“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.