CHAPTER XII.CAPTAIN SPEKE.

‘Tantus amor veri, nihil est quod noscere malimQuam fluvii causas per sæcula tanta latentes,Ignotumque caput.’—Lucan, x. 189.

‘Tantus amor veri, nihil est quod noscere malim

Quam fluvii causas per sæcula tanta latentes,

Ignotumque caput.’—Lucan, x. 189.

I fully recognize the difficulty of writing a chapter with such a heading. Whatever is spoken will be deemed by some better unspoken; whilst others would wish me to say much that has been, they will believe, left unsaid. Those who know me, however, will hardly judge me capable of setting down ought unfairly, or of yielding, after such a length of years, to feelings of indignation, however justifiable they might have been considered in the past. Shortly after Capt. Speke’s decease I was asked to publish a sketch of his life and adventures: at that time I had hardly heart for the task.

In beginning this short memoir, I can now repeat the words published six years ago.[74]‘Be it distinctly understood that, whilst differing from Captain Speke upon almost every geographical subject supposed to be “settled” by his exploration of 1860 to 1863, I do not stand forth as the enemy of the departed. No man can better appreciate the noble qualities of energy, courage, and perseverance which he so eminently possessed, than do I, who knew him for so many years, and who travelled with him as a brother, before the unfortunate rivalry respecting the Nile Sources arose like the ghost of discord between us, and was fanned to a flame by the jealousy and the ambition of “friends.”’ I claim only the right of telling the truth and the whole truth, and of speaking as freely of another as I would be spoken of myself in my own biography. In this chapter I shall be careful to borrow whatever he chose to publish concerning his own career, and to supplement it with recollections and observations of my own.[75]

Capt. Speke (John Hanning) was born on May 4th, 1827, at Orleigh Court, near Bideford,West England. He was educated at Barnstaple Grammar School, and he used often to confess, with no little merriment, his devotion to bird-nesting and his hatred of ‘book-learning.’ This distaste was increased by two ophthalmic attacks in childhood, which rendered reading a painful task; and in after life he frequently suffered from snow-blindness when crossing the Himalayas. At the age of 17 he was sent to India as a cadet, and in 1841 he was gazetted ensign in the 46th Regiment Bengal N. I. After the usual monotonous barrack-life, he found himself a subaltern in the so-called ‘Fighting Brigade’ of General Sir Colin Campbell, and during the Panjab war he took part in the affairs of, and obtained the medals for, Ramnagar, Sadullapore, Chillianwala, and Guzerat. Burning to distinguish himself in action, he was not favoured by opportunity: on one occasion he was told off with adetachmentdetachmentto capture a gun; but, to his great disgust, a counter-order was issued before the attack could be made.

Lieut. Speke had now served five years, and when the campaign ended he applied himself, with his wonted energy, to make war upon the fauna and feræ of the Himalayas. A man of lithe, spare form, about six feet tall, ‘blue-eyed,tawny-maned; the old Scandinavian type, full of energy and life,’ with a highly nervous temperament, a token of endurance, and long, wiry, but not muscular limbs, that could cover the ground at a swinging pace, he became an excellent mountaineer. His strong nerve and clear head enabled him to cross the Passes before the melting of the snows allowed them to be called open, and to travel by break-neck paths, which others were unable to face: a rival, on one occasion, attempted to precede him, and brought on a low fever by the horrors of the Col and the Corniche. He soon proved himself the best East Indian sportsman of each successive season: that he was a good shot in his youth is shown by the ‘trophies’ with which he adorned the paternal hall. But, as Lieut. Herne and I took the first opportunity of ascertaining, he was by no means remarkable for the ‘use of an unerring rifle,’ when he appeared at Aden. This often happens in the case of men who have overtaxed their nervous systems during early life, and who have unintermittently kept up the practice of dangerous sport: to mention no others, the late Gordon Cumming and Jules Gérard are notable instances personally known to me. Those whose tastes lie in lion-hunting and boar-spearing will do wellto give themselves as much repose as possible between the acts, and to husband their nerve-strength for great opportunities. A far better walker than a rider, he prided himself, as often happens, chiefly upon his equitation.

For five years after the Panjab war Lieut. Speke annually obtained long leave to cross the Snowy Mountains, and to add to his collections of the animals little known or unknown, which then abounded in those glaciers and ice-bound plains. His messmates, with whom he was ever a favourite, wondered at the facility with which he escaped the regimental grind of parade and escort duties. He thus explains the modus operandi, that others may profit by it. ‘The Commander-in-Chief, Sir William Gomm, observing to what good account I always turned my leave, instead of idling my time away or running into debt, took great pleasure in encouraging my hobby; and his staff were even heard to say it would be a pity if I did not get leave, as so much good resulted from it.’ I may add that, with the fine tact which distinguished him, he never allowed his friends to think themselves neglected, and always returned with rare and beautiful specimens of Himalayan pheasants, and other admired birds, for each one who had donehim kindness, and thus men forgot to be jealous. Devoted also to one idea at a time, he eminently possessed the power of asking: no prospect of a refusal, however harsh, deterred him from applying for what was required to advance his views. I was struck by the way in which he wrote to Lieut.-Colonel Hamerton for supplies and advances, of which the latter had no power, or rather had not been empowered, to dispose.

Thus Lieut. Speke was the first to penetrate into some of the remotest corners of Little Thibet: and here, besides indulging his passion for shooting, collecting, and preserving, he taught himself geodesy in a rude but highly efficient manner. The Yearly Address (Journal of the Royal Geographical Society, vol. xxxv.) asserts that he learned to ‘make astronomical observations.’ This was not the case. But by watch and sun—to the latter a pocket-compass was presently preferred—he obtained distance and direction, and his thorough familiarity with all the topographical features of the mountains, enabled him to construct route-sketches and field-maps which, however rough, proved useful to sportsmen and explorers. Some years of this work, tracing out the courses of streams, crossing passes and rounding heights, gave him an uncommonlyacute ‘eye for country,’—by no means a usual accomplishment even with the professional surveyor. As an old ‘agrimensor,’ I well know that there is no better training for the tyro who can afford the time than to begin field-work without instruments: the use of the latter will be learned in a few days, nay, hours; and even the most experienced prefer, when possible, to go over the ground, and to form a mental sketch before attempting exact topography. His maps and plans were never, I believe, published, in consequence of some difference with the editor, who had delayed printing them.

