The Festival of St. Agatha.
Departure from Malta--The Speronara--Our Fellow-Passengers--The First
Night on Board--Sicily--Scarcity of Provisions--Beating in the Calabrian
Channel--The Fourth Morning--The Gulf of Catania--A Sicilian
Landscape--The Anchorage--The Suspected List--The Streets of
Catania--Biography of St. Agatha--The Illuminations--The Procession of
the Veil--The Biscari Palace--The Antiquities of Catania--The Convent of
St. Nicola.
"The morn is full of holiday, loud bells
With rival clamors ring from every spire;
Cunningly-stationed music dies and swells
In echoing places; when the winds respire,
Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues of fire."--Keats.
Catania, Sicily, _Friday_, _August_ 20, 1852.
I went on board the _speronara_ in the harbor of La Valetta at the
appointed hour (5 P.M.), and found the remaining sixteen passengers
already embarked. The captain made his appearance an hour later, with our
bill of health and passports, and as the sun went down behind the brown
hills of the island, we passed the wave-worn rocks of the promontory,
dividing the two harbors, and slowly moved off towards Sicily.
The Maltese _speronara_ resembles the ancient Roman galley more than any
modern craft. It has the same high, curved poop and stern, the same short
masts and broad, square sails. The hull is too broad for speed, but this
adds to the security of the vessel in a gale. With a fair wind, it rarely
makes more than eight knots an hour, and in a calm, the sailors (if not
too lazy) propel it forward with six long oars. The hull is painted in a
fanciful style, generally blue, red, green and white, with bright red
masts. The bulwarks are low, and the deck of such a convexity that it is
quite impossible to walk it in a heavy sea. Such was the vessel to which I
found myself consigned. It was not more than fifty feet long, and of less
capacity than a Nile _dahabiyeh_. There was a sort of deck cabin, or crib,
with two berths, but most of the passengers slept in the hold. For a
passage to Catania I was obliged to pay forty francs, the owner swearing
that this was the regular price; but, as I afterwards discovered, the
Maltese only paid thirty-six francs for the whole trip. However, the
Captain tried to make up the money's worth in civilities, and was
incessant in his attentions to "your Lordships," as he styled myself and
my companion, Cæsar di Cagnola, a young Milanese.
The Maltese were tailors and clerks, who were taking a holiday trip to
witness the great festival of St. Agatha. With two exceptions, they were a
wild and senseless, though good-natured set, and in spite of sea-sickness,
which exercised them terribly for the first two days, kept up a constant
jabber in their bastard Arabic from morning till night. As is usual in
such a company, one of them was obliged to serve as a butt for the rest,
and "Maestro Paolo," as they termed him, wore such a profoundly serious
face all the while, from his sea-sickness, that the fun never came to an
end. As they were going to a religious festival, some of them had brought
their breviaries along with them; but I am obliged to testify that, after
the first day, prayers were totally forgotten. The sailors, however, wore
linen bags, printed with a figure of the Madonna, around their necks.
The sea was rather rough, but Cæsar and I fortified our stomachs with a
bottle of English ale, and as it was dark by this time, sought our
resting-places for the night. As we had paid double, _places_ were assured
us in the coop on deck, but beds were not included in the bargain. The
Maltese, who had brought mattresses and spread a large Phalansteriau bed
in the hold, fared much better. I took one of my carpet bags for a pillow
and lay down on the planks, where I succeeded in getting a little sleep
between the groans of the helpless land-lubbers. We had the _ponente_, or
west-wind, all night, but the speronara moved sluggishly, and in the
morning it changed to the _greco-levante,_ or north-east. No land was in
sight; but towards noon, the sky became clearer, and we saw the southern
coast of Sicily--a bold mountain-shore, looming phantom-like in the
distance. Cape Passaro was to the east, and the rest of the day was spent
in beating up to it. At sunset, we were near enough to see the villages
and olive-groves of the beautiful shore, and, far behind the nearer
mountains, ninety miles distant, the solitary cone of Etna.
The second night passed like the first, except that our bruised limbs were
rather more sensitive to the texture of the planks. We crawled out of our
coop at dawn, expecting to behold Catania in the distance; but there was
Cape Passaro still staring us in the face. The Maltese were patient, and
we did not complain, though Cæsar and I began to make nice calculations as
to the probable duration of our two cold fowls and three loaves of bread.
