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Maine from Canada, and, running from north to south, falls into the sea a little above Casco-bay. On the opposite side of these mountains, and not far from the sources of the Kennebec, rises another river, called the Chaudière, which flows into the St. Lawrence, a little above Quebec. From one of these springheads to the other there was no way but across precipitous mountains, intersected with torrents and marshes, and not a living being was to be seen for the entire distance. Such was the wilderness through which Arnold had now to penetrate.


success, or rather, all prospect of deliverance. Death was desired rather than dreaded by his forlorn followers, overwhelmed amidst these fearful wilds by every privation, and by every suffering. Their constancy was still proof; stern necessity maintained as yet their powers of endurance. Arrived at the summit of the mountains which divide the waters of the Kennebec from those of the Chaudière and St. Lawrence, the miserable remnant of their provisions was equally distributed among all the companies, and Arnold urged his soldiers to press forward in search His preparations completed, and the troops dis- of subsistence, since henceforth in doing so lay their playing extreme ardour, he left the camp at Boston sole resource from perishing. It was yet thirty towards the middle of September, and on reaching miles to the nearest habitation when every sort of the Kennebec found two hundred boats assembled at provision was exhausted; they were giving way to the town of Gardiner. Loading them with arms, utter despair, when Arnold, whose activity was almost ammunition and provisions, he ascended the river as preternatural, suddenly appeared from a forage, bringfar as Fort Wester, erected on its right bank. Here ing with him wherewithal to satisfy the extremest he divided his corps into three detachments; the cravings of nature. Recommencing their march, with first composed of riflemen, commanded by Captain inexpressible joy they reached at length the Chaudière Morgan, forming the advanced guard, to explore the river, and soon after, the nearest dwellings of the country, ascertain the fords, open the road, and espe- French Canadians, who embraced their cause, and cially reconnoitre the frequent "portages," spots so offered them every assistance in their power. Arnold, called because, the rivers there becoming unnavigable, impatient to snatch the fruit of so much toil and it was necessary to carry by hand, or on beasts of danger, would only halt as long as was necessary to burden, not only the cargo, but also the boats them-give the rear guard time to come up, and assemble the selves, until the state of the river admitted of their being launched anew. Their progress was full of almost insuperable difficulties, the current being swift, the bed of the river rocky, and often interrupted by dangerous falls and rapids. To penetrate by land was even more difficult than by water; they had to make their way through dense tangled forests, climb rugged and overhanging precipices, and thread unknown and perilous morasses, and while opening a road through all the formidable obstacles of a wilderness in a state of nature, the soldiers, compelled to carry their own baggage, could of course advance but slowly, so that even before they reached the head waters of the Kennebec, their provisions began to fail. Many were already spent with fatigue and exhaustion, and when they had reached the source of the Rivière Morte, a branch of the Kennebec, Colonel Enoss was ordered to send back to the rear all the sick and such as could not be supplied with provisions. This officer profited by the opportunity to return with his entire detachment to the camp at Boston. The whole army, on seeing him appear, gave way to the liveliest indignation against a man who had abandoned his companions in arms, in the midst of danger, and whose descrtion might compromise the success of the whole enterprise. He was brought before a courtmartial, but acquitted from the acknowledged impossibility of procuring provisions for his men in those desolate and savage regions.

Arnold, undaunted, pursued his onward march; he had consumed thirty-two days in traversing a frightful solitude without meeting with a single habitation, a single human creature. Swamps, mountains, precipitous and pathless ravines, encountered him at every step, and seemed to forbid all expectation of

On the 9th November he reached Point Levi, opposite to Quebec. The amazement of the inhabitants of that city at such an apparition can hardly be conceived-they could not comprehend how and by what road the Americans had reached them: the success of such an enterprise seemed to them little less than miraculous. Had Arnold, in this first moment of their panic been able to cross the river, he must have made himself master of Quebec, but Colonel Maclean, the commandant, had received timely warning through a fugitive Indian of the approach of the Americans, and the English had consequently withdrawn all the boats from the right bank of the river. Moreover, it blew on that day so furiously that it was manifestly impossible to cross without peril. These circumstances were the salvation of the city. Arnold, foaming with impatience, was compelled to lose several days, and to make a nocturnal passage, the river being guarded by the Lizard frigate and several other light vessels anchored under the walls of the town. For several nights successively, the wind was as high as during the day; but the Canadians having at length furnished Arnold with sufficient boats, he only awaited the favourable moment for attempting the passage.

