Naples.
The tomb of Virgil is on the mountain of Pausilippo, a little above
the grotto of that name; you ascend to it by a narrow path which runs
through a vineyard; it is overgrown with ivy leaves and shaded with
branches, shrubs, and bushes; an ancient bay-tree, with infinite
propriety, overhangs it. Many a solitary walk have I taken to this place.
The earth, which contains his ashes, we expect to find clothed in the
brightest verdure. Viewed from the magic spot, the objects which adorn
the bay become doubly interesting. The Poet’s verses are here recollected
with additional pleasure; the verses of Virgil are interwoven in our
minds with a thousand interesting ideas, with the memory of our boyish
years, or the sportive scenes of childhood, of our earliest friends
and companions, many of whom are now dead; and those who still live,
and for whom we retain the first impression of affection, are at such a
distance as renders the hopes of seeing them again very uncertain. No
wonder, therefore, when in a contemplative mood, that our steps are often
directed to a spot so well calculated to create and cherish sentiments
congenial with the state of our mind. But then comes an antiquarian, who,
with his odious doubts, disturbs the pleasing source of our enjoyment;
and from the fair and delightful fields of fancy, conveys us in a moment
to a dark, barren, and comfortless desert;—he _doubts_, whether this be
the real place where the ashes of Virgil were deposited; and tells us
an unsatisfactory story about the other side of the bay, and that he is
rather inclined to believe that the Poet was buried somewhere there,
without fixing on any particular spot.
Would to heaven those doubters would keep their minds to themselves, and
not ruffle the tranquillity of believers!
But, after all, why should not this be the real tomb of Virgil? Why
should the enthusiasts, who delight in pilgrimages to this spot, be
deprived of that pleasure? Why should the Poet’s ghost be allowed to
wander along the dreary banks of Styx, till the antiquarians erect a
cenotaph in his honour? Even they acknowledge that he was buried on
this bay, and near Naples; and tradition has fixed on this spot, which,
exclusive of other presumptions, is a much stronger evidence in its
favour than their vague conjectures against it.
In your way to the classic fields of Baia and Cumæ, you pass through
the grotto of Pausilippo, a subterraneous passage through the mountain,
near a mile in length, about twenty feet in breadth, and thirty or
forty in height, every where, except at the two extremities, where it
is much higher. People of fashion generally drive through this passage
with torches, but the country people and foot passengers find their way
without much difficulty by the light which enters at the extremities, and
at two holes pierced through the mountain near the middle of the grotto,
which admit light from above.
Mr. Addison tells us, that the common people of Naples in his time
believed that this passage through the mountain was the work of magic,
and that Virgil was the magician. But this is the age of scepticism; and
the common people, in imitation of people of fashion, begin to harbour
doubts concerning all their old established opinions. A Neapolitan
Valet-de-place asked an English gentleman lately, Whether Signior
Virgilio, of whom he had heard so much, had really, and bona fide, been
a magician or not? “A magician,” replied the Englishman; “ay, that he
was, and a very great magician too.” “And do you,” resumed the Valet,
“believe it was he who pierced this rock?” “As for this particular rock,”
answered the Master, “I will not swear to it from my own knowledge,
because it was done before I was born; but I am ready to make oath, that
I have known him pierce, and even melt, some very obdurate substances.”
Two miles beyond the Grotta di Pausilippe, is a circular lake, about half
a mile in diameter, called Lago d’Agnano; on whose margin is situated
the famous Grotta del Cane, where so many dogs have been tortured and
suffocated, to shew the effect of a vapour which rises about a foot above
the bottom of this little cave, and is destructive of animal life. A dog
having his head held in this vapour, is convulsed in a few minutes, and
soon after falls to the earth motionless. This experiment is repeated
for the amusement of every unfeeling person, who has half a crown in his
pocket, and affects a turn for natural philosophy. The experiment is
commonly made on dogs; because they, of all animals, show the greatest
affection for man, and prefer his company to that of their own species,
or of any other living creature. The fellows who attend at this cave
have always some miserable dogs, with ropes about their necks, ready for
this cruel purpose. If the poor animals were unconscious of what was
to happen, it would be less affecting; but they struggle to get free,
and show every symptom of horror when they are dragged to this cave of
torment. I should have been happy to have taken the effect of the vapour
for granted, without a new trial; but some of the company were of a
more philosophical turn of mind than I have any pretensions to. When
the unhappy animal found all his efforts to escape were ineffectual,
he seemed to plead for mercy by the dumb eloquence of looks, and the
blandishments natural to his species. While he licked the hand of his
keeper, the unrelenting wretch dashed him a blow, and thrust his head
into the murderous vapour.
