THE ROMANCE OF ISABEL LADY BURTON

                                 VOL. I


[Illustration: _Lady Burton at the age of 17 from an unfinished
drawing._]




                             THE ROMANCE OF
                           ISABEL LADY BURTON
                         THE STORY OF HER LIFE


                        TOLD IN PART BY HERSELF
                             AND IN PART BY
                             W. H. WILKINS


                    WITH PORTRAITS AND ILLUSTRATIONS

                               VOLUME ONE


                                 LONDON
                            HUTCHINSON & CO.
                            PATERNOSTER ROW
                                  1897




     Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.




                                   To

                               HER SISTER

                         MRS. GERALD FITZGERALD

                          I DEDICATE THIS BOOK




                                PREFACE


Lady Burton began her autobiography a few months before she died, but in
consequence of rapidly failing health she made little progress with it.
After her death, which occurred in the spring of last year, it seemed
good to her sister and executrix, Mrs. Fitzgerald, to entrust the
unfinished manuscript to me, together with sundry papers and letters,
with a view to my compiling the biography. Mrs. Fitzgerald wished me to
undertake this work, as I had the good fortune to be a friend of the
late Lady Burton, and one with whom she frequently discussed literary
matters; we were, in fact, thinking of writing a romance together, but
her illness prevented us.

The task of compiling this book has not been an easy one, mainly for two
reasons. In the first place, though Lady Burton published comparatively
little, she was a voluminous writer, and she left behind her such a mass
of letters and manuscripts that the sorting of them alone was a
formidable task. The difficulty has been to keep the book within limits.
In the second place, Lady Burton has written the Life of her husband;
and though in that book she studiously avoided putting herself forward,
and gave to him all the honour and the glory, her life was so absolutely
bound up with his, that of necessity she covered some of the ground
which I have had to go over again, though not from the same point of
view. So much has been written concerning Sir Richard Burton that it is
not necessary for me to tell again the story of his life here, and I
have therefore been able to write wholly of his wife, an equally
congenial task. Lady Burton was as remarkable as a woman as her husband
was as a man. Her personality was as picturesque, her individuality as
unique, and, allowing for her sex, her life was as full and varied as
his.

It has been my aim, wherever possible, throughout this book to let Lady
Burton tell the story of her life in her own words, and keep my
narrative in the background. To this end I have revised and incorporated
the fragment of autobiography which was cut short by her death, and I
have also pieced together all her letters, manuscripts, and journals
which have a bearing on her travels and adventures. I have striven to
give a faithful portrait of her as revealed by herself. In what I have
succeeded, the credit is hers alone: in what I have failed, the fault is
mine, for no biographer could have wished for a more eloquent subject
than this interesting and fascinating woman. Thus, however imperfectly I
may have done my share of the work, it remains the record of a good and
noble life—a life lifted up, a life unique in its self-sacrifice and
devotion.

Last December, when this book was almost completed, a volume was
published calling itself _The True Life of Captain Sir Richard F.
Burton_, written by his niece, Miss Georgiana M. Stisted, stated to be
issued “with the authority and approval of the Burton family.” This
statement is not correct—at any rate not wholly so; for several of the
relatives of the late Sir Richard Burton have written to Lady Burton’s
sister to say that they altogether disapprove of it. The book contained
a number of cruel and unjust charges against Lady Burton, which were
rendered worse by the fact that they were not made until she was dead
and could no longer defend herself. Some of these attacks were so paltry
and malevolent, and so utterly foreign to Lady Burton’s generous and
truthful character, that they may be dismissed with contempt. The many
friends who knew and loved her have not credited them for one moment,
and the animus with which they were written is so obvious that they have
carried little weight with the general public. But three specific
charges call for particular refutation, as silence on them might be
misunderstood. I refer to the statements that Lady Burton was the cause
of her husband’s recall from Damascus; that she acted in bad faith in
the matter of his conversion to the Roman Catholic Church; and to the
impugning of the motives which led her to burn _The Scented Garden_. I
should like to emphasize the fact that none of these controversial
questions formed part of the original scheme of this book, and they
would not have been alluded to had it not been for Miss Stisted’s
unprovoked attack upon Lady Burton’s memory. It is only with reluctance,
and solely in a defensive spirit, that they are touched upon now. Even
so, I have suppressed a good deal, for there is no desire on the part of
Lady Burton’s relatives or myself to justify her at the expense of the
husband whom she loved, and who loved her. But in vindicating her it has
been necessary to tell the truth. If therefore, in defending Lady Burton
against these accusations, certain facts have come to light which would
otherwise have been left in darkness, those who have wantonly attacked
the dead have only themselves to blame.

In conclusion, I should like to acknowledge my indebtedness to those who
have kindly helped me to make this book as complete as possible. I am
especially grateful to Mrs. Fitzgerald for much encouragement and
valuable help, including her reading of the proofs as they went through
the press, so that the book may be truly described as an authorized
biography. I also wish to thank Miss Plowman, the late Lady Burton’s
secretary, who has been of assistance in many ways. I acknowledge with
gratitude the permission of Captain L. H. Gordon to publish certain
letters which the late General Gordon wrote to Sir Richard and Lady
Burton, and the assistance which General Gordon’s niece, Miss Dunlop,
kindly gave me in this matter. My thanks are likewise due to the
Executors of the late Lord Leighton for permission to publish Lord
Leighton’s portrait of Sir Richard Burton; to Lady Thornton and others
for many illustrations; and to Lady Salisbury, Lady Guendolen Ramsden,
Lord Llandaff, Sir Henry Elliot, Mr. W. F. D. Smith, Baroness Paul de
Ralli, Miss Bishop, Miss Alice Bird, Madame de Gutmansthal-Benvenuti,
and others, for permission to publish sundry letters in this book.

                                                          W. H. WILKINS.

  8, MANDEVILLE PLACE, W.,
          _April, 1897_.




                           CONTENTS OF VOL. I


                                BOOK I
                               _WAITING_

                               CHAPTER I
                                                  PAGE
                 BIRTH AND LINEAGE                   3

                              CHAPTER II
                 MY CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH             13

                              CHAPTER III
                 MY FIRST SEASON                    26

                              CHAPTER IV
                 BOULOGNE: I MEET MY DESTINY        40

                               CHAPTER V
                 FOUR YEARS OF HOPE DEFERRED        62

                              CHAPTER VI
                 RICHARD LOVES ME                   80

                              CHAPTER VII
                 MY CONTINENTAL TOUR: ITALY         96

                             CHAPTER VIII
                 MY CONTINENTAL TOUR: SWITZERLAND  117

                              CHAPTER IX
                 THEY MEET AGAIN                   140

                               CHAPTER X
                 AT LAST                           157


                                BOOK II
                               _WEDDED_

                               CHAPTER I
                 FERNANDO PO                       171

                              CHAPTER II
                 MADEIRA                           184

                              CHAPTER III
                 TENERIFFE                         198

                              CHAPTER IV
                 A TRIP TO PORTUGAL                226

                               CHAPTER V
                 BRAZIL                            244

                              CHAPTER VI
                 OUR EXPEDITION INTO THE INTERIOR  271

                              CHAPTER VII
                 MORRO VELHO AND ITS ENVIRONS      295

                             CHAPTER VIII
                 MY LONELY RIDE TO RIO             322

                              CHAPTER IX
                 HOME AGAIN                        342

                               CHAPTER X
                 MY JOURNEY TO DAMASCUS            360




                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
                                 VOL. I


     LADY BURTON AT THE AGE OF 17                    _Frontispiece_
                                                     _To face page_
     WARDOUR CASTLE                                               6
     NEW HALL, CHELMSFORD                                        18
     RICHARD BURTON IN 1848 (IN NATIVE DRESS)                    50
     THE RAMPARTS, BOULOGNE                                      52
     BURTON ON HIS PILGRIMAGE TO MECCA                           70
     VENICE                                                     112
     LADY BURTON AT THE TIME OF HER MARRIAGE                    166
     THE BAY OF FUNCHAL, MADEIRA                                190
     THE PEAK OF TENERIFFE, FROM THE VALE OF OROTAVA            212
     SANTOS                                                     248
     PETROPOLIS                                                 258
     SÃO PAULO                                                  264
     THE BAY OF RIO                                             272
     THE SLAVE MUSTER AT MORRO VELHO                            296
     LADY BURTON IN 1869                                        350
     THE BOULEVART, ALEXANDRIA                                  364
     DAMASCUS, FROM THE DESERT                                  372




                                 BOOK I
                                WAITING
                              (1831–1861)

           I have known love and yearning from the years
           Since mother-milk I drank, nor e’er was free.

                           ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                               (_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).




                               CHAPTER I
                          _BIRTH AND LINEAGE_

           Man is known among men as his deeds attest,
           Which make noble origin manifest.

                           ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                               (_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).


Isabel Lady Burton was by birth an Arundell of Wardour, a daughter of
one of the oldest and proudest houses of England. The Arundells of
Wardour are a branch of the great family of whom it was sung:

                   Ere William fought and Harold fell
                   There were Earls of Arundell.

The Earls of Arundell before the Conquest are somewhat lost in the mists
of antiquity, and they do not affect the branch of the family from which
Lady Burton sprang. This branch traces its descent in a straight line
from one Roger de Arundell, who, according to _Domesday_, had estates in
Dorset and Somerset, and was possessed of twenty-eight lordships. The
Knights of Arundell were an adventurous race. One of the most famous was
Sir John Arundell, a valiant commander who served Henry VI. in France.
The grandson of this doughty knight, also Sir John Arundell, was made a
Knight Banneret by Henry VII. for his valour at the sieges of Tiroven
and Tournay, and the battle that ensued. At his death his large estates
were divided between the two sons whom he had by his first wife, the
Lady Eleanor Grey, daughter of the Marquis of Dorset, whose half-sister
was the wife of Henry VII. The second son, Sir Thomas Arundell, was
given Wardour Castle in Wiltshire, and became the ancestor of the
Arundells of Wardour.

The House of Wardour was therefore founded by Sir Thomas Arundell, who
was born in 1500. He had the good fortune in early life to become the
pupil, and ultimately to win the friendship, of Cardinal Wolsey. He
played a considerable part throughout the troublous times which followed
on the King’s quarrel with the Pope, and attained great wealth and
influence. He was a cousin-german of Henry VIII., and he was allied to
two of Henry’s ill-fated queens through his marriage with Margaret,
daughter of Lord Edmond Howard, son of Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. His wife
was a cousin-german of Anne Boleyn and a sister of Catherine Howard. Sir
Thomas Arundell was a man of intellectual powers and administrative
ability. He became Chancellor to Queen Catherine Howard, and he stood
high in the favour of Henry VIII. But in the following reign evil days
came upon him. He was accused of conspiring with the Lord Protector
Somerset to kill the Earl of Northumberland, a charge utterly false, the
real reason of his impeachment being that Sir Thomas had been chief
adviser to the Duke of Somerset and had identified himself with his
policy. He was beheaded on Tower Hill a few days after the execution of
the Duke of Somerset. Thus died the founder of the House of Wardour.

In Sir Thomas Arundell’s grandson, who afterwards became first Lord
Arundell of Wardour, the adventurous spirit of the Arundells broke forth
afresh. When a young man, Thomas Arundell, commonly called “The
Valiant,” went over to Germany, and served as a volunteer in the
Imperial army in Hungary. He fought against the Turks, and in an
engagement at Grau took their standard with his own hands. On this
account Rudolph II., Emperor of Germany, created him Count of the Holy
Roman Empire, and decreed that “every of his children and their
descendants for ever, of both sexes, should enjoy that title.” So runs
the wording of the charter.[1] On Sir Thomas Arundell’s return to
England a warm dispute arose among the Peers whether such a dignity, so
conferred by a foreign potentate, should be allowed place or privilege
in England. The matter was referred to Queen Elizabeth, who answered,
“that there was a close tie of affection between the Prince and subject,
and that as chaste wives should have no glances but for their own
spouses, so should faithful subjects keep their eyes at home and not
gaze upon foreign crowns; that we for our part do not care that our
sheep should wear a stranger’s marks, nor dance after the whistle of
every foreigner.” Yet it was she who sent Sir Thomas Arundell in the
first instance to the Emperor Rudolph with a letter of introduction, in
which she spoke of him as her “dearest cousin,” and stated that the
descent of the family of Arundell was derived from the blood royal.
James I., while following in the footsteps of Queen Elizabeth, and
refusing to acknowledge the title conferred by the Emperor, acknowledged
Sir Thomas Arundell’s worth by creating him a Baron of England under the
title of Baron Arundell of Wardour. It is worthy of note that James II.
recognized the right of the title of Count of the Holy Roman Empire to
Lord Arundell and all his descendants of both sexes in a document of
general interest to Catholic families.

[Illustration: WARDOUR CASTLE.]

Thomas, second Baron Arundell of Wardour, married Blanche, daughter of
the Earl of Worcester. This Lady Arundell calls for special notice, as
she was in many ways the prototype of her lineal descendant, Isabel.
When her husband was away serving with the King’s army in the Great
Rebellion, Lady Arundell bravely defended Wardour for nine days, with
only a handful of men, against the Parliamentary forces who besieged it.
Lady Arundell then delivered up the castle on honourable terms, which
the besiegers broke when they took possession. They were, however, soon
dislodged by Lord Arundell, who, on his return, ordered a mine to be
sprung under his castle, and thus sacrificed the ancient and stately
pile to his loyalty. He and his wife then turned their backs on their
ruined home, and followed the King’s fortunes, she sharing with
uncomplaining love all her husband’s trials and privations. Lord
Arundell, like the rest of the Catholic nobility of England, was a
devoted Royalist. He raised at his own expense a regiment of horse for
the service of Charles I., and in the battle of Lansdowne, when fighting
for the King, he was shot in the thigh by a brace of pistol bullets,
whereof he died in his Majesty’s garrison at Oxford. He was buried with
great pomp in the family vault at Tisbury. His devoted wife, like her
descendant Isabel Burton, that other devoted wife who strongly resembled
her, survived her husband barely six years. She died at Winchester; but
she was buried by his side at Tisbury, where her monument may still be
seen.

Henry, third Lord Arundell, succeeded his father in his titles and
honours. Like many who had made great sacrifices to the Royal cause, he
did not find an exceeding great reward when the King came into his own
again. As Arundell of Wardour was one of the strictest and most loyal of
the Catholic families of England, its head was marked out for Puritan
persecution. In 1678 Lord Arundell was, with four other Catholic lords,
committed a prisoner to the Tower, upon the information of the infamous
Titus Oates and other miscreants who invented the “Popish Plots.” Lord
Arundell was confined in the Tower until 1683, when he was admitted to
bail. Five years’ imprisonment for no offence save fidelity to his
religion and loyalty to his king was a cruel injustice; but in those
days, when the blood of the best Catholic families in England ran like
water on Tower Hill, Lord Arundell was lucky to have escaped with his
head. On James II.’s accession to the throne he was sworn of the Privy
Council and held high office. On the King’s abdication he retired to his
country seat, where he lived in great style and with lavish hospitality.
Among other things he kept a celebrated pack of hounds, which afterwards
went to Lord Castlehaven, and thence were sold to Hugo Meynell, and
became the progenitors of the famous Quorn pack.

Henry, the sixth Baron, is noteworthy as being the last Lord Arundell of
Wardour from whom Isabel was directly descended (see p. 9), and with him
our immediate interest in the Arundells of Wardour ceases. Lady Burton
was the great-granddaughter of James Everard Arundell, his third and
youngest son. Her father, Mr. Henry Raymond Arundell, was twice married.
His first wife died within a year of their marriage, leaving one son.
Two years later, in 1830, Mr. Henry Arundell married Miss Eliza Gerard,
a sister of Sir Robert Gerard of Garswood, who was afterwards created
Lord Gerard. The following year, 1831, Isabel, the subject of this
memoir, was born.

 _Table showing the descent of Isabel Lady Burton from Henry, sixth Lord
        Arundell of Wardour, and her kinship to the present Peer._

 Henry, 6th Baron===m. Eliz. Eleanora,
     b. 1694,     |  dau. of Baron
     d. 1746.     |  Everard.
      +-----------+----------------+-----------------+
      |                            |                 |
      Henry===m. Mary, dau.      Raymond       James Everard===m. Anne, dau. of John Wyndham.
 7th Baron, |  of Richard         Thomas,       d. 1803.     |
 b. 1717,   |  Arundell-Beling    d. without                 |
 d. 1756.   |  of Lanherne.       issue 1768.                |
        +---+                                     +----------+---------------------------+
        |                                         |                                      |
      Henry===m. Maria Christiana,             James Everard===m.(1) Mary Christiana  Thomas Raymond===m. 1792, Elizabeth Smythe,
 8th Baron, |  dau. of Benedict                who succeeded |  (his cousin), dau.     b. 1763,      |  dau. of Sir Edward Smythe,
 b. 1740,   |  Conquest.                       his cousin    |  of Henry,              d. 1829.      |   Bart.
 d. 1808.   |                                  Henry as      |  8th Baron.                           |
            |                                  9th Baron,    | (2)....                               |
            |                                    b. 1763,    |                                       |
            |                                    d. 1817.    |                                       |
            |                                                |                   +----------------+--+-------------+
            |                                                |                   |                |                |
            |                                                |          Thos. Raymond,            |             4 sons,
            |                                                |           died in infancy.    Henry Raymond,     2 daughters.
     +------+-----+                  +-----------------------+------+                        b. 1799, d. 1886,
     |            |                  |                              |                        who married,
 Mary         Eleanor Mary,        James===m. Mary Anne,           Henry===(1) m. Frances        1827===(1) Mary Isabel, daughter of Sir
 Christiana,  m. to Charles,  Everard,   |  dau. of George,  Benedict,   | Catherine, dau.            |   Hugh Clifford Constable, Bart.,
 m. to her    6th Lord        10th Baron,|  1st Marquis of   11th Baron, | of Sir Henry               |   by whom (who died in 1828) he
 cousin,      Clifford.         b. 1785, |  Buckingham.        b. 1804,  | Tichborne, Bart.,          |   had one son, Theodore, who
 James                          d. 1834  |                      d. 1862. | by whom he had             |   married, 1854, his cousin, dau.
 Everard,                                |                               | issue.                     |   of John Hussey, and d. 1868,
 9th Baron.                          No issue.                           | (2)....                    |   leaving issue 3 sons and 3 daughters.
                                                                         | (3)....                    | (2) m. 1830. Eliza, sister of Sir
                                                                  John Francis,                       |   Robert Gerard, 13th Bart. (and
                                                                12th and present                      |   1st Baron Gerard), who died
                                                            Lord Arundell of Wardour.                 |   1872.
                                                                                                      |
   +---------------------+----------+---------------+-------------+------------+--------------+-------+-----+------+---------+--------+
   |                     |          |               |             |            |              |       |            |         |        |
   =Isabel====m. 1861,  Raymond    Blanche,       Renfric        Rudolph      Henry           Amy,    Raymond    Eliz. Mary  Julia,  Emeline
 b. 1831,   =Captain=   Everard,   m. 1857,       Thomas, R.N.,  Alexis       Alphonsus       died    Ignatius,  Regis,      died    Mary,
 d. 1896.   =Sir=       d. young.  John Hugh      killed in New  (in the      (lieut. R.N.),  young.  d. young.  m. 1873,    young.  m. 1877,
            =Richard=              Smyth Pigott,  Zealand 1860,  Admiralty),  d. at sea on                       Edward              Richard
            =Francis=              of Brockley    unmarried.     d. 1877,     board                              Gerald              Van Zeller,
            =Burton.=,             Court,                        unmarried.   H.M.S.                             Fitzgerald.         Portuguese
            =K.C.M.G.=,            co. Somerset,                              _Bittern_                          He died             Vice-Consul
            who died               d. 1892.                                   1872.                              1891.               in London.
            1890.                                                                                                                    He died
                                                                                                                                     1892.

I have dwelt on Lady Burton’s lineage for several reasons. In the first
place, she herself would have wished it. She paid great attention to her
pedigree, and at one time contemplated writing a book on the Arundells
of Wardour, and with this view collected a mass of information, which,
with characteristic generosity, she afterwards placed at Mr. Yeatman’s
disposal for his _History of the House of Arundell_. She regarded her
forefathers with reverence, and herself as their product. But proud
though she was of her ancestry, there never was a woman freer from the
vulgarity of thrusting it forward upon all and sundry, or of expecting
to be honoured for it alone. Though of noble descent, not only on her
father’s side, but on her mother’s as well (for the Gerards are a family
of eminence and antiquity, springing from the common ancestor of the
Dukes of Leinster in Ireland and the Earls of Plymouth, now extinct, in
England), yet she counted it as nothing compared with the nobility of
the inner worth, the majesty which clothes the man, be he peasant or
prince, with righteousness. She often said, “The man only is noble who
does noble deeds,” and she always held that

            He, who to ancient wreaths can bring no more
            From his own worth, dies bankrupt on the score.

Another reason why I have called attention to Lady Burton’s ancestry is
because she attached considerable importance to the question of heredity
generally, quite apart from any personal aspect. She looked upon it as a
field in which Nature ever reproduces herself, not only with regard to
the physical organism, but also the psychical qualities. But with it all
she was no pessimist, for she believed that there was in every man an
ever-rallying force against the inherited tendencies to vice and sin.
She was always “on the side of the angels.”

I remember her once saying: “Since I leave none to come after me, I must
needs strive to be worthy of those who have gone before me.”

And she was worthy—she, the daughter of an ancient race, which seems to
have found in her its crowning consummation and expression. If one were
fanciful, one could see in her many-sided character, reflected as in the
facets of a diamond, the great qualities which had been conspicuous in
her ancestors. One could see in her, plainly portrayed, the roving,
adventurous spirit which characterized the doughty Knights of Arundell
in days when the field of travel and adventure was much more limited
than now. One could mark the intellectual and administrative abilities,
and perhaps the spice of worldly wisdom, which were conspicuous in the
founder of the House of Wardour. One could note in her the qualities of
bravery, dare-devilry, and love of conflict which shone out so strongly
in the old Knight of Arundell who raised the sieges of Tiroven and
Tournay, and in “The Valiant” who captured with his own hands the banner
of the infidel. One could see the reflex of that loyalty to the throne
which marked the Lord Arundell who died fighting for his king. One could
trace in her the same tenacity and devotion with which all her race has
clung to the ancient faith and which sent one of them to the Tower.
Above all one could trace her likeness to Blanche Lady Arundell, who
held Wardour at her lord’s bidding against the rebels. She was like her
in her lion-hearted bravery, in her proud but generous spirit, in her
determination and resource, and above all in her passionate wifely
devotion to the man to whom she felt herself “destined from the
beginning.”

In sooth they were a goodly company these Arundells of Wardour, and ’tis
such as they, brave men and good women in every rank of life, who have
made England the nation she is to-day. Yet of them all there was none
nobler, none truer, none more remarkable than this late flower of their
race, Isabel Burton.




                             CHAPTER II[2]
                        _MY CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH_
                              (1831–1849)

              As star knows star across the ethereal sea,
              So soul feels soul to all eternity.


Blessed be they who invented pens, ink, and paper!

I have heard men speak with infinite contempt of authoresses. As a girl
I did not ask my poor little brains whether this mental attitude towards
women was generous in the superior animal or not; but I did like to
slope off to my own snug little den, away from my numerous family, and
scribble down the events of my ordinary, insignificant, uninteresting
life, and write about my little sorrows, pleasures, and peccadilloes. I
was only one of the “wise virgins,” providing for the day when I should
be old, blind, wrinkled, forgetful, and miserable, and might like such a
record to refresh my failing memory. So I went back, by way of novelty,
beyond my memory, and gleaned details from my father.

For those who like horoscopes, I was born on a Sunday at ten minutes to
9 a.m., March 20, 1831, at 4, Great Cumberland Place, near the Marble
Arch. I am not able to give the aspect of the planets on this occasion;
but, unlike most babes, I was born with my eyes open, whereupon my
father predicted that I should be very “wide awake.” As soon as I could
begin to move about and play, I had such a way of pointing my nose at
things, and of cocking my ears like a kitten, that I was called “Puss,”
and shall probably be called Puss when I am eighty. I was christened
Isabel, after my father’s first wife, _née_ Clifford, one of his
cousins. She died, after a short spell of happiness, leaving him with
one little boy, who at the time I was born was between three and four
years old.

It is a curious fact that my mother, Elizabeth Gerard, and Isabel
Clifford, my father’s first wife, were bosom friends, schoolfellows, and
friends out in the world together; and amongst other girlish confidences
they used to talk to one another about the sort of man each would marry.
Both their men were to be tall, dark, and majestic; one was to be a
literary man, and a man of artistic tastes and life; the other was to be
a statesman. When Isabel Clifford married my father, Henry Raymond
Arundell (of Wardour), her cousin, my mother, seeing he was a small,
fair, boyish-looking man, whose chief hobbies were hunting and shooting,
said, “I am ashamed of you, Isabel! How can you?” Nevertheless she used
to go and help her to make her baby-clothes for the coming boy. After
Isabel’s death nobody, except my father, deplored her so much as her
dear friend my mother; so that my father only found consolation (for he
would not go out nor meet anybody in the intensity of his grief) in
talking to my mother of his lost wife. From sympathy came pity, from
pity grew love, and three years after Isabel’s death my mother and my
father were married. They had eleven children, great and small; I mean
that some only lived to be baptized and died, some lived a few years,
and some grew up.[3]

To continue my own small life, I can remember distinctly everything that
has happened to me from the age of three. I do not know whether I was
pretty or not; there is a very sweet miniature of me with golden hair
and large blue eyes, and clad in a white muslin frock and gathering
flowers, painted by one of the best miniature painters of 1836, when
miniatures were in vogue and photographs unknown. My mother said I was
“lovely,” and my father said I was “all there”; but I am told my uncles
and aunts used to put my mother in a rage by telling her how ugly I was.
My father adored me, and spoilt me absurdly; he considered me an
original, a bit of “perfect nature.” My mother was equally fond of me,
but severe—all her spoiling, on principle, went to her step-son, whose
name was Theodore.

When my father and mother were first married, James Everard Arundell, my
father’s first cousin, and my godfather, was the then Lord Arundell of
Wardour. He was reputed to be the handsomest peer of the day, and he was
married to a sister of the Duke of Buckingham. He invited my father and
mother, as the two wives were friends, to come and occupy one wing of
Wardour immediately after their marriage, and they did so. When James
Everard died, my parents left Wardour, and took a house in Montagu Place
at the top of Bryanston Square, and passed their winters hunting at
Leamington.

We children were always our parents’ first care. Great attention was
paid to our health, to our walks, to our dress, our baths, and our
persons; our food was good, but of the plainest; we had a head nurse
and three nursery-maids; and, unlike the present, everything was
upstairs—day nurseries and night nurseries and schoolroom. The only
times we were allowed downstairs were at two o’clock luncheon (our
dinner), and to dessert for about a quarter of an hour if our
parents were dining alone or had very intimate friends. On these
occasions I was dressed in white muslin and blue ribbons, and
Theodore, my stepbrother, in green velvet with turn-over lace collar
after the fashion of that time. We were not allowed to speak unless
spoken to; we were not allowed to ask for anything unless it was
given to us. We kissed our father’s and mother’s hands, and asked
their blessing before going upstairs, and we stood upright by the
side of them all the time we were in the room. In those days there
was no lolling about, no Tommy-keep-your-fingers-out-of-the-jam, no
Dick-crawling-under-the-table-pinching-people’s-legs as nowadays. We
children were little gentlemen and ladies, and people of the world
from our birth; it was the old school. The only diversion from this
strict rule was an occasional drive in the park with mother, in a
dark green chariot with hammer-cloth, and green and gold liveries
and powdered wigs for coachman and footman: no one went into the
park in those days otherwise. My daily heart-twinges were saying
good-night to my mother, always with an impression that I might not
see her again, and the other terror was the old-fashioned rushlight
shade, like a huge cylinder with holes in it, which made hideous
shadows on the bedroom walls, and used to frighten me horribly every
time I woke. The most solemn thing to me was the old-fashioned
Charley, or watchman, pacing up and down the street, and singing in
deep and mournful tone, “Past one o’clock, and a cloudy morning.”

At the age of ten I was sent to the Convent of the Canonesses of the
Holy Sepulchre, New Hall, Chelmsford, and left there when I was sixteen.
In one sense my leaving school so early was a misfortune; I was just at
the age when one begins to understand and love one’s studies. I ought to
have been kept at the convent, or sent to some foreign school; but both
my father and mother wanted to have me at home with them.

I want to describe my home of that period. It was called Furze Hall,
near Ingatestone, Essex. Dear place! I can shut my eyes and see it now.
It was a white, straggling, old-fashioned, half-cottage, half-farmhouse,
built by bits, about a hundred yards from the road, from which it was
completely hidden by trees. It was buried in bushes, ivy, and flowers.
Creepers covered the walls and the verandahs, and crawled in at the
windows, making the house look like a nest; it was surrounded by a
pretty flower garden and shrubberies, and the pasture-land had the
appearance of a small park. There were stables and kennels. Behind the
house a few woods and fields, perhaps fifty acres, and a little bit of
water, all enclosed by a ring fence, comprised our domain. Inside the
house the hall had the appearance of the main cabin of a man-of-war, and
opened all around into rooms by various doors: one into a small library,
which led to a pretty, cheerful little drawing-room, with two large
windows down to the ground; one opened on to a trim lawn, the other into
a conservatory; another door opened into a smoking-room, for the male
part of the establishment, and the opposite one into a little chapel;
and a dining-room, running off by the back door with glass windows to
the ground, led to the garden. There was a pretty honeysuckle and
jessamine porch, which rose just under my window, in which wrens and
robins built their nests, and birds and bees used to pay me a visit on
summer evenings. We had many shady walks, arbours, bowers, a splendid
slanting laurel hedge, and a beautiful bed of dahlias, all colours and
shades. A beech-walk like the aisle of a church had a favourite
summer-house at the end. The pretty lawn was filled, as well as the
greenhouse, with the choicest flowers; and we had rich crops of grapes,
the best I ever knew. I remember a mulberry tree, under the shade of
which was a grave and tombstone and epitaph, the remains and memorial of
a faithful old dog; and I remember a pretty pink may tree, a large white
rose, and an old oak, with a seat round it. Essex is generally flat; but
around us it was undulating and well-wooded, and the lanes and drives
and rides were beautiful. We were rather in a valley, and a pretty road
wound up a rise, at the top of which our tall white chimneys could be
seen smoking through the trees. The place could boast no grandeur; but
it was my home, I passed my childhood there, and loved it.

[Illustration: NEW HALL, CHELMSFORD.]

We used to have great fun on a large bit of water in the park of one of
our neighbours,—in the ice days in winter with sledges, skating, and
sliding; in the summer-time we used to scamper all over the country with
long poles and jump over the hedges. Nevertheless, I had a great deal of
solitude, and I passed much time in the woods reading and contemplating.
Disraeli’s _Tancred_ and similar occult books were my favourites; but
_Tancred_, with its glamour of the East, was the chief of them, and I
used to think out after a fashion my future life, and try to solve great
problems. I was forming my character.

And as I was as a child, so I am now. I love solitude. I have met with
people who dare not pass a moment alone; many seem to dread themselves.
I find no greater happiness than to be alone out of doors, either on the
sea-beach or in a wood, and there reflect. With me solitude is a
necessary consolation; I can soothe my miseries, enjoy my pleasures,
form my mind, reconcile myself to disappointments, and plan my conduct.
A person may be sorrowful without being alone, and the mind may be alone
in a large assembly, in a crowded city, but not so pleasantly. I have
heard that captives can solace themselves by perpetually thinking of
what they loved best; but there is a danger in excess of solitude, lest
our thoughts run the wrong way and ferment into eccentricity. Every
right-minded person must think, and thought comes only in solitude. He
must ponder upon what he is, what he has been, what he may become. The
energies of the soul rise from the veiled obscurity it is placed in
during its contact with the world. It is when alone that we obtain
cheerful calmness and content, and prepare for the hour of action.
Alone, we acquire a true notion of things, bear the misfortunes of life
calmly, look firmly on the pride and insolence of the great, and dare to
think for ourselves, which the majority of the great dare not. When can
the soul feel that it lives, and is great, free, noble, immortal, if not
in thought? Oh! one can learn in solitude what the worldly have no idea
of. True it is that some souls capable of reflection plunge themselves
into an endless abyss, and know not where to stop. I have never felt one
of those wild, joyous moments when we brood over our coming bliss, and
create a thousand glorious consequences. But I have known enough of
sorrow to appreciate rightly any moment without an immediate care. There
are moments of deep feeling, when one must be alone in self-communion,
alike to encounter good fortune or danger and despair, even if one draws
out the essence of every misery in thought.

I was enthusiastic about gypsies, Bedawin Arabs, and everything Eastern
and mystic, and especially about a wild and lawless life. Very often,
instead of going to the woods, I used to go down a certain green lane;
and if there were any oriental gypsies there, I would go into their camp
and sit for an hour or two with them. I was strictly forbidden to
associate with them in our lanes, but it was my delight. When they were
only travelling tinkers or basket-menders, I was very obedient; but wild
horses would not have kept me out of the camps of the oriental, yet
English-named, tribes of Burton, Cooper, Stanley, Osbaldiston, and one
other tribe whose name I forget. My particular friend was Hagar Burton,
a tall, slender, handsome, distinguished, refined woman, who had much
influence in her tribe. Many an hour did I pass with her (she used to
call me “Daisy”), and many a little service I did them when any of her
tribe were sick, or got into a scrape with the squires anent poultry,
eggs, or other things. The last day I saw Hagar Burton in her camp she
cast my horoscope and wrote it in Romany. The rest of the tribe
presented me with a straw fly-catcher of many colours, which I still
have. The horoscope was translated to me by Hagar. The most important
part of it was this:

“You will cross the sea, and be in the same town with your Destiny and
know it not. Every obstacle will rise up against you, and such a
combination of circumstances, that it will require all your courage,
energy, and intelligence to meet them. Your life will be like one
swimming against big waves; but God will be with you, so you will always
win. You will fix your eye on your polar star, and you will go for that
without looking right or left. You will bear the name of our tribe, and
be right proud of it. You will be as we are, but far greater than we.
Your life is all wandering, change, and adventure. One soul in two
bodies in life or death, never long apart. Show this to the man you take
for your husband.—HAGAR BURTON.”

She also prophesied:

“You shall have plenty to choose from, and wait for years; but you are
destined to him from the beginning. The name of our tribe shall cause
you many a sorrowful, humiliating hour; but when the rest who sought him
in the heyday of his youth and strength fade from his sight, you shall
remain bright and purified to him as the morning star, which hangs like
a diamond drop over the sea. Remember that your destiny for your
constancy will triumph, the name we have given you will be yours, and
the day will come when you will pray for it, long for it, and be proud
of it.”

Much other talk I had with Hagar Burton sitting around the camp-fire,
and then she went from me; and I saw her but once again, and that after
many years.

This was the ugliest time of my life. Every girl has an ugly age. I was
tall, plump, and meant to be fair, but was always tanned and sunburnt. I
knew my good points. What girl does not? I had large, dark blue, earnest
eyes, and long, black eyelashes and eyebrows, which seemed to grow
shorter the older I got. I had very white regular teeth, and very small
hands and feet and waist; but I fretted because I was too fat to slip
into what is usually called “our stock size,” and my complexion was by
no means pale and interesting enough to please me. From my gypsy tastes
I preferred a picturesque toilette to a merely smart one. I had
beautiful hair, very long, thick and soft, with five shades in it, and
of a golden brown. My nose was aquiline. I had all the material for a
very good figure, and once a sculptor wanted to sculpt me, but my mother
would not allow it, as she thought I should be ashamed of my figure
later, when I had fined down. I used to envy maypole, broomstick girls,
who could dress much prettier than I could. I was either fresh and wild
with spirits, or else melancholy and full of pathos. I wish I could give
as faithful a picture of my character; but we are apt to judge ourselves
either too favourably or too severely, and so I would rather quote what
a phrenologist wrote of me at this time:

“When Isabel Arundell loves, her affection will be something
extraordinary, her devotion great—in fact, too great. It will be her
leading passion, and influence her whole life. Everything will be
sacrificed for one man, and she will be constant, unchangeable, and
jealous of his affections. In short, he will be her salvation or
perdition! Her temper is good, but she is passionate; not easily roused,
but when violently irritated she might be a perfect little demon. She
is, however, forgiving. She is full of originality and humour, and her
utter naturalness will pass for eccentricity. She loves society, wherein
she is wild and gay; when alone, she is thoughtful and melancholy. She
is ambitious, sagacious, and intellectual, and will attract attention by
a certain simple dignity, by a look in her eye and a peculiar tone of
her voice. To sum her up: Her nature is noble, ardent, generous,
honourable, and good-hearted. She has courage, both animal and mental.
Her faults are the noble and dashing ones, the spicy kind to enlist
one’s sympathies, the weeds that spring from a too luxuriant soil.”

Thus wrote a professional phrenologist of me, and a friend who was fond
of me at the time endorsed it in every word. With regard to the
ambition, I always felt that if I were a man I should like to be a great
general or statesman, to have travelled everywhere, to have seen and
learnt everything, done everything; in fine, to be the Man of the Day!

When I was between seventeen and eighteen years of age, we left Furze
Hall and went to London. The place in which we have passed our youthful
days, be it ever so dull, possesses a secret charm.

I performed several pilgrimages of adieu to every spot connected with
the bright reminiscences of youth. I fancied no other fireside would be
so cosy, that I could sleep in no other room, no fields so green. Those
who know what it is to leave their quasi-native place for the first
time, never to return; to know every stick and stone in the place for
miles round, and take an everlasting farewell of them all; to have one’s
pet animals destroyed; to make a bonfire of all the things that one does
not want desecrated by stranger hands; to sit on some height and gaze on
the general havoc; to reflect on what is, what has been, and what may be
in a strange world, amidst strange faces; to shake hands with a crowd of
poor old servants, peasants, and humble friends, and not a dry eye to be
seen,—those who have tasted something of this will sympathize with my
feelings then. “Ah, miss,” the old retainers said, “we shall have no
more jolly Christmases; we shall have no beef, bread, and flannels next
year; the hall will not be decked with festoons of holly; there will be
no more music and dancing!” “No more snapdragons and round games,” quoth
the gamekeeper; and his voice trembled, and I saw the tears in his eyes
and in the eyes of them all.

So broke up our little home in Essex, and we went our ways.




                              CHAPTER III
                           _MY FIRST SEASON_
                              (1849–1850)

              Society itself, which should create
              Kindness, destroys what little we have got.
              To feel for none is the true social art
              Of the world’s lovers.

                                                  BYRON.


I was soon going through a London drilling. I was very much pleased with
town, and the novelty of my life amused me and softened my grief at
leaving my country home. I greatly disliked being primmed and scolded,
and I thought dressing up an awful bore, and never going out without a
chaperone a greater one. Some things amused me very much. One thing was,
that all the footmen with powdered wigs who opened the door when one
paid a visit were obsequious if one came in a carriage, but looked as if
they would like to shut the door in one’s face if one came on foot.
Another was the way people stared at me; it used to make me laugh, but I
soon found I must not laugh in their faces.

We put our house in order; we got pretty dresses, and we left our cards;
we were all ready for the season’s campaign. I made my _début_ at a
fancy ball at Almack’s, which was then very exclusive. We went under the
wing of the Duchess of Norfolk.

I shall never forget that first ball. To begin at the beginning, there
was my dress. How a girl of the present day would despise it! I wore
white tarlatan over white silk, and the first skirt was looped up to my
knee with a blush rose. My hair, which was very abundant, was tressed in
an indescribable fashion by Alexandre, and decked with blush roses. I
had no ornaments; but I really looked very well, and was proud of
myself. We arrived at Almack’s about eleven. The scene was dazzlingly
brilliant to me as I entered. The grand staircase and ante-chamber were
decked with garlands, and festoons of white and gold muslin and ribbons.
The blaze of lights, the odour of flowers, the perfumes, the diamonds,
and the magnificent dresses of the cream of the British aristocracy
smote upon my senses; all was new to me, and all was sweet. Julian’s
band played divinely. My people had been absent from London many
seasons, so at first it seemed strange. But at Almack’s every one knew
every one else; for society in those days was not a mob, but small and
select. People did not struggle to get on as people do now, and we were
there by right, and to resume our position in our circle. There is much
more heart in the world than many people give it credit for—at any rate
in the world of the gentle by birth and breeding. Every one had a hearty
welcome for my people, and some good-natured chaff about their having
“buried themselves” so long. I was at once taken by the hand, and kindly
greeted by many. Some great personage, whose name I forget, gave a
private supper, besides the usual one, to which we were invited; and in
those days there were polkas, valses, quadrilles, and galops. Old
stagers (mammas) had told me to consider myself very lucky if I got four
dances, but I was engaged seven or eight deep soon after I entered the
ballroom, and had more partners than I could dance with in one night. Of
course mother was delighted with me, and I was equally pleased with her:
she looked so young and fashionable; and instead of frightening young
men away, as she had always done in the country, she appeared to attract
them, engage them in conversation, and seemed to enjoy everything; she
was such a nice chaperone. I was very much confused at the amount of
staring (I did not know that every new girl was stared at on her first
appearance); and one may think how vain and incredulous I was, when I
overheard some one telling my mother that I had been quoted as the new
beauty at his club. Fancy, poor ugly me!

I shall not forget my enjoyment of that first ball. I had always been
taught to look upon it as the opening of Fashion’s fairy gates to a
paradise; nor was I disappointed, for, to a young girl who has never
seen anything, her first entrance into a brilliant ballroom is very
intoxicating. The blaze of light and colour, the perfume of scent and
bouquet, the beautiful dresses, the spirited music, the seemingly joyous
multitude of happy faces, laughing and talking as if care were a myth,
the partners flocking round the door to see the new arrivals—all was
delightful to me. But then of course in those days we were not born
_blasé_, as the young people are to-day.

And I shall never forget my first opera. I shall always remember the
delights of that night. I thought even the crush-room lovely, and the
brilliant gaslight, the mysterious little boxes, with their red-velvet
curtains, filled with handsome men and pretty women, which I think Lady
Blessington describes as “rags of roues, memoranda books of other
women’s follies, like the last scene of the theatre; they come out in
gas and red flame, but do not stand daylight.” I do not say that, but
some of them certainly looked so. The opera was _La Sonambula_, with
Jenny Lind and Gardoni. When the music commenced, I forgot I was on
earth; and, so passionately fond of singing and acting as I was, it was
not wonderful that I was quite absorbed by this earth’s greatest
delight. Jenny’s girlish figure, simple manner, birdlike voice, so
thrilling and so full of passion, her perfect acting and irresistible
love-making, were matchless. Gardoni was very handsome and very stiff.
The scene where Gardoni takes her ring from her, and the last scene when
he discovers his mistake, and her final song, will ever be engraven on
my memory; and if I see the opera a thousand times, I shall never like
it as well as I did that night, for all was new to me. And after—only
think, what pleasure for me!—there came the ballet with the three great
stars Amalia Ferraris, Cerito, and Fanny Essler, whom so few are old
enough to remember now. There are no ballets nowadays like those.

This London life of society and amusement was delightful to me after the
solitary one I had been leading in the country. I was ready for
anything, and the world and its excitement gave me no time to hanker
after my Essex home. The rust was soon rubbed off; I forgot the clouds;
my spirit was unbroken, and I lived in the present scrap of rose-colour.
They were joyous and brilliant days, for I was exploring novelties I had
only read or heard of. I went through all the sight-seeing of London,
and the (to me) fresh amusement of shopping, visiting, operas, balls,
and of driving in Rotten Row. The days were very different then to what
they are now: one rose late, and, except a cup of tea, breakfast and
luncheon were one meal; then came shopping, visiting, or receiving. One
went to the Park or Row at 5.30, home to dress, and then off to dinner
or the opera, and out for the night, unless there was a party at home.
This lasted every day and night from March till the end of July, and
often there were two or three things of a night. I was tired at first;
but at the end of a fortnight I was tired-proof, and of course I was
dancing mad. The Sundays were diversified by High Mass at Farm Street,
and perhaps a Greenwich dinner in the afternoon.

I enjoyed that season immensely, for it was all new, and the life-zest
was strong within me. But I could not help pitying poor wall-flowers—a
certain set of girls who come out every night, who have been out season
after season, and who stand or sit out all night. I often used to say to
my partners, “Do go and dance with So-and-so”; and the usual rejoinder
was, “I really would do anything to oblige you, but I am sick of seeing
those girls.” In fact, we girls must not appear on the London boards too
often lest we fatigue these young coxcombs. London, like the smallest
watering-place, is full of cliques and sets on a large scale, from
Billingsgate up to the throne. The great world then comprised the Court
and its _entourage_, the Ministers, and the _Corps Diplomatique_, the
military, naval, and literary stars, the leaders of the fashionable and
political world, the cream of the aristocracy of England; and—at the
time of which I write—the old Catholic cousinhood clan used to hold its
own. You must either have been born in this great world, or you must
have arrived in it through aristocratic patronage, or through your
talents, fame, or beauty. Nowadays you only want wealth! There were some
sets even then which were rather rapid, which abolished a good deal of
the tightness of _convenance_, whose motto seemed to be _savoir vivre_,
to be easy, fascinating, fashionable, and dainty as well as social.

I found a ballroom the very place for reflection; and with the sentiment
that I should use society for my pleasure instead of being its slave, I
sometimes obstinately would refuse a dance or two, or sitting-out and
talking, in order to lean against some pillar and contemplate human
nature, in defiance of my admirers, who thought me very eccentric. I
loved to watch the intriguing mother catching a coronet for her
daughter, and the father absorbed in politics with some contemporary
fogey; the old dandy with his frilled shirt capering in a quadrille the
steps that were danced in Noah’s ark; the rouged old peeress, whom you
would not have taken to be respectable if you did not happen to know
her, flirting with boys. I saw other old ones, with one foot in the
grave, almost mad with excitement over cards and dice, and every
passion, except love, gleaming from their horrid eyes. I saw the rivalry
amongst the beauties. I noted the brainless coxcomb, who comes in for an
hour, leans against the door, twirls his moustache, and goes out again—a
sort of “Aw! the Tenth-don’t-dance-young-man!”; the boy who asks all the
prettiest girls to dance, steps on their toes, tears their dresses, and
throws them down; the confirmed, bad, intriguing London girl, who will
play any game for her end; and the timid, delighted young girl, who
finds herself of consequence for the first time. I have watched the
victim of the heartless coquette—the young girl gazing with tearful,
longing eyes for the man to ask her to dance to whom she has perhaps
unconsciously betrayed her affection; she in her innocence like a pane
of glass, the other glorying in her torture, dancing or flirting with
the man in her sight, only to glut her vanity with another’s
disappointment. I have watched the jealousy of men to each other, vying
for a woman’s favour and cutting each other out. I have heard mothers
running down each other’s daughters, dowagers and prudent spinsters
casting their eyes to heaven for vengeance on the change of manners—even
in the Forties!—on the licence of the day, and the liberty of the age! I
have heard them sighing for minuets and pigtails, for I came between two
generations—the minuet was old and the polka was new; all alike were
polka mad, all crazed with the idea of getting up a new fast style, but
oh! lamblike to what it is now! I watched the last century trying to
accommodate itself to the present.

One common smile graced the lips of all—the innocent, the guilty, the
happy, and the wretched; the same colour on bright cheeks, some of it
real, some bought at Atkinson’s; and, more wonderful still, the same
general outward decorum, placidity, innocence, and good humour, as if
prearranged by general consent. I pitied the vanity, jealousy, and
gossip of many women. I classed the men too: there were many good; but
amongst some there were dishonour and meanness to each other, in some
there were coarseness and brutality, and in some there was deception to
women; some were so narrow-minded, so wanting in intellect, that I
believed a horse or a dog to be far superior. But my ideal was too high,
and I had not in those days found my superior being.

I met some very odd characters, which made one form some rather useful
rules to go by. One man I met had every girl’s name down on paper, if
she belonged to the _haute volée_, her age, her fortune, and her
personal merits; for he said, “One woman, unless one happens to be in
love with her, is much the same as another.” He showed me my name down
thus: “Isabel Arundell, eighteen, beauty, talent and goodness,
original—chief fault £0 0_s._ 0_d._!” Then he showed me the name of one
of my friends: “Handsome, age seventeen, rather missish, £50,000; she
cannot afford to flirt except _pour le bon motif_, and I cannot afford,
as a younger brother, to marry a girl with £50,000. She is sure to have
been brought up like a duchess, and want the whole of her money for
pin-money—a deuced expensive thing is a girl with £50,000!” Then he
rattled on to others. I told him I did not think much of the young men
of the day. “There now,” he answered, “drink of the spring nearest to
you, and be thankful; by being too fastidious you will get nothing.”

I took a great dislike to the regular Blue Stocking; I can remember
reading somewhere such a good description of her: “One who possesses
every qualification to distinguish herself in conversation, well read
and intelligent, her manner cold, her head cooler, her heart the coolest
of all, never the dupe of her own sentiments; she examined her people
before she adopted them, a necessary precaution where light is
borrowed.”

A great curiosity to me were certain married people, who were known
never to speak to each other at home, but who respected the
_convenances_ of society so much that even if they never met in private
they took care to be seen together in public, and to enter evening
parties together with smiling countenances. Somebody writes:

           Have they not got polemics and reform,
         Peace, war, the taxes, and what is called the Nation,
           The struggle to be pilots in the storm,
         The landed and the moneyed speculation,
           The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm
         Instead of love, that mere hallucination?

What a contrast women are! One woman is “fine enough to cut her own
relations, too fine to be seen in the usual places of public resort, and
therefore of course passes with the vulgar for something exquisitely
refined.” Another I have seen who would have sacrificed all London and
its “gorgeous mantle of purple and gold” to have wedded some pale shadow
of friendship, which had wandered by her side amid her childhood’s
dreary waste. And oh! how I pity the many stars who fall out of the too
dangerously attractive circle of society! The fault there seems not to
be the sin, but the stupidity of being found out. I say one little
prayer every day: “Lord, keep me from contamination.” I never saw a
woman who renounced her place in society who did not prove herself
capable of understanding its value by falling fifty fathoms lower than
her original fall. The fact is, very few people of the world, especially
those who have not arrived at the age of discretion, are apt to stop
short in their career of pleasure for the purpose of weighing in the
balance their own conduct, enjoyments, or prospects; in short, it would
be very difficult for any worldly woman to be always stopping to examine
whether she is enjoying the right kind of happiness in the right kind of
way, and, once fallen, a woman seems to depend on her beauty to create
any interest in her favour. I knew nothing of these things then; and
though I think it quite right that women should be kept in awe of
certain misdemeanours, I cannot understand why, when one, who is not
bad, has a misfortune, other women should join in hounding her down, and
at the same time giving such licence to really bad women, whom society
cannot apparently do without. ’Tis “one man may steal a horse, and
another may not look over the hedge.” If a woman fell down in the mud
with her nice white clothes on, and had a journey to go, she would not
lie down and wallow in the mud; she would jump up, and wash herself
clean at the nearest spring, and be very careful not to fall again, and
reach her journey’s end safely. But other women do not allow that; they
must haul out buckets of the mud, and pour it over the fallen one, that
there may be no mistake about it at all. Then men seem to find a
wondrous charm in poaching on other men’s preserves (though a poacher of
birds gets terrible punishments, once upon a time hanging), as if their
neighbours’ coverts afforded better shooting than their own manors.

When I went to London, I had no idea of the matrimonial market; I should
have laughed at it just as much as an unmarrying man would. I was
interested in the fast girls who amused themselves at most extraordinary
lengths, not meaning to marry the man; and at the slower ones labouring
day and night for a husband of some sort, without any success. I heard a
lady one day say to her daughter, “My dear, if you do not get off during
your first season, I shall break my heart.” Our favourite men joined us
in walks and rides, came into our opera-box, and barred all the waltzes;
but it would have been no fun to me to have gone on as some girls did,
because I had no desire to reach the happy goal, either properly or
improperly. Mothers considered me crazy, and almost insolent, because I
was not ready to snap at any good _parti_; and I have seen dukes’
daughters gladly accept men that poor humble I would have turned up my
nose at.

              What think’st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?
              As of a knight well spoken, neat and fine;
              But were I you he never should be mine.

Lots of such men, or mannikins, affected the season, then as now, and
congregated around the rails of Rotten Row. I sometimes wonder if they
are men at all, or merely sexless creatures—animated tailors’ dummies.
Shame on them thus to disgrace their manhood! ’Tis man’s work to do
great deeds! Well, the young men of the day passed before me without
making the slightest impression. My ideal was not among them. My ideal,
as I wrote it down in my diary at that time, was this:

“As God took a rib out of Adam and made a woman of it, so do I, out of a
wild chaos of thought, form a man unto myself. In outward form and
inmost soul his life and deeds an ideal. This species of fastidiousness
has protected me and kept me from fulfilling the vocation of my
sex—breeding fools and chronicling small beer. My ideal is about six
feet in height; he has not an ounce of fat on him; he has broad and
muscular shoulders, a powerful, deep chest; he is a Hercules of manly
strength. He has black hair, a brown complexion, a clever forehead,
sagacious eyebrows, large, black, wondrous eyes—those strange eyes you
dare not take yours from off them—with long lashes. He is a soldier and
a _man_; he is accustomed to command and to be obeyed. He frowns on the
ordinary affairs of life, but his face always lights up warmly for me.
In his dress he never adopts the fopperies of the day, but his clothes
suit him—they are made for him, not he for them. He is a thorough man of
the world; he is a few years older than myself. He is a gentleman in
every sense of the word—not only in manners, dress, and appearance, but
in birth and position, and, better still, in ideas and actions; and of
course he is an Englishman. His religion is like my own, free, liberal,
and generous-minded. He is by no means indifferent on the subject, as
most men are; and even if he does not conform to any Church, he will
serve God from his innate duty and sense of honour. The great principle
is there. He is not only not a fidgety, strait-laced, or
mistaken-conscienced man on any subject; he always gives the mind its
head. His politics are conservative, yet progressive. His manners are
simple and dignified, his mind refined and sensitive, his temper under
control; he has a good heart, with common sense, and more than one man’s
share of brains. He is a man who owns something more than a body; he has
a head and heart, a mind and soul. He is one of those strong men who
lead, the mastermind who governs, and he has perfect control over
himself.

“This is the creation of my fancy, and my ideal of happiness is to be to
such a man wife, comrade, friend—everything to him, to sacrifice all for
him, to follow his fortunes through his campaigns, through his travels,
to any part of the world, and endure any amount of roughing. I speak of
the ideal man ’tis true, and some may mock and say, ‘Where is the mate
for such a man to be found?’ But there are ideal women too. Such a man
only will I wed. I love this myth of my girlhood—for myth it is—next to
God; and I look to the star that Hagar the gypsy said was the star of my
destiny, the morning star, which is the place I allot to my earthly god,
because the ideal seems too high for this planet, and, like the
philosopher’s stone, may never be found here. But if I find such a man,
and afterwards discover he is not for me, then I will never marry. I
will try to be near him, only to see him, and hear him speak; and if he
marries somebody else, I will become a sister of charity of St. Vincent
de Paul.”




                               CHAPTER IV
                     _BOULOGNE: I MEET MY DESTINY_
                              (1850–1852)

           Was’t archer shot me, or was’t thine eyes?

                           ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                               (_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).


The season over (August, 1850), change of air, sea-bathing, French
masters to finish our education, and economy were loudly called for; and
we turned our faces towards some quiet place on the opposite shores of
France, and we thought that Boulogne might suit. We were soon ready and
off.

We had a pleasant but rough passage of fifteen hours from London. While
the others were employed in bringing up their breakfasts, I sat on deck
and mused. Suddenly I remembered that Hagar had told me I should cross
the sea, and then I wondered why we had chosen Boulogne. I was leaving
England for the first time; I knew not for how long. What should I go
through there, and how changed should I come back? I had gone with a
light heart. I was young then; I loved society and hated exile. I had
written in my diary only a little time before: “As for me, I am never
better pleased than when I watch this huge game of chess, Life, being
played on that extensive chessboard, Society.” I never felt so patriotic
as that first morning on sea when the white cliffs faded from my view.
We never appreciate things until we lose them, and I thought of what the
feelings of soldiers and sailors must be, going from England and
returning after years of absence.

At length the boat stopped at the landing-place at Boulogne, and we
were driven like a flock of sheep between two ropes into a
_papier-maché_-looking building, whence we were put into a carriage
like a bathing-machine, and driven through what I took to be mews, but
which were in reality the principal streets. I recognize in this
reflection the prejudiced London Britisher, the John Bull; for in
reality Boulogne was a most picturesque town, and our way lay through
most picturesque streets. After driving up the hilly street, and under
an archway, in the old town, we came to a good, large house like a
barn, No. 4, Rue des Basses Chambres, Haute Ville, Boulogne-sur-Mer.
The rooms were chiefly furnished with bellows and brass candlesticks;
there was not the ghost of an armchair, sofa, ottoman, or anything
comfortable; and the only thing at all cheery was our kinswoman, Mrs.
Edmond Jerningham, who, apprised of our arrival, had our fires lighted
and beds made. She was cutting bread-and-butter and preparing tea for
us when we came in, and had ready for us a turkey the size of a fine
English chicken. This banquet over, we all turned into bed, and slept
between the blankets.

Next morning our boxes were still detained at the custom-house, and my
brothers and sisters and myself got some bad tea and some good
bread-and-butter, and sat round in a circle on the floor in our
nightgowns, with our food in the middle. Shortly after we heard a
hooting, laughing, and wrangling in a shrill key, “Coralie, Rosalie,
Florantine, Celestine, Euphrosine!” so I pricked up my ears in the hopes
of seeing some of those pretty, well-dressed, _piquante_ little
_soubrettes_ of whom we had heard mother talk, when in rolled about a
dozen harpies with our luggage. At first I did not feel sure whether
they were men or women; they had picturesque female dresses on, but
their manners, voices, language, and gestures were those of the lowest
costermongers. They spoke to me in _patois_, which I did not understand,
and seemed surprised to see us all in our nightgowns, forgetting that we
had little else to put on till they had brought the luggage. I gave them
half a crown, which they appeared to think a great deal of money, and it
inspirited them greatly. They danced about me, whirled me round, and in
five minutes one had decked me up in a red petticoat, another arrayed me
in her jacket, and a third clapped her dirty cap on my head, and I was
completely attired _à la marine_. I felt so amused by the novelty of the
thing that I forgot to be angry at their impertinence, and laughed as
heartily as they did.

