Being in easy, and almost in affluent circumstances, Scott became ambitious of founding a family. For this purpose he bought land on the banks of the Tweed, and built Abbotsford, at a very considerable expense. He received the order of knighthood, and looked forward to days of ease and prosperity. Devoting himself almost entirely to literary pursuits, he formed connections in business with James Ballantyne, then rising into extensive business in the city of Edinburgh. This involved the necessity of large advances, and Scott became involved in large pecuniary responsibilities. He received an appointment as one of the principal Clerks of the Court of Session, with perhaps six thousand dollars per annum. This, with the gains of the printing establishment, and other sources of revenue, would have secured to him and his family an ample provision.
With his customary sagacity, Sir Walter perceived that his peculiar style of poetry would not continue popular, and therefore he betook himself to a new field of literary enterprise, which proved still richer, and, by far, more congenial. Then appeared his historical novels, which became so popular, that his fame as a poet was almost forgotten. Volume after volume came from the press, and spread like wildfire over the land. Translated into French, German, and Italian, they reached every part of Europe, and completely superseded the old run of novels, with their unnatural plots and extravagant nonsense. It was Scott's ambition to elevate this species of literature, and whatever objections may be made against it, on the score of moral influence, this much must be conceded to him. In his hands novel writing became comparatively pure and dignified, nay, as some, with considerable show of reason, contend, beneficial. The moral tone of all Sir Walter's productions is pre-eminently pure. They are characterized by shrewd sense, a profound insight into men and things, a keen perception of the beautiful and brave, the generous and leal, a fine sense of honor, reverence for God, and a deep sympathy with all the wants and woes, the hopes and joys of our common humanity. Sir Walter is the Shakspeare of novel writing, and if he falls below the great dramatic poet, in the quickness and universality of his genius, he approaches him in the soundness of his intellect, the breadth of his imagination, and the versatility of his powers. From his Tory and High Church predilections he has done some injustice to the old Covenanters and Puritans of Scotland; but he possessed a noble and generous heart, a spirit of faith and reverence, a love for God and all his creatures. His soul was naturally blithe and joyous, hopeful and strong. He loved Scotland with intense affection, and has spread the light of his genius over all her hills and vales. Under the magic influence of his pen the hoary mountains, the dark tarns and trosachs of the Highlands gleam with supernal beauty. Tweed murmurs his name, while the Firth and Tay repeat it through all their windings. His "own romantic town" glories in his memory; every city, village and hamlet of the Lowlands, with strath, meadow and moorland, echo his praise. The Genius of his country has crowned him with the same wild wreath which erst she hung upon the head of Burns, and the world has acknowledged the consecration.
It was in the year 1826 that Ballantyne and Company became insolvent, and Sir Walter Scott, in the very midst of his splendid career, found himself involved to the amount of $600,000. But he nobly refused to become a bankrupt, considering, says Allan Cunningham, "like the elder Osbaldistone of his own immortal pages, commercial honor as dear as any other honor." All he asked for was time; and in seven years he paid off more than the half of this sum by the labors of his pen. His efforts to accomplish this sublime purpose were gigantic, but they broke down his constitution. "Sometime in the beginning of the year 1831," says his friend Cunningham, "a sore illness came upon him; his astonishing efforts to satisfy his creditors, began to exhaust a mind apparently exhaustless; and the world heard with concern that a paralytic stroke had affected his speech and his right hand, so much as to render writing a matter of difficulty. One of his letters to me at this period, is not written with his own hand: the signature is his, and looks cramped and weak. I visited him at Abbotsford, about the end of July, 1831: he was a degree more feeble than I had ever seen him, and his voice seemed affected; not so his activity of fancy, and surprising resources of conversation. He told anecdotes and recited scraps of verse, old and new, always tending to illustrate something passing. He showed me his armory, in which he took visible pleasure; and was glad to hear me commend the design of his house, as well as the skill with which it was built. * * * In a small room, half library and half armory, he usually sat and wrote: here he had some remarkable weapons, curious pieces of old Scottish furniture, such as chairs and cabinets, and an antique sort of a table, on which lay his writing materials. A crooked headed staff of Abbotsford oak or hazel usually lay beside him to support his steps as he went and came."
"When it was known," continues Cunningham, "that Sir Walter Scott's health declined, the deep solicitude of all ranks became manifest; strangers came from far lands to look on the house which contained the great genius of our times; inquirers flocked around, of humble and of high degree, and the amount of letters of inquiry or condolence was, I have heard, enormous. Amongst the visitors, not the least welcome was Wordsworth, the poet, who arrived when the air of the northern hills was growing too sharp for the enfeebled frame of Scott, and he had resolved to try if the fine air and climate of Italy would restore him to health and strength.
