ots upon the pavement. It is a fete to-day. Nothing
is doing in the lecture-rooms, and I have the whole day before
me. Meaning, therefore, to enjoy it over the fire and a book,
I wisely begin it by a walk.

From the Cite Bergere, out along the right-hand side of the Boulevards,
down past the front of the Madeleine, across the Place de la Concorde,
and up the Champs Elysees as far as the Arc de Triomphe; this is the
route I take in going. Arrived at the arch, I cross over, and come back
by the same roads, but on the other side of the way. I have a motive in
this. There is a certain second-hand book-shop on the opposite side of
the Boulevard des Italiens, which draws me by a wholly irresistible
attraction. Had I started on that side, I should have gone no further. I
should have looked, lingered, purchased, and gone home to read. But I
know my weakness. I have reserved the book-shop for my return journey,
and now, rewarded and triumphant, compose myself for a quiet study of
its treasures.

And what a book-shop it is! Not only are its windows filled--not only
are its walls a very perspective of learning--but square pillars of
volumes are built up on either side of the door, and an immense
supplementary library is erected in the open air, down all the length of
a dead-wall adjoining the house.

Here then I pause, turning over the leaves of one volume, reading the
title of another, studying the personal appearance of a third, and
weighing the merits of their authors against the contents of my purse.
And when I say "personal appearance," I say it advisedly; for
book-hunters, are skilled Lavaters in their way, and books, like men,
attract or repel at first sight. Thus it happens that I love a portly
book, in a sober coat of calf, but hate a thin, smart volume, in a gaudy
binding. The one promises to be philosophic, learnedly witty, or solidly
instructive; the other is tolerably certain to be pert and shallow, and
reminds me of a coxcombical lacquey in bullion and red plush. On the
same principle, I respect leaves soiled and dog's-eared, but mistrust
gilt edges; love an old volume better than a new; prefer a spacious
book-stall to all the unpurchased stores of Paternoster Row; and buy
every book that I possess at second-hand. Nay, that it is second-hand is
in itself a pass port to my favor. Somebody has read it before;
therefore it is readable. Somebody has derived pleasure from it before;
therefore I open it with a student's