When they were gone, we set to work and unpacked and dressed, and by the
afternoon were as comfortable as we could make ourselves; but we were
thoroughly wretched, though mother kept telling us to look at the
beautiful sky, which was not half as blue or bright as on the other side
of the water. We sauntered out to look at the town. I own my first
impressions of France were very unfavourable; Boulogne looked to me like
a dirty pack of cards, such as a gypsy pulls out of her pocket to tell
your fortune with. The streets were irregular, narrow, filthy, and full
of open gutters, which we thought would give us the cholera. The
pavement was like that of a mews; the houses were unfurnished; the sea
was so far out from our part of the town that it might as well not have
been there—and such a dirty, ugly-looking sea too, we thought! The
harbour was full of poisonous-looking smelling mud, and always appeared
to be low water. The country was dry, barren, and a dirty brown (it was
a hot August); the cliffs were black; and there was not a tree to be
seen—I used to pretend to get under a lamp-post for shade. Every now and
then we had days of fine weather, with clouds of dust and sirocco, or
else pouring rain and bleak winds. From mother’s talk of the Continent
we expected at least the comforts of Brighton with the romance of
Naples; and I shall never forget our feelings when we were told that,
after Paris, Boulogne was the nicest town in France. Now I imagine that
ours are the feelings of every narrow-minded, prejudiced John Bull
Britisher the first time he lands abroad. It takes him some little time
to thoroughly appreciate all the good things that he does get abroad,
and to be fascinated with the picturesqueness, and then often he returns
home unwillingly.

We had a cheap cook, so that our dinners would have been scarcely served
up in my father’s kennel at home. When I had eaten what I could pick out
by dint of shutting my eyes and forcing myself to get it down, I used to
lie down daily on a large horsehair sofa, such as one sees in a
tradesman’s office, and sometimes cry till I fell asleep; I felt so
sorry for us all.

The most interesting people in Boulogne were the _poissardes_, or
fisherwomen; they are of Spanish and Flemish extraction, and are a clan
apart to themselves. They are so interesting that I wonder that no one
has written a little book about them. They look down on the Boulognais;
they are a fine race, tall, dark, handsome, and have an air of good
breeding. Their dress is most picturesque. The women wear a short red
petticoat, dark jacket, and snowy handkerchief or scarf, and a white
veil tied round the head and hanging a little behind. On _fête_ days
they add a gorgeous satin apron. These costumes are expensive. Their
long, drooping, gold earrings and massive ornaments are heirlooms, and
their lace is real. The men wear great jack-boots all the way up their
legs, a loose dark jacket, and red cap; they are fine, stalwart men.
They had a queen named Carolina, a handsome, intelligent woman, with
whom I made great friends; and also a captain, who had a daughter so
like me that when I used to go to the fish-market at first they used to
chaff me, thinking she had dressed up like a lady for fun. They also
have their different grades of society; they have their own church,
built by themselves, their separate weddings, funerals, and
christenings. They do not marry out of their own tribe or associate with
the townspeople. Their language has a number of Spanish and Latin words
in it. They have a strict code of laws, live in a separate part of the
town on a hill, are never allowed to be idle, and are remarkable for
their morality, although by the recklessness of the conduct and talk of
some of the commoner ones you would scarcely believe it. If an accident
does occur, the man is obliged to marry the girl directly. The upper
ones are most civil and well spoken, and all are open-hearted and not
grasping. There is a regular fleet of smacks. The men are always out
fishing. The women do all the work at home, as well as shrimping, making
tackle, marketing, getting their husbands’ boats ready for sea, and
unloading them on return; and they are prosperous and happy. The smacks
are out for a week or ten days, and have their regular turn. They have
no salmon, and the best fish is on our side of the water. The lowest
grade of the girls, who serve as kinds of hacks to the others, are the
shrimping girls; they are as vulgar as Billingsgate and as wild as red
Indians. You meet them in parties of thirty or forty, with their clothes
kilted nearly up to their waists and nets over their backs. They sing
songs, and are sure to insult you as you pass; but they make off at a
double quick trot at the very name of Queen Carolina.

At Boulogne the usual lounge, both summer and winter, was the Ramparts,
which were extremely pretty and picturesque. The Ramparts were charming
in summer, with a lovely view of the town; and a row down the Liane, or
a walk along its banks, was not to be despised. There were several
beautiful country walks in summer. The peasants’ dances, called
_guinguettes_, were amusing to look at. The hotels and _tables d’hôtes_
were not bad. The ivory shops in the town were beautiful; the bonnets,
parasols, and dresses very _chic_; the bonbons delicious. The market was
a curious, picturesque little scene. There were pretty _fêtes_,
religious and profane, and a capital carnival.

The good society we collected around us; but it was small, and never
mixed with the general society. The two winters we were there were gay;
there was a sort of agreeable _laissez aller_ about the place, and the
summers were very pleasant. But mother kept us terribly strict, and this
was a great stimulant to do wild things; and though we never did
anything terrible, we did what we had better have left alone. For
instance, we girls learned to smoke. We found that father had got a very
nice box of cigars, and we stole one. We took it up to the loft and
smoked it, and were very sick, and then perfumed ourselves with scent,
and appeared in our usual places. We persevered till we became regular
smokers, and father’s box of cigars disappeared one by one. Then the
servants were accused; so we had to come forward, go into his den, make
him swear not to tell, and confided the matter to him. He did not betray
us, as he knew we should be almost locked up, and from that time we
smoked regularly. People used to say, “What makes those Arundell girls
so pale? They must dance too much.” Alas, poor things! it was just the
want of these innocent recreations that drove us to so dark a deed!

I have already said that we were taken to Boulogne for masters and
economy. Our house in the Haute Ville was next to the Convent, and close
to the future rising—slowly rising—Notre Dame. My sister Blanche and I
gradually made up our minds to this life, our European Botany Bay. We
were not allowed to walk alone, except upon the Ramparts, which,
however, make a good mile under large shady trees, with views from every
side—not a bad walk by any means. Mother, my sister Blanche, and I used
to walk once daily up the lounge, which in fine weather was down the
Grande Rue, the Rue de l’Ecu, the Quai to the end of the pier and back;
but in winter our promenade may be said to be confined to the Grande
Rue. There we could observe the notorieties and eccentricities of the
place. There might be a dozen or more handsome young men of good family,
generally with something shady about money hanging over them, a great
many pretty, fast girls and young married women, a great deal of open
flirtation, much attention to dress, and plenty of old half-pay officers
with large families, who had come to Boulogne for the same reasons as
ourselves. If there were any good families, they lived in the Haute
Ville, and were English; there were, in fact, half a dozen aristocratic
English families, who stuck together and would speak to nobody else. I
have learnt since that often in a place one dislikes there will arise
some circumstance that will prove the pivot on which part, or the whole,
of one’s life may turn, and that scene, that town, or that house will in
after-years retain a sacred place in one’s heart for that thing’s sake,
which a gayer or a grander scene could never win. And so it was with me.


At this point it is necessary to interrupt Isabel’s autobiography, to
introduce a personage who will hereafter play a considerable part in it.
By one of those many coincidences which mark the life-story of Richard
and Isabel Burton, and which bear out in such a curious manner her
theory that they “were destined to one another from the beginning,”
Burton came to Boulogne about the same time as the Arundells. This is
not the place to write a life of Sir Richard Burton—it has been written
large elsewhere,[4] so that all who wish may read; but to those who have
not read Lady Burton’s book, the following brief sketch of his career up
to this time may be of interest.

Richard Burton came of a military family, and one whose sons had also
rendered some service both in Church and State. He was the son of Joseph
Netterville Burton, a lieutenant-colonel in the 36th Regiment. He was
born in 1821. He was the eldest of three children; the second was Maria
Catherine Eliza, who married General Sir Henry Stisted; and the third
was Edward Joseph Netterville, late Captain in the 37th Regiment
(Queen’s), who died insane. Colonel Burton, who had retired from the
army, and his wife went abroad for economy when Richard was only a few
months old, and they settled at Tours. Tours at that time contained some
two hundred English families, who formed a society of their own. These
English colonies knew little of Mrs. Grundy, and less of the dull
provincialism of English country towns. Thus Richard grew up in a free,
Bohemian society, an influence which perceptibly coloured his
after-life. His education was also of a nature to develop his strongly
marked individuality. He was sent to a mixed French and English school
at Tours, and he remained there until his father suddenly took it into
his head that he would give his boys the benefit of an English
education, and returned to England. But, instead of going to a public
school, Richard was sent to a private preparatory school at Richmond. He
was there barely a year, when his father, wearying of Richmond and
respectability, and sighing for the shooting and boar-hunting of French
forests, felt that he had sacrificed enough on account of an English
education for his boys, and resolved to bring them up abroad under the
care of a private tutor. This resolution he quickly put into practice,
and a wandering life on the Continent followed, the boys being educated
as they went along. This state of things continued till Richard was
nineteen, when, as he and his brother had got too old for further home
training, the family broke up.

Richard was sent to Oxford, and was entered at Trinity College, with the
intention of taking holy orders in the Church of England. But the roving
Continental life which he had led did not fit him for the restraints of
the University. He hated Oxford, and he was not cut out for a parson. At
the end of the first year he petitioned his father to take him away.
This was refused; so he set to work to get himself sent down—a task
which he accomplished with so much success that the next term he was
rusticated, with an intimation that he was not to return. Even at this
early period of his life the glamour of the East was strong upon him;
the only learning he picked up at Oxford was a smattering of Hindustani;
the only thing that would suit him when he was sent down was to go to
India. He turned to the East as the lotus turns with the sun. So his
people procured him a commission in the army, the Indian service, and he
sailed for Bombay in June, 1842.

He was appointed to the 14th Regiment, Bombay Native Infantry, and he
remained in India without coming home for seven years. During those
seven years he devoted himself heart and soul to the study of Oriental
languages and Oriental habits. He passed in ten Eastern languages. His
interest in Oriental life, and his strong sympathy with it, earned him
in his regiment the nickname of “the white nigger.” He would disguise
himself so effectually that he would pass among Easterns as a dervish in
the mosques and as a merchant in the bazaars. In 1844 Richard Burton
went to Scinde with the 18th Native Infantry, and was put on Sir Charles
Napier’s staff. Sir Charles soon turned the young lieutenant’s peculiar
acquirements to account in dealing with the wild tribes around them. He
accompanied his regiment to Mooltan to attack the Sikhs. Yet,
notwithstanding all these unique qualifications, when Richard Burton
applied for the post of interpreter to accompany the second expedition
to Mooltan in 1849, he was passed over on account of a feeling against
him in high quarters, on which it is unnecessary here to dwell. This
disappointment, and the mental and physical worry and fatigue which he
had undergone, broke down his health. He applied for sick leave, and
came home on a long furlough.

[Illustration: RICHARD BURTON IN 1848 (IN NATIVE DRESS).]

After a sojourn in England, he went to France (1850) to join his family,
who were then staying at Boulogne, like the Arundells and most of the
English colony, for change, quiet, and economy. Whilst at Boulogne he
brought out two or three books and prepared another. Burton took a
gloomy view of his prospects at this time; for he writes, “My career in
India has been in my eyes a failure, and by no fault of my own; the
dwarfish demon called ‘Interest’ has fought against me, and as usual has
won the fight.” There was a good deal of prejudice against him even at
Boulogne, for unfounded rumours about him had travelled home from India.

Burton, as it may be imagined, did not lead the life which was led by
the general colony at Boulogne. “He had a little set of men friends,”
Isabel notes; “he knew some of the French; he had a great many
flirtations—one very serious one. He passed his days in literature and
fencing. At home he was most domestic; his devotion to his parents,
especially to his sick mother, was very beautiful.” At this time he was
twenty-eight years of age. The Burton family belonged to the general
English colony at Boulogne; they were not intimate with the _crème_ to
whom the Miss Arundells belonged; and as these young ladies were very
carefully guarded, it was some little time before Richard Burton and
Isabel Arundell came together. They met in due season; and here we take
up the thread of her narrative again.


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

[Illustration: THE RAMPARTS, BOULOGNE.]

He looked at me as though he read me through and through in a moment,
and started a little. I was completely magnetized; and when we had got a
little distance away, I turned to my sister, and whispered to her, “That
man will marry me.” The next day he was there again, and he followed us,
and chalked up, “May I speak to you?” leaving the chalk on the wall; so
I took up the chalk and wrote back, “No; mother will be angry”; and
mother found it, and was angry; and after that we were stricter
prisoners than ever. However, “Destiny is stronger than custom.” A
mother and a pretty daughter came to Boulogne who happened to be cousins
of my father’s; they joined the majority in the society sense, and one
day we were allowed to walk on the Ramparts with them. There I met
Richard again, who (agony!) was flirting with the daughter. We were
formally introduced, and his name made me start. Like a flash came back
to me the prophecy of Hagar Burton which she had told me in the days of
my childhood in Stonymoore Wood: “_You will cross the sea, and be in the
same town with your Destiny and know it not.... You will bear the name
of our tribe, and be right proud of it._” I could think of no more at
the moment. But I stole a look at him, and met his gypsy eyes—those eyes
which looked you through, glazed over, and saw something behind; the
only man I had ever seen, not a gypsy, with that peculiarity. And again
I thrilled through and through. He must have thought me very stupid, for
I scarcely spoke a word during that brief meeting.

I did not try to attract his attention; but after that, whenever he came
on the usual promenade, I would invent any excuse that came ready to
take another turn to watch him, if he were not looking. If I could catch
the sound of his deep voice, it seemed to me so soft and sweet that I
remained spellbound, as when I hear gypsy music. I never lost an
opportunity of seeing him, when I could not be seen; and as I used to
turn red and pale, hot and cold, dizzy and faint, sick and trembling,
and my knees used to nearly give way under me, my mother sent for the
doctor, to complain that my digestion was out of order, and that I got
migraines in the street; he prescribed me a pill, which I threw in the
fire. All girls will sympathize with me. I was struck with the shaft of
Destiny, but I had no hope, being nothing but an ugly schoolgirl,[5] of
taking the wind out of the sails of the dashing creature with whom
Richard was carrying on a very serious flirtation.

The only luxury I indulged in was a short but heartfelt prayer for him
every morning. I read all his books, and was seriously struck, as
before, by his name, when I came to the book on _Jats in Scinde_. The
Jats are the aboriginal gypsies in India.

The more I got to know of Richard, the more his strange likeness to the
gypsies struck me. As I wrote to the _Gypsy Lore Journal_ in 1891, it
was not only his eyes which showed the gypsy peculiarity; he had the
restlessness which could stay nowhere long, nor own any spot on earth,
the same horror of a corpse, deathbed scenes, and graveyards, or
anything which was in the slightest degree ghoulish, though caring
little for his own life, the same aptitude for reading the hand at a
glance. With many he would drop their hands at once and turn away, nor
would anything induce him to speak a word about them. He spoke Romany
like the gypsies themselves. Nor did we ever enter a gypsy camp without
their claiming him. “What are you doing with that black coat on?” they
would say. “Why don’t you join us and be our king?” Moreover, Burton is
one of the half-dozen distinctively Romany names; and though there is no
proof whatever of his Arab or Romany descent, the idea that he had gypsy
blood is not to be wondered at. He always took a great interest in gypsy
lore, and prepared a book on the subject. He wrote many years later:
“There is an important family of gypsies in foggy England, who in remote
times developed our family name. I am yet on very friendly terms with
several of these strange people; nay, a certain Hagar Burton, an old
fortune-teller (_divinatrice_), took part in a period of my life which
in no small degree contributed to determine its course.”

My cousin asked Richard to write something for me at that time; he did
so, and I used to wear it next my heart. One night an exception was made
to our dull rule of life. My cousins gave a tea party and dance, and the
“great majority” flocked in, and there was Richard like a star among
rushlights! That was a night of nights; he waltzed with me once, and
spoke to me several times, and I kept my sash where he put his arm round
my waist to waltz, and my gloves, which his hands had clasped. I never
wore them again. I did not know it then, but the “little cherub who sits
up aloft” was not only occupied in taking care of poor Jack, for I came
in also for a share of it. I saw Richard every now and again after that,
but he was of course unconscious of my feelings towards him. And I was
evidently awfully sorry for myself, since I find recorded the following
moan:

“If kind Providence had blessed me with the man I love, what a different
being I might be! Fate has used me hardly, with my proud, sensitive
nature to rough the world and its sharp edges, alone and unprotected
except by hard and peremptory rules.”

So I thought then; but I have often blessed those rules since. A woman
may have known the illusions of love, but never have met an object worth
all her heart. Sometimes we feel a want of love, and a want to love with
all our energies. There is no man capable of receiving this at the time,
and we accept the love of others as a makeshift, an apology, to draw our
intention from the painful feeling, and try to fancy it is love. How
much in this there is to fear! A girl should be free and happy in real
and legitimate love. One who is passionate and capable of suffering
fears to risk her heart on any man. Happy is she who meets at her first
start the man who is to guide her for life, whom she is always to love.
Some women grow fastidious in solitude, and find it harder to be mated
than married. Those who fear and respect the men they love, those whose
judgment and sense confirm their affection, are lucky. Every one has
some mysterious and singular idea respecting his destiny. I asked myself
then if I would sacrifice anything and everything for Richard, and the
only thing that I found I could not sacrifice for him would be God; for
I thought I would as soon, were I a man, forsake my post, when the tide
of battle pressed hardest against it, and go over to the enemy, as
renounce my God. So having sifted my unfortunate case, I soon decided on
a plan of action. I could not push myself forward or attract his notice.
It would be unmaidenly—unworthy. I shuddered at the lonely and dreary
path I was taking; but I knew that no advantage gained by unworthy means
could be lasting or solid; besides, my conscience was tender, and I knew
that the greatest pleasure unlawfully obtained would eventually become
bitter, for there can be no greater pain than to despise oneself or the
one we love. So I suffered much and long; and the name of the tribe, as
Hagar Burton foretold, caused me many a sorrowful and humiliating hour;
but I rose superior at last. They say that often, when we think our
hopes are annihilated, God is granting us some extraordinary favour. It
is said, “It is easy to image the happiness of some particular
condition, until we can be content with no other”; but there is no
condition whatever under which a certain degree of happiness may not be
attained by those who are inclined to be happy. Courage consists, not in
hazarding without fear, but in being resolutely minded in a just cause.

             Marvel not at thy life; patience shall see
             The perfect work of wisdom to her given;
             Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery,
             And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.

The days at Boulogne went slowly by. We used to join walking or picnic
parties in summer, and generally have one of our pleasant big teas in
the evening. I joined in such society as there was in moderation, and I
became very serious. The last summer we had many friends staying with
us; the house was quite like a hotel. We much longed to go to Paris; but
in the winter poor little baby died, and mother had no spirits for
anything. This last winter (1851–52), during the time of the _coup
d’état_, there were eighteen hundred soldiers billeted on Boulogne; and
the excitement was great, crowds of people were rushing about to hear
the news, and vans full of prisoners passing by. They were very violent
against the English too; we had our windows broken occasionally, and our
pet dog was killed. Carolina, the Poissarde queen, told us that if the
worst came to the worst she should send us across to England in her
husband’s fishing-smack. Boulogne was a droll place; there was always
either something joyous, a _fête_, or some scandal or horror going on.
It was a place of passage, constant change of people, and invariably
there was some excitement about something or other.

Our prescribed two years were up at last, and we all agreed that
anything in London would be preferable to Boulogne. We began quietly to
pack up, pay our debts, and make our adieux. We were sorry to leave our
little circle; they were also sorry to part from us; and the
tradespeople and servants seemed conscious that they were about to lose
in a short while some honest and safe-paying people—not too frequent in
Boulogne—and were loud in their regrets. I had many regrets in leaving,
but was delighted at the prospect of going home, and impatient to be
relieved of the restraint I was obliged to impose on myself about
Richard. Yet at the same time I dreaded leaving his vicinity. I was
sorely sorry, yet glad. All the old haunts I visited for the last time.
There were kind friends to wish good-bye. I received my last communion
in the little chapel of Our Lady in the College, where I had so often
knelt and prayed for Richard, and for strength to bear my sorrow as a
trial from the hand of God, as doubtless it was for my good, only I
could not see it. When one is young, it is hard to pine for something,
and at the same time to say, “Thy will be done.” I always prayed Richard
might be mine if God willed it, and if it was for his happiness.

I said good-bye to Carolina, the queen of the fisherwomen; she reminded
me strangely of Hagar Burton, my gypsy. I wondered how Hagar would tell
her prophecies now? “Chance or not,” I thought, “they are strange; and
if ever I return to my home, I will revisit Stonymoore Wood, though now
alone; for my shaggy Sikh is dead, my pony gone, my gypsy camp
dispersed, my light heart no longer light, no longer mine.” I would give
worlds to sit again on the mossy bank round the gypsy fire, to hear that
little tale as before, and be called “Daisy,” and hear the prophecy of
Hagar that I should take the name of the tribe. I listened lightly then;
but now that the name had become so dear I attached much deeper meaning
to it.

At last the day was fixed that we were to leave Boulogne, May 9, 1852,
and I was sorely exercised in my mind as to whether or no I should say
good-bye to Richard; but I said to myself, “When we leave this place, he
will go one way in life, and I another; and who knows if we may ever
meet again?” To see him would be only to give myself more pain, and
therefore I did not.

We walked down to the steamer an hour or two before sailing-time, which
would be two in the morning. It was midnight; the band was playing, and
the steamer was alongside, opposite the Folkestone Hotel. It was a
beautiful night, so all our friends collected to see us off, and we
walked up and down, and had chairs to remain near the band. When we
sailed, my people went down to their berths; but I sat near the wheel,
to watch the town as long as I could see the lights, for after all it
contained all I wanted, and who I thought I should never see more. I was
sad at heart; but I was proud of the way in which I had behaved, and I
could now rest after my long and weary struggle, suffering, patient, and
purified; and though I would rather have had love and happiness, I felt
that I was as gold tried in the fire. It is no little thing for a girl
to be able to command herself, to respect herself, and to be able to
crush every petty feeling.

When I could see no more of Boulogne, I wrapped a cloak round me, and
jumped into the lifeboat lashed to the side, and I mused on the two past
years I had been away from England, all I had gone through, and all the
changes, and especially how changed I was myself; I felt a sort of
satisfaction, and I mused on how much of my destiny had been fulfilled.
Old Captain Tune, who had become quite a friend of ours at Boulogne,
came up, and wanted me to go below. I knew him well, and was in the
habit of joking with him, and I told him to go below himself, and I
would take care of the ship; so instead he amused me by telling me
stories and asking me riddles. The moon went down, and the stars faded,
and I slept well; and when I awoke the star of my destiny, my pet
morning star, was shining bright and clear, just “like a diamond drop
over the sea.” I awoke, hearing old Tune say, “What a jolly sailor’s
wife she would make! She never changes colour.” We lurched terribly. I
jumped up as hungry as a hunter, and begged him to give me some food, as
it wanted four hours to breakfast; so he took me down to his cabin, and
gave me some hot chops and bread-and-butter, and said he would rather
keep me for a week than a fortnight. It blew freshly. I cannot describe
my sensations when I saw the dear old white cliffs of England again,
though I had only been away two years, and so near home. The tears came
into my eyes, and my heart bounded with joy, and I felt great sympathy
with all exiled soldiers and sailors, and wondered what face we should
see first. Foreigners do not seem to have that peculiar sensation about
home, or talk of their country as we do of ours; for I know of no
feeling like setting one’s foot on English ground again after a long
absence.




                               CHAPTER V
                     _FOUR YEARS OF HOPE DEFERRED_
                              (1852–1856)

           I was fancy free and unknew I love,
           But I fell in love and in madness fell;
           I write you with tears of eyes so belike,
           They explain my love, come my heart to quell.

                           ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                               (_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).


On leaving Boulogne, Isabel saw Richard Burton no more for four years,
and only heard of him now and again from others or through the
newspapers. She went back to London with her people, and outwardly took
up life and society again much where she had left it two years before.
But inwardly things were very different. She had gone to Boulogne an
unformed girl; she had left it a loving woman. Her ideal had taken form
and shape; she had met the only man in all the world whom she could
love, the man to whom she had been “destined from the beginning,” and
her love for him henceforth became, next to her religion, the motive
power of her actions and the guiding principle of her life. All her
youth, until she met him, she had yearned for something, she hardly knew
what. That something had come to her, sweeter than all her young
imaginings, glorifying her life and flooding her soul with radiance. And
after the light there had come the darkness; after the joy there had
come keenest pain; for it seemed that her love was given to one who did
not return it—nay, more, who was all unconscious of it. But this did not
hinder her devotion, though her maidenly reserve checked its outward
expression. She had met her other self in Richard Burton. He was her
affinity. A creature of impulse and emotion, there was a certain vein of
thought in her temperament which responded to the recklessness in his
own. She could no more stifle her love for him than she could stifle her
nature, for the love she bore him was part of her nature, part of
herself.

Meanwhile she and her sister Blanche, the sister next to her in age, had
to take the place in society suited to young ladies of their position.
Their father, Mr. Henry Raymond Arundell, though in comfortable
circumstances, was not a wealthy man; but in those days money was not
the passport to society, and the Miss Arundells belonged by birth to the
most exclusive aristocracy of Europe, the Catholic nobility of England,
an aristocracy which has no parallel, unless it be found in the old
Legitimist families of France, the society of the Faubourg St. Germain.
But this society, though undoubtedly exclusive, was also undoubtedly
tiresome to the impetuous spirit of Isabel, who chafed at the restraints
by which she was surrounded. She loved liberty; her soaring spirit beat
its wings against the prison-bars of custom and convention; she was
always yearning for a wider field. Deep down in her heart was hidden the
secret of her untold love, and this robbed the zest from the pleasure
she might otherwise have taken in society. Much of her time was spent in
confiding to her diary her thoughts about Richard, and in gleaning
together and treasuring in her memory every scrap of news she could
gather concerning him. At the same time she was not idle, nor did she
pine outwardly after the approved manner of love-sick maidens. As the
eldest daughter of a large family she had plenty to do in the way of
home duties, and it was not in her nature to shirk any work which came
in her way, but to do it with all her might.

The Miss Arundells had no lack of admirers, and more than once Isabel
refused or discouraged advantageous offers of marriage, much to the
perplexity of her mother, who naturally wished her daughters to make
good marriages; that is to say, to marry men of the same religion as
themselves, and in the same world—men who would make them good husbands
in every sense of the word. But Isabel, who was then twenty-one years of
age, had a strong will of her own, and very decided views on the subject
of marriage, and she turned a deaf ear to all pleadings. Besides, was
she not guarded by the talisman of a hidden and sacred love? In her
diary at this time she writes:

“They say it is time I married (perhaps it is); but it is never time to
marry any man one does not love, because such a deed can never be
undone. Richard may be a delusion of my brain. But how dull is reality!
What a curse is a heart! With all to make me happy I pine and hanker for
him, my other half, to fill this void, for I feel as if I were not
complete. Is it wrong to want some one to love more than one’s father
and mother—one on whom to lavish one’s best feelings? What will my life
be alone? I cannot marry any of the insignificant beings round me. Where
are all those men who inspired the _grandes passions_ of bygone days? Is
the race extinct? Is Richard the last of them? Even so, is he for me?
They point out the matches I might make if I took the trouble, but the
trouble I will not take. I have no vocation to be a nun. I do not
consider myself good enough to offer to God. God created me with a warm
heart, a vivid imagination, and strong passions; God has given me food
for hunger, drink for thirst, but no companion for my loneliness of
heart. If I could only be sure of dying at forty, and until then
preserve youth, health, spirits, and good looks, I should be more
cheerful to remain as I am. I cannot separate myself from all thought of
Richard. Neither do I expect God to work a miracle to make me happy. To
me there are three kinds of marriage: first, worldly ambition; that is,
marriage for fortune, title, estates, society; secondly, love; that is,
the usual pig and cottage; thirdly, life, which is my ideal of being a
companion and wife, a life of travel, adventure, and danger, seeing and
learning, with love to glorify it; that is what I seek. _L’amour n’y
manquerait pas!_

“A sailor leaves his wife for years, and is supposed to be unfaithful to
her by necessity. The typical sportsman breakfasts and goes out, comes
home to dinner, falls asleep over his port, tumbles into bed, and snores
till morning. An idle and independent man who lives in society is often
a _roué_, a gambler, or drunkard, whose wife is deserted for a
_danseuse_.

“One always pictures the ‘proper man’ to be a rich, fat, mild lordling,
living on his estate, whence, as his lady, one might rise to be a leader
of Almack’s. But I am much mistaken if I do not deserve a better fate. I
could not live like a vegetable in the country. I cannot picture myself
in a white apron, with a bunch of keys, scolding my maids, counting eggs
and butter, with a good and portly husband (I detest fat men!) with a
broad-brimmed hat and a large stomach. And I should not like to marry a
country squire, nor a doctor, nor a lawyer (I hear the parchments
crackle now), nor a parson, nor a clerk in a London office. God help me!
A dry crust, privations, pain, danger for him I love would be better.
Let me go with the husband of my choice to battle, nurse him in his
tent, follow him under the fire of ten thousand muskets. I would be his
companion through hardship and trouble, nurse him if wounded, work for
him in his tent, prepare his meals when faint, his bed when weary, and
be his guardian angel of comfort—a felicity too exquisite for words!
There is something in some women that seems born for the knapsack. How
many great thoughts are buried under ordinary circumstances, and
splendid positions exist that are barren of them—thoughts that are
stifled from a feeling that they are too bold to be indulged in! I thank
God for the blessed gift of imagination, though it may be a source of
pain. It counteracts the monotony of life. One cannot easily quit a
cherished illusion, though it disgusts one with ordinary life. Who has
ever been so happy in reality as in imagination? And how unblessed are
those who have no imagination, unless they obtain their wishes in
reality! I do not obtain, so I seek them in illusion. Sometimes I think
I am not half grateful enough to my parents, I do not half enough for
them, considering what they are to me. Although we are not wealthy, what
do I lack, and what kindness do I not receive? Yet I seem in a hurry to
leave them. There is nothing I would not do to add to their comfort, and
it would grieve me to the heart to forsake them; and yet if I knew for
certain that I should never have my wish, I should repine sadly. I love
a good daughter, and a good daughter makes a good wife. How can I
reconcile all these things in my mind? I am miserable, afraid to hope,
and yet I dare not despair when I look at the state of my heart. But one
side is so heavy as nearly to sink the other, and thus my _beaux jours_
will pass away, and my Ideal Lover will not then think me worth his
while. Shall I never be at rest with him to love and understand me, to
tell every thought and feeling, in far different scenes from these—under
canvas before Rangoon—anywhere in Nature?

“I would have every woman marry; not merely liking a man well enough to
accept him for a husband, as some of our mothers teach us, and so cause
many unhappy marriages, but loving him so holily that, wedded or not
wedded, she feels she is his wife at heart. But perfect love, like
perfect beauty, is rare. I would have her so loyal, that, though she
sees all his little faults herself, she takes care no one else sees
them; yet she would as soon think of loving him less for them as ceasing
to look up to heaven because there were a few clouds in the sky. I would
have her so true, so fond, that she needs neither to burthen him with
her love nor vex him with her constancy, since both are self-existent,
and entirely independent of anything he gives or takes away. Thus she
will not marry him for liking, esteem, gratitude for his love, but from
the fulness of her own love. If Richard and I never marry, God will
cause us to meet in the next world; we cannot be parted; we belong to
one another. Despite all I have seen of false, foolish, weak
attachments, unholy marriages, the after-life of which is rendered
unholier still by struggling against the inevitable, still I believe in
the one true love that binds a woman’s heart faithful to one man in this
life, and, God grant it, in the next. All this I am and could be for one
man. But how worthless should I be to any other man but Richard Burton!
I should love Richard’s wild, roving, vagabond life; and as I am young,
strong, and hardy, with good nerves, and no fine notions, I should be
just the girl for him; I could never love any one who was not daring and
spirited. I always feel inclined to treat the generality of men just
like my own sex. I am sure I am not born for a jog-trot life; I am too
restless and romantic. I believe my sister and I have now as much
excitement and change as most girls, and yet I find everything slow. I
long to rush round the world in an express; I feel as if I shall go mad
if I remain at home. Now with a soldier of fortune, and a soldier at
heart, one would go everywhere, and lead a life worth living. What
others dare I can dare. And why should I not? I feel that we women
simply are born, marry, and die. Who misses us? Why should we not have
some useful, active life? Why, with spirits, brains, and energies, are
women to exist upon worsted work and household accounts? It makes me
sick, and I will not do it.”


In the meantime Richard Burton, all unconscious of the love he had
inspired, had gone on his famous pilgrimage to Mecca. As we have seen,
he was home from India on a long furlough; but his active mind revolted
against the tame life he was leading, and craved for adventure and
excitement. He was not of the stuff to play the part of _petit maître_
in the second-rate society of Boulogne. So he determined to carry out
his long-cherished project of studying the “inner life of Moslem,” a
task for which he possessed unique qualifications. Therefore, soon after
the Arundells had left Boulogne, he made up his mind to go to Mecca. He
obtained a year’s further leave to carry out his daring project. In 1853
he left England disguised as a Persian Mirza, a disguise which he
assumed with so much success that, when he landed at Alexandria, he was
recognized and blessed as a true Moslem by the native population. From
Alexandria he went to Cairo disguised as a dervish, and lived there some
months as a native. Thence he travelled to Suez, and crossed in an open
boat with a party of Arab pilgrims to Yambú. The rest of his dare-devil
adventures and hair-breadth escapes—how he attached himself to the
Damascus caravan and journeyed with the pilgrims to Mecca in spite of
the fiery heat and the scorching sands, how he braved many dangers and
the constant dread of “detection”—is written by him in his _Pilgrimage
to Mecca and El Medinah_, and is touched upon again in Lady Burton’s
Life of her husband. The story needs no re-telling here. Suffice it to
say that Burton was the first man not a Mussulman who penetrated to the
innermost sanctuary of Moslem, and saw the shrine where the coffin of
Mohammed swings between heaven and earth. He did the circumambulation at
the Harem; he was admitted to the house of our Lord; he went to the well
Zemzem, the holy water of Mecca; he visited Ka’abah, the holy grail of
the Moslems, and kissed the famous black stone; he spent the night in
the Mosque; and he journeyed to Arafat and saw the reputed tomb of Adam.
He was not a man to do things by halves, and he inspected Mecca
thoroughly, absolutely _living the life_ of the Mussulman, adopting the
manners, eating the food, wearing the clothes, conforming to the ritual,
joining in the prayers and sacrifices, and speaking the language. He did
all this, literally carrying his life in his hand, for at any moment he
might have been detected—one false step, one hasty word, one prayer
unsaid, one trifling custom of the shibboleth omitted, and the dog of an
infidel who had dared to profane the sanctuary of Mecca and Medinah
would have been found out, and his bones would have whitened the desert
sand. Quite apart from the physical fatigue, the mental strain must have
been acute. But Burton survived it all, and departed from Mecca as he
came, slowly wending his way with a caravan across the desert to Jeddah,
whence he returned up the Red Sea to Egypt. There he sojourned for a
space; but his leave being up, he returned to Bombay.

[Illustration: BURTON ON HIS PILGRIMAGE TO MECCA.]

The news of his marvellous pilgrimage was soon noised abroad, and
travelled home; all sorts of rumours flew about, though it was not until
the following year that his book, giving a full and detailed account of
his visit to Mecca, came out. Burton’s name was on the lips of many. But
he was in India, and did not come home to reap the reward of his daring,
nor did he know that one faithful heart was full of joy and thanksgiving
at his safety and pride at his renown. He did not know that the “little
girl” he had met now and again casually at Boulogne was thinking of him
every hour of the day, dreaming of him every night, praying every
morning and evening and at the altar of her Lord, with all the fervour
of her pure soul, that God would keep him now and always, and bring him
back safe and sound, and in His own good time teach him to love her. He
did not know. How could he? He had not yet sounded the height, depth,
and breadth of a woman’s love. And yet, who shall say that her
supplications were unheeded before the throne of God? Who shall say that
it was not Isabel’s prayers, quite as much as Richard Burton’s skill and
daring, which shielded him from danger and detection and carried him
safe through all?

In Isabel’s diary at this time there occurs the following note:

“Richard has just come back with flying colours from Mecca; but instead
of coming home, he has gone to Bombay to rejoin his regiment. I glory in
his glory. God be thanked!”

Then a sense of desolation and hopelessness sweeps over her soul, for
she writes:

“But I am alone and unloved. Love can illumine the dark roof of poverty,
and can lighten the fetters of a slave; the most miserable position of
humanity is tolerable with its support, and the most splendid irksome
without its inspiration. Whatever harsher feelings life may develop,
there is no one whose brow will not grow pensive at some tender
reminiscence, whose heart will not be touched. Oh if I could but go
through life trusting one faithful heart and pressing one dear hand! Is
there no hope for me? I am so full of faith. Is there no pity for so
much love? It makes my heart ache, this future of desolation and
distress; it ever flits like the thought of death before my eyes. There
is no more joy for me; the lustre of life is gone. How swiftly my sorrow
followed my joy! I can laugh, dance, and sing as others do, but there is
a dull gnawing always at my heart that wearies me. There is an end of
love for me, and of all the bright hopes that make the lives of other
girls happy and warm and pleasant.”

Burton did not stay long at Bombay after he rejoined his regiment. He
was not popular in it, and he disliked the routine. Something of the old
prejudice against him in certain quarters was revived. The East India
Company, in whose service he was, had longed wished to explore Harar in
Somaliland, Abyssinia; but it was inhabited by a very wild and savage
people, and no white man had ever dared to enter it. So it was just the
place for Richard Burton, and he persuaded the Governor of Bombay to
sanction an expedition to Harar; and with three companions, Lieutenant
Herne, Lieutenant Stroyan, and Lieutenant Speke, he started for Harar.

From her watch-tower afar off, Isabel, whose ceaseless love followed him
night and day, notes:

“And now Richard has gone to Harar, a deadly expedition or a most
dangerous one, and I am full of sad forebodings. Will he never come
home? How strange it all is, and how I still trust in Fate! The Crimean
War is declared, and troops begin to go out.”

When Burton’s little expedition arrived at Aden _en route_ for Harar,
the four men who composed it parted and resolved to enter Harar by
different ways. Speke failed; Herne and Stroyan succeeded. Burton
reserved for himself the post of danger. Harar was as difficult to enter
as Mecca; there was a tradition there that when the first white man
entered the city Harar would fall. Nevertheless, after a journey of four
months through savage tribes and the desert, Burton entered it disguised
as an Arab merchant, and stayed there ten days.[6] He returned to Aden.
Five weeks later he got up a new expedition to Harar on a much larger
scale, with which he wanted to proceed Nilewards. The expedition sailed
for Berberah. Arriving there, the four leaders, Burton, Speke, Stroyan,
and Herne, went ashore and pitched their tent, leaving the others on
board. At night they were surprised by more than three hundred Somali,
and after desperate fighting cut their way back to the boat. Stroyan was
killed, Herne untouched, and Speke and Burton wounded.

A little later the following note occurs in Isabel’s diary:

“We got the news of Richard’s magnificent ride to Harar, of his staying
ten days in Harar, of his wonderful ride back, his most daring
expedition, and then we heard of the dreadful attack by the natives in
his tent, and how Stroyan was killed, Herne untouched, Speke with eleven
wounds, and Richard with a lance through his jaw. They escaped in a
native dhow to Aden, and it was doubtful whether Richard would recover.
Doubtless this is the danger alluded to by the clairvoyant, and the
cause of my horrible dreams concerning him about the time it happened. I
hope to Heaven he will not go back! How can I be grateful enough for his
escape!”

Burton did not go back. He was so badly wounded that he had to return to
England on sick leave, and sorely discomfited. Here his wounds soon
healed, and he regained his health. He read an account of his journey to
Harar before the Royal Geographical Society; but the paper attracted
little or no attention, one reason being that the public interest was at
that time absorbed in the Crimean War. Strange to say, the paper, until
it was over, did not reach the ears of Isabel, nor did she once see the
man on whom all her thoughts were fixed during his stay in England. It
was of course impossible for her to take the initiative. Moreover,
Burton was invalided most of the time, and in London but little. His
visit to England was a short one. After a month’s rest he obtained
leave—after considerable difficulty, for he was no favourite with the
War Office—to start for the Crimea, and reached there in October, 1854.
He had some difficulty in obtaining a post, but at last he became
attached to General Beatson’s staff, and was the organizer of the
Irregular Cavalry (Beatson’s Horse: the Bashi-bazouks), a fact duly
noted in Isabel’s diary.

The winter of 1854–55 was a terrible one for our troops in the Crimea,
and public feeling in England was sorely exercised by the account of
their sufferings and privations. The daughters of England were not
backward in their efforts to aid the troops. Florence Nightingale and
her staff of nurses were doing their noble work in the army hospitals at
Scutari; and it was characteristic of Isabel that she should move heaven
and earth to join them. In her journal at this time we find the
following:

“It has been an awful winter in the Crimea. I have given up reading the
_Times_; it makes me so miserable, and one is so impotent. I have made
three struggles to be allowed to join Florence Nightingale. How I envy
the women who are allowed to go out as nurses! I have written again and
again to Florence Nightingale; but the superintendent has answered me
that I am too young and inexperienced, and will not do.”

But she could not be idle. She could not sit with folded hands and think
of her dear one and her brave countrymen out yonder suffering untold
privations, and do nothing. It was not enough for her to weep and hope
and pray. So the next thing she thought of was a scheme for aiding the
almost destitute wives and families of the soldiers, a work which, if
she had done nothing else, should be sufficient to keep her memory
green, prompted as it was by that generous, loving heart of hers, which
ever found its chiefest happiness in doing good to others. She thus
describes her scheme:

“I set to work to form a girls’ club composed of girls. My plan was to
be some little use at home. First it was called the ‘Whistle Club,’
because we all had tiny silver whistles; and then we changed it to the
‘Stella Club,’ in honour of the morning star—my star. Our principal
object was to do good at home amongst the destitute families of soldiers
away in the Crimea; to do the same things as those we would have done if
we had the chance out yonder amongst the soldiers themselves. We started
a subscription soup-cauldron and a clothing collection, and we got from
the different barracks a list of the women and their children married,
with or without leave. We ascertained their real character and
situations, and no destitute woman was to be left out, nor any
difference made on account of religion. The women were to have
employment; the children put to schools according to their respective
religions, and sent to their own churches. Lodging, food, and clothes
were given according to our means, and words of comfort to all, teaching
the poor creatures to trust in God for themselves and their husbands at
the war—the only One from whom we could all expect mercy. We undertook
the wives and families of all regiments of the Lifeguards and Blues and
the three Guards’ regiments. We went the rounds twice a week, and met at
the club once a week. There were three girls to each locality; all of us
dressed plainly and behaved very quietly, and acknowledged no
acquaintances while going our rounds. We carried this out to the letter,
and I cannot attempt to describe the scenes of misery we saw, nor the
homes that we saved, nor the gratitude of the soldiers later when they
returned from the war and found what we had done. It has been a most
wonderful success, and I am very happy at having been of some use. The
girls responded to the rules, which were rigorously carried out; and
when I look at my own share of the business, and multiply that by a
hundred and fifty girls, I think the good done must have been great. In
ten days, by shillings and sixpences, I alone collected a hundred
guineas, not counting what the others did. My beat contained one hundred
women of all creeds and situations, and about two hundred children. I
spared no time nor exertions over and above the established rules. I
read and wrote their letters, visited the sick and dying, and did a
number of other things.

“I know now the misery of London, and in making my rounds I could give
details that would come up to some of the descriptions in _The Mysteries
of Paris_ or a shilling shocker. In many cellars, garrets, and courts
policemen warned me not to enter, and told me that four or five of them
could not go in without being attacked; but I always said to them, ‘You
go to catch some rogue, but I go to take the women something; they will
not hurt me; but I should be glad if you waited outside in case I do not
come out again.’ But the ruffians hanging about soon learnt my errand,
and would draw back, touch their caps, move anything out of my way, and
give me a kind good-day as I passed, or show me to any door that I was
not sure of. Some people have been a little hard on me for being the
same to the fallen women as to the good ones. But I do hate the way we
women come down upon each other. Those who are the loudest in severity
are generally the first to fall when temptation comes: and who of us
might not do so but for God’s grace? I like simplicity and large-minded
conduct in all things, whether it be in a matter of religion or heart or
the world, and I think the more one knows the simpler one acts. I have
the consolation of knowing that all the poor women are now doing well
and earning an honest livelihood, the children fed, clothed and lodged,
educated and brought up in the fear and love of God, and in many a
soldier’s home my name is coupled with a blessing and a prayer. They
send me a report of themselves now once a month, and I love the salute
of many an honest and brave fellow as he passes me in the street with
his medal and clasps, and many have said, ‘But for you I should have
found no home on my return.’”


After the fall of Sebastopol the war was virtually at an end, and the
allied armies wintered amid its ruins. The treaty of peace was signed
at Paris on March 30, 1856. Five months before the signing of the
treaty Richard Burton returned home with General Beatson, his
commander-in-chief, who was then involved in an unfortunate
controversy. An evil genius seemed to follow Burton’s military career,
and it pursued him from India to the Crimea. He managed to enrage Lord
Stratford so much that he called him “the most impudent man in the
Bombay army.” He was certainly one of the most unlucky, even in his
choice of chiefs. Sir Charles Napier, under whom he served in India,
was far from popular with his superiors; and General Beatson was
always in hot water. The Beatson trial was the result of one of the
many muddles which arose during the Crimean War; it took place in
London in the spring (1856), and Burton gave evidence in favour of his
chief. But this is by the way. What we are chiefly concerned with is
the following line in Isabel’s diary, written soon after his return to
England:

“I hear that Richard has come home, and is in town. God be praised!”


That which followed will be told in her own words.




                               CHAPTER VI
                           _RICHARD LOVES ME_
                              (1856–1857)

           Daughter of nobles, who thine aim shalt gain,
           Hear gladdest news, nor fear aught hurt or bane.

                           ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                               (_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).


Now this is what occurred. When Richard was well home from the Crimea,
and had attended Beatson’s trial, he began to turn his attention to the
“Unveiling of Isis”; in other words, to discover the sources of the
Nile, the lake regions of Central Africa, on which his heart had long
been set; and he passed most of his time in London working it up.

We did not meet for some months after his return, though we were both in
London, he planning his Central African expedition, and I involved in
the gaieties of the season; for we had a gay season that year, every one
being glad that the war was over. In June I went to Ascot. There, amid
the crowd of the racecourse, I met Hagar Burton, the gypsy, for the
first time after many years, and I shook hands with her. “Are you Daisy
Burton yet?” was her first question. I shook my head. “Would to God I
were!” Her face lit up. “Patience; it is just coming.” She waved her
hand, for at that moment she was rudely thrust from the carriage. I
never saw her again, but I was engaged to Richard two months later. It
came in this wise.

One fine day in August I was walking in the Botanical Gardens with my
sister. Richard was there. We immediately stopped and shook hands, and
asked each other a thousand questions of the four intervening years; and
all the old Boulogne memories and feelings returned to me. He asked me
if I came to the Gardens often. I said, “Oh yes, we always come and read
and study here from eleven to one, because it is so much nicer than
studying in the hot room at this season.” “That is quite right,” he
said. “What are you studying?” I held up the book I had with me that
day, an old friend, Disraeli’s _Tancred_, the book of my heart and
taste, which he explained to me. We were in the Gardens about an hour,
and when I had to leave he gave me a peculiar look, as he did at
Boulogne. I hardly looked at him, yet I felt it, and had to turn away.
When I got home, my mind was full of wonder and presentiment; I felt
frightened and agitated; and I looked at myself in the glass and thought
myself a fright!

Next morning we went to the Botanical Gardens again. When we got there,
he was there too, alone, composing some poetry to show to Monckton
Milnes on some pet subject. He came forward, and said laughingly, “You
won’t chalk up ‘Mother will be angry,’ as you did when you were at
Boulogne, when I used to want to speak to you.” So we walked and talked
over old times and people and things in general.

About the third day his manner gradually altered towards me; we had
begun to know each other, and what might have been an ideal love before
was now a reality. This went on for a fortnight. I trod on air.

At the end of a fortnight he stole his arm round my waist, and laid his
cheek against mine and asked me, “Could you do anything so sickly as to
give up civilization? And if I can get the Consulate of Damascus, will
you marry me and go and live there?” He said, “Do not give me an answer
now, because it will mean a very serious step for you—no less than
giving up your people and all that you are used to, and living the sort
of life that Lady Hester Stanhope led. I see the capabilities in you,
but you must think it over.” I was long silent from emotion; it was just
as if the moon had tumbled down and said, “You have cried for me for so
long that I have come.” But he, who did not know of my long love,
thought I was thinking worldly thoughts, and said, “Forgive me; I ought
not to have asked so much.” At last I found voice, and said, “I do not
want to think it over—I have been thinking it over for six years, ever
since I first saw you at Boulogne. I have prayed for you every morning
and night, I have followed all your career minutely, I have read every
word you ever wrote, and I would rather have a crust and a tent with you
than be queen of all the world; and so I say now, ‘Yes, _yes_, YES!’”

I will pass over the next few minutes....

Then he said, “Your people will not give you to me.” I answered, “I know
that, but I belong to myself—I give myself away.” “That is all right,”
he answered; “be firm, and so shall I.”

I would have suffered six years more for such a day, such a moment as
this. All past sorrow was forgotten in it. All that has been written or
said on the subject of the first kiss is trash compared to the reality.
Men might as well undertake to describe Eternity. I then told him all
about my six years since I first met him, and all that I had suffered.

When I got home, I knelt down and prayed, and my whole soul was flooded
with joy and thanksgiving. A few weeks ago I little thought what a
change would take place in my circumstances. Now I mused thus: “Truly we
never know from one half-hour to another what will happen. Life is like
travelling in an open carriage with one’s back to the horses—you see the
path, you have an indistinct notion of the sides, but none whatever of
where you are going. If ever any one had an excuse for superstition and
fatalism, I have. Was it not foretold? And now I have gained half the
desire of my life: he loves me. But the other half remains unfulfilled:
he wants to marry me! Perhaps I must not regret the misery that has
spoilt the six best years of my life. But must I wait again? What can I
do to gain the end? Nothing! My whole heart and mind is fixed on this
marriage. If I cared less, I could plan some course of action; but my
heart and head are not cool enough. Providence and fate must decide my
future. I feel all my own weakness and nothingness. I am as humble as a
little child. Richard has the upper hand now, and I feel that I have at
last met the master who can subdue me. They say it is better to marry
one who loves and is subject to you than one whose slave you are through
love. But I cannot agree to this. Where in such a case is the pleasure,
the excitement, the interest? In one sense I have no more reason to fear
for my future, now that the load of shame, wounded pride, and unrequited
affection is lifted from my brow and soul. He loves me—that is enough
to-day.”

After this Richard visited a little at our house as an acquaintance,
having been introduced at Boulogne; and he fascinated, amused, and
pleasantly shocked my mother, but completely magnetized my father and
all my brothers and sisters. My father used to say, “I do not know what
it is about that man, but I cannot get him out of my head; I dream about
him every night.”

Richard and I had one brief fortnight of uninterrupted happiness, and
were all in all to each other; but inasmuch as he was to go away
directly on his African journey with Speke to the future lake regions of
Central Africa, we judged it ill advised to announce the engagement to
my mother, for it would have brought a hornets’ nest about our heads,
and not furthered our cause—and, besides, we were afraid of my being
sent away, or of being otherwise watched and hindered from our meeting;
so we agreed to keep it a secret until he came back. The worst of it all
was, that I was unable, first, by reason of no posts from a certain
point, and, secondly, by the certainty of having his letters opened and
read, to receive many letters from him, and those only the most
cautious; but I could write to him as freely as possible, and send them
to the centres where his mail-bags would be sent out to him. All my
happiness therefore was buried deep in my heart, but always was chained.
I felt as if earth had passed and heaven had begun, or as if I had
hitherto been somebody else, or had lived in some other world. But even
this rose had its thorn, and that was the knowledge that our marriage
seemed very far off. The idea of waiting for willing parents and a
grateful country appeared so distant that I should scarcely be worth the
having by the time all obstacles were removed. Richard too was exercised
about how I should be able to support his hard life, and whether a woman
could really do it. Another sorrow was that I had to be prepared to lose
him at any moment, as he might have to quit at a moment’s notice on
receiving certain information.

I gave him Hagar Burton’s horoscope, written in Romany—the horoscope of
my future. One morning (October 3) I went to meet him as usual, and we
agreed to meet the following morning. He had traced for me a little
sketch of what he expected to find in the lake regions, and I placed
round his neck a medal of the Blessed Virgin upon a steel chain, which
we Catholics commonly call “the miraculous medal.” He promised me he
would wear it throughout his journey, and show it me on his return. I
had offered it to him on a gold chain, but he said, “Take away the gold
chain; they will cut my throat for it out there.” He showed me the steel
chain round his neck when he came back; he wore it all his life, and it
is buried with him. He also gave me a little poem:

             I wore thine image, Fame,
             Within a heart well fit to be thy shrine;
             Others a thousand boons may gain—
                             One wish was mine:

             The hope to gain one smile,
             To dwell one moment cradled on thy breast,
             Then close my eyes, bid life farewell,
                             And take my rest!

             And now I see a glorious hand
             Beckon me out of dark despair,
             Hear a glorious voice command,
                             “Up, bravely dare!

             And if to leave a deeper trace
             On earth to thee Time, Fate, deny,
             Drown vain regrets, and have the grace
                             Silent to die.”

             She pointed to a grisly land,
             Where all breathes death—earth, sea, and air;
             Her glorious accents sound once more,
                             “Go meet me there.”

             Mine ear will hear no other sound,
             No other thought my heart will know.
             Is this a sin? “Oh, pardon, Lord!
                             Thou mad’st me so!”

                                                 R. F. B.

The afternoon on which I last met him was the afternoon of the same day.
He came to call on my mother. We only talked formally. I thought I was
going to see him on the morrow. It chanced that we were going to the
play that night. I begged of him to come, and he said he would if he
could, but that if he did not, I was to know that he had some heavy
business to transact. When I had left him in the morning, I little
thought it was the last kiss, or I could never have said good-bye, and I
suppose he knew that and wished to spare me pain. How many little things
I could have said or done that I did not! We met of course before my
mother only as friends. He appeared to me to be agitated, and I could
not account for his agitation. He stayed about an hour; and when he left
I said purposely, “I hope we shall see you on your return from Africa,”
and almost laughed outright, because I thought we should meet on the
morrow. He gave me a long, long look at the door, and I ran out on the
balcony and kissed my hand to him, and thus thoughtlessly took my last
look, quite unprepared for what followed.

I went to the theatre that evening quite happy, and expected him. At
10.30 I thought I saw him at the other side of the house looking into
our box. I smiled, and made a sign for him to come. I then ceased to see
him; the minutes passed, and he did not come. Something cold struck my
heart; I felt that I should not see him again, and I moved to the back
of the box, and, unseen, the tears streamed down my face. The old
proverb kept haunting me like an air one cannot get out of one’s head,
“There’s many a true word spoken in jest.” The piece was _Pizarro_, and
happily for me Cora was bewailing her husband’s loss on the stage, and
as I am invariably soft at tragedy my distress caused no sensation.

I passed a feverish, restless night; I could not sleep; I felt that I
could not wait till morning—I must see him. At last I dozed and started
up, but I touched nothing, yet dreamt I could feel his arms round me. I
understood him, and he said, “I am going now, my poor girl. My time is
up, and I have gone; but I will come again—I shall be back in less than
three years. I am your Destiny.”

He pointed to the clock, and it was two. He held up a letter, looked at
me long with those gypsy eyes of his, put the letter down on the table,
and said in the same way, “That is for your sister—not for you.” He went
to the door, gave me another of those long peculiar looks, and I saw him
no more.

I sprang out of bed to the door into the passage (there was nothing),
and thence I went to the room of one of my brothers, in whom I confided.
I threw myself on the ground and cried my heart out. He got up and asked
what ailed me, and tried to soothe and comfort me. “Richard is gone to
Africa,” I said, “and I shall not see him for three years.” “Nonsense,”
he replied; “you have only got a nightmare; it was that lobster you had
for supper; you told me he was coming to-morrow.” “So I did,” I sobbed;
“but I have seen him in a dream, and he told me he had gone; and if you
will wait till the post comes in, you will see that I have told you
truly.”

I sat all night in my brother’s armchair, and at eight o’clock in the
morning when the post came in there was a letter for my sister Blanche,
enclosing one for me. Richard had found it too painful to part from me,
and thought we should suffer less that way; he begged her to break it
gently to me, and to give me the letter, which assured me we should be
reunited in 1859, as we were on May 22 that year. He had received some
secret information, which caused him to leave England at once and
quietly, lest he should be detained as witness at some trial. He had
left his lodgings in London at 10.30 the preceding evening (when I saw
him in the theatre), and sailed at two o’clock from Southampton (when I
saw him in my room).

I believe there is a strong sympathy between some people (it was not so
well known then, but it is quite recognized now)—so strong that, if they
concentrate their minds on each other at a particular moment and at the
same time, and each wills strongly to be together, the will can produce
this effect, though we do not yet understand how or why. When I could
collect my scattered senses, I sat down and wrote to Richard all about
this, in the event of my being able to send it to him.

But to return. At 8.30 Blanche came into the room with the letter I have
mentioned, to break the sad news to me. “Good heavens!” she said, “what
has happened to you? You look dreadful!” “Richard is gone!” I gasped
out. “How did you know?” she asked. “Because I saw him here in the
night!” “That will do you the most good now,” she said. The tears came
into her eyes as she put a letter from Richard into my hand, enclosed in
one to herself, the one I had seen in the night. The letter was a great
comfort to me, and I wore it round my neck in a little bag. Curiously
enough I had to post my letter to him to Trieste—the place where in
after-life we spent many years—by his direction. It was the last
exertion I was capable of; the next few days I spent in my bed.

My happiness had been short and bright, and now I had to look forward to
three years of my former patient endurance, only with this great change:
before I was unloved and had no hope; now the shame of loving unasked
was taken from me, and I had the happiness of being loved, and some
future to look forward to. When I got a little better, I wrote the
following reflections to myself:

“A woman feels raised by the love of a man to whom she has given her
whole heart, but not if she feels that she loves and does not respect,
or that he fails in some point, and for such-and-such reasons she would
not marry him. But when she loves without reserve, she holds her head
more proudly, from the consciousness of being loved by him—no matter
what the circumstances. So I felt with Richard, for he is above all
men—so noble, so manly, with such a perfect absence of all meanness and
hypocrisy. It is true I was captivated at first sight; but his immense
talents and adventurous life compelled interest, and a mastermind like
his exercises influence over all around it. But I _love_ him, because I
find in him depth of feeling, a generous heart, and because, though
brave as a lion, he is yet a gentle, delicate, sensitive nature, and the
soul of honour. Also he is calculated to appear as something unique and
romantic in a woman’s eyes, especially because he unites the wild,
lawless creature and the gentleman. He is the latter in every sense of
the word, a stamp of the man of the world of the best sort, for he has
seen things without the artificial atmosphere of St. James’s as well as
within it. I worship ambition. Fancy achieving a good which affects
millions, making your name a national name! It is infamous the way half
the men in the world live and die, and are never missed, and, like a
woman, leave nothing behind them but a tombstone. By ambition I mean men
who have the will and power to change the face of things. I wish I were
a man: if I were, I would be Richard Burton. But as I am a woman, I
would be Richard Burton’s wife. I love him purely, passionately, and
devotedly: there is no void in my heart; it is at rest for ever with
him. For six years this has been part of my nature, part of myself, the
basis of all my actions, even part of my religion; my whole soul is
absorbed in it. I have given my every feeling to him, and kept back
nothing for myself or the world; and I would this moment sacrifice and
leave all to follow his fortunes, were it his wish, or for his good.
Whatever the world may condemn in him of lawless actions or strong
opinions, whatever he is to the world, he is perfect to me; and I would
not have him otherwise than he is—except in spiritual matters. This last
point troubles me. I have been brought up strictly, and have been given
clear ideas on all subjects of religion and principle, and have always
tried to live up to them. When I am in his presence, I am not myself—he
makes me for the time see things with his own eyes, like a fever or a
momentary madness; and when I am alone again, I recall my own belief and
ways of thinking, which remain unchanged, and am frightened at my weak
wavering and his dangerous but irresistible society. He is gone; but had
I the chance now, I would give years of my life to hear that dear voice
again, with all its devilry. I have no right to love a man who calls
himself a complete materialist, who has studied almost, I might say,
beyond the depth of knowledge, who professes to acknowledge no God, no
law, human or divine. Yet I do feel a close suspicion that he has much
more feeling and belief than he likes to have the credit of.”

