Festivals of the Madonna—The Duomo—Legend of San
Ciriaco—Miraculous picture—Course of sermons by Padre
G———General irreligion of the Anconitans—Ecclesiastical
tribunal of 1856—The Sacconi.
The celebration of the festivals of the Madonna, to whom the month of
May is especially consecrated, and of San Ciriaco, the patron saint of
Ancona, followed quickly upon those I have been just now describing;
and a concourse of peasants, daily flocking in, by their bright-looking
costumes, and picturesque, handsome appearance, enlivened the town to a
very unusual extent.
Indeed, the weather was so lovely, the air so balmy, the atmosphere
so gauze-like and softening to the objects it surrounded, that an
irresistible charm seemed resting upon the land; and it became easy
to comprehend how a colony of Dorians, establishing themselves upon
its shores, crowned its lofty promontory with a temple where Venus was
invoked.
A cathedral, dedicated to San Ciriaco, one of the oldest in Europe,
now occupies the site of the heathen shrine, nobly situated on the very
summit of the hill, overlooking the town, which rises for some distance
along its sides, but terminating about half-way, leaves the _duomo_
undisturbed in its hoary majesty and impressive solitude. We used to
delight in walking up here, and, sitting on the steps of the portico,
of which the columns were supported on two colossal lions of red
granite, gaze forth on the grand prospect which this position displays.
At our feet, sloping downwards in a semicircle, lay the town, the mole
with Trajan's celebrated arch, the harbour and shipping, commanded
by the citadel, and background of mountains stretching far along the
curve of the coast, with higher ranges more dimly seen, forming part
of the great chain of the Apennines by which Italy is intersected.
Turning away from this, you seem transported to a different region, for
on three sides of this bold headland, a broad expanse of waters alone
meets the view. The walls of the cathedral are not six paces removed
from where the cliff abruptly ends, presenting a rugged face of rock,
which towers some two or three hundred feet perpendicularly above
the sea. The wild music of the waves, on a stormy day, as they surge
against its base, is borne upward by the wind, and, distinguishable
amid the strains of the organ and the voices of the choir, produces
an effect not easily forgotten. Unfortunately, the existence of this
venerable pile is threatened by the inroads of the sea, which slowly,
but perceptibly, is undermining the cliff; and in a hundred years, it
is calculated, the duomo will be in ruins. The votaries of San Ciriaco
say, however, that he will not fail to protect his church, and defy the
ravages of the elements.
The body of the saint, clad in his episcopal robes, for he was bishop
of Ancona, is preserved in a subterranean chapel, and is annually
exposed, for the first eight days of the month of May, to the
veneration of the people.
The legend runs, that after undergoing in the east the martyrdom of
boiling lead being poured down his throat, his remains floated in a
stone coffin back to the scene of his former labours.
In the duomo is also kept the famous picture of the Madonna, attested
to have opened her eyes in 1795, at a moment of great peril to the
State, which was overrun by the armies of the French Republic. Fifty
years after, in 1845, this miracle received the confirmation of the
papal authority; and the petitions from the _gonfaloniere_ (mayor)
and magistrates, the clergy and the nobility, imploring that, “as an
acknowledgment of being thus privileged, they might be permitted to
place Ancona under the immediate protection of the Madonna, who, by
opening the eyes of her venerated image, had signally shown her favour
towards it”—received a gracious response. Fireworks, processions, a
general illumination, and nine days of religious ceremonies at the
duomo, inaugurated this event, which at every succeeding anniversary is
still commemorated with great solemnity.
It was my good fortune to hear a course of sermons delivered in honour
of the holy image by a Barnabite friar, Padre G—— of Bologna, one of
the most celebrated preachers of the day; and the scene presented by
the illuminated church, the enthroned picture—a meek and lowly face,
shaded by a dark-blue mantle, but resplendent with a star and rose
of brilliants, with which it had been adorned by Pius VII.—the eager
upturned countenances of the crowd, as their kindling glances wandered
from the impassioned orator to the half-closed eyes of the motionless
effigy he was apostrophizing—the enthusiastic appeals, the fervent
action of the priest as his lofty form towered in the pulpit, and his
powerful voice swelled like an organ through the aisles—all rises
vividly before me, resembling some dream of enchantment, with that
strange fascination that such pageants in Italy possess.
Not less remarkable than his startling eloquence was the ingenuity with
which the preacher diversified nine consecutive days of discourses upon
the same topic. One day he surprised his auditors by a dissertation
on the invention of gunpowder, the destructive missiles employed in
modern warfare, the disastrous sieges and the fearful loss of life,
all attributable to this discovery. Then depicting the horrors of two
or three well-known bombardments and pillages with thrilling power,
he asked triumphantly whence it was that Ancona, often surrounded
by hostile armies, and invested by foes as watchful as relentless,
had always been preserved from a similar fate? Whence, if not by the
miraculous presence of that heavenly portrait, whose modest eyelids had
been raised, in moments of the greatest peril to the church, to give
courage to the dejected, and faith to the wavering!
On another occasion he commenced by a vivid description of the early
youth, the education, the first exploits of Napoleon. He led you on
step by step in his career; he successively brought him before you
as the sullen, sensitive boy at Brienne, the aspiring lieutenant of
artillery, the young general of twenty-six, making Italy ring with his
fame. On he went, gathering fresh ardour, more striking similes, more
startling vehemence, as he dwelt on the resistless might which hurled
down thrones and swept away kingdoms in a breath, till he brought him,
flushed with conquest, to Ancona. “And here,” he continued—“here,
beneath this venerable dome, standing before the sacred picture,
prepared to scoff and ridicule its divine powers—that man, with
eagle eyes and folded arms, gives one hurried glance and trembles....
