CHAPTER XV.

AT MONTREUX.

On the 2nd of January, 1889, we moved ourselves to the Hôtel des Alpes at Montreux. The journey is only an hour. It was bitterly cold, but the temperature rose fourteen degrees on the way. Here we had a delightful time, excursioning to the Château de Chillon, to Hôtel Biron, to Villeneuve, les Avants, three thousand feet high, Mont-Fleurie, Glion, etc. But our favourite place seemed to be St. Maurice, where we had several delightful days in the valley of the Rhone, but one particularly to be remembered. Abbé Stercky went with us. He is one of the monks, was Curé of Aigle, and Richard liked him. The little inn is cosy, with its good Dalmatian proprietor, who kept a cheerful room, a blazing wood fire, a capital good breakfast, and a good bottle of Dôle de Valais. We passed a good deal of time in the monastery.

It is the oldest Augustinian monastery in the world, and having Abbé Stercky with us, we saw all the treasures--gold, silver, gems, and onyx treasures from Charlemagne and St. Louis of France; they, and also manuscripts and old books, were shown to us by a gentlemanly and polished monk, Père Bourbord, otherwise they are generally shown by a surly monk, who does not let you see anything. There were a number of very charming people stopping at the hotel, which was crowded for the winter. We all fraternized, and we had extensive afternoon receptions and tea-fights, and in the evenings we all used to contribute something to the amusements--who could sing, sang; who could recite, recited; who could tell stories of foreign lands, did so, and also ghost-stories; and there was music and dancing and acting galore, also theatricals and a musical drill beautifully performed. It was a charming hotel, with every accommodation, plenty of places for smoking, and Richard used to enjoy it thoroughly, parties of men flocking around him.

On the 22nd, our wedding-day, everybody was so good to us; there were presents, and flowers, and little speeches. I got quite choky, and Richard ran away and locked himself up. The next day we gave a big tea-fight, and enjoyed it very much. Richard had now a little return of the gout attack, but it passed off in a few days. The evenings were lovely. I can remember one, nay, many evenings, with a clear sky, the mountain of snow standing out like a vision, lit by a lovely crescent moon and large evening star.

At Chillon we saw the room where Miss Sterling, of the Salvation Army, was imprisoned for talking religion to the children. She had written on the walls, and we often revisited the chapel where so many have suffered.

On the 28th (January) Richard got a letter announcing the death of one of our friends, Mr. Paul Bird; and on the 29th, Carlo Pellegrini.

On the 5th of February came Mr. Lorie, painter, from Egypt.

We were very disappointed to find the Archbishop Mermillod had left for Cannes, being very ill, as I had known him since 1858.

[Sidenote: _M. Elisée Réclus_.]

Here we had the pleasure of a visit from the famous Elisée Réclus: _homme de lettres_ and geographer is, perhaps, his right description, but as an Agnostic he stands out a little far; even the Sacrament of Matrimony is, they say, prohibited in his family. I was very anxious to give him a cordial reception, as he interested Richard and all of us immensely. His opinions coincided with the following, taken from Mrs. Bennett-Edwards' "Unwritten Law"--

"'Legalized marriage is tyranny--the tyranny of the Law and of the Church over the privacy of the individual. I will have no son and no daughter of mine a slave. If the result of a man's or a woman's life be moral--if it produce good, not evil, to the society--by what right does any Law or any Church interfere to regulate it? Wait,' he said to us; 'do nothing hastily that you may repent later. Wait until your characters and tastes be formed by your experience; and then, if you find them suitable one with the other, take up your lives together, that together you may reach the goal which I have set you--to the bettering, by example, of your fellow-men. Teach them that love, which means unity, is stronger to bind man to woman than any law; that a man's or a woman's honour is stronger to compel faith than any religious superstitions.'"

At the hour appointed the door was thrown open, and an announcement was made, which I did not hear, but I immediately left my armchair and my book, and walked over with both hands extended, saying, "Dear Monsieur Réclus, I am so delighted to make your acquaintance; such a pleasure to know such a distinguished man." He received my little speech with profuse bows and cordial thanks, and then pulling a key out of his pocket, he proceeded to wind the clocks. I felt a little surprised, but I thought it was perhaps another of the great man's peculiarities, so I went on talking to him the while, telling him how glad my husband would be to talk geography and science over with him, when the door opened, and a loud voice announced Monsieur Elisée Réclus. I picked myself up in a minute, and immediately performed the same ceremony as before. The clock-winder behaved so beautifully; he never moved a muscle of his face, and when he had finished his work, went out with a lovely bow. This episode delighted Richard and Dr. Baker.

On the 31st of January we had the report of poor Prince Rudolf's death; it threw a gloom over everything. On the 13th arrived Mr. Gustave Oppenheim, an old friend.

[Sidenote: _Our Swiss Outing_.]

When Richard had had enough of Montreux, we moved on to Lausanne. All came to see us off, and we wondered how many of us would meet again. Here we found Colonel Abbadie, Dr. Baker's mother and sister, Marc Dufour, a celebrated oculist and philanthropist, and Abbé Deruaz. We drove about immensely, sometimes to Ouchy, and a very interesting excursion was going to see Voltaire's house, Mont Morion, occupied by Dr. and Mrs. Niven, whom we knew at Matharan, in India. We also had the pleasure of meeting there the Rev. H. B. Chapman, Father Damien's friend.

On the 25th we went off to Berne to see Mr. and Mrs. Scott, our Minister. It was looking very picturesque and beautiful; the Hôtel Belle Vue comfortable, with lovely views. It was very cold, covered with snow, and the air dry and crisp; in fact, everything was a "Snow Hell." The weather did not hurt Richard; he completely changed. Since Richard had been ill, he was quite a different man to what he had been previously in tastes and feelings. Whereas before he was always cold, and would have fires in the height of summer, now in the bitterest weather a fire in his room made him sick. He would now eat sweet things and drink milk, which in his stronger days he could not look at. He slept, instead of whole nights of insomnia, though often not as well as one could wish. He liked the world and company, whereas before he had shunned the general run of society, and in many other ways was quite different.

At Berne he saw a unique Swiss sword. Swords were looked for at every place, so we went straight to an antiquarian, who showed us some iron blades, metal scabbards, and arabesque spear-heads. Monsieur de Montêt's brother, Emanuel, a banker, called and showed us the lions. We were now reading the "Service of Man" by James Carter Morison.

It was now that we returned, 1st of March, 1889, to Lucerne, which was another "Snow Hell." We went to the Hôtel Nationale, the only place open, had lovely rooms and good fires, but the rest of it deserved all Richard said of it a while ago.

On the 4th we rose early, quite well, and made all ready to go, and having an hour to wait, sat down to enjoy the fire, when all of a sudden I got an aching in every bone, a bad rash came out, and faint, cold down the spine, hot and cold, nausea; could do nothing but rock and groan, and groaned and rocked the whole eight hours to Milan. I did not know it then, but I know it now, by three subsequent experiences, that I had a sharp attack of influenza, but we did not talk so much about this epidemic in 1889. It was a great mortification that I had to be several days in bed, as one of my cousins and some others were waiting to do a very nice expedition, which I should have thoroughly enjoyed, and had to let them go without me. There was one fortunate thing, that when I was ill, Richard was well; and if he was down, I was always perfectly well and able.

On the 10th we went down to Venice, to the Hôtel Victoria, where we were put in big, damp, dark rooms like catacombs; and on the 12th arrived at Trieste, where I was very weak for a long time.

[Sidenote: _Trieste again_.]

On the 30th we accompanied Prince and Princess Victor Von Hohenlöhe and daughter to the _Ungaria_ for Corfú.

On the 22nd of March, he regrets the death of Lady Arnold, on March the 15th--"grieved for the poet's sake;" and also Miss Whately, of Egypt, whom we knew.

We now had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Jokai, the Hungarian novelist, who came to Miramar to consult the Archduchess Stephanie about Prince Rudolf's work, which was to come out in fifteen volumes for the people.

On the 13th of April I wrote a petition for the children of the Orphanage of St. Joseph (the one that Richard and I were interested in), and we put down our names for a hundred florins, and promised them a life-sized statue of their patron saint.

We had, as usual, our servants' party, which they keep very much as they would in England, only they are very witty when drinking toasts in improvising verses on names.

On the 10th of April he remarks the death of Father Damien.

Though I little contemplated the great catastrophe and break-up of my life in 1890, but with a view to leaving Trieste in July, 1891, I began to wish to collect all possible reminiscences of the home I loved so well. One of the visitors to our Trieste home wrote me: "I think of you so very often, and your lovely home on the shores of the Adriatic, with its rich treasures of mind and heart. It stands out before me like a lighthouse on the sea of life, pointing onwards, upwards, to a higher, nobler state of existence, to which I shall try to reach." These words, which have been differently expressed to me in many different languages, and in this particular case coming from one "who had almost," she says, "lost faith in God," inspire me with great gratitude to God, and make me wish to perpetuate it in oil-painting reminiscences, that it may become part of our lives in our future more prosaic London home.

I now selected from among other artists Mr. Albert Letchford, a young painter of great talent, who had studied in Paris and painted in Egypt, and who began to paint for me, on the 10th of May, the four views from our windows, nine of our favourite "interiors" of rooms, including Richard studying in his bedroom. After that he painted my husband for the Stanley Exhibition, and one life-size, fencing, which I now exhibit in the Grosvenor Gallery.

