In early 1887 I received a diploma from Ally Sloper for having translated the "Arabian Nights," and wrote him the following letter:—
"St. James's Hotel, Piccadilly, W.
"January 2nd, 1887.
"Dear Friend Ally Sloper,
"I was quite overcome to find that you had elected me a member of the Sloperies. I felt that I had really 'awoke and found myself famous,' and that my poor husband, who had spent thirty-two years in translating and perfecting the 'Arabian Nights,' wasn't in it at all. I did not feel at all like the bellows to the organ, or the fly on the wheel. Everybody says that since I have received the diploma I give myself such dreadful airs that nobody can live with me. When I have calmed down again, and grown used to my new honours, I will strive always to deserve the good opinion and confidence of the Sloperies, by emulating all that is best and noblest in the world, and doing the most useful work I can find for my remaining years.
"Yours always truly,
"Isabel Burton, F.O.S."
Then Richard received a diploma, and sent the following:—
"Cannes, February 23rd, 1887.
"Dear Old Man,
"Excuse the familiarity of the address. You know that we have been friends for years, and I know that you have often done me a good turn. But really this last honour is overwhelming to a man who has some sense of shame remaining. 'F.O.S.!' I must try to 'live up' to that.
"Ever yours sincerely,
"R. F Burton, F.O.S."
Finding Richard of such a restless disposition since his gouty attack, and that he only seemed to be well when moving, I wanted to substitute a kind of wandering about, as if in tents; and I thought that I might manage this by having a caravan built like the gypsy caravans—a larger for us, and a smaller for our suite, which would have been Lisa, a cook, a general servant, and a man to look after the eight white bullocks that I proposed to buy in the Roman Campagna. I thought that all the fine weather we could be perpetually on the move through the lovely scenery of Istria and Steiermark. The life would have suited us. Dr. Leslie heartily entered into my plan, but somehow it fell through.
A little incident happened (summer, 1887), trifling of its kind, but it made us sorry, as we were both fond of animals. A swallow built its nest in my study, and I had a pane of glass cut out of the window to enable it to come in and out. The five eggs were already laid and in process of hatching, when one of the birds died. It fell down dead, and the other bird kept trying to lift the dead body from the ground to the nest, but it was too heavy. We buried the dead swallow in our garden, and put up a little wooden epitaph; but the poor bereaved surviving swallow sat on the edge of the nest all the summer, looking at the eggs, until it flew away with the general departure of the swallows. When it had gone, we blew and strung the eggs, and hung them in the chapel. We preserved this nest sacredly, in the hopes others would come, and I hope it is there still. It made Richard a little superstitious, which superstition was verified.
We now prepared for our summer holiday. It began to be most dreadfully hot, and there were two cases of suspected cholera. One day arrived the two Princesses Hohenlöhe, Princess Taxis, and Prince Palavacini, and the Comte de Brazza to tea. These impromptu visits did Richard a great deal of good.
All this time we were treating him with electricity, and sponging in the morning and evening, and he seemed to get on wonderfully.