Chapter 3

"Great Malvern, May 1848."

To test Mr. Roby's power of language in a sportive mood, the first letter and last word in each line of the following acrostic were given him one evening. The order of the rhymes as well as of the initial letters was to remain unchanged. On the following morning he produced the lines completed. The Ivy Rock was a favourite haunt in a ravine on the hills.

"Malvern the birth-place of English Poetry.The vision of Pierce Plowman fromthe Ivy Rock."[D]

"The minstrel seer look'd outafar,His eye was keen, his glance waslong;Eve deck'd her brow with one fairstarIn glory oft to hear hissong.Visions of after-years bursting tolife,Yon wide plain swept in shadows huge anddimRecords of woe, and dread, and comingstrife!On that lone rock, while mute his eveninghymnCalm silence sate;—and through the live-longnightKindled his rapt eye in propheticlight.

"Malvern, March 21, 1849."

In the summer of 1849, Mr. Roby again married. The loved, and almost idolized head of a happy home, he appeared, as he had never before to those who only knew him in his bereaved life, breathing an atmosphere of happiness, and diffusing it around him, till even the sorrowful grew bright with smiles, and

"Souls by nature pitch'd too high,By suffering plunged too low,"

were lifted up again into the untroubled joy of childhood. It was impossible the traveller should retain his mantle of grief with such fervid sunshine around him. The enthusiasm of his nature gathered new force from the buoyancy of recovered health, and found its own element in the exquisite woodland scenery lying among the recesses of the Cotswold hills. To those who know these woods, or have once seen them in the tender luxuriance of very early summer, this term is not too strong. The rich botanical treasures they presented, were many of them new to him. The writer cannot forget the intense pleasure with which he discovered among the last year's beech leaves, and held up to view, the beautifulEpipactis grandiflora(white helleborine), which he had only once before seen, his companion, never. Nor the delight with which on another occasion he hailed the long-soughtListera nidus avis(birds-nest ophrys), now found for the first time in its native habitat. Nor did he lose the general impression of nature in scientific details. The beautiful effects of light and shadow, the peculiar blue air tint of the beech woods, every thing that went to form the perfect whole, seemed individually to fill his spirit with exquisite pleasure. And as, in that evening's wandering through the Cranham woods, with friends whose spirits were kindred—looking down the hanging wood, through a lengthening vista, the evening mist was seen creeping on, its hues changing gradually from soft rose-colour to deep purple, the novel and almost unearthlybeauty of the scene was such, that all caught his rapture, and felt that never before had any thing so vividly imaged the paradise of the spirit-world. It might have been the painter's conception of Bunyan's land of Beulah.

The early autumn of the year was spent among the Cumberland mountains. Furnished with a botanical tin, pressing-book, and sketch-book—the provision for the day slung at the saddle-bow, some delightful excursions of about five-and-twenty miles a day were made. Nothing could be more congenial with his buoyant, independent spirit, than the freedom of these mountain rambles—professional guides dispensed with, he always squire of dames, and horses too. Starting early in the morning, dining one day on the mountain's brow, the next in the recesses of Borrowdale, amid the haunts of the rarer ferns, or under the shadow of Honister Crag, in the silence of the mountain solitudes; and then with the declining sun, treasure-laden, wending our homeward way as the evening shadows crept on, until,

"Every leaf was lostIn the dark hedges,"

and the road lengthened itself out as if interminably, till at last the lights twinkled cheeringly as Keswick came in sight.

While thus with youth renewed—for certainly Hydropathy in Mr. Roby's case seemed to effect more than the mere removal of disease—life became onelong holiday of enjoyment, it was also a period of earnest work.

"Like as a star,That maketh not hasteAnd taketh not rest,"

"Was ever fulfillingHisGod-given hest."

