ut of a block of modern houses in the _place_ itself. It can be
seen afar off from the approaching vessel, and until comparatively
late times this venerable servant had done the charity of lighthouse
work for a couple of centuries at least.

But one of the pleasantest associations connected with the town was
the old Dessein's Hotel, which had somehow an inexpressibly
old-fashioned charm, for it had a grace like some disused chateau.
Some of the prettiest passages in Sterne's writings are associated
with this place. We see the figures of the monk, the well-known host,
the lady and the _petit-maitre_: to say nothing of the old
_desobligeante_. Even of late years it was impossible to look at the
old building, which remained unchanged, without calling up the image
of Mr. Sterne, and the curious airy conversation--sprinkled with what
execrable French both in grammar and spelling!--that took place at the
gate. An air of the old times pervaded it strongly: it was like
opening an old _garde de vin_. You passed out of the _place_ and found
yourself in the Rue Royale--newly named Rue Leveux--and there,
Dessein's stood before you, with its long yellow wall, archway and
spacious courts, on each side a number of quaint gables or _mansardes_,
sharp-roofed. Over the wall was seen the foliage of tall and handsome
trees. There is a coloured print representing this entrance, with the
meeting of the 'little master' and the lady--painted by Leslie--and
which gives a good idea of the place. In the last century the courtyard
used to be filled with posting-carriages, and the well-known _remise_
lay here in a corner. Behind the house stretched large, well-stocked
gardens, with which the guests at the hotel used to be recreated;
while at the bottom of the garden, but opening into another street,
was the theatre, built by the original Dessein, belonging to the hotel,
and still used. This garden was wild and luxuriant, the birds singing,
while the courtyard was dusty and weed-grown.

This charming picture has ever been a captivating one for the
traveller. It seemed like an old country-house transferred to town.
There was something indescribable in the tranquil flavour of the
place, its yellow gamboge tint alternated with green vineries, its
spacious courtyard and handsome chambers. It was bound up with
innumerable old associations. Thackeray describes, with an almost
poetical affection and sympathy, the night he spent there. He called
up the im