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.
Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering about the place,
whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It was like
visiting some classic fountain, that had once welled its pure
waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the
lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles.
I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which had
consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had
drawn the materials for his Italian histories.
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