Relieved of any significant hope or expectation (previously self-imposed as a sort of regular exercise, it must be said) of finding any time soon solid quality or much of import in the "new" or even merely the contemporary, I have regained therefore all the more time to further explore the treasure trove of things that not only stood the test of time but withstood it, too! Among those, exploring the explorers of the past has been an absolute pleasure, perhaps in no small part due to simply how wonderfully alive they come across, especially when set against the modern background of stasis and paralyzing fears for which no amount of "safety" seems to be ever enough, no matter how restrictive otherwise. By contrast, less than 200 years ago, there seem to have been still plenty of people for whom the very opposite of "safe" aka fight itself as well as the unknown (with all its potential dangers and total disdain for baked-in safety) stood simply for a welcome and even at times specifically sought after challenge. Quoth Sir Richard Francis Burton:
While at Washington I had resolved - as has already been intimated - when the reports of war in the West were waxing loud, to enjoy a little Indian fighting. The meritorious intention - for which the severest "wig," concluding with something personally offensive about volunteering in general, would have been its sole result in the "fast-anchored isle" - was most curteously received by the Hon. John B. Floyd, Secretary of War [...].
Such striking contrasts as the above are made even more striking when one notices at the same time the similarities, too - for all the "different times", then as now and probably as ever, there's always plenty of public and "official" opinion to loudly if baselessly oppose the intrepid and the extraordinary, mainly on the grounds that they are ... "too extreme", in other words too much to handle. Then as now and most satisfying to read, indeed, the extraordinary have a few choice words to say in reply to such "opinions" too, quoth Sir Burton yet again1:
The greatest difficulty a raw writer on Indian subjects has to contend with, is a proper comprehension of the ignorance crasse which besets the mind of the homereader and his oracle the critic.[...]
Then as now, ignorance never stopped - quite on the contrary - the afflicted from giving plenty of "advice" to the one talking from his own experience. Then as now, anonymous readers formed "their own opinions" through the convenient means of following whatever agreed-upon oracle of the day - one variety or another of the bakers of the intelligentsia, essentially - rather than any inconvenient thought process of their own. I wouldn't even venture to suppose that there was at any point in time any less time spent on voicing both such advice and such opinions - at most I'd cherish perhaps the hope that there was (as a result of repeated and ever ready to re-repeat itself experience, nothing else) less expectation of the world paying much attention otherwise to each individual utterance of the collective consensus.
Other than that and despite the usual illusions at the time of the events itself, it's still the case that nobody remembers any of those readers and critics anymore, nor does anyone care at all to remember them. All the importance that those anonymous readers and critics may enjoy still comes from the reply that Sir Burton gave them and nothing more. I don't even care to look up what nonsense they spouted precisely but I thoroughly enjoyed the rare autobiographical fragment that makes up the response and so I'll quote here some more from it, with my own comments on bits and parts that caught my eye even more than the whole:
Now, waiving with all due modesty the unmerited compliment of "good boy," so gracefully tendered to me, I proceed to the judgment which follows it, my imminent peril of "extreme opinions." If there be any value in the "additional evidence" I have "brought forward on important questions," the reader may, perchance, be curious to know how that evidence was collected2. So without further apology3, I plunge into the subject.
After some years of careful training for the church in the north and south of France, Florence, Naples and the University of Pisa, I found myself one day walking the High Street, Oxford, with all the emotions which a Parisian exquisite of the first water would experience on awaking - at 3 P.M. - in "Dandakaran's tangled wood."4
To be brief, my "college career" was highly unsatisfactory. I began a "reading man," worked regularly twelve hours a day, failed in everything - chiefly, I flattered myself, because Latin hexameters and Greek iambics had not entered into the list of my studies, - threw up the classics, and returned to old habits of fencing, boxing, and single-stick, handling the "ribbons," squiring dames, and sketching facetiously, though not wisely, the reverend features and figures of certain half-reformed monks, calling themselves "fellows." My reading also ran into bad courses, - Erpenius5, Zadkiel6, Falconry7, Cornelius Agrippa8, and the Art of Pluck9.
At last the Affghan war broke out. After begging the paternal authority in vain for the Austrian service, the Swiss guards at Naples, and even the Legion etrangere, I determined to leave Oxford, coute qui coute10, - The testy old lady, Alma Mater, was easily persuaded to consign, for a time, to "country nursing" the froward11 brat who showed not a whit of filial regard for her. So, after two years, I left Trinity without a "little go" in a high dog-cart, - a companion in misfortune too-tooing lustily through a "yard of tin," as the dons stared up from their game of bowls to witness the departure of the forbidden vehicle. Thus having thoroughly established the fact that I was fit for nothing but to be "shot at for sixpence a day," and as those Affghans (how I blessed their name!) had cut gaps in many a regiment, the "relieving officer" thought proper to provide me with a commmission in the Indian army, and to start me as quickly as feasible for the "land of the sun."12[...]
So, after the first year13, when I had Persian at my fingers' ends, sufficient Arabic to read, write, and converse fluently, and a superficial knowledge of that dialect of Punjaubee which is spoken in the wilder parts of the province, I began the systematic study of the Scindian people, their manners and their tongue.
