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 beautiful Epipactis 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-sought Listera 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 unearthly beauty 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 lost
In 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 one long holiday of enjoyment, it was also a period of earnest work.
"Like as a star,
That maketh not haste
And taketh not rest,"
he
"Was ever fulfilling
His God-given hest."