In sending word to Anton to fetch us from the inn at Nieder Olang that
especial afternoon, we had not been aware that we had chosen a place
and hour when most of the pious male Catholics were gathered thither
to accord an unflinching, unequivocal assent to the Infallibility
dogma, as well as to condemn from the bottom of their clerical or
rustic souls the foul heresy of Old Catholicism, which was spreading
far and wide in the adjoining kingdom of Bavaria. Most of the farmers
and all the parish priests were assembled. The spacious _Widum_ or
parsonage, in festal array, kept open house, the large church was
full to overflowing, whilst the ample inn being still more crammed
we preferred waiting for Anton in a shady nook opposite. Here we had
ample leisure to observe the rows of clerical and bucolic backs ranged
against the open inn windows, and to listen to the hum of serious
voices, sounding as if a spiritual mass meeting were being held over
seitels of wine. It was a curious sight a quarter of an hour later,
the conclave being at an end, to watch the priests flocking forth,
some so old and shabby, in such stained, rusty frockcoats, that their
very assumption of dignity appeared painfully grotesque; others, more
scrupulously clean, displayed with pride a blue silk ribbon bound as
an order across their breasts; but whether shabby or decent, whether
singly or in groups, they were invariably received bareheaded by the
respectful villagers waiting outside, whilst a double salvo of homage
was awarded by priest and layman to a tall, elegant Italian monsignor
from Brixen, who, tucking up gracefully his rich violet garments,
walked with infinite care from the inn to the Widum, disappearing from
view under the gateway.

All the clergy now departing in various directions were complacently