CHAPTER XVI.

WE RETURN HOME FOR THE LAST TIME.

"Oh, call it by some better name, For Friendship is too cold; And Love is now a worldly flame, Whose shrine is made of gold; And Passion, like the sun at noon, Who burns up all he sees Alike, as warm, will set as soon-- Oh, call it by none of these.

"Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay, Than Friendship, Love, and Passion are, Yet human still as they. And if thy lips, for love like this, No mortal word can frame. Go, ask of angels what it is. And call it by that name!"

The good air in Switzerland, and especially Maloja, had set Richard up completely. We returned on the 7th of September, little thinking he had but six weeks to live.

The day before he died, though he was unusually well and cheerful, he said, "I am beginning to lose the good I got in Switzerland, and to feel the corroding climate of Trieste again. I count the hours till the 15th of November."

This was the day that we were to have sailed for Greece, but, alas! for human foresight, human misery, it was the day of the third and the last great Church ceremonial or dirge for the repose of his soul. Some circumstances that were unavoidable, not important but irritating, for the past few months had annoyed him, and he was always saying, "What a blessing it would be, and that he could hardly wait for the moment, when we two would be settled quietly in England together again, and independent of the Government, and of all the world besides!" And it will always comfort me to remember that during spring and summer, after our return from Algiers, I begged of him to throw up the Service, and instead of going any farther on small travels, to let us at once set to, pack up and return to England for good, and to defer Greece and Constantinople till we had settled ourselves in England. Also that during our Swiss tour, when we got to Zurich in August, and were so near Bâle, I said, "We are halfway to England; let us go on, let the things go; we will send back a trusty person to bring them on;" but he said, "No, he should like to brave it out till the end." Little did we think that--

"The cast-off shape that, years since, we called 'I' Shall sudden into nothingness Let out that something rare which could conceive A Universe and its God."[1]

We had occasion sometimes to go into the English Protestant burial-ground at Trieste--poor Charles Lever lies buried there, and by him is a cold, melancholy corner which at that particular time seemed to be a sort of rubbish corner of stray papers and old tin pots. He shuddered at it, and said, as he had often said before, "If I die here, don't bury me there. They will insist on it; will you be strong and fight against it?" I said, "Yes; I think I shall be strong enough to fight against _that_ for your sake! Where would you like to be buried?" He said, "I think I should like you to take my body out to sea in a boat, and throw me into the water; I don't like the ground, nor a vault, nor cremation." And I said, "Oh, I _could_ not do that; won't anything else do?" "Yes," he said; "I should like us both to lie in a tent side by side."

He was very fond of kittens, and always had one on his shoulder. When he lay dead, his kitten would not leave him, and fought and spat to be allowed to remain. Three days before he died, he told me that a bird had been tapping at his window all the morning, saying, "That is a bad omen, you know?" I said I could not agree with him, because he had the habit of feeding the birds of the garden on his window-sill at seven every morning. He replied, "Ah, it was not that window, but another." And I found afterwards this little verse scribbled on the margin of his journal--

"Swallow, pilgrim swallow, Beautiful bird with purple plume, That, sitting upon my window-sill, Repeating each morn at the dawn of day That mournful ditty so wild and shrill,-- Swallow, lovely swallow, what would'st thou say, On my casement-sill at the break of day?"

[Sidenote: _Our Last Happy Day_.]

The day before his death (Sunday afternoon), the 19th of October, the last walk he ever took, he saw a little robin drowning in a tank in the garden. Crowds of birds were sitting around it on the trees, watching it drown, and doing nothing for it. He got Dr. Baker to get it out, and warmed it in his own hands, and put it in his fur coat, and made a fuss till it was quite restored, then put it in a cage to be kept and tended till well enough to fly away again.

The last night, the chief talk at dinner was about General Booth's article--the first that came out in the _Pall Mall Budget_--of "How to relieve the Millions." He took the greatest possible interest in it, because (as he said) they could get at people that no clergyman of _any_ Church could get at, and it sounded such a sensible plan. He said to me, "When you and I get to London, and are quite free and settled, we will give all our spare time to that." This is the man who is supposed to have killed and crushed everything as he went about in triumph over the world.

In point of fact, the "Richard Burton" described by part of the press, notably by the _Saturday Review_--the Richard Burton quoted by a great portion of the people who _professed_ to know him so well, and _really_ hardly knew him at all, never existed--was a man I never knew and never saw.

