father of a numerous family. Her health failing he took her to Europe, in
the hope that it might be restored by a change of air and scene, but after
languishing a while she died at Paris, in the year 1817. She sleeps in the
cemetery of Pere La Chaise, among monuments inscribed with words strange
to her childhood, while he, after surviving her for sixty-three years, yet
never forgetting her, is laid in the ancestral burying ground at Fishkill,
and the Atlantic ocean rolls between their graves.

He remained in Europe a little while after this event, and having looked
at what the continent had to show him, went over to England. In his
letters to his friends at home he spoke pathetically of the loss of her
who was the blessing of his life, of the delight with which, had she
lived, she would have looked at so many things in the old world now
attracting his attention; and of the misfortune of his children to be
deprived of her care and guidance. In one of his letters he speaks
enthusiastically of the painter, Allston, with whose genius he was deeply
impressed as he looked on the grand picture of Daniel interpreting the
Dream of Belshazzar, then begun but never to be finished. In the same
letter he relates this anecdote:

"You may expect another explosion of mad poetry from Lord Byron. Lord
Holland, who returned from Geneva, a few days ago, told Mr. Gallatin that
he was the bearer of a considerable cargo of verses from his lordship to
Murray the publisher, the subject not known. That you may have a higher
relish for the new poem, I give you a little anecdote which is told in
London. Some time ago Lord Byron's books were sold at auction, where a
gentleman purchased a splendid edition of Shakespeare. When it was sent
home a volume was missing. After several fruitless inquiries of the
auctioneer the purchaser went to Byron. 'What play was in the volume?'
asked he. 'I think Othello,' 'Ah! I remember. I was reading that when Lady