I have attended many funerals in my time. I was present at that of John Leech, and saw Charles Dickens shake hands with Mark Lemon over the grave of Clarkson Stanfield. For Sir Edwin Landseer’s funeral the members met in the As- sembly Room of the old Academy in Trafalgar Square ; each had a voluminous silk band arranged on his hat, and a long cloak, scanty of folds, tied on his shoulders. These fashions have happily died out. Walker, Poynter, Vicat Cole and I rode in the same coach from the Academy to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Along the route many of the shops were closed out of respect for the great animal-painter, so popular had he been with all classes. One touch of (horse or dog) nature makes all Britons kin. The service was dignified and impressive. When all was over, Walker, Cole, Poynter, and myself returned in the same coach. Little did I then think that in less than two years I should be a mourner at a service of simpler, and to me far sadder kind.
It was early in June 1875 that a small band of friends went by train from Paddington one morning, to attend the funeral of F. Walker. My brother, J. G. Marks, rode down with the body the night before from St. Petersburgh Place to Cookham in a covered van. It was placed in an adjoining cottage, to be carried thence to the grave. Agnew, Clayton, Leslie, Prinsep, Storey, Hodgson were
