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