The first difficulty was to pass for an Oriental, and this was necessary as it was difficult14. The European official in India seldom, if ever sees anything in its real light15, so dense is the veil which the fearfulness, the duplicity, the prejudice and the superstitions of the natives hang before his eyes16. And the white man lives a life so distinct from the black17, that hundreds of the former serve through what they call their "term of exile," without once being present at a circumcision feast, a wedding, or a funeral18. More especially the present generation, whom the habit and the means of taking furloughs, the increased facility of enjoying ladies' society19, and, if truth be spoken, a greater regard for appearances20 if not a stricter code of morality, estrange from their dusky fellow subjects every day and day the more. After trying several characters, the easiest to be assumed was, I found, that of a half Arab, half Iranian, such as may be met with in thousands along the northern shore of the Persian Gulf. The Scindians would have detected in a moment the difference between my articulation and their own, had I attempted to speak their vernacular dialect, but they attributed the accent to my strange country, as naturally as a home-bred Englishman would account for the bad pronunciation of a foreigner calling himself partly Spanish, partly Portuguese. Besides, I knew the countries along the Gulf by heart from books, I had a fair knowledge the of Shieh form of worship prevalent in Persia, and my poor Moonshee was generally at hand to support me in times of difficulty, so that the danger of being detected, - even by a "real Simon Pure," - was a very inconsiderable one21.
With hair falling upon his shoulders, a long beard, face and hands, arms and feet, stained with a thin coat of henna, Mirza Abdullah of Bushire - your humble servant, gentle reader - set out upon many and many a trip. He was a Bazzaz, a vender of fine linen, calicoes and muslins; - such chapmen are sometimes admitted to display their wares even in the sacred harem by "fast" and fashionable dames22; - and he had a little pack of bijouterie and virtu reserved for emergencies. It was only, however, when absolutely necessary that he displayed his stock-in-trade; generally, he contented himself alluding to it on all possible occasions, boasting largely of his traffic, and asking a thousand questions concerning the state of the market. Thus he could walk into most men's houses quite without ceremony; - even if the master dreamed of kicking him out, the mistress was sure to oppose such measure with might and main. He secured numberless invitations, was proposed to by several papas, and won, or had to think he won, a few hearts; for he came as a rich man and he stayed with dignity, and he departed exacting all the honours. When wending his ways he usually urged a return of visit in the morning, but he was seldom to be found at the caravanserai he specified - was Mirza Abdullah the Bushiri23. [...]
Thus it was I formed my estimate of the native character.I am as ready to reform it when a man of more extensive experience and greater knowledge of the subject will kindly show me how far it transgresses the well-established limits of moderation. As yet I hold, by way of general rule, that the Eastern mind - I talk of nations known to me by personal experience - is always in extremes; that it ignores what is meant by "golden mean," and that it delights to range in flights limited only by the ne plus ultra of Nature herself. Under which conviction I am open to correction.
As far as I know, there hasn't been any correction - only the usual louder and more diverse complaints, especially from those knowing least about the subject, as it tends to happen apparently in all times and all places.
In his postscript to "Falconry in the Valley of the Indus" ↩
I certainly was curious, indeed. ↩
Yes, he literally prefaced this fragment with what amounts to an apology for having to go into biographical details and no, it's not just for show, I don't think so. He just doesn't think anyone all that interested in his biography simply because from his point of view, the personal is by default (ie unless otherwise relevant to support/refute a point of wider interest) NOT interesting to anyone other than the person in question. Quite refreshingly sane perspective, too. ↩
While I couldn't find the exact quote word by word, there's a lot of Ramayana happening precisely in the "tangled wood" of Dandakaran/Damdakaran/Dandakaranya/Dandak forest. For instance, here's a fragment from Book III, in Ralph T.H. Griffith's translation (since I sadly can't read the original):
Ha, short lived wretches, ye who dare, In hermit dress with matted hair, Armed each with arrows, sword, and bow, Through Dandak's pathless wood to go: How with one dame, I bid you tell, Can you among ascetics dwell? Who are ye, sinners, who despise The right, in holy men's disguise? The great Viradha, day by day Through this deep-tangled wood I stray, And ever, armed with trusty steel, I seize a saint to make my meal.
