Year: 1874

Charlss Warren S5oddard writes to
the San Francisco Chronicle "The
chief novelty of Naples is the GrottO of
PosilipO, and the mouth of this grOtto


is the tomb Of Virgil. The carriage


drew up at q small door in the solid


rock-out of which the grOtto is hewn.


A ring at this door summoned grimy


fellow from a blacksmith shop, also
hewn out of the rock-the shop, not the


man. I entered, and found long flight


of steps that led into vineyard full of
grapes and sunshIne-a lovely spot. A
narrow path wound through this Eden,
and the grape-harvesters, brown, stall


wart fellows, ssdireoted me from time to
time, so that after many turns that
brought me deeper into the dense green
grapery, [ came at last to q rock over
hanging the mouth of the grotto, and
here | entered an ancient cOlumbarium,
entirely overgrown with grass. A tenn
pie on an island could not be more COM
pletely separated from the turmoil and
traffic of the town. The one chamber,
about fifteen feet square, held many va
cant recesses which probably once con-
tanned cinerary urns, and in front of
one of the unglazed windows stood q
marble slab erected to the memory of
the poet and bearing n lengthy epitaph,
not quite so long, however, as the
Haeid. It is not surprising that a
tomb, even though it shelter the remains
of SO distinguished a parsonage as
Virgil, should have fallen to decay in
the course of nineteen centuries. Many
have doubted that his dust reposes
here yet Petrarch, with the poets easy
faith, planted a laurel on the roof Of
the coIumbarium, which f1ourished I'M
til it's vitals had been gashed by the
knives of those who make practice of
robbing every shrine they visit, While
| stood in that secluded spot, flooded
with green and amber light that sifted
through the vine-screens at the windows,
Thought of long gothic hall filled with
desks, and at every desk young head
bowed over a well-thumbed and puz-
zling text book. The green and amber
light of the summers afternoon stole in
there also, and through the half-open
windows was heard the chant of sum-
mer birds. There was a busy silence in
that last half-hOur of school, and after
it came the hour of deliverance, the
tramp of triumphant feet, and the shout
of Joy into which entered all the sup
pressed physical vitality of the day.
Then there was a silence deeper than
before, while the light faded from green
to brown and from amber to gray. At
the far end of the hall sat him who was
at once tutor and tormentor, under
whose rule we grew apacc, but grOaned
the while we grew. All many an hour,
when my heart was elsewhere, have my
eyes sought the fascinating pages of him
who sang of wars and hero in tongue
that then seemed to me a mistake.
Through all these centuries his enchant-
ing verse has caused the youthful heart
to quicken and to quake. The chant
that came to us before the gospels yet
is still as fresh and clear as the lark's
first song in spring. What have we not
to thank thee for, o Virgil though for
thy sake we have lost many half. holi-
dav, and borne the task-master's retri-
butive stripes? I did not imagine in
those troubulous days that the time
would come when, with uncovered head,
I should enter the mausoleum where thy
reverend dust reposes, and there, with
a flood of tender and half regretfuI
memories rushing upon me, l should
honestly say, in the fulness of my heart,
20 Virgil, 1 forgive you for having sung
in Latin "