THE SIEGE OF QUEBEC.

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wise caution was observed in this respect, for the treachery of a single deserter might have imperilled the success of the expedition had its exact object been known. . . . At nine o'clock at night the first division of the army, 1600 strong, silently removed into flatbottomed boats: the soldiers were in high spirits; Wolfe led in person. About an hour before daylight the flotilla fell down with the ebb-tide. Weather favourable; a starlight night.'

Silently and swiftly, unchallenged by the French sentries, Wolfe's flotilla dropped down the stream in the shade of the overhanging cliffs. The rowers scarcely stirred the waters with their oars; the soldiers sat motionless. Not a word was spoken, save by the young general; he, as a midshipman on board his boat afterwards related, repeated in a low voice to the officers by his side, 'Gray's Elegy in a Country Churchyard;' and as he concluded the beautiful verses, said, 'Now, gentlemen, I would rather be the author of that poem than take Quebec!' But while Wolfe thus, in the poet's words, gave vent to the intensity of his feelings, his eye was constantly bent upon the dark outline of the heights under which he hurried past. He recognised at length the appointed spot, and leaped ashore.

Warburton.

THE SIEGE OF QUEBEC-continued.

SOME of the leading boats conveying the light company of the 78th Highlanders had in the meantime been carried about two hundred yards lower down by the strength of the tide. These Highlanders, under Captain Donald M'Donald, were the first to land. Immediately over their heads hung a woody precipice, without path or track upon its rocky face; at the summit a French sentinel marched to and fro, still unconscious of their presence. Without a moment's hesitation, M'Donald and his men dashed at the height. They scrambled up, holding on by rock's and branches of trees, guided only by the stars that shone over the top of the cliff; half the ascent was already won, when for the first time Qui vive?' broke the silence of the night. La France,' answered the Highland captain, with ready self-possession, and the sentry shouldered his musket and pursued his round. In a few minutes, however, the rustling of the trees close at hand at length alarmed

the French guard; they hastily turned out, fired one irregular volley down the precipice, and fled in panic. The captain, M. de Vergor, alone, though wounded, stood his ground; when summoned to surrender, he fired at one of the leading assailants, but was instantly overpowered. . . . In the meantime nearly five hundred men landed and made their way up the height; those who had first reached the summit then took possession of the intrenched post at the top of that path which Wolfe had selected for the ascent of his army.

Wolfe, Monckton, and Murray landed with the first division; as fast as each boat was cleared it put back for reinforcements to the ships, which had now also floated down with the tide nearly opposite to the point of disembarkation. The battalions formed on the narrow beach at the foot of the winding path, and as soon as completed, each ascended the cliff, when they again formed upon the plains above. The boats plied busily: company after company was quickly landed; and as soon as the men touched the shore, they swarmed up the steep ascent with ready alacrity. When morning broke the whole disposable force of Wolfe's army stood in firm array upon the table-land above the cove. Only one guu, however, could be carried up the hill, and even that was not got into position without incredible difficulty.

Mont

Wolfe then formed his line of battle upon the Plains of Abraham, and resolved there to cast the die for Canada. calm determined to meet his dangerous enemy in the open field.

Montcalm was already worsted as a general; it was still, however, left him to fight as a soldier. His order of battle was steadily and promptly made. The centre column Montcalm commanded in person. . . . . His total force actually engaged amounted to 7,520 men, besides Indians. Wolfe's' field state' showed only 4,828 men of all ranks from the general downwards, but of these every man was a trained soldier.

Warburton.

THE SIEGE OF QUEBEC-concluded.

THE French attacked. . . . . Swarms of skirmishers advanced against the right and centre of the British army; but this was but the mask of a more formidable movement. The whole of the French centre and left, with loud shouts, now bore down to the

THE SIEGE OF QUEBEC.

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attack. Their light troops then ceased firing and passed to the rear. As the view cleared, their long unbroken lines were seen rapidly approaching Wolfe's position. Now from flank to flank of the assailing battalions rolled a murderous and incessant fire. The 35th and the Grenadiers fell fast. Wolfe, at the head of the 28th, was struck in the wrist, but not disabled. Wrapping a handkerchief round the wound, he hastened from one rank to another, exhorting the men to be steady and to reserve their fire. No English soldier pulled a trigger: with matchless endurance they sustained the trial. Not a company wavered: their arms shouldered as if on parade, and motionless, save when they closed up the ghastly gaps, they waited the word of command.

When the head of the French attack had reached within forty yards, Wolfe gave the order to 'fire.' At once the long row of muskets was levelled, and a volley, distinct as a single shot, flashed from the British line. For a moment the advancing columns still pressed on, shivering like pennons in the fatal storm, but a few paces told how terrible had been the force of the long-sustained

blow.

