Wading through the flood of sunlight which poured into the passage-way——­But stop!  I was about,—­who knows?—­in imitation of divers admired models, to tell the reader in choicest poetic diction how the City of the Dead, with its magnificent streets, shining palaces, and lofty monuments, burst upon my dazzled vision,—­how I walked for half a mile along a spacious avenue, beneath an arcade of giant elms hung with wreaths of mist and vocal with singing, feathery fruit,—­past marble tombs whose yards were filled with bright and fragrant flowers,—­ among waving grassy knolls spread with the silver nets of spiders and sparkling dew,—­through vales of cool twilight and ravines of sombre dusk,—­and so on for more than a page, until finally, step by step, through laboriously elegant sentences, I worked my way up to the top of a lofty hill, the view from which to be graphically described as a picture and a poem dissolved together into mingled glory and mirage, and inundating with a billowy sea of beauty the landscape below;—­and then further depicting to the delighted fancy of the reader, how on one side was a most remarkable river,—­such as was never heard of before, probably,—­in fact, a web of water framed between the hills, its rushing warp-currents, as it rolled along, woven by smoking steam-shuttles with a woof of foam,—­how, at the entrance of a bay, flocks of snowy sails, with black, shining beaks, and sleek, unruffled plumage, were swimming out to sea,—­how another river, not quite so unique as the last, was also in sight, coiling among emerald steeps and crags and precipices and forest,—­while beyond, green woodlands, checkered fields, groves, orchards, villages, hills, farms, and villas, all glowed in an exceedingly charming manner in the morning sun;—­and then, still further, to say something as brilliant as possible about a certain city, designated as the Great Metropolis,—­how it resembled, perhaps, a Cyclopean type-form, with blocks of buildings for letters, domes, turrets, and towers for punctuation-points, church-spires for interrogation and exclamation marks, and squares and avenues for division-spaces between the paragraphs, set up and leaded with streets into a vast editorial page of original matter on Commerce and Manufactures, rolled every morning with the ink of toil, and printing before night an edition of results circulated to the remotest quarters of the globe.  And the tall chimneys yonder were to be called—­let me see—­oh, the smoking cathedral-towers of the Holy Catholic Church of Labor, islanding the air with clouds of incense more grateful to the Deity than the fume of priest-swung censers.  All this, and much more of a similar nature, including an eloquent address to the ocean hard by, it is possible I was about to say.  But, unwilling to smother the reader beneath a mountain of rhetorical flowers,—­which accident might happen, should I resolve to be “equal to the occasion,”—­I shall contain myself, and state, in the way of a curt preface, in plain prose, and directly to the point, that I entered a remarkably large and populous cemetery, no matter where, very early one morning,—­in fact, you have the gate-keeper’s word for it that I was the first person there,—­that I climbed to the summit of a high hill and enjoyed the view of a beautiful landscape, just after sunrise; and with this finally said and done, let us proceed.