its position. A stream there is, flowing into the Little Sea, which by
some is called Galeso; but the country-folk commonly give it the name
of Gialtrezze. Of course I turned my steps in that direction, to see
and judge for myself.
To skirt the western shore of the Mare Piccolo I had to pass the
railway station, and there I made a few inquiries; the official with
whom I spoke knew not the name Galeso, but informed me that the
Gialtrezze entered the sea at a distance of some three kilometres. That
I purposed walking such a distance to see an insignificant stream
excited the surprise, even the friendly concern, of my interlocutor;
again and again he assured me it was not worth while, repeating
emphatically, “
three peasants or fishermen on the road I asked the name of the little
river I was approaching; they answered, “Gialtrezze.” Then came a man
carrying a gun, whose smile and greeting invited question. “Can you
tell me the name of the stream which flows into the sea just beyond
here?” “Signore, it is the Galeso.”
My pulse quickened with delight; all the more when I found that my
informant had no tincture of the classics, and that he supported Galeso
against Gialtrezze simply as a question of local interest. Joyously I
took leave of him, and very soon I was in sight of the river itself.
The river? It is barely half a mile long; it rises amid a bed of great
reeds, which quite conceal the water, and flows with an average breadth
of some ten feet down to the seashore, on either side of it bare, dusty
fields, and a few hoary olives.
The Galaesus?—the river beloved by Horace; its banks pasturing a
famous breed of sheep, with fleece so precious that it was protected by
a garment of skins? Certain it is that all the waters of Magna Graecia
have much diminished since classic times, but (unless there have been
great local changes, due, for example, to an earthquake) this brook had
always the same length, and it is hard to think of the Galaesus as so
insignificant. Disappointed, brooding, I followed the current seaward,
and upon the shore, amid scents of mint and rosemary, sat down to rest.
There was a good view of Taranto across the water; the old town on its
little island, compact of white houses, contrasting with the yellowish
tints of the great new buildings which spread over the peninsula. With
half-closed eyes, one could imagine the true Tarentum. Wavelets lapped
upon the sand before me, their music the same as two thousand years
ago. A goatherd came along, his flock straggling behind him; man and
goats were as much of the old world as of the new. Far away, the boats
of fishermen floated silently. I heard a rustle as an old fig tree hard
by dropped its latest leaves. On the sea-bank of yellow crumbling earth
lizards flashed about me in the sunshine. After a dull morning, the day
had passed into golden serenity; a stillness as of eternal peace held
earth and sky.
“Dearest of all to me is that nook of earth which yields not to
Hymettus for its honey, nor for its olive to green Venafrum; where
heaven grants a long springtime and warmth in winter, and in the sunny
hollows Bacchus fosters a vintage noble as the Falernian----” The lines
