nd of his career he writes
philosophically:--

"The press are calling me 'the neglected Englishman,' and I want
to express to them the feelings of pride and gratitude with
which I have seen the exertions of my brethren of the press to
procure for me a tardy justice. The public is a fountain of
honor which amply suffices all my aspirations; it is the more
honorable as it will not allow a long career to be ignored
because of catechisms or creed."

He comforted himself, no doubt, with the belief that his outspoken
skepticism was the cause of this lack of advancement, and that he was in
some sort a martyr to freedom of thought; but one may be excused for
discrediting this in the face of so many contrary instances. Capable men
are too scarce to throw aside for such things in this century. The real
and sufficient reason was his equally outspoken criticism of his
superior officers in every department. A subordinate may and often does
know more than his masters; but if he wishes the luxury of advertising
the fact, he must pay for it with their ill-will and his own practical
suppression.

Lady Burton was also an author; her 'Inner Life in Syria' and 'Arabia,
Egypt, and India' are bright and entertaining. But her most important
work is the 'Life of Sir Richard F. Burton,' published in 1892, two
years after her husband's death. This unorganized mass of interesting
material, in spite of carelessness and many faults of style and taste,
shows her a ready observer, with a clever and graphic way of stating her
impressions.

THE PRETERNATURAL IN FICTION

From the Essay on 'The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night'

"As the active world is inferior to the rational soul," says Bacon, with
his normal sound sense, "so Fiction gives to Mankind what History
denies, and in some measure satisfies the Mind with Shadows when it
cannot enjoy the Substance. And as real History gives us not the success
of things according to the deserts of vice and virtue, Fiction corrects
it and presents us with the fates and fortunes of persons rewarded and
punished according to merit." But I would say still more. History paints
or attempts to paint life as it is, a mighty maze with or without a
plan; Fiction shows or would show us life as it should be, wisely
ordered and laid down on fixed lines. Thus Fiction is not the mere
handmaid of History: she has a household of her own, and she claims to
be the triumph of Art, which,