he highest and purest
morality with the orgies of Apuleius and Petronius Arbiter, take
away the reader's breath. I determined to render every word with the
literalism of Urquhart's Rabelais, and to save the publisher trouble by
printing my translation at Brussels.

"Not non omnia possumus. Although a host of friends has been eager to
subscribe, my work is still unfinished, nor could it be finished without
a year's hard labour. I rejoice, therefore, to see that Mr. John
Payne, under the Villon Society, has addressed himself to a realistic
translation without 'abridgments or suppressions.' I have only to wish
him success, and to express a hope that he is resolved verbum reddere
verbo, without deference to any prejudice which would prevent his being
perfectly truthful to the original. I want to see that the book has fair
play; and if it is not treated as it deserves, I shall still have to
print my own version. [343] 'Villon,' however, makes me hope for the
best."

In this letter Burton oddly enough speaks of his own work as "still
unfinished." This was quite true, seeing that it was not even begun,
unless two or three pages which he once showed to Mr. Watts-Dunton,
[344] and the pigeon-holing of notes be regarded as a commencement.
Still, the announcement of Mr. Payne's edition--the first volume of
which was actually in the press--must have caused him a pang; and the
sincere good wishes for his rival's success testify to the nobility,
unselfishness and magnanimity of his character.

Mr. Payne, supposing from his letter that Burton had made considerable
progress with his translation, wrote on November 28th to Burton, and,
using the words Tantus labor non sit cassus, suggested collaboration.
Thus commenced one of the most interesting friendships in the annals of
literature. Before relating the story, however, it will be helpful to
set down some particulars of the career of Mr. Payne. John Payne was
born in 1842 of a Devonshire family, descended from that breezy old
sea-dog, Sir John Hawkins. Mr. Payne, indeed, resembles Hawkins in
appearance. He is an Elizabethan transferred bodily into the 19th and
20th centuries, his ruff lost in transit. Yet he not infrequently has a
ruff even--a live one, for it is no uncommon event to see his favourite
Angora leap on to his shoulders and coil himself half round his master's
neck, looking not unlike a lady's boa--and its name, Parthenopaeus, is
long enough even for that. For years Mr.