The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 4, No. 24, Oct. 1859

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Once in a while, the sadness of Lent is broken by a Church festival,
when all the fasters eat prodigiously and make up for their usual Lenten
fare. One of the principal days is that of the 19th of March, dedicated
to San Giuseppe, (the most ill-used of all the saints,) when the little
church in Capo le Case, dedicated to him, is hung with brilliant
draperies, and the pious flock thither in crowds to say their prayers.
The great curtain is swaying to and fro constantly as they come and go,
and a file of beggars is on the steps to relieve you of _baiocchi_.
Beside them stands a fellow who sells a print of the Angel appearing to
San Giuseppe in a dream, and warning him against the sin of jealousy.
Four curious lines beneath the print thus explain it:--

"Qual sinistro pensier l'alma ti scuote?
Se il sen fecondo di Maria tu vedi,
Giuseppe, non temer; calmati, e credi
Ch' opra e sol di colui che tutto puote."

Whether Joseph is satisfied or not with this explanation, it would be
difficult to determine from his expression. He looks rather haggard and
bored than persuaded, and certainly has not that cheerful acquiescence
of countenance which one is taught to expect.

During all Lent, a sort of bun, called _maritozze_, which is filled with
the edible kernels of the pine-cone, made light with oil, and thinly
crusted with sugar, is eaten by the faithful,--and a very good Catholic
"institution" it is. But in the festival days of San Giuseppe, gayly
ornamented booths are built at the corner of many of the streets,
especially near the church in Capo le Case, in the Borgo, and at San
Eustachio, which are adorned with great green branches as large as young
trees, and hung with red and gold draperies, where the "_Frittelle di
San Giuseppe_" are fried in huge caldrons of boiling oil and served out
to the common people. These _frittelle_, which are a sort of delicate
doughnut, made of flour mixed sometimes with rice, are eaten by all good
Catholics, though one need not be a Catholic to find them excellent
eating. In front of the principal booths are swung "_Sonetti_" in praise
of the Saint, of the cook, and of the doughnuts,--some of them declaring
that Mercury has already descended from Olympus at the command of the
gods to secure a large supply of the _frittelle_, and praying all
believers to make haste, or there would be no more left. The latter
alternative seems little probable, when one sees the quantity of
provision laid in by the vendors. Their prayer, however, is heeded by
all; and a gay scene enough it is,--especially at night, when the great
cups filled with lard are lighted, and the shadows dance on the crowd,
and the light flashes on the tinsel-covered festoons that sway with the
wind, and illuminates the great booth, while the smoke rises from the
great caldrons which flank it on either side, and the cooks, all in
white, ladle out the dripping _frittelle_ into large polished platters,
and laugh and joke, and laud their work, and shout at the top of their
lungs, "_Ecco le belle, ma belle frittelle_!" For weeks this frying
continues in the streets; but after the day of San Giuseppe, not only
the sacred _frittelle_ are made, but thousands of minute fishes,
fragments of cauliflower, _broccoli_, cabbage, and _carciofi_ go into
the hissing oil, and are heaped all "_dorati_" upon the platters and
vases. For all sorts of fries the Romans are justly celebrated. The
sweet olive-oil, which takes the place of our butter and lard, makes the
fry light, delicate, and of a beautiful golden color; and spread upon
the snowy tables of these booths, their odor is so appetizing and their
look so inviting, that I have often been tempted to join the crowds who
fill their plates and often their pocket-handkerchiefs (_con rispetto_)
with these golden fry, "_fritti dorati_," as they are called, and thus
do honor to the Saint, and comfort their stomachs with holy food, which
quells the devil of hunger within.[A]

[Footnote A: This festival of San Giuseppe, which takes place on the
19th of March, bears a curious resemblance to the _Liberalia_ of the
ancient Romans, a festival in honor of Bacchus, which was celebrated
every year on the 17th of March, when priests and priestesses, adorned
with garlands of ivy, carried through the city wine, honey, cakes, and
sweetmeats, together with a portable altar, in the middle of
which was a small fire-pan, (_foculus_,) in which, from time to time,
sacrifices were burnt. The altar has now become a booth, the _foculus_
a caldron, the sacrifices are of little fishes as well as of cakes,
and San Giuseppe has taken the place of Bacchus, Liber Pater; but the
festivals, despite these differences, have such grotesque points of
resemblance that the latter looks like the former, just as one's face is
still one's face, however distortedly reflected in the bowl of a spoon;
and, perhaps, if one remembers the third day of the Anthesteria, when
cooked vegetables were offered in honor of Bacchus, by putting it
together with the Liberalia, we shall easily get the modern _festa_ of
San Giuseppe.]

