problems of creation and existence in this most difficult time," and I looked with admiration at this dynamic person who wrestles with existing conditions, changing her grip to meet the new attack. A discussion of painting followed in which Miss Lowell betrayed what was nothing less than passion for color. She would love to paint, if only to revel in this one phase of the possibilities of pigment; but her hands and mind, she said, do not coördinate. She declared that she possesses no talent for painting or draftsmanship other than this strong feeling for color. "And I use it in my own way," she said. “I will read you an example of it." Taking a book from the table beside her, she read to me her poem, "Confided by a Yucca to a Passion Vine." Color there was, beyond a doubt, riotous, flowed upon a canvas that combined sweeping breadth and precious detail, with glazes and scumbles like the sun flashing through a cataract of jewels. Onward and on it swept and galloped, lilting through mazes of colorful rhythm, giving the impression of a palette so rich and varied that no demand upon it could tax its possibilities. The reader herself was transformed into a sibyl. The words flowed from her in a musical torrent, rushing upon me with a variety of rhythm, cadence, and vocal modulation that brought a feeling that the thing was newly born. "You have no need of paint," I said, when the music had ceased. "Pigments as pliable as these rarely come from tubes.” "Yet we have nothing to work with," she replied. "You have actual paints; we have nothing." "Words and sound can cause the mind to do its own painting with a deliciousness and completeness that the brush rarely achieves," I replied. Miss Lowell has been busily occupied for four years with an exhaustive work on Keats that has just appeared. She got into it by accident, she said, as the result of an address. Friends suggested that she elaborate it into a book, which she started, little knowing to what proportions the thing would grow. "A lot of it was fun," she said, "but there was a mass of hard labor in research and the verifying of endless details. If I had known, perhaps I would not have attempted it. I have a bad memory to battle with, which added to the labor, as I would not trust myself to record many things that I really knew without making sure of them. If any one asks me questions about the Keats book after it appears, I shall have to tell them to look it up; I shall forget it all. Fortunately, my memory is not quite so bad as that of a man who wrote a book on Blake, and signed a check, 'William Blake.' Another amusing utterance of Miss Lowell's was that she had never had any education excepting what she had given herself for fun. We congratulate ourselves that she chose so wisely, as the result gives exquisite pleasure, as well as fun, to so many. After two sittings, which might be likened to a three-ringed circus in the delightful distractions of listening and talking and at the same time endeavoring to draw, I parted from this energetic and colorful personality with an impression in some ways similar to that given by a huge dynamo, or a battery of powerful engines on an ocean liner. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES In May, 1923, I was taken by friends in Washington for an evening call at the house of Justice Holmes. The couple with whom I went were old, the man being an octogenarian, but both were remarkable for their very youthful outlook upon life. Young in spirit, they liked to be surrounded by, and made the best conceivable company for, young people. Entering the large old house in I Street, we found ourselves in a world of books and pictures. In a majority of the high-ceiled rooms the entire walls from floor to top were lined with books. Any space that was not thus occupied was devoted to pictures, for the most part well chosen prints. One large engraving was of the elder Oliver Wendell Holmes, and a considerable resemblance to him was noticeable when the justice came to greet us. From the first moment was apparent the reason for the friendship existing between the two couples. Justice Holmes and Mrs. Holmes were even younger than my friends, though more years had passed them. Their gay and joyous conversation sparkled with wit. Added to the astonishing quickness of their minds, was a wealth of experience and knowledge that youth cannot possess. Having lost none of the mental charm of their early years, they had abundance of additional attractions that time only can give. Here was a ripened product with which adolescence cannot compete, and with a love for old people that has always been with me, I reveled in it. My friends had told me that one glance at Justice Holmes would be sufficient to inspire in me a desire to portray him. The prophecy proved to be correct. He is beyond doubt one of the handsomest old gentlemen that I have ever seen. Tall and of fine proportions, he is possessed of a head of unusual distinction. Humor shines from the fine brown eyes that contrast delightfully with the snow-white brows, mustache, and hair; and, again, the abundant hair, as live and glossy as silk, provides a perfect complement for his young and colorful skin. An exhibition of my own prints was in progress at the time, and the justice welcomed eagerly an exchange of gossip upon his particular hobby. Taking me from room to room, he showed me his treasures. A fine impression of the "Sunset in Ireland" he had acquired from Sir Seymour Haden himself when he made a visit to this country many years ago. Excellent examples of Rembrandt, Meryon, Whistler, Vandyke, Van Ostade, and Mantegna were forthcoming. "I am an amateur, not a collector of the kind who values things for their rarity. The impressions of Goya that I possess, for instance, are the modern reprints, but they give me just as much joy as the old and very expensive ones. I have no ambition to be a trustee for posterity. I collect for the pleasure that the things themselves give me. One of the problems of life," he said, "is to find available vices for old age. A moderate and intelligent avarice may be recommended for the late years of one's life. I exercise it, when I can, in my print-collecting. Dr. Rice of the Library of Congress gladly exchanges with me from time to time when we are possessed of duplicates. This is an economical method of adding to our collections. Sometimes, if he has two of a kind that I covet, I buy a print that he wants so