In this second European tour he was accompanied by his daughter, Mrs. Sargent; and he gives his own delightful account of it in "One Hundred Days in Europe," which first appeared as a serial in the _Atlantic Monthly_, and has since been published in book form, with a charming dedication to his daughter. "The Sailing of the Autocrat" was celebrated by T.B. Aldrich in a fine poem, from which we quote a few lines as embodying the tender love and ardent admiration of the whole American people:-- "O Wind and Wave, be kind to him! For him may radiant mornings break From out the bosom of the deep, And golden noons above him bend, And fortunate constellations keep Bright vigils to his journey's end! Take him, green Erin, to thy breast! Keep him, gray London--for a while! _In him we send thee of our best, Our wisest word, our blithest smile_-- Our epigram, alert and pat, That kills with joy the folly hit-- Our Yankee Tzar, our Autocrat Of all the happy realms of wit! Take him and keep him--but forbear To keep him more than half a year.... His presence will be sunshine there, His absence will be shadow here!" We delight to recall with what distinguished honors he was received abroad from the highest dignitaries of church and state, as well as from his own literary compeers. It was during this visit in England that the London _Spectator_ wrote, "No literary American--unless it be Mr. Lowell, and we should not except even him--occupies precisely the same place as Doctor Holmes in Englishmen's regard. They have the feeling for him which they had for Charles Lamb, Charles Dickens, and John Leech, in which admiration somewhat blends into and is indistinguishable from affectionateness." The Universities of Edinburgh, Oxford, and Cambridge all conferred their honorary degrees upon him, and he has given us his own inimitable description of the manner in which he was entertained by Carlyle and by Tennyson. At a club dinner given to him in London, he said to the bishop of Gloucester: "I think we are all unconsciously conscious of each other's brain waves at times. The fact is that words and even signs are a very poor sort of language, compared with the direct telegraphy between souls. The mistake we make is to suppose that the soul is circumscribed and imprisoned by the body. Now, the truth is, I believe I extend a good way outside my body. Well, I should say at least three or four feet all round, and so do you, and it is our extensions that meet. Before words pass or we shake hands, our souls have exchanged impressions, and they never lie." In reply to a toast at the farewell banquet given him in Liverpool by the Medical Society of London, he said: