One of our most intimate friends was General Charles Gordon—"Chinese Gordon" of Khartoum sad memory. The likeness between these two men, Richard Burton and Charles Gordon, was immense. The two men stood out in this nineteenth century as a sort of pendant, and the sad fate of both is equal, as far as Government goes. One abandoned and forgotten in the desert, the other in a small foreign seaport; both men equally honoured by their country, and standing on pedestals that will never be thrown down—uncrowned kings both. This difference there was between them—Charles Gordon spoke out all that Richard laboured to conceal. He used to come and sit on our hearthrug before the fire in the long winter evenings, and it was very pleasant to hear them talk. Gordon had the habit of saying, "There are only two men in the world who could do such or such a thing; I am one, and you are the other." After he became Governor of the Soudan, he wrote to my husband as follows:—
"You and I are the only two men fit to govern the Soudan; if one dies, the other will be left. I will keep the Soudan, you take Darfur; and I will give you £5000 a year if you will throw up Trieste."
Richard wrote back:—
"My dear Gordon,
"You and I are too much alike. I could not serve under you, nor you under me. I do not look upon the Soudan as a lasting thing. I have nothing to depend upon but my salary, and I have a wife, and you have not."
I have got all Gordon's and his correspondence, and I will give specimens in the coming work, which I shall call "The Labours and Wisdom of Richard Burton," as in this book there is no room to dilate upon his works for his country, nor to quote letters. The subject is so extensive that it would never be read in one work.
I had the pleasure during this visit to London of making acquaintance with Miss Emily Faithful, and renewing acquaintance with Mrs. Pender Cudlip (Annie Thomas). Miss Faithful took me to Middleton Hall, Islington, where she was going to take the chair on Women's Rights.
I need not say that I did not get much time for amusement, between Richard's proof-sheets and mine, K.C.B. letters, sulphur and saltpetre mines—except in the evening, when I went out a great deal.
On the 1st of March, 1875, there was a paragraph in the Scotsman, speaking of Richard's death, and of me as a widow, which gave me a few very unhappy hours. I telegraphed to Trieste at once, packed and prepared money to start; but I got a telegram as soon as a return could be, saying, "I am eating a very good dinner at table d'hôte."
During all the month of April I was very sad about Winwood Reade, who was living, or rather dying, alone in a wretched little room at the top of a house. I used to go and see him every day and try and cheer him, and take him anything I fancied he could touch. I asked him if money could be of any use to him, but he told me he had quite enough to last him for the time he had to live. What distressed me the most of all, was the state he was dying in, which to me was dreadful, because he said he had no belief, and it seemed true. Of course it was useless—it was no business of mine; but I could not help doing my best during the last fortnight of his life to induce him to believe in God, and to be sorry before he died. Three or four days before he died, Mr. and Mrs. Sandwith, who were very old friends of his, removed him to their place, "The Old House, Wimbledon," where he passed away quietly on the 24th of April, 1875. He had caught a cold sitting up at night to write his last book, and had accomplished it in six weeks, but the cold settled on his chest. R.I.P.