Eugene Field, a Study in Heredity and Contradictions — Volume 2
by Slason Thompson · English · Gutenberg #12985 · 469,996 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Eugene Field, a Study in Heredity and Contradictions — Volume 2
Author: Slason Thompson
Release date: July 22, 2004 [eBook #12985]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EUGENE FIELD, A STUDY IN HEREDITY AND CONTRADICTIONS — VOLUME 2 ***
[Illustration: ORIGINAL TEXT OF "LITTLE BOY BLUE"
_With drawings in colors by Eugene Field._
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
CHAPTER PAGE
I. OUR PERSONAL RELATIONS 1
II. INTRODUCTION TO COLORED INKS 15
III. SOME LETTERS 44
IV. MORE LETTERS 71
V. PUBLICATION OF HIS FIRST BOOKS 107
VI. HIS SECOND VISIT TO EUROPE 138
VII. IN THE SAINTS' AND SINNERS' CORNER 169
VIII. POLITICAL RELATIONS 198
IX. HIS "AUTO-ANALYSIS" 234
X. LAST YEARS 261
XI. LAST DAYS 297
APPENDIX 321
INDEX 341
ILLUSTRATIONS
DRAWINGS IN COLORS AND IN FAC-SIMILE PAGE
ORIGINAL TEXT OF "LITTLE BOY BLUE" _Frontispiece_
_With drawings in colors by Eugene Field._
THE LITTLE DRESS-MAKER 23
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._
A PROPER SONET 26
_From a drawing in colors by Eugene Field._
FIELD AND BALLANTYNE AWAITING THE ARRIVAL OF A
BISCUIT FROM NEW BRUNSWICK 27
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._
THE GOOD KNIGHT SLOSSON'S CASTLE 29
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._
A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS 30, 31
_From drawings by Eugene Field._
HOW MARY MATILDA WON A PRINCE:
_From drawings by Eugene Field._
THE PRINCE ASKING EDDIE MARTIN ABOUT THE
FAIR MARY MATILDA 38
THE PRINCE'S COAT-OF-ARMS--FLIGHT OF THE
FAIR MARY MATILDA--THE AGGRAVATING MIRAGE 40
BROTHER SLOSSON AND HIS OTHER FRIEND
EN ROUTE TO THE WEDDING 42
A STAMP ACCOUNT 57
AN ECHO FROM MACKINAC ISLAND 58
_With drawings by Eugene Field._
A BOWLING CHALLENGE FROM EUGENE FIELD 75
A LETTER FROM EUGENE FIELD CONTAINING
THREE DRAWINGS 78
FIELD'S PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF 88
_"As I would have looked but for the
refining influence of Old Nompy."_
A SCENE IN THE DAILY NEWS OFFICE 99
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._
PAGE OF ADVERTISEMENTS FROM "CULTURE'S GARDEN" 111
"THE ALLIAUNCE" 124
SKETCH AND EPITAPH 168
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._
OFF TO SPRINGFIELD 201
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._
HALF-TONE PLATES FACING PAGE
ROSWELL FIELD 142
FIELD THE COMEDIAN 254
EUGENE FIELD WITH HIS DUTCH RING 302
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:
_Ye boone y aske is smalle indeede
Compared with what y once did seeke--
Soe, ladye, from yr. bounteous meede
Y pray you kyndly heere mee speke.
Still is yr. Slosson my supporte,
As once y was his soul's delite--
Holde hym not ever in yr. courte--
O lette me have hym pay-daye nite!
One nite per weeke is soothly not
Too oft to leese hym from yr. chaynes;
Thinke of my lorne impoverisht lotte
And eke my jelous panges and paynes;
Thinke of ye chekes y stille do owe--
Thinke of my quenchlesse appetite--
Thinke of my griffes and, thinking so,
Oh, lette me have hym pay-daye nite!_
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 GOOD KNIGHT TO SIR SLOSSON
The night was warm as summer
And the wold was wet with dew,
And the moon rose fair,
And the autumn air
From the flowery prairies blew;
You took my arm, ol' Nompy,
And measured the lonely street,
And you said, "Let's walk
In the gloom and talk--
'Tis too pleasant to-night to eat!"
And you quoth: "Old Field supposin'
Hereafter we two agree;
If it's fair when we're through
I'm to walk with you--
If it's foul you're to eat with me!"
Then I clasped your hand, ol' Nompy,
And I said: "Well, be it so."
The night was so fine
I didn't opine
It could ever rain or snow!
But the change came on next morning
When the fickle mercury fell,
And since, that night
That was warm and bright
It's snowed or it's rained like--well.
Have you drawn your wages, Nompy?
Have you reckoned your pounds and pence?
Harsh blows the wind,
And I feel inclined
To banquet at your expense!_
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:
_Discussing great and sumptuous cheer
At Boyle's one midnight dark and drear
Two gentle warriors sate;
Out spake old Field: "In sooth I reck
We bide too long this night on deck--
What, ho there, varlet, bring the check!
Egad, it groweth late!"
Then out spake Thompson flaming hot:
"Now, by my faith, I fancy not,
Old Field, this ribald jest;
Though you are wondrous fair and free
With riches that accrue to thee,
The check to-night shall come to me--
You are my honored guest!"
But with a dark forbidding frown
Field slowly pulled his visor down
And rose to go his way--
"Since this sweet favor is denied,
I'll feast no more with thee," he cried--
Then strode he through the portal wide
While Thompson paused to pay._
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:
_A SONNET TO SHEKELSFORD
Sweet Shekelsford, the week is near its end,
And, as my custom is, I come to thee;
There is no other who has pelf to lend,
At least no pelf to lend to hapless me;
Nay, gentle Shekelsford, turn not away--
I must have wealth, for this is Saturday.
Ah, now thou smil'st a soft relenting smile--
Thy previous frown was but a passing joke,
I knew thy heart would melt with pity while
Thou heardst me pleading I was very broke.
Nay, ask me not if I've a note from Stone,
When I approach thee, O thou best of men!
I bring no notes, but, boldly and alone,
I woo sweet hope and strike thee for a ten.
December 3d, 1884._
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:
CHICAGO, October 6th, 1884.
GRIMESEY:
Come at once. We are starving! Come and bring your wallet with you.
EUGENE F----D.
JOHN F. B----E.
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:
CHICAGO, October 10th, 1884.
If you do not hasten back we shall starve. Harry Powers has come to
our rescue several times, but is beginning to weaken, and the
outlook is very dreary. If you cannot come yourself, please send
certified check.
Yours hungrily,
E.F.
J.F.B.
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:
_I prithee, gentle traveller, pause
And view the work of Santa Claus.
Behold this sock that's brimming o'er
With good things near our Slason's door;
Before he went to bed last night
He paddled out in robe of white,
And hung this sock upon the wall
Prepared for Santa Claus's call.
And said, "Come, Santa Claus, and bring
Some truck to fill this empty thing."
Then back he went and locked the door,
And soon was lost in dream and snore.
The Saint arrived at half-past one--
Behold how well his work is done:
See what a wealth of food and toy
He brought unto the sleeping boy:
An apple, fig, and orange, too,
A jumping-jack of carmine hue,
A book, some candy, and a cat,
Two athletes in a wrestling spat,
A nervous monkey on a stick,
And honey cake that's hard and thick.
Oh, what a wealth of joy is here
To thrill the soul of Slason dear!
Touch not a thing, but leave them all
Within this sock upon the wall;
So when he wakes and comes, he may
Find all these toys and trinkets gay,
And thank old Santa that he came
Up all these stairs with all this game._
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.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE DRESS-MAKER.
(Hand-drawn "SINGER" sewing machine.)
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._]
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:
_DER NIEBELRUNGEN UND DER SCHLABBERGASTERFELDT
(Narratively)
Ein Niebelrungen schlossen gold
Gehabt gehaben Richter weiss
Ein Schlabbergasterfeldt un Sold
Gehaben Meister treulich heiss
"Ich dich! Ich dich!" die Maedchein tzwei
"Ich dich!" das Niebelrungen drei.
(Tragically)
Die Turnverein ist lieb und dicht
Zum Fest und lieben kleiner Geld,
Der Niebelrungen picht ein Bricht--
Und hitt das Schlabbergasterfeldt!
"Ich dich! Ich dich!" die Maedchein schreit
Und so das Schlabbergaster deit!
(Plaintively)
Ach! weh das Niebelrungen spott
Ach! weh das Maedchein Turnverein
Und unser Meister lieben Gott--
Ach! weh das Weinerwurst und Wein!
Ach! weh das Bricht zum kleiner Geld--
Ach! weh das Schlabbergasterfeldt!_
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:
_"Who spilt my bottle of ink?" said Field,
"Who spilt my bottle of ink?"
And then with a sigh, said Thompson, "'Twas I--
I broke that bottle of ink,
I think,
And wasted the beautiful ink."
"Who'll buy a bottle of ink?" asked Field,
"Who'll buy a bottle of ink?"
With a still deeper sigh his friend replied, "I--
I'll buy a bottle of ink
With chink,
I'll buy a bottle of ink!"
"Oh, isn't this beautiful ink!" cried Field,
"Beautiful bilious ink!"
He shook the hand of his old friend, and
He tipped him a pleasant wink,
And a blink,
As he went to using that ink._
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:
[Illustration: A PROPER SONET.
_From a drawing in colors by Eugene Field._
Then Kriee 3 times his breast he smote,
And gruesome oaths swore he;
"Oh, bring back _mine_, and take _your_ coat--
Your painted coat, the which I note
Full ill besemmeth me!"
But swere and plede he as he mote,
Old Field said "No, ol' Nompy, no!
You'll get your coat not none no mo!"]
[Illustration: FIELD AND BALLANTYNE AWAITING THE ARRIVAL OF A BISCUIT
FROM NEW BRUNSWICK.
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._]
[red ink] CHICAGO, May the 7th, 1885.