When the real utility of the knowledge acquired by cruel experiments
on animals (a practice which has been carried to dreadful lengths of
late) is fairly stated, and compared with the exquisiteness of _their_
sufferings, the benefit resulting to mankind from thence will seem too
dearly bought in the eyes of a person of humanity. Humanity! If language
had belonged to other animals besides man, might not they have chosen
that word to express—cruelty? if they had, thank God, they would have
done injustice to many of the human race. I have left the poor dog too
long in the vapour; much longer than he remained in reality. The D—— of
H——, shocked at the fellow’s barbarity, wrested the dog from his hands,
bore him to the open air, and gave him life and liberty; which he seemed
to enjoy with all the bounding rapture of gladness and gratitude. If you
should ever come this way, pray do not insist on seeing the experiment;
it is not worth while; the thing is ascertained; it is beyond a doubt
that this vapour convulses and kills every breathing animal.
You come next to the favourite fields of fancy and poetical fiction. The
Campi Phlegrei, where Jupiter overcame the giants; the solfaterra still
smoking, as if from the effects of his thunder; the Monte Nova, which was
thrown suddenly from the bowels of the earth, as if the sons of Titan had
intended to renew the war; the Monte Barbaro, formerly Mons Gaurus, the
favourite of Bacchus; the grotto of the Cumæan Sibyl; the noxious and
gloomy lakes of Avernus and Acheron; and the green bowers of Elysium.
The town of Puzzoli, and its environs, present such a number of objects,
worthy of the attention of the antiquarian, the natural philosopher,
and the classic scholar, that to describe all with the minuteness they
deserve, would fill volumes.
The Temple of Jupiter Serapis at Puzzoli, is accounted a very interesting
monument of antiquity; being quite different from the Roman and Greek
temples, and built in the manner of the Asiatics, probably by the
Egyptian and Asiatic merchants settled at Puzzoli, which was the great
emporium of Italy, until the Romans built Ostia and Antium.
Sylla having abdicated the Dictatorship, retired, and passed the
remainder of his life in this city.
The ruins of Cicero’s villa, near this city, are of such extent, as to
give a high idea of the wealth of this great orator. Had Fortune always
bestowed her gifts with so much propriety, she never would have been
accused of blindness. When the truly great are blessed with riches, it
affords pleasure to every candid mind. Neither this villa near Puzzoli,
that at Tusculum, nor any of his other country-seats, were the scenes of
idleness or riot. They are distinguished by the names of the works he
composed there; works which have always been the delight of the learned,
and which, still more than the important services he rendered his country
when in office, have contributed to immortalize his name.
The bay between Puzzoli and Baia is about a league in breadth. In
crossing this in a boat, you see the ruins called Ponte di Caligula, from
their being thought the remains of a bridge which Caligula attempted to
build across. They are by others, with more probability, thought to be
the ruins of a mole built with arches. Having passed over this gulph, a
new field of curiosities presents itself. The baths and prisons of Nero,
the tomb of Agrippina, the temples of Venus, of Diana, and of Mercury,
and the ruins of the ancient city of Cumæ; but no vestiges now remain
of many of those magnificent villas which adorned this luxurious coast,
nor even of the town of Baia. The whole of this beauteous bay, formerly
the seat of pleasure, and, at one period, the most populous spot in
Italy, is now very thinly inhabited; and the contrast is still stronger
between the antient opulence and present poverty, than between the
numbers of its antient and present inhabitants. It must be acknowledged,
that we can hardly look around us, in any part of this world, without
perceiving objects which, to a contemplative mind, convey reflections on
the instability of grandeur, and the sad vicissitudes and reverses to
which human affairs are liable; but _here_ those objects are so numerous,
and so striking, that they must make an impression on the most careless
passenger.