Let us turn northwards.  The old streets of Bologna, with their endless rows of colonnades, are filled with people.  The dead Papal city is alive again.  The priests have disappeared; friars, monks, Jesuits, and nuns have vanished from their old haunts.  St Patrick did not clear the land of Erin more thoroughly and more suddenly of the genus reptile than the presence of Victor Emmanuel has cleared Bologna of the genus priest.  It is whispered that out of top windows, and from behind blinds and shutters, priests are peeping out at the strange sight of a glad and a free people, with glances the reverse of friendly; but neither the black robe nor the brown serge cowl, nor the three-cornered, low-crowned hat, are to be seen amongst the crowd.  Well, perhaps the scene looks none the less gay for their absence.  The flags and flowers glitter beneath the blue, cloudless sky, and the burning sun of a hot summer day gives an unwonted brightness to the grey colours of the grim, gaunt houses.  Down the steep, winding road leading from the old monastery of St Michael, where the King is lodged, through the dark, narrow, crowded streets, a brilliant cavalcade comes riding slowly; half a horse’s length in front rides Victor Emmanuel.  Amongst the order-covered staff who follow, there is scarcely one of not more royal presence than their leader; there are many whose names may stand before his in the world’s judgment, but the crowd has its eye fixed on the King, and the King alone.  For three days this selfsame crowd has followed him, and stared at him, and cheered him, but their ardour remains undiminished.  All the school-children of the city, down to little mites of things who can scarcely toddle, have been brought out to see him.  Boy-soldiers, with Lilliputian muskets, salute him as he passes.  A mob of men, heedless of the gendarmes or of the horses’ hoofs, run before the cavalcade, in the burning heat, and cheer hoarsely.  Every window is lined with ladies in the gayest of gay dresses, who cast glances before the King, and try, like true daughters of Eve, to catch a smile from that plain, good-humoured face.  So amidst flowers and smiles and cheers the procession passes on.  There is no pause, indeed, in the ceaseless cheering, save where the band of exiles stands with the flags of Rome, and Naples, and Venice, covered with the black veil; or when the regiments defile past with the tattered colours which were rent to shreds at San Martino and at Solferino, and then the cry of “Viva Vittorio Emmanuele” is changed for that of “Viva l’Italia!”

It is a Sunday afternoon, and at three o’clock I have turned out of the broiling streets into the vast, crowded theatre of Reggio.  Every place is occupied, every box is crammed; rows of lights sparkle around the darkened house, and the heat is a thing to be remembered afterwards.  There is a gorgeous ballet being acted on the stage, and Caesar is being tempted by every variety of female art and posture,