When intelligence of the death of Wolfe and the fall of Quebec reached England, the enthusiasm of the people rose to a height which may almost be described as delirious. The effect was much heightened by the fact that such good news was wholly unexpected; for only three days before, despatches had arrived from Wolfe wherein it did not appear that he was by any means sanguine of success. Bonfires blazed from one end of the kingdom to the other, and the streets of the metropolis were redolent of marrow-bones and cleavers. Persons who had never seen each other before shook hands, and in some cases even embraced one another, when they met on the streets. The coffee-houses were thronged with hysteric orators who held forth about the days of chivalry having come back again. Sermons about the sword of the Lord and of Gideon were heard in churches and chapels throughout the land. While all these things were passing in nearly every city, town, and important village in the kingdom, one spot remained unillumined. That spot was Blackheath, where the hero's mother mourned the loss of her only child—the child to whom, notwithstanding his delicate health, she had tried to look forward as the stay of her declining years. The neighbours, one and all, of whatsoever degree, respected her great sorrow, and forbore to take part in the general rejoicings. We can fancy, too, that there was mourning and desolation at Raby Castle, the home of the beautiful Miss Lowther.[Footnote: The portrait of this lady confided by Wolfe to John Jervis on the night of the 12th of September, was subsequently delivered to her, and she wore it in memory of her dead hero until her marriage, nearly six years afterwards, to Harry, Sixth and last Duke of Bolton. She survived until 1809, when she died at her mansion in Grosvenor Square, London, at the age of seventy-five.] A month later this lady wrote to one of her friends as follows, concerning Mrs. Wolfe: "I feel for her more than words can say, and should, if it was given me to alleviate her grief, gladly exert every power which nature or compassion has bestowed; yet I feel we are the last people in the world who ought to meet."
Wolfe's body was embalmed and conveyed to England, where, on the 20th of November, it was deposited beside that of his father in the family vault, beneath the parish church of Greenwich. An immense concourse of people assembled to do honour to the dead hero's remains. On the day after the funeral, Pitt rose in the House of Commons and proposed an address to the King, praying that a monument might be erected in Westminster Abbey to the memory of the Conqueror of Quebec. The prayer was assented to, and a committee appointed to carry out the details. The sculpture occupied thirteen years, and the ceremony of unveiling did not take place until the 4th of October, 1773. The monument is of white marble, and stands in the Chapel of St. John the Evangelist, facing the ambulatory. The sculpture is very fine, and embodies various emblematic scenes in Wolfe's life. The inscription runs as follows:
TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES WOLFE
MAJOR-GENERAL AND COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF
OF THE
BRITISH LAND FORCES,
ON AN
EXPEDITION AGAINST QUEBEC,
WHO,
AFTER SURMOUNTING BY ABILITY AND VALOUR
ALL OBSTACLES OF ART AND NATURE,
WAS SLAIN IN THE MOMENT OF VICTORY,
ON THE
XIII. of SEPTEMBER, MDXXLIX.
THE
KING AND PARLIAMENT OF GREAT BRITAIN
DEDICATE THIS MONUMENT.
A monument was also erected to Wolfe's memory in the parish church of Westerham, the village where he was born; and other memorials are to be found in Spuerries Park and at Stowe. In the year 1832, Lord Aylmer, Governor-General of Canada, erected a small pillar, on the Plains of Abraham, on the exact spot where Wolfe is believed to have breathed his last. The railing around it being insufficient for its protection, it was ere long defaced by sacrilegious hands. In 1849 it was removed, and a more suitable memorial set on in its stead. The cost of the latter was chiefly defrayed by British troops stationed in the Province. The inscription upon it is as follows:
HERE DIED WOLFE: VICTORIOUS.
GOVERNOR SIMCOE
Among the many Canadians who at one time or another in their lives have visited Great Britain, comparatively few, we imagine, have thought it worth while to travel down to the fine old cathedral city of Exeter, in Devonshire. The sometime capital of the West of England is of very remote antiquity. It was a place of some importance before Julius Cæsar landed in Britain, and eleven hundred years after that event it was besieged and taken by William the Conqueror. Later still, it was the scene of active hostilities during the wars of the Roses and of the Commonwealth. So much for its past. At the present day, for those to the manner born, it is one of the most delightful places of residence in the kingdom. It is not, however, of much commercial importance, and is not on any of the direct routes to the continent. Add to this, that the local society is a very close corporation indeed, and it will readily be understood why the place is somewhat caviare to the general public, and not much resorted to by strangers.
Like every other old English town, it has its full share of historic and noteworthy localities. The Guildhall, with its oldtime memories, and Rougemont Castle, once the abode of the West-Saxon kings, are dear to the hearts of local antiquarians. The elm-walk, near the Sessions House, is an avenue of such timber as can be seen nowhere out of England, and is a favourite resort for the inhabitants on pleasant afternoons. The Cathedral-close has been consecrated by the genius of one of the most eminent of living novelists, and its purlieus are familiar to many persons who have never been within thousands of miles of it. But the crowning glory of all is the cathedral itself, a grand old pile founded in the eleventh century, and the building of which occupied nearly two hundred years. Here, everything is redolent of the past. The chance wayfarer from these western shores who happens to stray within the walk of this majestic specimen of mediæval architecture will have some difficulty, for the nonce, in believing in the reality of such contrivances as steamboats and railways. Certainly it is one of the last places in the world where one might naturally expect to see anything to remind him of so modern a spot as the capital of Ontario. But should any Torontonian who is familiar with his country's history ever find himself within those walls, let him walk down the south aisle till he reaches the entrance to the little chapel of St. Gabriel. If he will then pass through the doorway into the chapel and look carefully about him, he will soon perceive something to remind him of his distant home, and of the Province of which that home is the capital. Several feet above his head, on the inner wall, he will notice a medallian portrait in bold relief, by Flaxman, of a bluff, hearty, good-humoured-looking English gentleman, apparently in the prime of life, and attired in the dress of a Lieutenant-General. His hair, which is pretty closely cut, is rather inclined to curl—evidently would curl if it were a little longer. Below the medallion is a mural tablet bearing the following inscription:
"Sacred to the memory of John Graves Simcoe, Lieutenant-General in the army, and Colonel in the 22nd Regiment of Foot, who died on the 25th day of October, 1806, aged 54. In whose life and character the virtues of the hero, the patriot, and the Christian were so eminently conspicuous, that it may justly be said, he served his King and his country with a zeal exceeded only by his piety towards God."