IN LATER YEARS.
It was not until the spring of 1886 that Doctor Holmes made his second
trip to Europe. A whole half century had elapsed since his return home
from the three years spent abroad when he was completing his medical
studies.
In this second European tour he was accompanied by his daughter, Mrs.
Sargent; and he gives his own delightful account of it in "One Hundred
Days in Europe," which first appeared as a serial in the _Atlantic
Monthly_, and has since been published in book form, with a charming
dedication to his daughter. "The Sailing of the Autocrat" was celebrated
by T.B. Aldrich in a fine poem, from which we quote a few lines as
embodying the tender love and ardent admiration of the whole American
people:--
"O Wind and Wave, be kind to him!
For him may radiant mornings break
From out the bosom of the deep,
And golden noons above him bend,
And fortunate constellations keep
Bright vigils to his journey's end!
Take him, green Erin, to thy breast!
Keep him, gray London--for a while!
_In him we send thee of our best,
Our wisest word, our blithest smile_--
Our epigram, alert and pat,
That kills with joy the folly hit--
Our Yankee Tzar, our Autocrat
Of all the happy realms of wit!
Take him and keep him--but forbear
To keep him more than half a year....
His presence will be sunshine there,
His absence will be shadow here!"
We delight to recall with what distinguished honors he was received
abroad from the highest dignitaries of church and state, as well as from
his own literary compeers. It was during this visit in England that the
London _Spectator_ wrote, "No literary American--unless it be Mr.
Lowell, and we should not except even him--occupies precisely the same
place as Doctor Holmes in Englishmen's regard. They have the feeling for
him which they had for Charles Lamb, Charles Dickens, and John Leech,
in which admiration somewhat blends into and is indistinguishable from
affectionateness."
The Universities of Edinburgh, Oxford, and Cambridge all conferred their
honorary degrees upon him, and he has given us his own inimitable
description of the manner in which he was entertained by Carlyle and by
Tennyson.
At a club dinner given to him in London, he said to the bishop of
Gloucester:
"I think we are all unconsciously conscious of each other's brain waves
at times. The fact is that words and even signs are a very poor sort of
language, compared with the direct telegraphy between souls. The mistake
we make is to suppose that the soul is circumscribed and imprisoned by
the body. Now, the truth is, I believe I extend a good way outside my
body. Well, I should say at least three or four feet all round, and so
do you, and it is our extensions that meet. Before words pass or we
shake hands, our souls have exchanged impressions, and they never lie."
In reply to a toast at the farewell banquet given him in Liverpool by
the Medical Society of London, he said:
"I cannot do justice to the manner in which I have been everywhere
received. Any phrase of mine would be a most inadequate return for the
months of loving and assiduous attentions through which I have been
living. You need not ask me, therefore, the almost stereotyped question,
how I like England and Scotland. I cannot help loving both, and I only
regret I could not accept the welcome awaiting me from my friends in
warmhearted Ireland."
Fresh in mind still is the enthusiastic ovation given to our beloved
Autocrat when the hundred days had passed, and "Wind and Wave" brought
safely home again "our wisest word, our blithest smile."
But grim Death, that had "rained through every roof save his," was soon
to send a cruel shaft into the poet's happy home. On the 6th of
February, 1888, the dear companion and helpmeet of his life for nearly
half a century--
"Stole with soft step the shining archway through
And left the past years' dwelling for the new."
Mrs. Holmes was a remarkably gifted woman, and singularly fitted to be
the wife of a man of genius. She was devoted to her home and family, and
the charm of her sweet womanliness will long be remembered by those who
had the privilege of knowing her intimately. Doctor Holmes has himself
told us that her simple, reticent "I think so," was valued by him as a
far more encouraging sanction for action, than the dogmatic advice of a
more arbitrary adviser. When the Civil War broke out, Mrs. Holmes was
one of the first Boston women to enter actively into the work of the
United States Sanitary Commission.