To the last breath, there was never a saner, or a sounder, or a truer judgment in any man who walked this earth. He saw and knew all the recesses of men's minds and actions.

All those six weeks I was very uneasy to hear him talking more than ever agnostically at the table, and to our surroundings, and to witness the conflict going on within himself in the privacy of our own rooms, because I had been warned by people who have experience in these matters, that it _would be the case_ the nearer he was to death; and yet his health seemed so well. It never struck me that death could be so near. He said once to me, after an unusual burst at tea, which had made me sad, "Do I hurt you when I talk like that?" And I smiled, and said rather sadly, "Well, yes; it always appears to me like speaking against our very best friend." He got a little pale, and said, "Well, I promise you that, after I am free from the Government and from our present surroundings, I won't talk like that any more." And I said, "How I long for that time to come!" And he answered, "So do I."

I realized the following quotation about prayer:--

"The time may be delayed, the manner may be unexpected, but the answer is sure to come. Nor a tear of sacred sorrow, not a breath of holy desire poured out in prayer to God, will ever be lost; but in God's own time and way it will be wafted back again, in clouds of mercy, and fall in showers of blessings on you, and those for whom you pray."

The nightingales were very beautiful in our garden at Trieste, and after dinner, it being unusually fine weather in September and October, we used to sit out on our verandah smoking, taking our coffee, looking at the beautiful moonlit sea and mountains, and the moon and stars through a large telescope that stood there for the purpose, And one day I found the following on the margin of his journal:--

"THE NIGHTINGALE.

"'Sweet minstrel of the younger year, Small Orpheus of the woody hill, Say why far more delight my soul That artless note, that untaught trill, Than all that tuneful art can find To charm the senses of mankind?'

"'Listen!' the Nightingale replied. 'The notes which thus thy feelings move By perfect Nature were supplied, To praise the Lord and sing of love. Hath Art ne'er taught mankind to sing High praises of a meaner thing?'"

THE END.

Let me recall the last happy day of my life. It was Sunday, the 19th of October, 1890. I went out to Communion and Mass at eight o'clock, came back and kissed my husband at his writing. He was engaged on the last page of the "Scented Garden," which had occupied him seriously only six actual months, not thirty years, as the Press said. He said to me, "To-morrow I shall have finished this, and I promise you that I will never write another book on this subject. I will take to our biography." And I said, "What a happiness that will be!" He took his usual walk of nearly two hours in the morning, breakfasting well. People came to tea; he had another walk in the garden, when the robin incident occurred.

"How oft we've wandered by the stream, Or in the garden's bound, Our hands and hearts together join'd; Pure happiness have found! But now we linger there no more, Beside the woods or burn, And all that I can utter now Is, 'When wilt thou return?'"

That afternoon we sat together writing an immense number of letters, which, when we had finished, I put on the hall table to be posted on Monday morning. Each letter breathed of life and hope and happiness, for we were making our preparations for a delightful voyage to Greece and Constantinople, which was to last from the 15th of November to the 15th of March. We were to return to Trieste from the 15th of March till the 1st of July. He would be a free man on the 19th of March, and those three months and a half we were to pack up, make our preparations, wind up all our affairs, send our heavy baggage to England, and, bidding adieu to Trieste, we were to pass July and August in Switzerland, arrive in England in September, 1891, look for a little flat and a little cottage, unpack and settle ourselves to live in England.

We had now been back in Trieste six weeks from Maloja, in the Engadine, and during those six weeks my husband did several things, with a difference that would have struck me, except for his improved health and spirits. How we should break our hearts could we see ahead, and yet how one regrets not seeing!

"What part has death or has time in him Who rode life's lists as a God might ride?" ----SWINBURNE.

During this time, in spite of his having his Agnostic-_talking_ tendencies worse upon him than ever, at table and in company, _in privacy_ he used to lock our outer doors for a short while twice daily and pray. _Our_ six rooms ran round in a square, cut off from the rest of the house, and as his bedroom and mine were corner rooms, I had, quite accidentally, a large full-length mirror in my corner, that gave me command of three rooms, including the chapel, so that though he was alone I could see him. And I did not alter it, lest he might have a seizure of any sort. In the chapel was a large crucifix, and he would at times come in, and remain before it for half an hour together, and go away with moist, sad eyes, and sometimes look over the books or papers.

