]

On his safe return to his now brilliantly lighted Cathedral, the Saint was
welcomed with indescribable enthusiasm. The crazy old organ was made to
produce the loudest and liveliest of music; the uniformed municipal band
awoke the echoes of the venerable but bedizened fabric with its
complimentary braying; and urchins were even permitted to scatter
fire-crackers upon the floor in honour of the event. It was a real
ecclesiastical Saturnalia of a most innocent and joyous description. All
Amalfi spent the remaining hours of day-light in feasting, dancing and
singing, and when at last darkness fell upon the merry scene, rockets and
Roman candles were seen to spring into the night air from many points in
the landscape, illumining the sea with quickly dying trails of coloured
light. Watching the bonfires and the fireworks, and listening to the
sounds of revelry and song arising from the town below, we pondered over
our experiences of the day as we paced our airy terrace of the Cappuccini.
Surely the South has remained immutable for centuries in its deeply rooted
love of religious festivals. The forefathers of these devotees of Andrew
the Fisherman were equally enthusiastic worshippers of Poseidon or of
Apollo. The Church has not in reality altered the outer attributes; it has
but added a special moral significance to the old pagan gatherings. The
ancient gods of Greece and Rome are dethroned, and their very names
forgotten by the populace; but their cult survives, for it has been
adapted to the glorification of Christian Saints. True it is that the
milk-white sacrificial oxen and the gay garlands of antiquity have been
omitted; nevertheless, there remain the music, the incense and the
unrestrained jollity of the people. Much that is beautiful and suggestive
has perished, yet there survives enough of the old classical ritual for us
to see that the true spirit of antiquity has never wholly died out amongst
these sunburnt children of Magna Graecia.

"See the long stair with colour all ablaze,
With banners swaying in pellucid air,
As mitred priests with cautious footsteps bear
The silver Image, flashing back the rays
Of jealous Phoebus--Ah! the altered days
When these Lucanians with wind-lifted hair,
Blossom-bedecked, with limbs and bosoms bare,
Sang to Apollo psalms of love and praise!
With bells and salvoes all the hills resound,
And incense mingles with the atmosphere,
As still this Southern race, i