A daring venture it may be, this endeavour to disclose in black and white such tender emotions as may have stirred the hearts of Wolfe and Wellington. But, still, it is a venture worth essaying, for, even in its bare accomplishment, it cannot prove devoid of interest, for as lovers they stand in as striking contrast to one another as they do as soldiers or as men - Wellington, the stern man of action, the Iron Duke; Wolfe, the loyal, ambitious patriot, the hero of Quebec. Both are representatives of types, types British essentially, and finer examples the Empire never has produced, nor ever will. Surely, then, it cannot be unprofitable to glance at the story of their inner lives.
Romance, needless to say, will not be found there - romance in the sense of sickly sentimentalism. Neither man had time or inclination for such feeling. Duty alone inspired their lives. To self-discipline each sacrificed entirely self-absorption.
But why? you ask. Napoleon found time for sentimentalist philanderings. Yes; but Wellington was no Napoleon, nor was he a Marlborough. Napoleon, like some giant and savage forest lion, hurtled through life, an all-consuming, all-devouring monster, splendid, wonderful, primitive in his passions. But Wellington, like a huge mastiff, faithful and well trained, employed his mighty strength, a strength tempered and made mightier by discipline, not for aggression, but to protect - to protect his beloved master. He fought only when there was need for him to fight.