warm down there, he thought. The great festival of 8 May was over, but
flocks of worshippers were still arriving, and picturesquely pagan they
looked in grimy, tattered garments--their staves tipped with
pine-branches and a scrip.

In the massive bronze doors of the chapel, that were made at
Constantinople in 1076 for a rich citizen of Amalfi, metal rings are
inserted; these, like a true pilgrim, you must clash furiously, to call
the attention of the Powers within to your visit; and on issuing, you
must once more knock as hard as you can, in order that the consummation
of your act of worship may be duly reported: judging by the noise made,
the deity must be very hard of hearing. Strangely deaf they are,
sometimes.

The twenty-four panels of these doors are naively encrusted with
representations, in enamel, of angel-apparitions of many kinds; some of
them are inscribed, and the following is worthy of note:

"I beg and implore the priests of Saint Michael to cleanse these gates
once a year as I have now shown them, in order that they may be always
bright and shining." The recommendation has plainly not been carried out
for a good many years past.

Having entered the portal, you climb down a long stairway amid swarms of
pious, foul clustering beggars to a vast cavern, the archangel's abode.
It is a natural recess in the rock, illuminated by candles. Here divine
service is proceeding to the accompaniment of cheerful operatic airs
from an asthmatic organ; the water drops ceaselessly from the rocky
vault on to the devout heads of kneeling worshippers that cover the
floor, lighted candle in hand, rocking themselves ecstatically and