CHAPTER XXXII.
Grief at his Death.—Homage of the Great Men of Germany.—Tribute from Auerbach.—Tributes from his Neighbors at Kennett Square.—Extracts from Addresses.—The Great Memorial Gathering at Boston.—The Great Assembly.—Speeches and Letters.—Address of Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.—Henry W. Longfellow’s Poem.—Letters from John G. Whittier, George William Curtis, W. D. Howells, T. B. Aldrich, James T. Fields, Whitelaw Reid, E. P. Whipple.—Tributes from his Near Friends.—Closing Quotations from Mr. Taylor’s Writings.
The news of Bayard Taylor’s death called forth universal expressions of regret. The press, secular and religious, mentioned his decease with extended editorial comment upon his useful and honorable life. Public meetings were held to pay tribute to his memory, and the Congress of the United States passed a bill making Mrs. Taylor a gift of seven thousand dollars, as a mark of the nation’s appreciation of Mr. Taylor’s services.
In Germany, memorial services were held, at which the greatest literary men of that empire made addresses, showing their appreciation of Mr. Taylor’s friendship and scholarship. But one of the most touching tributes which Germany has given to the memory of the deceased poet, was uttered by the celebrated Berthold Auerbach, whose books are now found in the libraries of many different nations, and who was for many years the intimate companion of Mr. Taylor. In his address made at Mr. Taylor’s funeral in Berlin, where were gathered a large number of such men as Dr. Joseph P. Thompson, Prof. Lepsius, Paul Lindau, Julius Rodenberg, Prof. Gneist, Dr. Lowe, Count Lehndorff, and numerous government officials, he thus addressed the mourning friends:—
“Here, under flowers which have grown on German soil, rests the perishable encasing wherein for fifty-three years was enshrined the richly-endowed spirit which bore the name of Bayard Taylor. Coming races will name thee who never looked into thy kindly countenance, never grasped thy honest hand, never heard a word from thy mouth. And yet no, the breath of the lips fadeth away, but thy words, thy words of song, will endure. In exhortation to thy surviving dear ones, from the impulse of my heart as thine oldest friend in the Old World, as thou were wont to call me, and as representing German literature, I bid thee now a parting farewell. What thou hast become and art to remain in the empire of mind history will determine. To-day our hearts do quake with grief and sorrow, and yet they are exalted. Thou wert born in the fatherland of Benjamin Franklin, and like him, to thine honor, raised thyself from a state of manual labor to be an apostle of the spirit of purity and freedom, and to be a representative of thy people among an alien nation. No, not in a land of strangers, for thou wert at home among us; thou hast died in the land of Goethe, to whose high spirit thou didst always with devotion turn; thou hast raised him up a monument before thine own people, and wouldst erect him yet another in presence of all men; but that design has disappeared with thee. But thou thyself hast been, and art still, one of them whose coming he announced—a disciple of the universal literature, in the free and boundless air of which the everlasting element in man, scorning the limits of nationality, mounts on bold, adventurous flights and ever on new poetic fancies sunwards soars. In thy very latest work thou didst show thou livedst in that religion which embraces in it all creeds, and in the name of no one separates one from another. Nature gifted thee with grace and strength, with a soul clear and full of chaste enjoyment, with melody and the tuneful voice to search and proclaim the workings of nature in the eternal and unexhausted region of being, as well as to sing the earthly and ever-new joys of married and filial love, of friendship, truth, and patriotism, and the ever higher ascending revelations of the history of man. Born in the New World, travelled in the Old, and oh, so soon torn from the tree of life, thou hast taught thy country the history of the German people, so that they know each other as brothers, and of this let us remain mindful. In tuneful words didst thou for thy people utter the jubilee acclaim of their anniversary. When it returns, and the husks of our souls do lie like this one here, then will the lips of millions yet unborn pronounce the name of Bayard Taylor. May thy memory be blessed.”
In one of his poems Mr. Taylor wrote, in 1862,—
“Fame won at home is of all fame the best,”