the first year of the present century he passed the wild and stormy
steep of Elsinore. The battle was a Titanic struggle, and giants of
the same blood grappled with each other. Equal was the valour, and if
our compelled rather than willing foes had the advantage in means of
assault the better wisdom was ours, without which prowess is but a
flail apt to wound the skull of him who wields it. The battle of the
Baltic, so gigantically fought and inimitably won, placed on Nelson’s
brow the coronet of a viscount; but he did not quit the Baltic until
he had fluttered the Russian fleet at Revel, and, when he returned to
give a report of his mission accomplished, England already needed him
for the fulfilment of another. Napoleon was at Boulogne, and, with a
French army, threatening invasion. What the feeling of the times was in
the parsonages on the Sussex coast--is it not written in the letters
of Peter Plimley? What Nelson’s feelings were may be divined from that
saying of his, that the French might come any way they pleased, but
that they should _not_ come by sea! England trusted him, and he kept
his word as far as in him lay. If he did not destroy the Boulogne
flotilla, he at least demonstrated that it could not issue from harbour
without his permission nor put out to sea without being destroyed.
Boulogne has, in some degree, benefited by the rough messengers which
he flung into the port as visiting cards to intimate that he and his
followers were outside. Some hundred weights of good English iron were
projected into the town, and out of them are the gaspipes constructed
which are now laid down in the Bassa Ville and the suburb of Capecure!
While thus giving peace to innumerable homes in England, he was
ever, amidst war’s loudest thunder, endeavouring to found a home
of peace for himself: that home was at Merton, in Surrey, where it
was vouchsafed to him for a very brief season. The name of Merton is
more closely connected with great men and great acts than many of
our readers may be aware, and it was the fitting resting-place for a
man who desired to gain breathing time between his heroic deeds. It
was the birthplace of that Walter de Merton to whose liberality some
of our readers may possibly be indebted for the instruction they may
have received at Oxford--not that Merton College has been very famous
for turning out good, at least great, scholars. According to a witty
master of that College, it ought to have possessed more learning than
any other in the University; for, said he, ‘many scholars brought much
knowledge there and left it all behind them.’ Their founder, however,
possessed both legal learning and religious wisdom. The law boasts of
him as one of the great Chancellors, and the Church approvingly points
to him as an exemplary Bishop of Rochester. For much of his learning,
and something of his wisdom, he is indebted to the accomplished
Augustine canons who cultivated both in the old convent founded by
Gilbert Norman in 1115, and the prior of which sat in Parliament as a
mitred abbot. It was at Merton that the early French invasion under
Louis the Dauphin, made with the intent of driving Henry III. from
his inheritance, was compensated for in 1217, by the treaty of peace
forced upon the French prince. It was at Merton that the able De Burgh
found refuge from his insatiable enemies; above all, it was here that
were enacted the famous statutes of Merton. The Parliament of Henry
III., which enacted those statutes, will be further ever-memorable for
the unshakable firmness with which the barons--those reformers before
the Reformation--withstood the insidious overtures of the ambitious
prelates for the introduction of the imperial and canon laws. It was
at Merton that was uttered a cry as famous, as significant, and as
important in its result as the battle signal of Trafalgar. It was
there that the barons shouted that famous shout--‘Nolumus leges Angliæ
mutari!’
Of all these things which have conferred undying celebrity on the
banks of the little river Wandle, Nelson probably knew nothing, and,
if possible, cared less. But, notwithstanding this, we repeat that
the locality which had been illustrated by humanity, by patriotism,
by liberality, and by love of freedom, was a becoming spot whereon to
spread the carpet of repose for him whose humanity was as great as his
courage--whose patriotism was without a stain--whose liberality was
ever extended without selfishness, and whose love of freedom made him
the invincible foe of the nation that was endeavouring to enslave the
world.
Had he been less liberal and more considerate for himself than for
others he might have preserved Merton for his daughter--he would not
have been compelled to sell his diamonds--and Merton itself need
not have passed to those inheritors of other men’s patrimony--the
money-lending Israelites.
