surcharged me on account of our separation and of my reflecting that I took thee from thy parents by fraud and I bore thee as a present to the King of the Jinn.

Indeed I had well nigh determined to forfeit all my profit of the Ninth Statue and to bear thee away to Bassorah as my own bride, when my comrade and councillor dissuaded me from so doing lest I bring about my death." [567]

Scarce had the prince Nor had Zayn al Asnam

made an end of his speech ended his words ere they when they heard a noise heard the roar of thunderings of thunder rending the that would rend a mountains and shaking mount and shake the the earth, and fear gat earth, whereat the Queen hold upon the queen, the Mother was seized with mother of Zein ul Asnam, mighty fear and affright. Yea and sore trembling; But presently appeared but, after a little, the the King of the Jinn, King of the Jinn who said to her, "O my appeared and said to her, lady, fear not! Tis I, the "O Lady, fear not, it is protector of thy son, whom I who am thy son's I fondly affect for the protector and I love him affection borne to me by with an exceeding love his sire. I also am he who for the love his father manifested myself to him bore me. Nay, I am he in his sleep, and my object who appeared to him in therein was to make trial his sleep and in this I of his valiance and to learn purposed to try his an he could do violence to fortitude, whether or not his passions for the sake he might avail to subdue of his promise, or whether himself for loyalty's the beauty of this lady sake." would so tempt and allure

him that he could not keep his promise to me with due regard."

Here, again, Payne is concise and literal, Burton diffuse and gratuitously paraphrastic as appears above and everywhere, and the other remarks which we made when dealing with the Nights proper also apply, except, of course, that in this instance Burton had not Payne's version to refer to, with the consequence that in these two tales ("Alaeddin" and "Zayn Al Asnam") there are over five hundred places in which the two translators differ as to the rendering, although they worked from the same MS. copy, that of M. Houdas, lent by him to Burton and afterwards to Payne. Arabists tell us that in practically every instance Payne is right, Burton wrong. The truth is that, while in colloquial Arabic Burton was perfect, in literary Arabic he was far to seek, [568] whereas Mr. Payne had studied the subject carefully and deeply for years. But Burton's weakness here is not surprising. A Frenchman might speak excellent English, and yet find some difficulty in translating into French a play of Shakespeare or an essay of Macaulay. Burton made the mistake of studying too many things. He attempted too much.

But in the Supplemental Nights, as in the Nights proper, his great feature is the annotating. Again we have a work within a work, and the value of these notes is recognised on all sides. Yet they are even less necessary for elucidating the text than those in the Nights proper. Take for example the tremendous note in Vol. i. on the word "eunuchs." As everybody knows what a eunuch is, the text is perfectly clear. Yet what a mass of curious knowledge he presents to us! If it be urged that the bulk of Burton's notes, both to the Nights proper and the Supplemental Nights, are out of place in a work of this kind—all we can say is "There they are." We must remember, too, that he had absolutely no other means of publishing them.



Chapter XXXIV. "The Scented Garden"



Bibliography:

77. The Scented Garden. "My new Version," translated 1888-1890.



158. Nafzawi.

As we learn from a letter to Mr. Payne, 8th November 1888, Burton began his "new version" of The Scented Garden, or as it is sometimes called, The Perfumed Garden, in real earnest early in that month, and Lady Burton tells us that it "occupied him seriously only six actual months," [569] that is, the last six months of his life.

The Scented Garden, or to give its full title, "The Scented Garden for the Soul's Recreation" was the work of a learned Arab Shaykh and physician named Nafzawi, who was born at Nafzawa, a white, [570] palm-encinctured town which gleamed by the shore of the Sebkha—that is, salt marsh—Shot al Jarid; and spent most of his life in Tunis. The date of his birth is unrecorded, but The Scented Garden seems to have been written in 1431. [571] Nafzawi, like Vatsyayana, from whose book he sometimes borrows, is credited with having been an intensely religious man, but his book abounds in erotic tales seasoned to such an extent as would have put to the blush even the not very sensitive "Tincker of Turvey." [572] It abounds in medical learning, [573] is avowedly an aphrodisiac, and was intended, if one may borrow an expression from Juvenal, "to revive the fire in nuptial cinders." [574] Moslems read it, just as they took ambergrised coffee, and for the same reason. Nafzawi, indeed, is the very antithesis of the English Sir Thomas Browne, with his well-known passage in the Religio Medici, [575] commencing "I could be content that we might procreate like trees." Holding that no natural action of a man is more degrading than another, Nafzawi could never think of amatory pleasures without ejaculating "Glory be to God," or some such phrase. But "Moslems," says Burton, "who do their best to countermine the ascetic idea inherent in Christianity, [576] are not ashamed of the sensual appetite, but rather the reverse." [577] Nafzawi, indeed, praises Allah for amorous pleasures just as other writers have exhausted the vocabulary in gratitude for a loaded fruit tree or an iridescent sunset. His mind runs on the houris promised to the faithful after death, and he says that these pleasures are "part of the delights of paradise awarded by Allah as a foretaste of what is waiting for us, namely delights a thousand times superior, and above which only the sight of the Benevolent is to be placed." We who anticipate walls of jasper and streets of gold ought not, perhaps, to be too severe on the Tunisian. It must also be added that Nafzawi had a pretty gift of humour. [578]



159. Origin of The Scented Garden.

The origin of the book was as follows: A small work, The Torch of the World, [579] dealing with "The Mysteries of Generation," and written by Nafzawi, had come into the hands of the Vizier of the Sultan of Tunis. Thereupon the Vizier sent for the author and received him "most honourably." Seeing Nafzawi blush, he said, "You need not be ashamed; everything you have said is true; no one need be shocked at your words. Moreover, you are not the first who has treated of this matter; and I swear by Allah that it is necessary to know this book. It is only the shameless boor and the enemy of all science who will not read it, or who will make fun of it. But there are sundry things which you will have to treat about yet." And he mentioned other subjects, chiefly of a medical character.

"Oh, my master," replied Nafzawi, "all you have said here is not difficult to do, if it is the pleasure of Allah on high."

"I forthwith," comments Nafzawi, "went to work with the composition of this book, imploring the assistance of Allah (May He pour His blessing on the prophet) [580] and may happiness and pity be with him."

The most complete text of The Scented Garden is that now preserved in the library at Algiers, and there are also manuscripts in the libraries of Paris, Gotha and Copenhagen. In 1850 a manuscript which seems to have corresponded practically with The Torch of the World was translated into French by a Staff Officer of the French Army in Algeria, and an edition of thirty-five copies was printed by an autographic process in Algiers in the year 1876. [581] In 1886 an edition of 220 copies was issued by the French publisher Isidore Liseux, and the same year appeared a translation of Liseux's work bearing the imprint of the Kama Shastra Society. This is the book that Burton calls "my old version," [582] which, of course, proves that he had some share in it. [583]

There is no doubt that the average Englishman [584] would be both amazed and shocked on first opening even the Kama Shastra Society's version; unless, perchance, he had been prepared by reading Burton's Arabian Nights or the Fiftieth Chapter of Gibbon's Decline and Fall with the Latin Notes, though even these give but a feeble idea of the fleshiness of The Scented Garden. Indeed, as Ammianus Marcellinus, referring to the Arabs, says: "Incredible est quo ardore apud eos in venerem uterque solvitur sexus."



160. Contents of The Scented Garden.

Nafzawi divided his book into twenty one-chapters "in order to make it easier reading for the taleb (student)." It consists of descriptions of "Praiseworthy Men" and "Praiseworthy Women" from a Nafzawin point of view, interpretations of dreams, medical recipes for impotence, &c., lists of aphrodisiacs, and stories confirmatory of Ammianus's remark. Among the longer tales are those of Moseilma, "Bahloul [585] and Hamdonna," and "The Negro Al Dhurgham" [586]—all furiously Fescinnine. The story of Moseilema, Lord of Yamama, is familiar in one form or another to most students of Arab History. Washington Irving epitomises it in his inexpressibly beautiful "Successors" of Mahomet [587] and Gibbon [588] tells it more fully, partly in his text and partly in his Latin footnotes. Moseilema was, no doubt, for some years quite as influential a prophet as his rival Mohammed. He may even have been as good a man, [589] but Nafzawi—staunch Mohammedan—will not let "the Whig dogs have the best of the argument." He charges Moseilema with having perverted sundry chapters in the Koran by his lies and impostures, and declares that he did worse than fail when he attempted to imitate Mohammed's miracles. "Now Moseilema (whom may Allah curse!), when he put his luckless hand on the head of some one who had not much hair, the man was at once quite bald... and when he laid his hand upon the head of an infant, saying, 'Live a hundred years,' the infant died within an hour." As a matter of fact, however, Moseilema was one of the most romantic figures in Arabic history. [590] Sedja, Queen and Prophetess, went to see him in much the same spirit that the Queen of Sheba visited Solomon. Moseilema, who outlived Mohammed about a year, was defeated and slain near his capital Yamama, by the Mohammedan hero Khalid, and Sedjah subsequently embraced Islamism.

In the tale entitled "Djoaidi and Fadehat el Djemal" [591] appears that hoary poet, philosopher and reprobate, Abu Nowas [592] of The Arabian Nights. Like the Nights, The Scented Garden has a cycle of tales illustrative of the cunning and malice of women. But all the women in those days and countries were not bad, just as all were not plain. Plumpness seems to have been the principal attraction of sex, and the Kama Shastra version goes so far as to assure us that a woman who had a double chin, [593] was irresistible. If so, there were probably no words in the language good enough to describe a woman with three chins. According, however, to the author of the recent Paris translation [594] this particular rendering is a mistake. He considers that the idea Nafzawi wished to convey was the tower-like form of the neck, [595] but in any circumstances the denizens of The Scented Garden placed plumpness in the forefront of the virtues; which proves, of course, the negroid origin of at any rate some of the stories, [596] for a true Arab values slenderness. Over and over again in the Nights we are told of some seductive lady that she was straight and tall with a shape like the letter Alif or a willow wand. The perfect woman, according to Mafzawi, perfumes herself with scents, uses ithmid [597] (antimony) for her toilet, and cleans her teeth with bark of the walnut tree. There are chapters on sterility, long lists of the kind to be found in Rabelais, and solemn warnings against excess, chiefly on account of its resulting in weakness of sight, with other "observations useful for men and women."

