Grief at his Death.—Homage of the Great Men of Germany.—Tribute
from Auerbach.—Tributes from his Neighbors at Kennett
Square.—Extracts from Addresses.—The Great Memorial Gathering
at Boston.—The Great Assembly.—Speeches and Letters.—Address of
Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.—Henry W. Longfellow’s Poem.—Letters
from John G. Whittier, George William Curtis, W. D. Howells,
T. B. Aldrich, James T. Fields, Whitelaw Reid, E. P.
Whipple.—Tributes from his Near Friends.—Closing Quotations
from Mr. Taylor’s Writings.
The news of Bayard Taylor’s death called forth universal expressions of
regret. The press, secular and religious, mentioned his decease with
extended editorial comment upon his useful and honorable life. Public
meetings were held to pay tribute to his memory, and the Congress of the
United States passed a bill making Mrs. Taylor a gift of seven thousand
dollars, as a mark of the nation’s appreciation of Mr. Taylor’s services.
In Germany, memorial services were held, at which the greatest literary
men of that empire made addresses, showing their appreciation of Mr.
Taylor’s friendship and scholarship. But one of the most touching
tributes which Germany has given to the memory of the deceased poet, was
uttered by the celebrated Berthold Auerbach, whose books are now found
in the libraries of many different nations, and who was for many years
the intimate companion of Mr. Taylor. In his address made at Mr. Taylor’s
funeral in Berlin, where were gathered a large number of such men as Dr.
Joseph P. Thompson, Prof. Lepsius, Paul Lindau, Julius Rodenberg, Prof.
Gneist, Dr. Lowe, Count Lehndorff, and numerous government officials, he
thus addressed the mourning friends:—
“Here, under flowers which have grown on German soil, rests the
perishable encasing wherein for fifty-three years was enshrined
the richly-endowed spirit which bore the name of Bayard Taylor.
Coming races will name thee who never looked into thy kindly
countenance, never grasped thy honest hand, never heard a word
from thy mouth. And yet no, the breath of the lips fadeth away,
but thy words, thy words of song, will endure. In exhortation
to thy surviving dear ones, from the impulse of my heart as
thine oldest friend in the Old World, as thou were wont to call
me, and as representing German literature, I bid thee now a
parting farewell. What thou hast become and art to remain in
the empire of mind history will determine. To-day our hearts
do quake with grief and sorrow, and yet they are exalted. Thou
wert born in the fatherland of Benjamin Franklin, and like him,
to thine honor, raised thyself from a state of manual labor to
be an apostle of the spirit of purity and freedom, and to be a
representative of thy people among an alien nation. No, not in
a land of strangers, for thou wert at home among us; thou hast
died in the land of Goethe, to whose high spirit thou didst
always with devotion turn; thou hast raised him up a monument
before thine own people, and wouldst erect him yet another in
presence of all men; but that design has disappeared with thee.
But thou thyself hast been, and art still, one of them whose
coming he announced—a disciple of the universal literature, in
the free and boundless air of which the everlasting element
in man, scorning the limits of nationality, mounts on bold,
adventurous flights and ever on new poetic fancies sunwards
soars. In thy very latest work thou didst show thou livedst
in that religion which embraces in it all creeds, and in the
name of no one separates one from another. Nature gifted thee
with grace and strength, with a soul clear and full of chaste
enjoyment, with melody and the tuneful voice to search and
proclaim the workings of nature in the eternal and unexhausted
region of being, as well as to sing the earthly and ever-new
joys of married and filial love, of friendship, truth, and
patriotism, and the ever higher ascending revelations of the
history of man. Born in the New World, travelled in the Old,
and oh, so soon torn from the tree of life, thou hast taught
thy country the history of the German people, so that they know
each other as brothers, and of this let us remain mindful.
In tuneful words didst thou for thy people utter the jubilee
acclaim of their anniversary. When it returns, and the husks
of our souls do lie like this one here, then will the lips of
millions yet unborn pronounce the name of Bayard Taylor. May
thy memory be blessed.”
In one of his poems Mr. Taylor wrote, in 1862,—
“Fame won at home is of all fame the best,”
And how gratifying has it been to all of Mr. Taylor’s friends to hear
of the memorial gathering held in his native Kennett, where young and
old vied with each other to do their townsman honor. With a modesty and
sincerity characteristic of the quiet community, they assembled and
talked of the virtues and achievements of their deceased neighbor.
One townsman (Edwin Brosius) referred to Mr. Taylor’s life, and in his
remarks spoke thus:—
“Locating in Kennett Square about the time he returned from his
first visit to Europe, I remember him as a bright, blushing,
diffident youth, just entering manhood; and with him I always
associate that gentle and beautiful girl, with matchless eyes,
who inspired many of his early lyrics, and whose death ‘filled
the nest of love with snow.’ He was the pride of the community
then, and as years passed on his course was silently watched
with a quiet joy, like that a parent feels for a child that
seems to follow instinctively the true path. His appointment as
Minister to Germany created a feeling that could be silent no
longer, and here in this hall we gave him the first ovation.
No one thought that when we said ‘Kennett rejoices that the
world acknowledges her son,’ that it would so soon be meet to
say that Kennett mourns that her son is dead. Yes, mourns with
a grief like that which he felt when he wrote ‘Moan, ye wild
winds! around the pane.’
“The weariness that oppressed him while being fêted on every
hand, which he thought was only temporary, proved to be the
shadow of the coming change. A few more months and a few more
warnings, and all was over.
“The strings are silent: who shall dare to wake them;
Though later deeds demand their living powers?
Silent in other lands, what hand shall make them
Leap as of old to shape the songs of ours?”
“Perhaps I have now said enough; but permit me to speak briefly
of one, still mentally bright under the weight of fourscore
years, the mother of Bayard Taylor, to whom we must be indebted
for much of the honor her son has given us. The latent genius
of the mother was more fully developed in the son, and guarded,
strengthened, and encouraged by her watchful mind, he became
all that she could desire. When here at school, I remember how
bright I thought she was, and my admiration was not lessened
when she called me one of her boys. The voices of two of her
sons are now silent in the tomb. One taken when full of hope,
in the bloom of youth, while defending his country’s flag. The
other in the full fruitage of mature life, bearing many honors,
and the pillar of the family, a loss to her which she cannot
tell. We may speak or write our grief, but no human pen or
tongue can express hers; words cannot tell how nearly the light
of hope goes out when such treasures are taken from a mother’s
sight and heart.”
Another friend (Wm. B. Preston) contributed a poem, in which two stanzas
read as follows:—
“Though to the learned thy lofty works
Like mighty hosts appear;
The tale of her own neighborhood
Bids Kennett hold the dear.
And Cedarcroft! thy name will shine
Through ages long to come,
With Stratford and with Abbotsford,
The monarch minstrel’s home.”
