narrowed and
restricted in itself that it took every opportunity of expanding into
a common gaiety shared by all the neighbours and the countryside.

The river was a scene of far greater bustle and activity and
picturesqueness than it is now. Like the Thames, the Seine lost half
its beauty when the old watermen disappeared. The harbour of the
sixteenth century was always full of movement: sailors were always
spreading over the riverside streets into the countless inns and
drinking-places; the river was full of boats going to and fro; the
bank upon the farther side was the fashionable promenade of all the
ladies of the town; the bridges were filled with idlers who had no
better business than to look on. At the fete called the Gateau des
Rois all the ships were lit up in the port, and every tradesman in the
town sent presents to his customers: the druggists gave gifts of
liqueurs and condiments; the bakers brought cakes to every door; the
chandlers brought the "chandelles des Rois" to every household. At the
favourite meeting-places of Ponts de Robec, or the Parvis Notre Dame,
or the Eglise St. Vivien, the housewives gathered to watch their
husbands drink and gamble, or bought flowers from the open stalls, or
chaffered with the apprentices who stood ready for the bargain.
Meanwhile, from all the forests near, the children of the poor were
coming in with bundles of the faggots they were allowed to gather
free; at every large house parties were gathering, each guest with her
special contribution to the common fund of sweetmeats and of fruit,
some even had brought bottles of the famous mineral water sold at the
Church of St. Paul, and the Confrerie de St. Cecile was hard-worked
distributing its musicians broadcast to the many private gatherings
that called for pipe and tabour. Then as the evening lowered, men told
stories over the hearth of the girl who had seen three suns at once
upon the morn of Holy Trinity from a neighbouring hill-top, or of the
luck of their compere Jehan, whose boy, born on the day of the
conversion of St. Paul, was safe for all his life from danger of
poison or of snake-bite. All these customs and superstitions are
reflected in Hercule Grisel's Latin verses, which he begins with a
needless apology--

"Rotomagi patriae versu volo pandere mores,
Quis captum patriae damnet amore suae?"

No one will blame his patriotic love of every detail of the life
around him; and though the Latin that h