The only difference remarkable on this particular Sunday, 19th of October, was, that whereas my husband was dreadfully punctual, and with military precision as the clock struck we had to be in our places at the table, at half past seven he seemed to dawdle about the room, putting things away. He said to me, "You had better go in to table;" and I answered, "No, darling, I will wait for you;" and we went in together. He dined well, but sparingly; he laughed, talked, and joked. We discussed our future plans and preparations, and he desired me on the morrow to write to Sir Edmund Monson, and several other letters, to forward the preparations. We talked of our future life in London, and so on. About half-past nine he got up and went to his bedroom, accompanied by the doctor and myself, and we assisted him at his toilette. I then said the night prayers to him, and whilst I was saying them, a dog began that dreadful howl which the superstitious say denotes a death. It disturbed me so dreadfully, that I got up from the prayers, went out of the room, and called the porter to go out and see what was the matter with the dog. I then returned, and finished the prayers, after which he asked me for a novel. I gave him Robert Buchanan's "Martyrdom of Madeline." I kissed him, and got into bed, and he was reading in bed.

"I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says I must not stay; I see a hand you cannot see, Which beckons me away." ----THOS. TICKELL.

"Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea.

"But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

"Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell When I embark.

"For tho' from out our bourne of Time and place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar." ----TENNYSON.

[Sidenote: _The Sword falls--He is called away_.]

At twelve o'clock midnight he began to grow uneasy. I asked him what ailed him, and he said, "I have a gouty pain in my foot. When did I have my last attack?" I referred to our journals, and found it was three months previously that he had had a real gout, and I said, "You know that the doctor considers it a safety-valve that you should have a healthy gout in your feet every three months for your head, and your general health. Your last attack was three months ago at Zurich, and your next will be due next January." He was then quite content, and though he moaned and was restless, he tried to sleep, and I sat by him magnetizing the foot locally, as I had the habit of doing to soothe the pain, and it gave him so much relief that he dozed a little, and said, "I dreamt I saw our little flat in London, and it had quite a nice large room in it." Betweenwhiles he laughed and talked and spoke of our future plans, and even joked.

At four o'clock he got more uneasy, and I said I should go for the doctor. He said, "Oh no, don't disturb him; he cannot do anything." And I answered, "What is the use of keeping a doctor if he is not to be called when you are suffering?" The doctor was there in a few moments, felt his heart and pulse, found him in perfect order--that the gout was healthy. He gave him some medicine, and went back to bed. About half-past four he complained that there was no air. I flew back for the doctor, who came and found him in danger. I went at once, called up all the servants, sent in five directions for a priest, according to the directions I had received, hoping to get one, and the doctor, and I and Lisa under the doctor's orders, tried every remedy and restorative, but in vain.

What harasses my memory, what I cannot bear to think of, what wakes me with horror every morning from four till seven, when I get up, is that for a minute or two he kept on crying, "Oh, Puss, chloroform--ether--or I am a dead man!" My God! I would have given him the blood out of my veins, if it would have saved him, but I had to answer, "My darling, the doctor says it will kill you; he is doing all he knows." I was holding him in my arms, when he got heavier and heavier, and more insensible, and we laid him on the bed. The doctor said he was quite insensible, and assured me he did not suffer. I trust not; I believe it was a clot of blood to the heart.

My one endeavour was to be useful to the doctor, and not impede his actions by my own feelings. The doctor applied the electric battery to the heart, and kept it there till seven o'clock, and I knelt down at his left side, holding his hand and pulse, and prayed my heart out to God to keep his soul there (though he might be dead in appearance) till the priest arrived. I should say that he was insensible in thirty minutes from the time he said there was no air.

It was a country Slav priest, lately promoted to be our parish priest, who came. He called me aside, and told me that he could not give Extreme Unction to my husband, because he had not declared himself, but I besought him not to lose a moment in giving the Sacrament, for the soul was passing away, and that I had the means of satisfying him. He looked at us all three, and asked if he was dead, and we all said no. God was good, for had he had to go back for the holy materials it would have been too late, but he had them in his pocket, and he immediately administered Extreme Unction--"Si vivis," or "Si es capax"--"If thou art alive"--and said the prayers for the dying and the departing soul. The doctor still kept the battery to the heart all the time, and I still held the left hand with my finger on the pulse. By the clasp of the hand, and a little trickle of blood running under the finger, I judged there was a little life until seven, and then I knew that, unless that happened which had happened to me,[2] that I was alone and desolate for ever.

[Sidenote: _The Sixty Hours between Death and Funeral_.]

