ACT I.--SCENE I.

Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Judith Wirawan, Linda Cantoni

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

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[Illustration: JOHN ROBY.

_From a Daguerreotype by Beard._]

THE

LEGENDARY AND POETICAL REMAINS

OF

JOHN ROBY,

AUTHOR OF "TRADITIONS OF LANCASHIRE."

WITH

A SKETCH OF HIS LITERARY LIFE AND CHARACTER.

BY HIS WIDOW.

LONDON:

LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS.

1854.

PREFACE.

The poetry and tales constituting the main part of the present volume,

need no apology or introduction. Most of them were finished for

publication by the author.[A]

But in reference to the biographical sketch which precedes them, a few

words will not be out of place.

A life so private afforded but few materials. Incidents of early days,

tending to illustrate the bent and development of his powers, are

derived from memoranda in Mr. Roby's own handwriting, or from

well-remembered conversations. The absence of that unconscious

self-portraiture, which a man's own letters present, will be found

supplied, to some extent, by short reminiscences, kindly furnished by

friends. The memoir is not offered as a complete biography. It is simply

an outline of a literary life, and of a character; the one as varied in

its aspect, as the other was uniform in its tenor. That part of the life

which fell under the writer's own observation, has of necessity been

dwelt on most at length, and she fears lest too much prominence may at

times have been given to what is personal to herself, and the double

life be thus too strongly shown. Yet the shadow that brings out the

principal object will scarcely be censured. No one can feel so deeply as

herself the inadequacy of her talents to the subject. To one

qualification alone she may lay claim, without fear of the charge of

presumption, "that of the seeing heart," without which it has been truly

said, "no _true_ seeing for the head is so much as possible."

The writer will esteem herself happy if, with all the imperfections of

detail, she shall, in a measure, have succeeded in her aim. That aim has

been to gather up, with a loving reverence, the scattered products of

her husband's pen, by which the reader may estimate his powers, and to

present a faithful mental portrait of one, with whom the pursuit of

literature was no bar to the discharge of ordinary duties, and whose

gifts were the Lares and Penates of his own fireside,--one who, as time

advanced, learned the secret of self-renunciation and spiritual

obedience, and having "left this life for a better," still, lives "in

memory here," as a man of genius and a Christian.

December, 1853. E. R. R.

CONTENTS.

Page

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF JOHN ROBY 1

MUSIC.

AIR FROM A MODERN CONCERTO 121

SHEW PITY, LORD 122

LYRICS.

LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEPARTURE OF FRIENDS FROM ENGLAND 127

PREFACE TO A LADY'S ALBUM 129

TO ---- 132

STANZAS 133

STANZAS FOR MUSIC 134

THE FAIRIES' SONG 136

STANZAS FOR MUSIC 137

STANZAS FOR MUSIC 138

STANZAS FOR MUSIC 139

STANZAS 140

SONG 141

THE FRIEND 143

LINES TO A LADY WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD NEVER SEEN 145

THE BIRCH 147

ASTROLOGY 148

THE FIRST REVELATION 149

AN EVENING HYMN 151

THE DUKE OF MANTUA: A Tragedy 153

LEGENDS.

MOTHER RED CAP; OR, THE ROSICRUCIANS 247

THE DEATH PAINTER; OR, SKELETON'S BRIDE 305

THE CRYSTAL GOBLET, a Tale of the Emperor Severus 339

APPENDIX 375

WEEP NO MORE, WOFUL SHEPHERDS, WEEP NO MORE,

FOR LYCIDAS YOUR SORROW IS NOT DEAD,

SUNK THOUGH HE BE BENEATH THE WATERY FLOOR;

SO SINKS THE DAY-STAR IN THE OCEAN BED,

AND YET ANON REPAIRS HIS DROOPING HEAD,

AND TRICKS HIS BEAMS, AND WITH NEW-SPANGLED ORE

FLAMES IN THE FOREHEAD OF THE MORNING SKY;

SO LYCIDAS SUNK LOW, BUT MOUNTED HIGH,

THROUGH THE DEAR MIGHT OF HIM THAT WALK'D THE WAVES,

WHERE OTHER GROVES, AND OTHER STREAMS ALONG,

WITH NECTAR PURE HIS OOZY LOCKS HE LAVES,

AND HEARS THE UNEXPRESSIVE NUPTIAL SONG,

IN THE BLEST KINGDOMS MEEK OF JOY AND LOVE.

THERE ENTERTAIN HIM ALL THE SAINTS ABOVE,

IN SOLEMN TROOPS AND SWEET SOCIETIES,

THAT SING, AND SINGING IN THEIR GLORY MOVE,

AND WIPE THE TEARS FOR EVER FROM HIS EYES.

MILTON.

SKETCH

OF

THE LITERARY LIFE AND CHARACTER

OF

JOHN ROBY.

When an author's name is chiefly known by a work connected with any

particular locality, our natural expectations are gratified in finding

that personal or family associations drew his attention to the subject.

This was the case with the author of "The Traditions of Lancashire."

Born in a neighbourhood where the faint legends of the olden time were

yet floating, he himself belonged to the district whose memorials he

perpetuated. He was attached to his native county, proud of her wild

scenery, of her old historic associations, and of the energetic,

well-defined character of her sons. His family name was not unknown in

her annals. One of his ancestors, Captain Roby, who was born in an old

mansion, long since pulled down, in the township of Roby, near

Liverpool, was distinguished by his courage and gallant conduct during

the civil wars of the seventeenth century, at the time when the north

was the scene of operations.

JOHN ROBY was born at Wigan, the 5th of January 1793. From his father,

NEHEMIAH ROBY, who was for many years master of the grammar-school at

Haigh, he inherited a fine constitution and unbending principles of

honour and integrity. From the family of his mother, MARY ASPULL, he

derived the quick impressible temperament of genius and that love of

humour which so conspicuously marks the Lancashire character.

Destitute of home companions of his own age, being by many years the

youngest of the family, he often suffered from an oppressive sense of

loneliness. One of his strongest characteristics was an intense yearning

for sympathy, however concealed in after-life, from the general eye, by

the exuberance of his natural spirits. This led him to seek

companionship with inanimate things, which he invested with a

sympathetic existence. A reflected light proceeding from the surface of

water in a butt at the back of the house, which frequently played on the

upper wall of the staircase, was one of these friendly objects. Ignorant

of the cause, he would watch for its coming, and sit for hours in

communion with the strange and beautiful appearance. It was to him a

fair and mysterious visitant, who came in pure benevolence to cheer his

solitude. Indicative of the dramatic bent of his mind was another of his

resources. He was accustomed to cut out little paper figures of men and

women, which he would carry to bed and place under his pillow. As soon

as the light was withdrawn he delighted himself in conversations with

his paper friends, losing his sense of loneliness in their ideal

companionship.

Another thing contributed to deepen his unsatisfied longing for

sympathy. His father revered the sterner virtues, and sacrificed to them

whatever he apprehended might tend to enervate his son's character. In

conformity with this theory of training, even the maternal kiss was

forbidden. Only once did he remember feeling the soft pressure of his

mother's lips on his cheek, though frequently and fervently did he long

to feel it again. In after-life, even down to its close, when rejoicing

in the sunshine of confiding and playful affection, he would refer with

tears in his eyes to the lonely and unfondled years of childhood. For

the sake of both, deeply was it to be regretted, that a mother's love of

her latest born, one of the strongest of human affections, should be

denied its natural expression, repressed as a duty, till it was subdued

and its very existence scarcely suspected.

His thirst for knowledge was early and strongly manifested. If his

inquiries were neglected or evaded, he would insist on an intelligible

reply. Having been once told, not to be so inquisitive, "'Inquisitive'

wants to know" was ever after his form of urgent appeal. Characteristic

of this disposition was an incident which occurred when he was a child

in petticoats. One fine afternoon 'Inquisitive' was seated in a low

chair by his mother's side, conning his lesson. He loved not a task from

which he gained no idea; the spelling of _t-h-e_, _the_, _f-o-r_,

_for_, was wearisome, and, as an expedient to rid himself of it, he

feigned sleep: his father entering the room remarked, "John is asleep:

this warm afternoon has made him drowsy." The mother knew the pranks of

childhood, and quietly replied, "He is only sleeping dog's sleep." There

was a new idea: up started the little head in a moment with the inquiry,

"What is dog's sleep, mother?" Even at that early age, when a question

suggested itself, he could not rest till he had arrived at a

satisfactory answer; often and long would he ponder over some little

thing that puzzled him, and on which he could gain no information from

others beyond the unsatisfactory reply "Why, _so it is_."

As he grew up into boyhood surrounded by objects to which tradition had

assigned her marvellous stories, they sank silently into his

companionless and sensitive spirit. In his immediate vicinity were Haigh

Hall, and Mab's Cross, the scenes of Lady Mabel's sufferings and

penance--the subject of one of his earliest tales. Almost within sight

of the windows through which, with the dreamy gaze of childhood, he

first looked on earth and sky, lay the fine range of hills of which

Rivington Pike is a spur. Never will be forgotten the pleasure with

which, fifty years afterwards, during the last summer of his life, when

travelling past that neighbourhood, he pointed out the roof and chimneys

of his birthplace, the well-remembered hills as they lay with the

beautiful light of the afternoon sun upon them, Hoghton Tower crowning

its woody steep, and other spots at once the haunts of early days and

the scenes of the legends he afterwards so beautifully re-imbodied.

His various talents were very early called forth. While yet a child he

was accustomed, at first occasionally, and then regularly, to take the

organ at the Countess of Huntingdon's Chapel, Wigan, during the Sunday

service. His ear was exquisitely true, and his voice also excellent;

but, used too freely at the period of its change, it never afterwards

fully regained its tone.

His first attempt at drawing was made when he was a very little fellow.

A lady with whom he was a special favourite--Miss Leigh, sister of the

late Sir Robert Holt Leigh--had one day, to his great delight, been

showing him some sketches, when, after he had looked at them, she placed

the drawing of a cow before him, saying,

"Now cannot you draw that cow?"

"Oh, no! I never did such a thing," was his reply;

"Try," her wise rejoinder.

With some persuasion the volatile child was induced to attempt the task.

The pencil was poised--his attention concentrated on the subject--his

hand began to follow the eye, and with oft-repeated delight he beheld

the form grow rapidly under his touch; so that whether his teacher or

himself was the more pleased, it would be difficult to say. This was a

precious lesson to him, which he did not forget. It was so firmly

rooted, that, in after-life, he never doubted success in anything he

thought proper to attempt. Years after, in 1849, when writing to a

friend whom he wished to encourage to mental effort, he referred to this

time, when the little word "Try" was the "Open Sesame" of the "Arabian

Nights" to him.

He cared little for ordinary companions, never so happy as when he could

steal away from them, into the company of such of the other sex as were

much older than himself, and listen for hours to song and music. He

always considered he was more indebted for the formation of his habits

and the development of his character and talents, as in the instance

above, to woman's discriminating encouragement, than to anything else;

and, for weal or for woe, hers was an influence to which he was ever

peculiarly sensitive.

The education he received appears to have been rather desultory. The dry

and spiritless mode of conveying instruction in those days had neither

attractions for his taste, nor power over his mind. As he advanced into

youth, and "macadamised his own road," various branches of the natural

sciences, history, antiquities, and the fine arts, nearly absorbed his

attention. A course of mathematical study would probably have been the

best discipline for him at this time, as a balance to the spontaneous

development of his imagination. He afterwards pursued it with great

enjoyment, though to no considerable extent; and, late in life, he

proposed a resumption of the study to the companion of his

pursuits--one of the many plans so suddenly and so mournfully cut short.

When he entered on life, and the duties of his profession, that of a

banker, early left him master of many leisure hours, the use of the

pencil was a favourite recreation. His artistic perceptions must have

been very early developed. He was acquainted with a gentleman a

professed virtuoso, and a collector of those fine old drawings and

sketches which are the first rough thoughts of the painter, or the

playful offspring of his lighter moments. In an unpublished MS. he thus

describes in the third person his own first introduction to the beauties

of the old masters:--

"A new faculty seemed dawning upon him. He felt their glorious power

exalting, refining, the sense by the wondrous potency of art; rendering

the forms and hues seen by the imagination visible to the bodily as to

the mental eye; and expressing in a tangible shape what had before

existed only in the hidden recesses of the soul. He saw for the first

time a few of the random sketches, the first bright thoughts of these

great men, struck out like sparks from the glowing embers of fancy. The

fire and freedom of such rude scratches were pointed out; and he could

see with a painter's eye the beauty of a line, the combination and the

arrangement, the first shadowy thoughts of the artist emerging from

chaos into form." That he possessed even then, to a considerable extent,

the artist's power as well as his perception, may be inferred from an

anecdote of those days which forms the conclusion of the passage:--

"The professor of _vertu_ was expatiating one day, to a group of

bystanders, on the merits of some little gem of a drawing he had just

purchased. He pointed out the beauties with great gusto, fully

impressing his auditory with a sense of the profound knowledge and

superiority of his own discrimination. The novice leaned over, and,

young as he was, enjoyed the dissertation vastly. In a while he ventured

to make a remark: the man of art turned round, and with a look of

contempt, intended to extinguish the youthful aspirant, said, 'We don't

allow you to be a judge, sir.' Abashed, he shrank back; but the wound

rankled, and he determined to have lusty revenge. He sketched on paper,

with great freedom and carelessness, the subject of an old etching,

imitating as nearly as possible the style he had previously seen. By the

judicious application of tobacco-juice, soot, bistre, ochre, and a

little grease, so as to make the picture a perfect pattern of dirt,--a

rent, a puncture, a piecing here and there, to show the care with which

it had been preserved,--he succeeded in making, as he thought, a

tolerable imitation, and with great glee gallanted off the prize to his

preceptor. The connoisseur at once pronounced the few bold strokes,

every one of which 'told,' to be those of a master; and his pupil had

much difficulty in evading his inquiries, as to where he had met with

it, and whether there were any more to be had." His success was

complete; but neither love of triumph, nor gratified vanity, tempted

him to divulge the secret, and thereby mortify his acquaintance: he was

satisfied with the result of the experiment, nor did he ever after

repeat it.

His first attempt at composition was called forth by a friend, who put

into his hand a copy of a periodical which, at that time, offered prizes

for the best essays on prescribed subjects, to be sent in by young

persons under a specified age. It was suggested to him, that he should

take one of the subjects, and see what he could make of it. He at first

hesitated; but, recalling the magic power of the little word "TRY," he

sat down to the task, and composed an essay:--"To show what obligations

parents and children are under to tutors and governesses, and how far it

is their duty, from gratitude and interest, to behave towards them with

friendship and respect." It was considered worthy of the prize, as

appears from a copy of Blair's Class-book,--in the fly-leaves of which

the essay is preserved,--bearing in the customary gilt letters the

inscription,

"PRESENTED TO MASTER JOHN ROBY, AGED FIFTEEN.

A REWARD OF MERIT."

Now fairly aware of his powers, to the pleasures of the pencil were

added those of the pen. As might be expected, Poetry, Essay, Tale, were

all tried, read at first to juvenile companions, as extracts he had met

with. Why should early authorship, like early love, be a thing we shrink

from avowing, even to the nearest of our friends? It is because, when

we write truthfully and earnestly, we lay bare our very soul; and the

avowal in this, as in the other case, becomes an exposure of one's inner

self.

Debating and Philosophical societies ere long attracted him, and he

evidently exerted a leading influence on his companions. He took a

prominent part in their projects and reunions. "Sucking in knowledge

like a sponge," as he afterwards said, he was as ready to impart it. A

silver snuff-box,--still prized as a relic of his eighteenth or

nineteenth year,--bearing the following inscription,

"THE GIFT OF THE PHILOSOPHIC SOCIETY, WIGAN,

TO THEIR

ESTEEMED LECTURER AND WORTHY MEMBER,

MR. J. ROBY,"

attests the nature of his early pursuits, and the estimation in which he

was then held by his associates.

The local press was another channel for the exercise of his talents; and

it appears by a letter from the editor of the "Chester Courant,"

preserved with other relics of early days, that some of his

contributions to the paper, during a short residence in that city,

attracted the notice of the London papers, and were copied into their

columns,--a fact on which the worthy editor rather prided himself, while

he congratulated his unknown correspondent. From a memorandum book in

handwriting of an early date, containing "Subjects for Consideration,"

we transcribe one page to indicate favourite directions of thought:--

"The oxydation of metals, by passing the electric spark through them.

"The faculty which the eye possesses of accommodating its focal distance

to objects placed at different distances.

"The sound which proceeds from the shock of the particles of the air,

against those of water in motion. Vide Thomson's Ann. Phil. p. 187.

"Fresh-discovered property of the syphon."

He had now found, in part at least, that companionship and sympathy for

which he had so earnestly longed, and his spirit gave itself up to

delighted converse with its fellows, and to the pursuits of literature

and art:

"All the glowing future, one

Wide atmosphere of light."

His preference even from childhood of cultivated female society, while

his reverence for woman and his standard of her excellence were equally

high, also contributed to keep the tone of his mind pure and his life

stainless. The dawn of existence thus brightened into the full morning

of youth: and if those who now fondly look back upon him with affection

and pride, may bless GOD for such a youth, it is owing, under His

blessing, to the love of art, knowledge, and woman's intelligent

society.

Yet his own estimate of his character at that period should not be lost

sight of. When referring to this time, in terms of thankfulness for

having been kept from outward evil, he ever owned that as yet he was

without the guidance of the true Christian principle--love to GOD; "that

'the light of the glorious Gospel,' which alone is the true 'lamp unto

our path,' had not yet shone into his spirit. _He lived only to

himself_; and though, soaring through natural bias to loftier pursuits,

thus kept from the grovelling propensities of youth, yet, in a religious

point of view, _his heart_ was, equally with that of others, the barren

wilderness, _destitute of fruit to the glory of Him who created it_, and

who demands our 'heart, and soul, and strength,' in His service." So

judged a mature self-knowledge, on looking back to the first years of

manhood. Were introspection always as faithful, might not the same

conclusion be oftener reached?

Hitherto the little bark had sped with no cross wind, no disturbing

current, no shadow on her sail. Love came: still life's glad waters were

unruffled--all sunshine and repose. But the storm soon gathered, and

life's first romance was destined to close in gloom. It will be readily

supposed, that, with the impassioned temperament of genius, he gave

himself up without reserve to the power of a _first-love_; and, with the

adhesiveness which Phrenology so largely assigned to him, the permanence

of his attachment promised to equal its intensity. For a time, "the

course of true love," _did_ "run smooth;" but at length a coldness he

could not account for, but which had for some time pained him, led on

his part to remonstrance. It was resented, and the interview ended in

mutual displeasure. Riding home,--not in the happiest mood,--his horse

stumbled and threw him. For a few days he lay, unable to travel, in a

house near the spot where he had been thrown. Humbler and wiser thoughts

prevailed; and the first use he made of his recovered power of moving,

was to return and seek another interview. Reconciliation followed, and

he left happy and reassured. But, the evening after his arrival at home,

a short, cold, and haughty epistle, brought him by private hand, forbade

his future visits. Stung to the quick by what appeared heartlessness, if

not duplicity, he resolved to forget his idol for ever; and looked

around for a worthier object in whose affection he might lose his sense

of injury and regret. It was not till his faith was plighted to another

that he discovered the _undated_ note was written previously to his last

visit, shortly after their angry parting, but owing to his absence from

home not sooner delivered. Honour forbade any allusion to this

circumstance to the object of the second attachment, to whom he

considered himself sacredly engaged, but the blow struck home. A severe

illness, during which his life was despaired of, supervened; and, though

an elastic nature recovered, it still retained traces of this "maddening

misery." More than thirty years afterwards he could not refer to these

passages of his history without a shudder, and intense, though

controlled, feeling. Some peculiarities referable to this source

remained through life. Henceforth a discord ran through all the melodies

of existence, and ever and anon reproduced itself in the creations of

imagination.

Mr. Roby first appeared before the world as a poet. In 1815 he published

"Sir Bertram, a poem in six cantos." Elegant and melodious

versification, exquisite word-painting, and a marked tendency to the use

of the supernatural, are its chief characteristics. Though not published

before, there is every reason to believe it was composed some time

previously, during the happy season of hopeful, if not formally

requited, love. Here are no traces to be found of that one sorrow. It

was the pouring forth of song from a poetic spirit, that as yet knew not

the power of the minor key. Another poem quickly followed, entitled

"Lorenzo, a tale of Redemption." It met with a limited sale: the

versification was heavy, unlike anything else he ever wrote, and the

subject was unsuited to his powers. The now venerable poet Montgomery,

who had just published his own "Greenland," gave the young author the

benefit of his judicious criticism, a kindness difficult to perform;

but, judging by a letter from him of the date of July, 1817, he knew

well how to combine candour and courtesy. The subsequent productions of

his disciple proved that his valuable suggestions were not thrown away.

In 1816 Mr. Roby married Ann, the youngest daughter of James and Dorothy

Bealey, of Derrikens near Blackburn. Of her many excellencies he ever

spoke in the highest terms, and she must have been, from the testimony

of all who had the pleasure of knowing her, as well as from that of her

husband, one of the best and gentlest of women, the most affectionate

and anxious of mothers. They had nine children, three of whom died in

their infancy.

