OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

(‡ decoration)OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.POET, ESSAYIST AND HUMORIST.THIS distinguished author, known and admired throughout the English speaking world for the rich vein of philosophy, good fellowship and pungent humor that runs through his poetry and prose, was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August29th, 1809, and died in Boston, October27th, 1894, at the ripe old age of eighty-five—the “last leaf on the tree” of that famous group, Whittier, Longfellow, Lowell, Emerson, Bryant, Poe, Willis, Hawthorne, Richard Henry Dana, Thoreau, Margaret Fuller and others who laid the foundation of our national literature, and with all of whom he was on intimate terms as a co-laborer at one time or another.Holmes graduated at Harvard College in 1829. His genial disposition made him a favorite with his fellows, to whom some of his best early poems are dedicated. One of his classmates said of him:—“He made you feel like you were the best fellow in the world and he was the next best.” Benjamin Pierce, the astronomer, andRev.Samuel F. Smith, the author of our National Hymn, were his class-mates and have been wittily described in his poem “The Boys.”Dr.Holmes once humorously said that he supposed “the three people whose poems were best known were himself, one Smith and one Brown. As for himself, everybody knew who he was; the one Brown was author of ‘I love to Steal a While Away,’ and the one Smith was author of ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee.’”After graduation Holmes studied medicine in the schools of Europe, but returned to finish his course and take his degree at Harvard. For nine years he was Professor of Physiology and Anatomy at Dartmouth College, and in 1847 he accepted a similar position in Harvard University, to which his subsequent professional labors were devoted. He also published several works on medicine, the last being a volume of medical essays, issued in 1883.Holmes’ first poetic publication was a small volume published in 1836, including three poems which still remain favorites, namely, “My Aunt,” “The height of the Ridiculous” and “The Last Leaf on the Tree.” Other volumes of his poems were issued in 1846, 1850, 1861, 1875 and 1880.Dr.Holmes is popularly known as the poet of society, this title attaching because most of his productions were called forth by special occasions. About one hundred of them were prepared for his Harvard class re-unions and his fraternity (Phi Beta Kappa) social and anniversary entertainments. The poems which will preserve his fame, however, are those of a general interest, like “The Deacon’s Masterpiece,”in which the Yankee spirit speaks out, “The Voiceless,” “The Living Temple,” “The Chambered Nautilus,” in which we find a truly exalted treatment of a lofty theme; “The Last Leaf on the Tree,” which is a remarkable combination of pathos and humor; “The Spectre Pig” and “The Ballad of an Oysterman,” showing to what extent he can play in real fun. In fact,Dr.Holmes was a many-sided man, and equally presentable on all sides. It has been truthfully said of him, “No other American versifier has rhymed so easily and so gracefully.” We might further add, no other in his personality, has been more universally esteemed and beloved by those who knew him.As a prose writer Holmes was equally famous. His “Autocrat at the Breakfast Table,” “Professor at the Breakfast Table” and “Poet at the Breakfast Table,” published respectively in 1858, 1859 and 1873, are everywhere known, and not to have read them is to have neglected something important in literature. The “Autocrat” is especially a masterpiece. An American boarding house with its typical characters forms the scene. The Autocrat is the hero, or rather leader, of the sparkling conversations which make up the threads of the book. Humor, satire and scholarship are skilfully mingled in its graceful literary formation. In this work will also be found “The Wonderful One Horse Shay” and “The Chambered Nautilus,” two of the author’s best poems.Holmes wrote two novels, “Elsie Venner” and “The Guardian Angel,” which in their romance rival the weirdness of Hawthorne and show his genius in this line of literature. “Mechanism in Thought and Morals” (1871), is a scholarly essay on the function of the brain. As a biographerDr.Holmes has also given us excellent memoirs of John Lothrop Motley, the historian, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. Among his later products may be mentioned “A Mortal Antipathy,” which appeared in 1885, and “One Hundred Days in Europe” (1887).Holmes was one of the projectors of “The Atlantic Monthly,” which was started in 1857, in conjunction with Longfellow, Lowell and Emerson, Lowell being its editor. It was to this periodical that the “Autocrat” and “The Professor at the Breakfast Table” were contributed. These papers did much to secure the permanent fame of this magazine. It is said that its name was suggested by Holmes, and he is also credited with first attributing to Boston the distinction of being the “Hub of the solar system,” which he, with a mingling of humor and local pride, declared was “located exactly at the Boston State House.”Unlike other authors, the subject of this sketch was very much himself at all times and under all conditions. Holmes the man, Holmes the professor of physiology, the poet, philosopher, and essayist, were all one and the same genial soul. His was the most companionable of men, whose warm flow of fellowship and good cheer the winters of four score years and five could not chill,—“The last Leaf on the Tree,” whose greenness the frost could not destroy. He passed away at the age of eighty-five still verdantly young in spirit, and the world will smile for many generations good naturedly because he lived. Such lives are a benediction to the race.Finally, to know Holmes’ writings well, is to be made acquainted with a singularly lovable nature. The charms of his personality are irresistible. Among the poor, among the literary, and among the society notables, he was ever the most welcome of guests. His geniality, humor, frank, hearty manliness, generosity and readinessto amuse and be amused, together with an endless store of anecdotes, his tact and union of sympathy and originality, make him the best of companions for an hour or for a lifetime. His friendship is generous and enduring. All of these qualities of mind and heart are felt as the reader runs through his poems or his prose writings. We feel that Holmes has lived widely and found life good. It is precisely for this reason that the reading of his writings is a good tonic. It sends the blood more courageously through the veins. After reading Holmes, we feel that life is easier and simpler and a finer affair altogether and more worth living for than we had been wont to regard it.The following paragraph published in a current periodical shortly after the death ofMr.Holmes throws further light upon the personality of this distinguished author:“Holmes himself must have harked back to forgotten ancestors for his brightness. His father was a dry as dust Congregational preacher, of whom some one said that he fed his people sawdust out of a spoon. But from his childhood Holmes was bright and popular. One of his college friends said of him at Harvard, that ‘he made you think you were the best fellow in the world, and he was the next best.’”Dr.Holmes was first and foremost a conversationalist. He talked even on paper. There was never the dullness of the written word. His sentences whether in prose or verse were so full of color that they bore the charm of speech.One of his most quoted poems “Dorothy Q,” is full of this sparkle, and carries a suggestion of his favorite theme:Grandmother’s mother: her age I guessThirteen summers, or something less;Girlish bust, but womanly air;Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair;Lips that lover has never kissed;Taper fingers and slender wrist;Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade;So they painted the little maid.What if a hundred years agoThose close shut lips had answered No,When forth the tremulous question cameThat cost the maiden her Norman name,And under the folds that looked so stillThe bodice swelled with the bosom’s thrill?Should I be I, or would it beOne tenth another to nine tenths me?BILL AND JOE.COME, dear old comrade, you and IWill steal an hour from days gone by—The shining days when life was new,And all was bright as morning dew,The lusty days of long ago,When you were Bill and I was Joe.Your name may flaunt a titled trail,Proud as a cockerel’s rainbow tail:And mine as brief appendix wearAs Tam O’Shanter’s luckless mare;To-day, old friend, remember stillThat I am Joe and you are Bill.You’ve won the great world’s envied prize,And grand you look in people’s eyes,WithHON.andLL.D.,In big brave letters, fair to see—Your fist, old fellow! off they go!