BENJAMIN F. TAYLOE. Benjamin F. Taylor, a son of Stephen W. Taylor, late President of Madir^on University, in Hamilton, New York, was born about the year 1820, in Lewis county, in the " Empire State." Now, in the meridian of life, Mr. Taylor is a man of stately form, weighing about one hundred and seventy-five pounds, brown hair, inclined to be curly, large head, bold high forehead, stern countenance, large, closely-shaven face, and hazel eyes. Mr. Taylor has written some of the most beautiful literary sketches, and some of the sweetest gems of poetry, that have been penned in the Western countr}-. His originality of thought, scope of imagination, and power of language are remarka- ble. His resources appear inexhaustible, notwithstanding the fact that he has been a writer for the public press for over a dozen years, and suffers the wear and tear of daily journalism. He was connected with the J^ew York Tribune eight or ten years ago, and since then has been one of the editors of the Chicago Journal. In 1855 he published, in New York City, a volume of sketches and poems, entitled " January and June," — a new edition of which was issued in Chicago in 1860. Mr. Taylor is recluse in his disposition, and sometimes extremely despondent. For several years past he has been " making unto himself a name " as a public lecturer. His depart- ment of the Journal being the first two columns on the initial page, is justly popular with lovers of good writing. His articles are copied into newspapers which circulate in all parts of our country. Mr. Taylor, having no business at the printing-office of the Journal, thinks and writes at home, near Wheaton, on the Galena Railroad, twen- ty-four miles from Chicago. He visits the city only when " copy " compels him. RHYMES OF THE RIVER. Oh, River far-flowing. How broad thou art growing. And the sentinel Headlands wait grimly for thee ; And Euroclydon urges Tiie bold-riding surges. That in white-crested lines gallop in from the sea. Oil, bright-hearted river, "With crystalline quiver. Like a blade from its scabbard, far flashing abroad ; And I think, as I gaze On the tremulous blaze. That thou surely wert drawn by an angel of God. Through the black heart of night, Leaping out to the liglit. Thou art reeking with sunset, and dyed with the dawn; Cleft the emerald sod — Cleft the mountains of God — And the shadows of roses, yet rested thereon. ( 416 ^
