by a gay parterre, several rich-looking flowers occupying pots beneath
his windows.

Our next pilgrimage was to the statue of Joan of Arc, which we
approached through narrow streets, so dirty from the late heavy rains,
as to be scarcely passable. We had, as we might have expected, little
to reward us, except the associations connected with the Maid of
Orleans, and her cruel persecutors. The spot had been to me, from my
earliest years, one which I had felt a wish to visit, my researches,
while writing the Memoirs of the Rival Houses of York and Lancaster,
materially increasing the interest which an earlier perusal of the
history of England and France had created, concerning scenes trodden
by the brave, the great, and the good. However mistaken might have
been their notions, however impolitic their actions, we cannot
contemplate the characters of the Paladins, who have made Rouen
famous, without feelings of respect. The murder of Joan of Arc formed
the sole blot on the escutcheon of John Duke of Bedford, and the
faults and vices of his companions in arms were the offspring of the
times in which they lived.

We were surprised by the excellence of the shops, even in the most
dilapidated parts of the city of Rouen, the windows in every direction
exhibiting a gay assemblage of goods of all descriptions, while the
confectioners were little, if at all, inferior to those of Paris.
One small square in particular, in which a market was held, was very
striking, from the contrast between the valuable products sold, and
the houses which contained them. Seven or eight stories in height,
weather-stained, and dilapidated, the lower floors exhibited handsome
porcelain and other costly articles, which gave an impression of
wealth in the owners, that astonished those amongst our party who were