far enough in the dark, narrow streets, where the rivers flow under the
windows of empty dwellings; he might see them tottering, and threatening
downfall upon each other--leaning over and casting shadows, black and
mysterious upon the water--no line perpendicular, no line horizontal,
the very beau-ideal of picturesque decay--buildings of which Longfellow
might have sung as truly as of Nuremberg,--

"Memories haunt thy pointed gables,
Like the rooks which round them throng."

In short, he would find Pont Audemer, and the neighbouring town of
Lisieux, treasure houses of old mysterious 'bits' of colour and form,
suggestive of simple domestic usage in one building, and princely
grandeur in another--strength and simplicity, grace and beauty of
design--all speaking to him of a past age with the eloquence of history.

Let us look well at these old buildings, many of them reared and dwelt
in by men of humble birth and moderate means--(men who lived happily and
died easily without amassing a fortune)--let us, if we can, without too
much envy, think for a moment of the circumstances under which these
houses were built. To us, to many of us, who pay dearly for the
privilege of living between four square walls (so slight and thin
sometimes, that our neighbours are separated from us by sight, but
scarcely by sound)--walls that we hire for shelter, from necessity, and
leave generally without reluctance; that we are prone to cover with
paper, in the likeness of oak and marble, to hide their meanness--these
curious, odd-shaped interiors, with massive walls, and solid oak
timbers, are especially attractive. How few modern rooms, for instance,
have such niches in them, such seats in windows and snug corners, that
of all things make a house comfortable. Some of these rooms are twenty