Gustave Moreau at the Met

Salome with the Head of John the Baptist,
oil on wood, ca. 1876, Gustave Moreau (1826-1898)

A couple of paintings by Gustave Moreau, currently on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, recently brought back a vivid memory.

My copy of Between Epic and Dream

In 1999, the museum hosted a major exhibition, Gustave Moreau: Between Epic and Dream. I had first encountered Moreau’s work years earlier in high school, and that exhibition was my first and only chance to see many of his paintings in person. Captivated by the strange, jewel-like worlds of the French Symbolist painter, I felt that his canvases were less like illustrations of myth and scripture than visions—rich with color, ornament, and mystery.

I remember walking slowly through the galleries, examining the intricate details and shimmering surfaces. I had brought a date with me that afternoon. While we lingered in front of the paintings, she seemed largely uninterested. The contrast between my fascination and her indifference became clear quickly, and by the time we left the museum, I had already decided there would be no dinner.

I didn’t take photographs that day—I don’t think they were allowed—but I did buy the exhibition catalog, which I still own. Looking at Moreau’s work again now, even in a small group of paintings, instantly brought that afternoon back. Some exhibitions leave a lasting impression. That one definitely did.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, March 22nd, Feast of Sant'Isidoro l'Agricoltore

(L) Salome with the Head of John the Baptist, oil on wood, ca. 1876. (R) Oedipus and the Sphinx, oil on canvas, 1864, Gustave Moreau (1826-1898)

Photo of the Week: Egyptian Granite Atlantes at the Round Hall Entrance, Vatican Museum

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

The Annunciation at Annunciation Parish Upper Church in Crestwood, New York

Literary Caprices: Vignettes and Other Indulgences

Bronze Sheela-na-Gig pendant

Since we marked the blog’s anniversary a bit early this year, I’m sharing something a little different.

I started taking creative writing classes to sharpen my craft and, as an exercise, wrote a series of vignettes and short stories. Several examples have appeared here over the past year.

More risqué than my usual posts, the following pieces aren’t ones I typically publish—but there’s no reason to let them gather dust. More personal in nature, they have little to do with faith or the Italian American community.

I believe I’ve mentioned before that I don’t come from a literary or journalistic background, nor am I an academic or historian. This project was born from a desire to create something more relatable and interesting—at least to me. Tired of the same old Italian American narratives being peddled by smug academics and ideologues, I set out, in my own modest way, to contribute to a cultural renewal.

While I continue that effort, what I truly want now is to write poetry, which I hold to be the highest form of expression. Unfortunately, though I may have the heart for it, the soul of a true poet remains elusive—as evidenced by the few examples I’ve shared here in the past. Still, I’ll keep forging ahead in search of my Muse.

Accused by more than a few critics of being overly pedantic, I’ve made a conscious effort lately to temper that tendency. With these posts, I’m also trying to broaden my range and explore different genres. Since taking the classes, I have especially enjoyed revisiting old family stories and memories. Thankfully, I’ve been blessed with a full and interesting life—so, God willing, there will be more to come.

I’ve enjoyed writing these pieces. I hope you enjoy reading them.

Shane MacGowan (1957-2023)

Sheela at the Gig

It was the late 90s, and the summer air over Randall’s Island smelled of beer and fried food. The Guinness Fleadh Festival was in full roar—fiddles, citterns, and bodhráns thumping as thousands gathered beneath a hazy New York sky to celebrate Irish music and culture.

When The Pogues took the stage beneath the big tent, the crowd surged forward as if pulled by gravity itself. And there was Shane MacGowan—leaning into the microphone, ragged, magnificent, impossibly alive.

Midway through the show, the crowd suddenly split open. People laughed and stumbled aside as a massive man lurched through the clearing, drenched in beer and sweat, wearing nothing but tighty whities and a grin.

“Kelly!” he bellowed again and again before disappearing back into the amused, swallowing sea of bodies.

Not long after, as if summoned by symmetry, a young woman staggered past in her bra and panties, copper hair wild, shouting, “Patrick!” Her search was no more successful. The crowd folded behind her, too, reclaiming both stories without resolution.

Between sets, near the vendors’ tents, my girlfriend was trying on rings. A silver brooch caught the light—a sheela-na-gig. [1] It was beautiful. I turned it over in my hand—its ancient, stark symbolism unmistakable.

Devotion felt more important at the time, so, unable to afford both, I bought her a claddagh ring. [2] Certain symbols—love and loyalty—meant permanence if you believed hard enough.

In hindsight, of course, the sheela-na-gig understood things better than I did.

Bioluminescent Walk of Shame

At a house party on Long Island Sound, my girlfriend and I slipped away to go skinny-dipping. The water was calm, the night clear, and the moon was bright and full. Frolicking at first, we drifted into each other’s arms beneath its light—until, mid-moment, the water around us flared to life in an eerie fluorescent green.

A swarm of jellyfish had bloomed all at once, lighting up the shallows in an aquatic glow. Panicked, we thrashed our way back to shore, making quite a scene and drawing the attention of the entire party. As we streaked across the beach toward our clothes and the house, the revelers rewarded our ignoble exit with a generous round of applause. We weren’t stung—but we were red with embarrassment.

Lady Godiva, J.J. Lefebvre (1890)

A Stolen Glance and Unwelcome Encore

Stepping outside the noisy bar to take a call from a friend, I happened to glance up and saw a beautiful young woman in the second-floor apartment opposite, fresh from the shower, calmly toweling her hair in all her naked glory. Oblivious to my presence, she stood there with an ease that was almost statuesque. I turned away out of respect and told my friend what I’d just witnessed. Laughing, he said I was a better man than he—he wouldn’t have looked away.

Tempted, I stole a second glance. To my dismay, the window now framed a naked man instead, presenting me with the full and decidedly unwelcome monty. I let out an involuntary groan and relayed the turn of events. My friend cackled and said, “That’s what you get for being a peeping Tom.” [3]

Velvet Nights: Before the Curtain Fell

There was a time—before I found my way back to the Church—when the nights belonged to chasing skirt, cocktails, and loud music. Not long ago, I had the chance to step back into that world for a bachelor party. I passed—and it made me think of those nights again.

My friends and I would sometimes start the night pregaming at cabarets or burlesque clubs where women in heels knew how to pivot on a dime and make you feel "special" for the length of a song. The air carried perfume, gin, and the faint electrical buzz of anticipation.

Yes, it was decadent. Lewd at times, but hardly the last days of Caligula, no matter how people like to dramatize it. It had rhythm. It had choreography. It had a wink—feather boas, pasties, and fans. Long gloves peeled away finger by finger. Stockings rolled down with ceremonial patience.

The women weren’t rushing toward nudity; they were conducting it. It felt closer to performance art. Back then, the tease was the point. Suggestion carried more voltage than exposure. 

(L) Beverly Powers in Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961). (R) Commissioned
artwork for From Dusk Till Dawn (1996) by Frank Frazetta

It lived somewhere between Beverly Powers’ playful striptease in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and the feverish heat of Salma Hayek’s dance at the Titty Twister in From Dusk Till Dawn. Glamour and danger, laughter and sweat. A joke told with a hip, a threat delivered with a smile.

We didn’t go for politics. We didn’t pretend it was empowerment. We went because we were young men who wanted to see beautiful, naked women. There’s no halo to hang on that. No clever excuse. It was appetite.

After the show, we’d buy drinks and talk to the girls—discussing art, music, and onstage mishaps. Some were sharp, funny, and more disciplined than the men watching them. Others, not so much. The fantasy stayed on stage. Offstage, it was just people. Looking back now, I can see how easily a young man mistakes spectacle for meaning.

I don’t romanticize it. But neither do I pretend it was the end of civilization. It was a chapter—perfumed, reckless, artful in its own way. A theater of flesh and spotlight.

And like any theater, the curtain fell.

~ Giovanni di Napoli, March 21st, The Feasts of Bl. Maria Candida of the Eucharist and San Benedetto da Nursia

Notes
[1] The sheela-na-gig is often interpreted as a medieval warning against lust, its stark imagery reminding the faithful of sin’s moral and spiritual consequences. Others believe such figures served a more ancient apotropaic purpose—warding off evil, much like a gargoyle.
[2] The claddagh ring symbolizes love, loyalty, and friendship, expressing a commitment rooted in faithfulness and enduring devotion. 

[3] “Peeping Tom” originates from the medieval legend of Lady Godiva, in which a tailor named Tom secretly watched her ride naked through Coventry and was struck blind as punishment for his voyeurism.

A Lenten Retreat for the Jubilee Year of 2026 for the 800th Anniversary of the Transitus of St. Francis of Assisi in San Francisco, California

Celebrating the Abruzzese Poetry of Giuseppe Rosato on World Poetry Day

Giuseppe Rosato was born in Lanciano (prov. of Chieti) in 1932. He writes poetry in his native Abruzzese as well as Italian, and is also a writer, journalist, and literary critic. He has taught literature and worked in the cultural services of the RAI. Rosato has published several collections of verse in Italian, including L’acqua felice (Schwarz, 1957), La vergogna del mondo (Manni, 2003) and Le cose dell’assenza (Book, 2012), and several novels, including Vedere la neve (Carabba, 2011), La neve al cancelletto di partenza (Manni, 2008) and Piccolo dizionario di Babele (Stilo, 2009). In Abruzzese, he has published La cajola d’ore (CET, 1956), Ecche lu fredde (Riccitelli, 1986), Ugn’addó (Grafica Campioli, 1991), L’ùtema lune, pref. F. Loi (Mobydick, 2002), E mó stém’accuscì (I libri del Quartino, 2003), La ’ddòre de la neve, pref. G. Tesio (Interlinea, 2006), Lu scure che s’attònne (Raffaelli, 2009), La nève (Carabba, 2010), and È tempe (Raffaelli, 2013).

Tré ffile
(from La Cajola d’Ore)

Ce šta nu file chiare all’oridzónne
ma ’ccućì cchiare e lende, stammatine,
’ccućì bianghe ca pare se cunfónne
cele e mundagne, senza cchiù ccunfine.

Nu file de recorde, assópre a quelle,
se sturcine e s’areturcine, strétte
ana feneštra aperte, an’ora bbelle
de chi sa quande, ch’arenasce mbette.

Nu tétte an’atru tétte e an’atre štenne
nu fume lende che ss’unisce e pije
la vije de lu cele; e va tremenne
pecché è nu file de malincunije.

Three Threads
(from Cajola d’Ore [The Golden Cage])

There is a clear thread on the horizon
but so clear and slow, this morning
so white that the sky and mountains
seem to blend together, without boundaries.

A thread of memory, above that,
unwinds and rewinds, tied
to an open window, to a beautiful hour
of who knows when, that is reborn in the chest.

One roof to another roof and to another stretches
a slow smoke that unites and takes
the path to the sky; and it trembles
because it is a thread of melancholy.

Nu Spròvele de Nève
(Da La ’ddòre de la nève)

Nu spròvele de nève, che gné qquande
se vulé fà assendì t’à resbejate
a notta fónne (e tu gné ana chiamate
si’ ite a guardà ’rrete ala persiane),
vé a dàrete lu salute: è mmarze,
già té spuppà le piande – te vò dice –
e le sacce ca tuttanome penze
sole ca è pprimavére.
Ma tu, almene tu me sò penzate
ca me vulive dice addije, addije
pe na lùtema vote…
Nu spròvele de nève, c’à durate
sćì e nò mèdz’ore. I’, mbacce alu vétre,
lu core a pizze le sò vište a ìrsene.

A Dusting of Snow
(from La ’ddòre de la Nève [The Scent of the Snow])

A dusting of snow, which as if when
it wanted to make itself heard
woke you up in the dead of night
(and you, as if to a call,
went to look from behind the shutter),
It comes to greet you: it’s March,
the plants are already sprouting- it wants to tell you-
and I know everyone thinks
only that it is spring:
but you, at least I thought to myself
you wanted to say farewell, farewell
for one last time…
A dusting of snow, which lasted
for half an hour.
I, my face on the glass, watched
it go away with a broken heart.

* Translations by Cav. Charles Sant’Elia

The Origins of Rome’s Nasoni

After reading our post on the custom-made bronze nasoni we commissioned from Dante Mortet, our friend, Roman author and journalist Germana Valentini, shared this brief historical reflection on their origins—tracing how a practical urban solution became one of the enduring symbols of everyday life in Rome.

