Though constituting what is denominated light literature, much careful research was required in the composition of the tales. The aspect of the country in those distant times, the costume and customs of the day, were particulars in which he was scrupulously exact. To secure this truthfulness of detail, long investigations were often needed, even where perhaps they would be little suspected: but always confident that he should succeed at last, he spared no pains in ascertaining the most minute particular, and this very persuasion of success contributed to secure it. By some means or other he invariably commanded the information in due time. Amusing instances of this sometimes occurred. Once, when out of the reach of any work of reference, he was completely at fault for the blazonry of a particular banner, used five hundred years ago. He did not despair, but left the matter in blank, expecting—though he would have been puzzled to tell whence—the wished-for information would be forthcoming. And so it was: casually looking at a review, it so happened that the very thing he wanted was described with more than ordinary minuteness.
His inexhaustible creative power is conspicuous; about two hundred different characters are introduced, no one of whom reminds the reader of another, nor is invention wanting for abundant diversity of incident and adventure, heroic and comic. A gentleman who had been reading the Traditions for the first time, recently remarked, that for invention he scarcely knew any writer Mr. Roby's equal. It is perhaps worthy of notice, that all the characters are creations, not one an idealized portrait.
Another charm is the fine mould in which his heroines are cast. There is a delicacy, a nobility, or high-minded spirit of self-sacrifice about the more prominent, which, while leaving the characters perfectly distinct, sustains throughout a high ideal of woman. Not one bad character figures as a woman; the only approach to such is in tales of witchcraft, where, indeed, the Arch Evil One, rather than his poor victim, is the criminal, as though he would not even bring the idea of evil athwart the favourite vision of his imagination. It may be deemed not adhering to nature, thus to omit an object she, alas! too often presents; but who would blame the artist for the faultless beauty of his creations? The sculptor may display his skill, by representing the contortions of deformity, but not his highest ideal; may show how clever a copyist with the chisel he can be, but not how deeply he has drunk of the inspiration common to all art, how near he has approached to the Fountain of all Beauty. The clearness of his conceptions, and the way in which he threw himself into his characters, are evinced by the dramatic action of even the shortest story. While writing he appeared actually to feel as he would have done, had he been in the situations he described; he felt the perplexity, the sense of danger, and the exultation of escape; for the time he seemed to have a double life, at once sharing the existence of his hero, and sympathizing as a spectator. It was in a tone that he would have used, had she been a living being, that he said of one of his heroines, under very peculiar circumstances of danger[C], "I could not let her perish." His plan was to commence his tale, bring his characters into strange or perilous situations, realize their danger in its full extent, without the slightest idea of how he should extricate them; and then, when the means of escape presented themselves to his imagination, he would work on, delighted with the suggestion, till to his great regret the tale was finished. He knew when to leave off, but it cost him something to do so; it was like parting company with friends.
The short vivid descriptions of scenery scattered throughout, are not often equalled. By a few strokes of the pen, not only a perfect picture of the permanent objects of a locality is placed before the reader's eye, but also the temporary lights and shadows which are thrown on the landscape by the ever-shifting skies; the very feeling of the air does not escape him. Each tale is in fact a cabinet picture, combining history and landscape. In the foreground the traditionary group appears in vivid action; beyond, a far-receding distance, faint in the noon-tide haze, or perchance a wood, with its broad shadows, and burst of sunlight across the next glade. An artist might paint from his descriptions. In the case of one of the most effective engravings, that of Rivington Pike, the drawing was made after the artist had read the tale; the accessories of light and shade, and in the original, of colour also, doubtless owe something of their character to this circumstance.
In his power of depicting the supernatural, Mr. Roby stands pre-eminent; and this not only in little weird touches, that come upon the reader he knows not how, waking a chord within which makes him feel that he has kindred with mysteries more than the eye sees, or the ear hears—but in long-sustained intercourse with beings who people the unseen world, and who seem at certain times, and in certain places, to press upon mortal spirits even to recognition, more, even to hallowed or unhallowed communion. As if there were, time and space concurring, points of juncture for the two worlds. The ease with which he carries his reader along with him, even in spite of the anti-spiritual prejudices of the present age, cannot be better exemplified than in the tale to which reference has just been made, Rivington Pike, which has been said by a German reviewer to be, "the only authentic tale of demoniacal possession the English have." The composition of the story had a powerful effect on the writer himself. He sat up writing longer than usual after the rest of the family had retired. It was midnight when he had finished; and so completely had the scenes he had been describing, taken possession of his own mind, that he dared not stir from his seat, nor did he, till Mrs. Roby, surprised at his remaining down stairs so long after his accustomed time, entered the room; the sight of a familiar face broke the spell, and dissipated the visionary alarm.
The purity of the morality is such as befits a Christian writer, and there is throughout the work a spirit of reverence for things sacred, and of deference to the supreme source of illumination, which is not always to be found in our lighter literature. The reader, charmed and delighted, is carried away from ordinary scenes into a world of romance. Nevertheless in that ideal land he finds the same laws of morality which govern his daily life—the same God looked up to, as the disposer of all things, the Father at once to be loved and obeyed; and he may go back to his duties in common life, without one moral idea having been deranged, or one principle disturbed.
It was at one time Mr. Roby's intention to follow up the "Traditions of Lancashire" with similar illustrations of the early history of the county of York. Subjects were chosen, and a few tales written, which appeared in Blackwood's and Frazer's magazines. One, though not of this series, which was published in Frazer, February 1837, under the title of "The Smuggler's Daughter," was proposed to be dramatised. The parts were cast, Mrs. Yates or Mrs. Keeley was to have taken that of the heroine, and Mr. Buckstone and Mr. O. Smith were to have engaged in others. From the correspondence on the subject, it appears that Mr. Buckstone's attention being demanded by other and rather perplexing affairs, the representation of the "Smuggler's Daughter" was delayed till after the appearance of the story in the Magazine, and at last suffered to fall to the ground.
A book containing sketches of the different localities he intended to illustrate, and memoranda of the traditions attached to them, made during excursions into Yorkshire for this purpose, show the spirit with which he entered on his task, and it is much to be regretted that anything should have been allowed to set it aside. About this time he commenced the study of botany in good earnest. In the same book are notes of a first botanical tour, a few extracts from which may not be uninteresting: they are certainly characteristic. While pursuing the details of science, he was in no danger of falling under the poet's malediction on him,
"Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes."
They appear to have been written on the spot, whenever any fresh object presented itself.