s wife, a corrected
version of the whole Hindu mythology might have been necessary.

However, so far as can be conjectured, the image the world formed of
the Professor was a sort of aggregate of Dr. Johnson, Bentley, Grotius,
Mezzofanti, and a slight touch of, say Conington, to bring him well
up to date. But so much of the first that whenever the _raconteur_
repeated one of the Professor's moderately bon-mots, he always put
"sir" in--as, for instance, "A punster, sir, is a man who demoralises
two meanings in one word;" or, "Should you call that fast life, sir?
_I_ should call it slow death." The _raconteur_ was rather given to
making use of him, and assigning to him _mots_ which were not at all
_bons_, because they only had the "sir" in them, and were otherwise
meaningless. He was distressed, not without reason, when he heard that
he had said to Max Mueller, or some one of that calibre, "There is no
such thing, sir, as the English language!" But he very seldom heard
anything about himself, or any one else; as he passed his life, as
aforesaid, in his library, buried in the Phoenician Dictionary he
hoped he might live to bring out. He had begun the fourth letter;
but _we_ don't know the Phoenician alphabet. Perhaps it has only four
letters in it.

He came out of the library for meals, of course. But he took very
little notice of anything that passed at the family board, and read
nearly the whole time, occasionally saying something forcible to
himself. Indeed, he never conversed with his family unless deprived
of his book. This occurred on the occasion when Sally carried the
momentous news of her mother's intended marriage to Ladbroke Grove
Road, the second day after they had talked till two in the morning.
Matrimony was canvassed and discussed in all its aspects, and the
particular case riddled and sifted, and elucidated from every point of
the compass, without the Professor being the least aware that anything
unusual was afoot, until Grotefend got in the mayonnaise sauce.

"Take your master's book away, Jenkins," said the lady of the house.
And Jenkins, the tender-hearted parlourmaid, allowed master to keep
hold just to the end of the sentence. "Take it away, as I told you,
and wipe that sauce off!"

Sally did so want to box that woman's ears--at least, she said so
after. She was a great horny, overbearing woman, was Mrs. Sales Wilson,
and Sally was frightened lest Laetitia should grow like her. Only,
Tishy's teeth