"There were two main reasons that led Mayor [Luigi] Pianciani to install public drinking fountains. The first was to allow people to freely drink potable water in the streets and squares of the city. The second was to provide an outlet for the water network, which at the time had very high pressure, thereby reducing it and preventing pipes from bursting.

"Between 1872 and 1874, the first twenty “nasoni” were installed. They were made of cast iron, about 120 cm tall, and weighed around 100 kg, though their shape was somewhat different from today’s. Water flowed continuously from three dragon heads placed at the top of a cylindrical structure, and then drained into the sewer system through a grate at street level.

"In the following years, the design of the fountains was modified: the three decorated spouts were replaced by a single smooth pipe, whose shape gave rise to the nickname “nasone” (“big nose”)."

Solemnity of the Annunciation at Transfiguration Church in New York City

Remembering HRH Prince Don Ferdinando Maria Andrea Alfonso Marco of Bourbon-Two Sicilies

28 May 1926 - 20 March 2008

In memory of His Royal Highness Prince Ferdinand of Bourbon-Two Sicilies, late Grand Master of the Sacred Military Constantinian Order of St. George, we pray for the happy repose of his soul.

Let us pray:

O God, the Creator and Redeemer of all the faithful, grant to the souls of the brethren, relations, and benefactors of our Order, and especially the late Grand Master, Ferdinand, the remission of all their sins, that they may obtain the clemency which they have always desired by pious supplications, and rejoice in the heavenly homeland with the Saints and Thy elect. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Eternal rest grant unto them O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Honoring San Giuseppe Together

San Giuseppe, ora pro nobis

Although we were not able to gather as a group for our annual Tavola di San Giuseppe this year, the spirit of the feast remained very much alive. Instead, we celebrated with our family, sharing a meal in line with tradition. While the setting was more intimate, the meaning endured—marked by gratitude and continued devotion to our glorious patron. Evviva San Giuseppe!

Caponata

Pasta con sarde with toasted breadcrumbs

Zeppole di San Giuseppe

Sfingi di San Giuseppe

Happy Spring!

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

The March or vernal equinox marks the beginning of spring, a time of rebirth and fertility. In celebration of the new season I would like to share a poem by the acclaimed Sicilian poet and 1959 Nobel Laureate Salvatore Quasimodo from The Night Fountain: Selected Early Poems translated by Marco Sonzogni and Gerald Sawe, Arc Publications, 2008, p. 26-27. 

The accompanying photo of Primavera (Spring), or Flora, the goddess of fertility and springtime, from the Villa Arianna, Stabiae, first century AD, was taken at the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli in 2010.

Wild Flowers

Blood clots hanging over torn green velvet:
the wounds of the fields!
Breathing in the sweet air, spring has broken
the veins of its swollen breasts.
Wind gusts with eager lips: a kiss!
Blood-red wild flowers float on threadlike
and foamless waves.

Primule

Grumi pensili di sangue sul lacero velluto verdognolo.
Oh le ferite dei prati!
La primavera respirando voluttuosamente l'aria soave, ha rotte
le vene del suo seno turgido.
Un fiotto di vento con le labbra avide; un bacio! E le
primule sanguigne galleggiano su l'onde filamentose e
senza spuma.

Passion Sunday at Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Jersey City, New Jersey

Shroud of Turin Lecture at St. Joseph School Auditorium in Raritan, New Jersey

Foreclosing on Faith Film Screening and Conference with Filmmaker Viktoria Somogyi and Canon Law Expert Attorney Brody Hale

Sanfedismo and the Neapolitan Counter-Revolution, 1799 — Part IV

The Destruction of the Tree of Liberty in the Largo di Palazzo
by Saverio della Gatta (active from 1777 to 1827)

See, Part I, Part II, Part III

Restoration, Aftermath, and the Memory of Sanfedismo

By early June 1799, the Parthenopean Republic existed largely in name. French forces had withdrawn to the north, provincial administrations had collapsed, and Cardinal Ruffo’s army stood at the gates of Naples. On June 13th, the Feast of St. Anthony of Padua, Ruffo and his forces, having heard Mass and invoked the saint’s intercession, entered the city. Intense street fighting followed as loyalist and Sanfedisti forces engaged the remaining republican defenders. By day’s end, the Bourbon banner once again flew over Naples.

The surviving leaders of the Republic withdrew to fortified positions and entered into negotiations. In a gesture of Christian clemency, Ruffo offered generous terms: safe conduct and preservation of life in exchange for peaceful surrender. These terms were accepted—and then violated. Upon the arrival of Admiral Horatio Nelson with the British fleet, the agreed-upon capitulations were set aside. Acting independently of Ruffo and in defiance of his guarantees—whether on his own initiative or with tacit royal encouragement remains debated—Nelson authorized arrests and executions, most notably that of Francesco Caracciolo, Duke of Brienza. This decision remains a source of enduring controversy. Ruffo himself protested vigorously and withdrew from Naples in disgust. Modern scholarship has increasingly recognized that the ensuing reprisals cannot be laid at his feet.

The republic had lasted scarcely five months. Its legacy, however, was disproportionate to its duration. Governed by a narrow elite and sustained by foreign arms, it left behind deep divisions, widespread devastation, and a body count that even French officers acknowledged with unease. The people they claimed to liberate neither consented to their rule nor mourned its end.

The moral narrative constructed after the fact inverted these realities. Counter-revolutionary violence was magnified—no calumny was too great to lay at its feet—while republican and French atrocities were minimized, contextualized, or ignored. General Thiébault recorded that more than sixty thousand civilians were killed during the five-month occupation—excluding combatants. [21] This staggering figure also clarifies the environment in which reprisals occurred. A society subjected to systematic looting, sacrilege, massacre, and coercive rule does not emerge morally neutral. That later commentators expressed shock at retribution while excusing the conditions that produced it reflects less a concern for justice than a preference for ideological symmetry.

The subsequent French return in 1806 further exposes the limits of revolutionary apologetics. Critics have pointed to the absence of a comparable Santa Fede uprising as evidence that support for the Bourbons had evaporated. The argument is unconvincing. The political context had changed. This time, Napoleon did not impose a Godless republic but installed monarchs—first his brother Joseph Bonaparte, then his brother-in-law Joachim Murat—thereby blurring the symbolic clarity that had unified resistance in 1799. More decisively, the methods of occupation intensified. Mass executions, village burnings, and collective punishment were employed to suppress resistance before it could coalesce.

