FOOTNOTES:

Attend, all ye who list to hear our nobleEngland's praise;I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wroughtin ancient days,When that great fleet invincible against herbore in vainThe richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutesthearts of Spain.It was about the lovely close of a warm summerday,There came a gallant merchant-ship full sailto Plymouth Bay;Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet,beyond Aurigny's isle,[2]At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heavingmany a mile.At sunrise she escaped their van, by God'sespecial grace;And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had heldher close in chase.Forthwith a guard at every gun was placedalong the wall;The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe'slofty hall;Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry alongthe coast,And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inlandmany a post.With his white hair unbonneted, the stout oldsheriff comes;Behind him march the halberdiers; before himsound the drums;His yeomen, round the market-cross, make clearan ample space;For there behoves him to set up the standardof Her Grace.And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gailydance the bells,As slow upon the labouring wind the royalblazon swells.Look how the lion of the sea lifts up hisancient crown,And underneath his deadly paw treads the gaylilies down.So stalked he when he turned to flight on thatfamed Picard field,[3]Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar'seagle shield:So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath heturned to bay,And crushed and torn beneath his claws theprincely hunters lay.Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, Sir Knight: ho!scatter flowers, fair maids:Ho! gunners fire a loud salute: ho! gallants,draw your blades:Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezeswaft her wide;Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, the banner of ourpride.The freshening breeze of eve unfurled thatbanner's massy fold;The parting gleam of sunshine kissed the haughtyscroll of gold;Night sank upon the dusky beach and on thepurple sea,Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'eragain shall be.From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn toMilford Bay,That time of slumber was as bright and busy asthe day;For swift to east and swift to west the ghastlywar-flame spread;High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shoneon Beachy Head.Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along eachsouthern shire,Cape beyond cape, in endless range, thosetwinkling points of fire.The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar'sglittering waves:The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip'ssunless caves:O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks,the fiery herald flew:He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, therangers of Beaulieu.Right sharp and quick the bells all night rangout from Bristol town,And ere the day three hundred horse had met onClifton down;The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forthinto the night,And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streakof blood-red light.Then bugle's note and cannon's roar thedeathlike silence broke,And with one start, and with one cry, the royalcity woke.At once on all her stately gates arose theanswering fires;At once the wild alarum clashed from all herreeling spires;From all the batteries of the Tower pealedloud the voice of fear;And all the thousand masts of Thames sent backa louder cheer;And from the farthest wards was heard the rushof hurrying feet,And the broad streams of pikes and flags rusheddown each roaring street;And broader still became the blaze, and louderstill the din,As fast from every village round the horse camespurring in:And eastward straight from wild Blackheath thewarlike errand went,And roused in many an ancient hall the gallantsquires of Kent.Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flewthose bright couriers forth;High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor theystarted for the North;And on, and on, without a pause, untired thebounded still:All night from tower to tower they sprang—theysprang from hill to hill:Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'erDarwin's rocky dales,Till like volcanoes flared to Heaven the stormyhills of Wales,Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze onMalvern's lonely height,Till streamed in crimson on the wind theWrekin's crest of light,Till broad and fierce the star came forth onEly's stately fane,And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all theboundless plain;Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign toLincoln sent,And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the widevale of Trent;Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt'sembattled pile,And the red glare of Skiddaw roused the burghersof Carlisle.

Macaulay

FOOTNOTES:[2]Alderney.[3]Cressy.

[2]Alderney.

[3]Cressy.

Nelson, having despatched his business at Portsmouth, endeavoured to elude the populace by taking a by-way to the beach, but a crowd collected in his train, pressing forward to obtain a sight of his face: many were in tears, and many knelt down before him and blessed him as he passed. England has had many heroes, but never one who so entirely possessed the love of his fellow-countrymen as Nelson. All men knew that his heart was as humane as it was fearless; that there was not in his nature the slightest alloy of selfishness or cupidity; but that, with perfect and entire devotion, he served his country with all his heart, and with all his soul, and with all his strength; and therefore, they loved him as truly and as fervently as he loved England. They pressed upon the parapet to gaze after him when his barge pushed off, and he returned their cheers by waving his hat.The sentinels, who endeavoured to prevent them from trespassing upon this ground, were wedged among the crowd; and an officer who, not very prudently upon such an occasion, ordered them to drive the people down with their bayonets, was compelled speedily to retreat; for the people would not be debarred from gazing till the last moment upon the hero—the darling hero of England!

