gave it me. I put it in lime, and then boiled it. Here it is, teeth and
all, in excellent preservation. He was the merriest, cleverest fellow
I ever knew. Wherever he went, he brought joy; and whenever any one was
melancholy, the sight of him was enough to make him cheerful again. He
walked so actively, you might have taken him for a dancer--he joked--he
laughed--oh! he was such a Frate as I never saw before, nor ever shall
again!'

"He told me that he had himself planted all the cypresses in the
cemetery; that he had the greatest attachment to them and to his dead
people; that since 1801 they had buried fifty-three thousand persons.
In showing some older monuments, there was that of a Roman girl of
twenty, with a bust by Bernini. She was a princess Barlorini, dead two
centuries ago: he said that, on opening her grave, they had found her
hair complete, and 'as yellow as gold.' Some of the epitaphs at Ferrar
pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for
instance--

'Martini Lugi
Implora pace!
'Lucrezia Picini
Implora eterna quiete.'


Can any thing be more full of pathos? Those few words say all that can
be said or sought: the dead had had enough of life; all they wanted was
rest, and this they _implore_! There is all the helplessness, and
humble hope, and death-like prayer, that can arise from the
grave--'implora pace'[2] I hope whoever may survive me, and shall see me
put in the foreigners' burying-ground at the Lido, within the fortress