“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.  You say that you have lost Raymond.  O, no!—­yet he lives with you and in you there.  From him she sprung, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone—­and not, as heretofore, are you content to trace in her downy cheek and delicate limbs, an affinity to Raymond, but in her enthusiastic affections, in the sweet qualities of her mind, you may still find him living, the good, the great, the beloved.  Be it your care to foster this similarity—­be it your care to render her worthy of him, so that, when she glory in her origin, she take not shame for what she is.”

I could perceive that, when I recalled my sister’s thoughts to her duties in life, she did not listen with the same patience as before.  She appeared to suspect a plan of consolation on my part, from which she, cherishing her new-born grief, revolted.  “You talk of the future,” she said, “while the present is all to me.  Let me find the earthly dwelling of my beloved; let us rescue that from common dust, so that in times to come men may point to the sacred tomb, and name it his—­then to other thoughts, and a new course of life, or what else fate, in her cruel tyranny, may have marked out for me.”