Eugene Field, a Study in Heredity and Contradictions Volume II Part 12

It is Mr. Field's intention to produce a Horace at $20 a copy, the edition limited to fifty; printed on j.a.panese proof and pasted on Whatman hand-made paper; rubricated throughout, with etched vignettes and tail-pieces, and I want copy No. 1. Sometimes even the swift citizens of Chicago must get their information from slow-going Philadelphia. I do not know whether it is Mr. F.'s intention to have you get out his affectionate effort, but I should hope not-being guided, of course, by your expressed doubt and wonderment in the matter. However, I promise not to say anything about this to Mr. Field. I sent you the $20 so as to be in time for the copy I wish, and I know you'll not object to holding it until Mr. Field's return, which ought to be not later than May-as he writes. I shall also send you other subscriptions, which you may turn over to Mr. Hobart Taylor in the event of your discovering that gentleman has fewer qualms of conscience than yourself in the matter. If he has not, you must keep the money as a punishment for the uncomplimentary allusion you have made to Field's Horace.

Soit!

Very sincerely,

FRANCIS WILSON.

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 a.s.siduously 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:

MY DEAR COWEN: The improvement which you boys have made in the Critic is very marked. If you can hold out long enough, you will win-you are bound to. You have youth, experience, and ambition upon your side, and they are potent factors. Of course you know that my earnest sympathies are, and will be, with you.

I am feeling quite well now. I have secured the Gladstone axe, with doc.u.ments from the grand old man proving its ident.i.ty. I also have Charles Kean's Hamlet chair, but I can't prove it. Meanwhile I bankrupt myself buying books, letters, and play-bills. Oh, for $200! How rich I should feel. Did you give Hawkins his two night-shirts and the tie? And did you send the sleeping-socks to Mrs. Ballantyne? I must send some little souvenir to Buskett. Do tell him to write to me and tell me how he happened to leave the mountains. By the way, I wish you would secure for me from the Postmaster-General or his a.s.sistant a set of proofs of government stamps. I have begun making a collection, and he will provide that much, if properly approached. The children are well. The boys dun me regularly. Pinny is more artful about it than the rest. He makes all sorts of promises, calls me "dearest papa," and sends me arithmetical problems he has solved and German stories he has pilfered from his reader. Still, I am very proud of those children; at any rate, I want to go first. Give my love to Hawkins and his wife and to Buskett; Julia joins me in affectionate remembrances to you all. G.o.d bless you, my beloved friend.

EUGENE FIELD.

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, un.o.btrusive 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":

So come; though I see not his dear little face, And hear not his voice in this jubilant place, I know he were happy to bid me enshrine His memory deep in my heart with your play.

Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day!

And my heart it is lonely-so, little folk, come, March in and make merry 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:

MY DEAR BUSKETT: I was delighted to get your letter. I had been at a loss to account for your long silence. I feared that you might think the rumors of your business reverses had abated my regard for you, and this suspicion made me miserable. I have for so long a time been the victim of poverty that I have come to regard poverty as a sort of trade-mark of virtue, and I hail to the ranks of the elect every friend whom misfortune has impoverished.

I have a great deal to say to you; I cannot write it-much is of Melvin and his last moments, painful details, yet not without reconciling features, for he met death calmly and bravely. It will gratify you to know that my own health is steadily improving; the others are very hearty. The second edition of my books, issued by Scribner's Sons, is selling like hot-cakes. Four thousand sets have already been disposed of. I intend to publish a new volume of poems next spring.

Ever sincerely yours,

EUGENE FIELD.

December 17th, 1890.

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:

DEAR MR. GRAY: Your kind and interesting letter should have been answered before this but for many professional duties which have led me to neglect very many of the civilities of life. I have been preparing my translations of the Odes of Horace for publication in book form, and this has required time and care. Roswell has joined me in the task, and will contribute about forty per cent. of the translations. The odes we have treated number about fifty, and they are to be published in fine style by the Cambridge printers. The first edition will be an exceedingly small one; the scheme at present is to print fifty copies only, but a cheap popular edition will soon follow. The expensive publication is undertaken by my friend Francis Wilson, the actor, and he is to give me the plates from which to print the popular edition. It will interest, and we are hoping that it will please, you to know that we shall dedicate this volume to you as a slight, though none the less sincere, token of our regard and affection to you as the friend of our father and as a friend to us. Were our father living, it would please him, we think, to see his sons collaborating as versifiers of the Pagan lyrist whose songs he admired; it would please him, too, we are equally certain, to see us dedicating the result of our enthusiastic toil to so good a man and to so good a friend as you. The lyrics which we have treated are in the majority of cases of a sportive character, those appealing most directly to us and, we think, to the hearts of people of these times. Yet the more serious songs are those which please me best, for in them I find a certain touch which softens my feelings, giving me gentler thoughts and a broader charity. It is my intention to pursue the versification of Horace still further, but whether my plan shall be fulfilled is so very dubious that I set no store by it. I am wanting to print a volume of my miscellaneous poems next fall, dedicating them to Julia, but I have not yet begun to collect the material.

