The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes Part 104

Among the great whom Heaven has made to shine, How few have learned the art of arts,--to dine!

Nature, indulgent to our daily need, Kind-hearted mother! taught us all to feed; But the chief art,--how rarely Nature flings This choicest gift among her social kings Say, man of truth, has life a brighter hour Than waits the chosen guest who knows his power?

He moves with ease, itself an angel charm,-- Lifts with light touch my lady's jewelled arm, Slides to his seat, half leading and half led, Smiling but quiet till the grace is said, Then gently kindles, while by slow degrees Creep softly out the little arts that please; Bright looks, the cheerful language of the eye, The neat, crisp question and the gay reply,-- Talk light and airy, such as well may pa.s.s Between the rested fork and lifted gla.s.s;-- With play like this the earlier evening flies, Till rustling silks proclaim the ladies rise.

His hour has come,--he looks along the chairs, As the Great Duke surveyed his iron squares.

That's the young traveller,--is n't much to show,-- Fast on the road, but at the table slow.

Next him,--you see the author in his look,-- His forehead lined with wrinkles like a book,-- Wrote the great history of the ancient Huns,-- Holds back to fire among the heavy guns.

Oh, there's our poet seated at his side, Beloved of ladies, soft, cerulean-eyed.

Poets are prosy in their common talk, As the fast trotters, for the most part, walk.

And there's our well-dressed gentleman, who sits, By right divine, no doubt, among the wits, Who airs his tailor's patterns when he walks, The man that often speaks, but never talks.

Why should he talk, whose presence lends a grace To every table where he shows his face?

He knows the manual of the silver fork, Can name his claret--if he sees the cork,-- Remark that "White-top" was considered fine, But swear the "Juno" is the better wine;-- Is not this talking? Ask Quintilian's rules; If they say No, the town has many fools.

Pause for a moment,--for our eyes behold The plain unsceptred king, the man of gold, The thrice ill.u.s.trious threefold millionnaire; Mark his slow-creeping, dead, metallic stare; His eyes, dull glimmering, like the balance-pan That weighs its guinea as he weighs his man.

Who's next? An artist in a satin tie Whose ample folds defeat the curious eye.

And there 's the cousin,--must be asked, you know,-- Looks like a spinster at a baby-show.

Hope he is cool,--they set him next the door,-- And likes his place, between the gap and bore.

Next comes a Congressman, distinguished guest We don't count him,--they asked him with the rest; And then some white cravats, with well-shaped ties, And heads above them which their owners prize.

Of all that cl.u.s.ter round the genial board, Not one so radiant as the banquet's lord.

Some say they fancy, but they know not why, A shade of trouble brooding in his eye, Nothing, perhaps,--the rooms are overhot,-- Yet see his cheek,--the dull-red burning spot,-- Taste the brown sherry which he does not pa.s.s,-- Ha! That is brandy; see him fill his gla.s.s!

But not forgetful of his feasting friends, To each in turn some lively word he sends; See how he throws his baited lines about, And plays his men as anglers play their trout.

A question drops among the listening crew And hits the traveller, pat on Timbuctoo.

We're on the Niger, somewhere near its source,-- Not the least hurry, take the river's course Through Kissi, Foota, Kankan, Bammakoo, Bambarra, Sego, so to Timbuctoo, Thence down to Youri;--stop him if we can, We can't fare worse,--wake up the Congressman!

The Congressman, once on his talking legs, Stirs up his knowledge to its thickest dregs; Tremendous draught for dining men to quaff!

Nothing will choke him but a purpling laugh.

A word,--a shout,--a mighty roar,--'t is done; Extinguished; la.s.soed by a treacherous pun.

A laugh is priming to the loaded soul; The scattering shots become a steady roll, Broke by sharp cracks that run along the line, The light artillery of the talker's wine.

The kindling goblets flame with golden dews, The h.o.a.rded flasks their tawny fire diffuse, And the Rhine's breast-milk gushes cold and bright, Pale as the moon and maddening as her light; With crimson juice the thirsty southern sky Sucks from the hills where buried armies lie, So that the dreamy pa.s.sion it imparts Is drawn from heroes' bones and lovers' hearts.

But lulls will come; the flashing soul transmits Its gleams of light in alternating fits.

