We have reason to know it by the clamour of church bells
which attends the sun's rising. There is terrible energy, not to say
harshness, in thus ushering in the day. On a mountain side, or in some
remote village, the distant sound of bells is musical enough, but here
it is dinned into our ears to distraction; and there seems no method in
the madness of these sturdy Catholics, for they make the tower of St.
Pierre vibrate to most uncertain sounds. They ring out all at once with
a burst and tumble over one another, hopelessly involved, _en masse;_ a
combination terribly dissonant to unaccustomed ears. Then comes the
military _reveille_, and the deafening 'rataplan' of regimental drums,
and the town is soon alive with people arriving and departing by the
early trains; whilst others collect in the market-place in holiday
attire with baskets of flowers, and commence the erection of an altar
to the Virgin in the middle of the square. Then women bring their
children dressed in white, with bouquets of flowers and white favours,
and a procession is formed (with a priest at the head) and marshalled
through the principal streets and back again to where the altar to 'Our
Lady' stands, now decorated with a profusion of flowers and an effigy of
the Virgin.
All this time the bells are ringing at intervals, and omnibuses loaded
with holiday people rattle past with shouting and cracking of whips.
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