Chapter XIII: A Rival for Edith (2)

We reached Puzzuoli, and its narrow, crooked streets
soon led us to the summit of a knoll or spur of the
hills, now a little back of the modern city. Here the
ancients had placed their amphitheatre. Its remains
are still well preserved. The galleries for the
dignitaries, the seats for the spectators--it could
hold 15,000 at least--the arena, where the gladiators
fought and fell, and where wild beasts tore each other
or destroyed their human victims, are all still to
be easily recognized. We entered a cellar or masonry
chamber under the lofty seats. Here the victims were
kept until the hour came for thrusting them forth into
the arena in the centre. It is now a chapel, with
a single plain altar, at which Mass is celebrated
from time to time. A votive lamp hangs down from the
arched masonry above The walls are plain and void
of ornament. The place needs little decoration. Who
can kneel there, and not feel his heart swell as he
remembers St. Januarius and his companions kneeling and
praying, and awaiting their summons? It came, and they
were led forth. We went, too, to the arena. Here they
stood, sustained by the constancy of faith. There is
the seat aloft of the prefect and his attendants and
officers, who condemned these Christians to death by
the wild beasts, and have come to look on the bloody
drama. There, all around, rising backwards, row above
row, are the seats, filled then by thousands hoarsely
screaming, "_The Christians to the lions!_" To their
voices answered the angry growls and roars of lions and
panthers, shut in their dens beneath--those recesses in
the masonry below the lowest, the front rank of seats.
For one or two days past the beasts have been deprived
of their food, that they might be more furious and
eager for the tragedy. Excited by the clamor, maddened
by hunger, frenzied, too, perhaps by the sight of the
victims, whom they could see through the bars of their
doors--for perhaps they had already had experience of
such feasts--the beasts walked impatiently from end to
end of their small prisons, glared and growled through
the bars, or impatiently strove to tear them down. The
prefect gives the signal: the multitude is hushed in
silent expectation. The servitors hurry forward to the
edge of the seats above, and with cords and pulleys
are lifting upwards the heavy doors in their grooves.
The iron grates against the stone as it mounts. Soon
out from below into the arena leap the ravenous wild
beasts. They rush on, each one intent on seizing a
victim. They crouch, as is their nature, for a final
spring, fastening their glaring eyes on the martyrs;
but they spring not. The eye loses its glare; the
stiffened mane and bristling hair become smooth, and,
with moans almost of affection, they draw themselves
gently over the sand up to the martyrs, and fawn on
them and lick their feet. There will be no bloody
tragedy here to-day. God vouchsafes to the prefect
Timotheus and to these multitudes another proof of the
saintly character and heavenly authority of these men
whom they would slay. Some, we may hope, were awed,
and believed, and returned to their homes with hearts
yielding to the grace of God; but not so the prefect,
nor the majority of that crowd. "Sorcery! Witchcraft!
Chaldean superstition!" they cried. "Away with the
dangerous magicians! If they can do this, what can they
not do? Who is safe? Slay them at once!" The prefect
ordered them to be led out to the top of a neighboring
hill, and to be beheaded on its summit in the sight of
all and as a warning to all. We followed the steep and
narrow old Roman road up which they must have walked.
The rains have not yet washed away all of the old
Roman pavement. Vines and olive-trees and flowers of
richest hues shade it and beautify it now, and were not
wanting to it in those days of imperial luxury. To our
martyrs it was the road to heaven. No earthly beauty
could cheer them as they were cheered by Christian
faith and the firm hopes of quickly reaching a blessed
immortality. We reached the spot of execution, the
level top of a knoll, overlooking some part of the
city, the beautiful bay, Puzzuoli, and much of the
neighboring country. A little church stands here now,
served by a small community of Capuchins, who hold
the faith of the martyrs, and try to imitate their
virtues; who seek first the kingdom of heaven and its
righteousness, and hope that, like the martyrs they
honor, they may pass from this consecrated spot to the
abode of bliss. Here the saint and his six companions
were beheaded. The Capuchins showed us in the church
a stone, now inserted in the wall and carefully
preserved, said to have been stained by his blood, and
still to show the stains. They said, too, that, when
the blood of St. Januarius liquefies in Naples, these
stains grow moist and assume a brighter reddish color.
This I had no opportunity of verifying. Here, too, we
might almost guess the route down the precipitous sides
of the hill to the waters of the bay, almost under our
feet, by which that night the Christians bore the body
of the saint to their boat. Across the bay, five or
six miles off, we could see the houses of Torre dell'
Annunziata, near where they landed with it. A little
back lay the farm of the Christian where they entombed
it. A Benedictine monastery from the sixth century
marked the spot....

As you may well suppose, night overtook us before we
got back to Naples. The next morning, I went to the
cathedral again. It was the 19th of September, the
festival proper of the saint--the day of his martyrdom
and entrance into heaven. The exposition of his
relics, during which the liquefaction usually occurs,
commences at nine A.M. I was at the door of the chapel
at half-past eight. I found the chapel already crammed
and jammed. Still, way was made for me somehow. I went
to the sacristy, and was then conducted back to the
chapel, and into the space behind the main altar, in
front of the armories, to await the hour appointed. Of
course, the crowd could not yet enter the sanctuary of
the main altar, much less pass behind the altar. Only
five or six privileged persons were there. Mass was
being celebrated at the altar itself. That over, we sat
and waited, and I asked questions on the all-absorbing
subject.

