IT is now a good many years
since I first called by invitation at Penkill Castle. I was received most
kindly by Miss Boyd and shown over the old building by Mr Scott. Mr Dante
Rosettirthe famous Poet-Painter, was at that time on a visit, so I had the
good fortune to be introduced to him. He took very little part in the
conversation, however, which turned chiefly on local history, so that all I
remember is a neat figure, dressed in a black velvet coat, with a face
remarkably like Shakespear's, leaning back in his chair, and interjecting
"Very curious" now and then, as some fresh fact caught his attention. I was
told that he wrote several sonnets at Penkill, using as his study the old
Covenanter's Cave in the glen below the Castle.Some years after, I again
visited Penkill, and had a long talk with its inmates about the literary
Celebrities of London. We talked of Carlyle, whom Mr Scott had known
personally. "Carlyle looked at everything through the eyes of a Scotch
peasant."—"Well," I replied, "he might look at the world through worse
eyes."—"You are right," he said.—"But, then," said another, "Carlyle was so
egotistical" —"He had some right to be so," was Mr Scott's quiet
response.—"What sort of a person was Mrs Carlyle?" I asked.—"She was not
nearly so interesting as her husband. She was always posing."—"I suppose he
never posed."—"Oh no, he was too great for that," said Mr Scott.—"All the
same, you don't seem to have liked him?'—"No; and the reason was, he always
spoke so slightingly of Art. He once gave Millais a sitting for his
portrait, and on coming out of the studio Carlyle glanced round at the
superb staircase and asked— 'Millais, did Painting do all that?'—'Yes;
Painting did it all.'—'Well' rejoined the old "Scotch peasant," 'there must
be more fools in this world than I had thought.'"
Mr Scott asked me if I had read Shelley. I
said I had read the minor poems. "Oh yes," he said, "these are well enough;
but the larger poems are to me unintelligible. People say they are
atheistical. I say they are non-understandable. Mr Routledge, the
bookseller, once asked me to write a short memoir to prefix to an edition of
Shelley, which I did. I told Mr Routledge that I did not think Shelley was
read now-a-days. 'I daresay not,' he replied, 'but he is bought, and that is
all I have to do with.'"
When the subject of Art was mentioned, I said
I did not care for it except in so far as it touched on human life, and
asked why he himself had chosen such out-of-the-world subjects to exercise
his mind upon. "Oh," he said, "it is just my taste."—"Don't you paint now?"
I inquired. —"No," he said; "when you get old, you are unable to distinguish
delicate shades of colour, and so must give up."
The subject of Religion was mentioned, and I,
somewhat boldly perhaps, asked him how he regarded it. "Well," he replied,
"I am, generally speaking, what is called an Agnostic—that is to say, I
don't believe that God has revealed anything to us of the Unseen world. Of
course, people in all ages have imagined what lies beyond Death, but none
know''—"But, then," I asked, "what would you say to a man like Paul, who had
met the Son of God, and talked with Him?"—"Ah," he replied, "I could not say
anything to Aim."—"Well," I rejoined, "erery truly converted person is so
because Jesus Christ has met him, and revealed Himself to his heart."—" That
may be so,'1 he said, "and I don't wish to take any one's comfort away from
him."—To which I replied, "A true Christian's comfort is not so easily taken
from him, as some suppose."
He spoke of many persons, but kindly of them
all. In fact, this to me was Mr Scott's leading characteristic His talk,
too, was always informing, and never tended to gossip. It was always moving
on a high intellectual level, and was clothed in choice words. He
complimented me on my efforts to spread a better knowledge of our local
history, and urged me to write a life of Peden the Prophet, whose character
had impressed him; and he was anxious that I should get the autobiography of
John Stevenson, the Dailly Covenanter, republished in a cheap form, for the
benefit of the countryside. One of the last things he himself wrote for the
press was a paper in Frazcr>s Magazine upon the old Kirk-Session records of
Dailly, in which he had a kindly word to say of the contendings of our
forefathers for civil and religious liberty.
He died 2 2d November, 1890, and was buried
in Old Dailly Churchyard. . His brother David, who was buried in the Dean
Cemetery, Edinburgh, had perhaps more genius, but he could not have had a
more humble, kindly spirit, or possessed a milder wisdom. And although we in
this district took little note of his comings and goings among us, it may be
that in years to come, others will make a pilgrimage to visit the home of
his old age, and look with interest on his quiet grave.