Year: 1874




Charles Warren Stoddard writes to the
San Francisco Chronicle: "The chief
novelty of Naples is the grotto of Posil-
ipo, and the mouth of this grotto is the
tomb of Virgil. The carriage drew up
at a 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. | entered
and found long flight of steps that led
into vineyard full Of grapes and sun
shine-a lovely spot. A narrow path
wound through this Eden, and the grape
harvesters, brown, stalwart fellows, di-
rected me from time TO time, SO that at
ter many turns that brought me deeper
into the dense green grapery, l came at
last to a rock overhanging the mouth of
the grotto, and here | entered an an
cient columbarium, entirely overgrown
with grass A temple on an island
could not be more completely separated
from the turmoil and traffic of the
town. The one chamber, about
fifteen feet square, held many vacant
recesses, which probably once con-
tanned cinerary urns, and in front OF
one of the unglazed windows stood
marble slab erected to the memory Of
the poet and bearing lengthy epitaph,
not quite so long, however, as the Breid.
1t is not surprising that tomb, even
though it shelter the remains of so dis
tinguished parsonage as Virgil, should
have fallen to decay in the course of
nineteen centuries. Many have doubted
that his dust reposes here; yet Petrach,
with the poets easy faith, planted lau'
rel on the roof of the columbarium, which
hourished until its vitals had been CASH
ed by the knives of those who make a
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 filed with desks, and at every desk
a young head bowed over a well.thumbed
and puzzling 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
summer birds. There was 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 silence deeper than be-
fore, 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 apaoe, 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-holiday,
and borne the task masters retributive
stripes2 l did not imagine in those
troublous days that the time would
come when, with uncovered head,
should enter the mausoleum where thy
reverend dust reposes, and there, with a
Hood of tender and half regretful mem
cries rushing upon me, | should honestly |
say, IN the fulness of my heart, 20 Vr-
gil, | forgive you for having sung in
Latin"