The Legendary and Poetical Remains of John Roby Part 5

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 const.i.tution, 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, princ.i.p.ally 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sion. 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 sh.e.l.ls, 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 ill.u.s.tration, 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 a.s.sociations. 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 ill.u.s.trations 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 circ.u.mstances, 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, const.i.tute 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 G.o.d,'

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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 pa.s.sing diversion in helping on the mistake. How this comported with that yearning for sympathy, which was one of the master pa.s.sions of his nature, it is not difficult to explain. Finding out by intuition where he was not understood, he sought in the amus.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.sociated. 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 a.s.sumption, 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 a.s.sistance 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 pa.s.s 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 grat.i.tude 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 ama.s.sed 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 n.o.bleness 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 amus.e.m.e.nts 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.

It has been a common reproach against literary men, that they are undesirable companions in private life, p.r.o.ne to betray unworthy jealousy of the talents of those around them; though brilliant in society, fretful or unsocial at home. Here was one more added to the many examples of the contrary. Neither mirth nor talents, courtesy nor generous feeling, nor any thing that adorns or makes life happy, was reserved like holiday attire for going abroad. One who though admitting he could not brook defeat at his favourite chess, from any other lady, would yet say he should have lost the game to his wife with pleasure, because he should feel her triumph his own, could not have been an undesirable home companion.

It is by trifles such as these, that what the gifted are in private life is seen. That it may not invariably be thus is admitted, but the solution is easy. Fireside happiness depends not on the presence or absence of talent, but on the harmony of natural disposition, character, and taste. Genius neither commands this, nor can supply its deficiency.

It only renders its possessor more keenly alive to the want of congeniality, and those around perchance more wretched from the conscious lack of power to make its happiness. The man of genius may not only make home the most blessed spot on earth, but with the blessing of G.o.d give a brilliancy and an intensity to domestic happiness, which none besides can; peopling the wastes of every day life, with bright thoughts that never die, till little is left of mortal existence, that is not to be continued in the higher life to come.

But there were yet higher endowments--talents are but as the beautiful lamp, spiritual life the light they enshrine; and when that light glows with an intensity, that throws out the fair form, and exquisitely-moulded figures, till the very lamp becomes brilliant, a light-giving thing, then indeed is it a vessel "fit for the Master's use," to the glory of His name whose _workmanship_ the lamp is, but whose _breath_ the light within. And that to all the rich gifts already described, was added that which is pre-eminently THE GIFT OF G.o.d, even "Eternal Life through Christ Jesus our Lord," is the point of deepest interest. Taught as we have seen by the discipline of suffering, his were the convictions of experience, not those of the understanding merely; he felt throughout his whole nature, his utter powerlessness to erect himself into a consciously virtuous being, and he felt as strongly that in the salvation of Christ alone was that which at once bringing pardon and imparting holiness, meets all the deep-seated wants of our nature, and raises us to the dignity of "sons and daughters of the Lord Almighty." With a heart thrilling to its very centre with a sense of unutterable need, he clung to the promises of the Gospel. And as time advanced and the hidden life grew stronger, and daily intercourse united the spirit more closely to G.o.d as its Father, through faith in Christ Jesus, his character a.s.sumed more and more of the likeness of that blessed state which it has now entered. Deep humility and self-distrust habitually marked his religion. In a letter dated April 1849, after detailing a circ.u.mstance which occurred during a short stay at Clifton, very gratifying to him as an author, he adds "I may say all this to _you_ because you understand me.... But I feel it is not safe to _indulge_ in it. A momentary glance at one's position--and then back again into the only safe place,--low at the Master's feet in love and humiliation, 'What hast thou, that thou hast not received?'" "I am so afraid of _myself_" was an expression he often used in the most intimate conversation. He felt it was only by the daily impartation of a strength greater than his own, that spiritual life was sustained. All those sentiments in the inspired writings, which ordinarily to the men of the world, are either mysteries or meaningless phrases, now comprehended in the fulness of their truth, had become the utterances of his own soul.

"The life I now live in the flesh, I live by faith in the SON of G.o.d, who loved me and gave Himself for me." He went to the scriptures for his code of morality, as well as for the promise of the life to come. Never under any circ.u.mstances did he shrink from performing what he considered to be Christian duty, or from avowing what he believed to be religious truth. The tone of Cowper's hymns harmonised more with the prevailing cast of his mind than that of any other sacred lyrics. Those of them which are to be found in Lady Huntingdon's collection, were a.s.sociated with his earliest recollections, and when his spirit was all unconsciously preparing itself for a speedy and unlooked-for summons into the immediate presence of G.o.d, the strains of the poet, who so emphatically learned "in suffering" what he taught "in song," cheered and animated one kindred in spirit, as in faith. There is something pleasant in the thought that the strains which his mother might have sung by his cradle, were the latest given forth by his own rich voice.