—How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?You’ve worn the judge’s ermined robe;You’ve taught your name to half the globe;You’ve sung mankind a deathless strain;You’ve made the dead past live again;The world may call you what it will,But you and I are Joe and Bill.The chaffing young folks stare and say,“See those old buffers, bent and gray;They talk like fellows in their teens!Mad, poor old boys! That’s what it means”—And shake their heads; they little knowThe throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe—How Bill forgets his hour of pride,While Joe sits smiling at his side;How Joe, in spite of time’s disguise,Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes—Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fillAs Joe looks fondly up at Bill.Ah, pensive scholar! what is fame?A fitful tongue of leaping flame;A giddy whirlwind’s fickle gust,That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;A few swift years, and who can showWhich dust was Bill, and which was Joe?The weary idol takes his stand,Holds out his bruised and aching hand,While gaping thousands come and go—How vain it seems, this empty show—Till all at once his pulses thrill:’Tis poor old Joe’s “God bless you, Bill!”And shall we breathe in happier spheresThe names that pleased our mortal ears,—In some sweet lull of harp and song,For earth-born spirits none too long,Just whispering of the world below,Where this was Bill, and that was Joe?No matter; while our home is hereNo sounding name is half so dear;When fades at length our lingering day,Who cares what pompous tombstones say?Read on the hearts that love us stillHic jacetJoe.Hic jacetBill.UNION AND LIBERTY.FLAG of the heroes who left us their glory,Borne through their battle-fields’ thunder and flame,Blazoned in song and illuminated in story,Wave o’er us all who inherit their fame.Up with our banner bright,Sprinkled with starry light,Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore,While through the sounding skyLoud rings the Nation’s cry—Union and Liberty! One Evermore!Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation,Pride of her children, and honored afar,Let the wide beams of thy full constellationScatter each cloud that would darken a star!Empire unsceptred! What foe shall assail theeBearing the standard of Liberty’s van?Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee,Striving with men for the birthright of man!Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted,Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw,Then with the arms to thy million united,Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law!Lord of the universe! shield us and guide us,Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun!Thou hast united us, who shall divide us?Keep us, O keep us theMany in One!Up with our banner bright,Sprinkled with starry light,Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore,While through the sounding skyLoud rings the Nation’s cry—Union and Liberty! One Evermore!OLD IRON SIDES.The following poem has become a National Lyric. It was first printed in the “Boston Daily Advertiser,” when the Frigate “Constitution” lay in the navy-yard at Charlestown. The department had resolved upon breaking her up; but she was preserved from this fate by the following verses, which ran through the newspapers with universal applause; and, according to “Benjamin’s American Monthly Magazine,” of January, 1837, it was printed in the form of hand-bills, and circulated in the city of Washington.AY, tear her tatter’d ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle-shout,And burst the cannon’s roar;The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more!Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,Where knelt the vanquish’d foe,When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,And waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor’s tread,Or know the conquer’d knee;The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!O, better that her shatter’d hulkShould sink beneath the wave;Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave;Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the god of storms,—The lightning and the gale!MY AUNT.MY aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!Long years have o’er her flown;Yet still she strains the aching claspThat binds her virgin zone;I know it hurts her,—though she looksAs cheerful as she can:Her waist is ampler than her life,For life is but a span.My aunt, my poor deluded aunt!Her hair is almost gray;Why will she train that winter curlIn such a spring-like way?How can she lay her glasses down,And say she reads as well,When, through a double convex lens,She just makes out to spell?Her father—grandpapa! forgiveThis erring lip its smiles—Vow’d she would make the finest girlWithin a hundred miles.He sent her to a stylish school;’Twas in her thirteenth June;And with her, as the rules required,“Two towels and a spoon.”They braced my aunt against a board,To make her straight and tall;They laced her up, they starved her down,To make her light and small;They pinch’d her feet, they singed her hair,They screw’d it up with pins,—Oh, never mortal suffer’d moreIn penance for her sins.So, when my precious aunt was done,My grandsire brought her back(By daylight, lest some rabid youthMight follow on the track);“Ah!” said my grandsire, as he shookSome powder in his pan,“What could this lovely creature doAgainst a desperate man!”Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,Nor bandit cavalcadeTore from the trembling father’s armsHis all-accomplish’d maid.For her how happy had it been!And Heaven had spared to meTo see one sad, ungather’d roseOn my ancestral tree.THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.IWROTE some lines once on a timeIn wondrous merry mood,And thought, as usual, men would sayThey were exceeding good.They were so queer, so very queer,I laugh’d as I would die;Albeit, in the general way,A sober man am I.I call’d my servant, and he came:How kind it was of him,To mind a slender man like me,He of the mighty limb!“These to the printer,” I exclaim’d,And, in my humorous way,I added (as a trifling jest),“There’ll be the devil to pay.”He took the paper, and I watch’d,And saw him peep within;At the first line he read, his faceWas all upon the grin.He read the next; the grin grew broad,And shot from ear to ear;He read the third; a chuckling noiseI now began to hear.The fourth; he broke into a roar;The fifth, his waistband split;The sixth, he burst five buttons off,And tumbled in a fit.Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,I watch’d that wretched man,And since, I never dare to writeAs funny as I can.THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.T`HIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadow’d main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wreck’d is the ship of pearl!And every chamber’d cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies reveal’d,—Its iris’d ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal’d!Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretch’d in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!OLD AGE AND THE PROFESSOR.Mr.Holmes is as famous for his prose as for his poetry. The following sketches are characteristic of his happy and varied style.OLD AGE, this isMr.Professor;Mr.Professor, this is Old Age.Old Age.—Mr.Professor, I hope to see you well. I have known you for some time, though I think you did not know me. Shall we walk down the street together?Professor(drawing back a little).—We can talk more quietly, perhaps, in my study. Will you tell me how it is you seem to be acquainted with everybody you are introduced to, though he evidently considers you an entire stranger?Old Age.—I make it a rule never to force myself upon a person’s recognition until I have known him at leastfive years.Professor.—Do you mean to say that you have known me so long as that?Old Age.—I do. I left my card on you longer ago than that, but I am afraid you never read it; yet I see you have it with you.Professor.—Where?Old Age.—There, between your eyebrows,—three straight lines running up and down; all the probate courts know that token,—“Old Age, his mark.” Put your forefinger on the inner end of one eyebrow, and your middle finger on the inner end of the other eyebrow; now separate the fingers, and you will smooth out my sign manual; that’s the way you used to look before I left my card on you.Professor.—What message do people generally send back when you first call on them?Old Age.—Not at home.Then I leave a card and go. Next year I call; get the same answer; leave another card. So for five or six—sometimes ten—years or more. At last, if they don’t let me in, I break in through the front door or the windows.We talked together in this way some time. Then Old Age said again,—Come, let us walk down the street together,—and offered me a cane,—an eye-glass, a tippet, and a pair of overshoes.