Since the building and opening of this new _Tesoro_
chapel--that is, since A.D. 1646--the relics are in
the keeping of the Archbishop of Naples and the city
authorities conjointly. Everything is regulated by
the long and minute agreement then entered into by
all parties. I said each door of the armories has two
locks. The archbishop keeps the key of one, the city
authorities the key of the other. The armories cannot
be approached except through the open chapel, and
cannot be opened, save by violence, unless both parties
are present with their keys.

I was patiently waiting for nine o'clock to strike. Our
number was increasing. At last there joined us behind
the altar a tall, thin, gentlemanly man, all in black,
about forty-five years of age. He was introduced to me
as Count C----, the delegate to-day on the part of the
city. He bore a large red velvet purse or bag, with
gold cords and braiding, very rich in its workmanship.
Opening its mouth, he drew forth two good-sized,
long-handled antique keys with complicated wards. They
were connected by a steel chain, strong and light,
about fifteen inches in length. The cardinal, Riario
Sforza, is absent in Rome, driven into exile by Victor
Emmanuel's government; but before leaving he gave his
keys in charge to one of the chief ecclesiastics of
the city in his stead. Accordingly, a canon of the
cathedral soon appeared, bearing another red velvet
bag, something like the first, but not so rich, and,
moreover, somewhat faded. He, too, took out of his bag
two good-sized, long-handled keys, equally antique
in their look and complicated in their wards, and
similarly connected by a steel chain. Count C----
inserted one of his keys in the lower lock of the
armory to the south, and turned it. We heard the bolt
shoot back. The pious-looking canon was short, and
the upper lock was rather high, so they placed some
portable steps in position. He ascended them, and
inserted one of his keys in the upper lock. That bolt
shot back, too; and he swung the heavy metal door open.
We looked into the interior of the armory, about two
feet wide, three and a-half or four feet high, and
sixteen or twenty inches deep, in the masonry of the
wall. It was lined with slabs of white marble, and a
scarlet silk curtain hung down towards the front. A
thick metal partition divided it from the other armory.
One of the chaplains of the _Tesoro_ then mounted the
steps, and took out from the armory a life-sized bust
of St. Januarius, of silver gilt. A mitre on the head
of it, and a short cope which had been put on the
shoulders, designated his episcopal character. In the
head of this bust are contained the relics of the head
of the saint.

We know precisely when this bust was made; for in the
spring of 1306 an entry was made in the account-books
of Charles of Anjou, then sovereign of Naples, stating
how much silver and how much gold from the king's
treasury had been given to a certain artificer as
materials, and how much money was paid to him for
his workmanship, in making this very bust. In making
it, he modelled the features after a very ancient
bust of the saint, still existing in Puzzuoli. In the
archiepiscopal diary, relative to St. Januarius, under
the date 13th September, 1660, there is a long account
stating that, it being perceived that the relics inside
this bust had become somehow displaced--as well they
might after 355 years--the cardinal archbishop, on that
day, in the presence of all requisite witnesses, had
the bust opened by a goldsmith; himself reverently took
out the relics, and held them in his hands until the
goldsmith had repaired the damage; that his eminence
then reverently replaced the relics, properly sealed,
and had the bust closed as before, and in all this
carefully observed the prescriptions of canon law.
Since then, everything has been untouched.

Four other chaplains, with torches, attended the
chaplain whom I saw take out this bust, and it was
borne in procession round to the front of the altar,
and deposited on the altar itself, just where the
missal would stand when the Gospel is read. They then
returned to the armory.

Count C---- with his second key unlocked the lower lock
of the other--the northern armory. The little canon
again mounted the steps, unlocked the upper one, and
swung back the metal door. We looked into the armory:
it was just the fellow of the first--size, marble
lining, red silk curtain, and all. The same chaplain
then, as before, took out the reliquary containing the
_ampullæ_ or vials of the blood. I will describe it.
Conceive a bar or thick plate of silver, about two and
a-half inches wide and about sixteen inches long, to
be bent until it forms a ring or circle of about five
inches diameter. Let a circular plate of glass of the
requisite diameter be inserted and firmly fastened to
the edge of the silver ring on one side, and a similar
plate of glass be also inserted and firmly fastened to
the other edge. You will thus have, as it were, the
centre-piece of an ostensory, five inches across and
two and one-half inches through, with a silver rim, and
glass plates forming the front and rear. On the top,
let there be a little ornamental scroll-work, cherubs
and their wings, and a central stem rising upward, and
bearing an oval crown three inches by two inches, and
above that a small elegantly-worked silver crucifix.
Below the circular rim, attach a round, hollow bar of
silver, about one inch in diameter and three inches
long. It will serve as a stem to hold the reliquary by,
or as a foot which may be inserted into an opening
fitted to receive it. The reliquary may thus be kept
upright, whether it be placed on a stand on the altar
or put away in its armory. This reliquary is strong
and plain, with very little ornamentation on the
silver, but that, they say, in very good style. Inside
this frame, or case, or reliquary, between the front
and rear glass, and perfectly visible through them,
stand two _ampullæ_ or vials of glass, both fastened
to the silver rim at top and at bottom by rough,
irregular masses of dark soldering. They are held to
be the identical glass vials in which a portion of the
blood of St. Januarius was poured at the time of his
martyrdom, which were laid in his tomb, and, in 385,
were brought with his body to Naples, and which have
ever since been carefully and reverently preserved.
They are of the old Roman patterns and material. One
may see hundreds of just such vials in the museums of
Naples and Rome. One of them is long and narrow, like a
modern vial, yet not so even and symmetrical. The neck,
too, does not narrow in the manner of modern vials. A
fillet runs three or four times round it just below
the neck. Perhaps it was an ornament; more probably
it was intended by the maker to prevent the little
vial from slipping when held between the fingers. The
other _ampulla_ or vial is of a different pattern. Its
height is the same; the neck is a little higher up,
and is encircled by a single fillet of an undulating
curvature. The lower portion swells out until it is two
inches in diameter, and the vial would hold, I judge,
about a gill and a-half. In the interior of the first
_ampulla_, I saw two patches resembling the pellicle
which I had seen, at Rome, left on the inner surface
of the glass vases after the martyrs' blood originally
contained in them had entirely evaporated or passed
away. The other vial, THE AMPULLA, contains a substance
ordinarily hard, dark, with a reddish or purple hue,
and filling ordinarily three-fourths of the space
within the vial, perhaps a little more. This substance
is held to be a portion of the blood of St. Januarius,
still retained in this vial, in which it was originally
placed on September 19, A.D. 305.

