wilderness　like　Whittier　or　Lowell。　　His　note　was　heard　rather　amid　the
  sweet　security　of　streets；　but　it　was　always　for　a　finer　and　gentler
  civility。　　He　imagined　no　new　rule　of　life；　and　no　philosophy　or　theory
  of　life　will　be　known　by　his　name。　　He　was　not　constructive；　he　was
  essentially　observant；　and　in　this　he　showed　the　scientific　nature。
  He　made　his　reader　known　to　himself；　first　in　the　little；　and　then　in　the
  larger　things。　　From　first　to　last　he　was　a　censor；　but　a　most　winning
  and　delightful　censor；　who　could　make　us　feel　that　our　faults　were　other
  people's；　and　who　was　not　wont
  〃To　bait　his　homilies　with　his　brother　worms。〃
  At　one　period　he　sat　in　the　seat　of　the　scorner；　as　far　as　Reform　was
  concerned；　or　perhaps　reformers；　who　are　so　often　tedious　and　ridiculous；
  but　he　seemed　to　get　a　new　heart　with　the　new　mind　which　came　to　him　when
  he　began　to　write　the　Autocrat　papers；　and　the　light　mocker　of　former
  days　became　the　serious　and　compassionate　thinker；　to　whom　most　truly
  nothing　that　was　human　was　alien。　　His　readers　trusted　and　loved　him；　few
  men　have　ever　written　so　intimately　with　so　much　dignity；　and　perhaps
  none　has　so　endeared　himself　by　saying　just　the　thing　for　his　reader　that
  his　reader　could　not　say　for　himself。　　He　sought　the　universal　through
  himself　in　others；　and　he　found　to　his　delight　and　theirs　that　the　most
  universal　thing　was　often；　if　not　always；　the　most　personal　thing。
  In　my　later　meetings　with　him　I　was　struck　more　and　more　by　his
  gentleness。　　I　believe　that　men　are　apt　to　grow　gentler　as　they　grow
  older；　unless　they　are　of　the　curmudgeon　type；　which　rusts　and　crusts
  with　age；　but　with　Doctor　Holmes　the　gentleness　was　peculiarly　marked。
  He　seemed　to　shrink　from　all　things　that　could　provoke　controversy；　or
  even　difference；　he　waived　what　might　be　a　matter　of　dispute；　and　rather
  sought　the　things　that　he　could　agree　with　you　upon。　　In　the　last　talk　I
  had　with　him　he　appeared　to　have　no　grudge　left；　except　for　the　puritanic
  orthodoxy　in　which　he　had　been　bred　as　a　child。　　This　he　was　not　able　to
  forgive；　though　its　tradition　was　interwoven　with　what　was　tenderest　and
  dearest　in　his　recollections　of　childhood。　　We　spoke　of　puritanism；　and
  I　said　I　sometimes　wondered　what　could　be　the　mind　of　a　man　towards　life
  who　had　not　been　reared　in　its　awful　shadow；　say　an　English　Churchman；　or
  a　Continental　Catholic；　and　he　said　he　could　not　imagine；　and　that　he　did
  not　believe　such　a　man　could　at　all　enter　into　our　feelings；　puritanism；
  he　seemed　to　think；　made　an　essential　and　ineradicable　difference。　　I　do
  not　believe　he　had　any　of　that　false　sentiment　which　attributes　virtue　of
  character　to　severity　of　creed；　while　it　owns　the　creed　to　be　wrong。
  He　differed　from　Longfellow　in　often　speaking　of　his　contemporaries。　　He
  spoke　of　them　frankly；　but　with　an　appreciative　rather　than　a　censorious
  criticism。　　Of　Longfellow　himself　he　said　that　day；　when　I　told　him　I　had
  been　writing　about　him；　and　he　seemed　to　me　a　man　without　error；　that　he
  could　think　of　but　one　error　in　him；　and　that　was　an　error　of　taste；　of
