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However, as a part of our crew, commanded by two officers, were ready to spring upon the enemy's deck, the fire re-commenced with a fury it never had had from the beginning of the action. Meantime, an English eighty-gun ship placed herself alongside of the Redoutable, to put it between two fires; and a French ship of the same force placed itself abreast of the Victory, it put it in the same situation. There was then seen a sight hitherto unexampled in naval warfare, and not since repeated—four vessels, all in the same direction, touching each other, dashing against each other, intermingling their yards, and fighting with a fury which no language can adequately express. The rigging was abandoned, and every sailor and soldier put to the guns; the officers themselves had nothing to provide for, nothing to order in this horrible conflict, and came likewise to the guns. Amidst near four hundred pieces of large cannon, all firing at one time, in a confined space--amidst the noise of the balls, which made furious breaches in the sides of the Redoutable, amongst the splinters which flew in every direction, with the speed of projectiles, and the dashing of the vessels, which were driven by the waves against each other, not a soul thought of anything but destroying the enemy; and the cries of the wounded and the dying were no longer heard. The men feil, and if they were any impediment to the action of the gun they had just been working, one of their companions pushed them aside with his foot to the middle of the deck, and, without speaking a word, placed himself with concentrated sury at the same post, where he soon experienced a similar fate.

In less than half an hour, our vessel, without having hauled down her colours, had in fact surrendered. Her fire had gradually slackened, and then ceased altogether. The mutilated bodies of our companions encumbered the two decks, which were covered with shot, broken cannon, matches still smoking, and shattered timbers. One of our thirty-six pounders had burst towards the close of the contest. The thirteen men placed at it had been killed by the splinters, and were heaped together rouud its broken carriage. The ladders that led between the different decks, were shattered and destroyed; the mizen-mast and main-mast had fallen, and encumbered the deck with blocks and pieces of rigging. Of the boats placed forward or hung on the sides of our vessel, there remained nothing but some shattered planks. Not more than a hundred and fifty men survived out of a crew of about eight hundred, and almost all these were more or less severely wounded. Captain Lucas was one of the number. It was five o'clock when the action ceased.

Considering how extremely difficult it is to relate circumstantially, a variety of real incidents of which the historian has in all probability no knowledge, save from the imperfect accounts of various printed books, or newspapers, it is not surprising that Guillemard should have committed himself as grossly as he appears to have done in his details of the events connected with the battle. The only matter of astonishment to us, is, that he should have managed his hoax as well as he has.

He subsequently informs us, that he shot Nelson through the right shoulder, although it is notorious that the fatal ball penetrated the left. He states too, that he, and the remains of the crew of the Redoubtable, were taken on board the Victory, although every body knows that they were taken on board the Swiftsure; and having brought his friends and himself on board the Victory, he finds Admiral Villeneuve a prisoner there, in diametrical opposition to the real fact; the French Admiral never having set his foot on board that vessel. On the 27th of November, our Gasconading sergeant pretends to have arrived in the Victory at Plymouth. Unfortunately for his veracity, however, it happened that that vessel did not reach England until six weeks after the time specified ; she having anchored in St. Helen's on the 4th of December. According to Guillemard's story, Villeneuve was murdered after his return to France, by five agents of the officers whom it was his intention to have brought to trial, for their neglect of duty at Trafalgar. Mr. O'Meara, however, makes Napoleon relate,

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what all France believed, that the French admiral committed suicide. Notwithstanding his having almost witnessed the murder, and his acquaintance with the persons of more than one of the assasins, Guillemard did not, although the horrid deed was, he tells us,“ perpetrated after their return to France, in the heart of a populous neighbourhood,” push his inquiries further, or communicate what he had discovered to a public magistrate. Immediately after the admiral's death, he was ordered to Paris, where he was admitted to an interview with Napoleon; to whom he related the story of Villeneuve's murder, and who gave orders to his ministers to bring the supposed culprits to trial. After a few month's residence in Paris, Guillemard's detachment was ordered to join the regiment to which it belonged, in the north of Italy, and a march of forty days brought them to Rovata, near Brescia, where, having passed the ensuing part of 1807 in comparative indolence, they were ordered to Trente. Here they made a pretty long sojourn, ere they proceeded, by way of Magdeburgh, to Stralsund, to take possession of that city, and the rest of Swedish Pomerania. In the early part of 1809, Moliter's division, to which Guillemard belonged, was ordered back to France, and arrived at Lyons on the first of April.

At this place, he contrived to fight a duel with a comrade, and to get severely wounded. He was next ordered to join his regiment in Germany, and having been again severely wounded” at the battle of Wagram, was, on his recovery, dispatched to Spain. Almost immediately after his arrival, his detachment was attacked, and himself made prisoner by the Spanish Guerillas, and marched off to the barren island of Cabrera. After an eight month's residence in this place, he finds a boat upon the shore, and sets sail in it, with two of his companions, for the Spanish coast. He arrives in safety; and once more joins the French army, then engaged in the siege of Tortosa. At this period of his history, we have a Munchausen story about the capture of three prisoners by his single hand. This pleasant jeu d'esprit reminds us a good deal of the old Joe Miller, of “ catching a Tartar.”