During his explorations he led the hardest of lives, and he solved the problem of ‘how to live upon half nothing.’ ‘In the backwoods and jungles,’ he says, ‘no ceremony or etiquette provokes unnecessary expenditure, whilst the fewer men and material I took with me on my sporting excursions the better sport we always got, and the freer and more independent I was to carry on the chase.’ He rose with the freezing dawn, walked in the burning sun all day, breaking his fast upon native bread and wild onions, and he passed the biting nights in the smallest of ‘rowtie’ tents, often falling asleep before finishing his food. The latter was of course chiefly game, and hehad acquired a curious taste for the youngest of meat, preferring it even when unborn. He also attempted to travel barefooted, but this will almost always prove a failure to men who have not begun it in early life. His system of living was good: as the late Lord Palmerston advised, he ate much, drank little, and did not smoke.

The object of this economy was to carry out a project which he had matured in 1849, after the expiration of the Panjab campaign. Of his three years’ furlough he proposed to employ two in collecting animals whilst marching through Eastern Africa, north of the Line, with the third to be spent in ease and rest at home. The idea of ‘striking the Nile at its head, and then sailing down that river to Egypt,’ was altogether an after-thought, and similarly his knowledge of ‘Ruppell and others’ was the result of far later application. I well remember at Aden his astonishment at my proposing so improbable a scheme as marching overland to the Nile sources. But he had seen in maps the mythical ‘Mountains of the Moon,’ which twenty years ago used to span Africa from east to west, a huge black caterpillar upon a white leaf, and he determined that they would ‘in all probability harbour wildgoats and sheep, as the Himalaya range does.’

Lieut. Speke’s tenth year of Indian service was completed on Sept. 3, 1854, and the next day saw him in the Peninsular and Oriental steamer bound from Calcutta to Aden. I was then at the Coal-Hole of the East, organizing amongst ‘the treasures and sweetnesses of the Happy Arabia,’ an expedition to explore, first the Guardafuian Horn, then the far interior. He brought with him ‘notions’ to the value of £390, all manner of cheap and useless chow-chow, guns and revolvers, swords and cutlery, and beads and cloths, which the ‘simple-minded negro of Africa’ would have rejected with disdain. He began at the very landing-place with a serious mistake, which might have led to the worst consequences. Meeting the first mop-headed Somalis who spoke broken English, he told them his intentions, and he actually allowed two donkey-boys to become his Abbans—guides and protectors. Strangers visiting the Eastern Horn must ever be careful to choose the most powerful of these licensed plunderers: the barbarians hold strongly to the right of might, and they would delight in stripping a white man appearing amongst them with an ignoble or an insufficient escort. On the other hand, the donkey-boys,having been appointed according to custom, would have claimed the honour and the profits of the post, and they would have been supported by public opinion against any Abbans of another tribe.

Making acquaintance with Lieut. Speke, I found with astonishment that he could speak no Eastern language but a little of the normal Anglo-Hindostani, and that, without knowing even the names of the harbour-towns, he proposed to explore one of the most dangerous parts of Africa. Convinced that if he preceded me his life would be lost, and that the Somali Expedition would be unable even to set out, I applied officially to the Political Resident of Aden, the late Colonel, afterwards Sir James, Outram, of whose ‘generous kind nature’ and of whose ‘frank and characteristic ardour’ my personal experience do not permit me to speak with certainty. In his younger days Colonel Outram had himself proposed to open up the wild regions opposite Aden. But when he rose to command and its responsibilities, he ‘considered it his duty as a Christian to prevent, as far as he was able, anybody from hazarding his life there.’ To a traveller prepared for a forlorn hope this view of Christian obligations was by no meansconsolatory, and I could not help wishing that Colonel Outram had been able to remember his own feelings of 20 years back. Thus far, however, he was dans son droit, he held it his duty to prevent men from destroying themselves, and he should have veto’d the whole affair.

Presently, however, upon my assuming the fullest responsibility and giving a written bond for our blood, the Political Resident allowed me to enrol Lieut. Speke as a member of the Expedition, and thus to save his furlough by putting him on full service. Colonel Outram would also have gratified his own generosity, and shifted all onus from his conscience, by making me alone answerable for the safety of a Madras officer who had left India expressly to join us. I had, however, now done enough: common report at Aden declared the thing to be impossible, and the unfortunate traveller returned unsuccessful.

Lieut. Speke was uncommonly hard to manage: he owned himself to be a ‘Mastí Bengali’ (bumptious Bengal-man), and having been for years his own master, he had a way as well as a will of his own. To a peculiarly quiet and modest aspect—aided by blue eyes and blonde hair—to a gentleness of demeanour, and analmost childlike simplicity of manner which at once attracted attention, he united an immense and abnormal fund of self-esteem, so carefully concealed, however, that none but his intimates suspected its existence. He ever held, not only that he had done his best on all occasions, but also that no man living could do better. These were his own words, and they are not quoted in a spirit of blame: evidently such is the temper best suited to the man who would work through the accumulated difficulties of exploration or of any other exceptional career. Before we set out he openly declared that being tired of life he had come to be killed in Africa—not a satisfactory announcement to those who aspired to something better than the crown of martyrdom. But when the opportunity came he behaved with prudence as well as courage. I therefore look upon his earlier confession as a kind of whimsical affectation, like that which made him, when he returned to England in 1859, astonish certain of the Browns by speaking a manner of broken English, as if he had forgotten his vernacular in the presence of strange tongues.

