Your father and I visited Woodbridge yesterday. There we saw Bernard Barton's old home, the little quiet house behind the Bank, and the small room where he wrote his poetry and his letters, his bedroom, his kitchen, and that which used to be his drawing-room. We heard many traits of his character, all carefully treasured up in the mind of our informant. We found that his dear friend and housekeeper — the Mary Unwin of his life — has now been dead these five years; and that his daughter Lucy, Mrs. Fitzgerald, lives at Brighton. We were told in their old home, that she was then in Woodbridge, at the house of Mr. Jones, the surgeon, and there we went to call on her. But she was gone. Mr. Jones, however, we saw. He took us into his sumptuous drawing-room, and talked to us about "old Barton," "dear old Barton," "good old Barton," since whose death Woodbridge had never been itself.