Those men who exist thus, are nevertheless the same to whom war and all its bustle would scarcely suffice if they had been brought up to it.

The different combinations of human destiny upon earth afford an inexhaustible source of reflection.  A thousand accidents pass, and a thousand habits are formed in the interior of the soul, which make every individual a world and the subject of a history.  To know another perfectly, would be the task of a whole life; what is it then that we understand by knowing men?  To govern them is practicable by human wisdom, but to comprehend them belongs to God alone.

From the Carthusian monastery Oswald repaired to that of St Bonaventure, built upon the ruins of the palace of Nero; there, where so many crimes have been committed without remorse, poor monks, tormented by scruples of conscience, impose upon themselves the most cruel punishment for the slightest fault. “Our only hope,” said one of these devotees, “is that at the hour of death our sins will not have exceeded our penances.”  Lord Nelville, as he entered this monastery struck his foot against a trap, and asking the use of it—­“It leads to our place of interment;” said one of the young monks, who was already struck with the malady caused by the malaria.  The inhabitants of the south being very much afraid of death, we are astonished to find institutions in Italy which fix the ideas upon this point; but it is natural to be fond of thoughts that inspire us with dread.  There is, as it were, an intoxication of sadness, which does good to the soul by occupying it entirely.

An ancient Sarcophagus of a young child serves for the fountain to this convent.  The beautiful Palm-tree of which Rome boasts, is the only tree of any sort in the garden of these monks; but they pay no attention to external objects.  Their discipline is too rigorous to allow any kind of latitude to the mind.  Their looks are cast down, their gait is slow, they make no use of their will.  They have abdicated the government of themselves, so fatiguing is this empire to its sad possessor.  This day, however, did not produce much emotion in the soul of Oswald; the imagination revolts at death, presented under all its various forms in a manner so manifestly intentional.  When we unexpectedly meet this memento mori, when it is nature and not man that speaks to our soul, the impression we receive is much deeper.

Oswald felt the most calm and gentle sensations when, at sunset, he entered the garden of San Giovanni e Paolo.  The monks of this monastery are subjected to a much less rigid discipline, and their garden commands a view of all the ruins of ancient Rome.  From this spot is seen the Coliseum, the Forum, and all the triumphal arches, the obelisks, and the pillars which remain standing.  What a fine situation for such an asylum!  The secluded monks are consoled for their own nothingness, in contemplating the monuments raised by those who are no more.  Oswald strolled for a long time beneath the umbrageous walks of this garden, whose beautiful trees sometimes interrupt for a moment the view of Rome, only to redouble the emotion which is felt on beholding it again.  It was that hour of the evening, when all the bells in Rome are heard chiming the Ave Maria.