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!.