At an early hour of the Monday morning in the first week in Lent the ordinary stillness of the town is interrupted by loud and clamorous sounds, such as sometimes assail the ear in a European town, at midnight, when bands of revellers are reeling toward their homes.
Laughter, song, instrumental music, and the unsteady tramp of a crowd meet the startled ear, suggesting the idea of the proximity of a disorderly multitude. Opening the window cautiously you look down into the street, and behold bands of men in masks and habited in every variety of strange and ridiculous costume. Some few, however, display both taste and wealth in the choice of their disguises, but the generality of the crowd in their tawdry attire and hideous masks appear to have studied only effectual concealment. For some hours party after party continue to pass through the street, and as they knock loudly at the doors, and even call on the inhabitants by name, you discover that a feeling of impatience to have the shops opened and the ordinary routine of business commenced is common to all, and, if not gratified, may manifest itself in some open act of aggression.
Slowly and with evident reluctance the houses are opened, while the curious and amused faces of children and servants may be seen peeping from the trellised balconies down on the noisy crowd. After a time a few men in ordinary costume begin to appear in the street, trying to look unconscious and unsuspicious of any danger, and hurrying forward with the important pre-occupied air of men of business. But neither their courage nor cunning avails them anything. A shower of stale eggs breaking on the stalwart shoulders of one merchant reminds him that the more grave and English-like is his demeanor, the more is he regarded as the proper subject for mirth; while a plate of flour thrown over another would send a dusty miller instead of a dandy flying into some open door for shelter, followed by the derisive laughter of the insolent crowd.
Amazed at such an exhibition of unchecked violence, the stranger inquires the meaning of the scene, and learns that it is merely the customary way of celebrating in Funchal the day known as Shrove Tuesday, the people having from time immemorial {267} enjoyed an established license to indulge on that day in such rude practical jokes as are warranted by the usages of all carnival seasons.
I may here observe that the Madeirans reckon their days from noon to noon, instead of from midnight to midnight, though their impatience for frolic and mischief frequently leads them, as on the present occasion, into the error of beginning the day some hours too soon.
When, however, celebrating religious festivals, or on days set apart for fasting and invoking of their patron saints--Nossa Senhora do Monte and Sant Jago Minor--they carefully adhere to the established rule.
As the day advances the crowd becomes bolder, and no one, no matter what his age, rank, or nation, is suffered to pass unmolested. These coarse carnival jests are continued not only through the day but through the night, and until noon the next day, when the firing of cannon from the fort announces the cessation of the privilege of outraging society with impunity. Although, however, practical joking is prohibited from that moment until the next anniversary of the same day, masquerading is allowed from Shrove Tuesday till the week after Easter, the English being the chief, if not the only, objects for raillery and ridicule.
In general the most amicable feelings exist between the Madeirans and all foreigners, yet the lower classes of the natives appear to derive the utmost satisfaction in being openly permitted to caricature the English, and under favor of their privileged disguise to display John's eccentricities and weaknesses in the most ludicrous light, while the jealousy of the authorities prohibits on his part the most distant approach to retaliation.
As the last echo of the warning gun died away amongst the hills, the sun's position in the heavens indicated the hour of noon, and instantly the musical peals of numerous bells came floating to the ear from every direction, while above their sweet harmonious sounds is heard the booming of cannon from the vessels anchored in the roads, and the loud blasts of trumpets from the fort and the barracks. A stranger might be excused for supposing that the people were about to renew the carnival, whereas they were only announcing, in conformity with ecclesiastical law, the commencement of the season of Lent. This was the first day, or Ash Wednesday, though by our manner of computing time it was still the noon of Tuesday. At one o'clock the roar of artillery from the Loo Rock and the shipping was silent, the martial strains ceased, but the bells at short intervals continued to ring out their melodious summons, which was responded to by hundreds of persons in ordinary costume, all moving in the direction of the se, or cathedral, in the Praca Constitutionel. Mingling with this decorous portion of the crowd were many of the most grotesquely attired masques of the previous day, whose antics and buffoonery, jests and laughter, formed the oddest contrast to the costume and bearing of the others.
