quarters of the city, I saw yesterday a Pulcinello, who, on a temporary stage of planks, was quarrelling with an ape; while from a balcony above, a right pretty maiden was exposing her charms to every eye. Not far from the ape and his stage, a quack doctor was recommending to the credulous crowd his nostrums for every evil. Such a scene painted by a Gerard Dow would not fail to charm contemporaries and posterity.
To-day, moreover, was the festival of St. Joseph. He is the patron of all Fritaruoli,—that is, pastry-cooks,—and understands baking in a very extensive sense. Because beneath the black and seething oil hot flames will of course rage, therefore every kind of torture by fire falls within his province. Accordingly, yesterday evening being the eve of the saint's day, the fronts of the houses were adorned with pictures, to the best of the inmates' skill, representing souls in Purgatory, or the Last Judgment, with plenty of fire and flame. Before the doors, frying-pans were hissing on hastily constructed hearths. One partner was working the dough; another shaped it into twists, and threw it into the boiling lard; a third stood by the frying-pan, holding a short skewer, with which he drew out the twists as soon as they were done, and shoved them off on another skewer to a fourth party, who offered them to the bystanders. The two last were generally young apprentices, and wore white curly wigs; this head-dress being the Neapolitan symbol of an angel. Other figures besides completed the group; and these were busy in presenting wine to the busy cooks, or in drinking themselves, shouting, and puffing the article all the while. The angels, too, and cooks, were all clamouring. The people crowded to buy; for all pastry is sold cheap on this evening, and a part of the profits given to the poor.
Scenes of this kind may be witnessed without end. Thus fares it every day,—always something new,
