posted at the top to defend the pass. By the force of the current the foremost boats, including that which carried Wolfe himself, were borne a little below the spot. The general was one of the first on shore.

Meanwhile the ves

sels had dropped downward with the current, and anchored opposite the landing-place. The remaining troops were disembarked, and, with the dawn of day, the whole were brought in safety to the shore.

The sun rose, and, from the ramparts of Quebec, the astonished people saw the Plains of Abraham glittering with arms, and the dark-red lines of the English forming in array of battle. Breathless messengers had borne the evil tidings

THE ASCENT TO THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM.

to Montcalm, and far and near his wide-extended camp resounded with the rolling of alarm drums and the din of startled preparation. He, too, had his struggles and his sorrows. The civil power had

thwarted him; famine, discontent, and disaffection were rife among his soldiers; and no small portion of the Canadian militia had dispersed from sheer starvation. In spite of all, he had trusted to hold out till the winter frosts should drive the invaders from before the 5 town, when, on that disastrous morning, the news of their successful temerity fell like a cannon shot upon his ear. Still he assumed a tone of confidence. "They have got to the weak side of us at last," he is reported to have said, "and we must crush them with our numbers." 10

At a little before ten the English could see that Montcalm was preparing to advance, and in a few moments all his troops appeared in rapid motion. They came on in three divisions, shouting, after the manner of their nation, and firing heavily as soon as 15 they came within range. In the British ranks not a trigger was pulled, not a soldier stirred; and their ominous composure seemed to damp the spirits of the assailants. It was not till the French were within forty yards that the fatal word was given, and the 20 British muskets blazed forth at once in one crashing explosion. Like a ship at full career, arrested with sudden ruin on a sunken rock, the ranks of Montcalm staggered, shivered, and broke before that wasting storm. of lead. The smoke, rolling along the field, for a mo- 25 ment shut out the view; but when the white wreaths were scattered on the wind, a wretched spectacle was disclosed; men and officers tumbled in heaps, battalions resolved into a mob, order and obedience gone; and

when the British muskets were leveled for a second volley, the masses of the militia were seen to cower and shrink with uncontrollable panic. For a few minutes the French regulars stood their ground, returning 5 a sharp and not ineffectual fire. But now, 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. 10 They broke into a run and with unsparing slaughter chased the flying multitude 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 15 ditch of the fortifications. Never was victory more quick or more decisive; 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 20 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, 25 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 him 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 5 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 leveled bayonets. "Who 10 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 15 from the bridge. Now, God be praised! I will die in peace," he murmured; and, turning on his side, he calmly breathed his last.

From "Montcalm and Wolfe."

THE STARLING.

LAURENCE STERNE.

LAURENCE STERNE, an English novelist, was born in Ireland in 1713.

He was the son of an English officer, and the first ten years of his life were spent in traveling about with his father's regiment. 5 He then entered a school near Halifax, where he studied for eight or nine years, and completed his education at the University of Cambridge.

Mr. Sterne became a clergyman of the Church of England, but devoted a large portion of his time to the writing of fiction. He 10 died in London in 1768.

AND as for the Bastille, the terror is in the word. Make the most of it you can, said I to myself, the Bastille is but another word for a tower, and a tower is but another word for a house you can't get out of. Mercy 15 on the gouty! for they are in it twice a year. But with

nine livres a day, and pen and ink and paper and patience, albeit a man can't get out, he may do very well within, at least for a month or six weeks, at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his innocence appears 20 and he comes out a better and wiser man than he went in. I had some occasion-I forget what to step into the courtyard, as I settled this account, and remember I walked downstairs in no small triumph with the conceit of my reasoning. "Beshrew the somber pencil!" 25 said I vauntingly; "for I envy not its power, which paints the evils of life with so hard and deadly a color