Of Literature | Page 8

country who had shared the pleasure I
professed in meeting him before; it was surely my fault that I did not
speak my name loud enough to be recognized, if I spoke it at all; but
the courage I had mustered did not quite suffice for that. In after years
he assured me, first by letter and then by word, of his grief for an
incident which I can only recall now as the untoward beginning of a
cordial friendship. It was often my privilege, in those days, as reviewer
and editor, to testify my sense of the beautiful things he did in so many
kinds of literature, but I never liked any of them better than I liked him.
He had a fervent devotion to his art, and he was always going to do the
greatest things in it, with an expectation of effect that never failed him.
The things he actually did were none of them mean, or wanting in
quality, and some of them are of a lasting charm that any one may feel

who will turn to his poems; but no doubt many of them fell short of his
hopes of them with the reader. It was fine to meet him when he was full
of a new scheme; he talked of it with a single-hearted joy, and tried to
make you see it of the same colors and proportions it wore to his eyes.
He spared no toil to make it the perfect thing he dreamed it, and he was
not discouraged by any disappointment he suffered with the critic or
the public.
He was a tireless worker, and at last his health failed under his labors at
the newspaper desk, beneath the midnight gas, when he should long
have rested from such labors. I believe he was obliged to do them
through one of those business fortuities which deform and embitter all
our lives; but he was not the man to spare himself in any case. He was
always attempting new things, and he never ceased endeavoring to
make his scholarship reparation for the want of earlier opportunity and
training. I remember that I met him once in a Cambridge street with a
book in his hand which he let me take in mine. It was a Greek author,
and he said he was just beginning to read the language at fifty: a
patriarchal age to me of the early thirties!
I suppose I intimated the surprise I felt at his taking it up so late in the
day, for he said, with charming seriousness, "Oh, but you know, I
expect to use it in the other world." Yea, that made it worth while, I
consented; but was he sure of the other world? "As sure as I am of
this," he said; and I have always kept the impression of the young faith
which spoke in his voice and was more than his words.
I saw him last in the hour of those tremendous adieux which were paid
him in New York before he sailed to be minister in Germany. It was
one of the most graceful things done by President Hayes, who, most of
all our Presidents after Lincoln, honored himself in honoring literature
by his appointments, to give that place to Bayard Taylor. There was no
one more fit for it, and it was peculiarly fit that he should be so
distinguished to a people who knew and valued his scholarship and the
service he had done German letters. He was as happy in it, apparently,
as a man could be in anything here below, and he enjoyed to the last
drop the many cups of kindness pressed to his lips in parting; though I
believe these farewells, at a time when he was already fagged with
work and excitement, were notably harmful to him, and helped to
hasten his end. Some of us who were near of friendship went down to

see him off when he sailed, as the dismal and futile wont of friends is;
and I recall the kind, great fellow standing in the cabin, amid those sad
flowers that heaped the tables, saying good-by to one after another, and
smiling fondly, smiling wearily, upon all. There was champagne, of
course, and an odious hilarity, without meaning and without remission,
till the warning bell chased us ashore, and our brave poet escaped with
what was left of his life.

IV
I have followed him far from the moment of our first meeting; but even
on my way to venerate those New England luminaries, which chiefly
drew my eyes, I could not pay a less devoir to an author who, if Curtis
was not, was chief of the New York group of authors in that day. I
distinguished between the