I sat all day by Richard, watching him, and praying and expecting him also to come to. I thought the mouth and left eye moved, but the doctor told me it was imagination. But what was no imagination, was that the brain lived after the heart and pulse were gone;[3] that on lifting up the eyelids, the eyes were as bright and intelligent as in life, with the brilliancy of a man who saw something unexpected and wonderful and happy; and that light remained in them till near sunset, and I believe that soul went forth with the setting sun, though it had set for me _for ever_. I was so convinced of his happiness, that I lifted up my heart to God in a fervent thanksgiving _for him_, and I knelt down with my broken heart and said my "Fiat voluntas tua," and when I rose up I said, "Let the world rain fire and brimstone on me now." It has!

"So nigh is glory unto dust, So near is God to man, When Christ whispers low, '_Thou must_,' The heart replies, 'I can.'"

Before twelve o'clock that morning, eight Masses were said for him in the churches. My confessor came to pray by his side. Burials here take place very soon, but I had sixty hours conceded to me; and there were prayers going on in that room, offered up by priests, pious people, and the orphans from our orphanage, who passed the night by him from eight p.m. till six a.m., watching and praying and reciting the office for the dead, the rosary, and singing hymns; and all day there were good people doing the same, and myself always. It was I who closed his eyes and who bound up the jaw, and the doctor who straightened the limbs. He looked in a peaceful sleep, with adorable dignity and repose--a very majesty in his death--every inch a man, a soldier, and a gentleman.

"Weep no more about my bed; Weep no more, be comforted. Where I am ye soon shall come; This, this only, is our home. I am only gone before, Just a moment's little space; Soon upon the painless shore You shall see me face to face; Then will smile and wonder why You should weep that I should die." ----CHARLES A. READE.

"Jesus, I have not loved Thee best, Nor given my heart to Thee; But let my truant bosom rest On meaner things than Thee. 'Twas love that led Thy hand to part, That cherished idol from my heart."

Mr. Albert Letchford, sculptor and artist, who had been working in our house for nearly a year, painted a most striking picture (natural size) of my husband after death, which is now my dearest treasure. He also took a plaster bust, and his hand and foot, which were beautifully formed and small. The hand and foot are mine; the bust was purchased by Richard's friend, F. F. Arbuthnot, but broke in the casting. All day friends flocked in, as the custom is, to say a prayer, and to sprinkle the body with holy water--not counting those who stayed there. The idea was suggested to me that I need not bury him at Trieste, and so exile myself from home for the remainder of my days; that the Austrian Government in its great kindness and delicacy would make a way open for me; and when I reflected how he longed to reach England, and to lay his bones in his native land, I determined that it should be so, though not in the manner we had hoped and wished, and that my home should still be "our cottage." For a sure test of real death, I requested that the left ulnar vein should be opened, and a strong charge of electricity should be applied for two hours; and then the embalmers came, and I was turned out of the room.

There are two ways of embalming. The one is disembowelling, and filling with spices as in the old days, but that would have necessitated the body being removed from the house. The other, a more modern way, is the injection of some substance in the veins, which, if a success, makes the body look like white marble. This latter was the one chosen. Only I was not allowed to kiss him after, and everything in the room that was used, even to the mattress, had to be burnt. The embalming was done by the Protofisico, Dr. Constantini, and Dr. Merlato, with three assistants, our doctor and Mr. Letchford being present. Our ritual enjoins the observance of the customs of the country in which we live; he was therefore laid out in full uniform, the room dressed like a _chapelle ardente_, surrounded with candles, and covered with wreaths sent by friends.

"His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slopes men sow and reap: More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, 'He giveth His belovèd sleep.'" ----MRS. BROWNING.

I find something so horrible, so repulsive, in the people who frequently abandon the dead, because they cannot bear to see them die, and leave them alone; who leave the corpse in its winding-sheet in a darkened chamber, which the household and family rush by, as if some dreadful horror was there; where no prayers or sacrifices follow to help the soul, which sees its abandonment by those whom it held dear. It seems to me that the consignment of the body to a low dark place, and the glad flying away from it, is something fearful. It makes one think of the Saviour when He descended to the Garden of Gethsemane, when Time was over for Him, and all whom He loved and trusted fled from Him. Judas betrayed, Peter denied, Thomas disbelieved, they all slept, they all hid, they all ran away from Him; and whilst He sweated blood for us, not one watched and prayed with Him. So with the soul.

"When from the trammels of this life terrestrial The Glorifier, Death, shall set us free, The pure expansion of a love celestial Shall bind me closer, O my love, to thee."

