The most serviceable saint whom I know is St. Antonino. He is the patron
saint of the good town of Sorrento; he is the good genius of all sailors
and fishermen; and he has a humbler office,--that of protector of the
pigs. On his day the pigs are brought into the public square to be
blessed; and this is one reason why the pork of Sorrento is reputed so
sweet and wholesome. The saint is the friend, and, so to say, companion
of the common people. They seem to be all fond of him, and there is
little of fear in their confiding relation. His humble origin and
plebeian appearance have something to do with his popularity, no doubt.
There is nothing awe-inspiring in the brown stone figure, battered and
cracked, that stands at one corner of the bridge, over the chasm at the
entrance of the city. He holds a crosier in one hand, and raises the
other, with fingers uplifted, in act of benediction. If his face is
an indication of his character, he had in him a mixture of robust
good-nature with a touch of vulgarity, and could rough it in a jolly
manner with fishermen and peasants. He may have appeared to better
advantage when he stood on top of the massive old city gate, which the
present government, with the impulse of a vandal, took down a few years
ago. The demolition had to be accomplished in the night, under a guard
of soldiers, so indignant were the populace. At that time the homely
saint was deposed; and he wears now, I think, a snubbed and cast-aside
aspect. Perhaps he is dearer to the people than ever; and I confess that
I like him much better than many grander saints, in stone, I have
seen in more conspicuous places. If ever I am in rough water and foul
weather, I hope he will not take amiss anything I have here written
about him.
Sunday, and it happened to be St. Valentine's also, was the great
fete-day of St. Antonino. Early in the morning there was a great
clanging of bells; and the ceremony of the blessing of the pigs took
place,--I heard, but I was not abroad early enough to see it,--a
laziness for which I fancy I need not apologize, as the Catholic is
known to be an earlier religion than the Protestant. When I did go out,
the streets were thronged with people, the countryfolk having come in
for miles around. The church of the patron saint was the great center
of attraction. The blank walls of the little square in front, and of the
narrow streets near, were hung with cheap and highly-colored lithographs
of sacred subjects, for sale; tables and booths were set up in every
available space for the traffic in pre-Raphaelite gingerbread, molasses
candy, strings of dried nuts, pinecone and pumpkin seeds, scarfs, boots
and shoes, and all sorts of trumpery. One dealer had preempted a large
space on the pavement, where he had spread out an assortment of bits
of old iron, nails, pieces of steel traps, and various fragments which
might be useful to the peasants. The press was so great, that it was
difficult to get through it; but the crowd was a picturesque one, and in
the highest good humor. The occasion was a sort of Fourth of July, but
without its worry and powder and flowing bars.
The spectacle of the day was the procession bearing the silver image
of the saint through the streets. I think there could never be anything
finer or more impressive; at least, I like these little fussy provincial
displays,--these tag-rags and ends of grandeur, in which all the
populace devoutly believe, and at which they are lost in wonder,--better
than those imposing ceremonies at the capital, in which nobody believes.
There was first a band of musicians, walking in more or less disorder,
but blowing away with great zeal, so that they could be heard amid the
clangor of bells the peals of which reverberate so deafeningly between
the high houses of these narrow streets. Then follow boys in white,
and citizens in black and white robes, carrying huge silken banners,
triangular like sea-pennants, and splendid silver crucifixes which flash
in the sun. Then come ecclesiastics, walking with stately step, and
chanting in loud and pleasant unison. These are followed by nobles,
among whom I recognize, with a certain satisfaction, two descendants of
Tasso, whose glowing and bigoted soul may rejoice in the devotion of his
posterity, who help to bear today the gilded platform upon which is the
solid silver image of the saint. The good old bishop walks humbly in
the rear, in full canonical rig, with crosier and miter, his rich robes
upborne by priestly attendants, his splendid footman at a respectful
distance, and his roomy carriage not far behind.
The procession is well spread out and long; all its members carry
lighted tapers, a good many of which are not lighted, having gone out in
the wind. As I squeeze into a shallow doorway to let the cortege pass, I
am sorry to say that several of the young fellows in white gowns tip
me the wink, and even smile in a knowing fashion, as if it were a mere
lark, after all, and that the saint must know it. But not so thinks the
paternal bishop, who waves a blessing, which I catch in the flash of
the enormous emerald on his right hand. The procession ends, where it
started, in the patron's church; and there his image is set up under a
gorgeous canopy of crimson and gold, to hear high mass, and some of the
choicest solos, choruses, and bravuras from the operas.
