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