a Maitre d' Armes." As horseman, swordsman, and marksman,
no soldier of his day surpassed him, and very few equalled him. But of
fencing, flirting and book-writing, he soon got heartily tired. Like
his putative ancestors, the gipsies, he could never be happy long in one
place. He says, "The thoroughbred wanderer's idiosyncrasy, I presume to
be a composition of what phrenologists call inhabitiveness and locality
equally and largely developed. After a long and toilsome march, weary
of the way, he drops into the nearest place of rest to become the most
domestic of men. For a while he smokes the pipe of permanence with an
infinite zest, he delights in various siestas during the day, relishing
withal a long sleep at night; he enjoys dining at a fixed dinner hour,
and wonders at the demoralisation of the mind which cannot find means
of excitement in chit-chat or small talk, in a novel or a newspaper. But
soon the passive fit has passed away; again a paroxysm on ennui coming
on by slow degrees, viator loses appetite, he walks bout his room
all night, he yawns at conversations, and a book acts upon his as a
narcotic. The man wants to wander, and he must do so, or he shall die."
[107]

23. Haji Wali, 1853.

As we have seen, Burton, even before he had left Sind, had burned to
visit Mecca. Four years had since elapsed, and his eyes still turned
towards "Allah's holy house." Having obtained another twelve months'
furlough, in order that he "might pursue his Arabic studies in lands
where the language is best learned," he formed the bold plan of crossing
Arabia from Mecca to the Persian Gulf. Ultimately, however, he decided,
in emulation of Burckhardt, the great traveler, to visit Medina
and Mecca in the disguise of a pilgrim, a feat that only the most
temerarious of men would have dared even to dream of. He made every
conceivable preparation, learning among other usefulnesses how to forge
horse shoes and to shoe a horse. To his parents and Lady Stisted and her
daughters, who were then residing at Bath, he paid several visits, but
when he last parted from them with his usual "Adieu, sans adieu," it
did not occur to them that he was about to leave for good; for he
could not--he never could--muster up sufficient courage to say a final
"Good-bye." Shortly after his departure his mother found a letter
addressed to her and in his handwriting. It contained, besides an
outline of his dangerous plans, the instruction that, in case