After Richard was gone I got a letter from him dated from Bruges,
October 9, telling me to write to Trieste, and that he would write from
Trieste and Bombay. I sent three letters to Trieste and six to Bombay.
He asked me if I was offended at his abrupt departure. Ah, no! I take
the following from my diary of that time:

“I have now got into a state of listening for every post, every knock
making the heart bound, and the sickening disappointment that ensues
making it sink; but I say to myself, ‘If I am true, nothing can harm
me.’ My delight is to sit down and write to him all and everything, just
as it enters my head, as I would if I were with him. My letters are half
miserable, half jocose, for I do not want to put him out of spirits,
whatever I may be myself. I feel that my letters are a sort of mixture
of love, trust, anger, faith, sarcasm, tenderness, bullying, melancholy,
all mixed up.... He has arrived at Alexandria.... At any rate my heart
and affections are my own to give, I rob no one, and so I will remain. I
have a happy home, family, society, all I want, and I shall not clip my
wings of liberty except for him, whatever my lot may be. I love and am
loved, and so strike a balance in favour of existence. No gilded misery
for me. I was born for love, and require it as air and light. Whatever
harshness the future may bring, he has loved me, and my future is bound
up in him with all consequences. My jealous heart spurns all compromise;
it must have its purpose or break. He thinks he is sacrificing me; but I
want pain, privations, danger with him. I have the constitution and
nerves for it. There are few places I could not follow my husband, and
be to him companion, friend, wife, and all. Where I could not so follow
him, I would not be a clog to him, for I am tolerably independent.”

Our friends used sometimes to talk about Richard at this time and his
expedition. Whilst they discussed him as a public man, I was in
downright pain lest they should say something that I should not like.
Father told them that he was a friend of ours. I then practised
discussing him with the greatest _sang froid_, and of course gave a
vivid description of him, which inspired great interest. His books,
travels, and adventures were talked of by many. I told Richard in one
letter that it was the case of the mouse and the lion; but I teased him
by saying that when the mouse had nibbled a hole big enough the lion
forgot him because he was so small, and put his big paw on him and
crushed him altogether. I knew that his hobby was reputation; he was
great in the literary world, men’s society, clubs, and the Royal
Geographical Society. But I wished him also to be great in the world of
fashion, where my despised sex is paramount. I also knew that if a man
gets talked about in the right kind of way in handfuls of the best
society, here and there, his fame quickly spreads. I had plenty of
opportunities to help him in this way without his knowing it, and great
was the pleasure. Again I fall back on my journal:

“I beg from God morning and night that Richard may return safe. Will the
Almighty grant my prayer? I will not doubt, whether I hear from him or
not. I believe that we often meet in spirit and often look at the same
star. I have no doubt he often thinks of me; and when he returns and
finds how faithful I have been, all will be right. There is another life
if I lose this, and there is always La Trappe left for the
brokenhearted.

“_Christmas Day, 1856._—I was delighted to hear father and mother
praising Richard to-day; mother said he was so clever and agreeable and
she liked him so much, and they both seemed so interested about him.
They little knew how much they gratified me. I was reading a book; but
when the time came to put it away, I found it had been upside-down all
the time, so I fancy I was more absorbed in their conversation than its
contents. I have been trying to make out when it is midnight in Eastern
Africa, and when the morning star shines there, and I have made out that
at 10 p.m. it is midnight there, and the morning star shines on him two
hours before it does on me.

“_January 2, 1857._—I see by the papers that Richard left Bombay for
Zanzibar with Lieutenant Speke on December 2 last. I am struck by the
remembrance that it was on that very night that I was so ill and
delirious. I dreamt I saw him sailing away and he spoke to me, but I
thought my brain throbbed so loud that I could not hear him. I was quite
taken off my guard to-day on hearing the news read out from the _Times_,
so that even my mother asked me what was the matter. I have not had a
letter; I might get one in a fortnight; but I must meet this uncertainty
with confidence, and not let my love be dependent on any action of his,
because he is a strange man and not as other men.

“_January 18._—Unless to-morrow’s mail brings me a letter, my hope is
gone. What is the cause of his silence I cannot imagine. If he had not
said he would write, I could understand it. But nothing shall alter my
course. It is three months since he left, and I have only had two
letters; yet I feel confident that Richard will be true, and I will try
to deserve what I desire, so that I shall always have self-consolation.
My only desire is that he may return safe to me with changed religious
feelings, and that I may be his wife with my parents’ consent. Suspense
is a trial which I must bear for two years without a murmur. I must
trust and pray to God; I must keep my faith in Him, and live a quiet
life, employ myself only in endeavouring to make myself worthy; and
surely this conduct will bring its reward.”




                              CHAPTER VII
                      _MY CONTINENTAL TOUR: ITALY_
                              (1857–1858)

        Leave thy home for abroad an wouldst rise on high,
        And travel whence benefits fivefold arise—
        The soothing of sorrow and winning of bread,
        Knowledge, manners, and commerce with good men and wise;
        And they say that in travel are travail and care,
        And disunion of friends and much hardship that tries.

                        ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                            (_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).


In August, 1857, nearly a year after Richard had gone, my sister Blanche
married Mr. Smyth Pigott, of Brockley Court, Somerset, and after the
honeymoon was over they asked me to travel abroad with them. I was glad
to go, for it helped the weary waiting for Richard, who was far away in
Central Africa.

On September 30 we all took a farewell dinner together, and were very
much inclined to choke over it, as we were about to disperse for some
time, and poor mother especially was upset at losing her two girls. On
that occasion she indulged in a witticism. She told me that she had
heard by a little bird that I was fond of Richard; but little thinking
she was speaking anything in earnest, she said, “Well, if you marry that
man, you will have sold your birthright not for a mess of pottage, but
for Burton ale.” I quickly answered her back again, “Well, a little bird
told me that you were ordered an immense quantity of it all the time you
were in the family way with me, so that if anything does happen we shall
call it heredity,” upon which we both laughed. We all left home at six
o’clock for London Bridge Station: we—my sister, her husband, and
myself—to go on the journey, and the rest of the family came with us to
see us off.

We had a beautiful passage of six and a half hours, and slept in rugs on
deck. There was a splendid moon and starlight. About three o’clock in
the morning the captain made friends with me, and talked about yachting.
He had been nearly all over the world. The morning star was very
brilliant, and I always look at it with particular affection when I am
on board ship, thinking that what I love best lies under it. We got to
the station at Dieppe at 7.30 a.m.; and then ensued a tedious journey to
Paris.

The next day we drove about Paris, and then went to the Palais Royal,
Trois Frères Provenceaux, where we dined in a dear little place called a
_cabinet_, very like an opera-box. It was my first experience of that
sort of thing. The _cabinet_ overlooked the arcade and garden. We had a
most _recherché_ little dinner, and only one thing was wanting to make
it perfect enjoyment to me. The Pigotts sat together on one side of the
table, and I—alone on the other. I put a place for Richard by me. After
dinner we strolled along the principal boulevards. I can easily
understand a Parisian not liking to live out of Paris. We saw it to
great advantage that night—a beautiful moon and clear, sharp air.

This day (October 3) last year how wretched and truly miserable I was!
On the evening of this day Richard left! We drove out and went to the
Pré de Catalan, where there was music, dancing, and other performances.
We went to the opera in the evening. A _petit souper_ afterwards. This
night last year was a memorable one. If Richard be living, he will
remember me now; it was the night of my parting with him a year ago when
he went to Africa for three years.

We left Paris three days later; arrived at Lyons 7 a.m. The next morning
breakfasted, dogs and all, and were at Marseilles at 5 p.m. I should
have been glad to stay longer at Marseilles; I thought it the most
curious and picturesque place I had ever seen. We arrived just too late
for the diligence. There was no steamer. A _veterino_ was so slow, and
we could not remain till Saturday, so we did not know what to do. At
last we discovered that a French merchant vessel was going to sail at 8
o’clock p.m.; but it was a pitch-dark night, and there was a strong,
hard wind, or mistral, with the sea running very high. However, we held
a consultation, and agreed we would do it for economy; so we got our
berths, and went and dined at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, _table
d’hôte_, where I sat by a cousin of Billy Johnson, a traveller and
linguist. We fraternized, and he made himself as agreeable as only such
men can. After dinner we went on board, and all the passengers went down
to their berths. I dressed myself in nautical rig, and went on deck to
see all that I could. We passed the Isle d’Hyères and the Château d’If
of Monte Christo. We could not go between the rocks, owing to the
mistral. The moon arose, it blew hard, and we shipped heavy seas. The
old tub creaked and groaned and lurched, and every now and then bid fair
to stand on beam-ends. Being afraid of going to sleep, I lashed myself
to a bench; two Frenchmen joined me, one a professor of music, the other
rather a rough diamond, who could speak a mouthful of several languages,
had travelled a little, and he treated me to a description of India, and
told me all the old stories English girls hear from their military
brothers and cousins from the cradle. Every time we shipped a sea all
the French, Italian, and Spanish passengers gave prolonged howls and
clung to each other; it might have been an Irish wake. They were so
frightfully sick, poor things! It hurt my inside to hear them, and it
was worse to see them. Meanwhile my two companions and I had pleasant
conversation, not only on India, but music and Paris. By-and-by they too
gradually dropped off; so I went down and tumbled into my berth, and
slept soundly through the night.

I was aroused next morning by a steward redolent of garlic. Our maid
shared the cabin with me, and treated me to a scene like the deck of the
preceding evening. Why are maids always sick at sea, and have to be
waited on, poor things, by their mistresses who are not? There was such
a noise, such heat and smells. I slept till we were in Nice Harbour. My
sister and her husband went off to find a house; I cleared the baggage
and drove to the Hôtel Victoria, where we dined, and then went to our
new lodging.

I was not sorry to be housed, after being out two days and two nights. I
got up next morning at 6 a.m.; there was a bright, beautiful sky, a dark
blue sea, and such a lightness in the air. I went out to look about me.
Nice is a very pretty town, tolerably clean, with very high houses,
beautiful mountains, and a perfect sea, and balminess in the air. There
is something Moorish-looking about the people and place. I am told there
is no land between us and Tunis—three hundred miles!—and that when the
sirocco comes the sand from the great desert blows across the sea on to
our windows. We have an African tree in our garden. And Richard is over
there in Africa.

My favourite occupation while at Nice was sitting on the shingle with my
face to the sea and towards Africa. I hate myself because I cannot
sketch. If I could only exchange my musical talent for that, I should be
very happy. There is such a beautiful variety in the Mediterranean: one
day it looks like undulating blue glass; at others it is dark blue,
rough, and dashing, with white breakers on it; but hardly ever that dull
yellowish green as in our Channel, which makes one bilious to look at
it. The sky is glorious, so high and bright, so soft and clear, and the
only clouds you ever see are like little tufts of rose-coloured wool.
The best time to sit here is sunset. One does not see the rays so
distinctly in England; and when the sun sinks behind the hills of the
frontier, there is such a purple, red, and gold tint on the sea and sky
that many would pronounce it overdone or unnatural in a painting. A most
exquisite pink shade is cast over the hills and town. There is one nice
opera-house at Nice, one pretty church, a corso and terrace, where you
go to hear the band and eat ices in the evening; there is the reading
club at Visconti’s for ladies as well as men, where you can read and
write and meet others and enjoy yourself. (I am talking of 1857.) Our
apartments suit us very well. My portion consists of a nice lofty
bedroom, a painted ceiling, furnished in English style, a little
bathroom paved with red china, and a little sort of ante-drawing-room.
My windows look over a little garden, where the African tree is, and the
sea beyond, and beyond that again Africa and Richard.

We left Nice for Genoa at 5.30 on November 14, my sister, her husband,
and self, in the _coupé_, which was very much like being packed as
sardines—no room for legs. However, we were very jolly, only we got
rather stiff during the twenty-four hours’ journey; for we only stopped
twice—once for ten minutes at Oniglia at 4 a.m. for a cup of coffee, and
once at noon next day for half an hour at another place to dine.
However, I was too happy to grumble, having just received a letter
saying that Richard would be home in next June, 1858 (he was not home
for a year later); we smoked and chatted and slept alternately. The
Cornice road is beautiful—a wild, lonely road in the mountains, with
precipices, ravines, torrents, and passes of all descriptions: the sea
beneath us on one side, and mountains covered with snow on the other.
You seem to pass into all sorts of climates very speedily. On the land
to our left was a fine starlight sky and clear, sharp air, and on the
sea thunder and lightning and a white squall. There was always the
excitement of imagining that a brigand might come or a torrent be
impassable; but alas! not a ghost of an adventure, except once catching
a milestone. I think the Whip Club would be puzzled at the driving:
sometimes we have eleven horses, each with a different rein; to some the
drivers whistle, to others they talk. It is tiresome work crawling up
and down the mountains; but when they do get a bit of plain ground, they
seem to go ten miles an hour, tearing through narrow streets where there
seems scarcely room for a sheet of paper between the diligence and the
wall, whirling round sharp zigzag corners with not the width of a book
between the wheel and the precipice, and that at full gallop. We created
a great sensation at one of our halting-places, and indeed everywhere,
for we were in our nautical rig; and what amused the natives immensely
was that one of our terriers was a very long dog with short legs, and
they talked of the yards of dog we had with us. We at last arrived at
Genoa.

I liked Genoa far better than Nice: the sky is more Italian; the sea
looks as if it washed the town, or as if the town sprang out of it; it
is all so hilly. The town with its domes looks like white marble. The
lower range of mountains is covered with monasteries, forts, pretty
villas, and gardens; the other ranges are covered with snow. There are
six or seven fine streets, connected by a network of very narrow, oddly
paved side-streets, whose tall houses nearly meet at the top; they are
picturesque, and look like the pictures of the Turkish bazaar. Mazzini
is here, and the Government hourly expect an outbreak of the Republican
party. The troops are under arms, and a transport with twelve hundred
men from Turin and troops from Sardinia have arrived. The offer to the
Neapolitan Government to expel the exiles is the cause. The police are
hunting up Mazzini; Garibaldi is here; Lord Lyons’ squadron is hourly
expected.

I have been abroad now two months. I have had one unsatisfactory note
from Richard; he is coming back in June or July. Oh what a happiness and
what anxiety! In a few short months, please God, this dreadful
separation will be over. Pray! Pray!! _Pray!!!_

Monsieur Pernay spent an evening with me; and seeing the picture on the
wall of Richard in Meccan costume, he asked me what it was; and on my
telling him, he composed a valse on the spot, and called it “Richard in
the Desert,” and said he should compose a libretto on it. How I wish
Richard were here! It makes me quite envious when I see my sister and
her husband. I am all alone, and Richard’s place is vacant in the
opera-box, in the carriage, and everywhere. Sometimes I dream he came
back and would not speak to me, and I wake up with my pillow wet with
tears.

My first exclamation as the clock struck twelve on St. Sylvester’s
night, 1857, as we all shook hands and drank each other’s health in a
glass of punch at the Café de la Concorde, was, “This year I shall see
Richard!”

On the first Sunday of the year I went to hear Mass at Saint Philip
Neri, and then went to the post-office, where a small boy pushed up
against me and stole my beloved picture of Richard out of my pocket. I
did not feel him do it, but a horrible idea of having lost the picture
came over me. I felt for it, and it was gone! I had a beautiful gold
chain in my pocket, and a purse with £25; yet the young rascal never
touched them, but seemed to know that I should care only for the
portrait. I instantly rushed off to every crier in the town; had two
hundred _affiches_ printed and stuck up in every corner; I put a
paragraph in the papers; I asked every priest to give it out in the
pulpit; the police, the post-office, every corner of the town was
warned. Of course I pretended it was a picture of my brother. After
three agonizing days and nights an old woman brought it back, the frame
gone, the picture torn, rubbed, and smeared, which partly effaced the
expression of the face and made it look as if it knew where it had been
and how it had been defiled. The story was that her little boy had found
it in that state in a dirty alley; and thinking it was a picture of
Jesus Christ or a saint, took it home to his little brother to keep him
good when he was naughty, and threw it in their toy cupboard. A poor
priest happened to dine with this poor family, and mentioned the
_affiche_, in which the words _ufficiale Inglese_ as large as my head
appeared. The boys then produced the wreck of the portrait, and asked if
that could possibly be the article, and if it was really true that the
Signorina was willing to give so much for it; and the priest said “Yes,”
for the Signorina had wept much for the portrait of her favourite
brother who was killed in the Crimea. So it was brought, and the simple
Signorina gladly gave three napoleons to the old woman to know that she
possessed all that remained of that much-loved face. But that boy—oh
that boy!—got off scot-free, and the Signorina’s reward did not induce
any one to bring him to her. Doubtless, finding the stolen picture of no
value to him, he had maltreated it and cast it in the gutter. How I
could spank him!

We left Genoa at 9 a.m. on January 15. We wished good-bye to a crowd of
friends inside and outside the hotel. We had a clean, roomy _veterino_
with four capital little horses at the door charged with our luggage, a
capital _vetturino_ (coachman), and room for four inside and four out. A
jolly party to fill it. It was agreed we should divide the expenses,
take turns for the outside places, and be as good-humoured as possible.
Luckily for me nobody cared for the box-seat, so I always got it. The
first day we did thirty miles. Our halting-place for the day was Ruta,
where something befell me. I lost my passport at Nervi, several miles
back; a village idiot to whom I gave a penny picked it up and sold it to
a peasant woman for twelve sous, who happened to be riding on a mule
into Ruta, and halted where we were feeding. Our _vetturino_ (Emanuele)
happened to see it and recognized it in her hand, bought it back again
for twelve sous, and gave it to me. It would have been a fatal loss to
me. Soon after sunset we halted for the night at Sestri; the horses had
done enough for the day. Four or five carriages had been attacked this
winter, and there was a report of a large number of murders near Ancona,
and there was no other sleeping-place to be reached that night. We soon
had a capital fire, supper, and beds.

On this journey we planned out our day much as follows: We rose at
daybreak and started; we had breakfast in the carriage after three
hours’ drive. We passed our day in eating and drinking, laughing and
talking, smoking and sleeping, and some mooning and sentimentalizing
over the scenery: I the latter sort, and improving my Italian on the
_vetturino_. We used to halt half-way two hours for the horses to rest
and dinner, and then drive till dark where we halted for the night,
ordered fire, supper, and beds, wrote out our journals, made our
respective accounts, and smoked our cigarettes. The scenery and weather
varied every day.

We slept a night at Sestri, and went on at daybreak. This day I had a
terrible heartache; to my horror we had a leader, the ghost of a white
horse covered with sores, ridden by a fine, strapping wag of a youth,
who told me his master was rich and stingy, and did not feed him, let
alone the horse, which only had a mouthful when employed. I told him his
master would go to hell, and he assured me smilingly that he was sure
his soul was already there, and that it was only his body that was
walking about. I asked him to sell the horse to me, and let me shoot
him; but he shook his head and laughed. “You English treat your horses
better than masters treat their servants in Italy,” said he, as we
topped the mountain. At my request Emanuele gave the poor beast a feed
and sent him back, poor mass of skin and bones that it was. It was not
fit to carry a fly, and I am told it was the best horse he had. That day
our journey was a forty weary miles of black, barren ascent and descent,
amongst snowy mountains, which looked as if man or beast had never trod
there. Our halt was at Borghetto in the middle of the day. At the end of
the forty miles came a delightful surprise. We were on a magnificent
ridge of Maritime Alps covered with snow; a serpentine road led us down
into a beautiful valley and Spezzia on the sea, the beautiful Gulf. The
Croce di Malta was a comfortable little hotel. In half an hour we were
round a roaring fire with a good supper.

Next morning we took a boat and explored the Gulf, the Source d’Eau,
Lerici, where Byron and Shelley lived. That day was the Feast of Saint
Anthony; the horses were blessed, which is a very amusing sight. It was
the first night of the Carnival, and the Postilions’ Ball, to which we
were invited and went. It was full of peasant-girls and masqueraders; it
was capital fun, and we danced all night. The costumes here are very
pretty; they and the pronunciation change about every forty miles.

The day we went away we had great fun. The Magra had to be passed two
hours from Spezzia; it is a river with a bridge broken down. The
peasants, working, look for all the world like diggers at the diggings;
they are lawless enough to do anything. You get out and walk a mile
amongst them; your carriage is embarked in a barge; it wades through and
gets filled with water; the men at their pleasure upset it, or demand
eighty francs or so. However, we were all game for anything that might
occur, knowing how they treated others. Our _vetturino_ was a regular
brick—waded through with it without an accident; we walked through with
all our money about us, dressing-cases in hand, our jackets with belts
and daggers in them. One man became rather abusive; but we laughed at
him, and gave him a universal chaffing. They followed us, and were
annoying; but we swaggered along, and looked like people troubled with
mosquitoes instead of ruffians, and not given to fainting and hysterics.
So at last they were rather inclined to fraternize with us than
otherwise. I suspect that they were accustomed to timid travellers.
After this we passed Sarzana, a town of some consequence in these parts,
with a castle and fortress. The weather this day was cold and biting,
especially on the box-seat, and the scenery, except at Carrara, no great
shakes. We found Carrara in a state of siege, and the troops occupied
the hotel. Emanuele found a sort of stable, but we could get no food.

After this we proceeded by stages, and stopped some days at several
places, and made long interior excursions, which I was often too tired
to note. At last we arrived at Pisa. We had no trouble with the
_douanier_. When I entered the Tuscan frontier, I declared I would never
say another word of French; and Emanuele, who was a wag, sent all the
_douaniers_ to me; but a franc, a smile, an assurance that we had
nothing contraband, and the word was given to pass. We scarcely ever had
our baggage touched; but that was in 1858.

In Pisa we saw many things, including the Baptisteria, the Campanile or
leaning tower, the Duomo, and the Sapienza, an object of interest to
_me_, as Richard passed so much of his boyhood here, and that was his
school. I regret to say the most debauched and ungentlemanly part of the
population issued from this place, which distressed me, who held it
sacred because of him. The Granda Bretagna was a very nice hotel, with a
good _table d’hôte_, and all English. It had every comfort; only, being
full, we could only get small, dark rooms at the back, which was dull,
and with nothing but stoves; and the weather being bitter, we were
petrified. We went a great deal to the Duomo and the Campo Santo, where
the figures rather made us laugh, though I felt sentimental enough about
other things. At the top of the Campanile or leaning tower, or belfry, I
found that Richard had chiselled his name, so I did the same. How
curious it would have been if while he was doing it he could have said,
“My future wife will also come and chisel hers, so many years later, in
remembrance of me.”

The man who shows the Campanile remembered Richard, and it was he who
told me where he cut his name at the top of the tower.

The last day I was in Pisa (January 25) it was our Princess Royal’s
wedding day. We had a grand dinner, champagne, toasts, and cheering. The
_table d’hôte_ was decorated with our yacht flags. One of the English
ladies invited us to her rooms, where we had music and dancing, and I
talked to one girl of seventeen, who proved to be an original after my
own heart. After the _soirée_, we smoked a cigarette and discussed our
plans. The next morning we had to leave Pisa. We were all sorry to part.

Half an hour’s train brought us to Leghorn, where we got pretty rooms at
the Victoria and Washington. It is quite spring weather, beautiful sky
and sea; again flat, ugly country, but the range of mountains shows to
advantage; the air is delicious, and we are all well and in spirits. The
town is very fine, the people _tant-soit-peu_-Portsmouth-like. There is
nothing to see at Leghorn. _Faute de mieux_ we went to see an ugly
duomo, which, however, contained Canova’s Tempo, the one statue of which
you hear from morning till night. We also visited the English Cemetery,
which contained Smollett’s tomb. There are the docks to see, and Habib’s
bazaar, a rogue, and not too civil, but he has beautiful Eastern things.
The town is in a state of siege, and no Carnival is allowed.

We left Leghorn on February 1 for Florence, and visited successively
many queer, little, out-of-the-way towns _en route_.

The first day at Florence we drove about to have a general view of the
city, and after that we visited the principal palazzos, churches, and
theatres—all of which have often been described before. We were at
Florence nearly a month. We saw one Sunday’s Carnival, one opera, one
masked ball. We had several friends, who were anxious for us to stay,
and go into society; but time pressed, and we had to decline. Every
evening we used to go to the theatre, and some of our friends would
invite us to _petits soupers_. At Florence all Richard’s friends,
finding I knew his sister in England, were kind to us; and we were very
sorry to start at 3 a.m. on February 11 _en route_ for Venice.

We were five individuals, with our baggage on our backs, turned into a
rainy street, cutting a sorry figure and laughing at ourselves. The
diligence started at once. We had twenty-one hours to Bologna, drawn by
oxen at a foot’s pace through the snow, which the _cantonniers_ had
cleared partially away, but which often lay in heaps of twelve or twenty
feet untouched. I never saw such magnificent snow scenes as when
crossing the Apennines. We slept at Bologna, saw it, and took a
_vetturino_ next day. The drive was a dreary, flat snow piece of forty
miles in length. Malebergo was the only town. We here came across a
horrid thing. Two men had fallen asleep in a hay-cart smoking; it caught
fire, burnt the men, cart, hay, and all. The horse ran away, had its
hind-quarters burnt out, and they were all three dead, men and horse. It
gave us a terrible turn, but we could do nothing. Next morning we were
up at four o’clock. We crossed the river Po at seven o’clock; it was
bitter cold. We drove fifty miles that day; the last twelve were very
pretty. At length we reached Padua. The ground was like ice; our off
leader fell, and was dragged some little distance. (How little I thought
then that I should be a near neighbour and frequent visitor of all these
places during the eighteen last years of my married life!) When we left
Padua, we had twenty-seven miles more to go, where we exchanged for the
(to us girls) new wonder of a gondola, which took us to the Hôtel Europa
in Venice. We were not sorry to have got through our journey, and a
blazing fire and a good supper and cigarette soon effaced the memory of
the cold, starvation, and weariness we had gone through for so long. We
wanted no rocking that night.

It is all very well writing; but nothing I could ever say would half
express my enthusiasm for Venice. It fulfils all the exigencies of
romance; it is the only thing that has never disappointed me. I am so
happy at Venice. Except for Richard’s absence, I have not another wish
ungratified; and I also like it because this and Trieste were the last
places he was in near home when he started for Africa.

Not a night passes here that I do not dream that Richard has come home
and will not speak to me; not a day that I do not kneel down twice,
praying that God may send him a ray of divine grace, and bring him to
religion, and also, though I feel quite unworthy of so high a mission,
that I may be his wife, for I so love and care for him that I should
never have courage to take upon myself the duties of married life with
any other man. I have seen so much of married life; have seen men so
unjust, selfish, and provoking; and have always felt I never could
receive an injury from any man but him without everlasting resentment.
Oh, if he should come home and have changed, it would break my heart! I
would rather die than see that day!

[Illustration: VENICE.]

We plan out our days here, rising at eight, breakfast nine, Mass,
spending the morning with friends, music, reading, working, writing,
reading French and Italian, and some sketching. At one o’clock we start
to explore all the beautiful things to be seen here, then we go to a
very cheerful _table d’hôte_, and afterwards spend a most agreeable
evening in each other’s apartments, or we gondola about to listen to the
serenades by moonlight. I think we have walked and gondolaed the place
all through by day and moon. How heavenly Venice would have been with
Richard, we two floating about in these gondolas! Our friends are a
charming Belgian couple named Hagemans, two little children, and a nice
sister, and last, though not least, the Chevalier de St. Cheron. The
Chevalier is a perfect French gentleman of noble family, good-looking,
fascinating, brilliant in conversation; has much heart, _esprit_, and
_délicatesse_; he is more solid than most Frenchmen, and better
informed, and has noble sentiments, head and heart; and yet, were he an
Englishman, I should think him vain and ignorant. He has a few small
prejudices and French tricks, which are, however, little faults of
nationality, education, and circumstance, but not of nature. Henri V.,
the Bourbon King, called the Comte de Chambord, lives at the Palazzo
Cavalli, and holds a small court, kept up in a little state by devoted
partisans, who are under the surveillance of the police, and have three
or four different lodgings everywhere. St. Cheron is his right-hand man
and devoted to him, and will be in the highest office when he comes to
the throne. As we are devoted to the Bourbons he introduced us there,
and the King helped to make our stay happy to us.

We arrived in Venice for the end of the Carnival. The last night of it
we went to the masked ball at the Finice; it was the most brilliant
sight I ever saw. We masked and dominoed, and it was there that the
Chevalier and I first came in contact and spoke; he had been watching
for an opportunity. The evening after the ball he came to _table d’hôte_
and spoke to us, and asked leave to pay us an evening visit, which he
did (the Hagemans were there too); and from that we spent all our
evenings and days together.

One night we rowed in gondolas by moonlight to the Lido; we took the
guitar. I never saw Venice look so beautiful. The water was like glass,
and there was not a sound but the oars’ splashing. We sang glees.
Arrived at the Lido, we had tea and walked the whole length of the
sands. That night was one of many such evenings in queenly Venice. I
shall often remember the gondolier’s serenades, the beautiful moon and
starlight, the gliding about in the gondola in all the romantic parts of
Venice, the soft air, the stillness of the night, hearing only the
splash of oars, and nothing stirring except perhaps some dark and
picturesque figure crossing the bridge, the little Madonna chapel on the
banks of the Lido edging the Adriatic, the Piazza of San Marco with the
band, and ices outside Florian’s, the picturesque Armenians, Greeks, and
Moors, and the lovely water-girls with their _bigolo_, every language
sounding in one’s ears. I remember too all my favourite localities, too
numerous to set down, but known doubtless to every lover of Venice.

On the days that were too bad for sight-seeing we and our friends read
Byron, talked French, and sketched; on indifferent days we lionized; and
on beautiful days we floated about round the islands. I had two
particularly happy days; they were the summer mornings when the sun
shone and the birds sang; and we were all so gay we sang too, and the
Adriatic was so blue. There were two or three beautiful brigs sometimes
sailing for Trieste.

One day Henri V. desired the Chevalier to bring us to a private
audience. Blanche wore her wedding-dress with pearls and a slight veil;
my brother-in-law was in his best R.Y.S. uniform, and I in my
bridesmaid’s dress. We had a very smart gondola covered with our flags,
the white one uppermost for the Bourbons, which did not escape the
notice of the King, and the gondoliers in their Spanish-looking sashes
and broad hats. Blanche looked like a small sultana in her bridal robes
sitting amidst her flags. We were received by the Duc de Levis and the
Comtesse de Chavannes; there was also a Prince Somebody, and an emissary
from the Pope waiting for an audience. As soon as the latter came out we
were taken in, and most graciously received; and the King invited us to
sit. He was middle height and fair, a _beau-idéal_ of a French
gentleman, with winning manners. His consort was tall, gaunt, very dry
and cold, but she was kind. They asked us a thousand questions; and as
my French was better than the others’, I told them all about our
yachting, and all we had seen and were going to see; and they were much
interested. I was also able to tell the King that when he was a little
boy he had condescended to ask my mother to dance, and that it was one
of the proudest souvenirs of her life. My brother-in-law behaved with
great ease and dignity; he put his yacht and his services at the King’s
disposal, and expressed our respectful attachment to the House of
Bourbon. We thanked them for receiving us. After about twenty minutes
they saluted us; we curtseyed to the ground, backed to the door,
repeated the curtsey, and disappeared. We were received again by the Duc
de Levis and the Comtesse de Chavannes, and conducted to the gondola. I
am proud to say that we heard that the King was enthusiastic about
Blanche and myself, and subsequently that night at dinner and many a day
after he spoke of us. We also heard from the Chevalier and a Vicomte
Simonet that the King was charmed with my brother-in-law for turning the
white flag upwards and offering him the use of his yacht.




                              CHAPTER VIII
                   _MY CONTINENTAL TOUR: SWITZERLAND_
                                 (1858)

           You’re far, yet to my heart you’re nearest near;
           Absent, yet present in my sprite you appear.

                           ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                               (_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).


We left Venice one evening in early April at half-past nine, after six
weeks’ stay, and travelled by the night train to Padua. We then went
through a terrible experience. We started on a twenty-four hours’ drive
without a stoppage, without a crumb of bread or a drop of water. We
drove through Milan at 8.30 in the morning, and after leaving it we got
a magnificent view of the Alps, and had a very troublesome frontier. At
last we came to Turin. We went on in a train with a diligence on it, and
arrived at Susa, our last Italian town. Here the diligence was taken off
the train. We had fourteen mules and two horses, and began to ascend
Mont Cenis. These were the days when there were no trains there. Some of
us with the conductor climbed up the shorter cuts (like ascending a
chimney) until dark, and met the diligence. We had a splendid view. But
what a night! The snow in some places was twenty feet deep, and the wind
and sleet seemed as if they would sweep us over; it was wild and awful,
one vast snow scene, and the scenery magnificent. At midnight we came to
the top; but here was the worst part, where the smaller road begins.
Here, as before, we only went at a foot’s pace, and the horses could
hardly stand. The men kept tumbling off, the vehicle was half buried in
the snow, there were drifts every few paces, and we had to be cut out.
At Lans le Bourg at one o’clock we stopped, and they gave us some bad
soup, for which we gratefully paid four francs. The few travellers were
ascending and descending, asking all sorts of questions. We tried to
sleep, but ever and anon some accident happened to wake us. Every here
and there we tried to knock somebody up for assistance; but it appeared
to me as if most of the houses of refuge were shut up, thinking that
nobody would be mad enough to travel in such weather. We were so tired
that it seemed as if the horses were wandering about, not knowing where
they were going to. Everything tumbled about most uncomfortably in a
snowy, dreamy state of confusion. Some of the men roared with laughter
at one of the postilions sprawling off his horse into the snow, and
floundering about without being able to get up again. Things went on
like that till 7 a.m., when we pulled up at the station, St. Jean de
Marienne, where we ought to have caught the 6 a.m. train, but it was
gone; so there was nothing for it but to remain for the 10.20, and get a
good breakfast. We took the 10.20 train, and arrived at 12.20 at
Chambéry. Here a civil man convinced us that we had to choose between
two disagreeables; so we took the lesser, remained at Chambéry till five
o’clock, and then started by diligence, and (what we did not know) tired
horses.

At midnight, when body and soul were worn out (we had not had our
clothes off for three days and nights, hardly any food or other
necessities; we had been sitting with our knees up to our chins in that
blessed _coupé_, which was like a chimney-piece big enough for two, the
windows close to our faces)—well, I say, when body and soul were worn
out, they shot us down like so much rubbish at a miserable inn at Anneçy
at midnight, and swore they would go no farther. My brother-in-law stuck
to his place, and refused to move till we had got another diligence and
fresh horses; so seeing there was no help for it, they did get them, and
transferred our baggage. Then we took our places and drove off. The road
was nearly impassable; the driver frequently stopped at places to
entreat that they would give him more horses, but all the inns were shut
up and asleep, and nobody cared to hear him, so we lost half an hour
every here and there. Morning came, but we stuck again, and were not
near to the end of our journey. We turned into an inn, where we got some
chocolate, and sat round a stove with the peasants, who chaffed our
driver, his exploits, and his poor horses. That morning we passed an
exquisite bridge over a chasm, of which I would give worlds to have a
photograph. One seemed suspended between heaven and earth. I learnt
afterwards that my bridge is between Crusie-Caille; it is 636 feet long,
and 656 above the stream. The old road winds beneath it; the Sardinians
call it the Ponte Carlo Aberto. A few more difficulties, and at 10.30
a.m., Wednesday, April 7, we arrived at the Hôtel des Bergues, Geneva.
The poor horses were delighted the moment they saw Geneva below, and put
on a spurt of themselves.

The Hôtel des Bergues, Geneva (at the time I write), is the second best
hotel here; we have three cheerful rooms on the lake, and a dull _table
d’hôte_ at five o’clock. The lake is like blue crystal, on which we have
a five-ton sailing-boat; the sky without a cloud; the weather like May.
The nights are exquisite. The peasants are ugly; they wear big hats, and
speak bad French. It is a terrible place for stomach-ache, owing to the
mountain water. The religion is a contrast to Italy—little and good. As
I am Number Three of our party, I have had all along to make my own life
and never be in the way of the married couple. We arrived here in time
for the railway _fête_; there were flags and _feux de joie_, bands, and
a magnificent peasant ball. Our Minister for Switzerland, whose name was
Gordon, came for the _fête_ (the French Minister refused). He dined
here, spent the evening with us, and took us to the ball. The Union Jack
floated at our windows in his honour. A pretty place Geneva, but very
dull. The spring begins to show itself in the trees and hedges. I long
for the other side of the lake. We walk and sail a great deal.

I have not heard a word from Richard, and I am waiting like Patience on
a monument in grand expectation of what the few months may bring,
relying on his sister having told me that he will be home this summer,
when I feel that something decisive will take place. This day I have had
an offer from an American, polished, handsome, fifty years of age, a
widower, with £300,000 made in California; but there is only one man in
the world who could be master of such a spirit as mine. People may love
(as it is called) a thousand times, but the real _feu sacré_ only burns
once in one’s life. Perhaps some feel more than others; but it seems to
me that this love is the grandest thing in this nether world, and worth
all the rest put together. If I succeed, I shall know how to prove
myself worthy of it. If any woman wants to know what this _feu sacré_
means, let her ascertain whether she loves fully and truly with brain,
heart, and passion. If one iota is wanting in the balance of any of
these three factors, let her cast her love aside as a spurious
article—she will love again; but if the investigation is satisfactory,
let her hold it fast, and let nothing take it from her. For let her rest
assured love is the one bright vision Heaven sends us in this wild,
desolate, busy, selfish earth to cheer us on to the goal.

My American Crœsus is not my only chance. A Russian general here, a man
of about forty years, with loads of decorations, who knows many
languages, is a musician, and writes, has made me an offer. He is a man
of family, has nine _châteaux_, and half a million of francs income. He
saw me at the altar of the Madonna, Genoa, two months ago. He tells me
he fell as much in love with me as if he were a boy of fifteen. He
followed me, changed his hotel to come here, came to dinner, and took
the room next to me. He serenades me on the violin at 6 a.m. and 11 p.m.
and at 7 a.m. He sent me a bouquet and a basket of fruit, and a letter
of about six pages long to tell me that the Tsar is a great man, that he
(the general) has bled for his country, and that if I will marry
him—“Que je serai dans ses bras” (what a temptation!) “et qu’il me fera
la déesse du pays.” I refused him of course.

On June 10, when we were in bed at one o’clock in the morning, all the
steamers set up a peal. I, who was lying awake, rushed to the window,
and then called up the others. We looked out, and saw that apparently
the back of our hotel and the whole Quartier des Bergues was in flames.
We gave the alarm in the house, ran down the corridors to arouse
everybody, and then to our rooms to put on what we could, collect a few
treasures and our animals. I took the bullfinch (Toby) and Richard’s
picture, the Pigotts took each a dog, and down we cut. By this time
thousands of people were running to the rescue, every bell in the town
was ringing, the whole fire brigade turned out, and they even
telegraphed to the borders of France to send down reinforcements. Dozens
of engines were at work, and we soon learnt that our hotel was _not_ on
fire, but that the fire was so extensive they could scarcely distinguish
what was on fire and what was not. In a street at the back of us nine
houses were burning, a _café_, and an _entrepôt_ of inflammables; and
the _pompiers_ said that if we had a north-east wind instead of a
south-west one, nothing could have saved our whole _quartier_ from
destruction. Every soul in Geneva was there, and the roofs of the houses
were crowded; and we went up on the roof of the hotel to see the
wonderful sight. The fire brigade was on the ground for thirty hours.
They could do nothing for the houses already on fire, but only prevent
its spreading by playing on the surrounding ones, which were red-hot, as
was the back of our hotel. Fresh firemen and engines arrived from
France. Among the animals destroyed were one horse and two cows, some
sheep, and some goats, in their sheds. A cage of birds fell and opened,
and the poor little things escaped, but in their fright flew about in
the flames. A baby, whom the mother forgot in its bed (most unnatural),
and two men were killed: one was crushed by the falling roof, and the
other burned. Two firemen lost their lives: one in trying to save a
woman (God bless him!), in which he succeeded, but fell in the flames
himself; another was mortally burnt; and also two persons were lost
whose bodies could never be found. It appeared that a Frenchman had a
quarrel in the _café_, and out of spite went out and contrived to set it
alight. The populace say (he is caught and in prison) that they will
lynch him, and burn him at the stake. The loss of property is great. The
flames arose above the whole town, and seemed to lick the whole
_quartier_. It was a dark night, and everybody was in _déshabillé_ from
their beds, and there was a horrible smell of burnt flesh.

We started on July 1, a large and merry party, from Geneva one beautiful
morning at the top of the diligence, and drove through an
English-looking country to Sallenches. Here we took some vehicles that
ought to have been built in the year 1 B.C., which shook my sister quite
ill; but we who could walk much preferred doing so, as well for ease as
for seeing the scenery, to which no pen of mine could ever do justice.
We arrived at Chamounix in the evening, bathed and dined, and took a
moonlight stroll through the town and valley. Chamounix is the second
thing that has never disappointed me. I look around, and as far as my
eye can stretch up and down the valley are ranges of grand mountains,
covered with firs, Alpine roses, and wild rhododendrons, and above these
splendid peaks, some covered with snow, almost overhanging us, and
standing out in bold relief against the bluest of skies. I note it
all—the peaceful hamlet in the vale at the foot of Mont Blanc, the
church spire distinct against that background of firs on the opposite
mountain-side, the Orne rushing through the town, the balconies and
little gardens, the valley dotted with _châlets_, the Glacier du Boisson
and Mer de Glace sparkling in the sun. How glorious it is!

We had to start next morning at daybreak before the sun should become
too hot. We dressed in little thick boots, red petticoats that we might
see each other at a distance, brown Holland jackets and big hats, a pike
and a mule and a guide each, besides other guides. At first the mule
appears to step like an ostrich, and you think of your mount at home,
and you tremble as you see the places he has to go up, or, worse, to go
down. In time you arrive at the top of the Flégère. From here you see
five glaciers, the best view of Mont Blanc and other peaks too numerous
to mention. We met some pleasant people, dined together at the _châlet_,
and drew caricatures in the travellers’ book. One or two of us went up
as far as the Grands Mulets without guides, slept there, and descended
early, where we picked up our party. In the descent we walked, and some
of the mules ran away. Not finding ourselves quite pumped by the
descent, we proposed ascending to the Chapeau the opposite side, to look
at the Mer de Glace, which we did; and as we were mounting we had the
pleasure of seeing an avalanche and some smaller falls. We were joined
by a party of seven jolly Scotch girls, and we descended with them. We
were very tired.

Our next excursion was to Montanvert, which ascent was most magnificent.
The lower part of the mountain is a garden of wild flowers, roses, and
firs, and between the mountains stood out wondrous peaks. Against the
sky was the Aiguille Verte, leaning as much over as the Campanile at
Pisa. It is wonderful to think of the commotion there must have been
when these immense masses of rock were scattered there by the
convulsions of Nature, and the trees were crushed. At Montanvert we fed,
and were joined by others from the Mer de Glace. Here those who had weak
heads went back, and those who feared not nor cared not went on. Every
lady had her guide and alpenstock, every man had his alpenstock, and all
of us were strapped round our waists to hold on to each other. A little
cannon was fired to tell us the echo and announce our start. The first
part was easy enough, and a man with a hatchet in advance cut us
footsteps. (Albert Smith has opened this passage within five years.)
Here and there is a stream of water, so pure one might fancy it to be
melted diamonds. Thousands of chasms in the ice, five hundred or more
feet deep, of a beautiful blue colour, and a torrent beneath, had to be
passed by a plank thrown across. What is a precipice to-day is closed up
to-morrow by the constant movement of the ice. Take the _tout ensemble_,
it gives you the idea of a rebellious sea that had dared to run
mountains high, in defiance of its Creator, who had struck it (while in
motion) into ice. Here and there came a furious waterfall or torrent; a
plank was then thrown across in a safe part. Once I slipped, and my legs
fell in, and my alpenstock; but I clung to the stump till hauled up.
Then came the Mauvais Pas. You descend the side of a precipice by holes
cut for your feet, and let yourself down by a rope. If one has got a
good head, it is worth while looking down. Hamlets look like a set of
tea-things, men (if seen at all) like ants beneath one; and how
glorious! one is suspended between heaven and earth, and one’s immortal
part soars higher than the prison carcase can! As one loves to feel
one’s own nothingness by the side of the man to whom one has given one’s
heart, so does this feeling (the best we own) increase in magnitude when
it relates to God. _He_ holds you there, _He_ guards against that false
step which would dash you to pieces, and gives you the power of brain to
look below, around, and upwards, to wonder and to thank. I think this
was the most intense excitement of its sort that I had felt in my girl
travelling life. At last we arrived at the Chapeau, and descended the
same mountain as yesterday.

The next day we proposed ascending the Glacier du Boisson, and
reascending Mont Blanc for a few hours; but some of our party were
anxious to get home, so we ordered some rackety vehicles for Argentières
next morning, and there the strong betook themselves to their legs and
alpenstocks, and the weak to mules. We strolled gaily along, making
wreaths of wild flowers for our hats, singing the _Ranz des Vaches_ and
all that, though still in Savoy, and we mounted the Col de Balme. This
is one of the darkest and sublimest views imaginable. On one side you
look down the valley of Chamounix and the Savoy Mountains; the Col seems
like a high barrier with one hut on it. On the other side you look over
the Bernese Alps, and you see a spectacle not of everyday occurrence.
Turn to Switzerland, all is sunshiny, bright, and gay; turn to Savoy, a
thunder-storm is rolling along the valley beneath, and you stand there
on the Col in winter, in snow, shivering, hail, wind, and sleet driving
in your face. You see on one side, half a mile below, autumn; on the
other spring, with buttercups, daisies and all sorts of wild flowers,
and forsooth the cuckoo; and at the bottom of both valleys is summer,
bright or stormy. At this place the ruffian who keeps the hut makes you
pay twenty-eight francs for a slice of ham, and you come out rather
amused at the people who are swearing on that account. Some delicate
ladies are in semi-hysterics at the storm, or the black, frowning spot
on which we find ourselves, and are rushing about, making tender
inquiries after each other’s sensitive feelings. After an hour’s rest we
start, the weak ones for Martigny, the strong by a steep path in the
mountains, which brings us after a couple of hours to spring. But stop
awhile in winter. A black range of mountains dark and desolate are
dressed in thunder-clouds. You feel awed, yet you would rather see it so
than in sunshine. A small bit of table-land is on the side; it makes you
think of an exile in Siberia or Dante’s Damned Soul in a Hell of Snow.
We were all silent. No doubt we all made our reflections; and mine ran
thus:

“If an angel from heaven came from Almighty God, and told you that
Richard was condemned to be chained on that plateau for a hundred years
in expiation of his sins before he could enter heaven, and gave you the
choice between sharing his exile with him or a throne in the world
beneath, which would you choose?”

My answer did not keep me long in suspense; it came in this form:

“A throne would be exile _without him_, and exile _with him_ a home!”

We reached spring, and passed the _châlets_ where Gruyère cheese is
made; and I stopped the herdsman, and took a lesson in the _Ranz des
Vaches_ amidst much laughter, and to the evident amusement of a cuckoo,
who chimed in. The descent of the Tête Noir is the most beautiful thing
we have seen; at any rate, it is the most graven on my memory. It is
down the side of magnificently wooded mountains, with bridges of a
primitive kind, overhanging precipices, and looks into the dark valley,
part of which never sees the sun. Here we sang snatches of _Linda de
Chamounix_; the scenery reminds one of it, and comes up to, or even
surpasses, all that I have read or thought. In one place we came to an
immense rock that had fallen, and was just on the balance over a
precipice, and there it has hung for hundreds and thousands of years.
The peasants are _fait soit peu sauvage_, and they dealt us out plainly
plenty of chaff, as they gave us water, in the fond belief that we did
not understand French. At length we reached the _châlet_ where
travellers feed. After dinner at nine o’clock the moon rose, and we went
through a splendid forest on a mountain-side, with a torrent dashing
below. I lit my cigarette, and went a little ahead of my party. There
are sacred moments and heavenly scenes I cannot share with the common
herd. There was only one voice which I could have borne to break the
silence, and that, like heaven, was so far off as to be like a fable
now. At length we arrived at a hut at the top of the Mont Forclaz, a hut
where we must have our passport _viséd_—why, I do not know, as we have
long since been in Switzerland. The gendarme grumbled something about
“eccentric English who scale the mountains in the night.” A hint to be
quick is all he gets, and we descend. Now we were so tired that we
mounted our mules on the assurance that it would rest us; but such a
descent I should never care to do again. The road was steep and
unfinished; the moon was under a cloud; there were precipices on each
side. The step of the mule sends one upon a narrow, hard saddle, bumping
one moment against the pommels, and the next on to the baggage here and
there. There is a roll over a loose stone; but the clever mule, snuffing
and pawing its way, nimbly puts its feet together, and slides down a
slab of rock. My companions got down and walked, tired as they were. I
really could not; and seeing the mule was so much cleverer than myself,
I knotted the bridle and threw it on his back, and _in the dark_ put my
leg over the other side, and rode down straddle like a man, half an hour
in advance of the rest. They said there were wolves on these mountains,
but I did not see or hear any. I had only my pike to defend myself with,
and should have been in an awful fright had I come across a wolf. At
midnight I reached the hotel at Martigny, and went to bed.

Our next move was to charter a carriage that would hold us all inside
and out. We had a splendid drive through the valley of the Rhone for
some days, and visited many places.

I was immensely impressed by Chillon at night. The lake lies at our feet
like a huge crystal with a broad track of moonlight on it. A moment ago
it was fine starlight, and now the moon rises behind the Dent du Midi,
lighting up those magnificent mountains too brightly for the stars.
Vevey is asleep, and no noise is heard save the splash of an oar, or a
bit of loose rock rolling with a crash down the mountain, or the buzz of
some insect going home late. A bat flutters near my face now and then;
there is a distant note from a nightingale. How refreshing is the soft
breeze and the sweet smell of the hay after the heat of the day! And now
crossing the moonlight track, westward bound, glides a lateen sail like
a colossal swan. These are the scenes that, save for the God Who made
them, let us know we are alone on earth. These are the moments when we
miss the hand we want to clasp in ours without speaking, and yet be
understood; but my familiar spirit with whom I could share these moments
is not here.

At last we received orders to be ready within an hour’s notice to leave
Geneva for Lausanne, and we were very glad to obey. We had been too long
at Geneva, and were heartily tired of it, especially after all the
beautiful things we had seen. It was, however, found that the cutter
would not hold us all; so the maid and I went with the baggage and
animals, and also Mr. Richard Sykes (who brought a letter from my
brother Jack, a charming, gentlemanly boy of twenty, who joined us for a
few weeks), by steamer to Lausanne, and put up at an _auberge_ at Ouchy
on the water’s edge, where we waited the sailing party. Ouchy consists
(1858) of a humble street and an old-fashioned inn at the water’s edge
beneath Lausanne. Here we took three little rooms, one for Mr. Sykes,
one for the maid, and one for me, which was half bedroom, half
drawing-room, with a good view. The others arrived in a few days, having
met the _bise_ and had to put back to port. Here I found some one with
whom I could begin German. I rowed and swam a great deal. There is a
beautiful country for driving and walking, and our _chaloupe_ is now at
anchor. In this last we were able to make excursions.

Among other places we ran over to Evian, twelve miles across on the
opposite coast. There were one hundred and twenty-five people in the
hotel, who were very kind, and made a great fuss with us; and we had
great fun, though they had great difficulty in making room for us. Mr.
Sykes had to go to an old tower in the garden, and my room was somewhere
under the tiles. We often gave them supper and cigarettes at 11.30,
after music and impromptu dancing in the evening. They were all vastly
kind to us, and when we went away they came down to see us off in our
cutter.

When we got half-way across the lake, I said to my brother-in-law, “Does
it not look rather like wind out there?” He gave a short, quick command
at once to take every bit of sail down; but we knew nothing of
lake-sailing, though we knew sea-sailing, and before we had got it half
down the wind came upon us like a wall, and threw us on our side. Our
bobstay snapped like sealing-wax, our mainsail rent like ribbon, our
foresail flew away, and she would not answer her helm, and we remained
in the trough of the waves, which rose awfully high. We then cut away
the jib. We had given up all hope, having beaten about for a long time,
and two of us had been in the water for three-quarters of an hour. At
length we spied five boats putting out to us, and we were truly
thankful. It appeared that the fishermen had refused to come before,
because they were convinced we had gone down long ago, and all the
village people were on their knees praying for us. We were safely towed
in by the five boats, much too disabled to help ourselves, and the
cutter was smashed to pieces. We rewarded the men liberally, got some
brandy, dried our clothes, and went back by the next steamer.

There was a grand _fête_ at Lausanne. The canteen of Swiss woodwork was
decorated with branches, and there were shooting-galleries, the usual
booths and whirligigs, a very respectable vagrant theatre, a
dancing-circus and band. The streets were all festooned with garlands,
and bits of sentiment such as, “Liberté et patrie,” “Un bras pour la
défendre, un cœur pour l’aimer,” etc.

It was cloudless weather that evening at Lausanne, the sky clear and
high, the country fresh, green, and sweet-smelling. The mountains
surrounded one-half the lake with twenty different shades at the setting
sun, from palest pink on the snow-peaks to the deepest purple on the
rocks. It was all quiet enough after leaving the merriment of the fair,
with only the noise of birds or bees, and the sweet smell of wild
flowers in the fresh air. Later the evening star came out in the pale
sky, and the glow-worms shone like brilliants in the grass. I thought of
Richard in that far-away swamp in Central Africa, and a voiceless prayer
rose to my lips. I wonder if he too is thinking of me at this time? And
as I thought an angelic whisper knocked at my heart and murmured, “Yes.”

After we had been at Lausanne some time, I got ill. I was fretting
because there was no news at all about Richard; I had been hoping to
hear from him for two months. I had enough of the climate too. I had a
habit of rowing myself out a little way, undressing in the boat, jumping
in for a swim, climbing back into the boat, and rowing ashore; and one
day I was too hot, and I just had the strength to give the last pull to
the oar ashore, when I fainted. There were no doctors, no medicines, and
I lay ill on my very hard bed with a dreadful pain in my side for three
weeks. But I was too strong to die; and one day somebody got me a bottle
of Kirschwasser, and drinking it in small quantities at a time seemed to
take away the pain; but I was very pale and ill, and every one said I
had rheumatic fever. We were all three more or less ill, and did not
like to part; but it was a necessity, so I was sent forward with twelve
pieces of baggage and sixteen napoleons to work my way from Ouchy to
Honfleur, where I was to wait for my brother-in-law and sister, Honfleur
being a quieter place than Havre. Poor Blanche looked so worn and sad!

I got in a railway-carriage by myself, and asked the guard to look after
me because I was alone; but just before the train started he put in a
man, and begged my pardon, saying it was inevitable, as there was not a
place in any other carriage. In about twenty minutes the man began to
make horrible faces at me, and I was so dreadfully frightened I felt I
must speak; so I said, “I am afraid you are ill”; and he said, “Yes; I
am very sorry, but I am going to have an epileptic fit.” He was almost
immediately black, and in horrible contortions. It was an express train.
There was no means of communicating with the guard (1858), and there was
no use in screaming; so, frightened though I was, I pulled the man down
on the ground, undid his cravat, and loosened all about his neck. I had
no medicine with me, except a quarter of a bottle of sweet spirits of
nitre, which I was taking for rheumatic fever. I poured it all down his
throat, and then I covered his face over with a black silk handkerchief
I had round my neck, that I might not see him, and squeezed myself up in
the farthest corner. In about twenty minutes he came to, and asked me
how long he had been like that. I told him, and he asked me if I was
dreadfully frightened, and I said, “Yes.” He said, “I am subject to
these fits, but they generally last much longer; this has been very
slight.” So I said, “I think it is my duty to tell you that I have put
about three ounces of spirits of nitre down your throat.” He said,
“Well, I think it must have done me good, because I feel very
comfortable.” I called the guard the first station we arrived at, told
him what had occurred, and begged him to move me into a carriage with
other people, which he did. I never knew anything so slow as the trains
were; and at the stations there seemed no one to help, nor to tell one
where anything was. I got two seats with my back to the engine, so that
I could lie down. The heat was intense. The carriage was crammed. There
was a ladylike little woman, with a brawny nurse and two of the
worst-behaved children I ever saw. They fought, and sang, and cried, and
teased my bullfinch, and kicked my shins, and trod on my toes; but the
mother was too nice to offend, and so I bore it. At Maçon at 8 p.m. we
stopped to sup; and then I felt I could bear no more of it, so I begged
the guard to change me to a quiet carriage, and he put me in with two
gentlemanly Spaniards. There was plenty of room, and we had a quiet
night enough, only one of them was so long that every now and then in
his sleep he put his feet into my lap or on the birdcage.

We arrived at 6 a.m., and drove for at least an hour to the Havre
station in the pouring rain. Here my troubles began. It was past seven,
the train was at 8.25; so I thought I had time to get a little breakfast
at the _café_. I did so, and returned. The porters were very rude to me,
and refused to weigh my baggage, saying I was too late. In vain I
entreated, and I had to return to my _café_ and sit in a miserable room
from 8 o’clock to 1 p.m. I drank a bottle of gingerbeer, and did my
accounts, but my head was too stupid to do them properly; so with the
idea that I had only forty-eight francs left, I had taken my ticket to
Havre, but not paid the baggage, and I had still to get to Honfleur. I
then got scared with fancying I had lost four napoleons, and sat looking
at my purse in despair. Then I discovered I had lost a bunch of keys,
that the turquoise had fallen out of my ring, that I had broken my back
comb, and left behind part of my dressing-case. Then it suddenly
occurred to me that I had no blessing because I had not said my morning
prayers; so I at once knelt down, and during my prayers a light flashed
on me that there were five napoleons to a hundred francs, and the money
was right to a farthing, so I rose with a thankful heart, heedless of
smaller evils. I took the one o’clock train, which went fast. It was
hot, windy, dusty, crowded; but no matter, I drove straight to the boat.
Alas! it was gone, and I had only a few francs. There was nothing for it
but to go to the hotel opposite the boats, and ask for a room, a hot
bath, some tea and bread-and-butter (I had been out thirty-six hours
without rest). I was on board the first boat, which steamed off at a
quarter to seven in the morning, and at eight was safely housed at the
Hôtel d’Angleterre, Honfleur, forty-eight hours after leaving Ouchy,
with three-ha’pence in my pocket. Unfortunately at Havre there was a law
by which the porters were not obliged to weigh your baggage unless you
came half an hour before the time, but that nobody ever did, and they
would not _dare_ nor _think_ of refusing a French person; but because I
was an English girl, and alone, they abused their power. I was only five
minutes after time; there was twenty-five minutes to spare, and they
were rude into the bargain. They are not paid by Government (1858), and
there is no tariff. They follow you like a flock of sheep, and say, “We
will carry your baggage if you pay us, and if not we will not.” My purse
prevented my being very free-handed; they would not take less than a
franc and a half, and slang you for that; and I spent eighteen francs on
them between Lausanne and Honfleur.

