They
were admirably behaved, and not one of them tipsy. There was an
old English gentleman at the Hotel Riposo who told us that there
had been another such festa not many weeks previously, and that he
had seen one drunken man there--an Englishman--who kept abusing all
he saw and crying out, "Manchester's the place for me."
The processions were best at the last part of the ascent; there
were pilgrims, all decked out with coloured feathers, and priests
and banners and music and crimson and gold and white and glittering
brass against the cloudless blue sky. The old priest sat at his
open window to receive the offerings of the devout as they passed;
but he did not seem to get more than a few bambini modelled in wax.
Perhaps he was used to it. And the band played the barocco music
on the barocco little piazza and we were all barocco together. It
was as though the clergyman at Ladywell had given out that, instead
of having service usual, the congregation would go in procession to
the Crystal Palace with all their traps, and that the band had been
practising "Wait till the clouds roll by" for some time, and on
Sunday as a great treat they should have it.
The Pope has issued an order saying he will not have masses written
like operas. It is no use. The Pope can do much, but he will not
be able to get contrapuntal music into Varese. He will not be able
to get anything more solemn than "La Fille de Madame Angot" into
Varese.
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