In this description of the reliquary and the _ampullæ_,
I have, of course, summed up the result of all the
careful and scrutinizing observations which I had the
opportunity of making. I have not been able to learn
when this silver reliquary or case was made. No entry
is found settling the point, as in the case of the
bust. The style of ornamentation on the silver case
and on the crown would indicate about the same epoch
of art. But I am inclined to think it the earlier made
of the two. Charles of Anjou showed himself to be too
liberal in the matter of the bust to be suspected of
being a niggard in preparing the reliquary, and those
coming after him would have felt bound to be guided by
the example of his liberality. It was probably made
some time before the year 1300, possibly even by Roger,
King of Sicily, who visited Naples about A.D. 1140.

But to go back. As the chaplain took the reliquary out
from the armory, he examined it, and said, "_E duro e
pieno_"--"_It is hard and full._" In fact, the larger
vial, as he showed the reliquary round to each one
of the eight or ten persons behind the altar, and as
I most clearly saw it, was filled to the very top, I
could not be mistaken in that; but whether the contents
were liquid or solid, I really could not tell. For the
very fulness prevented any change being visible, at
least to my eyes, in that uniformly dark mass, even
if the contents were liquid, although the reliquary
was moved freely from side to side, held horizontally,
or even reversed. After we had each one venerated and
fully examined the reliquary, the canon, with his
attendants bearing torches, bore it in procession to
the front of the altar, and showed it aloft to the
people. I followed immediately behind, and ascended the
steps of the altar with them. On the platform in front
of the altar, we were four: 1. The chaplain, holding
the reliquary in his hands by the stem I have spoken
of. He stood facing the altar, or leaning over it,
between the middle and the Gospel end, where now stood
the bust. 2. In front of the bust, and close to the
first chaplain, on his left, stood a second chaplain,
bearing a lighted taper in a silver hand candlestick.
He would sometimes hold this in such a position, eight
or ten inches off from the reliquary and behind it,
that the light from it would shine on the interior,
so that the observer would not be troubled by the
reflection of the ordinary light from the surface
of the plate of glass next to him. 3. Count C----,
the city delegate, stood at the right of the first
chaplain, and, therefore, in front of the middle of the
altar. It is his sworn duty not to lose sight of the
precious reliquary from the moment the doors of the
armory are opened at nine A.M., until it is replaced
there, and duly locked up, about half an hour after
sunset. He cannot retire from his post at any time,
unless his place is supplied by an alternate delegate,
who has been chosen, and who, I was told, had promised
to come by 11 A.M. 4. Next to Count C----, I stood, or
rather knelt, until the people crowded so on me that I
positively had not room to continue in that position.

The people, now that the Mass had been over for twenty
minutes or so, had entered the sanctuary, or had been
introduced into it. They completely filled the space
within the rails; they stood crowded on the steps; they
even invaded the platform itself, not a very large one,
forcing the attendant chaplains, who had borne the
torches in the procession, and who now remained to join
with the two chaplains at the altar in the prayers, to
retire somewhat, and kneel in a group, off at the end
of the altar; forced the count and myself of necessity
to stand; and just left a little room for the two
chaplains to turn in, barely sufficient.

As I stood up, I could see the crowd. The chapel
was filled; there are, you know, no pews or seats
in Italian churches; all were standing as closely
as possible together. The sanctuaries of the side
chapels were equally crowded; men stood on the steps
and platforms of their altars; the very bases of the
columns were turned to account to afford a lofty
standing room. And such a crowd! Earnest, intensest
curiosity was marked on every face. The way it mingled
with awe and devotion was at times rather ludicrous.
Hands were clasped in prayer, and heads were bowed,
and the lips were reciting something most devoutly;
when up the head would be almost jerked, eye-glasses,
spectacles, and, a little further off, opera-glasses
and lorgnettes would be levelled at the reliquary for
a minute or two; and then down with them, and again at
the prayers. There were Frenchmen, Germans, Englishmen,
Spaniards, and Americans; strangers of every nation.
And these had made their way, of course, closest to the
altar; at least they predominated in my vicinity. In
the body of the chapel, the Neapolitans and Italians
stood. The crowd reached to the railing under the grand
archway, and beyond that filled the west aisle of the
cathedral church, and stretched across the nave and
the east aisle to the chapels opposite. The last stood
nearly eighty yards off.

