ng the back of a piece of tapestry, where,
though the figures are seen, they are obscured by innumerable knots and
ends of thread, very different from the smooth and agreeable texture of
the proper face of the work; and to translate easy languages of a
similar construction requires no more talent than transcribing one paper
from another. But I would not hence infer that translating is not a
laudable exercise; for a man may be worse and more unprofitably
employed. Nor can my observation apply to the two celebrated
translators, Doctor Christopher de Figueroa, in his 'Pastor Fido,' and
Don John de Xaurigui, in his 'Aminta,' who, with singular felicity, have
made it difficult to decide which is the translation and which is the
original. But tell me, signor, is this book printed at your charge, or
have you sold the copyright to some bookseller?"

"I print it, sir, on my own account," answered the author, "and expect a
thousand ducats by this first impression of two thousand copies. At six
reals each copy they will go off in a trice."

"'Tis mighty well," quoth Don Quixote, "though I fear you know but
little of the tricks of booksellers, and the juggling there is amongst
them. Take my word for it, you will find a burden of two thousand
volumes upon your back no trifling matter, especially if the book be
deficient in sprightliness."

"What, sir!" cried the author, "would you have me give my labor to a
bookseller, who, if he paid me three maravedis for it, would think it
abundant, and say I was favored? No, sir, fame is not my object: of that
I am already secure. Profit is what I now seek, without which fame is
nothing."

"Well, Heaven prosper you, sir!" said the knight, who, passing on,
observed a man correcting a sheet of a book entitled "The Light of the
Soul." On seeing the title, he said, "Books of this kind, numerous as
they already are, ought still to be encouraged; for numerous are the
benighted sinners that require to be enlightened." He went forward, and
saw another book under the corrector's hand, and, on inquiring the
title, they told him it was the second part of the ingenious gentleman
Don Quixote de la Mancha, written by such a one, of Tordesillas.

"I know something of that book," quoth Don Quixote, "and, on my
conscience, I thought it had been burnt long before now for its
stupidity; but its Martinmas will come, as it does to every hog. Works
of invention are only so far good as they come near to truth and