Well, here is a mural
graffito secured in the course of this evening's walk:
Abaso [sic] questo paese sporco incivile: down with this dirty savage
country!
There is food for thought in this inscription. For if some bilious
hyper-civilized stranger were its author, the sentiments might pass. But
coming from a native, to what depths of morbid discontent do they
testify! Considering the recent progress of these regions that has led
to a security and prosperity formerly undreamed of, one is driven to the
conjecture that these words can only have been penned by some
cantankerous churl of an emigrant returning to his native land after an
easeful life in New York and compelled - "for his sins," as he would put
it - to reside at the "Hotel Vittoria."
Towards that delectable hostelry I now turned, somewhat regretfully, to
face a bedroom whose appearance had already inspired me with anything
but confidence. But hardly were the preliminary investigations begun,
when a furious noise in the street below drew me to the window once
more. Half the town was passing underneath in thronged procession, with
lighted torches and flags, headed by the municipal band discoursing
martial strains of music.