Modern historians have documented this with precision. In a 2009 issue of War in History, historian Philip G. Dwyer offers a stark account of the period’s brutality, focusing in particular on the French conquest of Southern Italy. In his article “‘It Still Makes Me Shudder’: Memories of Massacres and Atrocities during the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars,” he describes towns set ablaze, civilians shot or bayoneted as they fled, prisoners executed afterward, and entire communities erased as political warnings:

“In southern Italy, where in the summer of 1806 the French army killed thousands of locals and devastated more than 25 villages in an attempt to wipe out all armed resistance. Lauria, a town of around 9000 inhabitants was perhaps the worst hit, possibly as an act of revenge for what had been done to a French officer sent to parlay with the town: his body was supposedly cut into pieces, put in a basket and sent back with French prisoners. During the fighting the town was set on fire so that those attempting to escape the flames were simply shot or bayoneted, without distinction of age or sex, as they emerged from their houses. The lower part of the town was reduced to a smoldering ruin. Masséna and his officers unsuccessfully attempted to prevent the troops from pillaging and burning. Some 734 men, women and children were killed in this way (according to the French). One Neapolitan colonel estimated that there were more than 3000 dead and wounded. A further 341 people taken prisoner were shot and hanged over the following days.” [22]

Writing again in 2013 in the Journal of Genocide Research, in an article titled “Violence and the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars: massacre, conquest and the imperial enterprise,” Professor Dwyer observes:

“The French presence in Calabria, led to a diminution in population of 21,000 people, out of an estimated population of a little more than 800,000. That is about four percent of the population.” [23]

“Massacres were, therefore, not only responses to local acts of ‘brigandage’; they were political statements. In July 1806, Napoleon directed his brother Joseph, King of Naples, ‘to execute at least 600 rebels and to ‘pillage five or six of the villages that have behaved the worst’. Joseph carried out the order, hanging and shooting 600 ‘brigands’ over an eight-day period.” [24]

Under such conditions, the absence of mass uprising signifies not acquiescence but the successful application of terror.

Following Murat’s defeat by Austrian forces in 1815 during the Neapolitan War, he fled to France. Naples then sued for peace and signed the Treaty of Casalanza, effectively restoring Ferdinand IV, a settlement later reaffirmed by the Congress of Vienna. Uniting his realms, Ferdinand assumed the title Ferdinand I of the Two Sicilies—a decision that, in this author’s view, proved a fatal error. By unifying Naples and Sicily, he effectively trampled on Sicily’s historic rights—though that is a discussion for another day.

In an ill-fated attempt to replicate Ruffo’s triumph, the swashbuckling Murat sailed for Calabria, consumed by delusions of grandeur. Instead of a hero’s welcome, the pretender and his small band of would-be reconquerors were met with sticks and stones, treated less as liberators than as common brigands. One woman—whose sons had been murdered by Murat’s heavy-handed aide-de-camp, General Charles Antoine Manhès, charged with the extermination of so-called “ruffians”—struck him in the face, crying, “You speak of liberty, and you had four of my sons shot!” [25] Like the terrorist Bandiera brothers in 1844 and the subversive Carlo Pisacane in 1857, Murat and his men were captured, beaten, and executed by the very people they claimed to “liberate.”

To this day, the tragic events of the Neapolitan Revolution and Napoleonic invasions remain vivid in popular imagination. Annual Requiem Masses for Cardinal Ruffo are held in his native Calabria. The effigy of General Championnet is burned during Carnival in Frosinone. Murat’s execution is reenacted in Pizzo Calabro. In Fara Filiorum Petri, the miraculous deliverance of the town is commemorated by lighting the Farche, traditional ritual bonfires recalling the apparition of St. Anthony the Abbot and the rout of French troops. [26] These rituals are not relics of folklore alone; they are acts of memory that resist official narratives.

Later movements of resistance, particularly brigantaggio after 1860, were not direct continuations of Sanfedismo but shared its underlying rejection of imposed political order. Where the Sanfedisti represented organized counter-revolution under legitimate authority, brigand resistance was fragmented and often chaotic. Both, however, expressed opposition to conquest disguised as national unification. Following the annexation of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies by the Kingdom of Sardinia, Southern Italy experienced systematic dispossession, economic extraction, and repression comparable in structure—if not in rhetoric—to earlier occupations. The region’s subsequent impoverishment was not accidental but the result of deliberate policies.

The collapse of prosperity, combined with widespread violence against Southern Italians, produced a trauma whose multigenerational consequences have been largely ignored. This neglect extends not only to the material devastation inflicted upon the South, but also to the absence of any serious inquiry into the residual psychological effects of conquest, occupation, internal colonization, and historical erasure—effects that produced a durable alienation and continue to shape Southern Italian society into the present.

Sanfedismo was not an irrational spasm at the margins of history, but a coherent popular counter-revolution that exposed the gap between revolutionary mythology and political reality. The Parthenopean Republic did not fall because the people failed to understand “liberty,” but because they understood domination when they encountered it: foreign bayonets, confiscations, sacrilege, and ideological rule enforced by violence. Ruffo’s achievement was not merely military but political and spiritual. He mobilized legitimacy—altar, throne, local loyalties—against an elite project sustained by occupation. That later historiography elevated collaborators into martyrs while branding the victors as barbarians follows a familiar pattern: revolution demands, even after defeat, that its opponents be recast as criminals so that conquest can masquerade as emancipation. To remember the Sanfedisti is to recover a suppressed truth about how societies actually resist: not through slogans, but through faith, memory, and the stubborn will to remain themselves.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli

Footnotes:
[21] Thiébault, Paul Charles François, Mémoires du Général Baron Thiébault, Paris, 1894, II, p. 324-325.
[22] Dwyer, Philip G., "'It Still Makes Me Shudder': Memories of Massacres and Atrocities during the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars," War in History, Vol. 16, No. 4, November 2009, pp. 381-405, Sage Publications, Inc. p.387.
[23] Dwyer, Philip G., “Violence and the Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars: massacre, conquest and the imperial enterprise,” Journal of Genocide Research, 2013, Vol. 15, No. 2, (pp.117-131) p.119.
[24] Ibid.
[25] Atteridge, A.H., Marshal Murat: King of Naples, Worley Publications, 1992
[26] According to local tradition, on January 16, 1799, a detachment of French soldiers emerged from the forest and advanced on the unsuspecting townsfolk, who were celebrating the vigil of St. Anthony the Abbot. Amid the chaos, the Faresi desperately called upon their glorious patron, who suddenly appeared before the French host clad in full Bourbon military regalia. Commanding the invaders to halt their advance, the soldiers foolishly ignored the saint’s warning and continued forward. In response, the trees erupted into blazing infernos, driving the enemy away. In some more fantastical versions, the trees are said to have sprung to life, in mythical Tolkienesque fashion, to rout the Grande Armée.