For the fearful fight at Copenhagen, in which never were greater perils
of navigation overcome, nor had there ever been in sea-fight more
of English blood profusely shed--for this fight and victory Nelson
received a token of honour from the Sultan; but his own Government
granted no medals to the victors. They were permitted to wear the
orders sent them by foreign princes, but no such honours awaited them
at the hands of those who interpreted, and, perhaps, influenced, the
will of King George. The people gave what the Ministry denied; and
when the father of Nelson calmly closed his eyes on this world, in
the year 1802, almost the last sounds that fell upon his ear were
sounds of praise for his noble son. Nelson’s brother, the Rev. Dr.
William Nelson, thought Lord Walpole cared little for his connection
with the Nelson family, or he would have conferred Burnham Thorpe
on the son of the late incumbent--that is to say, on himself. This
reverend gentleman certainly does little credit to his profession,
even taking him by his own description. When there was a report of
his becoming successor to the yet living, but indisposed, Dean of
Exeter, he wrote to his brother--‘I wish it may be so. If you see
Mr. Addington soon, you may offer my vote for the University of
Cambridge for members of Parliament, and for the county of Norfolk to
any candidate he may wish.’ ‘The dean’ (adds Dr. Pettigrew) ‘died on
July 15, and Nelson applied to Mr. Addington, but Dr. Nelson was not
appointed. Exeter failing, in a short time he directed his views to
Durham,’ and he hinted his wishes in a letter to Lady Hamilton. After
reminding her that he is a Doctor of Divinity of the University of
Cambridge, and that such a dignified personage is as much superior
to a mere Scottish M.D. ‘as an arch-angel is to an arch-fiend,’ this
man, who had little in him of the angelic and still less of the
arch-angelic, offers the lady a bribe of Norfolk beafins; and, having
thus impressed her with his dignity, and purchased as he thought her
good will for ‘half-a-dozen apple-trees,’ thus concludes his very
undignified epistle:--‘I see by the papers that there is a stall
vacant at Durham--I suppose worth a thousand a year--in the gift of
the Bishop (Barrington). I remember some years ago, when the Duke
of Portland was Prime Minister, he secured one for Dr. Poyntz, at
Durham. There is another vacant at York (if not filled up), in the
gift of the archbishop; but I don’t know the value--no very great sum,
I believe.’ So very illogical a person was as unsuccessful as he
deserved to be. Lord Nelson’s chaplain on board the _Vanguard_ at the
Nile fared better, and merited so to fare. On Nelson’s application,
Lord Eldon thought himself bound in public duty to pass over his own
personal wishes and also the strong claims which individuals had upon
him to be attentive to their welfare. Nelson’s chaplain at the Nile
had a prior claim: and the Rev. Mr. Comyn received his appointment
accordingly to the living asked for--that of Bridgham. While treating
of the clerical connections of Nelson, we cannot omit noticing another
trait in the brother who so little resembled him. He thus writes to
Lady Hamilton:--‘The election for the University took place yesterday
(July 5, 1802): the whole was over in five minutes: Mr. Pitt and Lord
Euston are re-elected. I had a bow this morning from Billy in the
Senate-house--_so I made up to him and said a word or two to him_.’
Soon after this, Lord Nelson was made a D.C.L. by the University of
Oxford. The hero was with the Hamiltons and a party of relatives on
a tour to Wales: they took Blenheim in their way. The duke was at
home--he declined receiving them; but he sent them out something to
eat! The descendant of Marlborough _had not been introduced_ to the man
as great as he from whom alone the duke possessed the only greatness
he enjoyed, and, _therefore_, he would not shake hands with him! His
grace, with the spirit of a Frenchman, kept himself as secure from the
defender of his country as he well could; he rolled himself up like a
hedgehog and kept his prickles erect. Had it not been for Nelson, he
might not then have had Blenheim wherein to nurture his absurd shyness
or absurder pride. Blenheim was the only hearth in England at which
Nelson was churlishly received, and its master the only man in the
kingdom who did not feel on speaking terms with the hero of the Nile.
Nelson paid no fee, touched no food, and turned from the dwelling of
him who owned none of his great ancestor’s characteristics, save his
meanness, with calm contempt.
In 1802 hostilities were again renewed, and, as a matter of course,
all eyes were turned to the defender of his country. His eyesight was
failing: he had actual fears of becoming blind, but all his fears
were suppressed in his eagerness to be of use to his native land. It
may be noticed that, in this year, Sir William Hamilton died; and the
fact that Nelson’s continued correspondence with the graceful widow
is, from this time, no longer addressed to her as ‘dear friend,’ but
‘dearest Emma,’ plainly, perhaps too plainly, denotes the nature of
the connection by which they were now bound. To judge of him by what
he effected and what he endured during this year, we might assert that
he never took rest nor thought of anything save the welfare of his
country and the fighting condition of his fleet; but he had leisure
devoted to further the welfare of private friends and other deserving
individuals, and he could turn from devising plans for crushing the
French to the arrangement of a paddock. All that he immediately cared
for was lest his sight should entirely leave him before he could fall
upon the French, who had a design upon Naples and Egypt. After he had
beaten them, he felt almost certain that his eyes would be in total
eclipse: he was resigned to the prospective fate, and contemplated it
with a grave but manly resignation.
In a note on a paragraph in a letter written at this time by Lord
Nelson, in which he says to Lady Hamilton that she will be sorry but
not surprised to hear of Lord Bristol’s death, Dr. Pettigrew informs us
that--
---- this nobleman was fourth Earl of Bristol and was also Bishop
of Derry. He died on July 8, 1803. To avoid any superstitious
exhibition on the part of sailors, who entertain a dread of having
a corpse on board, his lordship’s body was packed up in a case and
shipped as an antique statue. Could he have anticipated such a
circumstance, it would have offered him a capital subject to have
written upon.
In 1804, his harassing life in the Mediterranean received something to
make it tolerable by his triumph in his case for prize-money against
Lord St. Vincent. It was money fairly won after St. Vincent gave up
the command; and his award was 13,000_l._ The sum rescued him from
debt and from anxiety; but the enjoyment of it could not relieve him
of his most anxious desire to destroy the French fleet, which wanted
no inducement to leave Toulon, only that Nelson was waiting outside to
receive them. His vigilance had to be doubled, but he had enough for
the emergency, and to spare. Suspicions existed that Spain was about
to enter into an armed coalition with France against England, and,
without increase to his force, Nelson was ready to meet and confident
of annihilating both. With all their advantage of superior strength,
the French not only lingered in Toulon, but spread forged intelligence
all over Europe that, on their making preparations for sea, Nelson had
precipitately fled; but the avenger was still there; and, as now and
then a French vessel would occasionally show her bowsprit outside of
the harbour and retire in all speed at the sight of the flaunting Jack
defying them from seaward, Nelson would say that, if the whole fleet
did not soon come out and stand a contest, he should go in and try the
effect of putting salt upon their tails!
But his own countrymen, or rather the Government which did _not_
represent the feelings of his countrymen, wounded him more deeply
than his worst enemies. Nelson was poor, considering the rank he had
to maintain and the heavy charges, some voluntarily assumed and all
honourably acquitted, on his income. The Ministry knew he was poor;
but, because he was not ashamed of his poverty, they kept him plunged
in it. In the Mediterranean, with war declared against Spain, there was
a prospect of rich prizes being made and some substantial reward being
given to him and his gallant band for their labours, their devotedness,
and their blood. But between these deserving men and their right,
evil influences interposed: unknown to Nelson, another admiral and a
small squadron were stationed off Cadiz: their office was to capture
all the commercial vessels they could: they performed the office to
its uttermost letter--hurried to England with the golden argosies,
and divided the proceeds so easily and bloodlessly won. When the fact
became known to Nelson it severely shook his manly heart: he continued
as steadfast as ever in the fulfilment of his duty, endured reiterated
disappointment at not meeting with the French, and sealing his course
of victory by a final triumph ere he found refuge in his home from
the ingratitude of man, and at length returned to England, on leave,
determined to enjoy his sweet reward at Merton, since he was denied any
by an ungrateful Ministry.
He arrived at Merton on August 20, 1805. On the 13th of the following
month, Captain Blackwood called on Nelson at five in the morning
with news that the French and Spanish fleets were in the harbour of
Cadiz: Nelson got up, dressed, and was ready to start to ‘give Monsieur
Villeneuve a drubbing.’ The two proceeded to the Admiralty, the lords
of which were now all eager to grant whatever Nelson asked. The latter
knew he must rest satisfied with fifteen or sixteen sail of the line
less than his enemies would have in array against him; but with these
odds, backed by God’s blessing, he only knew of a full victory as the
glorious result. He made some arrangements for those who depended on
his bounty--some preparations in case of the sorrowful event that
_did_ cloud the general triumph--and, between ten and eleven at night,
took his last farewell of Merton and of her who had so long kept him
in sweet bonds--gazed once on his sleeping child, breathed a prayer
over her, and went forth to death--to death the most glorious that was
ever accorded to mortal man whereby to make his passage from time into
eternity.