—No, much obliged to you, said I. I don’t want those things, and I had a little rather talk with you here, privately, in my study. So I dressed myself up in a jaunty way and walked out alone;—got a fall, caught a cold, was laid up with a lumbago, and had time to think over this whole matter.THE BRAIN.OUR brains are seventy-year clocks. The Angel of Life winds them up once for all, then closes the case, and gives the key into the hands of the Angel of the Resurrection.Tic-tac! tic-tac! go the wheels of thought; our will cannot stop them; they cannot stop themselves; sleep cannot still them; madness only makes them go faster; death alone can break into the case, and, seizing the ever-swinging pendulum, which we call the heart, silence at last the clicking of the terrible escapement we have carried so long beneath our wrinkled foreheads.MY LAST WALK WITH THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.ICAN’T say just how many walks she and I had taken before this one. I found the effect of going out every morning was decidedly favorable on her health. Two pleasing dimples, the places for which were just marked when she came, played, shadowy, in her freshening cheeks when she smiled and nodded good-morning to me from the schoolhouse steps.The schoolmistress had tried life. Once in a while one meets with a single soul greater than all the living pageant that passes before it. As the pale astronomer sits in his study with sunken eyes and thin fingers, and weighs Uranus or Neptune as in a balance, so there are meek, slight women who have weighed all which this planetary life can offer, and hold it like a bauble in the palm of their slender hands. This was one of them. Fortune had left her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor and the loneliness of almost friendless city-life were before her. Yet, as I looked upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a cheerfulness which was often sprightly, as she became interested in the various matters we talked about and places we visited, I saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament were made for love,—unconscious of their sweet office as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of Duty with the natural graces which were meant for the reward of nothing less than the Great Passion.It was on the Common that we were walking. Themall, or boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different directions. One of these runs downward from opposite Joy Street southward across the whole length of the Common to Boylston Street. We called it the long path, and were fond of it.I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got out the question,—Will you take the long path with me? Certainly,—said the schoolmistress,—with much pleasure. Think,—I said,—before you answer:if you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more! The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her.One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by,—the one you may still see close by the Gingko-tree. Pray, sit down,—I said. No, no,—she answered softly,—I will walk thelong pathwith you!The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path, and said, very charmingly,—“Good-morning, my dears!”A RANDOM CONVERSATIONON OLD MAXIMS, BOSTON AND OTHER TOWNS.(From “The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.”)SIN has many tools, but a lie is the handle which fits them all.I think Sir,—said the divinity student,—you must intend that for one of the sayings of the Seven Wise men of Boston you were speaking of the other day.I thank you, my young friend,—was the reply,—but I must say something better than that, before I could pretend to fill out the number.The schoolmistress wanted to know how many of these sayings there were on record, and what, and by whom said.Why, let us see,—there is that one of Benjamin Franklin, “the great Bostonian,” after whom this land was named. To be sure, he said a great many wise things,—and I don’t feel sure he didn’t borrow this,—he speaks as if it were old. But then he applied it so neatly!—“He that has once done you a kindness will be more ready to do you another than he whom you yourself have obliged.”Then there is that glorious Epicurean paradox, uttered by my friend, the Historian, in one of his flashing moments:—“Give us the luxuries of life, and we will dispense with its necessaries.”To these must certainly be added that other saying of one of the wittiest of men:—“Good Americans, when they die, go to Paris.”The divinity student looked grave at her, but said nothing.The schoolmistress spoke out, and said she didn’t think the wit meant any irreverence. It was only another way of saying, Paris is a heavenly place after New York or Boston.A jaunty looking person, who had come in with the young fellow they call John,—evidently a stranger,—said there was one more wise man’s saying that he had heard; it was about our place, but he didn’t know who said it.—A civil curiosity was manifested by the company to hear the fourth wise saying. I heard him distinctly whispering to the young fellow who brought him to dinner,Shall I tell it?To which the answer was,Go ahead!—Well,—he said,—this was what I heard:—“Boston State-House is the hub of the solar system. You couldn’t pry that out of a Boston man, if you had the tire of all creation straightened out for a crow-bar.”Sir,—said I,—I am gratified with your remark. It expresses with pleasing vivacity that which I have sometimes heard uttered with malignant dullness. The satire of the remark is essentially true of Boston,—and of all other considerable—and inconsiderable—places with which I have had the privilege of being acquainted. Cockneys think London is the only place in the world. Frenchmen—you remember the line about Paris, the Court, the World,etc.—I recollect well, by the way, a sign in that city which ran thus: “Hotel de l’Univers et des États Unis;” and as Parisisthe universe to a Frenchman, of course the United States are outside of it. “See Naples and then die.” It is quite as bad with smaller places. I have been about lecturing, you know, and have found the following propositions to hold true of all of them.1. The axis of the earth sticks out visibly through the center of each and every town or city.2. If more than fifty years have passed since its foundation, it is affectionately styled by the inhabitantsthe “good oldtown of ——” (whatever its name may happen to be).3. Every collection of its inhabitants that comes together to listen to a stranger is invariably declared to be a “remarkably intelligent audience.”4. The climate of the place is particularly favorable to longevity.5. It contains several persons of vast talent little known to the world. (One or two of them, you may perhaps chance to remember, sent short pieces to the “Pactolian” some time since, which were “respectfully declined.”)Boston is just like other places of its size—only, perhaps, considering its excellent fish-market, paid fire department, superior monthly publications, and correct habit of spelling the English language, it has some right to look down on the mob of cities. I’ll tell you, though, if you want to know it, what is the real offense of Boston. It drains a large water-shed of its intellect, and will not itself be drained. If it would only send away its first-rate men instead of its second-rate ones (no offense to the well-known exceptions, of which we are always proud), we should be spared such epigrammatic remarks as that the gentleman has quoted. There can never be a real metropolis in this country until the biggest centre can drain the lesser ones of their talent and wealth. I have observed, by the way, that the people who really live in two great cities are by no means so jealous of each other, as are those of smaller cities situated within the intellectual basin, orsuctionrange, of one large one, of the pretensions of any other. Don’t you see why? Because their promising young author and rising lawyer and large capitalist have been drained off to the neighboring big city,—their prettiest girls have exported to the same market; all their ambition points there, and all their thin gilding of glory comes from there. I hate little, toad-eating cities.Would I be so good as to specify any particular example?—Oh,—an example? Did you ever see a bear trap? Never? Well, shouldn’t you like to see me put my foot into one? With sentiments of the highest consideration I must beg leave to be excused.Besides, some of the smaller cities are charming. If they have an old church or two, a few stately mansions of former grandees, here and there an old dwelling with the second story projecting (for the convenience of shooting the Indians knocking at the front-door with their tomahawks)—if they have, scattered about, those mighty square houses built something more than half a century ago, and standing like architectural boulders dropped by the former diluvium of wealth, whose refluent wave has left them as its monument,—if they have gardens with elbowed apple-trees that push their branches over the high board-fence and drop their fruit on the sidewalk,—if they have a little grass in their side-streets, enough to betoken quiet without proclaiming decay,—I think I could go to pieces, after my life’s tranquil places, as sweetly as in any cradle that an old man may be rocked to sleep in. I visit such spots always with infinite delight. My friend, the Poet, says, that rapidly growing towns are most unfavorable to the imaginative and reflective faculties. Let a man live in one of these old quiet places, he says, and the wine of his soul, which is kept thick and turbid by the rattle of busy streets, settles, and as you hold it up, you may see the sun through it by day and the stars by night.Do I think that the little villages have the conceit of the great towns? I don’t believe there is much difference. You know how they read Pope’s line in the smallest town in our State of Massachusetts? Well, they read it,—“All are but parts of one stupendousHull!”Souvenir of Holmes

