But to return to our washerwomen.  In every country-town a large washing-cistern is always provided by the authorities for public use, and, at all hours of the day, the picturesque figures of the peasants of every age, from the old hag, whose skin is like a brown and crumpled palimpsest, (where Anacreontic verses are overwritten by a dull, monkish sermon,) to the round, dark-eyed girl, with broad, straight back and shining hair, may be seen gathered around it,—­their heads protected from the sun by their folded tovaglia, their skirts knotted up behind, and their waists embraced by stiff, red busti.  Their work is always enlivened by song,—­and when their clothes are all washed, the basket is lifted to the head, and home they march, stalwart and majestic, like Roman caryatides.  The sharp Italian sun shining on their dark faces and vivid costumes, or flashing into the fountain, and basking on the gray, weed-covered walls, makes a picture which is often enchanting in its color.  At the Emissary by Albano, where the waters from the lake are emptied into a huge cistern through the old conduit built by the ancient Romans to sink the level of the lake, I have watched by the hour together these strange pictorial groups, as they sang and thrashed the clothes they were engaged in washing; while over them, in the foreground, the great gray tower and granary, once a castle, lifted itself in strong light and shade against the peerless blue sky, while rolling hills beyond, covered with the pale green foliage of rounded olives, formed the characteristic background.  Sometimes a contadino, mounted on the crupper of his donkey, would pause in the sun to chat awhile with the women.  The children, meanwhile, sprawled and played upon the grass, and the song and chat at the fountain would not unfrequently be interrupted by a shrill scream from one of the mothers, to stop a quarrel, or to silence a cry which showed the stoutness of their little lungs.

The cobblers of Rome are also a gay and singing set.  They do not imprison themselves in a dark cage of a shop, but sit "sub Jove" where they may enjoy the life of the street and all the “skyey influences.”  Their benches are generally placed near the portone of some palace, so that they may draw them under shelter when it rains.  Here all day they sit and draw their waxed-ends and sing,—­a row of battered-looking boots and shoes ranged along on the ground beside them, and waiting for their turn, being their only stock in trade.

They commonly have enough to do, and, as they pay nothing for shop-rent, every baiocco they get is nearly clear profit.  They are generally as poor as Job’s cat; but they are far happier than the proprietor of that interesting animal.  Figaro is a high ideal of this class, and about as much like them as Raffaello’s angels are like Jeames Yellowplush.  What the cobblers and Figaro have in common is song and a love of scandal.  One admirable specimen