Cambridge Sketches

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He died at his house on Ellery Street January 20, 1890, as gently and
peacefully as he had lived. There is an excellent portrait of him by
Duveneck in the rooms of the University Club, at Boston; but the sketch
of his life, by George William Curtis, was refused on the ground that he
was an Emersonian. The same objection might have been raised against
Lowell, or Curtis himself with equally good reason.

T. G. APPLETON.

Thomas G. Appleton, universally known as "Tom" Appleton, was a notable
figure during the middle of the last century not only in Boston and
Cambridge, but in Paris, Rome, Florence, and other European cities. He
was descended from one of the oldest and wealthiest families of Boston,
and graduated from Harvard in 1831, together with Wendell Phillips and
George Lothrop Motley. He was not distinguished in college for his
scholarship, but rather as a wit, a _bon vivant_, and a good fellow.
Yet his companions looked upon him as a strong character and much above
the average in intellect. After taking his degree of Bachelor of Arts he
went through the Law School, and attempted to practise that profession in
Boston. At the end of the first year, happening to meet Wendell Phillips
on the sidewalk, the latter inquired if he had any clients. He had not;
neither had Phillips, and they both agreed that waiting for fortune in
the legal profession was wearisome business. They were both well adapted
to it, and the only reason for their ill success would seem to have been
that they belonged to wealthy and rather aristocratic families, amongst
whom there is little litigation.

At the same time Sumner was laying the foundation by hard study for his
future distinction as a legal authority, and Motley was discussing Goethe
and Kant with the youthful Bismarck in Berlin. Wendell Phillips soon gave
up his profession to become an orator in the anti-slavery cause; and Tom
Appleton went to Rome and took lessons in oil painting.

Nothing can be more superficial than to presume that young men who write
verses or study painting think themselves geniuses. A man may have a
genius for mechanics; and in most instances men and women are attracted
to the arts from the elevating character of the occupation. It is not
likely that Tom Appleton considered himself a genius, for although he had
plenty of self-confidence, his opinion of himself was always a modest
one. He painted the portraits of some of his friends, but he never fairly
made a profession of it. However, he learned the mechanism of pictorial
art in this way, and soon became one of the best connoisseurs of his
time.

His finest enjoyment was to meet with some person, especially a stranger,
with whom he could discuss the celebrated works in the galleries of
Europe. He soon became known as a man who had something to say, and who
knew how to say it. He told the Italian picture-dealers to cheat him as
much as they could, and he gave amusing accounts of their various
attempts to do this. He knew more than they did.

After this time he lived as much in Europe as he did in America. Before
1860 he had crossed the Atlantic nearly forty times. The marriage of his
sister to Henry W. Longfellow was of great advantage to him, for through
Longfellow he made the acquaintance of many celebrated persons whom he
would not otherwise have known, and being always equal to such occasions
he retained their respect and good will. One might also say, "What could
Longfellow have done without _him_?" His conversation was never
forced, and the wit, for which he became as much distinguished in social
life as Lowell or Holmes, was never premeditated, often making its
appearance on unexpected occasions to refresh his hearers with its
sparkle and originality.

In the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table" Doctor Holmes quotes this saying
by the "wittiest of men," that "good Americans, when they die, go to
Paris." Now this wittiest of men was Tom Appleton, as many of us knew at
that time. He said of Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper" that it probably
had faded out from being stared at by sightseers, and that the same thing
might have happened to the Sistine Madonna if it had not been put under
glass,--these being the two most popular paintings in Europe. His fund of
anecdotes was inexhaustible.

Earlier in life he was occasionally given to practical jokes. A woman who
kept a thread and needle store in Boston was supposed to have committed
murder, and was tried for it but acquitted. One day, as Appleton was
going by her place of business with a friend he said: "Come in here with
me; I want to see how that woman looks." Then surveying the premises, as
if he wished to find something to purchase, he asked her if she had any
"galluses" for sale,--gallus being a shop-boy's term at the time for
suspenders.

When the Art Museum in Boston was first built its odd appearance
attracted very general attention, and some one asked Tom Appleton what he
thought of it. "Well," he said, "I have heard that architecture is a kind
of frozen music, and if so I should call the Art Museum frozen 'Yankee
Doodle.'"