Meanwhile, by one of those sudden changes so common in tropical climates, the sky, which a short time before was so blue and serene, began to show signs of a gathering storm. There was an ominous stillness in the atmosphere, the dull leaden color overhead was shedding its gloom everywhere, and I heard voices from the crowd exclaiming, "Hasten forward there, the rain is coming--hasten!" A few big drops just then fell with a plashing sound, and in a second or two afterward down, with a terrific noise, poured the fierce wild rain, coming on the streets with the noise of a waterfall, while on the house-tops it fell with a sharp rattle, as if every drop was a paving-stone.
In a few moments from the commencement of the rain the people had all disappeared, the streets had assumed the appearance of rushing streams, while the three fiumeras traversing the town kept up an {268} unceasing roar, as the swollen waters rushed plunging toward the sea.
Formerly these fiumeras were uninclosed, and consequently after heavy rains the torrents would enlarge their borders, spreading out on every side and encompassing the town, until it assumed the appearance of having been built in the midst of waves and currents. Now, however, walls of strong masonry attest the wisdom and industry of the modern Madeirans, and between these the rivers flow in shallow musical streams in summer, or sweep on in deep, sullen floods during the rainy seasons in spring and autumn. It sometimes, however, happens that, though the rivers can no longer overleap their boundaries to career round pillared edifices and lay bare their foundations, or, sweeping up into their fierce embrace cottages and their inmates, inclosures and their stalled cattle, hurry with them into the blue depths of the bay of Funchal, they still, when increased by these mountain torrents, which on leaving the heights are but whispering streamlets, gathering depth and strength in their descent, will send boulders of many tons weight over the high broad walls, followed by giant trees, planks of timber, and jagged branches, as if from the heaving bosom of the angry waters rocks and withered boughs are flung off with equal ease.
CHAPTER II.
From the period alluded to in the last chapter, namely, the beginning of Lent, processions and public ceremonies become of such frequent recurrence that I must either pass over a period of some weeks or fill a volume in describing them. Believing the former course to be the wisest, I shall pass on to the fourth Sunday in Lent. From an early hour in the morning every bell-tower had been awakening the echoes with its musical clamor, and every hamlet and village had responded to the summons by sending forth crowds of hardy inhabitants in their best attire, to join the gaily dressed multitudes thronging through the narrow, angular streets of Funchal toward the Praca, in which, as I have said, stands the se, or cathedral. This building is quaint-looking and massive, proclaiming the liberality, if not the taste, of its founders. It is somewhat more than three centuries old, having been completed in the year 1514, and is only now beginning to assume that mellow and sombre hue which comports so well with the character of such piles. By the hour of noon the Praca presented a sea of human faces. The long seats beneath the shade of trees had been resigned to the children, while the platform in the centre of the square, occupied on ordinary occasions by the military bands, now presented a waving parterre of the smiling and observant faces of peasant girls, who, notwithstanding their proverbial timidity and gentleness, had managed to secure that elevated position. Meantime the balconies were filling fast with the families of the English and German residents, all intent on seeing the remarkable pageant of the day known as the "Passo."
Having obtained a front seat in the balcony of the English reading-room, I had a full view of the animated and picturesque scene beneath, the latter feature being heightened by the striking contrasts exhibited between the costumes of the peasant women and those of the same grade residing in the town. As one looked at the latter it was not difficult to imagine they had just come from Europe with the tail of the fashions. Bonnets, feathers, flowers, ballooned dresses, all were foreign importations; while the women who had come down from those cottages on the heights, which, on looking up at, appear like pensile nests hanging from the crags, wore dresses of masapuja--a mixture of thread and bright wools manufactured by themselves--small shawls woven {269} in bright stripes, and on their heads the graceful looking lenco, or handkerchief, in some showy, becoming color. Others from the fishing villages wore complete suits of blue cloth, of a light texture, even to the head-dress, which was the carapuca, or conical shaped cap, ending in a drooping horn and a golden tassel; while a few wore cotton dresses, and covered their heads with the barrettea, a knitted cap in shape like an elongated bowl, and having a woollen tuft at the top glittering with gold beads. The elder women covered their shoulders with large bright shawls, while the younger wore tightly-fitting bodices, fastened with gold buttons, and over these small capes with pointed collars. All, whether old or young, wore their dresses full, and sufficiently short to display to advantage their small and beautifully formed feet.
In singular contrast with this simplicity of taste in their apparel, is their desire for a profusion of ornaments. Accordingly, you will find adorning the persons of the peasant women of Madeira rings and chains and brooches of intrinsic value and much beauty, such as in other countries people of wealth assume the exclusive right to wear.
An instance of this ruling passion came under my notice a short time since, which I may mention here.
