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Title: The Life, Travels, and Literary Career of Bayard Taylor
Author: Conwell, Russell H.
Language: English
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[Illustration: _Bayard Taylor._]
THE
LIFE, TRAVELS, AND LITERARY CAREER
OF
BAYARD TAYLOR.
“Crown Love, crown Truth when first her brow appears,
And crown the hero when his deeds are done:
The Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one.
In the slow process of the doubtful years.
Who seeks too eagerly, he shall not find:
Who seeking not pursues with single mind
Art’s lofty aim, to him will she accord,
At her appointed time, the sure reward.”
BY
RUSSELL H. CONWELL,
AUTHOR OF “LIFE OF PRESIDENT HAYES,” “WHY AND HOW THE CHINESE
EMIGRATE,” “HISTORY OF THE GREAT FIRE IN BOSTON,” “HISTORY OF
THE GREAT FIRE IN SAINT JOHN, N. B.,” “LESSONS OF TRAVEL,”
ETC., ETC.
BOSTON:
B. B. RUSSELL & CO., No. 57 CORNHILL.
DETROIT: R. D. S. TYLER & CO. PORTLAND: JOHN RUSSELL.
PHILADELPHIA: QUAKER CITY PUBLISHING HOUSE.
NEW YORK: CHARLES DREW. CHICAGO: ANDREWS & DORMAN.
INDIANAPOLIS, IND.: FRED L. HORTON & CO.
1879.
Copyright,
BY B. B. RUSSELL & CO.,
1879
BOSTON:
Printed by ALBERT J. WRIGHT, 79 Milk Street.
TO THE MISTRESS OF MY HOME.
“My tears were on the pages as I read
The touching close: I made the story mine,
Within whose heart, long plighted to the dead,
Love built his living shrine.”
“For she is lost; but she, the later bride,
Who came my ruined fortune to restore;
Back from the desert wanders at my side,
And leads me home once more.”
—_Poet’s Journal._
PREFACE.
It is a solemn yet pleasant duty to compile in comprehensive order
the records of a life so eventful and influential as that of Bayard
Taylor. It is solemn, because the sad tears which began to flow at his
death, are coursing freely still. Pleasant, because there is no task
more satisfactory than that of recounting the deeds of a virtuous,
industrious, heroic life. No test-book of morals, or of general history,
is so effective in educating the young as the annals of well-spent years,
gathered for that purpose. There is more or less influence in fables and
mythological tales; and there is considerable power in a well written,
skilfully plotted work of fiction; but the direct and unavoidable appeal
of a noble life, which has closed with honor and deserved renown, is far
more potent and permanent in the culture and reformation of the world,
than all other forms of intellectual and moral quickening. No apology is
needed for writing such a biography. It would be inexcusable to leave the
world in need of it. When the time comes for a book more complete in its
arrangement and details, and more select in its diction, this will find
its proper place in library and reading-room. Until that time it may be
at work renewing the memories of a friend, refreshing the recollection
of his sweet words, and calling the attention of the stranger to the
American who has paid to Europe some of the literary debt we have owed
so long.
The writer does not expect that this book will occupy the permanent place
in literature, which he sincerely hopes will reward those authors who
may follow him on this same topic. Written amid the pressing calls of a
busy profession, and in the season when lyceum lecture engagements, which
he could not postpone, have kept him continually away from his home; he
has attempted nothing more than to give an outline of a remarkable life,
for the purpose of satisfying the present demand. Errors may be found by
critics, such as all hastily written volumes are liable to contain; but
should this work, as a whole, incline the reader to honor the manhood,
love the poetry, and revere the memory of one whom the writer for many
years has admired and loved, it will answer the purpose for which it has
been written.
The author cannot do less than acknowledge, in this place, his great
obligations to the father and mother of Mr. Taylor, to Mrs. Annie Carey,
his sister, and to Dr. Franklin Taylor, his cousin, for their generous
courtesy and most important assistance in gathering the facts for this
volume.
All the poetical quotations in this book are from Taylor’s poetical works.
The account of the funeral found in this volume was written subsequent to
the other portions of the work, as the obsequies and burial took place
after the first edition was printed and sold.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Mr. Taylor’s Career.—Difficulty and Importance of the Work.—The
Romance of his Life.—Variable Experience.—His Success as
Novelist, Orator, Traveller, and Poet, 13
CHAPTER II.
German Ancestry.—English Ancestry.—The Pennsylvania
Germans.—The Quakers.—How his Forefathers came to America.—The
Effect of Intermixture of Races.—The Hereditary Traits seen in
his Books, 17
CHAPTER III.
Birth at Kennett Square.—Old Homestead.—The Quaker Church.—The
Village.—His Father’s Store.—Life on the Farm.—Mischievous
School-boy.—Inclination to write Poetry.—Practical
Joker.—Studious Youth.—His Parents.—His Brothers and Sisters, 21
CHAPTER IV.
Unfitness for Farming.—Love for Books.—Goes to the
Academy.—Appearance as a Student.—Love for Geography
and History.—Enters a Printing-office.—Genius for
Sketching.—Correspondence with Literary Men.—Their Advice.—Hon.
Charles Miner.—Putnam’s Tourist Guide.—Determination to go to
Europe.—Dismal Prospects, 29
CHAPTER V.
Visited by his Cousin.—Decides to go to Europe with his
Cousin.—Correspondence with Travellers.—Lack of Money.—Unshaken
Confidence.—Publication of Ximena, 33
CHAPTER VI.
The Contest with Enemies.—Departure from
Philadelphia.—Friendship of N. P. Willis.—Discouraging
Reception.—Interview with Horace Greeley.—Searching for a
Vessel.—Steerage Passage for Liverpool.—Fellow Passengers.—The
Voyage.—The Beauty of the Sea.—Lauding at Liverpool, 42
CHAPTER VII.
Departure from Liverpool.—Travels Second-Class.—Arrival at
Port Rush.—The Giant’s Causeway.—Lost and in Danger.—Dunluce
Castle.—Effect upon the Travellers.—Condition of the
Irish.—Arrival at Dumbarton.—Scaling the Castle Walls.—Walk
to Loch Lomond.—Ascent of Ben Lomond.—Loch Katrine.—Visit to
Stirling, 50
CHAPTER VIII.
Visit to the Home of Burns.—The Poet’s Cottage.—The
Celebration.—Walks and Rides in the Rain.—Edinburgh.—Its
Associations.—The Teachings of History.—Home
of Drummond.—Abbotsford.—Melrose.—Jedburgh
Abbey.—Newcastle-on-Tyne, 59
CHAPTER IX.
Visit in London.—Exhibition of Relics.—The Lessons of
Travel.—Historical Association.—London to Ostend.—The Cathedral
at Aix-la-Chapelle.—The Great Cathedral at Cologne.—Voyage up
the Rhine.—Longfellow’s “Hyperion.”—Visit to Frankfort.—Kind
Friends.—Reaches Heidelberg.—Climbing the Mountains, 67
CHAPTER X.
Study in Frankfort.—Lack of Money.—Different Effect of
Want on Travellers.—Bayard’s Privations.—Again sets out on
Foot.—Visit to the Hartz Mountains.—The Brocken.—Scenes
in “Faust.”—Locality in Literature.—The Battle-field at
Leipsic.—Auerbach’s Cellar, 77
CHAPTER XI.
Pictures at Dresden.—Raphael’s Madonna.—Bayard’s Art
Education.—His Exalted Ideas of Art.—His Enthusiasm.—Visits
Bohemia.—Stay in Prague.—The Curiosities of Vienna.—Tomb of
Beethoven.—Respect for Religion.—Listens to Strauss.—View of
Lintz.—Munich and its Decorations.—The Home of Schiller.—Poetic
Landscapes, and Charming People.—Statue by Thorwaldsen.—Walk to
Heidelberg, 85
CHAPTER XII.
Starts for Switzerland and Italy.—First View of the
Alps.—The Falls of the Rhine.—Zurich.—A Poet’s Home.—Lake
Lucerne.—Goethe’s Cottage.—Scenes in the Life of William
Tell.—Ascent of the Alps at St. Gothard.—Descent into
Italy.—The Cathedral at Milan.—Bayard’s Characteristics.—Tramp
to Genoa.—Visits Leghorn and Pisa.—Lovely Florence.—Delightful
Visits.—The Home of Art, 95
CHAPTER XIII.
Visit to Rome.—Attractions of its Ruins.—Bayard’s Persistent
Searches.—His Limited Means.—Sights and Experiences.—Journey to
Marseilles.—Walks to Lyons.—Desperate Circumstances.—Stay in
Paris.—Employment of his Time.—Departure for London.—Failure
to obtain Money or Work.—Seeks a Friend.—Obtains Help from a
Stranger.—Voyage to New York.—Arrival Home, 106
CHAPTER XIV.
Edits a Country Newspaper.—The “Phœnixville Pioneer.”—The
Discouragements.—The Suspension.—Publishes “Views
Afoot.”—Introduction to Literary Men.—Contributes to
the “Literary World.”—Becomes an Editor of the New York
“Tribune.”—The Gold Excitement of 1849.—Resolves to visit the
Eldorado.—Arrival in California, 115
CHAPTER XV.
Entrance to California.—The Camp at San
Francisco in 1849.—Description of the
People.—Gold-Hunters.—Speculations.—Prices of
Merchandise.—Visit to the Diggings.—Adventures on
the Route.—The First Election.—The Constitutional
Convention.—San Francisco after Two Months’ Absence.—Poetical
Descriptions.—Departure for Mexico.—Arrival at
Mazatlan.—Overland to the Capital.—Adventure with
Robbers.—Return to New York, 120
CHAPTER XVI.
The Poet’s First Love.—Playmates.—Miss Mary S. Agnew.—His
Fidelity.—Poems Inspired by Affection.—Her Failing
Health.—Consumption.—His Return to Her.—The Marriage at the
Death-bed.—Her Death.—The Poet’s Grief.—His Inner Life.—The
Story in his own Rhyme, 133
CHAPTER XVII.
Grief and Despair.—Describes his Feelings.—Failing
Health.—Severe Mental Labor.—Decides to go to Africa.—Visits
Vienna.—Arrival at Alexandria.—Sails up the Nile.—Scenes
in Cairo.—The Pyramids.—The Lovely Nile.—An Important and
Pleasant Acquaintance.—A Lasting Friendship.—Learning the
Language.—Assuming the Costume.—Sights by the Way, 151
CHAPTER XVIII.
Moslem. Worship.—Scenery of the Nile.—Fellowship
with the People.—The Temple of Dendera.—Mr. Taylor’s
Enthusiasm.—Luxor.—Karnak.—The Extent of Ancient Thebes.—The
Tombs and Statues.—The Natives.—Arrives at Assouan.—The Island
of Philæ.—Separation of the Friends.—Starts for the White
Nile.—Trip through the Desert.—Again on The Nile.—Reception by
the People and Officials.—Visits Ancient Meroe, 164
CHAPTER XIX.
From Meroe to Khartoum.—Twenty-seventh Birth-day.—Desire to
Explore Central Africa.—Ascent of the White Nile.—Adventure
with the Savage Shillooks.—Visits the Natives.—Return to
Khartoum.—Crossing the Desert.—Parting with Friends.—Descent of
the Nile.—Arrival at Cairo, 174
CHAPTER XX.
Departure from Egypt.—A Poet in Palestine.—Difference
in Travellers.—Mr. Taylor’s Appreciation.—First View of
Tyre.—Route to Jerusalem.—The Holy City.—Bath in the Dead
Sea.—Appearance of Jerusalem.—Samaria.—Looking down upon
Damascus.—Life in the eldest City.—The Bath.—Dose of
Hashish.—Being a Turk among Turks, 182
CHAPTER XXI.
Leaving Damascus.—Arrival at Beyrout.—Trip to
Aleppo.—Enters Asia Minor.—The Scenery and People.—The
Hills of Lebanon.—Beautiful Scenes about Brousa.—Enters
Constantinople.—A Prophecy.—Return to Smyrna.—Again
in Italy.—Visits his German Friend at Gotha.—The
Home of his Second Love.—Goes to London.—Visits
Gibraltar.—Cadiz.—Seville.—Spanish History, 194
CHAPTER XXII.
Leaves Gibraltar for Alexandria.—Egypt and Old Friends.—The
Town of Suez.—Embarks for Bombay.—Mocha and its
Coffee.—Aden.—Arrival in Bombay.—Reception by the People.—Trip
to Elephanta.—Ride into the Interior.—Difficulties of the
Journey.—Views of Agra.—Scenes about Delhi.—Starts for the
Himalaya Mountains, 206
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Himalaya Mountains.—Returning Southward.—Lucknow and
Calcutta.—Foretells the Great Rebellion.—Embarks for
China.—Visit to the Mountains of Penang.—The Chinese at
Singapore.—Arrival at Hong-Kong.—Joins the Staff of the
U. S. Commissioner.—Scenes about Shanghai.—The Nanking
Rebellion.—Life in Shanghai.—Enlists in the Navy.—Commodore
Perry’s Expedition, 221
CHAPTER XXIV.
His Reception on the Man-of-war.—Commodore Perry’s
Tribute.—Mr. Taylor’s Journals.—Visit to the Loo-Choo
Islands.—Explorations.—Mr. Taylor becomes a Favorite.—His
Description of the Country.—Cruise to Japan.—The Purpose
of the Expedition.—Mr. Taylor’s Assistance.—Return to
Hong-Kong.—Resigns his Commission.—Visits Canton.—Sails for
America.—St. Helena.—Arrival in New York, 230
CHAPTER XXV.
Takes up the Editorial Pen.—Publication of His “Poems
of the Orient.”—His Books of Travel.—Lecturing before
Lyceums.—Friendship of Richard H. Stoddard.—Private
Correspondence.—Love of Fun.—Resolves to Build a Home at
Kennett.—Changes of Intemperance.—Preparations for a Third Trip
to Europe.—Acquaintance with Thackeray, 242
CHAPTER XXVI.
Visit to Europe.—Reception in England.—Company in
Charge.—Starts for Sweden.—Stockholm.—The Dangerous Ride.—The
Severe Cold.—Arrival in Lapland.—First Experience with
Canoes and Reindeers.—Becomes a Lapp.—The Extreme North.—The
Days without a Sun.—“Yankee Doodle.”—The Return.—Study
in Stockholm.—Return to Germany and London.—Embarks for
Norway.—Meets his Friend at Christiania.—The Coast of
Norway.—The Midnight Sun.—Trip across Norway and Sweden.—Return
to Germany, 252
CHAPTER XXVII.
His Marriage.—German Relatives.—Intention of Visiting
Siberia.—Goes to Greece instead.—Dalmatia.—Spolato.—Arrival
at Athens.—His first View of the Propylæa.—The
Parthenon.—Excursion to Crete.—Earthquake at
Corinth.—Mycenæ.—Sparta.—The Ruins of Olympia.—Visit to
Thermopylæ.—Aulis.—Return to Athens.—His Acquirements, 265
CHAPTER XXVIII.
From Constantinople to Gotha.—Visit to Russia.—Moscow
and St. Petersburg.—Return to Prussia.—Arrival in the
United States.—Incessant Work.—Lecturing and Travels in
California.—The Construction of Cedarcroft.—His Patriotic
Addresses and Poems.—Visits Germany in 1861.—Anxiety for the
Fate of His Nation.—Life at Cedarcroft, 276
CHAPTER XXIX.
Appointed as Secretary of Legation.—Life in St.
Petersburg.—Literary Labors.—His Home at Kennett.—Publication
of his Poems.—Visits Iceland.—His Poem at the Millennial
Celebration.—Appointment as Minister to Berlin.—His
Congratulations.—Reception at Berlin.—His Death, 287
CHAPTER XXX.
His Friends.—The Multitude of Mourners.—His London
Acquaintances.—Tennyson, Cornwall, Browning, Carlyle.—German
Popularity.—Auerbach.—Humboldt.—French Authors.—Early American
Friends.—Stoddard, Willis, Kane, Bryant, Halleck, Powers,
Greeley, Mrs. Kirkland, Whittier, Longfellow, Holmes, Emerson,
Lowell, Dana, Alcott, Aldrich, Whipple, Curtis, Fields, Boker,
Chandler.—Relatives, 296
CHAPTER XXXI.
Translations of “Faust.”—A Life-work.—Discouragements.—The
Scenes in “Faust.”—The Difficulties.—Magnitude of the
Work.—Perseverance.—The Lives of Goethe and Schiller.—Years
in the Work.—The Estimate by Scholars.—Dies with the Work
Unfinished, 308
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 other friends.—Funeral
Ceremonies.—Closing Quotations, 317
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
BAYARD TAYLOR, Frontispiece.
TOWER OF LONDON, Opposite page 68
THE DANUBE AT LINTZ, ” ” 89
THE ARENA OF THE COLISEUM, ” ” 107
PLACE DE LA CONCORDE, ” ” 111
CASTLE OF CHAPULTEPEC, ” ” 131
PHILÆ COLONNADE, ” ” 170
SCENE IN NORTH AFRICA, ” ” 178
NATIVE COTTAGES IN THE TROPICS, ” ” 224
PAGAN TEMPLE IN JAPAN, ” ” 236
SLEDGES, ” ” 255
LAZARETTO CHRISTIANSAND, ” ” 257
CEDARCROFT, KENNETT SQUARE, PA., ” ” 285
NICHOLAS BRIDGE, ” ” 287
THE LIFE, TRAVELS, AND LITERARY CAREER OF BAYARD TAYLOR.
CHAPTER I.
Mr. Taylor’s Career.—Difficulty and Importance of the Work.—The
Romance of his Life.—Variable Experience.—His Success as
Novelist, Orator, Traveller, and Poet.
The nearness and magnitude of Bayard Taylor’s life make it one
exceedingly difficult to comprehend and classify. His adventures were so
many, his struggles so severe, his experience so varied, and his final
success so remarkable, that the materials are too abundant, and often
serve to clog and confuse the student of his career. An artist who views
the mountain from its base, loses many of the finest effects and most
charming outlines, because of his very close proximity to them. So, in
looking upon the wonderful career of such a versatile and gifted man, at
a time so near his death, we are less able to form a comprehensive idea
of his life, as a symmetrical whole, than we shall be when the years
have carried us farther away from him, and the outlines of his greatness
are more distinct. Whether it were better to wait until a part of the
life has been forgotten, and until the more harsh and angular features
have been lost in the general outline, or whether it were more desirable
to describe the life in all its actual details, and in the natural
ruggedness which the close view reveals, is, however, a mere matter of
taste. To those who love to read of a man in whose work there was no
unevenness and in whose experience nothing unbroken is seen, the life of
one so long dead that the writer is compelled to fill up the forgotten
years with ideal events and motives may furnish the choicest theme. But
to those students who love scientific scrutiny, who would estimate the
life for what it is really worth as an example, the biography which is
written amid all the facts, and by one who comes in actual contact with
them, is perhaps esteemed the most valuable, although, as a whole, less
symmetrical.
Bayard Taylor’s life was rugged and cragged with startling events, when
viewed from the kindly poetical stand-point of his character. He felt
all the extremes of joy and sorrow. He knew all the pains and honors
of poverty and wealth. He was loved by many, he was betrayed by many.
He lived in the most enlightened lands, he also sojourned among the
most barbarous people. He saw man in peace and in war. He rode the
ocean in calm and in storm. He was the welcomed guest in the lowliest
huts, and in the most gorgeous palaces. He sweltered in the sands of
tropical deserts, and he was benumbed by the fierce winds of the Northern
ice-fields. He boldly entered the haunts of wild beasts, and loved
the company of harmless and faithful domestics. He was a man of many
virtues and some faults, each of which made his life more eventful and
fascinating.
The literary position which he held at the time of his death, and which
was so romantically attained, was one of almost universal favor. He was
respected by all and loved by many. As a writer of fiction he attained
but little celebrity, and it appears that he had little expectation of
achieving any high honors in that field. As a writer upon travels, and as
a delineator of human character as found in strange places, and in but
partially known countries, he was second to none. His books upon travel
will be read for a century to come, whether thousands or few visit the
localities and tribes he has described. As an orator, he never held a
high rank. He was chaste, concise, and clear in his choice of words, and
had an incisive, pungent way of stating his ideas. He could instruct
the student and amuse the populace, but had not the power to agitate
and carry away large bodies of men, and seems never to have been very
ambitious to do so. As a translator of German literature, he was fast
becoming recognized in all English-speaking countries as an excellent
authority, and it is deeply to be regretted that he was called away with
so many uncompleted translation, and unfinished plans for translations,
from the standards of German literature. But it is as a poet that he
receives the greatest homage. Yet how little he printed! Unless there
shall be found laid away many poems unpublished, he may be classed as
one of the least prolific poets of his generation. His lines are so
simple, so true to life, such incarnate sentences, so expressive, that,
to one who has had a similar experience with the poet, every stanza is a
panorama, vivid and indelible. We shall see as we pursue the tale, how
sensitive he was to everything poetical, and how deeply he was moved by
all those finer and more subtle emotions, which only a poet can feel.
His love was deep and abiding. His friendship, like the oaks of his
Cedarcroft woodland. His old home was to him the sweetest place in all
the beautiful lands he saw. His life was full of romantic incidents, and
he recognized them and appreciated them, for the poetry they suggested.
We venture to say that his poetry will live in every household, if all
his other works should be forgotten.
CHAPTER II.
German Ancestry.—English Ancestry.—The Pennsylvania
Germans.—The Quakers.—How his Forefathers came to America.—The
Effect of Intermixture of Races.—The Hereditary Traits seen in
his Books.
The ancestry of Bayard Taylor were connected with some of the best
blood of England and Germany. His grandmothers were both German, and
his grandfathers both English. The German line comes from that body
of emigrants, consisting of large numbers from Weimar, Jena, Cassel,
Göttingen, Hanover, and perhaps Gotha, who sailed from Bremen and Hamburg
between 1730 and 1745. The continued quarrels among the dukes and princes
of Germany,—the wars in progress and impending, wherein the peace of the
people was incessantly disturbed,—caused a universal uneasiness among
the people of those small nations. They never were quite sure of a day’s
rest. If they sowed unmolested, there was a grave doubt whether some
complication with France, England, or Poland might not bring foreign
invaders or allies to destroy or devour the crops. The wars were so
incessant, and the quarrels among the petty lords so frequent, that the
people became disheartened. They were weary of building for others
to destroy, and of rearing sons to be sacrificed to some individual’s
ambition. All those German provinces, or duchies, had to accommodate
themselves to the religion of their princes, and, at times, the winds
that played about the hills of the Black Forest were far less uncertain.
To the fathers of these emigrants, who sought America as a haven of
religious and political rest, George Fox and his Quaker disciples had
taught the doctrines of “The Holy Spirit,” and, under various guises, the
tenets of that belief still survived in the German heart.
Those Germans who settled in the counties of Pennsylvania, lying to
the south and south-west of Philadelphia, came to this country during
the disturbances in the Fatherland, caused by Augustus, Maria Theresa,
Frederick, and the scores of other princes who were in power, or seeking
to secure it, in the numerous states and free cities of Germany. It is
no light excuse, no desire for mere wealth, no hasty search for the
fountains of youth, that causes the solid, earnest, patriotic people of
Saxony, Baden, or Bavaria to leave forever the home of their nativity.
It is a little curious to see how these races, which so cordially and
hospitably received the Quaker missionaries from England, should at
last unite with them in the settlement of the New World, and, by their
intermarriage, produce such offshoots of the united stock as Bayard
Taylor and his cotemporaries.
The Quaker ancestry of the poet,—the Taylors and the Ways,—run back
through a long line of industrious men and women, more or less known
in Central Pennsylvania, to the colony which William Penn sent over
from England to cultivate the great land-grant, which King Charles II.,
of England, gave him, in consideration of his father’s services as
admiral in the British navy. They, too, were driven from their homes by
the incessant turmoil either of wars or religious persecutions. Their
preachers had again and again been imprisoned, while some had died the
death of martyrs. Even Penn himself was often in chains and in prison,
for being a peaceable believer in the truth of the Quaker doctrines;
but so blameless were the lives of these people, and so forgiving their
Christian behavior, that the term “Quakers,” which was at first applied
to them in derision, became at last a title of respect and honor. “The
fear of the Lord did make us quake,” was a common expression with George
Fox, the founder of the sect, and the name “Quakers” originated in sneers
at that devout sentence.
It is easy to trace in the history of the State of Pennsylvania, the
influence of the Quaker spirit, and its impression upon the institutions
of the American nation is also strikingly apparent. But when one takes
up the life of one of their descendants, and studies his habits, his
style of thought, and his ideas of social and political institutions,
the hereditary Quaker element, in a modified form, is detected in every
motion and expression. It would seem as if any reader, to whom the author
is unknown, would detect at once, in any volume of Taylor’s poetry or
travels, the fact that he came from Quaker stock. As will be more clearly
shown in a subsequent chapter, the teachings of the Quakers, and their
manner of expression by gesture and phrase, have unconsciously and
charmingly crept into the bosom of his best works. It is a great boon to
be born of such a physical and mental combination as that of the German
soldiers, with all their coolness and bravery, and the even-tempered,
God-fearing Quakers, with all their grace and wisdom. Such intermixture
has given to our young nation much of its surprising enterprise and
originality, and must, at last, when consolidated into a compact people,
produce a nation and a race wholly unlike any other on the earth.
It is not known that any of Bayard Taylor’s ancestry were literary
men, or that any of them were endowed with special genius, beyond that
which was necessary to clear the forests, cultivate the soil, manage
manufacturing enterprises, and carry on small mercantile establishments.
Solid people, with wide common-sense, industrious hands and generous
hearts, they have modestly held their way, doing their simple duty, and,
Quaker-like, making no display.
CHAPTER III.
Birth at Kennett Square.—Old Homestead.—The Quaker Church.—The
Village.—His Father’s Store.—Life on the Farm.—Mischievous
School-boy.—Inclination to write Poetry.—Practical
Joker.—Studious Youth.—His Parents.—His Brothers and Sisters.
Bayard Taylor was born at Kennett Square, Penn., Jan. 11, 1825. His
mother, whose maiden name was Rebecca Way, was then twenty-nine years
of age, and his father was thirty-one. The house then occupied was a
two-story stone-and-mortar structure, such as are yet very common in the
farming regions of central Pennsylvania. The house was long and narrow,
having a porch that extended along the whole front. The rooms were small
and low, but it was considered by the farmers of that time as a very
comfortable and respectable home. It was located at the junction of two
highways, and near the centre of the little hamlet called the “Square,”
and sometimes the “Village.” But few families resided there in 1825, and
the people were all more or less engaged in the cultivation of the soil.
The little rude Quaker meeting-house, so box-like and cold in its aspect,
was doubtless the centre of attraction, and the desire to be near the
house of God, led those devoted Quakers to build their dwellings on that
portion of their lands which lay nearest the church.
The village has increased in growth, and now has a population of six or
seven hundred, with several churches belonging to other denominations,
and very flourishing schools. But the old homestead building, in which
Bayard was born, was destroyed by fire in 1876.
At the time of his birth, his father kept a miscellaneous stock of
merchandise in one room of his house, and supplied the necessities of the
farmers, so far as the small capital of a country store could anticipate
their wants. Situated thirty-five miles from Philadelphia, to which
place he was compelled to send the produce he received, and in which
place he purchased his simple stock of goods, the merchant had a task
on his hands which cannot be appreciated or understood in these days of
railways, telegraphs, and commercial travellers. One of his neighbors,
living in 1872, used to relate how Mr. Taylor, having had a call for two
hay-rakes, which he could not supply, drove all the way to West Chester,
the distance of a dozen miles, to get those tools for his customer.
At the time of Bayard’s birth, his parents had been married seven years.
Their life had already been subject to many trials, and was fated to meet
many more. Of a family of ten children, only one-half the number survived
to see mature years. The losses by mercantile ventures, by failing
crops, by sickness and accidents, often swept away the hard earnings of
many a month. Yet they struggled on, industrious and cheerful, keeping
themselves and their children ever busy.
When Bayard was two or three years old, his father purchased a farm about
a mile from the village, and giving up his mercantile avocations, turned
his whole attention to farming. On that farm Bayard spent the opening
years of his life, and on one section of it did he build his beautiful
home of “Cedarcroft.”
“The beginning and the end is here—
The days of youth; the silvered years.”
How deeply he loved his home, how sincere his affection for the rolling
fields, the chestnut and the walnut woodland, the old stone farm-house,
the clumsy barn, the old highway, the acres of corn and wheat, the
distant village and its quaint old church, can be seen in a thousand
expressions finding place in his published works. His poetical nature
opened to his view beautiful landscapes and charming associations which
others would not detect. The birds sang in an intelligible language; the
leaves on the corn entered into conversation; the lowing of the cows
could be interpreted; and the rocks were romantic story-tellers. He loved
them all. That farm was his Mecca in all his travels. When he left, he
says he promised bird, beast, trees, and knolls, that he would return
to them. To the writer, who went to Cedarcroft after the poet’s death,
and who has so long loved and admired his poetry, it seemed as if the
trees patiently awaited his return. All things in nature must have loved
and trusted him, or they would not have confided to him so many of their
secrets.
Of the pastoral life in Pennsylvania he speaks with pleasing directness
in his volume entitled “Home Pastorals.” In one place the aged farmer
says:—
“Well—well! this is comfort now—the air is mild as May,
And yet ’tis March the twentieth, or twenty-first, to-day;
And Reuben ploughs the hill for corn: I thought it would be tough;
But now I see the furrows turned, I guess it’s dry enough.
I’m glad I built this southern porch; my chair seems easier here:
I haven’t seen as fine a spring this five and twenty year.
And how the time goes round so quick: a week I would have sworn,
Since they were husking on the flat, and now they plough for corn!
Across the level Brown’s new place begins to make a show;
I thought he’d have to wait for trees, but, bless me, how they grow!
They say it’s fine—two acres filled with evergreens and things;
But so much land! it worries me, for not a cent it brings.
He has the right, I don’t deny, to please himself that way,
But ’tis a bad example set, and leads young folks astray:
Book-learning gets the upper hand, and work is slow and slack,
And they that come long after us will find things gone to wrack.
Well—I suppose I’m old, and yet it is not long ago
When Reuben spread the swath to dry, and Jesse learned to mow,
And William raked, and Israel hoed, and Joseph pitched with me,
But such a man as I was then my boys will never be!
I don’t mind William’s hankering for lectures and for books,
He never had a farming knack—you’d see it in his looks;
But handsome is that handsome does, and he is well to do:
’Twould ease my mind if I could say the same of Jesse, too.
’Tis like my time is nearly out; of that I’m not afraid;
I never cheated any man, and all my debts are paid.
They call it rest that we shall have, but work would do no harm;
There can’t be rivers there, and fields, without some sort o’ farm.”
No description in prose can as well describe his occupation as a boy, as
his own lines, in the poem of the “Holly Tree.”
“The corn was warm in the ground, the fences were mended and made,
And the garden-beds, as smooth as a counterpane is laid,
Were dotted and striped with green, where the peas and the radishes grew,
With elecampane at the foot, and comfrey, and sage, and rue.
From the knoll where stood the house, the fair fields pleasantly rolled,
To dells where the laurels hung, and meadows of buttercup gold.”
Such was the farm when he left it, in words of the poet’s choosing, and
what he found when, after a quarter of a century of wanderings, he can
best describe.
“Here are the fields again, the soldierly maize in tassel
Stands on review, and carries the scabbarded ears in its armpits.
Rustling, I part the ranks,—the close, engulfing battalions
Shaking their plumes overhead,—and, wholly bewildered and heated,
Gain the top of the ridge, where stands, colossal, the pin-oak.
Yonder, a mile away, I see the roofs of the village,—
See the crouching front of the meeting-house of the Quakers,
Oddly conjoined with the whittled Presbyterian steeple.
Right and left are the homes of the slow, conservative farmers,
Loyal people and true; but, now that the battles are over,
Zealous for Temperance, Peace, and the Eight of Suffrage for Women.
Orderly, moral are they,—at least, in the sense of suppression;
Given to preaching of rules, inflexible outlines of duty:
Seeing the sternness of life; but, alas! overlooking its graces.
Let me be juster: the scattered seeds of the graces are planted
Widely apart; but the trumpet-vine on the porch is a token:
Yea, and awake and alive are the forces of love and affection,
Plastic forces that work from the tenderer models of beauty.”
There must be many things in the events of common life which find no
voice in poetry, as every life has its prose side. At all events, there
were some duties connected with agricultural work which young Bayard
never enjoyed. He never was ambitious to follow the plough, or do the
miscellaneous odd jobs which perplex and weary a farmer’s boy. Yet, like
Burns, he worked cheerfully, and wrung more or less poetry out of every
occupation. He was a spare, wiry, nervous boy, quick at work, study,
or play, and consequently had many leisure moments, when other boys
were drudging along with ceaseless toil. His schoolmates, and the only
school-teacher now living (1879) who taught him in his boyhood, all agree
that he was a mischievous boy. He loved practical jokes, and, in fact,
jokes of every kind. But he was ceaselessly framing verses. When his
lesson was mastered, which was always in an incredibly short space of
time after he took up his book, he plunged recklessly into poetry. Verses
about the teacher, about snowbanks, about buttercups, about pigs, about
courting, funerals, church services, schoolmates, and countless other
themes filled his desk, pockets, and hat.
Often he wrote love letters, couched in the most delicate phraseology,
and signing the name of some classmate to them, would send them to
astonished ploughboys and blushing maidens. One old gentleman in West
Chester, Penn., always claimed that a set of Bayard’s burlesque verses,
sent out in that way, induced him to court and marry a girl with whom
he had no acquaintance, until the explanation of his tender epistle was
demanded by her father. What volumes of poetry he must have written,
which never saw the type, and how much more of that which he was in the
habit of repeating to himself was left unwritten! The life he led, from
his earliest school days, until he was fifteen years of age, was that
of every farmer’s boy in America, who is compelled to work hard through
the spring, summer, and autumn, and attend the district school in the
winter. The only remarkable difference between Bayard and many other
boys, was found in his strong desire to read, and his genius for poetry.
He gathered the greater part of his youthful education from books, which
he read at home, and by himself.
He had a noble father, and a lovely mother, God bless them! and they
made it as easy for Bayard as they could in justice to the other
children. They might not have fully understood the signs of genius which
he displayed; but they put no needless stumbling-blocks in his way. No
better proof of this is needed, than the excellent record of the other
children, all of whom hold enviable positions in society. One brother,
Dr. J. Howard Taylor, is a physician, and connected with the health
department of the city of Philadelphia; another, William W. Taylor, is a
most skilful civil engineer; while a third, Col. Frederick Taylor, was
killed at the battle of Gettysburg, when leading the celebrated Bucktail
Regiment of Pennsylvania. Two sisters are living,—Mrs. Annie Carey, wife
of a Swiss gentleman; and Mrs. Lamborn, wife of Col. Charles B. Lamborn,
of Colorado. Growing up in such a family, as an elder brother, involved
much patient toil, and great responsibility. The best tribute to him, in
those days, was paid by an old lady, of Reading, Penn., who knew him in
his youth, and who summed up her evidence to the writer in the words, “He
did all he could.”
CHAPTER IV.
Unfitness for Farming.—Love for Books.—Goes to the
Academy.—Appearance as a Student.—Love for Geography
and History.—Enters a Printing-office.—Genius for
Sketching.—Correspondence with Literary Men.—Their Advice.—Hon.
Charles Miner.—Putnam’s Tourist Guide.—Determination to go to
Europe.—Dismal Prospects.
Joseph Taylor was too intelligent and observing not to notice how unfit
was his son Bayard for tending sheep, hoeing corn, and weeding beds of
vegetables. The intellectual inclination exhibited by the boy in every
undertaking, and his frail form, led Mr. and Mrs. Taylor to look about
for some occupation for their son more fitting than the hard drudgery
of a farm. The eagerness with which he devoted himself to the study of
such books as could then be secured; his schemes for obtaining volumes
considered by his parents, until then, wholly beyond their reach; his
poems and essays, learned in the hayfield, and written out after the
day’s work was done, all confirmed them in the feeling that it was their
duty to give up his assistance on the homestead, and permit him to follow
the leading of his genius. It was with no little anxiety that they sent
him “away to school”; for they felt then that they might not have their
son, as a companion, at home again. Mr. Gause then taught an excellent
high school at West Chester, the county seat, and to that they sent him
for a short time. One of his classmates at that school, now residing in
Baltimore, says he remembers distinctly how awkward and rustic Bayard
appeared when he first entered the school, and how radical and rapid
was the change from the ploughboy to the student. He became a universal
favorite, and was so able to teach, and so ready to help, that he had
a large number of scholars following him about half the time, for the
purpose of getting assistance at their lessons. Yet he found much time to
read other books than those containing his studies, and as in a village
of the size of West Chester, there were some small libraries, his desire
for reading could be gratified. Geography was his favorite study, and, in
the pursuit of information, he sought out and read so many books relating
to the places mentioned in the text-book, that his classmates used to
say that “Bayard knows all about his geography without even reading his
lessons over.”
He was soon well acquainted with the history of the world, and had the
most interesting events connected with the wars of Europe fresh in his
mind. He read about Edinburgh, London, Paris, Berlin, and Dresden; of
William the Conqueror, Peter the Great, Charlemagne, and Mahomet; of the
adventures of the Crusaders, of the wars of the Roses, the Thirty Years’
War, and Napoleon’s campaigns; and, with each volume, built higher
those castles in the air, which many youths construct on the excitement
of such themes. It seems astonishing how a boy of fourteen years could
appreciate so much of the books he read, when we recall the dulness and
dryness which characterized almost every history then extant, and the
exceedingly difficult subjects of which they treated. He read, one day,
for a few minutes, in Unionville, in 1839, from a book that lay on the
mantel-shelf, and although the subject was that of art and the beauty of
Raphael’s Madonna and child, he understood it so well, and remembered
it so clearly, that, in 1845, when at Dresden, where the picture was
exhibited, he was able to recall the words of that description, and the
name of the writer.
The circumstances in which his parents were placed, made it impossible
for them to support him long at school, neither was he inclined to be
a charge upon them. He desired to be able to earn money for himself,
both to relieve his parents of the expense, and to furnish means for
purchasing books. He was a bold youth. He seemed to fear nothing. He had
a sublime faith in his own success, which was not egotism nor pride, but
an inspiration. Very often, when he had read a book, he would sit down
and write to the author; which fact was not, in itself, so astonishing
as the fact that he wrote letters so bright and sensible, that in nearly
every case he obtained a courteous, and often a lengthy reply. In this
way, he made the acquaintance of many men well known in the literary
circles of America, several of whom were of great assistance to him a few
years after. When he was but ten years old, and still on the old farm, he
read “Pencillings by the Way,” which was a narrative of foreign travel,
written by Nathaniel P. Willis, and published in the New York “Mirror,”
of which Mr. Willis was then an associate editor.
Young Bayard soon after entered into a correspondence with Mr. Willis
on literary matters, and continued the interchange of letters until the
death of Mr. Willis, in 1867. In the same manner young Bayard secured
the attention, advice, and assistance of Rufus W. Griswold, who edited
the “New World” and the “New Yorker,” and who, in 1842 and 1843, edited
“Graham’s Magazine,” in Philadelphia. Dr. Griswold was also a poet,
and in fact had been in every branch of literary work, from writing
items in Boston for a weekly paper, through type-setting, reporting,
and compiling, to writing sermons as a Baptist minister. He had led a
wandering life, had seen much of the world, and was well acquainted,
as an editor and reviewer, with all the best works of history, travel,
and poetry. From him Bayard received much sensible advice and much
encouragement. To him Bayard sent some of his earliest poems, and thus
secured their publication.
It is probable that Bayard became acquainted with Henry S. Evans, editor
of the West Chester “Village Record,” through some of his poetical
contributions to that paper. However that may be, he sought the office
of that paper for an opportunity to learn the printer’s trade, when it
had been decided by his parents to let him go. The “Village Record”
had long been a respected and favorite journal for that county, and
had, under the editorial management of Hon. Charles Miner, been the
intellectual training-school of many influential and noted men. Mr. Evans
was conducting the paper with much ability, and it was then usually
considered a great opportunity for any young man if an opening was found
for him in the office of that periodical.
Yet Bayard did not like the work of a printer, and especially despised
the work which naturally fell to his lot as a new apprentice. He took
to sketching; and having added the instruction of a teacher, for a few
weeks, to a natural tact for drawing, he “illustrated” almost everything
within reach which had a smooth surface. He caricatured the printers and
editors, and brought out the worst features of his associates in horrible
cartoons. He sent to delinquent correspondents pictures of ink-bottles
and long quills. He sketched himself in the mirror, and sent the copy to
inquiring friends. Far too intent upon drawings, poetry, and travels to
make much progress as a printer, he became tired of the occupation and
longed to be free. There came to his hands some time before he entered
the printing-office, a small book, intended partly for home reading and
partly as a guide-book for European travellers, entitled “The Tourist in
Europe.” It was written by George P. Putnam, of New York, and told the
routes, and described the wonders to be seen, in a very fascinating way
to one like Bayard, whose imagination was already excited to the most
enthusiastic pitch. The boy appears to have studied that book with the
greatest and most persevering zeal. He used it for a plan of reading,
and taking it by course, borrowed books relating to the places mentioned
by Mr. Putnam, until one by one he had learned the history, occupation,
literary achievements, and habits of every city or town of note in the
whole of Europe. He made up his mind that he was going to Europe. Just
how or when was a mystery. But that he was going soon he had no doubt.
He spoke of his trip to England and Germany with the confidence of one
who has his ticket and letter of credit already in his pocket. Yet he
was a penniless boy, who had scarcely seen a ship, and who knew but a
few phrases outside of his native tongue. His friends laughed at him,
and gravely told his relatives that if Bayard did not curb his rambling
disposition he would become a beggar and a disgrace. Even that chosen
schoolmate, whose dark eyes and tresses held more influence over his
thoughts and movements than the world knew, or he himself would publicly
acknowledge, laughed incredulously as he told her of his projected
visits to the castles, towers, shrines, and battle-fields of Europe and
Asia.
The months rolled heavily away, and his fingers wearied with the type,
and his heart became sad because of the long delay. He began to be
ashamed of his boasts, but patiently waited. For two years he studied,
planned, prophesied, yearned for a trip to Europe; having in the meantime
made a short and hazardous tramp to the Catskills, with money saved from
his clothing allowance as an apprentice. He ventured to write to some
ship-owners in Philadelphia, to ascertain if he could work his passage.
He often mentioned his proposed trip to his employer, and asked to be
released from his engagement and agreement as an apprentice. Mr. Evans
only smiled and said that Bayard need not trouble himself about that at
present; it would be all right when the time came for him to go. Thus,
with a conviction that he should certainly go, and yet heart-sick at the
delay, Bayard reached his nineteenth birthday.
CHAPTER V.
Visited by his Cousin.—Decides to go to Europe with his
Cousin.—Correspondence with Travellers.—Lack of Money.—Unshaken
Confidence.—Publication of Ximena.
Bayard had a cousin Frank, or Franklin, whom he held in great respect,
and whose subsequent life, as will be seen hereafter, justified the high
esteem in which Bayard held him. This young man, a few years older than
Bayard, had, by much patience and perseverance, succeeded in obtaining
sufficient money to support himself in an economical manner in Germany,
and had made up his mind to attend the lectures at the university in
Heidelberg.
“Are you really going, Frank?”
“Yes, Bayard, I am going sure.”
“Then I am going with you.”
“But, Bayard, how are you going to get the money to pay your expenses?”
“I do not know where it is coming from, not even for my outfit, but I am
going with you.”
Bayard had written to a great many people, of whom he had heard, asking
them about the expense and outfit for a tour in Europe. Some of them had
made the journey, and some had completed their preparations; but they
all placed the amount so high as to appear like a fabulous sum to the
poor apprentice. None placed the fare at less than five hundred dollars,
while some of the estimates were as high as eighteen hundred dollars. Of
course this poor boy could not earn nor borrow either of these amounts.
Yet he was confident that in some way he would be able to overcome the
difficulty.