These Neapolitans, too full of faith and brimful
of devotion on this day, and always exceedingly
demonstrative in their manner, gave full way to their
feelings, and were praying aloud or nearly so. The
common people of Naples have a habit of modulating
their voices while speaking, running up and down the
gamut in a way quite novel to us. You heard those
tones, not inharmonious, from the thousands who were
praying in various pitches. Some were in groups,
chanting or half-singing the litanies; some groups
were reciting the rosary devoutly; others united in
the acts of faith, hope, and charity; and still others
in prayers and hymns appropriate for this occasion,
and in their own Neapolitan dialect. To me it seemed a
perfect Babel. But no one could for an instant look on
them, and doubt the earnestness of their faith and the
intensity of their devotion.

My attention was soon drawn to one group, or rather
line, of a score of elderly women, from 50 to 80 years
of age, strung along outside the sanctuary railing,
from the centre door of it to the Gospel end. They
all joined in one chorus. They all spoke so loudly,
their tones were so earnest and modulated, and their
position made them so prominent, that I asked who
they were. I was told they were the ancient matrons
of certain families in Naples who have ever claimed
to be the blood-relatives of the saint; and, by right
of prescription and usage, they occupy that position
along the altar-rails on occasions of the exposition
of the relics. They were evidently poor, very poor. It
touched me to see here a dignity of descent claimed and
recognized far beyond that based on wealth or worldly
position--a dignity which nobles might crave in vain,
and yet from which their poverty and daily drudgery do
not debar these simple souls. I said they were old.
Among them and close to them stood younger women and
girls, other members, I presume, of their families, who
at present prayed in lower tones, inaudible, or, at
least, not noticeable, in the crowd of subdued voices
When they become grandmothers, I presume they will take
more prominent positions, and feel privileged to pitch
their voices in shriller tones. I thought at first
there was one exception. I heard a clear, bell-like,
treble voice, which generally led their chorus of
litanies or prayers, and which never seemed to tire.
But I was mistaken in the supposition. I at last traced
the voice. It was that of an elderly woman who will
scarcely see sixty again. She stood in the line, tall,
thin, emaciated. Her brow was lofty; her eyes clear,
and blazing with animation; her cheeks sunken in,
not a tooth left; and, as she spoke, her broad chin
seemed to work up and down a full inch. She wore a
clean, old, faded calico gown, without any starch in
it; and around her head was wound, like a turban, a
bright, stiffened, red and yellow bandanna, reminding
me somewhat of the respectable colored _maumas_ I had
seen in the South. Her voice was clear and sweet, and
she made free use of it. Others might tire, or rest, or
suspend their clamorous prayers for a while; but she,
no, she never tired, and her voice was ever heard among
the rest, like a clear trumpet stop in a full organ.
It was delightful, at last, to watch her occasionally,
as she kept her eyes fixed on the bust of the saint on
the altar, and every feature of her countenance kept
changing to express the sense of her words. Were she
not in church, her hands and arms and whole body, I am
sure, would have joined in the movements. As it was,
she confined herself to bowing her head, or turning it
slowly from side to side, yet always keeping her eyes
fixed on the altar. I had seen, many times, earnest,
silent, tearful prayer. Here I witnessed equally
earnest, _noisy_ prayer. I might come to like it, but
only after some time and after many trials.

While this universal hubbub of prayer was filling the
church, the chaplain, still holding the reliquary
in his hands by the stem beneath, bent over the
altar, and, with the other chaplains and those of the
bystanders who joined in, recited the _Miserere_ and
other psalms, and the Athanasian Creed, and various
prayers. His face glowed with the intensity of his
feelings. He kept his eyes earnestly fixed on the
reliquary, from time to time moving it over from side
to side, and examining it. Sometimes he rubbed the
glass face, front or rear, as necessary, with his white
pocket-handkerchief, that he might see more clearly
the interior. Sometimes the other chaplain held the
candle in a proper position to aid his inspection.
In about five minutes, he turned round with the
reliquary to the people, and held it up, with the
candle behind it, that all might see. He let those
near look as scrutinizingly as they wished, reached
it to each one of the ten or fifteen on the platform
and upper steps to kiss it, and, if they chose, as, of
course, they did, to examine it, at six or ten inches
distance. He then turned to the altar as before, and
the litany of the saints was recited, with some other
prayers. In about five minutes more, he again turned
towards the people, and gave the immediate bystanders
another opportunity to examine the reliquary closely
as before. Then again to the altar for other psalms,
hymns, and prayers. This alternation of prayers at
the altar, holding the reliquary near the bust, and
of presentations of it to the bystanders and the
crowd, every five minutes or so, continued for over
half an hour. But no change was visible. Once he left
the altar, and making his way--I could not imagine
how--into the crowd outside the sanctuary in the body
of the chapel, gave to those to the right and left of
his route a similar opportunity. On another occasion,
he went down again; but this time he turned to the
right, and went along the line of "relatives." How
their fervor increased, how their demonstrations became
more energetic, their words more rapid, their chorus
fuller, their voices louder and shriller! He came back;
but still no change. The alternations continued as
before.