Yes! The haughty brow which the fabled thunders of Jove might have
encircled, is bent before that benign though reproachful gaze. His
sallow cheek grows ashy pale as those heavenly orbs unclose upon him!
His limbs totter; the sacrilegious hand which was stretched forth to
lay hold on the venerated image is withdrawn, and he hastens away,
sternly forbidding its removal or inspection!”
As a last specimen of this attractive, but certainly peculiar style
of pulpit oratory, I ought to quote from a magnificent delineation,
with which he opened another of his discourses, of the terror that
marks the progress of the Destroying Angel, scattering pestilence
from his sable wings, with desolation and mourning in his wake. But
my limits forbid anything beyond a mere sketch of the subjects on
which he enlarged with a graphic power, a scenic effect—if I may use
the term—of which it is impossible to convey any just conception. The
dread judgment on the first-born of Egypt, the plagues sent on the
murmuring Israelites—the dire records of the dark ages, when cities
were made desolate, and whole populations swept away by similar
awful visitations—all were detailed with harrowing power. Passing on
from these to modern times, he addressed himself more particularly
to the feelings of his auditors, by recalling the ravages which the
cholera had made a few years previous in Ancona, when, out of its
_then_ population of 25,000, 1000 were swept away; and finally bade
them ascribe their own preservation—the final disappearance of the
scourge—to the wondrous picture having been borne, amid the tears and
supplications of the inhabitants, in solemn procession through the
streets. “Give me, O Maria!” he here cried with transport, striking
himself upon the breast—“give me a spring-tide of roses and hyacinths
to weave in garlands for thy shrine; give me the laurel-wreath of
genius, the monarch's crown of gems; give me all that earth holds
beautiful or rare, to cast in tribute at thy feet. Give me eloquence to
inspire, fervour to excite, persuasion to reclaim—give all to me, who
yet am nothing, to be consecrated to thy service. Let me gaze on those
celestial eyes which so benignly opened upon Ancona, and gather there
undying ardour and unconquerable love, our only hope, our only refuge!”
After an address of this description, an approving murmur used to
be discernible among the crowd, while now and then an irrepressible
“_bravo_,” or a patronizing “_bene, bene_,” would be heard. But,
apart from the peasants—who, as I have said, flocked in large numbers
to these ceremonies—and the poor old women, whose withered lips and
palsied fingers were ever busy in saying their rosary and counting its
beads, I should be sorry to have to estimate how much real devotion
dwelt in the hearts of the multitude which daily congregated at the
duomo.
On the last evening of the Novena, I remember well the utter failure of
the Chevalier V——, the * * * Consul, to elicit a spark of devotional
enthusiasm. We were all standing on the duomo steps, looking at the
fireworks which concluded the solemnity, when a triumph of Anconitan
pyrotechnic art disclosed a star, with the initial M. At this the
good man, thoroughly honest in his convictions, waved his hat in the
air, and shouted to the crowd, “Let us have an _Evviva_ for Maria;”
but not a man's voice responded. There was a feeble quaver of cracked
trebles and then silence. He looked sad and mortified, but did not
repeat the experiment. He never discussed the subject with us; but I
know that he implicitly accepted the authenticity of the miracle. He
would have considered it as a sin to permit his mind to wander into any
questionings on that to which the Church had set her seal.
But there were few like him in Ancona. I could count on my fingers,
without passing those of one hand even, such amongst the _Codino_
nobles as entered with any earnestness into the Novena. The dominant
feeling with persons who still held belief in their religion, yet whose
judgment was not denied its exercise, was profound regret at the whole
proceeding; they rightly estimated it as only calculated to spread
irreverence and scepticism.
Upon the vast majority of the thinking classes,—the lawyers, the
physicians, the young priests (many of whom are materialists), and the
merchants,—precisely this result was produced. The official attestation
of the miracle was set down as a clumsy device to rekindle the faith
of the peasants and lower orders, and bind them more closely to the
Papacy; and religion only reaped contempt and derision for lending
herself to such practices.
Other attempts of the Roman See to stimulate decaying zeal in the
Marche, have proved equally unsuccessful. As if the Inquisition was
not sufficient for the defence of the Faith, with its independent
jurisdiction, its dignitaries, familiars, secret lay-members and
prisons, special episcopal tribunals were established in 1856 for
enforcing the precepts of the Church, and inflicting summary punishment
for their contravention. For the detection of swearing and blasphemy,
“confraternities of pious persons were instituted” (I quote the words
of the edict), “who, dressed in sackcloth and cowl, were authorized to
present themselves, either singly or in couples, wherever bad language
was most likely to be heard.” Ten to thirty days of prison, or of
religious exercises in a convent, were to be awarded to the offender.
Also in order to ascertain whether innkeepers and private families
observed the canonical law with respect to the days of fasting and
abstinence, these _Sacconi_, as they were termed, were directed to
search the premises. Very inquisitorially indeed did they exercise
this faculty. I have heard of these agreeable apparitions taking off
the lids of saucepans on the fire to see if they contained meat.
Depositions from other quarters were also received; and as it was
specially provided that the names of informers and witnesses should
be kept secret, and as they had the half of the mulct imposed, a
boundless field was open to domestic spying and treachery of the basest
description.
I once saw a man tied to a church door with a gag in his mouth. On his
breast was an inscription, signifying that he was thus punished for
having spoken sacrilegiously of the Madonna; but so little were the
bystanders impressed, that it was not judged advisable to familiarize
them with such spectacles.