Dr. Griswold, of whom mention was made in the last chapter, had suggested
that it might be wise for Bayard to publish, in small book-form, his
sonnets and other poems, and sell them to friends and admirers; and
when he found that Frank was going, he determined to try that method of
raising a little money. He went to some of his old friends and neighbors
for assistance to print his little volume; but so little was their
faith in the boy they had known from his birth, that they told him they
would not encourage him in a scheme so absurd and impracticable. But
Bayard only became the more determined with each defeat. He renewed his
application to friends more distant, and, as is usually the case, he
found they had more confidence than those who looked upon him as the boy
they knew on the farm. From those distant friends, living in Philadelphia
and West Chester, he at last obtained such assistance as to be able to
print a few copies of his poems. He christened his first volume “Ximena,
and other Poems,” and finding many kindly disposed persons who would
like to help him to the small sum asked for the book, but who would
have been ashamed to present him with so diminutive an amount, he was
enabled to dispose of enough in a few days to pay his expenses and a
profit of twenty dollars. Acting upon the advice of Nathaniel P. Willis,
he applied to the editors of the various newspapers in Philadelphia for
employment as a travelling correspondent; but letters from Europe were
becoming stale, and correspondence was overdone, so that he was met with
discouraging refusals on every hand. Fortunately, some one suggested to
him the names of the “Saturday Evening Post,” and the “United States
Gazette.” He was, however, without hope of anything from them. He has
since said to his friends, that he then thought as he could not fare any
worse than he had done, it would do no harm to try again. His confidence
in his final success was so great, that he had made a settlement with
Mr. Evans, of the “Village Record,” and had left the employment of a
printer before he had found or thought of a way to secure funds for his
intended trip. He had no money, no outfit, no employment; and yet he was
sure he should go. In that condition, and in a state of mind bordering
on wonder, because the way which was to open had so long remained shut,
this thin, awkward youth walked confidently into the office of the
“Saturday Evening Post.” Mr. S. D. Patterson was then its editor, and,
while he was disposed to assist the young man, he did not have much
faith in his success as a correspondent. Mr. Patterson, however, gave
Bayard some encouragement, and the youth, with lighter step, went to the
office of the “United States Gazette.” Not finding Mr. J. R. Chandler at
his editorial room, Bayard went to the editor’s residence. Mr. Chandler
was sick in bed; but he was able to converse with Bayard, and received
him very pleasantly. The young man had never met Mr. Chandler before;
but he stated his cause with such frankness and clearness, and showed
such confidence in his final triumph, that Mr. Chandler took out his
pocket-book and gave Bayard fifty dollars, saying that if he sent any
letters of sufficient interest they would be inserted in the columns
of the “Gazette.” Mr. Chandler did not, at the time, care for letters
from Europe, and did not expect to publish any; but, acting from the
promptings of a generous heart, he freely gave the assistance desired. Of
Mr. Chandler’s honorable career, more will be said in another chapter.
On returning to Mr. Patterson, Bayard found him willing to do as he
had proposed, and the sum of fifty dollars was added to the gift of
Mr. Chandler. Then, as if fortunes, like misfortunes, come not singly,
he found a customer for some manuscript poems in a friend of Dr.
Griswold,—George R. Graham. From him Bayard received twenty dollars,
making the round sum of one hundred and forty dollars with which to
begin his journey to the Old World. Bayard now felt independent and
happy. At least he could get across the Atlantic Ocean. He might have to
work as a compositor, or as a common laborer, or even beg for his bread
after he arrived on the other side; he did not know, and seemed to care
but little. He had encountered a hard fortune here, and conquered, and
he felt sure that he could do as well there. Happy, proud day was it
for him when he returned with the money to his home at Kennett Square.
Sad day for Mary Agnew. But as she and Bayard were only playmates and
schoolmates, she must not appear to be especially grieved.
The next thing to be done was to obtain a passport from the United
States Government. It could only be obtained in Washington, and as they
could not afford the expense of the stages, Frank and Bayard started for
Washington on foot. It would seem as if such a journey of one hundred and
twenty miles,—in which they walked thirty miles to Port Deposit, thence
in a rickety tow-boat to Baltimore, and from that city to Washington,
they tramped all night without food or drink,—would have discouraged any
one from attempting to walk through the countries of Europe. For they
must have returned from this first walk footsore and lame in every joint.
Yet they came back as full of hope as when they started out, having seen
Mr. Calhoun, then Secretary of State, and many other celebrities then
inhabiting the capital city,—June, 1844.
Oh! those farewells! To the parents who had watched over him so long,
it seemed like losing him forever, so far away and mythical did Europe
seem to be. Their lips consented, but their hearts kept rapping no, no,
no, in rebellious throbs. The brothers and sisters wept with a grief
never before so keen, and a dread never before so deep. But to the
youth, before whom the great unexplored world lay in its beauty, and who
could not then realize, as he did so keenly afterwards, that in all the
world he would find no spot so sweet and interesting to him as would be
the one he was leaving, it was a joy over which the sadness of parting
for a time was but as the shadow of a cloud on the summer sea. High
hopes, great aspirations, drove him along, while romantic castles and
fortresses, brilliant rivers, heavenly gardens, majestic mountains, wise
people, delightful music, gorgeous galleries of art, and indescribable
landscapes, beckoned him to come. Giddy with anticipation, trembling with
conflicting emotions, he stood in the shade of the oak and the hickory
of the old home that morning, bidding his loved ones good-by. He was a
hero. There was the sense of present loss, and of danger to come; but it
weighed not with him as against the great ambition of his life.
Did he bid Mary Agnew farewell? Perhaps! The mature poet will tell us, in
his own sweet way, by and by.
CHAPTER VI.
The Contest with Enemies.—Departure from
Philadelphia.—Friendship of N. P. Willis.—Discouraging
Reception.—Interview with Horace Greeley.—Searching for a
Vessel.—Steerage Passage for Liverpool.—Fellow Passengers.—The
Voyage.—The Beauty of the Sea.—Landing at Liverpool.
“How rosed with morn, how angel innocent,
Thus looking back, I see my lightsome youth!
Each thought a wondrous bounty Heaven had lent,
And each illusion was a radiant truth!
Each sorrow dead bequeathed a young desire,
Each hovering doubt, or cloud of discontent,
So interfused with Faith’s pervading fire,
That to achieve seemed light as to aspire!”
—_Taylor._
Bayard was not an exception to the universal rule, found true by nearly
every scholar, and every successful statesman. He was ridiculed by a
thoughtless throng. His success in the matters he undertook subjected
him to the slights and backbiting of envious simpletons, and everywhere
the looks and shrugs of his acquaintances told with what contempt they
looked upon his endeavors to be a poet, and to see the world. It was the
same old trial, and only those young men who, like Bayard, are able to
stand firm against ridicule and envy, ever reach the acropolis of their
ambition. No record has been found of the effect these things had upon
Bayard, or upon the two noble young men who were his companions; but
we do know that they turned not from their purpose. Bayard’s sensitive
nature, his warm heart, his innocent ambition must have felt the stings,
and, at times in after life, he spoke as one who had not forgotten.
How grand and honorable the exceptional appearance of the few who were
generous and faithful to the poor boy on the threshold of his life!
Taking with them only such baggage as they could carry in their hands,
these three young men,—Bayard Taylor, Franklin Taylor, and Barclay
Pennock.—started for New York the last week in June, 1844. There had
been but little delay, notwithstanding the day for departure had been
set before Bayard knew where the funds were to come from to defray his
expenses.
There was a strong hope in Bayard’s mind that Mr. N. P. Willis, who had
written him such encouraging letters, would be able to assist him in
securing employment as a travelling correspondent of some of the New
York daily papers. Mr. Willis was widely known, and greatly respected
in New York, and, on the arrival of Bayard at his office, he entered
heartily into the work of procuring such a situation for his young
friend. But foreign correspondence had been as much overdone in New
York as in Philadelphia. So many writers had tried to make a name by
imitating the first successful correspondents, that the people were weary
with the monotonous story. It was as well known then as it is now, that
copyists and imitators are not what a live, active, original newspaper
requires. Correspondence from almost anywhere could be made interesting
and amusing, if the writer would only write naturally, and describe the
things he saw in just the light they appeared to him. No one thought
that this boy would do anything else but follow in the old track. Hence
they wished for none of his writings. One gentleman told him that it was
useless to make engagements, for a youth, going into a strange country
in that hap-hazard way, would not live to write any letters. Mr. Willis’
generous assistance availed Bayard nothing with a people who had so often
been compelled to form their own opinion of the people they wished to
employ, and who considered themselves the best judges.
In the editorial room of the New York “Tribune” sat the editor, whose
name is being written higher, on the list of America’s great men, by
every succeeding year. To his quick eye, there was promise of noble
things in the countenance of the boy. He had himself been a venturesome,
ambitious, penniless boy, and, like Bayard, he had boldly pushed his boat
into the dangerous billows. He may have remembered Benjamin Franklin’s
hazardous trip, as a boy, to Philadelphia, for Bayard was mentioned
by Mr. Willis as a young man from the Quaker city. Whatever may have
been his thoughts, he treated Bayard with his usual consideration, and
informed the youth that he was ready to publish and pay for all letters
that were worth inserting in the “Tribune.” But he solemnly warned Bayard
against attempting to write anything until he knew enough about the
country to write intelligently. Bayard told Mr. Greeley that he would
try to get acquainted with the people of Germany and their institutions,
and, as soon as he felt competent, would send a few letters for Mr.
Greeley’s criticism. The busy editor nodded as the boy thanked him, bade
him good-day, and, doubtless, instantly forgot there had ever been such a
visitor; and left the fact in oblivion, until it was brought to mind some
months afterwards by the arrival of a letter from Germany.
Mr. Willis told Bayard, as he said afterwards, to keep up his courage,
and go forward: “The way to Valhalla is broad and smooth to the hero,
but narrow and dangerous to the coward.” It appears by the brief account
which is given in the introduction to his “Views Afoot,” published by
Putnam & Sons, New York, that the party had a difficult task to find
a vessel in which the accommodations, rates of passage, and port of
destination were within their plan. They intended at first to take a
vessel direct for the Continent; but in such of them as were bound for
continental ports, the fare was too high. They were, however, on the
point of taking passage in a Dutch sailing vessel, the consignees of
which were acquaintances of Mr. Willis, and consequently made some
reduction in the fares, when an opportunity offered itself for a steerage
passage in a vessel bound for Liverpool. In that way, they would be
conveyed to England for the sum of twenty-four dollars. But such a
passage! Think of it, ye disconsolate, fault-finding tourists, who lie in
the soft beds of a steamer, with fresh air and plenty of light! Think of
it, ye sufferers that occupy the great forward hall of a steamship, and
who curse your fate that you are compelled to take a steerage passage!
What would you do or say should you be crowded into a cabin of rough
planks, eight feet long, and seven feet wide, with nine passengers and
eight narrow berths, in a clumsy, dirty little sailing vessel? Yet
this was the young adventurer’s choice, rather than expend the small
sum of twenty-five dollars from his small store. These three boys were
compelled, by the terms of passage, to furnish their own provisions and
bedding, and the fact that the unexpected honesty and kindness of a
warehouse clerk prevented their starting off without enough food to last
through the voyage, is another proof that “fortune favors the brave.”
As there was one more adult passenger in the steerage than there were
berths, Bayard and his cousin Frank good-naturedly agreed to occupy one
together. To the writer, who has frequently crossed the treacherous
Atlantic, there seems to be no experience so inconceivably miserable
and sickening as a steerage passage in a sailing vessel must be to
the landsman. But when to the usual discomforts of dampness, darkness,
sea-sickness, and strange company, are added the cramps caused by being
packed with another passenger like a sandwich into a narrow box, and
the absence of fresh air, no tortures of the Inquisition would seem to
equal it. Bayard often referred to his first discouraging sensation of
sea-sickness. Coming, as it always does to the passenger, just as he is
taking his last sad look at the fading shores of his native country, it
is always a disheartening experience. Bayard shed tears as he began to
realize that he was actually afloat upon the wide ocean, and could not if
he would return to the land. He has since well said, that had he known
more of life, and the dangers of travel, his alarm and discouragement
would have been much greater than they were, and of longer duration.
Youth borrows no trouble; hence it is happy and victorious.
Of that voyage, and its sufferings, in the ship “Oxford,” beginning on
the first day of July, and ending at Liverpool on the twenty-ninth of the
same month, he made but brief mention; yet his experience in getting the
ship’s cook to boil their potatoes, in eating their meals of pilot-bread,
and in the company of their English, Scotch, Irish, and German
cabin-mates, was most charmingly told in his letters to the “Gazette”
and to the “Post,” as well as in “Views Afoot,” to which reference has
already been made. His German companion was not only a social advantage,
but furnished the adventurous youths with a pleasant opportunity to get
some of the German phrases, and to hear descriptions of the country they
were to visit. They were also favored by the captain’s permission to use
books from the cabin library, which contained several entertaining books
of travel and of fiction. The closing days of the voyage appear to have
been pleasant in some respects, for the beauty of the sea made a lasting
impression upon his mind, and might possibly have been still in his
memory when he wrote the lines in his “Poems of Home and Travel,” running
thus:—
“The sea is a jovial comrade,
He laughs wherever he goes;
His merriment shines in the dimpling lines
That-wrinkle his hale repose:
He lays himself down at the feet of the Sun,
And shakes all over with glee,
And the broad-backed billows fall faint on the shore
In the mirth of the mighty Sea.”
It may be that the beauty and joy of the sea appeared more remarkable
because of the great contrast between its free and wild life, and the
crowded and stifled existence of the mortals who witnessed its gambols.
At all events he was not so delighted with the sea that he could not
shout with the others, when the dark outlines of Ireland’s mountains
appeared through the mist. The sleepless nights, the company of howling
Iowa Indians, the musty cabin, the terrible nausea—all were forgotten
in the sight of land, and as the goal grew nearer, the more like a dream
became all the disagreeable experiences of the voyage, until when, after
tacking from northern Ireland to Scotland, from Scotland to Ireland, and
from Ireland to the Isle of Man, they sailed up the Mersey to Liverpool,
the inconveniences of the voyage had wholly faded out, and only the few
agreeable incidents remained a reality. They passed the dreaded officials
of the custom-house without difficulty, and by the advice of a “wild
Englishman,” who was one of their travelling companions, they went to the
Chorley Tavern, and there enjoyed a bountiful dinner, as only passengers
by sea can enjoy them when first they step on shore. Bayard was impressed
by the sombre appearance of the city, and amused by the use of the middle
of the streets for sidewalks, and by the pink each man carried in his
buttonhole.
CHAPTER VII.
Departure from Liverpool.—Travels Second-Class.—Arrival at
Port Rush.—The Giant’s Causeway.—Lost and in Danger.—Dunluce
Castle.—Effect upon the Travellers.—Condition of the
Irish.—Arrival at Dumbarton.—Scaling the Castle Walls.—Walk
to Loch Lomond.—Ascent of Ben Lomond.—Loch Katrine.—Visit to
Stirling.
Bayard and his companions, including the German student, with whom there
had sprung up an intimate friendship, left Liverpool on the same day on
which they arrived there, having found that they would reach Scotland
_via_ the Giant’s Causeway, as soon as they could by waiting for the more
direct line. With an exercise of common-sense, such as characterizes
too few Americans in this day of fashionable travel, they took passage
second-class, finding themselves in no way the worse for the temporary
inconvenience, while their fare was but one-sixth the amount of a
first-class passage. It was not a comfortable night’s voyage on the way
from Liverpool to Port Rush, in the north of Ireland, starting at ten
o’clock in the evening, and arriving at eleven o’clock the next night. It
may be that the cold and wet, the crowd of Irish passengers, the unvaried
diet of bread and cheese, served the purpose of making the shores and
bluffs more attractive, as the mind naturally seeks and usually obtains
some comfort and recreation in the most doleful surroundings. It is
a glorious thing to look upon those basaltic hexagons of the Giant’s
Causeway, under any circumstances. Those enormous natural columns, set
side by side, so close as to make a floor along their tops, so strange,
so unaccountably symmetrical, fill the soul with awe, and half persuade
the least credulous beholder that there were giants in the days of yore,
and that they really did build a thoroughfare of these huge prisms
across to Scotland. Any traveller contemplates those matchless piles
with surprise, and every sojourner is delighted beyond estimation by
the contour and echoes of the vast caverns, into which the ocean rolls
with such enchanting combinations of sound and motion. But to young men
who had seen but little of the world and its natural wonders, and who
had suffered a kind of martyrdom for the sake of visiting them, those
resounding caverns, and those mighty ruins of gigantic natural temples,
must have been inspiring beyond measure. Every traveller recalls with the
most clear and grateful remembrance, the first landscapes of Europe, on
which rest his ocean-weary eyes. To these young men the landscapes were
about their only joy, and they appreciated them accordingly. Bayard seems
to have been very enthusiastic. He scrutinized everything and questioned
everybody. He let nothing pass him unnoticed, although in his books he
left much unmentioned. He clambered into the lofty recesses of the
Causeway, and let himself down into the strange niches. He halloed in
the caves for the thundering echoes; he drank three times at the magical
Giant’s Well. He strayed from the highway that led from Port Rush to
the Causeway, to look into the weird nooks which the sea has carved in
the mutable shore. Dunluce Castle, with its broken walls and ghastly
towers—home of proud Lord Antrim—and home as well of that family’s
terrible banshee, was the first old ruin which Bayard visited. It stands
on the verge of the cragged cliffs, with the sea beating about its base,
and bellowing in the cavern under it. It is located near the highway
which leads from Port Rush to the Causeway. Across the narrow footway,
and into these ruins, Bayard rushed most eagerly. The same old man who
now shows travellers the battlements, and tells to wondering hundreds the
tales of tournament and banqueting-hall, was there then, and rehearsed
the tale to him. The boy is gone. But the old man, whom Bayard mentions
as an old man then, lives on in his dull routine, yet living less in a
half century than Bayard lived in a single year.
All this was fresh and glorious to the youth, and gave him a very
pleasant foretaste of the rich experiences in store for him. But, as
if the fates conspired to chill his intellectual joys with physical
discomforts, a rain came pouring upon them as they returned, the wind
blew in fierce gusts, darkness, deep and black, settled upon the land;
they lost their way, and floundered about in muddy ravines, and barely
escaped destruction as they trod the edges of the precipices above the
wildest of seas. They became separated from each other, and the howling
of winds and waves among the crags was so hideous that they could not for
a long time hear each other’s call, and the worst of fears for each other
were added to their own dismay. But they somehow blundered upon the path
as it emerged from the wild rocks, and together walked the beach to their
hotel, soaking and half frozen. But all those trying experiences fade
when the skin is dry, and the sweet sleep of healthy youth comes with
its comforting oblivion; only the gorgeous landscapes, and the romantic
places, like the memories of boyhood, remain to shape the dreams.
Bayard was shocked by the miserable condition of the Irish peasantry,
and his description of their huts, and their appearance, given in his
letters, shows great sympathy for their distress, and great disgust
at their degraded customs. On his way to Greenock from Port Rush, he
fell in with a company of them, who chanced to take the same steamer,
and he did not enjoy their drunken and beastly songs and riots. But
on his trip from Greenock, up the Clyde to Dumbarton, he had more
acceptable companionship, and in his book he refers, with a most touching
simplicity, to the music of a strolling musician on board the boat, who
played “Hail Columbia” and “Home, Sweet Home.”
Old Scotland! Noble old hills! Charming lakes, and enchanting valleys!
How like the awakened memories of loved faces, they come back to us
when we hear the word “Dumbarton”! What exciting tales of Baliol, of
Wallace, of Bruce, of Queen Mary, of Cromwell, come again as we recall
the sugar-loaf rock, on which the remnant of the old fortress stands!
Those bright youths must have feasted on the associations connected with
Dumbarton. As they peered from Wallace’s tower, handled Wallace’s sword,
and gazed over the wide landscape, with the sites of battle-fields,
castles, palaces, the home of Bruce, the cottage of Wallace, the
beautiful valleys of the Clyde and Leven, the majestic Ben Lomond,
and the crests of the Highlands, they grew in intellectual stature,
and breathed a moral atmosphere as pure as the air that encircled the
flagstaff at the summit. There is no education like the actual contact
with the scenes connected with heroic self-sacrifice, to train young
men for patriots and poets. No discipline is more necessary to the
development of a broad and virtuous manhood among any class of young men,
than studious travel in foreign countries. To young Bayard, lacking other
culture than the few years at the district school, the few months at the
academy, and the studious perusal of histories and poems, this experience
was of vast importance. Its beneficial effects were seen throughout his
life, and frequently show themselves in his editorials, poems, novels,
and narratives.
At Dumbarton, Bayard had his first narrow escape, and he said that when
he reached the ground, after daring to scale, for flowers, the precipice
up which Wallace climbed with his followers for glory and fatherland, he
was in such a tremor of terror, in view of his having so narrowly escaped
death, that he could scarcely speak. The unusual strength of a little
tuft of wild grass, growing in a crevice of the cliff, had saved him from
being dashed to pieces. It must have given him a very vivid impression of
the daring feats of those old Scotch warriors, who not only faced these
perpendicular walls, but fearlessly encountered the foes at the top.
From Dumbarton, Bayard and his friends walked through the valley of the
River Leven to Loch Lomond. All his letters and contributions to the
newspapers speak of this walk as one of the most enjoyable of all his
rambles. In his “Views Afoot,” with which every reader is or should
be familiar, he mentions it as a glorious walk. The pastoral beauty
of the fields, the clearness of the stream, the ivy-grown towers, the
dense forests, the early home of Smollett, whose dashing pen astonished
the kingdom in 1748, the summer parks of Scottish noblemen, the mild,
soothing August sunshine, were a combination rarely found, and when found
as rarely appreciated.
These young travellers had been diligent readers, and, when the steamer
hurried them over the lake, the appearance of Ben Lomond and Ben
Voirlich, of “Bull’s Rock,” and Rob Roy’s Cave, of Inversnaid and Glen
Falloch, called up the shades of the Campbells, Macgregors, Malcolms,
Rothesays, Macfarlanes, Macphersons; making each beach and rock along
Loch Lomond a feature of romantic interest.
With youthful enthusiasm, Bayard clambered to the rugged top of Ben
Lomond, having waded through deep morass and thorny thicket, to reach it,
and, from that lookout, gazed around on the peaks of lesser mountains,
down upon the sweet Lomond lake, away to the oceans on either side of
Scotland, discerning the smoke over Glasgow, the dark plains of Ayr, and,
but for a mist, the embattled towers of Stirling and Edinburgh. After a
short stop, he descended with his old companions, and a new one (he was
constantly finding new friends), along the slippery, stony slopes; and,
after a dinner of oatmeal cakes and milk at a cottage near the base,
trudged and waded on through that wild tract of woodland and swamp to
Loch Katrine. There was the home of poetry. The great forests, through
which the Clan-Alpine horns had echoed, the dense forest, through which
the scarfs and bows did gleam in the old days of the Highland clans,
had disappeared. The blossoming heather and bare rocks made a sorry
substitute. But to Bayard, whose life was set to poetry, who had so often
studied and declaimed of Fitz-James and Roderick Dhu, and who had often
dreamed of the Ellen’s Isle, and the gathering clans, as Walter Scott
described them, it must have been an enchanted spot. One may recite and
analyze for half a century that poem, and may flatter himself that he has
detected all its beauty, and understands all its historic references; but
one hour on Loch Katrine is worth more than all that. There the reader
_lives_ the poem, and it is a part of his being ever more. Bayard felt
compensated there for all the sufferings, by sea and by land, which he
had experienced. He gazed fondly upon the glassy, land-locked water; he
studied closely the features, manners, and songs of the Highland boatmen,
those descendants of the old clans; he sketched, with the keenest
interest, Ben Ann, Ben Venue, the gate of the Trosachs, and the curved
lines of the sandy shore, and he awoke the echoes at the Goblin’s Gave
and Beal-nam-bo. Rich experiences! In such does the youth develop fast
into a cultured manhood.
From Loch Katrine, the party walked by way of Loch Vennachar, Coilantogle
Ford, and Ben Ledi, to Doune,—the home of royalty during the sixteenth
century, and whose old castle is still a majestic ruin. Thence through
the plains to Stirling Castle, crowned and battle-honored, and looking
down on the valleys of the Forth and Allan Water, and out upon the
bloody fields of Bannockburn and Sheriff-muir. Having inspected the
dungeons and halls of the castle, looked with horror upon the spot where
royalty murdered a friend, and threw the body to the dogs; and after
contemplating the grave of the girlish martyrs, they hastily took the
shortest route to Glasgow, and thence to the home of Burns, where a
great celebration, or memorial gathering, was to be held, to honor the
memory of the “rustic bard,” on the banks of his own “Bonnie Doon.”
CHAPTER VIII.
Visit to the Home of Burns.—The Poet’s Cottage.—The
Celebration.—Walks and Rides in the Rain.—Edinburgh.—Its
Associations.—The Teachings of History.—Home
of Drummond.—Abbotsford.—Melrose.—Jedburgh
Abbey.—Newcastle-on-Tyne.
Bayard’s visit to Ayr was the first of a long series of like visitations
to the homes of celebrated poets, and being then a novel experience
was doubly enjoyed. It may be that the similar occupation, and like
inspiration, which characterized both himself and Burns, made the spot
more attractive. Had they not both followed the plough through the thick
sward? Had not both milked the cows; drove the horses to the water;
planted the corn; dug up the weeds; cut the hay, and all the while sang
and recited original verses? Had he not been ridiculed by his playmates,
and sneered at by his neighbors, in common with that great poet of
Scotland? To look over the farm on which Burns toiled; to be shown the
spot on which it is claimed Burns overturned—
“That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibble,”
the home of the “mousie,” and to be shown the cottage he was born in,
and the scenes which inspired his songs, interesting as they are to
the writer of prose, must have been peculiarly satisfactory to him. He
does not speak of it, however, with the enthusiasm one would expect,
and it is quite probable that he was not yet wholly inured to the
inconveniences of a wet climate, and could not think or muse in a crowd
as satisfactorily as when dry and alone. When he arrived in the town,
the streets were filled by an immense throng, and there could have
been little satisfaction in trying to fall into poetical dreams. It is
a great satisfaction to those of Bayard’s friends who have loved him,
and put their faith in him, to know that he put himself on record in
some of his early letters, in no light terms, as having an unutterable
disgust for the drunken brawling which went on in the name of Burns
that day in Ayr. He felt, with great keenness, the disgrace which every
American feels that it is to Scotland, that the old cottage, so sacred
for its associations as the birthplace of Burns, should be occupied as
a drinking-saloon, and be crowded with intoxicated vagabonds. It seemed
like making a dog-kennel of a chapel in St. Paul’s. Anything but genius,
intellect, or wit characterizes the crowd that usually frequent Burns’
Cottage on such days; and it is said to have been, in 1844, the resort of
a more beastly class than are those wretches who get intoxicated there
now, and, naturally, on such a great day as that on which Bayard visited
it, every Scotsman who indulged at all became furiously drunk. Besides
that inconvenience, the trustees of the monument, on the day when so
many thousands came to see it and its treasures, voted to lock it up; and
Bayard, with the others, was shut out from its interesting collection of
relics and mementoes. Still further, it was so arranged by the marshals
of the occasion, that the grand stand, with its literary feast and the
ceremonies appurtenant to the occasion, were shut out from the populace
to whom the poet sang, and Bayard being only a strange boy, with no
more of a title than Robert Burns had, was obliged to content himself
with a seat on the ridge of the “brig o’ Doon.” He did see old Alloway
kirk, and heard its bell. He saw within its ruined walls the rank weeds,
and without, the graves of the poet’s ancestry. He did have a cheerful
pedestrian tour; for the home of Burns, with Alloway kirk and the bonnie
Doon, are three miles from the city of Ayr in open country. He saw the
sister and sons of the poet. He heard the assembled thousands sing, “Ye
banks and braes’ o’ bonnie Doon.” He saw a grandson of Tam O’Shanter. He
had to walk the three miles, returning through mud and rain, and he had
to stand in an open car, exposed to a driving rain-storm, throughout the
two hours’ ride by railroad to Glasgow. How different his reception then,
as a boy and unknown, from that which he received in his riper age, after
his fame was secured, at the home of Germany’s greatest poet.
We follow Bayard in his first tour in Europe with greater detail than we
shall do with other journeys, because in this he developed so much of
that character which made him famous. History being written, not for the
dead, but for the instruction and encouragement of the living, should
show clearly how a great life was attained, as a guide for similar genius
in the days to come. In a volume of hasty sketches like this, we cannot
hope to do the work as thoroughly as we should so much love to do it; but
as far as can be done at this early day, we give those events which had
the greatest effect upon his life as a writer of prose and poetry.
He must have feasted in Edinburgh. Richest storehouse in Scotland, for
all such as follow letters! There was the monument to Scott, suggestive
of the most beautiful in art, but so insignificant as a reminder of him,
while the walls of Salisbury Crags, and the dome of Arthur’s Seat, frown
beyond and above it. There was Holyrood Palace, with its stains of blood,
the couch of the beautiful queen, and the collections of historical
relics. No place but the Tower of London has received such attention
from gifted and famous literary men. Historians, poets, philosophers,
educators, preachers, and lawyers have written and discoursed upon it.
There was Calton Hill, with its monuments to great men. There was the
great University, and there was the old Castle, that sat like a crown on
the head of the city. All had been described by the most facile pens. All
were full of living interest, and when Bayard tried to describe them,
he found himself attempting to compete with the greatest essayists
of the English-speaking world. The Grass Market, where Porteous was
executed; Cowgate Street, with its aristocratic associations; St. Giles’
Church, with its memories of John Knox and the Heart of Mid-Lothian,
were described by him, about which it is a kind of literary sacrilege to
speak in other than classic language. It was a school that included every
other, and Bayard was an apt and diligent scholar.
A short distance from Edinburgh, the pedestrians saw the birthplace
and hermitage of Drummond. It is a delightful, sequestered chateau,
called “Hawthornden,” and in it the poet wrote nearly all his elegant
sonnets, and it was there that old Ben Jonson, after a walk from London,
was entertained by Drummond, and Drummond was in turn entertained by
Jonson. Going by the way of Galashiels and Selkirk, the party visited
Abbotsford and its environs, where the immortal Scott lived and wrote.
In the beautiful mansion which Scott built, and in which he wrote his
most popular works, they read his manuscripts; sat at his desk; wandered
in his gardens; gazed intently over the wide lawn and the distant Tweed;
scrutinized the enormous variety of relics which had been collected by
that antiquarian, to whom kings and queens were glad to become tributary.
Thence they walked along the hard and smooth highway to old Melrose.
Ruins they would see in the near England, and on the distant continent,
which would enclose a dozen abbeys such as this; Gothic arches they
would enter which would make those of Melrose seem as a toy; and ivy and
carving and chancels would be noticed, so much more rich and beautiful,
that these would suffer sadly if put in comparison. But nowhere else in
all the wide world would they find a locality made more interesting than
this. The associations are almost everything. And to the initiated, the
great magician, Scott, still speaks in the groined arches, flowering
pillars, old clock, and willow-like windows. Melrose Abbey is a marked
illustration of the power of a master-mind to give influence, life, and
interest to inanimate things. Bayard felt this truth and mentioned it.
He read “The Lay of the Last Minstrel” in the shadow of the arches, and
imagined how the ruins glowed when the grave of the wizard opened and the
book was revealed. Who knows but it was there, in the presence of those
stirring associations, that he first conceived the plan which led him
to make classic in poetry and fiction the fields, hills, and Quakers of
his native county. Had he lived ten years longer than he did, his loved
Kennett might have been as classic in song and story as Abbotsford itself.
From Melrose the young pedestrians walked to Jedburgh, omitting the
delightful excursion to Dryburgh, but passing the home of Pringle, who
had been the founder of “Blackwood’s Magazine,” and who had been also
a poet and wanderer like Bayard. While passing the Cheviot Hills, the
party met an excursionist in a carriage, fast asleep, which appeared to
amuse Bayard very much. Probably he afterwards saw more amusing scenes
than that, wherein travellers did not appreciate their privileges. The
writer, as late as the summer of 1878, saw an American who had worked
most industriously to lay up the funds to visit Switzerland, ride up the
entire ascent of the glorious Alps at St. Gothard, on the top of a coach,
fast asleep. Such marvels does the world of humanity contain. Bayard did
not sleep when anything of interest called upon him for investigation,
nor when the beauties of nature were to be enjoyed. They crossed the
border between Scotland and England, over the battle-fields of the
Percys, and by streams that were often, in days past, actually swollen
with blood. There, “Marmion,” with all its tales historical, and legends
mythical, was quoted and _lived_ as only the cultured traveller can live
it. There was instruction in every scene, every stranger, and every inn.
How well Bayard availed himself of their lessons, is illustrated in
all his excellent letters on foreign travel, and in his books compiled
from them. At Newcastle he noticed a group of miners begging in the
streets, and when he heard how they had struck for higher wages, because
they could not longer exist on the pittance allowed them, and how they
and their families were turned out upon the streets to starve, his
indignation was very great, and in his book he utters a prophecy that
soon that murmur from the oppressed people would increase to a roar, and
be heard “by the dull ears of power.” From Newcastle he went by boat to
London, reaching that city in the early morning near the end of August.
CHAPTER IX.
Visit in London.—Exhibition of Relics.—The Lessons of
Travel.—Historical Association.—London to Ostend.—The Cathedral
at Aix-la-Chapelle.—The Great Cathedral at Cologne.—Voyage up
the Rhine.—Longfellow’s “Hyperion.”—Visit to Frankfort.—Kind
Friends.—Reaches Heidelberg.—Climbing the Mountains.
London is a world in itself, as has often been written and, to such an
impressible mind as that of Bayard, was a place, replete with pleasure
and instruction. London instructs by two methods; one by agreeable, and
the other by disagreeable examples. Bayard was equally taught by both.
There was Westminster Abbey, with its numberless tombs of the talented
and noble; and there was the Tower of London, with its dungeons and
beheading blocks. There were the palatial residences of the West End,
and there the hovels and holes of the Wych Street district. There were
the great mercantile houses of Holborn and Regent Street, and there were
the gambling dens of Drury Lane. There were the magnificent galleries of
art, at the Museum, at the Palaces, at Westminster, and at Kensington;
and there were the dirty, slimy exhibitions of marred humanity along the
wharves of the Thames. There were the zoölogical wonders of the parks,
and there were the dog-shows, and cock-pits of the St. Giles Rookery.
There was the palace of the Queen, and there the Old Bailey. There was
the office of the “Thunderer” (Daily Times), and there were the attics
from whence flowed the vilest trash that man ever printed. There were
Hyde Park, Regent’s Park, St. James Park, and the broad squares; and
there were the filthy alleys and narrow lanes about London Bridge. There
were the Rothschilds, and there the poor Micawbers and deserted Nicholas
Nicklebys. The richest, the poorest, the best, the worst; the most
cultivated, and the most ignorant; the most powerful monarch, and the
most degraded fishmongers. Extremes! Extremes that meet in everything
there. They all instruct by teaching the beholder what he ought to be,
and what he ought not to be. One sees much in London that ought not
to have been; and, strange to relate, many of the relics connected
with such things, are exhibited with great pride. If there is any one
thing above all others, for which the American should be thankful, it
is for the fact that the dungeon, the rack, the wheel, the thumbscrew,
the guillotine, the gibbet, the headsman’s block, the deadly hates of
royalty, the cruelty of kings, and the jealousy of queens, have no
place in the history of the Republic of the West. Yet there, somehow,
the officials and guides who open to the public the records of the past
and show visitors their institutions, give the most prominent places to
deeds of horrid cruelty and shameless murders, as if they took pride
in such fearful annals. It would seem as if, had our rulers butchered
in cold blood their sons and daughters; had they cruelly starved their
friends and relatives, we in America would be ashamed of it. It would be
regarded as very natural here, if an ancestor was hung and quartered and
his head carried about on a pole, to speak of it as seldom as possible.
It would appear consistent if, had our national government oppressed the
weak, degraded the poor, killed inoffensive captives, and, for selfish
ambition, laid waste the cities and fields of an innocent people, we
should attempt to bury the remembrance of those deeds so deep as to
make a resurrection impossible. But there, in Europe, they appear to
revel in the hideous doings of their ancestors, and will show you where
human heads or bands were exhibited, and where noble men and women were
persecuted to martyrdom, with the air of the circus manager who announces
the clown. Who can hear the guide on London Bridge, “Here was posted the
bleeding head of Sir William Wallace, the Scotch warrior and patriot,
while the quarters of his body were at Stirling, Berwick, Perth, and
Newcastle,” and not curse, with the deepest feeling, the people who
murdered one of the greatest and best of men?
[Illustration: TOWER OF LONDON.]
It is clear that these things made a strong impression upon Bayard, for
we find him more frequently and more decidedly praising his own land, as
he saw more and more of Europe. He saw, also, many of the advantages
which European nations enjoy in art, literature, and commerce, and
failed not to suggest them to his readers. But, unlike those shallow
tourists, who would ape European manners, and think all European
institutions should be at once imported here, his patriotic regard for
the institutions and people of his own land, increased with the desire
to benefit them. How reverently he speaks of George Washington; how
touchingly does he speak with the European peasants who accost him, of
the home of the free beyond the great ocean.
A whole week those young men searched the great city for valuable
information. They slept and ate in the rudest of taverns, and tramped the
city with the workmen and the beggars, but they were gathering the forces
for a useful life. Bayard was filled with the sublimity of the mighty
human torrent that, like a tide, rolls into London in the morning, dashes
about the highways during the day, and surges outward at night. He felt
the grandeur of St. Paul’s, the conflicting and exciting associations
of Westminster, the marvellous feat of tunnelling under the Thames, the
enormous wealth of churches, monuments, halls, and galleries, and carried
away with him to the Continent a very complete idea of the institutions
and the queer customs of the great metropolis.
From London, the party proceeded to Dover, and from thence to Ostend
and Bruges. They travelled in the cheapest manner, walking wherever
practicable, and going from Bruges to Ghent in a canal-boat, thence by
railroad across the border to Aix-la-Chapelle. Here was another treat.
The description which he gave in his letters of his visit to the old
Cathedral, where rest the remains of Charlemagne, was one of the most
vivid recitals to be found in the annals of travel. For some reason, he
so abridged it in his book, as to take away the finest and most original
delineations. Every reader of his first narration, who may never have
visited Aix-la-Chapelle, can in imagination see the old Cathedral, with
its shrines, its antique windows, and the shadows of saints on the
floor, and hear the sweet undulations of the organ’s solemn peal. While
to the traveller who follows him through those aisles, and under those
magnificent arches, his words give life and language to the pillars,
altars, and luminous decorations. To the least poetic or sentimental
of travellers, it is a solemn place; and if so to them, how deep and
impressive must it have been to a soul so full of emotion as that of
Bayard! There he wrote his well-known poem, “The Tomb of Charlemagne.”
This grand old pile was succeeded next day by the great Gothic Cathedral,
at Cologne, which was not then finished, is not now completed, and will
never see the end of the mason’s labors, because the time taken in the
construction is so long that the very stone decays, and must be replaced
at the base by the time the delicate tracery of the towers is set on
those skyward heights. The structure must be constantly in process
of reconstruction, from the bottom, upwards. When Bayard looked upon
this wonderful building, which since 1248 had been in an uncompleted
state, two hundred and fifty years having been spent in active labor,
he said it impressed him most deeply, by way of comparison. Two hundred
and forty years before America was discovered, the foundations of that
church were laid, and here they are working on it still! By such lessons
is an American made to know his place in the history of the world. Had
the history of these old lands been less barbarous and cruel, we should
feel humble indeed. But in view of what the old folks have done, we may
be thankful that we are young, and have our record yet to write. But
the fact that we are not so old, so great, so artistic, or so cultured
as we have flattered ourselves, is wholesome information, and as taught
by these old Cathedrals of Europe, is very necessary to the success of
our young men. How deeply these things moved Bayard, is seen by the very
frequent mention we find in his writings, of aisle, or arch, or dome, or
spire.
But one of the most attractive spots to that young voyager, in all his
wanderings in Europe, he saw while going up the Rhine, from Cologne to
Mayence. He viewed with satisfaction the vineyards and villages along
the banks; he was charmed with the crags and crumbling towers of the
innumerable old castles which ornament the tops of all the most prominent
hills and mountains. The walled cities, the legendary caves and grottos,
the most exquisite fables that account for the miraculous construction of
cliff, and convent, and crusaders’ halls, all came upon him as he glided
by them on the muddy river, as dreams come to the drinker of hashish. But
beyond all these in interest to our young wanderer, was the little walled
town of Boppart, whose feudal history is nearly lost, but whose romantic
connection with Longfellow’s “Hyperion,” has given it a fresh lease of
life. Bayard there recalled his life at home, and his days of anxious
waiting; for, had not this same “Hyperion,” with entrancing interest,
spurred on his hope to one day travel along the Rhine? Had not this same
“Hyperion” given the impulse that started his cousin on such a great
journey to the university at Heidelberg? And were not those houses in the
town of Boppart, and was not that cottage the very Inn of the “Star,” and
might not that woman, near the shore, be “Paul Flemming’s” boatwoman? Oh!
grand and revered Longfellow! when we note how many a life, like these,
has turned upon the reading of your inspired words, one feels as if to
have seen your face and heard your voice, and to have been beneath the
same roof, was an honor greater than kings could bestow!
But Boppart, Lurlei Berg, Oberwisel, Bingen, and Geisenheim were soon
left behind, and Mayence, with its Cathedral six centuries old, its walls
and fortresses, welcomed them to its monotonous shades.
A beautiful trait of Bayard’s character comes gracefully into view as we
read his grateful acknowledgments of the kindnesses he received. On his
first walk in his apprentice days, in Pennsylvania, having determined to
see some mountains, although he had to walk two hundred miles to view
them, he was kindly served at a well, on the way, by a farmer’s girl,
who cheerfully drew the bucket from the well and ran for a glass, that
he, a dusty, thirsty stranger, might drink without further fatigue; and
in his later years he records the fact in his book, with the sweetest
expressions of thankfulness. So when he arrived at Frankfort, and was
kindly received and entertained by Mr. Richard S. Willis, the American
consul, brother of Bayard’s old friend, Nathaniel P. Willis, he sits
down at once, and in his letters to his friends, and in his public
correspondence, he speaks of the generosity and thoughtfulness of his
old friend, and the hospitable and cultured characteristics of his
new friend. They were noble friends, who made for him a home at their
fireside in Frankfort, and deserve the thanks of every admirer of Bayard
Taylor. His thanks they had throughout a long life, and not only thanks,
but grateful deeds.
It was Bayard’s purpose to go to Heidelberg, with his cousin, and give
himself to close study, at the University, or with private tutors;
but just how he was going to obtain the means to pay his expenses was
something of an enigma. It may be that his good fortune in the outset
made him too confident and careless in regard to other undertakings.
At all events, his stay in Heidelberg was much shorter than he had
at first intended that it should be, and his studies were much more
broken and superficial than his letters show he thought they would be.
He was not constituted for close, hard, metaphysical study, and made
but little attempts in that direction, after he arrived at Heidelberg.
He loved the grand old Castle better than the whittled benches of the
University. He enjoyed the Kaisersthul and the lesser mountains, far more
than the monotonous recital of German theories. The river Neckar called
him in its murmurs, the clouds beckoned to him as they flew over the
Heligen Berg, the wind called for him as it sighed around the vineyards
of Ziegelhausen, and all thoughts of private, quiet study fled at the
summons. So he climbed the mountains. It was always a passion with him
to gain an altitude as high as possible, and look out upon the world. He
tells how, when a boy, he ventured out of a chamber window in the old
farm-house at Kennett, and seeing a row of slats which the carpenters had
used for steps in ascending the roof, he sallied forth, and there astride
of the roof, gained his first view of a landscape. He said afterward,
that the roof appeared to be so high and the view so extensive, that he
imagined he could see Niagara Falls. Whether this inclination to climb up
came to him through the stories of his old Swiss nurse, whose bed-time
stories were of the mighty Alps and their towering cones, or whether it
was an hereditary trait in his nature, none may be able to decide. He was
certainly prone to go upwards, and had a tendency, for horizontal motion
equally as strong. He would not remain stationary; hence, at Heidelberg,
he inspected every nook and crevice of the picturesque old Castle,
crouched through its conduits, rapped its ponderous tun, scaled its
roofless and crumbling walls, rushed into the recesses of the adjacent
thickets, and tested the celebrated beer at the students’ resorts. He
joined excursion parties which visited the neighboring mountains, and
after he had been there a month, he knew the fields, rocks, trees,
valleys, dells, and peaks, as well as a native, and appears to have loved
them with a patriotic regard almost equal to the eldest burgher.
CHAPTER X.
Study in Frankfort.—Lack of Money.—Different Effect of
Want on Travellers.—Bayard’s Privations.—Again sets out on
Foot.—Visit to the Hartz Mountains.—The Brocken.—Scenes
in “Faust.”—Locality in Literature.—The Battle-field at
Leipsic.—Auerbach’s Cellar.
For the purposes of this work, an outline of Bayard’s travels is all that
can be attempted; except where some remarkable incident occurred that
had an unusual influence on his subsequent life. Leaving Heidelberg in
the latter part of October (1844), Bayard walked through the Odenwald to
Frankfort, where he could pursue his study of the German language, and
observe the customs and characteristics of the people to better advantage
and at a less expense. In attempting to see Europe on such a limited
allowance of money, he necessarily met with many inconveniences and
privations. His sufferings were at times most intense. He knew what it
was to fast for whole days; he felt the pains of blistered bare feet. He
was exposed to the severest storms of summer and winter; he was familiar
with the homes of beggary and the hard, swarming beds of third-class
taverns. He must have suffered beyond his own estimate, for, as he so
well says, the pains of travel are soon forgotten and the pleasures
vividly remembered. There was a youthful _abandon_ in his almost reckless
adventures which startles the reader of his tours. But yet the pains
he felt so keenly, the dangers he encountered so frequently, did not
seem to abate his enthusiasm for the great works and beautiful scenes
which Europe exhibits. To find ourselves in a strange city, where no one
speaks our native language; where it is not possible that any person can
know us or any of our friends; without money, or food, or work, is one
of the most disheartening situations that can be imagined. Yet such an
experience came often to Bayard. It would seem as if, on some occasions,
he ran into such difficulties needlessly and for very wantonness. Yet,
as was sometimes the experience of the writer, and from one of which
dangerous situations Mr. Taylor generously rescued him, there somehow
opens a way out from such ventures, which is found on the very verge
of starvation and despair. But the trait of character, which in Bayard
commanded such respect, was something so unusual, that his daring example
cannot be safely followed by the multitude. It is far better to have a
supply of money for the necessary expenses of travel in Europe or Asia,
than to run risks for the sake of the romance which Bayard found in such
straits. To many tourists, even the parks of Homburg, the castle of
Drachenfels, or the palace of the Vatican, would become insignificant
baubles before the stronger demands of the body for food and raiment.
