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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
is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and judicious
plan; it contains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and
is the great literary resort of the place. Go there at what hour
you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave-looking
personages, deeply absorbed in the study of newspapers.
As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention
was attracted 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 was a little bowed by time--perhaps by care.
He had a noble Roman style of countenance; a a head that would
have pleased a painter; and though some slight furrows on his
brow showed that wasting thought had been busy there, yet his eye
beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was something in his
whole appearance that indicated a being of a different order from
the bustling race round him.
I inquired his name, and was informed that it was
ROSCOE. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration.
This, then, was an author of celebrity; this was one of those men
whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth; with whose
minds I have communed even in the solitudes of America.
Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know European writers
only by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of other men,
engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with the
crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass
before our imaginations like superior beings, radiant with the
emanations of their genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary
glory.
To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici mingling
among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical
ideas; but it is 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.
Washington Irving's short story: Roscoe
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