A E I. Arabia, Egypt, India. A narrative of travel. With fifteen illustrations and two maps

Front matter

/I £ / ARABIA EGYPT INDIA A NARRATIVE OF TRAVEL. uvu mwm mm lmm tod iudia. A E I Arabia Egypt India A NARRATIVE OF TRAVEL BY ISABEL BURTON Author of '" Inner Life of Syria " WITH FIFTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS. WILLIAM MULLAN AND SON LONDON AND BELFAST l879 Hazell, Wataon, and Viney, Printers, London and Aylesbury. TO $$g i§m atrt» §onamtli dfatyrr, HENRY RAYMOND ARUNDELL, WHO HAS ALWAYS TAKEN THE PROFOUNDEST INTEREST IN OUR TRAVELS AND WRITINGS; WHO HAS HELPED US WITH HIS COUNSELS; AND WHO HAS EVER SHOWN THE TENDEREST SOLICITUDE FOR OUR WELFARE. May God's choicest blessings crown his good works; May he, like the holy patriarchs, have a long, happy, and peaces ul life; May we console and support his old age, and when he leaves us May the mantle of his noble, simple, upright life fall upon us his children.

CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE rNTBODUCTION — VEBr PEBSONAL 1 I. EE01I LONDON THEOTJGH PBANCE AND ITALY ... 3 II. TEIESTE, AND GENEBAL POLITICS LN THAT QTJAETEE . 30 UT. TEIESTE TO POET SAID — 1ST JANTJAET, 1876 ... 60 IV. HOW CHOLEEA SPEEADS— THE JEDDAH MASSACEE OP 1858 86 T. BOMBAY 108 VI. THE JOTJENEY TO HYDEEABAD IN THE DECCAN . ' . . 143 VII. HYDEEABAD L^ THE DECCAN . . . . . .155 VHT. HYDEEADAD 175 IX. THE NIZAM DIAMOND — THE DIAMOND IN INDIA . . 198 X. HIS EOYAL HIGHNESS THE PEINCE OP WALES . . . 215 XI. DEDICATED TO THE ANTI-VTVISECTIONISTS OP ENGLAND . 230 XII. BOMBAY 258 XIII. THE SANITAEIA OP WESTEEN INDIA. .... 276 XIY. THE HILL EAOES AND FOEEST MEN OP WESTEEN INDIA . 286 XT. WB LEAVB BOMBAY POB GOA List of Illustrations. CHAP. "0« XVI. THE CrVIL AND BELIGIOTJS HISTOBY OF GOA . . . 319 XVTI.

THE CABEEB OP ST. FBANCIS XAVEEB .... 332 XVTU. ON THE INQUISITION OF GOA ...... 359 XIX. A PEEP INTO THE FTJTUBE OF NOBTH-WE8TEBN INDIA . 382 XX. WE LEAVE INDIA 396

Appendix

A 425

APPENDIX.

B. 446 LIST OF ILLUSTKATIONS PAGE AN ENGLISHMAN WITH THE " SPLEEN " AT VENICE ... 26 EVE'S TOMB AT JEDDAH ........ 76 GENEBAL SIB CHAELES NAPIEE, OP SIND, CALLED BY THE NATIVES " SHATTAN KA BHAI " . . . . . . 113 A FIGHTING ELEPHANT 155 A SIND MOON8HI 269 NATIVES OF BIND 271 NAUGHTY BOY ! 274 TBTTE POETEAIT OF ST. FBANCIS XAVIEB, FBOM AN OIL PAINTING DONE IN 1552 310 ALLIGATOBS NEAB EABACHf (SIND) .... 382 AMIES OF SIND ....... 395 H.H. THE KHEDIVE'S PALACE OF SHUBEAH .... 403 THE WELLS OF MOSES IN THE ABABIAN DESEET . . -l/U-Ji. J.j.1/ U J. Jj A J-LAiU U L/_£i _LU_L/_Lfi\. ,

Introduction

. VERT PERSONAL. rjlHE kindness shown to my "Inner Life of Syria" makes me -■- long to presume on another narrative ; but I picture to myself the following conversation with my publisher : — " No really, Mrs. Burton, I cannot undertake your book, because we all know everything about India ; we have sucked it dry, and are sick of it." " True, Mr. A.," I reply, " but you said the same of ' Syria, Palestine, and the Holy Land,' and yet I found enough of un written matter to give you MSS. which you had to cut down to two big vols. Perhaps, with my 'griffin' eyes, ears, and brain, I may have seen something from a different aspect to those who have preceded me for the last few hundred years. Do try me, dear Mr. A. ! Give me another chance ! " Mr. A. relents, and accepts my MSS. Then the printers have to be conciliated.