But not only at this time and at these booths are good _fritti_ to
be found. It is a favorite mode of cooking in Rome; and a mixed fry
(_fritta mista_) of bits of liver, brains, cauliflower, and _carciofi_
is a staple dish, always ready at every restaurant. At any _osteria con
cucina_ on the Campagna one is also sure of a good omelet and salad;
and, sitting under the vines, after a long walk, I have made as savory
a lunch on these two articles as ever I found in the most glittering
restaurant in the Palais Royal. If one add the background of exquisite
mountains, the middle distance of flowery slopes, where herds of
long-haired goats, sheep, and gray oxen are feeding among the skeletons
of broken aqueducts, ruined tombs, and shattered mediaeval towers, and
the foreground made up of picturesque groups of peasants, who lounge
about the door, and come and go, and men from the Campagna, on
horseback, with their dark, capacious cloak and long ironed staff, who
have come from counting their oxen and superintending the farming, and
_carrettieri_, stopping in their hooded wine-carts or ringing along the
road,--there is, perhaps, as much to charm the artist as is to be seen
while sipping beer or _eau gazeuse_ on the hot Parisian _asphalte_,
where the _grisette_ studiously shows her clean ankles, and the dandy
struts in his patent-leather boots.

One great _festa_ there is during Lent at the little town of
Grotta-Ferrata, about fourteen miles from Rome. It takes place on the
25th of March, and sometimes is very gay and picturesque, and always
charming to one who has eyes to see and has shed some of his national
prejudices. By eight o'clock in the morning open carriages begin to
stream out of the Porta San Giovanni, and in about two hours the old
castellated monastery may be seen at whose feet the little village of
Grotta-Ferrata stands. As we advance through noble elms and planetrees,
crowds of _contadini_ line the way, beggars scream from the banks,
donkeys bray, _carretti_ rattle along, until at last we arrive at a long
meadow which seems alive and crumbling with gayly dressed figures that
are moving to and fro as thick as ants upon an ant-hill. Here are
gathered peasants from all the country-villages within ten miles, all in
their festal costumes; along the lane which skirts the meadow and
leads through the great gate of the old fortress, donkeys are
crowded together, and keeping up a constant and outrageous concert;
_saltimbanci_, in harlequin suits, are making faces or haranguing from
a platform, and inviting everybody into their penny-show. From inside
their booths is heard the sound of the invariable pipes and drum, and
from the lifted curtain now and then peers forth a comic face, and then
disappears with a sudden scream and wild gesticulation. Meantime the
closely packed crowd moves slowly along in both directions, and on we go
through the archway into the great court-yard. Here, under the shadow
of the monastery, booths and benches stand in rows, arrayed with the
produce of the country-villages,--shoes, rude implements of husbandry,
the coarse woven fabrics of the _contadini_, hats with cockades and
rosettes, feather brooms and brushes, and household things, with here
and there the tawdry pinchbeck ware of a peddler of jewelry, and little
_quadretti_ of Madonna and saints. Extricating ourselves from the crowd,
we ascend by a stone stairway to the walk around the parapets of the
walls, and look down upon the scene. How gay it is! Around the fountain,
which is spilling in the centre of the court, a constantly varying group
is gathered, washing, drinking, and filling their flasks and vases.
Near by, a charlatan, mounted on a table, with a huge canvas behind him
painted all over with odd cabalistic figures, is screaming, in loud and
voluble tones, the virtues of his medicines and unguents, and his skill
in extracting teeth. One need never have a pang in tooth, ear, head, or
stomach, if one will but trust his wonderful promises. In one little
bottle he has the famous water which renews youth; in another, the
lotion which awakens love, or cures jealousy, or changes the fright into
the beauty. All the while he plays with his tame serpents, and chatters
as if his tongue went of itself, while the crowd of peasants below gape
at him, laugh with him, and buy from him. Listen to him, all who have
ears!

Udite, udite, O rustici!
Attenti, non fiatate!
Io gia suppongo e immagino
Che al par di me sappiate
Che io son quel gran medico
Dottore Enciclopedico
Chiamato Dulcamara,
La cui virtu preclara
E i portenti infiniti
Son noti in tutto il mondo--_e in altri siti_.

Benefattor degli uomini,
Reparator dei mali,
In pochi giorni io sgombrero.
Io spazzo gli spedali
E la salute a vendere
Per tutto il mondo io vo.
Compratela, compratela,--
Per poco io ve la do.

