of wisdom, of duty, and of honor, he knows full well by the persuasion within,—­by conviction, the fortifier of the reason, though not by sight, the assurance of demonstration.  Only a man capable of incurring a disaster like that at Teneriffe could rise to the level of daring, which, through hidden perils, sought and wrought the superb triumph of Aboukir Bay.  Such is genius, that rare but hazardous gift, which separates a man from his fellows by a chasm not to be bridged by human will.  Thus endowed, Nelson before the walls of Bastia showed, though in a smaller sphere, and therefore with a lighter hazard, the same keen perception, the same instant decision, the same unfaltering resolve, the same tenacity of purpose, that, far over and beyond the glamour of mere success, have rendered eternally illustrious the days of St. Vincent, of the Nile, and of Copenhagen.

Of the spirit which really actuated him, in his unwavering support of Lord Hood’s inclination to try the doubtful issue, many interesting instances are afforded by his correspondence.  “I feel for the honour of my Country, and had rather be beat than not make the attack.  If we do not try we can never be successful.  I own I have no fears for the final issue:  it will be conquest, certain we will deserve it.  My reputation depends on the opinion I have given; but I feel an honest consciousness that I have done right.  We must, we will have it, or some of our heads will be laid low.  I glory in the attempt.”  “What would the immortal Wolfe have done?” he says again, refreshing his own constancy in the recollection of an equal heroism, crowned with success against even greater odds.  “As he did, beat the enemy, if he perished in the attempt.”  Again, a fortnight later:  “We are in high health and spirits besieging Bastia; the final event, I feel assured, will be conquest.”  When the siege had already endured for a month, and with such slight actual progress as to compel him to admit to Hood that the town battery had been “put in such a state, that firing away many shot at it is almost useless till we have a force sufficient to get nearer,” his confidence remains unabated.  “I have no fears about the final issue,” he writes to his wife; “it will be victory, Bastia will be ours; and if so, it must prove an event to which the history of England can hardly boast an equal.”  Further on in the same letter he makes a prediction, so singularly accurate as to excite curiosity about its source:  “I will tell you as a secret, Bastia will be ours between the 20th and 24th of this month”—­three weeks after the date of writing—­“if succours do not get in.”  It surrendered actually on the 22d.  One is tempted to speculate if there had been any such understanding with the garrison as was afterwards reached with Calvi; but there is no other token of such an arrangement.  It is instructive also to compare this high-strung steadfastness of purpose to dare every risk, if success perchance might be won thereby, with his comment upon his own impulses at a somewhat later date.  “My disposition cannot bear tame and slow measures.  Sure I am, had I commanded our fleet on the 14th, that either the whole French fleet would have graced my triumph, or I should have been in a confounded scrape.”  Surely the secret of great successes is in these words.