Leaves from a Madeira Garden 



country-folk in their best, the women still for 

 the most part wearing bright shawls, their 

 heads in kerchiefs of different colours, each 

 colour representing to the initiated the parish 

 of their residence. Every one is tidy and to all 

 appearance clean ; no one wears the shabby 

 cast-off clothing of a superior class, and the 

 sunny street presents a brilliant kaleidoscope 

 of colour which is quite astonishing to those 

 accustomed to the squalid aspect of our dingy 

 Northern crowds. And the orderly demeanour 

 of the throng is even more surprising. No 

 police or soldiers are required to keep the line, 

 the people keep it for themselves. I chanced 

 this year to be placed in a garden fronting a 

 spot where two roads met and a sharp corner 

 was turned by the procession — a point where 

 there was naturally some extra pressure of 

 spectators. One would have expected that 

 two or three mounted men would have been 

 necessary to control the crowd ; yet not a 

 policeman was to be seen, and there was no 

 trouble whatever in keeping the road open. 

 And even when the procession had passed, and 

 a surging mass of humanity filled the roadway, 

 there was no rough horseplay and no undue 



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