echoing cheer on cheer, redoubling volley on volley, trampling the dying and the dead and driving the fugitives in crowds, the British troops advanced and swept the field before them. The ardor of the men burst all restraint. They broke into a run, and with unsparing slaughter chased the flying multitudes to the gates of Quebec. Foremost of all, the light-footed Highlanders dashed along in furious pursuit, hewing down the Frenchmen with their broadswords, and slaying many in the very ditch of the fortifications. Never was victory more quick or more decisive.

In the short action and pursuit, the French lost fifteen hundred men, killed, wounded, and taken. Of the remainder, some escaped within the city, and others fled across the St. Charles to rejoin their comrades who had been left to guard the camp. The pursuers were recalled by sound of trumpet; the broken ranks were formed afresh, and the English troops withdrawn beyond reach of the cannon of Quebec. Bougainville, with his corps, arrived from the upper country, and, hovering about their rear, threatened an attack; but when he saw what greeting was prepared for him, he abandoned his purpose and withdrew. Towns

hend and Murray, the only general officers who remained unhurt, passed to the head of every regiment in turn, and thanked the soldiers for the bravery they had shown; yet the triumph of the victors was mingled with sadness, as the tidings went from rank to rank that Wolfe had fallen.

In the heat of the action, as he advanced at the head of the grenadiers of Louisburg, a bullet shattered his wrist; but he wrapped his handkerchief about the wound, and showed no sign of pain. A moment more, and a ball pierced his side. Still he pressed forward, waving his sword and cheering his soldiers to the attack, when a third shot lodged deep within his breast. He paused, reeled, and, staggering to one side, fell to the earth. Brown, a lieutenant of the grenadiers, Henderson, a volunteer, an officer of artillery, and a private soldier, raised him together in their arms, and, bearing him to the rear, laid him softly on the grass. They asked if he would have a surgeon; but he shook his head, and answered that all was over with him. His eyes closed with the torpor of approaching death, and those around sustained his fainting form. Yet they could not withhold their

gaze from the wild turmoil before them, and the charging ranks of their companions rushing through fire and smoke. "See how they run," one of the officers exclaimed, as the French fled in confusion before the levelled bayonets. "Who run?" demanded Wolfe, opening his eyes like a man aroused from sleep. "The enemy, sir," was the reply; "they give way everywhere." "Then," said the dying general, "tell Colonel Burton to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River, to cut off their retreat from the bridge. Now, God be praised, I will die in peace," he muttered; and, turning on his side, he calmly breathed his last.

Almost at the same moment fell his great adversary, Montcalm, as he strove, with vain bravery, to rally his shattered ranks. Struck down with a mortal wound, he was placed upon a litter and borne to the General Hospital on the banks of the St. Charles. The surgeons told him that he could not recover. "I am glad of it," was his calm reply. He then asked how long he might survive, and was told that he had not many hours remaining. "So much the better," he said; "I am happy that I shall not live to see the surrender of Quebec." Officers from the garrison came to his bedside to ask his orders and instructions. "I will give no more orders,” replied the defeated soldier; "I have much business that must be attended to, of greater moment than your ruined garrison and this wretched country. My time is very short; therefore, pray leave me." The officers withdrew, and none remained in the chamber but his confessor and the Bishop of Quebec. To the last, he expressed his contempt for his own mutinous and half-famished troops, and his admiration for the disciplined valor of his opponents. He died before midnight, and was buried at his own desire in a cavity of the earth formed by the bursting of a bombshell.

The victorious army encamped before Quebec, and pushed their preparations for the siege with zealous energy; but before a single gun was brought to bear, the white flag was hung out, and the garrison surrendered. On the eighteenth of September, 1759, the rock-built citadel of Canada passed forever from the hands of its ancient masters.

The victory on the Plains of Abraham and the downfall of Que

bec filled all England with pride and exultation. From north to south, the land blazed with illuminations, and resounded with the ringing of bells, the firing of guns, and the shouts of the multitude. In one village alone all was dark and silent amid the general joy; for here dwelt the widowed mother of Wolfe. The populace, with unwonted delicacy, respected her lonely sorrow, and forbore to obtrude the sound of their rejoicings upon her grief for one who had been through life her pride and solace, and repaid her love with a tender and constant devotion.