Finding, even at that early period of acquaintanceship, that he had a true but uncultivated taste for zoology, and extensive practice in rudefield, mapping, I determined that his part of the work should be in the highly interesting Eastern Horn of Africa. He accordingly landed at Bunder Guray, with directions to explore the important feature, called by Lieut. Cruttenden, I. N., ‘Wady Nogal,’ and to visit the highlands of the Warsangali and the Dulbahanta tribes, the most warlike and the least treacherous of the Somal. Meanwhile Lieutenants Stroyan and Herne remained at Berberah, collecting information from and watching the annual fair, whilst I proceeded, more, it must be confessed, for curiosity and for display of travelling savoir faire, than for other reason, through the Habr Awal and other most dangerous families of the Somal, to Harar, the Tinbuktu of Eastern Africa.

I returned to Aden on Feb. 9th, 1855, and was followed about a week afterwards by Lieut. Speke. He was thoroughly disgusted with his journey, and he brought back a doleful tale of trouble. He had adopted, by my advice, a kind of half-eastern dress, as did Colonel Belly and his officers, when visiting El Riyaz, the head-quarters of the Wahhabis; and he attributed to this costume all his misfortunes. He came back, determined that no such feature as the Wady Nogal existed: yet M. Guillain (ii. 493) saw betweenDra Salih and Ra’as el Khayl, the valley, and its stream debouching upon the coast. He had recorded his misadventures in a diary whose style, to say nothing of sentiments and geographical assertions, rendered it, in my opinion, unfit for publication, and I took the trouble of re-writing the whole. Published as an Appendix to ‘First Footsteps in East Africa,’ it was in the third person, without the least intention of giving offence, but simply because I did not wish to palm upon the reader my own composition as that of another person. Unhappily, however, an article from a well-known pen appeared in Blackwood (p. 499, October, 1856), and contained these words:—

‘A resumé of Mr Speke’s observations is appended to Mr Burton’s book, but it lacks the interest of a personal narrative; and we much regret that the experiences of one whose extensive wanderings had already so well qualified him for the task, and who has shown himself so able an explorer, should not have been chronicled at a greater length, and thrown into a form which would have rendered them more interesting to the general reader.’

This brand was not foolishly thrown: it kindled a fire which did not consume the lessfiercely because it was smothered. Some two years afterwards, when in the heart of Africa, and half delirious with fever, my companion let fall certain expressions which, to my infinite surprise, showed that he had been nursing three great grievances. The front of the offence was that his Diary had been spoiled. Secondly, he felt injured because he had derived no profit from a publication which had not proved ‘paying’ to me. Thirdly, he was hurt because I had forwarded to the Calcutta Museum of Natural History, as expressly bound by my instructions, his collection, of which he might easily have kept duplicates. My companion had a peculiarity more rarely noticed in the Englishman than in the Hibernian and in the Teuton—a habit of secreting thoughts and reminiscences till brought to light by a sudden impulse. He would brood, perhaps for years, over a chance word, which a single outspoken sentence of explanation could have satisfactorily settled. The inevitable result was the exaggeration of fact into fiction, the distortion of the true to the false. Let any man, after long musing about, or frequent repetition of, a story or an adventure, consult his original notes upon the matter, and if they do not startle him, I shall hold him to be an exception. And ifhe keep no journal, and be withal somewhat hard of persuasion, he will firmly hold, in all honour and honesty, to the latest version, modified by lapse of time. I made this remark more than once to my companion, and he received it with an utter incredulity which clearly proved to me that his was a case in point.

The next adventure was a savage melée at Berberah, on April 19th, 1855, when we were attacked by Somali plunderers. Here again I unwittingly offended Lieut. Speke’s susceptibilities by saying in the thick of the fight, ‘Don’t step back, or they’ll think we are running!’ As usual, I was never allowed to know that he was ‘chagrined by this rebuke at his management’ till his own account of the mishap appeared before the public. The story, as he tells it, reads very differently from his written report still in my possession, and he gives the world to understand that he alone of the force had attempted to defend the camp. The fact is, he had lost his head, and instead of following me when cutting my way through the enemy, he rushed about, dealing blows with the butt of an unloaded revolver. His courage was of that cool order which characterizes the English rather than the French soldier. The former, constitutionally strong-nervedand self-reliant, goes into action reckless of what may happen, and unprepared for extremes: when he ‘gets more than he bargains for’ he is apt, like unimaginative men generally, to become demoralized. The Frenchman, with a weaker organization, prepares himself to expect the worst; and when the worst comes, he finds it, perhaps, not so bad as he expected.

Lieut. Speke escaped as by a miracle, and recovered as wonderfully from eleven spear-wounds, one of which was clean through the thigh. Returning to England, we both volunteered for the Crimean campaign; and he found his way to the Turkish Contingent, I to the Bashi Buzuks. When peace was concluded he agreed to explore, in company with Capt. Smyth, of the Bengal Army, Circassia and other parts of Central Asia. We met, however, in London, and he at once proposed to dismiss his new plans for another African expedition.

