St. Agatha, Catania
Oct. 1st, 2011 05:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
taormineseThe Lands of the Saracen or, Pictures of Palestine, Asia Minor, Sicily, and Spain.
New York:
G. P. Putnam, 532 Broadway.
1863
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 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.
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