these objects were seen in that clear, cool light in such a way as to make them look frosty. Perhaps one cause of the general sombreness of the town, and the impression of uninhabitedness which it gave, might have been that there were no shops in the place. This may seem an extraordinary fact—but so it was. There were no real, proper, _bona fide_ shops, with good, wide, open fronts showing their wares. As one walked along the principal street, indeed, which led through a large, heavy, white stone arch, down the easiest slope of the hill into the open country, here and there, in the window of what seemed a private dwelling-place, and which could only be reached by ascending a flight of steps from the street, one might see a ham hanging up, or a string of sausages, or some other edible thing. Again, farther on, you would see a small brass basin nailed to a door-post, and again, in another window, a lady’s cap, or a string or two of ribbons. When in want of any article, you climbed the steps, you had to open a door, and then another door, before you arrived at the person whom you expected to furnish them. When you got in you would find a tolerable store of different kinds of articles, gathered together in a neat little room, somewhat dull and shady, and not the least like a shop in the world. It would have puzzled any one in such a cell to judge accurately of the color or quality of what he was purchasing; but I must do the good people the justice to say that they did not at all take advantage of this obscurity to cheat their friends and customers, but that all they sold was generally good and what it pretended to be—more, indeed, than can be said of most goods and chattels at the present time. The irregularity of the streets, too, might have had some part in creating the sombreness—for they turned and wound in an inconceivable manner, and the houses, built according to the taste and will of the owner, without any regard to regularity—some sticking out six or seven yards beyond its neighbor—some turning at one angle and some at another—some towering up, and others crouching down—had an exceedingly awkward habit of casting long, blue shadows, whichever way the sun shone, in hard, straight lines, unbroken by even a cloud of dust. I have never seen any other town like it but one, and that is the town of Angouleme. Perhaps it was Angouleme—though I cannot be quite sure; for it is long, long ago since I was there, and events and circumstances of a very mingled character have drawn line after line across the tablet of memory, till even the deep strokes graven upon it in early years are only faintly traceable here and there.