The reader has seen, in the earlier chapters of this book, the troubles attending our departure, and the obstacles opposed by the Court of Directors to Lieut. Speke again becoming my companion; it has also been explained how the difficulties were removed. My companion did not, however, ‘take kindly’ to the Second Expedition.Even at the beginning of our long absence from civilized life I could not but perceive that his former alacrity had vanished: he was habitually discontented with what was done; he left to me the whole work of management, and then he complained of not being consulted. He had violent quarrels with the Baloch, and on one occasion the Jemadar returned to him an insult which, if we had not wanted the man, he would have noticed with a sword-cut. Unaccustomed to sickness, he could not endure it himself nor feel for it in others; and he seemed to enjoy pleasure in saying unpleasant things—an Anglo-Indian peculiarity. Much of the change he explained to me by confessing that he could not take interest in an exploration of which he was not the commander. On the other hand, he taught himself the use of the sextant and other instruments, with a resolution and a pertinacity which formed his characteristic merits. Night after night, at the end of the burning march, he sat for hours in the chilling dews, practising lunars and timing chronometers. I have acknowledged in becoming terms, it is hoped, the value of these labours, and the benefit derived from them by the Expedition. The few books—Shakespere, Euclid, and so forth—which composedmy scanty library, we read together again and again: he learned from me to sketch the scenery, and he practised writing a diary and accounts of adventure, which he used to bring for correction. These reminiscences forcibly suggest to me the Arab couplet—

علمته الرمايه كليومفلمّا امشتدّ ساعده رمانى

علمته الرمايه كليوم

فلمّا امشتدّ ساعده رمانى

‘I taught him archery day by day—When his arm waxed strong, ’twas me he shot.’

‘I taught him archery day by day—

When his arm waxed strong, ’twas me he shot.’

The discovery of the water which he called Victoria Nyanza formed, I have said, the point whence our paths diverged. He was convinced that he had found ‘the Nile Source,’ and he was determined to work out that problem in the position which he thought himself best fitted to hold, that of leader. Arrived at Zanzibar, he fell into bad hands, and being, like most ambitious men, very apt to consider himself neglected and ill-treated until crowned by success, he was easily made sore upon the point of merits not duly recognized. He showed a nervous hurry to hasten home, although we found upon the Island that our leave had been prolonged by the Bombay Government. Reaching Aden, we were housed for a few days by my old and tried friend, the late Dr Steinhaeuser, who repeatedlywarned me that all was not right. On Monday, April 18th, arrived H. M.’s ship Furious, Captain Sherard Osborne, carrying the late Lord Elgin and his secretary, the supposed author of the review in Blackwood. We were kindly invited to take passage on board: my companion’s sick certificate was en règle, whilst mine was not, and he left Aden in such haste that he did not take leave of his host. Still we were, to all appearance, friends.

Before parting with me, Capt. Speke voluntarily promised, when reaching England, to visit his family in the country, and to await my arrival, that we might appear together before the Royal Geographical Society. But on board the Furious he was exposed to the worst influences, and he was persuaded to act in a manner which his own moral sense must have afterwards strongly condemned, if indeed it ever pardoned it. From Cairo he wrote me a long letter, reiterating his engagement, and urging me to take all the time and rest that broken health required. Yet, hardly had he reached London before he appeared at Whitehall Place to give his own views of important points still under discussion. Those were the days when the Society in question could not afford to lack its annual lion,whose roar was chiefly to please the ladies and to push the institution. Despite the palpable injustice thus done to the organizer and leader of the expedition, Capt. Speke was officially directed—‘much against his own inclination,’ he declared—to lecture in Burlington House. The President ‘seized the enlightened view that such a discovery should not be lost to the glory of England,’ and came at once to the conclusion, ‘Speke, we must send you there again.’ Finally, a council assembled to ascertain what were the projects of the volunteer leader, and what assistance he would require, in order to ‘make good his discovery by connecting the Lake with the Nile.’ They ended their labours by recommending the most liberal preparations—a remarkable contrast to those of the first expedition.[76]

I reached London on May 21st, and found that everything had been done for, or rather against, me. My companion now stood forth in his true colours, an angry rival. He had doubtless beentaught that the expedition had owed to him all its success: he had learned to feel aggrieved, and the usual mental alchemy permuted to an offence every friendly effort which I had made in his favour. No one is so unforgiving, I need hardly say, as the man who injures another. A college friend (Alfred B. Richards) thus correctly defined my position, ‘Burton, shaken to the backbone by fever, disgusted, desponding, and left behind both in the spirit and in the flesh, was, in racing parlance, “nowhere.”’

Presently appeared two papers in Blackwood’s Magazine (Sept.-Oct., 1859), which opened a broad breach between my late companion and myself. They contained futilities which all readers could detect. A horseshoe, or Chancellor’s wig, some 6000 feet high and 180 miles in depth, was prolonged beyond the equator and gravely named ‘Mountains of the Moon.’ The Nyanza water, driven some 120 miles further north than when originally laid down from Arab information, stultified one of the most important parts of our labours. Nor did I see why my companion should proceed to apply without consultation such names as ‘Speke Channel’ and ‘Burton Point’ to features which we had explored together.

It was no ‘petty point of explorer’s etiquette,’ as some reviewer generously put the case, which made me resent the premature publication of Capt. Speke’s papers: though the many-headed may think little of such matters, a man who has risked his life for a great discovery cannot sit tamely to see it nullified. My views also about retaining native nomenclature have ever been fixed, and of the strongest: I still hold, with the late venerable Mr Macqueen, ‘Nothing can be so absurd as to impose English names on any part, but especially upon places in the remote interior parts of Africa. This is, we believe, done by no other nation. What nonsense it is calling a part of Lake Nyanza the Bengal Archipelago; a stagnant puddle, with water in it only during the rains, or where the lake overflows, the Jordans, a name never heard of in geography’ (The Nile Basin, pp. 109, 110).

Such a breach once made is easily widened. My companion wrote and spoke to mutual acquaintances in petulant and provoking terms, which rendered even recognition impossible. They justified me, I then thought, in publishing the Lake Regions of Central Africa, where, smarting under injury, my story was told. After the lapse of a decade, when a man of sense can sit injudgment upon his younger self, it is evident to me that much might have been omitted, and that more might have been modified, yet I find nothing in it unfair, unreasonable, or in any way unfaithful. Many opined that the more dignified proceeding would have been to ignore the injuries done to me. But the example of my old commander, Sir Charles Napier (the soldier), taught me in early life how unwise it is to let public sentence be passed by default, and that even delay in disputing unqualified assertions may in some cases be fraught with lasting evil.

