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 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, 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.
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