er at their ancestors'
hallucination about a mere will-o'-the-wisp? Will some of his best
performances stand out like a cathedral amongst ruined hovels, or will
they all sink into the dust together, and the outlines of what once
charmed the world be traced only by Dryasdust and historians of
literature? It is a painful task to examine such questions impartially.
This probing a great reputation, and doubting whether we can come to
anything solid at the bottom, is especially painful in regard to Scott.
For he has, at least, this merit, that he is one of those rare natures
for whom we feel not merely admiration but affection. We may cherish the
fame of some writers in spite of, not on account of, many personal
defects; if we satisfied ourselves that their literary reputations were
founded on the sand, we might partly console ourselves with the thought
that we were only depriving bad men of a title to genius. But for Scott
most men feel in even stronger measure that kind of warm fraternal
regard which Macaulay and Thackeray expressed for the amiable, but,
perhaps, rather cold-blooded, Addison. The manliness and the sweetness
of the man's nature predispose us to return the most favourable verdict
in our power. And we may add that Scott is one of the last great English
writers whose influence extended beyond his island, and gave a stimulus
to the development of European thought. We cannot afford to surrender
our faith in one to whom, whatever his permanent merits, we must trace
so much that is characteristic of the mind of the nineteenth century.
Whilst, finally, if we have any Scotch blood in our veins, we must be
more or less than men to turn a deaf ear to the promptings of
patriotism. When Shakespeare's fame decays everywhere else, the
inhabitants of Stratford-on-Avon, if it still exist, should still revere
their tutelary saint; and the old town of Edinburgh should tremble in
its foundation when a sacrilegious hand is laid upon the glory of Scott.

Let us, however, take courage, and, with such impartiality as we may
possess, endeavour to sift the wheat from the chaff. And, by way of
following an able guide, let us dwell for a little on the judgment
pronounced upon Scott by one whose name I would never mention without
profound respect, and who has a special claim to be heard in this case.
Carlyle is (I must now say was) both a man of genius and a Scotchman.
His own writings show in every line that he comes of the same strong