[blue ink] Dear Miss:
I make bold to send herewith a diagram of the new rooms in which your
brother Slason is now [brown ink] ensconced. The drawing may be bad
and the perspective may be out of plumb, but the motif is good, as
you [green ink] will allow. All that Brother Slason needs now to
symmetrize his new abode is a box from home--a box filled [purple
ink] with those toothsome goodies which only a kind, loving,
indulgent sister can make and donate to an absent [black ink]
brother. Having completed my contribution to the Larned gallery, and
having exhibited the pictures in the [red ink] recent salon, I have a
large supply of colored inks on hand, which fact accounts for that
appearance of an [blue ink] Easter necktie or a crazy quilt which
this note has. In a few days I shall take the liberty of sending
[brown ink] you the third volume of the "Aunt Mary Matilda" series--a
tale of unusual power and interest. With [green ink] many reverential
obeisances and respectful assurances of regard, I beg to remain,
[lilac ink] Your obedient servant,
[purple ink] EUGENE FIELD,
[red ink] per
[blue ink] William Smith,
[brown ink] Secretary.
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.
[Illustration: THE GOOD KNIGHT SLOSSON'S CASTLE.
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._
The good knight Slosson from a watch tower of his castle desenith and
salutith the good Knight Eugene, sans peur et sans monie.]
[Illustration: A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.
_From drawings by Eugene Field._
No. 1
The fair Mary Matilda skimming over the hills and dales of New
Brunswick.
No. 2
Lovelorn Eddie Martin in hot pursuit of same.
No. 3
Lone pine in the deserted vale where the musquash watches for his
prey.
No. 4
Horrible discovery made by the fair Mary Matilda upon her return to
the lone pine in the secluded vale.
No. 5
All that is left of poor Eddie.]
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.
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:
CHICAGO, July the 2d, 1885.
DEAR MISS:
In order that you may no longer groan under the erroneous impression
which you appear to harbor, touching my physique, I remit to you a
photograph of a majority of myself. The photograph was made last
December, when I was, so to speak, at my perihelion in the matter of
avoirdupois. You may be gratified to know that I have not shrunken
much since that time. I have taken the timely precaution to label the
picture in order that none of your Fredericton people thumbing over
your domestic album shall mistake me for either a young Episcopal
rector or a rising young negro minstrel.
The several drawings and paintings I have sent you ever and anon at
your brother's expense are really not the best samples of my art. Mr.
Walter Cranston Larned, a wealthy young tennis player of this city,
has most of my _chef d'oeuvres_ in his private gallery. I hope
to be able to paint you a landscape in oil very soon. There is no
sacrifice I would not be willing to make for one whom I esteem so
highly as I do you. It might be just as well not to read this line to
the old folks. Your brother Slosson has recently developed an
insatiate passion for horse racing, and in consequence of his losses
at pools I find him less prone to regale me with sumptuous cheer than
he was before the racing season broke out. The prince, too, has
blossomed out as a patron of the track, and I am slowly becoming more
and more aware that this is a bitter world. I think I may safely say
that I look wholly to such noble, generous young women as you and
your sisters to preserve in me a consciousness that there is in life
such a boon as generosity.
You will observe (if you have any eye for color) that I pen you these
lines in gamboge brown; this is because Fourth of July is so near at
hand. This side of the line we are fairly reeking with patriotism
just now; even that mugwump-alien--your brother--contemplates
celebrating in a fitting manner the anniversary of our country's
independence of _British Tyranny_!
Will you please slap Bessie for me--the pert minx! I heard of her
remarks about my story of Mary Matilda and the Prince.
Believe me as ever,
Sincerely yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
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.
[Illustration: THE PRINCE ASKING EDDIE MARTIN ABOUT THE FAIR MARY
MATILD.]
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.
[Illustration: THE PRINCE'S COAT-OF-ARMS--FLIGHT OF THE FAIR MARY
MATILDA--THE AGGRAVATING MIRAGE.]
"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!"
[Illustration: BROTHER SLOSSON AND HIS OTHER FRIEND EN ROUTE TO THE
WEDDING.]
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:
_THE GOOD KNIGHT'S DIPLOMACY.[1]
One evening in his normal plight
The good but impecunious knight
Addressing Thompson said:
"Methinks a great increasing fame
Shall add new glory to thy name,
And cluster round thy head.
"There is no knight but he will yield
Before thy valor in the Field
Or in exploits of arms;
And all admit the pleasing force
Of thy most eloquent discourse--
Such are thy social charms.
"Alike to lord and vassal dear
Thou dost incline a pitying ear
To fellow-men in pain;
And be he wounded, sick, or broke,
No brother knight doth e'er invoke
Thy knightly aid in vain.
"Such--such a gentle knight thou art,
And it is solace to my heart
To have so fair a friend.
No better, sweeter boon I pray
Than thy affection--by the way,
Hast thou a stamp to lend?"
"Aye, marry, 'tis my sweet delight
To succor such an honest knight!"
Sir Thompson straight replied.
Field caught the proffered treasure up,
Then tossing off a stirrup-cup
From out the castle hied.
July 2d, 1885._
[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.
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:
CHICAGO, July 19th, 1885.
SWEET KNIGHT:
Heedful of the promise I made to thee prior to thy setting out for
the far-distant province of Mackinac, I am minded to temporarily lay
aside the accoutrements of war and the chase, and pen thee this
missive wherein I do discourse of all that has happened since thy
departure. Upon Saturday I did lunch with that ill-tempered knight,
Sir P----, and in the evening did I discuss a goodly feast with Sir
Cowan, than whom a more hospitable knight doth not exist--saving only
and always thyself, which art the paragon of courtesy. This day did I
lunch at my own expense, but in very sooth I had it charged, whereat
did the damned Dutchman sorely lament. Would to God I were now
assured at whose expense I shall lunch upon the morrow and the many
days that must elapse ere thy coming hence.
By this courier I send thee divers rhymes which may divert thee.
Soothly they are most honest chronicles, albeit in all modesty I may
say they do not o'erpraise me.
The good Knight Melville crieth it from the battlements that he will
go into a far country next week. Meanwhile the valorous Sir
Ballantyne saweth wood but sayeth naught. That winsome handmaiden
Birdie quitteth our service a week hence; marry, I shall miss the
wench.
The fair lady Julia doth commend thy prudence in getting out of the
way ere she reproaches thee for seducing the good Knight into that
Milwaukee journey, of the responsibility of which naughtiness I have
in very sooth washed my hands as clean as a sheep's liver.
By what good fortune, too, hast thou escaped the heat and toil of
this irksome weather. By my halidom the valor trickleth down my
knightly chin as I pen these few lines, and my shirt cleaveth to my
back like a porous plaster. The good knight of the Talking Cat
speaketh to me of taking his vacation in the middle of August,
whereat I much grieve, having a mind to hie me away at that sweet
season myself.
One sumptuous feast have we already had at thy expense at Boyle's, as
by the check thou shalt descry on thy return. Sir Harper did send me
a large fish from Lake Okeboji to-day, which the same did I and my
heirdom devour triumphantly this very evening. I have not beheld the
Knight of the Lawn since thy departure. Make fair obeisance to the
sweet ladies who are with thee, and remember me in all courtesy to
Sir Barbour, the good Knight of the Four Winds.
Kissing thy hand a thousand times, I sign myself
Thy loyal and sweet servant,
FIELD,
The Good and Honest Knight.
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 GOOD SIR SLOSSON'S EPISODE WITH THE GARRULOUS SIR BARBOUR
Sir Slosson and companions three--
With hearts that reeked with careless glee--
Strode down the golden sand,
And pausing on the pebbly shore,
They heard the sullen, solemn roar
Of surf on every hand.
Then Lady Florence said "I ween"--
"Nay, 'tis not half so grand a scene,"
Sir Barbour quickly cried,
"As you may see in my fair state,
Where swings the well-greased golden gate
Above the foamy tide."
Sir Slosson quoth, "In very sooth"--
"Nay, say not so, impetuous youth,"
Sir Barbour made his boast:
"This northern breeze will not compare
With that delicious perfumed air
Which broods upon our coast."
Then Lady Helen fain would say
Her word, but in his restless way
Sir Barbour nipped that word;
The other three were dumb perforce--
Except Sir Barbour's glib discourse,
No human sound was heard.
And even that majestic roar
Of breakers on the northern shore
Sank to a murmur low;
The winds recoiled and cried, "I' sooth,
Until we heard this 'Frisco youth,
We reckoned we could blow!"
Sir Slosson paled with pent-up ire--
His eyes emitted fitful fire--
With rage his blood congealed;
Yet, exercising sweet restraint,
He swore no vow and breathed no plaint--
But pined for Good Old Field.
The ladies, too, we dare to say,
(If they survived that fateful day),
Eschew all 'Frisco men,
Who, as perchance you have inferred,
Won't let a person get a word
In edgewise now and then._
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:
_One midnight hour, Sir Ballantyne
Addressed Old Field: "Good comrade mine,
The times i' faith are drear;
Since you have not a son to spend
I would to God our generous friend
Sir Slosson now were here!"
Then spake the Impecunious Knight,
Regardful of his piteous plight:
"Odds bobs, you say the truth;
For since our friend has gone away,
It doth devolve on thee to pay--
Else would I starve i' sooth."
Emerging from their lofty lair
This much bereaved but worthy pair
Proceeded unto Boyle's,
Agreed that buttered toast would do.
Although they were accustomed to
The choicest roasts and broils.
"Heyday, sir knights," a varlet cried
('Twas Charlie, famous far and wide
As Boyle's devoted squire);
"Sir Slosson telegraphs me to
Deliver straightway unto you
Whatever you desire."
The knights with radiant features saw
The message dated Mackinaw--
Then ordered sumptuous cheer;
Two dollars' worth, at least, they "cheered"
While from his counter Charlie leered
An instigating leer.
I wot poor Charlie did not dream
The telegram was but a scheme
To mulct Sir Slosson's pelf;
For in the absence of his friend
The Honest Knight made bold to send
That telegram himself.
Oh, honest Field I to keep aright
The credit of an absent Knight--
And undefiled his name!
