No More Learning

Josiah, born at Belchertown, Massachusetts,
in 1819, early learned the necessity of self-
support. He was eagerly ambitious of edu-
cation and a professional career; and in spite
of many obstacles he entered the North-
ampton High School, although ill health pre-
vented him from finishing the course. When
twenty-one he began the study of medicine,
and in 1844 was graduated with honor from
the Berkshire Medical College.

JOSIAH G. HOLLAND
The years that followed were discoura-
ging, for patients did not come to the young
doctor. With true Yankee versatility he
turned his hand to anything,-taught dis-
trict school, was a traveling writing-master,
and a daguerreotypist. Of his boyish mortification at being a mill
hand he has told us in 'Arthur Bonnicastle. ' For a year he was
superintendent of education at Vicksburg, Mississippi. He tried edi-
torial work, and started the Bay State Courier, which ran for six
months. All these varied experiences gave him the knowledge of
American life and appreciation of workaday struggles which later
made the value of his poems, essays, and novels. It was largely due
to his influence that the Springfield Republican became so widely
known and popular a journal. In it his 'Letters to Young People
Married and Single: By Timothy Titcomb' first attracted readers by
their vivacious style, moral sincerity, and good common-sense. Later.
in book form, they had a great and immediate success.
In 1870 Dr. Holland was one of the founders and became editor
of Scribner's Monthly, later the Century Magazine, and retained the


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7452
JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND
editorship until his death in 1881. Here, as in all his work, he
showed his conscious purpose to be a helpful moral influence to his
readers.
Dr. Holland's novels, Arthur Bonnicastle (1873), (Sevenoaks'
(1876), and Nicholas Minturn' (1877), although showing his quick
and sympathetic observation and containing fine passages, have been
far less popular than his poems. The latter, in their constant appeal
to moral sense, and in their accurate depiction of the homely and
picturesque in New England life, found many lovers. Several of the
short lyrics, with 'Bittersweet' (1858), 'Katrina' (1868), and 'The Mis-
tress of the Manse' (1871), came as messages from a true American
poet who understood and honored his own people.
CRADLE SONG
From 'Bittersweet: A Poem. Copyright 1886, by Elizabeth L. Holland
HAT is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful things, no doubt!
Unwritten history!
WHAT
Unfathomed mystery!
Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks,
And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks,
As if his head were as full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphinx!
Warped by colic, and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears,
Our little nephew will lose two years;
And he'll never know
Where the summers go;-
He need not laugh, for he'll find it so!
-
Who can tell what a baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links
By which the mannikin feels his way
Out from the shore of the great unknown,
Blind, and wailing, and alone,
Into the light of day?
Out from the shore of the unknown sea,
Tossing in pitiful agony;
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked with the barks of little souls,-
Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!


## p. 7453 (#255) ###########################################

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND
7453
What does he think of his mother's eyes?
What does he think of his mother's hair?
What of the cradle-roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother's breast,
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,—
Seeking it ever with fresh delight,
Cup of his life and couch of his rest?
What does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell
With a tenderness she can never tell,
Though she murmur the words
Of all the birds-
Words she has learned to murmur well?
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep
Over his eyes, in soft eclipse,
Over his brow, and over his lips,
Out to his little finger-tips!
Softly sinking, down he goes!
Down he goes! Down he goes!
See! He is hushed in sweet repose!
THE SONG OF THE CIDER
From Bittersweet: A Poem. Copyright 1886, by Elizabeth L. Holland,
IXTEEN barrels of cider
SIXTE
Ripening all in a row!
Open the vent-channels wider!
See the froth, drifted like snow,
Blown by the tempest below!
Those delectable juices
Flowed through the sinuous sluices
Of sweet springs under the orchard;
Climbed into fountains that chained them,
Dripped into cups that retained them,
And swelled till they dropped, and we gained them.
Then they were gathered and tortured
By passage from hopper to vat,
And fell — every apple crushed flat.
Ah! how the bees gathered round them
And how delicious they found them!


## p. 7454 (#256) ###########################################

7454
JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND
Oat-straw, as fragrant as clover,
Was platted, and smoothly turned over,
Weaving a neatly ribbed basket;
And as they built up the casket,
In went the pulp by the scoop-full,
Till the juice flowed by the stoup-full,-
Filling the half of a puncheon
While the men swallowed their luncheon.
Pure grew the stream with the stress
Of the lever and screw,
Till the last drops from the press
Were as bright as the dew.
There were these juices spilled;
There were these barrels filled;
Sixteen barrels of cider-
Ripening all in a row!
Open the vent-channels wider!
See the froth, drifted like snow,
Blown by the tempest below!
-
WANTED
From The Complete Poetical Writings of Dr. J. G. Holland. ' Copyright
1879, by Charles Scribner's Sons
OD give us men! A time like this demands
G Strong minds, great hearts, true faith, and ready
hands;
Men whom the lust of office does not kill;
Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy;
Men who possess opinions and a will;
Men who have honor, men who will not lie;
Men who can stand before a demagogue,
And damn his treacherous flatteries without winking!
Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog
In public duty and in private thinking:
For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds,
Their large professions and their little deeds,
Mingle in selfish strife,-lo! Freedom weeps,
Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps!


## p. 7455 (#257) ###########################################

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND
7455
DANIEL GRAY
From The Complete Poetical Writings of Dr. J. G. Holland. Copyright
1879, by Charles Scribner's Sons
F I SHALL ever win the home in heaven
IT
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray,
In the great company of the forgiven
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.
I knew him well: in truth, few knew him better;
For my young eyes oft read for him the Word,
And saw how meekly from the crystal letter
He drank the life of his beloved Lord.
Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted
On ready words his freight of gratitude;
Nor was he called as one among the gifted,
In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood.
He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases,
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes;
And I suppose that in his prayers and graces
I've heard them all at least a thousand times.
I see him now, his form, his face, his motions,
His homespun habit, and his silver hair,—
And hear the language of his trite devotions,
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair.
-
I can remember how the sentence sounded.
"Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint! »
And how the "conquering-and-to-conquer" rounded
The loftier aspirations of the saint.
He had some notions that did not improve him:
He never kissed his children - so they say;
And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him
Less than a horseshoe picked up in the way.
He had a hearty hatred of oppression,
And righteous words for sin of every kind:
Alas, that the transgressor and transgression
Were linked so closely in his honest mind!
He could see naught but vanity in beauty,
And naught but weakness in a fond caress,


## p. 7456 (#258) ###########################################

7456
JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND
And pitied men whose views of Christian duty
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness.
Yet there were love and tenderness within him;
And I am told that when his Charley died,
Nor nature's need nor gentle words could win him
From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side.
And when they came to bury little Charley,
They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair,
And on his breast a rosebud gathered early,—
And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there.
Honest and faithful, constant in his calling,
Strictly attendant on the means of grace,
Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling,
Old Daniel Gray was always in his place.
A practical old man, and yet a dreamer,
He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way
His mighty Friend in heaven, the great Redeemer,
Would honor him with wealth some golden day.
This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit
Until in death his patient eye grew dim,
And his Redeemer called him to inherit
The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him.
So, if I ever win the home in heaven
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray,
In the great company of the forgiven
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray.


