A crowd of ragged choristers followed swinging incense-pots,
droning an unintelligible chant, and fighting with each other. Then came
a troop of monks and scholars with bare heads and downcast eyes. All
these walked in twos and twos, and carried a few crucifixes raised aloft.
The monks were succeeded by a pewter-looking bust, which, I suppose, was
a likeness of St Benedict, and the bust was followed by a mule, on which,
in a snuff-coloured coat, black tights, white neckcloth, and a
beef-eater's hat, the whole sheltered beneath a green carriage umbrella,
rode His Excellency the Governor of the district. Behind him walked his
secretary, the Syndic of Subiaco, four gendarmes, and three broken-down,
old livery-clad beadles, who carried the umbrellas of these high
dignitaries. In truth, had it not been for the unutterable shabbiness of
the whole affair, I could have fancied I saw the market scene in
"Martha," and "The Last Rose of Summer" seemed to ring unbidden in my
ears. Not a score of un-official spectators accompanied the procession
from the convent, and the interest caused by it appeared but small; the
devotion absolutely none. The fact which struck me most throughout was
the utter apathy of the people. Not a person in the place I spoke to--and
I asked several--had any notion who the governor was. The nearest
approach that I got to an answer was from one of the old beadles, who
replied to my question, "Chi sa?" "E una roba da lontano;" and with this
explanation that the governor was "a thing that came from a distance," I
was obliged to rest satisfied.
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