With no claims of a secular profession upon him, and with a spirit chastened and hallowed by suffering, he devoted his energies to literature principally, but at the same time he was prompt to use his powers in any way for the good of his fellow-men. Impressed more deeply than ever with the conviction that in the faith, and practice of Christianity alone, lie the true happiness and virtue of our race; and that in the exercise of his talents, man's only adequate aim is to be found in the service ofGod, he sought by a more constant infusion of Christian principles, in the productions of his pen, to give a corresponding tone to the minds of his readers; thus working

"As ever in his great Task-master's eye."

Bearing in mind a truth burnt in by affliction, how entirely he owed life and immortality to a Saviour's love, he "loved much" in return, and found in that love, a motive for unsparing labour. During his stay at Keswick, he was placed in circumstances whichcalled upon him to conduct the worship of a few poor people from Sabbath to Sabbath. That self-distrust which so eminently characterised him beforeGod, was immediately roused. The pleasure he had known in swaying large audiences, in striking out from listening countenances the sympathetic flash, recurred to his mind, and he feared, lest in holy things self-seeking should intrude; "I am so afraid of running before I am sent," was the remark made in confidence, where each feeling of the soul was uttered as it rose. But the call was clear and distinct, the voice of "the Master" was heard and obeyed. Sad and strange would it have been if the tongue so eloquent for the gratification of his fellow-men, had been silent when their highest welfare was to be promoted—if that voice raised at man's request for his passing pleasure, had been dumb for God. And doubtless the light of the spirit-world, which even when we only catch it dimly reflected from the mantles of the ascending ones, resolves into

"The baseless fabric of a vision,"

the objects of earthly ambition, has now confirmed the judgment passed by the faithful spirit, whose simple aim while here, was to "do the will" of his Father in heaven.

The Religious Tract Society's Monthly Messenger, for September of that year, No 63, was from his pen. It had an extensive circulation, and a slight fact relative toit, that has recently come to light, is doubly interesting when it is borne in mind, how intensely the writer of the Tract had suffered, and how deep in consequence was his sympathy with all mental distress. A poor woman in the south of England was so weighed down with family troubles, that she came one day to the resolution of ending them that night, by throwing herself into a river which ran hard by her dwelling. Before evening, a gentleman who was not aware of the state of her affairs, put into her hands a copy of the tract referred to. The inquiry with which it was headed, "Are you fit to die?" arrested her attention. She felt she was not fit to die, and her resolution was shaken—she deferred, at least for that night, fulfilling her intention. The conviction of her unfitness for another world deepened; she was led to seek forgiveness and renewal of spirit—she found the way of peace, and the last thing heard of her, was that her worldly circumstances also were prospering. It may be worth observing, that probably the tract had the more point, entered more into the heart of the reader, from the fact of its having been written with an individual strongly before the author's mind. A young woman, whose life was rapidly going in confirmed consumption, while she was utterly unaware of her danger, had excited his deepest interest. Merry, buoyant, well disposed towards every one and every thing, except the subject of religion; her dislike or fixed aversion to whichwent beyond all bounds. The tract was written, but before it was published he had lost all traces of her.

Most conspicuous during this journey was his untiring industry combined with the variety of his pursuits, no one of which seemed to interfere with another. The industrious botanist, and equally industrious artist, yet found leisure for careful reading, and the use of the pen. Every moment had its occupation; the rainy days were devoted to literary work or the finishing of sketches, broken by a quiet game of chess. While at Bowness Mr. Roby enjoyed one high gratification, a few details of which, though given in a private letter, may be inserted without apology, as the subject is of general interest.

"Saturday, Sept. 30th.

"We have seen Wordsworth to-day. As we accompanied friends of my husband's (the Rev. J. H. and Mrs. Addison, of Birthwaite Abbey) who happened to owe Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth a morning visit, we did not feel intruders. As usual the day was brilliant, we had a delightful row up the lake, the trees on the islands had the rich scarlet and russet tints of autumn, while those on the shore still retained their soft green, making the edges of the lake perfectly verdant. A flight of snow that fell yesterday covered the tops of the mountains which came out in the full sunshine, pure white against the brightest of blue skies. Past the lake, we rowed up the Rotha as far as it is practicable, and there leaving the boats,—cloaks as well—moored to the margin of the stream, we took a beautiful path, through private grounds, on the left of the river, passing Fox How, from whence I bring you an ivy relic, to Rydal Mount.Mr.Wordsworth,(as of course he is here,) was just sitting down to dinner; he came out and begged us to stay in the drawing-room, or in the grounds if we preferred it, till dinner was over. We chose to stroll about, which gave time for a sketch. After a short time, Mr. Wordsworth came and took us into the drawing-room to see Mrs. W. He was not so tall as I had expected, probably the effect of years; his voice somewhat indistinct, gave indications of old age, not so his ideas or expressions. The lower part of his face is deeply furrowed; but when sitting with his back to the light, animated in conversation, every thing is lost in its glowing expression, except his noble expanse of forehead. He chatted away on literary matters with my husband, evidently with hearty pleasure. They talked of a distinguished living writer; of his style, Mr. Wordsworth remarked, that every sentence seemed finished by itself, which was never the case with our best writers—that reviewing had an injurious effect on the style of a literary man, the reviewer has ever to be saying something that will tell, every sentence must be striking."Allusion was made to a new neighbour; Wordsworth observed that she was clever, but apt to be imposed on; he confessed that on the whole, he was sorry she had come there, on account of her habit of not going to a place of worship: the example might do no harm in London, Manchester, and those large places, where people did not know their next-door neighbour, but here it was different, and no good she could do would be equal to the harm of her example; 'but,' he added, 'I like her benevolence, and forgive many things for that.' One other remark he made must not be forgotten; speaking of a writer whom he considered not a safe guide on account of his prejudices, he said, 'He is so prejudiced he does not know when he lies.'"Altogether the visit was one of high delight. There was so much more enthusiasm about him, than from the philosophiccast of his poems I had expected. The genial glow of his manner, the warmth of his shake of hands at parting, and especially the quick pleasure with which he turned round to his wife whenever she made a remark, and the affectionate tone in which, when he did not catch it, he would inquire, 'What did you say, Mary'? quite won my heart. He impressed us, too, as a Christian living in obedience to, and communion with Heaven. His personal character seemed to come out with a completeness one would hardly have believed possible in our interview. I shall understand and love all he has written, the better for this visit."

"Allusion was made to a new neighbour; Wordsworth observed that she was clever, but apt to be imposed on; he confessed that on the whole, he was sorry she had come there, on account of her habit of not going to a place of worship: the example might do no harm in London, Manchester, and those large places, where people did not know their next-door neighbour, but here it was different, and no good she could do would be equal to the harm of her example; 'but,' he added, 'I like her benevolence, and forgive many things for that.' One other remark he made must not be forgotten; speaking of a writer whom he considered not a safe guide on account of his prejudices, he said, 'He is so prejudiced he does not know when he lies.'

"Altogether the visit was one of high delight. There was so much more enthusiasm about him, than from the philosophiccast of his poems I had expected. The genial glow of his manner, the warmth of his shake of hands at parting, and especially the quick pleasure with which he turned round to his wife whenever she made a remark, and the affectionate tone in which, when he did not catch it, he would inquire, 'What did you say, Mary'? quite won my heart. He impressed us, too, as a Christian living in obedience to, and communion with Heaven. His personal character seemed to come out with a completeness one would hardly have believed possible in our interview. I shall understand and love all he has written, the better for this visit."

Returning homewards, Mr. Roby made several visits among his family and friends. Little was it thought when one gratification and another were deferred owing to the lateness of the season till thenextvisit, that this was thelast. The cordiality and pleasure with which he was welcomed, left a delightful recollection of Lancashire and Yorkshire hospitality. The country had not yet lost all its beauty, the rich Autumn tints of October were still lingering on the Bolton Woods: the Wharfe gave forth his peculiar music as he rushed along his rocky bed in the open meadow, or dashed madly over the fearful Strid, till even those accustomed to gaze drew back from the fascination. One day was devoted to York, the metropolis of his native North. His familiarity with the remains of antiquity so pre-eminently abounding in that city, and his enthusiasm equal to his knowledge, rendered him one of the best of Ciceroni. Ever vivid will be the impressions of that day; the grandeur ofthe Minster, as the South Front, with its beautiful marygold window comes suddenly into view at the end of the old narrow street; the solemnity which seemed to pervade the very atmosphere within; the seven sisters memorialized in those unique chaste lights which bear their name—and never was the light of Heaven intercepted by aught so soft, so subdued, so meet for a Temple of the Most High, with no distraction from higher thought in its beauty—and the incomparable west windows, where the tracery is so light, and the colouring so gorgeous, that it seems as if the stone work were melting into gems. And how was all that glory heightened as it was reflected back from his spirit, the true home of the beauty which the material can only symbolize.

The Red Tower, the scene of one of his published tales; the site of the Roman Prætorium, the scene of another; the unrivalled Museum gardens, with their Roman and Gothic remains, the Multangular Tower and St. Mary's Abbey, the city walls, &c., &c., all that could be seen in one day, by the help of good walking, and unflagging spirits, contributed to our enjoyment. What could not be brought in, was left for future years, so fondly reckoned on, when a stay of weeks or months in the city was to allow all its recesses to be explored, and the spirit of the place to be thoroughly imbibed. Yet beyond all comparison with the other pleasures of the day, great as they were, was the enjoyment in a manner created by his intensedelight in the present, and in the plans for the future;—yet of that future "if the Master will," was ever on his lips. The hour that came "as a thief in the night," found him watching.

By Christmas, Mr. Roby had settled down at Malvern, and commenced his winter's work. His habit was to devote the first hour or half hour after breakfast, to religious reading, selecting such works as bore on personal or devotional, rather than on theoretic or polemical subjects. Among the last he read, were some new favorites:—Hodge's "Way of Life," and his "Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans;" Alleine's "Heaven Opened," and Sheppard's "Devotional Thoughts." "Milner's Sermons," which had long held the highest place in his estimation, were frequently in hand. The rest of the forenoon was given to literary occupation, as were the evenings when not spent in society. The only interruption to this quiet course of life, was the delivery of his Lectures on Botany; (which had been given two months previously at Northampton,) before the Worcestershire Natural History Society, in January, 1850. This would scarcely be worthy of mention, were it not for a circumstance which arose out of the engagement. While arranging the diagrams preparatory to the delivery of the last lecture, Mr. Roby incautiously stepped too near the back of the platform, which was protected only by a curtain, his left foot slipped, and the right leg was bent back from the knee on which the whole weight of the body was consequentlythrown. He had, however, the self-command to go through the lecture without in the least betraying what he suffered, except by the lameness involuntarily shown when he had occasion to move in order to point out the different illustrations; but the agony he endured was intense, and he reached home sick and faint from its long continuance. His power of bearing pain often excited surprise and admiration in those who witnessed it, so complete in his case was the "power of the soul over the body." It was mental, not bodily, anguish that he dreaded. Mr. Roby never quite recovered from the effects of this accident, though, contrary to the expectation of those who were acquainted with the extent of the injury, by the time he left Malvern in June, they were not perceptible in his walk. The muscles, however, had not fully regained their play, the act of kneeling was difficult and painful; mounting gaps and fences in his botanical rambles still more so; he was ever fearful of a stray stone, feeling that a trifle might occasion a fall: and this, it is apprehended, must have increased his peril on the awful morning of the 18th of June.

