I could not have had a better opportunity than was afforded me on this day of observing the peasantry of the Catanzaro district.  It was the feast of the Immaculate Conception, and from all around the country-folk thronged in pilgrimage to the church of the Immaculate; since earliest morning I had heard the note of bagpipes, which continued to sound before the street shrines all day long.  Don Pasquale assured me that the festival had an importance in this region scarcely less than that of Christmas.  At the hour of high mass I entered the sanctuary whither all were turning their steps; it was not easy to make a way beyond the portico, but when I had slowly pressed forward through the dense crowd, I found that the musical part of the service was being performed by a lively string-band, up in a gallery.  For seats there was no room; a standing multitude filled the whole church before the altar, and the sound of gossiping voices at moments all but overcame that of the music.  I know not at what point of the worship I chanced to be present; heat and intolerable odours soon drove me forth again, but I retained an impression of jollity, rather than of reverence.  Those screaming and twanging instruments sounded much like an invitation to the dance, and all the faces about me were radiant with cheerfulness.  Just such a throng, of course, attended upon the festival of god or goddess ere the old religion was transformed.  Most of the Christian anniversaries have their origin in heathendom; the names have changed, but amid the unlettered worshippers there is little change of spirit; a tradition older than they can conceive rules their piety, and gives it whatever significance it may have in their simple lives.

Many came from a great distance; at the entrance to the town were tethered innumerable mules and asses, awaiting the hour of return.  Modern Catanzaro, which long ago lost its proper costume, was enlivened with brilliant colours; the country women, of course, adorned themselves, and their garb was that which had so much interested me when I first saw it in the public garden at Cosenza.  Brilliant blue and scarlet were the prevailing tones; a good deal of fine embroidery caught the eye.  In a few instances I noticed men wearing the true Calabrian hat—­peaked, brigandesque—­which is rapidly falling out of use.  These people were, in general, good-looking; frequently I observed a very handsome face, and occasionally a countenance, male or female, of really heroic beauty.  Though crowds wandered through the streets, there sounded no tumult; voices never rose above an ordinary pitch of conversation; the general bearing was dignified, and tended to gravity.  One woman in particular held my attention, not because of any exceptional beauty, for, indeed, she had a hard, stern face, but owing to her demeanour.  Unlike most of the peasant folk, she was bent on business; carrying upon her head a heavy pile of some ornamented fabric—­shawls or something of the kind—­she entered shops,