Capt. Speke succeeded, as the world knows, in organizing a second expedition upon the plan of the first: it lasted between Sept. 25, 1860, and April, 1863, when he telegram’d to Alexandria, ‘The Nile is settled.’ I would in no way depreciate the solid services rendered to geography by him and by his gallant and amiable companion, Capt. Grant. They brought in an absolute gain of some 350 geographical miles between S. lat. 3° and N. lat. 3°, an equatorial belt, vaguely known only by Arab report and concerning which, with the hardest labour, I could collect only the heads of information. But they left unsolved the moot question of the Nile sources, and indeed it soon became the opinion of scientific Europethat during the two and a half years, ending with April, 1863, the Nile Basin had been invested with an amount of fable unknown to the days of Ptolemy.

Presently after Capt. Speke’s triumphant return appeared the volumes upon the ‘Discovery of the Source of the Nile,’ and upon ‘What led to the Discovery.’ His brilliant march led me to express, despite all the differences which had sprung up between us, the most favourable opinion of his leadership, and indirect messages passed between us suggesting the possibility of a better understanding. Again, however, either old fancied injuries still rankled in his heart or he could not forgive the man he had injured—odisse quem læseris—or, which is most probable, the malignant tongues of ‘friends’ urged him on to a renewal of hostilities, and the way to reconciliation was for ever barred. This was the more unhappy as he had greatly improved under the influence of a noble ambition justly satisfied, and all his friends were agreed that success had drawn out the best points of his character.

The volumes did much to injure Capt. Speke’s reputation as a traveller. It would be vain to comment upon the extreme looseness of the geography: one instance suffices, the‘great backwater Luta Nzige.’ The anthropology and ethnology are marvellous: what can be said of his identifying the Watuta with the Zulu, and the Zangian Wahuma with the ‘Semi-Shem-Hamitic’ race of Æthiopia or with the Gallas, the most Semitic of the N. East African tribes? What can we make of ‘our poor elder brother Ham?’ What can ruddy King David have had to do with the black Chief Rumanika? The explanation is that the author’s mind, incurious about small matters, could not grasp, and did not see the importance of grasping, a fact, and his vagueness of thought necessarily extended to his language. Else how account for his ‘partial eclipse of the moon happens on the fifthandsixth of January, 1863’ (Journal p. 243)? ifandbe a misprint foror, why had he not consulted the newest almanac? Nor did he know the use of words. A mass of foul huts is ‘a village built on the most luxurious principles,’ and a petty chief is a ‘King of kings;’ whilst a ‘splendid court’ means a display of mere savagery, and the ‘French of those parts’ are barbarians somewhat livelier than their neighbours. ‘Nelson’s Monument at Charing Cross’ is a specimen of what we may expect from Central Africa.

Not less curious is the awkward, scatter of Scriptural quotations and allusions that floats upon the surface of his volumes. It looks as though some friend had assured the author that his work would not ‘go down’ without a little of what is popularly called ‘hashed Bible;’ and that the result had been the recommendation of missionary establishments at the Nile sources. I am assured, however, that before the end of his life Capt. Speke had greatly changed his previous opinions. When travelling with me he used to ignore ‘overruling Providence or a future state’ in a style whose unstudied conviction somewhat surprised me.

Returning to England from Fernando Po, West Africa, I attended at Bath the British Association for September, 1864. The date for the discussion about the Nile Sources, and the claims of the Lake Tanganyika, and a N. Eastern water then unnamed, versus the ‘Victoria Nyanza,’ was fixed on Sept. 16. On the previous day I passed my quondam companion as he sat on the President’s right hand, and I could not but remark the immense change of feature, of expression, and of general appearance which his severe labours, complicated perhaps by deafness and dimness of sight, had wrought in him. Welooked at each other of course without signs of recognition. Some one beckoned to him from the bottom of the hall. At 1.30P. M.he arose, and ejaculating, ‘I can’t stand this any longer!’ he left the room. Three hours afterwards he was a corpse.

Early in the forenoon fixed for what silly tongues called the ‘Nile Duel’ I found a large assembly in the rooms of section E. A note was handed round in silence. Presently my friend Mr Findlay broke the tidings to me. Capt. Speke had lost his life on the yesterday, at 4P. M., whilst shooting over a cousin’s grounds. He had been missed in the field, and his kinsman found him lying upon the earth, shot through the body close to the heart. He lived only a few minutes, and his last words were a request not to be moved. The calamity had been the more unexpected as he was ever remarkable for the caution with which he handled his weapon. I ever make a point of ascertaining a fellow-traveller’s habits in that matter, and I observed that even when our canoe was shaken and upthrown by the hippopotamus he never allowed his gun to look at him or at others.

Thus perished, in the flower of his years, at the early age of 37, by the merest and mostunaccountable accident, an explorer of whom England had reason to be proud, and whose memory will not readily pass away. His sudden decease recalls to mind that of James Bruce of the Blue River, who, after a life of hazard and of dangerous enterprise, perished by the slipping of his foot: unlike the Abyssinian explorer, however, Capt. Speke was not fated to extend his sphere of usefulness or to enjoy the fruits of his labours. With the active and intrepid energy, with the unusual temper, patience, and single-mindedness, with the earnest and indomitable pertinacity, and with the almost heroic determination, which he brought to bear upon everything that he attempted, the achievements of Capt. Speke’s later life would doubtless, had his career run out its time, have thrown into the shade the exploits of his youth.

* * * * *

I will end this chapter—and volume—with a few stanzas written by my wife, who shall be allowed to tell her own tale.

‘The following lines were suggested to me in the studio of the late Mr Edgar George Papworth, of 36, Milton Street, Dorset Square, during the winter of 1864-5.

‘Captain Burton had recently returned fromAfrica. The annual meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science had just taken place at Bath, and poor Captain Speke’s sudden death was still fresh in our memories. We had been invited by the artist to look at Captain Speke’s bust, upon which he was then employed. Mr Papworth said to Captain Burton, “I only took the cast after death, and never knew him alive; but you who lived with him so long can surely give me some hints.” Captain Burton, who had learnt something of sculpturing when a boy in Italy, took the sculptor’s pencil from Mr Papworth’s hand, and with a few touches here and there made a perfect likeness and expression. As I stood by, I was very much impressed by this singular coincidence.’

AMOULDEDmask at my feet I found,With the drawn-down mouth and the deepen’d eye,More lifeless still than the marbles ’round—Very death amid dead life’s mimicry;I raised it, and Thought fled afar from meTo the Afric land by the Zingian Sea.’Twas a face, a shell, that had nought of brain,And th’ imbedding chalk showed a yellow threadWhich struck my glance with a sudden pain,For this seemed ’live when the rest was dead;And poor bygone raillery came to mindOf the tragic masque and no head behind.But behind there lay in the humblest shrineA gem of the brightest, purest ray:The gem was the human will divine;The shrine was the homeliest human clay.Self-glory—but hush! be the tale untoldTo the pale ear thinned by yon plaster mould.Shall the diamond gem lose her queenly worth,Though pent in the dungeon of sandy stone?Say, is gold less gold, though in vilest earthFor long years it has lurked unprized, unknown?And the rose that blooms o’er the buried dead,Hath its pinkness paled, hath its fragrance fled?Thus the poet sang, ‘Is the basil vile,Though the beetle’s foot o’er the basil crawl?’And though Arachne hath webbed her toil,Shall disgrace attach to the princely hall?And the pearl’s clear drop from the oyster-shell,Comes it not on the royal brow to dwell?On the Guarded Tablet was writ by Fate,A double self for each man ere born,Who shall love his love and shall hate his hate,Who shall praise his praise and shall scorn his scorn,Enduring, aye to the bitter end,And man’s other man shall be called a friend.When the Spirits with radiance nude arrayedIn the presence stood of the One Supreme,Soul looked unto soul, and the glance conveyedA pledge of love which eachmustredeem;Nor may spirit enfleshed in the dust, forgetThat high trysting-place, ere Time was not yet.When the first great Sire, so the Legends say,The four-rivered garden in Asia trod,And ’neath perfumed shade, in the drouth of day,Walked and talked with the Hebrew God,Such friendship was as it first began;And the first of friends were the God, the Man.Butwetwain were not bound by such highborn ties;Our souls, our minds, and our thoughts were strange,Our ways were not one, nor our sympathies,We had severed aims, we had diverse range;In the stern drear Present his lot was cast,While I hoped for the Future and loved the Past.’Twixt man and woman use oft hath bredThe habits that feebly affection feign,While the common board and the genial bedAnd Time’s welding force links a length of chain;Till, where Love was not, it hath sometimes provedThis has loved and lived, that has lived and loved.But ’twixt man and man it may not so hap;Each man is his own and his proper sphere;At some point, perchance, may the lines o’erlap;The far rest is far as the near is near—Save when the orbs are of friend and friendAnd the circles’ limits perforce must blend.But the one sole point at which he and ICould touch, was the contact of vulgar minds;’Twas interest’s forcible, feeble tie,Which binds, but with lasting bonds ne’er binds;And our objects fated to disagree,What way went I, and what way went he?Yet were we comrades for years and years,And endured in its troth our companionshipThrough a life of chances, of hopes, and fears;Nor a word of harshness e’er passed the lip,Nor a thought unkind dwelt in either heart,Till we chanced—by what chance did it hap?—to part.Where Fever, yellow-skinned, bony, gaunt,With the long blue nails and lip livid white;With the blood-stain’d orbs that could ever hauntOur brains by day and our eyes by night;In her grave-clothes mouldy with graveyard taintCame around our sleeping mats—came and went:Where the crocodile glared with malignant stare,And the horse of the river, with watery maneThat flash’d in the sun, from his oozy lairRose to gaze on the white and wondrous men;And the lion, with muzzle bent low to earth,Mock’d the thunder-cloud with his cruel mirth:Where the speckled fowls the Mimosa deckedLike blue-bells studded with opal dew;And giraffes, pard-spotted, deer-eyed, swan-necked,Browsed down the base whence the tree-dome grew:And the sentinel-antelope, aëried high,With his frighten’d bound taught his friends to fly:Where the lovely Coast is all rank with death,That basks in the sun of the Zingian shore;Where the mountains, dank with the ocean’s breath,Bear the incense-tree and the sycamore;Where the grim fierce desert and stony hillBreed the fiercest beasts, and men fiercer still:Where the land of the Moon, with all blessings blestSave one—save man—and with name that spedTo the farthest edge of the misty WestSince the Tyrian sailor his sail-sheet spread,Loves to gaze on her planet whose loving rayFills her dells and fells with a rival day:Where the Lake unnamed in the Afric woldIts breast to the stranger eye lay bare;Where Isis, forced her veil to unfold—To forget the boast of the days that were—Stood in dusky charms with the crisp tire crowned,On the hallowed bourne, on the Nile’s last bound:We toiled side by side, for the hope was sweetTo engrave our names on the Rock of Time;On the Holy Hill to implant our feetWhere enfaned sits Fame o’er the earth sublime;And now rose the temple before our eyes,We had paid the price, we had plucked the prize;When up stood the Shadow betwixt us twain—Had the dusky goddess bequeathed her ban?—And the ice of death through every veinOf comradeship spread in briefest span;The guerdon our toils and our pains had won,Was too great for two, was enough for one;And deeper and deeper grew the gloomWhen the serpent tongue had power to sting,While o’er one of us hung the untimely doom,A winter’s night to a day of spring;And heart from heart parting fell awayAt the fiat of Fate by her iron sway.It seems as though from a foamy[77]dreamI awake, and this pallid mask behold,And I ask—Can this be the end supremeOf the countless things of the days of old?This clay, is it all of what used to beIn the Afric land by the Zingian Sea?Isabel Burton.

