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 peaceaway up on Fifth avenue, near Eighty-sixth street, quiet, breezy, overlooking the dense woody fringe of the parkplenty of space and sky, birds chirping, and air comparatively fresh and odorless. Two hours before starting, saw the announcement of William Cullen Bryants 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 passd, we met and chatted together. I thought him very sociable in his way, and a man to become attachd to. We were both walkers, and when I workd 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 Europethe cities, looks, architecture, art, especially Italywhere he had traveld a good deal.
June 14.The Funeral.And so the good, stainless, noble old citizen and poet lies in the closed coffin thereand this is his funeral. A solemn, impressive, simple scene, to spirit and senses. The remarkable gathering of gray heads, celebritiesthe finely renderd anthem, and other musicthe church, dim even now at approaching noon, in its light from the mellowstaind windowsthe pronouncd eulogy on the bard who loved Nature so fondly, and sung so well her shows and seasonsending with these appropriate well-known lines: