“I have known Mr. Bayard Taylor so long that I hardly know when our acquaintance began. It was at least thirty years ago, during his first year’s residence in New York, after his tour in Europe and the publication of his ‘Views Afoot.’ The occasion of our acquaintance was a magazine which had lately been started here, and which was edited by Mrs. Caroline M. Kirkland, one of my earliest and best literary friends. I had contributed to this periodical, which was entitled ‘The Union Magazine,’ and on her departure for Europe she recommended me to call upon her young friend, Mr. Taylor, who was to take care of it for her during her absence. She was sure I would like him, for we were _Arcades ambo_. I called upon him, and liked him, as she had foreseen I would. I found him in the editorial room of the ‘Tribune,’ a dingy, dusty, comfortless den on the same floor with the composing-room, if I remember rightly. He was seated on the hither side of an old ink-stained desk, which was surrounded by a railing, over which newspapers were flung, and was writing rapidly. He looked up when I addressed him and stated my errand—a bright, joyous, handsome man of twenty-five, with a world of animation in his sparkling dark eyes. I have no recollection of what passed between us, except that the poem which was in his hands was accepted, and that we had taken a fancy to each other. I went away feeling happy, for I felt that I had made a friend, and one who could sympathize with me. There were two bonds between us—love of verse, and equality of years. He was the first man of letters who had treated me like one of the craft, and I was grateful to him, as I should have been, for I was weary of the intellectual snobbery I had undergone from others.