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.
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