No picture or statue records the life of this flying wonder, this
masterpiece of Spanish priestcraft; no mural tablet--in this land of
commemorative stones--has been erected to perpetuate the glory of his
signal achievements; no street is called after him. It is as if he had
never existed. On the contrary, by a queer irony of fate, the roadway
leading past his convent evokes the memory of a misty heathen poet,
likewise native of these favoured regions, a man whose name Joseph of
Copertino had assuredly never heard--Ennius, of whom I can now recall
nothing save that one unforgettable line which begins "O Tite tute Tati
tibi----"; Ennius, who never so much as tried to fly, but contented
himself with singing, in rather bad Latin, of the things of this earth.

_Via Ennio. . . ._

It is the swing of the pendulum. The old pagan, at this moment, may be
nearer to our ideals and aspirations than the flying monk who died only
yesterday, so to speak.

But a few years hence--who can tell?

A characteristic episode. I had carefully timed myself to catch the
returning train to Tarante. Great was my surprise when, half-way to the
station, I perceived the train swiftly approaching. I raced it, and
managed to jump into a carriage just as it drew out of the station. The
guard straightway demanded my ticket and a fine for entering the train
without one (return tickets, for weighty reasons of "internal
administration," are not sold). I looked at my watch, which showed that
we had left six minutes before the scheduled hour. He produced his; it
coincided with my own. "No matter," he said. "I am not responsible for
the eccentricities of the driver, who probably had some urgent private