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

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

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

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

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

As ever, sincerely yours,

EUGENE FIELD. 420 Fullerton Ave., Chicago.

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

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

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

Affectionately yours,

EUGENE FIELD.

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



CHAPTER VII

IN THE SAINTS' AND SINNERS' CORNER

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

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

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

And:

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

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

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

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

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

_GEORGE MILLARD IS HOME!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Swete friend, for Jesus's sake forbeare To buy ye lake thou findest here, For that when I do get ye pelf, I meane to buy ye boke my selfe.

Eugene Field._

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

SOUVENIRS FROM EGYPT

At a meeting of the bibliomaniacs in the Saints and Sinners Corner yesterday, Mr. E.G. Mason announced that he was about to start for Africa. It was his intention to leave Chicago on the morrow, and sail from New York on Saturday.

Mr. G.M. Millard: "Do you go in the interests of the Newberry Library, or as the agent of Mr. Charles F. Gunther?"

Mr. Mason: "I go for pleasure, but during my absence I shall cast around now and then for relics which I know my good friend, Mr. Poole, desires to possess. For example, I am informed that the Newberry Library is in need of a stock of papyrus, and if I can secure a mummy or two I shall certainly do so. Indeed, I hope to bring back a valise full of relics."

The Rev. Mr. Bristol: "Maybe the gentleman would like to borrow a trunk?"

In the course of further parley it transpired that Mr. Mason contemplated extending his tour to Syria, and he answered in the affirmative Mr. Slason Thompson's inquiry whether he carried with him from his venerable friend from Evanston (Dr. Poole) a letter of introduction to the Pooles of Siloam and Bethesda. Mr. Mason only agreed to fill the commissions involving procurement of the following precious souvenirs:

An autograph letter of Rameses I, for the Rev. Mr. Bristol.

A quart of chestnuts from the groves of Lebanon, for Colonel J.S. Norton.

One of Cleopatra's needles, for Mrs. F.S. Peabody.

The original Pipe of Pan, for Mr. Cox's collection of Tobacco-ana.

A genuine hieroglyphical epitaph, for Dr. Charles Gilman Smith.

A live unicorn for Mr. W.F. Poole; also the favorite broom-stick of the witch of Endor.

A letter was read from Mr. Francis Wilson, the comedian, announcing that the iniquitous operations of the McKinley act had practically paralyzed the trade in Napoleona. A similar condition obtained in the autograph market, the native mills engaged in manufacturing autographs having doubled their prices since the enforcement of the tariff discriminating against autographs made in foreign factories.

A committee, consisting of Messrs. R.M. Dornan, F.H. Head, and R.M. Whipple, was authorized to investigate the alarming rumor that the Rev. Dr. Gunsaulus had publicly offered to donate to one Roberts a certain sum of money that clearly ought to be expended for first editions and Cromwelliana.

Mr. Harry L. Hamlin announced that he had a daughter. (Applause.)

Mr. W.H. Wells: "Give title and date, please."

Mr. Hamlin: "She is entitled Dorothy (first edition), Chicago, 1890, 16mo, handsome frontispiece and beautiful type; I have had her handsomely bound, and I regard her as a priceless specimen of Americana." (Applause.)

Various suggestions were offered as to the character of the gift which the Saints and Sinners should formally present to this first babe that had accrued to a member of the organization. Finally, it was determined to present a large silver spoon in behalf of the Saints and Sinners collectively, and Dr. Poole was requested to draft a presentation address.

Mr. Hamlin feelingly thanked his friends; he should guard the token of their friendship jealously and affectionately.

The Rev. Mr. Bristol: "It won't be safe unless you keep it in a trunk—better get a trunk, brother, ere it be too late—better get a trunk!"

The meeting adjourned after singing the beautiful hymn, collected, adapted, and arranged by the Rev. Dr. Stryker, beginning:

_"Though some, benight in sin, delight To glut their vandal cravings, These hands of mine shall not incline To tear out old engravings."

