Chapter VI: On Leave in London (2)

"'From inquiries I have made at Jeddah, I learn on good authority that gold quartz has been found in great quantities at Táif (the famous summering-place among the highlands to the east of Mecca), or rather on the mountain range between that place and Mecca. The person who gave me this information at the time of the discovery went to Constantinople and sundry other capitals, but the results obtained were not very encouraging. I was also told that Mr. Moel Betts (of the defunct company, Betts, Wylde, and Co.) has at Suez specimens of this quartz, which he took away with him from Jeddah when he went north. All this information is trustworthy, and you may thoroughly rely on its being correct, as I got it from a man in whom I can confide. An old Oriental traveller like yourself can understand how hard it always is to arrive at the truth in a place like this. However I am assured that the Government engineer of this district (Jeddah), a certain Sádik Bey, can also give me valuable details regarding the specimens found and the results obtained. Meanwhile you can confidently rely on the details which I have so far managed to obtain. I should also add that the person who so kindly gave me the news has further promised that he will do his utmost to provide me with specimens when he goes to Mecca. I have seen Mr. Consul Jago, and asked him if he could help me with anything. I shall be very glad to learn from you that the gold mines of Midian are likely to be coming on again, and I should think this a most favourable time to bring forward your most wonderful discoveries near Al-Muwaylah.'

"So far Mr. Levick. I am not astonished to hear that the results of the gold quartz were 'unsatisfactory.' These opinions were probably picked up from the surface, or broken off from some outcrop. But the fact of their being found is all-important; and the outcome of the work would be very different were it carried out by a scientific engineer, or, better still, by a practical miner from the gold diggings. I have heard now of auriferous discoveries extending from between the mountains of Northern Midian, along the line of the West Arabian Gháts, until they meet the volcanic region about Aden. They have been reported to me from behind Yambu, and Mecca, Mocha, and Hodaydah; and I have a thorough conviction that some day they will be found exceedingly valuable.

"RICHARD F. BURTON."

When Richard was leaving Egypt for good, Mr. Cookson, the brother of our Consul at Alexandria, Sir Charles Cookson, between whom and Richard there existed a great friendship, wrote his "Good-bye" in the following terms, which pleased Richard beyond everything:--

"Farewell to thee, Richard; we bid thee adieu.
May Plutus and Crœsus their treasures lay bare;
May their storehouse on earth be revealed unto you,
So that wealth may be added to merits so rare!

"May nuggets as big as the hat on your head
Be strewn in your path as you journey at will;
And veins of rich gold 'neath the ground as you tread
Lie hidden perdu, to be won by your skill.

"And when thou hast made a fabulous haul,
And flooded the market with shares,
On thy virtuous life may a blessing befall,
To gild thy declining years."

Some time after this, some thoughtless youngsters played a practical joke on Mr. Cookson, and pretended to him that it came from Richard, who, on learning it a long time afterwards, felt sorely hurt and mortified that his old friend should have been left in error, and thought him capable of such a thing.

To my horror, I had found Richard with a secretly broken head, raw knuckles, and gout in his feet, but he soon got round under my care, and then I took him off to Opçina. He was afraid of meningitis, as they had wounded him just in the _nuque_. The doctor put him under a course of salicin, and at last he had an attack of healthy gout in the feet, which did him good. I got the best doctor, but he knew less about it than we did. Nubar Pasha came over about this time, and came up and stayed with us, and that did him good. He was soon able to breakfast down in the garden. He now began to walk about freely, and to take long drives, even to climb hills.

The first excursion that he made was to a _foiba_. This means one of the great pot-holes in the Karso, some of which are a hundred, two hundred, five hundred, or two thousand feet deep. Some of the most brutal amongst the peasant Slavs have the habit of throwing their animals down, when they want to get rid of them, and it was said that a dog was thrown down there, and we thought we could hear its moans, so we started off with a large party with endless ropes and grappling irons. He sounded the depths, and at last we seemed to get hold of something, at which all the men pulled and hoisted up a tree. This frightened all the owls who had taken refuge in this hole, and they flew out, and then we found that what we thought was the moaning of the dog was the hooting of these owls. Then our fencing-master, Herr Reich, came up to us frequently, and we had numberless drives over the Karso.

