No More Learning

30
16
P


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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


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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


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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


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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


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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
.


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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.


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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.
-


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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? »


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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!


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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. ”


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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. )


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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,-
-


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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


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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.
Now I will answer your other question, he said. The law-
yers are the cleverest men, the ministers are the most learned,
and the doctors are the most sensible.
―
The lawyers are a picked lot, "first scholars" and the like,
but their business is as unsympathetic as Jack Ketch's. There is
nothing humanizing in their relations with their fellow-creatures.
They go for the side that retains them. They defend the man
they know to be a rogue, and not very rarely throw suspicion on
the man they know to be innocent. Mind you, I am not finding
fault with them,—every side of a case has a right to the best


## p. 7476 (#282) ###########################################

7476
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
statement admits of; but I say it does not tend to make them
sympathetic. Suppose in a case of Fever vs. Patient, the doctor
should side with either party according to whether the old miser
or his expectant heir was his employer. Suppose the minister
should side with the Lord or the Devil, according to the salary
offered, and other incidental advantages, where the soul of a
sinner was in question. You can see what a piece of work it
would make of their sympathies. But the lawyers are quicker
witted than either of the other professions, and abler men gener-
ally. They are good-natured, or if they quarrel, their quarrels
are above-board. I don't think they are as accomplished as the
ministers; but they have a way of cramming with special knowl
edge for a case, which leaves a certain shallow sediment of intel-
ligence in their memories about a good many things. They are
apt to talk law in mixed company; and they have a way of look-
ing round when they make a point, as if they were addressing a
jury, that is mighty aggravating,—as I once had occasion to see
when one of 'em, and a pretty famous one, put me on the wit-
ness stand at a dinner party once.
The ministers come next in point of talent. They are far
more curious and widely interested outside of their own calling
than either of the other professions. I like to talk with 'em.
They are interesting men: full of good feelings, hard workers,
always foremost in good deeds, and on the whole the most effi-
cient civilizing class-working downwards from knowledge to
ignorance, that is; not so much upwards, perhaps that we have.
The trouble is, that so many of 'em work in harness, and it is
pretty sure to chafe somewhere. They feed us on canned meats
mostly. They cripple our instincts and reason, and give us a
crutch of doctrine. I have talked with a great many of 'em, of
all sorts of belief; and I don't think they are quite so easy in
their minds, the greater number of them, nor so clear in their
convictions, as one would think to hear 'em lay down the law
in the pulpit. They used to lead the intelligence of their par
ishes; now they do pretty well if they keep up with it, and
they are very apt to lag behind it. Then they must have a col-
league. The old minister thinks he can hold to his old course,
sailing right into the wind's eye of human nature, as straight as
that famous old skipper John Bunyan; the young minister falls
off three or four points, and catches the breeze that left the old
man's sails all shivering. By-and-by the congregation will get
ahead of him, and then it must have another new skipper. The


## p. 7477 (#283) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
7477
priest holds his own pretty well; the minister is coming down.
every generation nearer and nearer to the common level of the
useful citizen,- no oracle at all, but a man of more than aver-
age moral instincts, who, if he knows anything, knows how little
he knows. The ministers are good talkers, only the struggle
between nature and grace makes some of 'em a little awkward
occasionally. The women do their best to spoil 'em, as they do
the poets.
You find it very pleasant to be spoiled, no doubt;
so do they. Now and then one of 'em goes over the dam; no
wonder, they're always in the rapids.
By this time our three ladies had their faces all turned toward
the speaker, like the weathercocks in a northeaster, and I thought
it best to switch off the talk on to another rail.
-
How about the doctors? I said.
- Theirs is the least learned of the professions, in this coun-
try at least. They have not half the general culture of the
lawyers, nor a quarter of that of the ministers. I rather think,
though, they are more agreeable to the common run of people
than the men with black coats or the men with green bags.
People can swear before 'em if they want to, and they can't very
well before ministers. I don't care whether they want to swear
or not, they don't want to be on their good behavior. Besides,
the minister has a little smack of the sexton about him; he comes
when people are in extremis, but they don't send for him every
time they make a slight moral slip,- tell a lie, for instance, or
smuggle a silk dress through the custom-house: but they call in
the doctor when the child is cutting a tooth or gets a splinter in
its finger. So it doesn't mean much to send for him, only a
pleasant chat about the news of the day; for putting the baby to
rights doesn't take long. Besides, everybody doesn't like to talk
about the next world; people are modest in their desires, and
find this world as good as they deserve: but everybody loves to
talk physic. Everybody loves to hear of strange cases; people
are eager to tell the doctor of the wonderful cures they have
heard of; they want to know what is the matter with somebody
or other who is said to be suffering from "a complication of
diseases," and above all to get a hard name, Greek or Latin,
for some complaint which sounds altogether too commonplace
in plain English. If you will only call a headache a Cephalalgia,
it acquires dignity at once, and a patient becomes rather proud
of it. So I think doctors are generally welcome in most com-
panies.


