As night drew on, and from the crest Whispered the old rhyme: "Under the tree, There the witches are making tea.” The moon above the eastern wood Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, [Lines 1 to 154. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, M.D. BORN AUG. 29, 1809, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. Popular writer of prose and poetry. Author of "Autocrat of the BreakfastTable," "Elsie Venner," and "The Guardian Angel." Poems in two volumes. EXTRACT FROM POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY. SOME prouder Muse, when comes the hour at last, Hear an old song, which some, perchance, have seen Thus mocked the spoilers with his schoolboy scorn: Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! And burst the cannon's roar: The meteor of the ocean-air Shall sweep the clouds no more! Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Oh! better that her shattered hulk And give her to the god of storms, That he had a Roman nose, But now his nose is thin, And a crook is in his back, I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin But the old three-cornered hat, And, if I should live to be Let them smile, as I do now, EXTRACT FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. I was just going to say, when I was interrupted, that one of the many ways of classifying minds is under the heads of arithmetical and algebraical intellects. All economical and practical wisdom is an extension or variation of the following arithmetical formula: 2+2=4. Every philosophical proposition has the more general character of the expression a+b=c. We are mere operatives, empirics, and egotists, until we learn to think in letters instead of figures. They all stared. There is a divinity-student lately come among us, to whom I commonly address remarks like the above, allowing him to take a certain share in the conversation, so far as assent or pertinent questions are involved. He abused his liberty on this occasion by presuming to say that Leibnitz had the same observation. "No, sir," I replied, "he has not. But he said a mighty good thing about mathematics, that sounds something like it; and you found it, not in the original, but quoted by Dr. Thomas Reid. I will tell the company what he did say, one of these days." If I belong to a Society of Mutual Admiration? - I blush to say that I do not at this present moment. I once did, however. It was the first association to which I ever heard the term applied, a body of scientific young men in a great foreign city who admired their teacher, and, to some extent, each other. Many of them deserved it: they have become famous since. It amuses me to hear the talk of one of those beings described by Thackeray "Letters four do form his name' about a social development which belongs to the very noblest stage of civilization. All generous companies of artists, authors, philanthropists, men of science, are, or ought to be, Societies of Mutual Admiration. A man of genius, or any kind of superiority, is not debarred from admiring the same quality in another, nor the other from returning his admiration. They may even associate together, and continue to think highly of each other. And so of a dozen such men, if any one place is fortunate enough to hold so many. The being referred to above assumes several false premises. First, That men of talent necessarily hate each other. Secondly, That intimate knowledge or habitual association destroys our admiration of persons whom we esteemed highly at a distance. Thirdly, That a circle of clever fellows, who meet together to dine and have a good time, have signed a constitutional compact to glorify themselves, and to put down him and the fraction of the human race not belonging to their number. Fourthly, That it is an outrage that he is not asked to join them. Here the company laughed a good deal; and the old gentleman who sits opposite said, "That's it! that's it!" I continued; for I was in the talking vein. As to clever people's hating each other, I think a little extra talent does sometimes make people jealous. They become irritated by perpetual attempts and failures, and it hurts their tempers and dispositions. Unpretending mediocrity is good, and genius is glorious; but a weak flavor of genius in an essentially common person is detestable. It spoils the grand neutrality of a commonplace character, as the rinsings of an unwashed wineglass spoil a draught of fair water. No wonder the poor fellow we spoke of, who always belongs to this class of slightly-flavored mediocrities, is puzzled and vexed by the strange sight of a dozen men of capacity working and playing together in harmony. He and his fellows are always fighting. With them, familiarity naturally breeds contempt. If they ever praise each other's bad drawings, or broken-winded novels, or spavined verses, nobody ever supposed it was from admiration it was simply a contract between themselves and a publisher or dealer. If the Mutuals have really nothing among them worth admiring, that alters the question. But, if they are men with noble |