I slept in the inn made famous by Laurence Sterne. It was here that he stopped near the beginning of his Sentimental Journey and hired his valet. On its wall in large copper letters were the figures 1640, indicating that it had been built in that year. It was a fitting place to stop on a quest of romance, and, indeed, one could not be surprised at any strange adventure that might overtake one in such a memory-laden setting. Even the bedroom (I wondered if it were the same that Sterne occupied) was of a charm and quaintness that was conducive to the most extravagant dreams. The furniture and fixings breathed of the long ago, and all about in convenient nooks and crannies were bits of old brass for which any collector would give a king’s ransom. But best of all (and these were evidently placed so that they would be the first things upon which the sleep-laden eyes of the lodger would rest when he was awakened by the early morning noises), was the decoration around the foot of the bedroom wall. In solemn procession, and reaching to a height of about five or six feet, were illustrated the gods and goddesses of Olympus! I have always wanted to do a room like this. _IV. Grez_ Grez has been immortalized by the artists that have stopped there. The bridge, built over the river Loing, which was so much like the Concord that it was a constant delight to me, has been painted times innumerable, but it is so charming that we never tire of seeing it on canvas. The story of Grez is the story of nearly every French village, and one has only to notice the way it is laid out to visualize its history. There is one central street upon which the houses face so close together as to form a solid wall on either side. In the back of this phalanx of stone the whole life of the community goes on. Here are the gardens, many of them sloping down to the river, where are the stones upon which they wash their clothes; here the children play, protected from all harm. The cultivated fields lie away up on the hillsides, as do the pastures, but in olden times, before the last ray of the sun had left the sky, every evening would see each inhabitant of the village back in his home, close to his neighbors, protected not only from the roaming wild animals, but from the lord upon the hill as well. The wolves were the scavengers and nightly used to clear the little street of all its refuse, so that anything thrown out of the window (and everything was) had disappeared in the morning light.