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. On
the rocks below stood fishermen hauling in a great net, whilst a boy
splashed the water to drive the fish back until they were safely
enveloped in the last meshes; admirable figures, consummate in graceful
strength, their bare legs and arms the tone of terra cotta. What slight
clothing they wore became them perfectly, as is always the case with a
costume well adapted to the natural life of its wearers. Their slow,
patient effort speaks of immemorial usage, and it is in harmony with
time itself. These fishermen are the primitives of Taranto; who shall
say for how many centuries they have hauled their nets upon the rock?
When Plato visited the Schools of Taras, he saw the same brown-legged
figures, in much the same garb, gathering their sea-harvest. When
Hannibal, beset by the Romans, drew his ships across the peninsula and
so escaped from the inner sea, fishermen of Tarentum went forth as
ever, seeking their daily food. A thousand years passed, and the fury
of the Saracens, when it had laid the city low, spared some humble
Tarentine and the net by which he lived. To-day the fisher-folk form a
colony apart; they speak a dialect whi