beautiful framed embroideries (for which Dr. Holmes’s daughter-in-law is famous) on another, who will not first be conscious that in a certain corner hangs the original portrait of Dorothy Q.? Exactly as it is described in the poem, who can look at it without breathing gratefully “O Damsel Dorothy, Dorothy Q., Great is the gift _we_ owe to you,” and thinking almost with a shudder that if, “a hundred years ago, Those close-shut lips had answered No,” there would have been no Dr. Holmes. Somebody there might have been; but though he had been only “one-tenth another to nine-tenths” _him_, assuredly the loss of even a tenth would have been a bitter loss. Books there are in this library, of course; but you were as little conscious of the books as you were of the world. You were only really conscious of the presence in the room, and the big desk on which was lying the pen that wrote both “The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table” and “The Professor.” As you took it up, it was pretty to see the look that stole over Dr. Holmes’s face; it was the twinkle of a smile that seemed to mean, “Yes, it was the pen that did it! _I_ never could have done it in the world!” His success gave him a deep and genuine pleasure, largely due to the surprise of it. At forty-six he believed he had done all that could be expected of him, and was content to rest his reputation--as well he might--on those earlier poems, which will always make a part of even his latest fame. But the greater fame which followed was--not greatness thrust upon him, for genius such as his is something more than the patience which is sometimes genius,--but certainly greatness _dragged out of him_. The editors of the proposed _Atlantic_ insisted that he should write for it. The Doctor did not yield, till, as he himself tells it, with another twinkling smile, they invited him to a “convincing dinner at Porter’s.” Feeling very good-natured immediately after, he promised to “try,” and a little later sent off a few sheets which he somewhat dubiously hoped would “do.” The storm of greeting and applause that followed even these first sheets filled him with amazement, but with genuine delight. It was beautiful to see how deeply it touched him to know that thousands of readers think “The Autocrat” the most charming book they own. For this was not the arrogant satisfaction of the “master” who announces: “Listen! I have composed the most wonderful sonata that the world has ever heard!” Still less was it the senseless arrogance of a foolish violin that might say: “Listen! you shall hear from me the most superb music you can imagine!” Rather was it the low-voiced, wondering content of an æolian harp, that lying quietly upon the window-sill, with no thought that it is there for anything but to enjoy itself, suddenly finds wonderful harmonies stealing through its heart and out into the world, and sees a group of gladdened listeners gathering about it. “How