The Poet at the Breakfast-TableHolmes, Oliver Wendell
General
The Poet at the Breakfast-Table
Holmes, Oliver Wendell
American fiction -- 19th century; Conversation -- Fiction; Poetry
be a gold ring of price, bearing the words, “God speed thee, Friend!”),
already in decadence as I remember him, with head slanting forward and
downward as if looking for a place to rest in after his learned labors;
and that other Thaddeus, the old man of West Cambridge, who outwatched
the rest so long after they had gone to sleep in their own churchyards,
that it almost seemed as if he meant to sit up until the morning of the
resurrection; and bringing up the rear, attenuated but vivacious little
Jonathan Homer of Newton, who was, to look upon, a kind of expurgated,
reduced and Americanized copy of Voltaire, but very unlike him in
wickedness or wit. The good-humored junior member of our family
always loved to make him happy by setting him chirruping about Miles
Coverdale's Version, and the Bishop's Bible, and how he wrote to his
friend Sir Isaac (Coffin) about something or other, and how Sir Isaac
wrote back that he was very much pleased with the contents of his
letter, and so on about Sir Isaac, ad libitum,--for the admiral was his
old friend, and he was proud of him. The kindly little old gentleman
was a collector of Bibles, and made himself believe he thought he should
publish a learned Commentary some day or other; but his friends looked
for it only in the Greek Calends,--say on the 31st of April, when that
should come round, if you would modernize the phrase. I recall also one
or two exceptional and infrequent visitors with perfect distinctness:
cheerful Elijah Kellogg, a lively missionary from the region of the
Quoddy Indians, with much hopeful talk about Sock Bason and his tribe;
also poor old Poor-house-Parson Isaac Smith, his head going like a
China mandarin, as he discussed the possibilities of the escape of
that distinguished captive whom he spoke of under the name, if I
can reproduce phonetically its vibrating nasalities of “General
Mmbongaparty,”--a name suggestive to my young imagination of a
dangerous, loose-jointed skeleton, threatening us all like the armed
figure of Death in my little New England Primer.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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