ts, with an ardent adoration; the glory
and honour of England were the breath of his nostrils. Deeds of heroism,
examples of high courage and noble self-sacrifice, were the memories
that thrilled his heart. As a man of fifty he wept over Lanfrey's
account of Nelson's death; he felt our defeat at Majuba Hill like a keen
personal humiliation; his letter on the subject is as the words of one
mourning for his mother.

But his was not a mere poetical emotion, supplying him with
highly-coloured rhetoric, or sentimental panegyric. He had a technical
and minute acquaintance with the detailed movement of wars, the precise
ships and regiments engaged, the personalities and characters of
commanders and officers, the conduct of the rank and file.

Many delightful stories remain in the memories of his friends and
hearers to attest this. His pupil-room at Eton, in what was formerly
the old Christopher Inn, was close to the street, and the passage of the
Guards through Eton, to and from their Windsor quarters, is an incident
of constant occurrence. When the stately military music was heard far
off, in gusty splendour, in the little town, or the fifes and drums of
some detachment swept blithely past, he would throw down his pen and
go down the little staircase to the road, the boys crowding round
him. "Brats, the British army!" he would say, and stand, looking and
listening, his eyes filled with gathering tears, and his heart full of
proud memories, while the rhythmical beat of the footsteps went briskly
echoing by.

Again, he went down to Portsmouth to see a friend who was in command of
a man-of-war; he was rowed about among the hulks; the sailors in the gig
looked half contemptuously at the sturdy landsman, huddled in a cloak,
hunched up in the stem-sheets, peering about through his spectacles. But
contempt became first astonishment, and then bewildered admiration, when
they found that he knew the position of every ship, and the engagements
in which each had fought.

He was of course a man of strong preferences and prejudices; he thought
of statesmen and patriots, such as Pitt, Nelson, Castlereagh, Melbourne,
and Wellington, with an almost personal affection. The one title to his
vehement love was that a man should have served his country, striven to
enhance her greatness, extended her empire, and safeguarded her liberty.

It was the same with his feeling for authors. He loved Virgil as a
friend; he almost worshipped Charlotte B