The joy of the good Neapolitans at their cheaply-gotten emancipation, became daily more noisy and frantic. Every evening the Toledo was all alive with banners and torches, with thronged masses of possessed people, all shouting out with all the might of their southern throats, that favorite cry, "_Una! Una! Una!_" —conveying their desire that all Italy should be made _one_ country. There was a grand gala night at San Carlo, when the proscenium, the pit, and the boxes became one vast stage. The whole performance consisted of _Io Pæans_ to Garibaldi, who, calm and serene in his homely garb, had a pleasant word for all the friends who surrounded him in his box, and was, in fact, less insensible to that popular demonstration than he might have wished to avow. One of the greatest objects of interest was the easily-won castle St. Elmo. The whole population of Naples, male and female, seemed bent on performing a pilgrimage to that shrine of their patriot martyrs. One of Garibaldi's soldiers thus described it: "Yesterday I went up myself with a party of friends. We first walked through St. Martin's marble church and monastery, where our Garibaldian red shirts, I dare say, boded little good to the white-cowled monks, who gazed at us as we passed, tall, stately, and motionless, so that we at first mistook them for statues;—good Carthusian monks, doing penance in a marble paradise, bound by vow to perpetual silence, and affecting an easy, unconcerned air, though in their heart of hearts, probably, trembling not a little for the visible and invisible treasures of which their sanctuary has been, time out of mind, the repository. "From the marble cells of the monks to the iron dungeons of the victims of Castle St. Elmo the transition is but short, but the contrast is appalling. The stone steps wind down six floors, and at every floor room was made for about half a score of victims. Some of the miserable cells had windows; but, as the view from the hill over the loveliest panorama of land and sea would have been too great a solace to the lonely captive, the window was latticed over by thick wooden bars, not intended to prevent escape—for from that height only a bird could attempt it—but simply to rob the poor recluse of the distant view of his familiar scenes. In the lowest floor there is no window to the dungeons—only a little wicket in the door, opening outwardly, for the gaoler to communicate with the prisoner if he has a mind. That wicket would be opened one moment in the morning to let in a little bread and water; then the wicket would fall to, and for twenty-four hours all would be darkness inside.