n! what crimes
have been wrought in thy name! Little dost thou think of the mischief
thou hast done, flooding the world with meaningless titles and absurd
phrases. How canst thou talk of 'Lyrics of Loneliness,' 'Soliloquies of
Song,' 'Pearls of the Peerage'? Why dost thou stay thine hand? We long
for thee to enrich the world with 'Dreams of a Dotard,' the 'Dog
Doctor's Daughters,' and other kindred works. Exercise thine art on
these works of transcendent merit, but cease to style thy humble, but
rebellious, servant a Girtham Girl!

But what's in a name? Let the world's tongue wag. I am a student, a
hard-working, book-devouring, never-wearied student, who burns her
midnight oil, and drinks the strong bohea, to keep her awake during the
long hours of toil, like any Oxford or Cambridge undergraduate. I often
wonder whether these mighty warriors in the lists--the class lists, I
mean--really work half so hard as we poor unfortunate 'Girls of
Girtham.' Now that I am writing in strict confidence, so that not even
the walls can hear the scratchings of my pen, or understand the meaning
of all this scribbling, I beg to state that I have my serious doubts
upon the subject; and when last I attended a soiree of the
Anthropological Society, sounds issued forth from the windows of the
snug college rooms, which could not be taken as evidences of profound
and undisturbed study.

Sometimes I glance at the examination papers set for these hard-working
students, in order that they may attain the glorious degree of B.A., and
astonish their sisters, cousins, and aunts by the display of these magic
letters and all-resplendent hood. And again I say in strict confidence
that if this same glorious hood does not adorn the back of each
individual son of Alma Mater, he ought to be ashamed of himself, and not
to fail to assume a certain less dignified, but expressive,
three-lettered qualification. But before those Tripos Papers I bow my
head in humble adoration. They sometimes take my breath away even to
read the terrible excruciating things, which seem to turn one's brain
round and round, and contort the muscles of one's face, and stop the
pulsation of one's heart, when one tries to grasp the horrid things.

Here is a fair example of the ingenuity of the hard-hearted examiners,
who resemble the inquisitors presiding over the tortures of the rack,
and giving the hateful machine just one turn more by way of bestowing a
parting benediction on their