At last, a little after ten o'clock, I saw a change.
I think I was the very first to perceive it. On all
the previous times and up to this, the _ampulla_ or
vial was perfectly full, as I had seen it when first
taken out of the armory. I now noticed a faint streak
of light between the substance in the vial and the
top, or, rather, the mass of solder into which the top
of the vial entered. I was sure it had not been there
before. I could scarcely see it now. This time, as
on several other occasions, the chaplain came twice
or thrice around the ring of immediate bystanders,
those at first in front courteously giving way that
others might in turn come forward. But I, of course,
retained my place. As he came round the second time,
and approached me again--I was within the line or
semi-circle--I saw that the streak of light was now
clear and unmistakable. It caught the eye of an earnest
little Frenchman who, for the last half-hour, had been
pressing against me, at times rather inconveniently.
He burst right out: "Don't you see the light in it? It
is changing! It is liquefying!" The chaplain now looked
at it attentively, moved it from side to side a little,
rubbed the glasses with his white handkerchief, looked
again, but went round the circle of bystanders a third
time. Again he examined it. By this time the streak
of light had become half an inch broad. He moved the
reliquary from side to side slowly. We saw the vacancy
now left above yield and follow his motions, just as
the air-bubble does in a spirit-level, clearly showing
the contents of the vial to be _now perfectly liquid_.
Some looked on in silent awe; some shed tears; some
cried out, "_Miracolo! miracolo!_" The chaplain waved
his white handkerchief in signal that it really was so.
Rose-leaves in quantities were thrown up from the crowd
outside the sanctuary, and rained down on us. A dozen
little birds that had been held captive in the baskets
with the roses were liberated, and rose circling
upwards to the windows of the dome. The grand organ
burst out in the _Te Deum_. The vast crowd with one
voice took up the hymn, almost drowning the full tones
of the instrument. The bells of the cathedral tower,
in full chimes, sent the announcement over the city,
and the hills and valleys around, and over the quiet
waters of the beautiful bay. All the bells of the other
churches of Naples chimed in, and quickly the cannons
of the Castle of Sant' Elmo joined in the chorus with a
grand national salute.

Meanwhile, hundreds were approaching the altar to see
with their own eyes that the blood was liquid, and to
venerate the relics. Another chaplain now relieved the
first, and continued to present the reliquary to those
who were crowding up. I still retained my position. The
blood continued to diminish in volume, until it sank so
as to be a full half-inch below the neck of the vial.
It was perfectly liquid, and, when the reliquary was
turned or inclined, it ran off the up-raised sides of
the _ampulla_ at once leaving no more trace behind than
would so much water.

After half an hour or so, the bust and the reliquary
were carried in procession out from the chapel into
the cathedral. The procession moved down the western
aisle towards the doors of the church, turned into the
grand nave, and advanced up to the sanctuary. The bust
was placed on the high altar, and the canons of the
cathedral replaced the chaplains of the _Tesoro_ chapel
in the duty of presenting the reliquary to the people,
as they approached in undiminished numbers to venerate
and inspect it.

At eleven, I said Mass at the altar where I had
witnessed the liquefaction. After the Mass, I went
into the church, and spent another half-hour there.
Thousands pouring in from the streets were still
flowing in a constant stream towards the high altar. A
little after twelve, I left....

Next morning, I said Mass again on the same altar at
eight A.M., and before nine o'clock was again at the
doors of the armories. Count C---- came punctually with
his bag of keys. So did the little canon on the part
of the archbishop. I was told that the sacred relics
had remained exposed all day, after I left, on the high
altar of the cathedral, the blood remaining liquid all
the time; and that, about dark, they had, according to
rule, been brought back to the _Tesoro_ chapel, and
had been locked up, as usual, for the night, in the
armories. This morning, they were to be again brought
out. Count C---- and the canon used their keys just
as yesterday. The bust was taken out, and carried in
procession to the front of the altar, as before. Then
the other armory was opened, and the reliquary was
taken out by the chaplain. "It is hard, and at its
ordinary level," he said, and showed it to us. The
blood now stood in the _ampulla_, not, as yesterday,
filling it, but reaching only to about an inch below
the neck, leaving about one-fourth of the space within
unoccupied. It was certainly solid and hard; for he
turned the reliquary to one side and the other without
its moving at all. He even held the reliquary upside
down, and the blood remained a firm and unmoved mass,
attached to the bottom of the now up-turned _ampulla_.
It was carried to the altar. We stationed ourselves
just as yesterday. The sanctuary was filled with
visitors, but not so crowded as on the former occasion.
The chapel, too, was not so densely jammed. None were
forced to stand out in the church for want of room.
The "relatives" were at their post, and prayed just as
before; but the miracle having occurred on the feast
itself, they were satisfied that it would occur, as a
matter of course, each day of the exposition throughout
the octave. At least, so I read their countenances,
which were less nervously anxious than yesterday.

The chaplain commenced the _Miserere_, the _Deus tuorum
militum_, and sundry prayers, the clergy joining
in. Every five minutes or so, he turned to show the
reliquary to the people, especially, of course, to
those immediately around the altar.

