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.
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