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CHAPTER IV: OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Never but once did I enjoy the privilege of meeting the author of "Elsie
Venner"--Oliver Wendell Holmes. It was at a dinner given by Mr. Lowell,
and of conversation with Dr. Holmes I had very little. He struck me as
being wonderfully erect, active, and vivacious for his great age. He
spoke (perhaps I should not chronicle this impression)--he spoke much,
and freely, but rather as if he were wound up to speak, so to say--wound
up, I mean, by a sense of duty to himself and kindness to strangers, who
were naturally curious about so well-known a man. In his aspect there
was a certain dryness, and, altogether, his vivacity, his ceaselessness,
and a kind of equability of tone in his voice, reminded me of what Homer
says concerning the old men around Priam, above the gate of Troy, how
they "chirped like cicalas on a summer day." About the matter of his
talk I remember nothing, only the manner remains with me, and mine may
have been a false impression, or the manner may have been accidental, and
of the moment: or, again, a manner appropriate for conversation with
strangers, each coming up one after the other, to view respectfully so
great a lion. Among his friends and intimates he was probably a
different man, with a tone other and more reposeful.
He had a long, weary task before him, then, to talk his way, ever
courteous, alert, attentive, through part of a London season.
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