He was by nature rather an
admirer of art than an artist; in fact he was a critic, and with a right
opportunity he might have become a Froude, a Taine, or a Ruskin. A wise
father might have done much for him, but his father belonged to that
class of men who are only acquainted with a small circle of their own
affairs; he had not the least conception of what was needed for his
brilliant son. So the best years of young Thaxter's life were consumed
in fruitless efforts to harmonize his lofty aspirations with the
stubborn facts about him. It was like a fruit-tree planted in a stone
quarry. Too late he learned from experience the wisdom that should have
come to him from his ancestors. He might have succeeded better if he had
been less unwilling to compromise his sincerity,--to duck his head to
the golden calf. But he would not do that, he intended to remain Levi
Thaxter or die in the attempt: and once he came very near doing so. He
was a romance character, and if his biography could be written it would
be more interesting than that of some of our most celebrated men.
Socially he was delightful; and a hundred friends could bear witness to
his integrity, his fidelity, his kindly nature, his wit, humor, and keen
appreciation. William Hunt the painter and Doctor Henry I. Bowditch were
his two most intimate friends.
He studied dramatic reading, and nearly made a profession of it.
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