"She impressed us all," says one of her fellow workers, "as being so
strong, steady, clear, and firm. There was not one among the whole body
with whom we were so united as with her. And the strange thing about her
was that she really had the executive ability and the clear mind, as
well as the gentle and amiable spirit. She shirked no labor, even of the
most menial, and was one of those who gave up almost all her time to the
work. Her eldest son was at this time in the war, and went through six
battles; and this, although she never complained, was a constantly
harrowing pain to her."
The younger son of Doctor Holmes, Edward Jackson Holmes, died in 1884,
leaving one son who bears the same name; and in 1889, his only daughter,
Mrs. Sargent, passed away. The aching void left in heart and home by
these sad bereavements was felt still more keenly as, one after another,
the old friends of his youth were laid to rest.
"I do not think," he said upon one of his last birthdays, "that one of
the companions of my early years, of my boyhood, is left. When a man
reaches my age, and then looks back fifty years, why, even that distance
into the past to such a man leaves a pretty good gap behind it. Half a
century from eighty years leaves a 'gap' of thirty years, and thirty
years are a good many to most men."
At one of the Saturday Club dinners, when fewer members than usual were
present, Doctor Holmes remarked,
"This room is full of ghosts to me. I can see so many faces here that
used to be here years ago, and that have since passed from this life.
They are all real to me here, and I think if I were the only living
person at one of these dinners, I could sit here and talk to those I see
about me, and dine pleasantly, even alone."
Bryant, Longfellow, Emerson, Whittier and Lowell--all lifelong friends
of Holmes--had already "passed on." To other dearly-loved comrades,
also, the great last summons had come. Ticknor, Prescott, Fields,
Benjamin Pierce, James Freeman Clarke, Francis Parkman--all were gone.
"I feel," he often said with a sigh, "that I am living in another age
and generation."
Little, indeed, did the young Oliver realize when he wrote that pathetic
poem, "The Last Leaf," that he was the one of our five great poets
destined to be the "last upon the tree!"
Upon his eightieth birthday, he remarked, "I have worn well, but you
cannot cheat old age. The difficulty with me now in writing is that I
don't like to start on anything. I always feel that people must be
saying, 'Are you not rash at eighty years of age to write for young
people who think a man old at forty?'"
But in his delightful series of papers, "Over the Teacups," we mark the
same brilliant flashes of wit, the same keen intuition, the same
warmhearted sympathy with all phases of human nature, that our beloved
Autocrat showed in the Breakfast Table chats. As Doctor Holmes himself
says:
"In sketching the characters, I have tried to make just the difference
one would naturally find in a breakfast and a tea table set."
Another volume of poems, "Before the Curfew," and a series of essays
entitled "Our New Portfolio," were published soon after. The last poem
of Doctor Holmes printed in the _Atlantic Monthly_ was written in his
eighty-fourth year and dedicated to the memory of Francis Parkman. Some
of its verses, however, pay a loving tribute also to his old friends
Prescott and Motley:
"One wrought the record of a royal pair
Who saw the great discoverer's sail unfurled,
Happy his more than regal prize to share,
The spoils, the wonders of the sunset world.
There, too, he found his theme; upreared anew
Our eyes beheld the vanished Aztec shrines,
And all the silver splendors of Peru
That lured the conqueror to her fatal mines.
Nor less remembered he who told the tale
Of empire wrested from the strangling sea;
Of Leyden's woe, that turned his readers pale,
The price of unborn freedom yet to be;
Who taught the new world what the old could teach;
Whose silent hero, peerless as our own,
By deeds that mocked the feeble breath of speech
Called up to life a State without a throne.
As year by year his tapestry unrolled,
What varied wealth its growing length displayed!
What long processions flamed in cloth of gold!
What stately forms their glowing robes arrayed!"
Contrasting with Prescott's and Motley's the subject of Parkman's
histories, the poet says,
"Not such the scenes our later craftsman drew,
Not such the shapes his darker pattern held;
A deeper shadow lent its sombre hue,
A sadder tale his tragic task compelled.
He told the red man's story; far and wide
He searched the unwritten records of his race;
He sat a listener at the sachem's side,
He tracked the hunter through his wildwood chase.
