they fall into the quiet far-off bay and there find peace, like unquiet spirits sinking to eternal rest. Low-lying upon the shore close by are the Tredegar Iron Works, belching forth flames and smoke, flinging their lurid light in the face of the summer sun. We are travelling with flying feet, and have little time to loiter on our way; having taken in the chief points of interest in the city of Richmond, we drive out to the beautiful cemetery of Hollywood; this is rather a melancholy pleasure, for on every side are monuments raised to the illustrious dead, whose names are familiar to our ears as household words; they are written in emblazoned letters on the scroll of fame, and will be read by trumpet-tongue when they are unrolled in the light of heaven. Here is the invariable monument to the “Confederate dead;” it is the first we see, but not the last, by many. No Southern city is so poor but it can afford to lavish its tribute of honour to its loved and lost. Before leaving Richmond we pay a visit to the studio of the well-known sculptor, E. V. Valentine, of whom Virginia is so justly proud. The studio is full of minor works of art; hands and feet, as though they were lately amputated, are flung in dusty corners; masks and faces frown or smile from the walls, and many-winged cherubs are flying over our heads. Some have flown away, and are fixed in monumental marble in some far-away graveyard; and bygone beauties, some robed in white, some in the salmon-coloured glory of terra-cotta, are crowded on the shelves, face downward or upward, tumbled one over the other without the slightest regard to their dignity. On one side of the room stands a dwarfed equestrian figure of General Lee; he appears to have been arrested sword in hand as he was galloping to the front, the look and attitude are startlingly life-like; we can almost fancy we hear the word of command issuing from the stony lips; one touch of the magic wand would make the marble palpitate and live; but the living must die, and this piece of sculptured stone will stand for ages to come; long after generation on generation has passed away, he will still stand in the light of the world’s eyes even as he is standing before us now, with the “light of battle on his face” and the word of command upon his lips. On the opposite side of the room lies the reverse figure; there the patriot chief is stretched full length upon his bier as on a bed of rest, the noble face set in a mighty calm, the left arm thrown across his breast, the right straightened at his side, grasping his sword, “the attitude in which he always slept upon the battle-field.” So one of his faithful followers tells us as he looks down on the recumbent figure. “Why represent him in _repose_?” he demurs. “To me, who have seen him so often in _action_, it is not the attitude in which he should have been immortalised.”