ey
Bertram.'

The reason is, of course, that these men are afraid of bombast and Scott
was not. A man will not reach eloquence if he is afraid of bombast, just
as a man will not jump a hedge if he is afraid of a ditch. As the object
of all eloquence is to find the least common denominator of men's souls,
to fall just within the natural comprehension, it cannot obviously have
any chance with a literary ambition which aims at falling just outside
it. It is quite right to invent subtle analyses and detached
criticisms, but it is unreasonable to expect them to be punctuated with
roars of popular applause. It is possible to conceive of a mob shouting
any central and simple sentiment, good or bad, but it is impossible to
think of a mob shouting a distinction in terms. In the matter of
eloquence, the whole question is one of the immediate effect of
greatness, such as is produced even by fine bombast. It is absurd to
call it merely superficial; here there is no question of superficiality;
we might as well call a stone that strikes us between the eyes merely
superficial. The very word 'superficial' is founded on a fundamental
mistake about life, the idea that second thoughts are best. The
superficial impression of the world is by far the deepest. What we
really feel, naturally and casually, about the look of skies and trees
and the face of friends, that and that alone will almost certainly
remain our vital philosophy to our dying day.

Scott's bombast, therefore, will always be stirring to anyone who
approaches it, as he should approach all literature, as a little child.
We could easily excuse the contemporary critic for not admiring
melodramas and adventure stories, and Punch and Judy, if he would admit
that it was a slight deficiency in his artistic sensibilities. Beyond
all question, it marks a lack of literary instinct to be unable to
simplify one's mind at the first signal of the advance of romance. 'You
do me wrong,' said Brian de Bois-Guilbert to Rebecca. 'Many a law, many
a commandment have I broken, but my word, never.' 'Die,' cries Balfour
of Burley to the villain in 'Old Mortality.' 'Die, hoping nothing,
believing nothing--' 'And fearing nothing,' replies the other. This is
the old and honourable fine art of bragging, as it was practised by the
great worthies of antiquity. The man who cannot appreciate it goes along
with the man who cannot appreciate beef or claret or a game with
children or a brass band. They are a