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

Knight of La Mancha took as substitute for his damaged helmet. Through

the gloom of high balconied houses, one climbs to a sunny piazza, where

there are several fine buildings; beyond it lies the public garden, a

lovely spot, set with alleys of acacia and groups of palm and

flower-beds and fountains; marble busts of Garibaldi, Mazzini, and

Cavour gleam among the trees. Here one looks down upon the yellow gorge

of the Crati, and sees it widen northward into a vast green plain, in

which the track of the river is soon lost. On the other side of the

Crati valley, in full view of this garden, begins the mountain region

of many-folded Sila—a noble sight at any time of the day, but most of

all when the mists of morning cling about its summits, or when the

sunset clothes its broad flanks with purple. Turn westward, and you

behold the long range which hides the Mediterranean so high and wild

from this distance, that I could scarce believe I had driven over it.

Sila—locally the Black Mountain, because dark with climbing

forests—held my gaze through a long afternoon. From the grassy

table-land of its heights, pasturage for numberless flocks and herds

when the long snows have melted, one might look over the shore of the

Ionian Sea where Greek craftsmen built ships of timber cut upon the

mountain’s side. Not so long ago it was a haunt of brigands; now there

is no risk for the rare traveller who penetrates that wilderness; but

he must needs depend upon the hospitality of labourers and shepherds. I

dream of sunny glades, never touched, perhaps, by the foot of man since

the Greek herdsman wandered there with his sheep or goats. Somewhere on

Sila rises the Neaithos (now Neto) mentioned by Theocritus; one would

like to sit by its source in the woodland solitude, and let fancy have

her way.

In these garden walks I met a group of peasants, evidently strange to

Cosenza, and wondering at all they saw. The women wore a very striking

costume: a short petticoat of scarlet, much embroidered, and over it a

blue skirt, rolled up in front and gathered in a sort of knot behind

the waist; a bodice adorned with needlework and metal; elaborate

glistening head-gear, and bare feet. The town-folk have no peculiarity

of dress. I observed among them a grave, intelligent type of

countenance, handsome and full of character, which may be that of their

brave ancestors the Bruttii. With pleasure I saw that they behaved

gently to their beasts, the mules being very sleek and

contented-looking. There is much difference between these people and

the Neapolitans; they seem to have no liking for noise, talk with a

certain repose, and allow the stranger to go about among them

unmolested, unimportuned. Women above the poorest class are not seen in

the streets; there prevails an Oriental system of seclusion.

I was glad to come upon the pot market; in the south of Italy it is

always a beautiful and interesting sight. Pottery for commonest use

among Calabrian peasants has a grace of line, a charm of colour, far

beyond anything native to our most pretentious china-shops. Here still

lingers a trace of the old civilization. There must be a great good in

a people which has preserved this need of beauty through ages of

servitude and suffering. Compare such domestic utensils—these oil-jugs

and water-jars—with those in the house of an English labourer. Is it

really so certain that all virtues of race dwell with those who can

rest amid the ugly and know it not for ugliness?

The new age declares itself here and there at Cosenza. A squalid

railway station, a hideous railway bridge, have brought the town into

the European network; and the craze for building, which has disfigured

and half ruined Italy, shows itself in an immense new theatre—Teatro

Garibaldi—just being finished. The old one, which stands ruinous close

by, struck me as, if anything, too large for the town; possibly it had

been damaged by an earthquake, the commonest sort of disaster at

Cosenza. On the front of the new edifice I found two inscriptions, both

exulting over the fall of the papal power; one was interesting enough

to copy:—

“20

SEPT

., 1870.

QUESTA

DATA

POLITICA

DICE

FINITA

LA

TEOCRAZIA

NEGLI

ORDINAMENTI

CIVILI

. IL DI

CHE

LA

DIRA

FINITA

MORALMENTE

SARA

LA

DATA

UMANA

.”

which signifies: “This political date marks the end of theocracy in

civil life. The day which ends its moral rule will begin the epoch of

humanity.” A remarkable utterance anywhere; not least so within the

hearing of the stream which flows over the grave of Alaric.

One goes to bed early at Cosenza; the night air is dangerous,

and—Teatro Garibaldi still incomplete—darkness brings with it no sort

of pastime. I did manage to read a little in my miserable room by an

antique lamp, but the effort was dispiriting; better to lie in the dark

and think of Goth and Roman.

Do the rivers Busento and Crati still keep the secret of that “royal

sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome”? It

seems improbable that the grave was ever disturbed; to this day there