At this time there occurred the strikes in Austrian-Lloyd's which agitated the country very much, and we expected a revolution, which did not happen. We had also a visit from Count Téleki, who had made his splendid African journey, which was most interesting. On the 12th of May we had a delightful sea-trip to Parenzo with friends (Baron Marco Morpurgo, the then great banker and Director of Lloyd's, and his wife, the best friends Richard and I ever had in Trieste). The object was to visit the old Cathedral of Parenzo, a complicated mixture of most ancient Byzantine, Roman, Grecian, and Venetian. It has three depths of old floors quite distinct. We went over to Duino to stay with the Princess Hohenlöhe and Princess Taxis, a two hours' drive from Trieste, which was our favourite visit in the neighbourhood. We had the pleasure of receiving Count von Würmbrandt, the Governor of Styria, Baron Spaun, and Admiral Sterneck; this was followed by festivities for the Archduke Otto and the Archduchess, and Archduke Leopold. On that occasion Richard was allowed to go out in the evening to the Morpurgos' _fête_.

Sometimes our drives were varied by delightful little sea-trips.

On the 13th of June, going up to Opçina, our horses enacted the same scene as that which happened at Sauerbrunn in 1887. On the 29th of June we were very sorry to lose our nicest English neighbours and friends, Mr. and Mrs. Craig. In June also Richard felt sadly the death of Professor Chandler.

On the 1st of July, 1889, we went back to Adelsburg, where the air was cold, and it was delightful to have no mosquitoes. General Buckle accompanied us on this excursion. On the 2nd we had frightful storms, the lightning striking seven or eight times just about the house. The Caves by this time were quite spoiled by the electric light. We were able to save a poor dog that had been shot into an abyss by some cruel people, and Richard moralizes in his journal, "What had that dog done to be saved? It was ten thousand chances to one, against any one caring for his cries, and getting him out of that abyss by lowering men with ropes, which seemed impossible."[1]

We had a delightful drive to Planina. As usual, in spite of all evidences of a most healthy place, we got very sick, and so we went on, on the 8th to Graz, a delightful central place in Austria, the paradise of poor aristocracy, and retired military and naval "swells." From here we went over to Tobelbad, where we found some very dear Austrian friends; but Tobelbad is in a hole, and we found it so unhealthy, that we were glad to get to the top of a hill to breathe, and drove back to Graz. A Baron von Ponte Reno, one of our young friends, just about to be married, died a few days later. Here we had the pleasure of seeing a great deal of Professor Schuhardt; it was so hot we could not breathe. After a great many excursions we went on to Mürzüschlag, which is the station at the bottom of the Semmering, on the Südbahn line in Austria. It was a curious season. The heat, or reports of cholera, had driven every soul out of the towns to the mountains, and one could not get a bed for love nor money, and so the Erzherzog Johann Hotel was what the Austrians, with their delicacy and kindness, called Sehr Primitif, which meant "devoid of all the necessaries of life;" but the air was delicious. We looked everywhere, at Spital two hours away, and up and down the Semmering, at all the hotels, first the station, then Stephanie Gast-Haus, then Johann, and Panhaus the highest, then the Südbahn's Semmering, and two dependencies, one of which we liked the best. We reposed on a turf full of ants, and got back to the station to Mürzüschlag.

I immediately took a carriage, and drove up to Lambach Hotel, on an eminence above the town. It was delightfully situated, only it was full. Splendid air, beautiful views, only all the rooms were occupied except one; so I put Richard and Dr. Baker into that, and Lisa and I went down to a sort of outhouse, where we had a little room leading out of the carriage stable, which was bounded on one side by the pigs, another side by the wash-house, and so on; but even these discomforts, and some of them were very ludicrous, had their compensations. Baron Kremer (and his wife), one time Finance Minister at Vienna and _homme de lettres_, and Sir Arthur and Lady Nicholson were in the hotel. From here we made an excursion to Reichenau. On the 31st we went to Neuberg, and visited the old Cistercian Monastery and Cathedral, and the Emperor's shooting-box. It is a romantic little wayside inn, with a running stream and a mill-wheel. On the 2nd we had a delightful journey from Neuberg, past Frein and Fohenwerk, to Maria-Zell, which is the Lourdes of Austria.

[Sidenote: _Maria-Zell--Austrian Lourdes_.]

Maria-Zell is placed on a mountain-side--not in a valley, as Murray has it--and the Church and Monastery are on an elevated plateau in its midst. It is 2900 feet high by the aneroid. The air is delicious, the climate is dry; there is a feeling of elevation, of being able to breathe, and of looking on an equality with the mountain-tops on all sides--where the clouds, storms, and winds would meet in bad weather. It is an eight hours' drive--and even a difficult and dangerous drive--from any town. You must not want society; you must not fret your heart out after your letters, nor expect to find books or papers; your resources must be within yourself, and whatever you want you may bring with you. You may even bring your tub. There are no doctors; but there is an apothecary's shop, which I suspect must be a gift of the Emperor to the pilgrims, as it is a miniature copy of the Hof-Apotheke at Vienna. The town itself is not a town, and not a village; but, if I may say so, a religious market town. Here we found the sword of Ludwig the Great, first King of Hungary. This is the Lourdes of Austria, and the Cathedral and Monastery are _everything_. The shops and the houses and the forty-six inns of various degrees are to serve _it_.

We lodged in the best, close to the church, the Goldenen Löwen, kept by a very dear old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Zimmerman, of seventy and seventy-five years of age, who have known much better days, and are patronized by the Austro-Hungarian aristocracy, as they once owned the Erzherzog Karl Hotel in Vienna; but they lost £40,000 in the _krach_ at the Vienna Exhibition, and came here. They are most attentive and kind, and treated us with the old chivalrous politeness of bygone days. Everything was the pink of cleanliness; she knew so well what one wanted, and how to make one comfortable. The holy shops run in a horseshoe circle round the Cathedral, where you buy all kinds of religious _bric-à-brac_, and get it blessed. The Church is very large, and would take too long to describe; there is a special inner sanctuary for the celebrated Madonna and Child, whose history is long. Our great amusement was watching the processions of pilgrims, which interests you very much for a time; there were endless streams flowing from every part of Austria, and many of them would begin at the bottom step, and go all round the church on their knees--a most exhausting process.

It is a charming place, and we stayed here a fortnight. It seemed to be the only place where one could get beds. We had delightful drives to Erlach, Grimau, and Sigismund's Chapel. At first Richard was not very well, which made one anxious, but afterwards it passed off. There is a Calvary to ascend, and a spring for sore eyes. But I do not describe Maria-Zell at length, because the descriptions at Lourdes must fully explain it; only that, ours being in the wilds, the processions and the people were of a far more picturesque nature, and that of Lourdes is well regulated, everything being cut and dried for the pilgrims.

[Sidenote: _Semmering_.]

At last we heard there was room on the Semmering, so we left Maria-Zell at eight a.m. There are no trains; the roads are like footpaths over rugged mountains, with precipices here and there. In four hours we reached Frein, where we found food, and Richard slept for two hours; then we had two hours' more driving, and reached Neuberg. But our former picturesque little post-hotel was full, Lady Nicholson and her children occupying a great part of it, so we got primitive accommodation at a little public-house, where, however, we were consoled by Lady Nicholson's coming over to dine with us; and of the beds, the less I say the better. To get at the promised accommodation at the Semmering, we had to pass two pleasant hours at Mürzüschlag station, where we had a capital breakfast, and again met the Baron von Kremer, who accompanied us to the Semmering on his way to Vienna. We never saw him again. He died shortly after, and left a desolate wife.

We found this place delightful, a _dépendance_ of the Südbahn Hotel, Semmering, with glorious views, delicious air, very fair food, and, above all, quiet; full of Austrians, Hungarians, and Jews. Here we got a startling letter from the Foreign Office to Richard, wanting to know why he had had so much leave, although they had told him to take it. It agitated him, and hurt him. Our delightful drives here were to Maria-Schütze, another smaller pilgrimage place, like Maria-Zell, but with only a small village, one shop and one inn. Snow fell upon the Schneeberg--this was always a signal for Richard not being very well; but these little attacks of gout came and passed quickly. He did not get on well here, so we made up our minds to leave on the twelfth day. The fact is, the Foreign Office letter had worried him, and made him anxious to get back to Trieste; so we went up to Vienna.

Sir Augustus and Lady Paget were absent, but the secretaries, Mr. Phipps, Lord Royston, and Mr. Maude, dined with us, where we soon had a nice little society round us, and of literary people, Dr. and Madame de Griez, Mr. Brinsley Richards and his wife, Mr. Gibbs, Mr. Lavino of the _Daily Telegraph_, and, last but not least, Major and Mrs. Keith Fraser. We drove to Karlenberg, and that evening Richard broke out with gout. Dr. Baker telegraphed to England for some particular medicines, and they arrived by immediate post; but we were not allowed by law to have them, for the protection of the native chemist, so we had them sent back to Trieste. Disheartened, we determined to leave; but first we visited the tomb of Prince Rudolf. Many were passing down into the vaulted chamber where the sarcophagus lies. It was very, very cold and dark, and it made us so melancholy to think what he had thrown away in one moment.

[Sidenote: _Home again_.]