The promontory of Syracuse was barely visible forty miles ahead; but the
wind was against us, and so another day passed in beating up the eastern
coast. At dusk, we overtook another speronara which had left Malta two
hours before us, and this was quite a triumph to our captain, All the oars
were shipped, the sailors and some of the more courageous passengers took
hold, and we shot ahead, scudding rapidly along the dark shores, to the
sound of the wild Maltese songs. At length, the promontory was gained, and
the restless current, rolling down from Scylla and Charybdis, tossed our
little bark from wave to wave with a recklessness that would have made any
one nervous but an old sailor like myself.
"To-morrow morning," said the Captain, "we shall sail into Catania;" but
after a third night on the planks, which were now a little softer, we rose
to find ourselves abreast of Syracuse, with Etna as distant as ever. The
wind was light, and what little we made by tacking was swept away by the
current, so that, after wasting the whole forenoon, we kept a straight
course across the mouth of the channel, and at sunset saw the Calabrian
Mountains. This move only lost us more ground, as it happened. Cæsar and I
mournfully and silently consumed our last fragment of beef, with the
remaining dry crusts of bread, and then sat down doggedly to smoke and see
whether the captain would discover our situation. But no; while we were
supplied, the whole vessel was at our Lordships' command, and now that we
were destitute, he took care to make no rash offers. Cæsar, at last, with
an imperial dignity becoming his name, commanded dinner. It came, and the
pork and maccaroni, moistened with red Sicilian wine, gave us patience for
another day.
The fourth morning dawned, and--Great Neptune be praised!--we were
actually within the Gulf of Catania. Etna loomed up in all his sublime
bulk, unobscured by cloud or mist, while a slender jet of smoke, rising
from his crater, was slowly curling its wreaths in the clear air, as if
happy to receive the first beam of the sun. The towers of Syracuse, which
had mocked us all the preceding day, were no longer visible; the
land-locked little port of Augusta lay behind us; and, as the wind
continued favorable, ere long we saw a faint white mark at the foot of the
mountain. This was Catania. The shores of the bay were enlivened with
olive-groves and the gleam of the villages, while here and there a single
palm dreamed of its brothers across the sea. Etna, of course, had the
monarch's place in the landscape, but even his large, magnificent outlines
could not usurp all my feeling. The purple peaks to the westward and
farther inland, had a beauty of their own, and in the gentle curves with
which they leaned towards each other, there was a promise of the flowery
meadows of Enna. The smooth blue water was speckled with fishing-boats. We
hailed one, inquiring when the _festa_ was to commence; but, mistaking our
question, they answered: "Anchovies." Thereupon, a waggish Maltese
informed them that Maestro Paolo thanked them heartily. All the other
boats were hailed in the name of Maestro Paolo, who, having recovered from
his sea-sickness, took his bantering good-humoredly.
Catania presented a lovely picture, as we drew near the harbor. Planted at
the very foot of Etna, it has a background such as neither Naples nor
Genoa can boast. The hills next the sea are covered with gardens and
orchards, sprinkled with little villages and the country palaces of the
nobles--a rich, cultured landscape, which gradually merges into the
forests of oak and chestnut that girdle the waist of the great volcano.
But all the wealth of southern vegetation cannot hide the footsteps of
that Ruin, which from time to time visits the soil. Half-way up, the
mountain-side is dotted with cones of ashes and cinders, some covered with
the scanty shrubbery which centuries have called forth, some barren and
recent; while two dark, winding streams of sterile lava descend to the
very shore, where they stand congealed in ragged needles and pyramids.
Part of one of these black floods has swept the town, and, tumbling into
the sea, walls one side of the port.
We glided slowly past the mole, and dropped anchor a few yards from the
shore. There was a sort of open promenade planted with trees, in front of
us, surrounded with high white houses, above which rose the dome of the
Cathedral and the spires of other churches. The magnificent palace of
Prince Biscari was on our right, and at its foot the Customs and Revenue
offices. Every roof, portico, and window was lined with lamps, a triumphal
arch spanned the street before the palace, and the landing-place at the
offices was festooned with crimson and white drapery, spangled with gold.
While we were waiting permission to land, a scene presented itself which
recalled the pagan days of Sicily to my mind. A procession came in sight
from under the trees, and passed along the shore. In the centre was borne
a stately shrine, hung with garlands, and containing an image of St.
Agatha. The sound of flutes and cymbals accompanied it, and a band of
children, bearing orange and palm branches, danced riotously before. Had
the image been Pan instead of St. Agatha, the ceremonies would have been
quite as appropriate.
