Lo, shall we find better examples of
buildings of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
But St. Lo is dull, and there is a gloom about it that communicates
itself insensibly to the mind; that finds expression in the worship of
graven images by little children, and in the burning of innumerable
candles in the churches. There is an air of untidiness and neglect
about the town that no trim military regulations can alter, and a repose
that no amount of chattering of the old women, or even the rattle of
regimental drums, seems able to disturb. They do strange things at St.
Lo in their quiet, dull way; they paint the names of their streets on
the cathedral walls, and they make a post-office of one of its
buttresses; they paste the trees all over with advertisements in the
principal squares, and erect images of the Virgin on their warehouses.
The master at our hotel calls to a neighbour across the street to come
and join us at table, and the people at the shops stand outside,
listlessly contemplating their own wares. There are at least 10,000
inhabitants, but we see scarcely anyone; a carriage, or a cart, startles
us with its unusual sound, and every footstep echoes on the rough
pavement. The arrival of the train from Paris; the commercial travellers
that it brings, and the red liveries of the government grooms, leading
out their horses, impart the only appearance of life to the town.
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