OR,

WEEKLY

THE

VISITOR.

CONCLUSION.

The two French travellers could not read the melancholy. history of Eugenio and Virginia without emotion;at various passages they had shed the tears of pity over those un fortunate lovers, but Eugenio particularly excited their most ardent compassion, He had axperienced the misery f surviving the lovely object of his affection. Each successiv d was a renewal of his sorrows every hour, every minut. left in his soul the traces of their slow and tardy course, by bringing with them the fatal remembrance of his unparalleled sufferings. The travellers recollected the expression of profound melancholy which distinguished his whole figure and deportment, and they felt an augmentation of that interest he had at first inspired.

[NO. 20.

private affairs forced them to seperate; but whenever they met, they discoursed concern. ing Eugenio, shed tears of compassion over his sad destiny, and read together different passages of his manuscript.

Two years after one of the travellers was in the garden of the Thuilleries, when he met his companion walking with a pensive air on the Terrace des Feuillans.

"I am extremely happy to see you here," said the latter; "I was intending to call at your house, to inform you that in eight days I shall return to Italy."

"I will accompany you," answered the other with eagerness; "I confess to you that, on this occasion, the pursuit of natural history will not be the object of my journey. The desire of knowing what has become of Father Carlo, or rather of the interesting Eugenio, induces me to undertake it."

"It is precisely for the same reason," said his companion, "that I have determined to depart. I can no longer resist the desire I have to see that unfortunate man, and to contemplate in his company the environs of the Abbey of San Cipriano."

"We ore both then resolved upon the journey," repeated the two friends. They seperated after having fixed a day for their departure.

They directly repaired to Urbino. It was their intention to proceed on foot by the same road Eugenio had formerly passed, in order to arrive beneath the walls of the Convent of Cipriano on the night, when he hoped to fly with Virginia from the Convent.

It was about an hour after sunset-twilight had already concealed under its vague and fleeting shades and the rich luxuriant country which had extended itself to the sight of our travellers, when they ar rived at the door at the foot of the rocks, where Eugenio had passed such afflicting moments. They stopped to regard it in silence, impressed with that melancholly respect ever inspired by the contemplation of

objects which recal the re

membrance of

membrance of an unfortunate friend. It was there Eugenio had experienced such dreadful sufferings-it was there Virginia had forever abandoned herself to despair!-Plunged in reveries that did honour to their feelings, the two travellers were unable to quit the sad scene. To the murmur of the wind which agitated the foliage of the cypress-trees that surrounded them, their attentive imagination joined the soulrending sighs of Eugenio.

They remained rivetted to the spot above an hour, and were only induced to quit it by the desire of again meeting the man whose calamities had so highly rested their feelin this consideration a lone urged them to leave the walls of the Convent of San. Cipriano.

Directed by the pale light of the moon, which had just risen, the two travellers took the road that led to the monastery of Celestins, the lofty turrets of which they perceived thro the trees. They proceeded along various paths which, at every turning, presented new and enchanting objects of rural beauty; they stopped to admire them, to breathe the balsamic:

Deeply affected at the scene, they communicated their mu. tual sensations to each other, when suddenly their cars were assailed with the mournful chants of a funeral- procession, which were repeated by the surrounding e hoes. The two

friends, surprised at what they heard, redoubled their steps in order to get out of the valley into which they had descended. They had already attained an elevated spot, from which they could discover the adjacent plains; but the funeral chants had ceased, and the silence that succeeded them was only interrupted by the mournful toll of the Abbey beil. They soon descried a prodigious number of lights through a part of the foliage.

'It is a procession,' said one of the travellers.

"No," replied the other, "they never perform those religious rites at solate an hour."

Scarce had they reached the avenue of poplars leading to

the Monastery of Celestins, than they distinguished a long train of Monks b aring lighted apers? they proceeded with slow and solemn steps, and sang their fun ral hymns. Their robes of dazzling white -the regularity of the procession-the monotonous sound of the Abbey bell, which the direction of the wind rendered clear and distinct-in short, the whole scene imparted an impression of melancholy, the effects of which the travellers were unable to res st.

stopped from an

They

pect, uncertainpulse of res

whether they should remain where they were, or should join in the mournful train.

They proceeded along the side of the rocks, and determined to adopt the latter course; they hastened by a short turning, and soon found themselves in the middle of the road, by which the procession must necessarily pass. They distinguished a superb cataleito, borne by four men clad in white, on which a man was laid, with his fac uncovered, his hands crossed on his breast, and holding a chaplet of flowers. Behind thecataletto walked a venerable old Monk; his bald head here and there scatter. ed with a' few hairs of silvered

whiteness, and the profound grief imprinted on his coun tenance, inspired respect and compassion. He rested upon the arms of two other Monks, and appeared scarce able to support himself.

The travellers, after having eagerly sought Father Carlo among the Celestins who form. ed the procession, without being able to find him, enquired of one of them in a low voice, whether he remained behind in

the monastery.

"They are the morial remains of father Carlo," answered the Monk, in sorrowful

accents, we are now accompanying to the silent tomb. Father Genaro, whom you bebold there," added he, pointing to the venerable old man they had already remarked, "the depositary of his last will executes it by burving the body of his virtuous friend in a vault, where already reposes that of a Nun of San Cipriano.'

The travelers, extremely affected at what they heard, could not restrain their tears; they followed the procession, which entered a vault, but by a path opposite to that which led to the Grotto.

which enlightened the walls of this gloomy receptacle-the echoes of the steps of those who carried them-their solemn hymns, rendered still mere sonorous by the vaulted roofs, which reverberated every note, excited in the soul an impression of awe and sacred

terror, which the most insensible must in vain have attempt-. ed to resist.

Arrived at the tomb of Vir

ginia, the Monks knelt down while the cataletto was placed in the midst of them. The travellers then distinguished the features of Eugenio; he appeared like one in a profound sleep, his countenance was expressive of a celestial tranquility, and a sweet smile beamed upon his lips. Father Genaro advanced in silence, and for some minutes contem

plated his unfortunate friend : then covering with an eternal veil that face he had so often seen imprinted with grief and despair, he gave full vent to his sorrow, and retired, while the haly Monks deposited his inanimate corpse in the tomb of Virginia.

Seeking, at last, the kind assuasive rest,