looked
in vain to see the trophies of captured colors that once hung there,
commemorating the exploits of the ancients,--and on the whole, I don't
think I care much about churches except on Sundays. Somewhere in
Canada--perhaps near Lorette--is some kind of a church, perhaps the
oldest, or the first Indian church in Canada,--or may be it was
interesting because it was burnt down just before we got there. That
is the only definite reminiscence I have of any church in Quebec and
its suburbs, and that is not so definite as it might be. I am sure I
inspected the church of St. Roque and the church of St. John, because I
have entered it in my "Diary"; but if they were all set down on the
table before me at this moment, I am sure I could not tell which was
which, or that they had not been transported each and all from Boston.

But we ascend the cliff, we enter the citadel, we walk upon the Plains
of Abraham, and they overpower you with the intensity of life. The
heart beats in labored and painful pulsations with the pressure of the
crowding past. Yonder shines the lovely isle of vines that gladdened
the eyes of treacherous Cartier, the evil requiter of hospitality.
Yonder from Point Levi the laden ships go gayly up the sparkling river,
a festive foe. Night drops her mantle, and silently the unsuspected
squadron floats down the stealthy waters, and debarks its fateful
freight. Silently in the darkness, the long line of armed men writhe
up the rugged path. The rising sun reveals a startling sight. The
impossible has been attained. Now, too late, the hurried summons
sounds. Too late the deadly fire pours in. Too late the thickets
flash with murderous rifles. Valor is no substitute for vigilance.
Short and sharp the grapple, and victor and vanquished alike lie down
in the arms of all-conquering death. Where this little tree ventures
forth its tender leaves, Wolfe felt the bullet speeding to his heart.
Where this monument stands, his soldier-soul fled, all anguish soothed
away by the exultant shout of victory,--fled from passion and pain,
from strife and madness, into the eternal calm.

Again and again has this rock under my feet echoed to the tramp of
marching men. Again and again has this green and pleasant plain been
drenched with blood, this blue, serene sky hung with the black pall of
death. This broad level of pasture-land, high up above the rushing
waters of the river, but coldly wooed by the faint northern