The Protestant clergyman, a most charming gentleman, earnest in his profession, and a staunch friend, soon came in. I asked him if he would like to do anything, but he said, "No, there was nothing to be done." But he himself knelt down and said a very beautiful prayer.

[Sidenote: _The Funeral at Trieste_.]

I can never forget what Austria in general, and Trieste in particular, did in Richard's honour, nor could I ever say enough of the kindness, delicacy, courteousness, affection, and esteem shown to me, his desolate widow. I asked for _nothing_, for I felt how difficult was the question. I only asked that he might not be put in the ground, but into some _chapelle ardente_, from whence I might take him home as soon as I could arrange to leave. To my great contentment and lasting gratitude, I found that the Bishop had conceded to him all the greatest ceremonies of the Church, and the authorities a gorgeous military funeral, such as is only accorded to Royalty--an honour never before accorded to a foreigner. One half-Englishman came and made some objections on behalf of a small section of English, and claimed him for the much-abhorred place in the little English Protestant cemetery, and said that they would not come to the Funeral or the Church if it was to be Catholic. But Dr. Baker gallantly took our part, and told this person in very plain terms what _he_ thought about it, and that they had better stay away, so that I never even heard of the annoyance till it was over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Sidenote: _The Dreadful Time that followed_.]

I do not like to think of those first three weeks, so full of the depth of woe. It is impossible for me to tell how kind every one was, how all Trieste combined with goodness and tenderness and attention that nothing might hurt. Meanwhile the press was full of _him_. How I wish he could have known--but he did know and see--all the appreciation and the regret for him, as shown by notices in the press, of which I have books full, the flowers, the telegrams, the cards, the letters, and calls, all showing how truly he really _was_ appreciated, except by the handful who _could_ have made his life happy by Success. The City had three great funeral requiems with Mass sung, and all the obsequies. One took place at the Capuchins, one at the parish church, one at the Orphanage of St. Joseph.

I now ascertained, through friends who spoke to the Dean, what the intentions were about Westminster Abbey, and the Dean replied that it would be impossible to bury any more people at the Abbey; nor can I say that I was very sorry. Neither did St. Paul's offer. I saved our dignity by taking the initiative, following a line of our own, and refused before I was asked. It might have pleased a few people, but I know he would not have cared about it, neither did I. In these churches a showman would have occasionally earned a sixpence by pointing out a cold dark slab to trippers, and saying, "There lies Burton, Speke, Livingstone," etc., etc., and many others, _some_ of whom were not fit to tie the latchet of his shoe--his name in a common list of theirs.

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

Cutting from _Black and White_, June 20th, 1891.

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

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

"October 15, 1892."

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

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

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

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

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

[Sidenote: _Colonel Grant attacks Richard after his Death_.]

My husband died on the 20th of October, 1890, and on the 25th of October Colonel Grant ventured to attack him for the first time in print, and the following letter appeared in the _Times_ of the 28th of October, 1890:--

"BURTON AND SPEKE.

"To the Editor of the _Times_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have the honour to be your obedient servant,

"J. A. GRANT, Lieut-Col.

"Househill, Nairn, October 25th."

[Sidenote: _I answer directly to the "Graphic" in Two Parts_.]

I only saw it (as I refused to look at newspaper scraps in my grief) on the 4th of January, 1891, and I answered as follows:--

[Sidenote: _My Answer_.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yours obediently,

"ISABEL BURTON."

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

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

[Sidenote: _The Beloved Remains are removed to England_.]

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

[Sidenote: _I leave Trieste and go to Liverpool_.]

The last night came, and twenty of my friends came up to spend the last evening with me. My work was only finished about two hours before I had to start, and I walked round and round to every room, recalling all my life in that happy home and all the sad events that had lately taken place. I gazed at all those beautiful views for the last time--at the tablet over the place where my husband's death-bed stood, recalling his death; another tablet in the chapel where the Masses had been said; and I looked around with parting eyes. I went into every nook and cranny of the garden, and under our dear linden tree, where my husband and I had so often sat (a little branch of which I have now framed in my room); my servants following me about, crying bitterly, and saying, "Oh, my dear mistress, we shall never have your husband's and your like again; we shall never have such another house as this." Then came carriages full of our friends to take me away, and the dreadful wrench made me cry all the way down to the station. There I found all that was worth of Society, and Authorities, and the children of our Orphanage, and our Poor, and all our private friends, bearing flowers. It was an awful trial not to make an exhibition of myself, and I was glad when the train steamed out; but for a whole hour ascending the beautiful road close to the sea and Miramar and Trieste, I never took my misty eyes off Trieste, and our home where I had been so happy for eighteen years, and which I shall never see again.