The next evening we left by the night express, and arrived at Trieste at ten next morning. How nice it is to arrive at home!

On the 8th of September he deplores the death of Wilkie Collins; and on Friday, the 13th, the death of George Elliott Ranken, and Lady Holland, at seventy-eight.

Here Richard got well very quick. Mr. Joyner, C.E., from Poonah, India, paid us a visit, whom we had not seen for thirteen years. He was not in the least changed. We had a fearful storm, of rain, hail, thunder, lightning, and wind, which smashed twelve of our windows. H.M.S. _Scout_ came in, Captain Conybeare, Lieutenants Torlesse and Carr; and we had the pleasure of receiving some of the officers for a few days. It always did Richard so much good seeing his countrymen from home. He had to have a small operation performed on the 7th of October, after which we went up to the mountains for quiet and rest. The _Scout_ steamed out on the 10th, and we waved a flag from the roof, which they could see with glasses. We all got rheumatism, and went down again shortly. On the 22nd of October Richard had to be worried with another second small operation. I told the operator to be as gentle as he could, as Richard was in a very nervous state, and he would hardly believe me, he looked so well and strong; but he told me afterwards that he found out that it was so. Dr. Baker found him a very clever man, and what he had to do, was done as painlessly and as quickly as possible; and Richard was well enough to entertain our dear friend Alexander Thayer, ex-Consul-General of the United States (who dined with us regularly once a week), on his seventy-second birthday, which occurred the same evening, a few hours after the operation. We had several friends, who each had their day to either breakfast or dine with us. It was a custom always kept up.

On the 25th of October he got a second curious official letter from the Foreign Office about not giving his Vice-Consul sufficient money. (He was giving him £350 a year, and the Embassy would have sent down anybody for that.) He was very angry, and reduced it in consequence. A third time the Foreign Office worried Richard with writing that he had been in England, which he had not, and was again angry. In fact, there seemed to be a dead set against him during August and October, 1889.

On the 15th of November we embarked for Brindisi in the Austrian-Lloyd _Ettore_. Crowds of friends came to see us off, with flowers. She was a long, narrow ship, powerful screw, and very much lumbered up; but there was no Austrian-Lloyd's on which we should not have found ourselves at home. There was a heavy ground swell later on, and a good wind. A moorhen was blown on board, and I kept her till the ship was close to the marshes. We landed the next night at Brindisi, after thirty-one hours' passage, and heavy gales came on, and we had to stay there several days for our steamer on to Malta. However, Captain Osborne, mail-agent, and Mr. David Low, P. and O. agent, kept us alive. We saw everything there was to be seen all around. At Brindisi we visited Virgil's house, upon which they are building a new one.

We visited the Churches, the Column, and the Castle. The Cathedral has a silver altar behind the boards, and dates from earliest Christianity: the priests say that St. Peter was here, but not St. Paul. The town reminds us of Tangier--it has something Spanish, Moorish, and Venetian about it; but with all that it is common. There are two Calvaries, and there is a little old Basilica of San Giovanni, the oldest church here, which belonged to the Templars, and is now a little locked-up museum of antiquities. It contains antique stones and inscriptions. The marble column near the Cathedral was set up by one Lupus Propaspata, of the eleventh century; it is fifty feet high, and the capital decorated with sea-monsters. The broken one near it seems to have formed part of a Roman temple.

The Great East India Hotel is like a caravanserai; the harbour is full of steamers, of which the P. and O.'s are kings, and are always in-pouring and out-pouring their wonderful and amusing contents into the hotel, for a few hours. We got off on the 24th in the P. and O. _Rosetta_, had a beautiful passage, arriving at Malta next day, after a twenty-nine hours' passage. I was glad to find that Richard was never the worse for the sea. We were afraid lest the shaking might affect his head, but providentially the whole of that winter, unlike the last sea voyage, we were only five hours in heavy weather.

MALTA.

Richard knew Malta well, but neither Dr. Baker nor I had ever seen it. We went to the Royal Hotel, "Cini's," where we remained twenty-three days. During this November, we were greatly interested in, and dreadfully shocked at the conduct of the Brazilians to their Emperor. We passed here a most enjoyable month, and found a very charming society, receiving the hospitality of Admiral Sir Anthony and Lady Hoskins (the Admiral of the station), and Admiral and Mrs. Buller (Port-Admiral), Lady Dingli, Mrs. Walter Strickland (whose husband was my cousin), father and mother of Count Strickland, also another cousin, Father Hornyold, S.J., the Provincial of the Jesuit College, and no end of friends in the Navy. We thought both Valetta and Sliema were very romantic. This is not the place certainly to describe Malta at great length, firstly, because it would take too much space away from Richard, and secondly, because most people know it. Mrs. Strickland gave a big lunch in our honour, to make us acquainted with all the great Maltese families. We had the honour of a visit from Prince Louis of Battenberg, and, I think, not the most uninteresting morning was one that we passed with Mr. Harry of "The Palms," an Englishman who has been settled there for a long time, and who is a wonderful collector of curios, and passionately attached to his flowers. Once, when I made a visit, there was a little hesitation, so I said to the servant, "Oh, don't go up; I am afraid ---- may be taking a siesta." "Oh no, my lady!" he said, looking quite shocked, as if he thought it was something to drink.

Richard was writing his Catullus at this time.

During our twenty-three days we got quite a large acquaintance--General and Mrs. Wilkie, Acting-Governor (Sir Henry Torrens, the Governor, died in England at this time), Mr. and Mrs. Worthington, a very charming Miss Fanny Portelli Carbone, Lieutenant Carr of the _Scout_, Archdeacon Hardy and his family, Mr. Mandeville-Ellis, whom we had known before, and no end of officers of the army and navy, who were also kind and hospitable. Lieutenant Carr and Lieutenant Savory gave us a charming lunch on board the _Hibernia_. It is hardly necessary to say that we visited the Barracca and the Armoury, under Richard's guidance, who knew Malta so well. Richard went to the Armoury, and longed to rearrange the whole hall. He inspected all the swords very rigidly, saw Dragut's blade, battle-axes--said all the swords were mixed, and were mostly Toledos with no dates to them. He said, "I am much disgusted by the quantity of 'rot,' and they have very probably thrown away their best specimens." Dr. Baker kodak'd one hilt for him. Then we passed a great deal of time in St. John's, the great Templars' Church.

The most interesting thing of all is Fort St. Elmo, with its chapel, its views, and its guns. It was in this chapel that the last little remnant of the starving, emaciated Templars, who knew they could hold out no longer against the besiegers, assembled to hear Mass and receive Communion before their last fight. The _ossuario_ is at the Capucini; there are forty embalmed monks, and one chapel all of bones and skulls, which was very interesting. The Governor's palace is also worth seeing. At Citta Vecchia is a very interesting visit to St. Paul's, and the grotto of St. Paul's, where you see a statue life-size in the middle of the cave, carved of marble, and for a moment looking almost real: also a new Roman villa, quite Pompeian, but with coarser mosaics: the view, and the gateway, where is an old statue of Juno; last, and not least, a Maltese woman named Farujea, who makes gaudy mule-cloths, and, if you give her a large enough order, will make them at seven shillings a pair, three yards long, for which you give a much larger price in Malta. At a church called Santa Maria di Gesù, in Valetta, there is a crucifix, which has a legend that the poor man who made it did not know how to carve the face, and that an angel carved it for him; but I think the work was too bad to have been the angel's. There are any amount of churches. There is Vittoria, a very old Templar church, and the Canonesses of St. Ursula, which is evidently a sister house of our Canonesses of the Holy Sepulchre, New Hall, Chelmsford, Essex. There is the Jesuit College with about six hundred boys. Father Hornyold shows you what good little Englishmen they are training. There is the big 110-gun at Sliema.

On one drive Richard descended to Marsa; found women fishing and rowing, and men mending nets. There he found one Phœnician tank, and one Phœnician temple.

Though everything here, between the walls, looks like rock and ivory, on a slight coating of fertile soil grow fruit and flowers, and world-wide-famed potatoes. The streets are lively; the vehicles are very small, very high up, very uncomfortable, on four wheels, and are called _carrozzellas_. They are covered with an ornamented tarpaulin, and curtains for need. Their drivers look ruffians. The horses are small and strong, and though their lives appear to be of the hardest, they look mostly fat and well-kept. Many come seven miles into town with a lot of peasants, work all day, and go back with their load at night. The streets are all the steepest possible, up and down hill; they have no break, and if you stop at a house, the horse has to keep the full carriage back with his body. They ought to wear out very soon. The horse gets dry clover in the morning, a midday meal of bread, which the driver pulls out from under the seat and cuts up for him, and at night beans. The only real cruelty I saw was, that as they dare not flog or maltreat, they have sharp-pointed things concealed in their hands, and when no one is looking they drive them into tender places, chiefly to the beasts of burden and under the harness, and the loads look large.

Our hotel, Michael Cini, Royal Hotel, had good clean rooms, baths, good food and wine, reasonable prices, very attentive, and the best situation. I thought all the other hotels horrid. The women of the higher class wear a black silk dress, and a black silk mantle called _faldetta_, stiffened round the head, caught up at one side in pleats like a fan or shell; they look very pretty in it, and like coquettish nuns. The lower orders go barefoot, with their shabby dress short in front, and a train sweeping the street behind, and a shabby _faldetta_. Valetta is the centre, but Malta is divided into several suburbs with other towns, or dependencies--Floriana, Vittoriosa, and Senglea across the harbour, Sliema and Citta Vecchia; four smaller ones are Crendi, Macluba, Hagiar-Khem, Mniadra; and Gozo, a separate but smaller island. The most impressive thing that I saw to my mind in Malta was a military funeral--the reversed arms; the "Dead March" by the band; the slow swaying march of the soldiers; the respectful salute of every soldier as it passed the ramparts crowded with red-coats; the body on a gun-carriage, covered with the Union Jack, so solemn, so respectful as it should be, so different to Continental funerals.

We had been intending to go on Thursday, the 12th of December, and I here got a slight return of the sickness that I had in Lucerne last year, but nothing like so heavy, and Richard also had a little gout. There was only a ship once a week to take us to Tunis, so Richard was anxious to go all weathers, the sailing-time eleven o'clock. That morning the gales were dreadful, the sea mountains high; he called out to me, "It is fine enough to go." "Very well," I said, with an eternal quake, feeling so ill. Presently a message was sent up from the office to say that the weather was as bad as could be. There was a little hesitation on his part; still preparations went on. About an hour later came a second message from the agents, "The steamer had broken her moorings and had gone aground; no passengers were going, the hurricane was bad; should we mind transferring our tickets?" Richard looked out, and saw the sea was mountains high, wind howling, the rain like buckets. I shall never forget the joy with which I bolted into bed to nurse my sickness.

On Friday, the 13th of December, he deplores the death of Robert Browning.

Having taken leave of all our kind friends, we embarked on the 19th of December on the good ship _St. Augustine_, a French trans-atlantique. The going out was exceedingly interesting, and very rough. Malta seems to collect round it a regular swirl of bad weather, wind, rain, mist, steam, fog-clouds, and heavy swell round her like a mantle, but you have to stand out to sea to perceive it. Richard and I planted ourselves against a mast, to get the last view of Malta, but our feet were so frequently up in the air, and the stern of the boat hiding all view, that after a while we had to give it up. It gives you the impression of a huge sand-coloured rock rising out of the sea, and being covered with houses of the same colour. It might be a huge ivory toy carved for a museum. You are impressed by the immense ramparts, bastions, and guns everywhere; by the deep moats--one 950 yards long, 55 deep, and 30 wide--and its drawbridges. You feel its immense strength, its English solidity, the difficulty an enemy would have to take it. If you are an exile, your heart is cheered by the sight of the dozen men-of-war in harbour, and the five or six regiments, and the heights covered with the red-coats of our own nation. The natives have a superstition that Malta is like a large mushroom in the sea, and the waves perpetually beating against the stem will one day break it, and Malta will sink. We had a nineteen hours' run to Tunis, and the sea slowed down after five or six hours.

[Sidenote: _Tunis_.]

We had a merry dinner with the French officers, and a quiet night. The cabins were unendurable as to size--beds four feet nothing and very hard, no sitting or lounging places. If we had had very bad weather, I am afraid we should have suffered very much. The next day we were also fortunate, for, arriving at Tunis--landing at Tunis is not a delight--ships lie out half a mile distant, and in heavy weather I should think it would be very difficult; a steam-launch comes off and takes you and your little traps and puts you down in a shed, then goes off once or twice more for big baggage and goods; then you go to the custom-house to be examined. Here we hire two carriages and put all our baggage, great and small, in it, and tell them to drive it into Tunis. Then proceed ourselves to the little station, and wait one hour for a train, and a half-hour does the eight miles into Tunis station; then you go in a 'bus to the Grand Hôtel. Never go to the Grand Hôtel, only fit for commercial travellers, but go to the Grand Hôtel de Paris--nice rooms, quiet, civil people, reasonable prices. Thus it took five hours from the time of casting anchor to getting housed. I think we enjoyed Tunis the most of all, as it was decidedly the most Oriental.

On December 27th Richard deplores the death of our friend Baron Von Kremer, one of Austria's best Oriental scholars, which reached him on the 1st of January.

Richard got another slight attack of gout, and was a little shaky about the legs, but it soon passed. As soon as Richard improved, we saw everything that was to be seen, made excursions, and passed much time in the bazars. We did not think, however, that Tunis was either as grand or as wild as Damascus, although the French having possessed it for so short a time, it is not quite spoiled as is Algiers.

There are some little Sisters of the Poor, who have a large house a mile out of town over dreadful roads. They are of all nations; there was one American and one English nun. There is the best view of the town and surrounding country, which pleased Richard very much. They keep sixty-five old men and women, mostly incurables. We often went there.

One of our most favourite excursions was to Marsa, to our Consul-General and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Drummond-Hay, son of old Sir John Hay of Marocco. You drive through Napoleonic endless straight roads, through brackish swamps for miles and miles, till you come to the aqueduct and ruins of old Carthage. Large masonry works are still standing; the stones and mortar are very poor. The villa where they live was Sir Richard Wood's; it is semi-Moorish, semi-European, and stands just beyond the ruins. They were just beginning it, and have now made it perfectly beautiful. They are charming people; he quiet and reserved, she affectionate, clever, and lively.

We found here some genial people--Commandant Coyne, a French Arabist; Mr. Seton-Karr, author and traveller; Mr. and Mrs. Pitner, the Austrian Consul-General; and Count Bathyani. We had delightful drives, and Dr. Baker photographed Bedawi in their tents. We often went to Dar el Bey; and the Kasbah, the former palace, has beautiful Moorish rooms, but they are dark and melancholy. The bazars are very nice, but, excepting one or two shops, are not a patch upon Damascus. Our favourite drives were generally round the Arab and the Jewish quarters. We had drives also to Belvedere, where is the military hospital, Ariana, Bardo, and Mamlíf.

Here we were reading "Salammbó," and Mr. Broadley's two excellent volumes on "Tunis and its Conquest."

The most interesting thing was to pass through the Jewish and Mohammedan quarters, so narrow, such types, such smells and sights. Lisa and I used to go to the harems and learn to make Arab dishes. We were also cheered by the arrival of Mr. Terence Bourke, brother of Lord Mayo, who has a delightful Moorish house in the Mohammedan quarter, where he gave us much hospitality. We had charming Arab breakfasts with him. Poor Lisa got the influenza. Influenza was not so much known then--it was only talked of at a distance.

CARTHAGE.

Carthage must be divided into two parts--1. Commercial; 2. Military. The cisterns are Roman, not Punic. There are two roads from Marsa to Carthage. The upper, which we went, a mere track and dangerous, leads to Sidi bin Sa'id, an old church excavated, and the chapel of St. Louis; the lower road is the highway to Goletta. On a bit of ascent to the left, on the Goletta coast, is the palace of Cardinal Lavigérie. Cardinal Lavigérie was trying to make a small Rome at old Carthage; his new Cathedral was of Maltese build--another al Melláhah, surrounded by gardens, with inscriptions on the walls: some five hundred are not yet published. Statues and fragments and everything were plastered on or about the walls, the columns below; a large building underground, temple of Ashman, has very fine masonry. The chapel of St. Louis is small and circular, stands alone, and has one high altar. It contains the tomb of Count de Lesseps, Baron Ferdinand de Lesseps' father, with a big inscription. In the great hall, where you are received, there are numbers of modern pictures; there is a splendid view of the sea, and Cape Bon and Tunis.

The flat below is a mine of antiquities. Old Carthage port, now the quarantine, is much like a natural dock, the entrance silted up. Indeed, it is a beautiful panorama. The museum begins with Italian art, with Bible subjects on one side. On the opposite wall--Pagan subjects--there is a fine collection. Three skeletons are disposed as if in the tomb, and six or seven pots at the head--_fatuæ_ on the right side--and pots at feet sometimes. There are Pagan and Christian mosaics. All the land belongs to the Cardinal, who was the Pope of Carthage. No foreigner could excavate anywhere. There is a huge convent. The monks are all in white, with a big rosary and fez, and are called "Les Pères blancs de la Mission Africaine." There is a convent of Carmelite nuns close by. Carthage runs all along Tania, where mosaics are found. The old sea-walls of the port are behind the present Goletta.

The Fathers were delightful, and showed us everything. The Cardinal, who we were dying to see, was absent. The Cathedral will be very nice when it has toned down; it was at present too gaudy.

There is a big stone near Tunis, very long and slanting; ladies who wish to be pregnant slide down it, so it is worn quite smooth. We made as many excursions into the interior as it was possible, considering the state of Richard's health, but the most difficult thing was how to get from Tunis to Algiers, which, considering the accommodation, was a frightful dilemma. The little coast-steamers are wretched; the weather was very cold, the sea was exceedingly rough, and the possibility of landing, when you do arrive at a port, is always extremely uncertain, on account of the heavy rollers. Hence, should the heavy sea have affected Richard's head by the shaking, we should have had no redress. There was no possible stopping-place for any one by train, who from health motives ought not to rough it. There is, indeed, Souk el Arba, after six hours' train, where there is a tramps' hut (but nothing to eat), at about half-past ten in the day--twenty-four hours to wait for next day's train. There is Ghardimau at 11.45 (the frontier where they visit baggage). There is Souk-Ahras at 2.13, where the country becomes wild and bold. People in health _may_ stop here for the next day's train, but we determined that none of this would do, especially as the carriages are made for hardy Arabs, and not for luxury.

Now, through the immense kindness of the railway director, M. Kœly, I was fortunate enough to secure a saloon, with two benches mattressed and cushioned, where, with railway rugs, four could lie feet to feet, a small but clean toilette, and a curtained terrace, where we put all our little baggage, and Africano, our good dragoman. We left our hotel, and conveyed Richard to the train at 8.30 p.m. overnight, and established ourselves on board our train, because it started at 5.15 in the morning (and a cold January morning), and our hot coffee was brought to us inside by the kindness of the same director. We had all our meals in the train, as we were provided with an ample basket of food, drink, smoke, and books. Richard enjoyed the terrace and watching the country; the air was most exhilarating, and he felt quite well. We should not perhaps have thought so much of the scenery in Austria, but still it was very beautiful. Then it must be remembered that Tunis has only had the advantage, or disadvantage, of eight years of civilization. The difficulties of engineering must have been great, but the train was very well driven, prudently on bad places, and always true to time.

[Sidenote: _Constantine_.]

At Duvivier we were shunted from the Bona to the Kroubs train. It began to get dark. We dined on board, and had a bottle of champagne we had brought with us, and got fearfully tired about eight o'clock in the evening, and lay down. At 8.20 we were shifted from the Kroubs train to the Constantine train, where we arrived at 12.15 in the night, having been out twenty-eight hours and running nineteen; but Richard was the strongest of us all, and none the worse. We drove to the Hôtel du Louvre, and were glad to tumble into bed. We would willingly have stayed here a long time; the hotel was not so bad as its entrance makes you think. It was the healthiest and the most interesting town we had seen. We had to celebrate here our twenty-ninth, and, alas! our last, wedding-day. We passed it in inspecting our surroundings. It is of a peculiar gorgy character, and must have been impregnable in old days. The Devil's Bridge and hot springs are most picturesque. The Arab tents are made of straw, thatch, and dirty rags, and look as if all the rubbish of the world were heaped upon them. The Arabs in this part of the world are big, magnificent-looking men, who make everybody else look small, with white burnous, and have beautiful white teeth. The French very sensibly swagger about, and the troops make a great fanfare of trumpets. The people here are cruel to their donkeys, who seem born to carry loads of stone upon their backs.

[Sidenote: _Sétif_.]

The difficulty now was how to get on from Constantine, which was only halfway to Algiers; for though I did all my best, there were races going on at Biskrah. There was but one saloon, and it was taking the directors down; so as we could only go by the common train, we knew that Richard could not bear anything but a short journey, which would be at first about an eight hours' run to Sétif. The country was a large continuous undulation, and although quite flat _in appearance_, we rose gradually from 2000 to 3500 feet above sea-level, with distant mountains. There were plenty of Bedawi tents and flocks, and two or three buildings shortly after leaving Constantine that looked like a palace in a plain, on a little eminence bare of trees or garden, and two square, large, ugly houses. The Spahis are very picturesque with their many-coloured garments and red cloaks, and have, as well as the Kabyles, beautiful teeth. At Sétif we found the Hôtel de la France comfortable, with fair food. The town is not much to look at, the usual undulating country with good soil, and we passed an agreeable day, chiefly in the market, which was full of picturesque Berbers, who had also some curious things to buy.

[Sidenote: _Bouira_.]

The next day (after forty-eight hours' rest) we did another six hours to Bouira, which is a very picturesque part of the country, especially going through the Gates or Gorges. The little Hôtel de la Poste is no better than a small public-house, but the food was fit for Paris; we always said that that cook must have committed some crime, to go and hide himself in such an awful hole as that. The next day we had a very pleasant journey of eight hours to Algiers. The entry at night reminded us so much of Trieste. From the station to the Hôtel St. George's, Mustafa Supérieure, was an immense long way, but delightful when one got there.

[Sidenote: _Algiers_.]

Algiers is an ideal place to look at; at first Richard was delighted with it, and thought he would end his days there, but in about three weeks he began to change his mind, and said nothing would induce him to have "our cottage" there. For myself, I thought it was the dampest, most neuralgic place I ever was in; but it is very beautiful, superior to Trieste in beauty, the town more elevated, and looking like ivory, as Eastern towns do, but yet like Trieste; and the country green, and picturesque with palms. Here we found delightful society--Sir Lambert and Lady Playfair, Count Bathyani, Mrs. Campbell Praed, the Marquise de Beaufort, Lady Clementina and Mr. Mitford, Lord Carbery, Mrs. and Miss Newton, the Rev. Colin Campbell, Colonel Preston, and a very nice and clever Miss Florence Shakespeare Owens, and many other charming people. Here for the second time a huge glass chandelier fell, nearly cutting the table in two just as we had left our places.

Richard was now invited to the Stanley Exhibition.

_Daily Chronicle_, February 20th.

"SIR RICHARD BURTON AND MR. STANLEY.

"Sir Edward Lee, hon. secretary of the Stanley and African Exhibition to be opened at the Victoria Gallery, has received the following letter from Captain Sir Richard F. Burton, the African Explorer, and her Majesty's Consul at Trieste:--

"Hammam R'irha, February 17th, 1890.

"DEAR SIR EDWARD LEE,

"Your kind invitation to be present at the general meeting for the Stanley and African Exhibition has only just reached me, and the direction will explain the cause of delay. I cannot say how great is my regret at being absent on such an occasion. I should have wished at this and at every other opportunity to express my hearty admiration of all that Stanley has dared and done. He is to me, and always will be, the prince of African travellers.

"I am, dear Sir Edward Lee,

"Yours faithfully,

"RICHARD F BURTON."

[Sidenote: _Hammám R'irha_.]

On the 16th of February we started for one of the greatest humbugs in the world, the baths at Hammám R'irha, passing Blidah, where there is a wonderful gorge, and archæological remains. There is a wretched little station called Bou Medfa, where a tumbledown little 'bus, only good enough for luggage, awaits passengers; but fortunately we got a _calèche_, two good horses, and a pleasant Jehu, and we had a long drive through cold, raw, snowy air (in February). At first we had a glorious day, splendid weather, and a beautiful view for distance. We stayed here a week, during which it did nothing afterwards but pour with rain, and a walk put you almost knee-deep in thick red clay. We visited the _gurbi_ or hut of Suleiman, the Arab guardian of the hotel, and sat with his wife. We should not call him an Arab or a Bedawin at Damascus, but in all these kind of places they generally have these protectors, even at Alexandria, but not in Syria. It would have puzzled any one to live in that _gurbi_, except people used to living in very small tents.

Richard got gouty here, and we were glad to return to Algiers at the end of the week; but we did not go back to the same sort of life, of which there are two. One life is to live up at Mustafa Supérieure and take care of your health, and the other is to live in town and see something of native life. You cannot do both, because getting up and down from Mustafa to town occupies all day; so we now went to the Hotel de la Régence, where we stayed a fortnight in order to see something of Algiers. Here we read "Mosállam," by Laurence Oliphant, which explains so much of his life.

We went all over the City, seeing the most interesting things--the Cardinal's Moorish Palace, the Cardinal's Cathedral, the Museum, where is shown poor Geronimo's body. He lived in 1540, was taken prisoner and baptized, but his relations caught him again, and kept him as a Mohammedan till he was twenty-five; then he returned to Oran, where he renewed his Christianity, but he was caught again by a Moorish corsair and brought to Algiers, where he was ordered again to become a Mohammedan; and as he would not, he was sentenced to be thrown alive into a mould, with his feet and hands tied with cords, and the block of concrete containing his body was built into an angle of the fort. In 1853 it was destroyed, and on the 27th of December the skeleton was found enclosed in the block. The bones were carefully removed, and interred with great pomp in the Cathedral, built on the site of the Mosque of Hassan. Liquid plaster of Paris was run into the mould left by his body; they thus obtained a perfect model, even of his features, the cords which bound him, and the texture of his clothing, and this you see in the museum. We wandered about the Mosques and about the bazars to buy curios, and although Algiers is now only a French town on Arab foundations, the Arab part of the town, that remains untouched, was as interesting as anything we had ever seen. Take, for instance, the Mosque or Zaouia of Sidi Abd er Rahman Eth-Thalebi, which contains his tomb and its surroundings; there are numbers of tombs around him, and the usual drapery, lamps, banners, and ostrich eggs. Take the Arab town with its close, dark, steep streets, and its dark holes and shops, the ways of which are like climbing a wall of steps. One is ascended by 497 steps; they are mostly alleys just wide enough to pass through, and is a labyrinth in which you might easily lose yourself. The _Kasbah_, or Citadel, is also well worth a visit. We made as many excursions as was possible in the interior, considering the state of Richard's health, and when he was not well enough for a walk or a drive, he received African Professors. Some of our party went to see one of the fanatical religious meetings of the Assaouwiyeh, the religious confraternity of Sidi Mohammed bin Aissa, which take place sometimes in the native quarter. I have seen many of these sort of things, but never carried to the extent that I am told they are carried here, where they mutilate themselves, and sometimes a sheep is thrown amongst them which they devour alive. I could not sleep that night for knowing it was going on, but our party comforted me by telling me next day that nothing of the sort had taken place.

We now took our departure from Algiers.

