Despite his
excellent index and seductively chaste Paduan type and paper, the
impartial Soria is driven to say that
"To make his shop appear more rich
in foreign merchandise, he did not scruple to adorn it with books and
authors apocryphal, imaginary, and unknown to the whole human race." In
short, he belonged to the school of Pratilli, who wrote a wise and
edifying history of Capua on the basis of inscriptions which he himself
had previously forged; of Ligorio Pirro, prince of his tribe, who
manufactured thousands of coins, texts and marbles out of sheer
exuberance of creative artistry!
Gone are those happy days of authorship, when the constructive
imagination was not yet blighted and withered. . . .
Marching comfortably, it will take you nearly twelve hours to go from
Morano to the village of Terranova di Pollino, which I selected as my
first night-quarter. This includes a scramble up the peak of Pollino,
locally termed "telegrafo," from a pile of stones - ? an old
signal-station - erected on the summit. But since decent accommodation
can only be obtained at Castrovillari, a start should be made from
there, and this adds another hour to the trip. Moreover, as the peak of
Pollino lies below that of Dolcedorme, which shuts oil a good deal of
its view seaward, this second mountain ought rather to be ascended, and
that will probably add yet another hour - fourteen altogether. The
natives, ever ready to say what they think will please you, call it a
six hours' excursion. As a matter of fact, although I spoke to numbers
of the population of Morano, I only met two men who had ever been to
Terranova, one of them being my muleteer; the majority had not so much
as heard its name. They dislike mountains and torrents and forests, not
only as an offence to the eye, but as hindrances to agriculture and
enemies of man and his ordered ways. "La montagna" is considerably
abused, all over Italy.
It takes an hour to cross the valley and reach the slopes of the
opposite hills. Here, on the plain, lie the now faded blossoms of the
monstrous arum, the botanical glory of these regions. To see it in
flower, in early June, is alone almost worth the trouble of a journey to
Calabria.
On a shady eminence at the foot of these mountains, in a most
picturesque site, there stands a large castellated building, a
monastery. It is called Colorito, and is now a ruin; the French, they
say, shelled it for harbouring the brigand-allies of Bourbonism. Nearly
all convents in the south, and even in Naples, were at one time or
another refuges of bandits, and this association of monks and robbers
used to give much trouble to conscientious politicians. It is a solitary
building, against the dark hill-side; a sombre and romantic pile such as
would have charmed Anne Radcliffe; one longs to explore its recesses.
But I dreaded the coming heats of midday.
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