friend, Mr. ——­, to procure for him Judge Edmonds’s “Spiritualism.”  What an odious book it is! there is neither respect for the dead nor the living.  Mrs. Browning believes it all; so does Bulwer, who is surrounded by mediums who summon his dead daughter.  It is too frightful to talk about.  Mr. May and Mr. Pearson both asked me to send it away, for fear of its seizing upon my nerves.  I get weaker and weaker, and am become a mere skeleton.  Ah, dear friend, come when you may, you will find only a grave at Swallowfield.  Once again, God bless you and yours!

Ever yours, M, R.M.

“BARRY CORNWALL” And Some Of His Friends.

* * * * *

“All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.” 
CHARLES LAMB.

“Old Acquaintance, shall the nights
You and I once talked together,
Be forgot like common things?”

* * * * *

“His thoughts half hid in golden dreams,
Which make thrice fair the songs and streams
Of Air and Earth.”

* * * * *

“Song should breathe of scents and flowers;
Song should like a river flow;
Song should bring back scenes and hours
That we loved,—­ah, long ago!”
BARRY CORNWALL.

VII.  “BARRY CORNWALL” AND SOME OF HIS FRIENDS.

There is no portrait in my possession more satisfactory than the small one of Barry Cornwall, made purposely for me in England, from life.  It is a thoroughly honest resemblance.

I first saw the poet five-and-twenty years ago, in his own house in London, at No. 13 Upper Harley Street, Cavendish Square.  He was then declining into the vale of years, but his mind was still vigorous and young.  My letter of introduction to him was written by Charles Sumner, and it proved sufficient for the beginning of a friendship which existed through a quarter of a century.  My last interview with him occurred in 1869.  I found him then quite feeble, but full of his old kindness and geniality.  His speech was somewhat difficult to follow, for he had been slightly paralyzed not long before; but after listening to him for half an hour, it was easy to understand nearly every word he uttered.  He spoke with warm feeling of Longfellow, who had been in London during that season, and had called to see his venerable friend before proceeding to the Continent.  “Wasn’t it good of him,” said the old man, in his tremulous voice, “to think of me before he had been in town twenty-four hours?” He also spoke of his dear companion, John Kenyon, at whose house we had often met in years past, and he called to mind a breakfast party there, saying with deep feeling, “And you and I are the only ones now alive of all who came together that happy morning!”