Another neighbor (William W. Polk) gave an extended sketch of Mr.
Taylor’s career, and another neighbor (Edward Swayne) contributed the
second poem, opening with,—
“On the margin of the Spree
Rests his body, is it he?
Is it all? or only part?
Questions still my doubting heart.
Traveller! in what realm, elate,
Dost thou read the book of fate?
Poet! in what finer mood
Singest thou infinitude?
Dost thou know the path we tend?
The beginning and the end?
Backward through the twilight past
What evolved us from the vast?
Forward, to what things afar,
We shall mount from star to star?
Canst thou see beyond the brink
What we faintly dare to think?
Though our thoughts are wrung with pain
Yet we question but in vain.
Still no sound the silence breaks,
Not to us the dead awakes.”
Numerous friends addressed the gathering; there were hymns, quotations,
and letters from others, and the whole people exhibited an interest in
honoring his memory.
At Boston, Mass., there was held, shortly after Mr. Taylor’s death, one
of the most notable gatherings ever seen in America, so spontaneous and
universal was the desire to do honor to their deceased countryman. The
gathering was in Tremont Temple, and was under the auspices of a literary
association known as “The Boston Young Men’s Congress.” The young men
studiously avoided any arrangement or announcement which would give the
gathering any appearance of display or ceremony, and the friends of Mr.
Taylor in that city came together in such numbers, that long before
the hour appointed for the opening of the meeting, that great hall was
crowded in every part, while immense crowds so choked the entrances that
the police were obliged to close the gates and shut out the throng.
The great majority of the audience consisted of literary persons and
of officials of the State and nation. Russell H. Conwell presided, and
opened the exercises by giving a brief sketch of Mr. Taylor’s early life,
after which there followed other informal addresses by Dr. Oliver Wendell
Holmes; Richard Frothingham, the historian; A. B. Alcott, the author; J.
Boyle O’Reilly, the poet; Hon. J. B. D. Cogswell, the president of the
Massachusetts Senate; Curtis Guild, the author; Dr. William M. Cornell,
and others. Letters were read from James T. Fields, George William
Curtis, W. D. Howells, E. P. Whipple, John G. Whittier, T. B. Aldrich,
and regrets for their inability to be present expressed by President
Rutherford B. Hayes, Hon. Charles Devens, ex-Governor Henry Howard, of
Rhode Island, General B. F. Butler, Richard H. Dana, Sr., W. A. Simmons,
W. F. Warren, D. D., Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, Governor Thomas
Talbot, of Massachusetts, and many other distinguished men.
The crowning feature of the evening’s exercises consisted in the reading
of Longfellow’s poem, “Bayard Taylor,” by Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. The
audience, hushed into almost breathless silence, hung upon Dr. Holmes’s
introductory remarks, with a fascination seldom seen, and when that sweet
poem was reached, and its reading began, tears were seen in many eyes, so
pathetic and solemn was the impression.
The grand chorus of the Boston Mendelssohn Choral Union, under the
direction of Prof. Stephen A. Emery, of the New England Conservatory
of Music, sang in a most artistic and impressive manner some of those
charming old German chorals which Mr. Taylor loved so much, and pleased
the audience much with its rendition of “Oh, for the wings of a Dove,”
with Mr. Wilkie and Miss Fisher as soloists.
Nothing can show the regard in which Mr. Taylor was held, better than
the contributions to that informal gathering, and we cannot do less than
preserve some of them for the benefit of posterity, especially as it was
that gathering which suggested this book.
Dr. Holmes’s address was nearly as follows:—
“I can hardly ask your attention to the lines which Mr.
Longfellow has written, and done me the honor of asking me to
read, without a few words of introduction. The poem should
have flowed from his own lips in those winning accents too
rarely heard in any assembly, and never forgotten by those who
have listened to him. But its tenderness and sweetness are
such that no imperfection of utterance can quite spoil its
harmonies. There are tones in the contralto of our beloved
poet’s melodious song that were born with it, and must die with
it when its music is silenced.
“A tribute from such a singer would honor the obsequies of
the proudest sovereign, would add freshness to the laurels
of the mightiest conqueror. But he who this evening has this
tribute laid upon his hearse, wore no crown save that which the
sisterhood of the Muses wove for him. His victories were all
peaceful ones, and there has been no heartache after any of
them. His life was a journey through many lands of men, through
many realms of knowledge. He left his humble door in boyhood,
poor, untrained, unknown, unheralded, unattended. He found
himself, once at least, as I well remember his telling me,
hungry and well-nigh penniless in the streets of an European
city, feasting his eyes at a baker’s window and tightening his
girdle in place of a repast. Once more he left his native land,
now in the strength of manhood, known and honored throughout
the world of letters, the sovereignty of the nation investing
him with its mantle of dignity, the laws of civilization
surrounding him with the halo of their inviolable sanctity,—the
boy who went forth to view the world afoot, now on equal
footing with, the potentates and princes who, by right of birth
or by the might of intellect, swayed the destinies of great
empires.
“He returns to us no more as we remember him, but his career,
his example, the truly American story of a grand, cheerful,
active, self-developing, self-sustaining life, remains as an
enduring inheritance for all coming generations.”
Mr. Longfellow’s poem, as read by Dr. Holmes, was as follows:—
“BAYARD TAYLOR.
“Dead he lay among his books!
The peace of God was in his looks.
As the statues[2] in the gloom,
Watch o’er Maximilian’s tomb,
So those volumes from their shelves
Watched him, silent as themselves.
Ah! his hand will never more
Turn their storied pages o’er;
Never more his lips repeat
Songs of theirs, however sweet.
Let the lifeless body rest!
He is gone who was its guest.
Gone as travellers haste to leave
An inn, nor tarry until eve.
Traveller! in what realms afar,
In what planet, in what star,
In what vast aerial space,
Shines the light upon thy face?
In what gardens of delight
Rest thy weary feet to-night?
Poet! thou whose latest verse
Was a garland on thy hearse,
Thou hast sung with organ tone
In Deukalion’s life thine own.
On the ruins of the Past
Blooms the perfect flower, at last.
Friend! but yesterday the bells
Rang for thee their loud farewells;
And to-day they toll for thee,
Lying dead beyond the sea;
Lying dead among thy books;
The peace of God in all thy looks.”
—HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
We also insert a part of Dr. Wm. M. Cornell’s address:—
‘MR. PRESIDENT:—As you have introduced me as ‘The Historian of
Pennsylvania,’ or, ‘Penn’s Woods,’ as you know the term means,
you will allow me to say something of that good old noble
Commonwealth which gave birth to Bayard Taylor, whose recent
and sudden demise has called us together. As he was a worthy
son of that Quaker land, something about it may be expected
of their historian. I know the Quakers have never had much
love for Boston, and I do not think they are to blame for it
either; for if you had treated me as they were treated in this
vicinity, with all the grace given me I don’t think my love for
you would superabound. But we will not revive, on this solemn
occasion, the bigotry and illiberality of the past, especially
as this vast audience, assembled in this old Pilgrim city to
honor the memory of a gifted son of Quakerdom, looks very much
like ‘bringing forth fruits meet for repentance’ of those deeds
of yore.
