citizens of our young and busy country, where literature and the
elegant arts must grow up side by side with the coarser plants of
daily necessity; and must depend for their culture, not on the
exclusive devotion of time and wealth, nor the quickening rays of
titled patronage, but on hours and seasons snatched from the
pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent and public-spirited
individuals.

He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours
of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it can give
its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo
De' Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed his eye as on a
pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven the history of his life
with the history of his native town, and has made the foundations
of its fame the monuments of his virtues. Wherever you go in
Liverpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is ele-
gant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in
the channels of traffick; he has diverted from it invigorating rills
to refresh the garden of literature. By his own example and
constant exertions he has effected that union of commerce and
the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of his
latest writings: * and has practically proved how beautifully they
may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The
noble institutions for literary and scientific purposes,

which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the public mind, have mostly been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by Mr. Roscoe; and when we consider the rapidly increasing opulence and magnitude of that town, which promises to vie in commercial importance with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening an ambition of mental im

The

TA

Beatis?

provement among its inhabitants, he has effected a great benefit to the cause of British literature.

In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author-in Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker; and I was told of his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far above the reach of my pity. Those who live only for the world, and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of adversity; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the resources of his own mind; to the superior society of his own thoughts; which the best of men are apt sometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy associates. He is independent of the world around him. He lives with antiquity and posterity; with antiquity, in the sweet communion of studious retirement; and with posterity, in the generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude of such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited by those elevated meditations which are the proper aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness of this world.

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, when he' turne! off, through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian style. It wảs not in the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was delight. ful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet

sheet of water through an expanse

of

green meadow-land; while the Welsh mountains, blended with clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the horizon.

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and literary retirement. The house was now silent and deserted. I saw the windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The windows were closed—the library was gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering about the place, whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It was like visiting some classic fountain, that had once welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles.

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe’s library, which had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. It had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the country.

The good people of the vicinity thronged like wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associations, we might imagine something whimsical in this strange irruption in the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons which they could not wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot of speculators, debating with calculating brow over the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete author; of the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which some successful purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured.

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's mis.

fortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious mind,
that the parting with his books seems to have touched upon

his
tenderest feelings, and to have been the only circumstance that
could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows
how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts
and innocent hours become in the seasons of adversity. When
all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain
their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse
of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these
only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and
cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope,
nor deserted sorrow.

I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the people of Liver-
pool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe
and themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good
worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance,
which it would be difficult to combat with others that might seem
merely fanciful; but it certainly appears to me such an oppor-
tunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling
under misfortunes, by one of the most delicate, but most exoo
pressive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, too
estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. 10
He becomes mingled and confounded with other men.
qualities lose their novelty, we become too familiar with the com-
mon materials which form the basis even of the loftiest character.
Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a
man of business; others as a politician; all find him engaged

emselves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps,
by themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. Even that
amiable and unostentatious simplicity of character, which gives

MA

HERD

his

His great

the nameless grace to real excellence, may cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who do not know that true worth is always void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters, who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe.—The intelligent traveler who visits it inquires where Roscoe is to be seen.—He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the distant scholar.—He is, like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic dignity.

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. If any thing can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that the whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the writer's heart.

а

TO MY BOOKS.

As one who, destined from his friends to pan,

Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile

To share their converse and enjoy their smile,
And tempers as he may affliction's dart;

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art,

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile

My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,
I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart;