ROSCOE
by Washington Irving
ROSCOE
- In the service of mankind to be
A guardian god below; still to employ
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims,
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd,And make us shine for ever- that is life.
THOMSON.
ONE of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liverpool isthe Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and judicious plan; itcontains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and is the greatliterary resort of the place. Go there at what hour you may, you aresure to find it filled with grave-looking personages, deeplyabsorbed in the study of newspapers.
As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention wasattracted to a person just entering the room. He was advanced in life,tall, and of a form that might once have been commanding, but it was alittle bowed by time- perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman style ofcountenance; a head that would have pleased a painter; and though someslight furrows on his brow showed that wasting thought had been busythere, yet his eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul.
There was something in his whole appearance that indicated a beingof a different order from the bustling race around him.
I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Roscoe. I drewback with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, then, was anauthor of celebrity; this was one of those men, whose voices have goneforth to the ends of the earth; with whose minds I have communedeven in the solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in ourcountry, to know European writers only by their works, we cannotconceive of them, as of other men, engrossed by trivial or sordidpursuits, and jostling with the crowd of common minds in the dustypaths of life. They pass before our imaginations like superior beings,radiant with the emanations of their genius, and surrounded by ahalo of literary glory.
To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici, minglingamong the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical ideas;but it is from the very circumstances and situation in which he hasbeen placed, that Mr. Roscoe derives his highest claims to admiration.
It is interesting to notice how some minds seem almost to createthemselves, springing up under every disadvantage, and working theirsolitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Natureseems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with whichit would rear legitimate dulness to maturity; and to glory in thevigor and luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seedsof genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stonyplaces of the world, and some be choked by the thorns and bramblesof early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even inthe clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, andspread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation.
Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place apparentlyungenial to the growth of literary talent; in the very market-place oftrade; without fortune, family connections, or patronage;self-prompted, self-sustained, and almost self-taught, he hasconquered every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, and, havingbecome one of the ornaments of the nation, has turned the wholeforce of his talents and influence to advance and embellish his nativetown.
Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given himthe greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particularly to pointhim out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his literary merits, he isbut one among the many distinguished authors of this intellectualnation. They, however, in general, live but for their own fame, ortheir own pleasures. Their private history presents no lesson to theworld, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty andinconsistency. At best, they are prone to steal away from the bustleand commonplace of busy existence; to indulge in the selfishness oflettered ease, and to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusiveenjoyment.
Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the accordedprivileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden ofthought, nor elysium of fancy; but has gone forth into the highwaysand thoroughfares of life; he has planted bowers by the way-side,for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and has openedpure fountains, where the laboring man may turn aside from the dustand heat of the day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge.
There is a "daily beauty in his life," on which mankind may meditateand grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, becauseinimitable, example of excellence; but presents a picture of active,yet simple and imitable virtues, which are within every man's reach,but which, unfortunately, are not exercised by many, or this worldwould be a paradise.
But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of thecitizens of our young and busy country, where literature and theelegant arts must grow up side by side with the coarser plants ofdaily necessity; and must depend for their culture, not on theexclusive devotion of time and wealth, nor the quickening rays oftitled patronage, but on hours and seasons snatched from the pursuitof worldly interests, by intelligent and public-spirited individuals.
