the picturesque defiles of Pichincha; on your right the slopes
of Antisana. Close by you, standing between the city and the plain, is a
high white wall inclosing a little plot, like the city above, "four
square." You are reminded by its shape, and also by its position
relative to Quito and Pichincha, of that other sacred inclosure just
outside the walls of Jerusalem and at the foot of Olivet, the Garden of
Gethsemane. This is the Protestant Cemetery.

[Illustration: P. Staunton]

Through the efforts of our late representative--now also numbered with
the dead--this place was assigned by the government for the interment of
foreigners who do not die in the Romish faith. And there we buried our
fellow-traveler, COLONEL PHINEAS STAUNTON, the artist of the expedition,
and Vice-Chancellor of Ingham University, New York. On the 8th of
September, 1867, we bore him through the streets of Quito to this
quiet resting-place, without parade and in solemn silence--just as we
believe his unobtrusive spirit would have desired, and just as his
Savior was carried from the cross to the sepulchre. No splendid hearse
or nodding plumes; no long procession, save the unheard tread of the
angels; no requiem, save the unheard harps of the seraphs. We gave him a
Protestant Christian burial, such as Quito never saw. In this corner of
nature's vast cathedral, the secluded shrine of grandeur and beauty not
found in Westminster Abbey, we left him. We parted with him on the mount
which is to be the scene of his transfiguration.

It would be difficult for an artist to find a grave whose surroundings
are so akin to his feelings. He lies in the lofty lap of the Andes, and
snow-white pinnacles stand around him on every side, just as we imagine
the mountains are around the city of God. We think we hear him saying,
as Fanny Kemble Butler said of another burial-ground: "I will not rise
to trouble any one if they will let me sleep here. I will only ask to be
permitted, once in a while, to raise my head and look out upon this
glorious scene." No dark and dismal fogs gather at evening about that
spot. It lies nearer to heaven than any other Protestant cemetery in the
world. "It is good (says Beecher) to have our mortal remains go upward
for their burial, and catch the earliest sounds of that trumpet which
shall raise the dead." And the day is coming when that precious vein of
gold that now lies in the bosom of the mighty Andes shall leave its
rocky bed and sh