est, and oldest in
Sweden: they reach to the depth of one hundred and seventy fathoms,
consequently they are almost as deep as the Baltic. This of itself is
enough to awaken an interest for a little town; but what is its
appearance? "Sala," says the guide-book, "lies in a valley, in a flat,
and not very pleasant district." And so truly it is: it was not very
attractive approaching it our way, and the high road led directly into
the town, which is without any distinctive character. It consists of a
long street with what we may term a nucleus and a few fibres. The
nucleus is the market-place, and the fibres are the few lanes
diverging from it. The long street--that is to say, long in a little
town--is quite without passengers; no one comes out from the doors, no
one is to be seen at the windows.

It was therefore with pleased surprise that I at length descried a
human being: it was at an ironmonger's, where there hung a paper of
pins, a handkerchief and two tea-pots in the window. There I saw a
solitary shop-boy, standing quite still, but leaning over the counter
and looking out of the open door. He certainly wrote in his journal,
if he had one, in the evening: "To-day a traveller drove through the
town; who he was, God knows, for I don't!"--yes, that was what the
shop-boy's face said, and an honest face it was.

In the inn at which I arrived, there was the same grave-like stillness
as in the street. The gate was certainly closed, but all the inner
doors were wide open; the farm-yard cock stood uplifted in the middle
of the traveller's room and crowed, in order to show that there was
somebody at home. The house, however, was quite picturesque: it had an
open balcony, from which one might look out upon the yard, for it
would have been far too lively had it been facing the street. There
hung the old sign and creaked in the wind, as if to show that it at
least was alive. I saw it from my window; I saw also how the grass in
the street had got the mastery over the pavement. The sun shone
brightly, but shone as into the bachelor's solitary room, and on the
old maid's balsams in the flower-pots. It was as still as a Scotch
Sunday--and yet it was a Tuesday. One was disposed for Young's "Night
Thoughts."

I looked out from the balcony into the neighbouring yard: there was
not a soul to be seen, but children had been playing there. There was
a little garden made of dry sticks: they were stuck down in the soft
soil and had been