The news of Bayard Taylor’s death called forth3 universal expressions of regret. The press, secular4 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 appreciation6 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 touching7 tributes which Germany has given to the[318] memory of the deceased poet, was uttered by the celebrated8 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 perishable10 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 kindly11 countenance12, 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 exhortation13 to thy surviving dear ones, from the impulse of my heart as thine oldest friend in the Old World, as thou were wont14 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 exalted15. Thou wert born in the fatherland of Benjamin Franklin, and like him, to thine honor, raised thyself from a state of manual labor16 to be an apostle of the spirit of purity and freedom, and to be a representative of thy people among an[319] 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 erect17 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 disciple18 of the universal literature, in the free and boundless19 air of which the everlasting20 element in man, scorning the limits of nationality, mounts on bold, adventurous21 flights and ever on new poetic22 fancies sunwards soars. In thy very latest work thou didst show thou livedst in that religion which embraces in it all creeds23, 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 chaste24 enjoyment25, 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 patriotism26, and the ever higher ascending28 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 jubilee30 acclaim31 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.”
[320]
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 modesty32 and sincerity33 characteristic of the quiet community, they assembled and talked of the virtues34 and achievements of their deceased neighbor.
“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 lyrics36, 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 instinctively37 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 ovation38. 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 pane39.’
[321]
“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.
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 briefly41 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 fully42 developed in the son, and guarded, strengthened, and encouraged by her watchful44 mind, he became all that she could desire. When here at school, I remember how bright I thought she was, and my admiration45 was not lessened46 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.”
[322]
“Though to the learned thy lofty works
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,
Another neighbor (William W. Polk) gave an extended sketch50 of Mr. Taylor’s career, and another neighbor (Edward Swayne) contributed the second poem, opening with,—
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?
What evolved us from the vast?
Forward, to what things afar,
We shall mount from star to star?
What we faintly dare to think?
Yet we question but in vain.
Still no sound the silence breaks,
Not to us the dead awakes.”
[323]
Numerous friends addressed the gathering; there were hymns55, 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 gatherings56 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 auspices57 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 throng58. 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,[324] the president of the Massachusetts Senate; Curtis Guild59, 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 distinguished60 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 fascination61 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 Conservatory62 of Music, sang in a most artistic63 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 soloists64.
[325]
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 posterity65, 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 utterance66 can quite spoil its harmonies. There are tones in the contralto of our beloved poet’s melodious67 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 laurels68 of the mightiest69 conqueror70. But he who this evening has this tribute laid upon his hearse, wore no crown save that which the sisterhood of the Muses71 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 humble72 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[326] his eyes at a baker’s window and tightening73 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 mantle74 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 potentates75 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, remains76 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.
[327]
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;
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:—
[328]
‘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 Commonwealth78 which gave birth to Bayard Taylor, whose recent and sudden demise79 has called us together. As he was a worthy80 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 bigotry81 and illiberality82 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 patriots83! 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 botanist84, the patriot27, the plenipotentiary, whom we so justly mourn, came up out of this land. He was a true son[329] 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 intimacy85 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:—
Seen now and evermore, through blinding tears
[330]—
The Desert gave him back to us; the Sea
He loved could keep him. Ever his own land
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?
We strain our eyes. But patience ... when the soft
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 appreciative95 of the intellectual achievements and the noble and manly96 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 lament97 the death of his younger disciple and friend. How much he has accomplished98 in these years! The most industrious99 of men, slowly, patiently, under many disadvantages, he built up his splendid reputation. Traveller, editor, novelist, translator,[331] 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 picturesque100 books of travel, his Oriental lyrics, his Pennsylvanian idyls, his Centennial ode, the pastoral beauty and Christian101 sweetness of ‘Lars,’ and the high arguments and rhythmic102 marvel103 of ‘Deukalion,’ are sureties of the permanence of his reputation. But at this moment my thoughts dwell rather upon the man than author. The calamity104 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 bereavement105, 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 heartiest106 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.”
[332]
“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 imperative107 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 falter108 out a few broken expressions of individual sorrow, and I should be wholly incapable109 of any adequate public tribute to his memory. So many years of exceptional and near relationship with him—a brotherly intercourse110, unclouded from early manhood onward111 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 stammer112 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,
That mourns a man like thee.’
“James T. Fields.”
