I was much taken with the Greek dramatists, especially
with Euripides, but my only means of access to them was through
translations. My aunt had another nephew who came to see her now
and then. He had obtained an open exhibition at Oxford, and one day
I found that he had a Greek Euripides in his pocket, and that he
needed little help from a dictionary. He sometimes brought with him
a college friend, and well do I remember a sneer from this gentleman
about the poor creatures whose acquaintance with AEschylus was
derived from Potter. I did not look at a translation again for some
time.
The men at my office were a curious set. The father of one was a
leader of the lowest blackguards in a small borough, who had much to
do with determining elections there; another bore the strongest
resemblance to a well-known peer; and another was the legitimate and
perfectly scoundrel offspring of a newspaper editor. I formed no
friendships with any of my colleagues, but one of them I greatly
envied. He was deaf and dumb, the son of a poor clergyman, and had
an extraordinary passion for botany.
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