oliver wendell holmes-第7章

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could　think　of　but　one　error　in　him；　and　that　was　an　error　of　taste；　of
almost　merely　literary　taste。　　It　was　at　an　earlier　time　that　he　talked
of　Lowell；　after　his　death；　and　told　me　that　Lowell　once　in　the　fever　of
his　anti…slavery　apostolate　had　written　him；　urging　him　strongly；　as　a
matter　of　duty；　to　come　out　for　the　cause　he　had　himself　so　much　at
heart。　　Afterwards　Lowell　wrote　again；　owning　himself　wrong　in　his
appeal；　which　he　had　come　to　recognize　as　invasive。　　〃He　was　ten　years
younger　than　I；〃　said　the　doctor。

I　found　him　that　day　I　speak　of　in　his　house　at　Beverly　Farms；　where　he
had　a　pleasant　study　in　a　corner　by　the　porch；　and　he　met　me　with　all　the
cheeriness　of　old。　　But　he　confessed　that　he　had　been　greatly　broken　up
by　the　labor　of　preparing　something　that　might　be　read　at　some
commemorative　meeting；　and　had　suffered　from　finding　first　that　he　could
not　write　something　specially　for　it。　　Even　the　copying　and　adapting　an
old　poem　had　overtaxed　him；　and　in　this　he　showed　the　failing　powers　of
age。　　But　otherwise　he　was　still　young；　intellectually；　that　is；　there
was　no　failure　of　interest　in　intellectual　things；　especially　literary
things。　　Some　new　book　lay　on　the　table　at　his　elbow；　and　he　asked　me　if
I　had　seen　it；　and　made　some　joke　about　his　having　had　the　good　luck　to
read　it；　and　have　it　lying　by　him　a　few　days　before　when　the　author
called。　　I　do　not　know　whether　he　schooled　himself　against　an　old　man's
tendency　to　revert　to　the　past　or　not；　but　I　know　that　he　seldom　did　so。
That　morning；　however；　he　made　several　excursions　into　it；　and　told　me
that　his　youthful　satire　of　the　'Spectre　Pig'　had　been　provoked　by　a　poem
of　the　elder　Dana's；　where　a　phantom　horse　had　been　seriously　employed；
with　an　effect　of　anticlimax　which　he　had　found　irresistible。　　Another
foray　was　to　recall　the　oppression　and　depression　of　his　early　religious
associations；　and　to　speak　with　moving　tenderness　of　his　father；　whose
hard　doctrine　as　a　minister　was　without　effect　upon　his　own　kindly
nature。

In　a　letter　written　to　me　a　few　weeks　after　this　time；　upon　an　occasion
when　he　divined　that　some　word　from　him　would　be　more　than　commonly　dear；
he　recurred　to　the　feeling　he　then　expressed：　〃Fifty…six　years　agomore
than　half　a　centuryI　lost　my　own　father；　his　age　being　seventy…three
years。　　As　I　have　reached　that　period　of　life；　passed　it；　and　now　left　it
far　behind；　my　recollections　seem　to　brighten　and　bring　back　my　boyhood
and　early　manhood　in　a　clearer　and　fairer　light　than　it　came　to　me　in　my
middle　decades。　　I　have　often　wished　of　late　years　that　I　could　tell　him
how　I　cherished　his　memory；　perhaps　I　may　have　the　happiness　of　saying
all　I　long　to　tell　him　on　the　other　side　of　that　thin　partition　which　I
love　to　think　is　all　that　divides　us。〃

Men　are　never　long　together　without　speaking　of　women；　and　I　said　how
inevitably　men's　lives　ended　where　they　began；　in　the　keeping　of　women；
and　their　strength　failed　at　last　and　surrendered　itself　to　their　care。
I　had　not　finished　before　I　was　made　to　feel　that　I　was　poaching；　and
〃Yes；〃　said　the　owner　of　the　preserve；　〃I　have　spoken　of　that；〃　and　he
went　on　to　tell　me　just　where。　　He　was　not　going　to　have　me　suppose　I　had
invented　those　notions；　and　I　could　not　do　less　than　own　that　I　must　have
found　them　in　his　book；　and　forgotten　it。

He　spoke　of　his　pleasant　summer　life　in　the　air；　at　once　soft　and　fresh；
of　that　lovely　coast；　and　of　his　drives　up　and　down　the　country　roads。
Sometimes　this　lady　and　sometimes　that　came　for　him；　and　one　or　two
habitually；　but　he　always　had　his　own　carriage　ordered；　if　they　failed；
that　he　might　not　fail　of　his　drive　in　any　fair　weather。　　His　cottage　was
not　immediately　on　the　sea；　but　in　full　sight　of　it；　and　there　was　a
sense　of　the　sea　about　it；　as　there　is　in　all　that　incomparable　region；
and　I　do　not　think　he　could　have　been　at　home　anywhere　beyond　the　reach
of　its　salt　breath。