“Grand old Pennsylvania! the keystone of the nation; for you
all know the old proverb, ‘As goes Pennsylvania, so goes
the Union,—I honor thy name! Thy sons are patriots! The
Indian sachem said to the first ‘pale faces’ who came here
(understand, I speak as a Pennsylvanian, in accordance with my
introduction), ‘This is our ground. We came up right out of
this ground, and it is _our_ ground. You came up out of ground
away beyond the big waters, and that’s your ground.’
“Bayard Taylor, the poet, the traveller, the biographer, the
botanist, the patriot, the plenipotentiary, whom we so justly
mourn, came up out of this land. He was a true son of our
soil, which has always produced patriots. Think you President
Hayes did not know this when he appointed him Minister to that
grand old nation, Germany,—the land of Emperor William, and
Minister Bismarck,—the most learned in the world? The President
did honor to himself by this appointment, and Bayard Taylor did
honor to our nation, and is mourned by the whole world.”
Omitting the address of the letters for sake of brevity, we insert
several:—
“DEAR SIR:—Will you have the kindness to express to the
committee of arrangements my deep regret at not being able
to attend the meeting at Tremont Temple in honor of Bayard
Taylor’s memory. I sail from New York for Europe on the 8th
instant. I also regret that the pressure of private matters
will not allow me to prepare a tribute to my old friend. You
will understand how nearly his death touches me, when I say
that it breaks an unclouded intimacy of twenty-four years. If
it should be in order, perhaps some one will read the poem
which I printed in the New York ‘Tribune’ on Christmas morning.
I enclose a copy.
“Yours, very respectfully,
“THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.”
To which was attached the following poem:—
“In other years—lost youth’s enchanted years
Seen now and evermore, through blinding tears
And empty longing for what may not be—
The Desert gave him back to us; the Sea
Yielded him up; the icy Northland strand
Lured him not long, nor that soft German air
He loved could keep him. Ever his own land
Fettered his heart and brought him back again.
What sounds are those of farewell and despair
Blown by the winds across the wintry main?
What unknown way is this that he has gone,
Our Bayard, in such silence, and alone?
What new, strange guest has tempted him once more
To leave us? Vainly standing by the shore
We strain our eyes. But patience ... when the soft
Spring gales are blowing over Cedarcroft,
Whitening the hawthorn; when violets bloom
Among the Brandywine, and overhead
The sky is blue as Italy’s—he will come;
Ay, he will come. I cannot make him dead.”
“DEAR FRIEND:—I am not able to attend the memorial meeting in
Tremont Temple on the 10th instant, but my heart responds to
any testimonial appreciative of the intellectual achievements
and the noble and manly life of Bayard Taylor. More than
thirty years have intervened between my first meeting him in
the fresh bloom of his youth and hope and honorable ambition,
and my last parting with him under the elms of Boston Common
after our visit to Richard H. Dana, on the occasion of the
90th anniversary of that honored father of American poetry,
still living to lament the death of his younger disciple
and friend. How much he has accomplished in these years!
The most industrious of men, slowly, patiently, under many
disadvantages, he built up his splendid reputation. Traveller,
editor, novelist, translator, diplomatist, and through all
and above all poet, what he was he owed wholly to himself. His
native honesty was satisfied with no half tasks. He finished as
he went, and always said and did his best.
“It is perhaps too early to assign him his place in American
literature. His picturesque books of travel, his Oriental
lyrics, his Pennsylvanian idyls, his Centennial ode, the
pastoral beauty and Christian sweetness of ‘Lars,’ and the high
arguments and rhythmic marvel of ‘Deukalion,’ are sureties
of the permanence of his reputation. But at this moment my
thoughts dwell rather upon the man than author. The calamity of
his death, felt in both hemispheres, is to me and to all who
intimately knew and loved him, a heavy personal loss. Under the
shadow of this bereavement, in the inner circle of mourning, we
sorrow most of all that we shall see his face no more, and long
for ‘the touch of a vanished hand and the sound of a voice that
is still.’
“Thy friend,
“JOHN G. WHITTIER.”
“DEAR SIR:—I very much regret that I shall not be able to
accept the invitation of the Young Men’s Congress for Friday
evening of next week. At the same time I wish in heartiest
sympathy to unite with them in honoring the memory of Bayard
Taylor, whom I not only valued as a man of the highest
intellectual qualities, but in whose loss I have to lament
a dear friend. I beg you to convey to the committee of
arrangements my deep sense of honor done me.
“Very truly yours,
“W. D. HOWELLS.”
“MY DEAR SIR:—An illness which confines me to the house will
prevent my being present at the meeting of the 19th instant.
I regret the circumstance very deeply, as it pains me to be
absent on any occasion in which the memory of Bayard Taylor is
to be honored.
“Very sincerely yours,
“E. P. WHIPPLE.”
“GENTLEMEN OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE TAYLOR MEMORIAL:—An
imperative duty calls me to a distant county of the State on
the evening set apart for the meeting at Tremont Temple. But
even if I were not obliged to be absent from our city on that
night, I doubt if I should have the courage to be present and
trust my voice with any words fitting to such an occasion. The
departure of my dear Bayard Taylor is so recent, his loss so
unexpected, that my lips could only falter out a few broken
expressions of individual sorrow, and I should be wholly
incapable of any adequate public tribute to his memory. So many
years of exceptional and near relationship with him—a brotherly
intercourse, unclouded from early manhood onward through his
life—would incapacitate me from taking part before an audience
assembled to honor his genius and his virtues, and I should
probably be able only to stammer through tears an apology
for my inability to speak his praises. These tender words by
Halleck better convey my meaning:—
‘While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.’
“JAMES T. FIELDS.”
“DEAR SIR:—I am very sorry that my engagements compel me to
decline your invitation to attend the meeting in memory of
Bayard Taylor. But no one will say any word of praise of his
manly and generous character, or of gratitude for his noble
example of faithful industry, to which my heart will not
respond. I knew him well for nearly thirty years, and when I
said good-by to him last May, as he departed, amid universal
applause and satisfaction, upon a mission to Germany, he was
as frank and simple and earnest as the youth whom I remember
long ago. He died in the fulness of his activity and hope;
but the death of a man so true and upright leaves us a sorrow
wholly unmixed with the wish that his life might have been
different, or with regret that it was only a promise. Like the
knight-at-arms, whose name he bore, he was a gentle knight of
letters, without fear and without reproach, and by those of
us who personally knew him well he will be long and tenderly
remembered.