On October 21, he went into battle after fervent prayer to God. How,
under fearful odds, he beat his enemy, is known to every schoolboy.
Since that day Spain has almost ceased to be a naval power, and France
is only now recovering the position from which the hero of that day
flung her down. It was a day, the issues of which were left humbly to
God, but which were struggled for as though they depended on the arm
of mortal man alone. The triumphant result was purchased at a costly
rate--the life of England’s dearest son; his mission was fulfilled: he
had destroyed the last coalition made to enslave the world, and he died
at the fitting moment of certain victory, leaving all dear to him on
earth as a legacy to his native country. May his name live for ever!
Almost the last words uttered by Nelson were the expression of a hope
that his country would provide for Lady Hamilton and for his adopted
daughter. Nelson’s wife was alive, and the marriage had been without
issue. Who, then, was this stranger that so closely occupied the last
thoughts of the hero--and who the ‘adopted daughter’?--for such was the
designation that engaged so engrossing a share of his love.
As for Lady Nelson, she was indeed alive, but she had long been dead
to _him_. The pair, from the first, had been ill-matched; and what
began ill begot no happy consequences. Nelson himself had warmth enough
of temperament for two: his wife had none. She was, if we may judge
by what is written, unmoved at his great triumphs, without pride in
his great fame, and she was the last to welcome him when he came home
crowned with great deeds: she was the last woman in the world fitted
to be the wife of a hero, and perfectly incapable of controlling a
hero’s weaknesses. When Nelson on one occasion was speaking warmly in
his wife’s presence of the talents and beauty of Lady Hamilton, and
of the immense services she had rendered his king and country through
him, the hot Creole blood fired up: she rose in a whirlwind of passion,
exclaiming that she was sick at hearing the name and praises of Lady
Hamilton, and that Nelson must either desist from eulogising her or
cease to live with his wife. Nelson defended his favourite with good
humour; but from that hour utter estrangement ensued between himself
and Lady Nelson, resulting in a separation which, once determined on,
was never followed by opportunity or inclination for a reconciliation.
The remarkable individual--as remarkable for her great sufferings and
great sorrows as for her great errors--who was in a certain degree the
cause of breaking up the indifferent home which Nelson found in the
companionship of his wife, may be said to have been the last of a race
proverbial for bewitching and irresistible beauty--viz., the Lancashire
witches. She was born at Preston, in 1764; her father’s name was Lyon,
and her parents were of menial condition. The child, named Emma, was,
on the early death of her father, taken by her mother to Hawarden,
in Flintshire, where her remaining parent sought to support both by
industry, and where Emma grew every day in beauty and ignorance.
When old enough she was sent forth to earn her own livelihood. She
commenced life in the humble condition of a nursery-maid in a family
at Hawarden: subsequently she was engaged in the same capacity in the
family of Dr. Budd, Chatham-place, Blackfriars. The good doctor little
suspected that he possessed two servants in his house destined to
achieve celebrity for themselves, and thus lend something of perpetuity
to his own name. The nursemaid was Emma Lyons: the housemaid was Jane
Powell, who, in her after career as an actress, was a fine interpreter
of Shakespeare, could give interest to the bombast of Nat Lee, and
make endurable the platitudes of Rowe--just as Rachel, in our own
day, interpreted Racine and endowed with life the metrical dulness
of Merope and Chimène. From Dr. Budd’s to the family of a dealer in
St. James’s Market was a change from the east to the court end of the
town, and it had its consequences. She attracted the attention and won
the good-will of a lady of fashion, who withdrew her from servitude
and elevated her to what is often more degrading and worse paid, the
dignity of a companion. The education she received here was such as
might be expected at the hands of a fine lady of the last century.
She read all the stilted and not too delicate romances of the day--a
course of reading which not only kills time, but which generally
destroys the student. It at least did not improve the spelling of the
now ‘young lady’; for to the last, though she talked like Aspasia,
she spelled as badly as Caroline of Brunswick--a light fault in a day
when countesses spelt _Physician_ with an _F_, and thought _G_ was
the first letter of _Augustus_! The house of Emma’s patroness was the
resort of all the great players, poets, and literati of the day. It was
the ‘Gore House’ of its time: perhaps, its glories ended as ignobly.
As a home and an asylum for a young girl full of beauty, and given to
impulses which she knew not how to govern, it deserved not the name.
The poor thing was made the Cynthia of the minute: the _Trissotins_
dedicated sonnets to her; her beauty was deified; incense was daily
offered to her by fools and knaves, and even by those who were neither:
but yesterday she was toiling for wages, and perhaps complacently
receiving the coarse compliments of liveried worshippers: to-day she
was tended on by delicate hands, her smiles eagerly sought after, her
presence acknowledged by a buzz of admiration, her wit celebrated
by the ecstatic praises of the witty, and her intellect directed to
everything save to the study of divine things. She loved the refinement
which concealed the vice yet unknown to her: what was so pleasant could
hardly be sinful, for it brought no remorse. The foolish virgin lacked
a _man_ at hand to tell her that she was neglecting her lamp; and it
was only in after life, when intellect was superseded by cleverness
and reflection made her matured beauty all the more radiant, that
she sorrowingly acknowledged that to her first patroness had been
sacrificed the morning of her youth, and that every opportunity
neglected had been fruitful in a multitude of after sorrows.
The first public sin, if we may so express it, was the consequence of
the exercise of a great virtue. It was the time of the first American
war. The press-gangs were in active pursuit of their terrible calling,
and by one of these a humble acquaintance had been captured, and was
confined on board a tender in the Thames. She personally interceded
to procure his liberty: the officer to whom the application was made
was Captain, afterwards Admiral, Willet Payne, the companion of the
Prince of Wales. This man drove a bargain and became what is cruelly
called the ‘protector’ of the friendless Emma. The first false step
made, the descent was rapid. From the dissolute seaman she was won
by a profligate squire, Sir Harry Fetherstonehaugh; and she speedily
enraptured a whole shire of country gentlemen by her bold and graceful
riding, subdued them by her wit, and charmed them, they knew not
wherefore, by the refinement of her manners. It is a curious trait
marking such a career that, though the baronet was nearly ruined by
the extravagant profusion into which he plunged for her sake, to
the end of life he spoke of her and wrote to her in terms of the
profoundest respect. It was a period when provincial squires were not
noted for much delicacy of manner: they had not yet adopted the advice
of Lord Chesterfield, and become gentlemanlike in their vices; but
nevertheless, like the Athenians of old, they could praise a virtue
which they did not practise: not decent themselves, they could admire
decency in others.
The unfortunate and fallen woman, on her separation from her ruined
admirer, soon learned a deeper misery than she had endured in her
native home and early privations. She was at length on the point of
being turned into the street by her landlord, who had no admiration
for penniless tenants, however greatly endowed with beauty, when
she fell in the way of the most stupendous quack that ever gulled
the most gullible of patient publics. We need hardly name the once
famous Dr. Graham,[2] who, with his mysterious chambers, golden
beds, seraphic music, and impudent medical lectures, for some time
persuaded the people that he could lead them to the fountain where
played the waters endowing man with eternal and vigorous youth. That
he was mysterious only proved that he had a secret, and that it was
well worth knowing and richly worth paying for. This quack hired the
hungry and heart-broken beauty, exhibited her as the ‘Goddess of
Health,’ lectured upon her as the result of his system, and made half
the fashionable women of his day mad to become like her, glowing with
health and splendid with beauty. This public exhibition gave her a
particular fame among artists: she became the eagerly sought after
and highly purchased model of the day. In Romney’s pictures more
especially she is constantly repeated, and the eternal sameness is
ever varied and charming: she was, indeed, Romney’s inspiration rather
than model: he had but to state what he desired or dreamed of, and the
vision stood a breathing reality before him. Heroic, as Joan of Arc;
crushed by her grief, as a Magdalene; joyous, as a Bacchante; sublime,
as Cassandra; winning, as a Wood Nymph; making sorrow graceful, as
Calypso; giving rapture double interpretation--first as the Pythian
priestess on her tripod, and next as St. Cecilia--gentle, as Serena;
lovely, as Sensibility; and perhaps more intellectually lovely still,
as Miranda--we can hardly wonder, as we look on these characters, that
Hayley, who saw the original stand for them all, rushed into rhyme to
immortalise them, and perpetrated verse that was almost tolerable and
very nearly worth reading.