26 September: Boreham on Walter Scott

Romance of Reality
It was on September 26, that Sir Walter Scott was laid to rest at Dryburgh Abbey. Sir Walter must always stand as one of the princeliest and most lovable figures in our literature. We all cherish the thought that although, throughout the 30 years during which his name was a household word in Europe, he endured sorrows such as few men are called to suffer, he also tasted satisfactions such as few men are permitted to enjoy. He saw himself idolised in his own lifetime. By the time that he was 50, he was a kind of legendary figure, a reincarnation of some noble crusader or knight of fine romance. How are we to account for his commanding authority? And can it last?

The fascination of Scott is very largely in his reverence for reality. He writes fiction, it is true; but he writes fiction in such a way as to glorify fact. He was a novelist; but he was more than a novelist; he was a first-class historian. Indeed, Macaulay—no mean critic—declares that Scott is the perfect historian, and holds him up as a model to more ponderous chroniclers.

Splendour Of Dust And Cobwebs
He was consumed by a passion for antiquity. To him, the past was a fairyland, an enchanted domain, a realm of radiant romance. Oliver Wendell Holmes speaks of the reverent hush amid which, in the days of long ago, the old wine bottles, smothered with the dust and cobwebs of countless years, were borne from the dark cellar into the gaiety and brightness of the banqueting hall. "The resurrection of one of these old sepulchred dignitaries," he says, "had something of solemnity about it: it was like the disinterment of a king. The very bottle seemed to inspire a personal respect; it was wrapped in a napkin and borne tenderly and reverently round to the guests, who listened silently and breathlessly to the first gusts of the amber fluid." It is a perfect symbol of the spirit in which Sir Walter Scott brought his splinters of antiquity from the dusty caverns in which they had reposed for ages, and, with sparkling eyes, produced them for the delectation of a new generation. The past mesmerised him. On that memorable day when, in Edinburgh Castle, the grimy old chest that contained the ancient regalia of Scotland was at last opened, he was like an excited schoolboy.

In his passion for the buried romance of auld lang syne, he converted his home—the stately and imposing Abbotsford—into a museum. He adorned it, not with furniture of the latest style or with paintings fresh from the easel of a modern master, but with the antique drinking fountain of Edinburgh city, the lintels of the old Tolbooth prison, the blunderbuses and pouch of Rob Roy, the dining cup of Prince Charlie, and thousands of similar curiosities, all rich in historical association. Sir Walter revelled in the glories that had vanished, and, jealous lest our poetic and picturesque yesterdays should be forgotten, he dedicated his wondrous skill to the patriotic task of making those remote happenings live again. This intense historic fervour, pulsing through his pages, made him easily the greatest novelist of the romantic period.

A Poet's Tragedy And Triumph
The culminating tragedy—perhaps the most poignant and desolating tragedy in our literary history—is the tragedy of the black dog. The black dog skulked at Sir Walter's heels during the last seven years of his life; it haunted him; it ruined him; it unmanned him; and, when he was only 61, it slew him. "The Black Dog still hangs about me," he wrote again and again. Those who are familiar with the Journal will be at no loss as to the identity of the Black Dog. Scott allowed his financial affairs to become involved with those of his publishers; the house crashed, and he was ruined. He worked like a galley slave to earn enough to pay off his creditors, and, when at last the pen dropped from his enfeebled hand, he was comforted by the reflection that nobody but himself had suffered through his misfortunes.

But the struggle killed him. The nation sent him to Italy, but it was too late; and he was glad to hurry back to his own beautiful home to die. Everybody remembers Lockhart's touching story of the end. "He desired to be wheeled through his rooms in the bathchair. We moved him leisurely for an hour or more up and down the hall and the great library. 'I have seen much,' he kept murmuring, 'but nothing like my ain hoose; give me one turn more!' Next morning he begged to be taken to the window overlooking the Tweed. 'Read to me!' he said, and I asked from what book. 'Need you ask?' he exclaimed; 'there is but one!' I chose the fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel, and, when I had finished reading of the Father's house and the many mansions, he sighed, 'That is a great comfort!"' And, a few days later, amid a nation's tears, he was laid to rest among the crumbling and ivy-covered ruins at Dryburgh. Almost within sight of his home at Abbotsford, it is now a place of pilgrimage for countless visitors.

F W Boreham

Image: Walter Scott