“Truly yours,
“GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.”
“DEAR SIR:—Nothing but an imperative engagement elsewhere could
keep me from uniting with those friends of my friend—Bayard
Taylor—who propose next Friday, in Boston, to commemorate his
life and virtues. From our professional association, I could
not but know him intimately, and he was one of the few men of
distinction with whom every added year of intimacy continued
to brighten, not merely your affection, but also your respect.
The essential characteristic alike of his life, and his work,
was its inherent honesty. He described what he saw; he wrote
what he thought; he meant friendship if he gave you his hand.
I never knew him to shrink from expressing an opinion, merely
because it was unpopular; and, I am sure, he never sought a man
merely because the man was powerful. He had an honest pride
in what he had done,—a pride that made him eager to share his
good fame and fortune with his earliest and humblest friends.
He had the genius of hard work. He did many things; he came to
do most of them extremely well, and not a few of them easily;
but he never undertook any task, however familiar, or however
humble, without doing his best. Those who did not know him,
have sometimes described him as more German than American; but
if these be German qualities, we may well be eager to see them
naturalized.
“Quick to the praise of his old Quaker friends, nothing touched
him more than the praise of Boston; and to those that prize his
memory, nothing now can be more grateful than the sympathetic
appreciation of your meeting.
“I am, very respectfully,
“WHITELAW REID.”
“MY DEAR CONWELL:—I acknowledge the courtesy of your invitation
to do myself the honor to take part in honoring my deceased
friend,—the late Minister at Berlin.
“I am grieved beyond expression that the necessities of public
duty require my leaving so early for Washington, that, in
making my arrangements, it is impossible for me to be in town
overnight.
“Independent of the public relations of duty, it is well to
pause to do honor to one who has so faithfully and well served
his country, and his kind. I have the deepest sensibilities
of remembrance of Bayard Taylor’s personal kindness to me on
many occasions, and especially as his guest, to incite me to be
present.
“I am glad that Massachusetts, in the meeting you assemble,
will show her appreciation of his character and services, and
regret, with more than ordinary emotion, that I am prevented
from taking part in it.
“Please represent me as wishing to say and do all that I might
in that behalf, and believe me,
“Yours truly,
“BENJ. F. BUTLER.”
Mr. Taylor had been a great favorite at the Century Club, in New York,
and a frequent visitor at the Lotus Club of the same city. He was usually
accompanied by some one or two of his intimate friends, and at the time
Mr. Taylor’s death was announced, several of them who had been known to
be his close companions were requested to give to the “Tribune” letters
of “reminiscences” for publication. Among these thus hastily collected
tributes were several of those which follow. Mr. Richard H. Stoddard
said:—
“I have known Mr. Bayard Taylor so long that I hardly know
when our acquaintance began. It was at least thirty years
ago, during his first year’s residence in New York, after his
tour in Europe and the publication of his ‘Views Afoot.’ The
occasion of our acquaintance was a magazine which had lately
been started here, and which was edited by Mrs. Caroline M.
Kirkland, one of my earliest and best literary friends. I had
contributed to this periodical, which was entitled ‘The Union
Magazine,’ and on her departure for Europe she recommended me
to call upon her young friend, Mr. Taylor, who was to take care
of it for her during her absence. She was sure I would like
him, for we were _Arcades ambo_. I called upon him, and liked
him, as she had foreseen I would. I found him in the editorial
room of the ‘Tribune,’ a dingy, dusty, comfortless den on the
same floor with the composing-room, if I remember rightly. He
was seated on the hither side of an old ink-stained desk, which
was surrounded by a railing, over which newspapers were flung,
and was writing rapidly. He looked up when I addressed him and
stated my errand—a bright, joyous, handsome man of twenty-five,
with a world of animation in his sparkling dark eyes. I have no
recollection of what passed between us, except that the poem
which was in his hands was accepted, and that we had taken a
fancy to each other. I went away feeling happy, for I felt that
I had made a friend, and one who could sympathize with me.
There were two bonds between us—love of verse, and equality
of years. He was the first man of letters who had treated me
like one of the craft, and I was grateful to him, as I should
have been, for I was weary of the intellectual snobbery I had
undergone from others.
“It was not long before we were what Burns calls ‘bosom
cronies.’ We used, I remember, to spend our Saturday evenings
together, generally at his rooms, which were within a stone’s
throw of the ‘Tribune’ office, at a boardinghouse in Warren
Street, not far from Broadway. He lived in a sky parlor, which
is present before me now, as if I had seen it but an hour ago.
I remember just where his table stood, and the little desk upon
which he afterward wrote so many books, and upon which he was
then writing so many charming poems. I took up the collected
edition of his poetical works this afternoon in my library, and
turning over the leaves sorrowfully, felt the weight of thirty
years roll from me—not lightly, as it would have done a few
weeks ago, but with a pain for which I have no words. They were
all there, the poems which I remembered so well—‘Ariel in the
Cloven Pine’ (which I read in MS. before it saw the light of
print), ‘The Metempsychosis of the Pine,’ ‘Mon-da-min’ (which
was written years before the ‘Song of Hiawatha’), ‘Kubleh,’and,
saddest of all, the solemn dirge beginning ‘Moan, ye wild
winds! around the pane.” As I read, I saw the eager face, the
glowing eyes, the kindly smile of the enthusiastic young poet,
whom the world preferred to consider as a traveller merely, and
who knew so many things of which I was profoundly ignorant.
My nature is not a reverent one, I fear, but I looked up to
Bayard Taylor, and admired his beautiful genius. We read and
criticised each other’s verse a good deal too lightly and
generously, I have since thought, and talked of the poets whom
we were studying. It was his fancy that there was something in
his genius which was allied to that of Shelley, and I hoped
that I might claim some relationship with Keats, enough at
least to make me a ‘poor relation.’ We talked long and late;
we smoked mild cigars; and, once in a while when our exchequers
were replenished, we indulged in the sweet luxury of stewed
oysters, over which we had more talk, of present plans and
future renown. I was, I believe, Bayard Taylor’s most intimate
friend at this time, and the one with whom he most consorted,
though he had, of course, a large literary acquaintance among
the young writers of the period, whose name was Legion, and
whose works are now forgotten. I have spent many happy nights
with my dead friend, but none which were so happy as those. I
looked forward to them as young men look forward to holidays
which they have planned. I look back upon them as old men look
back to their past delights, with pity and regret.
“The world, as I have said, considered Bayard Taylor as a
traveller, and it was his pleasure, as well as his profit,
during the first years of our friendship, to travel largely in
California, in Egypt, in Japan, and elsewhere in the Old World.
