the good of their souls, and should have it, in spite of Lord Nelson.

But, alas! their bodies fared not so well, and scarcely a man got his

Sunday dinner according to his liking. Never a woman would stay by the

fire for the sake of a ten-pound leg of mutton, and the baker put his

shutters up at half past ten against every veal pie and every loin

of pork. Because in the church there would be seen this day (as the

servants at the Hall told every one) the man whom no Englishman could

behold without pride, and no Frenchman with it--the victor of the Nile,

and of Copenhagen, and countless other conflicts. Knowing that he would

be stared at well, he was equal to the occasion, and the people who saw

him were so proud of the sight that they would talk of it now if they

were alive.

But those who were not there would exhibit more confidence than

conscience by describing every item of his raiment, which verily even

of those who beheld it none could do well, except a tailor or a woman.

Enough that he shone in the light of the sun (which came through a

windowful of bull's-eyes upon him, and was surprised to see stars by

daylight), but the glint of his jewels and glow of his gold diverted no

eye from the calm, sad face which in the day of battle could outflash

them all. That sensitive, mild, complaisant face (humble, and even

homely now, with scathe and scald and the lines of middle age) presented

itself as a great surprise to the many who came to gaze at it. With

its child-like simplicity and latent fire, it was rather the face of a

dreamer and poet than of a warrior and hero.

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