E questo l'odontalgico,
Mirabile liquore,
De' topi e dei cimici
Possente distruttore,
I cui certificati
Autentici, bollati,
Toccar, vedere, e leggere,
A ciaschedun faro.
Per questo mio specifico
Simpatico, prolifico,
Un uom settuagenario
E valetudinario
Nonno di dieci bamboli
Ancora divento.

O voi matrona rigide,
Ringiovanir bramate?
Le vostre rughe incomode
Con esso cancellate.
Volete, voi donzelle,
Ben liscia aver la pelle?
Voi giovani galanti,
Per sempre avere amanti,
Comprate il mio specifico,--
Per poco io ve lo do.

Ei move i paralitici,
Spedisce gli apopletici,
Gli asmatici, gli asfitici,
Gli isterici, e disbetici;
Guarisce timpanitidi
E scrofoli e rachitidi;
E fino il mal di fegato,
Che in moda divento.
Comprate il mio specifico,--
Per poco io ve lo do.

And so on and on and on. There is never an end of that voluble gabble.
Nothing is more amusing than the Italian _ciarlatano_, wherever you meet
him; but, like many other national characters, he is vanishing, and is
seen more and more rarely every year. Perhaps he has been promoted to an
office in the Church or government, and finds more pickings there than
at the fairs; and if not, perhaps he has sold out his profession and
good-will to his confessor, who has mounted, by means of it into a
gilded carriage, and wears silk stockings, whose color, for fear of
mistake, I will not mention.

But to return to the fair and our station on the parapets at
Grotta-Ferrata. Opposite us is a penthouse, (where nobody peaks and
pines,) whose jutting _fraschi_-covered eaves and posts are adorned with
gay draperies; and under the shadow of this is seated a motley set of
peasants at their lunch and dinner. Smoking plates come in and out of
the dark hole of a door that opens into kitchen and cellar, and the
_camerieri_ cry constantly, "_Vengo subito_" "_Eccomi qua_"--whether
they come or not. Big-bellied flasks of rich Grotta-Ferrata wine are
filled and emptied; and bargains are struck for cattle, donkeys, and
clothes; and healths are pledged and _brindisi_ are given. But there is
no riot and no quarrelling. If we lift our eyes from this swarm below,
we see the exquisite Campagna with its silent, purple distances
stretching off to Rome, and hear the rush of a wild torrent scolding in
the gorge below among the stones and olives.

But while we are lingering here, a crowd is pushing through into the
inner court, where mass is going on in the curious old church. One has
now to elbow his way to enter, and all around the door, even out into
the middle court, _contadini_ are kneeling. Besides this, the whole
place reeks intolerably with garlic, which, mixed with whiff of incense
from the church within and other unmentionable smells, makes such a
compound that only a brave nose can stand it. But stand it we must, if
we would see Domenichino's frescoes in the chapel within; and as they
are among the best products of his cold and clever talent, we gasp and
push on,--the most resolute alone getting through. Here in this old
monastery, as the story goes, he sought refuge from the fierce Salvator
Rosa, by whom his life was threatened, and here he painted his best
works, shaking in his shoes with fear. When we have examined these
frescoes, we have done the fair of Grotta-Ferrata; and those of us who
are wise and have brought with us a well-packed hamper stick in our hat
one of the red artificial roses which everybody wears, take a charming
drive to the Villa Conti, Muti, or Falconieri, and there, under the
ilexes, forget the garlic, finish the day with a picnic, and return to
Rome when the western sun is painting the Alban Hill.

And here, in passing, one word on the onions and garlic, whose odor
issues from the mouths of every Italian crowd, like the fumes from
the maw of Fridolin's dragon. Everybody eats them in Italy; the upper
classes show them to their dishes to give them a flavor, and the lower
use them not only as a flavor, but as a food. When only a formal
introduction of them is made to a dish, I confess that the result is
far from disagreeable; but that close, intimate, and absorbing relation
existing between them and the lowest classes is frightful. _Senza
complimenti_, it is "tolerable and not to be endured." When a poor man
can procure a raw onion and a hunch of black bread, he does not want a
dinner; and towards noon many and many a one may be seen sitting like
a king upon a door-step, or making a statuesque finish to a _palazzo
portone_, cheerfully munching this spare meal, and taking his siesta
after it, full-length upon the bare pavement, as calmly as if he were in
the perfumed chambers of the great,

"Under the canopies of costly state,
And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody."

