pped, 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 {348} 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. 'Yes, but Murat was still the son of a
pastry-cook, and though he was certainly good at the sabre, and cut his
way to a throne, still--' Lord! what fools there are in the world; but
as no one can be thought anything of in this world without a pedigree,
the writer will now give a pedigree for Murat, of a very different
character from the cow-stealing one o