Richard said that one of his great pleasures in leaving North Africa, and especially Algiers, was the intense cruelty to animals. It was no pleasure to walk or drive, and some people felt it so much, that they walked by back ways, and only looked forward to giving up their villas altogether, since there was no one to stop it. The Rev. Colin Campbell and I did what we could all the time we were there.
At last the day came for leaving. The day before the sea had been frightful, and, though it was fine this day, we had the heavy swell of yesterday's storm. It was a capital boat, the only good steamer on this coast, all new appliances, electric light, corky in the water like our Irish boats (the Duc de Braganza). Mrs. Campbell Praed, who had been with us all along, accompanied us to Marseilles, and it was delightful to have her society.
Things one would rather have left unsaid.
We enjoyed our passage exceedingly on the 7th of March, the only fine day amongst a series of gales. In the evening Richard and Dr. Baker went into the smoking-cabin, and there a young man, a travelled passenger, was holding forth to the others with regard to African travellers, and Richard Burton in particular, having no idea that the said Richard Burton was part of his audience. It became exceedingly amusing when he began to relate the tale of "how Richard Burton had murdered two men on his Meccan journey, because they had suspected him of being a Frank and a Christian." Richard then said quietly to him, "What traveller did you say did this deed?" "Oh, Burton, the famous Mecca-man!" "Have you seen him?" "Oh yes, of course I have." "Well, then," said Richard, "I am that man, and I assure you that I never did this deed; that I had no cause to, for I never was suspected. I have been told that such a tale was rife about me, but I thought it was a joke, and it has never come face to face with me as a serious thing till to-night. There were two Englishmen travelling about the desert at this time; they were put into a great difficulty, and I believe they had to do it in self-defence, and in consequence of this misfortune, their travels never appeared before the public; but it did not happen to me." This reminds me of dining out one night long before; it was a very large dinner-party, in London, and the gentleman opposite to me bent forward and said, "I heard you talking a great deal about the East; did you ever chance to meet Burton the traveller?" I saw his agitated neighbour nudging him, so I laughed, and said, "Rather! I have the honour of being his wife." On another occasion—it was at the British Association for Science in 1878—we were stopping with Lord Talbot of Malahide; it was a show place, and the Association came over in the afternoon, and were being lionized about. Richard had given a lecture the day before in Dublin, and a little crowd were collected around us. Suddenly a middle-aged lady, not knowing who I was, walked up to me, by way of saying something pleasant, and said, "I did not think much of the lecture of Burton the traveller, did you?" Richard and I were ready to split, but I was so sorry for her, that I said cheerfully, "Oh yes! I liked it very much indeed; but, you know, it was a very abstruse subject, and one which people in general are not likely to understand." (It was on the Ogham-Runes, the tree-language of ancient Ireland, as compared with El Mushajjar, the tree-language of ancient Arabs.) Meantime her friends, who had been tugging at her mantle in agonies, had got her off, and then we had a good laugh.
The following day it darkened, and looked rainy and cloudy, and the sea inkier as we approached the Gulf of Lyons. The approach by sea to Château d'If and the Isle d'Hyères, with their little rocky islands, the solitary lighthouse, and Notre Dame de la Garde towering the town on a white rocky eminence, was exceedingly pretty and effective. You cannot have a prettier drive than going by La Plage, and the lovely Corniche road to Notre Dame de la Garde, and returning by the Prado. The City is magnificent; it lies in a basin surrounded by hills, and fringed with pine-woods of every family of the race, stunted and tall, blown into weird shapes by the wind, dotted with country villas and fine buildings, and all this is ring-fenced by immense bare limestone rock.
The digue, or breakwater, is built in a triangular shape so as to throw off the canalization. You enter a series of new docks, the old port running to the bottom of the finest street, perhaps the finest in the world—Rue Cannébière and Noailles.
After staying here one day, we went on to Toulon, and on to the Hôtel Continental at Hyères, which we thought delightful. We had a delicious drive to Carquerain, and down to the sea. Between this and Nice we met Admiral Seymour of the Iris, and travelled in the same train, and went on to the Isles Britanniques at Nice. The French Squadron was in; their manœuvres were very pretty, and they looked "fit." The Bataille des Fleurs was going on. Sir Richard Wood and Mrs. Campbell Praed came to breakfast, and he took us to see all the fun. He was looking very well and fresh. We were exceedingly pleased to meet him, as he was the one Consul held in honour before Richard Burton at Damascus. After one whole day there, we took the train for Genoa, and we had rather an unpleasant journey, as Richard was a little ailing, and could not enjoy the motions of the Italian train curving round the coast. One must admit that the district of the Riviera is beautiful, the English type (after you pass Monte Carlo, Mentone, Bordighera, and San Remo) changing to poor picturesque Italy, when it becomes defiled by its vulgar, petty officialdom. We hated Genoa from our sad remembrance in 1887, so, instead of going to our old hotel, we went to the Hôtel de la Ville on the Port, and disliked it very much, and felt that we had left civilization. We wandered about, and went to the beautiful Campo Santo and bought things; and next day went on to Milan, where we also changed our hotel, and went to the Cavour, which we liked exceedingly. Next day we got on to Venice, to the Grand Hôtel, but we only stayed one day, as Richard was suffering from hotel food, and so we reached home on his birthday, the 19th of March (his last birthday, sixty-ninth), having been out rather more than four months.
Home again, 19th March, 1890.
On the 20th he notices with regret the death of General Sir Thomas Steele.