Through a long life of toil and poverty a peasant woman had regularly laid by, from her scanty earnings, a small sum weekly. Her neighbors commended her forethought and prudence, not doubting but that the little hoard so persistently gathered was meant to meet the necessities of the days when the feeble hands would forget their cunning. At length the sum amounted to some hundreds of testatoes, or silver five-pences, and then the poor woman's life-secret was discovered. With a step buoyant for her years, and a smile which for a moment brought back the beauty of her youth, she entered a jeweller's shop, and exchanged the contents of her purse for a pair of costly earrings. Had she been remonstrated with, she would have betrayed not only her own but the national feeling on the subject, by saying--"I lose nothing by the indulgence. At any moment I can find a purchaser for real jewelry."
An hour passed, and signs of impatience were becoming visible in the crowd, when the sounds of distant music caused a sudden and deep silence. A feeling of awe seemed to have fallen at once on the multitude, and every bronze-colored face was turned with a reverential expression toward the street by which it was known the procession would enter the Praca. Slowly the music drew near, now reaching us in full strains, then seeming to die away in soft cadences. Meantime the guns from the forts and shipping renewed their firing, and the bells swung out their grandest peal. Curiosity was at its height, when the foremost row of the procession met our view--four men walking abreast, wearing violet-colored silk cassocks, with round capes reaching to the girdles, and holding in their hands wax candles of an enormous size. A long train, habited in the same way, followed these, and then came four ecclesiastics in black silk gowns and Jesuits' caps, bearing aloft a large and gorgeous purple banner, in the centre of which were four letters in gold, "S.Q.P.R," being the initials of a sentence, the translation of which is, "To the Senate and People of Rome."
After this followed another long line of men in violet, and then again four clothed in black, carrying a wax image, large as life, on a platform, meant to represent the garden of Gethsemane. Round the edge were artificial trees about a foot and a half in height, having their foliage and fruit richly gilt. The figure was clothed in a purple robe, and on the brow was a crown of thorns. It was in a kneeling position, and the face was bowed so low you could not distinguish the features, but the attitude {270} gave you the impression that it was making painful attempts to rise, which the weight of the huge cross on the shoulders rendered ineffectual. Another train of candle-bearers followed this, and then, in robes of rich black silk, and having on their shoulders capes of finest lawn trimmed with costly lace, came four priests holding up a gorgeous canopy, having curtains of white silk and silver, which glittered and flashed as the faint breeze, sweet with the perfume of flowers and fruit-trees, dallied amidst the rich folds. From the centre of the canopy was suspended a silver dove, its extended wings overshadowing the head of the bishop, who walked beneath, robed in his most gorgeous sacerdotal habiliments. Between his hands he carried the host, and as he passed along thousands of prostrate forms craved his blessing. Following the canopy were more men with tapers, and dressed in violet silk; then another purple banner of even greater expansion than the first; then a lovely train of little girls dressed to represent angels; then the band playing the Miserere; and lastly a regiment of Portuguese soldiers. As soon as the last of the men in violet had entered the cathedral, the door was closed; the soldiers formed in lines on each side; the band was silent; and, at the command of an officer, all uncovered their heads, and stood in an attitude expressive of deep humiliation. This scene was meant to represent that sorrowful yet glorious one enacted eighteen centuries ago in the judgment hall of Pontius Pilate. The little girls remained outside as well as the soldiery.
The dress of these children was tasteful and picturesque. They wore violet-color velvet dresses, very short and full, and profusely covered with silver spangles; white silk stockings and white satin or kid shoes; rich white and silver wreaths, and bright, filmy, white wings.
For an hour the cathedral door was kept closed, the soldiers remaining all that time with bowed heads, motionless as statues. At length the door was slowly opened, and one of the men wearing violet, having in his hand a long wand, at the end of which appeared a small bright flame, passed out, and proceeded to light up numerous tapers which had been placed on the front of different houses in the Praca. As soon as this was done, a command from an officer caused the men to resume their caps and their upright attitude. Presently the rich, expressive music of a full band was again heard playing the Miserere, and the procession passed out between the glittering and bristling lines, its numbers and its images increased.
Following close after the garden of Gethsemane, there was now an image of the Virgin, attired in an ample purple robe and a long blue veil, worked in silver. The exquisite taste and skill of the Madeiran ladies, exerted upon the richest materials, had given to this figure a lifelike appearance far surpassing that which usually distinguishes other draped statues. Over the clasped hands the velvet seemed rather to droop than lie in folds, while the expression of the attitude, which was that of earnest supplication, as if craving sympathy for some crushing woe, was heightened by the artistic arrangement of the heavy plaits of the robe.
The men who carried this image, and those immediately preceding and following it, wore blue instead of violet cassocks, while the little angels who had brought up the van of the first procession were now clustered about the bearers of the image of the Virgin.
From the cathedral the pageant passed on through the principal streets into the country, the faint peal of the trumpets occasionally coming back to the ear, mingled with the silvery sound of the bells, and the deep boom of the minute-guns. At the foot of the Mount church, however, various changes were effected. The little girls quietly separated themselves from the crowd, and, being watched for by anxious mothers and elder sisters, {271} were carried home. A deputy bishop took the place of his superior beneath the canopy, other men relieved the bearers of the banners and images, and other musicians released those whose attendance had commenced with the dawn. All through the day you could trace their course, only occasionally losing sight of them, and all through the night too, by the light of the cedar-wood torches borne by little boys, in snowy tunics, who had joined the procession at the foot of the mount.
To understand how beautiful was the effect of this, you must look with me on the unique and picturesque town of Funchal, running round the blue waters of the bay, and rising up into the vineyards and groves and gardens clothing the encircling hills. A golden light slumbers over the whole scene, so pure and luminous that we can trace distinctly every feature in the luxuriant landscape. The white houses of the town crowned with terrinhas, or turrets, and having hanging balconies glowing with flowers of rare beauty; the majestic palms expanding their broad and beautiful heads over high garden walls; the feathery banana waving gracefully on sunny slopes, where clumps of the bright pomegranates display their crimson pomp; the shady plane-trees running in rows along the streets; the snowy quintas or villas on the hills, becoming fewer and more scattered toward the summit; the churches and nunneries on higher elevations; and still further up the white cottages of the peasantry, with their vine-trellised porches and their gardens of pears, peaches, and apricots; while above and around all these, forming a sublime amphitheatre as they tower to nearly six thousand feet above the level of the sea, are the Pico Ruivo and Pico Grande. A wreath of purple mist lay that day, as it almost always does, on their topmost peaks, giving now and again glimpses of their picturesque outline, as, like a soft transparent veil, it was folded and unfolded by the breeze roaming over the solitudes of scented broom and heather. Through such scenes, in view of all, moved the long, glittering pageant just described.
CHAPTER III.
Everywhere the grave declares its victory--in beautiful Madeira as elsewhere. An old servant, whose business it was to cut up fire-wood and carry it into the house, has performed his last earthly duty and finished life's journey. He dwelt with his mother and sister in a cottage at the extremity of the garden; and I was only apprised of the circumstances of his death by hearing loud cries coming up from the shady walks, and the exclamations: "Alas, my son, my son!" and "Oh, my brother!" repeated over and over in accents of uncontrollable grief.
It is customary, as soon as a death occurs in the family of one of the peasant class, for all the survivors to rush forth into the open air, and, with cries and lamentations, to call on the dead by every endearing epithet and implore of them to return once more. The neighbors being thus made acquainted with what has occurred, gather round the mourners, and try to steal away the bitterness of their grief by reminding them that all living shall share the same fate, and that one by one each shall depart in his turn to make his bed in the silent chamber of the grave. By such simple consolations--untaught nature's promptings--they induce the bereaved ones to re-enter the house and prepare the body for interment.
The heat of the climate renders hasty burial necessary in Madeira, and the authorities are strict in enforcing it. From ten to twelve hours is the longest period allowed by law between death and the grave, and the very poor seldom permit even so much time to elapse; they merely wait to ascertain to a certainty that the hand of death has released the imprisoned {272} soul before they wrap up the body and carry it with hurrying feet to "breathless darkness and the narrow house."
In such instances coffins are rarely used, and when they are, they are hired by the hour. The usual way is to roll the body up tightly in a sere cloth, then place it in a "death hammock" (which resembles an unbleached linen sheet, tied at the ends to an iron pole); and hurry with it to an unhonored grave.
A few days subsequent to the death of the old servant, the remains of a little girl were borne past; the sight was so singular I think it worth describing.