"The Duke of Mantua," a tragedy, which appeared in 1823, was Mr. Roby's

next publication. It went through three or four editions in a short

time, and was pronounced by the critics, "worthy of a place among our

best closet plays." It has been long out of print, and is included in

the present volume.

In the course of the summer, he made an excursion in Scotland. He

visited "the bonnie braes of Yarrow," in company with Hogg, the Ettrick

Shepherd. His account of the day so pleasantly spent, is a good specimen

of his early prose style:--

"I went with Hogg the other morning on a '_Voyage pittoresque_' up

the Yarrow. It was a delicious Claude-looking day--the sky filled

with a warm hazy brightness. Every cloud stole as softly up the

firmament, as if some creature 'of the immaterial air' melting

into the blue ether. None of those sudden lights--those breaks

through a hard and almost impenetrable pile of clouds--an

Apennine or Andes poised in the middle air, dividing the

landscape into vast enclosures--masses of shadow, deep, awful,

and abrupt--or moving patches, of a wild and unnatural

brightness.

"We set out from Selkirk pretty early, intending to reach St.

Mary's before noon. We loitered lazily up the stream, imbibing

the keen freshness of the morning. The mists were just rolling

from the green hills, when, on passing the bridge, we turned to

our left, entering upon the beautiful road, leading through the

Duke of Buccleugh's grounds, to Altrieve and St. Mary's Loch. The

Yarrow and the Ettrick unite about two miles above Selkirk.

Following the course of the former, we soon spied the ruins of

Newark Castle, the scene of Sir Walter's 'Lay of the Last

Minstrel.' It is a massive square tower, now unroofed, surrounded

by an outward wall, and defended by round flanking turrets.

During the minority of the present Duke, the castle was

dilapidated; the wooden beams, and such stones as could be

removed, were employed in building a miserable farm-house in its

vicinity.

"I felt wishful to obtain a closer inspection of this fine old

specimen of border antiquity; more especially on learning that

Mungo Park--born at Foulshiels, a small farm within a stone's

throw of the castle--had left his autograph somewhere within its

walls. We soon procured admittance, and on climbing the ruined

staircase, entered a large roofless apartment on the second

story, where, sure enough, we found, without much trouble, the

name of our enterprising, but unfortunate, countryman, written,

two or three times, in a large clerk-like hand with _red chalk_.

Hogg seemed as well pleased as if he had found a 'poss,' and

rummaged his galligaskins for a hideous bit of scrawl, that he

had several times brought forth from its dark den, during our

journey, when any thing particularly inspiring had urged its

momentary liberation. A poem perhaps, another exquisite 'Kilmeny'

or 'Mary Lee' in embryo, undergoing its appointed period of

incubation. I made no inquiries, but continued undisturbed in the

great business of exploration. In a short time I heard him

bundling down the steps, to take a morning's gossip with the

keeper. It was not long ere I found myself amply repaid for any

sense of deprivation I might have endured, by discovering

another flourish with the identical red chalk, and evidently by

the same hand. It was a stanza--four lines of poetry by Mungo

Park!--If thou hast any touch of feeling--any mark of

kindred--any spark of rarer sympathy--imagine, if thou canst, my

delight,--the fervour, the intensity of my rapture. They fixed

indelibly, and almost involuntarily on my memory;--there they now

exist, and probably will continue until every faculty, every

function, be obliterated.

"The following is a true copy, spelling and all. The orthography

of poor Park was not of the purest kind:--

'Within these walls where obscene birds of night

Whistle and shriek alternate round,

Soft music _floted_ once, whilst with delight

The distant shepherd caught the dying sound.'

"I do not think they show marks of quotation. I hope and believe

they are original; at least, I am pretty certain they have not

before been noticed.

"I soon roused the skulkers: a vigorous hurrah was the first

intimation they had of the enemy being so near their camp. Bang

went the first door I came to, and there I found my friend and

his, cantie over a cup of the best mountain, and deep in the

heart of a thrifty controversy about sheep, their ailments and

cures. It was 'an awfu downcome; they stared at each other

without perfectly understanding the nature of my announcement. On

a repetition, 'Eh, Mr. Bogle, but ye're gone clean blate,' was

the rejoinder, 'Ha' ye seen a ghaist!' With some difficulty I

made them reluctantly comprehend two very important matters, to

wit, my meaning, and a request that they would give me their

sweet company awhile. But how they did shout, and rub their

sleeves at the discovery; we looked as funny at one another as

three ambassadors at a congress. It was as good as the

development of a state secret. The best of it is, that it will be

a little fortune to the keeper, and a dowry to his weans.

Henceforth pilgrimages will be made to the shrine, vieing with

Loch Katrine and the pass of Aberfoil in the number of its

votaries and the ardour of its worshippers.

"We bade good bye to Newark, and awa' up the braes o' Yarrow,

shouting and laughing with the wild echoes of the flood, to the

great dismay of sundry bare-legged Naiads and goddesses, peeping

ever and anon through 'covert green and woodland dell.'

"My companion had to make a call at his tailor's, who inhabits

the low house nigh to the Ford.--A very strange personage this,

but of an infinite humour, and pomposity of demeanor.

"It was the very man whom Blackwood accused in one of his 'magi,'

of regularly buying two copies of that work, and reading both,

from beginning to end, imagining them to be diverse and distinct

from each other. He was mightily affronted at this insinuation,

and duly wrote, and concocted a letter;--such a curiosity as was

never before seen, since the world whistled. I recollect being

indulged with a sight of it in the 'back-shop.' He utterly

disclaimed taking two copies of the magazine, under any such

erroneous impression. The true reason was, that wife and bairns

had such an 'ettling for the beuk' that he had no comfort on the

occasion, and was often obliged to run for it--to creep behind a

stone dike or into a hedge bottom, in the hope of getting free

from their importunities, and even then he was in no wise safe

from interruption,--some kind neighbour or another would scent

him out, and be 'aye licken his fingers frae the dish.' Taking

two copies set all to rights, and each party enjoyed their meal

in peace. He was dreadfully puzzled about the different 'Horae'

scattered through the numbers, and consulted the minister about

their reference to certain matters then abroad, but to which he

thought no decent respectable publication, like Blackwood, should

have alluded.

"We journeyed on to Altrieve, where Hogg has a quiet domicile

within sight of St. Mary's banks, and Dryhope tower, where 'the

flower of Yarrow lived and died.' It was high dinner hour when we

arrived. A hearty welcome--a dish of boiled trout fresh from the

Lake, and et ceteras _ad lib._, gave a _gout_ and a relish to the

succeeding conceptions and concoctions, over which Mrs. Hogg

presided,--while the exhilarating influence of high animal

spirits, and a 'wee drappie' of the elixir of the mountain, threw

a vivid hue and a glowing atmosphere around every theme on which

we dilated.

"Hogg is a kind-hearted creature, a man of the rarest genius,

compounded out of the most heterogeneous elements, as if nature

in one of her freaks had determined to evince the omnipotence of

her power, over the most untractable, and unpromising

materials,--to mould even the stubborn, and unyielding forms over

which she broods, into combinations of the most exquisite

symmetry, and delicacy of texture.

"I reckon Hogg's achievements on a par with the most wonderful

records of human capability extant. A shepherd's boy, as uncouth

and ungifted as any of his tribe--apparently without a glimmer,

or an idea of the beautiful or sublime, any further than as it

might have relation to a dry bed and a comfortable meal--scarcely

able to write his name at a very advanced period of growth. Now

he blazes forth, a bright intelligence amongst the lights of the

age. Really his works deserve to form part and parcel of our

national literature, at once a monument to his glory and an

inextinguishable record of the operations of that genius, who

setteth no bounds to her habitation, nor suffereth control."

The literary leisure of the next six years was occupied in collecting

materials for the Traditions of Lancashire, and by the creative power of

imagination, weaving them into tales of romantic interest. Mr. Roby

received the most courteous assistance from several of the

representatives of the noble houses, whose early history he elucidated;

particularly from the Earl and late Countess of Crawford and Balcarres,

and also from the late Earl of Derby (1853).

The commencement of the year 1827 was marked by one of those home

events, which, though nothing to the world, make sad change in the

fire-side circle. Mr. Roby's second boy, named after his brother, the

late Rev. William Roby, of Manchester, was at this time about three

years of age. Possessed of unusual loveliness and remarkable sensibility

for so young a child, he had won upon his parents' hearts, and on that

of his father to a remarkable degree. The moment he entered the house,

he would call for his darling boy, and place him on his knee at the

piano, while the little listener, if not interrupted, would remain for

hours rapt in delight. He could not be happy while the child was out of

his sight. After a very brief illness, this beautiful boy was called

away from the world. His father's heart was wrung, long did he mourn

him; and he never dared again to love a child with such idolatry. An

infant, a few months' old, had before been laid in the family grave, and

on the stone covering their remains, Mr. Roby had the following lines

engraven:--

"Farewell sweet babes! Upon a mother's breast

Ye pass'd life's hour of fretfulness and pain:

Death bids you on his colder bosom rest,

Herald of bliss;--unutterable gain!

His touch was life!--in robes of triumph drest,

Sinless and spotless now--a Saviour's death

The fountain opened--washed from every stain

Each spirit, ere its last faint quivering breath--

As o'er its eyeballs burst eternal day,

Left its first cherub smile to linger on its clay."

A third infant was laid beside them in 1832, and there now repose _his

own_ loved and most precious remains, and to these last, as to those for

whom they were originally intended, may the closing lines be applied.

The smile last seen on that beloved face is one with which it may well

awake on the morning of the resurrection.

Mr. Roby visited the English Lakes that year. A manuscript book of notes

and sketches remains, and both pen and pencil attest the quickness and

correctness of the observer. On ordinary objects he looked with an eye

practised in gaining general information, and on Nature with that of the

artist. In looking over the sketches one cannot but remark how very

little change years have made in that district. Not only the majestic

objects of Nature, the accessories of man's placing also, stood then

precisely as they do now. The Druid's Circle near Keswick seems the only

exception; the fir trees which then waved their dark branches above the

grey stones are gone. Grange, reposing at the foot of Borrowdale, with

its beautiful bridge, dark clear stream, and everlasting mountains a

close back-ground. The Bowder stone[B], its ladder and cottage, and the

sharply-defined perpendicular strata rising above all, are unchanged.

The sketches of a quarter of a century ago might be those of last year.

The very buildings seem identically the same in every part. Nature

stamped them picturesque as they were set down in her sacred recesses,

and they have not dared to throw off the spell. A few extracts from the

note-book will exemplify the style of observation. The aspect of the

district; the manners of its inhabitants; individual peculiarities

whatever of men or things; natural productions, and above all, the

ever-varying forms of beauty, with which nature in such a region clothes

herself,--none of these escaped his observant and admiring eye.

"Kendal, Aug. 21. 1827.

"Dialect. Kendal mode of calling a person up, '_Shoot on him_

there.' First view of Windermere. Writing on Inn Windows--This

perishable and frail tablet more durable than man's existence.

Mountains--The same outline, the same aspect has met the eye of

man for thousands of years.... On the Lake--View from the north

side of Curwen's Island, light and shadow disposed as if

according to art--broad lights upon the rich colours. Corn-fields

&c. near--summits of hills dark blue, cutting against the sky,

angular and sharp. Island follows the universal law--north by

west, rugged and mountainous; south, undulating and flat."

Grasmere was at that time the abode of the gifted and excentric

Hartley Coleridge. He was standing at Jonathan's door when the

tourists drove up. They soon made acquaintance with him, and it

was not long ere they were deep in discussion on the subject of

Kant's Philosophy, the Rosicrucian System, &c. &c.

"The repose of Grasmere; pleasures of retirement. No pleasure but

to those who possess an innate repose and a mind full of

susceptibilities for these beautiful impressions. The bold

dragoon and his wife, who took a house here about three months

since, for seven years,--are now heartily tired of it.

Confounding of phrases--to say a man _is_ a genius, great

mistake--rather say a man _has_ genius, or rather genius has

_him_. Often disappointed in our approach to 'reputed geniuses.'

A clever man not always a man of genius. Idiom and dialect

diffused over a man's very form and face, habits, and character.

Tone of voice acquired by contact. Strong voices of the females

generally in the north. Quite a literary air about Grasmere.

Proof sheets lying about the public-house. Hartley Coleridge

engaged in writing the article 'Poetry' in the 'Encyclopedia

Metropolitana.'" The notice of Grasmere concludes with a then

unpublished song by H. Coleridge--"'I have lived, and I have

loved,'" with the autograph of the Poet.

"Keswick Lake. Sun-set. Colour of the mountains blue, a band

between the fiery sky, and the fiery reflection in the lake.

Cloudy morning. Skiddaw still has his night-cap on. Clearing

towards seven, determine to mount. Pass Skiddaw's cub, Latrigg.

Hills tumbled about in great disorder, compared to a large

painted sheet of canvass thrown down horizontally and propped up

in different places underneath with pointed sticks of various

lengths. Eye soon accustoming itself to the size of objects

thereby diminishing their bulk to its own previous conceptions.

Every now and then obliged to find an object, of a known size, in

order to feel the vast dimensions of these objects of unknown

magnitude.... Gaining the summit, an envious cloud sweeping round

the hill. Double echoes apparently from grouse shooters. Cloud

rapidly approaches, falls between us and the distant prospect

like a curtain. Completely enveloped. Sit down wrapped in my

cloak under the lee-side of a huge heap of stones, and wait in

expectation of the cloud clearing off for nearly an hour. Quietly

read 'Otley's Guide,' Geology of the Mountains. Symptoms of a

break in the cloud, mist still continues. Guide relates the

dangers and perils of ascents and descents in a mist, even to

those well acquainted with the path.... During these amusing and

exhilarating narratives the mist breaks in partial

openings--Wonderful bursts of prospect through the clouds. Solway

Frith--the Sea--Wigton, Cockermouth, Bassenthwaite Lake. A vessel

on the Solway, by telescope, a brig.

"Hermitage near Derwentwater Lake. Major Pocklington built and

endowed it for any person who would live there in entire

seclusion, locked up for seven years; after this apprenticeship

he might, if he thought proper, have his liberty, and an annuity

of 100_l._ a year. No one has yet been found to fulfil this

engagement, and the place built twenty or thirty years ago.

"Borrowdale. Lead mine on very steep hill. Gryphite lies in

sops. Old levels worked out. At fault; cannot yet find any;

trying near the summit of the hill. Immense productiveness at

times. Supposed to have been once in a state of fusion. Evident

marks of this. No date of its discovery. Tradition tells us, that

a tree being blown down bared the first vein. Used for marking

sheep only in all probability at the first. Maps of the county

might be printed on pocket-handkerchiefs. Dine at Rossthwaite:

another party arrive, folly of not being content with what the

house affords....

"Patterdale. Met a young sheep dog.--One leg tied up to prevent

his scampering after the sheep too far--dog education; not beat

young dogs, it breaks their spirits and spoils them. May this

hint apply to the education of two-legged cubs? Beautiful and

fertile valleys running up into so many gorges of the

mountains.... Musty egg at breakfast. Irishman swearing not a hen

in all England that laid fresh eggs.... Kirkstone pass. Savage

sublimity of the road. Kirkstone like the gable end of a house

peeping above. Saxifraga Nivalis.... High moor between the lakes

and Kendal. Grand view of Langdale Pikes twenty miles off, like

immense buttresses or towers, supporting a long line of rocks."

Of all the beautiful objects in that district none excited Mr.

Roby's admiration as those two magnificent rocks. His enthusiasm

for them was unbounded.

The first series of the Traditions of Lancashire appeared in 1829, in

two volumes, illustrated by plates engraved by Finden, from drawings by

Pickering; and wood-cuts by Williams, after designs by Frank Howard. The

matter, the embellishments, and the spirited publishers, Messrs Longman

and Co., were alike worthy of each other. The reception of the work

equalled Mr. Roby's most sanguine expectations; for though the price,

demy 8vo., 2_l._ 2_s._, royal 8vo., with proofs and etchings, 4_l._

4_s._, made it rather a book for a gentleman's library than for general

circulation, a second edition was called for within twelve months. The

following note from Sir Francis Palgrave, no incompetent judge, was a

gratifying estimate of the work as forming part of our national

literature:--

"26, Duke-street, Westminster,

26th October, 1829.

"Sir,

"I am greatly obliged to you for the very interesting volumes

which you have had the kindness to send me.

"As compositions, the extreme beauty of your style, and the skill

which you have shown in working up the rude materials, must

entitle them to the highest rank in the class of works to which

they belong.

"Are there any peculiar traditions in or about Cartmel, where, as

you probably know, the Britons continued till a comparatively

late period? You have made such a valuable addition, not only to

English literature, but to English topography by your

collection--for these popular traditions form, or ought to form,

an important feature in topographical history--that it is to be

hoped you will not stop with the present volumes.

"I have the honor to remain,

Sir,

With great respect,

Your obedient and faithful servant,

"FRANCIS PALGRAVE."

The second series, consisting also of two volumes, uniform with the

first, was published in 1831, and met with similar success. Both series

were reviewed in the most cordial manner by the leading periodicals of

the day; more than once quoted, and characterized by Sir Walter Scott,

himself a host, as an elegant work. (_See Introduction to the

Betrothed._)

When composing, Mr. Roby usually wrote with his family around him; the

only restraint he laid upon them, was the prohibition of whispering;

from conversation carried on in the ordinary tone he could wholly

abstract himself. Seated in a favourite rocking-chair, that common

northern luxury, wrapped in a loose study-gown, he wrote for hours with

rapidity and pleasure. When invention flagged, and he had to seek an

idea, he would fold his arms, and gently rock for a few minutes, then

with the air of a person who had found what he sought, return to the

page with renewed spirit. Though undisturbed by familiar sounds, which,

indeed, he appeared not to perceive, so completely was he absorbed in

his ideal world, he yet required all things in order around him before

he commenced; objects indiscriminately scattered conveying disturbance

through the eye, or even an open door, would so effectually dissipate

his thoughts, as to prevent him from writing. His practice was to make

himself master of the historical ground-work of the tale, and as far as

possible of the manners and customs of the period, and then to commence

composition, with Fosbroke's "Encyclopedia of Antiquities" at hand, for

accuracy of costume, &c. He always gave the credit of his style, which

the Westminster Review termed "a very model of good Saxon," to his

native country, the force and energy of whose dialect arises mainly from

the prevalence of the Teutonic element. "The thought digs out the word,"

was a favourite saying, when the exact expression he wanted did not at

once occur. To his fine ear for musical sound he was much indebted for

the flowing ease of his diction.

Though constituting what is denominated light literature, much careful

research was required in the composition of the tales. The aspect of the

country in those distant times, the costume and customs of the day, were

particulars in which he was scrupulously exact. To secure this

truthfulness of detail, long investigations were often needed, even

where perhaps they would be little suspected: but always confident that

he should succeed at last, he spared no pains in ascertaining the most

minute particular, and this very persuasion of success contributed to

secure it. By some means or other he invariably commanded the

information in due time. Amusing instances of this sometimes occurred.

Once, when out of the reach of any work of reference, he was completely

at fault for the blazonry of a particular banner, used five hundred

years ago. He did not despair, but left the matter in blank,

expecting--though he would have been puzzled to tell whence--the

wished-for information would be forthcoming. And so it was: casually

looking at a review, it so happened that the very thing he wanted was

described with more than ordinary minuteness.

His inexhaustible creative power is conspicuous; about two hundred

different characters are introduced, no one of whom reminds the reader

of another, nor is invention wanting for abundant diversity of incident

and adventure, heroic and comic. A gentleman who had been reading the

Traditions for the first time, recently remarked, that for invention he

scarcely knew any writer Mr. Roby's equal. It is perhaps worthy of

notice, that all the characters are creations, not one an idealized

portrait.

Another charm is the fine mould in which his heroines are cast. There is

a delicacy, a nobility, or high-minded spirit of self-sacrifice about

the more prominent, which, while leaving the characters perfectly

distinct, sustains throughout a high ideal of woman. Not one bad

character figures as a woman; the only approach to such is in tales of

witchcraft, where, indeed, the Arch Evil One, rather than his poor

victim, is the criminal, as though he would not even bring the idea of

evil athwart the favourite vision of his imagination. It may be deemed

not adhering to nature, thus to omit an object she, alas! too often

presents; but who would blame the artist for the faultless beauty of his

creations? The sculptor may display his skill, by representing the

contortions of deformity, but not his highest ideal; may show how clever

a copyist with the chisel he can be, but not how deeply he has drunk of

the inspiration common to all art, how near he has approached to the

Fountain of all Beauty. The clearness of his conceptions, and the way in

which he threw himself into his characters, are evinced by the dramatic

action of even the shortest story. While writing he appeared actually to

feel as he would have done, had he been in the situations he described;

he felt the perplexity, the sense of danger, and the exultation of

escape; for the time he seemed to have a double life, at once sharing

the existence of his hero, and sympathizing as a spectator. It was in a

tone that he would have used, had she been a living being, that he said

of one of his heroines, under very peculiar circumstances of danger[C],

"_I could not_ let her perish." His plan was to commence his tale, bring

his characters into strange or perilous situations, realize their danger

in its full extent, without the slightest idea of how he should

extricate them; and then, when the means of escape presented themselves

to his imagination, he would work on, delighted with the suggestion,

till to his great regret the tale was finished. He knew when to leave

off, but it cost him something to do so; it was like parting company

with friends.