## p. 7456 (#259) ###########################################



## p. 7456 (#260) ###########################################


DOOHOOOOOOOOOO
S
梭
​B
O. W. HOLMES.
D
R
40
Gresah
OHOH!
30
16
P


## p. 7456 (#261) ###########################################



## p. 7456 (#262) ###########################################



## p. 7457 (#263) ###########################################

7457
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
(1809-1894).
BY MRS. JAMES T. FIELDS
Liver Wendell HOLMES was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts,
in the year 1809, under the shadow-or the sunshine, shall
we say? of Harvard University. "I remember that week
well," the doctor wrote in after years: "for something happened to
me once at that time; namely, I was born. " "Nature was active that
year," says his biographer, "like a stirred volcano; casting forth also
upon the world Gladstone, Tennyson, Darwin, and Abraham Lincoln. "
The discovery of a pile of old almanacs belonging to his father gave
Dr. Holmes, late in life, a whimsical view of his own birthday. "I
took up that for the year 1809: opposite a certain date was an aster-
isk, and a note below consisting of four letters, thus:-
August 27
«<
28
«<
29*
«<
30
* Son b.
My father thus recorded my advent; and after he wrote the four let-
ters, according to his wont, he threw black sand upon them to keep
them from blotting. I am looking at it now, and there the black
sand glistens still. "
Dr. Holmes even went so far as to have the page photographed,
and never failed to regard the brief memorandum with a kind of odd
pathos.
He came of the Brahmin caste of New England, to quote a phrase
of his own invention: his father being a minister of the old-fashioned
severe type of that period; while his mother was a lady, he once
wrote, bred in quite a different atmosphere from that of the strait-
laced Puritanism. She was a bright, vivacious woman, of small size,
sprightly manners, and good education. She lived to a great age,
a quaint figure, youthful and sympathetic to the end. "Like a faith-
ful wife as she was," her son says, "she sobered her pleasant coun-
tenance and sat down to hear us recite of justification,' 'adoption,'
XIII-467


## p. 7458 (#264) ###########################################

7458
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
I was
and 'sanctification,' and the rest of the programme.
given to questionings, and my mind early revolted. » Those who
knew Dr. Holmes's father and mother well, say there was more of
the intellectual character of the mother than of the father in him.
There was a human and humane side to his mother, something akin
to her neighbors because of their common humanity; a simple trait
of kindly interest in all who drew within the scope of their acquaint-
ance, which also belonged to her son and made him what he became.
The simplicity of the life of a minister's family in the Cambridge of
that period was very unlike anything we know to-day, when Cam-
bridge has become a large city; and it is difficult to believe so few
years have passed since boyish rambles were carried on in the very
heart of what is now a town.
Dr. Holmes's writings, of course, give something more than a hint
of these conditions: we are made to see them pretty clearly; but
there is nothing in the life of old England which is a match for
them,- nothing by which men nurtured under different conditions
can estimate the advantages and drawbacks of the New England of
that time. The men of his day were not nursed in letters; there
was no Eton, and no Bluecoat School to which the younger boys
were sent. They stayed at home and learned their first lessons, but
they frequently studied on the principle of some church-goers who
trust that an hour on Sunday will give them absolution for a week of
indulgence: studying served by the way, as it were; a kind of toll-
gate to be passed before the good things of life set in.
The boys
of those days chopped wood, made fires, ran errands, skated, birds'-
nested, or went nutting, according to the seasons. Their heads were
not burthened by breathing a scholastic atmosphere. But if the edu-
cation to a life of literature was wanting, the finer inciters to true
thought and life were not wanting. "My birth chamber," writes Dr.
Holmes, "and the places most familiar to my early years, looked out
to the west. My sunsets were as beautiful as any poet could ask
for. Between my chamber and the sunset were hills covered with
trees, from amid which peeped out here and there the walls of a
summer mansion, which my imagination turned into a palace. "
His scheme of life did not readily mature. At school in Andover,
and while in Harvard College, he was totally undecided what to
study. " "It will be law or physick," he wrote, "for I cannot say
that I think the trade of authorship quite adapted to this meridian. "
It is very curious to see how his mind wavered between these
three careers. Neither Lowell nor Longfellow appears to have been
detained for an instant from the pursuit of literature by "the merid-
ian"! But Dr. Holmes was not a great reader; he was not trained,
as we have said, in a home atmosphere of letters, and it was like


