Tinted Sketches in Madeira [pp. 265-278]

Tinted Sketches in Madeira.
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
ai* 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 un
folded 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 HII.
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 delert 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
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