ROSCOE.
----In the service of mankind to be A guardian god below; still to employ The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, And make us shine for ever--that is life. THOMSON.
ONE of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liverpool isthe Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and judicious plan; itcontains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and is the greatliterary resort of the place. Go there at what hour you may, you aresure to find it filled with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed inthe study of newspapers.
As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention wasattracted to a person just entering the room. He was advanced in life,tall, and of a form that might once have been commanding, but it wasa little bowed by time--perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman style ofcountenance; a a head that would have pleased a painter; and though someslight furrows on his brow showed that wasting thought had been busythere, yet his eye beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There wassomething in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a differentorder from the bustling race round him.
I inquired his name, and was informed that it was ROSCOE. I drew backwith an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, then, was an author ofcelebrity; this was one of those men whose voices have gone forth tothe ends of the earth; with whose minds I have communed even in thesolitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to knowEuropean writers only by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as ofother men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling withthe crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass beforeour imaginations like superior beings, radiant with the emanations oftheir genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory.
To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici mingling amongthe busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical ideas; but it isfrom the very circumstances and situation in which he has been placed,that Mr. Roscoe derives his highest claims to admiration. It isinteresting to notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves,springing up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary butirresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delightin disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rearlegitimate dulness to maturity; and to glory in the vigor and luxurianceof her chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to thewinds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world,and some be choked, by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, yetothers will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock,struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterilebirthplace all the beauties of vegetation.
Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place apparentlyungenial to the growth of literary talent--in the very market-place oftrade; 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 ofthe nation, has turned the whole force of his talents and influence toadvance and embellish his native town.
Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given him thegreatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particularly to point himout to my countrymen. Eminent as are his literary merits, he is but oneamong the many distinguished authors of this intellectual nation.They, however, in general, live but for their own fame, or their ownpleasures. 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 busyexistence; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered eas; and to revelin scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment.
Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the accorded privilegesof talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of thought, nor elysiumof fancy; but has gone forth into the highways and thoroughfares oflife, he has planted bowers by the wayside, for the refreshment of thepilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where thelaboring man may turn aside from the dust and heat of the day, and drinkof the living streams of knowledge. There is a "daily beauty in hislife," on which mankind may meditate, and grow better. It exhibits nolofty and almost useless, because inimitable, example of excellence; butpresents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, which arewithin every man's reach, but which, unfortunately, are not exercised bymany, or this world would be a paradise.
But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the citizensof our young and busy country, where literature and the elegant artsmust grow up side by side with the coarser plants of daily necessity;and must depend for their culture, not on the exclusive devotion of timeand wealth; nor the quickening rays of titled patronage; but onhours and seasons snatched from the purest of worldly interests, byintelligent and public-spirited individuals.
He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours of leisure byone master-spirit, and how completely it can give its own impress tosurrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo de' Medici, on whom heseems to have fixed his eye, as on a pure model of antiquity, he hasinterwoven 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 inall that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowingmerely in the channels of traffic; he has diverted from it invigoratingrills to refresh the garden of literature. By his own example andconstant exertions, he has effected that union of commerce and theintellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of his latestwritings;* and has practically proved how beautifully they may bebrought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The noble institutionsfor literary and scientific purposes, which reflect such credit onLiverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the public mind, havemostly been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, byMr. Roscoe; and when we consider the rapidly increasing opulence andmagnitude of that town, which promises to vie in commercial importancewith the metropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening an ambitionof mental improvement among its inhabitants, he has effected a greatbenefit 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 isspoken of as the banker; and I was told of his having been unfortunatein business. I could not pity him, as I heard some rich men do. Iconsidered him far above the reach of pity. Those who live only for theworld, 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 thesuperior society of his own thoughts; which the best of men are aptsometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthyassociates. He is independent of the world around him. He lives withantiquity, and with posterity: with antiquity, in the sweet communion ofstudious retirement; and with posterity, in the generous aspiringsafter future renown. The solitude of such a mind is its state of highestenjoyment. It is then visited by those elevated meditations whichare the proper aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent fromheaven, in the wilderness of this world.
While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my fortuneto light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with agentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, when he turned off,through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. After riding a shortdistance, we came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in theGrecian style. It was not in the purest style, yet it had an air ofelegance, and the situation was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away fromit, studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertilecountry into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding abroad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow land,while the Welsh mountains, blended with clouds, and melting intodistance, bordered the horizon.
This was Roscoe's favorite resid
ence during the days of his prosperity.It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and literary retirement. Thehouse was now silent and deserted. I saw the windows of the study, whichlooked out upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows wereclosed--the library was gone. Two or three ill-favored beings wereloitering about the place, whom my fancy pictured into retainers of thelaw. It was like visiting some classic fountain, that had once welledits pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, withthe lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles.
I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which had consistedof scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had drawn thematerials for his Italian histories. It had passed under the hammer ofthe auctioneer, and was dispersed about the country. The good peopleof the vicinity thronged liked wreckers to get some part of thenoble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a scene admit ofludicrous associations, we might imagine something whimsical in thisstrange irruption in the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging thearmory of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons whichthey could not wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot ofspeculators, debating with calculating brow over the quaint binding andilluminated margin of an obsolete author; of the air of intense, butbaffled sagacity, with which some successful purchaser attempted to diveinto the black-letter bargain he had secured.
It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's misfortunes, andone which cannot fail to interest the studious mind, that the partingwith his books seems to have touched upon his tenderest feelings, andto have been the only circumstance that could provoke the notice ofhis muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent,companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the season ofadversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these onlyretain their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse ofintimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these onlycontinue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us withthat true friendship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow.
I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the people of Liverpool hadbeen properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and themselves, hislibrary would never have been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless,be given for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to combatwith others that might seem merely fanciful; but it certainly appearsto me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mindstruggling under misfortunes by one of the most delicate, but mostexpressive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, toestimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. Hebecomes mingled and confounded with other men. His great qualities losetheir novelty; we become too familiar with the common materials whichform the basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe'stownsmen may regard him merely as a man of business; others, asa politician; all find him engaged like themselves in ordinaryoccupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points ofworldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity ofcharacter, which gives the nameless grace to real excellence, may causehim to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who do not know that trueworth is always void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters,who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe.--Theintelligent traveller who visits it inquires where Roscoe is to be seen.He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating its existence tothe distant scholar.--He is like Pompey's column at Alexandria, toweringalone in classic dignity.
The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books, on partingwith them, has already been alluded to. If anything can add effectto the pure feeling and elevated thought here displayed, it is theconviction, that the who leis no effusion of fancy, but a faithfultranscript 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.
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