oliver wendell holmes-第5部分

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unless　a　man　could　show　a　good　reason　for　writing　verse；　it　was　rather
against　him；　and　a　proof　of　weakness。　　I　suppose　this　severe　conclusion
was　something　he　had　reached　after　dealing　with　innumerable　small　poets
who　sought　the　light　in　him　with　verses　that　no　editor　would　admit　to
print。　　Yet　of　morbidness　he　was　often　very　tender；　he　knew　it　to　be
disease；　something　that　must　be　scientifically　rather　than　ethically
treated。　　He　was　in　the　same　degree　kind　to　any　sensitiveness；　for　he　was
himself　as　sensitive　as　he　was　manly；　and　he　was　most　delicately
sensitive　to　any　rightful　social　claim　upon　him。　　I　was　once　at　a　dinner
with　him；　where　he　was　in　some　sort　my　host；　in　a　company　of　people　whom
he　had　not　seen　me　with　before；　and　he　made　a　point　of　acquainting　me
with　each　of　them。　　It　did　not　matter　that　I　knew　most　of　them　already；
the　proof　of　his　thoughtfulness　was　precious；　and　I　was　sorry　when　I　had
to　disappoint　it　by　confessing　a　previous　knowledge。




VIII。

I　had　three　memorable　meetings　with　him　not　very　long　before　he　died：　one
a　year　before；　and　the　other　two　within　a　few　months　of　the　end。　　The
first　of　these　was　at　luncheon　in　the　summer…house　of　a　friend　whose
hospitality　made　it　summer　the　year　round；　and　we　all　went　out　to　meet
him；　when　he　drove　up　in　his　open　carriage；　with　the　little　sunshade　in
his　hand；　which　he　took　with　him　for　protection　against　the　heat；　and
also；　a　little；　I　think；　for　the　whim　of　it。　　He　sat　a　moment　after　he
arrived；　as　if　to　orient　himself　in　respect　to　each　of　us。　　Beside　the
gifted　hostess；　there　was　the　most　charming　of　all　the　American
essayists；　and　the　Autocrat　seemed　at　once　to　find　himself　singularly　at
home　with　the　people　who　greeted　him。　　There　was　no　interval　needed　for
fanning　away　the　ashes；　he　tinkled　up　before　he　entered　the　house；　and　at
the　table　he　was　as　vivid　and　scintillant　as　I　ever　saw　him；　if　indeed　I
ever　saw　him　as　much　so。　　The　talk　began　at　once；　and　we　had　made　him
believe　that　there　was　nothing　egotistic　in　his　taking　the　word；　or
turning　it　in　illustration　from　himself　upon　universal　matters。　　I　spoke
among　other　things　of　some　humble　ruins　on　the　road　to　Gloucester；　which
gave　the　way…side　a　very　aged　look；　the　tumbled　foundation…stones　of　poor
bits　of　houses；　and　〃Ah；〃　he　said；　〃the　cellar　and　the　well？〃　　He　added；
to　the　company　generally；　〃Do　you　know　what　I　think　are　the　two　lines　of
mine　that　go　as　deep　as　any　others；　in　a　certain　direction？〃　and　he　began
to　repeat　stragglingly　certain　verses　from　one　of　his　earlier　poems；
until　he　came　to　the　closing　couplet。　　But　I　will　give　them　in　full；
because　in　going　to　look　them　up　I　have　found　them　so　lovely；　and　because
I　can　hear　his　voice　again　in　every　fondly　accented　syllable：

　　　　　　　　　〃Who　sees　unmoved；　a　ruin　at　his　feet；
　　　　　　　　　　The　lowliest　home　where　human　hearts　have　beat？
　　　　　　　　　　Its　hearth…stone；　shaded　with　the　bistre　stain；
　　　　　　　　　　A　century's　showery　torrents　wash　in　vain；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　starving　orchard　where　the　thistle　blows；
　　　　　　　　　　And　mossy　trunks　still　mark　the　broken　rows；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　chimney…loving　poplar；　oftenest　seen
　　　　　　　　　　Next　an　old　roof；　or　where　a　roof　has　been；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　knot…grass；　plantain；all　the　social　weeds；
　　　　　　　　　　Man's　mute　companions　following　where　he　leads；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　dwarfed　pale　flowers；　that　show　their　straggling　heads；
　　　　　　　　　　Sown　by　the　wind　from　grass…choked　garden…beds；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　woodbine　creeping　where　it　used　to　climb；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　roses　breathing　of　the　olden　time；
　　　　　　　　　　All　the　poor　shows　the　curious　idler　sees；
　　　　　　　　　　As　life's　thin　shadows　waste　by　slow　degrees；
　　　　　　　　　　Till　naught　remains；　the　saddening　tale　to　tell；
　　　　　　　　　　Save　home's　last　wrecksthe　CELLAR　AND　THE　WELL！〃

