behind the station, one would find a little collection of antiquities
unearthed hereabout. On inquiry, I found that no vehicle, and no animal
capable of being ridden, existed at Metaponto; also that the little
museum had been transferred to Naples. It did not pay to keep the
horse, they told me; a stranger asked for it only “once in a hundred
years.” However, a lad was forthcoming who would guide me to the ruins.
I breakfasted (the only thing tolerable being the wine), and we set
forth.
It was a walk of some two or three miles, by a cart road, through
fields just being ploughed for grain. All about lay a level or slightly
rolling country, which in winter becomes a wilderness of mud; dry
traces of vast slough and occasional stagnant pools showed what the
state of things would be a couple of months hence. The properties were
divided by hedges of agave—huge growths, grandly curving their
sword-pointed leaves. Its companion, the spiny cactus, writhed here and
there among juniper bushes and tamarisks. Along the wayside rose tall,
dead thistles, white with age, their great cluster of seed-vessels
showing how fine the flower had been. Above our heads, peewits were
wheeling and crying, and lizards swarmed on the hard, cracked ground.
We passed a few ploughmen, with white oxen yoked to labour. Ploughing
was a fit sight at Metapontum, famous of old for the richness of its
soil; in token whereof the city dedicated at Delphi its famous Golden
Sheaf. It is all that remains of life on this part of the coast; the
city had sunk into ruin before the Christian era, and was never
rebuilt. Later, the shore was too dangerous for habitation. Of all the
cities upon the Ionian Sea, only Tarentum and Croton continued to exist
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
&n
bsp; 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
travellers of the kind called commercial—almost the only species of
traveller I came across during these southern wanderings. A long time
was spent in stowing freightage which, after all, amounted to very
little; twice, thrice, four, and perhaps five times did we make a false
start, followed by uproarious vociferation, and a jerk which tumbled us
passengers all together. The gentlemen of commerce rose to wild
excitement, and roundly abused the driver; as soon as we really
started, their wrath changed to boisterous gaiety. On we rolled,
pitching and tossing, mid darkness and tempest, until, through the
broken window, a sorry illumination of oil-lamps showed us one side of
a colonnaded street. “Bologna! Bologna!” cried my companions, mocking
at this feeble reminiscence of their fat northern town. The next moment
we pulled up, our bruised bodies colliding vigorously for the last
time; it was the Albergo Concordia.
A dark stone staircase, yawning under the colonnade; on the first
landing an open doorway; within, a long corridor, doors of bedrooms on
either side, and in a room at the far end a glimpse of a tablecloth.
This was the hotel, the whole of it. As soon as I grasped the
situation, it was clear to me why my fellow travellers had entered with
a rush and flung themselves into rooms; there might, perchance, be only
one or two chambers vacant, and I knew already that Cotrone offered no
other decent harbourage. Happily I did not suffer for my lack of
experience; after trying one or two doors in vain, I found a
sleeping-place which seemed to be unoccupied, and straightway took
possession of it. No one appeared to receive the arriving guests.
Feeling very hungry, I went into the room at the end of the passage,
where I had seen a tablecloth; a wretched lamp burned on the wall, but
only after knocking, stamping, and calling did I attract attention;
then issued from some mysterious region a stout, slatternly, sleepy
woman, who seemed surprised at my demand for food, but at length
complied with it. I was to have better acquaintance with my hostess of
the Concordia before I quitted Cotrone.