The commandant of Quebec was aware how small were his means of defending the city; the spirit that prevailed there could not but alarm him, and the garrison was very weak, consisting only of the Royal Irishmen of Colonel Maclean, and some militia hastily called out by the vice-governor. The merchants and English inhabitants were extremely discontented at the recent introduction of French laws into the province. It appeared, moreover, that no reliance was

to be placed in the fidelity of the French, of whom | of General Montgomery from Upper Canada. While the greater part were wavering, and some even the declared enemies of British domination. The council of naval officers would not consent to land the sailors to serve on land, on account of the bitterness of the season and the difficulties of the navigation.

on the way thither, the vessel was seen descending towards Quebec with Governor Carleton on board, who, on his arrival, hastened to take every defensive measure which time and circumstances permitted. Meanwhile, Montgomery advanced from Montreal upon Quebec by roads rendered almost impassable by the accumulating snows. His eloquence, his per

But as soon as they beheld the American colours boldly displayed on the other side of the river, citizens, soldiers and sailors, both English and French, ani-sonal reputation, his virtues, and the example of mated by one common enthusiasm, united by the common danger, hastened in crowds to the defence of the city, and laboured with the utmost ardour to complete the necessary defences before the enemy should be able to pass over and attack them. The militia were armed and stationed at their respective posts. The Irish displayed great resolution, and some sailors were landed, who, accustomed to working guns, were charged with serving the artillery upon the ramparts. In this alarming crisis, Colonel Maclean neglected nothing that could inspire resolution in the spirits of the besieged, and aid in defending the city confided to his trust.

resignation and magnanimity he showed to his troops, alone could have sustained their courage, and even inspired fresh ardour to follow in his footsteps. On the 1st December he reached Point aux Trembles with a small detachment of barely 300 men, where Arnold received him with indescribable joy. After another vain attempt to induce the governor to surrender, he erected a battery of six guns upon a foundation of snow and ice, but with little or no effect. They were now exposed to all the terrors of a Canadian winter. The air was darkened by continual snow storms, and the cold was so intense that human strength could no longer endure its rigour unsheltered. At length, the wind having moderated, Arnold, on The sufferings of the Americans were indescribable, the night of the 13th November, embarked all his and, to render their position still more horrible, the forces, excepting 500 men whom he left behind to small-pox broke out in the camp, growing demoprepare some ladders, and in spite of the extreme ralization spread itself among the ranks; constancy rapidity of the current, and the precautions needful gives way to despair when there appears no term to for avoiding the enemy's ships, he reached the oppo- suffering and no prospect of success, and Montsite bank, a little above the spot where General Wolfe gomery perceived, that unless he struck a sudden had disembarked in 1759, under auspices so favour- and decisive blow he should be compelled to a disable for his country and so fatal to himself. Not astrous retreat, and that his military renown must be being able to ascend the banks of the river, which are eclipsed. In a position so critical and desperate, here very precipitous, he descended towards Quebec, daring becomes prudence, and he resolved rather to following the shore till he reached the foot of the die covered with glory, than submit without an effort wood-covered ascent which Wolfe had so much difficulty to a disgrace which might have proved fatal to the in surmounting. Followed by his intrepid companions success of the American cause. he scaled the summit, and ranged his little band on the neighbouring heights of the Plains of Abraham. He halted but for a moment, to give time to the troops he had left on the other side to rejoin him, for he hoped to surprise the city by a coup de main. But the alarm had been given, and the besieged prepared, his scouts informing him that they encountered the advanced guard of the enemy, who had given infor-rity of a winter morning, the snow falling heavily, the mation of his approach.