While chapters i. to xx. concern almost entirely the relations between the opposite sexes, Chapter xxi. [598] which constitutes more than one-half of the book, treats largely of those unspeakable vices which as St. Paul and St. Jude show, and the pages of Petronius and other ancient authors prove, were so common in the pagan world, and which, as Burton and other travellers inform us, are still practised in the East.

"The style and language in which the Perfumed Garden is written are," says the writer of the Foreword to the Paris edition of 1904, "of the simplest and most unpretentious kind, rising occasionally to a very high degree of eloquence, resembling, to some extent, that of the famous Thousand Nights and a Night; but, while the latter abounds in Egyptian colloquialisms, the former frequently causes the translator to pause owing to the recurrence of North African idioms and the occasional use of Berber or Kabyle words, not generally known." In short, the literary merits or the work are trifling.

Although Nafzawi wrote his extended Scented Garden for scholars only, he seems afterwards to have become alarmed, and to have gone in fear lest it might get into the hands of the ignorant and do harm. So he ended it with:

"O you who read this, and think of the author And do not exempt him from blame, If you spare your good opinion of him, do not At least fail to say 'Lord forgive us and him.'" [599]



161. Sir Richard Burton's Translation.

It was in the autumn of 1888, as we have seen, that Sir Richard Burton, who considered the book to take, from a linguistic and ethnological point of view, a very high rank, conceived the idea of making a new translation, to be furnished with annotations of a most elaborate nature. He called it at first, with his fondness for rhyming jingle, The Scented Garden-Site for Heart's Delight, and finally decided upon The Scented Garden—Man's Heart to Gladden. Sir Richard's Translation was from the Algiers manuscript, a copy of which was made for him at a cost of eighty pounds, by M. O. Houdas, Professor at the Ecole des Langues Orientales Vivantes. This was of the first twenty chapters. Whether a copy of the 21st Chapter ever reached Sir Richard we have not been able to ascertain. On 31st March 1890, he wrote in his Journal: "Began, or rather resumed, Scented Garden," [600] and thenceforward he worked at it sedulously. Now and again the Berber or Kabyle words with which the manuscript was sprinkled gave him trouble, and from time to time he submitted his difficulties to M. Fagnan, "the erudite compiler of the Catalogue of Arabic books and MSS. in the Bibliotheque Nationale d'Alger" and other Algerian correspondents. Lady Burton describes her husband's work as "a translation from Arabic manuscripts very difficult to get in the original" with "copious notes and explanations" of Burton's own—the result, indeed, of a lifetime of research. "The first two chapters were a raw translation of the works of Numa Numantius [601] without any annotations at all, or comments of any kind on Richard's part, and twenty chapters, translations of Shaykh el Nafzawi from Arabic. In fact, it was all translation, except the annotations on the Arabic work." [602] Thus Burton really translated only Chapters i. to xx., or one-half of the work. But it is evident from his remarks on the last day of his life that he considered the work finished with the exception of the pumice-polishing; and from this, one judges that he was never able to obtain a copy of the 21st Chapter. Lady Burton's statement and this assumption are corroborated by a conversation which the writer had with Mr. John Payne in the autumn of 1904. "Burton," said Mr. Payne, "told me again and again that in his eyes the unpardonable defect of the Arabic text of The Scented Garden was that it altogether omitted the subject upon which he had for some years bestowed special study." If Burton had been acquainted with the Arabic text of the 21st Chapter he, of course, would not have made that complaint; still, as his letters show, he was aware that such a manuscript existed. Having complained to Mr. Payne in the way referred to respecting the contents of The Scented Garden, Burton continued, "Consequently, I have applied myself to remedy this defect by collecting all manner of tales and of learned material of Arab origin bearing on my special study, and I have been so successful that I have thus trebled the original manuscript." Thus, as in the case of The Arabian Nights, the annotations were to have no particular connection with the text. Quite two-thirds of these notes consisted of matter of this sort.

Mr. Payne protested again and again against the whole scheme, and on the score that Burton had given the world quite enough of this kind of information in the Nights. But the latter could not see with his friend. He insisted on the enormous anthropological and historical importance of these notes—and that the world would be the loser were he to withold them; in fact, his whole mind was absorbed in the subject.



Chapter XXXV. 15th October 1888 to 21st July 1890. Working at the "Catullus" and "The Scented Garden"



Bibliography:

78. Catullus translated 1890, printed 1894. 79. The Golden Ass and other works left unfinished.



162. Switzerland 15th October 1888.

From London the Burtons proceeded first to Boulogne where Sir Richard visited the haunts of his early manhood and called upon his old fencing master, Constantin, who was hale and well, though over eighty; and then to Geneva, where he delivered before the local Geographical Society what proved to be his last public lecture. From Geneva he wrote several letters to Mr. Payne. In that of November 21st, his mind running on the Bandello, he says, "You would greatly oblige me by jotting down when you have a moment to spare the names of reverends and ecclesiastics who have written and printed facetious books. [603] In English I have Swift and Sterne; in French Rabelais, but I want one more, also two in Italian and two in German."

In reply, Mr. Payne sent him some twenty or thirty names in half a dozen literatures. From Geneva the Burtons made their way first to Vevey, where Sir Richard revelled in its associations with Ludlow, the English regicide, and Rousseau; and then to Lausanne for the sake of his great hero, Edward Gibbon; and on 12th March (1889) they were back again at Trieste.

Writing to Mr. A. G. Ellis on May 8th, Burton enquires respecting some engravings in the Museum brought over from Italy by the Duke of Cumberland, and he finished humorously with, "What news of Mr. Blumhardt? And your fellow-sufferer from leather emanations, the Sanskiritist?" [604]—an allusion to the Oriental Room, under which, in those days, was the book-binding department.



163. Mr. Letchford, August and September 1889.

In July, for Burton found it impossible to content himself long in any place, the Burtons made another journey, this time through Western Austria, being accompanied as usual by Dr. Baker and Lisa. After their return, on September 13th, it was necessary for Burton to undergo two operations; and Lady Burton, racked with anxiety and fearing the worst, seemed, when all was successfully over, to have recovered from a horrible nightmare. Then followed acquaintance with the gifted young artist, Mr. Albert Letchford, and his beautiful and winning sister, Daisy. Mr. Letchford became the Burtons' Court Painter, as it were—frequently working in their house—and both he and his sister admired—nay, worshipped Sir Richard down to the ground. Even as a child, Albert Letchford was remarkable for his thoughtful look, and his strong sense of beauty. In church one day he begged his mother to let him run home and get his little sword, as there was such an ugly woman there and he wished to cut her head off. As a youth he drew and studied from morning to night, living in a world of his own creation—a world of books and pictures. His letters were those of a poet and an artist. Beauty of the mind, however, attracted him even more than beauty of the body. Thus, he fell in love with his cousin Augusta, "though she had the toothache, and her head tied up in a handkerchief." At seventeen he studied art in Venice. From Venice he went to Florence, where he met the Burtons and got from them introductions to all the best people, including the Countess Orford and Mlle. de la Ramee (Ouida). We then find him in Paris, in London, in Egypt, where he acquired that knowledge of the East which helped him later when he illustrated The Arabian Nights. Finally he settled at Trieste. "That wonderful man, Sir Richard Burton, with the eyes of a tiger and the voice of an angel," writes Miss Letchford, "loved my brother, for he found something more in him than in others—he found a mind that could understand his own, and he often said that Mr. Albert Letchford was about the only man that he was pleased to see—the only one who never jarred on his nerves. To him did Sir Richard, proud and arrogant to most people, open his soul, and from his lips would come forth such enchanting conversation—such a wonderful flow of words and so marvellous in sound that often I have closed my eyes and listened to him, fancying, thus—that some wonderful learned angel had descended from Heaven unto Earth."

Among the friends of the Burtons was the Princess of Thurn and Taxis, who with her husband became one of Letchford's best patrons. The princess won Sir Richard's heart by her intelligence, her beauty and grace; and "his conversation was never so brilliant, and his witticisms were never so sparkling as in her presence." One day another princess—a foolish, vain woman—after making a number of insipid remarks, shook hands with Sir Richard, lifting high her arm and elbow in the fashion which was then just coming into vogue, but which has now lost acceptance. [605] Sir Richard, while giving her his right hand, quietly with his left put down her arm and elbow. The princess turned scarlet, but she never after practised "the high shake." Miss Letchford sums up Lady Burton as "a most beautiful and charming woman, with many lovely ideas, but many foolish ones." Unfortunately she was guided entirely by her confessor, a man of small mental calibre. One of the confessor's ideas was to convert Sir Richard by dropping small charms into his pockets. Sir Richard got quite used to finding these little images about him; but they invariably made their way out of the window into the garden. One of Lady Burton's little failings was the fear lest anybody should come to the house in order to steal, and the servants had special commands to admit none who did not look "a perfect gentleman or lady," with the result that one day they slammed the door in the face of the Archduke Louis Salvator, simply because he did not happen to have a card with him. After that Lady Burton's orders were less strict.

Mr. Letchford's paintings include views of the neighbourhood, a portrait of Burton which was exhibited in the Stanley Gallery, and a full-length portrait of Burton fencing, [606] but he is best known by his series of illustrations to The Arabian Nights.