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POET, ESSAYIST AND HUMORIST.

THIS distinguished author, known and admired throughout the English speaking world for the rich vein of philosophy, good fellowship and pungent humor that runs through his poetry and prose, was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August29th, 1809, and died in Boston, October27th, 1894, at the ripe old age of eighty-five—the “last leaf on the tree” of that famous group, Whittier, Longfellow, Lowell, Emerson, Bryant, Poe, Willis, Hawthorne, Richard Henry Dana, Thoreau, Margaret Fuller and others who laid the foundation of our national literature, and with all of whom he was on intimate terms as a co-laborer at one time or another.

Holmes graduated at Harvard College in 1829. His genial disposition made him a favorite with his fellows, to whom some of his best early poems are dedicated. One of his classmates said of him:—“He made you feel like you were the best fellow in the world and he was the next best.” Benjamin Pierce, the astronomer, andRev.Samuel F. Smith, the author of our National Hymn, were his class-mates and have been wittily described in his poem “The Boys.”Dr.Holmes once humorously said that he supposed “the three people whose poems were best known were himself, one Smith and one Brown. As for himself, everybody knew who he was; the one Brown was author of ‘I love to Steal a While Away,’ and the one Smith was author of ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee.’”

After graduation Holmes studied medicine in the schools of Europe, but returned to finish his course and take his degree at Harvard. For nine years he was Professor of Physiology and Anatomy at Dartmouth College, and in 1847 he accepted a similar position in Harvard University, to which his subsequent professional labors were devoted. He also published several works on medicine, the last being a volume of medical essays, issued in 1883.

Holmes’ first poetic publication was a small volume published in 1836, including three poems which still remain favorites, namely, “My Aunt,” “The height of the Ridiculous” and “The Last Leaf on the Tree.” Other volumes of his poems were issued in 1846, 1850, 1861, 1875 and 1880.

Dr.Holmes is popularly known as the poet of society, this title attaching because most of his productions were called forth by special occasions. About one hundred of them were prepared for his Harvard class re-unions and his fraternity (Phi Beta Kappa) social and anniversary entertainments. The poems which will preserve his fame, however, are those of a general interest, like “The Deacon’s Masterpiece,”in which the Yankee spirit speaks out, “The Voiceless,” “The Living Temple,” “The Chambered Nautilus,” in which we find a truly exalted treatment of a lofty theme; “The Last Leaf on the Tree,” which is a remarkable combination of pathos and humor; “The Spectre Pig” and “The Ballad of an Oysterman,” showing to what extent he can play in real fun. In fact,Dr.Holmes was a many-sided man, and equally presentable on all sides. It has been truthfully said of him, “No other American versifier has rhymed so easily and so gracefully.” We might further add, no other in his personality, has been more universally esteemed and beloved by those who knew him.

As a prose writer Holmes was equally famous. His “Autocrat at the Breakfast Table,” “Professor at the Breakfast Table” and “Poet at the Breakfast Table,” published respectively in 1858, 1859 and 1873, are everywhere known, and not to have read them is to have neglected something important in literature. The “Autocrat” is especially a masterpiece. An American boarding house with its typical characters forms the scene. The Autocrat is the hero, or rather leader, of the sparkling conversations which make up the threads of the book. Humor, satire and scholarship are skilfully mingled in its graceful literary formation. In this work will also be found “The Wonderful One Horse Shay” and “The Chambered Nautilus,” two of the author’s best poems.

Holmes wrote two novels, “Elsie Venner” and “The Guardian Angel,” which in their romance rival the weirdness of Hawthorne and show his genius in this line of literature. “Mechanism in Thought and Morals” (1871), is a scholarly essay on the function of the brain. As a biographerDr.Holmes has also given us excellent memoirs of John Lothrop Motley, the historian, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. Among his later products may be mentioned “A Mortal Antipathy,” which appeared in 1885, and “One Hundred Days in Europe” (1887).

Holmes was one of the projectors of “The Atlantic Monthly,” which was started in 1857, in conjunction with Longfellow, Lowell and Emerson, Lowell being its editor. It was to this periodical that the “Autocrat” and “The Professor at the Breakfast Table” were contributed. These papers did much to secure the permanent fame of this magazine. It is said that its name was suggested by Holmes, and he is also credited with first attributing to Boston the distinction of being the “Hub of the solar system,” which he, with a mingling of humor and local pride, declared was “located exactly at the Boston State House.”

Unlike other authors, the subject of this sketch was very much himself at all times and under all conditions. Holmes the man, Holmes the professor of physiology, the poet, philosopher, and essayist, were all one and the same genial soul. His was the most companionable of men, whose warm flow of fellowship and good cheer the winters of four score years and five could not chill,—“The last Leaf on the Tree,” whose greenness the frost could not destroy. He passed away at the age of eighty-five still verdantly young in spirit, and the world will smile for many generations good naturedly because he lived. Such lives are a benediction to the race.

Finally, to know Holmes’ writings well, is to be made acquainted with a singularly lovable nature. The charms of his personality are irresistible. Among the poor, among the literary, and among the society notables, he was ever the most welcome of guests. His geniality, humor, frank, hearty manliness, generosity and readinessto amuse and be amused, together with an endless store of anecdotes, his tact and union of sympathy and originality, make him the best of companions for an hour or for a lifetime. His friendship is generous and enduring. All of these qualities of mind and heart are felt as the reader runs through his poems or his prose writings. We feel that Holmes has lived widely and found life good. It is precisely for this reason that the reading of his writings is a good tonic. It sends the blood more courageously through the veins. After reading Holmes, we feel that life is easier and simpler and a finer affair altogether and more worth living for than we had been wont to regard it.

The following paragraph published in a current periodical shortly after the death ofMr.Holmes throws further light upon the personality of this distinguished author:

“Holmes himself must have harked back to forgotten ancestors for his brightness. His father was a dry as dust Congregational preacher, of whom some one said that he fed his people sawdust out of a spoon. But from his childhood Holmes was bright and popular. One of his college friends said of him at Harvard, that ‘he made you think you were the best fellow in the world, and he was the next best.’”

Dr.Holmes was first and foremost a conversationalist. He talked even on paper. There was never the dullness of the written word. His sentences whether in prose or verse were so full of color that they bore the charm of speech.

One of his most quoted poems “Dorothy Q,” is full of this sparkle, and carries a suggestion of his favorite theme:

Grandmother’s mother: her age I guessThirteen summers, or something less;Girlish bust, but womanly air;Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair;Lips that lover has never kissed;Taper fingers and slender wrist;Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade;So they painted the little maid.What if a hundred years agoThose close shut lips had answered No,When forth the tremulous question cameThat cost the maiden her Norman name,And under the folds that looked so stillThe bodice swelled with the bosom’s thrill?Should I be I, or would it beOne tenth another to nine tenths me?

Grandmother’s mother: her age I guess

Thirteen summers, or something less;

Girlish bust, but womanly air;

Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair;

Lips that lover has never kissed;

Taper fingers and slender wrist;

Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade;

So they painted the little maid.

What if a hundred years ago

Those close shut lips had answered No,

When forth the tremulous question came

That cost the maiden her Norman name,

And under the folds that looked so still

The bodice swelled with the bosom’s thrill?

Should I be I, or would it be

One tenth another to nine tenths me?

BILL AND JOE.

