To return to Boston. When I got into the streets upon this Sunday
morning, the air was so clear, the houses were so bright and gay:
the signboards were painted in such gaudy colours; the gilded
letters were so very golden; the bricks were so very red, the stone
was so very white, the blinds and area railings were so very green,
the knobs and plates upon the street doors so marvellously bright
and twinkling; and all so slight and unsubstantial in appearance -
that every thoroughfare in the city looked exactly like a scene in
a pantomime. It rarely happens in the business streets that a
tradesman, if I may venture to call anybody a tradesman, where
everybody is a merchant, resides above his store; so that many
occupations are often carried on in one house, and the whole front
is covered with boards and inscriptions. As I walked along, I kept
glancing up at these boards, confidently expecting to see a few of
them change into something; and I never turned a corner suddenly
without looking out for the clown and pantaloon, who, I had no
doubt, were hiding in a doorway or behind some pillar close at
hand. As to Harlequin and Columbine, I discovered immediately that
they lodged (they are always looking after lodgings in a pantomime)
at a very small clockmaker's one story high, near the hotel; which,
in addition to various symbols and devices, almost covering the
whole front, had a great dial hanging out - to be jumped through,
of course.
Pages:
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65