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.

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 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:

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

1886.]