sacrificed our fortunes and our houses,’ said the citi-
zens; ‘but we cannot expose our wives and children to a massacre.’1
At a council of war, Fiedmont, a captain of artillery, was the only one who wished to hold out2
to the last extremity; and, on the seventeenth of September, before the English
had constructed batteries, De Ramsay
America rung with exultation; the towns were bright with illuminations, the hills with bonfires; legislatures, the pulpit, the press, echoed the general joy; provinces and families gave thanks to God.
, too, which had shared the despondency of Wolfe
, triumphed at his victory and wept for his death.
Joy, grief, curiosity, amazement, were on every countenance.3
When the parliament assembled, Pitt
modestly and gracefully put aside the praises that were showered on him. ‘The more a man is versed in business,’ said he, ‘the more he finds the hand of Providence
‘I will own I have a zeal to serve my country beyond what the weakness of my frail body admits of;’4
and he foretold new successes at sea. November fulfilled his predictions.
In that month, Sir Edward Hawke
attacked the fleet of Constans
off the northern coast of France
; and, though it retired to the shelter of shoals and rocks, he gained the battle during a storm at night-fall.