Moving slowly and solemnly along the street were a number of men, habited in deep blue home-made cloth, the two foremost of whom carried a light iron bier, on which lay the body of a little girl, whose brief period of life numbered not more than five summers. A robe of soft, clear, snowy muslin enveloped the motionless form like a cloud; on the tiny feet, crossed in rest at last, were white silk stockings and white shoes; and her little hands, which must so lately have found gleeful employment in scattering the fragments of broken toys, were now meekly folded on her bosom over a bouquet of orange blossoms. A heavy wreath of the same flowers, mingled with a few leaves of the allegro campo, encircled her young brow, which, as may be supposed, wore that lovely, calm expression described by poets as the impress of "heaven's signet-ring."
In almost every one of the varied scenes of life orange blossoms are made use of in Madeira, either as types or emblems. Wreaths of them grace the bride's young head, as being emblematical of the beauty and purity of her character; as typical of a grief which shall be ever fresh, chaplets of them crown the pale brows of the dead. On the anniversary of a birth-day they are presented to the aged as an embodiment of the truth that they shall again renew their youth; while the proud triumphal arch is adorned with their snowy bells, as an assurance that the occasion for which it was erected shall be held in ever-enduring remembrance.
The little child on the rude bier, who looked as fair in her death-sleep as these fairest of flowers, was being carried to the cemetery belonging to the resident Roman Catholics, and known as Laranjeira. There a priest was awaiting its arrival. He was standing by the open grave, and when the body was laid at his feet he read over it in Latin a short burial service, placed some grains of dust on the pulseless bosom, and departed. Being carefully wrapped in a sere doth, it was then placed in a shallow grave (according to custom) and lightly covered with three or four inches of earth.
Laranjeira is situated on the west of the town. Passing up the Augustias Hill the stranger sees a large, handsome gate near the empress's hospital; this is the entrance to the graveyard. Inside is a small flower-garden, tastefully laid out and neatly kept, through which you pass to the broad stone steps leading to the fine gravel walk running quite through the cemetery. Another walk, also of considerable width, leads round it, while several narrower ones, shaded by hedges of geraniums, roses, and lavender, are cut through it in different directions. Inclosing the whole is a high wall, studded with monumental tablets, on some of which praise and grief are charactered in deep, newly-cut letters, while from many others time has either obliterated every trace of writing, or the pains and the heat have washed and bleached them into meaningless, cloudy white slabs. There are but few monuments or even tombstones of any pretension, though many of the latter bear English inscriptions. Rows of cypress trees border the centre walk, and almost every grave in the inclosure is overshadowed by a weeping willow.
{273}
CHAPTER IV.
It was the last week in Lent, and, according to our manner of computing time, it was eleven o'clock A.M. of the day known as "Holy Thursday." Reckoning, however, as the Madeirans do, it was the last hour of that day, and the next would be the first of Good Friday.
An unusual silence had reigned in the town since the first streaks of purple light appeared in the east, as if to render more remarkable the din which at the hour above-named assailed the ears of the inhabitants of Funchal. Strains of military music filled the air, mingled with the tolling of bells and the firing of guns, which found a hundred echoes in the adjoining hills. These sounds were the signals to the people of Madeira that the time was drawing near when the most imposing ceremonial of their religion would be celebrated. With the first trumpet-notes the streets began to fill, every house sending forth its inmates, whether rich or poor, old or young, either to witness or take part in the spectacles of the day. As on all like occasions, the peasantry, in their best attire, poured in with astonishing rapidity; while crowding in with them were ladies in hammocks, clad in robes of rainbow hues, and partially concealed from curious eyes by silken curtains of pink or blue, which were matched in color by the vests of the bearers, and the ribbons with long floating ends adorning their broad-brimmed straw hats; and gentlemen on horseback, whom you at once would recognize as natives by their short stature, their bright vests, neckties, and hat-ribbons, and their profusion of rich, showy ornaments. Quietly making their way on foot through this throng were the English merchants, with their wives and daughters, distinguished from those by whom they were surrounded by an air of severe reserve and a studied simplicity of dress. A few handsome wheeled carriages also appeared on the scene, and one or two of the awkward looking boi-cars. All were taking the same direction, the Praca da Constitutionel, and the common object was to gain admission to the cathedral. At every turn the crowd augmented, and even masquers joined in considerable numbers--but these latter brought neither jest nor laughter with their presence; the ceremonies of the day had subdued even them, causing them to abandon the vacant gaiety appertaining to their attire for a demeanor more fitting the time and occasion.
