Sir Walter Scott: the Wounded Falcon

So much has been written about the Great Unknown, so many people have visited Abbotsford, so many have, in the past, read the Waverley Novels, that one wonders that anyone could find it worth while to pen yet another account of the life of that painful genius, Sir Walter Scott, and it was with some trepidation that your reviewer opened this book, certain that so small a volume would be trite, otiose and distorted. He was wrong. Distortion there is: Sir Arthur's obvious admiration and love for his subject shine through every sentence, almost every word. No condemnation is to be found here for Sir Walter Scott's financial irresponsibility; nothing but condonation for even the worst of his works; no realization that his books have almost ceased to be read, that few are to be found who can quote even a few lines of Marmion; that the days of the great romantic have passed, probably for ever. However, as one reads this book, one is borne on the tide of Sir Arthur's enthusiasm. Sir Walter Scott was a genius; the world was a better place because he lived; and Scotland was fortunate in her chronicler, whose writings were often worthy of the admiration of those with the old-fashioned qualities of patriotism and honesty. Sir Walter may have been a snob, but he was worthy of a better fate than was his; he inspired people in all walks of life with love and respect, and his endeavours to free himself from debt when physical breakdown and death stared him in the face, remind one of Marvell's lines, 'He nothing common did or mean, Upon that memorable scene.' The chapter on the medical aspects of Sir Walter's life may be thought the weakest part of the book. One had hoped for some explanation in his medical history for Sir Walter's extraordinary drive, perhaps from the psychological effects of infantile paralysis, but the enquirer will find nothing but a few bare facts, too short and too commonplace to stimulate the imagination. Old men often lapse into stupidities in their anecdotage. There is no trace of old age in this last memorial to its author. This little book sparkles with bubbles from the Pierian spring, and all those who remember Sir Arthur with respect or, as many do, with a more emotional feeling, will be glad that it is a work so well done …