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 with illness, and as no one took his place I suppose the regular distribution of newspapers in Cotrone was suspended.  When the poor fellow again showed himself, he had a sorry visage; he sat down by my bedside (rain dripping from his hat, and mud, very thick, upon his boots) to give an account of his sufferings.  I pictured the sort of retreat in which he had lain during those miserable hours.  My own chamber contained merely the barest necessaries, and, as the gentleman of Cosenza would have said, “left something to be desired” in point of cleanliness.  Conceive the places into which Cotrone’s poorest have to crawl when they are stricken with disease.  I admit, however, that the thought was worse to me at that moment than it is now.  After all, the native of Cotrone has advantages over the native of a city slum; and it is better to die in a hovel by the Ionian Sea than in a cellar at Shoreditch.