attempted nothing approaching it in magnitude, or in the demand it
made upon the sustained exertion of high intellectual powers. But he
left his admirers no room to complain of diminished fecundity or of
decaying vigor. "Balaustion's Adventure," including a transcript from
Euripides, appeared in 1871, to prove his undiminished insight and
inexhaustible interest in spiritual analysis. It was followed by
"Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society," a book suggested by
the collapse of the French Empire, and recalling the scathing satire
with which he lashed the impostures of spiritualism in "Sludge the
Medium." In 1872 he published "Fifine at the Fair," to the delight of
those who loved him, and, as usual, to the irritation of those who did
not. "Red Cotton Nightcap Country" appeared in the following year;
and, after an interval of two years, was followed by "Aristophanes'
Apology." Again, after a similar interval, he gave us "The Agamemnon
of Aeschylus Transcribed." In 1879 came "Dramatic Idylls," with the
stirring ballad of "Herve Riel," which, as some think, roused the
Laureate to emulative effort. "Jocoseria," published in 1883,
reclaimed many of his earlier admirers, who had been estranged by what
they regarded as the extravagance and whimsicality, not to speak of
the obscurity and ruggedness, of so many of his later works.
"Jocoseria," in fact, recalls "Men and Women" rather than the
"Fifines," the "Hohenstiel-Schwangaus," and the "Red Cotton Nightcap
Countries" of a later and less happily-inspired period. "Ferishtah's
Fancies and Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in their Day"
was the rather cumbrous title of a still later volume; and last of all
appeared "Asolando," a work which displays all the old qualities, the
old fire, and the old audacity, apparently untouched by advancing
years, or even by imminent death. He died the same month that it
appeared, December, 1889.
It has been Mr. Browning's fate to divide the reading world into two
hostile camps. There are no lukewarm friends on his side; and from
those who have never acquired a taste for the strong wine of his muse,
it is sometimes difficult to extort recognition of the vigor, the
insight, the tenderness, and the variety of intellectual sympathy
which characterize the man, even, if we make abstraction of the poet.
An industrious and enthusiastic society devoted itself during his
lifetime to the promotion of a taste for his writings, but even that
singular tribute to the strength of his personality does not shut the
mouth of the sceptic. Those who love the poets of prettinesses, of
artificial measures, and dainty trifles have at the present day an
almost embarrassing wealth of choice. But Mr. Browning in his own
sphere had no rival and no imitator. No other so boldly faces the
problems of life and death, no other like him braces the reader as
with the breath of a breeze from the hills, and no other gives like
him the assurance that we have to do with a man. His last public words
are the fit description of his strenuous attitude through all his
literary work:
"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed--fight on, fare ever
There as here!"
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
By FRANCES H. UNDERWOOD
(1809-1894)
[Illustration: Oliver Wendell Holmes.]
Abraham Lincoln, it is said, was one day talking with a friend about
favorite poems, and repeated with deep feeling the well-known classic
stanza:
"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."
"That verse," he said, "was written by a man by the name of Holmes."
If the manner of referring to the authorship was little flattering,
the honest admiration of the great-hearted President might atone for
it. An attorney in a country town in Illinois might well have been
unacquainted with the reputation of a poet away in Massachusetts,
whose lines, perhaps, he had seen only in the newspapers.
No reader of feeling ever passed that simple stanza unmoved. It is for
all time not to be forgotten. Not a word could be changed any more
than in "The Bugle Song." Its pathos is all the more surprising in
connection with the quaint humor in the description of the old man who
is the subject of the poem. There is a delicious Irish character in
this, as in many other pieces of Holmes, reminding us of the familiar
couplet of Moore--
"Erin, the smile and the tear in thine eyes
Blend like The rainbow that hangs in thy skies."
"The Last Leaf," from which the stanza is quoted, was written over
fifty years ago, when the author was a little more than twenty-one.
There are a few others of the same period which may have been
considered trifles at first, but which seem to have slowly acquired
consistence, so that while they are still marvels of airy grace, they
are as firm as the carved foliage on a Gothic capital.
Not many writers live long enough to see themselves recognized as
classics; the benign judgment is more frequently tardy; and then it
happens, as De Musset says, that "Fame is a plant which grows upon a
tomb." It takes years of repetition to impress new ideas in literature
into the hearts and memories of men; and, as literary cycles move, the
age of Holmes is still new. The noblest poetry in the language, from
the unborrowed splendor of Shakespeare to the sparkling reflections of
Gray, doubtless gave to contemporaries a sense of strangeness at
first. Time was needed to harden the fresh lines, as well as to win
for them a place among the elder and accepted models.
