It seems a very long time since I had the great pleasure of seeing thee, or of hearing directly from thee. I meant to have been in Boston in the early spring, and looked forward to the satisfaction of meeting thee, but I was too ill to leave home, and I felt a real pang of regret when I learned of thy departure. I am now much better, but although I cannot say with the Scotch poet that "the years hang o'er my back And bend me like a muckle pack," I must still confess that they are getting uncomfortably heavy. But I have no complaint to make. My heart is as warm as ever, and love and friendship as dear. I was pained by the death of thy friend, Philip Marston. It must be a comfort to thee to know that thy love and sympathy made his sad lot easier to be borne. He was one who needed love, and I think he was one to inspire it also. My old and comfortable hotel at Centre Harbor, where I have been a guest for forty years, was burned to ashes a few days ago, after we came away. But we are now in good, neat quarters at a neat farm house, with large cool rooms on the border of the lovely lake. Good-bye, dear friend! While enjoying thy many friends in London, do not forget thy friends here. Ever affectionately thy old friend, JOHN G. WHITTIER. Herbert E. Clarke, the warm and intimate friend of Marston, touchingly alludes to his death in this sonnet. TO LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. Ah, friend, the die is cast,--life turns to prose. My way lies onward--dusty, hot, and bare, Through the wide plain under the noonday glare,-- A sordid path whereby no singer goes; For yon the cloudy crags--the stars and snows-- Limitless freedom of ethereal air And pinnacles near heaven. On foot I fare, Halting foredoomed, and toward what goal who knows? But though the singer who may sing no more Bears ever in his heart a smothered fire, I give Fate thanks: nor these my pangs deplore, Seeing song gave first rewards beyond desire-- Your love, O Friend, and his who went before, The sightless singer with his silver lyre. LONDON, 1st August, 1888. To Arlo Bates, Mrs. Moulton, reading this, repeated the closing line with a touching tenderness, and then without further word laid the manuscript aside.