The impetuous Arnold would have ordered the attack at all hazards, but was dissuaded by his officers. The greatest part of the guns were unserviceable, and there remained but six rounds of ammunition apiece; lastly, there was not a single piece of artillery. But if he could no longer hope to surprise the city, he endeavoured to induce it to surrender by showing himself boldly in arms before the walls. He even sent, but in vain, to summon the commandant. But the device was fruitless; Colonel Maclean not only prevented the entry of the messengers, but fired upon the officer who escorted them. Arnold learned at the same time, that the English had descended from Montreal, and were preparing for a sortie. Thus he found himself compelled to fall back, and encamp at Point aux Trembles, twenty miles above Quebec, to await the arrival

Having determined to storm the city, Montgomery divided his army into four corps, two of which were to amuse the enemy by a feigned attack of the upper town, while the two others, commanded by Arnold and himself, were to assault the lower town at two different points. On the last day of the year 1775, between four and five, in the gloom and obscu

four columns advanced noiselessly and in perfect order upon the points respectively assigned to them. It is said that Captain Frazer, of the Royal Irishmen, in going his rounds, caught sight of the fusees which the Americans fired as signals, and instantly beat to arms without waiting for further orders. Livingston and Brown, impeded by the snow and other obstacles, could not execute their feigned attack in time upon the upper town. But Montgomery, at the head of his column, composed almost entirely of New York troops, hastened along the road called Anse de Mer, beneath Cape Diamond. There, at a spot called the Potasse, was a barrier defended by some pieces of artillery, and two hundred paces in advance a redoubt had been constructed defended with a sufficient guard. These soldiers, almost all Canadians, fled as they saw the enemy approach, the battery was soon abandoned,

and if the Americans could have advanced with suf-
ficient rapidity they would certainly have taken it:
but in turning the angle of Cape Diamond, they found
the road was blocked up by an enormous accumulation
of snow.
This obstacle was fatal to their success.
Montgomery with his own hands laboured hard to
open a narrow pathway for his men, who were able
to follow him only one at a time, and thus he was
obliged to wait for them, till having at length assem-
bled about 200, he briskly advanced to the redoubt.
But at that moment, an artilleryman, recovering from
his first panic when he found the enemy had stopped,
returned suddenly to his post, and seizing a match
which was yet burning, fired a cannon loaded with grape
into the midst of the Americans, who were now but
forty paces distant. That single discharge overturned
the whole enterprise. Montgomery, together with Cap-
tains Macpherson and Cheesman, both young officers
of merit and endeared to their general, were killed
upon the spot. At the fall of their brave chief, the
soldiers fell back, and thus that part of the garrison
to which they were opposed, hastened to assist that
which was attacked elsewhere.

an increasing multitude of enemies, after a brief resistance were compelled to lay down their arms; Arnold, however, eventually succeeded in retiring with a portion of the army.

Such was the issue of an attempt, the success of which, desperate as it may appear, was certainly not impossible. Had not Montgomery fallen on the outset, it is hardly to be doubted that he would have gained the barrier, and Arnold and Morgan obtaining the same success, the lower town would have fallen into the hands of the Americans. Be this as it may, their heroic efforts must be the object of sincere admiration. General Carleton treated the prisoners with great humanity, and interred the American general with all the honours of war. The governor added greatly to his reputation for prudence and intrepidity, in having, in so difficult a position, known how to maintain order and union among hasty and undisciplined levies. And if such feeble means sufficed him to repulse the formidable attack of an enemy rendered more terrible by despair, he acquired no less honour by the generosity with which he made use of his victory.


strongly censured by the minister, Lord North. He admitted that Montgomery had displayed both skill, valour, and humanity, but was no less a rebel-and he cited the line of Addison :

