LITTLE BOY BLUE

The little toy dog is covered with dust
      But sturdy and stanch he stands,
And the little toy soldier is red with rust
      And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new
      And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
      Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
      "And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
      He dreamt of the pretty toys.
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
      Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
Oh! the years are many—the years are long—
      But the little toy friends are true!

Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand—
      Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
      The smile of a little face.
And they wonder—as waiting the long years through
      In the dust of that little chair—
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
      Since he kissed them and put them there.

EUGENE FIELD

A STUDY IN HEREDITY AND CONTRADICTIONS

By
SLASON THOMPSON

With Portraits, Views and Fac-Simile Illustrations

VOLUME II

Published, December, 1901
Charles Scribner's Sons
New York

1901

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

DRAWINGS AND FAC-SIMILES

HALF-TONE PLATES
Facing Page

EUGENE FIELD

CHAPTER I

OUR PERSONAL RELATIONS

In the loving "Memory" which his brother Roswell contributed to the "Sabine Edition" of Eugene Field's "Little Book of Western Verse," he says: "Comradeship was the indispensable factor in my brother's life. It was strong in his youth: it grew to be an imperative necessity in later life. In the theory that it is sometimes good to be alone he had little or no faith." From the time of Eugene's coming to Chicago until my marriage, in 1887, I was his closest comrade and almost constant companion. At the Daily News office, for a time, we shared the same room and then the adjoining rooms of which I have spoken. Field was known about the office as my "habit," a relationship which gave point to the touching appeal which served as introduction to the dearly cherished manuscript copy, in two volumes, of nearly one hundred of his poems, which was his wedding gift to Mrs. Thompson. It was entitled, in red ink, "Ye Piteous Complaynt of a Forsooken Habbit; a Proper Sonet," and reads:

Along the border of this soulful appeal was engrossed, in a woful mixture of blue and purple inks: "Ye habbit maketh mone over hys sore griffe and mightylie beseacheth the ladye yt she graunt hym ye lone of her hoosband on a pay-daye nite."

Through those years of comradeship we were practically inseparable from the time he arrived at the office, an hour after me, until I bade him good-night at the street-car or at his own door, when, according to our pact, we walked and talked at his expense, instead of supping late at mine. The nature of this pact is related in the following verse, to which Field prefixed this note: "While this poem is printed in all the 'Reliques of Ye Good Knights' Poetrie,' and while the incident it narrates is thoroughly characteristic of that Knightly Sage, the versification is so different from that of the other ballads that there is little doubt that this fragment is spurious. Prof. Max Beeswanger (Book III., page 18, old English Poetry) says that these verses were written by Friar Terence, a learned monk of the Good Knight's time."

The "Friar Terence" of Field's note was the Edward J. McPhelim to whom reference has already been made, who often joined us in our after-theatre symposiums, but could not be induced to walk one block if there was a street-car going his way.

As bearing on the nature of these "banquets," and the unending source of enjoyment they were to both of us, the following may throw a passing light:

Speaking of "the riches that accrued" to Field it may be well to explain that when he came to Chicago from Denver he was burdened with debts, and although subsequently he was in receipt of a fair salary, it barely sufficed to meet his domestic expenses and left little to abate the importunity of the claims that followed him remorselessly. He lived very simply in a flat on the North Side—first on Chicago Avenue, something over a mile from the office, later on in another flat further north, on La Salle Avenue, and still later, and until he went to Europe, in a small rented house on Crilly Place, which is a few blocks west of the south end of Lincoln Park.

By arrangement with the business office, Field's salary was paid to Mrs. Field weekly, she having the management of the finances of the family. Field, Ballantyne, and I were the high-priced members of the News staff at that time, but our pay was not princely, and two of us were engaged in a constant conspiracy to jack it up to a level more nearly commensurate, as we "opined," with our respective needs and worth. The third member of the trio, who personally sympathized with our aspirations and acknowledged their justice, occupied an executive position, where he was expected to exercise the most rigorous economy. Moreover, he had a Scotsman's stern and brutal sense of his duty to get the best work for the least expenditure of his employer's money. It was not until Field and I learned that Messrs. Lawson & Stone were more appreciative of the value of our work that our salaries gradually rose above the level where Ballantyne would have condemned them to remain forever in the sacred name of economy.

I have said that Field's weekly salary—"stipend," he called it—was paid regularly to Mrs. Field. I should have said that she received all of it that the ingenious and impecunious Eugene had not managed to forestall. Not a week went by that he did not tax the fertility of his active brain to wheedle Collins Shackelford, the cashier, into breaking into his envelope for five or ten dollars in advance. These appeals came in every form that Field's fecundity could invent. When all other methods failed the presence of "Pinny" or "Melvin" in the office would afford a messenger and plan of action that was always crowned with success. "Pinny" especially seemed to enter into his father's schemes to move Shackelford's sympathy with the greatest success. He was also very effective in moving Mr. Stone to a consideration of Field's requests for higher pay.

In his "Eugene Field I Knew," Francis Wilson has preserved a number of these touching "notes" to Shackelford, in prose and verse, but none of them equals in the shrewd, seductive style, of which Field was master, the following, which was composed with becoming hilarity and presented with befitting solemnity:

There is no mistaking the touch of the author of "Mr. Billings of Louisville" in these lines, in which humor and flattery robbed the injunction of Mr. Stone against advancing anything on Field's salary of its binding force. Having once learned the key that would unlock the cashier's box, he never let a week go by without turning it to some profitable account. But it is only fair to say that he never abused his influence over Mr. Shackelford to lighten the weekly envelope by more than the "necessary V" or the "sorely needed X."

I have dwelt upon these conditions because they explain to some extent our relations, and why, after we had entered upon our study of early English ballads and the chronicles of knights and tourneys, Field always referred to himself as "the good but impecunious Knight, sans peur et sans monnaie," while I was "Sir Slosson," "Nompy," or "Grimesey," as the particular roguery he was up to suggested.

It was while I was visiting my family in the province of New Brunswick, in the fall of 1884, that I received the initial evidence of a particular line of attack in which Field delighted to show his friendship and of which he never wearied. It came in shape of an office postal card addressed in extenso, "For Mr. Alexander Slason Thompson, Fredericton, New Brunswick"—the employment of the baptismal "Alexander" being intended to give zest to the joke with the postal officials in my native town. The communication to which the attention of the curious was invited by its form read:

Of course the postmaster at Fredericton read the message, and I was soon conscious that a large part of the community was consumed with curiosity as to my relations with my starving correspondents.

But this served merely as a prelude to what was to follow. My visit was cut short by an assignment from the Daily News to visit various towns in Maine to interview the prominent men who had become interested, through James G. Blaine, in the Little Rock securities which played such a part in the presidential campaigns of 1876 and 1884. For ten days I roved all over the state, making my headquarters at the Hotel North, Augusta, where I was bombarded with postal cards from Field. They were all couched in ambiguous terms and were well calculated to impress the inquisitive hotel clerk with the impecuniosity of my friends and with the suspicion that I was in some way responsible for their desperate condition. Autograph hunters have long ago stripped me of most of these letters of discredit, but the following, which has escaped the importunity of collectors of Fieldiana, will indicate their general tenor:

The same postal importunities awaited me at the Parker House while in Boston, and came near spoiling the negotiations in which I was engaged, for the News, for the, till then, unpublished correspondence between Mr. Blaine and Mr. Fischer, of the Mulligan letters notoriety. My assignment as staff correspondent called for visits to New York, Albany, and Buffalo on my way home, and wherever I stopped I found proofs that Field was possessed of my itinerary and was bound that I should not escape his embarrassing attentions.

There is no need to tell that of all anniversaries of the year Christmas was the one that appealed most strongly to Eugene Field's heart and ever-youthful fancy. It was in his mind peculiarly the children's festival, and his books bear all the testimony that is needed, from the first poem he acknowledged, "Christmas Treasures," to the last word he wrote, that it filled his heart with rejoicings and love and good will. But there is an incident in our friendship which shows how he managed to weave in with the blessed spirit of Christmas the elfish, cheery spirit of his own.

We had spent Christmas Eve, 1884, together, and, as usual, had expended our last dime in providing small tokens of remembrance for everyone within the circle of our immediate friends. I parted from him at the midnight car, which he took for the North Side. Going to the Sherman House, I caught the last elevator for my room on the top floor, and it was not long ere I was oblivious to all sublunary things.

Before it was fairly light the next morning I was disturbed and finally awakened by the sound of voices and subdued tittering in the corridor outside my door. Then there came a knock, and I was told that there was a message for me. Opening the door, my eyes were greeted with a huge home-knit stocking tacked to it with a two-pronged fork and filled with a collection of conventional presents for a boy—a fair idea of which the reader can glean from the following lines in Field's handwriting dangling from the toe:

If I have succeeded in conveying any true impression of Eugene Field's nature, the reader can imagine the pleasure he derived from this game, in planning it, in providing the old-fashioned sock, toys, and eatables, and in toiling up six flights of stairs after he knew I was asleep, to see that everything was arranged so as to attract the attention of the passing traveller. The success of his game was fully reported to him by his friend, the night clerk—now one of the best known hotel managers in Chicago—and mightily he enjoyed the report that I had been routed out by the early wayfarer before the light of Christmas broke upon the slumbering city.

CHAPTER II

INTRODUCTION TO COLORED INKS

My room in the Sherman House, then, as now, one of the most conveniently located hotels in the business district of Chicago, was the scene of Eugene Field's first introduction to the use of colored inks. His exquisitely neat, small, and beautifully legible handwriting has always been the subject of wondering comment and admiration. He adopted and perfected that style of chirography deliberately to reduce the labor of writing to a minimum. And he succeeded, for few pen-men could exceed him in the rapidity with which he produced "copy" for the printer and none excelled him in sending that copy to the compositor in a form so free from error as to leave no question where blame for typographical blunders lay. In over twenty years' experience in handling copy I have only known one regular writer for the press who wrote as many words to a sheet as Field. That was David H. Mason, the tariff expert, whose handwriting was habitually so infinitesimal that he put more than a column of brevier type matter on a single page, note-paper size.

Strange to say, the compositors did not complain of this eye-straining copy, which attracted them by its compactness and stretched out to nearly half a column in the "strings" by which their pay was measured. From this it may be inferred that there was never any complaint of Field's manuscript from the most exacting and captious of all newspaper departments—the composing room.

However, I set out to relate the genesis of Field's use of the colored inks, with which he not only embellished his correspondence and presentation copies of his verse, but with which he was wont to illuminate his copy for the printer. It came about in this way:

In the winter of 1885 Walter Cranston Larned, author of the "Churches and Castles of Mediæval France," then the art critic for the News, contributed to it a series of papers on the Walters gallery in Baltimore. These attracted no small attention at the time, and were the subject of animated discussion in art circles in Chicago. They were twelve in number, and ran along on the editorial page of the News from February 23d till March 10th. At first we of the editorial staff took only a passing interest in Mr. Larned's contributions. But one day Field, Ballantyne, and I, from a discussion of the general value of art criticism in a daily newspaper, were led to question whether it conveyed an intelligible impression of the subject, and more particularly of the paintings commented on, to the ordinary reader. The point was raised as to the practicability of artists themselves reproducing any recognizable approach to the original paintings by following Mr. Larned's verbal descriptions. Thereupon we deliberately set about, in a spirit of frolic to be sure, to attempt what we each and all considered a highly improbable feat.

Armed with the best water colors we could find in Abbott's art store, we converted my bachelor quarters in the Sherman House into an amateur studio, where we daily labored for an hour or so in producing most remarkable counterfeits of the masterpieces in Mr. Walters's gallery as seen through Mr. Larned's text. We were innocent of the first principles of drawing and knew absolutely nothing about the most rudimentary use of water colors. Somehow, Field made a worse botch in mixing and applying the colors than did either Ballantyne or I. They would never produce the effects intended. He made the most whimsical drawings, only to obliterate every semblance to his original conception in the coloring. To prevent his going on a strike, I ransacked Chicago for colored inks to match those required in the pictures that had been assigned to him. This inspired him with renewed enthusiasm, and he devoted himself to the task of realizing Mr. Larned's descriptions in colored inks with the zest that produces the masterpieces over which artists and critics rave.

His first work in this line was a reproduction—or shall I call it a restoration—of Corot's "St. Sebastian." In speaking of this as one of the noteworthy paintings in the Walters gallery, Mr. Larned had said that it was a landscape in which the figures were quite subordinate and seemed merely intended to illustrate the deeper meaning of the painter in his rendition of nature. According to the critic's detailed description, it was a forest scene. "Great trees rise on the right to the top of the canvas. On the left are also some smaller trees, whose upper branches reach across and make, with the trees on the right, a sort of arch through which is seen a wonderful stretch of sky. A rocky path leads away from the foreground beneath the overhanging trees, sloping upward until it reaches the crest of a hill beneath the sky. Just at this point the figures of two retreating horsemen are seen. These are the men who have been trying to kill St. Sebastian, and have left him, as they thought, dead in the depth of the forest. In the immediate foreground lies the figure of the half dead saint, whose wounds are being dressed by two women. Hovering immediately above this group, far up among the tree branches, two lovely little angels are seen holding the palm and crown of the martyr. All the figures are better painted than is usual with Corot, and the angels are very light and delicate, both in color and form." Mr. Earned quoted from a celebrated French authority that this was "the most sincerely religious picture of the nineteenth century." I leave it to the reader if Mr. Larned's description conveys any such impression. To Field's mind, it only suggested the grotesque, and his reproduction was a chef d'oeuvre, as he was wont to say. He followed the general outline of the scene as described above, but made the landscape subordinate to the figures. The retreating ruffians bore an unmistakable resemblance to outlawed American cowboys. The saint showed carmine ink traces of having been most shamefully abused. But the chief interest in the picture was divided between a lunch-basket in the foreground, from which protruded a bottle of "St. Jacob's" oil, and a brace of vividly pink cupids hopping about in the tree-tops, rejoicing over the magical effect of the saintly patent medicine. His treatment of this picture proved, if it proved anything, that Corot had gone dangerously near the line where the sublime suggests the ridiculous.

In Fortuny's "Don Quixote" Field found a subject that tickled his fancy and lent itself to his untrammelled sense of the absurd. According to Mr. Larned, Fortuny's picture—a water-color—in the Walters gallery was one which represents the immortal knight in the somewhat undignified occupation of searching for fleas in his clothing. He has thrown off his doublet and his under garment is rolled down to his waist, leaving the upper portion of his body nude, excepting the immense helmet which hides his bent-down head. Both hands grasp the under garment, and the eyes are evidently turned in eager expectancy upon the folds which the hands are clasping, in the hope that the roving tormentor has at last been captured. "What an astonishing freak of genius!" exclaimed Mr. Larned. "For genius it certainly is. The color and the drawing of the figure are simply masterly, and the entire tone of the picture is wonderfully rich; indeed, for a water-color, it is quite marvellous. This is one of Fortuny's celebrated pictures, but how the 'École des Beaux Arts' would in the old days have held up its hands and closed its eyes in holy horror! Possibly an earnest disciple of Lessing, even, might have a rather dubious feeling about such a choice of subjects."

But it suited Field's pen and colored inks to a T. He entered into Fortuny's spirit as far as he dared to go and helped it over the edge of the merely dubious to the unmistakably safe grotesque. His own Don Quixote was clad in modern costume, from the riding-boots and monster spurs up to the belt. From that point his emaciated body—a fearfully and wonderfully articulated semi-skeleton—was nude save for one or two sporadic hairs. In the place of the traditional helmet, the Don's head was encased in a garden watering-pot, on the spout of which, and dominating the entire canvas, as artists say, poised on one foot and evidently enjoying the sorrowful knight's discomfiture, was the pestiferous pulex irritans.

In the Walters gallery were several pictures of child-life by Frère, in which, according to Mr. Lamed, "every little figure is full of character"—a fact about which there is no doubt in the accompanying reproduction of Frère's "The Little Dressmaker," which by some chance was preserved from those "artist days."

The completed results of our many off-hours of artist life were bound in a volume which was presented to Mr. Larned at a formal lunch given in his honor at the Sherman House. The speech of presentation was made by our friend, "Colonel" James S. Norton, in what the rural paragrapher would have described as "the most felicitous effort of his life," and the wonderful collection was commended to Mr. Larned's grateful preservation by the judgment of Mr. Henry Field, whose own choice selection of paintings is the most valued possession of the Chicago Art Institute. Mr. Field testified that he recognized everyone of the amazing reproductions from their resemblance, grotesque in the main, to the originals in the Walters gallery, with which he was familiar.

It was for this occasion that Field composed and recited his remarkable German poem, entitled "Der Niebelrungen und der Schlabbergasterfeldt." From the manuscript copy in my scrap-book I give the original version of this extraordinary production, which was copied in the Illinois Staats Zeitung and went the rounds of the German press in all the dignity of German text and with a variety of serious criticisms truly comical:

Ever after this Walters gallery incident it was my duty, so he thought, to keep Field's desk supplied with inks, not only of every color of the rainbow, but with lake-white, gold, silver, and bronze, and any other kind which his whim deemed necessary to give eccentric emphasis to some line, word or letter in whatever he chanced to be composing. His peremptory requests were generally preferred in writing, addressed "For the Lusty Knight, Sir Slosson Thompson, Office," and delivered by his grinning minion, the office factotum. Sometimes they were in verse, as in the following:

While Field insisted on a variegated assortment of inks he did not demand a separate pen for each color. In lieu of these he possessed himself of an old linen office coat, which he donned when it was cool enough for a coat and used for a pen-wiper. When the temperature rendered anything beyond shirt-sleeves superfluous, this linen affair was hung so conveniently that he could still use it for what he regarded as its primary use. In warm weather I wore a presentably clean counterpart of Field's Joseph's coat of many colors. As often as necessary this went to the laundry. One day when it had just returned from one of these periodical visits, I was startled, but not surprised, to find that Field had appropriated my spotless linen duster to his own inky uses and left his own impossible creation hanging on my hook in its stead. Field's version of what then occurred is beautifully, if not truthfully, portrayed in the accompanying "Proper Sonet" and life-like portraits.

If the reader will imagine each mark on the coat, of which "Nompy" bootlessly complains, done in different colors, he will have some idea of the infinite pains Field bestowed on the details of his epistolary pranks.

Out of the remarkable series of postal appeals which Field sent to me when I was visiting in New Brunswick grew an animated correspondence between Field and my youngest sister. She bore the good old-fashioned Christian names of Mary Matilda—a combination that struck a responsive chord in Field's taste in nomenclature, while his "come at once, we are starving" aroused her sense of humor to the point of forwarding an enormous raised biscuit two thousand miles for the relief of two Chicago sufferers. The result was an exchange of letters, one of which has a direct bearing on his whimsical adoption of many-colored inks in his writing. It read as follows:

This epistle did indeed look like a crazy quilt. There was a change of color at the beginning of each line, as I have endeavored to indicate. It is beautifully written and in many respects besides its variegated aspect is the most perfect specimen of Field's painstaking epistolary handiwork I know of.

The "diagram of Mr. Slason Thompson's New Rooms" accompanying this letter was entirely worthy of it, and must have afforded him hours of boyish pleasure. No description can do it justice. He gave a ground plan of two square rooms with the windows marked in red ink, the doors in green, the bed, with a little figure on it, in blue, the fireplace in yellow, chairs and tables in purple, and the "buttery," as he insisted on calling the bathroom, in brown. As these apartments were in the Pullman Building, on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Adams Street, and commanded a glimpse of the lake, Field's diagram included a representation of Lake Michigan by zigzag lines of blue ink, with a single fish as long as a street-car, according to his scale, leering at the spectator from the billowy depths of indigo blue. Everything in the diagram was carefully identified in the key which accompanied it. An idea of the infinite attention to detail Field bestowed on such frivoling as this may be gathered from the accompanying cut of the Pullman Building, from the seventh story of which I am shown waving a welcome to the good but "impecunious knight." The inscription, in Field's handwriting, tells the story.

The good knight Slosson from a watch tower
of his castle desenith and salutith the good
Knight Eugene, sans peur et sans monie.

Early in the spring of 1885 Field was inspired, by an account I gave him of a snow-shoeing party my sister had described in one of her letters, to compose the series of pen-and-ink tableaux reproduced on pages 30 and 31.

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.
From drawings by Eugene Field.

An inkling as to the meaning of these weird pictures may be gleaned from the letter I sent along with them to my sister, in which I wrote:

I was telling Field the story of your last snow-shoeing party when he was prompted to the enclosed tragedy in five acts. He hopes that you will not mistake the stars for mosquitoes, nor fail to comprehend the terrible fate that has overtaken Eddy Martin at the mouth of the voracious musquash, whose retreating tail speaks so eloquently of his toothsome repast. The lone pine tree is a thing that you will enjoy; also the expression of horror on your own face when you behold the empty boots of Eddy. There is a tragedy too deep for tears in the silent monuments of Field's ignorance of moccasins.

In explanation of the final scene in this "sad, eventful history" it should be said that "poor Eddie" was a harmless, half-witted giant who sawed the cord wood and did odd chores about my father's place. This gives significance to the pendant buck-saw and the lonely wood-horse. His lance rusts upon the wall and his steed stands silent in the stall. The reader should not pass from these examples of Field's humor with pen and ink without marking the changes that come across the face of the moon as the tragedy unfolds.

That Field found a congenial spirit and correspondent in my sister is further evidenced in the following letter written in gamboge brown:

The story of "How Mary Matilda Won a Prince" was the third in what Field called his "Aunt Mary Matilda Series." The first of these was "The Lonesome Little Shoe" (see "The Holy Cross and Other Tales" of his collected works), which, after it was printed in the Morning News, was cut out and pasted in a little brown manila pamphlet, with marginal illustrations of the most fantastic nature. The title page of this precious specimen of Fieldiana is characteristic:

THE LONESOME LITTLE SHOE:

BEING
A WONDERFUL NARRATIVE CULLED FROM
THE
POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF EUGENE FIELD

1885.

PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED

DEDICATED TO AUNT MARY MATILDA'S PRESENT
AND FUTURE NEPHEWS AND NIECES,
THEIR HEIRS, ASSIGNS
AND ASSIGNEES
FOREVER

CANADIAN TRACT SOCIETY

(COPYRIGHT)

What became of the second of this wonderful series no one knows. The third, "How Mary Won a Prince," is the only instance that has come under my notice where Field put any of his compositions in typewriter. This was done to make the first edition consist of a single copy. The prince and hero of this romantic tale was our associate, John F. Ballantyne, and the story itself was "Inscribed to the beautiful, accomplished, amiable and ever-to-be-revered, Miss Mary Matilda Thompson, of Frederickton, York County, New Brunswick, Dominion of Canada, 1885." It was said to be "elegantly illustrated," of which the reader may judge from the accompanying reproductions.

HOW MARY MATILDA WON A PRINCE.

A gypsy had told Mary Matilda that she would marry a prince. This was when Mary Matilda was a little girl. She had given the gypsy a nice, fresh bun, and the gypsy was so grateful that she said she would tell the little girl's fortune, so Mary Matilda held out her hand and the old gypsy looked at it very closely.

"You are very generous," said the gypsy, "and your generosity will cause a prince to fall in love with you; the prince will rescue you from a great danger and you will wed the prince."

Having uttered these strange words, the gypsy went away and shortly after was sentenced to ten years in the penitentiary for having robbed a hen-roost.

Mary Matilda grew from childhood to be the most beautiful maiden in all the province; none was so beautiful and so witty as she. Withal she was so amiable and benevolent that all loved her, even those who envied her the transcendent charms with which she was endowed. As the unfortunate gypsy had predicted, Mary Matilda was the most generous maiden on earth and the fame of her goodness was wide-spread.

Now Mary Matilda had an older brother who had gone to a far-off country to become rich, and to accomplish those great political reforms to which his ambition inclined him. His name was Slosson, and in the far-off country he fell in with two young men of his own age who were of similar ambition. But they were even poorer than Slosson, and what particularly grieved them was the fact that their lineage was obscured by dark clouds of doubt. That is to say, they were unable to determine with any degree of positiveness whether they were of noble extraction; their parents refused to inform them, and consequently they were deeply distressed, as you can well imagine. Slosson was much charmed with their handsome bearing, chivalric ways, and honorable aspirations, and his pity was evoked by their poverty and their frequent sufferings for the very requirements of life. Freely he shared his little all with them, in return for which they gave him their gratitude and affection. One day Slosson wrote a letter to his sister Mary Matilda, saying: "A hard winter is coming on and our store of provisions is nearly exhausted. My two friends are in much distress and so am I. We have accomplished a political revolution, but under the civil service laws we can hardly expect an office."