[333]
“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 gratitude114 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 knight115-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 commemorate116 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[334] 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[335] of remembrance of Bayard Taylor’s personal kindness to me on many occasions, and especially as his guest, to incite118 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[336] 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 Arcades119 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 dingy120, dusty, comfortless den9 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, joyous121, handsome man of twenty-five, with a world of animation122 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 snobbery123 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[337] a stone’s throw of the ‘Tribune’ office, at a boardinghouse in Warren Street, not far from Broadway. He lived in a sky parlor124, 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 afterward125 wrote so many books, and upon which he was then writing so many charming poems. I took up the collected edition of his poetical126 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 dirge127 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 reverent129 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 allied130 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[338] long and late; we smoked mild cigars; and, once in a while when our exchequers131 were replenished132, we indulged in the sweet luxury of stewed133 oysters134, over which we had more talk, of present plans and future renown135. I was, I believe, Bayard Taylor’s most intimate friend at this time, and the one with whom he most consorted136, 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 simplicity137 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[339] ‘Lalla Rookh.’ The ‘Bedouin Song,’ for instance, is instinct with the fiery139, passionate140 life of the East, and is a worthy companion-piece to Shelley’s ‘Lines to an Indian Air.’ The ‘Poems of the Orient’ were dedicated141 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 embodied142 the first great sorrow of his young manhood. It was written after the death of his first wife, whose memory it embalms143, and whose tender presence haunted him later in ‘The Mystery’ and ‘The Phantom144.’ 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 graceful145 poet. Taylor and O’Brien were in the habit of meeting in my rooms at night, about twenty-five years ago, and of fighting triangular146 poetical duels147. We used to sit at the same table, with the names of poetical subjects on slips of paper, and drawing out one at random148, 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[340] delightful149 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 theatrical150 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 thither151 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[341] 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 archer152, 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 depreciated153 and encumbered154, 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 resolute155 purpose, however other work might engross156 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 competence157 when[342] he went abroad, all of which he earned as a journalist, author, and lecturer, never having earned any money except by his pen. He decided158 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 sojourn159 in Germany. The great trouble with him was his inability, owing to his excessive labors160, 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 stimulus161 to support himself under exhausting labor; but he was not an excessive beer-drinker[343] 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 remarkable162 in brilliant off-hand feats163 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 conversed164 in Russian, Norse, Arabic, Italian, and knew something of modern Greek. His knowledge of[344] 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 geologist165, and was an established authority on geographical166 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 shams167 and humbugs168; 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 anecdotes169 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.
[345]
“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 obedience170 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 extravagant171 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 genial172 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 thoroughly173 at home. He could not only write a good criticism of a painting, but he was also proficient174 in the use of brush and pencil. He began sketching175 when he was a boy, and he executed many[346] 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 glean176 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[347] worked his way up; who, beginning as a printer, had come to be an admired writer, who was ambitious of excellence177, and not afraid of toil178 to attain179 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 sonorous180 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, alas181! 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 faculty182 which every newspaper writer should possess, of writing fairly well upon any topic confided183 to him. Of course his special skill was displayed[348] in literary labor; but when he saw fit to write upon what may be called secular themes, he did so in an able and judicious184 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 toiling185 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 rumor186 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 journalism187. 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[349] think that he prized our little demonstration188 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 painstaking189 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, awakens190 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 disposition191. He had many honors to bear, but he bore them meekly192, and like an unspoiled child. Cynicism and vulgar egotism were strangers to his truthful193 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[350] young man of twenty-three held out his hand to me, and introduced himself as Bayard Taylor. We had corresponded at intervals194 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 mantling195 a face full of eager, joyous expectation. Health of that buoyant nature which betokens196 delight in existence, was visible in every feature of the youthful traveller.
As light within a cloud.’
“We all flocked about him like a swarm198 of brothers, heartily199 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 savoring200 more of strength that of early piety201. 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[351] would all assemble at a supper party in his honor, at Parker’s (at that time a subterranean202 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 exhortations203 upon him to postpone204 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 adjourn205 at once to ‘Webster’s,’ a famous beefsteak house in those ancient days, and, as Whipple facetiously206 remarked, quoting the old ballad138:
‘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.’
[352]
“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 discourses207 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 imposing208 ceremonies of respect. Committees from distinguished citizens and prominent associations received the remains at the steamship[353] wharf209 and a large procession followed the elegant funeral-car to the City Hall. The coffin210 was placed in the Governor’s room in the City Hall, where an address was delivered by the Hon. Algernon S. Sullivan. Delegations212 were present from the Grand Army of the Republic; from the Delta213 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. Salutes214 were fired from the fort, dirges215 were sung by German associations, flags were placed at half-mast, and the immense crowd of people seeking admittance to City Hall, showed the esteem216 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 deference217, 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[354] attracted the attention which his friends have felt was due to his memory. But at his old home, among his own kin5, in the circle of those who knew him best, old and young came forth to do him honor. Aged43 men and women, whose white hairs floated in the chilly218 breezes, and young children, whose hats and bonnets219 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 Rev29. W. H. Furness, D. D., after which Dr. Franklin Taylor made a brief address.
