And Wolfe, as already has been shown, was a very perfect, gentle knight, the pattern of all chivalry. And a wonderful and great man, too; much more human, much more lovable than Wellington. Yes, despite his personal uncomeliness. James Wolfe, indeed, was neither an Adonis nor a Hercules. A lank, thin, sickly, weak, consumptive man, almost effeminate in manner, with bright red hair and a turned-up nose, he had none of the bearing of a great leader. But, still, his personality proved everywhere magnetic, his mental power, his moral strength stupendous, and he had "that searching, burning eye which carried all the distinction and greatness denied him elsewhere."

And then, again, the offspring of a venturesome old stock, he was in very truth a soldier born. His father was himself a rare old fighter, and James, the son, born at the little village of Westerham, in Kent, early in the year 1727, inherited all the old man's courage and fiery spirit. But in the boy the father's valour was toned and tempered by the sweet and gentle influence of the mother. Like most great men, James Wolfe owed to the good woman who nursed and reared him more than ever can be told in words.

But to be a famous soldier was always his ambition, even from infancy. And then, in 1739, when England flung down the gauntlet and declared war on Spain, he begged to be allowed, as a volunteer, to sail with his father for Carthagena.

Of what use, the boy asked, were books and atlases and grammars to him now? He wanted to be a soldier. He longed for the sight of war, and to fight by his father's side. And the father, admiring the stuff his son was made of, yielded to his wishes, in opposition to his own better judgment - and to Mrs. Wolfe's.

Thus James set out. He was only thirteen years of age. But, fortunately, a kindly Providence looked down upon and guarded him. Indeed, he got no further than the Isle of Wight. There the strain of camp life proved too much for him. His health broke down. And when the expeditionary force at last set sail, one volunteer was left behind, an invalid, at Portsmouth.

But he had not long to wait. Early in 1741 his opportunity arrived. It happened during the Christmas holidays while he was staying with his friend George Warde. One morning a letter arrived for him - a letter "On his Majesty's Service." Eagerly the boy tore it open with trembling, nervous hands, and read.

It was his first commission! King George Il. had been graciously pleased to grant him a second lieutenancy in his father's old regiment of Marines.

And now the boy's career began in earnest. In the following year he secured his transfer to Colonel Duroure's Regiment of Foot, and went to Flanders. Here first he tasted war. For more than three long years he was away from England, serving with distinction throughout the long campaign which culminated in the battle fought at Dettingen in the June of 1743 - a victory memorable in the history of the British Army, not only for its reckless daring, but also as the last occasion upon which a King of England in person led his troops.

During this time, his earliest years of manhood, Wolfe had no opportunity for idle dalliance. But when, after the battle, the British troops retired into winter quarters at Ostend, then he proceeded, soldierlike, to conquer hearts, and to enjoy the subtle charms of peace. Wolfe never wasted his scanty leisure. Nor, indeed - judging from a letter he sent to his brother Edward, who had just been invalided home - would it seem that he had forgotten certain little ladies left behind in England.

"I am glad," he wrote, "you find the mantua-maker pretty. I thought so, I assure you; I give up all pretensions. Doubtless, you love the company of the fair sex. If you should happen to go where Mrs. Seabourg is, pray don't fall in love with her. I can't give her up tamely. Remember I am your rival. I am also in some pain about Miss Warde. Admire anywhere else and welcome - except the widow Bright. Miss Patterson is yours if you like her, and so is the little staring girl in the chapel with twenty thousand pounds."

But when he returned to England, in 1745, Wolfe had no opportunity of paying court either to "the widow Bright," Miss

Warde, or even Mrs. Seabourg. He found sterner duties awaiting him. Charles Edward, the Young Pretender, had landed in Scotland, and already had begun to march on London. Panic prevailed throughout the country. And the Government thoroughly alarmed, was forced to call upon all the loyal troops available to march north to save the King and the House of Hanover. And with them, of course, went Wolfe. Nor was he able to quit the field until after the Battle of Culloden, at which perished the last hopes of the Stuart cause.

And even then the young warrior had only a short respite, for a few weeks later he was sent again to Flanders to serve under the Duke of Cumberland. Wolfe lived indeed in stirring times. Confusion at the War Office, however, prevented the Duke from taking the field so early as had been intended, and his army was forced to lie inactive near Brussels, waiting for instructions and supplies. But for himself Wolfe made sweet the tedious delay by flirting harmlessly with a fascinating Irish girl, a certain Miss Lacey, the daughter of a soldier in the Austrian service.

Perhaps the affair would have become more than a mere flirtation had Wolfe not been on active service. But as things were, what right had he, a penniless soldier, whose meagre pay was always in arrears, and whose very life ever in jeopardy, to think of marrying? None, surely. Resolutely, therefore, he turned his face to duty, and set out upon the campaign, but sorrowful at heart - that is, if letters speak the truth.

"You have left me," he wrote to Miss Lacey from the camp at Westerloo, "in a doubt that is hurtful to my repose. Sure, it must never happen that a soldier can be unhappy in his love; if so, what reward from great and glorious undertakings, or what relief from despair? Can we be forgot in the midst of danger and fatigue? But worse than this, shall I live to see an inhabitant of the bush succeed in my place, and triumph in the frailty of my countrywomen? . . . I write this in a moment of reflection; you'll pardon the style, 'tis unusual, and has not in it that turn of gaiety that would perhaps be more pleasing to you, but 'tis nevertheless of the sort you must sometimes expect in your conversation with men, particularly those whose situation should make them often subject to serious hours. I'm glad to catch myself in such a disposition, and think it the beginning of reform. My wishes are never wanting for your health and happiness of you and your pretty friends. I'll say it to my praise that no man has a greater consideration for the sex than - Your obedient and humble servant, J. W."