They always strike work when MSS. from Captain Burton or myself go in, we write so badly. Also I have to think of my readers, who are ever kind, generous, and just ; and will not, I trust, be disgusted with a somewhat hackneyed title. For my part, I hope that between London and Goa we may chance to find something which is not generally known. I always think of a prima donna at Trieste, with regard to the public. We import our operas from Milan two years before they appear in London. We have an excellent Opera house and three theatres, always full, and the Triestines are so severe and so critical that artistes become extremely nervous; they know if they can pass Trieste they may sing anywhere. One Introduction. 2 evening, a very plain, but first rate, prima donna appeared on the stage. She had not yet opened her mouth ; they all began to hiss and hoot.

She advanced with great resolution to the footlights, and said : " Cari Triestini, I know I am frightful, but I did not come to be looked at, I came to sing. Hear me before you hiss." There was a dead silence. She opened her mouth, and before she had finished the first few bars, the applause was deafening and prolonged. She remained a favourite ever after. Our English public is colder perhaps, but just, and generous, and sincere.

Chapter I. From London Through France And Italy

AFTER a delightful year in England, publishing my last book, in the gay season of 1875, and hemgjsSted by all my friends and relations enough to spoil me for ever, my husband, finding he had still six months' leave, asked me what I should like to do. I consulted my heart, and it answered, " India." He had been nineteen years in the Bombay Army, and eight of them on active service through all those exciting years from '42 to '49, on the staff of Sir Charles Napier, whose fortunes as a soldier he may be said to have followed. Indeed, the old General's fate seems to have overshadowed him, and later on, Lord Stratford de Redcliffe had a like effect in the political line, of whose school, and whose fervent disciple in Eastern affairs, he was. Do not start. This book is not going to be "weighted with a grievance."

This only serves to explain that I had never seen India, and that I proposed that he should take me there and show me all his old quarters. He liked the idea ; so we got a map, cut India down the middle lengthways, from Cashmere to Cape Comorin, and planned out how much we could manage to see on the western side, leaving the eastern for another year; we were already too far advanced in the season for such an expedition. The 4th December, 1875, was remarkable for being as black as midnight during the livelong day : thick snow lay upon the ground and covered every object; dense, murky fog filled the air, through which a dull red, lurid gleam just rendered the darkness visible — and horrible. In any sunny land we should have feared an earthquake, or the last judgment, but here Through France and Italy. 4 (London) we only remarked that there must be something extra " odd " about the elements, with a passing smile at the unhappy foreigner who had come over to see London.

Our dear "village " o-loomed like a snow Inferno fit for Dante and Gustave Dor6, and the " Squares " appeared like spectre Christmas Trees. " It looks," said my husband, " as if London were in mourning for some great national crime;" but I answered, "Let us try to think our Vaterland wears mourning for our departure into exile." Everyone that day seemed ill and miserable ; I felt as if I could never rise to face the day. To be sure we had been having a farewell dinner, which festivity devoted to leave-takings had been unduly prolonged to five o'clock a.m., and we were ob liged to force ourselves to get up at nine, and put our shoulders to the wheel for our sins. We lunched with my father and family by lamp-light at one in the day, and set out, a large family party, by the 4.45 train to Folkestone ; arriving cold and hungry, but merry, we enjoyed a delightful supper at one of the best hotels in the world, albeit somewhat expensive, and that is The Pavilion, — the redeeming point of Folkestone, for poor is the station through which so much wealth passes.

There we found Carlo Pellegrini, of Ape celebrity, full of fun, who joined our family party. He was staying there some months for painting. The next day, Sunday, the snow was eight feet deep, and we went with difficulty to the small pretty church, where the priest gave us a short, but sensible, sermon, in consideration of our pinched fingers and toes. All that day neighbouring friends and relations flocked over to spend the day with us ; and one act I shall never forget, and that was my cousin's wife, daily expecting her confinement, wading four miles in the snow not to miss wishing us God-speed, because no carriage could be got to undertake the journey. Heart and pluck like that are not to be found out of the British Isles. Meanwhile the train stuck in the snow; the down train from Folke stone to Dover, usually an affair of twenty minutes, occupied from six till one p.m. — seven hours.

