LAST DAYS.
The eighty-fifth birthday of Doctor Holmes was quietly spent at his
pleasant country home in Beverly.
"The burden of years sits lightly upon me," he remarked to a friend that
day, "but after fourscore years the encroachments of time make
themselves felt with rapidly increasing progress. The twelfth septennial
period has always seemed to me as one of the natural boundaries of life.
One who has lived to complete his eighty-fourth year has had his full
share, even of an old man's allowance. Whatever is granted over that is
a prodigal indulgence of nature. When one can no longer hear the lark,
when he can no longer recognize the faces he passes on the street, when
he has to watch his steps, when it becomes more and more difficult for
him to recall names, he is reminded at every moment that he must spare
himself, or nature will not spare him the penalties she exacts for
overtaxing his declining powers."
In spite of these words, that seem prophetic to us now, the
sunny-hearted Autocrat declared he was "eighty-five years _young_" that
day, and all the friends who came with loving gifts and congratulations
fully agreed with him. His conversation sparkled with all the wit of his
younger days, and he talked with animation of his daily walks through
the town, and of his long drives into the country in search of "big
trees." Near the base of "Woodbury's Hill" in Beverly, he had recently
found a mammoth elm that he considered finer than all his other
favorites in Essex county; for, in addition to its great size, the wide
spreading branches were covered with unusually thick rich foliage.
"I call all trees mine," said the Autocrat, "that I have put my
wedding-ring on--that is, my thirty-foot tape-measure!"
Having been slightly troubled with writers' cramp, Doctor Holmes was
advised by one of his callers that day to try a typewriter. This remark
brought forth a smile from the man who had moved the people of the world
with his pen; and he said, with a merry laugh, that he did not propose
to forsake an old friend for a new one at that late time in life.
In speaking of his birthday, Doctor Holmes alluded to the great men who
were born that same year, 1809.
"Yes," he said, "I was particularly fortunate in being born the same
year with four of the most distinguished men of the age, and I really
feel flattered that it so happened. Now, in England, there were
Tennyson, Darwin, and Gladstone--Gladstone being, I think, four months
younger than myself. That is a most remarkable trio, isn't it? Just
contemplate the greatness of those three men, and then remember that in
the same year Abraham Lincoln was born in this country. Most
remarkable!" And when the visitor added, "You have forgotten to mention
the fifth, doctor; there was also Oliver Wendell Holmes," Doctor Holmes
quickly retorted in his own inimitable way:
"Oh! that does not count; I 'sneaked in,' as it were!"
Doctor Holmes remained at his country home in Beverly until late in
September, this last year of his life, and his health seemed steadily to
improve with the bracing autumn weather.
On his return to the city, however, he had a severe attack of the
asthmatic trouble from which he had suffered all his life. A severe
cold, and the "weight of years" aggravated what seemed at first but a
slight indisposition; and the poet, with his accurate medical knowledge,
realized that the end was not far distant.
But as he grew weaker and weaker, his sunshiny spirit shone all the
brighter. With playful jests he tried to soothe the sad hearts of his
dear ones, and to make them feel that the pain of parting was the only
sting of death. He seldom, indeed, made any reference to the dark shadow
he felt so near; but one morning, three or four days before his death,
he said to his son:
"Well, Wendell, what is it? King's Chapel?"
"Oh, yes, father," said Judge Holmes.
"Then I am satisfied. That is all I am going to say about it."
On Sunday morning, October 7th, he seemed so much easier that his
physician and intimate friend, Doctor Charles P. Putnam, went out of
town to make a professional visit, leaving his brother, Doctor James
Putnam, in charge.
About noon Doctor Holmes had a sudden spasm, and his breathing became so
labored that he asked to be moved into his favorite armchair.
"That is better, thank you. That rests me more," he said to his son, who
stood beside him.
These were his last words. Painlessly and peacefully, with all the dear
ones of his home around him, his life flowed away like the ebbing of a
tide.
