JAMIE THE SAXT

Alexander McCall Smith is fascinated by the Stuart dynasty and in particular the enigmatic James VI, who bestowed an extraordinary legacy

New columnist Alexander McCall Smith is fascinated by the Stuart dynasty

I I have a friend who, though otherwise rational, is an unrepentant Jacobite. If you ask him, as I occasionally do, who the current monarch of this country is, the reply comes immediately, and with conviction: ‘Frances II of course’. Frances II, otherwise known as Franz, Duke of Bavaria, lives quietly in a German castle and tactfully refrains from commenting on the fact that contemporary Jacobites regard him as the rightful Stuart heir.

I share my friend’s fascination with the Stuart dynasty, although my interest is entirely historical: old coals, in my view, should not be raked over. Yet the Stuart dynasty continues to intrigue people in its poignancy and romance. It is not hard to see why: who can remain untouched by the story of tragic, doomed Mary Stuart, or be indifferent to the admittedly over-sentimentalised antics of Charles Edward Stuart and his progress through the heather?

For me, the Stuart of greatest interest is James VI, Jamie the Saxt as he was known. In our dining room we have a picture of James thought to have been painted by George Jamesone, a prominent Scottish portraitist of the early 17th century. James looks at us in melancholy fashion, not at all happy, and distinctly unhealthy-looking. He was not a well man – in fact, the Stuart dynasty was plagued by ill health over generations. In his book The Sickly Stuarts, Frederick Holmes, a professor of medicine from Kansas, sets out just what conditions the Stuarts had to contend with, and James, it seems, was particularly unfortunate. Yet in spite of his bad health, he was, on balance, an effective and conciliatory monarch, who sought to further the cause of peace. He was not a cruel man – which is something in an age when those with royal power could be ruthless and vindictive.

James was almost certainly gay. He had a loveless childhood, being educated by the austere Humanist, George Buchanan. He probably fell in love with his cousin Esmé Stuart, who briefly brightened his life before he was sent back to France. Once in England, James found his favourites, particularly George Villiers, whom he made Duke of Buckingham, and it is difficult to see that relationship as anything other than a sexual one. Indeed, comment was passed at the time of the way in which James openly engaged in flirtatious behaviour with Buckingham and others.

His greatest achievement, in my view, is what he did for the English language. James wrote both prose and poetry, but his greatest service to the language was the compilation of the King James Bible, the translation into English that he oversaw. It was an auspicious moment for such a project: the English language had reached what many see as its peak. The solemnity and dignity of the formal English of the time was then captured by the committees of divines who were charged with the translation, and the result is a book of immense poetic power.

Similar linguistic gems occur in the liturgy that was used in the Book

of Common Prayer. What stunning language both these works contained – language that became familiar to virtually everybody in the days when the Bible was widely read and church going was the norm. Echoes of that language remain here and there both in Scotland and in England, even though contemporary reformers have replaced it with dull prose from which all the poetry has been extracted.

The battle to preserve language is not a reactionary cause. The English of Jamie the Saxt’s time is no longer the English that is spoken in the street, broadcast on the airwaves, or written on the web. But it is worth remembering, and savouring, because it provides us with a glimpse of what English may be, and how we may live more fully through a language that is rich in its vocabulary.

And exactly the same goes for the Scots language, which is arguably under even greater threat. If we lose our Scots words, we lose a whole range of feeling, a whole stock of poetic vigour that enables us to describe our world in a richer and more complete way.

So I look back at the rather dour portrait of James VI and feel a certain gratitude. It is a distant legacy he left, but an extraordinarily long-lived one.

My friend, though otherwise rational, is an unrepentant Jacobite