"IT."

"If all the harm that women have done
Were put in a bundle and rolled into one,
The earth could not hold it, the sky not enfold it,
It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun!
Such masses of evil would puzzle the devil
And keep him in fuel while Time's wheels run."

We had once to pass through a very uncanny trial, which may be said to have lasted from 1877 to the end of 1880, and somewhat (though in a less degree) to 1883. We suddenly began to be inundated with anonymous letters; then our private papers and writings would disappear; a great fuss of finding them was made, and when all fuss and hope of recovery was over, they would reappear. There was always some mystery hanging about, and once we found on the floor a copy-book with some very good imitations of my handwriting, or what my handwriting _would_ be if I tried to disguise it a little backwards, and some very bad and easily recognizable attempts at my husband's very peculiar hand. The anonymous letters generally tried to set us against each other, if possible, and I was always finding love-letters thrust into his pockets, whenever I cleaned or brushed his clothes, which I generally did when he was ill, in order not to have the servants in the room. Fortunately we told each other everything, and he used to carry his letters to me, and I mine to him, but we could make nothing of it.

At last he said, in 1879 (when he was going away to Midian), "You must be _quite sure_ not to make yourself uncomfortable about any of this sort of thing, and to tell me everything that occurs; because I am _sure_ this is an intrigue, and a woman's intrigue, which has something to do with money. When we were poor everybody left us in peace, but ever since 1877 nothing has been talked about but the enormous riches that I am _going_ to make in these mines, and you have been offering parures of turquoise to all your friends in my name. So somebody is working to try and separate us. You keep your 'weather eye' open, and believe nothing, nor shall I, and you will see that one day or another it is bound to ooze out." It did ooze out--after it did not matter.

Ever after these annoyances began, whenever we were going to make the smallest remark which might be unlucky, we always used to say, "Hush! '_IT_' will hear you;" and then we used to laugh. This became so habitual with us, that everybody else thought we were alluding to Providence, or evil spirits, or such like; but we were really alluding to our uncanny, fleshly evil genius, who, though we did not know it, was nestling close to us and heard it all. It was, therefore, with a doubly heavy heart that I saw him depart on his third and last journey for Midian, and was thankful when it was over.

[Sidenote: _Camoens_.]

Richard and I now went to Opçina a great deal alone, and we were working together at his Camoens, beginning at the two volumes of the "Lusiads."

In early 1880, he brought out a little bit of the first canto of the "Lusiads," and the episode of "Ignez de Castro," his favourite bit, as samples. I can never remember to have had a more peaceful and happy time with Richard than in Opçina, where we led a Darby and Joan life, and principally 1879, 1880, 1881, and part of 1882. We did all the six volumes of Camoens, he translating, I helping him and correcting. I wrote the little sonnet for him, my preface, and the Glossary, and his "Reviewers Reviewed."

"TO MY MASTER CAMOENS.
"(_Tu se' lo mio maestro, è lo mio autore._)

"Great Pilgrim-poet of the Sea and Land;
Thou life-long sport of Fortune's ficklest will;
Doomed to all human and inhuman ill,
Despite thy lover-heart, thy hero-hand;
Enrollèd by the pen what marvellous band
Of god-like Forms thy golden pages fill;
Love, Honour, Justice, Valour, Glory thrill
The Soul, obedient to thy strong command:
Amid the Prophets highest sits the Bard,
At once Revealer of the Heaven and Earth,
To Heaven the guide, of Earth the noblest guard;
And, 'mid the Poets, thine the peerless worth,
Whose glorious song, thy Genius' sole reward,
Bids all the Ages, Camoens, bless thy birth!"
----ISABEL BURTON.

He was quite upset about the Glossary. When he had used archaic words, which belonged to Chaucer and Spencer, he said, "Do you mean to say that they won't understand me?" When I produced my glossary of three hundred and fourteen words, he said, "You are never going to insult the English public with that?" I said, "But, indeed, I am; and I know very well that you have not fifteen readers that will know them without, but they will pretend they do, and be very much offended, whilst internally they will thank their God that they have got it, and are able to look grand on the strength of it." But he curtailed it, and in this he was encouraged by our old friend Bernard Quaritch.