The short vivid descriptions of scenery scattered throughout, are not

often equalled. By a few strokes of the pen, not only a perfect picture

of the permanent objects of a locality is placed before the reader's

eye, but also the temporary lights and shadows which are thrown on the

landscape by the ever-shifting skies; the very feeling of the air does

not escape him. Each tale is in fact a cabinet picture, combining

history and landscape. In the foreground the traditionary group appears

in vivid action; beyond, a far-receding distance, faint in the noon-tide

haze, or perchance a wood, with its broad shadows, and burst of sunlight

across the next glade. An artist might paint from his descriptions. In

the case of one of the most effective engravings, that of Rivington

Pike, the drawing was made after the artist had read the tale; the

accessories of light and shade, and in the original, of colour also,

doubtless owe something of their character to this circumstance.

In his power of depicting the supernatural, Mr. Roby stands pre-eminent;

and this not only in little weird touches, that come upon the reader he

knows not how, waking a chord within which makes him feel that he has

kindred with mysteries more than the eye sees, or the ear hears--but in

long-sustained intercourse with beings who people the unseen world, and

who seem at certain times, and in certain places, to press upon mortal

spirits even to recognition, more, even to hallowed or unhallowed

communion. As if there were, time and space concurring, points of

juncture for the two worlds. The ease with which he carries his reader

along with him, even in spite of the anti-spiritual prejudices of the

present age, cannot be better exemplified than in the tale to which

reference has just been made, Rivington Pike, which has been said by a

German reviewer to be, "the only authentic tale of demoniacal possession

the English have." The composition of the story had a powerful effect on

the writer himself. He sat up writing longer than usual after the rest

of the family had retired. It was midnight when he had finished; and so

completely had the scenes he had been describing, taken possession of

his own mind, that he dared not stir from his seat, nor did he, till

Mrs. Roby, surprised at his remaining down stairs so long after his

accustomed time, entered the room; the sight of a familiar face broke

the spell, and dissipated the visionary alarm.

The purity of the morality is such as befits a Christian writer, and

there is throughout the work a spirit of reverence for things sacred,

and of deference to the supreme source of illumination, which is not

always to be found in our lighter literature. The reader, charmed and

delighted, is carried away from ordinary scenes into a world of romance.

Nevertheless in that ideal land he finds the same laws of morality which

govern his daily life--the same God looked up to, as the disposer of all

things, the Father at once to be loved and obeyed; and he may go back to

his duties in common life, without one moral idea having been deranged,

or one principle disturbed.

It was at one time Mr. Roby's intention to follow up the "Traditions of

Lancashire" with similar illustrations of the early history of the

county of York. Subjects were chosen, and a few tales written, which

appeared in Blackwood's and Frazer's magazines. One, though not of this

series, which was published in Frazer, February 1837, under the title of

"The Smuggler's Daughter," was proposed to be dramatised. The parts were

cast, Mrs. Yates or Mrs. Keeley was to have taken that of the heroine,

and Mr. Buckstone and Mr. O. Smith were to have engaged in others. From

the correspondence on the subject, it appears that Mr. Buckstone's

attention being demanded by other and rather perplexing affairs, the

representation of the "Smuggler's Daughter" was delayed till after the

appearance of the story in the Magazine, and at last suffered to fall to

the ground.

A book containing sketches of the different localities he intended to

illustrate, and memoranda of the traditions attached to them, made

during excursions into Yorkshire for this purpose, show the spirit with

which he entered on his task, and it is much to be regretted that

anything should have been allowed to set it aside. About this time he

commenced the study of botany in good earnest. In the same book are

notes of a first botanical tour, a few extracts from which may not be

uninteresting: they are certainly characteristic. While pursuing the

details of science, he was in no danger of falling under the poet's

malediction on him,

"Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes."

They appear to have been written on the spot, whenever any fresh object

presented itself.

"Off to Wetherby.--Resolve to dissipate the mind. Round Hey.

Trees, &c., all green, yet how beautifully diversified--cool,

warm, half tints--Dr. Johnson, chaise traveller. What is that

purple tuft?--Elegant! _Vicia cracca_.... What is that like a

diminutive fir tree? _Equisetum_, quite a puzzle for a beginner;

never mind, learn soon. Clover, I know; but where can it be

classed? Honeysuckle too--rushes and all, I suppose, though they

would puzzle to find a flower. Clouds, the soul of landscape.

What sky most beautiful? Never see a dandelion, but thoughts the

most intense that never die.--Where slumbering--where the great

reservoir?" No flower had the power to revive early associations

like this. His first recollections of it, were as growing in a

field near his father's house where he played in infancy. "Yellow

flowers among the green wheat: Cherlock. Limestone district.--How

delightful any occupation that keeps the mind from preying on

itself. Want of employment similar to hunger.--Gastric juice eats

the stomach if no food.... What a delicious smell! Butterfly

orchis.... Foxglove unknown in some of the southern counties,

here how luxuriant! Localities of plants, soil, &c., wants

explanation. Poppy, sand, coltsfoot, clay. Furze, Linnaeus.

Flowers, all made after one model, never change the generic

characters in whatever part of the world; proof, where there no

other, of an all-wise designer.... Briony, spiral spring. _Orchis

morio_. Something about this tribe mysterious. Children in a

field playing, _enjoyment_. With what different eyes do I now

look on nature. What should possess me to learn botany, all my

life laughing at it. Arrangement, bump of order I suppose.

Distant view of the wolds. York Minster--what a host of

recollections!... _Iris pseudacorus_. Inoculated even the

post-boy. The operation, the power of mind over mind, what is it?

Country churches. People would write much better books if they

would take individualities, instead of generalities, to

sermons.... The numbers three and five, how predominant in

botany. _Geum urbanum_.--Lutford. Jackasses on a common--patience

personified. Why should _Jack_ be a diminutive, a lowering of any

thing. Jack snipe, _Osmunda regalis_.--Windmills always associate

with country quiet; the monotonous turn of the sails. Retreat.

Lunatics: mankind all so in one respect or another, but a great

difference. Lunatics lose their reasoning powers, and jumble

ideas,--take those for real which are only reflection and memory,

while those counted sane, with correct ideas, act diametrically

opposite to their knowledge.... Gravel-field, famous place for

plants. Set out. Roman antiquities--a Roman burying place

evidently,--continually digging out broken urns of baked clay,

very fragile.... Cats without tails, a breed of them here;

supposed originally from the Isle of Man. Style of face in

different parts. Query, Is it caught? Lower part of the mouth

formed by its owner." The notes continue, but are almost

exclusively botanical.

In the spring of 1837, Mr. Roby made a rapid tour on the Continent, the

notes and illustrative sketches of which were published in two volumes

by Messrs. Longman and Co., under the title of "Seven Weeks in Belgium,

Switzerland, Lombardy, Piedmont, Savoy, &c." His quickness, and

clearness of observation, and power of placing before the reader's eye,

in a few words, the objects which met his own, render the book

delightful and refreshing to those whom duty detains at home. Notes were

taken on the spot, and but slightly amplified, so that the narrative has

all the freshness of a youthful description of a day's pleasure. If the

road branches off in two directions, and the driver hardly knows which

to take, the reader himself feels puzzled, and thinks with apprehension

of the nearness of the sun to the horizon, and the miles yet to be

traversed; if the traveller is sailing down the lake listlessly drinking

in the beauty around him, the reader, too, feels the calm repose of the

still expanse of waters, and the softened grandeur of the panorama of

mountains. Even "the dry hard names" of rare plants--music to the

botanist--followed as they are here by their more familiar synonyms,

enhance the charm of the book: we look up from the sunny surface of the

glacier to the crimson flowers of the _Azalea procumbens_ (trailing

Azalea) starring the barren rock. Graphic description alternates with

personal adventure and amusing anecdote, marked alike by vivacity of

style, and the buoyant spirit of the author. Charming as a narrative of

continental travel, it at the same time has been said, "as a guide book

to the continent," to be "the best that was ever written,"--the

sight-seer, the lover of scenery, and the botanist may use it to equal

advantage. It shows how much may be secured by a really active and

inquisitive mind, in a few weeks, while the full particulars respecting

passports, routes, distances, moneys, exchanges, &c., puts the reader in

the way of enjoying as much himself, when it falls to his lot to take

the same route. The pictures of nature are in Mr. Roby's own effective

style. The start from the Custom-house, termed by the "Literary Gazette"

"a Calcott picture in a few lines," is an instance. "It was a calm grey

morning, the population were hardly astir, the river with its

wilderness of masts seemed hardly awake; and the very water having been

suffered to rest untroubled for a space, looked dull and drowsy." The

impressions made by the first sight of Alpine scenery on a mind like

his, are, as it may be expected, vividly told. It was of this part of

the work, that a lady, who had been familiar with good English scenery

all her life, and did justice to it both by pen and pencil, remarked,

"That book taught me to look at mountains."

In 1840 Mr. Roby again visited the Continent by a different route,

adhering to his custom of making notes and sketches of what he saw. At

the close of the same year his attention was engaged by the preparation

of a new edition of the "Traditions of Lancashire," in a less expensive

form, so as to bring it within the reach of general readers. It was

published in three volumes by Colburn, as the first of a series of

Popular Traditions of England.

Mr. Roby's delight was as great in imparting as in imbibing knowledge,

and he took a warm interest in all institutions for its diffusion. The

principal literary occupation of the next four years appears to have

been the preparation and delivery of lectures in connexion with

societies of this kind, in which his native county so eminently abounds.

His early efforts, while yet residing at Wigan, and the welcome

reception they met with, have been before noticed; quite as acceptable

were the matured results of reading and research now offered to larger

and more mixed audiences. In the early autumn of 1838 he gave a course

of ten lectures in the theatre, Rochdale, in aid of the Philosophic and

Literary Society of that town, on botany; comprising both classification

and physiology, illustrated by large diagrams painted in distemper. They

were afterwards delivered at Manchester, accompanied by some beautiful

experiments, made with the aid of Dr. Warwick's oxy-hydrogen microscope,

kindly superintended by that gentleman, and subsequently at the

Collegiate Institution, Liverpool.

The subjects of other lectures were various. A course of four, on

Tradition, as connected with, and illustrating history, antiquities, and

Romance, were delivered at Rochdale. Drawings executed in a bold style

in black and red chalks, many of them thrown off at the time,

illustrated either the localities where the various legends had birth,

or the costumes, style of building, &c. of the period. One set of

lectures which the writer has been so happy as to find fully written

out, manifests not only his taste for art, but his knowledge of its

principles. They are on painting, embracing light and shade,

composition, colour, and perspective; and when delivered, were copiously

illustrated, occasionally by pictures of the old masters in his

possession. He was never more at home, than when ministering to the

instruction or gratification of others. His talents, information,

acquisitions of various kinds, whatever he might happen to possess, that

could at all contribute to the purpose, were put in requisition; and

when the idea he wished to convey, or illustrate, was caught by his

audience, or in private by his listening friends, his countenance became

radiant with pleasure; the belief that he had been of use in any way to

others, was one of his highest gratifications.

Among his MSS. are some lectures on architecture, commencing with the

rude huts of barbarous tribes, and then proceeding to the structures, as

far as they are known, of the ancient nations. Gothic architecture finds

its place in the fifth lecture; but from the abruptness with which it

breaks off in the middle of a sentence, it appears that the lectures

were not completed. There are also, memoranda and rough diagrams for

distinct lectures on baronial architecture.

A friend of Mr. Roby's, who was also for many years a neighbour, has

kindly favoured the writer with the following recollections of some of

his lectures.

"The cheerful alacrity with which on several occasions Mr. Roby

yielded to the solicitations of his fellow-townsmen, by giving

gratuitous lectures to assist their Institution, was evidence of

his often-expressed wish to raise his less fortunate countrymen

in the scale of intellectual and social life. I often came in

contact with him in connexion with the Rochdale Literary and

Philosophic Society, for which he gave several lectures on

Tradition, Botany, and some other subjects. His lectures on the

Linnaean system of Botany, and another series on the Physiology of

Plants, given before our society, were of the very first

character; displaying an amount of research, and a power of

analysis, combined with most felicitous modes of illustration,

rarely meeting in the same individual. The colored drawings used

on these occasions, executed by himself and his son, would have

done honour to any artist. Such was the popularity of the two

botanical courses, that, by request, they were repeated in

Manchester, and some other neighbouring towns. In illustrating

the lectures on Tradition, the rapidity with which he could throw

off the gable or window of an old manor-house or any object of a

similar character, was, to me, perfectly marvellous--a few

touches, and the effect was produced."

The most popular of the lectures were those on the peculiarities of the

Lancashire dialect. They were delivered to crowded audiences at several

literary institutions, connected with different large towns in the

county. In a tolerably full abstract, given by the "Preston Pilot," and

in the original notes, there is ample proof of the highly interesting

character of these lectures. Ethnological inquiries, full of attraction

to the lovers of that science, formed the introduction, while, to a

Lancashire audience, the charm of the whole must have been irresistible,

and have furnished an entertainment second only to "Mathews at Home."

The fund of anecdote, the rich racy humour which sparkled through the

lecture, the inimitable wit of "Tummus and Meary," and the equally

inimitable tones of the voice which then gave it utterance, are still

fresh in the recollection of many. Had the lectures been fully written

out, they would have made a charming little Christmas book, fascinating

alike from the information contained, and the mirth it would provoke.

The anecdotes are all indicated in the notes by the principal word or

sentence, and go far to prove what the lecturer asserted, that a

Lancashire man would at any time equal an Irishman in wit.

These lectures were last delivered at Preston, in March, 1844. Having

commenced the series, Mr. Roby, with characteristic determination,

persisted in carrying it through, though suffering from a severe attack

of influenza, which he kept at bay by force of will. Immediately on his

return home his health gave way. Mischief had been going on for years,

but the activity of his mind, and that indomitable spirit, which would

bear extreme suffering before it complained, even to itself, had

prevented his heeding any indications of disease, till it had pervaded

the whole system. The disorder baffled medical skill; change of scene

was tried in vain: as months rolled on his sufferings increased; and,

though still striving to attend to professional duties, he was utterly

unfit to cope with care and anxiety of any kind. Physical pain rendered

him incapable of deriving pleasure from any of those sources which had

heretofore afforded such rich enjoyment. Society, art, intellectual

pursuits, became not only insipid but distasteful, and with this

suffering a new element mingled, deep mental distress. Holy Writ speaks

of such a thing as the heart not being "right in the sight of God," and

a fearful consciousness that such was his own case, now became as "the

arrow of the Almighty, the poison whereof drinketh up the spirit." An

increasingly vivid apprehension of the just claims of the Being who

demands of His creatures, the love of "heart and mind, and soul, and

strength," a deepening insight into his own nature, augmented the

torturing sense of his own deficiency. In a life without reproach, spent

in the discharge of duty, and in refined and ennobling pursuits, there

was nothing on which self-observation, while it looked at the outward,

could detect a stain. Life had hitherto been too busy, time too fully

and pleasantly occupied, to afford leisure for self-inspection; but now

the ordinary routine of pursuit had been broken, and involuntary

retirement induced; the eye was turned within, and the result was a

conviction that GOD had not thus been loved with heart, and soul, and

strength; and the spirit which had so long been partially under the

power of great principles, now awoke to feel that it must incorporate

them with its very life--or die. Little wonder that, on a spirit whose

sensibilities were at once quick and strong, and on whom impressions

once made were singularly permanent, such discoveries should work agony

so intense, or that those who understood not the cause of the distress,

should think that reason herself was giving way. Such has often been

said of others, who were passing through the same crisis of their mental

history, not inaptly termed "the everlasting No!" His mind had too much

play to lose its balance. A more stolid mind, or a brain like "the

gentle" Cowper's, predisposed to malady, would in all probability have

given way, as month after month, year after year, rolled away and

brought no relief. It was a suffering no friends could soothe; his

mental conformation peculiar,--none seemed to meet its emergencies.

Bodily disease no doubt aggravated mental agony, but as

"No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels"

So

"No cure for such, till GOD who makes them heals."

For a long time the only relief of which his mind was susceptible, arose

from his acquaintance with one in some respects similar to his own, one

which understood his sufferings perfectly, for it had known the same

both in kind and in degree. The moral element in each, which recoiled

from the divine requirements, must have taken precisely the same form of

action. Beautiful, even from the very contrasts it presented, was the

true and faithful friendship that ensued, between minds sympathising in

one point of overpowering interest, though in training and pursuits

widely dissimilar; and warm was the gratitude with which he ever held in

remembrance those unwearied efforts to pour consolation into his

tortured spirit.

To trace the mental history for three or four years, from the

commencement of the illness, would be too painful, even were the subject

not too sacred. Increasing physical disease, wearing trial of other

kinds, asked for a spirit vigorous and happy in the Christian's

strength, to bear up against them; but instead of that the mind had at

the same time woes of its own to sustain. Left to feel as it had never

before felt, its own inwrought sinfulness and utter helplessness, it was

borne down, crushed, only rising again to suffer anew, and again to

sink. If the promises of GOD shone out as the stars in a cloudy night,

it was only a momentary gleam, and dense darkness covered the face of

heaven as before. Most touching are some private papers and letters,

written during this period. In the former, particularly, intense

yearning for the consciousness of a personal share in the Saviour's

love, earnest longings to be able with appropriating faith to say "_My_

Father," are expressed with an emphasis, that renders them an embodiment

of mental suffering in all its reality and severity. Afterwards, when

the time of trial was past, and he could look back on it and trace its

effects, he frequently remarked, that he believed no other than the

severe discipline he then underwent, could have brought a spirit like

his to entire self-renunciation. Cant or religious pretence was alike

repugnant to his nature, and to his cultivated taste; but in those days

of suffering he gained such insight into himself, as led him, pure as

his outward life had been, fully to appropriate the strongest

expressions, by which the scriptures indicate the sinfulness of human

nature. He then recognised in this period of mental conflict and

distress, the direct acting of the Spirit of GOD, revealing those things

which "the natural man knoweth not." What were dimly apprehended

before, as little more than objects of intellectual belief--the extent

of the moral derangement of his own nature, the mystery of personal

connexion with the atonement of our Lord Jesus Christ--had now become

matters of cordial faith. Thus, raised by His power into a full

participation of those things, only to be understood by such

participation, his became a new existence. The secret spring of daily

actions was changed. Never living entirely without the _fear_ of GOD as

a _controlling_ principle, he now became sensible of _love_ to Him as an

_impelling_ principle, causing him to seek to serve Him to whom he owed

so much, and to follow His will in all the pursuits of life.

Having so long tried in vain the various measures prescribed by the best

medical advice, both at home, and in different places he visited, Mr.

Roby turned as a last resource to the Water Cure. He went to Malvern in

the spring of 1847; looking up, as he afterwards said, to those

beautiful hills, as he approached them, with the thought "I shall never

walk there--I am only coming to die." Encouragement being given him, to

expect ultimate recovery, and finding the process of cure would be very

slow, he at once broke up his establishment at Rochdale, and fixed his

residence for the time at Malvern. His own medical attendant considered

him past hope when he left the north; nor was it in the power of

medicine to effect a cure. When he commenced the trial of Hydropathy,

Dr. Gully pronounced the sheath of every nerve to be in a state of

active inflammation. Almost every aliment he took increased the

irritation; medicine only added fuel to the flame. He pursued the water

treatment vigorously for some months, before he perceived any benefit,

and to his own indomitable perseverance in following the prescribed

directions he owed, under the blessing of GOD, his surprising

restoration. A remarkably good constitution, unimpaired by excesses of

any kind, gave every advantage to remedial measures in combating

disease, and in the end his case proved an instance of the perfect

success of those measures.

Distinct as was his mental suffering in its true cause from the physical

malady, they aggravated each other, and in recovery their mutual action

was observable. Faith and Hope by slow degrees gained strength; the

spirit insensibly grew calmer, the SON of GOD was seen walking on the

waves, and the tempest was hushed. The burning anxiety within now

quenched in the sense of reconciliation with GOD, "My Father" being at

last the delighted cry of the spirit; there was no longer a latent

impediment to the complete restoration of health.

The first palpable symptom of general improvement, was the gradual

return of his love for botany, and pleasure in the pursuit. This was

nurtured by his excellent wife, who, with a delight which can only be

imagined by those who have watched the returning health of some beloved

one, induced him to make a botanical object for their daily drives. The

Flora of the neighbourhood contained many rare plants only known to

him, through Sowerby's figures or dried specimens. By degrees, amendment

became more decidedly marked, his native flow of spirits began to

return, though at first feebly: and she who through those years of

suffering--a period almost as painful to the patient's friends as to

himself--had nursed him with the tenderest care, and unwearied

affection, now realized the sentiment of the poet,

"Sweet when the winter of disease is past,

And the glad spring of health returns at last,

On a loved cheek long bloomless, to behold

Its first faint leaf the trembling rose unfold.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Oh, doubly blest, who then can trusting view

The buoyant step, the vigour-beaming hue;

And love's fond cares recall'd, with joy divine

Can whisper to his heart,--That work is mine!

