At length, to the delight of the eager crowds assembled in the street of La Croix, the representation began. The pope is seen clad in gorgeous robes, and seated on a throne. Around him stand his courtiers, his body guards, and a promiscuous band of priests of high and low degree; behind are nobles, laymen, and mendicants. A funeral train shortly appears: it is a rich farmer on the way to his last home. Two of his relatives walk slowly in front of the coffin with napkins in their hand. The train having arrived in front of the pope, the bier is laid down at his feet, and the drama begins:
THE CARNIVAL AT BERNE.
FIRST RELATIVE IN A TONE OF DEEP GRIEF.
O noble army of the sainted host, Take pity on our doleful plight; Our cousin, our illustrious boast, From life, alas, has taken flight.
Expence we grudge not; cheerfully we'll pay For priests, monks, and nuns, in costly array: Yea, one hundred crowns we'll freely devote If thereby exemption may surely be bought From purgatory, that dread scourge, With which our frightened souls they urge.[856]
The Sacristan, breaking off from the band surrounding the pope, and running hastily to Curate Robert Ever-More—
Something to drink, Master Curate, I crave; A farmer of note now goes to his grave.
THE CURATE.
One!—nay you must tell me of ten: My thirst will ne'er be quenched till then. Life flourishes when mortals die,[857] For death to me brings jollity.
THE SACRISTAN.