Camoens is splendidly and literally translated. No one was so well fitted as Richard to bring out this epic and heroic life. He divided his work into six heads: Biographical, Bibliographical, Historical and Chronological, Geographical, and Annotative--it was the result of a daily act of devotion of more than twenty years, from a man of _this_ age, who has taken the hero of a _former_ age for his model, his master, as Dante did Virgil; and between whose two fates--master and disciple--exists a strange similarity. The two volumes of "Life and Commentary" show a profundity of learning and intelligence which would be quite enough to make the name of any other man, if he had never written anything else, but though Camoens has not taken hold of the public yet, he will. Richard lived to do six volumes; he would have done four more had he lived. His little letter of dedication to Swinburne, in vol. i of the "Lyrics," is a masterpiece.

"To

"The Prince of the Lyric Poets of his day,

"ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

"MY DEAR SWINBURNE,

"Accept the unequal exchange--my brass for your gold. Your 'Poems and Ballads' began to teach the Philister what might there is in the music of language, and what the marvel of lyric inspiration, far subtler and more ethereal than mere poetry, means to the mind of man.

"Without more ado, allow me to excuse this 'transaction' by a something which comes from the East--

"'A poor man, passing by one day when his King travelled, brought him a little water with both hands, saying, "Drink, my lord, for the heat is great." He accepted it gladly from him, not looking to the small quality of that service, but only to the good will with which it was offered.'

"Believe me ever,

"Your old friend and fellow-traveller,

"RICHARD F. BURTON.

"Desterro, Trieste,

"September 25th, 1884."

* * * * *

"The Pines, Putney Hill, S.W.,

"November 7th, 1884.

"MY DEAR BURTON,

"Your dedication makes me very proud, and the kindness of its terms gives me still a heartier pleasure than that of mere pride in your friendship. Thanks to you both, and notably to Frances H----" [me] "for her letter, or rather your joint one of the 10th, which has now been followed by the arrival of the two volumes. They are yet more interesting (naturally) to me than their precursors....

"The learning and research of your work are in many points beyond all praise of mine, but not more notable than the strength and skill that wield them. I am hungrily anticipating the 'Arabian Nights.' You both know how we look forward to our next meeting with you, when you _shall_ not run away so soon as you did last time.

"Both of yours always,

"A. C. SWINBURNE."

* * * * *

"The Pines, Putney Hill, S.W.,

"April 13th, 1881.

"MY DEAR MRS. BURTON,

"I am horribly ashamed to find that my letter of thanks to you on the arrival of the 'Lusiads,' which I quite thought had been at once written and despatched (this is the real honest truth, and not a lying after-thought to excuse myself), never went or existed at all, but remained in the limbo of good intentions. I cannot tell how, for I distinctly remember the very words I meant to send, and thought I had sent, of congratulations to Burton on having in that translation, as I think, matched Byron on his own chosen ground as a translator, and beaten him at his own weapon. The version of Pulci's 'Morgante,' on which Byron prided himself so greatly as being, in his own words, the best translation that ever was or will be made, is an infinitely less important, and I should think less difficult attempt on exactly the same lines of work, and certainly, to say the least, not more successful, as far as one can judge, without knowledge of Camoens in the original language.

"With best remembrances to both of you.

"Ever faithfully yours,

"A. C. SWINBURNE."

I prefer the "Lusiads," but the Portuguese think that if Camoens had never written the "Lusiads," his sonnets would have immortalized him, and prefer his to Petrarch's.

Besides this, we used to fence a great deal during those years. We set up a _tir au pistolet_, and used to practise every morning after breakfast. When snow was deep we drove in a sledge. We attended the school feast annually, and sometimes we had village serenades. At Opçina, on the Eve of St. John's, the peasants light fires all over the country, and the superstition is that you must see eleven fires burning at the same time in order to have a lucky year. When we went up there, we lived absolutely alone, without any servants, and we used to take long walks and drives.

"GERALD MASSEY TO RICHARD F. BURTON.