Mary Matilda was profoundly touched by this letter. Her tender heart bled whenever she thought of her absent brother, and instinctively her sympathies went out toward his two companions in distress. So in her own quiet, maidenly way she set about devising a means for the relief of the unfortunate young men. She made a cake, a beautiful cake stuffed with plums and ornamented with a lovely design representing the lost Pleiad, which you perhaps know was a young lady who lived long ago and acquired eternal fame by dropping out of the procession and never getting back again. Well, Mary Matilda put this delicious cake in a beautiful paper collar-box and sent it in all haste to her brother and his two friends in the far-off country. Great was Slosson's joy upon receiving this palatable boon, and great was the joy of his two friends, who it must be confessed were on the very brink of starvation. The messages Mary Matilda received from the grateful young men, who owed their rescue to her, must have pleased her, although the consciousness of a noble deed is better than words of praise.

But one day Mary Matilda got another letter from her brother Slosson which plunged her into profound melancholy. "Weep with me, dear Sister," he wrote, "for one of my companions, Juan, has left me. He was the youngest, and I fear some great misfortune has befallen him, for he was ever brooding over the mystery of his lineage. Yesterday he left us and we have not seen him since. He took my lavender trousers with him."

As you may easily suppose, Mary Matilda was much cast down by this fell intelligence. She drooped like a blighted lily and wept.

"What can ail our Mary Matilda?" queried her mother. "The roses have vanished from her cheeks, the fire has gone out of her orbs, and her step has lost its old-time cunning. I am much worried about her."

They all noticed her changed appearance. Even Eddie Martin, the herculean wood-sawyer, observed the dejection with which the sorrow-stricken maiden emerged from the house and handed him his noontide rations of nutcakes and buttermilk. But Mary Matilda spoke of the causes of her woe to none of them. In silence she brooded over the mystery of Juan's disappearance.

When the winter came and the soft, fair snow lay ten or twelve feet deep on the level on the forest and stream, on wold and woodland, little Bessie once asked Mary Matilda if she would not take her out for a walk. Now little Bessie was Mary Matilda's niece, and she was such a sweet little girl that Mary Matilda could never say "no" to anything she asked.

"Yes, Bessie," said Mary Matilda, "if you will bundle up nice and warm I will take you out for a short walk of twenty or thirty miles."

So Bessie bundled up nice and warm. Then Mary Matilda went out on the porch and launched her two snow-shoes and got into them and harnessed them to her tiny feet.

"Where are you going?" asked Eddie Martin, pausing in his work and leaning his saw against a slab of green maple.

"I am going to take Bessie out for a short walk," replied Mary Matilda.

"Are you not afraid to go alone?" said Eddie Martin. "You know the musquashes are very thick, and this spell of winter weather has made them very hungry and ferocious."

"No, I am not afraid of the musquashes," replied Mary Matilda. But she was afraid of them: only she did not want to tell Eddie Martin so, for fear he would want to go with her. This was the first and only wrong story Mary Matilda ever told.

Having grasped little Bessie by the hand, Mary Matilda stepped over the fence and was soon lost to view. Scarcely had she gone when a tall, thin, haggard looking young man came down the street and leaned over the back gate.

"Can you tell me," he asked in weary tones, "whether the beautiful Mary Matilda abides hereabouts?"

"She lives here," replied Eddie Martin, "but she has gone for a walk with little Bessie."

"Whither did they drift?" queried the mysterious unknown.

"They started toward the Nashwaaksis," said Eddie Martin. "And I sadly fear the deadly musquash will pursue them."

The stranger turned pale and trembled at the suggestion.

"Will you lend me your saw for a brief period?" he asked.

"Why?" inquired Eddie Martin.

"To rescue the fair Mary Matilda from the musquashes," replied the stranger. Then he seized the saw, and with pale face started in the direction Mary Matilda had gone.

Meanwhile Mary Matilda had crossed the Nashwaaksis and was speeding in a southerly course toward the Nashwaak. The gentle breeze favored her progress, and as she sailed along, the snow danced like frozen feathers around her.

"Oh, how nice!" cried little Bessie.

"Yes, this clear, fresh, cold air gives one new life," said Mary Matilda.

They now came to the Nashwaak, on the farther bank of which were crouched a pack of hungry musquashes eagerly awaiting the approach of Mary Matilda and little Bessie.

"Hush," whispered the old big musquash. "Make no noise or they will hear us and make good their escape." But just then another musquash carelessly trod on the big musquash's tail and the old musquash roared with pain.

"What was that?" cried little Bessie.

Mary Matilda had heard the strange cry. She paused to listen. Then she saw the pack of musquashes in the snow on the farthest bank of the Nashwaak. Oh, how frightened she was! but with a shrill cry she seized Bessie in her arms, and, turning swiftly about, fled in the direction of McLeod hill. The musquashes saw her retreating, and with a howl of commingled rage and disappointment they started in hot pursuit. They ran like mad, as only starving musquashes can run. Every moment they gained on the maiden and her human charge until at last they were at her very heels. Mary Matilda remembered she had some beechnuts in her pocket. She reached down, grasped a handful of the succulent fruit and cast it to her insatiate pursuers. It stayed their pursuit for a moment, but in another moment they were on her track again, howling demoniacally. Another handful of the beechnuts went to the ravenous horde, and still another. By this time Mary Matilda had reached McLeod hill and was crossing the Nashwaaksis. Her imagination pictured a scuttled brigantine lying in the frozen stream. On its slippery deck stood a pirate, waving a gory cutlass.

"Ha, ha, ho, ho!" laughed the gory and bearded pirate.

"Save me!" cried Mary Matilda. "My beechnuts are all gone!"

"Throw them the baby!" answered the bearded pirate, "and save yourself! Ha, ha, ho, ho!"

Should she do it? Should she throw little Bessie to the devouring musquashes? No, she could not stoop to that ungenerous deed.

"No, base pirate!" she cried. "I would not so demean myself!"

But the scuttled brigantine had disappeared. Mary Matilda saw it was a mirage. Meanwhile the musquashes gained on her. The beechnuts had whetted their appetite. It seemed as if they were sure of their prey. But all at once they stopped, and Mary Matilda stopped, too. They were confronted by a haggard but manly form. It was the mysterious young stranger, and he had a saw which Eddie Martin had lent him. His aspect was so terrible that the musquashes turned to flee, but they were too late. The mysterious stranger laid about him so vigorously with his saw that the musquashes soon were in bits. Here was a tail, there a leg; here an ear, there a nose—oh, it was a rare potpourri, I can tell you! Finally the musquashes all were dead.

"To whom am I indebted for my salvation?" inquired Mary Matilda, blushing deeply.

"Alas, I do not know," replied the wan stranger. "I am called Juan, but my lineage is enveloped in gloom."

At once Mary Matilda suspected he was her brother's missing friend, and this suspicion was confirmed by the lavender trousers he wore. She questioned him closely, and he told her all. Bessie heard all he said, and she could tell you more particularly than I can about it. I only know that Juan confessed that, having tasted of Mary Matilda's cake, he fell deeply in love with her and had come all this distance to ask her to be his, indissolubly.

"Still," said he, sadly, "'tis too much to ask you to link your destiny with one whose lineage is not known."

By this time they had reached the back-yard gate. Eddie Martin was sitting on the wood-pile talking with a weird old woman. The weird old woman scrutinized Mary Matilda closely.

"Do you know me?" she asked.

"No," said Mary Matilda.

"I have been serving ten years for a mild indiscretion," said the old woman, sadly. "I am the gypsy who told your fortune many years ago."

Then the old gypsy's keen eyes fell on Juan, the stranger. She gave a fierce cry.

"I have seen that face before!" she cried, trembling with emotion. "When I knew it, it was a baby face; but the spectacles are still the same!"

Juan also quivered with emotion.

"Have you a thistle mark on your left arm?" demanded the old gypsy, fiercely.

"Yes," he answered, hoarsely; and pulling up the sleeve of his linen ulster he exposed the beautiful emblem on his emaciated arm.

"It is as I suspected!" cried the old gypsy. "You are the Prince of Lochdougal, heir presumptive to the estates and titles of the Stuarts." And with these words the old gypsy swooned in Eddie Martin's arms.

When she came to, she explained that she had been a stewardess in the Lochdougal castle at Inverness when Juan's parents had been exiled for alleged conspiracy against the queen. Juan was then a prattling babe; but even then he gave promise of a princely future. Since his arrival at maturity his parents had feared to impart to him the secret of his lineage, lest he might return to Scotland and attempt to recover his estates, thereby incurring the resentment of the existing dynasty.

Of course when she heard of his noble lineage, Mary Matilda could do naught but accept the addresses of the brave prince. He speedily regained his health and flesh under the grateful influences of her cuisine. The wedding day has been set, and little Bessie is to be one of her bridesmaids. The brother Slosson is to be present, and he is to bring with him his other friend, whose name he will not mention, since his lineage is still in doubt.

CHAPTER III

SOME LETTERS

"There's no art," said the doomed Duncan, "to find the mind's construction in the face," nor after a somewhat extensive acquaintance with men and their letters am I inclined to think there is very much to be found of the true individuality of men in their letters. All men, and especially literary men, seem to consider themselves on dress parade in their correspondence, and pose accordingly. Ninety-nine persons out of a hundred are more self-conscious in writing than they are in talking. Even the least conscious seem to imagine that what they put down in black and white is to pass under some censorious eye. The professional writer, whether his reputation be international, like that of a Lowell or a Stevenson, or confined to the circle of his village associates, never appears to pen a line without some affectation. The literary artist does this with an ease and grace that provokes comment upon its charming naturalness, the journeyman only occasions some remark upon his effort to "show off." If language was given us to conceal thoughts, letter writing goes a step further and puts the black-and-white mask of deliberation on language.

Eugene Field was no exception to the rule that literary men scarcely ever write letters for the mere perusal or information of the recipient. He almost always wrote for an ulterior effect or for an ulterior audience. But he seldom wrote letters deliberately for reproduction in his "Memoirs." If he had done so they would have been written so skilfully that he would have made himself out to be pretty much the particular kind of a character he pleased. For obvious reasons most of the communications that passed between Field and myself were verbal, across a partition in the office, or by notes that were destroyed as soon as they had served their purpose. That Field had other correspondents the following request for a postage stamp will testify:

Was ever request for so small a "boon" couched in such lordly pomp of phrase and in such insinuating rhyme?

It was shortly after Field secured this boon that he had his first opportunity to waste postage stamps on me. With a party of friends I went up to Mackinac Island to spend a few days. By the first mail that reached the island after I had registered at the old Island House, I received a letter bearing in no less than five different colored inks the following unique superscription:

For that Most Illustrious and Puissant Knight Errant,
Sir Slosson Thompson,
Erstwhile of Chicago, but now illumining
Mackinac Island,
Michigan,

Where, under civic guise, he is accomplishing prodigious
slaughter among the fish that do infest that coast.

It may be taken for granted that the clerks and the hotel guests were consumed with curiosity as to the contents of an envelope over which they had a chance to speculate before it reached me. These were:

Under another cover addressed ostentatiously:

"For the Good and Generous Knight,
Sir Slosson Thompson,
now summering amid rejoicings and with triumphant cheer at
Mackinac Island,
Michigan,"

came the following poem, entitled:

The subject of the good-natured and clever satire was our mutual friend, Barbour Lathrop, with whom I had been associated in journalism in San Francisco and who is famous from the Bohemian Club literally around the globe and in many of its most out-of-the-way islands as a most entertaining, albeit incessant, story-teller and conversationalist. Pretty nearly all subjects that interest humanity have engaged his attention. He could no more rest from travel than Ulysses; and he brought to those he associated with all the fruits that faring forth in strange lands could give to a mind singularly alert for education and experience under any and all conditions. His fondness for monologue frequently exposed him to raillery, like the above, in the column where Field daily held a monopoly of table talk.

But the episode with the "Garrulous Sir Barbour" was not the rhyme of chief interest (to Field and me) forwarded by "this courier."

This was confided to a third envelope even more elaborately addressed and embellished than either of the others, as follows:

For the valorous, joyous, Triumphant and Glorious Knight,
The ever gentle and Courteous Flower of Chivalry,
Cream of Knight Errantry and Pole Star of Manly virtues,
Sir Slosson Thompson,
who doth for the nonce sojourn at
Mackinac Island, Michigan,

Where under the guise of a lone Fisherman he is
regaled with sumptuous cheer and divers rejoicings,
wherein he doth right merrily disport.

The rhyme under this cover in which the impecunious knight did not "overpraise" himself bore the title "How the Good Knight protected Sir Slosson's Credit," and was well calculated to fill me with forebodings. It ran in this wise:

Two days later I received a postal written in a disguised hand by Ballantyne, I think, and purporting to come from "Charlie," showing the progress of the conspiracy to mulct Sir Slosson's pelf. It read:

And by the same mail came this comforting epistle from the arch conspirator:

The note from Mr. Browne here mentioned related to the proposed publication of a collection of Field's verse and stories. The Browne was Francis F., for a long time editor of The Dial, and at that time holding the position of principal reader for A.C. McClurg & Co. As I remember, Mr. Browne was favorably disposed toward putting out a volume of Field's writings, but General McClurg was not enamoured of the breezy sort of personal persiflage with which Field's name was then chiefly associated. This was several years before Field made the Saints' and Sinners' Corner in McClurg's Chicago book-store famous throughout the bibliomaniac world by fictitious reports relating to it printed occasionally in his "Sharps and Flats" column. It was not until 1893 that McClurg & Co. published any of Field's writings.

My work to which Field refers was the collection of newspaper and periodical verse entitled "The Humbler Poets," which McClurg & Co. subsequently published.

Enclosed in the letter of July 22d was the following characteristic account, conveying the impression that while he was willing to waste all the resources of his colored inks and literary ingenuity on our friendship, I must pay the freight. I think he had a superstition that it would cause a flaw in his title of "The Good Knight, sans peur et sans monnaie" if he were to add the price of a two-cent postage stamp to that waste.

A STAMP ACCOUNT.

Shortly after my return from Mackinac, Field presented me with the following verses, enlivened with several drawings in colors, entitled "An Echo from Mackinac Island, August, 1885":

During the fall of 1885 I was again sent East on some political work that took me to Saratoga and New York. As usual, Field was unremitting in his epistolary attentions with which I will not weary the reader. But on the journey back from New York they afforded entertainment and almost excited the commiseration of a young lady travelling home under my escort. When we reached Chicago I casually remarked that if she was so moved by Field's financial straits I would take pleasure in conveying as much truage to the impecunious knight as would provide him with buttered toast, coffee, and pie at Henrici's. She accordingly entrusted me with a quarter of a dollar, which I was to deliver with every assurance of her esteem and sympathy. As I was pledged not to reveal the donor's name, this tribute of silver provided Field with another character, whom he named "The Fair Unknown," and to whom he indited several touching ballads, of which the first was:

Another bit of verse was inspired by this incident which is worth preserving: One night I was dining at the house of a friend on the North Side where the "Fair Unknown" was one of the company—a fact of which Field only became possessed when I left the office late in the afternoon. The dinner had not progressed quite to the withdrawal of the ladies when, with some confusion, one of the waiting-men brought in and gave to me a large packet from the office marked "Personal; deliver at once." Thinking it had something to do with work for the Morning News, I asked to be excused and hastily tore the enclosure open. One glance was enough to disclose its nature. It was a poem from Field, neatly arranged in the form of a pamphlet, with an illustration by Sclanders. The outside, which was in the form of a title page, ran thus:

HOW THE GOOD KNIGHT ATTENDED
UPON SIR SLOSSON:

BEING A WOEFUL TALE
OF
THE MOST JOYOUS AND DIVERTING DAYS

WHEREIN

KNIGHTS ERRANT DID COURTEOUSLY
DISPORT THEMSELVES
AND ACHIEVE PRODIGIES OF VALOR,

AND

MARVELS OF SWEET FRIENDSHIP.

And inside the plaintive story was told in variegated ink in the following lines:

The drawing in this verse marks the beginning of the transfer of our patronage from the steaks and gamblers' frowns of Billy Boyle's to the oysters and the cricket's friendly chirps of the Boston Oyster House. The reference to Field's "dyspeptic frame" is not without its significance, for it was about this time that he became increasingly conscious of that weakness of the stomach that grew upon him and began to give him serious concern.

How Field seized upon my absence from the city for the briefest visit to bombard me with queer and fanciful letters, found another illustration during Christmas week, 1885, which I spent with a house party at Blair Lodge, the home of Walter Cranston Larned, whom I have already mentioned as the possessor of Field's two masterpieces in color. Each day of my stay was enlivened by a letter from Field. As they are admirable specimens of the wonderful pains he took with letters of this sort, and the expertness he attained in the command of the archaic form of English, I need no excuse for introducing them here. The first, which bears date "December 27th, 1385," was written on an imitation sheet of old letter paper, browned with dirt and ragged edged. In the order of receipt these letters were as follows:

All of this exercise in the phraseology of chivalry was written on a single sheet of note-paper with such generous margins that the text only covered a space of two and one-half by four inches on each page. Next day I received the second of this knightly series:

Before another day elapsed I received the third, and, in some respects, most interesting of this series, addressed to me by my knightly title at "Blair Lodge Castle, Lake Forest," which is less than thirty miles from Chicago:

CHAPTER IV

MORE LETTERS

In the fall and winter of 1885-86 I succeeded in inducing Field to take the only form of exercise he was ever known voluntarily to indulge. While his column of "Sharps and Flats" to the end bore almost daily testimony to his enthusiastic devotion to the national game and of his critical familiarity with its fine points and leading exponents, he was never known to bat or throw a ball. He never wearied of singing the praises in prose and verse of Michael J. Kelly, who for many years was the star of the celebrated "White Stockings" of Chicago when it won the National League pennant year after year. Nor did he cease to revile the Chicago base-ball management when it transferred "King Kel" to the Boston club for the then unheard-of premium of $10,000. When the base-ball season was at its height his column would bristle with the proofs of his vivid interest in it. I have known it on one day to contain over a score of paragraphs relating to the national game, encouraging the home nine or lampooning the rival club with all the personal vivacity of a sporting reporter writing for a country weekly. Interspersed among these notes would be many an odorous comparison like this, printed June 28th, 1888:

Benjamin Harrison is a good, honest, patriotic man, and we like him. But he never stole second base in all his life and he could not swat Mickey Welch's down curves over the left-field fence. Therefore we say again, as we have said many times before, that much as we revere Benjamin Harrison's purity and amiability, we cannot but accord the tribute of our sincerest admiration, to that paragon of American manhood, Michael J. Kelly.

So when Kelly essayed to change the scene of his labors from the diamond to the melodramatic stage in 1893 it is not surprising to find that Field, in a semi-humorous and semi-serious vein, thus applauded and approved his choice:

Surprise is expressed in certain quarters because Mike Kelly, the base-ball virtuoso, has made a hit upon the dramatic stage. The error into which many people have fallen is in supposing that Kelly was simply a clever base-ball machine. He is very much more than this: he is an unusually bright and intelligent man. As a class, base-ball professionals are either dull brutes or ribald brutes; ignorance as dense as Egyptian darkness has seemed to constitute one of the essentials to successful base-ball playing, and the average professional occupies an intellectual plane hardly above that of the average stall-fed ox or the fat pig at a country fair. Mike Kelly stands pre-eminent in his profession; no other base-ball player approaches him. He is in every way qualified for a better career than that which is bounded on one side by the bleaching boards, and on the other by the bar-room. Of course he is a good actor. He is too smart to attempt anything at which he does not excel.

But I have been diverted from telling of the sport in which Field was an active participant by the recollection of his critical and literary expertness in the great game in which he never took an active part. Once when Melville Stone was asked what was his dearest wish at that instant, he replied, "to beat Field and Thompson bowling." This was in the days before bowling was the fashionable winter sport it has since become. The alleys in Chicago in 1885 were neither numerous nor in first-class condition; but after Field once discovered that he had a special knack with the finger-balls we hunted them up and tested most of them. After a while we settled down on the alleys under Slosson's billiard-room on Monroe Street for our afternoon games and on the Superior Alleys on North Clark Street on the evenings when it was my turn to walk home with "Gene." Rolling together we were scarcely ever overmatched, and he was the better man of the two. He rolled a slow, insinuating ball. It appeared to amble aimlessly down the alley, threatening to stop or to sidle off into the gutter for repose. But it generally had enough momentum and direction to reach the centre pin quartering, which thereupon, with its nine brothers, seemed suddenly smitten with the panic so dear to the bowler's heart. I never knew another bowler so quick to discover the tricks and peculiarities of an alley or so crafty to master and profit by them. Whenever the hour was ripe for a game Field would send the boy with some such taunt or challenge as is shown in the accompanying fac-simile.

I shall never forget, nor would an elaborately colored score by Field permit me, if I would, his chagrin over the result of one of these matches. He and Willis Hawkins had challenged Cowen and me to a tourney, as he called it, of five strings. His record of this "great game of skittles," all figured out by frames, strikes and spares in red, blue, yellow, and green ink, shows the following result:

Only one of the three alleys was fit to roll on, and Field scored 231 and 223 in his turns upon it. The modern experts may be interested in the following details of his high score:

It will be perceived that Field's score contained six strikes and five spares, which was good rolling on a long and not too carefully planed alley. His average was spoiled by the frames he was forced to roll on the poorer alleys, where all his cunning could not insure a safe passage of his slow delivery on their billowy surfaces. Field's disgust over the result of this game lasted all summer, and Hawkins was never permitted to forget the part he played in the defeat of "the only Bowling King."

During the fall of 1886 I went to New Brunswick on my annual vacation, and Field fairly out-did himself in keeping me informed of how "matters and things" moved along at the office while I was gone. It pleased his sense of humor to dispatch a letter to me every evening invariably addressed "For Sir Slosson Thomson." As these letters ran the gamut of the subjects uppermost in Field's life at this time, I give them in the order of their receipt:

If the reader is at all curious in such matters, a cursory inspection of the illustrations of this letter will assure him that its composition and embellishment must have cost its fanciful writer at least three hours' work. But this was the kind of work that lightened the toil of Field's daily grind.

The announcement which Field caused to be made in the Denver newspapers and the letters of introduction which he gave to Mr. Peattie resulted, as Field contemplated, in his having a lively time. As the conspirator also took the precaution to advise the addressees of these letters and the manager of the hotel of his fell purpose, Mr. and Mrs. Peattie found themselves the victims of insistent and deliberate misapprehensions from the moment they were shown to the bridal suite until they fled from the swarm of land speculators and mining promoters which Field's ingenuity brought about them wherever they moved in Colorado. That this was merely a sportive method of showing his real friendship for both Mr. and Mrs. Peattie may be judged from the following verses:

The following verses present an example of what Field could or could not do with the Scotch dialect, which he seldom attempted. It was inspired by the fact that Peattie had been named after Scotland's dearest poet and by his own fondness for Robert and Elia:

Another bit of personal verse in my scrap-book is suggested by the reference to Morgan Bates in the letter of September 12th in the form of an acrostic to Clara Doty Bates, his wife. In the spring of 1886 Mr. and Mrs. Bates were occupying the home of Mrs. Coonley (now Mrs. Lydia Coonley Ward) on LaSalle Avenue, and one day Morgan was boasting in Field's presence of the palatial nature of their quarters. As the anniversary of Mrs. Bates's birthday was at hand, Field immediately proposed that the entire editorial staff of the News should invite itself and its family to her hospitable board. Bates was taken into the conspiracy of friendship, and on the evening of April 28th we descended on Mrs. Coonley's North Side mansion and ransacked it from cellar to garret. It was Field's humor that day to set every picture in the house just enough awry to disturb Mrs. Bates's sensitive vision. When she arrived on the scene she greeted us with the utmost cordiality, as we did her. But no matter where she stood, her eye would be annoyed by a picture-frame just out of plumb, and she would be excused while she straightened it. Nearly every picture and portrait on the lower floor had been adjusted before she understood the motive of Field's solicitude to see every painting and engraving in the house. Unlike the regulation surprise party of society, we had not provided the refreshments for our own entertainment, and we had Bates under bonds not to give Mrs. Bates an inkling of our visit. But she was enough of a Martha to rise to the occasion. Several members of the company were detailed on separate errands to Clark Street for various raw meats and non-alcoholic liquid supplies, and Mrs. Bates herself descended to the kitchen to oversee the preparation of the bounteous feast which presently emerged from chaos. By way of grace, Field read an impromptu poem written in dark blue ink on pale blue paper with each line beginning with a capital in red:

It must not be inferred from anything in these letters that Field's relations with Dr. Reilly were ever anything but the most friendly and grateful. It simply amused him to rail at and revile one of his best friends.

IV

CHICAGO, Wednesday night, September the 15th, 1886.

My dear Nompy:—Presumably you are by this time sitting by the sad sea waves in that dreary Canuck watering place, drawing sight drafts on the banks of Newfoundland and letting the chill east wind blow through your whiskers. We, too, are demoralized. That senile old substitute of yours—the Dock—has been as growly-powly as a bear to-day. As for me, I am growing desperate. You can see by the enclosed picture how changed I am.