January 22d, 1891._

PROPOSED CURE FOR BIBLIOMANIA

A smile of exceeding satisfaction illuminated General McClurg's features as he walked into the corner yesterday noon and found that historic spot crowded with Saints and Sinners. Said he to Mr. Millard: "George, you are a famous angler!"

Mr. Millard assumed a self-deprecatory expression. "I make no pretentions at all," answered he, modestly. "My only claim is that I am not upon earth for my health."

"I see our handsome friend, Guy Magee, here to-day," observed General McClurg. "I thought he had opened out a book-shop of his own."

"So he has," replied Mr. Millard, "at 24 North Clark Street, and a mighty good book-shop it is, too. I visited the place last week, and was surprised to see a number of beautiful books in stock."

"Let's see," said General McClurg, "24 North Clark Street is the other side of the bridge, isn't it?"

"Yes, just the other side—five minutes' walk from the Court House. Magee proposed to cater to the higher class of purchasers only, and with this end in view he has selected a choice line of books; in splendid bindings and in illustrated books he has a particularly large stock. Meanwhile he remains an active member of the noble fraternity that has made this corner famous. On Thanksgiving day we are going in a body to look at his fine things, and to hold what our Saints call a praise-service in the snug, warm, cozy shop."

"That being the case, I will go, too," said General McClurg.

The Saints and Sinners were full of the Christmas spirit yesterday, and they were telling one another what they meant to buy for Christmas gifts. Dr. W.F. Poole said he had designs upon a set of Grose's "Antiquities," bound in turkey-red morocco. In answer to Mr. F.M. Larned's inquiry as to whom he intended to give this splendid present, Dr. Poole said: "To myself, of course! Christmas comes but once a year, and at that time of all times are we justified in gratifying the lusts of the spirit. (Applause.) Nobody can scold us if we choose to be good to ourselves at Christmas."

"I think we all have reason to felicitate Brother Poole," said Mr. Charles J. Barnes. "Happening to visit the nord seit the other day, I saw that work was progressing on the Newberry Library. I should like to know when the corner-stone of that splendid edifice is to be laid."

"The date has not yet been fixed," answered Dr. Poole, "but when it is laid it will be with the most elaborate public ceremonies. The corner-stone will be hollowed out, and into this cavity will be placed a number of priceless and curious relics."

Mr. Millard: "The Saints and Sinners should be represented at those ceremonies and in that hollow corner-stone."

Mr. Poole: "Of course. As for myself, I shall contribute the stuffed tarantula which I brought back with me from Arizona."

Dr. F.M. Bristol: "Another interesting relic that should go into that corner-stone is the stump of the cigar which the Rev. Dr. Gunsaulus smoked at camp-meeting."

Dr. Gunsaulus: "I will cheerfully contribute that relic if upon his part Brother Bristol will contribute his portrait of Eliphalet W. Blatchford disguised as Falstaff." (Cheers.)

The Rev. Dr. Stryker: "I have a completed uncut set of 'Monk and Knight,' which I will be happy to devote to the same cause."

Dr. Gunsaulus: "The contributions will be hardly complete without a box of those matches with which Brother Stryker wanted to kindle a bonfire which was to consume the body of the heretical Briggs. But speaking of that novel of mine ('Monk and Knight') reminds me that I wrote a poem on the railway the other day, and I will read it now if there be no objection." (Cries of 'Read it,' 'Go ahead.') "The poem, humble as it is, was suggested by seeing a fellow-passenger fall asleep over his volume of Bion and Moschus. This is the way it goes:

_Wake, wake him not; the book lies in his hands— Bion and Moschus smile within his sleep; Tired of our world, he lives in other lands— Wanders in Greece, where fauns and satyrs leap.

Dull, even sweet, the rumble of the train— 'Tis Circe singing near her golden loom; No garish lamps afflicted his charmed brain— Demeter's poppies brighten o'er her tomb.

But half-awake he looks on starlit trees— Sees but the huntress in her eager chase; Wake, wake him not upon the fragrant breeze, Let horn and hound announce her rapid pace.

Blithe shepherds pipe within the Dorian vales, Hellenic airs blow through their sun-bright hair, To him alone the wooers whisper tales— Bloomed kind Calypso's islet ne'er so fair.