For Arnold, meanwhile, at the head of the for- The American Congress, desiring to honour the lorn hope, had advanced to the spot called the Saut memory of one who was the object of the love and au Matelot, in the lower town, followed by a com- veneration of his country, decreed that a monument pany of artillery and a single cannon, after which should be ordered at Paris, with an inscription suited came the centre, preceded by Morgan's riflemen. to convey to posterity the memory of the virtue and the The besieged had erected a battery at the entrance heroism of Richard Montgomery and it is remarkof a narrow passage, where the Americans were able that the English showed no less enthusiasm in hemmed in and exposed to a sweeping discharge of his favour than the Americans. A scene almost ungrape. As Arnold advanced rapidly forward under precedented took place in Parliament, where orators the enemy's fire, he was severely wounded in the leg by arose, whose eloquence seemed to take delight in a ball, and in spite of his resistance was carried back decreeing to him all the praises with which the histo the hospital. Morgan then took the command, and torians of antiquity have honoured their most illusrushed impetuously upon the battery. The American trious contemporaries. Colonel Barré, in particular, riflemen, skilful marksmen, picked off the English | most touchingly regretted the death of so noble an soldiers by the embrasures, they applied scaling lad- enemy: Burke and Fox, in their speeches, endeaders, the besieged gave way and abandoned the bat-voured to surpass him in panegyric. They were tery. But Morgan's position was become exceedingly critical; the main body were not yet able to come up, he was compelled to halt with his men, and, in their ignorance of the fate of the other columns, the darkness, the furious storms of snow, the firing heard on all sides, and even behind them, produced a feeling of involuntary terror in the stoutest hearts. Morgan rushed hastily back to hasten the arrival of the rear, who now came up, and as the day was about to break, he renewed the attack. While advancing to a second battery, he encountered an English detachment, under Captain Anderson, who summoned him to surrender. Morgan, enraged, knocked him down with a blow of his gun; the English retreated and closed the barrier. Some of the boldest of the assailants, having placed their ladders against the parapet, prepared a second time to scale it, but recoiled at the sight of two lines of soldiers ready to receive them on their bayonets; and Morgan, seeing that the enterprise was hopeless, was compelled to beat a retreat. But it was now too late, the Americans, entangled in the town, and surrounded on all sides with

"Curse on his virtues-they have undone his country." But to this Fox as warmly replied, "that the great founders of liberty have in all ages been called rebels, and that the very constitution by virtue of which they were assembled owed its origin to a revolution.""

Such are the heroic memories which cluster round Quebec: English, French and Americans, have displayed around its walls the highest valour, have shed upon its soil the noblest blood, and repose together within the shelter of its walls. Each, moreover, displayed towards his rival in the field that generous sympathy which is the chivalry of war, and half redeems with its nobility of feeling, the darker features of a system destined, we devoutly trust, to expire at no distant period, when "nation shall not rise against nation, neither shall they learn the art of war any more."

(1) These historical particulars are compressed from Botta's

History of the War of Independence.

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of the princess's feelings towards him. The state of complete moral apathy to which he had abandoned himself, prevented his distinctly recognising what he must have observed if he had permitted himself to think of the matter at all. But this he did not do. He certainly did not reciprocate the sentiments of the princess to any proportionate extent. Her extravagant preference for him wore the looks, and spoke the language of love. And too welcome was any semblance of that emotion to his present dreariness of soul, to allow him to scrutinize its features too closely. Like the rapt spectator of a drama, he committed himself entirely for the moment to the false impersonation; and the enthralling illusion too nearly resembled reality for him to wish it at an end. The fervent, the passionate emotion that had been so lately kindled within him, being forcibly torn from its proper and only object, clung to the nearest that presented itself.

