Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.
An English edition of The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table was published some years ago by Messrs. Chatto and Windus, with an Introduction by Mr. George Augustus Sala. Holmes was not then well known, or understood, in this country, yet surely such a veteran litérateur as Sala might have found some more appropriate opening sentence for his Introduction than this:—“Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes is essentially what is termed a ‘funny fellow.’”
Written of Artemus Ward, Bret Harte, or Mark Twain, the assertion might have been true, though not new, as applied to Holmes it is neither the one, nor the other.
Pathos there is in plenty, with dry humour and playful wit, which occasionally tempt a smile, as in the following poem, though most assuredly it cannot be termed “funny” in the ordinary acceptation of the word.
CONTENTMENT.
“Man wants but little here below.”
Little I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone
(A very plain brown stone will do),
That I may call my own;—
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.
Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten:—
If Nature can subsist on three,
Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice,—
My choice would be vanilla-ice.
I care not much for gold or land;—
Give me a mortgage here and there.
Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share,—
I only ask that Fortune send
A little more than I shall spend.
Honours are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo—
But only near St. James;
I’m very sure I should not care
To fill our Gubernator’s chair.
Jewels are baubles; ’tis a sin
To care for such unfruitful things;—
One good-sized diamond in a pin,
Some, not so large, in rings,
A ruby, and a pearl, or so,
Will do for me;—I laugh at show.
My dame should dress in cheap attire
(Good, heavy silks are never dear);
I own perhaps I might desire
Some shawls of true Cashmere,—
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.
I would not have the horse I drive
So fast that folks must stop and stare;
An easy gait—two, forty-five—
Suits me; I do not care;—
Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.
Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four—
I love so much their style and tone—
One Turner, and no more
(A landscape, foreground golden dirt,
The sunshine painted with a squirt).
Of books but few,—some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;—
Some little luxury there
Of red morocco’s gilded gleam,
And vellum rich as country cream.
Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these,
Which others often show for pride,
I value for their power to please,
And selfish churls deride;
One Stradivarius, I confess,
Two Meerschaums I would fain possess.
Wealth’s wasteful tricks I will not learn,
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl?
Give grasping pomp its double share,—
I ask but one recumbent chair.
Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas’ golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,—
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!
From The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.
Contentment.
(A Parody.)
Little I ask; my wants are few
I only wish a hut of stone,
Or one of good plain brick will do
That I may call my own.
And close at hand in Downing Street,
Is just the house my wants to meet.
I care not much for gold or land—
Give me an office fairly paid.
The Premiership was wisely planned
For statesmen such as I was made.
And then, perhaps, five thou’ a year
Is not too much of worldly gear.
Honours are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;
I could a marquis be, and so
Beat Beaconsfield at those small games.
I’m very sure I should not care
To fill our Sovereign’s royal chair.
As for the Commons, why require
A very large majority?
One member for each rural shire,
One for each town will do for me.
No small vexation turns me sour
When I am once installed in power.
Though fond of praise to some extent,
Unmingled flattery I despise,
So that it be sincerely meant,
A daily dose or two I prize—
There is no god that I can find
Whose cult extends to all mankind.
The Classes! pooh! I heed them not,
The masses still are reckoned mine;
And if they say, “They will be shot
Ere they support me,” why repine?
The asses surely will be true,
And they are neither far nor few.
Were I fastidious, I might tout
Among the great ones of the land;
Give me the lubbard and the lout,
Who bargain not to understand,
One vote as t’other’s just as good,
And all heads count, although of wood.
Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for what I cannot get.
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall net miss them, yet
Too grateful for the blessings lent
Of simple wants and mind content.
W. E. G.
The St. James’ Gazette.
(Copied from John Bull) July 17, 1886.
——:o:——
THE DEACON’S MASTERPIECE.
or, the Wonderful “One-Hoss Shay.”
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way,
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it—ah, but stay,
I’ll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,—
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,—
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock’s army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,—
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, throroughbrace,—lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,—
Above or below, or within or without,—
And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn’t wear out.
But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”),
He would build one shay to beat the taown
’n’ the keounty ’n’ all the kentry raoun’;
It should be so built that it couldn’ break daown:
—“Fur,” said the Deacon, “’t’s mighty plain
Thut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain;
’n’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain.
Is only jest
T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.”
* * * * *
That was the way he “put her through.”—
“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew!”
