By the Ionian Sea | Page 9

onions, or prodding with long irons a cartload of
straw. Did any one ever compare the expenses with the results?
A glance shows the situation of Cosenza. The town is built on a steep
hillside, above the point where two rivers, flowing from the valleys on
either side, mingle their waters under one name, that of the Crati. We
drove over a bridge which spans the united current, and entered a
narrow street, climbing abruptly between houses so high and so close
together as to make a gloom amid sunshine. It was four o'clock; I felt
tired and half choked with dust; the thought of rest and a meal was very
pleasant. As I searched for the sign of my inn, we suddenly drew up,
midway in the dark street, before a darker portal, which seemed the
entrance to some dirty warehouse. The driver jumped down--"Ecco
l'albergo!"
I had seen a good many Italian hostelries, and nourished no
unreasonable expectations. The Lion at Paola would have seemed to
any untravelled Englishman a squalid and comfortless hole, incredible
as a place of public entertainment; the Two Little Lions of Cosenza
made a decidedly worse impression. Over sloppy stones, in an
atmosphere heavy with indescribable stenches, I felt rather than saw my
way to the foot of a stone staircase; this I ascended, and on the floor
above found a dusky room, where tablecloths and an odour of frying oil
afforded some suggestion of refreshment. My arrival interested nobody;
with a good deal of trouble I persuaded an untidy fellow, who seemed
to be a waiter, to come down with me and secure my luggage. More
trouble before I could find a bedroom; hunting for keys, wandering up
and down stone stairs and along pitch-black corridors, sounds of voices
in quarrel. The room itself was utterly depressing--so bare, so grimy, so
dark. Quickly I examined the bed, and was rewarded. It is the good
point of Italian inns; be the house and the room howsoever sordid, the
bed is almost invariably clean and dry and comfortable.

I ate, not amiss; I drank copiously to the memory of Alaric, and felt
equal to any fortune. When night had fallen I walked a little about the
scarce-lighted streets and came to an open place, dark and solitary and
silent, where I could hear the voices of the two streams as they mingled
below the hill. Presently I passed an open office of some kind, where a
pleasant-looking man sat at a table writing; on an impulse I entered,
and made bold to ask whether Cosenza had no better inn than the Due
Lionetti. Great was this gentleman's courtesy; he laid down his pen, as
if for ever, and gave himself wholly to my concerns. His discourse
delighted me, so flowing were the phrases, so rounded the periods. Yes,
there were other inns; one at the top of the town--the _Vetere_--in a
very good position; and they doubtless excelled my own in modern
comfort. As a matter of fact, it might be avowed that the Lionetti, from
the point of view of the great centres of civilization, left something to
be desired--something to be desired; but it was a good old inn, a
reputable old inn, and probably on further acquaintance----
Further acquaintance did not increase my respect for the _Lionetti_; it
would not be easy to describe those features in which, most notably, it
fell short of all that might be desired. But I proposed no long stay at
Cosenza, where malarial fever is endemic, and it did not seem worth
while to change my quarters. I slept very well.
I had come here to think about Alaric, and with my own eyes to behold
the place of his burial. Ever since the first boyish reading of Gibbon,
my imagination has loved to play upon that scene of Alaric's death.
Thinking to conquer Sicily, the Visigoth marched as far as to the
capital of the Bruttii, those mountain tribes which Rome herself never
really subdued; at Consentia he fell sick and died. How often had I
longed to see this river Busento, which the "labour of a captive
multitude" turned aside, that its flood might cover and conceal for all
time the tomb of the Conqueror! I saw it in the light of sunrise, flowing
amid low, brown, olive-planted hills; at this time of the year it is a
narrow, but rapid stream, running through a wide, waste bed of yellow
sand and stones. The Crati, which here has only just started upon its
long seaward way from some glen of Sila, presents much the same
appearance, the track which it has worn in flood being many times as
broad as the actual current. They flow, these historic waters, with a
pleasant sound, overborne at