PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION.
There was only one man who could have written Burton's life,—that was Burton himself. None but he could have his many moods and strange paradoxes, or appreciated the subtleties of his wayward genius. One man might have written of him as an explorer, another as an ethnologist, a third as a student and writer, a fourth as a soldier and a soldier of fortune, a fifth as an orientalist and a mystic, and still there would have been something left to say, for Burton was all these things and more—much more.
I often wonder if a man will ever be found brave enough to write the true story of his life, dealing not only with the outward life, the life the world knows, his family and his friends, but also with that other and inner life which he lives to himself alone, unknown, may be, to his nearest and dearest. For it is in this inner life, this life apart, that the subtle essence of individuality lies hidden, which forms the motive spring of a man's actions, and even of his thoughts; it is this which differentiates him from his fellows. Without it the story of any life must necessarily lack completeness, and in its studied omission may be found the weakness—I had almost written the untruthfulness—of the greater part of the biographies and autobiographies given to the world to-day.
Yet if a man were to write such a record, a full and frank account not only of his achievements but of his failures, his secret thoughts, his sorrows, sins and temptations, his executors probably would not be strong enough to publish
