ite
mass of the town as it stands glowing on its hill-side and thence to the
brown hilltops, and the intense blue of the sky.

The whole setting of the scene is un-English, and the scene itself is as
un-English as its setting. The fun, the enjoyment, is universal. There
is nothing of the complicated apparatus which an English fair requires,
none of the contrivances to make people laugh--the clowns, the
cheap-jacks, the moveable theatres, the vans with fat women and
two-headed calves, the learned pigs, the peepshows, the peripatetic
photographers, the weighing-machines, the swings, the merry-go-rounds.
And so there are none of the groups of vacant faces, the joyless
chawbacons lounging gloomily from stall to stall, the settled inanity
and dreariness of the crowd that drifts through an English fair. An
English peasant goes to be amused, and the clown finds it wonderfully
hard work to amuse him. The peasant of Italy goes to Carnival to amuse
himself and to amuse everybody else. He is full of joyousness and fun,
and he wishes everybody to be as funny and as joyous as himself. He has
no notion of doing his merriment by deputy. He claps his mask on his
face or takes his bag of flour in his hand, and is himself the fun of
the fair. His neighbour does precisely the same. The two farmers who
were yesterday chaffering over the price of maize meet each other in
Carnival as Punch and Harlequin. Every boy has his false nose or his
squeaking whistle. The quiet little maiden whom you saw yesterday
washing her clothes in the torrent comes tripping up the street with a
mask on her face. The very mothers with their little ones in their laps
throw in their contribution of smart speeches and merry taunts to the
fun of the affair. It is wonderful how simple the elements of their
amusement are and how perfectly they are amused. A little masquerading,
a little dancing, a little pelting with flour and sugarplums, and
everybody is as happy as possible.

And it is a happiness that is free from any coarse intermixture. The
badinage is childish enough, but it has none of the foul slang in which
an English crowd delights to express its notions of humour. The girls
bandy "chaff" with their disguised lovers, but the "chaff" is what their
mothers might hear. There is none of the brutal horseplay of home.
Harlequin goes by with his little bladder suspended from a string, but
the dexterous little touch is a touch and no more. The tiny sugarplums
rain