hold on for a time, grow weak, loose his hold, fall, catch again, hold
on for a minute, and at last fall flat on the pavement, used up, and
down as low as he can reach.

But the street-cries of this city are countless; from the man who brings
round the daily broccoli to the one who has a wild boar for sale, not
one but is determined that you shall hear all about it. Far down a
narrow street you listen to a long-drawn, melancholy howl--the voice as
of one hired to cry in the most mournful tones for whole generations of
old pagan Romans who died unconverted; poor devils who worshiped wine
and women, and knew nothing better in this world. And who is their
mourner? A great, brawny, tawny, steeple-crowned hat, blue-breeched,
two-fisted fish-huckster; and he is trying to sell, by yelling as if his
heart would break, a basket of fish not so long as your finger. If he
cries so over anchovies, what would he do if he had a whale for sale?

Another _primo basso profundo_ trolls off a wheelbarrow and a fearful
cry at the same time; not in unison with his merchandise, for he has
birds--quail, woodcock, and snipe--for sale, besides a string of dead
nightingales, which he says he will 'sell cheap for a nice stew.' Think
of stewed nightingales! One would as soon think of eating a boiled
Cremona violin.

But out of the way! Here comes, blocking up the narrow street, a
_contadino_, a countryman from the Campagna. His square wooden cart is
drawn by a donkey about the size of, and resembling, save ears, a singed
Newfoundland dog; his voice, strong for a vegetarian,--for he sells
onions and broccoli, celery and tomatoes, _finocchio_ and mushrooms,--is
like tearing a firm rag: how long can it last, subjected to such use?