was killed; Wolfe, charging gallantly at the head of his men, fell mortally wounded. run!' echoed in his dying ears. The wild cry, 'They He seemed to recover a kind of alertness at the sound, and, shaking himself from his deadly stupor, asked, 'Who run?' We can imagine the momentary trepidation in that gallant heart could it be his outnumbered followers? In a moment he was reassured; it was the enemy who fled; with his last breath he gave some strategical orders and then fell back. God be praised, I die in peace,' he said, and so passed away. The time may, perhaps, come when the great game of war will no longer stir the pulses, and men will no longer feel that they die in peace after the bloody defeat of their enemies. But so long as the pulses of men's hearts do answer to any martial music, so long men will say of Wolfe that he died well as became a soldier, a hero, and a gentleman. He sleeps in Greenwich Church. The pride of England's Colonial Empire might find new stimulus in the way in which the memory of one of the most brilliant scenes in the story of England's career is kept green in Quebec. The traveller, standing on Dufferin Terrace to-day, may in his mind's eye see Wolfe crossing the stream on his perilous expedition, may in his mind's ear hear him reciting to his officers those lines from Gray's Elegy, and telling them that he would rather have written such verses than be sure of taking Quebec. His monument is near to the promenade on Dufferin Terrace-his monument which, a rare event in war, is the monument also of his rival, the 1759. AN OLD FRENCH PROVINCE. 387 French commander, Montcalm, killed in the hour of defeat, as Wolfe was at the moment of victory. Quebec itself seems to illustrate in its own progress and its own history the moral of that common monument. Quebec is as loyal to the British Crown? as Victoria or as the Channel Islands. But it is still in great part an old-fashioned French city. The France that survives there and all through the province is not the France of to-day, but the France of before the great Revolution. The stranger seeking his way through the streets had better in most cases question the first crossing-sweeper he meets in French, and not in English. The English residents are all expected to speak French. But the English residents and the French live on terms of the most cordial fraternity. Little quarrels, local quarrels of race and sect, do unquestionably spring up here and there now and again, but they are only like the disputes of Churchmen and Dissenters in an English city, and they threaten no organic controversy. England has great reason to be proud of Quebec. The English flag has a home on those heights which we have already said may challenge the world for bold picturesqueness and beauty. CHAPTER XLI. THE CLOSE OF THE REIGN. In the early days of the year 1753 literature and philosophy lost a great man by the death of Bishop Berkeley. George Berkeley was born on March 12, 1684, by the Nore, in the county Kilkenny. His father was an Irishman of English descent, William Berkeley. In the first year of the eighteenth century George Berkeley went, a lad of fifteen, to the University of Dublin, to Trinity College. In Trinity College he remained for thirteen years, studying, thinking, dreaming, bewildering most of the collegians, his colleagues, who seem to have been unable to make up their minds whether he was a genius or a blockhead. Within the walls of Trinity he worked, gradually and laboriously piecing together and thoughtfully shaping out his theory of the metaphysical conception of the material world about him; poring over Locke and Plato, breathing an atmosphere saturated with Cartesianism, his active mind eagerly investigating, exploring, inquiring in all directions, and his hand recording day by day the notes and stages of his mental development. 1684-1753. BERKELEY. 389 His early philosophical writings rapidly earned him a reputation in the great world of London, to which at that time the eyes of all men-divines, wits, statesmen, philosophers, and poets-turned. It is not necessary here to dwell upon the nature of those philosophical writings, or to enter into any study of the great theory of idealism in which he affirmed that there is no proof of the existence of matter anywhere save in our own perceptions. Byron, in his light-hearted way, more than two generations later, dismissed Bishop Berkeley and his theory in the famous couplet When Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter,' -a smart saying which Byron did not intend to put forth, and which nobody would be likely to regard, as a serious summing up of the mental work of Berkeley. Berkeley came to London in the first winter month of 1713, and made the acquaintance of his great countryman Swift. The Dean was a great patron of Berkeley's in those early London days. Swift took Berkeley to Court, and introduced him or spoke of him to all the great Ministers, and pushed his fortunes by all the ways-and they were manyin his power. Berkeley, with the aid of Swift, was soon made free of that wonderful republic of letters which then held sway in London, and which numbered amongst its members such men as Steele and Addison, Bolingbroke and Harley, Gay and Arbuthnot, and Pope. Berkeley was in Addison's box at the first performance of 'Cato,' and tasted of the author's champagne and burgundy there, and listened with curious delight to the mingled applause and hisses that greeted Mr. Pope's prologue. A little later Berkeley went to Italy as the travelling tutor, the bear-leader, of the son of Ashe, Bishop of Clogher. In Italy he passed some four enchanted years. Berkeley came back to England in 1720 to find all England writhing in the welter and chaos of the South-Sea crash. The shame and misery of the time appear to have inspired him with a kind of horror of the hollow civilisation of the age, and to have given him his first promptings towards that ideal community in the remote Atlantic to which his mind turned so strongly a little later. He left England speedily, and came home again to Ireland after an absence of eight years. It was in Ireland that a strange windfall came to him and amazed him. On that fatal afternoon when Swift, with a legion of wild passions tearing at his heart-strings, rode over to Marley Abbey to fling back at Vanessa's feet the letter she had written to Stella, Hester Vanhomrigh received her death-blow. But she lived long enough to inflict a curious little piece of vengeance, the only vengeance in her power, except the nobler revenge of forgiveness, upon the false Cadenus. She had left by will all the property she possessed to the man she had so madly worshipped. With the hand of death upon her, with the raging eyes of the Dean still burning upon her brain, she performed the one little pitiful act of retaliation which |