as to be Humor that hinges upon mere passing able to exchange. "Look at this Nanteuil. In spite of his formal medium of engraving, how amazingly he gets the very spirit of life in his portraits! One marvels at this less when the freer needle of the etcher is used. And this Holbein wood-block of Erasmus. What miracles he could achieve in a mouth! And with what economy he worked!" He laughed in his enthusiasm. “We can find nothing better than this artist offers. Holbein is it!" More than a year and a half later I repeated in a letter to Justice Holmes a threat that I had voiced upon the above occasion-that of recording him with my pencil. A pleasant response outlined his available time, and the second of January, 1925, found me again in his company. The holiday recess of the Supreme Court provided the opportunity. Our sketch was Our sketch was started in this paradise of books, and I laughingly remarked that they could almost be measured by the acre. "I was greatly amused by a former secretary of mine who, coming here for the first time, looked at the walls and said, 'I hate books!' The display of them here is so bewildering that I could quite conceive his revulsion at the sight." He spoke of the bulk of the humor of the immediate past as rapidly growing stale. He pointed to Artemus Ward and his contemporaries as having left but few fresh bits, while Mark Twain emerges as one who will stand the test of time. In response to my observation that a universal quality in the latter's writings and those of W. S. Gilbert assured their endurance, he replied with enthusiasm: phases or transient events and conditions must fade. Humor, to last, must have a firm foundation in fundamental fact as well as fancy. Facts in isolation amount to mere gossip; facts in relation become philosophy. Are you noting that down, young man?" he said laughingly. "It is not new. I published it in some of my own writings years ago." "It will well bear repeating, Mr. Justice," I said. He continued merrily: "I don't know when to trust you; you have a big advantage over me. I cannot tell whether you are drawing or writing." "I am glad of that," I said; "otherwise you might edit me too severely." "The humor of Shaw entertains me immensely," he continued, "but for sincerity of thought and utterance I cannot place him very high. Butler, though his influence on writers was great, is hardly in legitimate succession in the royal line of thought." "He fathered a school in which the exploding of multitudes of little paradoxes became a game," I interposed, "a thing in which he himself never indulged. Instead, his whole attitude toward life was paradoxical. He was born standing on his head." "Well said, young man," was the flattering response. "Wilde is an example of the former abuse, and is distinctly third-rate. What a child he was in Whistler's hands! You recall the episode of Wilde's expressed regret, when Whistler had made a specially clever remark, that he himself had not said it, and the reply: 'Never mind, Oscar; you will.' This painter's wit affords me keen delight. It is a pity that he did not write more. Wilde "That 's it-the universal quality. was really too vain to produce any thing of the first class. How silly it is for any one to give way to vanity! No one knows very much, anyway, so there's no excuse for fatuous selfsatisfaction. Any two philosophers can tell each other everything they know in a few hours." He talked a bit of the many changes in the world during the long period of his activity; concerning the trend of present times he remains the optimist. "I don't take much stock in decadence," he said. "The young men of to-day seem to me to be a better lot than when I was young. In different periods the world's energies are directed into different avenues. Pines grow where oaks grew before, and vice versa. To-day most of the energy that formerly produced literature seems to be going into science and other things." "But do you think the present mechanical and commercial achievements as important and as fine a thought product as the great literature and art that preceded it?" I asked. "It is difficult for me to reconcile myself with the change." "My prejudices are with you," was his reply, "but I have ceased to criticize the order of the universe. I take things as they come. Juxtaposition of the unrelated will often produce surprising thoughts. Just after a recent survey of the Greek dramatists to refresh my memory, I read a book by Jim Hill. Typically, he represents one of the greatest manifestations of the human intellect. His achievements in dealing with tangible things were great. In the present condition of things he is great. The story of his mighty problems and his solutions of them I found fascinating. The world may change again, so that Jim Hills are no more needed; and if this change makes it necessary for us to sink from Jim Hill to Eschylus," with a sly twinkle in his handsome eyes,-"why, of course there are compensations!" Great was my regret that I had not in hand a more ambitious medium and abundance of time to record the wonderful face before me, with its wealth of psychology and character. He was so very good to look at, and I told him so. He laughed and hurled at me Miss Amy Lowell's accusation: “You have an Irish tongue!" "Well, I always thought that I was the ugliest of men, especially in my youth. In my early conceptions of masculine comeliness, curly hair was an indispensable requisite," he said. "My father gave me a conviction of physical inferiority by pointing out the weaknesses of mankind, using himself and his son as illustrations. I was positive that I was a very inferior person. He kicked me into the law, and thereby did a fairly good job in determining my life for me. In spite of his theory of human frailty, father wrote a book at eighty, and at eighty-four I am still going. If I live another year, I will really celebrate to have reached eighty-five, and if I should reach ninety still in harness, I would consider that an achievement indeed. As a youngster I was a serious person, the burdens of life resting heavily upon me. Age brought a change in my mental state inclining toward levity and irresponsibility. It has given me self-respect, a thing I had tried for unsuccessfully all my life." "A talent for nonsense is one of the longest steps toward the secret of eternal youth," I remarked, and the talk turned to the joys that can be derived from Lear, Carroll, Gilbert, |