The balconies, which grow like mushrooms on the fronts of every
house, in all out-of-the-way places and positions, are every now and then
adorned with red hangings. These balconies and the windows are scantily
filled with shabbily-dressed persons, who look on the scene below as
spectators, not as actors. At rare intervals a carriage passes. The
chances are that its occupants are English or Americans. On the most
crowded day there are, perhaps, at one time, fifty carriages in all, of
which more than half belong to the _forestieri_. Indeed, if it were not
for our Anglo-Saxon countrymen, there would be no carnival at all. We
don't contribute much, it is true, to the brilliancy of the _coup d'oeil_.
Our gentlemen are in the shabbiest of coats and seediest of hats, while
our ladies wear grey cloaks, and round, soup-plate bonnets. However, if
we are not ornamental, we are useful. We pelt each other with a hearty
vigour, and discharge volleys of _confetti_ at every window where a fair
English face appears. The poor luckless nosegay or sugar-plum boys look
upon us as their best friends, and follow our carriages with importunate
pertinacity. Fancy dresses of any kind are few. There are one or two
very young men--English, I suspect,--dressed as Turks, or Greeks, or
pirates, after Highbury Barn traditions, looking cold and uncomfortable.
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