Quite a triumphal entry. Such is power; Now worshipped, now accursed! The overthrow Of all Pitt's European policy When his hired army and his chosen general Surrendered them at Ulm a month ago, Is now forgotten! Ay; this Trafalgar Will botch up many a ragged old repute, Make Nelson figure as domestic saint No less than country's saviour, Pitt exalt As zenith-star of England's firmament, And uncurse all the bogglers of her weal At this adventurous time. THIRD CITIZEN Talk of Pitt being ill. He looks hearty as a buck. FIRST CITIZEN It's the news--no more. His spirits are up like a rocket for the moment. BOY Is it because Trafalgar is near Portugal that he loves Port wine? SECOND CITIZEN Ah, as I said, friend; this boy must go home and be carefully put to bed! FIRST CITIZEN Well, whatever William's faults, it is a triumph for his virtues to-night! [PITT having disappeared, the Guildhall doors are closed, and the crowd slowly disperses, till in the course of an hour the street shows itself empty and dark, only a few oil lamps burning. The SCENE OPENS, revealing the interior of the Guildhall, and the brilliant assembly of City magnates, Lords, and Ministers seated there, Mr. PITT occupying a chair of honour by the Lord Mayor. His health has been proposed as that of the Saviour of England, and drunk with acclamations.] PITT [standing up after repeated calls] My lords and gentlemen:--You have toasted me As one who has saved England and her cause. I thank you, gentlemen, unfeignedly. But--no man has saved England, let me say: England has saved herself, by her exertions: She will, I trust, save Europe by her example! [Loud applause, during which he sits down, rises, and sits down again. The scene then shuts, and the night without has place.] SPIRIT OF THE YEARS Those words of this man Pitt--his last large words, As I may prophesy--that ring to-night In their first mintage to the feasters here, Will spread with ageing, lodge, and crystallize, And stand embedded in the English tongue Till it grow thin, outworn, and cease to be.-- So is't ordained by That Which all ordains; For words were never winged with apter grace. Or blent with happier choice of time and place, To hold the imagination of this strenuous race. SCENE VI[10] AN INN AT RENNES [Night. A sleeping-chamber. Two candles are burning near a bed in an alcove, and writing-materials are on the table. The French admiral, VILLENEUVE, partly undressed, is pacing up and down the room.] VILLENEUVE