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 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 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 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 murmured; and, turning on his side, he calmly breathed his last.
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. 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 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 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 and he comes out a better and wiser man than he went in.