The Complete PG Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.

O >> Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. (The Physician and Poet not the Jurist) >> The Complete PG Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.


Look here! There are crowds of people whirled through our streets on
these new-fashioned cars, with their witch-broomsticks overhead,--if they
don't come from Salem, they ought to,--and not more than one in a dozen
of these fish-eyed bipeds thinks or cares a nickel's worth about the
miracle which is wrought for their convenience. They know that without
hands or feet, without horses, without steam, so far as they can see,
they are transported from place to place, and that there is nothing to
account for it except the witch-broomstick and the iron or copper cobweb
which they see stretched above them. What do they know or care about
this last revelation of the omnipresent spirit of the material universe?
We ought to go down on our knees when one of these mighty caravans, car
after car, spins by us, under the mystic impulse which seems to know not
whether its train is loaded or empty. We are used to force in the
muscles of horses, in the expansive potency of steam, but here we have
force stripped stark naked,--nothing but a filament to cover its
nudity,--and yet showing its might in efforts that would task the
working-beam of a ponderous steam-engine. I am thankful that in an age
of cynicism I have not lost my reverence. Perhaps you would wonder to
see how some very common sights impress me. I always take off my hat if
I stop to speak to a stone-cutter at his work. "Why?" do you ask me?
Because I know that his is the only labor that is likely to endure. A
score of centuries has not effaced the marks of the Greek's or the
Roman's chisel on his block of marble. And now, before this new
manifestation of that form of cosmic vitality which we call electricity,
I feel like taking the posture of the peasants listening to the Angelus.
How near the mystic effluence of mechanical energy brings us to the
divine source of all power and motion! In the old mythology, the right
hand of Jove held and sent forth the lightning. So, in the record of the
Hebrew prophets, did the right hand of Jehovah cast forth and direct it.
Was Nahum thinking of our far-off time when he wrote, "The chariots shall
rage in the streets, they shall justle one against another in the broad
ways: they shall seem like torches, they shall run like the lightnings"?

Number Seven had finished reading his paper. Two bright spots in his
cheeks showed that he had felt a good deal in writing it, and the flush
returned as he listened to his own thoughts. Poor old fellow! The
"cracked Teacup" of our younger wits,--not yet come to their full human
sensibilities,--the "crank" of vulgar tongues, the eccentric, the seventh
son of a seventh son, too often made the butt of thoughtless pleasantry,
was, after all, a fellow-creature, with flesh and blood like the rest of
us. The wild freaks of his fancy did not hurt us, nor did they prevent
him from seeing many things justly, and perhaps sometimes more vividly
and acutely than if he were as sound as the dullest of us.

The teaspoons tinkled loudly all round the table, as he finished reading.
The Mistress caught her breath. I was afraid she was going to sob, but
she took it out in vigorous stirring of her tea. Will you believe that I
saw Number Five, with a sweet, approving smile on her face all the time,
brush her cheek with her hand-kerchief? There must have been a tear
stealing from beneath its eyelid. I hope Number Seven saw it. He is one
of the two men at our table who most need the tender looks and tones of a
woman. The Professor and I are hors de combat; the Counsellor is busy
with his cases and his ambitions; the Doctor is probably in love with a
microscope, and flirting with pathological specimens; but Number Seven
and the Tutor are, I fear, both suffering from that worst of all famines,
heart-hunger.

Do you remember that Number Seven said he never wrote a line of "poetry"
in his life, except once when he was suffering from temporary weakness of
body and mind? That is because he is a poet. If he had not been one, he
would very certainly have taken to tinkling rhymes. What should you
think of the probable musical genius of a young man who was particularly
fond of jingling a set of sleigh-bells? Should you expect him to turn
out a Mozart or a Beethoven? Now, I think I recognize the poetical
instinct in Number Seven, however imperfect may be its expression, and
however he may be run away with at times by fantastic notions that come
into his head. If fate had allotted him a helpful companion in the shape
of a loving and intelligent wife, he might have been half cured of his
eccentricities, and we should not have had to say, in speaking of him,
"Poor fellow!" But since this cannot be, I am pleased that he should
have been so kindly treated on the occasion of the reading of his paper.
If he saw Number Five's tear, he will certainly fall in love with her.
No matter if he does Number Five is a kind of Circe who does not turn the
victims of her enchantment into swine, but into lambs. I want to see
Number Seven one of her little flock. I say "little." I suspect it is
larger than most of us know. Anyhow, she can spare him sympathy and
kindness and encouragement enough to keep him contented with himself and
with her, and never miss the pulses of her loving life she lends him. It
seems to be the errand of some women to give many people as much
happiness as they have any right to in this world. If they concentrated
their affection on one, they would give him more than any mortal could
claim as his share. I saw Number Five watering her flowers, the other
day. The watering-pot had one of those perforated heads, through which
the water runs in many small streams. Every plant got its share: the
proudest lily bent beneath the gentle shower; the lowliest daisy held its
little face up for baptism. All were refreshed, none was flooded.
Presently she took the perforated head, or "rose," from the neck of the
watering-pot, and the full stream poured out in a round, solid column.
It was almost too much for the poor geranium on which it fell, and it
looked at one minute as if the roots would be laid bare, and perhaps the
whole plant be washed out of the soil in which it was planted. What if
Number Five should take off the "rose" that sprinkles her affections on
so many, and pour them all on one? Can that ever be? If it can, life is
worth living for him on whom her love may be lavished.

