Humble as might have been the architectural ornaments of this town in those early days, it seems almost an impossibility to suppose them less then than they are at present; for if strangers (from some of our bustling maritime cities in Europe, for instance) were suddenly and unconsciously landed in the streets of Falmouth, they would to all certainty believe them to be so many pathways to the “castle of indolence;” and the irregular and dismal-looking buildings to be the habitations of some lawless, vagrant tribe. A few four-cornered houses, in shape like a pigeon-coop, and of dimensions to suit a dweller of _Lilliput_, are elevated a short distance from the ground by being placed upon empty boxes or barrels, or four pillars of rudely-piled stones, which arrangement forms a snug retreat for the pigs or poultry of the inmate, or serves as a reservoir for sundry discarded pots and pans, or other “household gods.” These habitations are as variously placed as the taste of their owners may chance to dictate. Some present an acute angle, others a _broadside_ to the eye of passengers. Some stand in what I suppose is intended to represent a garden, whose rank weeds and straggling vegetables are guarded from the steps of the unwelcome marauder only by a _gate_, made from empty candle-boxes or barrel-heads, flanked by a thinly sprinkled row of some dwarf shrub, over which the gallant “Xit” (whom Mr. Ainsworth has so cleverly called into existence in his admirable “Tower of London”) could have stepped with the greatest ease; letting alone the frequent lapses in the enclosure, through which a bulky man might readily pass. To make all secure, however, these rustic gates are generally garnished with a huge padlock, which is of course _carefully_ locked whenever the owner is absent; while the key, with admirable precaution, is tucked into some little peep-hole near, that it may be ready for the use of any stray visitants. A few of these dwellings are, however, of superior form and fabric; and one stands forth in all the glories of palisading, and if I mistake not, bright green verandahs. It looks, by the side of its pigmy neighbours, like the Colossus of Rhodes, to the mandarin figures in our English grocers’ shops. The present church, dedicated to St. Paul, is a plain, uninteresting-looking building, standing at the outskirts of the town, and capable of affording about 400 sittings. The churchyard might be made as picturesque, and looks as quiet, as some of those pretty rural burial-places we oftentimes alight upon in dear old England’s sequestered nooks. Some fine trees, and a few handsome monuments, are to be met with; and if the rank grass was cleared away a little, and some of the various beautiful flowers, which are to be found in all parts of the island, planted there, it would present a spot equalling in appearance many of our modern cemeteries.