In just sixteen minutes after we had reached the
altar, the first symptom of the coming change showed
itself. As the chaplain held the reliquary for a moment
completely reversed, and steady in that position,
I noticed that the surface of the blood within the
_ampulla_, now, as he held it, underneath, showed a
tendency to sag downwards, as if it were softening.
Soon again, I saw that around the edge, where it
touched the glass, it had changed color, and was of
a brighter red than in the middle, and seemed very
soft, almost liquid. In fact, as he would incline the
reliquary to one side or another, the entire mass
within began soon gradually to slide down and occupy
the lowest position. Still, though soft, it was thick,
and could scarcely be called liquid. Then, in two or
three minutes more, it became still softer, until it
was quite liquid, with a lump, nevertheless, which
seemed to remain hard and to float in the liquid
portion. To-day, as the glass was moved, the liquid
would run off, of course. But, whereas yesterday it
left the glass quite clear and clean, as water would
do, now, on the contrary, it left a reddish thick tinge
behind, which only slowly sank down into the general
mass. After a while, too, the blood seemed to froth, or
show bubbles on its surface--_to boil_, as the Italians
say. I remained over half an hour more to see it, and
I noticed that at the end of that time the lump had
disappeared, and all was quite liquid. The frothing
continued.

After this, I was invited to go into the sacristy,
where they showed me the superb ecclesiastical
vestments belonging to the chapel--the mitres,
necklaces, chalices, ciboriums, ostensories, and other
rich jewelry--in great part, the gifts of emperors,
kings, and other nobles and wealthy ones, who, for
centuries past, have given them as offerings to this
sanctuary on occasion of their visits. Finally, I had
to tear myself away. Returning for a few moments to the
chapel, I found the crowds still approaching the altar
to examine and to venerate the relics.

Reluctantly I left the cathedral, and in a few hours
a railway-train was bearing me fast and far away from
Naples.

I have thus, my dear S----, set forth minutely and at
length what I saw. They say that in the liquid blood
one may still sometimes see a small fragment of straw
floating about. If so, it must have been taken up with
the blood when it was gathered at the execution of
the saint, and must have glided unperceived into the
_ampulla_ when the blood was poured into it that day.
A young friend with me thought he caught a glimpse of
it. His eyesight is keen, which, you know, mine is
not. Anyhow, I did not see it. I need not tell you of
various other little points of which the Neapolitans
speak, as I had no opportunity of testing them or
verifying them myself. I have told you, simply and
straightforwardly, what fell under my own experience.

Our readers will not regret the length of this account of the liquefaction, so full and minute in the details. The letter from which we extract it was written immediately after the visit of the writer to Naples, from notes made at the time, and while the impressions left on his memory were still fresh.

It was not necessary, in a letter like that we have made use of, to enter on the discussion of mooted points of archæology. The writer simply sets forth the opinions which, after more or less of examination, he felt inclined to adopt. We say here that there is a difference among writers as to the year in which the body of St. Januarius was transferred from the original sepulchre to the church of San Gennaro _extra muros_, and there is still a graver difference as to the precise place of the original tomb. Some have held that the execution took place on a more elevated spot on the same hill which the letter mentions--about a quarter of a mile distant from the church of the Capuchins--and that this church marks not the site of the execution, as the letter holds with the Neapolitan archæologists, but the site of the first temporary interment, from which the body was borne to Naples, twelve or fifteen years later than the year assigned above. These are minor points, on which we may let antiquaries argue at pleasure.

In another article, we purpose to examine the character of the fact of the liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius, according to exact records of its history for several centuries back.

For the present, we close with the latest account of its occurrence which has fallen under our eye. The _Pall Mall Budget_, of May 26 last, has the following: "The blood of St. Januarius seems to have been lately in a more perturbed state, if possible, than ever. The _Libertà Cattolica_ of Naples gives an account of some unusual appearances presented by this relic, on the 6th inst., one of the annual occasions on which the holy martyr is honored in the cathedral of Naples. On the day in question, Saturday, May 6, at a quarter-past four P.M., the reliquary being brought out of its tabernacle, where it had remained since the 16th of last December--the feast of the patronage--it was found partly liquid, as when laid up. It continued in the same state during the procession (from the cathedral to the church of St. Clara), and, after thirteen minutes of prayers, the sign of the miracle was given, the portion which had remained hard being perceptibly still more dissolved, so as to show that the miracle had taken place. Gradually, during the kissing of the reliquary by the congregation at St. Clara, it became entirely dissolved. On its return to the cathedral, contrary to what had taken place during the last few years, it was found to be completely hardened. When carried into the chapel of the _Tesoro_, it dissolved anew, and now entirely, yet remaining thick and glutinous; and in that state was laid up, about ten P.M."

TO BE CONTINUED.

LUCAS GARCIA.

FROM THE SPANISH OF FERNAN CABALLERO.

"In an age when all impressions are effaced by the
double hammer of civilization and incredulity, it is
touching and beautiful to see a people preserve a
stable character and immutable beliefs."

I.

Eastward from Jerez, in the direction of the Sierra de Ronda, which rises in a succession of terraces, as if to form a suitable pedestal for the rightly named San Cristóbal, lie the extensive Llanos de Caulina. A bare and uniform road drags itself for two leagues through the palmettoes, and makes a halt at the foot of the first elevation, where a lazy rivulet widens in the sun, and, stagnating in summer, changes its waters into mire.

