Part 18

It is a medley of prose and verse, of homely common-sense and lofty speculation. Side by side with realistic portraits of plain people, farmers, fishermen, boatmen, and lock-keepers, are minute and exquisite descriptions of the life of field, mountain, stream, lake, and air. The literary allusions are many, and taken from sources as wide apart as the poles, Shattuck (the historian of Concord) and Anacreon, Gookin and Chaucer. Here is to be found the famous essay on Friendship, the spirit of which may be partly divined from this sentence: ‘I could tame a hyena more easily than my friend.’

The poetry in the volume is a stumbling-block to not a few readers. Doubtless it has its virtues, but too often Thoreau’s poetry must be forgiven for the sake of his prose. The stiff, almost self-conscious air of _A Week on the Concord and Merrimack_ and the hobbling verse help to explain the indifference of the author’s contemporaries to a very original work.

_Walden_, the second of Thoreau’s books, is the better of the two, which does not mean that the first could be spared. The style is easier, the flavor more racy, the spirit more humorous. The attitude of the writer is characteristically provoking and pugnacious. The chapters abound in audacities which at once pique and delight the reader. This modern Diogenes-Crusoe, solving the problem of existence on an improvised desert-island two miles from his mother’s door-step, is a refreshing figure.

Life in the woods fascinated Thoreau. _Walden_ is a tribute to this fascination. In the absence of domestic sounds he had the murmur of the forest, the cry of the loon, the ‘tronk’ of the frog, and the clangor of the wild-goose. Society was plenty and of the best. His neighbors were the squirrel, the field-mouse, the phœbe, the blue jay. Human companionship was not wanting, for there were visitors of all sorts, from the half-witted to those who had more wits than they knew what to do with. Matter-of-fact people were amazed at the young man’s way of living, lacking the penetration to see that he might live as he did from the humor of it. When sceptics asked him whether he thought he could subsist on vegetable food alone, Thoreau, to strike at the root of the matter at once, was accustomed to say that he ‘could live on board nails.’ ‘If they cannot understand that they cannot understand much that I say.’

The Walden episode was an experiment in emancipation, and the book is a challenge to mankind to live more simply and freely. Thoreau mocks at the worship of luxury. ‘I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself than be crowded on a velvet cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an ox-cart, with a free circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train and breathe a malaria all the way.’

_Excursions_ is a collection of nine essays. Some of them are formal and scientific with the Thoreau-esque flavor (‘Natural History of Massachusetts,’ ‘The Succession of Forest Trees,’ ‘Autumnal Tints,’ ‘Wild Apples’), others are pure Thoreau (‘A Walk to Wachusett,’ ‘The Landlord,’ ‘A Winter Walk,’ ‘Walking,’ ‘Night and Moonlight’). The flavor of these ‘wildlings of literature,’ as a devotee happily calls them, is as marked almost as that of _Walden_. They are, in fact, _Walden_ in miniature.

The _Maine Woods_ consists of three long essays, ‘Ktaadn,’ ‘Chesuncook,’ and ‘The Allegash and East Branch.’ They are readable, informing, uninspired. In the degree in which he left himself out of his pages Thoreau became as tame and conventional as the most academic of writers. The strength of some men of letters lies in conformity. Thoreau is strongest in non-conformity.

_Cape Cod_ is far more characteristic than the _Maine Woods_. He who likes the savor of salt and the tonic of ocean air will enjoy this book whether he cares for Thoreau or not. It is interesting as an early contribution to the history of Cape Cod folks by a historian who was more of an enigma to the natives than they were to him.

The best part of _A Yankee in Canada_ is not to be found in the account of the excursion to Montreal and Quebec, but in the sheaf of anti-slavery and reform papers bound up in the same volume. Here are printed the address on ‘Slavery in Massachusetts,’ the paper on ‘Civil Disobedience,’ containing the lively account of the author’s experience in Concord jail, the two addresses on John Brown, the essay on ‘Life without Principle,’ and the critical study of ‘Thomas Carlyle and his Works.’

The four volumes named for the seasons are valuable for the light they shed on Thoreau’s method as a writer, and his skill and accuracy in reporting the facts of Nature. They are sure to be read by the faithful, because the genuine Thoreau enthusiast can read his every line. The rest of the world will be content to know him by two or three of the twelve volumes bearing his name. _A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, alden_, the _Familiar Letters_, and a few essays from _Excursions_ and the Anti-Slavery papers ought to be sufficient.

* * * * *

No more than greater men of letters can Thoreau be disposed of in a paragraph. Some of his pronounced characteristics can be, however.

He was a paradoxical philosopher. To praise Nature at the expense of civilized society, to eulogize the ‘perfection’ of the one and lament the degradation of the other, to declare solemnly that church spires deform the landscape, and that it is a mistake to do a second time what has been done once,--these declarations give a wholly incomplete but, so far as they go, not unjust idea of his manner. Taking Thoreau literally is a capital way to breed a dislike for him. Grant him his own manner of expressing his thought, make no effort to exact conformity from so wayward a genius, and at once you are, as Walt Whitman would say, ‘rapport’ with him. It is easy to exaggerate his paradoxicalness. Say to yourself as you take up the volume: ‘Now let us find out just how whimsical this fellow can be,’ and straightway he disappoints by not being whimsical at all.

If Thoreau’s praise of Nature at the expense of Society seems to border on the absurd, one must bear in mind how complete and intimate was his knowledge of what he praised. His love of forest, lake, hill, and mountain, of beast and bird, was deep, passionate, unremitting. He speaks somewhere of an old man so versed in Nature’s ways that apparently ‘there were no secrets between them.’ This might have been said of Thoreau himself. He could pay lofty tributes to the ‘mystical’ quality in Nature; but he was not a mere rhapsodist, a petty village Chateaubriand; he could come straight down to tangible facts and recount every detail of the advent of spring at Walden. His power to see and his skill in describing the thing seen unite to give the very atmosphere of life in the woods.

He was himself so complete an original and his literary attractiveness is such that Thoreau numbers among his best friends not only those who are nature-blind but the confirmed city-men as well, the frequenters of clubs, the lovers of pavements and crowds. That some of the most appreciative tributes to his genius should have come from these is but one paradox the more in the history of him who (at times) delighted above all else in the paradoxical.

FOOTNOTES:

[42] F. B. Sanborn: _The Personality of Thoreau_, p. 30.

[43] Edward W. Emerson in the ‘Centenary’ Emerson, vol. x, p. 607.

[44] _Literary Friends and Acquaintance_, p. 59.

XII

_Oliver Wendell Holmes_

REFERENCES:

=W. Sloane Kennedy=: _Oliver Wendell Holmes_, 1883.

=J. T. Morse, Jr.=: _Life and Letters of Oliver Wendell Holmes_, 1896.

I

HIS LIFE

Holmes invented a phrase which became celebrated--‘the Brahmin caste of New England,’ that is to say, an aristocracy of culture. The inventor of the phrase belonged to the class. He was a son of the Reverend Abiel Holmes, minister of the First Church of Cambridge and author of that ‘painstaking and careful work,’ the _American Annals_.

Abiel Holmes (a great-grandson of John Holmes, one of the settlers of Woodstock, Connecticut) was twice married. His first wife was Mary Stiles, daughter of President Ezra Stiles of Yale College. Five years after her death he married Sarah Wendell of Boston, who became the mother of Oliver Wendell Holmes. Through the Wendells, Holmes was related by one line of descent to Anne Bradstreet; by another to Evert Jansen Wendell of Albany.

The author of _The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table_ was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on Harvard Commencement Day, August 29, 1809. After a preliminary training at the Cambridgeport Academy (where he had for schoolmates Margaret Fuller and Richard Henry Dana) Holmes completed his college preparation at Phillips Academy, Andover, entered Harvard in the class of 1829, and in due time was graduated.

He had, or thought he had, an inclination to carry the ‘green bag,’ and to this end spent a year at the Dane (now Harvard) Law School, in Cambridge. He soon discovered a greater inclination towards medicine and entered the private medical school of Doctor James Jackson, in Boston. In 1833 he became a student at the École de Médecine in Paris, and during two busy winters heard the lectures of Broussais, Andral, Louis, and other teachers.

