[219] Professor de Morgan was one of the many literary and scientific men who took an interest in the book-post when first proposed. At the outset it was intended that no writing of any sort, not even the name of owner or donor, should be inscribed in a volume so sent, but the Professor descanted so ably and wittily on the hardship of thus ruling out of transit an innocent book, merely because, a century or more ago, some hand had written on its fly-leaf, “Anne Pryse, her boke; God give her grace therein to loke,” that not even the hardest-hearted official, and certainly not my father, could have said him nay; and by this time any writing, short of a letter, is allowed. The Professor had a wonderfully-shaped head, his forehead towards the top being abnormally prominent. He was devoted to mathematics, and gave much time to their study; thus it used to be said by those who could not otherwise account for his strange appearance, that the harder he worked at his favourite study the keener grew the contest between the restraining frontal bones and protruding brain, the latter perceptibly winning the day. A delightful talker was this great mathematician, also a pugilistic person, and on occasion not above using his fists with effect. One day he was summoned for an assault, and duly appeared in the police court. “I was walking quietly along the street,” began the victim, “when Professor de Morgan came straight up to me——” “That's a lie!” exclaimed the disgusted mathematician. “I came up to you at an angle of forty-five degrees.” This anecdote has been given to several eminent men, but Professor de Morgan was its real hero. [220] By shear ability, industry, and steadiness, Mr Bokenham had worked himself up from a humble position to high rank in the Post Office. One day a rough but pleasant-looking man of the lower agricultural class came to London from his and Mr Bokenham's native East Anglia, and called at St Martin's-le-Grand. “What! Bill Bokenham live in a house of this size!” he exclaimed. He had taken the imposing, but far from beautiful edifice built in 1829 for his cousin's private residence. [221] “Life,” ii. 288. [222] In Edmund Yates's “Recollections” many pleasant stories are told of Lord Clanricarde, to whose kindness indeed the author owed his appointment to the Post Office.