I assume he means Thomas von Erpe, a Dutch linguist, owner of a printing press and otherwise pretty much the reference across Europe for all matters regarding Arabic - his own Arabic grammar book became "the" textbook and otherwise his collection of Arabic manuscripts formed the basis of the university library at Cambridge. He died in 1624 from the plague. ↩
I suppose he means most likely Richard James Morrison, who wrote indeed under the pen name of Zadkiel (even Zadkiel Tao-Sze), supposedly on astrology and astronomy. He seems to me more of a trolling character than anything - e.g. his "The Royal Book of Fate: Queen Elizabeth's Oracle of Future Events, from an illuminated manuscript, found in the library of the unfortunate Earl of Essex". ↩
While I have no idea what was available on the topic at the time, it's clear from Burton's own detailed description of the topic in his later writings that he knew the practice - both training and use of the birds - very well indeed. So whatever he read, it seems it turned out to be of some use, at least. ↩
I assume he means Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim, author of De occulta philosophia and quite the character, too. ↩
This book is a riot to read, too. Basically he read all the cool (and as irreverent as possible) stuff he could find as well as all the interesting people (dead or alive) that he could hear of and otherwise ignored entirely the "official" reading list as well as the officially appointed "interesting people." Anyways, to keep this footnote from expanding into a full blown article just yet, I take it he means "The Art of Pluck. Being a Treatise after the Fashion of Aristotle; writ for the use of students in the universities. to which is added FRAGMENTS FROM THE EXAMINATION PAPERS. by Scriblerus Redivivus" - more prosaically though, by Edward Caswall. ↩
The lack of accents in the French words is entirely my fault here as I keep to the ASCII set of characters. Sir Burton wrote in perfect French, all accents included, of course. ↩
Yes, it's froward, NOT forward! ↩
His quotes are all the more meaningful if one read already his descriptions of that land with its sun and especially everything else, too! ↩
On the one hand, look at the natural and unconcerned assumption that doing things takes time indeed - "first year", as simply as that. On the other hand, look also at the list that follows and tell me truthfully just how many of your own years does one of his turns out to stand for. ↩
If you're looking for the part where he starts explaining how it is therefore *impossible*, it can't be done, it won't work and so on, then you'll be sorely disappointed. ↩
I suspect this is part and parcel of what being an "official" consists in, it's basically the very substance of officialness - not ever seeing anything in its real light. ↩
Eh, I think he just got to know the Indians way better than he ever got to know the Brits actually and has otherwise different illusions on that end of the equation, that's all. ↩
Presumably this means "Indians" here. ↩
Hah, they were basically tourists, of that peculiar sort that keep at all times only to carefully controlled & approved surroundings - can't go just anywhere, what if they might actually, for real, find something new, oh no! - throughout the whole duration of their all-inclusive "volunteering holiday/gap year/organised tour" with that predecessor of both charities and travel agencies, the army! Apparently even good travelers are and have always been rare. ↩
At least they enjoyed it rather than feared it, or so it seems to Sir Burton and mind that it's unclear whether he ever suspected he might have needed a way stronger disguise at home than he ever did abroad. ↩
This ever increased until it took over entirely - at times it certainly seems that there's not much left other than appearances anyway. ↩
Do you realise he lacked any charts, posters, rules and regulations and even any government approved guidance and statistics to support this? It's all by his *own* evaluation and at his own peril too, as incredible as that might sound nowadays! ↩
Do you see now what I mean regarding his vs his compatriots' ability to enjoy women's society? Sure, it can be argued that ladies' society was not quite the same as that of women - fwiw though, he set apart in clear as entirely unenjoyable only the company of some very specific type of "ladies" he met in America, if that's any help. ↩
Funnily enough, Sir Burton is otherwise mostly known for his translation of the Arabian Nights. He could have clearly written the Arabian Days and I rather wish he did, too. ↩
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Sadly his translation of the original Arabic Talmud known in English as "The Thousand and One Nights" is both very accessible and utterly terrible, making him quite the (I suppose, unintentional) Bowdler. In fact, a large part of what even drove me to write erotica originally, as a young man, however many years ago, was my indignation at the terrible job this otherwise gifted man did of rendering Houri cunt.
To be honest, I never got myself to read *that* work of his precisely because of the very suspicious official focus on it as "his main work." Hence, I can't say anything about it directly but from what I gathered, I really wouldn't be all that surprised if the bowdlerizing turns out to be more the result of "editing" work from either the lovingly-catholic wife (who, as far as I know, destroyed after his death a lot of his notes and work that she "didn't approve of") or whatever publisher since I think he had repeatedly tried to publish various works that were considered "obscene" and "unpublishable" or the like. Basically it looks like he didn't have his own blog but kept writing on the platform of the day and failed also to run his own printing press like von Erpe, at least.
I think this is a fair summary of his context.
Now I idly wonder what was the spam of his days - possibly letters from the "concerned public" and the like although I tend to think (perhaps optimistically) that the concerned public for the greatest part didn't have the money to spend on too many letters or the like.
Hey, that spam of the day abolished the workable version of the US, in favour of the demented Northern formulation. Also introduced a 1700s "animal protection" bill, and the like. The spammers were vehehehery active, and the public / state quite incapable of dealing with them. While the "new" diseases of the old world decimated the biomass of stone age primitives west of the lake, the old diseases of the "new media" destroyed the body politic on the east side.
I could see it that way, although I'd think that spammers are always extremely active - the only thing that changes is whether they have enough time (broader speaking, resources) to dedicate to such activity essentially (and if they have that, then there isn't much "dealing with them" other than stopgaps that work as well as all stopgaps ever work - for a while only, at best). In other words, spamming is the most accessible option for those unable to find any other purpose and so there will always be frantic activity there.
I didn't even know about the 1700s "animal protection" bill.