In 1836 he began the practice of medicine in Boston. During the two following years he competed for and won four of the Boylston Prizes. Enthusiastic in his profession, he found the life of a general practitioner not to his liking, and when, in 1838, the professorship of anatomy and physiology at Dartmouth College was offered him, he was ‘mightily pleased.’ He held the position for two years (1839–40); residence at Hanover was required for three months of each year.

Some time before going to Hanover, Holmes was writing to his friend Phineas Barnes, congratulating him on having entered into ‘the beatific state of duality,’ and wishing himself in like case. ‘I have flirted and written poetry long enough,’ he said, ‘and I feel that I am growing domestic and tabby-ish.’ On June 15, 1840, he married Miss Amelia Jackson, a daughter of Judge Charles Jackson of Boston. She was a young woman of rare endowments. ‘Every estimable and attractive quality of mind and character seemed to be hers.’[45]

In 1847 Holmes was appointed Parkman professor of anatomy and physiology in the Harvard Medical School. The multifarious extra cares involved led him to say that in those early days he occupied not a chair in the college but a settee. He held the position for thirty-five consecutive years.

The reputation which Holmes began early to build up through his writings was partly literary, partly scientific, partly a compound of both. Lovers of well-turned and witty verse knew him through his _Poems_ (1836) and his metrical essays, _Urania_ (1846) and _Astræa_ (1850). The public, always solicitous about its health, heard or read the two lectures on _Homœopathy and its kindred Delusions_ (1842). Physicians made his acquaintance through the _Boylston Prize Dissertations_ (1836–37), and the _Essay on the Contagiousness of Puerperal Fever_ (1843).

Fame came to Holmes in 1857 when he began printing in the newly founded ‘Atlantic Monthly’ a series of papers entitled _The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table_. Reprinted as a book, it at once took its proper place as an American classic, and now after forty-eight years its popularity seems in no degree lessened.

The following list contains the principal works upon which Holmes’s reputation as a man of letters rests. A full bibliography must be consulted if one would know the extent of his literary and scientific

## activity: _The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table_, 1858; _The Professor

at the Breakfast-Table_, 1860; _Currents and Counter-Currents, with Other Addresses_, 1861; _Elsie Venner_, 1861; _Songs in Many Keys_, 1862; _Soundings from the Atlantic_, 1864; _The Guardian Angel_, 1867; _The Poet at the Breakfast-Table_, 1872; _Songs of Many Seasons_, 1875; _Memoir of John Lothrop Motley_, 1879; _The Iron Gate and Other Poems_, 1880; _Pages from an Old Volume of Life_, 1883; _A Mortal Antipathy_, 1885; _Ralph Waldo Emerson_, 1885; _Our Hundred Days in Europe_, 1887; _Before the Curfew and Other Poems_, 1888; _Over the Teacups_, 1891.

Holmes’s life was without marked incident. His work at the Medical School, his public lectures, social engagements, the normal and agreeable responsibilities of home and society, filled the measure of his days. The visit to England in 1886, when he was made a D. C. L. by Oxford, a Litt. D. by Cambridge, and an LL. D. by Edinburgh, was something like apotheosis, if the term be not too extravagant.

He endured the evils consequent on old age with philosophic composure, and it became at the last a matter of scientific curiosity with him to see how long he could maintain life. He was spared a tedious illness, and died an almost painless death on October 7, 1894.

II

THE MAN

Among the ‘Autocrat’s’ distinguishing traits was humanity. He has recorded the feeling of ‘awe-stricken sympathy’ at first sight of the white faces of the sick in the hospital wards. ‘The dreadful scenes in the operating theatre--for this was before the days of ether--were a great shock to my sensibilities.’ His nerves hardened in time, but he was always keenly alive to human suffering. There is a note of contempt in his reference to Lisfranc, the surgeon, who ‘regretted the splendid guardsmen of the Empire because they had such magnificent thighs to amputate.’

