And now let us attend the speaker's funeral. Professor Whipple will be our guide. As we proceed, crowds of coloured people are hastening in the same direction from all quarters. We are at the house. But so great is the throng that it is impossible to get in. Here, however, comes Dr. Cox. "Make room for Dr. Cox!"--"Make room for Dr. Cox!" is now heard on every hand. A path is opened for the great man, and we little men slip in at his skirt. On reaching the room where the remains of the good man lie, we find Dr. Patton and the Rev. Mr. Hatfield. They and Dr. Cox are there in a semi-official capacity, as representing the Presbytery with which Mr. Wright was connected. Louis Tappan, the long-tried and faithful friend of the coloured race, is there also. I am asked to be a pall-bearer: without at all reflecting on the duties and inconveniences of the office, I good-naturedly consent. A _white_ cotton scarf is instantly thrown over my shoulder. There is the coffin; and there is a lifelike portrait of Mr. Wright hung up against the wall, and looking as it were down upon that coffin. But you can see the face of Mr. Wright himself. The coffin-lid is screwed down; but there is a square of glass, like a little window, just over the face, as is generally the case in America, and you can have a view of the whole countenance. A black man reads a hymn, and, in connection with it, begins an address in a very oracular style, and with very solemn pauses. A hint is given him not to proceed. They sing. Mr. Hatfield delivers an appropriate address. A coloured minister prays, sometimes using the first person singular, and sometimes the first person plural; also talking about the "meanderings of life," and a great deal of other nonsense. We move down stairs. The immense procession starts. Drs. Cox and Patton, Mr. Hatfield, and about half-a-dozen more white ministers, are in it. As we pass on from street to street, and from crossing to crossing, all sorts of people seem to regard the procession with the utmost respect. The cabmen, 'busmen, and cartmen behave exceedingly well. But did you overhear what those three or four low dirty men said as we approached? I am ashamed to tell, because those men are not Americans, but _Irishmen_,--"Here comes the dead nigger!" The boys, now and then, are also overheard counting how many _white_ men there are in the procession. We are now at the church. After much delay and difficulty we enter. The place, which is not large, is crammed. There must be about 600 people in. Dr. Cox urges them to make room for more, and says there are not more than one-tenth in of those who wish to enter. If so, there must be a concourse of 6,000 people, and not more than twenty whites among them all!