"When Government heard of Sir Walter's wishes, they offered him a ship; he left Abbotsford as many thought forever, and arrived in London, where he was welcomed as never mortal was welcomed before. He visited several friends, nor did he refuse to mingle in company, and having written something almost approaching to a farewell to the world, which was published with 'Castle Dangerous,' the last of his works, he set sail for Italy, with the purpose of touching at Malta. He seemed revived, but it was only for a while: he visited Naples, but could not enjoy the high honors paid to him: he visited Rome, and sighed amid its splendid temples and glorious works of art, for gray Melrose and the pleasant banks of Tweed, and passing out of Italy, proceeded homewards down the Rhine. Word came to London, that a dreadful attack of paralysis had nearly deprived him of life, and that but for the presence of mind of a faithful servant he must have perished. This alarming news was followed by his arrival in London: a strong desire of home had come upon him; he travelled with rapidity, night and day, and was all but worn out, when carried into St. James's Hotel, Jermyn street, by his servants."
As soon as he recovered a little, he resumed his journey to Scotland, reached Abbotsford, and seemed revived, smiled when he was borne into his library, and enjoyed the society of his children. When he was leaving London the people, wherever he was recognized, took off their hats, saying, "God bless you, Sir Walter!" His arrival in Scotland was hailed with equal enthusiasm and sympathy; and so much was he revived that hopes were entertained of his recovery. But he gradually declined, listening occasionally to passages from the Bible, and from the poems of Crabbe and Wordsworth. Once he tried to write, but failed in the attempt. "He never spoke of his literary labors or success." Occasionally his mind wandered, and then he was preparing for the reception of the Duke of Wellington at Abbotsford, or exercising the functions of a judge, as if presiding at the trial of members of his own family. It may be regarded as a singular fact, that in his delirium, his mind never wandered toward those works which had filled the world with his fame. But the flame of life now flickered feebly in its socket, and gave unerring indications of its speedy extinction. "About half past one, P. M.," says Mr. Lockhart, his son-in-law and biographer, "on the 21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day—so warm that every window was open—and so perfectly still that the sound, of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible, as we knelt around his bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes."
The remains of Sir Walter were buried in Dryburgh Abbey. "As we advanced," says one who was present at the funeral, which was conducted with the greatest simplicity and solemnity, "the ruined abbey disclosed itself through the trees; and we approached its western extremity, where a considerable portion of vaulted roof still remains to protect the poet's family place of interment, which opens to the sides in lofty Gothic arches, and is defended by a low rail of enclosure. At one extremity of it, a tall thriving young cypress rears its spiral form. Creeping plants of different kinds, 'with ivy never sere,' have spread themselves very luxuriantly over every part of the Abbey. These perhaps were in many instances the children of art; but however this may have been, nature had herself undertaken their education. In this spot especially, she seems to have been most industriously busy in twining her richest wreaths around those walls which more immediately form her poet's tomb. Amongst her other decorations, we observed a plum tree, which was perhaps at one period a prisoner, chained to the solid masonry, but which having long since been emancipated, now threw out its wild pendent branches, laden with purple fruit, ready to drop, as if emblematical of the ripening and decay of human life.
"In such a scene as this, then, it was that the coffin of Sir Walter Scott was set down on trestles placed outside the iron railing; and here that solemn service, beginning with those words, so cheering to the souls of Christians, 'I am the resurrection and the life,' was solemnly read. The manly soldier-like features of the chief mourner, on whom the eyes of sympathy were most naturally turned, betrayed at intervals the powerful efforts which he had made to master his emotions, as well as the inefficiency of his exertions to do so. The other relatives who surrounded the bier were deeply moved; and amid the crowd of weeping friends, no eye, and no heart could be discovered that was not altogether occupied in that sad and impressive ceremonial, which was so soon to shut from them forever, him who had been so long the common idol of their admiration, and of their best affections. Here and there, indeed, we might have fancied that we detected some early and long tried friends of him who lay cold before us, who, whilst tears dimmed their eyes, and whilst their lips quivered, were yet partly engaged in mixing up and contrasting the happier scenes of days long gone by, with that which they were now witnessing, until they became lost in dreamy reverie, so that even the movement made when the coffin was carried under the lofty arches of the ruin, and when dust was committed to dust, did not entirely snap the thread of their visions. It was not until the harsh sound of the hammers of the workmen who were employed to rivet those iron bars covering the grave, to secure it from violation, had begun to echo from the vaulted roof, that some of us were called to the full conviction of the fact, that the earth had forever closed over that form which we were wont to love and reverence; that eye which we had so often seen beaming with benevolence, sparkling with wit, or lighted up with a poet's frenzy; those lips which we had so often seen monopolizing the attention of all listeners, or heard rolling out, with nervous accentuation, those powerful verses with which his head was continually teeming; and that brow, the perpetual throne of generous expression, and liberal intelligence. Overwhelmed by the conviction of this afflicting truth, men moved away without parting salutation, singly, slowly, and silently. The day began to stoop down into twilight; and we, too, after giving a last parting survey to the spot where now repose the remains of our Scottish Shakspeare, a spot lovely enough to induce his sainted spirit to haunt and sanctify its shades, hastily tore ourselves away."