“But, your worship,” said Dr. A——­, “this charge against authors cannot apply to me; the book in question is a translation.”

“Pooh!” exclaimed Coke, “only a translation!  But even so, has it notes or comments?”

“It has, your worship; but they—­”

“And, sir, could you declare solemnly, that there is nothing stolen in the notes and comments, or introduction, if there is any?”

The doctor, “Ehem! hem!”

“But in the meantime,” proceeded Coke, “here have I gone to the trouble of giving such a profound decision upon a mere translation!  Who is the translator?”

“I am myself, your worship; and in this case I am both plaintiff and translator.”

“That, however,” said Coke, shaking his head solemnly, “makes the case against you still worse.”

“But, your worship, there is no case against me.  I have already told you that I am plaintiff and translator; and, with great respect, I don’t think you have yet given any decision whatever.”

“I have decided, sir,” replied Coke, “and taken the case I read for you as a precedent.”

“But in that case, your worship, the woman was convicted.”

“And so she is in this, sir,” replied Coke.  “Officer, put Biddy Corcoran forward.  Biddy Corcoran, you are an old woman, which, indeed, is evident from the nature of your offence, and have been convicted of the egregious folly of purchasing a translation, which this gentleman says was compiled or got up by himself.  This is conduct which the court cannot overlook, inasmuch as if it were persisted in, we might, God help us, become inundated with translations.  I am against translations—­I have ever been against them, and I shall ever be against them.  They are immoral in themselves, and render the same injury to literature that persons of loose morals do to society.  In general, they are nothing short of a sacrilegious profanation of the dead, and I would almost as soon see the ghost of a departed friend as the translation of a defunct author, for they bear the same relation.  The regular translator, in fact, is nothing less than a literary ghoul, who lives upon the mangled carcasses of the departed—­a mere sack-’em-up, who disinters the dead, and sells their remains for money.  You, sir, might have been better and more honestly employed than in wasting your time upon a translation.  These are works that no men or class of men, except bishops, chandlers, and pastrycooks, ought to have anything to do with; and as you, I presume, are not a bishop, nor a chandler, nor a pastrycook, I recommend you to spare your countrymen in future.  Biddy Corcoran, as the court is determined to punish you severely, the penalty against you is, that you be compelled to read the translation in question once a week for the next three months.  I had intended to send you to the treadmill for the same space of time:  but, on looking more closely into the nature of your offence, I felt it my duty to visit you with a much severer punishment.”