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 confrère'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:

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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:

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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 rôle 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.

Mr. Stone's calmness, like the whittler's stick, tapered up instead
down. He who had, at five o'clock on that never-to-be-forgotten day,
come upon us with the insinuating placidity of hunyadi janos--he who
had addressed us in the tone of prehistoric centuries--he who bade
us be calm, and at the same time gave us the finest tableau of human
calmness human eye ever contemplated--he it was whom we found at
eleven o'clock that very night, frothing at the mouth, biting chunks
out of the hard-wood furniture, and tearing the bowels out of
everything that came his way.

This singular madness has raged, unabated, for four years. It was so
infectious that his associates caught it--all but three. The men
about the Daily News office who clung to the Republican party
through thick and thin, who endured, therefore, every scoff, jibe,
and taunt which sin could devise, and who, preferring honorable
death to the rewards of treachery, proudly cast their votes for the
nominees of the grand old party,--these three men are entitled to
places in the foremost rank of Christian martyrs. Two of them were
Joe Bingham and Morgan Bates. Bingham is dead now; peace to his
dust. He never was his old hearty self after the defeat of Blaine;
and when, upon the heels of this calamity, he moved to Indianapolis,
Ind., he could stand it no longer and yielded up his life. He was a
stanch soldier in a holy cause; and there is consolation in the fact
that he is now at last enjoying the eternal rewards that are
prepared for all true Republicans.

As for Morgan Bates, he got somewhat even with his malicious
persecutors by writing and producing plays; but retaliation is never
satisfactory to a man of noble impulses, and Bates would not pursue
it long. He preferred to go into voluntary exile at Des Moines,
Iowa; and in that glorious Republican harvest-field he accomplished
a great and good work, which being done, symmetrized and
concinnated, he returned to this Gomorrah of Mugwumpery and
identified himself with that sterling trade journal, the Hide and
Leather Criterion.

Next November the two surviving members of the old guard of three
will march, arm in arm, to the polls, and will then and there cast
their individual votes for the nominees of the Republican party--it
matters not whether they be statesmen or tobacco-signs, so long as
they be nominees.

As the blasts do but root a tree more firmly in mother earth, so
have the trials to which we Republicans of the Daily News have been
subjected for the four years riveted us all the more securely to the
faith. We have been forced in the line of professional duty to turn
humorous paragraphs upon the alleged insincerity of our beloved
political leader, but every paragraph so turned shall eventually
come home d.v. (and we hope d.q.) to roost, like an Ossa, upon the
Pelion of Infamy, which shall surely mark the grave of Mugwumpery.
Every poem which we persecuted defenders of the faith have been
bulldozed into weaving for the regalement of our persecutors shall
be sung again when the other shore is reached, and when the horse
and the rider are thrown into the sea. Never for a moment during the
trials of these four years have we doubted (and when we say "we,"
Bates is included)--never have we doubted that there was a promised
land, and that we should get there in due time. What we have needed
was a Moses; to be candid, we still need a Moses; and we need him
badly. We care naught where he comes from--it matters not whither,
from the New York Central or from the Western Reserve or from
Dubuque, so long as he be a Moses, and that kind of an improved
Moses, too, that will not fall just this side of the line.

O brother Republican, what rewards, what joys, what delights are in
store for us twain! Lift up your eyes and see in the East the dawn
of the new day. Its warmth and its splendor will soon be over and
about us. And, mindful of our martyrdom and contemplating its
rewards, with great force comes to us just now the lines of the
inspired Watts, wherein he portrays the eventual felicity of such as
we:

_What bliss will thrill the ransomed souls
When they in glory dwell,
To see the sinner as he rolls
In quenchless flames of hell._

Never did a cheerful sinner extract such entertaining enjoyment for himself and his friends from a fictitious martyrdom as Field did from these political tribulations. That he never lost his waggish or satirical interest in politics is evidenced by the following parody on his own "Jest 'fore Christmas," written in December, 1894, being at the expense of the then mayor of Chicago:

_JEST 'FORE ELECTION

My henchmen say "Your Honor," as on their knees they drop;
Some people call me Hopkins, but to most I'm known as Hop!
For pretty nigh a year I've run the City Hall machine,
Protecting my policemen and the gamblers on the green.
Love to boss, an' fool the pious people with my tricks--
Hate to take the medicine I got November 6!
Most all the time the whole year round there ain't no flies on me,
But jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be!

Gran'ma Ela says she hopes to see me snug and warm
In the bosom of Mugwumpery, whose motto is reform;
But Gran'ma Ela he has never known the filling joys
Of bossing "boodle" candidates and training with the boys;
Of posing as a gentleman although at heart a tough;
Of being sometimes out of scalps while some are out of stuff--
Or else he'd know that bossing things are good enough for me,
Except jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be!

When poor Rubens, wondering why I've left my gum-games drop,
Inquires with rueful accent: "What's the matter with Hoppy Hop?"
The Civic Federation comes from out its hiding-place
And allows that Mayor Hopkins is chock-full of saving grace!
And I appear so penitent and wear so long a phiz
That some folks say: "Good gracious! how improved our mayor is!"
But others tumble to my racket and suspicion me,
When jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be!

For candidates who hope to get there on election day
Must mind their p's and q's right sharp in all they do and say,
So clean the streets, assess the boys for everything they're worth,
Jine all the federations, and promise them the earth!
Say "yes 'um" to the ladies, and "yes sur" to the men,
And when reform is mentioned, roll your eyes and yell "Amen!"
No matter what the past has been--jest watch me now and see
How jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be!_

I will conclude this exposition of the attitude of Eugene Field to politics, public affairs, and public men with a whimsical bit of his verse, descriptive of how business and politics are mixed in a country store, premising it with the note that Colonel Bunn has since become a national character:

_A STATESMAN'S SORROW

'Twas in a Springfield grocery store,
Not many years ago,
That Colonel Bunn patrolled the floor,
The paragon of woe.
Though all the people of the town
Were gathered there to buy,
Good Colonel Bunn walked up and down
With many a doleful sigh.

He vented off a dismal groan,
And grunt of sorry kind,
And murmured in a hollow tone
The thoughts that vexed his mind.
"Alas! how pitiful," he said,
"And oh! how wondrous vain,
To run a party at whose head
Stands such a man as Blaine.

"'Tis here, with eager hearts and legs,
Folks come to buy their teas--
Their coffee, sugar, butter, eggs,
Molasses, flour, and cheese--
And every article I keep,
As all good grocers do,
They purchase here amazing cheap--
The very finest, too.

"Yet when a canvass must be won,
He, who presides it o'er,
Is sadly qualified to run
A country grocery store;
His soul, once mesmerized by Blaine,
Is very ill at ease
When lowered to the humble plane
Of butter, eggs, and teas!

"But what precipitates my woe,
And fills my heart with fear,
Is all this happy, human flow,
With not a word of cheer;
They purchase goods of various styles,
Yet, as they swell my gain,
They mention Cleveland's name with smiles,
But never speak of Blaine!"_

Of serious views on political questions Field had none. The same may be truthfully said of his attitude on all social and economic problems. He eschewed controversy and controversial subjects. His study was literature and the domestic side and social amenities of life; and he left the salvation of the republic and the amelioration of the general condition of mankind to those who felt themselves "sealed" to such missions.