Unbanished gods roam o'er the thymy hills, Calm shadows slumber on the purple grapes, Hid are the dryads near the star-gemmed rills, Far through the moonlight wander love-lorn shapes.

Gray olives shade the dancing-naiads' smile, Flutes loose their raptures in the murmuring stream, These, these are visions modern cares beguil— Echoes of the old Greek's dream._"

Mr. Stryker: "That is good poetry, Brother Gunsaulus. If you would tone it down a little, and contrive to work in a touch of piety here and there, I would be glad to print it in my next volume of hymns."

Mr. H.B. Smith: "I did not suppose that our reverend Brother Gunsaulus ever attempted poetry. His verses have that grace and lilt that are the prime essentials to successful comic-opera libretto writing. When I want a collaborateur, I shall know whom to apply to."

Mr. Bristol: "The brother's poem indicates the influence of the Homer school. Can it be possible that our Plymouth Church friend has fallen into the snare spread for him by the designing members of the South Side Hellenic organization?"

Dr. Gunsaulus: "Since Brother Bristol seems so anxious to know, I will admit that I have recently joined the Armour Commandery of the South Side Sons of Homer."

Mr. Slason Thompson, heading off the discussion threatened by Mr. Gunsaulus's declaration, arose and informed the company that he was prepared to confer an inestimable boon upon his brother Saints and brother Sinners. "You are all," said he, "victims to an exacting and fierce mania—a madness that is unremitting in the despotism directing every thought and practice in your waking hours, and filling your brains with gilded fancies during your nocturnal periods of repose. (Applause.) Many of you are so advanced in this mania that the mania itself has become seemingly your very existence—(cheers)—and the feet of others are fast taking hold upon that path which leads down into the hopeless depths of this insanity. (Prolonged applause.) Hitherto bibliomania has been regarded as incurable; humanity has looked upon it as the one malady whose tortures neither salve, elixir, plaster, poultice, nor pill, can ever alleviate; it has been pronounced immedicable, immitigable, and irremediable.

"For a long time," continued Mr. Thompson. "I have searched for an antidote against this subtle and terrific poison of bibliomania. At last, heaven be praised! I have found the cure! (Great sensation.) Yes, a certain remedy for this madness is had in Keeley's bichloride of gold bibliomania bolus, a packet of which I now hold in my hand! Through the purging and regenerating influences of this magic antidote, it is possible for every one of you to shake off the evil with which you are cursed, and to restore that manhood which you have lost in your insane pursuit of wretched book fancies. The treatment requires only three weeks' time. You take one of these boluses just before each meal and one before going to bed. In about three days you become aware that your olfactories are losing that keenness of function which has enabled you to nose out old books and to determine the age thereof merely by sniffing at the binding. In a week distaste for book-hunting is exhibited, and this increases until at the end of a fortnight you are ready to burn every volume you can lay hands on. No man can take this remedy for three weeks without being wholly and permanently cured of bibliomania. I have also another gold preparation warranted to cure the mania for old prints, old china, old silver, and old furniture."

Mr. Thompson had no sooner ended his remarks when a score of Saints and Sinners sprang up to protest against this ribald quackery. The utmost confusion prevailed for several moments. Finally the venerable Dr. Poole was accorded the floor. "Far be it from me," said he, solemnly, "to lend my approval to any enterprise that contemplates bibliomania as a disease instead of a crime. (Applause.) I live in Evanston, the home of that saintly woman Miss Willard, and under her teachings I have become convinced that bibliomania is a sin which must be eradicated by piety and not by pills. Rather than be cured by heretical means, I prefer not to be cured at all." (Great cheering.)

Remarks in a similar vein were made by Messrs. Ballantyne, Larned, Hamlin, Smith, Barnes, Cole, Magee, Taylor, and Carpenter. Dr. Gunsaulus seemed rather inclined to try the cure, but he doubted whether he could stick to it for three weeks. Finally, a compromise was effected by the adoption of the following resolutions submitted by the Rev. Dr. Bristol:

"Resolved, that we, Saints and Sinners, individually and collectively, defer, postpone, suspend, and delay all experiment and essay with the bichloride bibliomania bolus until after the approaching holiday season, and furthermore,

"Resolved, that at the expiration of this specified interdicted season we will see about it."

Suspecting treachery, Dr. Gunsaulus secured the adoption of another resolution forbidding any member of the organization to secure or apply for an option on the said boluses before formal action with reference to the vaunted cure had been taken by the Saints and Sinners in regular meeting.

November, 1891.

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

Francis Wilson, the comedian, is the possessor of the chair which Sir Walter Scott used in his library at Abbotsford. A beautiful bit of furniture it is, and well worth, aside from all sentimental consideration, the large price paid by the enterprising and discriminating curio. As we understand it, Bouton, the New York dealer, had this chair on exhibition for several months. Mr. Wilson happened along one day, having just returned from a professional tour in the West. Mr. William Winter, dramatic critic of the Tribune, was looking at the chair; he had been after it for some time, but had been waiting for the price to abate somewhat.

"The Players' Club should have that chair," said he to Bouton, "and if you'll give better terms I'll get a number of the members to chip in together and buy it."

To this appeal Bouton sturdily remained deaf. After Mr. Winter had left the place, Wilson said to Bouton, "Send the chair up to my house; here is a check for the money."

There are rumors to the effect that when Mr. Winter heard of this transaction he rent his garments and gnashed his teeth, and wildly implored somebody to hang a millstone about his neck and cast him into outer darkness.

Horace Greeley used to say that the best way to resume was to resume; so, in the science of collecting, it behooves the collector never to put off till to-morrow what he can pick up to-day. This theory has been most succinctly and beautifully set forth in one of the hymns recently compiled by the Archbishop of the North Side (page 217):

_How foolish of a man to wait When once his chance is nigh: To-morrow it may be too late— Some other man may buy.

Nay, brother, comprehend the boon That's offered in a trice, Or else some other all too soon Will pay the needful price.

Should some fair book engage your eye, Or print invite your glance, Oh, trifle not with faith, but buy While yet you have the chance! Else, glad to do thee grievous wrong, Some wolf in human guise— Some bibliophil shall snoop along And nip that lovely prize!

No gem of purest ray serene Gleams in the depthless sea, There is no flower that blooms unseen Upon the distant lea, But the same snooping child of sin, With fad or mania curst, Will find it out and take it in Unless you get there first.

Though undue haste may be a crime, Procrastination's worse; Now—now is the accepted time To eviscerate your purse! So buy what finds you find to-day— That is the safest plan; And if you find you cannot pay, Why, settle when you can._

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

Saints' and Sinners' Corner,

December 31, 1890.

Be there 10.30 P.M. Sharp.

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

_"From Canaan's beatific coast I've come to visit thee, For I am Frognall Dibdin's ghost," Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

I bade him welcome, and we twain Discussed with buoyant hearts The various things that appertain To bibliomaniac arts. "Since you are fresh from t'other side, Pray, tell me of that host That treasured books before they died," Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"They've entered into perfect rest: For in the life they've won, There are no auctions to molest, No creditors to dun.

"Their heavenly rapture has no bounds Beside that jasper sea; It is a joy unknown to Lowndes," Says Dibdin's ghost to me._

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

_"But what of those who scold at us When we would read in bed? Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss If we buy books instead? And what of those who've dusted not Our motley pride and boast,— Shall they profane that sacred spot?" Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"Oh, no! they tread that other path Which leads where torments roll, And worms—yes, bookworms—vent their wrath Upon the guilty soul, Untouched of bibliomaniac grace, That saveth such as we, They wallow in that dreadful place," Says Dibdin's ghost to me._

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



CHAPTER VIII

POLITICAL RELATIONS

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

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

_REFORM

What means this pewter teapot storm, This incoherent yell— This boisterous blubber for "reform" When everything goes well? Why should the good old party cease To rule our prosperous land? Is not our country blessed with peace And wealth on every hand?