But seldom did any fatigue or annoyance or loss, abate his wonderful
zeal in his search for the poetical, the strange, the historical, and
the beautiful. Some of his most exquisite descriptions of art or nature,
were written from notes made when his stomach was empty and his limbs
chilled with wet and cold. Such young men are few; and for one with less
perseverance, endurance, or genius to attempt such things on such a
scale, would be to meet with disheartening failure.
Of his life in Frankfort, during the winter of 1845, he often speaks with
great satisfaction. He made excellent progress in the language, and in
that understanding of the habits of the people which Mr. Greeley had so
pointedly urged upon him as an ambitious aspirant for the favors of the
“Tribune.” He comes out of that study a matured thinker. His descriptions
assume a more thoughtful tone. His sympathies are more often awakened
for the people, and he sees as a man sees, and less juvenile are all
his undertakings and communications. He there acquired a love of German
poetry, and became acquainted with many of the noted men of Frankfort. He
visited the aged Mendelssohn, and tells with charming simplicity how he
was received by the composer of “St. Paul” and “Elijah.” Thus introduced
to German literature, art, and music, he entered again upon his travels
at the opening of spring, with new and increasing appreciativeness.
Again, on foot, he went into the untried way of Europe. His first
attraction was for the Hartz Mountains, so intimately connected with
Goethe’s “Faust,” with which Bayard was already in love, and which he
afterwards translated in a masterly manner. So he went through Friedberg
and Giessen, into Hesse-Cassel, making the acquaintance of peasants and
merchants on his way, and moralizing upon the curious circumstance that
the descendants of the Hessians, who fought so doggedly at Brandywine,
should receive so hospitably the descendant of those who filled the
“plains of Trenton with the short Hessian graves.” Thence by Münden,
Göttingen and Osterode, enduring sickening fatigues and dangerous
exposure, he reached the Brocken mountain, where, through thickets,
rocks, chasms, snow and cold, he at last rested in a cottage at its
summit, amid the associations awakened by the weird tales of witches and
the superstitious explanations of that singular illusion,—the “Spectre
of the Brocken.” If he had any “wish” on that “Walpurgis night,” which
he passed on the highest mountain of the Hartz range, it was probably to
be relieved of the tortures which his weak frame endured, and from which
the physician had failed to relieve him. It would not be surprising if he
recited from “Faust” the words of scene IV.:—
“Through some familiar tone, retrieving
My thoughts from torment, led me on,
And sweet, clear echoes came, deceiving
A faith bequeathed from childhood’s dawn,
Yet now I curse whate’er entices
And snares the soul with visions vain;
With dazzling cheats and dear devices
Confines it in this cave of pain!
Cursed be, at once, the high ambition.
Wherewith the mind itself deludes!
Cursed be the glare of apparition,
That on the finer sense intrudes.”
We cannot forbear to add another quotation from the same Act, so
illustrative is it of Bayard’s note-taking life:—
“No need to tell me twice to do it!
I think, how useful ’tis to write;
For what one has in black and white,
One carries home and then goes through it.”
His visit to the Brocken was one of the most fascinating trips of his
whole pedestrian tour, notwithstanding his narrow escape from death in
the snow, and from destruction by falling into the partially concealed
caves that beset his way to the summit. He mentioned long afterward the
view he had from the summit-house, through the rifts in the clouds, of
the plains and cities of Germany. Thirty cities and several hundred
villages lay within sight, and all of them more or less closely
interwoven with the literature of Germany. The plains of Brunswick and
Magdeburg stretch away for seventy miles, with all the various shadings
of green intermingled with the sparkling silver of stream and lake. It is
a scene so grand that no pen could portray its sublimity and no tongue
accurately convey an idea of its varied beauty. With that romantic
persistency which no amount of fatigue overcame, Bayard descended the
mountain by that rugged and nerve-shaking path up which Faust was said to
have ascended with Mephistopheles (scene XXI. of Taylor’s translation)
who says:—
“How sadly rises, incomplete and ruddy,
The moon’s lone disk, with its belated glow,
And lights so dimly, that, as one advances,
At every step one strikes a rock or tree!
Let us, then, use a Jack-o’-Lantern’s glances:
I see one yonder, burning merrily.
Ho, there! my friend! I’ll levy thine attendance:
Why waste so vainly thy resplendence?
Be kind enough to light us up the steep.”
After which Faust, in a musing mood, looks down from the Brocken heights
and replies:—
“How strangely glimmers through the hollows
A dreary light, like that of dawn!
Its exhalation tracks and follows
The deepest gorges, faint and wan.
Here steam, there rolling vapor sweepeth;
Here burns the glow through film and haze:
Now like a tender thread it creepeth,
Now like a fountain leaps and plays.
Here winds away, and in a hundred
Divided veins the valley braids:
There in a corner pressed and sundered,
Itself detaches, spreads and fades.
Here gush the sparkles incandescent
Like scattered showers of golden sand;—
But, see! in all their height at present,
The rocky ramparts blazing stand.”
As Bayard leaped and stumbled down the rocky declivity into the narrow
gorge that there divides the mountains to give an outlet for the river
Bode, the very difficulties bound him closer to Goethe’s writings. He
felt again how important a thing it is in literature to connect it by
patriotic links with some actual landscape, and how much more vivid and
permanent are the lessons an author would teach when the reader visits
the mountains, plains, cities, buildings, and people mentioned in books
of classic worth. Thus learning and growing the young traveller plodded
on from inn to inn and village to village.
Leipsic, which he reached a day or two after leaving the Brocken, was a
place of great interest to Bayard, as it is in fact to all travellers.
But the interest in any city or country visited by a tourist depends
so much upon his previous reading, and the taste and opportunities for
reading are so diverse, that it seldom happens that any two persons in
the same party enjoy the same scene with equal satisfaction. Bayard had
read of Leipsic and Dresden in his boyhood when other boys were catching
rabbits or playing ball, and as when he sees the great citadel at
Magdeburg which once held Baron Trenck a prisoner, so when at Leipsic he
looks over the field where Blucher and Schwartzenberg met Napoleon, he is
startled with the vividness of the pictures in his imagination. Hundreds
of thousands rushing to combat and scattering in retreat while smoke
rolls upward from hundreds of cannon and the streams are choked with
piles of bloody dead!
There too was Auerbach’s Cellar, in which Goethe’s Faust and
Mephistopheles are so humorously placed. There was the same
drinking-saloon, there the descendant of the old bar-keeper, and
there the same characteristic crowd of loafers, as when Faust and
Mephistopheles drank there, and when amid songs and jokes, the latter
drew all kinds of wine from the gimlet holes in the leaf of the old
wooden table. Bayard’s estimate of the people appears to have confirmed
that of Mephistopheles who says (scene V.):—
“Before all else I bring thee hither
Where boon companions meet together,
To let thee see how smooth life runs away.
Here, for the folk, each day’s a holiday:
With little wit, and ease to suit them,
They whirl in narrow, circling trails,
Like kittens playing with their tails:
And if no headache persecute them,
So long the host may credit give,
They merrily and careless live.”
The peasantry still crowd the cellar, still sing the old lays, and each
day tell over again the old legend of Mephistopheles’ miraculous exit.
“I saw him, with these eyes, upon a wine cask riding
Out of the cellar door, just now.”
CHAPTER XI.
Pictures at Dresden.—Raphael’s Madonna.—Bayard’s Art
Education.—His Exalted Ideas of Art.—His Enthusiasm.—Visits
Bohemia.—Stay in Prague.—The Curiosities of Vienna.—Tomb of
Beethoven.—Respect for Religion.—Listens to Strauss.—View of
Lintz.—Munich and its Decorations.—The Home of Schiller.—Poetic
Landscapes, and Charming People.—Statue by Thorwaldsen.—Walk to
Heidelberg.
At Dresden, Bayard visited the picture-gallery, for the purpose of seeing
Raphael’s Madonna and Child, known as the _Madonna di San Sisto_. His
description of that painting, so unfortunately abridged in his book, was
one of the finest examples of art criticism to be found in print. His
appreciation of painting and sculpture was remarkable, indeed, for one
who never made them a professional study, and whose rude sketches in
pencil in his note books, contained nearly all of his undertakings as an
amateur. His soul seemed cast in the proper mould for that kind of work,
but his hand was never trained to materialize the pictures that filled
the galleries of his imagination. He had all those finer sensibilities
and acute instincts which fitted him for art in poetry or stone, and he
saw in paintings and statuary, beauties or defects which thousands of
colder but more studious critics failed to notice.
He spoke of that Madonna at Dresden, as a painting that moved his whole
nature in admiration. He enjoyed it. He feasted on it. He read it as one
follows an exciting romance. He felt the power of the picture as Raphael
felt it, and seemed to appreciate it even more keenly than the artist.
How much satisfaction and delight he found in the enormous collections
of art in the Old World, cannot be told or understood by any one whose
natural genius leads them not in such a direction. His mental appetite
for such things grew so keen, as he went on from city to city and gallery
to gallery, that he much preferred to leave his meals untasted, than
pass a great painting without study. Like the true artist, his mind
took in the grand ideals, and his respect and admiration for the divine
handiwork in producing man and beast, caused him often to wince under the
suggestive and degrading obtrusiveness of fig-leaves and rude drapery in
sculpture. The human form in all its heavenly beauty and godlike majesty,
as reproduced in marble by the great artists, was too sacred and pure to
him, to be marred by the suggestions of sin. No man or woman will ever
become an artist, in its highest, noblest sense, until their love for
beauty, simplicity, and purity, lifts them above the impressions that
are born of ignorance, vulgarity, and sin. Bayard, in after years, thus
beautifully wrote of sculpture:—
“In clay the statue stood complete,
As beautiful a form, and fair,
As ever walked a Roman street
Or breathed the blue Athenian air:
The perfect limbs, divinely bare,
Their old, heroic freedom kept,
And in the features, fine and rare,
A calm, immortal sweetness slept.
O’er common men it towered, a god,
And smote their meaner life with shame,
For while its feet the highway trod,
Its lifted brow was crowned with flame
And purified from touch of blame:
Yet wholly human was the face,
And over them who saw it came
The knowledge of their own disgrace.
It stood, regardless of the crowd,
And simply showed what men might be:
Its solemn beauty disavowed
The curse of lost humanity.
Erect and proud, and pure and free,
It overlooked each loathsome law
The life, travels, and literary career of Bayard Taylor
Whereunto others bend the knee,
And only what was noble saw.”
The blameless spirit of a lofty aim
Sees not a line that asks to be concealed
By dextrous evasion; but, revealed
As truth demands, doth Nature smite with shame
Them, who with artifice of ivy-leaf
Unsex the splendid loins, or shrink the frame
From life’s pure honesty, as shrinks a thief,
While stands a hero ignorant of blame!
“Each part expressed its nicely measured share,
In the mysterious being of the whole:
Not from the eye or lip looked forth the soul,
But made her habitation everywhere
Within the bounds of flesh; and Art might steal,
As once, of old, her purest triumphs there.”
This appreciation of the inner feelings of the sculptor and painter,
is the more astonishing, because of the unusual disadvantages under
which he first studied the works of the ancient masters. Aching limbs,
bruised feet, and an empty stomach are not usually aids to the critic in
forming a judgment of the symmetry or grace of any work of art. But his
enthusiastic recitals of his visits to the celebrated paintings, show no
less rapture when he saw them in fatigue and hunger, than when he looked
upon them in rest and bodily satiety. Thus, most naturally, he became the
companion and intimate friend of a large number of the European artists,
and was sought and highly esteemed by all the American painters and
sculptors whom he met in Europe. He understood them. He sympathized with
their enthusiasm and sacrifices; while a great, cold world went by them
without a comforting word or a smile of recognition.
Dresden was like a door to his higher art life, and its collection of
paintings is worthy of such a place. There were, besides the Sistine
Madonna, the “Ascension,” by Raphael Mengs, the “Notte,” by Correggio,
and galleries of master-pieces by Titian, Da Vinci, Veronese, Del Sarto,
Rubens, Vandyck, Lorraine and Teniers; with sculpture in marble, ivory,
bronze and jewels, from Michael Angelo and his cotemporaries. Being the
widest and most diversified collection in Germany, it was eagerly sought
by Bayard, and more reluctantly left behind. More grand than the battle
of Napoleon before its gates, and more lasting in their effects, were the
historic works of art which Dresden is so proud to possess.
[Illustration: THE DANUBE AT LINTZ.]
From Dresden, Bayard walked to Prague, leaving behind him, as he
then thought forever, the cheerful, hospitable, kind-hearted people,
with whose kin he afterwards became so intimately and advantageously
connected. In Prague, he ascended the heights where the Bohemian kings
and Amazon queens used to reside, heard the solemn mass in one of
Europe’s most solemn Cathedrals, visited the bridge under which the Saint
Johannes floated with the miraculous stars about his corpse, lost himself
in the bedlam of Jewish clothing-shops, and then, staff in hand, hastened
on over the monotonous plains, and through the highways almost fenced
with wretchedly painted shrines, to the Paris of the west, Vienna.
There again were rare, treasures of art on which he might study, and in
study, increase in that dignity and expansion of soul which only such
contemplation can give. He was delighted to hear the composer Strauss,
and his orchestra, and amusingly describes the queer antics of that
nervous little musician. He gazed with awe at the stained banners of the
Crusaders, and, with uncovered head, listened to the grand chants in St.
Stephen’s Cathedral; but his pathetic mention of his visit to the tomb of
Beethoven is the most characteristic.
There was a most lovable trait in Bayard’s character, which became even
more prominent in his after years of travel, which deserves mention
in this connection. He never railed upon the dead, nor ridiculed the
religious belief or acts of devotion of any people, however ignorant or
heathenish. He often mentioned, with emotion, the efforts of the darkened
human mind to find its Creator and Ruler. He treated with sincerest
respect every act of devotion performed in his presence, whether by
Protestant, Catholic, or Mahomedan. There was that in his nature, and his
early Quaker education, that not only kept him in the paths of morality
and on the side of virtue, but through all his writings there runs a
thread of faith in God, which cannot be better expressed than by quoting
one of his own sweet hymns.
“In the peace of hearts at rest,
In the child at mother’s breast,
In the lives that now surround us,
In the deaths that sorely wound us,
Though we may not understand,
Father, we behold Thy hand!”
After leaving Vienna, he went, by the way of Enns to Lintz, which is
situated in one of the most picturesque landscapes of the Danube. The
city is surrounded by towers unconnected by walls and has a very romantic
history. Bayard in his letters speaks of the rural scenes about Lintz
in terms of the highest admiration. It was in these Austrian landscapes
that he composed that poem entitled “The Wayside Dream,” and in which we
find the following descriptive lines:
“The deep and lordly Danube
Goes winding far below;
I see the white-walled hamlets
Amid his vineyards glow,
And southward, through the ether, shine
The Styrian hills of snow.
“O’er many a league of landscape
Sleeps the warm haze of noon;
The wooing winds come freighted
With messages of June,
And down among the corn and flowers
I hear the water’s tune.
“The meadow-lark is singing,
As if it still were morn;
Within the dark pine-forest
The hunter winds his horn,
And the cuckoo’s shy, complaining note
Mocks the maidens in the corn.”
From Lintz, over hills and by meadows, among the merry farmers and their
light-hearted children, they walked on, through Salzburg and Hohenlinden,
to Munich, where another magnificent display of paintings, sculpture,
palaces, parks, and historic localities, rewarded him for his long walk
and limited supply of food. He had so little money that he was compelled
to live on twenty cents a day. There he found the great works of
Thorwaldsen, Cornelius, and Schwanthaler, and copies in marble of almost
every celebrated piece of antique sculpture. There were the gorgeous
palaces of kings and dukes, the beautifully wrought halls and churches,
with the spacious avenues and charming parks. No city in the world
contains such rich decorations, such unique and profuse ornamentation, or
such harmony of design and arrangement, as is shown in the palace halls
and public edifices of Munich. How a visit to them sweetens everything
else in after life, and how the memory of them ever lightens the burden
of care! What American could walk those pavements and floors and not
yearn for the power to give to his own country something to match those
marvellous structures! Bayard must have felt that impulse in common with
others; but, unlike many others, he kept his promise, which was to awaken
a love in every American heart for art in its grand and stable forms; and
many are the promptings and rebukes which we, as a people, have received
from his pen as writer, and from his lips as a lecturer.
From Munich, the route chosen by Bayard lay through Augsburg, Ulm, and
Wurtemberg, and when he entered the latter country, at Esslingen, he said
the very atmosphere was permeated with poetry. He was delighted with the
green vales, lofty hills, lovely vineyards, waving forests, and feudal
ruins. He was grateful to the kind people, and was made happy by their
universal cheerfulness and good-nature. It was the home of Schiller!
There the first nine years of the poet’s life were spent, and scarce a
nook is there about the interesting old cities which that boy did not
explore. It was toward Wurtemberg, as his childhood’s home, Schiller
exhibited the greatest regard; alas, it was there, too, in Stuttgart,
that the tyrannical Duke imprisoned him for publishing his first play.
There, too, the patriotic Uhland sat in the halls of legislation, and
wrote those poems which fired the hearts of his countrymen to a brave
defence of fatherland.
Bayard’s happy stay in Esslingen, and his word-pictures of its
attractions, show the progress which he had already made in his love for
that German poetry, of which he was to become so popular an expounder. He
praises the river Neckar and its flowery banks, he lauds the people, he
portrays the landscapes in the brightest colors which poetry may lend to
prose. Bright day! one he never recalled without exclamations of pleasure!
After such interest as he exhibited in the country of Schiller, it is no
surprise, the next day after leaving Esslingen, to find him in Stuttgart,
looking up into the pensive face of Thorwaldsen’s colossal statue of
Schiller. So attracted and entranced was he by the interpretation of
Schiller, made by the natives, the scenery, and the old home, that when
beautiful Stuttgart opens its avenues, parks, cathedrals, palaces, and
galleries to him, he forsakes and neglects them all for this huge but
faithfully wrought counterfeit in stone of the persecuted singer. To
his naturally sentimental and sensitive character, the German poet was
revealed in ideals more fascinating than any realities. He studied the
face of his brother poet, praised his beauty, repeated a broken stanza of
“William Tell,” and left the other attractions of Stuttgart unseen.
Passing the castle of Ludwigsburg, and skirting the village of Marbach,
the birthplace of Schiller, a village then about the size of Kennett now,
but obliged to push on for fear of starvation, he walked to Betigheim,
and thence the next day to his first German home, Heidelberg.
CHAPTER XII.
Starts for Switzerland and Italy.—First View of the
Alps.—The Falls of the Rhine.—Zurich.—A Poet’s Home.—Lake
Lucerne.—Goethe’s Cottage.—Scenes in the Life of William
Tell.—Ascent of the Alps at St. Gothard.—Descent into
Italy.—The Cathedral at Milan.—Bayard’s Characteristics.—Tramp
to Genoa.—Visits Leghorn and Pisa.—Lovely Florence.—Delightful
Visits.—The Home of Art.
August 1, 1845, Bayard again started from Frankfort on his pedestrian
wanderings, having made up his mind to visit Switzerland, Florence,
Venice, Rome, and perhaps Athens. On this trip his cousin Frank was
again his companion. With their knapsacks on their shoulders and staffs
in hand they began another pilgrimage, confident and strong. With but
a small supply of money, and with but shadowy probabilities of more,
they launched out into a world to them untried and unknown. With excited
imaginations and the keenest anticipations they rose above every
difficulty and faced boldly the probabilities of fatigue and want. They
made a short stay at Freiburg and entered the Black Forest, passing the
Titi Lake and the Feldberg peak. Bayard’s disposition for ascending
mountains, which inclined him to see the top of everything, led him to go
up the cragged side of the Feldberg, from the summit of which he could
just make out the white crests of the Alps. On the nearer approach to
them, and when from the last ranges of the hills of the Black Forest,
they beheld the white Alps in all their indescribable grandeur looming
up at the other side of the vast plain, Bayard spoke of the patriotic
feelings which such a sight must excite in the mind and heart of a Swiss
returning after a long absence to his native land. He thought of his old
nurse and her tales of the Alpine scenery, and of the knolls and vales
of his own home. It is no wonder that the Swiss are free and brave and
strong. The waterfalls, cliffs, and cloud-piercing mountains fill the
soul with a sense of grandeur and glory which tends toward great deeds
and fervent patriotism. Who can recall the eternal snows, the towering
shafts of rock, the roaring caverns, and sweetest of blue lakes, without
the most thrilling emotions! If there are any travellers upon whom the
memory of Switzerland brings no such feelings, they are the exceptions.
Bayard’s nature was such as to enjoy to the full, and sometimes with an
intensity that was almost pain, all those sublime exhibitions of the
power and majesty of the great Creator.
The fall of the Rhine near Schaffhausen hardly met the expectations of
these travellers, who had heard their German friends speak in such strong
terms of its greatness. It is a most beautiful waterfall, and when viewed
from the platform at the base of the cliff beneath the castle, startles
the spectator with its thundering plunges and foaming whirlpools. To a
native of the same land with Niagara, the Yosemite, and the Yellowstone,
its size is insignificant. But its beauty as a picturesque scene, when
the high banks, the long rapids, the surging pools beneath, and the
jagged rocks that rise through and above the spray and rainbows, are
included in the panorama, can be described only in the strongest language.
From Schaffhausen they hurried on by the fields of the free and happy
Swiss farmers, and along highways that reminded him of his Pennsylvania
home, into the city of Zurich. There he carefully noted the character
and customs of the people. He was cheered by their friendly greetings,
he was surprised at their intelligence, he was pleased by the happy
faces of the children, and he was proud of the apparent influence of a
republic over its people. He visited the celebrated poet, Freiligrath, at
his villa on the shores of the lake, where the young American poet and
his elder German brother had a most social talk of Bryant, Longfellow,
and Whittier. From Freiligrath’s exile home, they walked by the “Devil’s
Bridge” to the Abbey of Einsiedeln, where the crowd of pilgrims and the
sweetest of singers in the church choir made a pleasant and charming
impression upon Bayard’s mind. Thence by valleys, and mountains, so
broken and grand, and by streams so delicately blue that descended to
the placid Zug, they journeyed to Lake Lucerne. There, on the shore, in
a charming grotto, upon which the Righi and Pilatus look down, while
above and beyond them the white peaks of the loftier Alps shimmer in the
sunshine above the clouds, William Tell, the father of Swiss liberty, had
his home. There, in an embowered cottage, that peeped from the leaves
like a maiden so coy, resided for a long time the poet Goethe; and there,
according to his own account, he studied the plot for a poem, but which
was afterwards embodied by his friend Schiller in the drama of “William
Tell.” There was the rock on which Tell leaped from Gessler’s boat; there
grew the linden-tree where Tell shot the apple from the head of his son;
there the chapel of William Tell, and there the hundreds of interesting
localities connected more or less closely with the early tyranny of
Austria and the heroic resistance of the Swiss patriots. Bayard loved
the works of Schiller, as, in fact, could hardly be avoided by any one
who reads them in the original tongue and amid the scenes so strikingly
described.
From Burglen, where Tell was born and where he so heroically died while
attempting to save a child from drowning, they marched upward along the
banks of the Reuss to Amsteg, and thence along the precipices where
the craggy mountains rose thousands of feet above them, and, the wild
stream surged and raged far, far below them. No scene more wild and
overwhelmingly grand than that at the “Devil’s Bridge,” over which they
crossed on their way to the summit of St. Gothard. Black chasms yawned at
their feet; enormous shelving rocks hung threatening overhead. Clouds of
spray, like steam from huge caldrons, arose from numberless pits, wherein
the streams boiled and hissed in their crevice-like channels. The clear
air was like wine. The peaks seemed to reach to heaven, and gleamed with
celestial purity. The charm of the scenery lifted the mind and awakened
the holiest emotions, while the balm of health permeated the body, and
gave it a strength seemingly supernatural. What person is there who loves
not the dear old peaks of Switzerland! Who has passed the heights of St.
Gothard and not awakened a glow in his body and an impulse in his soul
that strengthen him ever after!
But it is not our purpose to portray to the reader the scenes, in the
description of which Bayard so much excelled, and hence, making note
only of such things as had a marked influence on his life and writings,
we hastily follow him in his pilgrimage through the vale of Ticino,
over Lago Maggiore, to the gates of Milan, under the clear blue sky of
lovely Italy. There the most magnificent marble Cathedral in all the
world, when considered as a triumph of art in reproducing the Beautiful,
lifted its spires and figures above the roofs of churches and palaces.
A bewildering forest of peaks and towers confuse the student of its
outline, and innumerable collections of exquisitely wrought groups
and statues dishearten and confuse the student of art. Yet the unity
of its proportions, and the symmetry of its arches and cornices, were
recognized by all. Bayard trod its artistic pavement with feelings of
awe and admiration. He gazed long upon its aisles and pillars, and crept
on tip-toe into the shadows of its great altar. It is one of the most
solemn things in life to stand in such a temple of genius. The stained
windows, with their sacred figures and symbols, the sweet reverberations
of the sacred music, the low chant of the priests, the kneeling forms of
penitent worshippers, the strength of the workmanship and vastness of
its sombre recesses, awaken sensations that sleep in the open air. The
naturally vicious and cruel avoid those chancels, and the wise and good
gain encouragement from the supreme calm that reigns therein. Bayard
enjoyed his stay in Milan and his visits to the Cathedral most heartily,
and it was an important experience in the development of his natural
character. How his skill in observation, and his interest in everything
had increased! Bright and acute by nature, he saw and noted many things
when he first landed, which others would have passed without observing;
but those months of discipline and anxious research had developed this
characteristic, until, as he enters Italy, he notices every shrub, every
animal, every building, every man, woman and child; and at a glance
passes them under such close scrutiny that he is able, months after, to
describe them in all the details of form, color, nature, association,
habits, and occupation. How boundless and fathomless is the unobserved
about us! How few notice the myriad of interesting and enlightening
objects and incidents that come within the range of their vision! The
disposition and aptitude for observation is as indispensable to the
traveller, as it is convenient to one who plods the dull routine of
home life. Bayard was naturally discerning and inclined to investigate.
Such will be the deliberate conclusion of one who studies his life as a
whole, although his enemies have sometimes taken advantage of his modest
suppressions to accuse him of blindness. Bayard sees a child in the
garments of priesthood, and pities him for his solitary life. He meets a
poor woman and notices the texture of her dress, and the scar upon her
cheek. He looks at a painting of the Cathedral, and observes that a spire
is wanting. He looks at the towers, and compares those creations of art
with the more rugged spires of Monte Rosa’s ice-crags. He laments the
ignorance of the people whose features advertised their needs. He studies
and criticises the shape and position of the Arch of Peace, and the
bronze groups that adorn its summit: shops, toy-stands, cabs, soldiers,
flowers, priests, dukes, houses, fields, schools, coin, clothing,
atmosphere, and food,—all are noticed and laid away for recollection,
as without order they attracted his attention. He discovered more worth
relating in Milan, than some travellers saw in the whole of Europe.[1]
From Milan the party walked to Genoa, going through the battle-fields
of Hannibal and the Cæsars, along highways once the paved roads of the
Roman Empire, and under the shadows of ancient castles whose walls once
bristled with the shields of knights and spears of yeomen. It was a
glorious, though tedious journey, and by thus travelling in the manner of
pilgrims they met the inhabitants at their usual occupations, and learned
much of the customs and feelings of the common people. Such information
comes not through the windows of railroad carriages, nor enters by the
portals of grand hotels.
Having visited the ducal palaces, cathedrals, and parks of Genoa, he went
by boat to Leghorn, and thence to Pisa. There he saw, in the Cathedral,
the swinging chandelier which led Galileo to investigate the laws of
gravitation, and satisfied his curiosity by ascending the Leaning Tower,
and left the city with those melodies of unearthly sweetness, which the
echoes of the Baptistry give forth, still ringing in his ears. After
riding all night in a rickety cart, and suffering horribly from the
terrible storm and jolting conveyance, he entered the sacred precincts of
that hallowed city, so beautiful, so dear to the heart of the poet and
painter,—Florence.
In his poem, “The Picture of St. John,” Bayard thus speaks of that
enchanted locality:—
“Ah, lovely Florence! never city wore
So shining robes as I on thee bestowed:
For all the rapture of my being flowed
Around thy beauty, filling, flooding o’er
The banks of Arno and the circling hills,
With light no wind of sunset ever spills
From out its saffron seas! Once, and no more,
Life’s voyage touches the enchanted shore.”
During his stay in Florence, Bayard wrote a poem which so clearly
expressed his affection for the maiden in Kennett, whom he afterwards
married, that many have supposed the fictitious title, by which he
addressed her, to be her real name. In that poem he thus referred to
Florence:—
“Dear Lillian, all I wished is won!
I sit beneath Italia’s sun,
Where olive orchards gleam and quiver
Along the banks of Arno’s river.
Rich is the soil with fancy’s gold;
The stirring memories of old
Rise thronging in my haunted vision,
And wake my spirit’s young ambition.”
That Italian paradise, situated in the beautiful vale of that most
charming river, is perhaps the loveliest spot in all that land. Being the
home of such artists as Michael Angelo and Raphael, the abode of such
poets as Dante, and of such scientific men as Galileo, it possessed an
intense interest because of its association with them. Being also the
seat of the De Medici, of Machiavelli, of Pitti, and the resort of the
greatest American poets and sculptors, its themes for verse and prose
are almost numberless. There Bayard made a stay of several months. He
devoted himself to the study of the Italian language, in which he soon
became proficient, and visited every castle, monastery, amphitheatre, and
mountain in the suburbs, and carefully scrutinized the tombs of Sante
Croce, the inlaid work of the Duomo, and those marvels of art in the
Pitti and Uffizi galleries. He ever after mentioned his first stay in
Florence as a season of the most intense delight, and knowing how vast is
the field for study and recreation, and his peculiar susceptibility to
all the lights and shades of art, we see how full was his heart of the
purest and most satisfactory intellectual joy. There he saw Raphael’s
“St. John in the Desert,” and it is probable that the painting prompted
him to write the poem entitled “The Picture of St. John,” the scene of
which is laid partly in Florence, and is one of his most valued literary
productions. There he saw the _Madonna della Sedia_ of Raphael, the
companion piece of the _Madonna_ he saw and so much admired in Dresden.
There he saw Titian’s Goddess, so radiant with feminine beauty, and there
Michael Angelo’s first attempt at sculpture;—so many treasures of art are
there, and so many sacred places renowned in history, that the great city
gains its living from the visitors and students that fill its hotels,
and crowd its churches and museums. Bayard actually loved Florence, and
returned to it afterwards with that irresistible yearning which a young
man feels for the home of his lover.
There remains in all the world but one other place for the artist after
he has seen and appreciated Florence. His love for the exquisitely
sweet and beautiful is satisfied,—all the tender and delicate links
between art and nature can there be seen and felt. An exhibition of the
mighty, grand, colossal side of art remains; and to the lover of such
exhibitions, and to the romance-seeker who, like Bayard, desires to walk
the dusty halls, peopled with the ghosts of half-forgotten ages, Rome
still waits.
CHAPTER XIII.
Visit to Rome.—Attractions of its Ruins.—Bayard’s Persistent
Searches.—His Limited Means.—Sights and Experiences.—Journey to
Marseilles.—Walks to Lyons.—Desperate Circumstances.—Stay in
Paris.—Employment of his Time.—Departure for London.—Failure
to obtain Money or Work.—Seeks a Friend.—Obtains Help from a
Stranger.—Voyage to New York.—Arrival Home.
Who has entered the aged city of Rome and not felt the power of its
thrilling associations? How the doors of history swing open before the
traveller, and how sublime the panorama which unfolds to his view! How
swiftly pass the scenes of pomp and the parades of heroes! It cannot be
described. It must be felt to be understood. It requires no very active
imagination to see again the strong walls, the towers, the gates, the
majestic temples, and the superb Capitol rising over all. To be able
to walk its paved streets, and wend about its Corinthian porches, and
through its marvellous arches; to rush with the crowds of Romans to a
seat in the Coliseum; to march in the triumphal processions, and to
listen to the echo of Cicero’s voice among the pillars of the Forum, is
no very difficult dream, when the same buildings which saw and heard
those things are yet before you. One can stand in the shadows of ancient
ruins, when the moon gives light enough to see the outline, but not
sufficient to show the scars which the ages have given them, and witness
again the gatherings of the Roman people, and make out the forms of
Cincinnatus, of Scipio, of Marius, of Cæsar, of Cicero, of Augustus,
or of Constantine, as their lumbering chariots jolt over the pavements
and around the palace walls. The Tiber, which rolls on its ceaseless
course, and which saw the faces of Livy, Horace, and Virgil, moves by the
Tarpeian Rock, and the Campus Martius, with the same eddying playfulness
as it exhibited then. New glories gild the clouds, and new temples adorn
the adjacent plains. Jupiter gives way to Jehovah, priests of Janus and
Venus stand aside for monks and friars to fill their office. The Coliseum
crumbles, as St. Paul’s lifts its grand façades. Capitolinus falls and
St. Peter’s fills the bow of heaven. Marvels of ancient art grow dusty
with the ages, while new forms, so divinely conceived, so incomparably
wrought, and so immaculate in modesty and matchless in color, spring
into being at the call of the later civilization. All is interesting,
exciting, glorious! One walks the streets in dreams, lulled by the
musical cadences of the rippling native language. Words cannot convey
the feelings awakened by that new sense, which discerns and interprets
the ancient and modern associations of Rome. The traveller feels as if
he were a companion of the great and powerful, of the refined and good,
who have walked those streets before him, and ever after the words they
spoke, and the books they wrote, have a fresh and unabating interest.
[Illustration: THE ARENA OF THE COLISEUM.]
So Bayard saw the ancient city, although he has described it somewhat
differently. Rome was to Florence what the Apollo is to the Venus de
Medici, each enhancing the beauty of the other, and losing nothing by
comparison. It was near the first of January, 1846, when the subject
of these sketches entered Rome and took up his abode in a lowly tavern
opposite the front of the Pantheon. In a most humble, almost beggarly
way, he obtained his food at the cheapest places, and walked among those
old ruins in the most unobtrusive manner. He was too poor, and earned
too little as a newspaper correspondent, to spend aught on the luxuries
of Rome. Hence all his time and attention were on that which pleased
the eye and satisfied the mind, rather than upon those things which
gratify the appetite or inflate the pride. He walked to the Coliseum by
moonlight, and heeded not fatigue. For within its cragged circuit he
saw again the excited hosts, the gay ladies about the imperial throne,
the writhing Christian, and the lions with bloody jaws. Or he saw the
fiercer human beings engaged in the gladiatorial combat, saw the flash
of shields and swords, heard the groan of the dying as it was drowned by
the rising shouts for the victor. He searched the hidden recesses of the
baths, palaces, arches, prisons, and churches, which remain as reminders
of the old city; he marched far out on the Appian Way and contemplated
its tombs and mysterious piles in laborious detail; he sketched the
spirals of Trajan’s Column, and drew a plan of the ancient Capitol. In
awe-stricken silence he walked beneath the dome of mighty St. Peter’s,
and marvelled in worshipful mood before those exquisite mosaics. He
lingered long and lovingly in the great labyrinth of the Vatican, wept at
the sight of some of those great paintings, and bowed with respect to the
greatest productions of the greatest sculptors. Few will give credit to
the glowing pictures which he draws of the arts in Rome, nor believe the
strong assertions we herein make, who have not been there and experienced
the same sensations.
He visited in pious respect the tombs of Tasso, Keats, and Shelley, and
found his way into the studios of the modern artists. He took short trips
into the country, and once stopped for the night under the shadows of
the Temple of Vesta at Tivoli. Beyond Rome he could not go. For once,
Dame Fortune turned her back upon him. If he would see Naples, Pompeii,
and Samos, he must have money. Money he could not get. Grievously
disappointed, yet thankful for what he had seen, he most devoutly thanks
God, and turns northward.
At Civita Vecchia to which place he, as usual, walked, he embarked,
third class, on a steamboat for Marseilles. The beds were rough planks,
the food was drenched like himself, and fleas infested every stitch of
covering. It stormed, and Bayard might have perished with exposure to the
bad weather, had not a sailor taken compassion on him and his companion,
and lent them some clothing. That kindness he ever remembered, and it may
have been in his mind when, after meeting many sailors, he wrote of them:—
“They do not act with a studied grace,
They do not speak in delicate phrase,
But the candor of heaven is on their face,
And the freedom of ocean in all their ways.
They cannot fathom the subtle cheats,
The lying arts that the landsmen learn:
Each looks in the eyes of the man he meets,
And whoso trusts him, he trusts in turn.
But whether they die on sea or shore,
And lie under water, or sand, or sod,
Christ give them the rest that he keeps in store,
And anchor their souls in the harbor of God!”
He arrived at Marseilles with but five dollars for the expense of a
journey of five hundred miles on foot. Dark outlook, indeed, on entering
for the first time a country with whose language he was unacquainted.
Through rain and mud, sunshine and darkness, he moved on, courageous as
ever, and enjoying with the same zest his glimpses of ancient cathedrals
and renowned localities. At Lyons he received a small amount of money
by mail, and at a time when death by starvation seemed but a few hours
removed. The story of his mishaps by land and by water, on his way
from Lyons to Paris is a very exciting narration, as he relates them
in his “Views Afoot,” and yet shows the best side of a most terrible
experience. But Paris was reached at last, and in the first week of
February, 1846, they found a lodging place in the Rue de la Harpe, at the
rate of two dollars and eighty cents a month. He lived on twenty cents
a day, and in place of a teacher of French, subscribed at a circulating
library and picked out the words and phrases by downright hard study
in his fireless and damp attic. For five weeks he studied and rambled
and endured privation, learning Paris by heart and finding himself made
free and happy by the atmosphere of gayety which pervades everything
there. His favorite resort was the Place de la Concorde, which is an
open space at one side of the palace of the Tuileries, and at the foot
of that magnificent embowered avenue called the Champs Elysées. There
were then, as now, the enchanting groves, with the gardens, concert
bowers, and shy booths. There was the obelisk from Luxor, which called
Bayard’s attention to Egypt and created a strong desire to see that
ancient land of the Nile. There were the solid walls of the Tuileries
upon one side, the river Seine upon another, while the twin palaces, with
the distant front of the Madeleine Church showing between them, shut out
the populous city on the other. But the pavements, flowers, fountains,
bronze figures, obelisk and palaces were the least of the attractions
which called this persevering young student to that celebrated square. It
was there that many of the most important acts in the history of France
were performed. It was there that kings were made, and there they were
beheaded. It was there that priests had preached, and there that they
were murdered. It was there that in the crimson and lurid days of ’94,
the Red Revolutionists each day filled the baskets at the foot of the
guillotine with the heads of twoscore and often threescore citizens. Who
would surmise that in a city so gay, so cheerful, so imbued with the very
spirit of pleasure and childlike life, such hideous deeds of blood and
destruction could be performed! Quick-tempered, excitable people, going
with the flash of a thought from one extreme to the other. No place in
all Paris better exhibits the character of the nation, than the Place de
la Concorde. There Bayard often lingered and pondered, seeing clearly
through the film of gay attire, garlands of roses, delightful wines, and
gorgeous carriages, the dangerous yet often heroic elements, which have
so often thrown off the crust of fashion and politeness, and flooded the
beautiful city with seething torrents from the deepest hell.
[Illustration: PLACE DE LA CONCORDE.]
He sought out the master-pieces of art in the galleries, cathedrals,
and parks, and dwelt long and caressingly upon their entrancing forms,
having now passed through a school that left him a competent critic. He
gazed after the carriage where Louis Philippe rode in state, and wondered
if such a monarchy could endure, and with a powerful yearning fumbled
the unintelligible leaves of Victor Hugo, Beranger, and Lamartine—not,
however, to be long unintelligible.
There, again, he was in financial distress, and was saved from great
suffering by the unexpected kindness of a merchant, who, like Mr.
Chandler and Mr. Patterson at the beginning of his career, loaned him
money, although Bayard was a stranger and could give no security.
From Paris _via_ Versailles and Rouen, he walked to Dieppe, and, after
crossing the Channel, travelled by third-class car to London, where he
arrived with but thirty cents in French money. With no money to pay his
lodging, with a letter from home in the post-office, on which he could
not pay the postage, he made desperate attempts to obtain employment as
a printer. But the “Trade Unions” were so omnipotent, that no stranger
without a certificate could be set at work without a “strike.” At last,
when long without his usual meals, and sure of being refused a lodging,
he applied to Mr. Putnam, who was conducting the London agency of the
American publishing firm, who loaned him five dollars, and he could
again eat and sleep. Several weeks of waiting intervened, in which Mr.
Putnam kindly kept Bayard in employment, at a salary sufficient to pay
his board, before the money came from America to take them home. Even
then the captain of the vessel on which he returned with his two friends
who started with him nearly two years before, was compelled to take a
promise for a part of the fare. Captain Morgan, who commanded the vessel,
was one of the noblest men that ever paced a deck, and so popular did he
become, that his biography was published thirty years after this passage,
in an illustrated number of “Scribner’s Magazine.” Their voyage was a
fair one, their landing in New York a happy one; but no pen except his
own can describe the joy of seeing again his own country, and of walking
at evening into the door of that home which he left two years before as
_a boy_, and to which he then returned _a man_.
CHAPTER XIV.
Edits a Country Newspaper.—The “Phœnixville Pioneer.”—The
Discouragements.—The Suspension.—Publishes “Views
Afoot.”—Introduction to Literary Men.—Contributes to
the “Literary World.”—Becomes an Editor of the New York
“Tribune.”—The Gold Excitement of 1849.—Resolves to visit the
Eldorado.—Arrival in California.
Bayard Taylor’s gifts were not such as would contribute toward the
success of a country newspaper—so delicate, refined, poetical, and
classical, we wonder that he should ever have undertaken so uncongenial
a work. The best things which he could write would be dull as lead to
the majority of his readers. The more literary merit his editorials and
poems contained, the less likely were they to receive the praise of
his subscribers. Yet his disposition to work was so inherent in every
nerve, that he had not been at home one week from his tour of Europe
before he was searching for a place for editorial work or correspondence.
Mr. Frederick Foster, who was an old acquaintance and who also had
been in the office of the West Chester “Village Record,” suggested the
establishment of a weekly newspaper. As they looked for an opening for
such an enterprise, they hit upon the town of Phœnixville, Pa., as the
most advantageous locality. Phœnixville was then a prosperous village,
containing about two thousand inhabitants, twenty-seven miles from
Philadelphia and thirty-one miles from Reading. There were rolling-mills,
furnaces, and a variety of manufactories in the town, and the people
constituted an enterprising and unusually vigorous community. There Mr.
Taylor and Mr. Foster began the publication of the “Pioneer,” and with
high hopes and an alarming confidence, waited neither for capital nor
subscribers.
Mr. Taylor has often related to his friends some most amusing anecdotes
connected with his life as a country editor. One subscriber wanted a
glossary, another wished to see the local gossip about John Henry Smith’s
surprise party, instead of the dull columns of literary reviews. One
suggested that two editors would kill any paper, while another ventured
to assert that he himself would edit the paper for them at three hundred
dollars a year and “find shears.”
It was a difficult task. To edit the New York “Herald” would have been
far easier and better suited to Mr. Taylor’s genius. The people, of
Phœnixville, however, began to appreciate their privileges after the lack
of support compelled the young journalists to close their office and
suspend the publication of the paper; and financial aid to re-establish
the “Pioneer” was generously offered. But one year in such an
unappreciated labor was enough for Mr. Taylor, and he left Phœnixville,
according to his own account, considerably wiser and poorer than he was
when he entered it. If any of our readers has attempted to start a
literary paper in the country, and passed through the perplexities of
financial management and rude discouragements, he will need no words to
prompt his most hearty sympathy with the work, and the suspension of Mr.
Taylor’s undertaking. To make successful a publication of that character
in a scattered and small community, requires a greater diversity of
talent, greater manual labor, and a closer study of all-various human
nature, than it does to conduct the largest establishments in the
limitless field of a great city. Mr. Taylor’s experience simply added
another illustration of the universal rule. His best articles were
unappreciated or believed to be borrowed, and everything hindered the
pursuit of that conscientious literary aspiration which feels keenly the
failings and improprieties of superficial work.
It was in this year that Mr. Taylor prepared, and Mr. Putnam published,
his surprisingly attractive volume, entitled “Views Afoot.” With such
Quaker-like simplicity was it written, and such a noble spirit of poetry
pervaded the descriptions of scenery, men, and art, that it leaped into
popular favor on the prestige of its advance sheets. Its success was a
forcible example of the winning power of simple truth. Its interest will
never abate, because he did not assume the pompous airs of an infallible
critic, but rather chose to pretend to nothing but describe what he saw
as it appeared to him.
The success of that book introduced him at once into the literary circles
of New York, where, with the friendship of Mr. Willis, Mr. Parke Godwin,
Mr. Horace Greeley, Mr. William Cullen Bryant, and many others, well
known as men of the highest culture, he received a most cordial welcome.
He was at once secured by the management of the “Literary World,” a
periodical issued weekly in New York, and which, from 1847 to 1853, held
the highest place in literary criticism and classical composition gained
by any American magazine or paper of that period.
