A populist US senator meets an Italian organ-grinder in Rome in 1859.
With acrobats, clowns, and Doris and Thisbe, goddesses of wind.
Pleasures and treasures of the Edwardian street, by a descendant of Scottish banditti.
Iain Sinclair wrote of when “global warming rolls a warm sea [up] the course of the old Hackney Brook.” The flow’s going to be the other way. Let me explain.
With an introduction by St. Spike in the Moon.
Sincerity meets spam.
With some relevant chunks of Henry Fielding.
But were organ-grinders really complicit in the 1817 killing at Rodez of the French politician Fualdès, as the translation suggests, or were the vielles hurdy-gurdies, as you’d expect?