“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 manypaintings 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.”
“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 manypaintings 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 hadworked 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 displayedin 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 Ithink 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.”
“Everybody in the office knew how high Mr. Taylor stood in the estimation of Mr. Greeley. A man who hadworked 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 displayedin 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 Ithink 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 greaterbonhomie, 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, ayoung 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 cheekAs 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 amsoglad.’“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 wewould 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 inRichard. 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 insideWhere 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.”
“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 greaterbonhomie, 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, ayoung 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 cheekAs light within a cloud.’
‘The fresh air lodged within his cheekAs light within a cloud.’
‘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 amsoglad.’
“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 wewould 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 inRichard. 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 insideWhere the four cross-roads did meet.’
‘Put a steak in his insideWhere the four cross-roads did meet.’
‘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 steamshipwharf 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 notattracted 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, andkindred 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 neitherdoubt 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!
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 neitherdoubt 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’swords. 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.”
“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 braveStruggle, and win, and fall. They proudly go,Some to unnoticed graves, and some to standWith 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 passIn warrior glory tohislong repose,Andhisgood deeds rest like a banner-pall—Telling the faithhefought for to the world—Uponhismemory, for all coming time!”
“Upon the world’s great battle-field, the braveStruggle, and win, and fall. They proudly go,Some to unnoticed graves, and some to standWith 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 passIn warrior glory tohislong repose,Andhisgood deeds rest like a banner-pall—Telling the faithhefought for to the world—Uponhismemory, for all coming time!”
“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 tohislong repose,
Andhisgood deeds rest like a banner-pall—
Telling the faithhefought for to the world—
Uponhismemory, for all coming time!”
FOOTNOTES[1]As Bayard says of Osséo in his poem of Mon-da-Min:—“He could guessThe knowledge other minds but slowly pluckedFrom out the heart of things: to him, as wellAs to his Gods, all things were possible.”[2]In the Hofkirche, at Innsbruck.
[1]As Bayard says of Osséo in his poem of Mon-da-Min:—“He could guessThe knowledge other minds but slowly pluckedFrom out the heart of things: to him, as wellAs to his Gods, all things were possible.”
[1]As Bayard says of Osséo in his poem of Mon-da-Min:—
“He could guessThe knowledge other minds but slowly pluckedFrom out the heart of things: to him, as wellAs to his Gods, all things were possible.”
“He could guessThe knowledge other minds but slowly pluckedFrom out the heart of things: to him, as wellAs to his Gods, all things were possible.”
“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.
[2]In the Hofkirche, at Innsbruck.