary rests, but not including detentions and long halts,
 should occupy a hundred and fifty days. The distance, on account of
 the sinuosities of the road, numbers nine hundred and fifty statute
 miles, which occupied us seven and a half months on account of our
 disadvantages and illnesses. Arab Caravans seldom arrive at the
 Tanganyika, for the same reasons, under six months, but the lightly
 laden and the fortunate may get to Unyamyembe in two and a half, and
 to the Tanganyika in four months. It is evident that the African
 authorities (this was written thirty-five years ago) have hitherto
 confounded the Nyanza, the Tanganyika, and the Nyassa Lakes. Ujiji was
 first visited in 1840 by the Arabs, and after that they penetrated
 to Unyamwesi. They found it conveniently situated as a central point
 from whence their factors and slaves could navigate the waters, and
 collect slaves and ivory from the tribes upon its banks, but the
 climate proved unhealthy, the people dangerous, and the coasting
 voyages ended in disaster. Ujiji never rose to the rank of Unyamyembe,
 or Msene. Now, from May to September, flying Caravans touch here,
 and return to Unyamyembe so soon as they have loaded their porters.
 The principal tribes are the Wajiji, the Wavínza, the Wakaránga, the
 Watúta, the Wabuha, and the Wáhha; but the fiercest races in the whole
 land, and also the darkest, are the Wazarámo, the Wajíji, and the
 Watatúru. The Lakists are almost an amphibious race, are excellent
 divers, strong swimmers and fishermen, and vigorous eaters of fish,
 and in the water they indulge in gambols like sportive water-fowls,
 whether skimming in their hollow logs, or swimming.

 "It is a great mistake not to go as a Trader. It explains the
 Traveller's motives, which are always suspected to be bad ones. Thus
 the Explorer can push forward into unknown countries, will be civilly
 received and lightly fined, because the host expects to see him or his
 friends again: to go without any motive only induces suspicion, and
 he is opposed in every way. Nobody believes him to be so stupid as to
 go through such danger and discomfort for exploring or science, which
 they simply do not understand.

 "The cold damp climate, the over-rich and fat fish diet, and the
 abundance of vegetables, which made us commit excesses, at first
 disagreed with us. I lay for a fortnight upon the earth, too blind to
 read or write, too weak to ride, too ill to converse. Jack was almost
 as groggy upon his legs as I was, suffering from a painful ophthalmia,
 and a curious contortion of the face, which made him chew sideways,
 like an animal that chews the cud. Valentine was the same. Jack and
 Valentine were always ill of the same things, and on the same days,
 showing that certain climates affected certain temperaments and not
 others. Gaetano ate too much and brought on a fever. I was determined
 to explore the northern extremity of the lake, whence, every one said,
 issued a large river flowing northwards, so I tried to hire the only
 dhow or sailing craft, and provision it for a month's cruise, and at
 last Jack went to look after it, and I was twenty-seven days alone.

 "I spent my time chiefly in eating, drinking, smoking, dozing. At two
 or three in the morning I lay anxiously expecting the grey light to
 creep through the door-chinks; then came the cawing of crows, and the
 crowing of the village cocks. When the golden rays began to stream
 over the red earth, torpid Valentine brought me rice-flour boiled in
 water with cold milk. Then came the slavey with a leafy branch to
 sweep the floor and to slay the huge wasps. This done, he lit the
 fire, the excessive damp requiring it, and sitting over it, he bathed
 his face and hands--luxurious dog!--in the pungent smoke. Then came
 visits from Said bin Salim and the _Jemadar_ (our two headmen), who
 sat and stared at me, were disappointed to see no fresh symptoms of
 approaching dissolution, told me so with their eyes and faces, and
 went away; and I lay like a log upon my cot, smoking, _dreaming of
 things past, visioning things present,_ and indulging myself in a few
 lines of reading and writing.

 [Sidenote: _More Scenery._]

 "As evening approached, I made an attempt to sit under the broad
 eaves of the _tembe_, and to enjoy the delicious spectacle of this
 virgin Nature, and the reveries to which it gave birth--

    'A pleasing land of drowsihed it was,
       Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,
    And of gay castles in the clouds that pass
       For ever flushing round a summer sky.'

 "It reminded me of the loveliest glimpses of the Mediterranean; there
 were the same 'laughing tides,' pellucid sheets of dark blue water,
 borrowing their tints from the vinous shores beyond; the same purple
 light of youth upon the cheek of the earlier evening; the same bright
 sunsets, with their radiant vistas of crimson and gold opening like
 the portals of a world beyond the skies; the same short-lived grace
 and loveliness of the twilight; and, as night closed over the earth,
 the same cool flood of transparent moonbeams, pouring on the tufty
 heights and bathing their sides with the whiteness of virgin snow.

 "At seven p.m., as the last flush faded from the occident, the lamp--a
 wick in a broken pot full of palm oil--was brought in. A dreary,
 dismal day you will exclaim, a day that--

      'lasts out a night in Russia,
    When nights are longest there.'

 [Sidenote: _After Twenty-seven Days Speke returns._]

 "On the 29th of March the rattling of matchlocks announced Jack's
 return. He was moist, mildewed, and wet to the bone, and all his
 things were in a similar state; his guns grained with rust, his
 fireproof powder-magazine full of rain, and, worse than that, he
 had not been able to gain anything but a promise that, _after three
 months,_ the dhow should be let to us for five hundred dollars. The
 very dhow that had been promised to me whenever I chose to send for
 it! The faces of my following were indeed a study.

 "I then set to work to help Jack with his diaries, which afterwards
 appeared in _Blackwood_, September, 1859, when I was immensely
 surprised to find, amongst many other things, a vast horseshoe of
 lofty mountains that Jack placed, in a map attached to the paper,
 near the very heart of Sir R. Murchison's Depression. I had seen the
 mountains growing upon paper under Jack's hand, from a thin ridge of
 hills fringing the Tanganyika until they grew to the size given in
 _Blackwood_, and Jack gravely printed in the largest capitals, 'This
 mountain range I consider to be the true Mountains of the Moon;' thus
 men _do_ geography, and thus discovery is stultified. The poor fellow
 had got a beetle in his ear, which began like a rabbit at a hole to
 dig violently at the tympanum, and maddened him. Neither tobacco,
 salt, nor oil could be found; he tried melted butter, and all failing,
 he applied the point of a penknife to its back, and wounded his ear
 so badly that inflammation set in and affected his facial glands,
 till he could not open his mouth, and had to feed on suction. Six or
 seven months after, the beetle came away in the wax. At last I got
 hold of Kannena the Chief, and after great difficulty and enormous
 extortion, I promised him a rich reward if he kept his word; for I
 was resolved at all costs, even if we were reduced to actual want, to
 visit the mysterious stream. I threw over his shoulders a six-foot
 length of scarlet broadcloth, which made him tremble with joy, and all
 the people concerned in my getting the dhow received a great deal more
 than its worth. I secured two large canoes and fifty-five men.

 "On the 11th of April, at four in the morning, I slept comfortably on
 the crest of a sand-wave, and under a mackintosh escaped the pitiless
 storm, so as to be ready to start lest they should repent, and at 7.20
 on the 12th of April, 1858, my canoe, bearing for the first time on
 those dark waters--

    'The flag that braved a thousand years
    The battle and the breeze,'

 stood out of Bangwe Bay, and, followed by Jack's canoe, we made for
 the cloudy and storm-vexed north. The best escort to a European
 capable of communicating with and commanding them, would be a small
 party of Arabs, fresh from Hazramaut, untaught in the ways and tongues
 of Africa. They would save money to the explorer, and also his life.
 There were great rejoicings at our arrival at Uvira, the _ne plus
 ultra_, the northernmost station to which merchants have as yet been
 admitted. Opposite still, rose in a high broken line the mountains
 of the inhospitable Urundi, apparently prolonged beyond the northern
 extremity of the waters. Some say the voyage is of two days, some say
 six hours; the breadth of the Tanganyika here is between seven and
 eight miles.

 "Now my hopes were rudely dashed to the ground. The stalwart sons
 of the Sultan Maruta, the noblest type of Negroid seen near the
 lake, visited me. They told me they had been there, and that the
 Rusizi enters _into_ and does not _flow out_ of the Tanganyika. I
 felt sick at heart. Bombay declared that Jack had misunderstood, and
 _his_ (Bombay's) informer _now_ owned that he had never been beyond
 Uvira, and never intended to do so. We stopped there nine days, and
 there I got such a severe ulceration of the tongue that I could not
 articulate. An African traveller may be arrested at the very bourne of
 his journey, on the very threshold of his success, by a single stage,
 as effectually as if all the waves of the Atlantic or the sands of
 Arabia lay between him and it. Now Maruta and his young giants claimed
 their blackmail, and also Kannena, and I had to pay up. Slaves are
 cheaper here than in the market of Ujiji. Gales began to threaten, and
 the crews, fearing wind and water, insisted on putting out to sea on
 the 6th of May.

 [Sidenote: _A Fight._]

 "We touched at various stages and anchored at Mzimu, our former
 halting-place, where the crew swarmed up a ladder of rock, and
 returned with pots of palm oil. We left again at sunset; the waves
 began to rise, the wind also, and rain in torrents, and it was a doubt
 whether the cockleshell craft could live through the short chopping
 sea in heavy weather. The crew was frightened, but held on gallantly,
 and Bombay, a noted Agnostic in fine weather, spent the length of that
 wild night in reminiscences of prayer. I sheltered myself under my
 then best friend, my mackintosh, and thought of the couplet--

    'This collied night, these horrid waves, these gusts that sweep the whirling deep;
    What reck they of our evil plight, who on the shore securely sleep?'

 Fortunately the rain beat down the wind and sea, or nothing could have
 saved us. The next morning Mabruki rushed into the tent, thrust my
 sword into my hands, said the Warundi were upon us, and that the crews
 were rushing to their boats and pushing them off. Knowing that they
 _would_ leave us stranded in case of danger, we hurried in without
 delay; but presently no enemy appeared, and Kannena, the Chief,
 persuaded them to re-land, and demand satisfaction of a drunken Chief
 who had badly wounded a man, and then there was a general firing and
 drawing of daggers. The crew immediately confiscated the three goats
 that were for our return, cut their throats, and spitted the meat upon
 their spears. Thus the lamb died and the wolf dined; the innocent
 suffered, the plunderer was joyed; the strong showed his strength,
 the weak his weakness--as usual. I saw the sufferer's wounds washed,
 forbade his friends to knead and wrench him as they were doing, and
 gave him a purgative which did him good. On the second day he was able
 to rise. This did not prevent the report at home that I had killed the
 man.

 "On the 11th of May we paddled round to Wafanya Bay, to Makimoni, a
 little grassy inlet, where our canoes were defended from the heavy
 surf. On the 12th we went to Kyasanga, and the next night we spent in
 Bangwe Bay. We were too proud to sneak home in the dark; we deserved
 the Victoria Cross, we were heroes, braves of braves; we wanted to be
 looked at by the fair, to be howled at by the valiant.

 [Sidenote: _Are received with Honour._]

 "On the 13th of May we appeared at the entrance of Kawele, and had a
 triumphal entrance; the people of the whole country-side collected
 to welcome us, and pressed waist-deep into the water. Jack and I
 were repeatedly 'called for,' but true merit is always modest; it
 aspires to 'Honour, not honours.'[1] We regained the old _tembe_,
 were salaamed to by everybody, and felt like a 'return home.' We had
 expended upwards of a month boating about the Tanganyika Lake. All the
 way down, we were like baited bears, mobbed every moment; they seemed
 to devour us; in an ecstasy of curiosity they shifted from Jack to
 me, and back again, like the well-known ass between the bundles of
 hay. Our health palpably improved. Jack was still deaf, but cured of
 his blindness; the ulcerated mouth, which had compelled me to live
 on milk for seventeen days, returned to its usual state, my strength
 increased, my feet were still swollen, but my hands lost their
 numbness, and I could again read and write. I attribute the change
 from the days and nights spent in the canoe, and upon the mud of the
 lake. Mind also acted upon matter; the object of my Mission was now
 effected, and I threw off the burden of grinding care, with which the
 imminent prospect of a failure had before sorely laden me."

Although Richard did not get the meed of success in England, and it
has taken the world thirty-four years to realize the grandeur of that
Exploration, he was the Pioneer (without money, without food, without
men or proper escort, without the bare necessaries of life, to dare
and do, in spite of every obstacle, and every crushing thing, bodily
and mentally) who opened up that country. It is to _him_ that later
followers, that Grant and Speke, and Baker and Stanley, Cameron, and
all the other men that have ever followed, owe it, that he opened the
oyster-shell for them, and they went in to take the pearl. I do not
want to detract from any other traveller's merits, for they are all
brave and great, but I _will_ say that if Richard Burton had had Mr.
Stanley's money, escort, luxuries, porterage, and white comrades,
backed by influence, there would not have been one single white spot
on the whole map of the great Continent of Africa that would not have
been filled up. Owing to shameful intrigues (which prospered none of
the doers, but injured him, the man who did all this), he got very few
words of praise, and that from a few, yet the World owes it to him
now that there are Missions and Schools and Churches, and Commerce,
and peaceful Settlements, and that anybody can go there. To _him_ you
owe "Tanganyika in a Bath-Chair;" but Speke got the cheering of the
gallery and the pit, and Stanley inherited them. And here I insert the
innocent joy-bells of his own heart, as I found them scribbled on the
edge of his private journal, and anybody thinking of what he had done
and what he had passed through, can warmly enter into his feelings of
self-gratulation, so modestly hidden--

    "I have built me a monument stronger than brass,
      And higher than the Pyramids' regal site;
    Nor the bitterness shown, nor the impotent wind,
      Nor the years' long line, nor the ages' flight
                              Shall e'en lay low!

    "Not _all_ shall I perish; much of _me_
      Shall vanquish the grave, and be living still,
    When Mr. Macaulay's Zealanders view
      The ivied ruin on Tower Hill,
                              And men shall know

    "That when Isis hung, in the youth of Time,
      Her veil mysterious over the land,
    And defied mankind and men's puny will,
      All that lay in the shadow, my daring hand
                              Was _first_ to show,

    "Then rejoice thee, superb in the triumph of mind,
    And the Delphian bay-leaf, O sweet Muse, bind
                              Around my brow!"


 [Sidenote: _A Caravan arrives._]

 "The rainy monsoon broke up after our return to Kawele. The
 climate became truly enjoyable, but it did not prevent the strange
 inexplicable melancholy which accompanies all travellers in tropical
 countries. Nature is beautiful in all that meets the eye; all is soft
 that affects the senses; but she is a syren whose pleasures pall,
 and one sighs for the rare simplicity of the desert. I never felt
 this sadness in Egypt and Arabia; I was never without it in India
 and Zanzibar. We got not one single word from the agents who were to
 forward our things, and Want began to stare us in the face. We had to
 engage porters for the hammocks, to feed seventy-five mouths, to fee
 several Sultans, and to incur the heavy expenses of two hundred and
 sixty miles' march back to Unyanyembe, so I had to supplement with my
 own little patrimony. One thousand pounds does not go very far, when
 it has to be divided amongst a couple of hundred greedy savages in two
 and a half years. On the 22nd of May musket-shots announced arrivals,
 and after a dead silence of eleven months arrived a Caravan with
 boxes, bales, porters, slaves, and a parcel of papers and letters from
 Europe, India, and Zanzibar. Here we first knew of the Indian Mutiny.
 This good fortune happened at a crisis when it was really wanted, but
 as my agent could find no porters for the packages, he had kept back
 some, and what he had sent me, were the worst. They would take us to
 Unyamyembe, but were wholly inadequate for exploring the southern
 end of the Tanganyika, far less for returning to Zanzibar, _viâ_ the
 Nyassa Lake and Kilwa, as I hoped to do.

