think anyone was present except us two, both of whom he well

knew to be quite shock-proof, but he held his tongue.
'You would have been perfectly justified in saving your own

life at any cost. You would hardly have broken the sixth
commandment by doing so in this case,' I suggested.

'No,' said he gravely, 'and as I had broken all the ten
before, it wouldn't have so much mattered.'

The Doctor roared. It should, however, be stated that Burton
took no less delight in his host's boyishsimplicity, than

the other in what he deemed his guest's superb candour.
'Come, tell us,' said Bird, 'how many men have you killed?'

'How many have you, Doctor?' was the answer.
Richard Burton was probably the most extraordinary linguist

of his day. Lady Burton mentions, I think, in his Life, the
number of languages and dialects her husband knew. That

Mahometans should seek instruction from him in the Koran,
speaks of itself for his astonishingmastery of the greatest

linguistic difficulties. With Indian languages and their
variations, he was as completely at home as Miss Youghal's

Sais; and, one may suppose, could have played the ROLE of a
fakir as perfectly as he did that of a Mecca pilgrim. I

asked him what his method was in learning a fresh language.
He said he wrote down as many new words as he could learn and

remember each day; and learnt the construction of the
language colloquially, before he looked at a grammar.

Lady Burton was hardly less abnormal in her way than Sir
Richard. She had shared his wanderings, and was intimate, as

no one else was, with the eccentricities of his thoughts and
deeds. Whatever these might happen to be, she worshipped her

husband notwithstanding. For her he was the standard of
excellence; all other men were departures from it. And the

singularity is, her religious faith was never for an instant
shaken - she remained as strict a Roman Catholic as when he

married her from a convent. Her enthusiasm and
cosmopolitanism, her NAIVETE and the sweetness of her

disposition made her the best of company. She had lived so
much the life of a Bedouin, that her dress and her habits had

an Eastern glow. When staying with the Birds, she was
attended by an Arab girl, one of whose duties it was to

prepare her mistress' chibouk, which was regularly brought in
with the coffee. On one occasion, when several other ladies

were dining there, some of them yielded to Lady Burton's
persuasion to satisfy their curiosity. The Arab girl soon

provided the means; and it was not long before there were
four or five faces as white as Mrs. Alfred Wigan's, under

similar circumstances, in the 'Nabob.'
Alfred Wigan's father was an unforgettable man. To describe

him in a word, he was Falstag REDIVIVUS. In bulk and
stature, in age, in wit and humour, and morality, he was

Falstaff. He knew it and gloried in it. He would complain
with zest of 'larding the lean earth' as he walked along. He

was as partial to whisky as his prototype to sack. He would
exhaust a Johnsonian vocabulary in describing his ailments;

and would appeal pathetically to Miss Bird, as though at his
last gasp, for 'just a tea-spoonful' of the grateful

stimulant. She served him with a liberal hand, till he cried
'Stop!' But if she then stayed, he would softlyinsinuate 'I

didn't mean it, my dear.' Yet he was no Costigan. His brain
was stronger than casks of whisky. And his powers of

digestion were in keeping. Indeed, to borrow the well-known
words applied to a great man whom we all love, 'He tore his

dinner like a famished wolf, with the veins swelling in his
forehead, and the perspiration running down his cheeks.' The

trend of his thoughts, though he was eminently a man of
intellect, followed the dictates of his senses. Walk with

him in the fields and, from the full stores of a prodigious
memory, he would pour forth pages of the choicest poetry.

But if you paused to watch the lambs play, or disturbed a
young calf in your path, he would almost involuntarily

exclaim: 'How deliciously you smell of mint, my pet!' or
'Bless your innocent face! What sweetbreads you will

provide!'
James Wigan had kept a school once. The late Serjeant

Ballantine, who was one of his pupils, mentions him in his
autobiography. He was a good scholar, and when I first knew

him, used to teach elocution. Many actors went to him, and
not a few members of both Houses of Parliament. He could

recite nearly the whole of several of Shakespeare's plays;
and, with a dramatic art I have never known equalled by any

public reader.
His later years were passed at Sevenoaks, where he kept an

establishment for imbeciles, or weak-minded youths. I often
stayed with him (not as a patient), and a very comfortable

and pretty place it was. Now and then he would call on me in
London; and, with a face full of theatrical woe, tell me,

with elaborate circumlocution, how the Earl of This, or the
Marquis of That, had implored him to take charge of young

Lord So-and-So, his son; who, as all the world knew, had -
well, had 'no guts in his brains.' Was there ever such a

chance? Just consider what it must lead to! Everybody knew
- no, nobody knew - the enormous number of idiots there were

in noble families. And, such a case as that of young Lord
Dash - though of course his residence at Sevenoaks would be a

profound secret, would be patent to the whole peerage; and,
my dear sir, a fortune to your humble servant, if - ah! if he

could only secure it!'
'But I thought you said you had been implored to take him?'

'I did say so. I repeat it. His Lordship's father came to
me with tears in his eyes. "My dear Wigan," were that

nobleman's words, "do me this one favour and trust me, you
will never regret it!" But - ' he paused to remove the

dramatic tear, 'but, I hardly dare go on. Yes - yes, I know
your kindness' (seizing my hand) 'I know how ready you are to

help me' - (I hadn't said a word) - 'but - '
'How much is it this time? and what is it for?'

'For? I have told you what it is for. The merest trifle
will suffice. I have the room - a beautiful room, the best

aspect in the house. It is now occupied by young Rumagee
Bumagee the great Bombay millionaire's son. Of course he can

be moved. But a bed - there positively is not a spare bed in
the house. This is all I want - a bed, and perhaps a

tuppenny ha'penny strip of carpet, a couple of chairs, a -
let me see; if you give me a slip of paper I can make out in

a minute what it will come to.'
'Never mind that. Will a ten-pound note serve your

purposes?'
'Dear boy! Dear boy! But on one condition, on one condition

only, can I accept it - this is a loan, a loan mind! and not
a gift. No, no - it is useless to protest; my pride, my

sense of honour, forbids my acceptance upon any other terms.'
A day or two afterwards I would learn from George Bird that

he and Miss Alice had accepted an invitation to meet me at
Sevenoaks. Mr. Donovan, the famous phrenologist, was to be

of the party; the Rector of Sevenoaks, and one or two local
magnates, had also been invited to dine. We Londoners were

to occupy the spare rooms, for this was in the coaching days.
We all knew what we had to expect - a most enjoyable banquet

of conviviality. Young Mrs. Wigan, his second wife, was an
admirable housekeeper, and nothing could have been better

done. The turbot and the haunch of venison were the pick of
Grove's shop, the champagne was iced to perfection, and there

was enough of it, as Mr. Donovan whispered to me, casting his