There were, of course, an
office of the Pontifical Lottery, which was always crammed, an itinerant
vendor of quack medicines and a few scattered stalls (not a single booth
by the way), where shoes and caps and pots and pans and the "wonderful
adventures of St Balaam" were sold by hucksters of Jewish physiognomy.
Lean, black-bristled pigs ran at every step between your legs, and young
kids, slung across their owners' shoulders with their heads downwards,
bleated piteously. The only sights of a private description were a
series of deformed beggars, drawn in go-carts, and wriggling with the
most hideous contortions; but the fat woman, and the infant with two
heads, and the learned dog, whom I had seen in all parts of Europe, were
nowhere to be found. There was not even an organ boy or a hurdy-gurdy.
Music, alas! like prophecy, has no honour in its own country. The crowd
was of a very humble description; the number of bonnets or hats visible
might be counted on one's fingers, and the fancy peasant costumes of
which Subiaco is said to be the great rendezvous, were scarcely more in
number. There was very little animation apparent of any kind, very
little of gesticulation, or still less of shouting; indeed the crowd, to
do them justice, were perfectly quiet and orderly, for a holiday crowd
almost painfully so. The party to which I belonged, and which consisted
of four Englishmen, all more or less attired in those outlandish costumes
which none but Englishmen ever wear, and no Englishman ever dreams of
wearing in his own country, excited no comment whatever, and scarcely
attracted a passing glance.
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