we entered a shop which he thought might interest me; the salesman during our talk unobtrusively made up a little parcel of goods, and asked, at length, whether I would take this with me or have it sent to the hotel.  That point I easily decided, but by no persistence could I succeed in paying for the things.  Smiling behind his counter, the shopkeeper declined to name a price; Don Pasquale declared that a payment under such circumstances was a thing unknown in Catanzaro, and I saw that to say anything more would be to run the risk of offending him.  The same day he invited me to dinner, and explained that we must needs dine at the hotel where I was staying, this being the best place of entertainment in the town.  I found that my friend had a second reason for the choice; he wished to ascertain whether I was comfortably lodged, and as a result of his friendly offices, various little changes came about.  Once more I make my grateful acknowledgements to the excellent Don Pasquale.

Speaking of shops, I must describe in detail the wonderful pharmacy.  Signor Cricelli held it among the sights of Catanzaro; this chemist’s in the main street was one of the first places to which he guided me.  And, indeed, the interior came as a surprise.  Imagine a spacious shop, well proportioned, perfectly contrived, and throughout fitted with woodwork copies from the best examples of old Italian carving.  Seeking pill or potion, one finds oneself in a museum of art, where it would be easy to spend an hour in studying the counter, the shelves, the ceiling.  The chemists (two brothers, if I remember rightly) pointed out to me with legitimate pride all that they had done for the beautifying of their place of business; I shall not easily forget the glowing countenance, the moved voice, which betrayed their feelings as they led me hither and thither; for them and their enterprise I felt a hearty respect.  When we had surveyed everything within doors I was asked to look at the mostra —­the sign that hung over the entrance; a sort of griffin in wrought iron, this, too, copied from an old masterpiece, and reminding one of the fine ironwork which adorns the streets of Siena.  Don Pasquale could not be satisfied until I had privately assured him of my genuine admiration.  Was it, he asked, at all like a chemist’s shop in London?  My reply certainly gratified him, but I am afraid it did not increase his desire to visit England.

Whilst I was at the chemist’s, there entered a number of peasants, whose appearance was so striking that I sought information about them.  Don Pasquale called them “Greci”; they came from a mountain village where the dialect of the people is still a corrupt Greek.  One would like to imagine that their origin dates back to the early Hellenic days, but it is assuredly much later.  These villages may be a relic of the Byzantine conquest in the sixth century, when Southern Italy was, to a great extent, re peopled from the Eastern Empire, though another theory suggests that they were formed by immigrants from Greece at the time of the Turkish invasion.  Each of the women had a baby hanging at her back, together with miscellaneous goods which she had purchased in the town:  though so heavily burdened, they walked erect, and with the free step of mountaineers.