164. To Dr. Tuckey.

On April 24th we find Burton writing to thank Dr. Charles Tuckey for the gift of a copy of his Psycho-Therapeutics. "An old pupil of Dr. Elliotson," [607] he says, "I am always interested in these researches, and welcome the appearance of any addition to our scanty knowledge of an illimitable field. Suggestion (what a miserable name!) perfectly explains the stigmata of St. Francis and others without preter-natural assistance, and the curative effect of a dose of Koran (a verset written upon a scrap of paper, and given like a pill of p.q.). I would note that the "Indian Prince" [608] was no less a personage than Ranjit Singh, Rajah of the Punjab, that the burial of the Fakir was attested by his German surgeon-general, and that a friend and I followed Colonel Boileau's example in personally investigating the subject of vivi-sepulture. In p. 10: The throngs of pilgrims to Mecca never think of curing anything but their 'souls,' and the pilgrimage is often fatal to their bodies. I cannot but take exception to such terms as 'psychology,' holding the soul (an old Egyptian creation unknown to the early Hebrews) to be the ego of man, what differentiates him from all other men, in fact, like the 'mind,' not a thing but a state or condition of things. I rejoice to see Braid [609] duly honoured and think that perhaps a word might be said of 'Electro-biology,' a term ridiculous as 'suggestion' and more so. But Professor Yankee Stone certainly produced all the phenomena you allude to by concentrating the patient's sight upon his 'Electro-magnetic disc'—a humbug of copper and zinc, united, too. It was a sore trial to Dr. Elliotson, who having been persecuted for many years wished to make trial in his turn of a little persecuting—a disposition not unusual." [610]



165. To Mr. Kirby 15th May 1889.

In a letter to Mr. W. F. Kirby, 15th May 1889, Burton, after referring to a translation of the Kalevala, [611] upon which Mr. Kirby was then engaged, says: "We shall not be in England this year. I cannot remove myself so far from my books, and beside, I want a summer in Austria, probably at Closen or some place north of Vienna. We had a long ten months' holiday and must make up for time lost. The Scented Garden is very hard work, and I have to pay big sums to copyists and so forth. Yet it will, I think, repay the reader. What a national disgrace is this revival of Puritanism with its rampant cant and ignoble hypocrisy! I would most willingly fight about it, but I don't see my way." Writing again on 6th November (1889) he says, "I like very much your idea of visiting Sweden in the interests of the Kalevala. Perhaps you might date the Preface from that part of the world. The Natural History of The Nights would be highly interesting. Have you heard that Pickering and Chatto, of Haymarket, London, are going to print 100 (photogravure) illustrations of the Nights? When last in London I called on them. On Friday week, 15th November, we start upon our winter's trip. From here to Brindisi, await the P. and O., then to Malta (ten days), Tunis (month), Tripoli and Algiers, where I hope at last to see the very last of The Scented Garden."



166. Tunis and Algiers, November 1889 to March 1890.

At the time stated, Burton, Lady Burton, Dr. Baker and Lisa took steamer for Brindisi, where they visited Virgil's house, and then made for Malta. On December 20th they were at Tunis, and Sir Richard ransacked the bazaar and button-holed people generally in order to get manuscripts of The Scented Garden, but without success. Nobody had ever heard of it. [612] At Carthage he recalled that rosy morning when Dido in "flowered cymar with golden fringe" rode out with Aeneas to the hung, read Salammbo, and explored the ruins; but Lady Burton had no eyes for anything but convents, monks and nuns, though she certainly once took Lisa to a harem, where they learnt how to make Tunisian dishes. The biblical appearance of everything reminded Burton of his Damascus days. Seeing a man in a burnous ploughing with oxen and a wooden plough on a plain where there was no background, he said, "Look, there's Abraham!" At Constantine, Sir Richard and Lady Burton celebrated their 29th, and as it proved, their last wedding day. With Algiers, the next stopping place, which boasted a cardinal's Moorish palace and a Museum, Burton was in ecstasies, and said he wanted to live there always; but in less than three weeks he was anxious to get as far away from it as possible.

From Algiers he wrote to Mr. Payne (28th January 1890). After recording his failure to obtain manuscripts of The Scented Garden at Tunis he says: "To-day I am to see M. Macarthy, of the Algiers Bibliotheque Musee; but I am by no means sanguine. This place is a Paris after Tunis and Constantine, but like all France (and Frenchmen) in modern days dirty as ditchwater. The old Gaulois is dead and damned, politics and money getting have made the gay nation stupid as Paddies. In fact the world is growing vile and bete, et vivent les Chinois! [613] A new Magyar irruption would do Europe much good."

In a letter to Mr. A. G. Ellis, dated 12th February, 1890, he refers to the anecdote of the famous Taymor al Wahsh, who, according to a Damascus tradition, played polo with the heads of his conquered enemies. "Every guide book," he continues, "mentions my Lord Iron's nickname 'The Wild Beast,' and possibly the legend was invented by way of comment. He drove away all the Persian swordsmiths, and from his day no 'Damascus blade' has been made at Damascus. I have found these French colonies perfectly casual and futile. The men take months before making up their minds to do anything. A most profligate waste of time! My prime object in visiting Tunis was to obtain information concerning The Scented Garden, to consult MSS. &c. After a month's hard work I came upon only a single copy, the merest compendium, lacking also Chapter 21, my chief Righah (the absurd French R'irha) for a week or ten days [for the sake of the baths] then return to Algiers, steam for Marseilles and return to Trieste via the Riviera and Northern Italy—a route of which I am dead sick. Let us hope that the untanned leather bindings have spared you their malaria. You will not see me in England next summer, but after March 1891, I shall be free as air to come and go." At Hammam R'irha, Burton began in earnest his translation of Catullus, and for weeks he was immersed in it night and day. The whole of the journey was a pleasurable one, or would have been, but for the cruelty with which animals were treated; and Burton, who detested cruelty in all forms, and had an intense horror of inflicting pain, vented his indignation over and over again against the merciless camel and donkey drivers.

As the party were steaming from Algiers to Toulon, a curious incident occurred. Burton and Dr. Baker having sauntered into the smoke room seated themselves at a table opposite to an old man and a young man who looked like, and turned out to be, an Oxford don. Presently the don, addressing the old man, told him with dramatic gesticulations the venerable story about Burton killing two Arabs near Mecca, and he held out his hand as if he were firing a pistol.

Burton, who had long known that the tale was in circulation but had never before heard anyone relate it as fact, here interrupted with, "Excuse me, but what was the name of that traveller?"

"Captain Burton," replied the don, "now Sir Richard Burton."

"I am Burton," followed Sir Richard, "and I remember distinctly every incident of that journey, but I can assure you I do not remember shooting anybody."

At that, the don jumped up, thanked him for giving the story denial, and expressed his happiness at being able to make the great traveller's acquaintance. [614]

On March 26th (1890) a week after his return to Trieste, Burton wrote to Mr. A. G. Ellis: "It is very kind and friendly of you to write about The Scented Garden MSS. I really rejoice to hear that you and Mr. Bendall have escaped alive from those ground floor abominations stinking of half rotten leather. I know the two Paris MSS. [of The Scented Garden] (one with its blundering name): they are the merest abridgments, both compressing Chapter 21 of 500 pages (Arabic) into a few lines. I must now write to Gotha and Copenhagen in order to find out if the copies there be in full. Can you tell me what number of pages they contain? Salam to Mr. Bendall, and best wishes to you both. You will see me in England some time after March 19th 1891."

At no work that he had ever written did Sir Richard labour so sedulously as at The Scented Garden. Although in feeble health and sadly emaciated, he rose daily at half-past five, and slaved at it almost incessantly till dusk, begrudging himself the hour or two required for meals and exercise. The only luxury he allowed himself while upon his laborious task was "a sip of whiskey," but so engrossed was he with his work that he forgot even that. It was no uncommon remark for Dr. Baker to make: "Sir Richard, you haven't drunk your whiskey." One day, as he and Dr. Baker were walking in the garden he stopped suddenly and said: "I have put my whole life and all my life blood into that Scented Garden, and it is my great hope that I shall live by it. It is the crown of my life."

"Has it ever occurred to you, Sir Richard," enquired Dr. Baker, "that in the event of your death the manuscript might be burnt? Indeed, I think it not improbable."

The old man turned to the speaker his worn face and sunken eyes and said with excitement, "Do you think so? Then I will at once write to Arbuthnot and tell him that in the event of my death the manuscript is to be his."

He wrote the letter the same day. Arbuthnot duly received it, and several letters seem to have passed between them on the subject; but we do not know whether Lady Burton was aware of the arrangement. All we can say is that Arbuthnot believed she knew all about it.

It seems to have been at this time that Lady Burton prevailed upon her husband to range himself nominally among the Catholics. "About a year before her death," Mr. T. Douglas Murray writes to me, "Lady Burton showed me a paper of considerable length, all of it in Sir R. Burton's writing and signed by himself, in which he declared that he had lived and would die a Catholic, adhering to all the rites and usages of the Church." [615] Curiously enough, while bringing forward all the evidence she could adduce to prove that Burton was a Christian, Lady Burton makes no reference in her book to this paper. Perhaps it was because Sir Richard continued to gibe at the practices of her church just as much after his "conversion" as before. However, it gratified her to know that if he was not a good Catholic, he was, at any rate, the next best thing—a Catholic. An intimate friend of Burton to whom I mentioned this circumstance observed to me, "I am sure, that Burton never in any way accepted the idea of a personal God; but, rather than be perpetually importuned and worried, he may have pretended to give in to Lady Burton, as one does to a troublesome child."

Lady Burton tells us that during the last few years of his life he used to lock the outer doors of his house twice a day and then engage in private prayer; on the other hand, friends of Burton who knew him and were with him almost to the last have received this statement with skepticism.

Lady Burton's happiness was further increased by the present of a very beautiful oil painting representing the Virgin Mary, done by Miss Emily Baker, Dr. Baker's sister. It was generally known by the Burtons, from the colour of its drapery, as "the Blue Madonna." [616]

167. Visit of Arbuthnot, Last Letter to Mr. Payne, May 1890.

On May 11th Mr. Arbuthnot paid a second visit to Trieste, and the pleasure that the vent gave to Sir Richard is reflected in a letter to Mr. Payne written the same month. "At last!" he says, "Arbuthnot has brought the volume [Payne's Alaeddin] and the MS. [Zotenberg's MS. of Zayn al-Asnam which Burton had lent to Mr. Payne]." He then goes on to say that he has kicked up "an awful shindy with the Athenaeum Club," about something, just as if he had not been kicking up awful shindies with all sorts of people ever since his schoolboy days at Tours. "I am delighted," he goes on, "with the volume [Payne's Alaeddin] and especially with the ascription, [617] so grateful in its friendly tone. I have read every word with the utmost pleasure. We might agree to differ about Cazotte. [618] I think you are applying to 1750 the moralities of 1890. Arbuthnot's visit has quite set me up, like a whiff of London in the Pontine marshes of Trieste. He goes to-day, d—— the luck! but leaves us hopes of meeting during the summer in Switzerland or thereabouts. He is looking the picture of health and we shall return him to town undamaged. Best of good fortune to Bandello." [619]

Burton and Arbuthnot had spent many a delightful hour sitting out on Burton's verandah, smoking, listening to the nightingales, and enjoying sea and landscape. It must not be supposed that erotic literature was the only subject upon which they conversed, though as hierarchs of the Kama Shastra Society they naturally bestowed upon that and curious learning considerable attention. Religion was also discussed, and Arbuthnot's opinions may be gathered from the following citation from his unpublished Life of Balzac which is now in my hands. "The great coming struggle of the 20th century," he says, "will be the war between Religion and Science. It will be a war to the death, for if Science wins it will do away with the personal God of the Jews, the Christians and the Muhammedans, the childish doctrine or dogma of future rewards and punishments, and everything connected with the supernatural. It will be shown that Law reigns supreme. The police representing Law and Order will be of more importance than the clergy. Even now we might do away with the latter, everybody becoming his own priest—a great economy. None of us knows what happens to us after death, all we can do is to hope for the best, and follow the three great Laws, viz., 1. Instruct your mind. 2. Preserve your health. 3. Moderate your passions and desires." Thus spake the Founder of the Kama Shastra Society.

