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
chestnut-trees, divides the village church-yard from the grounds
of the Duke de Gramont. On that breezy height, overlooking the
magnificent plain that stretches between St. Germain and Paris, a
mausoleum has been erected worthy of containing the mortal remains of
her whom genius and talent had delighted to honor--

"Whom Lawrence painted and whom Byron sung!"

A pyramid composed of large blocks of white stone, and similar in
form to the ancient monuments of Egypt, rises from a platform of solid
black granite, which has been completely isolated from the surrounding
surface by a deep dry moat, whose precipitous slopes are clothed with
softest greenest turf. A bronze railing incloses the whole, within
which has been planted a broad belt of beautiful evergreens and
flowering shrubs; and beyond these the lofty chestnut trees "wave in
tender gloom," and form a leafy canopy to shelter that lonely tomb
from the winds of heaven. Solid, simple, and severe, it combines every
requisite in harmony with its solemn destination; no meretricious
ornaments, no false sentiment, mar the purity of its design. The
genius which devised it has succeeded in cheating the tomb of its