It was once said of Holmes that he was difficult to catch unless he were wanted for some kind act. He lost no opportunity to give happiness. In old age when flattery was tedious, and blindness imminent, and the autograph hunter had become a burden, he patiently wrote his name and transcribed stanzas of ‘Dorothy Q.’ or ‘The Last Leaf’ for admirers from all parts of the earth. This was the smallest tax on his good nature. For years he had been expected to act as counsel and sometimes as literary agent for all the minor poets of America. Many of these innocents conceived Holmes as automatically issuing certificates to the virtue of their work. He was always kind and invariably plain-spoken. To the author of an epic he wrote: ‘I cannot conscientiously advise you to print your poem; it will be an expense to you, and the gain to your reputation will not be an equivalent.’

Holmes believed in the humanizing influences of good blood, social position, and wealth. It was no small matter, he thought, to have a descent from men who had played their parts acceptably in the drama of life. He preferred the man with the ‘family portraits’ to the man with the ‘twenty-cent daguerreotype’ unless he had reason to believe that the latter was the better man of the two. His amusing poem, ‘Contentment,’ is not a jest, but a plain statement of his philosophy.

Open-minded in literary and scientific matters, he was delightfully conservative about places. He respected the country and loved the town. A city man, he was also a man of one city. He professed to have been the discoverer of Myrtle Street, the abode of ‘peace and beauty, and virtue, and serene old age.’ Thus it looked to him as he explored its ‘western extremity of sunny courts and passages.’ Holmes’s books contain many proofs of his cat-like attachment to city nooks and corners, his liking for odd streets, unexpected turns, and winding ways. ‘I have bored this ancient city through and through, until I know it as an old inhabitant of a Cheshire knows his cheese.’

Holmes enjoyed above all the sense of an undisturbed possession of things. He complained of the march of modern improvement only when he found himself improved out of one house and driven to take refuge in another. He thought that a wretched state of affairs whereby a man was compelled to move every twenty or thirty years.

With his sunny nature Holmes found it difficult to be a good hater. He had but two violent antipathies, Calvinism and homœopathy. On these he concentrated the little measure of asperity he possessed, together with a large measure of vigorous logic and frank contempt.

III

THE WRITER

In his characteristic prose style Holmes is easy, familiar, off-hand, in short, conversational. He may have spent hours over his paragraphs, but with their air of unpremeditation they give no sign of it. The manner of his prose is well-bred but nonchalant. Yet there is always a note of reserve. The Autocrat is less familiar than he seems.

The conversational style permits abrupt turns, sudden transitions, a pleasant negligence. It also has narrow limits; it cannot rise to eloquence, and fine writing is apt to seem out of place. Holmes knew pretty accurately the limits of his instrument.

Like other practised writers, he varied his style to fit his subject. And while a certain winsomeness is never wanting, it is less apparent in the novels than in the ‘Breakfast-Table’ books, and in the biographies than in the novels. Often he becomes business-like, extremely matter of fact, clearly determined to make his point or to solve his problem without waste of words or superfluous ornament.

With respect to his verse we have been told that Holmes was a ‘consummate master of all that is harmonious, graceful, and pleasing in rhythm and in language.’ Had the eulogist been speaking of Tennyson, or Swinburne, or Shelley, he could have said little more. Holmes’s verse is neat, precise, felicitous, often graceful, unmistakably clever, abounding in pointed phrase and happy rhyme, but taken as a whole it must be adjudged the poetry of a cultivated gentleman and a wit rather than the poetry of a poet.

Much of it has a distinctly old-fashioned air, contrasting oddly with the freshness and ‘modernity’ of the poet’s prose. In his own phrase Holmes ‘was trained after the schools of classical English verse as represented by Pope, Goldsmith, and Campbell.’ The metrical essays (_Poetry_, _Astræa_, _Urania_) show how strong was the Eighteenth-century influence. The choice of metre cannot be questioned. If audiences will have poetic dissertations, they probably suffer least under the heroic couplet. It is easy to comprehend, and not difficult to write; and the form of the verse tempts to cleverness.