On May 15th, Burton told Mr. Kirby all about the Algiers trip. "Plenty to see and do," he says, "but I was not lucky about my MS. The Scented Garden. No one seemed to know anything about it. Never advise any one to winter in Algiers. All the settled English are selling their villas. French mismanagement beats ours holler, and their hate and jealousy of us makes their colonies penal settlements to us. We stay here [at Trieste] till the weather drives us away—about the end of June." The letter concludes with kindly enquiries respecting Professor Bendall, [620] Mr. A. G. Ellis and Dr. Kirby (Mr. Kirby's son).



Chapter XXXVI. "The Priapeia"



Bibliography:

80. Priapeia. 1890.



168. The Priapeia.

The share that Sir Richard Burton had in the translation of the Priapeia has been the subject of dispute; but we are able to state positively that he was the author of the metrical portion. Indeed, he made no secret of it among his intimates. For some reason or other, however, he did not wish to have his name publicly associated with it; so the following passage was inserted in the preface: "The name of Sir Richard Burton has been inadvertently connected with the present work. It is, however, only fair to state that under the circumstances he distinctly disclaims having taken any part in the issue." We have no other ground for the assumption, but this passage seems to point to a quarrel of some kind. It certainly does not alter the fact that every page bears evidence of Burton's hand. The preface then goes on to say that "a complete and literal translation of the works of Catullus, on the same lines and in the same format as the present volume, is now in preparation." A letter, however, written [621] by Burton to Mr. W. F. Kirby, sets the matter entirely at rest. "I am at present," he says, "engaged in translating the Priapeia, Latin verse, which has never appeared in English, French, or German garb; it will have the merit of novelty."

The Priapeia, in its Latin form Priapeia sine Diversoreun poetarum in Priapum Lusus, is a work that has long been well known to scholars, and in the 16th and 17th centuries editions were common. The translation under consideration is entitled "Priapeia, or the Sportive Epigrams of divers Poets on Priapus: the Latin text now for the first time Englished in verse and prose (the metrical version by Outidanos) [Good for Nothing], with Introduction, Notes, Explanatory and Illustrative and Excursus, by Neaniskos [a young man]," whose name, we need hardly say, is no secret.

The image of Priapus, the god of fruitfulness, was generally a grotesque figure made of rough wood painted red and carrying a gardener's knife and a cornucopia. Placed in a garden it was supposed to be a protection against thieves. "In the earliest ages," observes the writer of the preface, "the worship of the generative energy was of the most simple and artless character... the homage of man to the Supreme Power, the Author of Life.... Afterwards the cult became depraved. Religion became a pretext for libertinism." Poets wrote facetious and salacious epigrams and affixed them to the statues of the god—even the greatest writers lending their pens to the "sport"—and eventually some nonentity collected these scattered verses and made them into a book. Everybody knows Catullus's contribution, which begins:

"A log of oak, some rustic's blade Hewed out my shape; grotesquely made I guard this spot by night and day, Scare every vagrant knave away, And save from theft and rapine's hand My humble master's cot and land."

The chief complaint to be made against the writers of these verses is that they so rarely strayed from their subject. The address entitled "A Word to the Reader," is padded with citations from Burton's Camoens and his Supplemental Nights, including the well-known passage concerning his estimate of a translator's office, [622] and the whole work bears evidence of extreme haste. We are assured that it will be "most interesting to anthropologists and humanists."



169. Catullus and the Last Trip, July—September 1890.

Burton, as we have seen, had commenced his translation of Catullus, 18th February 1890, at Hammam R'irha. He finished the first rough copy of Trieste March 31st, and commenced a second copy on May 23rd. "He would bring his Latin Catullus," says Lady Burton, "down to the table d'hote with him, and he used to come and sit by me, but the moment he got a person on the other side who did not interest him he used to whisper to me 'Talk, that I may do my Catullus.'" "Sir Richard," says Mr. Leonard Smithers, upon whom had devolved the task of making the prose translation that was to accompany it, "laid great stress on the necessity of thoroughly annotating each translation from an erotic and especially pederastic point of view." [623]

On July 1st the Burtons, accompanied as usual by Dr. Baker, Lisa and the magpie trunk, set out on what proved to be their last trip—a journey through the Tyrol and Switzerland. They arrived at Zurich just in time for "the great Schiefs-Statte fete, the most important national function of Switzerland," which was held that year at the neighbouring town of Frauenfeld. Seven thousand pounds had been set aside for prizes for shooing, and forty thousand persons were present. Next day there was a grand Consular dinner, to which Burton was invited. Dr. Baker having expressed regret that he also had not been included, Burton remarked, "Oh, I'll manage it. Write a letter for me and decline." So a letter was written to the effect that as Sir Richard Burton made it a rule not to go anywhere without his medical attendant he was obliged to decline the honour, &c., &c. Presently, as had been expected, came another invitation with Dr. Baker's name added. Consequently they went, and a very grand dinner it proved—lasting, by Lady Burton's computation, six hours on end. At St. Mortiz-Kulm, and often after, they met Canon Wenham of Mortlake, with whom both Sir Richard and Lady Burton had long been on terms of friendship.



170. At Maloja, July 1890.

At Davos they found John Addington Symonds, and at Maloja Mr. Francis R. S. Wyllie, Mr. and Mrs. (Sir and Lady) Squire Bancroft, the Rev. Dr. Welldon and Mr. and Mrs. (Sir and Lady) Henry Stanley. Mrs. Stanley, apparently at Lady Burton's suggestion, took a sheet of paper and wrote on it, "I promise to put aside all other literature, and, as soon as I return to Trieste, to write my autobiography." Then doubling the paper she asked for Burton's autograph; and her request having been complied with, she showed him what he had put his hand to. The rest of the company signed as witnesses.

For some days, though it was early autumn, the party was snow-bound, and Burton relieved the wearisomeness of the occasion by relating some of his adventures. Mrs. Bancroft told him many amusing stories as they walked together in a sheltered covered way.

"He had interested me so greatly," writes Lady Bancroft to me, [624] "that I felt myself in his debt, and so tried by that means to make it up to him. He laughed heartily at them. Indeed, I never knew anyone who more enjoyed my stories. One morning early I played a practical joke upon him. He politely raised his hat and said: 'I will forgive you, dear friend, on one condition. Play the same trick on Stanley when he comes down and I will watch.' I agreed, and fortunately brought down my second bird. Both victims forgave me. One day I posed the Burtons, the Stanleys, Captain Mounteney Jephson (Stanley's friend and companion), with Salah (Stanley's black servant) for a photograph, which was taken by a young clergyman. I have the delightful result in my possession. I remember on a splendid morning, when the weather had mended and the sun was dancing over a neighbouring glacier, my husband saying to the black boy, 'Salah, isn't this a lovely day—don't you like to see the beautiful sun again?' 'No, sir,' was the answer, 'ice makes him cold.' Both Stanley and Sir Richard interested me more than I can say; they were wonderful personalities, and those were, indeed, happy days."

Almost every day during the trip Sir Richard brought the Catullus to the table d'hote, and on 21st July he had finished his second copy. He then wrote in the margin, "Work incomplete, but as soon as I receive Mr. Smithers' prose, I will fill in the words I now leave in stars, in order that we may not use the same expressions, and I will then make a third, fair and complete copy." [625] During this trip, too, Burton very kindly revised the first half of Dr. Baker's work The Model Republic. The second half was revised by John Addington Symonds after Burton's death.

Burton was back again at Trieste on 7th September. He and the magpie trunk were never again to make a journey together. The melancholy fate of the Catullus, which Burton had put aside in order that he might finish The Scented Garden, will be recorded in a later chapter.



171. The Golden Ass.

Another work that Burton left unfinished was a translation of The Golden Ass of Apuleius—a work known to Englishmen chiefly by Bohn's edition, [626] and the renderings of the episode of Cupid and Psyche by Adlington and Walter Pater (in Marius the Epicurean). The manuscript of Burton's translation is now in the possession of M. Charles Carrington, the Paris publisher, who is arranging for its completion by a competent hand. The portions due to Burton will, of course, be indicated. These consist of "The Author's Intent," about two pages small 4to; nearly all the story of Cupid and Psyche; and fragments of Books 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 10 and 11. [627]

On 30th September Burton wrote again to Mr. W. F. Kirby. "Your collaboration," he says, "has been most valuable to me. Your knowledge of Folk Lore is not only ample, it is collected and controlled by the habit of accuracy which Science gives and which I find in all your writings upon imaginative subjects.... Let me hope that new scenes will not cause you to forget old subjects, and remind you of the infinite important fact that I am a subscriber to the Kalevala."



Chapter XXXVII. Death of Sir Richard Burton



173. Death. 20th October 1890.

As we have seen, Burton had for some months shown signs of bodily decay; and he now daily grew weaker. His eyes, though still fierce and penetrating, were sunk into hollow cavities. His body was emaciated, his hands were thin to transparency, his voice was sometimes inarticulate, and he could hardly walk without support. Still, there seemed no immediate cause for anxiety, and, as will be seen from the following letter [628] (15th October 1890) to Mr. David MacRitchie, he was busy evolving new plans, including a visit to Greece, to be made in the company of Dr. Schliemann, [629] the archaeologist. "In the spring of next year (Inshallah!) there will be a total disruption of my Lares and Penates. I shall be 'retired for age,' and leave Trieste for ever with my mental eye upon a flat in London which can be locked up at a moment's notice when the renter wants to go abroad. Meanwhile we are off to Athens about mid-November. All luck to the [Gypsy] Society." On the same day he wrote to Mr. W. F. Kirby: "Excuse post-card. We have no secrets. Please don't forget to keep me au courant of your movements in re Jan., &c. We shall not be in London before early September 1891, I imagine, but then it will be for good." Elsewhere he says, almost in the words of Ovid, "My earnest wish is somehow to depart from these regions." He was to depart, very soon, but in a manner little expected.

