uld snatch up the pen, and render the publisher literally
into German. Sometimes I was almost tempted to substitute something of
my own for what the publisher had written, but my conscience interposed;
the awful words, Traduttore traditore, commenced ringing in my ears, and
I asked myself whether I should be acting honourably towards the
publisher, who had committed to me the delicate task of translating him
into German; should I be acting honourably towards him, in making him
speak in German in a manner different from that in which he expressed
himself in English? No, I could not reconcile such conduct with any
principle of honour; by substituting something of my own in lieu of these
mysterious passages of the publisher, I might be giving a fatal blow to
his whole system of philosophy. Besides, when translating into English,
had I treated foreign authors in this manner? Had I treated the
minstrels of the Kaempe Viser in this manner?--No. Had I treated Ab
Gwilym in this manner? Even when translating his Ode to the Mist, in
which he is misty enough, had I attempted to make Ab Gwilym less misty?
No; on referring to my translation, I found that Ab Gwilym in my hands
was quite as misty as in his own. Then, seeing that I had not ventured
to take liberties with people who had never put themselves into my hands
for the purpose of being rendered, how could I venture to substitute my
own thoughts and ideas for the publisher's, who had put himself into my
hands for that purpose? Forbid it every proper feeling!--so I told the
Germans in the publisher's own way, the publisher's tale of an apple and
a pear.

I at first felt much inclined to be of the publisher's opinion with
respect to the theory of the pear. After all, why should the earth be
shaped like an apple, and not like a pear?--it would certainly gain in
appearance by being shaped like a pear. A pear being a handsomer fruit
than an apple, the publisher is probably right, thought I, and I will say
that he is right on this point in the notice which I am about to write of
his publication for the Review. And yet I don't know--said I, after a
long fit of musing--I don't know but what there is more to be said for
the Oxford theory. The world may be shaped like a pear, but I don't know
that it is; but one thing I know, which is, that it does not taste like a
pear; I have always liked pears, but I don't like the world. The world
to me tastes much more like an apple, and