I　was　anxious　not　to　outstay　his　strength；　and　I　kept　my　eye　on　the　clock
in　frequent　glances。　　I　saw　that　he　followed　me　in　one　of　these；　and　I
said　that　I　knew　what　his　hours　were；　and　I　was　watching　so　that　I　might
go　away　in　time；　and　then　he　sweetly　protested。　　Did　I　like　that　chair　I
was　sitting　in？　　It　was　a　gift　to　him；　and　he　said　who　gave　it；　with　a
pleasure　in　the　fact　that　was　very　charming；　as　if　he　liked　the
association　of　the　thing　with　his　friend。　　He　was　disposed　to　excuse　the
formal　look　of　his　bookcases；　which　were　filled　with　sets；　and　presented
some　phalanxes　of　fiction　in　rather　severe　array。

When　I　rose　to　go；　he　was　concerned　about　my　being　able　to　find　my　way
readily　to　the　station；　and　he　told　me　how　to　go；　and　what　turns　to　take；
as　if　he　liked　realizing　the　way　to　himself。　　I　believe　he　did　not　walk
much　of　late　years；　and　I　fancy　he　found　much　the　same　pleasure　in
letting　his　imagination　make　this　excursion　to　the　station　with　me　that
he　would　have　found　in　actually　going。

I　saw　him　once　more；　but　only　once；　when　a　day　or　two　later　he　drove　up
by　our　hotel　in　Magnolia　toward　the　cottage　where　his　secretary　was
lodging。　　He　saw　us　from　his　carriage；　and　called　us　gayly　to　him；　to
make　us　rejoice　with　him　at　having　finally　got　that　commemorative　poem
off　his　mind。　　He　made　a　jest　of　the　trouble　it　had　cost　him；　even　some
sleeplessness；　and　said　he　felt　now　like　a　convalescent。　　He　was　all
brightness；　and　friendliness；　and　eagerness　to　make　us　feel　his　mood；
through　what　was　common　to　us　all；　and　I　am　glad　that　this　last
impression　of　him　is　so　one　with　the　first　I　ever　had；　and　with　that
which　every　reader　receives　from　his　work。

That　is　bright；　and　friendly　and　eager　too；　for　it　is　throughout　the　very
expression　of　himself。　　I　think　it　is　a　pity　if　an　author　disappoints
even　the　unreasonable　expectation　of　the　reader；　whom　his　art　has　invited
to　love　him；　but　I　do　not　believe　that　Doctor　Holmes　could　inflict　this
disappointment。　　Certainly　he　could　disappoint　no　reasonable　expectation；
no　intelligent　expectation。　　What　he　wrote；　that　he　was；　and　every　one
felt　this　who　met　him。　　He　has　therefore　not　died；　as　some　men　die；　the
remote　impersonal　sort；　but　he　is　yet　thrillingly　alive　in　every　page　of
his　books。　　The　quantity　of　his　literature　is　not　great；　but　the　quality
is　very　surprising；　and　surprising　first　of　all　as　equality。　　From　the
beginning　to　the　end　he　wrote　one　man；　of　course　in　his　successive
consciousnesses。　　Perhaps　every　one　does　this；　but　his　work　gives　the
impression　of　an　uncommon　continuity；　in　spite　of　its　being　the　effect　of
a　later　and　an　earlier　impulse　so　very　marked　as　to　have　made　the　later
an　astonishing　revelation　to　those　who　thought　they　knew　him。




IX。

It　is　not　for　me　in　such　a　paper　as　this　to　attempt　any　judgment　of　his
work。　　I　have　loved　it；　as　I　loved　him；　with　a　sense　of　its　limitations
which　is　by　no　means　a　censure　of　its　excellences。　　He　was　not　a　man　who
cared　to　transcend；　he　liked　bounds；　he　liked　horizons；　the　constancy　of
shores。　　If　he　put　to　sea；　he　kept　in　sight　of　land；　like　the　ancient
navigators。　　He　did　not　discover　new　continents；　and　I　will　own　that　I；
for　my　part；　should　not　have　liked　to　sail　with　Columbus。　　I　think　one
can　safely　affirm　that　as　great　and　as　useful　men　stayed　behind；　and
found　an　America　of　the　mind　without　stirring　from　their　thresholds。










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