He was loved, and he thus found himself as near as

he was able to be to the happiness he had lost. Now, all this was of course in itself cruelly selfish. And yet a generosity and nobleness of natural disposition more utterly unselfish than Sumner's could scarcely be imagined. How was this? Love, when merely human, is perhaps as selfish as in its proper nature it is exactly the reverse. And although in such natures as Harry Summer's there is, even in the absence of high religious attainments, much of the spiritual and divine mixed with the grosser element; yet, in proportion as love in such is unrefined by systematic discipline, does it retain its human selfishness.

Thus, it was the genuine and deep love of Harry Sumner for Agnes Clifton which kept him from discouraging the evident attachment of the princess; which induced him indeed to acquiesce in, even if he did not positively encourage it; it was that love's selfish relief under its bereavement and disappointment. It was, however, a passive rather than an active selfishness. Let him once be made conscious of it, and he would resent it indignantly.

ON the following day it cost Sumner a fainter struggle than on the preceding one, to decline the application at the Post-office; and thus passed several days. Each morning his inward promptings, to inquire at the Poste Restante grew weaker and more transient, until they well-nigh ceased altogether. The quiet MSS.-searching existence of Mr. Banbury, and his unflagging enthusiasm about nothing, ill accorded with this changed mood of his companion; so that he Upon the princess, however, the effect of this coy now saw little of him. At first, a great part of Harry's spare time was occupied in playing billiards with reception of her passion, of this only passive acquiesLionel Roakes. Two evenings were spent at the cence in it, was perhaps even more fatal than if Baron Hauffman's, a Jew, banker, and baron, whither Sumner had returned it with an ardour equal to her he was conducted by Roakes; but, with these excep-inflammable materials; pique-the exasperation of own. It fed the lurid glowing flame with all kinds of tions, his evenings were spent in the society of the Princesse de Czaslau, to whose fascinations he was

yielding himself more rapidly and more completely

than he was himself aware of.

He had now been a full fortnight in Vienna, every day of which, excepting the two above specified, witnessed some fresh engagement which threw him into the not unwelcome society of the princess.

As was to be expected from the temperament of the one and the attractions of the other, the admiration of her guest, which had been from the first so powerfully kindled in her bosom, was speedily fanned into a violent and consuming flame. Sumner was neither fully conscious nor entirely unconscious of the nature

(1) Continued from p. 216.

passion always excited by difficulty-the atmosphere fanned her love almost into a phrenzy; she discovered of mystery and romance it threw around him, all all but solicit if she was to hope for any return. And too, that the being whom she idolized, she must had never loved before. She had experienced a strong ----more miserable still-she now found that she really liking for a man much courted in brilliant circles, a handsome roué, and a prince: she had thought it was love; and the wealth and station of her lover materially assisted in completing the delusion. Nor had

she till now been undeceived; no one had since appeared who had kindled any such emotion in her bosom. But now love had taken possession of its usurped throne in her heart, and suddenly appeared

to vindicate its wrongs. All the rebellious feelings | feebleness of her disordered faculties, however, she at of an undisciplined mind were already there. A length worked herself up to the conviction that the severe but just retribution awaits her. She had wanting echo was there, though silent; that the wedded without love: she now loves where she can- flame was yearning for a vent, but was smothered not wed. The pure sanctuary of a maiden heart she down by a sense of honour of Herculean force and allowed to be frivolously pre-occupied by an object un-resolution. She even explained his reserve and meworthy of its homage: she has now found its true lancholy in that way, forgetting that it had had a object, when not even thought of him may be ad- prior existence. An explanation so probable and so mitted within the sacred precinct without guilt. welcome she adopted unhesitatingly. The more she Pass we the ungrateful task of depicting step by thought of it, the more confident of it did she bestep the progress of her guilty passion. Let it suffice to come, until it had taken the place in her convicrelate, that from the first moment the unhappy lady tion of an admitted fact. The next thing was to became conscious of her affection, every difficulty, act upon it. To this end, from the moment of the every obstacle, only rendered it more and more resist-prince's arrival, she laid herself out to arouse his less.