 [Sidenote: _Geographical Remarks._]

 "At the time I write, the Tanganyika, though situated in the
 unexplored centre of intertropical Africa, and until 1858 unvisited by
 any European, has a traditionary history of its own, extending over
 three centuries. The Tanganyika, 250 miles in length, occupies the
 centre of the length of the African continent. The general formation
 suggests the idea of a volcanic depression, while the Nyanza is a vast
 reservoir formed by the drainage of the mountains. The lay is almost
 due north and south, and the form a long oval widening at the centre,
 and contracting at the extremities; the breadth varies from thirty
 to thirty-five miles, the circumference about 550 miles, and the
 superficial area covers about 5000 square miles. By the thermometers
 we had with us, the altitude was 850 feet above sea-level, and about
 2000 feet below the Nyanza or Northern Lake, with high hill ranges
 between the lakes, which precluded a possibility of a connection
 between the waters. The parallel of the northern extremity of the
 Tanganyika nearly corresponds with the southern creek of the Nyanza,
 and they are separated by an arc of the meridian of about three
 hundred and forty-three miles. The waters of the Nyanza are superior
 to those of Tanganyika. The Tanganyika has a clear soft blue, like
 the ultramarine of the Mediterranean, with the light and milky tints
 of tropical seas. I believe that the Tanganyika receives and absorbs
 the whole river system, the network of streams, nullahs, and torrents
 of that portion of the Central African Depression, whose watershed
 converges towards the great reservoir. I think that the Tanganyika,
 like the Dead Sea, _as_ a reservoir, supplies with humidity the winds
 which have parted with their moisture in the barren and arid regions
 of the south, and maintains its general level by the exact balance
 of supply and evaporation, and I think it possible that the saline
 particles deposited in its waters may be wanting in some constituent,
 which renders them evident to the taste; hence the freshness.

 "According to the Wajiji, from their country to the Marungú river,
 which enters the lake at the _south_, there are twelve stages,
 numbering one hundred and twenty stations, but at most of them
 provisions are not procurable, and there are sixteen tribes and
 districts. The people of Usige, _north_ of the Tanganyika, say that
 six rivers fall into the Tanganyika from the _east_, and _westernmost_
 is the Rusizi, and that it is an _influent_.

 "The Chief Kazembe is like a viceroy of the country lying south-west
 of the Tanganyika, and was first visited by Dr. Lacerda, Governor of
 the Rios de Sena, in 1798-99. He died, and his party remained nine
 months in the country, without recording the name and position of this
 African capital. A second expedition went in 1831, and the present
 Chief was the grandson of Dr. Lacerda's Kazembe. He is a very great
 personage in these parts, and many Arabs are said to be living with
 him in high esteem. Marungú, though dangerous, was visited by a party
 of Arab merchants in 1842, who assisted Sámá in an expedition against
 a rival. He compelled the merchants to remain with him; they had found
 means of sending letters to their friends, they are unable to leave
 the country, but they are living in high favour with the Kazembe
 who enriched them. Of course there are people who doubt their good
 fortune. I collect my details from a mass of Arab _oral_ geography.

 "The 26th of May, 1858, was the day appointed for our departure _en
 route_ for Unyamyembe. Kannena had been drunk for a fortnight, and was
 attacked by the Watuta, and fled. I heard of him no more. He showed
 no pity for the homeless stranger--may the World show none to him! I
 shall long remember my last sunrise look at Tanganyika, enhanced by
 the reflection that I might never again behold it. Masses of brown
 purple clouds covered the sunrise. The mists, luminously fringed with
 Tyrian purple, were cut by filmy rays, and the internal living fire
 shot forth broad beams like the spokes of a huge aërial wheel, rolling
 a flood of gold over the light blue waters of the lake, and a soft
 breeze, the breath of morn, awoke the waters into life.

 [Sidenote: _Troublesome Following._]

 "The followers were very tiresome, mutinous, and inconsequent in their
 anxiety to escape from Kannena and the fighting Watuta. So, desiring
 the headman to precede me with a headstrong gang to the first stage,
 and to send back men to carry my hammock and remove a few loose loads,
 I breakfasted, and waited alone till the afternoon in the empty and
 deserted _tembe_; but no one came back, and the utter misery depicted
 in the countenance of the Beloch induced me to mount my _manchil_,
 and to set out carried by only two men. As the shades of evening
 closed around us we reached the ferry of the Ruche river, and we
 found no camp. The mosquitoes were like wasps, and the hippopotamus
 bellowed, snorted, and grunted; the roars of the crocodiles made the
 party miserable, as the porters waded through water waist-deep, and
 crept across plains of mud, mire, and sea-ooze. As it was too dark
 and dangerous to continue the march, and that, had I permitted, they
 would have wandered through the outer gloom, without fixed purpose,
 till permanently bogged, I called a halt, and we snatched, under a
 resplendent moon and a dew that soaked through the blankets, a few
 hours of sleep. We were destitute of tobacco and food, and when the
 dawn broke, I awoke and found myself alone; they had all fled and left
 me. About two p.m., some of them came back to fetch me; but they were
 so impertinent, ordering me to endure the midday heat and labour,
 that I turned them out, and told them to send back their master,
 Said bin Salim, in the evening or the next morning. Accordingly, the
 next morning, the 28th of May, at nine o'clock, appeared Said, the
 _Jemadar_, and a full gang of bearers. He was impertinent too, but
 I soon silenced him, and then we advanced till evening: for having
 tricked me he lost two days. Later on, a porter placed his burden upon
 the ground and levanted, and being cognac and vinegar, it was deeply
 regretted. Then the Unyamwezi guide (because his newly purchased
 slave-girl had become footsore and was unable to advance) cut off
 her head, lest out of his evil should come good to another. The
 bull-headed Mabruki bought a little slave of six years old. He trotted
 manfully alongside the porters, bore his burden of hide bed and water
 gourd upon his tiny shoulders. At first Mabruki was like a girl with
 a new doll, but when the novelty wore off, the poor little devil was
 so savagely beaten that I had to take him under my own protection. All
 these disagreeables I was obliged to smooth down, because a traveller
 who cannot utilize the raw material that comes to his hand, will make
 but little progress. Their dread of the Wavinza increased as they
 again approached the Malagarázi ferry. Here there are magnificent
 spectacles of conflagration.

 [Sidenote: _Forest on Fire._]

 "A sheet of flame, beginning with the size of a spark, overspreads
 the hillside, advancing on the wings of the wind with the roaring
 rushing sound of many hosts where the grass lay thick, shooting huge
 forky tongues high into the dark air, where tall trees, the patriarchs
 of the forest, yielded their lives to the blast, smouldering and
 darkening, as if about to be quenched, where the rock afforded scanty
 fuel, then flickering, blazing up and soaring again till, topping the
 brow of the hill, the sheet became a thin line of fire, and gradually
 vanished from the view, leaving its reflection upon the canopy of
 lurid smoke studded with sparks and bits of live braise, which marked
 its descent on the other side of the buttress.

 "We were treated with cruel extortion at the crossing of the
 Malagarázi, but the armies of ants, and an earthquake at 11.15 a.m.
 on the 4th of June, which induced us to consent, was considered a bad
 omen by my party. They took seven hours to transport us, and at four
 p.m. we found ourselves, with hearts relieved of a heavy load, once
 more at Ugogi, on the left bank of the river. Fortunately I arrived
 just in time to prevent Jack from buying a little pig for which he was
 in treaty, otherwise we should have lost our good name amongst the
 Moslem population. On the 8th of June we emerged from the inhospitable
 Uvinza into neutral ground, where we were pronounced 'out of danger.'
 The next day, when in the meridian of Usagozi, we were admitted for
 the first time to the comforts of a village.

 "On the 17th of June, in spite of desertions, we came to Irora, the
 village of Salim bin Salih, who received us very hospitably. Here we
 saw the blue hills of Unyanyembe, our destination. Next day we got to
 Yombo, where we met some of our things coming up by the coast, sent
 by the Consul of France--the French do things smartly--and a second
 packet of letters. Every one had lost some friend or relation near and
 dear to him. My father had died on the 6th of last September, after a
 six weeks' illness, at Bath, and was buried on the 10th, and I only
 knew it on the 18th of June--the following year. Such tidings are
 severely felt by the wanderer who, living long behind the world, is
 unable to mark its gradual changes, lulls (by dwelling upon the past)
 apprehension into a belief that _his_ home has known no loss, and who
 expects again to meet each old familiar face ready to smile upon his
 return, as it was to weep at his departure.

 "We collected porters at Yombo, passed Zimbili, the village of our
 former miseries, and re-entered Kázeh, where we were warmly welcomed
 by our hospitable Snay bin Amir, who had prepared his house and
 everything grateful to starving travellers. Our return from Ujiji to
 Unyanyembe had been accomplished in twenty-two stations, two hundred
 and sixty-five miles. After a day's repose, all the Arab merchants
 called upon me, and I had the satisfaction of finding that my last
 order on Zanzibar for four hundred dollars' worth of cloth and beads
 had arrived, and I also recovered the lost table and chair which the
 slaves had abandoned.

 "During the first week following the march, we all paid the penalty of
 the toilsome trudge through a perilous jungly country in the deadly
 season of the year, when the waters are drying up under a fiery sun,
 and a violent _vent de bise_ from the east pours through the tepid air
 like cold water into a warm bath. I again got swelling and numbness of
 the extremities; Jack was a martyr to deafness and dimness of sight,
 which prevented him from reading, writing, and observing correctly;
 the Goanese were down with fever, severe rheumatism, and liver pains;
 Valentine got tertian type, and was so long insensible that I resolved
 to try the _tinctura Warburgii_. Oh, Doctor Warburg! true apothecary!
 we all owe you a humble tribute of gratitude; let no traveller be
 without you. The result was miraculous; the paroxysms did not return,
 the painful sickness at once ceased; from a death-like lethargy, sweet
 childish sleep again visited his aching eyes; chief boon of all, the
 corroding thirst gave way to appetite, followed by digestion. We all
 progressed towards convalescence, and in my case, stronger than any
 physical relief, was the moral effect of Success and the cessation of
 ghastly doubts and fears, and the terrible wear and tear of mind. I
 felt the proud consciousness of having done my best, under conditions,
 from beginning to end, the worst and most unpromising, and that
 whatever future evils Fate might have in store for me, it could not
 rob me of the meed won by the hardships and sufferings of the past.

 [Sidenote: _He sends Speke to find the Nyanza._]

 "I had not given up the project of returning to the seaboard _viâ_
 Kilwa. As has already been mentioned, the merchants had detailed to
 me, during my first halt here, their discovery of a large lake, lying
 about sixteen marches to the north; and, from their descriptions
 and bearings, Jack laid down the water in a hand-map, and forwarded
 it to the Royal Geographical Society. All agreed in claiming for it
 superiority of size over the Tanganyika, and I saw that, if we could
 prove this, much would be cleared up. Jack was in a much fitter state
 of health to go. There was no need for two of us going, and I was
 afraid to leave him behind at Kázeh. It is very difficult to associate
 with Arabs as one of themselves. Jack was an Anglo-Indian, without
 any knowledge of Eastern manners and customs and religion, and of
 any Oriental language beyond broken Hindostanee. Now, Anglo-Indians,
 as everybody knows, often take offence without reason; they expect
 civility as their _due_, they treat all skins a shade darker than
 their own as 'niggers,' and Arabs are, or can be, the most courteous
 gentlemen, and exceedingly punctilious.[2]

 "Jack did not afterwards represent this fairly in _Blackwood_,
 October, 1859. He said I 'was most unfortunately quite done up, and
 most graciously consented to wait with the Arabs and recruit my
 health;' but in July, 1858, _writing on the spot_, he wrote, 'To
 diminish the disappointment caused by the shortcoming of our cloth,
 and in not seeing the whole of the Sea of Ujiji, I have proposed
 to take a flying trip to the unknown lake, while Captain Burton
 prepares for our return homewards.' Said bin Salim did all he could
 to thwart the project, and Jack threatened him with the _forfeiture
 of his reward_ after he returned to Zanzibar. Indeed, he told him _it
 was already forfeited_. He said 'he should certainly recommend the
 Government _not to pay the gratuity, which the Consul had promised on
 condition that he worked entirely for our satisfaction, in assisting
 the expedition to carry out the arranged plans._' How Jack reconciled
 himself to misrepresent my conduct about the payment on reaching home,
 will never be understood.

 "Our followers were to receive _certain_ pay in _any case_, which they
 _did_ receive, and a reward in _case they behaved well_; our asses,
 thirty-six in number, all died or were lost; our porters ran away; our
 goods were left behind and stolen; specimens of the fine poultry of
 Unyamwezi, intended to be naturalized in England, were bumped to death
 in the cases; our black escort were so unmanageable as to require
 dismissal; the weakness of our party invited attacks, and our wretched
 Beloch deserted us in the jungle, and throughout were the cause of an
 infinity of trouble. Jack agreed with me thoroughly, that it would be
 an _act of weakness_ to pay the _reward_ of _ill-conduct_; instead of
 putting it down to generosity, they would have put it down to fear,
 and they would have played the devil with every future traveller; yet
 he used this afterwards as a means to procure the Command of the next
 Expedition for himself, and pointed it at me as a disgrace.

 "By dint of severe exertion, Jack was able to leave Kázeh on the 10th
 of July. These northern kingdoms were Karágwah, Uganda, and Unyoro.
 The _Mkámá_, or Sultan, of Karágwah was Armaníka, son of Ndagára, who
 was a very great man. He is an absolute Ruler, and governs without
 squeamishness. He receives the traveller with courtesy, he demands
 no blackmail, but you are valued according to your gifts. A European
 would be received with great kindness, but only a rich man could
 support the dignity of the white face. Corpulence is a beauty. Girls
 are fattened to a vast bulk by drenches of curds and cream, thickened
 with flour, and are beaten when they refuse, and they grow an enormous
 size.

 [Sidenote: _The Chief Suna._]

 "From the Kitangure river, fifteen stations conduct the traveller to
 Kibuga, the capital of Uganda, the residence of its powerful despot,
 Suna. The Chief of Uganda has but two wants, with which he troubles
 his visitors. One is a medicine against Death, the other a charm to
 avert thunderbolts, and immense wealth would reward the man who would
 give him either of these two things. The army of Uganda numbers three
 hundred thousand men; each brings an egg to muster, and thus something
 like a reckoning of the people is made. Each soldier carries one
 spear, two assegais, a long dagger, and a shield; bows and swords are
 unknown. The women and children accompany, carrying spare weapons,
 provisions, and water. They fight to the sound of drums, which are
 beaten with sticks like ours; should this performance cease, all fly
 the field.

 "Suna, when last visited by the Arabs, was a red man, of about
 forty-five, tall, robust, powerful of limb, with a right kingly
 presence, a warrior carriage, and a fierce and formidable aspect. He
 always carried his spear, and wore a long piece of bark-cloth from
 neck to ground; he makes over to his women the rich clothes presented
 by the Arabs. He has a variety of names, all expressing something
 terrible, bitter, and mighty. He used to shock the Arabs by his
 natural, unaffected impiety. He boasted to them that he was the God
 of earth, as their Allah was the Lord of heaven. He murmured loudly
 against the abuse of lightning, and claimed from his subjects divine
 honours, such as the facile Romans yielded to their Emperors. His
 sons, numbering more than a hundred, were confined in dungeons; the
 heir _elect_ was dragged from his chains to fill a throne, and the
 cadets linger through their dreadful lives till death releases them.
 His female children were kept under the most rigid surveillance within
 the palace; but he had one favourite daughter, named Nasurú, whose
 society was so necessary to him, that he allowed her to appear with
 him in public.