The night train could not come in at all. The boat did not go, and it was " blowing great guns." That night — the 5th of December — I bade adieu to all my friends and relatives, and one parting in particular still wrings my Crossing the Channel — Snow — Boulogne. 5 heart. I little thought to meet no more Rodolph Arundell, the last of four dear beautiful brothers, who have all died young by untoward accidents. The wrench costs me a feverish attack every time I leave, which is once in every three or four years ; nor do age and experience steel the heart nor wither the ever green memory. On Tuesday, the 7th, my husband and I found our selves in a sleigh, which took us over the snow from hotel to boat. The weather seemed to stay its fury for our crossing the Channel, or else we are so used to rough it that it seemed only a healthy breeze and a heavy swell.

The sun once tried to peep from his couch of clouds, and one passenger gleefully pointed out to another passenger a square inch or two of pale blue sky, which of course was duly smiled at by us tropicals. How hard it is to leave home ! I even linger over it on paper ; but now I am across Channel, and the deed is done, I will brace myself up and not be so tedious. In our company for a week was that remarkably clever and brilliant writer, Andrew Wilson, the author of. " The Abode of Snow." The old port of Boulogne stretched out its two long lean arms to our cockle-shell of a steamer. We enter some what differently to the manner of the old time. There was a new regulation, which is an extreme disadvantage to the town, — that of landing on the gare side, to the right. So that instead of remaining a few days in the town, as in the old time, it is easier to jump into the train and find oneself at Paris — tant pis pour Boulogne!

The fact is that the Railway, perhaps the most despotic power of our modern day, willed it so. The Munici pality, foreseeing that their City would, to the great detri ment of the hotel-keepers, become a mere station, a place of passage, a " half-way house " between London and Paris, fought manfully against the change. The Railway simply said, " Either here or nowhere," and the Municipality was forced to yield. Hotel Christol is a grand place in Boulogne, but after The Pavilion it looked more than mesquin. Long, long ago, I passed two years of my school days in this town. My husband was then a young lieutenant on furlough from India. He was just beginning to spring into fame, after twelve years' service and Through Trance and Italy. 6 his famous expedition with the Hajj to Mecca, and was staying with his family and writing a book.

It was, therefore, interesting for us to stop a few days and visit all our old haunts, where we first met when we were young. The Church of St. Nicholas ; Constantin, the fencing master, where " the Burton une-deux " is still taught, and which afterwards earned him his brevet de pointe. The present Cathedral, in the Haute Ville, was build ing : now, a magnificent, but slightly crooked and very badly proportioned, pile. Dear old Abbe' Haffreingue was its author. He died happy in 1871, after devoting half of his eighty-six years to its erection ; and in gratitude to the English, who gave the greater part of the money, the statue of Our Lady, on the summit, has her face turned towards England. Then the old ramparts where we first made acquaintance, and where he used to follow us when we were sent out to learn our lessons alfresco, and he used to chalk up, "May I speak to you?" and I used to chalk back, " No, mother will be angry " — and mother found it, and was angry.

The Rue de l'Ecu, the Grande Rue, the Quai, the Pier, where we used to come on summer even ings and hear some Swiss strollers play on the guitar or fiddle, and sing little jodelling nothings, and thought it heavenly. How lovely everything is when one is young ! And what a dear, picturesque old town it is, this capital of old Morinie, — the City of Julius Cæsar in ancient times, and of the Blessed Virgin in the present day, with its background of dull brown cliff, broken by the broad valley of the river Eln, Elna, Elnboga, now Liane ! How many happy boating excursions we used to make upon that river when we were all young and living. And then I hunted out my little brother's grave, and planted fresh rose trees. I visited Caroline, the Queen of the Poissardes, who used to be a friend of my childhood, a great ally of my brothers and sisters and self.

She is still a beautiful and majestic creature in her costume. She reminded me of a promise I made her then, which I had long since forgotten, that if ever I went to Jerusalem I would bring her a rosary. I little dreamt then of marrying Richard Burton, who would be Consul of Damascus, and that I should ever go to Jerusalem ; but things come about Boulogne — The Poissardes — French Rail. 7 strangely, and I did go there fifteen years later; and now, to her great delight, I was able to fulfil my promise. I often wonder that nobody writes the history of the Poissardes of Boulogne. They are a race apart, — a fine cross between Flemish and Spanish. They are the original stock, and the townspeople are a new and mongrel breed whom these despise and do not mix or intermarry with. The Poissardes have their own church on their hill-top, and their own town, laws, customs, manners, and habits, a separate register of births, deaths, and marriages, and they live under the rule of Caroline.

The lower class are the shrimping girls, — and a rough lot too, but remarkable for their virtue. If they chaff the funny passing Britisher a little too much, a reference to Caroline brings them to order at once. On great feast-days and religious processions they form by far the prettiest part of it, with their lovely varied costumes, big white caps, embroidered white kerchiefs, and the huge gold ornaments that are heirlooms. Boulogne is materially changed since our time. It used to be a very fast place, full of amusing, but not all desirable, acquaintances, although there was a large sprinkling of happy exceptions. In fact, it was a City of Refuge, "The home of the stranger who's done something wrong," and the good people came either for economy or for the educa tion of their families. On the 10th we went up to Paris.

The Ligne du Nord is the only comfortable line of railway in France, — the only one which has porters and civil officials ready to give you the value of your "tip." We sped past the Dunes, loved of rabbits, where father used to shoot, saute de .mieux, and I used to carry the bag and lunch ; along the winding shore of ancient Picardy, through the peat beds leading to Abbeville, and over the utterly uninteresting plains of La Belle France, i.e., the northern section, till we rushed by the black silhouettes which denote the fortifications of the Capital. We compared them with the workmen's Cities outlying our own Babylon, and we felt grateful to that " streak of silver sea," our Channel. May they who propose to tunnel under it never see their folly carried out. Much better is it to allow a few old women to be sea-sick for a couple of hours, than to waste millions in constructing a thing at whose entrance we should always require a "Woolwich Infant."

With our institutions, Eno-land placed in a continental position could not last a week. With our laws and customs, a foreign nation could not live a year. It is our birthright, a gift of God, that we are an island, and we want to sell it for the veriest mess of pottage, — a step which would be regretted but once and for ever as soon as it is irrevocable. I found Paris terribly changed since the Franco-Prussian war. The weather was bad, for one thing, and that put one into an extra bad humour. Paris was full of Miss Blackford (" Fanny Lear") and her sale, — her black-draped drawing-room hung with Imperial likenesses, and her funny meubles engraved with her family motto " Prends tout." The only amusement I found was going to hear Rossi in Hamlet and Macbeth. My husband and I had for some time past taken an interest in reading together and studying the various acting and difference of opinion as to the interpretation ot Shakespeare's tragedies.

The quarrels and excitement occasioned by Salvini's appearance in England, with his Italian reading of Hamlet, Macbeth, and Othello,* his magnificent voice and presence, and that of our own great tragedian Irving's appearance in these characters, with the latest, and perhaps truest, reading, gave the desired opportunity. It had become almost a .party question amongst the dramatists, and we had entered warmly into it, visiting all these representations as often as we were at liberty ; we were desirous of comparing these with Rossi, the only other great name at present in connection with Shakespeare in Europe, and so we went to " Les Italiens " every time he performed. I found the scenery after London shabby to a degree, the dresses flashy and tinsel ; there were no appliances for sensational effect.

Rossi is a short man, with a bull throat, a chest sug gestive more of fat than muscle, a big trunk upon incompetent legs, dark hands, a pale, unwholesome face, and light hair. He * It may not be uninteresting to remark that Salvini read Shakespeare with our respected and talented predecessor, Charles Lever, at Trieste, who expounded the author's hidden meanings to him. In 'trig — Sah't'n i — Rossi. 9 appeared to have eulorirtelBS small eyes, and was obliged in Sliftt them for passkmate aeetMss. This on the $tag&; mdaa hi* pi< hires represent liiiu us a tine, li;iuil.-.«.nie, <i:uk young man, I ri.iurlrii.li' it is the effect of the " uwko-up." In M:unl<'t he in too mud, aud rants. He lacks The diguiry, tin 1 fiurly-struug iffiagjiTftttiOU lad ivlini'ini'iit and facial rspr^tsion oS Irving; ooi tins be tliia majesty aud tinglorious Tttaoau Italian Qcf Sal v mi, whfl96 vi'ic: il (jke ;i Cathedral Lull.

And yet no Italinu Ofifl liftip bring urnfetic. BoiOie of Ins ftatiOBi ;ire large, nofclffj aud gmo'fu], aud hthandles his eword like a muu wlio lives witli Ins tnaopQB by his i^idu. To .•>:ty lio rauunt Ln-t uiMild lie ;d>siml, Inn h'.' c;iu only rank .is lli m>I. In 3[;ii.'lieth Inwas) wry gjQO<i in thr uiunkMsocup, frian ""Wliy Inw you lc|> f]io c'lutmlier ? M till " Wnkc Duncan with thy kimrk iug." lie has u pretty trick of looking at has blood-shiiui'd li«,uds and hiding theiu, wliru he thought nobody ayus obaanfio,g biui ; »ud agmu, wht-u the Queen's doivth is annonu.vd, hi., looks sad for inn: mutant only, and thru, st-iziiigwhat a.[>|».'ars to uie tho true idea., that Mftpbslh Tvoidd soon bavfl pCUtfOUed hrr, b.\ .-liriicc (hoye siiiunamljulisiiis and nightly tellings of hi* sinvt muidtirb, gives himself a vlmke aud casts liis sadacsa otfj as il ha would have said, ° BeUtil m j what, matters whether to-day or feo niorrow ?

" Then, m rcnotshc, lie staggvrs like a drauken man to commit his murder, and iu his uuiiveisati..u alotUJ wiili his wife be treads upon his own cloak, and feigns to think il u the gho8t cd* Banquu. Terrified by his guilty conscience, be flounders on his hack lik< j tt turtle, his crowd rolling away. Now, Shaki.^u-.ir. wii> an Euglislrrmu), and au Englishmnu rolliug on his back from fright was ii-ver srru, nor could such an idea outer nil English brain. PI:id he drawxi his eword to cut the. ghost domi, it would have bt'im more iu tiimmih out jil.as. His wife drags him olf after the murder, jioniuielling him as a fish-wife woidd a djuulvtu husband. The ghost scene, supper, aud fnght, were not merely a fiasco, but <'uLjt'iiii>riUe. In Hiiinlet, he danced upon his tlQt!k r 8 picture like a monkey.

All that is neither English iior Shake sjieare. 1 am a fanatic abont Shakespeare, so f <-n\vi iota flies.; minor details <\,n onion:. The. last story I btttttj in Twin cou ccruiug Eciesi was a conversation, between two jxtt/s rrvccx: — A. As tu entendu Rossi? — B. Qui est Eossi ? — A. Comment ! tu ne sais pas ? Mais ce monsieur qui fait une conference sur un crdne. And now for a serious bit of moralizing, from gay to grave. The radical changes of the last five years in Paris deserve chronicling and deep study. The War and the Commune have made a New World. "La nation la plus aimable la plus aimee et peut-etre la moins aimante," has been translated — "The light and joyous character may lie below ; but there is a terribly hard upper crust of sulkiness and economy run mad — rage for lucre, and lust pour la revanche."

There is only the ancienne noblesse, the Faubourg St. Germain, the souls loyal to their King and to their Faith, who remain pure. So far, the Parisians are like the Irish Kelt, — a blathering, bumptious, bull-and-blunder loving race. The former have been converted in half-a-century by politics and polemics into a moping and melancholy brood. It is no longer the fashion in France to speak without an introduction. Men will sit side by side at table d'hote in dead silence for a month ; they travel twenty-four hours in the railway without opening the mouth ; and if a loud laugh be heard in public it is sure to come from some triste Anglais. Even the women, although they still fling the look of hate at a pretty toilette, seem to have abdicated the supremacy of the toilette. Once you never did, now you often see the absence of corsets upon figures that can't stand it.

