My Guide Stoutly
Denied That This Was Bova; The Town, He Declared, Lay In Quite Another
Direction.
I imagine he had never been beyond the foot of the "Pie
d'Impisa."
Here, once more, the late earthquake has done some damage, and there is
a row of trim wooden shelters near the entrance of the town. I may add,
as a picturesque detail, that about one-third of them have never been
inhabited, and are never likely to be. They were erected in the heat of
enthusiasm, and there they will stay, empty and abandoned, until some
energetic mayor shall pull them down and cook his maccheroni with their
timber.
Evening was drawing on apace, and whether it was due to the joy of
having accomplished an arduous journey, or to inconsiderate potations of
the Bacchus of Bova, one of the most remarkable wines in Italy, I very
soon found myself on excellent terms with the chief citizens of this
rather sordid-looking little place. A good deal has been written
concerning Bova and its inhabitants, but I should say there is still a
mine of information to be exploited on the spot. They are bilingual, but
while clinging stubbornly to their old speech, they have now embraced
Catholicism. The town kept its Greek religious rites till the latter
half of the sixteenth century; and Rodota has described the "vigorous
resistance" that was made to the introduction of Romanism, and the
ceremonies which finally accompanied that event.
Mine hostess obligingly sang me two or three songs in her native
language; the priest furnished me with curious statistics of folklore
and criminology; and the notary, with whom I conversed awhile on the
tiny piazza that overlooks the coastlands and distant Ionian, was a most
affable gentleman.
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