We seem to see in him a Pascal of the thirteenth century; and this all the more that Michael Scot resembled that great genius not only in the mystical and superstitious side of his nature but in his devotion to mathematical science. How piquant is the contrast between this mighty and gifted child of the mist and the northern hills and those sunny southern lands of grape and fig, of white cliff, marble column and laughing summer sea, where most of his life was spent. No wonder that those among whom Michael Scot lived found him somewhat of a mystery at all times, and, especially in these later days of his burdened spirit, took him for a Mage, weaving his dark sayings into regular prophecies. The Latin races have never been famous for their power to comprehend the northern character. How much less was it likely they should in the case of one who seems to have presented every feature of that racial type in its extremest form? In our own day this incapacity takes the way of accusing as madness all that it cannot fathom of Celtic or Teutonic ways. In the times of Scot the same impatience found a more modest expression. He was incomprehensible, therefore he must be inspired; gifted with the prophet’s divine and incommunicable fire. We may take it for granted that much of Michael Scot’s dissatisfaction and depression upon his disappointment in seeking ecclesiastical preferment arose from the feeling that he had made a great sacrifice in vain. The best years of his life, and the most strenuous labours of his mind, had been given to his version of Averroës not without the hope that he was here laying the foundation of a great literary and philosophic fame. Moved by a prudence, which was not altogether selfish since it concerned the Emperor’s reputation and policy quite as much as his own, he had submitted to necessity, and saw his translation suppressed for the sake of avoiding offence. The sacrifice was great and doubtless keenly felt, and when in spite of this policy he found himself still without the position he had confidently hoped for, with what bitterness must the reawakening of his literary ambition have been attended. Near ten years had been lost since his return from Spain, and still Scot’s Averroës slept, unknown to the schools, in the honourable but unprofitable seclusion of the Imperial closet. With the death of these hopes of preferment, however, all reason for this unfortunate reserve came to an end so far as Scot was concerned. As soon as he had once made up his mind to think no more of a great ecclesiastical career he was free to urge his master with all insistence to carry out their long-cherished plan, and secure undying fame for both by publishing the new Aristotle in the Universities of Europe.