They are badly painted, and it is a sin to paint badly. They are outrees in their dress, and the neglect of these things is a bad sign in Paris. The middle and the lower classes, who used to be a quatre epingles, were mal coiffees, with their petticoats hanging below their dresses, as we were in the days of les Anglaises pour rire. We have learnt many things from our French friends, and amongst the good things, how to dress ; but dress never made our women's beauty — it did that of the French. The theatres are clearing 27,000,000 of francs (1875), when during the palmiest days of the Empire they never exceeded 17,000,000. Except at the new Opera, the scenery and decorations are those of our penny gaffs. " Les Italiens " bears the palm of France changed by the Franco-Prussian War. 11 dowdyism, and actors and actresses seem to have decayed with the decorations.

The cuisine, except in special instances, has notably fallen off. The bottles are all "kick," the famous bread-and-butter has lost caste. The cafe au lait is all chicory, — maximum water, minimum beans. Mammonolatry is rampant, and the grand problem of manufacture and depot, of store and shop, is how to charge the most for the worst article. Economy has now become a vice instead of a virtue, and 1,852,000 souls manage to pay 12,280,000 francs in taxes per annum. It is impossible to pass a day in Paris without hearing and speaking politics. The French, I have said, are sulky, especially with the "Perfidious," because she had supplanted them in Egypt, where for so many years England had by a tacit convention supplied the material and France the personal. They question the wisdom of our last dodge.

It is the first move in the coming Kriegspiel. I hate half-measures, and I would have bought the Canal wholly out and out, and put a fortress at each end and taken a mild nominal toll to show my right. I would protect Egypt and Syria, occupy the Dardanelles, and after that let the whole world wrangle as much as it pleased. What is the use of having a Navy superior to all the united Navies of the rest of the world, if we can't do this ? The world will never be still till Constantinople returns to the old Byzantine kingdom ; and we might put a Royalty there, say the Duke of Edinburgh, who, being married to the Czar's daughter, woidd unite the interests of Russia and England. Let the Turk live, but retire into private life ; he is a good fellow there, and we can respect El Islam so long as he has nothing to butcher.

Let Austria become a mighty empire, — nineteen million Slavs, eight million Germans, five million Hungarians. Let Italy be satisfied with her Unity and Freedom, and Progress, and Prussia repose upon her Bismarck, and France keep quiet and look after her health. But as it is, the three Emperors may say to us, " Gentlemen, you have got what you want ; we will follow suit — look on, and don't spoil sport." Taken per se, this Suez Canal measure is a patch of tinsel gold plastered upon the rags of foreign and continental policy which our Ins and Outs have kept up during the last decade, whilst under-authorities are apparently told off to declare periodically that England has lost none of her prestige abroad. Listen to the average politician of the multitude.* Were I a man I should fight once a day about the doings of my own party (I am a red-hot Conservative) ; but being a woman I can only use my tongue and drop hot caustic upon the unhappy offender who ventures too much upon hoping that, being only a woman, I do not see to the bottom of the; well ; and what irritates me more is that little as he knows, there is sound truth in what he says.

The fact is that England has repudiated the grand old rule of Aristocracy which carried her safely through the Titan wars of the early Buonaparte ages, whilst she has not accepted the strong repulsive arm of Democracy, which enabled the Federal to beat down the Confederate. She rejects equally the refined minority and the sturdy majority ; she is neither hot nor cold ; she sits between two stools, and we all know where that leads to. This Suez move would have been a homogeneous part of a strong policy, — that is, a policy backed by two millions of soldiers, by a preponderating fleet of ironclads, and by a school of diplomatists which has not been broken in to " effacing " themselves. Of our politicians generally, the less said the soonest mended ; but I have unbounded confidence in our Premier, in our Navy, and the good heart, rough common sense, firmness, and esprit de corps of our British public.

The next shake — and it will be heavy and soon — will give us the Euphrates Valley Rail way, despite the cleverness of an Ignatieff. The first disaster will bring on a revival of the Militia Law, and I should not be surprised if we live to see ourselves revolve round again to a general conscription, and the "do nothings" will eventually go to the wall. It is a pity to tie the hands of so long-sighted a Premier. Revenge is still the dream of Paris, and the dream is not of the wise. The three Emperors love the three Empires, and hate one another ; the Government and the Lieges are blinded by jealousy ; each wishes to be the first in the race, and to see the * Written in 1876. France changed by the Franco-Prussian War. 13 other two distanced. All are mounted upon a war footing au pied de guerre; which means that they intend fighting, and Germany especially must fight or she is lost ; to her peace is more ruinous than war.