I read his letters of travel as they appeared in the ‘Tribune,’
and I read these letters again which he collected thus in books
after his return. I saw that they were good of their kind;
I felt that his prose was admirable for its simplicity and
correctness; but, with a waywardness which I could not help,
I slighted them for his poetry. I thought then, and think
still, that his ‘California Ballads’ and ‘Poems of Travel’ are
masterly examples of spirited, picturesque writing, and I am
sure that his ‘Poems of the Orient’ are superior to anything
of the kind in the English language. They have a local color
which is absent from ‘Lalla Rookh.’ The ‘Bedouin Song,’ for
instance, is instinct with the fiery, passionate life of the
East, and is a worthy companion-piece to Shelley’s ‘Lines to an
Indian Air.’ The ‘Poems of the Orient’ were dedicated to me, I
shall always be happy to remember, in a poetical ‘Epistle from
Tmolus.’
“Bayard Taylor had a sunny nature, which delighted in simple
pleasures, and he had the happy art of putting trouble away
from him. One trouble, however, he could not put away, as those
who are familiar with his life and poems are aware. I have
spoken of one of his early poems (‘Moan, ye wild winds! around
the pane’), which embodied the first great sorrow of his young
manhood. It was written after the death of his first wife,
whose memory it embalms, and whose tender presence haunted him
later in ‘The Mystery’ and ‘The Phantom.’ Among the literary
acquaintances of Bayard Taylor and myself, I must not forget to
mention the late Fitz James O’Brien, whose promise was greater
than his performance, and who, clever as he was in prose, was
at his best a graceful poet. Taylor and O’Brien were in the
habit of meeting in my rooms at night, about twenty-five years
ago, and of fighting triangular poetical duels. We used to sit
at the same table, with the names of poetical subjects on slips
of paper, and drawing out one at random, see which of us would
soonest write a poem upon it. This practice of ours, which
is well enough as practice merely, was the origin of Bayard
Taylor’s ‘Echo Club.’
“Always a charming companion, Bayard Taylor was delightful
in his own home at Cedarcroft. I remember visiting him there
when he gave his ‘house-warming,’ and the merriment we had over
a play which we wrote together, speech by speech, and scene
by scene, and which we performed to the great delectation of
his friends and neighbors. Many of the latter had never seen
a theatrical performance before, and, I dare say, have never
seen one since. Our play was a great success, and ought to have
been, for there was not a word in it which had not done duty a
thousand times before! We called it ‘Love in a Hotel.’ ‘Miller
Redivivus’ would have answered just as well, if not better.
“The recollections of thirty years cannot be recalled at will,
and seldom while those who shared them with us are overshadowed
by death.” I remember merry days and nights without number,
and I remember sorrows which are better forgotten. One of my
sorrows was deeply felt by Bayard Taylor, who, fresh from the
reading of the second part of ‘Faust,’ saw in my loss a vision
of Goethe’s ‘Euphorion.’
“The last time, but one, when I saw my friend alone was three
or four nights before his departure for Berlin. It was one
night at my own house, at a little gathering to which I had
invited our common friends, comrades of ten and twenty years’
standing, poets, artists, and good fellows of both sexes. It
was notable on one account, for our great poet Bryant came
thither to do honor to his younger brother, Bayard Taylor. I
cannot say that it was a happy night, for it was to be followed
by an absence which was close at hand,—an absence which was to
endure forever. Before two months had passed, the Nestor of
our poets was gathered to his fathers in the fullness of his
renown. His sons bewailed their father; my good friend Stedman,
in a noble poem in the ‘Atlantic Monthly,’ and Bayard Taylor in
a solemn ‘Epicedium’ in ‘Scribner’s Monthly.’ And now Bayard
Taylor is gone!
“‘Insatiate archer, could not one suffice?’ The world of
American letters has lost a poet in Bayard Taylor; but we who
knew and loved him—have lost a friend.
“R. H. STODDARD.”
“NEW YORK, DEC. 19, 1878.”
Mr. Edmund C. Stedman, the poet, who enjoyed a very close intimacy with
Mr. Taylor, spoke of him to the editor as follows:—
“The causes which led to his death at this time, date back
several years. When he returned from Europe then, he found
his real estate and personal property largely depreciated and
encumbered, and though near the age of fifty, he again found
himself forced to tolerable hard work to support his family
and position. It was this hard work, coupled with his resolute
purpose, however other work might engross him, to keep up
his more serious contributions to permanent literature, that
ultimately led to his death. He took great pride in his home
and broad acres, at Kennett Square, Penn., his native place. He
designed his own house, ‘Cedarcroft,’ and spent a great deal of
money in its erection, and that, with the two hundred acres of
land, which he owned and had greatly improved, was a source of
expense rather than income to him. He had a handsome competence
when he went abroad, all of which he earned as a journalist,
author, and lecturer, never having earned any money except by
his pen. He decided to maintain his property in Kennett Square,
and he set to work immediately to pay off the debt. During the
last four years, he has accomplished this, his income amounting
to from $12,000 to $18,000 a year; but he obtained it by very
hard work. In fact, he had worked harder and accomplished more
in that time than perhaps any other living literary man. He
lectured each winter, in all sorts of weather, and in different
parts of the country. He contributed largely to magazines and
reviews, and never more brilliantly, besides doing a great
amount of regular work for the ‘Tribune.’ He came from a
long-lived family, and his strength was very great, but he
undertook too much. He did the work of two able-bodied men
every day, and his health gave way under the great strain
on one or two occasions. He was compelled to go to the White
Sulphur Springs, and other places for recuperation; but he
forced himself to work again before he had fully recovered.
During this time he wrote his last and most important poem,
‘Prince Deukalion.’ It was a source of great trial to himself,
and of regret to his friends, that he was unable to go on with
his ‘Life of Goethe,’ for which he had secured material during
his last sojourn in Germany. The great trouble with him was his
inability, owing to his excessive labors, to take sufficient
social recreation. His enemies, very few in number, have
falsely attempted to make a point against him on this account,
charging him with excessive beer-drinking. It was his want of
recreation and rest that killed him. He was forced to take some
stimulus to support himself under exhausting labor; but he was
not an excessive beer-drinker as he has been charged, though
what he did take may have helped to develop his disease.
“No man in the country could do so much journalistic work, and
do it so well in a given time, as could Mr. Taylor. He was
remarkable in brilliant off-hand feats of literary criticism.
As an illustration, I might mention that about a year ago two
large octavo volumes, containing poems by Victor Hugo, in the
French, arrived by steamer, and were placed in Mr. Taylor’s
hands on Thursday evening. For some reason it was desirable
that the criticism should appear in the ‘Tribune’ of the
following Saturday, and, of course, the copy had to be in the
printers’ hands early on Friday night. Mr. Taylor’s health was
bad at the time, and he also had in the meantime to deliver
a lecture in Brooklyn, and another in New York. He finished
his review in time on Friday night, and it appeared in the
‘Tribune’ the following morning, covering more than two-thirds
of a page. It was equal to any of his literary criticisms,
and surpassed any analysis of Hugo’s genius that I have ever
seen. One remarkable feature of the review was over a column of
translation into English poetry from the original, including
several lyrics and idyls so beautifully done that they seemed
like original poems in the English.
“Mr. Taylor was a man of wide and thorough learning, and was
a much more exact scholar than would be supposed, considering
that he was never at college, and spent a great deal of time in
travel and observation. He had a smattering of all languages.
He was familiar with Latin and Greek, spoke French well, and
German like a native; he also conversed in Russian, Norse,
Arabic, Italian, and knew something of modern Greek. His
knowledge of Greek was increased by his classical feeling,
which, as with Keats, amounted almost to a passion. He was
a good botanist, and somewhat of a geologist, and was an
established authority on geographical questions. He was greatly
interested in all scientific studies.
“As a man he was a peer among his fellows. He was the most
simple, generous-hearted man of letters I ever knew. He was
the first literary man I met in New York, my acquaintance
dating from the time he came and took me by the hand in 1860,
after the publication of one of my articles. He was never so
happy as when surrounded by his friends in his own house. He
had unbounded hospitality, and made his house the centre of
literary life in the city. New York will greatly miss him, and
just such a leader was needed to give encouragement to our
literary life. He was accused sometimes of egotism; but he was
not egotistical in the proper sense of the term. He was frank
and out-spoken, and showed his feelings plainly, which gave
rise to that charge. He always denounced shams and humbugs;
but I do not believe he ever did a mean act, and he never grew
angry except on account of the meanness of others.
“His private letters, of which I had a great number, were far
more delightful than his published ones. He was very careful
in his published letters not to say anything that might wound
the feelings of distinguished persons from whom he received
hospitality abroad. His private letters are full of the most
interesting anecdotes and conversations with leading authors
and magnates of other lands, and are charming in their
clearness and _esprit_. His faults, and we all have them, were
rather of a lovable nature. He cared most for his reputation
as a poet, and his books on travel and novels were a secondary
matter with him.
“Mr. Taylor did not seek the appointment as Minister to
Germany, but other positions were tendered him which he
declined, and this was offered rather in obedience to popular
demand. Mr. Taylor, Mr. Boker, and Mr. Stoddard started
together in literary life thirty years ago, and they have
always worked together, and have been firm friends. It was a
rather curious coincidence that Mr. Boker should follow as
Minister Mr. Taylor as Charge d’Affairs in Russia, and that
just as Boker returned from Russia, Mr. Taylor should be sent
as Minister to Germany.”
Mr. Samuel Coleman, the artist, said of him:—
“I first knew Mr. Taylor nearly twenty years ago, and my
acquaintance with him has always been of the pleasantest kind.
I shall never forget a visit that I made to his home at Kennett
Square, in 1861, in company with a brother artist. Much of
our conversation was on art subjects, and in the evening Mr.
Taylor read to me with great gusto some poems written by an
extravagant Southern writer. He read the poems in a manner that
showed his keen appreciation of ’ the comic element, and kept
us laughing at the passages which the author had intended to
be most dramatic. Mr. Taylor was a most genial host, and knew
how to keep a room full of persons in the happiest mood. His
speeches and his manner at such times cannot be described.
“In art matters Mr. Taylor was thoroughly at home. He could
not only write a good criticism of a painting, but he was
also proficient in the use of brush and pencil. He began
sketching when he was a boy, and he executed many paintings in
water-colors. He was made one of the members of the Water-Color
Society soon after the society was started. Several of his
works were shown at the annual exhibitions of the society, and
were much admired. I met Mr. Taylor by appointment at Florence,
Italy, in the spring of 1873, and visited with him for a short
time in that city. We had talked of making a journey to Egypt
together. I was to do some sketching there, while he was to
glean materials for a book. Ill-health prevented me from making
the proposed journey at that time, and I left him in Florence.
He there occupied the rooms where Mrs. Browning had lived.
“In later years I had not seen so much of Mr. Taylor as I
had wished. I remember the brilliant part he played in the
Twelfth Night entertainment of the Century Club last winter,
when he put on a high conical cap and marched about the room
beating a large drum. As on many other occasions, his wit
was displayed in comical speeches and retorts that kept his
listeners laughing by the hour. I saw him for the last time
at the house of a friend, when he spoke earnestly of the many
happy associations he was about to leave. His heart was in this
country, however much his interests might lie abroad.”
Mr. Charles T. Congdon, an associate on the “Tribune,” wrote:—
“Everybody in the office knew how high Mr. Taylor stood in
the estimation of Mr. Greeley. A man who had worked his way
up; who, beginning as a printer, had come to be an admired
writer, who was ambitious of excellence, and not afraid of
toil to attain it, Mr. Greeley was naturally fond of. So, when
the monument of the great journalist was to be dedicated, Mr.
Taylor was properly selected to make one of the principal
addresses on the occasion. How good that address was, how well
conceived and arranged and delivered, need not be said to
those who had the satisfaction of hearing it. It was indeed an
impressive occasion when, standing above the tomb of his old
master, surrounded by those to whom that noble man was dear,
with the liberal sky stretched over the earnest speaker, and
the great, busy city in the distance, Mr. Taylor, in manly
words and sonorous voice, paid those glowing tributes to which
all our hearts responded. Somebody now must speak for him;
but his memory will lack no eulogist. There is enough to say
of such a vigorous and wise career; something, too, there is,
alas! which must be left unsaid. Of any of us who remain, had
our fate been his, he would have spoken kind and generous
words; nor should he go to his grave ‘without the meed of one
melodious tear.’
“After many years had gone by, Mr. Taylor came back to do
regular daily work in the ‘Tribune’ office, and this he
continued until his departure for Germany. I was near him,
and, if there were any need of it, I could speak again of
his unflagging industry, and of his excellent qualities as a
journalist. He had the faculty which every newspaper writer
should possess, of writing fairly well upon any topic confided
to him. Of course his special skill was displayed in literary
labor; but when he saw fit to write upon what may be called
secular themes, he did so in an able and judicious way. He was
thoroughly kind and obliging, and always willing to lend his
help, or to give his advice when it was asked for, as it often
was. Somehow, I cannot get away from the impression of his
untiring assiduity. He seemed to have always a great variety of
work in hand—work at home and in the office—as if he had caught
something of the power of toiling from that great German upon
whose biography he was then engaged. If he was somewhat proud
of his accomplishments—thinking over the matter more, I see
that he had a right to be—he had done much, and he had done it
well, and he was entitled to the indulgence of some complacency.