## p. 7459 (#265) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7459
putting to sea in an untrimmed boat. On the whole, the law pre-
sented itself to his mind as possessing the largest advantages to a
man of gifts; and after leaving college in 1829 he decided to devote
a year to that study. He says of himself, in reverting to this period:
"I had been busy, more or less, with the pages of Blackstone and
Chitty and other text-books of legal study. More or less, I say, but
I am afraid it was less rather than more. For during that year I
first tasted the intoxicating pleasure of authorship. A college period-
ical conducted by friends of mine, still undergraduates, tempted me
into print; and there is no form of lead poisoning which more rap-
idly and thoroughly pervades the blood and bones and marrow than
that which reaches the young author through mental contact with
type-metal. . . What determined me to give up law and apply
myself to medicine I can hardly say; but I had from the first looked
upon that year's study as an experiment. "
It appears that his second choice of profession, although most con-
scientiously followed and always considered by him as final, was not
the career which was to make his name and fame nor his modest
fortune. One might say even more: a certain turn for or faith in
science was a substratum of his mind. He loved to see the proof of
what his imagination or that of other men had suggested. In this
we are reminded of Shelley, who said once that whatever the imagina-
tion of a man can see clearly, the man can reproduce in words. Dr.
Holmes looked askance at what could not be proved; and his study
of medicine enlarged his intellectual sphere. He was immediately
associated in Paris with the most distinguished scientists of his day,
who doubtless found their eager pupil very engaging. He had an
overwhelming distaste for many details of his profession; but as the
years went on, he found his place on the scientific rather than the
more immediately practical side of his profession. He was chosen
professor and lecturer to the Harvard Medical School, a position
which he filled for thirty-five years, only relinquishing it when age
gave him warning against over-fatigue.
Dr. Holmes did not wish in after years to recognize his first lit-
erary ventures, which were even earlier than the year of his law
studies. The Spectre Pig' and a few other juvenile verses had
actually found their way into print, but he never looked upon them
with favor. He understood himself well enough to recognize that
year in the law school as the moment of his first poetic inspiration.
The frigate Constitution was at that time lying in the Navy Yard
at Charlestown. Dr. Holmes saw a paragraph in a newspaper say-
ing that the ship was condemned by the Navy Department to be
destroyed. He was
on fire at the idea; with a pencil hurriedly
writing down his verses 'Old Ironsides' on a scrap of paper, he soon


## p. 7460 (#266) ###########################################

7460
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
wrought them into shape and sent them to a Boston newspaper.
They flew from end to end of the country; were reprinted on slips
and distributed in the streets of Washington. The old man-of-war
was saved, and the country learned the name of Oliver Wendell
Holmes, a young law student in Cambridge, for the first time.
Edward Everett Hale, a man who is an electric storage-battery of
thought to the men of his time, long ago said that "every man should
have his vocation and his avocation. » For many years Dr. Holmes
looked upon his profession as the vocation of his life and literature
as his avocation; but by degrees, and perhaps without acknowledg-
ment to himself, the tables were gradually turned, and the pen-point
became his weapon with which to front the world.
After returning from his studies in Paris and putting up his sign
as a physician in Boston, he found himself, while waiting "for the
smallest favors or fevers," again writing verses. There was some-
thing about his self-occupied yet gay boyishness which did not incline
the hypochondriac to face such strong sunshine. Whatever the reasons
may have been, his calls as a physician were few and his verses were
many. The Last Leaf' among others was written in this pause;
and at the end of a twelvemonth he was so unwise, from a profes-
sional point of view, as to publish a volume. In brief, his light
was one not to be concealed. His quickness of sympathy and readi-
ness of expression marked him immediately as the spokesman of
great occasions. He was invited to deliver the Phi Beta Kappa poem
of 1836, and from this date there was probably never a year of his
life without invitations to perform some such service, public or pri-
vate. What is still more important to record as a part of literary
history, his prose style was beginning to take form. He took prizes
for medical essays and dissertations. "It is somewhat pleasant," he
wrote this same year of 1836, "to have cut out a fifty-dollar prize
under the guns of two old blazers, who have each of them swamped
their competitors in preceding trials. " In 1834 his essay on 'The
Contagiousness of Puerperal Fever' marked him to the eyes of the
scientific world as a man of original thought and careful but deter-
mined expression of the truth. The qualities which distinguished
him afterward in the larger world of letters were then slowly acknowl-
edged for the first time by men of science. In after years he referred
to this experience in The Professor at the Breakfast-Table': -
"When, by the permission of Providence, I held up to the professional
public the damnable facts connected with the conveyance of poison
from one young mother's chamber to another's,- for doing which
humble office I desire to be thankful that I have lived, though noth-
ing else good should ever come of my life, I had to hear the sneers
of those whose position I had assailed, and as I believe, have at last


