His
activity and versatility of mind could still distance many a clever
man in the prime of life.
He responded in the most generous way to the expectations of strangers
and foreigners who came to visit him as if on pilgrimage. He always
found some entertainment for them. Sometimes he would read them one of
his poems; sometimes he would have a pretty scientific toy for their
amusement; or again he would write his autograph in a volume of his
works for them to carry away in remembrance. Such guests could not
help feeling that they had seen more than the Dr. Holmes of their
imagination. He entered into their curiosity regarding himself with
such charming sympathy that they came away thinking the half-hour they
had passed in his study was one always to be remembered.
As I think of those latest days, I recall what he himself wrote once,
long ago, about old age: "One that remains walking," he says, "while
others have dropped asleep, and keeps a little night-lamp flame of
life burning year after year, if the lamp is not upset and there is
only a careful hand held round it to prevent the puffs of wind from
blowing the flame out. That's what I call an old man."
"Now," said the professor, "you don't mean to tell me that I have got
to that yet? Why, bless you, I am several years short of the time!"
Dr. Holmes left this world, which he had found pleasant and had filled
with pleasantness for others, after an illness that was happily brief.
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