d a fatal disease, and his checkered and brilliant career came
to an end at Pegli, near Genoa, in the spring of 1884. Of his oft
contemplated literary work there remains a volume of poems entitled
"Literary Recreations." The poet Longfellow, my brother's lifelong
friend and intimate, esteemed these productions of his as true poetry,
and more than once said to me of their author, "He is the most lovable
man that I have ever known." I certainly never knew one who took so much
delight in giving pleasure to others, or whose life was so full of
natural, overflowing geniality and beneficence.

Shortly after his first marriage my brother and his bride came to reside
with us. In their company I often visited the Astor mansion, which was
made delightful by good taste, good manners, and hospitable
entertainment.

Mr. William B. Astor, the head of the family, was a rather shy and
silent man. He had received the best education that a German university
could offer. The Chevalier Bunsen had been his tutor, and Schopenhauer,
then a student at the same university, had been his friend. He had a
love for letters, and might perhaps have followed this natural leading
to advantage, had he not become his father's man of business, and thus
been forced to devote much of his life to the management of the great
Astor estate. At the time of which I speak, he resided on the
unfashionable side of Broadway, not far below Canal Street.

At this time I was often invited to the house of his father, Mr. John
Jacob Astor. This house, which the old gentleman had built for himself,
was situated on Broadway, between Prince and Spring streets. Adjoining
it was one which he had built for a favorite granddaughter, Mrs. Boreel.
He was very fond of music, and sometimes engaged the services of a
professional pianist. I remember that he was much pleased at
recognizing, one evening, the strains of a brilliant waltz, of which he
said: "I heard it at a fair in Switzerland years ago. The Swiss women
were whirling round in their red petticoats." On another occasion, we
sang the well-known song, "Am Rhein;" and Mr. Astor, who was very stout
and infirm of person, rose and stood beside the piano, joining with the
singers. "Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachset suesses Leben," he sang, instead
of "Da wachsen unsere Reben."

My sister-in-law, Emily Astor Ward, was endowed with a voice whose
unusual power and beauty had been enhanced by careful training. We
sometimes sang toget