Takes up the Editorial Pen.—Publication of His “Poems
of the Orient.”—His Books of Travel.—Lecturing before
Lyceums.—Friendship of Richard H. Stoddard.—Private
Correspondence.—Love of Fun.—Resolves to Build a Home at
Kennett.—Charges of Intemperance.—Preparations for a Third Trip
to Europe.—Acquaintance with Thackeray.
Immediately upon his return from China, he entered again the traces for
hard and long literary work. He had written poems, and snatches of poems,
verses, and couplets in his spare hours as a traveller, and his note-book
and guide-books were full of such impulsive productions, written on the
margin and on the fly-leaves. Those scattered compositions he desired
to reduce to satisfactory and convenient shape for publication. Some
of them had been written on the seas, some on the Nile, one in Spain,
one in Constantinople, one in Jerusalem, two in Gotha, and several in
railways and steamboats. The thought of publishing them in the form
of a book, was suggested to him by one of his intimate friends in New
York,—either Mr. Stoddard or Mr. Ripley,—his intention having been to
publish them from time to time in some periodical, in much the same
manner as he had contributed to the “Union Magazine,” some eight years
before. But he had sufficient appreciation of his own genius to act
promptly on such a suggestion of his friends, and the first few weeks
after his return were occupied with that work, in addition to the work of
arranging and correcting his unpublished letters to the “Tribune.” When
he had completed the “Poems of the Orient,” it was published by Ticknor &
Fields, of Boston, as a companion volume to the “Rhymes of Travel,” and
“Book of Romances,” both of which were united in one volume, in 1856,
under the title of “Poems of Home and Travel.” In the preparation of
these poems, he was greatly assisted by the kindly and discreet criticism
of his friend Stoddard, which he not only acknowledged in the remarkable
dedication “From Mount Tmolus,” but mentioned it to his relatives with
expressions of thankfulness. The public owe a debt to Mr. Stoddard
for his generosity and hospitality to Mr. Taylor, as well as for the
beautiful poems and truthful biographies which he has written. A true man
is a friendly critic, if a critic at all. Such was Richard H. Stoddard.
Mr. Taylor was then called into a new work by a curious public, who
wished to see the man who had wandered so far, and had seen so much of
this great earth. Hence he was repeatedly called upon to lecture in
various cities of the Eastern and Middle States. His financial condition
was not so prosperous as to preclude the possibility of future needs, and
as the invitations to lecture were accompanied by very liberal offers in
the way of remuneration, he accepted many of them. It was, however, an
uncongenial occupation. Public speaking had never been recognized as one
of his great gifts, and the great masses who gather on such occasions,
gather more for amusement than study. They wished to see how he appeared.
The ladies desired to know if he was handsome, well dressed, and what was
the color of his eyes and hair. The men wished to see if he had become a
foreigner in speech or manner. The boys wanted to hear bear stories, and
the girls of wild giraffes and affectionate gazelles. Not that the public
desired to hear pure nonsense; but that it wished its lessons very much
diluted. The polished essays of Mr. Taylor, with their poetical language
and refinement of expression, were of little or no account, and a view
of his portly physique, and the right to say that they had seen him, and
heard him, satisfied the greater portion. To him, such audiences were not
agreeable. Whenever he could find a friend like O’Brien or Stoddard, he
enjoyed reading his own productions; but to be set up as a show, had in
it no such satisfaction. Being also very much engaged in preparing his
books of travel, and in writing for the “Tribune,” often writing on the
railway trains, and in hotels, he was weary, and could not enter into the
labor of public teaching with the zest which might otherwise have been
expected of him. Yet, in point of numbers, and financial returns, his
tour, during the winter of 1854, was successful, and the harvest for the
season of 1855 promised to be still larger.
In addition to the work already mentioned, he had a great number of
private correspondents, whose letters he answered with astonishing
punctuality. Men in Egypt, China, England, Germany, California, and the
United States, sent him letters of inquiry about the best routes, and
cheapest outfit for travel. To which he replied as fully as he could,
always remembering the like favors done him when in the printing-office
at West Chester. There was a large number of friendly acquaintances in
many parts of the world who desired to sustain a correspondence with
him, and, often, his desk at the “Tribune” had piled upon it as many as
fourscore letters, brought by a single mail. It seems incredible when we
think of the amount of writing Mr. Taylor did during the years of 1854
and 1855.
Owing to the great amount of work which could not be postponed, and
the fact that the “Tribune” had the moral right to his letters before
he offered them for sale in the form of a book, the last of his three
volumes of travel did not appear until August, 1855.
At one time, he entertained the idea of publishing a book of songs, and
consulted with his publisher concerning the probable success of such a
volume. But having had his attention called to the fact that the veriest
trash answered the purpose of musical composers fully as well as sterling
poetry, he abandoned the idea. The thought was probably suggested to
him by the writings of Thomas Moore, whose “Lalla Rookh” was frequently
brought to mind while Mr. Taylor was writing out the chapters of his
book, wherein he described his visit to Agra and Delhi in India. The
objections which he found to a volume of songs, seemed equally applicable
to single productions which might be included in such a category, and he
not only suppressed many he had written, but cautiously cut out verses
in such as had been printed, before he allowed them to be published
again. He went so far as to request that the song for which he obtained
the Jenny Lind prize in 1850, should be kept forever out of print. Some
of these are said to be among his papers in Germany, where his body
now lies, and the writer sincerely wishes to see them all in print at
a day not very remote, together with the epistolary poems and friendly
sonnets which have been sent by him to the distinguished scholars and
poets who enjoyed his friendship. It will take time to gather them, but,
when collected, will make the best of reading, and will show the joyous,
simple, sincere character of the poet, as no amount of prose can do.