"_Lines addressed to Mr. Wedgewood by Dr. Thomas Brown, Late

Prof. Mor. Phil. in the Univers. of Edinb._"

She had her reward--she lived long enough to see the object of her

affectionate solicitude restored to health, the powers of mind and body

returning in full force, and was then herself prostrated by an illness

before which her constitution gave way. She died peacefully and happily,

in the faith and hope of the Gospel, just as a new year was opening with

all its promise on others. A blow so sudden and unexpected, was

bewildering; the companion of years was gone, the bereaved one was

alone, and in new scenes. His efforts at cheerfulness in the society of

casual acquaintance, compared with the mastery feeling would gain over

him, when he entered into the home society of nearer friends, attested

the severity of this new trial. But happily for the mourner, he could

recur to the calm and peace of those last moments, they seemed to be to

him, the most precious of earthly recollections.

He once more turned to his pen, and sought a healthy solace for his

lonely hours in mental occupation, first obtaining leave of his

physician, who assured him that the wish to write, intimated he might do

so with safety. During the ensuing summer and autumn he gave what

leisure the imperative claims of "the cure," permitted, to literary

occupation of various kinds. But still _home_ was not the same, there

was a kind of dislocation in the social life (if the expression may be

allowed) he could not write as he was wont to do. He persevered, and as

months rolled on regained his usual facility of composition. A tale of

considerable length, founded on the characteristics of modern life,

occupied him during the winter. Though lacking the romance of the olden

time, it was not deficient in stirring incident and spirited dialogue.

It appeared in "Hogg's Weekly Instructor," from May to August 1850.

The following lines, composed after he had recommenced writing, are

among the few which, bearing a date, allow of insertion in the right

place. They are now garnered among life's precious things, having been

addressed to a family group of whom the writer of this sketch was one:

"Ye came across my path

In life's dark lonely way,

A gleam upon its dreary track,

A bright but transient ray;

Or like some vivid meteor-light,

Which dazzling, leaves a deeper night!

"Or like an evening gleam

Athwart some stormy sky,

On rocks, woods, waves the radiance breaks

In glory and in joy.

Ere all is wrapt in doubt and gloom,

And darkness falls o'er daylight's tomb.

"Like memories of the past,

When life's young morn was bright;

And all the glowing future, one

Wide atmosphere of light.

Ere gathering clouds the skies o'erspread

And early hope's brief sunshine fled.

"'Twere better ne'er to taste

Of pleasure's thrilling draught,

Than the parch'd, fever'd, thirsty lip

To leave ere it be quaff'd!

'Twere better launch on Lethe's stream,

Than bliss to feel a bygone dream.

"To meet,--and meet no more!

One look and then to sever;

To feel 'tis but a parting glance

And then 'Farewell' for ever!

As from bright tints deep shades we borrow,

Joys past but deepen present sorrow.

"All earthly joy must fade,

All earthly bliss decay,

Life but the sunshine and the shower

Of some brief "April day:"

Till death like night's grim shadow steals,

And all the unknown at once reveals!

"And earthly idols, all

Must perish if too dear;

We ne'er should seek enduring bliss

Could we but find it here.

Our dearest, tenderest ties must break,

Hopes wither oft, and friends forsake.

"And though your presence now

A vision of the past;

And those bright laughing sunny hours

Too joyous were to last;

Yet like the perfume of the flower

More fragrant in the twilight hour,

"So though unseen,--beheld

In memory's milder light,

More tender and more hallow'd seem

Forms too remote for sight.

In memory's softer hues enshrin'd

What cherish'd hopes are left behind!

"And though we meet no more,

Though destined far apart,

The fond remembrance lingers long

That lingers in the heart;

A breath, a touch, the chord may thrill,

And all the past our bosom fill.

"Adieu! whate'er betide

On life's unstable sea,

In darkness or in light the Power

Unseen your solace be.

In joy or woe, whate'er His will,

His hand your guide, your safety still!

"Great Malvern, May 1848."

To test Mr. Roby's power of language in a sportive mood, the first

letter and last word in each line of the following acrostic were given

him one evening. The order of the rhymes as well as of the initial

letters was to remain unchanged. On the following morning he produced

the lines completed. The Ivy Rock was a favourite haunt in a ravine on

the hills.

"Malvern the birth-place of English Poetry.

The vision of Pierce Plowman from THE IVY ROCK."[D]

"The minstrel seer look'd out _afar_,

His eye was keen, his glance was _long_;

Eve deck'd her brow with one fair _star_

In glory oft to hear his _song_.

Visions of after-years bursting to _life_,

Yon wide plain swept in shadows huge and _dim_

Records of woe, and dread, and coming _strife_!

On that lone rock, while mute his evening _hymn_

Calm silence sate;--and through the live-long _night_

Kindled his rapt eye in prophetic _light_.

"Malvern, March 21, 1849."

In the summer of 1849, Mr. Roby again married. The loved, and almost

idolized head of a happy home, he appeared, as he had never before to

those who only knew him in his bereaved life, breathing an atmosphere of

happiness, and diffusing it around him, till even the sorrowful grew

bright with smiles, and

"Souls by nature pitch'd too high,

By suffering plunged too low,"

were lifted up again into the untroubled joy of childhood. It was

impossible the traveller should retain his mantle of grief with such

fervid sunshine around him. The enthusiasm of his nature gathered new

force from the buoyancy of recovered health, and found its own element

in the exquisite woodland scenery lying among the recesses of the

Cotswold hills. To those who know these woods, or have once seen them in

the tender luxuriance of very early summer, this term is not too strong.

The rich botanical treasures they presented, were many of them new to

him. The writer cannot forget the intense pleasure with which he

discovered among the last year's beech leaves, and held up to view, the

beautiful _Epipactis grandiflora_ (white helleborine), which he had only

once before seen, his companion, never. Nor the delight with which on

another occasion he hailed the long-sought _Listera nidus avis_

(birds-nest ophrys), now found for the first time in its native habitat.

Nor did he lose the general impression of nature in scientific details.

The beautiful effects of light and shadow, the peculiar blue air tint of

the beech woods, every thing that went to form the perfect whole, seemed

individually to fill his spirit with exquisite pleasure. And as, in that

evening's wandering through the Cranham woods, with friends whose

spirits were kindred--looking down the hanging wood, through a

lengthening vista, the evening mist was seen creeping on, its hues

changing gradually from soft rose-colour to deep purple, the novel and

almost unearthly beauty of the scene was such, that all caught his

rapture, and felt that never before had any thing so vividly imaged the

paradise of the spirit-world. It might have been the painter's

conception of Bunyan's land of Beulah.

The early autumn of the year was spent among the Cumberland mountains.

Furnished with a botanical tin, pressing-book, and sketch-book--the

provision for the day slung at the saddle-bow, some delightful

excursions of about five-and-twenty miles a day were made. Nothing could

be more congenial with his buoyant, independent spirit, than the freedom

of these mountain rambles--professional guides dispensed with, he always

squire of dames, and horses too. Starting early in the morning, dining

one day on the mountain's brow, the next in the recesses of Borrowdale,

amid the haunts of the rarer ferns, or under the shadow of Honister

Crag, in the silence of the mountain solitudes; and then with the

declining sun, treasure-laden, wending our homeward way as the evening

shadows crept on, until,

"Every leaf was lost

In the dark hedges,"

and the road lengthened itself out as if interminably, till at last the

lights twinkled cheeringly as Keswick came in sight.

While thus with youth renewed--for certainly Hydropathy in Mr. Roby's

case seemed to effect more than the mere removal of disease--life became

one long holiday of enjoyment, it was also a period of earnest work.

"Like as a star,

That maketh not haste

And taketh not rest,"

he

"Was ever fulfilling

His GOD-given hest."

With no claims of a secular profession upon him, and with a spirit

chastened and hallowed by suffering, he devoted his energies to

literature principally, but at the same time he was prompt to use his

powers in any way for the good of his fellow-men. Impressed more deeply

than ever with the conviction that in the faith, and practice of

Christianity alone, lie the true happiness and virtue of our race; and

that in the exercise of his talents, man's only adequate aim is to be

found in the service of GOD, he sought by a more constant infusion of

Christian principles, in the productions of his pen, to give a

corresponding tone to the minds of his readers; thus working

"As ever in his great Task-master's eye."

Bearing in mind a truth burnt in by affliction, how entirely he owed

life and immortality to a Saviour's love, he "loved much" in return, and

found in that love, a motive for unsparing labour. During his stay at

Keswick, he was placed in circumstances which called upon him to

conduct the worship of a few poor people from Sabbath to Sabbath. That

self-distrust which so eminently characterised him before GOD, was

immediately roused. The pleasure he had known in swaying large

audiences, in striking out from listening countenances the sympathetic

flash, recurred to his mind, and he feared, lest in holy things

self-seeking should intrude; "I am so afraid of running before I am

sent," was the remark made in confidence, where each feeling of the soul

was uttered as it rose. But the call was clear and distinct, the voice

of "the Master" was heard and obeyed. Sad and strange would it have been

if the tongue so eloquent for the gratification of his fellow-men, had

been silent when their highest welfare was to be promoted--if that voice

raised at man's request for his passing pleasure, had been dumb for God.

And doubtless the light of the spirit-world, which even when we only

catch it dimly reflected from the mantles of the ascending ones,

resolves into

"The baseless fabric of a vision,"

the objects of earthly ambition, has now confirmed the judgment passed

by the faithful spirit, whose simple aim while here, was to "_do the

will_" of his Father in heaven.

The Religious Tract Society's Monthly Messenger, for September of that

year, No 63, was from his pen. It had an extensive circulation, and a

slight fact relative to it, that has recently come to light, is doubly

interesting when it is borne in mind, how intensely the writer of the

Tract had suffered, and how deep in consequence was his sympathy with

all mental distress. A poor woman in the south of England was so weighed

down with family troubles, that she came one day to the resolution of

ending them that night, by throwing herself into a river which ran hard

by her dwelling. Before evening, a gentleman who was not aware of the

state of her affairs, put into her hands a copy of the tract referred

to. The inquiry with which it was headed, "Are you fit to die?" arrested

her attention. She felt she was not fit to die, and her resolution was

shaken--she deferred, at least for that night, fulfilling her intention.

The conviction of her unfitness for another world deepened; she was led

to seek forgiveness and renewal of spirit--she found the way of peace,

and the last thing heard of her, was that her worldly circumstances also

were prospering. It may be worth observing, that probably the tract had

the more point, entered more into the heart of the reader, from the fact

of its having been written with an individual strongly before the

author's mind. A young woman, whose life was rapidly going in confirmed

consumption, while she was utterly unaware of her danger, had excited

his deepest interest. Merry, buoyant, well disposed towards every one

and every thing, except the subject of religion; her dislike or fixed

aversion to which went beyond all bounds. The tract was written, but

before it was published he had lost all traces of her.

Most conspicuous during this journey was his untiring industry combined

with the variety of his pursuits, no one of which seemed to interfere

with another. The industrious botanist, and equally industrious artist,

yet found leisure for careful reading, and the use of the pen. Every

moment had its occupation; the rainy days were devoted to literary work

or the finishing of sketches, broken by a quiet game of chess. While at

Bowness Mr. Roby enjoyed one high gratification, a few details of which,

though given in a private letter, may be inserted without apology, as

the subject is of general interest.

"Saturday, Sept. 30th.

"We have seen Wordsworth to-day. As we accompanied friends of my

husband's (the Rev. J. H. and Mrs. Addison, of Birthwaite Abbey)

who happened to owe Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth a morning visit, we

did not feel intruders. As usual the day was brilliant, we had a

delightful row up the lake, the trees on the islands had the rich

scarlet and russet tints of autumn, while those on the shore

still retained their soft green, making the edges of the lake

perfectly verdant. A flight of snow that fell yesterday covered

the tops of the mountains which came out in the full sunshine,

pure white against the brightest of blue skies. Past the lake, we

rowed up the Rotha as far as it is practicable, and there leaving

the boats,--cloaks as well--moored to the margin of the stream,

we took a beautiful path, through private grounds, on the left of

the river, passing Fox How, from whence I bring you an ivy relic,

to Rydal Mount. _Mr._ Wordsworth, (as of course he is here,) was

just sitting down to dinner; he came out and begged us to stay in

the drawing-room, or in the grounds if we preferred it, till

dinner was over. We chose to stroll about, which gave time for a

sketch. After a short time, Mr. Wordsworth came and took us into

the drawing-room to see Mrs. W. He was not so tall as I had

expected, probably the effect of years; his voice somewhat

indistinct, gave indications of old age, not so his ideas or

expressions. The lower part of his face is deeply furrowed; but

when sitting with his back to the light, animated in

conversation, every thing is lost in its glowing expression,

except his noble expanse of forehead. He chatted away on literary

matters with my husband, evidently with hearty pleasure. They

talked of a distinguished living writer; of his style, Mr.

Wordsworth remarked, that every sentence seemed finished by

itself, which was never the case with our best writers--that

reviewing had an injurious effect on the style of a literary man,

the reviewer has ever to be saying something that will tell,

every sentence must be striking.

"Allusion was made to a new neighbour; Wordsworth observed that

she was clever, but apt to be imposed on; he confessed that on

the whole, he was sorry she had come there, on account of her

habit of not going to a place of worship: the example might do no

harm in London, Manchester, and those large places, where people

did not know their next-door neighbour, but here it was

different, and no good she could do would be equal to the harm of

her example; 'but,' he added, 'I like her benevolence, and

forgive many things for that.' One other remark he made must not

be forgotten; speaking of a writer whom he considered not a safe

guide on account of his prejudices, he said, 'He is so prejudiced

he does not know when he lies.'

"Altogether the visit was one of high delight. There was so much

more enthusiasm about him, than from the philosophic cast of his

poems I had expected. The genial glow of his manner, the warmth

of his shake of hands at parting, and especially the quick

pleasure with which he turned round to his wife whenever she made

a remark, and the affectionate tone in which, when he did not

catch it, he would inquire, 'What did you say, Mary'? quite won

my heart. He impressed us, too, as a Christian living in

obedience to, and communion with Heaven. His personal character

seemed to come out with a completeness one would hardly have

believed possible in our interview. I shall understand and love

all he has written, the better for this visit."

Returning homewards, Mr. Roby made several visits among his family and

friends. Little was it thought when one gratification and another were

deferred owing to the lateness of the season till the _next_ visit, that

this was the _last_. The cordiality and pleasure with which he was

welcomed, left a delightful recollection of Lancashire and Yorkshire

hospitality. The country had not yet lost all its beauty, the rich

Autumn tints of October were still lingering on the Bolton Woods: the

Wharfe gave forth his peculiar music as he rushed along his rocky bed in

the open meadow, or dashed madly over the fearful Strid, till even those

accustomed to gaze drew back from the fascination. One day was devoted

to York, the metropolis of his native North. His familiarity with the

remains of antiquity so pre-eminently abounding in that city, and his

enthusiasm equal to his knowledge, rendered him one of the best of

Ciceroni. Ever vivid will be the impressions of that day; the grandeur

of the Minster, as the South Front, with its beautiful marygold window

comes suddenly into view at the end of the old narrow street; the

solemnity which seemed to pervade the very atmosphere within; the seven

sisters memorialized in those unique chaste lights which bear their

name--and never was the light of Heaven intercepted by aught so soft, so

subdued, so meet for a Temple of the Most High, with no distraction from

higher thought in its beauty--and the incomparable west windows, where

the tracery is so light, and the colouring so gorgeous, that it seems as

if the stone work were melting into gems. And how was all that glory

heightened as it was reflected back from his spirit, the true home of

the beauty which the material can only symbolize.

The Red Tower, the scene of one of his published tales; the site of the

Roman Praetorium, the scene of another; the unrivalled Museum gardens,

with their Roman and Gothic remains, the Multangular Tower and St.

Mary's Abbey, the city walls, &c., &c., all that could be seen in one

day, by the help of good walking, and unflagging spirits, contributed to

our enjoyment. What could not be brought in, was left for future years,

so fondly reckoned on, when a stay of weeks or months in the city was to

allow all its recesses to be explored, and the spirit of the place to be

thoroughly imbibed. Yet beyond all comparison with the other pleasures

of the day, great as they were, was the enjoyment in a manner created by

his intense delight in the present, and in the plans for the

future;--yet of that future "if the Master will," was ever on his lips.

The hour that came "as a thief in the night," found him watching.

By Christmas, Mr. Roby had settled down at Malvern, and commenced his

winter's work. His habit was to devote the first hour or half hour after

breakfast, to religious reading, selecting such works as bore on

personal or devotional, rather than on theoretic or polemical subjects.

Among the last he read, were some new favorites:--Hodge's "Way of Life,"

and his "Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans;" Alleine's "Heaven

Opened," and Sheppard's "Devotional Thoughts." "Milner's Sermons," which

had long held the highest place in his estimation, were frequently in

hand. The rest of the forenoon was given to literary occupation, as were

the evenings when not spent in society. The only interruption to this

quiet course of life, was the delivery of his Lectures on Botany; (which

had been given two months previously at Northampton,) before the

Worcestershire Natural History Society, in January, 1850. This would

scarcely be worthy of mention, were it not for a circumstance which

arose out of the engagement. While arranging the diagrams preparatory to

the delivery of the last lecture, Mr. Roby incautiously stepped too near

the back of the platform, which was protected only by a curtain, his

left foot slipped, and the right leg was bent back from the knee on

which the whole weight of the body was consequently thrown. He had,

however, the self-command to go through the lecture without in the least

betraying what he suffered, except by the lameness involuntarily shown

when he had occasion to move in order to point out the different

illustrations; but the agony he endured was intense, and he reached home

sick and faint from its long continuance. His power of bearing pain

often excited surprise and admiration in those who witnessed it, so

complete in his case was the "power of the soul over the body." It was

mental, not bodily, anguish that he dreaded. Mr. Roby never quite

recovered from the effects of this accident, though, contrary to the

expectation of those who were acquainted with the extent of the injury,

by the time he left Malvern in June, they were not perceptible in his

walk. The muscles, however, had not fully regained their play, the act

of kneeling was difficult and painful; mounting gaps and fences in his

botanical rambles still more so; he was ever fearful of a stray stone,

feeling that a trifle might occasion a fall: and this, it is

apprehended, must have increased his peril on the awful morning of the

18th of June.

In spite of pain, he worked hard during the winter and spring. He

finished a series of papers, containing a popular introduction to

Botany; wrote two reviews, one for the Literary Gazette on Dr. Addison's

recent work on Consumption; the other, for Hogg's Weekly Instructor, on

a work which had just appeared by the author of "Dr. Hookwell," entitled

"Dr. Johnson, his Religious Life and Death." But his principal

occupation was the composition of a series of tales, intended to

illustrate the influence of Christianity in successive periods. At this

he laboured incessantly. The consecration of his talents in any way

their nature admitted to the service of HIM whom with George Herbert he

delighted to call "My Master," was the mainspring of his untiring

energy. And when only once the voice of affection suggested that he was

working too hard, he replied, as though with a presentiment of the

sudden coming on of night to him, to the effect that he had not long to

work, adding, "I must not sit still and see the stream run by." He

prepared six of the tales (deferring one for the fourth century till he

had received a copy of a work which a friend had promised on the

Druidical Worship), thus bringing the series down to the close of the

seventh century, when superstitious rites and observances began to

overspread Christendom. At the end of the closing tale he glances at the

gathering darkness, and thus concludes with the last words he ever wrote

for the press:--"In our next we shall trace some of those mysterious

dispensations,--inscrutable to us, but doubtless among the 'all things'

which work together for good, and 'for the furtherance of his gospel.'"

It is not surprising that these words, little noticed when first

listened to, on the completion of the story, should, when seen again a

few weeks after the sad catastrophe, seem like words of comfort which

affection had unconsciously traced against the day of need. Little more

was accomplished besides sketching out future occupation for the pen in

old and new directions. An instance of the latter now vividly recurs to

mind: seeing Tieck's Phantasien one morning on a friend's table, he

borrowed it, to ascertain if a translation of the tales would suit a

purpose he had in view, and to try how two minds could work together.

The experiment was perfectly successful. Very slightly acquainted with

the language himself, the tale was read off to him in what English, or

sometimes half Germanized English, was at command: the rough-hewn

thought was instantly apprehended in all its beauty and meaning by the

listener, and given back, in his own polished style, rather "a

transfusion than translation." The pleasure was unexpectedly cut short

in the midst of a tale, after the second or third evening, and it was

with a feeling, even then recognised as akin to foreboding, that the

unfinished volume was returned to the friend whose sudden departure from

Malvern thus put an end to the delightful occupation.

As the spring advanced, and the effects of the accident were so much

diminished as to allow of the free exercise of walking, Mr. Roby renewed

his botanical rambles, generally in the society of friends; and very

pleasant were these little parties that wound over the hill-top or

through the woody lanes and green meadows of Herefordshire, in search of

plants to supply his own and his friends' desiderata, or those of the

London Botanical Society, of which he was a member. And, quick as was

his eye for rare plants, it caught even more quickly those beautiful

effects on the landscape which the changeful skies of spring so often

produce, making a perfect picture of an old farm-stead a broken

foreground, contrasting with the soft retiring distance or the gently

swelling slopes, where beneath the trees scarcely yet in leaf the wind

flowers bowed as the breeze passed over them.