The Democrats desired reform Two dozen years ago, But with our life-blood, red and warm, We gave the answer "No." We see the same old foe to-day We saw in Sixty-one— "Deeds of reform," they whining say, Must for our land be done!

"Deeds of reform?" And these the men Who, in the warful years, Starved soldiers in a prison-pen, And mocked their dying tears! By these our mother's heart was broke— By these our father fell— These bold "reformers" once awoke Our land with rebel yell!

These quondam rebels come to-day In penitential form, And hypocritically say The country needs "reform!" Out on reformers such as these! By Freedom's sacred pow'rs We'll run the country as we please— We saved it, and it's ours!_

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



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

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

SHARPS AND FLATS

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Cleveland—Quite sure.

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

Miss Cleveland—Yes.

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

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

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

We've come from Indiany, five hundred miles or more, Supposin' we wuz goin' to git the nominashin shore; For Colonel New assured us (in that noospaper o' his) That we cud hev the airth, if we'd only tend to biz. But here we've been slavin' more like hosees than like men To diskiver that the people do not hanker after Ben; It is for Jeemes G. Blaine an' not for Harrison they shout And the gobble-uns 'el git us Ef we Don't Watch Out!

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

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

Elisha English $50.00

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

Elisha English and Son $50.00

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

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

Senator John A. Logan's play, "The Spy," is in great demand, a number of theatrical speculators having entered the lists for it, the managers for the Madison Square and Union Square theatres being specially eager to get hold of it. A gentleman who is in the author's confidence assures us he has read the play, and can testify to its high dramatic merits. "It will have to be rewritten," said he, "for Logan has thrown it together with characteristic looseness; but it is full of lively dialogue and exciting situations. In the hands of a thorough playwright it would become a splendid melodrama." The play treats upon certain incidents of the late Civil War, and the romantic experiences of a certain Major Algernon Bellville, U.S.A., who is beloved by Maud Glynne, daughter of a Confederate general. The plot turns upon the young lady's unsuccessful effort to convey intelligence of a proposed sortie to her lover in the Union ranks. She is slain while masking in male attire by Reginald De Courcey, a rejected lover, who is serving as her father's aide-de-camp. This melancholy tragedy is enacted at a spot appointed by the lovers as a rendezvous. Major Bellville rushes in to find his fair idol a corpse. He is wild with grief. The melodrama concludes thus:

De Bell—Aha! Who done this deed?

Lieutenant Smythe—Yonder Reginald De Courcey done it, for I seen him when he done it.

Reginald—'Sdeath! 'Tis a lie upon my honor. I didn't do no such thing.

De Bell—Thou must die. (Draws his sword.) Prepare to meet thy Maker. (Stabs him.)

Reginald (falling)—I see angels. (Dies.)

De Bell—Now, leave me, good Smythe; I fain would rest. (Exit Smythe.) O Maud, Maud, my spotless pearl, what craven hand has snatched thee from our midst? But I will follow thee. Aha, what have we here? A phial of poison secreted in the stump of this gnarled oak! I thank thee, auspicious heaven, for this sweet boon! (Drinks poison.) Farewell, my native land, I die for thee. (Falls and writhes.) Oh, horror! what if the poison be drugged—no, no—it must not be—I must die—O Maud—O flag—O my sweet country! I reel, I cannot see—my heart is bursting—Oh! (Dies.) (Enter troops.)

General Glynne—Aha! My daughter! And Bellville, too! Both dead! How sad—how mortifying. Convey them to yonder cemetery, and bury them side by side under the weeping-willow. They were separated in life—in death let them be united. (Slow curtain.)

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

_LOGAN'S LAMENT

We never speak as we pass by— Me to Jim Blaine nor him to I; 'Twixt us there floats a cloud of gloom Since I have found he's got a boom.

We never speak as we pass by, We simply nod and drop our eye; Yet I can tell by his strange look The reason why he writ that book.

We never speak as we pass by; No more we're bound by friendly tie. The cause of this is very plain— He's not for me; he's for Jim Blaine._

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

_BAR HARBOR: A REMINISCENCE

Upon the sandy, rock-ribb'd shore One year ago sat you and I, And heard the sullen breakers roar, And saw the stately ships go by; And wanton ocean breezes fanned Your cheeks into a ruddy glow, And I—I pressed your fevered hand— One year ago.