Arrived at the cathedral, each party, no matter how exalted their rank, encountered a delay in obtaining an entrance. The throng around the door was great, and it was in vain that the soldiers endeavored to keep the general crowd at a distance. Trained as the Madeirans are to habits of deference to both military and ecclesiastical authority, they become, like other people, audacious and headstrong when assembled in large multitudes, and, in spite of both church and state, they now sought an entrance by the exertion of physical force, and some hundreds succeeded.
While, however, the struggle and contention at the door remained unabated, the ceremonial which all were so anxious to witness had been enacted within. To describe it is needless. The hour when the God-man poured forth his soul even unto death is a sad and awful memory familiar to us all. Let us, therefore, look at the scene which the cathedral presents at two o'clock on that day.
The windows are boarded up on the outside, and within are covered with curtains of heavy black cloth. The walls all round are hung with fine stuff of the same color, concealing the paintings and other ornaments, and the altar is hidden behind drapery of black velvet with ghastly-looking borders of silver. Between this gloomy vail and the cancelli, or railings, you see a magnificent catafalque, and on it {274} a coffin covered and lined with rich black velvet. A pale, corpse-like figure, wearing a crown of thorns, lies within, blood flowing from the wounded brow (or appearing to flow) and from the hands which lie outside the winding-sheet of snowy linen. Numerous tapers surround the catafalque, but from some cause they carry such weak, glimmering flames, that a dim, uncertain light pervades the immediate precincts of the altar, leaving the rest of the building in deep shadow. Habited in close-fitting black silk robes, and with heads bowed down as in unspeakable sorrow, several priests stand round the coffin, while fitful wails and sobs from the multitude show that the scene is not without its effect.
An hour passed thus, and was succeeded by a sudden and dismal silence, as if the great heart of the multitude had become exhausted with sorrow, when the melancholy cadences of the Miserere coming down from the huge organ as if rolling from the clouds, awoke up anew the grief of the people, and low cries and half-stifled groans mingled freely with the long-drawn, plaintive notes. Meantime the bishop, habited in his most simple sacerdotal robes, came from the sacristy and stood at the foot of the coffin, while four priests raised it from the catafalque by means of loops of black silk and silver cord. The bishop then moved forward, the dense crowd opening a lane for him as he passed slowly round the church, followed by the four priests carrying the coffin, and by others bearing the dim tapers. As He returned toward the altar the people's sorrow seemed to increase, and every head was stretched forward to catch a last glimpse of the coffin, when just as the procession got within the cancelli a heavy curtain was let fall, shutting in altar, catafalque, and tapers, and leaving the cathedral in utter darkness.
This scene was meant to represent the burial in the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, and while the greater portion of the congregation were weeping aloud, a voice was heard proceeding from the pulpit, and pronouncing that preliminary sentence to a sermon known as the "blessing."
In an instant the sounds of grief were hushed, and the mute audience seemed to suppress their very breathing while they anxiously listened to the words of the preacher.
Spoken in a tongue with which few visitors to the island are acquainted, the discourse took to the ears of strangers the shape of a varied murmur, whose tones and cadences played on the very heart-strings of the auditors, awakening at will feelings of fear, agony, remorse, and repentance. As he proceeded, the passion and pathos of his accents increased, and when he ceased to speak a desolate stillness pervaded the whole multitude. Presently two men entered from a side door bearing dim tapers, and at the same moment the great door leading into the Praca was opened, and the congregation poured like a tide into the open air, while low, soft sighs and murmurs falling on the ear told of feelings of relief which words were powerless to express.
For a moment the throng leaving the church mingled with the multitude without. The solid mass swayed like a troubled sea, and then quietly broke up and scattered widely. Men in trade turned their faces homeward, the business of life being, in their judgment, of more importance than any further participation in the day's proceedings.
Elderly men and women of the lower classes sought out those houses and temporary sheds, over the doors of which the four golden letters, "P.V.A.B.," served the same purpose as the less mysterious British announcement of "entertainment for man and horse;" while the young peasants and artisans, forming an immense concourse, went shouting toward the Mount road, leaving the streets leading to the beach free from all obstacles, a circumstance of which the more respectable and even aristocratic {275} portion of the multitude eagerly availed themselves. Mingling with all parties were ragged-looking vendors of curiosities, clamorous old beggars, and younger ones whose brilliant, laughing black eyes contradicted the earnest appeal of the lips.