Perhaps the crowning botanical pleasure of the season was his lighting

upon the beautiful _Pinguicula vulgaris_ (common Butterwort) in a spongy

place on the hill. He seemed the very personification of happiness, as

he hastened home, with buoyant step and sparkling eye, to one whose

desire to see, equalled his own to show, this pride of our bogs. Often

in the preceding autumn at the Lakes had the pale green star-like tuft

of leaves called forth eloquent praises of its beauty, and corresponding

regrets that the time of its flowering was over for the season. The

Lancashire Asphodel was the one other flower which he most regretted not

being able to show, as its withered spikes indicated again and again

where it had bloomed.

Spring was deepening into summer, when Mr. Roby made arrangements for a

journey into Scotland. Furnished, through the kindness of a friend, with

introductions to the best society in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh,

with the prospect of the meeting of the British Association, and the

anticipation of renewing mountain rambles, he looked forward to the

summer with raised expectations.

In approaching the last few hours the writer feels the alternative lies

between making the slightest possible reference to them, or casting

herself on the reader's sympathy and indulgence, and using details which

were written three years since, with near friends, rather than the

public, before her mind. Thrown suddenly into circumstances where the

sway of grief was broken by constantly recurring necessity for thought

and action, the mind was excited and over-strained to incessant exertion

rather than stunned, and under the prolonged excitement, it could go

again over scenes which it is now too much a coward to encounter. She,

therefore, hopes there is no error in adopting the course now pursued,

and embodying the private MS. in the general narrative.

We left Malvern for Egremont June 7th. The ten days passed there were

occupied with the interests of the two boys whom their father was

anxious to see set out in life. When he came in tired with a long

morning spent in Liverpool, after a few moments' rest, he would turn to

a sketch that had been in progress during his absence, and, fatigue all

vanishing, would call for pencil and colours, take his seat at the

window, and go on with the drawing. It was a great favourite of his. Of

all the pleasures with which life was replete, none delighted him more

than this, both working on the same picture, without betraying by any

want of unity in the design or harmony in the colouring, that two minds

had been engaged. _That drawing_ alas! which he fondly called "the best

yet," lies in the ill-fated wreck.

Pleasant, and yet painful, are the memoirs of evening rambles along the

beach watching the vessels as they came and went. One elegant yacht,

which his artist eye detected among the numerous craft, is well

remembered: he fixed her form in his mind, and destined her for "the

drawing"--one of the many unfulfilled purposes.

The last sabbath came, and it was a day of peace. We worshipped GOD

together; that hymn of Dr. Watts', so great a favourite of his from its

touching contrasts,--

"Give me the wings of Faith to rise," &c.

opened the last service. As we walked home in the evening we felt

mentally invigorated: he seemed more than ever penetrated with a sense

of consecration to the service of GOD, and we communed of how, in our

coming sojourn amid new scenes, He might best be served. "He will make

it plain, He will point out our work for us," was my beloved husband's

closing remark.

At three o'clock p.m. on Monday 17th June we embarked on board the

steamer Orion for Scotland, hoping to reach Glasgow by ten, and

Edinburgh by one o'clock the next day. Nothing could be calmer than the

sea, and we walked for hours on the deck, watching any vessel that came

in sight, and catching at intervals distant glimpses of the coast. Our

favourite spot was a narrow ledge at the stern immediately behind the

wheel. It just gave us footing, and enabled us to look over and watch

the track left by the vessel as she cut rapidly through the waves. The

white foam, the various shades of pale green, darkening as we seemed to

look down into the depths of the ocean, recalled descriptions of the

glaciers, and the correctness of the supposed resemblance my husband

confirmed from his own recollections.

Evening wore on--we took our last meal together on deck. The Isle of Man

came in sight; a sketch was taken for his approbation; and the bright

smile that rewarded it is sunshine even now. All recollections of him

are happy: the animation and hope with which he repeatedly expressed his

belief that his daughter's health, which was not firm, would be

completely established by the voyage; the quiet satisfaction of his

manner as we sat enjoying the present, sometimes glancing forward to the

morrow, all bespoke happiness. Indeed, all the characteristics of a

happy life seemed to meet in those few hours. There was the earnestness

and the tenderness of affection: there was, too, its playfulness. There

was the thought of still holier things: strong was the wish he expressed

that we could have been at the lowly meeting for prayer, which was

announced the night before for that evening. There was the love and

admiration of nature, as the glories of sunset deepened behind the Manx

mountains, and from his post of observation he again and again, in his

own earnest and animated manner, called me to his side.

Chess--that recreation which seemed ever to have the effect on his mind

which exercise out of doors has on the jaded frame--was then resorted

to; and having found an antagonist, he went down into the saloon for a

game. As we were passing the light-house at the northern extremity of

the Isle of Man, which he had expressed a great wish to see, I called

him up. After watching it for a minute he went down again, remarking the

game would soon be finished.

In order that neither lady should be left alone, particularly as one was

in delicate health, it was arranged that he should take a berth in the

gentlemen's cabin, and his daughter and I have a small cabin to

ourselves, our cabin and his being as near as possible.

The last lady who remained above besides myself was the niece of Dr.

Burns. We had very agreeable conversation. She had taken the trip many

times, and I anticipated the pleasure my husband would have, when we met

at the breakfast-table in the morning, in making so pleasant and

intelligent an acquaintance.

When we parted for the night, between eleven and twelve o'clock, I went

down into the saloon to make a few arrangements for the morning, and,

half afraid lest a sudden diversion of his ideas should lose my husband

the honour of victory, was just beginning some little apology for the

interruption, when he looked up with a smile, that said, "you are no

interruption," and replied "I am coming directly." I returned on deck

only for a short time, when, thinking it better to retire, and finding

beds were making up in the saloon for the night, I called the steward

and committed his dressing case to his keeping. Oh, that I had waited!

but had I, I should have lost that blessed promise of speedy re-union as

the last words I ever heard from him.

My husband had more than once said to me, "Do not undress," and to that,

under the providence of God, I believe Lilla and I owed our safety. I

fell asleep about twelve o'clock. When the shock came, and the working

of the engines, which even in one's sleep was heard, suddenly ceased, we

were instantly aroused; and, looking at my watch to see the hour, in

order to have some known fact by which to collect oneself, I found it

was a quarter past one a.m. I jumped down from the berth, and, after

hastily swallowing a little brandy and water that happened to be in the

cabin, to check the sudden sick feeling of fright, put on bonnet and

cloak, and went on deck to learn what was the matter, first calling at

my husband's cabin door to see if he were there. The gentlemen assured

me he was up and gone, and knowing, as I did, his intention of not

undressing, and his quick habit of movement, I was satisfied that I

should find him on deck. He was not there, at least not on the

after-deck, where we had been together. All hands had evidently rushed

to the fore-part of the vessel, whence the alarm came, and doubtless he

had gone there at once, to ascertain what was the matter before he

alarmed us. Persons on deck said we were too near land, had run

a-ground, but should be off presently. The light at the harbour was

distinctly seen rather behind us, to our right; as was the high ground

above Port Patrick, apparently a very little distance off; while the fog

concealed the promontory right a-head of us, against which we must have

dashed in a few moments, had we not struck at the time we did. I went

down again to tell Lilla that they said there was no danger, but at the

same time assisted her to throw a few things hastily on, and then went

on deck. In the meantime my husband had not come to us. I went to his

cabin door again, to ask if he were there; but the inmates were in such

confusion they could give me no answer. Returning up the gang-way again,

I met the steward, and stood some minutes under the lamp, while he

looked down his way-bill, to ascertain that I was right in my husband's

number. He assured me that we should get off. On deck once again, I

perceived that the vessel inclined much more, that the fore-part had

sunk considerably: the noise and confusion were all there. The

after-deck was comparatively free from persons; a few, indeed, were

trying to lower one of the boats. We walked about, looking for my

husband, who was, I have now no doubt, entangled among the crowd of

persons in the fore-part, where most of the two hundred on board had

run. He must have been almost the first on deck; others rushed after him

in that direction: a rope--the slightest thing catching the weak

leg--would throw him down, and, with the noise and confusion, which at

any time would have been bewildering, it must have been impossible for

him to disentangle himself. What hindered me from running down into the

crowd to look for him, I know not, unless it were the persuasion that

he would instinctively come to the spot where we had been together, as I

had done; the expectation each moment that he would come seemed to fill

my mind: it never once occurred to me that he might be in greater danger

than ourselves. Only the conviction that the will of God was done can

prevent the mind from agonizing longings for that night to come over

again, were it a thousand times, for the merest chance of trying to save

him.

The vessel was perceptibly going down in the fore-part, when the captain

jumped on the skylight, and assured the passengers that if they could

remain in the vessel they would be saved. This seemed probable, as the

shore boats were seen in the twilight putting towards us; but, alas! we

were now too rapidly sinking to allow of their near approach. The vessel

lurched gradually towards the shore. We had placed ourselves on the part

which, from the position of the ship, would be longest above water, with

the foot resting on the ledge, where we had so happily stood in the

afternoon. It enabled us to grasp a rope which came down from the

mizen-mast to the edge of the vessel, and there awaited her going down,

which I now saw was inevitable. We felt the power of God could save us,

if such were His will, or His mercy receive us to Himself: it was not a

new thing to approach Him, or to resign ourselves into His hands; it was

no strange God, but our long-loved Father in Heaven, before whom we

were about to appear. So we rested with calm confidence on that most

blessed assurance, "Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out,"

and committed ourselves to our Saviour's hands.

In a few minutes, a sudden hissing excited fears of an explosion, and we

sank immediately, the hot water rushing up to us as we went down. Rising

again, before my head was above water, I felt something at the back of

my hand: I instinctively grasped it--it was a rope. A moment after I was

on the surface. I exchanged the rope for a spar, and turning round my

head to ask for Lilla, found, to my inexpressible joy, she was close

behind me, just as we had sunk. This cheered us both with hope of

eventual safety. But where was one far dearer? I grasped with my left

hand one of those fenders made of netted cords, which are used to

prevent ships coming into too close contact with each other, or with the

harbour; but it was hard work to keep up. We encouraged each other, and,

recollecting that the human body is lighter than the same bulk of water,

we tried to float; but this was no easy matter. The number of persons

struggling in the water agitated it, and in the endeavour to keep it out

of the ears by raising the head, the equilibrium was disturbed, and the

feet sank, and with that the dread of going down again came. By the

stopping of my watch at half-past one, it afterwards appeared that a

quarter of an hour elapsed between the striking of the vessel and her

going down, and probably nearly as long passed between our rising and

our being picked up by the shore boats. It was a work of some difficulty

and time, when they came up, to extricate us from the ropes: our

benumbed limbs and weakened frames rendered us incapable of making any

effort ourselves. "Never mind, you are come among Christian people," was

the boatman's exclamation, when he had taken me into the boat, and never

was truer word spoken. The heart-felt sympathy and substantial kindness

we received from all classes could not have been exceeded, and can

hardly be imagined. It is impossible to speak too strongly of the

goodness and care of kind Mrs. Hannay, who first received us, and whose

husband formed and superintended the admirable arrangements by which so

many were saved. Placed in bed, and hot cordials being administered, the

warmth gradually returned to our benumbed limbs, and we felt _we_ were

restored to life. Dear Lilla began to indulge hope that her papa was

saved too; but I felt he was with GOD, he was so spiritually near; and

when the ring he usually wore was brought me, the agony of that moment

only confirmed what I knew too well before. Even the catastrophe,

fearful as it was, could scarcely be called unexpected; I felt that what

I had been looking for had come, for we had both felt we were too happy

for this world. He had himself often exclaimed "how will all this end?

it cannot last." It was a mournful but a blessed thing to gaze again on

that beloved face, with all the glow of health upon it, and more than a

placid, a bright smile--but to part from it thus! Even yet I cannot

associate death in the ordinary sense with it.

The first words of comfort, when we knew the extent of our loss, were

from the Rev. A. Urquhart and his sister; and precious were their

sympathy and manifold kindness. The most deeply grateful feelings will

ever be associated with the thought of the Rev. S. Balmer, in whose

hospitable manse we remained for many days, while Mrs. Balmer nursed us

as a sister. There was another bond between us, besides that of our

common humanity,--that of Christianity. We felt that we were not with

strangers, but with friends who shared every feeling, that we were all

looking from the same point of view, and recognising the same hand.

There were personal links too--fellow-sufferers came in to whom my

beloved husband's works were known. On the shelves of the manse library

were those of my own venerable relative, the late Dr. Ryland, of

Bristol; and Lilla found that her mamma's brother-in-law, the late Rev.

J. Ely, of Leeds, had been known to our host. Trifling as such things

were, they brought a feeling akin to comfort. There is a gratification

in mentioning the names of friends to whom so much is owing, and it

would be ungrateful not to add that of Mr. and Mrs. Hunter Blair of

Dunskaie, whose proffered kindnesses were more than the desirableness of

remaining near the shore would allow us to accept.[E] Truly were we

"_an hungered, and ye gave us meat_; we were _thirsty, and ye gave us

drink_, we were _strangers, and ye took us in; naked, and ye clothed

us_; we were _sick, and ye visited us_." Be the blessing of "those that

were ready to perish" upon them.

For no kindness is gratitude so deeply felt as for that which aided the

heart's cherished wish to have those remains, so loved and so precious,

removed from beside that ever moaning sea, where they could never have

been thought of, without all the horrors of that scene recurring too. To

his own family grave, in the burial-ground of the Independent Chapel,

Rochdale, they were borne on Saturday the 22d; followed by members of

his family, and about forty gentlemen of the town and neighbourhood, who

thus spontaneously expressed their sense of his loss. _There_ now rests

"all that could die" of the man of high intellect, of the loved and

honoured, the loving and confiding husband.

Farewell! a brief farewell! nay, no farewell to _thee_--_thou_ art not

severed from us. Spirit as thou art, thou still comest to live and blend

with ours in the dim twilight, and when the hum of the world is busy

around us. And when we bow in prayer to the Father of Spirits, we feel

that we are come not only to "Jesus the Mediator," but to "the spirits

of just men made perfect," and we worship together in company. Farewell,

then, only thou beloved form, whose radiant smile seemed to tell there

had been no gathering of the darkness of death, only a stepping from

mortal into immortal LIFE; and farewell, even to thee, only for a

season, for we know that "them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with

him." We shall yet see thee again, and dwell with thee in eternal

re-union, in a world where the very memory of thy loss shall have

vanished, for "there shall be no more sea."

* * * * *

The foregoing brief sketch, little more than the enumeration of ordinary

events and literary pursuits, would alone convey a very inadequate idea

of one whose character was peculiarly his own. One of the many

definitions by which it has been attempted to analyse the subtle nature

of genius is "the power of interpreting nature." In the case of Mr.

Roby, it took the form of art, and he laboured in her train, whether

with pen or pencil, rather than in the service of science. Looking over

the face of nature, he would catch her slightest hints, and transfer to

his paper--not just what met the ordinary gaze, but--a picture. As if

nature by her scattered rocks and wandering clouds, gave him in rude

symbolic language, her thought of beauty, and as he with initiated eye,

read the meaning, there presently grew under his pencil the full

interpretation, a silent poem, which every passer by might more or less

comprehend, and enjoy.

And were it the _voice_ of nature that met his ear, that voice whose

floating music so few perceive, it had as ready an interpreter. When in

the social circle, or in the busy street, the inner sense caught the

inarticulate sounds, he would note them down, and present to others the

melody which had charmed himself.

And eloquently would nature speak to him of truths pertaining to

humanity; felicitously were they apprehended and expressed, he lingering

meanwhile till she had taught all her meaning.

"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!"

said Shakespeare. The conception of a similar scene, and, no doubt, the

unrecognised remembrance of this line, suggested,

"How calm on yonder stream the moonlight sleeps."

There a copyist would have stopped, but _he_ was in close communion with

nature, listened himself to her teachings, and learned more.

"How calm on yonder stream the moonlight sleeps,

Fair image woman of thy maiden breast

Unmoved by love. Anon some vagrant breath

Ruffles its surface, and its pure still light

In tremulous pulses heaves;--brighter, perchance,

The feverish glitter, but its rest is o'er!"

_Duke of Mantua._

The descriptions of nature in his writings are part of this ministry of

interpretation. All see, but who, beside the gifted, can either by pen

or pencil

"stay

Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape,"

permitting not

"the thin smoke to escape,

Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day."

WORDSWORTH'S _Sonnets_.

Our great Maker gives to some men general excellence of parts, so as to

secure success in whatever pursuit they follow; others are more

exquisitely moulded, and receive from His hand that peculiar and

indestructible form of genius, which no external circumstances can

affect. It was that general superiority of abilities, which would alone

have secured Mr. Roby eminence in any walk of life he had chosen; but

the mechanical routine of monetary transactions could not prevent the

artist's eye from guiding his pencil, render the ear deaf to the latent

melody, or hinder for a moment the genius stamped as creative by its

Maker from peopling the old ruins of the Past with living forms of

beauty or of terror. Education could no more train mere excellence of

parts to this, than any process of progressive development raise the

lower orders of creation into the higher.

Combined with the poetic fancy was a character of high moral tone, a

disposition, generous, open-hearted, and impetuous, sensitive, and

confiding; irresistibly drawn towards the supernatural, yet as prone to

humour. That fine purity of feeling which marked his writings, was

equally a personal quality. His sense of honour was quick, as his

standard was high. Naturally he would have preferred death itself to the

slightest shade of dishonour on his name. Faithful to the command

implied in the inspired delineation of the upright man, it might be

taken for the description of his own course,--"he that sweareth to his

own hurt and changeth not." Incapable himself of mean or sordid action,

he never anticipated it in others; unselfish to a degree, he perhaps

calculated too much on the same generosity of feeling in the world. The

editor of the Gentleman's Magazine, in a notice, which appeared in

October 1850, alludes to "his well-known liberality to literary men," a

reference amply confirmed by other incidental testimony; but though

literary acquaintances were often the topic of home conversation, he

never spoke of any kindness it had been in his power to show them. It

was the highest luxury he knew, thus to mitigate the perplexities or

wants of others, but it was only by accident that his family would

discover it. Even when he dropped money into a poor man's hand, he

would hurry away as if he had done something wrong, and wanted to forget

it.

Another phase of the same disposition, was the generous pleasure with

which he regarded the gifts or acquirements of others. Most cordially

did he recognise talent of any kind, no matter in whom, or under what

form it appeared. He was as free from envious or jealous feeling as from

common selfishness. This arose from a fine nature,--which embraced as

kindred spirits those from whom morbid self-love might have shrunk as

rivals--not from an overweening or even just sense of his own

superiority: in that he was unusually deficient.

In truth his want of self-valuation, almost of appreciation of his own

powers, was very noticeable. He would exercise his talents, as a bird

does its power of song, for very pleasure, but without any thought of

display. "I know," he would say, "that many others cannot do the things

I do, but I do not feel as if I had done anything worth thinking of, it

falls so far below the point I wish to reach." His delight in giving

pleasure supplied this want of the Phrenologist's _Self-esteem_, as

regarded others, but to himself, the lack of it, joined to his extremely

sensitive disposition, was in fact a destitution of defensive armour;

hence it was in the power of minds far inferior to his own to torture

him. A similar deficiency was the absence of that worldly wisdom, which

in combination with a fine and generous disposition, is so valuable to

its possessors. The deprivation of it occasioned a transparent

simplicity of character, which again left him too often at the mercy of

coarse ungenerous natures.

That intense yearning for sympathy, which was noticed as a

characteristic of his childhood, followed him through life, and seemed

to increase with his years. His many resources, though capable of

yielding the purest pleasure, could not fill the void. They concealed

the longing from observers, but left the heart often aching. Frank and

confiding himself, he looked for the same frankness in others. The

slightest reserve chilled and wounded him, and threw him back on

himself. "An unkind word or look," he would frequently say, "nay a

chilling one, from those I respect and esteem, is misery to me." His

happiness was indeed a delicate thing, for though the writer can say she

never knew any one made happy with so little effort--the very _wish_ to

make him so, evinced, was enough--yet she often felt, and trembled to

feel, how intensely miserable it was in the power of any one he loved,

to make him.

His natural vivacity concealed another feature of his character from the

general eye, which was yet discernible by those who studied him. "Spare

me," said he one day to a lady, half jocosely, "I am so shy." "You shy!"

she exclaimed, protesting against the possibility of such a thing. He

quietly acquiesced, and let it pass. "You would not think that I was

naturally shy," said he a few days after to a friend who had been

present, with whom he was now engaged in a pleasant little disquisition

on psychology, and who, he afterwards allowed, knew more of his real

character from a few months' acquaintance than any one had done before.

"Yes I should," was her unhesitating reply. "Why, how should you think

so!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "Your attitudes and movements betray

it. I do not say as Robert Hall did of an acquaintance, that you seem

begging pardon of all men for being in existence, but you do often seem

begging pardon of your company for being in their presence, when they

are only too happy to have your society. You would creep into a

nutshell, rather than be where you thought you were not wanted."

Not an uncommon, but a pleasing trait, was that humanity to the animal

creation which marked him from boyhood. Not only did he never

"heedlessly" set "foot upon a worm," but he would carefully remove it

from the path, lest some other foot should crush it. Cruelty of any kind

called forth his strongest reprehension.

