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Updated: September 30, 2025
I looked in for a few moments this afternoon at the National Library in the Rue de Richelieu. No signs of war here! A score of inveterate bookworms were pondering over dusty volumes, inquisitive writers were exploring literature bearing upon the war of 1870, seeking precedents and parallels for coming events; a few ladies were looking up files of old newspapers and fashion plates.
In vain papa pished and pshawed, and mamma grieved, and begged John not to spoil the girls by making bookworms of them; in vain "Laura C. and the rest of them" entreated us to join this picnic or show ourselves at that party; in vain the young men professed themselves afraid of us, and the girls tossed their heads and called us blue-stockings.
The debts were paid, and Alfred Russel Wallace at thirty was square with the world, the possessor of much valuable experience. He also had five hundred pounds in cash, with a reputation as a writer and traveler that no longer caused bookworms to sneeze.
Bernard Quaritch just come from his well-known habitat, No. 15 Piccadilly, with such a collection of rare, beautiful, and somewhat expensive volumes as the Western Continent never saw before on the shelves of a bibliopole. We bookworms are all of us now and then betrayed into an extravagance.
Effecting nothing thus, I went back to my country for this purpose; I visited and turned over all the libraries, but still could not pull out a Saxo, even covered with beetles, bookworms, mould, and dust. So stubbornly had all the owners locked it away."
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