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 on the Redoubtable, supposing that she had struck, because her 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 epaulet on his left shoulder, about a quarter after one, just in the heat of 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, sawthree 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 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 whomhe 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 each hurrah, a visible expression of joy gleamed in the eyes and marked the countenance of the dying hero. But he became impatient to see 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 is surely 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 sublime moment. "Well, Hardy," said Nelson, "how goes the day with us?" "Very well," replied Hardy: "ten ships have struck, but five of the van have tacked and show an intention to bear down upon the Victory. I have called two or three of our fresh ships round, and haveno doubt of giving them a drubbing." "I hope," said Nelson, "none of our ships have struck." Hardy answered, "There is no fear of that." Then, and not till then, Nelson spoke of himself. "I am a dead man, Hardy," said he; "I am going fast; it will be all over with me soon." Hardy observed that he hoped Mr. Beatty could yet hold out some prospect of life. "Oh, no," he replied; "it is impossible. My back is shot through. Beatty will tell you so." 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 to him: "You know I am gone. I know it. I feel something rising in my breast," putting his hand on his left side, "which tells me so." And upon Beatty's inquiring whether his pain was very great, he replied, it was so great that he wished he was dead. "Yet," he added 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 on having gained a completevictory. How many of the enemy were taken he did not know, as it was impossible to perceive them distinctly, but fourteen or fifteen at least. "That's well," said Nelson; "but I bargained for twenty." And then, in a stronger voice, he said, "Anchor, Hardy, anchor." Hardy, thereupon, 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 orders for preparing to anchor had shown how clearly he foresaw the necessity for 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 beside his parents, unless it should please the king to order otherwise. Then reverting to 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 moment 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 for ever.

Nelson now desired to be turned upon his right side, and said, "I wish I had not left the deck, for I shall soon be gone." Death was, indeed, rapidly approaching. His articulation now became difficult, but he was distinctly heard to say, "Thank God, I have done my duty!" These words he repeatedly pronounced, and they were the last words which he uttered. He expired at thirty minutes after four, three hours and a quarter after he had received his wound.

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 near 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—they were 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. It was not, therefore, from any selfish reflection upon the magnitude of our loss that we mourned for him; the general sorrow was of a higher character.

The people of England grieved that the funeral ceremonies, and public monuments, and posthumous rewards, were all that they could now bestow upon him whom the king, the legislature and the nation would have alike delighted to honour; whom every tongue would have blessed; whose presence in every village through which he might have passed would have awakened the church bells, have given school-boys a holiday, have drawn children from their sports to gaze upon him, and "old men from the chimney-corner" to look upon Nelson ere they died.

The victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with the usual forms of rejoicing, but they were without joy; for such already was the glory of the British navy, through Nelson's surpassing genius, that it scarcely seemed to receive any addition from the most signal victory that ever was achieved upon the seas. The destruction of this mighty fleet, by which all the maritime schemes of France were totally frustrated, hardly appeared to add to our security and strength;for while Nelson was living to watch the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves as secure as now, when they were no longer in existence.

There was reason to suppose, from the appearances upon opening his body, that in the course of nature he might have attained, like his father, to a good old age. Yet he cannot be said to have fallen prematurely whose work was done; nor ought he to be lamented who died so full of honours, and at the height of human fame. The most triumphant death is that of the martyr; the most awful, that of the martyred patriot; the most splendid, that of the hero in the hour of victory; and if the chariot and the horses of fire had been vouchsafed for Nelson's translation, he could scarcely have departed in a brighter blaze of glory. He has left us, not indeed a mantle of inspiration, but a name and an example which are at this moment inspiring thousands of the youth of England—a name which is our pride, and an example which will continue to be our shield and strength. Thus it is that spirits of the great and the wise continue to live and to act after them.

