The Poet at the Breakfast Table

O >> Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. >> The Poet at the Breakfast Table


.... Poor dear soul! Her ideas had got a little mixed, and her heart was
overflowing, and the white handkerchief closed the scene with its timely
and greatly needed service.

--What a pity, I have often thought, that she came in just at that
precise moment! For the old Master was on the point of telling us, and
through one of us the reading world,--I mean that fraction of it which
has reached this point of the record,--at any rate, of telling you,
Beloved, through my pen, his solution of a great problem we all have to
deal with. We were some weeks longer together, but he never offered to
continue his reading. At length I ventured to give him a hint that our
young friend and myself would both of us be greatly gratified if he would
begin reading from his unpublished page where he had left off.

--No, sir,--he said,--better not, better not. That which means so much
to me, the writer, might be a disappointment, or at least a puzzle, to
you, the listener. Besides, if you'll take my printed book and be at the
trouble of thinking over what it says, and put that with what you've
heard me say, and then make those comments and reflections which will be
suggested to a mind in so many respects like mine as is your own,--excuse
my good opinion of myself,

(It is a high compliment to me, I replied) you will perhaps find you have
the elements of the formula and its consequences which I was about to
read you. It's quite as well to crack your own filberts as to borrow the
use of other people's teeth. I think we will wait awhile before we pour
out the Elixir Vitae.

--To tell the honest truth, I suspect the Master has found out that his
formula does not hold water quite so perfectly as he was thinking, so
long as he kept it to himself, and never thought of imparting it to
anybody else. The very minute a thought is threatened with publicity it
seems to shrink towards mediocrity, as. I have noticed that a great
pumpkin, the wonder of a village, seemed to lose at least a third of its
dimensions between the field where it grew and the cattle-show
fair-table, where it took its place with other enormous pumpkins from
other wondering villages. But however that maybe, I shall always regret
that I had not the opportunity of judging for myself how completely the
Master's formula, which, for him, at least, seemed to have solved the
great problem, would have accomplished that desirable end for me.

The Landlady's announcement of her intention to give up keeping boarders
was heard with regret by all who met around her table. The Member of the
Haouse inquired of me whether I could tell him if the Lamb Tahvern was
kept well abaout these times. He knew that members from his place used
to stop there, but he hadn't heerd much abaout it of late years. I had
to inform him that that fold of rural innocence had long ceased offering
its hospitalities to the legislative, flock. He found refuge at last, I
have learned, in a great public house in the northern section of the
city, where, as he said, the folks all went up stairs in a rat-trap, and
the last I heard of him was looking out of his somewhat elevated
attic-window in a northwesterly direction in hopes that he might perhaps
get a sight of the Grand Monadnock, a mountain in New Hampshire which I
have myself seen from the top of Bunker Hill Monument.

The Member of the Haouse seems to have been more in a hurry to find a new
resting-place than the other boarders. By the first of January, however,
our whole company was scattered, never to meet again around the board
where we had been so long together.

The Lady moved to the house where she had passed many of her prosperous
years. It had been occupied by a rich family who had taken it nearly as
it stood, and as the pictures had been dusted regularly, and the books
had never been handled, she found everything in many respects as she had
left it, and in some points improved, for the rich people did not know
what else to do, and so they spent money without stint on their house and
its adornments, by all of which she could not help profiting. I do not
choose to give the street and number of the house where she lives, but
a-great many poor people know very well where it is, and as a matter of
course the rich ones roll up to her door in their carriages by the dozen
every fine Monday while anybody is in town.

It is whispered that our two young folks are to be married before another
season, and that the Lady has asked them to come and stay with her for a
while. Our Scheherezade is to write no more stories. It is astonishing
to see what a change for the better in her aspect a few weeks of
brain-rest and heart's ease have wrought in her. I doubt very much
whether she ever returns to literary labor. The work itself was almost
heart-breaking, but the effect upon her of the sneers and cynical
insolences of the literary rough who came at her in mask and brass
knuckles was to give her what I fear will be a lifelong disgust against
any writing for the public, especially in any of the periodicals. I am
not sorry that she should stop writing, but I am sorry that she should
have been silenced in such a rude way. I doubt, too, whether the Young
Astronomer will pass the rest of his life in hunting for comets and
planets. I think he has found an attraction that will call him down from
the celestial luminaries to a light not less pure and far less remote.
And I am inclined to believe that the best answer to many of those
questions which have haunted him and found expression in his verse will
be reached by a very different channel from that of lonely contemplation,
the duties, the cares, the responsible realities of a life drawn out of
itself by the power of newly awakened instincts and affections. The
double star was prophetic,--I thought it would be.

The Register of Deeds is understood to have been very handsomely treated
by the boarder who owes her good fortune to his sagacity and activity.
He has engaged apartments at a very genteel boarding-house not far from
the one where we have all been living. The Salesman found it a simple
matter to transfer himself to an establishment over the way; he had very
little to move, and required very small accommodations.

The Capitalist, however, seems to have felt it impossible to move without
ridding himself of a part at--least of his encumbrances. The community
was startled by the announcement that a citizen who did not wish his name
to be known had made a free gift of a large sum of money--it was in tens
of thousands--to an institution of long standing and high character in
the city of which he was a quiet resident. The source of such a gift
could not long be kept secret. It, was our economical, not to say
parsimonious Capitalist who had done this noble act, and the poor man had
to skulk through back streets and keep out of sight, as if he were a show
character in a travelling caravan, to avoid the acknowledgments of his
liberality, which met him on every hand and put him fairly out of
countenance.

