| For two or three days a
roaring north wind whitened the sea with foam; it
kept the sky clear, and from morning to night there
was magnificent sunshine, but, none the less, one
suffered a good deal from cold. The streets were
barer than ever; only in the old town, where high,
close walls afforded a good deal of shelter, was
there a semblance of active life. But even here
most of the shops seemed to have little, if any,
business; frequently I saw the tradesman asleep
in a chair, at any hour of daylight. Indeed, it
must be very difficult to make the day pass at Taranto.
I noticed that, as one goes southward in Italy,
the later do ordinary people dine; appetite comes
slowly in this climate. Between colazione
at midday and pranzo at eight, or even half-past,
what an abysm of time! Of course, the Tarantine
never reads; the only bookshop I could discover
made a poorer display than even that at Cosenza
-- it was not truly a bookseller's at all, but a
fancy stationer's. How the women spend their lives
one may vainly conjecture. Only on Sunday did I
see a few of them about the street; they walked
to and from Mass, with eyes on the ground, and all
the better-dressed of them wore black.
When the weather fell calm again, and there was
pleasure in walking, I chanced upon a trace of the
old civilization which interested me more than objects
ranged in a museum. Rambling eastward along the
outer shore, in the wilderness which begins as soon
as the town has disappeared, I came to a spot as
uninviting as could be imagined, great mounds of
dry rubbish, evidently deposited here by the dust-carts
of Taranto; luckily, I continued my walk beyond
this obstacle, and after a while became aware that
I had entered upon a road -- a short piece of well-marked
road, which began and ended in the mere waste. A
moment's examination, and I saw that it was no modern
by-way. The track was clean-cut in living rock,
its smooth, hard surface lined with two parallel
ruts nearly a foot deep; it extended for some twenty
yards without a break, and further on I discovered
less perfect bits. Here, manifestly, was the seaside
approach to Tarentum, to Taras, perhaps to the Phoenician
city which came before them. Ages must have passed
since vehicles used this way; the modern high road
is at some distance inland, and one sees at a glance
that this witness of ancient traffic has remained
by Time's sufferance in a desert region. Wonderful
was the preservation of the surface: the angles
at the sides, where the road had been cut down a
little below the rock-level, were sharp and clean
as if carved yesterday, and the profound ruts, worn,
perhaps, before Rome had come to her power, showed
the grinding of wheels with strange distinctness.
From this point there is an admirable view of Taranto,
the sea, and the mountains behind.
Of the ancient town there remains hardly anything
worthy of being called a ruin. Near the shore, however,
one can see a few remnants of a theatre -- perhaps
that theatre where the Tarentines were sitting when
they saw Roman galleys, in scorn of treaty, sailing
up the Gulf.
My last evenings were brightened by very beautiful
sunsets; one in particular remains with me; I watched
it for an hour or more from the terrace-road of
the island town. An exquisite after-glow seemed
as if it would never pass away. Above thin, grey
clouds stretching along the horizon a purple flush
melted insensibly into the dark blue of the zenith.
Eastward the sky was piled with lurid rack, sullen-tinted
folds edged with the hue of sulphur. The sea had
a strange aspect, curved tracts of pale blue lying
motionless upon a dark expanse rippled by the wind.
Below me, as I leaned on the sea-wall, a fisherman's
boat crept duskily along the rocks, a splash of
oars soft-sounding in the stillness. I looked to
the far Calabrian hills, now scarce distinguishable
from horizon cloud, and wondered what chances might
await me in the unknown scenes of my further travel.
The long shore of the Ionian Sea suggested many
a halting-place. Best of all, I should have liked
to swing a wallet on my shoulder and make the whole
journey on foot; but this for many reasons was impossible.
I could only mark points of the railway where some
sort of food or lodging might be hoped for, and
the first of these stoppages was Metaponto.
Official time-bills of the month marked a train
for Metaponto at 4.56 A.M., and this I decided to
take, as it seemed probable that I might find a
stay of some hours sufficient, and so be able to
resume my journey before night. I asked the waiter
to call me at a quarter to four. In the middle of
the night (as it seemed to me) I was aroused by
a knocking, and the waiter's voice called to me
that, if I wished to leave early for Metaponto,
I had better get up at once, as the departure of
the train had been changed to 4.15 -- it was now
half-past three. There ensued an argument, sustained,
on my side, rather by the desire to stay in bed
this cold morning than by any faith in the reasonableness
of the railway company. There must be a mistake!
The orario for the month gave 4.56, and how
could the time of a train be changed without public
notice? Changed it was, insisted the waiter; it
had happened a few days ago, and they had only heard
of it at the hotel this very morning. Angry and
uncomfortable, I got my clothes on, and drove to
the station, where I found that a sudden change
in the time-table, without any regard for persons
relying upon the official guide, was taken as a
matter of course. In chilly darkness I bade farewell
to Taranto.
At a little after six, when palest dawn was shimmering
on the sea, I found myself at Metaponto, with no
possibility of doing anything for a couple of hours.
Metaponto is a railway station, that and nothing
more, and, as a station also calls itself a hotel,
I straightway asked for a room, and there dozed
until sunshine improved my humour and stirred my
appetite. The guidebook had assured me of two things:
that a vehicle could be had here for surveying the
district, and that, under cover 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 Græcia.
"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 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 Græcia 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.
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