A crowd of ragged choristers followed swinging incense-pots, droning an unintelligible chant, and fighting with each other.

Then came a troop of monks and scholars with bare heads and downcast eyes.

All these walked in twos and twos, and carried a few crucifixes raised aloft.
The monks were succeeded by a pewter-looking bust, which, I suppose, was a likeness of St Benedict, and the bust was followed by a mule, on which, in a snuff-coloured coat, black tights, white neckcloth, and a beef-eater's hat, the whole sheltered beneath a green carriage umbrella, rode His Excellency the Governor of the district.

Behind him walked his secretary, the Syndic of Subiaco, four gendarmes, and three broken-down, old livery-clad beadles, who carried the umbrellas of these high dignitaries.

In truth, had it not been for the unutterable shabbiness of the whole affair, I could have fancied I saw the market scene in "Martha," and "The Last Rose of Summer" seemed to ring unbidden in my ears.