The Life, Travels, and Literary Career of Bayard Taylor

by Russell H. Conwell

At one time, he entertained the idea of publishing a book of songs, and consulted with his publisher concerning the probable success of such a volume. But having had his attention called to the fact that the veriest trash answered the purpose of musical composers fully as well as sterling poetry, he abandoned the idea. The thought was probably suggested to him by the writings of Thomas Moore, whose “Lalla Rookh” was frequently brought to mind while Mr. Taylor was writing out the chapters of his book, wherein he described his visit to Agra and Delhi in India. The objections which he found to a volume of songs, seemed equally applicable to single productions which might be included in such a category, and he not only suppressed many he had written, but cautiously cut out verses in such as had been printed, before he allowed them to be published again. He went so far as to request that the song for which he obtained the Jenny Lind prize in 1850, should be kept forever out of print. Some of these are said to be among his papers in Germany, where his body now lies, and the writer sincerely wishes to see them all in print at a day not very remote, together with the epistolary poems and friendly sonnets which have been sent by him to the distinguished scholars and poets who enjoyed his friendship. It will take time to gather them, but, when collected, will make the best of reading, and will show the joyous, simple, sincere character of the poet, as no amount of prose can do.

As early as October, 1854, Mr. Taylor conceived the idea of building a summer residence near the old homestead at Kennett. It may have been a purpose entertained in his youth, for he often mentions, directly and indirectly, in his early writings, the scenery and the people about his home at Kennett. But in that year the idea appears to have assumed the form of a possibility, for he wrote to one of his old schoolmates, who resided that autumn in Jersey City, saying that he began to see his way for a house of his own at Kennett. The letter set in circulation the report that he was soon to be married; but he had kept his own counsel so well, and held aloof so studiously from the company of ladies, that none of the gossips could possibly hint at the person of his choice. This loyalty to his home and desire to return to it like a weary bird to its nest, was a beautiful trait of his character, and testifies strongly to his natural goodness of heart. For it will be found that the noblest men of all ages and professions have loved the homes of their childhood, while the selfish, narrow, barbarous, and mean, universally regard their early associations with neglect or contempt.

A touching scene arises before the writer, as he reaches this theme, and the tears will come to the eye and cheek! Away in that German land sleeps the son and brother. The romantic home at Kennett, stands cosy, yet stately, among the winter-stricken trees. Inside are the dear ones whom neither years, nor honors, nor wanderings have induced him to forget—the father and the mother in the mansion of their son. There is the sister, whose feet, after years of absence, tread again the paths of home. There the visitor feels the gloom of a distant death. Windows that flashed with light; drawing-rooms that were made charming by the cheerful faces of the great and good, are now suggestive of sadness and disaster. The cold winds shake the dry vines, and cry around its cornices. The loved ones are there,—waiting, waiting for him to come home! He never disappointed them before. Why comes he not? Why do not his letters come with the mail?

“Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane,

And fall thou drear December rain!”

Ah, we know the meaning now of those sad words. For we have lived them too!

Ever looking forward to the time when he could give his parents a more luxurious home, feeling most keenly the rapid strides of time, as he looked upon their whitening locks, unwilling to prosper alone, and promoting ever the welfare of those he loved, he strove with an unchangeable determination to accumulate sufficient money to build a house near the old farm, that should be a home for all, and a resting-place for himself. To this, in part, was due his incessant work through the years of 1854 and 1855. His books brought him a considerable return; he received a reasonable compensation as editor and lecturer, and he had lifted the load of debt which the “Phœnixville Pioneer” had bequeathed to him, but which no one believed he was able to pay; and could look forward to a competency and, perhaps, to wealth. Yet, in all his work, there was a cheerfulness that seemed to give rest while the work went on. He often indulged in fun, was ever joking with his friends, and indulging in playful pranks with his acquaintances. Usually, however, his facetiousness was itself a method of self-discipline,—a different kind of work. He used to visit his friends whenever an evening could be spared from necessary labor, and spend the hours in writing and exchanging humorous burlesques, acrostics, sonnets, and parodies. Sometimes he would “race” with his literary friends in writing lines of poetry on a given subject, and although, as he afterward acknowledged, he often came in second best, yet he enjoyed the sport and the satisfaction of the victor none the less. The same fun-loving, mischievous, kind-hearted boy, who enjoyed writing extravagant verses, and sending them to his schoolmates, walked the streets of New York in 1855. Time had given discretion, sorrow had given reserve; but the fun bubbled out whenever the waters were moved. His mirth was less ostentatious, but not less hearty. Loving a bottle of beer, or wine, for the sake of sociability, for in his younger days it was universally considered a necessity, he never drank to excess, nor was ever regarded by his companions as an intemperate man. Envious simpletons have sometimes accused him of intemperate habits during those two years; but so well-known and frank was his life, that it would have been then, as it certainly is now, a waste of time to deny so absurd a statement. So-called temperance men are often the most intemperate people known in public life. As temperance, in fact, consists of temperance in all things, as well as in the use of intoxicating drinks, the real temperance people of America will discourage alike the excess in the use of stimulants, and that excess in the use of epithets and misrepresentation, which, by the resulting reaction, encourages the use of that which they wish to prohibit. Intemperate speeches, like intemperate laws, and intemperate drinking, are to be condemned and avoided by all who believe the Highest Moral Standard known to man. It is exceedingly intemperate to circulate a falsehood about any person, and especially of one of our own American family, who has done so much for our nation, and “never wished harm to any man.”

It had long been Mr. Taylor’s wish to take his sisters and brother to Europe with him, in order that they might enjoy those scenes which had pleased him so much; and he had often mentioned, in his letters to them from abroad, how much more he would enjoy the advantages of travel, if they could be with him to share in his pleasure. He was too generous to desire the exclusive enjoyment of anything, and was especially anxious that those related to him should reap the benefits of all his labors. Hence, in the spring of 1856 (not without correspondence with one in Gotha, however), he arranged his plans for another series of excursions in Europe, and persuaded his sisters and brother to accompany him.

It was during those two years of labor that he made the acquaintance of many of the distinguished literary men of Massachusetts, and in one of those years—1855—he secured the acquaintance and friendship of William Makepeace Thackeray, who visited this country then for the second time, and delivered his long-remembered lectures on the “English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century,” and “The Four Georges.” So well known, and so much respected had Mr. Taylor become, that he was sought by the great of both continents, and when he departed for Europe, in the spring of 1856, the kind wishes of thousands of America’s representative men and women went with him, and a welcome awaited him on the shores of England from as many more.