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.
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