"'_Englished by Richard Burton._' And well done,
As it was well worth doing; for this is one
Of those old Poets, who are always new,
That share eternity with all that's true,
And of their own abounding spirit do give
Substance to Earth's dead Shadows; and make men live
Who in action merely did but flit and pass;
Now fixed for ever in thought's reflecting-glass.
This is the Poet of weary wanderers
In perilous lands; and wide-sea Voyagers,
And climbers fall'n and broken on the stairs.
A man of men; a master of affairs,
Whose own life-story is, in touching truth,
Poem more potent than all feignèd truth.
His Epic trails a story in the wake
Of _Gama, Raleigh, Frobisher,_ and _Drake_.
The poem of Discovery! sacred to
Discoverers, and their deeds of derring-do,
Is fitly rendered in The Traveller's land,
By one of the foremost of the fearless band."
----GERALD MASSEY.

"BURTON'S CAMOENS.

(A cutting from the Press.)

"In his wanderings afar from the world's highway, he made Camoens his companion, and discovered a peculiar sympathy of mind between himself and the noble Portuguese--an affinity which Mrs. Burton seems inclined to trace even in the fortunes of the two men (_absit omen!_)."

* * * * *

The _Daily Telegraph_, February 21, 1881.

"'Camoens,' he says, 'is the perfection of a traveller's study. A wayfarer and a voyager from his youth; a soldier, somewhat turbulent withal, wounded and blamed for his wounds; a doughty sword and yet doughtier pen; a type of the chivalrous age; a patriot of the purest water, so jealous of his country's good fame, that nothing would satisfy him but to see the world bow before her perfections; a genius, the first and foremost of his day, who died in the direst poverty and distress.' These are good titles to admiration in any case, and we cannot wonder that a great English traveller, himself too a poet, should have been captivated all these long years by the charms of that beautiful Portuguese tongue, and those noble and stirring sentiments which stand enshrined in Camoens' deathless pages. If it be true that Chapman's 'Iliad' is a great work because of the intense love and admiration which its author had for the blind old bard of Greece, then certainly Captain Burton's labour, which has taken up twenty years of a much-occupied life, ought, for the same reason, to be able to stand the test of time, inasmuch as it is the fruit of genuine and heartfelt devotion on the part of the translator to the author and his poetic masterpiece."

* * * * *

The _Daily Telegraph_, February 21, 1881.

"'My master, Camoens,' Captain Burton calls him, and goes on to pay his tribute of gratitude for the real solace which the much-loved volume has been to him in many wanderings. 'On board raft and canoe, sailing vessel and steamer, on the camel and the mule, under the tent and the jungle tree, on the fire-peak and the snow-peak,' writes the accomplished 'Hadji,' 'Camoens has been my companion, my consoler, my friend;' and we may remark that a study of Camoens, who is an ideal patriot, as well as a constant lover, whose fair one was snatched away by death at the age of twenty, would be useful in the present day as an antidote to schools of thought which banish both patriotism and romance, as far as they can, into the region of forbidden sentiments. Indeed, so intensely patriotic is the bard, that in the opening of his epic he bids Achilles, Alexander, and all other ancient warriors and travellers, cease to 'vaunt long voyages made in bygone day,' as if the 'better bravery' of the Lusitanian explorers fairly threw into the shade all attempts in the same line which had been made before. This may be going a little too far, but, at all events, it is a fault in the right direction, which deserved better treatment than King Ferdinand's annual dole of five golden sovereigns."

[Sidenote: _A Little Anecdote about a Capuchin_.]

One day, as we sat at our twelve o'clock breakfast at Opçina, on a very hot day, a poor barefooted Capuchin came in, looking hot, jaded, dusty, and travel-stained. He sat down in another part of the restaurant at a table, and humbly asked for a glass of water. We were waiting for our breakfast, and I slipped out of the room and said to the landlord, "Every time you bring us up a dish, put a third portion, with bread and vegetables, and in due course sweets and cheese, before the poor Capuchin who has just come in, and a bottle of the same wine you give us, and tell him to pray for the donors." I slipped back into my place, and I saw Richard kept staring at him, when he was not looking, with an amused smile, and finally he turned round to me and whispered, "There, just look! You say that those fellows starve, and I declare to you that he has eaten, mouthful for mouthful, everything _we_ have eaten, and a good bottle of wine like ours." So I laughed and I said, "Yes; but with _your_ money!" "Oh, you blackguard! am I paying for _his_ dinner?" "Yes," I said, "you are; and he is going to pray for _us_." He was far from being vexed; he was too kind, and he enjoyed the joke very much. I said to him, "That man has been catering all over Istria for provisions for the convent, and the rule at table is that they eat whatever you put on their plates, but they must not ask. Seeing the state he is in, you would not like to have seen him go away with a glass of water." "No," he said, "that I should not; I am glad you did it."

