A Gkave on the Andes. 335 



the streets of Quito to this quiet resting-place, without pa- 

 rade and in solemn silence — just as we believe his unob- 

 trusive 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 mount- 

 ains 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. 1 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 Prot- 

 estant 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 shine in seven-fold 

 purity. Indeed, the artist is already in that higher studio 

 amojig the mountains of Beulah. 



A simple sculptured obelisk of sorrow stands over the 

 dust of Colonel Staunton : his most fitting monument is 

 his own life-work. He was the very painter Humboldt 