One great charm of his character, was its perfect retention of the

freshness of youth. The most juvenile in the company could not but feel

that he was as young in spirit as themselves. His regular and temperate

habits of life no doubt contributed to this, as did his love of simple

pleasures. He never sought the false excitement of artificial

stimulants. His own buoyancy of spirits, and ever-varied pursuits, most

of all perhaps the exhilaration of botanical "field sports," were the

true stimulants which fed the flame of life, while they made it burn

more brightly. Even in those years when the smile or quick repartee

often only concealed, but could not remove, the secret care or the

unsatisfied craving for some undefined blessing, that preyed within, the

change to a new pursuit, or a fresh path for thought and energy, were

the only means to which he had recourse "to keep the mind from preying

on itself."

To those who knew him best it is easy to trace much of his personal

character in his writings. His social disposition, and particularly this

freshness of spirit, gave a tone to all he wrote. The high ideal of

woman maintained in the "Traditions," has been already noticed: he was

quick to perceive fragmentary indications of that ideal, in real life.

True to Haydon's motto which he so often quoted, "Ex pede Hercules," one

trait of disinterestedness, of self-sacrifice, of intuitive perception

of the good, was sufficient, and his imagination therefrom created,

"A perfect woman, nobly plann'd."

A nice observer of the indications of character, he detected, with a

quickness approaching to intuition, those little peculiarities of manner

and expression which intimate the disposition and habit of thought, and

often after a very brief acquaintance, he would by a few touches draw a

mental portrait to the life, yet without the slightest approach to

caricature, which he would have abhorred as deformity. This habit of

close observation and quick perception contributed to the variety and

individuality of his delineations. He was remarkably susceptible of

impressions, hence he was open to influences which others escape. A very

unpleasing expression of countenance would act upon him so strongly,

that he would go far out of his way to avoid it. In a similar manner,

certain appearances of the clouds in an electrical state of the

atmosphere would from childhood impress him painfully, even at times

with a sentiment almost akin to horror; and this in spite of a

constitution, over which the state of the weather ordinarily had no

power; the spirit seemed directly operated on through the eye.

One of his strongest natural tendencies, which had considerable

influence in the creations of his fancy, was a love of the supernatural.

Nothing contented him till he had traced it up to that subtle point

where spiritual relations begin. "Why should such a thing affect us

thus?" was the question which he delighted to ask himself. To his mind,

as indeed to all thoughtful ones, the mysterious was the element into

which all the phenomena of life resolved themselves. And there he took

his stand, watching before the veil, if perchance some hand from within

would lift its folds. The mutual relations of mind and matter, the

secret sympathies of spirit, and the extent of its independence of

sense, were chosen topics of thought. The enlarged views of these

subjects which modern science is opening before us, at once indicating

the direction of future inquiry, and retrospectively interpreting the

wildest records of the past, thus resolving romance into reality, had

especial charm for him. The reverse of credulous, he would subject a

fact to close investigation, before he gave it credence, but at the same

time a latent affinity with the supernatural, if the expression be

allowed, drew him to it: hence astrology attracted him, but after close

study, he gave it up for various reasons, principally that a kind of

Christian instinct, which will often advance when the understanding

stops short, warned him off, by a sentiment, of approaching forbidden

ground.

Mr. Roby was a striking instance of how far literary pursuits may be

followed without neglect of the duties of life. "Literature to a man who

must have a profession" observes Sir Walter Scott, "should be the

recreation not the serious business of life." Mr. Roby's success in his

profession was such as to lead another banker of eminence--not

prejudiced by the tie of private friendship--to term him the first

accountant in Europe. Bearing in mind the pursuits of him of whom the

remark was made, it proves that a successful career as an author, is not

incompatible with eminence in the ordinary business of life. A strength

of moral purpose, which would not allow pleasant occupation to infringe

on the prior claims of duty, and which led him inflexibly to follow the

course he had laid down as right, gave force to a character that else

might have been deemed too brilliant for every-day wear.

One remarkable endowment that must have contributed to his success in

his own walk in life, was a power he possessed of determining the amount

of any sum of figures that might be laid before him. The friend an

extract from whose letter was given on p. 41, thus alludes to this

faculty. "If a double column, twenty figures in each row, or a cube of

six, arranged as below, were placed before him, he would tell the sum as

soon as his eye could read the figures.

1 2 5 4 9 1

5 3 9 8 1 9

6 9 1 2 2 9

7 8 2 7 9 2

3 7 4 7 8 4

4 6 3 6 1 3

-----------

He arrived at the result without going through the ordinary process; he

saw it at a glance. If, as was rarely the case, owing to a passing fit

of dulness, or a momentary distraction of thought, he failed to see the

sum at once, he was rather slow than otherwise in doing it by the

ordinary mode. Mr. Roby himself told me, that Bidder, perhaps the most

wonderful calculator this country ever produced, though his superior in

some points, could not approach him here."

Their respective powers must have been the result of two different

faculties. In "the calculating boy," it was extraordinary rapidity of

_calculation_. In Mr. Roby it was not calculation at all, but

_combination_. He read and combined the figures into a whole, as we

should read the word COMPARISON, for instance, without spelling it; the

power of the figures in the one case, being equivalent to that of the

letters in the other. Perhaps the extraordinary strength and activity of

his perceptive faculties, combined with considerable talent for the

science of number, may account for it: the rapidity of his perceptions

was at all times marvellous. He had not trained himself to this

exercise, nor was it a faculty at all improved by use. He found out

accidentally one day that he possessed it, and it never varied

afterwards. The writer is not aware that he practised to any extent what

is termed mental arithmetic. Yet some extraordinary calculations he made

with a pack of cards, by a process carried on in his mind, which, if put

on paper would have covered many sheets, appears to have been of that

nature. In all such matters which depended on numerical arrangement, he

was quite _au fait_. On one occasion he saw a lady perform a trick

called Sir Isaac Newton's. She declined showing how it was done, and

avowed herself unacquainted with the principle on which the arrangement

was founded. He went home, lay for hours awake during the night, worked

all the cards in the pack over and over again mentally; before morning

he had not only discovered the arrangement, but extended the principle

so as to be applicable, not to twenty-seven cards only, but to any

number within the fifty-two.

Punctuality was another marked feature of Mr. Roby's character. He was,

to use his own phrase, "a timist." An amusing instance of this occurs in

his tour. "Whilst resting and enjoying our cheer (at the Hospice Tete

Noir) I surprised Urlaub the courier, by telling him I had fixed three

or four months previously to cross the Tete Noir on this very day, and

on this very hour, showing him a sketch of my tour as given in the

introductory chapter. He said it would serve him to tell and boast about

all his life, he could not have thought it possible; 'but,' continued he

with great simplicity, 'I am sure they cannot believe me!'" Other

instances equally diverting he would tell, till even punctuality itself

lost its sober character, and became tinged with mirth, if not romance.

His love of order and arrangement was very great: it almost amounted to

a passion. As soon as a botanical or conchological work came into his

hands, he made himself master of its contents, and drew out a tabular

view of the information it afforded, a mode of arranging knowledge of

which he was particularly fond, enriching the book with what might be

wanting, and with references to other standard works. To those who are

commencing such pursuits, a little more detail may perhaps afford some

useful hints. In Lee's botany of the Malvern Hills, are added, in a

beautifully distinct small hand, to each plant named, a reference to the

page of Hooker's British Flora, on which it is described, and the month

of flowering; while on blank leaves inserted at the end for the

purpose, a list is given of all the plants according to the time at

which they flower, thus forming a flora for each month in that district,

to guide his search in each day's ramble. In his copies of Sowerby's

English Botany and Hooker's Flora, respectively, to each plant the page

on which it is to be found in the other work, its number in the London

Catalogue, and synonymes from either of these or from any other high

authority are added, with a mark against each successive specimen added

to his own herbarium. His mode of laying down and preserving specimens

for a progressive collection of British plants, often excited the

admiration of other collectors. His cabinet of shells, too, was arranged

in his own perfect manner. Yet with all this order there was nothing

merely mechanical in his character, nothing that hindered the free play

of his imagination.

The medical profession had at one period been contemplated for him, and

his studies for a short time lay in that direction. For physiological

investigations he always entertained a decided partiality. Hence no

doubt his ready appreciation of the general principles of hydropathy; he

saw and approved the rationale of the system, before he so successfully

tested its practice. He had cultivated that general knowledge of the

physical sciences which enabled him to trace their mutual relations. He

dwelt with peculiar delight on their points of intersection, where the

mysterious connection which is ever running underground, as it were,

throughout nature, rises to the surface. His industry and perseverance

equalled the activity of his mind, and the versatility of his talents.

Concentrating his attention on one subject for the time, when he left it

he would turn with the same fixed concentration to another; and the ease

with which he resumed any design or train of thought, however long it

had been laid aside, prevented his losing ground that had once been

gained. The quickness with which he acquired knowledge was remarkable;

while the use he would make of a new discovery or of fresh light cast on

an old subject, by way of illustration, by elucidating kindred truths in

other sciences, or by indicating discoveries yet to be made, was most

happy. Nothing seemed lost upon him: a fact became to him something more

than a bare fact, an index of the ideal, or of the hidden paths to those

mysterious relations of nature, which it has been observed were such

favourite objects of contemplation. By no means what is termed a great

reader, he usually preferred scientific works to those of general

literature. He seemed not to care to follow the imaginations of others;

he rather required facts as material for his own to revel in, and create

from. Genius must touch the earth to gather strength for her flights.

His love of the fine arts partook of the enthusiasm of his nature. His

taste was highly cultivated, and his own proficiency in several branches

of art, of no mean order. He loved to dwell on the subtle and mysterious

meanings of music, on its wondrous suggestive power, and its burden of

associations. A few specimens of his own power of creating "concord of

sweet sounds," have been preserved. He was particularly happy in

adapting the music to the words or _vice versa_. Sometimes he would

compose an air to one of his own songs. Very few of these compositions

have had the care bestowed on them necessary to prepare them for

publication. One which was harmonised by Mr. Novello, and published in

the Congregational and Chorister's Psalm and Hymn Book, will appear in

the present volume. It is a fair specimen of the composer's power of

expressing the higher feelings.

His facility of versification one may almost be tempted to regret. He

would have written better, and perhaps oftener, had he gone to it as a

more severe task--yet there are some lines of such exquisite music and

sentiment, the inspiration of the moment, in his occasional pieces,

which no gathering up of his powers could have enabled him to reach. The

ballads in the traditions afford illustrations of this remark.

Mr. Roby's skill as a draughtsman was often the admiration of his

friends. His landscape drawings from nature even when they are faithful

as portraits are always _pictures_. His fondness for investigation, the

"Inquisitive wants to know" of childhood aided him here. He was never

satisfied until he had found out the reason why an object takes a known

appearance under given circumstances, or why certain processes or

touches, transfer certain effects. The writer recollects his mentioning

a conversation with the late B. R. Haydon in which the point under

discussion was, why when an object is presented against the sky, for

example the belly of a horse standing on an eminence, the sky where it

approaches the object, though in point of fact as blue there as in any

other part, should not be so represented, but in a dim grey, almost

neutral tint. (The reader will at once perceive, that the blue sky and

black horse would be a tea-tray painting.) The discussion terminated

without any satisfactory result, but Mr. Roby could not rest till he had

found the true reason in the simple fact, that the eye suiting its focus

to the distance of the object to which it is directed, _can not

distinctly see, at the same time, objects at different distances_. When

the focus was right for the horse, it would only perceive the sky

indistinctly, or directed to the sky, the retina would not receive so

distinct an image of the horse. Hence if both were represented exactly

as they are in themselves, instead of as they are seen in combination, a

harsh, unnatural, and therefore false picture would be the result.

His conversation on art was rich in such remarks. A lady who drew in

water colours from nature in a superior style observed to the writer,

that she had gained more valuable information from Mr. Roby than from

any of the best masters of whom she had been in the habit of taking

lessons: he had put her into possession of _principles_. Another

friend, who was in raptures with Ruskin's "Modern Painters," described

it as "like hearing Mr. Roby talk." And here again, in art as in

science, he delighted to seek out those general principles, which,

common to all, constitute the oneness of Art, and to trace their

relation to the human mind.

To his ardent admiration of nature reference has already been made. That

term but partially conveys an idea of his quick and vivid perception of

beauty under whatever form it appeared, and of the intense pleasure, one

might almost say happiness, of which he was susceptible from it. His

spirit seemed to feed upon it as Schiller's Pegasus on the breath of

flowers. He would stand entranced before a beautiful object or hang over

it as if by some spell he could draw its beauty into his own soul. It

seemed as though for pleasure or suffering his mind was in close contact

with the _spirit_ of outward things. Nor was this high gratification, a

thing of rare occurrence. One of Hogarth's lines of Beauty, so

abundantly scattered through his world who has eyes to see them,

sufficed. He possessed too in a high degree the power of imparting to

others the pleasure he thus enjoyed. His enthusiasm caught by sympathy

communicated in part to his companions the vividness of his own

impressions. A friend, herself most highly gifted, in writing of him

says, "What true pleasure I feel in recalling the beauties and

excellencies of his character, in tracing through all his gifts, the

upward tendency of his mind which ever looked

'From Nature up to Nature's GOD,'

which sought His glory in all the pursuits of science--not _earthly_ but

_heavenly_ pursuits to him--a mind to which was not denied the power to

gaze along any one of those shining paths, which unite our mortal with

our immortal nature, to which music, and poetry, and art and science

opened their divinest treasures, fitting his nature for the immortal

joys they whisper of here!"

It has been occasionally regretted that his powers were directed to so

many objects instead of being concentrated, so as to secure higher

excellence in one department. And truly were this short life all man's

existence, the end of his progress, and "earthly immortality" the only

"life beyond this," then it might be to be deplored, if aught would be

worth deploring. But regret vanishes when we consider that in this case

there were only so many more starting points, for the soul in her higher

state of existence, already made out in this life.

Talents so versatile, it may be believed rendered their possessor the

ornament of general society. They were at the same time combined with

exterior advantages, graceful movement resulting from a

well-proportioned and finely-moulded form, elegant manner, so much

vivacity, and withal so much gentleness--the graceful courtesies of

life well became him. His conversational powers were seldom equalled. He

had always the right word at command whatever might be the topic, while

the ever-varying tones of his musical voice lent additional force to

every sentiment whether mirthful or pathetic. Information, anecdote,

humour were by turns elicited. It was easy, as it was pleasant, to

converse with him; he never misapprehended; he seemed to know what

others were going to say, their ideas were his, and the prompt rejoinder

made, by a kind of social electricity. Conversation never flagged when

he was present; a sullen silence was his abhorrence; equally so, a

monotonous abuse of the weather, roads, &c. His never-failing humour,

and love of pleasantry or kind-hearted banter, supplied the place of

Rousseau's expedient of weaving lace-strings, when in company where it

was difficult, if not impossible to maintain conversation that would

interest the whole party. If occasionally his repartees gave offence, no

one was more ready to apologise or to atone to any feeling that had been

wounded. In truth, nothing was farther from his intention than giving

pain, but his love of humour once excited, he did not pause to look from

another's point of view. It was as impossible for him to refrain from

enjoying a joke if it told against himself, as if it bore on another--in

fact, if it were really a good one, the being pointed against himself

seemed rather to enhance the piquancy. So conscious was he of the

absence of any ill-natured feeling, that it was difficult for him to

realize how any one could be hurt by those sallies which, coming from

another, he would perfectly understand. A lady who was often the subject

of his sportive railleries, observed, that no one who saw the kind

expression of his eye could feel wounded. It was after a time of close

mental application that his sportive qualities came out the most

strongly; it seemed to be a necessary relief, and the rebound involved

mirthfulness in many of its innocent forms. Practical jokes he never

allowed either in himself or others; nor did his humour ever degenerate

into mimicry, or amusement at the expense of the absent; delicacy of

feeling forbad that. A sharp contest of wits such as he designated "cut

and come again" was his great delight. D'Israeli the elder remarks, "One

peculiar trait in the conversation of men of genius which has often

injured them, when the listeners were not intimately acquainted with the

man, are certain sports of a vacant mind, a sudden impulse to throw out

opinions and take views of things in some humour of the moment."

Something akin to this Mr. Roby occasionally indulged in, if he

perceived that any one had formed a false idea of his character, which

was not unfrequently the case, he would find a passing diversion in

helping on the mistake. How this comported with that yearning for

sympathy, which was one of the master passions of his nature, it is not

difficult to explain. Finding out by intuition where he was not

understood, he sought in the amusement of watching the effect of the

character thus thrust upon him, on those who had given it, a refuge from

the pain which the discovery of the utter absence of sympathy could not

but inflict. Afford him but a ray of this coveted sympathy, and you made

his happiness, and your own by reflection. Intercourse with the world

had taught him how rarely the finer feelings or higher sentiments are

responded to, and a shrinking from their exposure in his own case led

him to conceal them under the light robe of pleasantry. Hence he was

sometimes suspected of want of earnestness by those who, as D'Israeli

remarks, "were not intimately acquainted with the man."

His fund of general information contributed to the charm of his

conversational powers, for with him knowledge was as ready to hand as it

was various. It seemed to spring spontaneously at the sight of any thing

with which it could be associated. Memory while she held her treasures

with a firm hand, generously shared them with the companion of the walk

or the acquaintance of the social hour. At the same time there was no

assumption, no affectation of superiority in his manner: it was

perfectly natural and simple.

Possessing great musical talent, a fine ear, and the power of modulating

his voice so as to blend with others, and the still rarer gift of

composing a part extempore to any melody, his assistance was sought as

a valuable acquisition in social music. Before his illness his whistle

was singularly rich, and he frequently used it as an accompaniment. The

writer never heard it; but a gentleman referring to an evening spent in

his society many years since, thus describes it, "I never heard human

whistle so clear, so distinct, and brilliant: it was like a flute."[F]

Perhaps what he was in general society may be best shown by the

impression he made on acquaintances of various tastes and habits whom

from time to time he casually met. Among the many tributes of respect to

his memory and to "his sterling qualities both of heart and mind," which

the writer has received, one or two may be selected bearing on the

salient points of his character. A recent friend, who with his lady were

the last guests who were staying with him before he left Malvern for

Scotland, writes, "I cannot let this opportunity pass without offering

my humble tribute of respect to your late husband's memory. My

acquaintance with Mr. Roby was, as you are aware, of brief duration, but

I can most unaffectedly, and with sincere gratitude say, that during

that period, I learned much of him--more than I ever learned in my life

from any single person. It was impossible to be with him without

catching something of his earnestness and enthusiasm. Would he had been

spared! His death was a severe loss to me. I had hoped to enjoy his

society during the coming summer, to mature in his company those tastes

which, if he did not infuse into me, he certainly roused from their

dormancy. But this was not to be! Like all who ever came into contact

with him, I was struck, on my introduction to Mr. Roby, by the variety

of his acquirements, then by their elegant intellectual character. His

energy in the acquisition of knowledge had amassed a great store of

material for intellectual enjoyment--his wonderful "_order_" had

arranged it in the happiest and most available manner. I think I never

in my life saw a man of greater mental activity. _He had no lounging

moments._ And yet I saw but the _relaxation_ of his mind."

One who knew him intimately the last two years of his life remarks, "Few

persons I should imagine could have been in Mr. Roby's society without

feeling a peculiar charm, a gladdening influence, which made life appear

bright and genial. Intercourse with him, invariably gave me a sense of

power: this made me from the first recognise him as a man of genius. A

magician in the regions of the ideal himself, he seemed to inspire his

listener with the same mastery over its elements. Whatever might be the

topic under notice, it stood out with new beauty as he handled it. His

conversation, enriched from a thousand sources, sparkled like the many

facets of the well-cut diamond."

A very old friend who ranks among the first dramatists of the day in

speaking of intercourse in years long since departed, characterised him

as "a man of rich imagination, and the warmest and soundest heart."

Adding in confirmation of the latter trait, "I was a perfect stranger

when he received me as a brother, and took on himself the entire

management of a course of lectures which I delivered in Rochdale several

years ago, and which proved to be very remunerative chiefly through his

cordially-exerted influence."

Another in writing of him, after dwelling with affectionate admiration

on other traits of character, notices "his great good nature and

kindness of heart, particularly the good-humoured manner in which he

bore the expression of opinions different from his own, which by many

would not have been taken so patiently. The extreme versatility of his

talents placed at his command, acquirements the most varied, such as few

persons attain to, and his kind and agreeable manner of imparting the

knowledge he possessed was equally remarkable. His talent and exquisite

humour in relating one of his stories or an old tradition, I can

scarcely imagined to have been equalled."

Several friends have remarked that during their last interview with him,

the conversation turned to the highest subjects, in some cases

terminating by a short striking remark on his part, too valuable to be

forgotten. A slight instance of this occurred in his last conversation

with the friend just quoted. It happened to be on a subject often

discussed before,--art in connection with religion as exemplified in the

fine old ecclesiastical structures of our country. No one possessed a

deeper sense of their beauty than himself, but his mind at the same time

comprehended the possibility of losing sight of the spiritual in

admiration of the material, and at the close of the conversation, his

last words were, "Well good bye, remember _we must not worship wood and

stone_." The aptness of the remark, the tone in which it was uttered,

fixed it in the memory of the listener, and it is now treasured as a

parting warning. There is a sacred pleasure in dwelling on conversations

like these, involving high moral truths, elements of the intercourse yet

to be renewed.