The　poet's　chanting　voice　rose　with　a　triumphant　swell　in　the　climax；　and
〃There；〃　he　said；　〃isn't　it　so？　　The　cellar　and　the　wellthey　can't　be
thrown　down　or　burnt　up；　they　are　the　human　monuments　that　last　longest
and　defy　decay。〃　　He　rejoiced　openly　in　the　sympathy　that　recognized　with
him　the　divination　of　a　most　pathetic；　most　signal　fact；　and　he　repeated
the　last　couplet　again　at　our　entreaty；　glad　to　be　entreated　for　it。
I　do　not　know　whether　all　will　agree　with　him　concerning　the　relative
importance　of　the　lines；　but　I　think　all　must　feel　the　exquisite　beauty
of　the　picture　to　which　they　give　the　final　touch。

He　said　a　thousand　witty　and　brilliant　things　that　day；　but　his　pleasure
in　this　gave　me　the　most　pleasure；　and　I　recall　the　passage　distinctly
out　of　the　dimness　that　covers　the　rest。　　He　chose　to　figure　us　younger
men；　in　touching　upon　the　literary　circumstance　of　the　past　and　present；
as　representative　of　modern　feeling　and　thinking；　and　himself　as　no
longer　contemporary。　　We　knew　he　did　this　to　be　contradicted；　and　we
protested；　affectionately；　fervently；　with　all　our　hearts　and　minds；　and
indeed　there　were　none　of　his　generation　who　had　lived　more　widely　into
ours。　　He　was　not　a　prophet　like　Emerson；　nor　ever　a　voice　crying　in　the
wilderness　like　Whittier　or　Lowell。　　His　note　was　heard　rather　amid　the
sweet　security　of　streets；　but　it　was　always　for　a　finer　and　gentler
civility。　　He　imagined　no　new　rule　of　life；　and　no　philosophy　or　theory
of　life　will　be　known　by　his　name。　　He　was　not　constructive；　he　was
essentially　observant；　and　in　this　he　showed　the　scientific　nature。
He　made　his　reader　known　to　himself；　first　in　the　little；　and　then　in　the
larger　things。　　From　first　to　last　he　was　a　censor；　but　a　most　winning
and　delightful　censor；　who　could　make　us　feel　that　our　faults　were　other
people's；　and　who　was　not　wont

　　　　　　　　　　〃To　bait　his　homilies　with　his　brother　worms。〃

At　one　period　he　sat　in　the　seat　of　the　scorner；　as　far　as　Reform　was
concerned；　or　perhaps　reformers；　who　are　so　often　tedious　and　ridiculous；
but　he　seemed　to　get　a　new　heart　with　the　new　mind　which　came　to　him　when
he　began　to　write　the　Autocrat　papers；　and　the　light　mocker　of　former
days　became　the　serious　and　compassionate　thinker；　to　whom　most　truly
nothing　that　was　human　was　alien。　　His　readers　trusted　and　loved　him；　few
men　have　ever　written　so　intimately　with　so　much　dignity；　and　perhaps
none　has　so　endeared　himself　by　saying　just　the　thing　for　his　reader　that
his　reader　could　not　say　for　himself。　　He　sought　the　universal　through
himself　in　others；　and　he　found　to　his　delight　and　theirs　that　the　most
universal　thing　was　often；　if　not　always；　the　most　personal　thing。