COME, dear old comrade, you and IWill steal an hour from days gone by—The shining days when life was new,And all was bright as morning dew,The lusty days of long ago,When you were Bill and I was Joe.Your name may flaunt a titled trail,Proud as a cockerel’s rainbow tail:And mine as brief appendix wearAs Tam O’Shanter’s luckless mare;To-day, old friend, remember stillThat I am Joe and you are Bill.You’ve won the great world’s envied prize,And grand you look in people’s eyes,WithHON.andLL.D.,In big brave letters, fair to see—Your fist, old fellow! off they go!—How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?You’ve worn the judge’s ermined robe;You’ve taught your name to half the globe;You’ve sung mankind a deathless strain;You’ve made the dead past live again;The world may call you what it will,But you and I are Joe and Bill.The chaffing young folks stare and say,“See those old buffers, bent and gray;They talk like fellows in their teens!Mad, poor old boys! That’s what it means”—And shake their heads; they little knowThe throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe—How Bill forgets his hour of pride,While Joe sits smiling at his side;How Joe, in spite of time’s disguise,Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes—Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fillAs Joe looks fondly up at Bill.Ah, pensive scholar! what is fame?A fitful tongue of leaping flame;A giddy whirlwind’s fickle gust,That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;A few swift years, and who can showWhich dust was Bill, and which was Joe?The weary idol takes his stand,Holds out his bruised and aching hand,While gaping thousands come and go—How vain it seems, this empty show—Till all at once his pulses thrill:’Tis poor old Joe’s “God bless you, Bill!”And shall we breathe in happier spheresThe names that pleased our mortal ears,—In some sweet lull of harp and song,For earth-born spirits none too long,Just whispering of the world below,Where this was Bill, and that was Joe?No matter; while our home is hereNo sounding name is half so dear;When fades at length our lingering day,Who cares what pompous tombstones say?Read on the hearts that love us stillHic jacetJoe.Hic jacetBill.

OME, dear old comrade, you and I

Will steal an hour from days gone by—

The shining days when life was new,

And all was bright as morning dew,

The lusty days of long ago,

When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail,

Proud as a cockerel’s rainbow tail:

And mine as brief appendix wear

As Tam O’Shanter’s luckless mare;

To-day, old friend, remember still

That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You’ve won the great world’s envied prize,

And grand you look in people’s eyes,

WithHON.andLL.D.,

In big brave letters, fair to see—

Your fist, old fellow! off they go!—

How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You’ve worn the judge’s ermined robe;

You’ve taught your name to half the globe;

You’ve sung mankind a deathless strain;

You’ve made the dead past live again;

The world may call you what it will,

But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say,

“See those old buffers, bent and gray;

They talk like fellows in their teens!

Mad, poor old boys! That’s what it means”—

And shake their heads; they little know

The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe—

How Bill forgets his hour of pride,

While Joe sits smiling at his side;

How Joe, in spite of time’s disguise,

Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes—

Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill

As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar! what is fame?

A fitful tongue of leaping flame;

A giddy whirlwind’s fickle gust,

That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;

A few swift years, and who can show

Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand,

Holds out his bruised and aching hand,

While gaping thousands come and go—

How vain it seems, this empty show—

Till all at once his pulses thrill:

’Tis poor old Joe’s “God bless you, Bill!”

And shall we breathe in happier spheres

The names that pleased our mortal ears,—

In some sweet lull of harp and song,

For earth-born spirits none too long,

Just whispering of the world below,

Where this was Bill, and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here

No sounding name is half so dear;

When fades at length our lingering day,

Who cares what pompous tombstones say?

Read on the hearts that love us still

Hic jacetJoe.Hic jacetBill.

UNION AND LIBERTY.

FLAG of the heroes who left us their glory,Borne through their battle-fields’ thunder and flame,Blazoned in song and illuminated in story,Wave o’er us all who inherit their fame.Up with our banner bright,Sprinkled with starry light,Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore,While through the sounding skyLoud rings the Nation’s cry—Union and Liberty! One Evermore!Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation,Pride of her children, and honored afar,Let the wide beams of thy full constellationScatter each cloud that would darken a star!Empire unsceptred! What foe shall assail theeBearing the standard of Liberty’s van?Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee,Striving with men for the birthright of man!Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted,Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw,Then with the arms to thy million united,Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law!Lord of the universe! shield us and guide us,Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun!Thou hast united us, who shall divide us?Keep us, O keep us theMany in One!Up with our banner bright,Sprinkled with starry light,Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore,While through the sounding skyLoud rings the Nation’s cry—Union and Liberty! One Evermore!

LAG of the heroes who left us their glory,

Borne through their battle-fields’ thunder and flame,

Blazoned in song and illuminated in story,

Wave o’er us all who inherit their fame.

Up with our banner bright,

Sprinkled with starry light,

Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore,

While through the sounding sky

Loud rings the Nation’s cry—

Union and Liberty! One Evermore!

Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation,

Pride of her children, and honored afar,

Let the wide beams of thy full constellation

Scatter each cloud that would darken a star!

Empire unsceptred! What foe shall assail thee

Bearing the standard of Liberty’s van?

Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee,

Striving with men for the birthright of man!

Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted,

Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw,

Then with the arms to thy million united,

Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law!

Lord of the universe! shield us and guide us,

Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun!

Thou hast united us, who shall divide us?

Keep us, O keep us theMany in One!

Up with our banner bright,

Sprinkled with starry light,

Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore,

While through the sounding sky

Loud rings the Nation’s cry—

Union and Liberty! One Evermore!

OLD IRON SIDES.

The following poem has become a National Lyric. It was first printed in the “Boston Daily Advertiser,” when the Frigate “Constitution” lay in the navy-yard at Charlestown. The department had resolved upon breaking her up; but she was preserved from this fate by the following verses, which ran through the newspapers with universal applause; and, according to “Benjamin’s American Monthly Magazine,” of January, 1837, it was printed in the form of hand-bills, and circulated in the city of Washington.

AY, tear her tatter’d ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle-shout,And burst the cannon’s roar;The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more!Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,Where knelt the vanquish’d foe,When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,And waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor’s tread,Or know the conquer’d knee;The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!O, better that her shatter’d hulkShould sink beneath the wave;Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave;Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the god of storms,—The lightning and the gale!

Y, tear her tatter’d ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle-shout,

And burst the cannon’s roar;

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,

Where knelt the vanquish’d foe,

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,

And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor’s tread,

Or know the conquer’d knee;

The harpies of the shore shall pluck

The eagle of the sea!

O, better that her shatter’d hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;

Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

And there should be her grave;

Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,—

The lightning and the gale!

MY AUNT.

MY aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!Long years have o’er her flown;Yet still she strains the aching claspThat binds her virgin zone;I know it hurts her,—though she looksAs cheerful as she can:Her waist is ampler than her life,For life is but a span.My aunt, my poor deluded aunt!Her hair is almost gray;Why will she train that winter curlIn such a spring-like way?How can she lay her glasses down,And say she reads as well,When, through a double convex lens,She just makes out to spell?Her father—grandpapa! forgiveThis erring lip its smiles—Vow’d she would make the finest girlWithin a hundred miles.He sent her to a stylish school;’Twas in her thirteenth June;And with her, as the rules required,“Two towels and a spoon.”They braced my aunt against a board,To make her straight and tall;They laced her up, they starved her down,To make her light and small;They pinch’d her feet, they singed her hair,They screw’d it up with pins,—Oh, never mortal suffer’d moreIn penance for her sins.So, when my precious aunt was done,My grandsire brought her back(By daylight, lest some rabid youthMight follow on the track);“Ah!” said my grandsire, as he shookSome powder in his pan,“What could this lovely creature doAgainst a desperate man!”Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,Nor bandit cavalcadeTore from the trembling father’s armsHis all-accomplish’d maid.For her how happy had it been!And Heaven had spared to meTo see one sad, ungather’d roseOn my ancestral tree.

