ened at Herne Hill, to lie with my father
and mother in Shirley churchyard, as I should have wished, if I died
among the Alps, to be buried in the snow."

We carried him on Monday night down from his bed-chamber and laid him in
the study. There was a pane of glass let into the coffin-lid, so that
the face might be kept in sight; and there it lay, among lilies of the
valley, and framed in the wreath sent by Mr. Watts, the great painter, a
wreath of the true Greek laurel, the victor's crown, from the tree
growing in his garden, cut only thrice before, for Tennyson and Leighton
and Burne-Jones. It would be too long to tell of all such tokens of
affection and respect that were heaped upon the coffin,--from the wreath
of the Princess Louise down to the tributes of humble dependants,--above
a hundred and twenty-five, we counted; some of them the costliest money
could buy, some valued no less for the feeling they expressed. I am not
sure that the most striking was not the village tailor's, with this on
its label--"There was a man sent from God, and his name was John."

On the Wednesday we made our sad procession to the church, through storm
and flood. The village was in mourning, and round the churchyard gates
men, women, and children stood in throngs. The coffin was carried in by
eight of those who had been in his employ, and the church filled
noiselessly with neighbours and friends, who after a hymn, and the
Lord's prayer, and a long silence, passed up the aisles for their last
look, and to heap more offerings of wreaths and flowers around the bier.
At dusk tall candles were lit, and so through the winter's night watch
was kept.

Thursday, the 25th, brought together a great assembly, great for the
remoteness of the place and the inclemency of the weather. The country
folk have a saying "Happy is the dead that the rain rains on;" and the
fells were darkly clouded and the beck roared by, swollen to a torrent.
The church was far too small to hold the congregation, which included
most of his personal friends and the representatives of many public
bodies. A crowd stood outside in the storm while the service went on.

It began with a hymn written for the occasion by Canon Rawnsley who with
the Vicar of Hawkshead, Brantwood's parish church, read the Psalms. A
hymn, "Comes at times a stillness as of even," was sung by his friend
Miss Wakefield; and the lesson read by Canon Richmond, arrived
officially to represent the Bishop of C