* * * * *
Soon o'er the horizon rose the cloud of strife,
Two proud, strong nations battling for the prize;
Which swarming host should mould a nation's life,
Which royal banner flout the western skies.
Long raged the conflict; on the crimson sod
Native and alien joined their hosts in vain;
The lilies withered where the lion trod,
Till peace lay panting on the ravaged plain."
In the extracts given from this fine poem, with its stately, majestic
rhythm, it is plain to see that, even at the age of eighty-four, our
autocrat poet had lost none of the vigor and fire of youth.
In the closing verses he speaks most tenderly of Parkman's patient,
untiring energy,
"While through long years his burdening cross he bore,"
and concludes with this fine eulogy:
"A brave, bright memory! his the stainless shield
No shame defaces and no envy mars!
When our far future's record is unsealed
His name will shine among its morning stars."
It was in January, 1889, that Doctor Holmes sent to Doctor Richard M.
Hodges, who was at that time president of the Boston Medical Library
Association, the following characteristic letter:
MY DEAR SIR:
I have transferred my medical library to the hall of the Boston
Medical Library Association. Please accept it as a gift from its
late president. As there is no provision for its reception, and as
I liked the idea of keeping together the books which had been so
long together, I have provided a new set of shelves in which they
can be properly and conveniently arranged.
Your very truly,
O.W. HOLMES.
To show how highly Doctor Holmes valued this library, which consisted of
nine hundred and sixty-eight extremely rare volumes, Doctor Chadwick,
the librarian, said: "All these books have been collected by him in his
fifty years of experience, and it is fitting that we should realize it
is the result of years of labor. He has been ready on every occasion to
deliver addresses on topics having a wide scope. He carried off with
honor three of the four Boylston prizes, and this alone shows the range
of his studies. He has contributed to the funds of the association in
various ways, and now gives us his most valuable library. In this act,
as well as his continuing the position as president of the association
several years after he had relinquished all other connection with the
profession, he has designated our institution as the one in which he
takes the greatest pride; in whose future he has the greatest
confidence."
In reply, Doctor Holmes then said:
"The books I have offered the association, and which you have kindly
accepted, constitute my own medical library, with the exception of a few
volumes which, for several reasons, I have retained. It has grown by a
slow process of accretion. The first volume of it was 'Bell's Anatomy,'
and the last was 'Elements of Pharmacy.' The oldest book was written in
1490, and the latest in 1887, so it can be seen that the library covers
the space of four centuries."
After reviewing the better books of the library, and alluding to the
private library that a practitioner should keep, Doctor Holmes added:
"These books are dear to me; a twig from some one of my nerves runs to
every one of them, and they mark the progress of my study and the
stepping-stones of my professional life. If any of them can be to others
as they have been to me, I am willing to part with them, even if they
are such old and beloved companions."
Doctor Holmes' warm interest in everything connected with education was
shown most emphatically in one of the last public addresses he
delivered. It was at that memorable reception given at the Vendome,
February 28, 1893, by the Boston publishers to Doctor Holmes and other
authors, and to the members of the National Educational Association.
Mrs. Elizabeth Phelps-Ward, with Mr. Henry O. Houghton and Mr. Edwin
Ginn, gave welcome to the many distinguished guests.
When Doctor Holmes was called upon to address the large company
assembled, he began:
"Surely the Autocrat never felt more powerless than he does at this
moment. I meant to come here and say a few almost careless words. I was
saying to myself, 'You know very well what you've got to talk about, and
you can soon say it.' But," and here the Autocrat's bright face grew
serious, "at half-past ten this morning there came to me an elegantly
engraved copper-plate invitation to appear here, with a formality and a
style about it which showed that I had deceived myself in thinking I
could utter a few careless words. There was but one refuge for me, and
that was the old one. I can only hold up a copy of verses," and he waved
the manuscript deprecatingly.
"But not one word, not one thought of it was in my head before half-past
ten to-day. There are things in literature," and here Dr. Holmes dropped
his voice to a confidential key, "that are christened 'impromptus,' the
authenticity of which I am inclined to doubt. I have the idea that a
good many impromptus have cost their authors many sleepless nights.
"I shall tell you what I would have spoken about. I should have said, in
the first place, that I have a great sympathy with instructors. I have
been an instructor myself. I was for thirty-five years professor in
Harvard College, and two years before that professor in Dartmouth
College. I enjoyed very much the relations I had with my students in
both places. Many of them have lasted up to the present time, and it is
pleasant for me every now and then to have a bald-headed man come up to
me and tell me he was one of my boys thirty or forty years ago.
"A great many changes have taken place since that time, but two of them
are especially interesting. One is the sub-division of teaching. There
were six of us who taught the medical graduates of Harvard College
during a considerable part of the time when I was professor there. There
are now seventy. How much better they are taught I do not know. I
presume they are taught well. But a wicked thought came into my head
just now--it is not every animal that has the most legs who crawls the
fastest. It reminds me of the sirloin of beef one day, which was
mince-meat on the second."
All these pleasantries were given in the Autocrat's happiest manner,
amidst many interruptions of laughter and applause from his audience.
"I don't mean, however," he added, "to deprecate that which I
accomplished by the sub-division into specialties. What I say is rather
playful than serious. The next point is the education of women, which I
have regarded at a distance, to be sure. But, occasionally visiting
Wellesley and the Cambridge Annex, it has been a great delight to me to
see how the intellects of the fair sex matched with those of the
sterner. I then thought I should say something of the importance of
implanting ideas on all the most important subjects at a very early
period of life, and I was going to recall my theology which came out of
the little primer, and my patriotism which was kindled at the shrine of
Dr. Dwight's 'Columbia, Queen of the World.' But all these things I
would prefer to leave, and what else I would have said I will defer
until the next occasion, I also wish to say here, personally, that it
was most unwillingly that I appeared before an audience like this. I
felt it was, at my age, more becoming that I should be a listener rather
than a speaker." Here he was interrupted by cries of "No! No!" but he
shook his head determinedly, saying, "I am speaking seriously now,
however difficult it may be to do that. These little verses I have
written, and which I am going to read, are really impromptu. They are
poorly scrawled, for my hand was unsteady."
Then in a clear, strong voice he read:
"Teachers of teachers! yours the task,
Noblest that noble minds can ask,
High up Aonia's murmurous mount
To watch, to guard the sacred fount
That feeds the stream below.
To guide the hurrying flood that fills
A thousand silvery, rippling rills
In ever widening flow.
Rich is the harvest from the fields
That bounteous nature kindly yields;
But fairer growths enrich the soil
Ploughed deep by thought and wearied toil,
In learning's broad domain.
And where the leaves, the flowers, the fruits,
Without your watering at the roots
To fill each branching vein?
Welcome! the author's firmest friends,
Your voice the surest Godspeed lends.
Of you the growing mind demands
The patient care, the guiding hands
Through all the mists of morn.
And knowing well the future's need,
Your prescient wisdom sows the seed
To flower in years unborn."
It will be remembered that the last time Doctor Holmes appeared in
public to read a poem was on May 28, 1893, when he attended the
celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the reorganization of the
Boston Young Men's Christian Union. The beautiful hymn he wrote for this
occasion is the sweet, simple expression of his own lifelong creed:
"Our Father! while our hearts unlearn
The creeds that wrong thy name,
Still let our hallowed altars burn
With faith's undying flame.
Not by the lightning's gleam of wrath
Our souls thy face shall see,
The star of love must light the path
That leads to heaven and thee.
Help us to read our Master's will
Through every darkening stain
That clouds his sacred image still,
And see him once again,
The brother man, the pitying friend
Who weeps for human woes,
Whose pleading words of pardon blend
With cries of raging foes.
If, 'mid the gathering storms of doubt
Our hearts grow faint and cold,
The strength we cannot live without,
Thy love will not withhold.
Our prayers accept; our sins forgive;
Our youthful zeal renew;
Shape for us holier lives to live,
And nobler work to do!"