From love by natural sequence to death. Where _is_ the Park Street Cemetery? A hundred _gharriwans_ leap from their boxes and invade the market, and after a short struggle one of them uncarts his capture in a burial-ground--a ghastly new place, close to a tramway. This is not what is wanted. The living dead are here--the people whose names are not yet altogether perished and whose tombstones are tended. “Where are the _old_ dead?” “Nobody goes there,” says the _gharriwan_. “It is up that road.” He points up a long and utterly deserted thoroughfare, running between high walls. This is the place, and the entrance to it, with its _mallee_ waiting with one brown, battered rose, its grilled door and its professional notices, bears a hideous likeness to the entrance of Simla churchyard. But, once inside, the sightseer stands in the heart of utter desolation--all the more forlorn for being swept up. Lower Park Street cuts a great graveyard in two. The guide-books will tell you when the place was opened and when it was closed. The eye is ready to swear that it is as old as Herculaneum and Pompeii. The tombs are small houses. It is as though we walked down the streets of a town, so tall axe they and so closely do they stand--a town shrivelled by fire, and scarred by frost and siege. They must have been afraid of their friends rising up before the due time that they weighted them with such cruel mounds of masonry. Strong man, weak woman, or somebody’s “infant son aged fifteen months”--it is all the same. For each the squat obelisk, the defaced classic temple, the cellaret of chunam, or the candlestick of brickwork--the heavy slab, the rust-eaten railings, the whopper-jawed cherubs and the apoplectic angels. Men were rich in those days and could afford to put a hundred cubic feet of masonry into the grave of even so humble a person as “Jno. Clements, Captain of the Country Service, 1820.” When the “dearly beloved” had held rank answering to that of Commissioner, the efforts are still more sumptuous and the verse.... Well, the following speaks for itself: “Soft on thy tomb shall fond Remembrance shed The warm yet unavailing tear, And purple flowers that deck the honored dead Shall strew the loved and honored bier.” Failure to comply with the contract does not, let us hope, entail forfeiture of the earnest-money; or the honored dead might be grieved. The slab is out of his tomb, and leans foolishly against it; the railings are rotted, and there are no more lasting ornaments than blisters and stains, which are the work of the weather, and not the result of the “warm yet unavailing tear.” The eyes that promised to shed them have been closed any time these seventy years.