One of my neighbors, a thorough American, is much concerned about the
growth of what he calls the "hard-handed aristocracy." He tells the
following story:--

"I was putting up a fence about my yard, and employed a man of whom I
knew something,--that he was industrious, temperate, and that he had a
wife and children to support,--a worthy man, a native New Englander. I
engaged him, I say, to dig some post-holes. My employee bought a new
spade and scoop on purpose, and came to my place at the appointed time,
and began digging. While he was at work, two men came over from a
drinking-saloon, to which my residence is nearer than I could desire.
One of them I had known as Mike Fagan, the other as Hans Schleimer. They
looked at Hiram, my New Hampshire man, in a contemptuous and threatening
way for a minute or so, when Fagan addressed him:

"'And how much does the man pay yez by the hour?'

"'The gentleman does n't pay me by the hour,' said Hiram.

"'How mosh does he bay you by der veeks?' said Hans.

"'I don' know as that's any of your business,' answered Hiram.

"'Faith, we'll make it our business,' said Mike Fagan. 'We're Knoights
of Labor, we'd have yez to know, and ye can't make yer bargains jist as
ye loikes. We manes to know how mony hours ye worrks, and how much ye
gets for it.'

"'Knights of Labor!' said I. 'Why, that is a kind of title of nobility,
is n't it? I thought the laws of our country did n't allow titles of
that kind. But if you have a right to be called knights, I suppose I
ought to address you as such. Sir Michael, I congratulate you on the
dignity you have attained. I hope Lady Fagan is getting on well with my
shirts. Sir Hans, I pay my respects to your title. I trust that Lady
Schleixner has got through that little difficulty between her ladyship
and yourself in which the police court thought it necessary to
intervene.'

"The two men looked at me. I weigh about a hundred and eighty pounds,
and am well put together. Hiram was noted in his village as a
'rahstler.' But my face is rather pallid and peaked, and Hiram had
something of the greenhorn look. The two men, who had been drinking,
hardly knew what ground to take. They rather liked the sound of Sir
Michael and, Sir Hans. They did not know very well what to make of their
wives as 'ladies.' They looked doubtful whether to take what had been
said as a casus belli or not, but they wanted a pretext of some kind or
other. Presently one of them saw a label on the scoop, or longhandled,
spoon-like shovel, with which Hiram had been working.

"'Arrah, be jabers!' exclaimed Mike Fagan, 'but has n't he been a-tradin'
wid Brown, the hardware fellah, that we boycotted! Grab it, Hans, and
we'll carry it off and show it to the brotherhood.'

"The men made a move toward the implement.

"'You let that are scoop-shovel alone,' said Hiram.

"I stepped to his side. The Knights were combative, as their noble
predecessors with the same title always were, and it was necessary to
come to a voie de fait. My straight blow from the shoulder did for Sir
Michael. Hiram treated Sir Hans to what is technically known as a
cross-buttock.

"'Naow, Dutchman,' said Hiram, 'if you don't want to be planted in that
are post-hole, y'd better take y'rself out o' this here piece of private
property. "Dangerous passin," as the sign-posts say, abaout these
times.'

"Sir Michael went down half stunned by my expressive gesture; Sir Hans
did not know whether his hip was out of joint or he had got a bad sprain;
but they were both out of condition for further hostilities. Perhaps it
was hardly fair to take advantage of their misfortunes to inflict a
discourse upon them, but they had brought it on themselves, and we each
of us gave them a piece of our mind.

