Those who were
born great, were, if he could have had his will, always to remain
great, however worthless their characters. Those who were born
low, were always to remain so, however great their talents; though,
if that rule were carried out, where would he have been himself?
In the book which he called the "History of Napoleon Bonaparte," in
which he plays the sycophant to all the legitimate crowned heads in
Europe, whatever their crimes, vices, or miserable imbecilities,
he, in his abhorrence of everything low which by its own vigour
makes itself illustrious, calls Murat of the sabre the son of a
pastry-cook, of a Marseilleise pastry-cook. It is a pity that
people who give themselves hoity-toity airs--and the Scotch in
general are wonderfully addicted to giving themselves hoity-toity
airs, and checking people better than themselves with their birth
{6} and their country--it is a great pity that such people do not
look at home-son of a pastry-cook, of a Marseilleise pastry-cook!
Well, and what was Scott himself? Why, son of a pettifogger, of an
Edinburgh pettifogger. "Oh, but Scott was descended from the old
cow-stealers of Buccleuch, and therefore--" descended from old cow-
stealers, was he? Well, had he nothing to boast of beyond such a
pedigree, he would have lived and died the son of a pettifogger,
and been forgotten, and deservedly so; but he possessed talents,
and by his talents rose like Murat, and like him will be remembered
for his talents alone, and deservedly so.
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