No British ministry
of the present day would dare or wish to act as did the ruling sachems
in the early part of this century.

Anton Lundt--as true a hero as Nelson himself, although incomparably a
humbler one--was, as already related, conveyed to the rear of the
battery, and his wounds were attended to as well as circumstances
would admit. Later in the evening, his father, an old invalid
man-o'-war's-man, found him, and had him removed to his own humble
home. The poor fellow had never recovered consciousness, and for many
long hours he lay moaning, and occasionally struggling convulsively,
under his natal roof, and in the same little room where he was born.
His aged parents and a few friends wept around him; but there was one
other watcher by his side, whose grief, although silent, surpassed
theirs. It was his betrothed _Pige_, or sweetheart, Rosine
Boerentzen--she whose image had excited his heroism, she whose name
was coupled with Denmark as his battle-cry. She shed not a tear--her
anguish was too deep for that--but sat by his lowly pallet,
supporting his head on her bosom, and wiping away the light foam from
his bubbling lips. Ever and anon the dying sailor--for, alas! dying he
was--would utter sea-phrases, or affecting words of friendship or of
love, yet not even the voice of Rosine, continually murmuring in his
ear, could recall him to sensibility.

The midnight hour approached: a medical man had just been in, and
departed with the brief but decided assurance that the patient could
not possibly survive many minutes. A worthy clergyman was kneeling
with the family around the couch, praying to God to receive the
parting spirit. In the midst of their supplications, the countenance
of Anton Lundt was illumined with a gleam of unearthly triumph, and
springing half-upright, he tossed his left arm aloft, and in
soul-thrilling tones pealed forth his battle-cry of 'Rosine og gamle
Danmark--hurrah!' He then instantly fell back a corpse on the bosom of
his betrothed.

In the suburb of Oesterbroe, at Copenhagen, is a naval cemetery, and it
generally attracts the eye of the stranger, as it most forcibly did
our own, by a number of rough, picturesque fragments of unhewn
granite, strewn over the mortal remains of the brave men who fell
fighting for old Denmark against Nelson. The simple words, '_Anton
Lundt, doed 2 April 1801_,' may be seen on one of them.

Rosine Boerentzen never smiled again. On the first anniversary of t