oliver wendell holmes-第5节

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potent　is　the　wont　of　a　lifetime；　though　his　eyes　were　full　of　tears；　and
his　voice　broke　with　his　words。　　Those　who　have　sorrowed　deepest　will
understand　this　best。

It　was　during　the　few　years　of　our　Beacon　Street　neighborhood　that　he
spent　those　hundred　days　abroad　in　his　last　visit　to　England　and　France。
He　was　full　of　their　delight　when　he　came　back；　and　my　propinquity　gave
me　the　advantage　of　hearing　him　speak　of　them　at　first　hand。　　He
whimsically　pleased　himself　most　with　his　Derby…day　experiences；　and
enjoyed　contrasting　the　crowd　and　occasion　with　that　of　forty　or　fifty
years　earlier；　when　he　had　seen　some　famous　race　of　the　Derby　won；
nothing　else　in　England　seemed　to　have　moved　him　so　much；　though　all　that
royalties；　dignities；　and　celebrities　could　well　do　for　him　had　been
done。　　Of　certain　things　that　happened　to　him；　characteristic　of　the
English；　and　interesting　to　him　in　their　relation　to　himself　through　his
character　of　universally　interested　man；　he　spoke　freely；　but　he　has　said
what　he　chose　to　the　public　about　them；　and　I　have　no　right　to　say　more。
The　thing　that　most　vexed　him　during　his　sojourn　apparently　was　to　have
been　described　in　one　of　the　London　papers　as　quite　deaf；　and　I　could
truly　say　to　him　that　I　had　never　imagined　him　at　all　deaf；　or　heard　him
accused　of　it　before。　　〃Oh；　yes；〃　he　said；　〃I　am　a　little　hard　of　hearing
on　one　side。　　But　it　isn't　deafness。〃

He　had；　indeed；　few　or　none　of　the　infirmities　of　age　that　make
themselves　painfully　or　inconveniently　evident。　　He　carried　his　slight
figure　erect；　and　until　his　latest　years　his　step　was　quick　and　sure。
Once　he　spoke　of　the　lessened　height　of　old　people；　apropos　of　something
that　was　said；　and　〃They　will　shrink；　you　know；〃　he　added；　as　if　he　were
not　at　all　concerned　in　the　fact　himself。　　If　you　met　him　in　the　street；
you　encountered　a　spare；　carefully　dressed　old　gentleman；　with　a　clean…
shaven　face　and　a　friendly　smile；　qualified　by　the　involuntary　frown　of
his　thick；　senile　brows；　well　coated；　lustrously　shod；　well　gloved；　in　a
silk　hat；　latterly　wound　with　a　mourning…weed。　　Sometimes　he　did　not　know
you　when　he　knew　you　quite　well；　and　at　such　times　I　think　it　was　kind　to
spare　his　years　the　fatigue　of　recalling　your　identity；　at　any　rate；　I　am
glad　of　the　times　when　I　did　so。　　In　society　he　had　the　same　vagueness；
the　same　dimness；　but　after　the　moment　he　needed　to　make　sure　of　you；　he
was　as　vivid　as　ever　in　his　life。　　He　made　me　think　of　a　bed　of　embers　on
which　the　ashes　have　thinly　gathered；　and　which；　when　these　are　breathed
away；　sparkles　and　tinkles　keenly　up　with　all　the　freshness　of　a　newly
kindled　fire。　　He　did　not　mind　talking　about　his　age；　and　I　fancied
rather　enjoyed　doing　so。　　Its　approaches　interested　him；　if　he　was　going；
he　liked　to　know　just　how　and　when　he　was　going。　　Once　he　spoke　of　his
lasting　strength　in　terms　of　imaginative　humor：　he　was　still　so　intensely
interested　in　nature；　the　universe；　that　it　seemed　to　him　he　was　not　like
an　old　man　so　much　as　a　lusty　infant　which　struggles　against　having　the
breast　snatched　from　it。　　He　laughed　at　the　notion　of　this；　with　that
impersonal　relish　which　seemed　to　me　singularly　characteristic　of　the
self…consciousness　so　marked　in　him。　　I　never　heard　one　lugubrious　word
from　him　in　regard　to　his　years。　　He　liked　your　sympathy　on　all　grounds
where　he　could　have　it　self…respectfully；　but　he　was　a　most　manly　spirit；
and　he　would　not　have　had　it　even　as　a　type　of　the　universal　decay。
Possibly　he　would　have　been　interested　to　have　you　share　in　that　analysis
of　himself　which　he　was　always　making；　if　such　a　thing　could　have　been。

