some burst of nature, in the
midst of a story true to life. "If," said Evan Maccombich, "the Saxon
gentlemen are laughing because a poor man such as me thinks my life, or
the life of six of my degree, is worth that of Vich Ian Vohr, it's like
enough they may be very right; but if they laugh because they think I
would not keep my word and come back to redeem him, I can tell them they
ken neither the heart of a Hielandman nor the honour of a gentleman."
That is sublime. And, again, when Balfour of Burley slaughters Bothwell,
the death scene is sublime. "Die, bloodthirsty dog!" said Burley. "Die
as thou hast lived! Die like the beasts that perish--hoping nothing,
believing nothing!"----"And fearing nothing," said Bothwell. Horrible as
is the picture, it is sublime. As is also that speech of Meg Merrilies,
as she addresses Mr. Bertram, standing on the bank. "Ride your ways,"
said the gipsy; "ride your ways, Laird of Ellangowan; ride your ways,
Godfrey Bertram. This day have ye quenched seven smoking hearths; see if
the fire in your ain parlour burn the blyther for that. Ye have riven
the thack off seven cottar houses; look if your ain rooftree stand the
faster. Ye may stable your stirks in the shealings at Derncleugh; see
that the hare does not couch on the hearthstane at Ellangowan." That is
romance, and reaches the very height of the sublime. That does not
offend, impossible though it be that any old woman should have spoken
such words, because it does in truth lift the reader up among the bright
stars. It is thus that the sublime may be mingled with the realistic, if
the writer has the power. Thackeray also rises in that way to a high
pitch, though not in many instances. Romance does not often justify to
him an absence of truth. The scene between Lady Castlewood and the Duke
of Hamilton is one, when she explains to her child's suitor who Henry
Esmond is. "My daughter may receive presents from the head of our
house," says the lady, speaking up for her kinsman. "My daughter may
thankfully take kindness from her father's, her mother's, her brother's
dearest friend." The whole scene is of the same nature, and is evidence
of Thackeray's capacity for the sublime. And again, when the same lady
welcomes the same kinsman on his return from the wars, she rises as
high. But as I have already quoted a part of the passage in the chapter
on this novel, I will not repeat it here.

It may perhaps be said of the sublime in novels,--which