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

it next day, was the minute finish of these pictures, the definiteness

of every point on which my eye fell. Things which I could not know,

which my imagination, working in the service of the will, could never

have bodied forth, were before me as in life itself. I consciously

wondered at peculiarities of costume such as I had never read of; at

features of architecture entirely new to me; at insignificant

characteristics of that by-gone world, which by no possibility could

have been gathered from books. I recall a succession of faces, the

loveliest conceivable; and I remember, I feel to this moment the pang

of regret with which I lost sight of each when it faded into darkness.

As an example of the more elaborate visions that passed before me, I

will mention the only one which I clearly recollect. It was a glimpse

of history. When Hannibal, at the end of the second Punic War, was

confined to the south of Italy, he made Croton his head-quarters, and

when, in reluctant obedience to Carthage, he withdrew from Roman soil,

it was at Croton that he embarked. He then had with him a contingent of

Italian mercenaries, and, unwilling that these soldiers should go over

to the enemy, he bade them accompany him to Africa. The Italians

refused. Thereupon Hannibal had them led down to the shore of the sea,

where he slaughtered one and all. This event I beheld. I saw the strand

by Croton; the promontory with its temple; not as I know the scene

to-day, but as it must have looked to those eyes more than two thousand

years ago. The soldiers of Hannibal doing massacre, the perishing

mercenaries, supported my closest gaze, and left no curiosity

unsatisfied. (Alas! could I but see it again, or remember clearly what

was shown tome!) And over all lay a glory of sunshine, an indescribable

brilliancy which puts light and warmth into my mind whenever I try to

recall it. The delight of these phantasms was well worth the ten days’

illness which paid for them. After this night they never returned; I

hoped for their renewal, but in vain. When I spoke of the experience to

Dr. Sculco, he was much amused, and afterwards he often asked me

whether I had had any more visioni. That gate of dreams was closed,

but I shall always feel that, for an hour, it was granted to me to see

the vanished life so dear to my imagination. If the picture

corresponded to nothing real, tell me who can, by what power I

reconstructed, to the last perfection of intimacy, a world known to me

only in ruined fragments.

Daylight again, but no gleam of sun. I longed for the sunshine; it

seemed to me a miserable chance that I should lie ill by the Ionian Sea

and behold no better sky than the far north might have shown me. That

grey obstruction of heaven’s light always weighs upon my spirit; on a

summer’s day, there has but to pass a floating cloud, which for a

moment veils the sun, and I am touched with chill discouragement; heart

and hope fail me, until the golden radiance is restored.

About noon, when I had just laid down the newspaper bought the night

before—the Roman Tribuna, which was full of dreary politics—a

sudden clamour in the street drew my attention. I heard the angry

shouting of many voices, not in the piazza before the hotel, but at

some little distance; it was impossible to distinguish any meaning in

the tumultuous cries. This went on for a long time, swelling at moments

into a roar of frenzied rage, then sinking to an uneven growl, broken

by spasmodic yells. On asking what it meant, I was told that a crowd of

poor folk had gathered before the Municipio to demonstrate against an

oppressive tax called the fuocatico. This is simply hearth-money, an

impost on each fireplace where food is cooked; the same tax which made

trouble in old England, and was happily got rid of long ago. But the

hungry plebs of Cotrone lacked vigour for any effective self-assertion;

they merely exhausted themselves with shouting “Abbass’ ‘o sindaco!”

and dispersed to the hearths which paid for an all but imaginary

service. I wondered whether the Sindaco and his portly friend sat in

their comfortable room whilst the roaring went on; whether they smoked

their cigars as usual, and continued to chat at their ease. Very

likely. The privileged classes in Italy are slow to move, and may well

believe in the boundless endurance of those below them. Some day, no

doubt, they will have a disagreeable surprise. When Lombardy begins in

earnest to shout “Abbasso!” it will be an uneasy moment for the heavy

syndics of Calabria.

CHAPTER X

CHILDREN OF THE SOIL

Any northern person who passed a day or two at the Concordia as an

ordinary traveller would carry away a strong impression. The people of

the house would seem to him little short of savages, filthy in person

and in habits, utterly uncouth in their demeanour, perpetual wranglers

and railers, lacking every qualification for the duties they pretended

to discharge. In England their mere appearance would revolt decent