IV

_THE AUTOCRAT_ AND ITS COMPANIONS, _OVER THE TEACUPS_, _OUR HUNDRED DAYS IN EUROPE_

The motto, ‘Every man his own Boswell,’ on the title-page of _The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table_, is a key to the book. The conceit has merits besides that of novelty. There is a world of humorous suggestion in the idea of ‘doubling’ the parts of philosophic wit and worshipping reporter.

The scene is a Boston boarding-house with its more or less commonplace people, the landlady, her daughter, her son Benjamin Franklin, the young fellow called John, the old gentleman who sits opposite, the poor relation, the divinity student, the schoolmistress, and the Autocrat himself. They talk, listen, jest, laugh. Little by little the commonplace characters grow attractive. Pleasant and lovable traits come to light. There is pathos, sentiment, a deal of mirth, but little

## action. The Autocrat marries the schoolmistress towards the close of

the book. So much likeness is there to an old-fashioned love story, and no more.

In general the characters interest less for what they say than for what they prompt the Autocrat to say. He says many things, and all so wise, so entertaining, so clever. When Holmes threw off these sparkling paragraphs month by month, he could have had little idea what the index would reveal. He glances from subject to subject, touching lightly here and lightly there. Poetry, pugilism, horse-racing, theology, and tree-lore are all equally interesting to him and to us. The reader is not too long detained by any one thing. An infinite number of topics are handled with effervescent gayety in a manner sometimes called ‘French.’ Holmes accused Emerson of want of logical sequence. That was a master stroke. Open a volume of the Breakfast-Table series at random and you chance on the oddest combinations of subjects, as when a paragraph on insanity is followed by a paragraph on private theatricals--perhaps a less illogical juxtaposition than at first sight appears. Waywardness and inconsequence are among the principal charms of _The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table_.

That a book so distinctively local in atmosphere and allusion should have attained at once and kept to this day widespread popularity is a little surprising. For local it is--provincial, as New Yorkers would say. At all events, it is Bostonian to the last degree. The little city, compact and picturesque, was not merely the background, the scene of the breakfast-table episodes and conversations; the entire volume is saturated with the atmosphere of Boston. To Holmes it was the one city worth while, the city whose State House was Hub of the Solar System. By his testimony (and who should know better?) you could not pry that out of a Boston man if you had the tire of all creation straightened out for a crowbar.

The _Autocrat_ was followed by the _Professor_ and the _Poet_. The critical history of sequels is well known. Seldom a complete failure, they are rarely an unqualified success. Yet it is not easy to see wherein _The Professor at the Breakfast-Table_ falls much below _The Autocrat_. The book would be justified were it only for the pathetic figure of Little Boston, to say nothing of Iris, the young Marylander, the Model of all the Virtues, and the Koh-i-noor. It is something, too, to have seen the landlady’s daughter appropriately wedded to an undertaker, and the young fellow called John also married, and in possession of ‘one of them little articles’ for which he had longed in the days of bachelorhood, to wit, a boy of his own.

_The Poet at the Breakfast-Table_, a storehouse of delightful inventions, proved the least attractive of the three to the public. But all of Holmes’s old-time skill returned when he wrote _Over the Teacups_, his last book. The framework is simple but attractive, the characters have genuine vitality and pique the reader by suggesting that they must have been drawn from life. The Dictator is an old friend. Number Five, the Tutor, the Counsellor, the two Annexes, Number Seven, the Mistress and Delilah are agreeable acquaintances, and the misfortune is ours if we do not know them as well as the figures of _The Autocrat_.

All these books are personal, known as such, and deriving half their charm from the reader’s ability to recognize Holmes himself under various disguises. In _Our Hundred Days in Europe_ the author speaks _in propria persona_, and the volume may be described as a big printed letter addressed to the writer’s friends, who, loving him as they do, will rejoice in his happiness and his triumphs.

V

THE POET

The Autocrat’s poetical works contain a generous measure of what elderly bards call their ‘juvenilia.’ We all understand the term. It means verses which the bards in question would gladly have left in the solitude of old magazines, and which admirers insist on dragging into light,--poems that help to stock the school readers and speakers, and which, because the copyright has expired by the unjust law of the land, compilers of anthologies seize on and parade as representative.