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<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Old Calabria, by Norman Douglas</div>
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country where you are located before using this eBook.
</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Old Calabria</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Norman Douglas</div>
<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 23, 2003 [eBook #7385]<br />
[Most recently updated: January 13, 2021]</div>
<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Eric Eldred</div>
<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD CALABRIA ***</div>

<h1>Old Calabria</h1>

<h2 class="no-break">by Norman Douglas</h2>

<hr />

<h2>Contents</h2>

<table summary="" style="">

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap01">I. SARACEN LUCERA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap02">II. MANFRED&rsquo;S TOWN</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap03">III. THE ANGEL OF MANFREDONIA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap04">IV. CAVE-WORSHIP</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap05">V. LAND OF HORACE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap06">VI. AT VENOSA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap07">VII. THE BANDUSIAN FOUNT</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap08">VIII. TILLERS OF THE SOIL</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap09">IX. MOVING SOUTHWARDS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap10">X. THE FLYING MONK</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap11">XI. BY THE INLAND SEA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap12">XII. MOLLE TARENTUM</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap13">XIII. INTO THE JUNGLE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap14">XIV. DRAGONS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap15">XV. BYZANTINISM</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap16">XVI. REPOSING AT CASTROVILLARI</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap17">XVII. OLD MORANO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap18">XVIII. AFRICAN INTRUDERS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap19">XIX. UPLANDS OF POLLINO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap20">XX. A MOUNTAIN FESTIVAL</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap21">XXI. MILTON IN CALABRIA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap22">XXII. THE &ldquo;GREEK&rdquo; SILA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap23">XXIII. ALBANIANS AND THEIR COLLEGE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap24">XXIV. AN ALBANIAN SEER</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap25">XXV. SCRAMBLING TO LONGOBUCCO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap26">XXVI. AMONG THE BRUTTIANS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap27">XXVII. CALABRIAN BRIGANDAGE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap28">XXVIII. THE GREATER SILA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap29">XXIX. CHAOS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap30">XXX. THE SKIRTS OF MONTALTO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap31">XXXI. SOUTHERN SAINTLINESS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap32">XXXII. ASPROMONTE, THE CLOUD-GATHERER</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap33">XXXIII. MUSOLINO AND THE LAW</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap34">XXXIV. MALARIA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap35">XXXV. CAULONIA TO SERRA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap36">XXXVI. MEMORIES OF GISSING</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap37">XXXVII. COTRONE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap38">XXXVIII. THE SAGE OF CROTON</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap39">XXXIX. MIDDAY AT PETELIA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap40">XL. THE COLUMN</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap41">INDEX</a></td>
</tr>

</table>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus01"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-1.jpg" width="601" height="358" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Tower at Manfredonia</p>
</div>

<hr />

<h3>
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
</h3>

<table summary="" style="">

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus01">TOWER AT MANFREDONIA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus02">LION OF LUCERA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus03">AT SIPONTUM</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus04">RUIN OF TRINITÀ: EAST FRONT</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus05">ROMAN ALTAR</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus06">NORMAN CAPITAL AT VENOSA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus07">SOLE RELIC OF OLD TARAS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus08">FISHING AT TARANTO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus09">BY THE INLAND SEA</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus10">FOUNTAINS OF GALAESUS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus11">TARANTO: THE LAST PALM</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus12">BUFFALO AT POLICORO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus13">THE SINNO RIVER</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus14">CHAPEL OF SAINT MARK</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus15">SHOEING A COW</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus16">MORANO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus17">AN OLD SHEPHERD</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus18">THE SARACENIC TYPE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus19">PEAK OF POLLINO IN JUNE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus20">CALABRIAN COWS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus21">THE VALLEY OF GAUDOLINO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus22">SAN DEMETRIO CORONE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus23">THE TRIONTO VALLEY</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus24">LONGOBUCCO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus25">GATEWAY AT CATANZARO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus26">IN THE CEMETERY OF REGGIO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus27">TIRIOLO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus28">EFFECTS OF DEFORESTATION</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus29">OLD SOVERATO</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus30">THE MODERN AESARUS</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus31">CEMETERY OF COTRONE</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#illus32">ROMAN MASONRY AT CAPO COLONNA</a></td>
</tr>

</table>

<hr />

<div class="chapter">

<h2>OLD CALABRIA</h2>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page1"></a><a name="chap01"></a>I<br />
SARACEN LUCERA
</h2>

<p>
I find it hard to sum up in one word the character of Lucera&mdash;the effect
it produces on the mind; one sees so many towns that the freshness of their
images becomes blurred. The houses are low but not undignified; the streets
regular and clean; there is electric light and somewhat indifferent
accommodation for travellers; an infinity of barbers and chemists. Nothing
remarkable in all this. Yet the character is there, if one could but seize upon
it, since every place has its genius. Perhaps it lies in a certain feeling of
aloofness that never leaves one here. We are on a hill&mdash;a mere wave of
ground; a kind of spur, rather, rising up from the south&mdash;quite an absurd
little hill, but sufficiently high to dominate the wide Apulian plain. And the
nakedness of the land stimulates this aerial sense. There are some trees in the
&ldquo;Belvedere&rdquo; or public garden that lies on the highest part of the
spur and affords a fine view north and eastwards. But the greater part were
only planted a few years ago, and those stretches of brown earth, those
half-finished walks and straggling pigmy shrubs, give the place a crude and
embryonic appearance. One thinks that the designers might have done more in the
way of variety; there are no conifers excepting a few cryptomerias and yews
which will all be dead in a couple of years, and as for those yuccas, beloved
of Italian municipalities, they will have grown more dyspeptic-looking than
ever. None the less, the garden will be a pleasant spot when the ilex shall
have grown higher; even now it is the favourite evening walk of the citizens.
Altogether, these public parks, which are now being planted all over south
Italy, testify to renascent taste; they and the burial-places are often the
only spots where the deafened and light-bedazzled stranger may find a little
green
<a name="Page2"></a>
content; the content, respectively, of <i>L&rsquo;Allegro</i> and <i>Il
Penseroso.</i> So the cemetery of Lucera, with its ordered walks drowned in the
shade of cypress&mdash;roses and gleaming marble monuments in between&mdash;is
a charming retreat, not only for the dead.
</p>

<p>
The Belvedere, however, is not my promenade. My promenade lies yonder, on the
other side of the valley, where the grave old Suabian castle sits on its
emerald slope. It does not frown; it reposes firmly, with an air of tranquil
and assured domination; &ldquo;it has found its place,&rdquo; as an Italian
observed to me. Long before Frederick Barbarossa made it the centre of his
southern dominions, long before the Romans had their fortress on the site, this
eminence must have been regarded as the key of Apulia. All round the outside of
those turreted walls (they are nearly a mile in circumference; the enclosure,
they say, held sixty thousand people) there runs a level space. This is my
promenade, at all hours of the day. Falcons are fluttering with wild cries
overhead; down below, a long unimpeded vista of velvety green, flecked by a few
trees and sullen streamlets and white farmhouses&mdash;the whole vision framed
in a ring of distant Apennines. The volcanic cone of Mount Vulture, land of
Horace, can be detected on clear days; it tempts me to explore those regions.
But eastward rises up the promontory of Mount Gargano, and on the summit of its
nearest hill one perceives a cheerful building, some village or convent, that
beckons imperiously across the intervening lowlands. Yonder lies the venerable
shrine of the archangel Michael, and Manfred&rsquo;s town. . . .
</p>

<p>
This castle being a <i>national monument,</i> they have appointed a custodian
to take charge of it; a worthless old fellow, full of untruthful information
which he imparts with the hushed and conscience-stricken air of a man who is
selling State secrets.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That corner tower, sir, is the King&rsquo;s tower. It was built by the
King.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But you said just now that it was the Queen&rsquo;s tower.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So it is. The Queen&mdash;she built it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What Queen?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What Queen? Why, the Queen&mdash;the Queen the German professor was
talking about three years ago. But I must show you some skulls which we found
<i>(sotto voce)</i> in a subterranean crypt. They used to throw the poor dead
folk in here by hundreds; and under the Bourbons the criminals were hanged
here, thousands of them. The blessed times! And this tower is the Queen&rsquo;s
tower.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But you called it the King&rsquo;s tower just now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page3"></a>
&ldquo;Just so. That is because the King built it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What King?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, sir, how can I remember the names of all those gentlemen? I
haven&rsquo;t so much as set eyes on them! But I must now show you some round
sling-stones which we excavated <i>(sotto voce)</i> in a subterranean
crypt&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
One or two relics from this castle are preserved in the small municipal museum,
founded about five years ago. Here are also a respectable collection of coins,
a few prehistoric flints from Gargano, some quaint early bronze figurines and
mutilated busts of Roman celebrities carved in marble or the recalcitrant local
limestone. A dignified old lion&mdash;one of a pair (the other was stolen) that
adorned the tomb of Aurelius, prastor of the Roman Colony of Luceria&mdash;has
sought a refuge here, as well as many inscriptions, lamps, vases, and a
miscellaneous collection of modern rubbish. A plaster cast of a Mussulman
funereal stone, found near Foggia, will attract your eye; contrasted with the
fulsome epitaphs of contemporary Christianity, it breathes a spirit of noble
resignation:&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate. May God show
kindness to Mahomet and his kinsfolk, fostering them by his favours! This is
the tomb of the captain Jacchia Albosasso. God be merciful to him. He passed
away towards noon on Saturday in the five days of the month Moharram of the
year 745 (5th April, 1348). May Allah likewise show mercy to him who
reads.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
One cannot be at Lucera without thinking of that colony of twenty thousand
Saracens, the escort of Frederick and his son, who lived here for nearly eighty
years, and sheltered Manfred in his hour of danger. The chronicler Spinelli<a href="#fn-1" name="fnref-1" id="fnref-1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
has preserved an anecdote which shows Manfred&rsquo;s infatuation for these
loyal aliens. In the year 1252 and in the sovereign&rsquo;s presence, a Saracen
official gave a blow to a Neapolitan knight&mdash;a blow which was immediately
returned; there was a tumult, and the upshot of it was that the Italian was
condemned to lose his hand; all that the Neapolitan nobles could obtain from
Manfred was that his left hand should be amputated instead of his right; the
Arab, the cause of all, was merely relieved of his office. Nowadays, all
<a name="Page4"></a>
memory of Saracens has been swept out of the land. In default of anything
better, they are printing a local halfpenny paper called &ldquo;Il
Saraceno&ldquo;&mdash;a very innocuous pagan, to judge by a copy which I bought
in a reckless moment.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-1" id="fn-1"></a> <a href="#fnref-1">[1]</a>
These journals are now admitted to have been manufactured in the sixteenth
century by the historian Costanzo for certain genealogical purposes of his own.
Professor Bernhardi doubted their authenticity in 1869, and his doubts
have been confirmed by Capasso.
</p>

<p>
This museum also contains a buxom angel of stucco known as the &ldquo;Genius of
Bourbonism.&rdquo; In the good old days it used to ornament the town hall,
fronting the entrance; but now, degraded to a museum curiosity, it presents to
the public its back of ample proportions, and the curator intimated that he
considered this attitude quite appropriate&mdash;historically speaking, of
course. Furthermore, they have carted hither, from the Chamber of Deputies in
Rome, the chair once occupied by Ruggiero Bonghi. Dear Bonghi! From a sense of
duty he used to visit a certain dull and pompous house in the capital and
forthwith fall asleep on the nearest sofa; he slept sometimes for two hours at
a stretch, while all the other visitors were solemnly marched to the spot to
observe him&mdash;behold the great Bonghi: he slumbers! There is a statue
erected to him here, and a street has likewise been named after another
celebrity, Giovanni Bovio. If I informed the townsmen of my former acquaintance
with these two heroes, they would perhaps put up a marble tablet commemorating
the fact. For the place is infected with the patriotic disease of
monumentomania. The drawback is that with every change of administration the
streets are re-baptized and the statues shifted to make room for new
favourites; so the civic landmarks come and go, with the swiftness of a
cinematograph.
</p>

<p>
Frederick II also has his street, and so has Pietro Giannone. This smacks of
anti-clericalism. But to judge by the number of priests and the daily hordes of
devout and dirty pilgrims that pour into the town from the fanatical fastnesses
of the Abruzzi&mdash;picturesque, I suppose we should call them&mdash;the
country is sufficiently orthodox. Every self-respecting family, they tell me,
has its pet priest, who lives on them in return for spiritual consolations.
</p>

<p>
There was a religious festival some nights ago in honour of Saint Espedito. No
one could tell me more about this holy man than that he was a kind of
pilgrim-warrior, and that his cult here is of recent date; it was imported or
manufactured some four years ago by a rich merchant who, tired of the old local
saints, built a church in honour of this new one, and thereby enrolled him
among the city gods.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus02"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-2.jpg" width="546" height="362" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Lion of Lucera</p>
</div>

<p>
On this occasion the square was seething with people: few
<a name="Page5"></a>
women, and the men mostly in dark clothes; we are already under Moorish and
Spanish influences. A young boy addressed me with the polite question whether I
could tell him the precise number of the population of London.
</p>

<p>
That depended, I said, on what one described as London. There was what they
called greater London&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
It depended! That was what he had always been given to understand. . . . And
how did I like Lucera? Rather a dull little place, was it not? Nothing like
Paris, of course. Still, if I could delay my departure for some days longer,
they would have the trial of a man who had murdered three people: it might be
quite good fun. He was informed that they hanged such persons in England, as
they used to do hereabouts; it seemed rather barbaric, because, naturally,
nobody is ever responsible for his actions; but in England, no
doubt<i>&mdash;&mdash;</i>
</p>

<p>
That is the normal attitude of these folks towards us and our institutions. We
are savages, hopeless savages; but a little savagery, after all, is quite
endurable. Everything is endurable if you have lots of money, like these
English.
</p>

<p>
As for myself, wandering among that crowd of unshaven creatures, that rustic
population, fiercely gesticulating and dressed in slovenly hats and garments, I
realized once again what the average Anglo-Saxon would ask himself: Are they
<i>all</i> brigands, or only some of them? That music, too&mdash;what is it
that makes this stuff so utterly unpalatable to a civilized northerner? A
soulless cult of rhythm, and then, when the simplest of melodies emerges, they
cling to it with the passionate delight of a child who has discovered the moon.
These men are still in the age of platitudes, so far as music is concerned; an
infantile aria is to them what some foolish rhymed proverb is to the Arabs: a
thing of God, a portent, a joy for ever.
</p>

<p>
You may visit the cathedral; there is a fine <i>verde antico</i> column on
either side of the sumptuous main portal. I am weary, just now, of these
structures; the spirit of pagan Lucera&mdash;&ldquo;Lucera dei Pagani&rdquo; it
used to be called&mdash;has descended upon me; I feel inclined to echo
Carducci&rsquo;s &ldquo;<i>Addio, nume semitico!</i>&rdquo; One sees so many of
these sombre churches, and they are all alike in their stony elaboration of
mysticism and wrong-headedness; besides, they have been described, over and
over again, by enthusiastic connaisseurs who dwell lovingly upon their artistic
quaintnesses but forget the grovelling herd that reared them, with the lash at
their backs, or the odd type of humanity&mdash;the gargoyle type&mdash;that has
since grown up under their shadow and
<a name="Page6"></a>
influence. I prefer to return to the sun and stars, to my promenade beside the
castle walls.
</p>

<p class="p2">
But for the absence of trees and hedges, one might take this to be some English
prospect of the drowsy Midland counties&mdash;so green it is, so golden-grey
the sky. The sunlight peers down dispersedly through windows in this firmament
of clouded amber, alighting on some mouldering tower, some patch of ripening
corn or distant city&mdash;Troia, lapped in Byzantine slumber, or San Severo
famed in war. This in spring. But what days of glistering summer heat, when the
earth is burnt to cinders under a heavenly dome that glows like a brazier of
molten copper! For this country is the Sahara of Italy.
</p>

<p>
One is glad, meanwhile, that the castle does not lie in the natal land of the
Hohenstaufen. The interior is quite deserted, to be sure; they have built half
the town of Lucera with its stones, even as Frederick quarried them out of the
early Roman citadel beneath; but it is at least a harmonious desolation. There
are no wire-fenced walks among the ruins, no feeding-booths and cheap
reconstructions of draw-bridges and police-notices at every corner; no gaudy
women scribbling to their friends in the &ldquo;Residenzstadt&rdquo; post cards
illustrative of the &ldquo;Burgruine,&rdquo; while their husbands perspire over
mastodontic beer-jugs. There is only peace.
</p>

<p>
These are the delights of Lucera: to sit under those old walls and watch the
gracious cloud-shadows dappling the plain, oblivious of yonder assemblage of
barbers and politicians. As for those who can reconstruct the vanished glories
of such a place&mdash;happy they! I find the task increasingly difficult. One
outgrows the youthful age of hero-worship; next, our really keen edges are so
soon worn off by mundane trivialities and vexations that one is glad to take
refuge in simpler pleasures once more&mdash;to return to primitive
emotionalism. There are so many Emperors of past days! And like the old
custodian, I have not so much as set eyes on them.
</p>

<p>
Yet this Frederick is no dim figure; he looms grandly through the intervening
haze. How well one understands that craving for the East, nowadays; how modern
they were, he and his son the &ldquo;Sultan of Lucera,&rdquo; and their friends
and counsellors, who planted this garden of exotic culture! Was it some
afterglow of the luminous world that had sunk below the horizon, or a pale
streak of the coming dawn? And if you now glance down into this enclosure that
once echoed with the song of minstrels
<a name="Page7"></a>
and the soft laughter of women, with the discourse of wits, artists and
philosophers, and the clang of arms&mdash;if you look, you will behold nothing
but a green lake, a waving field of grass. No matter. The ambitions of these
men are fairly realized, and every one of us may keep a body-guard of pagans,
an&rsquo;t please him; and a harem likewise&mdash;to judge by the newspapers.
</p>

<p>
For he took his Orientalism seriously; he had a harem, with eunuchs, etc., all
proper, and was pleased to give an Eastern colour to his entertainments.
Matthew Paris relates how Frederick&rsquo;s brother-in-law, returning from the
Holy Land, rested awhile at his Italian court, and saw, among other diversions,
&ldquo;duas puellas Saracenicas formosas, quae in pavimenti planitie binis
globis insisterent, volutisque globis huo illucque ferrentur canentes, cymbala
manibus collidentes, corporaque secundum modulos motantes atque
flectentes.&rdquo; I wish I had been there. . . .
</p>

<p>
I walked to the castle yesterday evening on the chance of seeing an eclipse of
the moon which never came, having taken place at quite another hour. A
cloudless night, dripping with moisture, the electric lights of distant Foggia
gleaming in the plain. There are brick-kilns at the foot of the incline, and
from some pools in the neighbourhood issued a loud croaking of frogs, while the
pallid smoke of the furnaces, pressed down by the evening dew, trailed
earthward in a long twisted wreath, like a dragon crawling sulkily to his den.
But on the north side one could hear the nightingales singing in the gardens
below. The dark mass of Mount Gargano rose up clearly in the moonlight, and I
began to sketch out some itinerary of my wanderings on that soil. There was
Sant&rsquo; Angelo, the archangel&rsquo;s abode; and the forest region; and
Lesina with its lake; and Vieste the remote, the end of all things. . . .
</p>

<p>
Then my thoughts wandered to the Hohenstaufen and the conspiracy whereby their
fate was avenged. The romantic figures of Manfred and Conradin; their
relentless enemy Charles; Costanza, her brow crowned with a poetic nimbus (that
melted, towards the end, into an aureole of bigotry); Frangipani, huge in
villainy; the princess Beatrix, tottering from the dungeon where she had been
confined for nearly twenty years; her deliverer Roger de Lauria, without whose
resourcefulness and audacity it might have gone ill with Aragon; Popes and
Palæologus&mdash;brilliant colour effects; the king of England and Saint
Louis of France; in the background, dimly discernible, the colossal shades of
Frederick and Innocent, looked in deadly embrace; and the whole congress of
figures enlivened and
<a name="Page8"></a>
interpenetrated as by some electric fluid&mdash;the personality of John of
Procida. That the element of farce might not be lacking, Fate contrived that
exquisite royal duel at Bordeaux where the two mighty potentates, calling each
other by a variety of unkingly epithets, enacted a prodigiously fine piece of
foolery for the delectation of Europe.
</p>

<p>
From this terrace one can overlook both Foggia and Castel Fiorentino&mdash;the
beginning and end of the drama; and one follows the march of this magnificent
retribution without a shred of compassion for the gloomy papal hireling.
Disaster follows disaster with mathematical precision, till at last he perishes
miserably, consumed by rage and despair. Then our satisfaction is complete.
</p>

<p>
No; not quite complete. For in one point the stupendous plot seems to have been
imperfectly achieved. Why did Roger de Lauria not profit by his victory to
insist upon the restitution of the young brothers of Beatrix, of those unhappy
princes who had been confined as infants in 1266, and whose very existence
seems to have faded from the memory of historians? Or why did Costanza, who
might have dealt with her enemy&rsquo;s son even as Conradin had been dealt
with, not round her magnanimity by claiming her own flesh and blood, the last
scions of a great house? Why were they not released during the subsequent
peace, or at least in 1302? The reason is as plain as it is unlovely; nobody
knew what to do with them. Political reasons counselled their effacement, their
non-existence. Horrible thought, that the sunny world should be too small for
three orphan children! In their Apulian fastness they remained&mdash;in chains.
A royal rescript of 1295 orders that they be freed from their fetters. Thirty
years in fetters! Their fate is unknown; the night of mediævalism closes in
upon them once more. . . .
</p>

<p>
Further musings were interrupted by the appearance of a shape which approached
from round the corner of one of the towers. It came nearer stealthily, pausing
every now and then. Had I evoked, willy-nilly, some phantom of the buried past?
</p>

<p>
It was only the custodian, leading his dog Musolino. After a shower of
compliments and apologies, he gave me to understand that it was his duty, among
other things, to see that no one should endeavour to raise the treasure which
was hidden under these ruins; several people, he explained, had already made
the attempt by night. For the rest, I was quite at liberty to take my pleasure
about the castle at all hours. But as to touching the buried hoard, it was
<i>proibito&mdash;</i>forbidden!
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page9"></a>
I was glad of the incident, which conjured up for me the Oriental mood with its
genii and subterranean wealth. Straightway this incongruous and irresponsible
old buffoon was invested with a new dignity; transformed into a threatening
Ifrit, the guardian of the gold, or&mdash;who knows?&mdash;Iblis incarnate. The
gods take wondrous shapes, sometimes.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page10"></a><a name="chap02"></a>II<br />
MANFRED&rsquo;S TOWN</h2>

<p>
As the train moved from Lucera to Foggia and thence onwards, I had enjoyed
myself rationally, gazing at the emerald plain of Apulia, soon to be scorched
to ashes, but now richly dight with the yellow flowers of the giant fennel,
with patches of ruby-red poppy and asphodels pale and shadowy, past their
prime. I had thought upon the history of this immense tract of
country&mdash;upon all the floods of legislation and theorizings to which its
immemorial customs of pasturage have given birth. . . .
</p>

<p>
Then, suddenly, the aspect of life seemed to change. I felt unwell, and so
swift was the transition from health that I had wantonly thrown out of the
window, beyond recall, a burning cigar ere realizing that it was only a little
more than half smoked. We were crossing the Calendaro, a sluggish stream which
carefully collects all the waters of this region only to lose them again in a
swamp not far distant; and it was positively as if some impish sprite had leapt
out of those noisome waves, boarded the train, and flung himself into me, after
the fashion of the &ldquo;Horla&rdquo; in the immortal tale.
</p>

<p>
Doses of quinine such as would make an English doctor raise his eyebrows have
hitherto only succeeded in provoking the Calendaro microbe to more virulent
activity. Nevertheless, <i>on s&rsquo;y fait.</i> I am studying him and,
despite his protean manifestations, have discovered three principal
ingredients: malaria, bronchitis and hay-fever&mdash;not your ordinary
hay-fever, oh, no! but such as a mammoth might conceivably catch, if thrust
back from his germless, frozen tundras into the damply blossoming Miocene.
</p>

<p>
The landlady of this establishment has a more commonplace name for the
distemper. She calls it &ldquo;scirocco.&rdquo; And certainly this pest of the
south blows incessantly; the mountain-line of Gargano is veiled, the
sea&rsquo;s horizon veiled, the coast-lands of Apulia veiled by its tepid and
unwholesome breath. To cheer
<a name="Page11"></a>
me up, she says that on clear days one can see Castel del Monte, the
Hohenstaufen eyrie, shining yonder above Barletta, forty miles distant. It
sounds rather improbable; still, yesterday evening there arose a sudden vision
of a white town in that direction, remote and dream-like, far across the water.
Was it Barletta? Or Margherita? It lingered awhile, poised on an errant
sunbeam; then sank into the deep.
</p>

<p>
From this window I look into the little harbour whose beach is dotted with
fishing-boats. Some twenty or thirty sailing-vessels are riding at anchor; in
the early morning they unfurl their canvas and sally forth, in amicable
couples, to scour the azure deep&mdash;it is greenish-yellow at this
moment&mdash;returning at nightfall with the spoils of ocean, mostly young
sharks, to judge by the display in the market. Their white sails bear fabulous
devices in golden colour of moons and crescents and dolphins; some are marked
like the &ldquo;orange-tip&rdquo; butterfly. A gunboat is now stationed here on
a mysterious errand connected with the Albanian rising on the other side of the
Adriatic. There has been whispered talk of illicit volunteering among the youth
on this side, which the government is anxious to prevent. And to enliven the
scene, a steamer calls every now and then to take passengers to the Tremiti
islands. One would like to visit them, if only in memory of those martyrs of
Bourbonism, who were sent in hundreds to these rocks and cast into dungeons to
perish. I have seen such places; they are vast caverns artificially excavated
below the surface of the earth; into these the unfortunates were lowered and
left to crawl about and rot, the living mingled with the dead. To this day they
find mouldering skeletons, loaded with heavy iron chains and ball-weights.
</p>

<p>
A copious spring gushes up on this beach and flows into the sea. It is sadly
neglected. Were I tyrant of Manfredonia, I would build me a fair marble
fountain here, with a carven assemblage of nymphs and sea-monsters spouting
water from their lusty throats, and plashing in its rivulets. It may well be
that the existence of this fount helped to decide Manfred in his choice of a
site for his city; such springs are rare in this waterless land. And from this
same source, very likely, is derived the local legend of Saint Lorenzo and the
Dragon, which is quite independent of that of Saint Michael the dragon-killer
on the heights above us. These venerable water-spirits, these <i>dracs,</i> are
interesting beasts who went through many metamorphoses ere attaining their
present shape.
</p>

<p>
Manfredonia lies on a plain sloping very gently
<a name="Page12"></a>
seawards&mdash;practically a dead level, and in one of the hottest districts of
Italy. Yet, for some obscure reason, there is no street along the sea itself;
the cross-roads end in abrupt squalor at the shore. One wonders what
considerations&mdash;political, aesthetic or hygienic&mdash;prevented the
designers of the town from carrying out its general principles of construction
and building a decent promenade by the waves, where the ten thousand citizens
could take the air in the breathless summer evenings, instead of being cooped
up, as they now are, within stifling hot walls. The choice of Manfredonia as a
port does not testify to any great foresight on the part of its
founder&mdash;peace to his shade! It will for ever slumber in its bay, while
commerce passes beyond its reach; it will for ever be malarious with the
marshes of Sipontum at its edges. But this particular defect of the place is
not Manfred&rsquo;s fault, since the city was razed to the ground by the Turks
in 1620, and then built up anew; built up, says Lenormant, according to the
design of the old city. Perhaps a fear of other Corsair raids induced the
constructors to adhere to the old plan, by which the place could be more easily
defended. Not much of Manfredonia seems to have been completed when
Pacicchelli&rsquo;s view (1703) was engraved.
</p>

<p>
Speaking of the weather, the landlady further told me that the wind blew so
hard three months ago&mdash;&ldquo;during that big storm in the winter,
don&rsquo;t you remember?&rdquo;&mdash;that it broke all the iron lamp-posts
between the town and the station. Now here was a statement sounding even more
improbable than her other one about Castel del Monte, but admitting of
verification. Wheezing and sneezing, I crawled forth, and found it correct. It
must have been a respectable gale, since the cast-iron supports are snapped in
half, every one of them.
</p>

<p>
Those Turks, by the way, burnt the town on that memorable occasion. That was a
common occurrence in those days. Read any account of their incursions into
Italy during this and the preceding centuries, and you will find that the
corsairs burnt the towns whenever they had time to set them alight. They could
not burn them nowadays, and this points to a total change in economic
conditions. Wood was cut down so heedlessly that it became too scarce for
building purposes, and stone took its place. This has altered domestic
architecture; it has changed the landscape, denuding the hill-sides that were
once covered with timber; it has impoverished the country by converting
fruitful plains into marshes or arid tracts of stone swept by irregular and
intermittent floods; it has modified, if I mistake
<a name="Page13"></a>
not, the very character of the people. The desiccation of the climate has
entailed a desiccation of national humour.
</p>

<p>
Muratori has a passage somewhere in his &ldquo;Antiquities&rdquo; regarding the
old method of construction and the wooden shingles, <i>scandulae,</i> in use
for roofing&mdash;I must look it up, if ever I reach civilized regions again.
</p>

<p>
At the municipality, which occupies the spacious apartments of a former
Dominican convent, they will show you the picture of a young girl, one of the
Beccarini family, who was carried off at a tender age in one of these Turkish
raids, and subsequently became &ldquo;Sultana.&rdquo; Such captive girls
generally married sultans&mdash;or ought to have married them; the wish being
father to the thought. But the story is disputed; rightly, I think. For the
portrait is painted in the French manner, and it is hardly likely that a
harem-lady would have been exhibited to a European artist. The legend goes on
to say that she was afterwards liberated by the Knights of Malta, together with
her Turkish son who, as was meet and proper, became converted to Christianity
and died a monk. The Beccarini family (of Siena, I fancy) might find some traces
of her in their archives. <i>Ben trovato,</i> at all events. When one looks at
the pretty portrait, one cannot blame any kind of &ldquo;Sultan&rdquo; for
feeling well-disposed towards the original.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The weather has shown some signs of improvement and tempted me, despite the
persistent &ldquo;scirocco&rdquo; mood, to a few excursions into the
neighbourhood. But there seem to be no walks hereabouts, and the hills, three
miles distant, are too remote for my reduced vitality. The intervening region
is a plain of rock carved so smoothly, in places, as to appear artificially
levelled with the chisel; large tracts of it are covered with the Indian fig
(cactus). In the shade of these grotesque growths lives a dainty flora:
trembling grasses of many kinds, rue, asphodel, thyme, the wild asparagus, a
diminutive blue iris, as well as patches of saxifrage that deck the stone with
a brilliant enamel of red and yellow. This wild beauty makes one think how much
better the graceful wrought-iron balconies of the town would look if enlivened
with blossoms, with pendent carnations or pelargonium; but there is no great
display of these things; the deficiency of water is a characteristic of the
place; it is a flowerless and songless city. The only good drinking-water is
that which is bottled at the mineral springs of Monte Vulture and sold cheaply
enough all over the country. And the mass of the country people have small
charm of feature. Their faces seem to have been chopped
<a name="Page14"></a>
with a hatchet into masks of sombre virility; a hard life amid burning
limestone deserts is reflected in their countenances.
</p>

<p>
None the less, they have a public garden; even more immature than that of
Lucera, but testifying to greater taste. Its situation, covering a forlorn
semicircular tract of ground about the old Anjou castle, is <i>a priori</i> a
good one. But when the trees are fully grown, it will be impossible to see this
fine ruin save at quite close quarters&mdash;just across the moat.
</p>

<p>
I lamented this fact to a solitary gentleman who was strolling about here and
who replied, upon due deliberation:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;One cannot have everything.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Then he added, as a suggestive afterthought:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Inasmuch as one thing sometimes excludes another.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
I pause, to observe parenthetically that this habit of uttering platitudes in
the grand manner as though disclosing an idea of vital novelty (which Charles
Lamb, poor fellow, thought peculiar to natives of Scotland) is as common among
Italians as among Englishmen. But veiled in sonorous Latinisms, the staleness
of such remarks assumes an air of profundity.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For my part,&rdquo; he went on, warming to his theme, &ldquo;I am
thoroughly satisfied. Who will complain of the trees? Only a few makers of bad
pictures. They can go elsewhere. Our country, dear sir, is <i>encrusted,</i>
with old castles and other feudal absurdities, and if I had the management of
things&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The sentence was not concluded, for at that moment his hat was blown off by a
violent gust of wind, and flew merrily over beds of flowering marguerites in
the direction of the main street, while he raced after it, vanishing in a cloud
of dust. The chase must have been long and arduous; he never returned.
</p>

<p>
Wandering about the upper regions of this fortress whose chambers are now used
as a factory of cement goods and a refuge for some poor families, I espied a
good pre-renaissance relief of Saint Michael and the dragon immured in the
masonry, and overhung by the green leaves of an exuberant wild fig that has
thrust its roots into the sturdy old walls. Here, at Manfredonia, we are
already under the shadow of the holy mountain and the archangel&rsquo;s wings,
but the usual representations of him are childishly emasculate&mdash;the
negation of his divine and heroic character. This one portrays a genuine
warrior-angel of the old type: grave and grim. Beyond this castle and the
town-walls, which are best preserved on the north side, nothing in Manfredonia
is older than 1620. There is a fine <i>campanile,</i> but the cathedral looks
like a shed for disused omnibuses.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page15"></a>
Along the streets, little red flags are hanging out of the houses, at frequent
intervals: signals of harbourage for the parched wayfarer. Within, you behold a
picturesque confusion of rude chairs set among barrels and vats full of dark
red wine where, amid Rembrandtesque surroundings, you can get as drunk as a
lord for sixpence. Blithe oases! It must be delightful, in summer, to while
away the sultry hours in their hospitable twilight; even at this season they
seem to be extremely popular resorts, throwing a new light on those allusions
by classical authors to &ldquo;thirsty Apulia.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But on many of the dwellings I noticed another symbol: an ominous blue metal
tablet with a red cross, bearing the white-lettered words &ldquo;VIGILANZA
NOTTURNA.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Was it some anti-burglary association? I enquired of a serious-looking
individual who happened to be passing.
</p>

<p>
His answer did not help to clear up matters.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A pure job, <i>signore mio</i>, a pure job! There is a society in
Cerignola or somewhere, a society which persuades the various town
councils&mdash;<i>persuades</i> them, you understand&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He ended abruptly, with the gesture of paying out money between his finger and
thumb. Then he sadly shook his head.
</p>

<p>
I sought for more light on this cryptic utterance; in vain. What were the
facts, I persisted? Did certain householders subscribe to keep a guardian on
their premises at night&mdash;what had the municipalities to do with
it&mdash;was there much house-breaking in Manfredonia, and, if so, had this
association done anything to check it? And for how long had the institution
been established?
</p>

<p>
But the mystery grew ever darker. After heaving a deep sigh, he condescended to
remark:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The usual camorra! Eat&mdash;eat; from father to son. Eat&mdash;eat!
That&rsquo;s all they think about, the brood of assassins. . . . Just look at
them!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
I glanced down the street and beheld a venerable gentleman of kindly aspect who
approached slowly, leaning on the arm of a fair-haired youth&mdash;his
grandson, I supposed. He wore a long white beard, and an air of apostolic
detachment from the affairs of this world. They came nearer. The boy was
listening, deferentially, to some remark of the elder; his lips were parted in
attention and his candid, sunny face would have rejoiced the heart of della
Robbia. They passed within a few feet of me, lovingly engrossed in one another.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page16"></a>
&ldquo;Well?&rdquo; I queried, turning to my informant and anxious to learn
what misdeeds could be laid to the charge of such godlike types of humanity.
</p>

<p>
But that person was no longer at my side. He had quietly withdrawn himself, in
the interval; he had evanesced, &ldquo;moved on.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
An oracular and elusive citizen. ...
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page17"></a><a name="chap03"></a>III<br />
THE ANGEL OF MANFREDONIA</h2>

<p>
Whoever looks at a map of the Gargano promontory will see that it is
besprinkled with Greek names of persons and places&mdash;Matthew, Mark,
Nikander, Onofrius, Pirgiano (Pyrgos) and so forth. Small wonder, for these
eastern regions were in touch with Constantinople from early days, and the
spirit of Byzance still hovers over them. It was on this mountain that the
archangel Michael, during his first flight to Western Europe, deigned to appear
to a Greek bishop of Sipontum, Laurentius by name; and ever since that time a
certain cavern, sanctified by the presence of this winged messenger of God, has
been the goal of millions of pilgrims.
</p>

<p>
The fastness of Sant&rsquo; Angelo, metropolis of European angel-worship, has
grown up around this &ldquo;devout and honourable cave&rdquo;; on sunny days
its houses are clearly visible from Manfredonia. They who wish to pay their
devotions at the shrine cannot do better than take with them Gregorovius, as
cicerone and mystagogue.
</p>

<p>
Vainly I waited for a fine day to ascend the heights. At last I determined to
have done with the trip, be the weather what it might. A coachman was summoned
and negotiations entered upon for starting next morning.
</p>

<p>
Sixty-five francs, he began by telling me, was the price paid by an Englishman
last year for a day&rsquo;s visit to the sacred mountain. It may well be
true&mdash;foreigners will do anything, in Italy. Or perhaps it was only said
to &ldquo;encourage&rdquo; me. But I am rather hard to encourage, nowadays. I
reminded the man that there was a diligence service there and back for a franc
and a half, and even that price seemed rather extortionate. I had seen so many
holy grottos in my life! And who, after all, was this Saint Michael? The
Eternal Father, perchance? Nothing of the kind: just an ordinary angel! We had
dozens of them, in England. Fortunately, I added, I had already received an
offer to join one of the private parties who drive up, fourteen or fifteen
persons behind
<a name="Page18"></a>
one diminutive pony&mdash;and that, as he well knew, would be a matter of only
a few pence. And even then, the threatening sky . . . Yes, on second thoughts,
it was perhaps wisest to postpone the excursion altogether. Another day, if God
wills! Would he accept this cigar as a recompense for his trouble in coming?
</p>

<p>
In dizzy leaps and bounds his claims fell to eight francs. It was the tobacco
that worked the wonder; a gentleman who will give <i>something for nothing</i>
(such was his logic)&mdash;well, you never know what you may not get out of
him. Agree to his price, and chance it!
</p>

<p>
He consigned the cigar to his waistcoat pocket to smoke after dinner, and
departed&mdash;vanquished, but inwardly beaming with bright anticipation.
</p>

<p>
A wretched morning was disclosed as I drew open the shutters&mdash;gusts of
rain and sleet beating against the window-panes. No matter: the carriage stood
below, and after that customary and hateful apology for breakfast which
suffices to turn the thoughts of the sanest man towards themes of suicide and
murder&mdash;when will southerners learn to eat a proper breakfast at proper
hours?&mdash;we started on our journey. The sun came out in visions of
tantalizing briefness, only to be swallowed up again in driving murk, and of
the route we traversed I noticed only the old stony track that cuts across the
twenty-one windings of the new carriage-road here and there. I tried to picture
to myself the Norman princes, the emperors, popes, and other ten thousand
pilgrims of celebrity crawling up these rocky slopes&mdash;barefoot&mdash;on
such a day as this. It must have tried the patience even of Saint Francis of
Assisi, who pilgrimaged with the rest of them and, according to Pontanus,
performed a little miracle here <i>en passant,</i> as was his wont.
</p>

<p>
After about three hours&rsquo; driving we reached the town of Sant&rsquo;
Angelo. It was bitterly cold at this elevation of 800 metres. Acting on the
advice of the coachman, I at once descended into the sanctuary; it would be
warm down there, he thought. The great festival of 8 May was over, but flocks
of worshippers were still arriving, and picturesquely pagan they looked in
grimy, tattered garments&mdash;their staves tipped with pine-branches and a
scrip.
</p>

<p>
In the massive bronze doors of the chapel, that were made at Constantinople in
1076 for a rich citizen of Amalfi, metal rings are inserted; these, like a true
pilgrim, you must clash furiously, to call the attention of the Powers within
to your visit; and on issuing, you must once more knock as hard as you can, in
order
<a name="Page19"></a>
that the consummation of your act of worship may be duly reported: judging by
the noise made, the deity must be very hard of hearing. Strangely deaf they
are, sometimes.
</p>

<p>
The twenty-four panels of these doors are naively encrusted with
representations, in enamel, of angel-apparitions of many kinds; some of them
are inscribed, and the following is worthy of note:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I beg and implore the priests of Saint Michael to cleanse these gates
once a year as I have now shown them, in order that they may be always bright
and shining.&rdquo; The recommendation has plainly not been carried out for a
good many years past.
</p>

<p>
Having entered the portal, you climb down a long stairway amid swarms of pious,
foul clustering beggars to a vast cavern, the archangel&rsquo;s abode. It is a
natural recess in the rock, illuminated by candles. Here divine service is
proceeding to the accompaniment of cheerful operatic airs from an asthmatic
organ; the water drops ceaselessly from the rocky vault on to the devout heads
of kneeling worshippers that cover the floor, lighted candle in hand, rocking
themselves ecstatically and droning and chanting. A weird scene, in truth. And
the coachman was quite right in his surmise as to the difference in
temperature. It is hot down here, damply hot, as in an orchid-house. But the
aroma cannot be described as a floral emanation: it is the <i>bouquet,</i>
rather, of thirteen centuries of unwashed and perspiring pilgrims.
&ldquo;TERRIBILIS EST LOCUS ISTE,&rdquo; says an inscription over the entrance
of the shrine. Very true. In places like this one understands the uses, and
possibly the origin, of incense.
</p>

<p>
I lingered none the less, and my thoughts went back to the East, whence these
mysterious practices are derived. But an Oriental crowd of worshippers does not
move me like these European masses of fanaticism; I can never bring myself to
regard without a certain amount of disquietude such passionate pilgrims. Give
them their new Messiah, and all our painfully accumulated art and knowledge,
all that reconciles civilized man to earthly existence, is blown to the winds.
Society can deal with its criminals. Not they, but fond enthusiasts such as
these, are the menace to its stability. Bitter reflections; but then&mdash;the
drive upward had chilled my human sympathies, and besides&mdash;that so-called
breakfast. . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
The grovelling herd was left behind. I ascended the stairs and, profiting by a
gleam of sunshine, climbed up to where, above the town, there stands a proud
aerial ruin known as the &ldquo;Castle of
<a name="Page20"></a>
the Giant.&rdquo; On one of its stones is inscribed the date 1491&mdash;a
certain Queen of Naples, they say, was murdered within those now crumbling
walls. These sovereigns were murdered in so many castles that one wonders how
they ever found time to be alive at all. The structure is a wreck and its
gateway closed up; nor did I feel any great inclination, in that icy blast of
wind, to investigate the roofless interior.
</p>

<p>
I was able to observe, however, that this &ldquo;feudal absurdity&rdquo; bears
a number like any inhabited house of Sant&rsquo; Angelo&mdash;it is No. 3.
</p>

<p>
This is the latest pastime of the Italian Government: to re-number dwellings
throughout the kingdom; and not only human habitations, but walls, old ruins,
stables, churches, as well as an occasional door-post and window. They are
having no end of fun over the game, which promises to keep them amused for any
length of time&mdash;in fact, until the next craze is invented. Meanwhile, so
long as the fit lasts, half a million bright-eyed officials, burning with
youthful ardour, are employed in affixing these numerals, briskly entering them
into ten times as many note-books and registering them into thousands of
municipal archives, all over the country, for some inscrutable but hugely
important administrative purposes. &ldquo;We have the employes,&rdquo; as a
Roman deputy once told me, &ldquo;and therefore: they must find some
occupation.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Altogether, the weather this day sadly impaired my appetite for research and
exploration. On the way to the castle I had occasion to admire the fine tower
and to regret that there seemed to exist no coign of vantage from which it
could fairly be viewed; I was struck, also, by the number of small figures of
Saint Michael of an ultra-youthful, almost infantile, type; and lastly, by
certain clean-shaven old men of the place. These venerable and decorative
brigands&mdash;for such they would have been, a few years ago&mdash;now stood
peacefully at their thresholds, wearing a most becoming cloak of thick brown
wool, shaped like a burnous. The garment interested me; it may be a legacy from
the Arabs who dominated this region for some little time, despoiling the holy
sanctuary and leaving their memory to be perpetuated by the neighbouring
&ldquo;Monte Saraceno.&rdquo; The costume, on the other hand, may have come
over from Greece; it is figured on Tanagra statuettes and worn by modern Greek
shepherds. By Sardinians, too. ... It may well be a primordial form of clothing
with mankind.
</p>

<p>
The view from this castle must be superb on clear days. Standing there, I
looked inland and remembered all the places I had
<a name="Page21"></a>
intended to see&mdash;Vieste, and Lesina with its lakes, and Selva Umbra, whose
very name is suggestive of dewy glades; how remote they were, under such
dispiriting clouds! I shall never see them. Spring hesitates to smile upon
these chill uplands; we are still in the grip of winter&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
Aut aquilonibus<br />
Querceti Gargani laborent<br />
Et foliis viduantur orni&mdash;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
so sang old Horace, of Garganian winds. I scanned the horizon, seeking for his
Mount Vulture, but all that region was enshrouded in a grey curtain of vapour;
only the Stagno Salso&mdash;a salt mere wherein Candelaro forgets his mephitic
waters&mdash;shone with a steady glow, like a sheet of polished lead.
</p>

<p>
Soon the rain fell once more and drove me to seek refuge among the houses,
where I glimpsed the familiar figure of my coachman, sitting disconsolately
under a porch. He looked up and remarked (for want of something better to say)
that he had been searching for me all over the town, fearing that some mischief
might have happened to me. I was touched by these words; touched, that is, by
his child-like simplicity in imagining that he could bring me to believe a
statement of such radiant improbability; so touched, that I pressed a franc
into his reluctant palm and bade him buy with it something to eat. A whole
franc. . . . <i>Aha!</i> he doubtless thought, <i>my theory of the gentleman:
it begins to work.</i>
</p>

<p>
It was barely midday. Yet I was already surfeited with the angelic metropolis,
and my thoughts began to turn in the direction of Manfredonia once more. At a
corner of the street, however, certain fluent vociferations in English and
Italian, which nothing would induce me to set down here, assailed my ears,
coming up&mdash;apparently&mdash;out of the bowels of the earth. I stopped to
listen, shocked to hear ribald language in a holy town like this; then,
impelled by curiosity, descended a long flight of steps and found myself in a
subterranean wine-cellar. There was drinking and card-playing going on here
among a party of emigrants&mdash;merry souls; a good half of them spoke English
and, despite certain irreverent phrases, they quickly won my heart with a
&ldquo;Here! You drink <i>this,</i> mister.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This dim recess was an instructive pendant to the archangel&rsquo;s cavern. A
new type of pilgrim has been evolved; pilgrims who think no more of crossing to
Pittsburg than of a drive to Manfredonia. But their cave was permeated with an
odour of spilt wine and tobacco-smoke instead of the subtle <i>Essence des
pèlerins</i>
<a name="Page22"></a>
<i>des Abruzzes fleuris,</i> and alas, the object of their worship was not the
Chaldean angel, but another and equally ancient eastern shape: Mammon. They
talked much of dollars; and I also heard several unorthodox allusions to the
&ldquo;angel-business,&rdquo; which was described as &ldquo;played out,&rdquo;
as well as a remark to the effect that &ldquo;only damn-fools stay in this
country.&rdquo; In short, these men were at the other end of the human scale;
they were the strong, the energetic; the ruthless, perhaps; but
certainly&mdash;the intelligent.
</p>

<p>
And all the while the cup circled round with genial iteration, and it was
universally agreed that, whatever the other drawbacks of Sant&rsquo; Angelo
might be, there was nothing to be said against its native liquor.
</p>

<p>
It was, indeed, a divine product; a <i>vino di montagna</i> of noble pedigree.
So I thought, as I laboriously scrambled up the stairs once more, solaced by
this incident of the competition-grotto and slightly giddy, from the
tobacco-smoke. And here, leaning against the door-post, stood the coachman who
had divined my whereabouts by some dark masonic intuition of sympathy. His face
expanded into an inept smile, and I quickly saw that instead of fortifying his
constitution with sound food, he had tried alcoholic methods of defence against
the inclement weather. Just a glass of wine, he explained. &ldquo;But,&rdquo;
he added, &ldquo;the horse is perfectly sober.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
That quadruped was equal to the emergency. Gloriously indifferent to our fates,
we glided down, in a vertiginous but masterly vol-plane, from the somewhat
objectionable mountain-town.
</p>

<p>
An approving burst of sunshine greeted our arrival on the plain.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page23"></a><a name="chap04"></a>IV<br />
CAVE-WORSHIP</h2>

<p>
Why has the exalted archangel chosen for an abode this reeking cell, rather
than some well-built temple in the sunshine? &ldquo;As symbolizing a ray of
light that penetrates into the gloom,&rdquo; so they will tell you. It is more
likely that he entered it as an extirpating warrior, to oust that heathen shape
which Strabo describes as dwelling in its dank recesses, and to take possession
of the cleft in the name of Christianity. Sant&rsquo; Angelo is one of many
places where Michael has performed the duty of Christian Hercules, cleanser of
Augean stables.
</p>

<p>
For the rest, this cave-worship is older than any god or devil. It is the cult
of the feminine principle&mdash;a relic of that aboriginal obsession of mankind
to shelter in some Cloven Rock of Ages, in the sacred womb of Mother Earth who
gives us food and receives us after death. Grotto-apparitions, old and new, are
but the popular explanations of this dim primordial craving, and hierophants of
all ages have understood the commercial value of the holy shudder which
penetrates in these caverns to the heart of worshippers, attuning them to godly
deeds. So here, close beside the altar, the priests are selling fragments of
the so-called &ldquo;Stone of Saint Michael.&rdquo; The trade is brisk.
</p>

<p>
The statuette of the archangel preserved in this subterranean chapel is a work
of the late Renaissance. Though savouring of that mawkish elaboration which
then began to taint local art and literature and is bound up with the name of
the poet Marino, it is still a passably virile figure. But those countless
others, in churches or over house-doors&mdash;do they indeed portray the
dragon-killer, the martial prince of angels? This amiable child with girlish
features&mdash;can this be the Lucifer of Christianity, the Sword of the
Almighty? <i>Quis ut Déus!</i> He could hardly hurt a fly.
</p>

<p>
The hoary winged genius of Chaldea who has absorbed the essence of so many
solemn deities has now, in extreme old age, entered upon a second childhood and
grown altogether too
<a name="Page24"></a>
youthful for his <i>role,</i> undergoing a metamorphosis beyond the boundaries
of legendary probability or common sense; every trace of divinity and manly
strength has been boiled out of him. So young and earthly fair, he looks,
rather, like some pretty boy dressed up for a game with toy sword and
helmet&mdash;one wants to have a romp with him. No warrior this! <i>C&rsquo;est
beau, mais ce n&rsquo;est pas la guerre.</i>
</p>

<p>
The gods, they say, are ever young, and a certain sensuous and fleshly note is
essential to those of Italy if they are to retain the love of their
worshippers. Granted. We do not need a scarred and hirsute veteran; but we
need, at least, a personage capable of wielding the sword, a figure something
like this:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
His starry helm unbuckled show&rsquo;d his prime<br />
In manhood where youth ended; by his side<br />
As in a glist&rsquo;ring zodiac hung the sword,<br />
Satan&rsquo;s dire dread, and in his hand the spear. . . .
</p>

<p>
There! That is an archangel of the right kind.
</p>

<p>
And the great dragon, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, has
suffered a similar transformation. He is shrunk into a poor little reptile, the
merest worm, hardly worth crushing.
</p>

<p>
But how should a sublime conception like the apocalyptic hero appeal to the
common herd? These formidable shapes emerge from the dusk, offspring of
momentous epochs; they stand aloof at first, but presently their luminous
grandeur is dulled, their haughty contour sullied and obliterated by attrition.
They are dragged down to the level of their lowest adorers, for the whole flock
adapts its pace to that of the weakest lamb. No self-respecting deity will
endure this treatment&mdash;to be popularized and made intelligible to a crowd.
Divinity comprehended of the masses ceases to be efficacious; the Egyptians and
Brahmans understood that. It is not giving gods a chance to interpret them in
an incongruous and unsportsmanlike fashion. But the vulgar have no idea of
propriety or fair play; they cannot keep at the proper distance; they are for
ever taking liberties. And, in the end, the proudest god is forced to yield.
</p>

<p>
We see this same fatality in the very word Cherub. How different an image does
this plump and futile infant evoke to the stately Minister of the Lord, girt
with a sword of flame! We see it in the Italian Madonna of whom, whatever her
mental acquirements may have been, a certain gravity of demeanour is to be
presupposed, and who, none the less, grows more childishly
<a name="Page25"></a>
smirking every day; in her Son who&mdash;hereabouts at least&mdash;has doffed
all the serious attributes of manhood and dwindled into something not much
better than a doll. It was the same in days of old. Apollo (whom Saint Michael
has supplanted), and Eros, and Aphrodite&mdash;they all go through a process of
saccharine deterioration. Our fairest creatures, once they have passed their
meridian vigour, are liable to be assailed and undermined by an insidious
diabetic tendency.
</p>

<p>
It is this coddling instinct of mankind which has reduced Saint Michael to his
present state. And an extraneous influence has worked in the same
direction&mdash;the gradual softening of manners within historical times, that
demasculinization which is an inevitable concomitant of increasing social
security. Divinity reflects its human creators and their environment; grandiose
or warlike gods become superfluous, and finally incomprehensible, in humdrum
days of peace. In order to survive, our deities (like the rest of us) must have
a certain plasticity. If recalcitrant, they are quietly relieved of their
functions, and forgotten. This is what has happened in Italy to God the Father
and the Holy Ghost, who have vanished from the vulgar Olympus; whereas the
devil, thanks to that unprincipled versatility for which he is famous, remains
ever young and popular.
</p>

<p>
The art-notions of the Cinque-Cento are also to blame; indeed, so far as the
angelic shapes of south Italy are concerned, the influence of the Renaissance
has been wholly malefic. Aliens to the soil, they were at first quite
unknown&mdash;not one is pictured in the Neapolitan catacombs. Next came the
brief period of their artistic glory; then the syncretism of the Renaissance,
when these winged messengers were amalgamated with pagan <i>amoretti</i> and
began to flutter in foolish baroque fashion about the Queen of Heaven, after
the pattern of the disreputable little genii attendant upon a Venus of a bad
school. That same instinct which degraded a youthful Eros into the childish
Cupid was the death-stroke to the pristine dignity and holiness of angels.
Nowadays, we see the perversity of it all; we have come to our senses and can
appraise the much-belauded revival at its true worth; and our modern sculptors
will rear you a respectable angel, a grave adolescent, according to the best
canons of taste&mdash;should you still possess the faith that once
requisitioned such works of art.
</p>

<p class="p2">
We travellers acquaint ourselves with the lineage of this celestial Messenger,
but it can hardly be supposed that the worshippers now swarming at his shrine
know much of these things. How
<a name="Page26"></a>
shall one discover their real feelings in regard to this great cave-saint and
his life and deeds?
</p>

<p>
Well, some idea of this may be gathered from the literature sold on the spot. I
purchased three of these modern tracts printed respectively at Bitonto,
Molfetta and Naples. The &ldquo;Popular Song in honour of St. Michael&rdquo;
contains this verse:
</p>

<p class="poem">
Nell&rsquo; ora della morte<br />
Ci salvi dall&rsquo; inferno<br />
E a Regno Sempiterno<br />
Ci guidi per pietà.
</p>

<p>
<i>Ci guidi per pietà. . . .</i> This is the Mercury-heritage. Next, the
&ldquo;History and Miracles of St. Michael&rdquo; opens with a rollicking
dialogue in verse between the archangel and the devil concerning a soul; it
ends with a goodly list, in twenty-five verses, of the miracles performed by
the angel, such as helping women in childbirth, curing the blind, and other
wonders that differ nothing from those wrought by humbler earthly saints.
Lastly, the &ldquo;Novena in Onore di S. Michele Arcangelo,&rdquo; printed in
1910 (third edition) with ecclesiastical approval, has the following noteworthy
paragraph on the
</p>

<p class="center">
&ldquo;DEVOTION FOR THE SACRED STONES OF THE GROTTO OF ST. MICHAEL.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is very salutary to hold in esteem the STONES which are taken from
the sacred cavern, partly because from immemorial times they have always been
held in veneration by the faithful and also because they have been placed as
relics of sepulchres and altars. Furthermore, it is known that during the
plague which afflicted the kingdom of Naples in the year 1656, Monsignor G. A.
Puccini, archbishop of Manfredonia, recommended every one to carry devoutly on
his person a fragment of the sacred STONE, whereby the majority were saved from
the pestilence, and this augmented the devotion bestowed on them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
The cholera is on the increase, and this may account for the rapid sale of the
STONES at this moment.
</p>

<p>
This pamphlet also contains a litany in which the titles of the archangel are
enumerated. He is, among other things, Secretary of God, Liberator from
Infernal Chains, Defender in the Hour of Death, Custodian of the Pope, Spirit
of Light, Wisest of Magistrates, Terror of Demons, Commander-in-Chief of the
Armies of the Lord, Lash of Heresies, Adorer of the Word
<a name="Page27"></a>
Incarnate, Guide of Pilgrims, Conductor of Mortals: Mars, Mercury, Hercules,
Apollo, Mithra&mdash;what nobler ancestry can angel desire? And yet, as if
these complicated and responsible functions did not suffice for his energies,
he has twenty others, among them being that of &ldquo;Custodian of the Holy
Family &ldquo;&mdash;who apparently need a protector, a Monsieur Paoli, like
any mortal royalties.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Blasphemous rubbish!&rdquo; I can hear some Methodist exclaiming. And
one may well be tempted to sneer at those pilgrims for the more enlightened of
whom such literature is printed. For they are unquestionably a repulsive crowd:
travel-stained old women, under-studies for the Witch of Endor; dishevelled,
anaemic and dazed-looking girls; boys, too weak to handle a spade at home,
pathetically uncouth, with mouths agape and eyes expressing every grade of
uncontrolled emotion&mdash;from wildest joy to downright idiotcy. How one
realizes, down in this cavern, the effect upon some cultured ancient like
Rutilius Namatianus of the catacomb-worship among those early Christian
converts, those <i>men who shun the light,</i> drawn as they were from the same
social classes towards the same dark underground rites! One can neither love
nor respect such people; and to affect pity for them would be more consonant
with their religion than with my own.
</p>

<p>
But it is perfectly easy to understand them. For thirteen centuries this
pilgrim-movement has been going on. Thirteen centuries? No. This site was an
oracle in heathen days, and we know that such were frequented by men not a whit
less barbarous and bigoted than their modern representatives&mdash;nothing is a
greater mistake than to suppose that the crowds of old Rome and Athens were
more refined than our own (&ldquo;Demosthenes, sir, was talking to an assembly
of brutes&rdquo;). For thirty centuries then, let us say, a deity has attracted
the faithful to his shrine&mdash;Sant&rsquo; Angelo has become a vacuum, as it
were, which must be periodically filled up from the surrounding country. These
pilgrimages are in the blood of the people: infants, they are carried there;
adults, they carry their own offspring; grey-beards, their tottering steps are
still supported by kindly and sturdier fellow-wanderers.
</p>

<p>
Popes and emperors no longer scramble up these slopes; the spirit of piety has
abated among the great ones of the earth; so much is certain. But the rays of
light that strike the topmost branches have not yet penetrated to the rank and
seething undergrowth. And then&mdash;what else can one offer to these Abruzzi
<a name="Page28"></a>
mountain-folk? Their life is one of miserable, revolting destitution. They have
no games or sports, no local racing, clubs, cattle-shows, fox-hunting,
politics, rat-catching, or any of those other joys that diversify the lives of
our peasantry. No touch of humanity reaches them, no kindly dames send them
jellies or blankets, no cheery doctor enquires for their children; they read no
newspapers or books, and lack even the mild excitements of church <i>versus</i>
chapel, or the vicar&rsquo;s daughter&rsquo;s love-affair, or the
squire&rsquo;s latest row with his lady&mdash;nothing! Their existence is
almost bestial in its blankness. I know them&mdash;I have lived among them. For
four months in the year they are cooped up in damp dens, not to be called
chambers, where an Englishman would deem it infamous to keep a dog&mdash;cooped
up amid squalor that must be seen to be believed; for the rest of the time they
struggle, in the sweat of their brow, to wrest a few blades of corn from the
ungrateful limestone. Their visits to the archangel&mdash;these vernal and
autumnal picnics&mdash;are their sole form of amusement.
</p>

<p>
The movement is said to have diminished since the early nineties, when thirty
thousand of them used to come here annually. It may well be the case; but I
imagine that this is due not so much to increasing enlightenment as to the
depopulation caused by America; many villages have recently been reduced to
half their former number of inhabitants.
</p>

<p>
And here they kneel, candle in hand, on the wet flags of this foetid and
malodorous cave, gazing in rapture upon the blandly beaming idol, their
sensibilities tickled by resplendent priests reciting full-mouthed Latin
phrases, while the organ overhead plays wheezy extracts from &ldquo;La Forza
del Destino&rdquo; or the Waltz out of Boito&rsquo;s
&ldquo;Mefistofele&rdquo;... for sure, it must be a foretaste of Heaven! And
likely enough, these are &ldquo;the poor in heart&rdquo; for whom that kingdom
is reserved.
</p>

<p>
One may call this a debased form of Christianity. Whether it would have been
distasteful to the feelings of the founder of that cult is another question,
and, debased or not, it is at least alive and palpitating, which is more than
can be said of certain other varieties. But the archangel, as was inevitable,
has suffered a sad change. His fairest attribute of Light-bringer, of Apollo,
is no longer his own; it has been claimed and appropriated by the &ldquo;Light
of the World,&rdquo; his new master. One by one, his functions have been
stripped from him, all save in name, as happens to men and angels alike, when
they take service under &ldquo;jealous&rdquo; lords.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page29"></a>
What is now left of Saint Michael, the glittering hierarch? Can he still endure
the light of sun? Or has he not shrivelled into a spectral Hermes, a grisly
psychopomp, bowing his head in minished glory, and leading men&rsquo;s souls no
longer aloft but downwards&mdash;down to the pale regions of things that have
been? And will it be long ere he, too, is thrust by some flaming Demogorgon
into these same realms of Minos, into that shadowy underworld where dwell
Saturn, and Kronos, and other cracked and shivered ideals?
</p>

<p class="p2">
So I mused that afternoon, driving down the slopes from Sant&rsquo; Angelo
comfortably sheltered against the storm, while the generous mountain wine sped
through my veins, warming my fancy. Then, at last, the sun came out in a sudden
burst of light, opening a rift in the vapours and revealing the whole chain of
the Apennines, together with the peaked crater of Mount Vulture.
</p>

<p>
The spectacle cheered me, and led me to think that such a day might worthily be
rounded off by a visit to Sipontum, which lies a few miles beyond Manfredonia
on the Foggia road. But I approached the subject cautiously, fearing that the
coachman might demur at this extra work. Far from it. I had gained his
affection, and he would conduct me whithersoever I liked. Only to Sipontum? Why
not to Foggia, to Naples, to the ends of the earth? As for the horse, he was
none the worse for the trip, not a bit the worse; he liked nothing better than
running in front of a carriage; besides, <i>è suo dovere&mdash;</i>it was his
duty.
</p>

<p>
Sipontum is so ancient that it was founded, they say, by that legendary Diomed
who acted in the same capacity for Beneven-tum, Arpi, and other cities. But
this record does not satisfy Monsignor Sarnelli, its historian, according to
whom it was already a flourishing town when Shem, first son of Noah, became its
king. He reigned about the year 1770 of the creation of the world. Two years
after the deluge he was 100 years old, and at that age begat a son Arfaxad,
after whose birth he lived yet another five hundred years. The second king of
Sipontum was Appulus, who ruled in the year 2213. . . . Later on, Saint Peter
sojourned here, and baptized a few people.
</p>

<p>
Of Sipontum nothing is left; nothing save a church, and even that built only
yesterday&mdash;in the eleventh century; a far-famed church, in the Pisan
style, with wrought marble columns reposing on lions, sculptured diamond
ornaments, and other crafty stonework that gladdens the eye. It used to be the
seat
<a name="Page30"></a>
of an archbishopric, and its fine episcopal chairs are now preserved at
Sant&rsquo; Angelo; and you may still do homage to the authentic Byzantine
Madonna painted on wood by Saint Luke, brown-complexioned, long-nosed, with
staring eyes, and holding the Infant on her left arm. Earthquakes and Saracen
incursions ruined the town, which became wholly abandoned when Manfredonia was
built with its stones.
</p>

<p>
Of pagan antiquity there are a few capitals lying about, as well as granite
columns in the curious old crypt. A pillar stands all forlorn in a field; and
quite close to the church are erected two others&mdash;the larger of cipollino,
beautified by a patina of golden lichen; a marble well-head, worn half through
with usage of ropes, may be found buried in the rank grass. The plain whereon
stood the great city of Sipus is covered, now, with bristly herbage. The sea
has retired from its old beach, and half-wild cattle browse on the site of
those lordly quays and palaces. Not a stone is left. Malaria and desolation
reign supreme.
</p>

<p>
It is a profoundly melancholy spot. Yet I was glad of the brief vision. I shall
have fond and enduring memories of that sanctuary&mdash;the travertine of its
artfully carven fabric glowing orange-tawny in the sunset; of the forsaken
plain beyond, full of ghostly phantoms of the past.
</p>

<p>
As for Manfredonia&mdash;it is a sad little place, when the south wind moans
and mountains are veiled in mists.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus03"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-3.jpg" width="303" height="498" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">At Sipontum</p>
</div>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page31"></a><a name="chap05"></a>V<br />
LAND OF HORACE</h2>

<p>
Venosa, nowadays, lies off the beaten track. There are only three trains a day
from the little junction of Rocchetta, and they take over an hour to traverse
the thirty odd kilometres of sparsely inhabited land. It is an uphill journey,
for Venosa lies at a good elevation. They say that German professors, bent on
Horatian studies, occasionally descend from those worn-out old railway
carriages; but the ordinary travellers are either peasant-folk or commercial
gentlemen from north Italy. Worse than malaria or brigandage, against both of
which a man may protect himself, there is no escaping from the companionship of
these last-named&mdash;these pathologically inquisitive, empty-headed, and
altogether dreadful people. They are the terror of the south. And it stands to
reason that only the most incapable and most disagreeable of their kind are
sent to out-of-the-way places like Venosa.
</p>

<p>
One asks oneself whether this town has greatly changed since Roman times. To be
sure it has; domestic calamities and earthquakes (such as the terrible one of
1456) have altered it beyond recognition. The amphitheatre that seated ten
thousand spectators is merged into the earth, and of all the buildings of Roman
date nothing is left save a pile of masonry designated as the tomb of the
Marcellus who was killed here by Hannibal&rsquo;s soldiery, and a few
reticulated walls of the second century or thereabouts known as the
&ldquo;House of Horace&rdquo;&mdash;as genuine as that of Juliet in Verona or
the Mansion of Loreto. Yet the tradition is an old one, and the builder of the
house, whoever he was, certainly displayed some poetic taste in his selection
of a fine view across the valley. There is an indifferent statue of Horace in
the marketplace. A previous one, also described as Horace, was found to be the
effigy of somebody else. Thus much I learn from Lupoli&rsquo;s &ldquo;Iter
Venusinum.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But there are ancient inscriptions galore, worked into the masonry of buildings
or lying about at random. Mommsen has collected numbers of them in his
<i>Corpus,</i> and since that time some sixty new ones have been discovered.
And then&mdash;the
<a name="Page32"></a>
stone lions of Roman days, couched forlornly at street corners, in courtyards
and at fountains, in every stage of decrepitude, with broken jaws and noses,
missing legs and tails! Venosa is a veritable infirmary for mutilated antiques
of this species. Now the lion is doubtless a nobly decorative beast,
but&mdash;<i>toujours perdrix!</i> Why not a few griffons or other ornaments?
The Romans were not an imaginative race.
</p>

<p>
The country around must have looked different in olden days. Horace describes
it as covered with forests, and from a manuscript of the early seventeenth
century which has lately been printed one learns that the surrounding regions
were full of &ldquo;hares, rabbits, foxes, roe deer, wild boars, martens,
porcupines, hedgehogs, tortoises and wolves&rdquo;&mdash;wood-loving creatures
which have now, for the most part, deserted Venosa. Still, there are left some
stretches of oak at the back of the town, and the main lines of the land cannot
change. Yonder lies the Horatian Forense and &ldquo;Acherontia&rsquo;s
nest&rdquo;; further on, the glades of Bantia (the modern Banzi); the
long-drawn Garganian Mount, on which the poet&rsquo;s eye must often have
rested, emerges above the plain of Apulia like an island (and such it is: an
island of Austrian stone, stranded upon the beach of Italy). Monte Vulture
still dominates the landscape, although at this nearness the crater loses its
shapely conical outline and assumes a serrated edge. On its summit I perceive a
gigantic cross&mdash;one of a number of such symbols which were erected by the
clericals at the time of the recent rationalist congress in Rome.
</p>

<p>
From this chronicler I learn another interesting fact: that Venosa was not
malarious in the author&rsquo;s day. He calls it healthy, and says that the
only complaint from which the inhabitants suffered was &ldquo;ponture&rdquo;
(pleurisy). It is now within the infected zone. I dare say the deforestation of
the country, which prevented the downflow of the rivers&mdash;choking up their
beds with detritus and producing stagnant pools favourable to the breeding of
the mosquito&mdash;has helped to spread the plague in many parts of Italy. In
Horace&rsquo;s days Venosa was immune, although Rome and certain rural
districts were already malarious. Ancient votive tablets to the fever-goddess
Mephitis (malaria) have been found not far from here, in the plain below the
present city of Potenza.
</p>

<p>
A good deal of old Roman blood and spirit seems to survive here. After the
noise of the Neapolitan provinces, where chattering takes the place of
thinking, it is a relief to find oneself in the company of these grave
self-respecting folks, who really
<a name="Page33"></a>
converse, like the Scotch, in disinterested and impersonal fashion. Their
attitude towards religious matters strikes me as peculiarly Horatian; it is not
active scepticism, but rather a bland tolerance or what one of them described
as &ldquo;indifferentismo&rdquo;&mdash;submission to acts of worship and all
other usages (whatever they may be) consecrated by time: the
<i>pietàs&mdash;</i>the conservative, law-abiding Roman spirit. And if you walk
towards sunset along any of the roads leading into the country, you will meet
the peasants riding home from their field labours accompanied by their dogs,
pigs and goats; and among them you will recognize many types of Roman
physiognomies&mdash;faces of orators and statesmen&mdash;familiar from old
coins. About a third of the population are of the dark-fair complexion, with
blue or green eyes. But the women are not handsome, although the town derives
its name from Benoth (Venus). Some genuine Roman families have continued to
exist to this day, such as that of Cenna (Cinna). One of them was the author of
the chronicle above referred to; and there is an antique bas-relief worked into
the walls of the Trinità abbey, depicting some earlier members of this local
family.
</p>

<p>
One is astonished how large a literature has grown up around this small
place&mdash;but indeed, the number of monographs dealing with every one of
these little Italian towns is a ceaseless source of surprise. Look below the
surface and you will find, in all of them, an undercurrent of keen
spirituality&mdash;a nucleus of half a dozen widely read and thoughtful men,
who foster the best traditions of the mind. You will not find them in the town
council or at the café. No newspapers commend their labours, no millionaires or
learned societies come to their assistance, and though typography is cheap in
this country, they often stint themselves of the necessities of life in order
to produce these treatises of calm research. There is a deep gulf, here,
between the mundane and the intellectual life. These men are retiring in their
habits; and one cannot but revere their scholarly and almost ascetic spirit
that survives like a green oasis amid the desert of &ldquo;politics,&rdquo;
roguery and municipal corruption.
</p>

<p>
The City Fathers of Venosa are reputed rich beyond the dreams of avarice. Yet
their town is by no means a clean place&mdash;it is twice as dirty as Lucera: a
reposeful dirtiness, not vulgar or chaotic, but testifying to time-honoured
neglect, to a feudal contempt of cleanliness. You crawl through narrow,
ill-paved streets, looking down into subterranean family bedrooms that must be
insufferably damp in winter, and filled, during the hot months, with an odour
hard to conceive. There is electric lighting,
<a name="Page34"></a>
of course&mdash;a paternal government having made the price of petroleum
so prohibitive that the use of electricity for street-lighting became quite
common in the lowliest places; but the crude glare only serves to show up the
general squalor. One reason for this state of affairs is that there are no
quarries for decent paving-stones in the neighbourhood. And another, that
Venosa possesses no large citizen class, properly so called. The inhabitants
are mostly peasant proprietors and field labourers, who leave the town in the
morning and return home at night with their beasts, having learned by bitter
experience to take up their domiciles in the towns rather than in the
country-side, which was infested with brigandage and in an unsettled state up
to a short time ago. The Cincinnatus note dominates here, and with an
agricultural population no city can be kept clean.
</p>

<p class="p2">
But Venosa has one inestimable advantage over Lucera and most Italian towns:
there is no octroi.
</p>

<p>
Would it be believed that Naples is surrounded by a towering Chinese wall,
miles upon miles of it, crowned with a complicated apparatus of alarm-bells and
patrolled night and day by a horde of <i>doganieri</i> armed to the
teeth&mdash;lest some peasant should throw a bundle of onions into the sacred
precincts of the town without paying the duty of half a farthing? No nation
with any sense of humour would endure this sort of thing. Every one resents the
airs of this army of official loafers who infest the land, and would be far
better employed themselves in planting onions upon the many miles of Italy
which now lie fallow; the results of the system have been shown to be
inadequate, &ldquo;but,&rdquo; as my friend the Roman deputy once asked me,
&ldquo;if we dismiss these fellows from their job, how are we to employ
them?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nothing is simpler,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;Enrol them into the Town
Council of Naples. It already contains more <i>employes</i> than all the
government offices of London put together; a few more will surely make no
difference?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By Bacchus,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;you foreigners have ideas! We could
dispose of ten or fifteen thousand of them, at least, in the way you suggest.
I&rsquo;ll make a note of that, for our next session.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And so he did.
</p>

<p>
But the <i>Municipio</i> of Naples, though extensive, is a purely local
charity, and I question whether its inmates will hear of any one save their own
cousins and brothers-in-law figuring as colleagues in office.
</p>

<p>
Every attempt at innovation in agriculture, as in industry,
<a name="Page35"></a>
is forthwith discouraged by new and subtle impositions, which lie in wait for
the enterprising Italian and punish him for his ideas. There is, of course, a
prohibitive duty on every article or implement manufactured abroad; there is
the octroi, a relic of medisevalism, the most unscientific, futile, and
vexatious of taxes; there are municipal dues to be paid on animals bought and
animals sold, on animals kept and animals killed, on milk and vine-props and
bricks, on timber for scaffolding and lead and tiles and wine&mdash;on every
conceivable object which the peasant produces or requires for his existence.
And one should see the faces of the municipal <i>employes</i> who extort these
tributes. God alone knows from what classes of the populace they are recruited;
certain it is that their physiognomy reflects their miserable calling. One can
endure the militarism of Germany and the bureaucracy of Austria; but it is
revolting to see decent Italian countryfolk at the mercy of these uncouth
savages, veritable cave-men, whose only intelligible expression is one of
malice striving to break through a crust of congenital cretinism.
</p>

<p>
We hear much of the great artists and speculative philosophers of old Italy.
The artists of modern Italy are her bureaucrats who design and elaborate the
taxes; her philosophers, the peasants who pay them.
</p>

<p>
In point of method, at least, there is nothing to choose between the exactions
of the municipal and governmental ruffians. I once saw an old woman fined fifty
francs for having in her possession a pound of sea-salt. By what logic will you
make it clear to ignorant people that it is wrong to take salt out of the sea,
whence every one takes fish which are more valuable? The waste of time employed
over red tape alone on these occasions would lead to a revolution anywhere save
among men inured by long abuses to this particular form of tyranny. No wonder
the women of the country-side, rather than waste three precious hours in
arguments about a few cheeses, will smuggle them past the authorities under the
device of being <i>enceintes;</i> no wonder their wisest old men regard the
paternal government as a successfully organized swindle, which it is the
citizen&rsquo;s bounden duty to frustrate whenever possible. Have <i>you</i>
ever tried to convey&mdash;in legal fashion&mdash;a bottle of wine from one
town into another; or to import, by means of a sailing-boat, an old frying-pan
into some village by the sea? It is a fine art, only to be learnt by years of
apprenticeship. The regulations on these subjects, though ineffably childish,
look simple enough on paper; they take no account of that &ldquo;personal
element&rdquo; which is everything 
<a name="Page36"></a>
in the south, of the ruffled tempers of those gorgeous but inert
creatures who, disturbed in their siestas or mandolin-strummings, may keep you
waiting half a day while they fumble ominously over some dirty-looking scrap of
paper. For on such occasions they are liable to provoking fits of
conscientiousness. This is all very well, my dear sir, but&mdash;Ha! Where,
where is that certificate of origin, that stamp, that <i>lascia-passare?</i>
</p>

<p>
And all for one single sou!
</p>

<p>
No wonder even Englishmen discover that law-breaking, in Italy, becomes a
necessity, a rule of life.
</p>

<p>
And, soon enough, much more than a mere necessity. . . .
</p>

<p>
For even as the traveller new to Borneo, when they offer him a durian-fruit, is
instantly brought to vomiting-point by its odour, but after a few mouthfuls
declares it to be the very apple of Paradise, and marvels how he could have
survived so long in the benighted lands where such ambrosial fare is not; even
as the true connaisseur who, beholding some rare scarlet idol from the
Tingo-Tango forests, at first casts it aside and then, light dawning as he
ponders over those monstrous complexities, begins to realize that they, and
they alone, contain the quintessential formulae of all the fervent dreamings of
Scopas and Michelangelo; even as he who first, upon a peak in Darien, gazed
awestruck upon the grand Pacific slumbering at his feet, till presently his
senses reeled at the blissful prospect of fresh regions unrolling themselves,
boundless, past the fulfilment of his fondest hopes&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
Even so, in Italy, the domesticated Englishman is amazed to find that he
possesses a sense hitherto unrevealed, opening up a new horizon, a new zest in
life&mdash;the sense of law-breaking. At first, being an honest man, he is
shocked at the thought of such a thing; next, like a sensible person,
reconciled to the inevitable; lastly, as befits his virile race, he learns to
play the game so well that the horrified officials grudgingly admit (and it is
their highest praise):
</p>

<p class="poem">
Inglese italianizzato&mdash;<br />
Diavolo incarnato.
</p>

<p>
Yes; slowly the charm of law-breaking grows upon the Italianated Saxon; slowly,
but surely. There is a neo-barbarism not only in matters of art.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page37"></a><a name="chap06"></a>VI<br />
AT VENOSA</h2>

<p>
There has always, no doubt, been a castle at Venosa. Frederick Barbarossa lived
here oftener than in Sicily; from these regions he could look over to his
beloved East, and the security of this particular keep induced him to store his
treasures therein. The indefatigable Huillard Bréholles has excavated some
account of them from the Hohenstaufen records. Thus we learn that here, at
Venosa, the Emperor deposited that marvel, that <i>tentorium,</i> I mean,
<i>mirifica arte constructum, in quo imagines solis et lunæ artificialiter
motæ, cursum suum certis et debitis spatiis peragrant, et horas diei et noctis
infallibiliter indicant. Cuius tentorii valor viginti millium marcarum pretium
dicitur transcendisse.</i> It was given him by the Sultan of Babylonia. Always
the glowing Oriental background!
</p>

<p>
The present castle, a picturesque block with moat and corner towers, was built
in 1470 by the redoubtable Pierro del Balzo. A church used to occupy the site,
but the warrior, recognizing its strategic advantages, transplanted the holy
edifice to some other part of the town. It is now a ruin, the inhabitable
portions of which have been converted into cheap lodgings for sundry poor
folk&mdash;a monetary speculation of some local magnate, who paid 30,000 francs
for the whole structure. You can climb up into one of the shattered towers
whereon reposes an old cannon amid a wind-sown garden of shrubs and weeds. Here
the jackdaws congregate at nightfall, flying swiftly and noiselessly to their
resting-place. Odd, how quiet Italian jackdaws are, compared with those of
England; they have discarded their voices, which is the best thing they could
have done in a land where every one persecutes them. There is also a dungeon at
this castle, an underground recess with cunningly contrived projections in its
walls to prevent prisoners from climbing upwards; and other horrors.
</p>

<p>
The cathedral of Venosa contains a chapel with an unusually fine portal of
Renaissance work, but the chief architectural beauty of the town is the decayed
Benedictine abbey of La Trinità. The building is roofless; it was never
completed, and the ravages
<a name="Page38"></a>
of time and of man have not spared it; earthquakes, too, have played sad tricks
with its arches and columns, particularly that of 1851, which destroyed the
neighbouring town of Melfi. It stands beyond the more modern settlement on what
is now a grassy plain, and attached to it is a Norman chapel containing the
bones of Alberada, mother of Boemund, and others of her race. Little of the
original structure of this church is left, though its walls are still adorned,
in patches, with frescoes of genuine angels&mdash;attractive creatures, as far
removed from those bloodless Byzantine anatomies as from the plethoric and
insipid females of the <i>settecento.</i> There is also a queenly portrait
declared to represent Catherine of Siena. I would prefer to follow those who
think it is meant for Sigilgaita.
</p>

<p>
Small as it is, this place&mdash;the church and the abbey&mdash;is not one for
a casual visit. Lenormant calls the Trinità a &ldquo;<i>Musée
épigraphique&rdquo;&mdash;</i>so many are the Latin inscriptions which the
monks have worked into its masonry. They have encrusted the walls with them;
and many antiquities of other kinds have been deposited here since those days.
The ruin is strewn with columns and capitals of fantastic devices; the
inevitable lions, too, repose upon its grassy floor, as well as a pagan
altar-stone that once adorned the neighbouring amphitheatre. One thinks of the
labour expended in raising those prodigious blocks and fitting them together
without mortar in their present positions&mdash;they, also, came from the
amphitheatre, and the sturdy letterings engraved on some of them formed, once
upon a time, a sentence that ran round that building, recording the names of
its founders.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus04"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-4.jpg" width="460" height="372" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Ruin of Trinità: East front</p>
</div>

<p>
Besides the Latin inscriptions, there are Hebrew funereal stones of great
interest, for a colony of Jews was established here between the years 400 and
800; poor folks, for the most part; no one knows whence they came or whither
they went. One is apt to forget that south Italy was swarming with Jews for
centuries. The catacombs of Venosa were discovered in 1853. Their entrance lies
under a hill-side not far from the modern railway station, and Professor
Mueller, a lover of Venosa, has been engaged for the last twenty-five years in
writing a ponderous tome on the subject. Unfortunately (so they say) there is
not much chance of its ever seeing the light, for just as he is on the verge of
publication, some new Jewish catacombs are discovered in another part of the
world which cause the Professor to revise all his previous theories. The work
must be written anew and brought up to date, and hardly is this accomplished
when
<a name="Page39"></a>
fresh catacombs are found elsewhere, necessitating a further revision. The
Professor once more rewrites the whole. . . .
</p>

<p>
You will find accounts of the Trinità in Bertaux, Schulz and other writers.
Italian ones tell us what sounds rather surprising, namely, that the abbey was
built after a Lombard model, and not a French one. Be that as it may&mdash;and
they certainly show good grounds for their contention&mdash;the ruin is a place
of rare charm. Not easily can one see relics of Roman, Hebrew and Norman life
crushed into so small a space, welded together by the massive yet fair
architecture of the Benedictines, and interpenetrated, at the same time, with a
Mephistophelian spirit of modern indifference. Of cynical <i>insouciance;</i>
for although this is a &ldquo;national monument,&rdquo; nothing whatever is
done in the way of repairs. Never a month passes without some richly carven
block of stonework toppling down into the weeds,<a href="#fn-6.1" name="fnref-6.1" id="fnref-6.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
and were it not for the zeal of a private citizen, the interior of the building
would long ago have become an impassable chaos of stones and shrubbery. The
Trinità cannot be <i>restored</i> without enormous outlay; nobody dreams of
such a thing. A yearly expenditure of ten pounds, however, would go far towards
arresting its fall. But where shall the money be found? This enthusiastic
nation, so enamoured of all that is exquisite in art, will spend sixty million
francs on a new Ministry of Justice which, barely completed, is already showing
signs of disrupture; it will cheerfully vote <i>(vide</i> daily press) the
small item of eighty thousand francs to supply that institution with pens and
ink&mdash;lucky contractor!&mdash;while this and a hundred other buildings of
singular beauty are allowed to crumble to pieces, day by day.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-6.1" id="fn-6.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-6.1">[1]</a>
The process of decay can be seen by comparing my photograph of the east front
with that taken to illustrate Giuseppe de Lorenzo&rsquo;s monograph
&ldquo;Venosa e la Regione del Vulture&rdquo; (Bergamo, 1906).
</p>

<p>
Not far from the abbey there stands a church dedicated to Saint Roque. Go
within, if you wish to see the difference between Benedictine dignity and the
buffoonery which subsequently tainted the Catholicism of the youth. On its
gable sits a strange emblem: a large stone dog, gazing amiably at the
landscape. The saint, during his earthly career, was always accompanied by a
dog, and now likes to have him on the roof of his sanctuary.
</p>

<p>
The Norman church attached to the Trinità lies at a lower level than that
building, having been constructed, says Lupoli, on the foundations of a temple
to Hymenæus. It may be so; but one distrusts Lupoli. A remarkable Norman
capital, now wrought into a font, is preserved here, and I was interested in
<a name="Page40"></a>
watching the behaviour of a procession of female pilgrims in regard to it.
Trembling with emotion, they perambulated the sacred stone, kissing every one
of its corners; then they dipped their hands into its basin, and kissed them
devoutly. An old hag, the mistress of the ceremonies, muttered: &ldquo;tutti
santi&mdash;tutti santi!&rdquo; at each osculation. Next, they prostrated
themselves on the floor and licked the cold stones, and after wallowing there
awhile, rose up and began to kiss a small fissure in the masonry of the wall,
the old woman whispering, &ldquo;Santissimo!&rdquo; A familiar spectacle, no
doubt; but one which never fails of its effect. This anti-hygienic crack in the
wall, with its suggestions of yoni-worship, attracted me so strongly that I
begged a priest to explain to me its mystical signification. But he only said,
with a touch of mediæval contempt:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>Sono femine!</i>&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He showed me, later on, a round Roman pillar near the entrance of the church
worn smooth by the bodies of females who press themselves between it and the
wall, in order to become mothers. The notion caused him some amusement&mdash;he
evidently thought this practice a speciality of Venosa.
</p>

<p>
In my country, I said, pillars with a contrary effect would be more popular
among the fair sex.
</p>

<p>
Lear gives another account of this phallic emblem. He says that perambulating
it hand in hand with another person, the two are sure to remain friends for
life.
</p>

<p>
This is pre-eminently a &ldquo;Victorian&rdquo; version.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus05"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-5.jpg" width="360" height="502" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Roman Altar-stone</p>
</div>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page41"></a><a name="chap07"></a>VII<br />
THE BANDUSIAN FOUNT</h2>

<p>
The traveller in these parts is everlastingly half-starved. Here, at Venosa,
the wine is good&mdash;excellent, in fact; but the food monotonous and
insufficient. This improper dieting is responsible for much mischief; it
induces a state of chronic exacerbation. Nobody would believe how nobly I
struggle, day and night, against its evil suggestions. A man&rsquo;s worst
enemy is his own empty stomach. None knew it better than Horace.
</p>

<p>
And yet he declared that lettuces and such-like stuff sufficed him. No doubt,
no doubt. &ldquo;Olives nourish me.&rdquo; Just so! One does not grow up in the
school of Maecenas without learning the subtle delights of the simple life. But
I would wager that after a week of such feeding as I have now undergone at his
native place, he would quickly have remembered some urgent business to be
transacted in the capital&mdash;Caesar Augustus, me-thinks, would have desired
his company. And even so, I have suddenly woke up to the fact that Taranto, my
next resting-place, besides possessing an agreeably warm climate, has some
passable restaurants. I will pack without delay. Mount Vulture must wait. The
wind alone, the Vulturnus or south-easterly wind, is quite enough to make one
despair of climbing hills. It has blown with objectionable persistency ever
since my arrival at Venosa.
</p>

<p>
To escape from its attentions, I have been wandering about the secluded valleys
that seam this region. Streamlets meander here amid rustling canes and a
luxuriant growth of mares&rsquo; tails and creepers; their banks are shaded by
elms and poplars&mdash;Horatian trees; the thickets are loud with songs of
nightingale, black-cap and oriole. These humid dells are a different country
from the uplands, wind-swept and thriftily cultivated.
</p>

<p>
It was here, yesterday, that I came upon an unexpected sight&mdash;an army of
workmen engaged in burrowing furiously into the bowels of Mother Earth. They
told me that this tunnel would presently become one of the arteries of that
vast system, the
<a name="Page42"></a>
Apulian Aqueduct. The discovery accorded with my Roman mood, for the conception
and execution alike of this grandiose project are worthy of the Romans. Three
provinces where, in years of drought, wine is cheaper than water, are being
irrigated&mdash;in the teeth of great difficulties of engineering and finance.
Among other things, there are 213 kilometres of subterranean tunnellings to be
built; eleven thousand workmen are employed; the cost is estimated at 125
million francs. The Italian government is erecting to its glory a monument more
durable than brass. This is their heritage from the Romans&mdash;this talent
for dealing with rocks and waters; for bridling a destructive environment and
making it subservient to purposes of human intercourse. It is a part of that
practical Roman genius for &ldquo;pacification.&rdquo; Wild nature, to the
Latin, ever remains an obstacle to be overcome&mdash;an enemy.
</p>

<p>
Such was Horace&rsquo;s point of view. The fruitful fields and their hardy
brood of tillers appealed to him;<a href="#fn-7.1" name="fnref-7.1" id="fnref-7.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
the ocean and snowy Alps were beyond the range of his affections. His love of
nature was heartfelt, but his nature was not ours; it was nature as we see it
in those Roman landscapes at Pompeii; nature ancillary to human needs, in her
benignant and comfortable moods. Virgil&rsquo;s <i>lachrymae rerum</i> hints at
mystic and extra-human yearnings; to the troubadours nature was conventionally
stereotyped&mdash;a scenic decoration to set off sentiments more or less
sincere; the romanticists wallow in her rugged aspects. Horace never allowed
phantasy to outrun intelligence; he kept his feet on earth; man was the measure
of his universe, and a sober mind his highest attribute. Nature must be kept
&ldquo;in her place.&rdquo; Her extravagances are not to be admired. This
anthropocentric spirit has made him what he is&mdash;the ideal
anti-sentimentalist and anti-vulgarian. For excess of sentiment, like all other
intemperance, is the mark of that unsober and unsteady beast&mdash;the crowd.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-7.1" id="fn-7.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-7.1">[1]</a>
See next chapter.
</p>

<p>
Things have changed since those days; in proportion as the world has grown
narrower and the element of fear and mystery diluted, our sympathies have
broadened; the Goth, in particular, has learnt the knack of detecting natural
charm where the Latin, to this day, beholds nothing but confusion and strife.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus06"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-6.jpg" width="415" height="385" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Norman Capital at Venosa</p>
</div>

<p>
On the spot, I observe, one is liable to return to the antique outlook; to see
the beauty of fields and rivers, yet only when subsidiary to man&rsquo;s
personal convenience; to appreciate a fair landscape&mdash;with a shrewd
worldly sense of its potential uses. &ldquo;The garden that I love,&rdquo; said
an Italian once to me, &ldquo;contains
<a name="Page43"></a>
good vegetables.&rdquo; This utilitarian flavour of the south has become very
intelligible to me during the last few days. I, too, am thinking less of
calceolarias than of cauliflowers.
</p>

<p class="p2">
A pilgrimage to the Bandusian Fount (if such it be) is no great
undertaking&mdash;a morning&rsquo;s trip. The village of San Gervasio is the
next station to Venosa, lying on an eminence only thirteen kilometres from
there.
</p>

<p>
Here once ran a fountain which was known as late as the twelfth century as the
Fons Bandusinus, and Ughelli, in his &ldquo;Italia Sacra,&rdquo; cites a deed
of the year 1103 speaking of a church &ldquo;at the Bandusian Fount near
Venosa.&rdquo; Church and fountain have now disappeared; but the site of the
former, they say, is known, and close to it there once issued a copious spring
called &ldquo;Fontana Grande.&rdquo; This is probably the Horatian one; and is
also, I doubt not, that referred to in Cenna&rsquo;s chronicle of Venosa:
&ldquo;At Torre San Gervasio are the ruins of a castle and an abundant spring
of water colder than all the waters of Venosa,&rdquo; <i>Frigus amabile. . .
.</i>
</p>

<p>
I could discover no one in the place to show me where this now vanished church
stood. I rather think it occupied the site of the present church of Saint
Anthony, the oldest in San Gervasio.
</p>

<p>
As to the fountain&mdash;there are now two of them, at some considerable
distance from each other. Both of them are copious, and both lie near the foot
of the hill on which the village now stands. Capmartin de Chaupy has reasons
for believing that in former times San Gervasio did not occupy its present
exalted position (vol. iii, p. 538).
</p>

<p>
One of them gushes out on the plain near the railway station, and has been
rebuilt within recent times. It goes by the name of &ldquo;Fontana
rotta.&rdquo; The other, the &ldquo;Fontana del Fico,&rdquo; lies on the high
road to Spinazzola; the water spouts out of seven mouths, and near at hand is a
plantation of young sycamores. The basin of this fount was also rebuilt about
ten years ago at no little expense, and has now a thoroughly modern and
businesslike aspect. But I was told that a complicated network of subterranean
pipes and passages, leading to &ldquo;God knows where,&rdquo; was unearthed
during the process of reconstruction. It was magnificent masonry, said my
informant, who was an eye-witness of the excavations but could tell me nothing
more of interest.
</p>

<p>
The problem how far either of these fountains fulfils the conditions postulated
in the last verse of Horace&rsquo;s ode may be solved by every one according as
he pleases. In fact, there is
<a name="Page44"></a>
no other way of solving it. In my professorial mood, I should cite the cavern
and the &ldquo;downward leaping&rdquo; waters against the hypothesis that the
Bandusian Fount stood on either of these modern sites; in favour of it, one
might argue that the conventional rhetoric of all Roman art may have added
these embellishing touches, and cite, in confirmation thereof, the last two
lines of the previous verse, mentioning animals that could hardly have slaked
their thirst with any convenience at a cavernous spring such as he describes.
Caverns, moreover, are not always near the summits of hills; they may be at the
foot of them; and water, even the Thames at London Bridge, always leaps
downhill&mdash;more or less. Of more importance is old Chaupy&rsquo;s discovery
of the northerly aspect of one of these springs&mdash;&ldquo;thee the fierce
season of the blazing dog-star cannot touch.&rdquo; There may have been a cave
at the back of the &ldquo;Fontana del Fico&rdquo;; the &ldquo;Fontana
rotta&rdquo; is hopelessly uncavernous.
</p>

<p>
For the rest, there is no reason why the fountain should not have changed its
position since ancient days. On the contrary, several things might incline one
to think that it has been forced to abandon the high grounds and seek its
present lower level. To begin with, the hill on which the village stands is
honeycombed by hives of caves which the inhabitants have carved out of the
loose conglomerate (which, by the way, hardly corresponds with the poet&rsquo;s
<i>saxum);</i> and it may well be that a considerable collapse of these
earth-dwellings obstructed the original source of the waters and obliged them
to seek a vent lower down.
</p>

<p>
Next, there are the notorious effects of deforestation. An old man told me that
in his early days the hill was covered with timber&mdash;indeed, this whole
land, now a stretch of rolling grassy downs, was decently wooded up to a short
time ago. I observed that the roof of the oldest of the three churches, that of
Saint Anthony, is formed of wooden rafters (a rare material hereabouts).
Deforestation would also cause the waters to issue at a lower level.
</p>

<p>
Lastly, and chiefly&mdash;the possible shatterings of earthquakes. Catastrophes
such as those which have damaged Venosa in days past may have played havoc with
the water-courses of this place by choking up their old channels. My
acquaintance with the habits of Apulian earthquakes, with the science of
hydrodynamics and the geological formation of San Gervasio is not sufficiently
extensive to allow me to express a mature opinion. I will content myself with
presenting to future investigators the plausible theory&mdash;plausible because
conveniently difficult to refute&mdash;that
<a name="Page45"></a>
some terrestrial upheaval in past days is responsible for the present state of
things.
</p>

<p>
But these are merely three hypotheses. I proceed to mention three facts which
point in the same direction; i.e. that the water used to issue at a higher
level. Firstly, there is that significant name &ldquo;Fontana
rotta&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;the broken fountain.&rdquo; . . . Does not this
suggest that its flow may have been interrupted, or intercepted, in former
times?
</p>

<p>
Next, if you climb up from this &ldquo;Fontana rotta&rdquo; to the village by
the footpath, you will observe, on your right hand as you ascend the slope, at
about a hundred yards below the Church of Saint Anthony, an old well standing
in a field of corn and shaded by three walnuts and an oak. This well is still
running, and was described to me as &ldquo;molto antico.&rdquo; Therefore an
underground stream&mdash;in diminished volume, no doubt&mdash;still descends
from the heights.
</p>

<p>
Thirdly, in the village you will notice an alley leading out of the Corso
Manfredi (one rejoices to find the name of Manfred surviving in these
lands)&mdash;an alley which is entitled &ldquo;Vico Sirene.&rdquo; The name
arrests your attention, for what have the Sirens to do in these inland regions?
Nothing whatever, unless they existed as ornamental statuary: statuary such as
frequently gives names to streets in Italy, witness the &ldquo;Street of the
Faun&rdquo; in Ouida&rsquo;s novel, or that of the &ldquo;Giant&rdquo; in
Naples (which has now been re-christened). It strikes me as a humble but quite
scholarly speculation to infer that, the chief decorative uses of Sirens being
that of fountain deities, this obscure roadway keeps alive the tradition of the
old &ldquo;Fontana Grande&rdquo;&mdash;ornamented, we may suppose, with marble
Sirens&mdash;whose site is now forgotten, and whose very name has faded from
the memory of the countryfolk.
</p>

<p>
What, then, does my ramble of two hours at San Gervasio amount to? It shows
that there is a possibility, at least, of a now vanished fountain having
existed on the heights where it might fulfil more accurately the conditions of
Horace&rsquo;s ode. If Ughelli&rsquo;s church &ldquo;at the Bandusian
Fount&rdquo; stood on this eminence&mdash;well, I shall be glad to corroborate,
for once in the way, old Ughelli, whose book contains a deal of dire nonsense.
And if the Abbe Chaupy&rsquo;s suggestion that the village lay at the foot of
the hill should ever prove to be wrong&mdash;well, his amiable ghost may be
pleased to think that even this does not necessitate the sacrifice of his
Venosa theory in favour of that of the scholiast Akron; there is still a way
out of the difficulty.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page46"></a>
But whether this at San Gervasio is the actual fountain hymned by
Horace&mdash;ah, that is quite another affair! Few poets, to be sure, have
clung more tenaciously to the memories of their childhood than did he and
Virgil. And yet, the whole scene may be a figment of his imagination&mdash;the
very word Bandusia may have been coined by him. Who can tell? Then there is the
Digentia hypothesis. I know it, I know it! I have read some of its defenders,
and consider <i>(entre nous)</i> that they have made out a pretty strong case.
But I am not in the mood for discussing their proposition&mdash;not just now.
</p>

<p>
Here at San Gervasio I prefer to think only of the Roman singer, so sanely
jovial, and of these waters as they flowed, limpid and cool, in the days when
they fired his boyish fancy. Deliberately I refuse to hear the charmer
Boissier. Deliberately, moreover, I shut my eyes to the present condition of
affairs; to the herd of squabbling laundresses and those other incongruities
that spoil the antique scene. Why not? The timid alone are scared by
microscopic discords of time and place. The sage can invest this prosaic
water-trough with all its pristine dignity and romance by an unfailing
expedient. He closes an eye. It is an art he learns early in life; a simple
art, and one that greatly conduces to happiness. The ever alert, the
conscientiously wakeful&mdash;how many fine things they fail to see! Horace
knew the wisdom of being genially unwise; of closing betimes an eye, or an ear;
or both. <i>Desipere in loco. . . .</i>
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page47"></a><a name="chap08"></a>VIII<br />
TILLERS OF THE SOIL</h2>

<p>
I remember watching an old man stubbornly digging a field by himself. He toiled
through the flaming hours, and what he lacked in strength was made up in the
craftiness, <i>malizia,</i> born of long love of the soil. The ground was baked
hard; but there was still a chance of rain, and the peasants were anxious not
to miss it. Knowing this kind of labour, I looked on from my vine-wreathed
arbour with admiration, but without envy.
</p>

<p>
I asked whether he had not children to work for him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All dead&mdash;and health to you!&rdquo; he replied, shaking his white
head dolefully.
</p>

<p>
And no grandchildren?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All Americans (emigrants).&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He spoke in dreamy fashion of years long ago when he, too, had travelled,
sailing to Africa for corals, to Holland and France; yes, and to England also.
But our dockyards and cities had faded from his mind; he remembered only our
men.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>Che bella gioventù&mdash;che bella gioventù!</i>&rdquo; (&ldquo;a
sturdy brood&rdquo;), he kept on repeating. &ldquo;And lately,&rdquo; he added,
&ldquo;America has been discovered.&rdquo; He toiled fourteen hours a day, and
he was 83 years old.
</p>

<p>
Apart from that creature of fiction, the peasant <i>in fabula</i> whom we all
know, I can find little to admire in this whole class of men, whose talk and
dreams are of the things of the soil, and who knows of nothing save the regular
interchange of summer and winter with their unvarying tasks and rewards. None
save a Cincinnatus or Garibaldi can be ennobled by the spade. In spleenful
moments, it seems to me that the most depraved of city-dwellers has flashes of
enthusiasm and self-abnegation never experienced by this shifty, retrogressive
and ungenerous brood, which lives like the beasts of the field and has learnt
all too much of their logic. But they have a beast-virtue hereabouts which
compels respect&mdash;contentment in adversity. In this point they resemble the
Russian peasantry. And yet, who can pity the
<a name="Page48"></a>
moujik? His cheeks are altogether too round, and his morals too superbly
bestial; he has clearly been created to sing and starve by turns. But the
Italian peasant who speaks in the tongue of Homer and Virgil and Boccaccio is
easily invested with a halo of martyrdom; it is delightful to sympathize with
men who combine the manners of Louis Quatorze with the profiles of Augustus or
Plato, and who still recall, in many of their traits, the pristine life of
Odyssean days. Thus, they wear to-day the identical &ldquo;clouted leggings of
oxhide, against the scratches of the thorns&rdquo; which old Laertes bound
about his legs on the upland farm in Ithaka. They call them
&ldquo;galandrine.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
On occasions of drought or flood there is not a word of complaint. I have known
these field-faring men and women for thirty years, and have yet to hear a
single one of them grumble at the weather. It is not indifference; it is true
philosophy&mdash;acquiescence in the inevitable. The grievances of cultivators
of lemons and wholesale agriculturalists, whose speculations are often ruined
by a single stroke of the human pen in the shape of new regulations or tariffs,
are a different thing; <i>their</i> curses are loud and long. But the
bean-growers, dependent chiefly on wind and weather, only speak of God&rsquo;s
will. They have the same forgiveness for the shortcomings of nature as for a
wayward child. And no wonder they are distrustful. Ages of oppression and
misrule have passed over their heads; sun and rain, with all their caprice,
have been kinder friends to them than their earthly masters. Some day,
presumably, the government will wake up to the fact that Italy is not an
industrial country, and that its farmers might profitably be taken into account
again.
</p>

<p>
But a change is upon the land. Types like this old man are becoming extinct;
for the patriarchal system of Coriolanus, the glory of southern Italy, is
breaking up.
</p>

<p>
This is not the fault of conscription which, though it destroys old dialects,
beliefs and customs, widens the horizon by bringing fresh ideas into the
family, and generally sound ones. It does even more; it teaches the conscripts
to read and write, so that it is no longer as dangerous to have dealings with a
man who possesses these accomplishments as in the days when they were the
prerogative of <i>avvocati</i> and other questionable characters. A countryman,
nowadays, may read and write and yet be honest.
</p>

<p>
What is shattering family life is the speculative spirit born of emigration. A
continual coming and going; two-thirds of the adolescent and adult male
population are at this moment in Argentina or the United States&mdash;some as
far afield as New
<a name="Page49"></a>
Zealand. Men who formerly reckoned in sous now talk of thousands of francs;
parental authority over boys is relaxed, and the girls, ever quick to grasp the
advantages of money, lose all discipline and steadiness.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My sons won&rsquo;t touch a spade,&rdquo; said a peasant to me;
&ldquo;and when I thrash them, they complain to the police. They simply gamble
and drink, waiting their turn to sail. If I were to tell you the beatings
<i>we</i> used to get, sir, you wouldn&rsquo;t believe me. You wouldn&rsquo;t
believe me, not if I took my oath, you wouldn&rsquo;t! I can feel them
still&mdash;speaking with respect&mdash;here!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
These emigrants generally stay away three or four years at a stretch, and then
return, spend their money, and go out again to make more. Others remain for
longer periods, coming back with huge incomes&mdash;twenty to a hundred francs
a day. Such examples produce the same effect as those of the few lucky winners
in the State lottery; every one talks of them, and forgets the large number of
less fortunate speculators. Meanwhile the land suffers. The carob-tree is an
instance. This beautiful and almost eternal growth, the &ldquo;hope of the
southern Apennines&rdquo; as Professor Savastano calls it, whose pods
constitute an important article of commerce and whose thick-clustering leaves
yield a cool shelter, comparable to that of a rocky cave, in the noonday heat,
used to cover large tracts of south Italy. Indifferent to the scorching rays of
the sun, flourishing on the stoniest declivities, and sustaining the soil in a
marvellous manner, it was planted wherever nothing else would grow&mdash;a
distant but sure profit. Nowadays carobs are only cut down. Although their
produce rises in value every year, not one is planted; nobody has time to wait
for the fruit.<a href="#fn-8.1" name="fnref-8.1" id="fnref-8.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-8.1" id="fn-8.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-8.1">[1]</a>
There are a few laudable exceptions, such as Prince Belmonte, who has covered
large stretches of bad land with this tree. (See Consular Reports, Italy, No.
431.) But he is not a peasant!
</p>

<p>
It is nothing short of a social revolution, depopulating the country of its
most laborious elements. 788,000 emigrants left in one year alone (1906); in
the province of Basilicata the exodus exceeds the birthrate. I do not know the
percentage of those who depart never to return, but it must be considerable;
the land is full of chronic grass-widows.
</p>

<p>
Things will doubtless right themselves in due course; it stands to reason that
in this acute transitional stage the demoralizing effects of the new system
should be more apparent than its inevitable benefits. Already these are not
unseen; houses are springing up round villages, and the emigrants return
<a name="Page50"></a>
home with a disrespect for many of their country&rsquo;s institutions which,
under the circumstances, is neither deplorable nor unjustifiable. A large
family of boy-children, once a dire calamity, is now the soundest of
investments. Soon after their arrival in America they begin sending home
rations of money to their parents; the old farm prospers once more, the
daughters receive decent dowries. I know farmers who receive over three pounds
a month from their sons in America&mdash;all under military age.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We work, yes,&rdquo; they will then tell you, &ldquo;but we also smoke
our pipe.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Previous to this wholesale emigration, things had come to such a pass that the
landed proprietor could procure a labourer at a franc a day, out of which he
had to feed and clothe himself; it was little short of slavery. The roles are
now reversed, and while landlords are impoverished, the rich emigrant buys up
the farms or makes his own terms for work to be done, wages being trebled. A
new type of peasant is being evolved, independent of family, fatherland or
traditions&mdash;with a sure haven of refuge across the water when life at home
becomes intolerable.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Yes; a change is at hand.
</p>

<p>
And another of those things which emigration and the new order of affairs are
surely destroying is that ancient anthropomorphic way of looking at nature,
with its expressive turns of speech. A small boy, whom I watched gathering figs
last year, informed me that the fig-tree was <i>innamorato delle pietre e
cisterne&mdash;</i>enamoured of stones and cisterns; meaning, that its roots
are searchingly destructive to masonry and display a fabulous intuition for the
proximity of water. He also told me, what was news to me, that there are more
than two or three varieties of figs. Will you have his list of them? Here it
is:
</p>

<p>
There is the <i>fico arnese,</i> the smallest of all, and the <i>fico
santillo,</i> both of which are best when dried; the <i>fico vollombola,</i>
which is never dried, because it only makes the spring fruit; the <i>fico
molegnano,</i> which ripens as late as the end of October and must be eaten
fresh; the <i>fico coretorto (&ldquo;</i> wry-heart&rdquo;&mdash;from its
shape), which has the most leathery skin of all and is often destroyed by grubs
after rain; the <i>fico troiano;</i> the <i>fico arzano;</i> and the <i>fico
vescovo,</i> which appears when all the others are over, and is eaten in
February (this may be the kind referred to in Stamer&rsquo;s &ldquo;Dolce
Napoli&rdquo; as deriving from Sorrento, where the first tree of its kind was
discovered growing out of the garden wall of the bishop&rsquo;s palace, whence
the name). All these are <i>neri&mdash;</i>black.
<a name="Page51"></a>
Now for the white kinds. The <i>fico paradiso</i> has a tender skin, but is
easily spoilt by rain and requires a ridiculous amount of sun to dry it; the
<i>fico vottato</i> is also better fresh; the <i>fico pez-zottolo</i> is often
attacked by grubs, but grows to a large size every two or three years; the
<i>fico pascarello</i> is good up till Christmas; the <i>fico natalino;</i>
lastly, the <i>fico &mdash;&mdash;</i>, whose name I will not record, though it
would be an admirable illustration of that same anthropomorphic turn of mind.
The <i>santillo</i> and <i>arnese,</i> he added, are the varieties which are
cut into two and laid lengthwise upon each other and so dried (Query: Is not
this the &ldquo;duplex ficus&rdquo; of Horace?).
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of course there are other kinds,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but I
don&rsquo;t remember them just now.&rdquo; When I asked whether he could tell
these different fig-trees apart by the leaves and stems alone and without the
fruit, he said that each kind, even in winter, retained its peculiar
&ldquo;faccia&rdquo; (face), but that some varieties are more easy to
distinguish than others. I enquired into the mysteries of caprification, and
learned that artificial ripening by means of a drop of oil is practised with
some of them, chiefly the <i>santillo, vollombola, pascarello</i> and
<i>natalino.</i> Then he gave me an account of the prices for the different
qualities and seasons which would have astonished a grocer.
</p>

<p>
All of which proves how easy it is to misjudge of folks who, although they do
not know that Paris is the capital of France, yet possess a training adapted to
their present needs. They are specialists for things of the grain-giving earth;
it is a pleasure to watch them grafting vines and olives and lemons with the
precision of a trained horticulturist. They talk of &ldquo;governing&rdquo;
<i>(governare}</i> their soil; it is the word they use in respect to a child.
</p>

<p>
Now figs are neither white nor black, but such is the terminology. Stones are
white or black; prepared olives are white or black; wine is white or black. Are
they become colour-blind because impregnated, from earliest infancy, with a
perennial blaze of rainbow hues&mdash;colour-blinded, in fact; or from
negligence, attention to this matter not bringing with it any material
advantage? Excepting that sign-language which is profoundly interesting from an
artistic and ethnological point of view&mdash;why does not some scholar bring
old Iorio&rsquo;s &ldquo;Mimica degli Antichi&rdquo; up to date?&mdash;few
things are more worthy of investigation than the colour-sense of these people.
Of blue they have not the faintest conception, probably because there are so
few blue solids in nature; Max Mueller holds the idea of blue to be quite
<a name="Page52"></a>
a modern acquisition on the part of the human race. So a cloudless sky is
declared to be &ldquo;quite white.&rdquo; I once asked a lad as to the colour
of the sea which, at the moment, was of the most brilliant sapphire hue. He
pondered awhile and then said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pare come fosse un colore morto&rdquo; (a sort of dead colour).
</p>

<p>
Green is a little better known, but still chiefly connected with things not out
of doors, as a green handkerchief. The reason may be that this tint is too
common in nature to be taken note of. Or perhaps because their chain of
association between green and grass is periodically broken up&mdash;our fields
are always verdant, but theirs turn brown in summer. Trees they sometimes call
yellow, as do some ancient writers; but more generally &ldquo;half-black&rdquo;
or &ldquo;tree-colour.&rdquo; A beech in full leaf has been described to me as
black. <i>&ldquo;Rosso&rdquo;</i> does not mean red, but rather dun or dingy;
earth is <i>rosso.</i> When our red is to be signified, they will use the word
&ldquo;turco,&rdquo; which came in with the well-known dye-stuff of which the
Turks once monopolized the secret. Thus there are &ldquo;Turkish&rdquo; apples
and &ldquo;Turkish&rdquo; potatoes. But &ldquo;turco&rdquo; may also mean
black&mdash;in accordance with the tradition that the Turks, the Saracens, were
a black race. Snakes, generally greyish-brown in these parts, are described as
either white or black; an eagle-owl is half-black; a kestrel <i>un quasi
bianco.</i> The mixed colours of cloths or silks are either beautiful or ugly,
and there&rsquo;s an end of it. It is curious to compare this state of affairs
with that existing in the days of Homer, who was, as it were, feeling his way
in a new region, and the propriety of whose colour epithets is better
understood when one sees things on the spot. Of course I am only speaking of
the humble peasant whose blindness, for the rest, is not incurable.
</p>

<p>
One might enlarge the argument and deduce his odd insensibility to delicate
scents from the fact that he thrives in an atmosphere saturated with violent
odours of all kinds; his dullness in regard to finer shades of sound&mdash;from
the shrieks of squalling babies and other domestic explosions in which he lives
from the cradle to the grave. That is why these people have no
&ldquo;nerves&rdquo;; terrific bursts of din, such as the pandemonium of
Piedigrotta, stimulate them in the same way that others might be stimulated by
a quartette of Brahms. And if they who are so concerned about the massacre of
small birds in this country would devote their energies to the invention of a
noiseless and yet cheap powder, their efforts would at last have some prospects
of success. For it is not so much the joy of killing, as the pleasurable noise
of the gun, which creates these local sportsmen; as the sagacious
<a name="Page53"></a>
&ldquo;Ultramontain&rdquo; observed long ago. &ldquo;Le napolitain est
passionné pour la chasse,&rdquo; he says, &ldquo;parce que les coups de fusil
flattent son oreille.&rdquo;<a href="#fn-8.2" name="fnref-8.2" id="fnref-8.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
This ingenuous love of noise may be connected, in some way, with their rapid
nervous discharges.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-8.2" id="fn-8.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-8.2">[2]</a>
I have looked him up in Jos. Blanc&rsquo;s &ldquo;Bibliographic.&rdquo; His
name was C. Haller.
</p>

<p class="p2">
I doubt whether intermediate convulsions have left much purity of Greek blood
in south Italy, although emotional travellers, fresh from the north, are for
ever discovering &ldquo;classic Hellenic profiles&rdquo; among the people.
There is certainly a scarce type which, for want of a better hypothesis, might
be called Greek: of delicate build and below the average height, small-eared
and straight-nosed, with curly hair that varies from blonde to what Italians
call <i>castagno chiaro.</i> It differs not only from the robuster and yet
fairer northern breed, but also from the darker surrounding races. But so many
contradictory theories have lately been promulgated on this head, that I prefer
to stop short at the preliminary question&mdash;did a Hellenic type ever exist?
No more, probably, than that charming race which the artists of Japan have
invented for our delectation.
</p>

<p>
Strains of Greek blood can be traced with certainty by their track of folklore
and poetry and song, such as still echoes among the vales of Sparta and along
the Bosphorus. Greek words are rather rare here, and those that one
hears&mdash;such as <i>sciusciello, caruso, crisommele,</i> etc.&mdash;have
long ago been garnered by scholars like De Grandis, Moltedo, and Salvatore
Mele. So Naples is far more Hellenic in dialect, lore, song and gesture than
these regions, which are still rich in pure latinisms of speech, such as
surgere (to arise); scitare (excitare&mdash;to arouse); è (est&mdash;yes);
fetare (foetare); trasete (transitus&mdash;passage of quails); titillare (to
tickle); craje (cras&mdash;to-morrow); pastena (a plantation of young vines;
Ulpian has &ldquo;pastinum instituere&rdquo;). A woman is called
&ldquo;muliera,&rdquo; a girl &ldquo;figliola,&rdquo; and children speak of
their fathers as &ldquo;tata&rdquo; (see Martial, epig. I, 101). Only yesterday
I added a beautiful latinism to my collection, when an old woman, in whose
cottage I sometimes repose, remarked to me, &ldquo;Non avete virtù
oggi&rdquo;&mdash;you are not <i>up to the mark</i> to-day. The real, antique
virtue! I ought to have embraced her. No wonder I have no &ldquo;virtue&rdquo;
just now. This savage Vulturnian wind&mdash;did it not sap the Roman virtue at
Cannae?
</p>

<p>
All those relics of older civilizations are disappearing under the
standardizing influence of conscription, emigration and national schooling.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page54"></a>
And soon enough the <i>Contranome-</i>system will become a thing of the past. I
shall be sorry to see it go, though it has often driven me nearly crazy.
</p>

<p>
What is a <i>contranome?</i>
</p>

<p>
The same as a <i>sopranome.</i> It is a nickname which, as with the Russian
peasants, takes the place of Christian and surname together. A man will tell
you: &ldquo;My name is Luigi, but they call me, by <i>contranome,</i>
O&rsquo;Canzirro. I don&rsquo;t know my surname.&rdquo; Some of these nicknames
are intelligible, such as O&rsquo;Sborramurella, which refers to the
man&rsquo;s profession of building those walls without mortar which are always
tumbling down and being repaired again; or O&rsquo;Sciacquariello
(acqua&mdash;a leaking&mdash;one whose money leaks from his pocket&mdash;a
spendthrift); or San Pietro, from his saintly appearance; O&rsquo;Civile, who
is so uncivilized, or Cristoforo Colombo, because he is so very wideawake. But
eighty per cent of them are quite obscure even to their owners, going back, as
they do, to some forgotten trick or incident during childhood or to some pet
name which even in the beginning meant nothing. Nearly every man and boy has
his contranome by which, and <i>by which alone,</i> he is known in his village;
the women seldomer, unless they are conspicuous by some peculiarity, such as
A&rsquo;Sbirra (the spy), or A&rsquo;Paponnessa (the fat one)&mdash;whose
counterpart, in the male sex, would be O&rsquo;Tripone.
</p>

<p>
Conceive, now, what trouble it entails to find a man in a strange village if
you happen not to know his contranome (and how on earth are you to discover
it?), if his surname means nothing to the inhabitants, and his Christian name
is shared by a hundred others. For they have an amazing lack of inventiveness
in this matter; four or five Christian names will include the whole population
of the place. Ten to one you will lose a day looking for him, unless something
like this takes place:
</p>

<p class="center">
THE HAPPY HAZARDS OF THE CONTRANOME
</p>

<p>
You set forth your business to a crowd of villagers that have collected around.
It is simple enough. You want to speak to Luigi So-and-so. A good-natured
individual, who seems particularly anxious to help, summarizes affairs by
saying:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The gentleman wants Luigi So-and-so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
There is evidently some joke in the mere suggestion of such a thing; they all
smile. Then a confused murmur of voices goes up:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Luigi&mdash;Luigi. . . . Now which Luigi does he mean?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page55"></a>
You repeat his surname in a loud voice. It produces no effect, beyond that of
increased hilarity.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Luigi&mdash;Luigi. . . .&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps O&rsquo;Zoccolone?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps O&rsquo;Seticchio?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Or the figlio d&rsquo; O&rsquo;Zibalocchio?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The good-natured individual volunteers to beat the surrounding district and
bring in all the Luigis he can find. After half an hour they begin to arrive,
one by one. He is not among them. Dismissed with cigars, as compensation for
loss of time.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile half the village has gathered around, vastly enjoying the fun, which
it hopes will last till bedtime. You are getting bewildered; new people flock
in from the fields to whom the mysterious joke about Luigi must be explained.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Luigi&mdash;Luigi,&rdquo; they begin again. &ldquo;Now, which of them
can he mean?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps O&rsquo;Marzariello?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Or O&rsquo;Cuccolillo?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I never thought of him,&rdquo; says the good-natured individual.
&ldquo;Here, boy, run and tell O&rsquo;Cuccolillo that a foreign gentleman
wants to give him a cigar.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
By the time O&rsquo;Cuccolillo appears on the scene the crowd has thickened.
You explain the business for the fiftieth time; no&mdash;he is Luigi, of
course, but not the right Luigi, which he regrets considerably. Then the joke
is made clear to him, and he laughs again. You have lost all your nerve, but
the villagers are beginning to love you,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Can it be O&rsquo;Sciabecchino?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Or the figlio d&rsquo; O&rsquo;Chiappino?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It might be O&rsquo;Busciardiello (the liar).&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He&rsquo;s dead.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So he is. I quite forgot. Well, then it must be the husband of
A&rsquo;Cicivetta (the flirt).&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He&rsquo;s in prison. But how about O&rsquo;Caccianfierno?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Suddenly a withered hag croaks authoritatively:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know! The gentleman wants OTentillo.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Chorus of villagers:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then why doesn&rsquo;t he say so?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
O&rsquo;Tentillo lives far, far away. An hour elapses; at last he comes, full
of bright expectations. No, this is not your Luigi, he is another Luigi. You
are ready to sink into the earth, but there is no escape. The crowd surges all
around, the news having evidently spread to neighbouring hamlets.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page56"></a>
<i>&ldquo;</i>Luigi&mdash;Luigi. . . . Let me see. It might be
O&rsquo;Rappo.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;O&rsquo;Massassillo, more likely.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have it! It&rsquo;s O&rsquo;Spennatiello.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I never thought of him,&rdquo; says a well-known voice. &ldquo;Here,
boy, run and tell&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Or O&rsquo;Cicereniello.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;O&rsquo;Vergeniello.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;O&rsquo;Sciabolone. ...&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Never mind the G&mdash;&mdash; d&mdash;&mdash; son of
b&mdash;&mdash;,&rdquo; says a cheery person in excellent English, who has just
arrived on the scene. &ldquo;See here, I live fifteen years in Brooklyn; damn
fine! &rsquo;Ave a glass of wine round my place. Your Luigi&rsquo;s in America,
sure. And if he isn&rsquo;t, send him to Hell.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sound advice, this.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What&rsquo;s his surname, anyhow?&rdquo; he goes on.
</p>

<p>
You explain once more.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, there&rsquo;s the very man you&rsquo;re looking for. There,
standing right in front of you! He&rsquo;s Luigi, and that&rsquo;s his surname
right enough. He don&rsquo;t know it himself, you bet.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And he points to the good-natured individual. . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
These countryfolk can fare on strange meats. A boy consumed a snake that was
lying dead by the roadside; a woman ate thirty raw eggs and then a plate of
maccheroni; a man swallowed six kilograms of the uncooked fat of a freshly
slaughtered pig (he was ill for a week afterwards); another one devoured two
small birds alive, with beaks, claws and feathers. Such deeds are sternly
reprobated as savagery; still, they occur, and nearly always as the result of
wagers. I wish I could couple them with equally heroic achievements in the
drinking line, but, alas! I have only heard of one old man who was wont
habitually to en-gulph twenty-two litres of wine a day; eight are spoken of as
&ldquo;almost too much&rdquo; in these degenerate days. . . .
</p>

<p>
Mice, says Movers, were sacrificially eaten by the Babylonians. Here, as in
England, they are cooked into a paste and given to children, to cure a certain
complaint. To take away the dread of the sea from young boys, they mix into
their food small fishes which have been devoured by larger ones and taken from
their stomachs&mdash;the underlying idea being that these half-digested fry are
thoroughly familiar with the storms and perils of the deep, and will
communicate these virtues to the boys who eat them. It is the same principle as
that of giving chamois blood to the goat-boys of the Alps, to strengthen their
nerves against
<a name="Page57"></a>
giddiness&mdash;pure sympathetic magic, of which there is this, at least, to be
said, that &ldquo;its fundamental conception is identical with that of modern
science&mdash;a faith in the order or uniformity of nature.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
I have also met persons who claim to have been cured of rachitic troubles in
their youth by eating a puppy dog cooked in a saucepan. But only one kind of
dog is good for this purpose, to be procured from those foundling hospitals
whither hundreds of illegitimate infants are taken as soon as possible after
birth. The mothers, to relieve the discomfort caused by this forcible
separation from the new-born, buy a certain kind of puppy there, bring them
home, and nourish them <i>in loco infantis.</i> These puppies cost a franc
apiece, and are generally destroyed after performing their duties; it is they
who are cooked for curing the scrofulous tendencies of other children.
Swallows&rsquo; hearts are also used for another purpose; so is the blood of
tortoises&mdash;for strengthening the backs of children (the tortoise being a
<i>hard</i> animal). So is that of snakes, who are held up by head and tail and
pricked with needles; the greater their pain, the more beneficial their blood,
which is soaked up with cotton-wool and applied as a liniment for swollen
glands. In fact, nearly every animal has been discovered to possess some
medicinal property.
</p>

<p>
But of the charm of such creatures the people know nothing. How different from
the days of old! These legendary and gracious beasts, that inspired poets and
artists and glyptic engravers&mdash;these things of beauty have now descended
into the realm of mere usefulness, into the pharmacopoeia.
</p>

<p>
The debasement is quite intelligible, when one remembers what accumulated
miseries these provinces have undergone. Memories of refinement were starved
out of the inhabitants by centuries of misrule, when nothing was of interest or
of value save what helped to fill the belly. The work of bestialization was
carried on by the despotism of Spanish Viceroys and Bourbons. They, the
Spaniards, fostered and perhaps imported the Camorra, that monster of many
heads which has established itself in nearly every town of the south. Of the
deterioration in taste coincident with this period, I lately came across this
little bit of evidence, curious and conclusive:&mdash;In 1558 a number of the
country-folk were captured in one of the usual Corsair raids; they were
afterwards ransomed, and among the Christian names of the women I note: Livia,
Fiula, Cassandra, Aurelia, Lucrezia, Verginia, Medea, Violanta, Galizia,
Vittoria, Diamanta, etc. Where were these full-sounding noble names two
centuries
<a name="Page58"></a>
later&mdash;where are they nowadays? Do they not testify to a state of culture
superior to that of the present time, when Maria, Lucia, and about four others
of the most obvious catholic saints exhaust the list of all female Christian
names hereabouts?
</p>

<p>
All this is changing once more; a higher standard of comfort is being evolved,
though relics of this former state of insecurity may still be found; such as
the absence, even in houses of good families, of clocks and watches, and
convenient storage for clothes and domestic utensils; their habits of living in
penury and of buying their daily food by farthings, as though one never knew
what the next day might bring; their dread of going out of doors by night (they
have a proverb which runs, <i>di notte, non parlar forte; di giorno, guardati
attorno],</i> their lack of humour. For humour is essentially a product of
ease, and nobody can be at ease in unquiet times. That is why so few poets are
humorous; their restlessly querulous nature has the same effect on their
outlook as an insecure environment.
</p>

<p>
But it will be long ere these superstitions are eradicated. The magic of south
Italy deserves to be well studied, for the country is a cauldron of demonology
wherein Oriental beliefs&mdash;imported direct from Egypt, the classic home of
witchcraft&mdash;commingled with those of the West. A foreigner is at an
unfortunate disadvantage; if he asks questions, he will only get answers
dictated by suspicion or a deliberate desire to mislead&mdash;prudent answers;
whoso accepts these explanations in good faith, might produce a wondrous
contribution to ethnology.
</p>

<p>
Wise women and wizards abound, but they are not to be compared with that
<i>santa</i> near Naples whom I used to visit in the nineties, and who was so
successful in the magics that the Bishop of Pozzuoli, among hundreds of other
clients, was wont to drive up to her door once a week for a consultation. These
mostly occupy themselves with the manufacture of charms for gaining lucky
lottery numbers, and for deluding fond women who wish to change their lovers.
</p>

<p>
The lore of herbs is not much studied. For bruises, a slice of the Opuntia is
applied, or the cooling parietaria (known as &ldquo;pareta&rdquo; or
&ldquo;paretone&rdquo;); the camomile and other common remedies are in vogue;
the virtues of the male fern, the rue, sabina and (home-made) ergot of rye are
well known but not employed to the extent they are in Russia, where a large
progeny is a disaster. There is a certain respect for the legitimate unborn,
and even in cases of illegitimacy some neighbouring foundling hospital, the
house of the Madonna, is much more convenient.
<a name="Page59"></a>
It is a true monk&rsquo;s expedient; it avoids the risk of criminal
prosecution; the only difference being that the Mother of God, and not the
natural mother of the infant, becomes responsible for its prompt and almost
inevitable destruction.<a href="#fn-8.3" name="fnref-8.3" id="fnref-8.3"><sup>[3]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-8.3" id="fn-8.3"></a> <a href="#fnref-8.3">[3]</a>
The scandals that occasionally arise in connection with that saintly
institution, the Foundling Hospital at Naples, are enough to make humanity
shudder. Of 856 children living under its motherly care during 1895, 853
&ldquo;died&rdquo; in the course of that one year&mdash;only three survived; a
wholesale massacre. These 853 murdered children were carried forward in the
books as still living, and the institution, which has a yearly revenue of over
600,000 francs, was debited with their maintenance, while 42 doctors (instead
of the prescribed number of 19) continued to draw salaries for their services
to these innocents that had meanwhile been starved and tortured to death. The
official report on these horrors ends with the words: &ldquo;There is no
reason to think that these facts are peculiar to the year 1895.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
That the moon stands in sympathetic relations with living vegetation is a fixed
article of faith among the peasantry. They will prune their plants only when
the satellite is waxing&mdash;<i>al sottile della luna,</i> as they say.
Altogether, the moon plays a considerable part in their lore, as might be
expected in a country where she used to be worshipped under so many forms. The
dusky markings on her surface are explained by saying that the moon used to be
a woman and a baker of bread, her face gleaming with the reflection of the
oven, but one day she annoyed her mother, who took up the brush they use for
sweeping away the ashes, and smirched her face. . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
Whoever reviews the religious observances of these people as a whole will find
them a jumble of contradictions and incongruities, lightly held and as lightly
dismissed. Theirs is the attitude of mind of little children&mdash;of those, I
mean, who have been so saturated with Bible stories and fairy tales that they
cease to care whether a thing be true or false, if it only amuses for the
moment. That is what makes them an ideal prey for the quack physician. They
will believe anything so long as it is strange and complicated; a
straightforward doctor is not listened to; they want that mystery-making
&ldquo;priest-physician&rdquo; concerning whom a French writer&mdash;I forget
his name&mdash;has wisely discoursed. I once recommended a young woman who was
bleeding at the nose to try the homely remedy of a cold key. I thought she
would have died of laughing! The expedient was too absurdly simple to be
efficacious.
</p>

<p>
The attitude of the clergy in regard to popular superstitions is the same here
as elsewhere. They are too wise to believe them, and too shrewd to discourage
the belief in others; these things can be turned to account for keeping the
people at
<a name="Page60"></a>
a conveniently low level of intelligence. For the rest, these priests are
mostly good fellows of the live-and-let-live type, who would rather cultivate
their own potatoes than quarrel about vestments or the Trinity. Violently
acquisitive, of course, like most southerners. I know a parish priest, a son of
poor parents, who, by dint of sheer energy, has amassed a fortune of half a
million francs. He cannot endure idleness in any shape, and a fine mediæval
scene may be witnessed when he suddenly appears round the corner and catches
his workmen wasting their time and his money&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ha, loafers, rogues, villains, vermin and sons of <i>bastardi
cornuti!</i> If God had not given me these garments and thereby closed my lips
to all evil-speaking (seizing his cassock and displaying half a yard of purple
stocking)&mdash;wouldn&rsquo;t I just tell you, spawn of adulterous assassins,
what I think of you!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But under the new regime these priests are becoming mere decorative survivals,
that look well enough in the landscape, but are not taken seriously save in
their match-making and money-lending capacities.
</p>

<p>
The intense realism of their religion is what still keeps it alive for the poor
in spirit. Their saints and devils are on the same familiar footing towards
mankind as were the old gods of Greece. Children do not know the meaning of
&ldquo;Inferno&rdquo;; they call it &ldquo;casa del diavolo&rdquo; (the
devil&rsquo;s house); and if they are naughty, the mother says, &ldquo;La
Madonna strilla&rdquo;&mdash;the Madonna will scold. Here is a legend of Saint
Peter, interesting for its realism and because it has been grafted upon a very
ancient <i>motif:&mdash;</i>
</p>

<p>
The apostle Peter was a dissatisfied sort of man, who was always grumbling
about things in general and suggesting improvements in the world-scheme. He
thought himself cleverer even than &ldquo;N. S. G. C.&rdquo; One day they were
walking together in an olive orchard, and Peter said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Just look at the trouble and time it takes to collect all those
miserable little olives. Let&rsquo;s have them the size of melons.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very well. Have your way, friend Peter! But something awkward is bound
to happen. It always does, you know, with those improvements of yours.&rdquo;
And, sure enough, one of these enormous olives fell from the tree straight on
the saint&rsquo;s head, and ruined his new hat.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I told you so,&rdquo; said N. S. G. C.
</p>

<p>
I remember a woman explaining to me that the saints in Heaven took their food
exactly as we do, and at the same hours.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page61"></a>
&ldquo;The same food?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;Does the Madonna really eat
</p>

<p>
beans?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Beans? Not likely! But fried fish, and beefsteaks of veal.&rdquo; I
tried to picture the scene, but the effort was too much for my hereditary
Puritan leanings. Unable to rise to these heights of realism, I was rated a
pagan for my ill-timed spirituality.
</p>

<p>
<i>Madame est servie. . . .</i>
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page62"></a><a name="chap09"></a>IX<br />
MOVING SOUTHWARDS</h2>

<p>
The train conveying me to Taranto was to halt for the night at the second
station beyond Venosa&mdash;at Spinazzola. Aware of this fact, I had enquired
about the place and received assuring reports as to its hotel accommodation.
But the fates were against me. On my arrival in the late evening I learnt that
the hotels were all closed long ago, the townsfolk having gone to bed
&ldquo;with the chickens&rdquo;; it was suggested that I had better stay at the
station, where the manageress of the restaurant kept certain sleeping quarters
specially provided for travellers in my predicament.
</p>

<p>
Presently the gentle dame lighted a dim lantern and led me across what seemed
to be a marsh (it was raining) to the door of a hut which was to be my
resting-place. At the entrance she paused, and after informing me that a band
of musicians had taken all the beds save one which was at my disposal if I were
good enough to pay her half a franc, she placed the lantern in my hand and
stumbled back into the darkness.
</p>

<p>
I stepped into a low chamber, the beds of which were smothered under a
profusion of miscellaneous wraps. The air was warm&mdash;the place exhaled an
indescribable <i>esprit de corps.</i> Groping further, I reached another
apartment, vaulted and still lower than the last, an old-fashioned cow-stable,
possibly, converted into a bedroom. One glance sufficed me: the couch was
plainly not to be trusted. Thankful to be out of the rain at least, I lit a
pipe and prepared to pass the weary hours till 4 a.m.
</p>

<p>
It was not long ere I discovered that there was another bed in this den,
opposite my own; and judging by certain undulatory and saltatory movements
within, it was occupied. Presently the head of a youth emerged, with closed
eyes and flushed features. He indulged in a series of groans and spasmodic
kicks, that subsided once more, only to recommence. A flute projected from
under his pillow.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This poor young man,&rdquo; I thought, &ldquo;is plainly in bad case. On
account of illness, he has been left behind by the rest of the
<a name="Page63"></a>
band, who have gone to Spinazzola to play at some marriage festival. He is
feverish, or possibly subject to fits&mdash;to choriasis or who knows what
disorder of the nervous system. A cruel trick, to leave a suffering youngster
alone in this foul hovel.&rdquo; I misliked his symptoms&mdash;that anguished
complexion and delirious intermittent trembling, and began to run over the
scanty stock of household remedies contained in my bag, wondering which of them
might apply to his complaint. There was court plaster and boot polish, quinine,
corrosive sublimate and Worcester sauce (detestable stuff, but indispensable
hereabouts).
</p>

<p>
Just as I had decided in favour of the last-named, he gave a more than usually
vigorous jerk, sat up in bed and, opening his eyes, remarked:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Those fleas!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This, then, was the malady. I enquired why he had not joined his companions.
</p>

<p>
He was tired, he said; tired of life in general, and of flute-playing in
particular. Tired, moreover, of certain animals; and with a tiger-like spring
he leapt out of bed.
</p>

<p>
Once thoroughly awake, he proved an amiable talker, though oppressed with an
incurable melancholy which no amount of tobacco and Venosa wine could dispel.
In gravely boyish fashion he told me of his life and ambitions. He had passed a
high standard at school, but&mdash;what would you?&mdash;every post was
crowded. He liked music, and would gladly take it up as a profession, if
anything could be learnt with a band such as his; he was sick, utterly sick, of
everything. Above all things, he wished to travel. Visions of America floated
before his mind&mdash;where was the money to come from? Besides, there was the
military service looming close at hand; and then, a widowed mother at
home&mdash;the inevitable mother&mdash;with a couple of little sisters; how
shall a man desert his family? He was born on a farm on the Murge, the
watershed between this country and the Adriatic. Thinking of the Murge, that
shapeless and dismal range of limestone hills whose name suggests its sad
monotony, I began to understand the origin of his pagan wistfulness.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Happy foreigners!&rdquo;&mdash;such was his constant
refrain&mdash;&ldquo;happy foreigners, who can always do exactly what they
like! Tell me something about other countries,&rdquo; he said.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Something true?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Anything&mdash;anything!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
To cheer him up, I replied with improbable tales of Indian life, of rajahs and
diamonds, of panthers whose eyes shine like
<a name="Page64"></a>
moonbeams in the dark jungle, of elephants huge as battleships, of sportive
monkeys who tie knots in each others&rsquo; tails and build themselves huts
among the trees, where they brew iced lemonade, which they offer in friendliest
fashion to the thirsty wayfarer, together with other light
refreshment&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Cigarettes as well?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No. They are not allowed to cultivate tobacco.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, that <i>monopolio,</i> the curse of humanity!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He was almost smiling when, at 2.30 a.m., there resounded a furious knocking at
the door, and the rest of the band appeared from their unknown quarters in the
liveliest of spirits. Altogether, a memorable night. But at four o&rsquo;clock
the lantern was extinguished and the cavern, bereft of its Salvator-Rosa
glamour, resolved itself into a prosaic and infernally unclean hovel. Issuing
from the door, I saw those murky recesses invaded by the uncompromising light
of dawn, and shuddered. . . .
</p>

<p>
The railway journey soon dispelled the phantoms of the night. As the train sped
downhill, the sun rose in splendour behind the Murge hills, devouring mists so
thickly couched that, struck by the first beams, they glistered like compact
snow-fields, while their shaded portions might have been mistaken for stretches
of mysterious swamp, from which an occasional clump of tree-tops emerged, black
and island-like. These dreamland effects lasted but a brief time, and soon the
whole face of the landscape was revealed. An arid region, not unlike certain
parts of northern Africa.
</p>

<p>
Yet the line passes through places renowned in history. Who would not like to
spend a day at Altamura, if only in memory of its treatment by the ferocious
Cardinal Ruffo and his army of cut-throats? After a heroic but vain resistance
comparable only to that of Saguntum or Petelia, during which every available
metal, and even money, was converted into bullets to repel the assailers, there
followed a three days&rsquo; slaughter of young and old; then the cardinal
blessed his army and pronounced, in the blood-drenched streets, a general
absolution. Even this man has discovered apologists. No cause so vile, that
some human being will not be found to defend it.
</p>

<p>
So much I called to mind that morning from the pages of Colletta, and
straightway formed a resolution to slip out of the carriage and arrest my
journey at Altamura for a couple of days. But I must have been asleep while the
train passed through the station, nor did I wake up again till the blue Ionian
was in sight.
</p>

<p>
At Venosa one thinks of Roman legionaries fleeing from
<a name="Page65"></a>
Hannibal, of Horace, of Norman ambitions; Lucera and Manfredonia call up
Saracen memories and the ephemeral gleams of Hohenstaufen; Gargano takes us
back into Byzantine mysticism and monkery. And now from Altamura with its dark
record of Bourbon horrors, we glide into the sunshine of Hellenic days when the
wise Archytas, sage and lawgiver, friend of Plato, ruled this ancient city of
Tarentum. A wide sweep of history! And if those Periclean times be not remote
enough, yonder lies Oria on its hilltop, the stronghold of pre-Hellenic and
almost legendary Messapians; while for such as desire more recent associations
there is the Albanian colony of San Giorgio, only a few miles distant, to
recall the glories of Scanderbeg and his adventurous bands.
</p>

<p>
Herein lies the charm of travel in this land of multiple
civilizations&mdash;the ever-changing layers of culture one encounters, their
wondrous juxtaposition.
</p>

<p class="p2">
My previous experiences of Taranto hotels counselled me to take a private room
overlooking the inland sea (the southern aspect is already intolerably hot),
and to seek my meals at restaurants. And in such a one I have lived for the
last ten days or so, reviving old memories. The place has grown in the
interval; indeed, if one may believe certain persons, the population has
increased from thirty to ninety thousand in&mdash;I forget how few years. The
arsenal brings movement into the town; it has appropriated the lion&rsquo;s
share of building sites in the &ldquo;new&rdquo; town. Is it a ripple on the
surface of things, or will it truly stir the spirits of the city? So many
arsenals have come and gone, at Taranto!
</p>

<p>
This arsenal quarter is a fine example of the Italian mania of <i>fare
figura&mdash;</i>everything for effect. It is an agglomeration of dreary
streets, haunted by legions of clamorous black swifts, and constructed on the
rectangular principle dear to the Latin mind. Modern, and surpassingly
monotonous. Are such interminable rows of stuccoed barracks artistic to look
upon, are they really pleasant to inhabit? Is it reasonable or even sanitary,
in a climate of eight months&rsquo; sunshine, to build these enormous roadways
and squares filled with glaring limestone dust that blows into one&rsquo;s eyes
and almost suffocates one; these Saharas that even at the present season of the
year (early June) cannot be traversed comfortably unless one wears brown
spectacles and goes veiled like a Tuareg? This arsenal quarter must be a hell
during the really not season, which continues into October.
</p>

<p>
For no trees whatever are planted to shade the walking population, as in Paris
or Cairo or any other sunlit city.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page66"></a>
And who could guess the reason? An Englishman, at least, would never bring
himself to believe what is nevertheless a fact, namely, that if the streets are
converted into shady boulevards, the rents of the houses immediately fall. When
trees are planted, the lodgers complain and finally emigrate to other quarters;
the experiment has been tried, at Naples and elsewhere, and always with the
same result. Up trees, down rents. The tenants refuse to be deprived of their
chief pleasure in life&mdash;that of gazing at the street-passengers, who must
be good enough to walk in the sunshine for their delectation. But if you are of
an inquisitive turn of mind, you are quite at liberty to return the compliment
and to study from the outside the most intimate details of the tenants&rsquo;
lives within. Take your fill of their domestic doings; stare your hardest. They
don&rsquo;t mind in the least, not they! That feeling of privacy which the
northerner fosters doggedly even in the centre of a teeming city is alien to
their hearts; they like to look and be looked at; they live like fish in an
aquarium. It is a result of the whole palazzo-system that every one knows his
neighbour&rsquo;s business better than his own. What does it matter, in the
end? Are we not all &ldquo;Christians&rdquo;?
</p>

<p>
The municipality, meanwhile, is deeply indebted for the sky-piercing ambitions
which have culminated in the building of this new quarter. To meet these
obligations, the octroi prices have been raised to the highest pitch by the
City Fathers. This octroi is farmed out and produces (they tell me) 120 pounds
a day; there are some hundred toll-collecting posts at the outskirts of the
town, and the average salary of their officials is three pounds a month. They
are supposed to be respectable and honest men, but it is difficult to see how a
family can be supported on that wage, when one knows how high the rents are,
and how severely the most ordinary commodities of life are taxed.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus07"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-7.jpg" width="394" height="551" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Sole Relic of old Taras</p>
</div>

<p>
I endeavoured to obtain photographs of the land as it looked ere it was covered
by the arsenal quarter, but in vain. Nobody seems to have thought it worth
while preserving what would surely be a notable economic document for future
generations. Out of sheer curiosity I also tried to procure a plan of the old
quarter, that labyrinth of thick-clustering humanity, where the streets are
often so narrow that two persons can barely squeeze past each other. I was
informed that no such plan had ever been drawn up; it was agreed that a map of
this kind might be interesting, and suggested, furthermore, that I might
undertake the task myself; the authorities would doubtless appreciate my
labours. We foreigners, be it understood, have ample means and
<a name="Page67"></a>
unlimited leisure, and like nothing better than doing unprofitable jobs of this
kind.<a href="#fn-9.1" name="fnref-9.1" id="fnref-9.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-9.1" id="fn-9.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-9.1">[1]</a>
There is a map of old Taranto in Lasor a Varea (Savonarola) <i>Universus
terrarum etc.,</i> Vol. II, p. 552, and another in J. Blaev&rsquo;s <i>Theatrum
Civitatum</i> (1663). He talks of the &ldquo;rude houses&rdquo; of this town.
</p>

<p>
One is glad to leave the scintillating desert of this arsenal quarter, and
enter the cool stone-paved streets of the other, which remind one somewhat of
Malta. In the days of Salis-Marschlins this city possessed only 18,000
inhabitants, and &ldquo;outdid even the customary Italian filth, being hardly
passable on account of the excessive nastiness and stink.&rdquo; It is now
scrupulously clean&mdash;so absurdly clean, that it has quite ceased to be
picturesque. Not that its buildings are particularly attractive to me; none,
that is, save the antique &ldquo;Trinità&rdquo; column of Doric
gravity&mdash;sole survivor of Hellenic Taras, which looks wondrously out of
place in its modern environment. One of the finest of these earlier monuments,
the Orsini tower depicted in old prints of the place, has now been demolished.
</p>

<p>
Lovers of the baroque may visit the shrine of Saint Cataldo, a jovial nightmare
in stone. And they who desire a literary pendant to this fantastic structure
should read the life of the saint written by Morone in 1642. Like the shrine,
it is the quintessence of insipid exuberance; there is something preposterous
in its very title &ldquo;Cataldiados,&rdquo; and whoever reads through those
six books of Latin hexameters will arise from the perusal half-dazed. Somehow
or other, it dislocates one&rsquo;s whole sense of terrestrial values to see a
frowsy old monk<a href="#fn-9.2" name="fnref-9.2" id="fnref-9.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
treated in the heroic style and metre, as though he were a new Achilles. As a
<i>jeu d&rsquo;esprit</i> the book might pass; but it is deadly serious. Single
men will always be found to perpetrate monstrosities of literature; the marvel
is that an entire generation of writers should have worked themselves into a
state of mind which solemnly approved of such freaks.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-9.2" id="fn-9.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-9.2">[2]</a>
This wandering Irish missionary is supposed to have died here in the seventh
century, and they who are not satisfied with his printed biographies will find
one in manuscript of 550 pages, compiled in 1766, in the Cuomo Library at
Naples.
</p>

<p>
Every one has heard of the strange position of this hoary island-citadel (a
metropolis, already, in neolithic days). It is of oval shape, the broad sides
washed by the Ionian Sea and an oyster-producing lagoon; bridges connect it at
one extremity with the arsenal or new town, and at the other with the so-called
commercial quarter. It is as if some precious gem were set, in a ring, between
two others of minor worth. Or, to vary the simile, this acropolis, with its
close-packed alleys, is the throbbing heart
<a name="Page68"></a>
of Taranto; the arsenal quarter&mdash;its head; and that other one&mdash;well,
its stomach; quite an insignificant stomach as compared with the head and
corroborative, in so far, of the views of Metchnikoff, who holds that this
hitherto commendable organ ought now to be reduced in size, if not abolished
altogether. . . .
</p>

<p>
From out of this window I gaze upon the purple lagoon flecked with warships and
sailing-boats; and beyond it, upon the venerable land of Japygia, the heel of
Italy, that rises in heliotrope-tinted undulations towards the Adriatic
watershed. At night-time an exquisite perfume of flowers and ripe corn comes
wafted into my room over the still waters, and when the sun rises, white
settlements begin to sparkle among its olives and vineyards. My eyes often rest
upon one of them; it is Grottaglie, distant a few miles from Taranto on the
Brindisi line. I must visit Grottaglie, for it was here that the flying monk
received his education.
</p>

<p>
The flying monk!
</p>

<p>
The theme is not inappropriate at this moment, when the newspapers are ringing
with the Paris-Rome aviation contest and the achievements of Beaumont, Garros
and their colleagues. I have purposely brought his biography with me, to
re-peruse on the spot. But let me first explain how I became acquainted with
this seventeenth-century pioneer of aviation.
</p>

<p class="p2">
It was an odd coincidence.
</p>

<p>
I had arrived in Naples, and was anxious to have news of the proceedings at a
certain aviation meeting in the north, where a rather inexperienced friend of
mine had insisted upon taking a part; the newspaper reports of these
entertainments are enough to disturb anybody. While admiring the great
achievements of modern science in this direction, I wished devoutly, at that
particular moment, that flying had never been invented; and it was something of
a coincidence, I say, that stumbling in this frame of mind down one of the
unspeakable little side-streets in the neighbourhood of the University, my
glance should have fallen upon an eighteenth-century engraving in a
bookseller&rsquo;s window which depicted a man raised above the ground without
any visible means of support&mdash;flying, in short. He was a monk, floating
before an altar. A companion, near at hand, was portrayed as gazing in
rapturous wonder at this feat of levitation. I stepped within and demanded the
volume to which this was the frontispiece.
</p>

<p>
The salesman, a hungry-looking old fellow with incredibly dirty hands and face,
began to explain.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus08"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-8.jpg" width="405" height="499" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">CanFishing at Tarantoyon</p>
</div>

<p>
<a name="Page69"></a>
&ldquo;The Flying Monk, sir, Joseph of Copertino. A mighty saint and conjuror!
Or perhaps you would like some other book? I have many, many lives of
<i>santi</i> here. Look at this one of the great Egidio, for instance. I can
tell you all about him, for he raised my mother&rsquo;s grand-uncle from the
dead; yes, out of the grave, as one may say. You&rsquo;ll find out all about it
in this book; and it&rsquo;s only one of his thousand miracles. And here is the
biography of the renowned Giangiuseppe, a mighty saint and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
I was paying little heed; the flying monk had enthralled me. An unsuspected
pioneer of aviation . . . here was a discovery!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He flew?&rdquo; I queried, my mind reverting to the much-vaunted
triumphs of modern science.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why not? The only reason why people don&rsquo;t fly like that nowadays
is because&mdash;well, sir, because they can&rsquo;t. They fly with machines,
and think it something quite new and wonderful. And yet it&rsquo;s as old as
the hills! There was Iscariot, for example&mdash;Icarus, I
mean&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pure legend, my good man.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Everything becomes legend, if the gentleman will have the goodness to
wait. And here is the biography of&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How much for Joseph of Copertino?&rdquo; Cost what it may, I said to
myself, that volume must be mine.
</p>

<p>
He took it up and began to turn over the pages lovingly, as though handling
some priceless Book of Hours.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A fine engraving,&rdquo; he observed, <i>sotto voce.</i> &ldquo;And this
is the best of many biographies of the flying monk. It is by Rossi, the
Minister-General of the Franciscan order to which our monk belonged; the
official biography, it might be called&mdash;dedicated, by permission, to His
Holiness Pope Clemens XIII, and based on the documents which led to the
saint&rsquo;s beatification. Altogether, a remarkable
volume&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And he paused awhile. Then continued:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I possess a cheaper biography of him, also with a frontispiece, by
Montanari, which has the questionable advantage of being printed as recently as
1853. And here is yet another one, by Antonio Basile&mdash;oh, he has been much
written about; a most celebrated <i>taumaturgo,</i> (wonder-worker)! As to this
<i>Life</i> of 1767, I could not, with a good conscience, appraise it at less
than five francs.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I respect your feelings. But&mdash;five francs! I have certain scruples
of my own, you know, and it irks my sense of rectitude to pay five francs for
the flying monk unless you can supply me with six or seven additional books to
be included in that sum.
<a name="Page70"></a>
Twelve <i>soldi</i> (sous) apiece&mdash;that strikes me as the proper price of
such literature, for foreigners, at least. Therefore I&rsquo;ll have the great
Egidio as well, and Montanari&rsquo;s life of the flying monk, and that other
one by Basile, and Giangiuseppe, and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By all means! Pray take your choice.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And so it came about that, relieved of a tenuous and very sticky five-franc
note, and loaded down with three biographies of the flying monk, one of Egidio,
two of Giangiuseppe&mdash;I had been hopelessly swindled, but there! no man can
bargain in a hurry, and my eagerness to learn something of the life of this
early airman had made me oblivious of the natural values of things&mdash;and
with sundry smaller volumes of similar import bulging out of my pockets I
turned in the direction of the hotel, promising myself some new if not exactly
light reading.
</p>

<p>
But hardly had I proceeded twenty paces before the shopkeeper came running
after me with another formidable bundle under his arm. More books! An ominous
symptom&mdash;the clearest demonstration of my defeat; I was already a marked
man, a good customer. It was humiliating, after my long years&rsquo; experience
of the south.
</p>

<p>
And there resounded an unmistakable note of triumph in his voice, as he said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Some more biographies, sir. Read them at your leisure, and pay me what
you like. You cannot help being generous; I see it in your face.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I always try to encourage polite learning, if that is what you think to
decipher in my features. But it rains <i>santi</i> this morning,&rdquo; I
added, rather sourly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The gentleman is pleased to joke! May it rain <i>soldi</i>
tomorrow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A little shower, possibly. But not a cloud-burst, like today. . .
.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page71"></a><a name="chap10"></a>X<br />
THE FLYING MONK</h2>

<p>
As to the flying monk, there is no doubt whatever that he deserved his name.
</p>

<p>
He flew. Being a monk, these feats of his were naturally confined to convents
and their immediate surroundings, but that does not alter the facts of the
case.
</p>

<p>
Of the flights that he took in the little town of Copertino alone, more than
seventy, says Father Rossi whom I follow throughout, are on record in the
depositions which were taken on oath from eye-witnesses after his death. This
is one of them, for example:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Stupendous likewise was the <i>ratto</i> (flight or rapture) which he
exhibited on a night of Holy Thursday. . . . He suddenly flew towards the altar
in a straight line, leaving untouched all the ornaments of that structure; and
after some time, being called back by his superior, returned flying to the spot
whence he had set out.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And another:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He flew similarly upon an olive tree . . . and there remained in
kneeling posture for the space of half an hour. A marvellous thing it was to
see the branch which sustained him swaying lightly, as though a bird had
alighted upon it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But Copertino is a remote little place, already famous in the annals of
miraculous occurrences. It can be urged that a kind of enthusiasm for their
distinguished brother-monk may have tempted the inmates of the convent to
exaggerate his rare gifts. Nothing of the kind. He performed flights not only
in Copertino, but in various large towns of Italy, such as Naples, Rome, and
Assisi. And the spectators were by no means an assemblage of ignorant
personages, but men whose rank and credibility would have weight in any section
of society.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;While the Lord High Admiral of Castille, Ambassador of Spain at the
Vatican, was passing through Assisi in the year 1645, the custodian of the
convent commanded Joseph to descend from the room into the church, where the
Admiral&rsquo;s lady was waiting
<a name="Page72"></a>
for him, desirous of seeing him. and speaking to him; to whom Joseph replied,
&lsquo;I will obey, but I do not know whether I shall be able to speak to
her.&rsquo; And, as a matter of fact, hardly had he entered the church and
raised his eyes to a statue . . . situated above the altar, when he threw
himself into a flight in order to embrace its feet at a distance of twelve
paces, passing over the heads of all the congregation; then, after remaining
there some time, he flew back over them with his usual cry, and immediately
returned to his cell. The Admiral was amazed, his wife fainted away, and all
the onlookers became piously terrified.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And if this does not suffice to win credence, the following will assuredly do
so:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And since it was God&rsquo;s wish to render him marvellous even in the
sight of men of the highest sphere, He ordained that Joseph, having arrived in
Rome, should be conducted one day by the Father-General (of the Franciscan
Order) to kiss the feet of the High Pontiff, Urban the Eighth; in which act,
while contemplating Jesus Christ in the person of His Vicar, he was
ecstatically raised in air, and thus remained till called back by the General,
to whom His Holiness, highly astonished, turned and said that &lsquo;if Joseph
were to die during his pontificate, he himself would bear witness to this
<i>successo.&rsquo;&rdquo;</i>
</p>

<p>
But his most remarkable flights took place at Fossombrone, where once
&ldquo;detaching himself in swiftest manner from the altar with a cry like
thunder, he went, like lightning, gyrating hither and thither about the chapel,
and with such an impetus that he made all the cells of the dormitory tremble,
so that the monks, issuing thence in consternation, cried, &lsquo;An
earthquake! An earthquake!&rsquo;&rdquo; Here, too, he cast a young sheep into
the air, and took flight after it to the height of the trees, where he
&ldquo;remained in kneeling posture, ecstatic and with extended arms, for more
than two hours, to the extraordinary marvel of the clergy who witnessed
this.&rdquo; This would seem to have been his outdoor record&mdash;two hours
without descent to earth.
</p>

<p>
Sometimes, furthermore, he took a passenger, if such a term can properly be
applied.
</p>

<p>
So once, while the monks were at prayers, he was observed to rise up and run
swiftly towards the Confessor of the convent, and &ldquo;seizing him by the
hand, he raised him from the ground by supernatural force, and with jubilant
rapture drew him along, turning him round and round in a <i>violento ballo;</i>
the Confessor moved by Joseph, and Joseph by God.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And what happened at Assisi is still more noteworthy, for here
<a name="Page73"></a>
was a gentleman, a suffering invalid, whom Joseph &ldquo;snatched by the hair,
and, uttering his customary cry of &lsquo;oh!&rsquo; raised himself from the
earth, while he drew the other after him by his hair, carrying him in this
fashion for a short while through the air, to the intensest admiration of the
spectators.&rdquo; The patient, whose name was Chevalier Baldassarre,
discovered, on touching earth again, that he had been cured by this flight of a
severe nervous malady which had hitherto afflicted him. . . .
</p>

<p>
Searching in the biography for some other interesting traits of Saint Joseph of
Copertino, I find, in marked contrast to his heaven-soaring virtues, a humility
of the profoundest kind. Even as a full-grown man he retained the exhilarating,
childlike nature of the pure in heart. &ldquo;<i>La Mamma
mia</i>&rdquo;&mdash;thus he would speak, in playful-saintly fashion, of the
Mother of God&mdash;&ldquo;<i>la Mamma mia</i> is capricious. When I bring Her
flowers, She tells me She does not want them; when I bring Her candles, She
also does not want them; and when I ask Her what She wants, She says, &lsquo;I
want the heart, for I feed only on hearts.&rsquo;&rdquo; What wonder if the
&ldquo;mere pronouncement of the name of Maria often sufficed to raise him from
the ground into the air&rdquo;?
</p>

<p>
Nevertheless, the arch-fiend was wont to creep into his cell at night and to
beat and torture him; and the monks of the convent were terrified when they
heard the hideous din of echoing blows and jangling chains. &ldquo;We were only
having a little game,&rdquo; he would then say. This is refreshingly boyish. He
once induced a flock of sheep to enter the chapel, and while he recited to them
the litany, it was observed with amazement that &ldquo;they responded at the
proper place to his verses&mdash;he saying <i>Sancta Maria,</i> and they
answering, after their manner, <i>Bah!&rdquo;</i>
</p>

<p>
I am not disguising from myself that an incident like the last-named may smack
of childishness to a certain austere type of northern Puritan. Childishness!
But to go into this question of the relative hilarity and moroseness of
religions would take us far afield; for aught I know it may, at bottom, be a
matter of climatic influences, and there we can leave it. Under the sunny sky
of Italy, who would not be disposed to see the bright side of things?
</p>

<p class="p2">
Saint Joseph of Copertino performed a variety of other miracles. He multiplied
bread and wine, calmed a tempest, drove out devils, caused the lame to walk and
the blind to see&mdash;all of which are duly attested by eye-witnesses on oath.
Though &ldquo;illiterate,&rdquo; he had an innate knowledge of ecclesiastical
dogma; he detected persons of impure life by their smell, and sinners were
revealed to
<a name="Page74"></a>
his eyes with faces of black colour (the Turks believe that on judgment day the
damned will be thus marked); he enjoyed the company of two guardian angels,
which were visible not only to himself but to other people. And, like all too
many saints, he duly fell into the clutches of the Inquisition, ever on the
look-out for victims pious or otherwise.
</p>

<p>
There is one little detail which it would be disingenuous to slur over. It is
this. We are told that Saint Joseph was awkward and backward in his
development. As a child his boy-comrades used to laugh at him for his
open-mouthed staring habits; they called him &ldquo;bocca-aperta&rdquo;
(gape-mouth), and in the frontispiece to Montanari&rsquo;s life of him, which
depicts him as a bearded man of forty or fifty, his mouth is still agape; he
was, moreover, difficult to teach, and Rossi says he profited very little by
his lessons and was of <i>niuna letteratura.</i> As a lad of seventeen he could
not distinguish white bread from brown, and he used to spill water-cans, break
vases and drop plates to such an extent that the monks of the convent who
employed him were obliged, after eight months&rsquo; probation, to dismiss him
from their service. He was unable to pass his examination as priest. At the age
of twenty-five he was ordained by the Bishop of Castro, without that formality.
</p>

<p>
All this points to a certain weak-mindedness or arrested development, and were
this an isolated case one might be inclined to think that the church had made
Saint Joseph an object of veneration on the same principles as do the Arabs,
who elevate idiots, epileptics, and otherwise deficient creatures to the rank
of marabouts, and credit them with supernatural powers.
</p>

<p>
But it is not an isolated case. The majority of these southern saints are
distinguished from the vulgar herd by idiosyncrasies to which modern physicians
give singular names such as &ldquo;gynophobia,&rdquo; &ldquo;glossolalia&rdquo;
and &ldquo;demonomania&rdquo;<a href="#fn-10.1" name="fnref-10.1" id="fnref-10.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>;
even the founder of the flying monk&rsquo;s order, the great Francis of Assisi,
has been accused of some strange-sounding mental disorder because, with
touching humility, he doffed his vestments and presented himself naked before
his Creator. What are we to conclude therefrom?
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-10.1" id="fn-10.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-10.1">[1]</a>
Good examples of what Max Nordau calls <i>Echolalie</i> are to be found in this
biography (p. 22).
</p>

<p>
The flying monk resembles Saint Francis in more than one feature. He, too,
removed his clothes and even his shirt, and exposed himself thus to a crucifix,
exclaiming, &ldquo;Here I am, Lord, deprived of everything.&rdquo; He followed
his prototype, further, in that charming custom of introducing the animal world
into his
<a name="Page75"></a>
ordinary talk (&ldquo;Brother Wolf, Sister Swallow,&rdquo; etc.). So Joseph
used to speak of himself as <i>l&rsquo;asinelio&mdash;</i>the little ass; and a
pathetic scene was witnessed on his death-bed when he was heard to mutter:
&ldquo;<i>L&rsquo;asinelio</i> begins to climb the mountain;
<i>l&rsquo;asinelio</i> is half-way up; <i>l&rsquo;asinelio</i> has reached the
summit; <i>l&rsquo;asinelio</i> can go no further, and is about to leave his
skin behind.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is to be noted, in this connection, that Saint Joseph of Coper-tino was born
in a stable.
</p>

<p>
This looks like more than a mere coincidence. For the divine Saint Francis was
likewise born in a stable.
</p>

<p>
But why should either of these holy men be born in stables?
</p>

<p>
A reasonable explanation lies at hand. A certain Japanese statesman is credited
with that shrewd remark that the manifold excellencies and diversities of
Hellenic art are due to the fact that the Greeks had no &ldquo;old
masters&rdquo; to copy from&mdash;no &ldquo;schools&rdquo; which supplied their
imagination with ready-made models that limit and smother individual
initiative. And one marvels to think into what exotic beauties these southern
saints would have blossomed, had they been at liberty, like those Greeks,
freely to indulge their versatile genius&mdash;had they not been bound to the
wheels of inexorable precedent. If the flying monk, for example, were an
ordinary mortal, there was nothing to prevent him from being born in an omnibus
or some other of the thousand odd places where ordinary mortals occasionally
are born. But&mdash;no! As a Franciscan saint, he was obliged to conform to the
school of Bethlehem and Assisi. He was obliged to select a stable. Such is the
force of tradition. . . .
</p>

<p>
Joseph of Copertino lived during the time of the Spanish viceroys, and his fame
spread not only over all Italy, but to France, Germany and Poland. Among his
intimates and admirers were no fewer than eight cardinals, Prince Leopold of
Tuscany, the Duke of Bouillon, Isabella of Austria, the Infanta Maria of Savoy
and the Duke of Brunswick, who, during a visit to various courts of Europe in
1649, purposely went to Assisi to see him, and was there converted from the
Lutheran heresy by the spectacle of one of his flights. Prince Casimir, heir to
the throne of Poland, was his particular friend, and kept up a correspondence
with him after the death of his father and his own succession to the throne.
</p>

<p>
Towards the close of his life, the flying monk became so celebrated that his
superiors were obliged to shut him up in the convent of Osimo, in close
confinement, in order that his aerial voyages &ldquo;should not be disturbed by
the concourse of the vulgar.&rdquo; And here he expired, in his sixty-first
year, on the 18th September,
<a name="Page76"></a>
1663. He had been suffering and infirm for some little time previous to that
event, but managed to take a short flight on the very day preceding his demise.
</p>

<p>
Forthwith the evidences of his miraculous deeds were collected and submitted to
the inspired examination of the Sacred Congregation of Rites in Rome. Their
conscientiousness in sifting and weighing the depositions is sufficiently
attested by the fact that ninety years were allowed to elapse ere Joseph of
Copertino was solemnly received into the number of the Blessed. This occurred
in 1753; and though the date may have been accidentally chosen, some people
will be inclined to detect the hand of Providence in the ordering of the event,
as a challenge to Voltaire, who was just then disquieting Europe with certain
doctrines of a pernicious nature.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page77"></a><a name="chap11"></a>XI<br />
BY THE INLAND SEA</h2>

<p>
The railway line to Grottaglie skirts the shore of the inland sea for two or
three miles, and then turns away. Old Taranto glimmers in lordly fashion across
the tranquil waters; a sense of immemorial culture pervades this region of
russet tilth, and olives, and golden corn.
</p>

<p>
They led me, at Grottaglie, to the only convent of males now in use, San
Francesco, recently acquired by the Jesuits. In the sacristy of its church,
where I was told to wait, a slender young priest was praying rapturously before
some image, and the clock that stood at hand recorded the flight of twenty
minutes ere his devotions were ended. Then he arose slowly and turned upon me a
pair of lustrous, dreamy eyes, as though awakened from another world.
</p>

<p>
This was quite a new convent, he explained; it could not possibly be the one I
was seeking. But there was another one, almost a ruin, and now converted into a
refuge for a flock of poor old women; he would gladly show me the way. Was I a
&ldquo;Germanese&rdquo;?<a href="#fn-11.1" name="fnref-11.1" id="fnref-11.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
No, I replied; I came from Scotland.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-11.1" id="fn-11.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-11.1">[1]</a>
<i>Germanese</i> or <i>Allemanno</i> = a German. <i>Tedesco,</i> hereabouts,
signifies an Austrian&mdash;a detested nationality, even at this distance of
time. I have wondered, since writing the above, whether this is really the
place of which Rossi speaks. He calls it Grot-tole (the difference in spelling
would be of little account), and says it lies not far distant from Copertino.
But there may be a place of this name still nearer; it is a common appellation
in these honeycombed limestone districts. This Grottaglie is certainly the
birth-place of another religious hero, the priest-brigand Ciro, who gave so
much trouble to Sir R. Church.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A Calvinist,&rdquo; he remarked, without bitterness.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A Presbyterian,&rdquo; I gently corrected.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To be sure&mdash;a Presbyterian.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As we walked along the street under the glowing beams of midday I set forth the
object of my visit. He had never heard of the flying monk&mdash;it was
astonishing, he said. He would look up the subject without delay. The flying
monk! That a Protestant should come all the way from &ldquo;the other end of
the world&rdquo; to enquire about a local Catholic saint of whose existence he
himself was unaware, seemed not so much to surprise as positively to alarm him.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page78"></a>
Among other local curiosities, he pointed out the portal of the parish church,
a fine but dilapidated piece of work, with a large rosette window overhead. The
town, he told me, derives its name from certain large grottoes wherein the
inhabitants used to take refuge during Saracen raids. This I already knew, from
the pages of Swinburne and Sanchez; and in my turn was able to inform him that
a certain Frenchman, Bertaux by name, had written about the Byzantine
wall-paintings within these caves. Yes, those old Greeks! he said. And that
accounted for the famous ceramics of the place, which preserved the Hellenic
traditions in extraordinary purity. I did not inform him that Hector Preconi,
who purposely visited Grottaglie to study these potteries, was considerably
disappointed.
</p>

<p>
At the door of the decayed convent my guide left me, with sundry polite
expressions of esteem. I entered a spacious open courtyard; a well stood in the
centre of a bare enclosure whereon, in olden days, the monks may have
cultivated their fruit and vegetables; round this court there ran an arched
passage, its walls adorned with frescoes, now dim and faded, depicting sacred
subjects. The monastery itself was a sombre maze of stairways and cells and
corridors&mdash;all the free spaces, including the very roof, encumbered with
gleaming potteries of every shape and size, that are made somewhere near the
premises.
</p>

<p>
I wandered about this sunless and cobwebby labyrinth, the old woman pensioners
flitting round me like bats in the twilight. I peered into many dark closets;
which of them was it&mdash;Joseph&rsquo;s famous blood-bespattered cell?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He tormented his body so continuously and obstinately with pins, needles
and blades of steel, and with such effusion of blood, that even now, after
entire years, the walls of his cell and other places of retirement are
discoloured and actually encrusted with blood.&rdquo; Which of them was
it&mdash;the chamber that witnessed these atrocious macerations? It was all so
gloomy and forlorn.
</p>

<p>
Then, pushing aside a door in these tenebrous regions, I suddenly found myself
bathed in dazzling light. A loggia opened here, with a view over stretches of
gnarled olives, shining all silvery under the immaculate sky of noonday and
bounded by the sapphire belt of the Ionian. Sunshine and blue sea! Often must
the monks have taken pleasure in this fair prospect; and the wiser among them,
watching the labourers returning home at nightfall, the children at play, and
all the happy life of a world so alien to their own, may well have heaved a
sigh.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus09"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-9.jpg" width="412" height="338" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">By the Inland Sea</p>
</div>

<p>
Meanwhile a crowd of citizens had assembled below, attracted
<a name="Page79"></a>
by the unusual novelty of a stranger in their town. The simple creatures
appeared to regard my investigations in the light of a good joke; they had
heard of begging monks, and thieving monks, and monks of another variety whose
peculiarities I dare not attempt to describe; but a flying monk&mdash;no,
never!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The Dark Ages,&rdquo; said one of them&mdash;the mayor, I dare
say&mdash;with an air of grave authority. &ldquo;Believe me, dear sir, the days
of such fabulous monsters are over.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
So they seem to be, for the present.
</p>

<p>
No picture or statue records the life of this flying wonder, this masterpiece
of Spanish priestcraft; no mural tablet&mdash;in this land of commemorative
stones&mdash;has been erected to perpetuate the glory of his signal
achievements; no street is called after him. It is as if he had never existed.
On the contrary, by a queer irony of fate, the roadway leading past his convent
evokes the memory of a misty heathen poet, likewise native of these favoured
regions, a man whose name Joseph of Copertino had assuredly never
heard&mdash;Ennius, of whom I can now recall nothing save that one
unforgettable line which begins &ldquo;O Tite tute Tati
tibi&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;; Ennius, who never so much as tried to fly, but
contented himself with singing, in rather bad Latin, of the things of this
earth.
</p>

<p>
<i>Via Ennio. . . .</i>
</p>

<p>
It is the swing of the pendulum. The old pagan, at this moment, may be nearer
to our ideals and aspirations than the flying monk who died only yesterday, so
to speak.
</p>

<p>
But a few years hence&mdash;who can tell?
</p>

<p class="p2">
A characteristic episode. I had carefully timed myself to catch the returning
train to Taranto. Great was my surprise when, half-way to the station, I
perceived the train swiftly approaching. I raced it, and managed to jump into a
carriage just as it drew out of the station. The guard straightway demanded my
ticket and a fine for entering the train without one (return tickets, for
weighty reasons of &ldquo;internal administration,&rdquo; are not sold). I
looked at my watch, which showed that we had left six minutes before the
scheduled hour. He produced his; it coincided with my own. &ldquo;No
matter,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I am not responsible for the eccentricities of
the driver, who probably had some urgent private affairs to settle at Taranto.
The fine must be paid.&rdquo; A fellow-passenger took a more charitable view of
the case. He suggested that an inspector of the line had been travelling along
with us, and that the driver, knowing this, was naturally ambitious to show how
fast he could go.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page80"></a>
A mile or so before reaching Taranto the railway crosses a stream that flows
into the inland sea. One would be glad to believe those sages who hold it to be
the far-famed Galaesus. It rises near at hand in a marsh, amid mighty tufts of
reeds and odorous flowers, and the liquid bubbles up in pools of crystalline
transparency&mdash;deep and perfidious cauldrons overhung by the trembling soil
on which you stand. These fountains form a respectable stream some four hundred
yards in length; another copious spring rises up in the sea near its mouth. But
can this be the river whose virtues are extolled by: Virgil, Horace, Martial,
Statius, Propertius, Strabo, Pliny, Varrò and Columella? What a constellation
of names around these short-lived waters! Truly, <i>minuit praesentia
famam,</i> as Boccaccio says of the once-renowned Sebethus.
</p>

<p>
Often have I visited this site and tried to reconstruct its vanished glories.
My enthusiasm even led me, some years ago, to the town hall, in order to
ascertain its true official name, and here they informed me that &ldquo;it is
vulgarly called Citrezze; but the correct version is &lsquo;Le
Giadrezze,&rsquo; which, as you are aware, sir, signifies
<i>pleasantness&rdquo;</i> This functionary was evidently ignorant of the fact
that so long ago as 1771 the learned commentator (Carducci) of the
&ldquo;Delizie Tarentine&rdquo; already sneered at this popular etymology;
adding, what is of greater interest, that &ldquo;in the time of our
fathers&rdquo; this region was covered with woods and rich in game. In the days
of Keppel Craven, the vale was &ldquo;scantily cultivated with cotton.&rdquo;
Looking at it from above, it certainly resembles an old river-bed of about five
hundred yards in breadth, and I hold it possible that the deforestation of the
higher lands may have suffocated the original sources with soil carried down
from thence, and forced them to seek a lower level, thus shortening the stream
and reducing its volume of water.
</p>

<p>
But who shall decide? If we follow Polybius, another brook at the further end
of the inland sea has more valid claims to the title of Galaesus. Virgil called
it &ldquo;black Galaesus&rdquo;&mdash;a curious epithet, still applied to water
in Italy as well as in Greece (Mavromati, etc.). &ldquo;For me,&rdquo; says
Gissing, &ldquo;the Galaesus is the stream I found and tracked, whose waters I
heard mingle with the little sea.&rdquo; There is something to be said for such
an attitude, on the part of a dilettante traveller, towards these desperate
antiquarian controversies.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus10"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-10.jpg" width="411" height="288" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Fountains of Galaesus</p>
</div>

<p>
It is an agreeable promenade from the Giadrezze rivulet to Taranto along the
shore of this inland sea. Its clay banks are full of shells and potteries of
every age, and the shallow waters planted
<a name="Page81"></a>
with stakes indicating the places where myriads of oysters and mussels are
bred&mdash;indeed, if you look at a map you will observe that the whole of this
lagoon, as though to shadow forth its signification, is split up into two
basins like an opened oyster.
</p>

<p>
Here and there along this beach are fishermen&rsquo;s huts constructed of
tree-stems which are smothered under multitudinous ropes of grass, ropes of all
ages and in every stage of decomposition, some fairly fresh, others dissolving
once more into amorphous bundles of hay. There is a smack of the stone ages, of
primeval lake-dwellings, about these shelters on the deserted shore; two or
three large fetichistic stones stand near their entrance; wickerwork objects of
dark meaning strew the ground; a few stakes emerge, hard by, out of the placid
and oozy waters. In such a cabin, methinks, dwelt those two old fishermen of
Theocritus&mdash;here they lived and slumbered side by side on a couch of sea
moss, among the rude implements of their craft.
</p>

<p>
The habits of these fisherfolk are antique, because the incidents of their
calling have remained unchanged. Some people have detected traces of
&ldquo;Greek&rdquo; in the looks and language of these of Taranto. I can detect
nothing of the kind.
</p>

<p>
And the same with the rest of the population. Hellenic traits have disappeared
from Taranto, as well they may have done, when one remembers its history. It
was completely latinized under Augustus, and though Byzantines came hither
under Nicephorus Phocas&mdash;Benjamin of Tudela says the inhabitants are
&ldquo;Greeks&rdquo;&mdash;they have long ago become merged into the Italian
element. Only the barbers seem to have preserved something of the old
traditions: grandiloquent and terrible talkers, like the cooks in Athenæus.
</p>

<p>
I witnessed an Aristophanic scene in one of their shops lately, when a
simple-minded stranger, a north Italian&mdash;some arsenal
official&mdash;brought a little boy to have his hair cut &ldquo;not too
short&rdquo; and, on returning from a brief visit to the tobacconist next door,
found it cropped much closer than he liked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But, damn it,&rdquo; he said (or words to that effect), &ldquo;I told
you not to cut the hair too short.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The barber, immaculate and imperturbable, gave a preliminary bow. He was
collecting his thoughts, and his breath.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I say, I told you not to cut it too short. It looks
horrible&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; &ldquo;Horrible? That, sir&mdash;pardon my
frankness!&mdash;is a matter of opinion. I fully admit that you desired the
child&rsquo;s hair to be cut not too short. Those, in fact, were your very
words. Notwithstanding, I venture to think you will come round to my point of
<a name="Page82"></a>
view, on due reflection, like most of my esteemed customers. In the first
place, there is the ethnological aspect of the question. You are doubtless
sufficiently versed in history to know that under the late regime it was
considered improper, if not criminal, to wear a moustache. Well, nowadays we
think differently. Which proves that fashions change; yes, they change, sir;
and the wise man bends to them&mdash;up to a certain point, of course; up to a
certain reasonable point&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; &ldquo;But, damn
it&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And in favour of my contention that hair should be worn short nowadays,
I need only cite the case of His Majesty the King, whose august head, we all
know, is clipped like that of a racehorse. Horrible (as you call it) or not,
the system has momentarily the approval of royalty, and that alone should
suffice for all loyal subjects to deem it not unworthy of imitation. Next,
there are what one might describe as hygienic and climatic considerations.
Summer is approaching, sir, and apart from certain unpleasant risks which I
need not specify, you will surely agree with me that the solstitial heat is a
needlessly severe trial for a boy with long hair. My own children are all
cropped close, and I have reason to think they are grateful for it. Why not
yours? Boys may differ in strength or complexion, in moral character and mental
attainments, but they are remarkably unanimous as to what constitutes personal
comfort. And it is obviously the duty of parents to consult the personal
comfort of their offspring&mdash;within certain reasonable limits, of
course&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lastly, we come to the much-debated point: I mean the aesthetic side of
the matter. No doubt, to judge by some old pictures such as those of the
renowned Mantegna, there must have been a time when men thought long hair in
children rather beautiful than otherwise. And I am not so rigorous as to deny a
certain charm to these portraits&mdash;a charm which is largely due I fancy, to
the becoming costumes of the period. At the same time&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The stranger did not trust himself to listen any longer. He threw down a coin
and walked out of the shop with his son, muttering something not very
complimentary to the barber&rsquo;s female relations.
</p>

<p>
But the other was quite unmoved. &ldquo;And after all,&rdquo; he continued,
addressing the half-opened door through which his visitor had fled, &ldquo;the
true question is this: What is &lsquo;too short&rsquo;? Don&rsquo;t cut it too
short, you said. <i>Che vuol dire?</i> An ambiguous phrase!
<a name="Page83"></a>
&ldquo;Too short for one man may be too long for another. Everything is
relative. Yes, gentlemen&rdquo; (turning to myself and his shop-assistant),
&ldquo;everything on this earth is relative.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
With this sole exception, I have hitherto garnered no Hellenic traits in
Taranto.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Visible even from Giadrezze, on the other side of the inland sea and beyond the
arsenal, there stands a tall, solitary palm. It is the last, the very last, or
almost the very last, of a race of giants that adorned the gardens which have
now been converted into the &ldquo;New Quarter.&rdquo;I imagine it is the
highest existing palm in Italy, and am glad to have taken a likeness of it, ere
it shall have been cut down like the rest of its fellows. Taranto was once
celebrated for these queenly growths, which the Saracens brought over from
their flaming Africa.
</p>

<p>
The same fate has overtaken the trees of the Villa Beaumont, which used to be a
shady retreat, but was bought by the municipality and forthwith
&ldquo;pulizzato&rdquo;&mdash;i.e. cleaned. This is in accordance with that
<i>mutilomania</i> of the south: that love of torturing trees which causes them
to prune pines till they look like paint-brushes that had been out all night,
and which explains their infatuation for the much-enduring robinia that allows
itself to be teased into any pattern suggested by their unhealthy phantasy. It
is really as if there were something offensive to the Latin mind in the sight
of a well-grown tree, as if man alone had the right of expanding normally. But
I must not do the City Fathers an injustice. They have planted two rows of
cryptomerias. Will people never learn that cryptomerias cannot flourish in
south Italy? Instead of this amateurish gardening, why not consult some
competent professional, who with bougain-villeas, hibiscus and fifty other such
plants would soon transform this favoured spot into a miniature paradise?
</p>

<p>
The Villa Beaumont and the road along the Admiralty canal are now the
citizens&rsquo; chief places of disport. Before the year 1869 the Corso
Vittorio Emmanuele, that skirts the sea on the south side of the old town, was
their sole promenade. And even this street was built only a short time ago.
Vainly one conjectures where the medieval Tarentines took the air. It must have
been like Manfredonia at the present day.
</p>

<p>
This Corso, which has a most awkward pavement and is otherwise disagreeable as
looking due south, becomes interesting after sunset. Here you may see the young
bloods of Taranto leaning in rows against the railing with their backs to the
sea&mdash;they are
<a name="Page84"></a>
looking across the road whence, from balconies and windows, the fair sex are
displaying their charms. Never a word is spoken. They merely gaze at each other
like lovesick puppies; and after watching the performance for several evenings,
I decided in favour of robuster methods&mdash;I decided that courtship, under
conditions such as the Corso supplies, can only be pursued by the very young or
the hopelessly infatuated. But in the south, this gazing is only part of a huge
game. They are not really in love at all, these excellent young men&mdash;not
at all, at all; they know better. They are only pretending, because it looks
manly.
</p>

<p>
We must revise our conceptions as to the love-passions of these southerners; no
people are more fundamentally sane in matters of the heart; they have none of
our obfuscated sentimentality; they are seldom naively enamoured, save in early
stages of life. It is then that small girls of eight or ten may be seen
furtively recording their feelings on the white walls of their would-be
lovers&rsquo; houses; these archaic scrawls go straight to the point, and are
models of what love-letters may ultimately become, in the time-saving
communities of the future. But when the adolescent and perfumed-pink-paper
stage is reached, the missives relapse into barbarous ambiguity; they grow
allegorical and wilfully exuberant as a Persian carpet, the effigy of a pierced
heart at the end, with enormous blood-drops oozing from it, alone furnishing a
key to the document.
</p>

<p>
So far they are in earnest, and it is the girl who takes the lead; her youthful
<i>innamorato</i> ties these letters into bundles and returns them
conscientiously, in due course, to their respective senders. Seldom does a boy
make overtures in love; he gets more of it than he knows what to do with; he is
still torpid, and slightly bored by all these attentions.
</p>

<p>
But presently he wakes up to the fact that he is a man among men, and the
obsession of &ldquo;looking manly&rdquo; becomes a part of his future
artificial and rhetorical life-scheme. From henceforth he plays to the gallery.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus11"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-11.jpg" width="381" height="476" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Taranto: the last palm</p>
</div>

<p>
Reading the city papers, one would think that south Italian youths are the most
broken-hearted creatures in the world; they are always trying to poison
themselves for love. Sometimes they succeed, of course; but
sometimes&mdash;dear me, no! Suicides look manly, that is all. They are part of
the game. The more sensible youngsters know exactly how much corrosive
sublimate to take without immediate fatal consequences, allowing for time to
reach the nearest hospital. There, the kindly physician and his stomach-pump
will perform their duty, and the patient wears a
<a name="Page85"></a>
feather in his cap for the rest of his life. The majority of these suicides are
on a par with French duels&mdash;a harmless institution whereby the
protagonists honour themselves; they confer, as it were, a patent of virility.
The country people are as warmblooded as the citizens, but they rarely indulge
in suicides because&mdash;well, there are no hospitals handy, and the doctor
may be out on his rounds. It is too risky by half.
</p>

<p>
And a good proportion of these suicides are only simulated. The wily victim
buys some innocuous preparation which sends him into convulsions with ghastly
symptoms of poisoning, and, after treatment, remains the enviable hero of a
mysterious masculine passion. Ask any town apothecary. A doctor friend of mine
lately analysed the results of his benevolent exertions upon a young man who
had been seen to drink some dreadful liquid out of a bottle, and was carried to
his surgery, writhing in most artistic agonies. He found not only no poison,
but not the slightest trace of any irritant whatever.
</p>

<p>
The true courtship of these Don Giovannis of Taranto will be quite another
affair&mdash;a cash transaction, and no credit allowed. They will select a life
partner, upon the advice of <i>ma mère</i> and a strong committee of uncles and
aunts, but not until the military service is terminated. Everything in its
proper time and place.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile they gaze and perhaps even serenade. This looks as if they were
furiously in love, and has therefore been included among the rules of the game.
Youth must keep up the poetic tradition of &ldquo;fiery.&rdquo; Besides, it is
an inexpensive pastime&mdash;the cinematograph costs forty centimes&mdash;and
you really cannot sit in the barber&rsquo;s all night long.
</p>

<p>
But catch them marrying the wrong girl!
</p>

<p class="p2">
POSTSCRIPT.&mdash;Here are two samples of youthful love-letters from my
collection.
</p>

<p>
1.&mdash;From a disappointed maiden, aged 13. Interesting, because intermediate
between the archaic and pink-paper stages:
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;IDOL OF MY HEART,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do not the stars call you when you look to Heaven? Does not the moon
tell you, the black-cap on the willow when it says farewell to the sun? The
birds of nature, the dreary country sadly covered by a few flowers that remain
there? Once your look was passionate and pierced me like a sunny ray, now it
seems the flame of a day. Does nothing tell you of imperishable love?&rdquo; I
love you and love you as (illegible) loves its liberty, as the
<a name="Page86"></a>
corn in the fields loves the sun, as the sailor loves the sea tranquil or
stormy. To you I would give my felicity, my future; for one of your words I
would spill my blood drop by drop.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of all my lovers you are the only ideal consort <i>(consorto)</i> to
whom I would give my love and all the expansion of my soul and youthful
enthusiasm <i>(intusiamo),</i> the greatest enthusiasm <i>(co-tusiamo)</i> my
heart has ever known. O cruel one who has deigned to put his sweet poison in my
heart to-day, while to-morrow you will pass me with indifference. Cold, proud
as ever, serious and disdainful&mdash;you understand? However that may be, I
send you the unrepenting cry of my rebellious heart: I love you!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is late at night, and I am still awake, and at this hour my soul is
sadder than ever in its great isolation <i>(insolamende);</i> I look on my past
love and your dear image. Too much I love you and (illegible) without your
affection.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How sadly I remember your sweet words whispered on a pathetic evening
when everything around was fair and rosy. How happy I then was when life seemed
radiant with felicity and brightened by your love. And now nothing more remains
of it; everything is finished. How sad even to say it. My heart is shipwrecked
far, far away from that happiness which I sought.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
(Three further pages of this.)
</p>

<p>
2.&mdash;From a boy of 14 who takes the initiative; such letters are rare. Note
the business-like brevity.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;DEAR Miss ANNE,
</p>

<p>
I write you these few lines to say that I have understood your character
<i>(carattolo).</i> Therefore, if I may have the honour of being your
sweetheart, you will let me know the answer at your pleasure. I salute you, and
remain,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Signing myself,&rdquo; SALVATORE. &ldquo;Prompt reply requested!&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page87"></a><a name="chap12"></a>XII<br />
MOLLE TARENTUM</h2>

<p>
One looks into the faces of these Tarentines and listens to their casual
conversations, trying to unravel what manner of life is theirs. But it is
difficult to avoid reading into their characters what history leads one to
think should be there.
</p>

<p>
The upper classes, among whom I have some acquaintance, are mellow and
enlightened; it is really as if something of the honied spirit of those old
Greek sages still brooded over them. Their charm lies in the fact that they are
civilized without being commercialized. Their politeness is unstrained, their
suaveness congenital; they remind me of that New England type which for Western
self-assertion substitutes a yielding graciousness of disposition. So it is
with persistent gentle upbringing, at Taranto and elsewhere. It tones the
individual to reposeful sweetness; one by one, his anfractuosities are worn
off; he becomes as a pebble tossed in the waters, smooth, burnished, and (to
outward appearances) indistinguishable from his fellows.
</p>

<p>
But I do not care about the ordinary city folk. They have an air of elaborate
superciliousness which testifies to ages of systematic half-culture. They seem
to utter that hopeless word, <i>connu!</i> And what, as a matter of fact, do
they know? They are only dreaming in their little backwater, like the oysters
of the lagoon, distrustful of extraneous matter and oblivious of the movement
in a world of men beyond their shell. You hear next to nothing of
&ldquo;America,&rdquo; that fruitful source of fresh notions; there is no
emigration to speak of; the population is not sufficiently energetic&mdash;they
prefer to stay at home. Nor do they care much about the politics of their own
country: one sees less newspapers here than in most Italian towns. &ldquo;Our
middle classes,&rdquo; said my friend the Italian deputy of whom I have already
spoken, &ldquo;are like our mules: to be endurable, they must be worked
thirteen hours out of the twelve.&rdquo; But these have no industries to keep
them awake, no sports, no ambitions; and this has gone on for long centuries,
In Taranto it is always afternoon. &ldquo;The Tarentines,&rdquo; says Strabo,
&ldquo;have more holidays than workdays in the year.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page88"></a>
And never was city-population more completely cut off from the country; never
was wider gulf between peasant and townsman. There are charming walks beyond
the New Quarter&mdash;a level region, with olives and figs and almonds and
pomegranates standing knee-deep in ripe odorous wheat; but the citizens might
be living at Timbuctu for all they know of these things. It rains little here;
on the occasion of my last visit not a drop had fallen <i>for fourteen
months;</i> and consequently the country roads are generally smothered in dust.
Now, dusty boots are a scandal and an offence in the eyes of the gentle
burghers, who accordingly never issue out of their town walls. They have
forgotten the use of ordinary appliances of country life, such as thick boots
and walking-sticks; you will not see them hereabouts. Unaware of this
idiosyncrasy, I used to carry a stick on my way through the streets into the
surroundings, but left it at home on learning that I was regarded as a kind of
perambulating earthquake. The spectacle of a man clattering through the streets
on horseback, such as one often sees at Venosa, would cause them to barricade
their doors and prepare for the last judgment.
</p>

<p>
Altogether, essentially nice creatures, lotus-eaters, fearful of fuss or
novelty, and drowsily satisfied with themselves and life in general. The breezy
healthfulness of travel, the teachings of art or science, the joys of rivers
and green lanes&mdash;all these things are a closed book to them. Their
interests are narrowed down to the purely human: a case of partial atrophy. For
the purely human needs a corrective; it is not sufficiently humbling, and that
is exactly what makes them so supercilious. We must take a little account of
the Cosmos nowadays&mdash;it helps to rectify our bearings. They have their
history, no doubt. But save for that one gleam of Periclean sunshine the
record, though long and varied, is sufficiently inglorious and does not testify
to undue exertions.
</p>

<p class="p2">
A change is at hand.
</p>

<p>
Gregorovius lamented the filthy condition of the old town. It is now spotless.
</p>

<p>
He deplored that Taranto possessed no museum. This again is changed, and the
provincial museum here is justly praised, though the traveller may be annoyed
at finding his favourite rooms temporarily closed (is there any museum in Italy
not &ldquo;partially closed for alterations&rdquo;?). New accessions to its
store are continually pouring in; so they lately discovered, in a tomb, a
Hellenistic statuette of Eros and Aphrodite, 30 centimetres high, terra-cotta
work of the third century. The goddess stands,
<a name="Page89"></a>
half-timidly,
while Eros alights in airy fashion on her shoulders and fans her with
his wings&mdash;an exquisite little thing.
</p>

<p>
He was grieved, likewise, that no public collection of books existed here. But
the newly founded municipal library is all that can be desired. The stranger is
cordially welcomed within its walls and may peruse, at his leisure, old
Galateus, Giovan Giovene, and the rest of them.
</p>

<p>
Wandering among those shelves, I hit upon a recent volume (1910) which gave me
more food for thought than any of these ancients. It is called &ldquo;Cose di
Puglie,&rdquo; and contains some dozen articles, all by writers of this
province of old Calabria,<a href="#fn-12.1" name="fnref-12.1" id="fnref-12.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
on matters of exclusively local interest&mdash;its history, meteorology,
dialects, classical references to the country, extracts from old economic
documents, notes on the development of Apulian printing, examples of modern
local caricature, descriptions of mediæval monuments; a kind of anthology, in
short, of provincial lore. The typography, paper and illustrations of this
remarkable volume are beyond all praise; they would do honour to the best firm
in London or Paris. What is this book? It is no commercial speculation at all;
it is a wedding present to a newly married couple&mdash;a bouquet of flowers,
of intellectual blossoms, culled from their native Apulian meadows. One notes
with pleasure that the happy pair are neither dukes nor princes. There is no
trace of snobbishness in the offering, which is simply a spontaneous expression
of good wishes on the part of a few friends. But surely it testifies to most
refined feelings. How immeasurably does this permanent and yet immaterial feast
differ from our gross wedding banquets and ponderous gilt clocks and tea
services! Such persons cannot but have the highest reverence for things of the
mind; such a gift is the fairest efflorescence of civilization. And this is
only another aspect of that undercurrent of spirituality in south Italy of
whose existence the tourist, harassed by sordid preoccupations, remains wholly
unaware.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-12.1" id="fn-12.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-12.1">[1]</a>
It included the heel of Italy.
</p>

<p>
This book was printed at Bari. Bari, not long ago, consisted of a dark and
tortuous old town, exactly like the citadel of Taranto. It has now its glaring
New Quarter, not a whit less disagreeable than the one here. Why should Taranto
not follow suit in the matter of culture? Heraclea, Sybaris and all the Greek
settlements along this coast have vanished from earth; only Taranto and Cotrone
have survived to carry on, if they can, the old traditions. They have survived,
thanks to peculiar physical conditions that have safeguarded them from
invaders. . . .
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page90"></a>
But these very conditions have entailed certain drawbacks&mdash;drawbacks which
Buckle would have lovingly enumerated to prove their influence upon the habits
and disposition of the Tarentines. That marine situation . . . only think of
three thousand years of scirocco, summer and winter! It is alone enough to
explain <i>molle Tarentum&mdash;</i>enough to drain the energy out of a
Newfoundland puppy! And then, the odious dust of the country roadways&mdash;for
it <i>is</i> odious. Had the soil been granitic, or even of the ordinary
Apennine limestone, the population might have remained in closer contact with
wild things of nature, and retained a perennial fountain of enjoyment and
inspiration. A particular kind of rock, therefore, has helped to make them
sluggish and incurious. The insularity of their citadel has worked in the same
direction, by focussing their interests upon the purely human. That inland sea,
again: were it not an ideal breeding-place for shell-fish, the Tarentines would
long ago have learnt to vary their diet. Thirty centuries of mussel-eating
cannot but impair the physical tone of a people.
</p>

<p>
And had the inland sea not existed, the Government would not have been tempted
to establish that arsenal which has led to the erection of the new town and
consequent municipal exactions. &ldquo;The arsenal,&rdquo; said a grumbling old
boatman to me, &ldquo;was the beginning of our purgatory.&rdquo; A milk diet
would work wonders with the health and spirits of the citizens. But since the
building of the new quarter, such a diet has become a luxury; cows and goats
will soon be scarce as the megatherium. There is a tax of a franc a day on
every cow, and a herd of ten goats, barely enough to keep a poor man alive,
must pay annually 380 francs in octroi. These and other legalized robberies,
which among a more virile populace would cause the mayor and town council to be
forthwith attached to the nearest lamp-post, are patiently borne. It is
<i>imbelle Tarentum&mdash;</i>a race without grit.
</p>

<p>
I would also recommend the burghers some vegetables, so desirable for their
sedentary habits, but there again! it seems to be a peculiarity of the local
soil to produce hardly a leaf of salad or cabbage. Potatoes are plainly
regarded as an exotic&mdash;they are the size of English peas, and make me
think of Ruskin&rsquo;s letter to those old ladies describing the asparagus
somewhere in Tuscany. And all this to the waiter&rsquo;s undisguised
astonishment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The gentleman is rich enough to pay for meat. Why trouble about this
kind of food?&rdquo;...
</p>

<p>
And yet&mdash;a change is at hand. These southern regions are waking up from
their slumber of ages. Already some of Italy&rsquo;s
<a name="Page91"></a>
acutest thinkers and most brilliant politicians are drawn from these
long-neglected shores. For we must rid ourselves of that incubus of
&ldquo;immutable race characters&rdquo;: think only of our Anglo-Saxon race!
What has the Englishman of to-day in common with that rather lovable fop,
drunkard and bully who would faint with ecstasy over Byron&rsquo;s
<i>Parisina</i> after pistolling his best friend in a duel about a wench or a
lap-dog? Such differences as exist between races of men, exist only at a given
moment.
</p>

<p>
And what, I sometimes ask myself&mdash;what is now the distinguishing feature
between these southern men and ourselves? Briefly this, I think. In mundane
matters, where the personal equation dominates, their judgment is apt to be
turbid and perverse; but as one rises into questions of pure intelligence, it
becomes serenely impartial. We, on the other hand, who are pre-eminently
clear-sighted in worldly concerns of law and government and in all subsidiary
branches of mentality, cannot bring ourselves to reason dispassionately on
non-practical subjects. &ldquo;L&rsquo;esprit aussi a sa pudeur,&rdquo; says
Remy de Gourmont. Well, this <i>pudeur de l&rsquo;esprit,</i> discouraged among
the highest classes in England, is the hall-mark of respectability hereabouts.
A very real difference, at this particular moment. . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
There is an end of philosophizing.
</p>

<p>
They have ousted me from my pleasant quarters, the landlady&rsquo;s son and
daughter-in-law having returned unexpectedly and claiming their apartments. I
have taken refuge in a hotel. My peace is gone; my days in Taranto are
numbered.
</p>

<p>
Loath to depart, I linger by the beach of the Ionian Sea beyond the new town.
It is littered with shells and holothurians, with antique tesser&raquo; of blue
glass and marble fragments, with white mosaic pavements and potteries of every
age, from the glossy Greco-Roman ware whose delicately embossed shell devices
are emblematic of this sea-girt city, down to the grosser products of
yesterday. Of marbles I have found <i>cipollino, pavonazzetto, giallo</i> and
<i>rosso antico,</i> but no harder materials such as porphyry or serpentine.
This, and the fact that the mosaics are pure white, suggests that the houses
here must have dated, at latest, from Augustan times.<a href="#fn-12.2" name="fnref-12.2" id="fnref-12.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-12.2" id="fn-12.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-12.2">[2]</a>
Nor is there any of the fashionable <i>verde</i> <i>antico,</i> and this
points in the same direction. Corsi says nothing as to the date of its
introduction, and I have not read the treatise of Silenziario, but my own
observations lead me to think that the <i>lapis</i> <i>atracius</i> can hardly
have been known under Tiberius. Not so those hard ones: they imported wholesale
by his predecessor Augustus, who was anxious to be known as a scorner of luxury
(a favourite pose with monarchs), yet spent incalculable sums on ornamental
stones both for public and private ends. One is struck by a certain waste of
material; either the expense was deliberately disregarded or finer methods of
working the stones were not yet in vogue. A revolution in the technique of
stone-cutting must have set in soon after his death, for thenceforward we find
the most intractable rocks cut into slices thin as card-board: too thin for
pavements, and presumably for encrusting walls and colonnades. The Augustans,
unable to produce these effects naturally, attempted imitation-stones, and with
wonderful success. I have a fragment of their plaster postiche copying the
close-grained Egyptian granite; the oily lustre of the quartz is so fresh and
the peculiar structure of the rock, with its mica scintillations, so admirably
rendered as to deceive, after two thousand years, the eye of a trained
mineralogist.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page92"></a>
Here I sit, on the tepid shingle, listening to the plash of the waves and
watching the sun as it sinks over the western mountains that are veiled in
mists during the full daylight, but loom up, at this sunset hour, as from a
fabulous world of gold. Yonder lies the Calabrian Sila forest, the
brigands&rsquo; country. I will attack it by way of Rossano, and thence wander,
past Longobucco, across the whole region. It may be well, after all, to come
again into contact with streams and woodlands, after this drenching of
classical associations and formal civic life!
</p>

<p>
Near me stands a shore-battery which used to be called &ldquo;Batteria
Chianca.&rdquo; It was here they found, some twenty years ago, a fine marble
head described as a Venus, and now preserved in the local museum. I observe
that this fort has lately been re-christened &ldquo;Batteria Archyta.&rdquo;
Can this be due to a burst of patriotism for the Greek warrior-sage who ruled
Taranto, or is it a subtle device to mislead the foreign spy?
</p>

<p>
Here, too, are kilns where they burn the blue clay into tiles and vases. I time
a small boy at work shaping the former. His average output is five tiles in
four minutes, including the carrying to and fro of the moist clay; his wages
about a shilling a day. But if you wish to see the manufacture of more
complicated potteries, you must go to the unclean quarter beyond the railway
station. Once there, you will not soon weary of that potter&rsquo;s wheel and
the fair shapes that blossom forth under its enchanted touch. This ware of
Taranto is sent by sea to many parts of south Italy, and you may see
picturesque groups of it, here and there, at the street corners.
</p>

<p>
Hardly has the sun disappeared before the lighthouse in the east begins to
flash. The promontory on which it stands is called San Vito after one of the
musty saints, now almost forgotten, whose names survive along these shores.
Stoutly this venerable one defended his ancient worship against the radiant and
victorious Madonna; nor did she dislodge him from a certain famous sanctuary
save by the questionable expedient of adopting his
<a name="Page93"></a>
name: she called herself S. M. &ldquo;della Vita.&rdquo; That settled it. He
came from Mazzara in Sicily, whither they still carry, to his lonely shrine,
epileptics and others distraught in mind. And were I in a discursive mood, I
would endeavour to trace some connection between his establishment here and the
tarantella&mdash;between St. Vitus&rsquo; dance and that other one which cured,
they say, the bite of the Tarentine spider.
</p>

<p>
But I am not inclined for such matters at present. The Cala-brian uplands are
still visible in the gathering twilight; they draw me onwards, away from
Taranto. It must be cool up there, among the firs and beeches.
</p>

<p>
And a land, moreover, of multiple memories and interests&mdash;this Calabria. A
land of great men. In 1737 the learned Aceti was able to enumerate over two
thousand celebrated Calabrians&mdash;athletes, generals, musicians,
centenarians, inventors, martyrs, ten popes, ten kings, as well as some sixty
conspicuous women. A land of thinkers. Old Zavarroni, born in 1705, gives us a
list of seven hundred Calabrian writers; and I, for one, would not care to
bring his catalogue up to date. The recently acquired <i>Biblioteca Calabra</i>
at Naples alone contains God knows how many items, nearly all modern!
</p>

<p>
And who shall recount its natural attractions? Says another old writer:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here is all sorts of Corn, sundry Wines, and in great abundance, all
kinds of Fruits, Oyle, Hony, Wax, Saffron, Bombace, Annis and Coriander seeds.
There groweth Gum, Pitch, Turpentine and liquid Storax. In former times it was
never without Mettals, but at this present it doth much abound, having in most
parts divers sorts of Mines, as Gold, Silver, Iron, Marble, Alabaster, Cristal,
Marchesite, three sorts of white Chaulk, Virmilion, Alume, Brimstone, and the
Adamant stone, which being in the fifth degree, draweth not Iron, and is in
colour black. There groweth hemp and flax of two sorts, the one called the
male, the other the female: there falleth Manna from heaven, truly a thing very
rare; and although there is not gathered such abundance of Silk, yet I dare say
there is not had so much in all <i>Italy</i> besides. There are also bathes,
both hot, luke-warm, and cold, to cure many diseases. Near the Seaside, and
likewise on the Mediterrane are goodly Gardens full of Oringes, Citrons, and
Lemons of divers sorts. It is watered with many Rivers. There are on the hils
of the Apennine, thick Woods of high Firrs, Holms, Platanes, Oaks, where grows
the white odoriferous Mushrome which shineth in the night. Here is bred the
soft stone <i>Frigia,</i> which every month
<a name="Page94"></a>
yields a delicate and wholesome Gum, and the stone <i>Aetites,</i> by us called
the stone <i>Aquilina.</i> In this Province there is excellent hunting of
divers creatures, as wild Hoggs, Staggs, Goats, Hares, Foxes, Porcupines,
Marmosets. There are also ravenous beasts, as Wolves, Bears, Luzards, which are
quick-sighted, and have the hinder parts spotted with divers colours. This kind
of Beast was brought from <i>France</i> to <i>Rome</i> in the sports of
<i>Pompey</i> the great, and Hunters affirm this Beast to be of so frail a
memory, that although he eateth with hunger, if he chance to look back,
remembreth no more his meat, and departing searcheth for other.&rdquo; Who
would not visit Calabria, if only on the chance of beholding the speckled
posterior of the absent-minded Luzard?
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page95"></a><a name="chap13"></a>XIII<br />
INTO THE JUNGLE</h2>

<p>
This short plunge into the jungle was a relief, after the all-too-human
experiences of Taranto. The forest of Policoro skirts the Ionian; the railway
line cleaves it into two unequal portions, the seaward tract being the smaller.
It is bounded on the west by the river Sinno, and I imagine the place has not
changed much since the days when Keppel Craven explored its recesses.
</p>

<p>
Twilight reigns in this maze of tall deciduous trees. There is thick
undergrowth, too; and I measured an old lentiscus&mdash;a shrub, in
Italy&mdash;which was three metres in circumference. But the exotic feature of
the grove is its wealth of creeping vines that clamber up the trunks, swinging
from one tree-top to another, and allowing the merest threads of sunlight to
filter through their matted canopy. Policoro has the tangled beauty of a
tropical swamp. Rank odours arise from the decaying leaves and moist earth; and
once within that verdant labyrinth, you might well fancy yourself in some
primeval region of the globe, where the foot of man has never penetrated.
</p>

<p>
Yet long ago it resounded with the din of battle and the trumpeting of
elephants&mdash;in that furious first battle between Pyrrhus and the Romans.
And here, under the very soil on which you stand, lies buried, they say, the
ancient city of Siris.
</p>

<p>
They have dug canals to drain off the moisture as much as possible, but the
ground is marshy in many places and often quite impassable, especially in
winter. None the less, winter is the time when a little shooting is done here,
chiefly wild boars and roe-deer. They are driven down towards the sea, but only
as far as the railway line. Those that escape into the lower portions are safe
for another year, as this is never shot over but kept as a permanent preserve.
I have been told that red-deer were introduced, but that the experiment failed;
probably the country was too hot and damp. In his account of Calabria, Duret de
Tavel<a href="#fn-13.1" name="fnref-13.1" id="fnref-13.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
sometimes speaks of killing the fallow-deer, an autochthonous
<a name="Page96"></a>
Tyrrhenian beast which is now extinct on the mainland in its wild state. Nor
can he be confounding it with the roe, since he mentions the two
together&mdash;for instance, in the following note from Corigliano (February,
1809), which must make the modern Calabrian&rsquo;s mouth water:
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-13.1" id="fn-13.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-13.1">[1]</a>
An English translation of his book appeared in 1832.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Game has multiplied to such an extent that the fields are ravaged, and
we are rendering a real service in destroying it. I question whether there
exists in Europe a country offering more varied species. . . . We return home
followed by carriages and mules loaded with wild boars, roe-deer, fallow-deer,
hares, pheasants, wild duck, wild geese&mdash;to say nothing of foxes and
wolves, of which we have already killed an immense quantity.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The pheasants seem to have likewise died out, save in royal preserves. They
were introduced into Calabria by that mighty hunter Frederick II.
</p>

<p>
The parcelling out of many of these big properties has been followed by a
destruction of woodland and complete disappearance of game. It is hailed as the
beginning of a new era of prosperity; and so it well may be, from a commercial
point of view. But the traveller and lover of nature will be glad to leave some
of these wild districts in the hands of their rich owners, who have no great
interests in cultivating every inch of ground, levelling rocky spaces, draining
the land and hewing down every tree that fails to bear fruit. Split into
peasant proprietorships, this forest would soon become a scientifically
irrigated campagna for the cultivation of tomatoes or what not, like the
&ldquo;Colonia Elena,&rdquo; near the Pontine Marshes. The national exchequer
would profit, without a doubt. But I question whether we should all take the
economical point of view&mdash;whether it would be wise for humanity to do so.
There is a prosperity other than material. Some solitary artist or poet,
drawing inspiration from scenes like this, might have contributed more to the
happiness of mankind than a legion of narrow-minded, grimy and litigious
tomato-planters.
</p>

<p>
To all appearances, Italy is infected just now with a laudable mania for the
&ldquo;exploitation of natural resources&rdquo;&mdash;at the expense, of
course, of wealthy landowners, who are described as withholding from the people
their due. The programme sounds reasonable enough; but one must not forget that
what one reads on this subject in the daily papers is largely the campaign of a
class of irresponsible pressmen and politicians, who exploit the ignorance of
weak people to fill their own pockets. How one learns to loathe, in Italy and
in England, that lovely word <i>socialism,</i> when one knows a little of the
inner workings of the cause and a few&mdash;just a
<a name="Page97"></a>
few!&mdash;details of the private lives of these unsavoury saviours of their
country!
</p>

<p>
The lot of the southern serfs was bad enough before America was
&ldquo;discovered&rdquo;; and quite unendurable in earlier times. There is a
village not many hours from Naples where, in 1789, only the personal attendants
of the feudal lord lived in ordinary houses; the two thousand inhabitants, the
serfs, took refuge in caves and shelters of straw. Conceive the conditions in
remote Calabria! Such was the anguished poverty of the country-folk that up to
the eighties of last century they used to sell their children by regular
contracts, duly attested before the local mayors. But nowadays I listen to
their complaints with comparative indifference.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are badly treated, my friend? I quite believe it; indeed, I can see
it. Well, go to Argentina and sell potatoes, or to the mines of Pennsylvania.
There you will grow rich, like the rest of your compatriots. Then return and
send your sons to the University; let them become <i>avvocati</i> and members
of Parliament, who shall harass into their graves these wicked owners of the
soil.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This, as a matter of fact, is the career of a considerable number of them.
</p>

<p>
For the rest, the domain of Policoro&mdash;it is spelt <i>Pelicaro</i> in older
maps like those of Magini and Rizzi-Zannone&mdash;seems to be well
administered, and would repay a careful study. I was not encouraged, however,
to undertake this study, the manager evidently suspecting some ulterior motive
to underlie my simple questions. He was not at all responsive to friendly
overtures. Restive at first, he soon waxed ambiguous, and finally taciturn.
Perhaps he thought I was a tax-gatherer in disguise. A large structure
combining the features of palace, fortress and convent occupies an eminence,
and is supposed by some to stand on the site of old Heracleia; it was erected
by the Jesuits; the work-people live in humble dwellings that cluster around it.
Those that are now engaged in cutting the corn receive a daily wage of two
carlini (eightpence)&mdash;the Bourbon coinage still survives in name.
</p>

<p>
You walk to this building from the station along an avenue of eucalypti planted
some forty years ago. Detesting, as I do, the whole tribe of gum trees, I never
lose an opportunity of saying exactly what I think about this particularly
odious representative of the brood, this eyesore, this grey-haired scarecrow,
this reptile of a growth with which a pack of misguided enthusiasts have
<a name="Page98"></a>
disfigured the entire Mediterranean basin. They have now realized that it is
useless as a protection against malaria. Soon enough they will learn that
instead of preventing the disease, it actually fosters it, by harbouring clouds
of mosquitoes under its scraggy so-called foliage. These abominations may look
better on their native heath: I sincerely hope they do. Judging by the
&ldquo;Dead Heart of Australia&rdquo;&mdash;a book which gave me a nightmare
from which I shall never recover&mdash;I should say that a varnished hop-pole
would be an artistic godsend out there.
</p>

<p>
But from here the intruder should be expelled without mercy. A single
eucalyptus will ruin the fairest landscape. No plant on earth rustles in such a
horribly metallic fashion when the wind blows through those everlastingly
withered branches; the noise chills one to the marrow; it is like the sibilant
chattering of ghosts. Its oil is called &ldquo;medicinal&rdquo; only because it
happens to smell rather nasty; it is worthless as timber, objectionable in form
and hue&mdash;objectionable, above all things, in its perverse, anti-human
habits. What other tree would have the effrontery to turn the sharp edges of
its leaves&mdash;as if these were not narrow enough already!&mdash;towards the
sun, so as to be sure of giving at all hours of the day the minimum of shade
and maximum of discomfort to mankind?
</p>

<p>
But I confess that this avenue of Policoro almost reconciled me to the
existence of the anaemic Antipodeans. Almost; since for some reason or other
(perhaps on account of the insufferably foul nature of the soil) their foliage
is here thickly tufted; it glows like burnished bronze in the sunshine, like
enamelled scales of green and gold. These eucalypti are unique in Italy. Gazing
upon them, my heart softened and I almost forgave the gums their manifold
iniquities, their diabolical thirst, their demoralizing aspect of precocious
senility and vice, their peeling bark suggestive of unmentionable skin
diseases, and that system of radication which is nothing short of a scandal on
this side of the globe. . . .
</p>

<p>
In the exuberance of his joy at the prospect of getting rid of me, the manager
of the estate lent me a dog-cart to convey me to the forest&rsquo;s edge, as
well as a sleepy-looking boy for a guide, warning me, however, not to put so
much as the point of my nose inside the jungle, on account of the malaria which
has already begun to infect the district. One sees all too many wan faces
hereabouts. Visible from the intervening plain is a large building on the
summit of a hill; it is called Acinapura, and this is the place I should have
gone to, had time permitted, for the sake of the fine view which it must afford
over the whole Policoro region.
<a name="Page99"></a>
Herds of buffaloes wallow in the mire. An old bull, reposing in solitary
grandeur, allowed me so near an approach that I was able to see two or three
frogs hopping about his back, and engaged in catching the mosquitoes that
troubled him. How useful, if something equally efficient and inexpensive could
be devised for humanity!
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus12"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-12.jpg" width="394" height="322" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Buffalo at Policoro</p>
</div>

<p>
We entered the darksome forest. The boy, who had hitherto confined himself to
monosyllables, suddenly woke up under its mysterious influence; he became alert
and affable; he related thrilling tales of the outlaws who used to haunt these
thickets, lamenting that those happy days were over. There were the makings of
a first-class brigand in Paolo. I stimulated his brave fancy; and it was
finally proposed that I should establish myself permanently with the manager of
the estate, so that on Sundays we could have some brigand-sport together, on
the sly.
</p>

<p>
Then out again&mdash;into the broad and sunlit bed of the Sinno. The water now
ripples in bland content down a waste of shining pebbles. But its wintry
convulsions are terrific, and higher up the stream, where the banks are steep,
many lives are lost in those angry floods that rush down from the hill-sides,
filling the riverbed with a turmoil of crested waves. At such moments, these
torrents put on new faces. From placid waterways they are transformed into
living monsters, Aegirs or dragons, that roll themselves seaward, out of their
dark caverns, in tawny coils of destruction.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page100"></a><a name="chap14"></a>XIV<br />
DRAGONS</h2>

<p>
And precisely this angry aspect of the waters has been acclaimed as one of the
origins of that river-dragon idea which used to be common in south Italy,
before the blight of Spaniardism fell upon the land and withered up the pagan
myth-making faculty. There are streams still perpetuating this name&mdash;the
rivulet Dragone, for instance, which falls into the Ionian not far from Cape
Colonne.
</p>

<p>
A non-angry aspect of them has also been suggested as the origin: the tortuous
wanderings of rivers in the plains, like the Meander, that recall the
convolutions of the serpent. For serpent and dragon are apt to be synonymous
with the ancients.
</p>

<p>
Both these explanations, I think, are late developments in the evolution of the
dragon-image. They leave one still puzzling as to what may be the aboriginal
conception underlying this legendary beast of earth and clouds and waters. We
must go further back.
</p>

<p>
What is a dragon? An animal, one might say, which looks or regards (Greek
<i>drakon);</i> so called, presumably, from its terrible eyes. Homer has
passages which bear out this interpretation:
</p>

<p class="center">
&#931;&#956;&#949;&#961;&#948;&#945;&#955;&#8051;&#959;&#957;
&#948;&#8050; &#948;&#8051;&#948;&#959;&#961;&#954;&#949;&#957;, etc.
</p>

<p>
Now the Greeks were certainly sensitive to the expression of animal
eyes&mdash;witness &ldquo;cow-eyed&rdquo; Hera, or the opprobrious epithet
&ldquo;dog-eyed&rdquo;; altogether, the more we study what is left of their
zoological researches, the more we realize what close observers they were in
natural history. Aristotle, for instance, points out sexual differences in the
feet of the crawfish which were overlooked up to a short time ago. And Hesiod
also insists upon the dragon&rsquo;s eyes. Yet it is significant that
<i>ophis,</i> the snake, is derived, like <i>drakon,</i> from a root meaning
nothing more than to perceive or regard. There is no connotation of ferocity in
either of the words. Gesner long ago suspected that the dragon was so called
simply from its keen or rapid perception.
</p>

<p>
One likes to search for some existing animal prototype of a
<a name="Page101"></a>
fabled creature like this, seeing that to invent such things out of sheer
nothing is a feat beyond human ingenuity&mdash;or, at least, beyond what the
history of others of their kind leads us to expect. It may well be that the
Homeric writer was acquainted with the Uromastix lizard that occurs in Asia
Minor, and whoever has watched this beast, as I have done, cannot fail to have
been impressed by its contemplative gestures, as if it were gazing intently
<i>(drakon)</i> at something. It is, moreover, a &ldquo;dweller in rocky
places,&rdquo; and more than this, a vegetarian&mdash;an &ldquo;eater of
poisonous herbs&rdquo; as Homer somewhere calls his dragon. So Aristotle says:
&ldquo;When the dragon has eaten much fruit, he seeks the juice of the bitter
lettuce; he has been seen to do this.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Are we tracking the dragon to his lair? Is this the aboriginal beast? Not at
all, I should say. On the contrary, this is a mere side-issue, to follow which
would lead us astray. The reptile-dragon was invented when men had begun to
forget what the arch-dragon was; it is the product of a later stage&mdash;the
materializing stage; that stage when humanity sought to explain, in
naturalistic fashion, the obscure traditions of the past. We must delve still
deeper. . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
My own dragon theory is far-fetched&mdash;perhaps necessarily so, dragons being
somewhat remote animals. The dragon, I hold, is the personification of the life
within the earth&mdash;of that life which, being unknown and uncontrollable, is
<i>eo ipso</i> hostile to man. Let me explain how this point is reached.
</p>

<p>
The animal which <i>looks or regards. . . .</i> Why&mdash;why an animal? Why
not <i>drakon =</i> that which looks?
</p>

<p>
Now, what looks?
</p>

<p>
The eye.
</p>

<p>
This is the key to the understanding of the problem, the key to the
subterranean dragon-world.
</p>

<p>
The conceit of fountains or sources of water being things that see
<i>(drakon)&mdash;</i>that is, eyes&mdash;or bearing some resemblance to eyes,
is common to many races. In Italy, for example, two springs in the inland sea
near Taranto are called &ldquo;Occhi&rdquo;&mdash;eyes; Arabs speak of a watery
fountain as an eye; the notion exists in England top&mdash;in the
&ldquo;Blentarn&rdquo; of Cumberland, the blind tarn (tarn = a trickling of
tears), which is &ldquo;blind&rdquo; because dry and waterless, and therefore
lacking the bright lustre of the open eye.
</p>

<p>
There is an eye, then, in the fountain: an eye which looks or regards. And
inasmuch as an eye presupposes a head, and a head without body is hard to
conceive, a material existence was presently
<a name="Page102"></a>
imputed to that which looked upwards out of the liquid depths. This, I think,
is the primordial dragon, the archetype. He is of animistic descent and
survives all over the earth; and it is precisely this universality of the
dragon-idea which induces me to discard all theories of local origin and to
seek for some common cause. Fountains are ubiquitous, and so are dragons. There
are fountain dragons in Japan, in the superstitions of Keltic races, in the
Mediterranean basin. The dragon of Wantley lived in a well; the Lambton Worm
began life in fresh water, and only took to dry land later on. I have elsewhere
spoken of the Manfredonia legend of Saint Lorenzo and the dragon, an indigenous
fable connected, I suspect, with the fountain near the harbour of that town,
and quite independent of the newly-imported legend of Saint Michael. Various
springs in Greece and Italy are called Dragoneria; there is a cave-fountain
Dragonara on Malta, and another of the same name near Cape Misenum&mdash;all
are sources of apposite lore. The water-drac. . . .
</p>

<p>
So the dragon has grown into a subterranean monster, who peers up from his dark
abode wherever he can&mdash;out of fountains or caverns whence fountains issue.
It stands to reason that he is sleepless; all dragons are
&ldquo;sleepless&rdquo;; their eyes are eternally open, for the luminous
sparkle of living waters never waxes dim. And bold adventurers may well be
devoured by dragons when they fall into these watery rents, never to appear
again.
</p>

<p>
Furthermore, since gold and other treasures dear to mankind lie hidden in the
stony bowels of the earth and are hard to attain, the jealous dragon has been
accredited with their guardianship&mdash;hence the plutonic element in his
nature. The dragon, whose &ldquo;ever-open eye&rdquo; protected the garden of
the Hesperides, was the <i>Son of Earth.</i> The earth or cave-dragon. . . .
Calabria has some of these dragons&rsquo; caves; you can read about them in the
<i>Campania. Sotteranea</i> of G. Sanchez.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus13"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-13.jpg" width="402" height="334" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">The Sinno River</p>
</div>

<p>
In volcanic regions there are fissures in the rocks exhaling pestiferous
emanations; these are the <i>spiracula,</i> the breathing-holes, of the dragon
within. The dragon legends of Naples and Mondragone are probably of this
origin, and so is that of the Roman Campagna (1660) where the dragon-killer
died from the effects of this poisonous breath. Sometimes the confined monster
issues in a destructive lava-torrent&mdash;Bellerophon and the Chimæra. The
fire-dragon. ... Or floods of water suddenly stream down from the hills and
fountains are released. It is the hungry dragon, rushing from his den in search
of prey; the river-dragon. . . . He rages among the mountains with such
swiftness and impetuosity
<a name="Page103"></a>
that wings must be his portion; yes, he can cleave the heavens in the guise of
lightning, or descend upon the fertile fields as a ruinous thunderstorm; the
cloud-dragon. . . . Or again, he remains permanently overhead, a flaming meteor
in the firmament; this is the <i>draco volans</i> of the schoolmen.
</p>

<p>
In all his protean manifestations, he represents the envious and devastating
principle; the spleenful wrath of untamed (untamable) telluric forces.
Everything strong and spiteful has conspired to fashion our conception of the
dragon. No wonder mankind, impotent, offers sacrifices to propitiate his rage.
These tributary offerings are the dragon&rsquo;s due&mdash;the toll exacted
from the weak by the strong in all mundane affairs. They are paid until the
dragon-killer appears, that rare mortal who puts an end to his depredations.
For the real dragon must be exterminated; he cannot be mollified by kindness;
nobody ever heard of a domesticated dragon; compromise is out of the question.
Only the victim of Saint George allowed himself to be led like a &ldquo;meke
beest&rdquo; into the city. But that was the mediæval dragon, of whom anything
can be expected.
</p>

<p class="p2">
He ultimately received a concrete form from that innate craving on the part of
humanity to give a poetic or pictorial image to its hopes and fears. This
derivative (modern) dragon is winged or unwinged, fiery or cold, crested or
smooth, of manifold hue, four-footed, two-footed, serpentine or vermiform. Such
relative variety of structure is seen in all imaginings that spring up
independently in different regions of the globe, and are yet due to a common
belief or cause. Why has he assimilated so much of the reptilian physiognomy
and framework? Well, seeing that he had to approximate his shape to some type
of beast familiar to mankind, what better general model could have been found?
The reptile&rsquo;s glassy eye; its earthward-creeping and cleft-loving habits;
its blood that recalls that chill temperature of stones and water; its hostile
pose; its ferocious tenacity of life and scaly covering, as of metals? Memories
of extinct reptilian monsters may have helped to colour the picture, as well as
that hatred of the serpent tribe which has haunted us ever since our own
arboreal days.
</p>

<p>
A prehistoric idea like this, interpretive of such diverse natural phenomena,
cannot but absorb into itself all kinds of extraneous material, ridiculous and
sublime. Like some avalanche rolling downhill, the dragon gathers momentum on
his journey athwart the ages, and is swollen in size both by kindred beliefs
that have lain in his path, and by quite incongruous accretions.
<a name="Page104"></a>
This is chiefly the poets&rsquo; work, though the theologians have added one or
two embellishing touches. But in whatever shape he appears, whether his eyes
have borrowed a more baleful fire from heathen basilisks, or traits of moral
evil are instilled into his pernicious physique by amalgamation with the
apocalyptic Beast, he remains the vindictive enemy of man and his ordered ways.
Of late&mdash;like the Saurian tribe in general&mdash;he has somewhat
degenerated. So in modern Greece, by that process of stultified
anthropomorphism which results from grafting Christianity upon an alien
mythopoesis, he dons human attributes, talking and acting as a man (H. F.
Tozer). And here, in Calabria, he lingers in children&rsquo;s fables, as
&ldquo;sdrago,&rdquo; a mockery of his former self.
</p>

<p>
To follow up his wondrous metamorphoses through mediævalism would be a pastime
worthy of some leisured dilettante. How many noble shapes acquired a tinge of
absurdity in the Middle Ages! Switzerland alone, with its mystery of untrodden
crevices, used to be crammed with dragons&mdash;particularly the calcareous
(cavernous) province of Rhaetia. Secondary dragons; for the good monks saw to
it that no reminiscences of the autochthonous beast survived. Modern scholars
have devoted much learning to the local Tazzelwurm and Bergstutz. But dragons
of our familiar kind were already well known to the chroniclers from whom old
Cysat extracted his twenty-fifth chapter (wherein, by the way, you will learn
something of Calabrian dragons); then came J. J. Wagner (1680); then
Scheuchzer, prince of dragon-finders, who informs us that <i>multorum draconum
historia mendax.</i>
</p>

<p>
But it is rather a far cry from Calabria to the asthmatic Scheuchzer, wiping
the perspiration off his brow as he clambers among the Alps to record truthful
dragon yarns and untruthful barometrical observations; or to China, dragon-land
<i>par excellence;</i><a href="#fn-14.1" name="fnref-14.1" id="fnref-14.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
or even to our own Heralds&rsquo; College, where these and other beasts have
sought a refuge from prying professors under such queer disguises that their
own mothers would hardly recognize them.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-14.1" id="fn-14.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-14.1">[1]</a>
In Chinese mythology the telluric element has remained untarnished. The
dragon is an earth-god, who controls the rain and thunder clouds.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page105"></a><a name="chap15"></a>XV<br />
BYZANTINISM</h2>

<p>
Exhausted with the morning&rsquo;s walk at Policoro, a railway journey and a
long drive up nearly a thousand feet to Rossano in the heat of midday, I sought
refuge, contrary to my usual custom, in the chief hotel, intending to rest
awhile and then seek other quarters. The establishment was described as
&ldquo;ganz ordentlich&rdquo; in Baedeker. But, alas! I found little peace or
content. The bed on which I had hoped to repose was already occupied by several
other inmates. Prompted by curiosity, I counted up to fifty-two of them; after
that, my interest in the matter faded away. It became too monotonous. They were
all alike, save in point of size (some were giants). A Swammerdam would have
been grieved by their lack of variety.
</p>

<p>
And this, I said to myself, in a renowned city that has given birth to poets
and orators, to saints like the great Nilus, to two popes and&mdash;last, but
not least&mdash;one anti-pope! I will not particularize the species beyond
saying that they did not hop. Nor will I return to this theme. Let the reader
once and for all take <i>them</i> for granted.<a href="#fn-15.1" name="fnref-15.1" id="fnref-15.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
Let him note that most of the inns of this region are quite uninhabitable, for
this and other reasons, unless he takes the most elaborate precautions. . . .
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-15.1" id="fn-15.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-15.1">[1]</a>
They have their uses, to be sure. Says Kircher: <i>Cunices lectularii potens
remedium contra quartanum est, si ab inscio aegro cum vehiculo congruo
potentur; mulierum morbis medentur et uterum prolapsum solo odore in suum locum
restituunt.</i>
</p>

<p>
Where, then, do I generally go for accommodation?
</p>

<p>
Well, as a rule I begin by calling for advice at the chemist&rsquo;s shop,
where a fixed number of the older and wiser citizens congregate for a little
talk. The cafés and barbers and wine-shops are also meeting-places of men; but
those who gather here are not of the right type&mdash;they are the young, or
empty-headed, or merely thirsty. The other is the true centre of the leisured
class, the philosophers&rsquo; rendezvous. Your <i>speciale</i> (apothecary) is
himself an elderly and honoured man, full of responsibility and local
knowledge; he is altogether a superior person, having been
<a name="Page106"></a>
trained in a University. You enter the shop, therefore, and purchase a
pennyworth of vaseline. This act entitles you to all the privileges of the
club. Then is the moment to take a seat, smiling affably at the assembled
company, but without proffering a syllable. If this etiquette is strictly
adhered to, it will not be long ere you are politely questioned as to your
plans, your present accommodation, and so forth; and soon several members will
be vying with each other to procure you a clean and comfortable room at half
the price charged in a hotel.
</p>

<p>
Even when this end is accomplished, my connection with the pharmacy coterie is
not severed. I go there from time to time, ostensibly to talk, but in reality
to listen. Here one can feel the true pulse of the place. Local questions are
dispassionately discussed, with ample forms of courtesy and in a language
worthy of Cicero. It is the club of the <i>élite.</i>
</p>

<p>
In olden days I used to visit south Italy armed with introductions to
merchants, noblemen and landed proprietors. I have quite abandoned that system,
as these people, bless their hearts, have such cordial notions of hospitality
that from morning to night the traveller has not a moment he can call his own.
Letters to persons in authority, such as syndics or police officers, are
useless and worse than useless. Like Chinese mandarins, these officials are so
puffed up with their own importance that it is sheer waste of time to call upon
them. If wanted, they can always be found; if not, they are best left alone.
For besides being usually the least enlightened and least amiable of the
populace, they are inordinately suspicious of political or commercial designs
on the part of strangers&mdash;God knows what visions are fermenting in their
turbid brains&mdash;and seldom let you out of their sight, once they have known
you.
</p>

<p>
Excepting at Cosenza, Cotrone and Catanzaro, an average white man will seldom
find, in any Calabrian hostelry, what he is accustomed to consider as ordinary
necessities of life. The thing is easily explicable. These men are not yet in
the habit of &ldquo;handling&rdquo; civilized travellers; they fail to realize
that hotel-keeping is a business to be learnt, like tailoring or politics. They
are still in the patriarchal stage, wealthy proprietors for the most part, and
quite independent of your custom. They have not learnt the trick of Swiss
servility. You must therefore be prepared to put up with what looks like very
bad treatment. On your entrance nobody moves a step to enquire after your
wants; you must begin by foraging for yourself, and thank God if any notice is
taken of what you say; it is as if your presence were barely
<a name="Page107"></a>
tolerated. But once the stranger has learnt to pocket his pride and treat his
hosts in the same offhand fashion, he will find among them an unconventional
courtesy of the best kind.
</p>

<p>
The establishment being run as a rule by the proprietor&rsquo;s own family,
gratuities with a view to exceptional treatment are refused with quiet dignity,
and even when accepted will not further your interests in the least; on the
contrary, you are thenceforward regarded as tactless and weak in the head.
Discreet praise of their native town or village is the best way to win the
hearts of the younger generation; for the parents a little knowledge of
American conditions is desirable, to prove that you are a man of the world and
worthy, a priori, of some respect. But if there exists a man-cook, he is
generally an importation and should be periodically and liberally bribed,
without knowledge of the family, from the earliest moment. Wonderful, what a
cook can do!
</p>

<p>
It is customary here not to live <i>en pension</i> or to pay a fixed price for
any meal, the smallest item, down to a piece of bread, being conscientiously
marked against you. My system, elaborated after considerable experimentation,
is to call for this bill every morning and, for the first day or two after
arrival, dispute in friendly fashion every item, remorselessly cutting down
some of them. Not that they overcharge; their honesty is notorious, and no
difference is made in this respect between a foreigner and a native. It is a
matter of principle. By this system, which must not be overdone, your position
in the house gradually changes; from being a guest, you become a friend, a
brother. For it is your duty to show, above all things, that you are not
<i>scemo</i>&mdash;witless, soft-headed&mdash;the unforgivable sin in the
south. You may be a forger or cut-throat&mdash;why not? It is a vocation like
any other, a vocation for <i>men.</i> But whoever cannot take care of
himself&mdash;i.e. of his money&mdash;is not to be trusted, in any walk of
life; he is of no account; he is no man. I have become firm friends with some
of these proprietors by the simple expedient of striking a few francs off their
bills; and should I ever wish to marry one of their daughters, the surest way
to predispose the whole family in my favour would be this method of amiable but
unsmiling contestation.
</p>

<p>
Of course the inns are often dirty, and not only in their sleeping
accommodation. The reason is that, like Turks or Jews, their owners do not see
dirt (there is no word for dirt in the Hebrew language); they think it odd when
you draw their attention to it. I remember complaining, in one of my fastidious
moments,
<a name="Page108"></a>
of a napkin, plainly not my own, which had been laid at my seat. There was
literally not a clean spot left on its surface, and I insisted on a new one. I
got it; but not before hearing the proprietor mutter something about &ldquo;the
caprices of pregnant women.&rdquo; . . .
</p>

<p>
The view from these my new quarters at Rossano compensates for divers other
little drawbacks. Down a many-folded gorge of glowing red earth decked with
olives and cistus the eye wanders to the Ionian Sea shining in deepest
turquoise tints, and beautified by a glittering margin of white sand. To my
left, the water takes a noble sweep inland; there lies the plain of Sybaris,
traversed by the Crathis of old that has thrust a long spit of sand into the
waves. On this side the outlook is bounded by the high range of Pollino and
Dolcedorme, serrated peaks that are even now (midsummer) displaying a few
patches of snow. Clear-cut in the morning light, these exquisite mountains
evaporate, towards sunset, in an amethystine haze. A restful prospect.
</p>

<p>
But great was my amazement, on looking out of the window during the night after
my arrival, to observe the Polar star placed directly over the Ionian
Sea&mdash;the south, as I surely deemed it. A week has passed since then, and
in spite of the map I have not quite familiarized myself with this spectacle,
nor yet with that other one of the sun setting apparently due east, over Monte
Pollino.
</p>

<p>
The glory of Rossano is the image of the Madonna Achiropita. Bartholomaeus
tells us, in his life of Saint Nilus, that in olden days she was wont to
appear, clothed in purple, and drive away with a divine torch the Saracen
invaders of this town. In more recent times, too, she has often saved the
citizens from locusts, cholera, and other calamitous visitations. Unlike most
of her kind, she was not painted by Saint Luke. She is
<i>acheiropœta</i>&mdash;not painted by any human hands whatever, and in so
far resembles a certain old image of the Magna Mater, her prototype, which was
also of divine origin. It is generally supposed that this picture is painted on
wood. Not so, says Diehl; it is a fragment of a fresco on stone.
</p>

<p>
Hard by, in the clock-tower of the square, is a marble tablet erected to the
memory of the deputy Felice Cavalotti. We all remember Cavalotti, the
last&mdash;with Imbriani&mdash;of the republican giants, a blustering
rhetorician-journalist, annihilator of monarchs and popes; a fire-eating
duellist, who deserved his uncommon and unlovely fate. He provoked a colleague
to an encounter and, during a frenzied attack, received into his open mouth the
point
<a name="Page109"></a>
of his adversary&rsquo;s sword, which sealed up for ever that fountain of
eloquence and vituperation.
</p>

<p>
Cavalotti and the Virgin Achiropita&mdash;the new and the old. Really, with
such extreme ideals before his eyes, the burghers of Rossano must sometimes
wonder where righteousness lies.
</p>

<p>
They call themselves Calabrians. <i>Noi siamo calabresi!</i> they proudly say,
meaning that they are above suspicion of unfair dealing. As a matter of fact,
they are a muddled brood, and considerably given to cheating when there is any
prospect of success. You must watch the peasants coming home at night from
their field-work if you wish to see the true Calabrian type&mdash;whiskered,
short and wiry, and of dark complexion. There is that indescribable mark of
<i>race</i> in these countrymen; they are different in features and character
from the Italians; it is an ascetic, a Spanish type. Your Calabrian is
strangely scornful of luxury and even comfort; a creature of few but
well-chosen words, straightforward, indifferent to pain and suffering, and
dwelling by preference, when religiously minded, on the harsher aspects of his
faith. A note of unworldliness is discoverable in his outlook upon life.
Dealing with such men, one feels that they are well disposed not from impulse,
but from some dark sense of preordained obligation. Greek and other strains
have infused versatility and a more smiling exterior; but the groundwork of the
whole remains that old <i>homo ibericus</i> of austere gentlemanliness.
</p>

<p>
Rossano was built by the Romans, says Procopius, and during Byzantine days
became a fortress of primary importance. An older settlement probably lay by
the seashore, and its harbour is marked as &ldquo;good&rdquo; so late as the
days of Edrisius. Like many of these old Calabrian ports, it is now invaded by
silt and sand, though a few ships still call there. Wishful to learn something
of the past glories of the town, I enquired at the municipality for the public
library, but was informed by the supercilious and not over-polite secretary
that this proud city possesses no such institution. A certain priest, he added,
would give me all the desired information.
</p>

<p>
Canonico Rizzo was a delightful old man, with snowy hair and candid blue eyes.
Nothing, it seemed, could have given him greater pleasure than my appearance at
that particular moment. He discoursed awhile, and sagely, concerning England
and English literature, and then we passed on, <i>via</i> Milton, to Calvin and
the Puritan movement in Scotland; next, <i>via</i> Livingstone, to colonial
enterprises in Africa; and finally, <i>via</i> Egypt, Abyssinia, and
</p>

<p>
Prester John, to the early history of the eastern churches.
<a name="Page110"></a>
Byzantinism&mdash;Saint Nilus; that gave me the desired opportunity, and I
mentioned the object of my visit.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The history of Rossano? Well, well! The secretary of the municipality
does me too much honour. You must read the Book of Genesis and Hesiod and
Berosus and the rest of them. But stay! I have something of more modern date,
in which you will find these ancient authors conveniently classified.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
From this book by de Rosis, printed in 1838, I gleaned two facts, firstly, that
the city of Rossano is now 3663 years old&mdash;quite a respectable age, as
towns go&mdash;and lastly, that in the year 1500 it had its own academy of
lettered men, who called themselves &ldquo;I spensierati,&rdquo; with the motto
<i>Non alunt curas</i>&mdash;an echo, no doubt, of the Neapolitan renaissance
under Alfonso the Magnificent. The popes Urban VIII and Benedict XIII belonged
to this association of &ldquo;thoughtless ones.&rdquo; The work ends with a
formidable list of local personages distinguished in the past for their
gentleness of birth and polite accomplishments. One wonders how all these
delicately nurtured creatures can have survived at Rossano, if their sleeping
accommodation&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
You might live here some little time before realizing that this place, which
seems to slope gently downhill against a pleasing background of wooded
mountains, is capable of being strongly fortified. It lies, like other inland
Calabrian (and Etruscan) cities, on ground enclosed by stream-beds, and one of
these forms a deep gully above which Rossano towers on a smooth and
perpendicular precipice. The upper part of this wall of rock is grey sandstone;
the lower a bed of red granitic matter. From this coloured stone, which crops
up everywhere, the town may have drawn its name of Rossano (rosso = red); not a
very old settlement, therefore; although certain patriotic philologers insist
upon deriving it from &ldquo;rus sanum,&rdquo; healthy country. Its older names
were Roscia, and Ruscianum; it is not marked in Peutinger. Countless jackdaws
and kestrels nestle in this cliff, as well as clouds of swifts, both Alpine and
common. These swifts are the ornithological phenomenon of Rossano, and I think
the citizens have cause to be thankful for their existence; to them I attribute
the fact that there are so few flies, mosquitoes, and other aerial plagues
here. If only the amiable birds could be induced to extend their attentions to
the bedrooms as well!
</p>

<p>
This shady glen at the back of the city, with its sparse tufts of vegetation
and monstrous blocks of deep red stone cloven into rifts and ravines by the
wild waters, has a charm of its own. There are undeniable suggestions of Hell
about the place. A pathway
<a name="Page111"></a>
runs adown this vale of Hinnom, and if you follow it upwards to the junction of
the streams you will reach a road that once more ascends to the town, past the
old church of Saint Mark, a most interesting building. It has five little
cupolas, but the interior, supported by eight columns, has been whitewashed.
The structure has now rightly been declared a &ldquo;national monument.&rdquo;
It dates from the ninth or tenth century and, according to Bertaux, has the
same plan and the same dimensions as the famous &ldquo;Cattolica&rdquo; at
Stilo, which the artistic Lear, though he stayed some time at that picturesque
place, does not so much as mention. They say that this chapel of Saint Mark was
built by Euprassius, protos-padarius of Calabria, and that in the days of Nilus
it was dedicated to Saint Anastasius.
</p>

<p>
Here, at Rossano, we are once more <i>en plein Byzance.</i>
</p>

<p class="p2">
Rossano was not only a political bulwark, the most formidable citadel of this
Byzantine province. It was a great intellectual centre, upon which literature,
theology and art converged. Among the many perverse historical notions of which
we are now ridding ourselves is this&mdash;that Byzantinism in south Italy was
a period of decay and torpid dreamings. It needed, on the contrary, a
resourceful activity to wipe out, as did those colonists from the east, every
trace of Roman culture and language (Latin rule only revived at Rossano in the
fifteenth century). There was no lethargy in their social and political
ambitions, in their military achievements, which held the land against
overwhelming numbers of Saracens, Lombards and other intruders. And the life of
those old monks of Saint Basil, as we now know it, represented a veritable
renaissance of art and letters.
</p>

<p>
Of the ten Basilean convents that grew up in the surroundings of Rossano the
most celebrated was that of S. M. del Patir. Together with the others, it
succeeded to a period of eremitism
</p>

<p>
of solitary anchorites whose dwellings honeycombed the warm slopes that
confront the Ionian. . . .
</p>

<p>
The lives of some of these Greco-Calabrian hermits are valuable documents. In
the <i>Vitae Sanctorum Siculorum</i> of O. Caietanus (1657) the student will
find a Latin translation of the biography of one of them, Saint Elia Junior. He
died in 903. It was written by a contemporary monk, who tells us that the holy
man performed many miracles, among them that of walking over a river dryshod.
And the Bollandists <i>(Acta Sanctorum,</i> 11th September) have reprinted the
biography of Saint Elia Spelaeotes&mdash;the cave-dweller, as composed in Greek
by a disciple. It is yet more
<a name="Page112"></a>
interesting. He lived in a &ldquo;honesta spelunca&rdquo; which he discovered
in 864 by means of a flight of bats issuing therefrom; he suffered persecutions
from a woman, exactly after the fashion of Joseph and Potiphar&rsquo;s wife; he
grew to be 94 years old; the Saracens vainly tried to burn his dead body, and
the water in which this corpse was subsequently washed was useful for curing
another holy man&rsquo;s toothache. Yet even these creatures were subject to
gleams of common sense. &ldquo;Virtues,&rdquo; said this one, &ldquo;are better
than miracles.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
How are we to account for these rock-hermits and their inelegant habits? How
explain this poisoning of the sources of manly self-respect?
</p>

<p>
Thus, I think: that under the influence of their creed they reverted perforce
to the more bestial traits of aboriginal humanity. They were thrust back in
their development. They became solitaries, animalesque and shy&mdash;such as we
may imagine our hairy progenitors to have been. Hence their dirt and vermin,
their horror of learning, their unkempt hair, their ferocious independence,
their distrust of sunshine and ordered social life, their foul dieting, their
dread of malign spirits, their cave-dwelling propensities. All bestial
characteristics!
</p>

<p>
This atavistic movement, this retrogression towards primevalism, must have
possessed a certain charm, for it attracted vast multitudes; it was only
hemmed, at last, by a physical obstacle.
</p>

<p>
The supply of caves ran out.
</p>

<p>
Not till then were its votaries forced to congregate in those unhealthy
clusters which afterwards grew to be monasteries. Where many of them were
gathered together under one roof there imposed itself a certain rudimentary
discipline and subordination; yet they preserved as much as they could of their
savage traits, cave-like cells and hatred of cleanliness, terror of demons,
matted beards.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus14"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-14.jpg" width="371" height="455" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Chapel of Saint Mark</p>
</div>

<p>
Gradually the social habits of mundane fellow-creatures insinuated themselves
into these hives of squalor and idleness. The inmates began to wash and to
shave; they acquired property, they tilled the ground, they learnt to read and
write, and finally became connaisseurs of books and pictures and wine and
women. They were pleased to forget that the eunuch and the beggar are the true
Christian or Buddhist. In other words, the allurements of rational life grew
too strong for their convictions; they became reasonable beings in spite of
their creed. This is how coenobitism grew out of eremitism not only in
Calabria, but in every part of the world which has been afflicted with these
<a name="Page113"></a>
eccentrics. Go to Mount Athos, if you wish to see specimens of all the
different stages conveniently arranged upon a small area. . . .
</p>

<p>
This convent of Patir exercised a great local influence as early as the tenth
century; then, towards the end of the eleventh, it was completely rebuilt
without and reorganized within. The church underwent a thorough restoration in
1672. But it was shattered, together with the rest of the edifice, by the
earthquake of 1836 which, Madonna Achiropita notwithstanding, levelled to the
ground one-half of the fifteen thousand houses then standing at Rossano.
</p>

<p>
These monastic establishments, as a general rule, were occupied later on by the
Benedictines, who ousted the Basileans and were supplanted, in their turn, by
popular orders of later days like the Theatines. Those that are conveniently
situated have now been turned into post offices, municipalities, and other
public buildings&mdash;such has been the common procedure. But many of them,
like this of Patir, are too decayed and remote from the life of man. Fiore, who
wrote in 1691, counts up 94 dilapidated Basilean monasteries in Calabria out of
a former total of about two hundred; Patir and thirteen others he mentions as
having, in his day, their old rites still subsisting. Batiffol has recently
gone into the subject with his usual thoroughness.
</p>

<p>
Nothing is uglier than a modern ruin, and the place would assuredly not be
worth the three hours&rsquo; ride from Rossano were it not for the church,
which has been repaired, and for the wondrous view to be obtained from its
site. The journey, too, is charming, both by the ordinary track that descends
from Rossano and skirts the foot of the hills through olives and pebbly
stream-beds, ascending, finally, across an odorous tangle of cistus, rosemary
and myrtle to the platform on which the convent stands&mdash;or by the
alternative and longer route which I took on the homeward way, and which
follows the old water conduit built by the monks into a forest of enormous
chestnuts, oaks, hollies and Calabrian pines, emerging out of an ocean of
glittering bracken.
</p>

<p>
I was pursued into the church of Patir by a bevy of country wenches who
frequented this region for purposes of haymaking. There is a miraculous
crucifix in this sanctuary, hidden behind a veil which, with infinite ceremony,
these females withdrew for my edification. There it was, sure enough; but what,
I wondered, would happen from the presence of these impure creatures in such a
place? Things have changed considerably since the days of old, for such was the
contamination to be expected from the mere
<a name="Page114"></a>
presence of a woman within these walls that even the Mother of God, while
visiting Saint Nilus&mdash;the builder, not the great saint&mdash;at work upon
the foundations, often conversed with him, but never ventured to step within
the area of the building itself. And later on it was a well-authenticated
phenomenon recorded by Beltrano and others, that if a female entered the
church, the heavens immediately became cloudy and sent down thunders and
lightnings and such-like signs of celestial disapproval, which never ceased
until the offending monster had left the premises.
</p>

<p>
From this ancient monastery comes, I fancy, the Achiropita image. Montorio will
tell you all about it; he learnt its history in June 1712 from the local
archbishop, who had extracted his information out of the episcopal archives.
Concerning another of these wonder-working idols&mdash;that of S. M. del
Patirion&mdash;you may read in the ponderous tomes of Ughelli.
</p>

<p>
Whether the celebrated Purple Codex of Rossano ever formed part of the library
of Patirion has not yet been determined. This wonderful parchment&mdash;now
preserved at Rossano&mdash;is mentioned for the first time by Cesare Malpica,
who wrote some interesting things about the Albanian and Greek colonies in
Calabria, but it was only discovered, in the right sense of that word, in March
1879 by Gebhardt and Harnack. They illustrated it in their <i>Evangeliorum
Codex Graecus.</i> Haseloff also described it in 1898 <i>(Codex Purpureus
Rossanensis),</i> and pointed out that its iconographical value consists in the
fact that it is the only Greek Testament MS. containing pictures of the life of
Christ before the eighth-ninth century. These pictures are indeed
marvellous&mdash;more marvellous than beautiful, like so many Byzantine
productions; their value is such that the parchment has now been declared a
&ldquo;national monument.&rdquo; It is sternly guarded, and if it is moved out
of Rossano&mdash;as happened lately when it was exhibited at
Grottaferrata&mdash;it travels in the company of armed carbineers.
</p>

<p>
Still pursued by the flock of women, I took to examining the floor of this
church, which contains tesselated marble pavements depicting centaurs,
unicorns, lions, stags, and other beasts. But my contemplation of these choice
relics was disturbed by irrelevant remarks on the part of the worldly females,
who discovered in the head of the stag some subtle peculiarity that stirred
their sense of humour.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Look!&rdquo; said one of them to her neighbour. &ldquo;He has horns.
Just like your Pasquale.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pasquale indeed! And how about Antonio?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page115"></a>
I enquired whether they knew what kind of animals these were.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Beasts of the ancients. Beasts that nobody knows. Beasts that have
horns&mdash;like certain Christians. . . .&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
From the terrace of green sward that fronts this ruined monastery you can see
the little town of Corigliano, whose coquettish white houses lie in a fold of
the hills. Corigliano&mdash;[Greek: xorion hellaion] (land of olives): the
derivation, if not correct, is at least appropriate, for it lies embowered in a
forest of these trees. A gay place it was, in Bourbon times, with a ducal ruler
of its own. Here, they say, the remnants of the Sybarites took refuge after the
destruction of their city whose desolate plain lies at our feet, backed by the
noble range of Dolcedorme. Swinburne, like a sensible man, takes the Sybarites
under his protection; he defends their artificially shaded streets and those
other signs of voluptuousness which, to judge by certain modern researches,
seem to have been chiefly contrived for combating the demon of malaria. Earthly
welfare, the cult of material health and ease&mdash;such was <i>their</i>
ideal.
</p>

<p>
In sharpest contrast to these strivings stands the aim of those old monks who
scorned the body as a mere encumbrance, seeking spiritual enlightenment and
things not of this earth.
</p>

<p>
And now, Sybarites and Basileans&mdash;alike in ruins!
</p>

<p>
A man of to-day, asked which of the two civilizations he would wish restored,
would not hesitate long in deciding for the Hellenic one. Readers of Lenormant
will call to mind his glowing pages on the wonders that might be found buried
on the site of Sybaris. His plan of excavation sounds feasible enough. But how
remote it becomes, when one remembers the case of Herculaneum! Here, to our
certain knowledge, many miracles of antique art and literature lie within a few
feet of our reach; yet nothing is done. These hidden monuments, which are the
heritage of all humanity, are withheld from our eyes by the dog-in-the-manger
policy of a country which, even without foreign assistance, could easily
accomplish the work, were it to employ thereon only half the sum now spent in
feeding, clothing and supervising a horde of criminals, every one of whom ought
to be hanged ten times over. Meanwhile other nations are forbidden to
co-operate; the fair-minded German proposals were scornfully rejected; later
on, those of Sir Charles Waldstein.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What!&rdquo; says the <i>Giornale d&rsquo; Italia, &ldquo;</i>are we to
have international excavation-committees thrust upon us? Are we to be treated
like the Turks?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page116"></a>
That, gentle sirs, is precisely the state of the case.
</p>

<p>
The object of such committees is to do for the good of mankind what a single
nation is powerless or unwilling to do. Your behaviour at Herculaneum is
identical with that of the Turks at Nineveh. The system adopted should likewise
be the same.
</p>

<p>
I shall never see that consummation.
</p>

<p class="p2">
But I shall not forget a certain article in an American paper&mdash;&ldquo;The
New York Times,&rdquo; I fancy&mdash;which gave me fresh food for thought, here
at Patirion, in the sight of that old Hellenic colony, and with the light
chatter of those women still ringing in my ears. Its writer, with whom not all
of us will agree, declared that first in importance of all the antiquities
buried in Italian soil come the lost poems of Sappho. The lost poems of
Sappho&mdash;a singular choice! In corroboration whereof he quoted the
extravagant praise of J. A. Symonds upon that amiable and ambiguous young
person. And he might have added Algernon Swinburne, who calls her &ldquo;the
greatest poet who ever was at all.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sappho and these two Victorians, I said to myself. . . . Why just these two?
How keen is the cry of elective affinity athwart the ages! <i>The soul,</i>
says Plato, <i>divines that which it seeks, and traces obscurely the footsteps
of its obscure desire.</i>
</p>

<p>
The footsteps of its obscure desire&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
So one stumbles, inadvertently, upon problems of the day concerning which our
sages profess to know nothing. And yet I do perceive a certain Writing upon the
Wall setting forth, in clearest language, that 1 + 1 = 3; a legend which it
behoves them not to expunge, but to expound. For it refuses to be expunged; and
we do not need a German lady to tell us how much the &ldquo;synthetic&rdquo;
sex, the hornless but not brainless sex, has done for the life of the spirit
while those other two were reclaiming the waste places of earth, and
procreating, and fighting&mdash;as befits their horned anatomy.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page117"></a><a name="chap16"></a>XVI<br />
REPOSING AT CASTROVILLARI</h2>

<p>
I remember asking my friend the Roman deputy of whom I have already spoken, and
whom I regard as a fountain of wisdom on matters Italian, how it came about
that the railway stations in his country were apt to be so far distant from the
towns they serve. Rocca Bernarda, I was saying, lies 33 kilometres from its
station; and even some of the largest towns in the kingdom are inconveniently
and unnecessarily remote from the line.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;True,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Very true! Inconveniently . . . but
perhaps not unnecessarily. . . .&rdquo; He nodded his head, as he often does,
when revolving some deep problem in his mind.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, sir?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Inasmuch as everything has its reasons, be they geographical,
sociological, or otherwise . . .&rdquo; and he mused again. &ldquo;Let me tell
you what I think as regards our respective English and Italian points of
view,&rdquo; he said at last. &ldquo;And to begin with&mdash;a few
generalities! We may hold that success in modern life consists in correctly
appreciating the principles which underlie our experiences&mdash;in what may be
called the scientific attitude towards things in general. Now, do the English
cultivate this attitude? Not sufficiently. They are in the stage of those
mediæval scholars who contentedly alleged separate primary causes for each
phenomenon, instead of seeking, by the investigation of secondary ones, for the
inevitable interdependence of the whole. In other words, they do not
subordinate facts; they co-ordinate them. Your politicians and all your public
men are guided by impulse&mdash;by expediency, as they prefer to call it; they
are empirical; they never attempt to codify their conduct; they despise it as
theorizing. What happens? This old-fashioned hand-to-mouth system of theirs
invariably breaks down here and there. And then? Then they trust to some
divine interposition, some accident, to put things to rights again. The success
of the English is largely built up on such accidents&mdash;on the mistakes of
other people. Providence has favoured them so far, on the whole; but one day
it
<a name="Page118"></a>
may leave them in the lurch, as it did the anti-scientific Russians in their
war with the Japanese. One day other people will forget to make these pleasant
mistakes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He paused, and I forbore to interrupt his eloquence.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To come now to the practical application&mdash;to this particular
instance. Tell me, does your English system testify to any constructive
forethought? In London, I am assured, the railway companies have built stations
at enormous expense in the very heart of the town. What will be the consequence
of this hand-to-mouth policy? This, that in fifty years such structures will
have become obsolete&mdash;stranded in slums at the back of new quarters yet
undreamed of. New depots will have to be built. Whereas in Italy the now
distant city will in fifty years have grown to reach its station and, in
another half-century, will have encircled it. Thanks to our sagacity, the
station will then be in its proper place, in the centre of the town. Our
progeny will be grateful; and that again, you will admit, is a worthy aim for
our politicians. Besides, what would happen to our coachmen if nobody needed
their services on arriving at his destination? The poor men must not be allowed
to starve! Cold head and warm heart, you know; humanitarian considerations
cannot be thrust aside by a community that prides itself on being truly
civilized. I trust I have made myself intelligible?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You always do. But why should I incommode myself to please your progeny,
or even my own? And I don&rsquo;t like the kind of warm heart that subordinates
my concerns to those of a cab-driver. You don&rsquo;t altogether convince me,
dear sir.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To speak frankly, I sometimes don&rsquo;t convince myself. My own
country station, for example, is curiously remote from the city, and it is
annoying on wintry nights to drive through six miles of level mud when you are
anxious to reach home and dinner; so much so that, in my egoistical moments, I
would have been glad if our administration had adopted the more specious
British method. But come now! You cannot raise that objection against the
terminus at Rome.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not that one. But I can raise two others. The platforms are
inconveniently arranged, and a traveller will often find it impossible to wash
his hands and face there; as to hot water&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Granting a certain deplorable disposition of the lines&mdash;why on
earth, pray, should a man cleanse himself at the station when there are
countless hotels and lodging-houses in the city? O you English
originals!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page119"></a>
&ldquo;And supposing,&rdquo; I urged, &ldquo;he is in a hurry to catch another
train going south, to Naples or Palermo?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There I have you, my illustrious friend! <i>Nobody travels south of
Rome.&rdquo;</i>
</p>

<p>
Nobody travels south of Rome. . . .
</p>

<p>
Often have I thought upon those words.
</p>

<p>
This conversation was forcibly recalled to my mind by the fact that it took our
creaky old diligence two and a half hours (one of the horses had been bought
the day before, for six pounds) to drive from the station of Castrovillari to
the entrance of the town, where we were delayed another twenty minutes, while
the octroi zealots searched through every bag and parcel on the post-waggon.
</p>

<p>
Many people have said bad things about this place. But my once unpleasant
impressions of it have been effaced by my reception at its new and decent
little hostelry. What a change after the sordid filth of Rossano!
Castrovillari, to be sure, has no background of hoary eld to atone for such
deficiencies. It was only built the other day, by the Normans; or by the
Romans, who called it Aprustum; or possibly by the Greeks, who founded their
Abystron on this particular site for the same reasons that commended it in yet
earlier times to certain bronze and stone age primitives, whose weapons you may
study in the British Museum and elsewhere.<a href="#fn-16.1" name="fnref-16.1" id="fnref-16.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-16.1" id="fn-16.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-16.1">[1]</a>
Even so Taranto, Cumae, Paestum, Metapontum, Monteleone and other southern
towns were founded by the ancients on the site of prehistoric stations.
</p>

<p>
But what are the stone ages compared with immortal and immutable Rossano? An
ecclesiastical writer has proved that Calabria was inhabited before the
Noachian flood; and Rossano, we may be sure, was one of the favourite haunts of
the antediluvians. None the less, it is good to rest in a clean bed, for a
change; and to feed off a clean plate.
</p>

<p>
We are in the south. One sees it in sundry small ways&mdash;in the behaviour of
the cats, for instance. . . .
</p>

<p>
The Tarentines, they say, imported the cat into Europe. If those of south Italy
still resemble their old Nubian ancestors, the beast would assuredly not have
been worth the trouble of acclimatizing. On entering these regions, one of the
first things that strikes me is the difference between the appearance of cats
and dogs hereabouts, and in England or any northern country; and the difference
in their temperaments. Our dogs are alert in their movements and of wideawake
features; here they are drowsy and degraded mongrels, with expressionless eyes.
Our cats are sleek and slumberous; here they prowl about haggard,
<a name="Page120"></a>
shifty and careworn, their fur in patches and their ears a-tremble from nervous
anxiety. That domestic animals such as these should be fed at home does not
commend itself to the common people; they must forage for their food abroad.
Dogs eat offal, while the others hunt for lizards in the fields. A lizard diet
is supposed to reduce their weight (it would certainly reduce mine); but I
suspect that southern cats are emaciated not only from this cause, but from
systematic starvation. Many a kitten is born that never tastes a drop of
cow&rsquo;s milk from the cradle to the grave, and little enough of its own
mother&rsquo;s.
</p>

<p>
To say that our English <i>zoophilomania</i>&mdash;our cult of
lap-dogs&mdash;smacks of degeneracy does not mean that I sympathize with the
ill-treatment of beasts which annoys many visitors to these parts and has been
attributed to &ldquo;Saracenic&rdquo; influences. Wrongly, of course; one might
as well attribute it to the old Greeks.<a href="#fn-16.2" name="fnref-16.2" id="fnref-16.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
Poor Saracens! They are a sort of whipping-boy, all over the country. The chief
sinner in this respect is the Vatican, which has authorized cruelty to animals
by its official teaching. When Lord Odo Russell enquired of the Pope regarding
the foundation of a society for the prevention of cruelty to animals in Italy,
the papal answer was: &ldquo;Such an association <i>could not be sanctioned</i>
by the Holy See, being founded on a theological error, to wit, that Christians
owed any duties to animals.&rdquo; This language has the inestimable and rather
unusual merit of being perspicuous. Nevertheless, Ouida&rsquo;s flaming letters
to &ldquo;The Times&rdquo; inaugurated an era of truer humanity. . . .
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-16.2" id="fn-16.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-16.2">[2]</a>
Whose attitude towards animals, by the way, was as far removed from
callousness as from sentimentalism. We know how those Hellenic oxen fared who
had laboured to draw up heavy blocks for the building of a temple&mdash;how, on
the completion of their task, they were led into green fields, there to pasture
unmolested for the rest of their lives. We know that the Greeks were
appreciative of the graces and virtues of canine nature&mdash;is not the
Homeric Argo still the finest dog-type in literature? Yet to them the dog, even
he of the tender Anthology, remained what he is: a tamed beast. The Greeks,
sitting at dinner, resented the insolence of a creature that, watching every
morsel as it disappeared into the mouth of its master, plainly discovered by
its physiognomy the desire, the presumed right, to devour what he considered
fit only for himself. Whence that profound word [Greek:
kunopes]&mdash;dog-eyed, shameless. In contrast to this sanity, observe what an
Englishman can read into a dog&rsquo;s eye:<br />
<br />
                    That liquid, melancholy eye,<br />
                    From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs<br />
                    Seemed surging the Virgilian cry&mdash;<br />
                    The sense of tears in mortal things. . . .<br />
<br />
That is how Matthew Arnold interprets the feelings of Fido, watching his master
at work upon a tender beefsteak. . . .
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus15"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-15.jpg" width="399" height="311" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Shoeing a Cow</p>
</div>

<p>
And the lateness of the dining-hour&mdash;another symptom of the south. It was
eleven o&rsquo;clock when I sat down to dinner on the night of my arrival, and
habitues of the hotel, engineers and so
<a name="Page121"></a>
forth, were still dropping in for their evening meal. Appetite comes more
slowly than ever, now that the heats have begun.
</p>

<p>
They have begun in earnest. The swoon of summer is upon the land, the grass is
cut, cicadas are chirping overhead. Despite its height of a thousand feet,
Castrovillari must be blazing in August, surrounded as it is by parched fields
and an amphitheatre of bare limestone hills that exhale the sunny beams. You
may stroll about these fields observing the construction of the line which is
to pass through Cassano, a pretty place, famous for its wine and mineral
springs; or studying the habits of the gigantic grasshoppers that hang in
clusters to the dried thistles and start off, when scared, with the noise of a
covey of partridges; or watching how the cows are shod, at this season, to
thresh the corn. Old authors are unanimous in declaring that the town was
embowered in oak forests; as late as 1844 it was lamented that this
&ldquo;ancient barbarous custom&rdquo; of cutting them down had not yet been
discontinued. The mischief is now done, and it would be interesting to know the
difference between the present summer temperature and that of olden days.
</p>

<p>
The manna ash used to be cultivated in these parts. I cannot tell whether its
purgative secretion is still in favour. The confusion between this stuff and
the biblical manna gave rise to the legends about Calabria where &ldquo;manna
droppeth as dew from Heaven.&rdquo; Sandys says it was prepared out of the
mulberry. He copied assiduously, did old Sandys, and yet found room for some
original blunders of his own. R. Pococke, by the way, is one of those who were
dissatisfied with Castrovillari. He found no accommodation save an empty house.
&ldquo;A poor town.&rdquo; . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
Driving through modern Castrovillari one might think the place flat and
undeserving of the name of <i>castrum.</i> But the old town is otherwise. It
occupies a proud eminence&mdash;the head of a promontory which overlooks the
junction of two streams; the newer settlement stands on the more level ground
at its back. This acropolis, once thronged with folk but now well-nigh
deserted, has all the macabre fascination of decay. A mildewy spirit haunts
those tortuous and uneven roadways; plaster drops unheeded from the walls; the
wild fig thrusts luxuriant arms through the windows of palaces whose balconies
are rusted and painted loggias crumbling to earth ... a mournful and malarious
agglomeration of ruins.
</p>

<p>
There is a castle, of course. It was built, or rebuilt, by the Aragonese, with
four corner towers, one of which became
<a name="Page122"></a>
infamous
for a scene that rivals the horrors of the Black Hole of Calcutta.
Numbers of confined brigands, uncared-for, perished miserably of starvation
within its walls. Says the historian Botta:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The abominable taint prevented the guards from approaching; the dead
bodies were not carried away. The pestilence increased; in pain and exhaustion,
the dying fell shuddering on the dead; the hale on the dying; all tearing
themselves like dogs with teeth and nails. The tower of Castrovillari became a
foul hole of corruption, and the stench was spread abroad for a long
season.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This castle is now used as a place of confinement. Sentries warned me at one
point not to approach too near the walls; it was &ldquo;forbidden.&rdquo; I had
no particular desire to disobey this injunction. Judging by the number of rats
that swarm about the place, it is not exactly a model prison.
</p>

<p>
One of the streets in this dilapidated stronghold bears to this day the
inscription &ldquo;Giudea,&rdquo; or Jewry. Southern Italy was well stocked
with those Hebrews concerning whom Mr. H. M. Adler has sagely discoursed. They
lived in separate districts, and seem to have borne a good reputation. Those
of Castrovillari, on being ejected by Ferdinand the Catholic in 1511,
obligingly made a donation of their school to the town. But they returned anon,
and claimed it again. Persecuted as they were, they never suffered the
martyrdom of the ill-starred Waldensian colonies in Calabria.
</p>

<p>
The houses of this Jewry overlook the Coscile river, the Sybaris of old, and
from a spot in the quarter a steep path descends to its banks. Here you will
find yourself in another climate, cool and moist. The livid waters tumble
gleefully towards the plain, amid penurious plots of beans and tomatoes, and a
fierce tangle of vegetation wherever the hand of man has not made clearings.
Then, mounting aloft once more, you will do well to visit the far-famed chapel
that sits at the apex of the promontory, Santa Maria del Castello. There is a
little platform where you may repose and enjoy the view, as I have done for
some evenings past&mdash;letting the eye roam up-country towards Dolcedorme and
its sister peaks, and westwards over the undulating Sila lands whose highest
point, Botte Donato, is unmistakable even at this distance of forty miles, from
its peculiar shape.
</p>

<p>
The Madonna picture preserved within the sanctuary has performed so many
miracles in ages past that I despair of giving any account of them. It is high
time, none the less, for a new sign from Heaven. Shattered by earthquakes, the
chapel is in a disruptured and even menacing condition. Will some returned
emigrant from America come forward with the necessary funds?
<a name="Page123"></a>
That would be a miracle, too, in its way. But gone, for the present, are the
ages of Faith&mdash;the days when the peevishly-protestant J. H. Bartels
sojourned here and groaned as he counted up the seven monasteries of
Castrovillari (there used to be nearly twice that number), and viewed the 130
priests, &ldquo;fat-paunched rascals, loafing about the streets and
doorways.&rdquo; . . .
</p>

<p>
From my window in the hotel I espy a small patch of snow on the hills. I know
the place; it is the so-called &ldquo;Montagna del Principe&rdquo; past which
the track winds into the Pollino regions. Thither I am bound; but so
complicated is life that even for a short three days&rsquo; ramble among those
forests a certain amount of food and clothing must be provided&mdash;a mule is
plainly required. There seem to be none of these beasts available at
Castrovillari.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To Morano!&rdquo; they tell me. &ldquo;It is nearer the mountain, and
there you will find mules plentiful as blackberries. To Morano!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Morano lies a few miles higher up the valley on the great military road to
Lagonegro, which was built by Murat and cuts through the interior of
Basilicata, rising at Campo Tenese to a height of 1100 metres. They are now
running a public motor service along this beautiful stretch of 52 kilometres,
at the cheap rate of a sou per kilometre.
</p>

<p>
<i>En route!</i>
</p>

<p class="p2">
POSTSCRIPT.&mdash;Another symptom of the south:
</p>

<p>
Once you have reached the latitude of Naples, the word <i>grazie</i> (thank
you) vanishes from the vocabulary of all save the most cultured. But to
conclude therefrom that one is among a thankless race is not altogether the
right inference. They have a wholly different conception of the affair. Our
septentrional &ldquo;thanks&rdquo; is a complicated product in which
gratefulness for things received and for things to come are unconsciously
balanced; while their point of view differs in nothing from that of the
beau-ideal of Greek courtesy, of Achilles, whose mother procured for him a suit
of divine armour from Hephaistos, which he received without a word of
acknowledgment either for her or for the god who had been put to some little
trouble in the matter. A thing given they regard as a thing found, a hermaion,
a happy hit in the lottery of life; the giver is the blind instrument of
Fortune. This chill attitude repels us; and our effusive expressions of
thankfulness astonish these people and the Orientals.
</p>

<p>
A further difference is that the actual gift is viewed quite extrinsically,
intellectually, either in regard to what it would fetch
<a name="Page124"></a>
if bartered or sold, or, if to be kept, as to how far its possession may raise
the recipient in the eyes of other men. This is purely Homeric, once
more&mdash;Homeric or primordial, if you prefer. Odysseus told his kind host
Alkinoos, whom he was never to see again, that he would be glad to receive
farewell presents from him&mdash;to cherish as a friendly memory? No, but
&ldquo;because they would make him look a finer fellow when he got home.&rdquo;
The idea of a keepsake, of an emotional value attaching to some trifle, is a
northern one. Here life is give and take, and lucky he who takes more than he
gives; it is what Professor Mahaffy calls the &ldquo;ingrained selfishness of
the Greek character.&rdquo; Speaking of all below the upper classes, I should
say that disinterested benevolence is apt to surpass their comprehension, a
good-natured person being regarded as weak in the head.
</p>

<p>
Has this man, then, no family, that he should benefit strangers? Or is he one
of nature&rsquo;s unfortunates&mdash;soft-witted? Thus they argue. They will do
acts of spontaneous kindness towards their family, far oftener than is
customary with us. But outside that narrow sphere, <i>interesse</i> (Odyssean
self-advantage) is the mainspring of their actions. Whence their smooth and
glozing manners towards the stranger, and those protestations of undying
affection which beguile the unwary&mdash;they wish to be forever in your good
graces, for sooner or later you may be of use; and if perchance you do content
them, they will marvel (philosophically) at your grotesque generosity, your
lack of discrimination and restraint. Such <i>malizia</i> (cleverness) is none
the more respectable for being childishly transparent. The profound and
unscrupulous northerner quickly familiarizes himself with its technique, and
turns it to his own profit. Lowering his moral notions, he soon&mdash;so one of
them expressed it to me&mdash;&ldquo;walks round them without getting off his
chair&rdquo; and, on the strength of his undeserved reputation for simplicity
and fair dealing, keeps them dangling a lifetime in a tremble of obsequious
amiability, cheered on by the hope of ultimately over-reaching him. Idle dream,
where a pliant and sanguine southerner is pitted against the unswerving Saxon
or Teuton! This accounts for the success of foreign trading houses in the
south. Business is business, and the devil take the hindmost! By all means; but
they who are not rooted to the spot by commercial exigencies nor ready to adopt
debased standards of conduct will find that a prolonged residence in a centre
like Naples&mdash;the daily attrition of its ape-and-tiger
elements&mdash;sullies their homely candour and self-respect.
</p>

<p>
For a tigerish flavour does exist in most of these southern towns.
<a name="Page125"></a>
Camorra, the law of intimidation, rules the city. This is what Stendhal meant
when, speaking of the &ldquo;simple and inoffensive&rdquo; personages in the
<i>Vicar of Wakefield,</i> he remarked that &ldquo;in the sombre Italy, a
simple and inoffensive creature would be quickly destroyed.&rdquo; It is not
easy to be inoffensive and yet respected in a land of teeth and claws, where a
man is reverenced in proportion as he can browbeat his fellows. So much
ferocity tinctures civic life, that had they not dwelt in towns while we were
still shivering in bogs, one would deem them not yet ripe for herding together
in large numbers; one would say that post-patriarchal conditions evoked the
worst qualities of the race. And we must revise our conceptions of fat and lean
men; we must pity Cassius, and dread Falstaff.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What has happened&rdquo;&mdash;you ask some enormous
individual&mdash;&ldquo;to your adversary at law?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To which one of them?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Signor M&mdash;&mdash;, the timber merchant.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>L&rsquo;abbiamo mangiato!</i>&rdquo; (I have eaten him.)
</p>

<p>
Beware of the fat Neapolitan. He is fat from prosperity, from, dining off his
leaner brothers.
</p>

<p>
Which reminds me of a supremely important subject, eating.
</p>

<p>
The feeding here is saner than ours with its all-pervading animal grease (even
a boiled egg tastes of mutton fat in England), its stock-pot, suet, and those
other inventions of the devil whose awful effects we only survive because we
are continually counteracting or eliminating them by the help of (1) pills, (2)
athletics, and (3) alcohol. Saner as regards material, but hopelessly
irrational in method. Your ordinary employé begins his day with a thimbleful of
black coffee, nothing more. What work shall be got out of him. under such
anti-hygienic conditions? Of course it takes ten men to do the work of one; and
of course all ten of them are sulky and irritable throughout the morning,
thinking only of their luncheon. Then indeed&mdash;then they make up for lost
time; those few favoured ones, at least, who can afford it.
</p>

<p>
I once watched a young fellow, a clerk of some kind, in a restaurant at midday.
He began by informing the waiter that he had no appetite that
morning&mdash;<i>sangue di Dio!</i> no appetite whatever; but at last allowed
himself to be persuaded into consuming a <i>hors d&rsquo; oeuvres</i> of
anchovies and olives. Then he was induced to try the maccheroni, because they
were &ldquo;particularly good that morning&rdquo;; he ate, or rather drank, an
immense plateful. After that came some slices of meat and a dish of green stuff
sufficient to satisfy a starving bullock. A little fish? asked the
<a name="Page126"></a>
waiter. Well, perhaps yes, just for form&rsquo;s sake&mdash;two fried mullets
and some nondescript fragments. Next, he devoured a couple of raw eggs
&ldquo;on account of his miserably weak stomach,&rdquo; a bowl of salad and a
goodly lump of fresh cheese. Not without a secret feeling of envy I left him at
work upon his dessert, of which he had already consumed some six peaches. Add
to this (quite an ordinary repast) half a bottle of heavy wine, a cup of black
coffee and three glasses of water&mdash;what work shall be got out of a man
after such a boa-constrictor collation? He is as exasperated and prone to take
offence as in the morning&mdash;this time from another cause. . . .
</p>

<p>
That is why so many of them suffer from chronic troubles of the digestive
organs. The head of a hospital at Naples tells me that stomach diseases are
more prevalent there than in any other part of Europe, and the stomach,
whatever sentimentalists may say to the contrary, being the true seat of the
emotions, it follows that a judicious system of dieting might work wonders upon
their development. Nearly all Mediterranean races have been misfed from early
days; that is why they are so small. I would undertake to raise the Italian
standard of height by several inches, if I had control of their nutrition for a
few centuries. I would undertake to alter their whole outlook upon life, to
convert them from utilitarians into romantics&mdash;were such a change
desirable. For if utilitarianism be the shadow of starvation, romance is
nothing but the vapour of repletion.
</p>

<p>
And yet men still talk of race-characteristics as of something fixed and
immutable! The Jews, so long as they starved in Palestine, were the most
acrimonious bigots on earth. Now that they live and feed sensibly, they have
learnt to see things in their true perspective&mdash;they have become
rationalists. Their less fortunate fellow-Semites, the Arabs, have continued to
starve and to swear by the Koran&mdash;empty in body and empty in mind. No
poise or balance is possible to those who live in uneasy conditions. The wisest
of them can only attain to stoicism&mdash;a dumb protest against the
environment. There are no stoics among well-fed people. The Romans made that
discovery for themselves, when they abandoned the cheese-paring habits of the
Republic.
</p>

<p>
In short, it seems to me that virtues and vices which cannot be expressed in
physiological terms are not worth talking about; that when a morality refuses
to derive its sanction from the laws which govern our body, it loses the right
to exist. This being so, what is the most conspicuous native vice?
</p>

<p>
Envy, without a doubt.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page127"></a>
Out of envy they pine away and die; out of envy they kill one another. To
produce a more placid race,<a href="#fn-16.3" name="fnref-16.3" id="fnref-16.3"><sup>[3]</sup></a>
to dilute envious thoughts and the acts to which they lead, is at bottom a
question of nutrition. One would like to know for how much black brooding and
for how many revengeful deeds that morning thimbleful of black coffee is
responsible.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-16.3" id="fn-16.3"></a> <a href="#fnref-16.3">[3]</a>
By placid I do not mean peace-loving and pitiful in the Christian sense. That
doctrine of loving and forgiving one&rsquo;s enemies is based on sheer funk;
our pity for others is dangerously akin to self-pity, most odious of vices.
Catholic teaching&mdash;in practice, if not in theory&mdash;-glides artfully
over the desirability of these imported freak-virtues, knowing that they cannot
appeal to a masculine stock. By placid I mean steady, self-contained.
</p>

<p>
The very faces one sees in the streets would change. Envy is reflected in all
too many of those of the middle classes, while the poorest citizens are often
haggard and distraught from sheer hunger&mdash;hunger which has not had time to
be commuted into moral poison; college-taught men, in responsible positions,
being forced to live on salaries which a London lift-boy would disdain. When
that other local feature, that respect for honourable poverty&mdash;the reverse
of what we see in England where, since the days of the arch-snob Pope, a
slender income has grown to be considered a subject of reproach.
</p>

<p>
And yet another symptom of the south&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
Enough! The clock points to 6.20; it is time for an evening walk&mdash;my final
one&mdash;to the terrace of S. M. del Castello.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page128"></a><a name="chap17"></a>XVII<br />
OLD MORANO</h2>

<p>
This Morano is a very ancient city; Tufarelli, writing in 1598, proves that it
was then exactly 3349 years old. Oddly enough, therefore, its foundation almost
coincides with that of Rossano. . . .
</p>

<p>
There may be mules at Morano; indeed, there are. But they are illusive beasts:
phantom-mules. Despite the assistance of the captain of the carbineers, the
local innkeeper, the communal policeman, the secretary of the municipality, an
amiable canon of the church and several non-official residents, I vainly
endeavoured, for three days, to procure one&mdash;flitting about, meanwhile,
between this place and Castrovillari. For Morano, notwithstanding its size
(they say it is larger than the other town) offers no accommodation or food in
the septentrional sense of those terms.
</p>

<p>
Its situation, as you approach from Castrovillari, is striking. The white
houses stream in a cataract down one side of a steep conical hill that
dominates the landscape&mdash;on the summit sits the inevitable castle, blue
sky peering through its battered windows. But the interior is not at all in
keeping with this imposing aspect. Morano, so far as I was able to explore it,
is a labyrinth of sombre, tortuous and fetid alleys, where black pigs wallow
amid heaps of miscellaneous and malodorous filth&mdash;in short, the town
exemplifies that particular idea of civic liberty which consists in everybody
being free to throw their own private refuse into the public street and leave
it there, from generation to generation. What says Lombroso? &ldquo;The
street-cleaning is entrusted, in many towns, to the rains of heaven and, in
their absence, to the voracity of the pigs.&rdquo; None the less, while waiting
for mules that never came, I took to patrolling those alleys, at first out of
sheer boredom, but soon impelled by that subtle fascination which emanates from
the <i>ne plus ultra</i> of anything&mdash;even of grotesque dirtiness. On the
second day, however, a case of cholera was announced, which chilled my ardour
for further investigations. It was on that account that I failed to inspect
what was afterwards described to me as the chief marvel of the place&mdash;a
carved wooden altar-piece in a certain church.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page129"></a>
<i>&ldquo;</i>It is prodigious and <i>antichissimo,&rdquo;</i> said an obliging
citizen to whom I applied for information. &ldquo;There is nothing like it on
earth, and I have been six times to America, sir. The artist&mdash;a real
artist, mind you, not a common professor&mdash;spent his whole life in carving
it. It was for the church, you see, and he wanted to show what he could do in
the way of a masterpiece. Then, when it was finished and in its place, the
priests refused to pay for it. It was made not for them, they said, but for the
glory of God; the man&rsquo;s reward was sufficient. And besides, he could have
remission of sins for the rest of his life. He said he did not care about
remission of sins; he wanted money&mdash;money! But he got nothing. Whereupon
he began to brood and to grow yellow. Money&mdash;money! That was all he ever
said. And at last he became quite green and died. After that, his son took up
the quarrel, but he got as little out of the priests as the father. It was
fixed in the church, you understand, and he could not take it away. He climbed
through the window one night and tried to burn it&mdash;the marks are there to
this day&mdash;but they were too sharp for him. And he took the business so
much to heart that he also soon died quite young! And quite green&mdash;like
his father.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The most characteristic item in the above history is that about growing green.
People are apt to put on this colour in the south from disappointment or from
envy. They have a proverb which runs &ldquo;sfoga o
schiatta&rdquo;&mdash;relieve yourself or burst; our vaunted ideal of
self-restraint, of dominating the reflexes, being thought not only fanciful but
injurious to health. Therefore, if relief is thwarted, they either brood
themselves into a green melancholy, or succumb to a sudden &ldquo;colpo di
sangue,&rdquo; like a young woman of my acquaintance who, considering herself
beaten in a dispute with a tram-conductor about a penny, forthwith had a
&ldquo;colpo di sangue,&rdquo; and was dead in a few hours. A primeval
assertion of the ego . . .
</p>

<p>
Unable to perambulate the streets of Morano, I climbed to the ruined fortress
along the verdant slope at its back, and enjoyed a fair view down the fertile
valley, irrigated by streamlets and planted with many-hued patches of culture,
with mulberries, pomegranates and poplars. Some boys were up here, engaged in
fishing&mdash;fishing for young kestrels in their nest above a shattered
gateway. The tackle consisted of a rod with a bent piece of wire fixed to one
end, and it seemed to me a pretty unpromising form of sport. But suddenly, amid
wild vociferations, they hooked one, and carried it off in triumph to supper.
The mother bird, meanwhile, sailed restlessly about the aether watching every
movement,
<a name="Page130"></a>
as I could see by my glasses; at times she drifted quite near, then swerved
again and hovered, with vibrating pinions, directly overhead. It was clear that
she could not tear herself away from the scene, and hardly had the marauders
departed, when she alighted on the wall and began to inspect what was left of
her dwelling. It was probably rather untidy. I felt sorry for her; yet such
harebrained imprudence cannot go unpunished. With so many hundred crannies in
this old castle, why choose one which any boy can reach with a stick? She will
know better next season.
</p>

<p>
Then an old shepherd scrambled up, and sat on the stone beside me. He was
short-sighted, asthmatic, and unable to work; the doctor had recommended an
evening walk up to the castle. We conversed awhile, and he extracted a
carnation out of his waistcoat pocket&mdash;unusual receptacle for
flowers&mdash;which he presented to me. I touched upon the all-absorbing topic
of mules.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo; Mules are very busy animals in Morano,&rdquo; he explained.
<i>&ldquo;Animali occupatissimi.&rdquo;</i> However, he promised to exert
himself on my behalf; he knew a man with a mule&mdash;two mules&mdash;he would
send him round, if possible.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Quite a feature in the landscape of Morano is the costume of the women, with
their home-dyed red skirts and ribbons of the same hue plaited into their hair.
It is a beautiful and reposeful shade of red, between Pompeian and
brick-colour, and the tint very closely resembles that of the cloth worn by the
beduin (married) women of Tunisia. Maybe it was introduced by the Saracens. And
it is they, I imagine, who imported that love of red peppers (a favourite dish
with most Orientals) which is peculiar to these parts, where they eat them
voraciously in every form, particularly in that of red sausages seasoned with
these fiery condiments.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus16"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-16.jpg" width="402" height="316" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Morano</p>
</div>

<p>
The whole country is full of Saracen memories. The name of Morano, they say, is
derived from <i>moro</i>,<a href="#fn-17.1" name="fnref-17.1" id="fnref-17.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
a Moor; and in its little piazza&mdash;an irregular and picturesque spot,
shaded by a few grand old elms amid the sound of running waters&mdash;there is
a sculptured head of a Moor inserted into the wall, commemorative, I was told,
of some ancient anti-Saracen exploit. It is the escutcheon of the town. This
Moor wears a red fez, and his features are painted black (this is <i>de
rigueur,</i> for &ldquo;Saracens&rdquo;); he bears the legend <i>Vivit</i>
<a name="Page131"></a>
<i>sub arbore morus.</i> Near at hand, too, lies the prosperous village
Saracena, celebrated of old for its muscatel wines. They are made from the
grape which the Saracens brought over from Maskat, and planted all over
Sicily.<a  href="#fn-17.2" name="fnref-17.2" id="fnref-17.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-17.1" id="fn-17.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-17.1">[1]</a>
This is all wrong, of course. And equally wrong is the derivation from
<i>morus,</i> a mulberry&mdash;abundant as these trees are. And more wrong
still, if possible, is that which is drawn from a saying of the mysterious
Oenotrians&mdash;that useful tribe&mdash;who, wandering in search of homesteads
across these regions and observing their beauty, are supposed to have remarked:
<i>Hic moremur&mdash;</i>here let us stay! Morano (strange to say) is simply
the Roman Muranum.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-17.2" id="fn-17.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-17.2">[2]</a>
See next chapter.
</p>

<p>
The men of Morano emigrate to America; two-thirds of the adult and adolescent
male population are at this moment on the other side of the Atlantic. But the
oldsters, with their peaked hats (capello pizzuto) shading gnarled and canny
features, are well worth studying. At this summer season they leave the town at
3.30 a.m. to cultivate their fields, often far distant, returning at nightfall;
and to observe these really wonderful types, which will soon be extinct, you
must take up a stand on the Castrovillari road towards sunset and watch them
riding home on their donkeys, or walking, after the labours of the day.
</p>

<p>
Poorly dressed, these peasants are none the less wealthy; the post office
deposit of Morano is said to have two million francs to its credit, mostly the
savings of these humble cultivators, who can discover an astonishing amount of
money when it is a question, for example, of providing their daughters with a
dowry. The bridal dress alone, a blaze of blue silk and lace and gold
embroidery, costs between six hundred and a thousand francs. Altogether, Morano
is a rich place, despite its sordid appearance; it is also celebrated as the
birthplace of various learned men. The author of the &ldquo;Calascione
Scordato,&rdquo; a famous Neapolitan poem of the seventeenth century, certainly
lived here for some time and has been acclaimed as a son of Morano, though he
distinctly speaks of Naples as his home. Among its elder literary glories is
that Leonardo Tufarelli, who thus apostrophizes his birthplace:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And to proceed&mdash;how many <i>letterati</i> and <i>virtuosi</i> have
issued from you in divers times? Among whom&mdash;not to name all of
them&mdash;there has been in our days Leopardo de l&rsquo;Osso of happy memory,
physician and most excellent philosopher, singular in every science, of whom I
dare say that he attained to Pythagorean heights. How many are there to-day,
versed in every faculty, in theology, in the two laws, and in medicine? How
many historians, how many poets, grammarians, artists, actors?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The modern writer Nicola Leoni is likewise a child of Morano; his voluminous
&ldquo;Della Magna Grecia e delle Tre Calabrie&rdquo; appeared in 1844-1846.
He, too, devotes much space to the praises of his natal city, and to
lamentations regarding the sad condition of Calabrian letters during those dark
years.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Closed for ever is the academy of Amantea! Closed for ever is
<a name="Page132"></a>
the academy of Rossano! Rare are the lectures in the academy of Monteleone!
Rare indeed the lectures in the academy of Catanzaro! Closed for ever is the
public library of Monteleone! O ancient days! O wisdom of our fathers! Where
shall I find you?.. .&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
To live the intellectual life amid the ferociously squalid surroundings of
Morano argues an enviable philosophic calm&mdash;a detachment bordering on
insensibility. But perhaps we are too easily influenced by externals, in these
degenerate times. Or things may have been better in days of old&mdash;who can
tell? One always likes to think so, though the evidence usually points to the
contrary.
</p>

<p class="p2">
When least I expected it, a possessor of mules presented himself. He was a
burly ruffian of northern extraction, with clear eyes, fair moustache, and an
insidious air of cheerfulness.
</p>

<p>
Yes, he had a mule, he said; but as to climbing the mountain for three or four
days on end&mdash;ha, ha!&mdash;that was rather an undertaking, you know. Was I
aware that there were forests and snow up there? Had I ever been up the
mountain? Indeed! Well, then I must know that there was no food&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
I pointed to my store of provisions from Castrovillari. His eye wandered
lovingly over the pile and reposed, finally, upon sundry odd bottles and a
capacious demijohn, holding twelve litres.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Wine of family,&rdquo; I urged. &ldquo;None of your eating-house
stuff.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He thought he could manage it, after all. Yes; the trip could be undertaken,
with a little sacrifice. And he had a second mule, a lady-mule, which it struck
him I might like to ride now and then; a pleasant beast and a companion, so to
speak, for the other one. Two mules and two Christians&mdash;that seemed
appropriate. . . . And only four francs a day more.
</p>

<p>
Done! It was really cheap. So cheap, that I straightway grew suspicious of the
&ldquo;lady-mule.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
We sealed the bargain in a glass of the local mixture, and I thereupon demanded
a <i>caparra&mdash;</i>a monetary security that he would keep his word, i.e.
be round at my door with the animals at two in the morning, so as to reach the
uplands before the heat became oppressive.
</p>

<p>
His face clouded&mdash;a good omen, indicating that he was beginning to respect
me. Then he pulled out his purse, and reluctantly laid two francs on the table.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus17"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-17.jpg" width="377" height="476" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">An old Shepherd</p>
</div>

<p>
The evening was spent in final preparations; I retired early to bed, and tried
to sleep. One o&rsquo;clock came, and two o&rsquo;clock, and
<a name="Page133"></a>
three o&rsquo;clock&mdash;no mules! At four I went to the man&rsquo;s house,
and woke him out of ambrosial slumbers.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You come to see me so early in the morning?&rdquo; he enquired, sitting
up in bed and rubbing his eyes. &ldquo;Now that&rsquo;s really nice of
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
One of the mules, he airily explained, had lost a shoe in the afternoon. He
would get it put right at once&mdash;at once.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You might have told me so yesterday evening, instead of keeping me awake
all night waiting for you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;True,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I thought of it at the time. But then I
went to bed, and slept. Ah, sir, it is good to sleep!&rdquo; and he stretched
himself voluptuously.
</p>

<p>
The beast was shod, and at 5 a.m. we left.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page134"></a><a name="chap18"></a>XVIII<br />
AFRICAN INTRUDERS</h2>

<p>
There is a type of physiognomy here which is undeniably Semitic&mdash;with
curly hair, dusky skin and hooked nose. We may take it to be of Saracenic
origin, since a Phoenician descent is out of the question, while mediæval Jews
never intermarried with Christians. It is the same class of face which one sees
so abundantly at Palermo, the former metropolis of these Africans. The
accompanying likeness is that of a native of Cosenza, a town that was
frequently in their possession. Eastern traits of character, too, have lingered
among the populace. So the humour of the peddling Semite who will allow himself
to be called by the most offensive epithets rather than lose a chance of
gaining a sou; who, eternally professing poverty, cannot bear to be twitted on
his notorious riches; their ceaseless talk of hidden treasures, their
secretiveness and so many other little Orientalisms that whoever has lived in
the East will be inclined to echo the observation of Edward Lear&rsquo;s Greek
servant: &ldquo;These men are Arabs, but they have more clothes on.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Many Saracenic words (chiefly of marine and commercial import) have survived
from this period; I could quote a hundred or more, partly in the literary
language (balio, dogana, etc.), partly in dialect (cala, tavuto, etc.) and in
place-names such as Tamborio (the Semitic Mount Tabor), Kalat (Calatafimi),
Marsa (Marsala).
</p>

<p>
Dramatic plays with Saracen subjects are still popular with the lower classes;
you can see them acted in any of the coast towns. In fact, the recollection of
these intruders is very much alive to this day. They have left a deep scar.
</p>

<p>
Such being the case, it is odd to find local writers hardly referring to the
Saracenic period. Even a modern like l&rsquo;Occaso, who describes the
Castrovillari region in a conscientious fashion, leaps directly from
Greco-Roman events into those of the Normans. But this is in accordance with
the time-honoured ideal of writing such works: to say nothing in dispraise of
your subject (an exception may be made in favour of Spano-Bolani&rsquo;s
History of Reggio). Malaria and earthquakes and Saracen irruptions are
<a name="Page135"></a>
awkward arguments when treating of the natural attractions and historical
glories of your native place. So the once renowned descriptions of this
province by Grano and the rest of them are little more than rhetorical
exercises; they are &ldquo;Laus Calabriæ.&rdquo; And then&mdash;their sources
of information were limited and difficult of access. Collective works like
those of Muratori and du Chesne had not appeared on the market; libraries were
restricted to convents; and it was not to be expected that they should know all
the chroniclers of the Byzantines, Latins, Lombards, Normans and
Hohenstaufen&mdash;to say nothing of Arab writers like Nowairi, Abulfeda, Ibn
Chaldun and Ibn Alathir&mdash;who throw a little light on those dark times, and
are now easily accessible to scholars.
</p>

<p>
Dipping into this old-world literature of murders and prayers, we gather that
in pre-Saracenic times the southern towns were denuded of their garrisons, and
their fortresses fallen into disrepair. &ldquo;Nec erat formido aut metus
bellorum, quoniam alta pace omnes gaudebant usque ad tempora
Saracenorum.&rdquo; In this part of Italy, as well as at Taranto and other
parts of old &ldquo;Calabria,&rdquo; the invaders had an easy task before them,
at first.
</p>

<p>
In 873, on their return from Salerno, they poured into Calabria, and by 884
already held several towns, such as Tropea and Amantea, but were driven out
temporarily. In 899 they ravaged, says Hepidanus, the country of the Lombards
(? Calabria). In 900 they destroyed Reggio, and renewed their incursions in
919, 923, 924, 925, 927, till the Greek Emperor found it profitable to pay them
an annual tribute. In 953, this tribute not being forthcoming, they defeated
the Greeks in Calabria, and made further raids in 974, 975; 976, 977, carrying
off a large store of captives and wealth. In 981 Otto II repulsed them at
Cotrone, but was beaten the following year near Squillace, and narrowly escaped
capture. It was one of the most romantic incidents of these wars. During the
years 986, 988, 991, 994, 998, 1002, 1003 they were continually in the country;
indeed, nearly every year at the beginning of the eleventh century is marked by
some fresh inroad. In 1009 they took Cosenza for the third or fourth time; in
1020 they were at Bisignano in the Crati valley, and returned frequently into
those parts, defeating, in 1025, a Greek army under Orestes, and, in 1031, the
assembled forces of the Byzantine Catapan&mdash;&mdash;<a href="#fn-18.1" name="fnref-18.1" id="fnref-18.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-18.1" id="fn-18.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-18.1">[1]</a>
I have not seen Moscato&rsquo;s &ldquo;Cronaca dei Musulmani in
Calabria,&rdquo; where these authorities might be conveniently tabulated. It
must be a rare book. Martorana deals only with the Saracens of Sicily.
</p>

<p>
No bad record, from their point of view.
</p>

<p>
But they never attained their end, the subjection of the
<a name="Page136"></a>
mainland. And their methods involved appalling and enduring evils.
</p>

<p>
Yet the presumable intent or ambition of these aliens must be called reasonable
enough. They wished to establish a provincial government here on the same lines
as in Sicily, of which island it has been said that it was never more
prosperous than under their administration.
</p>

<p>
Literature, trade, industry, and all the arts of peace are described as
flourishing there; in agriculture they paid especial attention to the olive;
they initiated, I believe, the art of terracing and irrigating the hill-sides;
they imported the date-palm, the lemon and sugar-cane (making the latter
suffice not only for home consumption, but for export); their silk manufactures
were unsurpassed. Older writers like Mazzella speak of the abundant growth of
sugar-cane in Calabria (Capialbi, who wallowed in learning, has a treatise on
the subject); John Evelyn saw it cultivated near Naples; it is now extinct from
economical and possibly climatic causes. They also introduced the papyrus into
Sicily, as well as the cotton-plant, which used to be common all over south
Italy, where I have myself seen it growing.
</p>

