r James Saumerez) as she was sweeping
past. It was like a collie dog attacking a mastiff. Saumerez couldn't
stand it. He stayed long enough literally to blow the frigate out of the
water or on to a shoal, where she was wrecked. The _Orion_ then went
quietly on and engaged a foeman worthy of her steel. It was plucky of
the _Bellerophon_--the old Billy Ruffian, as sailors called her--of
seventy-four guns, to attack the great _Orient_ of one hundred and
twenty, and of the _Majestic_ to range alongside the mighty _Tonnant_
and coolly say, "It's you and I, isn't it?" Then one can't help feeling
sorry for poor Trowbridge in the _Culloden_, because he ran ashore, and
had to remain a mere spectator while burning to have a finger in the
fearful pie.

But the two events of this memorable battle which I daresay dwell
longest in the minds of the young reader are the wounding of Nelson, who
was carried below, his brow gashed so terribly that the skin in a flap
hung over his eyes, despite which, you will remember, he bravely refused
to have his wound dressed until his turn came; and the blowing up of the
great ship _Orient_ with her bold Captain Casabianca and his poor boy,
who refused to be taken off or give up his duty without his father's
orders.

There are those who would rob us of this romantic story. I have no
patience with such gray-souled sinners. There are people in this world
who cannot endure romance and beauty; people who would paint the sky a
dingy brown if they could, and smudge the glory of the summer sunsets. I
do not love such people, and I hope you don't, reader. I verily believe
their blood is green and sour, and that they do not see this lovely
world of ours as you and I do, through rose-tinted glasses, but that to
them it must appear an ugly olive green, as it would to us if we gazed
upon it through a piece of bottle glass. No; we shall keep the brave boy
of the _Orient_, and still read Mrs. Hemans' delightful and spirited
verses:--

"The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame, that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him--o'er the dead.

"The flames rolled on--he would not go
Without his father's word;--
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.

"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,--