heritance,
your immortality. Ye will never be heard of after death.

'My father has given me a hundred and fifty pounds,' said my brother to
me one morning, 'and something which is better--his blessing. I am going
to leave you.'

'And where are you going?'

'Where? to the great city; to London, to be sure.'

'I should like to go with you.'

'Pooh,' said my brother, 'what should you do there? But don't be
discouraged, I daresay a time will come when you too will go to London.'

And, sure enough, so it did, and all but too soon.

'And what do you purpose doing there?' I demanded.

'Oh, I go to improve myself in art, to place myself under some master of
high name, at least I hope to do so eventually. I have, however, a plan
in my head, which I should wish first to execute; indeed, I do not think
I can rest till I have done so; every one talks so much about Italy, and
the wondrous artists which it has produced, and the wondrous pictures
which are to be found there; now I wish to see Italy, or rather Rome, the
great city, for I am told that in a certain room there is contained the
grand miracle of art.'

'And what do you call it?'

'The Transfiguration, painted by one Rafael, and it is said to be the
greatest work of the greatest painter whom the world has ever known. I
suppose it is because everybody says so, that I have such a strange
desire to see it. I have already made myself well acquainted with its
locality, and think that I could almost find my way to it blindfold.
When I have crossed the Tiber, which, as you are aware, runs through
Rome, I must presently turn to the right, up a rather shabby street,
which communicates with a large square, the farther end of which is
entirely occupied by the front of an immense church, with a dome, which
ascends almost to the clouds, and this church they call St. Peter's.'

'Ay, ay,' said I, 'I have read about that in Keysler's Travels.'

'Before the church, in the square, are two fountains, one on either side,
casting up water in showers; between them, in the midst, is an obelisk,
brought from Egypt, and covered with mysterious writing; on your right
rises an edifice, not beautiful nor grand, but huge and bulky, where
lives a strange kind of priest whom men call the Pope, a very horrible
old individual, who would fain keep Christ in leading strings, calls the
Virgin Mary the Queen of Heaven, and himself God's Lieutenant-General
upon earth.'

'Ay, ay,' said I, '