But the
comparison is all in favour of the Tarentine stream. Here one could
feel nothing but a comfortless melancholy; the scene is too squalid,
the degradation too complete.
Of course, no one looked at the _permesso_ with which I presented
myself at the entrance to the orchard. From a tumbling house, which
we should call the lodge, came forth (after much shouting on my
part) an aged woman, who laughed at the idea that she should be
asked to read anything, and bade me walk wherever I liked. I strayed
at pleasure, meeting only a lean dog, which ran fearfully away. The
plantation was very picturesque; orange trees by no means occupied
all the ground, but mingled with pomegranates and tamarisks and many
evergreen shrubs of which I knew not the name; whilst here and there
soared a magnificent stone pine. The walks were bordered with giant
cactus, now and again so fantastic in their growth that I stood to
wonder; and in an open space upon the bank of the Esaro (which
stagnates through the orchard) rose a majestic palm, its leaves
stirring heavily in the wind which swept above.
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