 [Sidenote: _Richard collects a Vocabulary._]

 "Suna encouraged, by gifts and attentions, the Arab merchants to trade
 in his capital, but the distance has prevented more than half a dozen
 caravans from reaching him; yet all loudly praised his courtesy and
 hospitality. My friend Snay Bin Amir paid him a visit in 1852. He
 was received in the audience hall, outside which were two thousand
 guards, armed only with staves. He was allowed to retain his weapons.
 He saluted the Chief, who motioned his guest to sit in front of him.
 Two spears were close to his hand. He has a large and favourite dog,
 resembling an Arab greyhound. The dog was, and is always, by his side.
 The ministers and the women were also present, but placed so that
 they could only see the visitor's back. He was eager of news. When
 the despot rose, all dispersed. At the second visit, Snay presented
 his blackmail, and it was intimated to the 'King's Stranger' that
 he might lay hands upon whatever he pleased, animate or inanimate;
 but Snay was too wise to avail himself of this privilege. There were
 four interviews, in which Suna inquired much about the Europeans,
 and was anxious for a close alliance with the Sultan of Zanzibar.
 He treated Snay very generously; but Snay, when he could without
 offence, respectfully declined things. Like all African Chiefs, the
 despot considered these visits as personal honours paid to himself.
 It would depend, however, upon his ingenuity and good fortune whether
 a traveller would be allowed to explore further, and perhaps the
 best way would have been to buy or to build boats upon the nearest
 western shore, with Suna's permission. During Jack's absence, I
 collected specimens of the multitudinous dialects. Kisawahili, or
 coast language, into which the great South African family here divides
 itself, is the most useful, because most generally known, and, once
 mastered, it renders the rest easy. With the aid of the slaves, I
 collected about five hundred words in the three principal dialects
 upon this line of road--the Kisawahili, the Kizaramo, which included
 the Kik'hutu, and the Kinyamwezi. It was very difficult, for they
 always used to answer me, 'Verily in the coast tongue, words never
 take root, nor do they ever bear branches.' The rest of my time was
 devoted to preparation for journeying, and absolute work--tailoring,
 sail-making, umbrella-mending, etc.

 "On the 14th of July the last Arab Caravan left Unyanyembe, under the
 command of Sayf bin Said el Wardi. He offered to convey letters and
 anything else, and I forwarded the useless surveying instruments,
 manuscripts, maps, field and sketch books, and reports to the Royal
 Geographical Society. This excitement over, I began to weary of Kázeh.


 DIFFERENCES BEGIN BETWEEN SPEKE AND RICHARD.


 "Already I was preparing to organize a little expedition to K'hokoro
 and the southern provinces, when unexpectedly--in these lands a few
 cries and gun-shots are the only credible precursors of a Caravan--on
 the morning of the 25th of August reappeared Jack.

 [Sidenote: _Speke returns and the Differences arose._]

 "At length Jack had been successful. His 'flying trip' had led him to
 the northern water, and he had found its dimensions surpassing our
 most sanguine expectations. We had scarcely, however, breakfasted
 before he announced to me the startling fact that 'he had discovered
 the sources of the White Nile.' It was an inspiration perhaps. The
 moment he sighted the Nyanza, he felt at once no doubt but that the
 'lake at his feet gave birth to that interesting river, which has
 been the subject of so much speculation and the object of so many
 explorers.' The fortunate discoverer's conviction was strong. His
 reasons were weak, were of the category alluded to by the damsel
 Lucetta, when justifying her penchant in favour of the 'lovely
 gentleman,' Sir Proteus--

    'I have no other but a woman's reason--
    I think him so because I think him so;'[3]

 and probably his Sources of the Nile grew in his mind as his Mountains
 of the Moon had grown under his hand.

 "His main argument in favour of the lake representing the great
 reservoir of the White Nile was that the 'principal men' at the
 southern extremity ignored the extent northward. 'On my inquiring
 about the lake's length,' said Jack, 'the man (the greatest traveller
 in the place) faced to the north, and began nodding his head to it.
 At the same time he kept throwing forward his right hand, and making
 repeated snaps of his fingers, endeavouring to indicate something
 immeasurable; and added that nobody knew, but he thought it probably
 extended to the end of the world.' Strongly impressed by this valuable
 statistical information, Jack therefore placed the northern limit
 about 4° to 5° N. lat., whereas the Egyptian Expedition sent by the
 late Mohammed Ali Pacha, about twenty years ago, to explore the coy
 Sources, reached 3° 22' N. lat. The expedition therefore ought to
 have sailed fifty miles upon the Nyanza Lake. On the contrary, from
 information derived on the spot, that expedition placed the fountains
 at one month's journey--three hundred to three hundred and fifty
 miles--to the south-east, or upon the northern counterslope of Mount
 Kenia.

 "Whilst marching to the coast, Jack--he tells us--was assured by a
 'respectable Sawahili merchant that when engaged in traffic, some
 years previously, to the northward of the Line and the westward of
 this lake, he had heard it commonly reported that large vessels
 frequented the northern extremity of these waters, in which the
 officers engaged in navigating them used sextants and kept a log,
 precisely similar to what is found in vessels on the ocean. Query,
 Could this be in allusion to the expedition sent by Mohammed Ali up
 the Nile in former years?' (_Proceedings of the Royal Geographical
 Society_, May 9, 1859). Clearly, if Abdullah bin Nasib, the Msawahili
 alluded to, had reported these words, he merely erred. The Egyptian
 Expedition, as has been shown, not only did not find, they never even
 heard of a lake. But not being present at the conversation, besides
 the geographical difficulties which any scientific geographer could
 see at a glance, I am tempted to assign further explanation. Jack,
 wholly ignorant of Arabic, was obliged to depend upon 'Bombay.'
 Bombay misunderstood Jack's bad Hindostani. He then mistranslated the
 words in Kisawahili to the best African, who, in his turn, passed
 it on in a still wilder dialect to the noble savages who were under
 cross-examination. My experience is that words in journeys to and fro
 are liable to the severest accidents and have often bad consequences,
 and now I felt that an _influent_ of the Nyanza was described as an
 _effluent_, and the real original and only genuine White Nile would
 remain thus described for years to our shame, and it is easy to see
 how the blunder originated.

 "The Arabic _bahr_ and the Kisawahili _báhari_ are equally applicable,
 in vulgar parlance, to a river or sea, a lake or river. Traditions
 concerning a Western sea--the to them now unknown Atlantic--over
 which the white men voyage, are familiar to many East Africans; I
 have heard at Harar precisely the same report concerning the log and
 sextants. Either, then, Abdullah bin Nasib confounded, or Jack's
 '_interrupter_' caused _him_ to confound, the Atlantic and the lake.
 In the maps forwarded from Kázeh by Jack, the river Kivira was, after
 ample inquiry, made a western _influent_ of the Nyanza Lake. In the
 map appended to the paper in _Blackwood_, before alluded to, it has
 become an _effluent_, and the only minute concerning so very important
 a modification is, 'This river (although I must confess at first I did
 not think so) is the Nile itself.'

 "Beyond the assertion, therefore, that no man had visited the north,
 and the appearance of 'sextants' and 'logs' upon the waters, there
 is not a shade of proof _pro_. Far graver considerations lie on the
 _con_ side; the reports of the Egyptian Expedition, and the dates
 of the several inundations which--as will presently appear--alone
 suffice to disprove the possibility of the Nyanza causing the flood
 of the Nile. It is doubtless a satisfactory thing to disclose to an
 admiring public of 'Statesmen, Churchmen, Missionaries, Merchants,
 and more particularly Geographers,' the 'solution of a problem, which
 it had been the first geographical desideratum of many thousand
 years to ascertain, and the ambition of the first Monarchs in the
 World to unravel' (_Blackwood's Magazine_, October, 1859). But how
 many times since the days of a certain Claudius Ptolemæius, surnamed
 Pelusiota, have not the fountains of the White Nile been discovered
 and re-discovered after this fashion?

 "What tended at the time to make me the more sceptical, was the
 substantial incorrectness of the geographical and other details
 brought back by Jack. This was natural enough. The first thing
 reported to me was 'the falsehood of the Arabs at Kázeh, who had
 calumniated the good Sultan Muhayya, and had praised the bad Sultan
 Machunda:' subsequent inquiries proved their rigid correctness. Jack's
 principal informant was one Mansur bin Salim, a half-caste Arab,
 who had been flogged out of Kázeh by his compatriots; he pronounced
 Muhayya to be a 'very excellent and obliging person,' and of
 course he was believed. I then heard a detailed account 'of how the
 Caravan of Salim bin Rashid had been attacked, beaten, captured, and
 detained at Ukerewe, by its Sultan Machunda.' The Arabs received the
 intelligence with a smile of ridicule, and in a few days Salim bin
 Rashid appeared in person to disprove the report. These are but _two_
 cases of _many_. And what knowledge of Asiatic customs can be expected
 from the writer of the following lines?--'The Arabs at Unyanyembe had
 advised my donning their habit for the trip in order to attract less
 attention; a vain precaution, which I believe they suggested more to
 gratify their own vanity in _seeing an Englishman lower himself to
 their position_ (?), than for any benefit that I might receive by
 doing so' (_Blackwood, loco cit._). This galamatias of the Arabs! the
 haughtiest and the most clannish of all Oriental peoples.

 [Sidenote: _Richard soliloquizes on Speke's Change of Front._]

 "Jack changed his manners to me from this date. His difference of
 opinion was allowed to alter companionship. After a few days it became
 evident to me that not a word could be uttered upon the subject of the
 lake, the Nile, and his _trouvaille_ generally without offence. By a
 tacit agreement it was, therefore, avoided, and I should never have
 resumed it, had Jack not stultified the results of my expedition by
 putting forth a claim which no geographer can admit, and which is at
 the same time so weak and flimsy, that no geographer has yet taken the
 trouble to contradict it.

 "Now, for the first time, although I had pursued my journey under
 great provocations from time to time, I never realized what an
 injury I had done the Expedition publicly, as well as myself, by
 not travelling alone, or with Arab companions, or at least with a
 less crooked-minded, cantankerous Englishman. He is energetic, he is
 courageous and persevering. He distinguished himself in the Punjaub
 Campaign. I first found him in Aden with a three years' furlough.
 His heart was set on spending two years of his leave in collecting
 animals north of the Line in Africa. He never _thought_ in any way
 of the Nile, and he was astonished at _my_ views, which he deemed
 impracticable. He had no qualifications for the excursion that he
 proposed to himself, except that of being a good sportsman. He was
 ignorant of the native races in Africa, he had brought with him
 about £400 worth of cheap and useless guns and revolvers, swords and
 cutlery, beads and cloth, which the Africans would have rejected with
 disdain. He did not know any of the manners and customs of the East;
 he did not know any language except a little Anglo-Hindostani; he
 did not _even_ know the names of the Coast Towns. I saw him engage,
 as protectors or _Abbans_, any Somali donkey-boys who could speak a
 little English. I saw that he was going to lose his money and his
 'leave' and his life. Why should I have cared? I do not know; but as
 'virtue is really its own reward,' I did so, and have got a slap in
 the face, which I suppose I deserve. I first took him to Somali-land;
 then I applied officially for him, and thus saved his furlough and
 his money by putting him on full service. You would now think, to see
 his conduct, that the case was reversed--that he had taken me, not
 I him; whereas I can confidently say that, except his shooting and
 his rags of Anglo-Hindostani, I have taught him everything he knows.
 He had suffered in purse and person at Berberah, and though he does
 not know French or Arabic, though he is not a man of science, nor an
 acute astronomical observer, I thought it only just to offer him the
 opportunity of accompanying me as second in command into Africa. He
 quite understood that it _was_ in a subordinate capacity, as we should
 have to travel amongst Arabs, Belochs, and Africans, whose language
 he did not know. The Court of Directors refused me, but I obtained
 it by an application, to the Local Authorities at Bombay. He knew by
 experience in Somali-land what travelling with _me_ meant, and yet he
 was only too glad to come.

 "I have also done more than Jack in the cause. The Royal Geographical
 Society only allowed us £1000, and sooner than fail I have sacrificed
 a part of the little patrimony I inherited, and my reward is, that
 I and my expenditure, and the cause for which I have sacrificed
 everything, are made ridiculous."

N.B.--Richard's kind-heartedness and forethought for others often
militated against himself, owing to the meanness and unworthiness of
the objects it was bestowed upon.


A FEW DETAILS OF THE LAKES FOR GEOGRAPHERS.


 [Sidenote: _For Geographers._]

 "I will here offer to the reader a few details concerning the lake in
 question; they are principally borrowed from Jack's diary, carefully
 corrected, however, by Snay bin Amir, Salim bin Rashid,[4] and other
 merchants at Kázeh.

 "This fresh-water sea is known throughout the African tribes as
 Nyanza, and the similarity of the sound to 'Nyassa,' the indigenous
 name of the little Maravi, or Kilwa Lake, may have caused in part the
 wild confusion in which speculative geographers have involved the Lake
 Regions of Central Africa. The Arabs, after their fashion of deriving
 comprehensive names from local and minor features, call it Ukerewe,
 in the Kisukuma dialect meaning the 'place of Kerewe' (Kelewe), an
 islet. As has been mentioned, they sometimes attempt to join by a
 river, a creek, or some other theoretical creation, the Nyanza with
 the Tanganyika, the altitude of the former being 3750 feet above
 sea-level, or 1900 feet above the latter, and the mountain regions
 which divide the two having been frequently travelled over by Arab and
 African caravans. Hence the name Ukerewe has been transferred in the
 'Mombas Mission Map' to the northern waters of the Tanganyika. The
 Nyanza, as regards name, position, and even existence, has hitherto
 been unknown to European geographers; but, as will presently appear,
 descriptions of this sea by native travellers have been unconsciously
 transferred by our writers to the Tanganyika to Ujiji, and even to the
 Nyassa of Kilwa.

 "M. Brun-Rollet ('Le Nil Blanc et le Soudan,' p. 209) heard that on
 the west of the Padongo tribe--which he places to the south of Mount
 Kambirah, or below 1° S. lat.--lies a great lake, from whose northern
 extremity issues a river whose course is unknown. In a map appended
 to his volume this water is placed between 1° S. and 3° N. lat., and
 about 25° 50' E. long. (Greenwich), and the reservoir is made an
 influent of the White Nile.

 "Bowditch ('Discoveries of the Portuguese,' pp. 131, 132), when
 speaking of the Maravi Lake (the Nyassa), mentions that the 'negroes
 or the Moors of Melinde' have mentioned a great water which is
 known to reach Mombaça, which the Jesuit missionaries conjectured
 to communicate with Abyssinia, and of which Father Lewis Marianna,
 who formerly resided at Tete, recommended a discovery, in a letter
 addressed to the Government at Goa, which is still preserved among
 the public archives of that city. Here the confusion of the Nyanza,
 to which there was of old a route from Mombasah, with the Nyassa is
 apparent.

 "At the southern point, where the Muingwira river falls into the
 tortuous creek, whose surface is a little archipelago of brown rocky
 islets crowned with trees and emerging from the blue waters, the
 observed latitude of the Nyanza Lake is 2° 24' S.; the longitude by
 dead reckoning from Kázeh is E. long. 33° and nearly due north, and
 the altitude by B. P. thermometer 3750 feet above sea-level. Its
 extent to the north is unknown to the people of the southern regions,
 which rather denotes some difficulty in travelling than any great
 extent. They informed Jack that from Mwanza to the southern frontier
 of Karágwah is a land journey of one month, or a sea voyage of five
 days towards north-north-west, and then to the north. They also
 pointed out the direction of Unyoro N. 20° W. The Arab merchants of
 Kázeh have seen the Nyanza opposite Weranhanja, the capital district
 of Armanika, King of Karágwah, and declares that it receives the
 Kitangure river, whose mouth has been placed about the equator.

 "Beyond that point all is doubtful. The merchants have heard that
 Suna, the late despot of Uganda, built _matumbi_, or undecked
 vessels, capable of containing forty or fifty men, in order to
 attack his enemies, the Wasoga, upon the creeks which indent the
 western shores of the Nyanza. This, if true, would protract the lake
 to between 1° and 1° 30' of N. lat, and give it a total length of
 about 4°, or 250 miles. This point, however, is still involved in
 the deepest obscurity. Its breadth was estimated as follows:--A hill
 about two hundred feet above the water-level, shows a conspicuous
 landmark on the eastern shore, which was set down as forty miles
 distant. On the south-western angle of the line from the same point,
 ground appeared; it was not, however, perceptible north-west. The
 total breadth, therefore, has been assumed at eighty miles--a
 figure which approaches the traditions unconsciously chronicled by
 European geographers. In the vicinity of Usoga, the lake, according
 to the Arabs, broadens out; of this, however, and in fact of all the
 formation north of the equator, it is at present impossible to arrive
 at certainty.

