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

hear a great deal of what went on in the town. The life of Cotrone

began about three in the morning; at that hour I heard the first

voices, upon which there soon followed the bleating of goats and the

tinkling of ox-bells. No doubt the greater part of the poor people were

in bed by eight o’clock every evening; only those who had dealings in

the outer world were stirring when the diligenza arrived about ten,

and I suspect that some of these snatched a nap before that late hour.

Throughout the day there sounded from the piazza a ceaseless clamour of

voices, such a noise as in England would only rise from some excited

crowd on a rare occasion; it was increased by reverberations from the

colonnade which runs all round in front of the shops. When the

north-east gale had passed over, there ensued a few days of sullen

calm, permitting the people to lead their ordinary life in open air. I

grew to recognize certain voices, those of men who seemingly had

nothing to do but to talk all day long. Only the sound reached me; I

wish I could have gathered the sense of these interminable harangues

and dialogues. In every country and every age those talk most who have

least to say that is worth saying. These tonguesters of Cotrone had

their predecessors in the public place of Croton, who began to gossip

before dawn, and gabbled unceasingly till after nightfall; with their

voices must often have mingled the bleating of goats or the lowing of

oxen, just as I heard the sounds to-day.

One day came a street organ, accompanied by singing, and how glad I

was! The first note of music, this, that I had heard at Cotrone. The

instrument played only two or three airs, and one of them became a

great favourite with the populace; very soon, numerous voices joined

with that of the singer, and all this and the following day the melody

sounded, near or far. It had the true characteristics of southern song;

rising tremolos, and cadences that swept upon a wail of passion; high

falsetto notes, and deep tum-tum of infinite melancholy. Scorned by the

musician, yet how expressive of a people’s temper, how suggestive of

its history! At the moment when this strain broke upon my ear, I was

thinking ill of Cotrone and its inhabitants; in the first pause of the

music I reproached myself bitterly for narrowness and ingratitude. All

the faults of the Italian people are whelmed in forgiveness as soon as

their music sounds under the Italian sky. One remembers all they have

suffered, all they have achieved in spite of wrong. Brute races have

flung themselves, one after another, upon this sweet and glorious land;

conquest and slavery, from age to age, have been the people’s lot.

Tread where one will, the soil has been drenched with blood. An

immemorial woe sounds even through the lilting notes of Italian gaiety.

It is a country wearied and regretful, looking ever backward to the

things of old; trivial in its latter life, and unable to hope sincerely

for the future. Moved by these voices singing over the dust of Croton,

I asked pardon for all my foolish irritation, my impertinent

fault-finding. Why had I come hither, if it was not that I loved land

and people? And had I not richly known the recompense of my love?

Legitimately enough one may condemn the rulers of Italy, those who take

upon themselves to shape her political life, and recklessly load her

with burdens insupportable. But among the simple on Italian soil a

wandering stranger has no right to nurse national superiorities, to

indulge a contemptuous impatience. It is the touch of tourist

vulgarity. Listen to a Calabrian peasant singing as he follows his oxen

along the furrow, or as he shakes the branches of his olive tree. That

wailing voice amid the ancient silence, that long lament solacing

ill-rewarded toil, comes from the heart of Italy herself, and wakes the

memory of mankind.

CHAPTER XI

THE MOUNT OF REFUGE

My thoughts turned continually to Catanzaro. It is a city set upon a

hill, overlooking the Gulf of Squillace, and I felt that if I could but

escape thither, I should regain health and strength. Here at Cotrone

the air oppressed and enfeebled me; the neighbourhood of the sea

brought no freshness. From time to time the fever seemed to be

overcome, but it lingered still in my blood and made my nights

restless. I must away to Catanzaro.

When first I spoke of this purpose to Dr. Sculco, he indulged my fancy,

saying “Presently, presently!” A few days later, when I seriously asked

him how soon I might with safety travel, his face expressed misgiving.

Why go to Catanzaro? It was on the top of a mountain, and had a most

severe climate; the winds at this season were terrible. In conscience

he could not advise me to take such a step: the results might be very

grave after my lung trouble. Far better wait at Cotrone for a week or

two longer, and then go on to Reggio, crossing perhaps to Sicily to

complete my cure. The more Dr. Sculco talked of windy altitudes, the

stronger grew my desire for such a change of climate, and the more