saro. Near its
marshy mouth are wide orange orchards. Could one but see in vision the
harbour, the streets, the vast encompassing wall! From the eminence
where I stood, how many a friend and foe of Croton has looked down upon
its shining ways, peopled with strength and beauty and wisdom! Here
Pythagoras may have walked, glancing afar at the Lacinian sanctuary,
then new built.

Lenormant is eloquent on the orange groves of Cotrone. In order to
visit them, permission was necessary, and presently I made my way to
the town hall, to speak with the Sindaco (Mayor) and request his aid in
this matter. Without difficulty I was admitted. In a well-furnished
office sat two stout gentlemen, smoking cigars, very much at their
ease; the Sindaco bade me take a chair, and scrutinized me with
doubtful curiosity as I declared my business. Yes, to be sure he could
admit me to see his own orchard; but why did I wish to see it? My reply
that I had no interest save in the natural beauty of the place did not
convince him; he saw in me a speculator of some kind. That was natural
enough. In all the south of Italy, money is the one subject of men's
thoughts; intellectual life does not exist; there is little even of
what we should call common education. Those who have wealth cling to it
fiercely; the majority have neither time nor inclination to occupy
themselves with anything but the earning of a livelihood which for
multitudes signifies the bare appeasing of hunger.

Seeing the Sindaco's embarrassment, his portly friend began to question
me; good-humouredly enough, but in such a fat bubbling voice (made more
indistinct by the cigar he kept in his mouth) that with difficulty I
understood him. What was I doing at Cotrone? I endeavoured to explain
that Cotrone greatly interested me. Ha! Cotrone interested me? Really?
Now what did I find interesting at Cotrone? I spoke of historic
associations. The Sindaco and his friend exchanged glances, smiled in a
puzzled, tolerant, half-pitying way, and decided that my request might
be granted. In another minute I withdrew, carrying half a sheet of
note-paper on which were scrawled in pencil a few words, followed by
the proud signature "Berlinghieri." When I had deciphered the scrawl, I
found it was an injunction to allow me to view a certain estate "_senza
nulla toccare_"--without touching anything. So a doubt still lingered
in the dignitary's mind.

Cotrone has no vehicle plying for hire--save that in whi