Mr. Edmund C. Stedman, the poet, who enjoyed a very close intimacy with Mr. Taylor, spoke of him to the editor as follows:—
“The causes which led to his death at this time, date back several years. When he returned from Europe then, he found his real estate and personal property largely depreciated and encumbered, and though near the age of fifty, he again found himself forced to tolerable hard work to support his family and position. It was this hard work, coupled with his resolute purpose, however other work might engross him, to keep up his more serious contributions to permanent literature, that ultimately led to his death. He took great pride in his home and broad acres, at Kennett Square, Penn., his native place. He designed his own house, ‘Cedarcroft,’ and spent a great deal of money in its erection, and that, with the two hundred acres of land, which he owned and had greatly improved, was a source of expense rather than income to him. He had a handsome competence when he went abroad, all of which he earned as a journalist, author, and lecturer, never having earned any money except by his pen. He decided to maintain his property in Kennett Square, and he set to work immediately to pay off the debt. During the last four years, he has accomplished this, his income amounting to from $12,000 to $18,000 a year; but he obtained it by very hard work. In fact, he had worked harder and accomplished more in that time than perhaps any other living literary man. He lectured each winter, in all sorts of weather, and in different parts of the country. He contributed largely to magazines and reviews, and never more brilliantly, besides doing a great amount of regular work for the ‘Tribune.’ He came from a long-lived family, and his strength was very great, but he undertook too much. He did the work of two able-bodied men every day, and his health gave way under the great strain on one or two occasions. He was compelled to go to the White Sulphur Springs, and other places for recuperation; but he forced himself to work again before he had fully recovered. During this time he wrote his last and most important poem, ‘Prince Deukalion.’ It was a source of great trial to himself, and of regret to his friends, that he was unable to go on with his ‘Life of Goethe,’ for which he had secured material during his last sojourn in Germany. The great trouble with him was his inability, owing to his excessive labors, to take sufficient social recreation. His enemies, very few in number, have falsely attempted to make a point against him on this account, charging him with excessive beer-drinking. It was his want of recreation and rest that killed him. He was forced to take some stimulus to support himself under exhausting labor; but he was not an excessive beer-drinker as he has been charged, though what he did take may have helped to develop his disease.
“No man in the country could do so much journalistic work, and do it so well in a given time, as could Mr. Taylor. He was remarkable in brilliant off-hand feats of literary criticism. As an illustration, I might mention that about a year ago two large octavo volumes, containing poems by Victor Hugo, in the French, arrived by steamer, and were placed in Mr. Taylor’s hands on Thursday evening. For some reason it was desirable that the criticism should appear in the ‘Tribune’ of the following Saturday, and, of course, the copy had to be in the printers’ hands early on Friday night. Mr. Taylor’s health was bad at the time, and he also had in the meantime to deliver a lecture in Brooklyn, and another in New York. He finished his review in time on Friday night, and it appeared in the ‘Tribune’ the following morning, covering more than two-thirds of a page. It was equal to any of his literary criticisms, and surpassed any analysis of Hugo’s genius that I have ever seen. One remarkable feature of the review was over a column of translation into English poetry from the original, including several lyrics and idyls so beautifully done that they seemed like original poems in the English.
“Mr. Taylor was a man of wide and thorough learning, and was a much more exact scholar than would be supposed, considering that he was never at college, and spent a great deal of time in travel and observation. He had a smattering of all languages. He was familiar with Latin and Greek, spoke French well, and German like a native; he also conversed in Russian, Norse, Arabic, Italian, and knew something of modern Greek. His knowledge of Greek was increased by his classical feeling, which, as with Keats, amounted almost to a passion. He was a good botanist, and somewhat of a geologist, and was an established authority on geographical questions. He was greatly interested in all scientific studies.
“As a man he was a peer among his fellows. He was the most simple, generous-hearted man of letters I ever knew. He was the first literary man I met in New York, my acquaintance dating from the time he came and took me by the hand in 1860, after the publication of one of my articles. He was never so happy as when surrounded by his friends in his own house. He had unbounded hospitality, and made his house the centre of literary life in the city. New York will greatly miss him, and just such a leader was needed to give encouragement to our literary life. He was accused sometimes of egotism; but he was not egotistical in the proper sense of the term. He was frank and out-spoken, and showed his feelings plainly, which gave rise to that charge. He always denounced shams and humbugs; but I do not believe he ever did a mean act, and he never grew angry except on account of the meanness of others.
“His private letters, of which I had a great number, were far more delightful than his published ones. He was very careful in his published letters not to say anything that might wound the feelings of distinguished persons from whom he received hospitality abroad. His private letters are full of the most interesting anecdotes and conversations with leading authors and magnates of other lands, and are charming in their clearness and esprit. His faults, and we all have them, were rather of a lovable nature. He cared most for his reputation as a poet, and his books on travel and novels were a secondary matter with him.
“Mr. Taylor did not seek the appointment as Minister to Germany, but other positions were tendered him which he declined, and this was offered rather in obedience to popular demand. Mr. Taylor, Mr. Boker, and Mr. Stoddard started together in literary life thirty years ago, and they have always worked together, and have been firm friends. It was a rather curious coincidence that Mr. Boker should follow as Minister Mr. Taylor as Charge d’Affairs in Russia, and that just as Boker returned from Russia, Mr. Taylor should be sent as Minister to Germany.”
Mr. Samuel Coleman, the artist, said of him:—
“I first knew Mr. Taylor nearly twenty years ago, and my acquaintance with him has always been of the pleasantest kind. I shall never forget a visit that I made to his home at Kennett Square, in 1861, in company with a brother artist. Much of our conversation was on art subjects, and in the evening Mr. Taylor read to me with great gusto some poems written by an extravagant Southern writer. He read the poems in a manner that showed his keen appreciation of ’ the comic element, and kept us laughing at the passages which the author had intended to be most dramatic. Mr. Taylor was a most genial host, and knew how to keep a room full of persons in the happiest mood. His speeches and his manner at such times cannot be described.