Sanfedismo and the Neapolitan Counter-Revolution, 1799 — Part III

Cardinal Fabrizio Dionigi Ruffo leading the Sanfedisti
under the protection of St. Anthony of Padua

See, Part I, Part II, Part IV

The Reconquest: Ruffo, Altamura, and the Fall of the Republic

Following the flight of the Neapolitan court to Palermo, Cardinal Fabrizio Dionigi Ruffo was appointed Vicar General of the mainland kingdom and tasked with restoring royal authority.

Born on September 16, 1744, in San Lucido, Calabria, into a prominent noble family of the Kingdom of Naples, Ruffo was educated in Rome. He entered the service of the Papal States and in 1785 was appointed Treasurer General of the Apostolic Camera under Pope Pius VI, overseeing papal finances during a period of increasing fiscal and political strain. Although he was made a cardinal in 1791, he was never ordained a priest—something not uncommon in the eighteenth century.

Ruffo was not a professional soldier and lacked formal military training. Before 1799, his experience was primarily administrative and political rather than martial. After withdrawing to Calabria during the upheavals that followed the French invasion of the Papal States, he later joined the royal court in Sicily.

Acting under royal mandate, Ruffo crossed from Sicily to Calabria in early February 1799 with only a small following—sources vary, citing seven or eight companions—and a single banner bearing the royal arms on one side and the Holy Cross on the other. He landed at Punta del Mezzo near Reggio Calabria on February 8th.

From the outset, Ruffo’s campaign combined political legitimacy, religious authority, and practical organization. Issuing a pastoral call to clergy and magistrates, he ordered the preaching of a crusade to defend faith, restore lawful sovereignty, and expel foreign rule. The response was rapid. Men from across Calabria—peasants, artisans, former soldiers of the disbanded Bourbon army, and local nobility—joined his ranks. Within weeks, the Armata della Santa Fede had grown into a force estimated at between twenty and twenty-five thousand men.

The expansion of Ruffo’s army reflected the weakness of republican control outside Naples. With French forces withdrawing northward and the Parthenopean Republic increasingly isolated, the countryside slipped beyond Jacobin authority. Armed bands, some disciplined and others irregular, rose throughout the provinces. While criminal elements inevitably exploited the disorder, the predominant motivation was defensive and political: the protection of local communities and the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy.

As Ruffo advanced northward, resistance to his army was uneven. In many towns, republican administrations collapsed without serious fighting. In others, particularly those where Jacobin influence was strongest, resistance was determined and violent. The most significant of these confrontations occurred at Altamura in Puglia.

Altamura had established itself as a Jacobin stronghold and refused repeated offers of clemency. Ruffo proposed a pardon on condition that the inhabitants renounce the republic and submit to royal authority. Encouraged by republican leaders and falsely assured that French reinforcements were imminent, the city rejected these terms. During negotiations for the release of two captured engineers, an envoy sent by Ruffo failed to return. The prisoners were likewise not released.

When Ruffo attacked, the fighting lasted a full day. By nightfall, the defenders had exhausted their ammunition. Seeking to limit further bloodshed, Ruffo deliberately left one side of the city unblocked, allowing civilians and defenders to flee under the cover of darkness, reportedly through Porta Bari. Before abandoning the city, however, the “gentle patriots,” truly embracing the beau idéal of the French Revolution, carried out a final act of violence and left the victors a grisly parting gift: forty-eight captured royalists, including Ruffo’s envoy, were bound, shot, and sealed inside a church crypt. When Ruffo’s forces entered Altamura without further resistance, they discovered the victims dead or dying. Only three survived. [15]

Subsequent historiography has often portrayed the sack of Altamura as an unprovoked massacre. Contemporary research complicates this narrative. Francesco M. de Robertis, writing in Archivio Storico Pugliese, concluded that the events commonly described as a “Jacobin holocaust” or “massacre of the innocents” were, in fact, reprisals following the murder of Bourbon loyalists. De Robertis further noted that the number of royalists killed in the convent of San Francesco may have reached 150. [16]

Even Vincenzo Cuoco, a sympathetic chronicler of the Neapolitan Republic, acknowledged that Ruffo had exercised “apparent moderation in all his victories” prior to Altamura. Cuoco nonetheless framed the sack of the city as an act of calculated terror, attributing it to the defenders’ “noble obstinacy” rather than to the preceding murders. His account conspicuously avoids specifying whose blood was shed, while transforming executed collaborators into martyrs of liberty. [17]

This selective framing persists in modern commemorations. In Altamura, a monument erected in 1899 honors the “martyrs” of the revolution without reference to the Bourbon loyalists who were murdered. Artistic representations, such as Michele Cammarano’s Massacre of Altamura (1881), similarly present a one-sided depiction of the events, reinforcing the revolutionary narrative while excluding its victims.

