And here, also, they used to have a grand procession, of priests, citizens, soldiers, sailors, and the high dignitaries of the City Government, once a year, to shave the head of a made-up Madonna—­a stuffed and painted image, like a milliner’s dummy—­whose hair miraculously grew and restored itself every twelve months.  They still kept up this shaving procession as late as four or five years ago.  It was a source of great profit to the church that possessed the remarkable effigy, and the ceremony of the public barbering of her was always carried out with the greatest possible eclat and display—­the more the better, because the more excitement there was about it the larger the crowds it drew and the heavier the revenues it produced—­but at last a day came when the Pope and his servants were unpopular in Naples, and the City Government stopped the Madonna’s annual show.

There we have two specimens of these Neapolitans—­two of the silliest possible frauds, which half the population religiously and faithfully believed, and the other half either believed also or else said nothing about, and thus lent themselves to the support of the imposture.  I am very well satisfied to think the whole population believed in those poor, cheap miracles—­a people who want two cents every time they bow to you, and who abuse a woman, are capable of it, I think.

Ascent of Vesuvius—­continued.

These Neapolitans always ask four times as much money as they intend to take, but if you give them what they first demand, they feel ashamed of themselves for aiming so low, and immediately ask more.  When money is to be paid and received, there is always some vehement jawing and gesticulating about it.  One can not buy and pay for two cents’ worth of clams without trouble and a quarrel.  One “course,” in a two-horse carriage, costs a franc—­that is law—­but the hackman always demands more, on some pretence or other, and if he gets it he makes a new demand.  It is said that a stranger took a one-horse carriage for a course —­tariff, half a franc.  He gave the man five francs, by way of experiment.  He demanded more, and received another franc.  Again he demanded more, and got a franc—­demanded more, and it was refused.  He grew vehement —­was again refused, and became noisy.  The stranger said, “Well, give me the seven francs again, and I will see what I can do”—­and when he got them, he handed the hackman half a franc, and he immediately asked for two cents to buy a drink with.  It may be thought that I am prejudiced.

Perhaps I am.  I would be ashamed of myself if I were not.

Ascent of Vesuvius—­continued.

Well, as I was saying, we got our mules and horses, after an hour and a half of bargaining with the population of Annunciation, and started sleepily up the mountain, with a vagrant at each mule’s tail who pretended to be driving the brute along, but was really holding on and getting himself dragged up instead.  I made slow headway at first, but I began to get dissatisfied at the idea of paying my minion five francs to hold my mule back by the tail and keep him from going up the hill, and so I discharged him.  I got along faster then.