THE LAMBERT TREEOh, 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 shadeWith 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 sapThat 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 scopeIn 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 meBy singing a psalm of the itching palmAnd the blossoming Lambert tree.
THE LAMBERT TREE
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 shadeWith the elm on the verdant lea—But let us his to the distant glade,Where blossoms 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 sapThat 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 scopeIn its home on the distant wold,For the sap of the Lambert tree is soap,And its beautiful fruit is gold.
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 meBy singing a psalm of the itching palmAnd the blossoming Lambert tree.
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:
BeforeAfter.
BeforeAfter.
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.
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.
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.
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, Carthagedelenda 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 soulsWhen they in glory dwell,To see the sinner as he rollsIn quenchless flames of hell.
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, Carthagedelenda 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 soulsWhen they in glory dwell,To see the sinner as he rollsIn quenchless flames of hell.
What bliss will thrill the ransomed soulsWhen they in glory dwell,To see the sinner as he rollsIn quenchless flames of hell.
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 ELECTIONMy 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 warmIn the bosom of Mugwumpery, whose motto is reform;But Gran'ma Ela he has never known the filling joysOf 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-placeAnd allows that Mayor Hopkins is chock-full of saving grace!And I appear so penitent and wear so long a phizThat 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 dayMust 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 seeHow jest 'fore election I'm as good as I can be!
JEST 'FORE ELECTION
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!
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 warmIn the bosom of Mugwumpery, whose motto is reform;But Gran'ma Ela he has never known the filling joysOf 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!
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-placeAnd allows that Mayor Hopkins is chock-full of saving grace!And I appear so penitent and wear so long a phizThat 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!
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 dayMust 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 seeHow 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 townWere gathered there to buy,Good Colonel Bunn walked up and downWith many a doleful sigh.He vented off a dismal groan,And grunt of sorry kind,And murmured in a hollow toneThe thoughts that vexed his mind."Alas! how pitiful," he said,"And oh! how wondrous vain,To run a party at whose headStands 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 runA country grocery store;His soul, once mesmerized by Blaine,Is very ill at easeWhen lowered to the humble planeOf 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!"
A STATESMAN'S SORROW
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 townWere gathered there to buy,Good Colonel Bunn walked up and downWith many a doleful sigh.
'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 toneThe thoughts that vexed his mind."Alas! how pitiful," he said,"And oh! how wondrous vain,To run a party at whose headStands such a man as Blaine.
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.
"'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 runA country grocery store;His soul, once mesmerized by Blaine,Is very ill at easeWhen lowered to the humble planeOf butter, eggs, and teas!
"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!"
"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.
CHAPTER IX
HIS "AUTO-ANALYSIS"
In the introduction I have said that if Eugene Field had only written his autobiography, as was once his intention, it would probably have been one of the greatest works of fiction by an American. Early in his career he was the victim of that craze that covets the signatures and manuscript sentiments of persons who have achieved distinction, which later he did so much to foster by precept and practice. He was an inveterate autograph-hunter, and toward the close of his life he paid the penalty of harping on the joys of the collector by the receipt of a perfect avalanche of requests for autographs and extracts from his poems in his own handwriting. The nature of his most popular verses also excited widespread curiosity as to the life, habits, and views of the author of "Little Boy Blue" and "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod." The importunities of this last class of admirers became so numerous that during the winter of 1894 he wrote and had printed what he called his "Auto-Analysis." "I give these facts, confessions, and observations," wrote he, "for the information of those who, for one reason or another, are applying constantly to me for biographical data concerning myself." Such was its author's humor, that behind almost every fact in this "Auto-Analysis" lurks either an error or a hoax. Its confessions are half-truths, and its whimsical observations are purposely designed to lead the reader to false conclusions. And withal the whole document is written with the ingeniousness of a mind without guile, which was one of Field's most highly developed literary accomplishments. No study of Field's character and methods would be complete without giving this very "human document":
AN AUTO-ANALYSIS