Upon such service for thy friends
Such knightly courtesies depends
Thy everlasting fame!_
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:
FRIEND THOMPSON,
Fields and Ballantyne gave me the telegram tonight ordering one
supper. But they have been eating all the week at your expense. Is
it all right?
Yours,
CHAS. BURKEY.
And by the same mail came this comforting epistle from the arch
conspirator:
CHICAGO, July the 22d, 1885.
DEAR SIR KNIGHT:
I have been too busy to reply to your many kind letters before this.
On receipt of your telegram last night, we went to Boyle's and had
sumptuous cheer at your expense. Charlie has begun to demur, and
intends to write you a letter. Browne wrote me a note the other day.
I enclose it to you. Please keep it for me. I hope your work will
pan out more successfully.
I had a long talk with Stone to-night, and churned him up about the
paper. He agreed with me in nearly all particulars. He is going to
fire W---- when D---- goes (August 1). He said, "I am going to have a
lively shaking up at that time." One important change I am not at
liberty to specify, but you will approve it. By the way, Stone spoke
very highly of you and your work. It would be safe for you to strike
him on the salary question as soon as you please. The weather is
oppressively warm. Things run along about so so in the office.
Hawkins told me he woke up the other night, and could not go to sleep
again till he had sung a song. The Dutch girls at Henrici's inquire
tenderly for you.... Hastily yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
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.
[Illustration: A STAMP ACCOUNT.
Mr. Slosson Thompson.
to Eugene Field, Dr.
To 4 stamps at 2 cts--July 20--.08
To 1 stamp --July 22--.02
Total .10
Please remit.]
[Illustration: AN ECHO FROM MACKINAC ISLAND.
_With drawings by Eugene Field._]
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":
I.
_A Thompson went rowing out into the strait--
Out into the strait in the early morn;
His step was light and his brow elate,
And his shirt was as new as the day just born.
His brow was cool and his breath was free,
And his hands were soft as a lady's hands,
And a song of the booming waves sang he
As he launched his bark from the golden sands.
The grayling chuckled a hoarse "ha-ha,"
And the Cisco tittered a rude "he-he"--
But the Thompson merrily sang "tra-la"
As his bark bounced over the Northern Sea._
II.
_A Thompson came bobbling back into the bay--
Back into the bay as the Sun sank low,
And the people knew there was hell to pay,
For HE wasn't the first who had come back so.
His nose was skinned and his spine was sore,
And the blisters speckled his hands so white--
He had lost his hat and had dropped an oar,
And his bosom-shirt was a sad sea sight.
And the grayling chuckled again "ha-ha,"
And the Cisco tittered a harsh "ho-ho"--
But the Thompson anchored furninst a bar
And called for a schooner to drown his woe._
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:
_THE GOOD KNIGHT AND THE FAIR UNKNOWN
Now, once when this good knight was broke
And all his chattels were in soak,
The brave Sir Thompson came
And saith: "I' faith accept this loan
Of silver from a fair unknown--
But do not ask her name!"
The Good Knight dropped his wassail cup
And took the proffered bauble up,
And cautiously he bit
Its surface, but it would not yield,
Which did convince the grand old Field
It was not counterfeit.
Then quoth the Good Knight, as he wept:
"Soothly this boon I must accept,
Else would I sore offend
The doer of this timely deed,
The nymph who would allay my need--
My fair but unknown friend.
"But take to her, O gallant knight,
This signet with my solemn plight
To seek her presence straight,
When varlets or a caitiff crew
Resolved some evil deed to do--
Besiege her castle gate.
"Then when her faithful squire shall bring
To him who sent this signet ring
Invoking aid of me--
Lo, by my faith, with this good sword
Will I disperse the base-born horde
And set the princess free!
"And yet, Sir Thompson, if I send
This signet to my unknown friend,
I jeopardize my life;
For this fair signet which you see,
Odds bobs, doth not belong to me,
But to my brawny wife!
"I should not risk so sweet a thing
As my salvation for a ring,
And all through jealous spite!
Haste to the fair unknown and say
You lost the ring upon the way--
Come, there's a courteous Knight!"
Eftsoons he spake, the Good Knight drew
His visor down, and waving to
Sir Thompson fond farewell,
He leapt upon his courser fleet
And crossed the drawbridge to the street
Which was ycleped La Salle._
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:
_One chilly raw November night
Beneath a dull electric light,
At half-past ten o'clock,
The Good Knight, wan and hungry, stood,
And in a half-expectant mood
Peered up and down the block.
The smell of viands floated by
The Good Knight from a basement nigh
And tantalized his soul.
Keenly his classic, knightly nose
Envied the fragrance that arose
From many a steaming bowl.
Pining for stews not brewed for him,
The Good Knight stood there gaunt and grim--
A paragon of woe;
And muttered in a chiding tone,
"Odds bobs! Sir Slosson must have known
'Twas going to rain or snow!"
But while the Good and Honest Knight
Flocked by himself in sorry plight,
Sir Slosson did regale
Himself within a castle grand--
of the Good Knight and
His wonted stoup of ale.
Mid joyous knights and ladies fair
He little recked the evening air
Blew bitterly without;
Heedless of pelting storms that came
To drench his friend's dyspeptic frame,
He joined the merry rout.
But underneath the corner light
Lingered the impecunious Knight--
Wet, hungry and alone--
Hoping that from Sir Slosson some
Encouragement mayhap would come,
Or from the Fair Unknown._
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:
Soothly, sweet Sir, by thy hegira am I brought into sore distress and
grievous discomfiture; for not only doth that austere man, Sir
Melville, make me to perform prodigies of literary prowess, but all
the other knights do laugh me to scorn and entreat me shamelessly
when I be an hungered and do importune them for pelf whereby I may
compass victual. Aye, marry, by my faith, I swear't, it hath gone ill
with me since you strode from my castle in the direction of the
province wherein doth dwell Sir Walter, the Knight of the Tennis and
Toboggan. I beseech thee to hie presently unto me, or at least to
send silver or gold wherewith I may procure cheer--else will it go
hard with me, mayhap I shall die, in which event I do hereby name and
constitute thee executor of my estates and I do call upon the saints
in heaven to witness the solemn instrument. Verily, good Sir, I do
grievously miss thee and I do pine for thy joyous discourse and
triumphant cheer, nor, by my blade, shall I be content until once
more thou art come to keep me company.
Touching that varlet Knight, Sir Frank de Dock, I have naught to say,
save and excepting only that he be a caitiff and base-born dotard
that did deride me and steal away unto his castle this very night
when I did supplicate him to regale me with goodly viands around the
board of that noble host, the gracious Sir Wralsy of Murdough. I
would to heaven a murrain would seize the hearts of all such craven
caitiffs who hath not in them the sweet courtesy and generous
hospitality that doth so well become thee, O glorious and
ever-to-be-mulcted Sir Knight of the well-stored wallet. I do beseech
thee to have a care to spread about in the province wherein thou dost
sojourn a fair report of my gentleness and valor. Commend me to the
glorious and triumphant ladies and privily advise them to send me
hence guerdons of gold or silver if haply they are tormented by base
enchanters, cruel dragons, vile hippogriffins, or other untoward
monsters, and I do swear to redress their wrongs when those guerdons
do come unto me. For it doth delight me beyond all else to avenge
foul insults heaped upon princesses and lorn maidens. If so be thou
dost behold that incomparable pearl of female beauty and virtue, the
Fair Unknown, prithee kiss thou her bejewelled hand for me and by thy
invincible blade renew my allegiance unto her sweet cause. Methinks
her sunny locks and azure orbs do haunt my dreams, and anon I hear
her silvery tones supplicating me to accept another arms. And I do
lustily beshrew fate that these be but dreams.
Now in very sooth do I pray ye may speedily come unto me. Or if you
abide in that far-off province, heaven grant ye prosperity and
happiness such as surely cannot befall the Good Knight till thou dost
uplift his arms again.
I do supplicate thee to make obeisance unto all in my name and to
send hither tidings of thy well-being. How goeth the jousts and
tourneys with the toboggan, and hath the cyclonic Sir Barbour wrought
much havoc with his perennial rhetoric in the midst of thee? I do
kiss thy hand and subscribe myself,
Thy sweet and sorry slave,
THE GOOD KNIGHT.
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:
While I addressed thee fair and subtile words on yester even, O
sweet and incomparable knight! there did enter into my presence a
base enchanter who did evilly enchant and bewitch me, making me to
do dire offence unto the mother tongue. Soothly this base born
enchanter did cause me to write "arms," when soothly I did mean an
"alms," and sore grievousness be come upon me lest haply thou dost
not understand this matter ere this missive reach thee. I do beseech
thee have a care to tell the fair princesses and glorious ladies
that I am in very truth a courteous knight and learned eke, and that
I shall neither taste food nor wine until I have slain the evil
enchanter that did so foully bewitch me. Odds bobs, I trow it was
that varlet dotard, Sir Frank de Dock, who hath entreated me most
naughtily since thou art departed unto that far-off province. By
this courier do I dispatch certain papers of state unto thee, and
faith would I have dispatched thy wages eke, but that caitiff
in minion, Sir Shekelsford, did taunt and revile me when I did
supplicate him to give up.
The incomparable Sir Melville hath all the good knights writing
editorials this eve, from the hoary and senile Dock down to the
knavish squire that sweeps out the castle.
May peace bide with thee in thy waking hours and brood o'er thy
slumbers, good gentle sir, and may heaven speed the day when in fair
health and well-walleted thou shalt return unto
Thy pining and sweet slave,
THE GOOD KNIGHT.
December 28th, 1885.
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:
Joyous and merry knight:--Soothly I wot this be the last message you
shall have from me ere you be come again hence, since else than the
stamp hereupon attached have I none nor ween I whence another can be
gotten. By the bright brow of Saint Aelfrida, this is a sorry world,
and misery and vexation do hedge us round about! A letter did this
day come unto the joyous and buxom wench, the lady Augusta, wherein
did Sir Ballantyne write how that he did not believe that the poem
"Thine Eyes" was printed in Sir Slosson's book. Now by St. Dunstan!
right merrily will he rail when so he learneth the whole truth.
