Essays on Life 



What can be conceivably more unromantic ? 

 For some years I had a little literary grievance 

 against the authorities of the British Museum 

 because they would insist on saying in their 

 catalogue that I had published three sermons 

 on Infidelity in the year 1820. I thought I 

 had not, and got them out to see. They were 

 rather funny, but they were not mine. Now, 

 however, this grievance has been removed. I 

 had another little quarrel with them because 

 they would describe me as "of St. John's 

 College, Cambridge," an establishment for 

 which I have the most profound veneration, 

 but with which I have not had the honour to 

 be connected for some quarter of a century. 

 At last they said they would change this 

 description if I would only tell them what I 

 was, for, though they had done their best to 

 find out, they had themselves failed. I replied 

 with modest pride that I was a Bachelor of 

 Arts. I keep all my other letters inside my 

 name, not outside. They mused and said it 

 was unfortunate that I was not a Master of 

 Arts. Could I not get myself made a 



Master ? I said I understood that a Master- 



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