Somewhere near the swing-bridge, where undeniable steamships go and
come between the inner and the outer sea, I saw a crowd gathered
about a man who was exhibiting a picture and expounding its purport;
every other minute the male listeners doffed their hats, and the
females bowed and crossed themselves. When I had pressed near enough
to hear the speaker, I found he was just finishing a wonderful
story, in which he himself might or might not have faith, but which
plainly commanded the credit of his auditors. Having closed his
narrative, the fellow began to sell it in printed form--little
pamphlets with a rude illustration on the cover. I bought the thing
for a soldo, and read it as I walked away.
A few days ago--thus, after a pious exordium, the relation began
--in that part of Italy called Marca, there came into a railway
station a Capuchin friar of grave, thoughtful, melancholy aspect,
who besought the station-master to allow him to go without ticket by
the train just starting, as he greatly desired to reach the
Sanctuary of Loreto that day, and had no money to pay his fare The
official gave a contemptuous refusal, and paid no heed to the
entreaties of the friar, who urged all manner of religious motives
for the granting of his request.
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