I was too far from home to be at the funeral, but oue of my family, very dear to me, was in the crowd of sincere mourners at his grave, on the borders of Sleepy Hollow. The day was a lovely one on the verge of winter, and thousands stood reverently around, on that sunny slope, while the earth Avas cast upon the coffin and the preacher uttered the solemn words, " Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Few men ever went to the tomb lamented by more sincere friends. From many a pulpit his name was spoken with reverence. Literary and other societies throughout the land expressed their sorrow and respect. A thousand pens wrote eulogies for the press, and Bryant, the poet, his life-long friend, pronounced an impressive funeral oration not long afterwards, at the request of the New York Historical Society, of which Mr. Irving was a member.

I visited Sunnyside again in May, 1860, and after drinking at the mysterious spring,* strolled along the brook at the mouth of the glen, where it comes down in cascades before entering the once beautiful little bay, now cut ofl' from free union with the river by the railway. The

* This spring is at the foot of the bank on the very brink of the river. "Tradition declares," says Mr. Irvmg in his admirable story of " Wolfert's Boost," •' that it was smuggled over from Holland in a churn by Femmelie Van Blarcom, wife of Gooseu Garrett Van Blarcom, one of the first settlers, and that -she took it up by night, unknown to her husband, from beside their farm-house near Rotterdam ; being sure she should find no water equal to it in the new country-- and she was right."