By the Ionian Sea: Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy Read online

  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

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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