It Was Most Delicious Weather, When We Came Into Modena, Where The
Darkness Of The Sombre Colonnades Over The Footways Skirting The
Main Street On Either Side, Was Made Refreshing And Agreeable By
The Bright Sky, So Wonderfully Blue.
I passed from all the glory
of the day, into a dim cathedral, where High Mass was performing,
feeble tapers were burning, people were kneeling in all directions
before all manner of shrines, and officiating priests were crooning
the usual chant, in the usual, low, dull, drawling, melancholy
tone.
Thinking how strange it was, to find, in every stagnant town, this
same Heart beating with the same monotonous pulsation, the centre
of the same torpid, listless system, I came out by another door,
and was suddenly scared to death by a blast from the shrillest
trumpet that ever was blown. Immediately, came tearing round the
corner, an equestrian company from Paris: marshalling themselves
under the walls of the church, and flouting, with their horses'
heels, the griffins, lions, tigers, and other monsters in stone and
marble, decorating its exterior. First, there came a stately
nobleman with a great deal of hair, and no hat, bearing an enormous
banner, on which was inscribed, MAZEPPA! TO-NIGHT! Then, a
Mexican chief, with a great pear-shaped club on his shoulder, like
Hercules. Then, six or eight Roman chariots: each with a
beautiful lady in extremely short petticoats, and unnaturally pink
tights, erect within: shedding beaming looks upon the crowd, in
which there was a latent expression of discomposure and anxiety,
for which I couldn't account, until, as the open back of each
chariot presented itself, I saw the immense difficulty with which
the pink legs maintained their perpendicular, over the uneven
pavement of the town:
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