Impatient and impetuous, the Highlanders rushed on, and with incredible success, their lighter equipments and broadswords favoring their way, and cutting through the felled trees, and raised on the shoulders of their fellows, many gained the breast-work, and overpowered, fighting hand to hand, died on the summit. The extraordinary prowess of Captain John Campbell, accounts of the day said, excited the terror of the French. Pierced by bayonets, and bleeding with fearful cuts and gashes on the face, given by incredible numbers, he yielded not till eleven balls had fatally wounded him at the same moment. His body fell outside the works, and was borne from the field by his comrades.' But the men of Rob Roy knew no living conqueror; undaunted, and enraged at the fall of so many of their associates, the orders for retreat were unheeded, and like mad lions they rushed on with renewed fury, and, carrying destruction, scores died within the lines, and in the very jaws of an overwhelming force. So fought this extraordinary body of men. Accounts of deeds of valor reveal but few such instances. Three hundred and fourteen were killed, and three hundred and thirty-three wounded. Every officer except two was either killed or wounded; and when at last the shattered remnant obeyed the call for retreat, they glanced at their allies and saw them fleeing, and then at the fallen heroes; while, strange to say, they were allowed, from the very trenches, undisturbed by a single shot, to hurry off with many of their gallant but slaughtered companions.

From the earliest written history of the Highland clans, down to their formation into the Black Watch, and then into a regiment, each had its old counsellor, whose sayings were their law; its prayer-makers, whose religion was almost their gospel, and their bards and songsters, who clothed their deeds in poetry and sung the requiems of their departed. At that day such was this unmixed regiment. But a few years from their native hills, they brought from them all their primitive superstitions, which they nursed in the camp, wherever service called, among the romantic scenery of the American wilds. Three days after the battle, at Fort Edward, when the green sod covered the rude grave of Campbell and a few others, a vacant stare was on the heavy countenances of all who were performing these rites to their fallen. Silently looking at each, at length one says: Who is our counsellor now? and who will sing our dirges?'

The same discipline which caused all the regulars in the first attack to face the cannon's mouth, controlled the other regiments during the action; though the sad story of their loss is not to be told like that of the forty-second Highlanders. Encouraged by every succeeding assault and retreat of those brave regiments, every distinct command being obeyed-joined by the Rangers, Royal Americans and provincials-the varied strength of the army was rushing on, filling up the broken lines, attacking in other positions, and the slaughter became general. The eloquent author of 'Hochelaga' says: Then fresh troops pressed on to the deadly strife, rivalling the courage and sharing the fate of those who had led the way. For nearly four hours, like the succeeding waves of an ebb-tide, they attacked again and again, each time losing somewhat of their vantage-ground; now fiercely

rushing on, unflinchingly enduring the murderous fire, then sullenly falling back to re-form their broken ranks for a fresh effort.'

And now, strangely, the enemy suddenly struck their colors and hoisted the English flag from one of their strong positions on the breast-work. A large force closed in the English columns and marched up; others along the lines pierced the breast-work with their bayonets, and were about scaling them, when a whole volley from the French cannon and muskets made fearful havoc. They had thrown grenadeshells and all the avalanche of their full force at one fell swoop, mowing down the thick and extended columns of the English army. Hundreds fell; the front and the rear suffered equally. The slaughter ceased; the fortunes of the day were decided; and a mass of human bodies, dying and dead, covered the ground far beyond the lines and strong battlements of the enemy. Nineteen hundred and forty-two were killed and wounded; and of these sixteeen hundred and eight were regulars, and three hundred and thirty-four provincials. Over their mangled carcases the survivors of this ill-starred expedition rushed on in the retreat.

The loss of the enemy was for the time supposed to be trifling, but proved to be three hundred and eighty. Still masters of Northern New-York, twelve months and thirteen days longer the proud flag of France floated on the fortress-battlements of Ticonderoga.

A SONG OF EUROPE.

BY MRS. M. E. HEWITT.

⚫ THE clergy did much toward accustoming mankind to prefer the authority of law to the power of the sword. At their instigation private wars ceased for certain periods and on particular days, and the observance of the TRUCE OF GOD' was guarded by the terrors of exoommunication and anathema." MILLS' HISTORY OF THE CRUSADES.

OUR sires in the old time
Stayed arrow and sword,
And the earth tilled unfearing,
In truce with the LORD.

The war-cry no longer
Swelled loud o'er the plain,
But the laugh of the husbandman
Rang through the grain.

And the vintagers wakened

The song of the vine,

Where the ripe grape they gathered,

Or pressed out the wine.

Then the bride wore her garland

In gladness and glee;

Then the sad soul was shriven
Ere death set her free.

But when the full harvest

Was reaped from the land,
The bow-string was tightened,
Unsheathed was the brand.

Thus take we the ploughshare
While the sword lieth still,

From her blood-fattened waste lands
Earth's garners to fill.

And think, though our rulers

Feast full on our toil,

That we too shall gather

New strength from the soil.

For e'en while they revel,
Exulting in peace,

Our purpose will ripen,

Our might will increase.

