CHAPTER XII

THE END COMES

The life of Oliver Wendell Holmes flowed like a placid river, with scarcely a ripple upon its surface. He was born and grew up and passed all his life near that “hub” he has made so famous, surrounded by throngs of friends, never visited by sorrow, always fortunate, always happy. He found amusement in everything, for he looked on the bright side of life and turned everything into humor. And at last he died, painlessly, serenely, sitting in his chair, having been up and about to the very last day. This final event—we cannot call it sad—occurred October 7, 1894. He was eighty-five years old.

We cannot better close this study of Americas most genial poet-humorist than by quoting the following appreciative and most touching lines from an English journal:

“THE AUTOCRAT”

“The Last Leaf!” Can it be true, We have turned it, and on you, Friend of all? That the years at last have power? That life’s foliage and its flower Fade and fall?

Was there one who ever took From its shelf, by chance, a book Penned by you, But was fast your friend for life, With one refuge from its strife Safe and true?

...

From the Boston breakfast table Wit and wisdom, fun and fable, Radiated Through all English-speaking places When were science and the Graces So well mated?

Of sweet singers the most sane, Of keen wits the most humane, Wide, yet clear. Like the blue, above us bent, Giving sense and sentiment Each its sphere;

With a manly breadth of soul, And a fancy quaint and droll, Ripe and mellow; With a virile power of “hit,” Finished scholar, poet, wit, And good fellow!

Years your spirit could not tame, And they will not dim your fame; England joys In your songs, all strength and ease, And the “dreams” you “wrote to please Gray-haired boys.”

—_London Punch._

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