Eugene Field, a Study in Heredity and Contradictions Volume I Part 14

On his occasional visits to Chicago, before he came up here for good, Dr. Reilly had become a welcome guest and sometimes host in our midnight round-ups at the Boston Oyster House, and when he made his home here he was taken into regular fellowship. The regulars then were Field, Ballantyne, Reilly, and I-with Mr. Stone, Willis Hawkins, a special writer on the News, Morgan Bates, Paul Hull, a sketch writer who fancied he looked like Lincoln and told stories that would have made Lincoln blush to own a faint resemblance, and Cowen when in town, to say nothing of "visiting statesmen" and play-actors as occasional visitors and contributors to the score. Some insight into the characters of the four regulars may be gained from the statement that Field invariably ordered coffee and apple pie, Ballantyne tea and toast with oysters, Dr. Reilly oysters and claret, and I steak and Ba.s.s's ale.

It was during these meetings that Field caught from Dr. Reilly's frequent unctuous quotations his first real taste for Horace. To two works the doctor was impartially devoted, the "Noetes Ambrosianae" and "The Reliques of Father Prout."

He never wearied of communion with the cla.s.sical father or of literary companionship with Christopher North, Timothy Tickler, and the Ettrick Shepherd. We never sat down to pie or oysters that his imagination did not transform that Chicago oyster house into Ambrose's Tavern, the scene of the feasts and festivities of table and conversation of the immortal trio. But though the doctor enjoyed a.s.sociation with Kit North and the voluble Shepherd, it was for the garrulous Father Prout, steeped in the gossip and learning of the ancients, that he reserved his warmest love and veneration. So saturated and infatuated was the doctor with this fascinating creation of Francis Mahony's, that he inoculated Field with his devotion, and before we knew it the author of the Denver Tribune Primer stories was suffering from a literary disease, to the intoxicating pleasure of which he yielded himself without reservation.

To those who wish to understand the effect of this inspiration upon the life and writings of Eugene Field, but who have not enjoyed familiar acquaintance with the celebrated Prout papers, some description of this work of Francis Mahony may not be amiss. He was a Roman Catholic priest, educated at a Jesuit college at Amiens, who had lived and held positions in France, Switzerland, and Ireland. It was while officiating at the chapel of the Bavarian Legation in London that he began contributing the Prout papers to Fraser's Magazine. These consisted of fanciful narratives, each serving as a vehicle for the display of his wonderful polyglot learning, and containing translations of well-known English songs into Latin, Greek, French, and Italian verse, which later he seriously represented as the true originals from which the English authors had boldly plagiarized. He also introduced into his stories the songs of France and Italy and felicitous translations, none of which were better than those from Horace. His command of the various languages into which he rendered English verse was extraordinary, and his translations were so free and spirited in thought and diction as to excite the admiration of the best scholars. When it is said that his translations of French and Latin odes preserved their poetical expression and sentiments with the freedom of original composition almost unequalled in English translations, the exceptional character of Father Prout's work will be appreciated. Accompanying these English versions there was a running commentary of semi-grave, but always humorous, criticism. Of Francis Mahony's acknowledged poems, the "Bells of Shandon" is the best known. In the Prout papers, while his genius finds its chief expression in fantastic invention and sarcastic and cynical wit, it is everywhere sweetened by gentle sentiments and an unfailing fund of human nature and kindly humor.

"Prout's translations from Horace are too free and easy," solemnly said the London Athenaeum, reviewing them as they came out more than sixty years ago. And no wonder, for Prout invented Horatian odes that he might translate them into such rollicking stanzas as Burns's "Green Grow the Rashes, O!"

That Field, at the time of which I am writing (1885), had quite an idea of following in the wake of Father Prout may be indicated by the following Latin jingle written in honor of his friend, Morgan Bates, who, with Elwin Barren, had written a play of western life ent.i.tled "The Mountain Pink." It was described as a "moral crime," and had been successfully staged in Chicago.

MaeCENAS Mons! aliusque c.u.m n.o.bis, Illicet tibi feratum, Quid, ejusmodi hoec vobis, Hunc aliquando erratum Esse futurus fuisse, Melior optimus vates?

Quamquam amo amavisse- Bonum ad Barron et Bates!

Gloria, Mons! sempiturnus, Jupiter, Pluvius, Juno, Itur ad astra diurnus, Omnes et ceteras uno!

Fratres! c.u.m bibite vino, Moralis, criminis fates, Montem hic vita damfino- Hic vita ad Barron et Bates.

A very slight knowledge of Latin verse is needed to detect that this has no pretence to Latin composition such as Father Mahony's scholarship caracoled in, but is merely English masquerading in cla.s.sical garb.