Thomas G. Appleton was no dilettante; his interest in the subject was
serious and abiding. He did not wear his art as he did his gloves, nor
did he turn it into an intellectual abstraction. There was nothing he
disliked more than the kind of pretension which tries to make a knowledge
of art a vehicle for self-importance. "Who," he said, "ought not to feel
humble before a painting of Titian's or Correggio's? It is only when we
feel so that we can appreciate a great work of art." He believed that an
important moral lesson could be inculcated by a picture as well as by a
poem,--even by a realistic Dutch painting. "Women worship the Venus of
Milo now," he said, "just as they did in ancient Greece, and it is good
for them, too." He respected William Morris Hunt as the best American
painter of his time, but thought he would be a better painter if he were
not so proud. Pride leads to arrogance, and arrogance is blinding.

After he came into possession of his inheritance he showed that he could
make a good use of money. One of his first acts was to purchase a set of
engravings in the Vatican, valued at ten thousand dollars, for the Boston
Public Library. "I was not such a fool as to pay that sum for it,
though," he remarked to Rev. Samuel Longfellow. He visited the studios of
struggling artists in Rome and Boston, gave them advice and
encouragement,--made purchases himself, sometimes, and advised his
friends to purchase when he found a painting that was really excellent.
He also purchased some valuable old paintings to adorn his house on
Commonwealth Avenue.

He placed two of these at one time on free exhibition at Doll's picture-
store, and going into the rooms where they hung, I found Tom Appleton
explaining their merits to a group of remarkably pretty school-girls.

At the same moment, another gentleman who knew Mr. Appleton entered, and
said, "Ah! a Palma Vecio, Mr. Appleton; how delightful! It is a Palma, is
it not?"

"That," replied Mr. Appleton, "is probably a Palma; but what do you say
to this, which I consider a much better picture?" The gentleman did not
know; but it looked like Venetian coloring.

"Quite right," said Mr. Appleton; "I bought it at the sale of a private
collection in Rome, and it was catalogued as a Tintoretto, but I said,
'No, Bassano;' and it is the best Bassano I ever saw. The Italians call
it '_Il Coconotte_.'"

Mr. Appleton had no intention of palming off doubtful paintings on his
friends or the public; but in regard to "_Il Coconotte_" he was
confident of its true value, and rightly so. The painting, so called from
a head in the group covered very thinly with hair, was the pride of his
collection and one of the best of Bassano's works. The other painting
looked to me like a Palma, and I have always supposed that it was one.

After this Mr. Appleton branched off on to an interesting anecdote
concerning an Italian cicerone, and finally left his audience as well
entertained as if they had been to the theatre.

In 1871 he published a volume of poems for private circulation, in which
there were a number of excellent pieces, and especially two which deserve
a place in any choice collection of American poetry. One is called the
"Whip of the Sky" and relates to a subject which Mr. Appleton often dwelt
upon,--the unnecessary haste and restlessness of American life, and is
given here for the wider circulation which it amply deserves:

THE WHIP OF THE SKY.

Weary with travel, charmed with home,
The youth salutes New England's air;
Nor notes, within the azure dome,
A vigilant, menacing figure there,
Whose thonged hand swings
A whip which sings:
"Step, step, step," sings the whip of the sky:
"Hurry up, move along, you can if you try!"

Remembering Como's languid side,
Where, pulsing from the citron deep,
The nightingale's aerial tide
Floats through the day, repose and sleep,
Reclined in groves,--
A voice reproves.
"Step, step, step," cracks the whip of the sky:
"Hurry up, jump along, rest when you die!"

Slave of electric will, which strips
From him the bliss of easeful hours;
And bids, as from a tyrant's lips,
Rest, quiet, fly, as useless flowers,
He wings his heart
To make him smart.
"Step, step, step," snaps the whip of the sky:
"Hurry up, race along, rest when you die!"

He maddens in the breathless race,
Nor misses station, power or pelf;
And only loses in the chase
The hunted lord of all,--himself.
His gain is loss,
His treasure dross.
"Step, step, step," mocks the whip of the sky,
"Hurry up, limp along, rest when you die!"

