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 {332} 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 had 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.