Honfleur is a horrid place. It is a fishing town, containing about ten
thousand people of an inferior class, as dull as the grave, no society,
and, still worse, not the necessaries of life—the only good things are
the fruit, the sea, and country. There are two hotels, which in England
we should call public-houses; not a room fit to sleep in, so I have had
a bed put in a kind of observatory at the top of the house. I can shut
out all, and live with nature and my books. There is a terrace, and at
high tide the sea rolls under it, and at a stretch I could fancy myself
on board a ship; but, thank God, I am getting better.

They come and ask you what you would like for dinner:

“Ce que vous avez à la maison; je ne suis pas difficile.” “Nous avons
_tout_, du melon, par exemple—des crevettes,” etc.

What they want to feed me on here are melons and water. An Englishman
came the other day, very hungry, and wanted to dine. “Voulez-vous une
omelette, monsieur?” “Damn your omelette!” he said; “I want to dine.” He
was obliged to go. The servants are one remove from animals, and the
family ditto, except madame, who is charming. The weather is beastly,
the sea is muddy, the sand all dirt; there is not a piano in the town.
The baths are half an hour from here, and the Basse gents are
excessively _sauvage_. But even in this fifth-rate society I found a
grain of wheat among the chaff—a Parisian Spanish woman, the wife of a
physician, here for her child’s health, very _spirituelle_, not pretty,
and devoted to Paris. We smoke and read, and she gives me the benefit of
her experience, which I really think I had better have been without; but
she is a jolly little creature, and I do not know how I should pass my
time without her.

Blanche and my brother-in-law joined me at Honfleur a fortnight after my
arrival; and having received a draft for fresh supplies, we determined
to start next day. We had a delightful trip of six hours up the Seine to
Rouen; we revisited the old cathedral, and walked up to that little gem
Notre Dame de bon Secours. I am very fond of Rouen; it is such a lovely
place. We went on to Dieppe, and had a calm passage to Southampton. Once
more I was in England. We went straight to London, and home.




                               CHAPTER IX
                           _THEY MEET AGAIN_
                              (1858–1860)

           Allah guard a true lover, who strives with love
           And hath borne the torments I still abide,
           And seeing me bound in the cage with mind
           Of ruth release me my love to find.

                           ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                               (_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).


While Isabel was touring through Italy and Switzerland, Burton was
fighting his way through the Central African jungle to find the fabled
lakes beyond the Usagara Mountains, which at that time the eye of the
white man had never seen.

It is necessary to give a brief sketch of this expedition, and of the
difference between Burton and Speke which arose from it, because these
things influenced to a considerable degree Isabel’s after-life. She was
always defending her husband’s position and fighting the case of Burton
_versus_ Speke.

As already stated, Burton left London in October, 1856. He went to
Bombay, applied for Captain Speke to accompany him as second in command
of his expedition into the unknown regions of Central Africa, and landed
at Zanzibar in December. The Royal Geographical Society had obtained for
him a grant of £1,000, and the Court of Directors of the East India
Company had given him two years’ leave.

On June 26, 1857, after an experimental trip, they set out in earnest on
their journey into the far interior. Burton was handicapped by a very
inadequate force, and he had to make his way through hostile savage
tribes; yet he determined to risk it, and in eighteen days achieved the
first stage of the journey. Despite sickness and every imaginable
difficulty, the little band arrived at K’hutu.

Thence they marched to Zungomero, a pestilential Slough of Despond. Here
they rested a fortnight, and then began the ascent of the Usagara
Mountains. They managed to climb to the frontier of the second region,
or Ghauts. They then pushed on, up and down the ranges of these
mountains, sometimes through the dismal jungle, sometimes through marshy
swamps, sometimes along roads strewn with corpses and victims of
loathsome diseases, tormented always by insects and reptiles, and
trembling with ague, with swimming heads, ears deafened by weakness, and
legs that would scarcely support them, threatened by savages without and
deserters within, until at last they reached the top of the third and
westernmost range of the Usagara Mountains. The second stage of the
journey was accomplished.

After a rest they went through the fiery heat of the Mdaburu jungle,
where they were much troubled by their mutinous porters. At last they
entered Kazeh. The Arabs helped them here (Burton always got on well
with Arabs), and they rested for a space. On January 10, 1858, they
reached M’hali, and here Burton was smitten by partial paralysis,
brought on by malaria; his eyes were also afflicted, and death seemed
imminent. But in a little time he was better, and again they pushed on
through the wilderness. At last, on February 13, 1858, just when they
were in despair, their longing eyes were gladdened by the first glimpse
of the Lake Tanganyika, the sea of Ujiji, laying like an enchanted lake
“in the lap of the mountains, basking in the gorgeous tropical
sunshine.”

For the first known time in the world’s history European eyes rested on
this loveliness. It is only fair therefore to remember that in the
discovery of Lake Tanganyika Burton was the pioneer. His was the brain
which planned and commanded the expedition, and it was he who first
achieved with inadequate means and insufficient escort what Livingstone,
Cameron, Speke, Grant, Baker, and Stanley achieved later. If he had
possessed their advantages of men and money, what might he not have
done!

At Ujiji they rested for some time; they had travelled nine hundred and
fifty miles, and had taken more than seven and a half months over the
journey on account of the delay arising from danger and illness. They
spent a month cruising about the lake, which, however, they were not
able to explore thoroughly.

On May 28, 1858, Burton and Speke started on the homeward route. In due
time they reached Kazeh again. Here, Burton being ill, and Speke not
being able to get on with the Arabs, who abounded at Kazeh, it was
decided that Burton should remain at Kazeh to prepare and send reports,
and that Speke should go in search of the unknown lake (now called
Nyanza) which the merchants had told them was some sixteen marches to
the north. So Speke set out. After some six or seven weeks he returned
to Kazeh. His flying trip had led him to the northern water, which he
found to be an immense lake (Nyanza), and he announced that he had
discovered the sources of the White Nile. On this point Burton was
sceptical, and from this arose a controversy upon which it is
unnecessary to enter. There were probably faults on both sides. The
difference between Burton and Speke was much to be regretted; I only
allude to it here because it influenced the whole of Burton’s subsequent
career, and by so doing affected also that of his wife.

At Kazeh Burton decided that they must return to the seacoast by the way
they came. So they beat their way back across the fiery field to the
usual accompaniments of quarrels, mutinies, and desertions among the
porters. At one place Speke was dangerously ill, but Burton nursed him
through. They recrossed the Usagara Mountains, and struggled through mud
and jungle, and at last caught sight of the sea. They made a triumphal
entrance to Konduchi, the seaport village. They embarked and landed in
Zanzibar on March 4, 1859. Here Burton wanted to get fresh leave of
absence and additional funds; but the evident desire of the British
Consul to get rid of him (because he was too friendly with the Sultan),
and the impatience of Speke to return to England, caused him to abandon
the idea. Just then H.M.S. _Furious_ arrived at Aden, and passage
homeward was offered to both of them. Burton was too ill to go; but
Speke went, and his last words, according to Burton, 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.”

Nevertheless, when Burton arrived in England on May 21, 1859 (having
been absent two years and eight months), he found the ground cut from
under his feet. Speke had arrived in London twelve days before, and the
day after his arrival had called at the headquarters of the Royal
Geographical Society, told his own tale, and obtained the leadership of
a new expedition. Burton, who had originated and carried out the
expedition, found himself shelved, neglected, and thrust aside by his
lieutenant, who claimed and received the whole credit for himself.
Moreover, Speke had spread all sorts of ugly—and I believe
untrue—reports about Burton. These coming on top of certain other
rumours—also, I believe, untrue—which had originated in India,[7] were
only too readily believed. When Burton got home, he found that the
Government and the Royal Geographical Society regarded him with
disapproval, and society looked askance at him. Instead of being
honoured, he was suspected and under a cloud. One may imagine how his
spirit chafed under this treatment. He was indeed a most unlucky man.
Yet in spite of the crowd of false friends and open enemies, in spite of
all the calumny and suspicion and injustice, there was one heart which
beat true to him. And then it was that Burton proved the strength of a
woman’s love.

Isabel had been back in England from her Continental tour just a year
when Burton came home. It had been a terribly anxious year for her; she
had written to him regularly, and kept him well posted in all that was
going on; but naturally her letters only reached him at intervals. News
of him had been meagre and infrequent, and there were long periods of
silence which made her sick at heart with anxiety and dread. The novelty
and excitement of her trip abroad had to some extent diverted her mind,
but when she came home all her doubts and fears returned with threefold
force. The monotony and inaction of her life chafed her active spirit;
the lack of sympathy and the want of some one in whom she could confide
her love and her sorrow weighed her down. It was a sore probation, and
in her trouble she turned, as it was her nature to turn, to the
consolations of her religion. In the Lent of 1859 she went into a
Retreat in the Convent at Norwich, and strove to banish worldly
thoughts. She did not strive in vain, as the following extracts from one
of her devotional books,[8] written when in retreat, will show.

“I bewail my ordinary existence—the life that most girls lead—going out
into society and belonging to the world.

“I must follow the ordinary little details of existence with patient
endurance of suffering and resistance of evil. With courage I must fly
at what I most dislike—grasp my nettle. There is good to be cultivated,
there is religion to be uppermost; occupation and family cares must be
my resources.

“And why must I do this? Other girls are not desirous of doing it.
Because at a critical moment God snatched me from the world, when my
heart bounded high for great things, and I was hard pressed by
temptation. I said to myself, ‘Why has He called such a being as myself
into existence?’—seemingly to no purpose. And He has brought me to this
quiet corner, and has showed me in a spiritual retreat (like in a holy
lantern) things as they really are; He has recalled to me the holiest
and purest of my childhood and my convent days, humbled me, and then,
shutting out that view, once more He will send me forth to act from His
fresh teaching. He seemed to say to me: ‘You have but little time; a
long life is but eighty years or so—part of this is lost in childhood,
part in old age, part in sleep. How few are the strong, mature years
wherein to lay in store for death—the only store you can carry with you
beyond the dreams of life, beyond the grave! You, from defects in your
upbringing, have allowed your heart to go before your head; hence sharp
twinges and bitter experience. These faults are forgiven you. Now enter
on your mature years with a good spirit, and remember that the same
excuses will not serve any more.’

“With these reflections I saw myself as an atom in this vast creation,
chosen from thousands who would have served Him better, and brought
safely through my nine months’ imprisonment to my baptism. On what did I
open my eyes? Not on the circle of a certain few, who are so covered
with riches, honour, luxuries, and pleasures as to have their Paradise
here. Not amongst the dregs of the unfortunate people who are the very
spawn of vice, who never hear a good word or see a good action, who do
not know that there is a God except in a curse. No! God gave me
everything; but He chose a middle way for me, and each blessing that
surrounded me was immense in itself, and many were combined. Pure blood
and good birth, health, youth, strength, beauty, talent, natural
goodness—God and Nature gave me all, and the Devil and I spoiled the
gift. Add to all this a happy home and good family, education, society,
religion, and the true Church of Christ. He took from me the riches and
the worldly success that might have damned me; and having purified me,
He sent me back only a sufficiency for needs and comforts. He gave me a
noble incentive to good in the immense power of affection I have within
me, which I may misuse, but not deprave or lose; this power is as fresh
as in my childhood, but saddened by experience. He preserves me from the
multitude of hourly evils which I cannot see; nay, more, He seems to
watch every trifle to meet my needs and wants. He scarcely lets the wind
visit me too roughly; He almost takes up the instruments He gave me, and
works Himself. He seems to say, ‘Toil for one short day, and in the
evening come to Me for your reward.’ He appointed to me, as to every
one, an angel to protect me; He has shown me the flowery paths that lead
down—down to the Devil and Hell—and the rugged path that leads upward to
Himself and Heaven. Shall I refuse to climb over my petty trials for
this short time, when He is so merciful, when He has died for me?”

Isabel came out of her Retreat on Easter Day, and after visiting some
friends for a few weeks returned to her parents’ home in London. Here
she was greeted with the news that Speke had come home alone. The air
was full of Speke, and the rumour reached her ears that Burton was
staying on in Zanzibar in the hope of being allowed to return to Africa.
A sense of despair seized her; and just as she was thinking whether she
would not return to the Convent and become a Sister of Charity, she
received six lines in a well-known hand by post from Zanzibar—no letter.
This communication was long past date, and evidently had been slow in
coming:

                             =To Isabel.=

                 _That brow which rose before my sight,
                 As on the palmer’s holy shrine;
                 Those eyes—my life was in their light;
                 Those lips—my sacramental wine;
                 That voice whose flow was wont to seem
                 The music of an exile’s dream._

She knew then it was all right.

Two days later she read in the paper that Burton would soon arrive. She
writes in her diary:

“_May 21._—I feel strange, frightened, sick, stupefied, dying to see
him, and yet inclined to run away, lest, after all I have suffered and
longed for, I should have to bear more.”

But she did not run away. And here we leave her to tell her own tale.


On May 22 I chanced to call upon a friend. I was told she had gone out,
but would be in to tea, and was asked if I would wait. I said, “Yes.” In
a few minutes another ring came to the door, and another visitor was
also asked to wait. A voice that thrilled me through and through came up
the stairs, saying, “I want Miss Arundell’s address.” The door opened, I
turned round, and judge of my feelings when I beheld Richard! For an
instant we both stood dazed. I felt so intensely, that I fancied he must
hear my heart beat, and see how every nerve was overtaxed. We rushed
into each other’s arms. I cannot attempt to describe the joy of that
moment. He had landed the day before, and come to London, and had called
here to know where I was living, where to find me. No one will wonder
when I say that we forgot all about my hostess and her tea. We went
downstairs, and Richard called a cab, and he put me in and told the man
to drive about—anywhere. He put his arm round my waist, and I put my
head on his shoulder. I felt quite stunned; I could not speak or move,
but felt like a person coming to after a fainting fit or a dream; it was
acute pain, and for the first half-hour I found no relief. I would have
given worlds for tears, but none came. But it was absolute content, such
as I fancy people must feel in the first few moments after the soul has
quitted the body. When we were a little recovered, we mutually drew each
other’s pictures from our respective pockets at the same moment, to show
how carefully we had always kept them.

After that we met constantly, and he called upon my parents. I now put
our marriage _seriously_ before them, but without success as regards my
mother.

I shall never forget Richard as he was then. He had had twenty-one
attacks of fever—had been partially paralyzed and partially blind. He
was a mere skeleton, with brown-yellow skin hanging in bags, his eyes
protruding, and his lips drawn away from his teeth. I used to give him
my arm about the Botanical Gardens for fresh air, and sometimes convey
him almost fainting in a cab to our house or friends’ houses, who
allowed and encouraged our meeting.

He told me that all the time he had been away the greatest consolation
he had received were my fortnightly journals, in letter-form, to him,
accompanied by all newspaper scraps, and public and private information,
and accounts of books, such as I knew would interest him; so that when
he did get a mail, which was only in a huge batch now and then, he was
as well posted up as if he were living in London.

Richard was looking so lank and thin. He was sadly altered; his youth,
health, spirits, and beauty were all gone for the time. He fully
justified his fevers, his paralysis and blindness, and any amount of
anxiety, peril, hardship, and privation in unhealthy latitudes. Never
did I feel the strength of my love as then. He returned poorer, and
dispirited by official rows and every species of annoyance; but he was
still—had he been ever so unsuccessful, and had every man’s hand against
him—my earthly god and king, and I could have knelt at his feet and
worshipped him. I used to feel so proud of him; I used to like to sit
and look at him, and think, “You are mine, and there is no man on earth
the least like you.”[9]


Isabel tells us that she regretted bitterly not having been able to stay
with and nurse the man she loved at this time. They were both most
anxious that their marriage should take place, so that they might be
together. But the great obstacle to their union was Mrs. Arundell’s
opposition. Isabel made a long and impassioned appeal to her mother; but
she would not relent, and turned a deaf ear to the lovers’ pleadings. In
justice to Mrs. Arundell, it must be admitted that she had apparently
good reasons for refusing her consent to their marriage. Burton’s niece
says that she “vehemently objected to any daughter of hers espousing a
Protestant.”[10] But this is one of those half-truths which conceal a
whole fallacy. Of course Mrs. Arundell, who came of an old Roman
Catholic family, and who was a woman of strong religious convictions,
would have preferred her daughter to marry a man of the same faith as
herself. But it was not a question between Catholicity and
Protestantism, but between Christianity and no religion at all. From all
that was publicly known of Burton at this time, from his writings and
his conversation, he was an Agnostic; and so far as the religious
objection to the marriage entered, many a Protestant Evangelical mother
would have demurred quite as much as Mrs. Arundell did. Religious
prejudices may be just or unjust, but they are forces which have to be
reckoned with. And the religious objection was not by any means the only
one. At this time there were unpleasant rumours flying about concerning
Burton, and some echo of them had reached Mrs. Arundell’s ears. The way
in which the Royal Geographical Society had passed him over in favour of
Speke had naturally lent colour to these reports; and although Burton
had a few friends, he had many enemies. He was under a cloud. The
Government ignored him; the War Office disliked him; his military career
had so far been a failure—there was no prospect of promotion; the Indian
army had brought him under the reduction; he had not the means to keep a
wife in decent comfort, nor were his relations in a position to help
him, either with money or influence; and lastly, he was of a wild,
roving disposition. All these considerations combined to make Mrs.
Arundell hesitate in entrusting her daughter’s happiness to his hands.
It must be remembered that Isabel was the eldest child. She was a very
handsome and fascinating girl; she had many wealthy suitors, and might
well have been expected to make “a good match.” From a worldly point of
view she was simply throwing herself away. From a higher point of view
she was following her destiny, and marrying the man she loved with every
fibre of her being. But Mrs. Arundell could hardly have been expected to
see things in this light, and in opposing Isabel’s marriage with Richard
Burton she only acted as ninety-nine mothers out of every hundred would
have done. No sooner were they married than she admitted that she had
made a mistake, and did all in her power to atone for it; but at this
time she was inexorable.[11]

Burton, who was very much in love, was not in the habit of brooking
opposition, least of all from a woman; and he suggested to Isabel that
they should take the law in their own hands, and make a runaway match of
it. After all, they had arrived at years of discretion, and might fairly
be expected to know their own minds. He was past forty, and Isabel was
nearly thirty. More than three years had gone by since he declared his
love to her in the Botanical Gardens; nearly ten years had passed since
she had fallen in love with him on the Ramparts of Boulogne. Surely they
had waited long enough. Isabel was swayed by his pleading; more than
once she was on the point of yielding, but she resisted the temptation.
Duty and obedience were always watchwords with her, and she could not
bear the thought of going against her mother. Her sense of duty warred
with her desire. So things see-sawed for nearly a year. And then:

“One day in April, 1860, I was walking out with two friends, and a
tightening of the heart came over me that I had known before. I went
home, and said to my sister, ‘I am not going to see Richard for some
time.’ She said, ‘Why, you will see him to-morrow!’ ‘No, I shall not,’ I
said; ‘I don’t know what is the matter.’ A tap came at the door, and a
note with the well-known writing was put into my hand. I knew my fate,
and with a deep-drawn breath I opened it. He had left—could not bear the
pain of saying good-bye; would be absent for nine months, on a journey
to see Salt Lake City. He would then come back, and see whether I had
made up my mind to choose between him or my mother, to marry me if I
_would_; and if I had not the courage to risk it, he would go back to
India, and thence to other explorations, and return no more. I was to
take nine months to think about it.”[12]

This was the last straw to Isabel, and for a time she broke down
utterly. For some weeks she was ill in bed and delirious, heart-sick and
hopeless, worn out with the mental conflict she was going through. Then
she girded up her strength for one last struggle, and when she arose
from her bed her purpose was clear and strong. The first thing she did
showed that her mind was made up. On the plea of change of air she went
into the country and stayed at a farmhouse. As she had determined to
marry a poor man and also to accompany him in all his travels, she set
herself to rough it and to learn everything which might fit her for the
roving life she was afterwards to lead, so that in the desert or the
backwoods, with servants or without them, she might be qualified for any
emergency. In addition to mastering all domestic duties at the
farmhouse, heavy and light, she tried her hand at outdoor work as well,
and learned how to look after the poultry-yard and cattle, to groom the
horses, and to milk the cows. Nor did her efforts end here. When she
came back to London, she asked a friend (Dr. Bird) to teach her to
fence. He asked her why she wanted to learn fencing. She answered, “Why?
To defend Richard, when he and I are attacked in the wilderness
together.” Later on Burton himself taught her to fence, and she became
an expert fencer. At this time also she was eager for books of all
kinds. She wanted a wider range of reading, so that she might, as she
phrased it, “be able to discuss things with Richard.” This period of
waiting was, in effect, a period of preparation for her marriage with
the man she loved, and she pursued her preparations steadily and quietly
without a shadow of wavering. Nevertheless she fretted a great deal
during this separation. A friend who knew her at this time has told me
she often looked wretched. She spent much time in fasting and prayer,
and there were days when she would eat nothing but vegetable and drink
water. She used to call these her “marrow and water days.”

One day she saw in the paper “Murder of Captain Burton.” Her anguish was
intense. Her mother went with her to the mail-office to make inquiries
and ascertain the truth. A Captain Burton had been murdered by his crew,
but it was not Isabel’s Captain Burton. She says, “My life seemed to
hang on a thread till he [the clerk] answered, and then my face beamed
so the man was quite startled.” Great joy, like great grief, is selfish.
She gave little thought of the poor man who was killed, the sense of
relief was so great. Burton—her Burton—was at that moment enjoying
himself with the Mormons in Salt Lake City, where he stayed for some
months. When his tour was completed, he turned his face towards home
again—and Isabel.




                             CHAPTER X[13]
                               _AT LAST_
                              (1860–1861)

     My beloved is mine, and I am his.

     Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm:
     For love is strong as death.

                                             _The Song of Solomon._


It was Christmas, 1860, that I went to stop with my relatives, Sir
Clifford and Lady Constable (his _first_ wife, _née_ Chichester), at
Burton Constable—the father and mother of the present baronet. There was
a large party in the house, and we were singing; some one propped up the
music with the _Times_, which had just arrived, and the first
announcement that caught my eye was that “Captain R. F. Burton had
arrived from America.”

I was unable, except by great resolution, to continue what I was doing.
I soon retired to my room, and _sat_ up all night, packing, and
conjecturing how I should get away—all my numerous plans tending to a
“bolt” next morning—should I get an affectionate letter from Richard. I
received two; one had been opened and read by somebody else, and one, as
it afterwards turned out, had been burked at home before forwarding. It
was not an easy matter. I was in a large country house in Yorkshire,
with about twenty-five friends and relatives, amongst whom was one
brother, and I had heaps of luggage. We were blocked up with snow, and
nine miles from the station, and (_contra miglior noler voler mal
pugna_) I had heard of his arrival only early in the evening, and twelve
hours later I managed to get a telegram, ordering me to London, under
the impression that it was of the most vital importance.

What a triumph it is to a woman’s heart, when she has patiently and
courageously worked and prayed and suffered, and the moment is realized
that was the goal of her ambition!

As soon as we met, and had had our talk, he said:

“I have waited for five years. The first three were inevitable, on
account of my journey to Africa, but the last two were not. Our lives
are being spoiled by the unjust prejudice of your mother, and it is for
you to consider whether you have not already done your duty in
sacrificing two of the best years of your life out of respect to her. If
_once_ you _really_ let me go, mind, I shall never come back, because I
shall know that you have not got the strength of character which _my_
wife must have. Now you must make up your mind to choose between your
mother and me. If you choose me, we marry, and I stay; if not, I go back
to India, and on other explorations, and I return no more. Is your
answer ready?”

I said, “Quite. I marry you this day three weeks, let who will say nay.”

When we fixed the date of our marriage, I wanted to be married on
Wednesday, the 23rd, because it was the Espousals of Our Lady and St.
Joseph; but he would not, because Wednesday the 23rd and Friday the 13th
were our unlucky days; so we were married on the Vigil, Tuesday, January
22.

We pictured to ourselves much domestic happiness, with youth, health,
courage, and talent to win honour, name, and position. We had the same
tastes, and perfect confidence in each other. No one turns away from
real happiness without some very strong temptation or delusion. I went
straight to my father and mother, and told them what had occurred. My
father said, “I consent with all my heart, if your mother consents”; and
mother said, “_Never!_” I asked all my brothers and sisters, and they
said they would receive him with delight. My mother offered me a
marriage with my father and brothers present, my mother and sisters not.
I felt that this was a slight upon _him_, a slight upon his family, and
a slur upon me, which I did not deserve, and I refused it. I went to
Cardinal Wiseman, and I told him the whole case as it stood, and he
asked me if my mind was absolutely made up, and I said, “_Absolutely._”
Then he said, “Leave the matter to me.” He requested Richard to call
upon him, and asked him if he would give him three promises in
writing—(1) that I should be allowed the free practice of my religion;
(2) that if we had any children they should be brought up Catholics; (3)
that we should be married in the Catholic Church: which three promises
Richard readily signed. He also amused the Cardinal, as the family
afterwards learnt, by saying sharply, “Practise her religion indeed! I
should rather think she _shall_. A man without a religion may be
excused, but a woman without a religion is not the woman for me.” The
Cardinal then sent for me, promised me his protection, said he would
himself procure a special dispensation from Rome, and that he would
perform the ceremony himself. He then saw my father, who told him how
much opposed my mother was to it; that she was threatened with
paralysis; that we had to consider her in every possible way, that she
might receive no shocks, no agitation; but that all the rest quite
consented to the marriage. A big family council was then held; and it
was agreed far better for Richard and me and for every one to make all
proper arrangements to be married and to be attended by friends, and for
me to go away on a visit to some friends, that they might not come to
the wedding, nor participate in it, in order not to agitate my mother;
that they would break it to her at a suitable time; and that the secret
of their knowing it should be kept up as long as mother lived. “Mind,”
said my father, “you must never bring a misunderstanding between mother
and me, nor between her and her children.”

I passed that three weeks preparing very solemnly and earnestly for my
marriage day, but yet something differently to what many expectant
brides do. I made a very solemn religious preparation, receiving the
Sacraments. Gowns, presents, and wedding pageants had no part in it, had
no place.

The following were my reflections[14]:

“The principal and leading features of my future life are going to be:

“Marriage with Richard.

“My parents’ blessing and pardon.

“A man-child.

“An appointment, money earned by literature and publishing.

“A little society.

“Doing a great deal of good.

“Much travelling.

“I have always divided marriage into three classes—Love, Ambition, and
Life. By Life I mean a particular style of life and second self that a
peculiar disposition and strong character require to make life happy,
and without which possibly neither Love alone nor Ambition alone would
satisfy it. And I love a man in whom I can unite all three, Love, Life,
and Ambition, of my own choice. Some understand Ambition as Title,
Wealth, Estates; I understand it as Fame, Name, Power. I have undertaken
a very peculiar man; I have asked a difficult mission of God, and that
is to give me that man’s body and soul. It is a grand mission; and after
ten years and a half of prayer God has given it to me. Now we must lead
a good, useful, active, noble life, and be each other’s salvation; and
if we have children, bring them up in the fear of God. The first thing
to be done is to obtain my parents’ pardon and blessing for going my own
way; the next, to pray for a child to comfort me when he is absent and
cannot take me; and, thirdly, to set to work with a good heart to work
for an appointment or other means of living. We must do any amount of
study and publishing, take society in moderation as a treat; we must do
good according to our means; and when successful we will travel. My
rules as a wife are as follows:


                   =Rules for my Guidance as a Wife.=

“1. Let your husband find in you a companion, friend, and adviser, and
_confidante_, that he may miss nothing at home; and let him find in the
wife what he and many other men fancy is only to be found in a mistress,
that he may seek nothing out of his home.

“2. Be a careful nurse when he is ailing, that he may never be in low
spirits about his health without a serious cause.

“3. Make his home snug. If it be ever so small and poor, there can
always be a certain _chic_ about it. Men are always ashamed of a
poverty-stricken home, and therefore prefer the club. Attend much to his
creature comforts; allow smoking or anything else; for if you do not,
_somebody else will_. Make it yourself cheerful and attractive, and draw
relations and intimates about him, and the style of society (_literati_)
that suits him, marking who are real friends to him and who are not.

“4. Improve and educate yourself in every way, that you may enter into
his pursuits and keep pace with the times, that he may not weary of you.

“5. Be prepared at any moment to follow him at an hour’s notice and
rough it like a man.

“6. Do not try to hide your affection for him, but let him see and feel
it in every action. Never refuse him anything he asks. Observe a certain
amount of reserve and delicacy before him. Keep up the honeymoon
romance, whether at home or in the desert. At the same time do not make
prudish bothers, which only disgust, and are not true modesty. Do not
make the mistake of neglecting your personal appearance, but try to look
well and dress well to please his eye.

“7. Perpetually work up his interests with the world, whether for
publishing or for appointments. Let him feel, when he has to go away,
that he leaves a second self in charge of his affairs at home; so that
if sometimes he is obliged to leave you behind, he may have nothing of
anxiety on his mind. Take an interest in everything that interests him.
To be companionable, a woman must learn what interests her husband; and
if it is only planting turnips, she must try to understand turnips.

“8. Never confide your domestic affairs to your female friends.

“9. Hide his faults from _every one_, and back him up through every
difficulty and trouble; but with his peculiar temperament advocate peace
whenever it is consistent with his honour before the world.

“10. Never permit any one to speak disrespectfully of him before you;
and if any one does, no matter how difficult, leave the room. Never
permit any one to tell you anything about him, especially of his conduct
with regard to other women. Never hurt his feelings by a rude remark or
jest. Never answer when he finds fault; and never reproach him when he
is in the wrong, _especially when he tells you of it_, nor take
advantage of it when you are angry; and always keep his heart up when he
has made a failure.

“11. Keep all disagreements for your own room, and never let others find
them out.

“12. Never ask him _not_ to do anything—for instance, with regard to
visiting other women, or any one you particularly dislike; trust him,
and tell him everything, except another person’s secret.

“13. Do not bother him with religious talk, be religious yourself and
give good example, take life seriously and earnestly, pray for and
procure prayers for him, and do all you can for him without his knowing
it, and let all your life be something that will win mercy from God for
him. You might _try_ to say a little prayer _with_ him every night
before laying down to sleep, and gently draw him to be good to the poor
and more gentle and forbearing to others.

“14. Cultivate your own good health, spirits, and nerves, to counteract
his naturally melancholy turn, and to enable you to carry out your
mission.

“15. Never open his letters, nor appear inquisitive about anything he
does not volunteer to tell you.

“16. Never interfere between him and his family; encourage their being
with him, and forward everything he wishes to do for them, and treat
them in every respect (as far as they will let you) as if they were your
own.

“17. Keep everything going, and let nothing ever be at a standstill:
nothing would weary him like stagnation.”[15]


Richard arranged with my own lawyer and my own priest that everything
should be conducted in a strictly legal and strictly religious way, and
the whole programme of the affair was prepared. A very solemn day to me
was the eve of my marriage. The following day I was supposed to be going
to pass a few weeks with a friend in the country.

At nine o’clock on Tuesday, January 22, 1861, my cab was at the door,
with my box on it. I had to go and wish my father and mother good-bye
before leaving. I went downstairs with a beating heart, after I had
knelt in my own room, and said a fervent prayer that they might bless
me, and if they did I would take it as a sign. I was so nervous, I could
scarcely stand. When I went in mother kissed me, and said, “Good-bye,
child; God bless you!” I went to my father’s bedside, and knelt down and
said good-bye. “God bless you, my darling!” he said, and put his hand
out of the bed and laid it on my head. I was too much overcome to speak,
and one or two tears ran down my cheeks, and I remember as I passed down
I kissed the door outside.

I then ran downstairs, and quickly got into my cab, and drove to the
house of some friends (Dr. and Miss Bird), where I changed my
clothes—not wedding clothes (clothes which most brides of to-day would
probably laugh at)—a fawn-coloured dress, a black-lace cloak, and a
white bonnet—and they and I drove off to the Bavarian Catholic Church,
Warwick Street. When assembled, we were altogether a party of eight. The
Registrar was there for legality, as is customary. Richard was waiting
on the doorstep for me, and as we went in he took holy water, and made a
very large sign of the cross. The church doors were wide open, and full
of people, and many were there who knew us. As the 10.30 Mass was about
to begin we were called into the Sacristy, and we then found that the
Cardinal in the night had been seized with an acute attack of the
illness which carried him off four years later, and had deputed Dr.
Hearne, his Vicar-General, to be his proxy.

After the ceremony was over and the names signed, we went back to the
house of our friend Dr. Bird and his sister Alice, who have always been
our best friends, where we had our wedding breakfast. During the time we
were breakfasting Dr. Bird began to chaff Richard about the things that
were sometimes said of him, and which were not true. “Now, Burton, tell
me, how do you feel when you have killed a man?” Dr. Bird (being a
physician) had given himself away without knowing it. Richard looked up
quizzically, and drawled out, “Oh, quite jolly! How do you?”[16]

[Illustration: LADY BURTON AT THE TIME OF HER MARRIAGE.]

We then went to Richard’s bachelor lodgings, where he had a bedroom,
dressing-room, and sitting-room; and we had very few pounds to bless
ourselves with, but were as happy as it is given to any mortals out of
heaven to be. The fact is, that the only clandestine thing about it—and
that was quite contrary to _my_ desire—was that my poor mother, with her
health and her religious scruples, was kept in the dark; but I must
thank God, though paralysis came on two years later, it was not I that
caused it.

To say that I was happy would be to say nothing. A peace came over me
that I had never known. I felt that it was for eternity, an immortal
repose, and I was in a bewilderment of wonder at the goodness of God,
Who had almost worked miracles for me.




                                BOOK II
                                 WEDDED
                              (1861–1890)

          “_Ellati Zaujuhá ma’ahá b’tadir el Kamar b’asbiha._”

  (“The woman who has her husband with her can turn the moon with her
  finger.”)




                               CHAPTER I
                             _FERNANDO PO_
                              (1861–1863)

          I praise thee while my days go on;
          I love thee while my days go on;
          Through dark and death, through fire and frost,
          With emptied arms and treasure lost,
          I thank thee while my days go on.

                                  ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.


In fiction (though perhaps not now as much as formerly) marriage is
often treated as the end of all things in a woman’s life, and the last
chapter winds up with the “happy ever after,” like the concluding scene
of a melodrama. But in this romance of Isabel Burton, this drama of real
life, marriage was but the beginning of the second and more important
half of her life. It was the blossoming of love’s flower, the expanding
of her womanhood, the fulfilment of her destiny. For such a marriage as
hers was a sacrament consecrated by love; it was a knitting together, a
oneness, a union of body, soul, and spirit, of thought, feeling, and
inclination, such as is not often given to mortals to enjoy. But then
Burton was no ordinary man, nor was his wife an ordinary woman. She
often said he was “the only man in the world who could manage me,” and
to this it may be added that she was the only woman in the world who
would have suited him. No other woman could have held him as she did.
The very qualities which made her different to the ordinary run of women
were those which made her the ideal wife for a man like Richard Burton.
The eagle does not mate with the domestic hen, and in Isabel’s
unconventional and adventurous temperament Burton saw the reflex of his
own. Though holding different views on some things, they had the same
basic principles; and though their early environment and education had
been widely different, yet Nature, the greatest force of all, had
brought them together and blended them into one. It was a union of
affinities. Isabel merged her life in her husband’s. She sacrificed
everything to him save two things—her rare individuality, and her
fervent faith in her religion. The first she could not an she would; the
second she would not an she could; and to his honour be it said he never
demanded it of her. But in all else she was his absolutely; her
passionate ideals, the treasure of her love, her life’s happiness—all
were his to cherish or to mar as he might please. She had a high ideal
of the married state. “I think,” she writes, “a true woman who is
married to her proper mate recognizes the fully performed mission,
whether prosperous or not, and no one can ever take his place for her as
an interpreter of that which is between her and her Creator, to her the
shadow of God’s protection here on earth.” And her conception of a
wife’s duty was an equally unselfish one, for she wrote of the beginning
of her married life: “I began to feel, what I have always felt since,
that he was a glorious, stately ship in full sail, commanding all
attention and admiration, and sometimes, if the wind drops, she still
sails gallantly, and no one sees the humble little steam-tug hidden on
the other side, with her strong heart and faithful arms working forth,
and glorying in her proud and stately ship.”

Very soon after her marriage Isabel was reconciled to her mother. It
came about in this wise. Mrs. Arundell thought she had gone away on a
visit to some friends in the country, and told her friends so; but a
week or two after the marriage one of Isabel’s aunts, Monica Lady
Gerard, heard of her going into a lodging in St. James’s, and
immediately rushed off to tell Mrs. Arundell that Isabel could not be
staying in the country, as was supposed, and she feared she had eloped
or something of the kind. Mrs. Arundell, in an agony of fear,
telegraphed to her husband, who was then staying with some friends, and
he wired back to her, “She is married to Dick Burton, and thank God for
it.” He also wrote, enclosing a letter Burton had written to him on the
day of the marriage, announcing the fact, and he asked his wife to send
one of Isabel’s brothers (who knew the Burtons’ address) to them and be
reconciled. Mrs. Arundell was so much relieved that a worse thing had
not befallen Isabel that she sent for the truant pair at once. She was
not a woman to do things by halves; and recognizing that the inevitable
had happened, and that for weal or woe the deed was done, she received
both Isabel and her husband with the utmost kindness, and expressed her
regret that she should have opposed the marriage. The statement that she
never forgave Burton is incorrect. On the contrary, she forgave him at
once, and grew to like him greatly, always treating him as a son. She
gave a family party to introduce Burton to his wife’s relations, and
there was a general reconciliation all round.

For seven months after their marriage Isabel and her husband continued
to live, off and on, at their little lodgings in St. James’s, as happy
as two birds in a nest. But the problem of ways and means had early to
be considered. Now that Burton had taken unto himself a wife, it became
imperatively necessary that he should to some extent forego his
wandering habits and settle down to earn something to maintain her in
the position in which she had been accustomed to live. He had a small
patrimony and his pay; in all about £350 a year. With the help Isabel’s
friends would have given, this might have sufficed to begin matrimony in
India. In the ordinary course of events, Burton, like any other officer
in the service, would have returned to India, rejoined his regiment, and
taken his wife out with him. The money difficulty alone would not have
stood in the way. But there were other difficulties, as Burton knew
well; the strong prejudice against him (an unjust one, I believe, but
none the less real) made it hopeless for him to expect promotion in the
Indian army. So he did what was undoubtedly the best thing under the
circumstances. He determined not to return to India, and he applied for
a post in the Consular Service, with the result that in March, some
three months after his marriage, he was offered the post of Consul at
Fernando Po, on the west coast of Africa—a deadly climate, and £700 a
year. He cheerfully accepted it, as he was only too glad to get his foot
on the lowest rung of the official ladder. He was told to hold himself
in readiness to leave in August; and as the climate of Fernando Po was
almost certain death to a white woman, he would not allow his young wife
to accompany him. So the bliss of the first months of their wedded life
was overshadowed by the thought of approaching separation.

In accepting the offer of Fernando Po, Burton wrote to the Foreign
Office[17]: “My connexion with H.M.’s Indian army has now lasted upwards
of nineteen years, and I am unwilling to retire without pension or
selling out of my corps. If therefore my name could be retained upon the
list of my regiment—as, for instance, is the case with H.M.’s Consul at
Zanzibar—I should feel deeply indebted.” A reasonable request truly.
Lord John Russell, who was then Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs,
and who had given Burton the Consulship, caused his application to be
forwarded to the proper quarter—the Bombay Government. But the
authorities in India refused to entertain Burton’s application; they
struck his name off the Indian Army List; and in this way the whole of
his nineteen years’ service in India was swept away without pay or
pension. If the brutal truth must be told, they were only too glad to
seize on this excuse to get rid of him. But that does not palliate their
conduct; it was well said, “His enemies may be congratulated on their
mingled malice and meanness.”

With regard to Fernando Po, I cannot take the view that Burton was
ill-treated in not getting a better post; on the contrary, taking all
the circumstances into consideration, he was fortunate in obtaining this
one. For what were the facts? He had undoubtedly distinguished himself
as an explorer, as a linguist, and as a writer; but his Indian career
had been a failure. He had managed to give offence in high quarters, and
he was viewed with disfavour. On quitting one service under a cloud, he
could not at once expect to receive a pick appointment in another. As a
Consul he was yet an untried man. There is little doubt that even
Fernando Po was given him through the influence of his wife. It was the
same throughout his after-career; his wife’s unceasing efforts on his
behalf helped him up every step of the official ladder, and shielded him
more than once from the full force of the official displeasure. There is
nothing like a brilliant and beautiful wife to help a man on; and so
Burton found it. He had done many clever and marvellous things during
his life, but the best day’s work he ever did for himself was when he
married Isabel Arundell. His marriage was in fact his salvation. It
steadied him down and gave him some one to work for and some one to
love, and it did more than anything else to give the lie to the rumours
against him which were floating about. No longer an Ishmael, he entered
an ancient and honoured family. Many who would not have moved a finger
to help Burton were willing to do anything in their power for his wife;
and as she cared for only one thing, her husband’s interests, he secured
their influence in his favour.

When the London season came round, the Burtons, despite their limited
means, went a good deal into society. The story of their romantic
marriage got abroad, and many friends were ready to take them by the
hand. The late Lord Houghton was especially kind. He asked Lord
Palmerston, who was then Prime Minister, to give a party in their
honour; and Isabel was the bride of the evening, and went down to dinner
on the Prime Minister’s arm. Shortly after this she was presented at
Court, “on her marriage,” by Lady John Russell.

There had been some little doubt in Isabel’s mind concerning her
presentation, as the Queen made it a rule then (and may do so now, for
all I know) that she would not receive at Court any bride who had made a
runaway marriage. Isabel’s was hardly a runaway marriage, as she married
with her father’s knowledge and consent. Still it was not quite a usual
one, and she was very glad when her presentation at Court removed any
doubt in this respect, especially as she looked forward to living abroad
in the future, and difficulties might arise as to her attending a
foreign court if she were not received at her own. She wanted to help
her husband in every way.

Concerning her presentation Mrs. Fitzgerald has told me the following
anecdote. Isabel’s one thought was how to please her husband, and she
was always yearning to win his approval. A word of praise from him was
the sweetest thing in life. Burton, however, though proud and fond of
her, was of anything but an effusive nature, and his praises of any one
were few and far between. When she was dressed for her first
Drawing-Room—and very handsome she looked, a beautiful woman beautifully
dressed—she went to show herself to her husband. He looked at her
critically; and though he was evidently delighted with her appearance,
said nothing, which was a great disappointment to her. But as she was
leaving the room she overheard him say to her mother, “La jeune femme
n’a rien à craindre”; and she went down to the carriage radiant and
happy.

The Burtons were such an unconventional couple that there was a good
deal of curiosity among their acquaintances as to how they would get on,
and all sorts of conjectures were made. Many of Burton’s bachelor
friends told one another frankly, “It won’t last. She will never be able
to hold him.” Shortly after her marriage one of her girl friends took
her aside and asked her in confidence, “Well, Isabel, how _does_ it
work? Can you manage him? Does he ever come home at night?” “Oh,” said
Isabel, “it works very well indeed, and he always comes home with the
milk in the morning.” Of course this was only in joke, for Burton was a
man of most temperate life, and after his marriage, at any rate, he
literally forsook all others and cleaved only to his wife.

About this time a calamity befell them in Grindlay’s fire, in which they
lost everything they had in the world, except the few personal
belongings in their lodgings. All Burton’s manuscripts were destroyed.
He took it philosophically enough, and said, “Well, it is a great bore;
but I dare say that the world will be none the worse for some of the
manuscripts having been burnt.” His wife notes this as “a prophetic
speech”; and so it was, when we remember the fate of _The Scented
Garden_ thirty years after.

The London season came to an end sooner in those days than it does now,
and the end of June found the Burtons embarked on a round of visits in
country houses. One of the houses they visited at the time was Fryston,
Lord Houghton’s, and here they met many of the most celebrated people of
the day; for wit and beauty, rank and talent, met on common ground
around the table of him “whom men call Lord Houghton, but the gods
Monckton Milnes.” Isabel always looked back on these first seven months
of her marriage as the happiest of her life. They were one long
honeymoon, “a great oasis”; and she adds, “Even if I had had no other,
it would have been worth living for.” But alas! the evil day of parting
came all too soon. In August Burton had to sail for Fernando Po—“the
Foreign Office grave,” as it was called—and had perforce to leave his
young wife behind him. She went down to Liverpool with him to see him
off, and the agony of that first parting is best expressed in her own
words:

“I was to go out, not now, but later, and then perhaps not to land, and
to return and ply up and down between Madeira and Teneriffe and London;
and I, knowing he had Africa at his back, was in a constant agitation
for fear of his doing more of these explorations into unknown lands.
There were about eighteen men (West African merchants), and everybody
took him away from me, and he had made me promise that if I was allowed
to go on board and see him off I would not cry and unman him. It was
blowing hard and raining. There was one man who was inconsiderate enough
to accompany and stick to us the whole time, so that we could not
exchange a word. (How I hated him!) I went down below, and unpacked his
things, and settled his cabin, and saw to the arrangement of his
luggage. My whole life and soul were in that good-bye, and I found
myself on board the tug, which flew faster and faster from the steamer.
I saw a white handkerchief go up to his face. I then drove to a spot
where I could see the steamer till she became a dot.”[18]

Burton was absent eighteen months, working hard at his duties as Consul
on the west coast of Africa. During that time Isabel lived with her
parents at 14, Montagu Place, W. It was a hard thing to be exiled from
her husband; but she did not waste her time in idle repining. Burton
left her plenty of work to do, and she did it thoroughly. In the first
place, she fought hard, though unsuccessfully, against the decision of
the Bombay Government to remove Burton’s name from the Indian Army List.
In the next place, she arranged for the publication of his book on the
Mormons. Surely not a very congenial task for a young wife of seven
months with an absent husband, for the book was largely a defence of
polygamy! But whatever Burton told her to do she did. She also executed
his divers commissions which came by every mail. One of them was to go
to Paris in January, 1862, on a special mission, to present to the
Emperor and Empress of the French some relics of the great Napoleon—a
lock of his hair, a sketch of a plaster cast taken after his death—which
had come into the possession of the Burton family, also a complete set
of Burton’s works, and to ask for an audience of them. She left her
letter and presents at the Tuileries, and her audience was not granted.
She blamed herself bitterly at the time, and put the failure of her
mission of courtesy down to “want of experience and proper friends and
protection.” But the truth of the matter is, that she ought never to
have been sent on such an unnecessary errand, for it was not one in
which she or any one could have been expected to succeed. Nevertheless
Burton’s relatives made themselves very unpleasant about it, and worried
Isabel most cruelly concerning the loss of their trifling relics. And it
may be remarked here that Burton’s near relatives, both his sister and
his niece, always disliked Isabel, and never lost an opportunity of
girding against her. One of them has even carried this rancorous
hostility beyond the grave. These ladies were jealous of Isabel—jealous
of her superior social position, of her beauty, her fascinations, and
above all jealous of her influence over her husband. Why this should
have been so it is impossible to say, for Burton did not get on very
well with his relatives, and made a point of seeing as little of them as
possible. Perhaps they thought it was Isabel who kept him away; but it
was not. Fortunately it is not necessary to enter into the details of a
sordid family squabble. To do so would be to weary, and not to edify.

Following the annoyance to which she was subjected by her husband’s
relatives came another of a different nature. There were many who heard,
and some who repeated, rumours against Burton which had been circulated
by Speke and others. One candid friend made it his business to retail
some of these to Isabel (one to the effect that her husband was “keeping
a seraglio” out at Fernando Po), and gave her a good deal of gratuitous
and sympathetic advice as to how she ought to act. But Isabel refused to
listen to anything against her husband, and spurned the sympathy and
advice, declaring that “any one who could listen to such lying tales was
no friend of hers,” and she closed the acquaintance forthwith.

Despite her brave words there is no doubt that she fretted a good deal
through the months that followed. Her depression was further aggravated
by a sharp attack of diphtheria. One day in October, when she could bear
the loneliness and separation from her husband no longer, she went down
to the Foreign Office, and cried her heart out to Sir Henry (then Mr.)
Layard. Her distress touched the official’s heart, for he asked her to
wait while he went upstairs. Presently Mr. Layard came back, saying he
had got four months’ leave for Burton, and had ordered the dispatch to
be sent off that very afternoon. She says, “I could have thrown my arms
around his neck and kissed him, but I did not; he might have been
surprised. I had to go and sit out in the Green Park till the excitement
wore off; it was more to me than if he had given me a large fortune.”

In December Burton returned home after an absence of eighteen months,
and his wife went to Liverpool to meet him. We may imagine her joy.
Christmas was spent at Wardour Castle (Lord Arundell’s), a large family
gathering; then they went to Garswood to stay with Lord Gerard; he was
Isabel’s uncle, and always her staunch friend.

Burton’s leave sped all too soon; and when the time came for his
departure, his wife told him that she could not possibly go on living as
she had been living. “One’s husband in a place where I am not allowed to
go, and I living with my mother like a girl. I am neither maid, nor
wife, nor widow.” So he arranged to take her with him as far as
Teneriffe at any rate. As they were to leave from Liverpool, they stayed
at Garswood, which was hard by, until the day came for them to sail.




                             CHAPTER II[19]
                               _MADEIRA_
                                 (1863)

             The smallest bark on life’s tumultuous ocean
               Will leave a track behind for evermore;
             The slightest wave of influence set in motion
               Extends and widens to the eternal shore.


I started from Liverpool on a bleak morning in January with many a
“God-speed,” and in possession of many aids to enjoyment, youth, health,
strength, and the society of a dearly loved husband, whose companionship
is a boon not often bestowed upon mortals in this nether world.

After the inevitable wettings from spray, and the rope which gets wrong,
and the hat which blows over, and the usual amount of hilarity—as if it
were a new thing—at the dishevelled head of one’s fellow-creature, we
set foot on board the African steamship _Spartan_ at 1 p.m. We had still
two hours in the Mersey, so we formed a little knot on deck, and those
who knew Richard gathered around us. There was much joking as to the
dirty weather we should meet outside (how dirty we of the land little
guessed), and as to Admiral Fitzroy’s “biggest storm that was ever
known,” as duly announced in the _Times_, for the 30th, which we were to
meet in “the Bay of Biscay, O!” There were pleasant speculations as to
how I should enjoy my dinner, whether ham and eggs would become my
favourite nourishment, and so forth. At 2.30 p.m. we nearly ran into a
large brig; the steamer was in the pilot’s charge, but our captain
coming on deck saved us with a close shave. We should certainly have got
the worst of it in two seconds more. _Of course_ it was the brig’s
fault; she didn’t answer her helm; and, to use the captain’s phrase, the
pilot and mate were a little “agitated” when his calm “Put the helm
down” made us only slightly graze each other and glide off again. We put
on full speed and out to sea, as six bells (three o’clock) told on my
landlubber ears. Before four o’clock (dining hour) I had faintly asked
the stewardess to help me to shake myself down in my berth, and unpack
the few articles I might want during the voyage. _I did not dine._

_Sunday, 25th, 1 a.m._—It blew a whole gale, with tremendous sea; ship
labouring heavily, and shipping very heavy seas on deck; pumps at work.
We were making little or no way down Channel, when we suddenly shipped a
heavy sea, washing overboard a quartermaster, and sending our captain
into the lee scuppers with a sprained wrist. We stopped, and reversed
engines, but could not see the poor fellow; and to lower a boat in such
a sea was impossible. He was a married man, and had left his wife at
Liverpool.

I shall never forget the horrors of that night. Every berth was full; so
much so that our captain, with a chivalry and forgetfulness of self
which deserves recording in letters of gold, gave up his own cabin to
Richard and myself, that we might not be separated an hour sooner than
necessity compelled us to be, and encountered the fatigue of his long
duties on deck, and the discomforts and anxieties of ten days’ bad
weather, with no shelter but a chance berth or the saloon sofa. During
that night one tremendous sea stove in the doors of the main cabin,
filling the saloon and berths with water. The lights were extinguished;
things came unshipped; all the little comforts and treasures were
floating at the top, leaving few dry garments out of the “hold,” which
would not be opened till our arrival at Madeira. There arose on that
confused night a Babel of sounds; strong language from the
men-sufferers, conjuring the steward to bring lights, and the weaker sex
calling for their protectors, and endeavouring to find them in the dark.
One young and pretty little woman, almost a child, recently married, in
her fright rushed into the saloon in her nightdress, calling for her
husband. A brutal voice answered her in the chaos that she need never
hope to see him again, for he had “fallen overboard” and was “clinging
on outside.” The poor little creature (she was only sixteen) believed
the voice, and, with the energy of despair, forced the door of her
husband’s cabin, and there she remained with him, and ere long had an
epileptic fit, and also another during the first ten days, doubtless
accelerated by this act of brutality. I regret to say it was committed
by a naval officer who was tipsy. Another sonorous voice bid us “die
like Christians”; but I don’t think that was any sentiment of the
speaker’s. Ever and anon the dismal scene was interlarded with “short
and crisp” sentences, _not_ comforting, such as, “We can’t live long in
such a sea as this”; “We’re going to the bad”; “Won’t the captain put
into Holyhead?” “There go the pumps—we’ve seven feet of water in the
hold” (when we stopped and reversed, to try and rescue the
quartermaster); “The water has got into our engines, and we can’t go
on”; “There’s the carpenter hammering—the captain’s cabin is stove in,”
etc., etc. A rich lady gave the stewardess £5 to hold her hand all
night, so the rest of us poorer ones had to do without that matron’s
ministrations.

I crawled to my cabin, and, as I lay there trembling and sea-sick,
something tumbled against the door, rolled in, and sank on the floor. It
was the tipsy naval officer. I could not rise, I could not shut the
door, I could not tug him out; so I lay there. When Richard, who was
lending a hand at the pumps, had finished his work, he crawled along the
decks till he got to the cabin, where the sea had swamped through the
open door pretty considerably. “Hullo! What’s that?” he said. I managed
faintly to ejaculate, “The tipsy naval officer.” He picked him up by the
scruff of the neck, and, regardless of consequences, he propelled him
with a good kick behind all down the deck, and shut the door. He said,
“The captain says we can’t live more than two hours in such a sea as
this.” At first I had been frightened that I should die, but now I was
only frightened that I shouldn’t, and I uttered feebly, “Oh, thank God
it will be over so soon!” I shall never forget how angry he was with me
because I was not frightened, and gave me quite a sermon.

On Thursday, the 29th, we skirted the Bay of Biscay, and the ship rolled
heavily. I was very much impressed by the grandeur of the gigantic
billows of the Atlantic while skirting the Bay, not short, chopping
waves, such as I had seen in the Channel and Mediterranean, but more
like the undulations of a prairie, a high rising ground surrounding you
at a distance, and, while you are in its depression, shutting out all
from your view, until the next long roller makes you reverse the
position, and feel “monarch of all you survey,” or, rather, liken
yourself to a midge in a walnut shell—so deeply are you impressed by the
size and force of the waves, the smallness of yourself and ship, and the
magnitude of the Almighty power. About four o’clock the sea grew more
and more inky, and it was evidently brewing up for Admiral Fitzroy’s
storm, which soon came and lasted us till Saturday; and those who had
ventured to raise their heads from their sea-sick pillows had to lay
them down again.

_Saturday, 31st._—We had been a week at sea, and for the first time it
began to get fine and enjoyable. We were due this day at Madeira; but on
account of the gales delaying us, it was not possible that we should
land before Monday. The next day, Sunday, was truly pleasant. Our
passengers were a curious mixture. Out of the seven ladies on board, two
were wives of Protestant missionaries, excellent men, who had done good
service of their kind at Sierra Leone and Abeokuta, and were returning
with young and pretty wives. The thirty-two men passengers were of all
kinds—military, naval, official, clergymen, invalids, five black people,
and “Coast Lambs,” as the palm-oil merchants are ironically termed. We
formed a little knot of a picked half-dozen at the top of the table, and
“feeding time” was the principal event of the day.

A laughable incident occurred one day on board at dinner. There was a
very simple-minded Quaker, with a large hat, who had evidently been
browsing on the heather in the north all his life, and on this occasion
a fine plum-pudding, swimming in lighted brandy, was put upon the table
at second course. The poor Quaker had never seen this dish before, and
in a great state of excitement he exclaimed, “Oh, my God! the pudding’s
on fire!” and clapped his large hat over the pudding, and put it out,
amidst roars of laughter, which had to be explained to him when his
fright was over. After dinner we formed whist parties. In fine weather
cushions and railway-rugs covered the deck, and knots of loungers
gathered under gigantic umbrellas, reading or talking or working, and
also in the evening moonlight, when the missionaries chanted hymns. On
Sunday there was Protestant service in the saloon, and those of other
faiths did their private devotions on deck.

_Monday morning, February 2._—We dropped our anchor a quarter of a mile
from the town of Funchal. We rose at six, had a cup of coffee, packed up
our water-proof bags, and went on deck to get a first glimpse of
Madeira. A glorious sight presented itself, producing a magical effect
upon the cold, wet, dirty, sea-sick passenger who had emerged from his
atrocious native climate but ten days before. Picture to yourself a deep
blue sky, delicately tinted at the horizon, not a cloud to be seen, the
ocean as blue as the Mediterranean. There was a warm sun, and a soft and
sweet-smelling breeze from the land, as of aromatic herbs. Arising out
of the bosom of the ocean in splendour, a quarter of a mile off, but
looking infinitely less distant, were dark mountain masses with
fantastic peaks and wild, rugged sides, sharply defined against the sky
and streaked with snow, making them resemble the fanciful castles and
peaks we can imagine in the clouds. The coast to the sea is thick with
brilliant vegetation; dark soil—basalt and red tufa are its colours—with
the variegated green of fir, chestnut, dark pine forests, and the gaudy
sugarcane. Here and there a belt of firs runs up a mountain, winding
like a serpent, and is its only ornament. Wild geraniums, and other
flowers which only grow in a hothouse in England, and badly too, are in
wild luxuriance here. The island appears to be dotted everywhere with
churches, villas, and hamlets—little gardens and patches of trees
intermingled with them. There are three immense ravines, deep and dark;
and these with all the pleasant additions of birds, butterflies, and
flowers of every sort and colour, a picturesque, good-humoured peasantry
busy on the beach, and a little fleet of fishing-boats, with their large
white lagoon sails, like big white butterflies on the blue water. Most
of the capes are immense precipices of rock.

[Illustration: THE BAY OF FUNCHAL, MADEIRA.]

Nestling at the foot of this mountain amphitheatre, and washed by the
bay, straggling lengthways and up and down, is Funchal, with its
brilliant white houses and green facings glittering in the sun. You
almost wonder whether your last unpleasant three months in England and
your ten days’ voyage had been reality; whether you had not been supping
upon cold fish, and had just awakened from a clammy nightmare to a day
such as the Almighty meant our days to be, such was one’s sense of
vitality and immense power of enjoyment at the change.