<p>
All this sounds praiseworthy, no doubt. But I see no reason why they should
have governed Sicily better than they did North Africa, which crumbled into
dust at their touch, and will take many long centuries to recover its
pre-Saracen prosperity. There is something flame-like and anti-constructive in
the Arab, with his pastoral habits and contempt of forethought. In favour of
their rule, much capital has been made out of Benjamin of Tudela&rsquo;s
account of Palermo. But it must not be forgotten that his brief visit was made
a hundred years after the Norman occupation had begun. Palermo, he says, has
about 1500 Jews and a large number of Christians and Mohammedans; Sicily
&ldquo;contains all the pleasant things of this world.&rdquo; Well, so it did
in pre-Saracen times; so it does to-day. Against the example of North Africa,
no doubt, may be set their activities in Spain.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus18"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-18.jpg" width="373" height="454" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">The &ldquo;Saracenic&rdquo; Type</p>
</div>

<p>
They have been accused of destroying the old temples of Magna Gracia from
religious or other motives. I do not believe it; this was against their usual
practice. They sacked monasteries, because these were fortresses defended by
political enemies and full of gold which they coveted; but in their African
possessions, during all this period, the ruins of ancient civilizations were
left untouched, while Byzantine cults lingered peacefully side by side with
Moslemism; why not here? Their fanaticism has been much exaggerated. Weighing
the balance between conflicting writers, it
<a name="Page137"></a>
would appear that Christian rites were tolerated in Sicily during all their
rule, though some governors were more bigoted than others; the proof is this,
that the Normans found resident fellow-believers there, after 255 years of Arab
domination.<a href="#fn-18.2" name="fnref-18.2" id="fnref-18.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
It was the Christians rather, who with the best intentions set the example of
fanaticism during their crusades; these early Saracen raids had no more
religious colouring than our own raids into the Transvaal or elsewhere. The
Saracens were out for plunder and fresh lands, exactly like the English.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-18.2" id="fn-18.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-18.2">[2]</a>
The behaviour of the Normans was wholly different from that of the Arabs,
immediately on their occupation of the country they razed to the ground
thousands of Arab temples and sanctuaries. Of several hundred in Palermo alone,
not a single one was left standing.
</p>

<p>
Nor were they tempted to destroy these monuments for decorative purposes, since
they possessed no palaces on the mainland like the Palermitan Cuba or Zisa; and
that sheer love of destructive-ness with which they have been credited
certainly spared the marbles of Paestum which lay within a short distance of
their strongholds, Agropoli and Cetara. No. What earthquakes had left intact of
these classic relics was filched by the Christians, who ransacked every corner
of Italy for such treasures to adorn their own temples in Pisa, Rome and
Venice&mdash;displaying small veneration for antiquity, but considerable taste.
In Calabria, for instance, the twenty granite pillars of the cathedral of
Gerace were drawn from the ruins of old Locri; those of Melito came from the
ancient Hipponium (Monteleone). So Paestum, after the Saracens, became a
regular quarry for the Lombards and the rich citizens of Amalfi when they built
their cathedral; and above all, for the shrewdly pious Robert Guiscard.
Altogether, these Normans, dreaming through the solstitial heats in pleasaunces
like Ravello, developed a nice taste in the matter of marbles, and were not
particular where they came from, so long as they came from somewhere. The
antiquities remained intact, at least, which was better than the subsequent
system of Colonna and Frangipani, who burnt them into lime.
</p>

<p>
Whatever one may think of the condition of Sicily under Arab rule, the
proceedings of these strangers was wholly deplorable so far as the mainland of
Italy was concerned. They sacked and burnt wherever they went; the sea-board of
the Tyrrhenian, Ionian and Adriatic was depopulated of its inhabitants, who
fled inland; towns and villages vanished from the face of the earth, and the
richly cultivated land became a desert; they took 17,000 prisoners from Reggio
on a single occasion&mdash;13,000 from Termula;
<a name="Page138"></a>
they reduced Matera to such distress, that a mother is said to have slaughtered
and devoured her own child. Such was their system on the mainland, where they
swarmed. Their numbers can be inferred from a letter written in 871 by the
Emperor Ludwig II to the Byzantine monarch, in which he complains that
&ldquo;Naples has become a second Palermo, a second Africa,&rdquo; while three
hundred years later, in 1196, the Chancellor Konrad von Hildesheim makes a
noteworthy observation, which begins: &ldquo;In Naples I saw the Saracens, who
with their spittle destroy venomous beasts, and will briefly set forth how they
came by this virtue. . . .<a href="#fn-18.3" name="fnref-18.3" id="fnref-18.3"><sup>[3]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-18.3" id="fn-18.3"></a> <a href="#fnref-18.3">[3]</a>
He goes on to say, &ldquo;Paulus Apostolus naufragium passus, apud Capream
insulam applicuit <i>[sic]</i> quae in Actibus Apostolorum Mitylene nuncupatur,
et cum multis allis evadens, ab indigenis terrae benigne acceptatus est.&rdquo;
Then follows the episode of the fire and of the serpent which Paul casts from
him; whereupon the Saracens, naturally enough, begin to adore him as a saint.
In recompense for this kind treatment Paul grants to them and their descendants
the power of killing poisonous animals in the manner aforesaid&mdash;i.e. with
their spittle&mdash;a superstition which is alive in south Italy to this day.
These gifted mortals are called Sanpaulari, or by the Greek word Cerauli; they
are men who are born either on St. Paul&rsquo;s night (24-25 January) or on 29
June.<br />
    Saint Paul, the &ldquo;doctor of the Gentiles,&rdquo; is a great wizard
hereabouts, and an invocation to him runs as follows: &ldquo;Saint Paul, thou
wonder-worker, kill this beast, which is hostile to God; and save me, for I am
a son of Maria.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is therefore no exaggeration to say that the coastal regions of south Italy
were practically in Arab possession for centuries, and one is tempted to dwell
on their long semi-domination here because it has affected to this day the
vocabulary of the people, their lore, their architecture, their very
faces&mdash;and to a far greater extent than a visitor unacquainted with Moslem
countries and habits would believe. Saracenism explains many anomalies in their
mode of life and social conduct.
</p>

<p>
From these troublous times dates, I should say, that use of the word
<i>cristiano</i> applied to natives of the country&mdash;as opposed to
Mohammedan enemies.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Saraceno&rdquo; is still a common term of abuse.
</p>

<p>
The fall of Luceria may be taken as a convenient time-boundary to mark the end
of the Saracenic period. A lull, but no complete repose from attacks, occurs
between that event and the fall of Granada. Then begins the activity of the
corsairs. There is this difference between them, that the corsairs merely paid
flying visits; a change of wind, the appearance of an Italian sail, an
unexpected resistance on the part of the inhabitants, sufficed to unsettle
their ephemeral plans. The coast-lands were never in their possession; they
only harried the natives. The system of the Saracens on the mainland, though it
seldom attained the form of
<a name="Page139"></a>
a provincial or even military government, was different. They had the <i>animus
manendi.</i> Where they dined, they slept.
</p>

<p>
In point of destructiveness, I should think there was little to choose between
them. One thinks of the hundreds of villages the corsairs devastated; the
convents and precious archives they destroyed,<a href="#fn-18.4" name="fnref-18.4" id="fnref-18.4"><sup>[4]</sup></a>
the thousands of captives they carried off&mdash;sometimes in such numbers that
the ships threatened to sink till the more unsaleable portion of the human
freight had been cast overboard. And it went on for centuries. Pirates and
slave-hunters they were; but not a whit more so than their Christian
adversaries, on whose national rivalries they thrived. African slaves, when not
chained to the galleys, were utilized on land; so the traveller Moore records
that the palace of Caserta was built by gangs of slaves, half of them Italian,
half Turkish. We have not much testimony as to whether these Arab slaves
enjoyed their lot in European countries; but many of the Christians in Algiers
certainly enjoyed theirs. A considerable number of them refused to profit by
Lord Exmouth&rsquo;s arrangement for their ransom. I myself knew the descendant
of a man who had been thus sent back to his relations from captivity, and who
soon enough returned to Africa, declaring that the climate and religion of
Europe were alike insupportable.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-18.4" id="fn-18.4"></a> <a href="#fnref-18.4">[4]</a>
In this particular branch, again, the Christians surpassed the unbeliever.
More archives were destroyed in the so-called &ldquo;Age of
Lead&rdquo;&mdash;the closing period of Bour-bonism&mdash;than under Saracens
and Corsairs combined. It was quite the regular thing to sell them as
waste-paper to the shopkeepers. Some of them escaped this fate by the veriest
miracle&mdash;so those of the celebrated Certoza of San Lorenzo in Padula. The
historian Marincola, walking in the market of Salerno, noticed a piece of
cheese wrapped up in an old parchment. He elicited the fact that it came from
this Certosa, intercepted the records on their way for sale in Salerno, and
contrived by a small present to the driver that next night two cartloads of
parchments were deposited in the library of La Cava.
</p>

<p>
In Saracen times the Venetians actually sold Christian slaves to the Turks.
Parrino cites the severe enactments which were issued in the sixteenth century
against Christian sailors who decoyed children on board their boats and sold
them as slaves to the Moslem. I question whether the Turks were ever guilty of
a corresponding infamy.
</p>

<p>
This Parrino, by the way, is useful as showing the trouble to which the Spanish
viceroys were put by the perpetual inroads of these Oriental pests. Local
militia were organized, heavy contributions levied, towers of refuge sprang up
all along the coast&mdash;every respectable house had its private tower as well
(for the dates, see G. del Giudice, <i>Del Grande Archivio di Napoli,</i>
1871, p. 108). The daring of the pirates knew no bounds; they actually landed a
fleet at Naples itself, and carried off a number of prisoners. The
<a name="Page140"></a>
entire kingdom, save the inland parts, was terrorized by their lightning-like
descents.
</p>

<p>
A particular literature grew up about this time&mdash;those
&ldquo;Lamenti&rdquo; in rime, which set forth the distress of the various
places they afflicted.
</p>

<p>
The saints had work to do. Each divine protector fought for his own town or
village, and sometimes we see the pleasing spectacle of two patrons of
different localities joining their forces to ward off a piratical attack upon
some threatened district by means of fiery hail, tempests, apparitions and
other celestial devices. A bellicose type of Madonna emerges, such as S. M.
della Libera and S. M. di Constantinopoli, who distinguishes herself by a
fierce martial courage in the face of the enemy. There is no doubt that these
inroads acted as a stimulus to the Christian faith; that they helped to seat
the numberless patron saints of south Italy more firmly on their thrones. The
Saracens as saint-makers. . . .
</p>

<p>
But despite occasional successes, the marine population suffered increasingly.
Historians like Summonte have left us descriptions of the prodigious exodus of
the country people from Calabria and elsewhere into the safer capital, and how
the polished citizens detested these new arrivals.
</p>

<p>
The ominous name &ldquo;Torre di Guardia&rdquo; (tower of outlook)&mdash;a
cliff whence the sea was scanned for the appearance of Turkish
vessels&mdash;survives all over the south. Barbarossa, too, has left his mark;
many a hill, fountain or castle has been named after him. In the two
Barbarossas were summed up the highest qualities of the pirates, and it is
curious to think that the names of those scourges of Christendom, Uruj and
Kheir-eddin, should have been contracted into the classical forms of Horace and
Ariadne. The picturesque Uruj was painted by Velasquez; the other entertained a
polite epistolatory correspondence with Aretino, and died, to his regret,
&ldquo;like a coward&rdquo; in bed. I never visit Constantinople without paying
my respects to that calm tomb at Beshiktah, where, after life&rsquo;s fitful
fever, sleeps the <i>Chief of the Sea.</i>
</p>

<p>
And so things went on till recently. K. Ph. Moritz writes that King Ferdinand
of Naples, during his sporting excursions to the islands of his dominions, was
always accompanied by two cruisers, to forestall the chance of his being
carried off by these <i>Turchi.</i> But his loyal subjects had no cruisers at
their disposal; they lived <i>Turcarum praedonibus semper obnoxii.</i> Who
shall calculate the effects of this long reign of terror on the national mind?
</p>

<p>
For a thousand years&mdash;from 830 to 1830&mdash;from the days when the
Amalfitans won the proud title of &ldquo;Defenders of the Faith&rdquo;
<a name="Page141"></a>
up to those of the sentimental poet Waiblinger (1826), these shores were
infested by Oriental ruffians, whose activities were an unmitigated evil. It is
all very well for Admiral de la Gravière to speak of &ldquo;Gallia Victrix
&ldquo;&mdash;the Americans, too, might have something to say on that point.
The fact is that neither European nor American arms crushed the pest. But for
the invention of steam, the Barbary corsairs might still be with us.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page142"></a><a name="chap19"></a>XIX<br />
UPLANDS OF POLLINO</h2>

<p>
It has a pleasant signification, that word &ldquo;Dolcedorme&rdquo;: it means
<i>Sweet slumber.</i> But no one could tell me how the mountain group came by
this name; they gave me a number of explanations, all fanciful and
unconvincing.
</p>

<p>
Pollino, we are told, is derived from Apollo, and authors of olden days
sometimes write of it as &ldquo;Monte Apollino.&rdquo; But Barrius suggests an
alternative etymology, equally absurd, and connected with the medicinal herbs
which are found there. <i>Pollino,</i> he says, <i>a polleo dictus, quod
nobilibus herbis medelae commodis polleat. Provenit enim ibi, ut ab herbariis
accepi, tragium dictamnum Cretense, chamaeleon bigenum, draucus, meum, nardus,
celtica, anonides, anemone, peucedamum, turbit, reubarbarum, pyrethrum,
juniperus ubertim, stellaria, imperatoria, cardus masticem fundens, dracagas,
cythisus</i>&mdash;whence likewise the magnificent cheeses; gold and the
Phrygian stone, he adds, are also found here.
</p>

<p>
Unhappily Barrius&mdash;we all have a fling at this &ldquo;Strabo and Pliny of
Calabria&rdquo;! So jealous was he of his work that he procured a prohibition
from the Pope against all who might reprint it, and furthermore invoked the
curses of heaven and earth upon whoever should have the audacity to translate
it into Italian. Yet his shade ought to be appeased with the monumental edition
of 1737, and, as regards his infallibility, one must not forget that among his
contemporaries the more discerning had already censured his <i>philopatria,</i>
his immoderate love of Calabria. And that is the right way to judge of men who
were not so much ignorant as unduly zealous for the fair name of their natal
land. To sneer at them is to misjudge their period. It was the very spirit of
the Renaissance to press rhetorical learning into the service of patriotism.
They made some happy guesses and not a few mistakes; and when they lied
deliberately, it was done in what they held a just cause&mdash;as scholars and
gentlemen.
</p>

<p>
The <i>Calabria Illustrata</i> of Fiore also fares badly at the hands of
critics. But I shall not repeat what they say; I confess to a sneaking fondness
for Father Fiore.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page143"></a>
Marafioti, a Calabrian monk, likewise dwells on these same herbs of Pollino,
and gives a long account of a medical secret which he learnt on the spot from
two Armenian botanists. Alas for Marafioti! Despite his excellent index and
seductively chaste Paduan type and paper, the impartial Soria is driven to say
that &ldquo;to make his shop appear more rich in foreign merchandise, he did
not scruple to adorn it with books and authors apocryphal, imaginary, and
unknown to the whole human race.&rdquo; In short, he belonged to the school of
Pratilli, who wrote a wise and edifying history of Capua on the basis of
inscriptions which he himself had previously forged; of Ligorio Pirro, prince
of his tribe, who manufactured thousands of coins, texts and marbles out of
sheer exuberance of creative artistry!
</p>

<p>
Gone are those happy days of authorship, when the constructive imagination was
not yet blighted and withered. . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
Marching comfortably, it will take you nearly twelve hours to go from Morano to
the village of Terranova di Pollino, which I selected as my first
night-quarter. This includes a scramble up the peak of Pollino, locally termed
&ldquo;telegrafo,&rdquo; from a pile of stones&mdash;? an old
signal-station&mdash;erected on the summit. But since decent accommodation can
only be obtained at Castrovillari, a start should be made from there, and this
adds another hour to the trip. Moreover, as the peak of Pollino lies below that
of Dolcedorme, which shuts off a good deal of its view seaward, this second
mountain ought rather to be ascended, and that will probably add yet another
hour&mdash;fourteen altogether. The natives, ever ready to say what they think
will please you, call it a six hours&rsquo; excursion. As a matter of fact,
although I spoke to numbers of the population of Morano, I only met two men who
had ever been to Terranova, one of them being my muleteer; the majority had not
so much as heard its name. They dislike mountains and torrents and forests, not
only as an offence to the eye, but as hindrances to agriculture and enemies of
man and his ordered ways. &ldquo;La montagna&rdquo; is considerably abused, all
over Italy.
</p>

<p>
It takes an hour to cross the valley and reach the slopes of the opposite
hills. Here, on the plain, lie the now faded blossoms of the monstrous arum,
the botanical glory of these regions. To see it in flower, in early June, is
alone almost worth the trouble of a journey to Calabria.
</p>

<p>
On a shady eminence at the foot of these mountains, in a most picturesque site,
there stands a large castellated building, a monastery. It is called Colorito,
and is now a ruin; the French, they
<a name="Page144"></a>
say, shelled it for harbouring the brigand-allies of Bourbonism. Nearly all
convents in the south, and even in Naples, were at one time or another refuges
of bandits, and this association of monks and robbers used to give much trouble
to conscientious politicians. It is a solitary building, against the dark
hill-side; a sombre and romantic pile such as would have charmed Anne
Radcliffe; one longs to explore its recesses. But I dreaded the coming heats of
midday. Leone da Morano, who died in 1645, belonged to this congregation, and
was reputed an erudite ecclesiastic. The life of one of its greatest
luminaries, Fra Bernardo da Rogliano, was described by Tufarelli in a volume
which I have never been able to catch sight of. It must be very rare, yet it
certainly was printed.<a href="#fn-19.1" name="fnref-19.1" id="fnref-19.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-19.1" id="fn-19.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-19.1">[1]</a>
Haym has no mention of this work. But it is fully quoted in old Toppi&rsquo;s
&ldquo;Biblioteca&rdquo; (p. 317), and also referred to in Savonarola&rsquo;s
&ldquo;Universus Terrarum,&rdquo; etc. (1713, Vol. I, p. 216). Both say it was
printed at Cosenza; the first, in 1650; the second, in 1630.
</p>

<p>
The path ascends now through a long and wearisome limestone gap called Valle di
Gaudolino, only the last half-hour of the march being shaded by trees. It was
in this gully that an accidental encounter took place between a detachment of
French soldiers and part of the band of the celebrated brigand Scarolla, whom
they had been pursuing for months all over the country. The brigands were
sleeping when the others fell upon them, killing numbers and carrying off a
large booty; so rich it was, that the soldiers were seen playing at
&ldquo;petis palets&rdquo;&mdash;whatever that may be&mdash;with quadruples of
Spain&mdash;whatever <i>that</i> may be. Scarolla escaped wounded, but was
afterwards handed over to justice, for a consideration of a thousand ducats, by
some shepherds with whom he had taken refuge; and duly hanged. His band
consisted of four thousand ruffians; it was one of several that infested south
Italy. This gives some idea of the magnitude of the evil.
</p>

<p>
It was my misfortune that after weeks of serene weather this particular morning
should be cloudy. There was sunshine in the valley below, but wreaths of mist
were skidding over the summit of Pollino; the view, I felt sure, would be
spoilt. And so it was. Through swiftly-careering cloud-drifts I caught glimpses
of the plain and the blue Ionian; of the Sila range confronting me; of the peak
of Dolcedorme to the left, and the &ldquo;Montagna del Principe&rdquo; on the
right; of the large forest region at my back. Tantalizing visions!
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus19"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-19.jpg" width="376" height="600" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">The Peak of Pollino in June</p>
</div>

<p>
Viewed from below, this Pollino is shaped like a pyramid, and promises rather a
steep climb over bare limestone; but the ascent is quite easy. No trees grow on
the pyramid. The rock is covered
<a name="Page145"></a>
with a profusion of forget-me-nots and gay pansies; some mezereon and a few
dwarfed junipers&mdash;earthward-creeping&mdash;nearly reach the summit. When I
passed here on a former trip, on the 6th of June, this peak was shrouded in
snow. There are some patches of snow even now, one of them descending in
glacier fashion down the slope on the other side; they call it
&ldquo;eternal,&rdquo; but I question whether it will survive the heats of
autumn. Beyond a brace of red-legged partridges, I saw no birds whatever. This
group of Pollino, descending its seven thousand feet in a precipitous flight of
terraces to the plain of Sibari, is an imposing <i>finale</i> to the Apennines
that have run hitherward, without a break, from Genoa and Bologna. Westward of
this spot there are mountains galore; but no more Apennines; no more limestone
precipices. The boundary of the old provinces of Calabria and Basilicata ran
over this spot. . . .
</p>

<p>
I was glad to descend once more, and to reach the <i>Altipiano di
Pollino&mdash;</i>an Alpine meadow with a little lake (the merest puddle),
bright with rare and beautiful flowers. It lies 1780 metres above sea-level,
and no one who visits these regions should omit to see this exquisite tract
encircled by mountain peaks, though it lies a little off the usual paths.
Strawberries, which I had eaten at Rossano, had not yet opened their flowers
here; the flora, boreal in parts, has been studied by Terracciano and other
Italian botanists.
</p>

<p>
It was on this verdant, flower-enamelled mead that, fatigued with the climb, I
thought to try the powers of my riding mule. But the beast proved vicious;
there was no staying on her back. A piece of string attached to her nose by way
of guiding-rope was useless as a rein; she had no mane wherewith I might have
steadied myself in moments of danger, and as to seizing her ears for that
purpose, it was out of the question, for hardly was I in the saddle before her
head descended to the ground and there remained, while her hinder feet essayed
to touch the stars. After a succession of ignominious and painful flights to
earth, I complained to her owner, who had been watching the proceedings with
quiet interest.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That lady-mule,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;is good at carrying loads. But
she has never had a Christian on her back till now. I was rather curious to see
how she would behave.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>Santo Dio!</i> And do you expect me to pay four francs a day for
having my bones broken in this fashion?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What would you, sir? She is still young&mdash;barely four years old.
Only wait! Wait till she is ten or twelve.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
To do him justice, however, he tried to make amends in other
<a name="Page146"></a>
ways. And he certainly knew the tracks. But he was a returned emigrant, and
when an Italian has once crossed the ocean he is useless for my purposes, he
has lost his savour&mdash;the virtue has gone out of him. True Italians will
soon be rare as the dodo in these parts. These <i>americani</i> cast off their
ancient animistic traits and patriarchal disposition with the ease of a
serpent; a new creature emerges, of a wholly different
character&mdash;sophisticated, extortionate at times, often practical and in so
far useful; scorner of every tradition, infernally wideawake and curiously
deficient in what the Germans call &ldquo;Gemüt&rdquo; (one of those words
which we sadly need in our own language). Instead of being regaled with tales
of Saint Venus and fairies and the Evil Eye, I learnt a good deal about the
price of food in the Brazilian highlands.
</p>

<p>
The only piece of local information I was able to draw from him concerned a
mysterious plant in the forest that &ldquo;shines by night.&rdquo; I dare say
he meant the <i>dictamnus fraxinella,</i> which is sometimes luminous.
</p>

<p>
The finest part of the forest was traversed in the afternoon. It is called
Janace, and composed of firs and beeches. The botanist Tenore says that firs
150 feet in height are &ldquo;not difficult to find&rdquo; here, and some of
the beeches, a forestal inspector assured me, attain the height of 35 metres.
They shoot up in straight silvery trunks; their roots are often intertwined
with those of the firs. The track is not level by any means. There are torrents
to be crossed; rocky ravines with splashing waters where the sunshine pours
down through a dense network of branches upon a carpet of russet leaves and
grey boulders&mdash;the envious beeches allowing of no vegetation at their
feet; occasional meadows, too, bright with buttercups and orchids. No pines
whatever grow in this forest. Yet a few stunted ones are seen clinging to the
precipices that descend into the Coscile valley; their seeds may have been
wafted across from the Sila mountains.
</p>

<p>
In olden days all this country was full of game; bears, stags and fallow-deer
are mentioned. Only wolves and a few roe-deer are now left. The forest is
sombre, but not gloomy, and one would like to spend some time in these wooded
regions, so rare in Italy, and to study their life and character&mdash;but how
set about it? The distances are great; there are no houses, not even a
shepherd&rsquo;s hut or a cave; the cold at night is severe, and even in the
height of midsummer one must be prepared for spells of mist and rain. I shall
be tempted, on another occasion, to provide myself with a tent such as is
supplied to military officers. They are light and handy, and perhaps camping
out with a man-cook of the kind that
<a name="Page147"></a>
one finds in the Abruzzi provinces would be altogether the best way of seeing
the remoter parts of south and central Italy. For decent food-supplies can
generally be obtained in the smallest places; the drawback is that nobody can
cook them. Dirty food by day and dirty beds by night will daunt the most
enterprising natures in the long run.
</p>

<p>
These tracks are only traversed in summer. When I last walked through this
region&mdash;in the reverse direction, from Lagonegro over Latronico and San
Severino to Castrovillari&mdash;the ground was still covered with stretches of
snow, and many brooks were difficult to cross from the swollen waters. This was
in June. It was odd to see the beeches rising, in full leaf, out of the deep
snow.
</p>

<p>
During this afternoon ramble I often wondered what the burghers of Taranto
would think of these sylvan solitudes. Doubtless they would share the opinion
of a genteel photographer of Morano who showed me some coloured pictures of
local brides in their appropriate costumes, such as are sent to relatives in
America after weddings. He possessed a good camera, and I asked whether he had
never made any pictures of this fine forest scenery. No, he said; he had only
once been to the festival of the Madonna di Pollino, but he went
alone&mdash;his companion, an <i>avvocato,</i> got frightened and failed to
appear at the last moment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So I went alone,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and those forests, it must be
confessed, are too savage to be photographed. Now, if my friend had come, he
might have posed for me, sitting comically at the foot of a tree, with crossed
legs, and smoking a cigar, like this. ... Or he might have pretended to be a
wood-cutter, bending forwards and felling a tree . . . tac, tac, tac . . .
without his jacket, of course. That would have made a picture. But those woods
and mountains, all by themselves&mdash;no! The camera revolts. In photography,
as in all good art, the human element must predominate.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is sad to think that in a few years&rsquo; time nearly all these forests
will have ceased to exist; another generation will hardly recognize the site of
them. A society from Morbegno (Valtellina) has acquired rights over the timber,
and is hewing down as fast as it can. They import their own workmen from north
Italy, and have built at a cost of two million francs (say the newspapers) a
special funicular railway, 23 kilometres long, to carry the trunks from the
mountain to Francavilla at its foot, where they are sawn up and conveyed to the
railway station of Cerchiara, near Sibari. This concession, I am told, extends
to twenty-five years&mdash;they have now been at work for two, and the results
are already apparent in some almost bare slopes once clothed with these huge
primeval trees.
<a name="Page148"></a>
There are inspectors, some of them conscientious, to see that a due proportion
of the timber is left standing; but we all know what the average Italian
official is, and must be, considering his salary. One could hardly blame them
greatly if, as I have been assured is the case, they often sell the wood which
they are paid to protect.
</p>

<p>
The same fate is about to overtake the extensive hill forests which lie on the
watershed between Morano and the Tyrrhenian. These, according to a
Castrovillari local paper, have lately been sold to a German firm for
exploitation.
</p>

<p>
It is useless to lament the inevitable&mdash;this modern obsession of
&ldquo;industrialism&rdquo; which has infected a country purely agricultural.
Nor is it any great compensation to observe that certain small tracts of
hill-side behind Morano are being carefully reafforested by the Government at
this moment. Whoever wishes to see these beautiful stretches of woodland ere
their disappearance from earth&mdash;let him hasten!
</p>

<p>
After leaving the forest region it is a downhill walk of nearly three hours to
reach Terranova di Pollino, which lies, only 910 metres above sea-level,
against the slope of a wide and golden amphitheatre of hills, at whose entrance
the river Sarmento has carved itself a prodigious gateway through the rock. A
dirty little place; the male inhabitants are nearly all in America; the old
women nearly all afflicted with goitre. I was pleased to observe the Calabrian
system of the house-doors, which life in civilized places had made me forget.
These doors are divided into two portions, not vertically like ours, but
horizontally. The upper portion is generally open, in order that the housewife
sitting within may have light and air in her room, and an opportunity of
gossiping with her neighbours across the street; the lower part is closed, to
prevent the pigs in the daytime from entering the house (where they sleep at
night). The system testifies to social instincts and a certain sense of
refinement.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The sights of Terranova are soon exhausted. They had spoken to me of a house
near the woods, about four hours distant, inhabited just now by shepherds.
Thither we started, next day, at about 3 p.m.
</p>

<p>
The road climbs upwards through bare country till it reaches a dusky pinnacle
of rock, a conspicuous landmark, which looks volcanic but is nothing of the
kind. It bears the name of Pietra-Sasso&mdash;the explanation of this odd
pleonasm being, I suppose, that here the whole mass of rock, generally decked
with grass or shrubs, is as bare as any single stone.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus20"></a>
<img src="images//oldc-20.jpg" width="404" height="287" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Calabrian Cows</p>
</div>

<p>
<a name="Page149"></a>
There followed a pleasant march through pastoral country of streamlets and lush
grass, with noble views downwards on our right, over many-folded hills into the
distant valley of the Sinno. To the left is the forest region. But the fir
trees are generally mutilated&mdash;their lower branches lopped off; and the
tree resents this treatment and often dies, remaining a melancholy stump among
the beeches. They take these branches not for fuel, but as fodder for the cows.
A curious kind of fodder, one thinks; but Calabrian cows will eat anything, and
their milk tastes accordingly. No wonder the natives prefer even the greasy
fluid of their goats to that of cows.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How?&rdquo; they will ask, &ldquo;You Englishmen, with all your
money&mdash;you drink the milk of cows?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Goats are over-plentiful here, and the hollies, oaks and thorns along the path
have been gnawed by them into quaint patterns like the topiarian work in
old-fashioned gardens. If they find nothing to their taste on the ground, they
actually climb trees; I have seen them browsing thus, at six feet above the
ground. These miserable beasts are the ruin of south Italy, as they are of the
whole Mediterranean basin. What malaria and the Barbary pirates have done to
the sea-board, the goats have accomplished for the regions further inland; and
it is really time that sterner legislation were introduced to limit their
grazing-places and incidentally reduce their numbers, as has been done in parts
of the Abruzzi, to the great credit of the authorities. But the subject is a
well-worn one.
</p>

<p>
The solitary little house which now appeared before us is called
&ldquo;Vitiello,&rdquo; presumably from its owner or builder, a proprietor of
the village of Noepoli. It stands in a charming site, with a background of
woodland whence rivulets trickle down&mdash;the immediate surroundings are
covered with pasture and bracken and wild pear trees smothered in flowering
dog-roses. I strolled about in the sunset amid tinkling herds of sheep and
goats that were presently milked and driven into their enclosure of thorns for
the night, guarded by four or five of those savage white dogs of the Campagna
breed. Despite these protectors, the wolf carried off two sheep yesterday, in
broad daylight. The flocks come to these heights in the middle of June, and
descend again in October.
</p>

<p>
The shepherds offered us the only fare they possessed&mdash;the much-belauded
Pollino cheeses, the same that were made, long ago, by Polyphemus himself. You
can get them down at a pinch, on the principle of the German proverb,
&ldquo;When the devil is hungry, he eats flies.&rdquo; Fortunately our bags
still contained a varied assortment, though my man had developed an appetite
and a thirst that did credit to his Berserker ancestry.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page150"></a>
We retired early. But long after the rest of them were snoring hard I continued
awake, shivering under my blanket and choking with the acrid smoke of a fire of
green timber. The door had been left ajar to allow it to escape, but the only
result of this arrangement was that a glacial blast of wind swept into the
chamber from outside. The night was bitterly cold, and the wooden floor on
which I was reposing seemed to be harder than the majority of its kind. I
thought with regret of the tepid nights of Taranto and Castrovillari, and
cursed my folly for climbing into these Arctic regions; wondering, as I have
often done, what demon of restlessness or perversity drives one to undertake
such insane excursions.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page151"></a><a name="chap20"></a>XX<br />
A MOUNTAIN FESTIVAL</h2>

<p>
Leaving the hospitable shepherds in the morning, we arrived after midday, by
devious woodland paths, at the Madonna di Pollino.
</p>

<p>
This solitary fane is perched, like an eagle&rsquo;s nest, on the edge of a
cliff overhanging the Frida torrent. Owing to this fact, and to its great
elevation, the views inland are wonderful; especially towards evening, when
crude daylight tints fade away and range after range of mountains reveal
themselves, their crests outlined against each other in tender gradations of
mauve and grey. The prospect is closed, at last, by the lofty groups of Sirino
and Alburno, many long leagues away. On all other sides are forests,
interspersed with rock. But near at hand lies a spacious green meadow, at the
foot of a precipice. This is now covered with encampments in anticipation of
to-morrow&rsquo;s festival, and the bacchanal is already in full swing.
</p>

<p>
Very few foreigners, they say, have attended this annual feast, which takes
place on the first Saturday and Sunday of July, and is worth coming a long way
to see. Here the old types, uncon-taminated by modernism and emigration, are
still gathered together. The whole country-side is represented; the peasants
have climbed up with their entire households from thirty or forty villages of
this thinly populated land, some of them marching a two days&rsquo; journey;
the greater the distance, the greater the &ldquo;divozione&rdquo; to the Mother
of God. <i>Piety conquers rough tracks,</i> as old Bishop Paulinus sang,
nearly fifteen hundred years ago.
</p>

<p>
It is a vast picnic in honour of the Virgin. Two thousand persons are encamped
about the chapel, amid a formidable army of donkeys and mules whose braying
mingles with the pastoral music of reeds and bagpipes&mdash;bagpipes of two
kinds, the common Calabrian variety and that of Basilicata, much larger and
with a resounding base key, which will soon cease to exist. A heaving ebb and
flow of humanity fills the eye; fires are flickering before extempore shelters,
and an ungodly amount of food is being consumed, as traditionally prescribed
for such occasions&mdash;&ldquo;si mangia
<a name="Page152"></a>
per divozione.&rdquo; On all sides picturesque groups of dancers indulge in the
old peasants&rsquo; measure, the <i>percorara,</i> to the droning of
bagpipes&mdash;a demure kind of tarantella, the male capering about with
faun-like attitudes of invitation and snappings of fingers, his partner evading
the advances with downcast eyes. And the church meanwhile, is filled to
overflowing; orations and services follow one another without interruption; the
priests are having a busy time of it.
</p>

<p>
The rocky pathway between this chapel and the meadow is obstructed by folk and
lined on either side with temporary booths of green branches, whose owners
vociferously extol the merits of their wares&mdash;cloths, woollens, umbrellas,
hot coffee, wine, fresh meat, fruit, vegetables (the spectre of cholera is
abroad, but no one heeds)&mdash;as well as gold watches, rings and brooches,
many of which will be bought ere to-morrow morning, in memory of
to-night&rsquo;s tender meetings. The most interesting shops are those which
display ex-votos, waxen reproductions of various ailing parts of the body which
have been miraculously cured by the Virgin&rsquo;s intercession: arms, legs,
fingers, breasts, eyes. There are also entire infants of wax. Strangest of all
of them is a many-tinted and puzzling waxen symbol which sums up all the
internal organs of the abdomen in one bold effort of artistic condensation; a
kind of heraldic, materialized stomache-ache. I would have carried one away
with me, had there been the slightest chance of its remaining unbroken.<a href="#fn-20.1" name="fnref-20.1" id="fnref-20.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-20.1" id="fn-20.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-20.1">[1]</a>
A good part of these, I dare say, are intended to represent the enlarged
spleen of malaria. In old Greece, says Dr. W. H. D. Rouse, votives of the trunk
are commonest, after the eyes&mdash;malaria, again.
</p>

<p>
These are the votive offerings which catch the visitor&rsquo;s eye in southern
churches, and were beloved not only of heathendom, but of the neolithic gentry;
a large deposit has been excavated at Taranto; the British Museum has some of
marble, from Athens; others were of silver, but the majority terra-cotta. The
custom must have entered Christianity in early ages, for already Theodoret,
who died in 427, says, &ldquo;some bring images of eyes, others of feet, others
of hands; and sometimes they are made of gold, sometimes of silver. These
votive gifts testify to cure of maladies.&rdquo; Nowadays, when they become too
numerous, they are melted down for candles; so Pericles, in some speech, talks
of selling them for the benefit of the commonwealth.
</p>

<p>
One is struck with the feast of costumes here, by far the brightest being those
of the women who have come up from the seven or eight Albanian villages that
surround these hills. In their
<a name="Page153"></a>
variegated array of chocolate-brown and white, of emerald-green and gold and
flashing violet, these dames move about the sward like animated tropical
flowers. But the Albanian girls of Cività stand out for aristocratic
elegance&mdash;pleated black silk gowns, discreetly trimmed with gold and white
lace, and open at the breast. The women of Morano, too, make a brave show.
</p>

<p>
Night brings no respite; on the contrary, the din grows livelier than ever;
fires gleam brightly on the meadow and under the trees; the dancers are
unwearied, the bagpipers with their brazen lungs show no signs of exhaustion.
And presently the municipal music of Castrovillari, specially hired for the
occasion, ascends an improvised bandstand and pours brisk strains into the
night. Then the fireworks begin, sensational fireworks, that have cost a mint
of money; flaring wheels and fiery devices that send forth a pungent odour;
rockets of many hues, lighting up the leafy recesses, and scaring the owls and
wolves for miles around.
</p>

<p>
Certain persons have told me that if you are of a prying disposition, now is
the time to observe amorous couples walking hand in hand into the
gloom&mdash;passionate young lovers from different villages, who have looked
forward to this night of all the year on the chance of meeting, at last, in a
fervent embrace under the friendly beeches. These same stern men (they are
always men) declare that such nocturnal festivals are a disgrace to
civilization; that the Greek Comedy, long ago, reprobated them as disastrous to
the morals of females&mdash;that they were condemned by the Council of Elvira,
by Vigilantius of Marseilles and by the great Saint Jerome, who wrote that on
such occasions no virgin should wander a hand&rsquo;s-breadth from her mother.
They wish you to believe that on these warm summer nights, when the pulses of
nature are felt and senses stirred with music and wine and dance, the <i>Gran
Madre di Dio</i> is adored in a manner less becoming Christian youths and
maidens, than heathens celebrating mad orgies to <i>Magna Mater</i> in Daphne,
or the Babylonian groves (where she was not worshipped at all&mdash;though she
might have been).
</p>

<p>
In fact, they insinuate that&mdash;&mdash;-
</p>

<p>
It may well be true. What were the moralists doing there?
</p>

<p>
Festivals like this are relics of paganism, and have my cordial approval. We
English ought to have learnt by this time that the repression of pleasure is a
dangerous error. In these days when even Italy, the grey-haired <i>cocotte,</i>
has become tainted with Anglo-Pecksniffian principles, there is nothing like a
little time-honoured bestiality for restoring the circulation and putting
things to rights generally. On ethical grounds alone&mdash;as
safety-valves&mdash;such
<a name="Page154"></a>
nocturnal feasts ought to be kept up in regions such as these, where the
country-folk have not our &ldquo;facilities.&rdquo; Who would grudge them these
primordial joys, conducted under the indulgent motherly eye of Madonna, and
hallowed by antiquity and the starlit heavens above? Every one is so happy and
well-behaved. No bawling, no quarrelsomeness, no staggering tipplers; a spirit
of universal good cheer broods over the assembly. Involuntarily, one thinks of
the drunkard-strewn field of battle at the close of our Highland games; one
thinks of God-fearing Glasgow on a Saturday evening, and of certain other
aspects of Glasgow life. . . .
</p>

<p>
I accepted the kindly proffered invitation of the priests to share their
dinner; they held out hopes of some sort of sleeping accommodation as well. It
was a patriarchal hospitality before that fire of logs (the night had grown
chilly), and several other guests partook of it, forestal inspectors and
such-like notabilities&mdash;one lady among them who, true to feudal
traditions, hardly spoke a word the whole evening. I was struck, as I have
sometimes been, at the attainments of these country priests; they certainly
knew our Gargantuan novelists of the Victorian epoch uncommonly well. Can it be
that these great authors are more readable in Italian translations than in the
original? One of them took to relating, in a strain of autumnal humour,
experiences of his life in the wilds of Bolivia, where he had spent many years
among the Indians; my neighbour, meanwhile, proved to be steeped in Horatian
lore. It was his pet theory, supported by a wealth of aptly cited lines, that
Horace was a &ldquo;typical Italian countryman,&rdquo; and great was his
delight on discovering that I shared his view and could even add
another&mdash;somewhat improper&mdash;utterance of the poet&rsquo;s to his
store of illustrative quotations.
</p>

<p>
They belonged to the old school, these sable philosophers; to the days when the
priest was arbiter of life and death, and his mere word sufficient to send a
man to the galleys; when the cleverest boys of wealthy and influential families
were chosen for the secular career and carefully, one might say liberally,
trained to fulfil those responsible functions. The type is becoming extinct,
the responsibility is gone, the profession has lost its glamour; and only the
clever sons of pauper families, or the dull ones of the rich, are now tempted
to forsake the worldly path.
</p>

<p>
Regarding the origin of this festival, I learned that it was
&ldquo;tradition.&rdquo; It had been suggested to me that the Virgin had
appeared to a shepherd in some cave near at hand&mdash;the usual Virgin, in the
usual cave; a cave which, in the present instance, no one was able to point out
to me. <i>Est traditio, ne quaeras amplius.</i>
<a name="Page155"></a>
My hosts answered questions on this subject with benignant ambiguity, and did
not trouble to defend the divine apparition on the sophistical lines laid down
in Riccardi&rsquo;s &ldquo;Santuari.&rdquo; The truth, I imagine, is that they
have very sensibly not concerned themselves with inventing an original legend.
The custom of congregating here on these fixed days seems to be recent, and I
am inclined to think that it has been called into being by the zeal of some
local men of standing. On the other hand, a shrine may well have stood for many
years on this spot, for it marks the half-way house in the arduous two
days&rsquo; journey between San Severino and Castrovillari, a summer
<i>trek</i> that must date from hoary antiquity.
</p>

<p>
Our bedroom contained two rough couches which were to be shared between four
priests and myself. Despite the fact that I occupied the place of honour
between the two oldest and wisest of my ghostly entertainers, sleep refused to
come; the din outside had grown to a pandemonium. I lay awake till, at 2.30
a.m., one of them arose and touched the others with a whispered and
half-jocular <i>oremus!</i> They retired on tiptoe to the next room,
noiselessly closing the door, to prepare themselves for early service. I could
hear them splashing vigorously at their ablutions in the icy water, and
wondered dreamily how many Neapolitan priests would indulge at that chill hour
of the morning in such a lustral rite, prescribed as it is by the rules of
decency and of their church.
</p>

<p>
After that, I stretched forth at my ease and endeavoured to repose seriously.
There were occasional lulls, now, in the carnival, but explosions of sound
still broke the stillness, and phantoms of the restless throng began to chase
each other through my brain. The exotic costumes of the Albanian girls in their
green and gold wove themselves into dreams and called up colours seen in
Northern Africa during still wilder festivals&mdash;negro festivals such as
Fromentin loved to depict. In spectral dance there flitted before my vision
nightmarish throngs of dusky women bedizened in that same green and gold; Arabs
I saw, riding tumultuously hither and thither with burnous flying in the wind;
beggars crawling about the hot sand and howling for alms; ribbons and flags
flying&mdash;a blaze of sunshine overhead, and on earth a seething orgy of
colour and sound; methought I heard the guttural yells of the fruit-vendors,
musketry firing, braying of asses, the demoniacal groans of the
camels&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
Was it really a camel? No. It was something infinitely worse, and within a few
feet of my ears. I sprang out of bed. There, at the very window, stood a youth
extracting unearthly noises out of the Basilicata bagpipe. To be sure! I
remembered expressing an
<a name="Page156"></a>
interest in this rare instrument to one of my hosts who, with subtle delicacy,
must have ordered the boy to give me a taste of his quality&mdash;to perform a
matutinal serenade, for my especial benefit. How thoughtful these people are.
It was not quite 4 a.m. With some regret, I said farewell to sleep and stumbled
out of doors, where my friends of yesterday evening were already up and doing.
The eating, the dancing, the bagpipes&mdash;they were all in violent activity,
under the sober and passionless eye of morning.
</p>

<p>
A gorgeous procession took place about midday. Like a many-coloured serpent it
wound out of the chapel, writhed through the intricacies of the pathway, and
then unrolled itself freely, in splendid convolutions, about the sunlit meadow,
saluted by the crash of mortars, bursts of military music from the band,
chanting priests and women, and all the bagpipers congregated in a mass, each
playing his own favourite tune. The figure of the Madonna&mdash;a modern and
unprepossessing image&mdash;was carried aloft, surrounded by resplendent
ecclesiastics and followed by a picturesque string of women bearing their
votive offerings of candles, great and small. Several hundredweight of wax must
have been brought up on the heads of pious female pilgrims. These
multi-coloured candles are arranged in charming designs; they are fixed upright
in a framework of wood, to resemble baskets or bird-cages, and decked with
bright ribbons and paper flowers.
</p>

<p>
Who settles the expenses of such a festival? The priests, in the first place,
have paid a good deal to make it attractive; they have improved the chapel,
constructed a number of permanent wooden shelters (rain sometimes spoils the
proceedings), as well as a capacious reservoir for holding drinking water,
which has to be transported in barrels from a considerable distance.
Then&mdash;as to the immediate outlay for music, fireworks, and so
forth&mdash;the Madonna-statue is &ldquo;put up to auction&rdquo;: <i>fanno
l&rsquo;incanto della Madonna,</i> as they say; that is, the privilege of
helping to carry the idol from the church and back in the procession is sold to
the highest bidders. Inasmuch as She is put up for auction several times during
this short perambulation, fresh enthusiasts coming forward gaily with
bank-notes and shoulders&mdash;whole villages competing against each
other&mdash;a good deal of money is realized in this way. There are also
spontaneous gifts of money. Goats and sheep, too, decorated with coloured rags,
are led up by peasants who have &ldquo;devoted&rdquo; them to the Mother of
God; the butchers on the spot buy these beasts for slaughter, and their price
goes to swell the funds.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus21"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-21.jpg" width="407" height="308" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">The Valley of Gandolino</p>
</div>

<p>
This year&rsquo;s expenditure may have been a thousand francs or so, and the
proceeds are calculated at about two-thirds of that sum.
<a name="Page157"></a>
No matter. If the priests do not make good the deficiency, some one else will
be kind enough to step forward. Better luck next year! The festival, they hope,
is to become more popular as time goes on, despite the chilling prophecy of one
of our friends: &ldquo;It will finish, this comedy!&rdquo; The money, by the
way, does not pass through the hands of the clerics, but of two individuals
called &ldquo;Regolatore&rdquo; and &ldquo;Priore,&rdquo; who mutually control
each other. They are men of reputable families, who burden themselves with the
troublesome task for the honour of the thing, and make up any deficiencies in
the accounts out of their own pockets. Cases of malversation are legendary.
</p>

<p>
This procession marked the close of the religious gathering. Hardly was it over
before there began a frenzied scrimmage of departure. And soon the woodlands
echoed with the laughter and farewellings of pilgrims returning homewards by
divergent paths; the whole way through the forest, we formed part of a jostling
caravan along the Castrovillari-Morano track&mdash;how different from the last
time I had traversed this route, when nothing broke the silence save a
chaffinch piping among the branches or the distant tap of some woodpecker!
</p>

<p>
So ended the <i>festa.</i> Once in the year this mountain chapel is rudely
disquieted in its slumbers by a boisterous riot; then it sinks again into
tranquil oblivion, while autumn dyes the beeches to gold. And very soon the
long winter comes; chill tempests shake the trees and leaves are scattered to
earth; towards Yuletide some woodman of Viggianello adventuring into these
solitudes, and mindful of their green summer revels, discovers his familiar
sanctuary entombed up to the door-lintle under a glittering sheet of snow. . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
There was a little episode in the late afternoon. We had reached the foot of
the Gaudolino valley and begun the crossing of the plain, when there met us a
woman with dishevelled hair, weeping bitterly and showing other signs of
distress; one would have thought she had been robbed or badly hurt. Not at all!
Like the rest of us, she had attended the feast and, arriving home with the
first party, had been stopped at the entrance of the town, where they had
insisted upon fumigating her clothes as a precaution against cholera, and those
of her companions. That was all. But the indignity choked her&mdash;she had run
back to warn the rest of us, all of whom were to be treated to the same
outrage. Every approach to Morano, she declared, was watched by doctors, to
prevent wary pilgrims from entering by unsuspected paths.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page158"></a>
During her recital my muleteer had grown thoughtful.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What&rsquo;s to be done?&rdquo; he asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t much mind fumigation,&rdquo; I replied.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, but I do! I mind it very much. And these doctors are so dreadfully
distrustful. How shall we cheat them? ... I have it, I have it!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And he elaborated the following stratagem:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I go on ahead of you, alone, leading the two mules. You follow, out of
sight, behind. And what happens? When I reach the doctor, he asks slyly:
&lsquo;Well, and how did you enjoy the festival this year?&rsquo; Then I say:
&lsquo;Not this year, doctor; alas, no festival for me! I&rsquo;ve been with an
Englishman collecting beetles in the forest, and see? here&rsquo;s his riding
mule. He walks on behind&mdash;oh, quite harmless, doctor! a nice gentleman,
indeed&mdash;only, he prefers walking; he really <i>likes</i> it, ha, ha,
ha!&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why mention about my walking?&rdquo; I interrupted. The lady-mule was
still a sore subject.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I mention about your not riding,&rdquo; he explained graciously,
&ldquo;because it will seem to the doctor a sure sign that you are a
little&rdquo;&mdash;here he touched his forehead with a significant
gesture&mdash;&ldquo;a little like some other foreigners, you know. And that,
in its turn, will account for your collecting beetles. And that, in its turn,
will account for your not visiting the Madonna. You comprehend the argument:
how it all hangs together?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I see. What next?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then you come up, holding one beetle in each hand, and pretend not to
know a word of Italian&mdash;not a word! You must smile at the doctor, in
friendly fashion; he&rsquo;ll like that. And besides, it will prove what I said
about&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; (touching his forehead once more). &ldquo;In fact,
the truth will be manifest. And there will be no fumigation for us.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It seemed a needlessly circuitous method of avoiding such a slight
inconvenience. I would have put more faith in a truthful narrative by myself,
suffused with that ingratiating amiability which I would perforce employ on
such occasions. But the stronger mind, as usual, had its way.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll smile,&rdquo; I agreed. &ldquo;But you shall carry my
beetles; it looks more natural, somehow. Go ahead, and find them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He moved forwards with the beasts and, after destroying a considerable tract of
stone wall, procured a few specimens of native coleoptera, which he carefully
wrapped up in a piece of paper. I followed slowly.
</p>

<p>
Unfortunately for him, that particular doctor happened to be
<a name="Page159"></a>
an <i>americano</i> a snappy little fellow, lately returned from the States.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Glad to make your acquaintance, sir,&rdquo; he began, as I came up to
where the two were arguing together. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve heard of your passing
through the other day. So you don&rsquo;t talk Italian? Well, then, see here:
this man of yours, this God-dam son of Satan, has been showing me a couple of
bugs and telling me a couple of hundred lies about them. Better move on right
away; lucky you struck <i>me!</i> As for this son of a &mdash;&mdash;, you bet
I&rsquo;ll sulphur him, bugs and all, to hell!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
I paid the crestfallen muleteer then and there; took down my bags, greatly
lightened, and departed with them. Glancing round near the little bridge, I saw
that the pair were still engaged in heated discussion, my man clinging
despairingly, as it seemed, to the beetle-hypothesis; he looked at me with
reproachful eyes, as though I had deserted him in his hour of need.
</p>

<p>
But what could I do, not knowing Italian?
</p>

<p>
Moreover, I remembered the &ldquo;lady-mule.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Fifteen minutes later a light carriage took me to Castrovillari, whence, after
a bath and dinner that compensated for past hardships, I sped down to the
station and managed, by a miracle, to catch the night-train to Cosenza.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page160"></a><a name="chap21"></a>XXI<br />
MILTON IN CALABRIA</h2>

<p>
you may spend pleasant days in this city of Cosenza, doing nothing whatever.
But I go there a for set purpose, and bristling with energy. I go there to hunt
for a book by a certain Salandra, which was printed on the spot, and which I
have not yet been able to find, although I once discovered it in an old
catalogue, priced at 80 <i>grani.</i> Gladly would I give 8000 for it!
</p>

<p>
The author was a contemporary of that Flying Monk of whom I spoke in Chapter X,
and he belonged to the same religious order. If, in what I then said about the
flying monk, there appears to be some trace of light fooling in regard to this
order and its methods, let amends be made by what I have to tell about old
Salandra, the discovery of whose book is one of primary importance for the
history of English letters. Thus I thought at the time; and thus I still think,
with all due deference to certain grave and discerning gentlemen, the editors
of various English monthlies to whom I submitted a paper on this
subject&mdash;a paper which they promptly returned with thanks. No; that is not
quite correct. One of them has kept it; and as six years have passed over our
heads, I presume he has now acquired a title by &ldquo;adverse
possession.&rdquo; Much good may it do him!
</p>

<p>
Had the discovery been mine, I should have endeavoured to hide my light under
the proverbial bushel. But it is not mine, and therefore I make bold to say
that Mr. Bliss Perry, of the &ldquo;Atlantic Monthly,&rdquo; knew better than
his English colleagues when he published the article from which I take what
follows.
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;Charles Dunster (&lsquo;Considerations on Milton&rsquo;s Early
Reading,&rsquo; etc., 1810) traces the <i>prima stamina</i> of &lsquo;Paradise
Lost&rsquo; to Sylvester&rsquo;s &lsquo;Du Bartas.&rsquo; Masenius, Cedmon,
Vondel, and other older writers have also been named in this connection, while
the majority of Milton&rsquo;s English commentators&mdash;and among foreigners
Voltaire and Tiraboschi&mdash;are inclined to regard the &lsquo;Adamus
Exul&rsquo; of Grotius or Andreini&rsquo;s sacred drama of &lsquo;Adamo&rsquo;
as the prototype.
<a name="Page161"></a>
This latter can be consulted in the third volume of Cowper&rsquo;s
&lsquo;Milton&rsquo; (1810).
</p>

<p>
The matter is still unsettled, and in view of the number of recent scholars who
have interested themselves in it, one is really surprised that no notice has
yet been taken of an Italian article which goes far towards deciding this
question and proving that the chief source of &lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo; is
the &lsquo;Adamo Caduto,&rsquo; a sacred tragedy by Serafino della Salandra.
The merit of this discovery belongs to Francesco Zicari, whose paper,
&lsquo;Sulla scoverta dell&rsquo; originale italiano da cui Milton trasse il
suo poema del paradiso perduto,&rsquo; is printed on pages 245 to 276 in the
1845 volume of the Naples &lsquo;Album scientifico-artistico-letterario&rsquo;
now lying before me. It is in the form of a letter addressed to his friend
Francesco Ruffa, a native of Tropea in Calabria.<a href="#fn-21.1" name="fnref-21.1" id="fnref-21.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-21.1" id="fn-21.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-21.1">[1]</a>
Zicari contemplated another paper on this subject, but I am unaware whether
this was ever published. The Neapolitan Minieri-Riccio, who wrote his
&lsquo;Memorie Storiche&rsquo; in 1844, speaks of this article as having been
already printed in 1832, but does not say where. This is corroborated by N.
Falcone (&lsquo;Biblioteca storica-topo-grafica della Calabria,&rsquo; 2nd ed.,
Naples, 1846, pp. 152-154), who gives the same date, and adds that Zicari was
the author of a work on the district of Fuscaldo. He was born at Paola in
Calabria, of which he wrote a (manuscript) history, and died in 1846. In this
Milton article, he speaks of his name being &lsquo;unknown in the republic of
letters.&rsquo;. He is mentioned by Nicola Leoni (&lsquo;Della Magna
Grecia,&rsquo; vol. ii, p. 153).
</p>

<p>
Salandra, it is true, is named among the writers of sacred tragedies in
Todd&rsquo;s &lsquo;Milton&rsquo; (1809, vol. ii, p. 244), and also by Hayley,
but neither of them had the curiosity, or the opportunity, to examine his
&lsquo;Adamo Caduto&rsquo;; Hayley expressly says that he has not seen it. More
recent works, such as that of Moers (&lsquo;De fontibus Paradisi Amissi
Miltoniani,&rsquo; Bonn, 1860), do not mention Salandra at all. Byse
(&lsquo;Milton on the Continent,&rsquo; 1903) merely hints at some possible
motives for the Allegro and the Penseroso.
</p>

<p>
As to dates, there can be no doubt to whom the priority belongs. The
&lsquo;Adamo&rsquo; of Salandra was printed at Cosenza in 1647. Richardson
thinks that Milton entered upon his &lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo; in 1654, and
that it was shown, as done, in 1665; D. Masson agrees with this, adding that
&lsquo;it was not published till two years afterwards.&rsquo; The date 1665 is
fixed, I presume, by the Quaker Elwood&rsquo;s account of his visit to Milton
in the autumn of that year, when the poet gave him the manuscript to read; the
two years&rsquo; delay in publication may possibly have been due to the
confusion occasioned by the great plague and fire of London.
</p>

<p>
The castigation bestowed upon Lauder by Bishop Douglas, followed, as it was, by
a terrific &lsquo;back-hander&rsquo; from the brawny arm of Samuel Johnson,
induces me to say that Salandra&rsquo;s &lsquo;Adamo Caduto,&rsquo; though
extremely rare&mdash;so rare that neither the British
<a name="Page162"></a>
Museum nor the Paris Bibliothèque Nationale possesses a copy&mdash;is
<i>not</i> an imaginary book; I have had it in my hands, and examined it at the
Naples Biblioteca Nazionale; it is a small octavo of 251 pages (not including
twenty unnumbered ones, and another one at the end for correction of
misprints); badly printed and bearing all the marks of genuineness, with the
author&rsquo;s name and the year and place of publication clearly set forth on
the title-page. I have carefully compared Zicari&rsquo;s references to it, and
quotations from it, with the original. They are correct, save for a few
insignificant verbal discrepancies which, so far as I can judge, betray no
indication of an attempt on his part to mislead the reader, such as using the
word <i>tromba</i> (trumpet) instead of Salandra&rsquo;s term <i>sambuca</i>
(sackbut). And if further proof of authenticity be required, I may note that
the &lsquo;Adamo Caduto&rsquo; of Salandra is already cited in old
bibliographies like Toppi&rsquo;s &lsquo;Biblioteca Napoletana&rsquo; (1678),
or that of Joannes a S. Antonio (&lsquo;Biblioteca universa Franciscana,
etc.,&rsquo; Madrid, 1732-1733, vol. iii, p. 88). It appears to have been the
only literary production of its author, who was a Franciscan monk and is
described as &lsquo;Preacher, Lector and Definitor of the Reformed Province of
Basilicata.&rsquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
We may take it, then, that Salandra was a real person, who published a mystery
called &lsquo;Adamo Caduto&rsquo; in 1647; and I will now, without further
preamble, extract from Zicari&rsquo;s article as much as may be sufficient to
show ground for his contention that Milton&rsquo;s &lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo;
is a transfusion, in general and in particular, of this same mystery.
</p>

<p>
Salandra&rsquo;s central theme is the Universe shattered by the disobedience of
the First Man, the origin of our unhappiness and sins. The same with Milton.
</p>

<p>
Salandra&rsquo;s chief personages are God and His angels; the first man and
woman; the serpent; Satan and his angels. The same with Milton.
</p>

<p>
Salandra, at the opening of his poem (the prologue), sets forth his argument,
and dwells upon the Creative Omnipotence and his works. The same with Milton.
</p>

<p>
Salandra then describes the council of the rebel angels, their fall from heaven
into a desert and sulphurous region, their discourses. Man is enviously spoken
of, and his fall by means of stratagem decided upon; it is resolved to reunite
in council in Pandemonium or the Abyss, where measures may be adopted to the
end that man may become the enemy of God and the prey of hell. The same with
Milton.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page163"></a>
Salandra personifies Sin and Death, the latter being the child of the former.
The same with Milton.
</p>

<p>
Salandra describes Omnipotence foreseeing the effects of the temptation and
fall of man, and preparing his redemption. The same with Milton.
</p>

<p>
Salandra depicts the site of Paradise and the happy life there. The same with
Milton.
</p>

<p>
Salandra sets forth the miraculous creation of the universe and of man, and the
virtues of the forbidden fruit. The same with Milton.
</p>

<p>
Salandra reports the conversation between Eve and the Serpent; the eating of
the forbidden fruit and the despair of our first parents. The same with Milton.
</p>

<p>
Salandra describes the joy of Death at the discomfiture of Eve; the rejoicings
in hell; the grief of Adam; the flight of our first parents, their shame and
repentance. The same with Milton.
</p>

<p>
Salandra anticipates the intercession of the Redeemer, and the overthrow of Sin
and Death; he dwells upon the wonders of the Creation, the murder of Abel by
his brother Cain, and other human ills; the vices of the Antediluvians, due to
the fall of Adam; the infernal gift of war. The same with Milton.
</p>

<p>
Salandra describes the passion of Jesus Christ, and the comforts which Adam and
Eve receive from the angel who announces the coming of the Messiah; lastly,
their departure from the earthly paradise. The same with Milton.
</p>

<p class="p2">
So much for the general scheme of both poems. And now for a few particular
points of resemblance, verbal and otherwise.
</p>

<p>
The character of Milton&rsquo;s Satan, with the various facets of pride, envy,
vindictiveness, despair, and impenitence which go to form that harmonious
whole, are already clearly mapped out in the Lucifero of Salandra. For this
statement, which I find correct, Zicari gives chapter and verse, but it would
take far too long to set forth the matter in this place. The speeches of
Lucifero, to be sure, read rather like a caricature&mdash;it must not be
forgotten that Salandra was writing for lower-class theatrical spectators, and
not for refined readers&mdash;but the elements which Milton has utilized are
already there.
</p>

<p>
Here is a coincidence:
</p>

<p class="poem">
Here we may reign secure . . .<br />
Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
</p>

<p class="right">
MILTON (i, 258).
</p>

<p class="poem">
. . . Qui propria voglia,<br />
Son capo, son qui duce, son lor Prence.
</p>

<p class="right">
SALANDRA (p. 49).
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page164"></a>
And another:
</p>

<p class="poem">
. . . Whom shall we find<br />
Sufficient? ... This enterprise<br />
None shall partake with me.&mdash;MILTON (ii, 403, 465).<br />
<br />
A chi basterà l&rsquo; anima di voi?<br />
. . . certo che quest&rsquo; affare<br />
A la mia man s&rsquo; aspetta.&mdash;SALANDRA (p. 64).
</p>

<p>
Milton&rsquo;s Terror is partially taken from the Megera of the Italian poet.
The &lsquo;grisly Terror&rsquo; threatens Satan (ii, 699), and the office of
Megera, in Salandra&rsquo;s drama, is exactly the same&mdash;that is, to
threaten and chastise the rebellious spirit, which she does very effectually
(pages 123-131). The identical monsters&mdash;Cerberus, Hydras, and
Chimæras&mdash;are found in their respective abodes, but Salandra does not
content himself with these three; his list includes such a mixed assemblage of
creatures as owls, basilisks, dragons, tigers, bears, crocodiles, sphynxes,
harpies, and panthers. Terror moves with dread rapidity:
</p>

<p class="poem">
. . . and from his seat<br />
The monster moving onward came as fast<br />
With horrid strides.&mdash;MILTON (ii, 675).
</p>

<p class="noindent">
and so does Megera:
</p>

<p class="poem">
In atterir, in spaventar son . . .<br />
Rapido sì ch&rsquo; ogni ripar è vano.&mdash;SALANDRA (p. 59).
</p>

<p>
Both Milton and Salandra use the names of the gods of antiquity for their
demons, but the narrative epic of the English poet naturally permitted of far
greater prolixity and variety in this respect. A most curious parallelism
exists between Milton&rsquo;s Belial and that of Salandra. Both are described
as luxurious, timorous, slothful, and scoffing, and there is not the slightest
doubt that Milton has taken over these mixed attributes from the Italian.<a href="#fn-21.2" name="fnref-21.2" id="fnref-21.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-21.2" id="fn-21.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-21.2">[2]</a>
This is one of the occasions in which Zicari appears, at first sight, to have
stretched a point in order to improve his case, because, in the reference he
gives, it is Behemoth, and not Belial, who speaks of himself as cowardly
<i>(imbelle).</i> But in another place Lucifer applies this designation to
Belial as well,
</p>

<p>
The words of Milton&rsquo;s Beelzebub (ii, 368):
</p>

<p class="poem">
Seduce them to our party, that their god<br />
May prove their foe . . .
</p>

<p class="noindent">
are copied from those of the Italian Lucifero (p. 52):
</p>

<p class="poem">
. . . Facciam<br />
Acciò, che l&rsquo; huom divenga<br />
A Dio nemico . . .
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page165"></a>
Regarding the creation of the world, Salandra asks (p. 11):
</p>

<p class="poem">
Qual lingua può di Dio,<br />
Benchè da Dio formato<br />
Lodar di Dio le meraviglie estreme?
</p>

<p class="noindent">
which is thus echoed by Milton (vii, 112):
</p>

<p class="poem">
... to recount almighty works<br />
What words or tongue of Seraph can suffice?
</p>

<p>
There is a considerable resemblance between the two poets in their descriptions
of Paradise and of its joys. In both poems, too, Adam warns his spouse of her
frailty, and in the episode of Eve&rsquo;s meeting with the serpent there are
no less than four verbal coincidences. Thus Salandra writes (p. 68):
</p>

<p class="poem">
Ravviso gli animal, ch&rsquo; a schiera a schiera<br />
Già fanno humil e <i>reverente</i> inclino . . .<br />
Ravveggio il bel serpente <i>avvolto</i> in giri;<br />
O sei bello<br />
Con tanta varietà che certo sembri<br />
Altro stellato ciel, <i>smaltata</i> terra.<br />
O che sento, <i>tu parli?</i>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
and Milton transcribes it as follows (ix, 517-554):
</p>

<p class="poem">
. . . She minded not, as used<br />
To such disport before her through the field<br />
From every beast, more <i>duteous</i> at her call . . . <br />
Curled many a wanton <i>wreath</i> in sight of Eve.<br />
His turret crest and sleek <i>enamelled</i> neck . . .<br />
What may this mean? Language of man <i>pronounced</i><br />
By tongue of brute?
</p>

<p>
Altogether, Zicari has observed that Rolli, although unacquainted with the
&lsquo;Adamo Caduto,&rsquo; has sometimes inadvertently hit upon the same words
in his Italian translation of Milton which Salandra had used before him.
</p>

<p>
Eve&rsquo;s altered complexion after the eating of the forbidden fruit is noted
by both poets:
</p>

<p class="poem">
Torbata ne la faccia? Non sei quella<br />
Qual ti lasciai contenta . . .&mdash;SALANDRA (p. 89).<br />
<br />
Thus Eve with countenance blithe her story told;<br />
But in her cheek distemper flushing glowed. &mdash;MILTON (ix, 886).
</p>

<p class="noindent">
only with this difference, that the Italian Eve adds a half-lie by way of
explaining the change:
</p>

<p class="poem">
. . . Forse cangiata (del che non mi avveggio)<br />
Sono nel volto per la tua partenza.&mdash;(p. 89).
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page166"></a>
In both poems Sin and Death reappear on the scene after the transgression.
</p>

<p>
The flight of Innocence from earth; the distempered lust which dominates over
Adam and Eve after the Fall; the league of Sin and Death to rule henceforward
over the world; the pathetic lament of Adam regarding his misfortune and the
evils in store for his progeny; his noble sentiment, that none can withdraw
himself from the all-seeing eye of God&mdash;all these are images which Milton
has copied from Salandra.
</p>

<p>
Adam&rsquo;s state of mind, after the fall, is compared by Salandra to a boat
tossed by impetuous winds (p. 228):
</p>

<p class="poem">
Qual agitato legno d&rsquo;Austro, e Noto,<br />
Instabile incostante, non hai pace,<br />
Tu vivi pur . . .
</p>

<p class="noindent">
which is thus paraphrased in Milton (ix, 1122):
</p>

<p class="poem">
. . . High winds worse within<br />
Began to rise . . . and shook sore<br />
Their inward state of mind, calm region once<br />
And full of peace, now tossed and turbulent.
</p>

<p>
Here is a still more palpable adaptation:
</p>

<p class="poem">
... So God ordains:<br />
God is thy law, thou mine.&mdash;MILTON (iv, 636)<br />
<br />
. . . . Un voler sia d&rsquo; entrambi,<br />
E quel&rsquo; uno di noi, di Dio sia tutto.&mdash;SALANDRA (p. 42).
</p>

<p>
After the Fall, according to Salandra, <i>vacillò la terra</i> (i), <i>geme</i>
(2), <i>e pianse</i> (3), <i>rumoreggiano i tuoni</i> (4), <i>accompagnati da
grandini</i> (5), <i>e dense nevi</i> (6), (pp. 138, 142, 218). Milton
translates this as follows: Earth trembled from her entrails (1), and nature
gave a second groan (2); sky loured and, muttering thunders (4), some sad drops
wept (3), the winds, armed with ice and snow (6) and hail (5). (&lsquo;Paradise
Lost,&rsquo; ix, 1000, x. 697).
</p>

<p>
Here is another translation:
</p>

<p class="poem">
. . . inclino il cielo<br />
Giù ne la terra, e questa al Ciel innalza.&mdash;SALANDRA (p. 242).<br />
<br />
And Earth be changed to Heaven, and Heaven to Earth.&mdash;MILTON (vii, 160).
</p>

<p>
It is not to my purpose to do Zicari&rsquo;s work over again, as this would
entail a complete translation of his long article (it contains nearly ten
thousand words), to which, if the thing is to be done properly, must be
appended Salandra&rsquo;s &lsquo;Adamo,&rsquo; in order that his
<a name="Page167"></a>
quotations from it can be tested. I will therefore refer to the originals those
who wish to go into the subject more fully, warning them, <i>en passant,</i>
that they may find the task of verification more troublesome than it seems,
owing to a stupid mistake on Zicari&rsquo;s part. For in his references to
Milton, he claims (p. 252) to use an 1818 Venice translation of the
&lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo; by Rolli. Now Rolli&rsquo;s &lsquo;Paradiso
Perduto&rsquo; is a well-known work which was issued in many editions in
London, Paris, and Italy throughout the eighteenth century. But I cannot trace
this particular one of Venice, and application to many of the chief libraries
of Italy has convinced me that it does not exist, and that 1818 must be a
misprint for some other year. The error would be of no significance if Zicari
had referred to Rolli&rsquo;s &lsquo;Paradiso&rsquo; by the usual system of
cantos and lines, but he refers to it by pages, and the pagination differs in
every one of the editions of Rolli which have passed through my hands. Despite
every effort, I have not been able to hit upon the precise one which Zicari had
in mind, and if future students are equally unfortunate, I wish them joy of
their labours.<a href="#fn-21.3" name="fnref-21.3" id="fnref-21.3"><sup>[3]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-21.3" id="fn-21.3"></a> <a href="#fnref-21.3">[3]</a>
Let me take this opportunity of expressing my best thanks to Baron E. Tortora
Brayda, of the Naples Biblioteca Nazionale, who has taken an infinity of
trouble in this matter.
</p>

<p>
These few extracts, however, will suffice to show that, without
Salandra&rsquo;s &lsquo;Adamo,&rsquo; the &lsquo;Paradise Lost,&rsquo; as we
know it, would not be in existence; and that Zicari&rsquo;s discovery is
therefore one of primary importance for English letters, although it would be
easy to point out divergencies between the two works&mdash;divergencies often
due to the varying tastes and feelings of a republican Englishman and an
Italian Catholic, and to the different conditions imposed by an epic and a
dramatic poem. Thus, in regard to this last point, Zicari has already noted (p.
270) that Salandra&rsquo;s scenic acts were necessarily reproduced in the form
<i>of visions</i> by Milton, who could not avail himself of the mechanism of
the drama for this purpose. Milton was a man of the world, traveller, scholar,
and politician; but it will not do for us to insist too vehemently upon the
probable mental inferiority of the Calabrian monk, in view of the high opinion
which Milton seems to have had of his talents. Imitation is the sincerest form
of flattery. The &lsquo;Adamo Caduto,&rsquo; of course, is only one of a series
of similar works concerning which a large literature has now grown up, and it
might not be difficult to prove that Salandra was indebted to some previous
writer for those words and phrases which he passed on to the English poet.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page168"></a>
But where did Milton become acquainted with this tragedy? It was at Naples,
according to Cowper (&lsquo;Milton,&rsquo; vol. iii, p. 206), that the English
poet may first have entertained the idea of &lsquo;the loss of paradise as a
subject peculiarly fit for poetry.&rsquo; He may well have discussed sacred
tragedies, like those of Andreini, with the Marquis Manso. But Milton had
returned to England long before Salandra&rsquo;s poem was printed; nor can
Manso have sent him a copy of it, for he died in 1645&mdash;two years before
its publication&mdash;and Zicari is thus mistaken in assuming (p. 245) that
Milton became acquainted with it in the house of the Neapolitan nobleman.
Unless, therefore, we take for granted that Manso was intimate with the author
Salandra&mdash;he knew most of his literary countrymen&mdash;and sent or gave
to Milton a copy of the manuscript of &lsquo;Adamo&rsquo; before it was
printed, or that Milton was personally familiar with Salandra, we may conclude
that the poem was forwarded to him from Italy by some other friend, perhaps by
some member of the <i>Accademia, degli Oziosi</i> which Manso had founded.
</p>

<p>
A chance therefore seems to have decided Milton; Salandra&rsquo;s tragedy fell
into his hands, and was welded into the epic form which he had designed for
Arthur the Great, even as, in later years, a chance question on the part of
Elwood led to his writing &lsquo;Paradise Regained.&rsquo;<a href="#fn-21.4" name="fnref-21.4" id="fnref-21.4"><sup>[4]</sup></a>
For this poem there were not so many models handy as for the other, but Milton
has written too little to enable us to decide how far its inferiority to the
earlier epic is due to this fact, and how far to the inherent inertia of its
subject-matter. Little movement can be contrived in a mere dialogue such as
&lsquo;Paradise Regained&rsquo;; it lacks the grandiose <i>mise-en-scène</i>
and the shifting splendours of the greater epic; the stupendous figure of the
rebellious archangel, the true hero of &lsquo;Paradise Lost,&rsquo; is here
dwarfed into a puny, malignant sophist; nor is the final issue in the later
poem <i>even for a moment</i> in doubt&mdash;a serious defect from an artistic
point of view. Jortin holds its peculiar excellence to be &lsquo;artful
sophistry, false reasoning, set off in the most specious manner, and refuted by
the Son of God with strong unaffected eloquence&rsquo;; merits for which Milton
needed no original of any kind, as his own lofty religious sentiments, his
argumentative talents and long experience of political pamphleteering, stood
him in good stead. Most of us must have wondered how it came about that Milton
could not endure to hear &lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo; preferred to
&lsquo;Paradise Regained,&rsquo; in view of the very apparent inferiority of
the latter. If we had known what Milton knew, namely, to how
<a name="Page169"></a>
large an extent &lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo; was not the child of his own
imagination, and therefore not so precious in his eyes as &lsquo;Paradise
Regained,&rsquo; we might have understood his prejudice.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-21.4" id="fn-21.4"></a> <a href="#fnref-21.4">[4]</a>
<i>Thou hast said much of Paradise Lost, but what hast thou to say of
Paradise Found?</i> He made no answer, but sat some time in a muse. . . .
</p>

<p>
Certain parts of &lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo; are drawn, as we all know, from
other Italian sources, from Sannazario, Ariosto, Guarini, Bojardo, and others.
Zicari who, it must be said, has made the best of his case, will have it that
the musterings and battles of the good and evil angels are copied from the
&lsquo;Angeleide&rsquo; of Valvasone published at Milan in 1590. But G.
Polidori, who has reprinted the &lsquo;Angeleide&rsquo; in his Italian version
of Milton (London, 1840), has gone into this matter and thinks otherwise. These
devil-and-angel combats were a popular theme at the time, and there is no
reason why the English poet should copy continental writers in such
descriptions, which necessarily have a common resemblance. The Marquis Manso
was very friendly with the poets Tasso and Marino, and it is also to be
remarked that entire passages in &lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo; are copied,
<i>totidem verbis,</i> from the writings of these two, Manso having no doubt
drawn Milton&rsquo;s attention to their beauties. In fact, I am inclined to
think that Manso&rsquo;s notorious enthusiasm for the <i>warlike</i> epic of
Tasso may first of all have diverted Milton from purely pastoral ideals and
inflamed him with the desire of accomplishing a similar feat, whence the
well-known lines in Milton&rsquo;s Latin verses to this friend, which contain
the first indication of such a design on his part. Even the familiar
invocation, &lsquo;Hail, wedded Love,&rsquo; is bodily drawn from one of
Tasso&rsquo;s letters (see Newton&rsquo;s &lsquo;Milton,&rsquo; 1773, vol. i,
pp. 312, 313).
</p>

<p>
It has been customary to speak of these literary appropriations as
&lsquo;imitations&rsquo;; but whoever compares them with the originals will
find that many of them are more correctly termed translations. The case, from a
literary-moral point of view, is different as regards ancient writers, and it
is surely idle to accuse Milton, as has been done, of pilferings from Aeschylus
or Ovid. There is no such thing as robbing the classics. They are our literary
fathers, and what they have left behind them is our common heritage; we may
adapt, borrow, or steal from them as much as will suit our purpose; to
acknowledge such &lsquo;thefts&rsquo; is sheer pedantry and ostentation. But
Salandra and the rest of them were Milton&rsquo;s contemporaries. It is
certainly an astonishing fact that no scholar of the stamp of Thyer was
acquainted with the &lsquo;Adamo Caduto&rsquo;; and it says much for the
isolation of England that, at a period when poems on the subject of paradise
lost were being scattered broadcast in Italy and elsewhere&mdash;when, in
short, all Europe was ringing with the doleful history of Adam and
Eve&mdash;Milton could have ventured to speak of
<a name="Page170"></a>
his work as &lsquo;Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme&rsquo;&mdash;an
amazing verse which, by the way, is literally transcribed out of Ariosto
(&lsquo;Cosa, non detta in prosa mai, nè in rima&rsquo;). But even now the
acquaintance of the British public with the productions of continental writers
is superficial and spasmodic, and such was the ignorance of English scholars of
this earlier period, that Birch maintained that Milton&rsquo;s drafts, to be
referred to presently, indicated his intention of writing an <i>opera</i> (!);
while as late as 1776 the poet Mickle, notwithstanding Voltaire&rsquo;s
authority, questioned the very existence of Andreini, who has written thirty
different pieces.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Some idea of the time when Salandra&rsquo;s tragedy reached Milton might be
gained if we knew the date of his manuscript projects for &lsquo;Paradise
Lost&rsquo; and other writings which are preserved at Cambridge. R. Garnett
(&lsquo;Life of Milton,&rsquo; 1890, p. 129) supposes these drafts to date from
about 1640 to 1642, and I am not sufficiently learned in Miltonian lore to
controvert or corroborate in a general way this assertion. But the date must
presumably be pushed further forward in the case of the skeletons for
&lsquo;Paradise Lost,&rsquo; which are modelled to a great extent upon
Salandra&rsquo;s &lsquo;Adamo&rsquo; of 1647, though other compositions may
also have been present before Milton&rsquo;s mind, such as that mentioned on
page 234 of the second volume of Todd&rsquo;s &lsquo;Milton,&rsquo; from which
he seems to have drawn the hint of a &lsquo;prologue spoken by Moses.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
Without going into the matter exhaustively, I will only say that from these
pieces it is clear that Milton&rsquo;s primary idea was to write, like
Salandra, a sacred tragedy upon this theme, and not an epic. These drafts also
contain a chorus, such as Salandra has placed in his drama, and a great number
of mutes, who do not figure in the English epic, but who reappear in the
&lsquo;Adamo Caduto&rsquo; and all similar works. Even Satan is here designated
as Lucifer, in accordance with the Italian Lucifero; and at the end of one of
Milton&rsquo;s drafts we read &lsquo;at last appears Mercy, comforts him,
promises the Messiah, etc.,&rsquo; which is exactly what Salandra&rsquo;s
Misericordia (Mercy) does in the same place.
</p>

<p>
Milton no doubt kept on hand many loose passages of poetry, both original and
borrowed, ready to be worked up into larger pieces; all poets are smothered in
odd scraps of verse and lore which they &lsquo;fit in&rsquo; as occasion
requires; and it is therefore quite possible that some fragments now included
in &lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo; may have been complete before the &lsquo;Adamo
Caduto&rsquo; was printed. I am referring, more especially, to Satan&rsquo;s
address to the sun, which Philips says was written before the commencement of
the epic.
<a name="Page171"></a>
Admitting Philips to be correct, I still question whether this invocation was
composed before Milton&rsquo;s visit to Naples; and if it was, the poet may
well have intended it for some other of the multitudinous works which these
drafts show him to have been revolving in his mind, or for none of them in
particular.
</p>

<p>
De Quincey rightly says that Addison gave the initial bias in favour of
&lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo; to the English national mind, which has
thenceforward shrunk, as Addison himself did, from a dispassionate
contemplation of its defects; the idea being, I presume, that a &lsquo;divine
poem&rsquo; in a manner disarmed rational criticism. And, strange to say, even
the few faults which earlier scholars did venture to point out in
Milton&rsquo;s poem will be found in that of Salandra. There is the same
superabundance of allegory; the same confusion of spirit and matter among the
supernatural persons; the same lengthy astronomical treatise; the same
personification of Sin and Death; the same medley of Christian and pagan
mythology; the same tedious historico-theological disquisition at the end of
both poems.
</p>

<p>
For the rest, it is to be hoped that we have outgrown our fastidiousness on
some of these points. Theological fervour has abated, and in a work of the pure
imagination, as &lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo; is now&mdash;is it
not?&mdash;considered to be, there is nothing incongruous or offensive in an
amiable commingling of Semitic and Hellenic deities after the approved Italian
recipe; nor do a few long words about geography or science disquiet us any
more. Milton was not writing for an uncivilized mob, and his occasional
displays of erudition will represent to a cultured person only those breathing
spaces so refreshing in all epic poetry. That Milton&rsquo;s language is
saturated with Latinisms and Italianisms is perfectly true. His English may not
have been good enough for his contemporaries. But it is quite good enough for
us. That &lsquo;grand manner&rsquo; which Matthew Arnold claimed for Milton,
that sustained pitch of kingly elaboration and fullness, is not wholly an
affair of high moral tone; it results in part from the humbler ministrations of
words happily chosen&mdash;from a felicitous alloy of Mediterranean grace and
Saxon mettle. For, whether consciously or not, we cannot but be influenced by
the <i>colour-effects</i> of mere words, that arouse in us definite but
indefinable moods of mind. To complain of the foreign phraseology and turns of
thought in &lsquo;Paradise Lost&rsquo; would be the blackest ingratitude
nowadays, seeing that our language has become enriched by steady gleams of pomp
and splendour due, in large part, to the peculiar <i>lustre</i> of
Milton&rsquo;s comely importations.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page172"></a><a name="chap22"></a>XXII<br />
THE &ldquo;GREEK&rdquo; SILA</h2>

<p>
It was to be the Sila in earnest, this time. I would traverse the whole
country, from the Coscile valley to Catanzaro, at the other end. Arriving from
Cosenza the train deposited me, once more, at the unlovely station of
Castrovillari. I looked around the dusty square, half-dazed by the
sunlight&mdash;it was a glittering noonday in July&mdash;but the postal waggon
to Spezzano Albanese, my first resting-point, had not yet arrived. Then a
withered old man, sitting on a vehicle behind the sorry skeleton of a horse,
volunteered to take me there at once; we quickly came to terms; it was too hot,
we both agreed, to waste breath in bargaining. With the end of his whip he
pointed out the church of Spezzano on its hilltop; a proud structure it looked
at this distance, though nearer acquaintance reduced it to extremely humble
proportions.
</p>

<p>
The Albanian Spezzano (Spezzano Grande is another place) lies on the main road
from Castrovillari to Cosenza, on the summit of a long-stretched tongue of
limestone which separates the Crati river from the Esaro; this latter, after
flowing into the Coscile, joins its waters with the Crati, and so closes the
promontory. An odd geographical feature, this low stretch, viewed from the
greater heights of Sila or Pollino; one feels inclined to take a broom and
sweep it into the sea, so that the waters may mingle sooner.
</p>

<p>
Our road ascended the thousand feet in a sinuous ribbon of white dust, and an
eternity seemed to pass as we crawled drowsily upwards to the music of the
cicadas, under the simmering blue sky. There was not a soul in sight; a hush
had fallen upon all things; great Pan was brooding over the earth. At last we
entered the village, and here, once more, deathlike stillness reigned; it was
the hour of post-prandial slumber.
</p>

<p>
At our knocking the proprietor of the inn, situated in a side-street,
descended. But he was in bad humour, and held out no hopes of refreshment.
Certain doctors and government officials, he said, were gathered together in
his house, telegraphically summoned to consult about a local case of cholera.
As to edibles, the
<a name="Page173"></a>
gentlemen had lunched, and nothing was left, absolutely nothing; it had been
<i>uno sterminio</i>&mdash;an extermination&mdash;of all he possessed. The
prospect of walking about the burning streets till evening did not appeal to
me, and as this was the only inn at Spezzano I insisted, first gently, then
forcibly&mdash;in vain. There was not so much as a chair to sit upon, he
avowed; and therewith retired into his cool twilight.
</p>

<p>
Despairing, I entered a small shop wherein I had observed the only signs of
life so far&mdash;an Albanian woman spinning in patriarchal fashion. It was a
low-ceilinged room, stocked with candles, seeds, and other commodities which a
humble householder might desire to purchase, including certain of those
water-gugglets of Corigliano ware in whose shapely contours something of the
artistic dreamings of old Sybaris still seems to linger. The proprietress,
clothed in gaudily picturesque costume, greeted me with a smile and the easy
familiarity which I have since discovered to be natural to all these women. She
had a room, she said, where I could rest; there was also food, such as it was,
cheese, and wine, and&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Fruit?&rdquo; I queried.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, you like fruit? Well, we may not so much as speak about it just
now&mdash;the cholera, the doctors, the policeman, the prison! I was going to
say <i>salami.&rdquo;</i>
</p>

<p>
Salami? I thanked her. I know Calabrian pigs and what they feed on, though it
would be hard to describe in the language of polite society.
</p>

<p>
Despite the heat and the swarms of flies in that chamber, I felt little desire
for repose after her simple repast; the dame was so affable and entertaining
that we soon became great friends. I caused her some amusement by my efforts to
understand and pronounce her language&mdash;these folk speak Albanian and
Italian with equal facility&mdash;which seemed to my unpractised ears as
hopeless as Finnish. Very patiently, she gave me a long lesson during which I
thought to pick up a few words and phrases, but the upshot of it all was:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You&rsquo;ll never learn it. You have begun a hundred years too
late.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
I tried her with modern Greek, but among such fragments as remained on my
tongue after a lapse of over twenty years, only hit upon one word that she
could understand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite right!&rdquo; she said encouragingly. &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you
always speak properly? And now, let me hear a little of your own
language.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page174"></a>
I gave utterance to a few verses of Shakespeare, which caused considerable
merriment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you mean to tell me,&rdquo; she asked, &ldquo;that people really talk
like that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of course they do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And pretend to understand what it means?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, naturally.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Maybe they do,&rdquo; she agreed. &ldquo;But only when they want to be
thought funny by their friends.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The afternoon drew on apace, and at last the pitiless sun sank to rest. I
perambulated Spezzano in the gathering twilight; it was now fairly alive with
people. An unclean place; an epidemic of cholera would work wonders here. . . .
</p>

<p>
At 9.30 p.m. the venerable coachman presented himself, by appointment; he was
to drive me slowly (out of respect for his horse) through the cool hours of the
night as far as Vaccarizza, on the slopes of the Greek Sila, where he expected
to arrive early in the morning. (And so he did; at half-past five.) Not without
more mirth was my leave-taking from the good shopwoman; something, apparently,
was hopelessly wrong with the Albanian words of farewell which I had carefully
memorized from our preceding lesson. She then pressed a paper parcel into my
hand.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For the love of God,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;silence! Or we shall
all be in jail to-morrow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It contained a dozen pears.
</p>

<p>
Driving along, I tried to enter into conversation with the coachman who,
judging by his face, was a mine of local lore. But I had come too late; the
poor old man was so weakened by age and infirmities that he cared little for
talk, his thoughts dwelling, as I charitably imagined, on his wife and
children, all dead and buried (so he said) many long years ago. He mentioned,
however, the <i>diluvio,</i> the deluge, which I have heard spoken of by older
people, among whom it is a fixed article of faith. This deluge is supposed to
have affected the whole Crati valley, submerging towns and villages. In proof,
they say that if you dig near Tarsia below the present river-level, you will
pass through beds of silt and ooze to traces of old walls and cultivated land.
Tarsia used to lie by the river-side, and was a flourishing place, according to
the descriptions of Leandro Alberti and other early writers; floods and malaria
have now forced it to climb the hills.
</p>

<p>
The current of the Crati is more spasmodic and destructive than in classical
times when the river was &ldquo;navigable&rdquo;; and to one of its inundations
may be due this legend of the deluge; to the same
<a name="Page175"></a>
one, maybe, that affected the courses of this river and the Coscile, mingling
their waters which used to flow separately into the Ionian. Or it may be a hazy
memory of the artificial changing of the riverbed when the town of Sybaris,
lying between these two rivers, was destroyed. Yet the streams are depicted as
entering the sea apart in old maps such as those of Magini, Fiore, Coronelli,
and Cluver; and the latter writes that &ldquo;near the mouth of the Crati there
flows into the same sea a river vulgarly called Cochile.&rdquo;<a href="#fn-22.1" name="fnref-22.1" id="fnref-22.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
This is important. It remains to be seen whether this statement is the result
of a personal visit, or whether he simply repeated the old geography. His text
in many places indicates a personal acquaintance with southern
Italy&mdash;<i>Italiam</i>, says Heinsius, <i>non semel
peragravit&mdash;</i>and he may well have been tempted to investigate a site
like that of Sybaris. If so, the change in the river courses and possibly this
&ldquo;deluge&rdquo; has taken place since his day.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-22.1" id="fn-22.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-22.1">[1]</a>
In the earlier part of Rathgeber&rsquo;s astonishing
&ldquo;Grossgriechenland und Pythagoras&rdquo; (1866) will be found a good list
of old maps of the country.
</p>

<p>
Deprived of converse, I relapsed into a doze, but soon woke up with a start.
The carriage had stopped; it was nearly midnight; we were at Terranova di
Sibari, whose houses were lit up by the silvery beams of the moon.
</p>

<p>
Thurii&mdash;death-place of Herodotus! How one would like to see this place by
daylight. On the ancient site, which lies at a considerable distance, they have
excavated antiquities, a large number of which are in the possession of the
Marchese Galli at Castrovillari. I endeavoured to see his museum, but found it
inaccessible for &ldquo;family reasons.&rdquo; The same answer was given me in
regard to a valuable private library at Rossano, and annoying as it may be, one
cannot severely blame such local gentlemen for keeping their collections to
themselves. What have they to gain from the visits of inquisitive travellers?
</p>

<p>
During these meditations on my part, the old man hobbled busily to and fro with
a bucket, bearing water from a fountain near at hand wherewith to splash the
carriage-wheels. He persisted in this singular occupation for an unreasonably
long time. Water was good for the wheels, he explained; it kept them cool.
</p>

<p>
At last we started, and I began to slumber once more. The carriage seemed to be
going down a steep incline; endlessly it descended, with a pleasant swaying
motion. . . . Then an icy shiver roused me from my dreams. It was the Crati
whose rapid waves, fraught with unhealthy chills, rippled brightly in the
moonlight. We crossed the malarious valley, and once more touched the hills.
</p>

<p>
From those treeless slopes there streamed forth deliciously warm
<a name="Page176"></a>
emanations stored up during the scorching hours of noon; the short scrub that
clothed them was redolent of that peculiar Calabrian odour which haunts one
like a melody&mdash;an odour of dried cistus and other aromatic plants,
balsamic by day, almost overpowering at this hour. To aid and diversify the
symphony of perfume, I lit a cigar, and then gave myself up to contemplation of
the heavenly bodies. We passed a solitary man, walking swiftly with bowed head.
What was he doing there?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lupomanaro,&rdquo; said the driver.
</p>

<p>
A werewolf. . . .
</p>

<p>
I had always hoped to meet with a werewolf on his nocturnal rambles, and now my
wish was gratified. But it was disappointing to see him in human
garb&mdash;even werewolves, it seems, must march with the times. This
enigmatical growth of the human mind flourishes in Calabria, but is not popular
as a subject of conversation. The more old-fashioned werewolves cling to the
true <i>versipellis</i> habits, and in that case only the pigs, the inane
Calabrian pigs, are dowered with the faculty of distinguishing them in daytime,
when they look like any other &ldquo;Christian.&rdquo; There is a record, in
Fiore&rsquo;s book, of an epidemic of lycanthropy that attacked the boys of
Cassano. (Why only the boys?) It began on 31 July, 1210; and the season of the
year strikes me as significant.
</p>

<p>
After that I fell asleep in good earnest, nor did I wake up again till the sun
was peering over the eastern hills. We were climbing up a long slope; the
Albanian settlements of Vaccarizza and San Giorgio lay before us and, looking
back, I still saw Spezzano on its ridge; it seemed so close that a gunshot
could have reached it.
</p>

<p class="p2">
These non-Italian villages date from the centuries that followed the death of
Scanderbeg, when the Grand Signior consolidated his power. The refugees arrived
in flocks from over the sea, and were granted tracts of wild land whereon to
settle&mdash;some of them on this incline of the Sila, which was accordingly
called &ldquo;Greek&rdquo; Sila, the native confusing these foreigners with the
Byzantines whose dwellings, as regards Calabria, are now almost exclusively
confined to the distant region of Aspromonte. Colonies of Albanians are
scattered all over South Italy, chiefly in Apulia, Calabria, Basilicata, and
Sicily; a few are in the north and centre&mdash;there is one on the Po, for
instance, now reduced to 200 inhabitants; most of these latter have become
absorbed into the surrounding Italian element. Angelo Masci (reprinted 1846)
says there are 59 villages of them, containing altogether 83,000
<a name="Page177"></a>
inhabitants&mdash;exclusive of Sicily; Morelli (1842) gives their total
population for Italy and Sicily as 103,466. If these figures are correct, the
race must have multiplied latterly, for I am told there are now some 200,000
Albanians in the kingdom, living in about 80 villages. This gives approximately
2500 for each settlement&mdash;a likely number, if it includes those who are at
present emigrants in America. There is a voluminous literature on the subject
of these strangers, the authors of which are nearly all Albanians themselves.
The fullest account of older conditions may well be that contained in the third
volume of Rodotà&rsquo;s learned work (1758); the ponderous Francesco Tajani
(1886) brings affairs up to date, or nearly so. If only he had provided his
book with an index!
</p>

<p>
There were troubles at first. Arriving, as they did, solely &ldquo;with their
shirts and rhapsodies&rdquo; (so one of them described it to me)&mdash;that is,
despoiled of everything, they indulged in robberies and depredations somewhat
too freely even for those free days, with the result that ferocious edicts were
issued against them, and whole clans wiped out. It was a case of necessity
knowing no law. But in proportion as the forests were hewn down and crops sown,
they became as respectable as their hosts. They are bilingual from birth, one
might almost say, and numbers of the men also express themselves correctly in
English, which they pick up in the United States.
</p>

<p>
These islands of alien culture have been hotbeds of Liberalism throughout
history. The Bourbons persecuted them savagely on that account, exiling and
hanging the people by scores. At this moment there is a good deal of excitement
going on in favour of the Albanian revolt beyond the Adriatic, and it was
proposed, among other things, to organize a demonstration in Rome, where
certain Roman ladies were to dress themselves in Albanian costumes and thus
work upon the sentiments of the nation; but &ldquo;the authorities&rdquo;
forbade this and every other movement. None the less, there has been a good
deal of clandestine recruiting, and bitter recriminations against this
turcophile attitude on the part of Italy&mdash;this &ldquo;reactionary rigorism
against every manifestation of sympathy for the Albanian cause.&rdquo;
Patriotic pamphleteers ask, rightly enough, why difficulties should be placed
in the way of recruiting for Albania, when, in the recent cases of Cuba and
Greece, the despatch of volunteers was actually encouraged by the government?
&ldquo;Legality has ceased to exist here; we Albanians are watched and
suspected exactly as our compatriots now are by the Turks. . . . They
sequestrate our manifestos, they forbid meetings and conferences, they pry into
our postal correspondence. . . .
<a name="Page178"></a>
Civil and military authorities have conspired to prevent a single voice of help
and comfort reaching our brothers, who call to us from over the sea.&rdquo; A
hard case, indeed. But Vienna and Cettinje might be able to throw some light
upon it.<a href="#fn-22.2" name="fnref-22.2" id="fnref-22.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-22.2" id="fn-22.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-22.2">[2]</a>
This was written before the outbreak of the Balkan war.
</p>

<p>
The Albanian women, here as elsewhere, are the veriest beasts of burden; unlike
the Italians, they carry everything (babies, and wood, and water) on their
backs. Their crudely tinted costumes would be called more strange than
beautiful under any but a bright sunshiny sky. The fine native dresses of the
men have disappeared long ago; they even adopted, in days past, the high-peaked
Calabrian hat which is now only worn by the older generation. Genuine
Calabrians often settle in these foreign villages, in order to profit by their
anti-feudal institutions. For even now the Italian cultivator is supposed to
make, and actually does make, &ldquo;voluntary&rdquo; presents to his landlord
at certain seasons; gifts which are always a source of irritation and, in bad
years, a real hardship. The Albanians opposed themselves from the very
beginning against these mediæval practices. &ldquo;They do not build
houses,&rdquo; says an old writer, &ldquo;so as not to be subject to barons,
dukes, princes, or other lords. And if the owner of the land they inhabit
ill-treats them, they set fire to their huts and go elsewhere.&rdquo; An
admirable system, even nowadays.
</p>

<p>
One would like to be here at Easter time to see the <i>rusalet</i>&mdash;those
Pyrrhic dances where the young men group themselves in martial array, and pass
through the streets with song and chorus, since, soon enough, America will have
put an end to such customs. The old Albanian guitar of nine strings has already
died out, and the double tibia&mdash;<i>biforem dat tibia cantum</i>&mdash;will
presently follow suit. This instrument, familiar from classical sculpture and
lore, and still used in Sicily and Sardinia, was once a favourite with the Sila
shepherds, who called it &ldquo;fischietto a pariglia.&rdquo; But some years
ago I vainly sought it in the central Sila; the answer to my enquiries was
everywhere the same: they knew it quite well; so and so used to play it;
certain persons in certain villages still made it&mdash;they described it
accurately enough, but could not produce a specimen. Single pipes, yes; and
bagpipes galore; but the <i>tibiæ pares</i> were &ldquo;out of fashion&rdquo;
wherever I asked for them.
</p>

