The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
from the very circumstances and situation in which he has been placed,
that Mr. Roscoe derives his highest claims to admiration. It is
interesting to notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves,
springing up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary but
irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight
in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear
legitimate dulness to maturity; and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance
of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the
winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world,
and some be choked, by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, yet
others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock,
struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile
birthplace all the beauties of vegetation.
Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place apparently
ungenial to the growth of literary talent--in the very market-place of
trade; without fortune, family connections, or patronage; self-prompted,
self-sustained, and almost self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle,
achieved his way to eminence, and, having become one of the ornaments of
the nation, has turned the whole force of his talents and influence to
advance and embellish his native town.
Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given him the
greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particularly to point him
out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his literary merits, he is but one
among the many distinguished authors of this intellectual nation.
They, however, in general, live but for their own fame, or their own
pleasures. Their private history presents no lesson to the world, or,
perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty or inconsistency. At best,
they are prone to steal away from the bustle and commonplace of busy
existence; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered eas; and to revel
in scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment.
Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the accorded privileges
of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of thought, nor elysium
of fancy; but has gone forth into the highways and thoroughfares of
life, he has planted bowers by the wayside, for the refreshment of the
pilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where the
laboring man may turn aside from the dust and heat of the day, and drink
of the living streams of knowledge. There is a “daily beauty in his
life,” on which mankind may meditate, and grow better. It exhibits no
lofty and almost useless, because inimitable, example of excellence; but
presents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, which are
within every man’s reach, but which, unfortunately, are not exercised by
many, or this world would be a paradise.
But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the citizens
of our young and busy country, where literature and the elegant arts
must grow up side by side with the coarser plants of daily necessity;
and must depend for their culture, not on the exclusive devotion of time
and wealth; nor the quickening rays of titled patronage; but on
hours and seasons snatched from the purest of worldly interests, by
intelligent and public-spirited individuals.
He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours of leisure by
one master-spirit, and how completely it can give its own impress to
surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo de’ Medici, on whom he
seems to have fixed his eye, as on a pure model of antiquity, he has
interwoven the history of his life with the history of his native town,
and has made the foundations of his fame the monuments of his virtues.
Wherever you go, in Liverpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in
all that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing
merely in the channels of traffic; he has diverted from it invigorating
rills to refresh the garden of literature. By his own example and
constant exertions, he has effected that union of commerce and the
intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of his latest
writings;* and has practically proved how beautifully they may be
brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The noble institutions
for literary and scientific purposes, which reflect such credit on
Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the public mind, have
mostly been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by
Mr. Roscoe; and when we consider the rapidly increasing opulence and
magnitude of that town, which promises to vie in commercial importance
with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening an ambition
of mental improvement among its inhabitants, he has effected a great
benefit to the cause of British literature.
* Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution.
In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author; in Liverpool he is
spoken of as the banker; and I was told of his having been unfortunate
in business. I could not pity him, as I heard some rich men do. I
considered him far above the reach of pity. Those who live only for the
world, and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of adversity;
but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the reverses of fortune.
They do but drive him in upon the resources of his own mind, to the
superior society of his own thoughts; which the best of men are apt
sometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy
associates. He is independent of the world around him. He lives with
antiquity, and with posterity: with antiquity, in the sweet communion of
studious retirement; and with posterity, in the generous aspirings
after future renown. The solitude of such a mind is its state of highest
enjoyment. It is then visited by those elevated meditations which
are the proper aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from
heaven, in the wilderness of this world.
While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my fortune
to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a
gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, when he turned off,
through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. After riding a short
distance, we came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the
Grecian style. It was not in the purest style, yet it had an air of
elegance, and the situation was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away from
it, studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile
country into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a
broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow land,
while the Welsh mountains, blended with clouds, and melting into
distance, bordered the horizon.
This was Roscoe’s favorite residence during the days of his prosperity.
It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and literary retirement. The
house was now silent and deserted. I saw the windows of the study, which
looked out upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows were
closed--the library was gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were
loitering about the place, whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the
law. It was like visiting some classic fountain, that had once welled
its pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with
the lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles.
I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe’s library, which had consisted
of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had drawn the
materials for his Italian histories. It had passed under the hammer of
the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the country. The good people
of the vicinity thronged liked wreckers to get some part of the
noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of
ludicrous associations, we might imagine something whimsical in this
strange irruption in the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the
armory of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons which
they could not wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot of
speculators, debating with calculating brow over the quaint binding and
illuminated margin of an obsolete author; of the air of intense, but
baffled sagacity, with which some successful purchaser attempted to dive
into the black-letter bargain he had secured.
It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe’s misfortunes, and
one which cannot fail to interest the studious mind, that the parting
with his books seems to have touched upon his tenderest feelings, and
to have been the only circumstance that could provoke the notice of
his muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent,
companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the season of
adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only
retain their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse of
intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these only
continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us with
that true friendship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow.
I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the people of Liverpool had
been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and themselves, his
library would never have been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless,
be given for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat
with others that might seem merely fanciful; but it certainly appears
to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind
struggling under misfortunes by one of the most delicate, but most
expressive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to
estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He
becomes mingled and confounded with other men. His great qualities lose
their novelty; we become too familiar with the common materials which
form the basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe’s
townsmen may regard him merely as a man of business; others, as
a politician; all find him engaged like themselves in ordinary
occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points of
worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity of
character, which gives the nameless grace to real excellence, may cause
him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who do not know that true
worth is always void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters,
who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe.--The
intelligent traveller who visits it inquires where Roscoe is to be seen.
He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating its existence to
the distant scholar.--He is like Pompey’s column at Alexandria, towering
alone in classic dignity.
The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books, on parting
with them, has already been alluded to. If anything can add effect
to the pure feeling and elevated thought here displayed, it is the
conviction, that the who leis no effusion of fancy, but a faithful
transcript from the writer’s heart.
TO MY BOOKS.
As one who, destined from his friends to part,
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile
To share their converse and enjoy their smile,
And tempers as he may affliction’s dart;
Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art,
Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,
I now resign you; nor with fainting heart;
For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,
And all your sacred fellowship restore:
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers.
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.
THE WIFE.
The treasures of the deep are not so precious