It is common knowledge that Nelson and Sir William Hamilton were assailed by the same stinging wasps as Melbourne and Mrs. Norton (if it be proper to make a comparison), but they were different types of men living in a different atmosphere and under different circumstances.  It is true that Nelson had scruples about the unwisdom of his unconventional connection with Lady Hamilton, and, big-hearted fellow that he was, he would have struggled hard to avoid giving pain to his relations and friends; and who knows that he did not?  For though his actions may belie that impression, his whole attitude was reckless, silly, and whimsical.  To whatever extent he may have had scruples, he certainly did not possess the faculty of holding his inclinations in check.  Indeed, he made no secret of the idea that “every man became a bachelor after passing the Rock of Gibraltar,” and in this notion he carried out the orthodoxy of the old-time sailor.

He disliked marriage and loved glory, and being a popular hero, he was forgiven all his amorous sins, which were by many looked upon as being part of his heroism.  His laughable efforts to obscure the facts might have satisfied those who wished to rely on Hamilton’s benedictory absolution, had not Nelson and Emma, as I have already said, left behind them incriminating letters and documents which leave no doubt as to what they were to each other.  The great Admiral industriously destroyed much of the massive correspondence, but had overlooked some of the hidden treasures.  Lady Hamilton promised to destroy all hers, but failed to do so.  Hence the documentary proof written by his own hand and that of Emma’s cancels Nelson’s childish device to throw a too critical public off the scent.

Nelson was alternately weak, nervous, careless, and defiant in his attitude in regard to public opinion concerning his private life.  He at one time asserted the right of living in any way he might choose, and resented the criticism of a few cackling busybodies, even though it was not in accordance with the views of the late Mr. Edward Cocker.  It was his affair, and if his ideas differed from those of his critics, it was no business of theirs.  His independence in this, as well as in the practical concerns of his profession, coincided with the opinions held by Sandy Mackay in “Alton Locke,” who declared that he would “never bow down to a bit of brains.”  But these independent views alternated with weaker ones.  He was as indiscreetly lavish with his love as he was with his money; at one time he would contemptuously defy the poisoned arrows that were darted at him, and when beset by the sullen storm-cloud of scandal, he let fly with red-hot courage and audaciously upheld his honour:  at another time he was timid, vacillating, and ridiculous in his attempts to avert the public eye from his love affair and its consequence.  People who knew him intimately were aware that Horatia was his daughter, and in order to throw them off their