<p>
Here, in the Greek Sila, I was more fortunate. A boy at the village of Macchia
possessed a pair which he obligingly gave me, after first playing a
song&mdash;a farewell song&mdash;a plaintive ditty that required, none the
less, an excellent pair of lungs, on account of the two mouthpieces. Melodies
on this double flageolet are played
<a name="Page179"></a>
principally at Christmas time. The two reeds are about twenty-five centimetres
in length, and made of hollow cane; in my specimen, the left hand controls
four, the other six holes; the Albanian name of the instrument is
&ldquo;fiscarol.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
From a gentleman at Vaccarizza I received a still more valuable
present&mdash;two neolithic celts (aenolithic, I should be inclined to call
them) wrought in close-grained quartzite, and found not far from that village.
These implements must be rare in the uplands of Calabria, as I have never come
across them before, though they have been found, to my knowledge, at Savelli in
the central Sila. At Vaccarizza they call such relics
&ldquo;pic&rdquo;&mdash;they are supposed, as usual, to be thunderbolts, and I
am also told that a piece of string tied to one of them cannot be burnt in
fire. The experiment might be worth trying.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Meanwhile, the day passed pleasantly at Vaccarizza. I became the guest of a
prosperous resident, and was treated to genuine Albanian hospitality and
excellent cheer. I only wish that all his compatriots might enjoy one meal of
this kind in their lifetime. For they are poor, and their homes of miserable
aspect. Like all too many villages in South Italy, this one is depopulated of
its male inhabitants, and otherwise dirty and neglected. The impression one
gains on first seeing one of these places is more than that of Oriental decay;
they are not merely ragged at the edges. It is a deliberate and sinister chaos,
a note of downright anarchy&mdash;a contempt for those simple forms of
refinement which even the poorest can afford. Such persons, one thinks, cannot
have much sense of home and its hallowed associations; they seem to be
everlastingly ready to break with the existing state of things. How different
from England, where the humblest cottages, the roadways, the very stones
testify to immemorial love of order, to neighbourly feelings and usages
sanctioned by time!
</p>

<p>
They lack the sense of home as a fixed and old-established topographical point;
as do the Arabs and Russians, neither of whom have a word expressing our
&ldquo;home&rdquo; or &ldquo;Heimat.&rdquo; Here, the nearest equivalent is
<i>la famiglia.</i> We think of a particular house or village where we were
born and where we spent our impressionable days of childhood; these others
regard home not as a geographical but as a social centre, liable to shift from
place to place; they are at home everywhere, so long as their clan is about
them. That acquisitive sense which affectionately adorns our meanest dwelling,
slowly saturating it with memories, has been crushed out of them&mdash;if it
ever existed&mdash;by hard blows of fortune; it is safer, they think,
<a name="Page180"></a>
to transform the labour of their hands into gold, which can be moved from place
to place or hidden from the tyrant&rsquo;s eye. They have none of our
sentimentality in regard to inanimate objects. Eliza Cook&rsquo;s feelings
towards her &ldquo;old arm-chair&rdquo; would strike them as savouring of
childishness. Hence the unfinished look of their houses, within and without.
Why expend thought and wealth upon that which may be abandoned to-morrow?
</p>

<p>
The two churches of Vaccarizza, dark and unclean structures, stand side by
side, and I was shown through them by their respective priests, Greek and
Catholic, who walked arm in arm in friendly wise, and meekly smiled at a
running fire of sarcastic observations on the part of another citizen directed
against the &ldquo;bottega&rdquo; in general&mdash;the <i>shop,</i> as the
church is sometimes irreverently called. The Greco-Catholic cult to which these
Albanians belong is a compromise between the Orthodox and Roman; their priests
may wear beards and marry wives, they use bread instead of the wafer for
sacramental purposes, and there are one or two other little differences of
grave import.
</p>

<p>
Six Albanian settlements lie on these northern slopes of the Sila&mdash;San
Giorgio, Vaccarizza, San Cosimo, Macchia, San Demetrio Corone, and Santa Sofia
d&rsquo; Epiro. San Demetrio is the largest of them, and thither, after an
undisturbed night&rsquo;s rest at the house of my kind host&mdash;the last, I
fear, for many days to come&mdash;I drove in the sunlit hours of next morning.
Along the road one can see how thoroughly the Albanians have done their work;
the land is all under cultivation, save for a dark belt of trees overhead, to
remind one of what once it was. Perhaps they have eradicated the forest
over-zealously, for I observe in San Demetrio that the best drinking water has
now to be fetched from a spring at a considerable distance from the village; it
is unlikely that this should have been the original condition of affairs;
deforestation has probably diminished the water-supply.
</p>

<p>
It was exhilarating to traverse these middle heights with their aerial views
over the Ionian and down olive-covered hill-sides towards the wide valley of
the Crati and the lofty Pollino range, now swimming in midsummer haze. The road
winds in and out of gullies where rivulets descend from the mountains; they are
clothed in cork-oak, ilex, and other trees; golden orioles, jays, hoopoes and
rollers flash among the foliage. In winter these hills are swept by boreal
blasts from the Apennines, but at this season it is a delightful tract of land.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page181"></a><a name="chap23"></a>XXIII<br />
ALBANIANS AND THEIR COLLEGE</h2>

<p>
San Demetrio, famous for its Italo-Albanian College, lies on a fertile incline
sprinkled with olives and mulberries and chestnuts, fifteen hundred feet above
sea-level. They tell me that within the memory of living man no Englishman has
ever entered the town. This is quite possible; I have not yet encountered a
single English traveller, during my frequent wanderings over South Italy. Gone
are the days of Keppel Craven and Swinburne, of Eustace and Brydone and Hoare!
You will come across sporadic Germans immersed in Hohenstaufen records, or
searching after Roman antiquities, butterflies, minerals, or landscapes to
paint&mdash;you will meet them in the most unexpected places; but never an
Englishman. The adventurous type of Anglo-Saxon probably thinks the country too
tame; scholars, too trite; ordinary tourists, too dirty. The accommodation and
food in San Demetrio leave much to be desired; its streets are irregular lanes,
ill-paved with cobbles of gneiss and smothered under dust and refuse. None the
less, what noble names have been given to these alleys&mdash;names calculated
to fire the ardent imagination of young Albanian students, and prompt them to
valorous and patriotic deeds! Here are the streets of &ldquo;Odysseus,&rdquo;
of &ldquo;Salamis&rdquo; and &ldquo;Marathon&rdquo; and
&ldquo;Thermopylae,&rdquo; telling of the glory that was Greece; &ldquo;Via
Skanderbeg&rdquo; and &ldquo;Hypsilanti&rdquo; awaken memories of more
immediate renown; &ldquo;Corso Dante Alighieri&rdquo; reminds them that their
Italian hosts, too, have done something in their day; the &ldquo;Piazza
Francesco Ferrer&rdquo; causes their ultra-liberal breasts to swell with
mingled pride and indignation; while the &ldquo;Via dell&rsquo;
Industria&rdquo; hints, not obscurely, at the great truth that genius, without
a capacity for taking pains, is an idle phrase. Such appellations, without a
doubt, are stimulating and glamorous. But if the streets themselves have seen a
scavenger&rsquo;s broom within the last half-century, I am much mistaken. The
goddess &ldquo;Hygeia&rdquo; dost not figure among their names, nor yet that
Byzantine Monarch whose infantile exploit might be re-enacted in ripest
maturity without attracting any attention in San Demetrio. To the pure all
things are pure.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page182"></a>
The town is exclusively Albanian; the Roman Catholic church has fallen into
disrepair, and is now used as a shed for timber. But at the door of the
Albanian sanctuary I was fortunate enough to intercept a native wedding, just
as the procession was about to enter the portal. Despite the fact that the
bride was considered the ugliest girl in the place, she had been duly
&ldquo;robbed&rdquo; by her bold or possibly blind lover&mdash;her features
were providentially veiled beneath her nuptial <i>flammeum,</i> and of her
squat figure little could be discerned under the gorgeous accoutrements of the
occasion. She was ablaze with ornaments and embroidery of gold, on neck and
shoulders and wrist; a wide lace collar fell over a bodice of purple silk;
silken too, and of brightest green, was her pleated skirt. The priest seemed
ineffably bored with his task, and mumbled through one or two pages of holy
books in record time; there were holdings of candles, interchange of rings,
sacraments of bread and wine and other solemn ceremonies&mdash;the most quaint
being the <i>stephanoma,</i> or crowning, of the happy pair, and the moving of
their respective crowns from the head of one to that of the other. It ended
with a chanting perlustration of the church, led by the priest: this is the
so-called &ldquo;pesatura.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
I endeavoured to attune my mind to the gravity of this marriage, to the deep
historico-ethnologico-poetical significance of its smallest detail. Such rites,
I said to myself, must be understood to be appreciated, and had I not been
reading certain native commentators on the subject that very morning?
Nevertheless, my attention was diverted from the main issue&mdash;the
bridegroom&rsquo;s face had fascinated me. The self-conscious male is always at
a disadvantage during grotesquely splendid buffooneries of this kind; and
never, in all my life, have I seen a man looking such a sorry fool as this
individual, never; especially during the perambulation, when his absurd crown
was supported on his head, from behind, by the hand of his best man.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus22"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-22.jpg" width="499" height="317" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">San Demetrio Corone</p>
</div>

<p>
Meanwhile a handful of boys, who seemed to share my private feelings in regard
to the performance, had entered the sacred precincts, their pockets stuffed
with living cicadas. These Albanian youngsters, like all true connaisseurs, are
aware of the idiosyncrasy of the classical insect which, when pinched or
tickled on a certain spot, emits its characteristic and ear-piercing
note&mdash;the &ldquo;lily-soft voice&rdquo; of the Greek bard. The cicadas,
therefore, were duly pinched and then let loose; like squibs and rockets they
careered among the congregation, dashing in our faces and clinging to our
garments; the church resounded like an olive-copse at noon. A hot little hand
conveyed one of these tremulously throbbing
<a name="Page183"></a>
creatures into my own, and obeying a whispered injunction of &ldquo;Let it fly,
sir!&rdquo; I had the joy of seeing the beast alight with a violent buzz on the
head of the bride&mdash;doubtless the happiest of auguries. Such conduct, on
the part of English boys, would be deemed very naughty and almost irreverent;
but here, one hopes, it may have its origin in some obscure but pious credence
such as that which prompts the populace to liberate birds in churches, at
Easter time. These escaping cicadas, it may be, are symbolical of
matrimony&mdash;the individual man and woman freed, at last, from the
dungeon-like horrors of celibate existence; or, if that parallel be
far-fetched, we may conjecture that their liberation represents the afflatus of
the human soul, aspiring upwards to merge its essence into the Divine All. . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
The pride of San Demetrio is its college. You may read about it in Professor
Mazziotti&rsquo;s monograph; but whoever wishes to go to the fountain-head must
peruse the <i>Historia Erectionis Pontifici Collegi Corsini Ullanensis,
etc.,</i> of old Zavarroni&mdash;an all-too-solid piece of work. Founded under
the auspices of Pope Clement XII in 1733 (or 1735) at San Benedetto Ullano, it
was moved hither in 1794, and between that time and now has passed through
fierce vicissitudes. Its president, Bishop Bugliari, was murdered by the
brigands in 1806; much of its lands and revenues have been dissipated by
maladministration; it was persecuted for its Liberalism by the Bourbons, who
called it a &ldquo;workshop of the devil.&rdquo; It distinguished itself during
the anti-dynastic revolts of 1799 and 1848 and, in 1860, was presented with
twelve thousand ducats by Garibaldi, &ldquo;in consideration of the signal
services rendered to the national cause by the brave and generous
Albanians.&rdquo;<a href="#fn-23.1" name="fnref-23.1" id="fnref-23.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
Even now the institution is honeycombed with Freemasonry&mdash;the surest path
to advancement in any career, in modern Italy. Times indeed have changed since
the &ldquo;Inviolable Constitutions&rdquo; laid it down that <i>nullus omnino
Alumnus in Collegio detineatur, cuius futuræ Christianæ pietatis
significatio non extet.</i> But only since 1900 has it been placed on a really
sound and prosperous footing. An agricultural school has lately been added,
under the supervision of a trained expert. They who are qualified to judge
speak of the college as a beacon of learning&mdash;an institution whose aims
and results are alike deserving of high respect. And certainly it can boast of
a fine list of prominent men who have issued from its walls.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-23.1" id="fn-23.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-23.1">[1]</a>
There used to be regiments of these Albanians at Naples. In Pilati de
Tassulo&rsquo;s sane study (1777) they are spoken of as highly prized.
</p>

<p>
This little island of stern mental culture contains, besides
<a name="Page184"></a>
twenty-five teachers and as many servants, some three hundred scholars preparing for a
variety of secular professions. About fifty of them are Italo-Albanians, ten or
thereabouts are genuine Albanians from over the water, the rest Italians, among
them two dozen of those unhappy orphans from Reggio and Messina who flooded
the country after the earthquake, and were &ldquo;dumped down&rdquo; in
colleges and private houses all over Italy. Some of the boys come of wealthy
families in distant parts, their parents surmising that San Demetrio offers no
temptations to youthful folly and extravagance. In this, so far as I can judge,
they are perfectly correct.
</p>

<p>
The heat of summer and the fact that the boys were in the throes of their
examinations may have helped to make the majority of them seem pale and thin;
they certainly complained of their food, and the cook was the only
prosperous-looking person whom I could discover in the establishment&mdash;his
percentages, one suspects, being considerable. The average yearly payment of
each scholar for board and tuition is only twenty pounds (it used to be twenty
ducats); how shall superfluities be included in the bill of fare for such a
sum?
</p>

<p>
The class-rooms are modernized; the dormitories neither clean nor very dirty;
there is a rather scanty gymnasium as well as a physical laboratory and museum
of natural history. Among the recent acquisitions of the latter is a vulture
<i>(Gyps fulvus)</i> which was shot here in the spring of this year. The bird,
they told me, has never been seen in these regions before; it may have come
over from the east, or from Sardinia, where it still breeds. I ventured to
suggest that they should lose no time in securing a native porcupine, an
interesting beast concerning which I never fail to enquire on my rambles. They
used to be encountered in the Crati valley; two were shot near Corigliano a few
years ago, and another not far from Cotronei on the Neto; they still occur in
the forests near the &ldquo;Pagliarelle&rdquo; above Petilia Policastro; but,
judging by all indications, I should say that this animal is rapidly
approaching extinction not only here, but all over Italy. Another very rare
creature, the otter, was killed lately at Vaccarizza, but unfortunately not
preserved.
</p>

<p>
Fencing and music are taught, but those athletic exercises which led to the
victories of Marathon and Salamis are not much in vogue&mdash;<i>mens sana in
corpore sana</i> is clearly not the ideal of the place; fighting among the boys
is reprobated as &ldquo;savagery,&rdquo; and corporal punishment forbidden.
There is no playground or workshop, and their sole exercise consists in dull
promenades along the high road under the supervision of one or more teachers,
during which the
<a name="Page185"></a>
youngsters indulge in attempts at games by the wayside which are truly
pathetic. So the old &ldquo;Inviolable Constitutions&rdquo; ordain that
&ldquo;the scholars must not play outside the college, and if they meet any
one, they should lower their voices.&rdquo; A rule of recent introduction is
that in this warm weather they must all lie down to sleep for two hours after
the midday meal; it may suit the managers, but the boys consider it a great
hardship and would prefer being allowed to play. Altogether, whatever the
intellectual results may be, the moral tendency of such an upbringing is
damaging to the spirit of youth and must make for precocious frivolity and
brutality. But the pedagogues of Italy are like her legislators: theorists.
They close their eyes to the cardinal principles of all education&mdash;that
the waste products and toxins of the imagination are best eliminated by motor
activities, and that the immature stage of human development, far from being
artificially shortened, should be prolonged by every possible means.
</p>

<p>
If the internal arrangement of this institution is not all it might be as
regards the healthy development of youth, the situation of the college
resembles the venerable structures of Oxford in that it is too good, far too
good, for mere youngsters. This building, in its seclusion from the world, its
pastoral surroundings and soul-inspiring panorama, is an abode not for boys but
for philosophers; a place to fill with a wave of deep content the sage who has
outgrown earthly ambitions. Your eye embraces the snow-clad heights of
Dolcedorme and the Ionian Sea, wandering over forests, and villages, and
rivers, and long reaches of fertile country; but it is not the variety of the
scene, nor yet the historical memories of old Sybaris which kindle the
imagination so much as the spacious amplitude of the whole prospect. In England
we think something of a view of ten miles. Conceive, here, a grandiose valley
wider than from Dover to Calais, filled with an atmosphere of such impeccable
clarity that there are moments when one thinks to see every stone and every
bush on the mountains yonder, thirty miles distant. And the cloud-effects,
towards sunset, are such as would inspire the brush of Turner or Claude
Lorraine. . . .
</p>

<p>
For the college, as befits its grave academic character, stands by itself among
fruitful fields and backed by a chestnut wood, at ten minutes&rsquo; walk from
the crowded streets. It is an imposing edifice&mdash;the Basilean convent of
St. Adrian, with copious modern additions; the founders may well have selected
this particular site on account of its fountain of fresh water, which flows on
as in days of yore. One thinks of those communities of monks in the Middle
Ages, scattered over this wild region and holding rare converse with
<a name="Page186"></a>
one another by gloomy forest paths&mdash;how remote their life and ideals! In
the days of Fiore (1691) the inmates of this convent still practised their old
rites.
</p>

<p>
The nucleus of the building is the old chapel, containing a remarkable font;
two antique columns sawn up (apparently for purposes of transportation from
some pagan temple by the shore)&mdash;one of them being of African marble and
the other of grey granite; there is also a tessellated pavement with
beast-patterns of leopards and serpents akin to those of Patir. Bertaux gives a
reproduction of this serpent; he assimilates it, as regards technique and age,
to that which lies before the altar of Monte Cassino and was wrought by Greek
artisans of the abbot Desiderius. The church itself is held to be two centuries
older than that of Patir.
</p>

<p>
The library, once celebrated, contains musty folios of classics and their
commentators, but nothing of value. It has been ransacked of its treasures like
that of Patir, whose <i>disjecta membra</i> have been tracked down by the
patience and acumen of Monsignor Batiffol.
</p>

<p>
Batiffol, Bertaux&mdash;Charles Diehl, Jules Gay (who has also written on San
Demetrio)&mdash;Huillard-Bréholles&mdash;Luynes&mdash;Lenor-mant. . . here are
a few French scholars who have recently studied these regions and their
history. What have we English done in this direction?
</p>

<p>
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
</p>

<p>
Such thoughts occur inevitably.
</p>

<p>
It may be insinuated that researches of this kind are gleanings; that our
English genius lies rather in the spade-work of pioneers like Leake or Layard.
Granted. But a hard fact remains; the fact, namely, that could any of our
scholars have been capable of writing in the large and profound manner of
Bertaux or Gay, not one of our publishers would have undertaken to print his
work. Not one. They know their business; they know that such a book would have
been a dead loss. Therefore let us frankly confess the truth: for things of the
mind there is a smaller market in England than in France. <i>How much
smaller</i> only they can tell, who have familiarized themselves with other
departments of French thought.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Here, then, I have lived for the past few days, strolling among the fields, and
attempting to shape some picture of these Albanians from their habits and such
of their literature as has been placed at my disposal. So far, my impression of
them has not changed since the days when I used to rest at their villages, in
Greece. They remind me of the Irish. Both races are scattered over the earth
and
<a name="Page187"></a>
seem to prosper best outside their native country; they have the same songs and
bards, the same hero-chieftains, the same combativeness and frank hospitality;
both are sunk in bigotry and broils; they resemble one another in their love of
dirt, disorder and display, in their enthusiastic and adventurous spirit, their
versatile brilliance of mind, their incapacity for self-government and general
(Keltic) note of inspired inefficiency. And both profess a frenzied allegiance
to an obsolete tongue which, were it really cultivated as they wish, would put
a barrier of triple brass between themselves and the rest of humanity.
</p>

<p>
Even as the Irish despise the English as their worldly and effete relatives, so
the Albanians look down upon the Greeks&mdash;even those of Pericles&mdash;with
profoundest contempt. The Albanians, so says one of their writers, are
&ldquo;the oldest people upon earth,&rdquo; and their language is the
&ldquo;divine Pelasgic mother-tongue.&rdquo; I grew interested awhile in
Stanislao Marchianò&rsquo;s plausibly entrancing study on this language, as
well as in a pamphlet of de Rada&rsquo;s on the same subject; but my ardour has
cooled since learning, from another native grammarian, that these writers are
hopelessly in the wrong on nearly every point. So much is certain, that the
Albanian language already possesses more than <i>thirty different alphabets</i>
(each of them with nearly fifty letters). Nevertheless they have not yet, in
these last four (or forty) thousand years, made up their minds which of them to
adopt, or whether it would not be wisest, after all, to elaborate yet another
one&mdash;a thirty-first. And so difficult is their language with any of these
alphabets that even after a five days&rsquo; residence on the spot I still find
myself puzzled by such simple passages as this:
</p>

<p class="poem">
. . . Zilji,<br />
mosse vet, ce asso mbremie<br />
te ngcriret me ilji&#950;, praa<br />
gji&#952; e miegculem, mhi &#950;iaarr<br />
rriij i sgjuat. Nje voogh e keljbur<br />
&#950;orrevet te ljosta<br />
ndjej se i o&#967;tenej<br />
e pisseroghej. Zuu shiu<br />
menes; ne mee se ljinaar<br />
chish ljeen pa-shuatur<br />
s&#954;iotta, e i ducheje per moon.
</p>

<p>
I will only add that the translation of such a passage&mdash;it contains
twenty-eight accents which I have omitted&mdash;is mere child&rsquo;s play to
its pronunciation.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page188"></a><a name="chap24"></a>XXIV<br />
AN ALBANIAN SEER</h2>

<p>
Sometimes I find my way to the village of Macchia, distant about three miles
from San Demetrio. It is a dilapidated but picturesque cluster of houses,
situate on a projecting tongue of land which is terminated by a little chapel
to Saint Elias, the old sun-god Helios, lover of peaks and promontories, whom
in his Christian shape the rude Albanian colonists brought hither from their
fatherland, even as, centuries before, he had accompanied the Byzantines on the
same voyage and, fifteen centuries yet earlier, the Greeks.
</p>

<p>
At Macchia was born, in 1814, of an old and relatively wealthy family, Girolamo
de Rada,<a href="#fn-24.1" name="fnref-24.1" id="fnref-24.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> a flame-like patriot in whom the tempestuous aspirations of modern
Albania took shape. The ideal pursued during his long life was the regeneration
of his country; and if the attention of international congresses and linguists
and folklorists is now drawn to this little corner of the earth&mdash;if, in
<i>1902,</i> twenty-one newspapers were devoted to the Albanian cause (eighteen
in Italy alone, and one even in London)&mdash;it was wholly his merit.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-24.1" id="fn-24.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-24.1">[1]</a>
Thus his friend and compatriot, Dr. Michele Marchianò, spells the name in a
biography which I recommend to those who think there is no intellectual
movement in South Italy. But he himself, at the very close of his life, in
1902, signs himself Ger. de Rhada. So this village of Macchia is spelt
indifferently by Albanians as Maki or Makji. They have a fine Elizabethan
contempt for orthography&mdash;as well they may have, with their thirty
alphabets.
</p>

<p>
He was the son of a Greco-Catholic priest. After a stern religious upbringing
under the paternal roof at Macchia and in the college of San Demetrio, he was
sent to Naples to complete his education. It is characteristic of the man that
even in the heyday of youth he cared little for modern literature and
speculations and all that makes for exact knowledge, and that he fled from his
Latin teacher, the celebrated Puoti, on account of his somewhat exclusive love
of grammatical rules. None the less, though con-genitally averse to the
materialistic and subversive theories that were then seething in Naples, he
became entangled in the anti-Bourbon movements of the late thirties, and
narrowly avoided the
<a name="Page189"></a>
death-penalty which struck down some of his comrades. At other times his
natural piety laid him open to the accusation of reactionary monarchical
leanings.
</p>

<p>
He attributed his escape from this and every other peril to the hand of God.
Throughout life he was a zealous reader of the Bible, a firm and even ascetic
believer, forever preoccupied, in childlike simplicity of soul, with first
causes. His spirit moved majestically in a world of fervent platitudes. The
whole Cosmos lay serenely distended before his mental vision; a benevolent God
overhead, devising plans for the prosperity of Albania; a malignant, ubiquitous
and very real devil, thwarting these His good intentions whenever possible;
mankind on earth, sowing and reaping in the sweat of their brow, as was
ordained of old. Like many poets, he never disabused his mind of this
comfortable form of anthropomorphism. He was a firm believer, too, in dreams.
But his guiding motive, his sun by day and star by night, was a belief in the
&ldquo;mission&rdquo; of the Pelasgian race now scattered about the shores of
the Inland Sea&mdash;in Italy, Sicily, Greece, Dalmatia, Roumania, Asia Minor,
Egypt&mdash;a belief as ardent and irresponsible as that which animates the
<i>Lost Tribe</i> enthusiasts of England. He considered that the world hardly
realized how much it owed to his countryfolk; according to his views, Achilles,
Philip of Macedon, Alexander the Great, Aristotle, Pyrrhus, Diocletian, Julian
the Apostate&mdash;they were all Albanians. Yet even towards the end of his
life he is obliged to confess:&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But the evil demon who for over four thousand years has been hindering
the Pelasgian race from collecting itself into one state, is still endeavouring
by insidious means to thwart the work which would lead it to that union.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Disgusted with the clamorous and intriguing bustle of Naples, he retired, at
the early age of 34, to his natal village of Macchia, throwing over one or two
offers of lucrative worldly appointments. He describes himself as wholly
disenchanted with the &ldquo;facile fatuity&rdquo; of Liberalism, the fact
being, that he lacked what a French psychologist has called the <i>function of
the real;</i> his temperament was not of the kind to cope with actualities.
This retirement is an epoch in his life&mdash;it is the Grand Renunciation.
Henceforward he loses personal touch with thinking humanity. At Macchia he
remained, brooding on Albanian wrongs, devising remedies, corresponding with
foreigners and writing&mdash;ever writing; consuming his patrimony in the cause
of Albania, till the direst poverty dogged his footsteps.
</p>

<p>
I have read some of his Italian works. They are curiously
<a name="Page190"></a>
oracular, like the whisperings of those fabled Dodonian oaks of his fatherland;
they heave with a darkly-virile mysticism. He shares Blake&rsquo;s ruggedness,
his torrential and confused utterance, his benevolence, his flashes of luminous
inspiration, his moral background. He resembles that visionary in another
aspect: he was a consistent and passionate adorer of the <i>Ewig-weibliche.</i>
Some of the female characters in his poems retain their dewy freshness, their
exquisite originality, even after passing through the translator&rsquo;s
crucible.
</p>

<p>
At the age of 19 he wrote a poem on &ldquo;Odysseus,&rdquo; which was published
under a pseudonym. Then, three years later, there appeared a collection of
rhapsodies entitled &ldquo;Milosao,&rdquo; which he had garnered from the lips
of Albanian village maidens. It is his best-known work, and has been translated
into Italian more than once. After his return to Macchia followed some years of
apparent sterility, but later on, and especially during the last twenty years
of his life, his literary activity became prodigious. Journalism, folklore,
poetry, history, grammar, philology, ethnology, aesthetics, politics,
morals&mdash;nothing came amiss to his gifted pen, and he was fruitful, say his
admirers, even in his errors, Like other men inflamed with one single idea, he
boldly ventured into domains of thought where specialists fear to tread. His
biographer enumerates forty-three different works from his pen. They all throb
with a resonant note of patriotism; they are &ldquo;fragments of a
heart,&rdquo; and indeed, it has been said of him that he utilized even the
grave science of grammar as a battlefield whereon to defy the enemies of
Albania. But perhaps he worked most successfully as a journalist. His
&ldquo;Fiamuri Arberit&rdquo; (the Banner of Albania) became the rallying cry
of his countrymen in every corner of the earth.
</p>

<p>
These multifarious writings&mdash;and doubtless the novelty of his central
theme&mdash;attracted the notice of German philologers and linguists, of all
lovers of freedom, folklore and verse. Leading Italian writers like
Cantù praised him highly; Lamartine, in 1844, wrote to him: &ldquo;Je suis
bien-heureux de ce signe de fraternité poétique et politique entre vous et moi.
La poésie est venue de vos rivages et doit y retourner. . . .&rdquo; Hermann
Buchholtz discovers scenic changes worthy of Shakespeare, and passages of
Æschylean grandeur, in his tragedy &ldquo;Sofonisba.&rdquo; Carnet compares
him with Dante, and the omniscient Mr. Gladstone wrote in 1880&mdash;a post
card, presumably&mdash;belauding his disinterested efforts on behalf of his
country. He was made the subject of many articles and pamphlets, and with
reason. Up to his time, Albania had been a
<a name="Page191"></a>
myth. He it was who divined the relationship between the Albanian and Pelasgian
tongues; who created the literary language of his country, and formulated its
political ambitions.
</p>

<p>
Whereas the hazy &ldquo;Autobiologia&rdquo; records complicated political
intrigues at Naples that are not connected with his chief strivings, the little
&ldquo;Testamento politico,&rdquo; printed towards the end of his life, is more
interesting. It enunciates his favourite and rather surprising theory that the
Albanians cannot look for help and sympathy save only to their <i>brothers,</i>
the Turks. Unlike many Albanians on either side of the Adriatic, he was a
pronounced Turco-phile, detesting the &ldquo;stolid perfidy&rdquo; and
&ldquo;arrogant disloyalty&rdquo; of the Greeks. Of Austria, the most insidious
enemy of his country&rsquo;s freedom, he seems to have thought well. A year
before his death he wrote to an Italian translator of &ldquo;Milosao&rdquo; (I
will leave the passage in the original, to show his cloudy language):
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ed un tempo propizio la accompagna: la ricostituzione dell&rsquo; Epiro
nei suoi quattro vilayet autonomi quale è nei propri consigli e nei propri
desideri; ricostituzione, che pel suo Giornale, quello dell&rsquo; ottimo A.
Lorecchio&mdash;cui precede il principe Nazionale Kastriota, Chini&mdash;si
annuncia fatale, e quasi fulcro della stabilità dello impero Ottomano, a della
pace Europea; preludio di quella diffusione del regno di Dio sulla terra, che
sarà la Pace tra gli Uomini.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Truly a remarkable utterance, and one that illustrates the disadvantages of
living at a distance from the centres of thought. Had he travelled less with
the spirit and more with the body, his opinions might have been modified and
corrected. But he did not even visit the Albanian colonies in Italy and Sicily.
Hence that vast confidence in his mission&mdash;a confidence born of solitude,
intellectual and geographical. Hence that ultra-terrestrial yearning which
tinges his apparently practical aspirations.
</p>

<p>
He remained at home, ever poor and industrious; wrapped in bland exaltation and
oblivious to contemporary movements of the human mind. Not that his existence
was without external activities. A chair of Albanian literature at San
Demetrio, instituted in 1849 but suppressed after three years, was conferred on
him in 1892 by the historian and minister Pasquale Villari; for a considerable
time, too, he was director of the communal school at Corigliano, where, with
characteristic energy, he set up a printing press; violent journalistic
campaigns succeeded one another; in 1896 he arranged for the first congress of
Albanian language in that town, which brought together delegates from every
part of Italy and elicited a warm telegram of felicitation from the minister
<a name="Page192"></a>
Francesco Crispi, himself an Albanian. Again, in 1899, we find him reading a
paper before the twelfth international congress of Orientalists at Rome.
</p>

<p>
But best of all, he loved the seclusion of Macchia.
</p>

<p>
Griefs clustered thickly about the closing years of this unworldly dreamer.
Blow succeeded blow. One by one, his friends dropped off; his brothers, his
beloved wife, his four sons&mdash;he survived them all; he stood alone at last,
a stricken figure, in tragic and sublime isolation. Over eighty years old, he
crawled thrice a week to deliver his lectures at San Demetrio; he still
cultivated a small patch of ground with enfeebled arm, composing, for
relaxation, poems and rhapsodies at the patriarchal age of 88! They will show
you the trees under which he was wont to rest, the sunny views he loved, the
very stones on which he sat; they will tell you anecdotes of his
poverty&mdash;of an indigence such as we can scarcely credit. During the last
months he was often thankful for a crust of bread, in exchange for which he
would bring a sack of acorns, self-collected, to feed the giver&rsquo;s pigs.
Destitution of this kind, brought about by unswerving loyalty to an ideal,
ceases to exist in its sordid manifestations: it exalts the sufferer. And his
life&rsquo;s work is there. Hitherto there had been no &ldquo;Albanian
Question&rdquo; to perplex the chanceries of Europe. He applied the match to
the tinder; he conjured up that phantom which refuses to be laid.
</p>

<p>
He died, in 1903, at San Demetrio; and there lies entombed in the cemetery on
the hill-side, among the oaks.
</p>

<p>
But you will not easily find his grave.
</p>

<p>
His biographer indulges a poetic fancy in sketching the fair monument which a
grateful country will presently rear to his memory on the snowy Acroceraunian
heights. It might be well, meanwhile, if some simple commemorative stone were
placed on the spot where he lies buried. Had he succumbed at his natal Macchia,
this would have been done; but death overtook him in the alien parish of San
Demetrio, and his remains were mingled with those of its poorest citizens. A
microcosmic illustration of that clannish spirit of Albania which he had spent
a lifetime in endeavouring to direct to nobler ends!
</p>

<p>
He was the Mazzini of his nation.
</p>

<p>
A Garibaldi, when the crisis comes, may possibly emerge from that tumultuous
horde.
</p>

<p>
Where is the Cavour?
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page193"></a><a name="chap25"></a>XXV<br />
SCRAMBLING TO LONGOBUCCO</h2>

<p>
A driving road to connect San Demetrio with Acri whither I was now bound was
begun, they say, about twenty years ago; one can follow it for a considerable
distance beyond the Albanian College. Then, suddenly, it ends. Walking to Acri,
however, by the old track, one picks up, here and there,
conscientiously-engineered little stretches of it, already overgrown with
weeds; these, too, break off as abruptly as they began, in the wild waste. For
purposes of wheeled traffic these picturesque but disconnected fragments are
quite useless.
</p>

<p>
Perhaps the whole undertaking will be completed some day&mdash;<i>speriamo!</i>
as the natives say, when speaking of something rather beyond reasonable
expectation. But possibly not; and in that case&mdash;<i>pazienza!</i> meaning,
that all hope may now be abandoned. There is seldom any great hurry, with
non-governmental works of this kind.
</p>

<p>
It would be interesting if one could learn the inner history of these abortive
transactions. I have often tried, in vain. It is impossible for an outsider to
pierce the jungle of sordid mystery and intrigue which surrounds them. So much
I gathered: that the original contract was based on the wages then current and
that, the price of labour having more than doubled in consequence of the
&ldquo;discovery&rdquo; of America, no one will undertake the job on the old
terms. That is sufficiently intelligible. But why operations proceeded so
slowly at first, and why a new contract cannot now be drawn up&mdash;who can
tell! The persons interested blame the contractor, who blames the engineer, who
blames the dilatory and corrupt administration of Cosenza. My private opinion
is, that the last three parties have agreed to share the swag between them.
Meanwhile everybody has just grounds of complaint against everybody else; the
six or seven inevitable lawsuits have sprung up and promise to last any length
of time, seeing that important documents have been lost or stolen and that half
the original contracting parties have died in the interval: nobody knows what
is going to happen in the end. It all depends upon whether some patriotic
<a name="Page194"></a>
person will step forward and grease the wheels in the proper quarter.
</p>

<p>
And even then, if he hails from Acri, they of San Demetrio will probably work
against the project, and vice versa. For no love is lost between neighbouring
communities&mdash;wonderful, with what venomous feudal animosity they regard
each other! United Italy means nothing to these people, whose conceptions of
national and public life are those of the cock on his dung-hill. You will find
in the smallest places intelligent and broad-minded men, tradespeople or
professionals or landed proprietors, but they are seldom members of the
<i>municipio;</i> the municipal career is also a money-making business, yes;
but of another kind, and requiring other qualifications.
</p>

<p>
Foot-passengers like myself suffer no inconvenience by being obliged to follow
the shorter and time-honoured mule-track that joins the two places. It rises
steeply at first, then begins to wind in and out among shady vales of chestnut
and oak, affording unexpected glimpses now towards distant Tarsia and now,
through a glade on the right, on to the ancient citadel of Bisignano, perched
on its rock.
</p>

<p>
I reached Acri after about two and a half hours&rsquo; walking. It lies in a
theatrical situation and has a hotel; but the proprietor of that establishment
having been described to me as &ldquo;the greatest brigand of the Sila&rdquo; I
preferred to refresh myself at a small wineshop, whose manageress cooked me an
uncommonly good luncheon and served some of the best wine I had tasted for
long. Altogether, the better-class women here are far more wideawake and
civilized than those of the Neapolitan province; a result of their stern
patriarchal up-bringing and of their possessing more or less sensible husbands.
</p>

<p>
Thus fortified, I strolled about the streets. One would like to spend a week or
two in a place like this, so little known even to Italians, but the hot weather
and bad feeding had begun to affect me disagreeably and I determined to push on
without delay into cooler regions. It would never do to be laid up at Acri with
heatstroke, and to have one&rsquo;s last drops of life drained away by copious
blood-lettings, relic of Hispano-Arabic practices and the favourite remedy for
every complaint. Acri is a large place, and its air of prosperity contrasts
with the slumberous decay of San Demetrio; there is silk-rearing, and so much
emigration into America that nearly every man I addressed replied in English.
New houses are rising up in all directions, and the place is celebrated for its
rich citizens.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page195"></a>
But these same wealthy men are in rather a dilemma. Some local authority, I
forget who, has deduced from the fact that there are so many forges and
smiths&rsquo; shops here that this must be the spot to which the over-sensitive
inhabitants of Sybaris banished their workers in metal and other noisy
professions. Now the millionaires would like to be thought Sybarites by
descent, but it is hardly respectable to draw a pedigree from these outcasts.
</p>

<p>
They need not alarm themselves. For Acri, as Forbiger has shown, is the old
Acherontia; the river Acheron, the Mocone or Mucone of to-day, flows at its
foot, and from one point of the town I had a fine view into its raging torrent.
</p>

<p>
A wearisome climb of two hours brought me to the <i>Croce Greca,</i> the Greek
Cross, which stands 1185 metres above sea-level. How hot it was, in that
blazing sun! I should be sorry to repeat the trip, under the same conditions. A
structure of stone may have stood here in olden days; at present it is a
diminutive wooden crucifix by the roadside. It marks, none the less, an
important geographical point: the boundary between the &ldquo;Greek&rdquo; Sila
which I was now leaving and the Sila Grande, the central and largest region.
Beyond this last-named lies the lesser Sila, or &ldquo;Sila Piccola&rdquo;; and
if you draw a line from Rogliano (near Cosenza) to Cotrone you will
approximately strike the watershed which divides the Sila Grande from this last
and most westerly of the three Sila divisions. After that comes Catanzaro and
the valley of the Corace, the narrowest point of the Italian continent, and
then the heights of Serra and Aspromonte, the true &ldquo;Italy&rdquo; of old,
that continue as far as Reggio.
</p>

<p>
Though I passed through some noble groves of chestnut on the way up, the
country here was a treeless waste. Yet it must have been forest up to a short
time ago, for one could see the beautiful vegetable mould which has not yet had
time to be washed down the hill-sides. A driving road passes the Croce Greca;
it joins Acri with San Giovanni, the capital of Sila Grande, and with Cosenza.
</p>

<p>
It was another long hour&rsquo;s march, always uphill, before I reached a
spacious green meadow or upland with a few little buildings. The place is
called Verace and lies on the watershed between the upper Crati valley and the
Ionian; thenceforward my walk would be a descent along the Trionto river, the
Traeis of old, as far as Longobucco which overlooks its flood. It was cool
here at last, from the altitude and the decline of day; and hay-making was
going on, amid the pastoral din of cow-bells and a good deal of blithe
love-making and chattering.
</p>

<p>
After some talk with these amiable folks, I passed on to where
<a name="Page196"></a>
the young Traeis bubbles up from the cavernous reservoirs of the earth. Of
those chill and roguish wavelets I took a draught, mindful of the day when long
ago, by these same waters, an irreparable catastrophe overwhelmed our European
civilization. For it was the Traeis near whose estuary was fought the battle
between 300,000 Sybarites (I refuse to believe these figures) and the men of
Croton conducted by their champion Milo&mdash;a battle which led to the
destruction of Sybaris and, incidentally, of Hellenic culture throughout the
mainland of Italy. This was in the same fateful year 510 that witnessed the
expulsion of the Tarquins from Rome and the Pisistratidae from Athens.
</p>

<p>
Pines, the characteristic tree of the Sila, now begin to appear. Passing
through Verace I had already observed, on the left, a high mountain entirely
decked with them. It is the ridge marked Paleparto on the map; the Trionto
laves its foot. But the local pronunciation of this name is Palépite, and I
cannot help thinking that here we have a genuine old Greek name perpetuated by
the people and referring to this covering of hoary pines&mdash;a name which the
cartographers, arbitrary and ignorant as they often are, have unconsciously
disguised. (It occurs in some old charts, however, as Paleparto.) An
instructive map of Italy could be drawn up, showing the sites and cities
wrongly named from corrupt etymology or falsified inscriptions, and those
deliberately miscalled out of principles of local patriotism. The whole country
is full of these inventions of <i>litterati</i> which date, for the most part,
from the enthusiastic but undisciplined Cinque-Cento.
</p>

<p>
The minute geographical triangle comprised between Cosenza, Longobucco and San
Demetrio which I was now traversing is one of the least known corners of Italy,
and full of dim Hellenic memories. The streamlet &ldquo;Calamo&rdquo; flows
through the valley I ascended from Acri, and at its side, a little way out of
the town, stands the fountain &ldquo;Pompeio&rdquo; where the brigands, not
long ago, used to lie in wait for women and children coming to fetch water, and
snatch them away for ransom. On the way up, I had glimpses down a thousand feet
or more into the Mucone or Acheron, raging and foaming in its narrow valley. It
rises among the mountains called &ldquo;Fallistro&rdquo; and &ldquo;Li
Tartari&rdquo;&mdash;unquestionably Greek names.
</p>

<p>
On this river and somewhere above Acri stood, according to the scholarly
researches of Lenormant, the ancient city of Pandosia. I do not know if its
site has been determined since his day. It was &ldquo;very strong&rdquo; and
rich and at its highest prosperity in the fourth century B.C.; after the fall
of Sybaris it passed under the supremacy
<a name="Page197"></a>
of Croton. The god Pan was figured on some of its coins, and appropriately
enough, considering its sylvan surroundings; others bear the head of the nymph
Pandosia with her name and that of the river Crathis, under the guise of a
young shepherd: they who wish to learn his improper legend will find it in the
pages of Aelian, or in chapter xxxii of the twenty-fifth book of Rhodiginus,
beginning <i>Quae sit brutorum affectio,</i> etc.<a href="#fn-25.1" name="fnref-25.1" id="fnref-25.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
We have here not the Greece of mediæval Byzantine times, much less that of the
Albanians, but the sunny Hellas of the days when the world was young, when
these ardent colonists sailed westwards to perpetuate their names and legends
in the alien soil of Italy.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-25.1" id="fn-25.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-25.1">[1]</a>
<i>Brunii a brutis moribus:</i> so say certain spiteful writers, an
accusation which Strabo and Horace extend to all Calabrians. As to the site of
Pandosia, a good number of scholars, such as old Prosper Parisius and Luigi
Maria Greco, locate it at the village of Mendicino on the river Merenzata,
which was called Arconte (? Acheron) in the Middle Ages. So the Trionto is not
unquestionably the Traeis, and in Marincola Pistoia&rsquo;s good little
&ldquo;Cose di Sibari&rdquo; (1845) the distinction is claimed for one of four
rivers&mdash;the Lipuda, Colognati, Trionto, or Fiuminicà.
</p>

<p>
The Mucone has always been known as a ferocious and pitiless torrent, and
maintains to this day its Tartarean reputation. Twenty persons a year, they
tell me, are devoured by its angry waters: <i>mangia venti cristiani all&rsquo;
anno!</i> This is as bad as the Amendolea near Reggio. But none of its victims
have attained the celebrity of Alexander of Molossus, King of Epirus, who
perished under the walls of Pandosia in 326 B.C. during an excursion against
the Lucanians. He had been warned by the oracle of Dodona to avoid the waters
of Acheron and the town of Pandosia; once in Italy, however, he paid small heed
to these words, thinking they referred to the river and town of the same name
in Thesprotia. But the gods willed otherwise, and you may read of his death in
the waters, and the laceration of his body by the Lucanians, in Livy&rsquo;s
history.
</p>

<p>
It is a strange caprice that we should now possess what is in every probability
the very breastplate worn by the heroic monarch on that occasion. It was found
in 1820, and thereafter sold&mdash;some fragments of it, at least&mdash;to the
British Museum, where under the name of &ldquo;Bronze of Siris&rdquo; it may
still be admired: a marvellous piece of repoussée work, in the style of
Lysippus, depicting the combat of Ajax and the Amazons. . . .
</p>

<p>
The streamlet Trionto, my companion to Longobucco, glides along between
stretches of flowery meadow-land&mdash;fit emblem of placid rural contentment.
But soon this lyric mood is spent. It enters a winding gorge that shuts out the
sunlight and the landscape abruptly assumes an epic note; the water tumbles
wildly
<a name="Page198"></a>
downward, hemmed in by mountains whose slopes are shrouded in dusky pines
wherever a particle of soil affords them foothold. The scenery in this valley
is as romantic as any in the Sila. Affluents descend on either side, while the
swollen rivulet writhes and screeches in its narrow bed, churning the boulders
with hideous din. The track, meanwhile, continues to run beside the water till
the passage becomes too difficult; it must perforce attack the hill-side. Up it
climbs, therefore, in never-ending ascension, and then meanders at a great
height above the valley, in and out of its tributary glens.
</p>

<p>
I was vastly enjoying this promenade&mdash;the shady pines, whose fragrance
mingled with that of a legion of tall aromatic plants in full blossom&mdash;the
views upon the river, shining far below me like the thread of silver&mdash;when
I observed with surprise that the whole mountain-side which the track must
manifestly cross had lately slipped down into the abyss. A cloud-burst two or
three days ago, as I afterwards learned, had done the mischief. On arrival at
the spot, the path was seen to be interrupted&mdash;clean gone, in fact, and
not a shred of earth or trees left; there confronted me a bare scar, a wall of
naked rock which not even a chamois could negotiate. Here was a dilemma. I must
either retrace my steps along the weary road to Verace and there seek a
night&rsquo;s shelter with the gentle hay-makers, or clamber down into the
ravine, follow the river and&mdash;chance it! After anxious deliberation, the
latter alternative was chosen.
</p>

<p>
But the Trionto was now grown into a formidable torrent of surging waves and
eddies, with a perverse inclination to dash from one side to the other of its
prison, so as to necessitate frequent fordings on my part. These watery
passages, which I shall long remember, were not without a certain danger. The
stream was still swollen with the recent rains, and its bed, invisible under
the discoloured element, sufficiently deep to inspire respect and studded,
furthermore, with slippery boulders of every size, concealing insidious gulfs.
Having only a short walking-stick to support me through this raging flood, I
could not but picture to myself the surprise of the village maidens of
Cropolati, lower down, on returning to their laundry work by the river-side
next morning and discovering the battered anatomy of an Englishman&mdash;a rare
fish, in these waters&mdash;stranded upon their familiar beach. Murdered, of
course. What a galaxy of brigand legends would have clustered round my memory!
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus23"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-23.jpg" width="400" height="304" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">The Trionto Valley</p>
</div>

<p>
Evening was closing in, and I had traversed the stream so often and stumbled so
long amid this chaos of roaring waters and
<a name="Page199"></a>
weirdly-tinted rocks, that I began to wonder whether the existence of Longobucco was
not a myth. But suddenly, at a bend of the river, the whole town, still
distant, was revealed, upraised on high and framed in the yawning mouth of the
valley. After the solitary ramble of that afternoon, my eyes familiarized to
nothing save the wild things of nature, this unexpected glimpse of complicated,
civilized structures had all the improbability of a mirage. Longobucco, at
that moment, arose before me like those dream-cities in the Arabian tale,
conjured by enchantment out of the desert waste.
</p>

<p>
The vision, though it swiftly vanished again, cheered me on till after a good
deal more scrambling and wading, with boots torn to rags, lame, famished and
drenched to the skin, I reached the bridge of the Rossano highway and limped
upwards, in the twilight, to the far-famed &ldquo;Hotel Vittoria.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
Soon enough, be sure, I was enquiring as to supper. But the manageress met my
suggestions about eatables with a look of blank astonishment.
</p>

<p>
Was there nothing in the house, then? No cheese, or meat, or maccheroni, or
eggs&mdash;no wine to drink?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nothing!&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;Why should you eat things at this
hour? You must find them yourself, if you really want them. I might perhaps
procure you some bread.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Avis aux voyageurs,</i> as the French say.
</p>

<p>
Undaunted, I went forth and threw myself upon the mercy of a citizen of
promising exterior, who listened attentively to my case. Though far too polite
to contradict, I could see that nothing in the world would induce him to credit
the tale of my walking from San Demetrio that day&mdash;it was tacitly
relegated to the regions of fable. With considerable tact, so as not to wound
my feelings, he avoided expressing any opinion on so frivolous a topic; nor did
the reason of his reluctance to discuss my exploit dawn upon me till I
realized, later on, that like many of the inhabitants he had never heard of the
track over Acri, and consequently disbelieved its existence. They reach San
Demetrio by a two or even three days&rsquo; drive over Rossano, Corigliano, and
Vaccarizza. He became convinced, however, that for some reason or other I was
hungry, and thereupon good-naturedly conducted me to various places where wine
and other necessities of life were procured.
</p>

<p>
The landlady watched me devouring this fare, more astonished than
ever&mdash;indeed, astonishment seemed to be her chronic condition so long as I
was under her roof. But the promised bread was
<a name="Page200"></a>
not forthcoming, for the simple reason that there was none in the house. She
had said that she could procure it for me, not that she possessed it; now,
since I had given no orders to that effect, she had not troubled about it.
</p>

<p>
Nobody travels south of Rome. . . .
</p>

<p>
Strengthened beyond expectation by this repast, I sallied into the night once
more, and first of all attended an excellent performance at the local
cinematograph. After that, I was invited to a cup of coffee by certain
burghers, and we strolled about the piazza awhile, taking our pleasure in the
cool air of evening (the town lies 794 metres above sea-level). Its streets are
orderly and clean; there are no Albanians, and no costumes of any kind. Here,
firm-planted on the square, and jutting at an angle from the body of the
church, stands a massive bell-tower overgrown from head to foot with pendent
weeds and grasses whose roots have found a home in the interstices of its
masonry; a grimly venerable pile, full of character.
</p>

<p>
Weary but not yet satiated, I took leave of the citizens and perambulated the
more ignoble quarters, all of which are decently lighted with electricity.
Everywhere in these stiller regions was the sound of running waters, and I soon
discerned that Longobucco is an improvement on the usual site affected by
Calabrian hill-towns&mdash;the Y-shaped enclosure, namely, at the junction of
two rivers&mdash;inasmuch as it has contrived to perch itself on a lofty
platform protected by no less than three streams that rush impetuously under
its walls: the Trionto and two of its affluents. On the flank inclined towards
the Ionian there is a veritable chasm; the Trionto side is equally difficult of
approach&mdash;the rear, of course, inaccessible. No wonder the brigands chose
it for their chief citadel.
</p>

<p>
I am always on the look-out for modern epigraphical curiosities; regarding the
subject as one of profound social significance (postage stamps, indeed!) I have
assiduously formed a collection, the envy of connaisseurs, about one-third of
whose material, they tell me, might possibly be printed at Brussels or Geneva.
Well, here is a mural <i>graffito</i> secured in the course of this
evening&rsquo;s walk:
</p>

<p>
<i>Abaso [sic] questo paese sporco incivile:</i> down with this dirty savage
country!
</p>

<p>
There is food for thought in this inscription. For if some bilious
hyper-civilized stranger were its author, the sentiments might pass. But coming
from a native, to what depths of morbid discontent do they testify! Considering
the recent progress of these regions that has led to a security and prosperity
formerly undreamed of, one is driven to the conjecture that these words can
only have been
<a name="Page201"></a>
penned by some cantankerous churl of an emigrant returning to his native land
after an easeful life in New York and compelled&mdash;&ldquo;for his
sins,&rdquo; as he would put it&mdash;to reside at the &ldquo;Hotel
Vittoria.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Towards that delectable hostelry I now turned, somewhat regretfully, to face a
bedroom whose appearance had already inspired me with anything but confidence.
But hardly were the preliminary investigations begun, when a furious noise in
the street below drew me to the window once more. Half the town was passing
underneath in thronged procession, with lighted torches and flags, headed by
the municipal band discoursing martial strains of music.
</p>

<p>
Whither wending, at this midnight hour?
</p>

<p>
To honour a young student, native of the place, now returning up the Rossano
road from Naples, where he had distinguished himself prominently in some
examination. I joined the crowd, and presently we were met by a small carriage
whence there emerged a pallid and frail adolescent with burning eyes, who was
borne aloft in triumph and cheered with that vociferous, masculine heartiness
which we Englishmen reserve for our popular prize-fighters. And this in the
classic land of brigandage and bloodshed!
</p>

<p>
The intellectual under-current. . . .
</p>

<p>
It was an apt commentary on my <i>graffito.</i> And another, more personally
poignant, not to say piquant, was soon to follow: the bed. But no. I will say
nothing about the bed, nothing whatever; nothing beyond this, that it yielded
an entomological harvest which surpassed my wildest expectations.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page202"></a><a name="chap26"></a>XXVI<br />
AMONG THE BRUTTIANS</h2>

<p>
Conspicuous among the wise men of Longobucco in olden days was the physician
Bruno, who &ldquo;flourished&rdquo; about the end of the thirteenth century. He
called himself <i>Longoburgensis Calaber,</i> and his great treatise on
anatomical dissection, embodying much Greek and Arabic lore, was printed many
years after his death. Another was Francesco Maria Labonia; he wrote, in 1664,
&ldquo;De vera loci urbis Timesinae situatione, etc.,&rdquo; to prove,
presumably, that his birthplace occupied the site whence the Homeric ore of
Temese was derived. There are modern writers who support this view.
</p>

<p>
The local silver mines were exploited in antiquity; first by Sybaris, then by
Croton. They are now abandoned, but a good deal has been written about them. In
the year 1200 a thousand miners were employed, and the Anjous extracted a great
deal of precious metal thence; the goldsmiths of Longobucco were celebrated
throughout Italy during the Middle Ages. The industrious H. W. Schulz has
unearthed a Royal rescript of 1274 charging a certain goldsmith Johannes of
Longobucco with researches into the metal and salt resources of the whole
kingdom of Naples.
</p>

<p>
Writing from Longobucco in 1808 during a brigand-hunt, Duret de Tavel says:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The high wooded mountains which surround this horrible place spread over
it a sombre and savage tint which saddens the imagination. This borough
contains a hideous population of three thousand souls, composed of nail-makers,
of blacksmiths and charcoal-burners. The former government employed them in
working the silver mines situated in the neighbourhood which are now
abandoned.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He tells a good deal about the brigandage that was then rife here, and the
atrocities which the repression of this pest entailed. Soon after his arrival,
for instance, four hundred soldiers were sent to a village where the chiefs of
the brigand &ldquo;insurrection&rdquo; were supposed to be sheltered. The
soldiers, he says, &ldquo;poured into the streets like a torrent in flood, and
there began a horrible massacre,
<a name="Page203"></a>
rendered inevitable by the obstinacy of the insurgents, who fired from all the
houses. This unhappy village was sacked and burnt, suffering all the horrors
inseparable from a capture by assault.&rdquo; Two hundred dead were found in
the streets. But the brigand chiefs, the sole pretext of this bloodshed,
managed to escape. Perhaps they were not within fifty miles of the place.
</p>

<p>
Be that as it may, they were captured later on by their own compatriots, after
the French had waited a month at Longobucco. Their heads were brought in, still
bleeding, and &ldquo;l&rsquo;identité ayant été suffisamment constatée, la mort
des principaux acteurs a terminé cette sanglante tragédie, et nous sommes
sortis de ces catacombes apénnines pour revoir le plus brillant soleil.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Wonderful tales are still told of the brigands in these forests. They will show
you notches on the trees, cut by such and such a brigand for some particular
purpose of communication with his friends; buried treasure has been found, and
even nowadays shepherds sometimes discover rude shelters of bark and tree
trunks built by them in the thickest part of the woods. There are legends, too,
of caverns wherein they hived their booty&mdash;caverns with cleverly concealed
entrances&mdash;caverns which (many of them, at least) I regard as a pure
invention modelled after the authentic brigand caves of Salerno and Abruzzi,
where the limestone rock is of the kind to produce them. Bourbonism fostered
the brood, and there was a fierce recrudescence in the troubled sixties. They
lived in bands, <i>squadrigli,</i> burning and plundering with impunity.
Whoever refused to comply with their demands for food or money was sure to
repent of it. All this is over, for the time being; the brigands are
extirpated, to the intense relief of the country people, who were entirely at
their mercy, and whose boast it is that their district is now as safe as the
streets of Naples. Qualified praise, this. . . .<a href="#fn-26.1" name="fnref-26.1" id="fnref-26.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-26.1" id="fn-26.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-26.1">[1]</a>
See next chapter.
</p>

<p>
It is an easy march of eight hours or less, through pleasing scenery and by a
good track, from Longobucco to San Giovanni in Fiore, the capital of the Sila.
The path leaves Longobucco at the rear of the town and, climbing upward, enters
a valley which it follows to its head. The peasants have cultivated patches of
ground along the stream; the slopes are covered, first with chestnuts and then
with hoary firs&mdash;a rare growth, in these parts&mdash;from whose branches
hangs the golden bough of the mistletoe. And now the stream is ended and a dark
ridge blocks the way; it is overgrown with beeches, under whose shade you
ascend in steep curves. At
<a name="Page204"></a>
the summit the vegetation changes once more, and you find yourself among
magnificent stretches of pines that continue as far as the governmental domain
of Galoppano, a forestal station, two hours&rsquo; walk from Longobucco.
</p>

<p>
This pine is a particular variety <i>(Pinus lancio,</i> var. <i>Calabra),</i>
known as the &ldquo;Pino della Sila&rdquo;&mdash;it is found over this whole
country, and grows to a height of forty metres with a silvery-grey trunk,
exhaling a delicious aromatic fragrance. In youth, especially where the soil is
deep, it shoots up prim and demure as a Nuremberg toy; but in old age grows
monstrous. High-perched upon some lonely granite boulder, with roots writhing
over the bare stone like the arms of an octopus, it sits firm and unmoved,
deriding the tempest and flinging fantastic limbs into the air&mdash;emblem of
tenacity in desolation. From these trees, which in former times must have
covered the Sila region, was made that Bruttian pitch mentioned by Strabo and
other ancient writers; from them the Athenians, the Syracusans, Tarentines and
finally the Romans built their fleets. Their timber was used in the
construction of Caserta palace.
</p>

<p>
A house stands here, inhabited by government officials the whole year
round&mdash;one may well puzzle how they pass the long winter, when snow lies
from October to May. So early did I arrive at this establishment that the more
civilized of its inhabitants were still asleep; by waiting, I might have learnt
something of the management of the estate, but gross material
preoccupations&mdash;the prospect of a passable luncheon at San Giovanni after
the &ldquo;Hotel Vittoria&rdquo; fare&mdash;tempted me to press forwards. A
boorish and unreliable-looking individual volunteered three pieces of
information&mdash;that the house was built thirty years ago, that a large
nursery for plants lies about ten kilometres distant, and that this particular
domain covers &ldquo;two or four thousand hectares.&rdquo; A young plantation
of larches and silver birches&mdash;aliens to this region&mdash;seemed to be
doing well.
</p>

<p>
Not far from here, along my track, lies Santa Barbara, two or three huts, with
corn still green&mdash;like Verace (above Acri) on the watershed between the
Ionian and upper Grati. Then follows a steep climb up the slopes of Mount
Pettinascura, whose summit lies 1708 metres above sea-level. This is the
typical landscape of the Sila Grande. There is not a human habitation in sight;
forests all around, with views down many-folded vales into the sea and towards
the distant and fairy-like Apennines, a serrated edge, whose limestone
precipices gleam like crystals of amethyst between the blue sky and the dusky
woodlands of the foreground.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus24"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-24.jpg" width="401" height="349" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Longobucco</p>
</div>

<p>
<a name="Page205"></a>
Here I reposed awhile, watching the crossbills, wondrously tame, at work among
the branches overhead, and the emerald lizard peering out of the bracken at my
side. This <i>lucertone,</i> as they call it, is a local beast, very abundant
in some spots (at Venosa and Patirion, for example); it is elsewhere
conspicuous by its absence. The natives are rather afraid of it, and still more
so of the harmless gecko, the &ldquo;salamide,&rdquo; which is reputed highly
poisonous.
</p>

<p>
Then up again, through dells and over uplands, past bubbling streams, sometimes
across sunlit meadows, but oftener in the leafy shelter of maples and
pines&mdash;a long but delightful track, winding always high above the valleys
of the Neto and Lese. At last, towards midday, I struck the driving road that
connects San Giovanni with Savelli, crossed a bridge over the foaming Neto, and
climbed into the populous and dirty streets of the town&mdash;the
&ldquo;Siberia of Calabria,&rdquo; as it may well be, for seven months of the
year.
</p>

<p>
At this season, thanks to its elevation of 1050 metres, the temperature is all
that could be desired, and the hotel, such as it is, compares favourably indeed
with the den at Longobucco. Instantly I felt at home among these good people,
who recognized me, and welcomed me with the cordiality of old friends.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; they asked, &ldquo;and have you found it at last?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They remembered my looking for the double flute, the <i>tibiae pares,</i> some
years ago.
</p>

<p class="p2">
It will not take you long to discover that the chief objects of interest in San
Giovanni are the women. Many Calabrian villages still possess their distinctive
costumes&mdash;Marcellinara and Cimigliano are celebrated in this
respect&mdash;but it would be difficult to find anywhere an equal number of
handsome women on such a restricted space. In olden days it was dangerous to
approach these attractive and mirthful creatures; they were jealously guarded
by brothers and husbands. But the brothers and husbands, thank God, are now in
America, and you may be as friendly with them as ever you please, provided you
confine your serious attentions to not more than two or three. Secrecy in such
matters is out of the question, as with the Arabs; there is too much gossip,
and too little coyness about what is natural; your friendships are openly
recognized, and tacitly approved. The priests do not interfere; their hands are
full.
</p>

<p>
To see these women at their best one must choose a Sunday or a feast-day; one
must go, morever, to the favourite fountain of Santa Lucia, which lies on the
hill-side and irrigates some patches of corn and vegetables. Their natural
charms are enhanced by
<a name="Page206"></a>
elaborate and tasteful golden ornaments, and by a pretty mode of dressing the
hair, two curls of which are worn hanging down before their ears with an
irresistibly seductive air. Their features are regular; eyes black or deep
gentian blue; complexion pale; movements and attitudes impressed with a stamp
of rare distinction. Even the great-grandmothers have a certain austere
dignity&mdash;sinewy, indestructible old witches, with tawny hide and eyes that
glow like lamps.
</p>

<p>
And yet San Giovanni is as dirty as can well be; it has the accumulated filth
of an Eastern town, while lacking all its glowing tints or harmonious outlines.
We are disposed to associate squalor with certain artistic effects, but it may
be said of this and many other Calabrian places that they have solved the
problem how to be ineffably squalid without becoming in the least picturesque.
Much of this sordid look is due to the smoke which issues out of all the
windows and blackens the house walls, inside and out&mdash;the Calabrians
persisting in a prehistoric fashion of cooking on the floor. The buildings
themselves look crude and gaunt from their lack of plaster and their eyeless
windows; black pigs wallowing at every doorstep contribute to this slovenly
<i>ensemble.</i> The City Fathers have turned their backs upon civilization; I
dare say the magnitude of the task before them has paralysed their initiative.
</p>

<p>
Nothing is done in the way of public hygiene, and one sees women washing linen
in water which is nothing more or less than an open drain. There is no
street-lighting whatever; a proposal on the part of a North Italian firm to
draw electric power from the Neto was scornfully rejected; one single tawdry
lamp, which was bought some years ago &ldquo;as a sample&rdquo; in a moment of
municipal recklessness, was lighted three times in as many years, and on the
very day when it was least necessary&mdash;to wit, on midsummer eve, which
happens to be the festival of their patron saint (St. John). &ldquo;It now
hangs&rdquo;&mdash;so I wrote some years ago&mdash;&ldquo;at a dangerous angle,
and I doubt whether it will survive till its services are requisitioned next
June.&rdquo; Prophetic utterance! It was blown down that same winter, and has
not yet been replaced. This in a town of 20,000 (?) inhabitants&mdash;and in
Italy, where the evening life of the populace plays such an important role. No
wonder North Italians, judging by such external indications, regard all
Calabrians as savages.
</p>

<p>
Some trees have been planted in the piazza since my last stay here; a newspaper
has also been started&mdash;it is called &ldquo;Co-operation: Organ of the
Interests of San Giovanni in Fiore,&rdquo; and its first and possibly unique
number contains a striking article on the public
<a name="Page207"></a>
health, as revealed in the report of two doctors who had been despatched by the
provincial sanitary authorities to take note of local conditions of hygiene.
&ldquo;The illustrious scientists&rdquo; (thus it runs) &ldquo;were horrified
at the filth, mud and garbage which encumbered, and still encumbers, our
streets, sending forth in the warm weather a pestilential odour. . . . They
were likewise amazed at the vigorously expressed protest of our mayor, who
said: &lsquo;<i>My people cannot live without their pigs wallowing in the
streets. San Giovanni in Fiore is exempt from earthquakes and epidemics because
it is under the protection of Saint John the Baptist, and because its
provincial councillor is a saintly man.&rsquo;</i>&rdquo; Such journalistic
plain speaking, such lack of sweet reasonableness, cannot expect to survive in
a world governed by compromise, and if the gift of prophecy has not deserted
me, I should say that &ldquo;Co-operation&rdquo; has by this time ended its
useful mission upon earth.
</p>

<p>
This place is unhealthy; its water-supply is not what it should be, and such
commodities as eggs and milk are rather dear, because &ldquo;the invalids eat
everything&rdquo; of that kind. Who are the invalids? Typhoid patients and,
above all, malarious subjects who descend to the plains as agricultural
labourers and return infected to the hills, where they become partially cured,
only to repeat the folly next year. It is the same at Longobucco and other Sila
towns. Altogether, San Giovanni has grave drawbacks. The streets are too steep
for comfort, and despite its height, the prospect towards the Ionian is
intercepted by a ridge; in point of situation it cannot compare with Savelli or
the neighbouring Casino, which have impressive views both inland, and southward
down undulating slopes that descend in a stately procession of four thousand
feet to the sea, where sparkles the gleaming horn of Cotrone. And the
surroundings of the place are nowise representative of the Sila in a good
sense. The land has been so ruthlessly deforested that it has become a desert
of naked granite rocks; even now, in midsummer, the citizens are already
collecting fuel for their long winter from enormous distances. As one crawls
and skips among these unsavoury tenements, one cannot help regretting that
Saint John the Baptist, or the piety of a provincial councillor, should have
hindered the earthquakes from doing their obvious duty.
</p>

<p>
Were I sultan of San Giovanni, I would certainly begin by a general
bombardment. Little in the town is worth preserving from a cataclysm save the
women, and perhaps the old convent on the summit of the hill where the French
lodged during their brigand-wars, and that other one, famous in the
ecclesiastical annals of Calabria&mdash;the monastery of Floriacense, founded
at the
<a name="Page208"></a>
end of the twelfth century, round which the town gradually grew up. Its
ponderous portal is much injured, having been burnt, I was told, by the
brigands in 1860. But the notary, who kindly looked up the archives for me, has
come to the conclusion that the French are responsible for the damage. It
contains, or contained, a fabulous collection of pious lumber&mdash;teeth and
thigh-bones and other relics, the catalogue of which is one of my favourite
sections of Father Fiore&rsquo;s work. I would make an exception, also, in
favour of the doorway of the church, a finely proportioned structure of the
Renaissance in black stone, which looks ill at ease among its ignoble
environment. A priest, to whom I applied for information as to its history,
told me with the usual Calabrian frankness that he never bothered his head
about such things.
</p>

<p>
San Giovanni was practically unknown to the outside world up to a few years
ago. I question whether Lenormant or any of them came here. Pacicchelli did,
however, in the seventeenth century, though he has left us no description of
the place. He crossed the whole Sila from the Ionian to the other sea. I like
this amiable and loquacious creature, restlessly gadding about Europe,
gloriously complacent, hopelessly absorbed in trivialities, and credulous
beyond belief. In fact (as the reader may have observed), I like all these old
travellers, not so much for what they actually say, as for their implicit
outlook upon life. This Pacicchelli was a fellow of our Royal Society, and his
accounts of England are worth reading; here, in Calabria (being a
non-southerner) his &ldquo;Familiar Letters&rdquo; and &rdquo;Memoirs of
Travel&rdquo; act as a wholesome corrective. Which of the local historians
would have dared to speak of Cosenza as &ldquo;città aperta, scomposta, e
disordinata di fabbriche&rdquo;?
</p>

<p class="p2">
That these inhabitants of the Sila are Bruttians may be inferred from the
superior position occupied by their women-folk, who are quite differently
treated to those of the lowlands. There&mdash;all along the coasts of South
Italy&mdash;the <i>cow-woman</i> is still found, unkempt and uncivilized;
there, the male is the exclusive bearer of culture. Such things are not seen
among the Bruttians of the Sila, any more than among the grave Latins or
Samnites. These non-Hellenic races are, generally speaking, honest, dignified
and incurious; they are bigoted, not to say fanatical; and their women are not
exclusively beasts of burden, being better dressed, better looking, and often
as intelligent as the men. They are the fruits of a female selection.
</p>

<p>
But wherever the mocking Ionic spirit has penetrated&mdash;and the Ionian women
occupied even a lower position than those of the
<a name="Page209"></a>
Dorians and Aeolians&mdash;it has resulted in a glorification of masculinity.
Hand in hand with this depreciation of the female sex go other characteristics
which point to Hellenic influences: lack of commercial morality, of veracity,
of seriousness in religious matters; a persistent, light-hearted
inquisitiveness; a levity (or sprightliness, if you prefer it) of mind. The
people are fetichistic, amulet-loving, rather than devout. We may certainly
suspect Greek or Saracen strains wherever women are held in low estimation;
wherever, as the god Apollo himself said, &ldquo;the mother is but the
nurse.&rdquo; In the uplands of Calabria the mother is a good deal more than
the nurse.
</p>

<p>
For the rest, it stands to reason that in proportion as the agricultural stage
supplants that of pasturage, the superior strength and utility of boys over
girls should become more apparent, and this in South Italy is universally
proclaimed by the fact that everything large and fine is laughingly described
as &ldquo;maschio&rdquo; (male), and by some odd superstitions in disparagement
of the female sex, such as these: that in giving presents to women, uneven
numbers should be selected, lest even ones &ldquo;do them more good than they
deserve&rdquo;; that to touch the hump of a female hunchback brings no luck
whatever; that if a woman be the first to drink out of a new earthenware
pitcher, the vessel may as well be thrown away at once&mdash;it is tainted for
ever.<a href="#fn-26.2" name="fnref-26.2" id="fnref-26.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> Yet the birth of a daughter is no Chinese calamity; even girls are
&ldquo;Christians&rdquo; and welcomed as such, the populace having never sunk
to the level of our theologians, who were wont to discuss <i>an fæmina sint
monstra.</i>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-26.2" id="fn-26.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-26.2">[2]</a>
In Japan, says Hearn, the first bucketful of water to be drawn out of a
cleaned well must be drawn by a man; for if a woman first draw water, the well
will always hereafter remain muddy. Some of these prejudices seem to be based
on primordial misreadings of physiology. There is also a strong feeling in
favour of dark hair. No mother would entrust her infant to a fair wet-nurse;
the milk even of white cows is considered &ldquo;lymphatic&rdquo; and not
strengthening; perhaps the eggs of white hens are equally devoid of the
fortifying principle. There is something to be said for this since, in
proportion as we go south, the risk of irritation, photophobia, and other
complaints incidental to the xanthous complexion becomes greater.
</p>

<p>
All over the Sila there is a large preponderance of women over men, nearly the
whole male section of the community, save the quite young and the decrepit,
being in America. This emigration brings much money into the country and many
new ideas; but the inhabitants have yet to learn the proper use of their
wealth, and to acquire a modern standard of comfort. Together with the
Sardinians, these Calabrians are the hardiest of native races, and this is what
makes them prefer the strenuous but lucrative life in North American mines to
the easier career in Argentina, which Neapolitans favour. There they learn
English. They remember their
<a name="Page210"></a>
families and the village that gave them birth, but their patriotism towards
Casa Savoia is of the slenderest. How could it be otherwise? I have spoken to
numbers of them, and this is what they say:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This country has done nothing for us; why should we fight its battles?
Not long ago we were almost devouring each other in our hunger; what did they
do to help us? If we have emerged from misery, it is due to our own initiative
and the work of our own hands; if we have decent clothes and decent houses, it
is because they drove us from our old homes with their infamous misgovernment
to seek work abroad.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Perfectly true! They have redeemed themselves, though the new regime has hardly
had a fair trial. And the drawbacks of emigration (such as a slight increase of
tuberculosis and alcoholism) are nothing compared with the unprecedented
material prosperity and enlightenment. There has also been&mdash;in these
parts, at all events&mdash;a marked diminution of crime. No wonder, seeing that
three-quarters of the most energetic and turbulent elements are at present in
America, where they recruit the Black Hand. That the Bruttian is not yet ripe
for town life, that his virtues are pastoral rather than civic, might have been
expected; but the Arab domination of much of his territory, one suspects, may
have infused fiercer strains into his character and helped to deserve for him
that epithet of <i>sanguinario</i> by which he is proud to be known.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page211"></a><a name="chap27"></a>XXVII<br />
CALABRIAN BRIGANDAGE</h2>

<p>
The last genuine bandit of the Sila was Gaetano Ricca. On account of some
trivial misunderstanding with the authorities, this man was compelled in the
early eighties to take to the woods, where he lived a wild life <i>(alla
campagna; alla macchia}</i> for some three years. A price was set on his head,
but his daring and knowledge of the country intimidated every one. I should be
sorry to believe in the number of carbineers he is supposed to have killed
during that period; no doubt the truth came out during his subsequent trial. On
one occasion he was surrounded, and while the officer in command of his
pursuers, who had taken refuge behind a tree, ordered him to yield, Ricca
waited patiently till the point of his enemy&rsquo;s foot became visible, when
he pierced his ankle-bone with his last bullet and escaped. He afterwards
surrendered and was imprisoned for twenty years or so; then returned to the
Sila, where up to a short time ago he was enjoying a green old age in his home
at Parenti&mdash;Parenti, already celebrated in the annals of brigandage by the
exploit of the perfidious Francatripa (Giacomo Pisani), who, under pretence of
hospitality, enticed a French company into his clutches and murdered its three
officers and all the men, save seven. The memoirs of such men might be as
interesting as those of the Sardinian Giovanni Tolù which have been printed. I
would certainly have paid my respects to Ricca had I been aware of his
existence when, some years back, I passed through Parenti on my way&mdash;a
long day&rsquo;s march!&mdash;from Rogliano to San Giovanni. He has died in the
interval.
</p>

<p>
But the case of Ricca is a sporadic one, such as may crop up anywhere and at
any time. It is like that of Musolino&mdash;the case of an isolated outlaw, who
finds the perplexed geographical configuration of the country convenient for
offensive and defensive purposes. Calabrian brigandage, as a whole, has always
worn a political character.
</p>

<p>
The men who gave the French so much trouble were political brigands, allies of
Bourbonism. They were commanded by
<a name="Page212"></a>
creatures like Mammone, an anthropophagous monster whose boast it was that he
had personally killed 455 persons with the greatest refinements of cruelty, and
who wore at his belt the skull of one of them, out of which he used to drink
human blood at mealtime; he drank his own blood as well; indeed, he
&ldquo;never dined without having a bleeding human heart on the table.&rdquo;
This was the man whom King Ferdinand and his spouse loaded with gifts and
decorations, and addressed as &ldquo;Our good Friend and General&mdash;the
faithful Support of the Throne.&rdquo; The numbers of these savages were
increased by shiploads of professional cut-throats sent over from Sicily by the
English to help their Bourbon friends. Some of these actually wore the British
uniform; one of the most ferocious was known as
&ldquo;L&rsquo;Inglese&rdquo;&mdash;the Englishman.
</p>

<p>
One must go to the fountain-head, to the archives, in order to gain some idea
of the sanguinary anarchy that desolated South Italy in those days. The horrors
of feudalism, aided by the earthquake of 1784 and by the effects of Cardinal
Ruffo&rsquo;s Holy Crusade, had converted the country into a pandemonium. In a
single year (1809) thirty-three thousand crimes were recorded against the
brigands of the Kingdom of Naples; in a single month they are said to have
committed 1200 murders in Calabria alone. These were the bands who were
described by British officers as &ldquo;our chivalrous brigand-allies.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is good to bear these facts in mind when judging of the present state of
this province, for the traces of such a reign of terror are not easily
expunged. Good, also, to remember that this was the period of the highest
spiritual eminence to which South Italy has ever attained. Its population of
four million inhabitants were then consoled by the presence of no less than
120,000 holy persons&mdash;to wit, 22 archbishops, 116 bishops, 65,500 ordained
priests, 31,800 monks, and 23,600 nuns. Some of these ecclesiastics, like the
Bishop of Capaccio, were notable brigand-chiefs.
</p>

<p>
It must be confessed that the French were sufficiently coldblooded in their
reprisals. Colletta himself saw, at Lagonegro, a man impaled by order of a
French colonel; and some account of their excesses may be gleaned from Duret de
Tavel, from Rivarol (rather a disappointing author), and from the flamboyant
epistles of P. L. Courier, a soldier-scribe of rare charm, who lost everything
in this campaign. &ldquo;J&rsquo;ai perdu huit chevaux, mes habits, mon linge,
mon manteau, mes pistolets, mon argent (12,247 francs). . . . Je ne regrette
que mon Homère (a gift from the Abbé Barthélemy), et pour le ravoir, je
donnerais la seule chemise qui me reste.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But even that did not destroy the plague. The situation called
<a name="Page213"></a>
for a genial and ruthless annihilator, a man like Sixtus V, who asked for
brigands&rsquo; heads and got them so plentifully that they lay &ldquo;thick as
melons in the market&rdquo; under the walls of Rome, while the Castel
Sant&rsquo; Angelo was tricked out like a Christmas tree with quartered
corpses&mdash;a man who told the authorities, when they complained of the
insufferable stench of the dead, that the smell of living iniquity was far
worse. Such a man was wanted. Therefore, in 1810, Murat gave <i>carte
blanche</i> to General Manhes, the greatest brigand-catcher of modern times, to
extirpate the ruffians, root and branch. He had just distinguished himself
during a similar errand in the Abruzzi and, on arriving in Calabria, issued
proclamations of such inhuman severity that the inhabitants looked upon them as
a joke. They were quickly undeceived. The general seems to have considered that
the end justified the means, and that the peace and happiness of a province was
not to be disturbed year after year by the malignity of a few thousand rascals;
his threats were carried out to the letter, and, whatever may be said against
his methods, he certainly succeeded. At the end of a few months&rsquo;
campaign, every single brigand, and all their friends and relations, were wiped
off the face of the earth&mdash;together with a very considerable number of
innocent persons. The high roads were lined with decapitated bandits, the town
walls decked with their heads; some villages had to be abandoned, on account of
the stench; the Crati river was swollen with corpses, and its banks whitened
with bones. God alone knows the cruelties which were enacted; Colletta
confesses that he &ldquo;lacks courage to relate them.&rdquo; Here is his
account of the fate of the brigand chief Benincasa:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Betrayed and bound by his followers as he slept in the forest of
Cassano, Benincasa was brought to Cosenza, and General Manhes ordered that both
his hands be lopped off and that he be led, thus mutilated, to his home in San
Giovanni, and there hanged; a cruel sentence, which the wretch received with a
bitter smile. His right hand was first cut off and the stump bound, not out of
compassion or regard for his life, but in order that all his blood might not
flow out of the opened veins, seeing that he was reserved for a more miserable
death. Not a cry escaped him, and when he saw that the first operation was
over, he voluntarily laid his left hand upon the block and coldly watched the
second mutilation, and saw his two amputated hands lying on the ground, which
were then tied together by the thumbs and hung round his neck; an awful and
piteous spectacle. This happened at Cosenza. On the same day he began his march
to San Giovanni in Fiore, the escort resting at intervals; one of them offered
the man food, which he accepted;
<a name="Page214"></a>
he ate and drank what was placed in his mouth, and not so much in order to
sustain life, as with real pleasure. He arrived at his home, and slept through
the following night; on the next day, as the hour of execution approached, he
refused the comforts of religion, ascended the gallows neither swiftly nor
slowly, and died admired for his brutal intrepidity.&rdquo;<a href="#fn-27.1" name="fnref-27.1" id="fnref-27.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-27.1" id="fn-27.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-27.1">[1]</a>
This particular incident was flatly denied by Manhes in a letter dated 1835,
which is quoted in the &ldquo;Notizia storica del Conte C. A. Manhes&rdquo;
(Naples, 1846)&mdash;one of a considerable number of pro-Bourbon books that
cropped up about this time. One is apt to have quite a wrong impression of
Manhes, that inexorable but incorruptible scourge of evildoers. One pictures
him a grey-haired veteran, scarred and gloomy; and learns, on the contrary,
that he was only thirty-two years old at this time, gracious in manner and of
surprising personal beauty.
</p>

<p>
For the first time since long Calabria was purged. Ever since the Bruttians,
irreclaimable plunderers, had established themselves at Cosenza, disquieting
their old Hellenic neighbours, the recesses of this country had been a
favourite retreat of political malcontents. Here Spartacus drew recruits for
his band of rebels; here &ldquo;King Marcone&rdquo; defied the oppressive
Spanish Viceroys, and I blame neither him nor his imitators, since the career
of bandit was one of the very few that still commended itself to decent folks,
under that régime.
</p>

<p>
During the interregnum of Bourbonism between Murat and Garibaldi the mischief
revived&mdash;again in a political form. Brigands drew pensions from kings and
popes, and the system gave rise to the most comical incidents; the story of the
pensioned malefactors living together at Monticello reads like an extravaganza.
It was the spirit of Offenbach, brooding over Europe. One of the funniest
episodes was a visit paid in 1865 by the disconsolate Mrs. Moens to the
ex-brigand Talarico, who was then living in grand style on a government
pension. Her husband had been captured by the band of Manzi (another brigand),
and expected to be murdered every day, and the lady succeeded in procuring from
the chivalrous monster&mdash;&ldquo;an extremely handsome man, very tall, with
the smallest and most delicate hands&rdquo;&mdash;an exquisite letter to his
colleague, recommending him to be merciful to the Englishman and to emulate his
own conduct in that respect. The letter had no effect, apparently; but Moens
escaped at last, and wrote his memoirs, while Manzi was caught and executed in
1868 after a trial occupying nearly a month, during which the jury had to
answer 311 questions.
</p>

<p>
His villainies were manifold. But they were put in the shade by those of others
of his calling&mdash;of Caruso, for example, who was known to have massacred in
one month (September, 1863) two
<a name="Page215"></a>
hundred persons with his own hands. Then, as formerly, the Church favoured the
malefactors, and I am personally acquainted with priests who fought on the side
of the brigands. Francis II endeavoured to retrieve his kingdom by the help of
an army of scoundrels like those of Ruffo, but the troops shot them down.
Brigandage, as a governmental institution, came to an end. Unquestionably the
noblest figure in this reactionary movement was that of José Borjès, a brave
man engaged in an unworthy cause. You can read his tragic journal in the pages
of M. Monnier or Maffei. It has been calculated that during these last years of
Bourbonism the brigands committed seven thousand homicides a year in the
kingdom of Naples.
</p>

<p>
Schools and emigration have now brought sounder ideas among the people, and the
secularization of convents with the abolition of ecclesiastical right of asylum
(Sixtus V had wisely done away with it) has broken up the prosperous old bond
between monks and malefactors. What the government has done towards
establishing decent communications in this once lawless and pathless country
ranks, in its small way, beside the achievement of the French who, in Algeria,
have built nearly ten thousand miles of road. But it is well to note that even
as the mechanical appliance of steam destroyed the corsairs, the external
plague, so this hoary form of internal disorder could have been permanently
eradicated neither by humanity nor by severity. A scientific invention, the
electric telegraph, is the guarantee of peace against the rascals.
</p>

<p>
These brigand chiefs were often loaded with gold. On killing them, the first
thing the French used to do was to strip them. &ldquo;On le dépouilla.&rdquo;
Francatripa, for instance, possessed &ldquo;a plume of white ostrich feathers,
clasped by a golden band and diamond Madonna&rdquo; (a gift from Queen
Caroline)&mdash;Cerino and Manzi had &ldquo;bunches of gold chains as thick as
an arm suspended across the breasts of their waistcoats, with gorgeous brooches
at each fastening.&rdquo; Some of their wealth now survives in certain families
who gave them shelter in the towns in winter time, or when they were hard
pressed. These <i>favoreggiatori</i> or <i>manutengoli</i> (the terms are
interconvertible, but the first is the legal one) were sometimes benevolently
inclined. But occasionally they conceived the happy idea of being paid for
their silence and services. The brigand, then, was hoist with his own petard
and forced to disgorge his ill-gotten summer gains to these blood-suckers, who
extorted heavy blackmail under menaces of disclosure to the police, thriving on
their double infamy to such an extent that they acquired immense riches. One of
the wealthiest men in Italy descends from this
<a name="Page216"></a>
class; his two hundred million (?) francs are invested, mostly, in England;
every one knows his name, but the origin of his fortune is no longer mentioned,
since (thanks to this money) the family has been able to acquire not only
respectability but distinction.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page217"></a><a name="chap28"></a>XXVIII<br />
THE GREATER SILA</h2>

<p>
A great project is afoot.
</p>

<p>
As I understand it, a reservoir is being created by damming up the valley of
the Ampollina; the artificial lake thus formed will be enlarged by the
additional waters of the Arvo, which are to be led into it by means of a
tunnel, about three miles long, passing underneath Monte Nero. The basin, they
tell me, will be some ten kilometres in length; the work will cost forty
million francs, and will be completed in a couple of years; it will supply the
Ionian lowlands with pure water and with power for electric and other
industries.
</p>

<p>
And more than that. The lake is to revolutionize the Sila; to convert these
wildernesses into a fashionable watering-place. Enthusiasts already see towns
growing upon its shores&mdash;there are visions of gorgeous hotels and flocks
of summer visitors in elegant toilettes, villa-residences, funicular railways
up all the mountains, sailing regattas, and motor-boat services. In the place
of the desert there will arise a &ldquo;Lucerna di Calabria.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A Calabrian Lucerne. H&rsquo;m. ...
</p>

<p>
It remains to be seen whether, by the time the lake is completed, there will be
any water left to flow into it. For the catchment basins are being so
conscientiously cleared of their timber that the two rivers cannot but suffer a
great diminution in volume. By 1896 already, says Marincola San Fioro, the
destruction of woodlands in the Sila had resulted in a notable lack of
moisture. Ever since then the vandalism has been pursued with a zeal worthy of
a better cause. One trembles to think what these regions will be like in fifty
years; a treeless and waterless tableland&mdash;worse than the glaring
limestone deserts of the Apennines in so far as they, at least, are diversified
in contour.
</p>

<p>
So the healthfulness, beauty, and exchequer value of enormous tracts in this
country are being systematically impaired, day by day. Italy is ready, said
D&rsquo;Azeglio, but where are the Italians?
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page218"></a>
Let us give the government credit for any number of good ideas. It actually
plants bare spaces; it has instituted a &ldquo;Festa degli alberi&rdquo; akin
to the American Arbour Day, whereby it is hoped, though scarcely believed, that
the whole of Italy will ultimately be replenished with trees; it encourages
schools of forestry, supplies plants free of cost to all who ask for them,
despatches commissions and prints reports. Above all, it talks prodigiously and
very much to the purpose.
</p>

<p>
But it omits to administer its own laws with becoming severity. A few exemplary
fines and imprisonments would have a more salutary effect than the
commissioning of a thousand inspectors whom nobody takes seriously, and the
printing of ten thousand reports which nobody reads.
</p>

<p>
With a single stroke of the pen the municipalities could put an end to the
worst form of forest extirpation&mdash;that on the hill-sides&mdash;by
forbidding access to such tracts and placing them under the &ldquo;vincolo
forestale.&rdquo; To denude slopes in the moist climate and deep soil of
England entails no risk; in this country it is the beginning of the end. And
herein lies the ineptitude of the Italian regulations, which entrust the
collective wisdom of rapacious farmers with measures of this kind, taking no
account of the destructively utilitarian character of the native mind, of that
canniness which overlooks a distant profit in its eagerness to grasp the
present&mdash;that beast avarice which Horace recognized as the root of all
evil. As if provisions like this of the &ldquo;vincolo forestale&rdquo; were
ever carried out! Peasants naturally prefer to burn the wood in their own
chimneys or to sell it; and if a landslide then crashes down, wrecking houses
and vineyards&mdash;let the government compensate the victims!
</p>

<p>
An ounce of fact&mdash;
</p>

<p>
In one year alone (1903), and in the sole province of Cosenza wherein San
Giovanni lies, there were 156 landslides; they destroyed 1940 hectares of land,
and their damage amounted to 432,738 francs. The two other Calabrian
provinces&mdash;Reggio and Catanzaro&mdash;doubtless also had their full quota
of these catastrophes, all due to mischievous deforestation. So the bare rock
is exposed, and every hope of planting at an end.
</p>

<p>
<i>Vox clamantis!</i> The Normans, Anjou and Aragonese concerned themselves
with the proper administration of woodlands. Even the Spanish Viceroys, that
ineffable brood, issued rigorous enactments on the subject; while the Bourbons
(to give the devil his due) actually distinguished themselves as conservators
of forests. As to Napoleon&mdash;he was busy enough, one would think, on this
<a name="Page219"></a>
side of the Alps. Yet he found time to frame wise regulations concerning trees
which the present patriotic parliament, during half a century of frenzied
confabulation, has not yet taken to heart.
</p>

<p>
How a great man will leave his mark on minutiæ!
</p>

<p class="p2">
I passed through the basin of this future lake when, in accordance with my
project, I left San Giovanni to cross the remaining Sila in the direction of
Catanzaro. This getting up at 3.30 a.m., by the way, rather upsets one&rsquo;s
daily routine; at breakfast time I already find myself enquiring anxiously for
dinner.
</p>

<p>
The Ampollina valley lies high; here, in the dewy grass, I enjoyed what I well
knew would be my last shiver for some time to come; then moved for a few miles
on the further bank of the rivulet along that driving road which will soon be
submerged under the waters of the lake, and struck up a wooded glen called
Barbarano. At its head lies the upland Circilla.
</p>

<p>
There is no rock scenery worth mentioning in all this Sila country; no
waterfalls or other Alpine features. It is a venerable granitic tableland, that
has stood here while the proud Apennines were still slumbering in the oozy bed
of ocean<a href="#fn-28.1" name="fnref-28.1" id="fnref-28.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>&mdash;a
region of gentle undulations, the hill-tops covered with forest-growth, the
valleys partly arable and partly pasture. Were it not for the absence of
heather with its peculiar mauve tints, the traveller might well imagine himself
in Scotland. There is the same smiling alternation of woodland and meadow, the
same huge boulders of gneiss and granite which give a distinctive tone to the
landscape, the same exuberance of living waters. Water, indeed, is one of the
glories of the Sila&mdash;everywhere it bubbles forth in chill rivulets among
the stones and trickles down the hill-sides to join the larger streams that
wend their way to the forlorn and fever-stricken coastlands of Magna Graecia.
Often, as I refreshed myself at these icy fountains, did I thank Providence for
making the Sila of primitive rock, and not of the thirsty Apennine limestone.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-28.1" id="fn-28.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-28.1">[1]</a>
Nissen says that &ldquo;no landscape of Italy has lost so little of its
original appearance in the course of history as Calabria.&rdquo; This may apply
to the mountains; but the lowlands have suffered hideous changes.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Much water in the Sila,&rdquo; an old shepherd once observed to me,
&ldquo;much water! And little tobacco.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
One of the largest of these rivers is the Neto, the classic Neaithos sung by
Theocritus, which falls into the sea north of Cotrone; San Giovanni overlooks
its raging flood, and, with the help of a little imagination here and there,
its whole course can be traced from
<a name="Page220"></a>
eminences like that of Pettinascura. The very name of these streams&mdash;Neto,
Arvo, Lese, Ampollina&mdash;are redolent of pastoral life. All of them are
stocked with trout; they meander in their upper reaches through valleys grazed
by far-tinkling flocks of sheep and goats and grey cattle&mdash;the experiment
of acclimatizing Swiss cattle has proved a failure, I know not why&mdash;and
their banks are brilliant with blossoms. Later on, in the autumn, the thistles
begin to predominate&mdash;the finest of them being a noble ground thistle of
pale gold, of which they eat the unopened bud; it is the counterpart of the
silvery one of the Alps. The air in these upper regions is keen. I remember,
some years ago, that during the last week of August a lump of snow, which a
goat-boy produced as his contribution to our luncheon, did not melt in the
bright sunshine on the summit of Monte Nero.
</p>

<p>
From whichever side one climbs out of the surrounding lowlands into the Sila
plateau, the same succession of trees is encountered. To the warmest zone of
olives, lemons and carobs succeeds that of the chestnuts, some of them of
gigantic dimensions and yielding a sure though moderate return in fruit, others
cut down periodically as coppice for vine-props and scaffoldings. Large tracts
of these old chestnut groves are now doomed; a French society in Cosenza, so
they tell me, is buying them up for the extraction out of their bark of some
chemical or medicine. The vine still flourishes at this height, though dwarfed
in size; soon the oaks begin to dominate, and after that we enter into the
third and highest region of the pines and beeches. Those accustomed to the
stony deserts of nearly all South European mountain districts will find these
woodlands intensely refreshing. Their inaccessibility has proved their
salvation&mdash;up to a short time ago.
</p>

<p>
Nearly all the cattle on the Sila, like the land itself, belongs to large
proprietors. These gentlemen are for the most part invisible; they inhabit
their palaces in the cities, and the very name of the Sila sends a cold shudder
through their bones; their revenues are collected from the shepherds by agents
who seem to do their work very conscientiously. I once observed, in a hut, a
small fragment of the skin of a newly killed kid; the wolf had devoured the
beast, and the shepherd was keeping this <i>corpus delicti</i> to prove to his
superior, the agent, that he was innocent of the murder. There was something
naive in his honesty&mdash;as if a shepherd could not eat a kid as well as any
wolf, and keep a portion of its skin! The agent, no doubt, would hand it on to
his lord, by way of <i>confirmation and verification.</i> Another time I saw
the debris of a goat hanging from
<a name="Page221"></a>
a tree; it was the wolf again; the boy had attached these remains to the tree
in order that all who passed that way might be his witnesses, if necessary,
that the animal had not been sold underhand.
</p>

<p>
You may still find the legendary shepherds here&mdash;curly-haired striplings,
reclining <i>sub tegmine fagi</i> in the best Theocritean style, and piping
wondrous melodies to their flocks. These have generally come up for the summer
season from the Ionian lowlands. Or you may encounter yet more primitive
creatures, forest boys, clad in leather, with wild eyes and matted locks, that
take an elvish delight in misdirecting you. These are the Lucanians of old.
&ldquo;They bring them up from childhood in the woods among the
shepherds,&rdquo; says Justinus, &ldquo;without servants, and even without any
clothes to cover them, or to lie upon, that from their early years they may
become inured to hardiness and frugality, and have no intercourse with the
city. They live upon game, and drink nothing but water or milk.&rdquo; But the
majority of modern Sila shepherds are shrewd fellows of middle age (many of
them have been to America), who keep strict business accounts for their masters
of every ounce of cheese and butter produced. The local cheese, which
Cassiodorus praises in one of his letters, is the <i>cacciacavallo</i> common
all over South Italy; the butter is of the kind which has been humorously, but
quite wrongly, described by various travellers.
</p>

<p>
Although the old wolves are shot and killed by spring guns and dynamite while
the young ones are caught alive in steel traps and other appliances, their
numbers are still formidable enough to perturb the pastoral folks. One is
therefore surprised to see what a poor breed of dogs they keep; scraggy
mongrels that run for their lives at the mere sight of a wolf who can, and
often does, bite them into two pieces with one snap of his jaws. They tell me
that there is a government reward for every wolf killed, but it is seldom paid;
whoever has the good fortune to slay one of these beasts, carries the skin as
proof of his prowess from door to door, and receives a small present
everywhere&mdash;half a franc, or a cheese, or a glass of wine.
</p>

<p>
The goats show fight, and therefore the wolf prefers sheep. Shepherds have told
me that he comes up to them <i>delicatamente,</i> and then, fixing his teeth in
the wool of their necks, pulls them onward, caressing their sides with his
tail. The sheep are fascinated with his gentle manners, and generally allow
themselves to be led up to the spot he has selected for their execution; the
truth being that he is too lazy to carry them, if he can possibly avoid it.
<a name="Page222"></a>
He will promptly kill his quarry and carry its carcase downhill on the rare
occasions when the flocks are grazing above his haunt; but if it is an uphill
walk, they must be good enough to use their own legs. Incredible stories of his
destructiveness are related.
</p>

<p>
Fortunately, human beings are seldom attacked, a dog or a pig being generally
forthcoming when the usual prey is not to be found. Yet not long ago a sad
affair occurred; a she-wolf attacked a small boy before the eyes of his
parents, who pursued him, powerless to help&mdash;the head and arms had already
been torn off before a shot from a neighbour despatched the monster. Truly,
&ldquo;a great family displeasure,&rdquo; as my informant styled it. Milo of
Croton, the famous athlete, is the most renowned victim of these Sila wolves.
Tradition has it that, relying on his great strength, he tried to rend asunder
a mighty log of wood which closed, however, and caught his arms in its grip;
thus helpless, he was devoured alive by them.
</p>

<p class="p2">
By keeping to the left of Circilla, I might have skirted the forest of
Gariglione. This tract lies at about four and a half hours&rsquo; distance from
San Giovanni; I found it, some years ago, to be a region of real
&ldquo;Urwald&rdquo; or primary jungle; there was nothing like it, to my
knowledge, on this side of the Alps, nor yet in the Alps themselves; nothing of
the kind nearer than Russia. But the Russian jungles, apart from their monotony
of timber, foster feelings of sadness and gloom, whereas these southern ones,
as Hehn has well observed, are full of a luminous beauty&mdash;their darkest
recesses being enlivened by a sense of benignant mystery. Gariglione was at
that time a virgin forest, untouched by the hand of man; a dusky ridge, visible
from afar; an impenetrable tangle of forest trees, chiefest among them being
the &ldquo;garigli&rdquo; <i>(Quercus cerris)</i> whence it derives its name,
as well as thousands of pines and bearded firs and all that hoary indigenous
vegetation struggling out of the moist soil wherein their progenitors had lain
decaying time out of mind. In these solitudes, if anywhere, one might still
have found the absent-minded luzard (lynx) of the veracious historian; or that
squirrel whose &ldquo;calabrere&rdquo; fur, I strongly suspect, came from
Russia; or, at any rate, the Mushroom-stone <i>which shineth in the night</i>.<a href="#fn-28.2" name="fnref-28.2" id="fnref-28.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-28.2" id="fn-28.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-28.2">[2]</a>
As a matter of fact, the mushroom-stone is a well-known commodity, being
still collected and eaten, for example, at Santo Stefano in Aspramente. Older
travellers tell us that it used to be exported to Naples and kept in the
cellars of the best houses for the enjoyment of its fruit&mdash;sometimes in
lumps measuring two feet in diameter which, being soaked in water, produced
these edible fungi. A stone yielding food&mdash;a miracle! It is a porous tufa
adapted, presumably, for sheltering and fecundating vegetable spores. A little
pamphlet by Professor A. Trotter (&ldquo;Flora Montana della Calabria&rdquo;)
gives some idea of the local plants and contains a useful bibliography. A
curious feature is the relative abundance of boreal and Balkan-Oriental forms;
another, the rapid spread of <i>Genista anglica,</i> which is probably an
importation.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page223"></a>
Well, I am glad my path to-day did not lead me to Gariglione, and so destroy
old memories of the place. For the domain, they tell me, has been sold for
350,000 francs to a German company; its primeval silence is now invaded by an
army of 260 workmen, who have been cutting down the timber as fast as they can.
So vanishes another fair spot from earth! And what is left of the Sila, once
these forests are gone? Not even the charm, such as it is, of Caithness. . . .
</p>

