"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 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.
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