illed up again, and all traces of them have
disappeared. Only one sepulchre now remains open in the Necropolis,
half way up the slope of a mound called the _Poggio Reale_. It is
commonly known as "The Painted Tomb," or _La Grotta Campana_--after
its discoverer, the Marchese Campana of Rome--who got permission
forty-five years ago from the Queen of Sardinia, to whom the property
then belonged, to dig in this locality for jewels and other relics of
antiquity. Instead of closing the tomb, as was done in the other
cases, this accomplished antiquarian, with the good taste for which he
was distinguished, left it in the exact condition in which he had
found it, so that it might be an object of interest to future
visitors. Ascending the slope, we entered a long narrow passage about
six feet wide and about fourteen feet deep cut through the tufa rock.
This was the original entrance to the tomb; and the discoverer had
cleared it out by removing the earth that had accumulated in the
course of ages. A solitary crouching lion, carved in a species of
volcanic stone, guarded the entrance of the passage. Its companion had
been removed some distance, and lay neglected on the slope of the
hill. The sculpture is exceedingly uncouth and primitive. At the inner
end of the passage a couple of similar lions crouch, one on each side
of the door of the tomb. They were placed there in all likelihood as
symbols of avenging wrath to inspire fear, and thus prevent the
desecration of the dead. Originally the tomb was closed by a great
slab of volcanic stone: but this having been broken to pieces and
carried away to build the first sheepfold or the nearest peasant's
hut, it has been replaced by an iron gate. The walls around were damp
and covered with moss and weeds, and the bars of the gate were rusty.
Our guide applied the key he had brought with him, and the gate opened
with a creaking sound. Lighting a candle, he preceded us into the
tomb. I cannot describe the strange mixture of feelings which took
possession of me,--wonder, curiosity, and awe. This was my first visit
to an Etruscan tomb. In Rome I had been familiar with the monuments
of a remote past; I had gazed with interest upon objects over which
twenty centuries had passed. But here I was to behold one of the
mysterious relics of the world's childhood. I had previously read with
deep interest the graphic account of this tomb, which Mr. Dennis gives
in his _Cities and Cemeteries of Etruria_,