Y aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!

Long years have o’er her flown;

Yet still she strains the aching clasp

That binds her virgin zone;

I know it hurts her,—though she looks

As cheerful as she can:

Her waist is ampler than her life,

For life is but a span.

My aunt, my poor deluded aunt!

Her hair is almost gray;

Why will she train that winter curl

In such a spring-like way?

How can she lay her glasses down,

And say she reads as well,

When, through a double convex lens,

She just makes out to spell?

Her father—grandpapa! forgive

This erring lip its smiles—

Vow’d she would make the finest girl

Within a hundred miles.

He sent her to a stylish school;

’Twas in her thirteenth June;

And with her, as the rules required,

“Two towels and a spoon.”

They braced my aunt against a board,

To make her straight and tall;

They laced her up, they starved her down,

To make her light and small;

They pinch’d her feet, they singed her hair,

They screw’d it up with pins,—

Oh, never mortal suffer’d more

In penance for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done,

My grandsire brought her back

(By daylight, lest some rabid youth

Might follow on the track);

“Ah!” said my grandsire, as he shook

Some powder in his pan,

“What could this lovely creature do

Against a desperate man!”

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche,

Nor bandit cavalcade

Tore from the trembling father’s arms

His all-accomplish’d maid.

For her how happy had it been!

And Heaven had spared to me

To see one sad, ungather’d rose

On my ancestral tree.

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.

IWROTE some lines once on a timeIn wondrous merry mood,And thought, as usual, men would sayThey were exceeding good.They were so queer, so very queer,I laugh’d as I would die;Albeit, in the general way,A sober man am I.I call’d my servant, and he came:How kind it was of him,To mind a slender man like me,He of the mighty limb!“These to the printer,” I exclaim’d,And, in my humorous way,I added (as a trifling jest),“There’ll be the devil to pay.”He took the paper, and I watch’d,And saw him peep within;At the first line he read, his faceWas all upon the grin.He read the next; the grin grew broad,And shot from ear to ear;He read the third; a chuckling noiseI now began to hear.The fourth; he broke into a roar;The fifth, his waistband split;The sixth, he burst five buttons off,And tumbled in a fit.Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,I watch’d that wretched man,And since, I never dare to writeAs funny as I can.

WROTE some lines once on a time

In wondrous merry mood,

And thought, as usual, men would say

They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,

I laugh’d as I would die;

Albeit, in the general way,

A sober man am I.

I call’d my servant, and he came:

How kind it was of him,

To mind a slender man like me,

He of the mighty limb!

“These to the printer,” I exclaim’d,

And, in my humorous way,

I added (as a trifling jest),

“There’ll be the devil to pay.”

He took the paper, and I watch’d,

And saw him peep within;

At the first line he read, his face

Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad,

And shot from ear to ear;

He read the third; a chuckling noise

I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;

The fifth, his waistband split;

The sixth, he burst five buttons off,

And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,

I watch’d that wretched man,

And since, I never dare to write

As funny as I can.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

T`HIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadow’d main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;Wreck’d is the ship of pearl!And every chamber’d cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies reveal’d,—Its iris’d ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal’d!Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretch’d in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!

HIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadow’d main,—

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings

In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

Wreck’d is the ship of pearl!

And every chamber’d cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies reveal’d,—

Its iris’d ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal’d!

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,

Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

Stretch’d in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!

OLD AGE AND THE PROFESSOR.

Mr.Holmes is as famous for his prose as for his poetry. The following sketches are characteristic of his happy and varied style.

OLD AGE, this isMr.Professor;Mr.Professor, this is Old Age.Old Age.—Mr.Professor, I hope to see you well. I have known you for some time, though I think you did not know me. Shall we walk down the street together?Professor(drawing back a little).—We can talk more quietly, perhaps, in my study. Will you tell me how it is you seem to be acquainted with everybody you are introduced to, though he evidently considers you an entire stranger?Old Age.—I make it a rule never to force myself upon a person’s recognition until I have known him at leastfive years.Professor.—Do you mean to say that you have known me so long as that?Old Age.—I do. I left my card on you longer ago than that, but I am afraid you never read it; yet I see you have it with you.Professor.—Where?Old Age.—There, between your eyebrows,—three straight lines running up and down; all the probate courts know that token,—“Old Age, his mark.” Put your forefinger on the inner end of one eyebrow, and your middle finger on the inner end of the other eyebrow; now separate the fingers, and you will smooth out my sign manual; that’s the way you used to look before I left my card on you.Professor.—What message do people generally send back when you first call on them?Old Age.—Not at home.Then I leave a card and go. Next year I call; get the same answer; leave another card. So for five or six—sometimes ten—years or more. At last, if they don’t let me in, I break in through the front door or the windows.We talked together in this way some time. Then Old Age said again,—Come, let us walk down the street together,—and offered me a cane,—an eye-glass, a tippet, and a pair of overshoes.—No, much obliged to you, said I. I don’t want those things, and I had a little rather talk with you here, privately, in my study. So I dressed myself up in a jaunty way and walked out alone;—got a fall, caught a cold, was laid up with a lumbago, and had time to think over this whole matter.

OLD AGE, this isMr.Professor;Mr.Professor, this is Old Age.

Old Age.—Mr.Professor, I hope to see you well. I have known you for some time, though I think you did not know me. Shall we walk down the street together?

Professor(drawing back a little).—We can talk more quietly, perhaps, in my study. Will you tell me how it is you seem to be acquainted with everybody you are introduced to, though he evidently considers you an entire stranger?

Old Age.—I make it a rule never to force myself upon a person’s recognition until I have known him at leastfive years.

Professor.—Do you mean to say that you have known me so long as that?

Old Age.—I do. I left my card on you longer ago than that, but I am afraid you never read it; yet I see you have it with you.

Professor.—Where?

Old Age.—There, between your eyebrows,—three straight lines running up and down; all the probate courts know that token,—“Old Age, his mark.” Put your forefinger on the inner end of one eyebrow, and your middle finger on the inner end of the other eyebrow; now separate the fingers, and you will smooth out my sign manual; that’s the way you used to look before I left my card on you.

Professor.—What message do people generally send back when you first call on them?

Old Age.—Not at home.Then I leave a card and go. Next year I call; get the same answer; leave another card. So for five or six—sometimes ten—years or more. At last, if they don’t let me in, I break in through the front door or the windows.

We talked together in this way some time. Then Old Age said again,—Come, let us walk down the street together,—and offered me a cane,—an eye-glass, a tippet, and a pair of overshoes.—No, much obliged to you, said I. I don’t want those things, and I had a little rather talk with you here, privately, in my study. So I dressed myself up in a jaunty way and walked out alone;—got a fall, caught a cold, was laid up with a lumbago, and had time to think over this whole matter.

