where for the last dozen years or so I have sat ever since.

The first thing I have done whenever I went to the Museum has been
to take down Frost's "Lives of Eminent Christians" and carry it to
my seat. It is not the custom of modern writers to refer to the
works to which they are most deeply indebted, and I have never, that
I remember, mentioned it by name before; but it is to this book
alone that I have looked for support during many years of literary
labour, and it is round this to me invaluable volume that all my own
have page by page grown up. There is none in the Museum to which I
have been under anything like such constant obligation, none which I
can so ill spare, and none which I would choose so readily if I were
allowed to select one single volume and keep it for my own.

On finding myself asked for a contribution to the Universal Review,
I went, as I have explained, to the Museum, and presently repaired
to bookcase No. 2008 to get my favourite volume. Alas! it was in
the room no longer. It was not in use, for its place was filled up
already; besides, no one ever used it but myself. Whether the ghost
of the late Mr. Frost has been so eminently unchristian as to
interfere, or whether the authorities have removed the book in
ignorance of the steady demand which there has been for it on the
part of at least one reader, are points I cannot determine. All I
know is that the book is gone, and I feel as Wordsworth is generally
supposed to have felt when he became aware that Lucy was in her
grave, and exclaimed so emphatically that this would make a
considerable difference to him, or words to that effect.

Now I think of it, Frost's "Lives of Eminent Christians" was very
like Lucy. The one resided at Dovedale in Derbyshire, the other in