Sir Melville hath not yet crossed the drawbridge of the castle,
albeit it lacketh now but the length of a barleycorn till the tenth
hour. Sir Frank de Dock hath hied him home for he is truly a senile
varlet and when I did supplicate him to regale me with a pasty this
night he quoth, "Out upon thee, thou scurvy leech!" "Beshrew
thyself, thou hoary dotard!" quoth I, nor tarried I in his presence
the saying of a pater noster, but departing hence did sup with that
lusty blade, Sir Paul of Hull, and verily he did regale me as well
beseemeth a good knight and a gentle eke.
Now, by my sword I swear't, all this venal and base-born rabble
shall rue their folly when thou art returned, O nonpareil of all the
brave and hospitable! I pray thee bring rich booty from that
province wherein thou dost now tarry--crowns, derniers, livres,
ducats, golden angels, and farthings. Then soothly shall we make
merry o'er butts of good October brewing. Commend me to the discreet
and beauteous ladies after the manner of that country, for I have
heard their virtues highly praised, it being said that they do sing
well, play the lute and spinet and work fair marvels with the
needle. I do beseech thee bespeak me fair unto the grand seneschal,
Sir Barbour, and thy joyous and courteous host, Sir Walter. In sooth
it is a devilry how I do miss you. Thy friend and slave in sweetness
and humility,
THE GOOD KNIGHT.
December 29th, 1885.
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:
Field 878 Thompson 866
Hawkins 697 Cowen 818
---- ----
1575 1684
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:
___________________________________________________________
| | | | | | | | | | |
| \ | \ | \ | X | X | X | X | \ | \ | X X |
| 18 | 37 | 57 | 87 | 117 | 144 | 164 | 182 | 202 | 231 |
___________________________________________________________|
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."
[Illustration: A BOWLING CHALLENGE FROM EUGENE FIELD.
Who is this graceful, agile king
In proud but modest garb revealed?
He is the only Bowling King,
And loud and long the people sing
The prowess of Old Field.
How slender yet how lithe is he
And when unto the fray he glides
So awful is his majesty
That Nompy fears his wrath to be
And straightway runs and hides.
May 4th, 1886.]
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:
I
CHICAGO, September 10th (Friday night), 1886.
Dear Nomp: Hawkins, Cowen and I went out to the base-ball game
together to-day and saw the champions down the Detroits to the tune
of 14 to 8. It was a great slugging match all around. Conway pitched
for Detroit and McCormick for Chicago. As I say, there was terrific
batting; on the part of Chicago, Gore made 1 base hit, Kelly 3,
Anson 2, Pfeffer 3, Williamson 1, Burns 1 and Ryan 2; on the part of
Detroit. Richardson made 2, Brouthers 4, Thompson 1 and Dunlap 1.
The Chicagos played in excellent form, yet batting seemed to be
_the_ feature of the game. McCormick struck out 6 men and gave
2 men bases on called balls; Conway struck out 4 men and gave 4
bases on balls. Brouthers made 3 home runs, but there happened to be
no one on bases at the time. There was such a large crowd of
spectators that Hawkins, Cowen and I had to sit on the roof of the
grand-stand. The sun cast its rays on us, and it was hot! [Here
followed a detailed pen-and-ink sketch of the scene.]
Whilst I was drawing this _chef d'oeuvre_ (and, by the way, it
took an hour to do it) Ballantyne came in. "That's mighty good,"
said he; "are you making it for the paper?"
I understand that Stone has sailed out of town again, this time to
Kansas City. Poor man! his slavish devotion to the details of his
newspaper is simply grinding the life out of him.
Mrs. Billings [Field's sister-in-law] has arrived from Washington
and she will go down to St. Louis with Julia and Mrs. Ballantyne
next Monday morning. Later in the fall she will make us a visit.
Cowen pawned his watch to-day for $40 and bet $30 to $21 on the
Chicagos. This is the result by innings: [Here followed another
drawing as shown in the accompanying fac-simile.] The watch retained
its normal size for two innings, but in the third it shrank so sadly
as to become hardly visible to the mind's eye. In the fourth inning,
however, it began to pick up, and in the seventh it had resumed its
normal shape, and in the ninth it was as big as a dinner-plate and
we could hear it tick, although hung in Moses Levy's secluded
retreat on Dearborn Street, two and one-half miles distant. As we
were riding over to the base-ball grounds Cowen's eyes rested on a
vision of female loveliness--a girl he knew--standing on the corner
of Madison and Aberdeen Streets. It was all Hawkins and I could do
to hold him in the car. But I am determined to save this young and
interesting soul if I can. Peattie and his wife start for Colorado
next Monday. 'Tis now 11 o'clock. Where are you that you are not
here to walk with me? Tossing in the "upper ten" [another drawing]
and struggling for fresh air! Well, good-by and bless you, old boy.
Affectionately yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
[Illustration: A LETTER FROM EUGENE FIELD CONTAINING THREE DRAWINGS.]
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.
II
(Written in gamboge ink) CHICAGO, Sunday night, September the 12th,
1886.
Dear Nomp:--You have been gone but forty-eight hours--it seems an
age. I have been thinking the matter over and I have come to the
appalling conclusion that I shall starve before you get back,
unless, perchance, in the meantime, Marie Matilda or some fair
unknown sends me truage that can be realized upon.
Dock has returned with an air of rusticity that makes me shiver when
I think of all he has got to go through with before you come to the
rescue. My wife goes to St. Louis to-morrow and I shall be on the
turf for one long week. Ballantyne, Cowen, Dennis and I went to the
base-ball game yesterday--10,000 people; enthusiasm; slugging game;
Chicago fielded beautifully; Chicagos 14, Detroits 4--that's all
I've got to say on that subject. I have sent a personal to each of
the Denver papers announcing that Mr. and Mrs. Peattie are there on
their bridal tour. I have given Peattie divers letters of
introduction to Denver folks: to Dr. Lemen, introducing him as an
invalid; to Judge Tall, as a client; to Fred Skiff, as a rich young
man anxious to invest in Colorado mines--etc., etc. The dear boy
will have a lovely time methinks. Hawkins has moved his desk up into
Dennis's room, and Dock sits here at your table close to me while
you are gone. If he can afford it I do not object. It is
Ballantyne's plan to keep Hawkins doing paragraphs for the morning
and evening papers, and to put Bates (who returned to-day) in the
local department as chief copy-reader. At the theatres this week:
"We, Us & Co." at Henderson's; "Alone in London" at Hooley's;
Redmund & Barry at McVicker's; "Zitka" at the Columbia, and Mayo at
the Grand. By the way, Dr. Reilly's wife's brother, Bruno Kennicoot,
has taken the management of the new Windsor Theatre on the North
Side; that makes another friend of mine among the managers of
Chicago. It is frightfully cold here; real winter weather. Good-by,
dear boy. Have a good time and make the home folks happy.
Yours as ever,
FIELD.
Post Scriptum:--Give my love to Miss Mary Matilda and to your
impetuous sister, Hel'n; also to the sceptical Bessie.
E.F.
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:
_MR. PEATTIE'S CAPE
Oh, pale is Mr. Peattie's face
And lank is Mr. Peattie's shape,
But with a dreamy, sensuous grace,
Beseeming Peattie's swinging pace,
Hangs Mr. Peattie's cape!
'Tis wrought of honest woollen stuff
And bound about with cotton tape--
When winter winds are chill and rough
There's one big heart that's warm enough
In Mr. Peattie's cape!
It fits him loose about the ribs,
But hugs his neck from throat to nape,
And, spite his envious neighbors' fibs,
A happy fellow is his nibs
In Mr. Peattie's cape.
So here's defiance to the storm,
And here's a pledge in amber grape
To him whose heart is always warm,
And who conceals a lissome form
In Mr. Peattie's cape._
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:
_THE RETURN OF THE HIGHLANDER
He touted low and veiled his bonnet
When that he kenned his blushing Elia--
"Gude faith" he cried, "my bonny bride,
I fashed mesell some wan wod steal ye!"
"My bonny loon," the gude wife answered,
"When nane anither wod befriend me,
Gainst mickle woes and muckle foes,
Braw Donald Field did aft farfend me!"
"Of all the bonnie heelon chiels
There's nane sae braw as this gude laddie--
Wi' sike an arm to shield fro' harm--
Wi' sike a heart beneath his plaidie!"
"Gin Sandy Knox or Sawney Dennis
Or Dougal Thompson take delight in
A-fashing we wi' gholish glee--
Braw Donald Field wod do my fightin'!"
Then Robert Peattie glowed wi' pleasure;
"I wod na do the deed o' Sunday,
But Donald Field shall be well mealed
To-morrow, which I ken is Monday!"
Then Robert took his gude wife hame
And spread a feast o' Finnan Haddie;
In language soft he praised her aft,
And aft she kiss her bonnie laddie.
October 23d, 1887._
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:
_TO CLARA DOTY BATES
Circled around this fair and sumptuous board
(Like nymphs, dear ladies, you--like satyrs, we)
All to one purpose cheerfully agree--
Ruthless assault on Bates's savory hoard.
And since the skirmish duty falls on me--
Despite the wait, of hungry folk deplored--
One opening shot I claim, one modest toast
To her who makes life easy for our host.
You, madam, have achieved a noble fame,
Better by far than selfishness could earn--
A million grateful children bless your name--
To you we drink--then to the viands turn;
Easy, mayhap, it is to write a book--
Success to her whose muse will deign to cook!
E.F.
Chicago, April 28, 1886._
III
CHICAGO, Tuesday night, September the 14th, 1886.
My Dear Child:--This man Reilly, who has thrust himself upon me
during your absence, is fast becoming a seven-year itch. He sprawls
about over this room of mine as if it were his own, he strews his
damned medical literature over my table, he has a constant stream of
idiot callers, and he refuses to give up when I demand truage of
him. I hope you will pack your gripsack and start home immediately
upon receipt of this. Ballantyne left for St. Louis a few moments
ago. In honor of the fact that he is supposed to be on deck
to-night, Stone has taken his family and gone to the Casino Theatre
for the evening.
