Udite, udite, O rustici! Attenti, non fiatate! Io già suppongo e immagino Che al par di me sappiate Che io son quel gran medico Dottore Enciclopedico Chiamato Dulcamara, La cui virtu preclara E i portenti infiniti Son noti in tutto il mondo--_e in altri siti_.
Benefattor degli uomini, Reparator dei mali, In pochi giorni io sgombrerò. Io spazzo gli spedali E la salute a vendere Per tutto il mondo io vo. Compratela, compratela,-- Per poco io ve la do.
È questo l'odontalgico, Mirabile liquore, De' topi e dei cimici Possente distruttore, I cui certificati Autentici, bollati, Toccar, vedere, e leggere, A ciaschedun farò. Per questo mio specifico Simpatico, prolifico, Un uom settuagenario E valetudinario Nonno di dieci bamboli Ancora diventò.
O voi matrona rigide, Ringiovanir bramate? Le vostre rughe incomode Con esso cancellate. Volete, voi donzelle, Ben liscia aver la pelle? Voi giovani galanti, Per sempre avere amanti, Comprate il mio specifico,-- Per poco io ve lo do.
Ei move i paralitici, Spedisce gli apopletici, Gli asmatici, gli asfitici, Gli isterici, e disbetici; Guarisce timpanitidi E scrofoli e rachitidi; E fino il mal di fegato, Che in moda diventò. Comprate il mio specifico,-- Per poco io ve lo do.
And so on and on and on. There is never an end of that voluble gabble. Nothing is more amusing than the Italian _ciarlatano_, wherever you meet him; but, like many other national characters, he is vanishing, and is seen more and more rarely every year. Perhaps he has been promoted to an office in the Church or government, and finds more pickings there than at the fairs; and if not, perhaps he has sold out his profession and good-will to his confessor, who has mounted, by means of it into a gilded carriage, and wears silk stockings, whose color, for fear of mistake, I will not mention.
But to return to the fair and our station on the parapets at Grotta-Ferrata. Opposite us is a penthouse, (where nobody peaks and pines,) whose jutting _fraschi_-covered eaves and posts are adorned with gay draperies; and under the shadow of this is seated a motley set of peasants at their lunch and dinner. Smoking plates come in and out of the dark hole of a door that opens into kitchen and cellar, and the _camerieri_ cry constantly, "_Vengo subito_" "_Eccomi quà_"--whether they come or not. Big-bellied flasks of rich Grotta-Ferrata wine are filled and emptied; and bargains are struck for cattle, donkeys, and clothes; and healths are pledged and _brindisi_ are given. But there is no riot and no quarrelling. If we lift our eyes from this swarm below, we see the exquisite Campagna with its silent, purple distances stretching off to Rome, and hear the rush of a wild torrent scolding in the gorge below among the stones and olives.