moth turnip; and now some of his own verses, which he palms off on the unsuspecting public as Bryant's. So pass the days and the months, and he becomes a printer; but he does not give up his long walks, and his dreams of travel and adventure, nor yet his habit of writing poetry; for now he is becoming known, having scraped acquaintance with Willis and other literati. old travelers-the realization of all his desires and dreams. But for that he would in all probability be still at the "case." For two years after reading the review of "Zimenia," alluded to above, we heard no more of Bayard Taylor; at the end of that time we saw him announced as among the latest arrivals from Europe, and shortly after that he had a book of travels in the press "Views a-Foot," with a preface by N. P. Willis. We purchased the book in due season, and were delighted with it; and so were the public also, for it jumped at once into popularity, and ran through seven editions in less than two years. Prefixed to Willis's preface was the following letter; in it Bayard Taylor speaks for himself far better than we could speak for him : "TO MR. WILLIS. "MY DEAR SIR,-Nearly three years ago (or the beginning of 1844) the time for accomplishing my long-cherished desire of visiting Europe seemed to arrive. A cousin, who had long intended going abroad, was to leave in a few months; and, although I was then surrounded by the About this time-say in '42 or '43-we, as individuals, first heard the name of Bayard Taylor. Youthful ourselves, we were always on the look-out for youthful talent, and the first source to which we used to turn was the "Weekly Mirror," now defunct, but then edited by Willis and Morris. One day we saw a paragraph in it about a young poet in Pennsylvania, accompanied with a poem from his pen. The poet was named Bayard Taylor, and the poem in question was entitled, "To a Friend." From the tenor of it, the "friend" was evidently a lady. The poem is to be found in Bayard Taylor's first volume; the lady only in heaven! most unfavorable circumstances, I determined (but of that by-and-by.) A year or two to accompany him at whatever hazard. I had later, in 1844, from another source, we still two years of my apprenticeship to serve out, came across another paragraph about Bay- I was entirely without means, and my project ard Taylor, and a volume of his, which was strongly opposed by my friends as somehad just appeared,-"Zimenia and other thing too visionary to be practicable. A short time before, Mr. Griswold advised me to pubpoems." We could not at that time pro-lish a small volume of youthful effusions, a few cure it, but we made a note of it for future reference. It lies before us now, a small duodecimo of eighty-four pages. It is cleverly and smoothly versified; imitative, of course; a little remarkable for its fine rhetoric, but not otherwise note-worthy. The usual themes of young poets are treated in their usual manner. The narrative measure of Scott and Byron is copied in "Zimenia," which, by-the-way, is a Spanish story, and Mrs. Hemans tinges the "other poems." Had Bayard Taylor written nothing else, the world would never have heard of him. The first volumes of poets are not generally interesting, save as incidents in their lives, and as foot-prints by which their progress can be marked. "Zimenia" was of little importance to Bayard Taylor, and he has doubtless forgotten it. Not so his first tour in Europe-that he cannot forget while his memory holds her seat. importance of that tour in forming his character, and in establishing his literary reputation, must not be overlooked. It was the result of his boyish reading of the The of which had appeared in Graham's Magazine, which he then edited; the idea struck me that by so doing I might, if they should be favorably noticed, obtain a newspaper correspondence which would enable me to make the start. "The volume was published; a sufficient number was sold to enable my friends to defray all expenses, and I was charitably noticed by the Philadelphia press. Some literary friends, to whom I confided my design, promised to aid me with their influence. Trusting to this I made arrangements to leave the printing-office, which I succeeded in doing by making a certain compensation for the remainder of my time. I was now fully confident of my success, feeling satisfied that a strong will would always make itself a way. After many applications to different editors, and as many disappointments, I finally succeeded, about two weeks before our departure, in making a partial engagement. Mr. Chandler, of the United States Gazette, and Mr. Patterson, of the Saturday Evening Post, paid me fifty dollars each, for twelve letters, to be sent from Europe, with the probability of accepting more if these should be satisfactory. This, with a sum which I received from Mr. Graham for poems published in his magazine, put me in possession of about one hundred and forty dollars, with which I determined to start, trusting to future remuneration for letters, or, if that should fail, to my skill as a compositor, for I supposed I could, at the worst, work my way through Europe like the German handwerker. Thus with another companion we left home, an enthusiastic and hopeful trio. "I need not trace our wanderings at length. After eight months of suspense, during which time my small means were entirely exhausted, I received a letter from Mr. Patterson, containing the engagement for the remainder of my stay, himself and Mr. Graham. Other remittances, received from time to time, enabled me to stay abroad two years, during which I traveled, on foot, upward of three thousand miles in Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and