“When the rumor came that Mr. Taylor was to be taken away from
us for a time and advanced to high diplomatic honors, I think
that we were all as proud of it as he was, and felt it to be a
recognition, not perhaps made too soon, of the importance of
journalism. It was something to send forth from among ourselves
an Ambassador to the German Empire, and we were personally
grateful to the powers at Washington, though we thought them
also the obliged party. In our own way, and in our own place,
and with a small token of our good-will, we bade Mr. Taylor
farewell on that April afternoon, and spoke jestingly of the
time when, his court-dress put off, we should welcome him back
to his old desk. There came a statelier leave-taking afterward,
when so many of the best and most distinguished of our citizens
met to take leave of him in a more formal manner; but I think
that he prized our little demonstration quite as highly, and
thought of it afterward on the sea and in foreign lands quite
as often.
“A man must be judged by what is best in him, by what he has
really done, and not by the accidents of his character. Few
Americans have written more, and more variously, than Mr.
Taylor, and few have written better. Those of us who know how
he owed nothing to chance, how methodical and painstaking he
was, how he conquered difficulties which would have dismayed a
weaker man, are in a position to judge of his merits, and to
accord to him words of praise, little as he needs them, which
have a specific meaning.”
James T. Fields, in the tributes published in the “Tribune,” gave this
sketch of the acquaintance and friendship existing between Mr. Taylor and
himself:—
“The death of a man like Bayard Taylor, awakens universal
sorrow. Throughout the land of his birth a tearful grief has
overspread the nation, and he is mourned everywhere, far and
wide, in America. There never lived a public man of greater
_bonhomie_, or of a franker disposition. He had many honors
to bear, but he bore them meekly, and like an unspoiled
child. Cynicism and vulgar egotism were strangers to his
truthful nature; there were no jarring chords either in his
understanding or his heart, and so he became his country’s
favorite, as well as her pride.
“Thirty-two years ago, on a bright spring morning, a young man
of twenty-three held out his hand to me, and introduced himself
as Bayard Taylor. We had corresponded at intervals since his
first little volume was published in 1844, but we had never
met until then. He had come to Boston, rather unexpectedly,
he said, to see Longfellow, and Holmes, and Whipple, and some
others, who had expressed an interest in his ‘Views Afoot,’
then recently printed in book-form. No one could possibly look
upon the manly young fellow at that time without loving him.
He was tall and slight, with the bloom of youth mantling a
face full of eager, joyous expectation. Health of that buoyant
nature which betokens delight in existence, was visible in
every feature of the youthful traveller.
‘The fresh air lodged within his cheek
As light within a cloud.’
“We all flocked about him like a swarm of brothers, heartily
welcoming him to Boston. When we told him how charmed we
all were with his travels, he blushed like a girl, and
tears filled his sensitive eyes. ‘It is one of the most
absorbingly interesting books I ever read!’ cried one of our
number, heightening the remark with an expletive savoring
more of strength that of early piety. Taylor looked up, full
of happiness at the opinion so earnestly expressed, and
asked, with that simple naivete which always belonged to his
character, ‘Do you really think so? Well, I am _so_ glad.’
“Then we began to lay out plans for a week’s holiday with him;
to-morrow we would go to such a place down the harbor; next day
to another point of interest; after that we would all assemble
at a supper party in his honor, at Parker’s (at that time a
subterranean eating-house in Court Street), and following that
festivity we would take him to see old Booth in _Richard_. We
went on filling up the seven days with our designs upon him,
when he protested, with an explosive shout of laughter, that he
must be back again in New York the next day. Then we showered
warm exhortations upon him to postpone his exit, but he assured
us that go back he must, for he had promised to do so. Well,
then, if that were the case, and we saw by his countenance that
he meant what he said, we must adjourn at once to ‘Webster’s,’
a famous beefsteak house in those ancient days, and, as Whipple
facetiously remarked, quoting the old ballad:
‘Put a steak in his inside
Where the four cross-roads did meet.’
“So thitherward we rollicked along into Washington Street, and
performed that pleasant duty, Taylor all the while brimming
over with radiant spirits, his young heart already illumined
with the delight of recognition and praise.
“In the afternoon we handed him over to Longfellow, whom he was
anxious to meet, and who gave him such a welcome as he never
forgot. In one of the last conversations I had with Taylor, a
few weeks before he sailed for the Embassy, he said, with deep
feeling: ‘From the first, Longfellow has been to me the truest
and most affectionate friend that ever man had. He always gives
me courage to go on, and never fails to lift me forward into
hopeful regions whenever I meet him. He is the dearest soul in
the world, and my love for him is unbounded.’
“Whittier, Holmes, Emerson, Hawthorne, among many others in New
England, always rejoiced to see Taylor’s welcome face returning
to us. Whenever he came to lecture in Boston or Cambridge, it
was the signal for happy dinners and merry meetings at each
other’s houses. His fiftieth birthday occurring during one of
these visits to Boston, was celebrated by an informal dinner
in my own house, at which Longfellow proposed his health, and
Holmes garlanded him with pleasurable words of friendship and
praise.
“When Taylor came here to give his lectures on German
literature, at the ‘Lowell Institute,’ the crowd was so great
that hundreds were unable to gain admittance. Those masterly
delineations of the genius and character of Goethe, Schiller,
Klopstock, Lessing, and other famous men of Germany, will
long be remembered here, and we were all looking forward
to no remote period when we should again hear his voice on
kindred topics in the same place. No discourses have ever
been listened to in Boston with more enthusiasm, or have been
oftener referred to with delight, since they were delivered.
Bayard Taylor was not only honored and respected here for his
genius,—he was everywhere beloved. His death saddens our city,
and is the absorbing topic in every circle.”
Mr. Taylor’s body arrived in New York on the thirteenth day of March,
about three months after his death, and was received with imposing
ceremonies of respect. Committees from distinguished citizens and
prominent associations received the remains at the steamship wharf and
a large procession followed the elegant funeral-car to the City Hall.
The coffin was placed in the Governor’s room in the City Hall, where an
address was delivered by the Hon. Algernon S. Sullivan. Delegations were
present from the Grand Army of the Republic; from the Delta Kappa Epsilon
societies; the German singing societies; from the State Legislature; the
National Congress, and hundreds of men and women distinguished more or
less in literary and official life. Salutes were fired from the fort,
dirges were sung by German associations, flags were placed at half-mast,
and the immense crowd of people seeking admittance to City Hall, showed
the esteem in which the distinguished minister was held.
The body lay in state at the City Hall, with a guard from the Grand Army
of the Republic, until noon of the 14th, when the body was removed, amid
touching and imposing ceremonies, to the railway train which conveyed it
to Kennett Square.