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less.
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren—where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there’s nothing that keeps it youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it—You’re welcome.—No extra charge.)
First of November,—the Earthquake-day.—
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavour of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn’t be,—for the Deacon’s art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn’t a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
First of November, ’Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
“Huddup!” said the parson.—Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday’s text,—
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the—Moses—was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet’n’ house on the hill,
—First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,—
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet’n’-house clock,—
just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
—What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce.
How it went to pieces all at once,—
All at once, and nothing first,—
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That’s all I say.
O. W. Holmes.
From The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table.
Sequel to the “One-hoss Shay.”
Doubtless my readers all have heard
Of the “wonderful one-horse shay,”
That “went to pieces all at once
On the terrible earthquake day.”
But did they ever think of the horse
Or mourn the loss of him—
The “ewe-necked bay (who drew the “shay,”)
So full of life and vim?
He was a wonderful nag, I’m told,
In spite of his old “rat-tail,”
And though he always minded the rein,
He laughed at the snow and hail.
He had the finest stable in town,
With plenty of oats and hay;
And to the parson’s oft “Hud-dup”
He never would answer neigh.
To the parson’s shay he was ever true,
Though the other felloes were tired,
To live and die with his fiancée
Was all his heart desired.
He was much attached to his ancient mate;
So the parson “hitched them together,”
And, when they went-on their bridle tour,
His heart was as light as a feather.
We all remember her awful fate,
On that sad November day,
When nothing remained but a heap of trash,
That once was a beautiful “shay.”
Oh! what could stir-up the equine breast
Like this fearful, harrowing blow?
Which put a check on his happiness
And filled his heart with w(h)oa.
As he wheeled about, a shaft of pain
Entered his faithful breast,
As he there beheld the sad remains
Of her whom he loved the best.
With a sudden bound and fearful snort,
He sped away like the wind;
And a fact most queer I’ll mention here—
No traces were left behind.
Charles Follen Adams.
——:o:——
“Here is a little poem I sent a short time since to a committee for a certain celebration. I understood it was to be a festive and convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly. It seems the president of the day was a ‘teetotaler.’ I received a note from him in the following words:—”
Dear Sir,—Your poem gives good satisfaction to the Committee. The sentiments expressed with reference to liquor are not, however, those generally entertained by this community. I have therefore consulted the clergyman of this place, who has made some slight changes, which he thinks will remove all objections, and keep the valuable portions of the poem.
Yours with respect, etc., etc.,
ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING.
(With slight alteration by a teetotaler.)
Come! fill up a bumper—for why should we go,
logwood
While the nector still reddens our cups as they flow?
decoction
Pour out the rich juices still bright with the sun,
dye-stuff
Till o’er the brimmed crystal the rubies shall run.
half-ripened apples
The purple-globed clusters their life-dews have bled;
taste sugar-of-lead!
How sweet is the breath of the fragrance they shed!
rank poisons wines!!
For summer’s last roses lie hid in the wines,
stable-boys smoking long-nines.
That were garnered by maidens who laugh’d thro’ the vines.
scowl howl scoff cheer,
Then a smile, and a glass, and a toast, and a cheer.
strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer!
For all the good wine, and we’ve some of it here!
In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall,
Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all!
Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
The Poet at the Breakfast Table.
Poet (in fine frenzy rolling).
Object redolent of grass,
Daisies, lowing kine, and that,
Fresh from hands of dairy lass,
Dear delightful yellow pat!
Hark! I almost hear the “swish”
Of the milk in tinny vat
(“Pail” won’t rhyme as I could wish),
Perfume-breathing moulded pat!
I recall one passing fair
Milking maiden, as she sat;
Sweet was she as you, with hair
Just your colour—golden pat!
’Twas her fingers, I’ll be sworn,
Churned you up, and rolled you flat—
Fingers rosy as the dawn—
Poet’s Wife (speaking in the light of recent investigations).
Stuff, John Smith—it’s bullock’s fat!
Funny Folks. November, 1879.
There is a burlesque of O. W. Holmes in Bayard Taylor’s Diversions of the Echo Club, entitled “The Psycho-Physical Muse,” but it is not an interesting specimen of Taylor’s power of imitation. A parody, “The Wheelless,” relating to bicycling, appears in Lyra Bicyclica, by J. G. Dalton (published in Boston, U.S., in 1880), but it is not of general interest.
