year is, together with the following day, a real festival of the people,
if ever a festival deserved the name. The people themselves attend and
arrange it; and if representatives of the upper classes appear on this
occasion, they may do so only in their capacity as members of the
populace. There is no possibility of class discrimination; at least
there was none some years ago.

On this day the Brigittenau,[62] which with the Augarten, the
Leopoldstadt and the Prater, forms one uninterrupted popular
pleasure-ground, celebrates its kermis. The working people reckon their
good times from one St. Bridget's kermis to the next. Anticipated with
eager expectation, the Saturnalian festival at last arrives. Then there
is great excitement in the good-natured, quiet town. A surging crowd
fills the streets. There is the clatter of footsteps and the buzz of
conversation, above which rises now and then some loud exclamation. All
class distinctions have disappeared; civilian and soldier share in the
commotion. At the gates of the city the crowd increases. Gained, lost,
and regained, the exit is forced at last. But the bridge across the
Danube presents new difficulties. Victorious here also, two streams
finally roll along: the old river Danube and the swollen tide of people
crossing each other, one below, the other above, the former following
its old bed, the latter, freed from the narrow confines of the bridge,
resembling a wide, turbulent lake, overflowing and inundating
everything. A stranger might consider the symptoms alarming. But it is a
riot of joy, a revelry of pleasure.

Even in the space between the city and the bridge wicker-carriages are
lined up for the real celebrants of this festival, the children of
servitude and toil. Although overloaded, these carriages race at a
gallop through the mass of humanity, which in the nick of time opens a
passage for them and immediately closes in again behind them. No one is
alarmed, no one is injured, for in Vienna a silent agreement exists
between vehicles and people, the former promising not to run anybody
over, even when going at full speed; the latter resolving not to be run
over, even though neglecting all precaution.

Every second the distance between the carriages diminishes. Occasionally
more fashionable equipages mingle in the oft-interrupted procession. The
carriages no longer dash along. Finally, about five or six hours before
dark, the individual horses and carriages conde