Legitimately enough one may condemn the rulers of Italy, those who take upon themselves to shape her political life, and recklessly load her with burdens insupportable.  But among the simple on Italian soil a wandering stranger has no right to nurse national superiorities, to indulge a contemptuous impatience.  It is the touch of tourist vulgarity.  Listen to a Calabrian peasant singing as he follows his oxen along the furrow, or as he shakes the branches of his olive tree.  That wailing voice amid the ancient silence, that long lament solacing ill-rewarded toil, comes from the heart of Italy herself, and wakes the memory of mankind.

CHAPTER XI

THE MOUNT OF REFUGE

My thoughts turned continually to Catanzaro.  It is a city set upon a hill, overlooking the Gulf of Squillace, and I felt that if I could but escape thither, I should regain health and strength.  Here at Cotrone the air oppressed and enfeebled me; the neighbourhood of the sea brought no freshness.  From time to time the fever seemed to be overcome, but it lingered still in my blood and made my nights restless.  I must away to Catanzaro.

When first I spoke of this purpose to Dr. Sculco, he indulged my fancy, saying “Presently, presently!” A few days later, when I seriously asked him how soon I might with safety travel, his face expressed misgiving.  Why go to Catanzaro?  It was on the top of a mountain, and had a most severe climate; the winds at this season were terrible.  In conscience he could not advise me to take such a step:  the results might be very grave after my lung trouble.  Far better wait at Cotrone for a week or two longer, and then go on to Reggio, crossing perhaps to Sicily to complete my cure.  The more Dr. Sculco talked of windy altitudes, the stronger grew my desire for such a change of climate, and the more intolerable seemed my state of languishment.  The weather was again stormy, but this time blew sirocco; I felt its evil breath waste my muscles, clog my veins, set all my nerves a-tremble.  If I stayed here much longer, I should never get away at all.  A superstitious fear crept upon me; I remembered that my last visit had been to the cemetery.

One thing was certain:  I should never see the column of Hera’s temple.  I made my lament on this subject to Dr. Sculco, and he did his best to describe to me the scenery of the Cape.  Certain white spots which I had discovered at the end of the promontory were little villas, occupied in summer by the well-to-do citizens of Cotrone; the Doctor himself owned one, which had belonged to his father before him.  Some of the earliest memories of his boyhood were connected with the Cape:  when he had lessons to learn by heart, he often used to recite them walking round and round the great column.  In the garden of his villa he at times amused himself with digging, and a very few turns of the spade sufficed to throw out some relic of antiquity.  Certain