Montcalm commanded the attack in person. Not fifteen minutes had elapsed since he had first moved on his line of battle, and already all was lost! ... But the gallant Frenchman though ruined was not dismayed; he rode through the broken ranks, cheered them with his voice, encouraged them by his dauntless bearing, and, aided by a small redoubt, even succeeded in once again presenting a front to his enemy.

Meanwhile Wolfe's troops had reloaded. He seized the opportunity of the hesitation in the hostile ranks, and ordered the whole British line to advance. At first they moved forward in majestic regularity, receiving and paying back with deadly interest the volleys of the French. But soon the ardour of the soldiers broke through the restraints of discipline: they increased their pace to a run, rushing over the dying and the dead, and sweeping the living enemy off their path. ... Wolfe was a second time wounded, in the body, but he concealed his suffering, for his duty was not yet accomplished; again a ball from the redoubt struck him on the breast; he reeled on one side, but at the moment this was not generally observed. 'Support me,' said he to a grenadier officer who was close at hand, that my brave fellows may not see me fall.' In a few seconds, however, he sank, and was borne a little to the rear. The brief struggle fell heavily upon the British, but was ruinous

6

to the French. They wavered under the carnage; the columns which death had disordered were soon broken and scattered. Montcalm, with a courage that rose above the wreck of hope, galloped through the groups of his stubborn veterans, who still made head against the advancing enemy, and strove to show a front of battle. His efforts were vain; the head of every formation was swept away before that terrible musketry; in a few minutes, the French gave way in all directions. Just then their gallant general fell with a mortal wound: from that time all was utter rout.

...

While the British troops were carrying all before them, their young general's life was ebbing fast away. . . . From time to time Wolfe tried with his faint hand to clear away the death-mist that gathered on his sight; but his effort seemed vain, for presently he lay back, and gave no signs of life beyond a heavy breathing and an occasional groan. Meantime the French had given way, and were flying in all directions. A grenadier officer, seeing this, called out to those around him, 'See, they run.' The words caught the ear of the dying man; he raised himself, like one aroused from sleep, and asked eagerly, 'Who runs ?' 'The enemy, sir,' answered the officer; they give way everywhere.' 'Go one of you to Colonel Burton,' said Wolfe: 'tell him to march Webbe's (the 48th) regiment with all speed down to the St. Charles River, to cut off the retreat.' His voice grew faint as he spoke, and he turned, as if seeking an easier position on his side; when he had given this last order he seemed to feel that he had done his duty, and added feebly, but distinctly-Now, God be praised, I die happy.' His eyes then closed; and, after a few convulsive moments, he became still.

When the news of these great events reached England, a day of thanksgiving was appointed by proclamation through all the dominions of Great Britain.

Then the sounds of joy and grief from her people wildly rose:

never, perhaps, have triumph and lamentation been so strangely intermingled. Astonishment and admiration at the splendid victory, with sorrow for the loss of the gallant victor, filled every breast Throughout all the land were illuminations and public rejoicings except in the little Kentish village of Westerham, where Wolfe was born, and where his widowed mother now mourned her only child.

Warburton.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

THE last fruit off an old tree' has indeed fallen to the earth; Walter Savage Landor died at Florence on the 17th of the present month. That title, which he himself prefixed to his latest complete work, is singularly fitted to be the epitome of his life and death; for it exactly describes him, not only in person, but in relation to the republic of letters, of which he has been an honoured and vigorous member so long. The tree-true British growth in sap and fibre-is sere and dry at last; there will be no more foliage on it, and no more fruit; but, though almost a century has passed since it struck root, there was fruit on it to the end. Landor long stood, in truth, among the men of a third generation from his own, much like some ancient English oak in a forest of saplings and underwood -a gnarled and knotted trunk, rugged with the lightnings and the storms of a hundred years, but with a few leaves yet springing from its crown, as green and fresh as any in the wood, and an acorn or two from which sturdy timber might yet be grown. But the last leaves are fallen; the last fruit off the old tree' is gone; and the large and generous heart of the poet and politician well knew that winter was coming, when he penned his own epitaph upon the front page of the volume we have named. 'Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art,' is his own description of his own character. 'I warmed both hands,' he wrote, 'before the fire of life;' and yet, with all that large and genial appreciation of this world, he could add, 'It sinks, and I am ready to depart!' Nevertheless the firm old tree has stood long after its last season of leaf; it is ten years since that verse was, as it were, inscribed upon his own withered bark by himself; and only just now is the aged poet deceased in the land of his adoption, the land where the Art which he loved, as the transcriber and handmaid of Nature, could be best and most constantly studied. Again his own words are his own best description. Like nothing so much as a brave old oak' of letters and politics, he outlived himself. - stood up erect and strong, although withered, and with no foliage but the snows of winter upon his head; till the hour that levels the toughest ruin of the wood arrived, and the trunk itself fell as its leaves and fruit had done. There is a curious but not unnatural feeling which leads people to cut boxes and