OBITUARY.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE SENHORA DONNA LUIZA MENDONÇA DE BRITO CARVALHO.
“Rosa d’amor, rosa purpurea e bella,
Quem entre os goivos te esfolhon da campa.”
“Those are the words of the immortal Garrett.” And he continued, in slow and lugubrious accents:
“An angel has ascended to heaven,—a flower that bloomed on earth till the storm-wind of death swept her with relentless fury to the tomb.”
He glanced at Julião as if soliciting his admiration, but seeing him occupied in stirring his coffee, he continued, with a still more lugubrious intonation:—
“Pause, and cast a glance on this cold earth. Here lies the chaste wife torn from the arms of the intelligent husband! Here lies, stranded like a vessel on a rock-bound coast, the virtuous lady who, from the amiability of her nature, was the delight of all who enjoyed the honor of gathering around her hearth! Why do you sigh?”
“A cup of coffee, Antonio!” called out gruffly a stout man in a jacket, who had just entered and seated himself at a table, laying his cane noisily on the marble.
The counsellor gave him a vindictive glance from under his brows, and lowering his voice, continued: