JOHN, 1890, William Cullen Bryant (American Men of Letters), pp. 140, 153.

My first romantic love of nature was awakened by the poems of William Cullen Bryant, then in the zenith of their popularity. There was something tangible in the pictures that he drew; his themes pointed out the charms of the woods and the mountains and the fields, which were all about me before my eyes on every side. The distinguished poet was our neighbor, or, to be more exact, his birthplace was on a picturesque hillside in sight of my own birthplace, and he usually came to the old homestead every Summer. When a boy, he attended school with my father, and I had asked so many questions about how he looked in his youth and what he said and did, that I almost fancied I had actually seen him write "Thanatopsis."-LAMB, MARTHA J., 1891, Formative Influences, The Forum, vol. 11, p. 53.

His vocabulary was limited; his poetry was frigid. To be stirred by it is, in the words of Lowell, "like being stirred up by the very North Pole." It had little capacity for growth, and was at its best before the poet was out of his teens. But it had great virtues. Written in classic English, imbued with great dignity of thought and feeling, pervaded with what Wordsworth has called the "religion of the woods"-the devout and solemn reverence for the invisible powers of nature-its manly reserve and repose elevated not only his countrymen's ideals of literary excellence, but their ideals of life as well. MABIE, HAMILTON W., 1892, The Memorial Story of America, p. 588.

Mr. Bryant was a wonderful worker; not only was his editorial industry remarkable, but his contributions to our American literature, both in prose and verse, afford abundant evidence of the fact. He was an accomplished student of the literature of many languages, and while his translations from other tongues are so felicitous that his fellow-master, Longfellow, praised some of his Spanish translations as rivalling the originals in beauty, yet his own verse is as free from the merely literary influence or reminiscence as the pure air of his native hills from the perfume of exotics. His last considerable poem, "The Flood of Years," but echoes in its meditative flow the solemn cadences of "Thanatopsis."-SAUNDERS, FREDERICK, 1894, Character Studies, p. 140.

Bryant is one of the few poets of genuine power whose poetic career shows no advance. The first arrow he drew from his quiver was the best, and with it he made his longest shot; many others he sent in the same direction, but they all fell behind the first. This accounts for the singleness and the depth of the impression he has left; he stands for two or three elementals, and thereby keeps his force unscattered. He was not, indeed, wholly insensible to the romanticist stirrings of his time, as such effusions as "The Damsel of Peru," "The Arctic Lover," and "The Hunter's Serenade," bear witness. He wrote several pieces about Indians-not the real red men, but those imaginary noble savages, possessors of all the primitive virtues, with whom our grandfathers peopled the American forests. He wrote strenuously in behalf of Greek emancipation and against slavery, but even here, though the subject lay very near his heart, he could not match the righteous

vehemence of Whittier, or Lowell's alternate volleys of sarcasm and rebuke. Like

Antæus, Bryant ceased to be powerful

when he did not tread his native earth.— THAYER, WILLIAM R., 1894, Bryant's Centennial, The Review of Reviews, vol. 10, p. 406.

Bryant's genius was at its best in passages imaginatively descriptive of external loveliness, rather than in those expressive of moods and feelings when the spirit is aspiring or analytically reflective. His true strength lay in his powers of vivid delineation, in the art which could bring distinctly to mind, with a few graphic strokes, the rushing vehemence of the stream or the waterfall; the boundless stretch of the prairie magnificence; the terrors of the hurricane, no less than the gentle sweetness of the evening wind, as it "rocks the little wood-bird in his nest," or "curls the still waters bright with stars," or goes forth as "God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth."

