Introduction
Born: October 2, 1835, Manhattan, New York.
Died: May 29, 1907, Paris, France.
Buried: Cimetière de Chailly-en-Bière, Chailly-en-Bière, Seine-et-Marne, Île-de-France, France.
Born: October 2, 1835, Manhattan, New York.
Died: May 29, 1907, Paris, France.
Buried: Cimetière de Chailly-en-Bière, Chailly-en-Bière, Seine-et-Marne, Île-de-France, France.
Theodore was the son of Silas and Eusebia Tilton, and husband of Elizabeth Richards (married 1855).
He is remembered as a newspaper editor, poet and abolitionist.
Tilton attended the 1866 Southern Loyalist Convention in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Frederick Douglass’ autobiography says of Tilton:
There was one man present who was brave enough to meet the duty of the hour; one who was neither afraid nor ashamed to own me as a man and a brother; one man of the purest Caucasian type, a poet and a scholar, brilliant as a writer, eloquent as a speaker, and holding a high influential position—the editor of a weekly journal having the largest circulation of any weekly paper in the city or state of New York—and the man was Mr. Theodore Tilton.
He came to me by the hand in a most brotherly way, and proposed to walk with me in the procession.
From 1860–71, Tilton was Henry Ward Beecher’s assistant. The two had a falling out in 1874, at which time Tilton moved to France.
Once in Persia reigned a king
Who, upon his signet-ring,
Graved a maxim true and wise,
Which, if held before his eyes,
Gave him counsel, at a glance,
Fit for every change or chance:
Solemn words, and these are they:
Even this shall pass away!
Trains of camels through the sand
Brought him gems from Samarcand;
Fleets of galleys through the seas
Brought him pearls to rival these;
But he reckoned not as gain
Treasures of the mine or main:
What is wealth?
the king would say—
Even this shall pass away!
In the revels of his court,
At the zenith of the sport,
When the palms of all his guests
Burned with clapping at his jests,
He, amid his figs and wine,
Cried, O loving friends of mine,
Pleasure comes, but not to stay
Even this shall pass away!
Lady fairest ever seen
Was the bride he crowned his queen.
Pillowed on his marriage-bed,
Whispering to his soul, he said,
Though a bridegroom never prest
Dearer bosom to his breast,
Mortal flesh must come to clay:
Even this shall pass away!
Fighting on a furious field,
Once a javelin pierced his shield.
Soldiers with a loud lament
Bore him bleeding to his tent.
Groaning from his tortured side,
Pain is hard to bear,
he cried,
But with patience, day by day,
Even this shall pass away!
Towering in the public square
Twenty cubits in the air,
Rose his statue carved in stone.
Then the king, disguised, unknown,
Gazing at his sculptured name,
Asked himself, And what is fame?
Fame is but a slow decay:
Even this shall pass away!
Struck with palsy, sere and old,
Waiting at the Gates of Gold,
Spake he with his dying breath,
Life is done, and what is death?
Then, in answer to the king,
Lo, the legend on his ring
Seemed to mock at death, and say,—
Even this shall pass away!
Theodore Tilton (1835–1907)