Mr. Roby first appeared before the world as a poet. In 1815 he published "Sir Bertram, a poem in six cantos." Elegant and melodious versification, exquisite word-painting, and a marked tendency to the use of the supernatural, are its chief characteristics. Though not published before, there is every reason to believe it was composed some time previously, during the happy season of hopeful, if not formally requited, love. Here are no traces to be found of that one sorrow. It was the pouring forth of song from a poetic spirit, that as yet knew not the power of the minor key. Another poem quickly followed, entitled "Lorenzo, a tale of Redemption." It met with a limited sale: the versification was heavy, unlike anything else he ever wrote, and the subject was unsuited to his powers. The now venerable poet Montgomery, who had just published his own "Greenland," gave the young author the benefit of his judicious criticism, a kindness difficult to perform; but, judging by a letter from him of the date of July, 1817, he knew well how to combine candour and courtesy. The subsequent productions of his disciple proved that his valuable suggestions were not thrown away.
In 1816 Mr. Roby married Ann, the youngest daughter of James and Dorothy Bealey, of Derrikens near Blackburn. Of her many excellencies he ever spoke in the highest terms, and she must have been, from the testimony of all who had the pleasure of knowing her, as well as from that of her husband, one of the best and gentlest of women, the most affectionate and anxious of mothers. They had nine children, three of whom died in their infancy.
"The Duke of Mantua," a tragedy, which appeared in 1823, was Mr. Roby's next publication. It went through three or four editions in a short time, and was pronounced by the critics, "worthy of a place among our best closet plays." It has been long out of print, and is included in the present volume.
In the course of the summer, he made an excursion in Scotland. He visited "the bonnie braes of Yarrow," in company with Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. His account of the day so pleasantly spent, is a good specimen of his early prose style:—
I went with Hogg the other morning on a 'Voyage pittoresque' up the Yarrow. It was a delicious Claude-looking day—the sky filled with a warm hazy brightness. Every cloud stole as softly up the firmament, as if some creature 'of the immaterial air' melting into the blue ether. None of those sudden lights—those breaks through a hard and almost impenetrable pile of clouds—an Apennine or Andes poised in the middle air, dividing the landscape into vast enclosures—masses of shadow, deep, awful, and abrupt—or moving patches, of a wild and unnatural brightness.
"We set out from Selkirk pretty early, intending to reach St. Mary's before noon. We loitered lazily up the stream, imbibing the keen freshness of the morning. The mists were just rolling from the green hills, when, on passing the bridge, we turned to our left, entering upon the beautiful road, leading through the Duke of Buccleugh's grounds, to Altrieve and St. Mary's Loch. The Yarrow and the Ettrick unite about two miles above Selkirk. Following the course of the former, we soon spied the ruins of Newark Castle, the scene of Sir Walter's 'Lay of the Last Minstrel.' It is a massive square tower, now unroofed, surrounded by an outward wall, and defended by round flanking turrets. During the minority of the present Duke, the castle was dilapidated; the wooden beams, and such stones as could be removed, were employed in building a miserable farm-house in its vicinity.
"I felt wishful to obtain a closer inspection of this fine old specimen of border antiquity; more especially on learning that Mungo Park—born at Foulshiels, a small farm within a stone's throw of the castle—had left his autograph somewhere within its walls. We soon procured admittance, and on climbing the ruined staircase, entered a large roofless apartment on the second story, where, sure enough, we found, without much trouble, the name of our enterprising, but unfortunate, countryman, written, two or three times, in a large clerk-like hand with red chalk. Hogg seemed as well pleased as if he had found a 'poss,' and rummaged his galligaskins for a hideous bit of scrawl, that he had several times brought forth from its dark den, during our journey, when any thing particularly inspiring had urged its momentary liberation. A poem perhaps, another exquisite 'Kilmeny' or 'Mary Lee' in embryo, undergoing its appointed period of incubation. I made no inquiries, but continued undisturbed in the great business of exploration. In a short time I heard him bundling down the steps, to take a morning's gossip with the keeper. It was not long ere I found myself amply repaid for any sense of deprivation I might have endured, by discovering another flourish with the identical red chalk, and evidently by the same hand. It was a stanza—four lines of poetry by Mungo Park!—If thou hast any touch of feeling—any mark of kindred—any spark of rarer sympathy—imagine, if thou canst, my delight,—the fervour, the intensity of my rapture. They fixed indelibly, and almost involuntarily on my memory;—there they now exist, and probably will continue until every faculty, every function, be obliterated.
"The following is a true copy, spelling and all. The orthography of poor Park was not of the purest kind:—
'Within these walls where obscene birds of night
Whistle and shriek alternate round,
Soft music floted once, whilst with delight
The distant shepherd caught the dying sound.'
"I do not think they show marks of quotation. I hope and believe they are original; at least, I am pretty certain they have not before been noticed.