This district of Bordeaux is full of the narrow, winding alleys, which further north we call "wynds:"—all narrow; the houses, abutting them on either side, being mostly five stories high, with all the lower windows barred, and "squints" on each side of the doorways. In front of each house stretches a little strip of pathway about two feet in breadth, tiled diagonally; token of the time when everyone was bound to subscribe thus to the duties of public paving.
In Rue de la Halle the houses are mostly six stories in height, some having lovely floriated doorways, and over them wrought iron balconies in all varieties of design; over some of the windows I noticed dog-tooth mouldings in perfect repair, and sometimes statues. Now and again one would come upon a specially fine old mansion, with carved doorways and, inside the entrance hall, panelled walls and grand old oak staircase. As often as not, one would find big baskets and sacks of flour arranged all round the hall, showing plainly enough for what purpose it was used now.
Now and again one of the heavy corn waggons would come lumbering down the narrow street, driving one perforce on the extremely cramped allowance of inches, called a pathway here: the dark blue smocks, (shading off into a lighter tint for the trousers), of the carters, making the most perfect foil to the quiet, sombre grey houses which were beside them on either side.
CHATEAU DE LA GUIGNARDIERE, LA VENDEE.
[Page 83.
Now and again as one turned out of one narrow, corkscrew road into another, one would catch sight, above the towering heights of the overhanging stories, of the spires, reared far beyond the houses of men, of the old churches, which vary the monotony of the roofs of the city, and stand steadfastly through the ages all along, as witnesses of the past: its faith and its aims. I am not au fait in the architectural points of churches, or I should like to enlarge on the beauties of the churches of St. André, St. Seurin, and one or two others of ancient fame, which help to make Bordeaux the splendid city it is. Adverse faiths, and the violent way in which they expressed themselves in the past, have terribly spoilt and desecrated much of the old work—work so beautiful that it is difficult to imagine how the hand of Vandalism could bear to destroy it as ruthlessly as it has done. We went to see the cathedral church of St. André one Sunday afternoon. The chancel was literally one blaze of light for Benediction and Vespers. The whole service was magnificently rendered, a first rate orchestra supplementing the grand organ, and the voices of priests and choir beyond all praise. What was, however, infinitely to be condemned, was the irreverent pushing and jostling which was indulged in ad nauseam by many of the congregation. That any one was kneeling in prayer, seemed to be no deterrent whatever; for the rough, purposeful shove of hand and arm, to enable its possessor to get a better view of the proceedings, went forward just as energetically.
The curious custom of collecting pennies for chairs, as in our parks at home, was in vogue here, as elsewhere in this country's churches and a smiling bourgeoise came round to each of us in turn with suggestive outstretched palm. At the church of St. Croix there was, I remember, a notice hung on the walls which put one in mind, somewhat, of the familiar little tablet that faces one when driving in the favourite little conveyance à deux of our own London streets—"Tarif des chaises," was printed in clear letters: "10 pour grand messe, Vêpres ordinaires 5, Vêpres avec sermon 10."
On thinking over the pros and cons of both systems; that of some of our English pew-rented churches, giving rise to the evil passions frequently excited in the mind of some seat-holder when, arriving late in his parish church, he finds someone else in temporary possession of his own hired pew, and that of the payment for only temporary privileges and luxuries "while you wait," I must frankly own that the latter infinitely more commends itself to my personal judgment!
Not once, or twice only, but many times have I been witness to selfish, jealous outbursts in civilised communities, all on account of some bone of contention, in the way of a private pew (what an expression it is, too, when you come to think of it!) which has been seized by some man first in the field—I mean the church—when its legal owner happened to be absent, and unexpectedly returns.