The spectacle of the day was the procession bearing the silver image of the saint through the streets.  I think there could never be anything finer or more impressive; at least, I like these little fussy provincial displays,—­these tag-rags and ends of grandeur, in which all the populace devoutly believe, and at which they are lost in wonder,—­better than those imposing ceremonies at the capital, in which nobody believes.  There was first a band of musicians, walking in more or less disorder, but blowing away with great zeal, so that they could be heard amid the clangor of bells the peals of which reverberate so deafeningly between the high houses of these narrow streets.  Then follow boys in white, and citizens in black and white robes, carrying huge silken banners, triangular like sea-pennants, and splendid silver crucifixes which flash in the sun.  Then come ecclesiastics, walking with stately step, and chanting in loud and pleasant unison.  These are followed by nobles, among whom I recognize, with a certain satisfaction, two descendants of Tasso, whose glowing and bigoted soul may rejoice in the devotion of his posterity, who help to bear today the gilded platform upon which is the solid silver image of the saint.  The good old bishop walks humbly in the rear, in full canonical rig, with crosier and miter, his rich robes upborne by priestly attendants, his splendid footman at a respectful distance, and his roomy carriage not far behind.

The procession is well spread out and long; all its members carry lighted tapers, a good many of which are not lighted, having gone out in the wind.  As I squeeze into a shallow doorway to let the cortege pass, I am sorry to say that several of the young fellows in white gowns tip me the wink, and even smile in a knowing fashion, as if it were a mere lark, after all, and that the saint must know it.  But not so thinks the paternal bishop, who waves a blessing, which I catch in the flash of the enormous emerald on his right hand.  The procession ends, where it started, in the patron’s church; and there his image is set up under a gorgeous canopy of crimson and gold, to hear high mass, and some of the choicest solos, choruses, and bravuras from the operas.

In the public square I find a gaping and wondering crowd of rustics collected about one of the mountebanks whose trade is not peculiar to any country.  This one might be a clock-peddler from Connecticut.  He is mounted in a one-seat vettura, and his horse is quietly eating his dinner out of a bag tied to his nose.  There is nothing unusual in the fellow’s dress; he wears a shiny silk hat, and has one of those grave faces which would be merry if their owner were not conscious of serious business on hand.  On the driver’s perch before him are arranged his attractions,—­a box of notions, a grinning skull, with full teeth and jaws that work on hinges, some vials of red liquid, and a closed jar containing a most disagreeable anatomical preparation.  This