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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 archæology 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 Galæsus. Who could find himself at
Taranto without turning in thought to the Galæsus,
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'è novità."
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 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 Galæsus? -- 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
Græcia 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 Galæsus 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 of Horace sang in my head; I thought,
too, of the praise of Virgil, who, tradition has
it, wrote his Eclogues hereabouts. Of course,
the 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 Galæsus?
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 Galæsus -- "dulce Galæsi 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 Galæsus 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,
con grande stupore di tutti, the waggons
moved not at all! Presently a third engine was put
on, but still all efforts to start the train proved
useless. Alone of the people who viewed this inexplicable
event, the friar showed no astonishment; he remarked
calmly, that so long as he was refused permission
to travel by it, the train would not stir. At length
un ricco signore found a way out of the difficulty
by purchasing the friar a third-class ticket; with
a grave reproof to the station-master, the friar
took his seat, and the train went its way.
But the matter, of course, did not end here. Indignant
and amazed, and wishing to be revenged upon that
frataccio, the station-master telegraphed
to Loreto, that in a certain carriage of a certain
train was travelling a friar, whom it behoved the
authorities to arrest for having hindered the departure
of the said train for fifteen minutes, and also
for the offense of mendicancy within a railway station.
Accordingly, the Loreto police sought the offender,
but, in the compartment where he had travelled,
found no person; there, however, lay a letter couched
in these terms: "He who was in this waggon under
the guise of a humble friar, has now ascended into
the arms of his Santissima Madre Maria. He
wished to make known to the world how easy it is
for him to crush the pride of unbelievers, or to
reward those who respect religion."
Nothing more was discoverable; wherefore the learned
of the Church -- i dotti della chiesa --
came to the conclusion that under the guise of a
friar there had actually appeared "N. S. G. C."
The Supreme Pontiff and his prelates had not yet
delivered a judgment in the matter, but there could
be no sort of doubt that they would pronounce the
authenticity of the miracle. With a general assurance
that the good Christian will be saved and the unrepentant
will be damned, this remarkable little pamphlet
came to an end. Much verbiage I have omitted, but
the translation, as far as it goes, is literal.
Doubtless many a humble Tarentine spelt it through
that evening, with boundless wonder, and thought
such an intervention of Providence worthy of being
talked about, until the next stabbing case in his
street provided a more interesting topic.
Possibly some malevolent rationalist might note
that the name of the railway station where this
miracle befell was nowhere mentioned. Was it not
open to him to go and make inquiries at Loreto?
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