which was full of
interesting objects. I saw the private diary of Scott, kept until within
a short time of his death. It was melancholy to trace the gradual
failing of all his energies in the very wavering of the autograph. In a
large volume of his correspondence, containing letters from Campbell,
Wordsworth, Byron, and all the distinguished characters of the age, I
saw Campbell's "Battle of the Baltic" in his own hand. I was highly
interested and gratified with the whole visit; the more so, as Mr.
Lockhart had invited me voluntarily, without previous acquaintance. I
have since heard him spoken of in the highest terms of esteem.

I went one Sunday to the Church of St. Stephen, to hear Croly, the poet.
The service, read by a drowsy clerk, was long and monotonous; I sat in a
side-aisle, looking up at the dome, and listening to the rain which
dashed in torrents against the windowpanes. At last, a tall, gray-haired
man came down the passage. He bowed with a sad smile, so full of
benevolence and resignation, that it went into my heart at once, and I
gave him an involuntary tribute of sympathy. He has a heavy affliction
to bear--the death of his gallant son, one of the officers who were
slain in the late battle of Ferozeshaw. His whole manner betrays the
tokens of subdued but constant grief.

His sermon was peculiarly finished and appropriate; the language was
clear and forcible, without that splendor of thought and dazzling
vividness of imagery which mark "Salathiel." Yet I could not help
noticing that he delighted to dwell on the spiritualities of religion,
rather than its outward observances, which he seemed inclined to hurry
over as lightly as possible. His mild, gray eye and lofty forehead are
more like the benevolent divine than the poet. I thought of Salathiel,
and looked at the dignified, sorrowful man before me. The picture of the
accursed Judean vanished, and his own solemn lines rang on my ear:

"The mighty grave
Wraps lord and slave,
Nor pride, nor poverty dares come
Within that prison-house, that tomb!"

Whenever I hear them, or think of them again, I shall see, in memory,
Croly's calm, pale countenance.

"The chimes, the chimes of Mother-land,
Of England, green and old;
That out from thane and ivied tower
A thousand years have tolled!"

I often thought of Coxe's beautiful ballad, when, after a day spent in
Waterloo Place, I have listened, on my w