Not they, but fond enthusiasts such as these, are the
menace to its stability.
Bitter reflections; but then - the drive upward
had chilled my human sympathies, and besides - that so-called breakfast.
. . .
The grovelling herd was left behind. I ascended the stairs and,
profiting by a gleam of sunshine, climbed up to where, above the town,
there stands a proud aerial ruin known as the "Castle of
the Giant." On one of its stones is inscribed the date 1491 - a certain
Queen of Naples, they say, was murdered within those now crumbling
walls. These sovereigns were murdered in so many castles that one
wonders how they ever found time to be alive at all. The structure is a
wreck and its gateway closed up; nor did I feel any great inclination,
in that icy blast of wind, to investigate the roofless interior.
I was able to observe, however, that this "feudal absurdity" bears a
number like any inhabited house of Sant' Angelo - it is No. 3.
This is the latest pastime of the Italian Government: to re-number
dwellings throughout the kingdom; and not only human habitations, but
walls, old ruins, stables, churches, as well as an occasional door-post
and window. They are having no end of fun over the game, which promises
to keep them amused for any length of time - in fact, until the next
craze is invented. Meanwhile, so long as the fit lasts, half a million
bright-eyed officials, burning with youthful ardour, are employed in
affixing these numerals, briskly entering them into ten times as many
note-books and registering them into thousands of municipal archives,
all over the country, for some inscrutable but hugely important
administrative purposes. "We have the employes," as a Roman deputy once
told me, "and therefore: they must find some occupation."
Altogether, the weather this day sadly impaired my appetite for research
and exploration. On the way to the castle I had occasion to admire the
fine tower and to regret that there seemed to exist no coign of vantage
from which it could fairly be viewed; I was struck, also, by the number
of small figures of Saint Michael of an ultra-youthful, almost
infantile, type; and lastly, by certain clean-shaven old men of the
place. These venerable and decorative brigands - for such they would have
been, a few years ago - now stood peacefully at their thresholds, wearing
a most becoming cloak of thick brown wool, shaped like a burnous. The
garment interested me; it may be a legacy from the Arabs who dominated
this region for some little time, despoiling the holy sanctuary and
leaving their memory to be perpetuated by the neighbouring "Monte
Saraceno." The costume, on the other hand, may have come over from
Greece; it is figured on Tanagra statuettes and worn by modern Greek
shepherds. By Sardinians, too. ... It may well be a primordial form of
clothing with mankind.
The view from this castle must be superb on clear days.
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