converging from points high above the spectator's head,
until they met or crossed in a dim perspective, near the horizon, were
broken here and there by the pointed front, or the tapering spire of a
church or convent. A solemn gateway protruded itself at intervals into
the street, and, with its flanking turrets and buttresses, gave broad
masses of shade in perpendicular lines, strongly contrasted with the
horizontal or diagonal patches of dark colour caused by the houses. At
early morn and eve, a shrill tinkling of bells warned the neighbours
of the sacred duties of many a secluded penitent, or admonished them
that it was time to send up their own orisons to God. Before mid-day
had arrived, and soon after it had passed, the deeper tones of a
_bourdon_, from some of the parochial churches, invited the citizens
to the sacrifice of the mass or the canticles of vespers. Not seldom
the throngs of busy wordlings were forced to separate and give room to
some holy procession, which, with glittering cross at the head, with
often tossed and sweetly smelling censers at the side, with
white-robed chanting acolyths, and reverend priests, in long line
behind, came forth to take its way to some holy edifice. The zealous
citizens would suspend their avocations for a while, would repeat a
reverential prayer as the holy men went by, and then return to the
absorbing calls of business, not unbenefited by the recollections just
awakened in their minds. On the eves and on the mornings of holy
festivals, business was totally suspended; the bells, great and small,
rang forth their silvery sounds; the churches were crowded, the
chapels glittered with blazing lights; the prayers of the priests and
people rose with the incense before the high altar; the solemn organ
swelled its full tones responsive to the loud-voiced choir; the
curates thundered from the pulpits, to the edification of charitable
congregations; and after all had been prostrated in solemn adoration
of the Divine presence, the citizens would pour out into the street,
and repair, some to their homes, some to the Palace of the Tournelles,
with its towers and gardens guarded by the Bastille; others to the
Louvre or to the Pre-aux-clercs, and the fields by the river side;
others would stroll up the hill of Montmartre; and some in boats would
brave the dangers of the Seine! On other and sadder occasions, the
inhabitants of the Rue St Denis would quit their houses in earnestly
talking grou