Southey

England expects that every man will do his duty.

Nelson

There was a sound of revelry by night,And Belgium's capital had gathered thenHer Beauty and her Chivalry, and brightThe lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;A thousand hearts beat happily; and whenMusic arose with its voluptuous swell,Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,And all went merry as a marriage bell;But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!Within a windowed niche of that high hallSate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hearThat sound, the first amidst the festival,And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;And when they smiled because he deemed it near,His heart more truly knew that peal too wellWhich stretched his father on a bloody bier,And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlushed at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne'er might be repeated: who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star;While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering, with white lips—"The foe! They come! they come!"And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hillsHave heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:—How in the noon of night that pibroch thrillsSavage and shrill! But with the breath which fillsTheir mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring which instilsThe stirring memory of a thousand years,And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,Over the unreturning brave,—alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grassWhich now beneath them, but above shall growIn its next verdure, when this fiery massOf living valour, rolling on the foe,And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,The morn the marshalling in arms,—the dayBattle's magnificently stern array!The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rentThe earth is covered thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!

Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meetTo chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,As if the clouds its echo would repeat;And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hallSate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hearThat sound, the first amidst the festival,And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;And when they smiled because he deemed it near,His heart more truly knew that peal too wellWhich stretched his father on a bloody bier,And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,And cheeks all pale, which but an hour agoBlushed at the praise of their own loveliness;And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne'er might be repeated: who could guessIf ever more should meet those mutual eyes,Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;And near, the beat of the alarming drumRoused up the soldier ere the morning star;While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,Or whispering, with white lips—"The foe! They come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hillsHave heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:—How in the noon of night that pibroch thrillsSavage and shrill! But with the breath which fillsTheir mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineersWith the fierce native daring which instilsThe stirring memory of a thousand years,And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,Over the unreturning brave,—alas!Ere evening to be trodden like the grassWhich now beneath them, but above shall growIn its next verdure, when this fiery massOf living valour, rolling on the foe,And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,The morn the marshalling in arms,—the dayBattle's magnificently stern array!The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rentThe earth is covered thick with other clay,Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!

Byron: "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."

Show me the man you honour; I know by that symptom better than by any other, what kind of a man you are yourself; for you show me what your ideal of manhood is, what kind of a man you long to be.

Carlyle

WATERING THE HORSESWATERING THE HORSES

How sleep the brave who sink to restBy all their country's wishes blest!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallowed mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.By fairy hands their knell is rung,By forms unseen their dirge is sung;There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,To bless the turf that wraps their clay;And Freedom shall awhile repair,To dwell a weeping hermit there!

By fairy hands their knell is rung,By forms unseen their dirge is sung;There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,To bless the turf that wraps their clay;And Freedom shall awhile repair,To dwell a weeping hermit there!

William Collins

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,Assiduous wait upon her;And gather gear by ev'ry wileThat's justified by honour;Not for to hide it in a hedge,Nor for a train attendant,But for the glorious privilegeOf being independent.

Burns

The cavalry who have been pursuing the Turks on the right are coming up to the ridge beneath us, which conceals our cavalry from view. The heavy brigade in advance is drawn up in two lines. The light cavalry brigade is on their left, in two lines also. The silence is oppressive: between the cannon bursts one can hear the champing of bits and the clink of sabres in the valley below.

The Russians on their left drew breath for a moment and then in one grand line dashed at the Highlanders. The ground flies beneath their horses' feet. Gathering speed at every stride they dash on towards that thin red streak topped with a line of steel. The Turks fire a volley at eight hundred yards and run. As the Russians come within six hundred yards, down goes that line of steel in front, and out rings a rolling volley of Minié musketry. The distance is too great: the Russians are not checked, but still sweep onward through the smoke with the whole force of horse and man, here and there knocked over by the shot of our batteries above. With breathless suspense everyone awaits the bursting of the wave upon the line of Gaelic rock, but ere they come within a hundred and fifty yards another deadly volley flashes from the levelled rifles and carries death and terror into the Russians. They wheel about, open files right and left, and fly back faster than they came. "Bravo, Highlanders! well done!" shout the excited spectators.

