the circumstances to himself.

Well, so the matter stood, or rather lay in the recesses of my mind--and
in the cupboard where I hide my papers--when one evening someone, as a
matter of fact it was Captain Good, an individual of romantic tendencies
who is fond, sometimes I think too fond, of fiction, brought a book to
this house which he insisted over and over again really I must peruse.

Ascertaining that it was a novel I declined, for to tell the truth I am
not fond of romance in any shape, being a person who has found the hard
facts of life of sufficient interest as they stand.

Reading I admit I like, but in this matter, as in everything else, my
range is limited. I study the Bible, especially the Old Testament, both
because of its sacred lessons and of the majesty of the language of its
inspired translators; whereof that of Ayesha, which I render so poorly
from her flowing and melodious Arabic, reminded me. For poetry I turn
to Shakespeare, and, at the other end of the scale, to the Ingoldsby
Legends, many of which I know almost by heart, while for current affairs
I content myself with the newspapers.

For the rest I peruse anything to do with ancient Egypt that I happen to
come across, because this land and its history have a queer fascination
for me, that perhaps has its roots in occurrences or dreams of which
this is not the place to speak. Lastly now and again I read one of the
Latin or Greek authors in a translation, since I regret to say that my
lack of education does not enable me to do so in the original. But for
modern fiction I have no taste, although from time to time I sample it
in a railway train and occasionally am amused by such excursions into
the poetic and unreal.