In spite of pain, he worked hard during the winter and spring. He finished a series of papers, containing a popular introduction to Botany; wrote two reviews, one for the Literary Gazette on Dr. Addison's recent work on Consumption; the other, for Hogg's Weekly Instructor, on a work which had just appeared by the author of "Dr. Hookwell," entitled "Dr. Johnson, hisReligious Life and Death." But his principal occupation was the composition of a series of tales, intended to illustrate the influence of Christianity in successive periods. At this he laboured incessantly. The consecration of his talents in any way their nature admitted to the service ofHimwhom with George Herbert he delighted to call "My Master," was the mainspring of his untiring energy. And when only once the voice of affection suggested that he was working too hard, he replied, as though with a presentiment of the sudden coming on of night to him, to the effect that he had not long to work, adding, "I must not sit still and see the stream run by." He prepared six of the tales (deferring one for the fourth century till he had received a copy of a work which a friend had promised on the Druidical Worship), thus bringing the series down to the close of the seventh century, when superstitious rites and observances began to overspread Christendom. At the end of the closing tale he glances at the gathering darkness, and thus concludes with the last words he ever wrote for the press:—"In our next we shall trace some of those mysterious dispensations,—inscrutable to us, but doubtless among the 'all things' which work together for good, and 'for the furtherance of his gospel.'" It is not surprising that these words, little noticed when first listened to, on the completion of the story, should, when seen again a few weeks after the sad catastrophe, seem like words of comfort which affection had unconsciously traced against the day ofneed. Little more was accomplished besides sketching out future occupation for the pen in old and new directions. An instance of the latter now vividly recurs to mind: seeing Tieck's Phantasien one morning on a friend's table, he borrowed it, to ascertain if a translation of the tales would suit a purpose he had in view, and to try how two minds could work together. The experiment was perfectly successful. Very slightly acquainted with the language himself, the tale was read off to him in what English, or sometimes half Germanized English, was at command: the rough-hewn thought was instantly apprehended in all its beauty and meaning by the listener, and given back, in his own polished style, rather "a transfusion than translation." The pleasure was unexpectedly cut short in the midst of a tale, after the second or third evening, and it was with a feeling, even then recognised as akin to foreboding, that the unfinished volume was returned to the friend whose sudden departure from Malvern thus put an end to the delightful occupation.

As the spring advanced, and the effects of the accident were so much diminished as to allow of the free exercise of walking, Mr. Roby renewed his botanical rambles, generally in the society of friends; and very pleasant were these little parties that wound over the hill-top or through the woody lanes and green meadows of Herefordshire, in search of plants to supply his own and his friends' desiderata, or those of the London Botanical Society, of which he was a member. And, quick as washis eye for rare plants, it caught even more quickly those beautiful effects on the landscape which the changeful skies of spring so often produce, making a perfect picture of an old farm-stead a broken foreground, contrasting with the soft retiring distance or the gently swelling slopes, where beneath the trees scarcely yet in leaf the wind flowers bowed as the breeze passed over them.

Perhaps the crowning botanical pleasure of the season was his lighting upon the beautifulPinguicula vulgaris(common Butterwort) in a spongy place on the hill. He seemed the very personification of happiness, as he hastened home, with buoyant step and sparkling eye, to one whose desire to see, equalled his own to show, this pride of our bogs. Often in the preceding autumn at the Lakes had the pale green star-like tuft of leaves called forth eloquent praises of its beauty, and corresponding regrets that the time of its flowering was over for the season. The Lancashire Asphodel was the one other flower which he most regretted not being able to show, as its withered spikes indicated again and again where it had bloomed.

Spring was deepening into summer, when Mr. Roby made arrangements for a journey into Scotland. Furnished, through the kindness of a friend, with introductions to the best society in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, with the prospect of the meeting of the British Association, and the anticipation of renewing mountain rambles, he looked forward to the summer with raised expectations.

