may be, that the souls of the departed
mourn over the neglect and abandonment of their earthly remains, _as
the first step toward forgetfulness of their memory._ To me, the
grave of a friend possesses an attraction, which, although tinged with
deepest sadness, is wholly distinct from the horror with which the
imagination so often invests it. My heart yearns to look upon the last
resting-place of those I have loved.

I would shelter those sacred spots from the beating rain, screen them
from the wintry winds, plant around them the flowers that were once
preferred by their unconscious tenants, and inscribe over the entrance
of every cemetery the beautiful line of Koerner's

"Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht!"
"Forget not the faithful dead!"

It was in this spirit that, one day during my recent visit to Paris,
I escaped from the busy idleness of that gay and ever-bustling city,
to make a pilgrimage to the tomb of one whose surpassing qualities
of mind, and heart, and person, had endeared her to all who knew
her--whose brilliant career had been closed with awful suddenness--and
whose lamented death has left a void in the circle over which she
presided with such graceful urbanity, which no other can hope to
fill. By a strange coincidence, it was precisely on that day, the year
before, that she had paid me her farewell visit in London; little did
either of us then foresee how and where that visit would be returned
by me! The regret of parting was then softened by our mutual
conviction that many meetings were in store for us in the new home she
had chosen for herself in a foreign land. Alas! before many weeks had
elapsed she was suddenly summoned to her eternal home! In the midst of
health, and hope, and enjoyment, Death insidiously laid his icy grasp
upon her; but so gently was the blow dealt, that neither sigh nor
struggle marked her passage from life to immortality; and before her
stunned friends could bring themselves to believe that her warm heart
had indeed grown cold, the vaults of the Madeleine had received all
that was left on earth of the once beautiful and gifted Marguerite
Blessington.

But not to remain there. A tomb was constructed for her, far from
the crowded cemeteries of the capital, in a spot which she herself
would have selected, could her wishes have been consulted. On
the confines of the quiet village of Chambourey, a league beyond
St. Germain-en-Laye, a green eminence, crowned with luxuriant
che