But events thicken. The Highlanders and their splendid front are soon forgotten; men scarcely have a moment to think of this fact, that they never altered their formation to receive that tide of horsemen. "No," said Sir Colin Campbell, "I did not think it worth while to form them even four deep!" The ordinary British line, two deep, was quite sufficient to repel the attack of these Muscovite cavaliers.

Our eyes were, however, turned in a moment on our own cavalry. We saw Brigadier-General Scarlett ride along in front of his massive squadrons. The Russians, evidentlycorps d'élite, their light blue jackets embroidered with silver lace, were advancing on their left at an easy gallop towards the brow of the hill. A forest of lances glistened in their rear, and several squadrons of gray-coated dragoons moved up quickly to support them as they reached thesummit. The instant they came in sight the trumpets of our cavalry gave out the warning blast which told us all that in another moment we should see the shock of battle beneath our very eyes. Lord Raglan, all his staff and escort and groups of officers, the Zouaves, French generals and officers, and bodies of French infantry on the height were spectators of the scene as though they were looking on the stage from the boxes of a theatre. Nearly every one dismounted and sat down, and not a word was said.

The Russians advanced down the hill at a slow canter, which they changed to a trot, and at last nearly halted. Their first line was at least double the length of ours—it was three times as deep. Behind them was a similar line equally strong and compact. They evidently despised their insignificant-looking enemy: but their time was come. The trumpets rang out again through the valley, and the Greys and the Enniskilleners went right at the centre of the Russian cavalry. The space between them was only a few hundred yards; it was scarcely enough to let the horses "gather way," nor had the men quite space sufficient for the full play of their sword-arms.

The Russian line brings forward each wing as our cavalry advance, and threatens to annihilate them as they pass on. Turning a little to their left so as to meet the Russian right the Greys rush on with a cheer that thrills to every heart—the wild shout of the Enniskilleners rises through the air at the same instant. As lightning flashes through a cloud the Greys and Enniskilleners pierced through the dark masses of Russians. The shock was but for a moment. There was a clash of steel and a light play of sword-blades in the air, and then the Greys and the Red-coats disappear in the midst of the shaken and quivering columns. In another moment we see them emerging and dashing on with diminished numbers and in broken order against the second line, which is advancing against them as fast as it can to retrieve the fortune of the charge. It was a terrible moment. "God help them! they are lost!" was the exclamation of more than one man and the thought of many.

With unabated fire, the noble hearts dashed at their enemy. It was a fight of heroes. The first line of Russians—which had been smashed utterly by our charge and had fled off at one flank and towards the centre—was comingback to swallow up our handful of men. By sheer steel and sheer courage Enniskillener and Scot were winning their desperate way right through the enemy's squadrons, and already gray horses and red coats had appeared right at the rear of the second mass, when, with irresistible force like a bolt from a bow, the second line of the heavy brigade rushed at the remnants of the first line of the enemy, went through it as though it were made of paste-board and, dashing on the second body of Russians as they were still disordered by the terrible assault of the Greys and their companions, put them to utter rout.

And now occurred the melancholy catastrophe which fills us all with sorrow. It appears that the Quartermaster-General, Brigadier Airey, thinking that the light cavalry had not gone far enough in front when the enemy's horse had fled, gave an order in writing to Captain Nolan to take to Lord Lucan, directing his lordship "to advance" his cavalry nearer the enemy. Lord Lucan, with reluctance, gave the order to Lord Cardigan to advance upon the guns, conceiving that his orders compelled him to do so.