Cowen spent the night at my house last night and to-day Pinny caught
twenty-five crickets for him to take to his room to make music for
him. While Cowen was riding down in the car a pretty girl got
aboard, and in trying to get a peep at her Cowen dropped the box
containing the crickets. For some moments it rained crickets. The
women climbed up on the seats of the car and there was general
alarm. I believe that Cowen recovered three of the crickets, but two
of these had but two legs between them.
The Chicagos won the game at St. Louis yesterday (1 to 0), but lost
to-day (4 to 5). Flynn pitched yesterday and your friend Clarkson
pitched to-day. It wouldn't surprise me if Chicago and Detroit were
to go East tied.
Ballantyne has made Hawkins move his desk back to the library and
Hawkins is passing wroth about it.
Here is what I bought Gussie for a wedding present to-day: 2 quires
of paper with envelopes, 1 curling iron, 2 papers of pins, 2 papers
of hairpins, 1 darning ball, 2 combs, 1 bottle Calder's tooth
powder, 1 bottle of vaseline, 1 bottle of shoe polish, 1 box of lip
salve, 1 button hook and 1 bottle of listerine.
It is quite wintry here. We are all well. Remember me to Marie
Matilde and to la belle Helène.
Affectionately yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
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.
[Illustration: FIELD'S PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF.
"_As I would have looked but for the refining influence of Old
Nompy._"]
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.
V
CHICAGO, Thursday evening, September the 16th, 1886.
My dear Fellow:--It is presumed that Ballantyne and his bride
arrived in this city to-day at seven A.M., but up to this hour
(eight P.M.) the bridegroom has not put in an appearance at the
office.
Cowen is threatening to write to you; it occurs to me that he ought
to do something to atone for the vile slanders he has uttered about
you since you went away. Stone kept Reilly busy at writing from two
o'clock yesterday afternoon until twelve last night. Your friend
Werner, advance agent of the McCaul Company, is in town. He inquired
for you to-day.
I have been reading the memoirs of Dolly Madison and am specially
delighted with the letter written by the old Quakeress, Mrs. Hobbs.
It is a beautiful letter, and you must read it at your first
opportunity.
Stone is very much pleased over the result of the County Democratic
Convention, the defeat of Dunphy giving him particular gratification.
Love to all. God bless you, dear boy.
Yours as ever,
FIELD.
Detroit, 0; St. Louis, 0; game called at end of fifth inning.
Chicago walloped Kansas City.
VI
CHICAGO, Saturday, September the 18th, 1886.
This, sweet lad, is the dullest Saturday that has befallen me in
many a year. John and his bride are over at Hooley's Theatre
watching that lachrymose melodrama, "Alone in London." There is
nothing worth seeing at any other house. There is nobody for me to
visit with, so here I sit in this box trying to kill the time. I see
very little of Cowen. A disreputable looking friend of his from the
West is here dead-broke and hunting work; Cowen is feeding and
sleeping him _ad interim_, and I think the fellow has an evil
influence over our friend....
I am, as ever, your friend,
FIELD.
VII
CHICAGO, Sunday, September 19th, 1886.
My dear Old Boy:--This man Reilly whom you have put upon me has just
played upon me the most shamefulest trick I ever heard tell of. He
invited me out to supper and told me he had only eighty cents. He
ordered twenty cents worth and made me scrimp along on sixty cents.
When he came to pay the check he produced a five-dollar bill! I
never felt so humiliated in all my life. I pine for the return of
the sweet friend who seeks not by guile to set limit to my appetite.
My children insisted upon going to bed last night with pieces of
Gussie's wedding cake under their pillows. Dady had the presence of
mind to wake up in the night and eat his piece. He told me this
morning that he dreamed that he was married to Mr. Cowen. Last
evening I wandered down town in a furious rainstorm and tried to
find somebody I knew. Failing in this, I meandered home and went to
bed without saying my prayers, conscious of having spent an ill day.
At the theatre this week: Columbia, "Pepita"; McVicker's, Lotta;
Grand, Kate Castleton; Hooley's, "Private Secretary." Dock is trying
to get me to go to the Columbia to-night, but your pale face looms
up in my mind's eye and warns me not to go, or, at least, not to sit
in a box if I do go.
The conclusion of this letter has been sacrificed to the importunity
of some autograph fiend from whose tribe I have had the greatest
difficulty in preserving its fellows.
VIII
CHICAGO, Monday, September the 20th, 1886.
The envious old Dock, who has never had an emotion, an ambition or a
hope beyond a quart bottle of Ike Cook's Imperial, said to me but
just now: "Why do you waste your time writing to that man Thompson?
He will never thank you for it; he will put up none the more
liberally when he returns." Then he added, with a bitter look: "You
never wrote to me while I was at Springfield!" Ah, how little he
knows of you, this peevish old glutton who cares for naught above
pandering to his dyspeptic maw! But my writing to you has caused a
great deal of scandal here in the office, and I fear I am seriously
compromised. Cowen has been threatening to denounce me to you, but I
have no fear that he will be able to grant you any time from his
numerous [_a_] hoydens, doxies, and beldames. He threatened me
for the mountenance of an hour this afternoon, but I bade him write
and it pleased him--passing well knew I that he could not missay me
with you.
I am delighted with the result of the game at Detroit to-day--7 to 3
in favor of Chicago! This, I think, insures us the championship.
Miller, our circulator, is very much disturbed because our country
circulation has dropped about 1,000 in less than a fortnight; he has
been hobnobbing with Ballantyne about it to-day. Mr. Stone is still
in Kansas City hunting wild geese.
"Pepita" is billed as the joint production of Thompson and Solomon,
and about twenty people have asked me if you were the Thompson
referred to and I have indignantly repudiated the libel, for, maugre
my head, "Pepita" is just a little the rottenest thing I ever saw or
heard.
I have not clapped my eyes on any of [_b_] your suburban
friends since you departed. At McVicker's the other evening I found
myself being scrutinized by a buxom country lass who looked as if
she might be the fair unknown from Evanston. Her rueful visage and
the sympathetic glance she bestowed on me seemed to assure me that
she, too, was pining for the grandest of old grands.
My wife has been away for a week, but not a line have I had from
her. It has comforted me a good deal, however, to hear John say that
she looked just about sixteen years of age at the wedding.
I took the Dock out to supper to-night and heaped coals of fire upon
his head. I let him have everything he wanted and I paid the bill
with a flourish that would have reflected credit upon a Roman
conqueror.
I wish you were going to be here day after to-morrow [_c_] to
go with us to the last base-ball game of the season--a postponed
game between the Chicagos and the St. Louis Club. I am to have a
private box on account of being a mascot.
The Dock has just informed me that he has just rung into one of his
editorials the expression "seismic phenomena," and he seems to be as
tickled as Jack Homer was when he pulled an alleged plum out of that
historic pie.
I don't know what you think about it, but this business of writing
with five different colors of ink is queering me at a terrible rate
and I am sure that I would die of softening of the brain if I were
to keep it up any length of time. But I presume to say that your
sceptical little Bessie will think this the most beautiful page she
ever saw. I am sorry, but not surprised, to hear that your passes
failed you on the Canadian Pacific. You should have applied for them
sooner. I have always [_d_] found railway officials the slowest
people in the world, and they are particularly slow when it comes to
the matter of passes. Of course you are having a charming time with
your home folk; well, you deserve it, and I hope you will make the
most of it. Give my love to them all. You see I regard myself as one
of the family. Let me hear from you whenever you feel like writing,
but don't bother about it.
Ever your friend,
EUGENE 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.
IX
CHICAGO, Tuesday, September the 21st, 1886.
What you say in your letter, dear chuck, is quite true. The paper
has become fairly disreputable of late. The issue of last Saturday
was as base a specimen of daily journalism as ever was inflicted on
a civilized community. Stone (who has returned from Kansas City)
says he was disgusted with that Saturday issue, but I have heard him
suggest no scheme whereby the dawdling condition of affairs is to be
bettered. The whole staff is demoralized, and I believe that, so far
from getting better, matters and things are steadily going to worse.
The outlook is very discouraging. One sensible thing has been done
in hiring Reilly to do regular work. Under the new arrangement he is
to receive forty dollars a week, which Stone considers a big price
for an editorial writer, but which _I_ regard as too measley
for any use. Still Reilly is satisfied, for he will be able to do,
under the new arrangement, as much work for Rauch (of the State
Board of Health) as he has been doing in the past.
Not a word have I heard from my spouse since she went to St.
Louis--in fact, I have never been informed that she arrived in St.
Louis. I thought she might arrive to-night, and so I went down to
the station and sat around on the trucks and things like a colossal
male statue of Patience. The train was late, and, when it came, it
came without her, of course.
Getting back to the office, I find that Dock has had a de'il of a
time. He had to wait this evening to get some data from Yount for a
political editorial. Yount did not show up until half-past eight;
after he had disgorged the necessary information he left the Dock
cocked and primed for quick work. But the Dock had no sooner got
fairly started--in fact, had scarcely reached his first politico
medical phrase--when in came Roche (fresh from his bridal tour
through Colorado) with a thunder-gust of tedious experiences. The
Dock bore the infliction with Christian fortitude and thanked God
when Roche left. In a moment or two thereafter, however, a Kansas
City friend of mine called--very drunk, and not finding me, insisted
upon discussing me, my work, and my prospects, with the Dock. John
Thatcher dropped in subsequently, and so the Dock had quite a
matinée of it. By the time I got back to the office the old
gentleman was as vaporish as a hysterical old woman and he vented
his spleen on my unoffending head. God knows what a trial that man
is to me! Yet I try to be respectful and kind to him, for age is
entitled to that much tribute at least from youth. Since penning
these lines I have read them to the Dock and it would do your soul
good to see him squirm.
We are all well. When are you coming home? Paying postage on daily
letters to Canada is swiftly bankrupting me; then, too, it is a long
time since I had a square meal. But, japes, bourds, and mockages
aside, we miss you and will be glad to see you back. Salutations to
the home folk.