Next morning the wind still blew, but the rain was over; I could begin
my rambles. Like the old town of Taranto, Cotrone occupies the site of
the ancient acropolis, a little headland jutting into the sea; above,
and in front of the town itself, stands the castle built by Charles V.,
with immense battlements looking over the harbour. From a road skirting
the shore around the base of the fortress one views a wide bay, bounded
to the north by the dark flanks of Sila (I was in sight of the Black
Mountain once more), and southwards by a long low promontory, its level
slowly declining to the far-off point where it ends amid the waves. On
this Cape I fixed my eyes, straining them until it seemed to me that I
distinguished something, a jutting speck against the sky, at its
farthest point. Then I used my field-glass, and at once the doubtful
speck became a clearly visible projection, much like a lighthouse. It
is a Doric column, some five-and-twenty feet high; the one pillar that
remains of the great temple of Hera, renowned through all the Hellenic
world, and sacred still when the goddess had for centuries borne a
Latin name. “Colonna” is the ordinary name of the Cape; but it is also
known as Capo di Nau, a name which preserves the Greek word naos
(temple).
I planned for the morrow a visit to this spot, which is best reached by
sea. To-day great breakers were rolling upon the strand, and all the
blue of the bay was dashed with white foam; another night would, I
hoped, bring calm, and then the voyage! Dis aliter visum.
A little fleet of sailing vessels and coasting steamers had taken
refuge within the harbour, which is protected by a great mole. A good
haven; the only one, indeed, between Taranto and Reggio, but it grieves
one to remember that the mighty blocks built into the sea-barrier came
from that fallen temple. We are told that as late as the sixteenth
century the building remained all but perfect, with eight-and-forty
pillars, rising there above the Ionian Sea; a guide to sailors, even as
when AEneas marked it on his storm-tossed galley. Then it was assailed,
cast down, ravaged by a Bishop of Cotrone, one Antonio Lucifero, to
build his episcopal palace. Nearly three hundred years later, after the
terrible earthquake of 1783, Cotrone strengthened her harbour with the
great stones of the temple basement. It was a more legitimate pillage.
Driven inland by the gale, I wandered among low hills which overlook
the town. Their aspect is very strange, for they consist entirely—on
the surface, at all events—of a yellowish-grey mud, dried hard, and as
bare as the high road. A few yellow hawkweeds, a few camomiles, grew in
&nb
sp; hollows here and there; but of grass not a blade. It is easy to make a
model of these Crotonian hills. Shape a solid mound of hard-pressed
sand, and then, from the height of a foot or two, let water trickle
down upon it; the perpendicular ridges and furrows thus formed upon the
miniature hill represent exactly what I saw here on a larger scale.
Moreover, all the face of the ground is minutely cracked and wrinkled;
a square foot includes an incalculable multitude of such meshes.
Evidently this is the work of hot sun on moisture; but when was it
done? For they tell me that it rains very little at Cotrone, and only a
deluge could moisten this iron soil. Here and there I came upon yet
more striking evidence of waterpower; great holes on the hillside,
generally funnel-shaped, and often deep enough to be dangerous to the
careless walker. The hills are round-topped, and parted one from
another by gully or ravine, shaped, one cannot but think, by furious
torrents. A desolate landscape, and scarcely bettered when one turned
to look over the level which spreads north of the town; one discovers
patches of foliage, indeed, the dark perennial verdure of the south;
but no kindly herb clothes the soil. In springtime, it seems, there is
a growth of grass, very brief, but luxuriant. That can only be on the
lower ground; these furrowed heights declare a perpetual sterility.
What has become of the ruins of Croton? This squalid little town of
to-day has nothing left from antiquity. Yet a city bounded with a wall
of twelve miles circumference is not easily swept from the face of the
earth. Bishop Lucifer, wanting stones for his palace, had to go as far
as the Cape Colonna; then, as now, no block of Croton remained. Nearly
two hundred years before Christ the place was forsaken. Rome colonized
it anew, and it recovered an obscure life as a place of embarkation for
Greece, its houses occupying only the rock of the ancient citadel. Were
there at that date any remnants of the great Greek city?—still great
only two centuries before. Did all go to the building of Roman
dwellings and temples and walls, which since have crumbled or been
buried?
We are told that the river AEsarus flowed through the heart of the city
at its prime. I looked over the plain, and yonder, towards the distant
By the Ionian Sea: Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy Page 5