The course of such a passion is of necessity headlong, impetuous, and rapid. Nearly three weeks had now elapsed, the last few days of which had been spent at the palace of Count Scheynini, a Hungarian nobleman, and an old acquaintance of the Prince de Czaslau. Thither the princess had little difficulty in persuading Sumner to accompany her. He almost gladly availed himself of the opportunity of getting so thoroughly away from the neighbourhood of the Poste Restante. His manner, although that of one deeply interested, was yet so unimpassioned and unreserved, that it might have disarmed the Prince de Czaslau of all suspicion, even had he been, what he was not, of a jealous temperament. It prevented, too, the scandal which the thoughtless conduct of the princess must, but for it, infallibly have occasioned. As it was, the gossips contented themselves with that particular line of banter which showed that they did not so much as dream of aught more grave than, in gossip language, "a desperate flirtation." The prince, therefore, had not the smallest hesitation in entrusting his consort to the protection of his guest for the journey to Hungary; nor did it appear that any one pronounced him to be very rash or imprudent on that account.

The confidence thus evinced, however, produced an unhappy effect on the erring wife. It gave additional force to a suspicion which, although she wilfully shut her eyes to it, would be continually occurring to her, that as she had married without love, she must now love without hope. And the bare thought that such might be the case exasperated her intemperate will to such a pitch of reckless resolution as would not admit the very whisper of a retreat or an impediment.

She had now been four days at the count's; and, beyond the rapture of Sumner's society, which she felt less and less able to dispense with, she had not advanced a step nearer to her object. With all her burning anxiety to discover the faintest symptoms of anything resembling a return of affection, she had searched for it in vain. He liked, he admired her-he evinced more pleasure in her society than in that of any other person; but the thrilling note that echoes spontaneously from heart to heart, the silent language of the consenting soul, the profound recognition of a mutual self, that was wanting on one side. In the

jealousy, and provoke him to affront and exasperate her lover. Unhappy woman! To what depths of guilt was the troubled turbid torrent of her passion hurrying her!

This hateful end accomplished,-when she was now satisfied that many hours could not elapse without a fierce separation of the acquaintance of her husband and lover,—she sought the latter, and in the shade of a wild Hungarian forest, where the fiercest language of passion would only awake the echoes of the wood, poured forth all her soul. Oh! melancholy, yea, foul disclosure! There, hid in the silent forest, let it ever remain. For ever entombed in the dark solitude be her unholy tale! "She cared not whither she fled, where she lived, what she became, might she be but his. Her princely rank, her wealth, the adulation she received, her unlimited resources of pleasure, were as nothing in her eyes. Without him, life was death; wealth, poverty; rank, degradation. By his side, to be a menial would be promotion,-beggary, wealth— death”

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In a moment of time flashed across Harry Sumner's mind such thoughts as these: And this is my doing! Debased selfishness! Unhappy woman; how can I ever atone to thee? How can I act? What a sacrifice she offers to her love for me-a love I have perceived and encouraged-ay, encouraged! I must wrong her, act as I may! If I recoil, she is humiliated and heart-broken; if I consent, she is lost for ever. I seem to be a living curse. My presence anywhere is the signal for the unhappiness of every one who comes within reach of me!" For a moment he was in doubt: he hesitated. But the instant the thought of wronging one by whom he had been so kindly and hospitably welcomed in a foreign city presented itself before him, all further irresolution disappeared, whilst an expression of the most touching gentleness, of the tenderest sympathy, lighted up every feature. "Most kind and treasured friend," he said, clasping her white hand between both of his, "may I beseech you to listen to me for a few short moments?"

"Oh! speak-speak for ever!" she murmured.

"I will not torment you with telling you the agony I endure; but hear me. It demeans you, dear lady, to have these feelings towards the most selfish and mean of mankind. Would that you abhorred me as I abhor my hateful self-a man who, in return for

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