[1] From "John Halifax."
[2] This is what happened to me. In my younger days I had malignant typhus. I appeared to die. I was attended by two very clever doctors, who were with me at my supposed death, which they certified, and I was laid out. My mother's grief was so violent that my father judged it expedient to send for her confessor to give her some consolation. He happened to be the famous large-minded clever Jesuit and theologian, old Father Randal Lythegoe. He consoled my mother for some time, then he knelt down and prayed for me, and then he got up and put on his stole. "What are you going to do, Father?" said my mother. "I am going to give her Extreme Unction," he said. "But you can't; she has been dead several hours." "I don't care about that," he said. "I am going to risk it." He did so, and about two hours after he was gone I opened my eyes, and gradually came to.
[3] His journals show that he believed in this too.
[4] I received £688, and I owe this handsome contribution to the exertions of Baroness Paul de Ralli, of Trieste, to Sir Polydore Keyser, and Mrs. Roland Ward, who started and collected for it.
[5] And since writing this, Colonel Grant has gone to join them.
[6] Speke told me of this, and after his death I taxed Laurence Oliphant with it, who said so simply, "Forgive me—I am sorry—I did not know what I was doing," I could not say another word; but Richard and he were friends after that.—I. B.
[7] I owed my pension to several of our old friends; notably the Dowager Lady Stanley of Alderley, the Royal Geographical and other learned Societies.
[8] I mention this because I had an anonymous letter sent me which taunted me with touting for subscriptions for it.—I. B.