And, indeed, so he is; for the canopy of the soft blue sky is above him,
and the plashing fountains lull him to his dreams. Nor is he without
ancient authority for his devotion to those twin saints, Cipolla and
Aglio. There is an "odor of sanctity" about them, turn up our noses
as we may. The Ancient Egyptians offered them as firstfruits upon the
altars of their gods, and employed them also in the services for the
dead; and such was their attachment to them, that the followers of Moses
hankered after them despite the manna, and longed for "the leeks and the
onions and the garlic which they did eat in Egypt freely." Nay, even the
fastidious Greeks not only used them as a charm against the Evil Eye,
but ate them with delight. And in the "Banquet" of Xenophon, Socrates
specially recommends them. On this occasion, several curious reasons
for their use are adduced, of which we who despise them should not be
ignorant. Niceratus says that they relish well with wine, citing Homer
in confirmation of his opinion; Callias affirms that they inspire
courage in battle; and Charmidas clenches the matter by declaring that
they are most useful in "deceiving a jealous wife, who, finding her
husband return with his breath smelling of onions, would be induced to
believe he had not saluted any one while from home." Despise them not,
therefore, O Saxon! for as "their offence is rank," their pedigree is
long, and they are sacred plants that "smell to heaven." Happily for
you, if these reasons do not persuade you against your will, there is a
certain specific against them,--_Eat them yourself_, and you will smell
them no longer.

The time of the church processions is now coming, and one good specimen
takes place on the 29th of March, from the Santa Maria in Via, which
may stand with little variations for all the others. These processions,
which are given by every church once a year, are in honor of the
Madonna, or some saint specially reverenced in the particular church.
They make the circuit of the parish limits, passing through all its
principal streets, and every window and balcony is decorated with yellow
and crimson hangings, and with crowds of dark eyes. The front of the
church, the steps, and the street leading to it, are spread with yellow
sand, over which are scattered sprigs of box. After the procession
has been organized in the church, they "come unto the yellow sands,"
preceded by a band of music, which plays rather jubilant, and what the
uncopious would call profane music, polkas and marches, and airs
from the operas. Next follow great lanterns of strung glass drops,
accompanied by soldiers; then an immense gonfalon representing the
Virgin at the Cross, which swings backwards and forwards, borne by the
_confraternita_ of the parish, with blue capes over their white dresses,
and all holding torches. Then follows a huge wooden cross, garlanded
with golden ivy-leaves, and also upheld by the _confraternita_, who
stagger under its weight. Next come two crucifixes, covered, as the body
of Christ always is during Lent and until Resurrection-Day, with cloth
of purple, (the color of passion,) and followed by the _frati_ of the
church in black, carrying candles and dolorously chanting a hymn. Then
comes the bishop in his mitre, his yellow stole upheld by two principal
priests, (the curate and subcurate,) and to him his acolytes waft
incense, as well as to the huge figure of the Madonna which follows.
This figure is of life-size, carved in wood, surrounded by gilt angels,
and so heavy that sixteen stout _facchini_, whose shabby trousers show
under their improvised costume, are required to bear it along. With this
the procession comes to its climax. Immediately after follow the guards,
and a great concourse of the populace closes the train.