Sir Richard as we have noticed, would never say "Good-bye." It was always "Au revoir." One day in this October Miss Letchford went to see him with her little sister. It was tea-time, but Lady Burton was in another room with a visitor. Never had he appeared so bright or affectionate. He laughed and joked and teased the child and would not let them go for two hours. At last he shook hands and said, "Come and see me again very soon. I like you and your sister.—-Good-bye, Daisy." "I was so startled," comments Miss Letchford, "by that 'Good-bye' that a shiver passed over me. I felt at that moment that I should never see him again." Two days later Mr. Albert Letchford called on Sir Richard, who seemed fairly well, but he remarked "The good Switzerland did me ended this evening."

Dr. Baker, though himself just then a great sufferer from neuralgic headache, watched with anxious solicitude over his patient. On the last day of his life Sir Richard seemed better than usual, and all the household remarked his excellent spirits. It was Sunday October 29th. After returning from mass and communion at eight in the morning Lady Burton found him engaged upon the last page of the twentieth chapter of The Scented Garden. [630] The work was therefore almost half done. She kissed him, and he said, "To-morrow I shall have finished this, and then I will begin our biography." She commented "What happiness that will be!" Her mind, however, was not quite at ease that morning, for a bird had pecked for the third time at a window that was never opened, and Sir Richard remarked "This is a sign of death."

The day was fine, and after breakfast Burton took his usual two hours' walk with Dr. Baker. On the way out through the garden he noticed a robin drowning in the basin of a fountain. [631] At his request Dr. Baker rescued it, and Burton, opening his coat and vest—for he never wore a waistcoat—warmed the bird at his breast, and then carried it to the house to be cared for by the porter. The incident carries us back to those old days at Tours, when, as a boy, he often laid himself out to revive unfortunate birds and small beasts. In the afternoon he wrote some letters and discussed gaily the proposed visit to Greece. They dined at half-past seven, and talked and laughed as usual, though Burton seemed tired. As usual, too, he shocked his wife by jesting about scapularies and other sacred things, but the conversation ran chiefly on General Booth's scheme for relieving the Submerged Tenth; and Burton, who entered into the subject with zest, observed: "When you and I get to England and are quite free we will give our spare time to that." [632]

In the course of the day Mrs. Victoria Maylor came in with the manuscript of The Scented Garden and the copy of it which she had made for the printers, [633] and from this we may deduce that Sir Richard intended to go to press at once with the first twenty chapters of the work. He may have intended to publish the twenty-first chapter later as a second volume. At half-past nine he retired to his bedroom. Lady Burton then repeated "the night prayers to him," and while she was speaking "a dog," to use her own words, "began that dreadful howl which the superstitious regard as the harbinger of death."

After prayers, Burton asked for "chou-chou;" she game him a paper-covered copy in two volumes of the Martyrdom of Madeline [634] by Robert Buchanan, and he lay in bed reading it. At midnight he complained of pain in his foot, but said he believed it was only a return of the gout—the "healthy gout," which troubled him about every three months.

"Let me call Dr. Baker," said Lady Burton.

"No," replied Sir Richard, "don't disturb him poor fellow, he has been in frightful pain with his head; and has at last got a little sleep."

At four, however, Lady Burton paid no heed to her husband's remonstrances, but called up Dr. Baker, who, however, saw no cause for alarm, and after administering some medicine he returned to bed. Half an hour later Burton complained that there was no air, and Lady Burton, again thoroughly alarmed, rose to call in Dr. Baker once more.

Although Burton was then dying, he said, "Poor chap, don't disturb him."

But Lady Burton instantly summoned Dr. Baker, who on entering pronounced the situation grave. Lady Burton at once roused the servants and sent in all directions for a priest; while, assisted by Dr. Baker and Lisa, she "tried every remedy and restorative," but in vain.

"Oh, Puss," cried Burton, "chloroform—ether—quick!"

"My darling," replied Lady Burton in anguish. "Dr. Baker says it would kill you. He is doing everything possible."

His breathing then became laboured, and after a brief struggle for air he cried, "I am dying, I am dead." Lady Burton held him in her arms, but he got heavier, and presently became insensible. Dr Baker applied an electric battery to the heart, and Lady Burton kneeling at the bedside, and holding her husband's hand, prayed her "heart out to God to keep his soul there (though he might be dead in appearance) till the priest arrived." But it was in vain. The priest, a Slavonian, named Pietro Martelani, came in about half-past six. We may regret what followed, but no one would judge harshly the actions of an agonised woman. Pity for human suffering must drown all other feelings. The priest looked at the dead but warm body and asked whether there was still any life. That the heart and pulsed had ceased to beat, Lady Burton herself afterwards admitted to her relations, but deceiving herself with the belief that life still continued in the brain, she cried: "He is alive, but I beseech you, lose not a moment, for the soul is passing away."

"If," said the Priest, "he is a Protestant, he cannot receive the Holy Sacrament in this way."

Lady Burton having declared that her husband "had abjured the heresy and belonged to the Catholic Church," the priest at once administered "the last comforts."

It was certainly a kind of consolation to the poor lady to feel that her husband had not departed unhouselled; but it is equally evident that her mind had given way, for the scenes that presently followed can be explained only on this assumption. [635]

Dr. Baker at once sent a brief note to Mr. Letchford. Singularly enough the night before—that is the terrible Sunday night—Miss Daisy Letchford experienced "a strange instance of telepathy." "My brother," she says, "had gone out, and I waited alone for him. Suddenly I fancied I heard footsteps in the passage and stopping at the door of the room where I was reading. I felt drops of cold sweat on my forehead. I was afraid, yet I knew that no one was about at that time of the night. The door opened slowly, and I felt the impression of some one looking at me. I dared not raise my eyes. The footsteps seemed to approach. In a fit of fear I looked up and saw Sir Richard standing before me. He started, waved his hand and disappeared. Early in the morning came a ring at the bell. I jumped out of bed and burst into tears as I said, 'This is to tell us that Sir Richard is dead.' At that moment the maid brought in the letter for my brother from Dr. Baker. I ran with it into his room. 'Albert, Albert,' I cried, 'Sir Richard is dead.' He opened the letter. It was only too true."

The same morning, Mr. P. P. Cautley, the Vice Consul, was called up to the house.

The undertaker, who was already there, asked in Mr. Cautley's presence to what religion Sir Richard belonged.

Turning to Mr. Cautley, Lady Burton asked: "What religion shall I say?"

"Tell him Sir Richard's true religion," replied Mr. Cautley. [636]

She then said, "Catholic."

"But!" interjected Mr. Cautley.

"YES," followed Lady Burton, "he was a Catholic."

Lady Burton still nursed the hope that Sir Richard was not quite dead. There was life in the brain, she persisted in saying. Would he revive? "For forty-eight hours," she tells us, "she knelt watching him." She could not shed a tear. Then she "had the ulnar nerve opened and strong electricity applied to make sure of his death."

Some months after, when her mind had regained its equilibrium, she observed to Major St. George Burton. [637] "To a Protestant, Dick's reception into the Holy Church must seem meaningless and void. He was dead before extreme unction was administered; and my sole idea was to satisfy myself that he and I would be buried according to the Catholic rites and lie together above ground in the Catholic cemetery. He was not strictly received, for he was dead, and the formula Si es capax, &c., saved the priest's face and satisfied the church." When mortification began to set in, the body, which was found to be covered with scars, the witnesses of a hundred fights, was embalmed, laid out in uniform, and surrounded with candles and wreaths. "He looked so sweet," says Lady Burton, "such an adorable dignity, like a sleep." [638] Behind the bed still hung the great map of Africa. On his breast Lady Burton had placed a crucifix, and he still wore the steel chain and the "Blessed Virgin Medal," which she had given him just before the Tanganyika journey.

Priests, pious persons, and children from the orphanage of St. Joseph, in which Lady Burton had taken so much interest, watched and prayed, recited the office for the dead, and sang hymns.

There were three distinct funerals at Trieste, and there was to be another nine months onward in England. All that can be said is that Lady Burton seemed to draw comfort from pageantry and ceremonial that to most mourners would have been only a long-drawn agony.

The procession was a royal one. The coffin was covered with the Union Jack, and behind it were borne on a cushion Burton's order and medals. Then followed a carriage with a pyramid of wreaths, and lastly, the children of St. Joseph's orphanage, a regiment of infantry and the governor and officials of Trieste.

Every flag in the town was half-mast high, multitudes thronged the streets, and every window and balcony was crowded. Every head was uncovered. The procession wound its way from the Palazzo Gosleth down the declivity into the city under a bright sun pouring down its full beams, and so onward through the serried masses of spectators to the cemetery. Writing to Lady Stisted, [639] Lady Burton says, "I did not have him buried, but had a private room in the cemetery [a "chapelle ardente"] consecrated (with windows and doors on the ground floor) above ground where I can go and sit with him every day. He had three church services performed over him, and 1,100 masses said for the repose of his soul." "For the man," commented the profane, "who, in his own words, 'protested against the whole business,' perhaps 1,100 masses would not have been enough." In an oration delivered in the Diet of Trieste, Dr. Cambon called him an intrepid explorer, a gallant soldier, an honour to the town of Trieste." The whole press of the world rang with his praises. The noble tribute paid to his memory by Algernon C. Swinburne has often been quoted:

"While England sees not her old praise dim, While still her stars through the world's night swim, A fame outshining her Raleigh's fame, A light that lightens her loud sea's rim: Shall shine and sound as her sons proclaim The pride that kindles at Burton's name, And joy shall exalt their pride to be The same in birth if in soul the same." [640]

"Our affairs," Lady Burton tells Lady Stisted, in a heartrending letter, [641] "are so numerous and we belonged to so many things that I have not strength enough to get them carried out before eight weeks, and I could not bear to arrive in Xmas holidays, but immediately after they are over, early January, I shall arrive, if I live, and pass through Folkestone on my way to Mortlake with the dear remains to make a tomb there for us two; and you must let me know whether you wish to see me or not.