[From The Conspiracy of Pontiac and the Indian War after the Conquest of Canada, 1851, chapter 4, “Collision of the Rival Colonies." By permission of the publishers, Little, Brown, and Co., the text employed is that of the author's revised edition of 1870.]

APPENDIX

[Several remarkable passages from the older literature are here included, to indicate the temper and attitude of mind of the colonists.]

THE PILGRIMS

And no

BEING thus ariued in a good harbor, and brought safe to land, they fell vpon their knees & blessed ye God of heauen, who had brought them ouer ye vast, & furious Ocean, and deliuered them from all ye periles, & miseries thereof againe to set their feete on yo firme and stable earth, their proper elemente. maruell if they were thus Ioyefull, seeing wise Seneca was so affected with sailing a few miles on ye coast of his owne Italy; as he affirmed, that he had rather remaine twentie years on his way by land, then pass by sea to any place in a short time; so tedious, & dreadfull was ye same vnto him.

But hear I cannot but stay, and make a pause, and stand half amazed at this poore peoples presente condition; and so I thinke will the reader too, when he well considers ye same.

Being thus passed ye vast Ocean, and a sea of troubles before in their preparation (as may be remembered by yt which wente before) they had now no freinds to wellcome them, nor Inns to entertaine, or refresh their weatherbeaten bodys, no houses, or much less townes to repaire too, to seeke for succoure; It is recorded in scripture as a mercie to ye apostle & his shipwraked company, yt the sauage barbarians shewed them no smale kindnes in refreshing them, but these sauage barbarians, when they mette with them (as after will appeare) were readier to fill their sids full of arrows then otherwise. And for ye season it was winter, and they that know ye winters of yt cuntrie, know them to be sharp & violent, & subjecte to cruell & feirce stormes, deangerous trauill to known places, much more to serch an vnknown coast. Besids what

could they see, but a hidious & desolate willdernes, full of wild beasts, & willd men, and what multituds ther might be of them they knew not; nether could they (as it were) goe vp to ye tope of pisgah, to vew from this willdernes, a more goodly cuntrie to feed their hops; for which way so euer they turnd their eys (saue vpward to ye heavens) they could haue little solace or content, in respecte of any outward objects, for sumer being done, all things stand vpon them with a wetherbeaten face; an ye whole countrie (full of woods & thickets) represented a wild & sauage heiw; If they looked behind them, ther was ye mighty Ocean which they had passed, and was now a maine barr, & goulfe, to seperate them from all ye ciuill parts of ye world. If it be said they had a ship to sucour them, it is trew; but what heard they daly from yo m2 & company? but y' with speede they should looke out a place (with their shallop) wher they would be, at some near distance; for ye season was shuch, as he would not stirr from thence, till a safe harbor was discouered by them, wher they would be, and he might goe without danger; and that victells consumed apace, but he must & would keepe sufficient for them selues, & their returne; yea it was muttered by some, that if they gott not a place in time, they would turne them, & their goods a shore, & leaue them. Let it be also considered what weake hopes of supply, & succoure, they left behinde them; yt might bear vp their minds in this sade condition, and trialls they were vnder; and they could not but be uery smale; It is true indeed, ye affections & loue of their brethren at Leyden was cordiall & entire towards them, but they had litle power to help them, or them selues; and how ye case stoode betwene them, & ye marchants, at their coming away hath allready been declared. What could now sustaine them, but ye Spirite of God & his grace? May not, & ought not the children of these fathers rightly say, our faithers were English men which came ouer this great Ocean, and were ready to perish in this willdernes, but they cried vnto ye Lord, and he heard their voyce, and looked on their aduersitie, &c.

[From History of the Plimoth Plantation. By William Bradford. Written from about 1630 onward. The text is that of the original manuscript, as printed in Doyle's facsimile.]