Edward was there at eight o'clock. Strictly speaking, he was there at
seven-thirty, and found the author already at his desk in that room
overlooking the Charles River, which he learned in after years to know
better.
"Well," was the cheery greeting, "you couldn't wait until eight for your
breakfast, could you? Neither could I when I was a boy. I used to have
my breakfast at seven," and then telling the boy all about his boyhood,
the cheery poet led him to the dining-room, and for the first time he
breakfasted away from home and ate pie--and that with "The Autocrat" at
his own breakfast-table!
A cosier time no boy could have had. Just the two were there, and the
smiling face that looked out over the plates and cups gave the boy
courage to tell all that this trip was going to mean to him.
"And you have come on just to see us, have you?" chuckled the poet.
"Now, tell me, what good do you think you will get out of it?"
He was told what the idea was: that every successful man had something
to tell a boy, that would be likely to help him, and that Edward wanted
to see the men who had written the books that people enjoyed. Doctor
Holmes could not conceal his amusement at all this.
When breakfast was finished, Doctor Holmes said: "Do you know that I am
a full-fledged carpenter? No? Well, I am. Come into my carpenter-shop."
And he led the way into a front-basement room where was a complete
carpenter's outfit.
"You know I am a doctor," he explained, "and this shop is my medicine. I
believe that every man must have a hobby that is as different from his
regular work as it is possible to be. It is not good for a man to work
all the time at one thing. So this is my hobby. This is my change. I
like to putter away at these things. Every day I try to come down here
for an hour or so. It rests me because it gives my mind a complete
change. For, whether you believe it or not," he added with his
inimitable chuckle, "to make a poem and to make a chair are two very
different things."
"Now," he continued, "if you think you can learn something from me,
learn that and remember it when you are a man. Don't keep always at your
business, whatever it may be. It makes no difference how much you like
it. The more you like it, the more dangerous it is. When you grow up you
will understand what I mean by an 'outlet'--a hobby, that is--in your
life, and it must be so different from your regular work that it will
take your thoughts into an entirely different direction. We doctors call
it a safety-valve, and it is. I would much rather," concluded the poet,
"you would forget all that I have ever written than that you should
forget what I tell you about having a safety-valve."
"And now do you know," smilingly said the poet, "about the Charles River
here?" as they returned to his study and stood before the large bay
window. "I love this river," he said. "Yes, I love it," he repeated;
"love it in summer or in winter." And then he was quiet for a minute or
so.
Edward asked him which of his poems were his favorites.
"Well," he said musingly, "I think 'The Chambered Nautilus' is my most
finished piece of work, and I suppose it is my favorite. But there are
also 'The Voiceless,' 'My Aviary,' written at this window, 'The Battle
of Bunker Hill,' and 'Dorothy Q,' written to the portrait of my
great-grandmother which you see on the wall there. All these I have a
liking for, and when I speak of the poems I like best there are two
others that ought to be included--'The Silent Melody' and 'The Last
Leaf.' I think these are among my best."
"What is the history of 'The Chambered Nautilus'?" Edward asked.
"It has none," came the reply, "it wrote itself. So, too, did 'The
One-Hoss Shay.' That was one of those random conceptions that gallop
through the brain, and that you catch by the bridle. I caught it and
reined it. That is all."
Just then a maid brought in a parcel, and as Doctor Holmes opened it on
his desk he smiled over at the boy and said:
"Well, I declare, if you haven't come just at the right time. See those
little books? Aren't they wee?" and he handed the boy a set of three
little books, six inches by four in size, beautifully bound in half
levant. They were his "Autocrat" in one volume, and his better-known
poems in two volumes.
"This is a little fancy of mine," he said. "My publishers, to please me,
have gotten out this tiny wee set. And here," as he counted the little
sets, "they have sent me six sets. Are they not exquisite little
things?" and he fondled them with loving glee. "Lucky, too, for me that
they should happen to come now, for I have been wondering what I could
give you as a souvenir of your visit to me, and here it is, sure enough!
My publishers must have guessed you were here and my mind at the same
time. Now, if you would like it, you shall carry home one of these
little sets, and I'll just write a piece from one of my poems and your
name on the fly-leaf of each volume. You say you like that little verse:
"'A few can touch the magic string.'
Then I'll write those four lines in this volume." And he did.
As each little volume went under the poet's pen Edward said, as his
heart swelled in gratitude:
"Doctor Holmes, you are a man of the rarest sort to be so good to a
boy."
A few can touch the magic string.
And noisy fame is proud to win them, --
Alas for those who never sing.
But die with all their music in them!
Oliver Wendell Holmes
The pen stopped, the poet looked out on the Charles a moment, and then,
turning to the boy with a little moisture in his eye, he said:
"No, my boy, I am not; but it does an old man's heart good to hear you
say it. It means much to those on the down-hill side to be well thought
of by the young who are coming up."
As he wiped his gold pen, with its swan-quill holder, and laid it down,
he said:
"That's the pen with which I wrote 'Elsie Venner' and the 'Autocrat'
papers. I try to take care of it."
"You say you are going from me over to see Longfellow?" he continued, as
he reached out once more for the pen. "Well, then, would you mind if I
gave you a letter for him? I have something to send him."
Sly but kindly old gentleman! The "something" he had to send Longfellow
was Edward himself, although the boy did not see through the subterfuge
at that time.
"And now, if you are going, I'll walk along with you if you don't mind,
for I'm going down to Park Street to thank my publishers for these
little books, and that lies along your way to the Cambridge car."
As the two walked along Beacon Street, Doctor Holmes pointed out the
residences where lived people of interest, and when they reached the
Public Garden he said:
"You must come over in the spring some time, and see the tulips and
croci and hyacinths here. They are so beautiful.
"Now, here is your car," he said as he hailed a coming horse-car.
"Before you go back you must come and see me and tell me all the people
you have seen; will you? I should like to hear about them. I may not
have more books coming in, but I might have a very good-looking
photograph of a very old-looking little man," he said as his eyes
twinkled. "Give my love to Longfellow when you see him, and don't forget
to give him my letter, you know. It is about a very important matter."
And when the boy had ridden a mile or so with his fare in his hand he
held it out to the conductor, who grinned and said:
"That's all right. Doctor Holmes paid me your fare, and I'm going to
keep that nickel if I lose my job for it."