swarm of skirmishers, their main body, in long unbroken lines, was seen approaching Wolfe's position. Soon a murderous and incessant fire began. The British troops fell fast. Wolfe, at the head of the 28th, was struck in the wrist, but was not disabled. Wrapping a handkerchief round the wound, he hastened from one rank to the other, 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-suspended 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 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 with 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 disciplinethey increased their pace to a run, rushing over the dying and the dead, and sweeping the living enemy off their path. Wolfe was then 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 that 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 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 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 he tried, with his faint hand, to clear away the deathmist that gathered on his sight; but the efforts 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 run?' '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 on his side, as if seeking an easier position. When he had given this last order, his eyes closed in death. When the news reached England, triumph and lamentation were 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 had been born, and where his widowed mother now mourned her only child. Wolfe's body was embalmed, and borne to the river for conveyance to England. The army escorted it in solemn state to the beach. They mourned their young general's death as sincerely as they had followed him in battle bravely. His remains were landed at Plymouth with the highest honours: minute-guns were fired, flags were hoisted half-mast high, and an escort with arms reversed received the coffin on the shore. They were then conveyed to Greenwich, and buried beside those of his father, who had died but a few months before. After further successes of the British in other parts of Canada, under Generals Amherst, Haviland, and Sir William Johnson, the French cause became utterly hopeless. On the 8th of September 1760, a British force of 16,000 men assembled before Montreal; and on the same day a capitulation was signed which severed Canada from France for ever. One of the most momentous political questions that have ever moved the human race was decided in this struggle. When a few English and French emigrants first landed among the Virginian and Canadian forests it began: when the British flag was hoisted on the citadel of Quebec it was decided. From that day Providence pointed out to the AngloSaxon race that to them was henceforth entrusted the destiny of the New World. WARBURTON. THE BRITISH SOLDIER IN CHINA. LAST night among his fellow-roughs Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, A heart with English instinct fraught, Ay! tear his body limb from limb, Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, The smoke above his father's door In grey soft eddyings hung :Must he then watch it rise no more, Doomed by himself, so young? Yes, Honour calls !—with strength like steel He put the vision by : Let dusky Indians whine and kneel ; An English man must die! And thus with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went. Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed ; So, let his name through Europe ring-- Who died as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great. SIR F. H. DOYLE. THE RELIEF OF LONDONDERRY. Ir was the twenty-eighth of July. The sun had just set: the evening sermon in the cathedral was over; and the heartbroken congregation had separated; when the sentinels on the tower saw the sails of three vessels coming up the Foyle. Soon there was a stir in the Irish camp. The besiegers were on the alert for miles along both shores. The ships were in extreme peril: for the river was low; and the only navigable channel ran very near to the left bank, where the headquarters of the enemy had been fixed, and where the batteries were most numerous. Leake performed his duty with a skill and spirit worthy of his noble profession, exposed his frigate to cover the merchantmen, and used his guns with great effect. At length the little squadron came to the place of peril. Then the Mountjoy took the lead, and went right at the boom. The huge barricade cracked and gave way: but the shock was such that the Mountjoy rebounded and stuck in the mud. A yell of triumph rose from the banks: the Irish rushed to their boats, and were preparing to board; but the Dartmouth poured on them a well-directed broadside, which threw them into disorder. Just then the Phoenix dashed at the breach which the Mountjoy had made, and was in a moment within the fence. Meantime the tide was rising fast. The Mountjoy began to move, and soon passed safe through the broken stakes and floating spars. But her brave master |