Three months have gone since we heard from a distant land that the spirit of our comrade had departed. His life was eager, noble, wide-renowned. It lasted for more than half a century, yet ceased prematurely, and we say, “He should have died hereafter!” Here, to-day, at this very spot, the mould which held that spirit returns to the self-same earth which nurtured it. Here the mortal journeyings are forever ended. The seas, the deserts, the mountain-ranges, shall be crossed no more; the joyous eyes are veiled; the near, warm heart can throb no longer; the stalwart frame has fallen, and henceforth lies at rest. For us the record is closed; but is it ended without a continuance? This is the question, which here, at this moment, in this place, so strongly comes to each one of those who were his comrades, whom he loved with all his generous nature, to whom he was ever stanch and true, for whom he would at all times have given all he had, from whom only his dust now can receive the love, the tender utterance, the ceaseless remembrance which they seek to offer in return. Are the travels then in truth forever ended? Shall there be, for our brother, no more insatiable thirst for knowledge, no more high poetic speech, no more looking toward the stars? For one, I try to answer from his own lips, since they so often foretokened it. If ever a longing for eternal life, a resolve not to be deprived of action, a beautiful and absolute faith that the Power which governs all had decreed that these should not surcease—if these ever have given a mortal a hold on immortality, then our Bayard still is living, though above and beyond us. For however dimmed may be the vision wherewith some of us strive in vain, whatever our hopes, to look behind the veil, for him there was neither 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 abiding, sustaining faith in the perfection of the universal plan and in the beneficence of its Designer.
Such was his religion, and I say that it was constant and most beautiful. Possibly it was something of the Quaker breed within him that made him so conscious of the Spirit, and so natural and unfailing a believer in direct inspiration. In this age of questionings and searchings, how few of those who profess the most have his perfect faith in that immortality whose promise animates the creeds! For this alone the most rigid may revere his religion, and even without this his spotless life of purity, philanthropy, heroic deeds, has been a model for those who seek to become the disciples of whom the Teacher said, “By their fruits ye shall know them.” This is the one statement which I desire to make. This much, at this final place and hour, I am moved to affirm. Joyous poet, loyal comrade, patient and generous brother in toil and song—Farewell! Farewell!
With two quotations from Bayard Taylor’s writings, one of prose and one of poetry, the writer will lay down his pen (weary with rapid writing), and with the feeling that the subject of this volume is too vast to be adequately or comprehensively treated so soon after his death; and hoping that a lack of completeness in this book, may not argue a lack of affection on the part of the writer. These are Bayard Taylor’s words. How like a benediction they come to us as we close this book.
“These are the rules which I have always accepted: First, labor; nothing can be had for nothing; whatever a man achieves, he must pay for; and no favor of fortune can absolve him from his duty. Secondly, patience and forbearance, which is simply dependent on the slow justice of time. Thirdly, and most important, faith. Unless a man believe in something far higher than himself; something infinitely purer and grander than he can ever become—unless he has an instinct of an order beyond his dreams; of laws beyond his comprehension; of beauty and goodness and justice, beside which his own ideals are dark, he will fail in every loftier form of ambition, and ought to fail.”
“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,