If there be a capital for these poor people, it is Paradise. They
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 L3 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.
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