THE BRAIN.

OUR brains are seventy-year clocks. The Angel of Life winds them up once for all, then closes the case, and gives the key into the hands of the Angel of the Resurrection.Tic-tac! tic-tac! go the wheels of thought; our will cannot stop them; they cannot stop themselves; sleep cannot still them; madness only makes them go faster; death alone can break into the case, and, seizing the ever-swinging pendulum, which we call the heart, silence at last the clicking of the terrible escapement we have carried so long beneath our wrinkled foreheads.

OUR brains are seventy-year clocks. The Angel of Life winds them up once for all, then closes the case, and gives the key into the hands of the Angel of the Resurrection.

Tic-tac! tic-tac! go the wheels of thought; our will cannot stop them; they cannot stop themselves; sleep cannot still them; madness only makes them go faster; death alone can break into the case, and, seizing the ever-swinging pendulum, which we call the heart, silence at last the clicking of the terrible escapement we have carried so long beneath our wrinkled foreheads.

MY LAST WALK WITH THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS.

ICAN’T say just how many walks she and I had taken before this one. I found the effect of going out every morning was decidedly favorable on her health. Two pleasing dimples, the places for which were just marked when she came, played, shadowy, in her freshening cheeks when she smiled and nodded good-morning to me from the schoolhouse steps.The schoolmistress had tried life. Once in a while one meets with a single soul greater than all the living pageant that passes before it. As the pale astronomer sits in his study with sunken eyes and thin fingers, and weighs Uranus or Neptune as in a balance, so there are meek, slight women who have weighed all which this planetary life can offer, and hold it like a bauble in the palm of their slender hands. This was one of them. Fortune had left her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor and the loneliness of almost friendless city-life were before her. Yet, as I looked upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a cheerfulness which was often sprightly, as she became interested in the various matters we talked about and places we visited, I saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament were made for love,—unconscious of their sweet office as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of Duty with the natural graces which were meant for the reward of nothing less than the Great Passion.It was on the Common that we were walking. Themall, or boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different directions. One of these runs downward from opposite Joy Street southward across the whole length of the Common to Boylston Street. We called it the long path, and were fond of it.I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got out the question,—Will you take the long path with me? Certainly,—said the schoolmistress,—with much pleasure. Think,—I said,—before you answer:if you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more! The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her.One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by,—the one you may still see close by the Gingko-tree. Pray, sit down,—I said. No, no,—she answered softly,—I will walk thelong pathwith you!The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path, and said, very charmingly,—“Good-morning, my dears!”

The schoolmistress had tried life. Once in a while one meets with a single soul greater than all the living pageant that passes before it. As the pale astronomer sits in his study with sunken eyes and thin fingers, and weighs Uranus or Neptune as in a balance, so there are meek, slight women who have weighed all which this planetary life can offer, and hold it like a bauble in the palm of their slender hands. This was one of them. Fortune had left her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor and the loneliness of almost friendless city-life were before her. Yet, as I looked upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a cheerfulness which was often sprightly, as she became interested in the various matters we talked about and places we visited, I saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament were made for love,—unconscious of their sweet office as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of Duty with the natural graces which were meant for the reward of nothing less than the Great Passion.

It was on the Common that we were walking. Themall, or boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different directions. One of these runs downward from opposite Joy Street southward across the whole length of the Common to Boylston Street. We called it the long path, and were fond of it.

I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got out the question,—Will you take the long path with me? Certainly,—said the schoolmistress,—with much pleasure. Think,—I said,—before you answer:if you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more! The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her.

One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by,—the one you may still see close by the Gingko-tree. Pray, sit down,—I said. No, no,—she answered softly,—I will walk thelong pathwith you!

The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path, and said, very charmingly,—“Good-morning, my dears!”

A RANDOM CONVERSATION

ON OLD MAXIMS, BOSTON AND OTHER TOWNS.

(From “The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.”)

SIN has many tools, but a lie is the handle which fits them all.I think Sir,—said the divinity student,—you must intend that for one of the sayings of the Seven Wise men of Boston you were speaking of the other day.I thank you, my young friend,—was the reply,—but I must say something better than that, before I could pretend to fill out the number.The schoolmistress wanted to know how many of these sayings there were on record, and what, and by whom said.Why, let us see,—there is that one of Benjamin Franklin, “the great Bostonian,” after whom this land was named. To be sure, he said a great many wise things,—and I don’t feel sure he didn’t borrow this,—he speaks as if it were old. But then he applied it so neatly!—“He that has once done you a kindness will be more ready to do you another than he whom you yourself have obliged.”Then there is that glorious Epicurean paradox, uttered by my friend, the Historian, in one of his flashing moments:—“Give us the luxuries of life, and we will dispense with its necessaries.”To these must certainly be added that other saying of one of the wittiest of men:—“Good Americans, when they die, go to Paris.”The divinity student looked grave at her, but said nothing.The schoolmistress spoke out, and said she didn’t think the wit meant any irreverence. It was only another way of saying, Paris is a heavenly place after New York or Boston.A jaunty looking person, who had come in with the young fellow they call John,—evidently a stranger,—said there was one more wise man’s saying that he had heard; it was about our place, but he didn’t know who said it.—A civil curiosity was manifested by the company to hear the fourth wise saying. I heard him distinctly whispering to the young fellow who brought him to dinner,Shall I tell it?To which the answer was,Go ahead!—Well,—he said,—this was what I heard:—“Boston State-House is the hub of the solar system. You couldn’t pry that out of a Boston man, if you had the tire of all creation straightened out for a crow-bar.”Sir,—said I,—I am gratified with your remark. It expresses with pleasing vivacity that which I have sometimes heard uttered with malignant dullness. The satire of the remark is essentially true of Boston,—and of all other considerable—and inconsiderable—places with which I have had the privilege of being acquainted. Cockneys think London is the only place in the world. Frenchmen—you remember the line about Paris, the Court, the World,etc.—I recollect well, by the way, a sign in that city which ran thus: “Hotel de l’Univers et des États Unis;” and as Parisisthe universe to a Frenchman, of course the United States are outside of it. “See Naples and then die.” It is quite as bad with smaller places. I have been about lecturing, you know, and have found the following propositions to hold true of all of them.1. The axis of the earth sticks out visibly through the center of each and every town or city.2. If more than fifty years have passed since its foundation, it is affectionately styled by the inhabitantsthe “good oldtown of ——” (whatever its name may happen to be).3. Every collection of its inhabitants that comes together to listen to a stranger is invariably declared to be a “remarkably intelligent audience.”4. The climate of the place is particularly favorable to longevity.5. It contains several persons of vast talent little known to the world. (One or two of them, you may perhaps chance to remember, sent short pieces to the “Pactolian” some time since, which were “respectfully declined.”)Boston is just like other places of its size—only, perhaps, considering its excellent fish-market, paid fire department, superior monthly publications, and correct habit of spelling the English language, it has some right to look down on the mob of cities. I’ll tell you, though, if you want to know it, what is the real offense of Boston. It drains a large water-shed of its intellect, and will not itself be drained. If it would only send away its first-rate men instead of its second-rate ones (no offense to the well-known exceptions, of which we are always proud), we should be spared such epigrammatic remarks as that the gentleman has quoted. There can never be a real metropolis in this country until the biggest centre can drain the lesser ones of their talent and wealth. I have observed, by the way, that the people who really live in two great cities are by no means so jealous of each other, as are those of smaller cities situated within the intellectual basin, orsuctionrange, of one large one, of the pretensions of any other. Don’t you see why? Because their promising young author and rising lawyer and large capitalist have been drained off to the neighboring big city,—their prettiest girls have exported to the same market; all their ambition points there, and all their thin gilding of glory comes from there. I hate little, toad-eating cities.Would I be so good as to specify any particular example?—Oh,—an example? Did you ever see a bear trap? Never? Well, shouldn’t you like to see me put my foot into one? With sentiments of the highest consideration I must beg leave to be excused.Besides, some of the smaller cities are charming. If they have an old church or two, a few stately mansions of former grandees, here and there an old dwelling with the second story projecting (for the convenience of shooting the Indians knocking at the front-door with their tomahawks)—if they have, scattered about, those mighty square houses built something more than half a century ago, and standing like architectural boulders dropped by the former diluvium of wealth, whose refluent wave has left them as its monument,—if they have gardens with elbowed apple-trees that push their branches over the high board-fence and drop their fruit on the sidewalk,—if they have a little grass in their side-streets, enough to betoken quiet without proclaiming decay,—I think I could go to pieces, after my life’s tranquil places, as sweetly as in any cradle that an old man may be rocked to sleep in. I visit such spots always with infinite delight. My friend, the Poet, says, that rapidly growing towns are most unfavorable to the imaginative and reflective faculties. Let a man live in one of these old quiet places, he says, and the wine of his soul, which is kept thick and turbid by the rattle of busy streets, settles, and as you hold it up, you may see the sun through it by day and the stars by night.Do I think that the little villages have the conceit of the great towns? I don’t believe there is much difference. You know how they read Pope’s line in the smallest town in our State of Massachusetts? Well, they read it,—“All are but parts of one stupendousHull!”