Yours in friendship,
EUGENE FIELD.
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!
[Illustration: A SCENE IN THE DAILY NEWS OFFICE.
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._]
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:
"Since reading your last letter, I have thought that it might be
wise for me to contribute to your programme the following pieces,
which exhibit pretty nearly all styles of my work:
1. Death and the Soldier Prose. 10 minutes.
2. The Humane Lad (new) Verse. 3 minutes
3. The Noontide Hymn (new) Verse. 3 minutes
4. The Merciful Lad (new) Verse. 2 minutes
5. The Divine Lullaby (new) Verse. 2 minutes.
"The reading of these pieces will require not more than twenty
minutes, and I would prefer to give them consecutively. Numbers 2
and 4 are humorous. I do not like 'Death and the Soldier' as much as
'The First Christmas Tree,' the 'Robin and the Violet,' or 'The
Mountain and the Sea'--I mean I do not like it so much as a piece of
fanciful literary work, but it may be more catchy. You know what
your audience will like, and I leave the matter in your hands."
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:
The valued New York Life asserts that Chicago used to rhyme "Goethe"
with "teeth" until the Renaissance set in, since which epoch it has
rhymed it with "ity." This is hardly fair. In a poem read recently
before the Hyde Park Toboggan Slide Lyceum the following couplet
occurred:
_"Until at last John Wolfgang Goethe
Was gathered home, upward of eighty."_
To resume the Fredericton series of letters:
XI
CHICAGO, Sunday the 26th, 1886.
Dear Boy:--Such a close, muggy night this is that I feel little like
writing to you or to anybody else. Yet I am not one to neglect or
shirk a duty. I have been with Kate Field all the evening, and we
have discussed everything from literature down to Sir Charles Dilke
and back again. A mighty smart woman is Kate! My wife returned from
St. Louis last Thursday, bringing about fifty of my books with her.
They were mostly of the Bohn's Library series, but among them was a
set of Boswell's Johnson, Routledge edition of 1859. I want you to
have an edition of this kind, and I have sent to New York to see if
it can be had (cheap). I am reading like a race-horse. The famous
history of Dr. Faustus has done me a power of good, and I have been
highly amused with a volume of Bohn which contains the old Ray
proverbs.
Isn't it about time for you to be getting back home? You have been
gone about sixteen days now, and we are growing more and more
lonesome. Peattie is looked for next Tuesday. Mr. Stone goes out of
town to-morrow--to Dakota, I believe--and is to be absent for a week
also. Shackelford will be back at work to-morrow. You alone are
delinquent. Not only am I lonesome--egad, I am starving! So if you
don't come _in propria persona_, at least _send_ something. The old
Dock has been as grumpy as a bear to-day and I have had a hard time
bearing with him. He announced to me to-day that he thought that I
was fickle--I tell you this so that you may repeat it to Miss Marie
Mathilde, who, I believe, invented that opinion. _Entre nous_:
Hawkins tells me that some of his friends are trying to buy the St.
Paul Dispatch for him. There was a fire in the Chicago Opera House
building to-night, but, unfortunately, no serious damage was done.
Stone is thinking of having the three of us--Dock, you and your
habit--write a department for the Saturday News after the fashion of
the Noctes. Think it all over whilst you are away. What are you
going to bring me for a present? Don't go to buying any foolish
trumpery; you have no money to waste on follies. What I need is a
"Noctes," and any other useful book you may get hold of in New York.
Love to the folks.
Ever yours,
FIELD.
The proposed "Noctes," except the set for Field, never materialized.
XII
CHICAGO, September 28th, 1886.
Dear Nomp:--I am just cunning enough to send this to the care of our
New York office, for I surmise that it will reach there in time to
intercept you. I do not intend that you shall get out of New York
without being reminded of that present you intend bringing me for
being so good as to write to you regularly whilst you were away. I
confidently expect to see you back here next Sunday. On Monday I go
to Indianapolis for two or three days, and I heartily wish you were
going with me to help bear the expense of the trip. In fact, I am so
anxious to have you along that I would cheerfully consent to letting
you pay everything. But at any rate I agree to take supper with you
at Mr. Pullman's godless hotel the night you return. The Dock
invited me out to supper to-night. We went to the Drum. Suspecting
that I was going to exceed his capability of payment, he handed me
over a dollar--all the money he had. I had the check charged to me
and kept the dollar. Whereat the Dock grieves passing sore.
I have begun to surmise that my remarks about Literary Life will
lead to Miss Cleveland's retirement from the editorship of that
delectable mush-bucket. The signs all point that way now. I enclose
you a letter to my friend Mitchell of the Sun. Tell him about the
Goethe poem. I promised to send him a copy of it when Literary Life
printed it. Scrutinize young Kingsbury's daily life carefully.
Heaven forefend all the temptations that compass him in the modern
Babylon. Give my love to Mr. Scribner.
Yours as ever,
FIELD.
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:
_THE ROSE
Since the days of old Adam the welkin has rung
With the praises of sweet-scented posies,
And poets in rapturous phrases have sung
The paramount beauty of roses.
Wheresoever she 'bides, whether resting in lanes
Or gracing the proud urban bowers,
The red, royal rose her distinction maintains
As the one regnant queen among flowers.
How joyous are we of the West when we find
That Fate, with her gifts ever chary,
Has decreed that the rose who is queen of her kind
Shall bloom on our wild Western prairie.
Let us laugh at the East as an impotent thing
With envy and jealousy crazy,
While grateful Chicago is happy to sing
In praise of the rose, she's a daisy._
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.:
CHICAGO, June 26th, 1887.
Dear Sirs:--I am informed that one of the leading _littérateurs_
of this city is about to produce a book under your auspices.
Representing, as I do, the prominent advertising bureau of the West,
I desire to contribute one page of advertisements to this work, and
I am prepared to pay therefor cash rates. I enclose copy, and would
like to have the advertisements printed on the fly-leaf which will
face the _finis_ of the book in question.
Yours in the cause of literature,
FELIX J. BOSBYSHELL,
For Bosbyshell & Co.
This was accompanied by a Publisher's Note, which Field also supplied:
It is entirely foreign to our custom to accept advertisements for
our books; but we recognize the exceptional nature of the case
and the fine literary character and high tone of the Messrs.
Bosbyshells' offering, and we cheerfully give it place over leaf.
In his discriminating and felicitous introduction to his friend's
book, Julian Hawthorne said: "The present little volume comprises
mainly a bubbling forth of delightful badinage and mischievous
raillery, directed at some of the foibles and pretensions of his
enterprising fellow-townsmen, who, however, can by no means be allowed
to claim a monopoly of either the pretensions or the foibles herein
exploited. Laugh, but look to yourself: _mutato nomine, de te fabula
narratur_. It is a book which should, and doubtless will, attain a
national popularity; but admirable, and, indeed, irresistible though
it be in its way, it represents a very inconsiderable fraction of the
author's real capacity. We shall hear of Eugene Field in regions of
literature far above the aim and scope of these witty and waggish
sketches. But as the wise orator wins his audience at the outset of
his speech by the human sympathy of a smile, so does our author, in
these smiling pages, establish genial relations with us before
betaking himself to more ambitious flights."
[Illustration: PAGE OF ADVERTISEMENTS FROM "CULTURE'S GARLAND."
---------------------------------------------------------------------
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(Indorsed by Theodore Thomas,) |
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----------------------------------|
VETERINARY HOSPITAL. | I have on hand a complete set of
| British Half-calf Poets (120
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| I will exchange for a St. Bernard
POLYCARP SEARS, V.S. | Pup. Must be warranted to have
| had the distemper also, 1 folio
Summer Semester begins July 5. | Shakespeare.
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---------------------------------------------------------------------]
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:
_"Il bianco di cazerni della graze fio bella
Di teruca si mazzoni quel' antisla Somno della."
--Petrarch.
"He who conduces to a fellow's sleep
Should noble fame and goodly riches reap."
--Tasso.
"Sleep mocks at death: when weary of the earth
We do not die--we take an upper berth."
--Dante._
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:
_THE MERCIFUL LAD
Through all my life the poor shall find
In me a constant friend,
And on the weak of every kind
My mercy shall attend.
The dumb shall never call on me
In vain for kindly aid,
And in my hands the blind shall see
A bounteous alms display'd.
In all their walks the lame shall know
And feel my goodness near,
And on the deaf will I bestow
My gentlest words of cheer.
'Tis by such pious works as these--
Which I delight to do--
That men their fellow-creatures please,
And please their Maker, too._
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:
_For there was Egypt in her eye--
The languor of the South--
Persia was in her perfumed sigh,
And Turkey in her mouth._
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:
THE GOLDEN WEEK, JULY 15TH-20TH, 1889.
Monday, July 15, "Prof. Vere de Blaw."
Tuesday, "Horace to His Patron," "Poet and
King," "Alaskan Lullaby," "Lizzie," "Horace I,
30."
Wednesday, "The Conversazzhyony."
Thursday, "Egyptian Folk Song," Béranger's
"To My Old Coat," "Horace's Sailor and Shade,"
"Uhland's Chapel," "Guess," "Alaskan Balladry."
Friday, "Marthy's Younkit," "Fairy and Child,"
"A Heine Love Song," "Jennie," "Horace I, 27."
Saturday, "The Happy Isles of Horace," Béranger's
"Ma Vocation," "Child and Mother," "The
Bibliomaniac's Bride," "Alaskan Balladry, No. 2,"
"Mediæval Eventide Song."
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:
DEAR MR. GRAY: I send herewith copies of poems which have appeared
in the Daily News this week. I am proud to have been the first
newspaper man to have made the record of a column of original verse
every day for a week; I am greatly mistaken if this feeling of
pardonable pride is not shared by you. I regard some of the poems as
my best work so far, but I shall do better yet if my life is spared.
We are rusticating here by the side of a Wisconsin lake this summer.
