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.