steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse of
intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these
only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and
cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope, nor
deserted sorrow.

I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the people of Liverpool
had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and
themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good worldly
reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, which it
would be difficult to combat with others that might seem merely
fanciful; but it certainly appears to me such an opportunity as
seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling under
misfortunes by one of the most delicate, but most expressive
tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate
a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes
mingled and confounded with other men. His great qualities lose
their novelty; we become too familiar with the common materials
which form the basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr.
Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a man of business;
others, as a politician; all find him engaged like themselves in
ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on
some points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and
unostentatious simplicity of character, which gives the nameless
grace to real excellence, may cause him to be undervalued by some
coarse minds, who do not know that true worth is always void of
glare and pretension. But the man of letters, who speaks of
Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe.--The
intelligent traveller who visits it inquires where Roscoe is to
be seen. He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating its