There came into my mind the words in which Edmund Burke told of the funeral of our great English painter:--"Everything, I think, was just as our deceased friend would, if living, have wished it to be; for he was, as you know, not altogether indifferent to this kind of observances." The solemn, glorious, and beautiful scene does not easily lend itself to the poor words of mine. Yet I would willingly let those who are to come after us know something of that which was felt by more than one on this day that was so great in our house. One who was present among the mourners writes to me: "It was not a state ceremonial,--it was a people's payment of honour. There was not grief; but there was a solemn sense of recognition of a great deed. As I saw from the window of the Jerusalem Chamber the approach of the hearse, and 'heard,' if one may say so, the sudden hush, the one feeling was not grief, or that the country had sustained a loss, as when Macaulay was buried with his work half done, but that the crown was being put on a noble career. Sir Rowland, in his coffin, seemed to be making a triumphal progress. What struck me most was, if you will put a kind construction on the first part of the antithesis, this absence of sorrow, this presence of reverence." From another account that was written down at the time I take the following: "There were few touches of solemnity or mortality till we were close on the Abbey. There we heard the great bell tolling over head. I had heard it last when it tolled for Macaulay. There a great crowd was gathered, very quiet and very orderly. It was not till the carriage turned into Dean's Yard, that I first felt in all its force what it was that we had come to see and do. The band of the Post Office Volunteers was playing the Portuguese Hymn. The men, all in black, were drawn up on each side of the roadway with their arms reversed, and their faces resting on the stocks of their rifles. The notes of the band at once woke up the tenderest and most solemn feelings. The tears started into my eyes. On getting out of the carriage I saw, for the first time, the coffin with its beautiful shroud covered with wreaths of flowers. We marched through the cloisters with the sad music of the soldiers still in our ears. As we turned round a corner we saw the door into the Abbey open before us.... Here we caught the notes of the organ. Wonderful feelings swept through me--the ancient cloisters, the Abbey with its thousand memories, the dead man borne before us, we following after him who had known him and revered him, the sight of his two aged brothers waiting in front to fall in with the other mourners,--the priest in his white surplice. I remember how here it burst upon me how noble and how glorious is the thought that man has made to himself of his own immortality.... We entered the Abbey, and slowly moved along. If only a man could keep at their height the lofty thoughts that filled him in