II

The ocean rose, the mountains fell— And those fair castles we had reared Were blighted by the breath of hell, And every prospect disappeared; Revenge incarnate overthrew And wrapped in eternal woe The mutual, pleasing hopes we knew One year ago!

III

I sit to-night in sorrow, and I watch the stately ships go by— The hand I hold is not your hand— Alas! 'tis but a ten-spot high! This is the hardest deal of all— Oh! why should fate pursue me so, To mind me of that cruel fall— One year ago!_

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

$ $- -$ $ $ $ - -$ $ $

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

The next day it was:

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

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

_THE LAMBERT TREE

Oh, tell me not of the budding bay, Nor the yew by the new-made grave, And waft me not in spirit away, Where the sorrowing willows wave; Let the shag-bark walnut blend its shade With the elm on the verdant lea— But let us his to the distant glade, Where blossoms the Lambert tree.

The maple reeks with a toothsome sap That flavors the brown buckwheat, And the oak drops down into earth's green lap, Her fruit for the swine to eat; But the Lambert tree has a grander scope In its home on the distant wold, For the sap of the Lambert tree is soap, And its beautiful fruit is gold.

So sing no song of the futile fir— No song of the tranquil teak, Nor the chestnut tree, with its bristling burr, Or the paw-paw of Posey creek; But fill my soul with a heavenly calm, And bring sweet dreams to me By singing a psalm of the itching palm And the blossoming Lambert tree._

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

$ $ $- -$ $- -$ $ $ $ $ $ - -$ $ - -$ $ $ $ $ $ - -$ $ - -$ $ $ $ - - - - - - BEFORE. AFTER.

There came a burst of thunder sound, The jedge—oh, where was he? His twigs were strewn for miles around— He was a blasted tree.

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

When the Mugump party of Chicago met in General McClurg's office yesterday, considerable agitation was caused by Mr. Slason Thompson's suggestion that a committee be appointed to investigate the report that John W. Ela was soliciting funds in the East for the purpose of electing the Democratic ticket in Illinois.

General McClurg thought that a serious mistake had been made. As he understood, Colonel Ela was soliciting subscriptions, but not to promote Democratic success. What funds Colonel Ela secured would be used toward the election of the great white-souled Cleveland, and that would be all right. (Applause.) The use of money elsewise would be offensive partisanship; devoted to the holy cause of Cleveland and Reform, it would be simply a patriotic, not to say a religious, duty.

Mr. Thompson said he was glad to hear this explanation. It was eminently satisfactory, and he hoped to have it disseminated through Illinois.

On motion of Mr. M.E. Stone, Colonel Ela was instructed to deposit all campaign funds he might collect in the Globe National Bank.

Mr. Thompson then introduced Mr. Franklin H. Head, who, he said, was a Mugwump.

"Are you a Mugwump?" asked General McClurg.

Mr. Head: "I am, and I wish to join the party in Chicago."

General McClurg: "Do you declare your unalterable belief in the Mugwump doctrine of free-will and election?"

Mr. Head: "As I understand it, I do."

General McClurg: "The Mugwump doctrine of free-will argues that every voter may vote as he chooses, irrespective of party, so long as his vote involves the election of Grover Cleveland."

Mr. Head: "I am a Mugwump to the extent of voting as I choose, and irrespective of party, but I draw the line at Grover Cleveland this time." (Great sensation.)

Mr. Stone: "I guess you've got into the wrong 'bus, my friend, and I'm rather glad of it, for one vice-president of a bank is all the Mugwump party can stand."

Mr. Thompson: "I supposed he was all right, or I wouldn't have brought him in."

General McClurg: "No, he is far from the truth. Upon the vital, the essential point, he is fatally weak. Go back, erring brother—go back into the outer darkness; it is not for you to sit with the elect."