As Holy Week approaches, pilgrims begin to flock to Rome with their
oil-cloth capes, their scallop-shell, their long staffs, their rosaries,
and their dirty hands held out constantly for "_una santa elemosina pel
povero pellegrino_." Let none of my fair friends imagine that she will
find a Romeo among them, or she will be most grievously disappointed.
There is something to touch your pity in their appearance, though not
the pity akin to love. They are, for the most part, old, shabby, and
soiled, and inveterate mendicants,--and though, some time or other,
some one or other may have known one of them for her true-love, "by his
cockle hat and staff, and his sandal shoon," that time has been long
forbye, unless they are wondrously disguised. Besides these pilgrims,
and often in company with them, bands of peasants, with their long
staffs, may be met on the road, making a pilgrimage to Rome for the Holy
Week, clad in splendid _ciocciari_ dresses, carrying their clothes on
their heads, and chanting a psalm as they go. Among these may be found
many a handsome youth and beautiful maid, whose faces will break into
the most charming of smiles as you salute them and wish them a happy
pilgrimage. And of all smiles, none is so sudden, open, and enchanting
as a Roman girl's; and breaking over their dark, passionate faces, black
eyes, and level brows, it seems like a burst of sunlight from behind a
cloud. There must be noble possibilities in any nation which, through
all its oppression and degradation, has preserved the childlike
frankness of the Italian smile. Still another indication of the approach
of Holy Week is the Easter egg, which now makes its appearance, and
warns us of the solemnities to come. Sometimes it is stained yellow,
purple, red, green, or striped with various colors; sometimes it is
crowned with paste-work, representing, in a most primitive way, a
hen,--her body being the egg, and her pastry-head adorned with a
disproportionately tall feather. These eggs are exposed for sale at
the corners of the streets and bought by everybody, and every sort of
ingenious device is resorted to, to attract customers and render them
attractive. This custom is probably derived from the East, where the egg
is the symbol of the primitive state of the world and of the creation
of things. The new year formerly began at the spring equinox, at about
Easter; and at that period of the renewal of Nature, a festival was
celebrated in the new moon of the month Phamenoth, in honor of Osiris,
when painted and gilded eggs were exchanged as presents, in reference to
the beginning of all things. The transference of the commencement of the
year to January deprived the Paschal egg of its significance. Formerly
in France, and still in Russia as in Italy, it had a religious
significance, and was never distributed until it had received a solemn
benediction. On Good Friday, a priest, with his robes and an attendant,
may be seen going into every door in the street to bless the house, the
inhabitants, and the eggs. The last, colored and arranged according to
the taste of the individual, are spread upon a table, which is decorated
with box, flowers, and whatever ornamental dishes the family possesses.
The priest is received with bows at the door, and when the benediction
is over he is rewarded with the gratuity of a _paul_ or a _scudo_,
according to the piety and purse of the proprietor; while into the
basket of his attendant is always dropped a _pagnotta_, a couple of
eggs, a _baiocco_, or some such trifle. [Footnote: Beside the blessing
of the eggs and house, it is the custom in some parts of Italy, (and I
have particularly observed it in Siena,) for the priest, at Easter, to
affix to the door of the chief _palazzi_ and villas a waxen cross, or
the letter M in wax, so as to guard the house from evil spirits. But
only the houses of the rich are thus protected; for the priests bestow
favors only "for a consideration," which the poor cannot so easily
give.]

It is on this day, too, that the customary Jew is converted, recants,
and is baptized; and there are not wanting evil tongues which declare
that there is a wonderful similarity in his physiognomy every year.
However this may be, there is no doubt that some one is annually dug out
of the Ghetto, which is the pit of Judaism here in Rome; and if he fall
back again, after receiving the temporal reward, and without waiting for
the spiritual, he probably finds it worth his while to do so, in view of
the zeal of the Church, and in remembrance of the fifteenth verse of the
twenty-third chapter of Matthew, if he ever reads that portion of the
Bible. It is in the great basaltic vase in the baptistery of St. John
Lateran, the same in which Rienzi bathed in 1347, before receiving the
insignia of knighthood, that the converted Jew, and any other infidel
who can be brought over, receives his baptism when he is taken into the
arms of the Church.

It is at this season, too, that the _pizzicarolo_ shops are gayly
dressed in the manner so graphically described by Hans Andersen in his
"Improvisatore." No wonder, that, to little Antonio, the interior of
one of these shops looked like a realization of Paradise; for they are
really splendid; and when glittering with candles and lamps at night,
the effect is very striking. Great sides of bacon and lard are ranged
endwise in regular bars all around the interior, and adorned with
stripes of various colors, mixed with golden spangles and flashing
tinsel; while over and under them, in reticulated work, are piled scores
upon scores of brown cheeses, in the form of pyramids, columns, towers,
with eggs set into their interstices. From the ceiling, and all around
the doorway, hang wreaths and necklaces of sausages, or groups of the
long gourd-like _cacio di cavallo_, twined about with box, or netted
wire baskets filled with Easter eggs, or great bunches of white candles
gathered together at the wicks. Seen through these, at the bottom of the
shop, is a picture of the Madonna, with scores of candles burning about
it, and gleaming upon the tinsel hangings and spangles with which it
is decorated. Underneath this, there is often represented an elaborate
_presepio_,--or, when this is not the case, the animals may be seen
mounted here and there on the cheeses. Candelabra of eggs, curiously
bound together, so as to resemble bunches of gigantic white grapes,
swung from the centre of the ceiling, and cups of colored glass, with a
taper in them, or red paper lanterns, and _terra-cotta_ lamps, of the
antique form, show here and there their little flames among the flitches
of bacon and cheeses; while, in the midst of all this splendor, the
figure of the _pizzicarolo_ moves to and fro, like a high-priest at a
ceremony. Nor is this illumination exclusive. The doors, often of the
full width of the shop, are thrown wide open, and the glory shines upon
all passers-by. It is the apotheosis of ham and cheese, at which only
the Hebraic nose, doing violence to its natural curve, turns up in
scorn; while true Christians crowd around it to wonder and admire, and
sometimes to venture in upon the almost enchanted ground. May it be long
before this pleasant custom dies out!

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