companied me there. As it was late when we
arrived at Regent's Park, we found them waiting, and sat down
immediately to breakfast.

I was much pleased with Lockhart's appearance and manners. He has a
noble, manly countenance--in fact, the handsomest English face I ever
saw--a quick, dark eye and an ample forehead, shaded by locks which
show, as yet, but few threads of gray. There is a peculiar charm in his
rich, soft voice; especially when reciting poetry, it has a clear,
organ-like vibration, which thrills deliciously on the ear. His
daughter, who sat at the head of the table, is a most lovely and amiable
girl.

Bernard Burton, who is now quite an old man, is a very lively and
sociable Friend. His head is gray and almost bald, but there is still
plenty of fire in his eyes and life in his limbs. His many kind and
amiable qualities endear him to a large circle of literary friends. He
still continues writing, and within the last year has brought out a
volume of simple, touching "Household Verses." A picture of cheerful and
contented old age has never been more briefly and beautifully drawn,
than in the following lines, which he sent me, in answer to my desire to
possess one of his poems in his own hand:

STANZAS.

I feel that I am growing old,
Nor wish to hide that truth;
Conscious my heart is not more cold
Than in my by-gone youth.

I cannot roam the country round,
As I was wont to do;
My feet a scantier circle bound,
My eyes a narrower view.

But on my mental vision rise
Bright scenes of beauty still:
Morn's splendor, evening's glowing skies,
Valley, and grove, and hill.

Nor can infirmities o'erwhelm
The purer pleasures brought
From the immortal spirit's realm
Of feeling and of Thought!

My heart! let not dismay or doubt
In thee an entrance win!
Thou _hast_ enjoyed thyself _without_--
_Now seek thy joy within_!

During breakfast he related to us a pleasant anecdote of Scott. He once
wrote to the poet in behalf of a young lady, who wished to have the
description of Melrose, in the "Lay of the last Minstrel," in the poet's
own writing. Scott sent it, but added these lines to the conclusion:

"Then go, and muse with deepest awe
On what the writer never saw;
Who would not wander 'neath the moon
To see what he could see at noon!"

We went afterwards into Lockhart's library,