Then look to our tillage,
Sow widely the corn;
And hail to the harvest

That waits us at morn!

For the arm of the reaper
Will sway in the grain,
Till our tyrants are stubble
And chaff on the plain.

AN INCIDENT IN

CHURCH.

I SUPPOSE the spirit of every human Being-like a golden reach of Landscape in the richest warmth of Summer-to be, in some of its passages, at times overshadowed by clouds of despondency, or of foreboding, or of grief, or of regret. DAY, in its brilliancy, after the glory of the Sun hath rested in joy for some hours, creates and exalts these vapours of the natural world to soften and temper the ineffable light. And thus also, in the spiritual world, shadows not less certainly, after some hour of transport or of intellectual brightness, are made to pass across the firmament of the mind: or to dwell slowly; or to descend from on high and rest above like a tent of authority; or utterly to lower, or to overcast, or darken it.

Hereafter perhaps in some far-future state of the Soul's existence, it will be given us to know and comprehend if we should desire, how these vapours of the mind that we now construe into trials and sadnesses, may like the clouds of Earth have shaded sheltered refreshed sobered and fertilized the Soul. How out of these its apparent griefs and overshadowings the young leaf hath lifted its green head, and the herbage and fountains and brooks and woods of the moral world have renewed as in youth their anthem of Verdure and delight.

It is not so now. It is not so here. And it was with a depressed, a forlorn heart, that I made my way upon a Sunday morning into the Southern aisle of one of our distant churches, listening as I walked forward up the aisle to the deep and solemn Voluntary that precedes our noble service. I had hardly seated myself in a pew where I felt welcome, when that precious expression of the Warriour-King entered unexpectedly into my thoughts:

ONE thing have I desired of the LORD; that will I seek after; that I might dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to behold the fair beauty of the LORD, and to enquire in His Temple.

"Wait on the LORD: be of good courage, and He shall strengthen thine heart: Wait, I say, on the LORD.'

I was thus in the position so often and so zealously desired and longed for by the heroick Leader and King of Israel, the man of arms from his youth; and, during the dissentions of Israel, so fruitlessly and in vain longed for by him-nay more, within my own breast and small experience while travelling at different periods over the Continent of Europe, how often had I, even I, longed for one such Sabbath among my own people as was at this moment to be vouchsafed to me! What Protestant Christian traveller on the Continent of Europe hath not also yearned for this?

'If ever you have look'd on better days,

If ever been where bells have knolled to church'

How strong is the invocation, how numerous, how beautiful the associations that spring upward in the heart to fashion a reply? I was in the very spot where bells had knoll'd; and I felt the cloud that oppressed me preparing to fold up its tented outlines, and the Shadow to pass off at the brightening of these thoughts.

Yet still despondency and grief maintained themselves upon the

large field of my soul; and although the service was read by the voice that in reading I most love to hear; and which, in articulating the words of Holy Writ, not only with admirable discretion and musical emphasis, but with a knowledge that can but be the result of profound investigation, enriches the mind of the hearer with a fresher and more glorious knowledge of the Divine Love - still I remained in the darkness that foretells the storm.

The service proceeded and I participated in it, but nothing remarkable occurred either in the responses, or chaunting, or the singing of the psalm. But the priest gave out as the hymn for the occasion, the two concluding stanzas of the one hundred and forty-ninth; of which the following are the simple and touching verses:

Then it was that a voice, from which no note had come before, took up the strain at it's first commencement, and carried it in every letter through to the termination of the Gloria Patri. It was a veiled voice: low, repressed, diminished. The most expert and best-taught Bullfinch in it's mellowest flow of miniature sound was never half so sweet, nor approached mid-way it's nicety of articulation: while it's compass, it's capacity was such, that before half the first stanza was completed you felt that, restrained and compressed as it was, it contained within it a thousand nightingales in ambush, all ready with their Tereu jug jug jug gurglings of liquid pleasure, with which they could in a moment have filled all arches of the vaulted church.

It played with Joy as at a game of Cup and Ball. And yet, in it's pathos, it recalled gone days that had long past. Enriching the present, and yet reconciling us to its flight. Other voices are coldly exact and critically dull in their admeasurement of Time; upon this, Time seemed to wait and linger and dwell, as upon a mistress of all Time and all Verse.

The clearness and elegance of her enunciation, the syllabick and yet not formal division of her words, the rising swell, and the cadence that seem'd too beautiful to die, all converted the strain into a musical rhetorick of thought; such as when verse and song were one.

With what an oleum lætitiæ, with what a liquid melody of gladness, did the letter L as often as it occurred delight the listener as it slid along the side of her coraline mouth! and the R, rolling over her little gracious tongue, how it loved her as it left the delicious concave for the open air! there to recount and to record and to reverberate her expressions of prayer and praise! It seemed as if there had never been other Letter than the Letter R. any Let every tear be dry.' Joy and goodness and religious fervour awakened at her call of hope and of assurance; the heart was consoled, refreshed; and to hear her was to know, if never known before, that the dew of God's precious blessing of Woman descends upon the soul of man in the tones of her voice.