The finest live-oak trees I have yet seen in the South, stretched away in long avenues on either hand, intersected by cross avenues, and arched with interlacing branches, till the roof over our heads seemed, in living green, a graining, after the pattern of Gothic arches, in some magnificent old cathedral. It is the finest material in the country for the elaboration of the most beautiful cemetery. But, as in most places in the South, everything has stopped where nature stopped. One of the Tatnalls, probably an ancestor of the Commodore of our navy, of Chinese and Rebel note, long ago selected this site for his residence, builded his house, and laid out the grounds in these stately avenues. The house was burned down during some holiday rejoicings. An idea that the place was unhealthy possessed the owners, and, with a curious taste, what was too dangerous for men to live in was straightway selected for dead men to be buried in. We would hardly choose a malarious bottom, or a Northern tamarack swamp for a burying ground, beautiful as either might be, but what matters it? After life’s fitful fever, the few interred here sleep, doubtless, as sweetly beneath the gigantic oaks in the solemn avenues, as if on breeziest upland of mountain heather. Even into this secluded gloom have come the traces of our civil wars. The only large monument in the cemetery is that bearing the simple inscription of “Clinch,” and within it lie, I am told, the bones of the father-in-law of “Sumter Anderson,” as in all our history he is henceforth to be known. Some vandal has broken down the marble slab that closed the tomb, and exposed the coffins within.