Year: 1879

Mr.. Stedman, for years the friend of
Taylor, writes as follows of him in a pa
per in Scribner for November, chiefly
devoted to critical analysis of his poet
ry and literary career:


His memory was prodigious. Nothing
that he learned was forgotten, and he
learned without effort. After a single
reading he knew poem by heart, and
could repeat whole pages of his favorite
authors; and there was little that he did
not read or see. His perception of ex
ternals was alert and true; but he did
not so readily catch by intuition the
thoughts and feelings of those about him.
He had a fine sense of form and color,
drew and painted creditably, and seemed
natural artist. His linguistic powers
were well known. He taught himself
something of the classical texts, and was
more infused with the antique sentiment
than many learned Theban. He
quickly caught the passwords and
phrases of any language, Semitic or
Aryan, wherever he journeyed. Ger
man he mastered, wrote in, thought in;
it became so much like a native tongue
with him as to refute the theory that one
gains of new language only so much
as he loses of his own. His desire for
knowledge was constant, and his pro-
fessional training made him rapidly ac-
quainted with the meaning and scope of
new work or movement that came
within his view.


His personal traits were no less admi-
rable To think of him is to recall a
person larger in make and magnanimity
than the common sort; man OF lnde-
scribable buoyancy, hopefulness, sweet
ness of temper-reverent, loyal, shrink
ing from contention yet ready to do bat
tie for principle or in the just cause of
friend; a patriot and lover of his kind,
stainless in morals, and of an honesty so
pure and simple that he could not be
surprised into an untruth or the COM
mission of a mean and unworthy act
His open delight over any work of his
own that pleased him was the reverse
of egotism, vet often misunderstood by
those who slightly knew him. He was
without jealousy, though sometimes
ruffied by the prosperity of quacks and
pretenders, and took as much pleasure
in the legitimate success of others as in
his own. Yet his personal ambition and
aspiration were very great, only equaled
by his heroic industry and scrupulous
fulfllment of the ightest or heaviest
task he undertook.


In social life he was generous and unS
restrained, full of the knightly, mirth-
loving, romantic spirit; poet who kept
his heart green to the last, even when
disease was upon him, and the plethoric
habit of his middle life. These dulled
his eve, but never broke his spirit nor
turned his thoughts to gall.


His art-method was simple and direct,
obvious rather than suggestive, and he
generally composed in a major key.
Some of his measures, like those of
Barry Cornwall, are fresh with the
breeze and spray:


They we're born by the shore, by the shore.


When the surf was loud and the a-gul
They were rocked to the rhythm of its roar,


They were Graded in the arms of the tide.
In other moods he would write ballad,
or a tender and exquisite lyric, like
90 The Song of the Camp" enough of
itself to confirm his title as poet. He
had, in truth, the spontaneity of born
singer; but with it a facility that was
dangerous indeed. His first draft was
apt to be his best if not his only one.
He had few affectations; his instinct be-
ing against obscurity and oddness of ex-
preston. The unstudied manner of the
Georgian poets suited him, and he made
his own verse, as far as might be, the
clear vehicle of his feeling. Of late
wears, in the desire to convey his deep
er, more intellectual thought and con-
viction, he frequently became involved,
and metaphysical vagueness was ap-
parent even in his lyrics. At such times
the critics thought his efforts strained,
and his friends declared that he was not
working in his best vein.