Many would not expose their hearts to hear him a second time; they could not bear the overmastering power. Dr. Bartol very finely said: “What was the secret but a sympathy, raised to the highest power, so as to exceed all that we conceive under that name, so that _he saw out of people as well as into them_! He put on their eyes for his eyeglasses, looking at the world as they did, and they found and felt him in them at the core and center.” “He was a master of pathos,” said Dr. Bellows; “rough sailors and beautiful and cultivated Boston girls, and men like Webster and Emerson, and shop boys and Cambridge students, and Jenny Lind and Charles Dickens, and Harriet Martineau, and everybody of taste or curiosity who visited Boston were seen weeping together with Father Taylor. Ah, the human heart, down at the bottom, is one.” He loved all little children with all his Master’s passion. The baptism of infants was always a baptism of joy and tears with him. He would gather one to his breast and kiss and croon over it like a mother. Taking a beautiful little girl in his arms, he raised her before the whole audience, and said, with streaming eyes, “Look at the sweet lamb! Her mother has brought her to Christ’s fold. A baptism of heaven be on thee, my pretty dove.” All children recognized him at sight for one of their guild. A ragged little girl walked into the church at his funeral, laid a buttonhole bouquet on the coffin, and said timidly and sweetly, “He was _my_ friend,” and so departed. Once when he had been called to several children’s funerals in succession, he said to a friend whom he met in the street, “There is something wrong somewhere. There are storms brewing when so many doves are flying aloft.” At funerals he was a refuge of consolation. He so entered into the hearts bereaved that he felt their hurt. “Father, look upon us,” he once implored, with mighty and tender supplication, “_we are a widow_!” “It is no wonder to me,” said Harriet Martineau, “that the widow and orphan are cherished by those who hear his prayers for them.” Drunken sailors or abandoned women, none were left out of reach of his infinite sympathy; and it reached the uttermost parts of the earth. A sailor boy has died and been buried in South America, and he prays that the Comforter may be near the bereaved father “when his aged heart goes forth from his bosom to flutter around the far southern grave of his boy!” Is Shakspere more dramatic, Shelly more imaginative, Longfellow more pathetic than this?