One Recurring Incident
Did Not Tend To Exhilarate.
Sitting in view of a closed door, I saw
children's faces pressed against the glass, peering little faces,
which sought a favourable moment; suddenly the door would open, and
there sounded a thin voice, begging for un pezzo di pane - a bit
of bread.
Whenever the waiter caught sight of these little
mendicants, he rushed out with simulated fury, and pursued them
along the pavement. I have no happy recollection of my Reggian
meals.
An interesting feature of the streets is the frequency of carved
inscriptions, commemorating citizens who died in their struggle for
liberty. Amid quiet by-ways, for instance, I discovered a tablet
with the name of a young soldier who fell at that spot, fighting
against the Bourbon, in 1860: "offerse per l'unita della patria sua
vita quadrilustre." The very insignificance of this young life
makes the fact more touching; one thinks of the unnumbered lives
sacrificed upon this soil, age after age, to the wild-beast instinct
of mankind, and how pathetic the attempt to preserve the memory of
one boy, so soon to become a meaningless name! His own voice seems
to plead with us for a regretful thought, to speak from the stone in
sad arraignment of tyranny and bloodshed. A voice which has no
accent of hope. In the days to come, as through all time that is
past, man will lord it over his fellow, and earth will be stained
red from veins of young and old. That sweet and sounding name of
patria becomes an illusion and a curse; linked with the
pretentious modernism, civilization, it serves as plea to the
latter-day barbarian, ravening and reckless under his civil garb.
How can one greatly wish for the consolidation and prosperity of
Italy, knowing that national vigour tends more and more to
international fear and hatred? They who perished that Italy might be
born again, dreamt of other things than old savagery clanging in new
weapons. In our day there is but one Italian patriot; he who tills
the soil, and sows, and reaps, ignorant or careless of all beyond
his furrowed field.
Whilst I was still thinking of that memorial tablet, I found myself
in front of the Cathedral. As a structure it makes small appeal,
dating only from the seventeenth century, and heavily restored in
times more recent; but the first sight of the facade is strangely
stirring. For across the whole front, in great letters which one who
runs may read, is carved a line from the Acts of the Apostles: -
"Circumlegentes devenimus Rhegium."
Save only those sonorous words which circle the dome of S. Peter's,
I have seen no inscription on Christian temple which seemed to me so
impressive. "We fetched a compass, and came to Rhegium." Paul was on
his voyage from Caesarea to Rome, and here his ship touched, here at
the haven beneath Aspromonte. The fact is familiar enough, but,
occupied as I was with other thoughts, it had not yet occurred to
me; the most pious pilgrim of an earlier day could not have felt
himself more strongly arrested than I when I caught sight of these
words. Were I to inhabit Reggio, I should never pass the Cathedral
without stopping to read and think; the carving would never lose its
power over my imagination. It unites for me two elements of moving
interest: a vivid fact from the ancient world, recorded in the music
of the ancient tongue. All day the words rang in my head, even as at
Rome I have gone about murmuring to myself: "Aedificabo ecclesiam
meam." What a noble solemnity in this Latin speech! And how vast
the historic significance of such monumental words! Moralize who
will; enough for me to hear with delight that deep-toned harmony,
and to thrill with the strangeness of old things made new.
It was Sunday, which at Reggio is a day or market. Crowds of
country-folk had come into the town with the produce of field and
garden; all the open spaces were occupied with temporary stalls; at
hand stood innumerable donkeys, tethered till business should be
over. The produce exhibited was of very fine quality, especially the
vegetables; I noticed cauliflowers measuring more than a foot across
the white. Of costume there was little to be observed - though the
long soft cap worn by most of the men, hanging bag-like over one ear
almost to the shoulder, is picturesque. The female water-carriers, a
long slim cask resting lengthwise upon their padded heads, hold
attention as they go to and from the fountains. Good-looking people,
grave of manner, and doing their business without noise. It was my
last sight of the Calabrian hillsmen; to the end they held my
interest and my respect. When towns have sucked dry their population
of strength and virtue, it is such folk as these, hardy from the
free breath of heaven and the scent of earth, who will renew a
flaccid race.
Walking beyond the town in the southern direction, where the shape
of Etna shows more clearly amid the lower mountains, I found myself
approaching what looked like a handsome public edifice, a museum or
gallery of art. It was a long building, graced with a portico, and
coloured effectively in dull red; all about it stood lemon trees,
and behind, overtopping the roof, several fine palms. Moved by
curiosity I quickened my steps, and as I drew nearer I felt sure
that this must be some interesting institution of which I had not
heard. Presently I observed along the facade a row of heads of oxen
carved in stone - an ornament decidedly puzzling. Last of all my
eyes perceived, over the stately entrance, the word "Macello," and
with astonishment I became aware that this fine structure, so
agreeably situated, was nothing else than the town slaughter-house.
Does the like exist elsewhere? It was a singular bit of advanced
civilization, curiously out of keeping with the thoughts which had
occupied me on my walk.
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