be something more than a canal of oily ooze; in which the wonderful Dutch meadows of the Neck would be reclaimed into one of the world's loveliest riverside parks, and in which the Parkway will stretch its airy vista from the heart of the city, between stately buildings of public profit, out to the sparkling waters of Fairmount.
The city shows a curiously assorted silhouette as one walks down the Parkway from Twenty-fifth street. There is the plain dark dome of the Cathedral, with its golden cross flashing in the sun and the tall cocoa-colored pillars. No one would guess from the drab exterior the splendor of color and fragrance within. There is, of course, the outline of William Penn on his windy vantage, the long, dingy line of Broad Street Station's train-shed and the tall but unpretentious building of the Bell Telephone Company, where the flag swims against the sky on its slender staff. As one walks on, past the Medico-Chirurgical Hospital, with its memorable inscription (Think not the beautiful doings of thy soul shall perish unremembered; they abide with thee forever), the thin white spire of the Arch Street Methodist Episcopal Church and the monstrous oddity of the Masonic Temple spring into view. In an optimistic mood, under a riot of sunlight and a radiant sky, one is tempted to claim a certain beauty for this incongruous panorama. Yet if there is beauty no one can claim a premeditated scheme for it. Granite, marble, brick and chocolate stone jostle one another. Let