"I wish to go into a convent for a spiritual retreat for fifteen days, and after that I should like to live very quietly in a retired way in London till God show me what I am to do or, as I hope, will take me also; and this my belief that I shall go in a few months is my only consolation. As to me, I do not know how anyone can suffer so much and live. While all around me had to go to bed ill, I have had a supernatural strength of soul and body, and have never lost my head for one moment, but I cannot cry a tear. My throat is closed, and I sometime cannot swallow. My heart swelled to bursting. It must go snap soon, I think. I have not forgotten you, and what it means to you who loved each other so much. I shall save many little treasures for you. His and your father's watch, &c. There are hundreds of telegrams and letters and cards by every post from all parts of the world, and the newspapers are full. The whole civilized world ringing with his praise, and appreciative of his merits—every one deeming it an honour to have known him. Now it will be felt what we have lost. I shall pass the remainder of my short time in writing his life and you must help me. Best love to dearest Georgy. I will write to her. Your affectionate and desolate Isabel."

To Mr. Arbuthnot, Lady Burton also wrote a very long and pitiful letter. [642] As it records in other words much that has already been mentioned we will quote only a few sentences.

"Dear Mr. Arbuthnot, "Your sympathy and that of Mrs. Arbuthnot is very precious to me and I answer you both in one. I cannot answer general letters, but you were his best friend. I should like to tell you all if I saw you but I have no heart to write it.... I am arranging all his affairs and when finished I bring him to England.... I shall be a little slow coming because I have so much to do with his books and MSS., and secondly because the rent is paid to the 24th February and I am too poor to pay two places. Here I cannot separate from his body, and there it will be in the earth. I am so thoroughly stunned that I feel nothing outside, but my heart is crucified. I have lost all in him. You will want to know my plans. When my work is done, say 1st of March, I will go into a long retreat in a convent and will offer myself to a Sister of Charity. I do not think I shall be accepted for my age and infirmities, but will try.... The world is for me a dead letter, and can no more touch me. No more joy—no further sorrow can affect me. Dr. Baker is so good to me, and is undertaking my affairs himself as I really cannot care about them now. Love to both. God bless you both for unvarying friendship and kindness. Your affectionate and desolate friend, Isabel Burton.

"I have saved his gold watch-chain as a memorial for you."

So passed from human ken the great, noble and learned Richard Francis Burton, "wader of the seas of knowledge," "cistern of learning of our globe," "exalted above his age," "opener by his books of night and day," "traveller by ship and foot and horse." [643] No man could have had a fuller life. Of all travellers he was surely the most enthusiastic. What had he not seen? The plains of the Indus, the slopes of the Blue Mountains, the classic cities of Italy, the mephitic swamps of Eastern Africa, the Nilotic cataracts, Brazil, Abeokuta, Iceland, El Dorado—all knew well—him, his star-sapphire, and his congested church service: lands fertile, barren, savage, civilized, utilitarian, dithyrambic. He had worshipped at Mecca and at Salt Lake City. He had looked into the face of Memnon, and upon the rocks of Midian, 'graven with an iron pen,' upon the head waters of the Congo, and the foliate columns of Palmyra; he had traversed the whole length of the Sao Francisco, crossed the Mississippi and the Ganges. Then, too, had not the Power of the Hills been upon him! With what eminence indeed was he not familiar, whether Alp, Cameroon or Himalaya! Nor did he despise the features of his native land. If he had climbed the easy Andes, he had also conquered, and looked down from the giddy heights of Hampstead. Because he had grubbed in the Italian Pompeii he did not, on that account, despise the British Uriconium. [644] He ranks with the world's most intrepid explorers—with Columbus, Cabot, Marco Polo, Da Gama and Stanley. Like another famous traveller, he had been "in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in weariness and painfullness." In the words of his beloved Camoens, he had done

"Deeds that deserve, like gods, a deathless name." [645]

He had lived almost his three score and ten, but, says one of his friends, "in the vigour, the vehemence indeed with which he vented his indignation over any meanness or wrong, or littleness, he was to the last as youthful as when he visited Mecca and Harar. If, however, the work he did, the hardships he endured, and the amazing amount of learning which he acquired and gave forth to the world are to be taken as any measure of his life, he lived double the term of most ordinary men." Like Ovid, for the parallelism preserved itself to the end, he died in the land of his exile.

"It has been said of him that he was the greatest Oriental scholar England ever had and neglected." He was a mighty writer of books—some fifty works, to say nothing of multitudinous articles in the journals of the learned societies, having proceeded from his pen. If it be conceded that he was wanting in the literary faculty and that no one of his books is entirely satisfactory, it should be borne in mind that he added enormously to the sum of human knowledge. We go to him, not for style, but for facts. Again, if his books are not works of art, they contain, nevertheless, many passages that cling to the memory. Take him as linguist, traveller and anthropologist, he was certainly one of the greatest men that modern England has produced.



Chapter XXXVIII. 20th October 1890-December 1890, The Fate of "The Scented Garden"



173. The Fate of The Scented Garden.

Burton wad dead. All that was mortal of him lay cold and motionless in the chapelle ardente. But his spirit? The spirits of the departed, can they revive us? The Roman poet Propertius answers:

"Yes; there are ghosts: death ends not all, I ween."

and Lady Burton was just as thoroughly imbued with that belief. Hereby hangs a curious story, now to be told as regards its essentials for the first time; and we may add that Lady Burton particularly wished these essentials to be made public after her decease. [646]

For sixteen days after her husband's death Lady Burton shut herself up in the house in order to examine and classify his manuscripts, pack up books, &c., ready for the journey to England, and "carry out his instructions." To the goodness—the sweetness—of her character we have several times paid tributes. We have spoken of the devotion to her husband which surrounds her with a lambent glory; but we have also shown that she was indiscreet, illiterate, [647] superstitious and impulsive; and that she was possessed of a self-assurance that can only be described as colossal. We have also shown that her mind was unhinged by her sad trouble. Such, then, was the woman and such the condition of the woman upon whom devolved the duty of considering the manuscripts of one of the most original men of the 19th century. Which of them were valuable and which mere lumber she was quite incapable of judging. Her right course would have been to call in some competent person; but she thought she was competent.

At Lady Burton's request, Mr. Albert Letchford and Miss Letchford had come to stay with her "for the remembrance of the love her husband bore them." It fell to Miss Letchford to sort Sir Richard's clothes and to remove the various trifles from his pockets. She found, among other things, the little canvas bags containing horse-chestnuts, which, as we have already noticed, he used "to carry about with him against the Evil Eye—as a charm to keep him from sickness."

Lady Burton now commenced with the manuscripts—and let it be conceded, with the very best intentions. She would have nobody in the room but Miss Letchford. "I helped Lady Burton to sort his books, papers, and manuscripts," says Miss Letchford. "She thought me too young and innocent to understand anything. She did not suspect that often when she was not near I looked through and read many of those MSS. which I bitterly repent not having taken, for in that case the world would not have been deprived of many beautiful and valuable writings. I remember a poem of his written in the style of 'The House that Jack built,' the biting sarcasm of which, the ironical finesse—is beyond anything I have ever read. Many great people still living found their way into these verses. I begged Lady Burton to keep it, but her peasant confessor said 'Destroy it,' so it was burnt along with a hundred other beautiful things." She destroyed valuable papers, [648] she carefully preserved and docketed as priceless treasures mere waste paper. [649]

There now remained only the manuscript of The Scented Garden and a few other papers. By this time Lady Burton had discovered that Miss Letchford was "not so ignorant as she thought," and when the latter begged her not to destroy The Scented Garden she promised that it should be saved; and no doubt, she really intended to save it. Miss Letchford having gone out for the evening, Lady Burton returned again to her task. Her mind was still uneasy about The Scented Garden, and she took out the manuscript to examine it. Of the character of the work she had some idea, though her husband had not allowed her to read it. Fifteen hundred persons had promised subscriptions; and she had also received an offer of six thousand guineas for it from a publisher. [650] She took out the manuscript and laid it on the floor, "two large volumes worth." [651] When she opened it she was perfectly bewildered and horrified. The text alone would have staggered her, but, as we have seen, Burton had trebled the size of the book with notes of a certain character. Calming herself, she reflected that the book was written only for scholars and mainly for Oriental students, and that her husband "never wrote a thing from the impure point of view. He dissected a passion from every point of view, as a doctor may dissect a body, showing its source, its origin, its evil, and its good." [652]

Then she looked up, and there, before her, stood her husband just as he had stood in the flesh. He pointed to the manuscript and said "Burn it!" Then he disappeared.

As she had for years been a believer in spirits, the apparition did not surprise her, and yet she was tremendously excited. "Burn it!" she echoed, "the valuable manuscript? At which he laboured for so many weary hours? Yet, doubtless, it would be wrong to preserve it. Sin is the only rolling stone that gathers moss; what a gentleman, a scholar, a man of the world may write, when living, he would see very differently as a poor soul standing naked before its God, with its good or evil deeds alone to answer for, and their consequences visible to it from the first moment, rolling on to the end of time. Oh, he would cry, for a friend on earth to stop and check them! What would he care for the applause of fifteen hundred men now—for the whole world's praise, and God offended? And yet the book is for students only. Six thousand guineas, too, is a large sum, and I have great need of it."

At this moment the apparition again stood before her, and in a sterner and more authoritative voice said: "Burn it!" and then again disappeared. In her excitement she scarcely knew where she was or what she did. Still she hesitated. Then she soliloquised: "It is his will, and what he wishes shall be done. He loved me and worked for me. How am I going to reward him? In order that my wretched body may be fed and warmed for a few miserable years, shall I let his soul be left out in cold and darkness till the end of time—till all the sins which may be committed on reading those writings have been expiated, or passed away, perhaps, for ever? Nafzawi, who was a pagan, begged pardon of God and prayed not to be cast into hell fire for having written it, and implored his readers to pray for him to Allah that he would have mercy on him." [653]

Still she hesitated. "It was his magnum opus," she went on, "his last work that he was so proud of, that was to have been finished [654] on the awful morrow that never came. If I burn it the recollection will haunt me to my dying day," and again she turned over the leaves.

Then for the third time Sir Richard stood before her. Again he sternly bade her burn the manuscript, and, having added threatenings to his command, he again disappeared.

By this time her excitement had passed away, and a holy joy irradiated her soul. She took up the manuscript, and then sorrowfully, reverently, and in fear and trembling, she burnt it sheet after sheet, until the whole was consumed. As each leaf was licked up by the fire, it seemed to her that "a fresh ray of light and peace" transfused the soul of her beloved husband.