Holmes's father was minister to the Congregational church in
Cambridge, a man of ability and author of some historical works. He
lived in a venerable house of the ante-Revolutionary period which
stood near the college grounds, and was demolished a few years ago to
make room for a new academic building. One of Holmes's most
characteristic articles is his description of "The Old Gambrel-roofed
House." In the time of his youth there were people in Cambridge who
remembered the march of the British troops on their way to Lexington
and Concord in 1775. The speech and the manners of the colonists long
retained the old English stamp, and the earliest of them had been
contemporaries of Bunyan and almost of Shakespeare; and so Holmes must
have heard, as I when a boy heard in another county, phrases and tones
which could not have differed much from those of Shakespeare's common
people. The influence of this is seen in his mastery of what is called
the Yankee dialect, development of old chimney-corner English. For the
same reason there is visible in his writings also some of that homely
astuteness which seems to have died out with the polish of modern
manners.
After completing his classical and medical studies, Dr. Holmes spent
two years in Europe, principally in Paris, and then settled in Boston
as a practising physician. Later he became a professor of anatomy, and
remained in service until within a few years. Thus his duties took him
away from his native Cambridge--although his heart never migrated--and
turned him from the pursuit of poetry, except as a recreation. His
recreation, however, must have been quite steadily indulged in, since
his occasional poems had grown to a goodly volume before he was forty
years of age. The great popularity of his later works has somewhat
overshadowed the early poems, but there is ample evidence of genius
in these first-fruits. None of them are meant to be thrilling or
profound, but they all have some characteristic grace, some unexpected
stroke of wit, some fascinating melody. I do not know any poems of a
similar class which afford such unfailing delight. It is true they are
mundane and their wit has often a satiric, "knowing" air; but the
pleasantry is never mocking or malevolent; and the exuberance of
spirit is contagious. Such a poem as "Terpsichore" (1843) is
inimitable in its suggestions. The lines have a springing movement, an
elastic pose. To appreciate it the reader must "wait till he comes to
forty year." "Urania" has also many fine passages, grave as well as
gay; many of its hints were developed later with brilliant effect in
the "Autocrat." This "rhymed lesson" touches with felicity the
prevailing vulgarities and solecisms in manners, dress, and
pronunciation, and suggests, by anticipation, the jovial reign of a
monarch who at his breakfast-table lays aside his robes of majesty and
sometimes plays the role of his servitor, the merry philosopher in
motley.
Naturally our author's reputation and his well-known brilliancy in
conversation made him a great favorite in society. For many years he
was virtually the laureate of Boston and Cambridge, and produced a
great number of odes and hymns for public occasions. He of all men
seemed to have the invention, the dash, and the native grace which
give to occasional verse its natural and spontaneous air. This
facility is surely not a cause for reproach. Such verse may seem easy,
but it is easy only for a genius. In the lightest of his odes there is
stuff and workmanship far removed from the negligent ease of _vers de
societe_.
A reputation for wit may be as injurious to a poet as to a would-be
bishop. People could hardly be persuaded to take Sydney Smith
seriously, and the world has been slow in recognizing the solid
qualities, the keen insight, the imagination, and poetic feeling of
Holmes. It is only one of the facets of his brilliant mind.
At the dinner where the twelve original contributors of the _Atlantic
Monthly_ met, the part which Holmes was to take was a matter of lively
anticipation. The magazine had been projected for the purpose of
uniting the literary forces of the North in favor of universal
freedom; but Holmes had no part in its direction. Lowell prophesied at
the time that the doctor would carry off the honors. In the first
number there was an article by Motley, a fine poem by Longfellow, one
by Whittier, a piece of charming classic comedy by Lowell, a group of
four striking poems by Emerson, some short stories, articles on art
and finance, and the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table." What would not
modern philosophers give for a similar combination to-day! Still, the
enterprise might have failed but for the immediate interest awakened
by the original thought and style of Holmes. The sensation was new,
like that of a sixth sense. The newspapers quoted from the "Autocrat;"
it was everywhere talked about, and in a short time its fame went
through the nation.
The "Autocrat" was succeeded by the "Professor" and the "Poet." The
talk of the "Professor" was somewhat more abstruse, though equally
interesting to cultivated readers. The "Poet" attacked the dogma of
the endless duration of future punishment. The "Autocrat" was easily
superior in freshness as in popularity.
Two novels also appeared--"Elsie Venner" and "The Guardian Angel."