Well, Chicago beat St. Louis to-day and, the gods be glorified! Kansas City beat Detroit! as for New York, Boston whipped her day before yesterday and Washington shut her out to-day! now if Detroit will only lose a game or two to St. Louis! I more than half suspect that your home folk will think that you and I are base-ball mad.

Stone has bought Gussie a salad set for a wedding gift. I suggested it in the hope that with two sets on hand Gussie might be disposed to give us the old one....

Remember me in respectful phraseology to the belligerent Marie Matilde.

Yours as ever,

FIELD.

Small wonder that even Field's patience revolted at the self-imposed "business" of writing this letter in five different colors of ink. The first page, which ran down to the letter "a" in the above, was written in pale green ink; the second, running to "b," was in black; the third, running to "c," was in red; and the fourth was a medley of these with purple, gamboge, and mauve to make the six colors. The fifth page from "d" was completed in plain black.

The pen-picture in this letter of the delays, intrusions, and interruptions that aroused Dr. Reilly's ire is a fair portrayal of the difficulties under which the editorial staff worked in those days. Field was the only one who could shut himself away from such annoyances to do his own wood-sawing. But when released from this, he delighted to add to the tribulations of his less erratic associates by his never-ending "japes, bourds, and mockages."

X

CHICAGO, Wednesday, September 22d, 1886.

A second letter came from you to-day, dear boy, and I am glad to hear that you are enjoying yourself, although I made mone passing measure when I learned that the caitiff Brunswick knight had forejusted you at tennis. I don't know why the revered Miss Mollie Tillie deems me a capricious man and a fickle; nor can I imagine. You should not suffer her to missay me so grievously. Where could the skeptical damosell have found a person more faithful than I have been in writing each day to her big brother? But if Miss Mollie throws me overboard, so to speak, I shall look to her bustling sister, Miss Nellie, for less capricious friendship. "Varium et mutabile semper foemina."

Poor old Dock! He comes into the room and leaves his key sticking in the door; to complicate matters still further, he leaves another key sticking in the book-case. When I reproach him with these evidences of a failing mind, he smiles and cries. I wish he were here that I might read these lines to him. Then there is Cowen—but I will not fill this letter with incoherent criminations. The enclosed sketch will explain all.

It represents a scene in this office. I have stepped out to post a letter to you. Coming back I peep in at the window and behold baby Dock in his high-chair weeping lustily, whilst baby Cowen has crept out of his chair, toddled to the wall and is reaching for his bottle! Betwixt the hysterics of the one babe and the bottle of t'other I am well-nigh exhausted. Come back and take care of your babies yourself!

I do not see that any effort is being made to get out a better paper. The sheet has been simply rotten, and everybody says so—even the dogs are barking about it. Meanwhile I am sawing wood. I am reading a great deal. Read Mrs. Gordon's Life of Christopher North, parts of Burns's poems, life of Dr. Faustus, and Morte D'Arthur since you left, and hope to read Goethe's poems, Life of Bunyan, Homer's works, Sartor Resartus and Rasselas before you get back. I have about made up my mind to do little outside writing for four or five months and to do a prodigious amount of reading instead.

My wife will be back to-morrow evening; as I am to meet her at the station, I may not have time to write you your daily note. She writes me that she has had a bad cold ever since she reached St. Louis and is heartily glad that she is coming home. Dunlap, of the McCaul Company, invites me to be his guest at the Southern Hotel while the company sings in St. Louis, but that sort of thing is out of the question. Do you intend to go to Indianapolis with me? E—— W—— has been very friendly of late. I suspect he is getting hard up. B——'s latest fad is to organize a Friday night club to discuss literature, art, science, etc. Hearing him talk about it to-day gave the old Dock a violent attack of nausea. Speaking of nausea reminds me that P—— has been seriously indisposed for two days as the consequence of eating nine peaches, two apples, and a pound of grapes! He is satisfied, however, that this variable fall weather is very trying. Shackelford is off on his vacation, but I do not complain, since I find Rogers, his substitute, a pleasant gentleman to do Saturday business with....

Affectionately yours,

EUGENE FIELD.

An interesting point in this letter is its reference to his proposed first appearance as a reader after coming to Chicago before the convention of Western Association of Writers at Indianapolis. Previous to this, during our acquaintance he had repeatedly declined requests to appear upon the platform. But in this case he was persuaded by Richard Lew Dawson, the secretary of the association, to make an exception in its favor. In a letter to Mr. Dawson, under date of September 3d, 1886, Field gives the following interesting estimate of some of his own work:

Field closed his letter with a request that an invitation should be extended to me, which I duly received. This accounts for the reference to an approaching visit to Indianapolis in his letter of September 22d.

By the way, Field got more pleasure out of the various pronunciations of Goethe's name than instruction from the perusal of his poems. He was always starting or fostering discussions over it, as in the following paragraph:

To resume the Fredericton series of letters:

The proposed "Noctes," except the set for Field, never materialized.

Field's satirical comments on Literary Life, a weekly that sought to make capital by engaging President Cleveland's sister, Miss Rose Cleveland, as its editor, not only led to her early retirement from an impossible position, but to the early collapse of the publication itself. When Miss Cleveland first came to Chicago to assume the duties of editorship Field welcomed her in verse:

CHAPTER V

PUBLICATION OF HIS FIRST BOOKS

Although the bibliomaniac and collector will claim that "The Tribune Primer," printed in Denver in 1882, was Eugene Field's first book, and cite the fact that a copy of this rare pamphlet recently sold for $125 as proof that it is still his most valuable contribution to literature, his first genuine entrance into the world of letters between covers came with the publication of "Culture's Garland," by Ticknor & Company, of Boston, in August, 1887. Whatever may be the truth as to the size of the first edition of the "Primer," so few copies were printed and its distribution was so limited that it scarcely amounted to a bona-fide publication. Neither did the form of the "Primer," a little 18mo pamphlet of forty-eight pages, bound in pink paper covers, nor its ephemeral newspaper persiflage, rise to the dignity of a book.

"Culture's Garland," on the contrary, marks the first real essay of Field as a maker of books. Field himself is the authority for the statement that "Tom" Ticknor edited the book. "I simply sent on a lot of stuff," wrote he, "and the folks at the other end picked out what they wanted and ran it as they pleased." This is scarcely just to Mr. Ticknor. Field himself, to my knowledge, selected the matter for "Culture's Garland," and arranged it in the general form in which it appeared. He then delegated to Mr. Ticknor authority to reject any and all paragraphs in which the bite of satire or the broadness of the humor transgressed too far the bounds of a reasonable discretion. The true nature of this, to my mind the most entertaining of all Field's books, is reflected in its title page, frontispiece, emblem, tail-piece, and the advertisements with which it concludes. The full title reads:

CULTURE'S GARLAND

Being Memoranada of The Gradual Rise of Literature, Art, Music,
And Society in Chicago, and Other
Western Ganglia

by
EUGENE FIELD

With an Introduction by
Julian Hawthorne.

The frontispiece is a pen-and-ink sketch of "the Author at the Age of 30 (A.D. 1880)," such as Field frequently drew of himself; the symbolic emblem, which takes the place of a dedication, was a string of link sausages "in the similitude of a laurel wreath," representing "A Chicago Literary Circle," and the tail-piece was a gallows, to mark "The End."

Writing to a friend in Boston, in 1893, Field said that he thought "the alleged advertisements at the end of the volume are its best feature." These were introduced by a letter from one of Field's favorite fictitious creations, "Felix Bosbyshell," to Messrs. Ticknor & Co.:

This was accompanied by a Publisher's Note, which Field also supplied:

While Mr. Hawthorne's analysis of the book was correct, his prophecy as to its attaining a national popularity was never realized. The literary critics, East as well as West, whose views and pretensions Field had so often lampooned mercilessly, had their innings, and as Field had not then conquered the popular heart with his "Little Boy Blue," his matchless lullabies, and his fascinating fairy tales and other stories, "Culture's Garland" was left to cumber the shelves of the book-stores. Several of the articles and poems in this book have been included in the collected edition of Field's works. In it will be found Field's famous "Markessy di Pullman" papers, with these clever introductory imitations:

There, too, are reprinted the verses he composed and credited to Judge Cooley, to which allusion has already been made in these pages, and of which Field wrote to his friend Cowen the week they were published: "I think they will create somewhat of a sensation; I have put a good deal of work upon them." All the pieces of verse read by Field at the Indianapolis convention also appear in "Culture's Garland," three of them being included in the article on "Mr. Isaac Watts, Tutor," of which "The Merciful Lad" was one of Field's favorites:

Field was immensely tickled with the British gravity of one of his critics, who ridiculed this imitation of Dr. Watts, because, forsooth, he could not comprehend how the dumb could call, the blind see, or the lame walk, while he wanted to know what gracious effect the gentlest words could produce on the ears of the deaf.

Throughout "Culture's Garland" Field is the unsparing satirist of contemporary humbug and pretence—social, political, and literary—and that perhaps accounts for its failure to achieve an immediate popular success. I, for one, am glad that so late as December, 1893, and after he had tasted the sweets of popular applause, with its attendant royalties, he had the courage to write of it to a friend in Boston, "I am not ashamed of this little book, but, like the boy with the measles, I am sorry for it in spots."

"Culture's Garland" really cleared the way for Field's subsequent literary success. It taught him the lesson that his average daily newspaper work had not body enough to fill out the covers of a book. With grim determination he set himself the task to master the art of telling stories in prose. He was absolutely confident of himself in verse, but to his dying day he was never quite satisfied with anything he wrote in prose. His poems went to the printer almost exactly as they were originally composed. Nearly all of his tales were written over and over again with fastidious pains before they were committed to type. Every word and sentence of such stories as "The Robin and the Violet," "The First Christmas Tree," "Margaret, a Pearl," and "The Mountain and the Sea" was scrutinized and weighed by his keen literary sense and discriminating ear before it was permitted to pass final muster. In only one instance do I remember that this extreme care failed to improve the original story. "The Werewolf" ("Second Book of Tales") was a more powerful and moving fancy as first written than as eventually printed. He consulted with me during four revisions of "The Werewolf," and told me that he had written the whole thing over seven times. I never knew him so finicky and beset with doubts as to the use of words and phrases as he was in this instance. The result is a marvellous piece of technicality perfect archaic old English mosaic, with the soul—the fascinating shudder—refined, out of a weird and fearful tale.

But all the care, study, and exercise Field put upon his prose stories bore fruit in the gradual improvement in tone and style of his daily composition. His study of old English ballads started him about this time on the production of a truly remarkable series of lullabies, while his work began to show more and more the influence of Father Prout. But the old Field continued to show itself in such occasional quatrains as this:

Along in January, 1889, began the frequent paraphrases from Horace. "Wynken, Blynken and Nod," over which Field expended more than the usual pains he bestowed on his verse, was printed in March of the same year. One day in April, in 1889, Field surprised and delighted the readers of the News with the publication of the following amazing array of verse in one issue: "Our Two Opinions," Horace I, 4; Heine's "Love Song," Horace I, 20; Hugo's "Pool in the Forest," Horace I, 5; Béranger's "Broken Fiddle," Horace I, 28; "Chloe"; Uhland's "Three Cavaliers," and Horace IV, 11.

It must not be imagined that this was the result of one day's or one week's work. He had been preparing for it for months; and each piece of versification was as perfect as he could make it. The amazement and widely expressed admiration with which this broadside of verse was received encouraged Field to a still greater tour de force, upon the preparation of which he bent all his energies and spare time for more than three months. What Field described in a letter to Cowen as "The 'Golden Week' in my newspaper career," consisted in "the paper running a column of my (his) verse per diem—something never before attempted in American journalism." The titles of the verse printed during the "Golden Week" testify alike to his industry and versatility:

Upon some of these now familiar poems Field had been at work for more than a month. He read to me portions of "Marthy's Younkit" as early as the spring of 1887. Among the letters which his guardian, Mr. Gray, kindly placed at my disposal, I find the following bearing on "The Golden Week." It is written from the Benedict Farm, Genoa Junction, Wis., some sixty miles from Chicago, to which Field had retired to recuperate after having provided enough poetry in advance to fill his column during the week of his absence:

Although Field's body was rusticating on farm fare in Wisconsin, his pen was furnishing its two thousand three hundred words a day to the Daily News, as the "Sharps and Flats" column through the summer of 1889 shows. In a letter written from the Benedict Farm during the Golden Week to Cowen, who was at this time in London working on the English edition of the New York Herald, Field unfolds some of his doings and plans:

The copies of the London Herald came to hand to-day; I am sure I am very much indebted to you for the boom you are giving me; it is of distinct value to me, and I appreciate it. I send you herewith a number of my verses that have appeared this week in my column. Having done my work ahead I am rusticating in great shape and have become a veritable terror to the small fry in which the lakes of this delectable locality abound. My books will be issued about the first of August; they will be very pretty pieces of work; I shall send you a set at once. My western verse seems to be catching on; I notice that a good many others of the boys are striking out in the same vein. Young McCarthy has made a translation from the Persian, and I have half a notion to paraphrase parts of it. I want to dip around in all sorts of versification, simply to show people that determination and perseverance can accomplish much in this direction. You know that I do not set much store by "genius."

The books to which Field refers as likely to be issued about the first of August were his two "Little Books" of verse and tales, the copy for which had not, when he wrote the foregoing, all gone to the printer. His idea then was that a book could be got out with something like the same lightning dispatch as a daily newspaper.

To tell the story of the publication of Field's two "Little Books," unique as it was in the making of books, requires that I say a few words of the change that had come over our personal relations, though not in our friendship. Two causes operated to make this change—my marriage in the spring of 1887, which drew from Field "Ye Piteous Appeal of a Forsooken Habbit" and the manuscript volumes of the best of his verse prior to that event, and my retirement from the staff of the Daily News, to assist in the foundation of the weekly political and literary journal called America. It was through my persuasion that we secured from Field his now famous "Little Boy Blue" for the initial number of the new periodical. Many stories are extant as to how this affecting bit of child verse was written, and many fac-similes of copies of it in Field's handwriting have been printed as originals. But the truth is, "Little Boy Blue" was written without any special suggestion or personal experience attending its conception and composition. It was an honest child, begotten of the freest and best genius of Field's fancy—the genius of a master craftsman who had the instinct to use only the simplest means to tell the significant story of the little toy dog that is covered with dust and the little toy soldier that is red with rust in so many a home.

Field handed his original copy of "Little Boy Blue" to me in the Daily News office. We read it over carefully together, and there I, with his consent, made the change in the seventh line of the last verse, that may be noted in the fac-simile. With my interlineation the copy went to the printer, who had orders to return it to me, which was accordingly done, and it has been in my possession ever since.

Field made several other noteworthy contributions to the pages of America, including such important verse or articles as "Apple Pie and Cheese," "To Robin Goodfellow," "A Proper Trewe Idyll of Camelot," "The Shadwell Folio," "Poe, Patterson, and Oquawka," "The Holy Cross," and "The Three Kings." The most remarkable of these was undoubtedly "The Shadwell Folio," which ran through two issues of America and afforded a prose setting for the following proofs of Field's versatility: "The Death of Robin Hood," "The Alliaunce," "Madge: Ye Hoyden," "The Lost Schooner," "Ye Crewel Sassinger Mill," "The Texas Steere," "A Vallentine," "Waly, Waly," "Ailsie, My Bairn," "Ye Morris Daunce," "Ye Battaile Aux Dames," "How Trewe Love Won Ye Battel," "Lollaby" (old English).

The first section of the "Shadwell Folio" appeared in the issue of America of October 25th, 1888. It was one of those conceits in which Field took the greatest pleasure and in the preparation of which he grudged no labor. It purported to be a parchment folio discovered in an old hair trunk by Colonel John C. Shadwell, "a wealthy and aristocratic contractor," while laying certain main and sewer pipes in the cellar of a deserted frame house at 1423 Michigan Street, Chicago. This number would have located the cellar well out in Lake Michigan. Colonel Shadwell presented this incomparable folio to "The Ballad and Broadside Society of Cook County, Illinois, for the Discovery of Ancient Manuscripts and for the Dissemination of Culture (limited)." On receipt of the folio, this society immediately adopted the following resolutions:

Resolved, That the ballads set forth in the parchment manuscript, known as the Shadwell folio, are genuine old English ballads, composed by English balladists, and illustrating most correctly life in Chicago in Ancient Times, which is to say, before the fire.

Resolved, That the parchment cover of said folio is, in our opinion, neither pigskin nor sheep, but genuine calf, and undoubtedly the pelt of the original fatted calf celebrated in Shakespeare's play of the "Prodigal Son."

Resolved, That we hail with pride these indisputable proofs that our refinement and culture had an ancestry, and that our present civilization did not spring, as ribald scoffers have alleged, mushroom-like from the sties and wallows of the prairies.

Resolved, That we get these ballads printed in an edition of not to exceed 500 copies, and at a cost of $50 per copy, or, at least, at a price beyond the capability of the hoy polloi.

Field then proceeded to review the contents of the fictitious folio, taking the precaution to premise his remarks and extracts with the statement that "it must not be surmised that all the poems in this Shadwell folio are purely local; quite a number treat of historical subjects." Of the poems in the first half of "The Shadwell Folio" I am able to give one of the most interesting in fac-simile, premising that, although this did not see the light of print until October, 1888, it was written in an early month of 1887.

On pages 19 and 20 of the folio, according to Field, we get a "pleasant glimpse of the rare old time" in the ballad entitled:

On pages 123 and 124 of the folio Field discovered "this ballad of Chicago's patient Grissel (erroneously pronounced 'Gristle' in leading western circles), setting forth the miseries and the fate of a lass who loved a sailor ":

The second half of "The Shadwell Folio," printed November 1st, 1888, besides being memorable for the first publication of his well-known "Ailsie, My Bairn," and the exquisite "Old English Lullaby," contained "a homely little ballad," as Field described it, "which reminds one somewhat of 'Winfreda,' and which in the volume before us is entitled 'A Valentine.'"

The "Winfreda" here referred to is one of the poems upon which Field exhausted his ingenuity in composing with the verbal phraseology of different periods of archaic English. The version which appears in his "Songs and Other Verse" is his first attempt at versification "in pure Anglo-Saxon," as he says in a note to one of the manuscript copies. Field intended to render this finally into "current English," but, so far as I know, he never got to it.

The publication of numerous poems and tales in the Daily News during the years 1888 and 1889, together with those printed in America, culminating in "The Golden Week," in July of the latter year, was but the prelude to the issue of his two "Little Books," according to a unique plan over which we spent much thought and consumed endless luncheons of coffee and apple pie. As I have intimated, Field was quite piqued over the cavalier reception of "Culture's Garland," and was determined that his next venture in book form should be between boards, a perfect specimen of book-making, and restricted, as far as his judgment could decide, to the best in various styles which he had written prior to the date of publication. He did not wish to entrust this to any publisher, and finally hit upon the idea of publishing privately, by subscription, which was carried out.

The circular, which was prepared and mailed to a selected list of my friends, as well as his, will best explain the rather unusual method of this venture:

The accompanying blank addressed to me read:

If Field had any doubts as to the estimation in which he was held by his friends, they were dispelled by the ready response to this appeal, while the generous words accompanying many of the orders were well calculated to warm the cockles of a colder heart than beat within the breast of "The Good Knight sans peur et sans monnaie." Many persons to whom circulars had not been sent heard of the proposed publication and wrote asking to be allowed to subscribe. The largest single subscription was for five shares. There were three for two shares, and all the rest were for one share each, many echoed the "Certainly! and glad of the chance," which was Stuart Robson's response. F.J.V. Skiff, Field's old associate on the Denver Tribune, added a postscript to his order, saying, "And wish I could take it all," while Victor F. Lawson, in a personal note to me accompanying his order, wrote, "If you run short on this scheme I shall be glad to increase my subscription whenever advised that it is needed." This spirit pervaded the replies to our circular and gave Field keener pleasure than he ever experienced through the publication of any of his other books.

Chicago, as was to be expected, took a majority of the shares; Denver came next, and then Kansas City. Comparatively few shares were taken in the East, for Field's fame had scarcely yet penetrated that region. But the names of Charles A. Dana, of Whitelaw Reid, and of Field's "Cousin Kate" were early among the subscribers. His friends among the stage folk responded numerously, and so did journalists and railway men. There were only some half dozen bibliomaniacs on the list, for Field had not then become the poet, torment, and idol of the devotees of rare and eccentric editions. To remind them of the unusual opportunity they missed, let me recall the negotiations for the making of this original édition de luxe, which was not published for profit, but as an example of the excellence of simplicity and clearness in printing. From the start Field insisted that everything about the "Little Books" should be American, and the best procurable of their kind. The letters from John Wilson & Son show the progress of the negotiations for the printing of the two books, which were carried on in full assurance that there would be no failure of funds to carry out the enterprise. I quote their first reply to my request for an estimate on the work:

As soon as we had arrived at a clearer idea of our desires, and also of our means, I again communicated with Messrs. Wilson & Son, and received the following reply:

Three things in estimate No. 1 caught Field's fancy—yea, four; the paper was to be hand made, deckle edge, of American manufacture, but, above all, sixty cents a pound. As a contrast to the stiff bleached Manila of "Culture's Garland," dear at a cent a pound, this sixty cents a pound decided Field in favor of No. 1, though we had to economize on everything else to get the job done within the $1,100 we had in bank before we gave the order. The No. 2, having a softer surface, would have given us a better printed page, and its cost would have enabled us to embellish the edition with a steel-plate engraving of Field, as had been our intention, but the thought of using the most expensive American paper procurable for his "Little Books" outweighed every other consideration, and we forwarded the copy of the two volumes to John Wilson & Son, with orders to go ahead and push publication.

It was well into the middle of the fall when I received the following note from the printers, showing that the work had been completed:

It is needless to say that both the author and his friends were gratified and pleased with the mechanical execution of the "Little Books," while Field's admirers have never wearied in their admiration of their contents. Every cent of the fund subscribed for these books went to pay for their printing; and as Field started for Europe before they were received from Cambridge, the task of numbering them, as well as the cost of forwarding them to subscribers, fell to my lot.

These two books contained not only the best of what Field had written up to that time, but their contents were selected with such care that they continue to represent the best he ever wrote. Much that he rejected at that time went to make up subsequent volumes of his works. The popular editions from the subscription plates of "A Little Book of Western Verse" and "A Little Book of Profitable Tales" had a phenomenal sale, and made a handsome return in royalties to him who sent them forth with the words:

"Go, little book; and if any one would speak thee ill, let him bethink him that thou art the child of one who loves thee well."

CHAPTER VI

HIS SECOND VISIT TO EUROPE

From 1889 Field's life was one long struggle with dyspepsia, an inherited weakness which he persisted in aggravating by indulgence in those twin enemies of health—pastry and reading in bed. During our intimate association I had exercised a wholesome restraint on his pie habit and reduced his hours of reading in bed to a minimum. As the reader may remember, our pact concerned eating and walking. When we ate, we talked, and while we walked, Field could not lie in bed browsing amid his favorite books, burning illuminating gas and the candle of life at the same time. So long as his study of life was pursued among men he retained his health. As soon as he began to retire more and more to the companionship of books and from the daily activities and associations of the newspaper office his assimilation of food failed to nourish his body as it did his brain. The buoyancy went out of his step, but never out of his mind and heart.

As intimated in his letter to Mr. Gray, the publisher of the Daily News grew so solicitous over Field's health that he proposed a three months' European vacation, with pay, whenever he chose to take it. At first it was not Field's intention to avail himself of this generous offer until winter. But when his "Little Books" were safely under way he changed his mind and decided to start as soon as he could arrange his household affairs. In a letter to his friend Cowen, then in London, under date of June 11th, 1889, Field wrote:

"Marthy's Younkit" is the bit of western dialect verse which was dedicated to Cowen, of which Field then and always thought so highly. It contained, in his estimation, more of imagination, as distinct from fancy, than any of his other verse. The poetic picture of the mountain-side is perfect:

In another letter to Cowen about this time I find the first intimation Field ever gave that he might have been tempted to leave his place on the Daily News. He wrote, "The San Francisco Examiner is making a hot play to get me out there. Why doesn't Mr. Bennett try to seduce me into coming to London? How I should like to stir up the dry bones!"

Under date of Kansas City, June 28th, 1889, Field wrote with an illuminated initial "M":

MY DEAR COWEN: Your cablegram reached me last night, having been forwarded to me here, where I have been for a week. I send you herewith "The Conversazzhyony," which is one of three mountain poems I have recently written: it has never been in print. The others, unpublished, are "Prof. Vere de Blaw" (the character who plays the piano in Casey's restaurant) and "Marthy's Younkit" (pathetic, recounting the death and burial of the first child born in the camp). The latter is the best piece of work, but inasmuch as you call for something humorous I send the enclosed.

