d," says James T. Fields, "and laid him down under a group
of pines, on a hillside, overlooking historic fields. All the way
from the village church to the grave the birds kept up a perpetual
melody. The sun shone brightly, and the air was sweet and
pleasant, as if death had never entered the world. Longfellow and
Emerson, Channing and Hoar, Agassiz and Lowell, Greene and
Whipple, Alcott and Clarke, Holmes and Hillard, and other friends
whom he loved, walked slowly by his side that beautiful spring
morning. The companion of his youth and his manhood, for whom he
would willingly, at any time, have given up his own life, Franklin
Pierce, was there among the rest, and scattered flowers into the
grave. The unfinished 'Romance,' which had cost him so much
anxiety, the last literary work on which he had ever been engaged,
was laid in his coffin."

Eighteen years later, on April 30, 1882, Emerson was laid at rest
a little beyond Hawthorne and Thoreau in a spot chosen by himself.

A special train came from Boston, but many could not get inside
the church. The town was draped; "even the homes of the very poor
bore outward marks of grief." At the house, Dr. Furness, of
Philadelphia, conducted the services. "The body lay in the front
northeast room, in which were gathered the family and close
friends." The only flowers were lilies of the valley, roses, and
arbutus.

At the church, Judge Hoar, standing by the coffin, spoke briefly;
Dr. Furness read selections from the Scriptures; James Freeman
Clarke delivered the funeral address, and Alcott read a sonnet.

"Over an hour was occupied by the passing files of neighbors,
friends, and visitors looking for the last time upon the face of
the dead poet. The body was robed completely in white, and the
face bore a natural and peaceful expression. From the church the
procession took its way to the cemetery. The grave was made
beneath a tall pine-tree upon the hill-top of Sleepy Hollow, where
lie the bodies of his friends Thoreau and Hawthorne, the upturned
sod being concealed by strewings of pine boughs. A border of
hemlock spray surrounded the grave and completely lined its sides.
The services were very brief, and the casket was soon lowered to
its final resting-place. The grandchildren passed the open grave
and threw flowers into it."

In her "Journal," Louisa Alcott wrote, "Thursday, 27th. Mr.
Emerson died at nine P.M. suddenly. Our best and greatest American
gone. The nearest and