hen he was not passing the long
spring and summer months at his well-beloved Cedarmere at Roslyn, Long
Island, which had been his favorite abiding place since 1843. It was
in this Sixteenth Street house that he wrote his last lines of
verse--on the birthday of Washington; it was here that he died.

One more structure not a great distance away calls up strongly the
memory of Bryant. In Fourth Avenue at Twentieth Street is picturesque
All Souls' Church, which has been there since 1855. Built of brick
trimmed with Caen stone, planned in the form of a Greek cross, it was
the first example of the Byzantine style of architecture in America.
It was to have a tall, square, tower-like steeple, but this was never
built. To this church the body of Bryant was taken, and there in the
presence of all literary New York, and while the whole city mourned,
Dr. Bellows, who had been his long-time friend, preached his funeral
sermon.

Chapter X

Half a Century Ago

Like many a landed estate, like many a quiet village, like many a
battle-ground, like many a winding and historic road, like so many
other places of interest of which the island of Manhattan has been the
scene in days agone--Minniesland is not easy to locate. Relentlessly
and remorselessly the great masses of brick and mortar have forged
ahead in their furtherance of the city's growth, seeking a level as
they spread, dominating the island, levelling the hills, and
stretching over valleys until the surface of the land is altered
beyond all knowing. Minniesland is one of the almost buried districts
of the great city. Its last surviving relic, a square ornamental
structure, is the one token that it ever existed. Now that the town
has surrounded this building, and streets have cut through and
mutilated the first plan of the district, this house may be found
standing where One Hundred and Fifty-fifth Street slopes down to the
Hudson River. Enter it; pass through its ancient halls, and, standing
on its porch, blot from the mind the spot as it is and reconstruct it
as it was half a century ago.

Fifty years ago the city was far away there to the south, and this
house, miles and miles away up-country, was at the edge of a forest
stretching down the hillside to the river. There were other farmhouses
around it. To the north was the mansion where Colonel Morris had lived
before the Revolution; where Madame Jumel in later days had married
Aaron Burr. To the south was the squa