His genius lingers lovingly over the splendours of mountain and valley scenery, as if at home with the sublimities of the "beetling verge" where storm and lightning "have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base dashed them into fragments;" or where "upon the meadow's breast the shadow of the thicket lies." With these and similar scenes of natural charm Bryant's poetry abounds; but with regard to that mysterious land of spiritual

longing and contemplation towards which the loftiest thoughts of man turn wistfully, his conceptions are limited and prescribed. Although his poetry is full of reference to the highest subjects which can engage the mind, these are all viewed from one standpoint. His spirit is enlisted on the affirmative side of the problem, and in every line that he has written we feel the influence of the faith of one who believes in Divine goodness ruling the universe.-BRADFIELD, THOMAS, 1895, William Cullen Bryant, Westminster Review, vol. 143, p. 90.

It is as a poet, and especially by a few distinctive compositions, that Bryant will be most widely and deeply held in remembrance. Bryant's venerable

aspect in old age-with erect form, white hair, and flowing snowy beard-gave him a resemblance to Homer; and there was something Homeric about his influence upon the literature of his country, in the dignity with which he invested the poetic art and the poet's relation to the people. LATHROP, GEORGE PARSONS, 1897, Library of the World's Best Literature, ed. Warner, vol. v, pp. 2626, 2627.

Bryant's poems inevitably bring Wordsworth to our minds, yet it seems unfair to Bryant's talents to measure their increase by comparison with the fruits of Wordsworth's genius. Bryant's lot took him to the city, to newspapers and daily cares, while Wordsworth sauntered contemplative over Helvellyn and along the margin of Windermere. Great poetry has never been written by a man who was not able to give to it his concentrated thought and his whole heart. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Spenser, Pope, Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron, all the great poets of England have given undivided allegiance to poetry. Bryant could not do so, and his poems bear the marks of his involuntary disloyalty. A poet must be judged by his achievement alone. Bryant's verses, except at their best, show a lack of art. They are a little undisciplined; they betray truancy to the classics. SEDGWICK, HENRY D., JR., 1897, Bryant's Permanent Contribution to Literature, Atlantic Monthly, vol. 79, p. 541.

Bryant's poetry is stately, lofty, clear. A man of practiced self-control, who from childhood to the day of his death rose early, ate sparingly, exercised regularly, his verse is equally subject to rule. No impetuous measures broke from his pen. Respect for

law and order, personal reserve, and coldness of temperament are so far from being the traditional make-up of a poet that it is no wonder the critics are puzzled. -BATES, KATHARINE LEE, 1897, American Literature, p. 140.

By reason of his long-continued life, Bryant seems nearer to our own day than, as a poet, he really is. Historically he must be remembered as the first of American poets,-first in poetry as Irving was first in one form of prose, and Cooper in another. The body of his poetic work is small, and the greater portion of it is manifestly destined to be forgotten.- HowE, M. A. DEWOLFE, 1898, American Bookmen, p. 75.

Above and beyond all, he was nature's evangelist to man. He caught the spirit of the messages whispered by the trees, sung by the river and chanted by the sea. Trees and flowers, the forest and the prairies, the clouds, the sky and the stars, the sea, the tides, and the winds, the thunder-storm and the hurricane, spoke to him a "various language," which he interpreted to his fellow-men.-ONDERDONK, JAMES L., 1899-1901, History of American Verse, p. 177.

As one looks through his work, however, one is apt to wonder whether, even if his life had been destitute of personal bereavement, his verse might not still have hovered sentimentally about the dead. His most successful poem, "Thanatopsis," was apparently written before death had often come near him; and it is hardly excessive to say that if a single name were sought for his collected works, from beginning to end, a version of that barbarous Greek title might be found suitable, and the whole volume fairly entitled "Glimpses of the Grave." Of course he touched on other things; but he touched on mortality so constantly as to make one feel regretfully sure that whenever he felt stirred to poetry his fancy started for the Valley of the Shadow of Death.-WENDELL, BARRETT, 1900, A Literary History of America, p 200.

