What a fine, expressive, and commanding face!
If Frank Darling had been a Frenchman--which he sometimes longed to be,
for the sake of that fair Liberty--the scene, instead of being awkward,
would have been elegant, rapturous, ennobling. But being of the clumsy
English race, he was quite at a loss what to do with himself. On paper
he could be effusive, ardent, eloquent, sentimental; but not a bit of
that to meet the world in his own waistcoat. He gave a swing to his
stick, and walked across the opening as if he were looking at sea-gulls.
And on he would have walked without further notice, except a big gulp in
his throat, if it had not been for a trifling accident.
Somehow or other the recitative gentleman's hat turned over to the wind,
and that active body (which never neglects any sportive opportunity) got
into the crown, with the speed of an upstart, and made off with it along
the stones. A costly hat it was, and comely with rich braid and satin
loops, becoming also to a well-shaped head, unlike the chimney-pot of
the present day, which any man must thank God for losing. However, the
owner was so wrapped up in poetry that his breeches might have gone
without his being any wiser.
"Sir," said Frank Darling, after chasing the hat (which could not
trundle as our pots do, combining every possible absurdity), "excuse me
for interrupting you, but this appears to be your hat, and it was on its
way to a pool of salt-water.
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