a printer must know in composing Sanskrit.
Many of the letters in Sanskrit are incompatible, i. e. they cannot
follow each other, or if they do, they have to be modified. Every
_d_, for instance, if followed by a _t_, is changed to _t_; every _dh_
loses its aspiration, becomes likewise _t_, or changes the next _t_
into _dh_. Thus from _budh_ + _ta_, we have _Buddha_, i. e. awakened.
In writing I had sometimes neglected these modifications, but in the
proof-sheets these cases were always either queried or corrected. When
I asked the printer, who did not of course know a word of Sanskrit,
how he came to make these corrections, he said: "Well, sir, my arm
gets into a regular swing from one compartment of types to another,
and there are certain movements that never occur. So if I suddenly
have to take up types which entail a new movement, I feel it, and I
put a query." An English printer might possibly be startled in the
same way if in English he had to take up an _s_ immediately following
an _h_. But it was certainly extraordinary that an unusual movement of
the muscles of the paralysed arm should have led to the discovery of a
mistake in writing Sanskrit. In spite of the extreme accuracy of my
printer, however, I saw, that after all it would be better for myself,
and for the Veda, if I were on the spot, and I decided to migrate from
London to Oxford.

My first visit had filled me with enthusiasm for the beautiful old
town, which I regarded as an ideal home for a student. Besides, I
found that I was getting too gay in London, and in order to be able to
devote my evenings to society, I had to get up and begin work soon
after five. May, therefore, saw me established for the first time in
Oxford, in a small room in Walton Street. The moving of my books and
papers from London did not take long. At that time my library could
still be accommodated in my portmanteau, it had not yet risen to
12,000 volumes, threatening to drive me out of my house. A happy time
it was when I possessed no books which I had not read, and no one sent
books to me which I did not want, and yet had to find a place for in
my rooms, and to thank the author for his kindness.

I at once found that my work went on more rapidly at Oxford than in
London, though if I had expected to escape from all hospitality I
certainly was not allowed to do that. Accustomed as I was to the
Spartan diet of a German _convictorium_, or a dinner at the Palais
Royal _a deux fra