There have been but few incidents of American life more pathetic and
remarkable than the spontaneous exhibition of love and admiration by
the people of Mr. Taylor’s native town, when his body was taken there
for burial. The silent and uncovered crowds, the tears, the regrets,
the stories of his kindness, the honest acts of deference, the noble
reception of any one who had been his friend, all served to make up a
most unusual tribute to the memory of a great man. In many places the
funeral of Mr. Taylor had not attracted the attention which his friends
have felt was due to his memory. But at his old home, among his own kin,
in the circle of those who knew him best, old and young came forth to do
him honor. Aged men and women, whose white hairs floated in the chilly
breezes, and young children, whose hats and bonnets were held so modestly
behind them, bowed their heads as the sombre procession passed them.
The services at Cedarcroft on the 15th were short and simple, being
conducted by the Rev. W. H. Furness, D. D., after which Dr. Franklin
Taylor made a brief address.
At the grave in Longwood Cemetery, about a mile and a half from
Cedarcroft, there were gathered thousands of mourning acquaintances, who
listened in solemn silence to the addresses which were there delivered by
Dr. Furness, and by Mr. Edmund C. Stedman, and the reading of the burial
service according to the rites of the Protestant Episcopal Church, by the
Rev. H. N. Powers. The pall-bearers consisted of eight persons: George
H. Boker, of Philadelphia; Richard H. Stoddard, of New York; Edmund C.
Stedman, of New York; Whitelaw Reid, of New York; J. Taylor Gause, of
Wilmington, Delaware; Jacob P. Cox, of Kennett; James M. Phillips, of
Kennett; Marshall Swayne, of Kennett, and Edward Needles of West Chester,
Pa. Governor Hoyt of Pennsylvania, a delegation from the Legislature of
Pennsylvania, representatives of the Delta Kappa Epsilon Society, and
kindred associations were present, with a large number of friends from
distant parts of the country.
It was an impressive scene. The aged father, the sisters, the brothers,
the officials, and the throng of other friends around the open grave!
From that neighborhood he went forth into life, a frail farmer-boy, less
promising than many of his playmates. Now, after twoscore of years,
in which he had made for himself friends in every clime, and a name
in literature, oratory and diplomacy, his body is laid to rest amid
universal grief, and bearing on its coffin-lid the floral tributes from
the Empress, and from the greatest men of Germany, and from the most
gifted men and women of his own land.
Beside the grave stood his intimate friend and loved companion, Edmund
C. Stedman, who, perhaps, more than any other living man had enjoyed the
deceased poet’s confidence. It was fitting that he should pay the closing
tribute to his friend’s career. Then a choir of neighbors sang a burial
ode, the words and music being written for the occasion, the former
by Mrs. S. L. Oberholtzer, and the latter by John E. Sweney. Slowly
and reverently amid sobs and tears,—a multitude weeping,—they laid him
tenderly in his last resting-place, near the grave of his brave brother,
and beside the remains of his first love.
The address of Mr. Stedman was nearly as follows:—
Three months have gone since we heard from a distant land
that the spirit of our comrade had departed. His life was
eager, noble, wide-renowned. It lasted for more than half a
century, yet ceased prematurely, and we say, “He should have
died hereafter!” Here, to-day, at this very spot, the mould
which held that spirit returns to the self-same earth which
nurtured it. Here the mortal journeyings are forever ended.
The seas, the deserts, the mountain-ranges, shall be crossed
no more; the joyous eyes are veiled; the near, warm heart can
throb no longer; the stalwart frame has fallen, and henceforth
lies at rest. For us the record is closed; but is it ended
without a continuance? This is the question, which here, at
this moment, in this place, so strongly comes to each one
of those who were his comrades, whom he loved with all his
generous nature, to whom he was ever stanch and true, for whom
he would at all times have given all he had, from whom only
his dust now can receive the love, the tender utterance, the
ceaseless remembrance which they seek to offer in return. Are
the travels then in truth forever ended? Shall there be, for
our brother, no more insatiable thirst for knowledge, no more
high poetic speech, no more looking toward the stars? For
one, I try to answer from his own lips, since they so often
foretokened it. If ever a longing for eternal life, a resolve
not to be deprived of action, a beautiful and absolute faith
that the Power which governs all had decreed that these should
not surcease—if these ever have given a mortal a hold on
immortality, then our Bayard still is living, though above and
beyond us. For however dimmed may be the vision wherewith some
of us strive in vain, whatever our hopes, to look behind the
veil, for him there was neither doubt nor darkness. He could
not, would not, tolerate the idea of one-sided individuality.
I have never known a man whose trust in this one thing was so
absolutely and always unshaken, or who had a more abiding,
sustaining faith in the perfection of the universal plan and in
the beneficence of its Designer.
Such was his religion, and I say that it was constant and most
beautiful. Possibly it was something of the Quaker breed within
him that made him so conscious of the Spirit, and so natural
and unfailing a believer in direct inspiration. In this age of
questionings and searchings, how few of those who profess the
most have his perfect faith in that immortality whose promise
animates the creeds! For this alone the most rigid may revere
his religion, and even without this his spotless life of
purity, philanthropy, heroic deeds, has been a model for those
who seek to become the disciples of whom the Teacher said, “By
their fruits ye shall know them.” This is the one statement
which I desire to make. This much, at this final place and
hour, I am moved to affirm. Joyous poet, loyal comrade, patient
and generous brother in toil and song—Farewell! Farewell!
With two quotations from Bayard Taylor’s writings, one of prose and one
of poetry, the writer will lay down his pen (weary with rapid writing),
and with the feeling that the subject of this volume is too vast to
be adequately or comprehensively treated so soon after his death; and
hoping that a lack of completeness in this book, may not argue a lack of
affection on the part of the writer. These are Bayard Taylor’s words.
How like a benediction they come to us as we close this book.
“These are the rules which I have always accepted: First,
labor; nothing can be had for nothing; whatever a man achieves,
he must pay for; and no favor of fortune can absolve him from
his duty. Secondly, patience and forbearance, which is simply
dependent on the slow justice of time. Thirdly, and most
important, faith. Unless a man believe in something far higher
than himself; something infinitely purer and grander than he
can ever become—unless he has an instinct of an order beyond
his dreams; of laws beyond his comprehension; of beauty and
goodness and justice, beside which his own ideals are dark, he
will fail in every loftier form of ambition, and ought to fail.”
“Upon the world’s great battle-field, the brave
Struggle, and win, and fall. They proudly go,
Some to unnoticed graves, and some to stand
With earth’s bright catalogue of great and good.
Who, urged by consciousness of noble aims,
Stands breast to breast with every evil thought,
Subduing until stricken down, shall pass
In warrior glory to _his_ long repose,
And _his_ good deeds rest like a banner-pall—
Telling the faith _he_ fought for to the world—
Upon _his_ memory, for all coming time!”
FOOTNOTES
[1] As Bayard says of Osséo in his poem of Mon-da-Min:—
“He could guess
The knowledge other minds but slowly plucked
From out the heart of things: to him, as well
As to his Gods, all things were possible.”
[2] In the Hofkirche, at Innsbruck.