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.
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