When he sought employment on the New York “Tribune,” in 1848, a place
was readily found for him, and he began, by the contribution of small
articles, his long and honorable career as one of the editors of that
influential journal.
In the spring of 1849, Mr. Greeley suggested to Mr. Taylor the importance
of having some trustworthy information from the gold regions of
California, about which there was then so much excitement. The people
read, with the greatest avidity, every scrap of news or gossip from the
gold-fields, and thousands were on their way by steam and by overland
mule-trains to seek their fortunes in that Eldorado. At no period of our
nation’s history, not excepting the agitation at the beginning of great
wars, have the people of this country exhibited such uncontrollable
excitement as they displayed at that time.
The rich sold their property to the first bidder, and took the first
conveyance; while the poor started on foot, with nothing to preserve them
from the starvation which followed in the desert. For a time it appeared
as if New England and the Middle States would be left without sufficient
male population to carry on the routine of official duty.
In the height of that feverish exodus Mr. Taylor decided to fall in
with the tide, and drifting with the current, tell the readers of the
“Tribune” what he saw and heard. Hence, in June, he took passage on a
crowded steamer for Panama, and after a dreadful experience in crossing
the Isthmus, steamed up the Pacific Coast and entered the Golden Gate.
CHAPTER XV.
Entrance to California.—The Camp at San
Francisco in 1849.—Description of the
People.—Gold-Hunters.—Speculations.—Prices of
Merchandise.—Visit to the Diggings.—Adventures on
the Route.—The First Election.—The Constitutional
Convention.—San Francisco after Two Months’ Absence.—Poetical
Descriptions.—Departure for Mexico.—Arrival at
Mazatlan.—Overland to the Capital.—Adventure with
Robbers.—Return to New York.
The circumstances under which Mr. Taylor entered California, were in
striking contrast with those which surrounded him when he made his first
attempt to see the world. For, when he started for his European tour,
and throughout the whole period of his stay there, he was hindered and
annoyed by the lack of money, and by the lack of acquaintances. Then,
he was dependent wholly upon his own earnings and economy for every
privilege he enjoyed. He had nothing substantial behind him, and nothing
certain before him. But in California he moves among the people with
the prestige and capital of a powerful journal behind him, and before
him the certainty of ample remuneration for all his trials. He is no
longer the unknown, uncared-for stripling, whose adventures are regarded
as visionary, and whose company was an intrusion. He was the welcomed
guest of naval officers, of army officers, and invited to the home of the
Military Governor, and to the headquarters of Gen. John C. Fremont.
When he entered San Francisco, that place was only a miners’ camp,
composed of tents, barracks, piles of merchandise, and tethered mules.
How utterly incomprehensible it seems now to the visitor to that great
metropolis, when he reads that, as late as 1849, there were only huts
and tents where now stand the palatial business blocks, gorgeous hotels,
and miles of residences made of brick and stone! It was an interesting
time to visit the Pacific shore, and most interestingly did Mr. Taylor
describe it in his letters, and in his book entitled “Eldorado.” The
great camp of San Francisco was but a few weeks old when he arrived
there; but, in its boiling humanity, Mr. Taylor noticed Malays, Chinamen,
Mexicans, Germans, Englishmen, Yankees, Indians, Japanese, Chilians,
Hawaiians, and Kanakas, rushing, shouting, gesticulating, like madmen.
Gold! Gold! Gold! Everything, anything for gold! Though hundreds lay
in the swamps of Panama, dead or dying with the cholera; although the
bleaching bones of many enthusiasts gleamed in the sun on the great
American desert; although thousands had perished in the thickets, snows,
and floods of the Sierra Nevada, their eyes never to be gratified with
the sight of gold-dust; yet the increasing multitude followed faster,
and more recklessly in their footsteps. Into such a mass of half-insane
humanity, did Mr. Taylor thrust himself, that the world, as well as
himself, might profit thereby. Great names were given to the smallest
things, and prices larger than the names. The Parker House was a board
shanty with lodging-rooms at twenty-five dollars a week, and was not more
than seventy feet square, but rented to the landlord for one hundred
and ten thousand dollars a year. Newspapers sold for a dollar each, and
nearly every class of merchandise from the Eastern States brought a
profit of several thousand per cent. The wages of a common laborer were
from fifteen dollars to twenty dollars a day, while real estate went up
so fast in price, that few dared to sell, lest the next day should show
that they had lost a fortune. One man, who died insolvent, but having, in
his name a small tract of land, left after all a million of dollars to
his heirs, so much did the lands increase in value before the estate was
settled.
Fortunes were made in a single day. If a man arrived there with anything
to sell, he could put his own price upon it, and dispose of it to the
first comer. One man, whose store was a log-cabin with a canvas roof,
made five hundred thousand dollars in eight months. Gambling was carried
on in an equally magnificent scale. Greater bets than Baden-Baden or
Monaco ever saw, were common-place there. Millions of dollars changed
hands every day. Gold was so plentiful, that boys made immense profits,
gathering, out of the dust in the streets, the nuggets and fine gold
which had been carelessly allowed to drop from the miners’ bags or
pockets.
From that strangest of all strange medleys, Mr. Taylor travelled,
mule-back, through a wild and dangerous region, to Stockton, and thence
to the productive “diggings” on Mokelumne River. There he saw the miners
hard at work gathering the gold in the most primitive manner. The sands
found in the dry bed of the river were mixed with gold, while in the
crevices and little holes in the rocks, pieces of gold, varying from the
size of a five-cent piece to that of a hen’s egg, were frequently found.
Gold from the sand was gathered by shaking a bowlful of it until the
heaviest particles fell through to the bottom; and by washing away the
finer particles of dirt, and picking out the stones with the fingers.
Nearly every miner found some gold; but those who made the immense
fortunes were quite rare. For many of such as were in luck, and who found
great sums, were so sure of finding more, that they squandered what
they had discovered, in a manner most unfortunate for them, but very
fortunate for those who had found nothing. All the details, experiences,
and adventures of these followers of Mammon were exhibited to Mr. Taylor,
and the most tempting offers made to him to dig for himself. But, true
to his employers, he turned from mines “with millions in them,” and
wrote letters for the “Tribune.” Over jagged mountains, through thickets
of thorns, through muddy rivers, over desert plains, and along routes,
dangerous alike from man and beast, he fearlessly pursued his journey
of observation, exhibiting many of those characteristics which have
distinguished H. M. Stanley, that other great correspondent. Sights he
saw that curdled the blood; men he met, pale, haggard, and dying; bones
he saw of lost and starved miners; and the extremes of misery and joy,
wealth and poverty, generosity and meanness, faith in God, and worship of
the devil, which must have bewildered him.
The fact that he had money and social influence did not protect him from
the hardships common to all travellers who visited the gold mines of
California at that early period. Many nights he slept in the open air,
having his single blanket and the cold earth for a bed. Often he made his
couch on a table or the floor in some rude and dirty cabin. Sometimes he
was lost in the woods or among the mountains, and frequently suffered
long for food and water. He was determined to see the land and its
freight of human life in its most practical form, although by so doing he
often risked the loss of comfort, of property, and occasionally of his
life.
One of the most interesting chapters of history to be found in any work
connected with life in the United States, is to be found in his simple
but graphic account of the first election in California. The rough,
disintegrated, and shifting communities of that new land had for a year
and a half depended for law and order upon the innate respect for the
rights of others to be found in the hearts of a majority of civilized
men. Beyond this there were organized in some of the mining towns a
vigilance committee, and in a few others a judge with almost supreme
power was elected by a vote of the people. These officials administered
justice by common consent, having no commission or authority from the
National Government. The enormous crowds of immigrants which filled
towns and cities in a single month made the necessity for some form of
State or Territorial government apparent to the least thoughtful. So a
few of the more enterprising individuals, advised and assisted by the
military authorities, undertook to bring order out of chaos by calling
upon the people to elect delegates to a Constitutional Convention. The
readiness and systematic manner in which the people of that whole region
responded to the call, was one of the most remarkable as well as one
of the most instructive popular movements to be found in the annals of
freedom. The meeting of that Constitutional Convention at Monterey;
the rude accommodations, the ability of the body, the harmony of their
deliberations, and the wisdom of their regulations and provisions, was
the subject of many most enthusiastic epistles from the pen of Mr.
Taylor. In his celebrated book, now so much prized by the people of
California, and by students of American history, he gives many little
details and incidents which are left out of other books and so often
overlooked by authors and correspondents, but which are of inestimable
importance in gaining an accurate knowledge of the inside social and
political beginnings of that powerful State. He described the appearance
of the building in which the Convention met, gives sketches of the
prominent actors in the assembly, and, as if foreseeing how posterity
would like to preserve the memory of that great day, he gives the
complexion, color of the hair, stature, and dress of the noted men who
held seats. It is as exciting as one of Scott’s novels to read of the
emotion, the tears, among those legislators when the new State was born,
and when the “thirty-first” gun was fired from the fort to announce the
completion of the great event. Thus, from the consent of the governed
in its most literal sense, the officers of the State of California
derived their just powers. And without discord, rebellious or seditious
conspiracies, a new government took its place among the empires of the
world. The description of that event in his simple, straightforward way
was one of Mr. Taylor’s best deeds.
Yet every incident and scene had its poetic side to him, and, while that
phase of his nature did not lead him to exaggeration in prose, it often
led him to break into independent poetic effusions. He appears to have
long looked upon the Pacific coast as a field of poetry and song, for,
before he had any idea of visiting the country, he wrote several poems,
and located them there. “The Fight of Paso del Mar” was one of those
early poems, and the scene was the cliff at the entrance to the harbor at
Santa Barbara.
“Gusty and raw was the morning,
A fog hung over the seas,
And its gray skirts, rolling inland,
Were torn by the mountain trees;
No sound was heard but the dashing
Of waves on the sandy bar,
When Pablo of San Diego
Bode down to the Paso del Mar.
The pescadòr, out in his shallop,
Gathering his harvest so wide,
Sees the dim bulk of the headland
Loom over the waste of the tide;
He sees, like a white thread, the pathway
Wind round on the terrible wall,
Where the faint, moving speck of the rider
Seems hovering close to its fall.”
Most sweetly sang he of the climate, and the prolific gifts of nature
in California, and one verse of his “Manuela” contains a very vivid and
accurate picture of some of California, as seen by many travellers.
“All the air is full of music, for the winter rains are o’er,
And the noisy magpies chatter from the budding sycamore;
Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels, over all the grassy slope;
Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the antelope.”
In a prophetic strain, which has been so often quoted in that land where
“The seaward winds are wailing through Santa Barbara’s pines,
And like a sheathless sabre, the far Pacific shines,”
he foretold, in “The Pine Forest of Monterey,” what has already happened
in that magic land of sunshine, gold, and miraculous progress.
“Stately Pines,
But few more years around the promontory
Your chant will meet the thunders of the sea.
No more, a barrier to the encroaching sand
Against the surf ye’ll stretch defiant arm,
Though with its onset and besieging shock
Your firm knees tremble. Never more the wind
Shall pipe shrill music through your mossy beards,
Nor sunset’s yellow blaze athwart your heads
Crown all the hills with gold. Your race is past:
The mystic cycle, whose unnoted birth
Coeval was with yours, has run its sands,
And other footsteps from these changing shores
Frighten its haunting Spirit. Men will come
To vex your quiet with the din of toil;
The smoky volumes of the forge will stain
This pure, sweet air; loud keels will ride the sea,
Dashing its glittering sapphire into foam;
Through all her green cañadas Spring will seek
Her lavish blooms in vain, and clasping ye,
O, mournful Pines, within her glowing arms,
Will weep soft rains to find ye fallen low.”
He portrayed his California experiences in rhyme, when he sang of “The
Summer Camp,” and we quote a few lines of it, so appropriate to his
departure from San Francisco.
“No more of travel, where the flaming sword
Of the great sun divides the heavens; no more
Of climbing over jutty steeps that swim
In driving sea-mists, where the stunted tree
Slants inland, mimicking the stress of winds
When wind is none; of plain and steaming marsh,
Where the dry bulrush crackles in the heat;
Of camps by starlight in the columned vault
Of sycamores, and the red, dancing fires
That build a leafy arch, efface and build,
And sink at last, to let the stars peep through;
Of cañons grown with pine, and folded deep
In golden mountain-sides; of airy sweeps
Of mighty landscape, lying all alone
Like some deserted world.”
He mentioned the deep impression of ceaseless progress which the
change of a few weeks had made in the growth of San Francisco. When
he re-entered it, after his short stay in the mountains, he could not
recognize the streets, while the inhabitants and their manners had
undergone a change still more astonishing. Where there were tents a few
days before, now were large buildings of wood, while the log-cabins and
Chinese houses had, in many places, given place to structures of brick
and stone. Wharves had been built, streets regularly laid out, banks
opened, wholesale stores established, lines of steamers running to
the various ports along the coast, and up the rivers; while the rude,
dirty, careless, rushing multitude had assumed a cleanliness and a
gravity, unequal of course to that of an Eastern city, but astonishingly
in advance of the previous wildness. Law offices, brokers’ boards,
smelting establishments, barber-shops, hotels, bakeries, laundries, and
news-stands had all been established in a confusingly short space of
time. The place he found as a frontier camp, he found four months later
a swarming yet civilized city, with all the officials, and some of the
red tape which characterize older corporations. But San Francisco was
not alone in its growth; for Sacramento, San José, Monterey, and many
other towns and cities, had been as nothing, less than a year before. At
the time he left San Francisco, they were populous cities and villages,
teeming with a resistless, sleepless activity. To accurately record such
a change, to give an anxious public correct information regarding that
wonderland, and the fortune of their friends, and to bear a share in the
work of establishing such a State, was the task of Mr. Taylor, and most
creditably did he perform his part.
On leaving California, about the first of January, 1850, he decided to
go down the coast to Mazatlan and thence overland through Mexico. He
came to that conclusion after long consultations with his friends, none
of whom could or dared accompany him, while all told him of robbers,
deserts, impassable streams, and dangerous wild beasts which awaited all
travellers in that benighted and trackless country. Mr. Taylor would have
enjoyed some thrilling adventures; and the fears of his advisers only
made him more decided in his determination to go. So, alone, and with but
slight knowledge of the Spanish language, he disembarked at Mazatlan on
the Mexican coast, near the mouth of the Gulf of California, and with
a pair of pistols and a dwarfed mule, started into the unknown wilds of
that tropical land.
[Illustration: CASTLE OF CHAPULTEPEC.]
His hardships were many, and his fatigue at times almost unbearable; but
his love for things new and strange, for the unexplored and unknown,
kept him moving perseveringly on through the thickets and ravines of
upper Mexico. By great skill and considerable assurance he managed to
keep in the good graces of the people he met, and for several days, in
the forests and in the villages, he met, with very kind and hospitable
treatment.
On one occasion, however, he fell among thieves. Before he arrived at the
city of Mexico, and while still in the wilderness of the interior of the
Mexican highlands, he was suddenly attacked by three Mexican robbers, to
whose marauding purposes he could make no resistance, he having placed
such reliance upon the good faith of the natives as to carry his pistol
without a cartridge in it. The banditti made him dismount and hand
over what little money in coin he happened to have, and after taking
such blankets and trinkets as they desired, left him with his hands
tied behind him, to get on as best he could. Fortunately they did not
want his horse, which he had bought in place of the useless mule, and
after extricating himself from his bonds by long struggles, he mounted
his horse and rode on to Mexico with his drafts for money all intact.
He seems to have placed less reliance on the Mexicans, after that
encounter, and took good care to ride out of range of their muskets and
to keep himself supplied with ammunition.
His visit to the Mexican capital was an occasion of great interest to
him, and brought up freshly and vividly the story which Prescott has so
well told of the Aztecs and the heroic age of Cortez. No scene in Europe
is said to combine such extremes of sweetness and grandeur, of light
and shade, of valley and hill, of plain and cragged highland, of land
and water, of art and nature, as the valley of Mexico. There he saw the
evidences of prehistoric civilization, and looked with curiosity and awe
upon the towering fortress of Chapultepec, which connects the present
with the ages past. However, Mr. Taylor could not stop long in that
charming vale, and hastened on over the battle-fields of Scott to Vera
Cruz. From Vera Cruz he went by steamer to Mobile, from thence overland
to Charleston, S. C., and by way of North Carolina, Virginia, and
Washington, to New York, where, about the middle of March, he resumed his
duties as editor of the “Tribune” with the thought that there he might
stay the remainder of his life.
CHAPTER XVI.
The Poet’s First Love.—Playmates.—Miss Mary S. Agnew.—His
Fidelity.—Poems Inspired by Affection.—Her Failing
Health.—Consumption.—His Return to Her.—The Marriage at the
Death-bed.—Her Death.—The Poet’s Grief.—His Inner Life.—The
Story in his own Rhyme.
We now enter upon the most holy ground ever trod by the biographer,—the
sacred recesses of the human heart. In the annals of ordinary life, or
even in those of many great men, the record of their early love may
not be important to the reader. But to the poet, these more subtle
and more tender emotions are events of the greatest importance. Every
heart contains more or less of the poetical sentiment, and the love and
marriage of any individual is a matter of great moment to him, although
it may not be to his biographer. But here we write of a poet. To him, all
the strings of human feeling had a clear and unmistakable sound. To him,
the undertones of life played an important part in the harmony of his
being. All that was pure and sweet in love he saw. All that was beautiful
and lovable in life he felt, with a keenness none but the poet can know.
Hence to him, we find, as in the history of the grand poets of ancient
days, his love was a holy sentiment, to be valued as God’s best gift,
and to be worshipped as a part of Him.
In a neighboring farm-house, but a short distance from his father’s farm,
lived Mary S. Agnew. She was born and reared in the same community,
went to the same school, attended the same church, and was a playmate,
classmate, and trusted companion. They sought each other in childhood’s
days, and their friendship ripened into love as imperceptibly and surely
as the coming and going of the years developed their lives, and pressed
them forward into manhood and womanhood. Her dark hair and eyes, her
slender form, her lovable disposition, her conscientiousness and purity
were presented to him in that strong light, under which all lovers see
the merits and virtues of their sweethearts. Added to that was the
romance and insight of that other sense which poets are said to possess.
He built a shrine to this idol wherever he went, and through all his
early years she was, as he said in verse, the representative to him
of the goodness of God. On the farm, he made verses in her honor; at
the Quaker meeting he was thankful for her; at the parties and social
gatherings among the young folks, she was the centre of his thought. Not
foolishly or blindly did he exhibit his affection. Not extravagantly or
obtrusively did he follow his wooing. But his poetry and his prose give
here and there a clew to the deep and fervent love of his youthful days.
Some of his very sweetest poetry found its inspiration in that love,
and when the volume is published, if ever it is, in which shall appear
those sonnets, which have modestly been kept thus far from the public
gaze, there will be found gems that the world cannot well spare. How
sincere, disinterested, and noble was his affection, was proved by his
faithful and unabated love, after he had seen the world and its loveliest
ladies, and after the cruel hand of disease had chiselled away the round
and rosy cheeks, and left, in place of the sparkling, blushing maiden of
his early love, a pallid spectre—a shadow of her former self. In all his
wanderings, he never neglected her. In all his most tender writings, her
image is more or less clear. In one of his volumes, “The Poet’s Journal,”
he gives a history of his love and sorrow; of the awakening, after years
of death, in the sweetest and most touching of all his poems.
He allowed some of his earlier verses to see the light of print, wherein
he makes mention, indirectly, of Mary S. Agnew. When travelling along the
Danube, in 1845, he thus writes:—
“Old playmates! bid me welcome
Amid your brother-band;
Give me the old affection,—
The glowing grasp of hand!
I seek no more the realms of old,—
Here is my Fatherland.
Come hither, gentle maiden,
Who weep’st in tender joy!
The rapture of thy presence
Repays the world’s annoy,
And calms the wild and ardent heart
Which warms the wandering boy.
In many a mountain fastness,
By many a river’s foam,
And through the gorgeous cities,
’Twas loneliness to roam;
For the sweetest music in my heart
Was the olden songs of home.”
When in Florence, in 1846, he wrote a poem entitled “In Italy,” wherein
were the following expressive lines:—
“Rich is the soil with Fancy’s gold;
The stirring memories of old
Rise thronging in my haunted vision,
And wake my spirit’s young ambition.
But as the radiant sunsets close
Above Val d’Arno’s bowers of rose,
My soul forgets the olden glory,
And deems our love a dearer story.
Thy words, in Memory’s ear, outchime
The music of the Tuscan rhyme;
Thou standest here—the gentle-hearted—
Amid the shades of bards departed.
I see before thee fade away
Their garlands of immortal bay,
And turn from Petrarch’s passion-glances
To my own dearer heart-romances.”
“A single thought of thee effaced
The fair Italian dream I chased;
For the true clime of song and sun
Lies in the heart which mine hath won.”
When he reached London in 1846, after his long pilgrimage, and when so
reduced in funds and friends, he yet had the time and mind to write of
her these graceful rhymes:—
“I’ve wandered through the golden lands
Where art and beauty blended shine—
Where features limned by painters’ hands
Beam from the canvas made divine,
And many a god in marble stands,
With soul in every breathing line;
And forms the world has treasured long
Within me touched the world of song.”
“Yet brighter than those radiant dreams
Which won renown that never dies—
Where more than mortal beauty beams
In sybil’s lips, and angel’s eyes—
One image, like the moonlight, seems
Between them and my heart to rise,
And in its brighter, dearer ray,
The stars of Genius fade away.”
It is an interesting study and one not altogether unprofitable, to
follow, through an author’s works the marks of his peculiar likes,
joys, and sorrows. For in science, philosophy, history or poetry, the
feelings of the student will unguardedly creep into his manuscripts as if
between the lines, and often a little word, or a thoughtlessly inserted
sentence or comment, will reveal whole chapters of a life which has been
carefully, scrupulously hidden. So in Bayard Taylor’s poetry, written on
sea and on land, at home and abroad, in poverty and in affluence, there
is a certain vein of originality, and certain references to his own
life, which, when placed together, give the clew to his inner life, and
reveal a charming domestic scene, which cannot be described in prose. One
of his characters in “The Poet’s Journal,” says:—
“Dear Friend, one volume of your life I read
Beneath these vines: you placed it in my hand
And made it mine,—but how the tale has sped
Since then, I know not, or can understand
From this fair ending only. Let me see
The intervening chapters, dark and bright,
In order, as you lived them.”
To which another makes reply in the words below, which so delicately and
feelingly refer to his early love, his sorrow at the death of Mary, his
first wife, and the brightness of the later affection. To one who has
passed through the same trying experience, these lines are marvellously
expressive:—
“What haps I met, what struggles, what success
Of fame, or gold, or place, concerns you less,
Dear friend, than how I lost that sorest load
I started with, and came to dwell at last
In the House Beautiful.”
“You, who would write ‘_Resurgam_’ o’er my dead,
The resurrection of my heart shall know.”
“For pain, that only lives in memory,
Like battle-scars, it is no pain to show.”
Then he goes on to recite a tale so like his own, that it needs scarce
any change, but to substitute the names of himself, and those he loved,
for the fictitious names we find in the poems. But, before making further
quotation, the reader should be made acquainted with the circumstances
which prompted those illuminated lines.
While Mr. Taylor was away, Miss Agnew gradually and surely declined
in health, until consumption, with all its terrible certainty and
serpent-like stealth, made her its victim. It was one of those
unaccountable visitations which sometimes come to the young and beautiful
in the midst of joy and perfect content. How sadly the news of her
sickness fell upon the heart of her lover, and how tenderly and anxiously
he prayed and waited for letters from her, which should contain better
tidings, he has himself related. Pale and weak, she greeted him on his
return from California, with the prediction that she could not live
beyond the falling leaves. No skill, no tender nursing, no charm of an
abiding love, could stay the hand of death, which, as unseen and secret
as the decay in a rose, gradually stole away her color, her beauty, and
her life.
He felt that he must lose her; and the whole world, which had before
appeared so bright, became dark and chilly. The test showed that while
his ambition led him to see the great nations of the earth, to write
poems for posterity, and to write his name in italics on the scrolls of
fame, there was one solace, one comfort, one desire, which included all
the others and made them subservient. He was true to his plighted word.
He had become noted and prosperous, while she had remained at the country
farm-house in Kennett. He was the associate of Bryant, Greeley, Webster,
and Willis; she, the companion of the farmers and Quakers of Chester
County. But strong, manly, and honest, his love knew no abatement and his
respect felt no check.
It is a touching picture—that simple, solemn marriage in the room of the
patient, an almost helpless invalid! He came to redeem his pledge; and
in that simple abode, with death standing just outside the door, with a
bride scarce able to whisper that she took him for her lawful spouse, he
became a husband. The dim, appealing eyes, the tender little flush in her
cheek, the tremor of her thin hand, told the joy in her pure heart, but
showed also that her happiness would be as brief as it was sincere.
The marriage took place Oct. 24th, 1850, and on the 21st of the following
December his wife died. She lingered much longer than her friends
expected. At the marriage it was said that she could not live but a very
few days. Yet, so soon was it after their union, that the day which is
usually the happiest and the day which is usually the gloomiest in a
man’s life, came to him within ten weeks of each other. A year after
her death, he wrote a poem, “Winter Solstice,” in which he mentions his
bereavement:—
“—For when the gray autumnal gale
Came to despoil the dying year,
Passed with the slow retreating sun,
As day by day some beams depart,
The beauty and the life of one,
Whose love made Summer in my heart.
Day after day, the latest flower,
Her faded being waned away,
More pale and dim with every hour,—
And ceased upon the darkest day!
The warmth and glow that with her died
No light of coming suns shall bring;
The heart its wintry gloom may hide,
But cannot feel a second Spring.
O darkest day of all the year!
In vain thou com’st with balmy skies,
For, blotting out their azure sphere,
The phantoms of my Fate arise:
A blighted life, whose shattered plan
No after fortune can restore;
The perfect lot, designed for Man,
That should be mine, but is no more.”
Still later, he gave expression to his loneliness in that most pathetic
of all his writings, “The Phantom.”
“Again I sit within the mansion,
In the old, familiar seat;
And shade and sunshine chase each other
O’er the carpet at my feet.”
“And many kind, remembered faces
Within the doorway come,—
Voices, that wake the sweeter music
Of one that now is dumb.
They sing, in tones as glad as ever,
The songs she loved to hear;
They braid the rose in summer garlands,
Whose flowers to her were dear.
And still, her footsteps in the passage,
Her blushes at the door,
Her timid words of maiden welcome,
Come back to me once more.”
“She stays without, perchance, a moment,
To dress her dark-brown hair;
I hear the rustle of her garments,—
Her light step on the stair!”
“She tarries long: but lo! a whisper
Beyond the open door,
And, gliding through the quiet sunshine,
A shadow on the floor!”
“But my heart grows sick with weary waiting
As many a time before:
Her foot is ever at the threshold,
Yet never passes o’er.”
In his “Picture of St. John” he describes, with a feeling born of
experience, a scene like the closing one in the life of his wife.
“Day by day
Her cheeks grew thin, her footstep faint and slow;
And yet so fondly, with such hopeful play
Her pulses beat, they masked the coming woe.
Joy dwelt with her, and in her eager breath
His cymbals drowned the hollow drums of death;
Life showered its promise, surer to betray,
And the false Future crumbled fast away.
Aye, she was happy! God be thanked for this,
That she was happy!—happier than she knew,
Had even the hope that cheated her been true;
For from her face there beamed such wondrous bliss,
As cannot find fulfilment here, and dies.”
Nearer the end of the same poem, he writes:—
“With cold and changeless face beside her grave
I stood, and coldly heard the shuddering sound
Of coffin-echoes, smothered underground.”
And still later he says, as only he can say who has felt it:—
“My body moved in its mechanic course
Of soulless function: thought and passion ceased,
Or blindly stirred with undirected force,—
A weary trance which only Time decreased
By slow reductions.”
A sonnet of that dark hour, written on a leaf of his diary, remains to
us, from which we quote two verses:—
“Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane,
And fall, thou drear December rain!
Fill with your gusts the sullen day,
Tear the last clinging leaves away!
Reckless as yonder naked tree,
No blast of yours can trouble me.”
“Moan on, ye winds! and pour, thou rain!
Your stormy sobs and tears are vain,
If shed for her whose fading eyes,
Will open soon on Paradise;
The eye of Heaven shall blinded be,
Or ere ye cease, if shed for me.”
Here is another sad, sad wail, to be found in his “Autumnal Vespers”:—
“The light is dying out o’er all the land,
And in my heart the light is dying. She,
My life’s best life, is fading silently
From Earth, from me, and from the dreams we planned,
Since first Love led us with his beaming hand
From hope to hope, yet kept his crown in store.
The light is dying out o’er all the land:
To me it comes no more.
The blossom of my heart, she shrinks away
Stricken with deadly blight: more wan and weak
Her love replies in blanching lip and cheek,
And gentler in her dear eyes, day by day.
God, in Thy mercy, bid the arm delay,
Which thro’ her being smites to dust my own!
Thou gav’st the seed Thy sun and showers; why slay
The blossoms yet unblown?
In vain,—in vain! God will not bid the Spring
Replace with sudden green the Autumn’s gold;
And as the night-mists, gathering damp and cold,
Strike up the vales where water-courses sing,
Death’s mist shall strike along her veins, and cling
Thenceforth forever round her glorious frame:
For all her radiant presence, May shall bring
A memory and a name.”
Again, in “The Two Visions,” was the low moan of a poet’s stricken heart.
“Through days of toil, through nightly fears,
A vision blessed my heart for years;
And so secure its features grew,
My heart believed the blessing true.
I saw her there, a household dove,
In consummated peace of love,
And sweeter joy and saintlier grace
Breathed o’er the beauty of her face.”
“That vision died, in drops of woe,
In blotting drops, dissolving slow:
Now, toiling day and sorrowing night,
Another vision fills my sight.
A cold mound in the winter snow;
A colder heart at rest below;
A life in utter loneness hurled,
And darkness over all the world.”
How accurately he portrayed his inner life, from the death of Mary to
his subsequent marriage, can only be understood by reading his poem of
“The Poet’s Journal” entire. But, as far as brief quotations may give it,
we will try to supply enough for the purposes of a book suck as this is
intended to be. In his despair he writes:—
“And every gift that Life to me had given
Lies at my feet, in useless fragments trod:
There is no justice or in Earth or Heaven:
There is no pity in the heart of God.”
...
“I pine for something human,
Man, woman, young or old—
Something to meet and welcome,
Something to clasp and hold.
I have a mouth for kisses,
But there’s no one to give and take;
I have a heart in my bosom
Beating for nobody’s sake.”
“The sea might rise and drown me,—
Cliffs fall and crush my head,—
Were there one to love me, living,
Or weep to see me dead!”
...
“Last night the Tempter came to me, and said:
‘Why sorrow any longer for the dead?
The wrong is done: thy tears and groans are naught:
Forget the Past,—thy pain but lives in thought.
Night after night, I hear thy cries implore
An answer: she will answer thee no more.
Give up thine idle prayer that Death may come
And thou mayst somewhere find her: Death is dumb
To those that seek him. Live: for youth is thine.
Let not thy rich blood, like neglected wine,
Grow thin and stale, but rouse thyself, at last,
And take a man’s revenge upon the Past.’”
...
“This heart is flesh, I cannot make it stone:
This blood is hot, I cannot stop its flow,
These arms are vacant—whereso’er I go,
Love lies in other’s arms and shuns my own.”
...
“Long, long ago, the Hand whereat I railed
In blindness gave me courage to subdue
This wild revolt: I see wherein I failed:
My heart was false, when most I thought it true,
My sorrow selfish, when I thought it pure.
For those we lose, if still their love endure
Translation to that other land, where Love
Breathes the immortal wisdom, ask in heaven
No greater sacrifice than we had given
On earth, our love’s integrity to prove.
If we are blest to know the other blest,
Then treason lies in sorrow.”
...
“I had knelt, in the awful Presence,
And covered my guilty head,
And received His absolution,
For my sins toward the dead.”
“Now first I dare remember
That day of death and woe:
Within, the dreadful silence,
Without, the sun and snow.”
...
“When wild azaleas deck the knoll,
And cinque-foil stars the fields of home,
And winds, that take the white-weed, roll
The meadows into foam:
Then from the jubilee I turn
To other Mays that I have seen,
Where more resplendent blossoms burn,
And statelier woods are green;—
Mays, when my heart expanded first,
A honeyed blossom, fresh with dew;
And one sweet wind of heaven dispersed
The only clouds I knew.
For she, whose softly-murmured name
The music of the month expressed,
Walked by my side, in holy shame
Of girlish love confessed.”
“The old, old tale of girl and boy,
Repeated ever, never old:
To each in turn the gates of joy,
The gates of heaven unfold.”
...
“So I think, when days are sweetest,
And the world is wholly fair,
She may sometime steal upon me
Through the dimness of the air,
With the cross upon her bosom
And the amaranth in her hair.
Once to meet her, ah! to meet her,
And to hold her gently fast
Till I blessed her, till she blessed me,—
That were happiness, at last:
That were bliss beyond our meetings
In the autumns of the Past!”
...
“Still, still that lovely ghost appears,
Too fair, too pure, to bid depart;
No riper love of later years
Can steal its beauty from the heart.”
“Dear, boyish heart that trembled so
With bashful fear and fond unrest,—
More frightened than a dove, to know
Another bird within its nest!”
...
“Restored and comforted, I go
To grapple with my tasks again;
Through silent worship taught to know
The blessed peace that follows pain.”
...
“If Love should come again, I ask my heart
In tender tremors, not unmixed with pain,
Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thine ancient smart,
If Love should come again?”
“Couldst thou unbar the chambers where his nest
So long was made, and made, alas! in vain,
Nor with embarrassed welcome chill thy guest,
If Love should come again?”
...
“Have I passed through Death’s unconscious birth,
In a dream the midnight bare?
I look on another and fairer Earth:
I breathe a wondrous air!”
“Is it she that shines, as never before,
The tremulous hills above,—
Or the heart within me, awake once more
To the dawning light of love?”
“Bathed in the morning, let my heart surrender
The doubts that darkness gave,
And rise to meet the advancing splendor—
O Night! no more thy slave.”
...
“One thought sits brooding in my bosom,
As broodeth in her nest the dove;
A strange, delicious doubt o’ercomes me,—
But is it love?”
“I see her, hear her, daily, nightly:
My secret dreams around her move,
Still nearer drawn in sweet attraction;—
Can this be love?”
“I breathe but peace when she is near me,—
A peace her absence takes away:
My heart commands her constant presence;
Will hers obey?”
...
“‘Canst thou forgive me, Angel mine,’
I cried: ‘that Love at last beguiled
My heart to build a second shrine?
See, still I kneel and weep at thine,
But I am human, thou divine!’
Still silently she smiled.
“‘Dost undivided worship claim,
To keep thine altar undefiled?
Or must I bear thy tender blame,
And in thy pardon feel my shame,
Whene’er I breathe another name?’
She looked at me, and smiled.”
...
“No treason in my love I see,
For treason cannot dwell with truth:
But later blossoms crown a tree
Too deeply set to die in youth.
The blighted promise of the old
In this new love is reconciled;
For, when my heart confessed its hold,
The lips of ancient sorrow smiled!
It brightens backward through the Past
And gilds the gloomy path I trod,
And forward, till it fades at last
In light, before the feet of God,
Where stands the saint, whose radiant brow
This solace beams, while I adore:
Be happy: if thou lovedst not now,
Thou never couldst have loved before!”
...
“Would she, my freedom and my bliss to know,
With my disloyalty be reconciled,
And from her bower in Eden look below,
And bless the Soldan’s child?
For she is lost: but she, the later bride,
Who came my ruined fortune to restore,
Back from the desert wanders at my side,
And leads me home once more.
If human love, she sighs, could move a wife
The holiest sacrifice of love to make,
Then the transfigured angel of thy life
Is happier for thy sake!”
...
“‘It was our wedding-day
A month ago,’ dear heart, I hear you say.
If months, or years, or ages since have passed,
I know not: I have ceased to question Time.
I only know that once there pealed a chime
Of joyous bells, and then I held you fast,
And all stood back, and none my right denied,
And forth we walked: the world was free and wide
Before us. Since that day
I count my life: The Past is washed away.”
CHAPTER XVII.
Grief and Despair.—Describes his Feelings.—Failing
Health.—Severe Mental Labor.—Decides to go to Africa.—Visits
Vienna.—Arrival at Alexandria.—Sails up the Nile.—Scenes
in Cairo.—The Pyramids.—The Lovely Nile.—An Important and
Pleasant Acquaintance.—A Lasting Friendship.—Learning the
Language.—Assuming the Costume.—Sights by the Way.
The great grief which Mr. Taylor felt when his wife died, was so deep
and keen that he was for many months unreconciled, and in a mental state
somewhat akin to despair. His appearance among his friends, whether at
Kennett or in the office of the “Tribune” at New York, did not, however,
betray his feelings so much as his private correspondence and occasional
poems. He was the sincerest of mourners; and his natural susceptibility
to every shade of emotion made this severe bereavement an occasion of
untold suffering. In his endeavors to banish the gloomy spectre, he
resorted to hard work. Hence, the first half of the year 1851 was one of
the busiest seasons of his life. He wrote early and late. He composed
poems and essays, wrote editorials, and edited correspondence, some of
it being the labor attached to his profession, but a great share of it
written to occupy his mind and shut out his affliction.
His “Rhymes of Travel,” which had been published after his return from
California, called the attention of the reading public to him as a poet,
and there was a strong demand for another volume. His friends urged him
to write, his uneasy heart pushed him into work, and the newspapers kept
questioning him about the advent of a second volume, until he decided
to bring out his book of “Romances, Lyrics, and Songs.” There was one
poem in that volume which was very sweet when wholly disconnected with
history, but which becomes fascinating and sad as Milton’s lament for his
eyesight, when we once know the circumstances and the mental condition in
which it was written. Two verses of that poem were printed, as follows:—
“Give me music, sad and strong,
Drawn from deeper founts than song;
More impassioned, full, and free,
Than the poet’s numbers be:
Music which can master thee,
Stern enchantress, Memory!
Piercing through the gloomy stress
Of thy gathered bitterness,
As the summer lightnings play
Through a cloud’s edge far away.
Give me music; I am dumb;
Choked with tears that never come;
Give me music; sigh or word
Such a sorrow never stirred,—
Sorrow that with blinding pain
Lies like fire on heart and brain.
Earth and heaven bring no relief,
I am dumb; this weight of grief
Locks my lips; I cannot cry:
Give me music, or I die.”
It was then that he wrote those pathetic lines, so full of his sadness
and so descriptive of his bereavement, that he was never satisfied with a
name for them and finally left them without a title, the first couplet of
which sufficiently indicates the tenor,—
“Moan, ye wild winds! around the pane,
And fall, thou drear December rain!”
Such a sorrowful heart and such an overworked brain were too great a
load for one human body to carry. His physical strength had never been
remarkable, and there had been seasons before his visit to Europe when
his health seemed permanently impaired. So when this great strain was
made upon his system it began to weaken. To continue the effort was
suicidal, and stoutly condemned by his relatives and friends. He then
recalled his exhilarating walks among the Alps and on the plains of
Europe. He kindled anew his zeal for adventure. He studied the map
of the world to decide where was presented the most favorable field
for discovery. He wished for rest from sorrow, and rest from close
application to literary work. Such a relief could only be found in a
climate and among a people wholly different from his own. In this choice
he was guided somewhat by a fortunate opportunity to cross the Atlantic
as a guest and friend, and by the accounts which a literary companion in
the office of the “Tribune” gave of the interesting people and scenery
along the coast of Palestine and Greece.
The winter had passed and the soothing winds of summer seemed so
grateful and necessary, that he decided to pass the next winter on
the Mediterranean, should his health admit of the necessary outlay of
strength. In writing about that undertaking afterwards, he said a trip
into Africa would furnish good material for a travelling correspondent
and hence that continent was selected. “But,” he said, “there were
other influences acting upon me which I did not fully comprehend at the
time, and cannot now describe without going too deeply into matters of
private history.” But while in Central Africa, enjoying the invigorating
breezes along the Nile, he reveals a part of that private history by
an incidental exclamation published in a letter to the “Tribune.” “Oh!
what a rest is this from the tantalizing and sorrowful suggestions of
civilization.” He fled from sorrow—driven into the desert.
Having reached Smyrna, on the coast of Asia Minor, by the overland
route to Constantinople _via_ Vienna, he re-embarked at that port for
Alexandria in Egypt, arriving at the latter place Nov. 1, 1851. We shall
not attempt here to give in any satisfactory detail the record of his
wanderings in Africa, as they are so charmingly and instructively told
in the book which he wrote concerning them, and as no book of travel in
Egypt, except a scientific work, can supplant or equal the many which
already honor our shelves. The writer having been over a large portion
of Mr. Taylor’s routes, and feeling much indebted to him for his
works, which were often used as guides, has perhaps a greater interest
in recording his travels, than the reader would have in going through
the story a second time. Hence, for the purposes of this outline sketch
of Mr. Taylor’s life, we shall introduce only such incidents and facts
connected with his wanderings as appear to have some direct or unusual
bearing upon his character, or which display some peculiarity of his
genius or taste.
He said, in a letter to a friend in New York, that he “owed a debt
of gratitude” to the Providence which led him, to the country which
attracted him, and to the vessel which carried him from Smyrna to
Alexandria. That sentiment was awakened in his heart by the way in which
some of the important events in his after life pointed back to that trip
and to the valuable friend he met there. Mr. Taylor was of a genial,
approachable nature, and easily made the acquaintance of any person whom
he met. But having German blood in his veins, loving the German language,
and entertaining a sincere respect for German literature, he naturally
sought the company of the German people. On the very threshold of this
trip into Africa he made the acquaintance of a German gentleman, whose
culture and geniality made him a great acquisition in a strange land.
They seem to have taken a deep interest in each other from the first
time they met. It may be because their condition in life, socially and
circumstantially, was so similar; but the more reasonable explanation is
found in their similar tastes and equal regard for the works of genius
and the beauties of nature. It will be like a romance, when told in all
its detail, as it might be now, and will be when the present generation
passes away. How little could his human understanding comprehend the
great results turning upon the simple, common-place self-introduction
to a German travelling companion! This friend, whom he met, and with
whom he made the journey up to the cataracts of the Nile, was perhaps
as remarkable a man as Taylor, and belonged to a family of scholars
and long respected agricultural citizens of the German principality of
Saxe-Coburg-Gotha.
The chief merit of Mr. Taylor’s descriptions lay in their apparent
frankness and their charming details. He appeared to think that every
reader was acquainted with the works of those great archæologists,
Lepsius and Champollion, and did not attempt to supply to his readers the
information they had already given. He seems to have imagined that all
the reading public wished to follow him, and he gave such information
as the tourist would need. He told about the clothes he purchased in
Alexandria, about the fit of his Arab attire, about the cost of a dinner,
the conversation between dragomen and boatmen, the personal appearance of
his companions, the faithlessness of his guide, the dirty appearance of
his boat, and the gorgeous sunset. He described his own sensations and
actions with the boldness of one unconscious of any motive to conceal or
deceive. He reveals the sorrow of his heart by occasional remarks such as
these: “For many months past I had known no mood of mind so peaceful and
grateful.”—“I am away from reminders of sorrow.”—“It is not the beauty of
the desert that gratifies me so much, in these days, after all, as the
absence of civilization.”
The party, which consisted of Mr. Taylor, the German companion, and an
Italian, engaged one of the Nile boats, at Alexandria, for the trip up
the Nile, and after testing the comforts, or misery, of the Egyptian
hotels, seeing Cleopatra’s Needle (now in London) and Pompey’s Pillar,
which were then as in later years about all that there was to be seen
of interest in Alexandria, they started on their lazy voyage up the
wonderful Nile. He wrote with great enthusiasm of the sweet rest he found
in a pipe of tobacco, after the manner of all habitual smokers. He seems
to have had plenty of time to muse and smoke as he slowly ascended the
stream. It has often been a subject of wonder that he could afterwards
remember so many incidents and the impressions they had made on him, when
perhaps weeks of time and some more exciting transactions had intervened.
But Mr. Taylor did not wait long before recording his ideas and comments,
and was in the habit of keeping a memoranda-book always at hand, and
while travelling, noted with a pencil any peculiar thought or incident
which awakened attention.
At Atfeh, which has been for hundreds of years an intermediate
stopping-place on the highway and river between Alexandria and Cairo,
he clambered up into the town and witnessed a marriage procession. He
appears to have been inclined to get a near view of the bride; but the
relatives hurried her off, and with cries and threatening gestures drove
him back to cover. But he decided that if he could not see the bride, he
would do the next best thing, and accordingly visited her father. The
disconsolate parent was being comforted by a hoarse chant and appeared to
be as cheerful as could be expected considering the din.
At the town of Nadir he went into a low mud hut, which pretended to be
a cafe, and there saw the Egyptian fandango danced by the inmates. He
records the shape and sound of the musical instruments and with polished
and concise language pictured the scene to the reader’s eye. This, with
the accounts of the improvements, rates of toll, and the manner of
passing the boats by locks, and government officials, with many minor
details is told in a manner which, notwithstanding the dryness of the
subject, makes most fascinating reading.