This letter went on to discuss the possibility of getting a position on the London Herald for his brother Roswell, who desired to get out of the rut of his general newspaper work on the Kansas City Times, and Field confided to Cowen that "there is no telling what might come of having my brother in London"—the intimation being that he might be induced to stay there. But nothing came of either suggestion.

Field's health was so miserable during the summer of 1889 that it was decided best that he should begin his vacation in October instead of waiting for December. On the eve of his departure he wrote to his old friend Melvin L. Gray:

When Field arrived in London Cowen was away on the Continent, much to the disappointment of all concerned—especially the three boys, who at the last moment had been brought along. On October 24th Field wrote:

Five days later, having secured a sheet of deckle-edged, water-marked Wilmot linen letter-paper and colored inks, Field proceeded to write an elaborately decorated note to his friend:

Field may have thought that he spent only two months on "Yvytot," but as a matter of fact he had been mulling it over for twice that many years; and he had hoped to finish it in time for his "Little Book of Western Verse." But it was one of those bits of verse upon which he loved to putter, and he was loath to put it into type beyond the reach of occasional revision. When the "Little Book of Western Verse" was issued in popular form "Yvytot" was included in it in the place of the list of subscribers and John Wilson & Son's colophon. Speaking of the Hoosier dialect, Field was fond of telling the following story on his friend James Whitcomb Riley:

James Whitcomb Riley went to Europe last summer. On the return voyage an incident happened which is well worth telling of. To beguile the tediousness of the voyage it was proposed to give a concert in the saloon of the ship—an entertainment to which all capable of amusing their fellow-voyagers should contribute. Mr. Riley was asked to recite some of his original poems, and of course he cheerfully agreed to do so. Among the number present at this mid-ocean entertainment, over which the Rev. Myron Reed presided, were two Scotchmen, very worthy gentlemen, en route from the land o' cakes to the land of biscuits upon a tour of investigation. These twain shared the enthusiasm with which the auditors applauded Mr. Riley's charming recitations. They marvelled that so versatile a genius could have lived in a land reputed for uncouthness and savagery.

"Is it no wonderfu', Donal'," remarked one of these Scots, "that a tradesman suld be sic a bonnie poet?"

"And is he indeed a tradesman?" asked the other.

"Indeed he is," answered the other. "Did ye no hear the dominie intryjuce him as the hoosier poet? Just think of it, mon!—just think of sic a gude poet dividing his time at making hoosiery?"

There is more of the old spirit of the genuine Eugene Field in the next letter, written from London, November 13th, 1889, than in any of his other correspondence after 1888:

Of a different tone, and yet giving very much the same impression of how Field was spending his time in London, is the following letter to his quondam guardian, Mr. Gray, beginning with an illuminated initial V, of date London, January 9th, 1890:

Speaking of the number of excellent people met in London, Field on his return told with great gusto his experience at a dinner-party there at which he was seated between the wife of a member of Parliament and Mrs. Humphry Ward. The conversation turned upon P.T. Barnum, who was then in London with his "greatest show on earth." One of the ladies inquired of Field if he was acquainted with the famous showman, to which Field said he replied, with the utmost gravity and earnestness:

"From my earliest infancy. Do you know, madame, that I owe everything I am and hope to be to that great, good man? When he first discovered me I was living in a tree in the wilds of Missouri, clothed in skins and feeding on nuts and wild berries. Yes, madam. Phineas T. Barnum took me from my mother, clothed me in the bifurcated raiment of civilization, sent me to school, where I began to lisp in numbers before I had mastered the multiplication table, and I have been lisping ever since." Field had a peculiar hesitation in his speech, almost amounting to the pause of an embarrassed stutterer; and if he related this experience to the British matrons as he rehearsed it to his friends afterward, it was small wonder that they swallowed it with many a "Really!" "How curious!" "Isn't it marvellous?"

This dinner occurred at the time when the trial of several members of the Clan-na-gael for the murder of Dr. Cronin was in progress in Chicago. The case was followed with as much interest in England as in America. When Mrs. Ward learned that Field hailed from that city, she said to him, "I am so glad to meet somebody from Chicago, for I am greatly interested in the town. Do tell me, did you know Dr. Cronin or any of those horrid Clan-na-gaels?"

"I had the satisfaction of telling her," said Field, "that Martin Bourke (one of the suspects) and I had been very intimate friends, and that Dan Coughlin (another) and I belonged to the same hunting club, and had often shot buffaloes and cougars on the prairie a few miles west of Chicago. As for Sullivan, the ice-man, I assured her that if that man was convicted it would be a severe blow to the best circles of the city." "Still more satisfaction had I," Field added, "in the conviction that my auditor believed every one of the preposterous yarns I told her."

"The new volume" referred to in Field's letter to Mr. Gray was that which subsequently took the form of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," published by his friend and fellow-bibliomaniac, Francis Wilson. The story of how it came to be issued in that particular form is told by Mr. Wilson in his introduction to the subscription edition. It was originally Field's intention that I should take charge of this publication, although I had never been consulted about it. Therefore I was somewhat surprised on receiving the following note:

In acknowledging the receipt of Mr. Wilson's check I ventured to question whether Field's paraphrases of Horace up to that time warranted the elaborate setting proposed, to which I received the following semi-indignant and semi-jocose rejoinder:

With the suspicious fervor of your hopeless collector of first editions, Mr. Wilson finally decided to publish Field's renditions from Horace himself, so as to be sure of having copy No. 1. And yet he had the almost unheard-of magnanimity to send that cherished copy to Field, who returned it with a prettily worded note, in which he acknowledged his obligation to Mr. Wilson and expressed the hope that the latter would live forever, provided he, Field, could "live one day longer to write his epitaph." Not until I came across the foregoing letter have I understood why Wilson thwarted all Field's efforts to present me with a copy of the precious edition of "The Sabine Farm." They profited by my advice, however, and postponed publication for two years, Field and his brother Roswell in the meantime working assiduously in making new paraphrases of Horace and in polishing the old ones.

The mutations of journalism which had sent Cowen scurrying over Europe when Field had counted on having his companionship in London carried the former back to Washington, where he joined with some other equally sanguine writers in the attempt to float a literary and political periodical named The Critic. On February 15th, 1890, Field wrote to his friend from No. 20 Alfred Square:

There was no shadow in this letter of the sorrow which was then hovering over his home and family. Out of a cheerful heart he wrote, "I am feeling quite well now," although the mists and fogs of London were chilling him to the marrow, while the social attentions were tempting him to dietetic destruction. A few months after he wrote the words, "The children are well" and "At any rate, I want to go first," he was returning to America with the body of his eldest son, who died suddenly in Holland, and facing bravely the fact that his own vitality had been fatally impaired. "What exceeding folly," he wrote to a friend, "was it that tempted me to cross the sea in search of what I do not seem able to find here—a righteous stomach? I have been wallowing in the slough of despond for a week and my digestive apparatus has gone wrong again. I have suffered tortures that would have done credit to the inventive genius of a Dante, and the natural consequence is that I am as blue as a whetstone."

The death of his son made a deep impression on Eugene Field. Melvin was the serious, unobtrusive member of the family circle. As Field has just intimated, Pinny was a shrewd and mischievous youngster, who attracted more attention and was permitted more license than his brothers. Daisy was his mother's special pet, and Trotty had many of the characteristics of her father. Besides, she was the only girl in the family of boys. Thus Melvin in temperament and disposition seemed always just outside the inner circle of the household. This came home to Field, and he regretted it deeply before he wrote the concluding lines of his dedication of "With Trumpet and Drum":

Upon his return, Field secured for his family a large and comfortable house on Fullerton Avenue, about four miles from the office, and, though he was encouraged to think that his health was improved, it was noticed by his friends that most of his work was done at home and they saw less of him down town. Naturally the death of Melvin brought him many letters of condolence, and, among others, one from his old friend William C. Buskett, to whom he made immediate reply:

With what diligence and enthusiasm Field threw himself into the work of preparing other books for publication may be gleaned from a letter to Mr. Gray, dated June 7th, 1891:

Writing on June 28th, Field enclosed the dedication of the "Echoes from the Sabine Farm" to Mr. Gray, asking him to make any alterations therein which his taste or judgment might suggest. "I have made this introductory poem rather playful," he wrote, "with but one touch of sentiment—the reference to your friend, our father." Field took more pride in the form in which the "Echoes" was got out than in the quality of its contents. He was gratified and flattered by the sumptuous manner in which it was being published by Mr. Wilson. "Of the edition of one hundred copies," he wrote to Mr. Gray, "thirty will be printed on Japanese vellum, each copy to contain an original drawing by Garrett and an autograph verse by Roswell and myself; the seventy others will be printed on white hand-made paper, and will have no unique feature. All the copies will be handsomely illustrated in vignette by Garrett; the sum of $2,500 has been expended for illustrations alone. The book will be, I think, the handsomest of the kind ever printed in America." After the special edition had been printed, the plates of this book were most generously transferred to Field by Mr. Wilson.

The fact that Field was far from being a healthy man crops out in all his correspondence about this time. Writing to Mr. Gray under date of December 12th, 1891, I find him saying:

By the time this letter was written, Field's Christmas stories commanded almost any price in reason he was inclined to ask for them—a condition far different from that which provoked his wrath and scorn in the winter of 1886. That year his Christmas contribution to the Morning News was "The Symbol and the Saint"—a story upon which he expended a good month's spare time. In the same issue were contributions from every member of the staff, excepting myself. In the course of time each story-writer received the munificent sum of $15, the author of the "Symbol and the Saint" the same as the reporter, who turned in the thinnest, flimsiest sort of a sketch. It was a case of levelling all down to a common standard, which Field did not relish. He felt keenly the injustice of estimating the carefully finished product of his month's labor at the same rate as the hurried and rough journeyman work of a local hand, which had not cost more than an hour, all told, in its conception and composition. "I think," he wrote privately to Cowen, under date of January the 9th, 1887, "that things have come to a sweet pass when my work, over which I have toiled for more than three weeks, is to be estimated at the same rate as the local hands." He registered no complaint to headquarters at the time, but consoled himself with executing the following touching sketeh and epitaph:

CHAPTER VII

IN THE SAINTS' AND SINNERS' CORNER

To those of us who were closely associated with Eugene Field personally or in his work, it was evident during the years from 1887 until after his return from Europe that a radical change was taking place in his methods of life and thought. His friend Cowen has ascribed this change to settling down "in the must and rust of bibliomania"; but I fancy that that settling down was more than half the result of the failing health which warned him that he must conserve his powers. He felt the shadows creeping up the mountain, and realized he had much to do while yet it was day.

In Eugene Field's case it would be difficult to distinguish the line where his bibliomania, that was an inherited infatuation for collecting, ended, and the carefully cultivated affectation of the craze for literary uses began. He was unquestionably a victim of the disease about which he wrote so roguishly and withal so charmingly. But though it was in his blood, it never blinded his sense of literary values or restrained his sallies at the expense of his demented fellows. He had too keen a sense of the ridiculous to go clean daft on the subject. He yielded to the fascinating pursuit of rare and curious editions, of old prints of celebrities, and of personal belongings of distinguished individuals; but how far these impulses were irresistible and how much he was mad only in craft, like Hamlet, it is impossible to say. The bibliomaniacs claim him for their scribe and poet, the defender of their faith, the high-priest of their craft. The scoffers find a grimace in everything he ever wrote upon the subject, from "The Bibliomaniac's Prayer," with its palpable reflection of Watts and its ill-concealed raillery, down to the gentle, yet none the less discernible, mockery of the "Love Affairs." It would be a bootless task to follow the gradual evolution from the frequent authorship of such quatrains as—

And:

which frolic through his column as late as June, 1888; to such bits as this:

But about September, 1888, his column began to reflect the effects of his mania for and about collecting. For a short time he showed little preference between both "the newe and old" books; but ere 1889 was three months gone, "newe" books, however, "jollie goode" were almost banished from his vocabulary and column. "The Bibliomaniac's Prayer" (January, 1889) was one of the early symptoms of the transformation that was impending and the paraphrases from Horace which began to appear frequently in the same month indicated that he had entered upon another study that was to exert such a marked influence upon his later style and writings.

As has been indicated in an earlier chapter, Field began to frequent the southwest corner of McClurg's book-store shortly after he came to Chicago. That section of this "emporium of literature" was presided over by George M. Millard, and contained as fine and, truth to tell, as expensive an assortment of rare and choice books as was to be found outside of the great collections of the land. Mr. Millard made annual or biennial pilgrimages to London in the interests of his house; and when he did not go, General McClurg, who was himself a book fancier of rare good taste and eke business judgment, devoted part of his European vacations to the bookshelves, book-shops, and binderies of Field's "dear old London." On the occasion of the former's return from one of his book-buying excursions, with the spoils of Europe for the spoliation of Chicago's book-maniacs, Field announced the fact in the following somewhat equivocal but wholly clever lines:

Field was not first attracted to Millard's department by its treasures of rare books, sacred and profane, but by its comprehensive stock of early English balladry and a complete line of Bohn's Library. In these he revelled until he had pretty thoroughly comprehended, as he would say, their contents. But during our almost daily visit to McClurg's he formed the acquaintance of a number of such chronic book collectors as Ben. T. Cable, George A. Armour, Charles J. Barnes, James W. Ellsworth, Rev. Frank W. Gunsaulus, the Rev. Frank M. Bristol, the Rev. M. Woolsey Stryker, and others, some with ample wealth to indulge their extravagant tastes, but the majority with lean purses coupled with bookish tastes beyond the resources of a Philadelphia mint. Out of these daily meetings and mousings among books and prints was evolved in Field's fancy what he dubbed the "Saints' and Sinners' Corner." The "Saints" may be easily identified by their titles, while the "Sinners" included all those who had neither title nor pretence to holiness, but were simply engaged in breaking the command against coveting their neighbors' possessions. There was no formal organization, no club, no stated meetings, no roll of members, and no gatherings such as after a time were constantly reported in the "Sharps and Flats" column. All the meetings and discussions in the Saints' and Sinners' Corner were held in Field's fertile brain, and only occasionally were the subjects of these meetings suggested by anything that happened at McClurg's.

The earliest reference I have found to this figment of Field's fancy is a casual paragraph in April, 1889, where he speaks of a number of bibliomaniacs having congregated in the Saints' and Sinners' Corner at McClurg's. But the phrase was current among us long before that. It was not until nearly two years had elapsed that Field gravely announced "a sale of pews in the Saints' and Sinners' corner at McClurg's immediately after the regular noontime service next Wednesday" (December 31st, 1890). It is perhaps worthy of a remark that General McClurg for a long time regarded Field's frequent jests and squibs at the expense of the frequenters of his old-book department with anything but an approving eye. He looked upon Field for many years as a ribald mocker of the conventionalities not only of literature but of life. "Culture's Garland" was an offence to his social instincts and literary tastes. Among all the men with whom Field came in frequent converse, the late lamented General Alexander C. McClurg was the last to succumb to the engaging tormentor. Field's lack of reverence for all earthly things, except womankind, was the barrier between these two.

Thus it came about that Field made the Saints' and Sinners' Corner at McClurg's famous throughout the book world against its owner's will, but not against his fortune. For more than six years he advertised its wares and bargains as no book-store had ever been advertised before. All the general and his lieutenant had to do was to provide the books collectors were after, and Field did the rest. He played upon the strings of bibliomaniac acquisitiveness as a skilled musician upon the violin; and whether the music they gave forth was grave or gay, it gave a mocking pleasure to the man who rejoiced that there was so much power in the "subtile" scratching of his pen.

Among the earliest friends Field made at McClurg's was the late William F. Poole, for many years in charge of the Chicago Public Library, and subsequently of the Newberry Library. Dr. Poole came from Salem, Mass., and his son at one time was catcher for the Yale base-ball nine. Field took advantage of these facts, which appealed to his enjoyment of contradictions to print all manner of odd conceits about Professor Poole's relations to witches, base-ball, and libraries. The doctor could not make a move in public that it did not inspire Field to some new quidity involving his alleged belief in witches, his envy and admiration of his son's prowess at base-ball, and his real and extensive familiarity with libraries and literature. Some idea of the good-natured liberties Field took with the name of Dr. Poole is given in this paragraph of October 8th, 1889:

Dr. William F. Poole, the veteran bibliophile, is now in San Francisco attending the meeting of the National Librarians' Association. While the train bearing the excursionists was en route through Arizona, a stop of twenty minutes was made one evening for supper at a rude eating-house, and here Dr. Poole had an exciting experience with a tarantula. The venomous reptile attacked the kindly old gentleman with singular voracity, and but for the high-topped boots which Mr. Poole wore, serious injuries would have been inflicted upon our friend's person. Mr. Fred Hild, our Public Librarian, hearing Dr. Poole's cries for help, ran to the rescue, and with his cane and umbrella succeeded in keeping the tarantula at bay until the keeper of the restaurant fetched his gun and dispatched the malignant monster. The tarantula weighed six pounds. Dr. Poole took the skin to San Francisco and will have it tanned so he can utilize it for the binding of one of his favorite books.

I have introduced Dr. Poole into this narrative because he was really the dean of the interesting group of men who figured in Field's Saints' and Sinners' Corner. Both Field and the venerable doctor had a slight impediment in speech at the beginning of a sentence or in addressing anyone. When they met after such a paragraph as the above had been printed, Dr. Poole would blurt out in the most friendly way, "O-o-o-oh Field! w-w-where did you get that lie from?" To which Field would reply, "L-i-i-ie, d-doctor! W-w-why, F-f-fred Hild [Poole's successor in the public library] g-g-gave me that!" Then the doctor would ejaculate "Nonsense!" and the conversation would drift into some discussion about books, in which all impediments of speech disappeared.

When McClurg's book-store was gutted by a fire some years ago, in which the precious contents of the Saints' and Sinners' Corner were ruined beyond restoration and the many associations that lingered around them went up in smoke or were drowned out by water, the newspapers were filled with all manner of stories about the Saints' and Sinners' Club that had held its meetings there. The Rev. Dr. Gunsaulus, one of the most widely known Saints, spoke of it as an association "without rules of order or times of meeting." "It consisted," said he, in a published interview, "of the most interesting group of liars ever assembled. For ten years that Saints' and Sinners' Corner was a place where congenial fellows met. We simply feasted our eyes on beautiful books or old manuscripts and chatted with each other after the usual fashion of book-lovers. The stories told were sometimes more amusing than profitable." He also told how Field, on one occasion, saved a book which he greatly coveted by writing on the fly-leaf:

But the clergymen, doctors and merchants, actors and newspaper-men who met by chance and the one common instinct of book-loving at McClurg's, albeit "the greatest aggregation of liars" one of them had ever "met up with," were a simple, ingenuous, and aimless lot compared to the group which Field assembled in his corner in the "Sharps and Flats" column. Only quotations from some of his reports of their imaginary meetings can do justice to these children of his brain. These I should preface with the explanation that Field always sought to preserve in his fiction some general and distinguishing characteristics of his Saints and Sinners, who were all real persons bearing their real names. His many inventions stopped at bestowing fictitious names upon either his Saints or his Sinners. I have selected "corners" which have not been published between boards. It is, perhaps, needless to say that I am always made to figure as a Philistine in these gatherings, as a penalty for my lack of sympathy with the whole theory of valuing books by their dates, editions, and bindings rather than their "eternal internals."

SOUVENIRS FROM EGYPT

PROPOSED CURE FOR BIBLIOMANIA

However, Field did not confine all his attentions to what he called the "book-bandits" to his reports on the proceedings in the Saints' and Sinners' Corner. Scattered throughout his writings from 1887 onward were paragraphs, ballads, and jests, praising, berating, and "joshing" the maniac crew who held that "binding's the surest test," and who bought books, as some would-be connoisseurs do wine, by the label. With all his professions of sympathy with the maniacs, he never missed an opportunity to make merry over what he regarded as their rivalries and disappointments, and he never wearied of egging them on to imitate his own besetting disposition to buy the curio you covet and "settle when you can," as indicated in the beautiful hymn that concludes the following paragraph:

As I have said, there was no such organization as a Saints' and Sinners' Club, no roll of membership, and no such meetings as were exploited with such engaging verity by Field. The only formal gathering of any considerable number of the habitués of the Saints' and Sinners' Corner that ever took place was never reported by him. It occurred on New Year's Eve, 1890, and everything appertaining to it, down to the fragrant whiskey punch, was concocted by Field, who explained that his poverty, not his will, consented to the substitution of the wine of America for that of France in the huge iron-stone bowl that answered all the demands of the occasion. About a week before the date all the members whose names had been used without their consent in the Corner in "Sharps and Flats" received a card, on which was written:

Saints' and Sinners' Corner,

December 31, 1890.

Be there        10.30 P.M. Sharp.

The Sinners turned out in full force. The Saints, I suppose, had watch-night services of their own, for they were conspicuous by their absence. Lawyers, doctors, actors, newspaper men, and book-lovers of divers callings and degrees of iniquity were on hand at half-past ten o'clock, or continued to drop in toward midnight. But if there was a doctor of divinity in that hilarious gathering, I fail to recall his presence. If one was present, he failed to exercise a restraining influence on the gaiety of the Sinners. And yet without such presence there was a subtle influence pervading the strange scene, that forbade any approach to boisterousness. Out in the main body of the deserted store all was dark and still. The curtains of the show-windows were drawn down, shutting out the intrusive light of the street-lamps. Field's guests—for we all, even George Millard, acknowledged him as host and high priest of the evening—were assembled in the corner devoted to old books and prints. The congregation, as he styled the meeting, was seated on such chairs, stools, and boxes as the place could afford. The darkness was made visible by a few sickly gas-jets and some half dozen candles in appropriate black glass candlesticks that looked suspiciously like bottles. Field was as busy as a shuttle in a sewing-machine. He announced that Elder Melville E. Stone would "preside over the meetin' and line out the hymns," which Mr. Stone, though no singer, proceeded to do, calling on the mendacious Sinners for brief confessions of their manifold transgressions during the dying year. The tide of experiences was at its height when, on the first stroke of midnight, every light was doused. So suddenly and unexpectedly did darkness swallow us from each other's ken that there was a gasp, and then for a moment a hushed silence. Before this was broken by any other sound out from the impenetrable gloom came a deep sepulchral voice, chanting:

You could have heard the proverbial pin drop as Field's organ-like voice, which all quickly recognized, rolled out the now familiar lines of "Dibdin's Ghost," then heard for the first time by everyone in that historic Corner. No point was missed in that weird recitation. I shall never forget the graveyard unction with which he propounded the question and answer of the poem:

Into these lines Field managed to throw all the exulting fanaticism of the hopeless bibliomaniac without suppressing one jot of the chuckle of the profane scoffer. And then the gas and candles were relit and the punch and sandwiches and apple pie and cheese were served, and with song and story we passed such a night as sinners mark with red letters for saints to envy. If the reader should ever come across Paul du Chaillu, who contributed to the varied pleasures of the occasion, let him inquire of the veracious Paul whether, in all his travels and experiences, he ever knew one man so capable of entertaining a host of wits as Eugene Field proved himself on the eve of New Year, 1891.

CHAPTER VIII

POLITICAL RELATIONS

It is due to the numberless friends and acquaintances Field made among the politicians of three states particularly and of the nation generally that this study of his life should take some account of his political writings, if not of his political principles. Those not familiar with political events during the past twenty years may skip this chapter, as it pleases them.

Field was a Republican by inheritance, and a Missouri Republican at that, which means a Republican who may die but never compromises. The Vermont views and prejudices which he inherited from his father were not weakened, we may be sure, under the tutelage of the women folks at Amherst, or of Dr. Tufts, at Monson. But rock-ribbed as he was in his adherence to the Republican party, he never took the trouble to make a study of its principles, nor did he care to discuss any of the political issues of his day. It was enough that the Democratic party embodied in his mind his twin aversions, slavery and rebellion, against the Union. He was a thorough-going believer in the doctrine, "To the victors belong the spoils," and as he credited the Republican party with the preservation of the Union, he saw no reason why its adherents should not use or abuse its government without let or hindrance from men who had sought to destroy it. This view he has set forth in a scornful bit of verse, which I copy from his rough draft:

From this as the rock of all his political prejudices, Field was immovable. But happily, for the pleasure of his friends and the entertainment of his readers, he took politics no more seriously than he did many of the other responsibilities of life. As early as 1873, in a letter already published, he announced that he had "given over all hope of rescuing my torn and bleeding country from Grant and his minions," and from that time on he devoted his study of politics to the development of satirical and humorous paragraphs at the expense of the two classes of prominent and practical politicians.

