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

carving; she took hold of the bird by the two legs, rent it asunder,

tore off the wings in the same way, and then, with a smile of

satisfaction, wiped her hands upon her skirt. If her hands had known

water (to say nothing of soap) during the past twelve months I am much

mistaken. It was a pity, for I found that my teeth could just masticate

a portion of the flesh which hunger compelled me to assail.

Of course I suffered much from thirst, and Dr. Sculco startled me one

day by asking if I liked tea. Tea? Was it really procurable? The

Doctor assured me that it could be supplied by the chemist; though,

considering how rarely the exotic was demanded, it might have lost

something of its finer flavour whilst stored at the pharmacy. An order

was despatched. Presently the waiter brought me a very small paper

packet, such as might have contained a couple of Seidlitz powders; on

opening it I discovered something black and triturated, a crumbling

substance rather like ground charcoal. I smelt it, but there was no

perceptible odour; I put a little of it to my tongue, but the effect

was merely that of dust. Proceeding to treat it as if it were veritable

tea, I succeeded in imparting a yellowish tinge to the hot water, and,

so thirsty was I, this beverage tempted me to a long draught. There

followed no ill result that I know of, but the paper packet lay

thenceforth untouched, and, on leaving, I made a present of it to my

landlady.

To complete the domestic group, I must make mention of the

“chambermaid.” This was a lively little fellow of about twelve years

old, son of the landlady, who gave me much amusement. I don’t know

whether he performed chambermaid duty in all the rooms; probably the

fierce-eyed cook did the heavier work elsewhere, but upon me his

attendance was constant. At an uncertain hour of the evening he entered

(of course, without knocking), doffed his cap in salutation, and began

by asking how I found myself. The question could not have been more

deliberately and thoughtfully put by the Doctor himself. When I replied

that I was better, the little man expressed his satisfaction, and went

on to make a few remarks about the pessimo tempo. Finally, with a

gesture of politeness, he inquired whether I would permit him “_di fare

un po’ di pulizia_”—to clean up a little, and this he proceeded to do

with much briskness. Excepting the good Sculco, my chambermaid was

altogether the most civilized person I met at Cotrone. He had a

singular amiability of nature, and his boyish spirits were not yet

subdued by the pestilent climate. If I thanked him for anything, he

took off his cap, bowed with comical dignity, and answered “_Grazie a

voi, Signore_.” Of course these people never used the third person

feminine of polite Italian. Dr. Sculco did so, for I had begun by

addressing him in that manner, but plainly it was not familiar to his

lips. At the same time there prevailed certain forms of civility, which

seemed a trifle excessive. For instance, when the Doctor entered my

room, and I gave him “Buon giorno,” he was wont to reply, “_Troppo

gentile_!”—too kind of you!

My newspaper boy came regularly for a few days, always complaining of

feverish symptoms, then ceased to appear. I made inquiry: he was down