University of Virginia Library

The following personal letter, written in answer to a question, is printed by permission of the writer:—

Beverly Farms, Mass., Aug. 28th, 1892.
My dear Mr. Gilder:—

I have been interviewed already and got off as cheaply as I could, for it has become rather monotonous answering birthday questions—a little too much like 'What

is your name? N. or M.', if I remember the Church Catechism correctly, as I used to see a stray copy of it now and then, in my boyhood, wondering what 'M. or N.' stood for.

I have received two poems in advance, and my dear and honored friend Whittier, whose heart is a cornucopia of blessings for his fellow-creatures, has remembered me in the pages of The Atlantic, where we have found ourselves side by side for so many years. Long may the sands of his life keep running, for they come from the bed of Pactolus.

I shall very probably have a few visitors to-morrow with whom I shall interchange kindly words, but I have really no news of myself which can interest.

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Sept. 1.

Here I was interrupted, and from that moment I have been in a perfect storm of letters, poems, flowers, fruits, gifts of various kinds; one of them a silver-framed chambered Nautilus from a Chicago lady—an exquisite piece of work, fit for a young prince's heir-loom rather than an old poet's.

I have forgotten almost everything in the crowd and crush of these pleasant interruptions. But I must not forget to thank you for your kind remembrance, for which I am truly grateful, only regretting that I cannot reach all the kind and generous friends who have sent their cheering remembrances to one whose most notable virtue is that he is the survivor of so many of his betters.

------

Another interruption, and ah! how sad a one. A reporter calls at my door and tells me that George William Curtis died this morning. His death eclipses the cheerfulness of a great reading public. He has not left a sweeter nature or a fairer record behind him. The lovable quality of his bright intelligence showed in his features, in his voice, in every line he wrote. No American writer came so near taking the place of Washington Irving in the affections of his countrymen, no one has been more generally missed and lamented than he will be. Peace to his gentle memory! This is a day of mourning to all who love what is purest and best in letters and civilization.

Believe me, dear Mr. Gilder,
Faithfully yours,
O. W. Holmes.

Boston, Oct. 15, 1894.

Since the following letter was written, I have enjoyed many a conversation with the genial Autocrat, but then I knew him only through his writings. It so aptly illustrates the uniform courtesy of the man as a man that I add it to The Critic's repertoire of tributes. The "magnifier" was a choice little magnifying-glass, set in solid silver, marked "O. W. H."

W. C. W.

"296 Beacon Street, July 9, 1872.
"My Dear Sir:—

"I am particularly obliged to you for returning my little magnifier with such promptness that I had not even time to miss it. I shall always value it more hereafter for having passed through the hands of a finder who proved not only honest but courteous. There may be a hundred or more honest men in Boston, but there are not many who would be so attentive.

"I hope you blessed my instrument of research, as the Pope blesses a coin or a medal—at any rate you have conferred new value upon it. The bread that was cast upon the waters was to return "after many days," but my little estray cannot have been wandering from the pocket where it belongs many hours.

"I truly wish I could lose something every day, if I were sure to have it so swiftly returned with a pleasant word for the owner to make him contented with himself and grateful to the friend who restores the lost possession.

"Very truly and especially yours,
"To Rev. W. C. Winslow, Boston.
O. W. Holmes."