That such were the facts and that the appearance of her husband was not mere hallucination, Lady Burton stiffly maintained until her dying day. She told Mr. T. Douglas Murray [655] that she dared not mention the appearances of her husband in her letter to The Morning Post [656] or to her relatives for fear of ridicule. Yet in the Life of her husband—almost the closing words—she does give a hint to those who could understand. She says: "Do not be so hard and prosaic as to suppose that our dead cannot, in rare instances, come back and tell us how it is with them." [657]

That evening, when Miss Letchford, after her return, entered Sir Richard's room, she saw some papers still smouldering in the grate. They were all that remained of The Scented Garden. On noticing Miss Letchford's reproachful look, Lady Burton said, "I wished his name to live for ever unsullied and without a stain."



174. Discrepancies in Lady Burton's Story.

Some have regarded this action of Lady Burton's—the destruction of The Scented Garden manuscript—as "one of rare self-sacrifice prompted by the highest religious motives and the tenderest love for one whom she looked to meet again in heaven, to which her burnt offering and fervent prayers might make his entrance sure." If the burning of the MS. of The Scented Garden had been an isolated action, we might have cheerfully endorsed the opinion just quoted, but it was only one holocaust of a series. That Lady Burton had the best of motives we have already admitted; but it is also very evident that she gave the matter inadequate consideration. The discrepancies in her account of the manuscript prove that at most she could have turned over only three or four pages—or half-a-dozen at the outside. [658]

Let us notice these discrepancies:

(1) In her letter to the Morning Post (19th June 1891) she says of The Scented Garden: "It was his magnum opus, his last work that he was so proud of." Yet in the Life (ii., 243) she calls it the only book he ever wrote that was not valuable to the world and in p. 445 of the same work she alludes to it "as a few chapters which were of no particular value to the world." So it was at once the most valuable book he ever wrote and also of no value whatever. (2) In Volume ii. of the Life (p. 441) she says the only value in the book at all consisted in his annotations, and there was no poetry. This remark proves more than anything else how very superficial must have been her examination of the manuscript, for even the garbled edition of 1886 contains nearly 400 lines of verse, while that of 1904 probably contains over a thousand. [659] For example, there are twenty-three lines of the poet Abu Nowas's. (3) On page 444 of the Life she says: "It was all translation except the annotations on the Arabic work"—which gives the impression that the translation was the great feature, and that the notes were of secondary importance; but on p. 441 she says, "The only value in the book at all consisted in the annotations." As a matter of fact, the annotations amounted to three-quarters of the whole. [See Chapter xxxiv.] (4) In the Life, page 410 (Vol. ii.), she says the work was finished all but one page; and on page 444 that only 20 chapters were done. Yet she much have known that the whole work consisted of 21 chapters, and that the 21st chapter was as large as the other twenty put together, for her husband was always talking about and trying to obtain an Arabic manuscript of this chapter (See chapter 35).

All this, of course, proved indubitably that Lady Burton actually knew next to nothing about the whole matter. Perhaps it will be asked, What has been lost by this action of Lady Burton's? After carefully weighing the pros and cons we have come to the conclusion that the loss could not possibly have been a serious one. That Burton placed a very high value on his work, that he considered it his masterpiece, is incontrovertible, but he had formed in earlier days just as high an opinion of his Camoens and his Kasidah; therefore what he himself said about it has not necessarily any great weight. We do not think the loss serious for four reasons: First, because the original work, whatever its claims on the anthropologist, has little, if any, literary merit; [660] secondly, because Sir Richard Burton's "old version" [661] of The Scented Garden is public property, and has been reprinted at least three times; thirdly, because only half was done; and fourthly, because the whole of the work has since been translated by a writer who, whatever his qualifications or disqualifications, has had access to manuscripts that were inaccessible to Sir Richard Burton. Practically then, for, as we have already shown, Sir Richard did not particularly shine as a translator, nothing has been lost except his notes. These notes seem to have been equivalent to about 600 pages of an ordinary crown octavo book printed in long primer. Two-thirds of this matter was probably of such a character that its loss cannot be deplored. The remainder seems to have been really valuable and to have thrown light on Arab life and manners. Although the translation was destroyed in October 1890, the public were not informed of the occurrence until June 1891—nine months after.

Copies of the Kama Shastra edition of The Scented Garden issued in 1886 [662] are not scarce. The edition of 1904, to which we have several times referred, is founded chiefly on the Arabic Manuscript in the Library at Algiers, which a few years ago was collated by Professor Max Seligsohn with the texts referred to by Burton as existing in the Libraries of Paris, Gotha and Copenhagen.



175. The Fate of the Catullus.

The fate of the Catullus was even more tragic than that of The Scented Garden. This work, like The Scented Garden, was left unfinished. Burton had covered his Latin copy and his manuscript with pencil notes looking like cobwebs, and on one page was written "Never show half finished work to women or fools." The treatment meted to his manuscript would, if Burton had been a poet of the first order, have drawn tears from a milestone. But it must be borne in mind that Lady Burton did consider him a poet of the first order, for she ranked his Camoens and his Kasidah with the work of Shakespere. And this is how she treated a work which she considered a world-masterpiece. First she skimmed it over, then she expurgated it, and finally she either typed it herself, [663] or, what is more likely, put it into the hands of a typist who must have been extremely illiterate or abominably careless. Then, without even troubling to correct the copy, she sent the manuscript of the Catullus up the chimney after that of The Scented Garden. The typewritten copy was forwarded to the unhappy and puzzled Mr. Leonard C. Smithers, with the request, which was amusing enough, that he would "edit it" and bring it out. Just as a child who has been jumping on the animals of a Noah's Ark brings them to his father to be mended.

"To me," observes Mr. Smithers piteously, "has fallen the task of editing Sir Richard's share in this volume from a type-written copy literally swarming with copyist's errors. [664] Lady Burton has without any reason constantly refused me even a glance at his MS." The book, such as it was, appeared in 1894. If Burton had not been embalmed he would have turned in his coffin. We may or may not pardon Lady Burton for destroying the MS. of The Scented Garden, but it is impossible not to pass upon her at any rate a mild censure for having treated in that way a translation of Catullus after it had been expurgated to her own taste. Whether Burton would have considerably improved the poetry of his version we cannot say; but as it stands no single poem is superior to the work of his predecessors. One need only compare his rendering of the lines "To the Peninsula of Sirmio" with the Hon. George Lamb's [665]

"Sirmio of all the shores the gem,"

or Leigh Hunt's

"O, best of all the scattered spots that lie,"

to see what a fall was there, and yet neither Lamb's version nor Hunt's is satisfactory. His "Atys" pales before Cranstoun's, and his "Epithalamium," is almost unreadable; while the lines "On the death of Lesbia's Sparrow" naturally compel comparison with Byron's version. Nor will readers of the translations by Sir Theodore Martin or Robinson Ellis gain anything by turning to Burton.

On the other hand, we can well believe that his work, considered as a commentary on Catullus—for nearly all his loose notes have perished—would have been as valuable to us as, viewed in the same light, is his edition of Camoens. He had explored all the Catullus country. Verona, the poet's birthplace, "Sweet Sirmio," his home on the long narrow peninsula that cleaves Garda's "limpid lake," Brescia, "below the Cycnaean peak," [666] the "dimpling waters" of heavenly Como, and the estate of Caecilius; [667] all were familiar to him. He knew every spot visited by the poet in his famous voyage in the open pinnance [668] from Bithynia "through the angry Euxine," among the Cyclades, by "purple Zante," up the Adriatic, and thence by river and canal to 'Home, sweet home.' He was deep in every department of Catullian lore. He had taken enormous pains; he had given his nights and days to the work. The notes at the end of the printed volume are a mere drop compared with the ocean he left. However, the manuscript with its pencilled cobwebs, the voluminous "loose notes"—all—good and bad—went up the chimney.

Personally we have never expended a sigh over the loss of The Scented Garden, and we should not have minded one straw if Lady Burton had burnt also her typewritten travesty of the Catullus; but her destruction of Sir Richard's private journals and diaries was a deed that one finds it very hard to forgive. Just as Sir Richard's conversation was better than his books, so, we are told, his diaries were better than his conversation. Says Mr. W. H. Wilkins, [669] referring to Sir Richard, "He kept his diaries and journals, not as many keep them, with all the ugly things left out, but faithfully and fully," and again, "the private journals and diaries which were full of the secret thoughts and apologia of this rare genius have been committed to the flames." Dr. Baker, who was favoured with the sight of portions of these diaries, tells me that Sir Richard used to put in them not only an epitome of every important letter written or received by him, and of every conversation he had with persons of consequence; but also any remarks that struck him, uttered by no matter whom. [670]



176. Lisa Departs, November 1890.

Like Chico, like Khamoor, Lisa, the Baroness lady-companion, had through injudicious treatment grown well-nigh unendurable. While Burton was alive she still had some dim notion of her place, but after his death she broke the traces, and Lady Burton had, with deep regret, to part with her. They separated very good friends, however, for Lady Burton was generosity itself. By this time she had been pretty well cured of lady's maid and servant pets, at any rate we hear of no other.

Lady Burton was also distressed by an attack make in The Times upon the memory of her husband by Colonel Grant, who declared that Burton had treated both Speke and their native followers with inhumanity. Lady Burton replied with asperity—giving the facts much as we have given them in Chapter ix. Grant died 10th February 1892.



Chapter XXXIX. January 1891 to July 1891, Lady Burton in England



Bibliography (Posthumous works):

81. Morocco and the Moors, by Henry Leared, edited by Burton. 1891. 82. Il Pentamerone, published 1893. 83. The Kasidah (100 copies only). 1894. [Note.—In 1900 an edition of 250 copies appeared].



177. Lady Burton in England.

By the new year Lady Burton had completed all her arrangements. The swarms of servants and parasites which her good nature had attracted to her had been paid, or thrown, off; and the books and the mutilated manuscripts packed up. Every day she had visited her "beloved in the chapelle ardente." "I never rested," she says, "and it was a life of torture. I used to wake at four, the hour he was taken ill, and go through all the horrors of his three hours' illness until seven."

