id you see my letter in The World?" enquired Burton of Mrs. E. J.
Burton.

"The Christian World?" asked Mrs. Burton innocently.

"No," replied Burton, sharply, "The Unchristian World."

Once when Burton was present at some gathering, a missionary caused
a shudder to run through the company by saying that he had had the
dreadful experience of being present at a cannibal feast. The cannibals,
he said, brought in their prisoner, butchered him, cut him up, and
handed the pieces round smoking hot. With his curious feline laugh,
Burton enquired, "Didn't they offer you any?" "They did," replied the
missionary, "but of course I refused." "What a fool you were," cried
Burton, "to miss such a unique opportunity."

132. The Pentameron. Burton and Gladstone.

We must next record a visit to Mr. Payne, who then resided in London.
Burton talked over his projects, and said that he had been wondering
what book to take up after the completion of The Nights. "I think," said
he, "I shall fix upon Boccaccio next."

"My dear boy," followed Mr. Payne, "I've just done him." [436] As his
poem "Salvestra" shows, Mr. Payne's mind had for long been running on
"that sheaf of flowers men call Decameron." His brilliant translation
was, indeed, already in the press, and it appeared the following year in
three volumes.

"You are taking the bread out of my mouth," commented Burton
plaintively.

"But," continued Mr. Payne, "there is another work that I thought of
doing--The Pentameron, [437] by Giambattista Basile, and if you care
to take my place I will not only stand aside but lend you the materials
collected for the purpose." Burton, who had some knowledge of the
Neapolitan dialect but had never met with the work referred to, welcomed
the idea; and as soon as he had finished the Nights he commenced a
translation of The Pentameron, which, however, was not published until
after his death. His rendering, which cannot be praised, was aptly
described by one of the critics as "an uncouth performance." Burton also
told Payne about the proposed Ariosto translation, and they discussed
that too, but nothing was done.

On July 19th 1885, the Burtons lunched with Lord Houghton--"our common
Houghton," as Mr. Swinburne used to call him; and found his lordship
unwell, peevish, and fault-finding. He had all the trials of the
successful man who possesses everything that wealth can purchase or the
mind conceive.

"Good-bye, my dear old friend," cri