fine chime of bells, recourse was had to a lottery! Indeed, two lotteries were held before the work was completed. Philadelphians all felt that they had a stake in the enterprise, and for a long time the bells were rung on every possible occasion. Queen Anne sent over a solid silver communion service, which is still in use; and the rector, Dr. William White, after the Revolution became the second bishop of the Episcopal Church in the United States of America, having finally been consecrated at Lambeth after years of discussion as to how the Episcopacy was to be carried on. So "Old Christ," as it is affectionately called, may properly be regarded as the Mother Church in this country. When Philadelphia was the capital of the nation, Washington attended it, as did John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin, occasionally-perhaps not often enough.

But our time was limited and there was much to see: Carpenter's Hall, and the State House with its beautiful windows, which Craig called Palladian, and its splendid Colonial staircase, from which I was quite powerless to draw his attention to the far-famed liberty bell.

"I know all about that," said Craig; "I've been reading it up; but if you can tell me in what single respect an Englishman has n't just as much liberty as an American, I shall be glad to listen."

I changed the subject; one always hates to discuss liberty with an Englishman, they have so many more "rights" than we have.

Having forgotten to point out the grave of our

greatest citizen, Benjamin Franklin, who, we love to tell Bostonians, was born in Philadelphia at seventeen years of age, we retraced our steps

if one can be said to retrace one's steps in a motor- to the Christ Church burying-ground at Fifth and Arch streets. There, peering through the iron railing, we read the simple inscription carved according to his wish on the flat tomb: "Benjamin and Deborah Franklin, 1790." I have always regretted that I did not avail myself of the opportunity once offered me of buying the manuscript, in Franklin's hand, of the famous epitaph which he composed in a rather flippant moment, in 1728, for his tombstone. The original is, I believe, among the Franklin papers in the State Department at Washington, but he made at least one copy, and possibly several. The one I saw reads:

THE BODY
of

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

PRINTER

(Like the cover of an old book

Its contents torn out

And stript of its lettering and gilding)

Lies here, food for worms.

But the work shall not be lost

For it will (as he believed) appear once more

In a new and more elegant edition

Revised and corrected

by

THE AUTHOR

No doubt the plain marble slab, with the simple name and date (for Franklin needs no epitaph in Philadelphia), is more dignified, but I have always wished that his first idea had been carried out.

As we were only a stone's throw from the Quaker Meeting-House, we paid it a hasty visit, and I confessed, in reply to a question, that, often as I had passed the austere old brick building, I had never entered it before, although I had always intended to.

At last I looked at my watch- unnecessarily, for something told me it was lunch-time. We had had a busy morning. Craig had made sketches with incredible rapidity, while I bought photographs and picture-postals by the score. We had not been idle for a moment, but there was more to be seen: Fairmount, not the Park, there was no time for that, and all parks are more or less alike although ours is most beautiful,- but the old-time "water-works," beautifully situated on the hillside, terraced and turreted, with its three Greek temples, so faultlessly proportioned and placed as to form what Joe Pennell

says

is one of the loveliest spots in America and which, he characteristically adds, we in Philadelphia do not appreciate. But Craig did. It was a glorious day in mid-November; the trees were in their full autumn regalia of red and gold; the Schuylkill glistened like silver in the sun, and in the distance tumbled, with a gentle murmur of protest at being disturbed, over its dam into the lower level, where it becomes a river of use if not of beauty.

I thought how seldom do we business men pause