"Roger was in many respects a very remarkable man.... He possessed, in an eminent degree, an exquisite natural sympathy with all things beautiful and good. He was an excellent botanist, well-skilled in music, and passionately fond of poetry. His conversation was very interesting; and his slight tendency to dogmatise in the presence of a stranger, entirely disappeared in the society of his friends. He might almost be said to revere any one possessed of intellectual gifts and accomplishments, whether natural or acquired; and as he lived many years in a cottage situated on the way-side between Peebles and Innerleithen, he was frequently visited by those who passed by. Occasionally the Ettrick Shepherd would stop his gig to have a few minutes' crack with his 'friend Peter,' as he called him. At another time it would be his minister, the Rev. Mr Leckie, or some other worthy pastor, or some surgeon of the district upon his widely-extended rounds—Dr Craig, for example; or Mr Thomas Smibert; or Mr Adam Dickson, a young genius nipt in the bud—whose appearance would be the welcome signal for the 'tinkling' of Peter's hammer to know a brief respite. And I could mention others of his acquaintance, almost self-taught like himself, whose intelligence might enable them 'to stand before kings.'

"My own intimacy with Peter extends back to the time of my boyhood; and I can honestly say, that an evening spent under his roof, in company with him and his pious and amiable sister Peggy, who survives him, was among the greatest treats I ever experienced. There, at his door, in paper cap and leather apron, his shirt sleeves turned up, and his bare, brawny arms crossed upon his chest, and 'his brow wet with honest sweat,' would the hard-headed and warm-hearted blacksmith await the coming of him whom he expected. And, first, whilst his sister was attending to the preparation of some creature-comforts—for he was a man of some substance, and hospitable withal—you would be conducted into his little garden, sloping down to the very brink of the Tweed, and embosomed amid natural hazel wood, the lingering remains of a once goodly forest, to see some favourite flower, or to hear him trill, with a skill and execution which would have done little dishonour to Picus himself, some simple native melody upon his Scotch flute. The in-door entertainment consisted of varied conversation, embracing the subjects of literature, politics, and theology, largely interspersed with the reading of MS. poems by his numerous poetical friends. But the best part of the treat came last. Gradually you would notice a serious shade, not gloomy but chastened, steal over his massive features. His conversation would glide most naturally, and without any intentional effort that was apparent, into a serious strain; and then Peggy would bring down the family Bible, and, after having selected a suitable psalm, he would sing it to some plaintive air—and he could sing well; and the prayer which closed the usual exercises was such a manly, pathetic, and godly outpouring of a spirit chastened with the simplest and purest piety, as made the heart glad.

"Peter did nothing by halves, but everything with the energy of a man working at a forge. He embraced the temperance movement as soon as he heard of it, and continued to the end of his days a most rigid total abstainer from the use of all ardent spirits. Altogether, he was one of those self-taught, large-hearted, pious, and intellectual men of whom Scotland may well be proud."