"'I tell you what it is,' said Hiram, 'I'm a free and independent
American citizen, and I an't a-gon' to hev no man tyrannize over me, if
he doos call himself by one o' them noblemen's titles. Ef I can't work
jes' as I choose, fur folks that wants me to work fur 'em and that I want
to work fur, I might jes' as well go to Sibery and done with it. My
gran'f'ther fit in Bunker Hill battle. I guess if our folks in them days
did n't care no great abaout Lord Percy and Sir William Haowe, we an't
a-gon' to be scart by Sir Michael Fagan and Sir Hans What 's-his-name,
nor no other fellahs that undertakes to be noblemen, and tells us common
folks what we shall dew an' what we sha'n't. No, sir!'

"I took the opportunity to explain to Sir Michael and Sir Hans what it
was our fathers fought for, and what is the meaning of liberty. If these
noblemen did not like the country, they could go elsewhere. If they did
n't like the laws, they had the ballot-box, and could choose new
legislators. But as long as the laws existed they must obey them. I
could not admit that, because they called themselves by the titles the
Old World nobility thought so much of, they had a right to interfere in
the agreements I entered into with my neighbor. I told Sir Michael that
if he would go home and help Lady Fagan to saw and split the wood for her
fire, he would be better employed than in meddling with my domestic
arrangements. I advised Sir Hans to ask Lady Schleimer for her bottle of
spirits to use as an embrocation for his lame hip. And so my two
visitors with the aristocratic titles staggered off, and left us plain,
untitled citizens, Hiram and myself, to set our posts, and consider the
question whether we lived in a free country or under the authority of a
self-constituted order of quasi-nobility."

It is a very curious fact that, with all our boasted "free and equal"
superiority over the communities of the Old World, our people have the
most enormous appetite for Old World titles of distinction. Sir Michael
and Sir Hans belong to one of the most extended of the aristocratic
orders. But we have also "Knights and Ladies of Honor," and, what is
still grander, "Royal Conclave of Knights and Ladies," "Royal Arcanum,"
and "Royal Society of Good Fellows," "Supreme Council," "Imperial
Court," "Grand Protector," and "Grand Dictator," and so on. Nothing
less than "Grand" and "Supreme" is good enough for the dignitaries of our
associations of citizens. Where does all this ambition for names without
realities come from? Because a Knight of the Garter wears a golden star,
why does the worthy cordwainer, who mends the shoes of his
fellow-citizens, want to wear a tin star, and take a name that had a
meaning as used by the representatives of ancient families, or the men
who had made themselves illustrious by their achievements?

It appears to be a peculiarly American weakness. The French republicans
of the earlier period thought the term citizen was good enough for
anybody. At a later period, "Roi Citoyen"--the citizen king was a common
title given to Louis Philippe. But nothing is too grand for the
American, in the way of titles. The proudest of them all signify
absolutely nothing. They do not stand for ability, for public service,
for social importance, for large possessions; but, on the contrary, are
oftenest found in connection with personalities to which they are
supremely inapplicable. We can hardly afford to quarrel with a national
habit which, if lightly handled, may involve us in serious domestic
difficulties. The "Right Worshipful" functionary whose equipage stops at
my back gate, and whose services are indispensable to the health and
comfort of my household, is a dignitary whom I must not offend. I must
speak with proper deference to the lady who is scrubbing my floors, when
I remember that her husband, who saws my wood, carries a string of
high-sounding titles which would satisfy a Spanish nobleman.

After all, every people must have its own forms of ostentation, pretence,
and vulgarity. The ancient Romans had theirs, the English and the French
have theirs as well,--why should not we Americans have ours? Educated
and refined persons must recognize frequent internal conflicts between
the "Homo sum" of Terence and the "Odi profanum vulgus" of Horace. The
nobler sentiment should be that of every true American, and it is in that
direction that our best civilization is constantly tending.

We were waited on by a new girl, the other evening. Our pretty maiden
had left us for a visit to some relative,--so the Mistress said. I do
sincerely hope she will soon come back, for we all like to see her
flitting round the table.

I don't know what to make of it. I had it all laid out in my mind. With
such a company there must be a love-story. Perhaps there will be, but
there may be new combinations of the elements which are to make it up,
and here is a bud among the full-blown flowers to which I must devote a
little space.