<p>
After Circilla comes the watershed that separates the Sila Grande from the
westerly regions of Sila Piccola. Thenceforward it was downhill walking, at
first through forest lands, then across verdant stretches, bereft of timber and
simmering in the sunshine. The peculiar character of this country is soon
revealed&mdash;ferociously cloven ravines, utterly different from the Sila
Grande.
</p>

<p>
With the improvidence of the true traveller I had consumed my stock of
provisions ere reaching the town of Taverna after a march of nine hours or
thereabouts. A place of this size and renown, I had argued, would surely be
able to provide a meal. But Taverna belies its name. The only tavern
discoverable was a composite hovel, half wine-shop, half hen-house, whose
proprietor, disturbed in his noonday nap, stoutly refused to produce anything
eatable. And there I stood in the blazing sunshine, famished and un-befriended.
Forthwith the strength melted out of my bones; the prospect of walking to
Catanzaro, so alluring with a full stomach, faded out of the realm of
possibility; and it seemed a special dispensation of Providence when, at my
lowest ebb of vitality, a small carriage suddenly hove in sight.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How much to Catanzaro?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The owner eyed me critically, and then replied in English:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You can pay twenty dollars.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Twenty dollars&mdash;a hundred francs! But it is useless trying to bargain with
an <i>americano</i> (their time is too valuable).
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A dollar a mile?&rdquo; I protested.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You be damned.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Same to you, mister.&rdquo; And he drove off.
</p>

<p>
Such bold defiance of fate never goes unrewarded. A two-wheeled cart conveying
some timber overtook me shortly afterwards on my way from the inhospitable
Taverna. For a small
<a name="Page224"></a>
consideration I was enabled to pass the burning hours of the afternoon in an
improvised couch among its load of boards, admiring the scenery and the
engineering feats that have carried a road through such difficult country, and
thinking out some further polite remarks to be addressed to my twenty-dollar
friend, in the event of our meeting at Catanzaro. . . .
</p>

<p>
One must have traversed the Sila in order to appreciate the manifold charms of
the mountain town&mdash;I have revelled in them since my arrival. But it has
one irremediable drawback: the sea lies at an inconvenient distance. It takes
forty-five minutes to reach the shore by means of two railways in whose
carriages the citizens descend after wild scrambles for places, packed tight as
sardines in the sweltering heat. Only a genuine enthusiast will undertake the
trip more than once. For the Marina itself&mdash;at this season, at
least&mdash;is an unappetizing spot; a sordid agglomeration of houses, a few
dirty fruit-stalls, ankle-deep dust, swarms of flies. I prefer to sleep through
the warm hours of the day, and then take the air in that delightful public
garden which, by the way, has already become too small for the increasing
population.
</p>

<p>
At its entrance stands the civic museum, entrusted, just now, to the care of a
quite remarkably ignorant and slatternly woman. It contains two rooms, whose
exhibits are smothered in dust and cobwebs; as neglected, in short, as her own
brats that sprawl about its floor. I enquired whether she possessed no
catalogue to show where the objects, bearing no labels, had been found. A
catalogue was unnecessary, she said; she knew everything&mdash;everything!
</p>

<p>
And everything, apparently, hailed from &ldquo;Stromboli.&rdquo; The Tiriolo
helmet, the Greek vases, all the rest of the real and sham treasures of this
establishment: they were all discovered at Stromboli.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Those coins&mdash;whence?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Stromboli!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Noticing some neolithic celts similar to those I obtained at Vaccarizza, I
would gladly have learnt their place of origin. Promptly came the answer:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Stromboli!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nonsense, my good woman. I&rsquo;ve been three times to Stromboli; it is
an island of black stones where the devil has a house, and such things are not
found there.&rdquo; (Of course she meant Strongoli, the ancient Petelia.)
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus25"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-25.jpg" width="369" height="483" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Gateway at Catanzaro</p>
</div>

<p>
This vigorous assertion made her more circumspect. Thenceforward everything was
declared to come from the province&mdash;<i>dalla provincia;</i> it was safer.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page225"></a>
<i>&ldquo;</i>That bad picture&mdash;whence?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dalla provincia!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Have you really no catalogue?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know everything.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And this broken statue&mdash;whence?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dalla provincia!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But the province is large,&rdquo; I objected.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So it is. Large, and old.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
I have also revisited Tiriolo, once celebrated for the &ldquo;Sepulchres of the
Giants&rdquo; (Greek tombs) that were unearthed here, and latterly for a
certain more valuable antiquarian discovery. Not long ago it was a considerable
undertaking to reach this little place, but nowadays a public motor-car whirls
you up and down the ravines at an alarming pace and will deposit you, within a
few hours, at remote Cosenza, once an enormous drive. It is the same all over
modern Calabria. The diligence service, for instance, that used to take
fourteen hours from San Giovanni to Cosenza has been replaced by motors that
cover the distance in four or five. One is glad to save time, but this new
element of mechanical hurry has produced a corresponding kind of
traveller&mdash;a machine-made creature, devoid of the humanity of the old; it
has done away with the personal note of conviviality that reigned in the
post-carriages. What jocund friendships were made, what songs and tales
applauded, during those interminable hours in the lumbering chaise!
</p>

<p>
You must choose Sunday for Tiriolo, on account of the girls, whose pretty faces
and costumes are worth coming any distance to see. A good proportion of them
have the fair hair which seems to have been eliminated, in other parts of the
country, through the action of malaria.
</p>

<p>
Viewed from Catanzaro, one of the hills of Tiriolo looks like a broken volcanic
crater. It is a limestone ridge, decked with those characteristic flowers like
<i>Campanula fragilis</i> which you will vainly seek on the Sila. Out of the
ruins of some massive old building they have constructed, on the summit, a
lonely weather-beaten fabric that would touch the heart of Maeterlinck. They
call it a seismological station. I pity the people that have to depend for
their warnings of earthquakes upon the outfit of a place like this. I could see
no signs of life here; the windows were broken, the shutters decaying, an old
lightning-rod dangled disconsolately from the roof; it looked as abandoned as
any old tower in a tale. There is a noble view from this point over both seas
and into the
<a name="Page226"></a>
riven complexities of Aspromonte, when the peak is not veiled in mists, as it
frequently is. For Tiriolo lies on the watershed; there (to quote from a
&ldquo;Person of Quality&rdquo;) &ldquo;where the Apennine is drawn into so
narrow a point, that the rain-water which descendeth from the ridge of some one
house, falleth on the left in the Terrene Sea, and on the right into the
Adriatick. . . .&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
My visits to the provincial museum have become scandalously frequent during the
last few days. I cannot keep away from the place. I go there not to study the
specimens but to converse with their keeper, the woman who, in her quiet way,
has cast a sort of charm over me. Our relations are the whispered talk of the
town; I am suspected of matrimonial designs upon a poor widow with the ulterior
object of appropriating the cream of the relics under her care. Regardless of
the perils of the situation, I persevere; for the sake of her company I
forswear the manifold seductions of Catanzaro. She is a noteworthy person,
neither vicious nor vulgar, but simply the <i>dernier mot</i> of incompetence.
Her dress, her looks, her children, her manners&mdash;they are all on an even
plane with her spiritual accomplishments; at no point does she sink, or rise,
beyond that level. They are not as common as they seem to be, these
harmoniously inefficient females.
</p>

<p>
Why has she got this job in a progressive town containing so many folks who
could do it creditably? Oh, that is simple enough! She needs it. On the
platform of the Reggio station (long before the earthquake) I once counted five
station-masters and forty-eight other railway officials, swaggering about with
a magnificent air of incapacity. What were they doing? Nothing whatever. They
were like this woman: they needed a job.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus26"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-26.jpg" width="307" height="400" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">In the Cemetery of Reggio</p>
</div>

<p>
We are in a patriarchal country; work is pooled; it is given not to those who
can do it best, but to those who need it most&mdash;given, too, on pretexts
which sometimes strike one as inadequate, not to say recondite. So the
street-scavengering in a certain village has been entrusted to a one-armed
cripple, utterly unfit for the business&mdash;why? Because his maternal
grand-uncle is serving a long sentence in gaol. The poor family must be helped!
A brawny young fellow will be removed from a landing-stage boat, and his place
taken by some tottering old peasant who has never handled an oar&mdash;why? The
old man&rsquo;s nephew has married again; the family must be helped. A
secretarial appointment was specially created for an acquaintance of mine who
could barely sign his own name, for the obvious reason that his cousin&rsquo;s
sister was rheumatic. One must help that family.
<a name="Page227"></a>
A postman whom I knew delivered the letters only once every three days,
alleging, as unanswerable argument in his defence, that his brother&rsquo;s
wife had fifteen children.
</p>

<p>
One must help that family!
</p>

<p>
Somebody seems to have thought so, at all events.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page228"></a><a name="chap29"></a>XXIX<br />
CHAOS</h2>

<p>
I have never beheld the enchantment of the Straits of Messina, that Fata
Morgana, when, under certain conditions of weather, phantasmagoric palaces of
wondrous shape are cast upon the waters&mdash;not mirrored, but standing
upright; tangible, as it were; yet diaphanous as a veil of gauze.
</p>

<p>
A Dominican monk and correspondent of the Naples Academy, Minasi by name,
friend of Sir W. Hamilton, wrote a dissertation upon this atmospheric mockery.
Many have seen and described it, among them Pilati de Tassulo; Nicola Leoni
reproduces the narrative of an eye-witness of 1643; another account appears in
the book of A. Fortis (&ldquo;Mineralogische Reisen, 1788&rdquo;). The
apparition is coy. Yet there are pictures of it&mdash;in an article in
&ldquo;La Lettura&rdquo; by Dr. Vittorio Boccara, who therein refers to a
scientific treatise by himself on the subject, as well as in the little volume
&ldquo;Da Reggio a Metaponto&rdquo; by Lupi-Crisafi, which was printed at
Gerace some years ago. I mention these writers for the sake of any one who,
luckier than myself, may be able to observe this phenomenon and become
interested in its history and origin. . . .
</p>

<p>
The chronicles of Messina record the scarcely human feats of the diver Cola
Pesce (Nicholas the Fish). The dim submarine landscapes of the Straits with
their caves and tangled forests held no secrets from him; his eyes were as
familiar with sea-mysteries as those of any fish. Some think that the legend
dates from Frederick II, to whom he brought up from the foaming gulf that
golden goblet which has been immortalized in Schiller&rsquo;s ballad. But
Schneegans says there are Norman documents that speak of him. And that other
tale, according to which he took to his watery life in pursuit of some beloved
maiden who had been swallowed by the waves, makes one think of old Glaucus as
his prototype.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus27"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-27.jpg" width="403" height="322" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Tiriolo</p>
</div>

<p>
Many are the fables connected with his name, but the most portentous is this:
One day, during his subaqueous wanderings, he discovered the foundations of
Messina. They were insecure! The city rested upon three columns, one of them
intact, another
<a name="Page229"></a>
quite decayed away, the third partially corroded and soon to crumble into ruin.
He peered up from, his blue depths, and in a fateful couplet of verses warned
the townsmen of their impending doom. In this prophetic utterance ascribed to
the fabulous Cola Pesce is echoed a popular apprehension that was only too
justified.
</p>

<p>
F. Muenter&mdash;one of a band of travellers who explored these regions after
the earthquake of 1783&mdash;also gave voice to his fears that Messina had not
yet experienced the full measure of her calamities. . . .
</p>

<p>
I remember a night in September of 1908, a Sunday night, fragrant with the
odours of withered rosemary and cistus and fennel that streamed in aromatic
showers from the scorched heights overhead&mdash;a starlit night, tranquil and
calm. Never had Messina appeared so attractive to me. Arriving there generally
in the daytime and from larger and sprightlier centres of civilization, one is
prone to notice only its defects. But night, especially a southern night, has a
wizard touch. It transforms into objects of mysterious beauty all unsightly
things, or hides them clean away; while the nobler works of man, those facades
and cornices and full-bellied balconies of cunningly wrought iron rise up,
under its enchantment, ethereal as the palace of fairies. And coming, as I then
did, from the sun-baked river-beds of Calabria, this place, with its broad and
well-paved streets, its glittering cafés and demure throng of evening idlers,
seemed a veritable metropolis, a world-city.
</p>

<p>
With deliberate slowness, <i>ritardando con molto sentimento,</i> I worked my
way to the familiar restaurant.
</p>

<p>
At last! At last, after an interminable diet of hard bread, onions and
goat&rsquo;s cheese, I was to enjoy the complicated menu mapped out weeks
beforehand, after elaborate consideration and balancing of merits; so
complicated, that its details have long ago lapsed from my memory. I recollect
only the sword-fish, a local speciality, and (as crowning glory) the <i>cassata
alla siciliana,</i> a glacial symphony, a multicoloured ice of commingling
flavours, which requires far more time to describe than to devour. Under the
influence of this Sybaritic fare, helped down with a crusted bottle of
Calabrian wine&mdash;your Sicilian stuff is too strong for me, too
straightforward, uncompromising; I prefer to be wheedled out of my faculties by
inches, like a gentleman&mdash;under this genial stimulus my extenuated frame
was definitely restored; I became mellow and companionable; the
traveller&rsquo;s lot, I finally concluded, is not the worst on earth.
Everything was as it should be. As for Messina&mdash;Messina was unquestionably
a pleasant city. But why were all the shops shut so early in the evening?
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page230"></a>
<i>&ldquo;</i>These Sicilians,&rdquo; said the waiter, an old Neapolitan
acquaintance, in reply to my enquiries, &ldquo;are always playing some game.
They are pretending to be Englishmen at this moment; they have the
Sunday-closing obsession on the brain. Their attacks generally last a
fortnight; it&rsquo;s like the measles. Poor people.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Playing at being Englishmen!
</p>

<p>
They have invented a new game now, those that are left of them. They are living
in dolls&rsquo; houses, and the fit is likely to last for some little time.
</p>

<p>
An engineer remarked to me, not long ago, among the ruins:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This <i>baracca,</i> this wooden shelter, has an interior surface area
of less than thirty square metres. Thirty-three persons&mdash;men, women, and
children&mdash;have been living and sleeping in it for the last five
months.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A little overcrowded?&rdquo; I suggested.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes. Some of them are beginning to talk of overcrowding. It was all very
well in the winter months, but when August comes. . . . Well, we shall
see.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
No prophetic visions of the Messina of to-day, with its minute sheds perched
among a wilderness of ruins and haunted by scared shadows in sable vestments of
mourning, arose in my mind that evening as I sat at the little marble table,
sipping my coffee&mdash;over-roasted, like all Italian coffee, by exactly two
minutes&mdash;and puffing contentedly at my cigar, while the sober crowd
floated hither and thither before my eyes. Yes, everything was as it should be.
And yet, what a chance!
</p>

<p>
What a chance for some God, in this age of unbelief, to establish his rule over
mankind on the firm foundations of faith! We are always complaining, nowadays,
of an abatement of religious feeling. How easy for such a one to send down an
Isaiah to foretell the hour of the coming catastrophe, and thus save those of
its victims who were disposed to hearken to the warning voice; to reanimate the
flagging zeal of worshippers, to straighten doubts and segregate the sheep from
the goats! Truly, He moves in a mysterious way, for no divine message came; the
just were entombed with the unjust amid a considerable deal of telegraphing and
heart-breaking.
</p>

<p>
A few days after the disaster the Catholic papers explained matters by saying
that the people of Messina had not loved their Madonna sufficiently well. But
she loved them none the less, and sent the earthquake as an admonishment.
Rather a robust method of conciliating their affection; not exactly the
<i>suaviter in modo. . . .</i>
</p>

<p>
But if genuine prophets can only flourish among the malarious
<a name="Page231"></a>
willow swamps of old Babylon and such-like improbable spots, we might at least
have expected better things of our modern spiritualists. Why should their
apparitions content themselves with announcing the decease, at the Antipodes,
of profoundly uninteresting relatives? Alas! I begin to perceive that spirits
of the right kind, of the useful kind, have yet to be discovered. Our
present-day ghosts are like seismographs; they chronicle the event after it has
happened. Now, what we want is&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The Signore smokes, and smokes, and smokes. Why not take the tram and
listen to the municipal music in the gardens?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Music? Gardens? An excellent suggestion, Gennarino.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Even as a small Italian town would be incomplete without its piazza where
streets converge and commercial pulses beat their liveliest measure, so every
larger one contrives to possess a public garden for the evening disport of its
citizens; night-life being the true life of the south. Charming they are, most
of them; none more delectable than that of old Messina&mdash;a spacious
pleasaunce, decked out with trim palms and flower-beds and labyrinthine walks
freshly watered, and cooled, that evening, by stealthy breezes from the sea.
The grounds were festively illuminated, and as I sat down near the bandstand
and watched the folk meandering to and fro, I calculated that no fewer than
thirty thousand persons were abroad, taking their pleasure under the trees, in
the bland air of evening. An orderly, well-dressed crowd. We may smile when
they tell us that these people will stint themselves of the necessities of life
in order to wear fine clothes, but the effect, for an outsider, is all that it
should be. For the rest, the very urchins, gambolling about, had an air of
happy prosperity, different from the squalor of the north with its pinched
white faces, its over-breeding and under-feeding.
</p>

<p>
And how well the sensuous Italian strains accord with such an hour and scene!
They were playing, if I remember rightly, the ever-popular Aida; other items
followed later&mdash;more ambitious ones; a Hungarian rhapsody, Berlioz, a
selection from Wagner.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>Musica filosofica&rdquo;</i> said my neighbour, alluding to the
German composer. He was a spare man of about sixty; a sunburnt, military
countenance, seamed by lines of suffering. &ldquo;<i>Non và in
Sicilia</i>&mdash;it won&rsquo;t do in this country. Not that we fail to
appreciate your great thinkers,&rdquo; he added. &ldquo;We read and admire your
Schopenhauer, your Spencer. They give passable representations of Wagner in
Naples. But&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The climate?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Precisely. I have travelled, sir; and knowing your Berlin, and London,
and Boston, have been able to observe how ill our Italian
<a name="Page232"></a>
architecture looks under your grey skies, how ill our music sounds among the
complex appliances of your artificial life. It has made you earnest, this
climate of yours, and prone to take earnestly your very pastimes. Music, for
us, has remained what it was in the Golden Age&mdash;an unburdening of the soul
on a summer&rsquo;s night. They play well, these fellows. Palermo, too, has a
respectable band&mdash;Oh! a little too fast, that <i>recitativo!&rdquo;</i>
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The Signore is a musician?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A <i>proprietario.</i> But I delight in music, and I beguiled myself
with the fiddle as a youngster. Nowadays&mdash;look here!&rdquo; And he
extended his hand; it was crippled. &ldquo;Rheumatism. I have it here, and
here&rdquo;&mdash;pointing to various regions of his
body&mdash;&ldquo;<i>and</i> here! Ah, these doctors! The baths I have taken!
The medicines&mdash;the ointments&mdash;the embrocations: a perfect
pharmacopcœia! I can hardly crawl now, and without the help of these two
devoted boys even this harmless little diversion would have been denied me. My
nephews&mdash;orphans,&rdquo; he added, observing the direction of my glance.
</p>

<p>
They sat on his other side, handsome lads, who spoke neither too much nor too
little. Every now and then they rose with one accord and strolled among the
surging crowd to stretch their legs, returning after five minutes to their
uncle&rsquo;s side. His eyes always followed their movements.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My young brother, had he lived, would have made men of them,&rdquo; he
once observed.
</p>

<p>
The images revive, curiously pertinacious, with dim lapses and gulfs. I can see
them still, the two boys, their grave demeanour belied by mobile lips and
mischievous fair curls of Northern ancestry; the other, leaning forward intent
upon the music, and caressing his moustache with bent fingers upon which
glittered a jewel set in massive gold&mdash;some scarab or intaglio, the spoil
of old Magna Graecia. His conversation, during the intervals, moved among the
accepted formulas of cosmopolitanism with easy flow, quickened at times by the
individual emphasis of a man who can forsake conventional tracks and think for
himself. Among other things, he had contrived an original project for reviving
the lemon industry of his country, which, though it involved a few tariff
modifications&mdash;&ldquo;a mere detail&rdquo;&mdash;struck me as amazingly
effective and ingenious. The local deputy, it seems, shared my view, for he had
undertaken to bring it before the notice of Parliament.
</p>

<p>
What was it?
</p>

<p>
I have forgotten!
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page233"></a>
So we discussed the world, while the music played under the starlit southern
night.
</p>

<p>
It must have been midnight ere a final frenzied galop on the part of the
indefatigable band announced the close of the entertainment. I walked a few
paces beside the lame &ldquo;proprietor&rdquo; who, supported on the arms of
his nephews, made his way to the spot where the cabs were waiting&mdash;his
rheumatism, he explained, obliging him to drive. How he had enjoyed walking as
a youth, and what pleasure it would now have given him to protract, during a
promenade to my hotel, our delightful conversation! But infirmities teach us to
curtail our pleasures, and many things that seem natural to man&rsquo;s bodily
configuration are found to be unattainable. He seldom left his rooms; the
stairs&mdash;the diabolical stairs! Would I at least accept his card and rest
assured how gladly he would receive me and do all in his power to make my stay
agreeable?
</p>

<p>
That card has gone the way of numberless others which the traveller in Southern
Europe gathers about him. I have also forgotten the old man&rsquo;s name. But
the <i>palazzo</i> in which he lived bore a certain historical title which
happened to be very familiar to me. I remember wondering how it came to reach
Messina.
</p>

<p>
In the olden days, of course, the days of splendour.
</p>

<p>
Will they ever return?
</p>

<p class="p2">
It struck me that the sufferings of the survivors would be alleviated if all
the sheds in which they are living could be painted white or pearl-grey in
order to protect them, as far as possible, from the burning rays of the sun. I
mentioned the idea to an overseer.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We are painting as fast as we can,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;An
expensive matter, however. The Villagio Elena alone has cost us, in this
respect, twenty thousand francs&mdash;with the greatest economy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This will give some notion of the scale on which things have to be done. The
settlement in question contains some two hundred sheds&mdash;two hundred out of
over ten thousand.
</p>

<p>
But I was alluding not to these groups of hygienic bungalows erected by public
munificence and supplied with schools, laboratories, orphanages, hospitals, and
all that can make life endurable, but to the others&mdash;those which the
refugees built for themselves&mdash;ill-contrived hovels, patched together with
ropes, potato-sacks, petroleum cans and miscellaneous odds and ends. A coat of
whitewash, at least, inside and out. ... I was thinking, too, of those still
stranger dwellings, the disused railway trucks which the
<a name="Page234"></a>
government has placed at the disposal of homeless families. At many Stations along
the line may be seen strings of these picturesque wigwams crowded with poor
folk who have installed themselves within, apparently for ever. They are
cultivating their favourite flowers and herbs in gaudy rows along the wooden
platforms of the carriages; the little children, all dressed in black, play
about in the shade underneath. The people will suffer in these narrow tenements
under the fierce southern sun, after their cool courtyards and high-vaulted
chambers! There will be diseases, too; typhoids from the disturbed drainage and
insufficient water-supply; eye troubles, caused by the swarms of flies and tons
of accumulated dust. The ruins are also overrun with hordes of mangy cats and
dogs which ought to be exterminated without delay.
</p>

<p>
If, as seems likely, those rudely improvised sheds are to be inhabited
indefinitely, we may look forward to an interesting phenomenon, a reversion to
a corresponding type of man. The lack of the most ordinary appliances of
civilization, such as linen, washing-basins and cooking utensils, will reduce
them to the condition of savages who view these things with indifference or
simple curiosity; they will forget that they ever had any use for them. And
life in these huts where human beings are herded together after the manner of
beasts&mdash;one might almost say <i>fitted in,</i> like the fragments of a
mosaic pavement&mdash;cannot but be harmful to the development of growing
children.
</p>

<p>
The Calabrians, I was told, distinguished themselves by unearthly ferocity;
Reggio was given over to a legion of fiends that descended from the heights
during the week of confusion. &ldquo;They tore the rings and brooches off the
dead,&rdquo; said a young official to me. &ldquo;They strangled the wounded and
dying, in order to despoil them more comfortably. Here, and at Messina, the
mutilated corpses were past computation; but the Calabrians were the
worst.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Vampires, offspring of Night and Chaos.
</p>

<p>
So Dolomieu, speaking of the <i>dépravation incroyable des moeurs</i> which
accompanied the earthquake of 1783, recounts the case of a householder of
Polistena who was pinned down under some masonry, his legs emerging out of the
ruins; his servant came and took the silver buckles off his shoes and then
fled, without attempting to free him. We have seen something of this kind more
recently at San Francisco.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;After despoiling the corpses, they ransacked the dwellings. Five
thousand beds, sir, were carried up from Reggio into the mountains.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page235"></a>
&ldquo;Five thousand beds! <i>Per Dìo!</i> It seems a considerable
number.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A young fellow, one of the survivors, attached himself to me in the capacity of
guide through the ruins of Reggio. He wore the characteristic earthquake look,
a dazed and bewildered expression of countenance; he spoke in a singularly
deliberate manner. Knowing the country, I was soon bending my steps in the
direction of the cemetery, chiefly for the sake of the exquisite view from
those windswept heights, and to breathe more freely after the dust and
desolation of the lower parts. This burial-ground is in the same state as that
of Messina, once the pride of its citizens; the insane frolic of nature has not
respected the slumber of the dead or their commemorative shrines; it has made a
mockery of the place, twisting the solemn monuments into repulsive and
irreverential shapes.
</p>

<p>
But who can recount the freaks of stone and iron during those moments&mdash;the
hair-breadth escapes? My companion&rsquo;s case was miraculous enough. Awakened
from sleep with the first shock, he saw, by the dim light of the lamp which
burns in all their bedrooms, the wall at his bedside weirdly gaping asunder. He
darted to reach the opening, but it closed again and caught his arm in a stony
grip. Hours seemed to pass&mdash;the pain was past enduring; then the kindly
cleft yawned once more, allowing him to jump into the garden below.
Simultaneously he heard a crash as the inner rooms of the house fell; then
climbed aloft, and for four days wandered among the bleak, wet hills. Thousands
were in the same plight.
</p>

<p>
I asked what he found to eat.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>Erba, Signore.</i> We all did. You could not touch property; a single
orange, and they would have killed you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Grass!
</p>

<p>
He bore a name renowned in the past, but his home being turned into a dust-heap
under which his money, papers and furniture, his two parents and brothers, are
still lying, he now gains a livelihood by carrying vegetables and fruit from
the harbour to the collection of sheds honoured by the name of market. Later in
the day we happened to walk past the very mansion, which lies near the quay.
&ldquo;Here is my house and my family,&rdquo; he remarked, indicating, with a
gesture of antique resignation, a pile of wreckage.
</p>

<p>
Hard by, among the ruins, there sat a young woman with dishevelled hair,
singing rapturously. &ldquo;Her husband was crushed to death,&rdquo; he said,
&ldquo;and it unhinged her wits. Strange, is it not, sir? They used to fight
like fiends, and now&mdash;she sings to him night and day to come back.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Love&mdash;so the Greeks fabled&mdash;was the child of Chaos.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page236"></a>
In this part of the town stands the civic museum, which all readers of
Gissing&rsquo;s &ldquo;Ionian Sea&rdquo; will remember as the closing note of
those harmonious pages. It is shattered, like everything else that he visited
in Reggio; like the hotel where he lodged; like the cathedral whose proud
superscription <i>Circumlegentes devenimus Rhegium</i> impressed him so deeply;
like that &ldquo;singular bit of advanced civilization, which gave me an odd
sense of having strayed into the world of those romancers who forecast the
future&mdash;a public slaughter-house of tasteful architecture, set in a grove
of lemon trees and palms, suggesting the dreamy ideal of some reformer whose
palate shrinks from vegetarianism.&rdquo; We went the round of all these
places, not forgetting the house which bears the tablet commemorating the death
of a young soldier who fell fighting against the Bourbons. From its contorted
iron balcony there hangs a rope by which the inmates may have tried to let
themselves down.
</p>

<p>
A friend of mine, Baron C&mdash;&mdash; of Stilo, is a member of that same
patriotic family, and gave me the following strange account. He was absent from
Reggio at the time of the catastrophe, but three others of them were staying
there. On the first shock they rushed together, panic-stricken, into one room;
the floor gave way, and they suddenly found themselves sitting in their
motor-car which happened to be placed exactly below them. They escaped with a
few cuts and bruises.
</p>

<p>
An inscription on a neighbouring ruin runs to the effect that the <i>mansion
having been severely damaged in the earthquake of</i> 1783, <i>its owner had
rebuilt it on lines calculated to defy future shattering!.</i> Whether he would
rebuild it yet again?
</p>

<p>
Nevertheless, there seems to be some chance for the revival of Reggio; its
prognosis is not utterly hopeless.
</p>

<p>
But Messina is in desperate case.
</p>

<p class="p2">
That haughty sea-front, with its long line of imposing edifices&mdash;imagine a
painted theatre decoration of cardboard through which some sportive behemoth
has been jumping with frantic glee; there you have it. And within, all is
desolation; the wreckage reaches to the windows; you must clamber over it as
best you can. What an all-absorbing post-tertiary deposit for future
generations, for the crafty antiquarian who deciphers the history of mankind
out of kitchen-middens and deformed heaps of forgotten trash! The whole social
life of the citizens, their arts, domestic economy, and pastimes, lies embedded
in that rubbish. &ldquo;A musical race,&rdquo; he will conclude, observing the
number of decayed pianofortes,
<a name="Page237"></a>
guitars, and mandolines. The climate of Messina, he will further argue, must
have been a wet one, inasmuch as there are umbrellas everywhere, standing
upright among the debris, leaning all forlorn against the ruins, or peering
dismally from under them. It rained much during those awful days, and umbrellas
were at a premium. Yet fifty of them would not have purchased a loaf of bread.
</p>

<p>
It was Goethe who, speaking of Pompeii, said that of the many catastrophes
which have afflicted mankind few have given greater pleasure to posterity. The
same will never be said of Messina, whose relics, for the most part, are
squalid and mean. The German poet, by the way, visited this town shortly after
the disaster of 1783, and describes its <i>zackige
Ruinenwüste</i>&mdash;words whose very sound is suggestive of shatterings and
dislocations. Nevertheless, the place revived again.
</p>

<p>
But what was 1783?
</p>

<p>
A mere rehearsal, an amateur performance.
</p>

<p>
Wandering about in this world of ghosts, I passed the old restaurant where the
sword-fish had once tasted so good&mdash;an accumulation of stones and
mortar&mdash;and reached the cathedral. It is laid low, all save the Gargantuan
mosaic figures that stare down from behind the altar in futile benediction of
Chaos; inane, terrific. This, then, is the house of that feudal lady of the
<i>fortiter in re,</i> who sent an earthquake and called it love. Womanlike,
she doted on gold and precious stones, and they recovered her fabulous hoard,
together with a copy of a Latin letter she sent to the Christians of Messina by
the hand of Saint Paul.
</p>

<p>
And not long afterwards&mdash;how came it to pass?&mdash;my steps were guided
amid that wilderness towards a narrow street containing the ruins of a
<i>palazzo</i> that bore, on a tablet over the ample doorway, an inscription
which arrested my attention. It was an historical title familiar to me; and
forthwith a train of memories, slumbering in the caverns of my mind, was
ignited. Yes; there was no doubt about it: the old &ldquo;proprietor&rdquo; and
his nephews, he of the municipal gardens. . . .
</p>

<p>
I wondered how they had met their fate, on the chill wintry morning. For
assuredly, in that restricted space, not a soul can have escaped alive; the
wreckage, hitherto undisturbed, still covered their remains.
</p>

<p>
And, remembering the old man and his humane converse that evening under the
trees, the true meaning of the catastrophe began to disentangle itself from
accidental and superficial aspects. For I confess that the massacre of a myriad
Chinamen leaves me cool and self-possessed; between such creatures and
ourselves there is
<a name="Page238"></a>
hardly more than the frail bond of a common descent from the ape; they are
altogether too remote for our narrow world-sympathies. I would as soon shed
tears over the lost Pleiad. But these others are our spiritual cousins; we have
deep roots in this warm soil of Italy, which brought forth a goodly tithe of
what is best in our own lives, in our arts and aspirations.
</p>

<p>
And I thought of the two nephews, their decent limbs all distorted and mangled
under a heap of foul rubbish, waiting for a brutal disinterment and a nameless
grave. This is no legitimate death, this murderous violation of life. How
inconceivably hateful is such a leave-taking, and all that follows after! To
picture a fair young body, that divine instrument of joy, crushed into an
unsightly heap; once loved, now loathed of all men, and thrust at last, with
abhorrence, into some common festering pit of abominations. . . . The Northern
type&mdash;a mighty bond, again; a tie of blood, this time, between our race
and those rulers of the South, whose exploits in this land of orange and myrtle
surpassed the dreamings of romance.
</p>

<p>
Strange to reflect that, without the ephemeral friendship of that evening,
Messina of to-day might have represented to my mind a mere spectacle, the
hecatomb of its inhabitants extorting little more than a conventional sigh. So
it is. The human heart has been constructed on somewhat ungenerous lines.
Moralists, if any still exist on earth, may generalize with eloquence from the
masses, but our poets have long ago succumbed to the pathos of single
happenings; the very angels of Heaven, they say, take more joy in one sinner
that repenteth than in a hundred righteous, which, duly apprehended, is only an
application of the same illiberal principle.
</p>

<p>
A rope of bed-sheets knotted together dangled from one of the upper windows,
its end swaying in mid-air at the height of the second floor. Many of them do,
at Messina: a desperate expedient of escape. Some pots of geranium and cactus,
sadly flowering, adorned the other windows, whose glass panes were unbroken.
But for the ominous sunlight pouring through them from <i>within,</i> the
building looked fairly intact on this outer side. Its ponderous gateway,
however, through which I had hoped to enter, was choked up by internal debris,
and I was obliged to climb, with some little trouble, to the rear of the house.
</p>

<p>
If a titanic blade had sheared through the <i>palazzo</i> lengthwise, the thing
could not have been done more neatly. The whole interior had gone down, save a
portion of the rooms abutting on the street-front; these were literally cut in
half, so as to display an ideal section of domestic architecture. The house
with its inmates and
<a name="Page239"></a>
all it contained was lying among the high-piled wreckage within, under my feet;
masonry mostly&mdash;entire fragments of wall interspersed with crumbling
mortar and convulsed iron girders that writhed over the surface or plunged
sullenly into the depths; fetid rents and gullies in between, their flanks
affording glimpses of broken vases, candelabras, hats, bottles, birdcages,
writing-books, brass pipes, sofas, picture-frames, tablecloths, and all the
paltry paraphernalia of everyday life. No attempt at stratification,
horizontal, vertical, or inclined; it was as if the objects had been thrown up
by some playful volcano and allowed to settle where they pleased. Two immense
chiselled blocks of stone&mdash;one lying prone at the bottom of a miniature
ravine, the other proudly erect, like a Druidical monument, in the upper
regions&mdash;reminded me of the existence of a staircase, a <i>diabolical</i>
staircase.
</p>

<p>
Looking upwards, I endeavoured to reconstruct the habits of the inmates, but
found it impossible, the section that remained being too shallow. Sky-blue
seems to have been their favourite colour. The kitchen was easily discernible,
the hearth with its store of charcoal underneath, copper vessels hanging in a
neat row overhead, and an open cupboard full of household goods; a neighbouring
room (the communicating doors were all gone), with lace window-curtains, a
table, lamp, and book, and a bedstead toppling over the abyss; another one,
carpeted and hung with pictures and a large faded mirror, below which ran a row
of shelves that groaned under a multitudinous collection of phials and bottles.
</p>

<p>
The old man&rsquo;s embrocations. . . .
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page240"></a><a name="chap30"></a>XXX<br />
THE SKIRTS OF MONTALTO</h2>

<p>
After such sights of suffering humanity&mdash;back to the fields and mountains!
</p>

<p>
Aspromonte, the wild region behind Reggio, was famous, not long ago, for
Garibaldi&rsquo;s battle. But the exploits of this warrior have lately been
eclipsed by those of the brigand Musolino, who infested the country up to a few
years ago, defying the soldiery and police of all Italy. He would still be safe
and unharmed had he remained in these fastnesses. But he wandered away, wishful
to leave Italy for good and all, and was captured far from his home by some
policemen who were looking for another man, and who nearly fainted when he
pronounced his name. After a sensational trial, they sentenced him to thirty
odd years&rsquo; imprisonment; he is now languishing in the fortress of Porto
Longone on Elba. Whoever has looked into this Spanish citadel will not envy
him. Of the lovely little bay, of the loadstone mountain, of the romantic
pathway to the hermitage of Monserrato or the glittering beach at Rio&mdash;of
all the charms of Porto Longone he knows nothing, despite a lengthy residence
on the spot.
</p>

<p>
They say he has grown consumptive and witless during the long solitary
confinement which preceded his present punishment&mdash;an eternal night in a
narrow cell. No wonder. I have seen the condemned on their release from these
boxes of masonry at the island of Santo Stefano: dazed shadows, tottering, with
complexions the colour of parchment. These are the survivors. But no one asks
after the many who die in these dungeons frenzied, or from battering their
heads against the wall; no one knows their number save the doctor and the
governor, whose lips are sealed. . . .
</p>

<p>
I decided upon a rear attack of Aspromonte. I would go by rail as far as
Bagnara on the Tyrrhenian, the station beyond Scylla of old renown; and thence
afoot via Sant&rsquo; Eufemia<a href="#fn-30.1" name="fnref-30.1" id="fnref-30.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
to Sinopoli, pushing on, if day permitted, as far as Delianuova, at the foot of
<a name="Page241"></a>
the mountain. Early next morning I would climb the summit and descend to the
shores of the Ionian, to Bova. It seemed a reasonable programme.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-30.1" id="fn-30.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-30.1">[1]</a>
Not to be confounded with the railway station on the gulf of that name, near
Maida.
</p>

<p>
All this Tyrrhenian coast-line is badly shattered; far more so than the
southern shore. But the scenery is finer. There is nothing on that side to
compare with the views from Nicastro, or Monteleone, or Sant&rsquo; Elia near
Palmi. It is also more smiling, more fertile, and far less malarious. Not that
cultivation of the land implies absence of malaria&mdash;nothing is a commoner
mistake! The Ionian shore is not malarious because it is desert&mdash;it is
desert because malarious. The richest tracts in Greece are known to be very
dangerous, and it is the same in Italy. Malaria and intensive agriculture go
uncommonly well together. The miserable anopheles-mosquito loves the wells that
are sunk for the watering of the immense orange and lemon plantations in the
Reggio district; it displays a perverse predilection for the minute puddles
left by the artificial irrigation of the fields that are covered with fruit and
vegetables. This artificial watering, in fact, seems to be partly responsible
for the spread of the disease. It is doubtful whether the custom goes back into
remote antiquity, for the climate used to be moister and could dispense with
these practices. Certain products, once grown in Calabria, no longer thrive
there, on account of the increased dryness and lack of rainfall.
</p>

<p>
But there are some deadly regions, even along this Tyrrhenian shore. Such is
the plain of Maida, for instance, where stood not long ago the forest of
Sant&rsquo; Eufemia, safe retreat of Parafante and other brigand heroes. The
level lands of Rosarno and Gioia are equally ill-reputed. A French battalion
stationed here in the summer of 1807 lost over sixty men in fourteen days,
besides leaving two hundred invalids in the hospital at Monteleone. Gioia is so
malarious that in summer every one of the inhabitants who can afford the price
of a ticket goes by the evening train to Palmi, to sleep there. You will do well,
by the way, to see something of the oil industry of Palmi, if time permits. In
good years, 200,000 quintals of olive oil are manufactured in the regions of
which it is the commercial centre. Not long ago, before modern methods of
refining were introduced, most of this oil was exported to Russia, to be burned
in holy lamps; nowadays it goes for the most part to Lucca, to be adulterated
for foreign markets (the celebrated Lucca oil, which the simple Englishman
regards as pure); only the finest quality is sent elsewhere, to Nice. From
Gioia there runs a postal diligence once a day to Delianuova of which I might
have availed myself, had I not preferred to traverse the country on foot.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page242"></a>
The journey from Reggio to Bagnara on this fair summer morning, along the
rippling Mediterranean, was short enough, but sufficiently long to let me
overhear the following conversation:
</p>

<p>
A.&mdash;What a lovely sea! It is good, after all, to take three or four baths
a year. What think you?
</p>

<p>
B.&mdash;I? No. For thirteen years I have taken no baths. But they are
considered good for children.
</p>

<p>
The calamities that Bagnara has suffered in the past have been so numerous, so
fierce and so varied that, properly speaking, the town has no right to exist
any longer. It has enjoyed more than its full share of earthquakes, having been
shaken to the ground over and over again. Sir William Hamilton reports that
3017 persons were killed in that of 1783. The horrors of war, too, have not
spared it, and a certain modern exploit of the British arms here strikes me as
so instructive that I would gladly extract it from Grant&rsquo;s
&ldquo;Adventures of an Aide-de-Camp,&rdquo; were it not too long to
transcribe, and far too good to abbreviate.
</p>

<p>
A characteristic story, further, is told of the methods of General Manhes at
Bagnara. It may well be an exaggeration when they say that the entire road from
Reggio to Naples was lined with the heads of decapitated brigands; be that as
it may, it stands to reason that Bagnara, as befits an important place, was to
be provided with an appropriate display of these trophies. The heads were
exhibited in baskets, with strict injunctions to the authorities that they were
not to be touched, seeing that they served not only for decorative but also
moral purposes&mdash;as examples. Imagine, therefore, the General&rsquo;s
feelings on being told that one of these heads had been stolen; stolen,
probably, by some pious relative of the deceased rascal, who wished to give the
relic a decent Christian burial.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That&rsquo;s rather awkward,&rdquo; he said, quietly musing. &ldquo;But
of course the specimen must be replaced. Let me see. . . . Suppose we put the
head of the mayor of Bagnara into the vacant basket? Shall we? Yes, we&rsquo;ll
have the mayor. It will make him more careful in future.&rdquo; And within half
an hour the basket was filled once more.
</p>

<p>
There was a little hitch in starting from Bagnara. From the windings of the
carriage-road as portrayed by the map, I guessed that there must be a number of
short cuts into the uplands at the back of the town, undiscoverable to myself,
which would greatly shorten the journey. Besides, there was my small bag to be
carried. A porter familiar with the tracks was plainly required, and soon
enough I found a number of lusty youths leaning against a wall and
<a name="Page243"></a>
doing nothing in particular. Yes, they would accompany me, they said, the whole
lot of them, just for the fun of the thing.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And my bag?&rdquo; I asked.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A bag to be carried? Then we must get a woman.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They unearthed a nondescript female who undertook to bear the burden as far as
Sinopoli for a reasonable consideration. So far good. But as we proceeded, the
boys began to drop off, till only a single one was left. And then the woman
suddenly vanished down a side street, declaring that she must change her
clothes. We waited for three-quarters of an hour, in the glaring dust of the
turnpike; she never emerged again, and the remaining boy stoutly refused to
handle her load.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; he declared. &ldquo;She must carry the bag. And I will keep
you company.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The precious morning hours were wearing away, and here we stood idly by the
side of the road. It never struck me that the time might have been profitably
employed in paying a flying visit to one of the most sacred objects in Calabria
and possibly in the whole world, one which Signor N. Marcone describes as
reposing at Bagnara in a rich reliquary&mdash;the authentic Hat of the Mother
of God. A lady tourist would not have missed this chance of studying the
fashions of those days.<a href="#fn-30.2" name="fnref-30.2" id="fnref-30.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-30.2" id="fn-30.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-30.2">[2]</a>
See next chapter.
</p>

<p>
Finally, in desperation, I snatched up the wretched luggage and poured my
griefs with unwonted eloquence into the ears of a man driving a bullock-cart
down the road. So much was he moved, that he peremptorily ordered his son to
conduct me then and there to Sinopoli, to carry the bag, and claim one franc by
way of payment. The little man tumbled off the cart, rather reluctantly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Away with you!&rdquo; cried the stern parent, and we began the long
march, climbing uphill in the blazing sunshine; winding, later on, through
shady chestnut woods and across broad tracts of cultivated land. It was plain
that the task was beyond his powers, and when we had reached a spot where the
strange-looking new village of Sant&rsquo; Eufemia was visible&mdash;it is
built entirely of wooden shelters; the stone town was greatly shaken in the
late earthquake&mdash;he was obliged to halt, and thenceforward stumbled slowly
into the place. There he deposited the bag on the ground, and faced me
squarely.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No more of this!&rdquo; he said, concentrating every ounce of his
virility into a look of uncompromising defiance.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then I shall not pay you a single farthing, my son. And,
<a name="Page244"></a>
moreover, I will tell your father. You know what he commanded: to Sinopoli.
This is only Sant&rsquo; Eufemia. Unless&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You will tell my father? Unless&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Unless you discover some one who will carry the bag not only to
Sinopoli, but as far as Delianuova.&rdquo; I was not in the mood for repeating
the experiences of the morning.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is difficult. But we will try.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He went in search, and returned anon with a slender lad of unusual
comeliness&mdash;an earthquake orphan. &ldquo;This big one,&rdquo; he
explained, &ldquo;walks wherever you please and carries whatever you give him.
And you will pay him nothing at all, unless he deserves it. Such is the
arrangement. Are you content?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have acted like a man.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The earthquake survivor set off at a swinging pace, and we soon reached
Sinopoli&mdash;new Sinopoli; the older settlement lies at a considerable
distance. Midday was past, and the long main street of the town&mdash;a former
fief of the terrible Ruffo family&mdash;stood deserted in the trembling heat.
None the less there was sufficient liveliness within the houses; the whole
place seemed in a state of jollification. It was Sunday, the orphan explained;
the country was duller than usual, however, because of the high price of wine.
There had been no murders to speak of&mdash;no, not for a long time past. But
the vintage of this year, he added, promises well, and life will soon become
normal again.
</p>

<p>
The mule track from here to Delianuova traverses some pretty scenery, both wild
and pastoral. But the personal graces of my companion made me take small heed
of the landscape. He was aglow with animal spirits, and his conversation
naively brilliant and of uncommon import. Understanding at a glance that he
belonged to a type which is rather rare in Calabria, that he was a classic (of
a kind), I made every effort to be pleasant to him; and I must have succeeded,
for he was soon relating anecdotes which would have been neither instructive,
nor even intelligible, to the <i>jeune fille;</i> all this, with angelic
serenity of conscience.
</p>

<p>
This radiantly-vicious child was the embodiment of the joy of life, the perfect
immoralist. There was no cynicism in his nature, no cruelty, no obliquity, no
remorse; nothing but sunshine with a few clouds sailing across the fathomless
blue spaces&mdash;the sky of Hellas. <i>Nihil humani alienum;</i> and as I
listened to those glad tales, I marvelled at the many-tinted experiences that
could be crammed into seventeen short years; what a document the adventures
of such a frolicsome demon would be, what a feast for the initiated, could some
one be induced to make them known! But
<a name="Page245"></a>
such things are hopelessly out of the question. And that is why so many of our
wise people go into their graves without ever learning what happens in this
world.
</p>

<p>
Among minor matters, he mentioned that he had already been three times to
prison for &ldquo;certain little affairs of blood,&rdquo; while defending
&ldquo;certain friends.&rdquo; Was it not dull, I asked, in prison? &ldquo;The
time passes pleasantly anywhere,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;when you are young.
I always make friends, even in prison.&rdquo; I could well believe it. His
affinities were with the blithe crew of the Liber Stratonis. He had a roving
eye and the mouth of Antinous; and his morals were those of a condescending
tiger-cub.
</p>

<p>
Arriving at Delianuova after sunset, he conceived the project of accompanying
me next morning up Montalto. I hesitated. In the first place, I was going not
only up that mountain, but to Bova on the distant Ionian littoral&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For my part,&rdquo; he broke in, &ldquo;<i>ho pigliato confidenza.</i>
If you mistrust me, here! take my knife,&rdquo; an ugly blade, pointed, and two
inches in excess of the police regulation length. This act of quasi-filial
submission touched me; but it was not his knife I feared so much as that of
&ldquo;certain friends.&rdquo; Some little difference of opinion might arise,
some question of money or other argument, and lo! the friends would be at hand
(they always are), and one more stranger might disappear among the clefts and
gullies of Montalto. Aspromonte, the roughest corner of Italy, is no place for
misunderstandings; the knife decides promptly who is right or wrong, and only
two weeks ago I was warned not to cross the district without a carbineer on
either side of me.
</p>

<p>
But to have clothed my thoughts in words during his gracious mood would have
been supremely unethical. I contented myself with the trite but pregnant remark
that things sometimes looked different in the morning, which provoked a pagan
fit of laughter; farewelled him &ldquo;with the Madonna!&rdquo; and watched as
he withdrew under the trees, lithe and buoyant, like a flame that is swallowed
up in the night.
</p>

<p>
Only then did the real business begin. I should be sorry to say into how many
houses and wine-shops the obliging owner of the local inn conducted me, in
search of a guide. We traversed all the lanes of this straggling and fairly
prosperous place, and even those of its suburb Paracorio, evidently of
Byzantine origin; the answer was everywhere the same: To Montalto, yes; to
Bova, no! Night drew on apace and, as a last resource, he led the way to the
dwelling of a gentleman of the old school&mdash;a retired brigand, to wit, who,
as I afterwards learned, had some ten or twelve homicides
<a name="Page246"></a>
to his account. Delianuova, and indeed the whole of Aspromonte, has a bad
reputation for crime.
</p>

<p>
It was our last remaining chance.
</p>

<p>
We found the patriarch sitting in a simple but tidy chamber, smoking his pipe
and playing with a baby; his daughter-in-law rose as we entered, and discreetly
moved into an adjoining room. The cheery cut-throat put the baby down to crawl
on the floor, and his eyes sparkled when he heard of Bova.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, one speaks of Bova!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;A fine walk over the
mountain!&rdquo; He much regretted that he was too old for the trip, but
so-and-so, he thought, might know something of the country. It pained him, too,
that he could not offer me a glass of wine. There was none in the house. In his
day, he added, it was not thought right to drink in the modern fashion; this
wine-bibbing was responsible for considerable mischief; it troubled the brain,
driving men to do things they afterwards repented. He drank only milk, having
become accustomed to it during a long life among the hills. Milk cools the
blood, he said, and steadies the hand, and keeps a man&rsquo;s judgment
undisturbed.
</p>

<p>
The person he had named was found after some further search. He was a bronzed,
clean-shaven type of about fifty, who began by refusing his services
point-blank, but soon relented, on hearing the ex-brigand&rsquo;s
recommendation of his qualities.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page247"></a><a name="chap31"></a>XXXI<br />
SOUTHERN SAINTLINESS</h2>

<p>
Southern saints, like their worshippers, put on new faces and vestments in the
course of ages. Old ones die away; new ones take their place. Several hundred
of the older class of saint have clean faded from the popular memory, and are
now so forgotten that the wisest priest can tell you nothing about them save,
perhaps, that &ldquo;he&rsquo;s in the church&rdquo;&mdash;meaning, that some
fragment of his holy anatomy survives as a relic amid a collection of similar
antiques. But you can find their histories in early literature, and their names
linger on old maps where they are given to promontories and other natural
features which are gradually being re-christened.
</p>

<p>
Such saints were chiefly non-Italian: Byzantines or Africans who, by miraculous
intervention, protected the village or district of which they were patrons from
the manifold scourges of mediævalism; they took the place of the classic
tutelar deities. They were men; they could fight; and in those troublous times
that is exactly what saints were made for.
</p>

<p>
With the softening of manners a new element appears. Male saints lost their
chief <i>raison d&rsquo;être,</i> and these virile creatures were superseded
by pacific women. So, to give only one instance, Saint Rosalia in Palermo
displaced the former protector Saint Mark. Her sacred bones were miraculously
discovered in a cave; and have since been identified as those of a goat. But it
was not till the twelfth century that the cult of female saints began to assume
imposing dimensions.
</p>

<p>
Of the Madonna no mention occurs in the songs of Bishop Paulinus (fourth
century); no monument exists in the Neapolitan catacombs. Thereafter her cult
begins to dominate.
</p>

<p>
She supplied the natives with what orthodox Christianity did not give them, but
what they had possessed from early times&mdash;a female element in religion.
Those Greek settlers had their nymphs, their Venus, and so forth; the Mother of
God absorbed and continued their functions. There is indeed only one of these
female pagan divinities whose role she has not endeavoured to 
<a name="Page248"></a>
usurp&mdash;Athene. Herein she reflects the minds of her creators, the priests and common
people, whose ideal woman contents herself with the duties of motherhood. I
doubt whether an Athene-Madonna, an intellectual goddess, could ever have been
evolved; their attitude towards gods in general is too childlike and positive.
</p>

<p>
South Italians, famous for abstractions in philosophy, cannot endure them in
religion. Unlike ourselves, they do not desire to learn anything from their
deities or to argue about them. They only wish to love and be loved in return,
reserving to themselves the right to punish them, when they deserve it.
Countless cases are on record where (pictures or statues of) Madonnas and
saints have been thrown into a ditch for not doing what they were told, or for
not keeping their share of a bargain. During the Vesuvius eruption of 1906 a
good number were subjected to this &ldquo;punishment,&rdquo; because they
neglected to protect their worshippers from the calamity according to contract
(so many candles and festivals = so much protection).
</p>

<p>
For the same reason the adult Jesus&mdash;the teacher, the God&mdash;is
practically unknown. He is too remote from themselves and the ordinary
activities of their daily lives; he is not married, like his mother; he has no
trade, like his father (Mark calls him a carpenter); moreover, the maxims of
the Sermon on the Mount are so repugnant to the South Italian as to be almost
incomprehensible. In effigy, this period of Christ&rsquo;s life is portrayed
most frequently in the primitive monuments of the catacombs, erected when
tradition was purer.
</p>

<p>
Three tangibly-human aspects of Christ&rsquo;s life figure here: the
<i>bambino-cult,</i> which not only appeals to the people&rsquo;s love of
babyhood but also carries on the old traditions of the Lar Familiaris and of
Horus; next, the youthful Jesus, beloved of local female mystics; and lastly
the Crucified&mdash;that grim and gloomy image of suffering which was imported,
or at least furiously fostered, by the Spaniards.
</p>

<p>
The engulfing of the saints by the Mother of God is due also to political
reasons. The Vatican, once centralized in its policy, began to be disquieted by
the persistent survival of Byzantinism (Greek cults and language lingered up to
the twelfth century); with the Tacitean <i>odium fratrum</i> she exercised more
severity towards the sister-faith than towards actual paganism.<a href="#fn-31.1" name="fnref-31.1" id="fnref-31.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
The Madonna was a fit instrument for sweeping away the particularist tendencies
of the
<a name="Page249"></a>
past; she attacked relic-worship and other outworn superstitions; like a
benignant whirlwind she careered over the land, and these now enigmatical
shapes and customs fell faster than leaves of Vallombrosa. No sanctuary or cave
so remote that she did not endeavour to expel its male saint&mdash;its old
presiding genius, whether Byzantine or Roman. But saints have tough lives, and
do not yield without a struggle; they fought for their time-honoured privileges
like the &ldquo;daemons&rdquo; they were, and sometimes came off victorious.
Those sanctuaries that proved too strong to be taken by storm were sapped by an
artful and determined siege. The combat goes on to this day. This is what is
happening to the thrice-deposed and still triumphant Saint Januarius, who is
hard pressed by sheer force of numbers. Like those phagocytes which congregate
from all sides to assail some weakened cell in the body physical, even so
Madonna-cults&mdash;in frenzied competition with each other&mdash;cluster
thickest round some imperilled venerable of ancient lineage, bent on his
destruction. The Madonna dell&rsquo; Arco, del Soccorso, and at least fifty
others (not forgetting the newly-invented Madonna di Pompei)&mdash;they have
all established themselves in the particular domain of St. Januarius; they are
all undermining his reputation, and claiming to possess his special gifts.<a href="#fn-31.2" name="fnref-31.2" id="fnref-31.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-31.1" id="fn-31.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-31.1">[1]</a>
Greek and Egyptian anchorites were established in south Italy by the fourth
century. But paganism was still flourishing, locally, in the sixth. There is
some evidence that Christians used to take part in pagan festivals.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-31.2" id="fn-31.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-31.2">[2]</a>
He is known to have quelled an outbreak of Vesuvius in the fifth century,
though his earliest church, I believe, only dates from the ninth. His blood,
famous for liquefaction, is not mentioned till 1337.
</p>

<p>
Early monastic movements of the Roman Church also played their part in
obliterating old religious landmarks. Settling down in some remote place with
the Madonna as their leader or as their &ldquo;second Mother,&rdquo; these
companies of holy men soon acquired such temporal and spiritual influence as
enabled them successfully to oppose their divinity to the local saint, whose
once bright glories began to pale before her effulgence. Their labours in
favour of the Mother of God were part of that work of consolidating Papal power
which was afterwards carried on by the Jesuits.
</p>

<p>
Perhaps what chiefly accounts for the spread of Madonna-worship is the human
craving for novelty. You can invent most easily where no fixed legends are
established. Now the saints have fixed legendary attributes and histories, and
as culture advances it becomes increasingly difficult to manufacture new saints
with fresh and original characters and yet passable pedigrees (the experiment
is tried, now and again); while the old saints have been exploited and are now
inefficient&mdash;worn out, like old toys. Madonna, on the other hand, can
subdivide with the ease of an amoeba, and yet never lose her identity or
credibility; moreover, thanks to her divine
<a name="Page250"></a>
character, anything can be accredited to her&mdash;anything good, however
wonderful; lastly, the traditions concerning her are so conveniently vague that
they actually foster the mythopoetic faculty. Hence her success. Again: the
man-saints were separatists; they fought for their own towns against African
intruders, and in those frequent and bloody inter-communal battles which are a
feature of Italian mediævalism. Nowadays it is hardly proper that neighbouring
townsmen, aided and abetted by their respective saints, should sally forth to
cut each others&rsquo; throats. The Madonna, as cosmopolitan Nike, is a fitter
patroness for settled society.
</p>

<p>
She also found a ready welcome in consequence of the pastoral institutions of
the country in which the mother plays such a conspicuous role. So deeply are
they ingrained here that if the Mother of God had not existed, the group would
have been deemed incomplete; a family without a mother is to them like a tree
without roots&mdash;a thing which cannot be. This accounts for the fact that
their Trinity is not ours; it consists of the Mother, the Father (Saint
Joseph), and the Child&mdash;with Saint Anne looming in the background (the
grandmother is an important personage in the patriarchal family). The Creator
of all things and the Holy Ghost have evaporated; they are too intangible and
non-human.
</p>

<p>
But She never became a true cosmopolitan Nike, save in literature. The
decentralizing spirit of South Italy was too strong for her. She had to conform
to the old custom of geographical specialization. In all save in name she
doffed her essential character of Mother of God, and became a local demi-god;
an accessible wonder-worker attached to some particular district. An inhabitant
of village A would stand a poor chance of his prayers being heard by the
Madonna of village B; if you have a headache, it is no use applying to the
<i>Madonna of the Hens,</i> who deals with diseases of women; you will find
yourself in a pretty fix if you expect financial assistance from the Madonna of
village C: she is a weather-specialist. In short, these hundreds of Madonnas
have taken up the qualities of the saints they supplanted.
</p>

<p>
They can often outdo them; and this is yet another reason for their success. It
is a well-ascertained fact, for example, that many holy men have been nourished
by the Milk of the Mother of God, &ldquo;not,&rdquo; as a Catholic writer says,
&ldquo;in a mystic or spiritual sense, but with their actual lips&rdquo;; Saint
Bernard &ldquo;among a hundred, a thousand, others.&rdquo; Nor is this all, for
in the year 1690, a painted image of the Madonna, not far from the city of
Carinola, was observed to &ldquo;diffuse abundant milk&rdquo; for the
edification of a great concourse of spectators&mdash;a miracle which was
recognized as such by
<a name="Page251"></a>
the bishop of that diocese, Monsignor Paolo Ayrola, who wrote a report on the
subject. Some more of this authentic milk is kept in a bottle in the convent of
Mater Domini on Vesuvius, and the chronicle of that establishment, printed in
1834, says:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Since Mary is the Mother and Co-redeemer of the Church, may she not have
left some drops of her precious milk as a gift to this Church, even as we still
possess some of the blood of Christ? In various churches there exists some of
this milk, by means of which many graces and benefits are obtained. We find
such relics, for example, in the church of Saint Luigi in Naples, namely, two
bottles full of the milk of the Blessed Virgin; and this milk becomes fluid on
feast-days of the Madonna, as everybody can see. Also in this convent of Mater
Domini the milk sometimes liquefies.&rdquo; During eruptions of Vesuvius this
bottle is carried abroad in procession, and always dispels the danger. Saint
Januarius must indeed look to his laurels! Meanwhile it is interesting to
observe that the Mother of God has condescended to employ the method of holy
relics which she once combated so strenuously, her milk competing with the
blood of Saint John, the fat of Saint Laurence, and those other physiological
curios which are still preserved for the edification of believers.
</p>

<p>
All of which would pass if a subtle poison had not been creeping in to taint
religious institutions. Taken by themselves, these infantile observances do not
necessarily harm family life, the support of the state; for a man can believe a
considerable deal of nonsense, and yet go about his daily work in a natural and
cheerful manner. But when the body is despised and tormented the mind loses its
equilibrium, and when that happens nonsense may assume a sinister shape. We
have seen it in England, where, during the ascetic movement of Puritanism, more
witches were burnt than in the whole period before and after.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The virus of asceticism entered South Italy from three principal sources. From
early ages the country had stood in commercial relations with the valley of the
Nile; and even as its black magic is largely tinged with Egyptian practices, so
its magic of the white kind&mdash;its saintly legends&mdash;bear the impress of
the self-macerations and perverted life-theories of those desert-lunatics who
called themselves Christians.<a href="#fn-31.3" name="fnref-31.3" id="fnref-31.3"><sup>[3]</sup></a>
But this Orientalism fell at first upon
<a name="Page252"></a>
unfruitful soil; the Vatican was yet wavering, and Hellenic notions of conduct
still survived. It received a further rebuff at the hands of men like Benedict,
who set up sounder ideals of holiness, introducing a gleam of sanity even in
that insanest of institutions&mdash;the herding together of idle men to the
glory of God.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-31.3" id="fn-31.3"></a> <a href="#fnref-31.3">[3]</a>
These ascetics were here before Christianity (see Philo Judaeus); in fact,
there is not a single element in the new faith which had not been independently
developed by the pagans, many of whom, like Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus
Aurelius, were ripe for the most abject self-abasement.
</p>

<p>
But things became more centralized as the Papacy gained ground. The strong
Christian, the independent ruler or warrior or builder saint, was tolerated
only if he conformed to its precepts; and the inauspicious rise of subservient
ascetic orders like the Franciscans and Dominicans, who quickly invaded the
fair regions of the south, gave an evil tone to their Christianity.
</p>

<p>
There has always been a contrary tendency at work: the Ionic spirit, heritage
of the past. Monkish ideals of chastity and poverty have never appealed to the
hearts of people, priests or prelates of the south; they will endure much
fondness in their religion, but not those phenomena of cruelty and pruriency
which are inseparably connected with asceticism; their notions have ever been
akin to those of the sage Xenocrates, who held that &ldquo;happiness consists
not only in the possession of human virtues, but <i>in the accomplishment of
natural acts.&rdquo;</i> Among the latter they include the acquisition of
wealth and the satisfaction of carnal needs. At this time, too, the old
Hellenic curiosity was not wholly dimmed; they took an intelligent interest in
imported creeds like that of Luther, which, if not convincing, at least
satisfied their desire for novelty. Theirs was exactly the attitude of the
Athenians towards Paul&rsquo;s &ldquo;New God&rdquo;; and Protestantism might
have spread far in the south, had it not been ferociously repressed.
</p>

<p>
But after the brilliant humanistic period of the Aragons there followed the
third and fiercest reaction&mdash;that of the Spanish viceroys, whose misrule
struck at every one of the roots of national prosperity. It is that
&ldquo;seicentismo&rdquo; which a modern writer (A. Niceforo,
&ldquo;L&rsquo;Italia barbara,&rdquo; 1898) has recognized as the blight, the
evil genius, of south Italy. The Ionic spirit did not help the people much at
this time. The greatest of these viceroys, Don Pietro di Toledo, hanged 18,000
of them in eight years, and then confessed, with a sigh, that &ldquo;he did not
know what more he could do.&rdquo; What more <i>could</i> he do? As a pious
Spaniard he was incapable of understanding that quarterings and breakings on
the rack were of less avail than the education of the populace in certain
secular notions of good conduct&mdash;notions which it was the business of his
Church not to teach. Reading through the legislation of the viceregal period,
one is astonished to find how little was done for the common people, who lived
like the veriest beasts of earth.
<a name="Page253"></a>
Their civil rulers&mdash;scholars and gentlemen, most of them&mdash;really
believed that the example of half a million illiterate and vicious monks was
all the education they needed. And yet one notes with surprise that the
Government was perpetually at loggerheads with the ecclesiastical authorities.
True; but it is wonderful with what intuitive alacrity they joined forces when
it was a question of repelling their common antagonist, enlightenment.
</p>

<p>
From this rank soil there sprang up an exotic efflorescence of holiness. If
south Italy swarmed with sinners, as the experiences of Don Pietro seemed to
show, it also swarmed with saints. And hardly one of them escaped the influence
of the period, the love of futile ornamentation. Their piety is overloaded with
embellishing touches and needless excrescences of virtue. It was the baroque
period of saintliness, as of architecture.
</p>

<p>
I have already given some account of one of them, the Flying Monk (Chapter X),
and have perused the biographies of at least fifty others. One cannot help
observing a great uniformity in their lives&mdash;a kind of family resemblance.
This parallelism is due to the simple reason that there is only one right for a
thousand wrongs. One may well look in vain, here, for those many-tinted
perversions and aberrations which disfigure the histories of average mankind.
These saints are all alike&mdash;monotonously alike, if one cares to say
so&mdash;in their chastity and other official virtues. But a little
acquaintance with the subject will soon show you that, so far as the range of
their particular Christianity allowed of it, there is a praiseworthy and even
astonishing diversity among them. Nearly all of them could fly, more or less;
nearly all of them could cure diseases and cause the clouds to rain; nearly all
of them were illiterate; and every one of them died in the odour of
sanctity&mdash;with roseate complexion, sweetly smelling corpse, and flexible
limbs. Yet each one has his particular gifts, his strong point. Joseph of
Copertino specialized in flying; others were conspicuous for their heroism in
sitting in hot baths, devouring ordure, tormenting themselves with pins, and so
forth.
</p>

<p>
Here, for instance, is a good representative biography&mdash;the Life of Saint
Giangiuseppe della Croce (born 1654), reprinted for the occasion of his solemn
sanctification.<a href="#fn-31.4" name="fnref-31.4" id="fnref-31.4"><sup>[4]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-31.4" id="fn-31.4"></a> <a href="#fnref-31.4">[4]</a>
&ldquo;Vita di S. Giangiuseppe della Croce . . . Scritta dal P. Fr. Diodato
dell&rsquo; Assunta per la Beatificazione ed ora ristampata dal postulatore
della causa P. Fr. Giuseppe Rostoll in occasione della solenne
Santificazione.&rdquo; Roma, 1839.
</p>

<p>
He resembled other saints in many points. He never allowed the &ldquo;vermin
which generated in his bed&rdquo; to be disturbed; he wore the same clothes for
sixty-four years on end; with women his
<a name="Page254"></a>
behaviour was that of an &ldquo;animated statue,&rdquo; and during his long
life he never looked any one in the face (even his brother-monks were known to
him only by their voices); he could raise the dead, relieve a duchess of a
devil in the shape of a black dog, change chestnuts into apricots, and bad wine
into good; his flesh was encrusted with sores, the result of his fierce
scarifications; he was always half starved, and when delicate viands were
brought to him, he used to say to his body: &ldquo;Have you seen them? Have you
smelt them? Then let that suffice for you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He, too, could fly a little. So once, when he was nowhere to be found, the
monks of the convent at last discovered him in the church, &ldquo;raised so
high above the ground that his head touched the ceiling.&rdquo; This is not a
bad performance for a mere lad, as he then was. And how useful this gift became
in old age was seen when, being almost incapable of moving his legs, and with
body half paralysed, he was nevertheless enabled to accompany a procession for
the length of two miles on foot, walking, to the stupefaction of thousands of
spectators, at about a cubit&rsquo;s height above the street, on air; after the
fashion of those Hindu gods whose feet&mdash;so the pagans fable&mdash;are too
pure to touch mortal earth.
</p>

<p>
His love of poverty, moreover, was so intense that even after his death a
picture of him, which his relatives had tried to attach to the wall in loving
remembrance, repeatedly fell down again, although nailed very securely; nor did
it remain fixed until they realized that its costly gilt frame was
objectionable to the saint in heaven, and accordingly removed it. No wonder the
infant Jesus was pleased to descend from the breast of Mary and take rest for
several hours in the arms of Saint Giangiuseppe, who, on being disturbed by
some priestly visitor, exclaimed, &ldquo;O how I have enjoyed holding the Holy
Babe in my arms!&rdquo; This is an old and favourite motif; it occurs, for
example, in the Fioretti of Saint Francis; there are precedents, in fact, for
all these divine favours.
</p>

<p>
But his distinguishing feature, his &ldquo;dominating gift,&rdquo; was that of
prophecy, especially in foretelling the deaths of children, &ldquo;which he
almost always accompanied with jocular words <i>(scherzi)</i> on his
lips.&rdquo; He would enter a house and genially remark: &ldquo;O, what an
odour of Paradise&rdquo;; sooner or later one or more of the children of the
family would perish. To a boy of twelve he said, &ldquo;Be good, Natale, for
the angels are coming to take you.&rdquo; These playful words seem to have
weighed considerably on the boy&rsquo;s mind and, sure enough, after a few
years he died. But even more charming&mdash;<i>più grazioso,</i> the biographer
calls it&mdash;was the
<a name="Page255"></a>
incident when he once asked a father whether he would give his son to Saint
Pasquale. The fond parent agreed, thinking that the words referred to the
boy&rsquo;s future career in the Church. But the saint meant something quite
different&mdash;he meant a career in heaven! And in less than a month the child
died. To a little girl who was crying in the street he said: &ldquo;I
don&rsquo;t want to hear you any more. Go and sing in Paradise.&rdquo; And
meeting her a short time after, he said, &ldquo;What, are you still
here?&rdquo; In a few days she was dead.
</p>

<p>
The biography gives many instances of this pretty gift which would hardly have
contributed to the saint&rsquo;s popularity in England or any other country
save this, where&mdash;although the surviving youngsters are described as
&ldquo;struck with terror at the mere name of the Servant of
God&rdquo;&mdash;the parents were naturally glad to have one or two angels in
the family, to act as <i>avvocati</i> (pleaders) for those that remained on
earth.
</p>

<p>
And the mention of the legal profession brings me to one really instructive
miracle. It is usually to be observed, after a saint has been canonized, that
heaven, by some further sign or signs, signifies approval of this solemn act of
the Vicar of God; indeed, to judge by these biographies, such a course is not
only customary but, to use a worldly expression, <i>de rigueur.</i> And so it
happened after the decree relative to Saint Giangiuseppe had been pronounced in
the Vatican basilica by His Holiness Pius VI, in the presence of the assembled
cardinals. Innumerable celestial portents (their enumeration fills eleven pages
of the &ldquo;Life&rdquo;) confirmed and ratified the great event, and among
them this: the notary, who had drawn up both the ordinary and the apostolic
<i>processi,</i> was cured of a grievous apoplexy, survived for four years, and
finally died on the very anniversary of the death of the saint. Involuntarily
one contrasts this heavenly largesse with the sordid guineas which would have
contented an English lawyer. . . .
</p>

<p>
Or glance into the biography of the Venerable Sister Orsola Benincasa. She,
too, could fly a little and raise men from the dead. She cured diseases,
foretold her own death and that of others, lived for a month on the sole
nourishment of a consecrated wafer; she could speak Latin and Polish, although
she had been taught nothing at all; wrought miracles after death, and possessed
to a heroic degree the virtues of patience, humility, temperance, justice, etc.
etc. So inflamed was she with divine love, that almost every day thick steam
issued out of her mouth, which was observed to be destructive to articles of
clothing; her heated body, when ice was applied, used to hiss like a red-hot
iron under similar conditions.
<a name="Page256"></a>
As a child, she already cried for other people&rsquo;s sins; she was always
hunting for her own and would gladly, at the end of her long and blameless
career, have exchanged her sins for those of the youthful Duchess of Aquaro. An
interesting phenomenon, by the way, the theory of sinfulness which crops up at
this particular period of history. For our conception of sin is alien to the
Latin mind. There is no &ldquo;sin&rdquo; in Italy (and this is not the least
of her many attractions); it is an article manufactured exclusively for
export.<a href="#fn-31.5" name="fnref-31.5" id="fnref-31.5"><sup>[5]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-31.5" id="fn-31.5"></a> <a href="#fnref-31.5">[5]</a>
&ldquo;Vita della Venerabile Serva di Dio Suor Orsola Benincasa, Scritta da
un cherico regolare,&rdquo; Rome, 1796. There are, of course, much earlier
biographies of all these saints; concerning Sister Orsola we possess, for
instance, the remarkable pamphlet by Cesare d&rsquo;Eboli (&ldquo;Caesaris
Aevoli Neapolitani Apologia pro Ursula Neapolitana quæ ad urbem accessit
MDLXXXIII,&rdquo; Venice, 1589), which achieves the distinction of never
mentioning Orsola by name: she is only once referred to as &ldquo;mulier de qua
agitur.&rdquo; But I prefer to quote from the more recent ones because they are
authoritative, in so far as they have been written on the basis of miracles
attested by eye-witnesses and accepted as veracious by the Vatican tribunal.
Sister Orsola, though born in 1547, was only declared Venerable by Pontifical
decree of 1793. Biographies prior to that date are therefore ex-parte
statements and might conceivably contain errors of fact. This is out of the
question here, as is clearly shown by the author on p. 178.
</p>

<p>
Orsola&rsquo;s speciality, however, were those frequent trance-like conditions
by reason of which, during her lifetime, she was created &ldquo;Protectress of
the City of Naples.&rdquo; I cannot tell whether she was the first woman-saint
to obtain this honour. Certainly the &ldquo;Seven Holy Protectors&rdquo;
concerning whom Paolo Regio writes were all musty old males. . . .
</p>

<p>
And here is quite another biography, that of Alfonso di Liguori (born 1696),
the founder of the Redemptorist order and a canonized saint. He, too, could fly
a little and raise the dead to life; he suffered devil-temptations, caused the
clouds to rain, calmed an eruption of Vesuvius, multiplied food, and so forth.
Such was his bashfulness, that even as an aged bishop he refused to be unrobed
by his attendants; such his instinct for moral cleanliness that once, when a
messenger had alighted at his convent accompanied by a soldier, he instantly
detected, under the military disguise, the lineaments of a young woman-friend.
Despite these divine gifts, he always needed a confessor. An enormous batch of
miracles accompanied his sanctification.
</p>

<p>
But he only employed these divine graces by the way; he was by profession not a
<i>taumaturgo,</i> but a clerical instructor, organizer, and writer. The
Vatican has conferred on him the rare title of &ldquo;Doctor Ecclesiæ,&rdquo;
which he shares with Saint Augustine and some others.
</p>

<p>
The biography from which I have drawn these details was
<a name="Page257"></a>
printed in Rome in 1839. It is valuable because it is modern and so far
authentic; and for two other reasons. In the first place, curiously enough, it
barely mentions the saint&rsquo;s life-work&mdash;his writings. Secondly, it is
a good example of what I call the pious palimpsest. It is over-scored with
contradictory matter. The author, for example, while accidentally informing us
that Alfonso kept a carriage, imputes to him a degrading, Oriental love of dirt
and tattered garments, in order (I presume) to make his character conform to
the grosser ideals of the mendicant friars. I do not believe in these
traits&mdash;in his hatred of soap and clean apparel. From his works I deduce a
different original. He was refined and urbane; of a casuistical and prying
disposition; like many sensitive men, unduly preoccupied with the sexual life
of youth; like a true feudal aristocrat, ever ready to apply force where verbal
admonition proved unavailing. . . .
</p>

<p>
In wonder-working capacities these saints were all put in the shade by the
Calabrian Francesco di Paola, who raised fifteen persons from the dead in his
boyhood. He used to perform a hundred miracles a day, and &ldquo;it was a
miracle, when a day passed without a miracle.&rdquo; The index alone of any one
of his numerous biographies is enough to make one&rsquo;s head swim.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The vast majority of saints of this period do not belong to that third sex
after which, according to some, the human race has ever striven&mdash;the
constructive and purposeful third sex. They are wholly sexless, unsocial and
futile beings, the negation of every masculine or feminine virtue. Their
independence fettered by the iron rules of the Vatican and of their particular
order, these creatures had <i>nothing to do;</i> and like the rest of us under
such conditions, became vacuously introspective. Those honourable saintly
combats of the past with external enemies and plagues and stormy seasons were
transplanted from without into the microcosm within, taking the shape of
hallucinations and demon-temptations. They were no longer actors, but
sufferers; automata, who attained a degree of inanity which would have made
their old Byzantine prototypes burst with envy.
</p>

<p>
Yet they vary in their gifts; each one, as I have said, has his or her strong
point. Why? The reason of this diversity lies in the furious competition
between the various monastic orders of the time&mdash;in those unedifying
squabbles which led to never-ending litigation and complaints to head-quarters
in Rome. Every one of these saints, from the first dawning of his divine
talents, was surrounded by an atmosphere of jealous hatred on the part of his
<a name="Page258"></a>
co-religionists. If one order came out with a flying wonder, another, in frantic
emulation, would introduce some new speciality to eclipse his
fame&mdash;something in the fasting line, it may be; or a female mystic whose
palpitating letters to Jesus Christ would melt all readers to pity. The
Franciscans, for instance, dissected the body of a certain holy Margaret and
discovered in her heart the symbols of the Trinity and of the Passion. This
bold and original idea would have gained them much credit, but for the rival
Dominicans, who promptly discovered, and dissected, another saintly Margaret,
whose heart contained three stones on which were engraven portraits of the
Virgin Mary.<a href="#fn-31.6" name="fnref-31.6" id="fnref-31.6"><sup>[6]</sup></a>
So they ceaselessly unearthed fresh saints with a view to disparaging each
other&mdash;all of them waiting for a favourable moment when the Vatican could
be successfully approached to consider their particular claims. For it stands
to reason that a Carmelite Pope would prefer a Carmelite saint to one of the
Jesuits, and so forth.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-31.6" id="fn-31.6"></a> <a href="#fnref-31.6">[6]</a>
These and other details will be found in the four volumes &ldquo;Das
Heidentum in der romischen Kirche&rdquo; (Gotha, 1889-91), by Theodor Trede, a
late Protestant parson in Naples, strongly tinged with anti-Catholicism, but
whose facts may be relied upon. Indeed, he gives chapter and verse for them.
</p>

<p>
And over all throned the Inquisition in Rome, alert, ever-suspicious; testing
the &ldquo;irregularities&rdquo; of the various orders and harassing their
respective saints with Olympic impartiality.
</p>

<p>
I know that mystics such as Orsola Benincasa are supposed to have another side
to their character, an eminently practical side. It is perfectly true&mdash;and
we need not go out of England to learn it&mdash;that piety is not necessarily
inconsistent with nimbleness in worldly affairs. But the mundane achievements,
the monasteries and churches, of nine-tenths of these southern ecstatics are
the work of the confessor and not of the saint. Trainers of performing animals
are aware how these differ in plasticity of disposition and amenability to
discipline; the spiritual adviser, who knows his business, must be quick to
detect these various qualities in the minds of his penitents and to utilize
them to the best advantage. It is inconceivable, for instance, that the
convent-foundress Orsola was other than a neuropathic nonentity&mdash;a blind
instrument in the hands of what we should call her backers, chiefest of whom
(in Naples) were two Spanish priests, Borli and Navarro, whose local efforts
were supported, at head-quarters, by the saintly Filippo Neri and the learned
Cardinal Baronius.
</p>

<p>
This is noticeable. The earlier of these godly biographies are written in
Latin, and these are more restrained in their language; they were composed, one
imagines, for the priests and
<a name="Page259"></a>
educated classes who could dispense to a certain degree with prodigies. But the
later ones, from the viceregal period onwards, are in the vernacular and
display a marked deterioration; one must suppose that they were printed for
such of the common people as could still read (up to a few years ago,
sixty-five per cent of the populace were analphabetic). They are pervaded by
the characteristic of all contemporary literature and art: that deliberate
intention to <i>astound</i> which originated with the poet Marino, who
declared such to have been his object and ideal. The miracles certainly do
astound; they are as <i>strepitosi</i> (clamour-arousing) as the writers claim
them to be; how they ever came to occur must be left to the consciences of
those who swore on oath to the truth of them.
</p>

<p>
During this period the Mother of God as a local saint increased in popularity.
There was a ceaseless flow of monographs dealing with particular Madonnas, as
well as a small library on what the Germans would doubtless call the
&ldquo;Madonna as a Whole.&rdquo; Here is Serafino Montorio&rsquo;s
&ldquo;Zodiaco di Maria,&rdquo; printed in 1715 on the lines of that monster of
a book by Gumppenberg. It treats of over two hundred subspecies of Madonna
worshipped in different parts of south Italy which is divided, for these
celestial purposes, into twelve regions, according to the signs of the Zodiac.
The book is dedicated by the author to his &ldquo;Sovereign Lady the <i>Gran
Madre di Dio&rdquo;</i> and might, in truth, have been written to the glory of
that protean old Magna Mater by one of Juvenal&rsquo;s &ldquo;tonsured
herd&rdquo; possessed of much industry but little discrimination.<a href="#fn-31.7" name="fnref-31.7" id="fnref-31.7"><sup>[7]</sup></a>
Such as it is, it reflects the crude mental status of the Dominican order to
which the author belonged. I warmly recommend this book to all Englishmen
desirous of understanding the south. It is pure, undiluted
paganism&mdash;paganism of a bad school; one would think it marked the lowest
possible ebb of Christian spirituality. But this is by no means the case, as I
shall presently show.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-31.7" id="fn-31.7"></a> <a href="#fnref-31.7">[7]</a>
The Mater Dei was officially installed in the place of Magna Mater at the
Synod of Ephesus in 431.
</p>

<p>
How different, from such straightforward unreason, are the etherealized,
saccharine effusions of the &ldquo;Glories of Mary,&rdquo; by Alfonso di
Liguori! They represent the other pole of Mariolatry&mdash;the gentlemanly
pole. And under the influence of Mary-worship a new kind of saintly physiognomy
was elaborated, as we can see from contemporary prints and pictures. The
bearded men-saints were extinct; in the place of them this mawkish, sub-sexual
love for the Virgin developed a corresponding type of
<a name="Page260"></a>
adorer&mdash;clean-shaven, emasculate youths, posing in ecstatic attitudes with
a nauseous feminine smirk. Rather an unpleasant sort of saint.
</p>

<p>
The unwholesome chastity-ideal, without which no holy man of the period was
&ldquo;complete,&rdquo; naturally left its mark upon literature, notably on
that of certain Spanish theologians. But good specimens of what I mean may also
be found in the Theologia Moralis of Liguori; the kind of stuff, that is, which
would be classed as &ldquo;curious&rdquo; in catalogues and kept in a locked
cupboard by the most broad-minded paterfamilias. Reading these elucubrations of
Alfonso&rsquo;s, one feels that the saint has pondered long and lovingly upon
themes like <i>an et quando peccata sint oscula</i> or <i>de tactu et adspectu
corporis;</i> he writes with all the authority of an expert whose richly-varied
experiences in the confessional have been amplified and irradiated by divine
inspiration. I hesitate what to call this literature, seeing that it was
obviously written to the glory of God and His Virgin Mother. The congregation
of the Index, which was severe in the matter of indecent publications and
prohibited Boccaccio&rsquo;s Decameron on these grounds, hailed with approval
the appearance of such treatises composed, as they were, for the guidance of
young priests.
</p>

<p>
Cruelty (in the shape of the Inquisition) and lasciviousness (as exemplified by
such pious filth)&mdash;these are the prime fruits of that cult of asceticism
which for centuries the Government strove to impose upon south Italy. If the
people were saved, it was due to that substratum of sanity, of Greek
<i>sophrosyne,</i> which resisted the one and derided the other. Whoever has
saturated himself with the records will marvel not so much that the inhabitants
preserved some shreds of common sense and decent feeling, as that they survived
at all&mdash;he will marvel that the once fair kingdom was not converted into a
wilderness, saintly but uninhabited, like Spain itself.
</p>

<p>
For the movement continued in a vertiginous crescendo. Spaniardism culminated
in Bourbonism, and this, again, reached its climax in the closing years of the
eighteenth century, when the conditions of south Italy baffled description. I
have already (p. 212) given the formidable number of its ecclesiastics; the
number of saints was commensurate, but&mdash;as often happens when the quantity
is excessive&mdash;the quality declined. This lazzaroni-period was the debâcle
of holiness. So true it is that our gods reflect the hearts that make them.
</p>

<p>
The Venerable Fra Egidio, a native of Taranto, is a good example of
contemporary godliness. My biography of him was
<a name="Page261"></a>
printed in Naples in 1876,<a href="#fn-31.8" name="fnref-31.8" id="fnref-31.8"><sup>[8]</sup></a>
and contains a dedicatory epistle addressed to the Blessed Virgin by her
&ldquo;servant, subject, and most loving son Rosario Frungillo&rdquo;&mdash;a
canon of the church and the author of the book.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-31.8" id="fn-31.8"></a> <a href="#fnref-31.8">[8]</a>
&ldquo;Vita del Venerabile servo di Dio Fra Egidio da S. Giuseppe laico
professo alcantarino,&rdquo; Napoli, 1876.
</p>

<p>
This &ldquo;taumaturgo&rdquo; could perform all the ordinary feats; I will not
linger over them. What has made him popular to this day are those wonders which
appealed to the taste of the poorer people, such as, for example, that miracle
of the eels. A fisherman had brought fourteen hundredweight of these for sale
in the market. Judge of his disappointment when he discovered that they had all
died during the journey (southerners will not pay for dead eels). Fortunately,
he saw the saint arriving in a little boat, who informed him that the eels were
&ldquo;not dead, but only asleep,&rdquo; and who woke them up again by means of
a relic of Saint Pasquale which he always carried about with him, after a
quarter of an hour&rsquo;s devout praying, during which the perspiration oozed
from his forehead. The eels, says the writer, had been dead and slimy, but now
turned their bellies downwards once more and twisted about in their usual
spirals; there began a general weeping among the onlookers, and the fame of the
miracle immediately spread abroad. He could do the same with lobsters, cows,
and human beings.
</p>

<p>
Thus a cow belonging to Fra Egidio&rsquo;s monastery was once stolen by an
impious butcher, and cut up into the usual joints with a view to a clandestine
sale of the meat. The saint discovered the beast&rsquo;s remains, ordered that
they should be laid together on the floor in the shape of a living cow, with
the entrails, head and so forth in their natural positions; then, having made
the sign of the cross with his cord upon the slaughtered beast, and rousing up
all his faith, he said: &ldquo;In the name of God and of Saint Pasquale, arise,
Catherine!&rdquo; (Catherine was the cow&rsquo;s name.) &ldquo;At these words
the animal lowed, shook itself, and stood up on its feet alive, whole and
strong, even as it had been before it was killed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In the case of one of the dead men whom he brought to life, the undertakers
were already about their sad task; but Fra Egidio, viewing the corpse, remarked
in his usual manner that the man was &ldquo;not dead, but only asleep,&rdquo;
and after a few saintly manipulations, roused him from his slumber. The most
portentous of his wonders, however, are those which he wrought <i>after his own
death</i> by means of his relics and otherwise; they have been sworn to by many
persons. Nor did his hand lose its old cunning, in these posthumous
manifestations, with the finny tribe. A certain woman,
<a name="Page262"></a>
Maria Scuotto, was enabled to resuscitate a number of dead eels by means of an
image of the deceased saint which she cast among them.
</p>

<p>
Every one of the statements in this biography is drawn from the <i>processi</i>
to which I will presently refer; there were 202 witnesses who deposed
&ldquo;under the rigour and sanctity of oath&rdquo; to the truth of these
miracles; and among those who were personally convinced of the
Venerable&rsquo;s rare gifts was the Royal Family of Naples, the archbishop of
that town, as well as innumerable dukes and princes. An embittered rationalist
would note that the reading of Voltaire, at this period, was punished with
three years&rsquo; galley-slavery and that several thousand citizens were
hanged for expressing liberal opinions; he will suggest that belief in the
supernatural, rejected by the thinking classes, finds an abiding shelter among
royalty and the proletariat.
</p>

<p class="p2">
It occurs to me, à propos of Fra Egidio, to make the obvious statement that an
account of an occurrence is not necessarily true, because it happened long ago.
Credibility does not improve, like violins and port wine, with lapse of years.
This being the case, it will not be considered objectionable to say that there
are certain deeds attributed to holy men of olden days which, to speak frankly,
are open to doubt; or at least not susceptible of proof. Who were these men, if
they ever existed? and who vouches for their prodigies? This makes me think
that Pope Gelasius showed no small penetration in excluding, as early as the
fifth century, some few <i>acta sanctorum</i> from the use of the churches;
another step in the same direction was taken in the twelfth century when the
power of canonizing saints, which had hitherto been claimed by all bishops,
became vested in the Pope alone; and yet another, when Urban VIII forbade the
nomination of local patron saints by popular vote. Pious legends are supposed
to have their uses as an educative agency. So be it. But such relations of
imperfectly ascertained and therefore questionable wonders suffer from one
grave drawback: they tend to shake our faith in the evidence of
well-authenticated ones. Thus Saint Patrick is also reported to have raised a
cow from the dead&mdash;five cows, to be quite accurate; but who will come
forward and vouch for the fact? No one. That is because Saint Patrick belongs
to the legendary stage; he died, it is presumed, about 490.
</p>

<p>
Here, with Saint Egidio, we are on other ground; on the ground of bald
actuality. He expired in 1812, and the contemporaries who have attested his
miraculous deeds are not misty phantoms of the Thebais; they were creatures of
flesh and blood, human, historical
<a name="Page263"></a>
personages, who were dressed and nourished and educated after the fashion of
our own grandfathers. Yet it was meet and proper that the documentary evidence
as to his divine graces should be conscientiously examined. And only in 1888
was the crowning work accomplished. In that year His Holiness Leo XIII and the
Sacred Congregation of Cardinals solemnly approved the evidence and inscribed
the name of Egidio in the book of the Blessed.
</p>

<p>
To touch upon a few minor matters&mdash;I observe that Fra Egidio, like the
Flying Monk, was &ldquo;illiterate,&rdquo; and similarly preserved up to a
decrepit age &ldquo;the odorous lily of purity, which made him appear in words
and deeds as a most innocent child.&rdquo; He was accustomed to worship before
a favourite picture of the Mother of God which he kept adorned with candles;
and whenever the supply of these ran out, he was wont to address Her with
infantile simplicity of heart and in the local dialect: &ldquo;Now
there&rsquo;s no wax for You; so think about it Yourself; if not, You&rsquo;ll
have to go without.&rdquo; The playful-saintly note. . . .
</p>

<p>
But there is this difference between him and earlier saints that whereas they,
all too often, suffered in solitude, misunderstood and rejected of men, he
enjoyed the highest popularity during his whole long life. Wherever he went,
his footsteps were pursued by crowds of admirers, eager to touch his
wonder-working body or to cut off shreds of his clothing as amulets; hardly a
day passed that he did not return home with garments so lacerated that only
half of them was left; every evening they had to be patched up anew, although
they were purposely stitched full of wires and small chains of iron as a
protection. The same passionate sympathy continued after death, for while his
body was lying in state a certain Luigi Ascione, a surgeon, pushed through the
crowd and endeavoured to cut off one of his toe-nails with the flesh attached
to it; he admitted being driven to this act of pious depredation by the
pleading request of the Spanish Ambassador and a Neapolitan princess, who held
Fra Egidio in great veneration.
</p>

<p>
This is not an isolated instance. Southerners love their saints, and do not
content themselves with chill verbal expressions of esteem. So the biographer
of Saint Giangiuseppe records that &ldquo;one of the deceased saint&rsquo;s
toes was bitten off with most regretable devotion by the teeth of a man in the
crowd, who wished to preserve it as a relic. And the blood from the wound
flowed so copiously and so freely that many pieces of cloth were saturated with
it; nor did it cease to flow till the precious corpse was interred.&rdquo; It
is hard to picture such proofs of fervid popularity falling to the lot of
English deans and bishops.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page264"></a>
He was modern, too, in this sense, that he did not torment himself with
penitences (decay of Spanish austerity); on the contrary, he even kept
chocolate, honey and suchlike delicacies in his cell. In short, he was an
up-to-date saint, who despised mediæval practices and lived in a manner
befitting the age which gave him birth. In this respect he resembles our
English men of holiness, who exercise a laudable self-denial in resisting the
seductions of the ascetic life.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile, the cult of the Mother of God continued to wax in favour, and those
who are interested in its development should read the really remarkable book by
Antonio Cuomó, &ldquo;Saggio apologetico della belezza celeste e divina di
Maria S.S. Madre di Dio&rdquo; (Castellamare, 1863). It is a diatribe against
modernism by a champion of lost causes, an exacerbated lover of the
&ldquo;Singular Virgin and fecund Mother of the Verb.&rdquo; His argument, as I
understand it, is the <i>consensus gentium</i> theory applied to the Virgin
Mary. In defence of this thesis, the book has been made to bristle with
quotations; they stand out like quills upon the porcupine, ready to impale the
adventurous sceptic. Pliny and Virgil and the Druids and Balaam&rsquo;s Ass are
invoked as foretelling Her birth; the Old Testament&mdash;that venerable
sufferer, as Huxley called it&mdash;is twisted into dire convulsions for the
same purpose; much evidence is also drawn from Hebrew observances and from the
Church Fathers. But the New Testamentary record is seldom invoked; the Saviour,
on the rare occasions when He is mentioned, being dismissed as &ldquo;G.
C.&rdquo; The volume ends with a pyrotechnical display of invective against
non-Catholic heretics; a medley of threats and abuse worthy of those breezy
days of Erasmus, when theologians really said what they thought of each other.
The frank polytheism of Montorio is more to my taste. This outpouring of
papistical rhetoric gives me unwarrantable sensations&mdash;it makes me feel
positively Protestant.
</p>

<p>
Another sign of increasing popularity is that the sacred bacchanals connected
with the &ldquo;crowning&rdquo; of various Madonnas were twice as numerous, in
Naples, in the nineteenth as in the eighteenth century. Why an image of the
Mother of God should be decked with this worldly symbol, as a reward for
services rendered, will be obscure only to those who fail to appreciate the
earthly-tangible complexion of southern religion. Puerility is its key-note.
The Italian is either puerile or adult; the Englishman remains everlastingly
adolescent. . . .
</p>

<p>
Now of course it is open to any one to say that the pious records from which I
have quoted are a desolation of the spirit; that they
<a name="Page265"></a>
possess all the improbability of the &ldquo;Arabian Nights,&rdquo; and none of
their charm; that all the distempered dreamings to which our poor humanity is
subject have given themselves a rendezvous in their pages. I am not for
disputing the point, and I can understand how one man may be saddened by their
perusal, while another extracts therefrom some gleams of mirth. For my part, I
merely verify this fact: the native has been fed with this stuff for centuries,
and if we desire to enter into his feelings, we must feed ourselves
likewise&mdash;up to a point. The past is the key to the present. That is why I
have dwelt at such length on the subject&mdash;in the hope of clearing up the
enigma in the national character: the unpassable gulf, I mean, between the
believing and the unbelieving sections of the community.
</p>

<p>
An Anglo-Saxon arriving at Bagnara and witnessing a procession in honour of
that Sacred Hat of the Mother of God which has led me into this disquisition,
would be shocked at the degree of bigotry implied. &ldquo;The Hat of the Virgin
Mary,&rdquo; he would say&mdash;&ldquo;what next?&rdquo; Then, accosting some
ordinary citizen not in the procession&mdash;any butcher or baker&mdash;he
would receive a shock of another kind; he would be appalled at the man&rsquo;s
language of contemptuous derision towards everything which he, the Anglo-Saxon,
holds sacred in biblical tradition. There is no attempt, here, at
&ldquo;reconciliation.&rdquo; The classes calling themselves enlightened are
making a clean sweep of the old gods in a fashion that bewilders us who have
accustomed ourselves to see a providential design in everything that exists
(possibly because our acquaintance with a providentially-designed Holy Office
is limited to an obsolete statute, the genial <i>de haeretico comburendo).</i>
The others, the fetishists, have remained on the spiritual level of their own
saints. And there we stand today. That section so numerous in England, the
pseudo-pagans, crypto-Christians, or whatever obscurantists like Messrs. A. J.
Balfour and Mallock like to call themselves (the men who, with disastrous
effects, transport into realms of pure intelligence the spirit of compromise
which should be restricted to practical concerns)&mdash;that section has no
representatives hereabouts.
</p>

<p>
Fully to appreciate their attitude as opposed to ours, we must also remember
that the south Italian does not trouble himself about the objective truth of
any miracle whatever; his senses may be perverted, but his intelligence remains
outside the sphere of infection. This is his saving grace. To the people here,
the affair of Moses and the Burning Bush, the raising of Lazarus, and
Egidio&rsquo;s cow-revival, are on the identical plane of authenticity; the
Bible is one of a thousand saints&rsquo; books; its stories may be as true as
<a name="Page266"></a>
theirs, or just as untrue; in any case, what has that to do with his own
worldly conduct? But the Englishman with ingenuous ardour thinks to believe in
the Burning Bush wonder, and in so far his intelligence is infected; with equal
ardour he excludes the cow-performance from the range of possibility; and to
him it matters considerably which of the miracles are true and which are false,
seeing that his conduct is supposed to take colour from such supernatural
events. Ultra-credulous as to one set of narratives, he has no credulity left
for other sets; he concentrates his believing energies upon a small space,
whereas the Italian&rsquo;s are diffused, thinly, over a wide area. It is the
old story: Gothic intensity and Latin spaciousness. So the Gothic believer
takes his big dose of irrationalism on one fixed day; the Latin, by attending
Mass every morning, spreads it over the whole week. And the sombre
strenuousness of our northern character expects a remuneration for this outlay
of faith, while the other contents himself with such sensuous enjoyment as he
can momentarily extract from his ceremonials. That is why our English religion
has a <i>democratic</i> tinge distasteful to the Latin who, at bottom, is
always a philosopher; democratic because it relies for its success, like
democratic politicians, upon promises&mdash;promises that may or may not be
kept&mdash;promises that form no part (they are only an official appendage) of
the childlike paganism of the south. . . .
</p>

