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In a village of Europe, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those book reviewers that keep a soft-tongue in the lance-rack for his friends' books, an old buckler with partisan coat-of-arms as a mark of his feudal loyalty to his academic ancestors, a lean hack to accompany him in the dark alleys of scholarly fears, and a greyhound for coursing his civil-servant oriented career's ambitions. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. His first years in academia were of such quality as to drive him to the verge of quitting this miserable life more than once. The rest of his income went to a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches to attend academic congresses, and shoes to match for holidays, that were always research-oriented, and on weekdays he made a brave figure in his best homespun.