It is
about half-inch long, with a horny head and strong jaws.
To printers' ink or writing ink he appears to have no great dislike,
though I imagine that the former often disagrees with his health,
unless he is very robust, as in books where the print is pierced
a majority of the worm-holes I have seen are too short in extent
to have provided food enough for the development of the grub.
But, although the ink may be unwholesome, many grubs survive,
and, eating day and night in silence and darkness, work out their
destiny leaving, according to the strength of their constitutions,
a longer or shorter tunnel in the volume.
In December, 1879, Mr. Birdsall, a well-known book-binder of Northampton,
kindly sent me by post a fat little Worm, which had been found by one of
his workmen in an old book while being bound. He bore his journey
extremely well, being very lively when turned out. I placed him in a
box in warmth and quiet, with some small fragments of paper from a
Boethius, printed by Caxton, and a leaf of a seventeenth century book.
He ate a small piece of the leaf, but either from too much fresh air, from
unaccustomed liberty, or from change of food, he gradually weakened, and
died in about three weeks. I was sorry to lose him, as I wished to verify
his name in his perfect state.
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