a month. So the bells go on as they used to do. How many
bells do you make it, Mr. Nelson?"

"Eight bells, sir," Lord Nelson replied, saluting like the middy in
charge of the watch. And at this little turn they both laughed, and went
on, with memory of ancient days, to church.

CHAPTER V

OPINION, MALE AND FEMALE

The fine young parsons of the present generation are too fond of asking
us why we come to church, and assigning fifty reasons out of their own
heads, not one of which is to our credit or theirs; whereas their proper
business is to cure the fish they have caught, instead of asking how
they caught them. Mr. Twemlow had sense enough for this, and treated the
largest congregation he had ever preached to as if they were come for
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.

Mrs. Cheeseman, the wife of Mr. Cheeseman, who kept the main shop in
the village, put this conclusion into bette