When I went to bed, the assembled peasantry were in the full tide of
merriment, but without excess. The only person somewhat the worse of
the bottle was the threadbare priest with the gallows look.
I fell asleep with a low confused murmur of droning bagpipes, jingling
drinking cups, occasional laughter, and other noises. I dreamed, I
know not what absurdities; suddenly a solemn swelling chorus of
countless voices gently interrupted my slumbers--the room was filled
with light, and the sun on high was beginning to begild an irregular
parallelogram in the wainscot, when I started up, and hastily drew on
some clothes. Going out to the _makaa_, I perceived yesterday's
assembly of merry-making peasants quadrupled in number, and all
dressed in their holiday costume, thickset on their knees down the
avenue to the church, and following a noble old hymn, I sprang out of
the postern, and, helping myself with the grasp of trunks of trees,
and bared roots and bushes, clambered up one of the sides of the
hollow, and attaining a clear space, looked down with wonder and
pleasure on the singular scene.
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