 "The Nyanza is an elevated basin or reservoir, the recipient of the
 surplus monsoon rain, which falls in the extensive regions of the
 Wamasai and their kinsmen to the east, the Karágwah line of the
 Lunar Mountains to the west, and to the south Usukuma, or Northern
 Unyamwezi. Extending to the equator in the central length of the
 African peninsula, and elevated above the limits of the depression in
 the heart of the continent, it appeared to be a gap in the irregular
 chain which, running from Usumbara and Kilima-ngao to Karágwah,
 represents the formation anciently termed the Mountains of the Moon.
 The physical features, as far as they were observed, suggest this
 view. The shores are low and flat, dotted here and there with little
 hills; the smaller islands also are hill-tops, and any part of the
 country immediately on the south would, if inundated to the same
 extent, present a similar aspect.

 "The lake lies open and elevated, rather like the drainage and the
 temporary deposit of extensive floods than a volcanic creation like
 the Tanganyika, a long narrow mountain-girt basin. The waters are said
 to be deep, and the extent of the inundation about the southern creek
 proves that they receive during the season an important accession. The
 colour was observed to be clear and blue, especially from afar in the
 early morning; after nine a.m., when the prevalent south-east wind
 arose, the surface appears greyish or of a dull milky white, probably
 the effect of atmospheric reflection. The tint, however, does not,
 according to travellers, ever become red or green like the waters of
 the Nile. But the produce of the lake resembles that of the river in
 its purity; the people living on the shores prefer it, unlike that
 of the Tanganyika, to the highest and clearest springs; all visitors
 agree in commending its lightness and sweetness, and declare that the
 taste is rather of river or of rain water, than resembling the soft
 slimy produce of stagnant, muddy bottoms, or the rough harsh flavour
 of melted ice and snow.

 "From the southern creek of the Nyanza, and beyond the archipelago of
 neighbouring islets, appear the two features which have given to this
 lake the name of Ukerewe. The Arabs call them 'Jezirah'--an ambiguous
 term, meaning equally insula and peninsula--but they can scarcely
 be called islands. The high and rocky Mazita to the east, and the
 comparatively flat Ukerewe on the west, are described by the Arabs as
 points terminating seawards in bluffs, and connected with the eastern
 shore by a low neck of land--probably a continuous reef--flooded
 during the rains, but never so deeply as to prevent cattle fording
 the isthmus. The northern and western extremities front deep water,
 and a broad channel separates them from the southern shore, Usukuma.
 The Arabs, when visiting Ukerewe or its neighbour, prefer hiring the
 canoes of the Wasakuma, and paddling round the south-eastern extremity
 of the Nyanza, to exposing their property and lives by marching
 through the dangerous tribes of the coast.

 "The altitude, the conformation of the Nyanza Lake, the argilaceous
 colour and the sweetness of its waters, combine to suggest that it
 may be one of the feeders of the White Nile. In the map appended to
 M. Brun Rollet's volume, before alluded to, the large water west of
 the Padongo tribe, which clearly represents the Nyanza or Ukerewe,
 is, I have observed, made to drain northwards into the Fitri Lake,
 and eventually to swell the main stream of the White River. The
 details supplied by the Egyptian Expedition, which, about twenty
 years ago, ascended the White River to 3° 22' N. lat. and 31° 30' E.
 long., and gave the general bearing of the river from that point of
 its source as south-east, with a distance of one month's journey, or
 from three hundred to three hundred and fifty miles, would place the
 actual sources 2° S. lat. and 35° E. long., or in 2° eastward of the
 southern creek of the Nyanza Lake. This position would occupy the
 northern counterslope of the Lunar Mountains, the upper watershed of
 the high region whose culminating apices are Kilima-ngao, Kenia, and
 Doengo Engai. The distance of these peaks from the coast as given by
 Dr. Krapf must be considerably reduced, and little authority can be
 attached to his river Tumbiri.[5] The site, supposed by Mr. Macqueen
 (_Proceedings of the Geographical Society of London_, January 24th,
 1859) to be at least twenty-one thousand feet above the level of the
 sea, and consequently three or four thousand feet above the line of
 perpetual congelation, would admirably explain the two most ancient
 theories concerning the source of the White River, namely, that it
 arises in snowy regions, and that its inundation is the result of
 tropical rains.

 "It is impossible not to suspect that between the upper portion
 of the Nyanza and the watershed of the White Nile there exists a
 longitudinal range of elevated ground, running from east to west--a
 _furca_ draining northwards into the Nile and southwards into the
 Nyanza Lake--like that which separates the Tanganyika from the Maravi
 or Nyassa of Kilwa. According to Don Angelo Vinco, who visited Loquéck
 in 1852, beyond the Cataract of Garbo--supposed to be in N. lat. 2°
 40'--at a distance of sixty miles lie Robego, the capital of Kuenda
 and Lokoya (Logoja), of which the latter receives an affluent from the
 east. Beyond Lokoya the White Nile is described as a _small and rocky
 mountain river_, presenting none of the features of a stream flowing
 from a broad expanse of water like the great Nyanza reservoir.

 "The periodical swelling of the Nyanza Lake, which, flooding a
 considerable tract of land on the south, may be supposed--as it lies
 flush with the basal surface of the country--to inundate extensively
 all the low lands that form its periphery, forbids belief in the
 possibility of its being the head-stream of the Nile, or the reservoir
 of its periodical inundation. In Karágwah, upon the western shore,
 the _masika_, or monsoon, last from October to May or June, after
 which the dry season sets in. The Egyptian Expedition found the river
 falling fast at the end of January, and they learned from the people
 that it would rise again about the end of March, at which season the
 sun is vertical over the equator. About the summer solstice (June),
 when the rains cease in the regions south of and upon the equator,
 the White Nile begins to flood. From March to the autumnal equinox
 (September) it continues to overflow its banks till it attains its
 magnitude, and from that time it shrinks through the winter solstice
 (December) till March.

 "The Nile is, therefore, full during the dry season and low during
 the rainy season, south of and immediately upon the equator. And as
 the northern counterslope of Kenia will, to a certain extent, be
 a lee-land like Ugogi, it cannot have the superfluity of moisture
 necessary to send forth a first-class stream. The inundation is
 synchronous with the great falls of the northern equatorial regions,
 which extend from July to September, and is dependent solely upon the
 tropical rains. It is therefore probable that the true sources of the
 'Holy River' will be found to be a network of runnels and rivulets of
 scanty dimensions, filled by monsoon torrents, and perhaps a little
 swollen by melted snow on the northern water-parting of the eastern
 Lunar Mountains.


 OUR RETURN.


 "At Kázeh, to my great disappointment, it was settled, in a full Arab
 conclave, that we must return to the coast by the path with which
 we were painfully familiar. It was only the state of our finances
 which prevented us, whilst at Ujiji, from navigating the Tanganyika
 southwards and arriving, after a journey of three months, at Kilwa.
 That and 'leave' prevented us from going to Karágwah and Uganda. The
 rains, which rendered travelling impossible, set in about September;
 our two years' leave of absence were drawing to a close, and we were
 afraid to risk it, but we meant to return and do these things, tracing
 the course of the Rufiji river (Rwaha) and visiting the coast between
 the Usagára Mountains and Kilwa, an unknown line.

 [Sidenote: _The Kindness of Musa Mzuri and Snay bin Amir._]

 "Musa Mzuri returned with great pomp to Kázeh; he is between
 forty-five and fifty, tall, gaunt, with delicate extremities, and the
 regular handsome features of a high-caste Indian Moslem. He is sad
 and staid, wears a snowy skull-cap, and well-fitting sandals. His
 abode is a village in size, with lofty gates, spacious courts, full
 of slaves and hangers-on, a great contrast to the humility of the
 Semite tenements. His son knew a little English, but he had learnt no
 Hindostani from his father, who, though expatriated for thirty-five
 years, spoke his mother tongue purely and well. Musa was a man of
 quiet, unaffected manner, dashed with a little Indian reserve. One
 Salim bin Rashid, while collecting ivory to the eastward of the Nyanza
 Lake, had recovered a Msawahili porter, who, having fallen sick on
 the road, had been left by a Caravan amongst the wildest of the East
 African tribes, the Wahuma (the Wamasai). From this man, who spent
 two years amongst these plunderers and their rivals in villany, the
 Warudi, I gained most valuable information. I also was called upon by
 Amayr bin Said el Shaksi, a strong-framed, stout-hearted Arab, who,
 when his vessel foundered in the Tanganyika, swam for his life, and
 lived for five months on roots and grasses, until restored to Ujiji by
 an Arab canoe. He spent many hours a day with me--he gave me immense
 information; and Hilal bin Nasur, a well-born Harisi returned from
 K'hokoro, also gave me most valuable facts.

 "It is needless to say that, with all our economy and care, we arrived
 at the coast destitute. The hospitable Snay bin Amir came personally,
 although only a convalescent, to superintend our departure, provided
 us with his own slaves and a charming Arab breakfast; he spent the
 whole of that day with us, and followed us out of the compound
 through a white-hot sun and a chilling wind; nay, he did more--he
 followed us to our next station with Musa, and he helped us to put
 the finishing touches to the journals. I thanked these kind-hearted
 men for their many good deeds and services, and promised to report
 to H.H. the Sayyid Majid the hospitable reception of his subjects
 generally, and of Snay and Musa in particular. In the evening we took
 a most affecting farewell.[6] On the 4th of October, insufficiency
 of porterage compelled me to send back men for articles left by them
 at several of the villages, and we at last reached Hanga, our former
 quarters. Desertions were rife, and so were quarrels, in which I was
 always begged to take an active part, but experience amongst the
 Bashi-Bazouks in the Dardanelles taught me better.


 LITTLE IRONS.


 [Sidenote: _Speke's Illness._]

 "At Hanga, Jack had been chilled on the march from the cruel easterly
 wind, and at the second march he had ague. At Hanga we were lodged in
 a foul cowhouse full of vermin, and exposed to the fury of the gales.
 He had a deaf ear, an inflamed eye, and a swollen face, but worst of
 all was a mysterious pain, which shifted--he could not say whether
 it was liver or spleen. It began with a burning sensation as by a
 branding iron above the right breast, and then extended to the heart
 with sharp twinges. It then ranged round the spleen, attacked the
 upper part of the right lung, and finally settled in the liver.

 "On the 10th of October, at dawn, he woke with a horrible dream of
 tigers, leopards, and other beasts, harnessed with a network of iron
 hooks, dragging him, like the rush of a whirlwind, over the ground. He
 sat up on the side of his bed, forcibly clasping both sides with his
 hands. Half stupefied by pain, he called to Bombay, who had formerly
 suffered from this _kichyomachyoma_, 'the little irons,' who put him
 in the position a man must lie in, who gets this attack. The next
 spasm was less severe, but he began to wander. In twenty-four hours,
 supported by two men, he staggered towards the tent to a chair; but
 the spasms returning, he was assisted back into the house, where he
 had a third fit of epileptic description, like hydrophobia. Again he
 was haunted by crowds of devils, giants, lion-headed demons, who were
 wrenching with superhuman force, and stripping the sinews and tendons
 of his legs down to his ankles. With limbs racked by cramps, features
 drawn and ghastly, frame fixed and rigid, eyes glazed and glassy, he
 began to bark with a peculiar chopping motion of the mouth and tongue,
 with lips protruding, the effect of difficulty of breathing, which so
 altered his appearance that he was not recognizable, and terrified
 all beholders. When the third and severest spasm had passed away, and
 he could speak, he called for pen and paper, and wrote an incoherent
 letter of farewell to his family. That was the crisis. I never left
 him, taking all possible precautions, never letting him move without
 my assistance, and always having a resting-place prepared for him;
 but for some weeks he had to sleep in a half sitting-up position,
 pillow-propped, and he could not lie upon his side. Although the pains
 were mitigated, they did not entirely cease; this he expressed by
 saying, 'Dick, the knives are sheathed!'

 "During Jack's delirium he let out all his little grievances of
 fancied wrongs, of which I had not had even the remotest idea. He was
 vexed that his diary (which I had edited so carefully, and put into
 the Appendix of 'First Footsteps in Eastern Africa') had not been
 printed _as_ he wrote it--geographical blunders and all; also because
 he had not been paid for it, I having lost money over the book
 myself. He asked me to send his collections to the Calcutta Museum of
 Natural History; now he was hurt because I had done so. He was awfully
 grieved because in the thick of the fight at Berberah, three years
 before, I had said to him, 'Don't step back, or they will think we
 are running.' I cannot tell how many more things I had unconsciously
 done, and I crowned it by not accepting immediately his loud assertion
 _that he had discovered the Sources of the Nile_; and I never should
 have known that he was pondering these things in his heart, if he had
 not raved them out in delirium. I only noticed that his alacrity had
 vanished; that he was never contented with any arrangement; that he
 left all the management to me, and that then he complained that he
 had never been consulted; that he quarrelled with our followers, and
 got himself insulted; and, previously to our journey, having been
 unaccustomed to sickness, he neither could endure it himself, nor
 feel for it in others. He took pleasure in saying unkind, unpleasant
 things, and said he could not take an interest in any exploration if
 he did not command it.

 "These illnesses are the effects of fever, and a mysterious
 manifestation of miasma in certain latitudes; for in some tracts we
 were perfectly well, in other tracts we were mortally sick, and the
 changes were instantaneous. Cultivation and Civilization will probably
 wear these effects out, by planting, clearing jungle, and so on.

 "I immediately sent an express back to Snay bin Amir, for the proper
 treatment, and found that they powdered myrrh with yolk of egg and
 flour of _mung_ for poultices. I saw that, in default of physic,
 change of air was the only thing for him, and I had a hammock rigged
 up for him, and by good fortune an unloaded Caravan was passing down
 to the coast. We got hold of thirteen unloaded porters, who for a
 large sum consented to carry us to Rubuga, else we should have been
 left to die in the wilderness. Bombay had long since returned to his
 former attitude, that of a respectful and most ready servant. He
 had on one trip broken my elephant gun, killed my riding-ass, and
 lost his bridle, and did all sorts of irrational things, but for all
 that he was a most valuable servant, for his unwearied activity, his
 undeviating honesty, and his kindness of heart. Said bin Salim had
 long forfeited my confidence by his carelessness and extravagance, and
 the disappearance of the outfit committed to him at Ujiji--in favour
 of one of his friends, as I afterwards learned--rendered him unfit for
 stewardship. The others praised each other openly and without reserve,
 and if an evil tale ever reached my ear, it was against innocent
 Bombay, its object being to ruin him in my estimation.

 [Sidenote: _They cross the "Fiery Field."_]

 As I knew we should be short of water, I prepared by packing a box
 with empty bottles, which we could fill at the best springs, and by
 the result of that after-wisdom which some have termed 'fool's wit,'
 I commenced the down march happy as a _bourgeois_ or a trapper in the
 Pays Sauvage. Before entering the 'Fiery Field' the hammock-bearers
 became so exorbitant that I drew on my jackboots and mounted an
 ass, and Jack had so far convalesced that he wanted to ride too. He
 had still, however, harassing heartache, nausea, and other bilious
 symptoms, when exposed to the burning sun; but when he got to K'hok'ho
 in Ugogi, sleep and appetite came, he could carry a heavy rifle,
 and do damage amongst the antelope and guineafowl. Now all began
 to wax civil, even to servility, grumbling ceased, smiles mantled
 every countenance, and even the most troublesome rascal was to be
 seen meekly sweeping out our tents with a bunch of thorns. We made
 seven marches between Hanga and Tura, where we arrived on the 28th of
 October, and halted six days to procure food. My own party were 10;
 Said bin Salim's, 12; the Beloch, 38; Ramji's party, 24; the porters,
 68--in all 152 souls. We plunged manfully into the 'Fiery Field,' and
 after seven marches in seven days, we bivouacked at Jiwe la Mkoa,
 and on the 12th of November, after two days' march, came into the
 fertile red plain of Mdaduru, in the transit of Ugogi. After that,
 where I had been taught to expect danger, it reduced itself to large
 disappearances of cloth and beads. Gul Mahommed was our Missionary,
 but he was just like the European old lady, who believes that on such
 subjects all the world must think with her. I have long been suspected
 of telling lies, when describing the worship of a god with four arms,
 and the goddesses with two heads. The transit of Ugogi occupied
 three weeks. At Kanyenye we were joined by a large down-Caravan of
 Wanyamwezi, who, amongst other news, told us that our former line
 through Usagára was closed through the fighting of the tribes.