The landing was great fun, the running of the boats upon the beach being
very difficult in a heavy surge. Richard and I managed to land, however,
without a wetting, and went to the hotel.

When we had unpacked, eaten, and bathed, and had begun to shake off the
_désagrémens_ of our bad voyage, we had time to enjoy a pleasant, lazy
day, lounging about, and luxuriating in our happy change from England
and the ship. Later on in the day there was a little mist over the
mountains, like the soft muslin veil thrown over a beautiful bride,
shading her brilliant beauty, greatly to her advantage, leaving a little
of it to the imagination. I beg a bride’s pardon. How could there be a
bride without a Brussels lace veil? Shall I change the simile to that of
a first communicant, and compare the belt of white thin cloud below the
mountains, and that delicate mist, which throws such enchanting shadows
on the mountain-sides and precipices, to the “dim religious light” of
the sunset hour, when the lamp is replenished? For the sun is setting,
and bathes the sea and coast in a glorious light, deepens the shade of
the ravines, and shows off the dark, luxuriant foliage.

I can only venture upon describing a few of the excursions we were able
to make during our stay at Madeira.

We started one fine morning in a boat with four oars and rowed from
Funchal, coasting along near the cliff to Machico, which is twelve
miles. Our men were chatty and communicative, and informed us that the
devil came there at night when they were out fishing (I suppose
originally the ingenious device of a smuggler); and their superstition
was genuine. We had two hours of rough walking, when we arrived at
Machico, and marched through the town with a hundred followers, all
clamouring for money. We rejoined our boat at 4 p.m., in the greatest
clatter of talk and laugh I ever heard. Our sailors, elated by two
shillings’-worth of bad wine, were very chatty and vocal. We put up a
sail, but there was not breeze enough to fill it. We chatted and read
alternately; watched the beautiful hour that struggles between day and
night—beautiful to the happy, and much to be dreaded to the desolate.
The setting sun bathed the dark basalt and red tufa cliffs in his red
and purple glory. The straggling white town glittered in the clear and
brilliant light, with its dark green background. The mountain-edges were
sharp against the clear, soft sky. That indescribable atmosphere which
blackens the ravines and softens all the other beauties came over the
island. The evening star was as large and brilliant as the Koh-i-noor;
and the full moon, rising gradually from behind Cape Garajão, poured its
beams down the mountain, and threw its track upon the sea. As we neared
Funchal the aromatic smell of the land was wafted toward us, and with it
a sound of the tinkling of bells; and a procession of torches wound like
a serpent out of a church on a rock overhanging the sea. It was the
Blessed Sacrament being carried to a dying man.

Our second boat excursion was to Cape Giram, a cliff some two thousand
feet high, with the appearance of having been originally a high hill,
cut in two by some convulsion of Nature. There was a lovely waterfall,
and its silvery foam absolutely looked artificial, like the cascade of a
theatre, as it streamed incessantly down a bed of long grass of a very
pretty green, which it seemed to have made for itself to course down. I
had no idea of the height; but having suddenly exclaimed to Richard, who
was my _maître d’armes_, “I wish I had brought my pistols with me, I
should like to pick off those two gulls,” to my horror, our boatman
hailed somebody, and a small voice echoed back. The “gulls” were two
Portuguese peasants gathering herbs for their cow.

Our last expedition, and best, was to Pico Arriere, the second highest
point in the island. We had wished very much to ascend the highest, but
that involved the six days’ excursion, which we could not do; so we
resolved to try the second, _faute de mieux_, which could be done
without sleeping out. With the usual horses and guides we started from
Funchal, and proceeded to ascend.

After an hour and a half we come to a little eminence, and the rough
work is going to commence. The air begins to change wonderfully. The
horizon now assumes the punch-bowl shape; and I, standing on one side of
the imaginary basin, but not quite so high as the rim, describe my
impressions. Behind and above us were the peaks, around us the mountains
clad with forests; a fine, bold shore, with its high basalt and tufa
cliffs; a long way below us the _quintas_, gardens, farms, thatched
huts, little patches of sugarcane of an enchanting green, fields looking
very small, dwarf plains, watercourses, cascades, channels, and deep,
abrupt ravines; the beautiful little town at the bottom of the basin,
and the roadstead; the open sea, with white sails glittering on the blue
water, appears to be running up the other side; the Desertas seemingly
hanging midway between heaven and earth; and crowned by a glorious sky,
warm sun, pure air, and sea-breeze. I feel so glad, I could shout
Hallelujah for joy. The horses have breathed while I made these mental
notes, and now we start again on the hard and broken road, which seems
interminable. The horses don’t like the cold, nor the men either. We do!
(We have been some time in the snow, which descends to the unusual depth
of three thousand feet.) The horses make a stand, and we dismount and
walk (it appeared an immense way) till the road ceases and the actual
mountain ascent begins. One guide wraps his head up in a red silk
handkerchief, and will go no farther; the other sulks, and says it is
dangerous—the path is lost, and we shall fall into drifts; but finding
us resolved, Sulks consents to go, and Red Cap stops, shivering, with
the horses, which are rearing and kicking, for the cold makes them
playful.

So, pike in hand, Richard and I and Sulks begin the ascent, which lasts
about one hour and a half—through two feet of snow, with several falls
on my part, and sometimes crawling on hands and knees—during which,
however, we could see Sta. Anna and the sea at the other side, and many
of the mountains and gorges. When nearly at the top, we saw, with
horror, thick black clouds rolling up to envelop us, travelling fast,
and looking like a snowstorm. At last, when we were 5,593 feet high,
only 300 feet below the summit of the Pico, which is 5,893 feet, there
came a mighty wind. We threw ourselves down to prevent being blown off,
and then the clouds rolled in upon us, and shut off all view of the Pico
and our way, so that it was difficult to proceed without incurring
danger of accidents. We scrambled to a projection of rock (the only
thing we could see), and sat on it; and from our canteen, which had been
slung to Sulks, we ate our lunch, and iced our claret; and when we had
finished we agreed to grope our way slowly down. We managed it (often in
a sitting position), occasionally making some false step for want of
being able to see; we had no feeling in our hands and feet. We found Red
Cap eventually, who had moved down to warmer latitudes, and was sulking
and shivering, more so because, as he declined going, he forfeited his
lunch, drink, and cigarette. We walked back until at some distance above
the Mount church (feeling warmer and drier every moment as we
descended), where we mounted and resumed those delightful baskets. The
excursion occupied about seven and a half hours.

The time came all too soon for us to leave Madeira, and on March 4 we
embarked for Santa Cruz, Teneriffe, whence alarming reports of yellow
fever had reached our ears. By the same boat on which we had embarked
came letters and papers from home. My news from home was very sad. My
dear mother, who, though in weak health, had come down to Liverpool to
see us off, and who bore up bravely till the last, had just time, after
wishing us good-bye, to get back to Garswood (Uncle Gerard’s), when the
attack of paralysis, so long threatened, came upon her. Fortunately
there was no immediate danger, but the news was a great shock to me. I
spent the day apart from the rest, who were merry unto noisiness; and I
was right glad when tea-time rang all hands below, and I occupied a
quiet corner on deck, where I could shed my tears unseen, and enjoy my
favourite twilight hour.

The sky was clear, with a rough sea, over which the white horses
predominated. Men-of-war and fishing-boats were at anchor around us. The
sun had just set; the evening star’s pale light was stealing over us.
Presently the full moon rose behind Cape Garajão. I bade good-bye to
Madeira and every object with regret, straining my eyes from right to
left, up and down, and all around, not from any silly sentiment, but
because I always feel a species of gratitude to a place where I have
been happy. The black and red cliffs, the straggling town, the
sugar-canes, gardens, forests, flowers, the mountain-peaks and
ravines—each separate, well-known object received its adieu.

I knew when I saw Madeira again it would be under far less happy
circumstances. I should be alone, on my way back to England, and my
beloved Richard at deadly Fernando Po. This fading, fairy panorama of
Madeira, which had once made me so happy, now saddened me; and the last
track of moonlight, as it poured its beams down the mountains on the
water, saw some useless tears.




                              CHAPTER III
                              _TENERIFFE_
                                 (1863)

  I went up into the infinite solitudes. I saw the sunrise gleaming on
  the mountain-peaks. I felt myself nearer the stars—I seemed almost to
  be in sympathy and communion with them.

                                                                  IBSEN.


The first sight of Santa Cruz (where we arrived next morning) is
disappointing. When you see it from the deck of your ship, looking from
right to left, you see a red, brown, and yellow coast, barren grey
mountains, and ravines. The mountains, being exposed to much wind,
present the most curious, harsh, and fantastic outline against the sky.
These are called Passo Alto (a child would guess their volcanic origin);
they are wide irregular masses of rock, as desolate and savage as can be
imagined. Close to the water is a flat, whitewashed town, which always
looks in a white heat. The only two high buildings are churches. The
town bristled with cannon near the sea. The mountains, which are close
to the town on the right, and shut it off, were covered with round,
bushy, and compact green splotches, which were in reality good-sized fig
trees. Behind the town is a steep rising mountain, with a good winding
road; to the left of it is a regiment of windmills drawn up in line, as
if waiting for Don Quixote; and in the distance, still on the left, and
extending away from you, are masses of mountains, and hanging over them
is a little haze in the sky, which might be a little woolly cloud,
sugar-loaf in shape, which you are told is the Peak of Teneriffe. The
sky, the sea, the atmosphere are perfect, and far surpassing Madeira.
Most exhilarating is the sensation thereof. The island, saving one pass,
is covered with small barren hills, some of them conical, some like
Primrose Hill, only much bigger, which are, I am told, the small
disturbances of volcanoes.

These were my first impressions as we were rowed to a little quay in a
little boat, and a dozen boys took our dozen packages; and a small
walk brought us to Richardson’s Hotel, _as it was_, a funny, old,
broken-down place, with a curious interior, an uncomfortable
picturesque remnant of Spanish-Moorish grandeur and style, better to
sketch than to sleep and feed in. There was a large _patio_, or
courtyard, and a broad carved oak staircase, and tiers of large
balconies to correspond, running all round the interior of the house,
into which galleries the rooms open. Green creepers covered the roof
and balcony, and hung over, falling into the _patio_, giving it an
ancient and picturesque look, like an old ruin. Rita, a peasant woman,
came out to wait upon me, in a long white mantilla, topped by a black
felt Spanish wide-awake, a comfortable-looking woman, but neither
young nor pretty. The food was as poor and ancient as the hotel, and
the servants to match. I could imagine the garlicked sausages to have
been a remnant left in a mouldy cupboard by some impoverished hidalgo
of a hundred years back.

Richard wanted to pass a few days here, but I suggested that, as the
yellow fever was raging, and as Santa Cruz and all round could be seen
in three or four days, we should do it on return, and meantime seek some
purer abode, lest a yellow-fever bed or infected baggage should lay us
low; so we voted for Laguna, or rather San Christoval de la Laguna, a
large town fifteen hundred feet above sea-level, and consequently above
fever-range; and we ordered the hotel carriage at once.

The vehicle was the skeleton of the first vehicle that was ever
made—perhaps the one Noah provided in the Ark to drive his family down
Mount Ararat when it became dry—no springs, windows, blinds, lining, or
anything save the actual wood; three mules abreast, rope, reins and
driver all ancient to match. We found a crowd of men wringing their
hands at the amount of small baggage to be packed away in it, swearing
they could not and would not try to put it in. Always leave these men to
themselves. After loud vociferation, swearing, and quarrelling, they
packed it beautifully, and we were stowed away on the top of it, and
rattled out of the town at a good pace, up a winding road, ascending the
steep country behind Santa Cruz towards Laguna. As we rose higher we had
a splendid view of the sea, and the white flat town with its two
solitary towers lay at our feet. The winding road was propped up with
walls to prevent landslip; the mountains looked wild and rugged; the
weather was perfect. We met troops of pretty peasants with heavy loads,
and every here and there a picturesque chapel or hermitage.

Our drive was pleasant enough, and I think at about 3 p.m. we were
driving hard up and down the old Noah’s-Ark-town called San Christoval
de la Laguna. We drove to three inns. Number one was not possible.
Number two, something like it; where they were going to put us into the
same room (perhaps the same bed—who knows?) with a sick man (maybe a
convalescent yellow-feverist). We held a parley and consultation. Was it
possible to go on? No, neither now nor to-morrow; for the new road was
being made, the old one broken up, and the coach (which, by the way, was
the name given to a twin vehicle such as ours) was not allowed to run
farther than Sausal, three miles off, from which we had twelve miles
more to accomplish in order to reach the valley and town of Orotava—the
El Dorado, and deservedly so, of Teneriffe. We did not like to descend
again into the heat and pestilence of Santa Cruz. Moreover, we had made
up our minds (not knowing Laguna) to pass a week there, and had ordered
our muleteers to bring up and deposit our baggage there.

The coachman thought he knew of another house where we might get a room.
So we drove to the “forlorn hope,” which looked as bad as the rest, and
were at first refused. The _patio_ was a ruin, full of mud and broken
plantains, the village idiot and the pig huddled up in one corner. In
fact, the whole house was a ruin, and the inevitable carved-wood balcony
looked like tawdry finery on it. The landlady was the most
fiendish-looking old woman I have ever seen, with sharp, bad, black
eyes. She exchanged some words in a whisper with three or four ruffianly
looking men, and said that she could let us have a room, but only one.
Richard went up to inspect it, and while he was gone, and I was left
alone, the village idiot worried and frightened me. Our quarters
consisted of a small barnlike room with raftered ceiling, a floor with
holes big enough to slip your foot through into the courtyard,
whitewashed walls, and a small latticed window about two feet square
near the ceiling. It was filthy, and contained two small paillasses full
of fleas, two hard kitchen chairs, and a small kitchen table. For
safety, we had all our baggage brought up. We asked for a light, and
they gave us a rushlight, growling all the time because we did not find
the light of a dim oil-lamp in the passage enough, and bread sufficient
nourishment; but we clamoured for supper.

After three hours’ preparation, during which we were inspected by the
whole band of ruffians composing the establishment, and after loud,
bewildering chatter about what should become of us on the morrow, we
were asked with much pomp and ceremony into the kitchen. We could not
both go at once, as there was no key to our door, and the baggage was
unsafe. Richard was not away five minutes, but returned with an
exclamation of disgust, threw himself on the paillasse, lit a cigar, and
opened a bottle of Santa Cruz wine we had brought with us. I then
started, and found it necessary to hold the light close to the ground,
in order not to put my feet through the holes, or fall on the uneven
boarding of the gallery. In a dirty kitchen, on a dirty cloth, was a
pink mess in a saucer, smoking hot (which, if analysed, would have
proved to be eggs, beetroot, garlic, and rancid oil), stale bread, dirty
rancid butter, looking like melted tallow-grease; and what I thought was
a large vinegar-cruet, but in reality a bottle of wine, completed the
repast. I tried to eat, but, though starved, soon desisted. When I
returned to my room, Pepa, the dirty handmaiden—who was always gaping
into the streets for excitement (which was not to be found in Laguna),
but who proved more good-tempered and honest than her mistress—followed
me, and, looking nervously around, put a large key into my hand, and
told me to lock my door at night. I did not need a second hint, but also
piled up the baggage and kitchen chairs and table against what looked to
me like a second suspicious door, opening out on leads and locked
outside. I then got out our arms—two revolvers and three
bowie-knives—loaded the former, and put one of each close to our hands
ready. Sleep was out of the question for me on account of the fleas,
which were legion; but I experienced nothing of a more alarming nature.

We were up betimes, and clamouring to get on to Orotava. They naturally
wished to keep us, and so they invented every excuse. They all spoke
loudly and at once. “The _public_ coach was engaged by a _private_
gentleman for several days; there were no horses or mules to be had for
some time” (they would almost have told us there was no hotel at
Orotava, if they had dared); “the yellow fever raged everywhere except
at Laguna, which was above its range.” “Well, then,” we said, “under all
these circumstances we would _walk_.” Now they never walk themselves,
and a woman doing such a thing was incredible. They said, “_He_ might
walk; but what about the Señora and the baggage?” Seeing, finally, that
we were determined, and offered good pay, the driver of the vehicle
agreed to drive us three miles farther on to Sausal, and to furnish us
with several mules for our baggage; but no _riding_ mules, never
thinking that we should accept such a proposition. To their surprise, we
closed with it at once. They tried a last dodge in the shape of charging
us the exorbitant price of five dollars, or £1, for our atrocious
night’s lodging and mess of eggs, and we gave it cheerfully. When we
went to pack up, we discovered that, although we had been there but
fifteen hours, and had never left the room at the same time without
locking our door and taking the key, they had contrived to steal our
best bowie-knife, but had touched nothing else. It were better to leave
gold than a knife in the way of a Spaniard. We would not even stay to
dispute this.

We finally started in the “coach,” in high glee, through the melancholy
streets, up a rising country, grand and hilly, and over a good road.
Richard said that it was a most interesting mountain-pass, for reasons
which were rather _au-dessus de ma portée_; and as I have no doubt of
it, I will describe the trifles.

The chief travellers on this road were muleteers, picturesque men in
blankets and sombreros, sitting on comfortable-looking and heavily laden
pack-saddles, walking or galloping, and singing in a peculiar Moorish
roulade, and smoking their little paper cigarillos. The only difference
that I could see between them and a Spanish gentleman was, that the
latter’s mule was better bred and went a faster pace, and he had, in
place of the blanket, a black cloak, with perhaps a bit of red sash or
binding. Pretty peasant women, with a sturdy yet graceful walk and
undulating figures, went by. They wore white flannel mantillas, topped
by a sombrero, and carried enormous weights on their heads, and sang and
chattered, not at all distressed by their burthens. We passed all the
scenes of historical interest in our passage through the island. Our
coach arrived finally at Sausal. Our aneroid marked nineteen hundred
feet at the highest part of our drive through the pass. Here we
dismounted, and the coach waited for an hour to see what passengers it
might pick up.

We were in a very peculiar position, quite by ourselves (without even a
servant), at a wayside house of refuge on a mountain-side, beyond which
precincts no vehicle went at this time, and where it was impossible to
remain, and without knowing a soul in the island. Luckily Richard spoke
the language well. Still, we did not exactly know where we were going.
We had an indistinct wish to go to Orotava; but where it was, or how
distant at that moment, we knew not; nor did we know, when we got there,
if we should find any accommodation, and if not, how we should be able
to get back, or whether we should have to pass the night out of doors.
Yet it was the happiest moment of my life. I had been through two
mortally dull years (without travel), in commonplace, matter-of-fact Old
England, where one _can’t_ get into a difficulty. Independently of this,
our baggage—some twenty-five packages—was scattered all over the place
on mule back, some coming up from Santa Cruz, some from Laguna, and the
smaller ones with us. They would not know what had become of us. And how
were we to rid ourselves of those we had with us? We saw several
handsome, proud, lazy-looking fellows, in blankets, sleeping about,
outside the cottage, and asked them if, for a couple of dollars, they
would carry these, and walk with us to show us the way? Not a bit of it!
They did not want to earn two dollars (8_s._ 4_d._) at such a price!
They _have_ nothing, and _want_ nothing but sleep and independence. At
last a party of muleteers came by. Richard explained our difficulties,
and one good-natured old fellow put our small traps on the top of his
pack, and we left orders at the house of refuge with the girl that any
mules passing by laden with an Englishman’s luggage were to come on to
Orotava, and then commenced our walk. And an uncommonly pretty, pleasant
walk it was. This path was only fit for mules; and the continuation of
the good road we could not enter upon, on account of the people at work,
and incessant blasting.

At the end of four hours a mere turn in the road showed us the tropical
valley in all its beauty, and the effect was magical: the wealth of
verdure and foliage, wild flowers, and carolling birds of pretty
plumage. A horseshoe-shaped range of mountains shuts out the Vale of
Orotava from the rest of the world, enclosing it entirely, except where
open to the sea and its cool breezes; and we gradually wound down under
its eastern range, sloping to the beach.

A boy guide met us, and led us through many a winding, paved street of
Orotava, till the trickling of the mountain stream reached our ears; and
then, following its course, he brought us to the door of our _fonda
gobea_, or inn, which, from its outward appearance, charmed me
inexpressibly. It is an ancient relic of Spanish-Moorish grandeur—the
palace of a defunct Marchesa—a large building, of white stone,
whitewashed over, built in a square, the interior forming the _patio_,
or courtyard. Verandahed balconies run all around it inside, in tiers of
dark carved wood, and outside windows, or wooden doors, empanelled, and
with old coats of arms above them. These open on to balconies of the
same. There is a flat roof, with garden or terrace at the top. The
inside balconies form the passage. All the rooms open into the side next
the house; the other looks into the court. We were very weary and dusty
as we entered the _patio_. The _amo_, or master, made his appearance,
and, much to our chagrin, conducted us to a room very much like the one
we left at Laguna. I will not say that our spirits fell, for we looked
at each other and burst out laughing; it was evident that the Canaries
contained no better accommodation; but people who go in for travelling
laugh at the discomforts that make others miserable; so, with a glance
at an upper skylight, a foot square, we agreed that it would be a
capital place for work, in the way of reading, writing, and study.

While Richard was settling something, and drinking a cup of coffee, I
asked the _amo_ to let me inspect the house, and see if I could not find
better accommodation; but he assured me that every nook and cranny was
occupied. I explored an open belvedere at the top of the house, a garret
half occupied by a photographer in the daytime, and the courtyard, and
was going back in despair, when I came upon a long, lofty, dusty,
deserted-looking loft, with thirty-two hard, straight-backed kitchen
chairs in it. I counted them from curiosity.

“What,” I asked, “is this?”

“Oh,” he replied, “we call this the _sala_, but no one ever comes into
it; so we use it as a lumber-room, and the workwomen sit here.”

“Will you give me this?” I asked again.

“Willingly,” he replied, looking nevertheless as surprised as if I had
asked to sleep in the courtyard; “and, moreover, you can run over the
house, and ask Bernardo [a peasant servant] to give you whatever
furniture you may choose.”

I was not long in thanking him and carrying his offer into execution.
Bernardo and I speedily fraternized, and we soon had the place broomed
and aired. It had evidently been the ballroom or reception-room of the
defunct Marchesa in palmy days. Stone walls painted white, a wood floor
with chinks in it, through which you could see the _patio_ below, and
through which “brave rats and mice” fearlessly came to play; a raftered
wood ceiling with a deep carved cornice (through the holes above the
children overhead subsequently pelted us with nuts and cheese); three
chains, with faded blue ribbons, suspended from the lofty ceiling,
whereon chandeliers had evidently hung. Three carved-wood doors (rusty
on their hinges) opened on to a verandah balcony, from which we had a
splendid view. The hotel opened sideways, on the hillside, on to a
perpendicular street, with a mountain torrent dashing down it beneath
the windows. To the left, above, was the mountain range of Tigayga; to
the right was the town, or _villa_; and below, and sideways to the
right, was the cultivated valley, and the sea stretching broadly away,
and, when clear, we could see the _white cone_—the immortal Peak. One
double door, of cedar wood, opened on to the balcony overhanging the
_patio_; and one more into another room, which I had subsequently to
barricade against an inquisitive old lady, who wanted to see if English
people bathed and ate like Teneriffians.

Such was the aspect of the loft after a brooming. I then routed out an
old screen, and ran it across the room, dividing it into two, thereby
enabling the _amo_ to charge me for bedroom and sitting-room. In the
bedroom half I ran two straw paillasses together for a bed; two little
primitive washstands, capable of containing a pint of water; and two
tiny tables of like dimensions for our toilet. My next difficulty was to
rig up a bath and a stove. Hunting about, I found a large wine-wash, as
tall as myself. I rolled it in, and ordered it to be filled every day
with sea water. The drawing-room contained two large kitchen tables (one
for Richard’s writing, one to dine on), and a smaller one for _my_
occupations, a horsehair sofa, a pan of charcoal, kettles, and pots for
hot water, tea, eggs, and minor cooking.

Presently mule after mule began to arrive with the baggage; not a thing
was missing. I divided the thirty-two hard-backed kitchen chairs between
the two apartments. For want of drawers or wardrobe we kept most things
in our trunks, hanging dresses, coats, and dressing-gown over the screen
and chairs in lieu of wardrobe. Books, writing, and instruments strewed
the whole place. I was delighted with my handiwork. We had arrived at
seven, and at nine I went to fetch my philosophic husband, who had
meanwhile got a book, and had quietly sat down, making up his mind for
the worst. He was perfectly delighted with the fine old den, for we had
good air, light, a splendid view, lots of room, and good water, both
fresh and salt; and here we intended to pass a happy month—to read,
write, study, chat, walk, make excursions, and enjoy ourselves.

_Saturday, March 21, 1863._—Of course we could not rest until we had
“done” the Peak. We were in our saddles at nine. Our little caravan
consisted of six persons and four animals—Richard and myself mounted on
good horses, two mules laden with baggage, one guide, and three
_arrieros_, or muleteers. Our distance varied (by different reports)
between eighteen and thirty-two miles, from the Villa d’Orotava to the
top of the great Peak and back; and by the route we returned from
choice—a longer, varied, and more difficult one—I dare say it was nearer
the latter mark, and our time was thirty-five hours.

We clattered up the streets, and went out by a pretty road, studded with
villages, gardens, cottages, _barrancos_, and geraniums falling in rich
profusion over the walls into the main road. We turned abruptly from
this road up the stony side of the Barranco de San Antonio, and
proceeded through cultivated fields, but ever winding by the _barranco_,
which becomes deeper and deeper. Here rushes a fierce mountain torrent.
The stone at the sides is scooped as smoothly by its impetuous rush as a
knife would carve a cake of soap, and you hear the rebounding in the
gigantic caverns, which present all the appearance of being excavated by
an immense body of water. On the borders of this mass of stone and of
rushing waters, startling caverns, and mysterious rumblings, the edges
were bound with rich belts of chestnut trees, wild flowers of every
sort, myrtle and rosemary, looking as placid as in a garden; and you do
not expect to be awestruck—_as you are_—when you look into the depth of
the ravine, into which you might have taken a step too far, deceived by
the treacherous borders, if the strange sounds below had not induced you
to look down. We were now about two thousand five hundred feet above the
sea.

We ascended a very jagged and rough mountain, like a _barranco_, ever
ascending, and came upon a beautiful slope of forest of mixed bay and
broom. The soil, however, is a mass of loose stones as we wind through
the forest, and again emerge on another barren, jagged, and stony
mountain, like the one before the forest. It is now eleven o’clock, and
we are four thousand five hundred feet above the sea, and the men ask
for a halt. The valley rises like a hanging garden all the way till you
come to the first cloud and mist, after which are no more houses; the
mist rests upon the woods, and ascends and descends for about the space
of a league. We had now just got to the clouds. They usually descend to
this distance, and, except on very clear days, hang there for several
hours in the day—if not all day—shutting out the upper world of
mountains like a curtain, though above and below it all may be clear. We
dismounted in a thick, misty cloud, and looked about us, leaving the men
to eat, drink, and breathe the animals.

The whole of our ascent appeared to me to be like ascending different
mountains, one range higher than another, so that when you reached the
top of one you found yourself unexpectedly at the foot of another; only
each varies as to soil: stones, vegetation; stones, cinders, stones.

At one o’clock we passed the last vegetation, six thousand five hundred
feet, with a shady clearing under the _retornas_, which our men told us
was the Estancia della Cierra—the first station. The thermometer in
shade was at 60°. Here we unloaded the mules, and tied them to the
bushes, upon which they fed. We ate, drank, the men smoked, and then we
reloaded and remounted, and soon emerged from the last vegetation, and
entered upon Los Cañadas, through a gap, by the gate of Teora—a natural
portico of lava. Here we ceased ascending for some time, the Cañadas
being a sandy plain, extending fifteen miles in circumference round the
base of the Peak. Richard wished to build him a house in this his
peculiar element, wanted a good gallop, and all sorts of things. The hot
sun literally rained fire, pouring down upon our heads and scorching the
earth, and blistering our faces, hands, and lips, as if it spitefully
begrudged us our pleasant excursion and boisterous spirits. There was
water nowhere.

[Illustration: THE PEAK OF TENERIFFE, FROM THE VALE OF OROTAVA.]

We rode along the plain laughing and chattering, and presently began to
ascend again the same soil as on the plain, but steepening and more
bleak and barren, with not a sign of life or vegetation. We came to the
mountain, and put our poor beasts to the steep ascent, breasting the red
pumice bed and thick bands of detached black blocks of lava. The soil,
in fact, consists of loose pumice stones sprinkled with lava and broken
bits of obsidian. Our animals sank knee-deep, and slid back several
yards; and we struggled upwards after this fashion for three-quarters of
an hour, when we came to a little flat space on the right, with blocks
of stone partially enclosing it, but open overhead and to one side.

This was the second station, called the Estancia de los Ingleses, nine
thousand six hundred feet above the sea; temperature 16°, only
accessible on the south-eastern side. Here we gladly dismounted, after
eight hours’ ride.

The _arrieros_ unpacked and dismantled their beasts, let the mules roll,
and put all four in shelter with their nosebags, and then went in search
of fuel. Richard went off to take observations; and I saw him with
pleasure enjoying the indescribable atmospheric charm under the
rose-pink blush of the upper sky. I knew mine was Martha’s share of the
business, and that I had better look sharp; so I unpacked our panniers,
and made the _estancia_ ready for the night. In less than an hour our
beds were made comfortable, and composed of railway-rugs, coats, and
cloaks. There were two roaring fires, and tea and coffee; and spread
about were spirits, wine, fowls, bread, butter, hard eggs, and sausages.
We could have spent a week there very comfortably; and we sat round our
camp-fire warming ourselves, eating, and talking over the day. The men
brought out hard eggs, salt fish, and prepared _gofia_—the original
Guanche food—which is corn roasted brown, then pounded fine, and put
into a kid-skin bag with water and kneaded about in the hand into a sort
of cake. They were immensely surprised at a sharp repeater which I had
in my belt, and with which we tried to shoot a raven; but he would not
come within shot, though we tried hard to tempt him with a chicken’s leg
stuck upon a stick at a distance.

We read and wrote till seven o’clock, and then it grew darker and
colder, and I turned in, _i.e._ rolled myself round in the rugs with my
feet to the camp-fire, and did not sleep, but watched. The _estancia_,
or station, was a pile of wild rocks about twenty feet high, open
overhead to one side, with a space in the middle big enough to camp in.
At the head and down one side of our bed was a bank of snow; two mules
were tethered near our heads, but not near enough to kick and bite. The
horses were a little farther off. There were two capital fires of
_retorna_ wood; and strewed all around were rugs, blankets, and wraps of
all sorts, kettles, canteens, bottles, books, instruments, eatables, and
kegs. It was dark at seven o’clock. The stars shone brilliantly, but it
was only the third night of the moon, so we were badly off for that. But
the day had been brilliant, and our only drawback had been that the
curtain of clouds had shut out the under-world from us about one o’clock
for good and all. Our men consisted of one guide, Manuel, and three
_arrieros_. They lay round the fire in their blankets and black velvet
sombreros in careless attitudes. (I did not know a blanket could look so
picturesque.) Their dark hair and skins, white teeth, flashing eyes, and
handsome features, lit up by the lurid glare of the fire, and animated
by the conversation of Richard, to say nothing of the spirits and
tobacco with which he made their hearts glad, made a first-rate bivouac
scene, a brigand-like group, for they are a fine and hardy race. They
held loud and long theological discussions, good-humouredly
anathematizing Richard as an infidel, and showed their medals and
crosses. He harangued them, and completely baffled them with his
Mohammedan logic; and ended by opening his shirt, and showing them a
medal and cross like their own—the one I had given him long ago. They
looked at each other, shook their fists, laughed, and were beside
themselves with excitement. I laughed and listened until the Great Bear
went down behind the mountain-side, and then fell fast asleep. The men
took it in turns to keep up the fire, while they slept around it. The
only sound heard was once or twice the spiteful scream of a mule trying
to bite its neighbour, or a log of wood being thrown on the fire; and
outside the _estancia_ the silence was so profound as to fully realize
“the last man.” The pleasant reminiscences of that night will live in my
memory when most other things are forgotten, or trials and sorrows make
me temporarily forget to be grateful for past happiness. It was perfect
repose and full contentment. The tangled world below was forgotten, and
the hand of him whom I cannot dispense with through life was near to
clasp mine.

At half-past three o’clock Manuel awoke us. It was a pitch-dark night
save the fires. The thermometer at 14°. We got up and crowded on every
warm thing possible, made some coffee, using brandy for milk. Now one of
the _arrieros_ was to remain behind to look after the fires, beasts, and
_estancia_ generally. I mounted my horse, and Richard one of the mules.
Our guide went first. One _arriero_ with a pitch-pine torch, and one
_arriero_ to return with the animals, made our party to start. At
half-past four o’clock we commenced upon what seemed the same kind of
thing as the last part of yesterday’s ride—steep, broken pumice,
obsidian, and lava—only twenty times more difficult and steep, with an
occasional rock-work or snowdrift. We were the first people who had
ascended in winter since 1797; and even the guide did not exactly know
what might happen for the snow. Manuel went therefore first with a
torch; then Richard; then the second torch; then myself on my poor
Negro; and, lastly, a third torch. Our poor beasts sank knee-deep, and
slid tremendously. Once or twice my steed refused, and appeared to
prefer descent to ascent, but fortunately changed his mind, or an
inevitable roll to the bottom and broken bones would have been the
result. Richard’s mule went into a snowdrift, but emerged, with much
pluck, without unseating him. I got a little frightened when it got to
the steepest part, and found myself obliged to cling to the mane, for it
was too dark, even with torches, to see much. In three-quarters of an
hour we came to the highest and third _estancia_, ten thousand five
hundred feet above sea-level, called Estancia de los Allemanes.

Here we dismounted, and our third _arriero_ went down with the animals,
while we, pike in hand, began the ascent of the Mal Pais, which is
composed of what yesterday I had imagined to be walls of black stone,
radiating from the ridge below the cone to the yellow mountain, but
which are really very severe lava beds, about thirteen hundred feet
high, consisting of immense blocks of lava; some as big as a cottage,
and some as small as a football; some loose and rolling, others firm,
with drifts of snow between, and piled up almost perpendicularly above
you; and when you have surmounted one ridge, and fancy yourself at the
top, you find there is another still more difficult, until you have had
so many disappointments that you cease to ask. It took me two hours,
climbing on my hands and knees, with many rests. First I threw away my
pike, then my outer coat, and gradually peeled, like the circus dancers
do, who represent the seasons, army and navy, etc., until I absolutely
arrived at the necessary blouse and petticoat. As there were no thieves,
I dropped my things on the way as I climbed, and they served as so many
landmarks on return. Every time we stopped to breathe I was obliged to
fill my mouth with snow, and put it on my head and forehead—the sun had
blistered me so, and the air was keen. At about 5.30 a.m. a truly soft
light, preceding day, took the place of torchlight. The horizon
gradually became like a rainbow, with that peculiar effect it always has
of being on a level with one, and the world beneath curved like a bowl,
which is very striking to a person who is on a great height for the
first time. More toil, and we pass the icedrift at our right, and sight
the Cone, which looks like a dirty-white sugar-loaf; which, I was told,
was a low comparison! Every ten minutes I was obliged to rest; and the
guides, after each few moments’ rest, would urge me to a _toutine_—just
a little more—to which I had manfully to make up my mind, though I felt
very much fatigued.

At 6 a.m. the guides told us to turn round: a golden gleam was on the
sea—the first of the sun; and gradually its edge appeared, and it rose
majestically in pure golden glory; and we were hanging between heaven
and earth—in solitude and silence—and were permitted to enjoy this
beautiful moment. It was Sunday morning, March 22—Passion Sunday.[20]
Out of the six souls there, five of us were Catholics, unable to hear
Mass. We knelt down, and I said aloud a Paternoster, Ave Maria, and
Gloria Patri, and offered to our Lord the hearts of all present with
genuine thanksgiving, and with a silent prayer that the one dear to me,
the only unbeliever of our small party, might one day receive the gift
of faith.

We arose, and continued our now almost painful way, and at 6.45 reached
the base of the dirty-white sugar-loaf. Here we breathed; and what had
seemed to me to be a ridge from below was a small plain space round the
base of the Cone. The thermometer stood at 120° in the steam, but there
was no smell of sulphur till we reached the top. Manuel and Richard
start, pike in hand. My muleteer took off his red sash, tied it round my
waist, and took the other end over his shoulder, and with a pike in my
hand we did the last hard work; and it was very hard after the Mal Pais.
The Cone is surrounded, as I have just said, by a little plain base of
pumice, and its own soil is broken, fine pumice—out of which, from all
parts, issue jets of smoke, which burn you and your clothes: I think I
counted thirty-five. We had five hundred and twelve feet more to
accomplish, and we took three-quarters of an hour. The top consists of
masses of rock, great and small, covered with bright, glistening, yellow
sulphur, and frost; and from which issue powerful jets of smoke from the
volcano within. Richard helped me up to stand on the corona, the top
stone, at 7.40 a.m. It is so narrow there is only room for one person to
stand there at once. I stood there a minute or two. I had reached the
Peak. I was now, at the outside computation, twelve thousand three
hundred feet high.

The guides again suggested a Gloria Patri, in thanksgiving—Richard a
cigar. Both were accomplished. The guides had been a little anxious
about this first winter attempt. They now told us it had been deemed
impossible in Orotava to accomplish it; and as for the Señora, they had
said, she could not even reach the second Estancia de los Ingleses, and
lo! there she stood on the corona! From where we stood at this moment,
it is said that on a clear day the eye can take in the unparalleled
distance of eight hundred miles in circumference of ocean, grasping the
whole of Teneriffe as from a balloon, and its coast, and the whole
fourteen Canaries and coast of Africa. Unfortunately for us, the banks
of clouds below were too thick for us to do more than obtain a view of
the surrounding mountain-tops and country, and see the crater. The sea
we could only behold at a great distance. We spent forty minutes at the
top, examining the crater, and looking all around us; during the latter
part of which operation, I am sorry to say, I fell fast asleep from
sheer fatigue, and was aroused by Richard hallooing to me that my
clothes were on fire, which, alas! was too true. I pocketed specimens of
obsidian, sulphur, and pumice. It was piercing cold, with a burning sun;
and we experienced a nasty, choking, sickening smell of sulphur, which
arose in fetid puffs from the many-coloured surface—dead white, purple,
dull red, green, and brilliant yellow. A sense of awe stole over me as
Richard almost poked his head into the holes whence issued the jets of
smoke. I could not help thinking of the fearful catastrophes that had
taken place—how eruptions, perhaps from that very hole, had desolated
Teneriffe—how, perhaps, it was that which had caused Hanno to say that
on the coast of Africa it rained fire; and yet here we were fearlessly
poking our heads inquisitively into it. What if this should be the
instant of another great convulsion?

I did not experience any of the sensations described by most travellers
on the Peak, such as sickness, pains in the head or inside, or faintness
and difficulty of breathing, though the air was rare in the extreme, and
although I am of a highly sensitive and nervous temperament, and suffer
all this when obliged to lead a sedentary life and deprived of open air
and hard exercise. I found my brain clear and the air and height
delightfully exhilarating, and could have travelled so for a month with
much pleasure. The only inconvenience that I did experience was a sun
that appeared to concentrate itself upon me as a focus (as, I suppose,
it appeared to do the same to each of us), and a piercing cold and
severe wind besides, which combined to heat and yet freeze my head and
face, until the latter became like a perfect mask of hard, red skin,
likewise my lips and inside of my mouth. My hands, feet, and knees also
were torn by the rocks, and I was a little bruised by sleeping on
stones; but that was all; and my only difficulty about breathing
proceeded from the labour of climbing on hands and feet, and had no
connexion with the rarity of the atmosphere; and as we were, I believe,
the first winter travellers living who had ascended at that season, we
had an excellent opportunity of judging. My guide also told me that I
was the only señora who had performed some feat or other; but I could
not exactly understand what.

At 8.30 we began the descent, planting our pikes and our heels in the
soft stuff, sliding down ten or twelve yards at a time, and arrived in a
quarter of an hour at the little plain base. Here we breathed for a few
moments, and then started again for the descent of that truly Mal Pais.
It was even _worse_ to descend. I only wondered how we got up in the
dark without breaking our ankles or legs over those colossal ruins,
called the “Hobberings,” of the Peak. Twice twisting my ankle in the
loose masses, though not badly, warned me that it was better to take my
time than get a bad hurt; and the others were most considerate to me,
both going and coming, begging me not to be ashamed to stop as often and
as long as I liked. We were therefore two hours coming down, picking up
the discarded garments on the way, and inclining a little to the right,
to see the ice cave—Cueva de Zelo—which occupied twenty minutes. It is a
large cavern in the rock, hung with huge icicles, and covered over with
ice inside. We now descended to the place we had mounted on horseback in
the night. How the poor beast ever came up it is my astonishment; and I
am sure, if it had been daylight, I should have been a great deal more
frightened than I was. It was a case of “poling” down on our heels
again; and our two guides hailed the two below with a Guanche whistle,
which meant “Put the kettle on.”

We reached the next stage at 10.11. I was now rather “done up,” so I
drank a bowl of strong green tea, and performed a kind of toilet, etc.,
under the lee of a rock, taking off the remnants of my gloves, boots,
and stockings, and replacing them with others, which I fortunately had
taken the precaution to bring; washed, brushed, and combed; dressed a
little more tidily; and glycerined my hands, feet, and face. I then
wanted to lie down and sleep; but alas! there was no shade except in the
snowdrifts; so I tied a wet towel round my head, and erected an umbrella
over it, and slept for half an hour, while Richard and the men
breakfasted and reloaded. We sent the animals down the remainder of the
steep ascent which had taken up our last three-quarters of an hour
yesterday—that is, from the _estancia_ where we slept to the
commencement of the Cañadas—and we followed on foot, and were down in
about half an hour. This is the bottom of the actual mountain out of
which the Cone rises. Once more being on almost level ground, we soon
passed the desert, fifteen miles in circumference, surrounding the
mountain. There were still ranges of mountains and country to descend,
below it, to reach Orotava. We accomplished them all after a hot but
pleasant ride, broken by rests, and arrived safe home at Orotava at 7
p.m.

We spent a thoroughly happy month at Orotava, in the wilds, amongst the
peasantry. No trammels of society, no world, _no post_, out of
civilization, _en bourgeois_, and doing everything for ourselves, with
the bare necessaries of life. All our days were much alike, except
excursion days.

We rose at seven, cup of tea, and toilet. Then came my domestic work
(Richard had plunged into literature at half-past seven): this consisted
of what, I suppose, Shakspeare meant by “chronicling small beer”; but I
had no fine lady’s maid to do it for me—she would have been sadly out of
place—ordering dinner, market, and accounts, needlework, doing the room,
the washing, small cookery on the pan of charcoal, and superintending
the roughest of the work as performed by Bernardo. Husbands are
uncomfortable without “Chronicle,” though they never see the _petit
détail_ going on, and like to keep up the pleasant illusion that it is
done by magic. _I_ thought it very good fun, this kind of gypsying.
Breakfast at ten, write till two (journals and diaries kept up, etc.),
dinner at two; then walk or ride or make an excursion; cup of tea on
coming in, literature till ten, with a break of supper at eight, and at
ten to bed: a delightfully healthy and wholesome life, both for mind and
body, but one which I can’t recommend to any one who cannot rough it, or
who has no serious occupation, or lacks a very agreeable companion.

Sometimes, when Richard was busy writing, I would stroll far away into
the valley to enjoy the sweet, balmy sea-breeze and smell of flowers,
and drink in the soft, clear air, and would get far away from our little
straggling, up-and-down town on its perch, and cross over _barrancos_
and ravines and enjoy myself. One day, so occupied, I came upon a lovely
_quinta_ in a garden, full of fruits and flowers, a perfect forest of
tall rose trees and geranium bushes, which hung over the garden hedge
into the path. Two charming old ladies caught me prigging—Los Senhoras
T. They came out and asked me in, showed me all over their garden, gave
me fruit and sweetmeats and flowers, and kissed me. They did not know
what five o’clock tea meant, but I often wandered there about that time,
and found a charming substitute in the above articles, and I quite
struck up a friendship with them.

We put off leaving our peaceful retreat until the last possible day,
when we went down to Santa Cruz. When we had been at Santa Cruz three or
four days, the fatal gun boomed—the signal of our separation. It was
midday, and there was my detestable steamer at anchor—the steamer by
which I was to return to England. I felt as I did when I was a child,
and the cab stopped at the dentist’s door. I may pass over this
miserable day and our most miserable parting. Richard was going again to
pestilential Fernando Po. I should not see him for many, many weary
months, and perhaps never again. How gladly would I have gone with him;
even to the eleventh hour I had hoped that he would relent and let me
go. But the climate was death to a white woman, and he was inexorable.
He would not even let me sleep one night at Fernando Po. So we parted,
he to his consulate, and I to go back home—which was no home without
_him_. I pass over the pain of that parting. With many tears and a heavy
heart I embarked on my steamer for England.




                               CHAPTER IV
                          _A TRIP TO PORTUGAL_
                              (1863–1865)

    Containeth Time a twain of days—this of blessing, that of bane;
    And holdeth Life a twain of halves—this of pleasure, that of pain.

                    ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                        (_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).


On returning to England, a long and dreary interval of fifteen months
ensued. Isabel spent it for the most part with her parents in London,
working all the time for her husband in one way or another. The
separation was broken this time by one or two voyages which she made
from England to Teneriffe, where she and her husband met for a space
when he could snatch a week or two from Fernando Po. She had one very
anxious time; it was when Burton was sent on a special mission to the
King of Dahomé, to impress upon that potentate the importance the
British Government attached to the cessation of the slave-trade, and to
endeavour by every possible means to induce him to discontinue the
Dahoman customs, which were abominable cruelties. Burton succeeded in
some things, and his dusky majesty took a great fancy to him, and he
made him a brigadier-general of his Amazons. When the news of this
unlooked-for honour reached Isabel, she became “madly jealous from
afar,” for she pictured to herself her husband surrounded by lovely
houris in flowing robes mounted on matchless Arab steeds. Burton,
however, allayed her pangs by sending her a little sketch of the chief
officer of his brigade, as a type of the rest. Even Isabel, who owns
that she was influenced occasionally by the green-eyed monster, could
not be jealous of this enchantress.

The mission to the King of Dahomé was a difficult and dangerous one; but
Burton acquitted himself well. Isabel at home lost no time in bringing
her husband’s services before Lord Russell, the Foreign Secretary, and
she seized this opportunity to ask for his promotion to a less deadly
climate, where she might join him. In reply she received the following
letter:


                                              “MINTO, _October 6, 1863_.

  “DEAR MRS. BURTON,

“I know the climate in which your husband is working so zealously and so
well is an unhealthy one, but it is not true to say that he is the
smallest of consuls in the worst part of the world. Many have inferior
salaries, and some are in more unhealthy places.

“However, if I find a vacancy of a post with an equal salary and a
better position, I will not forget his services. I do not imagine he
would wish for a less active post.

“He has performed his mission to Dahomé very creditably, to my entire
satisfaction.

                                              “I remain, yours truly,
                                                              “RUSSELL.”


With this answer she was fain to be content for a space.

In August, 1864, the time came round again for Burton’s second leave
home. His wife, rejoicing, travelled down to meet him at Liverpool, this
time to part no more, as previously. A few weeks after his return they
went to Mortlake Cemetery and chose the place for their grave, the very
spot where the stone tent now is, beneath which they both are sleeping.
Very quickly after that came the British Association meeting at Bath and
the tragic incident of Speke’s death.[21]

Apart from the sad circumstance of Speke’s death, which cast a shadow
over their joy, the Burtons passed a very pleasant winter. They stayed
at several country houses, as was their wont, and found many hospitable
friends glad to receive them, and met many interesting people, notably
Professor Jowett. Early in 1864 they went on a two months’ driving tour
in Ireland, which they explored by degrees from end to end after their
own fashion in an Irish car. They paid many visits _en route_; and it
may be mentioned in passing that Isabel always used to see the little
horse which took them over Ireland had his midday feed, _washed down by
a pint of whisky and water_. She always declared that this was what kept
him so frisky and fresh! This Irish tour also brings out the restless,
roving spirit of both Burton and his wife. Even when on leave at home,
and in the midst of civilization, they could never remain any length of
time in one place, but preferred to be on the move and rough it in their
own fashion. At Dublin they met with an unusual amount of hospitality;
and while they were staying in that city Isabel met Lentaigne, the great
convict philanthropist. He had such a passion for taking convicts in and
trying to reform them that Lord Carlisle once said to him, “Why,
Lentaigne, you will wake up some morning and find you are the only spoon
in the house.” He took Isabel to see all the prisons and reformatories
in Dublin, and endeavoured to arouse in her something of his enthusiasm
for their inhabitants. Knowing that she would soon be bound for foreign
parts, he implored her to take one with her, a convict woman of about
thirty-four, who was just being discharged after fifteen years in
prison. “Why, Mr. Lentaigne, what did she do?” asked Isabel. “Poor
girl!” he answered—“the sweetest creature!—she murdered her baby when
she was sixteen.” “Well,” answered Isabel, “I would do anything to
oblige you; but if I took her, I dare say I should often be left alone
with her, and at thirty-four she _might_ like larger game.”

It was about this time that the Burtons again represented to Lord
Russell how miserable their lives were, in consequence of being
continually separated by the deadly climate of Fernando Po. Isabel’s
repeated petitions so moved the Foreign Secretary that he transferred
Burton to the Consulate of Santos in the Brazils. It was not much of a
post, it is true, and with a treacherous climate; but still his wife
could accompany him there, and they hailed the change with gratitude.
Before their departure a complimentary dinner was given by the
Anthropological Society to Burton, with Lord Stanley (afterwards Lord
Derby) in the chair. Lord Stanley made a very complimentary speech about
the guest of the evening, and the President of the Society proposed Mrs.
Burton’s health, and spoke of the “respect and admiration” with which
they all regarded her. The dinner was a capital send-off, and the
Burtons may be said to have entered upon the second stage of their
married life with the omens set fair.

Husband and wife arranged that they should go out to Portugal together
for a little tour; that he should go on from there to Brazil; and she
should return to London to wind up affairs, and as soon as that was done
join him at Rio. In accordance with this programme they embarked at
Southampton for Lisbon on May 10, 1865. The passage out was uneventful.
Isabel in her journal thus describes their experiences on arriving at
Lisbon:

“As soon as our vessel dropped her anchor a crowd of boats came
alongside, and there ensued a wonderful scene. In their anxiety to
secure employment the porters almost dragged the passengers in half, and
tore the baggage from each other as dogs fight for a bone, screaming
themselves hoarse the while, and scarcely intelligible from excitement.
The noise was so great we could not hear ourselves speak, and our great
difficulty was to prevent any one of them from fingering our baggage. We
made up our minds to wait till the great rush was over. We sent some
baggage on with the steamer, and kept some to go ashore. I am sure I do
not exaggerate when I say that, as I sat and watched one bag, I told
fifteen men, one after another, to let it alone. We saw some friends go
off in the clutches of many fingers, and amid scenes of confusion and
excitement; but not caring to do likewise, we chose a boat, and went
round to the custom-house. The landing was most disagreeable, and in a
bad gale not to be done at all—merely a few dirty steps on the
river-side. In wind and pelting rain we walked to our hotel, followed
closely at our heels by men and famished-looking dogs. We proceeded at
once to the best-looking hotel in the place, the Braganza, which makes
some show from the river—a large, square, red building, several storeys
high, with tiers of balconies all round the house. On account of the
diplomats occupying this hotel on a special mission from England to give
the Garter to the King of Portugal, it was still crowded, and we were
put up in the garrets at first. After two days we were given a very
pleasant suite of rooms—bedroom, dining- and drawing-room—with wide
windows overlooking the Tagus and a great part of Lisbon.

“These quarters were, however, not without drawbacks, for here occurred
an incident which gave me a foretaste of the sort of thing I was to
expect in Brazil. Our bedroom was a large whitewashed place; there were
three holes in the wall, one at the bedside bristling with horns, and
these were cockroaches some three inches long. The drawing-room was
gorgeous with yellow satin, and the magnificent yellow curtains were
sprinkled with these crawling things. The consequence was that I used to
stand on a chair and scream. This annoyed Richard very much. ‘A nice
sort of traveller and companion _you_ are going to make,’ he said; ‘I
suppose you think you look very pretty and interesting standing on that
chair and howling at those innocent creatures.’ This hurt me so much
that, without descending from the chair, I stopped screaming, and made a
meditation like St. Simon Stylites on his pillar; and it was, ‘That if I
was going to live in a country always in contact with these and worse
things, though I had a perfect horror of anything black and crawling, it
would never do to go on like that.’ So I got down, fetched a basin of
water and a slipper, and in two hours, by the watch, I had knocked
ninety-seven of them into it. It cured me. From that day I had no more
fear of vermin and reptiles, which is just as well in a country where
nature is over-luxuriant. A little while after we changed our rooms we
were succeeded by Lord and Lady Lytton, and, to my infinite delight, I
heard the same screams coming from the same room a little while after.
‘There!’ I said in triumph, ‘you see I am not the _only_ woman who does
not like cockroaches.’”

The Burtons tarried two months in Portugal, and explored it from end to
end, and Isabel made notes of everything she saw in her characteristic
way. Space does not permit of giving the account of her Portuguese tour
in full, but we are fain to find room for the following descriptions of
a bull-fight and procession at Lisbon. Burton insisted on taking his
wife (whose loathing of cruelty to animals was intense) to see it,
probably to accustom her betimes to the savage sights and sounds which
might await her in the semi-civilized country whither they were bound.
“At first,” she says, “I crouched down with my hands over my face, but I
gradually peeped through one finger and then another until I saw the
whole of it.” And this is what she saw:

“On Sunday afternoon at half-past four we drove to the Campo di Sta.
Anna, where stands the Praça dos Touros, or Bull Circus, a wooden
edifice built in the time of Dom Miguel. It is fitted with five hundred
boxes, and can contain ten thousand persons. It is a high, round, red
building, ornamented. The circle has a barrier and then a space all
round, and a second and higher barrier where the people begin. They were
watering the ring when we entered, crackers were fizzing, and the band
was playing. At five o’clock the circle was filled.

“A blast from the trumpets announced the entry of the _cavalleiro_, a
knight on a prancing steed richly caparisoned, which performed all the
steps and evolutions of the old Spanish horsemanship—_i.e._ saluting the
public and curveting all about in steps. The _cavalleiro_ then announced
the deeds to be performed, and this ceremony was called ‘the greeting of
the knight.’ Before him marched the bull-fighters, who ranged themselves
for inspection in ranks. They were sixteen in number. Eight _gallegos_
were dressed in white stockings to the knee, flesh-coloured tights,
green caps lined with red, red sashes, and gay, chintz-patterned
jackets, and were armed with long pronged forks like pitchforks, called
_homens de forçado_. They were Portuguese, fit and hearty. Two boys in
chocolate-coloured velvet and gold attended as pages, and six Spaniards,
who really did all the work, completed the number. They were tall,
straight, slim, proud, and graceful, and they strutted about with cool
jauntiness. Their dress began with dandy shoes, then flesh-coloured
stockings, velvet tights slashed with gold or silver, a scarlet sash,
and a short jacket that was a mass of gold or silver, and a sombrero of
fanciful make. Their hair was as short as possible, save for a pigtail
rolled up like a woman’s back hair and knotted with ribbon. There was
one in green and gold, one in pale blue and silver, one in purple and
silver, one in dark blue and silver, one in chocolate and silver, and
one in maroon and silver. The green and gold was the favourite man, on
account of his coolness, jaunty demeanour, and his graceful
carelessness. The _cavalleiro_ having inspected them, retired. Another
man then came out, the _piccador_.

“At a fresh blast of the horn the door of the arena flew open, and in
rushed a bull. For an instant he stopped, stared wildly round in
surprise, and gave a wild roar of rage. Then he made at the horseman,
whose duty it was to receive him at full gallop and to plant the barb in
his neck before his horns reached the horse’s hind-quarters, which he
would otherwise have ripped up. When the bull had received several barbs
from the _piccador_, he was tired of pursuing the horse. It was then the
duty of the Spaniards to run so as to draw the bull after them, when on
foot they planted two barbs in his neck. The instant he received them he
roared and turned off for an instant, during which the man flew over the
barrier as lightly as possible. This went on for some time, the bull
bounding about with his tail in the air and roaring as he sought another
victim. The prettiest part of it was the skill of the _matador_ or
_espada_, who shook a cloak at the bull. The beast immediately rushed at
it as quick as a flash of lightning; the _espada_ darted aside, twisted
the cloak, and changed places with the bull, who could never get at him.
It was as if he rushed at a shadow. It was most graceful. In the case of
our green and gold _espada_ the bulls seemed afraid of him. They retired
before his gaze as he knelt down before them, begging of them to come
on; after a few rounds they seemed to acknowledge a master, for he
appeared to terrify them. The last act was that in which the _gallegos_
tease the bull to run at them. One, when the bull was charging with
bowed head, jumped between the horns and clung on, allowing himself to
be flung about, and the others caught hold of the tail and jumped on his
back, and he pranced about till tired. This is literally ‘seizing the
bull by the horns.’ Then oxen with bells were turned in, and the bull
was supposed to go off quietly with them. We had thirteen bulls, and the
performance lasted two hours. The programmes were crammed with
high-flown language.

“Women were there in full war-paint, green and pink silk and white
mantillas. Little children of four and five years old were there too. No
wonder they grow hardened! A few English tourists were present also, and
a lot of dirty-looking people dressed in Sunday best. Our first bull
would go back with the cows; the second bull jumped over the barrier,
and gave a great deal of trouble, and very nearly succeeded in getting
amongst the people. Every now and then a bull would fly over the head of
the _bandahille_ and jump the barrier to escape him. One bull flew at
the barrier, and, failing to clear it, fell backwards; one bull would
not fight, and was fearfully hissed; one had to be lassoed to get him
out of the ring. Once or twice _gallegos_ would have been gored but for
the balls on the bulls’ horns.

“After the first terror I found the fight very exciting. If it had been
a bit more cruel no woman ought to have seen it. I heard some who were
accustomed to Spanish bull-fights say it was very tame. The bulls’ horns
were muffled, so that they could not gore the horses or men. Hence there
were no disembowelled horses and dogs lying dead, and a bull which has
fought well is not unfairly killed. The men were bruised though, and
perhaps the horses. The bull had some twenty barbs sticking in the
fleshy part of his neck. When he is lassoed and made fast in the stable,
the men take out the barbs, wash the wounds in vinegar and salt, and the
bull returns to his herd.

“The day before we left Portugal—Richard for Brazil and I for England—I
had also the good fortune to witness a royal procession.

“Early in the day Lisbon presented an appearance as if something unusual
was about to take place. The streets were strewed thickly with soft red
sand. The corridors were hung with festoons of gay-coloured drapery, and
silk cloths and carpets hung from the balconies, of blue and scarlet and
yellow. The cathedral had a grand box erected outside, of scarlet and
green velvet.

