Man, woman, and child wore the national colours in some part of
their Sunday dress; and about everything and everybody there was a look
of happiness, hard indeed to describe, but one not often seen nor easily
forgotten.
Let us turn northwards. The old streets of Bologna, with their endless
rows of colonnades, are filled with people. The dead Papal city is alive
again. The priests have disappeared; friars, monks, Jesuits, and nuns
have vanished from their old haunts. St Patrick did not clear the land
of Erin more thoroughly and more suddenly of the genus reptile than the
presence of Victor Emmanuel has cleared Bologna of the genus priest. It
is whispered that out of top windows, and from behind blinds and
shutters, priests are peeping out at the strange sight of a glad and a
free people, with glances the reverse of friendly; but neither the black
robe nor the brown serge cowl, nor the three-cornered, low-crowned hat,
are to be seen amongst the crowd. Well, perhaps the scene looks none the
less gay for their absence. The flags and flowers glitter beneath the
blue, cloudless sky, and the burning sun of a hot summer day gives an
unwonted brightness to the grey colours of the grim, gaunt houses. Down
the steep, winding road leading from the old monastery of St Michael,
where the King is lodged, through the dark, narrow, crowded streets, a
brilliant cavalcade comes riding slowly; half a horse's length in front
rides Victor Emmanuel.
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