This noble relic
stands about 85 centimetres in height and measures some 215 centimetres
in circumference; it was never completed, as can be seen by the rim,
which is still partially in the rough. A similar vessel is figured, I
believe, in Tischbein.
The small villa-settlement on this promontory is deserted owing to lack
of water, every drop of which has to be brought hither by sea from
Cotrone. One wonders why they have not thought of building a cistern to
catch the winter rains, if there are any; for a respectable stone crops
up at this end of the peninsula.
One often wonders at things. . . .
The column has been underpinned and strengthened by a foundation of
cement; rains of centuries had begun to threaten its base, and there was
some risk of a catastrophe. Near at hand are a few ancient walls of
reticulated masonry in strangely leaning attitudes, peopled by black
goats; on the ground I picked up some chips of amphorse and vases, as
well as a fragment of the limb of a marble statue. The site of this
pillar, fronting the waves, is impressively forlorn. And it was rather
thoughtful, after all, of the despoiling Bishop Lucifero to leave two of
the forty-eight columns standing upright on the spot, as a sample of the
local Doric style. One has fallen to earth since his day. Nobody would
have complained at the time, if he had stolen all of them, instead of
only forty-six. I took a picture of the survivor; then wandered a little
apart, in the direction of the shore, and soon found myself in a
solitude of burning stones, a miniature Sahara.
The temple has vanished, together with the sacred grove that once
embowered it; the island of Calypso, where Swinburne took his ease (if
such it was), has sunk into the purple realms of Glaucus; the corals and
sea-beasts that writhed among its crevices are en-gulphed under mounds
of submarine sand. There was life, once, at this promontory. Argosies
touched here, leaving priceless gifts; fountains flowed, and cornfields
waved in the genial sunshine. Doubtless there will be life again; earth
and sea are only waiting for the enchanter's wand.
All now lies bare, swooning in summer stagnation.
Calabria is not a land to traverse alone. It is too wistful and
stricken; too deficient in those externals that conduce to comfort. Its
charms do not appeal to the eye of romance, and the man who would
perambulate Magna Graecia as he does the Alps would soon regret his
choice. One needs something of that "human element" which delighted the
genteel photographer of Morano - comrades, in short; if only those sages,
like old Noia Molisi, who have fallen under the spell of its ancient
glories. The joys of Calabria are not to be bought, like those of
Switzerland, for gold.