 [Sidenote: _An Official Wigging._]

 "On the 6th of December we arrived at our old ground in the Ugogi
 Dhun, and met another Caravan, which presently drew forth a packet of
 letters and papers. This post brought me rather an amusing official
 wigging. Firstly, there was a note from Captain Rigby, my friend
 Hamerton's successor at Zanzibar. Secondly, the following letter:--

  "'3, Savile Row.

  "'DEAR BURTON,

  "'Go ahead! Vogel and MacGuire dead--murdered. Write often.

  "'Yours truly,

  "'NORTON SHAW.'

 "The 'wig' was this. I had paid the Government the compliment of
 sending it, through the Royal Geographical Society, an account of
 political affairs in the Red Sea, saying I feared trouble at Jeddah,
 which I had had from my usual private information from the interior,
 being fearful that there would be troubles at Jeddah; and the only
 thanks I got was a letter, stating 'that my want of discretion and
 due regard for the authorities to whom I am subordinate, has been
 regarded with displeasure by the Government.' They are cold and crusty
 to reward a little word of wisdom from their babes and sucklings; but
 what was so comically sad was this:--The official wig was dated the
 1st of July, 1857. Posts are slow in Africa, so that by the same
 post I got a newspaper with an account of the massacre of nearly all
 the Christians at Jeddah on the Red Sea, expressing great fears that
 the Arab population of Suez also might be excited to commit similar
 outrages. This took place on the 30th of June, 1858, exactly eleven
 months after I had warned the Government.

 "We loaded on the 7th of December, and commenced the passage of the
 Usagára Mountains by the Kiringawána line. This is the southern route,
 separated from the northern by an interval of forty-three miles. It
 contains settlements like Maroro and Kisanga. It is nineteen short
 stages; provisions are procurable, water plentiful, and plenty of
 grass, as long as you can pass the Warori tribe. Mosquitoes are
 plentiful. The owners of the land have a chronic horror of the Warori,
 and on sighting our peaceful Caravan they raised the war-cry, and were
 only quieted on knowing that we were much more frightened than they
 were. We had wild weather, we stayed at Maroro for food; at Kiperepeta
 there were gangs of four hundred touters, with their muskets, waiting
 the arrival of Caravans.

 [Sidenote: _Christmas Day,_ 1858.]

 "On Christmas Day, 1858, at dawn, we toiled along the Kikoboga river,
 which we forded four times. Jack and I had a fat capon instead of
 roast beef, and a mess of ground nuts sweetened with sugar-cane,
 which did duty for plum-pudding. The contrast of what was, with what
 might be, now however suggested pleasurable sensations. We might now
 see Christmas Day of 1859, whereas on Christmas Day, 1857, we saw
 no chance of that of 1858. Fourteen marches took us from the foot
 of Usagára Mountains to Central Zungomero, traversing the districts
 of Eastern Mbwiga, Marundwe, and Kirengwe. It is a road hideous and
 grotesque: no animals, flocks, or poultry; the villages look like
 birds' nests torn from the trees; the people slink away--they are all
 armed with bows and poisoned arrows. At Zungomero, the village on the
 left bank of the Mgeta, which we had occupied on the outer march,
 was razed to the ground. I here offered a liberal reward to get to
 Kilwa. However, I did not succeed, and there was some intrigue about
 the pay afterwards, which I never understood, which was annoying to
 me; but such events are common on the slave-paths in Eastern Africa.
 Of the seven gangs of porters engaged on this journey, _only one_, an
 unusually small portion, _left me without being fully satisfied_, and
 _that one fully deserved to be disappointed_.

 "On the 14th of January, 1859, we received Mr. Apothecary Frost's
 letters, drugs, and medical comforts, for which we had written to
 him July, 1857. After crossing the Mgeta, we sat down patiently on
 a bank, in spite of the ants, to await the arrival of a Caravan to
 complete our gang, but the new medical comforts enabled us to have
 ether-sherbet and ether-lemonade, and it did not hurt us. On the 17th
 of January a Caravan came, which I had been longing to meet. The Arab
 Chiefs Sulayman bin Rashid el Riami and Mohammed bin Gharib, who
 called upon me without delay, gave me most interesting information. To
 the south, from Uhehe to Ubena, was a continuous chain of highlands
 pouring affluents across the road into the Rwaha river, and water
 was only procurable in the beds of the nullahs and _fiumaras_. If
 this chain be of any considerable length, it may represent the
 water-parting between the Tanganyika and Nyassa Lakes, and thus divide
 by another and a southerly lateral band the great Depression of
 Central Africa.

 "The 21st of January we left Zungomero, and made Konduchi on the 3rd
 of February in twelve marches. The mud was almost throat-deep near
 Dut'humi, and we had a weary trudge of thick slabby mire up to the
 knees. In places, after toiling under a sickly sun, we crept under
 the tunnels of thick jungle-growth veiling the streams, the dank
 fœtid cold of which caused a deadly sensation of faintness, which was
 only relieved by a glass of ether-sherbet or a pipe of the strongest
 tobacco. By degrees it was found necessary to abandon the greater part
 of the remaining outfit and luggage. The 27th of January saw us pass
 safely by the village where M. Maizan was murdered.

 "On the 28th there was a report that we were to be attacked at a
 certain place, and Said bin Salim came to tell me that the road was
 cut off, and that I must delay till an escort could be summoned from
 the coast. I knew quite well that it was only an intrigue, but I
 feared that real obstacles might be placed in our way by the wily
 little man, and as soon as _bakshish_ was mentioned, four naked
 varlets appeared in a quarter of an hour as escort.

 "On the 30th of January the men screamed with delight at the sight of
 the mango tree, and all their old familiar fruits.

 "On the 2nd of February, 1859, Jack and I caught sight of the sea. We
 lifted our caps, and gave 'three times three and one more.' The 3rd
 of February saw us passing through the poles decorated with skulls--a
 sort of negro Temple Bar--at the entrance of Konduchi; they now grin
 in the London Royal College of Surgeons.

 "Our entrance was immense. The war-men danced, shot, shouted; the boys
 crowded; the women lulliloo'd with all their might; and a general
 procession conducted us to the hut, swept, cleaned, and garnished
 for us, by the principal _Banyan_ of the Head-quarter village, and
 there the crowd stared and laughed until they could stare and laugh
 no more. A boat transferred most of our following to their homes, and
 they kissed my hand and departed, weeping bitterly with the agony
 of parting. I sent a note to the Consul at Zanzibar, asking for a
 coasting craft to explore the Delta and the unknown course of the
 Rufiji river. I liberally rewarded Zawáda, who had attended to Jack in
 his illness. We were detained at Konduchi for six days, from the 3rd
 to the 10th of February.

 [Sidenote: _Speke leaves Richard Ill, but apparently Friendly._]

 "On the 9th of February the craft arrived at Konduchi from Zanzibar,
 and we rolled down the coast with a fair, fresh breeze towards
 Kilwa, the Quiloa of De Gama and of Camoens. We lost all our crew by
 cholera, and we were unable to visit the course of the great Rufiji
 river, a counterpart of the Zambesi in the south, and a water-road
 which appears destined to become the highway of nations into Eastern
 Equatorial Africa. The deluge of rain and floods showed me that
 the travelling season was at an end. I turned the head of the craft
 northwards, and on the 4th of March, 1859, we landed once more on
 the island of Zanzibar. Sick and wayworn, I entered the house in sad
 memory of my old friend, which I was fated to regret still more. The
 excitement of travel was succeeded by an utter depression of mind
 and body; even the labour of talking was too great. The little State
 was in the height of confusion, in a state of Civil war; the eldest
 brother of the Sultan was preparing a hostile visit to his youngest
 brother, the Sultan Sayyid Majid of Zanzibar. After a fortnight of
 excitement and suspense, a gunboat was sent to the elder brother
 to persuade him to return. His Highness Sayyid Majid had honoured
 me with an expression of his desire that I should remain until the
 expected hostilities might be brought to a close. I did so willingly,
 in gratitude to a Prince to whose good will my success was mainly
 indebted, but the Consulate was no longer bearable to me. I was too
 conversant with local politics, too well aware of what was going on,
 to be a pleasant companion to its new tenant. I was unwilling to
 go, because so much remained to be done. I wanted to wait for fresh
 leave of absence and additional funds, but the evident anxiety of
 Consul Rigby to get rid of me, and Jack's nervous impatience to go
 on, made me abandon my intentions. Said bin Salim called often at the
 Consulate, but Captain Rigby agreed with me that he had been more than
 sufficiently rewarded, and the same with the others. Jack also was of
 the same opinion, but it suited Jack, with his secret prospects or
 intentions of returning without me, to change his mind afterwards,
 and he was evidently able to get Captain Rigby to do the same. There
 can be little doubt that Jack's intention of returning on the second
 Expedition, on the lines of the one which he had done so much to
 spoil, had a great deal to do with his action on this occasion. When
 H.M.S. _Furious_, carrying Lord Elgin and Mr. Laurence Oliphant, his
 secretary, arrived at Aden, passage was offered to both of us. I could
 not start, being too ill. But _he_ went, and the words Jack said to
 me, and I to him, were as follows:--'I shall hurry up, Jack, as soon
 as I can,' and the last words Jack ever spoke to me on earth 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._'

 "With grateful heart I bid adieu to the Sultan, whose kindness and
 personal courtesy will long dwell in my memory, and who expressed a
 hope to see me again, and offered me one of his ships of war to take
 me home. However, a clipper-built barque, the _Dragon of Salem_,
 Captain Macfarlane, was about to sail with the south-west monsoon for
 Aden. Captain Rigby did not accompany us on board, a mark of civility
 usual in the East, but Bombay's honest face turned up and seemed
 peculiarly attractive.

 "On the 22nd of March, 1859, the clove shrubs and coco trees of
 Zanzibar faded from my eyes, and after crossing and recrossing three
 times the tedious Line, we found ourselves anchored, on the 16th of
 April, near the ill-omened black walls of the Aden crater. The crisis
 of my African sufferings had taken place at the Tanganyika; the fever,
 however, still clung to me.

 "I left the Aden coal-hole of the East on the 20th of April, 1859, and
 in due time greeted with becoming heartiness my native shores.

 "The very day after he returned to England, May 9th, 1859, Jack
 called at the Royal Geographical Society and set on foot the scheme
 of a new exploration. He lectured in Burlington House, and when I
 reached London on May 21st I found the ground completely cut from
 under my feet. Sir Roderick Murchison had given Jack the leadership
 of a new Expedition; my own long-cherished plan of entering Africa
 through Somali-land, landing at the Arab town Mombas, was dismissed
 as unworthy of notice. Jack published two articles in _Blackwood's
 Magazine_, assumed the whole credit to himself, illustrated a
 wonderful account of his own adventures and discoveries, with a chart
 where invention is not in it. He said he did all the astronomical
 work, and had taught me the geography of the country through which we
 travelled, which made me laugh. Jack, who literally owed everything
 to me, habitually wrote and spoke of me to mutual friends in a most
 disagreeable manner. Many people who professed to be friendly to me
 said it would be more dignified to say nothing, but I knew how unwise
 it is to let public sentence pass by default, and how delay may cause
 everlasting evil, so I wrote the most temperate vindication of my
 position."[7]

[1] This was Richard's favourite and self-composed motto, and Chinese
Gordon quoted it in every letter he wrote him to the last day of his
life, with a word of congratulation as to its happy choice.--I. B.

[2] The Arabs always gave Richard the most courteous and cordial
reception, treating him practically as one of themselves. They could
not be expected to think so much of Speke, because he did not know
their language or their religion, and he always treated them as an
Anglo-Indian treats a nigger. He was burning to escape from Kázeh,
and the society of an utterly idle man to one incessantly occupied is
always a drawback, and Richard, whose stronger constitution had enabled
him to bear up at first with greater success, was gradually but surely
succumbing to the awful African climate.--I. B.

[3] "The following extract from the _Proceedings of the Royal
Geographical Society_, May 9, 1859, will best illustrate what I mean:--

"'Mr. Macqueen, F.R.G.S., said the question of the sources of the Nile
had cost him much trouble and research, and he was sure there was no
material error either in longitude or latitude in the position he had
ascribed to them, namely, a little to the eastward of the meridian
of 35° and a little northward of the equator. That was the principal
source of the White Nile. The mountains there were exceedingly high,
from the equator north to Kaffa Enarea. All the authorities, from
east, west, north, or south, now perfectly competent to form judgments
upon such a matter, agreed with him; and among them were the officers
commanding the Egyptian Commission. It was impossible they could _all_
be mistaken. Dr. Krapf had been within a very short distance of it; he
was more than a hundred and eighty miles from Mombas, and he saw snow
upon the mountains. He conversed with the people who came from them,
and who told him of the snow and exceeding coldness of the temperature.
The line of perpetual congelation, it is well known, was seventeen
thousand feet above the sea. He had an account of the navigation of the
White Nile by the Egyptian Expedition. It was then given as 30° 30' N.
lat. and 31° E. long. At this point the expedition turned back for want
of a sufficient depth of water. Here the river was 1370 feet broad,
and the velocity of the current _one quarter_ of a mile per hour. The
journals also gave a specific and daily current, the depth and width of
the river, and everything, indeed, connected with it. Surely, looking
at the current of the river, the height of the Cartoom above the level
of the sea, and the distance thence up to the equator, the sources of
the Nile must be six or eight thousand feet above the level of the sea,
and still much below the line of snow, which was six or eight thousand
feet farther above them. He deeply regretted he was unable to complete
the diagram for the rest of the papers he had given to the Society,
for it was more important than any others he had previously given.
It contained the journey over Africa from sea to sea, second only to
Dr. Livingstone. But all the rivers coming down from the mountains in
question, and running south-eastward, had been clearly stated by Dr.
Krapf, who gave every particular concerning them. He should like to
know what the natives had said was to the northward of the large lake.
Did they say the rivers ran out from or into the lake? How could the
Egyptian officers be mistaken?

"'Captain Speke replied. They were not mistaken; and if they had
pursued their journey fifty miles further, they would undoubtedly have
found themselves at the northern borders of this lake.

"'Mr. Macqueen said that other travellers--Don Angelo, for
instance--had been within one and a half degrees of the equator, and
saw the mountain of Kimborat under the Line, and persisted in the
statement, adding that travellers had been up the river till they found
it a mere brook. He felt convinced that the large lake alluded to by
Captain Speke was not the source of the Nile; it was impossible it
could be so, for it was not at a sufficiently high altitude.

"'The paper presented to the Society, when fully read in conjunction
with the map, will clearly show that the Bahr-el-Abiad had no
connection with Kilimanjaro, that it has no connection whatever with
any lake or river to the south of the equator, and that the swelling of
the river Nile proceeds from the tropical rains of the northern torrid
zone, as was stated emphatically to Julius Cæsar by the Chief Egyptian
Priest, Amoreis, two thousand years ago.

"'In nearly 3° N. lat. there is a great cataract, which boats cannot
pass. It is called Gherba. About halfway (fifty miles) above, and
between this cataract and Robego, the capital of Kuenda, the river
becomes so narrow as to be crossed by a bridge formed by a tree thrown
across it. Above Gherba no stream joins the river either from the south
or south-west.'"

[4] "When Jack returned to Kázeh, he represented Ukerewe and Mazita
to be islands, and although in sight of them, he had heard nothing
concerning their connection with the coast. This error was corrected by
Salim bin Rashid, and accepted by us. Yet I read in his 'Discovery of
the Supposed Sources of the Nile:' 'Mansur, and a native, the greatest
traveller of the place, kindly accompanied and gave me every obtainable
information. This man had traversed the island, as he called it, of
Ukerewe from north to south. But _by his rough mode of describing it,
I am rather inclined to think that instead of its being an actual
island, it is a connected tongue of land, stretching southwards from
a promontory lying at right angles to the eastern shore of the lake,_
which being a wash, affords a passage to the mainland during the fine
season, but during the wet becomes submerged, and thus makes Ukerewe
temporarily an island.' The information, I repeat, was given, not
by the 'native,' but by Salim bin Rashid. When, however, the latter
proceeded to correct Jack's confusion between the well-known coffee
mart Kitara, and 'the island of Kitiri occupied by a tribe called
Watiri,' he gave only offence, consequently Kitiri has obtained a local
habitation in _Blackwood_ and Petermann."

[5] "The large river Tumbiri, mentioned by Dr. Krapf as flowing towards
Egypt from the northern counterslope of Mount Kenia, rests upon the
sole authority of a single wandering native. As, moreover, the word
_T'humbiri_ or _Thumbili_ means a monkey, and the people are peculiarly
fond of satire in a small way, it is not improbable that the very name
had no foundation of fact. This is mentioned, as some geographers--for
instance, Mr. Macqueen ('Observations on the Geography of Central
Africa,' _Proceedings of the R.G.S. of London_, May 9, 1859)--have been
struck by the circumstance that the Austrian missionaries and Mr. Werne
('Expedition to discover the Source of the White Nile, in 1840-41')
gave Tubirih as the Bari name of the White Nile at the southern limit
of their exploration."

[6] Richard long mourned the loss of his friend, whom Captain Speke, on
his second journey with Colonel Grant--whether unable to assist I know
not--left to be killed by the negroes of Mirámbo, his African enemy, in
the bush.--I. B.

[7] Richard was a strong-willed, outspoken, and grievously injured man,
under the greatest provocation ever put forth. He behaved with dignity,
calmness, and generosity, above all praise.--I. B.



CHAPTER XV.

RICHARD AND I MEET AGAIN.

    "For life, with all its yields of joy and woe
    And hope and fear,
    Is just our chance o' the prize of learning love--
    How love might be, hath been indeed, and is."
            ----ROBERT BROWNING.

    "Dying is easy; keep thou steadfast.
    The greater part, to live and to endure."
            ----MRS. HAMILTON KING, _The Disciples_.

    "When Calumny's foul dart thy soul oppresses,
    Think'st thou the venomed shaft could poison me?
    No! the world's scorn, still more than its caresses,
    Shall bind me closer, O my love, to thee.

    "Should the days darken, and severe affliction
    Close whelming o'er us like a stormy sea,
    Love shall transform them into benedictions
    Binding me closer, O my love, to thee."

           *       *       *       *       *

    "When truth or virtue an affront endures,
    The affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours;
    Mine as a friend to every worthy mind,
    And mine as man who feels for all mankind."
            ----POPE.


Just as I was getting into despair, and thinking whether I should go
and be a Sister of Charity (May, 1859), as the appearance of Speke
alone in London was giving me the keenest anxiety, and as I heard that
Richard was staying on in Zanzibar, in the hopes of being allowed to
return into Africa, I was very sore.[1]

On May 22nd, 1859, I chanced to call upon a friend. I was told she was
gone out, but would be in to tea, and was asked if I would wait. I
said, "Yes;" and in about five minutes another ring came to the door,
and another visitor was also asked to wait. The door was opened, and
I turned round, expecting to see my friend. Judge of my feelings when
I beheld Richard. For an instant we both stood dazed, and I cannot
attempt to describe the joy that followed. He had landed the day
before, and came to London, and now he had come to call on this friend
to know where I was living, where to find me. No one will wonder if I
say that we forgot all about her and tea, and that we went downstairs
and got into a cab, and took a long drive.

I felt like one stunned; I only knew that he put me in and told the
cabman to drive. I felt like a person coming to after a fainting fit or
in a dream. It was acute pain, and for the first half-hour I found no
relief. I would have given worlds for tears or breath; neither came,
but it was absolute content, which I fancy people must feel the first
few moments after the soul is quit of the body. The first thing that
happened was, that we mutually drew each other's pictures out from our
respective pockets at the same moment, which, as we had not expected to
meet, showed how carefully they had been kept.

After that, we met constantly, and he called upon my parents. I now put
our marriage _seriously_ before them, but without success as regards my
mother.

I shall never forget Richard as he was then; he had had twenty-one
attacks of fever, had been 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 give him
my arm about the Botanical Gardens for fresh air, and sometimes convey
him almost fainting to our house, or friends' houses, who allowed and
encouraged our meeting, 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 only a few friends to greet him. Speke was the
hero of the hour, the Stanley of 1859-1864. This was _one_ of the
martyrdoms of that uncrowned King's life, and I think but that for me
he would have died.

He told me that all the time he had been away the greatest consolation
he had had was my fortnightly journals, in letter form, to him,
accompanied by all newspaper scraps and public and private information,
and accounts of books, such as I knew would interest him, so that when
he did get a mail, which was only in a huge batch now and then, he was
as well posted up as if he were living in London.

[Sidenote: _We try to effect a Reconciliation between Speke and
Richard._]

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 _now_ to mark
in their letters how they descend from "Dear Jack," and "Dear Dick," to
"Dear Burton," and "Dear Speke," until they become "Sir!" But I must
relate 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)--she would be ninety-four were she now living.
She was one of the fashionable beauties of George IV.'s time, and was
engaged to my father when they were young.

About a hundred years or more ago, a John Hanning Speke had married one
of the Arundells of Wardour, and Lord Arundell always considered the
Spekes as sort of neighbours and distant connections, so through this
lady's auspices, Speke and I met, and also exchanged many messages; and
we nearly succeeded in reconciling Richard and Speke, and would have
done so, 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. Dick was so kind to
me; nursed me like a woman, taught me such a lot, and I used to be so
fond of him; but it would be too difficult for me to go back now." _And
upon that last sentence he always remained and acted._

Richard was looking so lank and thin. He was sadly altered; his youth,
health, spirits, and beauty were all gone for the time. He fully
justified his fevers, his paralysis and blindness, and any amount of
anxiety, peril, hardship, and privation in unhealthy latitudes. Never
did I feel the strength of my love as then. He returned poorer, and
dispirited by official rows and every species of annoyance; but he
was still, had he been ever so unsuccessful, and had every man's hand
against him, my earthly god and king, and I could have knelt at his
feet and worshipped him. I used to feel so proud of him; I used to like
to sit and look at him, and to think, "You are mine, and there is no
man on earth the least like you."

At one time, when he was at his worst, I found the following in his
journal--

    "I hear the sounds I used to hear,
    The laugh of joy, the groan of pain;
    The sounds of childhood sound again.
                    Death must be near!

    "Mine eye reviveth like mine ear;
    As painted scenes pass o'er the stage,
    I see my life from youth to age.
                    Ah, Death is near!

    "The music of some starry sphere,
    A low, melodious strain of song,
    Like to the wind-harp sweeps along.
                   Yes, Death is near!

    "A lovely sprite of smiling cheer,
    Sits by my side in form of light;
    Sits on my left a darker sprite.
                   Sure, Death is near!

    "The meed for ever deemed so dear,
    Repose upon the breast of Fame;
    (I did but half), while lives my name.
                  Come then, Death, near!

    "Where now thy sting? Where now thy fear?
    Where now, fell power, the victory?
    I have the mastery over thee.
                  Draw, Death, draw near!"

[Sidenote: _My Appeal to my Mother._]

I felt bitterly not having the privilege of staying with Richard and
nursing him, and he was very anxious that our marriage should take
place; so I wrote the following letter to my mother, who was still
violently opposing me, and who was absent on some visits:--

 "October, 1859.

 "MY DEAREST MOTHER,[2]

 "I feel quite grateful to you for inviting my confidence. It is the
 first time you have ever done so, and the occasion shall not be
 neglected. It will be a great comfort to me to tell you all; but you
 must forgive me if I say that I have one tender place too sore to be
 touched, and that an unkind or slighting word might embitter all our
 future lives. I know it is impossible for you, with your views for me,
 both spiritual and temporal, to understand, far less sympathize with
 me on the present occasion.

 "I feel nothing in common with the world I live in. I dreamt of a
 Companion and a Life that would suit me exactly, and I them. Like
 many other people, I suppose, I found my heart yearning, and my
 tastes developing towards quite opposite things to those which fall
 naturally in my way. I am rather ashamed to tell you that I fell in
 love with Captain Burton at Boulogne, and would have married him at
 any time between this and then, if he had asked me. The moment I saw
 his brigand-daredevil look, I set him up as an idol, and determined
 that he was the only man I would ever marry; but he never knew it
 until three years ago, before he went to Africa. From Boulogne he went
 to Mecca and Medina, and then to Harar, and then to the Crimea, and
 on his return home, in 1856, you may remember he came to see us, and
 I saw him again, and then he fell in love with me and asked me to be
 his wife, and was perfectly amazed to find that I had cared for him
 all that time. He was then just going to start for Central Africa; he
 could not marry me, he could not take me, but we promised to be true
 to each other, and, as you well know, we met every day. When I came
 home one day in an ecstasy and told you that I had found the Man and
 the Life I longed for, that I clung to them with all my soul, and that
 nothing would turn me, and that all other men were his inferiors,
 what did you answer me? 'That he was the _only_ man you would never
 consent to my marrying; that you would rather see me in my coffin.'
 Did you know that you were flying in the face of God? Did you know
 it was my Destiny? Do you not realize that, because it is not _your_
 ideal, you want to dash mine from me? He has been away three years,
 and I have waited for him, feeling sure that in the end you would
 relent. You have faith in the hand of God in these matters! I called
 on a friend who was not at home. I was asked to wait; five minutes
 after the bell rang again, and another visitor was also asked to wait;
 the door opened, and Captain Burton and I stood face to face. He had
 disembarked the night before, had just arrived in town, and called
 there to know where I was living. The year and eight months' silence,
 which had distressed me so awfully, when you all said he had forgotten
 me, that he had been eaten by jackals, that he never meant to return,
 had been spent in the wildest part of the desert, where there was
 no means of communication. He had had twenty-one fevers, temporary
 blindness, and partial paralysis of the limbs; he has come back with
 flying colours, but youth, health, good looks, and spirits temporarily
 broken up from hardships, privations and dangers, and also many a
 scar. It surprises me that you should consider mine an infatuation,
 you who worship talent, and my father bravery and adventure, and here
 they are both united. Look at his military services--India and the
 Crimea! Look at his writings, his travels, his poetry, his languages
 and dialects! Now Mezzofanti is dead he stands first in Europe; he is
 the best horseman, swordsman, and pistol shot. He has been presented
 with the gold medal, he is an F.R.G.S., and you must see in the
 newspapers of his glory, and fame, and public thanks, where he is
 called 'the Crichton of the day,' 'one of the Paladins of the Age,'
 'the most interesting figure of the nineteenth century,' 'the man
 _par excellence_ of brain and pluck.' In his wonderful explorings,
 he goes where none but natives have ever trod, in hourly peril of
 his life, often wounded, often without food and water. One day he is
 a doctor, one day a priest, another he keeps a stall in the bazar,
 sometimes he is a blacksmith. I could tell you such adventures of
 him, and traits of determination, which would delight you, were you
 unprejudiced. It makes me quite ill to see little men boasting of
 the paltry things that they have done or seen, after this man, who
 has never been known to speak of himself. He is not at all the man,
 speaking of his private character, that people take him to be, or what
 he sometimes, for fun, pretends to be. There is no one whom you would
 more respect, or attach yourself to, for he is lovable in every way;
 and what fascinates me is, that every thought, word, or deed is that
 of a thorough gentleman. I wish I could say the same for all our own
 acquaintances or relations. There is not a particle of pettiness or
 snobbery in him; he is far superior to any man I ever met; he has the
 brain, pluck, and manliness of any hundred of those I have ever seen,
 united to exceeding sensitiveness, gentleness, delicacy, generosity,
 and good pride. He is the only being who awes me into respect, and
 to whose command I bow my head; and any evil opinions you may have
 ever heard of him, arise from his recklessly setting at defiance
 conventional people, talking nonsense about religion and heart
 and principle, which those who do not know him unfortunately take
 seriously, and he amuses himself with watching their stupid faces.
 Once he is married to me, he will be the favourite of our family, and
 you will all be proud of him, and have implicit confidence in him.
 And let me tell you another thing: you and my father are immensely
 proud of your families, and we are taught to be the same; but from
 the present to the future, I believe that our proudest record will
 be our alliance with Richard Burton. I want to '_Live_.' I hate the
 artificial existence of London; I hate the life of a vegetable in the
 country; I want a wild, roving, vagabond life. I am young, strong,
 and hardy, with good nerves; I like roughing it, and I always want to
 do something daring and spirited; you will certainly repent it, if
 you keep me tied up. I wonder that you do not see the magnitude of
 the position offered to me. His immense talent and adventurous life
 must command interest. A master-mind like his exercises power and
 influence over all around him; but I love him because I find in him so
 much depth of feeling, and a generous heart; because, knowing him to
 be as brave as a lion, he is yet so gentle, of a delicate, sensitive
 nature, and the soul of honour. I am fascinated by his manners because
 they are easy, dignified, simple, and yet so original; there is such
 a touching forgetfulness of himself and his fame. He appears to me
 a something so unique and romantic. He unites the wild and daring,
 with the true gentleman in every sense of the word, and a stamp of a
 man of the world of the very best sort, having seen things _without_
 the artificial atmosphere _we_ live in, as well as _within_. He has
 even the noble faults I love in a man, if they can be so called. He
 is proud, fiery, satirical, ambitious; how could I help looking up
 to him with fear and admiration? I worship ambition. Fancy achieving
 a good which affects millions, making your name a national one? It
 is infamous the way most men in the world live and die, and are
 never missed, and, like us women, leave nothing but a tombstone. By
 _ambition_ I mean men who have the will and power to change the face
 of things. I wish I were a man. If I were, I would be Richard Burton;
 but, being only a woman, I would be Richard Burton's wife. He has not
 mere brilliancy of talent, but brains that are a rock of good sense,
 and stern decision of character. I love him purely, passionately, and
 respectfully; there is no void in my heart, it is at rest for ever
 with him. It is part of my nature, part of myself, the basis of all my
 actions, part of my religion; my whole soul is absorbed in it. I have
 given my every feeling to him, and kept nothing back for myself or for
 the world. I would this moment sacrifice and leave _all_ to follow his
 fortunes, even if you all cast me out--if the world tabooed me, and
 no compensation _could_ be given to me for _his_ loss. Whatever the
 world may condemn of lawless or strong opinions, whatever he is to the
 world, he is perfect to me, and I would not have him otherwise than he
 is.

 "That is my side of the business, and now I will turn to your few
 points. You have said that 'you do not know who he is, that you do not
 meet him anywhere.' I don't like to hear you say the first, because it
 makes you out illiterate, and you know how clever you are; but as to
 your not meeting him, considering the particular sort of society which
 you seek with a view to marrying your daughters, you are not likely to
 meet him there, because it bores him, and it is quite out of his line.
 In these matters he is like a noble, simple savage, and has lived too
 much in the desert to comprehend the snobberies of our little circles
 in London. He is a world-wide man, and his life and talents open every
 door to him; he is a great man all over the East, in literary circles
 in London, and in great parties where you and I would be part of the
 crowd, he would be remarkable as a star, also amongst scientific men
 and in the clubs. Most great houses are only too glad to get him. The
 only two occasions in which he came out last season it was because I
 begged him to, and he was bored to death. In public life every one
 knows him. As to birth, he is just as good as we are; all his people
 belong to good old families. The next subject is religion. With regard
 to this he _appears_ to disbelieve, pretends to self-reliance, quizzes
 good, and fears no evil. He leads a good life, has a natural worship
 of God, innate honour, and does unknown good. _At present_ he is
 following no form; at least, none that he _owns_ to. He says there is
 nothing between Agnosticism and Catholicity. He wishes to be married
 in the Catholic Church, says that I must practise my own religion,
 and that our children must be Catholics, and will give such a promise
 in writing. I myself do not care about people _calling_ themselves
 Catholics, if they are not so in actions, and Captain Burton's life is
 far more Christian, more gentlemanly, more useful, and more pleasing
 to God--I am sure--than many who _call_ themselves Catholics, and
 whom we know. _No._ 3 point is money, and here I am before _you_,
 terribly crestfallen--- there is nothing except his pay. As captain,
 that is, I believe, £600 a year in India, and £300 in England. We want
 to try and get the Consulship of Damascus, where we could have a life
 after both our hearts, and where the vulgarity of poverty would not
 make itself apparent. If you do not disinherit me, I shall settle my
 portion on him, and after on any children we may have, in which case
 he would insure his life. He may have expectations or not, but we
 can't rely on them.

