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

the upper lip shaven. You behold the citizen of these Hellenic colonies

in their stately prime.

Somewhere in that enchanted forest, where the wild vine trails from

tree to tree, where birds and creatures of the marshy solitude haunt

their ancient home, lie buried the stones of Sins.

CHAPTER VII

COTRONE

Night hid from me the scenes that followed. Darkling, I passed again

through the station called Sybaris, and on and on by the sea-shore, the

sound of breakers often audible. From time to time I discerned black

mountain masses against a patch of grey sky, or caught a glimpse of

blanching wave, or felt my fancy thrill as a stray gleam from the

engine fire revealed for a moment another trackless wood. Often the

hollow rumbling of the train told me that we were crossing a bridge;

the stream beneath it bore, perhaps, a name in legend or in history. A

wind was rising; at the dim little stations I heard it moan and buffet,

and my carriage, where all through the journey I sat alone, seemed the

more comfortable. Rain began to fall, and when, about ten o’clock, I

alighted at Cotrone, the night was loud with storm.

There was but one vehicle at the station, a shabby, creaking,

mud-plastered sort of coach, into which I bundled together with two

travellers of the kind called commercial—almost the only species of

traveller I came across during these southern wanderings. A long time

was spent in stowing freightage which, after all, amounted to very

little; twice, thrice, four, and perhaps five times did we make a false

start, followed by uproarious vociferation, and a jerk which tumbled us

passengers all together. The gentlemen of commerce rose to wild

excitement, and roundly abused the driver; as soon as we really

started, their wrath changed to boisterous gaiety. On we rolled,

pitching and tossing, mid darkness and tempest, until, through the

broken window, a sorry illumination of oil-lamps showed us one side of

a colonnaded street. “Bologna! Bologna!” cried my companions, mocking

at this feeble reminiscence of their fat northern town. The next moment

we pulled up, our bruised bodies colliding vigorously for the last

time; it was the Albergo Concordia.

A dark stone staircase, yawning under the colonnade; on the first

landing an open doorway; within, a long corridor, doors of bedrooms on

either side, and in a room at the far end a glimpse of a tablecloth.

This was the hotel, the whole of it. As soon as I grasped the

situation, it was clear to me why my fellow travellers had entered with

a rush and flung themselves into rooms; there might, perchance, be only

one or two chambers vacant, and I knew already that Cotrone offered no

other decent harbourage. Happily I did not suffer for my lack of

experience; after trying one or two doors in vain, I found a

sleeping-place which seemed to be unoccupied, and straightway took

possession of it. No one appeared to receive the arriving guests.

Feeling very hungry, I went into the room at the end of the passage,

where I had seen a tablecloth; a wretched lamp burned on the wall, but

only after knocking, stamping, and calling did I attract attention;