highway is little more than a commodious dust-bin.

Above the mire and stench of the street rise houses which seem to
topple forward into the morass beneath; each storey overhangs the
last, until the trowsy gables almost rub against each other at the
top, and nearly shut out every breath of air or glimpse of sky. Close
above the pavement, and swinging in the rain, a multitude of signs and
strange carvings blot out the little light remaining; Tritons, sirens
and satyrs are cheek by jowl with dragons, open-mouthed, their tails
in monstrous curves. Vast gilded barrels, bunches of grapes as huge as
ever came out of the Promised Land, images of the Three Kings of the
East, six-pointed stars, enormous fleurs de lys, great pillars painted
blue or red, cockatrices and popinjays and bears and elephants; a
whole menagerie of fabulous creatures hang over the lintels of almost
every house; for in the days when numbers are not, many habitations
have to be distinguished by a sign besides the taverns and the
hostelries and shops. Higher up still the long thin gargoyles peer
into the clouded air; clutching at the outmost edge of wall, they
stretch as far forward as they may and are every one in actual
service, spouting showers of rain and refuse from the roof into the
crowded road. Upon the walls themselves, in low relief, every panel
has its medallion, a classical head within a wreath of bay-leaves, a
more modern celebrity ringed by the mottoes and emblems of his
lineage. Above the doorway of the merchant is carved his galleon in
full sail; the armourer displays a brave scene, of a soldier hacking
his way with an irresistible rapier through the mob of caitiffs who
had been so foolish as to buy their swords at other shops; over the
next porch is carved a horse without a rider, hastening across the
bridge to bring the tidings of the murder of his master in the
suburbs; elsewhere is sculptured the Holy City with a humble wayfarer
approaching from one side, and a noble from the other. Every building
has a character of its own, a personality apart from other houses in
the street, and nearly all are gay with paint and gilding, and
instinct with a natural feeling for artistic decoration that was only
appreciated at its true worth after the Huguenot iconoclasts had
wrecked it.

Amid all this life and colour death and the taint of death are ever
present, for every church is little better than a charnel-house, and
in the crowded city nearly e