Bordeaux has a fine quay side. Bridges, shipping, old buildings, spread of river, variety of local colour, all combine to give it this.

Of course to-day it has gained many modern aids to commerce, notably among these the steam tram with its toy trumpet; and what it has gained in these aids it has lost in picturesqueness. But still it has kept variety, that saving clause, in colour. About the streets you can see the reign of colour still in office. Cocked-hat officials, brilliantly red-coated; the labourers loading and unloading on the quay side in blue knickers, with lighter blue coat surmounting them; the stone masons in weather-beaten and weather-faded scarlet coats; costumes of soft grey-green, with sparkling glisten of silver buttons down the front; and everywhere in evidence the flat-topped, round cap, gathered in at its base.

The expression of the French boy is not as that of the English boy, in the same way as the expression of the French dog differs widely from that of his English relation. Somehow it always seems to me that the French boy misses the jolly bluffness of demeanour of our boys, though he has a quiet, collected, reflective look. But when you come to the French dog, whether it be the poodle, or that peculiar spotted yellow, squinting variety which is the street arab of Bordeaux, you understand the difficulty an English dog finds in translating a French dog's bark.

Along the quay side, is a sort of rough gutter market; chock full of stalls, which are crowded with all sorts of colours, and a perfect babel as regards noise. Some of the stalls were placed under big tarpaulin umbrellas, some striped blue, some a dirty olive-green, others under tents—dirty yellowish white for choice—one under a carriage umbrella, or what had once been a carriage umbrella, but had lost its handle and its claims to consideration by "carriage folk."

All the stalls were in close proximity; and pots and pans of all sorts and sizes, harness of all sorts—generally out of sorts—long broom handles, chestnuts peeled and unpeeled, little yellow cakes on the simmer over a brazier, fruits, vegetables, saucepans, kitchen utensils, nails, knives, scissors and every variety of implement jostled each other, with no respect of articles. Each booth possessed a curious, arresting smell of its own. It met you immediately on your entrance, accompanied you a foot or so as you moved on, and then suddenly let go of you, as you were assailed by the smell that was indigenous to the stall coming next in order. It was a kaleidoscope of colour, a German band as to noise.

One old woman, with a faded green pin-cushion on her head, tied with black tape over her striped handkerchief, a broad red handkerchief over her shoulders, and carrying coils of ropes, was ubiquitous. One met her everywhere, and she carried her own perfume thick upon her wherever she went, but she always left sufficient behind in her own particular booth to keep up its character and special personal note. As I left the excited, jabbering crowd, a countrywoman, seeing the prey about to make its escape, darted out from her stall and seized me by the shoulder, pressing on me at the same time two large fish arranged on a cabbage leaf.

I came along the quay side later in the evening and all the sails—I mean the booths—were furled, carriage umbrella and all; and the low row of furled umbrellas, standing asleep and casting long dark shadows in the dim light, like so many owls, gave a quaint, extraordinary effect to the whole scene.

In the daytime it is difficult to imagine a finer, more striking effect than the quay side, and the stone buildings, most of them with crests over the doorway, fine ironwork balconies, and jalousied windows. The two ancient gates: La Porte du Cailha, and La Porte de l'hotel de Ville, standing solemn, grim and grey, aloof (how could it be otherwise?) from the modern life of to-day, its trams, its tin trumpets, its electric lights—but permitting in its dignified isolation, the traffic which has revolutionised the entire neighbourhood. Most of the old part of Bordeaux is near the quay side. There are many delightful old houses in Rue Quai-Bourgeois, Rue de la Halle, Rue Porte des Pontanets, Rue de la Fusterie, Rue St. Croix and others. The poetry of past ages, past doings, past individualities, is thick in the air as one passes down these narrow, dimly-lighted, old-world streets. Stories of adventures, of dark deeds, of sudden disappearances, are no longer so difficult to picture when one has stood under these long, broad doorways, in the darkest and most sombre of entrance halls, and seen dim, hardly distinguishable staircases away in the shadow beyond. The only sounds that break on one's ear are the dull, booming drone of the steamer away in the harbour, the loose, uneven rattle of the cumbrous waggons over the cobbles; and, when that has passed, the quick tap-tap perhaps of some stray foot-passenger's sabots.

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.

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.

Sometimes the incident is so entirely upsetting to the moral equilibrium of the possessor of the private pew, who finds himself suddenly in the position of not being able to enter his own property, that his a Sunday expression, which has unconsciously to himself been put on (a thing peculiarly English) is absolutely in ruins, and nothing visible of it any more! Moreover, his chagrin is such that he is often unable to control the outward expression of his feelings!

St. Emilion is within easy reach, by rail, of Bordeaux, and the bit of country through which one passes to reach it is very characteristic of that part of France.

The vineyards between Bordeaux and St. Emilion stretch in almost one continuous line. They are like serried ranks; the ground literally bristles with them. The sticks to which the vines are attached are not more than two feet in height, (sometimes not that). In one district they were all under water—a broad, grey sheet. Here and there in among the vines were trees—vivid yellow in leafage, with one obtrusively flaring blood-red in colour in their midst. The cows that browsed near the vines were tied by the leg to some big plank of wood, which they had to drag along after them as they walked. Most awkward appendage, too, it must have been. Though everywhere accompanied by this "drag upon the wheel," yet they were also governed and directed by the invariable peasant woman, at a little distance in the rear. Cocks and hens are also allowed to disport themselves up and down the vine rows, and seem to be given carte blanche in the way of pickings.

Possibly, now one comes to think of it, this may account for the odd taste some of the eggs have: it may be that some of the weaker vessels among the hens are tempted to help themselves to the wine in embryo, (in the same sort of way as do some butlers in cellars), and that this spicy flavour gets into the eggs without the hens being aware of it! It may not be the fault of the cocks. What can one cock do, in the way of restraint, among so many flighty hens?

I shall never forget one of the oddest scenes, in connection with cocks and hens, that I ever witnessed. I had, in the course of a walk, got over a high gate which led into a field. No sooner was I on terra firma again than I perceived, by the scuttling and flounce of feathers, and general fussy cackling, that I had stepped into the midst of a conclave which the lord and master of that particular harem was holding: his better halves (?) were around him. I am sorry to have to admit that he did not hesitate an instant, but, having no hands ready in which to take his courage, he left it behind him, in a most ignominious fashion and was the first to hurry to a place of shelter at some distance from me. When the shelter—in the shape of an old outhouse—was secured, he leant out of it and, anxiety for the safety of his household eloquently expressed on his red face, he chortled in his eager injunctions and exhortations to his hens to come and be protected. They obeyed, and I could hear an animated story or recital of some sort being given them by him.

Was he reading them a sermon on the imperative necessity of suppressing the feminine (?) vice of curiosity, which might lead them to venture out imprudently again into the danger just escaped and averted by his watchful vigilance? or was he explaining away his own apparent failure in courage lately shown them? Whichever it was, they lent him their ears—all but one hen, and she perhaps had formed the habit of making up her judgments independently on current events, without the aid of the masculine mind, for she peeped round the corner repeatedly at me, and finally, seeing I appeared to be a harmless individual enough, she, without consulting the cock, ventured to come and inspect, and remained, by my side with a modicum of caution, for some time.

But to return. Underneath some of the elms, which back-grounded the vineyards, the bronze coinage of dead leaves lay thick in handfuls. Past them came slowly and musically, from time to time, a roomy cart; its big bell—note of warning of its approach—hanging in a sort of little belfry of its own behind the horse. Here, there would be a belt of tawny trees against one of dark myrtle; there, a wood, soft pink and russet, and in the midst of it, piled bundles of faggots.

We had provided ourselves with our second dÉjeuner, but only the butter and bread and MÉdoc were beyond reproach; the Camembert had reached an uncertain age, and the ham had gone up higher! Mais que voulez-vous? You can hardly expect a feast out of doors as well as indoors, a feast to the mouth as well as to the eye. And outside was the most royally satisfying banquet of colours that any eye could desire. Colours at their richest, contrasts at their completest period.

Before reaching Coutras, you come again into the region dominated by poplars. And that they do dominate the district in which they appear, no one can doubt. Poplars give a peculiar character to the land; a special personal note to the scenery. They are atmosphere-making. Presently we came upon AngoulÊme, upon the slope of a hill; all white and red in vivid contrast.