_New York City_.--Came on from West Philadelphia, June 13, in the 2 P.
M. train to Jersey City, and so across and to my friends, Mr. and Mrs.
J. H. J., and their large house, large family (and large hearts,)
amid which I feel at home, at peace--away up on Fifth avenue, near
Eighty-sixth street, quiet, breezy, overlooking the dense woody
fringe of the park--plenty of space and sky, birds chirping, and air
comparatively fresh and odorless. Two hours before starting, saw the
announcement of William Cullen Bryant's funeral, and felt a strong
desire to attend. I had known Mr. Bryant over thirty years ago, and he
had been markedly kind to me. Off and on, along that time for years as
they pass'd, we met and chatted together. I thought him very sociable in
his way, and a man to become attach'd to. We were both walkers, and when
I work'd in Brooklyn he several times came over, middle of afternoons,
and we took rambles miles long, till dark, out towards Bedford or
Flatbush, in company. On these occasions he gave me clear accounts
of scenes in Europe--the cities, looks, architecture, art, especially
Italy--where he had travel'd a good deal.
_June 14.--The Funeral_.--And so the good, stainless, noble old citizen
and poet lies in the closed coffin there--and this is his funeral. A
solemn, impressive, simple scene, to spirit and senses. The remarkable
gathering of gray heads, celebrities--the finely render'd anthem, and
other music--the church, dim even now at approaching noon, in its light
from the mellow-stain'd windows-the pronounc'd eulogy on the bard who
loved Nature so fondly, and sung so well her shows and seasons--ending
with these appropriate well-known lines:
I gazed upon the glorious sky,
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,
'Twere pleasant that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a joyous tune,
And groves a cheerful sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich green mountain turf should break.