As early as October, 1854, Mr. Taylor conceived the idea of building a
summer residence near the old homestead at Kennett. It may have been a
purpose entertained in his youth, for he often mentions, directly and
indirectly, in his early writings, the scenery and the people about his
home at Kennett. But in that year the idea appears to have assumed the
form of a possibility, for he wrote to one of his old schoolmates, who
resided that autumn in Jersey City, saying that he began to see his way
for a house of his own at Kennett. The letter set in circulation the
report that he was soon to be married; but he had kept his own counsel
so well, and held aloof so studiously from the company of ladies, that
none of the gossips could possibly hint at the person of his choice.
This loyalty to his home and desire to return to it like a weary bird to
its nest, was a beautiful trait of his character, and testifies strongly
to his natural goodness of heart. For it will be found that the noblest
men of all ages and professions have loved the homes of their childhood,
while the selfish, narrow, barbarous, and mean, universally regard their
early associations with neglect or contempt.
A touching scene arises before the writer, as he reaches this theme, and
the tears will come to the eye and cheek! Away in that German land sleeps
the son and brother. The romantic home at Kennett, stands cosy, yet
stately, among the winter-stricken trees. Inside are the dear ones whom
neither years, nor honors, nor wanderings have induced him to forget—the
father and the mother in the mansion of their son. There is the sister,
whose feet, after years of absence, tread again the paths of home. There
the visitor feels the gloom of a distant death. Windows that flashed with
light; drawing-rooms that were made charming by the cheerful faces of
the great and good, are now suggestive of sadness and disaster. The cold
winds shake the dry vines, and cry around its cornices. The loved ones
are there,—waiting, waiting for him to come home! He never disappointed
them before. Why comes he not? Why do not his letters come with the mail?
“Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane,
And fall thou drear December rain!”
Ah, we know the meaning now of those sad words. For we have lived them
too!
Ever looking forward to the time when he could give his parents a
more luxurious home, feeling most keenly the rapid strides of time,
as he looked upon their whitening locks, unwilling to prosper alone,
and promoting ever the welfare of those he loved, he strove with an
unchangeable determination to accumulate sufficient money to build
a house near the old farm, that should be a home for all, and a
resting-place for himself. To this, in part, was due his incessant work
through the years of 1854 and 1855. His books brought him a considerable
return; he received a reasonable compensation as editor and lecturer,
and he had lifted the load of debt which the “Phœnixville Pioneer” had
bequeathed to him, but which no one believed he was able to pay; and
could look forward to a competency and, perhaps, to wealth. Yet, in
all his work, there was a cheerfulness that seemed to give rest while
the work went on. He often indulged in fun, was ever joking with his
friends, and indulging in playful pranks with his acquaintances. Usually,
however, his facetiousness was itself a method of self-discipline,—a
different kind of work. He used to visit his friends whenever an
evening could be spared from necessary labor, and spend the hours in
writing and exchanging humorous burlesques, acrostics, sonnets, and
parodies. Sometimes he would “race” with his literary friends in writing
lines of poetry on a given subject, and although, as he afterward
acknowledged, he often came in second best, yet he enjoyed the sport
and the satisfaction of the victor none the less. The same fun-loving,
mischievous, kind-hearted boy, who enjoyed writing extravagant verses,
and sending them to his schoolmates, walked the streets of New York
in 1855. Time had given discretion, sorrow had given reserve; but the
fun bubbled out whenever the waters were moved. His mirth was less
ostentatious, but not less hearty. Loving a bottle of beer, or wine,
for the sake of sociability, for in his younger days it was universally
considered a necessity, he never drank to excess, nor was ever regarded
by his companions as an intemperate man. Envious simpletons have
sometimes accused him of intemperate habits during those two years; but
so well-known and frank was his life, that it would have been then, as
it certainly is now, a waste of time to deny so absurd a statement.
So-called temperance men are often the most intemperate people known
in public life. As temperance, in fact, consists of temperance in all
things, as well as in the use of intoxicating drinks, the real temperance
people of America will discourage alike the excess in the use of
stimulants, and that excess in the use of epithets and misrepresentation,
which, by the resulting reaction, encourages the use of that which they
wish to prohibit. Intemperate speeches, like intemperate laws, and
intemperate drinking, are to be condemned and avoided by all who believe
the Highest Moral Standard known to man. It is exceedingly intemperate to
circulate a falsehood about any person, and especially of one of our own
American family, who has done so much for our nation, and “never wished
harm to any man.”
It had long been Mr. Taylor’s wish to take his sisters and brother to
Europe with him, in order that they might enjoy those scenes which had
pleased him so much; and he had often mentioned, in his letters to them
from abroad, how much more he would enjoy the advantages of travel, if
they could be with him to share in his pleasure. He was too generous to
desire the exclusive enjoyment of anything, and was especially anxious
that those related to him should reap the benefits of all his labors.
Hence, in the spring of 1856 (not without correspondence with one in
Gotha, however), he arranged his plans for another series of excursions
in Europe, and persuaded his sisters and brother to accompany him.
It was during those two years of labor that he made the acquaintance of
many of the distinguished literary men of Massachusetts, and in one of
those years—1855—he secured the acquaintance and friendship of William
Makepeace Thackeray, who visited this country then for the second time,
and delivered his long-remembered lectures on the “English Humorists of
the Eighteenth Century,” and “The Four Georges.” So well known, and so
much respected had Mr. Taylor become, that he was sought by the great of
both continents, and when he departed for Europe, in the spring of 1856,
the kind wishes of thousands of America’s representative men and women
went with him, and a welcome awaited him on the shores of England from as
many more.