XXXVIL]JOURNEY TO LONDON-~—ILLNESS AND DEATH. 37

the summer of 1856, he and a friend took it into their 188.
heads, as there was nothing of importance going on in ir. 60,
the House, to stroll into the Abbey. His friend had
never been inside before, as he confessed that he had never
been inside St. Paul’s Cathedral, thongh he had passed it
every day of his life for fifteen years. They strolled about
among the monuments for a couple of hours, and the
natural remark fell from his companion that perhaps one day
the name of Cobden too would figure among the heroes.
“I hope not,” said Cobden, “I hope not. My spirit could
not rest in peace among these men of war. No, no, cathedrals
 are not meant to contain the remains of such men as
Bright and me.” He was buried by the side of his son in
the little churchyard at Lavington, on the slope of the hill
among the pine woods. A large concourse gathered round
his grave, some of them illustrious, others of them obscure,
some his companions in past victories, others his fellowworkers
 in causes that still seemed forlorn ; but all bound
together for the moment in attachment to the memory of
a frank and cordial friend, and a clear-sighted and faithful
citizen.
“Before we left the house,” Mr. Bright has told us,
“standing by me and leaning on the coffin, was his sorrowing
 danghter, one whose attachment to her father seems to
have been a passion scarcely equalled among daughters,
She said, ¢ My father used to like me very much to read to
him the Sermon on the Mount.’ His own JFfe was to a
large extent—I speak it with reverence and with hesitation
—a sermon based upon that best, that greatest of all
sermons. His was a life of perpetual self-sacrifice.”

On the day after Cobden’s death, when the House of Commons
 met, the Prime Minister commemorated the loss which
they had all sustained in a few kindly sentences. It was