For more than a decade, and until he became enamoured of books and bibliomania, Field was the most widely quoted political paragrapher in America. It was not in vain that he mingled with the "statesmen" frequenting the capitals of Missouri, Colorado, and Illinois, attended state and national conventions, and spent many weeks in the lobby of the capitol, and of the lobbies of the hotels in Washington. It was the comprehension of men, and not of measures, he was after, and he got what he sought. In St. Louis, Kansas City, and Denver his sketches, notes, and Primer stories attracted more attention and caused more talk among politicians than all the serious reports and discussions of the issues of the times. He had the gift of putting distorted statements in the form of innocent facts so artfully developed that his victims had difficulty in disputing the often compromising inferences of his paragraphs.

Many a time and oft have I known every one of the paragraphs in Field's column in the News, sometimes numbering as high as sixty, to relate to something of a political nature, and most of them containing a personal pin-prick. With the assistance of the printer, let me reconstruct here in the type and narrow measure of the Morning News a column of specimens of Field's political paragraphs. The reader must allow for the lapse of time. Only those referring to persons or matters of national note are, for obvious reasons, preserved. The first one has the peculiar interest of being the initial paragraph in "Sharps and Flats." In point of time they ran all the way from 1883 to 1895, thus covering the entire period of Field's work on the News and Record:

SHARPS AND FLATS

Senator Dawes has been out among the Sioux Indians too. They call him Ne-Ha-Wo-Ne-To—which, according to our office dictionary, is the Indian for Go-To-Sleep-Standing-Up.

Sol Smith Russell, the comedian, is reported to have contributed $5,000 to the National Prohibition campaign fund.

The suspicion is still rife that when the Democratic party wakes up on Christmas morning it will find S.J. Tilden in its stocking.

See the Flower. It is sitting on its Barrel derisively Mocking the Eager hands that strive to Pluck it. Oh, beautiful but cruel Flower.

If the mild weather continues Secretary Chandler will be able to get the American Navy out of its winter quarters and on to roller skates by the first of April.

Mr. Charles A. Dana has appeared as the third witch in "Macbeth." He says Roosevelt cannot be Mayor, but may go to Congress, to the Senate, or be elected President.

It is believed that a horizontal reduction in the Democratic statesmen of the time would leave nothing of the Hon. William R. Morrison but a pair of spindle legs, three bunions, and seven corns.

Russia, always a menace to civilization, is prepared to aid China in her resistance against modern progress, and will not hesitate to fly to the succor of the unspeakable Turk when the opportune moment comes.

We do not entirely believe the story that El Mahdi is dead. On the contrary, we confidently expect that this enterprising false prophet will turn up in a reconstructed condition at Washington after the 4th of next March, howling for a post-office.

BLUE CUT, TENN., May 2, 1885.—The second section of the train bearing the Illinois legislature to New Orleans was stopped near this station by bandits last night. After relieving the bandits of their watches and money, the excursionists proceeded on their journey with increased enthusiasm.

Hamlin Garland has finally crawled out of the populist party and has reappeared in Chicago fiercer than ever for the predominance of realism in literature and art. He regrets to find that during his absence Franklin H. Head has relapsed into romanticism and that the verist's fences generally in these parts are in bad condition.

The national Carl Schurz committee will meet in New York on the 1st of April to fix a date and place for the national Carl Schurz convention. As Chicago will make no attempt to secure this convention, we do not mind telling St. Louis, Philadelphia and Cincinnati that the biggeet inducement which can be held out to the Carl Schurz party is a diet of oatmeal and skim milk and piano—rent free.

"You are looking tough, O Diogenes," quoth Socrates. "Now, by the dog, what have you been doing?" "I have been searching for an honest man in the Chicago City Council," replied the grim philosopher mournfully, "With what result?" inquired the other. "Well, you see," said Diogenes sarcastically, "my pockets are cleaned out and my lantern is gone! I praise Zeus that they left me my girdle!"

Major McKinley is being highly commended because he would not allow the Ohio delegation to betray John Sherman in the Republican convention. Other men from other States were perhaps just as loyal, but it is so seldom that an Ohio politician does the decent thing that when one honorable Ohio politician is found he excites quite as much surprise and admiration as a double-headed calf or any other natural curiosity would.

Oh, what a beautiful Hill. How it looms up in the Misty Horizon. See the Indians on the hill. They are Tammany braves. The Hill belongs to the Indians. Why are the Indians on the Hill? They are hunting for the flower which they Fondly hope Blooms on the Hill. Not this year—some other Year, but not this year. The Flower is Roosting high. It has resigned. Are the Indians resigned? They are not as Resigned as they Would be if they could Find the Flower. Alas that there should be More Sorrows than Flowers in this World.

The Hon. Thomas B. Reed, of Maine, is to be the leader of the Republican minority in Congress this winter. He is a smart, fat, brilliant, lazy man, with a Shakespearian head and face and clean-cut record. He is a great improvement on the Hon. J. Warren Keifer, of Ohio, who was the Republican leader (so-called) last winter. It would be hard to imagine a more imbecile leader than Keifer was, and it would be hard to find an abler leader than Reed will be, provided his natural physical indolence does not get the better of his splendid intellectual vigor.

Marcus A. Hanna has just been elected a delegate to the National Republican Convention in the Tenth Ohio district. He has also just been appointed to a government position by President Cleveland. The National Republican Convention ought to determine, immediately upon assembling, whether its platform and its nominations shall be dictated, even remotely, by a beneficiary of a Democratic administration. Hanna was in 1884 a loudmouthed Blaine follower. He has a happy faculty of always lighting on his feet—after the fashion of the singed cat.

President Cleveland—Rose, are you sure the window-screens are in repair?

Miss Cleveland—Quite sure.

President Cleveland—And are you using that flypaper according to directions?

Miss Cleveland—Yes.

President Cleveland—And you sprinkle the furniture with insect powder every day?

Miss Cleveland—Certainly; why do you ask? Are the mosquitoes troubling you?

President Cleveland—No, not the mosquitoes; but that Second District Congressman from Illinois seems to be just as thick as ever.

We've come from Indiany, five hundred miles or more,

Supposin' we wuz goin' to git the nominashin shore;

For Colonel New assured us (in that noospaper o' his)

That we cud hev the airth, if we'd only tend to biz.

But here we've been slavin' more like hosees than like men

To diskiver that the people do not hanker after Ben;

It is for Jeemes G. Blaine an' not for Harrison they shout

And the gobble-uns 'el git us

Ef we

Don't

Watch

Out!

"As for me, Daniel, I declined the tickets on the ground that, as President of this great nation, it was beneath my dignity to accept free passes to a show." "You did quite right, Grover; I, too, declined the passes in my capacity as a cabinet officer." "Good, good!" "But I accepted them in my capacity as editor of the Albany Argus. I owe it to my profession, Grover, not to surrender any of its rights to a strained sense of the dignity of an employment which is only temporary." "Ah, yes; I see." "There must be a dividing line between the Honorable Daniel Manning, cabinet minister, and plain Dan Manning, editor. I draw that line at free show-tickets."

Another instance of the liberality of the Hon. William H. English, of Indiana, has just come to light. It seems that that gentleman's venerable father, Deacon Elisha English, lives in Scott County, Ind., where he is a highly esteemed citizen and a bright light in the Methodist church. Not long ago the church people concluded they ought to have some improvements upon their modest temple of worship, and consequently a subscription paper was circulating among the members of the congregation. Deacon English readily signified his willingness to do his share toward the proposed improvements, and he led off the subscription list with the line:

Elisha English $50.00

The congregation were so much pleased with this that they determined to apply to William H. English, the son, for a donation, and they believed that the liberality of the father would serve as an inducement to the son to display at least a moderate generosity. Accordingly the subscription list was forwarded to Indianapolis, and a prominent Methodist of that city took it around to Mr. English's office. The ex-vice-president hemmed and hawed and fumbled the paper over for quite a while, and finally, with a profound sigh, sat down at his desk and scribbled a few words on the subscription sheet. The triumphant smile on the visiting churchman's face relaxed into an expression of combined amazement and dismay when, upon regaining the paper, he learned that Mr. English had reconstructed the first line, so that it read:

Elisha English and Son $50.00

This column will serve two purposes—to illustrate the truly American spirit of levity in which Eugene Field regarded politics and politicians, and also the extent and general character of his daily "wood sawing" for nearly twelve years. Although these selections cover a period of many years, they fairly represent the character of his political paragraphs on any one day except in the matter of subjects. These, of course, varied from day to day, from the President of the United States down to the Chicago bridge-tender. What delighted him most was some matter-of-fact announcement such as that which credited Herman H. Kohlsaat, then editor of the Chicago Inter-Ocean and a delegate to the Republican National Convention of 1892, with saying that he had no particular choice for Vice-President, but he favored the nomination of some colored Republican as a fitting recognition of the loyalty of the colored voters to the memory and party of Lincoln. The cunningly foreseen consequence was that what Mr. Kohlsaat gained in popularity with the colored brethren he lost in the estimation of those serious-minded souls who swallowed the hoax. Among the latter were many fire-eating editors in the South who seized upon Field's self-evident absurdity to denounce Mr. Kohlsaat as a violent demagogue who sought to curry favor with black Republicans at the expense of the South. It was also accepted as fairly representing the Northern disposition to flout and trample on the most sensitive sensibilities of the South. In the meantime Mr. Kohlsaat's office was besieged by the friends of colored aspirants to the vice-presidency, and Field chuckled in his chair and took every opportunity to add fuel to his confrère's embarrassment and to the flame of Southern indignation. All the while he would meet Mr. Kohlsaat, who was one of his intimate friends, and express to him astonishment that he should feel any annoyance over such a palpable, harmless pleasantry.

Although there is one bit of verse in the foregoing sample column of Field's political paragraphs, it does scant justice to his most effective weapon. His political jingles were the delight or vexation of partisans as they happened to ridicule or scarify this side or that. He was on terms of personal friendship with General John A. Logan, whose admiration for General Grant he shared to the fullest degree. But this never restrained Field from taking all sorts of waggish liberties with General Logan's well-known fondness for mixed metaphors and other perversions of the Queen's English. The general, on one occasion, in a burst of eloquence, had spoken of "the day when the bloody hand of rebellion stalked through the land"; and for a year thereafter that "bloody hand" "stalked" through Field's column. He enjoyed attributing to General Logan all sorts of literary undertakings. Among others, was the writing of a play, to which reference is made in the following paragraph:

During the preliminary campaign of 1884 Field had no end of fun with what he called the "Logan Lyrics," after this manner:

As a sequel to the preceding verse, the following touching reminiscence may be read with interest by those familiar with what befell in the fall of 1884:

In the senatorial campaign at Springfield, in the winter of 1885, when General Logan's return to the Senate was threatened by a deadlock in the Legislature, in which the balance of power was held by three greenbackers, Field made ample amends for all his jibes and jeers over Logan's assaults on his mother-tongue. His "Sharps and Flats" column was a daily fusilade, or, rather, feu de joie, upon or at the expense of the Democrats and three legislators, by whose assistance they hoped to defeat and humiliate Logan. Congressman Morrison, he of horizontal fame, was the caucus choice of the Democrats. But as the struggle was prolonged from day to day, it was thought that someone with a barrel, or "soap," as it had been termed by General Arthur in a preceding campaign, was needed to bring the Greenbackers into camp. In the emergency, Judge Lambert Tree, since then our Minister to Belgium, was drafted into the service, and for several days it looked as if the Democrats had struck the hot trail to General Logan's seat. The situation fired Field's Republican soul with righteous indignation, and his column fairly blazed with sizzling paragraphs. He seized upon Judge Tree's name and made it the target of his shafts of wit and satire. One day it was:

Here we have a tree. How Green the Tree is! Can you See the Lightning? Oh, how red and Vivid the Lightning is! Will the Lightning Strike the Tree? Children, that is a Conundrum; we answer conundrums in our Weekly Edition, but not in our daily.

The next day it was:

The Lightning did not strike the Green Tree. But the Springfield Politicians did. This is Why the Tree is Green.

And then there came what I regard as one of the most telling pieces of political satirical humor ever put into English verse, its literary merit alone justifying its preservation, Field himself considering it worth copying in the presentation volume of his verse written prior to 1887:

Public sentiment within the Democratic party prevented the consummation of the deal to supplant Morrison with Tree, the death of a Democratic assemblyman enabled the Republicans to steal a march on their opponents in a by-election, and the deadlock was finally broken by Logan securing the bare 103 votes necessary to election. How Field rejoiced over this outcome, to which he contributed so powerfully, may be inferred from the pictorial and poetic outburst shown on the opposite page:

Field was never in sympathy with the independent lines upon which the Morning News was edited. As I have said, he was a thorough-going partisan Republican, and he preferred a straight-out Democrat to an independent—or Mugwump, as the independents have been styled since 1884, when they bolted Blaine. To his mind the entire Mugwump movement revolved around Grover Cleveland and opposition to the election of Mr. Blaine. The former was not only the idol, but the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the decalogue to many of Field's Mugwump friends whom he cherished personally, but detested and lampooned politically. It pleased him to represent the Mugwump party of Chicago as consisting of General McClurg, John W. Ela, now president of the Chicago Civil Service Commission; Melville E. Stone, Franklin MacVeagh, and myself; and as late as 1892 he took delight in reporting its meetings after this fashion:

Field was very fond of describing himself as a martyr to the Mugwump vapors and megrims that prevailed in the editorial rooms of the Daily News. He would say that the imperishable crowns won by the heroes of Fox's "Book of Martyrs" were nothing to what he, a stanch Republican partisan, earned by enduring and associating daily with the piping, puling independents who infested that "ranch." He said that he expected a place high up in the dictionary of latter-day saints and in the encyclopedia of nineteenth-century tribulations, because of the Christian fortitude with which he endured and forgave the stings and jibes of his puny tormentors.

There was a great scene in the reporters' room of the Morning News the day after Cleveland's first election. The News had been one of the first of the independent newspapers of the country to bolt the nomination of Mr. Blaine. It had favored the renomination of President Arthur, and had convincing evidence of a shameful deal by which certain members of the Illinois delegation, elected as Arthur men, were seduced into the Blaine camp. But this alone would not have decided the course of the paper—that was dictated by the widespread mistrust felt throughout the country as to Mr. Blaine's entire impeccability in the matter of the Little Rock bonds. Field, throughout the campaign, stood by Blaine and Logan and defied the Mugwumps to do their worst. So on the morning after the election he was in a thoroughly disgusted mood. He scoffed at the idea of becoming a Mugwump, but declared himself ready to renounce his Republicanism and become a Democrat. To that end he prepared a formal renunciation. It consisted of a flamboyant denunciation of the past glories and present virtues of the Republican party and an enthusiastic eulogy of the crimes, blunders, and base methods of the Democratic party. Field announced that he preferred to be enrolled as a Democrat, and to accept his share in all the obloquy which he laid at the Democratic door rather than affiliate with the Mugwump bolters. He said that he would rather be classed as a thoroughbred donkey than be feared as a mule without pride of pedigree or hope of posterity, whose only virtue lay in its heels. Then he swathed himself in a shroud of newspapers and laid himself out in the centre of the floor in the rôle of a martyred Republican. He bade the rest of us form a procession and walk over him, taking care not to step on the corpse. After the ceremony was carried out he rose up, a Jacksonian Democrat in name, but a bluer Republican than ever.

There was a sequel to this scene, for which it will serve as an introduction. In May, 1888, Mr. Stone sold out his interest in the Morning and Daily News and retired from the editorship of the former. Under Mr. Lawson, who succeeded him in sole control, both papers retained their independence, but became less aggressive in the maintenance of their views. Mr. Lawson sought to make them impartial purveyors of unbiased news to all parties. Hardly had the blue pencil of supervision dropped from Mr. Stone's fingers before Field made an opportunity to unburden his soul upon the subject of his martyrdom in the following extraordinary and highly entertaining screed:

Never did a cheerful sinner extract such entertaining enjoyment for himself and his friends from a fictitious martyrdom as Field did from these political tribulations. That he never lost his waggish or satirical interest in politics is evidenced by the following parody on his own "Jest 'fore Christmas," written in December, 1894, being at the expense of the then mayor of Chicago:

I will conclude this exposition of the attitude of Eugene Field to politics, public affairs, and public men with a whimsical bit of his verse, descriptive of how business and politics are mixed in a country store, premising it with the note that Colonel Bunn has since become a national character:

Of serious views on political questions Field had none. The same may be truthfully said of his attitude on all social and economic problems. He eschewed controversy and controversial subjects. His study was literature and the domestic side and social amenities of life; and he left the salvation of the republic and the amelioration of the general condition of mankind to those who felt themselves "sealed" to such missions.

CHAPTER IX

HIS "AUTO-ANALYSIS"

In the introduction I have said that if Eugene Field had only written his autobiography, as was once his intention, it would probably have been one of the greatest works of fiction by an American. Early in his career he was the victim of that craze that covets the signatures and manuscript sentiments of persons who have achieved distinction, which later he did so much to foster by precept and practice. He was an inveterate autograph-hunter, and toward the close of his life he paid the penalty of harping on the joys of the collector by the receipt of a perfect avalanche of requests for autographs and extracts from his poems in his own handwriting. The nature of his most popular verses also excited widespread curiosity as to the life, habits, and views of the author of "Little Boy Blue" and "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod." The importunities of this last class of admirers became so numerous that during the winter of 1894 he wrote and had printed what he called his "Auto-Analysis." "I give these facts, confessions, and observations," wrote he, "for the information of those who, for one reason or another, are applying constantly to me for biographical data concerning myself." Such was its author's humor, that behind almost every fact in this "Auto-Analysis" lurks either an error or a hoax. Its confessions are half-truths, and its whimsical observations are purposely designed to lead the reader to false conclusions. And withal the whole document is written with the ingeniousness of a mind without guile, which was one of Field's most highly developed literary accomplishments. No study of Field's character and methods would be complete without giving this very "human document":

AN AUTO-ANALYSIS

So cleverly are truth and fiction dove-tailed together in this "Auto-Analysis" that it would puzzle a jury of his intimate friends to say where Field was attempting to state facts and where he was laughing in his sleeve. Even the enumeration of his publications is amazingly inaccurate for a bibliomaniac's reply to the inquiries of his own guild. Francis Wilson's sumptuous edition of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm" preceded that of McClurg, Chicago, 1893, by more than two years, and a limited edition of the "Second Book of Verse" was published privately by Melville E. Stone, Chicago, 1892, more than a year before it was published by the Scribners, as stated in Field's chronological order.

Under ordinary circumstances such lapses in a list of a writer's published works would be a venial fault, and not worth mentioning; but in the case of one who set such store on "special large paper limited editions," they would be inexplicable—if that writer had not been Eugene Field. With him they were simply a notification to his intimates that the whole thing was not to be taken as a serious bibliology of his works or index of his character.

So far as the cyclopedic narrative of his life is concerned, it is intended to be fairly accurate; but Field's notion that he suddenly began to write verse very frequently in 1889 runs contrary to the record in Denver and Chicago from 1881 to 1888, inclusive. The intentional waggery of misinformation masquerading as truth begins where Field leaves the recital of his life to give what purports to be an analysis of his character and sentiments. Here he lets his "winged fancy loose." He mingles fact with his fiction even as

Not that Field had any deep design to betray anyone lurking behind the fictitious and facetious candor of this apparent self-revelation. This "Auto-Analysis" was written in response to the almost innumerable questions which, about that time, were being propounded in the newspapers and on the leaves of sentiment autograph albums. Hence the forms of Field's replies. For instance, to "What is your favorite flower?" he answered, "My favorite flower is the carnation;"—and with utter irrelevancy, added—"and I adore dolls!" Now Field was not particularly fond of flowers, and if he had a favorite, it was the rose, the pansy, or the violet.

Of his three favorites in fiction "Don Quixote" is the only one to which he gave a second thought, although early familiarity with "Pilgrim's Progress" undoubtedly left its impression on his retentive memory. A more truthful answer would have been "The New England Primer," "The Complete Angler," and Father Prout. To another inquirer he said, "My favorite authors of prose are Cervantes, Hawthorne, Andersen, Sir Thomas Mallory," a very much more accurate statement. His love for the fairy-tales of Andersen and Grimm survived from the knee of his little Mormon nurse to the last tale he wrote; but his belief in ghosts, witches, and fairies was all in his literary mind's eye. He took the same delight in employing them in his works as he did flim-flams, flub-dubs, and catamarans. They were a part of his stock in trade, just as wooden animals were of Caleb Plummer's toy-shop. I think Field cherished a genuine admiration for Abraham Lincoln, whose whole life, nature, personal appearance, unaffected greatness, manner of speech, and fate appealed to his idea of what "the first American" should be. But strike the names of Newman, Horace, old man Poggio, Walter Scott, and Hans Andersen from the list of his favorites that follow the name of Lincoln, and it gains in truth as it shrinks in length.

Upon the question of extending the right to vote to women, Field wasted no more thought than he did on "Politics," whether so called or not. This was a springe to catch the "wimmen folks, God bless them." He seldom took the trouble to vote himself, and ridiculed the idea of women demeaning themselves to enter the dirty strife for public office—as he regarded the beginning, middle, and end of all politics.

Field had the strongest possible aversion to violence or brutality of any kind. He considered capital punishment as barbarous. He was not opposed to it because he regarded it as inaffective as a punishment or a deterrent of crime, but simply because taking life, and especially human life, was abhorrent to him. Hence his "hatred" of wars, armies, soldiers, and guns.

Something more than a paragraph is needed to explain that word "limited" after Field's declaration "I like music." "Like" is a feeble word in this connection, and "limited" by his sense of the absurdity of reducing its enjoyment to an intellectual pursuit. He loved the music that appealed to the heart, the mind, the emotions through the ear. But for years he scoffed at and ridiculed the attempt to convey by the "harmony of sweet sounds" or alternating discords impressions or sentiments of things than can only be comprehended through the eye. He loved both vocal and instrumental music, and was a constant attendant on opera and concert.

I have a unique documentary proof of Eugene Field's taste in music. Written on the folded back of a sheet of foolscap, which, on its face, preserves his original manuscript of "A Noon Tide Hymn," are three suggestions for the "request programmes" with which Theodore Thomas used to vary his concerts in the old Exposition Building in Chicago. Field seldom missed these concerts, and he always made a point of forwarding his choice for the next "request night." This one was as follows:

The only limitation to a liking for music such as is revealed here is that it be good music. Mr. Thomas in those days scarcely ever made up a programme without including in it one of Field's favorites.

Referring to music recalls the fact that Field once seriously contemplated writing a comic opera; and he only failed to carry out his purpose because he could not get the dialogue to suit him; moreover, he realized that he had but a limited grasp of the dramatic action and situations necessary in such work. How completely he had this work mapped out may be judged from the following memoranda, the manuscript of which is before me:

It will be perceived that the spirited action of this "argument," as Field styled it, practically ends with the first act, a fault which the veriest neophyte in the art of libretto writing knows is fatal. But the most interesting feature of this opera in embryo is the list of songs which Field had planned for it. They were:

Field always insisted that Messrs. Smith and DeKoven got the title, if not some of the inspiration, for their opera "The Begum" from the argument of his "Buccaneer," the scheme of which he showed to Harry B. Smith, then a member of the Morning News staff. But the reason for his failure to carry out his operatic venture is obvious in the argument itself. It is intrinsically deficient in the elements of surprise, novel situations, and dramatic action necessary for stage effect. Field would have made it rich in lyrics, but as has been often proved, lyrics alone cannot make a successful opera. He quickly appreciated this and abandoned the work with "Oh, What Were Life?"

There never was any doubt of Field's "shocking taste in dress," and he never sought to cultivate or reform it. But what will those who knew him say of the statement, "I am a poor diner, and I drink no wine or spirits of any kind; I do not smoke tobacco." Field was, by the common verdict of those who had the pleasure of meeting him at any dinner company, the best diner-out they ever knew. He had a keen enjoyment of the pleasures of the table, and but for that wretched stomach would have been as much of an authority on eating as he came to be on collecting. He loved to discuss the art of dining, although he was forbidden to practise it heartily.

His favorite gift-books "appertained" to the art of cooking, in one of which (Hazlitt's "Old Cooking Books") I find inscribed to Mrs. Thompson:

Field gave up drinking wine and all kinds of alcoholic liquors, as has been related, before coming to Chicago. And yet I have seen him sniff the bouquet of some rare wine or liquor with the quivering nostril of a connoisseur, but—and this was the marvel to his associates—without "the ruby," as Dick Swiveller termed it, being the least temptation to his lips.

