Its Situation, As You Approach From Castrovillari, Is Striking.
The
white houses stream in a cataract down one side of a steep conical hill
that dominates the landscape - on the summit sits the inevitable castle,
blue sky peering through its battered windows.
But the interior is not
at all in keeping with this imposing aspect. Morano, so far as I was
able to explore it, is a labyrinth of sombre, tortuous and fetid alleys,
whexe black pigs wallow amid heaps 'of miscellaneous and malodorous
filth - in short, the town exemplifies that particular idea of civic
liberty which consists in everybody being free to throw their own
private refuse into the public street and leave it there, from
generation to generation. What says Lombroso? "The street-cleaning is
entrusted, in many towns, to the rains of heaven and, in their absence,
to the voracity of the pigs." None the less, while waiting for mules
that never came, I took to patrolling those alleys, at first out of
sheer boredom, but soon impelled by that subtle fascination which
emanates from the ne plus ultra of anything - even of grotesque
dirtiness. On the second day, however, a case of cholera was announced,
which chilled my ardour for further investigations. It was on that
account that I failed to inspect what was afterwards described to me as
the chief marvel of the place - a carved wooden altar-piece in a certain
church.
"It is prodigious and antichissimo," said an obliging citizen to
whom I applied for information.
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