unadorned beauty, have adopted the frizzed and powdered hair, with black patches on the face à la Henrietta Maria. The bride was young and very pretty. I was told that 200 ladies and 200 gentlemen formed the circle of invited guests for the occasion. After the usual marriage service had been very heroically submitted to, "Mendelssohn's Wedding-March" was performed on the organ, and the ceremony was over. Americans decorate their churches a great deal at Easter and Christmas with flowers and evergreens. I am told that this taste is in the ascendant, especially among city congregations.

Many Americans who have not travelled, have strange and prejudiced notions of England and her people. I was one day introduced to a young lady, and in the conversation which followed she astonished me much by her remarks on this subject. I invited her to suspend opinion, and to come over and see dear old England, when the scales will fall from her eyes, I fancy. Nothing can be kinder than an American's hospitality to his friend. I dined one day with a young gentleman whom I had met in Europe, and he, thinking of an Englishman's reputed tastes, ordered up some pale ale which had certainly been brewed from the waters of the Trent. It tasted very good and refreshing when iced, and drunk on a summer's day in the New World. Then he showed me his study, his library, his European trophies, a letter from Scotland, and did his best, in every way to entertain me. We had a long chat about English scenes and people which we had visited in company. Finally he confided to me a cherished plan which he entertained of visiting Great Britain in a couple of years, and asked me to accompany him then on a walking-tour. His father and all the

family are coming to Europe (D.V.) in four years, and he made me promise that I would then go with him to Norway, while his father, mother and sister were staying in Italy. In the evening we gathered in the drawingroom, and the young folks seemed never to be tired of hearing stories of Edinburgh and Oxford, of Stonehenge and Windsor. In return they sung for me the spirited songs of their own land. One of the young men would then take his violin, and end the séance with something merry. On Sunday evenings it was very pleasant when we could all join in singing hymns which we learn in common, in the old and new lands.

A notice of Brooklyn would be incomplete without the record of a visit to Mr. Beecher's chapel. I do not mention this in a spirit of lionising. Many of my countrymen have studied Mr. Beecher's "Life Thoughts," they have watched his long and uncompromising adherence to the Anti-Slavery cause; and they know, that he is not only a man of great originality, but also a true and faithful preacher of the gospel. Plymouth chapel, in which he preaches, is a large, plain building, having sitting accommodation for 2,500 to 3,000 people. The minister had just returned to his charge after the long vacation, and was in his freshest and most earnest mood. Those who saw him in England when he so eloquently pleaded the cause of the Union, would not think him much changed since then. It seems his way to introduce a little of the sensational into his sermons, and occasionally the drollery is so telling that the audience must smile. Beginning his discourse in a rather indistinct tone of voice, he warms into animation, and finally thunders out his words. Mr. Beecher discards gown and bands, and preaches in the ordinary dress of a private gentleman.

At Plymouth Church there is no pulpit. Upon a raised platform, is placed a chair for the preacher, and a readingtable flanked on each side by stands for vases of flowers. Congregational singing is encouraged, and the vocal service spiritedly sustained. Mr. Beecher's hair is turning an iron-grey, but his features retain all the vigour and fire of early manhood. At one of the Presbyterian Churches, I witnessed the preparations which the congregation were making for a "surprise party" to take their good pastor by storm on the morrow. This is a feature of arrangement between people and minister, specially American in idea and spirit, and its practice is now I believe rapidly on the wane.

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." Mr. Beecher does not always wear theological harness. Now and then he unbends and writes for magazines, and has been known to produce a work of fiction. When vacationtime comes he leaves Plymouth Church for a spell of respite and goes up to his farm and family home on the Hudson. Occasionally an American congregation give a call to an English preacher. For instance a church in 5th avenue invited Dr. Hall, of Dublin, to become their pastor. He accepted the charge, and the 6,000 dollars in gold which annually accompanies it.

It is cheering to observe that there is an absence of that feeling, which in England is still manifested between different sections of Protestants. Such ill-will is a hinderance to the truth that all have at heart; for, as Machiavelli says, "the jealousy of sects doth much extinguish the memory of things.”

On a fine afternoon L. took me out for a drive. Observing the negro coachman to be in livery, I remarked that "it was my impression that members of a republic would on no account wear the badge or livery

of a master."

"Only too glad to wear it when they have the chance," replied my friend. Driver and horses were on capital terms, and I said so- "I think that you and your horses are good friends Edward," upon which the intelligent negro grinned with pleasure.

GREENWOOD CEMETERY.

Intermingled with columns of white marble are bright-hued climbing-plants, roses, and sweet-smelling flowers. On entering the cemetery you would suppose it a place for the living, rather than the dead. The portico of the church resembles a conservatory more than a temple. Campo Santo, at San Michele, Venice.

After a pleasant drive through the suburbs of Brooklyn we approach Greenwood Cemetery,-the most beautiful necropolis in the world. Every charm of nature is lavished here with prodigal hand, and man has followed in the wake with his fairest ideals of art. The cemetery is entered through noble gothic archways. There is a gate for entrè and another for sortie. A real portcullis set in each tower above the arch, rises and falls upon incoming and outgoing visitors. In the soft brown sandstone above are carved scripture-scenes in bass-relief. With lifelike fidelity the artist has moulded and ranked the groups of sorrowing men and women. Over each scene is traced some holy text, glowing with words of comfort to all who visit this shrine of the dead. "Weep not""The dead shall be raised."-"Lazarus come forth,' "I am the resurrection and the life,”'-are written on tables of stone to remind us, that the silent groups enclosed within are not consigned to the perpetual sleep of death.

We enter the necropolis. Memorials of mortality stand on every hand. On Ocean Hill, fanned by the winds of the Atlantic,-in yonder dell, beneath willow and

cypress,-in the hard granite bosom of that slope,-in the plain trench-grave of the table-land, the dead are sleeping. Little children have been carried here by sorrowing parents, and their memory is kept green by simple epitaphs like these, "Our Willie,"—"Little Mary,""Darling Ellie." On other tombs, the memory of the sleeper is perpetuated by "storied urn and animated bust."-A tall shaft has been reared for a brave fireman, who, at the sacrifice of his life, saved a little child from the flames. The figure of the hero, clasping the little one in his arms, crowns the column. What nobler "in memoriam," than the fireman's monument?

A beautiful marble shrine marks the resting-place of Miss Charlotte Canda. This young lady was cut off in the heyday of youth and beauty. The design for the monument was sketched by herself during life, and constitutes a gem in stone. Within the portico of the shrine is placed a bust, the features of the living are graven on the mute and lifeless marble. Two winged cherubs are kneeling by the side, as if watching the calm and motionless form, waiting for the moment when the seal of the tomb shall be broken, and mortality shall be swallowed up of life.

On a

The sea-captain's monument on Vista Hill stands out as a landmark, where landmarks are many. massive pedestal is firmly planted the life-size effigy of the redoubtable mariner. Upon his head there rests the similitude of a furred bearskin cap which has served him right well on many a whaling voyage, at his feet is the symbol of an anchor, and in his hands he holds the sextant for taking an observation from the sun. Strangest of all, men say that the orignal of this monument is still living. Mr. James Gordon Bennett has also followed the mariner's example, in raising a pre-mortuary monument to himself.