"A TRIESTE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Sidenote: _I fall ill_.]

My courage broke, and I took to my bed that night, the 13th of February, and _nolens volens_ I was obliged to stay at the Langham, being too weak either to find or to be transferred to a lodging. I passed from the 13th of February till the 30th of April between bed and armchair, and latterly was taken down in the lift occasionally to dinner or lunch. Every one was most kind to me, and my sisters spoilt me, and came daily to lunch or dine. I cannot describe the horror of the seventy-six days, enhanced by the fog, which, after sunlight and air, was like being buried alive. The sense of desolation and loneliness and the longing for him was cruel, and it became--

"The custom of the day, And the haunting of the night."

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

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

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

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

[Sidenote: _The Mausoleum Tent complete_.]

I had taken lodgings at Mortlake. The tent is sculptured in dark Forest of Dean stone and white Carrara marble. It is an Arab tent, twelve feet by twelve and eighteen feet high, surmounted by a gilt star of nine points. Over the flap door of the tent is a white marble crucifix. The fringe is composed of gilt cressets and stars. The flap door of the tent supports an open book of white marble, on which are inscribed Richard's name and the dates of his birth and decease. A blank page is left for "Isabel, his wife." Underneath is a ribbon with the words, "This monument is erected to his memory by his loving countrymen." Below, on a white marble tablet, is a beautiful sonnet written in a passion of grief by Justin Huntley McCarthy:--

"RICHARD BURTON.

"Farewell, dear friend, dead hero! The great life Is ended, the great perils, the great joys; And he to whom adventures were as toys, Who seemed to bear a charm 'gainst spear or knife Or bullet, now lies silent from all strife Out yonder where the Austrian eagles poise On Istrian hills. But England, at the noise Of that dread fall, weeps with the hero's wife. Oh, last and noblest of the Errant Knights, The English soldier and the Arab Sheik! Oh, singer of the East who loved so well The deathless wonder of the 'Arabian Nights,' Who touched Camoens' lute and still would seek Ever new deeds until the end! farewell!"

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

[Sidenote: _The Funeral in England at Mortlake_.]

The interior is nearly all marble; the floor, of white and black marble, covers a base of Portland cement (concrete), so that no damp can arise from the ground. The coffin of steel and gilt lies above ground on three marble trestles, with three trestles on the opposite side for me. At the foot of the coffin is a marble altar and tabernacle with candles and flowers, a window of coloured glass, with Richard's monogram, and the whole adorned with seven hanging and various other Oriental lamps. It is no small compliment to Messrs. Dyke, that many people who come into the ground ask "why the canvas cover is not taken off," and are quite astonished when they touch the stone. People were invited _generally_, but special invitations were issued to the senders of wreaths, telegrams, cards, letters, subscriptions, visits, editors of friendly newspapers, applications, private friends, and those who had interested themselves in my future. Eight hundred and fifty-two invitations were issued. Four hundred were down with influenza, but eight hundred people came all the same. Trains left Waterloo for Mortlake at 10.20 a.m., arriving at 11.47.

The ceremony began at eleven, lasting an hour and a half, giving time to a visitor to enter the mausoleum and get back to the station, which was a few yards from the church, for the one o'clock train back to London, the authorities being duly warned of the number of invited. The Church was very simply decorated with a fleur-de-lys carpet, the trestles were covered by a cramoisie velvet pall, being Richard's favourite colour, and the coffin was laid at the top of it, and covered with wreaths sent by friends, my little bunch of forget-me-nots lying where the face would be. It was surrounded by tall silver candlesticks with wax candles. I occupied a _prie-dieu_ by his side; to my right were the women--on the left hand the men--mourners, headed by Captain St. George Burton of the Black Watch, his chief male relation, and both sides were composed of his and my relations, and his oldest friends. The procession filed out exactly at 11.10, the acolytes bearing flambeaux. The short requiem Mass of Casciolini was the one sung, by a London professional choir. Monsignor Stanley sang the Mass, assisted by several priests who had been personal friends of my husband. Then followed the Burial Service with its three absolutions, the priest walking round the coffin perfuming it with incense, and sprinkling it with holy water, and Canon Wenham, who performed this service in Latin, said in English, with a smile and a voice full of emotion, "Enter now into Paradise." The men then lifted the coffin, and a wreath was given to one of the lady mourners to carry, I taking my own little bunch of forget-me-nots, and following the coffin closely. Flanked a little lower down by the women and men mourners, and followed by all the assembled friends, the procession wound through the small but beautiful cemetery of St. Mary Magdalen's, Mortlake, to what seemed a veritable canvas tent pegged down amongst palm-trees, and he, who died eight months ago, was laid in his final resting-place. I begged that there might be no sermon or oration. When the coffin was deposited, the choir sang the Benedictus, and if there was any choice throughout the touching and impressive ceremony, perhaps this was the most impressive and the softest.

