“O, it will be soon translated; very fine language,—very bad book. They translate all our worst! And they are so improved in language; they write so finely now, even for the most silly books, that it makes one read on, and one cannot help it. O, I am very angry sometimes at that! Do you like the 'Sorrows of Werter?'”
“I—I have not read it, ma'am, only in part.”
“No? Well, I don't know how it is translated, but it is very finely writ in German, and I can't bear it.”
“I am very happy to hear that, for what I did look over made me determine never to read it. It seemed only writ as a deliberate defence of suicide.”
“Yes; and what is worse, it is done by a bad man for revenge.”
She then mentioned, with praise, another book, saying,
“I wish I knew the translator.”
“I wish the translator knew that.”
“O—it is not—I should not like to give my name, for fear I have judged ill: I picked it up on a stall. O, it is amazing what good books there are on stalls.”
“It is amazing to me,” said Mrs. Delany, “to hear that.”