Fifteen years have elapsed since the death of Sir Richard Burton and
twelve since the appearance of the biography of Lady Burton.
A deeply pathetic interest attaches itself to that book.
Lady Burton was stricken down with an incurable disease. Death with
its icy breath hung over her as her pen flew along the paper,
and the questions constantly on her lips were "Shall I live to
complete my task? Shall I live to tell the world how great and
noble a man my husband was, and to refute the calumnies that his
enemies have so industriously circulated?" She did complete it in
a sense, for the work duly appeared; but no one recognised more
clearly than herself its numerous shortcomings. Indeed, it is
little better than a huge scrap-book filled with newspaper cuttings
and citations from Sir Richard's and other books, hurriedly selected
and even more hurriedly pieced together. It gives the impressions
of Lady Burton alone, for those of Sir Richard's friends are
ignored--so we see Burton from only one point of view. Amazing to
say, it does not contain a single original anecdote[FN#1]--though
perhaps, more amusing anecdotes could be told of Burton than of any
other modern Englishman. It will be my duty to rectify Lady
Burton's mistakes and mis-statements and to fill up the vast
hiatuses that she has left. Although it will be necessary to
subject her to criticism, I shall endeavour at the same time to
keep constantly in mind the queenliness and beauty of her character,
her almost unexampled devotion to her husband, and her anxiety that
everyone should think well of him. Her faults were all of the head.
Of the heart she had absolutely none.

As the Richard Burton whom I have to pourtray differs considerably