I remember with delight the public garden at Cosenza, its noble view
over the valley of the Crati to the heights of Sila; that of
Catanzaro is in itself more striking, and the prospect it affords
has a sterner, grander note. Here you wander amid groups of
magnificent trees, an astonishingly rich and varied vegetation; and
from a skirting terrace you look down upon the precipitous gorge,
burnt into barenness save where a cactus clings to some jutting
rock. Here in summer-time would be freshness amid noontide heat,
with wondrous avenues of golden light breaking the dusk beneath the
boughs. I shall never see it; but the desire often comes to me under
northern skies, when I am weary of labour and seek in fancy a
paradise of idleness.
In the public gardens is a little museum, noticeable mostly for a
fine collection of ancient coins. There are Greek pots, too, and
weapons, found at Tiriolo, a village high up on the mountain above
Catanzaro. As at Taranto, a stranger who cares for this kind of
thing can be sure of having the museum all to himself.
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