"Amidst her conquests let Britannia groan For Wolfe! her gallant, her undaunted son; For Wolfe, whose breast bright Honor did inspire With patriot ardor and heroic fire; For Wolfe, who headed that intrepid band, Who, greatly daring, forced Cape Breton's strand. For Wolfe, who following still where glory call'd, No dangers daunted, no distress appall'd; Whose eager zeal disasters could not check, Intent to strike the blow which gained Quebec. For Wolfe, who, like the gallant Theban, dy'd In th' arms of victory--his country's pride." This inscription I read aloud, and then, under the influence of the loquacious potable, leaned back in my furry throne, crossed my hands over my forehead, looked steadily into the blazing fire-place, and continued the theme I had commenced an hour before. "What a strange interest attaches itself to the memory of Wolfe! A youthful hero, who, under less happy auspices, might have been known only as the competent drill-master of regiments, elevated by the sagacity of England's wisest statesman to a prominent position of command; there to exhibit his generalship; there to retrieve the long list of disasters which followed Braddock's defeat; there to annihilate forever every vestige of French dominion in the Americas; to fulfill gloriously each point of his mission; to achieve, not by long delays, but by rapid movements, the conquest of two of the greatest fortresses in the possession of the rival crown; to pass from the world amid the shouts of victory--content in the fullness of his fame, without outliving it! His was a noble, generous nature; brave without cruelty; ardent and warlike, yet not insensible to the tenderest impulses of humanity. To die betrothed and beloved, yet wedded only to immortal honor; to leave a mother, with a nation weeping at her feet; to serve his country, without having his patriotism contaminated by titles, crosses, and ribbons; this was the most fortunate fate of England's greatest commander in the colonies! No wonder, then, that with a grateful sympathy the laurels of his mother country were woven with the cypress of her chivalric son; that hundreds of pens were inspired to pay some tribute to his memory; that every branch of representative art, from stone to ink, essayed to portray his living likeness; that parliament and pulpit, with words of eloquence and gratitude, uttered the universal sentiment! "Brave Wolfe," I continued, "whose memory is linked with his no less youthful rival, Montcalm"----here I was interrupted by the voice of the mate of the Balaklava-- "I'll be dommed," said he, "if some person isn't afire!" Then I unclasped my hands, opened my eyes, and looked around me.