Comparable scrutiny is rarely applied to republican violence elsewhere. French General Guillaume Philibert Duhesme burned and sacked towns across Avellino, Salerno, and Basilicata, imposing heavy financial exactions and leaving widespread ruin. General Jean-Baptiste Broussier ordered the destruction of Andria and Trani, where contemporary accounts estimate thousands of deaths. Ettore Carafa, commander of the Republican Legion, openly boasted of the devastation inflicted. Harold Acton observed that republican forces were often more methodical than Ruffo’s irregulars, leaving anarchy and ruin behind them. [18]

Acton further noted the inconsistency of Jacobin moral outrage. Republican correspondents justified the burning of cities and execution of clergy as legitimate measures against rebellion. General Macdonald’s orders prescribed death for clergy deemed responsible for resistance and authorized the destruction of entire districts. These policies were implemented without hesitation, yet later commentators reserved their indignation almost exclusively for the actions of the Sanfedisti. [19]

By contrast, Acton concluded that Ruffo himself acted with restraint amid extreme circumstances. Though some may have joined his army seeking plunder, Ruffo consistently advocated moderation and amnesty. He converted wavering republicans, restrained excess where possible, and urged clemency upon the crown—recommendations the king and queen would later reject. [20]

By early June, the Parthenopean Republic was in terminal decline. French protection had evaporated, provincial resistance had overwhelmed republican administrations, and Ruffo’s army stood poised outside Naples, its advance reinforced by the arrival of foreign allies, including a Russo-Ottoman expeditionary force led by the French émigré Cavalier Antoine Micheroux. The reconquest was no longer a question of possibility, but of timing.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli

Footnotes:
[15] Acton, Harold, The Bourbons of Naples, Methuen and Co., Ltd., 1957.
[16] de Robertis, Francesco M., “Altamura 1799: puro olocausto giacobino o strage a ritorsione di precedente strage?” pp. 7-10, Archivio Storico Pugliese, LV 2002, Società di Storia Patria per la Puglia, Bari, Palazzo dell’Ateneo.
[17] Cuoco, Vincenzo, Historical Essay on the Neapolitan Revolution of 1799, University of Toronto Press, 2014.
[18] Acton, Harold, The Bourbons of Naples, Methuen and Co., Ltd., 1957.
[19] Ibid.
[20] Ibid.

Sanfedismo and the Neapolitan Counter-Revolution, 1799 — Part II

Entry of the French revolutionary army into Naples, led by General
Jean-Étienne Championnet, 1799, by Jean Duplessis-Bertaux (1747-1818)

See, Part I, Part III, Part IV 

French Occupation of Naples and the Collapse of the Parthenopean Republic

With the flight of the royal court to Sicily, revolutionary elements moved quickly to consolidate control over Naples. On January 21, 1799, Jacobin conspirators proclaimed the Parthenopean Republic from Castel Sant’Elmo; French forces entered the city the following day. Propped up by foreign bayonets, the new regime was modeled closely on its counterpart across the Alps, adopting revolutionary symbols, rituals, and language, including an unsightly tricolor (blue, gold, and red) and the ceremonial planting of a “tree of liberty.” Its authority, however, extended little beyond what could be enforced by occupation.

Despite the collapse of organized Neapolitan military resistance, the population did not accept the new order passively. Popular hostility was immediate and widespread. The lazzaroni—the urban poor of Naples—engaged French forces in ardent street fighting, resisting both the invaders and their local collaborators. Their loyalty to the Bourbon monarchy was well established. King Ferdinand IV, known colloquially as Re Lazzarone, cultivated a public familiarity with the people of Naples, speaking their language, frequenting markets, and presenting himself as a visible, accessible monarch. The cost of resistance was severe. Contemporary estimates suggest that approximately 3,000 Neapolitans lost their lives, with many thousands more wounded, during the defense of the city. [11]

While later liberal historians often portrayed Ferdinand as indolent or simple-minded, contemporary accounts reveal a monarch who consciously cultivated popular legitimacy. He spoke Neapolitan fluently, mingled openly among his subjects, and embraced a paternal style of kingship that resonated strongly with the urban poor. His informality, mocked in elite circles, strengthened rather than weakened his standing among the lazzaroni, who viewed him less as a distant sovereign and more as a protector against foreign intrusion and Jacobin intrigue. The intensity of popular resistance in January 1799 is difficult to explain apart from this personal loyalty.

The rapid seizure of political power by the republicans, contrasted with the intensity of popular resistance, exposes the nature of the Parthenopean regime. It was not the expression of a mass movement but the product of a narrow, ideologically aligned elite operating under foreign protection. As Vincenzo Cuoco would later concede, the republicans constituted only a small fraction of the population and, in practice, appeared as insurgents ruling over a hostile city. [12]

Recognizing how tenuous their control over Naples was, General Thiébault, his officers, and members of the government attended the annual blood miracle of San Gennaro at the Duomo di Santa Maria Assunta on May 4th. Fearing the populace would rise against them again if the miracle failed to take place, they stationed two companies of grenadiers inside the church. Naturally, when the ampoules of congealed blood failed to liquefy, and the distraught congregation turned menacing, Thiébault turned to the archbishop and flashed him one of his pistols hidden from the crowd. “If the miracle delay another moment,” he threatened, “you are a dead man.” Coming to the priest’s rescue, the miracle of San Gennaro took place immediately. [13]

Meanwhile, developments beyond Naples further weakened the republic’s position. French forces suffered reverses in northern Italy, prompting a strategic withdrawal to confront the advancing Austro-Russian coalition. As they withdrew north, French troops engaged in systematic looting, rape, and destruction, leaving devastation in their wake. The behavior of the Grande Armée eroded what little sympathy the Parthenopean Republic had and intensified popular hostility throughout the kingdom.

From May 9th to 11th, French forces sacked the ancient Benedictine monastery of Monte Cassino. Large sections of the surrounding town were burned, numerous civilians were killed, and priceless artworks, gold, and archival materials were seized and transported to France as “war indemnities.” Two days later, on Pentecost Sunday, French troops entered Isola del Liri, where they slaughtered 537 inhabitants. Among the dead were approximately 350 men, women, and children who had sought refuge inside the Church of San Lorenzo Martire. The massacre left a lasting imprint on local memory, commemorated annually by the ritual scattering of red rose petals into the River Liri, which was said to have run red with blood.

On May 13th, a band of French soldiers reached the Cistercian abbey of Casamari. Welcomed by Prior Simeon Cardon, a French émigré who had fled revolutionary violence in his homeland, the soldiers ransacked the monastery and desecrated the chapel. As Cardon and five fellow monks attempted to recover the Consecrated Hosts strewn across the sanctuary floor, they were murdered. Their deaths were later recognized by the Church as martyrdom in odium fidei. The monks were buried by surviving members of the community, and they were beatified in 2021. [14]

These acts were not isolated excesses but formed part of a broader pattern of punitive violence employed to suppress resistance and extract resources. French commanders openly justified the burning of towns and the execution of civilians as necessary measures against “rebellion.” This logic was applied selectively: cities resisting foreign occupation were treated as legitimate targets, while similar actions by royalist forces were later denounced as barbarism.

