of Horace sang in my head; I thought, too, of the praise of Virgil,
who, tradition has it, wrote his
country has another aspect, in spring and early summer; I saw it at a
sad moment; but, all allowance made for seasons, it is still with
wonder that one recalls the rapture of the poets. A change beyond
conception must have come upon these shores of the Ionian Sea. The
scent of rosemary seemed to be wafted across the ages from a vanished
world.
After all, who knows whether I have seen the Galaesus? Perhaps, as some
hold, it is quite another river, flowing far to the west of Taranto
into the open gulf. Gialtrezze may have become Galeso merely because of
the desire in scholars to believe that it was the classic stream; in
other parts of Italy names have been so imposed. But I shall not give
ear to such discouraging argument. It is little likely that my search
will ever be renewed, and for me the Galaesus—”dulce Galaesi
flumen”—is the stream I found and tracked, whose waters I heard mingle
with the Little Sea. The memory has no sense of disappointment. Those
reeds which rustle about the hidden source seem to me fit shelter of a
Naiad; I am glad I could not see the water bubbling in its spring, for
there remains a mystery. Whilst I live, the Galaesus purls and glistens
in the light of that golden afternoon, and there beyond, across the
blue still depths, glimmers a vision of Tarentum.
Let Taranto try as it will to be modern and progressive, there is a
retarding force which shows little sign of being overcome—the profound
superstition of the people. A striking episode of street life reminded
me how near akin were the southern Italians of to-day to their
predecessors in what are called the dark ages; nay, to those more
illustrious ancestors who were so ready to believe that an ox had
uttered an oracle, or that a stone had shed blood. Somewhere near the
swing-bridge, where undeniable steamships go and come between the inner
and the outer sea, I saw a crowd gathered about a man who was
exhibiting a picture and expounding its purport; every other minute the
male listeners doffed their hats, and the females bowed and crossed
themselves. When I had pressed near enough to hear the speaker, I found
he was just finishing a wonderful story, in which he himself might or
might not have faith, but which plainly commanded the credit of his
auditors. Having closed his narrative, the fellow began to sell it in
printed form—little pamphlets with a rude illustration on the cover. I
bought the thing for a soldo, and read it as I walked away.
A few days ago—thus, after a pious exordium, the relation began—in
that part of Italy called Marca, there came into a railway station a
Capuchin friar of grave, thoughtful, melancholy aspect, who besought
the station-master to allow him to go without ticket by the train just
starting, as he greatly desired to reach the Sanctuary of Loreto that
day, and had no money to pay his fare The official gave a contemptuous
refusal, and paid no heed to the entreaties of the friar, who urged all
manner of religious motives for the granting of his request. The two
engines on the train (which was a very long one) seemed about to steam
away—but, behold,
at all! Presently a third engine was put on, but still all efforts to
