The poetical
talent of the family seems to have been confined to the Irish branch,
one of the members whereof, the Rev. Charles Wolfe, subsequently won
immortality by a single short poem, "The Burial of Sir John Moore."]
But not much time could be given to sentiment. A little after midnight,
Wolfe embarked a strong detachment of forces in flat-bottomed boats, and,
placing himself at their head, quietly glided down the river to _L'Anse du
Foulon_. The spot was soon reached, and the landing was effected in safety.
The cliff here rises almost perpendicularly to a height of 350 feet, and
one of the soldiers was heard to remark that going up there would be like
going up the side of a house. No time was lost, and the ascent of the
ravine was at once begun. The enemy had a line of sentinels all along the
top of the cliff, and one of the sentries was stationed at the precise spot
where the British would emerge on the summit. When those who were in the
van of ascent had reached a point about half way up the acclevity, the
sentry's attention was aroused by the noise of scrambling that was
necessarily made by the British soldiers.
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