University of Virginia Library

CEREMONIES.

On a fine afternoon we visited Prato, a manufacturing
town ten miles distant, for the purpose of witnessing
a religious procession, which occurs there
once in three years, and is deemed one of the most
imposing in Italy. Having passed two or three
hours in roaming about the streets, amid the dense
crowds assembled to behold the ceremonial, about
dusk we took the station previously obtained for us,
being one compartment of the rough and somewhat
elevated galleries which lined the way. The houses
were illuminated, and the strong light falling upon
two tiers of spectators arranged on either side, gave
to the scene a remarkable effect. First in the procession
(designed in observance of the death of our
Saviour) came a large cavalcade, habited as the ancient
Roman soldiers, the leaders wearing rich mantles,
and dark-plumed helmets; then a considerable
body of infantry; then a band of musicians clad in
black. After these appeared an immense number
of laymen bearing torches, and followed by boys,
priests and marshals; and then were borne, successively,
all the emblems of our Saviour's sufferings,

and, inscribed upon banners, his words during the
crucifixion; after all, preceded by a large choir of
priests, and surrounded by torch-bearers, appeared
the image of the dead Jesus, over which was carried
a large black canopy; then came the Madonna,
more music, another cavalcade of soldiery, and files
of citizens closed the procession. As this was the
first ceremonial of the kind I had seen, my interest
was considerably excited. It certainly was well
calculated to induce its destined influence. The
combined effect of such a solemn moving pageant,
and the gazing multitude, revealed to the sight by
the flickering glare of an hundred torches; the profound
stillness which reigned, broken only by an
occasional murmur, the deep tones of the chanters,
or the measured strains of the instruments; the view,
under such circumstances, of the symbols of the sufferings
of Him who, on that day, centuries past, was
borne mournfully and quietly to the sepulchre—all
came most touchingly and with an awful and solemn
distinctness upon the mind.

Among the curious ceremonies of the holy week,
observed in Florence, is that called the Columbina.
At mid-day, the figure of a small dove is made, by
fire-works, to glide rapidly along a large wire from
the main altar of the Cathedral, through the principal
entrance to the other side of the street, where it
comes in contact with a magazine of squibs lodged
in a massive carved block or pillar, thence producing
gradual but continued explosions. This phenomenon,

although its effect is unaided by the darkness
of night, is eagerly viewed by an immense populace
filling the large square and adjacent balconies and
windows. What its religious signification is, I cannot
precisely determine. The first fire is said to be
communicated from a holy flint, i. e. a small fragment
of the tomb of Christ; and the contardini attach
great importance to the manner in which the dove
executes her mission, not indeed a very peaceful
one. Should her passage be uninterrupted, and the
desired effect be produced, a favourable season for
the crops is inferred; if, on the other hand, mismanagement
causes a failure, the contrary event is sadly
presaged. On this occasion the whole affair went off
well. It was regarded with much apparent interest
—an interest, indeed, which nothing but the character
of the people and the force of popular superstitions
can explain.