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.
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