THERE died at Washington, Conn., in September, 1896, an American artist, Edward Martin Taber, who possessed something like genius, but of whose history and work the world at large knows next to nothing. M health was his portion, even in youth, and all of his thirty-three years of life appear to have been occupied in a struggle with death. Neither Europe nor the South gave him the strength he craved, but some comfort and respite he found at Stowe, in Vermont, where he ultimately made his home. There he painted, using the knowledge that he had gained under Abbott Thayer long before, but using even more a certain instinctive gift. There, too, he saturated himself in nature and jotted down his observations of her traits. These memoranda of his, with a few letters and verses, were brought together in a book called "Stowe Notes," the fragmentary text being accompanied by numerous reproductions of his paintings and drawings. The volume is a precious souvenir of a remarkable artistic personality.
In spite of Swinburne's dictum that there could be no such thing as an inarticulate poet or an armless painter, we cannot but recognize the appearance from time to time of a man who is an artist regardless of