after due consideration, determined upon employing you. I had intended to employ you no farther, sir - at least for the present; but, sir, this morning I received a letter from my valued friend in the country, in which he speaks in terms of strong admiration (I don’t overstate) of your German acquirements. Sir, he says that it would be a thousand pities if your knowledge of the German language should be lost to the world, or even permitted to sleep, and he entreats me to think of some plan by which it may be turned to account. Sir, I am at all times willing, if possible, to oblige my worthy friend, and likewise to encourage merit and talent; I have, therefore, determined to employ you in German.’

‘Sir,’ said I, rubbing my hands, ‘you are very kind, and so is our mutual friend; I shall be happy to make myself useful in German; and if you think a good translation from Goethe - his SORROWS for example, or more particularly his FAUST - ‘

‘Sir,’ said the publisher, ‘Goethe is a drug; his SORROWS are a drug, so is his FAUSTUS, more especially the last, since that fool - rendered him into English. No, sir, I do not want you to translate Goethe or anything belonging to him; nor do I want you to translate anything from the German; what I want you to do, is to translate into German. I am willing to encourage merit, sir; and, as my good friend in his last letter has spoken very highly of your German acquirements, I have determined that you shall translate my book of philosophy into German.’

‘Your book of philosophy into German, sir?’

‘Yes, sir; my book of philosophy into German. I am not a drug, sir, in Germany as Goethe is here, no more is my book. I intend to print the translation at Leipzig, sir; and if it turns out a profitable speculation, as I make no doubt it will, provided the translation be well executed, I will make you some remuneration. Sir, your remuneration will be determined by the success of your translation.’

‘But, sir - ‘

‘Sir,’ said the publisher, interrupting me, ‘you have heard my intentions; I consider that you ought to feel yourself highly gratified by my intentions towards you; it is not frequently that I deal with a writer, especially a young writer, as I have done with you. And now, sir, permit me to inform you that I wish to be alone. This is Sunday afternoon, sir; I never go to church, but I am in the habit of spending part of every Sunday afternoon alone - profitably I hope, sir - in musing on the magnificence of nature and the moral dignity of man.’