Traveller! in what realms afar,
In what planet, in what star,
In what gardens of delight
Rest thy weary feet to-night?
Poet, thou whose latest verse
Was a garland on thy hearse,
Thou hast sung with organ tone
In Deukalion's life thine own.
On the ruins of the Past
Blooms the perfect flower, at last
Friend, but yesterday the bells
Rang for thee their loud farewells;
And to-day they toll for thee,
Lying dead beyond the sea;
Lying dead among thy books;
The peace of God in all thy looks."

That great traveller, like Mr. Longfellow, used to tell me of his
first wife. He always said that her sweet spirit occupied that room
and stood by him. I often told him that he was wrong and argued with
him, but he said, "I know she is here." I often thought of the great
inspiration she had been to him in his marvelous poems and books.
Poor Bayard Taylor, "In what gardens of delight, rest thy weary feet
to-night?" Mr. Longfellow once said that Mary "stood between him and
his manuscript," and he could not get away from the impression that
she was with him all the time. How sad was her early death and how he
suffered the martyrdom of the faithful! Longfellow's home life was
always beautiful But his later years were disturbed greatly by
souvenir and curiosity seekers.

Horace Greeley died of a broken heart because he was not elected
President of the United States, and never was happy in the last years
of his life. His idea of true happiness was to go to some quiet
retreat and publish some little paper. He once declared at a dinner in
Brooklyn that he envied the owner of a weekly paper in Indiana whose
paper was so weakly that the subscribers did not miss it if it failed
to appear.

Mr. Tennyson told me that he would not exchange his home, walled in as
it was like a fortress for Windsor Castle or the throne of the Queen.

Mr. Carnegie said to me only a few months ago that if a man owned his
home and had his health he had all the money that man needed to be as
happy as any person can be. Mr. Carnegie was right about that.

Empress Eugenie, in 1870, was said to be the happiest woman in France.
I saw her in the Tuilleres at a gorgeous banquet and a few years
after, when her husband had been captured, her son killed and she was
a widow, at the Chislehurst Cottage, I said to her, "The last time
I saw you in that beautiful palace you were said to be the happiest
woman in the world." "Sir," she said, "I am