Farm board seems to agree with us and we shall in all likelihood
remain here until September. I have been grievously afflicted with
nervous dyspepsia for a month, but am much better just now. The
paper gives me a three months' European vacation whensoever I wish
to go. At present I intend to go in the winter and shall take Julia
and Mary (Trotty) with me. I do wish that Mrs. Gray would write to
me; I want to know all about her home affairs and especially about
Mrs. Bacon--my grudge against her _in re_ mince pie has expired
under the statute of limitations. God bless you, dear friend--you
and yours,
Affectionately,
EUGENE FIELD.
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:
[Illustration: "THE ALLIAUNCE".
Come hither, gossip, let us sit
beneath this plaisaunt vine;
I fain wolde counsel thee a bit
whiles that we sip our wine.
The air is cool and we can hear
the voicing of the kine
come from the pasture lot anear
the styes where grunt the swine.
See how that Tom, my sone, doth fare
with posies in his hands--
Methinks he minds to mend him where
thy dochter waiting stands.
Boys will be boys and girls be girls
for Godde hath willed it soe;
Thy dochter Tib hath goodly curles--
my Toms none fole, I trom.
His evening chores ben all to-done,
and she hath fed the pigges,
and now the village green upon
they daunce and sing their jigges.
His squeaking crowd the fiddler plies,
And Tom and Tib can see
The babies in echoders eyes--
saye, neighbour, shall it bee?
Nould give Frank in goodly store--
that I; in sooth, ne can;
but I have steers and hoggs gillore--
and thats what makes the man!
Your family trees and blade be naught
In these progressive years--
The only blode that counts (goes?) for aught
Is blode of piggs and steeres!
So, gossip, let us found a line
On mouton, porke and beefe;
The which in coming years shall shine
In cultures world as chief.
Sic stout and braw a sone as mine
I lay youle never see,
and theres nae huskier wench than thine--
Saye, neighbor, shall it bee?]
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 LOST SCHOONER
Hard by ye lake, beneath ye shade,
Upon a somer's daye,
There ben a faire Chicago maid
That greeting sore did saye:
I wonder where can Willie bee--
O waly, waly! woe is mee!
He fared him off on Aprille 4,
And now 'tis August 2,
I stood upon ye slimy shoore
And swere me to be trewe;
I sawe yt schippe bear out to sea--
O waly, waly! woe is mee!
"Ye schippe she ben as braw an hulk
As ever clave ye tides,
And in her hold she bore a bulk
Of new-mown pelts and hides--
Pelts ben they all of high degree--
O waly, waly! woe is mee!
"Ye schippes yt saile untill ye towne
Ffor mee no plaisaunce hath,
Syn most of them ben loded down
With schingle, slabs and lath;
That ither schipp--say, where is shee?
O waly, waly! woe is mee!
"Ye Mary Jane ben lode with logs,
Ye Fairy Belle with beer--
Ye Mackinack ben Ffull of hoggs
And ither carnal cheer;
But nony pelt nor hide I see--
O waly, waly! woe is mee!
"And ither schippes bring salt and ore,
And some bring hams and sides,
And some bring garden truck gillore--
But none brings pelt and hides!
Where can my Willie's schooner be--
O waly, waly! woe is mee!"
So wailed ye faire Chicago maide
Upon ye shady shore,
And swounded oft whiles yt she prayed
Her loon to come oncet more,
And crying, "Waly, woe is mee,"
That maiden's harte did brast in three._
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:
PRIVATE CIRCULAR
CHICAGO, February 23d, 1889.
Dear Sir:--It is proposed to issue privately, and as soon as
possible, a limited edition of my work in verse and in prose.
Negotiations for the publication of two volumes are now in progress
with the University Press at Cambridge.
1. It is proposed to print one volume (200 pages) of my best verse,
and one volume (300 pages) of tales and sketches. These books will
be printed upon heavy uncut paper and in the best style known to the
University printer.
2. The edition will be limited to 200 sets (each set of two
volumes), and none will be put upon sale.
3. It is proposed to pay for the publication by subscriptions. One
hundred (100) shares are offered to my personal friends at ten
dollars a share, each subscriber to receive two (2) sets of the
books.
If you wish to subscribe to this enterprise, please fill out the
accompanying blank (next page) and send it before March 25th, with
money-order, draft, or check, to Mr. Slason Thompson, editor of
"America," who has consented to act as custodian of the funds
necessary to the accomplishment of the purpose specified.
Very sincerely yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
The accompanying blank addressed to me read:
Find enclosed ------ for ------ ($ ) representing my subscription
for ------ share ------ in the two-volume publication of Eugene
Field's original work.
------
------ P.O. Address.
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:
CAMBRIDGE, MASS., February 5, 1889.
SLASON THOMPSON, ESQ.,
Dear Sir:--In your request for a rough estimate of two volumes of 200
pages each, on paper 5 x 8 and printed page 2-1/2 x 4-1/2 you forgot
to state the number of copies desired and the size of the type. We
enclose two samples of paper that we can find. We have doubts about
finding enough of the 5 x 8, but think we can that of the 5 x 7-1/2.
We prefer the former. If the edition is small--say 100 or 150--we
can, we think, scrape up enough of the 5 x 8. The size of your page
could not, we think, be improved on. We also enclose samples of long
primer, bourgeois and brevier sizes of type. [Here followed a detailed
estimate on 250 copies of bourgeois type of $668.70 for the two
volumes.]
We should be most happy to execute the work. Hoping to hear from you
again,
We are respectfully yours,
JOHN WILSON & SON.
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:
CAMBRIDGE, April 4th, 1889.
Dear Sir:--After much delay we have succeeded in finding a paper
manufacturer in Massachusetts (the only one in America) who has just
commenced making a paper similar to that used in "Riley's
Old-Fashioned Roses" (printed on English hand-made paper which I had
sent them). To-morrow we shall send you a specimen (printed), also a
specimen of another paper which we used some time ago on an _édition
de luxe_ of "Memorials of Canterbury" and of Westminster Abbey for
Randolph & Co., of New York. No. 1 is a hand-made paper 16 x 20/28, at
60c. a lb.; No. 2, a machine made 20 x 22/60 at 20c. a lb.
ESTIMATE No. 1.
For comp. and electro (say 500 pages in the
two vols.) about $400.00
For 8 boxes for plates, 75 cts. 6.00
For 250 copies presswork (2 vols.), 66 forms,
$1.50 99.00
For Paper, 16 x 20/28, 20 reams, $16.80 336.00
For Binding 250 copies, 500 (2 vols.) 25c.
Parchment back and corners 125.00
For Dies, say 10.00
______
$976.00
Alterations from copy, 50 cts. an hour. (The estimate on No. 2 paper
was $727.00.)
We return "Riley." Both of these papers have the rough, or deckle,
edge.
We are anxious to make this book in the _best style_, and of American
materials if possible.
Respectfully yours,
JOHN WILSON & SON.
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:
University Press,
CAMBRIDGE, MASS., October 19th, 1889.
SLASON THOMPSON, ESQ.
DEAR SIR: Herewith please find our bill for printing and binding
_Profitable Tales_ and _Western Verse_.
We shall send the two copies of each volume (unnumbered) to secure the
copyright, and when the certificate is received, will send it to you.
These copies are over and above the 250 copies sent to you.
Regretting the delay incident to the bringing out of two such volumes,
and hoping that the author and his friends may be gratified and
pleased with their mechanical execution, we are,
Respectfully yours,
JOHN WILSON & SON.
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:
Trotty is delighted with the illustrated paper, and she is going to
write you a letter, I think. Melvin is on the Indiana farm again
this summer, and Pinny is visiting his Aunt Etta [Mrs. Roswell
Field] in Kansas City. The rest of us are boarding with Mr. and Mrs.
Reed, and the house is full of friends. We like our quarters very
much, but shall give them up on the first of November, as Julia,
Trotty, and I will go to Europe in December. The present plan is to
go first to London, where I wish to spend most of my time. We shall
want to put Trotty in a school near Paris, and her mother will have
to make the tour of Italy. Mary French (who reared me) will be with
us, and she will go with Julia on the Italian circuit. As for me, I
want to spend most of my time in England, with two weeks in Paris
and a few days in Holland. Wouldn't it be wise for me to live in one
of the suburbs of London? I want to get cheap but desirable
quarters--a pleasant place, not fashionable, and _not too far from
the old-book shops_. My intention is to be absent three months, but
I may deem it wise to stay six. Julia and Trotty can stay as long as
they please. I should like to have Trotty learn French.
Matters and things here in the office peg along about as usual--yes,
just the same. The new building in the alley will be ready for
occupancy by the first of September, but I suspect it will not be
much of an improvement upon the present quarters. Dr. Reilly is the
same old 2 x 4. He got $250.00 for extra work the other day, and we
have been tolerably prosperous ever since. [Here Field branched off
into personal gossip about pretty nearly every one of their mutual
friends in Denver and Chicago, having something to say about no less
than nineteen persons in fourteen lines of his diamond chirography.]
It is nearly time for Stone [who had sold out his interest in the
Daily News to Mr. Lawson] to reach Paris. I wish you'd tell him that
I propose to *%!&[see Note below] him at billiards under the shadow
of St. Paul's in London next Christmas time. Dear boy, I am
overjoyed at the prospect of seeing you so soon. We speak of you so
often, and always affectionately. You may look for a package from me
about the 1st of August; I shall send it to the care of the Herald
office in Paris. I have dedicated to you what I regard as my
tenderest bit of western dialect verse, and I will send you a copy
of the paper when it appears. Meanwhile I enclose a little bit,
which you may fancy. God bless you.
[Transcriber's Note: The *%!& stands for "expletive deleted" and is
intentional.]
"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:
_Where the magpies on the sollum rocks strange
flutter'n shadders make,
An' the pines an' hemlocks wonder that the
sleeper doesn't wake:
That the mountain brook sings lonesome-like
an' loiters on its way.
Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its
play._
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.
[Illustration: ROSWELL FIELD.]
