Chapter III: Appendix: 375 (2)

"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.