Bryant was not of a cold nature, but, on the contrary, a very passionate one, which he had learned to control perfectly, and I always had an impression from certain expressions in his poems that he had, in the past, suffered greatly from uncontrolled passion, and had found the necessity of great restraint. . . . I think that the apparent coldness in his verse was really due

grace of melodious speech to set forth the movements and emotions springing from the eternal and never-fathomed source of being, as well as from the fleeting and never-exhausted joys of wedded and paternal love, of friendship, of the inspiration of nature, of patriotism, and of the ever-ascending revelations of human history.-AUERBACH, BERTHOLD, 1878, Remarks at the American Embassy, Dec. 22; Life and Letters of Bayard Taylor, ed. Taylor and Scudder, vol. II, pp. 766, 767.

Dead he lay among his books!
The peace of God was in his looks.
As the statues in the gloom
Watch o'er Maximilian's tomb,

So those volumes from their shelves
Watched him, silent as themselves.
Ah! his hand will nevermore
Turn their storied pages o'er;
Nevermore his lips repeat
Songs of theirs, however sweet.

Thou hast sung, with organ tone,
In Deukalion's life, thine own;
On the ruins of the Past

Blooms the perfect flower at last.
Friend! but yesterday the bells
Rang for thee their loud farewells;
And to-day they toll for thee,
Lying dead beyond the sea;
Lying dead among thy books,
The peace of God in all thy looks!
-LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH, 1878,
Bayard Taylor, Ultima Thule.

Bayard Taylor's death slices a huge cantle out of the world for me. I don't yet know it, at all; it only seems that he has gone to some other Germany, a little farther off. How strange it all is: he was such a fine fellow, one almost thinks he might have talked Death over and made him forego his stroke.-LANIER, SIDNEY, 1878, To Gibson Peacock, Dec. 21; Letters, p. 58.

No one could possibly look upon the manly young fellow at that time (1847), without loving him. He was tall and slight, with the bloom of youth mantling a face full of eager, joyous expectation. Health of that buoyant nature which betokens delight in existence was visible in every feature of the youthful traveler.

"The fresh air lodged within his cheek
As light within a cloud."

We all flocked about him like a swarm of brothers, heartily welcoming him to Boston. When we told him how charmed we all were with his travels, he blushed like a girl,

and tears filled his sensitive eyes. "It is one of the most absorbingly interesting books I ever read!" cried one of our number, heightening the remark with an expletive savoring of strength more than of early piety. Taylor looked up, full of happiness at the opinion so earnestly expressed, and asked, with that simple naiveté which always belonged to his character, "Do you really think so? Well, I am so glad!"FIELDS, JAMES T., 1878, New York Tribune, Dec. 24.

In other years-lost youth's enchanted years,
Seen now, and evermore, through blinding tears
And empty longing for what may not be-
The Desert gave him back to us; the Sea
Yielded him up; the icy Norland strand
Lured him not long, nor that soft German air
He loved could keep him. Ever his own land
Fettered his heart and brought him back again.
What sounds are these of farewell and despair
Borne on the winds across the wintry main!
What unknown way is this that he is gone,
Our Bayard, in such silence and alone?
What new strange quest has tempted him once

Spring gales are blowing over Cedarcroft, Whitening the hawthorne; when the violets bloom

Along the Brandywine, and overhead
The sky is blue as Italy's, he will come. . .
In the wind's whisper, in the swaying pine,
In song of bird and blossoming of vine,
And all fair things he loved ere he was dead!
-ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY, 1878, Bayard
Taylor.

He spoke of his appointment to Berlin, in the tone of a man who was modestly conscious of his worth; who knew that the distinction, brilliant as it was, had been fair earned, but who was none the less grateful for it. He knew that he was fit for the place, and that the honor bestowed on him was one to which he in turn was able to do honor. He had a just pride in hearing his name associated with the names of Irving, of Motley, of Marsh, of Lowell,-one and all men who had earned their fame in literature before they became diplomatists. He was far too frank and open-natured to care to hide his pleasure. With all his varied and ample experience, with all his knowledge of the world and mastery of social conventionalities, Mr. Taylor retained to the last a certain freshness and candor in expressing his inmost feelings, which belongs only to

those souls that have no mean secrets to keep, no false pride or false modesty. He was pleased, and he was not ashamed of being pleased. It is only a man very sure of himself who can venture to take the world into his confidence as he did. Then, as often before, I thought it most honorable to him. It was consistent with great dignity of demeanor, and whoever fancied he could take advantage of it soon found out his mistake. He submitted readily and generously to all sorts of slight impositions. He gave five francs for some service which fifty centimes would have rewarded amply. He would never look too closely into matters where only his own interest was at stake, but where others were concerned, where it was his business to defend interests which had been confided to him, he could be hard, astute, immovable. That was one of his peculiar merits as a minister. In most points no two men could be more unlike than Mr. Taylor and Prince Bismarck, but they had this in common: that they told the truth fearlessly, and found it served their purpose where the most ingenious mystifications would have failed of their end. SMALLEY, G. W., 1879, New York Tribune. Ah then farewell, young-hearted, genial friend!

Farewell, true poet, who didst grow and build From thought to thought still upward and still

new.

Farewell, unsullied toiler in a guild Where some defile their hands, and where so few

With aims as pure strive faithful to the end. -CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER P., 1879, Scribner's Monthly, vol. 17, p. 731.

To think of him is to recall a person larger in make and magnanimity than the common sort; a man of indescribable buoyancy, hopefulness, sweetness of temper, - reverent, loyal, shrinking from contention yet ready to do battle for a principle or in the just cause of a 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 commission of a mean and unworthy act. - STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE, 1879, Bayard Taylor, Scribner's Monthly, vol. 19, p. 89.

People who knew Bayard Taylor but superficially were apt to accuse him of what they were pleased to call literary vanity. To me this charge seems to be based upon an imperfect comprehension of the rare simplicity and earnestness of the man. Of course he believed in himself and in his own

poetic mission, and he was not disposed to admit into the circle of his more intimate friends any one who questioned the genuiness of his poetic talent. But who likes to have his merits questioned in his own presence? and who chooses his friends among his hostile critics? It is not to be denied that the conventional code of etiquette requires that a man should deprecate his own worth, and, especially in the case of an author, that he should put a very modest estimate upon his own productions. Bayard Taylor was too frank and honest to conform to this rule. If you told him that you thought his "Pean to the Dawn" in the "Songs of the Orient" was a wonderful poem, his fine eyes would light up with pleasure, and he would describe too in vivid colors the situation which had suggested the song to him.-BOYESEN, HJALMAR H., 1879, Reminiscences of Bayard Taylor, Lippincott's Magazine, vol. 24, p. 211.

Never can I forget the conversation between Carlyle and Bayard Taylor, when the latter visited London on his way to take his place as minister at Berlin. Several years before, Bayard had called upon Carlyle, and audaciously announced that he meant to write the life of Goethe. The old man could not allow any such liberties taken with his literary hero without a challenge, and set a sort of trap for this ambitious American. "But," said he, "are there not already Lives of Goethe? There is Blank's Life of Goethe; what fault have you to find with that?" The tone was that Blank had exhausted the subject. Bayard immediately began showing the inadequacy and errors of Blank's book, and withal his own minute and critical knowledge of Goethe, when Carlyle broke out with a laugh, saying of the Life he had mentioned, "I couldn't read it through." From that moment he was cordial, and recognized the man before him.-CONWAY, MONCURE DANIEL, 1881, Thomas Carlyle, p. 103.

On the 17th a rapid change began, which was cruelly deceptive in its first form; for though his attendants knew the contrary, a sudden relief conveyed to Bayard Taylor the delusive hope that he had passed through a crisis and was now to get well. It was in reality a premonition of the immediate end. It was followed by extreme pain, which brought with it a bitter disappointment. On the 19th, after restlessness and wandering of mind, he was in his