AMOULDEDmask at my feet I found,

With the drawn-down mouth and the deepen’d eye,

More lifeless still than the marbles ’round—

Very death amid dead life’s mimicry;

I raised it, and Thought fled afar from me

To the Afric land by the Zingian Sea.

’Twas a face, a shell, that had nought of brain,And th’ imbedding chalk showed a yellow threadWhich struck my glance with a sudden pain,For this seemed ’live when the rest was dead;And poor bygone raillery came to mindOf the tragic masque and no head behind.

’Twas a face, a shell, that had nought of brain,

And th’ imbedding chalk showed a yellow thread

Which struck my glance with a sudden pain,

For this seemed ’live when the rest was dead;

And poor bygone raillery came to mind

Of the tragic masque and no head behind.

But behind there lay in the humblest shrineA gem of the brightest, purest ray:The gem was the human will divine;The shrine was the homeliest human clay.Self-glory—but hush! be the tale untoldTo the pale ear thinned by yon plaster mould.

But behind there lay in the humblest shrine

A gem of the brightest, purest ray:

The gem was the human will divine;

The shrine was the homeliest human clay.

Self-glory—but hush! be the tale untold

To the pale ear thinned by yon plaster mould.

Shall the diamond gem lose her queenly worth,Though pent in the dungeon of sandy stone?Say, is gold less gold, though in vilest earthFor long years it has lurked unprized, unknown?And the rose that blooms o’er the buried dead,Hath its pinkness paled, hath its fragrance fled?

Shall the diamond gem lose her queenly worth,

Though pent in the dungeon of sandy stone?

Say, is gold less gold, though in vilest earth

For long years it has lurked unprized, unknown?

And the rose that blooms o’er the buried dead,

Hath its pinkness paled, hath its fragrance fled?

Thus the poet sang, ‘Is the basil vile,Though the beetle’s foot o’er the basil crawl?’And though Arachne hath webbed her toil,Shall disgrace attach to the princely hall?And the pearl’s clear drop from the oyster-shell,Comes it not on the royal brow to dwell?

Thus the poet sang, ‘Is the basil vile,

Though the beetle’s foot o’er the basil crawl?’

And though Arachne hath webbed her toil,

Shall disgrace attach to the princely hall?

And the pearl’s clear drop from the oyster-shell,

Comes it not on the royal brow to dwell?

On the Guarded Tablet was writ by Fate,A double self for each man ere born,Who shall love his love and shall hate his hate,Who shall praise his praise and shall scorn his scorn,Enduring, aye to the bitter end,And man’s other man shall be called a friend.

On the Guarded Tablet was writ by Fate,

A double self for each man ere born,

Who shall love his love and shall hate his hate,

Who shall praise his praise and shall scorn his scorn,

Enduring, aye to the bitter end,

And man’s other man shall be called a friend.

When the Spirits with radiance nude arrayedIn the presence stood of the One Supreme,Soul looked unto soul, and the glance conveyedA pledge of love which eachmustredeem;Nor may spirit enfleshed in the dust, forgetThat high trysting-place, ere Time was not yet.

When the Spirits with radiance nude arrayed

In the presence stood of the One Supreme,

Soul looked unto soul, and the glance conveyed

A pledge of love which eachmustredeem;

Nor may spirit enfleshed in the dust, forget

That high trysting-place, ere Time was not yet.

When the first great Sire, so the Legends say,The four-rivered garden in Asia trod,And ’neath perfumed shade, in the drouth of day,Walked and talked with the Hebrew God,Such friendship was as it first began;And the first of friends were the God, the Man.

When the first great Sire, so the Legends say,

The four-rivered garden in Asia trod,

And ’neath perfumed shade, in the drouth of day,

Walked and talked with the Hebrew God,

Such friendship was as it first began;

And the first of friends were the God, the Man.

Butwetwain were not bound by such highborn ties;Our souls, our minds, and our thoughts were strange,Our ways were not one, nor our sympathies,We had severed aims, we had diverse range;In the stern drear Present his lot was cast,While I hoped for the Future and loved the Past.

Butwetwain were not bound by such highborn ties;

Our souls, our minds, and our thoughts were strange,

Our ways were not one, nor our sympathies,

We had severed aims, we had diverse range;

In the stern drear Present his lot was cast,

While I hoped for the Future and loved the Past.

’Twixt man and woman use oft hath bredThe habits that feebly affection feign,While the common board and the genial bedAnd Time’s welding force links a length of chain;Till, where Love was not, it hath sometimes provedThis has loved and lived, that has lived and loved.

’Twixt man and woman use oft hath bred

The habits that feebly affection feign,

While the common board and the genial bed

And Time’s welding force links a length of chain;

Till, where Love was not, it hath sometimes proved

This has loved and lived, that has lived and loved.

But ’twixt man and man it may not so hap;Each man is his own and his proper sphere;At some point, perchance, may the lines o’erlap;The far rest is far as the near is near—Save when the orbs are of friend and friendAnd the circles’ limits perforce must blend.

But ’twixt man and man it may not so hap;

Each man is his own and his proper sphere;

At some point, perchance, may the lines o’erlap;

The far rest is far as the near is near—

Save when the orbs are of friend and friend

And the circles’ limits perforce must blend.

But the one sole point at which he and ICould touch, was the contact of vulgar minds;’Twas interest’s forcible, feeble tie,Which binds, but with lasting bonds ne’er binds;And our objects fated to disagree,What way went I, and what way went he?

