Near Me Stands A Shore-Battery Which Used To Be Called "Batteria
Chianca." It Was Here They Found, Some Twenty Years Ago, A Fine Marble
Head Described As A Venus, And Now Preserved In The Local Museum.
I
observe that this fort has lately been re-christened "Batteria Archyta."
Can this be due to a burst of patriotism for the Greek warrior-sage who
ruled Taranto, or is it a subtle device to mislead the foreign spy?
Here, too, are kilns where they burn the blue clay into tiles and vases.
I time a small boy at work shaping the former. His average output is
five tiles in four minutes, including the carrying to and fro of the
moist clay; his wages about a shilling a day. But if you wish to see the
manufacture of more complicated potteries, you must go to the unclean
quarter beyond the railway station. Once there, you will not soon weary
of that potter's wheel and the fair shapes that blossom forth under its
enchanted touch. This ware of Taranto is sent by sea to many parts of
south Italy, and you may see picturesque groups of it, here and there,
at the street corners.
Hardly has the sun disappeared before the lighthouse in the east begins
to flash. The promontory on which it stands is called San Vito after one
of the musty saints, now almost forgotten, whose names survive along
these shores. Stoutly this venerable one defended his ancient worship
against the radiant and victorious Madonna; nor did she dislodge him
from a certain famous sanctuary save by the questionable expedient of
adopting his name:
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