It was always in a circle narrower than that of general society, that he

was seen to most advantage. When he felt he was surrounded only by those

of congenial tastes he came out truly himself. His conversation then

flowed without any restraint, he blended the ideal with the real in a

way that showed a spirit gifted

"To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread."

A distinguished essayist of the present century compares himself to

those toys which we sometimes see formed of box within box. His outer

character he tells us was visible to all; to friends in proportion to

their intimacy he threw off case after case; the sight of the innermost

was reserved for himself, or for only one other. So here too was a

narrower circle within that of closest friendship, where one more

covering cast aside, his character displayed itself without any reserve.

What he might have been to the _valet_ "who looked at him with valet

eyes," the writer knows not, but by one to whom that character was bared

as to none besides, so far from seeming any less from the intimate

acquaintance of daily life, its true nobleness was only then fully

recognised. It is not every character that bears the near scrutiny

afforded by insight through the little things of life. Fewer still grow

"right worshipful" under such inspection. _He_ did both. His feelings

repressed, as we have seen in childhood, he had not been in the habit of

expressing them freely to the objects of his affection. The writer

learned far more of the strength of his love for his children, from

remarks he made when alone with her, and from the regard he paid to the

effect which any step he took might have on their welfare, than from any

ordinary demonstrations to them. The anxiety he evinced during the first

holidays his boys spent with her, that she should understand them, and

the pains he took to draw out the most interesting points of their

characters, told more forcibly than words, his concern for their

happiness. Though he rarely joined in their amusements himself, yet the

quiet delight with which he would stand and watch when she happened to

do anything of the kind showed how dear even their pleasures were to

him.

It has been a common reproach against literary men, that they are

undesirable companions in private life, prone to betray unworthy

jealousy of the talents of those around them; though brilliant in

society, fretful or unsocial at home. Here was one more added to the

many examples of the contrary. Neither mirth nor talents, courtesy nor

generous feeling, nor any thing that adorns or makes life happy, was

reserved like holiday attire for going abroad. One who though admitting

he could not brook defeat at his favourite chess, from any other lady,

would yet say he should have lost the game to his wife with pleasure,

because he should feel her triumph his own, could not have been an

undesirable home companion.

It is by trifles such as these, that what the gifted are in private life

is seen. That it may not invariably be thus is admitted, but the

solution is easy. Fireside happiness depends not on the presence or

absence of talent, but on the harmony of natural disposition, character,

and taste. Genius neither commands this, nor can supply its deficiency.

It only renders its possessor more keenly alive to the want of

congeniality, and those around perchance more wretched from the

conscious lack of power to make its happiness. The man of genius may not

only make home the most blessed spot on earth, but with the blessing of

GOD give a brilliancy and an intensity to domestic happiness, which none

besides can; peopling the wastes of every day life, with bright thoughts

that never die, till little is left of mortal existence, that is not to

be continued in the higher life to come.

But there were yet higher endowments--talents are but as the beautiful

lamp, spiritual life the light they enshrine; and when that light

glows with an intensity, that throws out the fair form, and

exquisitely-moulded figures, till the very lamp becomes brilliant, a

light-giving thing, then indeed is it a vessel "fit for the Master's

use," to the glory of His name whose _workmanship_ the lamp is, but

whose _breath_ the light within. And that to all the rich gifts already

described, was added that which is pre-eminently THE GIFT OF GOD, even

"Eternal Life through Christ Jesus our Lord," is the point of deepest

interest. Taught as we have seen by the discipline of suffering, his

were the convictions of experience, not those of the understanding

merely; he felt throughout his whole nature, his utter powerlessness to

erect himself into a consciously virtuous being, and he felt as strongly

that in the salvation of Christ alone was that which at once bringing

pardon and imparting holiness, meets all the deep-seated wants of our

nature, and raises us to the dignity of "sons and daughters of the Lord

Almighty." With a heart thrilling to its very centre with a sense of

unutterable need, he clung to the promises of the Gospel. And as time

advanced and the hidden life grew stronger, and daily intercourse united

the spirit more closely to GOD as its Father, through faith in Christ

Jesus, his character assumed more and more of the likeness of that

blessed state which it has now entered. Deep humility and self-distrust

habitually marked his religion. In a letter dated April 1849, after

detailing a circumstance which occurred during a short stay at Clifton,

very gratifying to him as an author, he adds "I may say all this to

_you_ because you understand me.... But I feel it is not safe to

_indulge_ in it. A momentary glance at one's position--and then back

again into the only safe place,--low at the Master's feet in love and

humiliation, 'What hast thou, that thou hast not received?'" "I am so

afraid of _myself_" was an expression he often used in the most intimate

conversation. He felt it was only by the daily impartation of a strength

greater than his own, that spiritual life was sustained. All those

sentiments in the inspired writings, which ordinarily to the men of the

world, are either mysteries or meaningless phrases, now comprehended in

the fulness of their truth, had become the utterances of his own soul.

"The life I now live in the flesh, I live by faith in the SON of GOD,

who loved me and gave Himself for me." He went to the scriptures for his

code of morality, as well as for the promise of the life to come. Never

under any circumstances did he shrink from performing what he considered

to be Christian duty, or from avowing what he believed to be religious

truth. The tone of Cowper's hymns harmonised more with the prevailing

cast of his mind than that of any other sacred lyrics. Those of them

which are to be found in Lady Huntingdon's collection, were associated

with his earliest recollections, and when his spirit was all

unconsciously preparing itself for a speedy and unlooked-for summons

into the immediate presence of GOD, the strains of the poet, who so

emphatically learned "in suffering" what he taught "in song," cheered

and animated one kindred in spirit, as in faith. There is something

pleasant in the thought that the strains which his mother might have

sung by his cradle, were the latest given forth by his own rich voice.

While lowliness of mind before God, and a constant desire to serve his

fellow-men, were perhaps the most conspicuous features of his religious

character, the over-flowings of a grateful spirit must not be

overlooked. Thanksgiving formed an essential part of his religion;

neither the simple pleasures nor the richer blessings of life were lost

upon him. Day by day he seemed as though he would never be thankful

enough. His recognition of the hand of GOD in all he enjoyed was very

vivid.

How far back the religious element of his character may be traced, it is

impossible to say. The human mind is susceptible of the fear of GOD, and

doubtless the actions may be modified thereby, long before any distinct

consecration to his service, or, which must ordinarily precede it, that

true self-knowledge which makes the need of a Saviour felt. That best of

blessings the example of a Christian life in his parents, was around his

earliest days, so that his first ideas of right and wrong must have

taken a Christian tone. And that as he rose into life, the claims of a

Creator and Saviour on his love and service occupied his attention, the

writer is aware. Never indeed will be forgotten the intensity of feeling

with which, within the last twelvemonths of his life he would sometimes

refer to one among his youthful associates, who at that early period

encouraged him in the practice of spiritual duties. He knew what a life

passed amid the stir of the world was, how the hot noon dries up the

current of early feeling, and the thorns of care choke the hidden life;

and vivid anxiety for his friend's spiritual state, mingled with the

grateful remembrance of forty years ago. A sentiment which now burst

forth fresher than ever, because he knew as he had never done before,

from what the salvation of GOD is a deliverance.

His sympathy for others in a religious point of view was very strong;

the deep pity, amounting to personal grief, which he has expressed in

intimate conversation, when speaking of any whose life or avowed

principles, testified they were "without hope, and without GOD in the

world," showed that his religion drew him the nearer to all his race.

Strongly as principle and feeling alike led him to seek to promote in

any way in his power the highest good of his fellow-creatures, the

remembrance of his deep spiritual suffering caused him to take a deeper

interest in those whose minds were in any degree agonised and bewildered

as his had been. He would have considered no amount of mental effort or

physical fatigue too great to encounter, could he thereby have

"ministered to a mind diseased." In 1848 when visiting friends in the

south of England, he was told of a poor old woman whose distress of mind

had baffled every attempt to relieve it. He went to her cottage, sat

down and listened to her complaints, anticipating them in great measure

from his own vividly-remembered distress. She was cheered by finding

another, who could tell beforehand what she was going to say; and when

he reached down the Bible, and began reading his own favourite passages,

"When the poor and needy seek water and there is none, and their tongue

faileth for thirst, I the LORD will hear them, I the GOD of Israel will

not forsake them, I will open rivers in high places and fountains in the

midst of the valleys" &c., and entering into her feelings, showed her

that the glorious promises of God were made to the wretched and

self-condemning, light seemed to burst upon her mind, and her

thankfulness and delight knew no bounds; and second only to hers, were

his own.--The most brilliant success in society had never afforded a

pleasure like this. He seldom referred to his own past suffering, when

he did so it was in a brief but touching manner: thus in a letter dated

March 1849 he writes, "Pray give my very best remembrance to Mrs. ----

and tell her that when I come to ---- I _intend_ sitting once more in

her arm chair, now with what different feelings. I had not then found 'a

hiding place from the storm, and a covert from the tempest.' Now however

I hope I have found Christ as 'the shadow of a great rock in a weary

land.'"

The true lowliness of spirit and willingness to be set aside, with which

he commenced any undertaking, evinced a chastened spirit, which showed

that he had not suffered in vain. "How thankful," wrote he to a friend,

"we ought to be that we are permitted even to attempt any thing for Him

_who has given us all_, and though apparently we fail, yet, as you say,

we are secure from disappointment; and, depend on it, some good will

arise probably to ourselves, if not to others, from our least efforts;

at any rate, if they lead us to more humility and dependence on Him, one

great end will have been answered." And two months later, writing to the

same friend, he observed:--"It does seem part of the discipline of life

that we should aim at duty--just embark in what seems the very path we

ought to pursue for our own and other's good, and then plainly be sent

back to learn one very important lesson we are too apt to forget,--viz.

that the great Master can do his work without us."[G]

In a letter dated February 22nd, 1850, after speaking of the happiness

he had enjoyed of late in communion with GOD, and expressing his desire

to serve Him, especially by comforting "the weary," he adds, "but they

'do His will who only stand and wait;' I am watching the course of

events, and when HE has work for me to do, I shall be appointed to it.

In the meantime I am working with my pen what may be useful at one time

or another."

The repose which belongs to maturity of character, indicated by the last

extract, was not unnoticed at the time. It was one of those traits then

marked, but now fully understood. Many things which the writer took for

philosophic superiority to trifles, and admired as such at the time, she

now recognises as Christian elevation of character. There was about him

an air--not exactly of indifference to the world or of separation from

it, for he entered with zest into the social pleasures and all the

higher pursuits of life--but of something like a consciousness of still

nobler relations than any which connected his spirit with earth, an

abiding recognition of a world to which he more properly belonged and

still better than this which he so much enjoyed; and he seemed to stand

with one foot uplifted ready to enter on that not distant world. It was

a fulfilling of the divine precept, "Let your loins be girded about, and

your lights burning, and ye yourselves like unto men waiting for their

Lord."

An intimate friend when referring to daily intercourse with him, enjoyed

for some time during the last autumn of his life, writes: "The advance

in all things connected with the spiritual good of himself, or of

others, was very striking--there was a dignity of deportment, a

seriousness when treating of divine things, and an anxious desire for

the religious improvement of all whom he could influence, that,

superadded to his natural cheerfulness and lively wit, made him a most

delightful companion. Still this increase of grace was chiefly preparing

him for the approaching removal: he was taken because he was _ready_.

Never did a bed of languishing sickness more evidently fit the sufferer

for 'going home' than did his beautiful frame of mind during the happy

months that preceded his sudden removal." Not better chosen could one

expression of the above have been, had the writer of the note

recollected Mr. Roby's crest--a sheaf of corn (_garb_), and motto "I AM

READY." Rapid had the ripening been--those years of suffering had done

their work and the brief, but bright, sunshine that followed, made the

sheaf ready for the garner.[H]

The mind lingers on this aspect of his character. Most precious to dwell

upon now is--not the memory of his rich talents--not the recollection of

his warm and generous affection, which, like the sunset glow, invests

all connected with him, with a brightness that seems as if it would

never grow dim, but--the thought that he was, in the true, not merely in

the conventional, sense of the word, a CHRISTIAN. This alone can connect

the beloved ones who are "gone home" with all that is real in

comfort.--The workings of the sorrowful heart are no longer vague

guesses and fruitless longings, but sure and living hopes founded on

"the true sayings of GOD." And when the voice whose music stirred the

very depths of the soul, as none other had power to do, can be no longer

heard, the ear of the spirit is quickened for voiceless intercourse. And

since those sayings assure us that those whom we call the dead still

live, in all the integrity of their spiritual being, we feel that they

can scarcely be said to be gone--that the one in spirit are one for

eternity--that their love for, and interest in us are not shaken--and if

neither ear nor eye can catch sound or glimpse of what was dearer than

life, still we are not without tokens of their presence. The intercourse

of spirit with spirit is not destroyed because one veil of flesh is

dropped; rather it is so much the nearer. The flow of reciprocated

affection, the joy as truly shared, and sorrow as tenderly lightened

with whispered assurances of sympathy, all tell of an union over which

death hath no power. Henceforward no abiding sense of loneliness, can

weigh down the heart made strong in an affection which,

"Doth draw the very soul into itself,"

and brings it into companionship with "the spirits of just men made

perfect" in the presence of their Father and our Father. All that

remains for earth is "the Patience of Hope." Death to the survivor as

well as to his victim has "lost his sting." Thanks be unto GOD, who

giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.[I]

Thus faintly and inadequately have been pourtrayed the life and

character of one whom his Maker had endowed with genius, and sent forth

for life's brief day. His appointed task was to go to his fellow men,

when the fever of earth's turmoil is on them, and, by transporting them

into other scenes, to charm away their cares and weariness for a while;

bringing one character after another, and adventures in quick

succession, before the reader, till he rises refreshed, and with new

spirit goes forth again to the conflict of life; having found too,

during his brief sojourn in that ideal region, many a hint of valuable

information, many a true moral principle.

And if increasing light from that world towards which he was so rapidly

advancing showed him how more distinctly to place before his fellow men

the characteristic truths of Christianity as the foundation of all that

is good and enduring, and to consecrate his talents to the highest

interests of mankind, and then, with all his plans and purposes

ripening, GOD called him away, it was only to enter on worthier labours

in that world, where "His servants serve Him day and night." Strange as

such a cutting short of a life so lately renewed in physical vigour,

and devoted to the high service of GOD appears, the very suddenness was

in keeping with the whole tenor of an existence which knew no idle

moments--as if not an hour of such a spirit was to be wasted--to-day

working here in the full vigour of his mortal life, to-morrow on the

other side of death, an immortal spirit serving in its appointed rank

before the throne of GOD.

Sense would fain follow, and, amid the shadowy forms of that world,

catch a sight of one so dear: but the eye is strained in vain. Yet Faith

can hear her Father's voice: "BLESSED are the dead that die in the

Lord," and she is content: for "THEY SHALL HUNGER NO MORE, NEITHER

THIRST ANY MORE; NEITHER SHALL THE SUN LIGHT ON THEM, NOR ANY HEAT. FOR

THE LAMB WHICH IS IN THE MIDST OF THE THRONE SHALL FEED THEM, AND SHALL

LEAD THEM UNTO LIVING FOUNTAINS OF WATERS, AND GOD SHALL WIPE AWAY ALL

TEARS FROM THEIR EYES."

FOOTNOTES:

[A] The recovery of Mr. Roby's papers from the wreck of the Orion, June,

1850, when GOD, in His inscrutable providence, cut short a life so

incomparably precious, was even then matter of thankfulness. Many

portions of the MS., from which the legends in this volume were printed,

bear traces of the sad catastrophe.

[B] The notion of this huge stone being a boulder stone--perhaps from

Norway, which was long believed, is now exploded. A friend at Keswick

(Sept. 1853) writes me word that the Porphyritic greenstone of which it

is composed, runs through many parts of the Lake district, in the

immediate neighbourhood, and that this stone must have fallen from the

cliff just above. My informant adds, that Mr. Wright, the well known

guide, in company with a gentleman, measured the stone and the cavity

whence it fell, and found them to correspond; though the cavity is now

somewhat overgrown by grass, it is not difficult to perceive.

[C] Esther, in the Jew of York. See Frazer's Mag. for Sept. 1836.

[D] Robert Langland's Visions of Pierce Plowman, were written about the

year 1362. He represents himself as falling asleep on the Malvern Hills,

and there beholding a series of visions, in describing which, he takes

occasion to satirise the vices prevailing in the different classes of

society, particularly the corruptions of the clergy. His prediction of

the Reformation in England is most remarkable. As the date of these

visions preceded Chaucer twenty years, the author must be considered the

first English poet. He was a native of Shropshire, and fellow of Oriel

College. Whitaker, who styles him the father of English Poetry, does not

confirm the supposition that he was a monk of Worcester or Malvern. He

thus paraphrases the opening lines.

"In early summer while sunshine was mild, I withdrew myself into a

solitary place, surrounded with shrubs, in habit not like an Anchorite

who keeps his cell, but like one of those unholy hermits who wander

about the world to see and hear wonders; and on a May morning, reclining

in a glade among the Malvern Hills, I slept from fatigue, and dreaming,

beheld all the wealth and woe of the world."--_Whitaker's (of Whalley)

Ed. of Pierce Plowman:_ 1813.

[E] To strangers as well as residents we were much indebted. We received

both the warmest sympathy and personal kindness from the Rev. J. Clarke,

Incumbent of Stretford near Manchester, whose interesting narrative,

published under the title of "_The Wreck of the Orion_," contains a full

account of the mournful catastrophe. And never can be erased from memory

the debt of kindness due to an English clergyman of the Episcopal Church

in Scotland--the Rev. ---- Pugh--who had come to seek his lovely little

girl who had just perished in the wreck. The sympathy and encouragement

he afforded touching that one supreme desire, and his offer, beyond all

price, to take charge of the remains so unutterably dear, with those of

his own beloved child, fill the heart with a weight of thankfulness that

cannot be expressed. I can only look forward to that world where all the

lovely will be gathered together, and the tears wiped from the mourner's

eyes, as they already have been from those of the beloved ones we weep

over.

[F] He would sometimes ventriloquise for the amusement of his friends.

The incessant invention required to sustain the wit of three, and

sometimes four, interlocutors, combined with the physical effort, kept

the powers of both mind and body on the stretch to a degree that

exhausted him more than anything else in which he engaged. See

_Stewart's Phil. Hum. Mind_. III. 229--224.

[G] Foster represents as "the _last_ attainment of a zealously good man,

the resignation to be as diminutive an agent as GOD pleases and as

unsuccessful an one."--_Essay on the Application of the Epithet

Romantic._ Letter V.

[H] It is not perhaps always borne in mind, that corn, when cut, is not

immediately ready to be carried home. It requires to stand some little

time in shock--that the process of ripening may be completed.

[I] Since the above was prepared for the press, the writer has met with

an interesting illustration of the power of the consolation there

indicated, in that _unique_ biography, the Life of Mrs. Fletcher of

Madeley. Conder's exquisite poem "the Reverie" treats of the same

thought. It is the poet's subject, in the poet's hands.

MUSIC.

AIR FROM A MODERN CONCERTO

[Music:

WORDS BY J. ROBY. AIR FROM A MODERN CONCERTO.

_Slow._

Father, hear a suppliant's cry;

Hear, oh hear, for Thou art nigh.

Though the clouds of sorrow rise

Darkly o'er these troubled skies;

Speak the word, "Let there be light!"

Bid the morning chase the night.

Father, hear a suppliant's prayer;

Darkness flies when Thou art there!]

SHEW PITY, LORD

[Music:

THE MELODY BY J. ROBY; THE HARMONIES VARIED BY V. NOVELLO.

[_Extracted, by permission, from the Congregational and Chorister's

Psalm and Hymn-Book. Dufour, Piccadilly._]

_Slow._

TREBLE Shew pity, Lord! O Lord, forgive;

ALTO. Shew pity, Lord! O Lord, forgive;

TENOR. Shew pity, Lord! O Lord, forgive;

See _lower_.

BASS. Shew pity, Lord! O Lord, forgive;

_Slow._

Let a repenting rebel live.

Let a repenting rebel live.

Let a repenting rebel live.

Let a repenting rebel live.

Are not thy mercies large and free?

Are not thy mercies large and free?

Are not thy mercies large and free?

Are not thy mercies large and free?

May not a sinner trust in Thee?

May not a sinner trust in Thee?

May not a sinner trust in Thee?

May not a sinner trust in Thee?

My lips with shame my sins confess.

Against thy law, against thy grace;

Lord, should thy judgment grow severe,

I am condemned, but Thou art clear.

Yet save a humbling sinner, Lord,

Whose hope, still hovering round thy word,

Would light on some sweet promise there,

Some sure support against despair.]

LYRICS.

Some of the following short poems were composed early in life, while two

or three of those last in order are of a very recent date. Those to

which dates are appended are from another pen. It was intended by Mr.

Roby that they should appear with his own productions. The survivor will

be forgiven the mournful pleasure of thus partially fulfilling one of

those purposes whose "inward light," was wont to

"Keep the path before him always bright."

LINES

WRITTEN ON THE DEPARTURE OF FRIENDS FROM ENGLAND.