 "Now, dearest mother, I think we should treat each other fairly. Let
 him go to my father, and ask for me properly. Knowing you as I do,
 your ideas and prejudices, I know that a man of different religion
 and no means, would stand in a disagreeable position; so does he, and
 I will _not_ have him insulted. I don't ask you to approve, nor to
 like it; I don't expect it. I do entreat your blessing, and even a
 _passive_, reluctant consent to anything that I may do. We shall never
 marry any one else, and never give each other up, should we remain so
 all our lives. Do not accuse me of deception, because I shall see him
 and write to him whenever I get a chance, and if you drive me to it I
 shall marry him in defiance, because he is by far my first object in
 life, and the day he (if ever) gives me up I will go straight into a
 convent. If you think your Catholic friends and relatives will blame
 you, shut your eyes, give me no wedding, no trousseau, let me get
 married how I can; but when it is _done_, acknowledge to yourself
 that I neither _could_ nor _would_ be dishonourable enough to marry
 any other man, that God made no law against _poor_ people becoming
 attached to each other, that I am of an age when you can only advise
 but not hinder me, that your leave once asked my duty ends, that your
 life is three parts run, and mine is before me, and that if I choose
 to live out of the 'World' that forms _your_ happiness, what is it to
 you? how does it hurt you? I have got to live with him night and day,
 for all my life. The man you would choose I should loathe. I see all
 the disadvantages, and am willing to accept them with him. Why should
 you object? I do not ask you to share it. You will see that I am so
 set on it, that the whole creation is as nothing in comparison, that
 nothing will keep me from it. Do not embitter my whole future life,
 for God's sake. I would rather die a thousand times than go through
 again what I have borne for the last five years. Do not quarrel with
 me, or keep me away from you, and you shall not regret it. I shall
 have a wide field for a useful, active life, if you do not crush me by
 an unhappy coldness. When you take the 'World' into your confidence,
 remember that the day will come when you will forgive and repent, and
 you will feel quite hurt to find that the 'World' does _not_ forgive,
 that it remembers all you said when you were angry, and that you have
 debarred your own children from many pleasant things in this life.
 When we are parted there will be endless regrets. I will not allude to
 other marriages that you _have_ consented to, but you should rejoice
 that I have got a man who knows how to protect me, and to take care
 of me. Do think it all over in earnest, and if you love me as you say
 you do--and I believe it well--do be generous and kind about this.
 Parents hold so much power to bless or curse the future. Which will
 you do for me? Let it be a blessing! I look upon him as my future
 husband; I only wait a kind word from you, the appointment, and
 Cardinal Wiseman's protection. Do write to me, dearest mother, but
 write not with _your_ views, but entering into _mine_.

 "Your fondly attached child,

 "ISABEL ARUNDELL."

[Sidenote: _My Letter to my Mother--Not a Success._]

The only answer to this letter was an awful long and solemn sermon,
telling me "that Richard was not a Christian, and had no money." I
do not defend my letter to my mother; I should not wish that girls
should say or think that this is the way to write to one's mother, nor
would mothers in general like to receive such a letter. I print it
to show what Richard's character was, and the impression that a girl
would receive of it, what views, and what feelings she was capable of
entertaining for him. I only plead that I was fighting for my whole
future life, and my natural destiny; that I had waited for five years;
and that I saw that I had to force my mother's hand, or lose all that
made life worth living for. Richard used to say that my mother and I
were both gifted with "the noble firmness of the mule." Of course I can
see _now_ what an aggravating letter it must have been to a woman whose
heart was set on big matches for her daughters.

Richard now brought out the "Lake Regions of Equatorial Africa" (2
vols., 1860), and the Royal Geographical Society dedicated the whole
of Vol. XXXIII. to the same subject (Clowes and Sons, 1860). My mother
still remained obstinate, and Richard thought we should have to take
the law into our own hands. I could not bear the thoughts of going
against my mother.

One day in April, 1860, I was walking out with two friends, and a
tightening of the heart came over me that I had known before. I went
home and said to my sister, "I am not going to see Richard for some
time." She said, "Why, you will see him to-morrow." "No, I shall not,"
I said; "I don't know what is the matter." A tap came at the door, and
a note with the well-known writing was put into my hand. I knew my
fate, and with deep-drawn breath I opened it. He had left--could not
bear the pain of saying good-bye; would be absent for nine months, on a
journey to see Salt Lake City. He would then come back, and see whether
I had made up my mind to choose between him or my mother, to marry me
if I _would_; and if I had not the courage to risk it, he would go back
to India, and from thence to other explorations, and return no more. I
was to take nine months to think about it.

I was for a long time in bed, and delirious. For six weeks I was
doctored for influenza, mumps, sore throat, fever, delirium, and
everything that I had not got, when in reality I was only heartsick,
struggling for what I wanted, a last hard struggle with the suspense of
my future before me, and nothing and nobody to help me. I felt it would
be my breaking up if circumstances continued adverse, but I determined
to struggle patiently, and suffer bravely to the end.

At this juncture, as I was going to marry a poor man, and also to fit
myself for Expeditions, I went, for change of air, to a farmhouse,
where I learnt every imaginable thing that I might possibly want, so
that if we had _no_ servants, or if servants were sick or mutinous, we
should be perfectly independent.

On my return I saw the murder of a Captain Burton in the paper, and
_even_ my mother pitied me, and took me to the mail office, where a
clerk, after numberless inquiries, gave us a paper. My life seemed to
hang on a thread till he answered, and then my face beamed so that the
poor man was quite startled. It _was_ a Captain Burton, murdered by his
crew. I could scarcely feel sorry--how selfish we are!--and yet he too,
doubtless, had some one to love him.

Richard, meantime, had gone all over the United States, and made a
wonderful lot of friends; had gone to Salt Lake City to see Brigham
Young, where he stayed with the Mormons and their Prophet for six weeks
at great Salt Lake City, visiting California, where he went all over
the gold-diggings, and learnt practically to use both pick and pan.
He asked Brigham Young if he would admit him as a Mormon, but Brigham
Young shook his head, and said, "No, Captain, I think you have done
that sort of thing once before." Richard laughed, and told him he was
perfectly right.

About this time there was a meeting at the Royal Geographical
Society--November 13. I quote from the papers--

 "Lord Ashburton (President) in the chair.--Captain J. Grantham, R.E.;
 R. Lush, Q.C.; J. A. Lockwood, and H. Cartwright, Esqs., were elected
 Fellows.--The minutes of the former meeting having been confirmed,
 the Chairman said that a letter would be read from Captain Burton,
 by the Secretary. It would be a matter of pleasure to all present to
 know that Captain Burton was in good health. Dr. Shaw then read the
 following characteristic letter, which had been addressed to him by
 that officer:--


  "'Salt Lake City, Deserat, Utah Territory, September 7.

  "MY DEAR SHAW,

  "'You'll see my whereabouts by the envelope; I reached this place
  about a week ago, and am living in the odour of sanctity,--a pretty
  strong one it is too,--apostles, prophets, _et hoc genus omne_.
  In about another week I expect to start for Carson Valley and San
  Francisco. The road is full of Indians and other scoundrels, but I've
  had my hair cropped so short that my scalp is not worth having. I
  hope to be in San Francisco in October, and in England somewhere in
  November next. Can you put my whereabouts in some paper or other,
  and thus save me the bother of writing to all my friends? Mind, I'm
  travelling for my health, which has suffered in Africa, enjoying
  the pure air of the prairies, and expecting to return in a state of
  renovation and perfectly ready to leave a card on Muata Yanoo, or any
  other tyrant of that kind.

  "'Meanwhile, ever yours,

  "R. F. BURTON.'

 "The paper read was, 'Proposed Exploration in North-Western Australia
 under Mr. F. Gregory.'--Mr. Galton read letters from Captain Speke,
 in command of the East African Expedition, conveying the gratifying
 intelligence that, through the kind assistance of Sir George Grey,
 Governor at the Cape of Good Hope, the party had been strengthened
 by the accession of a guard of twelve Hottentot soldiers and £300.
 Admiral Keppel had conveyed the expedition in her Majesty's steamer
 _Brisk_ to Zanzibar.--A despatch from Sir George Grey on Mr. Chapman's
 and Mr. Anderson's late journeys in South Africa was read.--The
 President announced that subscriptions would be received at the
 Royal Geographical Society, 15, Whitehall Place, in aid of Consul
 Petherick's Expedition, to co-operate with that under Captains Speke
 and Grant, _viâ_ Khartoum and the Upper Nile."

Richard travelled about twenty-five thousand miles, and then he turned
his head homewards. He wrote the "City of the Saints," 1 vol., on the
Mormons, and he brought it out in 1861. It was reprinted by Messrs.
Harper of New York, and extensively reviewed, especially by the _Tour
du Monde_.

[Sidenote: _News of Richard and Subsequent Return._]

It was Christmas, 1860, that I went to stop with my relatives, Sir
Clifford and Lady Constable (his _first_ wife, _née_ Chichester), at
Burton Constable,--the father and mother of the present baronet. There
was a large party in the house, and we were singing; some one propped
up the music with the _Times_ which had just arrived, and the first
announcement that caught my eye was that "Captain R. F. Burton had
arrived from America."

I was unable, except by great resolution, to continue what I was
doing. I soon retired to my room, and _sat_ up all night, packing, and
conjecturing how I should get away,--all my numerous plans tending
to a "bolt" next morning,--should I get an affectionate letter from
him. I received two; one had been opened and read by somebody else,
and one, as it afterwards turned out, had been burked at home before
forwarding. It was not an easy matter. I was in a large country-house
in Yorkshire, with about twenty-five friends and relatives, amongst
whom was one brother, and I had heaps of luggage. We were blocked up
with snow and nine miles from the station, and (_contra miglior noler
voler mal pugna_) I had heard of his arrival only early in the evening,
and twelve hours later I had managed to get a telegram ordering me to
London, under the impression that it was of the most vital importance.

What a triumph it is to a woman's heart, when she has patiently and
courageously worked, and prayed, and suffered, and the moment is
realized that was the goal of her ambition!

[Illustration: MINIATURE PORTRAIT]

As soon as we met, and had had our talk, he said, "I have waited for
five years. The three first were inevitable on account of my journey
to Africa, but the last two were not. Our lives are being spoiled by
the unjust prejudices of your mother, and it is for you to consider
whether you have not already done your duty in sacrificing two of the
best years of your life out of respect to her. If _once_ you _really_
let me go, mind, I shall never come back, because I shall know that
you have not got the strength of character which _my_ wife must have.
Now, you must make up your mind to choose between your mother and me.
If you choose me, we marry, and I stay; if not, I go back to India and
on other Explorations, and I return no more. Is your answer ready?" I
said, "Quite. I marry you this day three weeks, let who will say nay."

When we fixed the date of our marriage, I wanted to be married on
Wednesday, the 23rd, because it was the Espousals of Our Lady and St.
Joseph, but he would not, because Wednesday, the 23rd, and Friday, the
18th, were our unlucky days; so we were married on the Vigil, Tuesday,
the 22nd of January.

We pictured to ourselves much domestic happiness, with youth, health,
courage, and talent to win honour, name, and position. We had the same
tastes, and perfect confidence in each other. No one turns away from
real happiness without some very strong temptation or delusion. I went
straight to my father and mother, and told them what had occurred. My
father said, "I consent with all my heart, if your mother consents,"
and my mother said, "_Never!_" I said, "Very well, then, mother! I
cannot sacrifice our two lives to a mere whim, and you ought not to
expect it, so I am going to marry him, whether you will or no." I asked
all my brothers and sisters, and they said they would receive him with
delight. My mother offered me a marriage with my father and brothers
present, my mother and sisters not. I felt that that was a slight upon
_him_, a slight upon his family, and a slur upon me, which I did not
deserve, and I refused it. I went to Cardinal Wiseman, and I told him
the whole case as it stood, and he asked me if my mind was absolutely
made up, and I said, "_Absolutely_." Then he said, "Leave the matter to
me." He requested Richard to call upon him, and asked him if he would
give him three promises in writing--

1. That I should be allowed the free practice of my religion.

2. That if we had any children they should be brought up Catholics.

3. That we should be married in the Catholic Church.

[Sidenote: _A Family Council decides the Matter._]

Which three promises Richard readily signed. He also amused the
Cardinal, as the family afterwards learnt, by saying sharply, "Practise
her religion indeed! I should rather think she _shall_. A man without
a religion may be excused, but a woman without a religion is not
the woman for me." The Cardinal then sent for me, promised me his
protection, said he would himself procure a special dispensation from
Rome, and that he would perform the ceremony himself. He then saw
my father, who told him how bitter my mother was about it; that she
was threatened with paralysis; that we had to consider her in every
possible way, that she might receive no shocks, no agitation, but that
all the rest quite consented to the marriage. A big family council
was then held, and it was agreed far better for Richard and me, and
for every one, to make all proper arrangements to be married, and to
be attended by _friends_, and for me to go away on a visit to some
friends, that they might not come to the wedding, nor participate in
it, in order not to have a quarrel with my mother; that they would
break it to her at a suitable time, and that the secret of their
knowing it, should be kept up as long as mother lived. "Mind," said my
father, "you must never bring a misunderstanding between mother and me,
nor between her and her children."

I passed that three weeks preparing very solemnly and earnestly for
my marriage day, but yet something differently to what many expectant
brides do. I made a very solemn religious preparation, receiving the
Sacraments. Gowns, presents, and wedding pageants had no part in it,
had no place. Richard arranged with my own lawyer and my own priest
that everything should be conducted in a strictly legal and strictly
religious way, and the whole programme of the affair was prepared. A
very solemn day to me was the eve of my marriage. The following day
I was supposed to be going to pass a few weeks with a friend in the
country.

[Sidenote: _Our Wedding._]

At nine o'clock on Tuesday, the 22nd of January, 1861, my cab was at
the door with my box on it. I had to go and wish my father and mother
good-bye before leaving. I went downstairs with a beating heart, after
I had knelt in my own room, and said a fervent prayer that they might
bless me, and if they did, I would take it as a sign. I was so nervous,
I could scarcely stand. When I went in, mother kissed me and said,
"Good-bye, child, God bless you." I went to my father's bedside, and
knelt down and said good-bye. "God bless you, my darling," he said,
and put his hand out of the bed and laid it on my head. I was too much
overcome to speak, and one or two tears ran down my cheeks, and I
remember as I passed down I kissed the door outside.

I then ran downstairs and quickly got into my cab, and drove to a
friend's house (Dr. and Miss Bird, now of 49, Welbeck Street), where I
changed my clothes--not wedding clothes (clothes which most brides of
to-day would probably laugh at)--a fawn-coloured dress, a black-lace
cloak, and a white bonnet--and they and I drove off to the Bavarian
Catholic Church, Warwick Street, London. When assembled we were
altogether a party of eight. The Registrar was there for legality, as
is customary. Richard was waiting on the doorstep for me, and as we
went in he took holy water, and made a very large sign of the Cross.
The church doors were wide open, and full of people, and many were
there who knew us. As the 10.30 Mass was about to begin, we were called
into the Sacristy, and we then found that the Cardinal in the night had
been seized with an acute attack of the illness which carried him off
four years later, and had deputed Dr. Hearne, his Vicar-general, to be
his proxy.

After the ceremony was over, and the names signed, we went back to the
house of our friend Dr. Bird and his sister Alice, who have always been
our best friends, where we had our wedding breakfast.

[Illustration: RICHARD BURTON. (PRESENTED TO HIM, WITH HIS WIFE'S
PORTRAIT, AS A WEDDING GIFT.) _By Louis Desanges._]

During the time we were breakfasting, Dr. Bird began to chaff him about
the things that were sometimes said of him, and which were not true.
"Now, Burton, tell me; how do you feel when you have killed a man?" Dr.
Bird (being a physician) had given himself away without knowing it.
Richard looked up quizzically, and drawled out, "Oh, quite jolly! How
do you?"