But he counted his entrance into Cairo, the capital of Egypt, as the
actual beginning of his tour into Africa. For at Alexandria and along
the Nile as far as Bourak the people exhibited some traits which connect
them with the civilized West. But Cairo is wholly Egyptian. The centuries
have made no apparent changes in the people. The donkeys, the veiled
women, the fierce Arabs, the water-skins, the fountains, the slaves,
the palms, the white domes, and the low shops revive the historical
associations and personify the Past. Like an oasis in the adjacent
desert was the Hotel d’Europe. But it served to impress the reality of
these surroundings more forcibly upon the travellers. With a readiness
and enjoyment which his companions did not share, he accustomed himself
to the manners and appearance of the people, and it was scarcely a day
before Mr. Taylor would smoke his perfumed chibouk, sit cross-legged,
and eat with his fingers like a native Arab. He rode the little donkeys
as well as any citizen of Cairo, and was even more reckless than they,
if that were possible, as he rode through the market-places at a furious
speed. The Egyptians, like the Germans, Italians, French, Hungarians,
and Syrians, felt a kind of fellowship for Mr. Taylor, and admired his
good-sense in appreciating and adopting so many of their customs. He was
the acquaintance and confidential friend of a dozen old Arabs before he
had been two days in Cairo. He was a lover of mankind. He sympathized
with them all. As the Shereef of Mecca rides by, Mr. Taylor admires his
dignity and his imposing retinue. As a marriage procession files through
the streets, he comments on the playing of the flutes, the crimson robes
of the bride, and the diadem, with the simplicity of a country maiden in
America. He enjoys the athletic tricks of the showmen, the skill of the
swordsmen, the voices of the singers, the zeal of the beggars, and the
endurance of the laborers. He is one of the same human family. They know
it, and feel it, and he is welcome.
The German acquaintance, who had not intended to go farther than Cairo,
was so delighted with Mr. Taylor’s companionship and Mr. Taylor was so
interested in him, that he decided to go up the Nile as far as Assouan,
which was on the border of the Central African countries. Mr. Taylor
speaks with sentiments of enthusiastic thankfulness of his good fortune
in thus securing a travelling companion, whose tastes and sentiments were
so akin to his own. He little thought then, that while trying to shut
out his sorrow by voluntary exile, he was opening the door to a second
love. Mr. Taylor’s singular admiration and love for his companion is
almost unaccountable, unless we adopt some theory of foreordination or
providential design.
A most interesting, amusing, and friendly trip they had up the stream,
for thousands of years so historic, in a boat manned by ten boatmen,
and of which they were the commanders. Neither of them had ever been
in Egypt before, but their maps and guide-books, coupled with their
early historical training, made the localities along their route seem
more familiar to them than to the dragomen, who made it a business to
guide travellers. They named their boat the “Cleopatra,” ran up the
Stars and Stripes to the peak, and, with contented minds but active
brains, enjoyed to the full the strange scenes and historic ruins which
showed themselves on every hand. They first visited the Pyramids,
where Mr. Taylor gratified his taste for climbing heights, and nearly
killed himself by rushing down. With characteristic regard for those
who were to come after him, Mr. Taylor rebuked the importunities of the
backsheesh-loving Arabs about the Pyramids, and obtaining no satisfaction
from them, he reported them to the chief, who compelled the greedy
desperadoes to submit to a severe whipping.
They visited ancient Memphis, which the French explorer, Mariette, was
then exhuming, and trod the pavements over which had passed the feet
of Menes, Amasis, Pharaoh, Strabo, and Cambyses. They were hospitably
entertained by the great antiquarian, and felt that such a visit was
ample reward for all their outlay. From Memphis they proceeded to Siout,
and on the way talked, composed, and sung the praises of Father Nile.
It may be that Mr. Taylor’s mood, which he so often mentions, had an
influence upon his taste, or it may be that the season was one peculiarly
adapted to the exhibition of beauty in the Nile, but the writer, in a
later year, was not so charmed by the scenery and river as Mr. Taylor
appears to have been. No other traveller has written such glowing
encomiums upon the Nile as Mr. Taylor recorded in his letters, and either
he appreciated nature more than other travellers, or there was something
in his circumstances which placed a halo of beauty about the palms and
meadows. In the “Nilotic Drinking-Song” Mr. Taylor said:—
“Cloud never gave birth, nor cradle the Earth,
To river so grand and fair as this is:
Not the waves that roll us the gold of Pactolus,
Nor cool Cephissus, nor classic Ilissus.
The lily may dip
Her ivory lip,
To kiss the ripples of clear Eurotas;
But the Nile brings balm
From the myrr and palm,
And the ripe, voluptuous lips of the lotus.
The waves that ride on his mighty tide
Were poured from the urns of unvisited mountains;
And their sweets of the South mingle cool in the mouth,
With the freshness and sparkle of Northern fountains.
Again and again
The goblet we drain—
Diviner a stream never Nereid swam on:
For Isis and Orus
Have quaffed before us,
And Ganymede dipped it for Jupiter Ammon.”
His admiration was not spasmodic, for he always mentioned the Nile as
the most majestic of rivers. To the majority of travellers, however, the
hoary ruins of mighty cities, the tombs of priests, and the pyramids of
kings are so much more exciting and mysterious, that the Nile is itself
of secondary importance.
Yet, Mr. Taylor, with all his interest in the river, did not have
less in the celebrated localities and ancient remains. He ascended
many honeycombed mountains, to creep among the bones of men who lived
thirty-five hundred years ago. He gazed with a yearning interest upon the
broken columns of unknown temples, and dreamed of their former grandeur,
while apathetically overseeing the affairs of his little monarchy over
which he kept floating the Stars and Stripes. He became so absorbed
in the climate, the people, and the history of the land, that he soon
adopted the full costume of the country and became henceforth an Arab
with the others. He was marvellously quick in picking up the words and
phrases of any language, and soon, with the aid of a small phrase-book,
he could readily converse with the natives along the shore. These
characteristics made it safe and pleasant for him to travel where many
others would have found only misery and death.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Moslem Worship.—Scenery of the Nile.—Fellowship with
the People.—The Temple of Dendera.—Mr. Taylor’s
Enthusiasm.—Luxor.—Karnak.—The Extent of Ancient Thebes.—The
Tombs and Statues.—The Natives.—Arrives at Assouan.—The Island
of Philæ,—Separation of the Friends.—Starts for the White
Nile.—Trip through the Desert.—Again on the Nile.—Reception by
the People and Officials.—Visits Ancient Meroe.
Mr. Taylor’s sympathy with all mankind led him to regard with sincere
respect the daily religious ceremonies which his Moslem boatmen
performed, with their faces toward Mecca. He often mentioned their
punctuality and apparent sincerity, and contrasted it with some of the
formal, half-hearted proceedings in some Christian churches. His regard
for conscientious worship, which appeared to characterize the ignorant
Arabs, appears more striking to persons who have travelled the same
route over which Mr. Taylor went, for it is so common a sight to see
bigoted, conceited Europeans ridiculing the prostrations, prayers, and
gestures of the worshippers. The writer most keenly regrets having been
compelled to witness the caricaturing of a Moslem at prayer, by a coarse,
hard-hearted, brutal Christian countryman, while the sad and shocked
believers in Mahomet stood by, scarce able to resist the temptation to
throw the Frank into the Nile. In the lovable, noble character of Mr.
Taylor, there was no inclination to ridicule the conscientious belief of
any man, and instinctively he kept silent and patiently endured the delay
when the call to prayer took his employees from their labor. In return
for his sincere regard for them, he received the love and most faithful
service of the natives. They stole nothing from him. They shielded him
from enemies and affectionately cared for his health.
Thus, with friends for boatmen, an admirer for a guide, and a most
agreeable comrade for a travelling companion, he floated along, inhaling
from every breeze the essence of health and comfort. The banks were
covered with the richest and rarest verdure, for it was the Egyptian
spring. There were luxuriant grasses, palms and sugar-cane; there
flourished wheat, cotton, maize, hemp, indigo, tobacco, oranges, olives,
and dates, springing from the richest soil which civilized man has yet
seen. Harvests came and went in confused succession; the ripe fruit
with blossom; threshing-floors piled with ripe dourra, while around,
the new wheat seeking the sunlight, betokened a bounty munificent and
inexhaustible. So prolific and speedy was the growth of the crops that
the people could not, with their rude implements, avail themselves of
the full benefits of one harvest before its rank successors forced them
to turn their labor into other channels. Then, as now, the fields, for
miles inland from the river, were checkered with canals, and the rude
water-wheel and awkward “well-sweep” were kept in constant motion to
supply the vast amount of water necessary to the irrigation of hundreds
of square miles. There were goats, mules, horses, and a variety of fowl,
and in the wild nooks a grand collection of birds of the gayest songs and
plumage. The sky was clear, the air balmy, the breezes cool and light,
the cabin of their boat was spacious, and their beds comfortable. It was
“a soothing experience for an aching heart.”
In the first week of December they arrived at Dendera, where stands in
majestic completeness one of the most ancient temples of Egypt. It has
for thousands of years been half buried in the earth, and at one time
must have been nearly hid by the shifting sands of the desert which
once surrounded the pile. The impression which the gigantic columns,
sixty feet high, and the enormous blocks of stone, eight feet thick,
gave to them, is doubtless shared in some degree by all travellers. As
he walked through the shadowy recesses, each aperture seeming like a
deep cave in a rocky mountain, he was filled with a solemn sense of awe
and sadness, which so overwhelmed him that he peered about the avenues
in silence, and involuntarily stood on tip-toe. The sombre grandeur of
the massive masonry, the sacred associations connected with the ancient
worship of Osiris and Isis, the wonderful tales of wars, tyrannies,
famines, plagues, Rameses, Moses, Pharaoh, Alexander, Ptolemy, Cambyses,
and Napoleon, which those lofty statues could tell if their symmetrical
lips could speak, awaken indescribable emotions, deep, thrilling, and
permanent. Mr. Taylor saw a grace and an artistic merit in the stone
figures, and in the hieroglyphics that adorned the temple, which few
travellers detect or admit. To many travellers the figures on those old
porches and halls seem rude and often out of proportion, and the writer
confesses to having been one of the latter class. But Mr. Taylor’s
appreciating scrutiny may be accounted for on the basis that with his
poetical instincts and thorough culture in art, there were beauties in
those works of ancient sculptors, latent to others, but apparent and
striking to him. But there is no disagreement as to the unspeakable
solemnity of the place and the gloom of its lonely halls.
The next night they reached Luxor, and caught the first glimpse of those
interesting ruins by moonlight. There, silent and stately, arose the
great Colonnade. There, quietly recalling the ancients, stood the twin
Obelisk to the one at which Mr. Taylor had often looked in the Place de
la Concorde in Paris, when as a boy he dreamed of distant Egypt. For
seven miles around the Temple of Luxor are the ruins of ancient Thebes,
within which were once the temples of Karnak, Luxor, Goorneh, Memnonium,
and hundreds more, which now cumber the otherwise fertile plains.
Thebes, with its hundred gates, with its countless armies, with its wise
men, its Colossus that sang in the morning sunlight, its avenues of
sphinxes and gods in stone, lay broken, spurned, and dead before them.
The same moon looked down on them that gazed on the priests of Isis and
the palace of its Cæsars. No one can imagine anything so solemn and grand
as to stand in the moonlight on the haunted plains of ancient Thebes!
One may have thought the Coliseum at Rome impressive beyond description
when seen in the favorable light of an autumn moon, but when compared
with Thebes it is tame and insignificant. Ages and ages before the
rape of the Sabines, these temples had been constructed. They saw the
morning of civilization; but now they are ruined and useless, the night
seems best fitted for an appreciative view of them. Among the mighty
colonnades whose columns are broken and falling, and around gigantic
remains of ancient statues carved from a mountain of stone, Mr. Taylor
wandered for two whole days. He scrutinized closely the long rows of
ancient tombs, and stood in the rocky grave of Rameses I. The pictures
on the walls of the tombs, the kind of rock, the original shape of the
temples, the employments of the ancient races, the blue sky overhead,
the clear atmosphere around, together with sketches of history and
poetical allusions, shared in the interesting letters which Mr. Taylor
wrote from Thebes. Such scenes contain an inspiration and an education
which make scholars and statesmen of such as love history and appreciate
the lessons those ruins teach. To one of Mr. Taylor’s disposition, a
visit to such a place was a privilege not to be lightly thrown away. He
investigated everything, and in a manner bordering on recklessness he
descended through small holes into dark subterranean tombs, and with
equal hardihood walked the crumbling roofs and cornices of the lofty
ruins. He looked with disgust on the evidences of spoliations which were
to be seen in splintered columns and fragments of ancient frescoes, and
which were the work of scientific explorers. He regarded with a jealous
anxiety the evidences of vandalism and decay, and wished sincerely
that time and man would allow those precious relics of the old régime
to remain forever intact. He appears to have regarded those massive
wrecks as half-human, and sympathized with their forsaken and friendless
condition.
But in all this antiquarian excitement, which usually occupies the
undivided attention of less enthusiastic travellers, Mr. Taylor
neglected not the living. He witnessed with interest the graces of the
Arabian dancing-girls, noticed the features of the beggar-boys, the
methods of teaching children the Koran, and the worn appearance of the
water-carriers.
Leaving Luxor, they spent three or four days ascending the river to
Assouan, and in visiting the villages, old temples, half-buried cities,
and gorgeously decorated tombs in the mountain-sides, which are almost
numberless in the valley of Upper Egypt. At Assouan, he was most
cordially received by the Governor and was given a friendly greeting
by all the officials he met. From that town he made several excursions
with his German friend, the most interesting of which was that to
the cataract of the Nile and the island of Philæ. There he saw the
celebrated temple of the time of the Ptolemies, which he looked upon as
modern, because it was not over twenty-two hundred years old. But he
felt sufficient interest in the ruins of the old city to describe that
marvellous colonnade which has astonished so many visitors to the island
of Philæ. The reader of his letters can detect, however, in Mr. Taylor’s
description of columns, aisles, roofs, walls, capitals, sculptures,
monoliths, and colossi, a vein of sadness which may have colored his
views. At all events the ruins of Philæ did not impress him as they seem
to have affected other visitors. The fact that he was so soon to part
with a companion for whom he felt a love like that of Jonathan for David,
may have had more or less influence upon his capacity to enjoy scenery
or the remains of antiquity: for the writer looked upon Philæ as one of
the most interesting localities of the lower Nile, and cannot but regard
the ruined temple as one of the grandest in Egypt. They visited the
fields, villages, the tombs, the ancient quarry, wherein half-sculptured
statues and columns still remain unmoved, and after a day of antiquarian
research they rode back to their boat, as he said “with heavy hearts.”
The next day came the hour of parting; and these two men, one a young
man, the other an elderly gentleman, who had been utter strangers forty
days before, now clung to each other with the sincerest brotherly love
and parted in tears. How little did Mr. Taylor think, as he saw the boat
sailing away for Cairo with the Saxe-Coburg colors at the peak, where he
had so long kept the Stars and Stripes, that they would meet again in the
sunny southern lands of Europe, and that another person would join their
company for life and make up what he termed “a sacred triad.” He thought
then that the parting might be for all time. He was going into an unknown
wilderness, while his friend sought again the lands of civilization:
it was a long time before either could dispel the gloom which their
separation left about them.
[Illustration: PHILÆ COLONNADE.]
Mr. Taylor took another boat at Assouan and proceeded to Korosko,
where, with the assistance of the Governor and a wild Arab chieftain,
whose friendship was purchased by presents and sociability, he secured
the necessary camels and outfit for a trip across the desert. It was a
hazardous undertaking for a stranger, alone, unknown, to traverse the
desert. If he was murdered, none of the authorities would care, nor
would his death become known. He might contract the terrible fever. He
was liable to be eaten by wild beasts, and he ran great risk of dying
of thirst or hunger on the hot sands of a trackless desert. The way had
been travelled many times before, but was all the more dangerous because
of the opportunity it gave robbers to lie in wait for tourists. But he
unhesitatingly entered upon the journey, trusting in the friendship of
his Nubian and Arabian servants, and in his own ability to withstand
the heat of the sands and the attacks of African fever. Camping in the
desert sands, riding a dromedary in the scorching sun, living upon
rudely prepared food, drinking lukewarm water, with the sight of bones
and carcasses by the way to warn him, and the occasional appearance of
sickly returning caravans to dishearten him, he passed that arm of the
desert between the first cataract of the Nile and Abou-Hammed. Thence
his little caravan of six camels followed the winding river to a small
town, El Mekheyref, where he dismissed his friendly companions, excepting
one, who had accompanied him from Cairo, and set sail again on the Nile.
Everywhere he was received with kindness and hospitality by the natives
and by the Governors. His servants were so much interested in his welfare
that they told the natives that he was a high official in the country
from which he came, and he was treated with the respect the Eastern
people think is due to persons of high rank. All disclaimers from him
were considered to be actuated by feelings of modesty and elevated him in
the estimation of his entertainers.
His visit to Meroe was an interesting episode in his long pilgrimage,
although he did not make such diligent search as an antiquarian among its
crumbling walls as he had done in some of the other ancient cities. Yet
his descriptions of that place are most vivid pictures and convey an idea
of the topography of the capital of that ancient kingdom in a manner most
readable to the stranger and very important to students of history.
CHAPTER XIX.
From Meroe to Khartoum.—Twenty-seventh Birth-day.—Desire to
Explore Central Africa.—Ascent of the White Nile.—Adventure
with the Savage Shillooks.—Visits the Natives.—Return to
Khartoum.—Crossing the Desert.—Parting with Friends.—Descent of
the Nile.—Arrival at Cairo.
The journey from Meroe to Khartoum on the Ethiopian Nile, Mr. Taylor
enjoyed very much, having little to do but amuse the sailors and be in
turn amused with stories of Mohammed, of Haroun-al-Raschid, and the
oriental wonders contained in songs and traditions. The climate gave him
health, his genial good-nature brought him friends, and his experience
would supply the necessities of life in after years. There were narrow
escapes from animals, men, and treacherous rapids; but he had become
accustomed to such things, and assumed enough of the Arab character to
exclaim with them, at each escape, “It is the will of Allah.” The day
before he arrived at Khartoum was Mr. Taylor’s twenty-seventh birthday.
Having letters to many of the officials of Khartoum, which was a military
and trading station at the junction of the Blue and the White Nile, he
received a cordial welcome, which made him feel at once that he was
among friends. He was then at the extreme outskirts of civilization.
All beyond was dark and unknown. Trading caravans consisting of Arabs
and natives often visited the interior, and small boats frequently went
farther up the Nile for purposes of traffic. But there was little known
about the people, the topography of the country, or of the course of the
Nile. There was a Catholic mission at Khartoum, where the missionaries
treated Mr. Taylor with great consideration and kindness. Some of them
had made exploring excursions into the wilds of Central Africa, and it
was his hope that he could get into some expedition with them during that
season. But in that he was disappointed. None of the missionaries were
intending to visit the tribes to the south that season, and no other
suitable opportunity presented itself. He did not give up the hope of
seeing the unexplored regions of the interior, until he had exhausted
every means in his power for procuring a fit escort. The unfortunate
combination of circumstances, which prevented him from searching for
the sources of the Nile, postponed the revelations which he would have
made, until they were unfolded by another newspaper correspondent, H. M.
Stanley.
So persistent was Mr. Taylor in his purpose to travel beyond the
boundaries of the known, that he resolved to go up the White Nile alone,
except a few servants. He had met Captain Peele, whose accounts of the
curiosities to be found farther inland made him the more anxious to get a
glimpse beyond. So he hired a boat, and amid the doubts of his servants
and the misgivings of his new-found friends, he set sail up the White
Nile. He could not hire the boatmen for a long voyage, as they feared
the fierce cannibals of the interior, and as they were going beyond the
protection of any military force. Trusting to his persuasive powers, he
started with them, deciding to go just as far as he could get them to
accompany him.
On a lone river, where no other sail was to be seen; in a wilderness,
where even the human beings were as the lions and hyenas; with no friend
of his own race near him, he sailed on, in confidence, never seeming
to think that he might die there alone and never be heard of by his
relatives again. Crocodiles, hippopotami, and giraffes flourished there,
and man was the plaything of both elements and beasts. Through the
wildest scenery, among the strangest birds and animals, he pursued his
course, trembling night and day lest his crew should at any moment refuse
to go farther.
At last they came to the country of the Shillooks. That wild tribe of
negroes was known to the boatmen through nursery tales and traditional
stories, wherein the savages were given very bad names; and when Mr.
Taylor informed them that he purposed to visit the village of those
horrid man-eaters, they regarded him with looks of the most profound
astonishment. But with a hardihood that by its boldness secured
acquiescence, he commanded them to row him to the banks of the Nile,
where the long rows of primitive huts were to be seen. Through captives
and merchants the kingdom of the Shillooks had become partially known,
and a kind of jargon, like the pigeon-English of the Chinese, served the
purposes of communication. One of Mr. Taylor’s company could talk with
them slightly, and with him as an interpreter, and another servant for a
protector, he walked boldly into the village of the savages, taking no
weapons, lest he should create suspicion. But they received him coldly
and with much show of suspicion and treachery. It was a most dangerous
experiment, and it is a matter of wonder that he was allowed to depart.
There were large numbers of armed men around him, brandishing spears and
clubs, and demanding of him all sorts of impossible presents. But with a
calmness and seeming confidence, Mr. Taylor smoked with the chief, and
exchanged presents with the subordinate officials, until they became
friendly and docile, laying down their weapons and conversing cheerfully
through the interpreter. Yet they laid a plan for plundering the party,
and would at the last perhaps have murdered the whole crew, had not Mr.
Taylor most adroitly and coolly foiled them in their designs.
All attempts to persuade his men to go farther were useless. No urging,
no promise of gifts, no threats would induce them to sail farther
south, as they believed that it was but a little way to “the end of the
world.” How eagerly he yearned for some chance to explore the country
beyond, he often mentioned in after life. He was at the centre of a
mighty continent. Locked and bolted it had been for all the ages, and
it appeared as if the door was now open and he had only to walk in to
discover its treasures. But alas! he could not go on alone. He could not
swim the length of the river, nor find his way among the elephants and
lions of the jungle. The boat turned back toward Khartoum, and he had no
choice but to return with it.
However, he made the most of the trip, and frequently visited the shore
and had some very pleasant and instructive interviews with the tribes
who live in that region. At one place he visited a village of the
Hassaniyehs, and contrary to the experience of many other travellers,
he was cordially invited to their circle and treated with sincere
hospitality. He mentioned in his book the dance of welcome which the
young women of the village performed before him, and described with
interesting detail their motions, features, forms, voices, and habits.
Thus, with visits to savages, interviews with wild beasts, and exquisite
views of the wildest scenery ever beheld by man, he floated back to the
friends and dwellings of Khartoum.
His stay in Khartoum, on his return, was brief, because of the
approaching sickly season; but every hour of his time, when awake, was
occupied in visiting and being visited. Native chiefs, Arab merchants,
holy men of the Moslem faith, Catholic priests, princesses, soldiers,
consuls, boatmen, and tame lions, seemed equally at home in his
presence; and his stay was a most delightful one for all concerned.
His parting with his friends at Khartoum was akin to the separation of
life-long friends, or the breaking of a family circle. To him the whole
world was kin.
[Illustration: SCENE IN NORTH AFRICA.]
From Khartoum he travelled in a caravan of camels, chartered by him
for an escort, leaving the Nile and striking into the desert. With
camel-drivers hard to control, with a burning sun overhead, and sands
nearly as hot beneath, he traversed the desert unharmed. Once he slept
with a deadly snake under his blanket, unconscious of his fearful danger
until he rolled up his blanket in the morning. The open air, the free
sun, sleeping on the sand, and eating the coarse food of the natives,
gave him a vigor and healthy delight which inconveniences and dangers
could not overcome. Sometimes the heat was so intense that the skin of
his face peeled off, and once or twice he felt the effects of “the desert
intoxication,” resulting from the monotonous scene and terrible heat. It
was a dizzy sensation, and is often thought to be a symptom of dangerous
disease. Changing camels at intermediate stations, and visiting the ruins
of ancient cities and fortresses, where he found them cropping out of the
sand or adorning some rugged mountain, he travelled on to Abdom, Dongola
and Wady-Halfa, where he embarked in a boat for Assouan. His parting
with his old dromedary, and with his guides, at Wady-Halfa, is mentioned
by him with the same regret that he experienced in leaving his other
friends. But his farewell, in Cairo, to his trusted servant Achmet, who
had been his faithful companion from Cairo up the Nile and back, drew
tears from the eyes of both.
His voyage from Wady-Halfa to Cairo was so nearly like his trip up the
Nile, that for the purposes of this work it is necessary only to say
that he visited many scenes and many ruins which were omitted on his
way up the river, and refreshed his memory by a second visit to the
most celebrated localities. He met many travellers, and heard from
civilization again, arriving in the capital of Egypt on the first day of
April, 1852, in excellent spirits and in good health, save a troublesome
soreness of the eyes, caused by the reflection of the sun on the water.
The thin and frail body had assumed a fullness and strength surprising to
note, and the broken heart had so accustomed itself to its load of grief
that the weight seemed lighter than at first.
On the Nile he wrote a poem containing among others, these expressive
lines:—
“Mysterious Flood,—that through the silent sands
Hast wandered, century on century,
Watering the length of green Egyptian lands,
Which were not, but for thee,—”
“Thou guardest temple and vast pyramid,
Where the gray Past records its ancient speech;
But in thine unrevealing breast lies hid
What they refuse to teach.”
“What were to thee the Osirian festivals?
Or Memnon’s music on the Theban plain?
The carnage, when Cambyses made thy halls
Ruddy with royal slain?”
“In thy solemnity, thine awful calm,
Thy grand indifference of Destiny,
My soul forgets its pain, and drinks the balm
Which thou dost proffer me.”
—_Taylor._
CHAPTER XX.
Departure from Egypt.—A Poet in Palestine.—Difference
in Travellers.—Mr. Taylor’s Appreciation.—First View of
Tyre.—Route to Jerusalem.—The Holy City.—Bath in the Dead
Sea.—Appearance of Jerusalem.—Samaria.—Looking down upon
Damascus.—Life in the eldest City.—The Bath.—Dose of
Hashish.—Being a Turk among Turks.
“The Poet came to the Land of the East,
When Spring was in the air:
The earth was dressed for a wedding feast,
So young she seemed, and fair;
And the poet knew the Land of the East—
His soul was native there.
All things to him were the visible forms
Of early and precious dreams,—
Familiar visions that mocked his quest
Beside the Western streams,
Or gleamed in the gold of the clouds, unrolled
In the sunset’s dying beams.”
—_Taylor_, 1852.
If there is any land where every grain of sand and every blade of grass
is pervaded by thrilling associations, that land is Palestine. Especially
and peculiarly animated are its hills and vales to a poet such as Taylor
proved to be. It may be that some superficial and matter-of-fact people
who have visited the Holy Land in the hot season, have not felt the charm
of its sacredness, owing to heat, barrenness, vermin, and beggars. There
may be a small class of iconoclastic jokers, who, caring not how holy or
tender the theme, never fail to use it for ridicule, if it suits their
humoristic purpose. But the large class of travellers who visit Jerusalem
and the country round about, feel the inspiring presence of the Past,
and enjoy in an indescribable fullness the associations connected with
it. In a higher and nobler degree, the mind imbued with poetic images,
a ready imagination, and a keen discernment of beauty in landscape or
history, will avail itself of the great opportunities for pleasure and
profit which such a land supplies. In this sense Mr. Taylor enjoyed a
great advantage. He made his physical being so subordinate to his mental,
that no fatigue, no hunger, no thirst, no annoyance from beggars, nor
fears of robbers, could interfere with the appreciation of the beautiful.
How greatly he enjoyed his visit to Palestine, none but intimate friends
ever knew. In his letters, he often gave way to enthusiastic expressions,
and in his book, often gave very vivid descriptions of what had been,
as well as that which then existed. But a fear of exaggeration through
praise, and a modest misgiving lest his poetical fancy should not suit
his readers, led him to write in a more prosy vein than he talked. In
conversation with friends in Germany and America, and often in his
lectures, after he had finished his tours, he graphically pictured the
impressive events of the past connected with Palestine, which seemed
to pass like a panorama before him. To him, such a land would be full
of interest, whether he trod its fields at a time of the year when it
was luxuriant, or at a season when the sun and simoon have made it a
desert. To lie upon its burning sands and dream of the sweltering hosts
that fought around the spot; to bask in the cool shades of its olives
and cedars, and think of Gethsemane and the sweets of Sharon; to stand
on the summit of the Mount of Olives, Carmel, or Hermon, and realize the
almost overwhelming fact that before him were the plains, hills, valleys,
conquered and reconquered since man was made, and which were peopled by
the great, the good, the wild, and the bloodthirsty of every age; to
recognize the localities where dwelt or fought the heroes of Holy Writ;
to feel the presence of the King of kings as “on mysterious wings” he
swept the plain and shielded his people; to walk on the very path whereon
the Son of God had often placed his feet; to dream in the starlight of
Apostles, priests, Romans, Crusaders, and Saracens, was an experience
especially gratifying to him, and interesting to a greater or less degree
to all travellers. The writer recalls, perhaps in an imperfect form, a
verse which Mr. Taylor wrote during his stay in Palestine, and which came
to the writer with singular force while carelessly wandering along the
valley between Jerusalem and the Mount of Olives.
“Thy strength, Jerusalem, is o’er,
And broken are thy walls;
The harp of Israel sounds no more
In thy deserted halls:
But where thy Kings and Prophets trod,
Triumphant over death,
Behold the living soul of God,—
The Christ of Nazareth!
The halo of his presence fills
Thy courts, thy ways of men;
His footsteps on thy holy hills
Are beautiful as then;
The prayer, whose bloody sweat betrayed
His human agony,
Still haunts the awful olive-shade
Of old Gethsemane.”
To him the past was real. He saw the fields of corn, the ancient
olive-trees, the high walls, and the high towers, upon which the Saviour
looked. He saw again Abraham, Samuel, Saul, David, Isaiah, Jeremiah,
Pilate, and their associates. He walked in imagination in the welcoming
crowd as they strewed the branches along the path from Bethany to
Jerusalem. He saw the council chamber, the cross, and the ascension. He
dreamed of the gathering armies at Antioch and Joppa, whose banners at
last waved over the palace of Godfrey of Bouillon in Jerusalem. To him
the gates of history swung wide open, and he wandered back through the
centuries, meeting patriarch and maiden, shepherd and warrior, prophet
and judge, seer and apostle, in a companionship social and confidential.
It was like long generations of experience to walk those hallowed fields
and realize the wonderful tales of history. In this, as much as in the
views of the present, is found the profit resulting from travel in such
lands. One lives over the tales of which he has read, with each locality
serving as a fresh reminder of the unnoted details. He is an old man in
experience who has travelled in the right spirit over those eldest lands
of the world; and few indeed is the number of tourists who can feel that
they have done so.
Mr. Taylor, like Longfellow, Tennyson, and Scott, had a gift of looking
through the present into the past, and held delightful communion with
the old days. Trying, however, with a laudable desire to instruct his
readers, he kept studiously close to the simple facts of his actual
experience, and in his narrative seldom allowed himself to fall into
poetical expressions.
He left Egypt about the middle of the month of April and landed at
Beyrout, which was not at that time, nor since, a very attractive
locality. It was made more unpleasant to him by an incarceration in a
kind of prison called the “Quarantine.” But with a resignation worthy
of the oldest Turk, he made the best of his circumstances, and judging
by the account he has given of it, he had an easy, jolly time of it.
Released from the prison he travelled down the shore of the Mediterranean
to Tyre, with whose remnant he seems to have been deeply impressed. The
old Tyre, with its fleets, with its enormous stocks of merchandise,
with its lofty piles of cedar timber, with its gorgeous purple robes,
with its bulwarks and battlements, with its armed defenders and hosts
of besiegers, arose from its crumbled fragments and passed through the
panoramic changes which so startle the student of Syrian history.
After leaving the village which now replaces the ancient city, he rode
down the sandy shore and composed a poem which was afterwards somewhat
changed, but in which was retained the boldness of the waves, which then
beat at his feet.
“The wild and windy morning is lit with lurid fire;
The thundering surf of ocean beats on the rocks of Tyre,—
Beats on the fallen columns and round the headland roars,
And hurls its foamy volume along the hollow shores,
And calls with angry clamor, that speaks its long desire:
‘Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of Tyre?’
Within her cunning harbor, choked with invading sand,
No galleys bring their freightage, the spoils of every land,
And like a prostrate forest, when autumn gales have blown,
Her colonnades of granite lie shattered and o’erthrown;
And from the reef the pharos no longer flings its fire,
To beacon home from Tarshish, the lordly ships of Tyre.”
“Where is the wealth of ages that heaped thy princely mart?
The pomp of purple trappings; the gems of Syrian art;
The silken goats of Kedar; Sabæa’s spicy store;
The tributes of the islands thy squadrons homeward bore,
When in thy gates triumphant they entered from the sea
With sound of horn and sackbut, of harp and psaltery.”
“Though silent and forgotten, yet Nature still laments
The pomp and power departed, the lost magnificence:
The hills were proud to see thee, and they are sadder now;
The sea was proud to bear thee, and wears a troubled brow,
And evermore the surges chant forth their vain desire:
‘Where are the ships of Tarshish, the mighty ships of Tyre?’”
One of the most sublime experiences of life is to stand where he stood,
with the great waves rolling up the beach and shaking the earth with
their powerful surges, and with the spray breaking about the dark ruins
of the ancient city, and there repeat the poem from which the above
verses are taken. It gives power and life to the words which can never
be felt or seen by those who have never heard the bellowings or felt the
shocks of the Mediterranean surf.
From Tyre he ascended Mount Carmel, and following the shore to Jaffa,
took the usual route to Jerusalem. It was the most pleasant season of the
year (April), and all vegetation was fast springing into its bountiful
life. The cactus, orange, and pomegranate were in bloom, and all nature
seemed in its most cheerful mood. So like a paradise did it look to him,
that it was some little time before he could get into that frame of mind
which brought a realization that he was in that land of great renown. But
as that thrilling moment arrived when he stepped upon the highest plateau
of the mountains near Jerusalem and looked with astonished eyes over the
valley and on the “City of our God and the mountain of his holiness,”
he felt, with a sudden thrill, that he was in the presence of the Great
and the Holy. With emotions that cannot be described he rode over those
sacred fields and entered the gates of the city.
From Jerusalem he made an excursion, by the way of Bethany, to the Dead
Sea. It was a sultry day, and he suffered much from the heat, having
therein a suggestion of the rain of fire and brimstone which destroyed
the cities whose ruins are supposed to be petrified at the bottom of
the Dead Sea. With his usual hardihood he plunged fearlessly into the
bituminous waters of the Dead Sea, and seemed to enjoy what no traveller
who has since indulged in that bath is known to have enjoyed, the
buoyance of the water and the sensations caused by the volcanic materials
held in solution.
On his return to the city he remained for several days examining the
sacred localities and contending with the crowds of beggars and guides
who blocked the narrow and filthy streets of Jerusalem. The wretchedness,
poverty, disease, and filth of the people are so prominent and so
loathsome, that unless the ordinary traveller keeps constantly on his
guard, he will forget all the old and holy associations in his disgust
for the city of to-day. It is said that the city is less dirty and less
stricken with disease than it was in 1850. If such be the fact, it is
a marvel indeed how Mr. Taylor ever found a fit place for his Muse,
which so frequently visited him there. He seems, however, to have been
deeply interested in everything, having about as little faith in what
the guides told him about the locality of the Holy Sepulchre, Calvary,
Gethsemane, and the true cross, as travellers in more modern times
appear to entertain. Jerusalem was not only all that we have represented
it to be outwardly, but the people would lie beyond the fables of any
other people; would steal and would murder. To be much troubled by these
facts would destroy the poetry of the place, and Mr. Taylor allowed none
of those things to move him. He wrote of the facts as he found them,
uncolored by the imagination, and seems to have flattered himself that he
was not as sentimental as the travellers who had preceded him. If he was
so very practical, whence such beautiful poetry?
“Fair shines the moon, Jerusalem,
Upon the hills that wore
Thy glory once, their diadem
Ere Judah’s reign was o’er:
The stars on hallowed Olivet
And over Zion burn,
But when shall rise thy splendor, set?
Thy majesty return?”
On the 7th of May he left Jerusalem, in company with another traveller
and the mule-drivers, taking the route by way of Samaria to Nazareth
through a country at that season covered with the richest and freshest
foliage. Along the entire route the tourist seldom passes out of sight
of broken columns, falling fortresses, gray old monasteries, dismal
hermitages, and Roman masonry. The olive and fig trees shaded the path,
and with the wide fields of grain gave the appearance of thrift and
enterprise. He visited Shechem, where it is said that Joseph was buried,
and near which he was thrown into the pit by his brethren. There Mr.
Taylor saw Samaritans of the original stock, and there he was shown an
ancient manuscript of Hebrew Law, said to be three thousand years old.
He made a short stop at Nazareth and was shown where the mother of Christ
had resided, the table from which Christ ate, and the school-room (?) in
which Christ is said to have been taught.
Going thence he ascended Mount Tabor, as it was his custom to climb all
the mountains he could reach, and then hastened on to the Sea of Galilee.
There he swam in its crystal water, and visited the Mount of Beatitudes,
Joseph’s Well, and Magadala, the home of Mary Magdalene. Passing Cesarea
Philippi, and crossing the anti-Lebanon range of mountains in imminent
danger of robbery and death from the rebellious tribes of Druses which
inhabited that region, they came out on the afternoon of May 19th in view
of the lovely city of Damascus.
Mr. Taylor made a sketch of himself as he appeared in his Eastern
costume, while seated on an eminence that afternoon, overlooking the most
ancient city in the world. In one of the rooms of Mr. Taylor’s lovely
home of Cedarcroft there hangs a large painting, of considerable merit,
and said to be an excellent portrait, which was executed by a friend
from that sketch. It represents Mr. Taylor sitting in Oriental posture,
on the mountain-side, with the domes, minarets, and embowered walls of
Damascus on the distant plain. He always held that painting to be a
treasure, connecting him, as it did, with those scenes of early travel,
and with the friend who made the painting, and with those who admired it.
He was delighted with Damascus. It was placed in the centre of a plain
whereon grew in the greatest abundance all the fruits and all the
varieties of leaf and blossom known to the tropic zone. No other spot
yet explored can boast such beautiful trees; such a profusion of roses;
such blossoms of jessamine and pomegranate; such loads of walnuts, figs,
olives, apricots; such luxuriant grasses, and such productive fields, as
that land which has been cultivated by man the longest. Nature has set
the crown upon Damascus and blessed it with a superabundance of vegetable
life. But what is given to verdure seems to be taken from humanity, for,
regarded as a whole, he found the people of the city to be a rather bad
lot. Yet there, as elsewhere, he found agreeable companions and warm
friends. He made himself so much at home that he soon appeared like a
native, and all the labyrinths of bazars and alleys were as familiar to
him after a few days’ stay as they seemed to be to the oldest resident.
He liked their life so well that he soon learned to enjoy to its full
the physical comfort and mental rest of the Turkish bath. He ever after
referred to the bath at Damascus as the acme of bodily satisfaction.
The fact that so many travellers have been disappointed in the enjoyment
of the bath does not show Mr. Taylor’s account to be so much overdrawn,
as it shows the difference between the pleasure to be derived from the
pastimes of any people by those who adhere more or less to their own
tastes and customs, and those who, like Mr. Taylor, fall wholly and
heartily into the ways and thoughts of the native. When in Damascus,
he not only did as they do outwardly, but he set his mind in the same
channel, and knew what it was to be a Turk in aspirations as well as in
dress. No other traveller known to literature ever entered so completely
into the experience and social companionship of the people whom he
visited.
In order that he might leave no habit untried which came within his
reach, he took a potion of hashish, to test its strength and effects. The
drug did not begin to intoxicate him quite as soon as he expected, and
he doubled the dose, thus taking six times as much as would intoxicate
an ordinary Turk. It made him terribly ill; and it was almost miraculous
that he survived the shock to his system. He did not try the strength of
that drug again. Among the friends he made, and whose home he visited
at Damascus, was a family of Maronite Christians, who, eight years
later, were heinously butchered by the Moslems during the great massacre
following the Druses’ and Marnoites’ dispute in 1860.
CHAPTER XXI.
Leaving Damascus.—Arrival at Beyrout.—Trip to
Aleppo.—Enters Asia Minor.—The Scenery and People.—The
Hills of Lebanon.—Beautiful Scenes about Brousa.—Enters
Constantinople.—A Prophesy.—Return to Smyrna.—Again
in Italy.—Visits his German Friend at Gotha.—The
Home of his Second Love.—Goes to London.—Visits
Gibraltar.—Cadiz.—Seville.—Spanish History.
“Upon the glittering pageantries
Of gay Damascus streets I look
As idly as a babe, that sees
The painted pictures of a book.”
—_Taylor’s Oriental Idyl._
From Damascus Mr. Taylor journeyed to Baalbec, where are the most
imposing ruins to be found in Syria, and where stand six of the most
symmetrical and exquisitely carved columns to be seen in Asia or Europe.
He described the temples and fragments so vividly, that travellers who
have taken his “Lands of the Saracen” for a guide have seldom been
disappointed or mistaken in their anticipations, the actual scene they
look upon being so like the image they formed in their minds while
reading his description. The gift of portraying through the combination
of words and sentences an accurate picture of a city existing in a
strange land and amid a strange people, is a rare gift, and the number
is very few of those who are found to possess it. Mr. Taylor was one of
those privileged ones. In his description we see the columns, cornices,
pediments, walls, platforms, broken pillars, and falling pavilions as
distinctly as they appear when we afterwards look upon those romantic
piles with the natural eye. To him, as to others, it was a study to
determine, if possible, how such enormous blocks of stone, sixty-two feet
long and ten feet in diameter, could have been transported and placed in
the buildings. It is beyond all the skill of to-day to move nine thousand
tons of stone in a single block with the conveniences of that time.
From Baalbec he ascended the Lebanon range of mountains, and looked over
the land from the snowy peak of one of its lofty summits. He visited the
sacred cedars which have lived on the mountain-side for three thousand
years, and then rode on through chasms, along cliffs, and by the sweetest
and richest dells, until he descended to the plain of Beyrout.
His appreciation of the hills of Lebanon is more clearly seen in his
poetry than in his prose. For, when writing of them afterwards, he said:—
“Lebanon, thou mount of story,
Well we know thy sturdy glory,
Since the days of Solomon;
Well me know the Five old Cedars,
Scarred by ages,—silent pleaders,
Preaching in their gray sedateness,
Of thy forest’s fallen greatness,
Of the vessels of the Tyrian
And the palaces Assyrian
And the temple on Moriah
To the High and Holy One!
Know the wealth of thy appointment—
Myrrh and aloes, gum and ointment;
But we knew not, till we clomb thee,
Of the nectar dropping from thee,—
Of the pure, pellucid Ophir
In the cups of vino d’oro,
On the hills of Lebanon!”
In that city he laid his plans for the future, and abandoned his
purposed trip to the Euphrates and Tigris. He relinquished the design
to visit Assyria with great reluctance, and decided to pass through the
interior of Asia Minor to Constantinople. Acting immediately upon this
resolution, without an apparent doubt of being able to traverse safely
the unknown interior of Asia Minor, he engaged a vessel and sailed up
the coast to the Orontes River, and thence to Aleppo. In that city, by a
ludicrous mistake, Mr. Taylor and his travelling companion were invited
to the house of one of the wealthiest merchants, and were treated with
the greatest hospitality by the owner, who supposed they were titled
Englishmen. But when the mistake was revealed, Mr. Taylor had become such
an agreeable visitor that his host insisted upon entertaining them during
their stay in Aleppo. He had been there but a few days before he became
such a general favorite, that he was invited to call on the nobility,
was urged to attend feasts, balls, and weddings, and when he left the
city, the friendly regrets of hundreds of Moslems and Christians followed
him.
Leaving Aleppo early in June, he followed the shore of the Mediterranean
around to the plain of Issus, where Alexander the Great won his great
victory, and thence to Tarsus, the birthplace of the Apostle Paul. It
may have been “no mean city” when Paul was born, but it was a most
insignificant village when Mr. Taylor was there. But as the magnificent
mountains of the Taurus range loomed up along the northern horizon, his
attention was taken from rags, beggary, and ruined fortresses, to snowy
cliffs, over which he had a passion for clambering.
Those persons who have ascended the Alps at the Simplon pass, have a
very good idea of the Taurus mountains, and can realize somewhat of Mr.
Taylor’s satisfaction as he rode up the gorges and peered into the deep
valleys. He loved the mountains anywhere. But the Taurus seemed then,
in the glow of his return to perfect health and with all the profusion
of nature’s living beauties blooming about him, and the eternal snows
gleaming above him, to be the most attractive landscape in the world.
“O deep, exulting freedom of the hills!
O summits vast, that to the climbing view,
In naked glory stand against the blue!
O cold and buoyant air, whose crystal fills
Heaven’s amethystine bowl! O speeding streams,
That foam and thunder from the cliffs below!
O slippery brinks and solitudes of snow,
And granite bleakness, where the vulture screams!”
His visit to Konia (Iconium), the capital of Karamania, was full of
little episodes and personal incidents, which he told afterwards in print
in his own inimitable manner. But nothing of unusual moment occurred
until he reached ancient Phrygia, where the ruins of olden cities and
fortresses interested him much. Their history was almost as unknown as
the story of the temples of Yucatan, and consequently had a mysterious
appearance which charms in a bewildering way the study of a poet.
