ntionally administered to him by his Eidolon North.
The most disgraceful, perhaps the only really disgraceful, instance of
this is the carping and offensive criticism of Scott's _Demonology_,
written and published at a time when Sir Walter's known state of health
and fortunes might have protected him even from an enemy, much more from
a friend, and a deeply obliged friend such as Wilson. Nor is this the
only fling at Scott. Wordsworth, much more vulnerable, is also much more
frequently assailed; and even Shakespeare does not come off scot-free
when Wilson is in his ugly moods.

It need hardly be said that I have no intention of saying that Scott or
Wordsworth or Shakespeare may not be criticised. It is the way in which
the criticism is done which is the crime; and for these acts of literary
high treason, or at least leasing-making, as well as for all Wilson's
other faults, nothing seems to me so much responsible as the want of
bottom which Carlyle notes. I do not think that Wilson had any solid
fund of principles, putting morals and religion aside, either in
politics or in literature. He liked and he hated much and strongly, and
being a healthy creature he on the whole liked the right things and
hated the wrong ones; but it was for the most part a merely instinctive
liking and hatred, quite un-coordinated, and by no means unlikely to
pass the next moment into hatred or liking as the case might be.

These are grave faults. But for the purpose of providing that pleasure
which is to be got from literature (and this, like one or two other
chapters here, is partly an effort in literary hedonism) Wilson stands
very high, indeed so high that he can be ranked only below the highest.
He who will enjoy him must be an intelligent voluptuary, and especially
well versed in the art of skipping. When Wilson begins to talk fine,
when he begins to wax pathetic, and when he gets into many others of his
numerous altitudes, it will behove the reader, according to his own
tastes, to skip with discretion and vigour. If he cannot do this, if his
eye is not wary enough, or if his conscience forbids him to obey his
eyes' warnings, Wilson is not for him. It is true that Mr. Skelton has
tried to make a "Comedy of the _Noctes Ambrosianae_," in which the
skipping is done ready to hand. But, with all the respect due to the
author of _Thalatta_, the process is not, at least speaking according to
my judgment, successful. No one can really taste that e