Chapter XLII
Colleagues at the Clerks’ Table-Morritt on Scott’s Conversation—His Home Life—Treatment of his Children—Ideas on Education—Knowledge of the Bible—Horsemanship, Courage, Veracity—Success of the Training.
The kindly affections of friendship were always to Scott ‘the dearest part of human intercourse.’ Even in ‘that sand-cart of a place, the Parliament House’ he found them in abundance. Among his colleagues were Colin Mackenzie of Portmore, the friend of his boyhood, ‘one of the wisest, kindest, and best men of his time’: Hector Macdonald Buchanan of Drummakiln: Sir Robert Dundas of Beechwood: and David Hume, nephew of the great David and Professor of Scots Law, afterwards a Baron of the Exchequer. Mentioning a dinner at Dundas’s house, Scott says, ‘My little nieces (ex officio) gave us some pretty music.’ The explanation of this is that all these families were so intimate and friendly that the children all called their fathers’ colleagues uncles, and the mothers of their little friends aunts. ‘In truth’ (says Lockhart) ‘the establishment was a brotherhood.’
We may here quote his friend Morritt’s description, which, referring to the year 1808, gives so lifelike a notion of what Scott was to the friends of his prime: ‘At this period his conversation was more equal and animated than any man’s that I ever knew. It was most characterised by the extreme felicity and fun of his illustrations, drawn from the whole encyclopedia of life and nature, in a style sometimes too exuberant for written narrative, but which to him was natural and spontaneous. A hundred stories, always apposite, and often interesting the mind by strong pathos, or eminently ludicrous, were daily told, which, with many more, have since been transplanted, almost in the same language, into the Waverley Novels and his other writings. These, and his recitations of poetry, which can never be forgotten by those who knew him, made up the charm that his boundless memory enabled him to exert to the wonder of the gaping lovers of wonders. But equally impressive and powerful was the language of his warm heart, and equally wonderful were the conclusions of his vigorous understanding, to those who could return or appreciate either. Among a number of such recollections, I have seen many of the thoughts which then passed through his mind embodied in the delightful prefaces annexed late in life to his poetry and novels. Keenly enjoying literature as he did, and indulging his own love of it in perpetual composition, he always maintained the same estimate of it as subordinate and auxiliary to the purposes of life, and rather talked of men and events than of books and criticism.’
The happiness he made at home for his children in their early years has been revealed by his son-in-law in a charming passage. Though familiar to many, it can hardly be out of place here: ‘He had now two boys and two girls:—and he never had more. (They were Charlotte Sophia, born 1799; Walter, 1801; Anne, 1803; and Charles, 1805). He was not one of those who take much delight in a mere infant; but no father ever devoted more time and tender care to his offspring than he did to each of his, as they reached the age when they could listen to him, and understand his talk. Like their playmates, Camp and the greyhounds, they had at all times free access to his study; he never considered their prattle as any disturbance; they went and came as pleased their fancy; he was always ready to answer their questions; and when they, unconscious how he was engaged, entreated him to lay down his pen and tell them a story, he would take them on his knee, repeat a ballad or legend, kiss them, and set them down again to their marbles or ninepins, and resume his labour, as if refreshed by the interruption. From a very early age he made them dine at table, and “to sit up to supper” was the great reward when they had been “very good bairns.” In short, he considered it as the highest duty as well as the sweetest pleasure of a parent to be the companion of his children; he partook all their little joys and sorrows, and made his kind unformal instructions to blend so easily and playfully with the current of their own sayings and doings, that so far from regarding him with any distant awe, it was never thought that any sport or diversion could get on in the right way, unless papa were of the party, or that the rainiest day could be dull, so he were at home.’
Scott was no elaborate theorist in regard to education. His sound practical sense laid hold instinctively of a few invaluable principles, and these he carried out with his children with the most beneficial results. He would have nothing to do with the great specific of the period, those fearful ‘children’s books’ filled with endless facts of science precisely worded for the purpose of committing to memory. He was quite pleased, however, with the older-fashioned books, in which stories appealing to the imagination were employed as a means of exciting curiosity in graver matters. He took pains to select for their tasks in recitation such passages of poetry as might be expected to please their fancy. His own stories and legends with which he amused them were the beginnings of an intelligent interest in Scottish History, and on Sundays the Bible stories were in the same way made at once delightful and familiar. ‘He had his Bible’ (says Lockhart), ‘the Old Testament especially, by heart; and on these days inwove the simple pathos or sublime enthusiasm of Scripture, in whatever story he was telling, with the same picturesque richness as in his week-day tales the quaint Scotch of Pitscottie, or some rude romantic old rhyme from Barbour’s Bruce or Blind Harry’s Wallace:
It was characteristic of the man to combine, like Xenophon’s ancient Persians, the love of truth and the love of horsemanship as the two greatest aims in education. Each of his children, both girls and boys, became, as soon as old and strong enough for the exercise, the companion of his own rides over moor and stream and hill. He taught them to laugh at tumbles and slight misadventures, and they soon caught his own spirit, and came to delight in adventurous feats like his own. ‘Without courage,’ he used to say, ‘there cannot be truth; and without truth there can be no other virtue.’ With such a teacher, we may be sure the two fundamental virtues were imbibed in full perfection.