Summary

Various The Taylor-Trotwood Magazine, Vol… (1907)

I sat with Jo Johnston in the Forty-sixth Congress of the United States. I was young and he was ripe in years and experience. I sought him and cultivated him and never tired of listening to the story from his lips of his maneuvers in the last days of the Confederacy. He was small of stature, square built, and straight as an arrow, with a big round bald head and keen gray eyes that glittered like stars. Congress was not congenial to him—he was not an orator but a soldier; he was not a statesman, but a general. He knew how to wield an army but was helpless on the battlefield of argument.
Source: Gutenberg

Various The Taylor-Trotwood Magazine, Vol… (1907)

Perhaps the American never heard a whippoorwill singing in December, but that does not prove that “Bob” Taylor hasn’t. Where “Bob” Taylor is, there, also, are the whippoorwills, the mockingbirds, the catbirds, and all the sweet and soulful singers known to Dixieland. It matters not the season, nor the hour, we take it. Song birds hover ever in his wake, and music hangs upon the lightest trembling of his bow. Flowers have their hours to fade, and the sun has its time to set, but for “Bob” Taylor’s fiddle, all hours and times are the same.
Source: Gutenberg

Various The Taylor-Trotwood Magazine, Vol… (1907)

To him, all there is of heaven is bounded by this little span of life; all there is of pleasure and love is circumscribed by a few fleeting years; all there is of beauty is mortal; all there is of intelligence and wisdom is in the human brain; all there is of mystery and infinity is fathomable by human reason, and all there is of virtue is measured by the relations of man to man. To him, all must end in the “tongueless silence of the dreamless dust,” and all that lies beyond the grave is a voiceless shore and a starless sky.
Source: Gutenberg

Get perspective with Kwize: daily news enlightened by great literature