In 1816 Roscoe, whose prosperity had been hitherto unbroken, was overtaken by sudden disaster. The downfall of Napoleon and the termination of the Continental wars were followed by much financial unrest, and a sudden panic seized the bank in which he was interested. Although perfectly solvent—its assets exceeded its liabilities by more than £60,000—it was impossible to realize these assets without grievous loss; the bank’s credit had been severely shaken, and it was compelled to stop payment. Roscoe called the bank’s creditors together, explained its condition, and convinced the majority that with time its position might be restored. After four years of anxious efforts to rehabilitate the bank he was forced to give up the struggle owing to the persistent action of a small number, who insisted on preferential treatment, and he allowed himself to be made bankrupt. Allerton, with its beautiful gardens and ample woods, with all its refinements and delights as a home—the home which had welcomed guests like Aikin and his daughter Mrs. Barbauld, Dr. Parr the scholar, Fuseli the painter, Coke of Holkham, Henry Brougham, and many others eminent in politics, learning, and scholarship—had to be given up, together with all its artistic and literary treasures. Thanks to the care he spent in cataloguing these works for sale they realized good prices. Friends vied with each other in preventing the dispersal of the more valuable books and pictures. Many of the former were secured for the Atheneum, on condition that he should be allowed their use, and they still remain on its shelves. His collection of early Italian paintings was presented to the Royal Institution, and is now in the Walker Art Gallery. Roscoe received an honourable discharge. He was now sixty-seven years of age. With such relics from the wreck of his fortune as could be saved he set himself heroically to retrieve the disaster which had befallen him. Literature, which had been the delight of his leisure, now became his sole remaining prop. Eleven years were still left to him. He rearranged the fine library of his friend Coke, edited an issue of Pope’s works, completed the folio monograph on the monandrian plants, and executed a number of other compilations. His old age was spent in a serene dignity which secured for him the friendship of a devoted circle and the universal respect of his townsmen. He had a paralytic attack a year or so before his death which partially incapacitated him. The end came peacefully on June 30, 1831. A sitting statue of him by Chantrey, as one of Liverpool’s most distinguished citizens, is in the St. George’s Hall, and his name is associated with the chair of Modern History in the University of Liverpool. Washington Irving, in the “Sketch-book,” thus spoke of him: