ch I arrived at
the hotel. I had to walk in search of the orange orchard, all along the
straight dusty road leading to the station. For a considerable distance
this road is bordered on both sides by warehouses of singular
appearance. They have only a ground floor, and the front wall is not
more than ten feet high, but their low roofs, sloping to the ridge at
an angle of about thirty degrees, cover a great space. The windows are
strongly barred, and the doors show immense padlocks of elaborate
construction. The goods warehoused here are chiefly wine and oil,
oranges and liquorice. (A great deal of liquorice grows around the
southern gulf.) At certain moments, indicated by the markets at home or
abroad, these stores are conveyed to the harbour, and shipped away. For
the greater part of the year the houses stand as I saw them, locked,
barred, and forsaken: a street where any sign of life is exceptional;
an odd suggestion of the English Sunday in a land that knows not such
observance.

Crossing the Esaro, I lingered on the bridge to gaze at its green,
muddy water, not visibly flowing at all. The high reeds which half
concealed it carried my thoughts back to the Galaesus. 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. Picturesque, abundantly; but these beautiful tree-names, which
waft a perfume of romance, are like to convey a false impression to
readers who have never seen the far south; it is natur