would have to be sought at least half a mile away, where the Busento
is hidden in its deep valley.

Gibbon, by the way, calls it Busentinus; the true Latin was
Buxentius. To make sure of the present name, I questioned some half
a dozen peasants, who all named the river Basenzio or Basenz'; a
countryman of more intelligent appearance assured me that this was
only a dialectical form, the true one being Busento. At a
bookseller's shop (Cosenza had one, a very little one) I found the
same opinion to prevail.

It is difficult to walk much in this climate; lassitude and feverish
symptoms follow on the slightest exertion; but--if one can
disregard the evil smells which everywhere catch one's breath--
Cosenza has wonders and delights which tempt to day-long rambling.
To call the town picturesque is to use an inadequate word; at every
step, from the opening of the main street at the hill-foot up to the
stern mediaeval castle crowning its height, one marvels and admires.
So narrow are the ways that a cart drives the pedestrian into shop
or alley; two vehicles (but perhaps the thing never happened) would
with difficulty pass each other. As in all towns of Southern Italy,
the number of hair-dressers is astonishing, and they hang out the
barber's basin--the very basin (of shining brass and with a
semicircle cut out of the rim) which the Knight of La Mancha took as
substitute for his damaged helmet. Through the gloom of high
balconied houses, one climbs to a sunny piazza, where there are
several fine buildings; beyond it lies the public garden, a lovely
spot, set with alleys of acacia and groups of palm and flower-beds
and fountains; marble busts of Garibaldi, Mazzini, and Cavour gleam
among the trees. Here one looks down upon the yellow gorge of the