On Thursday, the 28th ultimo, we laid Melvin's remains to rest finally in Graceland Cemetery. The lot I selected and bought is in a pretty, accessible spot, sheltered by two oak trees, just such spot as the boy himself, with his love for nature, would have chosen. The interment was very private, none being present but the family. Others were in the cemetery making preparations for the observance of Decoration Day. Of this number were many Germans, and these, attracted by the appearance of the pretentious German casket in which our boy's body lay, gathered around wonderingly. They were curious to know the story of that casket, for they had not seen one like it for many years. But the ceremony, however painful, was beautiful-beautiful in the caressing glory of the sunlight that was all around, in the fragrant, velvety verdure that composed the bed to which we consigned the ashes of the beloved one, in the gentle music of the birds that nested hard by and knew no fear, and in the love which we bore him and always shall.

You must tell Mrs. Gray that we shall not abandon our purpose to induce her to visit us. We have every facility for keeping warm, although if this atrocious weather continues we shall have to lay in more coal. She would find us comfortably located, and the warmth of our welcome and the cordiality of our attentions would perhaps compensate for the absence of many of her home luxuries, which we cannot of course supply. You should come, too. While I am too wise to undertake to outwalk, outfish, or outrun you, I will venture to contract to keep you entertained diligently and discreetly during your sojourn with us.

I have had two very interesting letters from one Mrs. Temperance Moon, of Farmington, Utah, who was nurse-girl in our family in 1852-3. She inquired after the Pomeroy girls and Miss Arabella Reed! She was one of a family of English Mormons who were stranded in St. Louis. My mother taught her to read. She saw my name in a newspaper, and wrote me. We are now as thick as three in a bed. Her husband is a Mormon farmer. They have ten children, and are otherwise prosperous. We all unite in affectionate regards to Mrs. Gray and yourself, and we wish you the choicest of G.o.d's blessings.

As ever, sincerely yours,

EUGENE FIELD.

420 Fullerton Ave., Chicago.

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 j.a.panese 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 ill.u.s.trated in vignette by Garrett; the sum of $2,500 has been expended for ill.u.s.trations 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:

Just at present I am quite overwhelmed with work in the throes of a Christmas story for the Daily News, my only story this year, although I have had many applications for verse and prose. I have promised a story to the Christian Union next Christmas. I have delayed answering the letter you wrote to me some time ago, in the hope that I should see my way clear to accepting your invitation. Alas! I think it will be some time yet before I can visit St. Louis. I am not well yet, and I actually dread going from home whilst feeling ill. I improve in health, but the improvement is slow. I am trying to abandon the tobacco habit. I find it a hard, hard struggle.

Affectionately yours,

EUGENE FIELD.

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 pa.s.s 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:

SKETCH AND EPITAPH.

Here lies a ma.s.s of mouldering clay Who sought in youth a path to glory, But dies of age-without his pay For writing of a Christmas story 1886.

CHAPTER VII

IN THE SAINTS' AND SINNERS' CORNER

To those of us who were closely a.s.sociated 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-

In Cupid's artful toils I roll And thrice ten thousand pangs I feel, For Susie's eyes have ground my soul Beneath their iron heel.

And:

O thou, who at the age of three Grew faint and weak and ill, O'ertaken by the bitter pill Of cold adversity!

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

Oh, for a booke and a shady nooke Eyther in doore or out, With the greene leaves whispering overhead, Or the streete cryes all about; Where I maie read all at my ease Both of the newe and old, For a jollie goode booke whereon to looke Is better to me than golde!

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 a.s.sortment 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:

GEORGE MILLARD IS HOME!

Come, ye maniacs, as of yore From your musty, dusty hidings, And in answer to the tidings Crowd the corner full once more, Lo, from distant England's sh.o.r.e, Laden down with spoil galore Such as bibliopoles adore- Books and prints in endless store, Treasures singly or in set (Labelled "j.k.t." and "net"), All who have the means to buy Things that glad the heart and eye.

Ye who seek some rare old tome- Maniacs shrewd or imbecilic, Urban, pastoral, or idyllic, Richly clad or dishabillic, Heed the summons bibliophilic- "George Millard is home!"

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 t.i.tles, while the "Sinners" included all those who had neither t.i.tle 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 succ.u.mb 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, Ma.s.s., 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' a.s.sociation. 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.