It is a maxim of war that "cavalry never act without a support," that "infantry should be close at hand when cavalry carry guns as the effect is only instantaneous," and that it is necessary to have on the flank of a line of cavalry some squadrons in column—the attack on the flank being most dangerous. The only support our light cavalry had was the reserve of heavy cavalry at a great distance behind them, the infantry and guns being far in the rear. There were no squadrons in column at all and there was a plain to charge over before the enemy's guns could be reached, of a mile and a half in length!

At ten minutes past eleven our light cavalry brigade advanced. The whole brigade scarcely made one effective regiment according to the numbers of continental armies, and yet it was more than we could spare. As they rushed towards the front the Russians opened on them from the guns in the redoubt on the right with volleys of musketry and rifles. They swept proudly past, glittering in the morning sun in all the pride and splendour of war.

We could scarcely believe the evidence of our senses. Surely that handful of men are not going to charge an army in position? Alas! it wasbut too true. Their desperate valour knew no bounds, and far indeed was it removed from its so-called better part—discretion. They advanced in two lines, quickening their pace as they closed upon the enemy. A more fearful spectacle was never witnessed than by those who beheld these heroes rushing to the arms of Death.

At the distance of twelve hundred yards, the whole line of the enemy belched forth from thirty iron mouths a flood of smoke and flame, through which hissed the deadly balls. Their flight was marked by instant gaps in our ranks, by dead men and horses, by steeds flying wounded or riderless across the plain. The first line is broken—it is joined by the second—they never halt or check their speed an instant. With diminished ranks thinned by those thirty guns which the Russians had laid with the most deadly accuracy, with a halo of flashing steel above their heads, and with a cheer which was many a noble fellow's death-cry, they flew into the smoke of the batteries, but ere they were lost from view the plain was strewn with their bodies and with the carcasses of horses. They were exposed to an oblique fire from the batteries on the hills on both sides, as well as to adirect fire of musketry. Through the clouds of smoke we could see their sabres flashing as they rode up to the guns and dashed into their midst, cutting down the gunners where they stood. We saw them riding through the guns, as I have said: to our delight we saw them returning after breaking through a column of Russian infantry and scattering it like chaff, when the flank fire of the battery on the hill swept them down scattered and broken as they were. Wounded men and riderless horses flying towards us told the sad tale. Demi-gods could not have done what they had failed to do.

At the very moment when they were about to retreat an enormous mass of Lancers was hurled on their flank. Colonel Shewell saw the danger and rode his few men straight to them, cutting his way through with fearful loss. The other regiments turned and engaged in a desperate encounter.

With courage too great almost for credence, they were breaking their way through the columns which enveloped them, when there took place an act of atrocity without parallel in the modern warfare of civilized nations. The Russian gunners, when the storm of cavalry passed, returned to their guns. They saw their own cavalry mingled with the troopers who had just ridden over them, and, to the eternal disgrace of the Russian name, the miscreants poured a murderous volley of grape and canister on the mass of struggling men and horses, mingling friend and foe in one common ruin!

It was as much as our heavy cavalry could do to cover the retreat of the miserable remnants of the band of heroes as they returned to the place they had so lately quitted. At thirty-five minutes past eleven not a British soldier, except the dead and the dying, was left in front of those guns.

William Howard Russell

Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest,With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?Mighty Seaman, this is heWas great by land as thou by sea.Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,The greatest sailor since our world began.Now, to the roll of muffled drums,To thee the greatest soldier comes;For this is heWas great by land as thou by sea;His foes were thine; he kept us free;O give him welcome, this is heWorthy of our gorgeous rites,And worthy to be laid by thee;For this is England's greatest son,He that gain'd a hundred fights,Nor ever lost an English gun;Remember him who led your hosts;He bad you guard the sacred coasts.Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;His voice is silent in your council-hallFor ever; and whatever tempests lourFor ever silent; even if they brokeIn thunder, silent; yet remember allHe spoke among you, and the Man who spoke;Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power;Who let the turbid streams of rumour flowThro' either babbling world of high and low;Whose life was work, whose language rifeWith rugged maxims hewn from life;Who never spoke against a foe:Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebukeAll great self-seekers trampling on the right:Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named;Truth-lover was our English Duke;Whatever record leap to life,He never shall be shamed.

