“DEAR SIR:—Will you have the kindness to express to the committee of arrangements my deep regret at not being able to attend the meeting at Tremont Temple in honor of Bayard Taylor’s memory. I sail from New York for Europe on the 8th instant. I also regret that the pressure of private matters will not allow me to prepare a tribute to my old friend. You will understand how nearly his death touches me, when I say that it breaks an unclouded intimacy of twenty-four years. If it should be in order, perhaps some one will read the poem which I printed in the New York ‘Tribune’ on Christmas morning. I enclose a copy. “Yours, very respectfully, “THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.” To which was attached the following poem:— “In other years—lost youth’s enchanted years Seen now and evermore, through blinding tears And empty longing for what may not be— The Desert gave him back to us; the Sea Yielded him up; the icy Northland strand Lured him not long, nor that soft German air He loved could keep him. Ever his own land Fettered his heart and brought him back again. What sounds are those of farewell and despair Blown by the winds across the wintry main? What unknown way is this that he has gone, Our Bayard, in such silence, and alone? What new, strange guest has tempted him once more To leave us? Vainly standing by the shore We strain our eyes. But patience ... when the soft Spring gales are blowing over Cedarcroft, Whitening the hawthorn; when violets bloom Among the Brandywine, and overhead The sky is blue as Italy’s—he will come; Ay, he will come. I cannot make him dead.” “DEAR FRIEND:—I am not able to attend the memorial meeting in Tremont Temple on the 10th instant, but my heart responds to any testimonial appreciative of the intellectual achievements and the noble and manly life of Bayard Taylor. More than thirty years have intervened between my first meeting him in the fresh bloom of his youth and hope and honorable ambition, and my last parting with him under the elms of Boston Common after our visit to Richard H. Dana, on the occasion of the 90th anniversary of that honored father of American poetry, still living to lament the death of his younger disciple and friend. How much he has accomplished in these years! The most industrious of men, slowly, patiently, under many disadvantages, he built up his splendid reputation. Traveller, editor, novelist, translator, diplomatist, and through all and above all poet, what he was he owed wholly to himself. His native honesty was satisfied with no half tasks. He finished as he went, and always said and did his best.