For these, and similarly heroical exploits, he was promoted to the rank of sergeant; and having been attacked by a fever, and ordered home for his recovery, was dispatched, at the expiration of his furlow, to Russia, and took a part in the battle of Borodino. At this juncture he was again wounded, taken prisoner, and sent first to Moscow, thence to Wladimir, and finally, to one of the forges beyond the Ural mountains, along with nine other persons, with whom he had become intimate since his captivity. During his sojourn in this part of the country, a great quantity of marvellous adventures of course befel him. In due time he returned to France; was present at the battle of Waterloo ; at Nismes, during the massacre of the Protestants ; favoured the escape of Murat from Toulon ; entered his service, and at his death retired to Corsica, where he remained in concealment upwards of twelve months; was then tried by a court-martial, acquitted, and, finally, sent to Toulon, where he passed several years in garrison. In 1822, he joined the French army of observation_entered Spain—and after a variety of fresh adventures, returned to his native place, and wrote his Memoirs. In a note of the translator, on Guillemard's account of the savage massacre of the Protestants at Nismes, it is stated that one of the most

atrocious of these assassins was subsequently chosen by the Duchess D'Angouleme, (the heartless viper, who after having been fostered twenty years in the bosom of the English nation, repaid the obligation by turning the Protestant children out of all the public schools in France), as her garde d'honneur !!!

On the whole, it cannot be denied that this volume, whether it be a version from the German or the French, is, altogether, a very pleasant romance; in which many historical incidents are introduced in so unauthentic and distorted a form, it is true, as to be entitled to little or no credit; but still with so much ingenuity, as to render this vehicle extremely amusing. Like most romancers, Sergeant Guillemard represents himself (his hero) as taking a part in every event of importance that happened during the extended period of his military career. Nothing of the least consequence appears to have been adjusted without him. He is, however, to do him justice, the most agreeable of Gascons.

LINN CLOUDEN ABBEY.

* BY ROBERT BURNS.

Ye holy walls, that still, sublime,
Resist the crumbling touch of time;
How strongly still your form displays
The piety of ancient days !
As through your ruins, hoar and grey-
Ruins, yet beauteous in decay-
The silvery moon-beams trembling fly,
The form of ages long gone by
Crowd thick on Fancy's wondering eye,
And wake the soul to musings high.

Even now, as lost in thought profound,
I view the solemn scene around,
And pensive gaze, with wistful eyes,
The past returns, the present flies;
Again the dome, in pristine pride
Lifts high its roof, and arches wide,
That knit with curious tracery
Each Gothic ornament display.
The high-arched windows, painted fair,
Shew

many a saint and martyr there;

* It is but justice to mention, that we are indebted for this posthumous production of the poet Burns, to the editor of a very respectable provincial print, the Pottery Mercury, who states, tbat it has never, as far as he is aware, been published before.

As on their slender forms I gaze,
Methinks they brighten to a blaze ;
With noiseless step, and taper bright,
What are yon forms that meet my sight?
Slowly they move, while every eye
Is heaven-ward raised in ecstasy.
'Tis the fair, spotless vestal train,
That seek in prayer the midnight fane.
And hark! what more than mortal sound
of music, breathes the pile around ?
'Tis the soft chaunted choral song,
Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong;
Till thence returned they softly stray
O'er Clouden's waye with fond delay ;
Now on the rising gale swell high,
And now in fainting murmurs die.
The boatmen on Nith's gentle stream
That glistens in the pale moon's-beam,
Suspend their dashing oars to hear
The holy anthem, loud and clear;
Each worldly thought awhile forbear,
And mutter forth a half-formed prayer.

But as I gaze the vision fails,
Like frost-work touched by southern gales ;
The altar sinks, the tapers fade,
And all the splendid scene's decayed.
In window fair the painted pane,
No longer glows with holy stain,
But through the broken glass, the gale
Blows chilly from the misty vale.

The bird of eve flits sullen by,
Her home these aisles and arches high ;
The choral hymn, that erst so clear,
Broke softly sweet on Fancy's ear,
Is drowned amid the mournful scream,
That breaks the magic of my dream;
Roused by the sound, I start and see
The ruined sad reality!

BULLS OF GENIUS.

The lively Miss Edgeworth has written a pleasant volume on Irish Bulls, and we have seen some pretty considerable blunders attributed to English footmen, and members of the less refined classes of society, in this country, by other writers; but it never seems to have occurred to matter-of-fact people, that a poet and man of genius is almost as apt to perpetrate BULLS as the most stolid clod-hopper that ever blundered forth three parts of the message which may have been entrusted to his treacherous recollection. The following samples are a few of the many specimens of the genuine English bull committed by the more refined class of inadvertents, which have fallen under our observation. At some future opportunity we purpose laying before our readers some specimens of this figure of speech from the writings of more modern literati : It is curious to find the great colossus of literature, who was so exceedingly severe in noticing the verbal inaccuracies of his predecessors, rivalling them all in the absurdity of his Bulls.

Spenser.
The woods were heard to wail full many a sigh,
And all the birds with silence to complain.

Cowley.
Silence and horror fill the place around,
Echo itself dares scarce repeat the sound.

Cowley.
Then down I laid my head,
Down on cold earth; and for a while was dead.
Ah! sottish fool, suid I.

Milton.

But now lead on,
In me is no delay; with thee to go
Is to stay here.

MILTON.
The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.

Milton.
Who will tempt with wandering feet,
The dark, unbottomed, infinite abyss,
Or through the palpable obscure, find out
His uncouth way!

SHAKSPEARE.
I will strive with things impossible,
Yea, get the better of them.

Dr. Johnson.
Turn from the glittering bribe your scornful eye,
Nor sell for gold what gold can never buy.

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