The speronara's boat at last took us to the gorgeous landing place, where
we were carefully counted by a fat Sicilian official, and declared free
from quarantine. We were then called into the Passport Office where the
Maltese underwent a searching examination. One of the officers sat with
the Black Book, or list of suspected persons of all nations, open before
him, and looked for each name as it was called out. Another scanned the
faces of the frightened tailors, as if comparing them with certain
revolutionary visages in his mind. Terrible was the keen, detective glance
of his eye, and it went straight through the poor Maltese, who vanished
with great rapidity when they were declared free to enter the city. At
last, they all passed the ordeal, but Cæsar and I remained, looking in at
the door. "There are still these two Frenchmen," said the captain. "I am
no Frenchman," I protested; "I am an American." "And I," said Cæsar, "am
an Austrian subject." Thereupon we received a polite invitation to enter;
the terrible glance softened into a benign, respectful smile; he of the
Black Book ran lightly over the C's and T's, and said, with a courteous
inclination: "There is nothing against the signori." I felt quite relieved
by this; for, in the Mediterranean, one is never safe from spies, and no
person is too insignificant to escape the ban, if once suspected.
Calabria was filled to overflowing with strangers from all parts of the
Two Sicilies, and we had some difficulty in finding very bad and dear
lodgings. It was the first day of the _festa,_ and the streets were
filled with peasants, the men in black velvet jackets and breeches, with
stockings, and long white cotton caps hanging on the shoulders, and the
women with gay silk shawls on their heads, after the manner of the Mexican
_reboza_. In all the public squares, the market scene in Masaniello was
acted to the life. The Sicilian dialect is harsh and barbarous, and the
original Italian is so disguised by the admixture of Arabic, Spanish,
French, and Greek words, that even my imperial friend, who was a born
Italian, had great difficulty in understanding the people.
I purchased a guide to the festa, which, among other things, contained a
biography of St. Agatha. It is a beautiful specimen of pious writing, and
I regret that I have not space to translate the whole of it. Agatha was a
beautiful Catanian virgin, who secretly embraced Christianity during the
reign of Nero. Catania was then governed by a prætor named Quintianus,
who, becoming enamored of Agatha, used the most brutal means to compel her
to submit to his desires, but without effect. At last, driven to the
cruelest extremes, he cut off her breasts, and threw her into prison. But
at midnight, St. Peter, accompanied by an angel, appeared to her, restored
the maimed parts, and left her more beautiful than ever. Quintianus then
ordered a furnace to be heated, and cast her therein. A terrible
earthquake shook the city; the sun was eclipsed; the sea rolled backwards,
and left its bottom dry; the prætor's palace fell in ruins, and he,
pursued by the vengeance of the populace, fled till he reached the river
Simeto, where he was drowned in attempting to cross. "The thunders of the
vengeance of God," says the biography, "struck him down into the
profoundest Hell." This was in the year 252.
The body was carried to Constantinople in 1040, "although the Catanians
wept incessantly at their loss;" but in 1126, two French knights, named
Gilisbert and Goselin, were moved by angelic influences to restore it to
its native town, which they accomplished, "and the eyes of the Catanians
again burned with joy." The miracles effected by the saint are numberless,
and her power is especially efficacious in preventing earthquakes and
eruptions of Mount Etna. Nevertheless, Catania has suffered more from
these causes than any other town in Sicily. But I would that all saints
had as good a claim to canonization as St. Agatha. The honors of such a
festival as this are not out of place, when paid to such youth, beauty,
and "heavenly chastity," as she typifies.
The guide, which I have already consulted, gives a full account of the
festa, in advance, with a description of Catania. The author says: "If thy
heart is not inspired by gazing on this lovely city, it is a fatal
sign--thou wert not born to feel the sweet impulses of the Beautiful!"
Then, in announcing the illuminations and pyrotechnic displays, he
exclaims: "Oh, the amazing spectacle! Oh, how happy art thou, that thou
beholdest it! I What pyramids of lamps! What myriads of rockets! What
wonderful temples of flame! The Mountain himself is astonished at such a
display." And truly, except the illumination of the Golden Horn on the
Night of Predestination, I have seen nothing equal to the spectacle
presented by Catania, during the past three nights. The city, which has
been built up from her ruins more stately than ever, was in a blaze of
light--all her domes, towers, and the long lines of her beautiful palaces
revealed in the varying red and golden flames of a hundred thousand lamps
and torches. Pyramids of fire, transparencies, and illuminated triumphal
arches filled the four principal streets, and the fountain in the
Cathedral square gleamed like a jet of molten silver, spinning up from one
of the pores of Etna. At ten o'clock, a gorgeous display of fireworks
closed the day's festivities, but the lamps remained burning nearly all
night.