Swiftly go, thou bounding bark,

As with an arrow's flight;

The untamed winds thy coursers wild,

The waves thy chariot bright.--

But there are hearts within that shrine

Where wilder billows swell,

Where the last pang is quivering now

The last fond word--"Farewell."

Blow, ye breezes! Gently roll,

Thou vast and troubled deep!

On thy still waters let the sigh

Of dim-eyed sorrow sleep.

Bright hearts, bright hearths, and merry homes

Their voice is on the wind.--

Be hush'd, ye blasts; too loud ye bring

Their echoes on the mind.

Soon these hallow'd shores shall fade,

Fast as the summer cloud,

And stranger climes and stranger forms

Pass, like a pageant proud.

But blessings still your path pursue,

Where'er that path may lie;

Since every devious maze ye trace

Beneath a guiding eye.

Yon evening star that trembling dips

Beneath the western sea,

Awhile, like him, your lonesome flight,

Like his, your destiny.--

Though setting now in clouds and gloom,

The day-spring shall arise,

And yon pale star, like you, appear

In pomp from eastern skies!

May HE whose word the billows calm'd,

And sooth'd those seas to rest,

Yet whisper in the gentlest winds,

That breathe on ocean's breast.

But there are waves of mightier power

His voice alone can still,

The soul's keen throb,--its louder surge

Grows peaceful at his will!

Swiftly go, thou bounding bark,

As with an arrow's flight,

The untamed winds thy coursers wild,

The waves thy chariot bright!

But there are hearts within that shrine

Where wilder billows swell,

Where the last pang is quivering now

The last fond word--"Farewell!"

PREFACE TO A LADY'S ALBUM.

An Album?--'Tis a pretty book I wis,

Bound up in cow-skin--or sometimes in calf,

All tool'd and gilt--where every pert-eyed miss,

Her pretty pouting lips (too ripe by half),

Hangs o'er the snow-white page--then steals a laugh,

Something between a simper and a smile;--

"Law, I can't write!--Ridiculous, to spoil

I have no notion----Will an extract do

From Moore or Byron?" "No, write something new."

An Album?--'Tis a wide waste blank--a page

All bright and glorious, like the morn of life,

Not darken'd with rude blots;--no dim presage

Scrawl'd o'er the bliss-like future,--where no knife,

Like eating care, obliterates.--The strife,

The agony, those hours shall know, nor trace,

Nor track, steals o'er their smooth, unruffled face.

If joy or woe those opening leaves shall bring,

Who shall unfold their dim foretokening?

And would'st thou have me in that mirror look,

Shadowing the first page in thy destiny,

Or weave a frontlet to Fate's Album-book?

It should be joyous were mine Fate's decree.

Like opera-overtures, the melody

I know the story should foretoken, telling

Of love, hope, joy, and all that sort of thing;

Or, like the pictures on a raree-show,

Blazon the matchless wonders hid below.

But I'm no prophet!--what these pages may

Or may not gather, hard to say methinks.

'Tis somewhat strange, e'en for this marvellous day,

Writing a preface to blank leaves,--a sphynx

'Twould puzzle to undo, like Hymen's links!

The paper's pretty, and a pretty book:

So far seems certain. What may next be shook

From Fate's grim bag, _n'importe_--umquhile, I trow,

Time flits, hopes bud, and wither ere they blow.

When closed the last page of this history,

If joy or sorrow on that morn shall rise,

What I may then, or thou shalt surely be

I dare not mutter with articulate voice!

And yet I'll try a word or so (no lies,

I hate them); 'tis irrevocable fate

I now unfold. Listen, as though there sate

The wizard seer thy destiny revealing;

Bright hopes, grim horror, o'er thy vision stealing!

* * * * *

"Oft shall wearied hope expire,

Bliss none other bosom knows,

Love shall scorch thee with its fire,

Maiden, ere these pages close.

"Oft shall visions warm and bright,

Glimmer on thine aching brain,

Swifter fading from thy sight,

Ne'er shall dawn those dreams again.

"Oft shall throb that wearied breast,

Pulse on pulse in anguish beating,

Oft shall sink that storm to rest,

Hope and love those wild waves meeting.

"Love and hate, and joy and fear,

Shall thy bosom oft o'erflow,

All that woman's heart may bear,

All that woman's breast may know.

"Oft shall friends thy bosom cherish'd,

Change to deeper, deadlier foes.

Love shall die and hope have perish'd,

Maiden, ere these pages close!"

TO ----

We have met and we have parted,

Meet it were that love should die;

Teach the winds, thou fond false-hearted,

Teach the light wave constancy!

We have loved as we shall never

Dare on earth to love again!

Hearts thus twined, when they shall sever,

Wear no more love's bootless chain.

Tell the waves to calm their motion,

Tell the wind thy power to flee,

Bid the chafed and restless ocean

Sleep, aye, sleep unchangeably.

Will the lash'd wave cease its wailing?

Will the moaning billow rest?

Then may Hope with joys unfailing,

Fled like mine, appease thy breast.

STANZAS.

"Lightly o'er the moon-lit sea

Bounds my lover's bark to me;

The breeze hath woo'd the fluttering sail,

Fast flies the prow from the wanton gale."

The lady sung.--'Twas the lone sea-mew

O'er the waters wail'd, as he wistfully flew.

"Swiftly through the curling foam,

Waft, ye winds, my true love home:

I hear not yet the dripping oar,

The surge uncleft yet greets the shore."

The lady gazed.--'Twas the rushing blast,

Like some spirit of might, on the waters pass'd!

Darkly o'er the troubled deep,

Ruder winds the billows sweep;

The lady hath left her lattice bower,--

"Why tarries my love till the midnight hour?"

Swift answer came.--'Twas a shuddering moan,

As her lover's cold corse at her feet was thrown!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.[J]

Forgotten so soon

Are thy vows when we parted,

Have other links bound thee,

Thou fickle false-hearted?

Go fling to the winds thy last tenderest vow,

They are not so changing, so reckless as thou.

Can the tear on thy cheek,

The warm gush from thy heart,

So soon dry their torrent?

So quickly depart?

Like dew on the flower, like the web when 'tis broken,--

Oh frailer than these, woman's vows when they're spoken.

And was it for this,

In my heart's holiest shrine,

No memory was hidden,

No image but thine?

And I deem'd thee some hallow'd, some heaven-given thing,

Entwined round my bosom for ever to cling.

I had perill'd my all

On that treacherous bark,

A woman's fond love;--

When the billows grew dark,

The bright sea was ruffled, the loud storm rush'd on,

My hopes are all wreck'd, and that light bark is gone.

Go, faithless, and weep!

For I scorn thy words now;

Yet no tears thou wilt shed

Can heal one broken vow;

No weeping can cleanse that one foul perjured stain,

Or quench the keen fire that now scorches my brain.

Yet stay, false one, stay;

There's a worm in thy breast,

A gloom on thy soul

Where no sunshine shall rest;

To which e'en the agony thou hast made mine

Is blessing and bliss when compared but with thine.

FOOTNOTE:

[J] This song, and one from the "Traditions of Lancashire," "They bade

me sing, they bade me smile," were set to music by Mr. Charles Smith,

author of "Hohenlinden" and other popular songs. The stanzas immediately

following were also set by him as a glee. Cramer, Addison, & Co. 201

Regent Street.

THE FAIRIES' SONG.

Merry, merry elves we be,

O'er the bright and bounding sea,

Dancing merrily.

We glide to the shore in our fairy bark,

When the moon looks out on high,

And the waves twinkle round us in many a spark,

Like radiant melody.

We dance to the sound of the calm cold billow,

Ere it sleeps on the sand, ere it dies on its pillow.

Merry, merry elves we be,

Under the greenwood tree,

Dancing merrily.

And the moon through yon white and fleecy cloud,

Pale, silent, and softly creeps,

Like a spectre clad in a silvery shroud,

While nature quietly sleeps.

We merrily trip it with twinkling feet,

As the leaves rustle o'er us in melody sweet.

Away, away,

At break of day,

For night is the fairies' holiday.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.[K]

Fare thee well! the dream is o'er;

Loved one fare thee well!

Tears and vows deceive no more,

When broken every spell.

Stars that fade in morning light,

Suns that set shall rise;

But no dawn illumes the night,

When Hope's last glimmer dies!

Oh! lay me where the willows weep,

On some dreary shore;

Calm shall be that colder sleep,

Life's dark vision o'er.

Though earthly joys for ever fled,

Yet mercy whispers nigh,

Immortal life beyond the dead,

And bliss beyond the sky.

FOOTNOTE:

[K] These stanzas have been set to a Spanish air by T. Ashworth.

D'Almaine & Co., Soho Square.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

On yon dark bosom'd mountain

The sunbeams are glancing,

On lake and on fountain,

The light ray is dancing.

But yon mountain is dark, though the sunbeams are bright,

And yon fountain is cold, though 'tis quivering with light.

So one bosom with sadness

Feels dark and opprest,

While around, mirth and gladness

Illumine each breast.

And the smiles that to others with rapture may glow,

Leave that bosom alone to its darkness and woe.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I've seen the smile on woman's cheek,

The tear in woman's eye;

But as I gazed, that smile grew dim,

That liquid fount was dry.

Oh, I have heard her say she loved,

And kiss'd the plighted token:--

But I have lived to feel how false

What woman's lip hath spoken!

Yes, lighter than the lightest breath

That skims the morning air

Is woman's vow, that binds the heart

In witchery or despair!

How she hath wrung this bleeding breast,

I may not, dare not tell!

I only know that I have loved

Too fondly, and too well.

STANZAS.

Say, what is Love?--a bubble

On life's dull current fleeting,

A thousand hues and visions bright

On its frail surface meeting;

It breaks, and where that vision fair?

Ocean's dark depth may answer, Where?

Say what is Love?--'tis light

On life's dark billows thrown;

Oh, glorious the first glance

That on those waters shone!

'Tis gone,--those waves, illum'd no more,

Roll darkly on life's desert shore.

Say what is Love?--a glimpse,

Life's stormy clouds between,

Of that bright heaven, where all

Is cloudless and serene;

A look, ere night and darkness come,

Beyond the terrors of the tomb!

Come all whose blighted bosom,

Love's cruel pangs deceive,

Say what shall be the garland

For lovers' brows to weave?

A lone leaf on a blasted tree,

This, this Love's coronal shall be!

SONG.

The following lines were written to the air No. 4, in the 5th book of

Mendelsohn's "Lieder ohne Woerte."

Oh, say not, lady,

That ought could ever

This fond heart sever

From love and thee

Go, bid the billow

Now calm its motion,

The restless ocean

Rest endlessly!

Should'st thou deceive me,--

All earthly blessing,

Not worth possessing,--

Away I'd flee.

And far from home, love--

My lost hopes mourning--

Nor thence returning,--

I'd pray for thee!

And though a stranger

To earthly gladness,

There is a sadness

More glad than mirth,--

The joy of sorrow;

The sweetest pleasure,

A tear-bought treasure

Of heavenly birth!

Though all around me

Were darkness veiling,

Yet light unfailing

In death shall rise!

Though day departeth,

Nor cloud nor sorrow

Shall dim that morrow

In yonder skies!

THE FRIEND.

There is a friend, whose love

Is closer than a brother's,--

Tender, endearing,--'tis above

E'en fondness like a mother's:--

She may forget her suckling's cry,

His ear attends the feeblest sigh.

On Him thy panting breast,

By care and anguish riven,

Bleeding and torn, hath found its rest,

From other refuge driven:--

And earth, with all its joys and fears,

Hath ceased to bring or smiles or tears.

Morn's dew-enamell'd flowers,

The cloud through azure sweeping,

Their brightness owe to sadder hours,

Their calm, to storms and weeping.--

That Friend shall thus each tear illume,

To forms of glory shape that gloom.

Eve's sapphire cloud hath been

Dark as the brow of sorrow;

Those dew pearls wreath'd in emerald green,

Once wept a coming morrow:--

But glory sprang o'er earth and sky,

And all was light and ecstacy.

Yon star upon the brow

Of night's grey coronet,

Morn's radiant blush, eve's ruddy glow,

Had yon bright sun ne'er set,

Were hidden still from mortal sight,

Lost in impenetrable light.

Then should afflictions come,

Dark as the shroud of even,

A thousand glories glitter from

The burning arch of heaven!

Though earth be wrapt in doubt and gloom,

New splendours dawn o'er daylight's tomb.

And who that azure hung

With lamps of living fire?

Who, when the hosts of morning sung,

First listen'd to their quire?

The Man of Sorrows mercy sent,--

In heav'n the GOD!--the Omnipotent!

HE is that friend, whose love

Nor life nor death shall sever!

Eternal as yon throne above,

Unchanged, endures for ever.

What would'st thou more, frail fabric of the dust;

OMNIPOTENCE thy Shield!--thy Refuge!--Trust!

LINES TO A LADY

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD NEVER SEEN.

What though thy form I ne'er beheld,

Yet fancy oft would trace

Expression, features, look, with all

Their witchery or grace.

What though thy voice were never heard,

I felt its melting tone,

That came like some mysterious spell,

Unbidden and alone!

I saw thee in the winged beam,

First-born of morning light;

In darkness oft I saw thee still,

A vision of the night.

And though unheard, unseen,--thy name

The same sweet image brings,

And fancy o'er the mimic scene,

Her own bright halo flings.

Oh who shall tell the wondrous glimpse

Imagination threw,

As though past, present, and to come

Were open to her view!

As though the hidden sense had now,

From earthly dross refin'd,

Pierc'd this material and left

Mortality behind!

And is not this a ray that breaks,

With unquench'd potency,

Forth from the Omnipotent,--a light

From his omniscient eye?

A spark from that eternal mind,

First breath'd into our breast;

An image of the Infinite,

On finite pow'rs impress'd.

And though debas'd, degraded, dim,

From heav'n's own light they shine,

Imagination, fancy, thought,

Their origin divine!

THE BIRCH

ON THE WORCESTERSHIRE BEACON, GREAT MALVERN.

It stood alone on the green hill side,

That fairy birchen tree,

Its yellow leaves in the autumn breeze

Were flutt'ring heavily.

The early frosts brought those pale leaves down,

Ere the storms of winter came;

And stripp'd and bare stood my birchen tree,

But a wreck to tell its name.

I pass'd the place when the streams were still,

When the earth was chang'd to stone,

On the leafless boughs a hoary show'r,

As a spell of heav'n was thrown.

The glistening sprays by the wind were stirr'd,

Like a banner gently furl'd;

It seem'd, in its pure and peerless grace,

A gift from another world.

And even thus in our inner life,

When the early frosts are come,

When the greenness has pass'd from life away,

And the music of earth is dumb;

'Tis then that the light and hope of heav'n,

O'er the lonely heart are flung,

And our spirit knows a holier joy

Than that to which erst it clung.

And year by year is the type renew'd,

That our wayward hearts may learn,

There is peace for the stripp'd and wearied ones,

Who in faith to their Father turn.

1841.

ASTROLOGY.

'Tis said that in the burning stars

The fate of man is writ:

Yet quail not, Christian, at the sign;

By LOVE those lamps are lit.

1848.

THE FIRST REVELATION.

Suggested by the story of a child, whose father, an educated man, but an

infidel, if not an atheist, had not allowed him to receive any religious

culture. Being one day reproved by a friend for using profane language,

on the ground that it was displeasing to GOD, he enquired who was meant.

He instantly apprehended with delight all that was told him of the

nature and attributes of the Supreme Being, as if the idea had been

latent in his mind, until thus called forth into recognised existence.

Shadows o'er the infant mind,

Floating dimly undefin'd

Like a picture scarce design'd.

Melody but half express'd,

Inarticulate at best,

Haunting ever that young breast.

But the magic word is spoken,

And the shades of night are broken,

And by that same lustrous token.

"GOD THE MIGHTY ONE," now near,

Memnon music on the ear

Falls articulate and clear.

And the day of life begun

By the newly risen sun,

In that light its paths are run.

Even so, when GOD reveal'd

To the eye by Death unseal'd,

Shall completed being yield,

Will the shadows which now lie,

As dim portents to the eye,

From the spirit's vision fly.

And the mystic sounds and sweet,

Which the untaught ear oft greet,

Shall a lucid tale repeat.

And mysterious spirit-life--

Past its agony and strife--

Be with seven-fold Glory rife.

1848.

AN EVENING HYMN.

Faint falls the twilight dim,

Woods, waves, their ev'ning hymn

Murmur to Thee.

One pale star ocean seeks,

One waveless glimmer breaks

O'er that lone sea.

Softly the passing gale,

Sighs like love's parting tale,

Whispers not words.

Clouds come not o'er that night,

Stars burn with purer light

Than earth affords.

Come, Night, around this breast,

Thy soothing dreamy rest

Waft o'er my soul;

While thoughts of heav'nly birth,

Untouch'd by aught of earth,

Undimm'd may roll.--

Then like yon star may we

Meet death's calm silent sea,

Setting to rise.

Bright'ning still while we sink,

On that dread ocean brink,

To other skies!

THE DUKE OF MANTUA.

A Tragedy.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN

ANDREA, _Duke of Mantua_.

RIDOLFI, _the Duke's Foster-brother_.

CARLOS, _in love with Hermione_.

BERTRAND, _Friend to Carlos_.

FABIAN, } _Pages attending on the Duke_.

SYLVIO, }

GIULIO, _a Minstrel attending on Carlos_.

STEPHANO, } _Servants to Ridolfi_.

ROLAND, }

_Priest_.

_Grave-Digger_.

_Citizens of Mantua_.

WOMEN

BEATRICE, _Duchess of Mantua_.

HERMIONE, _Cousin to Ridolfi_.

LAURA, _Sister to Ridolfi_.

ZORAYDA, _a Gipsy_.

BLANCH, _Servant to Hermione_.

_Guards, Soldiers, &c_.

_Scene--Mantua._

THE DUKE OF MANTUA.

ACT I.--SCENE I.

_A Room in the Duke's Palace at Mantua._

_Enter the DUKE and RIDOLFI._

RIDOLFI.

Hermione again visits my house.--

Your presence, good my lord, with your fair dame,

I would solicit.

DUKE.

Well, Ridolfi, be it so:--to-day,

If nought forbid the time:--Hermione,

Thou say'st?--I do remember, yet so slight, 'tis scarce

The shadow of her form. But once, my brother,

'Twas one fair summer's eve, awhile I saw

Thy sprightly coz: a laughter-loving spirit,

She threw quick mirth as the unbidden shafts

Of innocent love, scattering with hand profuse

Her joyous pranks. I was but newly wedded,

Scarce past the honey-moon; Beatrice hung

Fondly upon mine arm, and we too laugh'd,

On that still night, until the whisp'ring woods

Grew loud, and thousand voices started forth

From bough and hoary stem, bursting as if

To riotous life; and yet her giddy face,

Playful and changing as the restless wave,

I cannot fashion now from memory's storehouse--

How fares thy cousin?

RIDOLFI.

Still by love, my lord,

She comes untamed; but time, one delicate shade

Hath slightly pass'd upon her wanton mirth,

Softening the ruder bursts of her high spirit,

Tinged ofttime now with gentler thought.

DUKE.

'Tis well

When ripening years mellow the gaudy hue

Of youth's rich fancies, sparkling else too bright

For its repose.----We visit thee to-day.--

This tribute say we give Hermione.

RIDOLFI.

Much honour hold we from your presence:

Our poorer hospitality excuse,

As you are wont. Adieu! No costly feast

We give, but our glad welcome. [_Exit._

DUKE.

A brother still,--a friend

To cheer my way through life's dark wilderness.

Thou art a feeble light, and yet I love

To watch thy tremulous blaze, blessing the gloom,

And shedding round my path its thousand gems,

Sprinkling perchance some loathed and hideous form

With thy pale gleam. How tender hast thou been

To my worst weaknesses, my foibles, all

Heart-withering cares! Though born to humbler honours,

I call thee friend. Well hast thou earn'd from me

That sacred name! One bosom nourish'd us:

One hand our childhood rear'd; twining we grew

Unto one stem, till riches and high birth

Bore me brief space from that beloved soil,--

That home, to which our very nature yet

Seems most akin.----

Of proud descent, unsullied as mine own,

Thou yet canst boast: if not of titled wealth,

Of outward garb, thy suit becomes thee well;

And I do love thee more than if array'd

In ducal coronet. Beatrice too

Hath prized him for my sake, and her esteem

I do repay with tenfold love.----

Fierce, feverish love!--thine idle dreams,--fleeting

As cloud-fed vapour, yon o'erarching bow

Bestrides,--fade as the sunbeam on the sky

Dispels the glowing mist. 'Tis well, if then

The welkin clear'd, each circumstance and form,--

Fashion'd realities by truth impress'd

Upon the craving eye-balls,--O 'tis well

If on these fix'd and palpable images

Of roused and wakening sense, the eye may rest

With unappeased delight! But if the while

Love's light-wing'd visions fade, nought fills the void

Save chilling wastes, trackless, unlimited,

That echo back their own grim desolation

To the appalled spirit. What escape

The shrinking soul is left, save one dark path

To unappointed death? I thank thee, Heaven,

Thou sparest me this trial! Love hath still

With proud esteem held equal sway: in peace,

Untroubled they divide their several empire.----

But I must hence; Beatrice I would greet

First with these tidings of Hermione. [_Exit._