It had been part of Nelson’s prayer that the British fleet might be distinguished by humanity in the victory which he expected. Setting an example himself, he twice gave orders to cease firing upon the Redoubtable, supposing that she had struck, because her great guns were silent; for, as she carried no flag, there was no means of instantly ascertaining the fact.
From this ship, which he had thus twice spared, he received his death. A ball fired from her mizzen-top, which, in the then situation of the two vessels, was not more than fifteen yards from that part of the deck where he was standing, struck the epaulette on his left shoulder,—about a quarter after one, just in the heat of the action. He fell upon his face, on the spot which was covered with his poor secretary’s blood. Hardy, who was a few steps from him, turning round, saw three men raising him up.
“They have done for me at last, Hardy,” said he.
“I hope not!” cried Hardy.
“Yes,” he replied; “my backbone is shot through.”
Yet even now, not for a moment losing his presence of mind, he observed, as they were carrying him down the ladder, that the tiller ropes, which had been shot away, were not yet replaced, and ordered that new ones should be rove immediately:—then, that he might not be seen by the crew, he took out his handkerchief, and covered his face and his stars.—Had he but concealed these badges of honour from the enemy, England, perhaps, would not have had cause to receive with sorrow the news of the battle of Trafalgar.
The cockpit was crowded with wounded and dying men, over whose bodies he was with some difficulty conveyed, and laid upon a pallet in the midshipmen’s berth. It was soon perceived, upon examination, that the wound was mortal. This, however, was concealed from all, except Captain Hardy, the chaplain, and the medical attendants. He himself being certain, from the sensation in his back, and the gush of blood which he felt momently within his breast, that no human care could avail him, insisted that the surgeon should leave him, and attend to those to whom he might be useful: “For,” said he, “you can do nothing for me.”
All that could be done was to fan him with paper, and frequently to give him lemonade, to alleviate his intense thirst. He was in great pain, and expressed much anxiety for the event of the action, which now began to declare itself. As often as a ship struck, the crew of the Victory hurrahed, and at every hurrah a visible expression of joy gleamed in the eyes, and marked the countenance of the dying hero. But he became impatient to see Captain Hardy; and as that officer, though often sent for, could not leave the deck, Nelson feared that some fatal cause prevented him, and repeatedly cried: “Will no one bring Hardy to me? He must be killed! He surely is dead!”
An hour and ten minutes elapsed, from the time when Nelson received his wound, before Hardy could come to him. They shook hands in silence: Hardy in vain struggling to suppress the feelings of that most painful, and yet sublimest moment.
“Well, Hardy,” said Nelson, “how goes the day with us?”
“Very well,” replied Hardy. “Ten ships have struck, but five of their van have tacked, and show an intention of bearing down upon the Victory. I have called two or three of our fresh ships round, and have no doubt of giving them a drubbing.”
“I hope,” said Nelson, “none of our ships struck.”
Hardy answered, “There was no fear of that.”
Then and not till then, Nelson spoke of himself.
“I am a dead man, Hardy,” he said; “I am going fast; it will be all over with me soon. Come nearer to me. My back is shot through. Beatty will tell you so.”
Captain Hardy then once more shook hands with him; and, with a heart almost bursting, hastened upon deck. By this time all feeling below the breast was gone, and Nelson, having made the surgeon ascertain this, said: “You know I am gone. I know it. I feel something rising in my breast”—putting his hand to his left side—“which tells me so.” And upon Beatty’s inquiring whether his pain was very great, he replied, “So great that I wish I was dead. Yet,” said he, in a lower voice, “one would like to live a little longer, too!”
Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he had left the cockpit, returned; and, again taking the hand of his dying friend and commander, congratulated him upon having gained a complete victory. How many of the enemy were taken he did not know, as it was impossible to perceive them distinctly—but fourteen or fifteen of them at least.
“That’s well,” cried Nelson; “but I bargained for twenty.” And then, in a stronger voice, he said, “Anchor, Hardy; anchor.”
Hardy upon this, hinted that Admiral Collingwood would take upon himself the direction of affairs.
“Not while I live, Hardy!” said the dying Nelson, ineffectually endeavouring to raise himself from the bed; “do you anchor.”
His previous order for preparing to anchor had shown how clearly he foresaw the necessity of this. Presently, calling Hardy back, he said to him in a low voice, “Don’t throw me overboard”; and he desired that he might be buried by his parents, unless it should please the king to order otherwise.
Then, reverting to his private feelings: “Kiss me, Hardy,” said he. Hardy knelt down and kissed his cheek: and Nelson said, “Now I am satisfied. Thank God, I have done my duty.”
Hardy stood over him in silence for a minute or two; then knelt again, and kissed his forehead.
“Who is that?” said Nelson; and being informed, he replied, “God bless you, Hardy.” And Hardy then left him forever.
Nelson now desired to be turned on his right side, and said: “I wish I had not left the deck; for I shall soon be gone.”
Death was, indeed, rapidly approaching. He said to his chaplain: “Doctor, I have not been a great sinner.” His articulation now became difficult; but he was distinctly heard to say, “Thank God, I have done my duty!” These words he had repeatedly pronounced; and they were the last words he uttered. He expired at thirty minutes after four,—three hours and a quarter after he had received his wound.
Within a quarter of an hour after Nelson was wounded, above fifty of the Victory’s men fell by the enemy’s musketry. They, however, on their part, were not idle; and it was not long before there were only two Frenchmen left alive in the mizzen-top of the Redoubtable. One of them was the man who had given the fatal wound: he did not live to boast of what he had done. An old quartermaster had seen him fire; and easily recognized him, because he wore a glazed cocked hat and a white frock. This quartermaster, and two midshipmen, Mr. Collingwood and Mr. Pollard, were the only persons left on the Victory’s poop; the two midshipmen kept firing at the top, and he supplied them with cartridges. One of the Frenchmen, attempting to make his escape down the rigging, was shot by Mr. Pollard, and fell on the poop. But the old quartermaster, as he cried out, “That’s he, that’s he,” and pointed at the other, who was coming forward to fire again, received a shot in his mouth, and fell dead. Both the midshipmen then fired, at the same time, and the fellow dropped in the top. When they took possession of the prize, they went into the mizzen-top, and found him dead; with one ball through his head, and another through his breast.
The Redoubtable struck within twenty minutes after the fatal shot had been fired from her. During that time she had been twice on fire,—in her fore-chains and in her forecastle. The French, as they had done in other battles, made use, in this, of fireballs and other combustibles—implements of destruction which other nations, from a sense of honour and humanity, have laid aside—which add to the sufferings of the wounded, without determining the issue of the combat—which none but the cruel would employ, and which never can be successful against the brave.
Once they succeeded in setting fire, from the Redoubtable, to some ropes and canvas on the Victory’s booms. The cry ran through the ship, and reached the cockpit; but even this dreadful cry produced no confusion: the men displayed that perfect self-possession in danger by which English seamen are characterized; they extinguished the flames on board their own ship, and then hastened to extinguish them in the enemy, by throwing buckets of water from the gangway. When the Redoubtable had struck, it was not practicable to board her from the Victory; for, though the two ships touched, the upper works of both fell in so much, that there was a great space between their gangways; and she could not be boarded from the lower or middle decks, because her ports were down. Some of our men went to Lieutenant Quilliam, and offered to swim under her bows and get up there; but it was thought unfit to hazard brave lives in this manner.
What our men would have done from gallantry, some of the crew of the Santissima Trinidad did to save themselves. Unable to stand the tremendous fire of the Victory, whose larboard guns played against this great four-decker, and not knowing how else to escape them, nor where else to betake themselves for protection, many of them leapt overboard, and swam to the Victory; and were actually helped up her sides by the English during the action.
The Spaniards began the battle with less vivacity than their unworthy allies, but they continued it with greater firmness. The Argonauta and Bahama were defended till they had each lost about four hundred men; the San Juan Nepomuceno lost three hundred and fifty. Often as the superiority of British courage has been proved against France upon the sea, it was never more conspicuous than in this decisive conflict. Five of our ships were engaged muzzle to muzzle with five of the French. In all five Frenchmen lowered their lower-deck ports, and deserted their guns; while our men continued deliberately to load and fire, till they had made the victory secure.
Once, amid his sufferings, Nelson had expressed a wish that he were dead; but immediately the spirit subdued the pains of death, and he wished to live a little longer; doubtless that he might hear the completion of the victory which he had seen so gloriously begun. That consolation—that joy—that triumph was afforded him. He lived to know that the victory was decisive; and the last guns which were fired at the flying enemy were heard a minute or two before he expired.
The total British loss in the battle of Trafalgar amounted to 1,587. Twenty of the enemy struck,—unhappily the fleet did not anchor, as Nelson, almost with his dying breath, had enjoined,—a gale came on from the southwest; some of the prizes went down, some went on shore; one effected its escape into Cadiz; others were destroyed; four only were saved, and those by the greatest exertions. The wounded Spaniards were sent ashore, an assurance being given that they should not serve till regularly exchanged; and the Spaniards, with a generous feeling, which would not, perhaps, have been found in any other people, offered the use of their hospitals for our wounded, pledging the honour of Spain that they should be carefully attended there. When the storm after the action drove some of the prizes upon the coast, they declared that the English, who were thus thrown into their hands, should not be considered as prisoners of war; and the Spanish soldiers gave up their own beds to their shipwrecked enemies.
It is almost superfluous to add that all the honors which a grateful country could bestow were heaped upon the memory of Nelson. A public funeral was decreed, and a public monument. Statues and monuments also were voted by most of our principal cities. The leaden coffin, in which he was brought home, was cut in pieces, which were distributed as relics of Saint Nelson,—so the gunner of the Victory called them,—and when, at his interment, his flag was about to be lowered into the grave, the sailors who had assisted at the ceremony, with one accord rent it in pieces, that each might preserve a fragment while he lived.
The death of Nelson was felt in England as something more than a public calamity: men started at the intelligence, and turned pale, as if they had heard of the loss of a dear friend. An object of our admiration and affection, of our pride and of our hopes, was suddenly taken from us; and it seemed as if we had never, till then, known how deeply we loved and reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great naval hero—the greatest of our own, and of all former times—was scarcely taken into the account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part, that the maritime war, after the Battle of Trafalgar, was considered at an end; the fleets of the enemy were not merely defeated, but destroyed; new navies must be built, and a new race of seamen reared for them, before the possibility of their invading our shores could again be contemplated.
CASABIANCA
By Felicia Hemans
Note.—Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire and all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood.
A proud though childlike form.
The flames rolled on; he would not go
Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud, “Say, father, say,
If yet my task be done?”
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
“Speak, father!” once again he cried,
“If I may yet be gone!”
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair;
And shouted but once more aloud,
“My father! must I stay?”
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound;
The boy,—Oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,—
With shroud and mast and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,—
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart.
THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN’S NEST
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Little Ellie sits alone
’Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side on the grass,
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.
She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water’s flow;
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.
Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly uses
Fills the silence like a speech,
While she thinks what shall be done,
And the sweetest pleasure chooses
For her future within reach.
Little Ellie in her smile
Chooses, “I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds:
He shall love me without guile,
And to him I will discover
The swan’s nest among the reeds.
“And the steed shall be red roan,
And the lover shall be noble,
With an eye that takes the breath.
And the lute316-1 he plays upon
Shall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to death.
“And the steed it shall be shod
All in silver, housed in azure;316-2
And the mane shall swim the wind;
And the hoofs along the sod
Shall flash onward, and keep measure,
Till the shepherds look behind.
“But my lover will not prize
All the glory that he rides in,
When he gazes in my face.
He will say, ‘O Love, thine eyes
Build the shrine my soul abides in,
And I kneel here for thy grace!’
“Then, aye, then shall he kneel low,
With the red-roan steed anear him,
Which shall seem to understand,
Till I answer, ‘Rise and go!
For the world must love and fear him
Whom I gift with heart and hand.’
“Then he will arise so pale,
I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a yes I must not say:
Nathless317-3 maiden-brave, ‘Farewell,’
I will utter, and dissemble—
‘Light to-morrow with to-day!’
“Then he’ll ride among the hills
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong,
To make straight distorted wills,
And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.
“Three times shall a young foot page
Swim the stream, and climb the mountain,
And kneel down beside my feet:
‘Lo! my master sends this gage,317-4
Lady, for thy pity’s counting.
What wilt thou exchange for it?’
“And the first time I will send
A white rosebud for a guerdon—317-5
And the second time, a glove;
But the third time—I may bend
From my pride, and answer—‘Pardon,
If he comes to take my love.’
“Then the young foot page will run—
Then my lover will ride faster,
Till he kneeleth at my knee:
‘I am a duke’s eldest son!
Thousand serfs do call me master,—
But, O Love, I love but thee!’”...
Little Ellie, with her smile
Not yet ended, rose up gayly,
Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,
And went homeward, round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,
What more eggs were with the two.
Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding up the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads,
Past the boughs she stoops, and stops.
Lo! the wild swan had deserted,
And a rat had gnawed the reeds!
Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not; but I know
She could never show him—never,
That swan’s nest among the reeds.
Mrs. Browning tells us very little of Ellie directly, yet she leaves us with a charming picture of an innocent, imaginative, romantic child. Ellie has been reading or listening to tales of knight-errantry, and her mind is full of them, so that the “sweetest pleasure ... for her future” is a lover riding straight out of one of the romances. That she is only a child, with a child’s ideas, we may see from the fact that she can think, in her simplicity, of no greater reward for her noble lover than a sight of the swan’s nest among the reeds, of which she alone knows.
Mrs. Browning’s purpose in writing this little story in verse was to show us how suddenly and how rudely unpleasant facts can break in upon our dreams. Ellie could never show her lover the swan’s nest, as she had planned; and we are left with the feeling that she never found the lover of whom she dreamed—that all of her dream proved as false as the beautiful thought about the swan’s nest.
316-1 It would seem strange to us now if a soldier rode about playing upon a lute; but in the old days of chivalry about which little Ellie had been reading, it was looked upon as almost necessary for a knight to be able to play and sing sweet songs to his lady.
316-2 The saddle-cloth or housing of the medieval knights was sometimes very large and gorgeous.
317-3 Nathless is an old word meaning nevertheless. Mrs. Browning uses an occasional old word, in order to give the atmosphere of the tales of chivalry.
317-4 The gage was a cap or glove, or some other symbol to show that he had performed the deeds which Ellie had demanded of him.
317-5 Guerdon means reward.
THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT
By Robert Burns
Note.—There are many homes we like to visit in imagination, even if we cannot really go into them. It does not matter so much if they are not the homes of people in our own country who live as we do. For instance, Robert Burns described so well for us once the simple little home of a poor Scotch farmer that we read his words again and again with pleasure. It is such a poor little place, low-walled, thatched-roofed, part stable, that it would be unpleasant to us if we did not see it full of the spirit that makes true homes everywhere. The hard-working old farmer, his faithful wife, their industrious children, the oldest girl Jenny and her lover, all seem to us like very real people, whose joys and griefs are ours as much as theirs. We should like to sit with them at their humble table, to join in the good old hymns, and finally to kneel among them while the gentle old man said the evening prayer. We would not notice their homely clothes, coarse hands and simple, unscholarly language, for their real manliness and womanliness would win our esteem and love.
On the pages that follow we have printed the poem as Burns wrote it, except for some few stanzas it has seemed best to omit. The first nine stanzas contain many Scottish words and expressions, but after the ninth stanza, Burns uses plain English. It was a habit he had of writing sometimes in Scotch dialect and sometimes in fine English. People who have studied his work say that when he speaks right from his heart and because he really cannot help writing, he uses the dialect, but when he tries to teach a lesson, to advise any one, or to moralize, he always uses the English phraseology.
I
November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh;320-1
The short’ning winter day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae320-2 the pleugh;320-3
The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose:
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes,
This night his weekly moil320-4 is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks,320-5 and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
II
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree:
Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin’ stacher320-6 thro’
To meet their dad, wi’ flichterin’320-7 noise an’ glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin’ bonnily,
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie’s smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a’ his weary carking320-8 cares beguile,
An’ makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
III
Belyve,321-9 the elder bairns come drappin’ in.
At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
Some ca’321-10 the pleugh, some herd, some tentie321-11 rin
A cannie321-12 errand to a neebor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu’ bloom, love sparklin in her e’e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw321-13 new gown,
Or deposit her sair-won322-14 penny fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
IV
Wi’ joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers:322-15
The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnoticed fleet;
Each tells the uncos322-16 that he sees or hears;
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother, wi’ her needle an’ her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;322-17
The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.
V
Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command,
The younkers322-18 a’ are warned to obey:
“An’ mind their labours wi’ an eydent322-19 hand,
An’ ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk322-20 or play:
An’ O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!
An’ mind your duty, duly, morn an’ night!
Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,
Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright!”
VI
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam’ o’er the moor,
To do some errands and convoy her hame.323-21
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e,323-22 and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins323-23 is afraid to speak;
Weel pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae323-24 wild, worthless rake.
VII
Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben:323-25
A strappin’ youth; he takes the mother’s eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en;323-26
The father cracks323-27 of horses, pleughs, and kye.323-28
The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
But blate323-29 and laithfu’,323-30 scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae323-31 bashfu’ an’ sae grave;
Weel pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.323-32
VIII
But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch,324-33 chief o’ Scotia’s food:
The sowpe324-34 their only Hawkie324-35 does afford,
That ’yont the hallan324-36 snugly chows her cood;324-37
The dame brings forth in complimental mood
To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d324-38 kebbuck324-39 fell—
An’ aft he’s prest, an’ aft he ca’s it guid;324-40
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How ’twas a towmond324-41 auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell;324-42
IX
The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o’er, wi’ patriarchal grace,
The big ha’-Bible,324-43 ance324-44 his father’s pride:
His bonnet324-45 rev’rently is laid aside,
His lyart324-46 haffets324-47 wearing thin an’ bare:
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales325-48 a portion with judicious care;
And “Let us worship God!” he says, with solemn air.
X
They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
Perhaps Dundee’s wild warbling measures rise
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,
Or noble Elgin beats the heav’nward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays.
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl’d ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise.
XI
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heav’n’s avenging ire;
Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
XII
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head;
How his first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.
XIII
Then kneeling down, to Heaven’s Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope “springs exultant on triumphant wing:”
That thus they all shall meet in future days
There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
XIV
Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide,
Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart!
The Pow’r, incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But, haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul;
And in the book of life the inmates poor enroll.
XV
Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That He, who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride,
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.