Eugene Field "not smoke tobacco"! He was one of the most inveterate smokers in America. If he had been given his choice between giving up pie or tobacco, I verily believe he would have thrown away the pie and stuck to the soothing weed out of which he sucked daily and hourly comfort. He had acquired the Yankee habit of ruminating with a small quid of tobacco in his cheek when a good cigar was not between his teeth. He consumed not only all the cigars that fell to his share in a profession where cigars are the invariable concomitants of every chance meeting, every social gathering, and every public function, but also those that in the usual round of our life fell to me. And I was not his only abetter in despoiling the Egyptians who thought to work the freedom of the press with a few passes of the narcotic weed. It is a curious fact that Field's pretended aversion to tobacco persists through all his writings, from the Denver Primer sketches down. In those we find him attributing the authorship of this warning to children to S.J. Tilden:

He never ceased having discussions with himself over the wording or authorship of the famous lines attributed to "Little Robert Reed," as in the following:

I need scarcely refer the reader to Field's confession in his letter of December 12th, 1891, to Mr. Gray of his struggle to give up the use of tobacco, and to the photograph of Field at work, to indicate that his "I do not smoke tobacco" was but one more of those harmless hoaxes he took such pains to carry through at the expense of an ever-credulous public.

Only one more point in regard to the "Auto-Analysis," and I am through with that whimsical concoction; and that is in reference to his attitude toward children. Knowing full well that his inquiring admirers expected him to rhapsodize upon his love for children, he deliberately set about disappointing them with:

Of course this was received with a chorus of incredulity—as it was intended it should be. The autograph hunters who had formed their conception of Field from his lullabies, his "Little Boy Blue," his "Krinken," his "Wynken," and his score of other poems, all proving his mastery over the strings that vibrate with the rocking of the cradle, at once pronounced this the most delicious hit of their author's humor. They knew that such songs could only emanate from a man whose heart overflowed with the warmest sentiment to all childhood. They were convinced that Field must love all children, and nothing he could say could change their conviction.

And yet those words, "I do not love all children," are the truest six words in his "Auto-Analysis." Field not only did not love all children, he truly loved very few children. His own children were very dear to him, both those that came in his early wedded life and the two who were born to him after his return from Europe. They were a never-failing source of interest and enjoyment to him. They were the human documents he loved best to study. They wore no masks to conceal their emotions, and he hated masks—on others. But above all, they were bone of his bone and flesh of his love, the pledges and hostages he had given to fortune, and they were the children of her to whom he had vowed eternal faith "when their two lives were young." But Field's fondness for other people's children was like that of an entomologist for bugs—for purposes of study, dissection, and classification. He delighted to see the varying shades of emotion chase each other across their little tell-tale faces. This man, who could not have set his foot on a worm, who shrank from the sight of pain inflicted on any dumb animal, took almost as much delight in making a child cry, that he might study its little face in dismay or fright, as in making it laugh, that he might observe its method of manifesting pleasure. He read the construction of child-nature in the unreserved expressions of childish emotions as he provoked or evoked them. Thus he grew to know children as few have known them, and his exceptional gift of writing for and about them was the result of deliberate study rather than of personal sympathy. That his own children were sometimes a trial to their "devoted mother" and "fond father," as he described their parents, may be inferred from the facts which were the basis of such bits of confidence between Field and the readers of his "Sharps and Flats" as this:

But all of Field's keen analytical comprehension of child-nature is purified and exalted in his writings by his unalloyed reverence for motherhood. The child is the theme, but it is almost always for the mother he sings. Even here, however, he could not always resist the temptation to relieve sentiment with a piece of humor, as in the following clever congratulations to a friend on the birth of a son:

More than thirty years since the late Professor John Fiske, when asked to write out an account of his daily life for publication, did very much the same thing as Field palmed off on his correspondents in his "Auto-Analysis." He gave some "sure-enough" facts as to his birth, education, and manner of life, but mixed in with the truth such a medley of grotesque falsehoods about his habits of study, eating, and drinking, that he supposed the whole farrago would be thrown into the waste-paper basket. For thirty years he lived in the serene belief that such had been its fate. But one day he was unpleasantly reminded of his mistake. The old manuscript had been resurrected "from the worm-hole of forgotten years," and he was published widecast as a glutton, not only of work, but in eating, drinking, and sleeping. A man who defied all the laws of hygiene, of moderation, and of rest. And when he died, from heat prostration—an untimely death, that robbed his country of its greatest student mind, while yet his energies were boundless—that thoughtless story of thirty years ago was revived, to justify the "I told you sos" of the public press.

His "Auto-Analysis" was not the only hoax of this description in which Eugene Field indulged. In 1893 Hamlin Garland contributed an article to McClure's Magazine, entitled, "A Dialogue Between Eugene Field and Hamlin Garland." It purported to be an interview which the latter had with the former in his "attic study" in Chicago. Field was represented surrounded by "a museum of old books, rare books, Indian relics, dramatic souvenirs, and bric-a-brac indescribable." The result is a most remarkable jumble of misinformation and fiction, with which Field plied Garland to the top of his bent. What Garland thought were bottom facts were really sky-scraping fiction. As if this were not enough, Garland made Field talk in an approach to an illiterate dialect, such as he never employed and cordially detested. Garland represented Field as discussing social and economic problems—why not the "musical glasses," deponent saith not. The really great and characteristic point in the dialogue was where something Field said caused "Garland to lay down his pad and lift his big fist in the air like a maul. His enthusiasm rose like a flood." The whole interview was a serious piece of business to the serious-minded realist. To Field, at the time, and for months after, it was a huge and memorable joke.

But there are thousands who accept the Eugene Field of the "Auto-Analysis" and of the Garland dialogue as the true presentment of the man, when the real man is only laughing in his sleeve at the reader and the interviewer in both of them.

CHAPTER X

LAST YEARS

If this were a record of a life, and not a study of character, with the side-lights bearing upon its development and idiosyncrasies, there would remain much to write of Eugene Field after his return from abroad. Much came to him in fame, in fortune, in his friendships, and in his home. Two more children were born to brighten his hearthstone and refresh his memories of childhood and the enchanting ways of children. The elder of these two, a son, was named Roswell Francis, a combination of the names of Field's father and mother, with the change of a vowel to suit his sex; the younger, his second daughter, was christened Ruth, after Mrs. Gray, in whose home Field had found, more than a score of years before, the disinterested affection of a mother, "a refuge from temptation, care, and vexation."

Although immediately upon getting back Field resumed his daily grind of "Sharps and Flats" for the Chicago Record, his paragraphs showed more and more the effects of his reading and his withdrawal from the activities and associations of men. Mankind continued to interest him as much as ever, but books wearied him less, and in his home were more easily within reach. This home was now at 420 Fullerton Avenue, an old-fashioned house on the northern limit of old Chicago, rather off the beaten track. It was the fifth place the Field household had set up its lares and penates since coming to Chicago. In consequence of his collecting mania, his impedimenta had become a puzzle to house and a domestic cataclysm to move.

By 1891 Field realized, as none of his family or friends did, that his health would never be better, and that it behooved him to put his house in order and make the most of the strength remaining. If he needed the words of a mentor to warn him, he could have found them in the brief memoir his uncle, Charles Kellogg, had written of his father. In that I find this remarkable anticipation of what befell his son, written of Roswell M. Field—who, be it remembered, started in life with a healthy and vigorous body, whereas uncertain health and a rebellious stomach were Eugene Field's portion all the days of his life.

He [Field's father] made the perusal of the Greek and Latin classics his most delightful pastime. In fact, he resorted to this scientific research, particularly in the department of mathematics, for his chief mental recreation. It is greatly to be regretted that he neglected to combine, with his cessation from professional labor, some employment which would have revived and strengthened his physical frame. He was averse to active exercise, and for some years before his death he lived a life of studious seclusion which would have been philosophical had he not violated, in the little care he took of his health, one of the most important lessons which philosophy teaches. At a comparatively early age he died of physical exhaustion, a deterioration of the bodily organs, and an incapacity, on their part, to discharge the vital functions—a wearing out of the machine before the end of the term for which its duration was designed. He was eminently qualified to serve, as well as to adorn, society, and in all likelihood he would have found in a greater variety of occupation some relief from the monotonous strain under which his energies prematurely gave way.

But the conditions that confronted Eugene Field at the age of forty-one were very different from those under which his father succumbed prematurely at sixty-one. He had made a name and fame for himself, but had not stored any of the harvest his writings were beginning to yield. He could write, as he did, that he expected to do his best literary work when a grandfather, but he had no belief that he would live to enjoy that happy Indian summer of paternity. He was tired of being moved from rented flat to rented house with his accumulated belongings, and he yearned with the "sot" New England yearning for a permanent home, a roof-tree that he could call his own, a patch of earth in which he could "slosh around," with no landlord to importune for grudging repairs.

And so Field's life during his last years has to be considered as a struggle with physical exhaustion, fighting off the inevitable reckoning until he could provide himself and his family with a home and leave to his dear ones the means of retaining it, with the opportunities of education for the juniors. And bravely and cheerily he faced the situation. Neither in his social relations nor in his daily task was there observable any trace of the tax he was putting upon his over-strained energy. He could not afford to make the study of classics a delightful pastime, as his father did, but he made it contribute a constant and delightful fund of reference and allusion in his column. His first books were selling steadily, and he worked assiduously to make hay while the sun was still above the horizon. In quick succession, "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," "With Trumpet and Drum," the "Second Book of Verse," "The Holy Cross and Other Tales," and "Love Songs of Childhood," with few exceptions, collected from his daily contributions to the Chicago Record, were issued from the press in both limited and popular editions.

On the top of his regular work, which in collected form began to be productive beyond his fondest expectations, Field allowed himself to be over-persuaded into entering the platform field. The managers of reading-bureaus had been after him for years; but he had resisted their alluring offers, because he would not make a show of himself, and the exertion fagged him. But in the later years of his life they came at him again, with the promise of more pay per night than he could get by writing in a week, and he reluctantly made occasional engagements, which were a drain on his vitality as well as an offence to his peculiar notions of personal dignity. After each of these excursions into the platform field, either in the triple alliance with "Bill" Nye and James Whitcomb Riley, or with George W. Cable, in a most effective combination, Field returned to his home in Chicago richer in pocket and interesting experiences, but distinctly poorer in the vital reserve necessary to prolong the battle with that rebellious stomach.

The presidential campaign of 1892 quite revived his interest in politics and politicians, and drew him away from the association with books at home and with the Saints and Sinners at McClurg's. For a time it looked as if he had been weaned from the circle of collectors, and never had his column held up to ridicule so fiercely the humbug and hypocricy of political methods as during that summer. One day after the nomination of Harrison and Reid, at Minneapolis, his column contained no fewer than forty-one political paragraphs, each one "ringing the bell" of mirth or scorn, as the subject warranted.

In the following winter there came the first hiatus in his regular contributions to the Record. But he resumed work in May, his return being heralded by a paragraph beginning, "This is a beautiful world, and life herein is very sweet," a note theretofore seldom heard in his paragraphs, though often struck in his "Profitable Tales"; and thenceforward in his daily work his thoughts recur to the beauty of the world and his gladness to be in it. Thus in the following July he wrote:

The summer of 1893, with the crowds and various excitements of the World's Fair, was very exhausting to Field, albeit he enjoyed the wonder and beauty of the Columbian Exposition with all the intent eagerness of a twelve-year-old lad at a country circus. Everything that happened down at Jackson Park that memorable season, especially the social rivalries of the different managing bodies, was fair game for his roguish wit. The liberties which he took with the names and reputations of public men showed that the old spirit of waggery was not dead within him. This is illustrated in such verses as these:

In the spring of 1892 Field was fortunate enough to find a house in Buena Park, a northern suburb of Chicago, which, besides having the convenience of a trolley connection with the centre of the city, had the incalculable advantage of overlooking the extensive and beautiful private grounds justly celebrated in "The Delectable Ballad of the Waller Lot":

Next to owning a homestead, with rolling lawns and groves of old trees and family associations, Field enjoyed having someone else bear the burden of their maintenance for his immediate personal delectation, and the Waller homestead, with its park effects, afforded him that inexpensive pleasure. His windows looked out upon a truly sylvan scene, the gates to which were always invitingly open, southern fashion, to congenial wayfarers. The more Field saw of the Waller lot, the more completely did the old New England hankering after a homestead, with acres instead of square feet of lawn and trees, take possession of him; and the spectre of ten years' rent for inconvenient flats and houses rose in his memory and urged him to buy land and build for himself. This finally resulted in the following letter to the old friend to whom he always went in any financial emergency, and from whom he never came empty handed away:

There had ever been but one response from Mr. Gray to such an appeal as this from his quondam ward, and Field was not disappointed this time. But l'homme propose et Dieu dispose; and in this case there was no woman to intervene, as in the Spanish version of the proverb, to "discompose" the disposition of Deity. Before the project contemplated in Field's letter took tangible shape, however, he was laid on his back by a severe cold, which developed into pneumonia. On his recovery, the doctor advised that he should go to California; and on November 8th he wrote to Mr. Gray, asking him if he and his niece could not be ready to accompany him about the 1st of December. Concluding a very brief note, he said: "Writing makes me very tired, so pray pardon my brutal brevity. I send very much love to you and yours. Many, many times have I thought of you, dear friend, during the last three painful weeks, and I have wished that you were here, that I might speak with you." Mr. Gray arranged to join Field on the trip, which the latter outlined in a letter to him December 4th, 1893:

Field did not find in California the "glorious climate" which the well-meant advice of his physicians had led him to expect. His going up to San Francisco in winter to visit his cousin was a mistake, which he quickly regretted, as the following testifies:

Field kept the promise of this letter, and the memoir of Mrs. Gray then written is a genuine work of love, composed amid "environments," as he wrote, "conducive to the sincerity and the enthusiasm which should characterize such a noble task." Here is his picture of the surroundings, redolent of the incense of sunshine and flowers that fills that favored clime:

Evidently, too, the glorious climate of California was a blessing which brightened as Field took his flight toward the East. Early in February he was back in the harness in Chicago, celebrating his return with characteristic gayety in "Lyrics of a Convalescent." But his contributions to the paper through the winter and early spring of 1894 were confined to occasional verse. After a short trip to New Orleans, in April, he resumed active work the first week in May; and for the remainder of the year his column gave daily evidence of his mental activity and cheerfulness.

It was while in New Orleans in the spring of 1894 that the following incident, illustrative of the boyish freaks that still engaged Field's ingenuity, occurred. I quote from a letter of one of the participants, Cyrus K. Drew, of Louisville: "I met Field on one of his pilgrimages for old bottles, pewter ware, and any old thing in the junk line. Some friends of mine introduced our party to Mr. Field and Wilson Barrett and members of his company then playing an engagement in New Orleans. Mr. Field's greatest delight was in teasing Miss Maude Jeffries, a Mississippi girl, then leading lady in Mr. Barrett's company. She was very sensitive and modest, and it delighted Field greatly when he could playfully embarrass her. One day I found him in his room busy on the floor pasting large sheets of brown paper together. He had written a poem to Miss Jeffries in the centre of a large sheet of this wrapping paper in his characteristic small hand—indeed, much smaller than usual. On the edges of this sheet I found him pasting others of equal size, so that the whole when complete made a single sheet about eight feet square. This he carefully folded up to fit an improvised envelope about the size of a Mardi Gras souvenir, then being distributed about the city. With the joyousness of a boy about to play a prank, he chased down-stairs at the noon hour when he knew Miss Jeffries was at lunch with Mr. Barrett in the cafe of the Grunewald. Calling a waiter, he sent the huge envelope in to her table. She glanced at it a moment and then gradually drew the package from its envelope, while Field and I stood watching behind the entrance. It spread all over the table as she continued to unfold the enormous sheet, and its rustle attracted the attention of nearly every one in the room. When it had spread itself all over Mr. Barrett, who meanwhile was laughing heartily, Miss Jeffries discovered the poem in Field's hand, and, although blushing crimson, joined in the laughter, for she knew he was somewhere about enjoying her discomfort."

By August of this same year he had his "Love Songs of Childhood" in shape for the publishers, and had once more taken up the project of acquiring a home. What Field was doing, as well as thinking about, a little later is pretty accurately reflected in the following letter to Mr. Gray:

This is the most soberly, self-revealing letter written by Eugene Field that has come within my ken. Through it the reader is taken into the confidence which existed between the writer and his constant friend—a confidence further extended in the following letter which reports progress in the attainment of "the house":

"The house" upon which Field devoted so much thought at this time, and every dollar he could raise by forestalling his income, was a commodious, old-fashioned building in Buena Park, which stood well back from Clarendon Avenue in a grove of native oaks within sight of Lake Michigan. Its yard was mostly a sand waste, which needed a liberal top dressing of black earth to produce the semblance to a lawn. The remodelling of the house and the process of converting sand into a green sward with flower-beds and a kitchen garden furnished light employment and a never-failing subject for quips and bucolic absurdities to its owner, to whom land ownership seemed to give a new grip on life. The story of the remaking of this building into a comfortable modern house and of converting the sandy soil surrounding it into a land of horticulture promise is told by Field in whimsical style in "The House," a work unfinished at the time of his death. The first instalment of this story appeared in "Sharps and Flats" on May 15th. Eighteen chapters followed on successive days without a break. By August 15th, when the last instalment was printed, a vexatious series of disappointments had robbed Field's humor of its natural buoyancy. He therefore dropped the story in about the same unfinished stage as he found his new home when his impatience finally took possession of it before the carpenters and painters were all out. On May 14th he wrote to his aged Mæcenas:

The next and last letter which I shall quote from this interesting correspondence has the unique distinction of being the only one from him of all that passed between them that is not in Field's own chirography. In inditing this, he substituted the serviceable typewriter for the pen, that had been his companion for so many years, and that had served him "so diligently," as he so beautifully acknowledged in the apostrophe to it addressed to his brother Roswell. It bears date July 2d, and testifies to the writer's failure to realize the bright anticipation of getting into his new home during the early days of the leafy month of June:

A postscript by pen informed Mr. Gray that the Record office held $200 for him on account, for which a draft would be sent as soon as the cashier returned from a brief vacation.

During the years here passing in review Field entered upon a new rôle—that of entertaining distinguished visitors for the Record. While Mr. Stone was editor of the Morning News this important incident of metropolitan journalism fell to his lot, and with Field as his first lieutenant, he enjoyed it. Mr. Lawson, when he assumed the duties of editorship in addition to the details of publishing, had no time to waste on such social amenities, and thereafter delegated to Field the task of representing the Record on all such occasions. As Field exercised his own choice of occasions, as well as guests, the task was entirely congenial to his nature, and as Mr. Lawson paid the bills, fully within the narrow limits of his purse. One of the most memorable of the entertainments that followed from this happy arrangement was a luncheon at the Union League Club, in honor of Edward Everett Hale. The company invited to meet the liberal divine consisted of a few Saints, more Sinners, and a fair proportion of the daughters of Eve. Field prepared the menu with infinite care, and to the carnal eye it read like a dinner fit for the gods. But in reality it consisted of typical New England dishes, in honor of our New England guest, masquerading in the gay and frivolous lingo of the French capital. Codfish-balls, with huge rashers of bacon, boiled corned beef and cabbage, pork and beans, with slices of soggy Boston brown-bread, corn-bread and doughnuts, the whole topped off with apple-pie and cheese, were served with difficult gravity by the waiters to an appreciative company. The bill promised some rare and appropriate wine for each course, and the table flashed with the club's full equipment of cut glass for each plate. But alas and alack-a-day! when the waiters came to serve the choicest vintages from the correctly labelled bottles, they gave forth nothing but Waukesha spring water. Not even "lemonade of a watery grade" did we have to wash down our luncheon, where every dish was seasoned to the taste of a salted codfish. But we had all the water we could drink, and before we were through we needed it. Sol Smith Russell was among the guests that day, and he and Field gave imitations of each other, which left the company in doubt as to which was the original.

It was on an occasion somewhat similar to this, given in the early winter, that Field perpetrated one of his most characteristic jokes, with the assistance of Mr. Stone, by this time manager of the Associated Press. The latter, at no little trouble, had provided as luscious a dessert of strawberries as the tooth of epicure ever watered over. They were the first of the season, and fragrant with the fragrance that has given the berry premiership in the estimation of others besides Isaac Walton. While everybody was proving that the berries tasted even better than they looked, and exclaiming over the treat, Field was observed to push his saucer out of range of temptation. At last Stone remarked Field's action, and asked: "What's the matter, Gene, don't you like strawberries?"

"Like them?" said Field; "I fairly adore strawberries! They are the only fruit I prefer to pie."

"Then why don't you eat yours?" queried Stone.

"B-because," answered Field, with a deep quaver in his voice, "b-because I'm afraid it would s-s-spoil my appetite for p-prunes."

Through these years Field was also the central figure in the entertainments of the Fellowship Club, and contributed more to the reputation these attained for wit and mirth-provoking scenes than all other participators combined. But he had begun to weary of the somewhat forced play of such gatherings, and found more pleasure watching the children romping in the Waller lot, or pottering about and overseeing the planting in his own new front yard. He had arrived at the time when he wanted to get away from the city and into the country as far as the engagements of his profession would permit. This spirit is dominant in these lines to his friend Louis Auer:

CHAPTER XI

LAST DAYS

At last (July, 1895) Field was in his own house, provided, as he said, with all the modern conveniences, including an ample veranda and a genial mortgage. About it were the oaks, in whose branches the birds had built their nests before Chicago was a frontier post. He could sit upon the "front stoop" and look across vacant lots to where Lake Michigan beat upon the sandy shore with ceaseless rhythm. Inside, the house was roomy and cheery with God's own sunlight pouring in through generous windows. Reversing the usual order of things in this climate of the southwest wind, the porch was on the northeast exposure of the house. The best room in it was the library, and here, for the first time in his career, Field had the opportunity to provide shelf-room for his books and cabinets for his curios. An artist would have said that their arrangement was crude and ineffective; but from the collector's point of view the arrangement could scarcely have been bettered. Everything seemed to have settled in its appropriate niche, according to its value in the collector's eye, irrespective of its value in the dealer's catalogue. Of his collection before it was moved from the house on Evanston Avenue, adjoining the Waller lot, his friend Julian Ralph wrote:

"He had cabinets and closets filled with the wreckage of England, New England, Holland, and Louisiana; walls littered with mugs, and prints, and pictures, plates, and warming-pans; shelves crowded with such things, and mantel-pieces likewise loaded, through two stories of his house. All were curios of value, or else beauty, for he was no ignoramus in his madness. His den above stairs, where he sat surrounded by a great and valuable collection of first editions and other prized books, was part of the museum. There hung the axe Mr. Gladstone gave him at Hawarden, and the shears that Charles A. Dana used during a quarter of a century. These two prizes he cherished most. He had been to Mr. Dana and begged the shears, receiving the promise that he should have them left to him in Mr. Dana's will. He waited five years, grew impatient, past endurance, and then came on to New York and got the shears from Paul Dana."

To his new home, which he christened "The Sabine Farm," were moved all the accumulated treasures of his mania for curiosities and antiques. "I do not think he thought much of art," wrote Edward Everett Hale in his introduction to "A Little Book of Profitable Tales"; and the motley, albeit fascinating, aggregation of rare and outlandish chattels in Eugene Field's house justified that conclusion. Of what the world calls art, whether the creation of the brush, the chisel, the loom, or the potter's oven, he had the most rudimentary conception. His eye was ever alert for things queer, rare, and "out of print." Of these he was a connoisseur beyond compare, a collector without a peer. He valued prints, not for their beauty or the art of the engraver, but for some peculiarity in the plate, or because of the difficulties overcome in their "comprehension." He knew all that was to be known of the delightful art of the binder, but his most cherished specimen would always be one where a master had made some slip in tooling. For oddities and rarities in all the range of the collector's fever, from books and prints to pewter mugs and rag dolls, his mania was omnivorous and catholic. And strange as it may seem, with his mania was mingled a shrewd appreciation of the commercial side of it all. This is what Mr. Ralph means when he says Field was no ignoramus in his madness.

Therefore it is not to be wondered at that his collection of strange and fantastic, odd and curious, things filled his library and overflowed and clustered every nook and corner of the Sabine Farm. Here was a "thumb" Bible, there the smallest dictionary in the world. In one corner was stacked a freakish lot of canes—some bought because they were freaks, some with a story behind their acquisition, and more presented to him because Field let it be known that he had a penchant for canes—which, by the way, he never carried. In one room there was a shelf of empty bottles of every conceivable shape, size, and "previous condition of servitude"; in another was a perfect menagerie of mechanical toy animals. As he could not decide which he liked best, hideous pewter mugs or delicate china dishes, he "annexed" them indiscriminately, and stored them cheek by jowl, much to the annoyance of his more orderly wife. The old New England pie-plate was a dearer article of vertu to him than the most fragile vase, unless the latter was a rare specimen of a forgotten art. He had a genuine affection for clocks of high and low degree. He loved them for their friendly faces, and endowed them with personal idiosyncrasies, according to their tickings, by which he distinguished them. And so the Sabine Farm had old-fashioned clocks and new-fangled clocks in the halls and bedrooms, on the stairs and mantels, in the cellars beneath and in the garret above—all ticking merrily or sedately, as became their respective makes and natures. But keeping time? Never!

