ange sight of a glad and a
free people, with glances the reverse of friendly; but neither the black
robe nor the brown serge cowl, nor the three-cornered, low-crowned hat,
are to be seen amongst the crowd. Well, perhaps the scene looks none the
less gay for their absence. The flags and flowers glitter beneath the
blue, cloudless sky, and the burning sun of a hot summer day gives an
unwonted brightness to the grey colours of the grim, gaunt houses. Down
the steep, winding road leading from the old monastery of St Michael,
where the King is lodged, through the dark, narrow, crowded streets, a
brilliant cavalcade comes riding slowly; half a horse's length in front
rides Victor Emmanuel. Amongst the order-covered staff who follow, there
is scarcely one of not more royal presence than their leader; there are
many whose names may stand before his in the world's judgment, but the
crowd has its eye fixed on the King, and the King alone. For three days
this selfsame crowd has followed him, and stared at him, and cheered him,
but their ardour remains undiminished. All the school-children of the
city, down to little mites of things who can scarcely toddle, have been
brought out to see him. Boy-soldiers, with Lilliputian muskets, salute
him as he passes. A mob of men, heedless of the gendarmes or of the
horses' hoofs, run before the cavalcade, in the burning heat, and cheer
hoarsely. Every window is lined with ladies in the gayest of gay
dresses, who cast glances before the King, and try, like true daughters
of Eve, to catch a smile from that plain, good-humoured face. So amidst
flowers and smiles and cheers the procession passes on. There is no
pause, indeed, in the ceaseless cheering, save where the band of exiles
stands with the flags of Rome, and Naples, and Venice, covered with the
black veil; or when the regiments defile past with the tattered colours
which were rent to shreds at San Martino and at Solferino, and then the
cry of "Viva Vittorio Emmanuele" is changed for that of "Viva l'Italia!"

It is a Sunday afternoon, and at three o'clock I have turned out of the
broiling streets into the vast, crowded theatre of Reggio. Every place
is occupied, every box is crammed; rows of lights sparkle around the
darkened house, and the heat is a thing to be remembered afterwards.
There is a gorgeous ballet being acted on the stage, and Caesar is being
tempted by every variety of female art and posture, in a way which never
h