  almost　merely　literary　taste。　　It　was　at　an　earlier　time　that　he　talked
  of　Lowell；　after　his　death；　and　told　me　that　Lowell　once　in　the　fever　of
  his　anti…slavery　apostolate　had　written　him；　urging　him　strongly；　as　a
  matter　of　duty；　to　come　out　for　the　cause　he　had　himself　so　much　at
  heart。　　Afterwards　Lowell　wrote　again；　owning　himself　wrong　in　his
  appeal；　which　he　had　come　to　recognize　as　invasive。　　〃He　was　ten　years
  younger　than　I；〃　said　the　doctor。
  I　found　him　that　day　I　speak　of　in　his　house　at　Beverly　Farms；　where　he
  had　a　pleasant　study　in　a　corner　by　the　porch；　and　he　met　me　with　all　the
  cheeriness　of　old。　　But　he　confessed　that　he　had　been　greatly　broken　up
  by　the　labor　of　preparing　something　that　might　be　read　at　some
  commemorative　meeting；　and　had　suffered　from　finding　first　that　he　could
  not　write　something　specially　for　it。　　Even　the　copying　and　adapting　an
  old　poem　had　overtaxed　him；　and　in　this　he　showed　the　failing　powers　of
  age。　　But　otherwise　he　was　still　young；　intellectually；　that　is；　there
  was　no　failure　of　interest　in　intellectual　things；　especially　literary
  things。　　Some　new　book　lay　on　the　table　at　his　elbow；　and　he　asked　me　if
  I　had　seen　it；　and　made　some　joke　about　his　having　had　the　good　luck　to
  read　it；　and　have　it　lying　by　him　a　few　days　before　when　the　author
  called。　　I　do　not　know　whether　he　schooled　himself　against　an　old　man's
  tendency　to　revert　to　the　past　or　not；　but　I　know　that　he　seldom　did　so。
  That　morning；　however；　he　made　several　excursions　into　it；　and　told　me
  that　his　youthful　satire　of　the　'Spectre　Pig'　had　been　provoked　by　a　poem
  of　the　elder　Dana's；　where　a　phantom　horse　had　been　seriously　employed；
  with　an　effect　of　anticlimax　which　he　had　found　irresistible。　　Another
  foray　was　to　recall　the　oppression　and　depression　of　his　early　religious
  associations；　and　to　speak　with　moving　tenderness　of　his　father；　whose
  hard　doctrine　as　a　minister　was　without　effect　upon　his　own　kindly
  nature。
  In　a　letter　written　to　me　a　few　weeks　after　this　time；　upon　an　occasion
  when　he　divined　that　some　word　from　him　would　be　more　than　commonly　dear；
  he　recurred　to　the　feeling　he　then　expressed：　〃Fifty…six　years　agomore
  than　half　a　centuryI　lost　my　own　father；　his　age　being　seventy…three
  years。　　As　I　have　reached　that　period　of　life；　passed　it；　and　now　left　it
  far　behind；　my　recollections　seem　to　brighten　and　bring　back　my　boyhood
  and　early　manhood　in　a　clearer　and　fairer　light　than　it　came　to　me　in　my
  middle　decades。　　I　have　often　wished　of　late　years　that　I　could　tell　him
  how　I　cherished　his　memory；　perhaps　I　may　have　the　happiness　of　saying
  all　I　long　to　tell　him　on　the　other　side　of　that　thin　partition　which　I
  love　to　think　is　all　that　divides　us。〃
  Men　are　never　long　together　without　speaking　of　women；　and　I　said　how
  inevitably　men's　lives　ended　where　they　began；　in　the　keeping　of　women；
  and　their　strength　failed　at　last　and　surrendered　itself　to　their　care。
  I　had　not　finished　before　I　was　made　to　feel　that　I　was　poaching；　and
