ersant not only with the exploits of his famous uncle, but
also with the history of the Dr. Francis Burton who had made Napoleon's
death mask. Frederick Burton was a plump, shy, fair-haired little
fellow, and Burton, who loved to tease, did not spare his rotundity. In
one of Frederick's copy-books could be read, in large hand,

"Life is short."

"I," commented Burton, "find life very long."

Subsequently he advised his cousin to go to the River Plate. "Well,"
he would ask, when he entered the house, "has Frederick started for the
River Plate yet? I see a good opening there."

As Dr. Burton was born in the house of his father's brother, the Bishop
of Killala, Burton used to affect jealousy. "Hang it all, Edward," he
would say, "You were born in a bishop's palace."

Apparently it was about this time that the terrible silence of Burton's
brother was for a moment broken. Every human device had been tried to
lead him to conversation, and hitherto in vain. It seems that some years
previous, and before Edward's illness, Dr. E. J. Burton had lent his
cousin a small sum of money, which was duly repaid. One day Dr. Burton
chose to assume the contrary, and coming upon Edward suddenly he cried:

"Edward, you might just as well have paid me that money I lent you at
Margate. I call it shabby, now."

Edward raised his head and fixing his eyes on Dr. Burton said, with
great effort, and solemnly, "Cousin, I did pay you, you must remember
that I gave you a cheque."

Thrilled with joy, Dr. Burton attempted to extend the conversation, but
all in vain, and to his dying day Edward Burton never uttered another
word.

72. At the Athenaeum.

Of all the spots in London, none was so dear to Burton as his club, The
Athenaeum. When in England, he practically lived there, and its massive
portico, its classic frieze, and the helmeted statue of Minerva were
always imaged on his heart. He wrote a number of his books there, and he
loved to write his letters on its notepaper stamped with the little oval
enclosing Minerva's head. He used to make his way to the Athenaeum early
in the day [264] and go straight to the library. Having seated himself
at the round table he would work with coralline industry, and without a
single break until six or seven in the evening. It was a standing joke
against him in Dr. Burton's family that when at the club he was never at
home to anybody except a certain Mrs. Giacometti Prodgers. This lady
was of