Richard said that one of his great pleasures in leaving North Africa, and especially Algiers, was the intense cruelty to animals. It was no pleasure to walk or drive, and some people felt it so much, that they walked by back ways, and only looked forward to giving up their villas altogether, since there was no one to stop it. The Rev. Colin Campbell and I did what we could all the time we were there.

At last the day came for leaving. The day before the sea had been frightful, and, though it was fine this day, we had the heavy swell of yesterday's storm. It was a capital boat, the only good steamer on this coast, all new appliances, electric light, corky in the water like our Irish boats (the _Duc de Braganza_). Mrs. Campbell Praed, who had been with us all along, accompanied us to Marseilles, and it was delightful to have her society.

[Sidenote: _Things one would rather have left unsaid_.]

We enjoyed our passage exceedingly on the 7th of March, the only fine day amongst a series of gales. In the evening Richard and Dr. Baker went into the smoking-cabin, and there a young man, a travelled passenger, was holding forth to the others with regard to African travellers, and Richard Burton in particular, having no idea that the said Richard Burton was part of his audience. It became exceedingly amusing when he began to relate the tale of "how Richard Burton had murdered two men on his Meccan journey, because they had suspected him of being a Frank and a Christian." Richard then said quietly to him, "What traveller did you say did this deed?" "Oh, Burton, the famous Mecca-man!" "Have you seen him?" "Oh yes, of course I have." "Well, then," said Richard, "I am that man, and I assure you that I never did this deed; that I had no cause to, for I never was suspected. I have been told that such a tale was rife about me, but I thought it was a joke, and it has never come face to face with me as a serious thing till to-night. There _were_ two Englishmen travelling about the desert at this time; they were put into a great difficulty, and I believe they had to do it in self-defence, and in consequence of this misfortune, their travels never appeared before the public; but it did not happen to me." This reminds me of dining out one night long before; it was a very large dinner-party, in London, and the gentleman opposite to me bent forward and said, "I heard you talking a great deal about the East; did you ever chance to meet Burton the traveller?" I saw his agitated neighbour nudging him, so I laughed, and said, "Rather! I have the honour of being his wife." On another occasion--it was at the British Association for Science in 1878--we were stopping with Lord Talbot of Malahide; it was a show place, and the Association came over in the afternoon, and were being lionized about. Richard had given a lecture the day before in Dublin, and a little crowd were collected around us. Suddenly a middle-aged lady, not knowing who I was, walked up to me, by way of saying something pleasant, and said, "I did not think much of the lecture of Burton the traveller, did you?" Richard and I were ready to split, but I was so sorry for her, that I said cheerfully, "Oh yes! I liked it very much indeed; but, you know, it was a very abstruse subject, and one which people in general are not likely to understand." (It was on the Ogham-Runes, the tree-language of ancient Ireland, as compared with El Mushajjar, the tree-language of ancient Arabs.) Meantime her friends, who had been tugging at her mantle in agonies, had got her off, and then we had a good laugh.

[Sidenote: _Marseilles--Hyères--Nice--Home_.]

The following day it darkened, and looked rainy and cloudy, and the sea inkier as we approached the Gulf of Lyons. The approach by sea to Château d'If and the Isle d'Hyères, with their little rocky islands, the solitary lighthouse, and Notre Dame de la Garde towering the town on a white rocky eminence, was exceedingly pretty and effective. You cannot have a prettier drive than going by La Plage, and the lovely Corniche road to Notre Dame de la Garde, and returning by the Prado. The City is magnificent; it lies in a basin surrounded by hills, and fringed with pine-woods of every family of the race, stunted and tall, blown into weird shapes by the wind, dotted with country villas and fine buildings, and all this is ring-fenced by immense bare limestone rock.

The _digue_, or breakwater, is built in a triangular shape so as to throw off the canalization. You enter a series of new docks, the old port running to the bottom of the finest street, perhaps the finest in the world--Rue Cannébière and Noailles.

After staying here one day, we went on to Toulon, and on to the Hôtel Continental at Hyères, which we thought delightful. We had a delicious drive to Carquerain, and down to the sea. Between this and Nice we met Admiral Seymour of the _Iris_, and travelled in the same train, and went on to the Isles Britanniques at Nice. The French Squadron was in; their manœuvres were very pretty, and they looked "fit." The _Bataille des Fleurs_ was going on. Sir Richard Wood and Mrs. Campbell Praed came to breakfast, and he took us to see all the fun. He was looking very well and fresh. We were exceedingly pleased to meet him, as he was the one Consul held in honour before Richard Burton at Damascus. After one whole day there, we took the train for Genoa, and we had rather an unpleasant journey, as Richard was a little ailing, and could not enjoy the motions of the Italian train curving round the coast. One must admit that the district of the Riviera is beautiful, the English type (after you pass Monte Carlo, Mentone, Bordighera, and San Remo) changing to poor picturesque Italy, when it becomes defiled by its vulgar, petty officialdom. We hated Genoa from our sad remembrance in 1887, so, instead of going to our old hotel, we went to the Hôtel de la Ville on the Port, and disliked it very much, and felt that we had left civilization. We wandered about, and went to the beautiful Campo Santo and bought things; and next day went on to Milan, where we also changed our hotel, and went to the Cavour, which we liked exceedingly. Next day we got on to Venice, to the Grand Hôtel, but we only stayed one day, as Richard was suffering from hotel food, and so we reached home on his birthday, the 19th of March (his last birthday, sixty-ninth), having been out rather more than four months.

HOME AGAIN, 19TH MARCH, 1890.

On the 20th he notices with regret the death of General Sir Thomas Steele.

From this time I got very ill with peritonitis, and was laid up for some little time, and Richard and Dr. Baker took care of me.

We had two earthquakes, which shook the walls.

On the 7th of April he notices the death of Miss Mary Boyle.

I went out for the first time on the 9th of April, and the day before that we recommenced our evening writing together, which continued during the remaining seven months of his life; and we made rough notes of most of the things which are in this biography, though perhaps in different words. We had a visit from an old friend, Miss Maria Gordon-Duff, and a friend of hers, Miss Jean Grieve, which we enjoyed very much.

On the 19th of April the Bishop consecrated the little Church which we had helped to start less than a year ago. He said Mass, with the Chief Authorities and many of the Benefactors present, and the life-size statue that Richard and I had promised them, which was quite a work of art, from Messrs. Mayer of Munich, was the centre-piece of the altar. Colonel and Mrs. Adams arrived, who were interested about the animals like myself, and I took her all over my public stables and other arrangements, with which she was much pleased.

On the 21st of April our friend Mr. Frank James, African traveller, was killed by a wounded elephant in the Gaboon country.

On the 9th of May, Mr. Letchford's picture of Richard was finished and sent to the Stanley Exhibition. Our old friend Mr. Arbuthnot arrived on the 11th, and stayed several days with us, which cheered Richard up immensely.

Captain Melfort Campbell, of Gibraltar, died on May 12th, and with him the Vigo Bay scheme.

On the 17th I had another attack of peritonitis, and Lisa was ill in bed with erysipelas; and Richard expressed a wish to leave Trieste for good, which I heartily coincided in, thinking it would save him much illness, but he afterwards changed his mind.

On the 11th of June we had storms of thunder and lightning like a bombardment for twelve hours. It was very fatiguing to the nerves.

On the 13th we had a large tea-party from Duino--Princess Taxis, Prince Hohenlöhe, Prince Eric, and the Duchess della Grazia.

We now had a great annoyance in receiving the following paragraph:--

"ILLNESS OF SIR RICHARD BURTON.

"While all England, says the London correspondent of the _Liverpool Mercury_, is continuing to _fêté_ Mr. Stanley, it is not pleasant to reflect that his great predecessor in African exploration, Sir Richard Burton, is lying very dangerously ill, neglected and alone, in London lodgings. Yet in his time and in his own way the elder traveller accomplished even more remarkable feats than the hero of the hour. His romantic pilgrimage to Mecca and El-Medinah in the disguise of a Moslem devotee, his journey through Berbera to the Sacred City of Harar, where no other infidel foot has ever trodden, were but preliminaries to the great achievement of his life, the discovery of Lake Tanganyika--the credit for which had been claimed for Captain Speke. This discovery paved the way for all that has since been done in Central Africa."

This hurt me very much, and it annoyed my husband as much as it did me, and I returned the following answer:--

"SIR RICHARD BURTON.

"To the Editor of the _Morning Post_.

"Sir,--My relations have startled me with a cutting from a 'London Correspondent' saying that 'Sir Richard Burton is lying very dangerously ill, neglected and alone, in a London lodging, whilst Stanley is being fêtéd.' If the love and devotion of a wife may count for anything, Sir Richard will never be neglected nor alone whilst I am alive. I have been married to him for nearly thirty years, besides a five years' engagement, and during all those thirty-five years I have never been absent from him one day that I was allowed to be with him--in other words, I have never been absent except to execute his orders. For the last seven years we have hardly been a day apart, and for the last three and a half years that he has been ailing, never one hour away out of the twenty-four. During these three and a half years we have, in consequence of the weakness of his health, sacrificed everything to have a resident English doctor (who was looking for such a berth) living and travelling with us. And instead of a London lodging, we have a beautiful and romantic home (with every comfort for him that our means allow) at the very head of the Adriatic. Next year his term of service expires (forty-nine years' actual service), and then we shall both be, if alive, 'in a London lodging, neglected and alone.' But to state that now is what the Americans would call 'a little previous.' On the other hand, I am very grateful to the correspondent for the truth of his statement about my husband's career, showing that in the midst of this fêting and rejoicings for the great traveller Stanley, the pioneer who opened up the way without money or help or applause, enduring the severest hardships and perils, and cold receptions on his return, is not forgotten at home, and that they know that it is to him first that they owe the fact that many of these desolate regions have now trade and schools and missions, and the beginning of civilization. I feel confident that God will make up to him more than he has missed of this world's honours.