## p. 7461 (#267) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7461
demolished, so that nothing but the ghosts of dead women stir among
the ruins. "
«<
Among Dr. Holmes's early writings were two prose essays pub-
lished in the New England Magazine, which lived briefly from 1831
to 1835. They bore the title of The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table';
but they appeared afterward to the author as early windfalls," and
he was not willing to incorporate them among his acknowledged
works, except as he acknowledges and quotes from them in one of
his prefaces to the 'Autocrat' of 1857. Whether Lowell had seen
these papers, or whether he judged what Dr. Holmes could do from
his scientific productions and his incomparable conversation, no one
can say; but when the Atlantic Monthly was launched, and a little
later Lowell was asked to become its editor, he made one condition:
"that Dr. Holmes should be the first contributor to be engaged. ”
"I looked at the old Portfolio," said Dr. Holmes, "and said to myself,
'Too late! too late! '" But Lowell insisted-otherwise there would
be no Atlantic; and Dr. Holmes yielded.
"Lowell," he wrote after-
ward, "woke me from a kind of literary lethargy in which I was half
slumbering, to call me to active service. " Dr. Holmes's genius, as
seen in the 'Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table,' will carry his name
down the tide of time. It was succeeded by nine volumes of prose,
interrupted only by what now amounts to three volumes of verse,
making thirteen volumes of his complete works. It is, even in quan-
tity, no small showing, when we recall in addition his thirty-five
years of medical professorship. Dr. Holmes was no idler: he loved
to work and to do his work well. He scorned no expenditure of time
in order to find the right word and to bring his verse into accurate
form.
In 1840 Dr. Holmes married Amelia Lee Jackson, a woman exqui-
sitely adapted to make him happy. She was not beautiful, nor in
common phrase a woman of society; but she possessed a refinement,
a wit, a charm, a power of self-forgetfulness, which were all her own.
She was known to a small circle only, but wherever she allowed her-
self the opportunity to know and be known, she was beloved.
There were three children; only one of whom, Judge Holmes, sur-
vives his father. Dr. Holmes suffered the pain of seeing his wife and
a son and daughter go before him. Nevertheless life was very sweet
to him, and he bore the trials of age cheerfully, dying October 7th,
1894. He wrote once to Lowell: "Life is never monotonous, abso-
lutely, to me. I am a series of surprises to myself in the changes
that years and ripening, and it may be a still further process which
I need not name, bring about. The movement onward is like chan-
ging place in a picture gallery,- the light fades from this picture
and falls on that; . . but what a strange thing life is, when you
.


## p. 7462 (#268) ###########################################

7462
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
have waded in up to your neck and remember the shelving sands you
have trodden! "
But all the writing in the world about Dr. Holmes appears totally
inefficient to represent his delightful ebullient spirit, freshening and
sweetening every subject that he touched. The world soon found
that a new wit was astir under the old pudding-stone, and that wit
they could not do without. Every year, from 1851 until just before
the end, he wrote and read class poem; every dinner-table in Bos-
ton aspired to listen to his words; every occasion of importance called
for his presence. Loving and beloved, he passed on his cheerful way.
The cabman who drove him, the maid who put on his shoes, every
one who performed the slightest service for him, loved him. No
wonder life was not all dark to the one who shed such sunshine.
Annie Fields
[All the works of Oliver Wendell Holmes from which the following selec-
tions are taken are copyrighted. The reprint is made by permission of
Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers, Boston. ]
OLD IRONSIDES*
Y, TEAR her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
Α΄
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 vanquished 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 conquered knee; —
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
*This was the popular name by which the frigate Constitution was known.
The poem was first printed in the Boston Daily Advertiser, at the time when
it was proposed to break up the old ship as unfit for service.


