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.
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!”