On the right is seen the castle of Malgarejo, one of the few Moorish edifices that time and his faithful auxiliary in the work of destruction, ignorance, have left standing. Time makes ruins, groups them, crowns them with garlands, and adorns them with verdure, as if he desired to have them for places of recreation and rest; but the barbarian ignorance gives no quarter--his only delight is in dust; his place of repose, the desert waste; his end, nothingness.

The angles of the castle are flanked by four large towers. These, as well as the walls of the whole enclosure, are surmounted by well-formed turrets, perfect still, and without notch or break in their beautiful uniformity. The castle took its name of Malgarejo from a knight of Jerez, by whom its reduction was accomplished in a manner so curious, that we cannot resist the inclination to relate it, for the benefit of those who are unacquainted with the tales of partisan exploits that abound in the annals of Jerez.

In the beginning of the thirteenth century, a hundred and fifty Moors, with their families, occupied the castle. They went clothed in white, according to the custom of their nation, and mounted gray horses. Shut up as they were, they procured their subsistence by foraging the country at night, and carrying to their stronghold whatever booty they could seize.

Malgarejo resolved to get possession of this formidable place. It was surrounded, at that time, by a wide moat. This moat--opened by the Moors for their protection, and afterward serving them for a sepulchre--no longer exists.

The Christian cavalier had a slave that was a most accomplished horseman, and to him he promised liberty if he would swear to devote himself to the proposed undertaking. The slave, agreeing, was entrusted by his master with a mare of singular agility, and was directed to train her to leap a ditch, which was to be enlarged, by degrees, to the width of the one that surrounded the Saracen castle.

This being accomplished, Malgarejo called together his followers, disguised them as Moors, caused them to cover their horses with white cloths, and, one night, when the garrison had sallied out upon a raid, approached the fortress. Those within, taking his host for the one they were expecting, viewed its approach without suspicion. When the Christians came nearer, they saw their mistake, and would have raised the bridge, but the slave of Malgarejo had already leaped the moat, and cut the cords, so that it could not be lifted; and the _Jerezanos_ made themselves masters of the castle.

The sight of this stronghold, over which the destroyer Time has passed leaving as little trace as would the footstep of a bird, transports the beholder to the past with such vividness of illusion, that he is surprised not to see the pennon of the half-moon fluttering above its towers, and misses a snowy turban from behind every one of its turrets. No fitter place could be found for the representation of a fight or of a tournament between Moors and Christians.

The road to Arcos leaves on its left the sleeping stream and the dead fortress, within whose precinct, like ants in a skeleton, laborers plying the tools of peaceful husbandry are moving.

Ascending this first step of the mountain, the traveller crosses other plains, covered as far as the eye can see with rich harvests, and, finding no nearer inn or stopping-place, takes his siesta at the grange of La Peñuela, formerly the property of the Carthusian fathers--an order so pious, so severe, so worthy and respected, that the country folk still ask each other, "And was there indeed a power that could, and a hand that would dare to touch such men and such things?"

As the country rises, it covers itself with olive groves, as if it would shelter white and ancient Arcos in the pride with which she preserves her title of city, her venerable privileges, and her state parchments, in spite of decline, or, better said, in spite of her still life, in the midst of the progress that waits upon the march of time--a progress at once gentle, deliberate, and spontaneous.

True to the guerilla traits of her Moorish founders, Arcos appears to the traveller, wearied with the ascent, alternately advancing and retiring, until, passing between two high rocks, he enters unexpectedly into a city so beautiful for situation as to astonish and delight even those who are rarely moved by the charms of nature or the enchantments of the picturesque.

One afternoon, in the year 1840 or thereabout, a crowd of people might have been seen entering a poor-looking house in the barrier of San Francisco. From this house they had carried, on the previous day, the body of one who had been its mistress, and the neighbors were now uniting for the _condolement_ required by the rigorous etiquette which is observed by the people, and which manifests the instinctive courtesy and dignity that distinguish them. For all etiquette and all ceremonial are founded upon these bases, and are not the ridiculous and superficial things, either in public or private life, that the revolutionary spirit of the age, and the anxiety to escape from every rein, material and moral, would make us believe. Ceremonial and etiquette, in the right acceptation of the words, are external conduct, disposed so as to give worship to things divine, consideration and respect to things human.

On entering the house, the women assembled in the parlor of the mourner's _habitation_.[160] Opposite this room was another, which had been lent by a neighbor for the accommodation of the men.

Upon a mat in the middle of the apartment first mentioned was extended a handkerchief, into which each person, as he entered, threw one or two copper coins, destined for the stipend of the Mass of San Bernardino. This custom is observed not only among the poor, but also among those who are well-to-do, for this Mass must be owed to charity. Let sceptics and rationalists explain this as best suits them. We look upon it as an act of humility, joined to the desire of uniting many suffrages. And although we may be more impressed with terrestrial honors, such as a splendid funeral, a showy catafalque, and a proud mausoleum, the fervent petition of the heart, the coin given in charity, the prayers of the church, are better suffrages for heaven. In a corner of the room, upon a low chair, was the principal mourner, a little girl of eight years. Wearied with weeping for her mother, and with remaining so long in one position, she had leaned her head against the back of the chair, and fallen asleep--for sleep is a lover of children, and hastens to their relief whenever they suffer in body or spirit.

"Poor Lucia," said one of the mourners, a kinswoman of the deceased, glancing at the child, "how she will miss her mother!"

"This was the thorn that poor Ana carried to the grave fastened in her heart," observed a neighbor.

"But," asked another, "of what did she die?"

"Only the ground that covers her knows what ailed her," answered the relative, "for Ana did not complain. If she had not been so thin, you might have drunk her; as yellow as a waxen flower, and so weak that a shadow could have knocked her down, no one would have thought that she was on her way to Holyfield."

"She died of a broken heart!" exclaimed an energetic-looking young matron; "all the world knows it; and because we have an alcalde that is afraid to strap his breeches to the work and cast out of town with the devil's sling these trulls of strangers who come among us to set up drinking-houses, and chouse married men, to their perdition and the ruins of their families!"

"Yes, yes, the alcaldes have eyes of fishes for all these things," said the relative of the deceased, "just as they have owls' eyes for some others. But they'll get their pay, woman; for though God consents, 'tis not for ever!"

"Yes," answered the first--"consents to the death of the good, and lets the bad live, and crow on. God reserves the justice of heaven for himself. The rod of earthly justice he puts into the hands of men; and a fine account they'll have to give of the way they use it! I'd like to break the one our alcalde carries upon his shoulders!"

"Neighbor," said an old woman, "you are more hasty than a spark from the forge; you attack like the bulls, with eyes shut. Think whom you are speaking of; and bear in mind that 'evil wounds heal, but evil fame kills.' Poor Ana was never well after her last confinement. Death does not come without a pretext: the summer pulled her down, and September finished her; for 'from friar to friar,[161] God be our guard!'"

"Of course, Aunt Maria," retorted the young woman, "it's quite proper for you, because you are aunt to Juan Garcia, and cousin to the alcalde, to say so; for 'with reason or without it, aid us God and our kin.' But I tell you that my José is not to set his foot inside of _La Leona's_[162] gin-shop; and I'll see that he don't! A man may be as honest as Job, but in 'the house of the soap-maker he that doesn't fall slips.' And say what you please, you who are a widow, with the coolness of age in your veins, I shall not go back of what I have said. 'He that jumps straight, falls on his feet,' and I say, and resay it: they ought to flay alive the good-for-nothing calamary of a she-sergeant, with her sentry-box figure, and face darker than an oil-skin, so full of pock-marks that it looks as if she had fallen into a bed of chick-peas, and more hair on her lip than a grenadier! Remember the proverb, 'Salute the bearded woman at a distance!'"

"And her children," said the mourner--"little imps that she keeps so greasy and neglected! They look like a nest of calamaries."

"But she thinks them little suns," added another.

"Ya!" exclaimed the first who had spoken; "said the black beetle to her young ones, 'Come hither, my flowers!' and the owl calls hers 'drops of gold.' Who ever saw such a thing, sirs," she continued, growing excited--"who ever saw anything so wicked as to dupe a married man, the father of children, ruin him, pull down his house, and murder his wife by inches! And this is known and permitted! I tell you, such a thing sinks deep!"

"Yes, it is worse than stabbing with a knife," exclaimed one woman.

"It cries to God!" added another.

"It is a scandal of the monstrous kind," proceeded the first. "Poor Ana, though I did not see much of her, I loved her well. Almond-paste is not milder than she was, and as meek and free from malice as a sheep in the hands of the butcher. O men! men! There is a curse on them that pull their clothes on over their feet; and that is the reason our dear Lord would not wear breeches, but always dressed in a tunic."

"Come, daughter," said Aunt Maria, "nothing is mended by malediction, nor by spitting out the quinine. Let us pray for the soul of the departed, for that is what will really benefit her."

These words were the signal for complete silence. Aunt Maria took her rosary, the rest following her example, and, after saying the act of contrition and a solemn credo, proceeded to recite the rosary of souls, repeating three times after the Paternoster, and instead of the Hail Mary,

"O Lord, by thy infinite mercy,"

the others answering in chorus,

"Grant to the souls of the faithful departed peace and glory."

Nothing was now heard in the mourning room of the women but the grave murmur of the prayers and suppressed sighs of pity and sorrow.

The other parlor presented a very different spectacle. The widower, serene as a glass of water, and cool as a fresh lettuce, now that the day of the burial had passed, considered himself dispensed from the attitude of mourning, and smoked, listening and talking to all, just as usual, as if death had entered his house and departed without leaving either trace or impression of his awful presence.

The indifferent ones followed his example, so that, had not all worn cloaks, no one would have supposed that this was a condolement, a tribute of love and respect to a life that had ended, and of sympathy with an overwhelming sorrow. The only figure that appeared to be in harmony with the object of the reunion was that of a boy thirteen years old, the son of the deceased, who sat near his father with his elbows resting on his knees, and his face buried in his hands, weeping inconsolably.

"What kind of day has it been?" asked the widower.

"Unhealthy," answered one.

"And the sky?"

"Patched; I think the rain is not far off. There was fog this morning, and 'fog is the rain's sponsor and the sun's neighbor.'"

"The wind will soon sweep the cobwebs from the sky," said a third, "for it blows from sunset side. The rain is shyer than sixpences."