With care he burthens all his soul;
Heaped ingots curve his willing back;
Submissive to that fierce control,
He needs at last the sky-whip's crack,
Till at the grave,
No more a slave,--
"Rest, rest, rest," sighs the whip of the sky:
"Hurry not, haste no more, rest when you die!"

Celia Thaxter, the finest of poetic readers, read this to me one
September morning at the Isles of Shoals, and at the conclusion she
remarked: "If that could only be read every year in our public schools it
might do the American people some good."

As compared with this, the sonnet on Pompeii has the effect of a strong
complementary color,--for instance, like orange against dark blue. It
echoes the pathetic reverie that we feel on beholding the monuments of
the mighty past. It contains not the pathos of yesterday, nor of a
hundred years ago, but as Emerson says, "of the time out of mind."

POMPEII.

The silence there was what most haunted me.
Long, speechless streets, whose stepping-stones invite
Feet which shall never come; to left and right
Gay colonnades and courts,--beyond, the glee,
Heartless, of that forgetful Pagan sea.
O'er roofless homes and waiting streets, the light
Lies with a pathos sorrowfuler than night.
Fancy forbids this doom of Life with Death
Wedded; and with a wand restores the Life.
The jostling throngs swarm, animate, beneath
The open shops, and all the tropic strife
Of voices, Roman, Greek, Barbarian, mix. The wreath
Indolent hangs on far Vesuvius's crest;
And beyond the glowing town, and guiltless sea, sweet rest.

Tom Appleton was greatly interested in the performances of the
spiritualists, trance mediums, and other persons pretending to
supernatural powers. How far he believed in this occult science can now
only be conjectured, but he was not a man to be easily played upon. He
thought at least that there was more in it than was dreamed of by
philosophers. When the Longfellow party was at Florence in April, 1869,
Prince George of Hanover, recently driven from his kingdom by Bismarck,
called to see the poet, and finding that he had gone out, was entertained
by Mr. Appleton with some remarkable stories of hypnotic and
spiritualistic performances. The prince, who was a most amiable looking
young German, was evidently very much interested.

Deafness came upon Mr. Appleton in the last years of his life, though not
so as to prevent his enjoying the society of those who had clear voices
and who spoke distinctly. When one of his friends suggested that the
trouble might be wax in his ears, he shook his head sadly and said: "Oh
no: not _wax_, but _wane_."

He was finally taken ill while all alone in New York City, and the
Longfellows were telegraphed for. When one of his relatives came to him
he spoke of his malady in a stoically humorous manner; and his last words
were when he was dying: "How interesting this all is!" A man never left
this world with a more perfect faith in immortality!

DOCTOR HOLMES

I have often been inside the old Holmes house in Cambridge. It served as
a boarding-house during our college days, but afterwards Professor James
B. Thayer rented it for a term of years, until it was finally swept away
like chaff by President Eliot's broom of reform. The popular notion that
it was a quaint-looking old mansion of the eighteenth century, which
seems to have been encouraged by Doctor Holmes himself, is a
misconception. It was a two-and-a-half story, low-studied house, such as
were built at the beginning of the last century, with a roof at an angle
of forty-five degrees and a two-story ell on the right side of the front
door. Doctor Holmes says:

"Gambrel, gambrel; let me beg
You will look at a horse's hinder leg.
First great angle above the hoof,--
That is the gambrel; hence gambrel roof."

Now, any one who looks carefully at the picture of the old Holmes
house, in Morse's biography of the Doctor, will perceive that this
was not the style of roof which the house had,--at least, in its later
years.

Doctor Holmes graduated at Harvard in 1829 at the age of twenty. His
class has been a celebrated one in Boston, and there were certainly some
good men in it,--especially Benjamin Pierce and James Freeman Clarke,--
but I think it was Doctor Holmes's class-poems that gave it its chief
celebrity, which, after all, means that it was a good deal talked about.
In one of these he said:

"No wonder the tutor can't sleep in his bed
With two twenty-niners over his head."

He was said to have composed twenty-nine poems for his class, and then
declared that he had reached the proper limit,--that it would not be
prudent to go beyond the magical number. It was not a dissipated class,
but one with a good deal of life in it, much given to late hours and
jokes, practical and unpractical. The Doctor himself is mysteriously
silent concerning his college course, and so are his biographers; but we
may surmise that it was not very different in general tenor from
Lowell's; although his Yankee shrewdness would seem to have preserved him
from serious catastrophes.

