[Speech of Julia Ward Howe at the breakfast in celebration of the
seventieth birthday of Oliver Wendell Holmes, given by the publishers
of the "Atlantic Monthly," Boston, Mass., December 3, 1879. Mrs. Howe
sat at the right of Mr. Howells, then the editor of the "Atlantic,"
who presided at one end of the tables, with Mr. Emerson on his left.
Dr. Holmes sat on the right of Mr. Houghton, who presided at the other
end of the table, with Mrs. Stowe on his left. Mrs. Howe was called up
by the toast, "The girls we have not left behind us."]
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:--One word in courtesy I must say in
replying to so kind a mention as that which is made, not only of me, but
of those of my sex who are so happy as to be present here to-day. I
think, in looking on this scene, of a certain congress which took place
in Paris more than a year ago, and it was called a congress of literary
people, _gens de lettres_. When I heard that this was to take place I
immediately bestirred myself to attend its sittings and went at once to
the headquarters to find how I might do so. I then learned to my great
astonishment that no women were to be included among these _gens de
lettres_, that is, literary people. [Laughter.] Now, we have thought it
a very modest phrase sometimes to plead that, whatever women may not be,
they are people. [Laughter and applause.] And it would seem to-day that
they are recognized as literary people, and I am very glad that you
gentlemen have found room for the sisterhood to-day, and have found room
to place them so numerously here, and I must say that to my eyes the
banquet looks very much more cheerful than it would without them.
[Applause.] It looks to me as though it had all blossomed out under a
new social influence, and beside each dark stem I see a rose. [Laughter
and applause.] But I must say at once that I came here entirely
unprovided with a speech, and, not dreaming of one, yet I came provided
with something. I considered myself invited as a sort of
grandmother--indeed, I am, and I know a grandmother is usually expected
to have something in her pocket. [Laughter and applause.] And I have a
very modest tribute to the illustrious person whom we are met to-day to
honor. With your leave I will read it. [Applause.]
Thou metamorphic god!
Who mak'st the straight Olympus thy abode,
Hermes to subtle laughter moving,
Apollo with serener loving,
Thou demi-god also!
Who dost all the powers of healing know;
Thou hero who dost wield
The golden sword and shield,--
Shield of a comprehensive mind,
And sword to wound the foes of human kind;
Thou man of noble mould!
Whose metal grows not cold
Beneath the hammer of the hurrying years;
A fiery breath doth blow
Across its fervid glow,
And still its resonance delights our ears;
Loved of thy brilliant mates,
Relinquished to the fates,
Whose spirit music used to chime with thine,
Transfigured in our sight,
Not quenched in death's dark night,
They hold thee in companionship divine.
O autocratic muse!
Soul-rainbow of all hues,
Packed full of service are thy bygone years;
Thy winged steed doth fly
Across the starry sky,
Bearing the lowly burthens of thy tears.
I try this little leap,
Wishing that from the deep,
I might some pearl of song adventurous bring.
Despairing, here I stop,
And my poor offering drop,--
Why stammer I when thou art here to sing?