strument played only two or three airs, and one of them became a
great favourite with the populace; very soon, numerous voices joined
with that of the singer, and all this and the following day the melody
sounded, near or far. It had the true characteristics of southern song;
rising tremolos, and cadences that swept upon a wail of passion; high
falsetto notes, and deep tum-tum of infinite melancholy. Scorned by the
musician, yet how expressive of a people's temper, how suggestive of
its history! At the moment when this strain broke upon my ear, I was
thinking ill of Cotrone and its inhabitants; in the first pause of the
music I reproached myself bitterly for narrowness and ingratitude. All
the faults of the Italian people are whelmed in forgiveness as soon as
their music sounds under the Italian sky. One remembers all they have
suffered, all they have achieved in spite of wrong. Brute races have
flung themselves, one after another, upon this sweet and glorious land;
conquest and slavery, from age to age, have been the people's lot.
Tread where one will, the soil has been drenched with blood. An
immemorial woe sounds even through the lilting notes of Italian gaiety.
It is a country wearied and regretful, looking ever backward to the
things of old; trivial in its latter life, and unable to hope sincerely
for the future. Moved by these voices singing over the dust of Croton,
I asked pardon for all my foolish irritation, my impertinent
fault-finding. Why had I come hither, if it was not that I loved land
and people? And had I not richly known the recompense of my love?

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 st