But the one sole point at which he and I

Could touch, was the contact of vulgar minds;

’Twas interest’s forcible, feeble tie,

Which binds, but with lasting bonds ne’er binds;

And our objects fated to disagree,

What way went I, and what way went he?

Yet were we comrades for years and years,And endured in its troth our companionshipThrough a life of chances, of hopes, and fears;Nor a word of harshness e’er passed the lip,Nor a thought unkind dwelt in either heart,Till we chanced—by what chance did it hap?—to part.

Yet were we comrades for years and years,

And endured in its troth our companionship

Through a life of chances, of hopes, and fears;

Nor a word of harshness e’er passed the lip,

Nor a thought unkind dwelt in either heart,

Till we chanced—by what chance did it hap?—to part.

Where Fever, yellow-skinned, bony, gaunt,With the long blue nails and lip livid white;With the blood-stain’d orbs that could ever hauntOur brains by day and our eyes by night;In her grave-clothes mouldy with graveyard taintCame around our sleeping mats—came and went:

Where Fever, yellow-skinned, bony, gaunt,

With the long blue nails and lip livid white;

With the blood-stain’d orbs that could ever haunt

Our brains by day and our eyes by night;

In her grave-clothes mouldy with graveyard taint

Came around our sleeping mats—came and went:

Where the crocodile glared with malignant stare,And the horse of the river, with watery maneThat flash’d in the sun, from his oozy lairRose to gaze on the white and wondrous men;And the lion, with muzzle bent low to earth,Mock’d the thunder-cloud with his cruel mirth:

Where the crocodile glared with malignant stare,

And the horse of the river, with watery mane

That flash’d in the sun, from his oozy lair

Rose to gaze on the white and wondrous men;

And the lion, with muzzle bent low to earth,

Mock’d the thunder-cloud with his cruel mirth:

Where the speckled fowls the Mimosa deckedLike blue-bells studded with opal dew;And giraffes, pard-spotted, deer-eyed, swan-necked,Browsed down the base whence the tree-dome grew:And the sentinel-antelope, aëried high,With his frighten’d bound taught his friends to fly:

Where the speckled fowls the Mimosa decked

Like blue-bells studded with opal dew;

And giraffes, pard-spotted, deer-eyed, swan-necked,

Browsed down the base whence the tree-dome grew:

And the sentinel-antelope, aëried high,

With his frighten’d bound taught his friends to fly:

Where the lovely Coast is all rank with death,That basks in the sun of the Zingian shore;Where the mountains, dank with the ocean’s breath,Bear the incense-tree and the sycamore;Where the grim fierce desert and stony hillBreed the fiercest beasts, and men fiercer still:

Where the lovely Coast is all rank with death,

That basks in the sun of the Zingian shore;

Where the mountains, dank with the ocean’s breath,

Bear the incense-tree and the sycamore;

Where the grim fierce desert and stony hill

Breed the fiercest beasts, and men fiercer still:

Where the land of the Moon, with all blessings blestSave one—save man—and with name that spedTo the farthest edge of the misty WestSince the Tyrian sailor his sail-sheet spread,Loves to gaze on her planet whose loving rayFills her dells and fells with a rival day:

Where the land of the Moon, with all blessings blest

Save one—save man—and with name that sped

To the farthest edge of the misty West

Since the Tyrian sailor his sail-sheet spread,

Loves to gaze on her planet whose loving ray

Fills her dells and fells with a rival day:

Where the Lake unnamed in the Afric woldIts breast to the stranger eye lay bare;Where Isis, forced her veil to unfold—To forget the boast of the days that were—Stood in dusky charms with the crisp tire crowned,On the hallowed bourne, on the Nile’s last bound:

Where the Lake unnamed in the Afric wold

Its breast to the stranger eye lay bare;

Where Isis, forced her veil to unfold—

To forget the boast of the days that were—

Stood in dusky charms with the crisp tire crowned,

On the hallowed bourne, on the Nile’s last bound:

We toiled side by side, for the hope was sweetTo engrave our names on the Rock of Time;On the Holy Hill to implant our feetWhere enfaned sits Fame o’er the earth sublime;And now rose the temple before our eyes,We had paid the price, we had plucked the prize;

We toiled side by side, for the hope was sweet

To engrave our names on the Rock of Time;

On the Holy Hill to implant our feet

Where enfaned sits Fame o’er the earth sublime;

And now rose the temple before our eyes,

We had paid the price, we had plucked the prize;

When up stood the Shadow betwixt us twain—Had the dusky goddess bequeathed her ban?—And the ice of death through every veinOf comradeship spread in briefest span;The guerdon our toils and our pains had won,Was too great for two, was enough for one;

When up stood the Shadow betwixt us twain—

Had the dusky goddess bequeathed her ban?—

And the ice of death through every vein

Of comradeship spread in briefest span;

The guerdon our toils and our pains had won,

Was too great for two, was enough for one;

And deeper and deeper grew the gloomWhen the serpent tongue had power to sting,While o’er one of us hung the untimely doom,A winter’s night to a day of spring;And heart from heart parting fell awayAt the fiat of Fate by her iron sway.

And deeper and deeper grew the gloom

When the serpent tongue had power to sting,

While o’er one of us hung the untimely doom,

A winter’s night to a day of spring;

And heart from heart parting fell away

At the fiat of Fate by her iron sway.

It seems as though from a foamy[77]dreamI awake, and this pallid mask behold,And I ask—Can this be the end supremeOf the countless things of the days of old?This clay, is it all of what used to beIn the Afric land by the Zingian Sea?Isabel Burton.

It seems as though from a foamy[77]dream

I awake, and this pallid mask behold,

And I ask—Can this be the end supreme

Of the countless things of the days of old?

This clay, is it all of what used to be

In the Afric land by the Zingian Sea?

Isabel Burton.

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