his own thoughts; which the best of men are apt sometimes to
neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy associates.
He is independent of the world around him. He lives with
antiquity, and with posterity: with antiquity, in the sweet
communion of studious retirement; and with posterity, in the
generous aspirings after future renown. The solitude of such a
mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited by
those elevated meditations which are the proper aliment of noble
souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness
of this world.

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my
fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding
out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, when he
turned off, through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. After
riding a short distance, we came to a spacious mansion of
freestone, built in the Grecian style. It was not in the purest
style, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was
delightful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps
of trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a
variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet
sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow land, while the
Welsh mountains, blended with clouds, and melting into distance,
bordered the horizon.

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of his
prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and
literary retirement. The house was now silent and deserted. I saw
the windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft scenery
I have mentioned. The windows were closed--the library was gone.