It was certainly a curious contrast. Willis, seated on a sort of
throne, crowned with a waving plume of feathers, shrouded in a fiery
mantle, and surrounded by a crowd of prostrate figures, was quietly
puffing ribbons of smoke from the tips of his lips. There he sat, for
all the world like a crane in a duck-pond. From time to time the more
daring of the worshippers slightly raised their heads to see whether
Jupiter was still thundering; but when their eye caught a whiff of
smoke, they speedily resumed their former posture. Some of them even
thrust their heads into holes, or behind stones, as if more
effectually to shelter themselves from the fury of the fiery furnace.
At last the eruption ceased, Willis knocked the ashes out of his pipe,
replaced it in his pocket, and the convoy resumed its route. After
half an hour's march, the procession halted near a clump of plantains,
in front of a structure more ambitious than any of those in the
neighborhood. A female, laden with rude ornaments, was standing at the
door. This lady, who rivalled the celebrated Daniel Lambert in
dimensions, would have created quite a _furore_ at Bartholomew Fair;
according to Jack, she was so amazingly fat, that it would have taken
full five minutes to walk round her. She took the Pilot respectfully
by the hand, and led him into the interior of the building, which was
crowded with images of various forms, and was evidently a temple.
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