so purely saintly, that his image will remain with me always.

How futile, how miserable, appears to me my scepticism in presence of
that immense power of faith that, stronger even than love, triumphs
over death at the very moment when it extinguishes life. After having
received the last sacraments, a great tenderness took possession of
him. He grasped my hand strongly, almost convulsively, and did not let
it go again, as if through me he wanted to hold fast to life. And yet
it was neither fear nor despair that moved him, he was not in the
least afraid. Presently I saw the eyes riveted upon my face grow dim
and fixed, his forehead became moist, as if covered by a gentle dew;
he opened his mouth several times as if to catch his breath,--sighed
deeply once more,--and died.

I was not present at the embalming of the body,--I had not the
strength; but after that I did not leave the dear remains for a
minute, out of fear they might treat him as a thing of no consequence.
How truly awful are those last rites of death,--the whole funereal
paraphernalia, the candles, the misericordia, with the covered faces
of the singers. It still clings to my ears, the "Anima ejus," and
"Requiem aeternam." There breathes from it all the gloomy, awful
spirit of Death. We carried the remains to Santa Maria Maggiore, and
there I looked for the last time at the dear, grand face. The Campo
Santo looks already like a green isle. Spring is very early this
year. The trees are in bloom and the white marble monuments bathed in
sunshine. What an awful contrast, the young, nascent life, the budding
trees, the birds in full song,--and a funeral. Crowds of people filled
the cemetery, for my father was known for his benevolence in Rome as
much as my aunt is at Warsaw. All these people so full of life, as
if reflecting the joys of spring, jarred upon my feelings. Crowds,