“Being Corpus Christi, the great day of all the year, there was grand
High Mass and Exposition. All the bishops, priests, and the Royal Family
attended. In the afternoon the streets were crowded with people on foot,
curious groups lined the sides, and carriages were drawn up at all
available places. At four o’clock a flourish of trumpets announced that
the procession had issued from the cathedral. Officers, covered with
decorations, passed to and fro on horseback. Water-carriers plied their
_aqua fresca_ trade. Bands played in all the streets. While waiting,
Portuguese men, with brazen effrontery, asked permission to get into my
carriage to see the procession better; the rude shopboys clambered up
the wheels, hiding the view with their hats. I dispersed the men, but
took in the children. They did not attempt this with any of the
Portuguese carriages, but only with mine.

“The procession occupied two hours and a half. First came a troop of
black men, and a dragon (_i.e._ a man in scaly armour) mounted on an
elephant in their midst. The next group was St. George on his horse,
followed by Britannia—a small girl astride dressed like Britannia. The
military presented arms to Britannia. These groups were both followed by
led chargers caparisoned with scarlet velvet trappings, their manes and
tails plaited with blue silk, and with blue plumes on their heads. They
were led by grooms in the royal livery of red and gold. These were
followed by all the different religious orders, carrying tall candles
mounted in silver, and a large silver crucifix in the centre, and
surrounded by acolytes in red cloth. Then came golden canopies,
surmounted by gold and silver crosses. Then all the clergy surrounding
some great ecclesiastical dignitary—the bishop probably—to whom the
soldiers presented arms. Then came an official with a gold bell in a
large gold frame, which was rung three times at every few hundred yards,
followed by a huge red-and-yellow canopy, under which were the relics of
St. Vincent. Then, carried on cushions, were seven mitres covered with
jewels, representing the seven archbishops, more crosses and candles,
clergy in copes, and all the great people of the Church. Then came the
last and important group. It was headed by a procession of silver
lanterns carried by the bishops and chief priests. Then followed a
magnificent canopy, under which the Cardinal Patriarch carried the
Blessed Sacrament. The corners of the canopy were held by members of the
Royal Family, and immediately behind it came the King. The troops
brought up the rear. The soldiers knelt as the Blessed Sacrament passed,
and we all went on our knees and bowed our heads. The King was tall,
dark, and majestic, with a long nose and piercing black eyes, and he
walked with grace and dignity. He wore uniform of dark blue with gold
epaulettes, and the Order of the Garter, which had just been given him.”

The day after the royal procession Burton sailed from Lisbon for Brazil.
His wife went on board with him, inspected his cabin, and saw that
everything was comfortable, and then “with a heavy heart returned in a
boat to the pier, and watched the vessel slowly steaming away out of the
Tagus.” She attempted to drive after her along the shore, but the
steamer went too fast; so she went to the nearest church, and prayed for
strength to bear the separation. Burton had told his wife to return to
England by the next steamer. As she was in the habit of obeying his
commands very literally, and as a few hours after he left Lisbon a
little cockleshell of a steamer came in, she embarked in this most
unseaworthy boat the afternoon of the same day, though she had no proper
accommodation for passengers. They had a terrible time of it crossing
the Bay of Biscay, to all the accompaniments of a raging storm, violent
seasickness, and a cabin “like the Black Hole of Calcutta.” Her
experiences were so unpleasant that she dubbed the vessel _Ye Shippe of
Hell_. Nevertheless, as was her wont, she managed to see the ludicrous
side. She writes:

“Our passengers were some fun. There was not a single man who could have
been called a gentleman among the passengers, and only two ladies. They
were Donna Maria Bita Tenario y Moscoso (a Portuguese marquise),
travelling for her health with a maid-companion, and myself returning
with my maid to England. There were two other ladies (so called) with
children, each of them a little girl, and the girls were as troublesome
as the monkey and the dog who were with them. They trod on our toes,
rubbed their jammy fingers on our dresses, tore our leaves out of our
books, screamed, wanted everything, and fought like the monkey and the
dog. Their papas were quiet, worthy men. We had also on board a captain
and mate whose ship had been burnt in Morocco with a full cargo on the
eve of returning to England; a gentleman returning from Teneriffe (where
he has spent twenty-five years) to England, his native land, whom
everybody hoaxed and persuaded him almost that the moon was made of
green cheese in England; a Jew who ate, drank, was sick, and then began
to gorge again, laughed and talked and was sick with greatest good
humour and unconcern; an intelligent and well-mannered young fellow,
English born, but naturalized in Portugal, going out to the Consulate at
Liverpool; and, lastly, a Russian gentleman, who looked like an old ball
of worsted thrown under the grate. Nothing was talked of but sickness
and so forth; but I must say they were all good-hearted, good-humoured,
and good-natured, and their kindness to each other on the voyage nothing
could exceed. The two terrible children aforesaid were a great amusement
in _Ye Shippe_. One used to tease a monkey by boiling an egg hard and
giving it him hot, to see him toss it from paw to paw, and then holding
a looking-glass before him, for him to see his grimaces and antics and
other tricks; and the other child was always teasing a poor Armenian
priest born in Jerusalem. He had taken a second-class passage amongst
the sailors and common men. The first class was bad enough. God help the
second! They would not give the poor man anything to eat, and bullied
and teased him. He bore up in such a manly way my heart ached for him
and made me blush for the British snob. I used to load my pockets with
things for him when I left the table, and got the first class to admit
him to our society under an awning; but the captain would not have him
in the cabin or on the upper deck. Our skipper was a rough man, having
risen from a common sailor, but pleasant enough when in a polite humour.
The third amusement was the fallals of our maids, who were much more ill
and helpless than their mistresses. They were always ‘dying,’ ‘wouldn’t
get up,’ ‘couldn’t walk,’ but had to be supported by the gentlemen.
There was great joy on the sixth day because we thought we saw land. It
might have been a fog-bank; it might have been Portland Bill; anyway, we
began to pack and prepare and bet who would sleep ashore. We awoke on
the seventh day in a fog off Beachy Head at 4.30 a.m., and lay to and
whistled. Some time after we passed Eastbourne, and then ran plank along
the coast. How pretty the white walls of England looked in the morning
sun! At night we reached Gravesend; but there was too little water, and
we went aground at Erith, where we were obliged to stay till next
morning, owing to the bad fog and no water. However, we made our way up
to St. Katherine’s wharf at ten. There was an awful bustle; but I
disturbed the whole ship to land; and taking my Portuguese marquise
under my wing, I fought my way to shore. I arrived home at noon—a happy
meeting in the bosom of my family.”

Arrived in London, Isabel at once set to work to complete her
preparations for her departure to Brazil. It was a habit with the
Burtons all through their lives that, whenever they were leaving England
for any length of time, Burton started first in light marching order to
prospect the place, leaving his wife behind to pay, pack, and bring up
the heavy baggage in the rear. This was the case in the present
instance. When her work was done, Isabel found she had still ten days on
her hands before the steamer sailed from Southampton for Rio. So
temporal affairs being settled for the nonce, she turned her attention
to her spiritual needs, and prepared herself for her new life by prayer
and other religious exercise. She went into retreat for a week at the
Convent of the Assumption, Kensington Square. The following meditation
is taken from her devotional book of that period:

“I am to bear _all_ joyfully, as an atonement to save Richard. How
thoughtful for me has been God’s dispensation! He rescued me from a fate
which, though it was a happy one, I pined in, because I was intended for
a higher destiny and yearned for it. Let me not think that my lot is to
be exempt from trials, nor shrink from them, but let me take pain and
pleasure alike. Let me summon health and spirits and nerves to my aid,
for I have asked and obtained a most difficult mission, and I must
acquire patient endurance of suffering, resistance of evil, and take
difficulties and pain with courage and even with avidity. My mission and
my religion must be uppermost. As I asked ardently for this mission—none
other than to be Richard’s wife—let me not forget to ask as ardently for
grace to carry it out, and let me do all I can to lay up such store as
will remain with me beyond the grave. I have bought bitter experiences,
but much has, I hope, been forgiven me. I belong to God—the God who made
all this beautiful world which perpetually makes my heart so glad. I
cannot see Him, but I feel Him; He is with me, within me, around me,
everywhere. If I lost Him, what would become of me? How I have bowed
down before my husband’s intellect! If I lost Richard, life would be
worthless. Yet he and I and life are perishable, and will soon be over;
but God and my soul and eternity are everlasting. I pray to be better
moulded to the will of God, and for love of Him to become indifferent to
what may befall me.”


The next week Isabel sailed from Southampton to join her husband at Rio.




                               CHAPTER V
                                _BRAZIL_
                              (1865–1867)

 For to share is the bliss of heaven, as it is the joy of earth;
 And the unshared bread lacks savour, and the wine unshared lacks zest;
 And the joy of the soul redeemed would be little, little worth,
 If, content with its own security, it could forget the rest.


Isabel had a pleasant voyage out to Brazil, and witnessed for the first
time the ceremonies of “crossing the Line,” Neptune, and the tubbing,
shaving, climbing the greasy pole, sack races, and all the rest of it.
When the ship arrived at Pernambuco, on August 27, Isabel found all the
letters she had written to her husband since they had parted at Lisbon
accumulated at the post-office. This upset her so much that, while the
other passengers were dancing and making merry, she stole on deck and
passed the evening in tears, or, to use her own phrase, she had “a good
boohoo in the moonlight.”

A few days later the ship reached Rio de Janeiro. Burton came on board
to meet her, and she had the joy of personally delivering the overdue
letters into his hands.

They stayed five or six weeks in Rio, at the Estrangeiros Hotel, and
enjoyed a good deal of society, and made several excursions into the
country round about. They were well received by the European society of
the place, which was chiefly naval and diplomatic. This was pleasant for
Isabel, who could never quite accommodate herself to the somewhat
second-rate position to which the English Consul and his wife are
generally relegated by foreign courts (more so then than now). Isabel
was always sensitive about the position abroad of her husband and
herself. In the ordinary way, at many foreign capitals, the consul and
his wife are not permitted to attend court, and the line of demarcation
between the Consular and Diplomatic service is rigidly drawn. But Isabel
would have none of this, and she demanded and obtained the position
which belonged to her by birth, and to her husband by reason of his
famous and distinguished public services. Burton himself cared nothing
for these things, and his wife only cared for them because she had an
idea they would help him on in his career. That her efforts in this
direction did help him there is no doubt; but in some ways they may have
hindered too, for they aroused jealousy in certain small minds among his
colleagues in the Consular service, who disliked to see the Burtons
taking a social position superior to their own. The fact is that both
Richard Burton and his wife were simply thrown away in the Consular
service; they were too big for their position, in energy, in ability, in
every way. They had no field for their activities, and their large and
ardent natures perpetually chafed at the restraints and petty annoyances
resulting from their semi-inferior position. Except at Damascus, they
were round pegs in square holes. Burton was not of the stuff to make a
good consul; and the same, relatively speaking, may be said of his wife.
They were both of them in a false position from the start.

The following extract from a letter which Isabel wrote home shortly
after her arrival in Brazil is of interest in this connexion:

“I dare say some of my friends do not know what a consul is. I am sure I
had not the remotest idea until I came here, and then I find it is very
much what Lady Augusta thinks in _The Bramleighs_, written by a
much-respected member of our cloth, Charles Lever, consul at Trieste.
‘Isn’t a consul,’ she asks, ‘a horrid creature that lives in a seaport,
and worries merchant seamen, and imprisons people who have no passports?
Papa always wrote to the consul about getting heavy baggage through the
custom-house; and when our servants quarrelled with the porters, or the
hotel people, it was the consul sent some of them to jail. But you are
aware, darling, he isn’t a creature one knows. They are simply
impossible, dear—impossible! The moment a gentleman touches an _emploi_
it’s all over with him—from that hour he becomes the Customs creature,
or the consul, or the factor, or whatever it be, irrevocably. Do you
know that is the only way to keep men of family out of small official
life? We should see them keeping lighthouses if it were not for the
obloquy.’ Now, alas! dear, as you are well aware, I _do_ know what a
consul is, and what it is to be settled down in a place that my Irish
maid calls the ‘end of God’s speed,’ whatever that may be; but which I
interpret that, after Providence made the world, being Saturday night,
all the rubbish was thrown down here and forgotten.”

She was over-sensitive on this point, and keenly alive to slights from
those who, though inferior in other respects, were superior in official
position, and who were jealous when they saw “only the Consul’s wife”
playing the _grande dame_. They were unable to understand that a woman
of Isabel’s calibre could hardly play any other part in whatever
position she found herself. Fortunately, through the kindness of Sir
Edward and Lady Thornton (Sir Edward was then British Minister at Rio),
she experienced very few of these annoyances at Rio; and she always
remembered their goodness to her in this respect. The Emperor and
Empress also took the Burtons up, and made much of them.

On this their first sojourn in Rio everything was most pleasant. The
Diplomatic society, thanks to Sir Edward and Lady Thornton, welcomed the
Burtons with open arms. A lady who occupied a prominent position in the
Diplomatic circle of Rio at that time has told me the following about
Isabel: “We liked her from the first, and we were always glad to see her
when she came up to Rio or Petropolis from São Paulo. She was a
handsome, fascinating woman, full of fun and high spirits, and the very
best of good company. It was impossible to be dull with her, for she was
a brilliant talker, and always had some witty anecdotes or tales of her
adventures to tell us. She was devoted to her husband and his interests,
and was never tired of singing his praises. She was a great help to him
in every way, for he by no means shared her popularity.”

At Rio Isabel gave her first dinner-party—the first since her marriage;
and here she got a touch of fever, which lasted for some time.

When she was sufficiently recovered, the Burtons left Rio for Santos
(their consulate, one hundred and twenty miles to the south). They went
down on board H.M.S. _Triton_, and on arrival were saluted by the usual
number of guns. The Consular Corps were in attendance, and the Brazilian
local magnates came to visit them. Thus began Isabel’s first experience
of official life.

Santos was only a mangrove swamp, and in many respects as unhealthy as
Fernando Po. Burton had come down and inspected the place before the
arrival of his wife at Rio; and he had arranged, as there were two
places equally requiring the presence of a consul—São Paulo on the top
of the Serra, and Santos low down on the coast—that Isabel should live
for the most part at São Paulo, which was comparatively healthy, and
that they should ride up and down between Santos and São Paulo as need
required. For an Englishwoman to have lived always at Santos would have
been fatal to her health. The railway between Santos and São Paulo was
then in process of being made. As they had determined not to sleep at
Santos, the Burtons went the same day on trolleys along the new line as
far as Mugis, where they stayed the night. The next day, by dint of
mules, walking, riding, and occasional trolleys, they got to the top of
the Serra, a very precipitous climb. At the top a locomotive took them
to São Paulo, where they put up at a small inn. The next day Burton had
to go down to Santos to establish his consulate; but his wife remained
at São Paulo to look for a house, and, as she said, “set up our first
real home.”

[Illustration: SANTOS.]

In about a fortnight she followed him down to Santos in the diligence,
and remained there until the swamps gave her a touch of fever. She then
went up to São Paulo again, and after some difficulty found a house.
This was in the latter part of 1865. The whole of the next eighteen
months was spent between São Paulo and Santos, varied at long intervals
by a trip to Rio, or a visit to Barra, the watering-place, or excursions
in the country round São Paulo. Burton was often away on his consular
duties or on expeditions to far-away places, and his wife was
necessarily left much alone at São Paulo, where she led a life more like
“farmhouse life,” to use her own phrase, than anything else. There were
many and great drawbacks arising from the unhealthy climate, the insects
and vermin, and the want of congenial society. But Isabel was one of
those who manage to get enjoyment out of the most unlikely surroundings,
and she always made the best of circumstances and the material at her
disposal. As one has said of her, “If she had found herself in a
coal-hole, she would immediately have set to work to arrange the coals
to the best possible advantage.”

On the whole, this period of her life (December, 1865, to June, 1867)
was a happy one. The story of it is best told in a series of letters
which she wrote to her mother; and from them I have been permitted to
make the following extracts:


                                        “SÃO PAULO, _December 15, 1865_.

“I do hate Santos. The climate is beastly, the people fluffy. The
stinks, the vermin, the food, the niggers are all of a piece. There are
no walks; and if you go one way, you sink knee-deep in mangrove swamps;
another you are covered with sand-flies; and a third is crawling up a
steep mountain by a mule-path to get a glimpse of the sea beyond the
lagoons which surround Santos. I stayed there a fortnight and some days,
and I got quite ill and peevish. At last Richard was to go to Ignipe,
and I to São Paulo again. I started on Tuesday, the 12th, at one in the
day; and as it was so fine I sent all my cloaks and warm wraps away, and
started in a boat, as for two hours from Santos the roads had
overflowed. Then I took the diligence, which is an open van with seven
mules, and got the box-seat to enjoy the country. It rained in buckets,
and thundered and lightened all the way. We dined in a roadside hut on
black beans and garlic, I and strange travelling companions, and arrived
in eleven and a half hours. I had only a cotton gown on and no shawl,
and Kier (my maid) said I came to the door like a shivering
charity-girl, with the rain streaming off the brim of my hat. Kier gave
me some tea with brandy, groomed me down with brandy and water, and put
me between blankets. They think me a wonderful person here for being so
independent, as all the ladies are namby-pamby. To go up and down by
myself between Santos and São Paulo is quite a masculine feat. I am the
only woman who ever crossed the Serra outside the diligence, and the
only lady or woman who ever walked across the viaduct, which is now a
couple of planks wide across the valley, with one hundred and eighty
feet to fall if you slip or get giddy. I saw every one staring at me and
holding up their hands; and I was not aware I had done anything odd,
till I landed safely the other side, and saw all the rest going round.
The next day two of the workmen fell off and were killed.

“You asked me to tell you about São Paulo.

“I have taken a house in the town itself, because if Richard has to be
away often, I should not feel very safe with only Kier, out in the
country amongst lawless people and beasts. The part of the town I am in
is very high, on a good eminence, and therefore dry and healthy, a nice
little street, though narrow. I have an _appartement_ furnished; four
rooms to myself and the use of three others, and the kitchen, the
servant of the house, and everything but food, for 150 milreis, or £15 a
month.

“Behind is a yard and a patch of flowers, which people of sanguine
temperaments might call a garden, where we keep barrels of water for
washing or drinking. We have to buy water at threepence a gallon.

“As to furniture, in the Brazils they put many things into a house which
you do not want, and nothing you do. I have had their hard, lumbering,
buggy beds removed, and have put up our own little iron English
bedsteads with spring mattresses. I slept in my own cosy little bed from
Montagu Place last night for the first time since it left my room there
(now Dilly’s); I kissed it with delight, and jumped in it. I also bought
one in London for Richard.

“My servants consist of Kier, and one black boy, a very curious dwarf as
black as the grate, named Chico. He is honest and sharp as a needle, and
can do everything. All the English here wanted him, and did their best
to prevent his coming to me; but he ran away, and came to me for less
than half the money he asked them; and he watches me like a dog, and
flies for everything I want. I shall bring him home with me when I come.
The slaves here have to work night and day, and people treat them like
mules, with an utter disregard for their personal comforts. There is
something superior and refined in my dwarf, and I treat him with the
same consideration as I would a white servant; I see that he has plenty
of good food, a good bed, and proper exercise and sleep, and he works
none the worse for it.

“São Paulo itself is a pretty, white, straggling town on a hill and
running down into a high table-land, which is well-wooded and watered,
and mountains all round in the distance. We are about three thousand
feet above sea-level. It is a fine climate, too hot from nine till four
in summer, but fairly cool all the other hours. No cockroaches, fleas,
bugs, and sand-flies, but only mosquitoes and jiggers. Out in the
country there are snakes, monkeys, jaguars, and wild cats,
scorpion-centipedes, and spiders, but not in the town. Of course it is
dull for those who have time to be dull, and very expensive. For those
who are launched in Brazilian society, it is a fast and immoral place,
without any _chic_ or style. It is full of students, and no one is
religious or honest in money matters; and I should never be surprised if
fire were rained down upon it, as in a city of the Old Testament, for
want of a just Brazilian. _En revanche_ it is very healthy, and only one
month’s journey to England.

“I have had my first jigger since I wrote. A jigger is a little dirty
insect like a white tick that gets into your foot, under your toe-nail
if possible, burrows, and makes a large bag of eggs. It itches; and if
you are wise, you send at once for a negress, and she picks it out with
a common pin: if you do it yourself, you break its bag, and your foot
festers. I knew nothing about it, and left it for eight days, and found
I could not walk for a little black lump in my foot, which spurted fluid
like ink when I touched it. At last my nigger asked me to let him look
at it, and he got a sharp pair of scissors and took it out. It was like
a white bag this size ʘ, with a black head, and it left quite a hole in
my foot. You cannot walk about here without your shoes, and they must be
full of camphor, or the jiggers get into your feet, and people have
their nails taken off to extract them, and sometimes their toes and feet
cut off.”


                                          “SÃO PAULO, _January 3, 1866_.

“I have had twelve hard days’ work, from six in the morning till late at
night, with Kier and my black boy. We have had to unpack fifty-nine
pieces of baggage, wash the dirty trunks and stow them away, sort, dry,
and clean all their contents, and arrange ourselves in our rooms. We are
now comfortable for the moment; but we shall not stay here very long.
There are many disagreeables in the house which I did not know till I
had settled in it and taken it for four months. For example, I have
rented it from a French family who are composed, it appears, of odds and
ends, and they have the same right as myself to two of these rooms, the
salon and the storeroom, so I am not alone and cannot do as I like; and,
worst of all, one of them is a lady who will come up and call on me. I
am obliged to send to her and beg to be excused, which is disagreeable.
She is, it appears, a notorious personage. Richard is gone to the mines,
and has been away now nearly three weeks; and I have taken it upon
myself to rent a very nice house opposite this one. The English here
mislead one about expenses; I am obliged to buy my own experience, and I
do not expect to shake down into my income for three or four months
more. The English like to appear grand, saving all the while; and they
like to show me off as their lady consul, and make me run into expenses,
while I want honestly to live within £700 a year, and have as much
comfort as that will allow us. It will only go as far as £300 in
England.”


                                         “SÃO PAULO, _January 17, 1866_.

“I have settled down in my furnished apartments with Kier and Chico, and
am chiefly employed in arranging domestic expenses, studying Portuguese,
and practising my music. Richard has been gone to the mines a month, and
returned to Santos yesterday; so I conclude he will be up here in a few
days. It is our fifth wedding day on the 22nd. Here every one wants to
let his own especial dog-hole to us, so it is very hard to get settled.
The house is a nice, large, roomy one, with good views. Kier and I and
Chico, with the assistance of a friend’s servant, are painting,
whitewashing, and papering it ourselves. Only fancy, the Brazilians are
dreadfully shocked at me for working! They never do anything but live in
rags, filth, and discomfort at the back of their houses, and have one
showroom and one show-dress for strangers, eat _feijão_ (black beans),
and pretend they are spending the deuce and all. The eighth deadly sin
here is to be poor, or worse, economical. They say I am economical,
because I work myself. I said to one of the principal ladies yesterday:
‘Yes, I am economical; but I spend all I have, and do not save; I pay my
debts, and make my husband comfortable; and we are always well fed and
well dressed, and clean at both ends of our house. That’s English way!’
So she shut up.”


                                            “SÃO PAULO, _March 9, 1866_.

“I got the same crying fit about you, dear mother, last week, as I did
at Lisbon, starting up in the night and screaming out that you were
dead; I find I do it whenever I am over-fatigued and weak. The chance of
losing you is what weighs most on my mind, and it is therefore my
nightmare when I am not strong; not but what when awake I am perfectly
confident that we shall meet again before another year is out.

“I caught a cobra snake yesterday in our garden, and bottled it in
spirits, and also heaps of spiders, whose bite is like a cobra’s—they
are about the size of half a crown.”


                                           “SÃO PAULO, _April 18, 1866_.

“I have had a great row in my house last night; but when you write back,
you must not mention it, because Richard was fortunately out, and I do
not want him to know it. Chico has taken a great dislike to the young
gentleman who lodges in my house downstairs, because he has called him
names; so last night, Richard being away, he got a pail full of slops
and watched for him like a monkey to fling it all over him; but the
young man caught sight of him, and gave him a kick that sent him and the
pail flying into the air. I heard a great noise and went down, ill as I
was, and found the little imp chattering like a monkey, and showing his
teeth; so I made him go down on his knees and beg the young man’s
pardon. I was going to send him away; but to-day he came and knelt and
kissed the ground before me, and implored me to forgive him this once,
and he would never do such a thing again; so I have promised this time,
and will not tell Richard. Richard would half kill him if he knew it; so
you must none of you write back any jokes.”


                                             “SÃO PAULO, _May 14, 1866_.

“My house is now completely finished, and looks very pretty and
comfortable in a barnlike way. I shall be so pleased to receive the
candlesticks and vases for my altar as a birthday present, and the Mater
Dolorosa. My chapel is the only really pretty and refined part of my
house, except the terrace; the rooms are rough and coarse with holes and
chinks, but with all that is absolutely necessary in them, and they are
large and airy. I painted my chapel myself, white with a blue border and
a blue domed ceiling and a gilt border. I first nailed thin bits of wood
over the ratholes in the floor, and then covered it with Indian matting.
I have painted inscriptions on the walls in blue. I have always a lamp
burning, and the altar is a mass of flowers. It is of plain wood with
the Holy Stone let in, and covered with an Indian cloth, and again with
a piece of lace. I have white muslin curtains in a semicircle opening in
the middle.

“On May 5 my landlord’s child was christened in my chapel. They asked me
to lend it to them for the occasion, so I decorated the chapel and made
it very pretty. I thought they would christen the child, take a glass of
wine and a bit of cake, and depart within an hour. To my discomfort they
brought a lot of friends, children, and niggers, and they stopped six
hours, during which I had to entertain them (in Portuguese). They ran
all over my house, pulled about everything, ate and drank everything,
spat on my clean floors, made me hold the child to be christened, and it
was a year old, and kicked and screamed like a young colt all the time.
Part of the ceremony was that I had to present a silver sword about the
size of a dagger, ornamented with mock jewels, to the statue of Our Lady
for the child. I had a very pleasant day!

“One day we walked almost six miles out of São Paulo up the mountains to
make a pilgrimage to a small wayside chapel; and there we had São Paulo
like a map at our feet, and all the glorious mountains round us, and we
sat under a banana tree and spread our lunch and ate it, and stayed all
day and walked back in the cool of the evening. Some of these South
American evening scenes are very lovely and on a magnificent scale. The
canoes paddling down the river, the sun setting on the mountains, the
large foliage and big insects, the cool, sweet-scented atmosphere, and a
sort of evening hum in the air, the angelus in the distance, the thrum
of the guitars from the blacks going home from work—all add to the
charm. Richard came home on Saturday, the 12th, after a pleasant
nineteen days’ ride in the interior. He went to pay a visit to some
French _savants_ in some village, and they took him for a Brazilian
Government spy, and were very rude to him, and finding afterwards who he
was wrote him an humble apology. On June 1 I am going up to Rio. Richard
is going to read his travels before the Emperor. The Comte and Comtesse
d’Eu have asked us to their palace; but I do not think we shall go
there, as there will be too much etiquette to permit of our attending to
our affairs.”


[Illustration: PETROPOLIS.]


                                “PETROPOLIS, ABOVE RIO, _June 22, 1866_.

“Petropolis is a bit of table-land about three thousand feet high in the
mountains, just big enough to contain a pretty, white, straggling town,
with a river running through it—a town composed of villas and gardens,
and inhabited by the Diplomatic Corps. It is a Diplomatic nest, in fact.
This small settlement is surrounded by the mountain-tops, and on all
sides between them are wild panoramic views. We went the other day to be
presented to the Emperor and Empress. The first time we were taken by
the Vicomte and Vicomtesse Barbaçena. She is one of the Empress’s
favourites. I was in grand toilet, and Richard in uniform. The palace is
in a beautiful locality, but not grander than Crewe, or any English
country gentleman’s place. We were ushered through lines of corridors by
successions of chamberlains, and in a few moments into the imperial
presence. The Emperor is a fine man, about six feet two inches, with
chestnut hair, blue eyes, and broad shoulders, and has manly manners. He
was very cordial to us, and after a short audience we were passed on to
the Empress’s reception-room, where, after the usual kissing of hands,
we sat down and conversed for about twenty minutes (always in French).
She is a daughter of Ferdinand II. of Naples; and the Emperor, as you
know, is Pedro, the son of Pedro I., the first Emperor of Brazil and
King of Portugal.

“The second time the Emperor kept Richard two hours and a half talking
on important affairs and asking his opinion of the resources of the
country. The third time we visited the Comte d’Eu and the Duc de Saxe,
who have each married daughters of the Emperor. The former (Comte d’Eu)
is an old and kind patron of Richard; and we were received quite in a
friendly way by him, like any other morning visit. and we are now in a
position to go whenever we like to the palace _sans cérémonie_. None of
the other English here have the privilege. While we were with the Comte
d’Eu and his wife, their pet terrier came and sat up and begged; it
looked so ridiculous, so like a subject before royalty, that we all
roared with laughter. I am reported to have gone to Court with a
magnificent tiara of diamonds (you remember my crystals!). The Emperor
has taken a great fancy to Richard, and has put him in communication
with him, and all the Ministers of State here make a great fuss with him
(Richard).

“The society in Rio is entirely Diplomatic. There are the Ministers from
every Court in the world with their _attachés_.”


                                          “RIO DE JANEIRO, _June, 1866_.

“I have been again to the palace (this time to the birthday
drawing-room), and to-morrow am going to see the Empress in the evening.
I am very fond of our Minister and his wife, Mr.[22] and Mrs. Thornton,
and I am very proud of them; they are people we can look up to.

“Since I wrote Richard has given two lectures before a room full of
people. The Emperor and Empress, Comte d’Eu, and the Princesse Impériale
were present; we had to receive them, and to entertain them after in the
room prepared for them. I have seen them three times since I wrote, and
they always make us sit down and talk to us for some time. I told the
Empress all about your paralysis, and how anxious I was about you; and
she is so sympathetic and kind, and always asks what news I have of you.
She appears to take an interest in me, and asks me every sort of
question. Most of my time in Rio has been occupied in going to dinners.”


                                        “RIO DE JANEIRO, _July 8, 1866_.

“Yes, I am still covered with boils, and I cannot sit or stand, walk or
lie down, without a moan, and I am irritated and depressed beyond words.
I do not know if my blood be too poor or too hot, and there is nobody
here to ask; but Kier makes me drink porter, which I can get at Rio. I
have a few days well, and then I burst out in crops of boils; and if an
animal sting me, the place festers directly, and after I get well again
for a few days. I am very thin, and my nose like a cutwater; and people
who saw me on my arrival from England say I look very delicate; but I
feel very well when I have no boils.

“Since I wrote the flag-ship has come in, and I am greatly distressed
because I am going to lose nearly the only nice lady friend I have, Mrs.
Elliot, who was a daughter of Sir John Plackett, and married Admiral
Elliot, the son of Lord Minto; he has got his promotion.”


                                       “RIO DE JANEIRO, _July 23, 1866_.

“I am still here. Richard left me a fortnight ago, and I am still at the
Patent work. You have no idea how heartbreaking it is to have anything
to do with the Ministers. When last I wrote to you, we were informed
that we had obtained our concession. I was in high glee about it, and
Richard went away as jolly as a sandboy, only leaving me to receive the
papers; and no sooner was he gone than I got a letter to tell me the
Council of State had raised an objection to its being printed, and I
have been obliged to remain in the hotel at Rio at great expense, and
all alone to fight the case as best I may. Richard is gone to look after
the sea-serpent (but I do not tell this, as it might get him into a row
with the F. O.). I forgot to tell you there is said to be a sea-serpent
here one hundred and sixty feet long. No English person can have any
idea of the way matters are conducted at Rio. I am receiving the
greatest kindness from the Emperor, Empress, Comte d’Eu, and the
Imperial Princess, and the Ministers, and you would think I should be
able to get anything. They offer me and promise me everything; but when
I accept it, and think next day I shall receive my Patent papers signed,
there is always some little hitch that will take a few days more. I have
been here seven weeks like this, and of course have no redress. On July
10 the _Meida_ went away, taking the Elliots, the Admiral and his wife.
I went out a little way with them; and it was most affecting to see the
parting between them and the fleet. The ships all manned their rigging,
cheered, and played ‘God save the Queen’ and ‘I am leaving thee in
sorrow.’ I never saw any one look so distressed as the Admiral; and Mrs.
Elliot cried, and so did I.”

                                          “SÃO PAULO, _August 17, 1866_.

“On Saturday, the 11th, I left Rio, much to my regret for some things,
and to that of the friends I made there, who wanted me to stay for a
ball on the 14th. However, I knew Richard’s travels would be finished
about that day, and he would feel dull and lonely at home alone, so I
thought _bonne épouse avant tout_, and that the rest could take care of
itself. I sailed on the 11th, and was rewarded, as at four o’clock in
the morning of the 12th poor Richard came off from the coast in a canoe
in a gale of wind, and the captain obliged me by laying to and taking
him in. His canoe had been upset, and he was two days in the water, but
not deep water. We then came home together. It blew very hard, and I was
sick all the way. I find it very dull here after Rio. It is like
farmhouse life up the country, with no one to speak to; but I shall soon
get reconciled, and have plenty to do to make the place comfortable
again, and resume my _bourgeoise_ life.”


                                        “SÃO PAULO, _September 2, 1866_.

“To-morrow a little Englishman and woman are to be married. Richard has
to marry them. It seems so strange. Fancy him doing parson! We shall
muster about eighty people, Brazilian and English. I shall wear my
poplin, black and white lace, and crystal coronet. People marry at five
in the evening, and dance after, and sleep in the house. Richard says,
‘I won’t say, “Let us pray.”’ He is going to begin with, ‘Do any of you
know any reason why this man and woman should not be married? Have any
of you got anything to say?’ Then, shaking his finger at them in a
threatening way, he is going to plunge into it. I know I shall burst out
laughing.”


                                       “SÃO PAULO, _September 15, 1866_.

“I do not think the climate disagrees with me. Of course one does not
feel buoyant in great heat; but it is more money affairs and local
miseries that worry me, and you know we all have them in every latitude.
I should not feel justified, I think, in coming home for anything but
_serious_ illness. I have just domesticated and tamed Richard a little;
and it would not do to give him an excuse for becoming a wandering
vagabond again. He requires a comfortable and respectable home, and a
tight hand upon his purse-strings; and I feel that I have a mission
which amply fills my hands. Nobody knows all the difficulties in a
colonial or tropical home till she has tried them—the difficulty of
giving and taking, of being charitable and sweet-tempered, and yet being
mistress with proper dignity, as here we are all on a par. I often think
a _parvenue_, or half-bred woman, would burst if she had to do as I do.
But do not notice any of this writing back.

[Illustration: SÃO PAULO.]

“I have had a ride on my new horse: a wretched animal to look at; but he
went like the wind across the country, which is very wild and beautiful.
The riding here is very different to English riding. If the animal is to
walk or trot, he goes a sort of ambling jiggle, which I think most
uncomfortable. You cannot rise, nor do even a military trot, but sit
down in your saddle like a jelly and let him go. The only other pace is
a hard gallop, which is the best; you go like the wind over prairie and
valley, up and down hill, all the same. The horses here are trained so
that if your animal puts his foot in a hole you shoot off over his head,
and he turns head over heels, and then stands up and waits for you, and
never breaks his leg. In the wilds women ride straddle-leg like a man;
but one does not like to do it here. We are a shade too civilized. We
are leading a very regular life: up at 5 a.m. and out for a walk; I then
go to Mass, market, and home; Richard gives me a fencing lesson and
Indian clubs; then cold bath and dress; breakfast at 11 a.m., and then
look after my house; practise singing, Portuguese, help Richard with
literature, dine at six o’clock, and to bed at nine or ten.

“I am at present engaged with the F. O. Reports: I have to copy (1)
thirty-two pages on Cotton Report; (2) one hundred and twenty-five pages
Geographical Report; (3) eighty pages General Trade Report. This for
Lord Stanley, so I do it cheerfully.”


                                    “RIO DE JANEIRO, _December 8, 1866_.

“We are nearly all down with cholera. I have had a very mild attack. Our
_Chargé d’affaires_ has nearly died of it, and also our Secretary of
Legation; Kier has had it also mildly. Here people cannot drink or be
indolent with impunity. If I did not fence, do gymnastics, ride and
bathe in the sea, eat and drink but little, attend to my internal
arrangements, and occupy myself from early till late, to keep my mind
free from the depression that comes upon us all in these latitudes,
especially those who are not in clover like us, I could not live for six
months. As it is, I do not think I have lost anything, except one’s skin
darkens from the sun, and one feels weak from the heat; but I could
recover in six months in England.

“When I got the cholera, it was three in the morning. I thought I was
dying, so I got up, went to my desk and settled all my worldly affairs,
carried my last instructions to Kier in her bed, put on my clothes, and
went out to confession and communion.”


                                   “RIO DE JANEIRO, _December 22, 1866_.

“I have come down to Rio again to try and sell a book of Richard’s, and
am still at work about the gold concession. Richard is travelling (with
leave) in the interior. I accompanied Richard part of the way on his
travels. We parted on a little mountain with a church on the top—a most
romantic spot. He started with two companions, three horse-boys, and a
long string of mules. I rode my black horse, and returned alone with one
mounted slave. We had fearful weather all the time, torrents of tropical
rain, thunder and lightning, and our horses were often knee-deep in the
slush and mud. You cannot imagine how beautiful the forests are. The
trees are all interlaced with beautiful creepers, things that would be
cultivated in a hothouse, and then be a failure, and all wild, tangled,
and luxuriant, and in a virgin forest; you must force your horse through
these to make your way.

“You need not be frightened about me and my riding, though every one
says I am sure to be thrown some day; but I never ride a Rio Grande
horse for that reason. Only a man can shoot off properly when they turn
head over heels. I am getting very well up in all that concerns stables
and horses, and ride every day. The other day I went off to ride, and I
lost myself for four and a half hours in a forest, and got quite
frightened. I met two bulls and a large snake (cobra); I rode away from
the two former, and the latter wriggled away under my horse’s belly; he
was frightened at it. The ladies’ society here is awful; they have all
risen out of unknown depths. Chico is still with me, and likely to be,
as we are both very fond of him. I have made a smart lad of him, and he
would make a great sensation in London as a tiger. He is so proud of the
buttons Rody sent me for him, and shows them to every one.”


                                           “SÃO PAULO, _March 10, 1867_.

“When Richard is away, it is not always safe here. For instance, last
night a drunken English sailor, who had run away from his ship, got into
the house, and insisted on having a passport and his papers made out. I
could not persuade him that the Consul was absent, and had to give him
food and money to get him out. Still, if he had used any violence, I
would have gone down to the lodgers. At the same time, I never see or
hear of _them_ unless I wish it. Do not mention about the drunken sailor
writing back, as Richard would say it was my own fault, because I will
not allow any one to be turned away from my door who is in need, and so
my house is open to all the poor of the neighbourhood, and he scolds me
for it. I sometimes suffer for it, but only one case out of twenty.

“Brazilians never give charity; and how can the poor judge between a
true Catholic and a Brazilian one, if some of us do not act up to our
religion in the only way that speaks home to them? I certainly felt
rather frightened last night, as the sailor told me he was ‘a damned
scoundrel and a murderer,’ and wanted a bed in the house; but I coaxed
him off with a milreis, and then barred the door.”


                                           “THE BARRA, _April 13, 1867_.

“I write to you from a fresh place. In São Paulo they have been making a
new road, and have enclosed a piece of marsh with water five feet deep.
The new road prevents this discharging itself into the river beneath,
and the enclosed water is stagnant and putrid, and causes a malaria in
my house. Richard has just returned—knocked up by six weeks in the
wilds—and he broke out with fever. I felt affected and the whole house
squeamish. I rushed off with Richard to the sea-border, about fifty
miles from São Paulo. Kier begged to be left. We have got a magnificent
sand-beach, and rose-coloured shells, and spacious bay, and mountain
scenery all around; but we have some other disadvantages. It would be
intensely pleasant if Richard would get better. One might walk on the
beach in one’s nightgown; and we walked from our _ranco_, or shed, to
the sea, and can bathe and walk as we like. We are in what they dare to
call the hotel. It is a shed, Swiss-shape, and as good inside as a poor
cottage at home, with fare to match. It is as hot as the lower regions;
and if one could take off one’s flesh and sit in one’s bones, one would
be too glad. The very sea-breeze dries you up, and the vermin numbers
about twenty species. The flies of various kinds, mosquitoes,
sand-flies, and _borruchutes_, are at you day and night; and if you jump
up in the night, it is only to squash beetles. A woman here had a snake
round her leg yesterday. Behind the house and up to the first range of
mountains is one vast mangrove swamp, full of fevers and vermin. I will
not sleep in the beds about in strange houses (there is so much leprosy
in the country), and so I always carry my hammock with me, and sling it.
Last night it blew so hard that Chico and I had to get up and nail all
the old things they call windows. I thought the old shanty was going to
be carried away. I must tell you this is our sanatorium or fashionable
watering-place here.

“I have had another bad boil since I wrote to you. We have had a
Brazilian friend of Richard’s lodging with us, who kept saying, ‘If you
ride with that boil, in a few days you will fall down dead’; or, ‘Oh!
don’t leave that jigger in your foot; in a week it will have to be cut
off.’ Such was his mania; and he used to go to bed all tied up with
towels and things for fear his ears should catch cold. He was quite a
young man too!

“You know I have often told you that people here think me shockingly
independent because I ride with Chico behind me. So what do you think I
did the other day? They have, at last, something to talk about now. I
rode out about a league and a half, where I met four fine geese. I must
tell you I have never seen a goose; they do not eat them here, but only
use them as an ornamental bird. Well, Chico and I caught them, and slung
one at each side of my saddle, and one at each side of his, and rode
with them cackling and squawking all the way through the town; and
whenever I met any woman I thought would be ashamed of me, I stopped and
was ever so civil to her. When I got up to our house, Richard, hearing
the noise, ran out on the balcony; and seeing what was the matter, he
laughed and shook his fist, and said, ‘Oh, you delightful blackguard—how
like you!’”


Two months later Burton obtained leave of absence from his consulate,
and he and his wife started on an expedition into the interior. This
expedition was the most memorable event of Isabel’s life in Brazil. On
her return she wrote a full account of her adventures, intending to
publish it later. She never did so, and we found the manuscript among
her papers after her death. This unpublished manuscript, revised and
condensed, forms the next three chapters.




                               CHAPTER VI
                   _OUR EXPEDITION INTO THE INTERIOR_
                                 (1867)

  S’il existe un pays qui jamais puisse se passer du reste du monde, ce
  sera certainement la Province des Mines.

                                                            ST. HILAIRE.


We had been in Brazil now nearly two years, vegetating between Santos
and São Paulo, with an occasional trip to Rio de Janeiro. Though Richard
had made several expeditions on his own account, I had never yet been
able to go very far afield or to see life in the wilds. It was therefore
with no small delight that I received the news that we had a short leave
of absence, admitting of three months’ wandering. The hammocks and
saddle-bags were soon ready, and we sailed for Rio, which was about two
hundred miles from our consulate. At Rio we received some friendly hints
concerning our tour from exalted quarters, where brain and personal
merit met with courtesy, despite official grade and tropical bile. We
determined in consequence to prospect the great and wealthy province of
Minas Geraes, and not to do simply the beaten track, but to go off the
roads and to see what the province really was like. We wanted to visit
the goldmines, and to report concerning the new railway—about the proper
line of which two parties were contending—a question of private or
public benefit. We also intended to go down the São Francisco River, the
Brazilian Mississippi, from Sabará to the sea, and to visit the Paulo
Affonso Rapids, the Niagara of Brazil.

We left Rio on June 12, 1867, and sailed from the Prainha in a little
steamer, which paddled across the Bay of Rio in fine style, and
deposited us in about two hours on a rickety little wharf at the
northern end called the Maná landing-place, whence the well-known
financial firm of that name.

Whoever has not seen the Bay of Rio would do well to see it before he
dies; it would repay him. All great travellers say that it competes with
the Golden Horn. It is like a broad and long lake surrounded by
mountains and studded with islands and boulders. But it is absurd to try
and describe the bay with the pen; one might paint it; for much of its
beauty (like a golden-haired, blue-eyed English girl of the barley-sugar
description) lies in the colouring.

At the rickety landing-place begins a little railroad, which runs for
eleven miles through a mangrove and papyrus flat to the foot of the
Estrella range of mountains. Here we changed the train for a carriage
drawn by four mules, and commenced a zigzag ascent up the mountains,
which are grand. We wound round and round a colossal amphitheatre, the
shaggy walls of which were clothed with a tropical forest, rich with
bamboos and ferns, each zigzag showing exquisite panoramas of the bay
beneath. The ascent occupied two hours; and at last, at the height of
three thousand feet, we arrived at a table-land like a tropical
Chamounix. Here was Petropolis, where we tarried for some days.

[Illustration: THE BAY OF RIO.]

Petropolis is a pretty, white, straggling settlement, chiefly inhabited
by Germans. It has two streets, with a river running between, across
which are many little bridges, a church, a theatre, four or five hotels,
the Emperor’s palace, and villas dotted everywhere. It is the Imperial
and Diplomatic health resort, and the people attached to the Court and
the Diplomatic Corps have snuggeries scattered all about the table-land
of Petropolis, and form a pleasant little society. The cottages are like
Swiss _châlets_. It is a paradise of mountains, rocks, cascades, and
bold panoramas. Here abounded the usual mysterious _châlet_ of the
bachelor _attaché_. I will take you up that ridgy path and show you a
type of the class: four little rooms strewed with guns, pistols, foils,
and fishing-tackle, a hammock, books, writing materials, pictures of
lovely women dressing or kissing a bird or looking in the glass, pretty
curtains, frescoes on the walls drawn in a bold hand of sporting
subjects, _enfantillage_—and other things! This is the _châlet_ of the
Vicomte de B——, _attaché_ to the French Legation, a fair type of the
rest.

We left Petropolis for Juiz de Fóra at daybreak on a fine, cold morning;
the grey mist was still clinging to the mountains. We had a large
_char-à-banc_, holding eight, in two and two, all facing the horses. We
took our small bags with us, but everything heavier had gone on in the
public coach. Our party, besides Richard and myself, consisted of Mr.
Morritt, proprietor of the hotel and the _char-à-banc_, and three other
Englishmen, who with the driver and my negret Chico made up the eight.
The four mules were so fresh that they were with difficulty harnessed,
and were held in by four men. When the horn sounded, they sprang on all
fours and started with a rush, with a runner at either side for a few
yards till clear of the bridge. We simply tore along the mountain-side.

I shall save a great deal of trouble if I describe the scenery wholesale
for a hundred miles and specify afterwards. Our trap dashed along at
pleasant speed through splendid amphitheatres of wooded mountains, with
broad rivers sweeping down through the valleys, with rapids here and
there, and boulders of rock and waterfalls. The drive was along a
first-rate road, winding over the mountain-side. The roads on the other
side of the Parahybuna River were as high, as beautiful, and as well
wooded as the one along which we drove. In all my Brazilian travelling
this description of the scenery would mostly serve for every day, but
here and there we found a special bit of beauty or more exquisite peep
between the ridges. At first you think your eyes will never tire of
admiring such trees and such foliage, but at last they hardly elicit an
observation. A circumstance that created a laugh against us was that,
like true Britishers, Richard and I had our note-books, and we beset
poor Mr. Morritt with five questions at once. He was so good and
patient, and when he had finished with one of us would turn to the other
and say, “Well, and what can I do for you?”

Our first stage was the “Farm of Padre Carrea,” a hollow in the hills,
where we changed mules. We drove for forty miles downhill; then we had
fifteen or twenty on the level when crossing the river valley; then we
ascended again for thirty-nine miles. The road was splendid; it was made
by two French engineers. Our second station was Pedro do Rio. The third
was Posse, the most important station on the road for receiving coffee.
Here thousands of mules meet to load and unload, rest and go their ways.
This scene was very picturesque.

After Posse we began to see more fertile land, and we passed a mountain
of granite which, if it were in England or France, would have a special
excursion train to it (here no one thinks anything about it); it looked
like a huge rampart, and its smooth walls were sun-scorched. After this
we passed a region of coffee plantations, and thence to Entre Rios
(“Betwixt the Rivers”), the half-way house. It is a very unhealthy
station, and there is a dreadful smell of bad water; otherwise it would
be a first-rate place for any one wanting to speculate in starting a
hotel. The last ten miles before coming to Entre Rios lay through virgin
forest. We saw _tucanos_ (birds with big beaks and gorgeous plumage of
black, green, scarlet, and orange), wonderful trees, orange groves,
bamboos (most luxuriant; they would grow on a box if they were thrown at
it), plants of every kind, coffee and sugarcane plantations, tobacco
plants, castor-oil plants, acacias, and mimosa. What invariably attracts
the English eye, accustomed to laurel and holly, are the _trepaderas_;
and the masses of bamboo form natural arches and festoons, and take
every fantastic form. We crossed the rivers over bridges of iron.

We breakfasted at noon at Entre Rios; we then mounted our _char-à-banc_
once more, and drove on eight miles to the next station, called
Serraria, where we sighted the province of Minas Geraes on the opposite
side of the valley of Parahybuna. At Serraria we got a wicked mule,
which nearly upset us three times. A wicked mule is a _beau-idéal_
fiend; the way he tucks his head under his body and sends all his legs
out at once, like a spider, is wonderful to see; and when all four mules
do it, it is like a fancy sketch in _Punch_. They drive none but wild
mules along this road, and after three months they sell them, for they
become too tame for their work. Soon after this last station we passed
through the “Pumpkin” chain of hills. We had ten miles to go uphill, and
it was the hottest drive of the day, not only on account of the time of
day, but because we were at the base of another huge granite mountain,
much bigger than the last, like a colossal church.

We were not very tired when we sighted Juiz de Fóra, considering that we
had driven nearly one hundred miles in twelve hours. We drove up to a
_châlet_ built by the French engineers just at sunset, and were guests
in an empty house, and were well lodged. After supper the moon was
nearly full, and the scene was lovely. There was a fine road; nearly all
the buildings were on the same side of it as our _châlet_; opposite us
was a chapel, farther down a hotel, and farther up, the thing that made
all the beauty of Juiz de Fóra, the house of Commendador Mariano
Procopio Ferreira Lage. It appeared like a castle on the summit of a
wooded mountain. We were serenaded by a band of villagers. The evening
air was exquisite, and the moon made the night as light as day.

The following day we inspected Juiz de Fóra. The town is a pretty
situation, two thousand feet above sea-level, and the climate cool and
temperate. The wonder of the place is the _château_ of Commendador
Mariano Procopio, who is a Brazilian planter who has travelled, and his
wealth is the result of his energy and success. He built this castle on
the top of a wooded eminence. This land eight years ago (I believe) was
a waste marsh. He spent £40,000 on it, and made a beautiful lake, with
islands, bridges, swans, and a little boat paddled by negroes instead of
steam. He made mysterious walks, bordered by tropical and European
plants, amongst which the most striking to an English eye were enormous
arums with leaves five feet long and three broad, and acacias, mimosas,
umbrella trees in full flower. He also erected Chinese-looking arbours,
benches, and grotesque designs in wood. I believe the man carries out
all his nightmare visions there. In another part of the grounds was a
menagerie full of deer, monkeys, emu, silver and gold pheasants, and
Brazilian beasts and birds. He has an aqueduct to his house and
fountains everywhere. There is an especially beautiful fountain on the
highest point of Juiz de Fóra, in the centre of his grounds, and from
there is a splendid view. There is a white cottage in his gardens for
his aged mother. He has also an orangery of huge extent, different
species of oranges growing luxuriantly, and we reclined on the grass for
an hour picking and eating them. All the land around was his; he built
the chapel; even our _châlet_ was his property; and besides he has a
model farm. Altogether Juiz de Fóra appeared a thriving town, and the
Commendador was the pivot on which it all moved. It seemed so strange to
find in the interior of Brazil a place like that of an English
gentleman. One cannot give this generous and enterprising planter enough
praise. If there were more like him, Brazil would soon be properly
exploited. Some object that the arrangement of his place is too
fantastic. There is no doubt it is fantastic, but it is so because he is
giving the natives a model of everything on a tiny scale, and collecting
in addition his native tropical luxuriance around him, as an English
gentleman would delight to collect things on his estate, if he could get
the same vegetation to grow in England.

On leaving Juiz de Fóra, I was obliged to leave my baggage behind, which
appeared to me rather unreasonable, as it only consisted of the usual
little canisters, a pair of long, narrow boxes for the mule’s back. If
the ladies who travel with big baskets the size of a small cottage had
seen my tiny bundle and a little leather case just big enough for brush,
comb, and a very small change, they would have pitied me. We mounted the
coach on a cold, raw morning—this time a public coach. Only one man of
our party accompanied us on to Barbacena; the rest were homeward bound.
The two coaches stood side by side, ready packed, facing different ways,
at 6 a.m., to start at the same moment. We had a small, strong coach
with four mules. A handsome, strapping German youth, named Godfrey, was
our driver, and we boasted a good guard. Inside was a lady with
negresses and babies, and an Austrian lieutenant. Outside on a dicky my
negret and a large number of small packages—only such could go. The
driver and guard were in front, and above and behind them on the highest
part of the coach was a seat for three, which held Richard, Mr. E——, and
myself in the middle, the warmest and safest place in event of a spill.
The partings ensued between the two coaches, and the last words were,
“Remember by twelve o’clock we shall be a hundred miles apart.” The horn
sounded; there was the usual fling of mules’ heads and legs in the air,
and we made the start as if we had been shot out of a gun. We proceeded
on our drive of sixty-six miles in twelve hours, including stoppages,
constantly changing mules, for the roads between Juiz de Fóra and
Barbacena were infamous, and all up and down hill. The country was very
poor in comparison with what we had left behind, but I should have
admired it if I had not seen the other. The roadsides are adorned with
quaint pillars, mounds of yellow clay, the palaces of the _cupims_, or
white ants, which they are said to desert when finished. They must be
very fond of building. The _sabiá_ (the Brazilian nightingale) sang loud
in the waving tops of the “roast-fish tree.” We passed over wooded
hills, broad plains, and across running streams and small falls. At last
we reached the bottom of the great Serra Mantiqueira. The ascent was
very bad and steep for ten miles, and through a Scotch mist and rain.
All the men had to get down and walk, and even so we often stuck in deep
mud-holes, and appeared as if we were going to fall over on one side. I
now comprehended why my baggage could not come; my heart ached for the
mules. Travelling on the top of that coach was a very peculiar
sensation. When we were on plain ground and in full gallop we heaved to
and fro as if in a rolling sea, and when going fast it was like a
perpetual succession of buck-jumping, especially over the _caldeiroês_,
lines of mud like a corduroy across the road. On the descent our
coachman entertained us with a history of how he once broke his legs and
the guard his ribs and the whole coach came to grief at that particular
spot.

Our next station (and it seemed so far) was Nascisuento Novo; then came
Registro Velho, where travellers used to be searched for gold and
diamonds, and amusing stories are told how they used to conceal them in
their food or keep them in their mouths. Here we had our last change of
mules, and here the Morro Velho Company from the mines halted for the
night, and we found to our delight that we should find a special troop
of them waiting at Barbacena to convey us where we liked. This was our
last league, and the weather was frosty.

We arrived at the Barbacena hotel when it was dusk, and found it a
decent but not luxurious inn, kept by an unfortunate family named Paes.
At the door we saw a good-humoured Irish face, which proved to be that
of our master of the horse, Mr. James Fitzpatrick, of the Morro Velho
Company, who was awaiting Richard and myself with two blacks and ten
animals. We therefore asked for one of the spare mules and saddles for
Mr. E——, who had decided to accompany us to the mines. The town appeared
quite deserted, but I thought it was because it was dark and cold and
the people were all dining or supping. We were tired, and went to bed
directly after dinner.

Next day we inspected Barbacena, a white town upon an eminence. The town
is built in the form of a cross, the arms being long. It is three
thousand eight hundred feet above sea-level, and is very cold except in
the sun. There was little to see except four churches, all poor and
miserable except the Matriz, which was the usual whitewashed barn with a
few gaudy figures. It was a dead-alive kind of place, with all the
houses shut up and to be bought for very little. All the young men were
gone to the war. There was no one about: no society, not even a market;
no carriage save the public coach, with its skeleton horses eating the
grass in the streets.

After dinner that evening we saw a black corpse on a stretcher. The
porters were laughing and talking and merrily jolting it from side to
side, and I was considered rather sentimental for calling it disrespect
to the dead. Our _table d’hôte_ was a motley and amusing group. There
were the driver and guard of our coach, the Austrian lieutenant,
ourselves, several Brazilians, and Mr. Fitzpatrick. We all got on
together very well. There was some punch made; and as the conversation
turned upon mesmerism for that night’s discussion, a delicate subject, I
withdrew to a hard couch in an inner room.

On Wednesday, June 19, we left the last remnant of civilization behind
us at Barbacena, and that remnant was so little it should not be called
by that name. We shall now not see a carriage for some months, nor a
road that can be called a road, but must take to the saddle and the
bridle for the country. Our party consisted of Richard and myself, Mr.
E——, Mr. James Fitzpatrick, captain of our stud, Chico, my negret,
mounted, and two slaves on foot as guides, three cargo mules, and two
spare animals as change.

Our first ride was to be twenty miles, or five leagues, across country.
We did it in five hours, and one more half-hour we employed in losing
our way. The country was poor, and through what is called
_campos_—_i.e._ rolling plains, with a coarse pasturage. Near dusk we
reached Barroso, a village with a ranch, a small chapel, and a few huts.
The ranch was small and dirty, and smelt of _tropeiros_ (muleteers) and
mules. The ranch was a shed-like cottage with a porch or verandah. It
had one room with a ceiling of bamboo matting, whitewashed mud walls, no
window, and a mud floor. The only thing in it was a wooden bedstead
without a bed on it. This was ours; the rest had to sleep in the
verandah or on the floor with rugs amongst the _tropeiros_,
picturesque-looking muleteers. They gave us rice, chicken, and beans. I
prepared the food and slung the hammocks, and after eating we lay
ourselves down to rest.

We rose at three o’clock in the morning, before it was light, and at
4.30 we were in our saddles again. We rode twenty-four miles. We
breakfasted under a hedge at a place written “Elvas,” pronounced
“Hervas,” and got a cup of coffee from a neighbouring gypsy camp.
Shortly after we passed a ranch, with a curious old arched bridge made
of wood. To-day’s journey was very like yesterday’s in point of country,
but we were a little tired the last few miles, as we had been somewhat
dilatory, and had been eight hours in hard saddles on rough animals; the
sun also broke out very hot. At last, however, we were cheered by
arriving at a pretty village, and shortly afterwards sighted a
beautiful-looking town on a hill, with many spires. We rode up to the
bridge to enter the town, tired, hot, torn, and dusty, just as the
procession of the Blessed Sacrament was passing, followed by the friars
and a military band. We bent our heads and bowed down to the saddle.
This was the town of São João d’El Rei, and it was the Feast of Corpus
Christi.