## p. 7463 (#269) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7463
Oh, better that her shattered 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!
I
THE LAST LEAF
SAW him once before,
As he passed by the door;
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the Crier on his round
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan;
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone. "
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said
Poor old lady, she is dead
Long ago-
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
In the snow.
-


## p. 7464 (#270) ###########################################

7464
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
Like a staff;
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,
Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL
THIS
HIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times,
Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas-times;
They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,
Who dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.
A Spanish galleon brought the bar,-so runs the ancient tale:
'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;
And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should
fail,
He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.
'Twas chased by an English squire to please his loving dame,
Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same;
And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found,
'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.
But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine,
Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine,
But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,
He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnapps.


## p. 7465 (#271) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7465
And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the Dutchman's
shore
With those that in the Mayflower came, a hundred souls and more,
Along with all the furniture to fill their new abodes-
To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.
'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim,
When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim;
The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,
And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.
He poured the fiery Hollands in,- the man that never feared,-
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;
And one by one the musketeers-the men that fought and prayed —
All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.
That night, affrighted, from his nest the screaming eagle flew,-
He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;
And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin,
"Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin! "
A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,
A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose,
When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy,—
'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.
"Drink, John," she said: "'twill do you good,—poor child, you'll never
bear
This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air;
And if - God bless me! - you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill. "
So John did drink —and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!
I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;
I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here.
'Tis but the fool that loves excess: hast thou a drunken soul?
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!
TL
I love the memory of the past,-its pressed yet fragrant flow
The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its tower. ,"
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,—my eyes grow moist and dim,
To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.
Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me:
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;
And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin
That dooms one to those dreadful words, "My dear, where have you
been? »


## p. 7466 (#272) ###########################################

7466
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
THIS
HIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed 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;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed,—
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
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,
Stretched 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!


## p. 7467 (#273) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7467
THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE
OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"
A Logical Story
H
AVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it—ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay:
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits-
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five:
Georgius Secundus was then alive,—
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,—
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,- lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,-
Above or below, or within or without,
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.
But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown:
«< Fur," said the Deacon, "t's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest. ”


## p. 7468 (#274) ###########################################

7468
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,—
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber, - they couldn't sell 'em,—
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace, bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through. ”
"There! " said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew. "
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!
-
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; -it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
-
-
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. You're welcome. - No extra charge. )


## p. 7469 (#275) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7469
FIRST OF NOVEMBER,- the Earthquake day:
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay;
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn't be,- for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup! " said the parson. -Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text;
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the-Moses-was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,—
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,—
All at once, and nothing first,
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.


## p. 7470 (#276) ###########################################

7470
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
A SUN-DAY HYMN
L
ORD of all being! throned afar,
Thy glory flames from sun and star;
Centre and soul of every sphere,
Yet to each loving heart how near!
Sun of our life, thy quickening ray
Sheds on our path the glow of day;
Star of our hope, thy softened light
Cheers the long watches of the night.
Our midnight is thy smile withdrawn;
Our noontide is thy gracious dawn;
Our rainbow arch thy mercy's sign;
All, save the clouds of sin, are thine!
Lord of all life, below, above,
Whose light is truth, whose warmth is love,
Before thy ever-blazing throne
We ask no lustre of our own.
Grant us thy truth to make us free,
And kindling hearts that burn for thee,
Till all thy living altars claim
One holy light, one heavenly flame!
THE VOICELESS
E COUNT the broken lyres that rest
WⓇ
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,
But o'er their silent sister's breast
The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them:-
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,—
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory!
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,


## p. 7471 (#277) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7471
But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow's church-yard pillow.
O hearts that break and give no sign
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death pours out his longed-for wine
Slow dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
BILL AND JOE
C
NOME, 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 with 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,
With H-O-N. and L-L. -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,-
-


## p. 7472 (#278) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7472
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 jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.


## p. 7473 (#279) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
XIII-468
DOROTHY Q.
A FAMILY PORTRAIT
G
RANDMOTHER'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.
On her hand a parrot green
Sits unmoving and broods serene.
Hold up the canvas full in view,-
Look! there's a rent the light shines through,
Dark with a century's fringe of dust,—
That was a Redcoat's rapier-thrust!
Such is the tale the lady old,
Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told.
Who the painter was none may tell,-
One whose best was not over well;
Hard and dry, it must be confessed,
Flat as a rose that has long been pressed:
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright,
Dainty colors of red and white,
And in her slender shape are seen
Hint and promise of stately mien.
―――――
Look not on her with eyes of scorn,-
Dorothy Q. was a lady born!
Ay! since the galloping Normans came,
England's annals have known her name;
And still to the three-hilled rebel town
Dear is that ancient name's renown,-
For many a civic wreath they won,
The youthful sire and the gray-haired son.
――――
O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q. !
Strange is the gift that I owe to you;
Such a gift as never a king
Save to daughter or son might bring,-
All my tenure of heart and hand,
All my title to house and land;
7473


## p. 7474 (#280) ###########################################

7474
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Mother and sister and child and wife
And joy and sorrow and death and life!
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 look 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?
Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes;
Not the light gossamer stirs with less:
But never a cable that holds so fast
Through all the battles of wave and blast,
And never an echo of speech or song
That lives in the babbling air so long!
There were tones in the voice that whispered then
You may hear to-day in a hundred men.
O lady and lover, how faint and far
Your images hover,- and here we are,
Solid and stirring in flesh and bone,
Edward's and Dorothy's, all their own,-
A goodly record for Time to show
Of a syllable spoken so long ago! -
Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive
For the tender whisper that bade me live?
-
It shall be a blessing, my little maid!
I will heal the stab of the Redcoat's blade,
And freshen the gold of the tarnished frame,
And gild with a rhyme your household name;
So you shall smile on us brave and bright
As first you greeted the morning's light,
And live untroubled by woes and fears
Through a second youth of a hundred years.


## p. 7475 (#281) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7475
WHA
AT is your general estimate of doctors, lawyers, and min-
isters? said I.
-
THE THREE PROFESSIONS
From The Poet at the Breakfast-Table'
―――――――
-Wait a minute, till I have got through with your
first question, said the Master. One thing at a time. -You asked
me about the young doctors, and about our young doctor. They
come home très bien chaussés, as a Frenchman would say, mighty
well shod with professional knowledge. But when they begin
walking round among their poor patients,- they don't commonly
start with millionaires, they find that their new shoes of scien-
tific acquirements have got to be broken in just like a pair of
boots or brogans. I don't know that I have put it quite strong
enough. Let me try again. You've seen those fellows at the
circus that get up on horseback, so big that you wonder how
they could climb into the saddle. But pretty soon they throw off
their outside coat, and the next minute another one, and then
the one under that, and so they keep peeling off one garment
after another till people begin to look queer and think they are
going too far for strict propriety. Well, that is the way a fellow
with a real practical turn serves a good many of his scientific
wrappers, flings 'em off for other people to pick up, and goes
right at the work of curing stomach-aches and all the other little
mean unscientific complaints that make up the larger part of
every doctor's business. I think our Dr. Benjamin is a worthy
young man, and if you are in need of a doctor at any time I
hope you will go to him; and if you come off without harm,
I will recommend some other friend to try him.
-I thought he was going to say he would try him in his
own person; but the Master is not fond of committing himself.