During the Benedictus the priest made a sign to me to go inside the mausoleum. I knelt and kissed the coffin, and put my forget-me-nots on it, and then I got behind the door. The other chief mourners passed into the tent, knelt, and deposited their wreaths and flowers. After the Benedictus, Canon Wenham, feeling that there were so many Protestants, said some English prayers; but his voice broke with emotion, and he had a difficulty in finishing them. When all was over, St. George Burton gave me his arm and conducted me to Canon Wenham's house, that I might not embarrass the public, who would like freely to enter the mausoleum and examine it. As I passed through the burial-ground, many friends shook hands with me, but I was so dazed I could not see them.

SIR RICHARD BURTON, KNIGHT.

Born 1821. Died 1890.

"He resteth now. His noble part is done, And Britain mourns another true-born son. His was the work that crowned with lasting fame The hallowed mem'ry of a gallant name. He gave the world the mysteries of men; He travelled lands unknown to history's pen, And braved the savage in his distant den. America and Asia's hills and plains-- Through Afric's darkest forest light he gains. The tree of knowledge bloomed for him its flow'rs Where grandest Nature showed her mighty pow'rs; And Heaven was his in all his lonely hours. Oh! name him as he sleeps through longest night A learned gentleman--a gallant Knight." ----W. J. NOWERS BRETT.

One might add--There lies the best husband that ever lived, the best son, the best brother, and the truest, staunchest friend.

Cardinal Manning had written me a beautiful letter full of blessings and consolation, in which he said, "As for myself, I will not fail to remember you on the day of the requiem--my heart will be with you; but I have not left the house for many months, and have ceased to officiate. I therefore cannot be with you, for I am within a few weeks of my eighty-fourth year."

Then one of my sisters took me away to the country at once.

At the end of July I went down to my Convent, the Canonesses of the Holy Sepulchre, New Hall, Chelmsford, Essex. It has been full of my relations for six generations, and is like a second home to me. I passed most of my youth in it, and I returned to it with pleasure. There I found a mental and physical tonic. The 1st of September, 1891--the date that we were to have been settled in London together--I came to London, and took a small house in Baker Street, and finding I could never keep away from the mausoleum, I bought a very little cottage close to it, and I set about making them comfortable and pretty, out of my two hundred and four cases from Trieste, and a little second-hand furniture.

During this sad time, death has been alarmingly busy with us. We were four sisters, all married. One sister, exactly like me, died in September; all three sisters lost their husbands in November, January, and September; and one sister lives with me. I was brought to death's door with influenza in January, 1892, but I was spared to do the work I am now doing. I got my books and papers housed in March, 1892. The books are tidied and classified, but my papers are not; but I was afraid to trust to sufficient life if I took six months to put them in order, so I have hurried on to give these pages to the world, and whilst I live I shall transact the rest of his literary work set forth in the preface. The loss of eight immediate relatives and my own wretched health have marked little epochs in the period that has elapsed.

"It is a terrible thing to be innocent, and yet to know yourself suspected. Nobody in such a case can ever act quite naturally. The very sense of innocency, coupled with the knowledge of the suspicions against one, gives rise to an awkward self-consciousness which looks like guilt in the eyes of others."

[Sidenote: _"It" Confesses--too Late_.]

I must now refer to the episode of "_It_." In July, 1891, after all my troubles, I was summoned to the death-bed of a lady who I thought was a great friend of mine. I went with great warmth and distress of feeling, and when I went up to her bed to kiss her, she drew away and said, "Do not kiss me. I have sent for you to make a confession, as if it were to a priest; but you must give me a solemn promise never to betray me, after I am dead, that my husband and my girls, who go out a great deal in Society"--naming very high quarters--"may not have to be ashamed of me, and curse my memory." I gave the required promise, for I thought she was going to breathe her last, and she said she could not die in peace. I will never betray her name, but I have a right to tell the substance of what she said, because I have had to suffer bitterly through it, and may still be suffering without knowing it. She asked me not to look at her, and in pity I turned away.

