By the Ionian Sea: Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy

the least surprise or resentment. Though he held a long stick in his

hand, he never made use of it; at each stoppage he contemplated the

ass, and then gave utterance to a long “Ah-h-h!” in a note of the most

affectionate remonstrance. They were not driver and beast, but comrades

in labour. It reposed the mind to look upon them.

Walking onward in the same direction, one approaches a great wall, with

gateway sentry-guarded; it is the new Arsenal, the pride of Taranto,

and the source of its prosperity. On special as well as on general

grounds, I have a grudge against this mass of ugly masonry. I had

learnt from Lenormant that at a certain spot, Fontanella, by the shore

of the Little Sea, were observable great ancient heaps of murex

shells—the murex precious for its purple, that of Tarentum yielding in

glory only to the purple of Tyre. I hoped to see these shells, perhaps

to carry one away. But Fontanella had vanished, swallowed up, with all

remnants of antiquity, by the graceless Arsenal. It matters to no one

save the few fantastics who hold a memory of the ancient world dearer

than any mechanic triumph of to-day. If only one could believe that the

Arsenal signified substantial good to Italy! Too plainly it means

nothing but the exhaustion of her people in the service of a base ideal.

The confines of this new town being so vague, much trouble is given to

that noble institution, the dazio. Scattered far and wide in a dusty

wilderness, stand the little huts of the officers, vigilant on every

road or by-way to wring the wretched soldi from toilsome hands. As

became their service, I found these gentry anything but amiable; they

had commonly an air of ennui, and regarded a stranger with surly

suspicion.

When I was back again among the high new houses, my eye, wandering in

search of any smallest point of interest, fell on a fresh-painted

inscription:—

“

ALLA

MAGNA

GRAECIA

.

STABILIMENTO

IDROELETTROPATICO

.”

was well meant. At the sign of “Magna Graecia” one is willing to accept

“hydroelectropathic” as a late echo of Hellenic speech.

CHAPTER V

DULCE GALAESI FLUMEN

Taranto has a very interesting Museum. I went there with an

introduction to the curator, who spared no trouble in pointing out to

me all that was best worth seeing. He and I were alone in the little

galleries; at a second or third visit I had the Museum to myself, save

for an attendant who seemed to regard a visitor as a pleasant novelty,

and bestirred himself for my comfort when I wanted to make sketches.

Nothing is charged for admission, yet no one enters. Presumably, all

the Tarentines who care for archaeology have already been here, and

strangers are few.

Upon the shelves are seen innumerable miniature busts, carved in some

kind of stone; thought to be simply portraits of private persons. One

peers into the faces of men, women, and children, vaguely conjecturing

their date, their circumstances; some of them may have dwelt in the old

time on this very spot of ground now covered by the Museum. Like other

people who grow too rich and comfortable, the citizens of Tarentum

loved mirth and mockery; their Greek theatre was remarkable for

irreverent farce, for parodies of the great drama of Athens. And here

is testimony to the fact: all manner of comic masks, of grotesque

visages; mouths distorted into impossible grins, eyes leering and

goggling, noses extravagant. I sketched a caricature of Medusa, the

anguished features and snaky locks travestied with satiric grimness.

You remember a story which illustrates this scoffing habit: how the

Roman Ambassador, whose Greek left something to be desired, excited the

uproarious derision of the assembled Tarentines—with results that were

no laughing matter.

I used the opportunity of my conversation with the Director of the

Museum to ask his aid in discovering the river Galaesus. Who could find

himself at Taranto without turning in thought to the Galaesus, and

wishing to walk along its banks? Unhappily, one cannot be quite sure of

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, “Non c’e novita.” But I went my foolish way. Of two or

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