banish death from this delightful spot, the Neapolitans would desire no
other paradise.

The story that we are about to tell opens with one of these magical
pictures. It was the Day of the Assumption in the year 1825; the sun had
been up some four or five hours, and the long Via da Forcella, lighted
from end to end by its slanting rays, cut the town in two, like a ribbon
of watered silk. The lava pavement, carefully cleaned, shone like any
mosaic, and the royal troops, with their proudly waving plumes, made a
double living hedge on each side of the street. The balconies, windows,
and terraces, the stands with their unsubstantial balustrades, and the
wooden galleries set up during the night, were loaded with spectators,
and looked not unlike the boxes of a theatre. An immense crowd, forming
a medley of the brightest colours, invaded the reserved space and broke
through the military barriers, here and there, like an overflowing
torrent. These intrepid sightseers, nailed to their places, would have
waited half their lives without giving the least sign of impatience.

At last, about noon, a cannon-shot was heard, and a cry of general
satisfaction followed it. It was the signal that the procession had
crossed the threshold of the church. In the same moment a charge of
carabineers swept off the people who were obstructing the middle of the
street, the regiments of the line opened floodgates for the overflowing
crowd, and soon nothing remained on the causeway but some scared dog,
shouted at by the people, hunted off by the soldiers, and fleeing at full
speed. The procession came out through the Via di Vescovato. First came
the guilds of merchants and craftsmen, the hatters, weavers, bakers,
butchers, cutlers, and goldsmiths. They wore the prescribed dress: black
coats, knee breeches, low shoes and silver buckles. As the countenances
of these gentlemen offered nothing very interesting to the multitude,