While lowliness of mind before G.o.d, and a constant desire to serve his fellow-men, were perhaps the most conspicuous features of his religious character, the over-flowings of a grateful spirit must not be overlooked. Thanksgiving formed an essential part of his religion; neither the simple pleasures nor the richer blessings of life were lost upon him. Day by day he seemed as though he would never be thankful enough. His recognition of the hand of G.o.d in all he enjoyed was very vivid.

How far back the religious element of his character may be traced, it is impossible to say. The human mind is susceptible of the fear of G.o.d, and doubtless the actions may be modified thereby, long before any distinct consecration to his service, or, which must ordinarily precede it, that true self-knowledge which makes the need of a Saviour felt. That best of blessings the example of a Christian life in his parents, was around his earliest days, so that his first ideas of right and wrong must have taken a Christian tone. And that as he rose into life, the claims of a Creator and Saviour on his love and service occupied his attention, the writer is aware. Never indeed will be forgotten the intensity of feeling with which, within the last twelvemonths of his life he would sometimes refer to one among his youthful a.s.sociates, who at that early period encouraged him in the practice of spiritual duties. He knew what a life pa.s.sed amid the stir of the world was, how the hot noon dries up the current of early feeling, and the thorns of care choke the hidden life; and vivid anxiety for his friend's spiritual state, mingled with the grateful remembrance of forty years ago. A sentiment which now burst forth fresher than ever, because he knew as he had never done before, from what the salvation of G.o.d is a deliverance.

His sympathy for others in a religious point of view was very strong; the deep pity, amounting to personal grief, which he has expressed in intimate conversation, when speaking of any whose life or avowed principles, testified they were "without hope, and without G.o.d in the world," showed that his religion drew him the nearer to all his race.

Strongly as principle and feeling alike led him to seek to promote in any way in his power the highest good of his fellow-creatures, the remembrance of his deep spiritual suffering caused him to take a deeper interest in those whose minds were in any degree agonised and bewildered as his had been. He would have considered no amount of mental effort or physical fatigue too great to encounter, could he thereby have "ministered to a mind diseased." In 1848 when visiting friends in the south of England, he was told of a poor old woman whose distress of mind had baffled every attempt to relieve it. He went to her cottage, sat down and listened to her complaints, antic.i.p.ating them in great measure from his own vividly-remembered distress. She was cheered by finding another, who could tell beforehand what she was going to say; and when he reached down the Bible, and began reading his own favourite pa.s.sages, "When the poor and needy seek water and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the LORD will hear them, I the G.o.d of Israel will not forsake them, I will open rivers in high places and fountains in the midst of the valleys" &c., and entering into her feelings, showed her that the glorious promises of G.o.d were made to the wretched and self-condemning, light seemed to burst upon her mind, and her thankfulness and delight knew no bounds; and second only to hers, were his own.--The most brilliant success in society had never afforded a pleasure like this. He seldom referred to his own past suffering, when he did so it was in a brief but touching manner: thus in a letter dated March 1849 he writes, "Pray give my very best remembrance to Mrs. ---- and tell her that when I come to ---- I _intend_ sitting once more in her arm chair, now with what different feelings. I had not then found 'a hiding place from the storm, and a covert from the tempest.' Now however I hope I have found Christ as 'the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.'"

The true lowliness of spirit and willingness to be set aside, with which he commenced any undertaking, evinced a chastened spirit, which showed that he had not suffered in vain. "How thankful," wrote he to a friend, "we ought to be that we are permitted even to attempt any thing for Him _who has given us all_, and though apparently we fail, yet, as you say, we are secure from disappointment; and, depend on it, some good will arise probably to ourselves, if not to others, from our least efforts; at any rate, if they lead us to more humility and dependence on Him, one great end will have been answered." And two months later, writing to the same friend, he observed:--"It does seem part of the discipline of life that we should aim at duty--just embark in what seems the very path we ought to pursue for our own and other's good, and then plainly be sent back to learn one very important lesson we are too apt to forget,--viz.

that the great Master can do his work without us."[G]

In a letter dated February 22nd, 1850, after speaking of the happiness he had enjoyed of late in communion with G.o.d, and expressing his desire to serve Him, especially by comforting "the weary," he adds, "but they 'do His will who only stand and wait;' I am watching the course of events, and when HE has work for me to do, I shall be appointed to it.

In the meantime I am working with my pen what may be useful at one time or another."

The repose which belongs to maturity of character, indicated by the last extract, was not unnoticed at the time. It was one of those traits then marked, but now fully understood. Many things which the writer took for philosophic superiority to trifles, and admired as such at the time, she now recognises as Christian elevation of character. There was about him an air--not exactly of indifference to the world or of separation from it, for he entered with zest into the social pleasures and all the higher pursuits of life--but of something like a consciousness of still n.o.bler relations than any which connected his spirit with earth, an abiding recognition of a world to which he more properly belonged and still better than this which he so much enjoyed; and he seemed to stand with one foot uplifted ready to enter on that not distant world. It was a fulfilling of the divine precept, "Let your loins be girded about, and your lights burning, and ye yourselves like unto men waiting for their Lord."