In the public square I find a gaping and wondering crowd of rustics
collected about one of the mountebanks whose trade is not peculiar to
any country. This one might be a clock-peddler from Connecticut. He
is mounted in a one-seat vettura, and his horse is quietly eating his
dinner out of a bag tied to his nose. There is nothing unusual in the
fellow's dress; he wears a shiny silk hat, and has one of those grave
faces which would be merry if their owner were not conscious of serious
business on hand. On the driver's perch before him are arranged his
attractions,--a box of notions, a grinning skull, with full teeth and
jaws that work on hinges, some vials of red liquid, and a closed jar
containing a most disagreeable anatomical preparation. This latter he
holds up and displays, turning it about occasionally in an admiring
manner. He is discoursing, all the time, in the most voluble Italian. He
has an ointment, wonderfully efficacious for rheumatism and every sort
of bruise: he pulls up his sleeve, and anoints his arm with it,
binding it up with a strip of paper; for the simplest operation must be
explained to these grown children. He also pulls teeth, with an ease and
expedition hitherto unknown, and is in no want of patients among this
open-mouthed crowd. One sufferer after another climbs up into the
wagon, and goes through the operation in the public gaze. A stolid,
good-natured hind mounts the seat. The dentist examines his mouth, and
finds the offending tooth. He then turns to the crowd and explains the
case. He takes a little instrument that is neither forceps nor turnkey,
stands upon the seat, seizes the man's nose, and jerks his head round
between his knees, pulling his mouth open (there is nothing that opens
the mouth quicker than a sharp upward jerk of the nose) with a rude
jollity that sets the spectators in a roar. Down he goes into the
cavern, and digs away for a quarter of a minute, the man the while
as immovable as a stone image, when he holds up the bloody tooth. The
patient still persists in sitting with his mouth stretched open to its
widest limit, waiting for the operation to begin, and will only close
the orifice when he is well shaken and shown the tooth. The dentist
gives him some yellow liquid to hold in his mouth, which the man insists
on swallowing, wets a handkerchief and washes his face, roughly rubbing
his nose the wrong way, and lets him go. Every step of the process is
eagerly watched by the delighted spectators.
He is succeeded by a woman, who is put through the same heroic
treatment, and exhibits like fortitude. And so they come; and the
dentist after every operation waves the extracted trophy high in air,
and jubilates as if he had won another victory, pointing to the stone
statue yonder, and reminding them that this is the glorious day of St.
Antonino. But this is not all that this man of science does. He has the
genuine elixir d'amour, love-philters and powders which never fail in
their effects. I see the bashful girls and the sheepish swains come
slyly up to the side of the wagon, and exchange their hard-earned francs
for the hopeful preparation. O my brown beauty, with those soft eyes and
cheeks of smothered fire, you have no need of that red philter! What a
simple, childlike folk! The shrewd fellow in the wagon is one of a race
as old as Thebes and as new as Porkopolis; his brazen face is older
than the invention of bronze, but I think he never had to do with a more
credulous crowd than this. The very cunning in the face of the peasants
is that of the fox; it is a sort of instinct, and not an intelligent
suspicion.
This is Sunday in Sorrento, under the blue sky. These peasants, who
are fooled by the mountebank and attracted by the piles of adamantine
gingerbread, do not forget to crowd the church of the saint at vespers,
and kneel there in humble faith, while the choir sings the Agnus Dei,
and the priests drone the service. Are they so different, then, from
other people? They have an idea on Capri that England is such another
island, only not so pleasant; that all Englishmen are rich and
constantly travel to escape the dreariness at home; and that, if they
are not absolutely mad, they are all a little queer. It was a fancy
prevalent in Hamlet's day. We had the English service in the Villa Nardi
in the evening. There are some Englishmen staying here, of the class one
finds in all the sunny spots of Europe, ennuye and growling, in search
of some elixir that shall bring back youth and enjoyment. They seem
divided in mind between the attractions of the equable climate of this
region and the fear of the gout which lurks in the unfermented wine.
One cannot be too grateful to the sturdy islanders for carrying their
prayers, like their drumbeat, all round the globe; and I was much
edified that night, as the reading went on, by a row of rather battered
men of the world, who stood in line on one side of the room, and
took their prayers with a certain British fortitude, as if they were
conscious of performing a constitutional duty, and helping by the act to
uphold the majesty of English institutions.