Riding on over hills and mountains, across delightful streams, through
fertile valleys, associating with the Turks on friendly terms, and
studying their habits and language, Mr. Taylor pushed fearlessly into
the very heart of Asia Minor. Visiting Oezani in its debris, and the
valley of Rhyndacus, they traversed the primeval forests on the Mysian
Olympus, and true to his instincts he sought the heights of Olympus, twin
mountain, in size and literature, with its Grecian namesake. From that
point to Brousa, near the Sea of Marmora, it was but a day’s journey, and
seems to have been the most delightful ride of the whole tour. Gardens,
orchards, grain-fields, thickets of clematis and roses, patches of beech
and oak woodland, and brilliant streams pleased the eye, while the songs
of birds and of happy harvesters charmed the ear. Grand mountains
pierced the skies, covered with dense forests, behind them, and the plain
stretched away—a Garden of Eden—to the shore of a placid inland sea.
They entered Brousa in excellent health and spirits, having seen no
unusual fatigue and been in no great danger during the whole journey
through a country then almost lost and unknown to the civilized world.
From Brousa, the party descended to the Sea of Marmora, and taking a
sail-boat were wafted by the Golden Horn into the interminable fleets of
Constantinople. During his stay in that city he witnessed the display of
the Turkish holidays, saw the Sultan on his throne, entered the mosque of
Saint Sophia, ran to the numerous conflagrations, and unravelled to his
satisfaction some of the social and political problems connected with the
Sultan’s rule and the state of popular discontent. He foretold a war with
Russia, and a contest between the latter and England over the coveted gem
of the East and the gate to the Black Sea. His predictions have already
been proven to be true, showing an insight into political affairs wholly
unlooked for in a young man, and not to be found in such as had travelled
to less purpose.
On leaving Constantinople, he proceeded again to Smyrna, which place
appeared to so much better advantage on his second visit than it did at
his first, that instead of leaving it, as before, with anathemas, he
celebrated his visit with a poem.
“The ‘Ornament of Asia’ and the ‘Crown
Of fair Ionia.’ Yea, but Asia stands
No more an empress, and Ionia’s hands
Have lost their sceptre. Thou, majestic town,
Art as a diamond on a faded robe.”
The reader may not need to be again reminded of Mr. Taylor’s double view
of the scenes he visited, or of the fact that he tried to give faithful
pictures of the present in his prose and left the ideal and fanciful to
his books of poetry. But to understand his disposition, and correctly
estimate his ability, they need to be read together; and hence, before
taking leave of Asia Minor, we venture to quote a verse from a dedication
to his friend Richard H. Stoddard, which we have seen in a volume of Mr.
Taylor’s poems.
“O Friend, were you but couched on Tmolus’ side,
In the warm myrtles, in the golden air
Of the declining day, which half lays bare,
Half drapes, the silent mountains and the wide
Embosomed vale, that wanders to the sea;
And the far sea, with doubtful specks of sail,
And farthest isles, that slumber tranquilly
Beneath the Ionian autumn’s violet veil;—
Were you but with me, little were the need
Of this imperfect artifice of rhyme,
Where the strong Fancy peals a broken chime
And the ripe brain but sheds abortive seed.
But I am solitary, and the curse,
Or blessing, which has clung to me from birth—
The torment and the ecstasy of verse—
Comes up to me from the illustrious earth
Of ancient Tmolus; and the very stones,
Reverberant, din the mellow air with tones
Winch the sweet air remembers; and they blend
With fainter echoes, which the mountains fling
From far oracular caverns: so, my Friend,
I cannot choose but sing.”
At Constantinople Mr. Taylor heard of the action which had been taken by
the United States, looking to the opening of the ports of Japan to the
commerce of America. He heard that a squadron was to leave the United
States in November, under the command of Commodore Perry, and he formed
the resolution to connect himself with the expedition, if possible. To
that end he wrote to his friends and employers in New York, asking them
to obtain permission for him to join the fleet. Not knowing just when
the expedition would sail, nor at what ports it would stop on its way to
Japan, he anxiously watched for information, and inquired at every place
where information was likely to be found.
He was determined to visit Spain before he went to China and Japan, and
was equally resolved to visit the home of his German travelling companion
who ascended the Nile with him, and who had sent pressing invitations to
him to come to Gotha.
The business details connected with his finances and outfit for Spain
and China also called him to London, and arranging his tour so as to
accomplish these diverse ends he visited Malta, where he was delayed
ten days, and then sailed to Sicily, where he witnessed the Catanian
centennial festival in honor of St. Agatha, and where he beheld the awful
spectacle of Ætna in eruption. From Sicily he sailed up the coast to
that Naples which, as a wayfarer in Rome seven years before, he had so
much longed to see, and filled his letters with praises of its beautiful
bay and charming circle of mountain, city, town, cliffs, and islands.
Without changing steamers he proceeded to Leghorn, and going to Florence
experienced that delight of all delights,—in Florence a second time.
Feeling that his time was limited, and “drawn by an unseen influence,”
he hastened on to Venice, and thence through the regions of the Austrian
Tyrol to Munich and Gotha.
Gladsome days at Gotha! Was it not the country of his beloved friend? Was
it not the home of his friend’s niece, Marie Hansen? The daughter of the
great astronomer, Peter Andreas Hansen, was a worthy child of a noble
sire. Mr. Taylor had listened to her praises, but had hardly hoped to
meet her.
“Now the night is overpast,
And the mist is cleared away:
On my barren life at last
Breaks the bright, reluctant day.”
“Quick, fiery thrills, which only are not pangs
Because so warm and welcome, pierce my frame,
As were its airy substance suddenly
Clothed on with flesh; the ichor in my veins
Begins to redden with the pulse of blood,
And, from the recognition of the eyes
That now behold me, something I receive
Of man’s incarnate beauty. Thou, as well
Confessest this bright change: across thy cheeks
A faintest wild-rose color comes and goes,
And, on thy proud lips, Phyra, sits a flame!
Oh, we are nearer!—not suffice me now
The touch of marble hands, reliance cold,
And destiny’s pale promises of love;
But, clasping thee as mortal passion clasps
Bosom to Bosom, let my being thus
Assure itself, and thine.”
—_Taylor’s Deukalion._
After a few weeks spent in and about that pleasant city, to which he was
destined to return and claim his bride, and in which he was to pass many
of the sweetest days of his life, he journeyed to London. There he made
his arrangements for a trip into China, and hastened away to Gibraltar.
On the 6th of November he left the great rock and took passage in a
steamer for Cadiz, in Spain. There he walked the streets three thousand
years old, and wherein, it is said, that Hercules strode. Yet there is
but little now to be seen that would remind one of antiquity. He noticed,
however, the beautiful and graceful women. From Cadiz he went by boat up
the Guadalquiver River to the pretty town of Seville. There were the old
Moorish houses; there the massive Cathedral; there the Saracenic palace
of Alcazar, with all its porches, galleries, arches, and sculptures;
there was the palace called Pilate’s House, with its decorations from
Arabia, and inscriptions from the Koran; and there was the museum
containing Murillo’s best paintings.
But it requires only a short time to visit all the attractions of
Seville, and Mr. Taylor soon proceeded to Granada. In nearly all the
cities which he visited he was reminded, directly or indirectly, of the
visit of his friend, Washington Irving. He found the same guides, or
lodged at the same hotel, or visited some celebrated locality of which
Irving had written.
In Granada was the celebrated fortress of Alhambra, which was captured
from the Moors by the troops of Ferdinand and Isabella the same year that
Columbus discovered America; there was the palace of Charles V.; there
the Carthusian convent, the Monastery of St. Geronimo, and there the
cathedral with the remains of Ferdinand and Isabella. He made a hasty
trip to Cordova and its ancient Moslem mosque. Then, visiting Alhama,
Malaga, and Ronda, he returned hastily to Gibraltar and examined the
renowned fortress, said to be the strongest citadel in the world.
In that somewhat hasty view of Southern Spain he obtained much valuable
information and an experience which often served him in his literary work
as a writer for the public press. Southern Spain and Southern France,
next to Rome itself, are replete with warlike and romantic associations.
Gauls, Romans, Moors, and Spaniards, have made nearly every plain a
battle-field; and the toppling walls of the ancient towers and palaces
tell of the fiercest contests, the most terrible inquisitions, and the
narrowest of narrow escapes. Song and story in prose and rhyme have
combined in every form to make the land attractive, and it is a matter of
deep regret that Mr. Taylor, who was so capable of developing all these
characteristics, had not more time in which to visit them and write out
his experience.
CHAPTER XXII.
Leaves Gibraltar for Alexandria.—Egypt and Old Friends.—The
Town of Suez.—Embarks for Bombay.—Mocha and its
Coffee.—Aden.—Arrival in Bombay.—Reception by the People.—Trip
to Elephanta.—Ride into the Interior.—Difficulties of the
Journey.—Views of Agra.—Scenes about Delhi.—Starts for the
Himalaya Mountains.
“Where is Gulistan, the Land of Roses?
Not on hills, where Northern winters
Break their spears in icy splinters,
And in shrouded snow the world reposes;
But amid the glow and splendor,
Which the Orient summers lend her,
Blue the heaven above her beauty closes:
There is Gulistan, the Land of Roses.
Northward stand the Persian mountains;
Southward spring the silver fountains,
Which to Hafiz taught his sweetest measures.
Clearly ringing to the singing,
Which the nightingales delight in,
When the Spring, from Oman winging
Unto Shiraz, showers her fragrant treasures
On the land, till valleys brighten.”
—_Taylor._
By far the most interesting and valuable part of Mr. Taylor’s experience
as a traveller was in India, China, and Japan, if we consider only
the welfare of his readers. But so far as its influence upon him was
concerned, its impression was far less marked than that in Europe and
Egypt. At the time he left Gibraltar for Egypt, the lands of India,
China, and Japan were comparatively little known to the reading
communities in America. Even India, which had so long been the idol of
England and the El Dorado for all her adventurous spirits and valorous
soldiers, was a country with which America had but little communication,
and in whose people Americans took but little interest. It was a
neglected field.
Mr. Taylor, in a letter to a friend in Washington, laid much stress
upon the importance to American commerce of an accurate description of
those lands, and hoped to be the instrument by which an interest in such
enterprises might be awakened. It was a laudable, patriotic purpose, and
was most conscientiously carried out by him.
He left Gibraltar on the 28th of November, on a Peninsular and Oriental
steamer, which touched at that port, on its way from Southampton
to Alexandria. He arrived at Alexandria December 8, and sought his
old quarters in the city. He felt like one who returns to his home,
as he walked the streets of the Egyptian city, and relates with
evident satisfaction how pleasant it was to call out to the crowd of
donkey-drivers in their native tongue.
But his visit to Cairo gave him the keenest delight, as there he saw
many familiar faces, and was greeted with many welcoming smiles. He was
especially delighted to meet his faithful dragoman, Achmet, who had been
his companion on his trip to the White Nile, and the happiness of the
Egyptian on seeing his old employer told very impressively the power and
virtue of Mr. Taylor’s character. Men were faithful to him because he had
faith in them. They loved him because he understood and appreciated them.
Even the little donkey-boy on whose animal Mr. Taylor had rode a year
before in one of his reckless canters through the bazaars, remembered him
and offered to let him ride again without pay—an act unheard of by other
travellers there. It could not be otherwise than sweet to travel in any
land where the people were friends and where the wanderer was regarded in
the light of an especially intelligent relative.
At that date there were no railroads in Egypt, although one was
projected, and Mr. Taylor was compelled, in common with the crowd of
other travellers, to ride in a cart, eighty-four miles, through the sandy
desert, to Suez. The latter town was then, according to Mr. Taylor’s
account, a small, dirty, insignificant place. But the writer, who visited
the place after a visit to Japan, China, and India, in 1870, found a very
prosperous town, with excellent hotel accommodations. The bazaar was
large and stocked with an immense quantity of goods from all parts of the
civilized world. It has doubtless grown much since the work was begun on
the Suez Canal, and since the harbor has been dredged and the wharves
constructed.
His stay in Suez was, however, very brief, as the Mediterranean steamer
had arrived much behind time, and consequently all were hurried on board
the little tug, and soon walked the deck of an India steamer.
They were on the Red Sea! Now that its barren, sandy shores, the home
of the pelican and ostrich, have become so familiar to tourists, and
its glaring surface been so often mentioned by correspondents, there is
less romance about a voyage from Suez to Aden than in that comparatively
early day when Mr. Taylor visited the locality. There was the rugged pass
on the west, through which the pillar of fire led the escaping Jews to
the shore, and there was the beach and highlands on the east, up which
they marched dry-shod from the bed of the sea, while the waves rolled
in on the hosts of Pharaoh. There was the hill on which Miriam sang
so exultingly; and beyond, the hot peaks of the Sinaitic Wilderness.
Somewhere in the vicinity of that sea resided the Queen of Sheba; and not
far from its shores were the forgotten mines of ancient Ophir.
But Mr. Taylor felt now that a patriotic duty rested upon him, and
avoiding the delicious flights of fancy which pleased him so much in
Europe, he devoted himself to the practical things which might be of
advantage to his ambitious countrymen. So he told about the sailors
who were employed on the steamer, where Hindoos did all the drudgery
and Chinamen prepared the food, under the direction of Europeans. He
described the character of the passengers, telling where each came from
and where they were going. How he ascertained these facts is an enigma;
but they were important to commercial people who would compete with
the established lines, and who would like to know whom to employ and
who would be their patrons. There were physicians, soldiers, officers,
merchants, and health-seekers, from each of whom Mr. Taylor managed to
gain much information. He did not wait, like the fashionable tourist
of this day, until he arrived at his destination, trusting to luck for
information and accommodation. He closely studied the country before he
arrived there, and frequently astonished his guides and native companions
by showing a much more accurate and extensive knowledge of their country
than they possessed who had lived there all their lives.
He mentioned the hot red hills and the furnace-like surface of the sea,
saying that one part of the Red Sea was the hottest part of the earth’s
surface. But he appears to have suffered less than he had in the desert,
and was quite happy with his biscuit and claret, and lost no time with
useless fans.
He saw Mocha from the deck of the steamer, and immediately set about
ascertaining what advantages that port and town offered to commerce.
Without leaving the deck he found persons who knew all about Arabia and
its products; so he sits down and writes a letter about coffee and its
culture in and about Mocha. He was such a devoted lover of coffee that
it may have been a peculiarly interesting topic to him. At all events,
he wrote so intelligently that an old schoolmate, who was engaged in
foreign trade, acted profitably on Mr. Taylor’s hints and started a son
in the coffee-trade at Baltimore. Mr. Taylor stated in his letter that
fifteen thousand tons of coffee were exported annually from Mocha, it
being raised in the interior and brought to Mocha on camels. He said that
foreign vessels could best load at Aden, the English stronghold on the
south-west coast of Arabia, to which port the native coasting vessels
carried nearly all the exports of Mocha and of the other small ports
along the Red Sea. He also gave the information that equally good coffee
could be obtained on the Abyssinian coast, and at a smaller price.
He entered the port of Aden in the night, and was startled to look out on
the port in the morning and see such jagged masses of black rock shooting
up from the sand one thousand five hundred feet. It is another Gibraltar,
and shrewdly has England held by diplomacy what she obtained by such a
show of force. But the heat from the sand and barren rocks is so intense
that the quivers of a heated atmosphere are always visible, and very
injurious to the eyes. At the time of Mr. Taylor’s visit, the town and
the harbor were wretched and dangerous; but in 1870 the writer found a
neat village, with good hotels, and a spacious wharf. Mr. Taylor saw the
advantages of the port and predicted its growth. He mentioned the form,
features, and dispositions of the Arabians; and told what interest the
Parsees and Hindoos took in the local trade. He mentioned the articles of
commerce to be found there, and gave the prices.
There is not to be found in his letters to the “Tribune,” nor in his
book, “India, China, and Japan,” any mention of his sensations when
he saw, as he did at Aden, a fire-worshipper (Parsee) for the first
time. Being a poet by nature, and an admirer of Moore, he must have
been fascinated by the actual presence of a Gheber with whom he could
converse, and with whom he could change English money into the coin of
the country. How “Lalla Rookh” comes to the tongue’s end when we look a
fire-worshipper in the face and recognize the picture Moore had given of
him!
At Aden Mr. Taylor witnessed an incident which, to one so broadly
charitable and Christian, must have been most revolting. One of the
workmen, who had been loading the steamer with coal, was asleep in the
hold when the vessel started, and the officers finding him aboard after
they had put to sea, forced the poor native overboard and left him to
float ashore with the tide or perish in the waves. He whose land was the
world, whose brethren were all mankind, whose friends were the humblest
heathen as well as the titled official, looked back at the dark speck on
the waves, and tears filled his eyes.
From Aden, the steamer entered upon its trip across the Indian Ocean,
which was true to its reputation, and was placid and peaceful as an
inland lake. But the slow steamer took nine days to sail from Suez
to Bombay; and by the time Mr. Taylor was brought into view of the
mountains where Brahma and Vishnu had so long been worshipped, he had
become acquainted with nearly all the Hindoo sailors, and could secure
unusual attendance from the waiters by addressing them in the Hindustanee
language. He had learned the names of the principal streets of Bombay,
the names of the richest merchants, and the kind of fare to be expected
at the hotels. So naturally did he fall into the ways of the people
that the boatmen who took him ashore at Bombay mistook him for an old
resident and carried him ashore for one rupee, while charging the other
passengers three. He seated himself, or rather stretched himself, into a
palanquin carried by four men,—one at each end of a long pole,—and like a
native rode through the streets of Bombay on the necks of servants. But
he did not enjoy that kind of conveyance; he had too much sympathy with
the human race to impose his weight on the necks of human beings without
misgiving, and he afterwards refused to be carried about in that way when
mules were to be had.
At Bombay, he was received with the same good-will and hospitality as he
had found in other lands. Parsees, Hindoos, English, and Arabians vied
with each other in giving him kindly attentions; the people were pagan
in religion, but Christian in generosity and charity. It broadens one’s
ideas of theology to be thrown into communion with so many different
nations with as many different gods. But its tendency is to confirm,
rather than to unsettle, the belief in the Christian doctrines. At all
events, such was Mr. Taylor’s experience; and such has been the effect
upon others.
He found the common people very servile, and lacking in spirit, and
attributed it to the long despotism. But in them he found faithful
friends, and learned to respect them. They were nearly all pagans when
he was there, and worshipped their huge red idols with a sincerity and
self-sacrifice worthy of the highest profession. In order to learn
something of India in those remote ages beyond the testimony of history,
and even back of the age of tradition, he visited the old temple on
the island of Elephanta, about seven miles from Bombay. The massive
structure, in partial ruin, so wonderfully wrought and massively
constructed, made a deep impression upon his mind. Far, far back in the
uncounted ages, the foundations were laid by men who were not low in
the scale of civilization, if an idea of the beautiful and the ability
to embody it in forms of stone be a test of enlightenment; it stands
to-day, defying time, as it has defied earthquakes and cannon-shot. Into
the fathomless future will it pass, an immovable monument of the skill
and art of man in the childhood of human experience. In the statuary
Mr. Taylor found a strange resemblance to the three ages of art; the
statue of Brahma representing the style of the Egyptian, Vishnu being
represented in a form and carving of the Greek style, while Siva was cut
from the stone in such a shape as to remind him of the Mephistopheles of
the German school of sculpture.
His keen scrutiny also developed the theory that the pillars were rough
copies of the poppy-stem and the lotus-leaf. The latter was the emblem
of sanctity in the days of Brahma. Mr. Taylor’s suggestion has been
attractively enlarged upon and illustrated within a few years by writers
for English literary and art periodicals.
No excursion from Bombay exceeds that to Elephanta in romantic
attractions; for there are not only extensive ruins of greater and lesser
temples, but the landscape, wherein the greenest islands dot the sheen
of a gorgeous bay, is bright with most beautiful flowers and bright
leaves, and the air is permeated with the odor of roses and cassia.
Soon Elephanta will be a “summer resort,” and Taylor’s description and
reflections will be sold by newsboys as a guide-book.
At Bombay he visited the large mercantile establishments and investigated
the prospects of trade; saw the people in their homes, at meals, prayers,
marriages, and funerals, and studied the work of the carpenters in that
celebrated shipyard where was constructed the man-of-war wherein the
Star-Spangled Banner was written. He knew all about the city as it was
when he saw it, and as it had been from its Portuguese beginning; and
yet he remained but a single week. Who was the simpleton that circulated
an unauthorized statement that Mr. Taylor travelled far and saw little?
In fact, he knew more of the needs and enterprise of Bombay than many old
residents.
In his haste to see as much of India as possible, and yet arrive in China
in season to join Commodore Perry’s expedition to Japan, he determined
to ride in one of the mail carts of India a distance of nearly four
hundred miles. His new friends advised him not to attempt the journey,
and entertained him with the deeds of assassins and robbers along the
route, and the results of the fatiguing ride of seven days and nights in
a two-wheeled vehicle without springs or mattresses. But his mind was
made up to go, and go he would. So, regardless of warnings and advice,
he started into the interior in a cart with a driver and the “Royal
Mail.” The traveller who now lounges in the luxuriant carriages of the
railway trains between Bombay and Calcutta, can have no idea of the
trials of such a journey as Mr. Taylor undertook. Then, there were no
railroads, no regular stages, even; nothing but lumbering carts drawn by
oxen and decrepit old horses. But he endured the fatigue with his usual
fortitude and good fortune, while his already remarkable experience
among hospitable people was repeated there in a most praiseworthy style.
Friends, friends, everywhere! Men divided their meals and beds with
him. People with whom he could converse by signs only, gave him food and
pressed themselves into his service, and would take no pay. In one place
a soldier sat up all night to give the weary traveller his bed. Surely,
the essence of human kindness and charity is not confined to Christian
lands!
Through jungles, where there was not a single path; along highways,
crowded with innumerable carts; riding in wildernesses, where water was
scarce, and food not to be found; in every kind of vehicle known to the
primitive people, from a horse chaise to a bullock-cart; surrounded by
miasmatic marshes, and the lairs of tigers, he hurried on toward Delhi.
On his way he made a short stop at Agra and Futtehpoor-Sikra, where stand
some of the mightiest and most costly temples which have been reared
since the beginning of the Christian era. It well repays years of work
and economy to wander among the palaces, mosques, and mausoleums of those
great cities. No palace in all the world can be found to equal that of
Akbar, the great Mogul, at Agra. When Mr. Taylor visited the city, nearly
all the rubbish, made by wars and sieges, had been cleared away, and the
scarred walls and marred mosaics had been restored, so that he stood
under mighty domes, amid all the splendor of the East. No one can imagine
its beauty and grandeur, unless he has seen it. Such lofty arches!
such masses of pure white marble! such a profusion of pearl, jasper,
cornelian, agate, and many stones of greater beauty and value! Such
exquisite carvings, such lovely mosaics, such labyrinths of inwrought
balustrades and porticos! Such tombs, so rich, so beautiful, so great,
that the tomb of Napoleon in Paris is lost in comparison!
Mr. Taylor was delighted beyond measure by a visit to the tomb of the
Empress Noor-Jehan, wife of the Shah Jehan. Moore uses her romantic
history in his “Lalla Rookh,” for verily she was “The Light of the
Harem.” Shah Jehan, “Selim,” erected that marvellously beautiful
building, with its lofty dome, and slender minarets, its inlaid jewels
wherein the walls are made to hold a copy, in Arabic, of the whole Koran.
Beautiful as Eastern songs represent Noor-Jehan to be, the tomb in which
she lies must surpass her in whiteness and delicacy of outline. Never,
in harem of Cashmere, nor in garden of Mogul, were there more delicious
odors than those which still fill the air about her tomb. No brighter,
more various, or more odorous flowers bloomed in Mahomet’s Paradise,
than now bewilder the visitor to that hallowed spot. It was fortunate
for Mr. Taylor that he had seen the boasted palaces and temples of
Europe and Western Asia, before he visited that enchanted spot. Dreams
of Aladdin became literal there. In towers, arches, domes, colonnades,
ceilings of pearl and precious stones, pillars wrought with the skilful
jeweller’s art, inlaid floors in which no crease appears, in diamond-like
foundations, and in the unity of its unbroken sculptures, the temples
of Agra and of its suburbs, excel those of Venice and Florence, as the
exquisite and angelic echoes in the dome of Queen Noor’s tomb excel, in
length and sweetness, those of the Baptistry at Pisa.
From Agra, he rode over the wide highway, one hundred and fifteen
miles, to Delhi, the former capital of the Moguls, and which, at that
time, boasted the presence, in his palace, of Akbar II. There he was
treated with the same hospitality as he had been in other cities, and
kind-hearted residents guided him about the streets of the modern city,
and accompanied him to the magnificent ruins in various quarters of the
plain whereon stood the old city. Pile on pile of massive columns lay in
ragged majesty about him, and bewildered his senses with their unnumbered
towers. Ruins, ruins, ruins, as far as the eye can trace the broken
plain. Palaces, fortresses, temples, mosques, harems, tombs, obelisks,
and massive battlements lie hurled together in undistinguished profusion,
while here and there the porch of some lofty building, or some imposing
arch, still breaks the line of the horizon. One pillar stands in the
plain, whose summit is two hundred and forty feet above the ground. Near
this gigantic shaft are the ruins of the palace of Aladdin. But the stone
that cumber the plain, and the stable platform, once the floor, do not
suggest the palace of diamonds, emeralds, pearls, gold, and ivory of
which we have read; and the beholder is tempted to believe that there
was a mistake of location, and that Agra instead of Delhi, was the place
after all. But Mr. Taylor, whose time was limited, could not linger
long, nor hope to solve all the riddles which such an inexhaustible
antiquarian museum suggested, and after visiting Hindoo temples, adorned
with fascinating carvings and unintelligible inscriptions, and tombs
covering the remains of known and unknown monarchs, he hastened back to
the modern city, with its wide Boulevard, and made preparations to visit
the Himalaya Mountains.
He left that interesting city with great regret, for, to the poet, it
suggested a very attractive place for fanciful dreams, and peaceful
moralizing. Moore incorporated in his poem a Persian inscription, which
was shown Mr. Taylor in the palace of Akbar II.: “If there be an Elysium
on earth, it is here, it is here.” And it might have been such an Elysium
but for the dilapidated, dirty condition of the palace, in which the
motto was seen, which did not harmonize with the sentiment, and may have
robbed the whole palace of its poetical attractions.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Himalaya Mountains.—Returning Southward.—Lucknow and
Calcutta.—Foretells the Great Rebellion.—Embarks for
China.—Visit to the Mountains of Penang.—The Chinese at
Singapore.—Arrival at Hong-Kong.—Joins the Staff of the
U. S. Commissioner.—Scenes about Shanghai.—The Nanking
Rebellion.—Life in Shanghai.—Enlists in the Navy.—Commodore
Perry’s Expedition.
From Delhi Mr. Taylor travelled northward through a country well
subjugated, which, under English direction, was made fertile and safe for
travellers. His way lay toward the sunnier resort of the invalids and
wealthy Europeans, which lay far up in the Himalaya Mountains, where the
snow never melted and where the hot, miasmatic winds of the plains cannot
follow the fugitive. At Roorkee, while lying in his palanquin, he caught
his first glimpse of the Himalayas, and felt that crushing sense of
awful sublimity which fills the soul of every new spectator. Towers that
the arch of heaven seems to rest upon, white and gleaming as the purest
pearl, rise one behind the other, until the farthest are lost in the haze
of intervening space. Titanic pillars of snow, so grand, so mighty, so
expressive of the most gigantic forces known or imagined by man, how can
language convey their immensity? It is useless to attempt it. For you
may talk, and talk, of mountains and the glorious sunsets that enamel
them in roseate tints, yet no one will shed tears or feel a tremor of
awe. But he who beholds them for the first time lets the tears unnoticed
fall, and trembles as if thrust suddenly into the personal presence of
the Almighty. Such a sense of humility, of abject unworthiness, takes
possession of the beholder, that the soul labors heavily under the
oppressive load, and the body shrinks from a nearer approach. There is
nothing so powerful for driving atheism or egotism out of a man as the
near view of the Himalayas or Andes or Rocky Mountains. The noblest races
of the world have been reared in the wild regions of lofty mountains,
and none so tenaciously revere their Maker, or so willingly sacrifice
themselves for their friends or their God as the natives of the mountain
passes.
Mr. Taylor approached the highest range as near as the heights of
Landowr, which is about sixty miles from the snowy peaks of the loftiest
range, and is itself so high as to hold the snow the greater part of
the year. There he saw the gorgeous illumination of those heavenly
snow-fields, when the sun was setting and when it seems as if a universe
was in a blaze, while its lurid glare shone full upon those stupendous
monuments of the earthquake’s titanic power. Mr. Taylor gazed upon those
masses of the purest white, as twilight began to hide their outlines, and
thought that, as he said in one of his lectures, “within three hundred
miles of me are mightier mountains than these!”
Having seen the mountains and checked his old desire to stand on top of
the highest one, he turned about and started southward for Calcutta,
taking the first day’s journey on an elephant kindly loaned him by a
new-found friend. He journeyed thence in the horse-carts of that time,
via Meerut and Cawnpore, to Lucknow, where he was entertained in a
most royal manner by the English officials. After examining that great
metropolis of the interior, he hurried on to Benares and thence by quick
relays to the great city of Calcutta.
With a peculiar faculty for foreseeing the effect of certain influences
on human nature, Mr. Taylor foretold the approaching mutiny. He saw that
the English treated the natives with habitual indignity. He saw that
three-quarters of the earnings of the people was taken by the government.
He saw that the English were in a great minority. He saw that the Sepoy
regiments were good soldiers. He saw that influential positions were held
by dangerously powerful natives. And he declared that a rebellion was not
only possible, but probable.
Four years later began that great rebellion among the natives, which
became one of the bloodiest and cruelest contests known in the annals
of history. Chiefs and princes who received Mr. Taylor cordially during
his visit, were afterwards executed for treason. Fortresses, temples,
and cities, which he visited were shattered and torn by the shots of
contending armies. Oppression and aristocratic pride resulted, as it
naturally would, in horrid carnage and an impoverished treasury. Mr.
Taylor’s words of warning as they appeared in America, were probably
never read in England, or if they were read, were scouted as the fears of
one who did not understand the “permanency of a despotism.”
Although his stay was short in Calcutta, his description of the people,
the dwellings, the shipping, and social customs was one of the most clear
and complete to be found in print. One who reads it sees the city, the
river, the verdant plains, and the sea spread out before him, and becomes
acquainted with the shop-keepers, police, Parsees, Arabs, Hindoos,
Chinese, and Europeans, that made up the motley throngs. True to his
patriotic purpose, he gave the commerce of the port such attention as the
interests of our merchants required.
From Calcutta he proceeded by an English steamer to Penang on the coast
of the Malay Peninsula. It is a delightful locality, and is as beautiful
in situation and vegetation as its clove and nutmeg trees are fragrant.
There again he gratified his taste for climbing a mountain, and spent
nearly his whole time ascending to the signal station on the highest
peak of the peninsula. It was the only place he visited in which he
left unseen the attractive nooks, grottos, waterfalls, and jungles,
and chose instead the less interesting experience. It was a source of
regret to him afterward, that he did not spend the few hours he had, in
the lowlands and on the mountain-sides rather than at their tops. Every
traveller who has visited Penang could detect the error. Yet, Mr. Taylor
set down in his account of his visit more valuable information and a more
graphic outline of the landscape than any traveller appears to have done,
notwithstanding the beautiful falls of Penang are visited by thousands
yearly.
[Illustration: NATIVE COTTAGES IN THE TROPICS.]
Accompanying the steamer in its usual route, Mr. Taylor stopped at
Singapore, at the extreme southern end of the peninsula. It was a new
port at that time, and was not so important as it afterwards became;
yet he found ten or fifteen thousand people there, mostly dirty and
repulsive Chinese. Mr. Taylor was not pleased with the Chinese as a
race, for two reasons. First, he heard such reports of their barbarity,
beastliness, and dishonesty; second, they were an awkward, unsymmetrical
people, devoid of that physical beauty which the artist admires and
copies. He dwelt upon the latter fact in his letters, and mentioned it
in his book. Neither Phidias, Polycrates, Raphael, or Angelo would have
selected a model from among these creatures, and naturally enough the
artistic taste of Mr. Taylor was shocked by such natural deformities as
the Chinese were, when looked upon with reference to the graceful and
beautiful in the human form. It is but just to the Chinese as a nation to
say that, according to the writer’s experience among them, the Coolies
who emigrate to Singapore, Sydney, and California are by no means a
fair sample of the educated and wealthy classes who remain at home and
drive out the least useful and least intelligent portion. If one were to
judge of the acquirements, ability, or physical beauty of the Chinese
nation exclusively by the poor emigrants who cannot successfully compete
with their neighbors, and hence are compelled to go away from home for
success, he would be nearly as sadly misled as one would be should he
form his opinion of the American people by the inmates of their jails and
poor-houses. There are many noble men and beautiful women in the interior
of China, whether regarded mentally, morally, or physically. Mr. Taylor
did not see them, and like a faithful scribe he wrote down only those
things he saw, and knew to be true. The Chinese whom he saw in the ports
engaged in unloading vessels, or doing like menial services, were not
beautiful, and he said so.
When Mr. Taylor arrived in Hong-Kong he was received with the same kind
hospitality which his very countenance secured for him in every land.
The United States Commissioner, the Hon. Humphrey Marshall, who happened
to be at Macao, and whom Mr. Taylor met there on crossing the bay from
Hong-Kong, offered to attach Mr. Taylor to his staff, for a trip to
the seat of war. The great rebellion in the Kiangsu province, lying
north-westerly from Shanghai, had assumed such threatening proportions
that the emperor at Peking trembled on his throne. Exaggerated accounts
of the fiendish atrocities of the rebels, and rumors of great battles
and successful sieges had reached the seaports, and even the peaceful
American merchants at Shanghai feared capture and death. In view of
all this, Mr. Taylor anticipated an exciting experience. Together with
the whole ship’s company, he felt, when the United States steamer left
Hong-Kong for Shanghai, as if there was a measure of uncertainty if
he ever returned. But the reports had been so much enlarged in their
transmission to Hong-Kong, that when they arrived at the port of Shanghai
they were delighted to find the place in no immediate danger of attack
from the Chinese. In order to show the rebels that the Americans were
neutral in all the Chinese quarrels, the Commissioner undertook the
hazardous task of ascending the Yang-tse-kiang River to the beleaguered
town of Nanking. It seems to have been a foolish undertaking, and viewed
from any diplomatic stand-point, to have been indirectly an encouragement
of the rebellion. It was not so intended, however, and Mr. Taylor did
not give his opinion of the “good faith” which prompted the sending of
envoys to a local rebellion in the interior of a “great and friendly
nation.” But what good sense could not do, the shoals and incompetency of
the native pilots did accomplish; and the Commissioner who was going up
the river to pat the rebels on the back and ask them not to hurt their
friends, the Americans, was compelled to return to Shanghai. It would
have been better for the United States if the second undertaking had been
equally unsuccessful; but as Mr. Taylor had no share in it, it is of no
further importance here.
While at Shanghai he experienced the sensation of being besieged without
seeing an enemy. The frightened people organized themselves into military
companies and drilled with the sailors. Breastworks were thrown up and
cannon placed ready for action. The streets were patrolled and a guard
kept over the provisions and ammunition. Tales of approaching hosts were
freely circulated, and once the terrified populace were informed by
an intelligent refugee that the enemy were within sight. Yet the days
passed on; the Chinese government began to show vitality, and the great
rebellion, with all its fearful butchery and refinement of cruelty, was
extinguished without the molestation of the foreigners at Shanghai, and
was overcome, notwithstanding the encouraging assurance given the rebels
by the United States Commissioner that our government was not disposed to
interfere with their outrages.
While in Shanghai Mr. Taylor wrote some admirable articles upon the tea
culture of China, and upon the possible commerce with the Pacific coast
of America, which were published in New York and London. He felt the
throes of an earthquake while there, and had some pleasant interviews
with the educated classes of China. He saw the parade of the native
soldiers, and witnessed their grotesque religious ceremonies. His
observation was so close, and his generalization usually so just, that
until within a few years there has been no book printed in America which
gave so much of the information desired by popular readers in so little
space as Taylor’s account of that visit.
Early in May Commodore Perry arrived at Shanghai, prepared for the
expedition which the United States had ordered him to make to Japan,
and Mr. Taylor’s long-felt desire to embark on that enterprise was
gratified. He was compelled to enlist in the navy as master’s mate, and
subject himself and all that he should write, to the orders of the navy
department and officers of the fleet. It seemed at first to be rather
humiliating terms, but after he had made the acquaintance of the officers
and learned the ways of a ship he found it a very pleasant position.
Thus, from one calling to another, he turned with a readiness and a
success which were astonishing.
CHAPTER XXIV.
His Reception on the Man-of-war.—Commodore Perry’s
Tribute.—Mr. Taylor’s Journals.—Visit to the Loo-Choo
Islands.—Explorations.—Mr. Taylor becomes a Favorite.—His
Description of the Country.—Cruise to Japan.—The Purpose
of the Expedition.—Mr. Taylor’s Assistance.—Return to
Hong-Kong.—Resigns his Commission.—Visits Canton.—Sails for
America.—St. Helena.—Arrival in New York.
There was some opposition to Mr. Taylor’s request to be taken into the
United States service, but his persistency and gentlemanly address not
only overcame the scruples of the Commodore, but soon made him a general
favorite. Commodore Perry, after his return to the United States,
mentioned the circumstances connected with Mr. Taylor’s enlistment, and
used the following language:—
“On my arrival at Shanghai I found there Mr. Bayard Taylor, who
had a letter of introduction to me from an esteemed friend in
New York. He had been a long time, as I understood, exceedingly
anxious to join the squadron, that he might visit Japan, which
he could reach in no other way.
“On presenting the letter referred to, he at once made a
request to accompany me; but to this application I strongly
objected, intimating to him the determination I had made
at the commencement of the cruise to admit no civilians,
and explaining how the few who were in the squadron had,
by signing the shipping articles, subjected themselves to
all the restraints and penalties of naval law; that there
were no suitable accommodations for him, and that should he
join the expedition he would be obliged to suffer, with the
other civilians, many discomforts and privations, and would
moreover be restricted, under a general order of the navy
department, from communicating any information to the public
prints or privately to his friends; that all the notes or
general observations made by him during the cruise would belong
to the government, and therefore must be deposited with me.
Notwithstanding this, however, with a full knowledge of all the
difficulties and inconveniences which would attend his joining
the squadron, he still urged his application.
“Being thus importuned, and withal very favorably impressed
with his gentlemanlike and unassuming manners, I at last
reluctantly consented, and he joined the mess of Messrs. Heine
and Brown on board the ‘Susquehanna.’ During the short time he
remained in the squadron he gained the respect and esteem of
all, and by his habits of observation, aided by his ready pen,
became quite useful in preparing notes descriptive of various
incidents that transpired during our first brief visit to Japan
and the Islands. It was the only service he could render, and
it was afforded cheerfully. These notes have been used in the
preparation of my report, and due credit has, I trust, been
given to him. Some of the incidents illustrative of the events
mentioned in my official communications were, with my consent,
written out by Mr. Taylor and sent home by him for publication
in the United States. These he has used in his late work. His
original journals were honorably deposited in my hands. His
reports, like those of every other individual detailed for the
performance of a special duty, were of course delivered to me,
and became part of the official records of the expedition.”
This tribute of friendship and respect, thus freely bestowed by one
holding the high rank of Commodore Perry, gratified the friends of Mr.
Taylor very much at the time they were written, and will now be prized by
them as a testimonial from the highest and best source.
On leaving the port of Shanghai the squadron of the Commodore proceeded
direct to the Loo-Choo Islands, which were a group of thirty-six islands
lying to the south-west of Japan, and tributary to that empire. On
the 26th of May, 1853, the several steamers and sailing vessels came
to anchor in a harbor of the Great Loo-Choo Island, but a few miles
from the capital of the kingdom. Immediately Mr. Taylor’s services as
a descriptive writer were brought into requisition, and so proficient
and industrious was he, and he so much excelled the others with whom he
was associated, that the Commodore saw fit to entrust to his quick eye
and ready pen many of the most important details of the expedition. His
reports or journals of the explorations were never published in full, and
as the government kept them from him Mr. Taylor could not use them in
his book of travels in Japan and Loo-Choo. This is much to be regretted
now, as the greatly condensed narrative which appeared in his book does
not give the reader a comprehensive idea of Mr. Taylor’s capabilities.
His newspaper correspondence was always more readable and full than were
the pages of his book; for, between his desire not to tire the reader nor
impoverish the publisher, he frequently culled and abridged too much.
What a wonderful volume would that be wherein should be published in
full Mr. Taylor’s descriptions of the countries of Loo-Choo and Japan,
without condensation or abridgment. To illustrate this thought, and to
give a clear specimen of his style, we insert a page from his diary of
the 28th of May, 1853, reciting his experience when out in a small boat
in the harbor of the Great Loo-Choo Island visiting the coral reef. It
was a very little incident, but we ask the reader to notice how full of
interesting information and beautiful reference he made his account of it:
“The crew were Chinamen, wholly ignorant of the use of oars, and our trip
would have been of little avail had not the sea been perfectly calm. With
a little trouble we succeeded in making them keep stroke, and made for
the coral reef, which separates the northern from the lower channel. The
tide was nearly out, and the water was very shoal on all the approaches
to the reef. We found, however, a narrow channel winding between the
groves of mimic foliage, and landed on the spongy rock, which rose about
a foot above the water. Here the little pools that seamed the surface
were alive with crabs, snails, star-fish, sea-prickles, and numbers
of small fish of the intensest blue color. We found several handsome
shells clinging to the coral. But all our efforts to secure one of the
fish failed. The tide was ebbing so fast that we were obliged to return
for fear of grounding the boat. We hung for some time over the coral
banks, enraptured with the beautiful forms and colors exhibited by this
wonderful vegetation of the sea. The coral grew in rounded banks, with
the clear, deep spaces of water between, resembling, in miniature, ranges
of hills covered with autumnal forests. The loveliest tints of blue,
violet, pale-green, yellow, and white gleamed through the waves. And all
the varied forms of vegetable life were grouped together along the edges
of cliffs and precipices, hanging over the chasms worn by currents below.
Through those paths and between the stems of the coral groves, the blue
fish shot hither and thither like arrows of the purest lapis-lazuli: and
others of a dazzling emerald color, with tails and fins tipped with gold,
eluded our chase like the green bird in the Arabian story. Far down below
in the dusky depth of the waters we saw now and then some large brown
fish hovering stealthily about the entrances to the coral groves, as if
lying in wait for their bright little inhabitants. The water was so clear
that the eye was deceived as to its depths and we seemed now to rest on
the branching tops of some climbing forest, now to hang suspended as in
mid air between the crests of two opposing ones. Of all the wonders
of the sea, which have furnished food for poetry and fable, this was
assuredly the most beautiful.”
That trait, which characterized Mr. Taylor, accounts in a measure for
the inclination of all persons who met him to hold his companionship and
acquaintance. As Mr. Taylor’s esteemed friend, Mr. E. P. Whipple, of
Boston, once beautifully remarked of another, Mr. Taylor was sought by
men, “because they learned more of the world and its beauties through his
eyes than through their own.” His services in giving an accurate idea
of the countries they explored were invaluable, because it was not only
necessary to visit those countries and open their ports to commerce, but
it was also necessary to give to the American people such a idea of the
advantages and conveniences of trade as to induce them to enter upon
it. Nothing could be clearer than his views of life in these islands,
nothing more complete than his enumeration of the products, manufactures,
and needs of the countries they visited. The publication in full of all
his notes and observations as suggested to the Naval Department by the
officers of the Squadron at the time, would have given our people a
better understanding of the importance of the commerce and the character
of the people, than any other report could do. However, the Commodore
used a great many pages of Mr. Taylor’s journal while making his report
to the United States Government.
Mr. Taylor was detailed to attend nearly every important excursion, and
was a most hearty and persevering explorer. He pushed into the interior
of an unknown jungle, intent on finding new flowers, new minerals, or new
animals. He ascended every mountain which was accessible, and ventured
into every cave that could be reached by boat or foot. The Great Loo-Choo
Island became familiar to him, and its flora and fauna were indelibly
catalogued in his mind, while the varied views of mountain, vale, forest,
bay, and sea were engraved upon his memory. By his good nature and
kindly regard for the welfare of the Loo-Choo natives when they met, he
contributed not a little toward the safety and success of the exploration
in that island.
From Loo-Choo the fleet sailed to the Bonin Islands, where a harbor
suitable for a depot of supplies was found and land purchased by the
Commodore for government buildings should his choice of a harbor be
confirmed. The ships returned to Loo-Choo and proceeded directly to the
bay of Yeddo in Japan.
For two hundred years that important nation had preserved its
exclusiveness, and had become almost as unknown to the western nations as
an undiscovered continent. Almost every commercial nation had, from time
to time, attempted to secure a footing for a trading-post or a harbor
for their vessels. In every instance they had failed, and the civilized
world had looked upon Japan as a country sealed beyond hope of breaking.
It must have appeared to every one, including the Commodore himself,
that the undertaking in which he was engaged was an especially difficult
enterprise. How could he hope to succeed where England, Portugal,
Holland. Italy, and Russia had failed? Yet he succeeded beyond anything
the most hopeful had desired; and as a result of his expedition a mighty
nation and a fertile country were restored to the family of nations.
