was no snuff-taker. He asked me
to dinner, and treated me with superb Rhenish wine. Glorious John is now
gone to his rest, but I--what was I going to say?--the world will never
forget Glorious John.

So I returned to my last resource for the time then being--to the
publisher, persevering doggedly in my labour. One day, on visiting the
publisher, I found him stamping with fury upon certain fragments of
paper. 'Sir,' said he, 'you know nothing of German; I have shown your
translation of the first chapter of my Philosophy to several Germans: it
is utterly unintelligible to them.' 'Did they see the Philosophy?' I
replied. 'They did, sir, but they did not profess to understand
English.' 'No more do I,' I replied, 'if that Philosophy be English.'

The publisher was furious--I was silent. For want of a pinch of snuff, I
had recourse to something which is no bad substitute for a pinch of
snuff, to those who can't take it, silent contempt; at first it made the
publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of snuff would; it, however,
eventually calmed him, and he ordered me back to my occupations, in other
words, the compilation. To be brief, the compilation was completed, I
got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him.

He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men!

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

THE OLD SPOT--A LONG HISTORY--THOU SHALT NOT STEAL--NO
HARM--EDUCATION--NECESSITY--FOAM ON YOUR LIP--METAPHOR--FUR CAP--I DON'T
KNOW HIM

It was past midwinter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company with the
old apple-woman: she has just returned to the other side of the bridge,
to her place in the booth where I had originally found her. This she had
done after frequent conversations with me; 'she liked the old place
best,' she said, which she would never have left but for the terror which
she experienced when the boys ran away with her book. So I sat with her
at the old spot, one afternoon past midwinter, reading the book, of which
I had by this time come to the last pages. I had observed that the old
woman for some time past had shown much less anxiety about the book than
she had been in the habit of doing. I was, however, not quite prepared
for her offering to make me a present of it, which she did that
afternoon; when, having finished it, I returned it to her, with many
thanks for the pleasure and instruction I had derived from its perusal.
'You may keep it, dear,' said the old woman, with a sigh;