France. I was obliged, however, to use the strictest economy, to live on pilgrim fare, and do penance in rain and cold. My means several times entirely failed; but I was always relieved from serious difficulty through unlooked-for friends, or some unexpect ed turn of fortune. At Rome, owing to the expenses and embarrassments of traveling in Italy, I was obliged to give up my original design of proceeding on foot to Naples, and across the peninsula to Otranto, sailing thence to Corfu, and making a pedestrian journey through Albania and Greece. But the main object of my pilgrimage is accomplished; I visited the principal places of interest in Europe, enjoyed her grandest scenery and the marvels of ancient and modern art; became familiar with other languages, other customs, and other institutions; and returned home after two years' absence, willing now, with satisfied curiosity, to resume life in America. "Yours most sincerely, with a remittance of one hundred dollars from "BAYARD TAYLOR." We quite agree with Willis in his preface, when he calls this " a fine instance of character and energy," and with the public in their appreciation of the "Views a-Foot." Bayard Taylor's method, or rather the method of his poverty, poor fellow, though not exactly en règle, is the only method of really becoming acquainted with other lands and nations. Putting up at fashionable hotels in large cities, visiting cafés and places of public amusement, hurrying from place to place by coach or diligence, and "doing up" the continent generally in a month or two, is all well enough in its way, though rather expensive; but not the way to study men and manners, and to gain a knowledge of the world. The world, the peculiarities of a nation are to be found elsewhere-in lanes, and courts, and alleys, and above all in the rural districts, among what is commonly considered "low people." It was among these that Shakspeare discovered inexhaustible mines of character in his time; and it is among these that Dickens, the most genial of humorists since Shakspeare, discovers them to-day. Bayard Taylor traveled through Europe, while others have only visited it. The "Views a-Foot" were literally written during his wanderings, partly by the way-side when resting at mid-day, and partly on the rough tables of pleasant inns, in the stillness of deserted ruins, or amid the sublime solitude of the mountain-tops. At such times, and in such places, were also written many of the poems in "The Rhymes of Travel," published in 1848, Bayard Taylor's next volume; dating respectively from London, Aix-la-Chapelle, Heidelberg, Frankfort, Vienna, Munich, Florence, Rome, Paris, and London. One of the sweetest poems in "The Rhymes of Travel" is headed "In Italy," and addressed to the lady-friend we have already alluded to: "IN ITALY. "Dear Lillian, all I wish'd is won! Where olive orchards gleam and quiver "Through laurel leaves, the dim green light "Rich is the soil with fancy's gold; 66 Thy words in memory's ear outchime "Their garlands of immortal bay "Sad is the opal glow that fires "The fair Italian dream I chased, After publishing the "Views a-Foot," Bayard Taylor went back home into the country again, and was for a while connected with some newspaper there, either as editor or proprietor. Not succeeding very well, he came to New-York, and eventually became connected with The Tribune daily newspaper in the capacity of editor, attending to the city department. The work of The Tribune is not hard, but it is dry and uncongenial, as is that of most newspapers daily or weekly. It required just what Bayard Taylor hasindustry and tact; beyond these two qualifications little is necessary; imagination is not wanted—unless at election time, when the party is hard up for facts against their opponents-and taste is utterly thrown away. What taste, for instance, can an editor exhibit in the "city_item" | business; in a description of the last fire, or a full account of the last rowdy fight; in the launch of a new ship, or the sinking of an old steamer; the last pair of dwarfs, or the expected giant; the happy family, or The Bottle, a drama in three acts; in writing puffs for somebody's hats, somebody else's boots, or somebody else's inimitable cough-candy; not to forget the poetical weather items, the state of the thermometer, whether below or above zero; the density of the clouds of dust, and the refreshing shower which watered the earth just at nightfall? What taste, we repeat, can be shown in these things, not forgetting the political, moneyed, and shipping department, any, or all of which, might fall on Bayard Taylor in the absence of his editorial colleagues? What fine writing can we expect from a man in such a situation? In the end, it is very apt to unfit a man for writing at all; but Bayard Taylor, being a poet, was not to be so undone. Working on The Tribune in the spring of 1849, he departed for California, where he remained eight or nine months, writing letters about men and things in the gold regions. The result of his observations there was embodied in a couple of volumes, entitled, "El Dorado; or, Adventures in the Path of Empire," and published in the spring of 1850. This book was very successful both in this country and England, where it was reprinted in cheap editions; and also in Germany, where it was translated shortly after its appearance in America. Not long ago, a friend of ours saw it in the library of Hans Christian Andersen, who is one of Bayard Taylor's warmest admirers. On his return to the United States, Taylor resumed his desk and duties in The Tribune office, where he remained till the summer of 1851. But, in the mean time, a change came over the spirit of his dream; the "friend" of his early poem, the "Lillian" of his Rhymes of Travel, died. Years before, they had betrothed themselves in sincerity and truth; it was their only wish in life to call each other by the endearing names of "wife" and "husband," two of the sweetest and most holy words ever uttered on earth. For years the marriage was deferred, "perhaps," says Dr. Griswold, in an affectionate allusion to the circumstance, "for the poet to make his way in the world; and when he came back from California there was perceived another cause for deferring it she was in ill health, and all that could be done for her was of no avail; and the suggestion came, the doubt, and finally the terrible conviction, that she had the consumption and was dying. He watched her, suffering day by day, and when hope was quite dead, that he might make little journeys with her, and minister to her gently as none could but one whose light came from her eyes, he married her; while her sun was setting he placed his hand in hers, that he might go with her down into the night. There are not many such marriages; there were never any holier since the Father of mankind looked up into the face of our mother. She lived a few days, a few weeks per haps, and then he came back to his occupations, and it was never mentioned that there had been any such events in his life." Could the sanctity of private letters be exposed to the public eye, his grief and manliness on the occasion would shed a new luster upon his character; but why allude to these things? It is the old sad story: the beloved have been dying, and the bereaved have been weeping for them, ever since time began. In the summer of 1851, feeling in need of relaxation from work, and finding his health gradually failing, Bayard Taylor departed for Europe again, intending, before returning, to explore the Mountains of the Moon, where the White Nile is supposed to have its source, to visit Ethiopia and Nineveh, and the untraveled parts of Northern Africa generally. How far this has been accomplished we are not able to say, not having kept the run of the letters in which his journey is chronicled. If we mistake not, however, he visited neither the Mountains of the Moon nor Nineveh, having been recalled to Europe again to join the Expedition to Japan, where, we presume, he is at present, dreaming of his early friends, Mandeville and Marco Polo! Shortly after his departure for Europe appeared his third volume of poetry, "A Book of Romances, Lyrics, and Songs." It is unquestionably his best book, and contains one or two poems worthy of any poet, living or dead. I am not certain but I would rather be the author of "The Metempsychosis of the Pine" than of any other poem yet written in America. "Mon-da-Min, or the Romance of Maize," ," "Love and Solitude," “Hylas,” “Kubleh," " Ariel in the Cloven Pine," ‚” “Manuela,” “Serapion," "Sorrowful Music," and the "Ode to Shelley," are all elaborate and beautiful poems. The poems and prose writings of Bayard Taylor have been widely and thoroughly reviewed, but by no one more appreciatingly than Boker, his associate, and brother in the Muses. We quote a few paragraphs from his review of the "Book of Romances, Lyrics, and Songs," partly to refute the prevailing opinion that literary men never speak well of each other, and partly because we agree with them thoroughly: Mere "Mr. Taylor's inclinations (says Boker) are for scenes of grandeur. Sublime human actions, nature in her awful revolutionary states, the wild desolation of a mountain peak or a limitless desert, the storm, the earthquake, the cataract, these are the chief inspiration of his powers. Whatever is suggestive of high emotions that act upon his moral nature, and, in turn, are acted upon by it, forms an unconquerable incentive to his poetical exertions. word-painting he has no affection for. A scene of nature, however beautiful, would be poetically valueless to him, unless it moved his feelings past the point of silent contemplation. The first poem in his volume,- Mon-da-Min, the Romance of Maize,'-affords a striking illustration of his apprehension of intellectual bravery. Through fasting that approaches starvation, unanswered prayers, and repeated discomfitures, the soul of the hero burns undimmed, and his eyes remain steadily fixed on his purpose. Physical suffering only strength ens his resolution, and defeat only nerves him to renewed efforts. Round these ideas the poet lingers with a triumphant emotion that proves his sympathies to be centered less in the outward action of the poem than in the power of the human will-a power which he conceives to be capable of overcoming even the gods themselves. We have before stated that nature, unless suggestive of some intellectual emotion, is nothing to Mr. Taylor. To arouse himself to song he must vitalize the world-must make it live, breathe, and feel-must find books in the running brooks, and sermons in stones, or brooks and stones are to him as if they had not been. In The Metempsychosis of the Pine,' this characteristic is finely displayed. The poet imagines himself to be a pine, and re traces his experience while in that state of being. The pine becomes a conscious creature, ing the sap stir in its veins, and pour through reveling in the joys of its own existence, feela heart as susceptible as man's. Many poets have recalled the memories which linger around a particular tree, or, apostrophizing it, have bid it relate certain histories; but in Mr. Taylor's 's poem the tree speaks from within its own nature-not with the feelings of a man, not with what we might suppose would be the feelings of a common tree, but as a pine of many centuries-and no one can mistake its voice. A