By the time French forces withdrew northward, the Parthenopean Republic had been effectively abandoned by its “liberators.” Laden with plunder, the retreating troops left behind a fractured state, widespread devastation, and an increasingly mobilized countryside. Across the kingdom, armed bands rose to reclaim towns and provinces in the name of the Bourbon monarchy. Figures such as Vito Nunziante in Salerno, Gaetano Mammone in Sora, Giambattista Rodio and Giuseppe Pronio in the Abruzzi, Michele Pezza—known as Fra Diavolo—in the Terra di Lavoro, and Gerardo “Sciarpa” Curcio in Basilicata emerged as leaders of irregular resistance.

It was in this context, amid the collapse of republican authority and the vacuum left by French withdrawal, that Cardinal Fabrizio Ruffo began his march northward from Calabria. The reconquest of the kingdom would not be a spontaneous eruption but a coordinated effort to restore order, legitimacy, and sovereignty in a land exhausted by occupation and ideological rule enforced at gunpoint.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli

Footnotes:
[11] Santore, John, ed. Modern Naples: A Documentary History, 1799-1999, Italica Press, 2008.
[12] Cuoco, Vincenzo, Historical Essay on the Neapolitan Revolution of 1799, University of Toronto Press, 2014.
[13] Gigloilo (née Stocker), Constance H.D., Naples in 1799: An Account of the Revolution of 1799 and the Rise of the Parthenopean Republic, London: J. Murray, 1903.
[14] The Blessed Martyrs are Father Simeon Cardon of Cambrai; Father Domenico Maria Zavřrel; Brother Maturino Burgen; Brother Albertino Maisonade; Brother Modesto Burgen; and Lay Brother Zosimo Brambat.

Sanfedismo and the Neapolitan Counter-Revolution, 1799 — Part I

Cardinal Fabrizio Dionigi Ruffo
b. Sept. 16, 1744—d. Dec. 13, 1827

See, Part II, Part III, Part IV

A Brief Introduction to the Sanfedisti

Pro Lege. Pro Rege ~ Sanfedisti Motto [1]

In Catholic monarchist circles, the Vendeans, Carlists, Papal Zouaves, and Cristeros are often cited as exemplary defenders of faith, order, and legitimate authority in the age of revolution. Far less familiar—particularly in the anglophone world—are the counter-revolutionary forces of Southern Italy, chiefly Cardinal Fabrizio Dionigi Ruffo and the Armata Cristiana e Reale della Santa Fede in Nostro Signore Gesù Cristo, [2] commonly known as the Sanfedisti. This neglect is notable given that Ruffo’s army was not only mobilized on a mass scale but also succeeded in restoring the Bourbon monarchy to the Kingdom of Naples. Other Italian counter-revolutionary movements, such as the Centurioni of Le Marche, [3] have also been marginalized in historical memory, but few achieved comparable political or military results.

The marginalization of the Sanfedisti is not accidental. It reflects a broader pattern of miseducation and partisan historical framing, shaped by the long dominance of liberal-nationalist interpretations of Italian history. Accounts of the Neapolitan Revolution of 1799 have largely been filtered through narratives established by ideologically committed historians such as Vincenzo Cuoco and Pietro Colletta. Within this framework, the Sanfedisti are routinely depicted as backward, irrational, superstitious, or inherently repressive. These oft-repeated characterizations continue to influence both popular and academic understandings of the period.

As with many episodes that complicate modern political mythology, these interpretations warrant closer scrutiny. They were formulated, in large part, to discredit the Bourbon dynasty of Naples and to retrospectively legitimize revolutionary intervention. Much of what passes for “conventional wisdom” about the Sanfedisti rests on selective outrage, rhetorical exaggeration, and the suppression of inconvenient evidence. When contemporary accounts are examined more carefully, and when testimony from both supporters and opponents is considered, a markedly different picture emerges—one in which the Sanfedisti appear not as a marginal eruption of fanaticism, but as a broad and largely popular response to foreign invasion, institutional collapse, and ideological rule imposed by force.

The Events Leading up to the Sanfedisti Uprising

In 1798, French forces invaded the Papal States and proclaimed the Roman Republic. Pope Pius VI refused to recognize the new regime and was arrested and deported to Valence, France, where he died in captivity on August 29, 1799. The revolutionary penchant for suppressing religious orders, widespread looting, violence against civilians, and systematic requisitions to fill Napoleon’s exchequer quickly alienated the population. Popular uprisings followed, but they were suppressed with force.

The Neapolitan royal family had direct reason to fear the expansion of revolutionary France. Several close relatives had already been murdered during the French Revolution, including King Ferdinand IV’s cousin King Louis XVI, Queen Maria Carolina’s sister Marie Antoinette, and the young Dauphin Louis-Charles, who died in captivity after prolonged abuses way too vile to recount here. These, and other horrific events, shaped the court’s perception of revolutionary power and its intentions.

Queen Maria Carolina, long depicted in revolutionary and later nationalist historiography as vindictive, manipulative, or fanatically reactionary, was in fact a politically astute ruler operating within the existential framework of the age. The execution of her sister Marie Antoinette and the collapse of allied thrones were not abstract events but personal and dynastic catastrophes. Her alignment with Britain and Austria reflected strategic calculation rather than hysteria. While she exercised considerable influence over policy—particularly after 1793—such involvement was neither unusual nor illegitimate for a queen consort in eighteenth-century Europe. The caricature of Maria Carolina as the architect of Neapolitan “reaction” owes more to partisan narrative than to balanced assessment.

Encouraged by his British and Austrian allies, Ferdinand IV joined a coalition effort to expel the French from Rome and restore papal authority. The king accompanied the army northward under the command of Austrian General Karl Mack von Lieberich. The French initially withdrew without resistance, and the Neapolitans were welcomed into Rome as liberators. Revolutionary symbols, including the recently erected trees of liberty, were torn down amid public celebration. This success, however, proved temporary. French forces regrouped and rapidly retook the city. The Neapolitan army, hampered by poor leadership and internal betrayal, collapsed and retreated southward.

Some historians later argued that Ferdinand’s decision to intervene precipitated the invasion of Naples itself, suggesting that restraint might have preserved peace. [4] Such claims rest on a questionable assumption—that revolutionary France, already engaged in territorial expansion across Europe, would have voluntarily respected Neapolitan neutrality.

Hostilities, in fact, predated the Roman campaign. Neapolitan forces had already been drawn into open conflict with revolutionary France during the siege of Toulon in 1793, fighting alongside British and Spanish troops in defense of the royalist city. This state of undeclared war continued and escalated following the French seizure of Malta in 1798, when Neapolitan, Portuguese, and British forces assisted the Maltese in expelling the invaders. As Harold Acton observed, the presence of revolutionary regimes along Naples’s borders, combined with the persecution of the papacy and the seizure of Malta, made the prospect of isolation increasingly implausible.

“In spite of the peace treaty with France, the presence of such neighbours across the frontier alarmed the King and Queen, and all Naples was outraged by the persecution of the Pope. Why should the Two Sicilies be spared when all the rest of Italy had been overrun? Bonaparte’s seizure of Malta in June seemed another preliminary to the encirclement of Naples.” [5]

It seems the King’s decision to attack was justifiable, after all. Unfortunately, the French were better trained, more experienced, and had superior leadership than the Neapolitans. According to contemporary historian Carlo De Nicola, French General Jean-Étienne Championnet said as much after his conquest of Naples:

“Championnet later said that, during his nine years of fighting, he had never encountered mass resistance equal to that of the Neapolitans…He stated that if the Neapolitans were disciplined, they would be the ultimate soldiers.” [6]

General Paul Thiébault similarly emphasized the ferocity of popular resistance following the collapse of the regular army, observing that the conflict became most dangerous precisely when formal military structures had ceased to function:

“The Neapolitans taught us to fear them as men. One might say, in fact, that the struggle for Naples only became terrifying after the Neapolitan army had ceased to exist. Although these Neapolitans had been beaten everywhere, and not counting the losses sustained during the early fighting, had suffered [many tens of thousands of casualties],…we were unable to vanquish them completely within the walls of their city or amid the ashes of their homes.” [7]

Later historians drew similar conclusions. Reflecting on the transformation of the Neapolitan populace under Bourbon rule, Michelangelo Schipa remarked:

“How unlike their ancestors,” remarked Schipa, “those who had offered cakes and kisses to the Austrian soldiers in 1707 and given the Spanish an ovation in 1734! In half a century, the Bourbons had transformed sheep into heroes: their resistance did honor to the monarchy.” [8]

As French forces advanced, Ferdinand IV retreated first to Naples and then to Sicily aboard the HMS Vanguard. Often omitted from the histories, during the flight, the royal family suffered the death of their six-year-old son, Prince Alberto, who died of exhaustion in the arms of Lady Hamilton during a terrifying gale on Christmas Day. [9] It is difficult to imagine that the King and Queen forgot this painful tragedy when they returned to their thrones, and the memory surely weighed on their judgment when the time came to mete out justice against those who had delivered their Kingdom to the French.

The king’s decision to remove the treasury has often been criticized, [10] yet it deprived the occupying regime of immediate access to state finances and constrained its ability to consolidate power. The contrast with 1860 is instructive. When Ferdinand’s great-grandson, King Francesco II, left the treasury intact, the Garibaldini and Piedmontese invaders were able to pilfer the Kingdom’s coffers for their own advantage and use the spoils to help finance their brutal conquests or pay off their massive debts to international financiers. Revolutions do not require popular legitimacy to succeed; they require institutional control.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli

Footnotes:
[1] For the law. For the King.
[2] Christian and Royal Army of the Holy Faith in Our Lord Jesus Christ.
[3] Reinerman, Alan J., The Failure of Popular Counter-Revolution in Risorgimento Italy: The Case of the Centurions, 1831-1847, The Historical Journal, 34, I (1991), pp. 21-41.
[4] Robertson, John, Enlightenment and Revolution: Naples 1799, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, Vol. 10, 2000, pp. 17-44, Published by Cambridge University Press.
[5] Acton, Harold, The Bourbons of Naples, Methuen and Co., Ltd., 1957.
[6] Santore, John, ed. Modern Naples: A Documentary History, 1799-1999, Italica Press, 2008.
[7] Ibid. Brackets appear in Santore’s transcription.
[8] Acton, Harold, The Bourbons of Naples, Methuen and Co., Ltd., 1957.
[9] Ibid.
[10] Robertson, John, Enlightenment and Revolution: Naples 1799, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, Vol. 10, 2000, pp. 17-44, Published by Cambridge University Press.

The Ides of March

Photos by New York Scugnizzo

In commemoration of the Ides of March, we are posting a few images of a limestone bust of Julius Caesar. Carved in Apulia in southern Italy around 1225–1250 and later reworked, the bust bears the Latin inscription DIVI IVLI CAE—“Deified Julius Caesar.” Its strong, realistic features recall the portraits of Caesar seen on Roman coinage from about 40 B.C., though the form of the lettering suggests that parts of the inscription were altered during the Italian Renaissance. The sculpture is likely connected to the patronage of Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor, whose monuments often placed figures high above the viewer. The continuation of the drapery beneath the inscription indicates the bust was intended to be viewed from below. Today it remains in a private collection in the United States.

Remembering The Ides of March

The Death of Julius Caesar by Vincenzo Camuccini (1771-1844),
Museo Nazionale di Capodimonte, Napoli

"Beware the ides of March," a warning given by a seer in Shakespeare's play The Tragedy of Julius Caesar that has, like many of his phrases, survived centuries. Most have heard it, less have basic understanding of what it means, less still have a deeper understanding.

In ancient Rome, every month had an ides, sort of a midpoint, but not exactly. It was usually the thirteenth, but the fifteenth for four months (March, May, July, and October). The ides were sacred to Jupiter and religious observances were held to him on those days. The ides of March was also known for settling debts, and possibly because of that was chosen as the date for the assassination of Julius Caesar in 44 BC. Continue reading