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

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

exists somewhere near Cosenza a treasure-house more alluring than any

pictured in Arabian tale. It is not easy to conjecture what “spoils and

trophies” the Goths buried with their king; if they sacrificed masses

of precious metal, then perchance there still lies in the river-bed

some portion of that golden statue of Virtus, which the Romans melted

down to eke out the ransom claimed by Alaric. The year 410 A.D. was no

unfitting moment to break into bullion the figure personifying Manly

Worth. “After that,” says an old historian, “all bravery and honour

perished out of Rome.”

CHAPTER IV

TARANTO

Cosenza is on a line of railway which runs northward up the Crati

valley, and joins the long seashore line from Taranto to Reggio. As it

was my wish to see the whole of that coast, I had the choice of

beginning my expedition either at the northern or the southern end; for

several reasons I decided to make straight for Taranto.

The train started about seven o’clock in the morning. I rose at six in

chill darkness, the discomfort of my room seeming worse than ever at

this featureless hour. The waiter—perhaps he was the landlord, I left

this doubt unsolved—brought me a cup of coffee; dirtier and more

shabbily apparelled man I have never looked upon; viler coffee I never

drank. Then I descended into the gloom of the street. The familiar

odours breathed upon me with pungent freshness, wafted hither and

thither on a mountain breeze. A glance upwards at the narrow strip of