[Illustration: PAGAN TEMPLE IN JAPAN.]
In that expedition Mr. Taylor took a deep interest, and with great
enthusiasm wrote letters to his home descriptive of Fusiyama, Kanagawa,
and the scenery around Yeddo Bay. During the long delay made by the
Japanese authorities, to impress the Commodore with their dignity, he
was engaged with eye and ear and pen in the service of his country. With
the devotion which marked all his undertakings, he noted everything
which passed under his scrutiny, in order that the Commodore might be
informed of every detail. Many travellers pass months at Yokohama, Yeddo,
or Nagasaki, making investigations and excursions, without finding out
so much of interest as Mr. Taylor saw in a single day. That natural and
acquired acuteness of observation, and that intuitive comprehension which
made him so conspicuous, are well worthy of study and imitation by all
persons who are ambitious to excel, whether engaged in travelling or in
any other occupation. So thoroughly had he disciplined himself in the
inspection of all that surrounded him, that when he arrived in Japan,
the ships, the junks, the people, their dress, their customs, their food,
their language, the vegetation, the minerals, the animals, the birds, the
landscapes, the bays, the promontories, the islands, the sea, the air,
the sky, the stars, the wind, and the sunlight were each and all full of
suggestions and valuable instruction. One could not follow Mr. Taylor’s
writings in the closing years of his travels without becoming conscious
of ignorance and short-sightedness concerning the commonest things of
life. It made his readers feel, oftentimes, when they discovered how much
he had noticed which they had overlooked, as boys feel when a playmate
finds a silver dollar on a spot which they have passed and repassed
without his good luck; with the difference, however, that Mr. Taylor’s
good fortune in that respect was the result of hard work and careful
culture.
After the close of the preliminary negotiations, and a hasty survey of
the bay of Yeddo, the fleet departed on a short cruise to Hong-Kong, in
order to give the Japanese emperor time to think over the propositions
which the United States Government had made to His Majesty.
The trip to Hong-Kong, by way of the Loo-Choo Islands, was without
special incident, and on the 7th of August he was again in the harbor
which he had left in the month of March. For five months he had known
what it was to be a seaman and made subject to the strict orders
enforced on a man-of-war. It was a fresh experience. He was keen enough
to recognize the merits and failings of naval discipline and naval
drill. He saw that many improvements might be made in both. He thought,
furthermore, that the ships themselves might be constructed on a better
pattern. Hence, he boldly recommended changes whenever the opportunity
came for him to speak through the public prints. He had become much
attached to the officers and men of his ship, and parted with them at
Hong-Kong with the feeling of sincere regret. He had made it his home on
board, and had been so contented and so kindly treated that he felt the
pangs of homesickness as he shook hands and went over the side for the
last time.
Although he had enlisted for the usual term of years, as the laws of
the United States recognized no shorter term, and ran the risk of being
held to the terms of his enlistment, yet there was a tacit understanding
between him and the Commodore that he should be allowed to resign when
the fleet returned to Macao. Consequently, when he presented at that port
his resignation it was promptly accepted, and he became a civilian again.
He found it nearly as awkward to be a landsman as he had at first to be
a sailor, and often looked out on the great men-of-war, as they lay at
anchor, with an indescribable yearning to tread their decks.
From Macao, he made excursions to Hong-Kong and Canton, finding friends
that pleased him, and an aristocratic snobbery that displeased him, in
the former place, and dirt, vice, and cheating in the latter, which made
him further disgusted with the Chinese race. In Canton, as elsewhere,
he spoke of them in strong terms, condemning their importation into the
United States in a manner to please the bitterest hater of the Celestials
to be found on our Pacific coast. Yet he visited the shops, practised the
“pigeon English,” visited the great temple of Honan, tested the power of
opium by smoking it himself, made a tour into the country, interested
himself in the foreign factories and the local government, and made the
acquaintance of many enterprising foreign merchants. But his aversion to
the Chinese, doubtless intensified by the wild rumors of barbarous deeds
then current on account of the rebellion, was not abated after he had
seen the great metropolis; and he frankly admitted, in his letters and in
his book, that he was glad to get away from China.
At Canton, he took passage in a sailing vessel bound for New York, that
being his most direct and least expensive route. He was anxious to return
to the United States, because he had been absent over two years, and
because of some financial arrangements which he considered it important
to make. He felt also that if he should publish a record of his travels
in the form of books, the sooner they were issued after his letters
had appeared in the “Tribune,” the better for the publishers and for
himself. In this undertaking, however, he was much delayed.
The ship in which he sailed, passed the Philippine Islands and the
coast of Java, and rounding the Cape of Good Hope, stopped for water
at the isle of St. Helena. The body of the Emperor Napoleon had been
removed to Paris, but Mr. Taylor found it a very interesting and
romantic spot. He was as much shocked, however, by the desecration of
the spot by the practical herd-keepers, as he was by the profanity of
the machine-rhymester who marred the grotto of the poet Camoens at Macao
with a doggerel composition. Mr. Taylor felt the absurdity of such
profanations, as none but poetical natures can feel them.
From St. Helena, the voyage was not unusually eventful, and after one
hundred and one days at sea, and with Mr. Taylor nearly that number of
days engaged in writing and correcting, they arrived in New York on the
20th of December, 1853. His welcome to New York and to his old home was
one of the most pleasant experiences of his life, and he often mentioned
it as being as exciting as the event of his first return when he walked
into the old homestead in his German walking-suit.
CHAPTER XXV.
Takes up the Editorial Pen.—Publication of His “Poems
of the Orient.”—His Books of Travel.—Lecturing before
Lyceums.—Friendship of Richard H. Stoddard.—Private
Correspondence.—Love of Fun.—Resolves to Build a Home at
Kennett.—Charges of Intemperance.—Preparations for a Third Trip
to Europe.—Acquaintance with Thackeray.
Immediately upon his return from China, he entered again the traces for
hard and long literary work. He had written poems, and snatches of poems,
verses, and couplets in his spare hours as a traveller, and his note-book
and guide-books were full of such impulsive productions, written on the
margin and on the fly-leaves. Those scattered compositions he desired
to reduce to satisfactory and convenient shape for publication. Some
of them had been written on the seas, some on the Nile, one in Spain,
one in Constantinople, one in Jerusalem, two in Gotha, and several in
railways and steamboats. The thought of publishing them in the form
of a book, was suggested to him by one of his intimate friends in New
York,—either Mr. Stoddard or Mr. Ripley,—his intention having been to
publish them from time to time in some periodical, in much the same
manner as he had contributed to the “Union Magazine,” some eight years
before. But he had sufficient appreciation of his own genius to act
promptly on such a suggestion of his friends, and the first few weeks
after his return were occupied with that work, in addition to the work of
arranging and correcting his unpublished letters to the “Tribune.” When
he had completed the “Poems of the Orient,” it was published by Ticknor &
Fields, of Boston, as a companion volume to the “Rhymes of Travel,” and
“Book of Romances,” both of which were united in one volume, in 1856,
under the title of “Poems of Home and Travel.” In the preparation of
these poems, he was greatly assisted by the kindly and discreet criticism
of his friend Stoddard, which he not only acknowledged in the remarkable
dedication “From Mount Tmolus,” but mentioned it to his relatives with
expressions of thankfulness. The public owe a debt to Mr. Stoddard
for his generosity and hospitality to Mr. Taylor, as well as for the
beautiful poems and truthful biographies which he has written. A true man
is a friendly critic, if a critic at all. Such was Richard H. Stoddard.
Mr. Taylor was then called into a new work by a curious public, who
wished to see the man who had wandered so far, and had seen so much of
this great earth. Hence he was repeatedly called upon to lecture in
various cities of the Eastern and Middle States. His financial condition
was not so prosperous as to preclude the possibility of future needs, and
as the invitations to lecture were accompanied by very liberal offers in
the way of remuneration, he accepted many of them. It was, however, an
uncongenial occupation. Public speaking had never been recognized as one
of his great gifts, and the great masses who gather on such occasions,
gather more for amusement than study. They wished to see how he appeared.
The ladies desired to know if he was handsome, well dressed, and what was
the color of his eyes and hair. The men wished to see if he had become a
foreigner in speech or manner. The boys wanted to hear bear stories, and
the girls of wild giraffes and affectionate gazelles. Not that the public
desired to hear pure nonsense; but that it wished its lessons very much
diluted. The polished essays of Mr. Taylor, with their poetical language
and refinement of expression, were of little or no account, and a view
of his portly physique, and the right to say that they had seen him, and
heard him, satisfied the greater portion. To him, such audiences were not
agreeable. Whenever he could find a friend like O’Brien or Stoddard, he
enjoyed reading his own productions; but to be set up as a show, had in
it no such satisfaction. Being also very much engaged in preparing his
books of travel, and in writing for the “Tribune,” often writing on the
railway trains, and in hotels, he was weary, and could not enter into the
labor of public teaching with the zest which might otherwise have been
expected of him. Yet, in point of numbers, and financial returns, his
tour, during the winter of 1854, was successful, and the harvest for the
season of 1855 promised to be still larger.
In addition to the work already mentioned, he had a great number of
private correspondents, whose letters he answered with astonishing
punctuality. Men in Egypt, China, England, Germany, California, and the
United States, sent him letters of inquiry about the best routes, and
cheapest outfit for travel. To which he replied as fully as he could,
always remembering the like favors done him when in the printing-office
at West Chester. There was a large number of friendly acquaintances in
many parts of the world who desired to sustain a correspondence with
him, and, often, his desk at the “Tribune” had piled upon it as many as
fourscore letters, brought by a single mail. It seems incredible when we
think of the amount of writing Mr. Taylor did during the years of 1854
and 1855.
Owing to the great amount of work which could not be postponed, and
the fact that the “Tribune” had the moral right to his letters before
he offered them for sale in the form of a book, the last of his three
volumes of travel did not appear until August, 1855.
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.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Visit to Europe.—Reception in England.—Company in
Charge.—Starts for Sweden.—Stockholm.—The Dangerous Ride.—The
Severe Cold.—Arrival in Lapland.—First Experience with
Canoes and Reindeers.—Becomes a Lapp.—The Extreme North.—The
Days without a Sun.—“Yankee Doodle.”—The Return.—Study
in Stockholm.—Return to Germany and London.—Embarks for
Norway.—Meets his Friend at Christiania.—The Coast of
Norway.—The Midnight Sun.—Trip across Norway and Sweden.—Return
to Germany.
Without bringing the living into a notoriety which they certainly do
not seek, and which might be unpleasant for them, we cannot give an
extended account of that summer trip of Mr. Taylor and his friends
in the countries of Europe, already so familiar to him. He devoted
himself to the welfare of his companions, and appeared to enjoy himself
exceedingly. England appeared brighter and more attractive than he
supposed it possible; and his pleasure in visiting historical places was
doubled by the fact that he had others to appreciate and enjoy it with
him. His sisters inherited enough of that same instinctive comprehension
of vegetable nature, and enough of that fellowship with kindred human
nature, to regard the landscapes and the people as he had regarded them,
and made, as he wrote to his friends in Philadelphia, wonderfully
observing travellers. Other friends there were, who, with his brother,
made up a pleasant party, over which Mr. Taylor was for the time the
guide and protector. He visited many places where he had never been
before, but he had studied his theme so closely during his previous
visits to Europe that even in strange places he felt the gratification
of one who had been there before, and to whom each scene and relic was
familiar. His little party was often interrupted by the calls made
upon him to attend dinner-parties and select gatherings of literary
people; but he was not a neglectful escort. His acquaintance with the
men and women of London whose names are known to all readers of English
literature, was promoted very much by the kindness of Mr. Thackeray,
who spared no pains to introduce Mr. Taylor into that “charmed circle.”
No one can appreciate the pleasure there was in being introduced to the
authors of whom the world has said so much, unless he has followed them
like a friend through their various volumes and learned to love them
there. Historians, essayists, biographers, poets, musical composers,
and scientific authors clasped his hand in London and welcomed him to
their homes and their love. At last he felt that he had reached the
heights for which he had been striving, and was regarded as an equal by
those whose plane of thought he had so long striven to reach. But that
feeling had its reaction, for he often examined himself and repeated to
himself his published poetry, and, as he described it himself, wondered
what there could be in it worthy of reproduction in Old England. His
association with the master-minds of England opened to him a wider field
of literature, and impressed him with the importance of writing something
loftier and more artistic than anything he yet had undertaken. To that
task he turned all the forces of his nature; so that on leaving England
his friends noticed through all his vivacity and unceasing attention a
tendency to abstraction; as though some important theme unspoken was
uppermost in his mind. He was searching for an ideal which should not
copy Tennyson, nor Wordsworth, nor Browning, but should equal theirs in
conception and execution. He felt that irresistible yearning for the
highest poetical work, which is the surest indication of genius. He was
not egotistic, he was not foolishly ambitious, but all his life he had
been seeking his place in the realms of poetry, feeling morally sure,
notwithstanding his own temporary misgivings, that there was a great work
for him to do.
[Illustration: RUSSIAN SLEDGES.]
However, the needs of the present crowded out the dreams of the future,
as they so often do in the lives of others, and after a delightful summer
in the lands he loved, and a visit to those who were now dearer than the
most gorgeous landscapes, he determined upon a trip to the frozen regions
of Lapland. He undertook that journey with evident reluctance. His
communion with the best minds of America and Europe had taught him that
of the works which he had published his poetry would live much longer
than his travels. He found that the place of a poet in the scale of human
merit was loftier than that of a journalistic traveller. He had left home
with a feeling of uncertainty about his future course; but there was no
longer hesitation or doubt. He would follow out the routes laid out and
keep his promises to the newspapers and publishers, and was determined
to acquire an insight into the Scandinavian language in view of an
enterprise in the way of translation, which, however, was never fully
matured nor undertaken. But his interest in travel had lost its chiefest
charms. It would not, could not, satisfy his ambition. Some critics have
accounted for this lack of zeal by the nearness of his marriage, which
would take him from his wanderings. But the best reason is the one he
gave himself; viz., that he desired to undertake some more permanent
task—one that should live when his travels were forgotten.
Hence, that indescribable lack which his readers have so universally
found in his books of travels published after that date. He could not rid
himself of the burden, nor cease to ponder upon the subjects which seemed
worthy of a great poem.
Starting from Germany Dec. 1, 1856, and embarking on a steamer which
ran between Lubec and Stockholm, he entered upon an undertaking more
hazardous and uncomfortable than anything he had ventured upon before.
But his experience taught him to fear nothing and to move on so long as
any other living being had lived on the same route. He had determined to
see a day without a sunrise and a night without a sunset. To be able to
state that fact in a book, would, in itself, ensure its ready sale. Of
this he had been assured in New York by his friend Dr. E. K. Kane, whose
opinion was entitled to much consideration, as the Doctor had been far
more extensively engaged in explorations, and had travelled many thousand
miles further than Mr. Taylor. Having once decided to see that wonderful
sight, nothing in the way of privation could prevent the accomplishment
of his purpose.
The steamer from Lubec was a rough, uncouth, inconvenient craft, and the
sea-sick voyage which Mr. Taylor and his friend made to Stockholm was
not an auspicious beginning for a tour so long and so dangerous. But he
relapsed into his old habit, acquired in Asia, of regarding no delay with
surprise or impatience, and refusing to feel certain of anything until he
possessed it; and as neither carelessness, neglect, lack of sleep or food
was allowed to disturb him, he made the company cheerful under the most
distressing circumstances.
[Illustration: LAZARETTO CHRISTIANSAND.]
On his arrival in Stockholm he could not speak a word of the language,
and had to depend mostly upon his own common-sense in the selection of an
outfit. But his quick ear and tractile tongue soon caught up words and
phrases, the meaning of which he learned by their effect when spoken,
and when he started northward he was able to ask for nearly everything
he needed in the native language. Of his ride from town to town, by
diligence and by lumbering sleighs, along the shores of the Bothnian
Gulf, we cannot give any extended account, and it can easily be found by
any reader who did not peruse it at the time of its publication. But it
answers our purpose to note how he appeared and what he suffered. It was
a terrible ride. Day after day and night after night he pushed on, losing
many meals, and often without sleep, in a temperature creeping downward
far below zero, and the sun sinking lower and lower on the southern
horizon. Frequently overturned in the snow, his beard and hair a mass of
solid ice, his eyelids frozen together, his nose frost-bitten, his hands
and feet momentarily in danger of freezing, he kept heroically on his
course, allowing no rumors of unendurable cold or impassable mountains,
of snow ahead to drive him from his purpose. With a wisdom that saved his
life, he fell with perfect _abandon_ into the habits of Swedes, Finns,
and Lapps, as he in turn found himself in their country and society,
eating what they ate, and wearing such skins as they wore, and following
their habits, excepting their dirt and their promiscuous arrangements for
sleeping. Around the gulf to Tornea, and thence to Muoniovara, he sped
northward with a haste which astonished the natives, and a shortness of
time which has surprised many travellers who have followed him on that
difficult route. He made such acquaintances and such friends on his way
northward that they wished him God-speed as he passed on, and welcomed
him in a royal manner on his return. On the borders of Lapland he took
his first lessons in reindeer-driving, and a most amusing experience
he had of it. He could not at first balance himself in the narrow boat
which was built for snow navigation, and he was frequently overturned in
fathomless piles of snow; and as he did not fully understand how to check
the speed of the animal, he flew like the wind over drifts, hollows, and
around corners with a most dangerous speed. Many men would have given up
the task, after being frozen, kicked, bruised, and pulled half out of
joint by the first trial. But such experiences were regarded by him as a
joke, and laughing over past mishaps, he tried again and again, until he
could guide a deer and balance himself in the narrow pulk as skilfully
as the Lapps themselves. He was not a traveller who sought luxury and
ease. He wished to sound all the shoals and depths of local experiences.
Some of the trials were very hazardous, and make one’s hair rise as he
reads of them. Yet Mr. Taylor appears to have put a blind trust in fate
and went boldly on. In all these visits and undertakings he forgot not
his Muse, and repeated “Afraja” and the “Arctic Lover” when the snow blew
too furiously or the cold was too far below zero to engage in original
composition.
With the thermometer varying from zero to forty degrees below he
traversed the wildest part of Lapland, which lies between the Bothnian
Gulf and the Northern Ocean.
At Kautockeino, far beyond the Arctic Circle, he found friends, through
the letter of a mutual acquaintance, and recorded with his usual kindness
of heart, how good and how generous they were to him. There, too, he
saw the day without a sunrise, which he had promised himself to see,
and his description of the white earth, the blue sky, the saffron and
orange flushes of the morning, and the crimson glow of the evening, all
combined in a few moments of time as the sun approached the line of
the horizon and sank again without peeping over it, is one of the most
charming and graphic paragraphs to be found in literature. There, too,
he saw the moon wheel through her entire circuit, without a rising and
without a setting. There he made sketches of the dwellings and the people
which, after so much practice, he was able to take in a very accurate
and artistic manner, and which served afterwards for illustrations in
the pages of a magazine. There he met a Lapp by the name of “Lars,” and
meeting the name often afterwards, suggested the name for that poem of
“Lars,” now as popular in Norway as in the United States. There, in that
extreme north, in the house of a native missionary, he found a piano, and
was half beside himself with joy when the kind-hearted ministers wife
played “Yankee Doodle.” She had heard Ole Bull play it at Christiania,
and caught the tune in that way.
His return to Stockholm was more tedious and dangerous than his northward
journey, for the weather was colder and the storms more severe. But his
reception at the miserable huts along the route, where he had stopped
on his journey northward, was always so hearty and friendly that he
felt no longer in a strange land. It was a repetition of his experience
elsewhere. He was loved at sight, and has not been forgotten to this day
by the humble friends he made. Nothing shows the whole-souled manner
in which he threw himself into the feelings and habits of the people,
better than the expressions which he used in his letters concerning the
scenery. He felt so much like a Swede, that he loved the landscapes
with the devotion, of a native. Notwithstanding he had used all the
superlative terms which our language furnished, in which to describe the
scenery of the tropics, yet there he went further and declares with great
enthusiasm, that the South had no such beautiful scenery as the ice-bound
forests and mountains of Sweden. To him, when he saw them, there
were no landscapes to compare with those before him. The transparent
crystals, the purity of the snow, the shape of the half-buried trees,
the boundless plains of white, and the gleams of acres of diamonds when
the frosty spirals greet the morning sun, all possessed a charm beyond
the attractions of any other land, so long as he was their associate.
He became a Swede, and knew, when his experience was over, just how a
Swede lived and how he felt, what he loved and what he enjoyed. Thus he
came to a more thorough understanding of the people, and had a better
appreciation of their literature, than any other traveller known to the
public prints.
On his return to Stockholm, February 14, he set about the work of
learning the language and literature of the Swedes. For nearly three
months he kept close to his books and his practice in the gymnasium, and
although it seems almost impossible, it is said by his associates that he
could then read fluently any work to be found in the Norse language.
He left Stockholm on the 6th of May, taking a steamer for Copenhagen,
from which place he purposed to take a steamer for Germany. At Copenhagen
he met Hans Christian Andersen, the great Danish poet, by whom Mr. Taylor
was received most cordially. Thus, one after another, the great men of
the world were added to the list of friends found by this son of an
humble American farmer. Andersen afterwards sent Mr. Taylor copies of
his poems and essays before they were printed, and in many ways showed
his regard for the American poet. There Mr. Taylor met Prof. Rafn, the
archæologist, and Goldschmidt, the author of the “The Jew,” and editor of
a magazine.
Prof. Rafn, gave Mr. Taylor his initiation into the beauties of Icelandic
poetry, for the professor was an earnest admirer of northern lore, and
loved to converse with any one who took an interest in it. Ho read some
of the verses which he especially admired, for Mr. Taylor’s criticism,
and Mr. Taylor was so delighted with them that he resolved to study the
literature of Iceland and at some time to visit the Island.
From Copenhagen Mr. Taylor hurried over to Germany to look after his
friends, and after a stay of a few days hastened to London on business
connected with his books. He left London about the first of July, after
seeing his relatives depart for America, and taking a steamer at Hull,
sailed for Christiania in Norway. The steamer stopped at Christiansand,
where the rugged, broken promontories loom up so grandly over sea and
bay. No harbor is more picturesque than that of Christiansand, and
no coast more uneven. Perhaps the best description of the coast from
Christiansand to Apendal, given by Mr. Taylor, is to be found in his poem
of “Lars,” wherein Lars and his Quaker wife sailed from Hull for Apendal.
“Calm autumn skies were o’er them and the sea
Swelled in unwrinkled glass: they scarcely knew
How sped the voyage until Lindesnaes,
At first a cloud, stood fast and spread away
To flanking capes, with gaps of blue between;
Then rose, and showed, above the precipice,
The firs of Norway climbing thick and high
To wilder crests that made the inland gloom.
In front, the sprinkled skerries pierced the wave;
Between then, slowly glided in and out
The tawny sails, while houses low and red
Hailed their return or sent them fearless forth.
‘This is thy Norway, Lars; it looks like thee,’
Said Ruth: ‘it has a forehead firm and bold:
It sets its foot below the reach of storms,
Yet hides, methinks, in each retiring vale,
Delight in toil, contentment, love, and peace.’”
“‘To starboard, yonder lies the isle
As I described it; here, upon our lee
Is mainland all, and there the Nid comes down,
The timber-shouldering Nid, from endless woods
And wilder valleys where scant grain is grown.
Now bend your glances as my finger points,—
Lo, there it is, the spire of Apendal.’”
Arrangements had been made with his intimate German friend, whom he first
met in Egypt, and in whom Mr. Taylor then took such a deep interest, to
meet him at the hotel in Christiania, from which place they purposed to
start on a trip overland through Norway to Drontheim, and from that city
by steamer to the northern capes of Norway, where the summer sun did
not rise or set. Another “sacred triad” was formed—one German and two
Americans—equally fortunate and equally pleasant with the former triad in
Egypt.
Their course lay through the rugged and drear landscape of Southern
Norway, and at the time they made their journey the sky was overcast
and the air loaded with moisture, giving every bleak cliff a bleaker
appearance, and every barren waste a gloomier aspect. With all his
poetical nature, Mr. Taylor did not find much to admire on his way to
Drontheim. His sympathy was aroused for the poor farmers who dwell in
such a solitude as seemed to envelop the land, and he was glad when the
gleams of the river announced their approach to Drontheim.
From Drontheim they sailed by the Hammerfest line on the 18th of July,
following the coast so noted for its fantastic crags and startling
cliffs. The coast scenery from Drontheim to Hammerfest is unquestionably
the most broken and grand in the world. Its black towers, enormous
arches, gigantic peaks, and resounding caverns excel anything in the way
of sombre grandeur that travellers elsewhere have described.
As they approached the Arctic Circle the mountains became capped with
snow, and chilly winds blew off the land, and the days became so long
that the evening and the morning succeeded each other with but an
intervening twilight. Gradually the midnights grew brighter until, as
they proceeded round the North Cape, the sun shone in all its splendor
throughout the twenty-four hours.
After several days spent in visiting the small fishing villages along the
northern coast, they again turned southward and disembarked at Drontheim,
from which place they took passage to Bergen.
From Bergen they travelled on horseback and by boats, over the interior
lakes to Christiania, and from that city through the interior of
Wermeland and Delecarlia to Stockholm, where they arrived about the
middle of September. There Mr. Taylor remained long enough to call on
many of the friends whom he had made during the previous winter, and then
the “triad” departed for Berlin and Gotha.
CHAPTER XXVII.
His Marriage.—German Relatives.—Intention of visiting
Siberia.—Goes to Greece instead.—Dalmatia.—Spolato.—Arrival
at Athens.—His first View of the Propylæa.—The
Parthenon.—Excursion to Crete.—Earthquake at
Corinth.—Mycenæ.—Sparta.—The Ruins of Olympia.—Visit to
Thermopylæ.—Aulis.—Return to Athens.—His Acquirements.
Mr. Taylor was married in October following his return from Norway and
Sweden, to Marie Hansen, whose father had already gained a world-wide
reputation as an astronomer through his works on Physical Astronomy, and
was then winning renown for his “Tables de la Lune,” for which he was
given a prize by the English Government, as a public benefactor. He was
a man of remarkable mathematical genius, universally respected, and the
founder of the Erfurt Observatory near Gotha. It was a family of scholars
which received Mr. Taylor as a son and brother, and a fortunate alliance
for the world of letters. It would be interesting to our readers, no
doubt, to know all about the ceremony, the guests, the letters, and the
relatives. But that which at some future day may be elevated to the
plane of history, would be mere gossip now; and could only serve, for
the present, to bring more vividly before his loved ones living, the
greatness and reality of their loss.
Not even such an event as his marriage was allowed to interfere with his
work. His travels in the North had been in a great measure described in
detail from day to day, as he stopped for food and rest, and when he left
Stockholm for Germany, a large pile of manuscript had accumulated, which
needed correction and arrangement before being sent to his publishers
in New York. To this he applied himself closely, and a month after
his marriage, was in London making the closing arrangements for the
appearance of his book on “Northern Travel,” published by G. P. Putnam &
Sons, and containing a condensed account of his winter and summer in the
Norse countries.
Immediately after despatching the manuscript for the book, together
with several letters for the press, he made his preparations for a
winter’s sojourn in Greece. He had purposed to take a trip from St.
Petersburg across the continent of Asia, through Siberia to Kamtschatka,
and returning through Persia and by the shores of the Black Sea. But
it appears that neither Mr. Greeley, nor Mr. Putnam, nor his German
relatives approved of the undertaking, which, together with some
unsatisfactory financial details, caused him to abandon the snows of
Siberia for the sunshine of Attica.
This arrangement must have been a far more pleasant one for him, as Mrs.
Taylor and other friends could accompany him to Athens, and as that land
was so connected with the richest themes for poets and scholars. Many
of Byron’s poems had been favorites with Mr. Taylor from his boyhood,
and especially familiar were those passages relating to Greece; for the
reading-books in use by American scholars, in his school-days, contained,
very wisely, several selections from Byron’s patriotic poems relating to
Greece. To this was added an appreciation of “Childe Harold,” gained by
visiting the Italian scenery where Byron lived during those years of his
voluntary exile.
The party left Gotha in the early part of December, 1857, and going down
the Dalmatian coast of the Adriatic Gulf, visited the ancient town of
Spolato, where the ruins of the Emperor Diocletian’s palaces are still
imposing and beautiful. Without losing the steamer, which put in at all
the small ports along the route, they skirted the southern shores of the
Gulf of Corinth; and, after crossing the Isthmus near Ancient Corinth,
sailed direct for Piræus.
To a man of Mr. Taylor’s mental capacity and disposition, the country
afforded the means for the highest enjoyment. Men may be as unsentimental
as a beast, and as regardless of ancient greatness as a savage, and yet
their lives will be influenced more or less by a sojourn in old Greece.
Later philosophers declare, and attempt to prove it on scientific
principles, that the typography of the country, added to the influences
of the climate, produced the great minds of ancient Greece. If so,
which may be wholly or partially true, then the same hills and the same
valleys, combined with the same climate, must influence the mental
characteristics of those who live there now. If, however, as is too
frequently the fact to make a clear case of the philosophers’ claims,
men do reside under the Acropolis and in the Academian groves wholly
unaffected by the scenery, certain it is that to a poet whose whole
ambition and only joy was found in a determination to follow the lead of
Homer, Simonides, and Tyrtæus, it was an ecstasy of mental satisfaction
to feel the influence of the surrounding associations. Even Mr. Taylor
feared that his name as a poet would lead people to consider his
descriptions to be somewhat colored by the imagination, and labored hard
to avoid the imputation. He, with great candor and truth, claimed that
men are as great as they were in the days of Demosthenes and Aristides,
although the community to which they belonged has moved farther west. He
did not believe that all the great and noble and good belonged to the
past. He recognized the great fact that dead men have better reputations
than living ones, and that the longer a man lies in his grave the greater
seem his virtues, and the less the number and magnitude of his faults,
_i. e._ if he is not forgotten altogether. So, Mr. Taylor inserted such
thoughts in his letters and conversation, for the sake of seasoning his
enthusiasm, which he feared was too active. But it was as useless for
him as it was for Byron, and as it has been for other American poets
who visited those ancient groves, to keep above or outside the subtle
and powerful influences which Greece puts forth. Oh! land of heroes,
patriots, poets, philosophers, orators, and musicians! Oh, land of
republics and birthplace of fleets! How like a visit to the homes of
Solon, Plato, Socrates, and Polycrates it is to walk thy fields, and how
like a flight to the homes of the gods, to dream through thy moonlit
nights!
Mr. Taylor made the most of his winter in Greece, and visited every
place of ancient renown which was accessible to travellers. He scarcely
waited for the dawn of his first day in Athens before he hastened to
the Acropolis, and admired its marvels and historical suggestions. At
the Propylæa, which crowns the mountain with beauty and majesty, where
all the destructive inventions of two thousand years have failed to
annihilate the monument which Phidias and Calicrates erected to their
genius, Mr. Taylor was overwhelmed with emotions, and gazed with wonder
at the chaste sculpture which adorns the most graceful structure ever
made of marble, and in silent awe contemplated the pillars, cornices,
tablets, pavements, and broken ornaments with which he was surrounded.
Where was the Coliseum he had praised so much when a boy? Where were
the cathedrals, palaces, and castles he had regarded as so sublime?
Everything he had seen sank into insignificance beside the ponderous yet
exquisitely beautiful pile before him. He was so affected, that when
he spoke he whispered, as if in the presence of Jupiter, and his eyes
grew moist as he tried to compass the grandeur of the lofty Parthenon
and Propylæa. This language will seem extravagant to the reader who
has not felt such sensations. The writer, who makes no pretensions of
being a poet either in letters or by nature, has been so filled with
the unspeakable grandeur of some of the scenes from the heights of the
Alps, Himalayas, and Rocky Mountains, as to find himself, to his own
surprise, shedding copious streams of tears. It is a sensation unknown
to common experience, and our language has no adequate terms with which
to describe it. Such a feeling, beyond a doubt, was that which reigned
in his sensitive nature when he stood in the porch of the Parthenon.
To him, those marvels of art produced the impression which nothing but
the mightiest mountain-peaks could awaken in others. It must have been
grand to possess such a nature; and it is grand to follow him through his
letters and books. There was the crowning point of all his travel. It had
been reserved until near the end of his wanderings, and a fitting climax
it was. The poet and traveller amid the ruins of Athens! He spent many
happy hours amid the crumbling evidences of Athenian greatness. Temples
uncounted lay half-buried in the broken soil. Those of Demeter, Hercules,
Apollo, Aphrodite, Hephæstus, Theseus, Dioscuri, could be traced in the
earth, or confronted the antiquarian with majestic porches; while the
Odeon, Gymnasium, Museum, Aglaurium, Lyceum, Prytanæum, Erechtheum,
Propylæa, and Parthenon, can easily be reconstructed in the imagination
of any student of Greek history with the aid of their wonderful ruins.
And when those colossal edifices stand forth in their beauty, it is but
a step to the sublimest dreams, wherein Socrates, Anaxagoras, Pericles,
Eschylus, Sophocles, Ictinus, Mnesicles, and their noble cotemporaries,
walked through the colonnades, along the payed streets, and among the
verdant, classic groves which bordered on the Ilissus. The walls of
Athens, extending from Hymettus to the distant sea, the city crowded
with the wealth of the commercial world, and the fields as verdant and
fruitful as now.
Mr. Taylor often remarked that he should never have been a successful
traveller had he not been a poet; and it might be added that persons,
in whom the power to recall the past through the debris of the present
is wholly lacking, had better not travel at all. There are hills in
Pennsylvania, or New Hampshire, far more picturesque than the Acropolis,
and on them might be erected a tolerably accurate copy of the Propylæa,
Erechtheum, and Parthenon as they now stand, and the curious might
visit them to observe the beauty of the architecture and remark the
foolishness of those who constructed them. Unconnected with any history,
and the originals unheard of, they would be nothing but mere monuments to
folly, with all their symmetry. Take away from Athens the records of its
grand humanity; the stories of its achievements; the tales concerning
the wonders of its genius; the renown of its arms; the memories of its
misfortunes; and all the life, the spirit, that shines through its
fragments, as the soul beams through the eye of a loved face, would be
extinguished, and no great good could come from seeing them.
We mention these things, not to excuse Mr. Taylor for his strong
assertions concerning the effect these ruins had upon him, but to give
to the student a clearer insight into the nature and life of the poet,
Bayard Taylor. From Athens, after visiting the king and queen, Mr. Taylor
made excursions into the interior, and to the Island of Crete, visiting,
in his various tours, Candia, Rhithymnos, Corinth, Leuetra, Mycenæ,
Arcadia, Sparta, Parnassus, Platea, Thermopylæ, and various other fields,
mountains, and ruins connected with ancient Greece. At Crete he was
most graciously welcomed by the Turkish governor, and was treated with
the most generous hospitality by the people and officials, throughout a
somewhat lengthy journey about the island. It was there that he met the
American consul who was going to start the commerce of Crete by bringing
in a cargo of rum to exchange for the products of the island, and who
was so startled by Mr. Taylor’s frankly avowed hope, that the ship would
be wrecked before the curse of drunkenness was added to the other Cretan
vices. Mr. Taylor gave a somewhat different version of the affair,
not changing however its exposition of his sentiments on the subject
of drunkenness. But it is to be supposed, that the consul, who was so
severely rebuked, would have the best reason for remembering it, and, as
his version throws no discredit on Mr. Taylor, and varies in no important
particular from that given by Mr. Taylor, we give the consul the benefit
of the story.
At Corinth he had a startling experience in an earthquake, feeling the
earth rise and fall with that sickening movement, creating a nausea like
the sea-sickness of a whole voyage concentrated into a few minutes, and
saw the stone walls of the house crumbling and splitting about him. He
arrived after the greatest shock had passed, or he would have seen whole
streets of buildings thrown down, for the village was half in ruins
when he reached the place. Near Corinth he saw the plain whereon were
celebrated the Isthmian games and repeated sections of Schiller’s poem,
“The Gods of Greece.”
At Argolis he saw the gateway of Mycenæ, guarded by the celebrated stone
lions, and tried to connect Agamemnon and Orestes with the landscapes.
At Sparta he trod the sward above the buried palaces, and having no
poets’ names to rhyme with Lycurgus and Leonidas, he hurried on to scenes
less suggestive of mere physical endurance and bloody encounters.
In Mania, within the boundaries of ancient Sparta, he was delighted to
find the descendants of the ancient Greeks, whose blood was not diluted
by that of Turks, Slavs, Italians, and Egyptians. He found there what no
other part of Greece visited by him could boast, the Greek face and form
such as Phidias, Praxiteles, and Lysippus portrayed in their immortal
sculptures. At Olympia he saw the home of Xenophon, and the foundations
of that temple of Olympus from whence the Greek chronology was taken,
near which were celebrated the great Olympian Games, around which were
once those sacred groves so often mentioned in Greek poetry and tragedy,
and where the most artistic work of Phidias stood,—the ivory statue of
Jupiter.
At Thebes he recalled the deeds of Pindar, Epaminondas, and the heroes of
the Trojan War.
At Delphi he looked over the forests that clothe the lofty Parnassus,
gazed into the rocky cleft from which the priestesses received their
communications, and saw the sites of temples used for gardens, and blocks
from the sacred shrines used for cellar walls.
At Thermopylæ he marked the spot where the heroes fought and the narrow
gorge where they fell, with feelings of respect and pride. He said that
the story of such deeds should never be allowed to die.
At “Aulis” he saw where Jason launched his ships to sail in search of
the Golden Fleece, and repeated a part of the Argonautic story in modern
Greek.
On all these journeys Mr. Taylor displayed the same fearless, adventurous
spirit, and was frequently in danger. By fortunate accidents he was
prevented from falling into the hands of brigands, and returned to
Athens, after his prolonged journeys, in good health, and with the
accounts of his journeys nearly complete in his pocket.
When he left Athens in the spring for Constantinople, he had become
acquainted with all parts of ancient Greece, and was able to give to his
readers a fund of valuable information concerning the country and its
products, the people and their industries. He had kept up that triple
life which characterized all his later travels in Europe and Asia, and
saw everything modern in the way of manners, races, products, commerce,
government, and everything that remained of the ancient days in the shape
of monuments, temples, or ruins, together with those undefinable yet real
suggestions which come to the poet, and to him alone.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
From Constantinople to Gotha.—Visit to Russia.—Moscow
and St. Petersburg.—Return to Prussia.—Arrival in the
United States.—Incessant Work.—Lecturing and Travels in
California.—The Construction of Cedarcroft.—His Patriotic
Addresses and Poems.—Visits Germany in 1861.—Anxiety for the
Fate of His Nation.—Life at Cedarcroft.
After a short stay in Constantinople, the party, under the guidance
of Mr. Taylor, went by steamer to the mouth of the Danube, and thence
up that river to his new home at Gotha. Mr. Taylor had set his heart
on building a residence in the oak woodland near his old home at
Kennett, and now that he was married, his anxiety to see it completed
led him to think seriously of returning at once to the United States.
Having, however, a vague fear that he might not again visit Europe as a
traveller, and being unwilling to leave the largest empire in the world
unvisited, he resolved to make a hasty trip to Moscow and St. Petersburg.
It was not a tour which he would personally enjoy as he had his stay
in Greece, yet it was needed to make complete his knowledge of Europe.
Hence he hastened away from Gotha, and, taking Cracow, the salt mines of
Wieliczka and Warsaw in his route, arrived at Moscow about the middle
of June. Having seen the wonders of that ancient capital of Russia, he
went by railroad direct to St. Petersburg. There he was much interested
in the massive structures of granite and marble which stand over the
land which was once an impassable marsh, and pondered, with feelings
of great wonder, upon the control which man exercises over nature. The
grand squares, the wide Boulevards, the ponderous bridges, the extensive
palaces, the solid cathedral, and the broad quays and docks, give an
impression of grandeur in simplicity, which no other city possesses. The
great capital has none of that air of gayety and ostentation which one
notices in Paris and London; but is stately, dignified, grand. Everything
is done on a large scale, and the buildings, halls, streets, and parades,
are alike suggestive of might, and a strong will. The city is Peter the
Great in stone. It conveys the impression to the traveller, of strength
without coarseness, and of beauty without display.
Little did Mr. Taylor expect, when he bade those extensive, massive
palaces adieu, that he should return to that city, in a few years, as the
official representative of a powerful nation. Probably the idea of being
again in those galleries of art, was as remote from his calculations as
was the idea of being minister of the United States at the court of the
German Empire, when he walked reverently along the Unter-den-Linden at
Berlin for the first time, trying to get a peep at the distant carriage
of the king.
From St. Petersburg, he took the inland route for Prussia, passing
through the Baltic provinces, and studying the habits and appearance of
the people. His return to Gotha, from Russia, was regarded by himself,
and by his friends, as the close of his wanderings, and, with a sigh of
relief, he laid down his pen, and declared that he wished for nothing
more than to “settle down in a home of his own near the old farm in the
States.” A few weeks later, and he was receiving the congratulations of
his friends in New York, and had taken his place at the familiar desk in
the office of the New York “Tribune.”
Then began another season of closest and severest mental labor. Rest,
during his waking hours, seemed impossible, and even the hours which he
spent at the Literary Club and at his rooms, were more or less connected
with his work. Literature was his work, and literature was his play. He
had become enamored of Goethe and Schiller, and already conceived the
idea of giving to the world a translation of their best works. He had the
“Argument” of the “Poet’s Journal” in his mind, and every visit to the
scenes of his first love, in the companionship of the second, served to
urge him to complete and publish it.
He had become one of the noted men of America, and the calls, to lecture,
to write, to visit, to attend dinners, and write editorials, were
incessant and persistent.
The construction of his house took much of his attention, and he
ransacked his collections of sketches, and photographs of villas,
palaces, and cottages in the Old World, to find such a plan as he could
be satisfied to adopt. It was no child’s play with him to construct
the building wherein to make his home. He had thought of the matter
from boyhood, and that clump of oaks on the highland, about a mile to
the westward of Kennett Square, and within a short distance of the
old homestead, had ever been his choice. His years of wanderings had
sharpened his desire for a permanent home, and, with characteristic
care and thoroughness, he investigated his plans and means. He had
owned the land for five years, and had gloried in being the owner of
American soil, without which one can hardly claim to be an American. He
attended to all the details of rooms, closets, stairways, windows, brick,
stone, cornices, roof, tower, with caution and deliberation; and when
he contracted with the masons, carpenters, and gardeners, he knew just
what was needed, and told to each what was expected of them. There was
a ceremony attendant on breaking the ground, a procession, and a box of
records deposited in the foundation, when the corner-stone was laid, and
such a house-warming when it was dedicated October 18 and 19, 1860, as
Americans seldom enjoy. There was feasting, singing, original poetry,
original plays, and one of the happiest, merriest companies ever gathered
under a hospitable roof.
But while the building was being slowly and carefully constructed, with
its thick walls of stone and brick, Mr. Taylor, was engaged no less in
his editorial tasks. The summer after his return from Europe, he made
several excursions in an editorial capacity, one of which took him again
to California. The great changes in the city of San Francisco, and in the
appearance of the entire State, so far as he visited it, were marvellous,
and were as marvellously pictured to the minds of his readers. His time
was much occupied in delivering lectures in the various cities of the
State; but he used his disciplined eyes and ears to such advantage that
he gave in his book the most full and accurate account of California,—its
agriculture, its institutions, its lakes, its mountains, its great trees,
its mines, its enterprises, and its people,—to be found in any work of
the kind now in print. It is astonishing how much he could put into a
paragraph, without giving it a crowded appearance!
His time, from the day he returned from California, was mostly engaged
in delivering lectures and writing letters. He was not rich, and he was
generous. He had a house to build, and to pay for. Furniture must be
had, and his accumulated fortune was not large enough for all. Hence he
travelled, and he delivered lectures, notwithstanding the disagreeable
experiences which he was compelled to endure. He yearned to be at the
translation of “Faust”; but necessity drove him to talk of travel and
biography. He had a home, for “it is home where the heart is,” and he
longed to be in it. But necessity sent him forth with a rude hand, and
held him aloof from his own. Oh! that is the saddest experience in
human life! To feel called to a certain work; to know that there is one
task for which one is peculiarly fitted by nature and by discipline;
to see before him still the beckoning forms which have hovered in the
glory of every setting sun, since earliest childhood; to feel that
one’s productions, which might be valuable, are unfinished, and hardly
shaped, before they are forced into the hands of conscienceless critics,
is one of the most miserable conditions in life. This condition, which
has worn out so many men of genius, and which has, with tyrannical
coldness, compelled authors to fence up their own literary highway, or
die, was not felt by Mr. Taylor in that degree that it was by some of his
cotemporaries,—and by many since his time. But he felt it often enough
and keenly enough to sympathize with others, and most forcibly expressed
their feelings in his “Picture of Saint John.”
“But soon assailed my home the need of gold,
The miserable wants that plague and fret,
Repeated ever, battling with our hold
On all immortal aims, lest, overbold
In arrogance of gift, we dare forget
The balanced curse; ah, me! that finest powers,
Must stoop to menial services, and set
Their growth below the unlaborious flowers.”
Yet manfully did he toil, neglecting sleep and food, eager to teach,
determined to earn honestly the money which he was to receive. He
desired to have a home free from debt, to which he could invite his
friends, and feel that his hospitality could be safely and honestly
extended to all those whom he loved and honored. So he toiled, as men
seldom toil, using every moment on railway and steamboat, to write out
those pages which his engagements prevented him from doing at home. As a
consequence, his health began to decline, and oft-repeated warnings of
friends and of physicians, which he tried to keep from the knowledge of
his relatives, drove him from the lucrative field of lecturing.
