Long before one arrives, the squeak of penny-trumpets is heard at
intervals; but in the Piazza itself the mirth is wild and furious, and
the din that salutes one's ears on entering is almost deafening. The
object of every one is to make as much noise as possible, and every kind
of instrument for this purpose is sold at the booths. There are
drums beating, _tamburelli_ thumping and jingling, pipes squeaking,
watchmen's-rattles clacking, penny-trumpets and tin horns shrilling, and
the sharpest whistles shrieking everywhere. Besides this, there are the
din of voices, screams of laughter, and the confused burr and buzz of
a great crowd. On all sides you are saluted by the strangest noises.
Instead of being spoken to, you are whistled at. Companies of people are
marching together in platoons, or piercing through the crowd in long
files, and dancing and blowing like mad on their instruments. It is a
perfect witches' Sabbath. Here, huge dolls dressed as Polichinello or
Pantaloon are borne about for sale,--or over the heads of the crowd
great black-faced jumping-jacks, lifted on a stick, twitch themselves in
fantastic fits,--or, what is more Roman than all, men carry about long
poles strung with rings of hundreds of _giambelli_, (a light cake,
called jumble in English,) which they scream for sale at a _mezzo
baiocco_ each.
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