James Russell Lowell, upon whose brilliant literary career Mr. Taylor said he often “gazed with bewilderment,” but who was among his much-loved literary friends, adorns the court of Spain, as the Minister of the United States, while the life of his colleague which began much later, has ceased to move his hands to friendly grasps, and his lips to living words. Richard H. Dana, Sr., the “eldest poet,” has been dead but a few days. Amos Bronson Alcott retains his home in Concord, appearing much as he did when George Ripley, Margaret Fuller, and Theodore Parker were with him on the “Dial,” which the Taylors read in Pennsylvania; but he who came to their homes so short a time ago, will cross their thresholds no more. Thomas Bailey Aldrich remains, and writes on for the love of it, while his friend and early companion in New York,—Taylor, who praised his “Babie Bell” and “Daisie’s Necklace,” has laid down his pen forever, and will sit down with him no more at social boards. George William Curtis, who was born the year before Mr. Taylor, and whose travels, books, and correspondence for the New York “Tribune,” gave him such a similar experience, now stands at the front in American oratory, and looks forward to wider fields of usefulness, as though life had just begun. As a representative American in literature and in political influence, he has lost in Mr. Taylor an earnest and efficient comrade. Edwin P. Whipple still lives on Beacon Hill in Boston, and, together with his brilliant wife, recalls the face and words of Taylor with the affectionate regard of appreciative minds and loving hearts. James T. Fields, of Boston, comes and goes, an authority on literary excellence, and an attractive expounder and biographer, while the boy who came to him long, long ago, to learn if Ticknor & Fields would publish a little poem, has grown into manhood, into fame, and passed on to the Hereafter. The friendship of many years,—so beautiful a sight between publisher and poet,—which the pressure and uncertainty of business could not sever or decrease, is broken, ah! so rudely, by the hand of death. The Hon. George H. Boker, of Philadelphia, still counts his useful years; while the boy whose poems he purchased, and whose ambition he directed, has seen a long and eventful life, using but a part of the time in which his benefactor has lived. Of him Mr. Taylor wrote in 1855:— “You were the mate of my poetic spring; To you its buds, of little worth, concealed More than the summer years have since revealed, Or doubtful autumn from the stem shall fling. But here they are, the buds, the blossoms blown, Or rich or scant the wreath is at your feet; And though it were the freshest ever grown, To you its incense could not be more sweet, Since with it goes a love to match your own, A heart, dear friend, that never falsely beat.” George H. Boker, Jr., and Mrs. Taylor are, by the terms of Mr. Taylor’s will, his literary executors.