[Sidenote: _The Passion Play--Ober-Ammergau_.]

We now determined, and fortunately, to see the Passion Play at Ober-Ammergau. I say fortunately, because we could scarcely have done it in 1890, just before his death; the fatigue would have been too great for him. We had a delightful trip from Venice to Padua, to Vicenza, and thence to Verona. There the country is simply lovely, and the train begins to mount to Ala, which is the frontier of Italy and the Austrian Tyrol. It seems like getting out of a picturesque desert--so far are the Italians behind Austrian civilization. You pass Trento, and reach Botzen, which is really only nine hours and fifty-eight minutes' actual train from Venice if you do not stop on the road. From Botzen to Munich is nine hours and twenty-three minutes' delightful journey, breakfasting at Franzensfeste. You are examined at Kufstein, the frontier between the Austrian Tyrol and Bavaria. The scenery of the Brenner is simply glorious, and Brenner-Bad is a delightful little place to stay at. Munich is certainly a lovely city; its buildings are magnificent, but its art is very, very new. We saw everything in the City inside and out, and enjoyed the society of General and Mrs. Staunton, our Consul, and certainly we must own that the Hôtel des Quatres Saisons is the most delightful and comfortable in the world.

The next station for Ober-Ammergau is two hours and a half to Mürnau, where you go to the Pantelbraü Hotel. There is beautiful mountain scenery, and the hurry-scurry to get to Ober-Ammergau is quite like the Derby Day, with every sort of vehicle and horses. The village is otherwise peaceful, a rural inn, with a nice family containing at least one pretty girl, and the wine is very good, especially Zeller I. and Schwarzer Herr-Gott; the beds and the food are excellent. Being Sunday we went to Mass, and noticed a very curious picture in the church. A head was peeping out of the ground as if the body were buried in it; near it was a book with "Lehren" inscribed upon it; also near were dice, a money-bag, a serpent, and smoke. A new-comer advances towards the head; but his guardian angel is remonstrating with him, as if he were saying to him, "Let him be--it is none of _your_ business," and a Madonna appears in the skies. After breakfast we started for Ober-Ammergau. The scenery was magnificent, the Ettalberg very steep, and two extra horses were obliged to be put on. Richard liked walking, and with only me in the carriage, they appeared to be almost crawling on their stomachs. Halfway was a rural inn, where the peasants were playing, dancing, and drinking beer. In four hours from leaving Mürnau we were deposited at a pretty cottage, where rooms were let by a Frau Haüser.

I understand that a great many improvements exist now; but at that time we had two whitewashed little rooms, no sheets, one spoon, one glass, no table, and a pint of water in a pie-dish; but our windows looked out on the church, which is surmounted by a spire and a plain iron cross, and the Kofel, a sugar-loaf peak, which seems to guard the mountain gorge.

We wandered about the village, and picked up some food as we could at a small eating-house called the "Stern," for Frau Haüser did not undertake to board us. We were up at dawn. At Ober-Ammergau the day begins with Mass and Communion. The play begins at eight in the morning, and lasts eight hours (eighteen acts), with an hour and a half interval for food and rest. The play over, Richard and I both sat down at once, and described minutely Ober-Ammergau, the Play, and our impressions. I think, perhaps, that there have been so many descriptions, that it would be a pity to load this book with them. We both sent them to the same man, and Richard was anxious that they should be produced together, under the heading, "Ober-Ammergau, as seen by Four Eyes." He wrote the cynical and I the religious side, but as the man who printed them was too poor to produce the two, he published Richard's; but I will now bring them out together in the "Uniform Library" of my husband's works, just as he wished it.

Suffice it to say, that the simplicity of a theatre in the open air was most realistic, and made one think of the old early Latin and Greek plays, and the miracle-plays of early Christianity. The men acted beautifully; the women were cold or shy, and therefore uninteresting. I can only say that I thanked God for having been allowed to see it, and as we sat together Richard watched me closely to see what affected me, and I did the same with him. What affected him immensely--and he owned it--was Christ on the Cross. He said, "I never could have _imagined_ Christ on the Cross without _seeing_ it; it made me feel very queer." Now, as to _me_, what broke my heart was the repentances of the sinners, and I am not ashamed to say that I sobbed bitterly--not Magdalen's, for she was too cold, but Peter's, when Christ came forth with the Cross, after he had denied Him and Christ looked at him. The penitent thief on the Cross, and Judas's despair, I shall never forget all my life. With all Richard's cynicism, he was right glad to have seen it.

We went to visit the _Pfarrer_, or priest, the only really paramount influence in Ober-Ammergau. We saw Josef Maier, who acted the Christ, and with his permission went to inspect the scenes behind the theatre, where they were practising fastening to the Cross, and, under strict secrecy, we saw how it was done.

On the 25th was the _fête_ of St. Louis, when they celebrate the foundation of Bavaria, _then_ seven hundred years before. On return to Munich we dined at the Embassy. We met in Munich the Dowager Lady Stanley and Mrs. John Stanley (now Lady Jeune), and found to our great annoyance that we had just missed Lord Houghton, who had been staying in the same hotel with us and we had never known it. We then went to Innsbrück, where we saw everything in and about, and on to Toblach, from whence three hours' drive takes you into the Dolomites into lovely scenery, beginning at Cortina di Ampezzo. Here we found actual winter weather, though it was only the 30th of August. From this we went on to Villach, a delightful place, where it was very difficult to get rooms; but we got some beds at a _Braüerei_. Here we saw, as usual, everything in and about, and then we went by the glorious new road Tarvis and Pont' Ebba (not so very long open), with scenery unrivalled, and reached Udine, where we were on the main line for our own home. Here we stayed to visit the tomb of Fra Oderico, a Franciscan monk, who went to China and wrote a book three centuries ago--a very holy man--and then we went home to Trieste to receive our old friends Mr. Aubertin, Sir Charles Sebright, the Dowager Lady Stanley of Alderley, with Mrs. John Stanley, who stayed a couple of days _en route_ for Corfu. The Dowager Lady Stanley was one of Richard's oldest and best friends, and she has proved herself one to me since his death. I cannot say how much we enjoyed their visit.

On the 15th of September the _Pandora_ came in with Mr. W. H. Smith and his family, and we took excursions together, showed them all the lions in a couple of days, and dined on board with them. We had visits also from Abbate Bey and Brugsch Bey from Egypt. Baron Marco Morpurgo, the director of Lloyd's, used sometimes to give us a charming supper-party on board one of the Lloyd's vessels anchored in the harbour. A great friend and admirer of Richard's, and my now true friend, Miss E. H. Bishop, who resides, like myself, in a little cottage near Redbridge, Hants, came to stay with us.

On the 9th of November, 1880, we had an earthquake at 7.30 in the evening, which demolished half Agram, injured Graz, and shook us terribly. Richard and I were writing, and our table ran away, and it made us feel very uncomfortable. Graeffe saw three earthquake waves come in and out.

[Sidenote: _Celebrating a Vice-Consul's Jubilee_.]

On the 11th we had a great pleasure in celebrating our dear old Vice-Consul Mr. Brock's fiftieth year at Trieste. He was so loved and respected, that everybody wished to contribute some little proof, and Mrs. Craig, the wife of Mr. George Craig, a merchant of Trieste, our principal English lady, and I, received the demonstrations of their good will, which were even more pronounced amongst the old Triestine families than amongst the English, who were less wealthy, though not less well disposed towards him; and on the 11th of September Mrs. Craig and I were able to put a purse of £170 into his hands. The dear old man was so much affected that I was afraid he would have a fit. He could not sign a Consular report for two hours after.

On the 10th of December my publisher, poor Mr. Mullan, died, and my boys' books were returned to me, to begin afresh with another publisher, which was, unhappily, Mr. Bogue. On the 15th, Richard lectured at the English Engineers' Club, which was very well attended, much applauded, and was noticed largely in the foreign Press, in most gratifying terms, speaking of him as dear and respected for his learning, merits, and philanthropy, and I had my third _fête_ for humanity to animals.

