I believe.  They must unquestionably love their religion, to suffer so much for it.  When the cholera was raging in Naples; when the people were dying by hundreds and hundreds every day; when every concern for the public welfare was swallowed up in selfish private interest, and every citizen made the taking care of himself his sole object, these men banded themselves together and went about nursing the sick and burying the dead.  Their noble efforts cost many of them their lives.  They laid them down cheerfully, and well they might.  Creeds mathematically precise, and hair-splitting niceties of doctrine, are absolutely necessary for the salvation of some kinds of souls, but surely the charity, the purity, the unselfishness that are in the hearts of men like these would save their souls though they were bankrupt in the true religion—­which is ours.

One of these fat bare-footed rascals came here to Civita Vecchia with us in the little French steamer.  There were only half a dozen of us in the cabin.  He belonged in the steerage.  He was the life of the ship, the bloody-minded son of the Inquisition!  He and the leader of the marine band of a French man-of-war played on the piano and sang opera turn about; they sang duets together; they rigged impromptu theatrical costumes and gave us extravagant farces and pantomimes.  We got along first-rate with the friar, and were excessively conversational, albeit he could not understand what we said, and certainly he never uttered a word that we could guess the meaning of.

This Civita Vecchia is the finest nest of dirt, vermin and ignorance we have found yet, except that African perdition they call Tangier, which is just like it.  The people here live in alleys two yards wide, which have a smell about them which is peculiar but not entertaining.  It is well the alleys are not wider, because they hold as much smell now as a person can stand, and of course, if they were wider they would hold more, and then the people would die.  These alleys are paved with stone, and carpeted with deceased cats, and decayed rags, and decomposed vegetable-tops, and remnants of old boots, all soaked with dish-water, and the people sit around on stools and enjoy it.  They are indolent, as a general thing, and yet have few pastimes.  They work two or three hours at a time, but not hard, and then they knock off and catch flies.  This does not require any talent, because they only have to grab—­if they do not get the one they are after, they get another.  It is all the same to them.  They have no partialities.  Whichever one they get is the one they want.

They have other kinds of insects, but it does not make them arrogant.  They are very quiet, unpretending people.  They have more of these kind of things than other communities, but they do not boast.