SIN has many tools, but a lie is the handle which fits them all.

I think Sir,—said the divinity student,—you must intend that for one of the sayings of the Seven Wise men of Boston you were speaking of the other day.

I thank you, my young friend,—was the reply,—but I must say something better than that, before I could pretend to fill out the number.

The schoolmistress wanted to know how many of these sayings there were on record, and what, and by whom said.

Why, let us see,—there is that one of Benjamin Franklin, “the great Bostonian,” after whom this land was named. To be sure, he said a great many wise things,—and I don’t feel sure he didn’t borrow this,—he speaks as if it were old. But then he applied it so neatly!—

“He that has once done you a kindness will be more ready to do you another than he whom you yourself have obliged.”

Then there is that glorious Epicurean paradox, uttered by my friend, the Historian, in one of his flashing moments:—

“Give us the luxuries of life, and we will dispense with its necessaries.”

To these must certainly be added that other saying of one of the wittiest of men:—

“Good Americans, when they die, go to Paris.”

The divinity student looked grave at her, but said nothing.

The schoolmistress spoke out, and said she didn’t think the wit meant any irreverence. It was only another way of saying, Paris is a heavenly place after New York or Boston.

A jaunty looking person, who had come in with the young fellow they call John,—evidently a stranger,—said there was one more wise man’s saying that he had heard; it was about our place, but he didn’t know who said it.—A civil curiosity was manifested by the company to hear the fourth wise saying. I heard him distinctly whispering to the young fellow who brought him to dinner,Shall I tell it?To which the answer was,Go ahead!—Well,—he said,—this was what I heard:—

“Boston State-House is the hub of the solar system. You couldn’t pry that out of a Boston man, if you had the tire of all creation straightened out for a crow-bar.”

Sir,—said I,—I am gratified with your remark. It expresses with pleasing vivacity that which I have sometimes heard uttered with malignant dullness. The satire of the remark is essentially true of Boston,—and of all other considerable—and inconsiderable—places with which I have had the privilege of being acquainted. Cockneys think London is the only place in the world. Frenchmen—you remember the line about Paris, the Court, the World,etc.—I recollect well, by the way, a sign in that city which ran thus: “Hotel de l’Univers et des États Unis;” and as Parisisthe universe to a Frenchman, of course the United States are outside of it. “See Naples and then die.” It is quite as bad with smaller places. I have been about lecturing, you know, and have found the following propositions to hold true of all of them.

1. The axis of the earth sticks out visibly through the center of each and every town or city.

2. If more than fifty years have passed since its foundation, it is affectionately styled by the inhabitantsthe “good oldtown of ——” (whatever its name may happen to be).

3. Every collection of its inhabitants that comes together to listen to a stranger is invariably declared to be a “remarkably intelligent audience.”

4. The climate of the place is particularly favorable to longevity.

5. It contains several persons of vast talent little known to the world. (One or two of them, you may perhaps chance to remember, sent short pieces to the “Pactolian” some time since, which were “respectfully declined.”)

Boston is just like other places of its size—only, perhaps, considering its excellent fish-market, paid fire department, superior monthly publications, and correct habit of spelling the English language, it has some right to look down on the mob of cities. I’ll tell you, though, if you want to know it, what is the real offense of Boston. It drains a large water-shed of its intellect, and will not itself be drained. If it would only send away its first-rate men instead of its second-rate ones (no offense to the well-known exceptions, of which we are always proud), we should be spared such epigrammatic remarks as that the gentleman has quoted. There can never be a real metropolis in this country until the biggest centre can drain the lesser ones of their talent and wealth. I have observed, by the way, that the people who really live in two great cities are by no means so jealous of each other, as are those of smaller cities situated within the intellectual basin, orsuctionrange, of one large one, of the pretensions of any other. Don’t you see why? Because their promising young author and rising lawyer and large capitalist have been drained off to the neighboring big city,—their prettiest girls have exported to the same market; all their ambition points there, and all their thin gilding of glory comes from there. I hate little, toad-eating cities.

Would I be so good as to specify any particular example?—Oh,—an example? Did you ever see a bear trap? Never? Well, shouldn’t you like to see me put my foot into one? With sentiments of the highest consideration I must beg leave to be excused.

Besides, some of the smaller cities are charming. If they have an old church or two, a few stately mansions of former grandees, here and there an old dwelling with the second story projecting (for the convenience of shooting the Indians knocking at the front-door with their tomahawks)—if they have, scattered about, those mighty square houses built something more than half a century ago, and standing like architectural boulders dropped by the former diluvium of wealth, whose refluent wave has left them as its monument,—if they have gardens with elbowed apple-trees that push their branches over the high board-fence and drop their fruit on the sidewalk,—if they have a little grass in their side-streets, enough to betoken quiet without proclaiming decay,—I think I could go to pieces, after my life’s tranquil places, as sweetly as in any cradle that an old man may be rocked to sleep in. I visit such spots always with infinite delight. My friend, the Poet, says, that rapidly growing towns are most unfavorable to the imaginative and reflective faculties. Let a man live in one of these old quiet places, he says, and the wine of his soul, which is kept thick and turbid by the rattle of busy streets, settles, and as you hold it up, you may see the sun through it by day and the stars by night.

Do I think that the little villages have the conceit of the great towns? I don’t believe there is much difference. You know how they read Pope’s line in the smallest town in our State of Massachusetts? Well, they read it,—

“All are but parts of one stupendousHull!”

Souvenir of Holmes

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