THE LITERARY LIFE AND CHARACTER
OF
JOHN ROBY.
SKETCH,
&c, &c.
When an author's name is chiefly known by a work connected with any particular locality, our natural expectations are gratified in finding that personal or family associations drew his attention to the subject. This was the case with the author of "The Traditions of Lancashire." Born in a neighbourhood where the faint legends of the olden time were yet floating, he himself belonged to the district whose memorials he perpetuated. He was attached to his native county, proud of her wild scenery, of her old historic associations, and of the energetic, well-defined character of her sons. His family name was not unknown in her annals. One of his ancestors, Captain Roby, who was born in an old mansion, long since pulled down, in the township of Roby, near Liverpool, was distinguished by his courage and gallant conduct during the civil wars of the seventeenth century, at the time when the north was the scene of operations.
John Roby was born at Wigan, the 5th of January 1793. From his father, Nehemiah Roby, who was for many years master of the grammar-school at Haigh, he inherited a fine constitution and unbending principles of honour and integrity. From the family of his mother, Mary Aspull, he derived the quick impressible temperament of genius and that love of humour which so conspicuously marks the Lancashire character.
Destitute of home companions of his own age, being by many years the youngest of the family, he often suffered from an oppressive sense of loneliness. One of his strongest characteristics was an intense yearning for sympathy, however concealed in after-life, from the general eye, by the exuberance of his natural spirits. This led him to seek companionship with inanimate things, which he invested with a sympathetic existence. A reflected light proceeding from the surface of water in a butt at the back of the house, which frequently played on the upper wall of the staircase, was one of these friendly objects. Ignorant of the cause, he would watch for its coming, and sit for hours in communion with the strange and beautiful appearance. It was to him a fair and mysterious visitant, who came in pure benevolence to cheer his solitude. Indicative of the dramatic bent of his mind was another of his resources. He was accustomed to cut out little paper figures of men and women, which he would carry to bed and place under his pillow. As soon as the light was withdrawn he delighted himself in conversations with his paper friends, losing his sense of loneliness in their ideal companionship.