"Yours, etc.,

"ISABEL BURTON.

"Trieste, June 15."

We had at this time six days of continuous violent storms, which made his health less good. We had one more charming outing; to Duino, to attend the Gypsy fair, where, as usual, we were after Romany and Gypsy lore. I tried to buy up some of their skeleton horses, but they wanted £5 a piece. We had a very delightful and memorable evening there on the 24th of June (all the family of Duino dining with us at the inn).

On the 30th we were honoured by a visit from Archduke Ludwig Salvator.

OUR LAST TRIP.

On the 1st of July we went for our summer trip, as July and August in Trieste are almost insupportable. We went first to Gorizia before described. The next day we made the usual interesting pilgrimage of Monte-Santo on a peak, which is a small Maria-Zell, the _local_ Lourdes, which occupies about six hours to go and see everything and return. We dined out of doors in the evening at Gorizia, and next morning went on to Tarvis. It was a long day, and Richard was very tired. Tarvis is very beautiful, but we could not enjoy it, because we were none of us well; so we only stopped for a day or two, and then we went on to Villach and to Lienz, where we had always been longing to stay.

The Post Hotel is a charming, comfortable, old-fashioned inn. There we used to sit out under the eaves, feed the pigeons, make the boys scramble for pennies, and buy things from passing pedlars, and Richard decided, that though it is an old village, it is _not_ "dry rot," and that the mountain air was beautiful. We had an uncomfortable train to Franzensfeste, but there we got a delightful _aussichts-wagen_ to run over the Brenner, which, though it was our fourth time, we enjoyed immensely. The Tyrol Hof in Innsbrück where we stopped was good, but very dear. There we met Mrs. Crawford, the widow of the M.P. who had been kind to us years ago. We were just in time to catch our old friends the Von Puthons, who were transferred to Linz. There was a delightful zither-player in the evening. No one knows what sounds, what soft passionate music, can be got out of those instruments till one hears them in their native land. Here people should buy rough but picturesque parures of black garnets, which is a specialty.

From Innsbrück we made a four hours' run to Feldkirch over the Arlberg, which was really dangerous, as Richard had before foretold. There had been landslips, and some places were planked over so that you could see the precipices under the carriage, the train going very slow. There were several bad places, and one unpleasant bridge. The next train to ours could not come over. I heard a gentleman, who I was told was one of the engineers of the line, say in German to some other gentlemen, "We thought it would last for ever when we put it up, but now I would not let my own family cross in spring after the rains." We stopped to see my nephew Bertie Pigott, who was in college here. The Jesuits have a large college, which is the principal thing in the town, very much on the same principle as that of Sliema Malta, and have their playground, athletic exercises, museum, library, good church, etc. In the Cathedral there is an Holbein's altar to see.

[Sidenote: _Switzerland_.]

We left after two days, and arrived at Zurich in time for the great Schiefs-Stätte _fête_, or Federal Rifle Association, which takes place every other year. It dates from the sixteenth century, assumed its present rifle form in 1830, and consequently was the first known to Europe. It used to be the great political event that drew all the Cantons together. It is the focus which cements that simplicity, equality, and independence which go to make up the sturdy Swiss character, and is the secret of the union which makes their strength. It always takes place in a different town, and numbers 220,000 members out of two millions and a quarter--more than the regular army. This year it was at Frauenfeld, and the great people assembled at the Hôtel Baur au Lac where we were staying. One hundred and fifty Minnesingers were singing their national songs on the lawn, some hidden in boats on the canal by the side. There was a sort of illumination, and fireworks, not only on shore, but on the lake, which you might have mistaken for Venice.

The next day we were all away to Frauenfeld. Seven thousand pounds are given in prizes. The number of people on the ground, besides shooters, was 40,000. There was a huge wooden marquee for dining 6000 people, and 3000 sat down at a time. Every Swiss is ambitious to be a good marksman, and it is thought to be a disgrace to be a bad shot. The Roman Catholic priest gave us hospitality. He had passed the last sixteen years of his life in making an exquisite collection of enamels on copper, silver, and gold--religious subjects, selected with great care and judgment. Two-thirds are early seventeenth century, and he wanted to sell them.

Mr. Angst, the English Consul, is a very great man, and it was a fine thing to be a friend of his in Switzerland. He and his wife showed us a great deal of hospitality, and we passed many pleasant days enjoying his collection of curios, swords, and china, which are all Swiss, for he is a patriot. A delightful excursion is by boat to Rapperswyl, calling at fifteen or sixteen stations down the lake on the left. There is a little hotel Der See, one of eight fronting the little quay. We had a delightful breakfast, after which we re-embarked and came up on the other bank. Next day there was a great Consular dinner, which lasted from twelve to six, at which Richard and Dr. Baker attended. Here we met a very nice Mr. and Mrs. Chippendale. We had a charming excursion to Uetliberg, and another to Einsiedeln up in the mountains; it is the Swiss Lourdes. The scenery was lovely, the air beautiful. We had a good dinner of blue mountain trout at the Pfau. We went all over the Cathedral, and the circle of pious shops, and drank from the fountain of fourteen spouts. We bought pious things, and the monks came in at three o'clock and sang the "Ave Maria." Our return was on a beautiful summer evening; the lake glowed in colours, there was a gentle mist and a full moon, but we arrived very, very tired.

During this Swiss trip, Richard always brought Catullus to _table d'hôte_, and whenever he was bored he used to pull it out and write his notes upon his Latin copy.

I did all I could to persuade him to go from Zurich to Bâle, from Bâle to England, to leave the Service and to stay in England till he was thoroughly rested and well; then we would go back and pick up our things, or let them be sent after us; but he would not hear of it. I tried this twice during this Swiss journey when we were halfway, for I saw that the frequent attacks of indigestion and nervousness and gases round the heart were on the increase, and it did not seem that _any_ climate, or _any_ staying still, nor yet travelling, improved them. Still he persevered in saying that he would keep on till next March, when he would be free, and be home the following September.

During the last six months of his life (to show how tired he was getting of everything), he used frequently to say to me, "Do you know, I am in a very bad way; I have got to hate everybody except you and myself, and it frightens me, because I know perfectly well that next year I shall get to hate you, and the year after that I shall get to hate myself, and then I don't know what will become of me. We are always wandering, and the places that delight _you_ I say to myself, 'Dry rot,' and the next place I say, 'Dry rotter,' and the third place I say, 'Dry rottest,' and then _da capo_."

[Sidenote: _Davos-Platz--Ragatz_.]

About the 20th of July Richard had a small attack of gout which passed away, and again slightly at Davos.

We went on to Ragatz, Mr. Angst accompanying us. The Quellenhof Hotel is as big as a village, but it was too full to be comfortable. Lady Taunton and Lady Elizabeth Grey were there, and we met them in several places--two interesting sisters with lovely silver hair. Here you drive to the waterfall and Meienfeld, and to Pfäfersbad, where there is a quelle and gorge like that of Trient, the same swirling river under you, darkness, weirdness, the same tiny planks to walk along next to the rocky wall, and the mountains meeting overhead. Another drive is to Wartenstein, and Pfäfers village, where an old Convent is turned into a large Lunatic Asylum.

Wartenstein is a châlet-restaurant which holds about thirty visitors, and there is a lovely view. We left Ragatz when we had seen everything, and went on a new line of railway only opened a fortnight before, up to Davos-Platz, six thousand feet high. The scenery is always nice and sometimes grand. We were lodged in a fine large hotel, the Belvedere, which was not finished. The centre of the scene is a plateau swamp in the middle. The roots of the surrounding hills are covered with hotels, villas, and pines, and above them again are high mountains with snowy peaks and fine air. In winter it is dry and covered with snow; it is the great consumption focus, and people say it is full of germs. Here we met five people we knew, amongst them Father Graham, a priest from London. We had come here on purpose to make acquaintance with Mr. John Addington Symonds, but he was gone away, and he only came back on the evening before our departure, and we saw him for about an hour, which was better than nothing.

We had a delightful drive from Davos to Maloja, with a comfortable landau, two good steady grey horses, and a nice coachman; it was a truly delicious day, which I shall always remember amongst my mental treasures. We ascended the Fluela Pass through gorgeous scenery, starting at ten o'clock. In an hour and a half we stopped to give bread to the horses, and then in another hour and a half we came to the highest point, 6700 feet, where we were in deep snow; a lake was covered with ice, and two Mount St. Bernard dogs greeted us. Here we baited the horses with bread and wine, and lunched from our basket. The Schwarzhorn, 13,000 feet high, was to our right; there were glaciers and chamois, gorges and grand ravines. When we started again we descended to Süs, a large village, where we rested, had tea, and baited our horses for a couple of hours, and then we drove on two hours more to Quoz. I think Quoz one of the prettiest places I ever saw, and should like to have stayed there longer. It is a beautiful, romantic, Romansch village; the scenery is lovely, the hotel is civilized. We put up there for the night, starting at ten o'clock the next morning, and arrived at Samäden, where we were very badly treated by the landlord, who made us pay sixty-six francs for three-quarters of an hour's entertainment.

