His facility of versification one may almost be tempted to regret. He would have written better, and perhaps oftener, had he gone to it as a more severe task—yet there are some lines of such exquisite music and sentiment, the inspiration of the moment, in his occasional pieces, which no gathering up of his powers could have enabled him to reach. The ballads in the traditions afford illustrations of this remark.
Mr. Roby's skill as a draughtsman was often the admiration of his friends. His landscape drawings from nature even when they are faithful as portraits are always pictures. His fondness for investigation, the "Inquisitive wants to know" of childhood aided him here. He was never satisfied until he had found out the reason why an object takes a known appearance under given circumstances, or why certain processes or touches, transfer certain effects. The writer recollects his mentioning a conversation with the late B. R. Haydon in which the point under discussion was, why when an object is presented against the sky, for example the belly of a horse standing on an eminence, the sky where it approaches the object, though in point of fact as blue there as in any other part, should not be so represented, but in a dim grey, almost neutral tint. (The reader will at once perceive, that the blue sky and black horse would be a tea-tray painting.) The discussion terminated without any satisfactory result, but Mr. Roby could not rest till he had found the true reason in the simple fact, that the eye suiting its focus to the distance of the object to which it is directed, can not distinctly see, at the same time, objects at different distances. When the focus was right for the horse, it would only perceive the sky indistinctly, or directed to the sky, the retina would not receive so distinct an image of the horse. Hence if both were represented exactly as they are in themselves, instead of as they are seen in combination, a harsh, unnatural, and therefore false picture would be the result.
His conversation on art was rich in such remarks. A lady who drew in water colours from nature in a superior style observed to the writer, that she had gained more valuable information from Mr. Roby than from any of the best masters of whom she had been in the habit of taking lessons: he had put her into possession of principles. Another friend, who was in raptures with Ruskin's "Modern Painters," described it as "like hearing Mr. Roby talk." And here again, in art as in science, he delighted to seek out those general principles, which, common to all, constitute the oneness of Art, and to trace their relation to the human mind.
To his ardent admiration of nature reference has already been made. That term but partially conveys an idea of his quick and vivid perception of beauty under whatever form it appeared, and of the intense pleasure, one might almost say happiness, of which he was susceptible from it. His spirit seemed to feed upon it as Schiller's Pegasus on the breath of flowers. He would stand entranced before a beautiful object or hang over it as if by some spell he could draw its beauty into his own soul. It seemed as though for pleasure or suffering his mind was in close contact with the spirit of outward things. Nor was this high gratification, a thing of rare occurrence. One of Hogarth's lines of Beauty, so abundantly scattered through his world who has eyes to see them, sufficed. He possessed too in a high degree the power of imparting to others the pleasure he thus enjoyed. His enthusiasm caught by sympathy communicated in part to his companions the vividness of his own impressions. A friend, herself most highly gifted, in writing of him says, "What true pleasure I feel in recalling the beauties and excellencies of his character, in tracing through all his gifts, the upward tendency of his mind which ever looked
'From Nature up to Nature's God,'
which sought His glory in all the pursuits of science—not earthly but heavenly pursuits to him—a mind to which was not denied the power to gaze along any one of those shining paths, which unite our mortal with our immortal nature, to which music, and poetry, and art and science opened their divinest treasures, fitting his nature for the immortal joys they whisper of here!"
It has been occasionally regretted that his powers were directed to so many objects instead of being concentrated, so as to secure higher excellence in one department. And truly were this short life all man's existence, the end of his progress, and "earthly immortality" the only "life beyond this," then it might be to be deplored, if aught would be worth deploring. But regret vanishes when we consider that in this case there were only so many more starting points, for the soul in her higher state of existence, already made out in this life.
Talents so versatile, it may be believed rendered their possessor the ornament of general society. They were at the same time combined with exterior advantages, graceful movement resulting from a well-proportioned and finely-moulded form, elegant manner, so much vivacity, and withal so much gentleness—the graceful courtesies of life well became him. His conversational powers were seldom equalled. He had always the right word at command whatever might be the topic, while the ever-varying tones of his musical voice lent additional force to every sentiment whether mirthful or pathetic. Information, anecdote, humour were by turns elicited. It was easy, as it was pleasant, to converse with him; he never misapprehended; he seemed to know what others were going to say, their ideas were his, and the prompt rejoinder made, by a kind of social electricity. Conversation never flagged when he was present; a sullen silence was his abhorrence; equally so, a monotonous abuse of the weather, roads, &c. His never-failing humour, and love of pleasantry or kind-hearted banter, supplied the place of Rousseau's expedient of weaving lace-strings, when in company where it was difficult, if not impossible to maintain conversation that would interest the whole party. If occasionally his repartees gave offence, no one was more ready to apologise or to atone to any feeling that had been wounded. In truth, nothing was farther from his intention than giving pain, but his love of humour once excited, he did not pause to look from another's point of view. It was as impossible for him to refrain from enjoying a joke if it told against himself, as if it bore on another—in fact, if it were really a good one, the being pointed against himself seemed rather to enhance the piquancy. So conscious was he of the absence of any ill-natured feeling, that it was difficult for him to realize how any one could be hurt by those sallies which, coming from another, he would perfectly understand. A lady who was often the subject of his sportive railleries, observed, that no one who saw the kind expression of his eye could feel wounded. It was after a time of close mental application that his sportive qualities came out the most strongly; it seemed to be a necessary relief, and the rebound involved mirthfulness in many of its innocent forms. Practical jokes he never allowed either in himself or others; nor did his humour ever degenerate into mimicry, or amusement at the expense of the absent; delicacy of feeling forbad that. A sharp contest of wits such as he designated "cut and come again" was his great delight. D'Israeli the elder remarks, "One peculiar trait in the conversation of men of genius which has often injured them, when the listeners were not intimately acquainted with the man, are certain sports of a vacant mind, a sudden impulse to throw out opinions and take views of things in some humour of the moment." Something akin to this Mr. Roby occasionally indulged in, if he perceived that any one had formed a false idea of his character, which was not unfrequently the case, he would find a passing diversion in helping on the mistake. How this comported with that yearning for sympathy, which was one of the master passions of his nature, it is not difficult to explain. Finding out by intuition where he was not understood, he sought in the amusement of watching the effect of the character thus thrust upon him, on those who had given it, a refuge from the pain which the discovery of the utter absence of sympathy could not but inflict. Afford him but a ray of this coveted sympathy, and you made his happiness, and your own by reflection. Intercourse with the world had taught him how rarely the finer feelings or higher sentiments are responded to, and a shrinking from their exposure in his own case led him to conceal them under the light robe of pleasantry. Hence he was sometimes suspected of want of earnestness by those who, as D'Israeli remarks, "were not intimately acquainted with the man."
His fund of general information contributed to the charm of his conversational powers, for with him knowledge was as ready to hand as it was various. It seemed to spring spontaneously at the sight of any thing with which it could be associated. Memory while she held her treasures with a firm hand, generously shared them with the companion of the walk or the acquaintance of the social hour. At the same time there was no assumption, no affectation of superiority in his manner: it was perfectly natural and simple.
Possessing great musical talent, a fine ear, and the power of modulating his voice so as to blend with others, and the still rarer gift of composing a part extempore to any melody, his assistance was sought as a valuable acquisition in social music. Before his illness his whistle was singularly rich, and he frequently used it as an accompaniment. The writer never heard it; but a gentleman referring to an evening spent in his society many years since, thus describes it, "I never heard human whistle so clear, so distinct, and brilliant: it was like a flute."[F]