Hardly has the sun disappeared before the lighthouse in the east begins
to flash. The promontory on which it stands is called San Vito after one
of the musty saints, now almost forgotten, whose names survive along
these shores. Stoutly this venerable one defended his ancient worship
against the radiant and victorious Madonna; nor did she dislodge him
from a certain famous sanctuary save by the questionable expedient of
adopting his name: she called herself S. M. "della Vita." That settled
it. He came from Mazzara in Sicily, whither they still carry, to his
lonely shrine, epileptics and others distraught in mind. And were I in a
discursive mood, I would endeavour to trace some connection between his
establishment here and the tarantella--between St. Vitus' dance and that
other one which cured, they say, the bite of the Tarentine spider.

But I am not inclined for such matters at present. The Cala-brian
uplands are still visible in the gathering twilight; they draw me
onwards, away from Taranto. It must be cool up there, among the firs and
beeches.

And a land, moreover, of multiple memories and interests--this Calabria.
A land of great men. In 1737 the learned Aceti was able to enumerate
over two thousand celebrated Calabrians--athletes, generals, musicians,
centenarians, inventors, martyrs, ten popes, ten kings, as well as some
sixty conspicuous women. A land of thinkers. Old Zavarroni, born in
1705, gives us a list of seven hundred Calabrian writers; and I, for
one, would not care to bring his catalogue up to date. The recently
acquired _Biblioteca Calabra_ at Naples alone contains God knows how
many items, nearly all modern!

And who shall recount its natural attractions? Says another old writer: