DOCTOR Holmes has two sons and one daughter. Oliver Wendell Holmes Junior, his eldest child, was born in 1841. When a young lad, he attended the school of Mr. E.S. Dixwell, in Boston, and it was here that he met his future wife, Miss Fannie Dixwell. In his graduating year at Harvard College (1861), he joined the Fourth Battalion of Infantry, commanded by Major Thomas G. Stevenson. The company was at that time stationed at Fort Independence, Boston Harbor, and it was there that young Holmes wrote his poem for Class Day. He served three years in the war, and was wounded first in the breast at Ball's Bluff, and then in the neck at the Battle of Antietam. In Doctor Holmes' Hunt after the Captain, we have not only a vivid picture of war times, His edition of Kent's Commentaries on American Law, to which he devoted three years of careful labor, has received the highest encomiums, and his volume on The Common Law forms an indispensable part of every law student's library. In 1882, he was appointed Professor in the Harvard Law School, and a few weeks later was elected Justice in the Supreme Court of Massachusetts. At the Lawyers' Banquet, given January 30th, 1883, at the Hotel Vendome, Honorable William G. Russell thus introduced the father of the newly-appointed judge: "We come now to a many-sided subject, and On rising, Doctor Holmes held up a sheet of paper, and said, "You see before you" (referring to the paper) "all that you have to fear His Honor's father yet remains, His proud paternal posture firm in; But, while his right he still maintains To wield the household rod and reins, He bows before the filial ermine. What curious tales has life in store, With all its must-bes and its may-bes! The sage of eighty years and more Once crept a nursling on the floor,— Kings, conquerors, judges, all were babies. The fearless soldier, who has faced The serried bayonets' gleam appalling, For nothing save a pin misplaced The peaceful nursery has disgraced With hours of unheroic bawling. The mighty monarch, whose renown Fills up the stately page historic, Has howled to waken half the town, And finished off by gulping down His castor oil or paregoric. The justice, who, in gown and cap, Condemns a wretch to strangulation, Has scratched his nurse and spilled his pap, And sprawled across his mother's lap For wholesome law's administration. Ah, life has many a reef to shun Before in port we drop our anchor, But when its course is nobly run Look aft! for there the work was done. Life owes its headway to the spanker! Yon seat of justice well might awe The fairest manhood's half-blown summer; There Parsons scourged the laggard law, There reigned and ruled majestic Shaw,— What ghosts to hail the last new-comer! One cause of fear I faintly name,— The dread lest duty's dereliction Shall give so rarely cause for blame Our guileless voters will exclaim, "No need of human jurisdiction!" What keeps the doctor's trade alive? Bad air, bad water; more's the pity! But lawyers walk where doctors drive, And starve in streets where surgeons thrive, Our Boston is so pure a city. What call for judge or court, indeed, When righteousness prevails so through it Our virtuous car-conductors need Only a card whereon they read "Do right; it's naughty not to do it!" The whirligig of time goes round, And changes all things but affection; One blessed comfort may be found In heaven's broad statute which has bound Each household to its head's protection. If e'er aggrieved, attacked, accused, A sire may claim a son's devotion To shield his innocence abused, As old Anchises freely used His offspring's legs for locomotion. You smile. You did not come to weep, Nor I my weakness to be showing; And these gay stanzas, slight and cheap, Have served their simple use,—to keep A father's eyes from overflowing. Doctor Holmes' daughter, who bore her mother's name, Amelia Jackson, married the late John Turner Sargent. In her Sketches and Reminiscences of the Radical Club, we have some pithy remarks of Doctor Holmes'. To speak without premeditation, he says, on a carefully written essay, made him feel as he should if, at a chemical lecture, somebody should pass around a precipitate, and when the mixture had become turbid should request him to give his opinion concerning it. The fallacies continually rising in such a discussion from Edward, the youngest son of Doctor Holmes, had chosen the same profession as his brother. It was at Mrs. Sargent's home, at Beverly Farms, that Doctor Holmes passed most of his summers. The pretty, cream-colored house, with its broad veranda in front, can be easily seen from the station; but to appreciate the charms of this pleasant country home, one should catch a glimpse of the cosey interior. Robert Rantoul, John T. Morse and Henry Lee were neighbors of Doctor Holmes at Beverly Farms, and Lucy Larcom's home was not far distant. After eighteen years' residence at No. 8 Montgomery Place, Doctor Holmes moved to 164 Charles street, where he lived about twelve years. His home in Boston was at No. 296 Beacon street. "We die out of houses," says the poet, The poet's home on Beacon street well illustrates the above extract. I shall not soon forget As he afterwards remarked at the Nineteenth Century Club, the difference between Emerson's poetry and that of others with whom he might naturally be compared, was that of algebra and arithmetic. The fascination of his poems was in their spiritual depth and sincerity and their all pervading symbolism. Emerson's writings in prose and verse were worthy of all honor and admiration, but his manhood was the noblest of all his high endowments. A bigot here and there might have avoided meeting him, but if He who knew what was in men had wandered from door to door in New England, as of old in Palestine, one of the thresholds which "those blessed feet" would have crossed would have been that of the lovely and quiet home of Emerson. <p>Hand written Poem signed by Oliver Wendell Holmes</p> Hand written Poem signed by Oliver Wendell Holmes The view from the broad bay window in Doctor Holmes' study, recalled his own description: Through my north window, in the wintry weather, My airy oriel on the river shore, I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together, Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar. The gull, high floating, like a sloop unladen, Lets the loose water waft him as it will; The duck, round-breasted as a rustic maiden, Paddles and plunges, busy, busy still. A microscopical apparatus placed under another window in the study, reminds the visitor of the "man of science," while the books— A mingled race, the wreck of chance and time That talk all tongues and breathe of every clime— speak in eloquent numbers of the "man of letters." There is the