That letter, I imagine, is quite characteristic of him: It has no fine phrases or deep reflections, but everything is put down just as it comes to his recollection-most of it is like the description of a big football match, written by a boy to his brother. And this natural enough, for in spite of all the peerages and diamond stars, he still kept at 59 the best qualities of his boyhood: and here he is, at the end of his last adventure, standing on the poop of his flagship, with his cheek plastered, and his leg bandaged, and his spectacles broken, and his coat “all cut up by musket balls and by grape,” talking jovially at two in the morning about his nine hrs’ battle-the same quick, masterful, warm-blooded fellow as that long ago midshipman, “young Edward Pellew.”
The Book of the Blue Sea by Sir Henry John Newbolt
is it your intention, Sir Henry, to make me fall in love in Pellew? because you succeeded six stories earlier, now I just can’t handle the words ‘last battle.‘