  〃Yes；〃　said　the　owner　of　the　preserve；　〃I　have　spoken　of　that；〃　and　he
  went　on　to　tell　me　just　where。　　He　was　not　going　to　have　me　suppose　I　had
  invented　those　notions；　and　I　could　not　do　less　than　own　that　I　must　have
  found　them　in　his　book；　and　forgotten　it。
  He　spoke　of　his　pleasant　summer　life　in　the　air；　at　once　soft　and　fresh；
  of　that　lovely　coast；　and　of　his　drives　up　and　down　the　country　roads。
  Sometimes　this　lady　and　sometimes　that　came　for　him；　and　one　or　two
  habitually；　but　he　always　had　his　own　carriage　ordered；　if　they　failed；
  that　he　might　not　fail　of　his　drive　in　any　fair　weather。　　His　cottage　was
  not　immediately　on　the　sea；　but　in　full　sight　of　it；　and　there　was　a
  sense　of　the　sea　about　it；　as　there　is　in　all　that　incomparable　region；
  and　I　do　not　think　he　could　have　been　at　home　anywhere　beyond　the　reach
  of　its　salt　breath。
  I　was　anxious　not　to　outstay　his　strength；　and　I　kept　my　eye　on　the　clock
  in　frequent　glances。　　I　saw　that　he　followed　me　in　one　of　these；　and　I
  said　that　I　knew　what　his　hours　were；　and　I　was　watching　so　that　I　might
  go　away　in　time；　and　then　he　sweetly　protested。　　Did　I　like　that　chair　I
  was　sitting　in？　　It　was　a　gift　to　him；　and　he　said　who　gave　it；　with　a
  pleasure　in　the　fact　that　was　very　charming；　as　if　he　liked　the
  association　of　the　thing　with　his　friend。　　He　was　disposed　to　excuse　the
  formal　look　of　his　bookcases；　which　were　filled　with　sets；　and　presented
  some　phalanxes　of　fiction　in　rather　severe　array。
  When　I　rose　to　go；　he　was　concerned　about　my　being　able　to　find　my　way
  readily　to　the　station；　and　he　told　me　how　to　go；　and　what　turns　to　take；
  as　if　he　liked　realizing　the　way　to　himself。　　I　believe　he　did　not　walk
  much　of　late　years；　and　I　fancy　he　found　much　the　same　pleasure　in
  letting　his　imagination　make　this　excursion　to　the　station　with　me　that
  he　would　have　found　in　actually　going。
  I　saw　him　once　more；　but　only　once；　when　a　day　or　two　later　he　drove　up
  by　our　hotel　in　Magnolia　toward　the　cottage　where　his　secretary　was
  lodging。　　He　saw　us　from　his　carriage；　and　called　us　gayly　to　him；　to
  make　us　rejoice　with　him　at　having　finally　got　that　commemorative　poem
  off　his　mind。　　He　made　a　jest　of　the　trouble　it　had　cost　him；　even　some
  sleeplessness；　and　said　he　felt　now　like　a　convalescent。　　He　was　all
  brightness；　and　friendliness；　and　eagerness　to　make　us　feel　his　mood；
  through　what　was　common　to　us　all；　and　I　am　glad　that　this　last
  impression　of　him　is　so　one　with　the　first　I　ever　had；　and　with　that
  which　every　reader　receives　from　his　work。
  That　is　bright；　and　friendly　and　eager　too；　for　it　is　throughout　the　very
  expression　of　himself。　　I　think　it　is　a　pity　if　an　author　disappoints
  even　the　unreasonable　expectation　of　the　reader；　whom　his　art　has　invited
  to　love　him；　but　I　do　not　believe　that　Doctor　Holmes　could　inflict　this
  disappointment。　　Certainly　he　could　disappoint　no　reasonable　expectation；
  no　intelligent　expectation。　　What　he　wrote；　that　he　was；　and　every　one
  felt　this　who　met　him。　　He　has　therefore　not　died；　as　some　men　die；　the
  remote　impe