But among the simple on Italian soil a wandering stranger has no right to nurse national superiorities, to indulge a contemptuous impatience.

It is the touch of tourist vulgarity.

Listen to a Calabrian peasant singing as he follows his oxen along the furrow, or as he shakes the branches of his olive tree.

That wailing voice amid the ancient silence, that long lament solacing ill-rewarded toil, comes from the heart of Italy herself, and wakes the memory of mankind..