rather Britain's pride, her glory, her hero, the greatest man she had ever produced, was no morel." For such were here reflections upon the "old rebel" of former days. But that past had been utterly obliterated—no faintest memory of it remained. For years she had looked up to the Duke as a figure almost superhuman. Had he not been a supporter of good Sir Robert? Had he not asked Albert to succeed him as commander-in-chief? And what a proud moment it had been when he stood as sponsor to her son Arthur, who was born on his eighty-first birthday! So now she filled a whole page of her diary with panegyrical regrets. "His position was the highest a subject ever had—above party—looked up to by all—revered by the whole nation—the friend of the Sovereign . . . The Crown never possessed—and I fear never will—so devoted, loyal, and faithful a subject, so staunch a supporter! To us his loss is irreparable . . . To Albert he showed the greatest kindness and the utmost confidence . . . Not an eye will be dry in the whole country."[1] These were serious thoughts; but they were soon succeeded by others hardly less moving—by events as impossible to forget—by Mr. MacLeod's sermon on Nicodemus—by the gift of a
- ↑ Leaves, 92–4