The shower of talk that rattled down amain Ends in small patterings like an April's rain;

With the dry sticks all bonfires are begun; Bring the first f.a.got, proser number one The voices halt; the game is at a stand; Now for a solo from the master-hand 'T is but a story,--quite a simple thing,-- An aria touched upon a single string, But every accent comes with such a grace The stupid servants listen in their place, Each with his waiter in his lifted hands, Still as a well-bred pointer when he stands.

A query checks him: "Is he quite exact?"

(This from a grizzled, square-jawed man of fact.) The sparkling story leaves him to his fate, Crushed by a witness, smothered with a date, As a swift river, sown with many a star, Runs brighter, rippling on a shallow bar.

The smooth divine suggests a graver doubt; A neat quotation bowls the parson out; Then, sliding gayly from his own display, He laughs the learned dulness all away.

So, with the merry tale and jovial song, The jocund evening whirls itself along, Till the last chorus shrieks its loud encore, And the white neckcloths vanish through the door.

One savage word!--The menials know its tone, And slink away; the master stands alone.

"Well played, by ---"; breathe not what were best unheard; His goblet shivers while he speaks the word,-- "If wine tells truth,--and so have said the wise,-- It makes me laugh to think how brandy lies!

Bankrupt to-morrow,--millionnaire to-day,-- The farce is over,--now begins the play!"

The spring he touches lets a panel glide; An iron closet harks beneath the slide, Bright with such treasures as a search might bring From the deep pockets of a truant king.

Two diamonds, eyeb.a.l.l.s of a G.o.d of bronze, Bought from his faithful priest, a pious bonze; A string of brilliants; rubies, three or four; Bags of old coin and bars of virgin ore; A jewelled poniard and a Turkish knife, Noiseless and useful if we come to strife.

Gone! As a pirate flies before the wind, And not one tear for all he leaves behind From all the love his better years have known Fled like a felon,--ah! but not alone!

The chariot flashes through a lantern's glare,-- Oh the wild eyes! the storm of sable hair!

Still to his side the broken heart will cling,-- The bride of shame, the wife without the ring Hark, the deep oath,--the wail of frenzied woe,-- Lost! lost to hope of Heaven and peace below!

He kept his secret; but the seed of crime Bursts of itself in G.o.d's appointed time.

The lives he wrecked were scattered far and wide; One never blamed nor wept,--she only died.

None knew his lot, though idle tongues would say He sought a lonely refuge far away, And there, with borrowed name and altered mien, He died unheeded, as he lived unseen.

The moral market had the usual chills Of Virtue suffering from protested bills; The White Cravats, to friendship's memory true, Sighed for the past, surveyed the future too; Their sorrow breathed in one expressive line,-- "Gave pleasant dinners; who has got his wine?"

The reader paused,--the Teacups knew his ways,-- He, like the rest, was not averse to praise.

Voices and hands united; every one Joined in approval: "Number Three, well done!"

"Now for the Exile's story; if my wits Are not at fault, his curious record fits Neatly as sequel to the tale we've heard; Not wholly wild the fancy, nor absurd That this our island hermit well might be That story's hero, fled from over sea.

Come, Number Seven, we would not have you strain The fertile powers of that inventive brain.

Read us 'The Exile's Secret'; there's enough Of dream-like fiction and fantastic stuff In the strange web of mystery that invests The lonely isle where sea birds build their nests."

"Lies! naught but lies!" so Number Seven began,-- No harm was known of that secluded man.

He lived alone,--who would n't if he might, And leave the rogues and idiots out of sight?

A foolish story,--still, I'll do my best,-- The house was real,--don't believe the rest.

How could a ruined dwelling last so long Without its legends shaped in tale and song?

Who was this man of whom they tell the lies?

Perhaps--why not?--NAPOLEON! in disguise,-- So some said, kidnapped from his ocean coop, Brought to this island in a coasting sloop,-- Meanwhile a sham Napoleon in his place Played Nap. and saved Sir Hudson from disgrace.

Such was one story; others used to say, "No,--not Napoleon,--it was Marshal Ney."

"Shot?" Yes, no doubt, but not with b.a.l.l.s of lead, But b.a.l.l.s of pith that never shoot folks dead.

He wandered round, lived South for many a year, At last came North and fixed his dwelling here.

Choose which you will of all the tales that pile Their mingling fables on the tree-crowned isle.

