They say he's brokenhearted."
But Mr. Hamilton had no eye for celebrities. He was thinking rather of
those plain mourners from the west, and of the poorest house in Washington
decked with black. This is a true national sorrow, he thought. He had been
brought up as a boy from Eton to see Wellington's funeral, and the sight
had not impressed him like this. For the recent months had awakened odd
emotions in his orderly and somewhat cynical soul. He had discovered a
hero.
The three bared their heads as the long line filed by. Mr. Lowell said
nothing. Now and then he pulled at his moustaches as if to hide some
emotion which clamoured for expression. The mourners passed into the
Capitol, while the bells still tolled and the guns boomed. The cavalry
escort formed up on guard; from below came the sound of sharp commands.
Mr. Hamilton was shaken out of the admirable detachment which he had
cultivated. He wanted to sit down and sob like a child. Some brightness had
died in the air, some great thing had gone for ever from the world and left
it empty.
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