That Boy has gone, in virtue of a special invitation, to make a visit of
indefinite length at the house of the father of the older boy, whom we
know by the name of Johnny. Of course he is having a good time, for
Johnny's father is full of fun, and tells first-rate stories, and if
neither of the boys gets his brains kicked out by the pony, or blows
himself up with gunpowder, or breaks through the ice and gets drowned,
they will have a fine time of it this winter.

The Scarabee could not bear to remove his collections, and the old Master
was equally unwilling to disturb his books. It was arranged, therefore,
that they should keep their apartments until the new tenant should come
into the house, when, if they were satisfied with her management, they
would continue as her boarders.

The last time I saw the Scarabee he was still at work on the meloe
question. He expressed himself very pleasantly towards all of us, his
fellow-boarders, and spoke of the kindness and consideration with which
the Landlady had treated him when he had been straitened at times for
want of means. Especially he seemed to be interested in our young couple
who were soon to be united. His tired old eyes glistened as he asked
about them,--could it be that their little romance recalled some early
vision of his own? However that may be, he got up presently and went to
a little box in which, as he said, he kept some choice specimens. He
brought to me in his hand something which glittered. It was an exquisite
diamond beetle.

--If you could get that to her,--he said,--they tell me that ladies
sometimes wear them in their hair. If they are out of fashion, she can
keep it till after they're married, and then perhaps after a while there
may be--you know--you know what I mean--there may be larvae, that 's what
I 'm thinking there may be, and they 'll like to look at it.

--As he got out the word larvae, a faint sense of the ridiculous seemed
to take hold of the Scarabee, and for the first and only time during my
acquaintance with him a slight attempt at a smile showed itself on his
features. It was barely perceptible and gone almost as soon as seen, yet
I am pleased to put it on record that on one occasion at least in his
life the Scarabee smiled.

The old Master keeps adding notes and reflections and new suggestions to
his interleaved volume, but I doubt if he ever gives them to the public.
The study he has proposed to himself does not grow easier the longer it
is pursued. The whole Order of Things can hardly be completely
unravelled in any single person's lifetime, and I suspect he will have to
adjourn the final stage of his investigations to that more luminous realm
where the Landlady hopes to rejoin the company of boarders who are
nevermore to meet around her cheerful and well-ordered table.

The curtain has now fallen, and I show myself a moment before it to thank
my audience and say farewell. The second comer is commonly less welcome
than the first, and the third makes but a rash venture. I hope I have not
wholly disappointed those who have been so kind to my predecessors.

To you, Beloved, who have never failed to cut the leaves which hold my
record, who have never nodded over its pages, who have never hesitated in
your allegiance, who have greeted me with unfailing smiles and part from
me with unfeigned regrets, to you I look my last adieu as I bow myself
out of sight, trusting my poor efforts to your always kind remembrance.

EPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST-TABLE SERIES

AUTOCRAT--PROFESSOR--POET.

AT A BOOKSTORE.

Anno Domini 1972.

A crazy bookcase, placed before
A low-price dealer's open door;
Therein arrayed in broken rows
A ragged crew of rhyme and prose,
The homeless vagrants, waifs and strays
Whose low estate this line betrays
(Set forth the lesser birds to lime)
YOUR CHOICE AMONG THESE BOOKS, 1 DIME!

Ho! dealer; for its motto's sake
This scarecrow from the shelf I take;
Three starveling volumes bound in one,
Its covers warping in the sun.
Methinks it hath a musty smell,
I like its flavor none too well,
But Yorick's brain was far from dull,
Though Hamlet pah!'d, and dropped his skull.

Why, here comes rain! The sky grows dark,
--Was that the roll of thunder? Hark!
The shop affords a safe retreat,
A chair extends its welcome seat,
The tradesman has a civil look
(I've paid, impromptu, for my book),
The clouds portend a sudden shower,
I'll read my purchase for an hour.

..............

What have I rescued from the shelf?
A Boswell, writing out himself!
For though he changes dress and name,
The man beneath is still the same,
Laughing or sad, by fits and starts,
One actor in a dozen parts,
And whatsoe'er the mask may be,
The voice assures us, This is he.

I say not this to cry him clown;
I find my Shakespeare in his clown,
His rogues the self-same parent own;
Nay! Satan talks in Milton's tone!
Where'er the ocean inlet strays,
The salt sea wave its source betrays,
Where'er the queen of summer blows,
She tells the zephyr, "I'm the rose!"

And his is not the playwright's page;
His table does not ape the stage;
What matter if the figures seen
Are only shadows on a screen,
He finds in them his lurking thought,
And on their lips the words he sought,
Like one who sits before the keys
And plays a tune himself to please.

And was he noted in his day?
Read, flattered, honored? Who shall say?
Poor wreck of time the wave has cast
To find a peaceful shore at last,
Once glorying in thy gilded name
And freighted deep with hopes of fame,
Thy leaf is moistened with a tear,
The first for many a long, long year!

For be it more or less of art
That veils the lowliest human heart
Where passion throbs, where friendship glows,
Where pity's tender tribute flows,
Where love has lit its fragrant fire,
And sorrow quenched its vain desire,
For me the altar is divine,
Its flame, its ashes,--all are mine!

And thou, my brother, as I look
And see thee pictured in thy book,
Thy years on every page confessed
In shadows lengthening from the west,
Thy glance that wanders, as it sought
Some freshly opening flower of thought,
Thy hopeful nature, light and free,
I start to find myself in thee!

Come, vagrant, outcast, wretch forlorn
In leather jerkin stained and torn,
Whose talk has filled my idle hour
And made me half forget the shower,
I'll do at least as much for you,
Your coat I'll patch, your gilt renew,
Read you,--perhaps,--some other time.
Not bad, my bargain! Price one dime!
Not bad, my bargain! Price one dime!