sure that,
in prose or in verse, the best that man can utter flows from him
either in moments of high mental excitement or in the hush of
that _Altitudo_ to which high excitement lifts him.

But, first now, observe how all these passages--and they are the
first I call to mind--rise like crests on a large bulk of a wave
--St Paul's on a labouring argument about immortality; Motley's
at the conclusion of a heavy task. Long campaigning brings the
reward of Harry Esmond's return to Castlewood, long intrigue of
the author's mind with his characters closes that febrile chapter
in which Harry walks home to break the news of the death of the
Duke of Hamilton--in the early morning through Kensington, where
the newsboys are already shouting it:

The world was going to its business again, although dukes
lay dead and ladies mourned for them.... So day and night pass
away, and to-morrow comes, and our place knows us not.
Esmond thought of the courier now galloping on the north
road to inform him, who was Earl of Arran yesterday, that he
was Duke of Hamilton to-day, and of a thousand great
schemes, hopes, ambitions, that were alive in the gallant
heart, beating but a few hours since, and now in a little dust
quiescent.

And on top of this let me assure you that in writing, or learning
to write, solid daily practice is the prescription and 'waiting
upon inspiration' a lure. These crests only rise on the back of
constant labour. Nine days, according to Homer, Leto travailed
with Apollo: but he was Apollo, lord of Song. I _know_ this to be
true of ordinary talent: but, supposing you all to be geniuses, I
am almost as sure that it holds of genius. Listen to this:

Napoleon I used to say that battles were won by the sudden
flashing of an idea through the brain of a commander at a
certain critical instant. The capacity for generating this
sudden electric spark was military genius.... Napoleon seems
always to have counted upon it, always to have believed that
when the critical moment arrived the wild confusion of the
battlefield would be illuminated for him by that burst of
sudden flame. But if Napoleon had been ignorant of the
prosaic business of his profession, _to which he attended more
closely than any other commander,_ would these moments of
supreme clearness have availed him, or would they have come
to him at all?

My author thinks not: and I am sure he is right. So, in writing,
only