Plato on the lower shelf, with the inscription, Ezra Stiles, 1766, to which Doctor Holmes alludes in his tribute to the New England clergy. Here is the hand-lens imported by the Reverend John Prince, of Salem, and just before us, in the "unpretending row of local historians," is Jeremy Belknap's History of New Hampshire, "in the pages of which," says Doctor Holmes, "may be found a chapter contributed in part by the most remarkable man in many respects, among all the older clergymen,—preacher, lawyer, physician, astronomer, botanist, entomologist, explorer, colonist, legislator in State and national governments, and only not seated on the bench of the Supreme Court of a Territory because he declined the office when Washington offered it to him. This manifold individual," adds Doctor Holmes, "was the minister of Hamilton, a pleasant little town in Essex County, Massachusetts, the Reverend Manasseh Cutler." Dr. Holmes' Library, Beacon St. Here is the AËtius found one never-to-be-forgotten rainy day, in that dingy bookshop in Lyons, and here the vellum-bound Tulpius, "my only reading," says Doctor Holmes, "when imprisoned in quarantine at Marseilles, so that the two hundred and twenty-eight cases he has recorded are, many of them, to this day still fresh in my memory." Here, too, is the Schenckius,—"the folio filled with casus rariores, which had strayed in among the rubbish of the bookstall on the boulevard—and here the noble old Vesalius, with its grand frontispiece not unworthy of Titian, and the fine old Ambroise PariÉ, long waited for even in Paris and long ago, and the colossal Spigelius, with his eviscerated beauties, and Dutch Bidloo with its miracles of fine engraving and bad dissection, and Italian Mascagni, the despair of all would-be imitators, and pre-Adamite John de Ketam, and antediluvian Berengarius Carpensis," and many other rare volumes, dear to the heart of every bibliophile. Glancing again from the window, I catch a glimpse of the West Boston Bridge, and recall the poet's description of the "crunching of ice at the edges of the river as the tide rises and falls, the little cluster of tent-like screens on the frozen desert, the excitement of watching the springy hoops, the mystery of drawing up life from silent, unseen depths." With his opera glass he watches the boys and men, black and white, fishing over the rails of the bridge "as hopefully as if the river were full of salmon." The silhouette figures on the white background enliven the winter landscape, but now the blazing log on the hearthstone rolls over and the whole study is aglow with light! Truly "winter is a cheerful season to people who have open fireplaces;" and who will not agree with our poet-philosopher when he says, "A house without these is like a face without eyes, and that never smiles. I have seen respectability and amiability grouped over the air-tight stove; I have seen virtue and intelligence hovering A well-known journalist writes as follows of Doctor Holmes "at home." "All who pay their respects to the distinguished Autocrat will find the genial, merry gentleman whose form and kindly greeting all admirers have anticipated while reading his sparkling poems. He is the perfect essence of wit and hospitality—courteous, amiable and entertaining to a degree which is more easily remembered than imparted or described. If the caller expects to find blue-blood snobbishness at 296 Beacon street, he will be disappointed. It is one of the most elegant and charming residences on that broad and fashionable thoroughfare, but far less pretentious, both inwardly and outwardly, than many of the others. For an uninterrupted period of forty-seven years, Doctor Holmes has lived in Boston, and for the last dozen years he has occupied his present residence on Beacon street. "The chief point of attraction in the present "In renewing his old-time acquaintance with the Atlantic family circle, the Autocrat recognized the modern invention of the journalistic interviewer, and submitted some plans for his regulation, to be considered by the various local governments. His idea is that the interviewer is a product of our civilization, one who does for the living what the undertaker does for the dead, taking such liberties as he chooses with the subject of his mental and conversational manipulations, whom he is to arrange for public inspection. 'The interview system has its legitimate use,' says Doctor Holmes, 'and is often a convenience to politicians, and may even gratify the vanity and serve the interests of an author.' He very properly believes, however, that in its abuse it is an infringement of the liberty of the private citizen to be ranked with the edicts of the council of ten, the decrees of the star chamber, the lettres de cachet, and the visits of the Inquisition. The interviewer, if excluded, becomes an enemy, and has the columns of a "Doctor Holmes humorously suggests the following restrictions: 'A licensed corps of interviewers, to be appointed by the municipal authorities, each interviewer to wear, in a conspicuous position, a number and a badge, for which the following emblems and inscriptions are suggested: Zephyrus, with his lips at the ear of Boreas, who holds a speaking trumpet, signifying that what is said by the interviewed in a whisper will be shouted to the world by the interviewer through that brazen instrument. For mottoes, either of the following: FÆnum halct in cornu; Hunc tu Romane caveto. No person to be admitted to the corps of interviewers without a strict preliminary examination. The candidate to be proved free from color blindness and amblyopia, ocular and mental strabismus, double refraction of memory, kleptomania, mendacity "What business have young scribblers to send me their verses and ask my opinion of the stuff?" said Doctor Holmes one day, annoyed by the officiousness of certain would-be aspirants to literary fame. "They have no more right to ask than they have to stop me on the street, run out their tongues, and ask what the matter is with their stomachs, and what they shall take as a remedy." At another time he made the remark: "Everybody that writes a book must needs send me a copy. It's very good of them, of course, but they're not all suc But once a young writer sent from California a sample of his poetry, and asked Holmes if it was worth while for him to keep on writing. It was evident that the doctor was impressed by something decidedly original in the style of the writer, for he wrote back that he should keep on, by all means. Some time afterward a gentleman called at the home of Professor Holmes in Boston and asked him if he remembered the incident. "I do, indeed," replied Holmes. "Well," said his visitor, who was none other than Bret Harte, "I am the man." |