its members carry
lighted tapers, a good many of which are not lighted, having gone out in
the wind. As I squeeze into a shallow doorway to let the cortege pass, I
am sorry to say that several of the young fellows in white gowns tip
me the wink, and even smile in a knowing fashion, as if it were a mere
lark, after all, and that the saint must know it. But not so thinks the
paternal bishop, who waves a blessing, which I catch in the flash of
the enormous emerald on his right hand. The procession ends, where it
started, in the patron's church; and there his image is set up under a
gorgeous canopy of crimson and gold, to hear high mass, and some of the
choicest solos, choruses, and bravuras from the operas.

In the public square I find a gaping and wondering crowd of rustics
collected about one of the mountebanks whose trade is not peculiar to
any country. This one might be a clock-peddler from Connecticut. He
is mounted in a one-seat vettura, and his horse is quietly eating his
dinner out of a bag tied to his nose. There is nothing unusual in the
fellow's dress; he wears a shiny silk hat, and has one of those grave
faces which would be merry if their owner were not conscious of serious
business on hand. On the driver's perch before him are arranged his
attractions,--a box of notions, a grinning skull, with full teeth and
jaws that work on hinges, some vials of red liquid, and a closed jar
containing a most disagreeable anatomical preparation. This latter he
holds up and displays, turning it about occasionally in an admiring
manner. He is discoursing, all the time, in the most voluble Italian. He
has an ointment, wonderfully efficacious for rheumatism and every sort
of bruise: he pulls up his sleeve, and anoints his arm with it,
binding it up with a strip of paper; for the simplest operation must be
explained to these grown children. He also pulls teeth, with an ease and
expedition hitherto unknown, and is in no want of patients among this
open-mouthed crowd. One sufferer after another climbs up into the
wagon, and goes through the operation in the public gaze. A stolid,
good-natured hind mounts the seat. The dentist examines his mouth, and
finds the offending tooth. He then turns to the crowd and explains the
case. He takes a little instrument that is neither forceps nor turnkey,
stands upon the seat, seizes the man's nose, and jerks his head round
between his knees, pulling his mouth open (there is nothing that opens
the