Remember him who led your hosts;He bad you guard the sacred coasts.Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;His voice is silent in your council-hallFor ever; and whatever tempests lourFor ever silent; even if they brokeIn thunder, silent; yet remember allHe spoke among you, and the Man who spoke;Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power;Who let the turbid streams of rumour flowThro' either babbling world of high and low;Whose life was work, whose language rifeWith rugged maxims hewn from life;Who never spoke against a foe:Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebukeAll great self-seekers trampling on the right:Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named;Truth-lover was our English Duke;Whatever record leap to life,He never shall be shamed.

Tennyson

Just when the delightful days were beginning to pall upon us, a real adventure befell us, which, had we been attending strictly to business, we should not have encountered. For a week previous we had been cruising constantly without ever seeing a spout, except those belonging to whales out at sea, whither we knew it was folly to follow them. At last, one afternoon as we were listlessly lolling (half-asleep, except the look-out man) across the thwarts, we suddenly came upon a gorge between two cliffs that we must have passed before several times unnoticed. At a certain angle it opened, disclosing a wide sheet of water extending a long distance ahead. I put the helm up, and we ran through the passage, finding it about aboat's length in width and several fathoms deep, though overhead the cliffs nearly came together in places. The place was new to us, and our languor was temporarily dispelled, and we paddled along, taking in every feature of the shores with keen eyes that let nothing escape. After we had gone on in this placid manner for maybe an hour, we suddenly came to a stupendous cliff—that is, for those parts—rising almost sheer from the water for about a thousand feet. Of itself it would not have arrested our attention, but at its base was a semicircular opening, like the mouth of a small tunnel. This looked alluring, so I headed the boat for it, passing through a deep channel between two reefs which led straight to the opening. There was ample room for us to enter, as we had lowered the mast; but just as we were passing through, a heave of the unnoticed swell lifted us unpleasantly near the crown of this natural arch. Beneath us, at a great depth, the bottom could be dimly discerned, the water being of the richest blue conceivable, which the sun, striking down through, resolved into some most marvellous colour-schemes in the path of its rays. A delicious sense of coolness, after the fierce heat outside, saluted us as we entered a vast hall,whose roof rose to a minimum height of forty feet, but in places could not be seen at all. A sort of diffused light, weak, but sufficient to reveal the general contour of the place, existed, let in, I supposed, through some unseen crevices in the roof or walls. At first, of course, to our eyes, fresh from the fierce glare outside, the place seemed wrapped in impenetrable gloom, and we dared not stir lest we should run into some hidden danger. Before many minutes, however, the gloom lightened as our pupils enlarged, so that, although the light was faint, we could find our way about with ease. We spoke in low tones, for the echoes were so numerous and resonant that even a whisper gave back from those massy walls in a series of recurring hisses, as if a colony of snakes had been disturbed.

We paddled on into the interior of this vast cave, finding everywhere the walls rising sheer from the silent, dark waters, not a ledge or a crevice where one might gain foothold. Indeed, in some places there was a considerable overhang from above, as if a great dome whose top was invisible sprang from some level below the water. We pushed ahead until the tiny semi-circle of light through which we had enteredwas only faintly visible; and then, finding there was nothing to be seen except what we were already witnessing, unless we cared to go on into the thick darkness, which extended apparently into the bowels of the mountain, we turned and started to go back. Do what we would, we could not venture to break the solemn hush that surrounded us, as if we were shut within the dome of some vast cathedral in the twilight. So we paddled noiselessly along for the exit, till suddenly an awful, inexplicable roar set all our hearts thumping fit to break our bosoms. Really, the sensation was most painful, especially as we had not the faintest idea whence the noise came or what had produced it. Again it filled that immense cave with its thunderous reverberations; but this time all the sting was taken out of it, as we caught sight of its author. A goodly bull-humpback had found his way in after us, and the sound of his spout, exaggerated a thousand times in the confinement of that mighty cavern, had frightened us all so that we nearly lost our breath. So far so good; but, unlike the old negro though we were "doin' blame well," we did not "let blame well alone." The next spout that intruder gave, he was right alongside of us. This was too much for thesemi-savage instincts of my gallant harpooner, and before I had time to shout a caution he had plunged his weapon deep into old Blowhard's broad back.