<p>
Fifteen francs will buy you a reliable witness for a south Italian lawsuit; you
must pay a good deal more in England. Thence one might argue that the cult of
credulity implied by these saintly biographies is responsible for this laxness,
for the general disregard of veracity. I doubt it. I am not inclined to blame
the monkish saint-makers for this particular trait; I suspect that for fifteen
francs you could have bought a first-class witness under Pericles. Southerners
are not yet pressed for time; and when people are not pressed for time, they do
not learn the time-saving value of honesty. Our respect for truth and fair
dealing, such as it is, derives from modern commerce; in the Middle Ages nobody
was concerned about honesty save a few trading companies like the Hanseatic
League, and the poor mediæval devil (the only gentleman of his age) who was
generally pressed for time and could be relied upon to keep his word. Even God,
of whom they talked so much, was systematically swindled. Where time counts for
nothing, expeditious practices between man and man are a drug in the market.
Besides, it must be noted that this churchly misteaching was only a fraction of
that general shattering which has disintegrated all the finer fibres of public
life. It stands to reason that the fragile
<a name="Page267"></a>
tissues of culture are dislocated, and its delicate edges defaced, by such
persistive governmental brutalization as the inhabitants have undergone. None
but the grossest elements in a people can withstand enduring misrule; none but
a mendacious and servile nature will survive its wear and tear. So it comes
about that up to a few years ago the nobler qualities which we associate with
those old Hellenic colonists&mdash;their intellectual curiosity, their candid
outlook upon life, their passionate sense of beauty, their love of
nature&mdash;all these things had been abraded, leaving, as residue, nothing
save what the Greeks shared with ruder races. There are indications that this
state of affairs is now ending.
</p>

<p>
The position is this. The records show that the common people never took their
saints to heart in the northern fashion&mdash;as moral exemplars; from
beginning to end, they have only utilized them as a pretext for fun and
festivals, a means of brightening the catacombic, the essentially sunless,
character of Christianity. So much for the popular saints, the patrons and
heroes. The others, the ecclesiastical ones, are an artificial product of
monkish institutions. These monkeries were established in the land by virtue of
civil authority. Their continued existence, however, was contingent upon the
goodwill of the Vatican. One of the surest and cheapest methods of obtaining
this goodwill was to produce a satisfactory crop of saints whose beatification
swelled the Vatican treasury with the millions collected from a deluded
populace for that end. The monks paid nothing; they only furnished the saint
and, in due course, the people&rsquo;s money. Can we wonder that they
discovered saints galore? Can we wonder that the Popes were gratified by their
pious zeal?
</p>

<p>
So things went on till yesterday. But now a large proportion of the ten
thousand (?) churches and monasteries of Naples are closed or actually in
ruins; wayside sanctuaries crumble to dust in picturesque fashion; the price of
holy books has fallen to zero, and the godly brethren have emigrated to
establish their saint-manufactories elsewhere. Not without hope of success; for
they will find purchasers of their wares wherever mankind can be interested in
that queer disrespect of the body which is taught by the metaphysical ascetics
of the East.
</p>

<p>
It was Lewes, I believe, who compared metaphysics to ghosts by saying that
there was no killing either of them; one could only dissipate them by throwing
light into the dark places they love to inhabit&mdash;to show that nothing is
there. Spectres, likewise, are these saintly caricatures of humanity,
perambulating metaphysics, the application <i>in corpore vili</i> of Oriental
fakirism.
<a name="Page268"></a>
Nightmare-literature is the crazy recital of their deeds and sufferings. Pathological
phantoms! The state of mind which engenders and cherishes such illusions is a
disease, and it has been well said that &ldquo;you cannot refute a
disease.&rdquo; You cannot nail ghosts to the counter.
</p>

<p>
But a ray of light . . .
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page269"></a><a name="chap32"></a>XXXII<br />
ASPROMONTE, THE CLOUD-GATHERER</h2>

<p>
Day was barely dawning when we left Delianuova and began the long and weary
climb up Montalto. Chestnuts gave way to beeches, but the summit receded ever
further from us. And even before reaching the uplands, the so-called Piano di
Carmelia, we encountered a bank of bad weather. A glance at the map will show
that Montalto must be a cloud-gatherer, drawing to its flanks every wreath of
vapour that rises from Ionian and Tyrrhenian; a west wind was blowing that
morning, and thick fogs clung to the skirts of the peak. We reached the summit
(1956 metres) at last, drenched in an icy bath of rain and sleet, and with
fingers so numbed that we could hardly hold our sticks.
</p>

<p>
Of the superb view&mdash;for such it must be&mdash;nothing whatever was to be
seen; we were wrapped in a glacial mist. On the highest point stands a figure
of the Redeemer. It was dragged up in pieces from Delianuova some seven years
ago, but soon injured by frosts; it has lately been refashioned. The original
structure may be due to the same pious stimulus as that which placed the
crosses on Monte Vulture and other peaks throughout the country&mdash;a
counterblast to the rationalistic congress at Rome in 1904, when Giordano Bruno
became, for a while, the hero of the country. This statue does not lack
dignity. The Saviour&rsquo;s regard turns towards Reggio, the capital of the
province; and one hand is upraised in calm and godlike benediction.
</p>

<p>
Passing through magnificent groves of fir, we descended rapidly into anothsr
climate, into realms of golden sunshine. Among these trees I espied what has
become quite a rare bird in Italy&mdash;the common wood-pigeon. The few that
remain have been driven into the most secluded recesses of the mountains; it
was different in the days of Theocritus, who sang of this amiable fowl when the
climate was colder and the woodlands reached as far as the now barren seashore.
To the firs succeeded long stretches of odorous pines interspersed with
Mediterranean heath (bruyère), which here grows to a height of twelve feet; one
thinks of the number of briar
<a name="Page270"></a>
pipes that could be cut out of its knotty roots. A British Vice-Consul at
Reggio, Mr. Kerrich, started this industry about the year 1899; he collected
the roots, which were sawn into blocks and then sent to France and America to
be made into pipes. This Calabrian briar was considered superior to the French
kind, and Mr. Kerrich had large sales on both sides of the Atlantic; his chief
difficulty was want of labour owing to emigration.
</p>

<p>
We passed, by the wayside, several rude crosses marking the site of accidents
or murders, as well as a large heap of stones, where-under lie the bones of a
man who attempted to traverse these mountains in winter-time and was frozen to
death.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They found him,&rdquo; the guide told me, &ldquo;in spring, when the
snow melted from off his body. There he lay, all fresh and comely! It looked as
if he would presently wake up and continue his march; but he neither spoke nor
stirred. Then they knew he was dead. And they piled all these stones over him,
to prevent the wolves, you understand&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Aspromonte deserves its name. It is an incredibly harsh agglomeration of hill
and dale, and the geology of the district, as I learned long ago from my friend
Professor Cortese, reveals a perfect chaos of rocks of every age, torn into
gullies by earthquakes and other cataclysms of the past&mdash;at one place,
near Scido, is an old stream of lava. Once the higher ground, the nucleus of
the group, is left behind, the wanderer finds himself lost in a maze of
contorted ravines, winding about without any apparent system of watershed. Does
the liquid flow north or south? Who can tell! The track crawls in and out of
valleys, mounts upwards to heights of sun-scorched bracken and cistus, descends
once more into dewy glades hemmed in by precipices and overhung by drooping
fernery. It crosses streams of crystal clearness, rises afresh in endless
gyrations under the pines only to vanish, yet again, into the twilight of
deeper abysses, where it skirts the rivulet along precarious ledges, until some
new obstruction blocks the way&mdash;so it writhes about for long, long hours.
. . .
</p>

<p>
Here, on the spot, one can understand how an outlaw like Musolino was enabled
to defy justice, helped, as he was, by the fact that the vast majority of the
inhabitants were favourable to him, and that the officer in charge of his
pursuers was paid a fixed sum for every day he spent in the chase and
presumably found it convenient not to discover his whereabouts.<a href="#fn-32.1" name="fnref-32.1" id="fnref-32.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-32.1" id="fn-32.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-32.1">[1]</a>
See next chapter.
</p>

<p>
We rested awhile, during these interminable meanderings, under the shadow of a
group of pines.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page271"></a>
&ldquo;Do you see that square patch yonder?&rdquo; said my man. &ldquo;It is a
cornfield. There Musolino shot one of his enemies, whom he suspected of giving
information to the police. It was well done.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How many did he shoot, altogether?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Only eighteen. And three of them recovered, more or less; enough to limp
about, at all events. Ah, if you could have seen him, sir! He was young, with
curly fair hair, and a face like a rose. God alone can tell how many poor
people he helped in their distress. And any young girl he met in the mountains
he would help with her load and accompany as far as her home, right into her
father&rsquo;s house, which none of us would have risked, however much we might
have liked it. But every one knew that he was pure as an angel.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And there was a young fellow here,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;who thought
he could profit by pretending to be Musolino. So one day he challenged a
proprietor with his gun, and took all his money. When it came to
Musolino&rsquo;s ears, he was furious&mdash;furious! He lay in wait for him,
caught him, and said: &ldquo;How dare you touch fathers of children?
Where&rsquo;s that money you took from Don Antonio?&rdquo; Then the boy began
to cry and tremble for his life. &ldquo;Bring it,&rdquo; said Musolino,
&ldquo;every penny, at midday next Monday, to such and such a spot, or
else&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; Of course he brought it. Then he marched him straight
into the proprietor&rsquo;s house. &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s this wretched boy, who
robbed you in my name. And here&rsquo;s the money: please count it. Now, what
shall we do with him?&rdquo; So Don Antonio counted the money.
&ldquo;It&rsquo;s all there,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;let him off this
time.&rdquo; Then Musolino turned to the lad: &ldquo;You have behaved like a
mannerless puppy,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;without shame or knowledge of the
world. Be reasonable in future, and understand clearly: I will have no
brigandage in these mountains. Leave that to the syndics and judges in the
towns.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
We did not traverse Musolino&rsquo;s natal village, Santo Stefano; indeed, we
passed through no villages at all. But after issuing from the labyrinth, we saw
a few of them, perched in improbable situations&mdash;Roccaforte and Roghudi on
our right; on the other side, Africo and Casalnuovo. Salis Marschlins says that
the inhabitants of these regions are so wild and innocent that money is
unknown; everything is done by barter. That comes of copying without
discrimination. For this statement he utilized the report of a Government
official, a certain Leoni, who was sent hither after the earthquake of 1783,
and found the use of money not unknown, but forgotten, in consequence of this
terrible catastrophe.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page272"></a>
These vales of Aspromonte are one of the last refuges of living Byzantinism.
Greek is still spoken in some places, such as Roccaforte and Roghudi. Earlier
travellers confused the natives with the Albanians; Niehbuhr, who had an
obsession on the subject of Hellenism, imagined they were relics of old Dorian
and Achaean colonies. Scholars are apparently not yet quite decided upon
certain smaller matters. So Lenormant (Vol. II, p. 433) thinks they came hither
after the Turkish conquest, as did the Albanians; Batiffol argues that they
were chased into Calabria from Sicily by the Arabs after the second half of the
seventh century; Morosi, who treats mostly of their Apulian settlements, says
that they came from the East between the sixth and tenth centuries. Many
students, such as Morelli and Comparetti, have garnered their songs, language,
customs and lore, and whoever wants a convenient résumé of these earlier
researches will find it in Pellegrini&rsquo;s book which was written in 1873
(printed 1880). He gives the number of Greek inhabitants of these
places&mdash;Roghudi, for example, had 535 in his day; he has also noted down
these villages, like Africo and Casalnuovo, in which the Byzantine speech has
lately been lost. Bova and Condofuri are now the head-quarters of mediæval
Greek in these parts.
</p>

<p>
From afar we had already descried a green range of hills that shut out the
seaward view. This we now began to climb, in wearisome ascension; it is called
<i>Piè d&rsquo;Impisa,</i> because &ldquo;your feet are all the time on a steep
incline.&rdquo; Telegraph wires here accompany the track, a survival of the war
between the Italian Government and Musolino. On the summit lies a lonely Alp,
Campo di Bova, where a herd of cattle were pasturing under the care of a
golden-haired youth who lay supine on the grass, gazing at the clouds as they
drifted in stately procession across the firmament. Save for a dusky
charcoal-burner crouching in a cave, this boy was the only living person we
encountered on our march&mdash;so deserted are these mountain tracks.
</p>

<p>
At Campo di Bova a path branches off to Staiti; the sea is visible once more,
and there are fine glimpses, on the left, towards Staiti (or is it Ferruzzano?)
and, down the right, into the destructive and dangerous torrent of Amendolea.
Far beyond it, rises the mountain peak of Pentedattilo, a most singular
landmark which looks exactly like a molar tooth turned upside down, with fangs
in air. The road passes through a gateway in the rock whence, suddenly, a full
view is disclosed of Bova on its hill-top, the houses nestling among huge
blocks of stone that make one think of some cyclopean citadel of past ages. My
guide stoutly denied that this
<a name="Page273"></a>
was Bova; the town, he declared, lay in quite another direction. I imagine he
had never been beyond the foot of the &ldquo;Piè d&rsquo;Impisa.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Here, once more, the late earthquake has done some damage, and there is a row
of trim wooden shelters near the entrance of the town. I may add, as a
picturesque detail, that about one-third of them have never been inhabited, and
are never likely to be. They were erected in the heat of enthusiasm, and there
they will stay, empty and abandoned, until some energetic mayor shall pull them
down and cook his maccheroni with their timber.
</p>

<p>
Evening was drawing on apace, and whether it was due to the joy of having
accomplished an arduous journey, or to inconsiderate potations of the Bacchus
of Bova, one of the most remarkable wines in Italy, I very soon found myself on
excellent terms with the chief citizens of this rather sordid-looking little
place. A good deal has been written concerning Bova and its inhabitants, but I
should say there is still a mine of information to be exploited on the spot.
They are bilingual, but while clinging stubbornly to their old speech, they
have now embraced Catholicism. The town kept its Greek religious rites till the
latter half of the sixteenth century; and Rodotà has described the
&ldquo;vigorous resistance&rdquo; that was made to the introduction of
Romanism, and the ceremonies which finally accompanied that event.
</p>

<p>
Mine hostess obligingly sang me two or three songs in her native language; the
priest furnished me with curious statistics of folklore and criminology; and
the notary, with whom I conversed awhile on the tiny piazza that overlooks the
coastlands and distant Ionian, was a most affable gentleman. Seeing that the
Christian names of the populace are purely Italian, I enquired as to their
surnames, and learned what I expected, namely, that a good many Greek family
names survive among the people. His own name, he said, was unquestionably
Greek: <i>Condemi;</i> if I liked, he would go through the local archives and
prepare me a list of all such surnames as appeared to him to be non-Italian; we
could thus obtain some idea of the percentage of Greek families still living
here. My best thanks to the good Signor!
</p>

<p>
After some further liquid refreshment, a youthful native volunteered to guide
me by short cuts to the remote railway station. We stepped blithely into the
twilight, and during the long descent I discoursed with him, in fluent
Byzantine Greek, of the affairs of his village.
</p>

<p>
It is my theory that among a populace of this kind the words relative to
agricultural pursuits will be those which are least likely to suffer change
with lapse of years, or to be replaced by others.
<a name="Page274"></a>
Acting on this principle, I put him through a catechism on the subject as soon
as we reached our destination, and was surprised at the relative scarcity of
Italian terms&mdash;barely 25 per cent I should say. Needless to add, I omitted
to note them down. Such as it is, be that my contribution to the literature of
these sporadic islets of mediæval Hellenism, whose outstanding features are
being gnawed away by the waves of military conscription, governmental
schooling, and emigration.
</p>

<p>
Caulonia, my next halting-place, lay far off the line. I had therefore the
choice of spending the night at Gerace (old Locri) or Rocella
Ionica&mdash;intermediate stations. Both of them, to my knowledge, possessing
indifferent accommodation, I chose the former as being the nearest, and slept
there, not amiss; far better than on a previous occasion, when certain things
occurred which need not be set down here.
</p>

<p>
The trip from Delianuova over the summit of Montalto to Bova railway station is
by no means to be recommended to young boys or persons in delicate health.
Allowing for only forty-five minutes&rsquo; rest, it took me fourteen hours to
walk to the town of Bova, and the railway station lies nearly three hours apart
from that place. There is hardly a level yard of ground along the whole route,
and though my &ldquo;guide&rdquo; twice took the wrong track and thereby
probably lost me some little time, I question whether the best walker, provided
(as I was) with the best maps, will be able to traverse the distance in less
than fifteen hours.
</p>

<p>
Whoever he is, I wish him joy of his journey. Pleasant to recall, assuredly;
the scenery and the mountain flowers are wondrously beautiful; but I have fully
realized what the men of Delianuova meant, when they said:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To Montalto, Yes; to Bova, No.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page275"></a><a name="chap33"></a>XXXIII<br />
MUSOLINO AND THE LAW</h2>

<p>
Musolino will remain a hero for many long years to come. &ldquo;He did his
duty&rdquo;: such is the popular verdict on his career. He was not a brigand,
but an unfortunate&mdash;a martyr, a victim of the law. So he is described not
only by his country-people, but by the writers of many hundred serious
pamphlets in every province of Italy.
</p>

<p>
At any bookstall you may buy cheap illustrated tracts and poems setting forth
his achievements. In Cosenza I saw a play of which he was the leading figure,
depicted as a pale, long-suffering gentleman of the &ldquo;misunderstood&rdquo;
type&mdash;friend of the fatherless, champion of widows and orphans, rectifier
of all wrongs; in fact, as the embodiment of those virtues which we are apt to
associate with Prometheus or the founder of Christianity.
</p>

<p>
Only to those who know nothing of local conditions will it seem strange to say
that Italian law is one of the factors that contribute to the disintegration of
family life throughout the country, and to the production of creatures like
Musolino. There are few villages which do not contain some notorious assassins
who have escaped punishment under sentimental pleas, and now terrorize the
neighbourhood. This is one of the evils which derange patriarchalism; the
decent-minded living in fear of their lives, the others with a conspicuous
example before their eyes of the advantages of evil-doing. And another is that
the innocent often suffer, country-bred lads being locked up for months and
years in prison on the flimsiest pretexts&mdash;often on the mere word of some
malevolent local policeman&mdash;among hardened habitual offenders. If they
survive the treatment, which is not always the case, they return home
completely demoralized and a source of infection to others.
</p>

<p>
It is hardly surprising if, under such conditions, rich and poor alike are
ready to hide a picturesque fugitive from justice. A sad state of affairs,
but&mdash;as an unsavoury Italian proverb correctly says&mdash;<i>il pesce
puzza dal capo.</i>
</p>

<p>
For the fault lies not only in the fundamental perversity of all Roman Law. It
lies also in the local administration of that law,
<a name="Page276"></a>
which is inefficient and marked by that elaborate brutality characteristic of
all &ldquo;philosophic&rdquo; and tender-hearted nations. One thinks of the
Byzantines. . . . That justices should be well-salaried gentlemen, cognizant of
their duties to society; that carbineers and other police-functionaries should
be civilly responsible for outrages upon the public; that a so-called
&ldquo;habeas-corpus&rdquo; Act might be as useful here as among certain
savages of the north; that the Baghdad system of delays leads to corruption of
underpaid officials and witnesses alike (not to speak of judges)&mdash;in a
word, that the method pursued hereabouts is calculated to create rather than to
repress crime: these are truths of too elementary a nature to find their way
into the brains of the megalomaniac rhetoricians who control their
country&rsquo;s fate. They will never endorse that saying of Stendhal&rsquo;s:
&ldquo;In Italy, with the exception of Milan, the death-penalty is the preface
of all civilization.&rdquo; (To this day, the proportion of murders is still 13
per cent higher in Palermo than in Milan.)
</p>

<p>
Speak to the wisest judges of the horrors of cellular confinement such as
Musolino was enduring up to a short time ago, as opposed to capital punishment,
and you will learn that they invoke the humanitarian Beccaria in justification
of it. Theorists!
</p>

<p>
For less formidable criminals there exists that wondrous institution of
<i>domicilio coatto,</i> which I have studied in the islands of Lipari and
Ponza. These evil-doers seldom try to escape; life is far too comfortable, and
the wine good and cheap; often, on completing their sentences, they get
themselves condemned anew, in order to return. The hard-working man may well
envy their lot, for they receive free lodging from the Government, a daily
allowance of money, and two new suits of clothes a year&mdash;they are not
asked to do a stroke of work in return, but may lie in bed all day long, if so
disposed. The law-abiding citizen, meanwhile, pays for the upkeep of this horde
of malefactors, as well as for the army of officials who are deputed to attend
to their wants. This institution of <i>domicilio coatto</i> is one of those
things which would be incredible, were it not actually in existence. It is a
school, a State-fostered school, for the promotion of criminality.
</p>

<p>
But what shall be expected? Where judges sob like children, and jurors swoon
away with emotionalism; where floods of bombast&mdash;go to the courts, and
listen!&mdash;take the place of cross-examination and duly-sworn affidavits;
where perjury is a humanly venial and almost praiseworthy failing&mdash;how
shall the code, defective as it is, be administered? Rhetoric, and rhetoric
alone, sways the decision of the courts. Scholars are only now beginning
<a name="Page277"></a>
to realize to what an extent the ancient sense of veracity was tainted with
this vice&mdash;how deeply all classical history is permeated with elegant
partisan non-truth. And this evil legacy from Greco-Roman days has been
augmented by the more recent teachings of Jesuitry and the Catholic theory of
&ldquo;peccato veniale.&rdquo; Rhetoric alone counts; rhetoric alone is
&ldquo;art.&rdquo; The rest is mere facts; and your &ldquo;penalista&rdquo; has
a constitutional horror of a bald fact, because <i>there it is,</i> and there
is nothing to be done with it. It is too crude a thing for cultured men to
handle. If a local barrister were forced to state in court a plain fact,
without varnish, he would die of cerebral congestion; the judge, of boredom.
</p>

<p>
In early times, these provinces had a rough-and-ready cowboy justice which
answered simple needs, and when, in Bourbon days, things became more
centralized, there was still a never-failing expedient: each judge having a
fixed and publicly acknowledged tariff, the village elders, in deserving cases,
subscribed the requisite sum and released their prisoner. But Italy is now
paying the penalty of ambition. With one foot in the ferocity of her past, and
the other on a quicksand of dream-nurtured idealism, she contrives to combine
the disadvantages of both. She, who was the light o&rsquo; love of all Europe
for long ages, and in her poverty denied nothing to her clientèle, has now laid
aside a little money, repenting of her frivolous and mercenary deeds (they
sometimes do), and becoming puritanically zealous of good works in her old
age&mdash;all this, however, as might have been expected from her antecedent
career, without much discrimination.
</p>

<p>
It is certainly remarkable that a race of men who have been such ardent
opponents of many forms of tyranny in the past, should still endure a system of
criminal procedure worthy of Torquemada. High and low cry out against it,
but&mdash;<i>pazienza!</i> Where shall grievances be ventilated? In Parliament?
A good joke, that! In the press? Better still! Italian newspapers nowise
reflect the opinions of civilized Italy; they are mere cheese-wrappers; in the
whole kingdom there are only three self-respecting dailies. The people have
learnt to despair of their rulers&mdash;to regard them with cynical suspicion.
Public opinion has been crushed out of the country. What goes by that name is
the gossip of the town-concierge, or obscure village cabals and schemings.
</p>

<p>
I am quite aware that the law-abiding spirit is the slow growth of ages, and
that a serious mischief like this cannot be repaired in a short generation. I
know that even now the Italian code of criminal procedure, that tragic farce,
is under revision. I know, moreover, that there are stipendiary magistrates in
south Italy
<a name="Page278"></a>
whose discernment and integrity would do honour to our British courts.
But&mdash;take the case out of their hands into a higher tribunal, and you may
put your trust in God, or in your purse. Justice hereabouts is in the same
condition as it was in Egypt at the time of Lord Dufferin&rsquo;s report: a
mockery.
</p>

<p>
It may be said that it does not concern aliens to make such criticism. A
fatuous observation! Everything concerns everybody. The foreigner in Italy, if
he is wise, will familiarize himself not only with the cathedrals to be
visited, but also, and primarily, with the technique of legal bribery and
subterfuge&mdash;with the methods locally employed for escaping out of the
meshes of the law. Otherwise he may find unpleasant surprises in store for him.
Had Mr. Mercer made it his business to acquire some rudiments of this useful
knowledge, he would never have undergone that outrageous official ill-treatment
which has become a byword in the annals of international amenities. And if
these strictures be considered too severe, let us see what Italians themselves
have to say. In 1900 was published a book called &ldquo;La Quistione
Meridionale&rdquo; (What&rsquo;s Wrong with the South), that throws a flood of
light upon local conditions. It contains the views of twenty-seven of the most
prominent men in the country as to how south Italian problems should be faced
and solved. Nearly all of them deplore the lack of justice. Says Professor
Colajanni: &ldquo;To heal the south, we require an honest, intelligent and
sagacious government, <i>which we have not got.&rdquo;</i> And Lombroso:
&ldquo;In the south it is necessary to introduce justice, <i>which does not
exist, save in favour of certain classes.&rdquo;</i>
</p>

<p>
I am tempted to linger on this subject, not without reason. These people and
their attitude towards life will remain an enigma to the traveller, until he
has acquainted himself with the law of the land and seen with his own eyes
something of the atrocious misery which its administration involves. A murderer
like Musolino, crowned with an aureole of saintliness, would be an anomaly in
England. We should think it rather paradoxical to hear a respectable old farmer
recommending his boys to shoot a policeman, whenever they safely can. On the
spot, things begin to wear a different aspect. Musolino is no more to be blamed
than a child who has been systematically misguided by his parents; and if these
people, much as they love their homes and families, are all potential
Musolinos, they have good reasons for it&mdash;excellent reasons.
</p>

<p>
No south Italian living at this present moment, be he of what social class you
please&mdash;be he of the gentlest blood or most refined culture&mdash;is <i>a
priori</i> on the side of the policeman. No; not <i>a priori.</i> The abuses of
the executive are too terrific to warrant such an
<a name="Page279"></a>
attitude. Has not the entire police force of Naples, up to its very head, been
lately proved to be in the pay of the camorra; to say nothing of its connection
with what Messrs. King and Okey euphemistically call &ldquo;the unseen hand at
Rome&rdquo;&mdash;a hand which is held out for blackmail, and not vainly, from
the highest ministerial benches? Under such conditions, the populace becomes
profoundly distrustful of the powers that be, and such distrust breeds bad
citizens. But so things will remain, until the bag-and-baggage policy is
applied to the whole code of criminal procedure, and to a good half of its
present administrators.
</p>

<p>
The best of law-systems, no doubt, is but a compromise. Science being one
thing, and public order another, the most enlightened of legislators may well
tremble to engraft the fruits of modern psychological research upon the tree of
law, lest the scion prove too vigorous for the aged vegetable. But some
compromises are better than others; and the Italian code, which reads like a
fairy tale and works like a Fury, is as bad a one as human ingenuity can
devise. If a prisoner escape punishment, it is due not so much to his innocence
as to some access of sanity or benevolence on the part of the judge, who
courageously twists the law in his favour. Fortunately, such humane exponents
of the code are common enough; were it otherwise, the prisons, extensive as
they are, would have to be considerably enlarged. But that ideal judge who
shall be paid as befits his grave calling, who shall combine the honesty and
common sense of the north with the analytical acumen of the south, has yet to
be evolved. What interests the student of history is that things hereabouts
have not changed by a hair since the days of Demosthenes and those preposterous
old Hellenic tribunals. Not by a single hair! On the one hand, we have a deluge
of subtle disquisitions on &ldquo;jurisprudence,&rdquo; &ldquo;personal
responsibility&rdquo; and so forth; on the other, the sinister tomfoolery known
as <i>law&mdash;</i>that is, babble, corruption, palæolithic ideas of what
constitutes evidence, and a court-procedure that reminds one of Gilbert and
Sullivan at their best.
</p>

<p>
There was a report in the papers not long ago of the trial of an old married
couple, on the charge of murdering a young girl. The bench dismissed the case,
remarking that there was not a particle of evidence against them; they had
plainly been exemplary citizens all their long lives. They had spent five years
in prison awaiting trial. Five years, and innocent! It stands to reason that
such abuses disorganize the family, especially in Italy, where the
&ldquo;family&rdquo; means much more than it does in England; the land lies
barren, and savings are wasted in paying lawyers and bribing greedy court
<a name="Page280"></a>
officials. What are this worthy couple to think of <i>Avanti, Savoia!</i> once
they have issued from their dungeon?
</p>

<p>
I read, in yesterday&rsquo;s Parliamentary Proceedings, of an honourable member
(Aprile) rising to ask the Minister of Justice (Gallini) whether the time has
not come to proceed with the trial of &ldquo;Signori Camerano and their
co-accused,&rdquo; who have been in prison for six years, charged with
voluntary homicide. Whereto His Excellency sagely replies that &ldquo;la
magistratura ha avuto i suoi motivi&rdquo;&mdash;the magistrates have had their
reasons. Six years in confinement, and perhaps innocent! Can one wonder, under
such circumstances, at the anarchist schools of Prato and elsewhere? Can one
wonder if even a vindictive and corrupt rag like the socialistic
&ldquo;Avanti&rdquo; occasionally prints frantic protests of quasi-righteous
indignation? And not a hundredth part of such accused persons can cause a
Minister of the Crown to be interpellated on their behalf. The others suffer
silently and often die, forgotten, in their cells.
</p>

<p>
And yet&mdash;how seriously we take this nation! Almost as seriously as we take
ourselves. The reason is that most of us come to Italy too undiscerning, too
reverent; in the pre-critical and pre-humorous stages. We arrive here, stuffed
with Renaissance ideals or classical lore, and viewing the present through
coloured spectacles. We arrive here, above all things, too young; for youth
loves to lean on tradition and to draw inspiration from what has gone before;
youth finds nothing more difficult than to follow Goethe&rsquo;s advice about
grasping that living life which shifts and fluctuates about us. Few writers are
sufficiently detached to laugh at these people as they, together with
ourselves, so often and so richly deserve. I spoke of the buffoonery of Italian
law; I might have called it a burlesque. The trial of the ex-minister Nasi:
here was a <i>cause célèbre</i> conducted by the highest tribunal of the land;
and if it was not a burlesque&mdash;why, we must coin a new word for what is.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page281"></a><a name="chap34"></a>XXXIV<br />
MALARIA</h2>

<p>
A black snake of alarming dimensions, one of the monsters that still infest the
Calabrian lowlands, glided across the roadway while I was waiting for the post
carriage to drive me to Caulonia from its railway-station. Auspicious omen! It
carried my thoughts from old Æsculapius to his modern representatives&mdash;to
that school of wise and disinterested healers who are ridding these regions of
their curse, and with whom I was soon to have some nearer acquaintance.
</p>

<p>
We started at last, in the hot hours of the morning, and the road at first
skirts the banks of the Alaro, the Sagra of old, on whose banks was fought the
fabled battle between the men of Croton and Locri. Then it begins to climb
upwards. My companion was a poor peasant woman, nearly blind (from malaria,
possibly). Full of my impressions of yesterday, I promptly led the conversation
towards the subject of Musolino. She had never spoken to him, she said, or even
seen him. But she got ten francs from him, all the same. In dire distress, some
years ago, she had asked a friend in the mountains to approach the brigand on
her behalf. The money was long in coming, she added, but of course it came in
the end. He always helped poor people, even those outside his own country.
</p>

<p>
The site of the original Caulonia is quite uncertain. Excavations now going on
at Monasterace, some ten miles further on, may decide that the town lay there.
Some are in favour of the miserable village of Focà, near at hand; or of other
sites. The name of Focà seems to point, rather, to a settlement of the
regenerator Nicephorus Phocas. Be that as it may, the present town of Caulonia
used to be called Castelvetere, and it appropriated the Greek name in
accordance with a custom which has been largely followed hereabouts.<a href="#fn-34.1" name="fnref-34.1" id="fnref-34.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
It contains some ten thousand inhabitants, amiable, intelligent and
distinguished by a <i>philoxenia</i> befitting the traditions
<a name="Page282"></a>
of men who sheltered Pythagoras in his hour of need. As at Rossano, Catanzaro
and many other Calabrian towns, there used to be a ghetto of Jews here; the
district is still called &ldquo;La Giudeca&rdquo;; their synagogue was duly
changed into a church of the Madonna.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-34.1" id="fn-34.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-34.1">[1]</a>
It is represented with two towers in Peutinger&rsquo;s Tables. But these,
says an editor, should have been given to the neighbouring Scilatio, for Caulon
was in ruins at the time of Pliny, and is not even mentioned by Ptolemy.
Servius makes another mistake; he confuses the Calabrian Caulon with a locality
of the same name near Capua.
</p>

<p>
So much I learn from Montorio, who further informs me that the ubiquitous Saint
Peter preached here on his way to Rome, and converted the people to
Christianity; and that the town can boast of three authentic portraits of the
Mother of God painted by Saint Luke (&ldquo;Lukas me pinxit&rdquo;). One is
rather bewildered by the number of these masterpieces in Italy, until one
realizes, as an old ecclesiastical writer has pointed out, that &ldquo;the
Saint, being excellent in his art, could make several of them in a few days, to
correspond to the great devotion of those early Christians, fervent in their
love to the Great Mother of God. Whence we may believe that to satisfy their
ardent desires he was continually applying himself to this task of so much
glory to Mary and her blessed Son.&rdquo; But the sacristan of the church at
Caulonia, to whom I applied for information regarding these local treasures,
knew nothing about them, and his comments gave me the impression that he has
relapsed into a somewhat pagan way of regarding such matters.
</p>

<p>
You may obtain a fairly good view of Caulonia from the southeast; or again,
from the neighbouring hillock of San Vito. The town lies some 300 metres above
sea-level on a platform commanding the valleys of the Amusa and Alaro. This
position, which was clearly chosen for its strategic value, unfortunately does
not allow it to expand, and so the inhabitants are deprived of that public
garden which they amply deserve. At the highest point lies a celebrated old
castle wherein, according to tradition, Campanella was imprisoned for a while.
In the days of Pacicchelli, it was a fine place&mdash;&ldquo;magnifico nelle
regole di Fortezza, con cinque baloardi provveduti di cannoni di bronzo, ed una
riccha Armeria, degna habitazione di don Carlo Maria Carrafa, Prencipe della
Roccella, che se ne intitola Marchese.&rdquo; Mingled with the stones of its
old walls they have recently found skeletons&mdash;victims, possibly, of the
same macabre superstition to which the blood-drenched masonry of the Tower of
London bears witness. Here, too, have been unearthed terra-cotta lamps and
other antiquities. What are we to surmise from this? That it was a Roman
foundation? Or that the malaria in older times forced Caulonia to wander
towards healthier inland heights after the example of Sybaris-Terranova, and
that the Romans continued to occupy this same site? Or, assuming Castelvetere
to date only from mediæval times, that these ancient relics found their way
into it accidentally? The low-lying
<a name="Page283"></a>
district of Foca, at this day, is certainly very malarious, whereas the
death-rate up here is only about 12 per 1000.
</p>

<p>
Dr. Francesco Genovese of Caulonia, to whom I am indebted for much kindness and
who is himself a distinguished worker in the humanitarian mission of combating
malaria, has published, among other interesting pamphlets, one which deals with
this village of Focà, a small place of about 200 inhabitants, surrounded by
fertile orange and vine plantations near the mouth of the Alaro. His researches
into its vital statistics for the half-century ending 1902 reveal an appalling
state of affairs. Briefly summarized, they amount to this, that during this
period there were 391 births and 516 deaths. In other words, the village, which
in 1902 ought to have contained between 600 and 800 inhabitants, not only
failed to progress, but devoured its original population of 200; and not only
them, but also 125 fresh immigrants who had entered the region from the healthy
uplands, lured by the hope of gaining a little money during the vintage season.
</p>

<p>
A veritable Moloch!
</p>

<p>
Had the old city of Caulonia, numbering perhaps 20,000 inhabitants, stood here
under such conditions of hygiene, it would have been expunged off the face of
the earth in fifty years.
</p>

<p>
Yet&mdash;speaking of malaria in general&mdash;a good deal of evidence has been
brought together to show that the disease has been endemic in Magna Græcia for
two thousand years, and the customs of the Sybarites seem to prove that they
had some acquaintance with marsh fever, and tried to guard against it.
&ldquo;Whoever would live long,&rdquo; so ran their proverb, &ldquo;must see
neither the rising nor the setting sun.&rdquo; A queer piece of advice,
intelligible only if the land was infested with malaria. Many of their
luxurious habits assume another import, on this hypothesis. Like the
inhabitants of the malarious Etruscan region, they were adepts at draining, and
their river is described, in one of the minor works attributed to Galen, as
&ldquo;rendering men infertile&rdquo;&mdash;a characteristic result of malaria.
What is still more significant is that their new town Thurii, built on the
heights, was soon infected, and though twice repeopled, decayed away. And that
they had chosen the heights for their relative healthfulness we can infer from
Strabo, who says that Paestum, a colony from Sybaris, was removed further
inland from the shore, on account of the pestilential climate of the lowlands.
</p>

<p>
But the Ionian shores cannot have been as deadly as they now are. We calculate,
for example, that the town walls of Croton measured eighteen kilometres in
circumference, a figure which the modern visitor to Cotrone only brings himself
to believe when he 
<a name="Page284"></a>
remembers what can be actually proved of other Hellenic colonies, such as
Syracuse. Well, the populace of so large a city requires a surrounding district
to supply it with agricultural produce. The Marchesato, the vast tract
bordering on Cotrone, is now practically uninhabitable; the population
(including the town) has sunk to 45 to the square kilometre. That is malaria.
</p>

<p>
Or rather, only one side of the evil. For these coastlands attract rural
labourers who descend from the mountains during the season of hay-making or
fruit-harvest, and then return infected to their homes. One single malarious
patient may inoculate an entire village, hitherto immune, granted the
anophelines are there to propagate the mischief. By means of these annual
migrations the scourge has spread, in the past. And so it spreads to-day,
whenever possible. Of forty labourers that left Caulonia for Cotrone in 1908
all returned infected save two, who had made liberal use of quinine as a
prophylactic. Fortunately, there are no anophelines at Caulonia.
</p>

<p>
Greatly, indeed, must this country have changed since olden days; and gleaning
here and there among the ancients, Dr. Genovese has garnered some interesting
facts on this head. The coast-line, now unbroken sand, is called <i>rocky,</i>
in several regions, by Strabo, Virgil and Persius Flaccus; of the two harbours,
of Locri, of that of Metapontum, Caulonia and other cities, nothing remains;
the promontory of Cocynthum (Stilo)&mdash;described as the longest promontory
in Italy&mdash;together with other capes, has been washed away by the waves or
submerged under silt carried down from the hills; islands, like that of Calypso
which is described in Vincenzo Pascale&rsquo;s book (1796), and mentioned by G.
Castaldi (1842), have clean vanished from the map.
</p>

<p>
The woodlands have retired far inland; yet here at Caulonia, says Thucydides,
was prepared the timber for the fleets of Athens. The rivers, irregular and
spasmodic torrents, must have flowed with more equal and deeper current, since
Pliny mentions five of them as navigable; snow, very likely, covered the
mountain tops; the rainfall was clearly more abundant&mdash;one of the sights
of Locri was its daily rainbow; the cicadas of the territory of Reggio are said
to have been &ldquo;dumb,&rdquo; on account of the dampness of the climate.
They are anything but dumb nowadays.
</p>

<p>
Earth-movements, too, have tilted the coast-line up and down, and there is
evidence to show that while the Tyrrhenian shore has been raised by these
oscillations, the Ionian has sunk. Not long ago four columns were found in the
sea at Cotrone two hundred yards from the beach; old sailors remember another
group of columns
<a name="Page285"></a>
visible at low tide near Caulonia. It is quite possible that the Ionian used to
be as rocky as the other shore, and this gradual sinking of the coast must have
retarded the rapid outflow of the rivers, as it has done in the plain of
Paestum and in the Pontine marshes, favouring malarious conditions. Earthquakes
have helped in the work; that of 1908 lowered certain parts of the Calabrian
shore opposite Messina by about one metre. Indeed, though earthquakes have been
known to raise the soil and thereby improve it, the Calabrian ones have
generally had a contrary effect. The terrific upheavals of 1783-1787 produced
two hundred and fifteen lakes in the country; they were drained away in a style
most creditable to the Bourbons, but there followed an epidemic of malaria
which carried off 18,800 people!
</p>

<p>
These Calabrian conditions are only part of a general change of climate which
seems to have taken place all over Italy; a change to which Columella refers
when, quoting Saserna, he says that formerly the vine and olive could not
prosper &ldquo;by reason of the severe winter&rdquo; in certain places where
they have since become abundant, &ldquo;thanks to a milder temperature.&rdquo;
We never hear of the frozen Tiber nowadays, and many remarks of the ancients as
to the moist and cold climate seem strange to us. Pliny praises the chestnuts
of Tarentum; I question whether the tree could survive the hot climate of
to-day. Nobody could induce &ldquo;splendid beeches&rdquo; to grow in the
<i>lowlands</i> of Latium, yet Theophrastus, a botanist, says that they were
drawn from this region for shipbuilding purposes. This gradual desiccation has
probably gone on for long ages; so Signor Cavara has discovered old trunks of
white fir in districts of the Apennines where such a plant could not possibly
grow to-day.
</p>

<p>
A change to a dry and warm atmosphere is naturally propitious to malaria,
granted sufficient water remains to propagate the mosquito. And the mosquito
contents itself with very little&mdash;the merest teacupful.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Returning to old Calabria, we find the woods of Locri praised by
Proclus&mdash;woods that must have been of coniferous timber, since Virgil
lauds their resinous pitch. Now the Aleppo pine produces pitch, and would still
flourish there, as it does in the lowlands between Taranto and Metaponto; the
classical Sila pitch-trees, however, could not grow at this level any more.
Corroborative evidence can be drawn from Theocritus, who mentions heath and
arbutus as thriving in the marine thickets near Cotrone&mdash;mountain shrubs,
nowadays, that have taken refuge in cooler uplands,
<a name="Page286"></a>
together with the wood-pigeon which haunted the same jungles. It is true that he
hints at marshes near Cotrone, and, indeed, large tracts of south Italy are
described as marshy by the ancients; they may well have harboured the anopheles
mosquito from time immemorial, but it does not follow that they were malarious.
</p>

<p>
Much of the healthy physical conditions may have remained into the Middle Ages
or even later; it is strange to read, for example, in Edrisius, of the pitch
and tar that were exported to all parts from the Bradano river, or of the
torrential Sinno that &ldquo;ships enter this river&mdash;it offers excellent
anchorage&rdquo;; odd, too, to hear of coral fisheries as late as the
seventeenth century at Rocella Ionica, where the waves now slumber on an even
and sandy beach.
</p>

<p>
But malaria had made insidious strides, meanwhile. Dr. Genovese thinks that by
the year 1691 the entire coast was malarious and abandoned like now, though
only within the last two centuries has man actively co-operated in its
dissemination. So long as the woodlands on the plains are cut down or grazed by
goats, relatively little damage is done; but it spells ruin to denude, in a
country like this, the steep slopes of their timber. Whoever wishes to know
what mischief the goats, those picturesque but pernicious quadrupeds, can do to
a mountainous country, should study the history of St. Helena.<a href="#fn-34.2" name="fnref-34.2" id="fnref-34.2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>
Man, with his charcoal-burning, has completed the disaster. What happens? The
friable rock, no longer sustained by plant-life, crashes down with each
thunderstorm, blocks up the valleys, devastating large tracts of fertile land;
it creates swamps in the lowlands, and impedes the outflow of water to the sea.
These ravenous <i>fiumare</i> have become a feature in Calabrian scenery;
underneath one of the most terrible of them lies the birthplace of Praxiteles.
Dry or half-dry during the warm months, and of formidable breadth, such
torrent-beds&mdash;the stagnant water at their skirts&mdash;are ideal
breeding-places for the anophelines from their mouth up to a height of 250
metres. So it comes about that, within recent times, rivers have grown to be
the main arteries of malaria. And there are rivers galore in Calabria. The
patriotic Barrius enumerates 110 of them&mdash;Father Fiore, less learned, or
more prudent, not quite so many. Deforestation and malaria have gone hand in
hand here, as in Greece, Asia Minor, North Africa, and other countries.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-34.2" id="fn-34.2"></a> <a href="#fnref-34.2">[2]</a>
By J. C. Melliss (London, 1875). Thanks to the goats, Maltese fever has
lately been introduced into Calabria.
</p>

<p>
Thus year after year, from one cause or another, the conditions have become
more favourable for the disease to do its fatal work.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus28"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-28.jpg" width="410" height="291" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Effects of deforestation (Aspromonte)</p>
</div>

<p>
That much of this harm has been done quite lately can often be
<a name="Page287"></a>
proved. At Caulonia, for instance, the woodlands are known to have reached the
shore a hundred years ago, and there are bare tracts of land still bearing the
name of &ldquo;foresta.&rdquo; In a single summer (1807) a French regiment
stationed at Cosenza lost 800 men from fever, and when Rath visited the town in
1871 it was described to him as a &ldquo;vast hospital&rdquo; during the hot
months; nevertheless, says he, the disease has only been so destructive during
the last two centuries, for up to that time the forests touched the outskirts
of the town and regulated the Crati-bed, preventing the formation of marshes.
The literary record of Cosenza is one of exceptional brilliance; for acute and
original thought this town can hardly be surpassed by any other of its size on
earth. Were statistics available, I have not the slightest doubt that fever
could be shown to be largely responsible for the withering of its spiritual
life.
</p>

<p>
The same fate&mdash;the same relapse from prosperity to decay&mdash;and for the
same reasons, has overtaken many other riverside villages, among them that of
Tarsia, the Caprasia of the Antonine Itinerary. &ldquo;It was described to
us,&rdquo; says Rath, &ldquo;as the most miserable and dirty village in
Calabria; but we found it worse.&rdquo; It remains, to-day, a highly infected
and altogether pitiable place, concerning which I have made certain modest
researches that would require, none the less, a chapter to themselves. . . .
</p>

<p>
Perhaps I have already said over-much on the subject. An Englishman
unacquainted with malaria might think so, oblivious of the fact that Sir Ronald
Ross has called it &ldquo;perhaps the most important of human diseases.&rdquo;
But let him go to a malarious country and see with his own eyes something of
the degradation it involves; how it stamps its accursed imprimatur upon man and
nature alike! It is the blight of youth&mdash;the desert-maker. A well-known
Italian senator has declared that the story of south Italy is, was, and will be
the story of malaria; and the greater part of Calabria will certainly remain an
enigma to the traveller who ignores what is meant by this plague.
</p>

<p>
Malaria is the key to a correct understanding of the landscape; it explains the
inhabitants, their mode of life, their habits, their history.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page288"></a><a name="chap35"></a>XXXV<br />
CAULONIA TO SERRA</h2>

<p>
&ldquo;How do you treat your malaria patients?&rdquo; I once enquired of a
doctor in India.
</p>

<p>
A few good stiff doses, he said, when the attack is on; that generally settles
them. If not, they can begin again. To take quinine as a prophylactic, he
considered folly. It might grow into a habit; you never know. . . .
</p>

<p>
It is to be hoped that such types are extinct, out there. They are extinct
hereabouts. None but an ignorant person would now traverse malarious tracts in
summer without previous quininization; or, if infected, deal with the disease
otherwise than by an amply protracted treatment of cure. Yet it is only quite
lately that we have gained our knowledge of a proper use of the drug; and this
accounts for the great mortality long after its specific effects had been
recognized by the profession. It was given both inefficiently and
insufficiently. It was sold at a prohibitive price. The country people were
distrustful; so-and-so had taken it for three or four days; he had improved,
yes; but the fever was on him once more. Why waste money on such experiments?
</p>

<p>
I remember accosting a lad, anemic, shivering with the tertian, and marked by
that untimely senility which is the sign-manual of malaria. I suggested
quinine.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t take doctors&rsquo; stuff,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Even if
I wanted to, my father would not let me. And if he did, there&rsquo;s no money
to pay for it. And if there were, it would do no good. He&rsquo;s tried it
himself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, but how are you feeling?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, all right. There&rsquo;s nothing much the matter with me. Just the
bad air.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Such types, too, are practically extinct nowadays; the people are being
educated to recognize their peril and how to avoid it; they begin to follow
Professor Celli&rsquo;s advice in the matter of regarding quinine as their
&ldquo;daily bread.&rdquo; For since the discovery of the anophelic origin of
malaria many devices have been put into execution to combat the disease, not
the least of them being a
<a name="Page289"></a>
popularized teaching of its causes and consequences by means of pamphlets,
lectures to school-children, and so forth.
</p>

<p>
Now, you may either fight the anopheles&mdash;the vehicle, or the disease
itself. The first entails putting the country into such a state that the
mosquito finds it unpleasant to live there, a labour of Hercules. Yet large
sums are being expended in draining marshy tracts, regulating river-beds and
afforesting bare spaces; and if you are interested in such works, you will do
well to see what is going on at Metaponto at this moment. (A considerable
portion of the Government grant for these purposes has lately been deflected
for use in the Tripolitan war.) Exemplary fines are also imposed for illicit
timber-cutting and grazing,&mdash;in those towns, at least, where the
magistrate has sufficient sense to perceive the ulterior benefits to be derived
from what certainly entails a good deal of temporary hardship on poor people.
Certain economic changes are helping in this work; so the wealth imported from
America helps to break up the big properties, those latifundia which, says an
Italian authority, &ldquo;are synonymous with malaria.&rdquo; The ideal
condition&mdash;the extirpation of anophelines&mdash;will never be attained;
nor is it of vital importance that it should be.
</p>

<p>
Far more pressing is the protection of man against their attacks. Wonderful
success has crowned the wire-netting of the windows&mdash;an outcome of the
classical experiments of 1899, in the Roman Campagna.
</p>

<p>
But chiefest and most urgent of all is the cure of the infected population. In
this direction, results astonishing&mdash;results well-nigh
incredible&mdash;have attended the recently introduced governmental sale of
quinine. In the year 1895 there were 16,464 deaths from malaria throughout
Italy. By 1908 the number had sunk to 3463. Eloquent figures, that require no
comment! And, despite the fact that the drug is now sold at a merely nominal
rate or freely given away to the needy&mdash;nay, thrust down the very throats
of the afflicted peasantry by devoted gentlemen who scour the plains with
ambulances during the deadly season&mdash;despite this, the yearly profits from
its sale are amounting to about three-quarters of a million francs.
</p>

<p>
So these forlorn regions are at last beginning to revive.
</p>

<p>
And returning to Focà, of whose dreadful condition up to 1902 (year of the
introduction of Government quinine) I have just spoken, we find that a
revolution has taken place. Between that year and 1908 the birth-rate more than
doubled the death-rate. In 1908 some two hundred poor folks frequented the
ambulance, nearly six kilogrammes of quinine being gratuitously distributed;
<a name="Page290"></a>
not one of the natives of the place was attacked by the disease; and there was
a single death&mdash;an old woman of eighty, who succumbed to senile decay.<a href="#fn-35.1" name="fnref-35.1" id="fnref-35.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-35.1" id="fn-35.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-35.1">[1]</a>
Doctor Genovese&rsquo;s statistical investigations have brought an
interesting little fact to light. In the debilitating pre-quinine period there
was a surplus of female births; now, with increased healthfulness, those of the
males preponderate.
</p>

<p>
This is an example of what the new quinine-policy has done for Italy, in
briefest space of time. Well may the nation be proud of the men who conceived
this genial and beneficial measure and carried it through Parliament, and of
those local doctors without whose enlightened zeal such a triumph could not
have been achieved. . . .
</p>

<p>
Sir Ronald Ross&rsquo;s discovery, by the way, has been fruitful not only in
practical humanitarian results. For instance, it has reduced North&rsquo;s
laborious &ldquo;Roman Fever&rdquo; to something little better than a
curiosity. And here, on these deserted shores that were once resplendent with a
great civilization&mdash;here is the place to peruse Mr. W. M. Jones&rsquo;s
studies on this subject. I will not give even the shortest précis of his
conscientious researches nor attempt to picture their effect upon a mind
trained in the old school of thought; suffice to say, that the author would
persuade us that malaria is implicated, to an hitherto unsuspected extent, in
the decline of ancient Greece and Rome. And he succeeds. Yes; a man accustomed
to weigh evidence will admit, I think, that he has made out a suggestively
strong case.
</p>

<p>
How puzzled we were to explain why the brilliant life of Magna Graecia was
snuffed out suddenly, like a candle, without any appreciably efficient
cause&mdash;how we listened to our preachers cackling about the inevitable
consequences of Sybaritic luxury, and to the warnings of sage politicians
concerning the dangers of mere town-patriotism as opposed to worthier systems
of confederation! How we drank it all in! And how it warmed the cockles of our
hearts to think that we were not vicious, narrow-minded heathens, such as
these!
</p>

<p>
And now a vulgar gnat is declared to be at the bottom of the whole mystery.
</p>

<p>
Crudely disconcerting, these scientific discoveries. Or is it not rather hard
to be dragged to earth in this callous fashion, while soaring heavenward on the
wings of our edifying reflections? For the rest&mdash;the old, old story; a
simple, physical explanation of what used to be an enigma brimful of moral
significance.
</p>

<p>
That Mr. Jones&rsquo;s facts and arguments will be found applicable to
<a name="Page291"></a>
other decayed races in the old and new worlds is highly probable. Meanwhile, it
takes one&rsquo;s breath away quite sufficiently to realize that they apply to
Hellas and her old colonies on these shores.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;&lsquo;AUTOS. Strange! My interest waxes. Tell me then, what affliction,
God or Devil, wiped away the fair life upon the globe, the beasts, the birds,
the delectable plantations, and all the blithe millions of the human race? What
calamity fell upon them?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;&lsquo;ESCHATA. A gnat.&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;&lsquo;AUTOS. A gnat?&rsquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;&lsquo;ESCHATA. Even so.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Thus I wrote, while yet unaware that such pests as anophelines existed upon
earth. . . .
</p>

<p>
At the same time, I think we must be cautious in following certain deductions
of our author; that theory of brutality, for example, as resulting from
malaria. Speaking of Calabria, I would almost undertake to prove, from the
archives of law-courts, that certain of the most malarial tracts are precisely
those in which there is least brutality of any kind. Cotrone, for instance. . .
. The <i>delegato</i> (head of the police) of that town is so young&mdash;a
mere boy&mdash;that I marvelled how he could possibly have obtained a position
which is usually filled by seasoned and experienced officers. He was a
&ldquo;son of the white hen,&rdquo; they told me; that is, a socially favoured
individual, who was given this job for the simple reason that there was hardly
any serious work for him to do. Cosenza, on the other hand, has a very
different reputation nowadays. And it is perfectly easy to explain how malaria
might have contributed to this end. For the disease&mdash;and herein lies its
curse&mdash;lowers both the physical and social standard of a people; it breeds
misery, poverty and ignorance&mdash;fit soil for callous rapacity.
</p>

<p>
But how about his theory of &ldquo;pessimism&rdquo; infecting the outlook of
generations of malaria-weakened sages? I find no trace of pessimism here, not
even in its mild Buddhistic form. The most salient mental trait of cultured
Calabrians is a subtle detachment and contempt of illusions&mdash;whence their
time-honoured renown as abstract thinkers and speculators. This derives from a
philosophic view of life and entails, naturally enough, the outward semblance
of gravity&mdash;a Spanish gravity, due not so much to a strong graft of
Spanish blood and customs during the viceregal period, as to actual affinities
with the race of Spain. But this gravity has nothing in common with pessimism,
antagonistic though it be to those outbursts of irresponsible optimism
engendered under northern skies by copious food, or beer.
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page292"></a>
To reach the uplands of Fabbrizia and Serra, whither I was now bound, I might
have utilized the driving road from Gioioso, on the Reggio side of Caulonia.
But that was everybody&rsquo;s route. Or I might have gone <i>via</i> Stilo,
on the other side. But Stilo with its memories of Campanella&mdash;a Spanish
type, this!&mdash;and of Otho II, its winding track into the beech-clad heights
of Ferdinandea, was already familiar to me. I elected to penetrate straight
inland by the shortest way; a capable muleteer at once presented himself.
</p>

<p>
We passed through one single village, Ragona; leaving those of S. Nicola and
Nardo di Pace on the right. The first of them is celebrated for its annual
miracle of the burning olive, when, armed to the teeth (for some ancient
reason), the populace repairs to the walls of a certain convent out of which
there grows an olive tree: at its foot is kindled a fire whose flames are
sufficient to scorch all the leaves, but behold! next day the foliage is seen
to glow more bravely green than ever. Perhaps the roots of the tree are near
some cistern. These mountain villages, hidden under oaks and vines, with waters
trickling through their lanes, a fine climate and a soil that bears everything
needful for life, must be ideal habitations for simple folks. In some of them,
the death-rate is as low as 7: 1000. Malaria is unknown here: they seem to
fulfil all the conditions of a terrestrial paradise.
</p>

<p>
There is a note of joyous vigour in this landscape. The mule-track winds in and
out among the heights, through flowery meadows grazed by cattle and full of
buzzing insects and butterflies, and along hill-sides cunningly irrigated; it
climbs up to heathery summits and down again through glades of chestnut and
ilex with mossy trunks, whose shadow fosters strange sensations of chill and
gloom. Then out again, into the sunshine of waving corn and poppies.
</p>

<p>
For a short while we stumbled along a torrent-bed, and I grew rather sad to
think that it might be the last I should see for some time to come, my days in
this country being now numbered. This one was narrow. But there are others,
interminable in length and breadth. Interminable! No breeze stirs in those deep
depressions through which the merest thread of milky water trickles
disconsolately. The sun blazes overhead and hours pass, while you trudge
through the fiery inferno; scintillations of heat rise from the stones and
still you crawl onwards, breathless and footsore, till eyes are dazed and
senses reel. One may well say bad things of these torrid deserts of pebbles
which, up till lately, were the only highways from the lowlands into the
mountainous parts. But they are sweet in memory. One calls to mind the wild
savours that hang in
<a name="Page293"></a>
the stagnant air; the cloven hill-sides, seamed with gorgeous patches of russet
and purple and green; the spectral tamarisks, and the glory of coral-tinted
oleanders rising in solitary tufts of beauty, or flaming congregations, out of
the pallid waste of boulders.
</p>

<p>
After exactly six hours Fabbrizia was reached&mdash;a large place whose name,
like that of Borgia, Savelli, Carafa and other villages on these southern
hills, calls up associations utterly non-Calabrian; Fabbrizia, with pretentious
new church and fantastically dirty side-streets. It lies at the respectable
elevation of 900 metres, on the summit of a monstrous landslide which has
disfigured the country.
</p>

<p>
While ascending along the flank of this deformity I was able to see how the
authorities have attempted to cope with the mischief and arrest further
collapses. This is what they have done. The minute channels of water, that
might contribute to the disintegration of the soil by running into this gaping
wound from the sides or above, have been artfully diverted from their natural
courses; trees and shrubs are planted at its outskirts in order to uphold the
earth at these spots by their roots&mdash;they have been protected by barbed
wire from the grazing of cattle; furthermore, a multitude of wickerwork dykes
are thrown across the accessible portions of the scar, to collect the
downward-rushing material and tempt winged plant-seeds to establish themselves
on the ledges thus formed. To bridle this runaway mountain is no mean task, for
such <i>frane</i> are like rodent ulcers, ever enlarging at the edges. With the
heat, with every shower of rain, with every breath of wind, the earth crumbles
away; there is an eternal trickling, day and night, until some huge boulder is
exposed which crashes down, loosening everything in its wild career; a single
tempest may disrupture what the patience and ingenuity of years have contrived.
</p>

<p>
Three more hours or thereabouts will take you to Serra San Bruno along the
backbone of southern Italy, through cultivated lands and pasture and lonely
stretches of bracken, once covered by woodlands.
</p>

<p>
It may well be that the townlet has grown up around, or rather near, the
far-famed Carthusian monastery. I know nothing of its history save that it has
the reputation of being one of the most bigoted places in Calabria&mdash;a fact
of which the sagacious General Manhes availed himself when he devised his
original and effective plan of chastising the inhabitants for a piece of
atrocious conduct on their part. He caused all the local priests to be arrested
and imprisoned; the churches were closed, and the town placed under
<a name="Page294"></a>
what might be called an interdict. The natives took it quietly at first, but
soon the terror of the situation dawned upon them. No religious marriages, no
baptisms, no funerals&mdash;the comforts of heaven refused to living and dead
alike. . . . The strain grew intolerable and, in a panic of remorse, the
populace hunted down their own brigand-relations and handed them over to
Manhes, who duly executed them, one and all. Then the interdict was taken off
and the priests set at liberty; and a certain writer tells us that the people
were so charmed with the General&rsquo;s humane and businesslike methods that
they forthwith christened him &ldquo;Saint Manhes,&rdquo; a name which, he
avers, has clung to him ever since.
</p>

<p>
The monastery lies about a mile distant; near at hand is a little artificial
lake and the renowned chapel of Santa Maria. There was a time when I would have
dilated lovingly upon this structure&mdash;a time when I probably knew as much
about Carthusian convents as is needful for any of their inmates; when I
studied Tromby&rsquo;s ponderous work and God knows how many more&mdash;ay, and
spent two precious weeks of my life in deciphering certain crabbed MSS. of
Tutini in the Brancacciana library&mdash;ay, and tested the spleenful
Perrey&rsquo;s &ldquo;Ragioni del Regio Fisco, etc.,&rdquo; as to the alleged
land-grabbing propensities of this order&mdash;ay, and even pilgrimaged to Rome
to consult the present general of the Carthusians (his predecessor, more
likely) as to some administrative detail, all-important, which has wholly
escaped my memory. Gone are those days of studious gropings into blind alleys!
The current of zeal has slowed down or turned aside, maybe, into other
channels. They who wish, will find a description of the pristine splendour of
this monastery in various books by Pacicchelli; the catastrophe of 1783 was
described by Keppel Craven and reported upon, with illustrations, by the
Commission of the Naples Academy; and if you are of a romantic turn of mind,
you will find a good story of the place, as it looked during the ruinous days of
desolation, in Misasi&rsquo;s &ldquo;Calabrian Tales.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is now rebuilt on modern lines and not much of the original structure
remains upright. I wandered about the precincts in the company of two
white-robed French monks, endeavouring to reconstruct not the convent as it was
in its younger days, but <i>them.</i> That older one, especially&mdash;he had
known the world. . . .
</p>

<p>
Meat being forbidden, the godly brethren have a contract for fish to be brought
up every day by the post-carriage from the distant Soverato. And what happens,
I asked, when none are caught?
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Eh bien, nous mangeons des macaroni!&rdquo;
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus29"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-29.jpg" width="506" height="351" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Old Soverato</p>
</div>

<p>
<a name="Page295"></a>
Such a diet would never suit me. Let me retire to a monkery where carnivorous
leanings may be indulged. Methinks I could pray more cheerfully with the
prospect of a rational <i>déjeuner à la fourchette</i> looming ahead.
</p>

<p>
At the back of the monastery lies a majestic forest of white firs&mdash;nothing
but firs; a unique region, so far as south and central Italy are concerned. I
was there in the golden hour after sunset, and yet again in the twilight of
dew-drenched morning; and it seemed to me that in this temple not made by hands
there dwelt an enchantment more elemental, and more holy, than in the
cloistered aisles hard by. This assemblage of solemn trees has survived, thanks
to rare conditions of soil and climate. The land lies high; the ground is
perennially moist and intersected by a horde of rills that join their waters to
form the river Ancinale; frequent showers descend from above. Serra San Bruno
has an uncommonly heavy rainfall. It lies in a vale occupying the site of a
pleistocene lake, and the forest, now restricted to one side of the basin,
encircled it entirely in olden days. At its margin they have established a
manufactory which converts the wood into paper&mdash;blissful sight for the
utilitarian.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Finding little else of interest in Serra, and hungering for the flesh-pots of
Cotrone, I descended by the postal diligence to Soverato, nearly a day&rsquo;s
journey. Old Soverato is in ruins, but the new town seems to thrive in spite of
being surrounded by deserts of malaria. While waiting for supper and the train
to Cotrone, I strolled along the beach, and soon found myself sitting beside
the bleached anatomy of some stranded leviathan, and gazing at the mountains of
Squillace that glowed in the soft lights of sunset. The shore was deserted save
for myself and a portly dogana-official who was playing with his little
son&mdash;trying to amuse him by elephantine gambols on the sand, regardless of
his uniform and manly dignity. Notwithstanding his rotundity, he was an active
and resourceful parent, and enjoyed himself vastly; the boy pretending, as
polite children sometimes do, to enter into the fun of the game.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page296"></a><a name="chap36"></a>XXXVI<br />
MEMORIES OF GISSING</h2>

<p>
Two new hotels have recently sprung up at Cotrone. With laudable patriotism,
they are called after its great local champions, athletic and spiritual, in
ancient days&mdash;Hotel Milo and Hotel Pythagoras. As such, they might be
expected to make a strong appeal to the muscles and brains of their respective
clients. I rather fancy that the chief customers of both are commercial
travellers who have as little of the one as of the other, and to whom these
fine names are Greek.
</p>

<p>
As for myself, I remain faithful to the &ldquo;Concordia&rdquo; which has twice
already sheltered me within its walls.
</p>

<p>
The shade of George Gissing haunts these chambers and passages. It was in 1897
that he lodged here with that worthy trio: Gibbon, Lenormant and Cassiodorus.
The chapters devoted to Cotrone are the most lively and characteristic in his
&ldquo;Ionian Sea.&rdquo; Strangely does the description of his arrival in the
town, and his reception in the &ldquo;Concordia,&rdquo; resemble that in
Bourget&rsquo;s &ldquo;Sensations.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The establishment has vastly improved since those days. The food is good and
varied, the charges moderate; the place is spotlessly clean in every
part&mdash;I could only wish that the hotels in some of our English country
towns were up to the standard of the &ldquo;Concordia&rdquo; in this respect.
&ldquo;One cannot live without cleanliness,&rdquo; as the housemaid,
assiduously scrubbing, remarked to me. It is also enlarged; the old
dining-room, whose guests are so humorously described by him, is now my
favourite bedroom, while those wretched oil-lamps sputtering on the wall have
been replaced by a lavish use of electricity. One is hardly safe, however, in
praising these inns over-much; they are so apt to change hands. So long as
competition with the two others continues, the &ldquo;Concordia&rdquo; will
presumably keep to its present level.
</p>

<p>
Of freaks in the dining-room, I have so far only observed one whom Gissing
might have added to his collection. He is a <i>director</i> of some kind, and
his method of devouring maccheroni I unreservedly admire&mdash;it displays that
lack of all effort which distinguishes true art from false. He does not eat
them with
<a name="Page297"></a>
deliberate mastication; he does not even&mdash;like your ordinary
amateur&mdash;drink them in separate gulps; but he contrives, by some
swiftly-adroit process of levitation, that the whole plateful shall rise in a
noiseless and unbroken flood from the table to his mouth, whence it glides down
his gullet with the relentless ease of a river pouring into a cavern.
Altogether, a series of films depicting him at work upon a meal would make the
fortune of a picture-show company&mdash;in England. Not here, however; such
types are too common to be remarked, the reason being that boys are seldom sent
to boarding schools where stereotyped conventions of &ldquo;good form&rdquo;
are held up for their imitation, but brought up at home by adoring mothers who
care little for such externals or, if they do, have no great authority to
enforce their views. On entering the world, these eccentricities in manner are
proudly clung to, as a sign of manly independence.
</p>

<p>
Death has made hideous gaps in the short interval. The kindly Vice-Consul at
Catanzaro is no more; the mayor of Cotrone, whose permit enabled Gissing to
visit that orchard by the riverside, has likewise joined the majority; the
housemaid of the &ldquo;Concordia,&rdquo; the domestic serf with dark and
fiercely flashing eyes&mdash;dead! And dead is mine hostess, &ldquo;the stout,
slatternly, sleepy woman, who seemed surprised at my demand for food, but at
length complied with it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But the little waiter is alive and now married; and Doctor Sculco still resides
in his aristocratic <i>palazzo</i> up that winding way in the old town, with
the escutcheon of a scorpion&mdash;portentous emblem for a doctor&mdash;over
its entrance. He is a little greyer, no doubt; but the same genial and alert
personage as in those days.
</p>

<p>
I called on this gentleman, hoping to obtain from him some reminiscences of
Gissing, whom he attended during a serious illness.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied, to my enquiries, &ldquo;I remember him quite
well; the young English poet who was ill here. I prescribed for him.
Yes&mdash;yes! He wore his hair long.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And that was all I could draw from him. I have noticed more than once that
Italian physicians have a stern conception of the Hippocratic oath: the affairs
of their patients, dead or alive, are a sacred trust in perpetuity.
</p>

<p>
The town, furthermore, has undergone manifold improvements in those few years.
Trees are being planted by the roadsides; electric light is everywhere and,
best of all, an excellent water-supply has been led down from the cool heights
of the Sila, bringing cleanliness, health and prosperity in its train. And a
stately cement-bridge is being built over the Esaro, that &ldquo;all but
stagnant
<a name="Page298"></a>
and wholly pestilential stream.&rdquo; The Esaro <i>glides pleasantly,</i> says
the chronicler Nola Molisi. Perhaps it really glided, in his day.
</p>

<p>
One might do worse than spend a quiet month or two at Cotrone in the spring,
for the place grows upon one: it is so reposeful and orderly. But not in
winter. Gissing committed the common error of visiting south Italy at that
season when, even if the weather will pass, the country and its inhabitants are
not true to themselves. You must not come to these parts in winter time.
</p>

<p>
Nor yet in the autumn, for the surrounding district is highly malarious.
Thucydides already speaks of these coastlands as depopulated (relatively
speaking, I suppose), and under the Romans they recovered but little; they have
only begun to revive quite lately.<a href="#fn-36.1" name="fnref-36.1" id="fnref-36.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>
Yet this town must have looked well enough in the twelfth century, since it is
described by Edrisius as &ldquo;a very old city, primitive and beautiful,
prosperous and populated, in a smiling position, with walls of defence and an
ample port for anchorage.&rdquo; I suspect that the history of Cotrone will be
found to bear out Professor Celli&rsquo;s theory of the periodical
recrudescences and abatements of malaria. However that may be, the place used
to be in a deplorable state. Riedesel (1771) calls it &ldquo;la ville la plus
affreuse de l&rsquo;Italie, et peut-être du monde entier&rdquo;; twenty years
later, it is described as &ldquo;sehr ungesund ... so ärmlich als
möglich&rdquo;; in 1808 it was &ldquo;réduite à une population de trois mille
habitants rongés par la misère, et les maladies qu&rsquo;occasionne la
stagnation des eaux qui autrefois fertilisaient ces belles campagnes.&rdquo; In
1828, says Vespoli, it contained only 3932 souls.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-36.1" id="fn-36.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-36.1">[1]</a>
Between 1815&mdash;1843, and in this single province of Catanzaro, there was
an actual decline in the population of thirty-six towns and villages. Malaria!
</p>

<p>
I rejoice to cite such figures. They show how vastly Cotrone, together with the
rest of Calabria, has improved since the Bourbons were ousted. The sack of the
town by their hero Cardinal Ruffo, described by Pepe and others, must have left
long traces. &ldquo;Horrible was the carnage perpetrated by these ferocious
bands. Neither age nor sex nor condition was spared. . . . After two days of
pillage accompanied by a multitude of excesses and cruelties, they erected, on
the third day, a magnificent altar in the middle of a large square&rdquo;
&mdash;and here the Cardinal, clothed in his sacred purple, praised the good
deeds of the past two days and then, raising his arms, displayed a crucifix,
absolving his crew from the faults committed during the ardour of the sack, and
blessed them.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus30"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-30.jpg" width="405" height="329" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">The modern Aesarus</p>
</div>

<p>
I shall be sorry to leave these regions for the north, as leave them I must, in
shortest time. The bathing alone would tempt me to prolong my stay, were it
possible. Whereas Taranto, despite its
<a name="Page299"></a>
situation, possesses no convenient beach, there are here, on either side of the
town, leagues of shimmering sand lapped by tepid and caressing waves; it is a
sunlit solitude; the land is your own, the sea your own, as far as eye can
reach. One may well become an amphibian, at Cotrone.
</p>

<p class="p2">
The inhabitants of this town are well-mannered and devoid of the
&ldquo;ineffable&rdquo; air of the Tarentines. But they are not a handsome
race. Gissing says, à propos of the products of a local photographer, that it
was &ldquo;a hideous exhibition; some of the visages attained an incredible
degree of vulgar ugliness.&rdquo; That is quite true. Old authors praise the
beauty of the women of Cotrone, Bagnara, and other southern towns; for my part,
I have seldom found good-looking women in the coastlands of Calabria; the
matrons, especially, seem to favour that ideal of the Hottentot Venus which you
may study in the Jardin des Plantes; they are decidedly centripetal. Of the
girls and boys one notices only those who possess a peculiar trait: the
eyebrows pencilled in a dead straight line, which gives them an almost hieratic
aspect. I cannot guess from what race is derived this marked feature which
fades away with age as the brows wax thicker and irregular in contour. We may
call it Hellenic on the old-fashioned principle that everything attractive
comes from the Greeks, while its opposite is ascribed to those unfortunate
&ldquo;Arabs&rdquo; who, as a matter of fact, are a sufficiently fine-looking
breed.
</p>

<p>
And there must be very little Greek blood left here. The town&mdash;among many
similar vicissitudes&mdash;was peopled largely by Bruttians, after Hannibal had
established himself here. In the Viceregal period, again, there was a great
infusion of Spanish elements. A number of Spanish surnames still linger on the
spot.
</p>

<p>
And what of Gissing&rsquo;s other friend, the amiable guardian of the cemetery?
&ldquo;His simple good nature and intelligence greatly won upon me. I like to
think of him as still quietly happy amid his garden walls, tending flowers that
grow over the dead at Cotrone.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Dead, like those whose graves he tended; like Gissing himself. He expired in
February 1901&mdash;the year of the publication of the &ldquo;Ionian
Sea,&rdquo; and they showed me his tomb near the right side of the entrance; a
poor little grave, with a wooden cross bearing a number, which will soon be
removed to make room for another one.
</p>

<p>
This cemetery by the sea is a fair green spot, enclosed in a high wall and set
with flowering plants and comely cypresses that look well against their
background of barren clay-hills. Wandering here, I called to mind the decent
cemetery of Lucera, and that of
<a name="Page300"></a>
Manfredonia, built in a sleepy hollow at the back of the town which the monks
in olden days had utilized as their kitchen garden (it is one of the few
localities where deep soil can be found on that thirsty limestone plain); I
remembered the Venosa burial-ground near the site of the Roman amphitheatre,
among the tombs of which I had vainly endeavoured to find proofs that the name
of Horace is as common here as that of Manfred in those other two towns; the
Taranto cemetery, beyond the railway quarter, somewhat overloaded with
pretentious ornaments; I thought of many cities of the dead, in places recently
explored&mdash;that of Rossano, ill-kept within, but splendidly situated on a
projecting spur that dominates the Ionian; of Caulonia, secluded among ravines
at the back of the town. . . .
</p>

<p>
They are all full of character; a note in the landscape, with their cypresses
darkly towering amid the pale and lowly olives; one would think the populace
had thrown its whole poetic feeling into the choice of these sites and their
embellishments. But this is not the case; they are chosen merely for
convenience&mdash;not too far from habitations, and yet on ground that is
comparatively cheap. Nor are they truly venerable, like ours. They date, for
the most part, from the time when the Government abolished the old system of
inhumation in churches&mdash;a system which, for the rest, still survives;
there are over six hundred of these <i>fosse carnarie</i> in use at this
moment, most of them in churches.
</p>

<p>
And a sad thought obtrudes itself in these oases of peace and verdure. The
Italian law requires that the body shall be buried within twenty-four hours
after decease (the French consider forty-eight hours too short a term, and are
thinking of modifying their regulations in this respect): a doctor&rsquo;s
certificate of death is necessary but often impossible to procure, since some
five hundred Italian communities possess no medical man whatever. Add to this,
the superstitions of ignorant country people towards the dead, testified to by
extraordinary beliefs and customs which you will find in Pitré and other
collectors of native lore&mdash;their mingled fear and hatred of a corpse,
which prompts them to thrust it underground at the earliest possible
opportunity. . . . Premature burial must be all too frequent here. I will not
enlarge upon the theme of horror by relating what gravediggers have seen with
their own eyes on disturbing old coffins; if only half what they tell me is
true, it reveals a state of affairs not to be contemplated without shuddering
pity, and one that calls for prompt legislation. Only last year a frightful
case came to light in Sicily. <i>Videant Consules.</i>
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus31"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-31.jpg" width="402" height="318" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">The Cemetery of Cotrone</p>
</div>

<p>
Here, at the cemetery, the driving road abruptly ends;
<a name="Page301"></a>
thenceforward there is merely a track along the sea that leads, ultimately, to Capo
Nau, where stands a solitary column, last relic of the great temple of Hera. I
sometimes follow it as far as certain wells that are sunk, Arab-fashion, into
the sand, and dedicated to Saint Anne. Goats and cows recline here after their
meagre repast of scorched grasses, and the shepherds in charge have voices so
soft, and manners so gentle, as to call up suggestions of the Golden Age. These
pastoral folk are the primitives of Cotrone. From father to son, for untold
ages before Theocritus hymned them, they have kept up their peculiar habits and
traditions; between them and the agricultural classes is a gulf as deep as
between these and the citizens. Conversing with them, one marvels how the same
occupation can produce creatures so unlike as these and the goat-boys of
Naples, the most desperate <i>camorristi.</i>
</p>

<p>
The cows may well be descendants of the sacred cattle of Hera that browsed
under the pines which are known to have clothed the bleak promontory. You may
encounter them every day, wandering on the way to the town which they supply
with milk; to avoid the dusty road, they march sedately through the soft wet
sand at the water&rsquo;s edge, their silvery bodies outlined against a
cærulean flood of sky and sea.
</p>

<p>
On this promenade I yesterday observed, slow-pacing beside the waves, a
meditative priest, who gave me some details regarding the ruined church of
which Gissing speaks. It lies in the direction of the cemetery, outside the
town; &ldquo;its lonely position,&rdquo; he says, &ldquo;made it interesting,
and the cupola of coloured tiles (like that of the cathedral of Amalfi)
remained intact, a bright spot against the grey hills behind.&rdquo; This
cupola has recently been removed, but part of the old walls serve as foundation
for a new sanctuary, a sordid-looking structure with red-tiled roof: I am glad
to have taken a view of it, some years ago, ere its transformation. Its
patroness is the Madonna del Carmine&mdash;the same whose church in Naples is
frequented by thieves and cut-throats, who make a special cult of this Virgin
Mother and invoke Her blessing on their nefarious undertakings.
</p>

<p>
The old church, he told me, was built in the middle of the seventeenth century;
this new one, he agreed, might have been constructed on more ambitious lines,
&ldquo;but nowadays&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; and he broke off, with eloquent
aposiopesis.
</p>

<p>
It was the same, he went on, with the road to the cemetery; why should it not
be continued right up to the cape of the Column as in olden days, over ground
<i>dove ogni passo è una memoria:</i> where every footstep is a memory?
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page302"></a>
<i>&ldquo;</i>Rich Italians,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;sometimes give away money
to benefit the public. But the very rich&mdash;never! And at Cotrone, you must
remember, every one belongs to the latter class.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
We spoke of the Sila, which he had occasionally visited.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What?&rdquo; he asked incredulously, &ldquo;you have crossed the whole
of that country, where there is nothing to eat&mdash;nothing in the purest and
most literal sense of that word? My dear sir! You must feel like Hannibal,
after his passage of the Alps.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Those barren clay-hills on our right of which Gissing speaks (they are like the
<i>balze</i> of the Apennines) annoyed him considerably; they were the
malediction of the town, he declared. At the same time, they supplied him with
the groundwork of a theory for which there is a good deal to be said. The old
Greek city, he conjectured, must have been largely built of bricks made from
their clay, which is once more being utilized for this purpose. How else
account for its utter disappearance? Much of the finer buildings were doubtless
of stone, and these have been worked into the fort, the harbour and
<i>palazzi</i> of new Cotrone; but this would never account for the vanishing
of a town nearly twelve miles in circumference. Bricks, he said, would explain
the mystery; they had crumbled into dust ere yet the Romans rebuilt, with old
Greek stones, the city on the promontory now occupied by the new settlement.
</p>

<p>
The modern palaces on the rising ground of the citadel are worthy of a visit;
they are inhabited by some half-dozen &ldquo;millionaires&rdquo; who have given
Cotrone the reputation of being the richest town of its size in Italy. So far
as I can judge, the histories of some of these wealthy families would be
curious reading.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said the Shepherd, &ldquo;if you have designs of
Trading, you must go another way; but if you&rsquo;re of the admired sort of
Men, that have the thriving qualifications of Lying and Cheating, you&rsquo;re
in the direct Path to Business; for in this City no Learning flourisheth;
Eloquence finds no room here; nor can Temperance, Good Manners, or any Vertue
meet with a Reward; assure yourselves of finding but two sorts of Men, and
those are the Cheated, and those that Cheat.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
If gossip at Naples and elsewhere is to be trusted, old Petronius seems to have
had a prophetic glimpse of the <i>dessus du panier</i> of modern Cotrone.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page303"></a><a name="chap37"></a>XXXVII<br />
COTRONE</h2>

<p>
The sun has entered the Lion. But the temperature at Cotrone is not
excessive&mdash;five degrees lower than Taranto or Milan or London. One grows
weary, none the less, of the deluge of implacable light that descends, day
after day, from the aether. The glistering streets are all but deserted after
the early hours of the morning. A few busy folks move about till midday on the
pavements; and so do I&mdash;in the water. But the long hours following
luncheon are consecrated to meditation and repose.
</p>

<p>
A bundle of Italian newspapers has preceded me hither; upon these I browse
dispersedly, while awaiting the soft call to slumber. Here are some provincial
sheets&mdash;the &ldquo;Movement&rdquo; of Castrovillari&mdash;the &ldquo;New
Rossano&rdquo;&mdash;the &ldquo;Bruttian&rdquo; of Corigliano, with strong
literary flavour. Astonishing how decentralized Italy still is, how brimful of
purely local patriotism: what conception have these men of Rome as their
capital? These articles often reflect a lively turmoil of ideas,
well-expressed. Who pays for such journalistic ventures? Typography is cheap,
and contributors naturally content themselves with the ample remuneration of
appearing in print before their fellow-citizens; a considerable number of
copies are exported to America. Yet I question whether the circulation of the
&ldquo;New Rossano,&rdquo; a fortnightly in its sixth year, can exceed five
hundred copies.
</p>

<p>
But these venial and vapid Neapolitan dailies are my pet aversion. We know
them, <i>nous autres,</i> with their odious personalities and playful
blackmailing tactics; many &ldquo;distinguished foreigners,&rdquo; myself
included, could tell a tale anent that subject. Instead of descending to such
matters, let me copy&mdash;it is too good to translate&mdash;a thrilling item
of news from the chiefest of them, the <i>Mattino,</i> which touches,
furthermore, upon the all-important subject of Calabrian progress.
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;CETRARO. Per le continuate premure ed insistenze di questo egregio
uffiziale postale Signor Rocca Francesco&mdash;che nulla lascia
<a name="Page304"></a>
pel bene avviamento del nostro uffizio&mdash;presso l&rsquo; on. Direzione
delle poste di Cosenza, si è ottenuta una cassetta postale, che affissa lungo
il Corso Carlo Pancaso, ci dà la bella commodità di imbucare le nostre
corrispondenze per essere rilevate tre volte al giorno non solo, quanto ci
evita persino la dolorosa e lunga via crucis che dovevamo percorrere qualvolta
si era costretti d&rsquo; imbuccare una lettera, essendo il nostro uffizio
situato all&rsquo; estremità del paese.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Tributiamo perciò sincera lode al nostro caro uffiziale postale Sig.
Rocca, e ci auguriamo che egli continui ancora al miglioramento dell&rsquo;
uffizio istesso, e mercè l&rsquo; opera sua costante ed indefessa siamo sicuri
che l&rsquo; uffizio postale di Cetraro assurgerà fra non molto ad un&rsquo;
importanza maggiore di quella che attualmente.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The erection of a letter-box in the street of a small place of which 80 per
cent of the readers have never so much as heard. ... I begin to understand why
the cultured Tarentines do not read these journals.
</p>

<p class="p2">
By far the best part of all such papers is the richly-tinted personal column,
wherein lovers communicate with each other, or endeavour to do so. I read it
conscientiously from beginning to end, admiring, in my physical capacity, the
throbbing passion that prompts such public outbursts of confidence and, from a
literary point of view, their lapidary style, model of condensation, impossible
to render in English and conditioned by the hard fact that every word costs two
sous. Under this painful material stress, indeed, the messages are sometimes
crushed into a conciseness which the females concerned must have some
difficulty in unperplexing: what on earth does the parsimonious <i>Flower</i>
mean by his Delphic fourpenny worth, thus punctuated&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;(You have) not received. How. Safety.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
One cannot help smiling at this circuitous and unromantic method of touching
the hearts of ladies who take one&rsquo;s fancy; at the same time, it testifies
to a resourceful vitality, striving to break through the barriers of
Hispano-Arabic convention which surround the fair sex in this country. They are
nothing if not poetic, these love-sick swains. <i>Arrow</i> murmurs: &ldquo;My
soul lies on your pillow, caressing you softly&rdquo;; <i>Strawberry</i>
laments that &ldquo;as bird outside nest, I am alone and lost. What
sadness,&rdquo; and <i>Star</i> finds the &ldquo;Days eternal, till
Thursday.&rdquo; And yet they often choose rather prosaic pseudonyms. Here is
<i>Sahara</i> who &ldquo;suffers from your silence,&rdquo; while <i>Asthma</i>
is &ldquo;anticipating one endless kiss,&rdquo; and <i>Old England</i>
observing, more ir sorrow than in anger, that he &ldquo;waited vainly one whole
hour.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page305"></a>
But the sagacious <i>Cooked Lobster</i> desires, before commiting himself
further, &ldquo;a personal interview.&rdquo; He has perhaps been cooked once
before.
</p>

<p>
Letters and numbers are best, after all. So thinks F. N. 13, who is utterly
disgusted with his flame&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your silence speaks. Useless saying anything. Ça ira.&rdquo; And
likewise 7776&mdash;B, a designing rogue and plainly a spendthrift, who wastes
ninepence in making it clear that he &ldquo;wishes to marry rich young lady,
forgiving youthful errors.&rdquo; If I were the girl, I would prefer to take my
chances with &ldquo;Cooked Lobster.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>&ldquo;Will much-admired young-lady cherries-in-black-hat indicate method
possible correspondence</i> 10211, <i>Post-Office?&rdquo;</i>
</p>

<p>
How many of these arrows, I wonder, reach their mark?
</p>

<p>
Ah, here are politics and News of the World, at last. A promising article on
the &ldquo;Direttissimo Roma-Napoli&rdquo;&mdash;the railway line that is to
connect the two towns by way of the Pontine Marshes. . . . Dear me! This reads
very familiarly. . . . Why, to be sure, it is the identical dissertation, with
a few changes by the office-boy, that has cropped up periodically in these
pages for the last half-century, or whenever the railway was first projected.
The line, as usual, is being projected more strenuously than before, and
certain members of the government have gone so far as to declare. . . .
H&rsquo;m! Let me try something else: &ldquo;The Feminist Movement in
England&rdquo; by Our London Correspondent (who lives in a little side street
off the Toledo); that sounds stimulating. . . . The advanced English
Feminists&mdash;so it runs&mdash;are taking the lead in encouraging their
torpid sisters on the Continent. . . . Hardly a day passes, that some new
manifestation of the Feminist Movement ... in fact, it may be avowed that the
Feminist Movement in England. . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
The air is cooler, as I awake, and looking out of the window I perceive from
the mellow light-effects that day is declining.
</p>

<p>
Towards this sunset hour the unbroken dome of the sky often undergoes a brief
transformation. High-piled masses of cloud may then be seen accumulating over
the Sila heights and gathering auxiliaries from every quarter; lightning is
soon playing about the livid and murky vapours&mdash;you can hear the thunders
muttering, up yonder, to some drenching downpour. But on the plain the sun
continues to shine in vacuously benevolent fashion; nothing is felt of the
tempest save unquiet breaths of wind that raise dust-eddies from the country
roads and lash the sea into a mock frenzy of crisp little waves. It is the
merest interlude. Soon the blue-black drifts have fled away from the mountains
that stand out, clear and
<a name="Page306"></a>
refreshed, in the twilight. The wind has died down, the storm is over and
Cotrone thirsts, as ever, for rain that never comes. Yet they have a
Madonna-picture here&mdash;a celebrated <i>black</i> Madonna, painted by Saint
Luke&mdash;who &ldquo;always procures rain, when prayed to.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Once indeed the tail of a shower must have passed overhead, for there fell a
few sad drops. I hurried abroad, together with some other citizens, to observe
the phenomenon. There was no doubt about the matter; it was genuine rain; the
drops lay, at respectable intervals, on the white dust of the station turnpike.
A boy, who happened to be passing in a cart, remarked that if the shower could
have been collected into a saucer or some other small receptacle, it might have
sufficed to quench the thirst of a puppy-dog.
</p>

<p>
I usually take a final dip in the sea, at this time of the evening. After that,
it is advisable to absorb an ice or two&mdash;they are excellent, at
Cotrone&mdash;and a glass of Strega liqueur, to ward off the effects of
over-work. Next, a brief promenade through the clean, well-lighted streets and
now populous streets, or along the boulevard Margherita to view the rank and
fashion taking the air by the murmuring waves, under the cliff-like battlements
of Charles the Fifth&rsquo;s castle; and so to dinner.
</p>

<p>
This meal marks the termination of my daily tasks; nothing serious is allowed
to engage my attention, once that repast is ended; I call for a chair and sit
down at one of the small marble-topped tables in the open street and watch the
crowd as it floats around me, smoking a Neapolitan cigar and imbibing,
alternately, ices and black coffee until, towards midnight, a final bottle of
<i>vino di Cirò</i> is uncorked&mdash;fit seal for the labours of the day.
</p>

<p>
One might say much in praise of Calabrian wine. The land is full of pleasant
surprises for the œnophilist, and one of these days I hope to embody my
experiences in the publication of a wine-chart of the province with descriptive
text running alongside&mdash;the purchasers of which, if few, will certainly be
of the right kind. The good Dr. Barth&mdash;all praise to him!&mdash;has
already done something of the kind for certain parts of Italy, but does not so
much as mention Calabria. And yet here nearly every village has its own type of
wine and every self-respecting family its own peculiar method of preparation,
little known though they be outside the place of production, on account of the
octroi laws which strangle internal trade and remove all stimulus to
manufacture a good article for export. This wine of Cirò, for instance, is
purest nectar, and so is that which grows still nearer at hand in the classical
vale of the
<a name="Page307"></a>
Neto and was praised, long ago, by old Pliny; and so are at least two dozen
more. For even as Gregorovius says that the smallest Italian community
possesses its duly informed antiquarian, if you can but put your hand upon him,
so, I may be allowed to add, every little place hereabouts can boast of at
least one individual who will give you good wine, provided&mdash;provided you
go properly to work to find him.
</p>

<p>
Now although, when young, the Calabrian Bacchus has a wild-eyed <i>beauté du
diable</i> which appeals to one&rsquo;s expansive moods, he already begins to
totter, at seven years of age, in sour, decrepit eld. To pounce upon him at the
psychological moment, to discover in whose cool and cobwebby cellar he is
dreaming out his golden summer of manhood&mdash;that is what a foreigner can
never, never hope to achieve, without competent local aid.
</p>

<p>
To this end, I generally apply to the priests; not because they are the
greatest drunkards (far from it; they are mildly epicurean, or even abstemious)
but by reason of their unrivalled knowledge of personalities. They know exactly
who has been able to keep his liquor of such and such a year, and who has been
obliged to sell or partially adulterate it; they know, from the confessional of
the wives, the why and wherefore of all such private family affairs and share,
with the chemist, the gift of seeing furthest into the tangled web of home
life. They are &ldquo;gialosi,&rdquo; however, of these acquirements, and must
be approached in the right spirit&mdash;a spirit of humility. But if you
tactfully lead up to the subject by telling of the manifold hardships of travel
in foreign lands, the discomfort of life in hostelries, the food that leaves so
much to be desired and, above all, the coarse wine that is already beginning,
you greatly fear, to injure your sensitive spleen (an important organ, in
Calabria), inducing a hypochondriacal tendency to see all the beauties of this
fair land in an odious and sombre light&mdash;turning your day into night, as
it were&mdash;it must be an odd priest, indeed, who is not compassionately
moved to impart the desired information regarding the whereabouts of the best
<i>vino di famiglia</i> at that moment obtainable. After all, it costs him
nothing to do a double favour&mdash;one to yourself and another to the
proprietor of the wine, doubtless an old friend of his, who will be able to
sell his stuff to a foreigner 20 per cent dearer than to a native.
</p>

<p>
And failing the priests, I go to an elderly individual of that tribe of
red-nosed connaisseurs, the coachmen, ever thirsty and mercenary souls, who for
a small consideration may be able to disclose not only this secret, but others
far more mysterious.
</p>

<p>
As to your host at the inn&mdash;he raises not the least objection to
<a name="Page308"></a>
your importing alien liquor into his house. His own wine, he tells you, is last
year&rsquo;s vintage and somewhat harsh (slightly watered, he might
add)&mdash;and why not? The ordinary customers are gentlemen of commerce who
don&rsquo;t care a fig what they eat and drink, so long as there is enough of
it. No horrible suggestions are proffered concerning corkage; on the contrary,
he tests your wine, smacks his lips, and thanks you for communicating a
valuable discovery. He thinks he will buy a bottle or two for the use of
himself and a few particular friends. . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
Midnight has come and gone. The street is emptying; the footsteps of passengers
begin to ring hollow. I arise, for my customary stroll in the direction of the
cemetery, to attune myself to repose by shaking off those restlessly trivial
images of humanity which might otherwise haunt my slumbers.
</p>

<p>
Town visions are soon left behind; it is very quiet here under the hot, starlit
heavens; nothing speaks of man save the lighthouse flashing in ghostly
activity&mdash;no, it is a fixed light&mdash;on the distant Cape of the Column.
And nothing breaks the stillness save the rhythmic breathing of the waves, and
a solitary cricket that has yet to finish his daily task of instrumental music,
far away, in some warm crevice of the hills.
</p>

<p>
A suave odour rises up from the narrow patch of olives, and figs loaded with
fruit, and ripening vines, that skirts the path by the beach. <i>The fig tree
putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good
smell.</i>
</p>

<p>
And so I plough my way through the sand, in the darkness, encompassed by tepid
exhalations of earth and sea. Another spirit has fallen upon me&mdash;a spirit
of biblical calm. Here, then, stood <i>the rejoicing city that dwelt
carelessly, that said in her heart, I am, and there is none beside me: how is
she become a desolation!</i> It is indeed hard to realize that a town thronged
with citizens covered all this area. Yet so it is. Every footstep is a memory.
Along this very track walked the sumptuous ladies of Croton on their way to
deposit their vain jewels before the goddess Hera, at the bidding of
Pythagoras. On this spot, maybe, stood that public hall which was specially
built for the delivery of his lectures.
</p>

<p>
No doubt the townsfolk had been sunk in apathetic luxury; the time was ripe for
a Messiah.
</p>

<p>
And lo! he appeared.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page309"></a><a name="chap38"></a>XXXVIII<br />
THE SAGE OF CROTON</h2>

<p>
The popularity of this sage at Croton offers no problem: the inhabitants had
become sufficiently civilized to appreciate the charm of being regenerated. We
all do. Renunciation has always exercised an irresistible attraction for good
society; it makes us feel so comfortable, to be told we are going to
hell&mdash;and Pythagoras was very eloquent on the subject of Tartarus as a
punishment. The Crotoniates discovered in repentance of sins a new and subtle
form of pleasure; exactly as did the Florentines, when Savonarola appeared on
the scene.
</p>

<p>
Next: his doctrines found a ready soil in Magna Graecia which was already
impregnated with certain vague notions akin to those he introduced. And
then&mdash;he permitted and even encouraged the emotional sex to participate in
the mysteries; the same tactics that later on materially helped the triumph of
Christianity over the more exclusive and rational cult of Mithra. Lastly, he
came with a &ldquo;message,&rdquo; like the Apostle of the Gentiles; and in
those times a preaching reformer was a novelty. That added a zest.
</p>

<p>
We know them a little better, nowadays.
</p>

<p>
He enjoyed the specious and short-lived success that has attended, elsewhere,
such efforts to cultivate the <i>ego</i> at the expense of its environment.
&ldquo;A type of aspiring humanity,&rdquo; says Gissing, echoing the sentiments
of many of us, &ldquo;a sweet and noble figure, moving as a dim radiance
through legendary Hellas.&rdquo; I fancy that the mist of centuries of
undiscriminating admiration has magnified this figure out of all proportion and
contrived, furthermore, to fix an iridescent nimbus of sanctity about its head.
Such things have been known to happen, in foggy weather.
</p>

<p>
Was Greece so very legendary, in those times? Why, on the contrary, it was full
of real personages, of true sages to whom it seemed as if no secrets of heaven
or earth were past fathoming; far from being legendary, the country had never
attained a higher plane of intellectual curiosity than when Pythagoras made his
appearance. And it cannot be gainsaid that he and his disciples gave the
<a name="Page310"></a>
impetus away from these wise and beneficial researches into the arid regions of
metaphysics. It is so much more gentlemanly (and so much easier) to talk bland
balderdash about soul-migrations than to calculate an eclipse of the moon or
bother about the circulation of the blood.
</p>

<p>
That a man of his speculative vigour, knowing so many extra-Hellenic races,
should have hit upon one or two good things adventitiously is only to be
expected. But they were mere by-products. One might as well praise John Knox
for creating the commons of Scotland with a view to the future prosperity of
that country&mdash;a consummation which his black fanaticism assuredly never
foresaw.
</p>

<p>
The chief practical doctrine of Pythagoras, that mankind are to be governed on
the principle of a community of eastern monks, makes for the disintegration of
rational civic life.
</p>

<p>
And his chief theoretical doctrines, of metempsychosis and the reduction of
everything to a system of numbers<a href="#fn-38.1" name="fnref-38.1" id="fnref-38.1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>&mdash;these
are sheer lunacy.
</p>

<p class="footnote">
<a name="fn-38.1" id="fn-38.1"></a> <a href="#fnref-38.1">[1]</a>
Vincenzo Dorsa, an Albanian, has written two pamphlets on the survival of
Greco-Roman traditions in Calabria. They are difficult to procure, but whoever
is lucky enough to find them will be much helped in his understanding of the
common people. In one place, he speaks of the charm-formula of
<i>Otto-Nave!</i> (Eight-Nine) It is considered meet and proper, in the
presence of a suckling infant, to spit thrice and then call out, three times,
Otto-Nove! This brings luck; and the practice, he thinks, is an echo of the
number-system of Pythagoras.
</p>

<p>
Was it not something of a relapse, after the rigorous mental discipline of old,
to have a man gravely assuring his fellows that he is the son of Hermes and the
divinely appointed messenger of Apollo; treating diseases, like an Eskimo
Angekok, by incantation; recording veracious incidents of his experiences
during a previous life in Hell, which he seems to have explored almost as
thoroughly as Swedenborg; dabbling in magic, and consulting dreams, birds and
the smoke of incense as oracles? And in the exotic conglomerate of his
teachings are to be found the <i>prima stamina</i> of much that is worse: the
theory of the pious fraud which has infected Latin countries to this day; the
Jesuitical maxim of the end justifying the means; the insanity of preferring
deductions to facts which has degraded philosophy up to the days of Kant;
mysticism, demon-worship and much else of pernicious mettle&mdash;they are all
there, embryonically embedded in Pythagoras.
</p>

<p>
We are told much of his charity; indeed, an English author has written a
learned work to prove that Pythagoreanism has close affinities with
Christianity. Charity has now been tried on an ample scale, and has proved a
dismal failure. To give, they say, is more blessed than to receive. It is
certainly far easier, for the most
<a name="Page311"></a>
part, to give than to refrain from giving. We are at last shaking off the form,
of self-indulgence called charity; we realize that if mankind is to profit,
sterner conceptions must prevail. The apotheosis of the god-favoured loafer is
drawing to a close.
</p>

<p>
For the rest, there was the inevitable admixture of quackery about our
reforming sage; his warmest admirers cannot but admit that he savours somewhat
strongly of the holy impostor. Those charms and amulets, those dark gnomic
aphorisms which constitute the stock-in-trade of all religious cheap-jacks, the
bribe of future life, the sacerdotal tinge with its complement of mendacity,
the secrecy of doctrine, the pretentiously-mysterious self-retirement, the
&ldquo;sacred quaternion,&rdquo; the bean-humbug . . .
</p>

<p>
He had the true maraboutic note.
</p>

<p class="p2">
And for me, this regenerator crowned with a saintly aureole remains a glorified
marabout&mdash;an intellectual dissolvent; the importer of that oriental
introspectiveness which culminated in the idly-splendid yearnings of Plato,
paved the way for the quaint Alexandrian <i>tutti-frutti</i> known as
Christianity, and tainted the well-springs of honest research for two thousand
years. By their works ye shall known them. It was the Pythagoreans who, not
content with a just victory over the Sybarites, annihilated their city amid
anathemas worthy of those old Chaldeans (past masters in the art of pious
cursings); a crime against their common traditions and common interests; a
piece of savagery which wrecked Hellenic civilization in Italy. It is ever
thus, when the soul is appointed arbiter over reason. It is ever thus, when
gentle, god-fearing dreamers meddle with worldly affairs. Beware of the wrath
of the lamb!
</p>

<p>
So rapidly did the virus act, that soon we find Plato declaring that all the
useful arts are <i>degrading;</i> that &ldquo;so long as a man tries to study
any sensible object, he can never be said to be learning anything&rdquo;; in
other words, that the kind of person to whom one looks for common sense should
be excluded from the management of his most refined republic. It needed courage
of a rather droll kind to make such propositions in Greece, under the shadow of
the Parthenon. And hand in hand with this feudalism in philosophy there began
that unhealthy preoccupation with the morals of our fellow-creatures, that
miasma of puritanism, which has infected life and literature up to this moment.
</p>

<p>
The Renaissance brought many fine things to England. But the wicked fairy was
there with her gift: Pythagoras and Plato. We were not like the Italians who,
after the first rapture of discovery was over, soon outgrew these distracted
dialectics; we stuck fast in
<a name="Page312"></a>
them. Hence our Platonic touch: our <i>demi-vierge</i> attitude in matters of
the mind, our academic horror of clean thinking. How Plato hated a fact! He
could find no place for it in his twilight world of abstractions. Was it not he
who wished to burn the works of Democritus of Abdera, most exact and reasonable
of old sages?
</p>

<p>
They are all alike, these humanitarian lovers of first causes. Always ready to
burn something, or somebody; always ready with their cheerful Hell-fire and
gnashing of teeth.
</p>

<p>
<i>Know thyself:</i> to what depths of vain, egocentric brooding has that
dictum led! But we are discarding, now, such a mischievously narrow view of the
Cosmos, though our upbringing is still too rhetorical and mediæval to appraise
its authors at their true worth. Youth is prone to judge with the heart rather
than the head; youth thrives on vaporous ideas, and there was a time when I
would have yielded to none in my enthusiasm for these mellifluous babblers; one
had a blind, sentimental regard for their great names. It seems to me, now,
that we take them somewhat too seriously; that a healthy adult has nothing to
learn from their teachings, save by way of warning example. Plato is food for
adolescents. And a comfort, possibly, in old age, when the judicial faculties
of the mind are breaking up and primitive man, the visionary, reasserts his
ancient rights. For questioning moods grow burdensome with years; after a
strain of virile doubt we are glad to acquiesce once more&mdash;to relapse into
Platonic animism, the logic of valetudinarians. The dog to his vomit.
</p>

<p>
And after Plato&mdash;the deluge. Neo-platonism. . . .
</p>

<p>
Yet it was quite good sport, while it lasted. To &ldquo;make men better&rdquo;
by choice dissertations about Utopias, to sit in marble halls and have a fair
and fondly ardent <i>jeunesse dorée</i> reclining about your knees while you
discourse, in rounded periods, concerning the salvation of their souls by means
of transcendental Love&mdash;it would suit me well enough, at this present
moment; far better than croaking, forlorn as the night-raven, among the ruins
of their radiant lives.
</p>

<p>
Meanwhile, and despite our Universities, new conceptions are prevailing,
Aristotle is winning the day. A fresh kind of thinker has arisen, whose chief
idea of &ldquo;virtue&rdquo; is to investigate patiently the facts of life; men
of the type of Lister, any one of whom have done more to regenerate mankind,
and to increase the sum of human happiness, than a wilderness of the
amiably-hazy old doctrinaires who professed the same object. I call to mind
those physicians engaged in their malaria-campaign, and wonder what Plato would
have thought of them. Would he have recognized the
<a name="Page313"></a>
significance of their researches which, while allaying pain and misery, are
furthering the prosperity of the country, causing waters to flow in dry places
and villages to spring up in deserts&mdash;strengthening its political
resources, improving its very appearance? Not likely. Plato&rsquo;s opinion of
doctors was on a par with the rest of his mentality. Yet these are the men who
are taking up the thread where it was dropped, perforce, by those veritable
Greek sages, whelmed under turbid floods of Pythagorean irrationalism. And are
such things purely utilitarian? Are they so grossly mundane? Is there really no
&ldquo;philosophy&rdquo; in the choice of such a healing career, no romance in
its studious self-denial, no beauty in its results? If so, we must revise that
classic adage which connects vigour with beauty&mdash;not to speak of several
others.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page314"></a><a name="chap39"></a>XXXIX<br />
MIDDAY AT PETELIA</h2>

<p>
Day after day, I look across the six miles of sea to the Lacinian promontory
and its column. How reach it? The boatmen are eager for the voyage: it all
depends, they say, upon the wind.
</p>

<p>
Day after day&mdash;a dead calm.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Two hours&mdash;three hours&mdash;four hours&mdash;according!&rdquo; And
they point to the sky. A little breeze, they add, sometimes makes itself felt
in the early mornings; one might fix up a sail.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And for returning at midday?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Three hours&mdash;four hours&mdash;five hours&mdash;according!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The prospect of rocking about for half a day in a small boat under a blazing
sky is not my ideal of enjoyment, the novelty of such an experience having worn
off a good many years ago. I decide to wait; to make an attack, meanwhile, upon
old Petelia&mdash;the &ldquo;Stromboli&rdquo; of my lady-friend at the
Catanzaro Museum....
</p>

<p>
It is an easy day&rsquo;s excursion from Cotrone to Strongoli, which is
supposed to lie on the site of that ancient, much-besieged town. It sits upon a
hill-top, and the diligence which awaits the traveller at the little
railway-station takes about two hours to reach the place, climbing up the
olive-covered slopes in ample loops and windings.
</p>

<p>
Of Strongoli my memories, even at this short distance of time, are confused and
blurred. The drive up under the glowing beams of morning, the great heat of the
last few days, and two or three nights&rsquo; sleeplessness at Cotrone had
considerably blunted my appetite for new things. I remember seeing some Roman
marbles in the church, and being thence conducted into a castle.
</p>

<p>
Afterwards I reposed awhile in the upper regions, under an olive, and looked
down towards the valley of the Neto, which flows not far from here into the
Ionian. I thought upon Theocritus, trying to picture this vale of Neaithos as
it appeared to him and his
<a name="Page315"></a>
shepherds. The woodlands are gone, and the rains of winter, streaming down the
earthen slopes, have remodelled the whole face of the country.
</p>

<p>
Yet, be nature what it may, men will always turn to one who sings so
melodiously of eternal verities&mdash;of those human tasks and needs which no
lapse of years can change. How modern he reads to us, who have been brought
into contact with the true spirit by men like Johnson-Cory and Lefroy! And how
unbelievably remote is that Bartolozzi-Hellenism which went before! What, for
example&mdash;what of the renowned pseudo-Theocritus, Salamon Gessner, who sang
of this same vale of Neto in his &ldquo;Daphnis&rdquo;? Alas, the good Salamon
has gone the way of all derivative bores; he is dead&mdash;deader than King
Psammeticus; he is now moralizing in some decorous Paradise amid flocks of
Dresden-China sheep and sugar-watery youths and maidens. Who can read his
much-translated masterpiece without unpleasant twinges? Dead as a doornail!
</p>

<p>
So far as I can recollect, there is an infinity of kissing in
&ldquo;Daphnis.&rdquo; It was an age of sentimentality, and the Greek pastoral
ideal, transfused into a Swiss environment of 1810, could not but end in
slobber and <i>Gefühlsduselei.</i> True it is that shepherds have ample
opportunities of sporting with Amaryllis in the shade; opportunities which, to
my certain knowledge, they do not neglect. Theocritus knew it well enough. But,
in a general way, he is niggardly with the precious commodity of kisses; he
seems to have thought that in literature, if not in real life, one can have too
much of a good thing. Also, being a southerner, he could not have trusted his
young folks to remain eternally at the kissing-stage, after the pattern of our
fish-like English lovers. Such behaviour would have struck him as improbable;
possibly immoral. . . .
</p>

<p class="p2">
From where I sat one may trace a road that winds upwards into the Sila, past
Pallagorio. Along its sides are certain mounded heaps and the smoke of refining
works. These are mines of that dusky sulphur which I had observed being drawn
in carts through the streets of Cotrone. There are some eight or ten of them,
they tell me, discovered about thirty years ago&mdash;this is all wrong: they
are mentioned in 1571&mdash;and employing several hundred workmen. It had been
my intention to visit these excavations. But now, in the heat of day, I
wavered; the distance, even to the nearest of them, seemed inordinately great;
and just as I had decided to look for a carriage with a view of being driven
there (that curse of
<a name="Page316"></a>
conscientiousness!) an amiable citizen snatched me up as his guest for
luncheon. He led me, weakly resisting, to a vaulted chamber where, amid a
repast of rural delicacies and the converse of his spouse, all such fond
projects were straightway forgotten. Instead of sulphur-statistics, I learnt a
little piece of local history.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You were speaking about the emptiness of our streets of
Strongoli,&rdquo; my host said. &ldquo;And yet, up to a short time ago, there
was no emigration from this place. Then a change came about: I&rsquo;ll tell
you how it was. There was a <i>guardia di finanze</i> here&mdash;a miserable
octroi official. To keep up the name of his family, he married an heiress; not
for the sake of having progeny, but&mdash;well! He began buying up all the land
round about&mdash;slowly, systematically, cautiously&mdash;till, by dint of
threats and intrigues, he absorbed nearly all the surrounding country. Inch by
inch, he ate it up; with his wife&rsquo;s money. That was his idea of
perpetuating his memory. All the small proprietors were driven from their
domains and fled to America to escape starvation; immense tracts of
well-cultivated land are now almost desert. Look at the country! But some day
he will get his reward; under the ribs, you know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
By this purposeful re-creation of those feudal conditions of olden, days, this
man has become the best-hated person in the district.
</p>

<p>
Soon it was time to leave the friendly shelter and inspect in the glaring
sunshine the remaining antiquities of Petelia. Never have I felt less inclined
for such antiquarian exploits. How much better the hours would have passed in
some cool tavern! I went forth, none the less; and was delighted to discover
that there are practically no antiquities left&mdash;nothing save a few walls
standing near a now ruined convent, which is largely built of Roman
stone-blocks and bricks. Up to a few years ago, the municipality carried on
excavations here and unearthed a few relics which were promptly dispersed.
Perhaps some of these are what one sees in the Catanzaro Museum. The paternal
government, hearing of this enterprise, claimed the site and sat down upon it;
the exposed remains were once more covered up with soil.
</p>

<p>
A goat-boy, a sad little fellow, sprang out of the earth as I dutifully
wandered about here. He volunteered to show me not only Strongoli, but all
Calabria; in fact, his heart&rsquo;s desire was soon manifest: to escape from
home and find his way to America under my passport and protection. Here was his
chance&mdash;a foreigner (American) returning sooner or later to his own
country! He pressed the matter with naif forcefulness. Vainly I told him that
there were other lands on earth; that I was not going to America. He shook his
head and sagely remarked:
</p>

<p>
<a name="Page317"></a>
&ldquo;I have understood. You think my journey would cost too much. But you,
also, must understand. Once I get work there, I will repay you every
farthing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As a consolation, I offered him some cigarettes. He accepted one; pensive,
unresigned.
</p>

<p>
The goat-herds had no such cravings&mdash;in the days of Theocritus.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="Page318"></a><a name="chap40"></a>XL<br />
THE COLUMN</h2>

<p>
&ldquo;Two hours&mdash;three hours&mdash;four hours: according!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The boatmen are still eager for the voyage. It all depends, as before, upon the
wind.
</p>

<p>
And day after day the Ionian lies before us&mdash;immaculate, immutable.
</p>

<p>
I determined to approach the column by land. A mule was discovered, and
starting from the &ldquo;Concordia&rdquo; rather late in the morning, reached
the temple-ruin in two hours to the minute. I might have been tempted to linger
by the way but for the intense sunshine and for the fact that the muleteer was
an exceptionally dull dog&mdash;a dusky youth of the taciturn and wooden-faced
Spanish variety, whose anti-Hellenic profile irked me, in that landscape. The
driving road ends at the cemetery. Thence onward a pathway skirts the sea at
the foot of the clay-hills; passes the sunken wells; climbs up and down
steepish gradients and so attains the plateau at whose extremity stands the
lighthouse, the column, and a few white bungalows&mdash;summer-residences of
Cotrone citizens.
</p>

<p>
A day of shimmering heat. . . .
</p>

<p>
The ground is parched. Altogether, it is a poor and thinly peopled stretch of
land between Cotrone and Capo Rizzuto. No wonder the wolves are famished. Nine
days ago one of them actually ventured upon the road near the cemetery, in
daylight.
</p>

<p>
Yet there is some plant-life, and I was pleased to see, emerging from the bleak
sand-dunes, the tufts of the well-known and conspicuous sea lily in full
flower. Wishful to obtain a few blossoms, I asked the boy to descend from his
mule, but he objected.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Non si toccano questi fiori,&rdquo; he said. These flowers are not to be
touched.
</p>

<p>
Their odour displeased him. Like the Arab, the uncultivated Italian is
insensitive to certain smells that revolt us; while he cannot endure, on the
other hand, the scent of some flowers. I have seen a man professing to feel
faint at the odour of crushed geranium
<a name="Page319"></a>
leaves. They are <i>fiori di morti,</i> he says: planted (sometimes) in
graveyards.
</p>

<p>
The last remarkable antiquity found at this site, to my knowledge, is a stone
vase, fished up some years ago out of the sea, into which it may have fallen
while being carried off by pious marauders for the purpose of figuring as font
in some church (unless, indeed, the land has sunk at this point, as there is
some evidence to show). I saw it, shortly after its return to dry land, in a
shed near the harbour of Cotrone; the Taranto museum has now claimed it. It is
a basin of purple-veined pavonazzetto marble. Originally a monolith, it now
consists of two fragments; the third and smallest is still missing. This noble
relic stands about 85 centimetres in height and measures some 215 centimetres
in circumference; it was never completed, as can be seen by the rim, which is
still partially in the rough. A similar vessel is figured, I believe, in
Tischbein.
</p>

<p>
The small villa-settlement on this promontory is deserted owing to lack of
water, every drop of which has to be brought hither by sea from Cotrone. One
wonders why they have not thought of building a cistern to catch the winter
rains, if there are any; for a respectable stone crops up at this end of the
peninsula.
</p>

<p>
One often wonders at things. . . .
</p>

<p>
The column has been underpinned and strengthened by a foundation of cement;
rains of centuries had begun to threaten its base, and there was some risk of a
catastrophe. Near at hand are a few ancient walls of reticulated masonry in
strangely leaning attitudes, peopled by black goats; on the ground I picked up
some chips of amphoræ and vases, as well as a fragment of the limb of a marble
statue. The site of this pillar, fronting the waves, is impressively forlorn.
And it was rather thoughtful, after all, of the despoiling Bishop Lucifero to
leave two of the forty-eight columns standing upright on the spot, as a sample
of the local Doric style. One has fallen to earth since his day. Nobody would
have complained at the time, if he had stolen all of them, instead of only
forty-six. I took a picture of the survivor; then wandered a little apart, in
the direction of the shore, and soon found myself in a solitude of burning
stones, a miniature Sahara.
</p>

<p>
The temple has vanished, together with the sacred grove that once embowered it;
the island of Calypso, where Swinburne took his ease (if such it was), has sunk
into the purple realms of Glaucus; the corals and sea-beasts that writhed among
its crevices are engulphed under mounds of submarine sand. There was life,
once, at this promontory. Argosies touched here, leaving priceless gifts;
<a name="Page320"></a>
fountains flowed, and cornfields waved in the genial sunshine. Doubtless there
will be life again; earth and sea are only waiting for the enchanter&rsquo;s
wand.
</p>

<p>
All now lies bare, swooning in summer stagnation.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Calabria is not a land to traverse alone. It is too wistful and stricken; too
deficient in those externals that conduce to comfort. Its charms do not appeal
to the eye of romance, and the man who would perambulate Magna Graecia as he
does the Alps would soon regret his choice. One needs something of that
&ldquo;human element&rdquo; which delighted the genteel photographer of
Morano&mdash;comrades, in short; if only those sages, like old Nola Molisi, who
have fallen under the spell of its ancient glories. The joys of Calabria are
not to be bought, like those of Switzerland, for gold.
</p>

<p>
<i>Sir Giovan Battista di Nola Molisi, the last of bis family and name, having
no sons and being come to old age without further hope of offspring, has
desired in the place of children to leave of himself an eternal memory to
mankind&mdash;</i>to wit, this Chronicle of the most Ancient, Magnificent, and
Faithful City of Cotrone. A worthier effort at self-perpetuation than that of
Strongoli. . . .
</p>

<p>
A sturgeon, he notes, was caught in 1593 by the Spanish Castellan of the town.
This nobleman, puzzling whom he could best honour with so rare a dainty,
despatched it by means of a man on horseback to the Duke of Nocera. The Duke
was no less surprised than pleased; he thought mighty well of the sturgeon and
of the respectful consideration which prompted the gift; and then, by another
horseman, sent it to Nola Molisi&rsquo;s own uncle, accompanied, we may
conjecture, by some ceremonious compliment befitting the occasion.
</p>

<p>
A man of parts, therefore, our author&rsquo;s uncle, to whom his Lordship of
Nocera sends table-delicacies by mounted messenger; and himself a mellow
comrade whom I am loath to leave; his pages are distinguished by a pleasing
absence of those saintly paraphernalia which hang like a fog athwart the fair
sky of the south.
</p>

<p>
Yet to him and to all of them I must bid good-bye, here and now. At this hour
to-morrow I shall be far from Cotrone.
</p>

<p>
Farewell to Capialbi, inspired bookworm! And to Lenormant.
</p>

<div class="fig" style="width:100%;">
<a name="illus32"></a>
<img src="images/oldc-32.jpg" width="413" height="253" alt="[Illustration: ]" />
<p class="caption">Roman Masonry at Capo Colonna</p>
</div>

<p>
On a day like this, the scholar sailed at Bivona over a sea so unruffled that
the barque seemed to be suspended in air. The water&rsquo;s surface, he tells
us, is &ldquo;unie comme une glace.&rdquo; He sees the vitreous depths invaded
by piercing sunbeams that light up its mysterious forests of algae, its
rock-headlands and silvery stretches of sand; he peers down into these
&ldquo;prairies pélagiennes&rdquo; and
<a name="Page321"></a>
beholds all their wondrous fauna&mdash;the urchins, the crabs, the floating
fishes and translucent medusae &ldquo;semblables a des clochettes
d&rsquo;opale.&rdquo; Then, realizing how this &ldquo;population pullulante des
petits animaux marins&rdquo; must have impressed the observing ancients, he
goes on to touch&mdash;ever so lightly!&mdash;upon those old local arts of
ornamentation whereby sea-beasts and molluscs and aquatic plants were
reverently copied by master-hand, not from dead specimens, but &ldquo;pris sur
le vif et observés au milieu des eaux&rdquo;; he explains how an entire school
grew up, which drew its inspiration from the dainty ... apes and movements of
these frail creatures. This is <i>du meilleur Lenormant.</i> His was a
full-blooded yet discriminating zest of knowledge. One wonders what more was
fermenting in that restlessly curious brain, when a miserable accident ended
his short life, after 120 days of suffering.
</p>

<p>
So Italy proved fatal to him, as Greece to his father. But one of his happiest
moments must have been spent on the sea at Bivona, on that clear summer
day&mdash;a day such as this, when every nerve tingles with joy of life.
</p>

<p class="p2">
Meanwhile it is good to rest here, immovable but alert, in the breathless hush
of noon. Showers of benevolent heat stream down upon this desolation; not the
faintest wisp of vapour floats upon the horizon; not a sail, not a ripple,
disquiets the waters. The silence can be felt. Slumber is brooding over the
things of earth:
</p>

<p class="poem">
Asleep are the peaks of the hills, and the vales,<br />
The promontories, the clefts,<br />
And all the creatures that move upon the black earth. . . .
</p>

<p>
Such torrid splendour, drenching a land of austerest simplicity, decomposes the
mind into corresponding states of primal contentment and resilience. There
arises before our phantasy a new perspective of human affairs; a suggestion of
well-being wherein the futile complexities and disharmonies of our age shall
have no place. To discard these wrappings, to claim kinship with some elemental
and robust archetype, lover of earth and sun&mdash;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
How fair they are, these moments of golden equipoise!
</p>

<p>
Yes; it is good to be merged awhile into these harshly-vibrant surroundings,
into the meridian glow of all things. This noontide is the &ldquo;heavy&rdquo;
hour of the Greeks, when temples are untrodden by priest or worshipper.
<i>Controra</i> they now call it&mdash;the ominous hour. Man and beast are
fettered in sleep, while spirits walk abroad, as at midnight. <i>Non timebis a
timore noctuno: a sagitta</i>
<a name="Page322"></a>
<i>volante in die: a negotio perambulante in tenebris: ab incursu et demonio
meridiano.</i> The midday demon&mdash;that southern Haunter of calm blue
spaces. . . .
</p>

<p>
So may some enchantment of kindlier intent have crept over Phædrus and his
friend, at converse in the noontide under the whispering plane-tree. And the
genius dwelling about this old headland of the Column is candid and benign.
</p>

<p class="p2">
This corner of Magna Graecia is a severely parsimonious manifestation of
nature. Rocks and waters! But these rocks and waters are actualities; the stuff
whereof man is made. A landscape so luminous, so resolutely scornful of
accessories, hints at brave and simple forms of expression; it brings us to the
ground, where we belong; it medicines to the disease of introspection and
stimulates a capacity which we are in danger of unlearning amid our morbid
hyperborean gloom&mdash;the capacity for honest contempt: contempt of that
scarecrow of a theory which would have us neglect what is earthly, tangible.
What is life well lived but a blithe discarding of primordial husks, of those
comfortable intangibilities that lurk about us, waiting for our weak moments?
</p>

<p>
The sage, that perfect savage, will be the last to withdraw himself from the
influence of these radiant realities. He will strive to knit closer the bond,
and to devise a more durable and affectionate relationship between himself and
them. Let him open his eyes. For a reasonable adjustment lies at his feet. From
these brown stones that seam the tranquil Ionian, from this gracious solitude,
he can carve out, and bear away into the cheerful din of cities, the rudiments
of something clean and veracious and wholly terrestrial&mdash;some tonic
philosophy that shall foster sunny mischiefs and farewell regret.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap41"></a>INDEX</h2>

<p>
Abruzzi peasants, their lives, 27.
</p>

<p>
Abulfeda, historian, 135.
</p>

<p>
Abystron, 119. See <i>Castrovillari.</i>
</p>

<p>
Aceti, T., 93.
</p>

<p>
Acheron, river. See <i>Mu.com.</i>
</p>

<p>
Acherontia (? Acri), 195.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Acherontia&rsquo;s Nest&rdquo; (Acerenza), 32.
</p>

<p>
Achilles, his notions of gratitude, 123.
</p>

<p>
Achiropita image. See <i>Madonna.</i>
</p>

<p>
Acinapura, near Policoro, 98.
</p>

<p>
Acri, town, 193-196, 199.
</p>

<p>
<i>Ada Sanctorum,</i> in.
</p>

<p>
<i>Adamo Caduto,</i> a sacred tragedy, inspires &ldquo;Paradise Lost,&rdquo;
160 <i>seq.</i>
</p>

<p>
Adler, H. M., 122.
</p>

<p>
Aelian, 197.
</p>

<p>
Afforestation, at Morano, 148; governmental schemes for, 218.
</p>

<p>
Africo, village, 271, 272.
</p>

<p>
Agropoli, Saracen stronghold, 137.
</p>

<p>
Akron, commentator, 45. Alaro (Sagra), river, 281-283.
</p>

<p>
Albanians, their colonies, 176, 189; confused with Byzantines, 176, 272; their
liberalism, 177, 183; wedding ceremony, 182; compared with Irish, 186; their
training college, 183; preposterous language, 173,187. See <i>Costumes</i> and
<i>Rada, G. de.</i>
</p>

<p>
Alberada, her tomb, 38.
</p>

<p>
Alberti, L., 174.
</p>

<p>
Alburno, mount, 151.
</p>

<p>
Alexander of Molossus, his death, 197.
</p>

<p>
Alfonso the Magnificent, no.
</p>

<p>
Altamura, sack of, 64, 65.
</p>

<p>
Altipiano di Pollino, upland, 145.
</p>

<p>
Amendolea, river, 197, 272.
</p>

<p>
America. See <i>Emigration.</i>
</p>

<p>
Amphitheatre of Venosa, 31, 38.
</p>

<p>
Ampollina, river, 217, 219, 220.
</p>

<p>
Amusa, river, 282.
</p>

<p>
Analphabetics, percentage of, 259.
</p>

<p>Anastasius, saint, 111.
</p>

<p>
Anchoretism, its charms, 112.
</p>

<p>
Ancinale, river, 295.
</p>

<p>
Angels, injured by art-notions of Renaissance, 25; frescoes at Venosa, 38.
</p>

<p>
Animals, utilized as drugs, 57; cruelty to, 120.
</p>

<p>
Anne, saint, 250; wells dedicated to, 301.
</p>

<p>
Anopheles mosquito. See <i>Malaria.</i>
</p>

<p>
Anthology, its dog-types, 120.
</p>

<p>
Apennines, their terminal peak, 145. Aphrodite, 25.
</p>

<p>
Apollo, 25, 27, 28, 209.
</p>

<p>
Appulus, King of Sipontum, 29.
</p>

<p>
Aprustum, 119. See <i>Castrovillari.</i>
</p>

<p>
Aqueduct, the Apulian, 42.
</p>

<p>
Arabs, bigots because half-starved, 126. See <i>Corsairs</i> and
<i>Saracens.</i>
</p>

<p>
Archytas, lav.-giver, 65, 92.
</p>

<p>
Aretino, P., 140.
</p>

<p>
Arfaxad, fabled king, 29.
</p>

<p>
Argo, highest literary dog-type, 120.
</p>

<p>
Aristotle, 100, 101, 312.
</p>

<p>
Arnold, Matthew, 120, 171.
</p>

<p>
Arpi, town, 29.
</p>

<p>
Arum lily <i>(A. aracunculus),</i> 143.
</p>

<p>
Arvo, river, 217, 220.
</p>

<p>
Asceticism, introduction into south Italy, 251 <i>seq.;</i> its pernicious
effects, 260.
</p>

<p>
Aspromonte, 195, 240; reputation for crime, 245, 246; its contorted structure,
270; Byzantine settlements in, 272.
</p>

<p>
Athos, mount, 113.
</p>

<p>
Augustine, saint, 256.
</p>

<p>
Augustus, professes scorn of luxury, 92.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Avanti,&rdquo; a corrupt rag, 280.
</p>

<p>
Ayrola, P., bishop, 251.
</p>

<p>
Babylonia, Sultan of, 37.
</p>

<p>
Baedeker, 105.
</p>

<p>
Bagnara, town, 240, 242.
</p>

<p>
Bagpipes, 151, 155.
</p>

<p>
Balfour, A. J., 265.
</p>

<p>
Balzo, Pierro del, 37.
</p>

<p>
Bandusian Fount, 43-46.
</p>

<p>
Bantia (Banzi), 32.
</p>

<p>
Barbarano, a glen, 219.
</p>

<p>
Barbarossa. See <i>Frederick II.</i>
</p>

<p>
Barbarossa, pirate-brothers, 140.
</p>

<p>
Barbers, their Hellenic loquacity, 81-82.
</p>

<p>
Bari, compared with Taranto, 89.
</p>

<p>
Barletta, town, II.
</p>

<p>
Baronius, cardinal, 258.
</p>

<p>
Barrius, his <i>philopatria,</i> 142; on Calabrian rivers, 286.
</p>

<p>
Bartels, J. H., 123.
</p>

<p>
Earth, Dr. H., 306.
</p>

<p>
Bartholomaeus, saint, 108.
</p>

<p>
Basile, A., 69.
</p>

<p>
Basilean monks, their convents, in, 113; supplanted by Benedictines, 113; their
ideals, 115; convent of St. Adrian, 185.
</p>

<p>
Basilicata, province, emigration from, 49; military road through, 123; old
boundary of, 145; its bagpipes, 151, 155.
</p>

<p>
Batiffol, P., 113, 186, 272.
</p>

<p>
Bears in Calabria, 94, 146.
</p>

<p>
Beatrix, princess, 7, 8.
</p>

<p>
Beccaria, C. de, 276.
</p>

<p>
Beccarini family, 13.
</p>

<p>
Beeches at Pollino, 146; in old Latium, 285.
</p>

<p>
Bellerophon, a dragon-slayer, 102.
</p>

<p>
Belmonte, prince, 49.
</p>

<p>
Beltrano, O., 114.
</p>

<p>
Benedict XIII, no.
</p>

<p>
Benedict, saint, 252.
</p>

<p>
Benedictines, their architecture, 39; displace Basileans, 113,
</p>

<p>
Beneventana, 29.
</p>

<p>
Benincasa, Venerable Orsola, 255-256, 258.
</p>

<p>
Benincasa, brigand, 213.
</p>

<p>
Benjamin of Tudela, 81, 136.
</p>

<p>
Benoth (Venus), 33.
</p>

<p>
Bernard, saint, 250.
</p>

<p>
Bernardo da Rogliano, biography of, 144.
</p>

<p>
Bernhardi, Prof., 3.
</p>

<p>
Bertaux, E., 39, 78, in, 186.
</p>

<p>
<i>Biblioteca Calabra</i> in Naples, 93.
</p>

<p>
Birds, how to diminish slaughter of, 52; eaten raw, 56.
</p>

<p>
Bisignano, town, 135, 194.
</p>

<p>
Bivona, town, 320.
</p>

<p>
Black colour, of Saracens, 52, 130; of water, 80.
</p>

<p>
Blaev, J., 67.
</p>

<p>
Blake, W., 190.
</p>

<p>
Blanc, Jos., 53.
</p>

<p>
Blood-letting, popular treatment of disease, 194.
</p>

<p>
Blue, deficient colour-sense for, 51, 52.
</p>

<p>
Boccaccio, 80, 260.
</p>

<p>
Boccara, V., 228.
</p>

<p>
Boemund, 38.
</p>

<p>
Boissier, G., 46.
</p>

<p>
Bollandists, in.
</p>

<p>
Bonghi, R., statesman, 4.
</p>

<p>
Bordeaux, royal duel at, 8.
</p>

<p>
Borgia, village, 293.
</p>

<p>
Borjès, J., 215.
</p>

<p>
Botta, C., <i>quoted,</i> 122.
</p>

<p>
Botte Donato, mount, 122.
</p>

<p>
Bourbons, their treatment of prisoners, n; persecute Albanians, 177, 183;
protectors of forests, 218; their ecclesiastics and saints, 212, 260;
conditions of Calabria under, 97, 298. See <i>Brigandage.</i>
</p>

<p>
Bourget, P., 296.
</p>

<p>
Bova, town, 241, 245, 272-273.
</p>

<p>
Bovio, G., statesman, 4.
</p>

<p>
Bradano, river, 286.
</p>

<p>
Breakfast in Italy, dislocates moral stability, 18, 125; responsible for
homicides, 127.
</p>

<p>
Briar (bruyère), manufacture of pipes, 269.
</p>

<p>
Brigands, at Venosa, 34; Longobucco, 202; in the Sila, 211 <i>seq.;</i>
pensioned by Bourbons, 214; their crimes, 212, 215; their wealth, 215;
interview with one, 245.
</p>

<p>
Brigandage, extent of evil, 144; fostered by the church, 144, 215; by Bourbons,
203, 212, 214, 215; by English, 212; its political character, 211, 214;
repression of, 212-215.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Bronze of Siris,&rdquo; 197.
</p>

<p>
Bruno, Giordano, 269.
</p>

<p>
Bruno, physician of Longobucco, 202.
</p>

<p>
Bruttians, misrepresented, 197; their characteristics, 208; respect for women,
209; reputation for bloodthirstiness, 210.
</p>

<p>
Buchholtz, H., 190.
</p>

<p>
Buckle, H. T., 90.
</p>

<p>
Buffaloes at Policoro, 99.
</p>

<p>
Bugliari, bishop, 183.
</p>

<p>
Bugs, their medicinal properties, 105.
</p>

<p>
Burial, premature, 300.
</p>

<p>
Burnous, surviving in Italy, 20.
</p>

<p>
Byzantines, at Gargano, 17; a period of revival, in; their convents, 113, 186;
survive in Aspramente, 272-274; confused with Albanians, 176,
272.
</p>

<p>
Caietanus, O., 111.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Calabrere&rdquo; fur, 222.
</p>

<p>
Calabria, used to include Apulia, 89; its great men and natural attractions,
93; wild animals, 94; its inns, 106; race-character of natives, 109; their
hardiness, 209; their philosophical bent, 291; inhabited before the flood, 119;
situation of inland towns, i io, 200; their squalor, 128,206; older
descriptions of, 134, 142; English travellers in, 181; modern French
researches, 186; changeinlandscapeandclimate, 219, 241, 284-287; its rivers,
286; wistfulness of scenery, 320. See <i>Malaria.</i>
</p>

<p>
Calamo, river, 196.
</p>

<p>
<i>Calascione Scordato,</i> a poem, 131.
</p>

<p>
Calendaro, river, io, 21.
</p>

<p>
Calypso, island, 284, 319.
</p>

<p>
Camorra, 57, 125, 279.
</p>

<p>
Campanella, T., philosopher, 282, 292.
</p>

<p>
<i>Campanula fragilis,</i> 225.
</p>

<p>
Campo di Bova, upland, 272.
</p>

<p>
Campo Tenese, village, 123.
</p>

<p>
Cantù, C., 190.
</p>

<p>
Capaccio, bishop of, 212.
</p>

<p>
Capasso, B., 3.
</p>

<p>
Capialbi, V., 136, 320.
</p>

<p>
Capmartin de Chaupy, on Bandusian Fount, 43-45.
</p>

<p>
Caprasia. See <i>Tarsia.</i>
</p>

<p>
Carafa, village, 293.
</p>

<p>
Carducci, commentator, 80.
</p>

<p>
Carducci, poet, 5.
</p>

<p>
Carob-tree, its cultivation neglected, 49.
</p>

<p>
Caroline, Queen, 215.
</p>

<p>
Carthusian monasteries, 293-294.
</p>

<p>
Caruso, brigand, 214.
</p>

<p>
Casalnuovo, village, 271, 272.
</p>

<p>
Caserta, palace of, 139, 204.
</p>

<p>
Casimir of Poland, prince, 75.
</p>

<p>
Casino, village, 207.
</p>

<p>
Cassano, town, 121, 176.
</p>

<p>
Cassiodorus, 221.
</p>

<p>
Castaldi, G., 284. Castel del Monte, 11, 12.
</p>

<p>
Castel del Monte, 11, 12.
</p>

<p>
Castel Fiorentino, 8.
</p>

<p>
Castelvetere. See <i>Caulonia. &ldquo;</i>
</p>

<p>
Castle of the Giant,&rdquo; 19.
</p>

<p>
Castrovillari, its origin, 119; old town, 121; colony of Jews, 122.
</p>

<p>
Catacomb-worship, 27; at Venosa, 38.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Cataldiados,&rdquo; a baroque poem, 67.
</p>

<p>
Cataldo, saint, his shrine and biographies, 67.
</p>

<p>
Catanzaro, 172, 223; its museum, 224, 226.
</p>

<p>
Catherine of Siena, saint, 38.
</p>

<p>
Cats in south Italy, 119-120.
</p>

<p>
Caulonia, a mediæval site, 281; its castle, 282; immunity from malaria, 284.
</p>

<p>
Cavalotti, F., politician, 108-109.
</p>

<p>
Cavara, Signor, 285.
</p>

<p>
Cave-worship, its origins and priestly uses, 23.
</p>

<p>
Celli, Prof., 288, 298.
</p>

<p>
Cellular confinement, 240, 276.
</p>

<p>
Cemeteries in Italy, their charm, 2, 299.
</p>

<p>
Cemetery of Reggio, 235.
</p>

<p>
Cenna, surviving Roman family, chronicler of Venosa, 32, 33, 43.
</p>

<p>
<i>Cerauli,</i> snake-killers, 138.
</p>

<p>
Cerchiara, village, 147.
</p>

<p>
Cerino, brigand, 215.
</p>

<p>
Cetara, Saracen stronghold, 137.
</p>

<p>
Cetraro, erection of postal letter-box at, 304.
</p>

<p>
Charity, a form of self-indulgence, 311.
</p>

<p>
Charles of Anjou, 7-8.
</p>

<p>
Chastity-ideal, poisons literature, 260.
</p>

<p>
Cheeses of Pollino, 142, 149; of Sila, 221.
</p>

<p>
Chemists, an authoritative class, 105, 307.
</p>

<p>
Cherub, a decayed conception, 24.
</p>

<p>
Chestnuts, destruction of, 220; of Tarentum, 285.
</p>

<p>
Children, as wage-earners in America, 50; massacre of illegitimate, 59; sold
by contract, 97; kidnapped for sale to Turks, 139.
</p>

<p>
China, its dragon-god, 104.
</p>

<p>
Cholera, 26, 128, 157, 172, 173.
</p>

<p>
Christian names, degeneration in, 57-58.
</p>

<p>
Church, Sir R., 77.
</p>

<p>
Cicadas, their uses, 182; of Reggio, 284.
</p>

<p>
Cimigliano, village, 205.
</p>

<p>
Circilla, upland, 219, 222.
</p>

<p>
Ciro, priest-brigand, 77.
</p>

<p>
Cirò, its wine, 306.
</p>

<p>
Cività, village, 153.
</p>

<p>
Cluver, Ph., 175.
</p>

<p>
Coachmen, how to manage, 17.
</p>

<p>
Cocynthum promontory (Punta di Stilo), 284.
</p>

<p>
Codex of Rossano, 114.
</p>

<p>
Cœnobitism develops out of eremitism, 112-113.
</p>

<p>
Colajanni, Prof., 278.
</p>

<p>
Cola Pesce, the diver, 228-229.
</p>

<p>
Colletta, P., 64, 212; <i>quoted,,</i> 213.
</p>

<p>
Colognati, river, 197.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Colonia Elena,&rdquo; 96.
</p>

<p>
Colorito, convent, 143-144.
</p>

<p>
Colour-sense of peasantry, 51-52.
</p>

<p>
Columella, 80, 285.
</p>

<p>
Column, Cape and temple-ruin at Cotrone, 301, 308, 318 <i>seq.</i>
</p>

<p>
Commercial travellers, an objectionable brood, 31, 296.
</p>

<p>
Comparetti, D., 272.
</p>

<p>
Condofuri, village, 272.
</p>

<p>
Confessors and penitents, 258.
</p>

<p>
Conradin, 7-8.
</p>

<p>
<i>Contranome,</i> the Happy Hazards of, 54-56.
</p>

<p>
<i>Controra,</i> the ominous hour, 321.
</p>

<p>
Cook, Eliza, 180.
</p>

<p>
Cookery, English contrasted with Italian, 125.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Co-operation,&rdquo; a local journal, 206.
</p>

<p>
Copertino, town, 71.
</p>

<p>
Corace, river, 195.
</p>

<p>
Coral fisheries, abandoned, 286.
</p>

<p>
Corigliano, town, 96, 115, 173, 184, 191.
</p>

<p>
Coronelli, V., 175.
</p>

<p>
Corsairs, destroy Manfredonia, 12; contrasted with Saracens, 138; their
destructiveness, 139; depopulate sea-board, 140; crushed by steam, 141.
</p>

<p>
Corsi, F., 91.
</p>

<p>
Cortese, Prof., 270.
</p>

<p>
Coscile (Sybaris), river, 122, 172, 175.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Cose di Puglie,&rdquo; a remarkable book, 89.
</p>

<p>
Cosenza, Saracenism at, 134, 135; a pleasant town, 160; corrupt administration
of, 193; described by Pacicchelli, 208; intellectual record and malaria, 287,
291.
</p>

<p>
Costanza, Queen, 7, 8.
</p>

<p>
Costanzo, A., 3.
</p>

<p>
Costumes, female, of Morano, 130; of Albanian colonies, 152-153, 178, 182; of
San Giovanni, 205-206; of Tiriolo, 225.
</p>

<p>
Cotrone (Croton), 135, 207; its former size, 283; marshy surroundings, 286;
recent revival, 297; lack of rainfall, 305.
</p>

<p>
Cotronei, 184.
</p>

<p>
Cotton-plant, 136. .
</p>

<p>
Courier, P. L., <i>quoted,</i> 212.
</p>

<p>
Cows, shod for threshing corn, 121; their milk disparaged, 149; in the Sila,
220; resuscitated from death, 261; of Cotrone, 301.
</p>

<p>
Crati (Crathis), river, 108, 213, 287; its &ldquo;deluge,&rdquo; 174; change of
course, 175; legend of, 197.
</p>

<p>
Craven, Keppel, 80, 95, 294.
</p>

<p>
Crimes committed by brigands, 212, 215.
</p>

<p>
Crispi, F., 191.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Cristiano,&rdquo; origin of term, 138.
</p>

<p>
Croce Greca, a landmark, 195.
</p>

<p>
Cropolati, village, 198.
</p>

<p>
Crossbills, 205.
</p>

<p>
Cruelty to animals, 120.
</p>

<p>
Cryptomerias, futile love of, I, 83.
</p>

<p>
Cuma;, 119.
</p>

<p>
Cuomo, A., 264.
</p>

<p>
Cuomo Library, Naples, 67.
</p>

<p>
Cysat, J. L., 104.
</p>

<p>
Date-palm, 83, 136.
</p>

<p>
D&rsquo;Azeglio, <i>quoted,</i> 217.
</p>

<p>
Death-penalty, preface of civilization, 276.
</p>

<p>
Decentralization of south Italy, 194, 250, 303.
</p>

<p>
Deforestation, impairs climate and national character, 12-13; fosters malaria,
32, 286; in Apulia, 44; at Castrovillari, 121; in Pollino region, 147-148; in
&ldquo;Greek&rdquo; Sila, 180, 195; in Greater Sila, 207, 217, 218, 223;
diminishes water-supply, 180, 217; in Crati-valley, 287.
</p>

<p>
Deities, sullied by vulgar contact, 24; must be plastic to survive, 25.
</p>

<p>
Delianuova, town, 240, 241, 245, 274.
</p>

<p>
<i>Delizie Tarentine,</i> 80.
</p>

<p>
Deluge, legend of, 174.
</p>

<p>
Democritus of Abdera, 312.
</p>

<p>
Demon of Midday, 321.
</p>

<p>
Demosthenes, 27, 279.
</p>

<p>
Deputy, my friend the Roman, on the need of employing employes, 20; discusses
octroi officials, 34; how to manage the bourgeoisie, 87; disapproves of English
methods, 117-119.
</p>

<p>
Devil, his perennial popularity, 25; his honesty, 266.
</p>

<p>
Diabetic tendency inherent in all gods, 25.
</p>

<p>
Diehl, C., 108, 186.
</p>

<p>
Dieting, improper, responsible for moral delinquencies, 126-127.
</p>

<p>
Diomed, city-founder, 29.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dog-eyed,&rdquo; opprobrious epithet, too, 120.
</p>

<p>
Dogs, eaten as medicine, 57; their diet and appearance, 119; Greek attitude
towards, 120.
</p>

<p>
Dolcedorme, mountain-range, 108, 142, 143.
</p>

<p>
Dolomieu, C. de, 234.
</p>

<p>
<i>Domicilio coatto,</i> system of, 276.
</p>

<p>
Dominican monks, 252, 258, 259.
</p>

<p>
Dorsa, V., 310.
</p>

<p>
<i>Draco volans.</i> See <i>dragon.</i>
</p>

<p>
Dragonara, Dragoneria, 112.
</p>

<p>
Dragone, rivulet, 100.
</p>

<p>
Dragon, synonymous with serpent, 100; possible prototypes in nature, 101; an
animistic conception, 102; dragon-attributes and shapes, 103; recent
degeneration of, 104.
</p>

<p>
Duret de Tavel, on game in Calabria, 95; on brigands, 202, 212.
</p>

<p>
Earth-movements, 284-285.
</p>

<p>
Earthquakes, injure Venosa, 31, 38; Rossano, 113; Reggio and Messina, 230-239;
Bagnara, 242; Sant&rsquo; Eufemia, 243; Bova, 273; their effect on coast-line,
285. Eboli, C. d&rsquo;, 256.
</p>

<p>
Ecclesiastics under Bourbons, prodigious numbers of, 212.
</p>

<p>
Edrisius,
<i>quoted,</i> 109, 286, 298.
</p>

<p>
Education, Italian ideas on, 185.
</p>

<p>
Eels, resuscitated from death, 261.
</p>

<p>
Egidio, saint, 260-264.
</p>

<p>
Elba, island, 240.
</p>

<p>
Elia Junior, saint, in.
</p>

<p>
Elia Spelaeotes, saint, 111-112.
</p>

<p>
Elias, saint, displaces Helios, 188.
</p>

<p>
Elvira, Council of, 153.
</p>

<p>
Emigrants to America, their wine-bibbing propensities and intelligence, 21-22;
other characteristics, 146, 209.
</p>

<p>
Emigration, reduces population, 28, 49, 209; its effect on the race, 48, 50,
97, 194, 210; breaks up big properties, 289.
</p>

<p>
English government, encourages brigandage, 212,
</p>

<p>
Englishmen, considered savages, 5.
</p>

<p>
English mentality, contrasted with Italian, 66, 91, 117, 123, 124,
179, 248, 265, 311.
</p>

<p>
English travellers in south Italy, 181, 280.
</p>

<p>
Ennius, 79.
</p>

<p>
Envy, prevalent native vice, 126, 127, 129.
</p>

<p>
Ephesus, synod of, 259.
</p>

<p>
Epictetus, 251.
</p>

<p>
Erasmus, 264.
</p>

<p>
Eros, degenerates into Cupid, 25.
</p>

<p>
Esaro, river (i), 172.
</p>

<p>
Esaro, river (2), 297.
</p>

<p>
Espedito, saint, 4.
</p>

<p>
Eucalyptus trees, a scandalous growth, 97, 98.
</p>

<p>
Euprassius, protospadarius of Calabria, 111.
</p>

<p>
Evelyn, John, 136.
</p>

<p>
Exmouth, Lord, 139.
</p>

<p>
Eye-like appearance of fountains, originates dragon-legends, 100.
</p>

<p>
Fabbrizia, town, 292, 293.
</p>

<p>
Fair complexion, at Venosa, 33; prejudice against, 209; eliminated by malaria,
225.
</p>

<p>
Falcone, N., 161.
</p>

<p>
Fallistro, mountain, 196.
</p>

<p>
Fallow-deer, now extinct, 95, 146.
</p>

<p>
Family, south Italian sense of, 124, 179, 279.
</p>

<p>
<i>Fare figura,</i> an Italian trait, 65.
</p>

<p>
Fata Morgana, 228.
</p>

<p>
Ferdinand, king, 140, 212.
</p>

<p>
Ferdinand the Catholic, 122.
</p>

<p>
Ferdinandea, upland, 292.
</p>

<p>
Festivals, nocturnal, 153.
</p>

<p>
Feudal conditions in Calabria, 97; re-creation of, 316.
</p>

<p>
Fever. See <i>Malaria.</i>
</p>

<p>
Fever, Maltese, 286.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Fiamuri Arberit,&rdquo; Albanian journal, 190.
</p>

<p>
Figs, different varieties of, 50-51.
</p>

<p>
Fiore, G., 113, 142, 175, 176, 186, 208, 286.
</p>

<p>
Firs, 146, 203, 222, 269; used as cow-fodder, 149; white firs, 285, 295.
</p>

<p>
Fishermen, their antique habits, 81.
</p>

<p>
Fulminicà, river, 197.
</p>

<p>
Fleas, at Spinazzola, 63.
</p>

<p>
Flora, of mountain parts, 145, 223; change in distribution, 285.
</p>

<p>
Floriacense, monastery, 207.
</p>

<p>
Flute, the double, 178.
</p>

<p>
Flying Monk. See <i>Joseph of Copertino.</i>
</p>

<p>
Focà, village, 281; depopulated by malaria, 283; revival of, 289.
</p>

<p>
Foggia, 7, 8, 10.
</p>

<p>
Forbiger, A., 195.
</p>

<p>
Forense (Fiorenza), 32.
</p>

<p>
Forests, of Policoro, 95; Pollino, 146-148; Sila, 204, 220; Italian, contrasted
with Russian, 222; Gariglione, 222-223; of Serra, 295.
</p>

<p>
Forgeries, literary, 143.
</p>

<p>
Fortis, A., 228.
</p>

<p>
<i>Fosse canarie,</i> 300.
</p>

<p>
Fossombrone, town, 72.
</p>

<p>
Fountains, connected with dragon-legends, 101-104.
</p>

<p>
Francatripa, brigand, 211, 215.
</p>

<p>
Francavilla, town, 147.
</p>

<p>
Francesco di Paola, saint, 257.
</p>

<p>
Francis II, king, 214.
</p>

<p>
Francis of Assisi, saint, 18, 74, 75, 254.
</p>

<p>
Franciscan monks, 75, 160, 252, 258.
</p>

<p>
Frangipani, 7, 137.
</p>

<p>
Frederick II (Barbarossa), fortifies Lucera, 2; his affection for Saracens, 3;
a modern type, 6; keeps a harem, 7; his treasures at Venosa, 37; introduces
pheasants, 96.
</p>

<p>
Freemasonry, prevalence of, 183.
</p>

<p>
French, their repression of brigandage, 144, 202, 212.
</p>

<p>
Frida, river, 151.
</p>

<p>
Frogs, as mosquito-catchers, 99.
</p>

<p>
Fromentin, E., 155.
</p>

<p>
Frungillo, R., 261.
</p>

<p>
Galaesus, river, 80.
</p>

<p>
Galateus (Ferrari, A. de&rsquo;), 89.
</p>

<p>
Galen, 283.
</p>

<p>
Galoppano, forestal station, 204.
</p>

<p>
Gardens, public, at Lucera, I; Manfredonia, 14; Taranto, 83; Catanzaro, 224;
Messina, 231.
</p>

<p>
Gargano, mount, 2, 7, 21, 32; Byzantine influence at, 17.
</p>

<p>
Garibaldi, 183, 214, 240.
</p>

<p>
Gariglione, forest, 222.
</p>

<p>
Gaudolino, valley of, 144, 157.
</p>

<p>
Gay, Jules, 186.
</p>

<p>
Gebhardt &amp; Harnack, on Codex of Rossano, 114.
</p>

<p>
Gecko, reputed poisonous, 205, Gelasius, pope, 262.
</p>

<p>
<i>Genista anglica,</i> 223.
</p>

<p>
Genovese, Dr. F., his malaria researches, 283, 284, 286, 290.
</p>

<p>
George, saint, his dragon, 103.
</p>

<p>
Gerace (Locri), 137, 274, 284, 285.
</p>

<p>
<i>Germanese</i> and <i>tedesco,</i> contradistinguished, 77.
</p>

<p>
Gesner, Konrad, 100.
</p>

<p>
Gessner, Salamon, 315.
</p>

<p>
Giadrezze, fountain, 80.
</p>

<p>
Giangiuseppe della Croce, saint, 253-255, 263.
</p>

<p>
Giannone, P., 4.
</p>

<p>
Gioia, town, 241.
</p>

<p>
Gioioso, town, 292.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Giornale d&rsquo; Italia,&rdquo; <i>quoted,</i> 115.
</p>

<p>
Giovene, G., 89.
</p>

<p>
Gissing, G., on Galaesus, 80; description of Reggio, 236; at Cotrone, 296-301;
on Pythagoras, 309.
</p>

<p>
Giudice, G. del, 139.
</p>

<p>
Gladstone, W. E., 190.
</p>

<p>
Glasgow, its morality, 154.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Glories of Mary,&rdquo; 259.
</p>

<p>
Goats, a baneful quadruped, 149, 286.
</p>

<p>
Goethe, 237, 280.
</p>

<p>
Gothic attitude towards nature, 42; towards religion, 266.
</p>

<p>
Gourmont, R. de, 91.
</p>

<p>
<i>Graffiti,</i> their sociological import, 200.
</p>

<p>
Grandis, de, 53.
</p>

<p>
Grano, panegyrist of Calabria, 135.
</p>

<p>
Grant, J., 242.
</p>

<p>
Gratitude, southern sense of, 123.
</p>

<p>
Gravière, J. de la, 141.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Grazie,&rdquo; a word seldom used, 123.
</p>

<p>
Greco, L. M., 197.
</p>

<p>
Greek Comedy, 153.
</p>

<p>
Greeks, medieval. See <i>Byzantines.</i>
</p>

<p>
Greeks, their treatment of animals, 120; notions of gratitude, 123-124;
survival of traits and words, 53, 81, 196, 209, 310; close observers of natural
history, 100.
</p>

<p>
Green colour, in nature, 52; in mankind, 129.
</p>

<p>
Gregorovius, F., 17, 88, 307. Grottaglie, town, 68, 77-79. Grottole, 77.
</p>

<p>
Grotto-apparitions, 23, 154. Guiscard, Robert, 137. Gumppenberg, G., 259.
</p>

<p>
Guiscard, Robert, 137.
</p>

<p>
Gumppenberg, G., 259.
</p>

<p>
Haller, C., 53.
</p>

<p>
Hair-cutting, æsthetics of, 81.
</p>

<p>
Hamilton, Sir W., 228, 242.
</p>

<p>
Hannibal, 31, 64, 299.
</p>

<p>
Harnack, A., 114.
</p>

<p>
Haseloff, H. E. G., on purple Codex, 114.
</p>

<p>
Hat of the Virgin Mary, 243, 265.
</p>

<p>
Haym, N. F., 144.
</p>

<p>
Hearn, L., 209.
</p>

<p>
Hehn, V., 222.
</p>

<p>
Heinsius, D., 175.
</p>

<p>
Helios, survives as St. Elias, 188.
</p>

<p>
Hellenic art, its originality explained, 75. See <i>Greeks.</i>
</p>

<p>
Hepidanus, chronicler, 135.
</p>

<p>
Hera, temple of. See <i>Column.</i>
</p>

<p>
Heraclea, 89, 97.
</p>

<p>
Herbs, lore of, 58; on Mount Pollino, 142-143.
</p>

<p>
Herculaneum, its buried treasures, 115.
</p>

<p>
Hercules, 23, 27.
</p>

<p>
Hermits in Calabria, 111-112.
</p>

<p>
Herodotus, 175.
</p>

<p>
Hesiod, 100.
</p>

<p>
Hippocratic oath, 297.
</p>

<p>
Hipponium. See <i>Montdeone,</i>
</p>

<p>
Hohenstaufen, their fate avenged, 6-8.
</p>

<p>
Home, south Italian feeling for, 179.
</p>

<p>
Homer, his colour-sense, 52; on dragons, 100, 101; his idea of gifts, 123-124;
his &ldquo;Ore of Temese,&rdquo; 202.
</p>

<p>
<i>Homo ibericus,</i> 109.
</p>

<p>
Horace, 80, 154, 197; on Garganian winds, 21; his house at Venosa, 31; praises
the simple life but enjoys good food, 41; the perfect anti-sentimentalist, 42;
on Bandusian Fount, 43 <i>seq.;</i> approves of being genially unwise, 46; his
<i>duplex ficus,</i> 51; hatred of avarice, 218.
</p>

<p>
Huillard-Bréholles, I. L. A., 37, 186.
</p>

<p>
Humanitarians, their ferocity, 312.
</p>

<p>
Humour in south Italy, 58.
</p>

<p>
Huxley, T. H., 264.
</p>

<p>
Hymenæus, 39.
</p>

<p>
Ibn Alathir, 135.
</p>

<p>
Ibn Chaldun, 135.
</p>

<p>
Illegitimate infants, massacre of, 58-59.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Il Saraceno,&rdquo; journal, 4.
</p>

<p>
Imbriani, politician, 108.
</p>

<p>
Index, Congregation of, 260.
</p>

<p>
Industrialism, Italian craze for, 48, 148.
</p>

<p>
Inn-keepers, how to deal with, 106-108.
</p>

<p>
Innocent IV., 7.
</p>

<p>
Inquisition, 258, 260.
</p>

<p>
Intellectual undercurrent in south Italy, 33, 89, 188, 201.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Interesse&rdquo; (self-advantage), a guiding motive, 124.
</p>

<p>
Ionic spirit, traces of, 208; defies religious asceticism, 252.
</p>

<p>
Iorio, A. di, 51.
</p>

<p>
Italian government, plays at numbering houses, 20; punishes original ideas, 35.
</p>

<p>
Italian heritage from Romans, 42, 277.
</p>

<p>
Italian music, its primitive appeal, 5, 231-232.
</p>

<p>
Italy, the original district so called, 195.
</p>

<p>
Jackdaws, discard their voices, 37.
</p>

<p>
Janace, forest, 146.
</p>

<p>
Januarius, saint, 249, 251.
</p>

<p>
Japygia, land of, 68.
</p>

<p>
Jerome, saint, 153.
</p>

<p>
Jesuits, 97, 249.
</p>

<p>
Jesus Christ, how regarded, 248.
</p>

<p>
Jews, colony at Venosa, 38; at Castrovillari, 122; at Caulonia and elsewhere,
282; change in their race-characteristics, 126.
</p>

<p>
Johannes a S. Antonio, 162.
</p>

<p>
Johannes of Longobucco, 202.
</p>

<p>
John, saint, his blood, 251.
</p>

<p>
Johnson-Cory, W., 315.
</p>

<p>
Jones, W. M., on malaria, 290.
</p>

<p>
Joseph, saint, 250.
</p>

<p>
Joseph of Copertino, saint, his biographies, 69; feats of aviation, 71-72;
takes a passenger, 73; his semi-cretinism, 74; why born in a stable, 75;
beatification and penitences, 76, 78.
</p>

<p>
Justice in south Italy, 278, 279.
</p>

<p>
Justinus, <i>quoted,</i> 221.
</p>

<p>
Juvenal, 259.
</p>

<p>
Kant, E., 310.
</p>

<p>
Kerrich, Mr., his briar-industry, 270.
</p>

<p>
Kestrels, fishing for, 129.
</p>

<p>
Kheir-eddin, pirate, 140.
</p>

<p>
King and Okey, <i>quoted,</i> 279.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;King Marcone,&rdquo; brigand, 214.
</p>

<p>
Kircher, A., <i>quoted,</i> 105.
</p>

<p>
Kissing, in life and literature, 315.
</p>

<p>
Knox, John, 310.
</p>

<p>
Konrad von Hildesheim, <i>quoted,</i> 138.
</p>

<p>
Labonia, F. M., 202.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;La Cattolica,&rdquo; church at Stilo, ill.
</p>

<p>
Lagonegro, town, 147.
</p>

<p>
Lakes, construction of artificial, 217; created by earthquakes, 285.
</p>

<p>
Lamartine, A. M., 190.
</p>

<p>
Lamb, Charles, 14.
</p>

<p>
Lambton Worm, a dragon, 102.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lamenti,&rdquo; plaints in rime, 140.
</p>

<p>
Landslides, their destructive frequency, 218; how repaired, 293.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;La Quistione Meridionale,&rdquo; a book, 278.
</p>

<p>
Lasor a Varea (Savonarola), 67, 144.
</p>

<p>
Latin points of view, opposed to Gothic, 42, 266.
</p>

<p>
Latinisms of speech, survival of, 53.
</p>

<p>
Latronico, village, 147.
</p>

<p>
Laurentius, bishop of Sipontum, 17.
</p>

<p>
Lauria, Roger de, 7, 8.
</p>

<p>
Law-breaking, unsuspected joys of, 36.
</p>

<p>
Lear, E., 40, in, 134.
</p>

<p>
Lefroy, E. C., 315.
</p>

<p>
Lenormant, F., on Manfredonia, 12; on Trinità abbey, 38; on Sybaris, 115; on
Pandosia, 196; on Byzantine colonies, 272; at Bivona, 320; his zest of
knowledge, 321.
</p>

<p>
Leone da Morano, 144.
</p>

<p>
Leoni, N., 131, 161, 228.
</p>

<p>
Leoni (government official), 271.
</p>

<p>
Leo XIII, 263.
</p>

<p>
Lese, river, 205, 220.
</p>

<p>
Lesina, 7, 21.
</p>

<p>
Lewes, G. H., 267.
</p>

<p>
Ligorio, P., arch-forger, 143.
</p>

<p>
Liguori, A. di, saint, 256, 257, 259, 260.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;L&rsquo; Inglese,&rdquo; brigand, 212.
</p>

<p>
Lions of Lucera, 3; of Venosa, 32.
</p>

<p>
Lipari, island, 276.
</p>

<p>
Lipuda, river, 197.
</p>

<p>
Lister, Lord, 312.;
</p>

<p>
Li Tartari, mountain, 196.
</p>

<p>
Livy, 197.
</p>

<p>
Lizard, the emerald, 205.
</p>

<p>
L&rsquo; Occaso, author, 134.
</p>

<p>
Locri. See <i>Gerace.</i>
</p>

<p>
Lombroso, C., 128, 278.
</p>

<p>
Longobucco, 195; its &ldquo;Hotel Vittoria,&rdquo; 199, 201; situation, 200;
intellectual life, 201; silver mines, 202.
</p>

<p>
Lorenzo, G. de, 39.
</p>

<p>
Lorenzo (Lawrence), saint, his dragon-legend, n, 102; his fat, 251.
</p>

<p>
Louis of France, saint, 7.
</p>

<p>
Love of noise, a local trait, 53.
</p>

<p>
Love-affairs, how managed, 84-86.
</p>

<p>
Lucanians, 197, 221.
</p>

<p>
Lucca oil, 241.
</p>

<p>
Lucera, its castle, 2, 6; museum, 3; landscape in spring, 6.
</p>

<p>
Lucifero, a sacrilegious bishop, 319.
</p>

<p>
Ludwig II, complains of Saracens, 138.
</p>

<p>
Luke, saint, paints Madonna portraits at Sipontum, 30; at Caulonia, 282; at
Cotrone, 306.
</p>

<p>
Lupi-Crisafi, author, 228.
</p>

<p>
Lupoli, M. A., 31, 39.
</p>

<p>
Luther, his creed repressed, 252.
</p>

<p>
Luynes, duc de, 186.
</p>

<p>
Luzard (lynx), an absent-minded beast, 94, 222.
</p>

<p>
Lycanthropy, epidemic of, 176.
</p>

<p>
Maccheroni, the art of engulphing, 297.
</p>

<p>
Macchia, village, 178, 180, 188 <i>seq.</i>
</p>

<p>
Madonna, declines in artistic worth, 24; her realistic diet, 61; <i>della
Fita,</i> 93; <i>acbiropita,</i> 108, 113, 114; <i>del Patir,</i> in; her
friendship with St. Nilus, 114; <i>del Castello,</i> 122; <i>della Libera,</i>
140; <i>di Constantinopoli,</i> 140; of Pollino, picnic in honour of, 151
<i>seq.; put up to auction,</i> 156; of Messina, 230, 237; absorbs Greek
deities, 247; <i>dell&rsquo; Arco,</i> 249; <i>del Soccorso,</i> 249; of
Pompei, 249; <i>of the Hens,</i> 250; displaces saint-worship, 248-251; her
Sacred Hat, 243, 265; her Milk, 250; increases in popularity, 259, 264; <i>del
Carmine,</i> 301.
</p>

<p>
Maecenas, 41.
</p>

<p>
Maffei, A., 215.
</p>

<p>
Magic, instances of sympathetic, 57; imported from Egypt, 58, 251.
</p>

<p>
Magini, G. A., 97, 175.
</p>

<p>
Magna Mater, 108, 153, 259.
</p>

<p>
Mahaffy, J. P., 124.
</p>

<p>
Maida, plain of, 240, 241.
</p>

<p>
Malaria, at Manfredonia, 12; at Sipontum, 30; Venosa, 32; Policoro, 98; old
Sybaris, 115, 282-283; on Tyrrhenian sea-board, 241; at Focà, 283, 289; at
Cotrone, 284, 291, 298; at Cosenza, 287, 291.
</p>

<p>
Malaria, votive offerings due to, 152; eliminates fair complexion, 225;
propagated by deforestation, 32, 286, 287; by artificial irrigation, 241; by
migrations of labourers, 284; by recent climatic changes, 285; by earthquake
subsidences, 285; follows river-beds, 286; endemic for two thousand years, 283;
contributes to decline of old civilizations, 290; ravages among French troops,
241, 287; spread and significance of the disease, 287, 291; methods of
combating, 288; results of quinine-policy, 289.
</p>

<p>
Male selection, among Hellenic races, 209.
</p>

<p>
<i>Malizia</i> (cleverness), 47, 124.
</p>

<p>
Mallock, W. H., 265.
</p>

<p>
Malpica, C., 114.
</p>

<p>
Mammon, the god of emigrants, 22.
</p>

<p>
Mammone, brigand, 212.
</p>

<p>
Manfred, his infatuation for Saracens, 3; fate of his sons, 8 j) his name
survives, 45.
</p>

<p>
Manfredonia, its harbour, II; burnt by Corsairs, 12; wineshops and burglaries,
15.
</p>

<p>
Manhes, General, his methods, 213, 214; at Bagnara, 242; at Serra, 293.
</p>

<p>
Manna ash, 93, 121.
</p>

<p>
Manzi, brigand, 214, 215.
</p>

<p>
Marafioti, G., 143.
</p>

<p>
Marbles, on beach at Taranto, 9!; Roman technique of cutting, 92.
</p>

<p>
Marcellinara, village, 205.
</p>

<p>
Marcellus, tomb of, 31.
</p>

<p>
Marchesato, district, 284.
</p>

<p>
Marchianò, M., 188.
</p>

<p>
Marchianò, S., 187.
</p>

<p>
Marcone, N., 243.
</p>

<p>
Marcus Aurelius, 251.
</p>

<p>
Margaret, saint, gratifying results of her autopsy, 258.
</p>

<p>
Marino, poet, 23, 169, 259.
</p>

<p>
Mariolatry, engenders effeminate saints, 259.
</p>

<p>
Marincola, L., 139.
</p>

<p>
Marincola Pistoia, D., 197.
</p>

<p>
Mark, saint, his church at Rossano, III; displaced by St. Rosalia, 247.
</p>

<p>
Mars, 27.
</p>

<p>
Martial, 53, 80.
</p>

<p>
Martorana, C., 135.
</p>

<p>
Mary, Virgin. See <i>Madonna.</i>
</p>

<p>
Masci, A., 176.
</p>

<p>
Mater Domini, convent, 251.
</p>

<p>
Matera, town, 138.
</p>

<p>
Matthew Paris, <i>quoted,</i> 7.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mattino,&rdquo; a venal daily, 303.
</p>

<p>
Mazzara, town, 93.
</p>

<p>
Mazzella, Sc., 136.
</p>

<p>
Mazziotti, Prof. G., 183.
</p>

<p>
Meander, river, 100.
</p>

<p>
Medicines, compounded from animals, 57.
</p>

<p>
Mele, S., 53.
</p>

<p>
Melfi, town, 38.
</p>

<p>
Melito, town, 137.
</p>

<p>
Melliss, J. C., 286.
</p>

<p>
Mendicino, village, 197.
</p>

<p>
Mephitis, goddess of malaria, 32.
</p>

<p>
Mercer, Mr., 278.
</p>

<p>
Mercury, 26, 27.
</p>

<p>
Merenzata, river, 197.
</p>

<p>
Messapians, 65.
</p>

<p>
Messina, its Fata Morgana, 228; legend of Cola Pesce, 228-229; public gardens,
231; effects of earthquake, 236-239.
</p>

<p>
Metapontum, 119, 284, 289.
</p>

<p>
Metchnikoff, E., 68.
</p>

<p>
Mice, eaten as medicine, 56.
</p>

<p>
Michael, saint, pre-renaissance relief of, 14; a cave-saint on Gargano, 17;
childish and emasculate character, 23-29; affinities with older gods, 23, 26,
27; stripped of his higher attributes, 28; a mere ghost, 29.
</p>

<p>
Middle Ages, their influence upon dragon-idea, 104.
</p>

<p>
Milk of the Virgin Mary, 250-251.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Millionaires&rdquo; of Acri, 195; of Cotrone, 302.
</p>

<p>
Milo of Croton, defeats Sybarites, 196; devoured by wolves, 222.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Milosao,&rdquo; Albanian rhapsodies, 190, 191.
</p>

<p>
Milton, indebtedness to S. della Salandra, 160 <i>seq.;</i> to other Italian
poets, 169; friendship with Marquis Manzo, 168, 169; manuscripts at Cambridge,
170; his &ldquo;grand manner,&rdquo; 171.
</p>

<p>
Minasi, A., 228.
</p>

<p>
Minieri-Riccio, C., 160.
</p>

<p>
Misasi, N., 294.
</p>

<p>
Mistletoe, on fir-trees, 203.
</p>

<p>
Mithra, 27, 309.
</p>

<p>
Moens, Mr., captured by brigands, 214.
</p>

<p>
Moltedo, F. T., 53.
</p>

<p>
Mommsen, T., 31.
</p>

<p>
Monasterace, village, 281.
</p>

<p>
Monasteries, develop out of hermitages, 112; refuge of brigands, 144, 215.
</p>

<p>
Monastic orders, competition between, 258.
</p>

<p>
Mondragone, mountain, 102.
</p>

<p>
Monk, the Flying. See <i>Joseph of Copertina.</i>
</p>

<p>
Monnier, M., 215.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Montagna del Principe,&rdquo; 123, 144.
</p>

<p>
Montalto, mountain, 269, 274.
</p>

<p>
Montanari, G. I., 69, 74.
</p>

<p>
Monteleone (Hipponium), town, 119, 137, 241.
</p>

<p>
Monte Nero, 217, 220.
</p>

<p>
Montorio, S., 114, 259, 264, 282.
</p>

<p>
Monumentomania, an Italian disease, 4.
</p>

<p>
Moon, superstitions regarding, 59.
</p>

<p>
Moore, John, 139.
</p>

<p>
Morality, to be expressed in physiological terms, 126.
</p>

<p>
Morano, its great age and greater filth, 128; Saracen memories, 130; its
literary glories, 131, 132.
</p>

<p>
Morelli, T., 177, 272.
</p>

<p>
Moritz, K. P., 140.
</p>

<p>
Morone, C., 67.
</p>

<p>
Morosi, G., 272.
</p>

<p>
Moscato, author, 135.
</p>

<p>
Motor services, replace diligence, 123, 225.
</p>

<p>
Mountains, Italian dislike of, 143.
</p>

<p>
Movers, F. C., 56.
</p>

<p>
Mucone (? Acheron), river, 195-197.
</p>

<p>
Müller, Max, 51.
</p>

<p>
Müller, Prof., 38.
</p>

<p>
Münter, F., 229.
</p>

<p>
Murat, 123, 213, 214.
</p>

<p>
Muratori, L. A., 13, 135.
</p>

<p>
Murders, due to wine-bibbing, 244, 246.
</p>

<p>
Murge hills, 63, 64.
</p>

<p>
Museum, of Lucera, 3; Taranto, 88; British, 119, 161, 197; of Catanzaro, 224,
226, 316; Reggio, 236.
</p>

<p>
Mushroom-stone, 93, 222.
</p>

<p>
Musolino, brigand, 211, 270, 272; his fate, 240; episodes of, 271, 281; a
victim of inept legislation, 275, 278.
</p>

<p>
Mussulman epitaph, 3.
</p>

<p>
Mutilomania, an Italian disease, 83.
</p>

<p>
Mythopoetic faculty, blighted by misrule, 100.
</p>

<p>
Naples, its catacombs, 25, 247; municipality and octroi-system, 34; survival of
Hellenic traits at, 53; scandal of Foundling Hospital, 59; camorra, 125;
corrupt police-force, 279; its daily press, 303.
</p>

<p>
Napoleon, protects trees, 218.
</p>

<p>
Nardo di Pace, village, 292.
</p>

<p>
Nasi, ex-minister, his trial, 280.
</p>

<p>
Nau, cape. See <i>Column.</i>
</p>

<p>
National monuments, neglected, 39.
</p>

<p>
Neaithos, river. See <i>Neto.</i>
</p>

<p>
Neri, Filippo, saint, 258.
</p>

<p>
Neto (Neaithos), river, 205, 206, 219, 220; wine of district, 307; change in
landscape, 314.
</p>

<p>
Newspapers andpublic opinion, 277; characteristics of local,3O3-305.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;New York Times,&rdquo; on Sybaris, 116.
</p>

<p>
Nicastro, town, 241.
</p>

<p>
Niceforo, A., 252.
</p>

<p>
Nicephoras Phocas, 81, 281.
</p>

<p>
Niehbuhr, B. G., 272.
</p>

<p>
Nilus, builder-saint, 114.
</p>

<p>
Nilus, saint, 105, 108, no.
</p>

<p>
Nissen, H., 219.
</p>

<p>
Noepoli, village, 149.
</p>

<p>
Nola-Molisi, G. B., 298, 320.
</p>

<p>
Nordau, M., 74.
</p>

<p>
Normans, buried at Venosa, 38; their behaviour in Sicily, 137.
</p>

<p>
North, W., 290.
</p>

<p>
Nowairi, historian, 135.
</p>

<p>
Nutrition, its effect upon physique and morals, 125-127.
</p>

<p>
Oaks (<i>Quercus cerris</i>), 222.
</p>

<p>
Octroi, a mediæval abomination, 34-36, 66, 90.
</p>

<p>
Odours, susceptibility of natives to, 52, 318.
</p>

<p>
Oenotrians, a useful tribe, 130.
</p>

<p>
Okey, T., 279.
</p>

<p>
Olive oil, export from Palmi, 241.
</p>

<p>
Oria, town, 65.
</p>

<p>
Orsini tower, Taranto, 67.
</p>

<p>
Otter, a rare animal, 184.
</p>

<p>
Otto II., 135, 292.
</p>

<p>
<i>Otto-Nove!</i> charm-formula, 310.
</p>

<p>
Ouida, 45, 120.
</p>

<p>
Oysters of Taranto, 81.
</p>

<p>
Pacicchelli, G. B., 12, 208, 282, 294.
</p>

<p>
Paestum, 119, 137, 283, 285.
</p>

<p>
Paganism, survival of, 248.
</p>

<p>
Paleparto, mountain, 196.
</p>

<p>
Palermo, behaviour of Normans in, 137; metropolis of Saracens, 138; its
percentage of homicides, 276.
</p>

<p>
Pallagorio, village, 315.
</p>

<p>
Palmi, its oil-industry, 241.
</p>

<p>
Pandosia, ancient city, 196, 197.
</p>

<p>
Paoli, Monsieur, 27.
</p>

<p>
Paracorio, village, 245.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Paradise Lost,&rdquo; its presumable prototypes, 160; derived from
Salandra&rsquo;s work, 161 <i>seq.</i>
</p>

<p>
Parafante, brigand, 241.
</p>

<p>
Parenti, village, 211.
</p>

<p>
Parisio, P., 197.
</p>

<p>
Parrino, D. A., 139.
</p>

<p>
Pascale, V., 284.
</p>

<p>
Patir (Patirion), monastery, in, 113-116, 186.
</p>

<p>
Patriarchalism, its break-up in South Italy, 48 <i>seq.;</i> makes for
inefficiency, 226; shattered by judiciary abuses, 275, 279. See
<i>Peasantry.</i>
</p>

<p>
Patrick, saint, 262.
</p>

<p>
Paul, saint, invoked against poisonous beasts, 138.
</p>

<p>
Paulinus, bishop, 151, 247.
</p>

<p>
Peasantry, oppressed by taxes, 35; their virtues and vices, 47; break-up of
patriarchal habits, 48, 53; their anthropomorphic language, 50; defective
colour-sense, 51-52; their system of nicknames, 54-56; degeneration in culture
and modern revival, 57, 58, 97; their destructive avarice, 218. See
<i>Emigration.</i>
</p>

<p>
<i>Pecorara,</i> a rustic dance, 152.
</p>

<p>
Pelasgic language and race, 187, 189, 191.
</p>

<p>
Pelicaro, district, 97.
</p>

<p>
Pellegrini, A., 272.
</p>

<p>
Penal code of Italy, need for its revision, 276, 278, 279.
</p>

<p>
Pentedattilo, mountain, 272.
</p>

<p>
Pepe, G., 298.
</p>

<p>
Pericles, 152.
</p>

<p>
Perrey, G., 294.
</p>

<p>
Persius Flaccus, 284.
</p>

<p>
Petelia. See <i>Strongoli.</i>
</p>

<p>
Petelia Policastro, town, 184.
</p>

<p>
Peter, saint, baptizes natives, 29, 282; legend of, 60.
</p>

<p>
Petronius, 302.
</p>

<p>
Pettinascura, mountain, 204, 220.
</p>

<p>
Peutinger&rsquo;s Tables, no, 281.
</p>

<p>
Phædrus, 322.
</p>

<p>
Phallic cult at Venosa, 40.
</p>

<p>
Pharmacy-club, how to secure membership, 106.
</p>

<p>
Pheasants, 96.
</p>

<p>
Philo Judseus, 251.
</p>

<p>
Physical conditions affecting race-character, 90, 126.
</p>

<p>
Piano di Carmelia, upland, 269.
</p>

<p>
Piedigrotta, festival, 52.
</p>

<p>
Piè d&rsquo; Impisa, mountain, 272.
</p>

<p>
Pietra-Sasso, a landmark, 148.
</p>

<p>
Pigs, in streets, 128, 206, 207; their food, 173; can detect werewolves, 176.
</p>

<p>
Pilgrims, at Lucera, 4; at Sant&rsquo; Angelo, 18; their specific odour and
capacity for mischief, 19; foul appearance, 27; a debased Christianity, 28;
behaviour at Venosa, 40.
</p>

<p>
Pines, absent in Pollino forests, 146; the Calabrian variety, 196, 204; of
Aleppo, 285.
</p>

<p>
Pious legends, their drawback, 262.
</p>

<p>
Piracy. See <i>Corsairs</i> and <i>Saracens.</i>
</p>

<p>
Pitch, the Bruttian, 204, 285, 286.
</p>

<p>
Pitrè, G., 300.
</p>

<p>
Platitudes, Italian and English love of, 14.
</p>

<p>
Plato, <i>quoted,</i> 116; his cloudy philosophy, 311; food for adolescents,
312.
</p>

<p>
Pleasure, danger of repressing, 153.
</p>

<p>
Pliny the Elder, 80, 281, 284, 285, 307.
</p>

<p>
Pococke, R., 121.
</p>

<p>
Poets, why deficient in humour, 58.
</p>

<p>
Policoro, forest, 95 <i>seq.;</i> its game, 96; eucalyptus avenue, 97;
buffaloes, 99.
</p>

<p>
Polistena, town, 234.
</p>

<p>
Pollino, mountain,, 108; derivation of the name, 142; the peak, 143-145;
terminates Apennines, 145; its forests, 145-148.
</p>

<p>
Polybius, 80.
</p>

<p>
Pompeio, fountain, 196.
</p>

<p>
Pontanus, humanist, 18.
</p>

<p>
Ponza, island, 276.
</p>

<p>
Pope, A., prince of snobs, 127.
</p>

<p>
Porcupine, approaching extinction, 184.
</p>

<p>
Potenza, 32.
</p>

<p>
Potteries of Grottaglie, 78; of Taranto, 92; of Corigliano, 173.
</p>

<p>
Pratilii, F. M., 143.
</p>

<p>
Praxiteles, 286.
</p>

<p>
Preconi, H., 78.
</p>

<p>
Prehistoric stations in South Italy, 119; weapons, 3, 119, 179, 224.
</p>

<p>
Priests, parasitic on families, 4; their attitude towards superstitions, 59;
their acquisitiveness, 60; a decayed profession, 60, 154; fight on side of
brigands, 215; connaisseurs of wine, 3O7-
</p>

<p>
Privacy, lack of feeling for, 66.
</p>

<p>
Procida, John of, 8.
</p>

<p>
Proclus, 285.
</p>

<p>
Procopius, 109.
</p>

<p>
Properties, large, their break-up, 96; synonymous with malaria, 289.
</p>

<p>
Propertius, 80.
</p>

<p>
Ptolemy, 281.
</p>

<p>
Public opinion, non-existent, 277.
</p>

<p>
Puccini, archbishop, recommends fetishism, 26.
</p>

<p>
Pythagoras, 282; explanation of his popularity, 309; a glorified marabout, 311.
</p>

<p>
Quinine-policy, governmental. See <i>Malaria.</i>
</p>

<p>
Race-characters, delusion as to their immutability, 91, 126. Rada, G. de,
Albanian prophet, 187; his mystic tendencies, 189;
patriotic labours, 190 <i>seq.;</i> his death, 192.
</p>

<p>
Ragona, village, 292.
</p>

<p>
Railway stations in Italy, 117, 118.
</p>

<p>
Rainfall, diminution in, 217, 241, 285, 306.
</p>

<p>
Rath, G. von, 287.
</p>

<p>
Rathgeber, G., 175.
</p>

<p>
Rationalist Congress of 1904, leads to counter-demonstration, 32, 269.
</p>

<p>
Reggio, 135, 137; effects of earthquake, 234, 236; its cemetery, 235.
</p>

<p>
Regio, P., 256.
</p>

<p>
Relics, sacred, 208, 247, 251, 263.
</p>

<p>
Religion in south Italy, its intense realism, 60; contrasted with English, 265.
</p>

<p>
Renaissance, injures angelic shapes, 25; produces historical panegyrists, 142;
falsifies place-names, 196; imports Pythagoras and Plato, 311.
</p>

<p>
Rhaetia, its dragons, 104.
</p>

<p>
Rhetoric, perverts course of justice, 276, 277.
</p>

<p>
Rhodiginus (Richerius, L. C.), 197.
</p>

<p>
Ricca, brigand, 211.
</p>

<p>
Riccardi, A., 155.
</p>

<p>
Riedesel, J. H., 298.
</p>

<p>
Rivarol, J. E. A., 212.
</p>

<p>
Rivers in Calabria, their destructive floods, 99, 197, 286; their numbers, 286;
once navigable, 174, 284; arteries of malaria, 286.
</p>

<p>
Rizzi-Zannone, G. A., 97.
</p>

<p>
Rizzo, an amiable priest, 109.
</p>

<p>
Rizzuto, cape, 318.
</p>

<p>
Robinias, why beloved of municipalities, 83.
</p>

<p>
Rocca Bernarda, town, 117.
</p>

<p>
Roccaforte, village, 271, 272.
</p>

<p>
Rocchetta, station, 31.
</p>

<p>
Rocella Ionica, town, 274, 286.
</p>

<p>
Rodotà, P. P., 177, 273.
</p>

<p>
Roghudi, village, 271, 272.
</p>

<p>
Rogliano, town, 195, 211.
</p>

<p>
Romans, their lack of imagination, 32; their <i>pittas,</i> 33; pacification of
wild nature, 42; marble-cutting technique, 92; their republican stoicism, 126.
</p>

<p>
Romanticists, their feeling for nature, 42.
</p>

<p>
Roque, saint, 39.
</p>

<p>
Rosalia, saint, 247.
</p>

<p>
Rosarno, town, 241.
</p>

<p>
Roscia (Rossano), no.
</p>

<p>
Rosis, de, no.
</p>

<p>
Ross, Sir R., 287, 290.
</p>

<p>
Rossano, accommodation at, 105-108; character of inhabitants, 109; its
situation, no; importance under Byzantines, 111.
</p>

<p>
Rossi, D. A., 69, 71, 74, 77.
</p>

<p>
Rouse, Dr. W. H. D., 152.
</p>

<p>
Ruffo, cardinal, 64, 212, 215, 298.
</p>

<p>
<i>Rusalet,</i> a dance, 178.
</p>

<p>
Ruscianum (Rossano), 110.
</p>

<p>
Ruskin, J., 90.
</p>

<p>
Russell, Lord Odo, 120.
</p>

<p>
Rutilius Namatianus, 27.
</p>

<p>
Sagra, river. See <i>Alaro.</i>
</p>

<p>
Saints, their pathological symptoms, 74; unavoidable lack of originality, 75,
253; male type replaced by females, 247-251; their baroque period, 253-257;
manufactured by monks and confessors, 258, 267; mutilated after death, 263;
their Bourbon period, 260 <i>seq.</i>
</p>

<p>
Salandra, S. della, his &ldquo;Adamo Caduto&rdquo; inspires &rdquo;Paradise
Lost,&rdquo; 160 <i>seq.</i>
</p>

<p>
Salis Marschlins, U. von, 67, 271.
</p>

<p>
San Benedetto Ullano, town, 183.
</p>

<p>
Sanchez, G., 78, 102.
</p>

<p>
San Cosimo, village, 180.
</p>

<p>
San Demetrio Corone, its dirty streets, 181; Albanian church, 182; college for
boys, 183-185; convent of Sant&rsquo; Adriano, 185.
</p>

<p>
Sandys, G., 121.
</p>

<p>
San Floro, M., 217.
</p>

<p>
San Francesco, convent, 77.
</p>

<p>
San Gervasio, old church and fountain at, 43; fountains identified
with <i>Fons Bandusiae,</i> 43-46.
</p>

<p>
San Giorgio (Apulia), 65.
</p>

<p>
San Giorgio (Calabria), 176, 180.
</p>

<p>
San Giovanni in Fiore, 195, 203; its women, 205; unhygienic conditions, 206.
</p>

<p>
San Nicola, village, 292.
</p>

<p>
<i>Sanpaulari,</i> snake-killers, 138.
</p>

<p>
San Severo, town, 6.
</p>

<p>
San Severino, village, 147, 155
</p>

<p>
Sant&rsquo; Adriano, convent, 185-186.
</p>

<p>
Sant&rsquo; Angelo and its shrine, 17; modern worshippers in
the cave, 19, 27-28.
</p>

<p>
Santa Barbara, upland, 204.
</p>

<p>
Sant&rsquo; Eufemia, village, 240, 243.
</p>

<p>
Santa Sofia d&rsquo; Epiro, village, 180.
</p>

<p>
Santo Stefano, village, 222, 271.
</p>

<p>
Santo Stefano, island, 240.
</p>

<p>
Sappho, 116.
</p>

<p>
Saracena, village, 131.
</p>

<p>
Saraceno, mountain, 20.
</p>

<p>
<i>&ldquo;</i>Saraceno,&rdquo; term of abuse, 138.
</p>

<p>
Saracens, at Lucera, 3; at Gargano, 20; their &ldquo;black&rdquo; colour, 52,
130; at Morano, 130; Saracenic survivals, 134, 138; raids into south Italy,
135, 137; their benefits, 136; excesses, 137; contradistinguished from
Corsairs, 138.
</p>

<p>
Sarmento, river, 148.
</p>

<p>
Sarnelli, P., 29.
</p>

<p>
Saserna, 285.
</p>

<p>
Savastano, L., 49.
</p>

<p>
Savelli, village, 179, 205, 207, 293.
</p>

<p>
Savonarola, author. See <i>Lasor a Varea.</i>
</p>

<p>
Savonarola, monk, 309.
</p>

<p>
Scanderbeg, 65, 176.
</p>

<p>
Scarolla, brigand, 144.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Scemo&rdquo; (soft-witted), the unforgivable sin, 107, 124.
</p>

<p>
Scheuchzer, J. J., 104.
</p>

<p>
Schneegans, A., 228.
</p>

<p>
Schulz, H. W., 39, 202.
</p>

<p>
Scido, village, 270.
</p>

<p>
Scilatio, 281.
</p>

<p>
Scirocco, south wind, its effect upon landscape, io; on character, 90.
</p>

<p>
Sculco, Dr., 297.
</p>

<p>
Scylla, 240.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sdrago,&rdquo; the dragon, 104.
</p>

<p>
Sebethus, river, 80.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Seicentismo,&rdquo; blight of south Italy, 252.
</p>

<p>
Selva Umbra, forest, 21.
</p>

<p>
Semi-starvation, demoralizing effects of, 41.
</p>

<p>
Seneca, 251.
</p>

<p>
Serpents, assimilated with dragons, 100; our early hatred of, 105.
</p>

<p>
Serra San Bruno, 293, 295.
</p>

<p>
Servius, 281.
</p>

<p>
Sheep, and wolves, 221.
</p>

<p>
Shem, son of Noah, 29.
</p>

<p>
Shepherds, of Sila, 221; of Cotrone, 301; their kissing propensities, 315.
</p>

<p>
Sicily, under Saracens, 136; under Normans, 137.
</p>

<p>
Sigilgaita, 38.
</p>

<p>
Sila, mountain plateau, its three divisions, 195; the &ldquo;Greek&rdquo; Sila,
176; Greater Sila, its landscape, 204; Bruttian inhabitants, 208; compared with
Scotland, 219; vegetation, 220; the Lesser Sila, 223.
</p>

<p>
Silenziario, P., 91.
</p>

<p>
Silver mines, of Longobucco, 202.
</p>

<p>
Sin, an export-article, 256.
</p>

<p>
Sinno, river, 95, 99, 149, 286.
</p>

<p>
Sinopoli, 240, 243, 244.
</p>

<p>
Sipontum, its famous church, 29; wholly desolate, 30.
</p>

<p>
Sirens, as fountain ornaments, 45.
</p>

<p>
Sirino, mountain, 151.
</p>

<p>
Siris, ancient city, 95.
</p>

<p>
Sixtus V, 213, 215.
</p>

<p>
Slavery, 139.
</p>

<p>
Snakes, their colour, 52; medicinal uses, 57; destroyed with spittle, 138.
</p>

<p>
Socialism in Italy, 96.
</p>

<p>
Soria, F. A., 143.
</p>

<p>
South Italy, its recent revival, 91, 298.
</p>

<p>
Soverato, town, 295.
</p>

<p>
Spanish Viceroys, blighting effects of their rule, 57, 252, 253; enactments
against Barbary pirates, 139; conservators of forests, 218.
</p>

<p>
Spano-Bolani, D., 134.
</p>

<p>
Spartacus, 214.
</p>

<p>
Spezzano Albanese, town, 172-174.
</p>

<p>
Spinazzola, town, 62-64.
</p>

<p>
Spinelli&rsquo;s chronicle, a forgery, 3.
</p>

<p>
Spleen, importance of this organ, 152, 307.
</p>

<p>
Squillace, town, 135, 295.
</p>

<p>
Stagno Salso, lake, 21.
</p>

<p>
Staiti, town, 272. Stamer, W. J. A., 50.
</p>

<p>
Statius, 80.
</p>

<p>
Stendhal, <i>quoted,</i> 125, 276.
</p>

<p>
Stilo, town, in, 292.
</p>

<p>
Stoics, victims of misfeeding, 126.
</p>

<p>
Stomach-diseases, prevalence of, 126.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Stone of Saint Michael,&rdquo; a fraudulent article, 23, 26.
</p>

<p>
Strabo, 23, 80, 87, 197, 204, 283, 284.
</p>

<p>
Strongoli (Petelia), 224, 314, 316.
</p>

<p>
Sturgeon, caught at Cotrone, 320.
</p>

<p>
Sugar-cane, formerly cultivated, 136.
</p>

<p>
Suicides look manly, 84.
</p>

<p>
Sulphur mines, 315.
</p>

<p>
Summonte, G. A., 140.
</p>

<p>
Swammerdam, J., 105.
</p>

<p>
Swedenborg, E., 310.
</p>

<p>
Swinburne, A., 116.
</p>

<p>
Swinburne, H., 78, 115, 319.
</p>

<p>
Sybaris, 89, 108, 195; its buried wealth, 115; destruction of, 175, 196, 311;
presumably malarious of old, 115, 282-283.
</p>

<p>
Sybaris, river. See <i>Coscile.</i>
</p>

<p>
Sybarites, contrasted with Byzantine monks, 115.
</p>

<p>
Symonds, J. A., 115.
</p>

<p>
Tajani, F., 177.
</p>

<p>
Talarico, brigand, 214.
</p>

<p>
Tarantolla, dance, 93.
</p>

<p>
Taranto, the arsenal quarter, 65-67; its octroi impositions, 66, 90; old town,
67; inland sea, 68, 80, 90; fishermen and barbers, 81; love-making on the
Corso, 84; its slumberous inhabitants, 87-90; museum and public library, 88,
89; marbles on the beach, 91.
</p>

<p>
Tarsia (Caprasia), village, 174, 194; its malaria, 287.
</p>

<p>
Tassulo, Pilati de, 183, 228.
</p>

<p>
Taverna, town, 223.
</p>

<p>
Temese, ore of, 202.
</p>

<p>
Temples, destruction of, 136, 137. .
</p>

<p>
Tenore, M., 146.
</p>

<p>
Termula (Termoli), 137.
</p>

<p>
Terracciano, N., 145.
</p>

<p>
Terranova di Pollino, 143, 148.
</p>

<p>
Terranova di Sibari (Thurii), 175, 282, 283.
</p>

<p>
Theatine monks, 113.
</p>

<p>
Theocritus, 8i, 269, 285, 301, 314; his human appeal, 315.
</p>

<p>
Theodoret, bishop, <i>quoted,</i> 152.
</p>

<p>
Theophrastus, 285.
</p>

<p>
Third sex, its significance, 116, 257.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Thirsty Apulia,&rdquo; origin of the phrase, 15.
</p>

<p>
Thucydides, 284, 298.
</p>

<p>
Thurii. See <i>Terranova ài Sibari.</i>
</p>

<p>
Timber construction replaced by stone, 12.
</p>

<p>
Tiriolo, town, 225-226.
</p>

<p>
Tischbein, J. H. W., 319.
</p>

<p>
Toledo, Pietro di, 252-253.
</p>

<p>
Tolù, brigand, 211.
</p>

<p>
Toppi, N., 144, 162.
</p>

<p>
Torrent-beds, their charm, 292.
</p>

<p>
Tortoises, used as medicine, 57.
</p>

<p>
Tozer, H. F., 104.
</p>

<p>
Traeis, river. See <i>Trionto.</i>
</p>

<p>
Treasure, buried at Lucera, 8, 9.
</p>

<p>
Trede, T., 258.
</p>

<p>
Tree-planting, discouraged in cities, 65, 66.
</p>

<p>
Tree-torturing, a southern trait, 83.
</p>

<p>
Tremiti islands, n.
</p>

<p>
Trinità, abbey at Venosa, 37-40.
</p>

<p>
Trinità, column at Taranto, 67.
</p>

<p>
Trinity, southern conception of, 250.
</p>

<p>
Trionto (? Traeis), river, 195-200.
</p>

<p>
Troia, town, 6.
</p>

<p>
Tromby, B., 294.
</p>

<p>
Trotter, Prof. A., 223.
</p>

<p>
Troubadours, their idea of nature, 42.
</p>

<p>
Truthfulness, a modern virtue, 266.
</p>

<p>
Tufarelli, G. L., 128, 131, 144.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Turco,&rdquo; colour known as, 52.
</p>

<p>
Tutini, C., 294.
</p>

<p>
Ughelli, F., 43, 45, 114.
</p>

<p>
Ulpian, 53.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ultramontain,&rdquo; author, 53.
</p>

<p>
Urban VIII, 72, 110, 262.
</p>

<p>
Uromastix lizard, 101.
</p>

<p>
Uruj, pirate, 140.
</p>

<p>
Utilitarianism in south Italy, 43, 57, 126, 218.
</p>

<p>
Vaccarizza, village, 174, 176, 179, 180, 184, 224.
</p>

<p>
Varrò, 80.
</p>

<p>
Vatican, authorizes cruelty to animals, 120; attitude towards
Byzantinism, 248.
</p>

<p>
Velasquez, 140.
</p>

<p>
Venosa, survival of Roman blood and habits, 32; its rustic dirt, 33; castle,
37; abbey of Trinità, 37-40; catacombs, 38; bad food, 41.
</p>

<p>
Venus, gives name to Venosa, 33; marble head of, 92.
</p>

<p>
Verace, watershed, 195, 196, 204.
</p>

<p>
<i>Verde antico,</i> marble, 91.
</p>

<p>
Vespoli, G. F., 298.
</p>

<p>
Viceregal period. See <i>Spanish Viceroys.</i>
</p>

<p>
Vieste, village, 7, 21.
</p>

<p>
Viggianello, village, 157.
</p>

<p>
Vigilantius of Marseilles, 153.
</p>

<p>
Villa Beaumont, Taranto, 83.
</p>

<p>
Villari, P., 191.
</p>

<p>
<i>Vincolo forestale,</i> its provisions disregarded, 218.
</p>

<p>
Virgil, 42, 46, 80, 284, 285.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Virtù,&rdquo; retains antique meaning, 53.
</p>

<p>
Vitiello, night-quarters at, 149-150.
</p>

<p>
Vito, saint, struggles with Madonna, 92.
</p>

<p>
Voltaire, 76, 170, 262.
</p>

<p>
Votive offerings, 152.
</p>

<p>
Vulture <i>(Gyps fulvus),</i> 184.
</p>

<p>
Vulture, mountain, 2, 13, 21, 32, 41.
</p>

<p>
Vulturnus wind, 41, 53.
</p>

<p>
Wagner, J. J., 104.
</p>

<p>
Waiblinger, F. W., 141.
</p>

<p>
Waldensian colonies, 122.
</p>

<p>
Waldstein, Sir C., 115.
</p>

<p>
Wantley, dragon of, 102.
</p>

<p>
Wedding, an Albanian, 182.
</p>

<p>
Wedding-present, a civilized, 89.
</p>

<p>
Werewolves, 176.
</p>

<p>
Wine, of Sant&rsquo; Angelo, 22; Venosa, 41; Bova, 273; of Calabria, 306-307.
</p>

<p>
Witchcraft, 58.
</p>

<p>
Wolves, at Pollino, 149; in Sila, 220-222; at Cotrone, 318. Women, of San
Giovanni, 205; respected among non-Hellenic races, 208; superstitions
regarding, 209; of coast-towns, 299.
</p>

<p>
Wood-pigeon, 269.
</p>

<p>
Xenocrates, <i>quoted,</i> 252.
</p>

<p>
Yoni-worship, at Venosa, 40.
</p>

<p>
Zavarroni, A., 93, 183.
</p>

<p>
Zicari, F., his literary record, 161; on &ldquo;Paradise Lost,&rdquo; 161-168.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Zodiaco di Maria,&rdquo; exemplifies Catholic paganism, 259.
</p>

<p>
Zoophilomania, an English disease, 120.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

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