I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which hadconsisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had drawnthe materials for his Italian histories. It had passed under thehammer of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the country. Thegood people of the vicinity thronged like wreckers to get some part ofthe noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a scene admitof ludicrous associations, we might imagine something whimsical inthis strange irruption in the regions of learning. Pigmies rummagingthe armory of a giant, and contending for the possession of weaponswhich they could not wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot ofspeculators, debating with calculating brow over the quaint bindingand illuminated margin of an obsolete author; of the air of intense,but baffled sagacity, with which some successful purchaser attemptedto dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured.
It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's misfortunes,and one which cannot fail to interest the studious mind, that theparting with his books seems to have touched upon his tenderestfeelings, and to have been the only circumstance that could provokethe notice of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear thesesilent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent hoursbecome in the seasons of adversity. When all that is worldly turnsto dross around us, these only retain their steady value. When friendsgrow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes into vapidcivility and commonplace, these only continue the unalteredcountenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friendshipwhich never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow.
I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the people of Liverpoolhad been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe andthemselves, his library would never have been sold. Good worldlyreasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, which itwould be difficult to combat with others that might seem merelyfanciful; but it certainly appears to me such an opportunity as seldomoccurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling under misfortunes, byone of the most delicate, but most expressive tokens of publicsympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a man of geniusproperly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes mingled andconfounded with other men. His great qualities lose their novelty,we become too familiar with the common materials which form thebasis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmenmay regard him merely as a man of business; others as a politician;all find him engaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, andsurpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points of worldly wisdom.
Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity of character, whichgives the nameless grace to real excellence, may cause him to beundervalued by some coarse minds, who do not know that true worth isalways void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters, whospeaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe.- Theintelligent traveller who visits it inquires where Roscoe is to beseen.- He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating itsexistence to the distant scholar.- He is, like Pompey's column atAlexandria, towering alone in classic dignity.
The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books onparting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. If anything can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought heredisplayed, it is the conviction, that the whole is no effusion offancy, but a faithful transcript from the writer's heart.
TO MY BOOKS.
As one who, destined from his friends to part,Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhileTo share their converse and enjoy their smile,And tempers as he may affliction's dart;Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art,Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguileMy tedious hours, and lighten every toil,I now resign you; nor with fainting heart;For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,And all your sacred fellowship restore:
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers,Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,And kindred spirits meet to part no more.
THE END
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1819-20
