and a warm fog made houses invisible to each
other, although only a hundred yards apart.
This fog cleared off, and the day became the
first of spring. The flat sea margin is beautifully
cultivated, all covered with fields above
which skylarks make the welkin ring; the
serpentine roads wind past farm-houses and
villages with sheltering trees and spires; and
trim hedges line the roads, full of twittering
birds; there are ditches beneath the hedges, and
the grass above them is spangled with yellow
primroses and golden celandine. From Chichester
to Cocking Causeway the road rises. Many
brick-built and flat-tile-roofed farm-houses seem
covered with gold, for the Parmelia lichens
are spread over their tiles like gold-leaf.
Shrubby beeches abound on the roadside banks,
with their withered brown leaves clinging still
to their branches. Hazel-trees, some with male
and some with female catkins, but none with a
single leaf, and scarce one with a bud, on their
gracefully drooping brown twigs, displayed one
of the greatest beauties of the woodlands. This
country, indeed, supplies the neighbouring
farms and towns with wattles and fagots.
The road winds and climbs up and along the
sides of chalk mountains, cultivated far up their
slopes, and with the broad round top of every
one of them capped by a copse of pine or fir
trees.

Cocking Causeway is a sort of small village
green, where three roads meet. The spire of
the new little church of Lavington is seen
peeping out of the trees of the highest hill-top,
and the undulating road leading to it winds
between gorse in bloom, and tall hedges, and
with the pine-trees about, looks like a bit of
Scotland. The hill, on the very top of which the
little church stands, is very steep. After climbing
what the Scotch call a "stay brae," a path
unfit for carriages, a series of steps and platforms,
or terraces, forming the graveyard, lands us on
the top where the church stands. The view
seems enclosed by a circle of mountain-tops and
copses, except where openings in the hills give
extensive vistas. The churchyard is beautifully
laid out with shingly walks and trim hedges, and
planted with funereal trees. An evergreen
cypress, already yellow with bloom, tall and
slim as a Lombardy poplar, but smaller and more
elegant, stands near the church door, in view of
Mr. Cobden's grave, which is placed on the first
platform beneath the level of the church, at the
south-eastern angle and edge of the terrace, a
spot on which the sun shines morn, noon, and
eve. A beacon light, loftier than the belfry,
might be seen all over the low country, and
respond to Ower's Light Ship, near Selsey Bill,
across the Pagham inlet of the sea. Over the
whole of this district the guns of Portsmouth
are occasionally heard.

This little church, all alone on the hill-top, is a
spick-and-span antique. Two Romeward clergymen
spent, it is said, seven thousand pounds in
getting it up; the stained glass windows are
kaleidoscopic, the arches of the aisles ugly and
ill proportioned, the chancel separated from the
pews by an iron gate and padlock, and, as an
imitation of the picturesque little churches on
mountain-tops seen on the Continent, it is
altogether so defective, that it is no wonder the
funders of it fled from it into a community
in which the architecture at least is much
better of its kind. On the wall above the
entrance chancel is inscribed, "Glory to God in
the Highest."

About twelve o'clock the village green of
Cocking Causeway exhibited groups of decently-
dressed peasants, and a few broad-backed round-
faced Lancashire gentlemen, who had been to
see Dunford House, and were now waiting to
pay the last mark of respect to their hero.
There were two or three groups of foreigners
loitering about, and several solitary figures. A
young labourer was saying something, to which
I overheard a woman reply, "There is every
reason for believing he was a good friend to the
poor." Soon a body of gentlemen were seen
walking in procession over and down the hill by
the road from Midhurst. The country people
flowed in a constant stream towards the church.
After a little time, about half-past twelve, a
plain plumeless hearse, drawn by four horses,
and preceded by mutes, came along the road
from Chichester; four mourning coaches followed
it, then the gentlemen on foot, and after them
some fifteen private carriages. Respectable
young women, weeping bitterly, occupied one of
the mourning coaches, who were said to be
servants from Dunford House. The private
carriages fell into the line of the procession,
the whole length of which, more than
half a mile; could not be seen from one of the
carriages.

There was a deep sadness in every face, tears in
women's eyes; and the bell from the lofty belfry
tolled with a plaintive tinkle. About two
hundred gentlemen filled the little church, in which
the service was read with mumbling mutterings.
When the coffin was borne out of the church,
and along the terrace towards the grave, amidst
the uncovered mourners, the sun beating warmly
upon their heads, whilst the clergyman said
"dust to dust," "in hope," and the coffin grated
down the planks into the vault, a shock of grief
passed through the crowd of mourners, women
wept, and men grew deadly pale. Many of the
hands there had often been warmly clasped
during a severe political struggle by the hand
lying there dead. A French wreath of everlastings
was laid on the coffin above his feet, and a
wreath of spring flowers blue and purple
anemones, primroses, polyanthuses, hypaticas,
primulas, above his breast. It was an aged man of
fourscore years who handed forward the wreath
of spring flowers, and who had commenced his
friendship with the deceased on the Catskill
mountains in America, in July, 1835. This old
man's chaplet was but the first of many symbols
of respect paid to the memory of a man whose
name is significant of a commercial policy tending
to give the poor their daily bread, and
spread peace on earth and good will among
men. Other symbols are following it—busts,