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

the carriage, the driver walking just in front of me; and something

then happened which is still a puzzle when I recall it. Whether the

thought of crimes had made the man nervous, or whether just then I wore

a peculiarly truculent face, or had made some alarming gesture, all of

a sudden he turned upon me, grasped my arm and asked sharply: “What

have you got in your hand?” I had a bit of fern, plucked a few minutes

before, and with surprise I showed it; whereupon he murmured an

apology, said something about making haste, and jumped to his seat. An

odd little incident.

At an unexpected turn of the road there spread before me a vast

prospect; I looked down upon inland Calabria. It was a valley broad

enough to be called a plain, dotted with white villages, and backed by

the mass of mountains which now, as in old time, bear the name of Great

Sila. Through this landscape flowed the river Crati—the ancient

Crathis; northward it curved, and eastward, to fall at length into the

Ionian Sea, far beyond my vision. The river Crathis, which flowed by

the walls of Sybaris. I stopped the horses to gaze and wonder; gladly I

would have stood there for hours. Less interested, and impatient to get

on, the driver pointed out to me the direction of Cosenza, still at a

great distance. He added the information that, in summer, the

well-to-do folk of Cosenza go to Paola for sea-bathing, and that they

always perform the journey by night. I, listening carelessly amid my

dream, tried to imagine the crossing of those Calabrian hills under a

summer sun! By summer moonlight it must be wonderful.

We descended at a sharp pace, all the way through a forest of

chestnuts, the fruit already gathered, the golden leaves rustling in

their fall. At the foot lies the village of San Fili, and here we left

the crazy old cart which we had dragged so far. A little further, and

before us lay a long, level road, a true Roman highway, straight for

mile after mile. By this road the Visigoths must have marched after the

sack of Rome. In approaching Cosenza I was drawing near to the grave of

Alaric. Along this road the barbarian bore in triumph those spoils of

the Eternal City which were to enrich his tomb.

By this road, six hundred years before the Goth, marched Hannibal on

his sullen retreat from Italy, passing through Cosentia to embark at

Croton.

CHAPTER III

THE GRAVE OF ALARIC

It would have been prudent to consult with my driver as to the inns of

Cosenza. But, with a pardonable desire not to seem helpless in his

hands, I had from the first directed him to the Due Lionetti, relying

upon my guide-book. Even at Cosenza there is progress, and guide-books

to little-known parts of Europe are easily allowed to fall out of date.

On my arrival----

But, first of all, the dazio. This time it was a serious business;

impossible to convince the rather surly officer that certain of the

contents of my portmanteau were not for sale. What in the world was I

doing with tanti libri? Of course I was a commercial traveller;

ridiculous to pretend anything else. After much strain of courtesy, I

clapped to my luggage, locked it up, and with a resolute face cried

“Avanti!” And there was an end of it. In this case, as so often, I have

no doubt that simple curiosity went for much in the man’s pertinacious

questioning. Of course the whole dazio business is ludicrous and

contemptible; I scarce know a baser spectacle than that of uniformed

officials groping in the poor little bundles of starved peasant women,

mauling a handful of onions, or prodding with long irons a cartload of

straw. Did any one ever compare the expenses with the results?

A glance shows the situation of Cosenza. The town is built on a steep

hillside, above the point where two rivers, flowing from the valleys on

either side, mingle their waters under one name, that of the Crati. We

drove over a bridge which spans the united current, and entered a

narrow street, climbing abruptly between houses so high and so close

together as to make a gloom amid sunshine. It was four o’clock; I felt

tired and half choked with dust; the thought of rest and a meal was

very pleasant. As I searched for the sign of my inn, we suddenly drew

up, midway in the dark street, before a darker portal, which seemed the

entrance to some dirty warehouse. The driver jumped down—”Ecco

l’albergo!”

I had seen a good many Italian hostelries, and nourished no

unreasonable expectations. The Lion at Paola would have seemed to any

untravelled Englishman a squalid and comfortless hole, incredible as a

place of public entertainment; the Two Little Lions of Cosenza made a

decidedly worse impression. Over sloppy stones, in an atmosphere heavy

with indescribable stenches, I felt rather than saw my way to the foot

of a stone staircase; this I ascended, and on the floor above found a

dusky room, where tablecloths and an odour of frying oil afforded some

suggestion of refreshment. My arrival interested nobody; with a good

deal of trouble I persuaded an untidy fellow, who seemed to be a