I had learnt from Lenormant that at a certain spot, Fontanella, by the shore of the Little Sea, were observable great ancient heaps of murex shells--the murex precious for its purple, that of Tarentum yielding in glory only to the purple of Tyre.

I hoped to see these shells, perhaps to carry one away.

But Fontanella had vanished, swallowed up, with all remnants of antiquity, by the graceless Arsenal.

It matters to no one save the few fantastics who hold a memory of the ancient world dearer than any mechanic triumph of to-day.

If only one could believe that the Arsenal signified substantial good to Italy! Too plainly it means nothing but the exhaustion of her people in the service of a base ideal.
The confines of this new town being so vague, much trouble is given to that noble institution, the _dazio_.