can never absolve them from the dark deeds that stand to their names.  Nor is it altogether improbable that all the nations that were concerned in the dreadful assassination are now paying the natural penalty of their guilt.  Natural laws have a curious roundabout way of paying back old scores, though the tragic retribution has to be borne more often than not by the innocent descendants of those who have, in the name of the Deity, violated them.

The Duke of Thunder was proud of the Sicilian meaning of his title, and so were his sailors, who loved the thrilling effect of anything that conveyed the idea of being associated with a formidable power that devastated every other force that stood in its way.  For the most part, Nelson’s sailors had great faith in his naval genius.  He had led them many times to victory, and they did not forget the glory that attached to themselves.  He planned the strategy, but it was they that fought and won the battles.  The Duke of Thunder was a fine title to fight under.  A name has frequently done more damage to a foe than glittering bayonets.  But Nelson in no degree had the thunder element in him, so far as we are able to judge by the descriptions given to us of him.  He was a dashing, courageous, scientific genius, gifted with natural instincts, disciplinary wisdom, deplorable sentimentality, and an artificial, revengeful spirit of hatred that probably became real under the arbitrary circumstances of war, but, I should say, was rarely prominent.  His roaming attacks on the French were probably used more for effect, and had, we hope, only a superficial meaning.  But be that as it may, it detracts from the dignity of an officer occupying, as he did, a distinguished position to use language and phrases such as are common in the forecastle or on the quarterdeck of a sailing merchantman in the early days before the introduction of steamers.  Here are a few quite amusing outbursts which do not produce the impression of coming from a person known to fame as the Duke of Thunder:—­On the 1st October, 1801, the preliminaries of peace with France were signed.  When Nelson heard of it he thanked God, and went on to say, “We lay down our arms, and are ready to take them up again if the French are insolent.”  He declares there is no one in the world more desirous of peace than he is, but that he would “burst sooner than let any damned Frenchman know it.”  But it was too much for his anti-French sentiments when he heard that their Ambassador’s carriage had been dragged by the London mob.  He wrote to his medical man, and asked if he could cure madness, for he had gone mad to learn “that our damned scoundrels dragged a Frenchman’s carriage.”  And he hoped nevermore to be dragged by such a degenerate crowd; which was exhibiting in a characteristic way his high opinion of himself.  “Would our ancestors have done it?” he asks, and then continues:  “The villains would have drawn Buonaparte if he had been able to get to London to cut the king’s head off.”  The writer has a definite opinion that Bonaparte would have had a boisterous reception, and that it might have cemented a friendship that would have been a blessing to the tired world, and especially to the two warring nations.