To the world outside, the tidings of Doctor Holmes' death, that bright
October day, came with a terrible shock. As late as Thursday of the
preceding week he had been down town, and was intending to be present at
the meeting of the Saturday Morning Club. Not even his nearest friends
realized that the end was so near.
"It is as if a long accustomed element had gone out of the air!"
exclaimed one Boston citizen. "While Doctor Holmes lived we felt as if
we were still bound by a living tie to the Titanic age of American
literature."
"The death of Doctor Holmes," said Charles Eliot Norton, "marks the
close of an epoch in American literature. He was the sole survivor of
the five great New England authors, and he has no successor. This group
was a remarkable one. They grew up, as it were, together, and are the
product of our New England life in the first half century. Their
writings were contemporaneous, and they were bound in the closest ties
of friendship. Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes--no other
section of the country can show such a group."
"Boston without Doctor Holmes!" exclaimed another friend. "What will it
be like? There has been but one 'Autocrat,'--there will never be
another!"
Yet not only Boston--the whole world mourned the departure of Oliver
Wendell Holmes. Within his domain his genius was imperial, and his
bright cheery nature endeared him to all humanity.
It seemed fitting that Nature herself should weep on the sad burial day
of one whose life had embodied her sunshine!
The wind mourned, the rain fell continuously, as loving hands bore into
King's Chapel, upon Wednesday, October 10, all that was mortal of our
famous poet. The simple funeral rites began just at noon. The casket,
upon which rested wreaths of pansies and laurels, was borne up the aisle
to the wailing organ strains of Haendel's "Dead March in Saul." Rev.
Edward Everett Hale led the sad procession, reciting in his clear,
sympathetic voice, "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord;
he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."
All the seats upon the middle aisle were reserved and occupied by the
poet's immediate family and intimate friends, members of the
Massachusetts Medical Society, representatives of Harvard College, and
delegations from the numerous other societies of which the poet and
physician was a member.
A beautiful wreath of laurel hung from the south gallery, marking with
mute eloquence the vacant pew of the dead poet.
The Chapel was filled with a notable assembly, representing the best
life of Boston--its intellect, culture, and heart. And probably never at
one time had the ancient church held so many venerable personages. Rev.
S.F. Smith, the author of "America," and Rev. Samuel May of Leicester,
the only surviving classmates of Doctor Holmes, were present, in spite
of the inclement weather. Judge Rockwood Hoar, fast nearing the
fourscore milestone, Doctor Bartol, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe--all the great
poet's friends and contemporaries were there to pay their last tribute.
After the reading of passages from the Bible, and a prayer by Rev.
Edward Everett Hale, a selection from Mendelssohn's "Elijah," "Oh, rest
in the Lord," was sung by Miss Lena Little, followed by a chant, "The
Lord is my Shepherd," and a hymn, "O Paradise," by the choir.
Then the strains of the "Dead March" again rolled from the organ, and
the funeral procession left the Chapel.
The services at the grave were attended by only the relatives and most
intimate friends. It was the wish of Doctor Holmes and his family that
he should rest beside his wife in the Jackson lot at Mt. Auburn. It is
in the immediate vicinity of the Holmes' lot, amidst the beautiful oaks
that the poet loved; and only a few yards distant rest Longfellow and
James Russell Lowell.
* * * * *
The life of Oliver Wendell Holmes spanned nearly the whole nineteenth
century; and to the very last he kept abreast of the feeling, the
thought, the movement, of the day. He was one of the few men of our
generation who raised the American name in the esteem of the whole
world.
Comparing Doctor Holmes with his four illustrious contemporaries in
literature, Professor Norton says:--
"Emerson was the deepest thinker of them all; Longfellow possessed in a
rare degree the power of felicitous expression, and gave us thoughts
couched in the most beautiful poetry; Whittier was the apostle of
freedom, fearless, and moved by an untiring purpose; Lowell was a man of
versatile genius, as great in the field of poetry as he was in that of
prose.
"Holmes was one who wrote without effort. His was a ready genius. His
thoughts came unbidden, and he had but to give them expression in words.
Apt, vivacious, animated, pure, happy, he always was at once a wit and a
humorist, but greater in his wit than in his humor. Whatever his
subject, he wrote of it with equal ability, and his books are remarkable
for the variety of topics which he has treated so easily."
Of all his poems, Doctor Holmes ranked "The Chambered Nautilus" highest.
"I wrote that poem," he said, "at white heat. When it was finished I
took it to my wife, who was sewing in an adjoining room, and said, 'I
think I have the best poem here that I have ever written.' And I have
never changed my mind about it."
By universal consent, indeed, "The Chambered Nautilus" is considered the
gem of Doctor Holmes' beautiful lyrics. The poet always kept in his
study specimens of the nautilus shell, cut entirely across, to show the
spiral ascent of its curious inhabitant. He delighted to show these
shells to his visitors; and, as he replaced them on the shelves, he
would often repeat the last stanza of his beautiful poem:--
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll;
Leave thy low-vaulted past;
Let each new temple, loftier than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine out-grown shell by life's unresting sea.
Among the poems of Oliver Wendell Holmes are seven that may truly be
called "Hymns;" and it is well to remember that the test of the use and
value of a hymn is not the occasion for which it was written, but its
adoption into hymnal collections, and its use thereafter.
"We were singing one of Doctor Holmes' hymns in our church," said Rev.
Minot Savage, "that Sunday morning when the great singer was passing
into the higher choir.
"Doctor Holmes was manly in his religion, and his songs show the bright
and noble spirit that dominated his life. He was worshipful and
trustful, and always hopeful. He was a firm, even passionate, believer
in an existence after death, and found the ground of his trust in the
dissecting-room. As a scientist he faced everything, and then believed
that the soul was more than the body."
Of these seven hymns of Doctor Holmes', the familiar one beginning,--
Lord of all being, throned afar,
Thy glory flames from star to star,
the poet appropriately characterized his "Sunday Hymn." It first
appeared in the _Atlantic Monthly_ of December, 1859, and the
"Professor" prefaced it with these words:--
"Peace be to all such as may have been vexed by any utterance the pages
have repeated. They will doubtless forget for the moment the difference
in the lines of truth we look at through our human prisms, and join in
singing (inwardly) this hymn to the Source of the Light we all need to
lead us, and the warmth which alone can make us all brothers."
In the many heartfelt tributes to Doctor Holmes, it is interesting to
note that his spiritual character was appreciated and approved by men
differing from him very widely in religious belief. Indeed, it would be
impossible for any one to hold communion with him through his writings
without growing more kindly, more loving toward his fellow-men, and more
reverent, more filial, towards his Heavenly Father.
"And personally," remarked an intimate friend, "Doctor Holmes was as
delightful a character as he is in his books. His best thoughts came
full flood, as it were, from a richly stocked mind. His most
characteristic traits were his extreme kindliness and his animation. The
mirth and vivacity which bubble forth from his books was the same which
came spontaneously from his lips in conversation. He was a delightful
companion, and a true friend to those who were so fortunate as to know
him and be known by him."
Oliver Wendell Holmes taught that life is good and sweet, and worth the
living. There is not in all his writings a single morbid note. The world
is brighter and happier and better for the rare gift of such a life.
His wit has been the solvent of bigotry. He has done for the religious
thought of the century what Whittier did for the political; and his
bright optimism has pierced many an old-time error with the potency of
the sunbeam.
"It is clearly seen in the perspective," says Charles Dudley Warner,
"that Doctor Holmes' life gives us the kind of reputation that is of
value to one's native land, and shows us that, after all the parade of
official station and the notoriety of politics and money, those names
only endure in honor and love which are borne by men of high
intellectual and moral qualities. When we sum up all our sources and
achievements, it is to him and his few compeers that we must point for
our distinction."
* * * * *
Transcribers notes:
Maintained original spelling and punctuation.
End of Project Gutenberg's Life of Oliver Wendell Holmes, by E. E. Brown