She said then, "I am '_It_.' In 1876-7 your husband began mining in Midian, and subsequently in West Africa, and nothing was talked of but the millions that you were then sure of making--£100,000 in six months, so you said, and the rest following quickly. Now, I was awfully fond of money. I was much attracted by your husband. I loved you, and admired you; I hated you, and was jealous of you. I was not in love with him--So-and-so was my lover--but I thought that if I could only conciliate him, and disgust him with you, I should probably get a great deal of that money which I wanted; for my extravagances were far beyond the means of my husband or my lover, and I live very much in the world." She here confessed all she had done against us both, until our mining hopes had come to nothing. "I was dreadfully disgusted," she owned, "finding it impossible to alienate you, as the moment you found out anything you went and told each other; but I was surprised that you never suspected the right person, and you both of you frequently openly joked with me about '_It_.' Towards the end I saw that your husband disliked and distrusted me, but he could not fix in his own mind why it was. You were easily deceived, but I dared not do anything except in his absence. I took a wicked pleasure in your perfect trust in me."

She had free access to all my letters, papers, journals, and writings, and knew my every movement. She would send me nice letters in a hand I did not know, but signed with a name I did know, in the hopes I might answer it. If I did answer it, I made a fool of myself, and if I did not answer it, _she did_, copying from my own writings my style and mode of speech. She was assisted in the forging part of the business (I mean handwriting) by a needy Englishman, with a college education, who was an expert in copying hands.

For a long time I sat crouched up in the room without answering, with my head buried in my hands--my consternation and my humiliation were so great, and I was wrestling with myself--and at last I answered her pitiful entreaties for pardon. I said, "I am sixty years old, I have left the world, I have one foot in the grave, and I have nothing to do with Revenge; but, before I go, I _must_ clear the name I am so proud to bear. No one shall ever know who '_It_' was. Your husband and your daughters and the _crème_ of Society shall still bless and regret you; but you must give me the list, as far as you can, of the people you have written to, either in my name or my husband's, and then, if God will forgive you, and if Richard will forgive you, then I will also--and may you rest in peace!" I asked her what _sort_ of letters she had written. "You frequently allowed me to help you to answer your letters. Sometimes I wrote gushing letters, so as to make you seem silly; sometimes I gave your opinions to people in high positions, to make you seem impertinent. Sometimes I wrote you letters myself, in a feigned hand, and answered them in _your_ hand (imitated) to the supposed writers." I did not trust myself to speak, but I wrote down all the names she gave me, and I wrote this history to all those concerned, and, except one, they have all answered me. I left the room quietly, and she eventually died.

"Now, now my frame is old and wan and weary, And now my years on earth can be but few; I count the days, when God's voice, calling clearly, Shall lead me, O my loved one, back to you!"

[1] From "John Halifax."

[2] This is what happened to me. In my younger days I had malignant typhus. I appeared to die. I was attended by two very clever doctors, who were with me at my supposed death, which they certified, and I was laid out. My mother's grief was so violent that my father judged it expedient to send for her confessor to give her some consolation. He happened to be the famous large-minded clever Jesuit and theologian, old Father Randal Lythegoe. He consoled my mother for some time, then he knelt down and prayed for me, and then he got up and put on his stole. "What are you going to do, Father?" said my mother. "I am going to give her Extreme Unction," he said. "But you can't; she has been dead several hours." "I don't care about that," he said. "I am going to risk it." He did so, and about two hours after he was gone I opened my eyes, and gradually came to.

[3] His journals show that he believed in this too.

[4] I received £688, and I owe this handsome contribution to the exertions of Baroness Paul de Ralli, of Trieste, to Sir Polydore Keyser, and Mrs. Roland Ward, who started and collected for it.

[5] And since writing this, Colonel Grant has gone to join them.

[6] Speke told me of this, and after his death I taxed Laurence Oliphant with it, who said so simply, "Forgive me--I am sorry--I did not know what I was doing," I could not say another word; but Richard and he were friends after that.--I. B.

[7] I owed my pension to several of our old friends; notably the Dowager Lady Stanley of Alderley, the Royal Geographical and other learned Societies.

[8] I mention this because I had an anonymous letter sent me which taunted me with touting for subscriptions for it.--I. B.