They have undoubted merits, showing the keen thought, the descriptive
power, and the play of fancy which are so characteristic of the
author, and each has a subtle motive to which the characteristic
incidents are made subservient. But Dr. Holmes is not great as a
novelist as he is great in other things. The stories in one aspect are
ambulatory psychological problems, rather than fresh studies of
characters conceived without favoritism, with blended good and evil,
wisdom and weakness--as God creates them. To produce new types, of
universal interest, is given to few novelists. There have been
scarcely more than a score of such creators since Cadmus.
It was with some surprise that I read lately a lament that Dr. Holmes
had not written "a great novel"--a task which would have been as
unsuitable to him as to Dr. Johnson or to Montaigne. It is not a
question of a greater or less talent, but of a wholly different
talent--as distinct as metaphysics and portrait-painting. The same
critic complains because Holmes has not been "in earnest" like
Carlyle. While the genius of that great writer is indisputable, I
submit that one Carlyle in a generation is enough; another is
impossible. That rugged Titan did his appointed work with fidelity.
But is every author to lay about him with an iron flail? Is there no
place for playful satirists of manners, for essayists who dissolve
philosophy and science, who teach truth, manliness, and courtesy by
epigram, and who make life beautiful with the glow of poetry? The
magnolia cannot be the oak, although unhappy critics would have a
writer be something which he is not. It is enough that Holmes has
charmed myriads of readers who might never have felt his influence if
he had been grimly in "earnest," and that he has inculcated high
ideals of taste, character, and living.
By the time Holmes had reached his fiftieth year he was nearing the
summit of fame. His readers were the cultivated classes of the whole
English-speaking world, and he was not merely admired, his genial
humor had won for him universal love; his unique personality was as
dear as his writings. There is not room in the limits allowed me to
dwell on the style of the "Autocrat;" fortunately neither analysis nor
eulogy is necessary. The variety of topics, the sure, swift touches in
treatment, the frequent gleam of imagery, and the lovely vignette of
verse, altogether form an attraction for which there are few parallels
in literature.
From the gay and jaunty verse of the poet's youth to his strong and
passionate lyrics of the war there was a surpassing change, and it
will be interesting to trace it in his life, and in the course of
historic events.
In his early manhood he took the world as he found it, and did not
trouble himself about reforms or isms. He had only good-humored banter
for the Abolitionists, just as he had for non-resistants and
spirit-rappers. When progressive people were in a ferment with the new
transcendental philosophy (deduced from the preaching of Channing and
the essays of Emerson), and were fascinated by the monologues of
Alcott and the sibylline utterances of Margaret Fuller; when young
enthusiasts, in their socialistic home at Brook Farm, dreamed of the
near reign of human brotherhood; when Lowell was writing "The Present
Crisis," a poem glowing with genius as with apostolic zeal; when
feebler brethren, blown upon by new winds of doctrine, imagined
themselves spiritual and profound, and felt deep thrills in
pronouncing the words Soul and Infinite with nasal solemnity. Holmes,
fully master of himself, and holding instinctively to his _nil
admirari_, trained his light batteries on the new schools, and hit
their eccentricities and foibles with a comic fusillade.
From this bellicose time it was nearly forty years to the appearance
of Holmes' admiring and reverent life of Emerson, and in that long and
stirring period there was much for him to learn, and something to
unlearn. Who does not learn much in forty years? For one thing, the
character and mind of the poet-philosopher were at length clearly
revealed, and the uneasy swarm of imitators had shrunk out of sight.
And as to slavery, the eyes of all men had been opened. Not only
Holmes, but the majority of well-meaning men, hitherto standing aloof,
were taught by great events. Many who admitted the wrong of slavery
had believed themselves bound to inaction by the covenants inserted in
the Federal Constitution. Some had felt the weight of party
obligations. Some resented the fierce denunciation of the Church for
its indifference to a vital question of morals. But I believe more
were deterred from siding with the Abolitionists by reason of their
intimate connection with other causes. They were nearly all believers
in "woman's rights," and at that time those "rights" were chiefly to
wear short hair and loose trousers, and talk indefinitely. Everything
established was attacked, from churches and courts to compulsory
schools and vaccination. The most vivid of my recollections of forty
years ago are the scenes at the anti-slavery conventions. There were
cadaverous men with long hair and full beards, very unusual ornaments
then, with far-away looks in their eyes in repose, but with ferocity
when excited, who thought and talked with vigor, but who never knew
when to stop. There was one silent and patient brother, I remember,
whose silvery hair and beard were never touched by shears, and who in
all seasons wore a suit of loose flannel that had once been white.
