is latest honour of the world!
Beloved Raymond! He is gone to the nations of the dead; he has become one
of those, who render the dark abode of the obscure grave illustrious by
dwelling there. He has journied on the road that leads to it, and joined
the mighty of soul who went before him. When the world was in its infancy
death must have been terrible, and man left his friends and kindred to
dwell, a solitary stranger, in an unknown country. But now, he who dies
finds many companions gone before to prepare for his reception. The great
of past ages people it, the exalted hero of our own days is counted among
its inhabitants, while life becomes doubly 'the desart and the solitude.'

"What a noble creature was Raymond, the first among the men of our time. By
the grandeur of his conceptions, the graceful daring of his actions, by his
wit and beauty, he won and ruled the minds of all. Of one only fault he
might have been accused; but his death has cancelled that. I have heard him
called inconstant of purpose--when he deserted, for the sake of love, the
hope of sovereignty, and when he abdicated the protectorship of England,
men blamed his infirmity of purpose. Now his death has crowned his life,
and to the end of time it will be remembered, that he devoted himself, a
willing victim, to the glory of Greece. Such was his choice: he expected to
die. He foresaw that he should leave this cheerful earth, the lightsome
sky, and thy love, Perdita; yet he neither hesitated or turned back, going
right onward to his mark of fame. While the earth lasts, his actions will
be recorded with praise. Grecian maidens will in devotion strew flowers on
his tomb, and make the air around it resonant with patriotic hymns, in
which his name will find high record."

I saw the features of Perdita soften; the sternness of grief yielded to
tenderness--I continued:--"Thus to honour him, is the sacred duty of
his survivors. To make his name even as an holy spot of ground, enclosing
it from all hostile attacks by our praise, shedding on it the blossoms of
love and regret, guarding it from decay, and bequeathing it untainted to
posterity. Such is the duty of his friends. A dearer one belongs to you,
Perdita, mother of his child. Do you remember in her infancy, with what
transport you beheld Clara, recognizing in her the united being of yourself
and Raymond; joying to view in this living temple a manifestation of your
eternal loves. Even such is she still. Yo