This interesting article titled ‘Second-hand book-shop in Paris’ was published in London Illustrated Weekly on June 13, 1874. It was written by Amelia B. Edwards (1831-1892), an English writer, who had a wide range of interests and talents. Amelia B Edwards excelled in writing ghost stories like “The Phantom Coach”, and novels such as “Barbara’s History” and “Lord Brackenbury”. Her love of travel and knowledge of ancient Egypt is evident in her well-known travelogue “A Thousand Miles up the Nile”. Enjoy the article.
Second-hand book-shop in Paris
There is a certain second-hand book-shop on the opposite side of the Boulevards des Italiens which draws me by a wholly irresistible attraction. Had I started on that side, I should have gone no farther. I should have looked, lingered, purchased,- and gone home to read. But I know my weakness. I have reserved the bookshop 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 prospective 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 bookhunters are skilled Lavaters in their way, and Looks, 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 lackey 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 bookstall 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 passport to my favour. Somebody has read it before ; therefore it is readable. Somebody has derived pleasure from it before; therefore I open it with a student’s sympathy, and am disposed to be indulgent ere I have perused a single-line. There are cases, however, in which I incline to luxury of binding. Just as I had rather have my historians in old calf, and my chroniclers in black letter, so do I delight to see my modern poets, the Benjamins of my affections, clothed in coats of many colours. For them no moroccos are too rich, and no ” toolings ” too elaborate. I love to see them smiling on me from the shelves of my bookcases, as glowing and varied as the sunset through a painted oriel.
