By medical advice Charles Browne went for a short time to the Island of Jersey--but the breezes of Jersey were powerless.  He wrote to London to his nearest and dearest friends--the members of a literary club of which he was a member--to complain that his "loneliness weighed on him."  He was brought back, but could not sustain the journey farther than Southampton.  There the members of the club traveled from London to see him--two at a time--that he might be less lonely. His remains were followed to the grave from the rooms of his friend Arthur Sketchley, by a large number of friends and admirers, the literati and press of London paying the last tribute of respect to their dead brother.  The funeral services were conducted by the Rev. M.D. Conway, formerly of Cincinnati, and the coffin was temporarily placed in a vault, from which it was removed by his American friends, and his body now sleeps by the side of his father, Levi Browne, in the quiet cemetery at Waterford, Maine.  Upon the coffin is the simple inscription:-- His English executors were T.W. Robertson, the playwright, and his friend and companion, E.P. Hingston.  His literary executors were Horace Greeley and Richard H. Stoddard.  In his will, he bequeathed among other things a large sum of money to his little valet, a bright little fellow; though subsequent denouments revealed the fact that he left only a six-thousand-dollar house in Yonkers.  There is still some mystery about his finances, which may one day be revealed.  It is known that he withdrew 10,000 dollars from the Pacific Bank to deposit it with a friend before going to England; besides this, his London "Punch" letters paid a handsome profit.  Among his personal friends were George Hoyt, the late Daniel Setchell, Charles W. Coe, and Mr. Mullen, the artist, all of whom he used to style "my friends all the year round." Personally Charles Farrar Browne was one of the kindest and most affectionate of men, and history does not name a man who was so universally beloved by all who knew him.  It was remarked, and truly, that the death of no literary character since Washington Irving caused such general and widespread regret. In stature he was tall and slender.  His nose was prominent,--outlined like that of Sir Charles Napier, or Mr. Seward; his eyes brilliant, small, and close together; his mouth large, teeth white and pearly; fingers long and slender; hair soft, straight, and blonde; complexion florid; mustache large, and his voice soft and clear.  In bearing, he moved like a natural-born gentleman.  In his lectures he never smiled--not even while he was giving utterance to the most delicious absurdities; but all the while the jokes fell from his lips as if he was unconscious of their meaning.  While writing his lectures, he would laugh and chuckle to himself continually.