Democratic Sentinel, Volume 2, Number 47, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 January 1879 — Bayard Taylor and Horace Greeley. [ARTICLE]

Bayard Taylor and Horace Greeley.

The following is an extract from Bayard Taylor’s letter to the New York Tribune, soon after the death of Mr. Greeley: I first saw Mr. Greeley in June, 1844, when I was a boy of 19. I applied to him for an engagement to write letters to the Tribune from Germany. His reply was terse enough. “No descriptive letters!” he said, “I’m sick of them. When you have been there long enough to know something, send to me, and, if there is anything in your letters, I will publish them.” I waited nearly a year, and then sent seventeen letters, which were published. They were shallow enough, I suspect; but what might they not have been without his warning? Toward the end of 1847, while I was engaged in the unfortunate enterprise of trying to establish a weekly paper at Phoenixville, Pa., I wrote to him, foreseeing the failure of my hopes—asking his assistance in procuring literary work in New Y’ork. He advised me (as I suspect he has advised thousands of young men) to stay in the country. But I had stayed in the country, and a year too long; so another month found me in New York, in his office, with my story of disappointment, and my repeated request for his favorable influence. “I think you are mistaken,” he said; “ but I will bear you in mind, if I hear of any chance.” Six weeks afterward, to my great surprise (for I supposed he had quite forgotten me), he sent for me and offered me a place on the Tribune. I worked hard and incessantly during the summer of 1848, hearing never a word of commendation or encouragement; but, one day in October he, suddenly came to my desk, laid his hand on my shoulder and said: “ You have been faithful; but now you need rest. Take a week’s holiday, and go into New England.” I obeyed, and found, on my return, that he had ordered my salary to be increased. I think none of his associates at that time ever wrote a line which he did not critically read. His comments sometimes seemed rough, but they were always wholesome and almost invariably just. Once he called me into his room, pointed to a poem of mine which had just appeared in a literary magazine, and abruptly asked: “ Why did you publish that gassy stuff? ” My indignation was even greater than my astonishment. I retorted fiercely: “Mr. Greeley, I should feel hurt by your question, if I had any respect whatever for your judgment in regard to poetry!” He smiled a sad, forgiving smile, and said nothing. Years afterward I saw that he was right; the poem

was only a piece of sounding rhetoric, for which “ gassy ” was perhaps a coarse, but certainly not an inappropriate, epithet. In this, as in other respects, the discipline to which he subjected me, was excellent; if not the result of the intellectual perception, it manifested an instinct even more remarkable. A Good Horse. “ I can’t explain what a real good horse is,” said one of the best-natured dealers in the street. “ They are as different as men. In buying a horse, you must look first to his head and eyes for signs of intelligence, temper, courage and honesty. Unless a horse has brains yqu can*t teach him anything, any more than you can a half-witted child. See that tall bay there, a finerooting animal, fifteen hands high. You can’t teach that horse anything. Why? Well, I’ll show you a difference in heads; but have a care of his heels. Look at the brute’s head—-that rounding nose, that tapering forehead, that broad, full place below the eyes. You can’t trust him. Kick? Well, I guess so! Put him in a ten-acre lot, where he’s got plenty of swing, and he’ll kick the horn off the moon.” The world’s treatment of man and beast has the tendency to enlarge and intensify bad qualities, if they predominate. This good-natured phrenologist could not refrain from slapping in the face the horse whose character had been so cruelly delineated, while he had nothing but the gentlest caresses for a tall, docile, sleek-limbed sorrel, that pricked her ears forward and looked intelligent enough to understand all that was being said. “That’s an awful good mare,” he added. “She’s as true as the sun. You can see breadth and fullness between the ears and eyes. You couldn’t hire that mare to act mean or hurt anybody. The eye should be full, and hazel is a good color. I like a small, thin ear, and want a horse to throw his ears well forward. Look out for the brute that wants to listen to all the conversation going on behind him. The horse that turns back his ears till they almost meet at the points, take my word for it, is sure to do something wrong. A horse with a dishing face is cowardly, and a cowardly brute is usually vicious. Then I like a square muzzle with large nostrils, to let in plenty of air to the lungs. For the under side of the head, a good horse should be well cut under the jowl, with jaw-bones broad, and wide apart under the throttle. “So much for the head,” he continued. “The next thing to consider is the build of the animal. Never buy a longlegged, stilty horse. Let him have a short, straight back and a straight rump, and you’ve got a gentleman’s horse. The withers should be high, and the shoulders well set back and broad; but don’t get them too deep in the chest. The fore-leg should be short. Give me a pretty straight hind-leg with the hock low down, short pastern joints, and a round, mulish foot. There are all kinds of horses, but the animal that has these points is almost sure to be sightly, graceful, good-natured and serviceable. As to color, taste differs. Bays, browns and chestnuts are the best. Roans are very fashionable at present. A great many grays and sorrels are bought here for shipment to Mexico and Cuba. They do well in a hot climate, under a tropical sun, for the same reason that you find light-colored clothing most serviceable in summer. That circus horse behind you is what many people call a calico horse; now, I call him a genuine piebald. It’s a freak of nature, and may happen anywhere.”— Scribner for January.