Father Prout also introduced Field to fellowship with Beranger, the national song writer of France, to whom, next to the early English balladists and Horace, he owes so much of that clear, simple, sparkling style that has given his writings enduring value. Beranger's description of himself might, with some modifications, be fitted to Field: "I am a good little bit of a poet, clever in the craft, and a conscientious worker, to whom old airs have brought some success." Beranger chose to sing for the people of France, Field for the children of the world. Field caught his fervor for Beranger from the enthusiasm of Prout.

"I cannot for a moment longer," wrote he, "repress my enthusiastic admiration for one who has arisen in our days to strike in France with a master hand the lyre of the troubadour and to fling into the shade all the triumphs of bygone minstrelsy. Need I designate Beranger, who has created for himself a style of transcendent vigor and originality, and who has sung of war, love, and wine, in strains far excelling those of Blondel, Tyrtaeus, Pindar, and the Tean bard. He is now the genuine representative of Gallic poesy in her convivial, her amatory, her warlike and her philosophic mood; and the plenitude of the inspiration that dwelt successively in the souls of all the songsters of ancient France seems to have transmigrated into Beranger and found a fit recipient in his capacious and liberal mind."

That Field caught the inspiration of Beranger more truly than Father Prout, those who question can judge for themselves by a comparison of their respective versions of "Le Violon Brise"-the broken fiddle. A stanza by each must suffice to show the difference:

BeRANGER Viens, mon chien! Viens, ma pauvre bete!

Mange, malgre, mon desespoir.

II me reste un gateau de fete- Demain nous aurons du pain noir!

PROUT My poor dog! here! of yesterday's festival-cake Eat the poor remains in sorrow; For when next a repast you and I shall make, It must be on brown bread, which, for charity's sake, Your master must beg or borrow.

FIELD There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend, Pay you no heed unto my sorrow: But feast to-day while yet we may,- Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!

The credit for verbal literalness of translation is with Prout, but the spirit of the fiddler of Beranger glows through the free rendition of Field.

The reader of Eugene Field's works will find scant acknowledgment of his indebtedness to Father Francis Mahony, but there are many expressions of his love and admiration for the friend who introduced him to the scholar, wit, and philosopher, by whose ways of life and work his own were to be so shaped and tinged. Among these my sc.r.a.p-books afford three bits of verse which indicate in different degrees the esteem in which "the genial dock" of our comradeship was held by his a.s.sociates as well as by Field. The first was written in honor of the doctor's silver wedding:

TO DR. FRANK W. REILLY If I were rich enough to buy A case of wine (though I abhor it!) I'd send a case of extra dry, And willingly get trusted for it.

But, lack a day! you know that I'm As poor as Job's historic turkey- In lieu of Mumm, accept this rhyme, An honest gift, though somewhat jerky.

This is your silver-wedding day- You didn't mean to let me know it!

And yet your smiles and raiment gay Beyond all peradventure show it!

By all you say and do it's clear A birdling in your breast is singing, And everywhere you go you hear The old-time bridal bells a-ringing.

All, well, G.o.d grant that these dear chimes May mind you of the sweetness only Of those far-distant callow times When you were bachelor and lonely- And when an angel blessed your lot- For angel is your helpmate, truly- And when to share the joy she brought, Came other little angels duly.

So here's a health to you and wife: Long may you mock the reaper's warning, And may the evening of your life In rising Sons renew the morning; May happiness and peace and love Come with each morrow to caress ye; And when you've done with earth, above- G.o.d bless ye, dear old friend-G.o.d bless ye!

The second is of a very different flavor and shows Field indulging in that play of personal persiflage, in which he took a never-flagging pleasure. It has no t.i.tle and was written in pencil on two sheets of rough brown paper:

The Dock he is a genial friend, He frequently has cash to lend; He writes for Rauch, and on the pay He sets 'em up three times a day.

Oh, how serenely I would mock My creditors, if I were Dock.

The Cowen is a l.u.s.ty lad For whom the women-folks go mad; He has a girl in every block- Herein, methinks, he beats the Dock- Yes, if the choice were left to me A l.u.s.ty Cowen I would be.

Yet were I Cowen, where, oh, where Would be my Julia, plump and fair?

And where would be those children four Which now I smilingly adore?

The thought induces such a shock, I'd not be Cowen-I'd be Dock!

But were I Dock, with stores of gold, How would I pine at being old- How grieve to see in Cowen's eyes That amorous fire which age denies- Oh, no, I'd not be Dock forsooth, I'd rather be the l.u.s.ty youth.

Nor Dock, nor Cowen would I be, But such as G.o.d hath fashioned me; For I may now with maidens fair a.s.sume I'm Cowen debonnair, Or, splurging on a borrowed stock, I can imagine I'm the Dock.

The last tribute which I quote from Field to his school-master, literary guide, and friend is credited to the "Wit of the Silurian Age," and is accompanied by a drawing by the poet, who took a cut from some weekly of the day and touched it up with black, red, and green ink to represent the genial "Dock" seated in an arm-chair before a cheery fire, with the inevitable claret bottle on a stand within easy reach and a gla.s.s poised in his hand ready for the sip of a connoisseur, while the devotee of Kit North and Father Prout beamed graciously at you through his gla.s.ses:

Said Field to Dr. Reilly, "You Are like the moon, for you get brighter When you get full, and it is true Your heavy woes thereby grow lighter."

"And you" the Doctor answer made, "Are like, the moon because you borrow The capital on which you trade- As I'm acquainted, to my sorrow!"

"'Tis true I'm like the moon, I know,"

Replied the poor but honest wight, "For, journeying through this vale of woe, I borrow oft, but always light!"

But Field's acknowledgments of an ever-increasing debt of grat.i.tude to Dr. Reilly were not confined to privately circulated tokens of affection and friendship, as the following stanzas, printed in his column in the News, in February, 1889, testify:

TO F.W.R. AT 6 P.M.

My friend, Maecenas and physician, Is in so grumpy a condition I really more than half suspicion He nears his end; Who then would lie on earth to shave me, To feed me, coach me, and to save me From tedious cares that would enslave me- Without this friend?

Nay, fate forfend such wild disaster!

May I play Pollux to his Castor Thro' years that bind our hearts the faster With golden tether; And every morbid fear releasing, May our affection bide unceasing- every salary raise increasing- Then die together!

Finally, Dr. Reilly is the Dr. O'Rell of "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac," whom Field playfully credits with prescribing one or the other-the Noctes or the Reliques-to his patients, no matter what disease they might be afflicted with. He prescribed them to both of us, and Field took to his bed with the Reliques and did not get up until he had "comprehended" the greater part of its five hundred and odd pages of perennial literary stimulant.

CHAPTER XV

METHOD OF WORK

Although Eugene Field was the most unconventional of writers, there was a method in all his ways that made play of much of his work. No greater mistake was ever made than in attributing his physical break-down to exhaustion from his daily grind in a newspaper office. No man ever made less of a grind than he in preparing copy for the printer. He seldom arrived at the office before eleven o'clock and never settled down to work before three o'clock. The interim was spent in puttering over the exchanges, gossiping with visitors, of whom he had a constant stream, quizzing every other member of the staff, meddling here, chaffing there, and playing hob generally with the orderly routine of affairs. He was a persistent, insistent, irrepressible disturber of everything but the good-fellowship of the office, to which he was the chief contributor. No interruption from Field ever came or was taken amiss. From the hour he ambled laboriously up the steep and narrow stairs, anathematizing them at every step, in every tone of mockery and indignation, to the moment he sat down to his daily column of "leaded agate, first line brevier," no man among us knew what piece of fooling he would be up to next.

Something was wrong, Field was out of town, or some old crony from Kansas City, St. Louis, or Denver was in Chicago, if about one o'clock I was not interrupted by a summons from him that the hour for luncheon had arrived. Although I was at work within sound of his voice, these came nearly always in the form of a note, delivered with an unvarying grin by the office-boy, who would drop any other errand, however pressing, to do Field's antic bidding. These notes were generally flung into the waste-paper basket, much to my present regret, for of themselves they would have made a most remarkable exhibit. Sometimes the summons would be in the form of a bar of music like this which I preserved:

But more often it was a note in the old English manner, which for years was affected between us, like this one:

PUISSANT AND TRIUMPHANT LORD:

By my halidom it doth mind me to hold discourse with thee. Come thou privily to my castle beyond the moat, an' thou wilt.

In all fealty, my liege, Thy gentle va.s.sal,

THE GOOD KNIGHT.

Or, going down to the counting-room, he would summon a messenger to mount the stairs with a formal invitation like this:

SIR SLOSSON:

The Good but Impecunious Knight bides in the business office, and there soothly will he tarry till you come anon. So speed thee, bearing with thee ducats that in thy sweet company and by thy joyous courtesy the Good Knight may be regaled with great and sumptuous cheer withal.

THE GOOD KNIGHT.

Then out we would sally to the German restaurant around the corner, where the coffee was good, the sandwiches generous, and the pie execrable. If there was a German cook in Chicago who could make good pies we never had the good fortune to find him.