This Was The
Mons Moscius Of Old Time, Which Sheltered The Monastery Built By
Cassiodorus.
The headlong, swollen flood, coloured like yellow clay,
held little resemblance to the picture I had made of that river
Pellena which murmurs so musically in the old writer's pages.
Its
valley was heaped with great blocks of granite - a feature which
has interest for the geologist; it marks an abrupt change of system,
from the soft stone of Catanzaro (which ends the Apennine) to the
granitic mass of Aspromonte (the toe of Italy) which must have risen
above the waters long before the Apennines came into existence. The
wild weather emphasized a natural difference between this valley of
Squillace and that which rises towards Catanzaro; here is but scanty
vegetation, little more than thin orchards of olive, and the
landscape has a bare, harsh character. Is it changed so greatly
since the sixth century of our era? Or did its beauty lie in the
eyes of Cassiodorus, who throughout his long life of statesmanship
in the north never forgot this Bruttian home, and who sought peace
at last amid the scenes of his childhood?
At windings of the way I frequently caught sight of Squillace
itself, high and far, its white houses dull-gleaming against the
lurid sky. The crag on which it stands is higher than that of
Catanzaro, but of softer ascent. As we approached I sought for signs
of a road that would lead us upward, but nothing of the sort could
be discerned; presently I became aware that we were turning into a
side valley, and, to all appearances, going quite away from the
town.
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