She was to receive one more accession of outward greatness before she departed.  She became Baroness Wentworth in November, 1856.  This is one of the facts of her history; but it is the least interesting to us, as probably to her.  We care more to know that her last days were bright in honor, and cheered by the attachment of old friends, worthy to pay the duty she deserved.  Above all, it is consoling to know that she who so long outlived her only child was blessed with the unremitting and tender care of her granddaughter.  She died on the sixteenth of May, 1860.

The portrait of Lady Byron, as she was at the time of her marriage, is probably remembered by some of my readers.  It is very engaging.  Her countenance afterwards became much worn; but its expression of thoughtfulness and composure was very interesting.  Her handwriting accorded well with the character of her mind.  It was clear, elegant, and womanly.  Her manners differed with circumstances.  Her shrinking sensitiveness might embarrass one visitor, while another would be charmed with her easy, significant, and vivacious conversation.  It depended much on whom she talked with.  The abiding certainty was, that she had strength for the hardest of human trials, and the composure which belongs to strength.  For the rest, it is enough to point to her deeds, and to the mourning of her friends round the chasm which her departure has made in their life, and in the society in which it is spent.  All that could be done in the way of personal love and honor was done while she lived; it only remains now to see that her name and fame are permitted to shine forth at last in their proper light.

GETTING HOME AGAIN.

It is a good thing, said an aged Chinese Travelling Philosopher, for every man, sooner or later, to get back again to his own tea-cup.  And Ling Ching Ki Hi Fum (for that was the name of the profound old gentleman who said it) was right.  Travel may be “the conversion of money into mind,”—­and happy the man who has turned much coin into that precious commodity,—­but it is a good thing, after being tossed about the world from the Battery to Africa,—­that dry nurse of lions, as Horace calls her,—­to anchor once more beside the old familiar tea-urn on the old familiar tea-table.  This is the only “steamy column” worth hailing with a glad welcome after long absence from home, and fully entitled to be heartily applauded for its “bubbling and loud-hissing” propensities.

We are not a Marco Polo or a William de Rubruquis, and we have no wonders to tell of the Great Mogul or the Great Cham.  We did not sail for Messrs. Pride, Pomp, Circumstance, and Company; consequently, we have no great exploits to recount.  We have been wrecked at sea only once in our many voyages, and, so far as we know our own tastes, do not care to solicit aid again to be thrown into the same awkward situation.  But for a time we have been