In　my　later　meetings　with　him　I　was　struck　more　and　more　by　his
gentleness。　　I　believe　that　men　are　apt　to　grow　gentler　as　they　grow
older；　unless　they　are　of　the　curmudgeon　type；　which　rusts　and　crusts
with　age；　but　with　Doctor　Holmes　the　gentleness　was　peculiarly　marked。
He　seemed　to　shrink　from　all　things　that　could　provoke　controversy；　or
even　difference；　he　waived　what　might　be　a　matter　of　dispute；　and　rather
sought　the　things　that　he　could　agree　with　you　upon。　　In　the　last　talk　I
had　with　him　he　appeared　to　have　no　grudge　left；　except　for　the　puritanic
orthodoxy　in　which　he　had　been　bred　as　a　child。　　This　he　was　not　able　to
forgive；　though　its　tradition　was　interwoven　with　what　was　tenderest　and
dearest　in　his　recollections　of　childhood。　　We　spoke　of　puritanism；　and
I　said　I　sometimes　wondered　what　could　be　the　mind　of　a　man　towards　life
who　had　not　been　reared　in　its　awful　shadow；　say　an　English　Churchman；　or
a　Continental　Catholic；　and　he　said　he　could　not　imagine；　and　that　he　did
not　believe　such　a　man　could　at　all　enter　into　our　feelings；　puritanism；
he　seemed　to　think；　made　an　essential　and　ineradicable　difference。　　I　do
not　believe　he　had　any　of　that　false　sentiment　which　attributes　virtue　of
character　to　severity　of　creed；　while　it　owns　the　creed　to　be　wrong。

He　differed　from　Longfellow　in　often　speaking　of　his　contemporaries。　　He
spoke　of　them　frankly；　but　with　an　appreciative　rather　than　a　censorious
criticism。　　Of　Longfellow　himself　he　said　that　day；　when　I　told　him　I　had
been　writing　about　him；　and　he　seemed　to　me　a　man　without　error；　that　he
could　think　of　but　one　error　in　him；　and　that　was　an　error　of　taste；　of
almost　merely　literary　taste。　　It　was　at　an　earlier　time　that　he　talked
of　Lowell；　after　his　death；　and　told　me　that　Lowell　once　in　the　fever　of
his　anti…slavery　apostolate　had　written　him；　urging　him　strongly；　as　a
matter　of　duty；　to　come　out　for　the　cause　he　had　himself　so　much　at
heart。　　Afterwards　Lowell　wrote　again；　owning　himself　wrong　in　his
appeal；　which　he　had　come　to　recognize　as　invasive。　　〃He　was　ten　years
younger　than　I；〃　said　the　doctor。

I　found　him　that　day　I　speak　of　in　his　house　at　Beverly　Farms；　where　he
had　a　pleasant　study　in　a　corner　by　the　porch；　and　he　met　me　with　all　the
cheeriness　of　old。　　But　he　confessed　that　he　had　been　greatly　broken　up
by　the　labor　of　preparing　something　that　might　be　read　at　some
commemorative　meeting；　and　had　suffered　from　finding　first　that　he　could
not　write　something　specially　for　it。　　Even　the　copying　and　adapting　an
old　poem　had　overtaxed　him；　and　in　this　he　showed　the　failing　powers　of
age。　　But　otherwise　he　was　still　young；　intellectually；　that　is；　there
was　no　failure　of　interest　in　intellectual　things；　especially　literary
things。　　Some　new　book　lay　on　the　table　at　his　elbow；　and　he　asked　me　if
I　had　seen　it；　and　made　some　joke　about　his　having　had　the　good　luck　to
read　it；　and　have　it　lying　by　him　a　few　days　before　when　the　author
called。　　I　do　not　know　whether　he　schooled　himself　against　an　old　man's
tendency　to　revert　to　the　past　or　not；　but　I　know　that　he　seldom　did　so。
That　morning；　however；　he　made　several　excursions　into　it；　and　told　me
that　his　youthful　satire　of　the　'Spectre　Pig'　had　been　provoked　by　a　poem
of　the　elder　Dana's；　where　a　phantom　horse　had　been　seriously　employed；
with　an　effect　of　anticlimax　which　he　had　found　irresistible。　　Another
foray　was　to　recall　the　oppression　and　depression　of　his　early　religious
associations；　and　to　speak　with　moving　tenderness　of　his　father；　whose
hard　doctrine　as　a　minister　was　without　effect　upon　his　own　kindly
nature。

In　a　letter　written　to　me　a　few　weeks　after　this　time；　upon　an　occas