Of books there was no end. Books he had inherited, books he had bought with money pinched from household expenses, and presentation books by the score. All were jumbled together in a confusion that delighted him, but which would have been the despair of an orderly mind. His rare and well-nigh complete collection of books on Horace and of editions of the poet had the place of honor in his library, with the rest nowhere in particular and everywhere in general. Hundreds of his books bear the autographs of their respective authors, while the walls of the house were covered with autograph letters from many of the celebrities and not a few of the notorieties of the world. Even the nonentities found lodgement there. Such another collection as Field's is not to be met with under any roof in this country; nor could its like be duplicated anywhere, because it reflects the man in all his personal contradictions and predispositions. It is queer and sui generis—but mostly "queer"—which word to him always conveyed a sense of inimitable incongruity.

When Field returned from Holland he wore on his third finger a hideous silver ring, that looked like pewter, in which shone, but did not sparkle, a huge green crystal. It was a gorgeous travesty on an emerald. Beauty it had none, nor even quaintness of design. It was just plain ugly; but he had become attached to it because it was conspicuous and had some association with Dutch life connected with it. From this it may be inferred that Field's taste in jewelry was barbaric; but, happily for Mrs. Field, it was a taste he seldom indulged.

Besides the pleasure of sitting down amid the spoils of two continents and of two decades of collecting, Field fairly revelled in the, to him, novel sensation of land proprietorship. He did not miss or feel the drain of the weekly deductions from his salary that went to the reduction of his building debt. When that had been arranged for between the Record office and Mr. Gray, Field took no more account of it. It came out of Mrs. Field's allowance. What was that to him? He only recognized the fact that he was his own landlord, and paid taxes, and was exempt from the payment of rent.

So enamoured was he of these novel sensations of the Sabine Farm that he found it hard to tear himself away from the communion with the trees, and birds, and bees, out of doors, and with books, and curios, and visitors indoors. Dearly did he love to show his treasures to his friends, who came, not single spies, but in troops, to warm his chairs and congratulate him upon the attainment of his heart's desire. Never did he appear to better advantage than here, except when outside under the trees, surrounded by groups of little children, to whom he discoursed on wonders in natural history more wonderful than all the amazing works of nature set down in their nature study-books. All the animals, and birds, and creeping things in his natural history could talk and sing, could romp and play, could eat and drink—not infrequently too much—and in every way were superior to their kind to be met with among the dry leaves of their school-books. He peopled the world with the trolls, elves, and nixies of fairy-land for his own and his neighbors' babes of all ages.

Is it any wonder that his trips down town became less frequent, that he preferred to do his work at home, and subsidized one of his sons to be his regular messenger to bear his copy to the office? Is it surprising that, along in August, 1895, we find him writing:

"The companionship of humanity!" Nothing could make up to him any narrowing of that. His friends became dearer to him than ever. He could send his copy down to the printer, but when his friends did not come out in sufficient numbers to Buena Park he made the long trip to town to meet them at luncheon or in the Saints' and Sinners' Corner at McClurg's. Here he held almost daily court, and mulled over the materials for "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac"—the opening chapter of which appeared in his "Sharps and Flats" on August 30th. Here he confided to a few that the grasshopper had "become a burden," by reason of the weariness of his long convalescence. Here he had those meetings with the Rev. Frank W. Gunsaulus which resulted in the frequent transfer of poems from the latter's pocket to the "Sharps and Flats" column, without initial or sign to intimate that they were other than Field's own vintage, only from a new press. Here, too, his whole bearing and conversation were so uniformly hopeful, hearty, and light-hearted, that they deceived all his associates into confidence that the new home had instilled new life into our friend's gaunt frame.

His column, too, reflected the genial, mellow spirit that played through all his speech and ways during the early autumn days of 1895. No other work that he had done so completely satisfied him as "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac." He was steeped in the lore of the cult. He had yielded to its fascinations while preserving the keenest appreciation of its whims and weaknesses. And so the story meandered on through September and October with an ever-increasing charm of mingled sentiment and sweet satire; and so it seemed as if it might meander on forever.

But he did not attempt to write a chapter of this exquisite reminiscing every day. It was sandwiched in between columns of paragraphs and verse such as had earned for him his great vogue with the readers of the Record. He could still surprise and pain the "first literary circles of Chicago" with such literary notes as:

And he did not fail to keep Chicago informed of the latest Buena Park news in such rural journal notes as these:

But there was very much less of this sort of thing and of the daily badinage of the paragrapher than in the days of Field's primacy in that line. He was reserving all that was freshest, and sweetest, and most delicate in his fancy for the "Love Affairs."

I spent the summer of 1895 in Evanston, and one night in October, just as the family was thinking of retiring, I was called to the telephone by Field, who asked if we had any pie in the house, for he was coming up to get a slice from the pantry of my Vermont mother-in-law. He was gladly bidden to come along. In a few minutes in he walked, and was made welcome to whatever the pantry afforded—whether it was pie, pickles, or plain cheese and crackers, I do not now recall. It appeared that he had been in Evanston that night, giving a reading for the benefit of a social and literary club such as were always drawing drafts upon his good-nature and powers of entertaining. I never knew Field in better spirits than he was that night. He told of several humorous incidents that happened at the reading, and then recited one or two of the things he had read there. He sat at the piano and crooned songs and caressed the ivory keys as he told stories and we talked of the "Love Affairs" and of his prospects, which were never brighter. None who were present that memorable night will forget his reading of "The Night Wind." We turned the lights down low and listened, while with that wonderful voice he brought "the night that broods outside" into the darkened room, with that weird and ghostly:

Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!

Not until there was barely time to catch the last electric-car for Buena Park did Field tear himself away from that appreciative company; and then he insisted that I should go with him to the cars. And so we "walked and talked," as of old, until the last south-bound car came. And as he boarded it, it seemed as if ten years had been wiped off the record, and I should see him at the office next morning. And that was the last time I ever saw Eugene Field alive.

For a few mornings after that I read his column in the Record. A few more chapters were added to the "Love Affairs," and then:

On Saturday morning, November 2d, Field spoke to the readers of the Record, through his accustomed column and in his accustomed spirit of human sympathy and genial humor. It led off with the little shot at his native city:

And it concluded with a loyal defence of his old friend and associate, "Bill" Nye, who, having aroused the ire of an audience at Paterson, N.J., had been roughly set upon and egged by a turbulent crowd of men while on his way to the railroad station. Field indignantly repelled the suggestion that Nye's indiscretion was due to inebriety, but traced it to his bad health. "Only the utmost caution," he wrote, "and the most scrupulous observance of the rules laid down by his physician have enabled Nye to go ahead with his work. This work in itself has been arduous. If there is anything more vexatious or more wearing than travelling about the country in all kinds of weather and at the mercy of railroads, and lecture-bureaus, and hotel-keepers, we do not know it."

And yet, at the very moment Field wrote this he, a more delicately organized invalid than "Bill" Nye, had his ticket bought, his state-room engaged, and his trunk packed to leave for Kansas City, where he was to give a reading on the evening of Monday, November 4th. He felt so indisposed on Saturday that he did not leave his bed. That, however, did not prevent his finishing Chapter XIX of the "Love Affairs." As it was no unusual thing for him to write, as well as read, in bed, this occasioned no alarm in the family circle. But that evening he decided to give up the Kansas City trip, and asked his brother Roswell to wire the management of the affair to that effect. On Sunday he was still indisposed, but received numerous visitors. To one of them, who remarked that it was a perfect November day, Field said: "Yes, it is a lovely day, but this is the season of the year when things die, and this fine weather may mean death to a thousand people. We may hear of many deaths to-morrow."

In the evening he complained of a pain in his head; and as he was feeling a little feverish, Dr. Hedges, who lived near by, was called in. He came about half-past ten o'clock; and after taking Field's temperature, which was only slightly above normal, said it was due to weakness, and probably resulted from the excitement of seeing so many visitors. Field joked with the doctor, told him several stories, and was assured that he was getting on all right. Before leaving, the doctor said that if it was fine on Monday it would do Field good to get out and take some exercise. Shortly before midnight a message came from Kansas City, asking when he would be able to appear there. He dictated an answer, saying that he would come November 16th. Then wishing everybody goodnight, he turned over and went to sleep as peacefully as any little child in one of his stories.

An hour before daylight the sleeper turned in his bed and groaned. His second son, "Daisy," who always slept with his father, spoke to him, but got no answer. Then he reached over and touched him; but there was not the usual response of a word or a caress. In terror-stricken recognition of the awful presence, Daisy alarmed the whole household with his cry, "Come quick! I believe papa is dead!"

And so it was. Death had stolen upon Eugene Field as he slept. And so they found him, lying in a natural position, his hands clasped over his heart, his head turned to one side, and his lips half parted, as if about to speak.

It was just such a death as he had often said would be his choice. Just a dropping to sleep here and an awakening yonder. The doctor said it was heart-failure, resulting from a sudden spasm of pain. But the face bore no trace of pain. The moan that wakened Daisy was probably that sigh with which mortal parts with mortality—the parting breath between life and death, which will scarcely stir a feather and yet will awaken the soundest sleeper. To my mind Eugene Field died as his father, "of physical exhaustion, a deterioration of the bodily organs, and an incapacity on their part to discharge the vital functions—a wearing out of the machine before the end of the term for which its duration was designed."

And thus there passed from the midst of us as gentle and genial a spirit as ever walked the earth. I know not why his death should recall that memorable scene of Mallory's, the death of Launcelot, unless it be that Field considered it the most beautiful passage in English literature:

So when sir Bors and his fellowes came to his bed, they found him starke dead, and hee lay as hee had smiled, and the sweetest savour about him that ever they smelled. Then was there weeping and wringing of hands, and the greatest dole they made that ever made men....

Then went sir Bors unto sir Ector, and told him how there lay his brother sir Launcelot dead. And then sir Ector threw his shield, his sword, and his helme from him; and when hee beheld sir Launcelot's visage hee fell down in a sowne, and when hee awaked it were hard for any tongue to tell the dolefull complaints that hee made for his brother. "Ah, sir Launcelot," said hee, "thou were head of all Christian knights! And now, I dare say," said sir Ector, "that, sir Launcelot there thou liest, thou were never matched of none earthly knights hands; and thou were the curtiest that ever beare shield; and thou were the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrood horse, and thou were the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman; and thou were the kindest man that ever strooke with sword; and thou were the goodliest person that ever came among presse of knights; and thou were the meekest man and the gentlest that ever eate in hall among ladies; and thou were the sternest knight to thy mortall foe that ever put speare in the rest."

Then there was weeping and dolour out of measure.

If I have interpreted the story of "The Good Knight's" life aright, the reader will comprehend the relation there is in my mind between the scene at the death of the knightliest knight of romance and that of him who moved in our modern life, steeped and imbued with the thoughts, fancies, and speech of the age of chivalry. For the age of shield, and spear, and tourney, he would have been the unlikeliest man ever born of woman; but with his "sweet pen" he waged unceasing battle for all things beautiful, and true, and pure in this modern world. That is why his best songs sing of mother's love and childhood and of the eternal bond between them. He hated sham, and humbug, and false pretence, and that is why his daily paragraphs gleam and sparkle with the relentless satire and ridicule; he detested the solemn dulness of conventional life, and that is why he scourged society with the "knotted lash of sarcasm" and dissipated melancholy with the unchecked effrontery of his mirth. And so his songs were full of sweetness, and his words were words of strength; and his last message to the children of his pen was:

And so is it any wonder that when the tidings of his death was borne throughout the land "there was weeping and dolour out of measure," and that a wave of sympathy swept over the country for the bereft family of the silent singer?

I have often been asked what was Eugene Field's religious belief—a question I cannot answer better than in the language of the Rev. Frank M. Bristol in his funeral address:

I have said of my dear friend that he had a creed. His creed was love. He had a religion. His religion was kindness. He belonged to the church—the church of the common brotherhood of man. With all the changes that came to his definitions and formulas, he never lost from his heart of hearts the reverence for sacred things learned in childhood, and inherited from a sturdy Puritan ancestry. From that deep store of love and faith and reverence sprang the streams of his happy songs, and ever was he putting into his tender verses those ideas of the living God, the blessed Christ, the ministering angels of immortal love, the happiness of heaven, which were instilled into his-heart when but a boy.

Those who gathered at his house on the day of the funeral and looked upon the form of the "Good Knight" in his last sleep saw a large white rose in one of his hands. There was a touching story connected with that rose: On the preceding afternoon a lady, who was a friend of Field's, went to a florist's to order some flowers for the grave. A poorly clad little girl was looking wistfully in at the window and followed the lady into the store.

"Are those flowers for Mr. Field?" she asked. "Oh, I wish I could send him just one. Won't you, please, give me one flower?"

The florist placed a beautiful white rose in her little hand. Then she turned and gave it to the lady, with the request: "Please put it near Mr. Field with your flowers." And the little girl's single rose—the gift of love without money and without price—was given the place of honor that day beyond the wealth of flowers that filled house and church with the incense of affection for the dead.

The funeral was a memorable demonstration of the common regard in which Field was held by all classes of citizens. The services took place in the Fourth Presbyterian Church, from which hundreds turned sorrowfully away, because they could not gain admission. The Rev. Thomas C. Hall, who had recently succeeded Dr. Stryker, one of Field's intimate friends, who had been called to the presidency of Hamilton College, conducted the formal ceremonies, in which he was assisted by the Rev. Frank M. Bristol, who delivered the address, and the Rev. Frank W. Gunsaulus, who embodied his tribute to his friend in a poem remarkable for the felicity with which it passed in review many of the more noteworthy of Field's lyrics. Its opening stanzas read:

That the spirit of those funeral services was neither local nor ephemeral is proved by the following poem, which, by a strange coincidence, came in a round-about way to my desk in the Record-Herald office from their author in Texarkana, Texas, the very day I transcribed the above lines from Dr. Gunsaulus's "Songs of Night and Morning" into the manuscript of this book:

EUGENE FIELD

1.

The initials are those of Mr. Charles S. Todd, of Texarkana, Texas; and the poem, besides testifying to the wide-spread sorrow over Field's death, bears witness to the fact that his western dialect verse had a hold on the popular heart only second to his lullabies and poems of childhood.

From the Fourth Presbyterian Church Field's body was borne to its last resting-place, in Graceland cemetery. It is a quiet spot where the poet is interred, in a lovely little glade, away from the sorrowful processions of the main driveways. Leafy branches wave above his grave, shielding it from the glare of the sun in summer and the rude sweep of the winds in winter. The birds flit across it from tree to tree, casting "strange, flutterin' shadders" over the grave of him who loved them so well. And there, one day in the early summer, another bird-lover, Edward B. Clark, heard a wood-thrush, the sweetest of American songsters, singing its vesper hymn, and was moved out of his wont himself to sing:

Thus endeth this inadequate study of my gentle and joyous friend, "the good knight, sans peur et sans monnaie."

APPENDIX

The two articles by Eugene Field which follow here are not to be taken as particularly illuminating examples of his literary art or style. For those the reader is referred to his collected works; especially those tales and poems published during his lifetime and to "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac." These are given to illustrate the liberties Field took with his living friends and with the verities of literary history. There was no such book as the "Ten Years of a Song Bird: Memoirs of a Busy Life," by Emma Abbott; and "The Discoverer of Shakespeare," by Franklin H. Head, was equally a creation of Field's lively fancy. I reproduce the latter review from the copy which Field cut from the Record and sent in pamphlet form to Mr. Head with the following note:

The review of Miss Abbott's fictitious autobiography needs no further introduction, save the statement that the only parts of it that are based on fact are those which refer to the high esteem in which its subject—or shall I say its victim?—was held by Field and the names and relations of the parties mentioned. If the reader cares to compare some of the phrases used in this autobiography with others quoted from the proceedings in the Vermont litigation in the early chapters of this book, he will find striking evidence of the persistence of literary expression in the Field family:

Footnote:

^[1] In this specimen of Field's privately circulated verse, as in his letters, his own punctuation and capitalization are followed. He had a system of his own which, when complicated with the office style of the News, resulted in most admirable confusion and inconsistency.

INDEX

• Abbott, Miss Emma, a friend of Field, i., 228, 346;
•     Field's review of her imaginary autobiography, ii., 332-340
• "Ailsie, My Bairn," ii., 129
• Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, i., 134
• "Alliaunce, The," ii., 124-126
• "An Appreciation" of Eugene Field, i., 201
• "April Vespers," i., 129, 130
• Archer, Belle, i., 249
• Arion Quartette, formed by Field and others, i., 113
• Armour, George A., ii., 173
• Auer, Louis, ii., 294
• "Aunt Mary Matilda Series," ii., 28, 35
• "Auto-Analysis, An," i., 51, 99, 106;
•     reference to Field's early verse, 135, 227;
•     origin and publication of, ii., 234-240
• "Awful Bugaboo, The," i., 152, 153

• Baker, Thomas C., i., 113
• Ballantyne, John F., i., 206;
•      his relations with Field, 207, 208;
•     his office, 215;
•     hero of "How Mary Matilda Won a Prince," ii., 36;
•     married, 89, 90
• "Bar Harbor: A Reminiscence," ii., 212, 213
• Barrett, Wilson, ii., 276, 277
• Barnes, Charles A., ii., 173
• Barnum, P.T., ii., 153
• Barren, Elwin, i., 285
• Bates, Mrs. Morgan, entertains Field, ii., 84-86
• Bates, Morgan, i., 216, 282;
•     suffers from his political attitude, ii., 223, 224
• Below, Mrs., i., 101, 105
• Bernhardt, Madame, i., 173, 243
• "Bibliomaniac's Prayer, The," ii., 170, 171
• Bikens, Judge, i., 27
• Bingham, Joseph, ii., 226, 227
• Blaine, James G., ii., 10, 11, 217;
•     defeated in his campaign for the Presidency, 221
• Blair, Montgomery, i., 44
• Bristol, Rev. Frank M., ii., 173;
•     delivers address at Field's funeral, 315
• Broderick, Mr. and Mrs. George, i., 249
• Browne, Francis, proposes to publish Field's writings, ii., 56
• Burdette, Robert J., i., 134
• Burgess, Professor John W., i., 78
• Burke, Judge Henry W., association with Field, i., 115
• Buskett, William C., hero of "Penn Yan Bill," i., 112;
•     describes Field's life in St. Louis, 112-114;
•     receives letter from Field, ii., 161, 162

• Cable, Ben. T., ii., 173
• Cable, George W., ii., 265
• "Camille," i., 241-245
• Capel, Monseigneur, his meeting with William J. Florence, i., 231
• "Casey's Table d'Hote," i., 112
• Charless, Joseph, i., 41
• Chicago, Field comes to, i., 189;
•     description of, 194-197
• Chicago Daily News, description of editorial rooms of, i., 211-218
• "Christmas Treasures," i., 135
• Clark, Edward B., ii., 320
• Claxton, Kate, her reputation as an actress, i., 260;
•     biography of, 261, 262
• Cleveland, Grover, ii., 217;
•     elected President, 221
• Cleveland, Miss Rose, retires from editorship of Literary Life, ii., 106
• Comstock, Miss Carrie, i., 104, 113
• Comstock, Edgar V., visits Europe with Field, i., 98-100, 104, 113
• Comstock, Miss Georgia, i., 104, 113
• Comstock, Miss Gussle, i., 104, 113
• Comstock, Miss Ida, i., 104
• Comstock, Miss Julia Sutherland, i., 104;
•     married to Eugene Field, 109
• Cooley, Judge, responsible for some of Field's poems, i., 331-337; ii., 112
• Cowen, E.D., characterizes Field, i., 143;
•     accounts for inspiration of Tribune Primer, 147;
•     describes Field's bottomless chair, 159;
•     tells of Wickersham's methods, 163;
•     writes of Field's ill-health, 185;
•     assaulted, 209, 210;
•     analyzes Field's dramatic relations, 227;
•     bowls against Field, ii., 74, 76;
•     attends ball-game with Field, 77-79;
•     an experience with crickets, 86, 87;
•     receives letters from Field, 119, 120, 139-142, 144-146, 148, 149, 158, 159
• Crane, Mr. and Mrs. William, acquaintance with Field, i., 235-241;
•     "Mrs. Billy Crane," 237-239
• Crawford, Thomas L., joins Arion Quartette, i., 113
• "Culture's Garland," i., 338;
•     description of, ii., 108-113;
•     Gen. A.C. McClurg's objection to, 175
• "Current Gossip" becomes "Sharps and Flats," i., 201
• Curtis, George Ticknor, i., 44

• Dana, Charles A., visits Denver, i., 179, 180;
•     assists Field in a hoax, 337;
•     subscribes to the "Little Books," ii., 132
• "Danger that Threatens, A," i., 339, 340
• Davis, Jessie Bartlett, i., 255
• Davis, Mrs. Will J., i., 254
• Davis, Will J., i., 61
• Dawson, R. L., ii., 101
• "Death and the Soldier," ii., 101
• "Delectable Ballad of the Waller Lot, The," ii., 269
• De Koven, Reginald, ii., 240
• Denver, description of, i., 144, 145;
•     centre of railway interests, 162
• "Der Niebelrungen und Der Schlabbergasterfeldt," ii., 23, 24
• "Dibdin's Ghost," ii., 195, 190
• "Divine Lullaby," i., 337
• Drew, Cyrus K., ii., 276
• Du Chaillu, Paul, ii., 197

• Earle, Alice Morse, i., 1;
•     letter from Eugene Field, 56
• "Echo from Mackinac Island, An," ii., 57, 58
• "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," i., 2;
•     dedication of, 93, 94;
•     publication of, ii., 155-157, 165, 166
• Ela, John W., a Mugwump, ii., 218-220
• Ellsworth, James W., ii., 173
• Emerson, Dr. John, owner of Dred Scott, i., 37
• "Eugene Field," a tribute by a Texan, ii., 318, 319
• "Eugene Field in His Home," i., 101
• Evans, Governor, i., 147

