see the old weather-beaten and time-eaten slabs with their
curious lettering which designate the spots where many of the men
of the pre-revolutionary epoch were laid to their last repose.
The word cemetery is from Greek and means the little place where
I lie down.

In the Granary Burying Ground are the tombs of many whom history
has gathered and recorded as her own. But history looks in vain
among the blue-black slabs of semi-slate for the name of one who
was greatest perhaps of them all; but whose last days were so
strangely clouded and whose sepulchre was so obscure as to leave
the world in doubt for more than a half century as to where the
body of the great sleeper had been laid. Curiosity, whetted by
patriotism, then discovered the spot. But the name of another
was on the covering slab, and no small token was to be found
indicative of the last resting place of the lightning-smitten
body of James Otis, the prophetic giant of the pre-revolutionary
days. He who had lived like one of the Homeric heroes, who had
died like a Titan under a thunderbolt, and had been buried as
obscurely as Richard the Lion Hearted, or Frederick Barbarossa,
must lie neglected in an unknown tomb within a few rods of the
spot where his eloquence aforetime had aroused his countrymen to
national consciousness, and made a foreign tyranny forever
impossible in that old Boston, the very name of which became
henceforth the menace of kings and the synonym of liberty.

Tradition rather than history has preserved thus much. In the
early part of the present century a row of great elms, known as
the Paddock elms, stood in what is now the sidewalk on the west
side of Tremont Street skirting the Granary Burying Ground.