Sala’s silver mines are the largest, the deepest, 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 watered; a broken pan, which had certainly served by way of watering-pot, lay there still.  The sticks signified roses and geraniums.