nobler use of the dramatic faculty in lyrical poetry is not within our recollection. "As may be supposed, Mr. Taylor's poetry is written under the excitement of passion, and does not proceed from that laborious process of constructing effects to which a large number of poets owe their success. The consequence is, that his language is vividly metaphorical, only dealing in similes when in a comparative repose, and never going out of the way to hunt up one of those eternal likes which have emasculated our poetic style, and are fast becoming a leading characteristic of American verse to the destruction of everything like real passion. Mr. Taylor is an instructive study in this respect. He uses ten metaphors to one simile. His ideas come forth clothed in their figurative language, and do not bring it along neatly tied up in a separate bundle. From this cause there is a steady strength and genuine feeling about his poems that more than compensate for the ingenious trinkets which he despises, and leaves for the adornment of those who need them. In him imagination predominates over fancy, and the latter is always sacrificed to the former. We do not intend to say that Mr. Taylor is without fancy. Far from it; he has fancy, but it never leads him to be fanciful. His versification is polished, correct, and various, but more harmonious than melodious; that is to say, the whole rhythmical flow of his verse is more striking than the sweetness of particular lines. Some of the minor poems in his volume border on the sensuous, and in 'Hylas' he has paid a tribute to ancient fable worthy of its refined inventors; but scenes of moral and natural sublimity are those in which he succeeds best, and by them he should be characterized." The following sonnet, from "The Rhymes of Travel," will give a fair idea of Bayard Taylor's general style. The reader will notice the poet's intense exultation in the thought of such scenes, and the felicity and grandeur of his diction: THE MOUNTAINS. "O deep, exulting freedom of the hills! streams That foam and thunder from the cliffs below! O slippery brinks, and solitudes of snow, And granite bleakness where the vulture screams! O stormy pines that wrestle with the breath Somewhat different, but equally fine, is this extract from "Love and Solitude :" "I see the close defiles unfold O'er which the barren ridges heave their lines, A STEEL PENS. LL the steel pens made in England, and a great many of those sold in France, Germany, and America, whatever names or devices they may bear, are manufactured in Birmingham. In this respect, as in many others of the same nature, the Birmingham manufacturers are very accommodating, and quite prepared to stamp on their productions the American eagle, the cap of liberty, the effigy of Pio Nono or of the Comte de Chambord, if they get the order, the cash, or a good credit. There are eighteen steel pen manufacturers in the Birmingham Directory, and eight penholder makers. Two manufacturers employ about one thousand hands, and the other seventeen about as many more. We can most of us remember when a long hard steel pen, which required the nicest management to make it write, cost a shilling, and was used more as a curiosity, than as a useful, comfortable instrument. About 1820 or 1821 the first gross of three-slit pens was sold wholesale at £7 4s. the gross of twelve dozen. A better article is now sold at 6d. a gross. The cheapest pens are now sold at 2d. a gross; the best at from 3s. 6d. to 5s.; and it has been calculated that Birmingham produces not less than a thousand million steel pens every year. America is the best foreign customer, in spite of a duty of twenty-four per cent.; France ranks next, for the French pens are bad and dear.Chambers's Edinburgh Journal. Bayard Taylor's prose is by many preferred to his poetry: it is bare, concise, and direct-bare, almost barren, in its simplicity-almost wholly devoid of imagination, the chief excellence of his verse. A greater contrast than exists between the two can hardly be imagined. If each could borrow the other's strong points it would, perhaps, be better for both; his poetry losing some of its gorgeousness, and his prose some of its naked, sharp detail. In traveling, I should say that Bayard Taylor regards everything in detail, with WORKING IN FAITH AND HOPE.—We live a view to the putting it in description in a season of fermentation, which some afterward. He seems to see everything, deprecate as change, others hail as proand to feel nothing. He presents a land-gress; but those who venture, as they scape, not as it appears to a poet, but a walk on their path through life, to scatter practical man of the world. If it gives a few seeds by the wayside in faith and him any feeling beyond that of form and charity, may at least cherish a hope that, color, he does not give the feeling to us; instead of being trampled down, or withernay, what he must really have felt, to be ed up, or choked among thorns, they will able to describe it at all, is wanting; we have a chance of life at least, and of see nothing but the most obvious facts. bringing forth fruit, little or much, in due Had he the glowing outline and the ripe season; for the earth, even by the waysensation of "Howadji” Curtis, he would sides of common life, is no longer dry be perfect. and barren and stony hard, but green with promise, grateful for culture; and we are at length beginning to feel that all the blood and tears by which it has been silently watered have not been shed in vain. What the result of Bayard Taylor's present tour will be, remains to be seen. From the matured power of his last books, and our knowledge of the man, we predict something unusually fine. |