ike Britain? He knew that they were a vicious,
worthless crew, and that Britain was a degraded country as long as they
swayed the sceptre; but for those facts he cared nothing, they governed
in a way which he liked, for he had an abstract love of despotism, and an
abhorrence of everything savouring of freedom and the rights of man in
general. His favourite political picture was a joking, profligate,
careless king, nominally absolute--the heads of great houses paying court
to, but in reality governing, that king, whilst revelling with him on the
plunder of a nation, and a set of crouching, grovelling vassals (the
literal meaning of vassal is a wretch), who, after allowing themselves to
be horsewhipped, would take a bone if flung to them, and be grateful; so
that in love with mummery, though he knew what Christianity was, no
wonder he admired such a church as that of Rome, and that which Laud set
up; and by nature formed to be the holder of the candle to ancient worm-
eaten and profligate families, no wonder that all his sympathies were
with the Stuarts and their dissipated insolent party, and all his hatred
directed against those who endeavoured to check them in their
proceedings, and to raise the generality of mankind something above a
state of vassalage, that is, wretchedness. 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, an