One Of My Windows Looked Towards The Old
Town, With Its Long Sea-Wall Where Fishermen's Nets Hung Drying, The
Dome of its Cathedral, the high, squeezed houses, often with gardens
on the roofs, and the swing-bridge which links
It to the mainland;
the other gave me a view across the Mare Piccolo, the Little Sea (it
is some twelve miles round about), dotted in many parts with crossed
stakes which mark the oyster-beds, and lined on this side with a
variety of shipping moored at quays. From some of these vessels,
early next morning, sounded suddenly a furious cannonade, which
threatened to shatter the windows of the hotel; I found it was in
honour of the Queen of Italy, whose festa fell on that day. This
barbarous uproar must have sounded even to the Calabrian heights; it
struck me as more meaningless in its deafening volley of noise than
any note of joy or triumph that could ever have been heard in old
Tarentum.
I walked all round the island part of the town; lost myself amid its
maze of streets, or alleys rather, for in many places one could
touch both sides with outstretched arms, and rested in the Cathedral
of S. Cataldo, who, by the bye, was an Irishman. All is strange, but
too close-packed to be very striking or beautiful; I found it best
to linger on the sea-wall, looking at the two islands in the offing,
and over the great gulf with its mountain shore stretching beyond
sight.
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