At the grave in Longwood Cemetery220, 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 rites221 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 delegation211 from the Legislature of Pennsylvania, representatives of the Delta Kappa Epsilon Society, and[355] 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 frail222 farmer-boy, less promising223 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, oratory224 and diplomacy225, 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 choir226 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 reverently227 amid sobs228 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:—
[356]
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 prematurely229, 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 nurtured230 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 throb231 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 stanch232 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 immortality233, 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[357] 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 abiding234, 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 profess117 the most have his perfect faith in that immortality whose promise animates235 the creeds! For this alone the most rigid236 may revere128 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 disciples237 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[358] words. How like a benediction238 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 absolve239 him from his duty. Secondly240, 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 infinitely241 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,
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!”
The End
The End
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gathering
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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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forth
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secular
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kin
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appreciation
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touching
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celebrated
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perishable
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kindly
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countenance
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exhortation
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wont
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exalted
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labor
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boundless
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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23
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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24
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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25
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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26
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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27
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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28
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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29
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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30
jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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31
acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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32
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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33
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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34
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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35
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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36
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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37
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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38
ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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39
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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40
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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41
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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42
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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43
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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44
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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45
admiration
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|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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46
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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47
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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48
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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49
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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50
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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51
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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52
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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53
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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54
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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55
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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56
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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57
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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58
throng
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|
| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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59
guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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60
distinguished
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|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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61
fascination
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|
| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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62
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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63
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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64
soloists
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|
| n.独唱者，独奏者，单飞者( soloist的名词复数 ) | |
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65
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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66
utterance
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|
| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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67
melodious
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|
| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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68
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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69
mightiest
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|
| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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70
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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71
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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72
humble
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|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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73
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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74
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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75
potentates
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| n.君主，统治者( potentate的名词复数 )；有权势的人 | |
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76
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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77
toll
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|
| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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78
commonwealth
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|
| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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79
demise
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|
| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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80
worthy
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|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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81
bigotry
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|
| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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82
illiberality
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|
| n.吝啬，小气 | |
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83
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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84
botanist
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|
| n.植物学家 | |
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85
intimacy
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|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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86
enchanted
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|
| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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87
longing
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|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
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88
strand
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|
| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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89
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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90
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
tempted
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|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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92
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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93
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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94
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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95
appreciative
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|
| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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96
manly
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|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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97
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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98
accomplished
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|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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99
industrious
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|
| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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100
picturesque
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|
| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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101
Christian
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|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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102
rhythmic
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|
| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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103
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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104
calamity
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|
| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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105
bereavement
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|
| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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106
heartiest
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|
| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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107
imperative
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|
| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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108
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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109
incapable
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|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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110
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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111
onward
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|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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112
stammer
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|
| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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113
fixed
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|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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114
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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115
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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116
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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117
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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118
incite
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| v.引起，激动，煽动 | |
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119
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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120
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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121
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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122
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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123
snobbery
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| n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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124
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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125
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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126
poetical
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|
| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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127
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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128
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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129
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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130
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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131
exchequers
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| n.（英国）财政部( exchequer的名词复数 )；国库，金库 | |
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132
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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133
stewed
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|
| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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134
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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135
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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136
consorted
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| v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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137
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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138
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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139
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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140
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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141
dedicated
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|
| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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142
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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143
embalms
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|
| n.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的名词复数 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的第三人称单数 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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144
phantom
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|
| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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145
graceful
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|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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146
triangular
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|
| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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147
duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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148
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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149
delightful
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|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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150
theatrical
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|
| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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151
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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152
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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153
depreciated
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| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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154
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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156
engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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157
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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158
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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159
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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160
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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161
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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162
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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163
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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164
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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165
geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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166
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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167
shams
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| 假象( sham的名词复数 )； 假货； 虚假的行为（或感情、言语等）； 假装…的人 | |
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168
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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169
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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170
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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171
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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172
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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173
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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174
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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175
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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176
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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177
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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178
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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179
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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180
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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181
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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182
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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183
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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184
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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185
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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186
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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187
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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188
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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189
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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190
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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191
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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192
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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193
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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194
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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195
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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196
betokens
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的第三人称单数 ) | |
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197
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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198
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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199
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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200
savoring
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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201
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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202
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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203
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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204
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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205
adjourn
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| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
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206
facetiously
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| adv.爱开玩笑地；滑稽地，爱开玩笑地 | |
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207
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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208
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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209
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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210
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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211
delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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212
delegations
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| n.代表团( delegation的名词复数 )；委托，委派 | |
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213
delta
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| n.（流的）角洲 | |
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214
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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215
dirges
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| n.挽歌( dirge的名词复数 )；忧伤的歌，哀歌 | |
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216
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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217
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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218
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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219
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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220
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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221
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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222
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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223
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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224
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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225
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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226
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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227
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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228
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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229
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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230
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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231
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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232
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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233
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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234
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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235
animates
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| v.使有生气( animate的第三人称单数 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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236
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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237
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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238
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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239
absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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240
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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241
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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242
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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243
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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244
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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