festooned with crimson and white drapery, spangled with gold.  While we were waiting permission to land, a scene presented itself which recalled the pagan days of Sicily to my mind.  A procession came in sight from under the trees, and passed along the shore.  In the centre was borne a stately shrine, hung with garlands, and containing an image of St. Agatha.  The sound of flutes and cymbals accompanied it, and a band of children, bearing orange and palm branches, danced riotously before.  Had the image been Pan instead of St. Agatha, the ceremonies would have been quite as appropriate.

The speronara’s boat at last took us to the gorgeous landing place, where we were carefully counted by a fat Sicilian official, and declared free from quarantine.  We were then called into the Passport Office where the Maltese underwent a searching examination.  One of the officers sat with the Black Book, or list of suspected persons of all nations, open before him, and looked for each name as it was called out.  Another scanned the faces of the frightened tailors, as if comparing them with certain revolutionary visages in his mind.  Terrible was the keen, detective glance of his eye, and it went straight through the poor Maltese, who vanished with great rapidity when they were declared free to enter the city.  At last, they all passed the ordeal, but Caesar and I remained, looking in at the door.  “There are still these two Frenchmen,” said the captain.  “I am no Frenchman,” I protested; “I am an American.”  “And I,” said Caesar, “am an Austrian subject.”  Thereupon we received a polite invitation to enter; the terrible glance softened into a benign, respectful smile; he of the Black Book ran lightly over the C’s and T’s, and said, with a courteous inclination:  “There is nothing against the signori.”  I felt quite relieved by this; for, in the Mediterranean, one is never safe from spies, and no person is too insignificant to escape the ban, if once suspected.

Calabria was filled to overflowing with strangers from all parts of the Two Sicilies, and we had some difficulty in finding very bad and dear lodgings.  It was the first day of the festa, and the streets were filled with peasants, the men in black velvet jackets and breeches, with stockings, and long white cotton caps hanging on the shoulders, and the women with gay silk shawls on their heads, after the manner of the Mexican reboza.  In all the public squares, the market scene in Masaniello was acted to the life.  The Sicilian dialect is harsh and barbarous, and the original Italian is so disguised by the admixture of Arabic, Spanish, French, and Greek words, that even my imperial friend, who was a born Italian, had great difficulty in understanding the people.