Who wrote this modest version I suppose That truthful Teacup, our Dictator, knows; Made up of various legends, it would seem, The sailor's yarn, the crazy poet's dream.

Such tales as this, by simple souls received, At first are stared at and at last believed; From threads like this the grave historians try To weave their webs, and never know they lie.

Hear, then, the fables that have gathered round The lonely home an exiled stranger found.

THE EXILE'S SECRET

YE that have faced the billows and the spray Of good St. Botolph's island-studded bay, As from the gliding bark your eye has scanned The beaconed rocks, the wave-girt hills of sand, Have ye not marked one elm-o'ershadowed isle, Round as the dimple chased in beauty's smile,-- A stain of verdure on an azure field, Set like a jewel in a battered shield?

Fixed in the narrow gorge of Ocean's path, Peaceful it meets him in his hour of wrath; When the mailed t.i.tan, scourged by hissing gales, Writhes in his glistening coat of clashing scales, The storm-beat island spreads its tranquil green, Calm as an emerald on an angry queen.

So fair when distant should be fairer near; A boat shall waft us from the outstretched pier.

The breeze blows fresh; we reach the island's edge, Our shallop rustling through the yielding sedge.

No welcome greets us on the desert isle; Those elms, far-shadowing, hide no stately pile Yet these green ridges mark an ancient road; And to! the traces of a fair abode; The long gray line that marks a garden-wall, And heaps of fallen beams,--fire-branded all.

Who sees unmoved, a ruin at his feet, The lowliest home where human hearts have beat?

Its hearthstone, shaded with the bistre stain A century's showery torrents wash in vain; Its starving orchard, where the thistle blows And mossy trunks still mark the broken rows; Its chimney-loving poplar, oftenest seen Next an old roof, or where a roof has been; Its knot-gra.s.s, plantain,--all the social weeds, Man's mute companions, following where he leads; Its dwarfed, pale flowers, that show their straggling heads, Sown by the wind from gra.s.s-choked garden-beds; Its woodbine, creeping where it used to climb; Its roses, breathing of the olden time; All the poor shows the curious idler sees, As life's thin shadows waste by slow degrees, Till naught remains, the saddening tale to tell, Save home's last wrecks,--the cellar and the well?

And whose the home that strews in black decay The one green-glowing island of the bay?

Some dark-browed pirate's, jealous of the fate That seized the strangled wretch of "Nix's Mate"?

Some forger's, skulking in a borrowed name, Whom Tyburn's dangling halter yet may claim?

Some wan-eyed exile's, wealth and sorrow's heir, Who sought a lone retreat for tears and prayer?

Some brooding poet's, sure of deathless fame, Had not his epic perished in the flame?

Or some gray wooer's, whom a girlish frown Chased from his solid friends and sober town?

Or some plain tradesman's, fond of shade and ease, Who sought them both beneath these quiet trees?

Why question mutes no question can unlock, Dumb as the legend on the Dighton rock?

One thing at least these ruined heaps declare,-- They were a shelter once; a man lived there.

But where the charred and crumbling records fail, Some breathing lips may piece the half-told tale; No man may live with neighbors such as these, Though girt with walls of rock and angry seas, And shield his home, his children, or his wife, His ways, his means, his vote, his creed, his life, From the dread sovereignty of Ears and Eyes And the small member that beneath them lies.

They told strange things of that mysterious man; Believe who will, deny them such as can; Why should we fret if every pa.s.sing sail Had its old seaman talking on the rail?

The deep-sunk schooner stuffed with Eastern lime, Slow wedging on, as if the waves were slime; The knife-edged clipper with her ruffled spars, The pawing steamer with her inane of stars, The bull-browed galliot b.u.t.ting through the stream, The wide-sailed yacht that slipped along her beam, The deck-piled sloops, the pinched chebacco-boats, The frigate, black with thunder-freighted throats, All had their talk about the lonely man; And thus, in varying phrase, the story ran.

His name had cost him little care to seek, Plain, honest, brief, a decent name to speak, Common, not vulgar, just the kind that slips With least suggestion from a stranger's lips.

His birthplace England, as his speech might show, Or his hale cheek, that wore the red-streak's glow; His mouth sharp-moulded; in its mirth or scorn There came a flash as from the milky corn, When from the ear you rip the rustling sheath, And the white ridges show their even teeth.