A handsome
iron railing separates it from Broadway, and the thick rows of
grave-stones, all crumbling and stained with age, present a strange
contrast to the bustle, vitality, and splendor with which they are
surrounded. They stare solemnly down into Wall Street, and offer a
bitter commentary upon the struggles and anxiety of the money kings of
the great city. Work, toil, plan, combine as you may, they seem to say,
and yet it must all come to this.
Not far from the south door of the church, and shaded by a venerable
tree, is a plain brown stone slab, bearing this inscription: "The vault
of Walter and Robert C. Livingston, sons of Robert Livingston, of the
manor of Livingston." A stranger would pass it by without a second
glance; yet it is one of the Meccas of the world of science, for the
mortal part of Robert Fulton sleeps in the vault below, without monument
or legendary stone to his memory, but in sight of the mighty steam
fleets which his genius called forth. Very few visitors ever see this
part of the churchyard, and the grave of Fulton is unknown to nine out
of ten of his countrymen. Yet this man, sleeping so obscurely in his
grave without a name, did far more for the world than either Napoleon or
Wellington.
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