Delilah.

I must call her by the name we gave her after she had trimmed the Samson
locks of our Professor. Delilah is a puzzle to most of us. A pretty
creature, dangerously pretty to be in a station not guarded by all the
protective arrangements which surround the maidens of a higher social
order. It takes a strong cage to keep in a tiger or a grizzly bear, but
what iron bars, what barbed wires, can keep out the smooth and subtle
enemy that finds out the cage where beauty is imprisoned? Our young
Doctor is evidently attracted by the charming maiden who serves him and
us so modestly and so gracefully. Fortunately, the Mistress never loses
sight of her. If she were her own daughter, she could not be more
watchful of all her movements. And yet I do not believe that Delilah
needs all this overlooking. If I am not mistaken, she knows how to take
care of herself, and could be trusted anywhere, in any company, without a
duenna. She has a history,--I feel sure of it. She has been trained and
taught as young persons of higher position in life are brought up, and
does not belong in the humble station in which we find her. But inasmuch
as the Mistress says nothing about her antecedents, we do not like to be
too inquisitive. The two Annexes are, it is plain, very curious about
her. I cannot wonder. They are both good-looking girls, but Delilah is
prettier than either of them. My sight is not so good as it was, but I
can see the way in which the eyes of the young people follow each other
about plainly enough to set me thinking as to what is going on in the
thinking marrow behind them. The young Doctor's follow Delilah as she
glides round the table,--they look into hers whenever they get a chance;
but the girl's never betray any consciousness of it, so far as I can see.
There is no mistaking the interest with which the two, Annexes watch all
this. Why shouldn't they, I should like to know? The Doctor is a bright
young fellow, and wants nothing but a bald spot and a wife to find
himself in a comfortable family practice. One of the Annexes, as I have
said, has had thoughts of becoming a doctress. I don't think the Doctor
would want his wife to practise medicine, for reasons which I will not
stop to mention. Such a partnership sometimes works wonderfully well, as
in one well-known instance where husband and wife are both eminent in the
profession; but our young Doctor has said to me that he had rather see
his wife,--if he ever should have one,--at the piano than at the
dissecting-table. Of course the Annexes know nothing about this, and
they may think, as he professed himself willing to lecture on medicine to
women, he might like to take one of his pupils as a helpmeet.

If it were not for our Delilah's humble position, I don't see why she
would not be a good match for any young man. But then it is so hard to
take a young woman from so very lowly a condition as that of a "waitress"
that it would require a deal of courage to venture on such a step. If we
could only find out that she is a princess in disguise, so to
speak,--that is, a young person of presentable connections as well as
pleasing looks and manners; that she has had an education of some kind,
as we suspected when she blushed on hearing herself spoken of as a
"gentille petite," why, then everything would be all right, the young
Doctor would have plain sailing,--that is, if he is in love with her, and
if she fancies him,--and I should find my love-story,--the one I
expected, but not between the parties I had thought would be mating with
each other.

Dear little Delilah! Lily of the valley, growing in the shade
now,--perhaps better there until her petals drop; and yet if she is all I
often fancy she is, how her youthful presence would illuminate and
sweeten a household! There is not one of us who does not feel interested
in her,--not one of us who would not be delighted at some Cinderella
transformation which would show her in the setting Nature meant for her
favorite.

The fancy of Number Seven about the witches' broomsticks suggested to one
of us the following poem:

THE BROOMSTICK TRAIN;
OR, THE RETURN OF THE WITCHES.

Lookout! Look out, boys! Clear the track!
The witches are here! They've all come back!
They hanged them high,--No use! No use!
What cares a witch for a hangman's noose?
They buried them deep, but they would n't lie, still,
For cats and witches are hard to kill;
They swore they shouldn't and wouldn't die,
Books said they did, but they lie! they lie!

--A couple of hundred years, or so,
They had knocked about in the world below,
When an Essex Deacon dropped in to call,
And a homesick feeling seized them all;
For he came from a place they knew full well,
And many a tale he had to tell.
They long to visit the haunts of men,
To see the old dwellings they knew again,
And ride on their broomsticks all around
Their wide domain of unhallowed ground.

In Essex county there's many a roof
Well known to him of the cloven hoof;
The small square windows are full in view
Which the midnight hags went sailing through,
On their well-trained broomsticks mounted high,
Seen like shadows against the sky;
Crossing the track of owls and bats,
Hugging before them their coal-black cats.

