es, as the great
bell of the cathedral announces the elevation of the Host. The effect is
astonishing. Riders stop their horses; foot-passengers drop down on the
pavement; the cook lets go her dishes and the writer his pen; the
merchant lays aside his measure and the artisan his tool; the
half-uttered oath (_carajo_!) dies on the lips of the Cholo; the arm of
the cruel Zambo, unmercifully beating his donkey, is paralyzed; and the
smart repartee of the lively donna is cut short. The solemn stillness
lasts for a minute, when the bell tolls again, and all rise to work or
play. Holidays are frequent. Processions led by a crucifix or wooden
image are attractive sights in this dull city, simply because little
else is going on. Occasionally a girl richly dressed to represent the
humble mother of God is drawn about in a carriage, and once a year the
figures of the Virgin belonging to different churches are borne with
much pomp to the Plaza, where they bow to each other like automatons.

"This is a bad country to live in, and a worse one to die in," said Dr.
Jameson. But times have changed, even in fossil Quito. Through the
efforts of our late minister, Hon. W.T. Coggeshall, the bigoted
government has at last consented to inclose a quarter of an acre outside
the city for the subterranean burial of heretics. The cemetery is on the
edge of the beautiful plain of Inaquito, and on the right of the road
leading to Guapolo. "What a shame," said a Quitonian lady of position,
"that there should be a place to throw Protestant dogs!"

On St. Nathaniel's day died Colonel Phineas Staunton, Vice-Chancellor of
Ingham University, New York. An artist by profession, and one of very
high order, Colonel Staunton joined our expedition to sketch the glories
of the Andes, but he fell a victim to the scourge of the lowlands one
week after his arrival in Quito. We buried him at noon-day[33] in the
new cemetery, "wherein was never man laid," and by the act consecrated
the ground. Peace to his ashes; honor to his memory. That 8th of
September, 1867, was a new day in the annals of Quito. On that day the
imperial city beheld, for the first time in three centuries, the decent
burial of a Protestant in a Protestant cemetery. Somewhere, mingled with
the ashes of Pichincha, is the dust of Atahuallpa, who was buried in his
beloved Quito at his own request after his murder in Caxamarca. But
dearer to us is that solitary grave; the earth is yet fresh that covers