The
road was thronged with people walking, and there was just as many riding
donkeys, all of them, even the children, already heated with wine,
singing, laughing, and accosting everybody. Many a worthy woman
supported her half-drunk husband with her powerful arm. Many a
substantial _signora_ from Rocca di Papa sat astride her mule,
showing without the least bashfulness her majestic calves.
At Grotta Ferrata, the long, long street presented a human throng of
absolute density without the slightest crush, for no one stuck his
elbows into his neighbour's sides. The eye could only distinguish a mass
of red, yellow and white patches in the sunlight, and in between them a
few donkeys' heads and mules' necks. The patches were the kerchiefs on
the women's heads. Folk stood with whole roast pigs in front of them on
a board, cutting off a piece with a knife for anyone who was hungry;
there were sold, besides, fruits, knives, ornaments, provisions, and
general market wares. One _osteria_, the entrance to which was hung
all over with sausages, onions and vegetables, in garlands, had five
huge archways open to the street. Inside were long tables, at which
people sat, not on benches, but on trestles, round bars supported by two
legs, and ate and drank in the best of good spirits, and the blackest
filth, for the floor was the black, sodden, trampled earth.
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