On January 20th, Burton's remains were taken to England by the steamer "Palmyra." Lady Burton then walked round and round to every room, recalling all her life in that happy home and all the painful events that had so recently taken place. She gazed pensively and sadly at the beautiful views from the windows and went "into every nook and cranny of the garden." The very walls seemed to mourn with her.

On arriving in England on February 9th her first concern was to call on Lady Stisted and Miss Stisted, in order to "acquaint them with the circumstances of her husband's death and her intentions." The meeting was a painful one both to them and to her. They plainly expressed their disapproval of the scenes that had been enacted in the death chamber and at the funerals at Trieste; and they declared that as Protestants they could not countenance any additional ceremonial of a like nature. Lady Burton next visited Ilkeston, in Derbyshire, where she had implored "Our Lady of Dale" to bring about her husband's conversion. Entering the Catholic Church there, she knelt before the altar and cried "Here I asked! Here I obtained! Our Lady of Dale, deliver his soul from Purgatory!" [671]

Burton's remains arrived—by "long sea"—in England on February 12th (1891) and were placed temporarily in the crypt of the Catholic Church at Mortlake; and Lady Burton then devoted the whole of her time to arranging for a public funeral in England.

To Mrs. E. J. Burton she wrote (23rd March 1891): "You must have thought me so ungrateful for not answering your sweet letter of five months ago, but, indeed, I have felt it deeply. Losing the man who had been my earthly God for thirty-five years, was like a blow on the head, and for a long time I was completely stunned." [672]



178. The Funeral at Mortlake, 15th June 1891.

The sum of L700 having been raised by Burton's admirers, a mausoleum, made of dark Forest of Dean stone and white Carrara marble, and shaped like an Arab tent, was erected in the Catholic Cemetery at Mortlake. Over the door is an open book inscribed with the names of Sir Richard and Lady Burton, and below the book runs a ribbon with the words "This monument is erected to his memory by his loving countrymen." Among those present at the funeral were Major St. George Burton, Dr. E. J. Burton, Mr. Mostyn Pryce, Lord Arundell, Mr. Gerald Arundell, Lord Gerard, Lord Northbrook, Mr. Van Zeller, Dr. Baker, Dr. Leslie, Mr. F. F. Arbuthnot, Commander Cameron, and Mr. Justin Huntley McCarthy; and Canon Wenham officiated.

The coffin was laid in the middle of the church upon trestles, which were covered by "a cramoisie velvet pall." Tall silver candlesticks with wax candles surrounded it. An unseen choir sang solemn chants. Lady Burton, "a pathetic picture of prayerful sorrow," occupied a prie-dieu at the coffin's side. When the procession filed out priests perfumed the coffin with incense and sprinkled it with holy water, acolytes bore aloft their flambeaux, and the choir, now seen to be robed in black, sang epicedial hymns. The service had all been conducted in Latin, but at this point Canon Wenham, turning to the coffin, said in English, "with a smile and a voice full of emotion, [673] 'Enter now into Paradise.'"

Lady Burton then laid on the coffin a bunch of forget-me-nots, and said, "Here lies the best husband that ever lived, the best son, the best brother, and the truest staunchest friend."

The bystanders were moved according to their temperaments and religious views, but all were touched by the tempestuousness of Lady Burton's grief. She seemed as "one of the Eumenides." To some the pomp and scenic effects were gratifying. Others were affected by the reflection that the great traveller, after roaming through almost every known land, had at last been laid in a quiet nook in an English graveyard. Others who were familiar with Burton's religious views considered "the whole ceremony an impertinence." All, however, whatever their opinions, were united in the desire to honour the great Englishman whose motto had been "Honour not Honours." So at last, after four funerals, Sir Richard Burton was left in peace.

The interior of the tomb remains much as it did on that day. Facing the entrance is an altar with pictures, vases and the other customary appurtenances. Sir Richard's sarcophagus lies to one's left, and on the right has since been placed the coffin of Lady Burton, while over all hang ropes of camel bells, which when struck give out the old metallic sound that Sir Richard heard so often in the desert.

The ceremony over, Lady Burton went to spend ten days in the convent of the canonesses of the Holy Sepulchre at Chelmsford—"my convent," as she called it, because she was educated there. She then hired longing at No. 5, Baker Street, London, until a house—No. 67—in the same street could be made ready for her. By the kindness of Queen Victoria she was allowed a pension of L150 a year.



179. The Scented Garden Storm, June 1891.

In the meantime, the fifteen hundred subscribers to The Scented Garden kept writing to Lady Burton to ask when the promised work was to be in their hands. As she could not possibly reply to so many persons, and as the nature of some of the letters cast her into a state of wild perturbation, there seemed only one course open to her—namely, to write to the press. So she sent to The Morning Post the well-known letter which appeared 19th June, 1891, mentioning some of her reasons for destroying the manuscript, the principal being her belief that out of fifteen hundred men, fifteen would probably read it in the spirit of science in which it was written, the other fourteen hundred and eighty-five would read it "for filth's sake." The principal cause, the apparition of her husband, she did not mention. [674]

The letter in The Morning Post had no sooner appeared than a cry arose against her from one end of the country to the other. The Press castigated her, private persons expressed their indignation by post. Burton's family in particular bitterly resented what they considered a "foolish, mad act, insulting alike to the dead and the living."

Lady Burton then wrote a second letter, which she sent to The Echo. She said that if Burton had lived "he would have been perfectly justified in carrying out his work. He would have been surrounded by friends to whom he could have explained any objections or controversies, and would have done everything to guard against the incalculable harm of his purchasers lending it to their women friends and to their boyish acquaintances, which I could not guarantee.... My husband did no wrong, he had a high purpose [675] and he thought no evil of printing it, and could one have secured the one per cent. of individuals to whom it would have been merely a study, it would probably have done no harm." Later she made some further defence in the New Review.

The opinions of Burton's friends and intimate acquaintances on the matter were as follows: Mr. Payne and Mr. Watts-Dunton [676] thought that Lady Burton did quite rightly, considering the circumstances, in destroying the work. Mr. W.F. Kirby thought that, though from her own point of view she was justified in so doing, she would have done better to present it to the College of Surgeons, where it would have been quite harmless and might have been consulted by bona-fide students.

Mr. Arbuthnot considered that in fulfilment of Burton's promise it should have been given to him. He would, of course, have published it as a volume of the Kama Shastra Society, taking the usual precautions to prevent it from falling into unsuitable hands.



Chapter XL. July 1891-December 1893, O Tomb, O Tomb!



Bibliography:

84. Life of Sir Richard Burton, 2 vols. 1893. 85. Translation of Catullus. 1894. 86. The Library Edition of The Arabian Nights, 12 vols. 1894.



180. A Letter to Miss Stisted.

In July 1891 there appeared in Temple Bar an article by Miss Stisted, entitled "Reminiscences of Sir Richard Burton," and upon reading it, Lady Burton, who headed her letter "5 or 67 Baker Street, Portman Square," wrote as follows:

"Dearest Georgy, [677] I read last night your clever and well-written article on my darling, and send you a little notice out of The Daily News. I congratulate you on it and on being able to write again. I was very sorry you and Maria [Lady Stisted] would not come to the funeral. When you come in August I shall give you a photo of the monument and a list of the people who were invited.... There were 850 asked, 400 influenza refusals and over 500 were present, counted by the police at the gates.... When you come I shall be I trust at No. 67. [678] Your loving aunt Zoo."

But the comic always treads on the heels of the pathetic for it is not probable that Miss Stisted valued very much the photograph of what in her "True Life," she thought fit to call "an eccentric tomb" in a "shabby sectarian cemetery." [679] The removal into 67, Baker Street, took place in September 1891, and a little later Lady Burton hired a cottage at Wople End, near Mortlake, where she spent her summer months. During the last decade of her husband's life she had become, to use her own words, coarse and rather unwieldy, but her sorrow had the effect of restoring to her some of the graces of person that had marked her early days. That this is no figment of our imagination may easily be seen by anyone who compares her portrait in the group taken by Miller in 1888 with the photograph by Gunn and Stuart, [680] where she is in her widow's cap with its long white streamers. In this photograph and others taken at the time she looks handsome and stately. She is once more "Empress of Damascus." The house in baker Street has thus been described: "No sooner have you crossed Lady Burton's threshold than you are at once transported, as if by magic, to Eastern climes. You are greeted by a handsome woman whose black dress and white widow's cap present a striking contrast to the glow of rich but subdued colour which surrounds her. Opposite the fireplace is a full length and very characteristic portrait of Burton in fencing costume. [681] Among the curiosities are the necklace [682] of human bones given to Burton by Gelele, some specimens of old Istrian china picked up in the cottages near Trieste, and a three-sided mirror and two crystals with which Burton used to mesmerise his wife. From the ceiling hung a quaint Moorish lamp with many branches, and its softened rays often fall on a Damascene silver gilt coffee service studded with turquoises." At the top of the house and approached by a narrow staircase and a ladder was a large loft, built by herself, for storing her husband's manuscripts and books. On one side glittered a "small but tastefully decorated altar," while scattered around were the many relics which have since drifted to Camberwell.



181. The writing of the Life August 1892-March 1893.

In this loft Lady Burton spent many hours examining her husband's papers, and in the autumn of 1902 she commenced in earnest to write his life—a work that occupied her about eight months. That she was absolutely unfitted for the task must be clear to all who have any knowledge of Burton. Indeed, she was quite incapable of doing literary work of any kind properly. The spirit in which she wrote may be gauged both from the book itself, with its frequent offences against good taste, and the following citation from a letter to a friend: "I do not know," she said, "if I can harden my heart against the curs, but I can put out my tongue and point my pen and play pussy cat about their eyes and ears." By "curs" she means those who rated her for burning her husband's manuscripts, but in justice to her, let it be borne in mind that she had received some letters that were quite unworthy of the writers.

The great questions was, Would she live to complete her task? Owing to an incurable complaint she could give only a limited portion of her time to the work, and there were whole days in which no progress was made. Every page bears evidences of hurry. We have already told the story of the three appearances of Sir Richard just before the burning of The Scented Garden MS. Lady Burton persistently declared that after the third appearance her husband came again and never left her until she had finished her work. "He was constantly with me," she said to Mr. Murray, "appearing exactly as in life, and he advised and comforted me. He helped me most materially towards the compilation of his own biography, and gave me references to books and manuscripts so that the biography came comparatively easy to my hand. He gave me absolutely the position of the book in the shelf and the page and reference itself which I required."