One grows
weary, none the less, of the deluge of implacable light that descends,
day after day, from the aether. The glistering streets are all but
deserted after the early hours of the morning. A few busy folks move
about till midday on the pavements; and so do I - in the water. But the
long hours following luncheon are consecrated to meditation and repose.
A bundle of Italian newspapers has preceded me hither; upon these I
browse dispersedly, while awaiting the soft call to slumber. Here are
some provincial sheets - the "Movement" of Castro-villari - the "New
Rossano" - the "Bruttian" of Corigliano, with strong literary flavour.
Astonishing how decentralized Italy still is, how brimful of purely
local patriotism: what conception have these men of Rome as their
capital? These articles often reflect a lively turmoil of ideas,
well-expressed. Who pays for such journalistic ventures? Typography is
cheap, and contributors naturally content themselves with the ample
remuneration of appearing in print before their fellow-citizens; a
considerable number of copies are exported to America. Yet I question
whether the circulation of the "New Rossano," a fortnightly in its sixth
year, can exceed five hundred copies.
But these venial and vapid Neapolitan dailies are my pet aversion. We
know them, nous autres, with their odious personalities and playful
blackmailing tactics; many "distinguished foreigners," myself included,
could tell a tale anent that subject.
