last." He inquired the ages of my children, and said "In five or six years they will be old enough to visit Italy, and then I trust you will return to Rome, but"-and his voice changed" you will not find me here: I am too old to hope for it." When I left the library, he insisted on accompanying me through the long suite of rooms to the last, in which was his secretary-and gave me his parting blessing, with the wish, "that I might have a pleasant journey to Naples." When half way across the apartment, I heard his voice, and turning round, saw him still standing in the threshold, stretching out his hands to me, and adding to his last sentence“and a pleasant voyage home afterwards.”

In the narrow compass of this chapter, I can give but a few of the points on which he touched in our long conversation-matters of faith relating to his Church-information about the Propaganda, Cardinals Weld and Acton, and Bishop Wiseman-inquiries about the attention to Greek and Latin in our colleges and questions about the progress of his Church in America. Still less can I give any idea on paper, of the simplicity and kindness of manner which so much charmed me, in one whose reputation is unequalled in the world, and who seems so little affected by the princely dignity of the Cardinal with which he has been invested. We parted, never probably to see each other again in this world, yet long shall I remember the old Cardinal's friendly smile, and I trust we may meet again in that better land where all differences are forgotten, and our Father welcomes as His children all those who loved Him in sincerity and truth, while toiling onward through the shadows of this lower life.

THE PROTESTANT BURIAL GROUND.

CHAPTER XVI.

THERE are few spots in Rome which the stranger will naturally visit with so much interest as the Protestant Burial Ground. At a distance from his own home, he knows not but that the hand of death may here arrest him, and should this be the case, within these walls he must find his restingplace. But wherever he might wander through the wide world, he could not find a more lovely spot in which to lie down for his long, last sleep.

We rode out to it on one of those bright and balmy days which in an Italian atmosphere remind us of the first warm days of our own Spring. Just by the Porta San Paolo rises a lofty pyramid, one hundred and twenty feet in height, built of slabs of white Carrara marble, but now perfectly black with age. It is the noble sepulchre of Caius Cestius, erected in accordance with the directions of his will in the age of Augustus. It is of solid masonry, except the little chamber within, which once contained his sarcophagus. There was nothing about it which the hand of violence could riflenothing to tempt cupidity-no statues or carvings which could be removed to the Museums-and therefore it has been permitted to remain uninjured. Its very form-adopted by the ancients in imitation of the flames that rose from the funeral pyres-was well calculated to resist the influence of the weather. In the days of Aurelian it was built into the city walls, to prevent its being used as a fortress by any

attacking enemy, and this aided in securing its preservation. Except therefore in the change of color, and in the ivy which has trailed around it, and forced its roots into the crevices of the stones, it is but little altered from what it appeared eighteen centuries ago. Beneath it is the burial ground on the slope of the hill, looking towards "the Eternal City," and in the direction of the East, so that the sun's first rays rest upon it, and there they spread their warmth, till the dreariness of winter is unknown on this hallowed spot. There are a hundred graves scattered among the trees, and the huge pyramid towers over them as if in mockery of the humble monuments on which it looks down.

In the very atmosphere of Rome there is something which induces pensiveness. It is a characteristic indeed of these southern climes. The calmness of the air is unbroken by the lightest zephyr-the blades of grass are motionless— the leaves rustle not--and there seems to be a deep sleep resting on every thing. You are insensibly led to musing, and we felt this influence when we stood in silence among these graves. At a distance we saw those grand and solemn ruins which centuries had bequeathed to us, while around were the monuments of those who were ali gathered from other lands, not one of whom but was mingling his dust with the soil of a country which was not his. We read the inscriptions, and they appealed to us in our language, through its medium claiming with us a nearer brotherhood than with the strangers who dwelt around. And even the tomb of Cestius, that old majestic pile, has something also in common with the sleepers there. "It is itself" says Rogers" a stranger. It has stood there till the language spoken about it has changed; and the shepherd born at its foot, can read its inscription no longer."

There are two enclosures for this cemetery. We entered the first, and were struck at once with its air of romantic beauty. It is formed in terraces which mount up, one above