His frugal life was at least wholesome, and the one comfort with which he could not dispense was the cheap comfort of tobacco.
Idleness would have been impossible to him if he had been a millionaire, and labour was his refuge from despondency.

Like most humourists, he had low spirits, though his "genial sympathy with the under side of things," to quote his own definition of the undefinable, must have been some solace for his woes.

He could read all day without wearying, so that he need never be alone.

As a talker no one surpassed him, or perhaps equalled him at his best, in London or even in Annandale.

What ought to have struck all readers of these volumes was the courage, the patience, the dignity, the generosity, and the genius of this Scottish peasant.