There Was A Little Fiery-Eyed Old Man With A Crooked Shoulder, In
The Cathedral, Who Took It Very Ill
That I made no effort to see
the bucket (kept in an old tower) which the people of Modena took
Away from the people of Bologna in the fourteenth century, and
about which there was war made and a mock-heroic poem by TASSONE,
too. Being quite content, however, to look at the outside of the
tower, and feast, in imagination, on the bucket within; and
preferring to loiter in the shade of the tall Campanile, and about
the cathedral; I have no personal knowledge of this bucket, even at
the present time.
Indeed, we were at Bologna, before the little old man (or the
Guide-Book) would have considered that we had half done justice to
the wonders of Modena. But it is such a delight to me to leave new
scenes behind, and still go on, encountering newer scenes--and,
moreover, I have such a perverse disposition in respect of sights
that are cut, and dried, and dictated--that I fear I sin against
similar authorities in every place I visit.
Be this as it may, in the pleasant Cemetery at Bologna, I found
myself walking next Sunday morning, among the stately marble tombs
and colonnades, in company with a crowd of Peasants, and escorted
by a little Cicerone of that town, who was excessively anxious for
the honour of the place, and most solicitous to divert my attention
from the bad monuments: whereas he was never tired of extolling
the good ones. Seeing this little man (a good-humoured little man
he was, who seemed to have nothing in his face but shining teeth
and eyes) looking wistfully at a certain plot of grass, I asked him
who was buried there. 'The poor people, Signore,' he said, with a
shrug and a smile, and stopping to look back at me--for he always
went on a little before, and took off his hat to introduce every
new monument. 'Only the poor, Signore! It's very cheerful. It's
very lively. How green it is, how cool! It's like a meadow!
There are five,'--holding up all the fingers of his right hand to
express the number, which an Italian peasant will always do, if it
be within the compass of his ten fingers,--'there are five of my
little children buried there, Signore; just there; a little to the
right. Well! Thanks to God! It's very cheerful. How green it
is, how cool it is! It's quite a meadow!'
He looked me very hard in the face, and seeing I was sorry for him,
took a pinch of snuff (every Cicerone takes snuff), and made a
little bow; partly in deprecation of his having alluded to such a
subject, and partly in memory of the children and of his favourite
saint. It was as unaffected and as perfectly natural a little bow,
as ever man made.
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