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Sir Walter Scott. The centenary of the death of Sir Walter Scott is my excuse for the re-cutting of some of the lines of Lockhart's imperishable memorial, and for an attempt at a valuation of the man and his work after the lapse of a hundred years.
It is a book which I was bound one day or other to write, for I have had the fortune to be born and bred under the shadow of that great tradition. I have given authority for most of my references, since Scott's own writings and the books about him are bulky works, and the reader may be glad of finger-posts. In the autumn of the year an Edinburgh citizen, returning after many years' absence, would have noted certain changes in his native city.
If, on the morning after his arrival at the White Horse Inn in the Canongate, he had ascended to the high places of the Castle hill, and looked north and east, he would have missed one familiar landmark. The Nor' Loch, his haunt on youthful holidays and the odorous grave of city refuse, had been drained, and its bed was now grass and shingle.
Across the hollow which once had held its waters a huge mound of earth had been thrown, giving access to the distant fields. Farther east, another crossing was in process of making, a bridge to carry a broad highway. Before he had left home the Canongate had burst its bonds into New Street and St John Street, and he noted that the city had spilled itself farther southward beyond the South Bridge of the Cowgate into new streets and squares.