[Illustration: ISABEL BURTON AS A BRIDE. _By Louis Desanges._]

We then went to Richard's bachelor lodgings, where he had a bedroom,
dressing-room, and sitting-room, and we had very few pounds to bless
ourselves with, but were as happy as it is given to any mortals out of
heaven to be. The fact is that the only clandestine thing about it, and
that was quite contrary to _my_ desire, was that my poor mother, with
her health and her religious scruples, was kept in the dark, but I must
thank God that, though paralysis came on two years later, it was not I
that caused it.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

I here insert the beautiful and characteristic letter which my husband
wrote to my father on the following day, in case he should wish to give
it to my mother. For the first few days of our marriage, Richard used
to be so worried at being stared at as a bridegroom, that he always
used to say that we had been married a couple of years; but that sort
of annoyance soon wore off, and then he became rather proud of being a
married man. To say that I was happy would be to say nothing; a repose
came over me that I had never known. I felt that it was for Eternity,
an immortal repose, and I was in a bewilderment of wonder at the
goodness of God, who had almost worked miracles for me.

[Sidenote: _We are received at Home again._]

During this time my brothers visited us, keeping us up in all
that was going on. Some weeks later, two dear old aunts, Mrs.
Strickland-Standish and Monica, Lady Gerard, who lived at Portobello
House, Mortlake, nearly opposite to where I live now, and where I
had frequently passed several weeks every year (for they made a sort
of family focus), got to hear that I was seen going into a bachelor
lodging, and bowled up to London to tell my mother. She wrote in an
agony to my father, who was visiting in the country, "that a dreadful
misfortune had happened in the family; that I been seen going into
a bachelor lodging in London, and could not be at the country house
where I was supposed to be." My father telegraphed back to her, "She
is married to Dick Burton, and thank God for it;" and he wrote to her,
enclosing the letter just inserted, and desired her to send one of my
brothers for us, who knew where to find us, and to mind and receive us
properly. We were then sent for home. My mother behaved like a true
lady and a true Christian. She kissed us both, and blessed us. I shall
never forget how shy I felt going home, but I went in very calmly, I
kissed them all round, and they received Richard in the nicest way, and
then mother embarrassed us very much by asking our pardon for flying
in the face of God, and opposing what she now knew to be His will. My
husband was very much touched. It was not long before she approved of
the marriage more than anybody, and as she grew to know him, she loved
him as much as her own sons. And this is the way we came to be married.

In short, mother never could forgive herself, and was always alluding
to it either personally or by letter. It always was the same burthen of
song--"that she exposed me to such a risk, that my relations might have
abandoned me, that Society might not have received me, that I might
have been forbidden to put my name down for the Drawing-room, when I
had done nothing wrong;" and she said, "All through _me_, and God had
destined it, but I could not see it. I never thought you would have
the courage to take the law in your own hands;" and I used to answer
her, "Mother, if you had all cast me out, if Society had tabooed me,
if I had been forbidden to go to Court, it would not have kept me from
it--I could not have helped myself--I am quite content with my future
crust and tent, and I would not exchange places with the Queen; so do
not harass yourself."

However, by the goodness of God, and the justness and kindness of a
few great people, none of these catastrophes _did_ happen. We used
to entreat of her not to say anything more about it, but even on her
deathbed she persisted in doing so. I shall never forget that first
night when we went home; I went up to my room and changed my things,
and ate my dinner humbly and silently. We were a very large family and
were all afraid to speak, and as Richard was so very clever, the family
stood rather in awe of him; so there was a silence and restraint upon
us; but the children were allowed to come down to dessert for a treat,
and, with the intuition that children have, they knew that he wanted
them, and that they could do what they liked with him. One was a little
_enfant terrible_, and very fond of copying our midshipmen brothers'
slang. They crowded round my mother with their little doll-tumblers
waiting for some wine. He was so constrained that he forgot to pass the
wine at dessert as it came round to _him_, when a small voice piped out
from the end of the long table, "I say, old bottle-stopper--pass the
wine!" He burst out laughing, and that broke the ice, and we all fell
to laughing and talking. Mother punished the child by giving him no
wine, but Richard looked up and said so sweetly, "Oh, _Mother_, not on
my first night _at home!_" that her heart went out to him.

We had seven months of uninterrupted bliss. Through the kindness of
Lord John Russell, Richard obtained the Consulship of Fernando Po, in
the Bight of Biafra, West Coast of Africa, with a coast line of six or
seven hundred miles for his jurisdiction, a deadly climate, and £700 a
year. He was too glad to get his foot on the first rung of the ladder,
so, though it was called the "Foreign Office Grave," he cheerfully
accepted it. It was not quite so cheerful for me, because it was a
climate of certain death to white women, and he would not allow me to
go out in an unlimited way.

[Sidenote: _A Delightful London Season._]

We had a glorious season, and took up our position in Society. He
introduced me to all the people he knew, and I introduced him to all
the people that I knew. Lord Houghton (Monckton-Milnes), the father
of the present Lord Houghton, was very much attached to Richard, and
he settled the question of our position by asking his friend Lord
Palmerston to give a party, and to let me be the bride of the evening;
and when I arrived, Lord Palmerston gave me his arm, and he introduced
Richard and me to all the people we had not previously known, and my
relatives clustered around us as well. I was allowed to put my name
down for a Drawing-room. And Lady Russell, now the Dowager, presented
me at Court "on my marriage."

[Sidenote: _Fire at Grindlay's._]

Shortly after this, happened Grindlay's fire, where we lost all we
possessed in the world, except the few boxes we had with us. The worst
was that all his books, and his own poetry, which was beautiful,
especially one poem, called "The Curse of Vishnu," and priceless
Persian and Arabic manuscripts, that he had picked up in various
out-of-the-way places, and a room full of costumes of every nation,
were burnt. He smiled, and said in a philosophical sort of way, "Well,
it is a great bore, but I dare say that the world will be none the
worse for some of those manuscripts having been burnt" (a prophetic
speech, as I now think of it). When he went down to ask for some
compensation, he found that Grindlay was insured, but that he was
not--not, he said, that any money could repay him for the loss of the
things. As he always saw the comic side of a tragedy as well as the
pathetic, "the funniest thing was the clerk asking me if I had lost any
plate or jewellery, and on my saying, 'No,' the change in his face from
sympathy to the utter surprise that I could care so much for any other
kind of loss, was amusing."

In 1861, when the Indian army changed hands, Richard suffered, and,
as Mr. Hitchman remarked, "his enemies may be congratulated upon
their mingled malice and meanness." He just gave the official animus
a chance. It was a common thing in times of peace for Indian officers
to be allowed to take appointments and remain on the _cadre_ of their
regiment, temporarily or otherwise. Richard, in remonstrance, would not
quote names for fear of injuring other men, but any man who knew Egypt
could score off half a dozen. His knowledge of the East, and of so many
Eastern languages, would have been of incalculable service in Egypt,
upon the Red Sea, in Marocco, Persia, in any parts of the East, and
yet he, who in any other land would have been rewarded with at least a
K.C.B. and a handsome pension, was glad to get his foot on the lowest
rung of the ladder of the Consular service, called the "Foreign Office
Grave," the Consulate of Fernando Po, and we could not think enough of,
talk enough of, or be grateful enough to Lord John Russell, who gave it
him; yet the acceptance of this miserable post was made an excuse to
strike his name off the Indian army list, and the rule, which had been
allowed to lapse in a score of cases, was revived for Richard's injury
under circumstances of discourtesy so great, that it would be hard to
believe the affront unintentional. He received no notice whatever, and
he only realized, on seeing his successor gazetted, that his military
career was actually ended, and his past life become like a blank sheet
of paper. It would have been stretching no point to have granted this
appointment, and to have been retained in the army on half-pay, but it
was refused; they swept out his whole nineteen years' service as if
they had never been, without a vestige of pay or pension.

All his services in Sind had been forgotten, all his Explorations were
wiped out, and at the age of forty he found himself at home, with the
rank of Captain, no pay, no pension, plenty of fame, a newly married
wife, and a small Consulate in the most pestilential climate, with £700
a year. In vain he asked to go to Fernando Po _temporarily_ till wanted
for active service. He wrote--

 "It will be an act of injustice on the part of the Bombay Government
 to solicit my removal on account of my having risked health and life
 in my country's service.

 "They are about to treat me as a man who has been idling away my
 time and shirking duty; whereas I can show that every hour has been
 employed for my country's benefit, in study, writings, languages, and
 explorations. Are my wounds and fevers, and perpetual risk of health
 and life, not to speak of personal losses, to go for nothing?

 "The Bombay Government does not take into consideration one iota of
 my service, but casts the whole into oblivion. I consider the Bombay
 Government to be unjustly prejudiced against me on account of the
 _private piques_ of a certain half-dozen individuals. Will the Bombay
 Government put all its charges against me in black and white, and
 thus allow me a fair opportunity of clearing myself of my supposed
 delinquencies? Other men--I will merely quote Colonel Greathed and
 Lieut.-Colonel Norman--are permitted to take service in England, and
 yet to retain their military service in India.

 "In the time of the Court of Directors, an officer might be serving
 the Foreign Office and India too, as in the case of Lieut.-Colonel
 Hamerton, late Consul at Zanzibar; but since the amalgamation, the
 officers of her Majesty's Indian Army hope that they may take any
 appointment in any part of the world, as a small recompense for their
 losses; _i.e._ supercession and inability to sell their commissions,
 after having paid for steps."

At first he wanted to try me, so he pretended he did not like my going
to Confession, and I used to say, "Well, my religion teaches me that
my first duty is to obey you," and I did not bother to go; so he at
once took off this restraint, and used to send me to Mass, and remind
me of fish-days. It astonished me, the wonderful way he knew our
doctrine, and frequently explained things to me that I did not know
myself. He always wore his medal. I was very much surprised, shortly
after we were married, at my husband giving me £5. Whilst he had been
away one of my brothers had met with a sudden death; his horse had
fallen on him and crushed him in a moment. He said, "Take this and
have Masses said with it for your poor brother." I only thought then
what generosity and what good taste it was. He was always delighted
with the society of priests--not so much foreign priests, as English
ones--especially if he got hold of a highly educated, broad theologian
of a Jesuit; but in all cases he was most courteous to _any_ of them,
and protected them and their Missions whenever he was in a position to
do so. Once he went with me to a midnight Mass, and he cried all the
time. I could not understand it, and he said he could not explain it
himself. I had no idea then that he had ever been once received into
our Church in India. He _always_ bowed his head at "Hallowed be Thy
Name," and he did that to the day of his death.

[Sidenote: _Delightful Days at Country Houses._]

We passed delightful days at country houses, notably at Lord Houghton's
(Fryston), where, at his house in the country, and his house in Brook
Street, and at Lord Strangford's house in Great Cumberland Place, we
met all that was worth meeting of rank and fashion, beauty and wit, and
_especially_ all the most talented people in the world. I can shut my
eyes and mentally look round his (Lord Houghton's) large round table
even _now_, which usually held twenty-five guests. I can see Buckle,
and Carlyle, and all the Kingsleys, and Swinburne, and Froude, and all
the great men that were, and many that are, for the last thirty-two
years, and remember a great deal of the conversation. But I am not here
to describe them, but to give a description of Richard Burton. I can
remember the Due d'Aumale cheek by jowl with Louis Blanc. The present
Lord Houghton, and his two sisters, Lady Fitzgerald and the Hon. Mrs.
Henniker, were babes in the nursery. I can remember the good old times
in the country, at Fryston, where breakfast was at different little
round tables, so people came down when they liked, and sat at one or
another, and he would stroll from one table to another, with a book
in his hand. Swinburne was then a boy, and had just brought out his
"Queen Mother Rosamund," and Lord Houghton brought it up to us, saying,
"I bring you this little book, because the author is coming here this
evening, so that you may not quote him as an absurdity to himself." I
can remember Vambéry telling us Hungarian tales, and I can remember
Richard cross-legged on a cushion, reciting and reading "Omar el
Khayyám" alternately in Persian and English, and chanting the call to
prayer, "Allahhu Akbar."

My Society recollections, my happy days, are all of the pleasantest
and most interesting. The evil day came far too soon; this was a large
oasis of seven months in my life, and even if I had had no other it
would have been worth living for. We went down to Worthing to my
family, where we passed a very happy time, and he here gave me a proof
of affection which I shall never forget. He had gone to see his cousin,
Samuel Burton, at Brighton, and had promised to be back by the last
train, but he did not make his appearance. I was in a dreadful state of
mind lest anything should have happened to him. He arrived about one in
the morning, pale and worn out. He had gone to sleep in the train, and
had been carried some twenty miles away from Worthing. He could get no
kind of conveyance, being in the night; so, inquiring in what direction
Worthing lay, and settling the matter by a pocket compass, he started
across country, and between a walk and a sort of long trot, from nine
to one, he reached me, instead of waiting, as another man would have
done, till the next morning for a train back.

[Sidenote: _Richard goes to West Africa._]

I shall never forget when the time came to part, and I was to go to
Liverpool to see him off, for he would not allow me to accompany him
till he had seen what Fernando Po was like. It was in August, 1861,
when we went down to Liverpool, and we were very sad, because he
was not going to a Consulate where we could hope to remain together
as a _home_. It was a deadly climate, and we were always going to
be climate-dodging. I was to go out, not now, but later, and then,
perhaps, not to land, and to return and ply up and down between
Madeira and Teneriffe and London, and I, knowing he had Africa at his
back, was in a constant agitation for fear of his doing more of these
Explorations into unknown lands. There were about eighteen men (West
African merchants), and everybody took him away from me, and he had
made me promise that if I was allowed to go on board and see him off,
that I would not cry and unman him. It was blowing hard and raining;
there was one man who was inconsiderate enough to accompany and stick
to us the whole time, so that we could not exchange a word (how I hated
him!). I went down below and unpacked his things and settled his cabin,
and saw to the arrangement of his luggage. My whole life and soul was
in that good-bye, and I found myself on board the tug, which flew
faster and faster from the steamer. I saw a white handkerchief go up
to his face. I then drove to a spot where I could see the steamer till
she became a dot.

    "Fresh as the first beam
    Glittering on a sail,
    Which brings our friends up
    From the under world;
    Sad as the last, which reddens over one,
    That sinks with all we love below the verge."

Here I give Richard's description of going out, read later--

 "A heart-wrench--and all is over. Unhappily I am not one of those
 independents who can say, _Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coûte_.

 "Then comes the first nightfall on board outward-bound, the saddest
 time that the veteran wanderer knows. Saadi the Persian, one of the
 best travellers,--he studied books for thirty years, did thirty of
 _wanderjahre_, and for thirty wrote and lived in retirement--has
 thus alluded to the depressing influence of what I suppose may
 philosophically be explained by an absence of Light-stimulus or
 Od-force--

    'So yearns at eve's soft tide the heart,
    Which the wide wolds and waters part
    From all dear scenes to which the soul
    Turns, as the lodestone seeks its pole.'

 "We cut short the day by creeping to our berths, without even a
 'nightcap,' and we do our best to forget ourselves, and everything
 about us."

[1] "Aussitôt qu'un malheur nous arrive il se recontre toujours un ami
prêt à venir nous le dire et à nous fouiller le cœur avec un poignard
en nous faisant admirer le manche."--BALZAC. This friend I had, but--

    "There are no tricks in plain and simple Faith."--_Julius Cæsar_, iv. ii.

I received only four lines in the well-known hand by post from
Zanzibar--no letter.

      TO ISABEL.

    "That brow which rose before my sight,
      As on the palmers' holy shrine;
    Those eyes--my life was in their light;
      Those lips my sacramental wine;
    That voice whose flow was wont to seem
      The music of an exile's dream."

I knew then it was all right.

[2] My mother was one of the best and cleverest of women--a queenly
woman in manners and appearance (people who have been much at Courts
have told me that they always felt as if they were in Royal presence
when with her). She had a noble heart and disposition, was generous to
a fault, and was exceedingly clever. She was, at the time I write of,
still a worldly woman of strong brain, of hasty temper, bigoted, and a
Spartan with the elder half of her brood. We trembled before her, but
we adored her, and we never got over her death in 1872.



CHAPTER XVI.

WEST COAST OF AFRICA--RICHARD'S FIRST CONSULATE.


In his "Wanderings in West Africa" (2 vols.