• "Fickle Woman, A," i., 332
• Field, Charles Kellogg, uncle of Eugene Field, i., 2;
•     education, 5, 9, 10;
•     studies law, 10;
•     capacity for mischief, 48;
•     his memoir of Roswell M. Field, ii., 262, 263
• Field, Miss Kate, her acquaintance with Eugene Field, i., 174, 175;
•     subscribes to the "Little Books," ii., 132
• Field, Eugene, ancestry, i., 2;
•     birthplace, 50, 51;
•     doubt as to date of birth, 51, 52;
•     death of mother, 52, 53;
•     cared for by Miss French, 53;
•     early youth in Newfane and Amherst, 54-60;
•     fondness for pets, 60-65;
•     religious training, 66-69;
•     sentiments toward Vermont and New England, 69-71;
•     education under Mr. Tufts at Monson, 73-78;
•     enters Williams College, 78;
•     anecdotes of college life, 79-84;
•     lack of interest in studies, 79-81;
•     leaves Williams, 81;
•     summoned to deathbed of father, 84;
•     enters Knox College, 84;
•     joins brother at University of Missouri, 85;
•     severs connection with the University, 85;
•     indication of literary genius, 86-90;
•     life in St. Louis, 91-98;
•     fascination for the stage, 95-97;
•     inherits $8,000, makes a tour of Europe, and squanders his patrimony, 98-100;
•     returns to St. Louis, 100;
•     descriptions of his trip, 101, 102;
•     affection for the fair sex, 103-106;
•     courtship and marriage, 105-109;
•     honeymoon, 109, 110;
•     investment of $20,000 on experience, 111;
•     goes to work as reporter on St. Louis Evening Journal, 112;
•     description of early married life in St. Louis, 112, 113, 121;
•     love of fun, 113-117, 118;
•     members of household, 113;
•     fondness for singing, 114;
•     his children, 114, 121, 122, 191; ii., 255-258, 261, 278, 279;
•     city editor of St. Joseph Gazette, i., 114;
•     returns to St. Louis and continues writing for the Evening Journal, 115, 116;
•     lack of business ability, 116;
•     attack by the Spectator, 117-119;
•     reply to the same, 120;
•     becomes managing editor of Kansas City Times, 122, 136;
•     his home relations, 122-125;
•     method of reporting, 126, 127;
•     whimsical verses and fancies, 128-131;
•     misreports and plays practical jokes on Carl Schurz, 131-133;
•     character of his early journalistic work, 133-135;
•     revels in Kansas City, 130-138;
•     writes "The Little Peach," 139;
•     Greek translation and English equivalent of same, 140-142;
•     moves to Denver and becomes managing editor of The Denver Tribune, 143-145;
•     writes "Odds and Ends," 145-151;
•     his "Tribune Primer," 146-152;
•     his views on journalism, 149, 150;
•     creates the "Bugaboo," 151-153;
•     his friendship for Madame Modjeska, 154;
•     writes "The Wanderer," 154, 155;
•     credits "The Wanderer" to Madame Modjeska, 154-157;
•     anecdotes of his life in Denver, 158-182;
•     description of his office, 158, 159;
•     his acquaintance with "Bill" Nye, 159-161;
•     his inability to keep money, 162;
•     the Wickersham episode, 163-171;
•     impersonates Oscar Wilde, 171-172;
•     his dramatic qualifications and acquaintances, 173;
•     his relations and correspondence with Miss Kate Field, 174, 175;
•     his disposition, 175, 176;
•     plays pranks on Wolfe Londoner, 176-180;
•     gives a single-handed entertainment at Manîtou, 181, 182;
•     his hatred of hypocrisy, 182; ii., 314;
•     failure of health, i., 183-185;
•     accepts position on the Chicago Morning News and leaves Denver, 183-189;
•     ambition to achieve literary fame, 190;
•     his home and family in Chicago, 191;
•     introduces himself to the public, 191, 192;
•     his favorite child, 192;
•     means of increasing salary, 192, 193; ii., 7;
•     reasons for staying in Chicago, i., 193-195;
•     his objections to Chicago, 196-201;
•     begins "Sharps and Flats," 201-203;
•     his scholarship, 204, 205;
•     held in check by John F. Ballantyne, 207-209;
•     writes on assault of Edward D. Cowen, 209, 210;
•     description of the editorial rooms of the Chicago Daily News, 211-217;
•     his office described, 218-220;
•     his personal appearance and characteristics, 220-223;
•     meets Christine Nilsson, 224-227;
•     his fondness for stage folk, 227;
•     invents tales respecting Emma Abbott, 228;
•     his friendship with Francis Wilson, 229, 230;
•     his relations with William Florence, 230-235;
•     his friendship with the Cranes, 235-241;
•     mutual friendship between Madame Modjeska and himself, 241-249;
•     enjoys "The Mikado," 240-251;
•     his favorite prima donna, 251-254;
•     dedicates three poems to the Davises, 254-261;
•     satires Kate Claxton, 261-262;
•     impersonates Sir Henry Irving, 263, 264;
•     his association with Sol Smith Russell, 264-270;
•     lack of literary education, 271-274;
•     studies early English literature, 275-278;
•     makes acquaintance of Dr. Reilly, 279-280;
•     inspired by Dr. Reilly, 282-293;
•     his debt to Father Prout and Béranger, 282-288; ii., 116;
•     tributes to Dr. Reilly, i., 289-293;
•     his method of work, 294-300;
•     love of the theatre, 300, 301;
•     describes Billy Boyle's Chop-house, 301-305;
•     partakes of midnight suppers, 307, 308; ii., 5;
•     exposes Rutherford B. Hayes, i., 309;
•     while absent from Chicago, learns a lesson, 310-313;
•     derives profit from his play, 314-317;
•     his aim in life, 315;
•     evolution of his life and writings, 317;
•     his keen appreciation of humor, 317-319;
•     an international hoax, 320-323;
•     foisters the authorship of "The Lost Sheep" on Miss Sally McLean, 324, 325;
•     involves Miss Wheeler in a controversy, 326-328;
•      methods of calling public attention to own compositions, 329-331;
•      makes Judge Cooley responsible for some of his poems, 331-337;
•      hoaxes Chicago critics, 337, 338;
•      prophecies a danger, 339, 340;
•      characterized by E.C. Stedman, 340, 341;
•      comments on Mr. Stedman's visit to Chicago, 341-345;
•      his companionship with Slason Thompson, ii., 1-14;
•      presents a cherished wedding gift to Mrs. Thompson, 1, 2;
•      condition of his finances, 6, 7;
•      obtains advances on his salary, 7-9;
•      embarrasses Slason Thompson with postal-cards, 9-11;
•      plays a Christmas prank. 12-14;
•      character of handwriting, 15, 16;
•      origin of use of colored inks, 16-18;
•      reproduces Corot's "St. Sebastian" and other pictures from written descriptions, 18-22;
•     composes a German poem, 23, 24;
•      his means of obtaining, and using, colored inks, 24-32;
•      corresponds with Miss Thompson, 27, 28, 33, 34;
•      two artistic efforts, 28-33;
•      writes "Aunt Mary Matilda" series, 35, 36;
•      character of his letters, 45;
•      sends letters and poems to Slason Thompson, 47-58, 65-70, 77-105;
•      dines at Thompson's expense, 53-55;
•      dedicates two ballads to "The Fair Unknown," 59-64;
•      his interest in baseball, 71-73;
•      participates in the game of bowling, 73-76;
•      describes a ball game, 77, 78, 80;
•      plays a practical joke, 80, 81;
•      verses to two of his friends, 82-84;
•      celebrates Mrs. Morgan Bates' birthday, 84-80;
•      his first appearance as a reader, 101, 102;
•      discusses pronunciation of Goethe's name, 102;
•     induces Miss Cleveland to retire from an editorship, 105, 106;
•     publishes his first book, 107;
•     description of "Culture's Garland," 108-114;
•     resolves to master prose writing, 114, 115;
•     writes a column of verse a day, 116-120;
•     origin of "Little Boy Blue," 121;
•     contributions to America, 122;
•     invents "The Shadwell Folio," 122-129;
•     proposes to privately publish two books of his verses and tales, 130, 131;
•     responses to his appeal, 131-133;
•     publishes his "Little Books," 133-137;
•     his struggle with dyspepsia, 138;
•     writes to E.D. Cowen concerning his proposed visit to Europe, 139-142;
•     and to Melvin L. Gray, 143, 144;
•     arrives in London, 144-146;
•     tells a story on James Whitcomb Riley, 147, 148;
•     places his children in school, 148, 149;
•     writes to Mr. Gray of his life in London, 149-153;
•     tells yarns to Mrs. Humphry Ward, 153-155;
•     publication of the limited edition of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," 155-157, 165, 166;
•     collects rarities, 158;
•     death of his eldest son, 159-161;
•     his return to Chicago, 161;
•     prepares other books for publication, 162, 163;
•     describes burial of his son, 163, 164;
•     ill-health, 166;
•     writes Christmas stories, 166-168;
•     becomes a bibliomaniac, 169-171;
•     frequents McClurg's store, 171;
•     originates the "Saints' and Sinners' Corner," 173-175;
•     his relations with William F. Poole, 175-177;
•     saves a coveted book, 178;
•     reports two imaginary meetings in the "Saints' and Sinners' Corner," 179-190;
•     his theory regarding the buying of curios, 190-192;
•     entertains the Saints and Sinners, 193-197;
•     his politics, 198-201;
•     his skill in writing political paragraphs, 202, 266;
•     specimens of his political writings, 203-207;
•     embarrasses a politician, 208, 209;
•     plays pranks on General Logan, 209-212;
•     assists General Logan, 213, 214;
•     lampoons Judge Tree, 214-217;
•     ridicules the Mugwumps, 218-222;
•     becomes a Democrat, 221, 222;
•     unburdens his feelings upon the subject of his political martyrdom, 223-229;
•     describes M.E. Stone before and after Blaine's defeat, 224-226;
•     writes a parody on "Jest 'fore Christmas," 229, 231;
•     his description of politics and business in a country store, 231-233;
•     his whimsical attitude toward serious questions, 233;
•     demands for biographical data concerning himself, 234, 235;
•     the result, "An Auto-Analysis," 235-240;
•     inaccuracy of his statements, 240-242;
•     his favorite authors, 242, 243;
•     his aversion to brutality, 244;
•     his love of music, 244, 245;
•     starts to write a comic opera, 246-251;
•     his tobacco habit, 252-254;
•     love of children, 254-258;
•     interviewed by Hamlin Garland, 259, 260;
•     becomes aware of his failing health, 262-264;
•     his struggle to provide for his family, 264;
•     reads in public, 265;
•     affected by beautiful weather, 266, 277;
•     enjoys the World's Fair, 267, 268;
•     his desire to own a home, 269-271;
•     recovers from pneumonia, 271;
•     visits California, 272-276;
•     and New Orleans, 276-278;
•     embarrasses Miss Jeffries, 277, 278;
•     letters to Mr. Gray, 278-290;
•     buys and remodels a house, 281-283;
•     delayed by repairs from taking possession of his new home, 284-286;
•     experiments with gardening, 286, 287;
•     describes his home, 287-289;
•     entertains Edward Everett Hale, 291-293;
•     his desire to lead a more quiet life, 293-296;
•     his strange collection of curios, 297-301;
•     his autographs and books, 301;
•     his taste in jewelry, 301, 302;
•     stays at home, 302-304;
•     gathers material for "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac," 305, 306;
•     specimens of his later paragraphs, 306, 307;
•     spends an evening with Slason Thompson, 307, 308;
•     defends "Bill" Nye, 309;
•     feels sick, 310, 311;
•     his death, 311-313;
•     a true knight, 314;
•     his religion, 315;
•     his funeral, 316, 317;
•     tributes by his friends, 314-320;
•     his resting-place, 319, 320;
•     reviews of two imaginary books, 321-340
• Field, Eugene, letters of,
•     to William C. Buskett, ii., 161, 162;
•     to E.D. Cowen, 119, 120, 130-142, 144-146, 148, 149, 158, 159;
•     to R.L. Dawson, 101, 102;
•     to Mrs. Earle, i., 56;
•     to Melvin L. Gray, 120; ii., 118, 119, 143, 144, 149-153, 162-165, 166, 270, 274, 278-290;
•     to Edith Long, i., 64, 65;
•     to Collins Shackelford, 217;
•     to Miss Thompson, ii., 27, 28, 33, 34;
•     to Slason Thompson, 47-58, 63-70, 77-105
• Field, Henry, appreciates Field's artistic efforts, ii., 22
• Field, General Martin, grandfather of Eugene Field, i., 2;
•     letter to daughter Mary, 8, 9;
•     troubles with sons, 4-8
• Field, Mary, aunt of Eugene Field, i., 5, 8, 9;
•     assumes care of Eugene and Roswell Field, 53;
•     description of, 54;
•     lives with Eugene Field, 113
• Field, Roswell Martin, father of Eugene Field, birth-place and parentage, i., 2;
•     brother Charles, 4, 5, 9;
•     education, 5, 9, 10;
•     sister Mary, 8, 9;
•     practices law, 10, 11;
•     accomplishments, 11;
•     first love-affair, 13-22;
•     secretly married, 23-33;
•     marriage annulled, 33, 34;
•     emigrates to Missouri, 35;
•     opinions on slavery, 37;
•     defends Dred Scott, 37-44;
•     tributes by his associates, 45-47;
•     marries Miss Frances Reed, 49;
•     children, 49, 50;
•     death of, 84;
•     memoir of, by his brother, ii., 262, 263
• Field, Roswell Martin, Jr., brother of Eugene Field, birth, i., 50;
•     early education, 54-60;
•     student at University of Missouri, 85-86;
•     advice from father concerning property, 111;
•     his "Memory of Eugene Field," ii., 1;
•     wishes to leave Kansas City, 142;
•     contributes part of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," 157, 162;
•     becomes editorial writer on Times-Herald, 290
• Fiske, John, his imaginary autobiography, ii., 238;
•     his death, 238, 239
• "First Christmas Tree, The," ii., 102
• Florence, William, a friend of Eugene Field, i., 230;
•     his meeting with Capel, 231;
•     his love of good living, 232-235
• "For the Little Folks," i., 147
• Forrest, Edwin, i., 95, 96
• French, Mary Field, i., 8, 9
• "Funny Fancies," i., 130, 134

• Garland, Hamlin, i., 155;
•     reports an imaginary conversation with Field, ii., 259, 260
• Gaston, George, i., 137, 138
• "George Millard is Home!" ii., 172, 173
• Gilbert, William S., receives credit for Field's "April Vespers," i., 129
• "Golden Week, The," ii., 117, 129
• "Good Knight and His Lady," i., 121-124
• "Good Knight and the Fair Unknown, The," ii., 59
• "Good Knight's Diplomacy," ii., 45, 46
• "Good Knight to Sir Slosson, The," ii., 3, 4
• "Good Sir Slosson's Episode with the Garrulous Sir Barbour, The," ii., 50, 51
• Gray, Mrs. Melvin L., i., 71, 92, 03, 103; ii., 274
• Gray, Melvin L., i., 92-94, 99;
•     financial difficulties with Field, 116, 117;
•     letters from Field, 120; ii., 118, 119, 143, 144, 149-153, 162-163, 166, 270, 274, 278-290;
•     assists Field to buy a home, 281 et seq.
• Greene, Clay M., i., 203
• Griffin, Solomon B., describes Field at Williams, i., 82, 83
• Gunsaulus, Rev. Frank W., ii., 173;
•     describes the "Saints' and Sinners' Corner," 178;
•     writes for the "Sharps and Flats" column, 305;
•     tribute to Eugene Field, 317

• Hale, Edward Everett, entertained by Field, ii., 291, 292
• Hall, Rev. Thomas C., ii., 316
• Hamilton, Judge Alexander, i., 40, 41
• Harrison, Alice, i., 249, 250
• Hawkins, Willis, i., 282;
•     bowls with Field, ii., 74, 76;
•     attends ball game with Field, 77, 78
• Hawthorne, Julian, writes introduction for "Culture's Garland," ii., 110, 112
• Hayes, Mrs. Rutherford B., admired by Field, i., 310
• Hayes, Rutherford B., exposed by Field, i., 309
• Head, Franklin II., his imaginary book reviewed by Field, ii., 321-331
• "Holy Cross and Other Tales, The," ii., 265
• Hopkins, President Mark, i., 79
• "House, The," ii., 281, 282
• "How Mary Matilda Won a Prince," ii., 35-43
• "How the Good Knight Attended Upon Sir Slosson," ii., 62-64
• "How the Good Knight Protected Sir Slosson's Credit," ii., 53, 54
• Howells, William Dean, i., 134
• Hull, Paul, i., 282
• "Hushaby Song, A," 254, 255

• Irving, Sir Henry,
•     his tribute to Eugene Field, i., 263;
•     mimicked by Field, 263, 264

• James, Henry, i., 134
• Jefferson, Joseph, i., 230;
•     relates a story about William J. Florence, 234, 235
• Jeffries, Miss Maude, embarrassed by one of Field's jokes, ii., 276-278
• "Jest 'fore Election," a parody, ii., 229-231
• Jewett, Miss Sara, i., 260
• Joy, Major Moses, i., 24
• Joyce, Colonel John A., i., 326-328

• Kelley, Michael J., star of the Chicago Baseball Club, ii., 71-73
• Kellog, Esther Smith, grandmother of Eugene Field, i., 2;
•     character, 57;
•     picture of, by Eugene Field, 57-59

• Larned, Walter Cranston,
•     describes the Walters gallery, ii., 16-21;
•     Field reproduces his descriptions in colored inks, 18-21;
•     presented with a work of art, 22
• Lathrop, Barbour, ii., 51
• Lawson, Victor F., i., 185, 186; ii., 132;
•     acquires control of the Morning and Daily News, 222
• "Little Book of Profitable Tales, A," i., 316;
•     concerning publication of, ii., 130-137
• "Little Book of Western Verse, A," i., 8, 93, 112, 157, 317, 337; ii., 1;
•     concerning publication of, 130-137, 147
• "Little Boy Blue," ii., 112;
•     origin of, 121
• "Little Peach, The," i., 139-141
• Livingstone, John B.,
•     accounts for title of "Sharps and Flats," i., 201-203
• Logan, General John A.,
•     victim of Field's pranks, ii., 209-212;
•     "The Spy," 210, 211;
•     "Logan's Lament," 212;
•     aided by Field, 213-216;
•     re-elected to the Senate, 216
• Londoner, Wolfe, describes Field, i., 175, 176;
•     victimized by Field, 176-179;
•     story of his meeting with Charles A. Dana, 179, 180
• "Lonesome Little Shoe, The," title-page of, ii., 35
• Long, Edith, letter to Eugene Field, i., 63, 64;
•     reply to same, 64, 65
• "Lost Schooner, The," ii., 127, 128
• "Lost Sheep, The," il., 324
• "Love and Laughter," i., 326
• "Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac, The," i., 317; ii., 305
• "Love Plaint," i., 228, 220
• "Love Songs of Childhood," ii., 265, 278, 280
• "Lyrics of a Convalescent," ii., 276

• McClurg, General A.C., ii., 56;
•     knowledge of rare books, 172;
•     disapproves of "Culture's Garland," 174, 175;
•     as a Mugwump, 218-220
• McClurg, A.C., & Co.'s bookstore, i., 275; ii., 56;
•     gutted by fire, 177, 178
• MacKenzie, Sir Morell, prescribes for William Florence, i., 233
• McLean, Sally Pratt, alleged author of "The Lost Sheep," i., 324, 325
• McPhelim, Edward J., ii., 4
• MacVeagh, Franklin, ii., 218
• "Mæcenas," i., 285, 286
• "Margaret, a Pearl," ii., 115
• "Markessy di Pullman," ii., 112
• "Marthy's Younkit," ii., 117;
•     dedicated to E. D. Cowen, 141
• Mason, David H., his small handwriting, ii., 15, 16
• "Merciful Lad, The," ii., 113, 114
• "Mikado, The," i., 249, 250
• Millard, George M., ii., 171, 172;
•     "George Millard is Home!" 172, 173
• Modjeska, Madame, i., 154;
•     her attitude toward "The Wanderer." 156, 157;
•     her friendship with Field, 242, 249;
•     "To Helena Modjeska," 246, 247
• Moon, Mrs. Temperance, i., 50
• Morgan, Edward B., gives origin of "Odds and Ends," i., 146, 147
• Morris, Clara, in "Camille," i., 243
• "Mortality," i., 332
• "Mountain and the Sea," ii., 115, 202
• "Mr. Peattie's Cape," ii., 82

• "New Baby, The," i., 128
• Newfane, village of, i., 2-4
• "Night Wind, The," ii., 308
• Nilsson, Christine, meets Eugene Field, i., 224-227
• "Noontide Hymn, A," ii., 245
• Norton, Colonel J.S.,
•     a victim of Field, i., 320;
•     "To Eugene Field," 323;
•     makes a presentation speech, ii., 22
• Nye, "Bill,"
•     meets Eugene Field, i., 159-161; ii., 265;
•     defended by Field, 309

• "Old English Lullaby," ii., 129
• "Old Sexton," i., 113
• "Ossian's Serenade," i., 114
• "Our Two Opinions," i., 267

• Peattie, Mr. and Mrs. Robert, objects of a practical joke, ii., 80, 81;
•     verses to, 82, 83
• "Penn Yan Bill," i., 112
• "Piteous Appeal of a Forsooken Habbit, Ye," ii., 2, 121
• Plumbe, George E., i., 212
• Poole, William F., i., 212;
•     his relations with Field, ii., 175-177
• "'Possum Jim," i., 167, 169
• "Proposed Cure for Bibliomania," ii., 182-190

• Ralph, Julian, describes Field's curios, ii., 298
• Ranney, Mrs. Deacon, i., 58
• Reed, Miss Frances, i., 49
• Reed, Roland, i., 240
• "Reform," ii., 199, 200
• Reid, Whitelaw, ii., 132
• Reilly, Dr. Frank W., becomes a helpful friend to Field, i., 279, 280;
•     benefits Illinois, 281;
•     his accomplishments 283-285;
•     "To Dr. Frank W. Riley," 289, 290;
•     "To F.W.R. at 6 P.M.," 293;
•     Field complains of, ii., 86, 88
• "Return of the Highlander, The," ii., 83, 84
• Rice, John A., i., 263
• Riley, James Whitcomb, Field tells a story at his expense, ii., 147, 148;
•     reads with Field, 265
• "Robin and the Violet, The," i., 317; ii., 102
• Robson, Stuart, ii., 132
• "Rose, The," ii., 106
• Rothacker, O.H., editor of Denver Tribune, i., 144, 189
• Russell, Sol Smith, one of Field's best friends, i., 264;
•     his mimicry, i., 265, 266, 292

• St. Joseph Gazette, i., 114
• St. Louis, Field's father dies in, i., 84;
•     Field's home, 91-98, 112
• "Saints' and Sinners' Corner," origin of, ii., 173-175;
•     described, 178;
•     description of entertainment given by Field, 193-197
• Sandford, Alexander, i., 41
• Schurz, Carl, misreported by Field, 131, 132
• Sclanders, J.L., i., 218
• Scott, Dred, statement of his case, i., 38;
•     first petition to the Circuit Court, 39, 40;
•     complaint against Alexander Sandford and others, 41, 42;
•     Justice Taney's decision, 42, 43
• "Second Book of Verse," i., 53; ii., 264
• "Seein' Things," i., 153
• Sembrich, Madame, a favorite of Field, i., 251;
•     her genius and accomplishments, 252, 253
• Shackelford, Collins, i., 217;
•     wheedled into advancing money to Field, ii., 7-9
• "Shadwell Folio, The," ii., 122-129
• "Sharps and Flats," i., 53, 97, 114;
•     beginning and origin of, 201-203;
•     mention of William Crane, 235, 240; ii., 56, 119, 254
• "Singer Mother, The," i., 255, 256
• Skiff, Fred V., i., 144;
•     advances money to Field, 162;
•     subscribes to the "Little Books," ii., 132
• Smith, Harry B, ii., 250
• "Songs and Other Verse," ii., 129
• "Sonnet to Shekelsford, A," ii., 8
• "Souvenirs from Egypt," ii., 179-182
• "Statesman's Sorrow, A," ii., 231-233
• Stedman, Edmund Clarence, writes an appreciation of Eugene Field, i., 340, 341;
•     visits Chicago, 341-345
• Stevenson, Adlai, ii., 207, 288
• Stone, Melvin B., establishes the Chicago Daily News, i., 185, 186;
•     first meeting with Field, 187;
•     offers Field a position, 188;
•     accounts for "Sharps and Flats," 203;
•     a Mugwump, ii., 218-220;
•     retires from the Daily News, 222;
•     described before and after Blaine's defeat, 224-226;
•     bears expense of painting Field's house, 288
• Stryker. Rev. M. Woolsey, ii., 173
• "Symbol and the Salut, The," ii., 167

• Taney, Chief Justice, decision in Dred Scott case, i., 37, 38, 42, 43
• "Ten Years of a Song Bird: Memoirs of a Busy Life," ii., 321, 332-340
• Terry, Ellen, i., 264
• "The Eugene Field I Knew," i., 96
• Thompson, Mary Matilda, receives illuminated letters from Field, ii., 27, 28, 33, 34;
•     "How Mary Matilda Won a Prince," dedicated to, 36
• Thompson, Mrs., i., 156
• Thompson, Slason, personal relations with Field, ii., 1-14;
•     his marriage, 1, 2, 120;
•     bombarded with postal-cards, 9-12;
•     receives a Christmas stocking, 12-14;
•     his rooms pictured by Field, 28-31;
•     letters and poems from Field, 47-58, 65-70;
•     publishes "The Humbler Poets," 56;
•     receives twelve more letters from Field, 77-105;
•     retires from The Daily News to join America, 121;
•     letters from John Wilson & Son concerning publication of Field's "Little Books," 133-136;
•     receives two letters from Francis Wilson about publication of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," 153-157;
•     a Mugwump, 218-220;
•     his last evening with Field, 307, 308
• Thorne, Charles H., Jr., i., 260
• Ticknor & Co., ii., 107
• Tilden, S.J., ii., 253
• "To a Blue Jay," i., 334-336
• "To Clara Doty Bates," ii., 85, 86
• Todd, Charles S., ii., 319
• Tree, Judge Lambert, lampooned by Field, ii., 214-217
• "Tribune Primer," i., 146;
•     not Field's first book, ii., 107
• "Tribute of the Thrush, The," ii., 320
• Tufts, Rev. James, i., 54;
•     educates Eugene Field, i., 73-78

• "Valentine, A," ii., 129
• "Vision of the Holy Grail, The," i., 333

• Walters Gallery, The, described, ii., 16-21
• "Wanderer, The," i., 154-157
• Ward, Mrs. Humphry, believes two of Field's yarns, ii., 153-155
• Warner, Charles Dudley, i., 134
• Waterloo, Stanley, i., 98
• "Werewolf, The," ii., 115
• Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, involved in a controversy over "Love and Laughter," i., 326-328
• Wilde, Oscar, impersonated by Field, i., 171, 172
• Wilson, Francis, i., 96, 148;
•     made fun of, 229, 230;
•     issues "Echoes from the Sabine Farm," ii., 155-157, 165, 166;
•     buys Sir Walter Scott's chair, 190, 191
• Wilson & Son, John, letters to Slason Thompson concerning Field's "Little Books," ii., 133-136
• "Winfreda," ii., 129
• "Wit of the Silurian Age," i., 291
• "With Trumpet and Drum," ii., 264
• Wood, Mrs. Hanna, i., 24, 25
• "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," ii., 116

• "Yvytot," ii., 146, 147