Oswald went next to the monastery of Bonaventure, built on the ruins of Nero's palace: and where so many crimes had reigned remorselessly, poor friars, tormented by conscientious scruples, doom themselves to fasts and stripes for the least omission of duty. "Our only hope," said one, "is, that when we die, our faults will not have exceeded our penances." Nevil, as he entered, stumbled over a trap, and asked its purpose. "It is through that we are interred," answered one of the youngest, already a prey to the bad air. The natives of the South fear death so much, that it is wondrous to find there these perpetual mementoes: yet nature is often fascinated by what she dreads; and such an intoxication fills the soul exclusively. The antique sarcophagus of a child serves as the fountain of this institution. The boasted palm of Rome is the only tree of its garden; but the monks pay no attention to external objects. Their rigorous discipline allows them no mental liberty; their downcast eyes and stealthy pace show that they have forgotten the use of freewill, and abdicated the government of self--an empire which may well be called a 'heritage of woe!' This retreat, however, acted but feebly on the mind of Oswald. Imagination revolts at so manifest a desire to remind it of death in every possible way. When such remembrancers are unexpected, when nature, and not man, suggests them, the impression is far more salutary. Oswald grew calmer as he strayed through the garden of San Giovanni et Paulo, whose brethren are subjected to exercises less austere. Their dwelling lords over all the ruins of old Rome. What a site for such asylum! The recluse consoles himself for his nothingness, in contemplating the wrecks of ages past away. Oswald walked long beneath the shady trees, so rare in Italy: sometimes they intercepted his view of the city, only to augment the pleasure of his next glimpse at it. All the steeples now sounded the _Ave Maria_-- * * * "squilla de lontano Che paja il giorno pianger, che si muore."--DANTE. "The bell from far mourneth the dying day." The evening prayer serves to mark all time. "I will meet you an hour before, or an hour after Ave Maria," say the Italians, so devoutly are the eras of night and day distinguished. Oswald then enjoyed the spectacle of sunset, as the luminary sank slowly amid ruins, and seemed submitting to decline, even like the works of man. This brought back all his wonted thoughts. The image of Corinne appeared too promising, too hopeful, for such a moment. His soul sought for its father's, in the home of heavenly spirits. This animated the clouds on which he gazed, and lent them the sublime aspect of his immortal friend: he trusted that his prayers at last might call down some beneficent pity, resembling a good father's benediction. CHAPTER II.