spontaneous expression of good wishes on the part of a few friends. But
surely it testifies to most refined feelings. How immeasurably does this
permanent and yet immaterial feast differ from our gross wedding
banquets and ponderous gilt clocks and tea services! Such persons
cannot but have the highest reverence for things of the mind; such a
gift is the fairest efflorescence of civilization. And this is only
another aspect of that undercurrent of spirituality in south Italy of
whose existence the tourist, harassed by sordid preoccupations, remains
wholly unaware.

This book was printed at Bari. Bari, not long ago, consisted of a dark
and tortuous old town, exactly like the citadel of Taranto. It has now
its glaring New Quarter, not a whit less disagreeable than the one here.
Why should Taranto not follow suit in the matter of culture? Heraclea,
Sybaris and all the Greek settlements along this coast have vanished
from earth; only Taranto and Cotrone have survived to carry on, if they
can, the old traditions. They have survived, thanks to peculiar physical
conditions that have safeguarded them from invaders. . . .

But these very conditions have entailed certain drawbacks--drawbacks
which Buckle would have lovingly enumerated to prove their influence
upon the habits and disposition of the Tarentines. That marine situation
. . . only think of three thousand years of scirocco, summer and winter!
It is alone enough to explain _molle Tarentum--_ enough to drain the
energy out of a Newfoundland puppy! And then, the odious dust of the
country roadways--for it _is_ odious. Had the soil been granitic, or
even of the ordinary Apennine limestone, the population might have
remained in closer contact with wild things of nature, and retained a
perennial fountain of enjoyment and inspiration. A particular kind of
rock, therefore, has helped to make them sluggish and incurious. The