Early in the year Richard had a slight attack of gout, and a visit from Professor Leitner, King's College, London. He worked now at his Sword book, and, as well as I can remember, his book on the Jews (not published). He makes a note of Gustave Doré's death on the 22nd of January. Schapira writes a report that Palmer is still alive, but this was a false report. On the 28th he notices that Colonel Warren is made a K.C.M.G., and that poor Mr. Zech, whom we visited last year, died on the 29th. Colonel Rathborne wrote in 1883:-- "21, Leamington Road Villas, Westbourne Park, W., "December 4th, 1883. "MY DEAR BURTON, "Thanks for your kindly note, which came to hand this morning. Would that in reply I could give as good an account of my time as you give. What a constitution of brass--no, of iron--yours must be! I am so glad that you are writing your own biography.[2] What a tale of stirring adventure by sea and land you will have to narrate! I can quite fancy, however, that if you had the choice, you would add a little active work now and then to the _otium_ of endless scribbling. For the life of me, I cannot divine why your services have not been called into requisition during the late Egyptian imbroglios. As far as I know, we have not had a man in that country, save Rogers, conversant with the Arabic, and hardly one who can be accused of anything like a knowledge of Eastern peoples. I do not quite make out whether you are serious or not in the programme which you have drawn out for settling the Egyptian difficulty. In one point, at least, and that the principal point, viz. definite annexation, it coincides with what I wrote to our Jupiter Tonans." He was very gouty all this month, but not laid up. He was able to attend the school feast and _fête_ at Opçina, and was able to go to a masquerade ball at Baroness Morpurgo's. He was "Cœur de Lion;" I was "Berengaria," his wife; and Blanche was the goose-girl, out of the Christmas number of the _Graphic_. There was a very witty _comédie_ performed by amateurs. I now wrote a book called "The Sixth Sense," and was vain enough to think it very clever; but I was afraid it would do harm, and I took the courage to burn it. We gave our usual Christmas-parties in January. He was also able to take plenty of drives with me, but could not walk much. We passed our lives between Trieste and Opçina, carrying our literature up and down. One of his great amusements was a small donkey which used to run into the terrace-garden, which overlooked the sea, where we used to breakfast, and the donkey and the setter used to have games of romps like two kittens playing, the donkey racing round the place, biting and kicking, and the setter dodging him. They seemed to know exactly what they were to do, and they came every day at the same hour to play.