11. Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth — they never cease — they are the burial lines,

He that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall surely be buried.

12. Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf — posh and ice in the river, half-frozen mud in the streets, a gray discouraged sky overhead, the short last daylight of Twelfth Month,

A hearse and stages — other vehicles give place — the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver, the cortege mostly drivers.

13. Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell, the gate is passed, the new-dug grave is halted at, the lining alight, the hearse un-closes.

The coffin is passed out, lowered and settled, the whip is laid on the coffin, the earth is swiftly shovelled in.

The mound above is flatted with the spades — silence,

A minute, no one moves or speaks — it is done.

He is decently put away — is there anything more ?

14. He was a good fellow, free-mouthed, quick-tempered, not bad-looking, able to take his own part, witty, sensitive to a slight, ready with life or death for a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate hearty, drank hearty, had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited toward the last, sickened, was helped by a contribution, died, aged forty-one years — and that was his funeral.