The announcement of the appointment was hailed by the people of the United States with the liveliest demonstrations of approval. Neither the appointment of Mr. Bancroft or Mr. Motley received such universal approbation. All the newspapers, with no known exception, declared it to be one of the wisest appointments made by the administration. All parties applauded at home, and the leading journals of Europe mentioned it with words of praise.
Mr. Taylor was overwhelmed with congratulations, and President Hayes received letters from almost every State and city in the Republic, thanking him for making such a creditable selection, and commending his wisdom. Mr. Taylor was feasted, and “toasted” by his commercial and literary friends with an enthusiasm and liberality never known before on such an occasion. Ovation after ovation was given, and his departure in April from New York was witnessed by hosts of his friends.
His welcome at Berlin was scarcely less hearty. Authors and editors received him with earnest expressions of satisfaction. The Crown Prince, Prince Bismarck, and even the Emperor and Empress greeted him with most unusual marks of respect. With a world looking to him for yet greater things, but thankful for the noble deeds of the past, Mr. Taylor set up a home at Berlin in which he hoped to finish those books on Goethe and Schiller, to which he had already given some of the best years of his life. At last there was rest. Honored by his nation, holding a literary position above the darts of envy, with a gifted wife and lovely daughter, he entered his home in Berlin, saying, “Here I can work in peace. Here we shall be very happy.”
Who can foretell the future; or, in the words of Goethe’s “Mephistopheles,”—
“Who knows how yet the dice may fall?”
That drear December, of which he had written so much, and which ever seemed to him the saddest of all the year, found him dangerously ill with the dropsy. He tried to be quiet, as the physician directed. He tried to resume the old Arabic resignation which had so often served him in the place of substantial accomplishment. But the habit of years, the overmastering desire to labor, the “passion for work” which made his life successful, held sway over him still.
His nation had commissioned him to serve at the Court of Berlin. There was a call for him at the Legation. He could not refuse to go, if he had the strength to move. So he rises from his bed, and goes forth to fulfil the desires of his people. It is his last work. His beloved America receives his dying attention! The next day (Dec. 19, 1878), just after the messenger had left at his door the first printed copy of his new work, “Deukalion,” the poet, traveller, scholar, patriot, brother, husband, and father, left his work unfinished to enter upon the Eternal Rest.
He had long suffered from a mild form of a kidney disease, but neither he nor his physicians attached any importance to that complaint. On the day that he died, he arose from his bed, dressed, and received visitors. Feeling tired, at noon, he concluded to lie down and rest. He slept for a short time, quietly, but on awakening, his mind wandered, and his symptoms became at once alarming. Dr. Lowe Kalbe, who was Mr. Taylor’s physician, and an old friend, was with him, together with Mrs. Taylor and their daughter Lillian. But he sank rapidly, and at four o’clock in the afternoon, peacefully passed away.
How like a voice from a living Past came to us his own sad lines, when they said to us in sadness,—“Bayard Taylor is dead!”
“I never knew the autumnal eves could wear,