That fight determined that the North American continent should be the heritage of the Anglo-Saxon race. And, somehow, the popular instinct, when the news reached England, realised the historic significance of the event. "When we first heard of Wolfe's glorious deed," writes Thackeray in "The Virginians"--"of that army marshalled in darkness and carried silently up the midnight river--of those rocks scaled by the intrepid leader and his troops--of the defeat of Montcalm on the open plain by the sheer valour of his conqueror--we were all intoxicated in England by the news." Not merely all London but half England flamed into illuminations. One spot alone was dark--Blackheath, where, solitary amidst a rejoicing nation, Wolfe's mother mourned for her heroic son--like Milton's Lycidas--"dead ere his prime." THE GREAT LORD HAWKE THE ENGLISH FLAG "What is the flag of England? Winds of the world, declare! * * * * * * * * * The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night, The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern light. * * * * * * * * * Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag has flown. I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn; I have chased it north to the Lizard--ribboned and rolled and torn; I have spread its folds o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea; I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free. * * * * * * * * * Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake, But a soul goes out on the East Wind, that died for England's sake-- Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid-- Because on the bones of the English, the English flag is stayed. * * * * * * * * * The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it--the frozen dews have kissed-- The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist. What is the flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare; Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!" --KIPLING. "The great Lord Hawke" is Burke's phrase, and is one of the best-earned epithets in literature. Yet what does the average Englishman to-day remember of the great sailor who, through the bitter November gales of 1759, kept dogged and tireless watch over the French fleet in Brest, destroyed that fleet with heroic daring amongst the sands of Quiberon, while the fury of a Bay of Biscay tempest almost drowned the roar of his guns, and so crushed a threatened invasion of England?