He　had　not　much　patience　with　the　unmanly　craving　for　sympathy　in　others；
and　chiefly　in　our　literary　craft；　which　is　somewhat　ignobly　given　to　it；
though　he　was　patient；　after　all。　　He　used　to　say；　and　I　believe　he　has
said　it　in　print；＇Holmes　said　it　in　print　many　times；　in　his　three
novels　and　scattered　through　the　〃Breakfast　Table〃　series。　　D。W。＇　that
unless　a　man　could　show　a　good　reason　for　writing　verse；　it　was　rather
against　him；　and　a　proof　of　weakness。　　I　suppose　this　severe　conclusion
was　something　he　had　reached　after　dealing　with　innumerable　small　poets
who　sought　the　light　in　him　with　verses　that　no　editor　would　admit　to
print。　　Yet　of　morbidness　he　was　often　very　tender；　he　knew　it　to　be
disease；　something　that　must　be　scientifically　rather　than　ethically
treated。　　He　was　in　the　same　degree　kind　to　any　sensitiveness；　for　he　was
himself　as　sensitive　as　he　was　manly；　and　he　was　most　delicately
sensitive　to　any　rightful　social　claim　upon　him。　　I　was　once　at　a　dinner
with　him；　where　he　was　in　some　sort　my　host；　in　a　company　of　people　whom
he　had　not　seen　me　with　before；　and　he　made　a　point　of　acquainting　me
with　each　of　them。　　It　did　not　matter　that　I　knew　most　of　them　already；
the　proof　of　his　thoughtfulness　was　precious；　and　I　was　sorry　when　I　had
to　disappoint　it　by　confessing　a　previous　knowledge。




VIII。

I　had　three　memorable　meetings　with　him　not　very　long　before　he　died：　one
a　year　before；　and　the　other　two　within　a　few　months　of　the　end。　　The
first　of　these　was　at　luncheon　in　the　summer…house　of　a　friend　whose
hospitality　made　it　summer　the　year　round；　and　we　all　went　out　to　meet
him；　when　he　drove　up　in　his　open　carriage；　with　the　little　sunshade　in
his　hand；　which　he　took　with　him　for　protection　against　the　heat；　and
also；　a　little；　I　think；　for　the　whim　of　it。　　He　sat　a　moment　after　he
arrived；　as　if　to　orient　himself　in　respect　to　each　of　us。　　Beside　the
gifted　hostess；　there　was　the　most　charming　of　all　the　American
essayists；　and　the　Autocrat　seemed　at　once　to　find　himself　singularly　at
home　with　the　people　who　greeted　him。　　There　was　no　interval　needed　for
fanning　away　the　ashes；　he　tinkled　up　before　he　entered　the　house；　and　at
the　table　he　was　as　vivid　and　scintillant　as　I　ever　saw　him；　if　indeed　I
ever　saw　him　as　much　so。　　The　talk　began　at　once；　and　we　had　made　him
believe　that　there　was　nothing　egotistic　in　his　taking　the　word；　or
turning　it　in　illustration　from　himself　upon　universal　matters。　　I　spoke
among　other　things　of　some　humble　ruins　on　the　road　to　Gloucester；　which
gave　the　way…side　a　very　aged　look；　the　tumbled　foundation…stones　of　poor
bits　of　houses；　and　〃Ah；〃　he　said；　〃the　cellar　and　the　well？〃　　He　added；
to　the　company　generally；　〃Do　you　know　what　I　think　are　the　two　lines　of
mine　that　go　as　deep　as　any　others；　in　a　certain　direction？〃　and　he　began
to　repeat　stragglingly　certain　verses　from　one　of　his　earlier　poems；
until　he　came　to　the　closing　couplet。　　But　I　will　give　them　in　full；
because　in　going　to　look　them　up　I　have　found　them　so　lovely；　and　because
I　can　hear　his　voice　again　in　every　fondly　accented　syllable：

