The death of John Rogers Bolles removes from the people one who might be regarded almost as a relic of the old times when men were inspired to bear messages to the world. He was a bold and persistent fighter of what he deemed wrong and an active and indefatigable warrior for the right; any cause in which he was engaged was certain to have the whole benefit of his energies. The achievements of Mr. Bolles for his city and state have been fully set forth in the number of brilliant and graphic papers he contributed to _The Telegraph_ and which were read with the widest interest, not only by those here but in other states. But it was not left for himself to chronicle his work. Some of the greatest men of the nation have been his friends and have repeatedly testified their admiration and respect for his remarkable qualities of mind. Mr. Bolles had a memory that was something prodigious. He was able to correct with the utmost ease the most trivial misplacements of a word in a MS. of many thousands, and his familiarity with the Book and all authors, ancient and modern, was also little less than a marvel, considering his lack of sight in later years. His reasoning powers were keen and wonderfully swift, he could anticipate and provide means against an emergency in an inconceivably short time, and as a tactician in the fight for New London’s rights he was one of the most skilful and adroit of managers. Had he devoted his life to other than the work which was his sole aim, he would undoubtedly have won national pre-eminence. But after leaving the business of publishing, in which he was very successful and which he brought to a high degree of excellence here, he went with all his energies for the development of the Navy Yard, and in the pursuit of this object he spared nothing, himself least of all. He was very fluent in speech. His figures were always grand and forcible, and the magnetic power of his utterance carried away his audience. His pen is well known. There was a wonderful power of imagery in him, and he often expressed himself in verse of no mean order. His capacity for doing literary labor was something enormous; he could turn out a volume that would stagger an industrious man, and yet be fresh to tackle another subject after five or six consecutive hours of steady application. New London owes a great deal to John R. Bolles, how much it will understand more fully as time goes on.