I should like to describe what followed, but, in the first place, I hardly know; and, in the next, even had I been cool and collected, my recollections would sound like the ravings of a fevered dream. For of all the hideous uproars conceivable, that was, I should think, about the worst. The big mammal seemed to have gone frantic with the pain of his wound, the surprise of the attack, and the hampering confinement in which he found himself. His tremendous struggles caused such a commotion that our position could only be compared to that of men shooting Niagara in a cylinder at night. How we kept afloat, I do not know. Some one had the gumption to cut the line, so that by the radiation of the disturbance we presently found ourselves close to the wall, and trying to hold the boat in to it with our finger tips. Would he never be quiet? we thought, as the thrashing, banging, and splashing still went on with unfailing vigour. At last, in, I suppose, one supreme effort to escape, he leaped clear of the water like a salmon. There was a perceptible hush, duringwhich we shrank together like unfledged chickens on a frosty night; then, in a never-to-be-forgotten crash that ought to have brought down the massy roof, that mountainous carcass fell. The consequent violent upheaval of the water should have smashed the boat against the rocky walls, but that final catastrophe was mercifully spared us. I suppose the rebound was sufficient to keep us a safe distance off.

A perfect silence succeeded, during which we sat speechless, awaiting a resumption of the clamour. At last Abner broke the heavy silence by saying: "I doan' see the do'way any mo' at all, sir." He was right. The tide had risen, and that half-moon of light had disappeared, so that we were now prisoners for many hours, it not being at all probable that we should be able to find our way out during the night ebb. Well, we were not exactly children, to be afraid of the dark, although there is considerable difference between the velvety darkness of a dungeon and the clear, fresh night of the open air. Still, as long as that beggar of a whale would only keep quiet or leave the premises, we should be fairly comfortable. We waited and waited until an hour had passed, and then came to the conclusion that our friend was either dead or hadgone out, as he gave no sign of his presence.

That being settled, we anchored the boat, and lit pipes, preparatory to passing as comfortable a night as might be under the circumstances, the only thing troubling me being the anxiety of the skipper on our behalf. Presently the blackness beneath was lit up by a wide band of phosphoric light, shed in the wake of no ordinary-sized fish, probably an immense shark. Another and another followed in rapid succession, until the depths beneath were all ablaze with brilliant foot-wide ribbons of green glare, dazzling to the eye and bewildering to the brain. Occasionally a gentle splash or ripple alongside, or a smart tap on the bottom of the boat, warned us how thick the concourse was that had gathered below. Until that weariness which no terror is proof against set in, sleep was impossible, nor could we keep our anxious gaze from that glowing inferno beneath, where one would have thought all the population of Tartarus were holding high revel. Mercifully, at last we sank into a fitful slumber, though fully aware of the great danger of our position. One upward rush of any of those ravening monsters, happening to strike the frail shell of our boat, and a few fleeting seconds would have sufficed for our obliteration as if we had never been.

But the terrible night passed away, and once more we saw the tender, iridescent light stream into that abode of dread. As the day strengthened, we were able to see what was going on below, and a grim vision it presented. The water was literally alive with sharks of enormous size, tearing with never-ceasing energy at the huge carcass of the whale lying on the bottom, who had met his fate in a singular but not unheard-of way. At that last titanic effort of his he had rushed downward with such terrific force that, striking his head on the bottom, he had broken his neck. I felt very grieved that we had lost the chance of securing him; but it was perfectly certain that before we could get help to raise him, all that would be left on his skeleton would be quite valueless to us. So with such patience as we could command, we waited near the entrance until the receding ebb made it possible for us to emerge once more into the blessed light of day.

Frank T. Bullen: "The Cruise of the Cachalot."

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