believe in it fervently, and strive to attain it with all their might.
The very peasant who grudges the State two crowns for his hearth-tax,
willingly pays two and a half to have _Viva Maria_ scrawled over his
door. Another complains of the £3 per month paid to the Government
official, without a murmur at the thirty priests supported by the
township. There is a gentle disease which consoles them for all their
ills, called Faith. It does not restrain them from dealing a stab with
a knife, when the wine is in their brains, or rage in their hearts;
but it will always prevent them from eating meat on a Friday.

If you would see them in all the ardour of their simplicity, you must
visit the town on the day of a grand festival. Everybody, men, women,
and children are rushing to the church. A carpet of flowers is spread
along the road. Every countenance is glowing with excitement. What is
the meaning of it all? Don't you know?--It is the festival of Sant'
Antonio. A musical Mass is being performed in honour of Sant' Antonio.
A grand procession is being formed in honour of that Saint, probably
the patron of the place. There are little boys dressed up as angels,
and men arrayed in the sack-like garment of their brotherhoods: here
we have peasants of _The Heart of Jesus_; here, those of _The Name of
Mary_; and here come _The Souls of Purgatory_. The procession is
formed with some little confusion. The people embrace one another,
upset one another, and fight with one another--all in the name of
Sant' Antonio. But see! The statue of the worthy Saint is coming out
of the church: a wooden doll, with flaming red cheeks. _Victoria_! Off
go the petards! The women weep with joy--the children cry out at the
top of their shrill voices, "_Viva Sant' Antonio_!" At night there are
fireworks: a balloon shaped in the semblance of the Saint ascends amid
the shouts of the people, and bursts in grand style right over the
church. Verily, unless Sant' Antonio be very difficult to please, such