In approaching the last few hours the writer feels the alternative lies between making the slightest possible reference to them, or casting herself on the reader's sympathy and indulgence, and using details which were written three years since, with near friends, rather than the public, before her mind. Thrown suddenly into circumstances where the sway of grief was broken by constantly recurring necessity for thought and action, the mind was excited and over-strained to incessant exertion rather than stunned, and under the prolonged excitement, it could go again over scenes which it is now too much a coward to encounter. She, therefore, hopes there is no error in adopting the course now pursued, and embodying the private MS. in the general narrative.

We left Malvern for Egremont June 7th. The ten days passed there were occupied with the interests of the two boys whom their father was anxious to see set out in life. When he came in tired with a long morning spent in Liverpool, after a few moments' rest, he would turn to a sketch that had been in progress during his absence, and, fatigue all vanishing, would call for pencil and colours, take his seat at the window, and go on with the drawing. It was a great favourite of his. Of all the pleasures with which life was replete, none delighted him more than this, both working on the same picture, without betraying by any want of unity in the design or harmony in the colouring, that two minds had been engaged.That drawingalas!which he fondly called "the best yet," lies in the ill-fated wreck.

Pleasant, and yet painful, are the memoirs of evening rambles along the beach watching the vessels as they came and went. One elegant yacht, which his artist eye detected among the numerous craft, is well remembered: he fixed her form in his mind, and destined her for "the drawing"—one of the many unfulfilled purposes.

The last sabbath came, and it was a day of peace. We worshippedGodtogether; that hymn of Dr. Watts', so great a favourite of his from its touching contrasts,—

"Give me the wings of Faith to rise," &c.

opened the last service. As we walked home in the evening we felt mentally invigorated: he seemed more than ever penetrated with a sense of consecration to the service ofGod, and we communed of how, in our coming sojourn amid new scenes, He might best be served. "He will make it plain, He will point out our work for us," was my beloved husband's closing remark.

At three o'clock p.m. on Monday 17th June we embarked on board the steamer Orion for Scotland, hoping to reach Glasgow by ten, and Edinburgh by one o'clock the next day. Nothing could be calmer than the sea, and we walked for hours on the deck, watching any vessel that came in sight, and catching at intervals distant glimpses of the coast. Our favourite spot was a narrow ledge at the stern immediately behind the wheel. It just gave us footing, and enabled us to look over and watch the track left by the vessel as she cutrapidly through the waves. The white foam, the various shades of pale green, darkening as we seemed to look down into the depths of the ocean, recalled descriptions of the glaciers, and the correctness of the supposed resemblance my husband confirmed from his own recollections.

Evening wore on—we took our last meal together on deck. The Isle of Man came in sight; a sketch was taken for his approbation; and the bright smile that rewarded it is sunshine even now. All recollections of him are happy: the animation and hope with which he repeatedly expressed his belief that his daughter's health, which was not firm, would be completely established by the voyage; the quiet satisfaction of his manner as we sat enjoying the present, sometimes glancing forward to the morrow, all bespoke happiness. Indeed, all the characteristics of a happy life seemed to meet in those few hours. There was the earnestness and the tenderness of affection: there was, too, its playfulness. There was the thought of still holier things: strong was the wish he expressed that we could have been at the lowly meeting for prayer, which was announced the night before for that evening. There was the love and admiration of nature, as the glories of sunset deepened behind the Manx mountains, and from his post of observation he again and again, in his own earnest and animated manner, called me to his side.

Chess—that recreation which seemed ever to have the effect on his mind which exercise out of doors has on thejaded 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 tohis 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 groundabove 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 tolook 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 wewere 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 risingand 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 feltwewere restored to life. Dear Lilla began to indulge hope that her papa was saved too; but I felt he was withGod, 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 itthus! 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 werethirsty, and ye gave us drink, we werestrangers, and ye took us in; naked, and ye clothed us; we weresick, 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.Therenow 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 tothee—thouart 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 immortallife; 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 herslightest 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 thevoiceof 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, buthewas 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'sSonnets.

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 livingforms 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'sSelf-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 generousdisposition, 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 verywishto 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 beenpresent, 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 truestimulants 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,

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