My hotel afforded me little amusement after the Concordia at Cotrone, yet it did not lack its characteristic features.  I found, for instance, in my bedroom a printed notice, making appeal in remarkable terms to all who occupied the chamber.  The proprietor—­ thus it ran—­had learnt with extreme regret that certain travellers who slept under his roof were in the habit of taking their meals at other places of entertainment.  This practice, he desired it to be known, not only hurt his personal feelings—­ tocca il suo morale—­but did harm to the reputation of his establishment.  Assuring all and sundry that he would do his utmost to maintain a high standard of culinary excellence, the proprietor ended by begging his honourable clients that they would bestow their kind favours on the restaurant of the house—­signora pregare i suoi respettabili clienti perche vogliano benignarsi il ristorante; and therewith signed himself—­Coriolano Paparazzo.

For my own part I was not tempted to such a breach of decorum; the fare provided by Signor Paparazzo suited me well enough, and the wine of the country was so good that it would have covered many defects of cookery.  Of my fellow-guests in the spacious dining-room I can recall only two.  They were military men of a certain age, grizzled officers, who walked rather stiffly and seated themselves with circumspection.  Evidently old friends, they always dined at the same time, entering one a few minutes after the other; but by some freak of habit they took places at different tables, so that the conversation which they kept up all through the meal had to be carried on by an exchange of shouts.  Nothing whatever prevented them from being near each other; the room never contained more than half a dozen persons; yet thus they sat, evening after evening, many yards apart, straining their voices to be mutually audible.  Me they delighted; to the other guests, more familiar with them and their talk, they must have been a serious nuisance.  But I should have liked to see the civilian who dared to manifest his disapproval of these fine old warriors.

They sat interminably, evidently having no idea how otherwise to pass the evening.  In the matter of public amusements Catanzaro is not progressive; I only once saw an announcement of a theatrical performance, and it did not smack of modern enterprise.  On the dining-room table one evening lay a little printed bill, which made known that a dramatic company was then in the town.  Their entertainment consisted of two parts, the first entitled:  “The Death of Agolante and the Madness of Count Orlando”; the second:  “A Delightful Comedy, the Devil’s Castle with Pulcinella as the Timorous Soldier.”  In addition were promised “new duets and Neapolitan songs.”  The theatre would comfortably seat three hundred persons, and the performance would be given twice, at half-past eighteen and half-past twenty-one o’clock.  It was unpardonable in me that