the infant son of the great toy-seller in Twenty-
third-street. The Peppernets have had land
here for twenty years, and many a Peppernet
lies here.

But I have to visit Savannah and Philadelphia,
so I must not tarry more than half a dozen
lines longer in Greenwood Cemetery. I must
leave its winding walks, its town of tombs, its
ocean views, its peaceful colonies of dead, its
willows and flower-beds, even its rude uncared-
for burial-place for strangers and paupers, without
tombstone or record even of name unwept,
uncared-for, unknelled, and perhaps unpitied.

Philadelphia is a city so different from New
York that we might well expect its cemetery
to be different too. The Quaker city has its
streets intersecting each other at right angles.
In New York, the streets are known by
numbers, as One Hundred and Twenty-second-street,
Fifth avenue, and so forth; in Philadelphia, they
are known by the names of trees, as Chesnut-
street, Sycamore-street, Vine-street. Through
all of these the street railroad runs with
admirable ease and success.

New York is a French Liverpool. Philadelphia
has a sober Quaker splendour about it.
It has not the fitful climate of New York, nor
the brisk sea breeze, nor the fine sea views or
splendid park of its restless rival; nor the
gigantic marble hotels, nor the grand squares,
but it still has some very beautiful features of
its own. For instance, nearly all the houses,
except the very humblest, have the basement
story coated with purest white marble, which is
washed every week, so that on Sunday the city
appears as in a clean robe of dazzling whiteness.
The architectural characteristic of Philadelphia is
Greco-Dutch; as a French Liverpudlianism is of
New York. The Babylonian rectangular streets,
the old houses, the sombre squares, where the
children feed the tame grey squirrels, all contribute
to the quaint beauty of the old Quaker city.

The Laurel Hill cemetery is one of the most
beautiful burial-places in the world. It is
situated on the Ridge-road, three miles and a half
north-west of the city. I went there by street
railroad, along a suburban road, till I reached the
steep wooded cliff overhanging the pretty river
Schuylkill, over which the garden of death is
laid out. I passed, on the outskirts of the city,
that beautiful Grecian building of pure white
marble, the Girard College, founded by a French
gentleman, one Stephen Girard, who died in
1831. The Corinthian pillars of fluted marble
have a grace about them and a tender beauty
that any pure white marble in a spotless
atmosphere could anywhere possess.

"Laurel Hill!" cries the conductor of the
street railroad car, and I descended and entered
Death's twenty acre garden. The lodge, shaded
by trees and of a blank insipid sort of
architecture, reminded me strongly of the lodge at
a country gentleman's park gate in England.
The raked gravel, with here and there pools
of turbid orange-coloured water, the sun after
the recent showers glittering on the wet brown
and yellow sycamore leaves, all made me fancy
myself in England on an autumn morning. The
old lady, too, at the gate, was as neat, grave, and
respectful as her prototype would have been in
England. The first look at the cemetery was not
favourable; a coarse and staring piece of sculpture
in sandstone, "by the celebrated Thorn,"
seemed to me painfully out of place. What
have Sir Walter Scott and Old Mortality got to
do with this solemn death garden? This is not
an exhibition place, and we do not want mere
sights obtruded on us. I left the vulgar
sandstone figures, and pushed forward up the hilly
walk, where the flowers bloomed thickest
and the trees grew strongest. The tawdry
Gothic chapel, with "its immense window of
stained glass," may be very interesting to
American visitors, but it had no charm to me, who
have seen real cathedrals, and spent months and
years under their very shadow. Yet I could
not help reflecting that it is better to sleep in
these flowery hills or in these wooded dells, than
in sordid city graveyards, where sooty nettles
choke the blanched tombstone, and mist scurfs
the purgatorial railings."

Now I passed beautiful little plots of flowers,
among which the autumn dahlia tosses its crimson
bosses of blossom, or under plane-trees,
whose red and yellow leaves are glorious even
in their decay. Then I reached the highest
ground in the cemetery, beyond the last iron-
fenced tomb, the last garden plot. I was in
Death's fallow ground, and natural woods rose
beyond me. I should have been alone, but for
two gardeners, who were rolling up turf into
bundles. I looked over a low stone wall down
upon the river and the fair hills of the Schuylkill.

The beauty of the morning was upon
everything. The river gleamed and flashed as it
flowed on. A train slid along the distant railway-
bridge. Boys played on the opposite bank. The
cottages below were like toy houses, yet real
smoke rose from their chimneys, and real
mothers played with real children at the doorways.
Beautiful were the autumn trees, with their
variegated plumes, like files of Indians in a war
party. I forgot that I was in a cemetery. I
felt inclined to whoop and halloa to the passing
train, that noisily blurted its smoky breath as
it glided silently far under me.

A long leap and I am in a Southern city,
where the population is as nearly as possible
half white and half black. I am, in fact, in
Savannah, on the shores of an alligator-haunted
river, in the largest city of Georgia, the region
of rice-fields and Sea-Island cotton, and a special
haunt of the yellow fever.

I have seen all the lions of the strange,
gloomy, and silent city, whose streets are all
avenues, and whose roadway returns no sound
to foot or hoof; whose deserted squares were
sombre with large China trees, and whose houses
were dreary, quiet, and blinded. I am bound to
the cemetery, not the lonely raw new one on
the great sandy plain outside the city, where the
pride-of-India trees trail over the graves, but the