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:
DEAR MR. GRAY: Had I not been so grievously afflicted with
dyspepsia, I should certainly have visited St. Louis before starting
for Europe. The attack of indigestion with which I am suffering
began last June, resulting from irregularity in hours of eating and
sleeping and from too severe application to work. The contemplated
voyage will do me good, I think, and I hope to gather much valuable
material while I am abroad. I shall seek to acquaint myself with
such local legends as may seem to be capable of treatment in verse.
Most of my time will be spent in London, in Paris, and in Holland. I
expect to find among the Dutch much to inspire me. I carry numerous
letters of introduction--all kinds of letters, except letters of
credit. I regret that the potent name of Rothschild will not figure
in the list of my trans-Atlantic acquaintances. I am exceedingly
sorry that Roswell is not to go with us: with me he would have had
advantages at his command which he cannot have when he goes alone. I
am looking daily for my books; I rather regret now that I did not
print a larger edition, for a great many demands are coming in from
outsiders. I should like to publish a volume of my paraphrases of
Horace while I am in London, and maybe I shall do so. Do give my
love to Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Bacon. I think of you all very often, and
nothing would give me greater delight than to pop in upon you and
have a two hours' chat in that old familiar second-story back room.
It may be, Mr. Gray, that you and I shall never take one another by
the hand again, but I wish you to know that I shall always think of
you with feelings of gratitude, of affection, and of reverence. And
I feel a particular pleasure in saying these words to you upon the
eve of my departure upon a journey which is to separate me at least
temporarily from the home, the people, and the associations which
must always be foremost in my affections. God bless you.
As ever, yours,
EUGENE FIELD. Chicago, September the 30th, 1889.
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:
MY DEAR COWEN: Knowing that you will be anxious to know how we are
getting along. I drop you this line to tell you that we have taken
lodgings at No. 20 Alfred Place, Bedford Square, and we are quite
contented. I have written to Moffett asking him whether we ought to
locate the children in Paris or in Germany. You know that my means
are very limited, and my desire to do the right thing is necessarily
hampered. I met Colonel John C. Reid for the first time to-night
[Mr. Reid was Mr. Bennett's manager]. He is in favor of Paris, but
of course he does not understand how really d----d poor I am.
The children have done Tussaud's and the Zoo, and will next make a
descent on the Crystal Palace. They sincerely lament your absence
from the city. When we were in Liverpool, Pinny was joshing Daisy
because he had no money, and Daisy said: "I'll be all right when I
see Mr. Cowen." It has pained all three boys because you fled from
their approach.
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:
20 ALFRED PLACE, BEDFORD SQ., LONDON, W.C.
MY DEAR COWEN: We have waited a week to hear from Moffett, whom I
addressed in care of the Herald office in Paris, but in lieu of any
answer we are going to start the children off for Hanover in a few
days. Mrs. Field is going to take them over, and I am to remain in
London, since travel disagrees with me so severely. I don't like the
idea of separation, but this seems to be a sacrifice which I ought
to make. I doubt very much whether I visit any other European city
except Paris; I am greatly pleased with London, every sight
awakening such a flood of reminiscence. If I were not so
disgracefully poor. I could pick up a host of charming knick-knacks
here; as it is, I have to shut my eyes and groan, and pass by on the
other side.
I have just finished "Yvytot," the first purely fanciful ballad I
ever wrote. I have been at work on it for two months, and I think it
is the best piece of literary work I have done, although it is
somewhat above the class of work that is popular. You will like it
for its rhythmical smoothness and for its weirdness. But Mrs. Field
prefers "Krinken," "Marthy's Younkit," _et id omne genus_. My next
verse will be "John Smith, U.S.A.," a poem suggested by seeing this
autograph at Gilley's. In it I shall use the Yankee, the Hoosier,
the southern and the western dialect, wondering whether this Smith
is the Smith I knew in Massachusetts, or the Smith from Louisville,
or the Smith from Terry Hut, or (last of all) the Smith from the Red
Hoss Mountain district. I wish you were here to help me throw my
ideas into shape. How do you like this handsome paper?
Affectionately,
EUGENE FIELD.
Tuesday, October 29th, 1889.
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:
MY DEAR COWEN: I am now (so to speak) in God's hands. Getting the
four children fitted out for school and paying a quarter's tuition
in advance has reduced me to a condition of financial weakness which
fills me with the gloomiest apprehension. You of fertile resource
must tell me what I am to do. I will not steal; to beg I am ashamed.
My bank account shows £15. Verily, I am in hell's hole.
Had I received your letter in time I should have gone to Paris with
the children. Not a word have I heard from Moffett, and your letter
reached me after my return from Germany. Instinct all along has told
me "Paris," but reason has counselled "Germany." I have yielded to
reason, and the children are in Hanover--Trotty at the school of
Fraulein Gensen, Allee Strasse, No. 1, and the three boys with
Professor C. Rühle (prophetic name!), Heinrich Strasse, 26 A.
Parting from them was like plucking my heart from me; but they are
contented. The night before they went to live with the professor,
Pinny and Daisy were plotting to "do" that worthy man, but I do not
fear for him, as he is a very husky gentleman. It seems the smart
thing now to keep the children at Hanover for six months; then, if a
change be deemed advisable, I shall take them to Paris.
My health appears to be better. I have written five poems, which are
highly commended. My books are out, and, though I have not clapped
eyes on them yet, they are being highly praised by the American
press. I shall see that you get copies. So far, we have been about
but very little. Our finances are too cramped to admit of our doing
or seeing much. But we may be happy yet. Julia joins me in
affectionate assurances.
Ever sincerely yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
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:
Very many times during the last three months, dear Mr. Gray, have I
thought of you and yours, and upon several occasions have I been at
the point of sitting down and writing to you. There is perhaps no
one to whom letter-writing is as a practice--I had almost said
habit--more of a horror than it is to me. The conventional letter
seems to me to be a dreadful thing--twice dreadful (as Portia's
quality of mercy was twice blessed)--an affliction to the sender and
equally an affliction to the recipient. But you and I seldom write
letters of this kind. I do not think I ever before received a letter
that moved me so deeply as did the letter you sent me just before I
left Chicago. I am not ashamed to admit that I like to know that I
have your regard, but the whole tone of this letter was that of a
kindly affection which was very comforting to me, and for which I
shall always feel deeply grateful to you. My health has improved
much since I last wrote to you. I am now feeling quite as I felt
when I was in my original condition--perhaps I should say my normal
condition of original sin. For a week past I have been confined to
the house with a catarrhal cold, but aside from this temporary local
ailment my health is vastly better. I should be in the mood to
return home at once were it not for a sense that being here I should
further improve the opportunity to gather material that may be of
value to me in my work when I get back into the rut again.
I have a very great desire to go to Norway and the Orkney Islands
for a month in order to see those countries and their people, for I
am much interested in North of Europe romance, and I am ambitious to
write tales about the folk of those particular points. I think it
possible that I shall find a way to gratify this urgent desire
before returning to America, although with the children at school I
am hardly prepared just now to say what further sacrifice I shall be
able to make in order to achieve my project.
The children are in school at Hanover. Trotty is at the girls'
school of a Miss Julia Gensen, No. 1 Allee Strasse, and the three
boys are with Prof. C. Rühle, No. 26 Heinrich Strasse. I give the
exact localities, for the reason that Mrs. Gray may kindly take the
notion one of these days to write to the little exiles. The children
are healthy and happy; we have not seen them for nine weeks, but we
hear from them every week, and we are assured that they are making
desirable progress. In her last letter Trotty says, with a _naîveté_
that is simply electric: "Nobody would guess that the boys were your
boys--they are so gentlemanly!" Prof. Rühle is an old instructor of
boys, and for several years he was a professor at Woolwich
Academy.... Pinny is acquiring the German so rapidly that he is
accounted quite a marvel by his instructor and his associates.
Melvin and Trotty are not so quick; they progress slowly, but Daisy
seems to be doing admirably. Hanover is a lovely city; I enjoyed my
week there, and upon our way back to London Julia and I sojourned
four days in Holland, to our great delight.
Here in London our life has been exceedingly quiet, but useful. I
have met a number of excellent people, and have received some social
attention. I have done considerable work, mostly in the way of
verse. I wish you would write to John F. Ballantyne, asking him to
send you copies of the paper containing my work since I came here. I
am anxious to have you see it, particularly my poem in the Christmas
Daily News, and my tale in the Christmas number of the Chicago
America. I am just now at work on a Folklore tale of the Orkney
Islands, and I am enjoying it very much. I hope to get it off to the
paper this week. I am hoping that my two books pleased you; they are
the beginning only, for if I live I shall publish many beautiful
books. Yesterday I got a letter from a New York friend volunteering
to put up the money for publishing a new volume of verse at $20 a
copy, the number of copies to be limited to fifty. Of course I can't
accede to the proposition. But I am thinking of publishing a volume
of verse in some such elaborate style, for my verse accumulates
fast, and I love to get out lovely books! The climate here in London
is simply atrocious--either rain or fog all the time. Yet I should
not complain, for it seems to do me good. Julia is well, and she
joins me in wishing you and yours the best of God's blessings.
May you and I meet again, dear venerated friend, this side of the
happy Islands!
Ever affectionately yours,
EUGENE FIELD.
London, January 9th, 1890.
Do give my best love to Mrs. Bacon, and tell her that, being a
confirmed dyspeptic now, I forgive her that mince-pie. My permanent
address is care New York Herald Office, 110 Strand, W.C., London.
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:
PHILADELPHIA, December 20th, 1889.
MR. SLASON THOMPSON--
DEAR SIR:
Enclosed find my check for $20 (Twenty Dollars) for No. 1 copy Mr.
Eugene Field's proposed book of "Horace"--printed on Japanese proof
and pasted on Whatman's hand-made paper, with etched vignettes,
initial and tail-pieces, rubricated throughout.
Very truly,
FRANCIS WILSON.
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:
PHILADELPHIA, December 27th, 1889.
MR. SLASON THOMPSON--
REVEREND SIGNOR:
It is Mr. Field's intention to produce a Horace at $20 a copy, the
edition limited to fifty; printed on Japanese 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
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:
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
documents from the grand old man proving its identity. 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
assistant 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. God 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, 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":
_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 dilig
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