ud
man of the world. Perhaps there had been a prouder way still; to have
owned honestly that he _was_ unsuccessful then, all bankrupt, broken,
in the world's goods and repute; and to have turned elsewhither for
some refuge. Refuge did lie elsewhere; but it was not Scott's course,
or fashion of mind, to seek it there. To say: hitherto I have been all
in the wrong, and this my fame and pride, now broken, was an empty
delusion and spell of accursed witchcraft! It was difficult for flesh
and blood! He said, I will retrieve myself, and make my point good
yet, or die for it. Silently, like a proud strong man, he girt himself
to the Hercules task of removing rubbish-mountains, since that was it;
of paying large ransoms by what he could still write and sell. In his
declining years too; misfortune is doubly and trebly unfortunate that
befalls us then. Scott fell to his Hercules' task like a very man, and
went on with it unweariedly; with a noble cheerfulness, while his
life-strings were cracking, he grappled with it, and wrestled with it,
years long, in death-grips, strength to strength; and _it_ proved the
stronger; and his life and heart did crack and break; the cordage of a
most strong heart! Over these last writings of Scott, his Napoleons,
Demonologies, Scotch Histories, and the rest, criticism, finding still
much to wonder at, much to commend, will utter no word of blame, this
one word only, Wo is me! The noble warhorse that once laughed at the
shaking of the spear, how is he doomed to toil himself dead, dragging
ignoble wheels! Scott's descent was like that of a spent projectile;
rapid, straight down; perhaps mercifully so. It is a tragedy, as all
life is; one proof more that Fortune stands on a restless _globe_;
that Ambition never yet profited any man....

And so the curtain falls; and the strong Walter Scott is with us no
more. A possession from him does remain; widely scattered; yet
attainable; not inconsiderable. It can be said of him, "When he
departed he took a Man's life along with him." No sounder piece of
British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of time.
Alas, his fine Scotch face, with its shaggy honesty, sagacity, and
goodness, when we saw it latterly on the Edinburgh streets, was all
worn with care, the joy all fled from it; plowed with labor and
sorrow. We shall never forget it; we shall never see it again. Adieu,
Sir Walter, pride of all Scotchmen, take our proud and sad farewell.