CHAPTER VII. THE FUNERAL, * EW YORK gave General Sherman yester NEW day a most impressive farewell. The sun at noon shone upon a city draped with the emblems of sorrow. It shed upon the parting at dusk, when the escorting army, with trailing arms and shrouded flags, had discharged its tender office, a glowing benediction. The heart of the community was touched by this event as it had not been since the chieftain of the great triumvirate of Generals of the rebellion passed to his final bivouac at Riverside. Again the people laid aside their usual pursuits and thronged the line of march, a countless, hushed multitude. From end to end the route was lined almost to the point of crushing with those whose presence will make the day memorable alike for its occasion and for the number of 126 * From The New York Times. its participants as witnesses, for the multitude became more than mere lookers-on when by the block they stood uncovered while the caisson with its flag-wrapped burden and the carriages of the mourners passed along. A soldier's funeral it was above all else, but it was more than that. For miles the streets were in the sombre garb of almost continuous crapebound draperies. The wealth of tribute of this kind made in itself a splendid offering to a hero's memory. No section stood alone or conspicuous in so honoring the event. From the neighborhood in which the old General had his home to the ferry at which his body was embarked, the decorative remembrances of the affection in which his fellow-citizens held him were lavish and beautiful. The city became one great neighborhood in its desire to express a common bereavement. It was more than a soldier's funeral also because of the memories inspired, and the evidences it displayed of the depleted veteran ranks. Bent and grizzled was the remnant of comrades in the march to the sea who turned out yesterday. The canes the Grand Army men carried were plainly no longer mere switches to all, and the efforts of many to conceal any real use for them had a touch of pathos about it that the multitude were not slow to see and appreciate. Over parts of the route there were uncovering of heads and tears in the eyes of women when the old soldiers passed, as though, perhaps, they might not be seen together in such numbers much longer. The tolling church bells were sad indeed, as the Grand Army moved along. Outward tokens for the day were not confined to the line of march. They hung from housefronts and shaded windows, and fluttered from flagstaffs throughout the metropolitan district. From the highest perch the outlook all day in every direction was dotted with flags at half-staff on land, at half-mast on the water. All the shipping on both rivers, in the Sound and in the bay was dressed for the sad occasion, and as far as the eye could reach on Long Island, into New Jersey, and on Staten Island, the flag floated below the peak. Office and business buildings all over the city, regardless of proximity to the line of march, wore |