Chapter IV: Appendix: 375 (3)

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.