On the second night, the grand Procession of the Veil took place. I
witnessed this imposing spectacle from the balcony of Prince Gessina's
palace. Long lines of waxen torches led the way, followed by a military
band, and then a company of the highest prelates, in their most brilliant
costumes, surrounding the Bishop, who walked under a canopy of silk and
gold, bearing the miraculous veil of St. Agatha. I was blessed with a
distant view of it, but could see no traces of the rosy hue left upon it
by the flames of the Saint's martyrdom. Behind the priests came the
_Intendente_ of Sicily, Gen. Filangieri, the same who, three years ago,
gave up Catania to sack and slaughter. He was followed by the Senate of
the City, who have just had the cringing cowardice to offer him a ball on
next Sunday night. If ever a man deserved the vengeance of an outraged
people, it is this Filangieri, who was first a Liberal, when the cause
promised success, and then made himself the scourge of the vilest of
kings. As he passed me last night in his carriage of State, while the
music pealed in rich rejoicing strains, that solemn chant with which the
monks break upon the revellers, in "Lucrezia Borgia," came into my mind:
"La gioja del profani
'E un fumo passagier'--"
[the rejoicing of the profane is a transitory mist.] I heard, under the
din of all these festivities, the voice of that Retribution which even now
lies in wait, and will not long be delayed.
To-night Signor Scavo, the American Vice-Consul, took me to the palace of
Prince Biscari, overlooking the harbor, in order to behold the grand
display of fireworks from the end of the mole. The showers of rockets and
colored stars, and the temples of blue and silver fire, were repeated in
the dark, quiet bosom of the sea, producing the most dazzling and
startling effects. There was a large number of the Catanese nobility
present, and among them a Marchesa Gioveni, the descendant of the bloody
house of Anjou. Prince Biscari is a benign, courtly old man, and greatly
esteemed here. His son is at present in exile, on account of the part he
took in the late revolution. During the sack of the city under Filangieri,
the palace was plundered of property to the amount of ten thousand
dollars. The museum of Greek and Roman antiquities attached to it, and
which the house of Biscari has been collecting for many years, is probably
the finest in Sicily. The state apartments were thrown open this evening,
and when I left, an hour ago, the greater portion of the guests were going
through mazy quadrilles on the mosaic pavements.
Among the antiquities of Catania which I have visited, are the
Amphitheatre, capable of holding 15,000 persons, the old Greek Theatre,
the same in which Alcibiades made his noted harangue to the Catanians, the
Odeon, and the ancient Baths. The theatre, which is in tolerable
preservation, is built of lava, like many of the modern edifices in the
city. The Baths proved to me, what I had supposed, that the Oriental Bath
of the present day is identical with that of the Ancients. Why so
admirable an institution has never been introduced into Europe (except in
the _Bains Chinois_ of Paris) is more than I can tell. From the pavement
of these baths, which is nearly twenty feet below the surface of the
earth, the lava of later eruptions has burst up, in places, in hard black
jets. The most wonderful token of that flood which whelmed Catania two
hundred years ago, is to be seen at the Grand Benedictine Convent of San
Nicola, in the upper part of the city. Here the stream of lava divides
itself just before the Convent, and flows past on both sides, leaving the
building and gardens untouched. The marble courts, the fountains, the
splendid galleries, and the gardens of richest southern bloom and
fragrance, stand like an epicurean island in the midst of the terrible
stony waves, whose edges bristle with the thorny aloe and cactus. The
monks of San Nicola are all chosen from the Sicilian nobility, and live a
comfortable life of luxury and vice. Each one has his own carriage,
horses, and servants, and each his private chambers outside of the convent
walls and his kept concubines. These facts are known and acknowledged by
the Catanians, to whom they are a lasting scandal.
It is past midnight, and I must close. Cæsar started this afternoon,
alone, for the ascent of Etna. I would have accompanied him, but my only
chance of reaching Messina in time for the next steamer to Naples is the
diligence which leaves here to-morrow. The mountain has been covered with
clouds for the last two days, and I have had no view at all comparable to
that of the morning of my arrival. To-morrow the grand procession of the
Body of St. Agatha takes place, but I am quite satisfied with three days
of processions and horse races, and three nights of illuminations.
I leave in the morning, with a Sicilian passport, my own availing me
nothing, after landing.