View of the coast of Posilipo.--Virgil’s tomb.--Superstition of the
Neapolitans with respect to Virgil.--Aërial situation.--A grand
scene.
November 6th, 1780.
Till to-day we have had nothing but rains; the sea covered with mists,
and Caprea invisible. Would you believe it? I have not yet been able to
mount to St. Elmo and the Capo di Monte, in order to take a general view
of the town.
At length a bright gleam of sunshine summoned me to the broad terrace of
Chiaja, which commands the whole coast of Posilipo. Insensibly I drew
towards it, and (you know the pace I run when out upon discoveries) soon
reached the entrance of the grotto, which lay in dark shades, whilst the
crags that lower over it were brightly illumined. Shrubs and vines grow
luxuriantly in the crevices of the rock; and its fresh yellow colours,
variegated with ivy, have a beautiful effect. To the right, a grove of
pines spring from the highest pinnacles: on the left, bay and chesnut
conceal the tomb of Virgil placed on the summit of a cliff which impends
over the opening of the grotto, and is fringed with vegetation. Beneath
are several wide apertures hollowed in the solid stone, which lead to
caverns sixty or seventy feet in depth, where a number of peasants, who
were employed in quarrying, made a strange but not absolutely
unharmonious din with their tools and their voices.
Walking out of the sunshine, I seated myself on a loose stone
immediately beneath the first gloomy arch of the grotto, and looking
down the long and solemn perspective terminated by a speck of gray
uncertain light, venerated a work which some old chroniclers have
imagined as ancient as the Trojan war. It was here the mysterious race
of the Cimmerians performed their infernal rites, and it was this
excavation perhaps which led to their abode.
The Neapolitans attribute a more modern, though full as problematical an
origin to their famous cavern, and most piously believe it to have been
formed by the enchantments of Virgil, who, as Addison very justly
observes, is better known at Naples in his magical character than as
the author of the Æneid. This strange infatuation most probably arose
from the vicinity of the tomb in which his ashes are supposed to have
been deposited; and which, according to popular tradition, was guarded
by those very spirits who assisted in constructing the cave. But
whatever may have given rise to these ideas, certain it is they were not
confined to the lower ranks alone. King Robert,[9] a wise though far
from poetical monarch, conducted his friend Petrarch with great
solemnity to the spot; and, pointing to the entrance of the grotto, very
gravely asked him, whether he did not adopt the general belief, and
conclude this stupendous passage derived its origin from Virgil’s
powerful incantations? The answer, I think, may easily be conjectured.
When I had sat for some time, contemplating this dusky avenue, and
trying to persuade myself that it was hewn by the Cimmerians, I
retreated without proceeding any farther, and followed a narrow path
which led me, after some windings and turnings, along the brink of the
precipice, across a vineyard, to that retired nook of the rocks which
shelters Virgil’s tomb, most venerably mossed over and more than half
concealed by bushes and vegetation. The clown who conducted me remained
aloof at awful distance, whilst I sat commercing with the manes of my
beloved poet, or straggled about the shrubbery which hangs directly
above the mouth of the grot.
Advancing to the edge of the rock, I saw crowds of people and carriages,
diminished by distance, issuing from the bosom of the mountain and
disappearing almost as soon as discovered in the windings of its road.
Clambering high above the cavern, I hazarded my neck on the top of one
of the pines, and looked contemptuously down on the race of pigmies that
were so busily moving to and fro. The sun was fiercer than I could have
wished, but the sea-breezes fanned me in my aërial situation, which
commanded the grand sweep of the bay, varied by convents, palaces, and
gardens mixed with huge masses of rock and crowned by the stately
buildings of the Carthusians and fortress of St. Elmo. Add a glittering
blue sea to this perspective, with Caprea rising from its bosom and
Vesuvius breathing forth a white column of smoke into the æther, and you
will then have a scene upon which I gazed with delight, for more than
an hour, almost forgetting that I was perched upon the head of a pine
with nothing but a frail branch to uphold me. However, I descended
alive, as Virgil’s genii, I am resolved to believe, were my protectors.