　　　　　　　　　〃Who　sees　unmoved；　a　ruin　at　his　feet；
　　　　　　　　　　The　lowliest　home　where　human　hearts　have　beat？
　　　　　　　　　　Its　hearth…stone；　shaded　with　the　bistre　stain；
　　　　　　　　　　A　century's　showery　torrents　wash　in　vain；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　starving　orchard　where　the　thistle　blows；
　　　　　　　　　　And　mossy　trunks　still　mark　the　broken　rows；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　chimney…loving　poplar；　oftenest　seen
　　　　　　　　　　Next　an　old　roof；　or　where　a　roof　has　been；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　knot…grass；　plantain；all　the　social　weeds；
　　　　　　　　　　Man's　mute　companions　following　where　he　leads；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　dwarfed　pale　flowers；　that　show　their　straggling　heads；
　　　　　　　　　　Sown　by　the　wind　from　grass…choked　garden…beds；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　woodbine　creeping　where　it　used　to　climb；
　　　　　　　　　　Its　roses　breathing　of　the　olden　time；
　　　　　　　　　　All　the　poor　shows　the　curious　idler　sees；
　　　　　　　　　　As　life's　thin　shadows　waste　by　slow　degrees；
　　　　　　　　　　Till　naught　remains；　the　saddening　tale　to　tell；
　　　　　　　　　　Save　home's　last　wrecksthe　CELLAR　AND　THE　WELL！〃

The　poet's　chanting　voice　rose　with　a　triumphant　swell　in　the　climax；　and
〃There；〃　he　said；　〃isn't　it　so？　　The　cellar　and　the　wellthey　can't　be
thrown　down　or　burnt　up；　they　are　the　human　monuments　that　last　longest
and　defy　decay。〃　　He　rejoiced　openly　in　the　sympathy　that　recognized　with
him　the　divination　of　a　most　pathetic；　most　signal　fact；　and　he　repeated
the　last　couplet　again　at　our　entreaty；　glad　to　be　entreated　for　it。
I　do　not　know　whether　all　will　agree　with　him　concerning　the　relative
importance　of　the　lines；　but　I　think　all　must　feel　the　exquisite　beauty
of　the　picture　to　which　they　give　the　final　touch。

He　said　a　thousand　witty　and　brilliant　things　that　day；　but　his　pleasure
in　this　gave　me　the　most　pleasure；　and　I　recall　the　passage　distinctly
out　of　the　dimness　that　covers　the　rest。　　He　chose　to　figure　us　younger
men；　in　touching　upon　the　literary　circumstance　of　the　past　and　present；
as　representative　of　modern　feeling　and　thinking；　and　himself　as　no
longer　contemporary。　　We　knew　he　did　this　to　be　contradicted；　and　we
protested；　affectionately；　fervently；　with　all　our　hearts　and　minds；　and
indeed　there　were　none　of　his　generation　who　had　lived　more　widely　into
ours。　　He　was　not　a　prophet　like　Emerson；　nor　ever　a　voice　crying　in　the
wilderness　like　Whittier　or　Lowell。　　His　note　was　heard　rather　amid　the
sweet　security　of　streets；　but　it　was　always　for　a　f