Mr. Stone invited the party to a grand gala picnic which he proposed to give in August in Melville Park, Glencoe. He would order a basket of chicken sandwiches, a gallon of iced tea, and three pink umbrellas, and they would have a royal time of it.

Mr. Thompson moved, out of respect to the Greatest of Modern Fishermen, to strike out "chicken" and insert "sardine." Mr. Stone accepted the suggestion, and thus amended, the invitation was hilariously accepted.

After adopting a resolution instructing Mr. Stone to buy the sardines and tea at Brother Franklin MacVeagh's, the party adjourned for one week.

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

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

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

The second letter which Mr. Blaine has written saying that he will, under no circumstances, become a candidate for the presidency refreshes a sad, yet a glorious, memory.

Just about five years ago five members of the editorial staff of this paper were gathered together in the library. Blaine had just been nominated for the presidency by the National Republican Convention. For months the Daily News had advocated the renomination of Arthur, but now within an hour it beheld its teachings go for naught, its ambitions swept ruthlessly away, and its hopes cruelly, irrevivably crushed; Mr. Stone was then editor of the paper; he was in the convention hall when Blaine's nomination was secured. His editorial associates waited with serious agitation his return, and his instructions as to the course which the paper would pursue in the emergency which had been presented. There were different opinions as to what Mr. Stone would be likely to do, but there was a general feeling that he would be likely to antagonize Blaine. One of the editorial writers, a Canadian, who had just taken out his last naturalization papers, expressed determination that the paper must fight Blaine. He hated Blaine, and he had reason to; for Blaine had, during his short career as prime minister, evinced a strong disposition to clutch all Canadians who were caught fishing for tomcod in American waters. Therefore, Carthage delenda est.

The debate ran high, yet every word was spoken softly, for the most violent excitement always precipitates a hush. Even the newsboys in the alley caught the awful infection; they stole in and out noiselessly and with less violence than usual, as if, in sooth, the dumb wheels reverenced the dismal sanctity of the hour. The elevator crept silently down with the five o'clock forms, so decently and so composedly as scarcely to jar the bottle of green ink on the Austin landholder's table. All at once the door opened and in stalked M.E. Stone, silent, pallid, protentous. His wan eye comprehended the scene instantaneously, but no twitch or tremor in his lavender lips betrayed the emotions (whatever they might have been) that surged beneath the clothes he wore.

Cervantes tells how that Don Quixote, in the course of one of his memorable adventures, was shown a talking head—a head set upon a table and capable of uttering human speech, but in so hollow and tube-like a tone as to give one the impression that the voice came from far away. A somewhat similar device is now exhibited in our museums, where, upon payment of a trifling fee, you may hear the head discourse in a voice which sounds as though it might emanate from the tomb and from the very time of the first Pharaoh.

Mr. Stone looked and Mr. Stone spoke like a "talking head" when he came in upon us that awful day. His face had the inhuman pallor, his eyes the lack-lustre expression, and his tones the distant, hollow, metallic cadence of the inexplicable machine that astounds the patrons of dime-museums. He seemed to take in the situation at once; knew as surely as though he had been told what we were talking about and how terribly we were wrought up. His right arm moved mechanically through some such gesture as Canute is supposed to have made when he bade the ocean retire before him, and from his bloodless lips came the memorable words—hollow, metallic, but memorable words—"Gentlemen, be calm! be calm!"

The calmness of this man in that supreme moment was simply awful.

He had been betrayed by one who should have been bound to him by every tie of gratitude. He had seen his political idol overthrown. He had witnessed the defeat and humiliation of what he believed to be the pure and patriotic spirit of American manhood. His highest ambition had been foiled, his sweetest hopes frustrated. Yet he was calm. Ever and anon the sky that arches the Neapolitan landscape reaches down its lips, they say, and kisses the bald summit of Vesuvius; as if it recognized the grand impressiveness of this scene, the Mediterranean at such times hushes its voice and lies tranquil as a slumbering child; all nature stands silent before the communion of the clouds and the Titans. But this ineffable peace, this majestic repose, is protentous. To rest succeeds activity; after calm comes tempest; out of placid dream bursts reality.