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
by the Adriatic, will see those two words, and no more put over me.
I trust they won't think of 'pickling and bringing me home to Clod or
Blunderbuss Hall.' I am sure my bones would not rest in an English
grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. I believe the
thought would drive me mad on my death-bed, could I suppose that any
of my friends would be base enough to convey my carcass back to your
soil.--I would not even feed your worms, if I could help it.

"So, as Shakspeare says of Mowbray, the banished Duke of Norfolk, who
died at Venice, (see Richard II.) that he, after fighting

Against black Pagans, Turks, and Saracens,
And toil'd with works of war, retired himself
To Italy, and there, at _Venice_, gave
His body to that _pleasant_ country's earth,
And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ,
Under whose colours he had fought so long.

"Before I left Venice, I had returned to you your late, and Mr.
Hobhouse's, sheets of Juan. Don't wait for further answers from me, but
address yours to Venice, as usual. I know nothing of my own movements;
I may return there in a few days, or not for some time. All this depends
on circumstances. I left Mr. Hoppner very well. My daughter Allegra was
well too, and is growing pr