"(_Life of Sir
Richard Burton_, by Isabel his wife, vol. ii., pp. 24, 25).
CHAPTER XXI.[1] THE JOURNEY TO BOMBAY. (1875-1876).
As we meet and touch each day
The many travellers on the way,
Let every such brief contact be
A glorious helpful ministry--
The contact of the soil and seed,
Each giving to the other's need,
Each helping on the other's best,
And blessing each, as well as blest.
On December 4, 1875, we left London for Trieste, _en route_ for India.
It was not a cheerful day for saying good-bye to Old England and dear
friends. There was a fog as black as midnight, thick snow was lying
about the streets, and a dull red gloom only rendered the darkness
visible and horrible. The great city was wrapped in the sullen
splendours of a London fog. "It looks," said Richard, "as if the
city were in mourning for some great national crime." "No," I
said, "rather let us think that our fatherland wears mourning for
our departure into exile once more." I felt as if I could never
rise and face the day that morning. However, we _had_ to go, so there
was nothing to do but put our shoulders to the wheel. We lunched with
my father and family by lamplight at one o'clock in the day. We
prolonged the "festive" meal as much as we could, and then set out,
a large family party, by the 4.45 train to Folkestone. We all had
supper together at Folkestone, and enjoyed ourselves immensely.
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