[Sidenote: _St Moritz--Maloja_.]

Three-quarters of an hour further we arrived at St. Moritz-Kulm, stopped our carriage, got out for a moment, and in opening the door ran up against Canon Wenham, of Mortlake, who is our spiritual pastor where I now live, and whom I had known for at least thirty-five years. He was very glad to see Richard, and we frequently met during our stay in Switzerland. Canon Wenham has since told me that when he first saw Richard at St. Moritz, that he kept saying to himself, "I wonder whether you or I will be the first to go?" Richard died two months after that, and ten months later he performed his funeral service at Mortlake. The baths and the village are below in the valley. We soon started again for Maloja, but did not get in till 4.30, owing to an accident. For the _third_ time our horses suddenly behaved queerly; they were steady, plodding brutes, but one sprang over a low stone wall, leaving the carriage on the other side, and the other stood trembling, sweating, and sobbing as if it was going to have a fit. It was a narrow road with a sharp precipice into the lake, and very little would have sent us rolling into it. We were some time extricating ourselves. We all got out, and the horses were unharnessed and taken into a neighbouring field, where they recovered themselves. I was dreadfully frightened, but Richard was quite cool. On all these three occasions the coachman and Lisa and I thought that the horses saw something we did not see, but Richard and the doctor opined that there was some natural cause, such as a snake crossing the path. The gypsies passed, and stopped and helped us.

Maloja hotel is a luxurious palace at the head of the lake, looking down the lake on one side, and on the other down into Italy. It is the last of the Engadine plateaux, has glorious scenery and air, snow mountains, and blue sky and lake. We found here Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, accompanied by their faithful Captain Jephson, and Mr. Stanley's black boy Saleh, Dean Carington, Mr. Oscar Browning, and Mr. Welldon (Headmaster of Harrow), Sir John and Lady Hawkins, the Duchess of Leinster, Lady Mabel Fitzgerald, and Lord Elcho, Mrs. Main (lately Mrs. Fred Burnaby), Miss Emily Blair Oliphant, Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft and son, Lord Dunraven, and other pleasant people.

There were all sorts of amusements--a large ball-room, beautiful band, theatricals, concerts, alpining, fishing, and kodaking, picnics, glee-singing by a chorus of workmen, who sang at the church in the morning--everything that could be desired, but our chief amusement was driving. We used to go over to St. Moritz Kulm, where we met Mr. Strickland, who edited the St. Moritz news, and Father Wenham.

At Maloja Richard talked to me a great deal about the possibilities of what might happen in case of his death--"Not," he said, "that I am thinking of dying;" and I told him that I thought he should leave literary executors. I mentioned four people who I thought would expect to have a "finger in the pie," so to speak, in case of his death, but he absolutely declined to let _anybody_ but myself search into his papers, and desired me to see to it if any necessity arose. He said, "No one has helped me but you during thirty--I may say thirty-five--years; who is likely to know so well now? Besides, I know that you will do everything for me, body and soul--that you would wish done for yourself." A little while after this he called me into his room and said, "I may very likely live for years, but I should like to leave three papers, which I am now going to sign in your presence." The first concerned religion, the second his private papers and manuscripts, and the third his money and mining affairs, and I have carried them all out to the very letter from the day he died till now.

The lake was very grand in a storm, black, green, and yellow, with lowering black clouds, enveloping mountain and lake, lit up by dark red lightning. We had great fun in being photographed by the Rev. Mr. Stewart, who was here with two charming sisters, Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, Richard and myself, and Saleh the black boy, and Mrs. Bancroft placed us. Mrs. Bancroft made us all laugh just as we were going to be taken, by seizing up a long broom-handle and poising it as a lance, saying, "Won't you have _me_ as Tippoo Tib?" Mrs. Stanley did a very amusing thing; she got a piece of paper, and turning part of it down, said to my husband, "Will you give me your autograph, Sir Richard?" which he readily did, in English and Arabic. She then turned up the back of the paper, on which she had written, "I promise to put aside all other literature, and as soon as I return to Trieste, to write my own autobiography." So we all signed underneath him, and since I have had it framed.

On the 31st of August he deplores the death of his friend, General Studholm Hodgson.

[Sidenote: _We descend into Italy homewards_.]

The two or three last days of August the snow was so dreadful that we only longed to get down into Italy, and on the 1st of September, wishing good-bye to our friends, we started at two o'clock, and had a delightful drive of three hours and a quarter through the snow down the mountains. The snow was so bad that it was doubtful whether we could manage it, but we did without accident. We passed several picturesque places, amongst others Castasegna, where I got out of the carriage, while they were refreshing the horses, to look at the tombs in the little church, and walking up to one, I saw on it "Richard Vaughan Simpson, died in 1834, aged 23." I said a prayer for him--perhaps I was the first countrywoman that had passed and done so. As we passed the frontier we were lightly examined, and we got into Italian picturesqueness, passing one or two fine waterfalls. Chiavenna looked most picturesque in the distance, as we descended to the good little Hôtel Conradi. There was a blue shade over the snow mountains as the sun was setting.

The next day we left Conradi's to get to Como. The train was an hour late; we had to go in the third-class with forty-eight people, and the boat was late too. The lake was looking lovely, with its villages, especially Gravedona, Varenna, and Bellagio, which reminded us of Madeira. We were about seven hours doing twenty miles. We had delightful drives through the trees above the Villa Lervelloni to the ruined castle which overlooks Como with all its three arms of the lake, and listened to the bees and the birds, smelled the forest, and were glad we were alive. We also went to Como itself. In the evening we met Sir Frederick Napier Broome, late Governor of Western Australia. We were now reading Sinnett's "Kârma." We left Bellagio early, a couple of days later, and went down the other side of the lake (Lago di Lecco) on a very pleasant morning. You take a branch railway, and join the main line (Milan to Venice) at Rovato for Venice. We went to the Grand Hôtel, but soon left, as the gondola music used to drive Richard wild. There is one man, if he still exists, who sings as if he would burst, like the cicala.

On the 7th of September we left for Trieste, sauntering down the Gran Canale in gondola the last thing. We had a comfortable journey, and were glad to get home that evening after ten weeks out, which we had thoroughly enjoyed, except on the occasions when Richard was suffering. But how sorrowful it would have been, could we but have foreseen that it was the last journey we should ever take together in this life! If we could but look forward, we should not be able to bear it.

HOME FOR THE LAST FEW WEEKS.

The few following weeks at Trieste we continued to write together in the evening, he being engaged all day with his "Scented Garden," his "Catullus," "Ausonius," "Apuleius, or the Golden Ass," and other things, as he had been since his last Supplementals came out (November 13th, 1888); and in early morning we used to take a list of all the manuscripts published and unpublished, their destinations when packed for England, and sorting the correspondence into years; and Dr. Baker took a great many photographs, as he had done all this year in the garden, of us and the views and friends, which I am having formed into two lamp-shades on gelatine.

These last few weeks Richard kept saying to me, "When the swallows form a dado round the house, when they are crowding on the windows, in thousands, preparatory to flight, call me;" and he would watch them long and sadly. Strange to say, after his death seven of them took up their abode at his window, and only departed in December. They are building again at "our cottage" at Mortlake. It seems as if he were watching.

On the 11th of September he deplores in his journal the death of Sir William Hardman, of the _Morning Post_.

On the 20th of September, a month before he died, in his diary he writes, "I feel too well," and another paragraph, "The house covered with swallows;" and then he says that night, "Sat on balcony--perfect evening, perfect day." He was then taking papaine for his gout.

On the 27th we had gentle earthquakes late at night, but which were prolonged till dawn.

In October he complains of liver and biliousness in his journal, but remarks that his cure was working well.

On the 15th of October we paid together our official visit to the Governor and his wife, and we had friends to breakfast at the Hôtel de la Ville, where he was very gay. He was not very well in the evening, but nothing particular, and a glass of hot brandy and water seemed to set him quite right. I had begun partly to dismantle the house, and to put away things to make it easier for packing on return, in order to hurry matters when we came back, previous to leaving for good. We were going to start on the 15th of November for Greece and Constantinople, and we were already sorting out what we would take, having our saddlery looked to, and writing letters to the Ministers of these countries to ask their advice on certain points, and getting letters of introduction.

On the 18th of October, Dr. Baker photographed us in the garden. Richard was always better when he first got home, and then got tired of it after. When he first arrived, 8th of September, he only weighed 70 kilos, but by the 2nd of October he had increased to 72.5 kilos.

On the 18th of October he was a little inclined to gout, and complained that he had no pleasure in walking.

On the 19th (the day before he died) he complains of a little lumbago.

[1] In the same way, a house near us had a large monkey in a little room with bars just above ground, and the boys used to poke at him with sticks, and shy pebbles at him. I would go over to him with fruit and cake, and Richard used to say to him, "What crime did you commit in some other world, Jocko, that you are caged for now, and tormented, and going through your purgatory?" And he would walk off muttering, "I wonder what he did--I wonder what he did?"