Well did they know, those gray old wives,
The sights we see in our daily drives
Shimmer of lake and shine of sea,
Brown's bare hill with its lonely tree,
(It wasn't then as we see it now,
With one scant scalp-lock to shade its brow;)
Dusky nooks in the Essex woods,
Dark, dim, Dante-like solitudes,
Where the tree-toad watches the sinuous snake
Glide through his forests of fern and brake;
Ipswich River; its old stone bridge;
Far off Andover's Indian Ridge,
And many a scene where history tells
Some shadow of bygone terror dwells,
Of "Norman's Woe" with its tale of dread,
Of the Screeching Woman of Marblehead,
(The fearful story that turns men pale
Don't bid me tell it,--my speech would fail.)

Who would not, will not, if he can,
Bathe in the breezes of fair Cape Ann,
Rest in the bowers her bays enfold,
Loved by the sachems and squaws of old?
Home where the white magnolias bloom,
Sweet with the bayberry's chaste perfume,
Hugged by the woods and kissed by the seal
Where is the Eden like to thee?

For that "couple of hundred years, or so,"
There had been no peace in the world below;
The witches still grumbling, "It is n't fair;
Come, give us a taste of the upper air!
We've had enough of your sulphur springs,
And the evil odor that round them clings;
We long for a drink that is cool and nice,
Great buckets of water with Wenham ice;
We've served you well up-stairs, you know;
You're a good old-fellow--come, let us go!"

I don't feel sure of his being good,
But he happened to be in a pleasant mood,
As fiends with their skins full sometimes are,
(He'd been drinking with "roughs" at a Boston bar.)
So what does he do but up and shout
To a graybeard turnkey, "Let 'em out!"

To mind his orders was all he knew;
The gates swung open, and out they flew.
"Where are our broomsticks?" the beldams cried.
"Here are your broomsticks," an imp replied.
"They've been in--the place you know--so long
They smell of brimstone uncommon strong;
But they've gained by being left alone,
Just look, and you'll see how tall they've grown."
--And where is my cat? "a vixen squalled.
Yes, where are our cats?" the witches bawled,
And began to call them all by name:
As fast as they called the cats, they came
There was bob-tailed Tommy and long-tailed Tim,
And wall-eyed Jacky and green-eyed Jim,
And splay-foot Benny and slim-legged Beau,
And Skinny and Squally, and Jerry and Joe,

And many another that came at call,
It would take too long to count them all.
All black,--one could hardly tell which was which,
But every cat knew his own old witch;
And she knew hers as hers knew her,
Ah, did n't they curl their tails and purr!

No sooner the withered hags were free
Than out they swarmed for a midnight spree;
I could n't tell all they did in rhymes,
But the Essex people had dreadful times.
The Swampscott fishermen still relate
How a strange sea-monster stole thair bait;
How their nets were tangled in loops and knots,
And they found dead crabs in their lobster-pots.
Poor Danvers grieved for her blasted crops,
And Wilmington mourned over mildewed hops.
A blight played havoc with Beverly beans,
It was all the work of those hateful queans!
A dreadful panic began at "Pride's,"
Where the witches stopped in their midnight rides,
And there rose strange rumors and vague alarms
'Mid the peaceful dwellers at Beverly Farms.

Now when the Boss of the Beldams found
That without his leave they were ramping round,
He called,--they could hear him twenty miles,
From Chelsea beach to the Misery Isles;
The deafest old granny knew his tone
Without the trick of the telephone.
"Come here, you witches! Come here!" says he,
--"At your games of old, without asking me
I'll give you a little job to do
That will keep you stirring, you godless crew!"

They came, of course, at their master's call,
The witches, the broomsticks, the cats, and all;
He led the hags to a railway train
The horses were trying to drag in vain.
"Now, then," says he, "you've had your fun,
And here are the cars you've got to run.

"The driver may just unhitch his team,
We don't want horses, we don't want steam;
You may keep your old black cats to hug,
But the loaded train you've got to lug."

Since then on many a car you'll see
A broomstick plain as plain can be;
On every stick there's a witch astride,
The string you see to her leg is tied.
She will do a mischief if she can,
But the string is held by a careful man,
And whenever the evil-minded witch
Would cut come caper, he gives a twitch.
As for the hag, you can't see her,
But hark! you can hear her black cat's purr,
And now and then, as a car goes by,
You may catch a gleam from her wicked eye.