São João d’El Rei is five thousand two hundred feet above sea-level. It
was June 21 (here the shortest as in England it is the longest day), and
the climate was delicious. We met two English faces in the streets, and
hailed them at once. They proved to be Mr. Charles Copsey, who had been
at Cambridge with my husband’s brother, in command of the Brazilian
Rifle Volunteer Brigade (I knew many of the same men), and Dr. Lee, a
man of Kent. Dr. Lee had been there thirty-five years. These two
compatriots were most kind to us. They introduced us to all the best
families, and showed us all the lions of the place.

The churches of São João were so numerous that we only “did” the three
best. We walked about the principal streets, getting the best views of
the white, spiral, hilly, little city, which looked beautiful at sunset.
We visited one Brazilian’s general collection, another’s books,
another’s pictures, and the only place we did not go to see was the
hospital. We loafed about, and everybody dined with us at the hotel—very
little better than a ranch.

We left our hotel, or rather ranch, at 10.30 a.m. the next morning, and
rode to Matosinhos, the suburb at the entrance, where we breakfasted at
the house of Dr. Lee and made the acquaintance of his Brazilian wife, a
sweet-mannered woman, whose kindness and hospitality charmed us. After a
sumptuous breakfast we walked about his grounds, and he gave us a _cão
de féla_, an ugly, toad-coloured, long dog, with a big head, broad
shoulders, and lanky body, answering in breed to our bull-dog.

Here Mr. Copsey could not make up his mind to part with us so soon, and
actually forsook his wife and children and cottage to accompany us for a
few days.

Our ride was a pretty easy two leagues, or eight miles, over mountains,
bringing us to a small white village or town, which we should call a
village, nestled among them, called São José. This village contains a
running brook, a bridge, and a handsome fountain. Our ranch was a
miserable affair, without any pretension to bedding, and if possible
less to a washing-basin; so the rest preferred sitting up all night; but
as my experience has taught me to take all the little comforts that
Providence throws to me, in order to endure the more, I slung my hammock
and slept the sleep of good conscience, in spite of the clinking of
glasses and twanging of guitars.

We intended to leave São José at one o’clock a.m., but those who
foolishly sat up had all sorts of mishaps. There had been a little too
much conviviality; the animals had strayed; so, though we started before
light, it was much later than we intended. Our road was a terrible one;
we could not keep together, and got lost in parties of two and three. At
first the road was very pretty, through woods; but as dawn appeared we
had to climb a wall of steep rock, terrible to climb and worse to
descend. Two of our party unwillingly vacated their saddles before we
got clear of it, and Mr. E——’s saddle slipped off behind from the
steepness and bad girths. We then had a long ride over _campos_, and
stopped to breakfast at a deserted ranch. We were then supposed to be
about twelve miles from our destination, Lagôa Dourada. The rest of our
day was full of misfortunes. The valiant people who would dance and
drink all night dropped asleep upon the road. We lost our way for six
miles, and had to ride back and take another track. Our black guides had
not laid a branch across the road for us. (It is an African custom to
place a twig or branch on the road, to convey any intelligence to those
who are coming after you.) We came to a Slough of Despond, a mudhole
across the road, which looked only a little wet and dirty, but a mule or
rider may be engulfed in it. Mr. Fitzpatrick luckily preceded me, and
fell into it. My mule jumped it, and in the jump my pistol fell out of
my belt into it, and was never seen more. We had a very hard day of it
up and down hill through virgin forest with several of these swamps. At
sunset we arrived very tired at the top of a hill, and found an
aboriginal-looking settlement of huts. We then descended into the valley
by a steep, winding road for some distance, and came to a long,
straggling, hilly, but pretty and more civilized village, with a few
churches and a running brook, with a decent ranch at its extreme end,
where there was a party of English engineers, who kindly attended to our
creature comforts while at Lagôa Dourada.

It was Sunday, the Eve of St. John, and there were big bonfires and a
village band. Our ranch was a cottage. The brook with the gold-washings
ran by it, and the purling thereof made pleasant music that night.

The great object of our visit to Lagôa Dourada was to see with
disinterested eyes which course the continuation of the Dom Pedro
Segunda Railway should run through Minas—that is, to see which course
would be for the greatest public advantage, regardless of private
intrigue. The English engineers and Richard having quite agreed upon the
subject, they kindly invited us to celebrate the Feast of St. John by
assisting to “lay the first chain.” It was a day likely to be remembered
by the Brazilians, for it connoted their pet feast—the “Feast of
Fire”—and the commencement of a work to be of great benefit to them.

At twelve o’clock (noon) the next day the English engineers, with a
party comprising all the Brazilian swells of Lagôa Dourada, proceeded to
a valley within the village to lay the first chain for the exploration
of the mountains which divide the watershed of the Rio São Francisco and
the Paraopéba from the Carandahy and Rio Grande, for the prolongation of
the Dom Pedro Segunda Railway.

I had the honour of giving the first blow to the stake and breaking a
bottle of wine over it. The sights taken were S. 73° W. and N. 74° W.
The engineers made me write this in their books. (The following day all
were to break up, our party of engineers bound northward, and ourselves
on our march.) The inauguration passed off very favourably. It was a
beautiful day. The village band played, flags were flying, wine was
produced, glasses clinked, and we drank the health of “The Emperor,”
“The Queen,” “Brazil,” “England,” “Unity,” “Future Railway,” and most of
the principal people present; speeches were made, and _vivas_ shouted,
and last the Brazilians proposed the health of St. John with _vivas_.
When these ceremonies were over, we marched back to the ranch with the
band playing and colours flying.

In the afternoon we walked a little way up and down the stream, and saw
some gold-washing on a homœopathic scale. The land belongs to a
Brazilian, who gets three or four milreis a day out of it (about eight
shillings). We then sat down in the village on benches in the shade. The
men drank beer and smoked cigarettes, and I took my needlework and
talked with them.

In the evening the English engineers gave us a big dinner in the ranch,
and how they managed to do it so well I cannot imagine. It was like a
big picnic. The village padre sat at the head of the long wooden table,
and I at the bottom, and on wooden benches at each side were eight
Englishmen and seventeen Brazilian local magnates. We had chickens,
messes of rice and meat, _feijão_ (beans) and _farinha_ (flour), bread,
cheese, beer, port, and other drinks—all out of the engineers’ stores.
It was great fun. Directly after dinner they began speechifying, and
each man ended his speech with a little nasal stanza to friendship, the
audience taking up the last word. At last somebody drank the health of
the married men, and then some one else proposed the health of the
single, and then every one began to quarrel as to which was the better
and happier state. Richard and Mr. Copsey loudly stood up for the
single, and urged them on to greater frenzy, and I would have done the
same thing only I was afraid of shocking the padre. The wordy war lasted
fully half an hour, and terribly distressed one spoony Englishman, who
gave us a homily from his corner on the sanctity of the married state.
If it had been in France, there would have been half a dozen duels, and
I fully expected to see some kniving; but with them it was only hilarity
and good spirits, and they embraced across the table at the very moment
I thought they were going to hit one another. We finished up by
repairing to our room and having some punch there, and we all parted
happy and pleased with our day. After we were in bed we were serenaded
by the band. The people walked about with music, and twanged their
guitars all night. It is a great day for marriage—for lovers, and all
that sort of pleasant thing. The girls dress in their best, and put the
flowers of São João in their hair, and one likes to see the young people
happy. A pleasant remembrance of this place lingers with me yet.

The next morning we proposed starting at four o’clock, and got up early.
Our white horse, however, knew the ground, and strayed six miles away,
so we could not start till 9 a.m. Moreover, Mr. Copsey, who was on duty
at São João d’El Rei for next day, was obliged to wish us good-bye and
return.

When at last we started, we rode for two leagues and a half, accompanied
by several of our friends of the evening before, and at last came to a
brook, where we sat under the shade of a tree and breakfasted, after
which our friends wished us good-bye and returned. We then rode on,
uncertain as to our course. The scenery was pretty; the weather was very
hot. We had no road, but found our way over the hills through bits of
forest, and towards evening we came to a village called Camapoão.

We had been detained by bad road and accidents, and had been five hours
doing only fifteen miles; so, though we could only find an infamous
ranch (the worst we had ever seen), we thought it best to risk it for
the night. We had been obliged to pass one by, as it looked really
dangerous with damp, filth, and reptiles. The owner of the ranch, one
José Antonio d’Azevedo, was a character, and a very bad one—original in
rudeness, independence, and suspicion. There was not a basin or any kind
of cooking-pot, nor a fire nor hot water. There was, however, one bed
(José’s), and no amount of entreaty to let me rest my aching limbs on it
would induce him to allow me to do so. I had almost to go on my knees to
be allowed to swing my hammock, lest I should spoil his mud-and-stick
walls; but after a glass of cognac from our stock and much flattering
and coaxing, he did permit that, and gave us some beans and flour, rice
and onions, to eat. Richard slept on a wooden table, I in the hammock,
and the rest of our party with the mules on the ground round a fire. It
was a bitterly cold night, and we got full of vermin. At about one in
the morning I was aroused by a loud whispering, apparently close to my
head, and a low growl from my dog underneath my hammock, and I could
distinctly hear the old man say, “Pode facilmente matar a todas” (“It
would be very easy to kill the whole lot”). I felt quite cold and weak
with fright; but I stretched out my hand in the dark to where I knew my
weapons were, and got hold of a bowie-knife and loaded revolver. I then
whispered to Richard, and we got some matches and struck a light. There
was no one in the room, and the whispering and laughing still went on as
if the old man and his negroes were conversing, and joking behind the
thin partition wall. Nothing occurred. In the morning we thought he was
only alluding to his chickens; yet, as we learnt afterwards, he did bear
an ugly name.

We were very glad to get up at 4 a.m., though pitch dark, and to set
out. The old man did his best to keep us by talking of the _atoleiros_
on the road, which we must pass, and were sure to fall into. And indeed
an _atoleiro_ is an ugly thing; for you only expect a passage of wet mud
in the road, whereas you and your horse go plump in over head, and
sometimes do not get out. We passed a fearful one a mile past his house,
but sent the blacks on first, and they brought us a long round through
brushwood, which was not dangerous, but unpleasant to fight through; and
Chico stuck in it, and we were fully ten minutes extricating him. We
then rode up and down mountains and waded several rivers, and moonlight
passed away, and dawn came with a welcome. By nine o’clock we had
accomplished twelve miles, and arrived at Suasuhy, a long, big village,
with a church and about three hundred houses and fifteen hundred
inhabitants. We were quite overcome with the luxury of being able to
wash our hands and faces _in a basin_. We had too a better breakfast
than usual. The ranch was kept by a handsome family—father, mother, and
four daughters. After this we rode on again through beautiful scenery up
and down mountains, through shallow rivers and bits of virgin forest.
Yet, though the scenery is magnificent, it is so alike, that one
description describes all, and what you see to-day you will to-morrow
and for the next three months, with the exception of every here and
there a startling feature. After another three leagues we sighted the
Serra d’Ouro Branco, a grand pile of rock, and presently caught sight of
a convent and a large square and church seated on an eminence below the
mountain. We were descending. We turned a corner down a steep, stone
hill, and beheld a beautiful white village in the valley, and silvery,
winding river, called Maronhão, running through it, and another smaller
one discharging itself into the larger. A striking church, the Matriz,
rose on the opposite hill. In the distance were the two Serras, straight
ranges like a wall, one shorter than the other. Ouro Branco is so called
because the gold found there was mixed with platina. It was three
o’clock, and we had now travelled six leagues and a half, and were glad
to rest. The sunset was lovely.

This village was Congonhas do Campo. We got into a comfortable ranch,
and then called on the padre. That is the best thing to do at these
places, as he is the man who shows you hospitality, points out the
lions, and introduces you and gives you all the information you want.
The padre showed us great kindness, and took us to see the college and
the church, the most striking part of the village and valley. Walking
through the streets, we saw the arms of some noble Portuguese family,
well carved in stone, over a small deserted house—doubtless the arms of
some of the first colonists.

The padre breakfasted with us at the ranch next morning, and saw us set
out from Congonhas at twelve o’clock. We rode three leagues, or twelve
miles, which seemed more like five, up and down mountains, through
rivers and virgin forests, and on ridges running round steep precipices
and mountain-sides for many a mile. On our way we met a small white dog
with a black ear, looking wet and tired and ownerless. Mr. E—— hit at it
with a hunting-whip; it did not cry nor move, but stared at our passing
troop. Towards night we arrived at a little sort of private family
settlement, consisting of four or five ranches belonging to a man of the
same name as the place—to wit, Teixeira. Here we found the villagers, in
a great state of excitement, armed with guns to kill a mad dog, which
had been rabid for some days, and had bitten everything it saw,
communicating the disease, and had after all escaped them. He was a
small white dog with a black ear!

We had great difficulty in finding a night’s rest at Teixeira. Four or
five houses would not take us in. One man was especially surly; but at
last a cobbler and his wife took us in, and were kind and hospitable to
us. Here I had a little bed of sticks and straw, and slept soundly.

Next morning we had a shot at a flock of small green parrots before
starting for Coche d’Agua at 8.30, and we rode till 10.30. We crossed
the Rio da Plata six times (it was so tortuous) before nine o’clock, and
twice the Bassão later. After crossing the Bassão the second time, we
sat under a shady tree on its banks, and ate our breakfast out of our
provision basket—cold pork, onions, and biscuit, and drank from the
river.

We had been told that the remainder of our ride to Coche d’Agua from
this spot was four leagues; but it was nearer eight leagues (thirty-two
miles), and we arrived after dusk at 6.15. It was a very poor place;
there was nothing to eat, and no beds, and we were dead tired.

The people were kind, and lit an enormous fire in the centre of the
ranch, and let me lie down upon their sleeping-place till 3 a.m.,
“because I was a Catholic and spoke Portuguese.” It was a slab of wood
with a straw sacking, and even so I thought it a great luxury. We rose
next morning at 3.30. The mules were called in, and we rode four
leagues, first by moonlight and then dawn. We passed through two
valleys, and arrived at 8.45 a.m. at another settlement. This was the
village outside of the Morro Velho colony, and as the bells rang nine we
alighted at the entrance of the Casa Grande, and were most cordially and
hospitably received by the Superintendent of the São João d’El Rei
Mining Company and Mrs. Gordon, and conducted into their most
comfortable English home.




                              CHAPTER VII
                     _MORRO VELHO AND ITS ENVIRONS_
                                 (1867)

                  Earth’s crammed with heaven,
          And every common bush afire with God;
          But only he who sees takes off his shoes;
          The rest sit round it, and pick blackberries.

                                  ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.


Morro Velho, where is the queen of the Minas Geraes Mines, is a very
curious and interesting place, unlike any other I have seen in Brazil.
It has a good deal of bustle, life, and cheerfulness about it which one
scarcely sees elsewhere. It is an extensive, elevated valley, surrounded
by mountains and divided into districts or settlements, each consisting
of villages made up of detached cottages without streets, after the
manner of most villages in Minas Geraes. Congonhas must be excepted, as
that is a regular village with shops; we passed through it on the
outskirts of the gold-mining colony; although it is independent of,
still it is supported by, its wealthy neighbour.

Mr. Gordon, the English superintendent of the mines, was like a local
king at Morro Velho and all over the province. He was consulted and
petitioned by every one, beloved, respected, and depended upon; in
short, a universal father; and well he deserved respect.

The first Sunday we were with the Gordons at Casa Grande we witnessed
the slave muster; and when it was over the slaves gave us an Indian
representation of a sham palaver, war-dance, and fight. They were
dressed in war-paint and feathers. The King and his son were enthroned
on chairs, and the courtiers came and seated themselves around on the
grass, and the attendants carried umbrellas. First there was a council.
The King was dissatisfied with his Minister of War, who was seized and
brought before him. Then the Minister made a speech in his own praise.
Then there was a fight, in which the Captain of War took every one
prisoner, and gave the swords to the King. Then the Minister was
poisoned by the enemy, but cured by a nut which the King gave him. Then
all the captives crawled on the ground like snakes to the King’s feet to
do him homage. The King’s jesters were great fun. They had a gong and
bells and tom-tom, and sang and danced at the same time. They danced a
curious step—little steps in which they adhered to a peculiar time.

On Wednesday, July 10, we left Morro Velho for a space in light marching
order. Mr. Gordon wished Richard to inspect a seam of ore of disputed
substance, and he organized a trip for us to the place. It was to last
eleven days, and we were then to return to Morro Velho. We set out from
the Casa Grande at 8.15. Our road was very bad, chiefly over mountains
and through rivers, but incessantly up and down, without any repose of
level ground.

[Illustration: THE SLAVE MUSTER AT MORRO VELHO.]

We rode for more than four hours, and then stopped at a village called
Morro Vermelho, where we stopped an hour for breakfast and to change
animals.

Our road after this, till six o’clock in the evening, lay through the
most exquisite forests, but with terrible footing for the mules—thick,
pudding-like, wet mud, and loose, slippery stones, corduroys of hard mud
striping some of the most difficult places, where only a surefooted mule
can tread. We stopped, in passing, at the house of a Mr. Brockenshaw, an
English miner. It was a tumbledown ranch, but in the wildest, most
desolate, and most beautiful spot imaginable. The chief features of the
scenery were mountain-peaks, virgin forests, and rivers. And oh the
foliage of the forest! The immense avenues of leafage looked like
mysterious labyrinths, with castles and arches of ferns forty feet high.
We crossed an awful _serra_ all in ruts, and full of scarped rock,
mud-holes, or _atoleiros_; the highest point was four thousand two
hundred feet. Just as we were at the worst of our difficulties, and Mr.
E—— had broken his crupper, we heard a cheery English voice shouting
behind us, “O! da casa?” (“Any one at home?”), which is what people say
in Brazil when they enter a house apparently empty and want to make
somebody hear at the back. Turning, we beheld a Scotch gentleman with a
merry face and snow-white hair, and a beard like floss silk down to his
waist. The Brazilians call him “O Padre Eterno,” as he is like the
picture of God the Father. He was Mr. Brown, Superintendent of the
Cuiabá Mine. After cordial greetings he joined our party.

We eventually arrived at Gongo Soco, the original peat-mining village,
once gay and rich, now worked out, abandoned, and poor. The river of the
same name runs through it. It was now a little before five o’clock, and
we came to a better track, and rode on some miles farther to the house
and iron foundry of Senhor Antonio Marcos, the Ranger of Woods and
Forests, who had prepared hospitality for us. We dismounted at six
o’clock very stiff. We had been nine hours and a quarter in the saddle,
and had ridden thirty-two miles of difficult country, which did not,
however, prevent us from passing a merry evening with Mr. Brown’s
assistance.

After a good night, yet still aching from the rough road, we went out
early to see the iron business. The soil is a mixture of _jacutinga_
(iron and charcoal), and the process, slow and primitive, is known as
the “Catalan process.” We saw the whole thing done from beginning to
end. We left the foundry at 10.15, and went down the watershed of the
river Gongo Soco, crossing it twice, and in an hour and a quarter
arrived at São João do Morro Grande. Thence we rode to Brumado, a
decayed village. Here we stopped for an hour in the great house of the
Commendador João Alves de Sousa Continho, where we changed animals. This
was once a gay and high house in great repute. It looked now as if
withered; it has fallen into decay, and is inhabited by the old
ex-courtier, once a favourite of the first Emperor. We proceeded across
the ridge to the Santa Barbara, or main road. As we wound down a hill,
in a somewhat romantic spot, we espied descending from the opposite
height a troop of people dressed in black and white, and my conventual
eye at once detected them to be Sisters of Charity. The rest of our
party could not make them out, and were quite in a state of excitement
at seeing these pilgrims. We met upon the bridge crossing the river.
There were eleven sisters and two priests, all in religious habit and
mounted on poor hack mules. They were going to form a new house at
Dimantina, there being only one other convent in the interior, and that
at Marianna. I recognized some old friends amongst them. They presented
a very curious and pretty sight, as they came round a corner on the
mountain-side, with their black habits and white bonnets. After stopping
and talking for a little while, we rode on, and arrived at 4 p.m. at
Catas Altas, having done twenty miles in five hours. Here we called on
the padre and saw the church.

In the evening the good old padre came to visit us, but could not be
persuaded to take a glass of champagne, of which we had a bottle in the
provision basket.

We left Catas Altas next morning at 6.20, and rode for two miles till we
reached Agua Quente (“hot water”). Here we had to make divers
arrangements. We stayed there less than an hour, and rode on to a place
about three hours’ ride from Agua Quente, through forests and a mountain
ascent, in a heavy rain.

We eventually arrived at a piece of country that appeared like a
gigantic basin with a mountain-ridge running nearly all round it. The
soil was lumpy and ferruginous, and covered with a coarse, high grass,
and very difficult of passage. At the top of this ridge we had to ride
till we came successively to two places with small mountain torrents,
which had sliced through the rock, and the bits that were broken away
were like cakes of coal. There we had to sit and breakfast, while
Richard went to examine this curious coal formation, which it was
supposed might some day be valuable. This operation over, we mounted
again, and at about one o’clock arrived at a little ranch called
Moreira. We had left one change of mules and horses to follow us, and we
missed them terribly, as we had to ride the same wretched animals all
day.

Then Mr. Gordon, who had accompanied us thus far, wished us good-bye for
a few days, as his business took him another way, and we rode through
pretty woods to Inficionado (“Infected”), twenty-four miles in all, and
reached it at 3.30. It is a long village, with several ranches and a few
churches, very pretty, but remarkable for its number of idiots and
deformities.

It was pleasant after the day’s fatigues to sit by a running brook
opposite the ranch. The sun was not quite set yet; the almost full moon
was visible. Richard and Mr. E—— were sitting by the ranch door, and
herds of mules were picketed in front. It was a most picturesque scene.

We left Inficionado next morning at 9.30, and rode along a bad road,
which reminded me of the common pictures of Napoleon on an impossible
horse crossing the Alps. We reached a ranch called Camargos at 12.15.
To-day we ate while riding, and did not stop; the ride was hot and
steep. We never drew rein till we reached Sant’ Anna, where we expected
friends to take us in. We had fortunately sent on a black messenger with
our letters of introduction, and to apprise them of our coming; and he
ran to meet us a few hundred yards before we reached the house, and told
us that the owner, Captain Treloar, superintendent of these mines, could
not receive us, as his wife was dying. Much grieved and shocked, we
returned to a neighbouring _vendha_ for a few minutes to write a note of
sympathy and apology for our untimely intrusion, and also to consult as
to what we had better do with ourselves, since we had “counted our
chickens” prematurely, certain of the never-failing hospitality of our
compatriots, and had given away all our provisions. Now we were thrown
on the wide world without so much as a biscuit. We soon decided to
prospect the place we were in, and then ride to Marianna, where we had a
letter of introduction to a Dr. Mockett. Sant’ Anna looked a desolate,
dead-alive place, and consisted of the Casa Grande, or Superintendent’s
house, a chapel on the hill, a big universal kitchen, and a hospital.
These were the only four large buildings; but there were plenty of small
white cottages, which looked like dots on the hill, for the English, and
for the black settlers a line of huts. The valley, which was pretty, was
occupied by the houses, which appeared small after Morro Velho.

When we returned to our _vendha_, we found waiting for us Mr. Symmonds,
son-in-law of Captain Treloar, who insisted on our going to-morrow to
his house. He said it was empty, all the family being together at Sant’
Anna during their affliction; but as he kindly remarked we should be
more comfortable there, we agreed, and mounted and rode with him along a
pleasant, sandy road—not track—for two miles or more, till we passed a
pretty villa in the centre of some wild-looking mountains. There lived
Captain Treloar and his wife with a large family of nine daughters, six
of whom were married, and three sons. All the men of the family, sons
and sons-in-law, are connected with the mine.

We had a pretty ride of two miles more, and arrived on the brink of a
height, and suddenly viewed a mass of spires and domes in the valley
beneath, which we at once knew was the pretty cathedral town of
Marianna. We rode down into it, and sent our letter to Dr. Mockett; but
he too was absent attending Mrs. Treloar—a second disappointment; but we
found a ranch. Marianna has nine churches, a seminary, a bishop’s
palace, a convent, hospital, college, and orphanage of Sisters of
Charity, but no hotel save a miserable ranch. It is a regular cathedral
city, and so dead-alive, so unvisited by strangers, that I suppose it
would not pay to have one. Our fare was of the worst description. My
feet stuck out of the end of my miserable, short, straw bed, and it was
a bitterly cold night. We sent round all our letters of introduction;
but that night no one seemed to wake up to the fact of our arrival.

The next day, Sunday, was a wet and miserable morning. However, later
Captain Treloar’s son-in-law came and rescued us, and took us to his
house. This was a comfortable English home, where we found nicely
furnished rooms, and were cheered with the sight of Bass’s ale, sherry,
and everything imaginable to eat and drink, a piano, and plenty of
books. We did not tear ourselves away from these luxuries for three
days—from Sunday to Wednesday.

From here we went to visit the Passagem Mine. We changed our clothes,
and each with a lantern and stick descended a steep, dark, slippery
tunnel of forty-five fathoms deep—the caverns large and vaulted, and in
some places propped up with beams and dripping with water. The stone is
a mixture of quartz and gold. The miners were all black slaves. They
were chanting a wild air in chorus in time to the strokes of the hammer.
They work with an iron crowbar called a drill and a hammer, and each one
bores away four _palmes_ a day. If they do six, they get paid for the
two over. They were streaming with perspiration, but yet seemed very
merry. The mine was lit up with torches for us. We then descended
thirty-two fathoms deeper, seeing all the different openings and
channels. To the uninitiated like myself, it looked probable that the
caverns of stone, apparently supported by nothing, would fall in. I took
down my negret Chico. He showed great symptoms of fear, and exclaimed,
“Parece O inferno!” I was rather struck by the justice of the
observation. The darkness, the depth of the caverns, the glare of the
torches lighting up the black figures humming against the walls, the
heat and want of air, the horrid smells, the wild chant, reminded me of
Dante. I wonder if he took some of his hells out of a mine?

Next day poor Mrs. Treloar died, after fifteen days of bilious attack.
In this country, if you are well and strong, in good nerve and spirits,
and can fight your own way, you do very well; but the moment you are
sick, down with you, fall out of the ranks and die, unless you have some
one who values your life as his own. But even this could not save poor
Mrs. Treloar. Mr. Symmonds requested Richard, as English Consul, to
perform the funeral service, as they had no church, no clergyman, no
burial-ground; so they would not distress her mind by the knowledge that
she was dying. My husband seemed to have been sent by Providence to
perform this sad affair, as the English here hold greatly to their
consuls performing a ceremony in the absence of a clergyman. The
Treloars were to have gone home to England for good the previous month,
having several of their children at school in England, and only put it
off for that “little while” often so fatal in the tropics. She was
buried on the hilltop, and was followed by all the men in the
neighbourhood, black and white. Women do not attend funerals, nor sales,
nor shops, nor post-offices in Brazil. Richard read the service, and I
was left in charge of the house and blacks while they were all absent. A
little before the funeral I heard a tremendous noise in the kitchen like
the crashing of crockery, black women screaming, and men swearing angry
oaths. I ran in and found two of the men kniving each other over a piece
of money which we had given the servants for their attention to us.
Blood was upon the ground. I rushed in between them and wrenched their
knives away, and ordered them all out upon the grass upon their knees,
and they obeyed. The funeral was now winding up the hill opposite the
house, and I read prayers for the dead.

Directly after the funeral we mounted our animals and rode for six miles
along a pretty mountainous road to Ouro Preto. We rode down into the
town (which looked rather imposing from the height we viewed it) as the
clock struck six. It was now dark, and we were received into the house
of Commendador Paula Santos, Director of the Bank, and were made very
comfortable.

Ouro Preto is the capital of Minas Geraes. It is by far the most hilly
town I ever saw; walking up and down the streets is quite as difficult
as ascending and descending ladders, and there is an equal danger of
falling. I think one could throw a stone from the top of a street to the
bottom without its touching anything _en route_. The President of the
Province lives here, and has a white palace like a little fortress.
There is a small theatre, a bank, two tramways (one provincial and one
imperial), a prison and large police barrack, a townhall, several carved
stone fountains, and fifteen churches. We found the one usual English
family, a general shopkeeper and watchmaker, with a wife and children,
brother and sister. They were very hospitable. We stayed here two days.

We left Ouro Preto at 9.40 on Saturday morning, and rode along a neither
very good nor very bad road, with fine mountain scenery, and the wind
rather too cool. We were now turning our faces back again towards Morro
Velho. We followed the course of the river, riding in the dry bed. We
arrived at Casa Branca (a few ranches) at 1.15, and came up with a party
of American immigrants. Here we only changed animals, and mounted again
at two o’clock, as we had a long, weary ride facing wind and rain on the
mountain-tops. We at last arrived at the house of Mr. Treloar (brother
of the Mr. Treloar of Sant’ Anna). Here we hoped to find hospitality;
but he too was in affliction, so we rode on to Rio das Pedras, and
dismounted at 3 p.m. The hamlet was a few huts and a burnt-down church.
We luckily got in fifteen minutes before the Americans, and secured some
rough beds and food. Here we had an amusing evening with the immigrants.
They were an old father with an oldish daughter, two young married
couples, and one stray man, one old, grey-haired, swallowed-tailed
gentleman, and a young woman with a lot of chicks. They were wandering
about in search of land to settle down and be farmers, and were amusing,
clever, and intelligent.

Richard awoke us at 3 a.m. It rained in torrents all night, and there
was a succession of bad storms of thunder and lightning; so I was very
loath to get up. But whether I liked it or not I was ordered to mount at
6 a.m.

We had a long, muddy, rainy, weary, up and down hill ride, slipping back
two steps for every one forward, and going downhill much faster than we
wished, which made the journey appear double the distance. After eight
miles we arrived at our old sleeping-place on the borders of Morro
Velho, Coche d’Agua. The old people were gone, and the new ones were not
very civil, and we had great difficulty in getting even a cup of coffee.
We had some amusement coming along. Mr. E—— was strongly in favour of
riding with a loose rein. We were scaling a greasy hill, and his animal,
after slithering about several minutes, fell on its stomach. Chico and I
dismounted, for our beasts couldn’t stand; but when we were off neither
could we. Mr. E——’s mule got up and ran away; and Richard, through
wicked fun, though safe at the top, would not catch it. Chico’s mule was
only donkey size. Mr. E—— jumped upon it, and being tall he looked as if
he were riding a dog and trailing his legs on the ground. He rode after
his mule and caught it in half an hour, and we were all right again.

From Coche d’Agua next morning we rode on to Morro Velho, and found the
church bells ringing, and pretty girls with sprays of flowers in their
hair going to hear Mass. I was not allowed to go, so I paid two old
women to go and hear Mass for me, much to the amusement of the party. We
breakfasted by the roadside, and rode into Morro Velho and to the
Gordons. The journey, though only twenty-four miles, had been long and
tedious on account of the rain and mud and constant steep ascents and
descents. We arrived looking like wet dogs at our kind host’s door; and
my appearance especially created mirth, as my skirt up to my waist was
heavy with mud, my hat torn to ribbons, with the rain running down the
tatters. A big bath was prepared for each of us. We changed our clothes,
and sat down to a comfortable and excellent dinner, thankful to be in
the hospitable shelter of the Casa Grande again. Here we tarried for a
fortnight, and thoroughly explored Morro Velho this time.

Among other things, I determined to go down into the mine, which has the
reputation of being the largest, deepest, and richest gold-mine in
Brazil. We had been very anxious to visit its depths when we were at
Morro Velho before, but Mr. Gordon had put us off until our return.

It was considered rather an event for a lady to go down the mine,
especially as Mrs. Gordon, the Superintendent’s wife, who had been at
Morro Velho nine years and a half, had never been down. However, she
consented to accompany me. She said, “I have never yet taken courage; I
am sure if I don’t do it now, I never shall.” So the end of it was that
a crowd of miners and their families and blacks collected along the road
and at the top of the mine to see us descend. One lady staying in the
house with us (Casa Grande) could not make up her mind to go; and when I
asked Chico, he wrung his hands, and implored me not to go, weeping
piteously. As we went along we could hear the miners’ delighted remarks,
and their wives wondering: “Well, to be sure now, to think of they two
going down a mile and a quarter in the dark, and they not obliged to,
and don’t know but that they may never come up again! I’d rather it was
they than me!” “Aye, that’s our countrywomen; they’s not afeared of
nothing! I’d like to see some o’ they Brazzys put into that ’ere
kibble.”

We were dressed in brown Holland trousers, blouse, belt, and miner’s
cap, and a candle was stuck on our heads with a dab of clay. The party
to go down consisted of Mr. Gordon, Richard, Mr. E——, and Mr. John
Whitaker, an engineer. There are two ways of going down, by ladders and
by a bucket. The ladders are nearly a thousand yards long. If you see
lights moving like sparks at enormous distances beneath, it is apt to
make you giddy. Should your clothes catch in anything, should you make a
false step, you fall into unknown space. The miners consider this safe.
They do it in half an hour, running down like cats, do their day’s work,
and run up again in three-quarters of an hour; but to a new-comer it is
dreadfully fatiguing, and may occupy four hours—to a woman it is next to
impossible.

The other way is easy, but considered by the miners excessively unsafe.
It is to be put into an iron bucket called a kibble, which is like a
huge gypsy-pot (big enough to hold two ordinary-sized people thinly
clad), suspended by three chains. It is unwound by machinery, and let
down by an iron rope or chain as the lifts are in London. It takes about
twenty minutes, and is only used for hauling tons of stone out of the
mine or hauling up wounded men. The miners said to me, “We make it a
point of honour to go down by the ladders; for the fact is, on the
ladder we depend on ourselves, but in the kibble we depend on every link
of the chain, which breaks from time to time.” If the slightest accident
happens, you can do nothing to help yourself, but are dashed into an
apparently fathomless abyss in darkness. The opening where we first
embarked was a narrow, dark hole, very hot and oppressive. The kibble
was suspended over the abyss. Richard and Mr. E—— went first. Mr. Gordon
and Mr. Whitaker, being superintendent and engineer, went by the
ladders.

In due time the kibble returned, and Mrs. Gordon and I were put into it,
with some candles fastened to the side by a dab of clay, a piece of
lighted tow in the chain above us that we might see the beauties of the
lower regions, and a flask of brandy in case we got faint, which I am
proud to say we did not touch. As we looked up many jokes were
exchanged, and word was given to lower away. We waved a temporary
farewell to the sea of faces, and the last thing we saw was Chico and
Mrs. Gordon’s black maid weeping bitterly and wringing their hands. A
tremendous cheer reached us, even when some distance below.

We began to descend slowly, and by means of our rough illuminations we
saw all that we passed through. Lower and lower on all sides were dark
abysses like Dante’s Inferno. The huge mountain-sides were kept apart by
giant tree trunks. How they came there or how fastened up is one of the
wonders of man’s power and God’s permission. As we went down, down into
the bowels of the earth, each dark, yawning cavern looked uglier than
its neighbour. Every here and there was a forest of timber. Whenever we
passed any works, the miners lifted their lighted caps, which looked
like sparks in the immensity, and spoke or gave us a _viva_, that we
might not be frightened. It was a comfort to hear a human voice, though
it could do us no good if anything went wrong. Suddenly in a dark,
desolate place our kibble touched some projecting thing and tilted
partly over. I clutched at the chains above my head, and Mrs. Gordon
held me. It righted itself in a second. In their anxiety to do well they
had put us into the wrong kibble, which had a superfluity of chain, and
had played out a little too much of it above. This happened three times,
and they were three moments of agony—such moments as make people’s hair
turn grey. I was too full of life and hope to want to die. Every one
ought to experience some such moments in his life, when his heart flies
up in supplication to God. It was wonderful, when half-way down, to look
below and see the lights, like fireflies in the forest, moving about. At
length the kibble stood still, and began to roll like a boat. Then it
began to descend perpendicularly; and after a little while we saw the
glare of lights, and friendly voices bid us welcome to the mines. Loud
_vivas_ greeted us from the workmen.

I cannot describe how kind and thoughtful all the rough workmen were.
Everything was done to show us how much they were pleased and flattered
by our visit, to allay fear, to amuse us, and to show us everything of
interest. It would have been a good lesson in manners to many London
drawing-rooms. We each had two men to guide us about.

It was a stupendous scene of its kind. Caverns of quartz pyrites and
gold, whose vaulted roofs, walls, and floors swarmed with blacks with
lighted candles on their heads, looked excessively infernal. Each man
had drill and hammer, and was singing a wild song and beating in time
with his hammer. Each man bores eight _palmes_ (pounds) a day, and is
paid accordingly, though a slave. If he bores more, he is paid for his
over-work. Some are suspended to the vaulted roof by chains, and in
frightful-looking positions; others are on the perpendicular walls.

After seeing the whole of this splendid palace of darkness in the bowels
of the earth, we sat on a slab of stone and had some wine. Richard said
to Mr. Gordon, “Suppose this timber should ever catch fire, what would
you do?” Mr. Gordon laughed, and said, “Oh, that is impossible; the
whole place is dripping with water, and the wood is all damp, and it
would not take; and we have no chance of firedamp and other dangers of
explosion as in other mines—coal-mines, for instance. Oh, I’m not afraid
of that.”[23]

At this time the mine was at its climax of greatness and perfection,
perfectly worked and regulated, and paying enormously.

We mounted as we came. I found it a much more unpleasant sensation and
more frightening to ascend than to descend. Yet sometimes out of some
caverns of horror on the way up would pop an urchin of ten or twelve
laughing, and hop across a beam like a frog without the least fear. The
Brazilian authorities wanted to interfere to prevent children being
employed in the mine, and Mr. Gordon to please them stopped it; but
whole families came and implored on their knees to be taken back. They
earned much, and their lives were rendered respectable and well
regulated, and their condition superior under the existing _régime_. But
there is no doubt that this part of the province would degenerate
terribly, should the colony be broken up, or the present Superintendent
leave.

In the evening the miners and their officers gave us a concert. A large
room in the stores was very prettily decorated with palm and the flower
of Saint John (which is a creeper like a rich orange honeysuckle and
dark green leaves), and chandeliers were intermixed. There was a little
stage for the performers, adorned with a large painted representation of
the British arms, and a place for the band. The room, though large, was
crowded; all the little colony was present. We had comic performances,
Christy Minstrels, and sentimental songs for about two hours, wound up
by a dance, and at midnight broke up with “God save the Queen.”

We were now preparing for the second half of our trip—to canoe down the
Rio São Francisco (thirteen hundred miles) from Sabará to the sea. The
expedition was to be Richard, myself (if permitted), and Mr. E——, who
was to choose whether he would go or not (as it turned out, fortunately
for him, he preferred to return to Rio with the Gold Troop on July 28).
I was entreating to go, and my fate was hanging in the balance, when the
question was settled for me by an accident.

Richard had been requested to give a lecture on his travels. The night
of July 27 was fixed. The room was arranged as before. Richard spoke of
the pleasure he had in becoming acquainted with them all, and told them
his impressions about Morro Velho. He thanked the officers, captains,
miners, and all for their kindness and attention, and touched upon his
travels generally, especially the Nile, Mecca, and Dahomé. Mr. Gordon
then spoke, and Mr. E——, and many pretty little speeches were made. It
lasted about an hour, and then we had a short concert. I sang four
times; and Chico was dressed up, and sang very prettily with the guitar,
and danced. All the singers did something, and a little dancing, and
“God save the Queen” as usual terminated the festivities. Unfortunately
for me, after my first song, as I was going off the platform there was a
deep step to take in the dark, and I fell off and sprained my ankle
severely; but I managed to perform my part to the end by sitting still,
excepting when I had to sing; so that it was not found out until all was
over, and I had to be carried home. This was a dreadful bore for
Richard, who could not take me, and did not like to leave me; so he
good-naturedly put off his journey for ten days.

The doctor at first thought my leg was broken, but it turned out to be
only a severe contusion. I was five days in bed, and then was promoted
to crutches, litter, and sofa, which lasted me twenty days.

At last the day came to see Richard off on his important journey in a
canoe from Sabará down the Rio das Velhas and Rio São Francisco to the
sea, visiting the diamond-mines at Diamantina from the nearest point (to
that city) of the river. Mr. E—— had already started for Rio. I did not
think it _convenable_ to travel alone with the _jeune brigand_, so he
did not wait for me. We set out from Morro Velho on August 6, a large
party on horse and mule back, poor me in a litter, and of course ordered
to return with the party. The litter is a covered stretcher, with a mule
in front and one behind, in shafts, and it takes two men to manage it.
It is expensive travelling, and a great luxury for those who tire soon
in the saddle; but I would rather ride any distance, as the motion makes
me ill. It is not easy like the hammock. We rode for twelve miles over a
pretty mountainous road to Sabará, a very picturesque, ancient-looking
town, with eight churches and some important houses, and with a decent
_vendha_, or ranch. It is on a head of the Rio das Velhas, and seems to
be the centre of North American emigration here. The first view of the
town and winding river is exceedingly pretty. A church on a hilltop is
the first indication or landmark of Sabará, the town being immediately
below it. We arrived, ranched ourselves, and got a good dinner. We went
to the only shop, and bought some French jewellery for a few coppers, as
parting presents for each other, by way of “chaff”; and after seeing the
town, ended the evening as usual seated round an empty ranch on the
floor or on our boxes, and drank execrable tea, which tasted like hot
brandy and water without sugar, and some beer presented to us by the
great man of the place. As I was told he was very rich and stingy, I
asked him to make me a present of a few bottles of beer for my party, as
we were thirsty; but if I remember right, he sent me in a bill for it
next morning.

In the morning we got a good ranch breakfast, during which we were
visited by all the “swells” of Sabará. We set out for the river, where
the canoes were. Two canoes were lashed together, boarded, and covered
over with an awning just like a tent. There was a little brick stove,
benches, and a writing-table erected. Richard and I went on board, and
the young lady of the party, Miss Dundas, niece of “Uncle Brown,” the
before-mentioned “Padre Eterno,” broke a bottle of _caxassi_ over her
bows, exclaiming, “Brig _Eliza_,” whereby hangs an untold joke. Besides
our own party, nearly all the village followed us. So there arose
respectable cheers for the “Brig _Eliza_,” “Captain and Mrs. Burton,”
“Success to the expedition,” “The Superintendent and his wife,”
“Prosperity to Sabará,” “The Emperor of Brazil,” “The Queen of England,”
with many _vivas_. We then took all our own party on board, and sent the
animals forward to meet us, and shoved off. There were two blacks in the
stern, and two in the bows to paddle and pole, and one black to cook for
Richard and attend upon him. One old black was disagreeably nervous, and
begged Richard to exchange him at the next town, which he did. We
spooned down with the stream, which ran very fast, and went down two
rapids, and got aground twice, and towards sunset arrived at Roça
Grande. Here they all took leave of Richard—I need not say how sadly.
They kindly left me behind for a space to follow, as it was a more
serious business for me to say “good-bye” than for them. “I was not to
expect him till I saw him. It might be two months, or four, or six.” He
did not know what might happen. The dangers were Indians, _piranhas_ (a
sort of river pike), fever and ague, and of course the rapids. At last I
parted from him on his ‘brig,’ with the old swallow-tailed gentleman
(before mentioned), who had begged a two-days’ passage, and a savage
_cão de féla_ and his five blacks; and from a bank I watched the barque
with dim eyes round a winding of the river, which hid it from my sight.
The sun was sinking as I turned away. I was put into my litter, and
taken back to Sabará, where I fell in with my party, and we returned to
Morro Velho as we came. This was August 7.

I remained with my kind friends the Gordons till I got well enough to
ride all day without injury. On one occasion I was able to be of use to
Mr. Gordon in a small matter which required a little diplomacy and a
gallop of three leagues, twelve miles either way, out and in within a
given time, the message he had sent having failed. I asked to go; I
wanted to try if I was fit for my long ride, and he gave me my choice of
all the stables. I selected a white horse of remarkable speed and
endurance, with a strong cross of the Arab in him, and it certainly
would have been my own fault if I had failed as to time. I rode there,
found the desired decision, and walked into his office with the answer
long before the time, which pleased him very much. After that I thought
I was fit to set out on my return journey to Rio. I had already stayed
so long in their house, receiving great kindness and hospitality; and
though they begged of me to continue with them until it was time to meet
Richard at Rio, I felt that life was too serious to pass my days in the
pleasant _dolce far niente_ of catching butterflies, which really was my
principal occupation at Morro Velho. There was too much to be done
elsewhere, so I begged Mr. Gordon to lend me seven animals, two slaves,
and one of his _tropeiro_ captains, or muleteers, and I prepared to
leave this hospitable family on the coming August 25.

Before this date, as I felt sufficiently recovered, I had gradually
emancipated myself from litter and sofa, and tried my strength as usual.
I had one very pleasant and amusing excursion.

There was a village called Santa Rita, about five miles from Morro
Velho, where they have a church, but no priest; and being the Feast of
the Assumption of Our Lady, a great day, the villages had sent over to
borrow the Morro Velho padre. They sent a mounted attendant and a horse
saddled with silver trappings to bring him there and back. I asked him
to take me. Mr. Gordon lent me a horse and a mounted attendant, and we
set out on a most lovely morning for our pretty mountain ride. The padre
was in the height of Minas fashion and elegance. He wore jack-boots,
white corduroys, a very smart coat, waistcoat, watch-chain, embroidered
Roman collar, a white _pouche_ with tassels and silk cravat, and
enormous silver spurs. On arriving, we were received by upwards of forty
people in a private house on the way to the church. From there we went
on to the church, a small, tawdry, roadside chapel, where the padre said
Mass; and though the people were very devout, the children and dogs were
very distracting. We then went to a _vendha_, and spread our basket of
provisions. This made the people furious. The padre had passed me off as
his niece, so everybody was anxious to have the honour of doing
hospitality to the padre and his niece. About fifteen messages were sent
to us, so we said we would go round and take coffee with them after our
breakfast. The great attraction of the place was a handsome old lady,
Donna Floris Vella, civilized and intelligent by nature. She petted me a
good deal at first for being the padre’s niece, and called me _bena
moca_ (here to be young and _fat_ is the highest personal compliment
they can pay you), and quarrelled with us for going off into the
_mato_—the forest, as she called the _vendha_—to breakfast, instead of
coming to her. But I suddenly forgot that I was the padre’s niece, and
turned round and spoke to Mr. Fitzpatrick, the Morro Velho Master of
Horse, who had been sent to attend upon me, in English. When she heard
me speaking English so fluently, she flew at the padre and punched him
in the ribs in a friendly way, and told him he was a liar; but she kept
up the joke with the rest; so we had coffee and very interesting general
conversation about England and civilization, church matters and
marriages, and were taken round to several houses. They would have been
jealous if we had only visited one; so we did not reach home till late
in the afternoon.

One day afterwards, as I was sitting at the church door at Morro Velho,
I saw some hammocks with bodies lying in them. They were carried by
others, all dripping with blood. The kibble—the same one we had been
down the mine in—had broken a link of its chain and fallen. How sorry it
made me feel, and how thankful that it did not happen on our day, as it
easily might! Mr. Gordon is so careful about accidents that he has the
chain hauled over and examined every twelve hours, and a prize is given
to any one who can find a faulty link; yet in spite of all this from
time to time it will break away. I think it happened twice during my
stay. There is not the smallest occurrence that happens in that large
colony that does not come under Mr. Gordon’s eye between nine and ten
o’clock every morning. The wonder is how he finds time for everything
and every one with so much ease to himself.

While I was at Morro Velho he allowed me to organize little singing
parties every night. All who could sing used to assemble, and he would
join us, and we learnt duets, trios, quartettes, chorus glees, and so
on. It brought people together; and he said it was refreshing after the
day’s work, instead of sitting reading or writing in a corner, always
tired.

So passed the time at Morro Velho, until the day of my departure dawned.




                              CHAPTER VIII
                        _MY LONELY RIDE TO RIO_
                                 (1867)

         The day of my delight is the day when you draw near,
         And the day of mine affright is the day you turn away.

                         ALF LAYLAH WA LAYLAH
                             (_Burton’s “Arabian Nights”_).


On Sunday, August 25, we had a sad dinner at the Casa Grande at midday,
on account of the breaking up our little party, which had been so
pleasant off and on for the past two months. We should probably never
meet again. I bade Mrs. Gordon farewell, and at 3.30 a considerable
cavalcade set out from Mr. Gordon’s hospitable door. I had to pass
through the village of Morro Velho. There appeared many a waving
handkerchief, and I received many a warm handshake and “God-speed.”

At the top of the village hill I turned to take a last grateful farewell
of valley, church, and village—the little colony, with its white
settlements and pretty bungalows, where I had passed so many pleasant
days. We rode along one of the beautiful roads, which I have before
described, for about six miles, often silent or trying to make cheerful
remarks. Mr. Gordon accompanied me. A little before five o’clock the
sun’s rays were beginning to fade away into the pleasant, illuminated
coolness of late afternoon, and we stopped at a house agreed upon as the
parting-place, the house of the same Donna Floris Vella before
mentioned, an old widow lady with a delicate son. Though already grey
and aged, she was very buxom and clever, though deprived by
circumstances of cultivation. She was what we would call “a good
fellow.” Here we stayed half an hour, and looked at her flowers. Then we
remounted, and rode on for a few hundred yards. My host, Mr. Gordon, who
commanded our party, here anticipated a little mutiny, as all in their
kindness of heart wanted to accompany the lone woman, and some begged to
go with me for one day and some even for one stage. So we suddenly
stopped in a tract of low brushwood, and he gently but firmly said, “It
was here that I parted with my daughter when her husband took her to
England, and it is here that I will part with you.” I shook hands
silently with him, and then with the others all round, and as the sun’s
last rays faded into evening I turned the head of my “gallant grey”
towards my long ride; but I turned myself in the saddle, and watched
them all retreating across the tract homewards until the last waving
handkerchief had disappeared.

It was one of those beautiful South American evenings, cool and fresh
after the day’s heat; and twilight was succeeded by a brilliant
starlight such as England’s denizens have never dreamt of. There was
perfect stillness, save the hum of late insects and a noise like distant
rain; sweet smells from the forest were wafted across my path; and dark,
brown birds of magpie shape flitted along the ground like big bats or
moths, sometimes perching for an instant, and disappearing without noise
in a ghostlike fashion. I felt very sad. I was sorry to leave my
friends. Two months even “off and on” is like twelve months to a
wanderer and an Englishwoman in exile, and above all in the wilds. She
is glad to meet her country people _when they are kind_; and they had
been so very kind. Moreover, I was returning after a taste of bush life,
not to my eyrie in São Paulo, but to the cab shafts of semi-civilization
in Rio de Janeiro.

My retinue consisted of the Captain of the Gold Troop, a kind, attentive
man. He rode down with the Gold Troop from the mines, and protected it
with an old two-barrelled horse-pistol, which would never go off when we
wanted to shoot anything (and by way of parenthesis I may remark that,
with the assistance of a small boy to look after the mules, I would
undertake for a bet to rob the troop myself). My _capitão_, whom for the
future I shall call Senhor Jorge, spoke but little, and that in
Brazilian. I should call him a very silent youth, which was an advantage
in passing beautiful scenery, or when taking notes, or feeling inclined
for thought; but there were moments when I wanted to glean information
about the country, and then I used to draw him out with success. Besides
this stalwart there was my faithful Chico, two slaves to take care of
the animals, six mules for baggage and riding, and my grey horse.

We arrived at the ranch of Sant’ Antonio d’Acima at about eight o’clock.
Here I got a comfortable straw bed and some milk. Some of the
inhabitants, about fifteen in number, came over to our ranch, which
consisted of four bare, whitewashed walls, a ceiling of plaited bamboo,
a mud floor, a wooden shutter for a window, two wooden benches and
table, and three tallow dips. These good people sang songs and glees,
and danced Minas dances for me to the native wire guitar, snapping their
fingers, and beating time with their feet. They sing and dance at the
same time. They were all very merry. At ten I retired to try and sleep,
leaving them to continue their festivities; but what with the excitement
of the day, and the still twanging guitars at the other side of the
partition, I did not succeed.

At 2 a.m. I rose, and, calling to Senhor Jorge, asked him to send for
the animals. The two slaves were sent to the pasture to look for them,
drive them in, and feed them. While this operation was going on, I paid
the master for my night’s entertainment the sum of seven milreis, or
fourteen shillings. When I mounted, it was 4 a.m. It was quite dark and
foggy, but this I did not mind. I had heard from all quarters that the
country was execrable. My mule, like Byron’s corsair, possessed one
virtue to a thousand crimes, and that was surefootedness, and had an
objection to deep holes; and were the whole journey to have been
performed on a single plank, I would have ridden him in the dark without
a bridle. I threw it on his neck, and tried to keep my hands warm. Soon
the fog lifted, and the moon’s last crescent showed us the way, aided by
starlight. The dawn grew upon us at 5.30, and at 6.30 the sun gilded the
mountain-tops. At eight we arrived at Rio das Pedras, our old station,
breakfasted from our basket, and changed animals. I had arranged to ride
my mule in the dark, but my good grey horse in the daylight, for he
trotted well, and this would relieve the journey greatly. We had now
ridden twelve miles. My mule was lazy, I had no spur, and besides the
country was difficult. I had still twelve miles to go. So I changed for
the grey. I passed over several bits of prairie ground, where I gave my
grey “spirits.” I arrived at twelve o’clock, two hours later than I had
intended, at Casa Branca, the station where we had stopped five weeks
previously. The sun had already been fierce for two hours. It is an
excellent plan in Brazil to start early and ride your twenty-four or
thirty miles before ten or eleven, and rest during the great heat of the
day under shelter. It saves both man and beast, and enables them to last
longer; and on a moonlight or starlight morning in the tropics you lose
nothing of scenery, it is so bright. Casa Branca was an old broken-down
house in a valley near a river. The only available room was occupied by
an invalid. The woman of the house, be it remarked, had twenty-four
children, and a cat for each child; so we had scanty room, but decent
food—_canjica_ (a rice mess), fowl roast and stewed, _farinha_ (flour),
_coves_ (cabbage), with _tocinho_ (bacon fat), and _feijão_ (black
beans). My sleeping-place was a room with four narrow mud walls, a rush
ceiling, mud floor, a door which only kept shut by planting a stake
against it, and a bit of sacking covered the hole representing a window.
Every day, on arriving at my ranch, I first looked after the animals and
their comforts, for on this all depends; then settled my own, wrote up
this journal, saw that the men had all they wanted, dined, and then
inspected the place, and read till falling asleep, always rising at 1 or
2 a.m. This evening I took a stroll down the partially dried-up bed of
the river by twilight, and met herds of cattle being driven home. The
picture would have made a good Turner. On my return Chico brought me a
_caxassi_ bath; this is, literally, a grog of native rum and hot water,
without sugar, which gives a refreshing sleep. In these countries there
is a minute tick, which covers you by millions, burrowing into your
flesh; you cannot extract it, and it maddens you. At night you derive an
inexpressible relief from having the grog bath.

Next morning we rose at 2.20, but did not get off till 4 a.m. It was
pitch dark, raining, with high wind, and altogether a decidedly suicidal
kind of morning. Instead of going _down_ the bed of the river, we struck
away to the right (N.W.), on a new road to any I had been formerly. We
groped our way through rain and biting wind. At 7 a.m. we took a last
view of the cross of Morro Velho from a height forty-six miles off,
having passed through Cachoeira do Campo, a long, straggling village
which climbed a hill and possessed a church and one or two respectable
houses. It should be remarked that in Minas Geraes there are a great
number of large black crosses, with all the instruments of the Passion,
erected either before the parish church or on heights; they were
introduced by the Jesuit missionaries. An Englishman having any great
enterprise on hand will say as an incentive to the blacks, “When such a
work is completed, I will plant a cross in your village”; and the hope
of this makes them anxious and hard-working. We passed a deserted house
and ranch. The country all about was ugly, wild, and desolate, and
composed chiefly of barren _campos_. At 9 a.m. we arrived at Chiquero, a
little village and ranch on a hill. We picnicked in the open ranch with
the mules, not liking to go into a hot shelter and come out again in the
wind. Meantime the sun came out and scorched us up. We changed animals,
and left Chiquero at ten. My mule “Camondongo” trotted after us like a
dog. Our road was bad, but a little less ugly than hitherto. We saw a
fox in the wood, and Senhor Jorge tried to shoot it with the old
horse-pistol, but failed. Later on we passed through some woods, and
finally saw Ouro Branco quite close to us from a height on the other
side of the serra. I was quite delighted, and exclaimed, “Oh, we shall
get in early to-day.” “Patience,” said my _capitão_; “wait a little.” We
had to make an enormous _détour_ of at least two leagues to get to Ouro
Branco, which seemed close to us, because we could not cut straight
across the serra, which was impassable. It was very irritating always
seeing the town near us, and yet always unable to reach it. I wanted to
ride straight down the serra, but Senhor Jorge wouldn’t let me, and so
we eventually passed round under the rocks beneath it. I saw that he was
right, though it seemed such a waste of time. Still, the delay was not
to be regretted, as the only curious feature of this part is in this
turn, which is full of curious hills covered with stones of a wonderful
and natural formation, starting out of the earth in a slanting position.
The only idea it conveys to the mind is that of a hilly churchyard,
overstocked with tombstones all blown on one side by the wind. They are
intersected with a curious stunted tree or shrub, with a tuft at the end
of each branch; and every here and there was a small patch or forest of
them, and they presented a very weird look in the surrounding
desolation. I did not know, nor could Senhor Jorge inform me, what these
stones were made of, nor why this curious formation. Though he had
travelled the road for seven years, and been in the country since his
birth, he had never remarked them before. Coming in we saw a peasant
with a stick and a pistol fighting a cobra. It appeared a long day, as
we had had five hours of darkness, biting wind, and rain, followed by
four hours of scorching sun.

We arrived at Ouro Branco at one o’clock. It is a long, straggling
village, with a church and a few nice, respectable, white houses. A wall
of green serra faces the village, which runs round on the top of a
semicircular eminence under the serra. It had several old houses, one
marked 1759, a Minas cross, and an old stone fountain. The ranch was
respectable, but very dirty behind the scenes. I went into the inner
part to prepare food myself, and was thankful that I did so. The women
were unwashed, dirtily clad, covered with snuff, and with hair streaming
down their backs; and the kitchen utensils cannot be described. It is
almost impossible for an Englishwoman in any part of the world, no
matter how rough she may become, even in bushranging, to view dirt with
calm and indifference.

I left Ouro Branco at 4.30 a.m. It was then pitch dark, but finally the
heavy clouds and small rain cleared away, and we enjoyed starlight, then
a delicious dawn and bright morning. We first rode through a long,
straggling village, called Carreiras, and afterwards passed a small
_fazenda_, where there were evidences of a refined mind; it was radiant
with flowers, and trellised with creepers. Our road to-day was prettier.
We passed through well-wooded lanes with pretty foliage—the umbrella
tree and feathery mimosa. The next feature worth remarking was a small
river, which had overhanging trees of a white-and-pink feathery flower
which yields an edible bean. I sent one of our men to pick some. They
have a branch of green buds in the middle, and the external ones sprout
forth in feather, which is magenta pink at its base and snow white at
the ends, terminating in a yellow knob. We then met some men hunting
peccary; the master with a horse and gun, and the beaters with dogs in
couples and hatchets. At 8 a.m. we arrived at a small ranch, in a forest
called Holaria, kept by an Italian and a Portuguese. The former keeps
his original grind-organ, which attracted all the birds in the
neighbourhood, who perched and sang loudly in the tree-tops surrounding
it. He had, however, forgotten his native tongue. We picketed the
animals, and breakfasted in the open.