An intimate friend when referring to daily intercourse with him, enjoyed for some time during the last autumn of his life, writes: "The advance in all things connected with the spiritual good of himself, or of others, was very striking--there was a dignity of deportment, a seriousness when treating of divine things, and an anxious desire for the religious improvement of all whom he could influence, that, superadded to his natural cheerfulness and lively wit, made him a most delightful companion. Still this increase of grace was chiefly preparing him for the approaching removal: he was taken because he was _ready_.

Never did a bed of languishing sickness more evidently fit the sufferer for 'going home' than did his beautiful frame of mind during the happy months that preceded his sudden removal." Not better chosen could one expression of the above have been, had the writer of the note recollected Mr. Roby's crest--a sheaf of corn (_garb_), and motto "I AM READY." Rapid had the ripening been--those years of suffering had done their work and the brief, but bright, sunshine that followed, made the sheaf ready for the garner.[H]

The mind lingers on this aspect of his character. Most precious to dwell upon now is--not the memory of his rich talents--not the recollection of his warm and generous affection, which, like the sunset glow, invests all connected with him, with a brightness that seems as if it would never grow dim, but--the thought that he was, in the true, not merely in the conventional, sense of the word, a CHRISTIAN. This alone can connect the beloved ones who are "gone home" with all that is real in comfort.--The workings of the sorrowful heart are no longer vague guesses and fruitless longings, but sure and living hopes founded on "the true sayings of G.o.d." And when the voice whose music stirred the very depths of the soul, as none other had power to do, can be no longer heard, the ear of the spirit is quickened for voiceless intercourse. And since those sayings a.s.sure us that those whom we call the dead still live, in all the integrity of their spiritual being, we feel that they can scarcely be said to be gone--that the one in spirit are one for eternity--that their love for, and interest in us are not shaken--and if neither ear nor eye can catch sound or glimpse of what was dearer than life, still we are not without tokens of their presence. The intercourse of spirit with spirit is not destroyed because one veil of flesh is dropped; rather it is so much the nearer. The flow of reciprocated affection, the joy as truly shared, and sorrow as tenderly lightened with whispered a.s.surances of sympathy, all tell of an union over which death hath no power. Henceforward no abiding sense of loneliness, can weigh down the heart made strong in an affection which,

"Doth draw the very soul into itself,"

and brings it into companionship with "the spirits of just men made perfect" in the presence of their Father and our Father. All that remains for earth is "the Patience of Hope." Death to the survivor as well as to his victim has "lost his sting." Thanks be unto G.o.d, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.[I]

Thus faintly and inadequately have been pourtrayed the life and character of one whom his Maker had endowed with genius, and sent forth for life's brief day. His appointed task was to go to his fellow men, when the fever of earth's turmoil is on them, and, by transporting them into other scenes, to charm away their cares and weariness for a while; bringing one character after another, and adventures in quick succession, before the reader, till he rises refreshed, and with new spirit goes forth again to the conflict of life; having found too, during his brief sojourn in that ideal region, many a hint of valuable information, many a true moral principle.

And if increasing light from that world towards which he was so rapidly advancing showed him how more distinctly to place before his fellow men the characteristic truths of Christianity as the foundation of all that is good and enduring, and to consecrate his talents to the highest interests of mankind, and then, with all his plans and purposes ripening, G.o.d called him away, it was only to enter on worthier labours in that world, where "His servants serve Him day and night." Strange as such a cutting short of a life so lately renewed in physical vigour, and devoted to the high service of G.o.d appears, the very suddenness was in keeping with the whole tenor of an existence which knew no idle moments--as if not an hour of such a spirit was to be wasted--to-day working here in the full vigour of his mortal life, to-morrow on the other side of death, an immortal spirit serving in its appointed rank before the throne of G.o.d.

Sense would fain follow, and, amid the shadowy forms of that world, catch a sight of one so dear: but the eye is strained in vain. Yet Faith can hear her Father's voice: "BLESSED are the dead that die in the Lord," and she is content: for "THEY SHALL HUNGER NO MORE, NEITHER THIRST ANY MORE; NEITHER SHALL THE SUN LIGHT ON THEM, NOR ANY HEAT. FOR THE LAMB WHICH IS IN THE MIDST OF THE THRONE SHALL FEED THEM, AND SHALL LEAD THEM UNTO LIVING FOUNTAINS OF WATERS, AND G.o.d SHALL WIPE AWAY ALL TEARS FROM THEIR EYES."