## p. 7478 (#284) ###########################################

7478
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
In old times, when people were more afraid of the Devil
and of witches than they are now, they liked to have a priest
or a minister somewhere near to scare 'em off: but nowadays, if
you could find an old woman that would ride round the room
on a broomstick, Barnum would build an amphitheatre to exhibit
her in; and if he could come across a young imp, with hoofs,
tail, and budding horns,—a lineal descendant of one of those
"dæmons" which the good people of Gloucester fired at and were
fired at by "for the best part of a month together," in the year
1692, the great showman would have him at any cost for his
museum or menagerie. Men are cowards, sir, and are driven by
fear as the sovereign motive. Men are idolaters, and want some-
thing to look at and kiss and hug, or throw themselves down
before; they always did, they always will: and if you don't make
it of wood, you must make it of words, which are just as much
used for idols as promissory notes are used for values. The
ministers have a hard time of it without bell and book and holy
water; they are dismounted men in armor since Luther cut their
saddle-girths, and you can see they are quietly taking off one
piece of iron after another until some of the best of 'em are
fighting the devil (not the zoological Devil with the big D) with
the sword of the Spirit, and precious little else in the way of
weapons of offense or defense. But we couldn't get on without
the spiritual brotherhood, whatever became of our special creeds.
There is a genius for religion, just as there is for painting or
sculpture. It is half-sister to the genius for music, and has some
of the features which remind us of earthly love. But it lifts
us all by its mere presence. To see a good man and hear his
voice once a week would be reason enough for building churches
and pulpits. - The Master stopped all at once, and after about
half a minute laughed his pleasant laugh.
What is it? I asked him.
I was thinking of the great coach and team that is carrying
us fast enough, I don't know but too fast, somewhere or other.
The D. D. s used to be the leaders, but now they are the wheel-
horses. It's pretty hard to tell how much they pull, but we
know they can hold back like the-
-When we're going down hill,-I said, as neatly as if I had
been a High Church curate trained to snap at the last word of
the response, so that you couldn't wedge in the tail of a comma
between the end of the congregation's closing syllable and the
beginning of the next petition.


## p. 7479 (#285) ###########################################

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
ELSIE AT THE SPROWLE "PARTY »
―
From Elsie Venner'
7479
THE
HE conversation rose into one of its gusty paroxysms just
then.
All at once it grew silent just round the door,
where it had been loudest,- and the silence spread itself
like a stain, till it hushed everything but a few corner duets. A
dark, sad-looking, middle-aged gentleman entered the parlor, with
a young lady on his arm,-his daughter, as it seemed, for she
was not wholly unlike him in feature, and of the same dark com-
plexion.
"Dudley Venner," exclaimed a dozen people, in startled but
half-suppressed tones.
"What can have brought Dudley out to-night? " said Jeffer-
son Buck, a young fellow who had been interrupted in one of the
corner duets which he was executing in concert with Miss Susy
Pettingill.
"How do I know, Jeff? " was Miss Susy's answer. Then, after
«Elsie made him come, I
a pause,
Go ask Dr. Kit-
guess.
tredge: he knows all about 'em both, they say. "
Jefferson Buck was not bold enough to confront the doctor
with Miss Susy's question, for he did not look as if he were in
the mood to answer queries put by curious young people. His
eyes were fixed steadily on the dark girl, every movement of
whom he seemed to follow.
She was indeed an apparition of wild beauty, so unlike the
girls about her that it seemed nothing more than natural that
when she moved, the groups should part to let her pass through
them, and that she should carry the centre of all looks and
thoughts with her. She was dressed to please her own fancy,
evidently, with small regard to the modes declared correct by the
Rockland milliners and mantua-makers. Her heavy black hair
lay in a braided coil, with a long gold pin shot through it like a
javelin. Round her neck was a golden torque, a round, cord-like
chain, such as the Gauls used to wear; the Dying Gladiator has
it. Her dress was a grayish watered silk; her collar was pinned
with a flashing diamond brooch, the stones looking as fresh as
morning dew-drops, but the silver setting of the past generation;
her arms were bare, round, but slender rather than large, in
keeping with her lithe round figure. On her wrists she wore


## p. 7480 (#286) ###########################################

7480
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
bracelets: one was a circlet of enameled scales, the other looked
as if it might have been Cleopatra's asp, with its body turned
to gold and its eyes to emeralds.
Her father for Dudley Venner was her father-looked like
a man of culture and breeding, but melancholy and with a dis-
tracted air, as one whose life had met some fatal cross or blight.
He saluted hardly anybody except his entertainers and the doc-
tor. One would have said, to look at him, that he was not at
the party by choice; and it was natural enough to think, with
Susy Pettingill, that it must have been a freak of the dark girl's
which brought him there, for he had the air of a shy and sad-
hearted recluse.
It was hard to say what could have brought Elsie Venner to
the party. Hardly anybody seemed to know her, and she seemed
not at all disposed to make acquaintances. Here and there was
one of the older girls from the Institute, but she appeared to have
nothing in common with them. Even in the school-room, it may
be remembered, she sat apart by her own choice, and now in the
midst of the crowd she made a circle of isolation round herself.
Drawing her arm out of her father's, she stood against the wall,
and looked, with a strange cold glitter in her eyes, at the crowd
which moved and babbled before her.
The old doctor came up to her by-and-by.
"Well, Elsie, I am quite surprised to find you here.