The Christmas of 1881 at Madeira could by no means be called gay. The
foreign colony was hospitable, as usual, with dinners, dances, and
Christmas trees. But amongst the people festivities seemed to consist
chiefly of promenading one's best clothes about the military band and
firing royal salutes, not to speak of pistols and squibs. The noise
reminded me of Natal amongst the Cairene Greeks; here, as in the Brazil, if you give a boy a copper he expends it not on lollipops, but on fireworks. We wished one another boas entradas, the 'buon' principio' of Italy, and remembered the procession of seventeen years ago. The life-sized figures, coarsely carved in wood and dressed in real clothes, were St. Francis, St. Antonio de Noto, a negro (Madeiran Catholics recognise no 'aristocracy of the skin'); a couple of married saints (for even matrimony may be sanctified), SS. Bono and Luzia, with half a dozen others. The several platforms, carried by the brotherhoods in purple copes, were preceded by the clergy with banners and crosses and were followed by soldiers. The latter then consisted of a battalion of caçadores, 480 to 500 men, raised in the island and commanded by a colonel entitled 'Military Governor.' They are small, dark figures compared with the burly Portuguese artillerymen stationed at the Loo Fort and São Thiago Battery, and they are armed with old English sniders.
Behind the Tree of Penitence and the crosses of the orders came an Ecce
Homo and a bit of the 'true Cross' shaded by a canopy. The peasantry, who crowded into town--they do so no longer--knelt to kiss whatever was kissable, and dodged up and down the back streets to gain opportunities. Even the higher ranks were afoot; they used to acquire in infancy a relish for these mild amusements. And one thing is to be noted in favour of the processions; the taste of town-decoration was excellent, and the combinations of floral colours were admirable. Perhaps there is too much of nosegay in Madeira, making us remember the line--
Posthume, non bene olet qui bane semper olet.
I went to the Jesuit church to hear the predica, or sermon. The
preacher does not part his hair 'amidships,' or display cambric and
diamond-rings, yet his manner is none the less maniérée. For him
and his order, in Portugal as in Spain, the strictest minutiae of
demeanour and deportment are laid down. The body should be borne
upright, but not stuck up, and when the congregation is addressed the
chest is slightly advanced. The dorsal region must never face the
Sacrament; this would be turning one's back, as it were, upon the
Deity. The elbow may not rest upon the cushion. The head, held erect, but not haughtily, should move upon the atlas gently and suavely, avoiding 'lightness' and undue vivacity. The lips must not smile; but, when occasion calls for it, they may display a saintly joy. The eyebrows must not be raised too high towards the hair-roots; nor should one be elevated while the other is depressed. The voice should be at times tremolando, and the tone periodically 'sing-song.' Finally, the eyes are ordered to wander indiscriminately, and with all pudicity, over the whole flock, and never to be fixed upon a pretty lamb.