I think of that triumphant passage.  I think of the sentences with which Isaak Walton ends his life of Donne.  I think of the last pages of Motley’s “Dutch Republic,” with its eulogy on William the Silent so exquisitely closing: 

  As long as he lived, he was the guiding-star of a whole brave
  nation, and when he died the little children cried in the
  streets.

I think of two great prose passages in Thackeray’s “Esmond”; of Landor’s “Dream of Boccaccio” ... and so on:  and I am 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.