Goats And Cows
Recline Here After Their Meagre Repast Of Scorched Grasses, And The
Shepherds In Charge Have Voices So Soft, And Manners So Gentle, As To
Call Up Suggestions Of The Golden Age.
These pastoral folk are the
primitives of Cotrone.
From father to son, for untold ages before
Theocritus hymned them, they have kept up their peculiar habits and
traditions; between them and the agricultural classes is a gulf as deep
as between these and the citizens. Conversing with them, one marvels how
the same occupation can produce creatures so unlike as these and the
goat-boys of Naples, the most desperate camorristi.
The cows may well be descendants of the sacred cattle of Hera that
browsed under the pines which are known to have clothed the bleak
promontory. You may encounter them every day, wandering on the way to
the town which they supply with milk; to avoid the dusty road, they
march sedately through the soft wet sand at the water's edge, their
silvery bodies outlined against a cserulean flood of sky and sea.
On this promenade I yesterday observed, slow-pacing beside the waves, a
meditative priest, who gave me some details regarding the ruined church
of which Gissing speaks. It lies in the direction of the cemetery,
outside the town; "its lonely position," he says, "made it interesting,
and the cupola of coloured tiles (like that of the cathedral of Amalfi)
remained intact, a bright spot against the grey hills behind." This
cupola has recently been removed, but part of the old walls serve as
foundation for a new sanctuary, a sordid-looking structure with
red-tiled roof:
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