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.