There was a woman with an appalling voice, and yet with a strange
eloquence. And there was one who always insisted on speaking out of
order, and who always had to be carried out of the hall, struggling
and shouting as she was borne along by some suffering brother and a
policeman. Not all the moral earnestness of Garrison, the matronly
dignity of Lucretia Mott, the lovely voice and refined manners of Lucy
Stone, nor the magnificent oratory of Wendell Phillips, could atone
for these sights and sounds. Lowell had written:
"Then to side with Truth is noble, when we share her wretched crust,
Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just."
But to men of delicate nerves it was not sharing Truth's crust that
made the difficulty so much as the other uncongenial company at her
august table. The political anti-slavery men, who came later, and who
won the triumph, had none of these uncomely surroundings, although at
the beginning they encountered as much odium.
When the first gun was fired on Fort Sumter, the cause of the slave
and of the despised Abolitionists became the cause of all. Then could
be felt the force of the sentiment which long before had won the
pitying muse of Longfellow, which had inspired the strains of Lowell,
and which had led the Quaker Whittier--minstrel and prophet at
once--into the thick of the strife. Then it could be seen that the
cause of eternal justice was not to be confounded with the vagaries of
half-crazed agitators who were bent on curing all human ills by moral
suasion and bran bread. The thunder of cannon cleared the atmosphere.
The querulous voices of sectaries were hushed. The hearts of the loyal
North throbbed as one heart. There was but one cry, and it was "Union
and Liberty."
In a high sense this was a decisive period in the life of Holmes. From
the outbreak of the war he took an enthusiastic part as a patriot for
the preservation of the Union. His eldest son, now a Justice of the
Supreme Court of Massachusetts, went out with the volunteers as a
captain, and the father's "Hunt" for him after a battle is well
remembered by readers of the _Atlantic_. At the time when the bravest
of all classes were going forward to form new regiments and to fill up
the shattered lines of the older ones, his lyrics came to the souls of
loyal men with thrills of exultation. No man in those gloomy days
could read them without tears, I have seen suppressed sobs and eyes
glistening in tear-mist when they were sung in public assemblies. The
people of this land have had no such time of heartache, of alternate
dread and solemn joy, since the Revolution. When the fate of a nation
was in suspense, when death had claimed a member from almost every
family, and when the bitter struggle was to be fought out man to man,
the phrases we might idly read in time of peace had a new and
startling meaning. The words flashed in all eyes and set all hearts on
fire. These songs of the war by Holmes will take their place with the
grand and touching ode of Lowell, and with the stately and triumphal
"Laus Deo!" of Whittier.
The most perfect of Holmes's smaller poems are probably those that
appeared in the "Autocrat." "The Chambered Nautilus" is a fortunate
conception, wrought with exquisite art. Equally striking is "Sun and
Shadow," a poem which brings me delightful associations, as I saw it
while the ink was still wet upon the page where it was written.
There is no need of dwelling upon his comic poems, such as the logical
catastrophe of the "One-Horse Shay," as they are fully appreciated, so
much so that they have doubtless led to the undervaluing of his more
serious efforts.
He who saw Dr. Holmes twenty years ago at leisure in his library will
not soon forget his impressions. In his mature manhood he was short
and slender without being meagre, erect and firm in his shoes. His
hair was abundant, if somewhat frosty, his forehead fair but not full;
his eyes bluish gray; and his mouth as changeable as Scotch weather.
If in front his head seemed small, in profile its capacity was
evident, for the horizontal measure from the eyes backward was long.
If the base of the brain is the seat of its motive power, his should
not be wanting in force. An axe that is to fell an oak must have
weight back of the socket.
In repose his clear-cut and shaven lips indicated firmness and prompt
decision, a self-contained nature, well-reasoned and settled opinions;
but when he spoke, or was deeply interested, or when his eyes began to
kindle, his mouth became wonderfully expressive. There was a swift
play upon his features, a mobility which told of a sensitive and
delicate nature. And those features were so sharply designed, free
from the adipose layers and cushions that round so many faces into
harmonious vacuity. His smile was fascinating and communicative; you
were forced to share his feelings. His welcome was hearty, and
sometimes breezy; you felt it in his sympathetic hand-grasp as well as
in his frank speech. When conversation was launched he was more than
fluent; there was a fulness of apt words in new and predestined
combinations; they flowed like a hill-side brook, now bubbling with
merriment, now deep and reflective, like the same current led into a
quiet pool. Poetic similes were the spontaneous flowering of his
thought; his wit detonated in epigrams, and his fancy revelled in the
play of words. His courtesy, meanwhile, was unfailing; a retort never
became a club in his hands to brain an opponent, nor did he let fly
the arrows which sting and rankle. His enunciation was clear, but
rapid and resistless. Whoever heard him at his best came to wonder if
there had ever been another man so thoroughly alive, in whom every
fibre was so fine and tense.