through the Middle Ages, for they alone occupied a position strong for
defence against pirates and invaders. A memory of the Saracen wars
lingers in the name borne by the one important relic of Metapontum, the
Tavola de’ Paladini; to this my guide was conducting me.
It is the ruin of a temple to an unknown god, which stood at some
distance north of the ancient city; two parallel rows of columns, ten
on one side, five on the other, with architrave all but entire, and a
basement shattered. The fine Doric capitals are well preserved; the
pillars themselves, crumbling under the tooth of time, seem to support
with difficulty their noble heads. This monument must formerly have
been very impressive amid the wide landscape; but, a few years ago, for
protection against peasant depredators, a wall ten feet high was built
close around the columns, so that no good view of them is any longer
obtainable. To the enclosure admission is obtained through an iron
gateway with a lock. I may add, as a picturesque detail, that the lock
has long been useless; my guide simply pushed the gate open. Thus, the
ugly wall serves no purpose whatever save to detract from the beauty of
the scene.
Vegetation is thick within the temple precincts; a flowering rose bush
made contrast of its fresh and graceful loveliness with the age-worn
strength of these great carved stones. About their base grew
luxuriantly a plant which turned my thoughts for a moment to rural
England, the round-leaved pennywort. As I lingered here, there stirred
in me something of that deep emotion which I felt years ago amid the
temples of Paestum. Of course, this obstructed fragment holds no claim
to comparison with Paestum’s unique glory, but here, as there, one is
possessed by the pathos of immemorial desolation; amid a silence which
the voice has no power to break, nature’s eternal vitality triumphs
over the greatness of forgotten men.
At a distance of some three miles from this temple there lies a little
lake, or a large pond, which would empty itself into the sea but for a
piled barrier of sand and shingle. This was the harbour of Metapontum.
I passed the day in rambling and idling, and returned for a meal at the
station just before train-time. The weather could not have been more
enjoyable; a soft breeze and cloudless blue. For the last half-hour I
lay in a hidden corner of the eucalyptus grove—trying to shape in
fancy some figure of old Pythagoras. He died here (says story) in 497
B.C.—broken-hearted at the failure of his efforts to make mankind
gentle and reasonable. In 1897 A.D. that hope had not come much nearer
to its realization. Italians are yet familiar with the name of the
philosopher, for it is attached to the multiplication table, which they
call tavola pitagorica. What, in truth, do we know of him? He is a
type of aspiring humanity; a sweet and noble figure, moving as a dim
radiance through legendary Hellas. The English reader hears his name
with a smile, recalling only the mention of him, in mellow mirth, by
England’s greatest spirit. “What is the opinion of Pythagoras
concerning wild fowl?” Whereto replies the much-offended Malvolio:
“That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.” He of the
crossed garters disdains such fantasy. “I think nobly of the soul, and
no way approve his opinion.”
I took my ticket for Cotrone, which once was Croton. At Croton,
Pythagoras enjoyed his moment’s triumph, ruling men to their own
behoof. At Croton grew up a school of medicine which glorified Magna
Graecia. “Healthier than Croton,” said a proverb; for the spot was
unsurpassed in salubrity; beauty and strength distinguished its
inhabitants, who boasted their champion Milon. After the fall of
Sybaris, Croton became so populous that its walls encircled twelve
miles. Hither came Zeuxis, to adorn with paintings the great temple of
Hera on the Lacinian promontory; here he made his picture of Helen,
with models chosen from the loveliest maidens of the city. I was
light-hearted with curious anticipation as I entered the train for
Cotrone.
While daylight lasted, the moving landscape held me attentive. This
part of the coast is more varied, more impressive, than between Taranto
and Metaponto. For the most part a shaggy wilderness, the ground lies
in strangely broken undulations, much hidden with shrub and tangled
boscage. At the falling of dusk we passed a thickly-wooded tract large
enough to be called a forest; the great trees looked hoary with age,
and amid a jungle of undergrowth, myrtle and lentisk, arbutus and
oleander, lay green marshes, dull deep pools, sluggish streams. A spell
which was half fear fell upon the imagination; never till now had I
known an enchanted wood. Nothing human could wander in those pathless
shades, by those dead waters. It was the very approach to the world of
spirits; over this woodland, seen on the verge of twilight, brooded a
silent awe, such as Dante knew in his selva oscura.
Of a sudden the dense foliage was cleft; there opened a broad alley
between drooping boughs, and in the deep hollow, bordered with sand and
stones, a flood rolled eastward. This river is now called Sinno; it was
the ancient Sins, whereon stood the city of the same name. In the
seventh century before Christ, Sins was lauded as the richest city in
the world; for luxury it outrivalled Sybaris.
I had recently been reading Lenormant’s description of the costumes of
Magna Graecia prior to the Persian wars. Sins, a colony from Ionia,
still kept its Oriental style of dress. Picture a man in a long,
close-clinging tunic which descended to his feet, either of fine linen,
starched and pleated, or of wool, falling foldless, enriched with
embroidery and adorned with bands of gay-coloured geometric patterns;
over this a wrap (one may say) of thick wool, tight round the bust and
leaving the right arm uncovered, or else a more ample garment,
elaborately decorated like the long tunic. Complete the picture with a
head ornately dressed, on the brow a fringe of ringlets; the long hair
behind held together by gold wire spirally wound; above, a crowning
fillet, with a jewel set in the front; the beard cut to a point, and
the upper lip shaven. You behold the citizen of these Hellenic colonies
in their stately prime.
Somewhere in that enchanted forest, where the wild vine trails from
tree to tree, where birds and creatures of the marshy solitude haunt
their ancient home, lie buried the stones of Sins.
CHAPTER VII
COTRONE
Night hid from me the scenes that followed. Darkling, I passed again
through the station called Sybaris, and on and on by the sea-shore, the
sound of breakers often audible. From time to time I discerned black
mountain masses against a patch of grey sky, or caught a glimpse of
blanching wave, or felt my fancy thrill as a stray gleam from the
engine fire revealed for a moment another trackless wood. Often the
hollow rumbling of the train told me that we were crossing a bridge;
the stream beneath it bore, perhaps, a name in legend or in history. A
wind was rising; at the dim little stations I heard it moan and buffet,
and my carriage, where all through the journey I sat alone, seemed the
more comfortable. Rain began to fall, and when, about ten o’clock, I
alighted at Cotrone, the night was loud with storm.
There was but one vehicle at the station, a shabby, creaking,
mud-plastered sort of coach, into which I bundled together with two