By the Ionian Sea: Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy

and ugly. An exception to this dull magnificence in death was a marble

slab, newly set against the wall, in memory of a Lucifero—one of that

family, still eminent, to which belonged the sacrilegious bishop. The

design was a good imitation of those noble sepulchral tablets which

abound in the museum at Athens; a figure taking leave of others as if

going on a journey. The Lucifers had shown good taste in their choice

of the old Greek symbol; no better adornment of a tomb has ever been

devised, nor one that is half so moving. At the foot of the slab was

carved a little owl (civetta), a bird, my friend informed me, very

common about here.

When I took leave, the kindly fellow gave me a large bunch of flowers,

carefully culled, with many regrets that the lateness of the season

forbade his offering choicer blossoms. 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.

On my way back again to the town, I took a nearer view of the ruined

little church, and, whilst I was so engaged, two lads driving a herd of

goats stopped to look at me. As I came out into the road again, the

younger of these modestly approached and begged me to give him a

flower—by choice, a rose. I did so, much to his satisfaction and no

less to mine; it was a pleasant thing to find a wayside lad asking for

anything but soldi. The Calabrians, however, are distinguished by their

self-respect; they contrast remarkedly with the natives of the

Neapolitan district. Presently, I saw that the boy’s elder companion

had appropriated the flower, which he kept at his nose as he plodded

along; after useless remonstrance, the other drew near to me again,

shamefaced; would I make him another present; not a rose this time, he

would not venture to ask it, but “questo piccolo“; and he pointed to

a sprig of geranium. There was a grace about the lad which led me to

talk to him, though I found his dialect very difficult. Seeing us on

good terms, the elder boy drew near, and at once asked a puzzling

question: When was the ruined church on the hillside to be rebuilt? I

answered, of course, that I knew nothing about it, but this reply was

taken as merely evasive; in a minute or two the lad again questioned

me. Was the rebuilding to be next year? Then I began to understand;

having seen me examining the ruins, the boy took it for granted that I

was an architect here on business, and I don’t think I succeeded in

setting him right. When he had said good-bye he turned to look after me

with a mischievous smile, as much as to say that I had naturally

refused to talk to him about so important a matter as the building of a

church, but he was not to be deceived.

The common type of face at Cotrone is coarse and bumpkinish; ruder, it

seemed to me, than faces seen at any point of my journey hitherto. A

photographer had hung out a lot of portraits, and it was a hideous

exhibition; some of the visages attained an incredible degree of vulgar

ugliness. This in the town which still bears the name of Croton. The

people are all more or less unhealthy; one meets peasants horribly

disfigured with life-long malaria. There is an agreeable cordiality in

the middle classes; business men from whom I sought casual information,

even if we only exchanged a few words in the street, shook hands with

me at parting. I found no one who had much good to say of his native

place; every one complained of a lack of water. Indeed, Cotrone has as

good as no water supply. One or two wells I saw, jealously guarded: the

water they yield is not really fit for drinking, and people who can

afford it purchase water which comes from a distance in earthenware

jars. One of these jars I had found in my bedroom; its secure corking

much puzzled me until I made inquiries. The river Esaro is all but

useless for any purpose, and as no other stream flows in the

neighbourhood, Cotrone’s washerwomen take their work down to the beach;

even during the gale I saw them washing there in pools which they had

made to hold the sea water; now and then one of them ventured into the

surf, wading with legs of limitless nudity and plunging linen as the

waves broke about her.

It was unfortunate that I brought no letter of introduction to Cotrone;

I should much have liked to visit one of the better houses. Well-to-do

people live here, and I was told that, in fine weather, “at least half

a dozen” private carriages might be seen making the fashionable drive

on the Strada Regina Margherita. But it is not easy to imagine luxury

or refinement in these dreary, close-packed streets. Judging from our

table at the Concordia, the town is miserably provisioned; the dishes

were poor and monotonous and infamously cooked. Almost the only

palatable thing offered was an enormous radish. Such radishes I never

saw: they were from six to eight inches long, and more than an inch

thick, at the same time thoroughly crisp and sweet. The wine of the