With his face set, steadfastly set, toward the tombs of Goethe and of
Schiller, seeing the great obligation he was under, to a Providence which
had so richly endowed him, to give to man some masterpiece, he turned at
once toward his loved Germany, when he felt the necessity of a change of
home, and a change of work.
But the exciting events immediately preceding the War of the Great
Rebellion, so stirred his patriotic soul, that he turned his thought and
work into patriotic channels, and worked on until late in the spring of
1861. His words in the newspapers, in the magazines, and on the rostrum,
were ringing trumpet-calls to the defence of the Republic. The Chinese
say that “there are words which are deeds.” That could be said of those
Mr. Taylor uttered. His public addresses were enthusiastic appeals for
the salvation of the nation, and his poems had in them the boldest spirit
of patriotism.
In his poem, “Through Baltimore,” written in April, 1861, he described
the approach of the Union soldiers to Baltimore, the onset of the mob,
and closed the story with these words:—
“No, never! By that outrage black,
A solemn oath we swore,
To bring the Keystone’s thousands back,
Strike down the dastards who attack,
And leave a red and fiery track
Through Baltimore!
Bow down, in haste, thy guilty head!
God’s wrath is swift and sore:
The sky with gathering bolts is red,—
Cleanse from thy skirts the slaughter shed,
Or make thyself an ashen bed,
O Baltimore!”
On the 30th of April, 1861, he wrote an address to the American people,
the last verse of which expressed the sentiment of the whole poem and we
insert it here:—
“Slow to resolve, be swift to do!
Teach ye the False how fight the True!
How bucklered Perfidy shall feel
In her black heart the Patriot’s steel;
How sure the bolt that Justice wings;
How weak the arm a traitor brings;
How mighty they, who steadfast stand
For Freedom’s Flag and Freedom’s Land!”
But the poem which created the greatest enthusiasm at the time of its
publication, and which is still a most touchingly inspiring selection,
was written at about the same time as the “Address to the American
People,” possibly ten days later, and it was given the title of “Scott
and the Veteran.” To fully appreciate the power of those verses, one
needs to recall the hesitation, and the excitement, and the uncertainty
which the nation felt in that dark hour. In a time like that, a few
clear, unmistakable words work wonders with a people. Well does the
writer recall the electrical effect of that poem in 1861, when read at a
patriotic gathering of the yeomen, in a valley of the Berkshire Hills, in
Western Massachusetts. The lines were not so polished, nor the words so
choice as many other verses which Mr. Taylor had written; but they seem
to come again as they were then recited, and awaken memories of mountain
glens, and “mountain boys”; of camps and battles, of fields of cotton
made fields of carnage; of loved faces looking skyward, cold and still;
of a nation saved, redeemed, renewed. The three closing verses we have
never forgotten.
“If they should fire on Pickens, let the Colonel in command
Put me upon the rampart, with the flagstaff in my hand:
No odds how hot the cannon-smoke, or how the shells may fly;
I’ll hold the Stars and Stripes aloft, and hold them till I die!
I’m ready, General, so you let a post to me be given,
Where Washington can see me, as he looks from highest heaven,
And say to Putnam at his side, or, may be, General Wayne;
‘There stands old Billy Johnson, that fought at Lundy’s Lane!’
And when the fight is hottest, before the traitors fly,
When shell and ball are screeching and bursting in the sky,
If any shot should hit me, and lay me on my face,
My soul would go to Washington’s, and not to Arnold’s place!”
In June, the necessity of rest, and the desire to obtain it in such a
way as to get pleasure and advantage from his release, influenced him to
take a trip to his wife’s old home, and to spend a month at the country
residence of a friend which was situated on slopes of the Thuringian
Forest, not far from Weimar and Gotha. It was a lovely spot, and a
pretty cottage, and about him were numberless reminders of Schiller and
Goethe, with whose names he was so creditably to connect his own. Whether
he gained the rest he needed or not, is a question still undecided.
Certainly he did not gain as much as he would, had he left Goethe’s
“Faust,” and his own new volume of poems behind him, and chafed much less
under his great suspense concerning the results of the American War. He
ran up the American flag to the ridge-pole of his cottage, and walked
about uneasily, awaiting news from home. He talked of the war with his
neighbors and visitors, wrote about it to whomsoever of his friends he
thought might not understand the merits of the contest, and, at last,
about the 1st of August, hastily broke up his cosy housekeeping, and
returned to America.
[Illustration: CEDARCROFT, KENNETT SQUARE, PA.]
When he again opened the doors of his dwelling at Kennett, which he
had given the poetical name of “Cedarcroft,” it was to welcome to his
fireside all who loved their country. But, as he afterwards proudly
declared, no traitor ever crossed its threshold. Many distinguished
men visited him, including members of Congress, and of the President’s
Cabinet.
[Illustration: NICHOLAS BRIDGE]
CHAPTER XXIX.
Appointed as Secretary of Legation.—Life in St.
Petersburg.—Literary Labors.—His Home at Kennett.—Publication
of his Poems.—Visits Iceland—His Poem at the Millennial
Celebration.—Appointment as Minister to Berlin.—His
Congratulations.—Reception at Berlin.—His Death.
In the summer of 1862, Mr. Taylor accepted the appointment as Secretary
of Legation at St. Petersburg, Russia, for which he was indebted to
his life-long friend, the Hon. George H. Boker, of Philadelphia, whose
services to the nation as Minister Plenipotentiary, as well as his gifts
as an author, have made his name familiar to the reading public of
America.
It does not appear that the official duties connected with his office
especially pleased Mr. Taylor, and it is believed by his friends that
he regarded them in about the same light that Hawthorne looked upon his
office. It was an honorable and responsible position, especially so
during 1862 and 1863, when the United States was laboring so earnestly,
and finally so successfully, to gain the friendship of Russia, and Mr.
Taylor appreciated it. Certainly the American Legation at St. Petersburg
was never more popular at the Court of the Emperor than during the
term of Mr. Taylor’s sojourn. Whatever the credit which is due to
the Minister during his stay, it is no disparagement to say that Mr.
Taylor made many warm friends in St. Petersburg, who remember him, and
weep for his untimely death. When the duties of the Legation devolved
entirely upon him, as _charge d’affairs_, he was treated with the
greatest consideration, and for a time the court circles believed that
the President of the United States would promote him to the office of
Ambassador, as appeared to them to be his due.
But Mr. Taylor was in no wise an office-seeker, and cared more for the
honor of writing a good book than for any office in the gift of the
President. So the autumn, winter, and spring which Mr. Taylor spent in
St. Petersburg were devoted to his studies of literature, so far as he
could do so without neglecting his duties. He made several excursions
into the interior of Russia, and made himself acquainted with the
language and writings of Russian authors. Work! work! work! Incessantly
writing, reading, or observing! Such was his life in St. Petersburg.
His envious critics have said that his genius all lay in the ability
to do hard work. But does not successful hard work exhibit genius in
its greatest strength? Some may, in one dash, make themselves famous.
Authors may concentrate all their power in a single leap, and reach the
heights of fame at one bound. But of such men you seldom hear a second
success. Their single work is all that they do well. Not so with Mr.
Taylor. The publication of one book only left the way clear for a better
successor. His Muse was not uncertain, his genius was not spasmodic. Two
of his poems, written in Russia, namely, “The Neva,” and “A Thousand
Years,” were afterwards translated into Russian, and received the hearty
encomiums of the cultured nobility. His story of “Beauty and the Beast,”
located at Novgorod, to which place Mr. Taylor made an excursion while
connected with the American Legation at St. Petersburg, has also been
translated into the Russian language, together with other selections from
his writings, showing that his literary renown did not suffer by his
residence in Russia.
But his highest ambition in life was to publish a worthy translation of
Goethe and Schiller, together with a biography of both. This had been
his purpose from the time he first visited Weimar and Gotha. To this his
other labors became gradually subordinated.
How he came to turn his attention to prose fiction can be accounted
for on the supposition that he adopted that character for the purpose
of testing his own powers, and securing an income which would enable
him to prosecute his studies and investigations relating to Goethe and
Schiller. He did not hope to be a leading novelist, and the public placed
a much higher estimate on his novels than he did. The desire he had to
immortalize his old home, the urgent appeals of friends, and the advice
of acquaintances, pressed him into a field which he confessed in his
lectures was uncongenial. Yet he had no more reason to be ashamed of
“Hannah Thurston,” “John Godfrey’s Fortunes,” and the “Story of Kennett,”
brought out soon after his return from Russia, than he had thirteen or
fourteen years before to be ashamed of the Jenny Lind prize-song, or the
poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard College.
After leaving Russia, he soon returned to the United States, and, with
lecturing and writing, occupied the time until again called abroad by a
desire to see some localities visited by Goethe, and describe the great
Paris Exhibition of 1867. Then followed those years of work at home,
and travel abroad and at home, as his duties as author, editor, and
correspondent demanded. In 1866 appeared his poem, “Picture of St. John,”
which was immediately translated into Italian by an admirer in Florence.
His poem, “The Ballad of Abraham Lincoln,” appeared in 1869, “Goethe’s
Faust,” in 1871, “The Masque of the Gods,” in 1872, “Lars, a Pastoral of
Norway,” in 1873, “The Prophet, a Tragedy,” in 1874, and “Home Pastorals,
Ballads, and Lyrics,” in 1875.
In the spring of 1874, Mr. Taylor visited Iceland as the correspondent
of the New York “Tribune.” He had visited Egypt, and was to return to
America after a short stay in Europe, but the news of the Millennial
Celebration, which was to take place on the island August 2d and 3d,
called a large number of people to the festivities, and it was fitting
that a great American newspaper should be represented. But neither the
people of Iceland, nor the editors of the “Tribune,” nor Mr. Taylor,
had any idea, when he set out, that his visit would be magnified
into a recognition of the event by the people of the United States.
His knowledge of the Danish language, and his study of the Icelandic
tongue, according to his plan laid in Copenhagen eighteen years before,
when on his way to the Northern Ocean, made him peculiarly fitted
for the position in which he was, by a conjunction of unforeseen
circumstances, unexpectedly thrown. But his genius was as spontaneous
as it was persevering; for in a few moments of time, amid confusion,
and conversation in which he took part, he wrote the poem, “America to
Iceland,” which, when read to the Icelanders in their own language, on
the occasion of their largest gathering, created the greatest enthusiasm.
One verse ran thus,—
“Hail, mother-land of Skalds and heroes,
By love of freedom hither hurled;
Fire in their hearts as in their mountains,
And strength like thine to shake the world!”
Mr. Taylor’s printed description of the scenery, people, government, and
geysers of Iceland, is a standard work on that almost unknown island, and
is written in a vein readable and refined. As it shows rather the fruit
of a cultured life than the processes of culture, its contents require no
extended notice in a work like this.
In the winter (February) of 1878, President Hayes offered Mr. Taylor the
vacant mission at Berlin, expressing, at the same time, his conviction
that there was no other American living who could so nobly and creditably
fill the position of Minister of the United States to the German Empire.
Mr. Taylor’s fame as a German scholar; his relation, by marriage, to the
German people; his popularity at home and in Germany; and his creditable
performance of his duties in a like position at St. Petersburg, made it
peculiarly fitting that he should represent the American people in that
official capacity.
It was an office unsought by Mr. Taylor, but, nevertheless, it was most
cheerfully accepted, as it would give him an opportunity to prosecute his
studies of the life of Goethe and the life of Schiller, which could not
be so well secured in any other way.
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,
With all their pomp, so drear a hue of Death;
I never knew their still and solemn breath
Could rob the breaking heart of strength to bear,
Feeding the blank submission of despair.
Yet, peace, sad soul! Reproach and pity shine,
Suffused through starry tears: bend thou in prayer,
Rebuked by Love divine.”
“Why art thou dead? Upon the hills once more
The golden mist of waning Autumn lies;
The slow-pulsed billows wash along the shore,
And phantom isles are floating in the skies.
They wait for thee: a spirit in the sand
Hushes, expectant for thy coming tread;
The light wind pants to lift thy trembling hair;
Inward, the silent land
Lies with its mournful woods;—why art thou dead,
When Earth demands that thou shalt call her fair?”
CHAPTER XXX.
His Friends.—The Multitude of Mourners.—His London
Acquaintances.—Tennyson, Cornwall, Browning, Carlyle.—German
Popularity.—Auerbach.—Humboldt.—French Authors.—Early American
Friends.—Stoddard, Willis, Kane, Bryant, Halleck, Powers,
Greeley, Mrs. Kirkland, Whittier, Longfellow, Holmes, Emerson,
Lowell, Dana, Alcott, Aldrich, Whipple, Curtis, Fields, Boker,
Chandler.—Relatives.
Seldom has the death of a single individual wounded the hearts of so
many personal friends. Men have attained to greater renown, and have
been, perhaps, as extensively known by their writings and their fame; but
rare, indeed, can be found in history the name of one who had so many
intimate companions. The number of those who claimed the right to be his
friends is beyond computation, at this time,—within a few weeks after his
death,—but it includes many of the most noted men of the world.
Alfred Tennyson, the poet-laureate of England, was an acquaintance
and correspondent of Mr. Taylor’s, their first meeting being at Mr.
Tennyson’s house, Farringford, on the Isle of Wight.
William Makepeace Thackeray was one of Mr. Taylor’s warmest literary
friends, from the time when they met at a dinner of the Century Club, in
New York, in 1856, until Mr. Thackeray’s death, in 1863. The friendship
was kept alive by Mr. Thackeray’s daughters, who first met Mr. Taylor in
London, in 1858, and who at that time most hospitably entertained him,
together with his brother and sisters.
Robert Browning often invited Mr. Taylor to join his select company in
London, their acquaintance having begun in 1851; and Barry Cornwall
(Bryan Waller Procter), treated Mr. Taylor with the greatest kindness and
hospitality, writing frequently, until he died, in 1874, to inquire after
Mr. Taylor’s progress in the translation of “Faust.”
Thomas Carlyle and John Bright were numbered among his correspondents,
although it so happened that he met them but seldom.
Among the leaders of English literature whose friendship he enjoyed,
there is a very large circle of literary and scientific men who knew Mr.
Taylor through their frequent meetings on social and formal occasions,
and who were well acquainted with Mr. Taylor’s books. From many of these
there came the expressions of great grief, when the fact of Mr. Taylor’s
death was announced in London.
In Germany he was quite as well known as their native poets of his
time, and he secured the respect and love of nearly every distinguished
literary man and woman in that Empire. One of the sweetest friendships
of his life was with that most fascinating descriptive writer, Berthold
Auerbach, whose “Villa on the Rhine” was given to the American public
in 1869, by Mr. Taylor. These two authors were like twin brothers in
their authorship, and some of Auerbach’s letters, descriptive of European
scenes and people, could be inserted in Mr. Taylor’s books, verbatim,
and the interpolation be scarcely detected. Their regard for each other
equalled their gifts, and one of the sincerest mourners at the funeral of
Mr. Taylor, was that gifted scholar, Berthold Auerbach.
Mr. Taylor’s first acquaintance with Alexander von Humboldt, was in 1856,
when Mr. Taylor called upon the great naturalist at his home in Berlin.
The reading of Humboldt’s works had been of great benefit to Mr. Taylor,
as a correspondent, and he so informed the Professor, at which he seemed
much pleased. Humboldt took great pains to secure all of Mr. Taylor’s
letters, as they appeared from time to time in the “Tribune,” and most
warmly praised him for the remarkable manner in which he pictured the
scenes he visited. The acquaintance was frequently renewed, and when
Humboldt died, in 1859, Mr. Taylor is said to have been numbered among
the mourning friends, by those in charge of the funeral, although he was
in the United States at the time. For years the public in America was led
to believe that Humboldt ridiculed Mr. Taylor’s writings, although what
could have been the motive of the one who originated the falsehood it is
hard to conjecture.
With the French authors he did not have a very extended personal
acquaintance, although he had met many of them, and frequently exchanged
books with Victor Hugo and Guillaume Lejean.
His acquaintances in America included nearly every living author of his
generation, and he numbered among his intimate friends the most gifted
men in the land. Nearest to him, perhaps, stood Richard H. Stoddard, of
New York, and his talented wife, Elizabeth Barstow Stoddard. Both were
born in Massachusetts, and have frequently spent the summer months at
Mrs. Stoddard’s old home in Mattapoisett, in company with Mr. Taylor and
his family. A jolly household it was, when the Taylors and the Stoddards
united their families, as they frequently did, in the city, or on the
seashore. One of Mr. Stoddard’s many books, viz., the Life of Humboldt,
contains an introduction by Mr. Taylor, and many of Mr. Taylor’s poems
were submitted to Mr. and Mrs. Stoddard for their criticism, before he
published them. With them, and with Mr. George Ripley, he appears to have
maintained the most confidential relations to the day of his death.
Many of his early friends have preceded him to that “silent shore,”
and many tears did he shed over their graves. Nathaniel P. Willis, his
earliest friend in the great city, who encouraged him and introduced him
into a literary life, died at his home of “Idlewild,” in 1867. Washington
Irving, who in his old ago was earnest enough to leave his home at
“Sunnyside” and go to New York, to urge Mr. Taylor to persevere in his
poetical undertakings, and whose advice assisted Mr. Taylor so much in
his various trips into Spain, died in 1873.
Dr. E. K. Kane, who aided Mr. Taylor in laying out his route through
Norway, and whose letters of introduction and commendation to George
Peabody, the great banker, and to other influential men in England,
opened the way for Mr. Taylor into the best society of that capital,
did not live to meet Mr. Taylor on his return from Norway, as had been
arranged, but died alone, at Havana, in 1857.
William Cullen Bryant, whose master-pieces were Mr. Taylor’s study, and
whose personal friendship was so much valued, that Mr. Taylor visited
the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts, wherein the “Thanatopsis” had
its birth, to note “if the scenes would have the same influence on a
stranger, that they appeared to have had on a native,”—he whose counsel
and companionship had, through many years, been counted among the
“richest boons of life,” died a few months before Mr. Taylor, and the
shadow had not passed from Mr. Taylor’s brow, and his poetical tribute
to Bryant was hardly in print, before he was called “to join the caravan
that moves to that mysterious realm.”
Fitz-Greene Halleck, who used to caution the young poet, and who took
pride in every new achievement of the traveller, died in 1867.
Horace Greeley, the editor of the Tribune, whose friendship was of the
most steady and substantial kind, and for whom Mr. Taylor felt the
respect due to a parent, expired in 1872. It was when writing of Mr.
Greeley’s death that Mr. Taylor gave the following sketch of their
friendship:—
“My own intercourse with him, though often interrupted by
absence or divergence of labor, was frank at the start, and
grew closer and more precious with every year. In all my
experience of men, I have never found one whose primitive
impulses revealed themselves with such marvellous purity and
sincerity. His nature often seemed to me as crystal-clear as
that of a child. In my younger and more sensitive days, he
often gave me a transient wound; but such wounds healed without
a scar, and I always found, afterward, that they came from the
lance of a physician, not from the knife of an enemy.
“I first saw Mr. Greeley in June, 1844, when I was a boy of
nineteen. I applied to him for an engagement to write letters
to the ‘Tribune’ from Germany. His reply was terse enough. ‘No
descriptive letters!’ he said; ‘I am sick of them. When you
have been there long enough to know something, send to me, and,
if there is anything in your letters, I will publish them.’ I
waited nearly a year, and then sent seventeen letters, which
were published. They were shallow enough, I suspect; but what
might they not have been without his warning?
“Toward the end of 1847, while I was engaged in the unfortunate
enterprise of trying to establish a weekly paper at
Phœnixville, Penn., I wrote him—foreseeing the failure of my
hopes—asking his assistance in procuring literary work in New
York. He advised me (as I suspect he has advised thousands of
young men), to stay in the country. But I _had_ stayed in the
country, and a year too long; so another month found me in New
York, in his office, with my story of disappointment, and my
repeated request for his favorable influence. ‘I think you are
mistaken,’ he said; ‘but I will bear you in mind, if I hear of
any chance.’
“Six weeks afterward, to my great surprise (for I supposed
he had quite forgotten me), he sent for me and offered me a
place on the ‘Tribune.’ I worked hard and incessantly during
the summer of 1848, hearing never a word of commendation or
encouragement; but one day in October he suddenly came to my
desk, laid his hand on my shoulder, and said, ‘You have been
faithful; but now you need rest. Take a week’s holiday, and go
into New England.’ I obeyed, and found, on my return, that he
had ordered my salary to be increased.”
Hiram Powers, the American sculptor, who so heartily welcomed the young
pedestrian to Florence, Italy, and who through the years which followed,
showed a most kindly spirit, making Taylor his guest and confidant,
passed away from the contemplation of beautiful earthly forms to figures
angelic, in 1873.
Mrs. Kirkland, on whose magazine, in 1848, he began to regain the
literary prestige which the failure of the “Phœnixville Pioneer” took
from him, and who, with Halleck, so kindly opened the way for him to
teach a school in New York, to repair his shattered fortunes, was gone,
together with a large number of their mutual acquaintances in the
literary circles of New York.
Although the ranks were so sadly depleted, there are still living a most
brilliant company of his early literary friends.
John G. Whittier, who still resides in Amesbury, his patriotism unabated,
his Quaker simplicity unchanged, and his fame as a poet increasing, as
civilization and freedom extend. To him Mr. Taylor dedicated his poem of
“Lars,” and in it thus mentioned his first meeting with Whittier:—
“Though many years my heart goes back,
Through checkered years of loss and gain,
To the fair landmark on its track,
When first, upon the Merrimack,
Upon the cottage roof I heard the autumn rain.
A hand that welcomed and that cheered,
To one unknown didst thou extend;
Thou gavest hope to song that feared;
But now by Time and Faith endeared,
I claim the right to call the Poet, Friend!”
Thus did a Quaker write of a Quaker in dedicating a Quaker poem.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow lives and sings as in those days when Taylor
read the story of “Hyperion” and the poetry of “Voices of the Night,” and
resolved to visit Boppart and to be a poet. Mr. Longfellow had a name
to be envied in the annals of literature, when the man of whom we write
was a rollicking, mischievious boy. Yet Taylor has appeared on the stage
of life, has enacted a very important part, and is gone. His friend and
benefactor remains, loved and honored in the old Washington mansion at
Cambridge.
That marvellously versatile and skilful man, Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes,
though born long before Taylor, still walks the halls of learning,
and, while enjoying the deserved rewards of “The Autocrat of the
Breakfast-Table,” “Old Ironsides,” and the numerous other publications in
the shape of essays, poems, and medical text-books, was not ashamed to be
called the friend of Mr. Taylor, and recalls his association with him in
the most affectionate terms.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, the poet and essayist, who, like Mr. Holmes, enjoys
a world-wide reputation as a man of letters and thoughts, moves among men
as of yore, while his younger acquaintance has passed on before.
James Russell Lowell, upon whose brilliant literary career Mr. Taylor
said he often “gazed with bewilderment,” but who was among his much-loved
literary friends, adorns the court of Spain, as the Minister of the
United States, while the life of his colleague which began much later,
has ceased to move his hands to friendly grasps, and his lips to living
words.
Richard H. Dana, Sr., the “eldest poet,” has been dead but a few days.
Amos Bronson Alcott retains his home in Concord, appearing much as he did
when George Ripley, Margaret Fuller, and Theodore Parker were with him on
the “Dial,” which the Taylors read in Pennsylvania; but he who came to
their homes so short a time ago, will cross their thresholds no more.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich remains, and writes on for the love of it, while
his friend and early companion in New York,—Taylor, who praised his
“Babie Bell” and “Daisie’s Necklace,” has laid down his pen forever, and
will sit down with him no more at social boards.
George William Curtis, who was born the year before Mr. Taylor, and whose
travels, books, and correspondence for the New York “Tribune,” gave him
such a similar experience, now stands at the front in American oratory,
and looks forward to wider fields of usefulness, as though life had
just begun. As a representative American in literature and in political
influence, he has lost in Mr. Taylor an earnest and efficient comrade.
Edwin P. Whipple still lives on Beacon Hill in Boston, and, together
with his brilliant wife, recalls the face and words of Taylor with the
affectionate regard of appreciative minds and loving hearts.
James T. Fields, of Boston, comes and goes, an authority on literary
excellence, and an attractive expounder and biographer, while the boy who
came to him long, long ago, to learn if Ticknor & Fields would publish
a little poem, has grown into manhood, into fame, and passed on to the
Hereafter. The friendship of many years,—so beautiful a sight between
publisher and poet,—which the pressure and uncertainty of business could
not sever or decrease, is broken, ah! so rudely, by the hand of death.
The Hon. George H. Boker, of Philadelphia, still counts his useful years;
while the boy whose poems he purchased, and whose ambition he directed,
has seen a long and eventful life, using but a part of the time in which
his benefactor has lived. Of him Mr. Taylor wrote in 1855:—
“You were the mate of my poetic spring;
To you its buds, of little worth, concealed
More than the summer years have since revealed,
Or doubtful autumn from the stem shall fling.
But here they are, the buds, the blossoms blown,
Or rich or scant the wreath is at your feet;
And though it were the freshest ever grown,
To you its incense could not be more sweet,
Since with it goes a love to match your own,
A heart, dear friend, that never falsely beat.”
George H. Boker, Jr., and Mrs. Taylor are, by the terms of Mr. Taylor’s
will, his literary executors.
The Hon. J. R. Chandler still resides in the same old home at
Philadelphia, into which the trembling youth came for the loan of fifty
dollars with which to see Europe on foot. After a long and honorable life
he sees no act more creditable than the simple-hearted generosity which
he displayed toward that ambitious stripling.
His brother, J. Howard Taylor, M.D., and his cousin, Franklin Taylor,
M.D., are both at their official posts of honor in Philadelphia, while
the sisters and parents survive, still in that haze of doubt which
precedes the hard realization that Bayard is dead.
Mr. Whitelaw Reid may search long before he supplies to the “Tribune’s”
readers all the characteristics of Mr. Taylor’s writings; the literati
of Philadelphia, New York, and Boston, will long wait for the congenial
companion to take his seat; and the thousands of loving hearts in all the
civilized countries of the world and in many uncivilized lands, will not
cease to be sore, until
“The stern genius, to whose hollow tramp
Echo the startled chambers of the soul,
Waves his inverted torch o’er that pale camp,
Where the archangel’s final trumpets roll.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
Translations of “Faust.”—A Life-work.—Discouragements.—The
Scenes in “Faust.”—The Difficulties.—Magnitude of the
Work.—Perseverance.—The Lives of Goethe and Schiller.—Years
in the Work.—The Estimate by Scholars.—Dies with the Work
Unfinished.
“Who hath not won a name, and seeks not noble works,
Belongs but to the elements.”
—_Faust._
Some portions of Bayard Taylor’s life have been but lightly touched upon
in the previous chapters, because the writer felt that if mentioned in
their chronological order, he would be compelled to repeat them when he
should reach this chapter. In fact, the history of Taylor’s translation
of “Faust,” which we propose here to outline, so far as we have been able
to learn it, necessarily includes the whole life of Mr. Taylor, from his
first visit to Germany to the day when his mortal body gave way under its
accumulated load of work. “Faust” was intimately interwoven with all the
threads of his life; and whenever Messrs. Houghton, Osgood & Co. publish
another edition of Taylor’s translation, they could not better please and
instruct the public than by prefacing it with a synopsis of Mr. Taylor’s
life, wherein “Faust” was his inspiration and guide.
It appears that when he began the study of the German language at
Heidelberg, one of the books used by him contained a selection from the
First Part of Goethe’s “Faust.” His instructors and companions there
were delighted with Goethe’s works, and, with pride, mentioned him as
Germany’s greatest man. Meeting him, as it did, on the very threshold of
the language, at a time when there was a romance about the country, and a
fascination in the language which only youthful ambition could give, he
was ambitious to know more about the master-mind, and sought those works
which contained the requisite information.
At Frankfort, he found the works of Goethe and Schiller, and was
fortunately a member of a household where those authors were admired
and often quoted. He was told, as he afterwards declared, that if he
knew enough of German to read Goethe and Schiller, it was all that he
would need to know of the language. How much that remark included he
did not at the time comprehend, and declared, when his translation was
in print, that he did not feel sure that he was able to read all of
Goethe as Goethe intended it should be read, and that there were very
few Germans who understood the wonderful figures and metaphors found in
Goethe’s “Faust.” Being of an ambitious temperament, which would not be
satisfied with any half-performed task, but which, nevertheless, aimed
at the highest achievements, he conceived the idea, as early as 1850, of
translating into English the greatest work of Goethe. He could not at
that time comprehend how vast an undertaking he had assumed. It required
something more than a mere knowledge of words to be able to translate
accurately and fully; and it was no light task for a person to master the
common meaning of all the words and compounds which Goethe so recklessly
used.
But when it became necessary not only to be able to give the meaning of
each word by substituting in its stead one of another language, but also
to give the sense and shades of meaning which the words in combination
convey to a reader of the original, then the task became formidable.
But that was not all. As Goethe, like every great genius, had many
eccentricities, as he drew many of his illustrations from events in his
own experience and scenes which he had visited, it was necessary to a
full understanding of the great theme, to study Goethe’s characteristics,
habits of thought, education, and experience.
In short, if one were to translate Goethe, he must be like Goethe in
experience and mental composition. He must know what Goethe knew; must
look upon man and his complicated life as Goethe looked upon it in his
time and circumstances. To the work of education and self-discipline Mr.
Taylor applied himself most assiduously.
Twice, when some new difficulty presented itself which he had not
foreseen, he became discouraged and resolved to give up the enterprise.
Once was when the appearance of Rev. Charles T. Brooks’ translation
seemed to forestall him in his hope for a profitable sale of the book;
and once when he saw with unusual clearness the great difficulty of
obtaining words in the English language which should not only express the
meaning, but do so in acceptable rhyme.
But those discouraging facts were soon surmounted or forgotten in the
great passion of his literary life and the study of the language,
manners, and beliefs of the German people was not abandoned.
He found in the first volume many references to the superstitions of
the German people, and he set about learning the history of witches,
fairies, sprites, and the Devil, as known to German literature. This,
in itself, is no small task. He then encountered what he thought was,
perhaps, a kind of burlesque on the government and its laws, and to feel
sure that it was so or was not so, he studied the history of the German
principalities, especially of Weimar, where Goethe resided.
He found many illustrations from the landscapes of Italy, Switzerland,
Greece and Germany, and it became necessary not only to visit those
countries, but to look upon the landscapes mentioned in order to be
sure of the exact meaning of the words of description as they were used
by the great poet. Hence, in Spain, France, Italy, Egypt, Greece, and
Germany, he sought the places mentioned by Goethe in his works, and noted
the correctness or error of his reading. The mountain scenes, more
especially of the Hartz Mountains, and “The Brocken,” were peculiarly
difficult passages in view of the possibly double meaning of many words
when found in any connection, and in view of the peculiar use which
Goethe so independently made of them. Hence, Mr. Taylor made frequent
excursions in Europe during the last eighteen years, with the purpose
in view of obtaining a more accurate knowledge of Goethe’s thoughts.
Frequent references are made to customs now obsolete, to theological
opinions now unknown, and words inserted long out of use or wholly made
by the poet himself. All these required much study.
To know the poet necessitated a thorough insight into the history of his
time, a knowledge of his companions and the circumstances under which
the poem was planned and written. This led to the study of Schiller’s
life, who was Goethe’s bosom friend, and to trips to the localities where
Goethe resided. Thus the work opened wider and wider at each stage in his
acquirements, until at last the poem he had thought to be able to read
understandingly in a year, was as yet untranslated after a score of years.
He was probably assisted much by the previous translations, and had them
to criticise and improve upon. But his work was higher than theirs, as
he not only purposed to give the meaning and rhyme, but he intended, as
far as possible, to retain the rhythmical arrangement, and secure to the
English all the charms of arrangement and sound of the German original.
In this work he was often interrupted by the calls of an editorial
profession, and the cares of a correspondent. His greatest delays were
occasioned, however, by the production of poems on other themes. He is
said to have had the “Deukalion” in mind for more than fifteen years,
and upon that last work of a notable character which he has completed
he bestowed much careful thought. It is a poem which, like those of
Shakespeare and Goethe, grows valuable in proportion to the study
bestowed upon it.
He began this translation in 1850 in a vague, uncertain way, and has
continued it through all those years and did not lost sight of it
throughout all his various duties, cares, and diversions. Meantime,
he had published the following works: “A Journey to Central Africa,”
“The Lands of the Saracen,” and “Poems and Ballads,” in 1855. “Visit
to India, China, and Japan,” “Poems of the Orient,” and “Poems of Home
and Travel,” in 1855. “Cyclopedia of Modern Travel,” edited in 1856.
“Northern Travel—Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and Lapland,” 1857. “Travels in
Greece and Russia,” “At Home and Abroad,” first series, in 1859. “At Home
and Abroad,” second series, and “The Poet’s Journal,” in 1862. “Hannah
Thurston,” a novel, in 1863. “John Godfrey’s Fortunes,” a novel, in
1864. “The Story of Kennett,” a novel, and “The Picture of Saint John,”
a poem, in 1866. “Colorado, a Summer Trip,” and edited a translation of
the “Frithjof Saga,” from the Swedish, in 1867. “The Byways of Europe,”
and the “Ballad of Abraham Lincoln,” and an edited edition of Auerbach’s
“Villa on the Rhine,” in 1869. “Joseph and His Friends,” a novel, in
1870. Then appeared “Goethe’s Faust,” in 1871, followed by “The Masque
of the Gods” (1872), and a collected and carefully edited edition of the
“Illustrated Library of Travel, Exploration and Adventure,” and “Lars,”
a poem, in 1873;—all of which were in his mind, more or less distinctly,
previous to the publication of “Faust.” But “The History of Germany,”
“The Boys of other Countries,” “Egypt and Iceland,” a volume of travel,
“The Prophet,” and “Home Pastorals,” poems, as well as the recent poem of
“Deukalion,” and “The Echo Club,” were subsequently conceived and written.
Thus, it will be seen, how full of interruptions the work of translation
must have been when so many volumes, so many thousands miles of travel,
so much editorial work, so many lectures, such need of money, and so much
attention given to the construction of a home, all intervened to distract
and discourage.
Yet, with a perseverance most laudable and remarkable, he kept ever
before him Goethe and his works. Of the merits of his translation no
final judgment can be given until the public have had more time to
study the work, and until a greater number of scholars have compared it
with the original. It has received great commendation; but such a work
requires age, and much thought. Its beauties lie deep, and are hidden
from superficial minds, and it was Mr. Taylor’s plan to follow the
translation with a companion edition of the lives of Goethe and Schiller,
which would in a pleasant way serve to expound and make attractive that
great poem.
That his translation is regarded by the most distinguished scholars as
an excellent production and worthy of an exalted position in literature,
is shown by the fact that he has been so often urged by them to go on
with his purposed biography of that great poet. No sooner had Mr. Taylor
allowed the fact to become known, that he was engaged on such a book,
than he was the recipient of many letters from all parts of the world
where English-speaking people live, expressing their satisfaction that
he had undertaken it, and encouraging him in many ways. This fact,
however, rather delayed than assisted the work, for the appearance of
so many great writers awaiting with impatience the publication of the
book, startled him and magnified the importance of his labors. He felt
that the combined biography of Goethe and Schiller would be the crowning
work of his life, and more than once expressed the thought that it might
be his last. To supply the demand for present publications, perform the
duties which devolved upon him in his high office, and keep steadily
advancing with the greater work, required more strength than one frame
could supply. He felt the strain, and sometimes thought it best to
leave everything in the line of labor, and rest. The need of such a
course did not, however, seem imperative until he was too near his end
to ward off the blow. Death came to him in the midst of his work, and in
the most sudden manner. One day he is seen at his work; the next he is
numbered among those that have lived—but are gone. His wife and daughter
(Lillian), with most devoted nursing, had seen the invalid of the
previous weeks reviving and gaining strength, until able again to attend
to business, when, almost without warning, he sinks and dies within a few
hours.
The book for reference, the packages of manuscript, the letters from
admirers of Goethe and Schiller, the notes and extracts, slips and
pictures, lay where he placed them, accessible to his hand; but the pen
is unmoved, the author is dead, and the Lives of Goethe and Schiller are
incomplete.
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,”
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 modesty and
sincerity characteristic of the quiet community, they assembled and
talked of the virtues and achievements of their deceased neighbor.
One townsman (Edwin Brosius) referred to Mr. Taylor’s life, and in his
remarks spoke thus:—
“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 lyrics, 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 instinctively 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 ovation.
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 pane.’
“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.
“The strings are silent: who shall dare to wake them;
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 briefly
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 fully developed in the son, and guarded,
strengthened, and encouraged by her watchful mind, he became
all that she could desire. When here at school, I remember how
bright I thought she was, and my admiration was not lessened
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.”
Another friend (Wm. B. Preston) contributed a poem, in which two stanzas
read as follows:—
“Though to the learned thy lofty works
Like mighty hosts appear;
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,
The monarch minstrel’s home.”
Another neighbor (William W. Polk) gave an extended sketch of Mr.
Taylor’s career, and another neighbor (Edward Swayne) contributed the
second poem, opening with,—
“On the margin of the Spree
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?
Backward through the twilight past
What evolved us from the vast?
Forward, to what things afar,
We shall mount from star to star?
Canst thou see beyond the brink
What we faintly dare to think?
Though our thoughts are wrung with pain
Yet we question but in vain.
Still no sound the silence breaks,
Not to us the dead awakes.”
Numerous friends addressed the gathering; there were hymns, 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 gatherings 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 auspices 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 throng.
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, the president of the
Massachusetts Senate; Curtis Guild, 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 distinguished 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 fascination 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 Conservatory
of Music, sang in a most artistic 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 soloists.
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 posterity, 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 utterance can quite spoil its
harmonies. There are tones in the contralto of our beloved
poet’s melodious 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 laurels
of the mightiest conqueror. But he who this evening has this
tribute laid upon his hearse, wore no crown save that which the
sisterhood of the Muses 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 humble 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 his eyes at a baker’s window and tightening 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 mantle 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 potentates 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, remains 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.
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;
And to-day they toll for thee,
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:—
‘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
Commonwealth which gave birth to Bayard Taylor, whose recent
and sudden demise has called us together. As he was a worthy
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 bigotry and illiberality 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 patriots! 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
botanist, the patriot, the plenipotentiary, whom we so justly
mourn, came up out of this land. He was a true son 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 intimacy 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:—
“In other years—lost youth’s enchanted years
Seen now and evermore, through blinding tears
And empty longing for what may not be—
The Desert gave him back to us; the Sea
Yielded him up; the icy Northland strand
Lured him not long, nor that soft German air
He loved could keep him. Ever his own land
Fettered his heart and brought him back again.
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?
What new, strange guest has tempted him once more
To leave us? Vainly standing by the shore
We strain our eyes. But patience ... when the soft
Spring gales are blowing over Cedarcroft,
Whitening the hawthorn; when violets bloom
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 appreciative of the intellectual achievements
and the noble and manly 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 lament the death of his younger disciple
and friend. How much he has accomplished in these years!
The most industrious of men, slowly, patiently, under many
disadvantages, he built up his splendid reputation. Traveller,
editor, novelist, translator, 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 picturesque books of travel, his Oriental
lyrics, his Pennsylvanian idyls, his Centennial ode, the
pastoral beauty and Christian sweetness of ‘Lars,’ and the high
arguments and rhythmic marvel of ‘Deukalion,’ are sureties
of the permanence of his reputation. But at this moment my
thoughts dwell rather upon the man than author. The calamity 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 bereavement, 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 heartiest
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.”
“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
imperative 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 falter out a few broken
expressions of individual sorrow, and I should be wholly
incapable of any adequate public tribute to his memory. So many
years of exceptional and near relationship with him—a brotherly
intercourse, unclouded from early manhood onward 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 stammer 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,
The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.’
“JAMES T. FIELDS.”
“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 gratitude 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
knight-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 commemorate 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 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
of remembrance of Bayard Taylor’s personal kindness to me on
many occasions, and especially as his guest, to incite 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 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 _Arcades 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 dingy, dusty, comfortless den 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, joyous, handsome man of twenty-five,
with a world of animation 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 snobbery 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 a stone’s
throw of the ‘Tribune’ office, at a boardinghouse in Warren
Street, not far from Broadway. He lived in a sky parlor, 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 afterward wrote so many books, and upon which he was
then writing so many charming poems. I took up the collected
edition of his poetical 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 dirge 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 reverent 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 allied 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 long and late;
we smoked mild cigars; and, once in a while when our exchequers
were replenished, we indulged in the sweet luxury of stewed
oysters, over which we had more talk, of present plans and
future renown. I was, I believe, Bayard Taylor’s most intimate
friend at this time, and the one with whom he most consorted,
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 simplicity 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 ‘Lalla Rookh.’ The ‘Bedouin Song,’ for
instance, is instinct with the fiery, passionate life of the
East, and is a worthy companion-piece to Shelley’s ‘Lines to an
Indian Air.’ The ‘Poems of the Orient’ were dedicated 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 embodied the first great sorrow of his young
manhood. It was written after the death of his first wife,
whose memory it embalms, and whose tender presence haunted him
later in ‘The Mystery’ and ‘The Phantom.’ 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 graceful poet. Taylor and O’Brien were in the
habit of meeting in my rooms at night, about twenty-five years
ago, and of fighting triangular poetical duels. We used to sit
at the same table, with the names of poetical subjects on slips
of paper, and drawing out one at random, 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 delightful
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 theatrical 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
thither 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 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 archer, 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 depreciated and
encumbered, 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 resolute
purpose, however other work might engross 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 competence
when he went abroad, all of which he earned as a journalist,
author, and lecturer, never having earned any money except by
his pen. He decided 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 sojourn in Germany. The great trouble with him was his
inability, owing to his excessive labors, 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
stimulus to support himself under exhausting labor; but he was
not an excessive beer-drinker 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
remarkable in brilliant off-hand feats 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 conversed in Russian, Norse,
Arabic, Italian, and knew something of modern Greek. His
knowledge of 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 geologist, and was an
established authority on geographical 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 shams and humbugs;
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 anecdotes 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.
“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 obedience 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
extravagant 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 genial 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 thoroughly at home. He could
not only write a good criticism of a painting, but he was
also proficient in the use of brush and pencil. He began
sketching when he was a boy, and he executed many 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
glean 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 worked his way
up; who, beginning as a printer, had come to be an admired
writer, who was ambitious of excellence, and not afraid of
toil to attain 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 sonorous 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,
alas! 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 faculty which every newspaper writer
should possess, of writing fairly well upon any topic confided
to him. Of course his special skill was displayed in literary
labor; but when he saw fit to write upon what may be called
secular themes, he did so in an able and judicious 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 toiling 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 rumor 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
journalism. 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 think
that he prized our little demonstration 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 painstaking 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, awakens 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 disposition. He had many honors
to bear, but he bore them meekly, and like an unspoiled
child. Cynicism and vulgar egotism were strangers to his
truthful 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 young man
of twenty-three held out his hand to me, and introduced himself
as Bayard Taylor. We had corresponded at intervals 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 mantling a
face full of eager, joyous expectation. Health of that buoyant
nature which betokens delight in existence, was visible in
every feature of the youthful traveller.
‘The fresh air lodged within his cheek
As light within a cloud.’
“We all flocked about him like a swarm of brothers, heartily
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 savoring
more of strength that of early piety. 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 would all assemble
at a supper party in his honor, at Parker’s (at that time a
subterranean 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 exhortations upon him to postpone 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 adjourn at once to ‘Webster’s,’
a famous beefsteak house in those ancient days, and, as Whipple
facetiously remarked, quoting the old ballad:
‘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.’
“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 discourses 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 imposing
ceremonies of respect. Committees from distinguished citizens and
prominent associations received the remains at the steamship wharf and
a large procession followed the elegant funeral-car to the City Hall.
The coffin was placed in the Governor’s room in the City Hall, where an
address was delivered by the Hon. Algernon S. Sullivan. Delegations were
present from the Grand Army of the Republic; from the Delta 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. Salutes were fired from the fort,
dirges were sung by German associations, flags were placed at half-mast,
and the immense crowd of people seeking admittance to City Hall, showed
the esteem 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 deference, 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 attracted the attention which his friends
have felt was due to his memory. But at his old home, among his own kin,
in the circle of those who knew him best, old and young came forth to do
him honor. Aged men and women, whose white hairs floated in the chilly
breezes, and young children, whose hats and bonnets 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 Rev. W. H. Furness, D. D., after which Dr. Franklin
Taylor made a brief address.
At the grave in Longwood Cemetery, 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 rites 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 delegation from the Legislature of
Pennsylvania, representatives of the Delta Kappa Epsilon Society, and
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 frail farmer-boy, less
promising 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, oratory and diplomacy, 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 choir 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 reverently amid sobs 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:—
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,
Subduing until stricken down, shall pass
In warrior glory to _his_ long repose,
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!”
FOOTNOTES
[1] As Bayard says of Osséo in his poem of Mon-da-Min:—
“He could guess
The knowledge other minds but slowly plucked
From out the heart of things: to him, as well
As to his Gods, all things were possible.”
[2] In the Hofkirche, at Innsbruck.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Life, Travels, and Literary Career of Bayard Taylor" ***
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