In this tucked-away glade of oaks, magnolias and granite markers, pockets of heavily manicured grass slump before the memorials of a thousand varieties. A grief-stricken angel is collapsed across a "Hill." Above an eight-foot Celtic cross a mockingbird dances in the Spanish moss, singing lightly of those things the dead no longer can. Here on the edge of downtown lies a who's who of Houston's history. From aviator Howard Hughes to Anson Jones, the republic's last chief, the names are known to all in H-town -- at least as dedicated strips of decaying asphalt. There are Elgins and Binzes, Bakers and Allens. But more rewarding than the names involved is the cumulative impact of this collection born of despair and devotion: acres upon acres of condensed architectural styles ranging from the classical references of ancient Rome and Greece to Victorian, Egyptian revival and even some daring postmodern examples. Dating back to 1871, the headstones and mausoleums of the Glenwood dead offer the still sentient another avenue for exploring our past: through the remembrance of those who went before. And tales of otherworldly encounters abound at this historic burial ground.