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Among those who assembled round his grave were some of the greatest men of thought and action in England, who embraced the sad occasion to pay the last mark of their respect to this illustrious son of one of England’s greatest working men.
It should have made him feel, that England’s triumph, and increased dominion, could not compensate to mankind, nor atone to Heaven, for the ashes of a single Acadian cottage. But it is not thus that statesmen and warriors moralize. "Grandfather," cried Laurence, with emotion trembling in his voice, "did iron-hearted War itself ever do so hard and cruel a thing as this before?"
Hail to thee, six-foot Englishman of the brown eye, worthy to have carried a six-foot bow at Flodden, where England’s yeomen triumphed over Scotland’s king, his clans and chivalry.
If we only had the power of inquiring into the matter, we should find not only that each individual creature that once inhabited one of the minute shells that go to the building of England’s fortress walls of chalk was absolutely unlike all the others, but that even the poor microbe himself, who in these days is so maligned, is also very intensely an individual.
Seventhly, He abuseth the Parliament by arrogating so much to himself, as that his sermon “will, in the end, take away all difference, and settle union,” p. 3; and that his Model will be, when he is dead, “the model of England’s church government,” as he saith in his postscript. Whether this be prophesying or presuming I hope we are free to judge.
“It is on sand alone,” said Borrow, “that the sea strikes its true music—Norfolk sand.” “The best of the sea’s lutes,” chimed in the artful Watts, “is made by the sands of Cromer.” The eighteenth century had almost run its course when the exigencies of England’s conflict with the French brought Thomas Borrow, a stalwart Cornishman, into East Anglia, on recruiting service.
P. G. Hamerton, England’s safest and surest critic of art, writing a generation ago on the “Relation between Photography and Painting,” says: “But all good painting, however literal, however pre-Raphaelite or topographic, is full of human feeling and emotion.
Hail to thee, last of England’s bruisers, after all the many victories which thou hast achieved—true English victories, unbought by yellow gold; need I recount them? nay, nay! they are already well known to fame—sufficient to say that Bristol’s Bull and Ireland’s Champion were vanquished by thee, and one mightier still, gold itself, thou didst overcome; for gold itself strove in vain to deaden the power of thy arm; and thus thou didst proceed till men left off challenging thee, the unvanquishable, the incorruptible. ’Tis a treat to see thee, Tom of Bedford, in thy ‘public’ in Holborn way, whither thou hast retired with thy well-earned bays. ’Tis Friday night, and nine by Holborn clock.
Let no one sneer at the bruisers of England—what were the gladiators of Rome, or the bull-fighters of Spain, in its palmiest days, compared to England’s bruisers? Pity that ever corruption should have crept in amongst them—but of that I wish not to talk; let us still hope that a spark of the old religion, of which they were the priests, still lingers in the breasts of Englishmen.
Pretty quiet D , with thy venerable church, in which moulder the mortal remains of England’s sweetest and most pious bard. Yes, pretty D , I could always love thee, were it but for the sake of him who sleeps beneath the marble slab in yonder quiet chancel.
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