Everywhere one hears the
pleasant greeting of "_Buona Festa,_" "_Buona Pasqua_." All the _basso
popolo_, too, are out,--the women wearing their best jewelry, heavy
gold ear-rings, three-rowed _collane_ of well-worn coral and gold, long
silver and gold pins and arrows in their hair, and great worked brooches
with pendants,--and the men of the Trastevere in their peaked hats,
their short jackets swung over one shoulder in humble imitation of the
Spanish cloak, and with rich scarfs tied round their waists. Most of
the ordinary cries of the day are missed. But the constant song of
"_Arancie! arancie dolci_!" is heard in the crowd; and everywhere
are the _sigarari_, carrying round their wooden tray of tobacco, and
shouting, "_Sigari! sigari dolci! sigari scelti_!" at the top of their
lungs; the _nocellaro_ also cries sadly about his dry chestnuts and
pumpkin-seeds. The shops are all closed, and the shopkeepers and clerks
saunter up and down the streets, dressed better than the same class
anywhere else in the world,--looking spick-and-span, as if they had just
come out of a bandbox, and nearly all of them carrying a little cane.
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