The gigantic earth-slips in this part of the world present a very
remarkable appearance. They appeared like yawning gulfs, as if some
awful convulsion of Nature had just taken place; and one can hardly
believe the hubbub that is effected by little streams of water wearing
away and causing the earth to fall. Some appeared as if a vast plain had
sunk, leaving gigantic walls, fanciful castles, and pyramids of earth
standing alone in the middle. They are of a bright red clay, which the
sun variegates like a kaleidoscope.

We left Holaria at nine, and came to Quelsez, a long village with shops
and a few decent houses. I stopped at the shop of a Portuguese Jew to
look at violas. We then rode along a rather pretty and level road, where
we met mules and _tropeiros_, which indicated that we were joining the
civilized world again, and suggested more of highway and traffic than we
had as yet seen. We stopped at Bandeirinho, a few huts and farm, and had
a glass of water and witnessed great excitement amongst the juvenile
population because a cobra was killing all their chickens. All along the
road to-day our way was lined with a beautiful sort of lilac laburnum.
We had plenty of level ground for galloping.

We arrived at 12.30 at a village called Ribeirão do Inferno, a few
straggling houses and ranch, poor but clean. In the ranch and its
surroundings lay a sick girl, an old woman, two young married women, and
a man. As I was known to be European, they came to ask me if I had any
remedies; sickness was rare here, and doctor or medicines unknown. I
produced a little medicine chest, with which they were quite surprised
and delighted. First I went to the old woman. She was seventy; she had
been travelling along on a mule, when she was suddenly seized with
spasms, was unable to proceed, and was carried into the first house. She
was shut up in the dark, and would not allow any light in the room,
where about a dozen sympathizers were collected, till I absolutely
refused to prescribe for her in the dark. She then consented to a candle
being brought. She then, after some beating about the bush, confessed to
me that she had eaten too much cabbage, upon which I prescribed for her
to take a cup of “English” tea which I had with me with milk and sugar,
and left her quite happy. The girl had a serious chill. I made her some
hot punch of _caxassi_ water and sugar, with a large lump of hog’s lard
in it, in default of butter, and covered her up with six blankets and
rugs to produce perspiration. The family fought very hard about it, and
declared that she should not and would not drink it; but I insisted that
she must, and she helped me by taking to it very kindly. She was quite
well, but weak, after a few hours. The two young women had headaches
from other causes, and I gave them carbonate of soda, which they
insisted was sea-salt, and imagination made them sea-sick. But the worst
of all was the man, who was seriously ill, and I found out at last it
resulted from decayed teeth, upon which I told him that only a dentist
could cure him. His wife told me with tears that it was death to have a
tooth out, and I must give him some medicine that would make the decayed
teeth drop out without pain; but I told her that that was beyond my, or
any one’s, power. I wonder what a London doctor would have given for my
reputation that night!

It is worth noticing that to-day the _carapatos_ (ticks) were on the
decrease. This seems to be the border or barrier of their country; but I
do believe this place to be unhealthy, for we were all slightly ailing
that night. A young Portuguese engineer who has been educated in France
arrived at the ranch in the evening _en route_ for Ouro Preto. He told
me he had been in Ouro Preto when we had passed through it on our way
out, and had much wished to make our acquaintance.

We were rather lazy the next morning, and did not leave Ribeirao until a
few minutes to six. My invalids were all well; but I only saw the
master. My four men and myself were all suffering from headache, so the
place must have been unhealthy. We had nothing to regret in starting so
late, for it was darker, colder, and more mizzly than ever. We rode two
and a half leagues, or ten miles, before breakfast. Neither our road nor
any events were worthy of remark. The scenery would have been very
beautiful for England, but it was tame for South America. We passed at
intervals a few cottages or a solitary _fazenda_. We breakfasted in the
open ground of a pretty ranch, called Floresta, surrounded by wooded
mountains. There we found several men lassoing a struggling bull, who
would not consent to leave his birthplace and little friends, and gave
them about twenty minutes’ trouble over every hundred yards, tearing men
and trees down with his lasso. Senhor Jorge would go inside the ranch,
but I persisted in seeing the sport. We then passed a few straggling
houses; then an old _fazenda_; then we came to a stream with one plank,
which we made our animals cross.

We reached Gama at 1.10 p.m., having been out for seven hours. I felt a
little tired, and declined to ride any farther, as there was no
necessity. Gama is a ranch, and a poor, dirty one, in a desolate spot.
It was fortunate for me that I arrived when I did, for half an hour
later arrived _en route_ for some distant _fazenda_ Senhor Nicolão Netto
Carneiro Seão, a polished and travelled man who spoke excellent English.
He was travelling with his wife, children, and servants, numbering
sixteen persons, some splendid animals, and a _liteira_. We had a long
conversation over a gypsy fire which his servant made on the ranch
floor, during which he told me he had served for five years in the
British navy. He appeared to be anxious to import everything European,
and to civilize his country. He was kind enough to say that he longed to
meet Richard, and gave us a general invitation to visit his _fazenda_,
and we exchanged cards.

The next morning we got up at 1.30 a.m., but did not start till 3.30.
The morning was starlight, with a biting wind, but it soon grew dark and
cloudy. We had no end of petty misfortunes. My change horse, being
allowed to run loose, that we might go faster, instead of following us,
ran back to his pasturage of last night. The mule I was riding insisted
on following him, and heeded neither bit nor whip, but nearly left me in
a ditch. Our cargo mule took advantage of the scrimmage to bolt in an
opposite direction. And it was at this crisis especially dark and
cloudy. We lost nearly an hour in collecting again, as we could not see
each other nor any path. It seemed a very long two leagues (eight miles)
before breakfast. As soon as it was light we could see a church tower of
Barbacena on a neighbouring hill, apparently about three miles from us,
but in reality fifteen miles distant.

At 7.10 we encamped in a clearing. My grey horse (the change) was tied
up to a tree preparatory to being saddled, and got the staggers, threw
himself down, and rolled and kicked so that, when we left again at eight
o’clock, I had to remount my mule “Camondongo.” We passed a village
outside Barbacena, and met a very large Brazilian family travelling
somewhere with horses, mules, and _liteiras_. There were so many girls
that it looked like a school. We stopped at the ranch of Boa Vista that
I might change saddles. The grey seemed all right again. The mule was
done up. I sent the cargo mules, servants, and animals on to Registro, a
league farther than Barbacena, and rode to Hermlano’s Hotel, where we
had originally put up at Barbacena when we started. Here I found
Godfrey, our former German coach-driver, and arranged my passage, and
found that Hermlano or some other scoundrel had changed my _cão de féla_
pup for a white mongrel, which I presented to Godfrey. I paid a visit of
twenty minutes to a former hospitable acquaintance, Dr. Regnault, and
then rode on five miles farther to Registro, and arrived at 1.15 very
tired, having been out ten hours.

Registro, which I have cursorily noticed before, is a picturesque
_fazenda_ on the roadside, all constructed in a rude wooden style, and
is a mule station. It is a fine, large building, and the coach, after
leaving Barbacena, stops here first to pick up passengers and baggage.
There is also a celebrated cigarette manufactory, which contains two
rooms full of workers, one for men and the other for women slaves. I
went to visit them, and bought a packet for half a milreis, or
thirteenpence (then). The cigarettes are hard and strong, and do not
draw well. I did not like them. The master makes about 1,600 milreis, or
about £160, a month by them; so some people evidently find them good.

I rose at 3.30 the next morning. Whilst dressing I heard what I supposed
was threshing grain or beating sacks; it went on for about thirty
minutes, and I did not pay any attention to it till at last I heard a
sob issue from the beaten mass at the other side of a thin partition
wall. I then knew what was taking place, and turned so sick I could
hardly reach the door. I roused the whole house, and called out to the
man to cease. I begged the girl slave off, and besought the master to
stop, for I felt quite ill; but it was fully ten minutes before I could
awaken any one’s pity or sympathy; they seemed to be so used to it they
would hardly take the trouble to get up, and the man who was beating
only laughed and beat on. I nearly fainted, though I could only hear and
not see the operation. I thought the poor wretch must have been pounded
to a jelly before he left off; but she turned out to be a fine,
strapping black girl, with marvellous recuperative powers, for when the
man ceased she just gave herself a shake and walked away.

I left Registro at 7 a.m. Here I was to lose my escort. Senhor Jorge and
the slaves accompanied me to see me off, and appeared very sorry that
our pleasant ride was over. They were to start at the same time to ride
back home to Morro Velho. It was quite a curious sensation, after three
months’ absence, to find myself once more on a road, and a road with a
coach going to civilized haunts. I found the motion of the coach as
unpleasant as a steamer in a gale of wind after a long stay on land.

We descended the Serra de Mantiqueira so quickly that I did not
recognize our former laborious ascent. I noticed the trees and ferns
were very beautiful in the forests as we dashed along—all festoons and
arches. We had a most beautiful and extensive view of the Serra de
Mantiqueira and the surrounding mountains. We then came to our last
station, just outside Juiz de Fóra. The country is very much the same
during all this journey, perpetual mountain, valley, forest, and river,
and the only great feature is the serra.

We drove up to the hotel of Juiz de Fóra at 3.30, having done our
sixty-four miles in eight hours and twenty-three minutes. I asked
Godfrey how it was that we had come back so much faster than we made the
journey out. It transpired that he had got married in the interval, and
now had somebody waiting for him at home.

Some of my coach companions came to the hotel, one a very much esteemed
old man; a French engineer, with a pretty, delicate wife and child; and
three Southerners—General Hawthorne, of the Southern army, an
intelligent and very remarkable man, with two companions. We had rather
a pleasant dinner.

Next day was Sunday, and I called on the padre and went to church. After
this I spent a pleasant afternoon under the Commendador’s orange trees
with the _tangerines_. I collected plants and roots to send back to Mrs.
Gordon at Morro Velho, and was escorted by the padre, the chief manager
of the company, and the head gardener, who cut them for me. Here we
found the three Southerners, who joined us, and we had a violent
political discussion.

The coach left Juiz de Fóra the next morning at 6.30. To-day as well as
yesterday I was compelled, much against the grain, to go inside by
Richard’s express wish at parting. At the station I met Captain Treloar
on his way home, much better in spirits. He wished me very much to
return with him, which I declined with thanks.

We soon came upon the winding river Parahybuna. We took up three
Brazilian ladies, who were dreadfully frightened of the wild mules and
speed, and also of the dust, and wanted to close the windows in spite of
the sickening heat; but I persuaded them otherwise. They wanted my place
because it faced the mules, and also wished that I should make them a
present of my aromatic vinegar. They consisted of a young married woman,
whose husband, a mere boy, was on the top of the coach, and she was
chaperoning two raw young girl cousins on a visit to her _fazenda_ at
some distance. By-and-by the boy husband got too hot outside, and was
crammed in with us, five persons when three were more than enough,
especially young people, who sprawl about.

Once more we arrived under the great granite mountain which overshadows
the station of Parahybuna. At 2.30 we put down the Brazilian ladies, who
mounted horses and rode somewhere into the interior, and I was thankful
for the space and coolness.

Then we reached Posse, where we took in a strapping German girl with
big, flat feet, who trod all the way upon mine. The German Protestant
parson had started with me from Juiz de Fóra, but he had to give up his
place to the Brazilian ladies, and gladly resumed it when they left, as
the heat outside was considerable, and besides which he practised his
little English upon me. Soon after Posse arose the second wall of
granite, and the scenery became doubly beautiful and the air cooler. We
saw the sun set behind the mountains, and the scenery was fairyland and
the air delicious; it was an evening one could not forget for many
weeks.

I arrived at Petropolis at 7 p.m., where I got a hearty welcome and a
good dinner, went to bed, and slept as soundly as a person would who had
been out in the sun for twelve hours and had driven one hundred miles.
This did not prevent my starting for Rio the next morning at 6 a.m.

The morning was clear, and we had a pleasant drive down the mountains.
When I got on board the little steamer to cross the Bay of Rio, I hid in
the ladies’ cabin, for I was ashamed of the state of my clothes. I could
not explain to people why I was so remarkable, and I was well stared at.
My boots were in shreds, my only dress had about forty slits in it, my
hat was in ribbons, while my face was of a reddish mahogany hue and much
swollen with exposure. I was harassed by an old Brazilian lady in the
cabin, who asked me every possible question on earth about England; and
at last, when she asked me if we had got any _bacalhão_ (dried cod), to
get rid of her I said “No!” Then she said she could not think much of a
country that had no _bacalhão_, to which I returned no reply.

On arriving at Rio, I was told that the Estrangeiros Hotel, where I had
left my maid and my luggage before starting for the interior three
months previously, was full. As I did not want to be seen about Rio in
such a plight, I waited till dusk, and then went to the next best hotel
in the town. The landlord, seeing a ragged woman, did not recognize me,
and he pointed to a little tavern across the road where sailors’ wives
were wont to lodge, and said, “I think that will be about your place, my
good woman, not here.” “Well,” I said, “I think I am coming in here all
the same.” Wondering, he took me upstairs and showed me a garret; but I
would have none of it, and insisted on seeing his best rooms. There I
stopped and said, “This will do. Be kind enough to send this letter for
me to the Estrangeiros.”

Presently down came my maid, who was a great swell, with my luggage and
letters. After a bath and change of garments I rang the bell and ordered
supper. The landlord came up himself, as I was so strange a being. When
he saw me, he said, “Did that woman come to take apartments for you,
madam? I beg your pardon, I am afraid I was rather rude to her.” “Well,”
I said, “I am ‘that woman’ myself; but you need not apologize, because I
saw myself in the glass, and I don’t wonder at it.” He nearly tumbled
down; and when I explained how I came to be in such a plight, he begged
my pardon till I was quite tired of hearing him.

I spent the next few days resting my still weak foot, and reading and
answering a sackful of welcome letters from home, which had accumulated
during my three months’ absence. Then I went down to Santos.




                               CHAPTER IX
                              _HOME AGAIN_
                              (1867–1869)

               Home! there is magic in that little word;
               It is a mystic circle that surrounds
               Pleasures and comforts never known beyond
               Its hallowed limits.


Isabel did not remain long at Santos. At the end of October she went up
to Rio to gain news of her husband, of whom she had heard nothing since
they parted at Roça Grande nearly four months before, when he started in
his canoe down the Rio São Francisco. As he did not return, she was
naturally anxious. She wrote to her mother:

“I have come down to Rio to meet Richard. The English steamer from Bahia
came in on November 1. I was in a great state of joyful excitement; went
on board in a man-of-war’s boat. But, as once before when I went to
Liverpool, Richard was not there, nor was there any letter or anything.
I am very uneasy, and unless within two or three weeks some news comes I
shall start to Bahia by steamer, change for the small one to Penedo
Alagoas, and thence to a tiny one just put on from Penedo up the river
to the falls, which are scarcely known yet [Paulo Affonso Falls, the
Niagara of Brazil]. Here my difficulties would be great, as I should
have to buy mules and ride round an unnavigable port and then canoe up.
I fear Richard is ill, or taken prisoner, or has his money stolen. He
always would carry gigantic sums in his pockets, hanging half out; and
he only has four slaves with him, and has to sleep amongst them. I am
not afraid of anything except the wild Indians, fever, ague, and a
vicious fish which can be easily avoided; there are no other dangers.
However, I trust that news may soon come. I cannot remain here so long
by myself as another month. I had a narrow escape bathing the day before
yesterday. What I thought was a big piece of seaweed was a ground shark
a few yards from me; but it receded instead of coming at me. I shall
feel rather shy of the water in future.”

As the steamers came in from Bahia Isabel went on board them one after
another in the hope of greeting her husband; but still he did not come.
At last, when she had made herself quite ill with anxiety, and when she
had fully determined to start in search of him, he turned up
unexpectedly—of course by the one steamer which she did not meet—and he
was quite angry that she had not come on board to greet him. After
telling her all his adventures while canoeing down the river (which have
been fully described elsewhere[24]), they went down to Santos.

They moved about between Santos and São Paulo for the next four months,
until, in April, 1868, Burton broke down. The climate at last proved too
much even for his iron frame, and he had a very severe illness; how
severe it was may be gathered from the following letter:


                                              “SÃO PAULO, _May 3, 1868_.

  “MY DEAREST MOTHER,

“I have been in the greatest trouble since I last wrote. You may
remember Richard was very ill with a pain in the side. At last he took
to incessant paroxysms of screaming, and seemed to be dying, and I knew
not what to do. Fortunately a doctor came from Rio on the eighth day of
his illness. I sent at once to him, and he kindly took up his quarters
in our house. On hearing my account, and examining Richard, he said he
did not know if he could save him, but would do his best. He put twelve
leeches on, and cupped him on the right breast, lanced him in
thirty-eight places, and put on a powerful blister on the whole of that
side. He lost an immense deal of black clotted blood. It would be
impossible to detail all we have gone through. This is the tenth day the
doctor has had him in hand, and the seventeenth of his illness. Suffice
it to say that the remedies have been legion, and there has been
something to do every quarter of an hour day and night. For three days
the doctor was uncertain if he could live. The disease is one that grows
upon you unconsciously, and you only know it when it knocks you down. It
was congestion of the liver, combined with inflammation of the lung,
where they join. The agony was fearful, and poor Richard could not move
hand or foot, nor speak, swallow, or breathe without a paroxysm of pain
that made him scream for a quarter of an hour. When I thought he was
dying, I took the scapulars and some holy water, and I said, ‘The doctor
has tried all his remedies; now let me try one of mine.’ I put some holy
water on his head, and knelt down and said some prayers, and put on the
blessed scapulars. He had not been able to raise his head for days to
have the pillow turned, but he raised it of his own accord sufficiently
to let the string pass under his head, and had no pain. It was a silent
consent. He was quite still for about an hour, and then he said in a
whisper, ‘Zoo, I think I’m a little better.’ From then to now he slowly
and painfully got better, and has never had a _bad_ paroxysm since. Day
and night I have watched by his bed for seventeen days and nights, and I
begin to feel very nervous, as I am quite alone; he won’t let any one do
anything for him but me. Now, however, thank God! all the symptoms are
disappearing; he is out of danger; he can speak better, swallow, and
turn a little in bed with my help. To-day I got him up in a chair for
half an hour for the first time, and he has had chicken broth. For
fifteen days nothing passed his lips but medicine. He is awfully thin
and grey, and looks about sixty. He is quite gaunt, and it is sad to
look at him. The worst of it is that I’m afraid that his lungs will
never be quite right again. He can’t get the affected lung well at all.
His breathing is still impeded, and he has a twinge in it. He cannot go
to England because of the cold; but if he is well enough in three months
from this to spare me, I am to go and remain till Easter. He has given
up his expedition (I am afraid he will never make another), but will
take a quiet trip down to the River Plata and Paraguay (a civilized
trip). My servants have all been very kind and attentive, and our doctor
excellent, and the neighbours have all shown the greatest kindness and
sympathy. I have not been out of the house for ages, but I believe there
have been all sorts of religious _fêtes_ going on, and our poor old
bishop has died and was buried with great pomp. I tried to go out in the
garden yesterday, but I nearly fainted, and had to come back. Don’t
mention my fatigue or health in writing back.”


Burton recovered slowly. His illness, however, had the effect of
disgusting him with Brazil, and of making him decide to throw up his
consulate, a thing he had long been wishing to do, if a favourable
opportunity presented itself. The present was a decidedly unfavourable
opportunity, but nevertheless he came to the conclusion that he could
not stand Brazil any longer. “It had given him his illness; it was far
from the world; it was no advancement; it led to nothing.” He had been
there three years, and he wanted to be on the move again.

His slightest wish was his wife’s law. Though she was in a way sorry,
for São Paulo had been the only home she had ever enjoyed with her
husband so far, she at once set to work to carry out his desire. She
sold up everything at São Paulo. Burton applied to the Foreign Office
for leave; and that obtained, they went down to Santos together. Here it
was decided that they should part for a time. He was to go to the
Pacific coast for a trip, and return by way of the Straits of Magellan,
Buenos Ayres, and Rio to London. Isabel was to go direct to London, see
if she could not induce the Foreign Office to give him another post,
transact certain business concerning mines and company promoters,
arrange for the publication of certain books, and await the arrival of
her husband.

While they were at Santos Isabel wrote the following letter to her
mother:


                                “THE COAST NEAR SANTOS, _June 16, 1868_.

“In this country, if you are well, all right; but the moment you are
ailing, lie down and die, for it is no use trying to live. I kept
Richard alive by never taking my eyes off him for eight weeks, and
perpetually standing at the bedside with one thing or another. But who
in a general way will get any one to do that for them? I would now like
to pass to something more cheerful.

“The first regatta ever known took place at Santos last Sunday for all
nations—English, American, French, German, Portuguese, and Brazilian,
and native _caiques_: English and American in white flannel and black
belts; German, scarlet; French, blue; Portuguese, white with blue belts
and caps; Brazilians, like parrots, in national costume, all green, with
yellow fixings and scarlet caps. Our boat was of course expected to win.
It was manned by four railway clerks, who had ordered a big supper on
the strength of the winnings; but, poor things! they had such weak arms,
and they boasted and talked so much, that they were exhausted before
they started. The ‘English ladies’ (?) objected to their rowing in
jerseys, as improper! And they did not know how to feather their oars
(had perhaps never heard of it), so they came in _last_. The Portuguese,
who stepped quietly into their boat without a word, came in first,
Brazil second, German third, and the three big nations, French,
American, and English, last. We _last_ by half a boat’s length!
Tremendous fighting and quarrelling ensued, red and angry faces, and
‘bargee’ language. I am very glad; it will produce a good feeling on the
Brazilian side, a general emulation, and take our English snobs down a
peg, which they sadly want. The native _caiques_ were really
pretty—black men with paddles standing upright, and all moving together
like a machine.

“I leave São Paulo on the 31st, Santos on the 1st, Rio on the 9th, and
will reach home early in September. I could not stay here any longer
without a change. I think you had better leave town for your country
change now, as I _cannot_ leave London earlier than the middle of
October. All my wealth depends on my editing a book and a poem of
Richard’s and two things of my own for the October press; and, moreover,
I am grown so fat and coarse and vulgar I must brush myself up in town a
little before appearing, and I have no clothes, and I am sure you will
faint when you see my complexion and my hands. So try and start early
out of town, and return early. I can join in any fun in October. I got
your little note from Cossy. I dare say the woods are very nice; but I
think if you saw the virgin forests of South America in which I am now
sitting alone, far from any human creature, with gaudy butterflies and
birds fluttering around me, big vegetation, and a shark playing in the
boiling green sea, which washes up to my feet, and the bold mountain
background on a very blue sky, the thick foliage covered with wild
flowers and creepers such as no hothouse in England could grow, arum
leaves, one alone bigger than me, which shade me from the burning sun,
the distant clatter of monkeys, the aromatic smells and mysterious
whisperings of the forest, you would own that even the Cossy woods were
tame; for to be thoroughly alone thus with Nature is glorious. Chico is
cooking a mysterious mess in a gypsy kettle for me; my pony is browsing
near; and I, your affectionate child, am sitting in a short petticoat
and jacket, barelegged to the knees, writing to you and others to catch
the next mail.

“Richard starts with me, and turns the opposite way from Rio. He goes
_viâ_ Rosario, Rio Grande do Sul, Buenos Ayres, Monte Video, the Plata
River, and Paraguay, to see the war. A _voyage de luxe_ for him, for
these places are all within writing latitudes and some little
civilization.”


On July 24 Isabel embarked for London, and arrived at Southampton on
September 1, after a rough voyage. Her mother and two of her sisters
came down to Southampton to meet her; and great was the joy of their
meeting.

As soon as Isabel had settled down at home she turned to her work, and
good luck attended her. She carried through all her husband’s mining
business, and arranged for the publication of his books, notably for the
one he had just written on _The Highlands of Brazil_. As it was to be
brought out at once, she was also commissioned to correct and pass the
proofs for press. She did so; but as the book contained certain things
of which she did not approve, she inserted the following preface in the
book by way of protest. It is quoted in full, because it illustrates a
much-vexed question—the attitude which she adopted towards her husband’s
writings. Her action in these matters has called down upon her the
fiercest criticism; but this brief preface shows that her views were
consistent throughout, and her husband was fully aware of them when he
left her his sole literary executor.

  Before the reader dives into the interior of Brazil with my husband as
  a medium, let me address two words to him.

  I have returned home, on six months’ leave of absence, after three
  years in Brazil. One of the many commissions I am to execute for
  Captain Burton is to see the following pages through the press.

  It has been my privilege, during those three years, to have been his
  almost constant companion; and I consider that to travel, write, read,
  and study under such a master is no small boon to any one desirous of
  seeing and learning.

  Although he frequently informs me, in a certain oriental way, that
  “the Moslem can permit no equality with women,” yet he has chosen me,
  his pupil, for this distinction, in preference to a more competent
  stranger.

[Illustration: LADY BURTON IN 1869.]

  As long as there is anything difficult to do, a risk to be incurred,
  or any chance of improving the mind and of educating oneself, I am a
  very faithful disciple; but I now begin to feel that, while he and his
  readers are old friends, I am humbly standing unknown in the shadow of
  his glory. It is therefore time for me respectfully but firmly to
  assert that, although I proudly accept of the trust confided to me,
  and pledge myself not to avail myself of my discretionary powers to
  alter one word of the original text, I protest vehemently against his
  religious and moral sentiments, which belie a good and chivalrous
  life. I point the finger of indignation particularly at what
  misrepresents our Holy Roman Catholic Church, and at what upholds that
  unnatural and repulsive law, Polygamy, which the Author is careful not
  to practise himself, but from a high moral pedestal he preaches to the
  ignorant as a means of population in young countries.

  I am compelled to differ with him on many other subjects; but, be it
  understood, not in the common spirit of domestic jar, but with a
  mutual agreement to differ and enjoy our differences, whence points of
  interest never flag.

  Having now justified myself, and given a friendly warning to a fair or
  gentle reader—the rest must take care of themselves—I leave him or her
  to steer through these anthropological sandbanks and hidden rocks as
  best he or she may.

Isabel’s greatest achievement at this time was the obtaining for her
husband the long-coveted Consulship of Damascus from Lord Stanley, who
was an old friend and neighbour of her uncle, Lord Gerard. Lord Stanley
(afterwards Lord Derby) was then Foreign Secretary in Disraeli’s brief
first Administration. He was a friend of the Burtons, and had a high
opinion of them both. To him Isabel repaired, and brought the whole of
her eloquence and influence to bear: no light thing, as Burton’s
enemies—and he had many—guessing what she was after, endeavoured to
influence the Foreign Secretary by representing that his appointment
would be unpopular, both with the Moslems and the Christian missionaries
in Syria. In Lord Stanley’s opinion, however, Burton was the man for the
post, and he appointed him Consul of Damascus, with a salary of £1,000 a
year. Isabel telegraphed and wrote the glad news; but neither her letter
nor her telegram reached her husband, who was then roving about South
America. Burton heard the news of his appointment accidentally in a
_café_ at Lucca. He telegraphed at once accepting it, and started for
England.

In the meantime there had been a change of Government, and Lord
Clarendon succeeded Lord Stanley at the Foreign Office. Burton’s enemies
renewed their opposition to his appointment, and besought Lord Clarendon
to cancel it. Isabel, whose vigilance never slumbered for one moment,
got wind of this, and immediately dispatched copies of the following
letter to her husband at Rio, Buenos Ayres, and Valparaiso:


                                             “LONDON, _January 7, 1869_.

  “MY DARLING,

“If you get this, come home at once by shortest way. Telegraph from
Lisbon and Southampton, and I will meet you at latter and have all snug.

“_Strictly private._ The new Government have tried to upset some of the
appointments made by the last. There is no little jealousy about yours.
Others wanted it even at £700 a year, and were refused. Lord Stanley
thinks, and so do I, that you may as well be on the ground as soon as
possible.

                                      “Your faithful and attached wife.”


Burton did not receive this letter, as he had already started for home
with all speed. His wife met him at Southampton. Burton went to the
Foreign Office, and had a long interview with Lord Clarendon, who told
him that the objections to his appointment at Damascus were “very
serious.” Burton assured Lord Clarendon that the objections raised were
unfounded. Lord Clarendon then let the appointment go forward, though he
plainly warned Burton that, if the feeling stated to exist against him
at Damascus should prevent the proper performance of his official
duties, he would immediately recall him. It is necessary to call
attention to this, as it has a direct bearing on the vexed question of
Burton’s recall two years later.

No shadow of that untoward event, however, dimmed the brightness of
Burton’s prospects just now. He gave an assurance that he would act with
“unusual prudence,” and it was hinted that if he succeeded at Damascus
he might eventually get Morocco or Teheran or Constantinople. Isabel
writes: “We were, in fact, at the zenith of our career.” She might well
think so, for they were basking in the unaccustomed light of the
official favour; they received a most enthusiastic welcome from their
friends, and were dined and _fêted_ everywhere. The new year (1869)
opened most auspiciously for them.

They spent the spring in London and in paying a round of visits to many
friends. Later they crossed over to Boulogne, and visited the old haunts
where they met for the first time eighteen years before.

Burton’s leave was now running short, and the time was drawing near when
he was due at Damascus. He decided to go to Vichy and take a month’s
course of the waters, and then proceed _viâ_ Brindisi to Damascus. His
wife was to come out to Damascus later. At Boulogne therefore they
parted; he went to Vichy, and she was to return to London and carry out
the usual plan of “pay, pack, and follow.”

Isabel went round by way of Paris, and then she began to feel unhappy at
being separated from her husband, and to want to join him at Vichy. “I
did not see why I could not have the month there with him, and make up
double-quick time after.” So instead of returning to London, she started
off for Vichy, and spent the month there with her husband. Algernon
Swinburne and Frederick Leighton (both great friends of the Burtons)
were there also, and they made many excursions together. When Burton’s
“cure” was at an end, his wife accompanied him as far as Turin. Here
they parted, he going to catch the P. & O. at Brindisi, _en route_ for
Damascus, and she returning to London to arrange and settle everything
for a long sojourn in the East.

She was in England for some weeks (the autumn of 1869), and up to her
eyes in work. She had to see a great many publishers for one thing, and
for another she was busy in every way preparing herself for Damascus.
She went down to Essex to see the tube-wells worked, and mastered the
detail of them, as Burton was anxious, if possible, to produce water in
the desert. She also took lessons in taking off wheels and axles, oiling
and putting them on again; and lessons in taking her own guns and
pistols to pieces, cleaning and putting them together again. Then she
had to buy a heap of useful and necessary things to stock the house at
Damascus with. One of her purchases almost rivalled her famous “jungle
suit.” She invested in a pony-carriage, a thing unheard of in Syria; and
her uncle, Lord Gerard, also made her a present of an old family
chariot. This tickled the late Lord Houghton immensely, and he made so
many jokes about “Isabel driving through the desert in a chariot drawn
by camels” that she left it. But she took out the pony-carriage; and as
there was only one road in the country, she found it useless, though she
was lucky enough to sell it to some one at Damascus, who bought it not
for use, but as a curio.

Other work of a different nature also came to her hand, the work of
vindicating her husband and defending his position. At a meeting of the
Royal Geographical Society, at which she was present, Sir Roderick
Murchison, who was in the chair, spoke of “Central or Equatorial Africa,
in which lie those great water-basins which, thanks to the labours of
_Speke, Grant, and Baker_, are known to feed the Nile.” After the
meeting was over she went up to Sir Roderick and asked him why Burton
had not been mentioned with the others. He replied it was an oversight,
and he would see that it was rectified in the reports to the press. It
was not. So she wrote to _The Times_, protesting against the omission of
her husband’s name, and to _The Athenæum_. These letters have been
published in her Life of Sir Richard. But the following letter from Sir
Roderick Murchison, called forth by her letter to _The Times_, and her
reply thereto, have not been published:


                              “16, BELGRAVE SQUARE, _November 14, 1869_.

  “MY DEAR MRS. BURTON,

“I regret that you did not call on me as you proposed, instead of making
your _complaint_ in _The Times_.

“No change in the wording of the address could have been made when you
appealed to me; for the printed article was in the hands of several
reporters.

“Nor can I, in looking at the address (as now before me), see why you
should be offended at my speaking of ‘the great Lake Tanganyika, first
visited by Burton and Speke.’

“My little opening address was not a history of all African discoveries;
and if you will only refer to the twenty-ninth volume of _The Journal of
the Royal Geographical Society_ (1859), you will see how, in presenting
the medal to your husband as the chief of the East African Expedition, I
strove to do him all justice for his successful and bold explorations.
But I was under the necessity of coupling Speke with Burton as _joint
discoverers of the Lake Tanganyika_, inasmuch as they both worked
together until prostrated by illness; and whilst your husband was blind
or almost so, Speke made all the astronomical observations which fixed
the real position of places near the lake.

“Thus your husband, in his reply to me after receiving the medal, says,
‘Whilst I undertook the history, ethnography, the languages and
peculiarities of the people, to Captain Speke fell the arduous task of
delineating the exact topography and of laying down our positions by
astronomical observations, a labour to which at times even the undaunted
Livingstone found himself unequal’ (_Journal R. G. S._, vol. xxix., p.
97).

“I beg you also to read your husband’s masterly and eloquent description
of the lake regions of Central Equatorial Africa in the same volume. No
memoir in our journal is more striking than this, and I think it will
gratify you to have Captain Burton’s most effective writing brought once
more to the notice of geographers. I will with great pleasure add a full
footnote to the paragraph in which I first allude to the Tanganyika, and
point out how admirably Captain Burton has illustrated that portion of
Lake Tanganyika which he and his companion visited; though, as you know,
he was then prostrated by illness and almost blind.

“With this explanation, which will appear in all the official and public
copies of my little, imperfect, opening address, I hope you will be
satisfied, and exonerate me from any thought of not doing full justice
to your meritorious husband, who, if he had been in health, would
doubtless have worked out the path which Livingstone is still engaged in
discovering: the settlement of whether the waters of Tanganyika flow
into the said discovered Albert Nyanza by Baker.

               “Believe me to be ever, dear Mrs. Burton,
                               “Yours sincerely,
                                   “RODERICK MURCHISON.”

                                 “14, MONTAGU PLACE, MONTAGU SQUARE, W.,
                                                 “_November 15, 1869_.

  “DEAR SIR RODERICK,

“I have every intention of calling upon you, and I think you know I have
always looked upon you as a very sincere and particular friend; nor had
I the slightest idea of being offended with _you_; and if you have read
my letter, you will have seen that I particularly laid a stress upon
_your_ kindness; but what you and I know on this subject, and perhaps
many connected with the Royal Geographical Society, is now, considering
the fast flow of events, almost ancient history, unless brought before
the public. I _did_ feel nettled the other night; but I might have kept
quiet, had I not had many visits and letters of condolence on my husband
having been passed over. I then felt myself _obliged_ to remind the
public what the Society the other night had forgotten. Had I visited
you, and had we talked it over, and had the reports been run over and
corrected, it would hardly have set the large number of people right who
were at the meeting of last Monday, who heard Captain Burton mentioned
only once, and the other four twenty times. Indeed, I was not offended
at the _only_ mention you did make of him, but at the mention of the
other three, excluding him. I shall be truly grateful for your proposed
notice of him. And do not think I grudge anything to any other
traveller. I am glad you mentioned Speke with him. Speke was a brave
man, and full of fine qualities. I grudge his memory no honour that can
be paid; I never wish to detract from any of the great merits of the
other four. I only ask to maintain my husband’s right place amongst
them, which is only second to Livingstone. I hope I shall see you in a
few days, and

                                      “Believe me, most sincerely yours,
                                                      “ISABEL BURTON.”


A month later all her business was completed, and Isabel left London for
Damascus, to enter upon the most eventful epoch of her eventful life.




                             CHAPTER X[25]
                        _MY JOURNEY TO DAMASCUS_
                              (1869–1870)

                The East is a Career.

                                DISRAELI’S “_Tancred_.”


I shall not readily forget the evening of Thursday, December 16, 1869. I
had a terrible parting from my dear ones, especially from my mother. As
a Frenchman would say, “Je quittais ma mère.” We all dined together—the
last dinner—at five o’clock, and three hours later I set out for the
station. My brothers and sister came down to Victoria to see me off, and
at the last moment my brother Rudolph decided to accompany me to Dover,
for which I was truly thankful. It was a wild night, and the express to
Dover rushed through the raging winter storm. My mind was a curious
mixture of exultation and depression, and with it all was a sense of
supernormal consciousness that something of this had been enacted
before. About a fortnight previously I dreamed one of my curious dreams.
I thought that I came to a small harbour, and it was as black as night,
and the wind was sobbing up mournfully, and there were two steamers in
the harbour, waiting. One refused to go out, but the other went, and
came to grief. So in the train, as we tore along, I prayed silently that
I might have a sign from Heaven, and it should be that one captain
should refuse to go. Between my prayers my spirits rose and fell. They
rose because my destination was Damascus, the dream of my childhood. I
should follow the footsteps of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Lady Hester
Stanhope, the Princess de la Tour d’Auvergne, that trio of famous
European women who lived of their own choice a thoroughly Eastern life,
and of whom I looked to make a fourth. They fell because I was leaving
behind me my home, my family, and many dear ties in England, without any
definite hope of return.

We arrived at Dover, and walked to the boat, and could hardly keep on
our legs for the wind. When I set out to embark, lo! there were two
steamers. The Ostend boat refused to go out; the other one was preparing
to start. Now I was most anxious to sail without an hour’s delay, but I
turned to my brother and said, “Rody, if it is my duty to go I will go,
for I do not like to stay on my own responsibility. I am scrupulous
about Dick’s time and money, and he told me to lose no time.” The answer
was, “Duty be damned! I won’t let you go.” Still I hesitated, and as I
was between the ways an old sailor stepped out of the darkness as I
stood on the quay, and said, “Go home, missie; I haven’t seen such a
night this forty year.” I remembered my dream, and decided.

I turned into the nearest shelter, a small inn opposite the boats, so as
to be able to start at daylight; and the result justified my foresight.
The captain of the first vessel, by which I had intended to go, went
out. After shipping awful seas, and being frightfully knocked about, he
moored some way off Calais Pier; but the sea and the wind drove the boat
right on to it, and carried away one of the paddles, the tiller, and
hurt several passengers. The waves drove her backwards and forwards on
to the pier like a nutshell for half an hour, and she was nearly going
down, but some smacks hauled her off and out to sea again. She beat
about all night, and returned to Dover in a pitiable plight, having
neither landed the passengers nor the baggage.

It was thus I met her when I embarked on the other boat at nine o’clock
the next morning. The weather was terribly rough even then, but at least
we had the advantage of daylight. We had a rough passage, the sea
mountains high; but we reached Calais eventually, where I managed to get
some food at the buffet, such as it was, but I had to sit on the floor
with a plate on my lap, so great and rude was the crowd. The boat
accident caused me to miss my proper train to Marseilles, and to lose
two of my many trunks. It would almost seem as if some malignant spirit
had picked these two trunks out, for the one contained nearly all my
money, and the other all my little comforts for the journey. I had to
decide at once between missing my passage at Marseilles and forsaking my
missing trunks. I decided to go on, and leave them to look after
themselves. Six months later they turned up at Damascus safe and sound.
We travelled through the weary night and most of the next day, and only
reached Marseilles at 5 p.m., after having met with many _contretemps_
and discomforts. I at once went on board, arranged my cabin, did all my
little business, and went back alone to the hotel to have a hot bath and
a cutlet, having been nearly forty-eight hours on the road without rest
or stopping.

Our ship was one of the P. & O. floating hotels, superbly fitted. We
steamed out from Marseilles at half-past nine the next morning. It was a
great pleasure to exchange the fogs and cold of England for the climate
of the sunny, smiling south, the olive groves, and the mother-o’-pearl
sea; yet these beauties of Nature have no meaning in them when the heart
feels lonely and desolate, as mine did then.

Yet on the whole I had a very pleasant passage from Marseilles to
Alexandria. We had not more than fifty passengers on board, all
Anglo-Indians, and middling class. I got a very nice cabin forward, all
to myself, with my maid. The ship was full of young married couples
going out to India. They were not used to ships, and were evidently
unaware of the ventilators at the top of the cabin, so at night one got
the full benefit of their love-making. One night, for instance, I heard
a young bride fervently calling upon her “Joey” to kiss her. It was
amusing at first, but afterwards it became rather monotonous. I did not
know a soul on board with whom I could exchange ideas, and I kept as
much as possible to myself without appearing rude. I was asked to choose
my place at table, and I humbly chose one some way down; but the captain
asked me to move up to the seat of honour on his right hand, and I felt
quite at a loss to account for the distinction, because not a soul on
board knew anything about me. I did not find the captain, though, a bad
companion. He was a short, fat, dark, brisk little man, just the sort of
man a captain and a sailor should be. I am glad to say he had not the
slightest idea of being unduly attentive. The conversation was dull at
table. The ladies talked chiefly about Colonel “This” and Captain
“That,” peppering their conversation with an occasional Hindustani word,
a spice of Anglo-Indian gossip, and plentiful regimentalisms, such as
“griffin,” “tiffen,” “the Staff,” and “gymkhana,” all of which was Greek
to me.

Take it all round, the six days’ passage was not so bad. I particularly
admired the coast of Sicily, the mountains rising one above another,
Etna smoking in the distance, the sea like glass, and the air adding a
sensuous charm, a soft, balmy breeze like the Arabian seas. Yet, as I
had been spoiled by Brazilian scenery, I did not go into the same
ecstasies over it as my fellow-passengers. We spent Christmas Eve as our
last night on board. In the evening we went in for snapdragon and other
festivities of the season, and tried to be as merry as we could. The
ship could not go into the harbour of Alexandria at night; it has a
dangerous entrance; so we sent up our rockets and blue-lights, and
remained outside the lighthouse till dawn.

[Illustration: THE BOULEVARD, ALEXANDRIA.]

On Christmas Day morning I first set my foot on Eastern ground. We
steamed into the harbour of Alexandria slowly; everybody was going on to
India except me, and I landed. The first thing I did was to go straight
to a telegraph office and pay nineteen shillings and sixpence for a
telegram to Richard at Beyrout, which of course arrived there after I
did. I cannot say that I was struck with Alexandria; in point of fact, I
mentally called it “a hole,” in vulgar parlance. I went to the Hôtel de
l’Europe, a second-rate hotel, though one of the best in Alexandria. It
was not so bad as might have been expected. In the afternoon we made a
party up to see Pompey’s Pillar and Cleopatra’s Needle and the bazars
and other things. But I am bound to say that, on the whole, I thought
Alexandria “neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring.” It was a
sort of a jumble of Eastern and Western, and the worst of each. The only
amusing incident which happened to me there was when two dragomans got
up a fictitious quarrel as to who should take me to the bazars. Of
course they appealed to me, and I said, “You may both come, but I shall
only pay one.” Whereupon they fastened upon each other tooth and nail,
tore each other’s clothes, and bit each other’s cheeks. These two,
though I never suspected it at the time, were, it appeared, in the habit
of thus dealing with ladies and missionaries and amiable English
tourists; and they always got up this farce, because, to avoid a street
fight, the kind-hearted looker-on would generally employ and pay them
both, and perhaps give them a tip in addition to calm them down. But I
innocently did the right thing without knowing it. I had so often seen
negroes fight with knives in Brazil that the spectacle of two dragomans
biting each other’s cheeks appeared to me to be supremely ridiculous. I
laughed, and waited patiently until one of them pretended to be very
much hurt. Then turning to the other, I said, “You seem the better man;
I will take you”; and they were both very much crestfallen.

I spent the evening alone in my small room at the hotel. A strange
Christmas truly.

Next morning I went on board the Russian _Ceres_, which was bound for
Beyrout, a three days’ passage. It was an uneventful journey. The best
thing about the boat was the _caviare_, which was delicious. The deck
was simply filthy, as it was crowded with Orientals from every part of
the East, all nations and creeds and tongues. But it was the most
interesting part of the ship to me, as I had always been dreaming of the
East. Each of these Eastern families had their mattresses and their
prayer-carpets, on which they seemed to squat night and day. No matter
how rough or how sea-sick, they were always there saying their prayers,
or devouring their food, or dozing, or reclining on their backs.
Occasionally they chanted their devotions through their noses. I could
not help laughing at the sound; and when I laughed they did the same. I
used to bring all the sweets out of the saloon for the children, so they
were always glad to see me. The other passengers thought it passing
strange that I should elect to spend the whole of my days with “Eastern
rabble.”

We passed Port Said and got to Jaffa in about two days. I was not
impressed with Jaffa. The town looks like dirty, well-rubbed dice
running down the side of a conical-shaped, green hill. Here I sent
another telegram to Damascus to Richard—the Russian Vice-Consul kindly
took charge of it—but all the same it never reached its destination,
though I am certain it was not the Consul’s fault. At Jaffa we picked up
an Effendi and his harím, and two Italian musicians, who played the
concertina and guitar. The latter pair confided in me, and said they had
made a _mariage de cœur_, and were really very hard up, in fact
dependent on their talent; so I hit on a plan to help them. I asked the
captain to let us have a little music after breakfast and dinner. They
played, and I carried round the plate, and my gleanings paid their
passage and something more. As for the Effendi’s harím she was carefully
veiled and wrapped up in an _izár_, or sheet, and confined to her cabin,
except when she was permitted at rare intervals to appear on deck. Her
Effendi jealously watched her door, to see that nobody went in but the
stewardess. However, she freely unveiled before me. I was not impressed
with her charms, and I thought what a fine thing the sheet and the veil
would be to some of our European women. There is an irresistible
suggestion of concealed charm about them. It was my first experience of
a real harím.

On the third day, very early, we anchored off Beyrout. The town as
viewed from the water’s edge is beautiful. Its base is washed by the
blue Mediterranean. It straggles along the coast and crawls up part of
the lower hills. The yellow sand beyond the town, and the dark green
pine forests which surround it, contrast well with the deep blue bay and
the turquoise skies. It is backed by the splendid range of the Lebanon.
The air is redolent with the smell of pine wood. Every town in the East
has its peculiar odour, and when once you have been in one you can tell
it blindfold afterwards. I went ashore, and put up at a clean and
comfortable hotel facing the sea, which was kept by a Greek. This hotel
later on came to be to my eyes the very centre of civilization; for
during our sojourn at Damascus Beyrout was our Biarritz, and this little
hotel the most luxurious house in Syria. Here I had breakfast, and after
that I called on our Consul-General. His wife was ill in bed, but he
asked me kindly to remain to luncheon, and showed me how to smoke my
first narghíleh. I was very anxious to start at once for Damascus, but
the diligence had gone. So I had to stop, willy-nilly, for the night at
Beyrout. In the evening the Duchesse de Persigny arrived from Damascus,
and sent me word that she would like to dine with me. Of course I was
delighted. She gave me some news of Richard, and enlivened my dinner
very much by anecdotes of Damascus. She was a very witty, eccentric
woman, as every one knows who had to do with her when she was in
England. She had many adventures in Damascus, which she related to me in
her racy, inimitable way. It didn’t sound so bad in French, but I fear
her humour was a trifle too spicy to bear translation into plain English
prose. When I got to Damascus, I heard a good deal more about her
“goings on” there.

I went to bed, but not to sleep, for it seemed to me that I was at the
parting of the ways. To-morrow I was to realize the dream of my life. I
was to leave behind me everything connected with Europe and its petty
civilization, and wend my way to “The Pearl of the East.” As soon as you
cross the Lebanon Range you quit an old life for a new life, you forsake
the new world and make acquaintance with the old world, you relapse into
a purely oriental and primitive phase of existence.

Early the next morning “the private carriage” which the Consul-General
had kindly obtained for me, a shabby omnibus drawn by three old screws,
made its appearance. I was to drive in it over the Lebanons, seventy-two
miles, to Damascus; so I naturally viewed it with interest, not
unmingled with apprehension. Quite a little crowd assembled to see me
off, and watched with interest while my English maid, a large pet St.
Bernard dog, my baggage, and myself were all squeezed into the omnibus
or on top of it. The Consul-General sent his kawwass as guard. This
official appeared a most gorgeous creature, with silver-mounted pistols
and all sorts of knives and dangling things hanging about him. He
rejoiced in the name of Sakharaddín, which I pronounced “Sardine,” and
this seemed to afford great amusement to the gaping crowd which had
assembled to see me off.

The drive from Beyrout to Damascus was charming, and it lasted two days.

First we drove over the Plain of Beyrout, behind the town. The roadside
was lined with cactus hedges and rude _cafés_, which are filled on
Sundays and holidays by all classes. They go to smoke, sip coffee and
_raki_, and watch the passers-by. Immediately on arriving at the foot of
the Lebanon, we commenced a winding, steep ascent, every turn of which
gave charming views of the sea and of Beyrout, which we did not lose
sight of for several hours. We wound round and round the ascent until
Beyrout and the sea became invisible. The cold made me hungry, and I
refreshed myself with some bread, hard-boiled eggs, and a cigarette.
“Sardine” was keeping Ramadan, but the sight of these luxuries tempted
him, and he broke his fast. I couldn’t help offering him something, he
looked so wistful! At last we reached the top, and a glorious wintry
sunset gave us a splendid view. It was of course midwinter, and one saw
little of the boasted fertility of the Lebanon. After the beauties of
Brazil the scenery looked to me like a wilderness of rock and sand,
treeless and barren; the very mountains were only hills. I could not
help contrasting the new world and the old. In Brazil, though rich in
luxuriant vegetable and animal life, there is no history—all is new and
progressive, but vulgar and _parvenu_; whereas Syria, in her abomination
of desolation, is the old land, and she teems with relics of departed
glory. I felt that I would rather abide with her, and mourn the past
amid her barren rocks and sandy desert, than rush into the progress and
the hurry of the new world.

We descended the Lebanon at a full canter into the Buká’a Plain. On the
road I met three strangers, who offered me a little civility when I was
searching for a glass of water at a khan, or inn. As I was better
mounted than they, I said that in the event of my reaching our
night-halt first I would order supper and beds for them, and they
informed me that every house on the road had been _retenue_ for me, so
that I was really making quite a royal progress. I was able to keep my
promise to them. The halt was at Shtora, a little half-way inn kept by a
Greek. The three travellers soon came up. We supped together and spent a
pleasant evening. They turned out to be a French _employé_ at the
Foreign Office, a Bavarian minister on his travels, and a Swedish
officer on leave.

The next morning we parted. My new acquaintances set out in an opposite
direction, and I went on to Damascus. We trotted cheerfully across the
rest of the Buká’a Plain, and then commenced the ascent of the
Anti-Lebanon. To my mind the Anti-Lebanon, off the beaten track, is
wilder and more picturesque than the other range. The descent of the
Anti-Lebanon we did at a good pace, but it seemed a long time until we
landed on the plain Es Sáhará. That reached, compensation for the ugly
scenery we had to pass through began when we entered a beautiful
mountain defile, about two hours from Damascus. Here, between mountains,
runs the road; and the Barada—the ancient Abana, they say—rushes through
the mountains and by the roadside to water the gardens of Damascus.

Between Salahíyyeh and Damascus is a quarter of an hour’s ride through
gardens and orchards. I had heard of them often, and of the beautiful
white city, with her swelling domes, tapering minarets, and glittering
golden crescents looming against the far horizon of the distant hills.
So I had heard of Damascus, so I had pictured it, and so I often saw it
later; but I did not see it thus on this my first entrance to it, for it
was winter. As we rumbled along the carriage road I asked ever and
again, “Where are the beautiful gardens of Damascus?” “Here,” said the
kawwass, pointing to what in winter-time and to English eyes appeared
only ugly shrubberies, wood clumps, and orchards. I saw merely scrubby
woods bordered by green, which made a contrast to the utter sterility of
Es Sáhará. We passed Dummar, a village which contains several summer
villas belonging to the Wali (the Governor-General of Syria) and other
personages. The Barada ran along the right of the road, and gradually
broadened into the green Merj, which looked then like a village common.
And thus I entered Damascus.

We passed a beautiful mosque, with the dome flanked by two slender
minarets. I scarcely noticed it at the time, for I drove with all haste
to the only hotel in Damascus—“Demetri’s.” It is a good house with a
fine courtyard, which has orange and lemon trees, a fountain full of
goldfish in it, and a covered gallery running round it. All this would
have been cool and pleasant in the summer, but it was dark, damp, and
dreary that winter evening. I must own frankly that my first impression
of Damascus was not favourable, and a feeling of disappointment stole
over me. It was very cold; and driving into the city as I did tired out,
the shaky trap heaving and pitching heavily through the thick mire and
slushy, narrow streets, filled with refuse and wild dogs, is, to speak
mildly, not liable to give one a pleasant impression.

[Illustration: DAMASCUS, FROM THE DESERT.]

However, all my discomfort, depression, and disappointment were soon
swallowed up in the joy of meeting Richard, who had also put up, pending
my appearance, at this hotel. He came in about an hour after my arrival,
and I found him looking ill and worn. After our first greetings were
over he told me his reception at Damascus had been most cordial, but he
had been dispirited by not getting any letters from me or telegrams.
They all arrived in a heap some days after I came. And this explained
how it was that he had not come to meet me at Beyrout, as I had expected
him to do. In fact, I had felt sorely hurt that he had not come. But he
told me he had gone to Beyrout over and over again to meet me, and I had
not turned up, and now the steamer by which I had arrived was the only
one which he had not gone to meet. He was feeling very low and sad about
my non-appearance. It was therefore a joyful surprise for him when he
came in from his lonely walk to find me settled down comfortably in his
room. Though he greeted me in that matter-of-fact way with which he was
wont to repress his emotions, I could _feel_ that he was both surprised
and overjoyed. He had already been three months at Damascus, and the
climate and loneliness had had a bad effect upon him, both mentally and
physically. However, we had a comfortable little dinner, the best that
“Demetri’s” could give us, which was nothing special, and after dinner
was over we warmed ourselves over a _mangal_, a large brass dish on a
stand, full of live charcoal embers. Then we had a smoke, and began to
discuss our plans for our new home.

It had taken me fifteen days and nights without stopping to come from
London to Damascus.


                             END OF VOL. I.


     Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

-----

Footnote 1:

  The name of Arundell of Wardour appears in the official Austrian lists
  of the Counts of the Empire. The title is still enjoyed by Lord
  Arundell and all the members of the Arundell family of both sexes.
  Lady Burton always used it out of England, and took rank and
  precedence at foreign courts as the Countess Isabel Arundell (of
  Wardour). She used to say, characteristically: “If the thing had been
  bought, I should not have cared; but since it was given for a brave
  deed I am right proud of it.”

Footnote 2:

  The greater part of Book I. is compiled from Lady Burton’s unfinished
  autobiography, at which she was working the last few months of her
  life. The story is therefore told mainly in her own words.

Footnote 3:

  Two only now survive: Mrs. Fitzgerald and Mrs. Van Zeller.

Footnote 4:

  _Life of Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife.

Footnote 5:

  It is necessary here to defend Lady Burton against herself. She was
  certainly not “ugly”; for she was—a friend tells me who knew her at
  this time—a tall and beautiful girl, with fair brown hair, blue eyes,
  classic features, and a most vivacious and attractive manner. Nor
  could she correctly be called a “schoolgirl”; for though she was
  taking some finishing lessons in French, music, etc., she was more
  than nineteen years of age, and had been through a London season.

Footnote 6:

  _Vide_ Burton’s _First Footsteps in Africa_.

Footnote 7:

  Burton alludes to this prejudice against him in the original (1886)
  edition of his _Arabian Nights_, “Alf Laylah wa Laylah,” Terminal
  Essay, Section D, pp. 205, 206.

Footnote 8:

  _Laméd_, one of Lady Burton’s books of private devotion.

Footnote 9:

  At this point Lady Burton’s autobiography ends—cut short by her death.
  Henceforward, when she speaks in the first person, it will be from her
  papers and letters, of which she left a great number. She was sorting
  them when she died. But I have felt justified in repeating the story
  of her marriage in her own words, as no other pen could do justice to
  it.

Footnote 10:

  Miss Stisted’s _Life of Burton_.

Footnote 11:

  Lady Burton also, during the last years of her life, admitted that she
  had made a mistake in judging her mother’s opposition too harshly. She
  often said to her sister, “I am so sorry I published those hard things
  I wrote of dear mother in my Life of Dick. It was her love for me
  which made her do it. I will cut it out in the next edition.”

Footnote 12:

  _Life of Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. i., p. 337.

Footnote 13:

  This chapter is a condensed account of Lady Burton’s marriage, as
  related by herself in her Life of her husband, with some fresh
  material added.

Footnote 14:

  From her devotional book _Laméd_.

Footnote 15:

  She wrote in her book _Laméd_ in 1864: “All has been carried out by
  God’s help, with the only exception that He saw it was not good to
  give us children, for which we are now most grateful. Whatever happens
  to us is always for the best.”

Footnote 16:

  Miss Alice Bird, who knew Sir Richard and Lady Burton for many years,
  has told me the following details about the wedding. The Birds were
  friends of the Arundell family, and Isabel came to them and told them
  how matters stood with regard to Mrs. Arundell’s opposition and her
  ill-health, and asked if she might be married from their house, and
  so, to use her own phrase, “throw the mantle of respectability over
  the marriage,” to prevent people saying that it was a runaway match.
  Dr. Bird and his sister gladly consented; they accompanied her to the
  church, and when the ceremony was over the newly wedded couple
  returned to their house in Welbeck Street, where they had a simple
  luncheon, which did duty for the wedding breakfast.

  After luncheon was over Isabel and her husband walked off down Welbeck
  Street to their lodging in St. James’s, where they settled down
  without any fuss whatever. She had sent her boxes on ahead in a
  four-wheeler. That evening a bachelor friend of Burton’s called in at
  the lodging in St James’s, and found Isabel seated there, in every
  sense mistress of the situation, and Burton proudly introduced her as
  “My wife.” They did not send the friend away, but kept him there to
  smoke and have a chat with them.

Footnote 17:

  Letter to Foreign Office, March 27, 1861.

Footnote 18:

  _Life of Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. i., pp. 348,
  349.

Footnote 19:

  The chapters on Madeira and Teneriffe are compiled from manuscripts
  which Lady Burton wrote on her return from Teneriffe in 1863, but
  which her husband would not allow her to publish.

Footnote 20:

  [On reading through this manuscript with Mr. Wilkins, I am struck with
  the coincidence that it was on Passion Sunday, March 22, 1896
  (thirty-three years later), that my dear sister, Lady Burton, died.—E.
  FITZGERALD.]

Footnote 21:

  “Laurence Oliphant conveyed to Richard 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 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; Richard _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.
  Richard 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.” (_Life of
  Sir Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. i., p. 389.)

Footnote 22:

  Afterwards the Right Hon. Sir Edward Thornton, H.B.M. Minister at
  Washington, sometime Ambassador at St. Petersburg, etc.

Footnote 23:

  Yet the mine was almost destroyed by fire some six months after our
  visit.

Footnote 24:

  _The Highlands of Brazil_, by Richard Burton.

Footnote 25:

  The chapters on Damascus are compiled from letters and diaries of Lady
  Burton, and from some of the rough manuscript notes from which she
  wrote her _Inner Life of Syria_.

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                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Re-indexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end
      of the last chapter.
 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 5. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.