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

not without apprehension, I had eyed the group awaiting our arrival;

that they had their eyes on me was obvious, and I knew enough of

southern Italians to foresee my reception. I sprang into the midst of a

clamorous conflict; half a dozen men were quarreling for possession of

me. No sooner was my luggage on shore than they flung themselves upon

it. By what force of authority I know not, one of the fellows

triumphed; he turned to me with a satisfied smile, and—presented his

wife.

“Mia sposa, signore!”

Wondering, and trying to look pleased, I saw the woman seize the

portmanteau (a frightful weight), fling it on to her head, and march

away at a good speed. The crowd and I followed to the dogana, close

by, where as vigorous a search was made as I have ever had to undergo.

I puzzled the people; my arrival was an unwonted thing, and they felt

sure I was a trader of some sort. Dismissed under suspicion, I allowed

the lady to whom I had been introduced to guide me townwards. Again she

bore the portmanteau on her head, and evidently thought it a trifle,

but as the climbing road lengthened, and as I myself began to perspire

in the warm sunshine, I looked at my attendant with uncomfortable

feelings. It was a long and winding way, but the woman continued to

talk and laugh so cheerfully that I tried to forget her toil. At length

we reached a cabin where the dazio (town dues) officer presented

himself, and this conscientious person insisted on making a fresh

examination of my baggage; again I explained myself, again I was eyed

suspiciously; but he released me, and on we went. I had bidden my guide

take me to the best inn; it was the Leone, a little place which

looked from the outside like an ill-kept stable, but was decent enough

within. The room into which they showed me had a delightful prospect.

Deep beneath the window lay a wild, leafy garden, and lower on the

hillside a lemon orchard shining with yellow fruit; beyond, the broad

pebbly beach, far seen to north and south, with its white foam edging

the blue expanse of sea. There I descried the steamer from which I had

landed, just under way for Sicily. The beauty of this view, and the

calm splendour of the early morning, put me into happiest mood. After

little delay a tolerable breakfast was set before me, with a good rough

wine; I ate and drank by the window, exulting in what I saw and all I

hoped to see.

Guide-books had informed me that the corriere (mail-diligence) from

Paola to Cosenza corresponded with the arrival of the Naples steamer,

and, after the combat on the beach, my first care was to inquire about

this. All and sundry made eager reply that the corriere had long

since gone; that it started, in fact, at 5 A.M., and that the only

possible mode of reaching Cosenza that day was to hire a vehicle.

Experience of Italian travel made me suspicious, but it afterwards

appeared that I had been told the truth. Clearly, if I wished to

proceed at once, I must open negotiations at my inn, and, after a

leisurely meal, I did so. Very soon a man presented himself who was

willing to drive me over the mountains—at a charge which I saw to be

absurd; the twinkle in his eye as he named the sum sufficiently