[Sidenote: _Monfalcone_.]

We went to the baths of Monfalcone, supposed to be excellent for gout and rheumatism, heading round the gulf to the shore opposite Trieste, and I must say they did Richard a great deal of good, though it was slow.

"THE BATHS OF MONFALCONE.

"To the Editor of the _Medical Times and Gazette_.

"SIR,

"Will you allow me to make known to you a bathing-place which is never recommended in England by medical men, because it is so little known? Two hours' drive from Trieste, one by rail, two hours' drive from old classical Aquileja, close to the river Isonzo, and almost on the borders of Austria and Italy, a townlet of four thousand inhabitants lies seething in the plain, under a burning July sun. You may perhaps see it on the map, half an hour's distance from the sea, at the very head of the Adriatic. In 1433 it existed, and the baths in those days were thirty feet long and twelve broad. They have been perpetually bettered and destroyed from that period until a year ago; and I am not going to enter into any interesting or tedious details, but take them up at 1879, when the property was bought by a personal friend of ours, a gentleman of Trieste, named Dr. Rabl, D.C.L. He has put the baths in perfect condition and working order, and he will go on improving and bettering according as a more numerous and a better class of visitors are attracted here. At present there are a hundred and fifty bathers, but of the most uninteresting description--just the people 'you don't want to meet,' as _Judy_ says. There are rows of rooms for the mud-baths, and opposite corresponding rooms for the water-baths, and a large basin for those who like to swim or bathe in company. There are douches, and we are going to have vapour-baths. The same arrangements exist on the men's side of the establishment as on that for the women. The work of pumping up the water and collecting the mud by machinery is carried out with a sufficient staff of servants in attendance. The mud and the water in their natural state show 34° Réaumur. The water is beautifully clear, is mixed with sea-water, and contains lots of things, of which the principal are sulphate of soda. The baths are very powerful, and are resorted to for all bone pains--rheumatism, gout, neuralgia, lumbago, sciatica. The treatment ranges from twelve to eighteen baths; and in three years 1315 cures have been effected. The doctor is beginning to hang up the crutches the people leave behind, as they do _ex votos_ in a church. His name is Tamburlini; he is well informed and very efficient. We naturally take an interest in the works, as it is in our Consular district, and it might draw some nice English visitors here in summer-time. The baths are open from May to September. As I write now it is 83° F. in the rooms; going out is not possible (except to sit under the trees) from, say, 9 a.m. till 6 or 7 p.m.

"I am, etc.,

"ISABEL BURTON.

"Monfalcone, July 10th."

("We have much pleasure in publishing the above letter from the enterprising wife of the still more adventurous 'Hadji.' It seems the fate of well-known travellers and men of science to be relegated to parts unknown, to wear out their days in what is supposed to be rest. If we remember aright, Charles Lever was banished to the dulness of Trieste. They sent Palgrave to Guiana, and James Hannay to Barcelona. We are glad to see that Mrs. Burton, at all events, continues to keep up those active spirits which so often and so well bestead her.--Ed. _Med. Times and Gaz._")

[Sidenote: _Richard's Metal and Colour_.]

Richard had quite a _grande passion_ for silver. He declared that everybody had some particular metal which influenced them, and also colour. His metal was silver, and silver applied to his pains cured him; he would put florins on his eyes if they ached from over reading or study; he would apply them to his pains where he had gout; and after he got the "'Arabian Nights" earnings, everything he bought was silver. A heavy six-guinea knob of silver to a huge stick, his toilette box, his pencil-case, his snuff-box, his roll to put his pens and pencils in, everything was silver. His theory was that every man has some metal which affects his illness, and, after frequent trials, found his. So we used to bind silver florins round his feet and legs when he had gout, and though it did not cure him, it always relieved him. He had the same theory about colours, and his was the royal cramoisie, or blood-red, which soothed him. We continued our work, and we used to take drives, such as to Villa Vicentina, and to Aquileja, ancient Aquila, to the museum and church, and up the Campanile Tower.

[1] Richard used always to say that, psychologically speaking, he was convinced that he was a spoiled twin, and that I was the broken or missing fragment.