Suppose you have knowledge of no language but your
own. The thought comes to you in the mysterious way in which
thoughts are born, and struggles for expression in apt words.
If the phrase that occurs to you does not exactly fit the
thought, you are almost certain, especially in speaking or
rapid composition, to modify the thought to fit the phrase.
Your sentence commands you, not you the sentence. The extemporary
speaker never gets, or easily loses, the power of precise
and accurate thinking or statement, and rarely attains a literary
excellence which gives him immortality. But the conscientious
translator has no such refuge. He is confronted by the inexorable
original. He cannot evade or shirk. He must try and try
and try again until he has got the exact thought expressed
in its English equivalent. This is not enough. He must get
an English expression if the resources of the language will
furnish it, which will equal as near as may be the dignity
and beauty of the original. He must not give you pewter for
silver, or pinchbeck for gold, or mica for diamond.
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