In the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table" Doctor Holmes mentions an early
acquaintance with Margaret Fuller, which is not referred to by Mr. Morse,
but must have arisen either at Mrs. Prentiss's Boston school or at the
Cambridgeport school which young Oliver afterwards attended. Even at that
age he recognized Margaret's intellectual gifts, and he was not a little
emulous of her; for he fancied that he "had also drawn a small prize in
the great literary lottery." He looked into one of her compositions,
which was lying on the teacher's desk, and felt quite crest-fallen by
discovering a word in it which he did not know the meaning of. This word
was _trite_; and it may he suspected that a good many use it without
being aware of its proper significance.

Margaret Fuller rose to celebrity with the spontaneity of true genius,
and left her name high upon the natural bridge of American literature.
Holmes did not come before the public until years after her death; and
then perhaps it might not have happened but for James Russell Lowell and
the _Atlantic_. He was a bright man, and possessed a peculiar mental
quality of his own; but as we think of him now we can hardly call him a
genius. He would evidently have liked in his youth to have made a
profession of literature; but his verse lacked the charm and universality
which made Longfellow popular so readily; nor did he possess the daring
spirit of innovation with which Emerson startled and convinced his
contemporaries. He first tried the law, and as that did not suit his
taste he fell into medicine, but evidently without any natural bent or
inclination for the profession. He was fond of the university, and when,
after a temporary professorship at Dartmouth he was appointed lecturer on
anatomy at the Harvard Medical-School, his friends realized that he had
found his right position.

Lecturing on anatomy is a routine, but by no means a sinecure. It
requires a clearness and accuracy of statement which might be compared to
the work of an optician. Some idea of it can be derived from the fact
that there may be eight or ten points to a human bone, each of which has
a name of eight or ten syllables,--only to be acquired by the hardest
study. Doctor Holmes's lecturing manner was incisive and sometimes
pungent, like his conversation, but always good-humored and well
calculated to make an impression even on the most lymphatic temperaments.
While it may be said that others might have done it as well, it is
doubtful if he could have been excelled in his own specialty. His ready
fund of wit often served to revive the drooping spirits of his audience,
and many of his jests have become a kind of legendary lore at the
Medical-School. Most of them, however, were of a too anatomical character
to be reproduced in print.

So the years rolled over Doctor Holmes's head; living quietly, working
steadily, and accumulating a store of proverbial wisdom by the way. In
June, 1840, he married Amelia Lee Jackson, of Boston, an alliance which
brought him into relationship with half the families on Beacon Street,
and which may have exercised a determining influence on the future course
of his life. Doctor Holmes was always liberally inclined, and ready to
welcome such social and political improvements as time might bring; but
he never joined any of the liberal or reformatory movements of his time.
Certain old friends of Emerson affirmed, when Holmes published his
biography of the Concord sage in 1885, that no one else was so much given
to jesting as Emerson in his younger days. This may have been true; but
it is also undeniable that Emerson himself had changed much during that
time, and that the socialistic Emerson of 1840 was largely a different
person from the author of "Society and Solitude." Holmes had already
composed one of the fairest tributes to Emerson's intellectual quality
that has yet been written.

"He seems a winged Franklin, heavenly wise,
Born to unlock the secrets of the skies."

Emerson began his course in direct apposition to the conventional world;
but he was the great magnet of the age, and the world could not help
being attracted by him. It modified its course, and Emerson also modified
his, so that the final reconciliation might take place. Meanwhile Doctor
Holmes pursued the even tenor of his way. Concord does not appear to have
been attractive to him. He had a brother, John Holmes, who was reputed by
his friends to be as witty as the "Autocrat" himself, but who lived a
quiet, inconspicuous life. John was an intimate friend of Hon. E. R. Hoar
and often went to Concord to visit him; but I never heard of the Doctor
being seen there, though it may have happened before my time. He does not
speak over-much of Emerson in his letters, and does not mention
Hawthorne, Thoreau or Alcott, so far as we know, at all. They do not
appear to have attracted his attention.

We are indebted to Lowell for all that Doctor Holmes has given us. The
Doctor was forty-eight when the _Atlantic Monthly_ appeared before
the public, and according to his own confession he had long since given
up hope of a literary life. We hardly know another instance like it; but
so much the better for him. He had no immature efforts of early life to
regret; and when the cask once was tapped, the old wine came forth with a
fine bouquet. When Phillips & Sampson consulted Lowell in regard to the
editorship of the _Atlantic,_ he said at once: "We must get
something from Oliver Wendell Holmes." He was Lowell's great discovery
and proved to be his best card,--a clear, shining light, and not an
_ignis fatuus._

When the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table" first appeared few were in the
secret of its authorship and everybody asked: "Who is this new luminary?"
It was exactly what the more intelligent public wanted, and Holmes jumped
at once into the position in literature which he has held ever since.
Readers were delighted with his wit, surprised at his originality and
impressed by his proverbial wisdom. It was the advent of a sound, healthy
intelligence, not unlike that of President Lincoln, which could deal with
common-place subjects in a significant and characteristic manner. The
landlady's daughter, the schoolmistress, little Boston, and the young man
called John, are as real and tangible as the _dramatis personae_ in
one of Moliere's plays. They seem more real to us than many of the
distinguished men and women whom we read of in the newspapers.

Doctor Holmes is the American Sterne. He did not seek a vehicle for his
wit in the oddities and mishaps of English middle-class domestic life,
but in the contrasts and incongruities of a Boston boarding-house. He
informs us at the outset that he much prefers a family with an ancestry--
one that has had a judge or a governor in it, with old family portraits,
old books and claw-footed furniture; but if Doctor Holmes had depended on
such society for his material he would hardly have interested the public
whom he addressed. One of Goethe's critics complained that the class of
persons he had introduced in "Wilhelm Meister" did not belong to good
society; and to this the "aristocratic" poet replied: "I have often been
in society called good, from which I have not been able to obtain an idea
for the shortest poem."

So it is always: the interesting person is the one who struggles. After
the struggle is over, and prosperity commences, the moral ends,--young
Corey and his bride go off to Mexico. The lives of families are
represented by those of its prominent individuals. The ambitious son of
an old and wealthy family makes a new departure from former precedents,
thus creating a fresh struggle for himself, and becomes an orator, like
Wendell Philips, or a scientist, like Darwin.

In the "Autocrat" we recognize the dingy wall-paper of the dining-room,
the well-worn furniture, the cracked water-pitcher, and the slight aroma
of previous repasts; but we soon forget this unattractive background, for
the scene is full of genuine human life. The men and women who congregate
there appear for what they really are. They wear no mental masks and
other disguises like the people we meet at fashionable entertainments;
and each acts himself or herself. Boarding-houses, sanitariums, and sea
voyages are the places to study human nature. When a man is half seasick
the old original Adam shows forth in him through all the wrappings of
education, social restraint, imitation and attempts at self-improvement,
with which he has covered it over for so many years. Once on a Cunard
steamship I heard an architect from San Francisco tell the story of the
hoop-snake, which takes its tail in its teeth and rolls over the prairies
at a speed equal to any express train. He evidently believed the story
himself, and as I looked round on the company I saw that they all
believed it, too, excepting Captain Martyn, who gave me a sly look from
the corner of his eye. "Rocked in the cradle of the deep," they had
become like children again, and were ready to credit anything that was
told in a confident manner. But Doctor Holmes's digressions are
infectious.

The "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table" is an irregular panorama of human
life without either a definite beginning or end,--unless the autocrat's
offering himself to the schoolmistress (an incident which only took place
on paper) can be considered so; but it is by no means a patchwork. He
talks of horse-racing, the Millerites, elm trees, Doctor Johnson, the
composition of poetry and much else; but these subjects are introduced
and treated with an adroitness that amounts to consummate art. He is
always at the boarding-house, and if his remarks sometimes shoot over the
heads of his auditors, this is only because he intends that they should.
The first ten or fifteen pages of the "Autocrat" are written in such a
cold, formal and pedantic manner that the wonder is that Lowell should
have published it. After that the style suddenly changes and the Doctor
becomes himself. It is like a convention call which ends in a sympathetic
conversation.

Doctor Holmes's humor permeates every sentence that he wrote. Even in his
most serious moods we meet with it in a peculiar phrase, or the use of
some exceptional word.

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