I was born in St. Louis, Mo., September 3d, 1850, the second and oldest surviving son of Roswell Martin and Frances (Reed) Field, both natives of Windham County, Vt. Upon the death of my mother (1856), I was put in the care of my (paternal) cousin, Miss Mary Field French, at Amherst, Mass.In 1865 I entered the private school of Rev. James Tufts, Monson, Mass., and there fitted for Williams College, which institution I entered as a freshman in 1868. Upon my father's death, in 1869, I entered the sophomore class of Knox College, Galesburg, Ill., my guardian, John W. Burgess, now of Columbia College, being then a professor in that institution. But in 1870 I went to Columbia, Mo., and entered the State University there, and completed my junior year with my brother. In 1872 I visited Europe, spending six months and my patrimony in France, Italy, Ireland, and England. In May, 1873, I became a reporter on the St. Louis Evening Journal. In October of that year I married Miss Julia Sutherland Comstock (born in Chenango County, N.Y.), of St. Joseph, Mo., at that time a girl of sixteen. We have had eight children—three daughters and five sons.Ill-health compelled me to visit Europe in 1889; there I remained fourteen months, that time being divided between England, Germany, Holland, and Belgium. My residence at present is in Buena Park, a north-shore suburb of Chicago.My newspaper connections have been as follows: 1875-76, city editor of the St. Joseph (Mo.) Gazette; 1876-80, editorial writer on the St. Louis Journal and St. Louis Times-Journal; 1880-81, managing editor of the Kansas City Times; 1881-83, managing editor of the Denver Tribune. Since 1883 I have been a contributor to the Chicago Record (formerly Morning News).I wrote and published my first bit of verse in 1879; it was entitled "Christmas Treasures" (see "Little Book of Western Verse"). Just ten years later I began suddenly to write verse very frequently; meanwhile (1883-89) I had labored diligently at writing short stories and tales. Most of these I revised half a dozen times. One, "The Were-Wolf," as yet unpublished, I have rewritten eight times during the last eight years.My publications have been, chronologically, as follows:1. "The Tribune Primer," Denver, 1882. (Out of print, very scarce.) ("The Model Primer," illustrated by Hoppin, Treadway, Brooklyn, 1882. A pirate edition.)2. "Culture's Garland," Ticknor, Boston, 1887. (Out of print.) "A Little Book of Western Verse," Chicago, 1889. (Large paper, privately printed, and limited.) "A Little Book of Profitable Tales," Chicago, 1889. (Large paper, privately printed, and limited.)3. "A Little Book of Western Verse," Scribners, New York, 1890.4. "A Little Book of Profitable Tales," Scribners, New York, 1890.5. "With Trumpet and Drum," Scribners, New York, 1892.6. "Second Book of Verse," Scribners, New York, 1893.7. "Echoes from the Sabine Farm" (translations of Horace), McClurg, Chicago, 1893. (In collaboration with my brother, Roswell Martin Field.)8. Introduction to Stone's "First Editions of American Authors," Cambridge, 1893.9. "The Holy Cross and Other Tales," Stone & Kimball, Cambridge, 1893.I have a miscellaneous collection of books, numbering 3,500, and I am fond of the quaint and curious in every line. I am very fond of dogs, birds, and all small pets—a passion not approved by my wife.My favorite flower is the carnation, and I adore dolls.My favorite hymn is "Bounding Billows."My favorites in fiction are Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter," "Don Quixote," and "Pilgrim's Progress."I greatly love Hans Andersen's "Tales," and I am deeply interested in folk-lore and fairy-tales. I believe in ghosts, in witches, and in fairies.I should like to own a big astronomical telescope and a twenty-four-tune music-box.My heroes in history are Martin Luther, Mademoiselle Lamballe, Abraham Lincoln; my favorite poems are Körner's "Battle Prayer," Wordsworth's "We are Seven," Newman's "Lead, Kindly Light," Luther's "Hymn," Schiller's "The Diver," Horace's "Fons Bandusiae," and Burns's "Cotter's Saturday Night." I dislike Dante and Byron. I should like to have known Jeremiah, the prophet, old man Poggio, Walter Scott, Bonaparte, Hawthorne, Mademoiselle Sontag, Sir John Herschel, Hans Andersen.My favorite actor is Henry Irving; actress, Mademoiselle Modjeska.I dislike "politics," so called.I should like to have the privilege of voting extended to women.I favor a system of pensions for noble services in literature, art, science, etc. I approve of compulsory education.If I had my way, I should make the abuse of horses, dogs, and cattle, a penal offence; I should abolish all dog laws and dog catchers, and I would punish severely everybody who caught and caged birds.I dislike all exercise, and play all games indifferently.I love to read in bed.I believe in churches and schools; I hate wars, armies, soldiers, guns, and fireworks.I like music (limited).I have been a great theatre-goer.I enjoy the society of doctors and clergymen.My favorite color is red.I do not care particularly for sculpture or for paintings; I try not to become interested in them, for the reason that if I were to cultivate a taste for them I should presently become hopelessly bankrupt.I am extravagantly fond of perfumes.I am a poor diner, and I drink no wine or spirits of any kind; I do not smoke tobacco.I dislike crowds, and I abominate functions.I am six feet in height, am of spare build, weigh 160 pounds, and have shocking taste in dress.But I like to have well-dressed people about me.My eyes are blue, my complexion pale, my face is shaven, and I incline to baldness.It is only when I look and see how young, and fair, and sweet my wife is that I have a good opinion of myself.I am fond of companionship of women, and I have no unconquerable prejudice against feminine beauty. I recall with pride that in twenty-two years of active journalism I have always written in reverential praise of womankind.I favor early marriage.I do not love all children.I have tried to analyze my feelings toward children, and I think I discover that I love them, in so far as I can make pets of them.I believe that, if I live, I shall do my best literary work when I am a grandfather.
I was born in St. Louis, Mo., September 3d, 1850, the second and oldest surviving son of Roswell Martin and Frances (Reed) Field, both natives of Windham County, Vt. Upon the death of my mother (1856), I was put in the care of my (paternal) cousin, Miss Mary Field French, at Amherst, Mass.
In 1865 I entered the private school of Rev. James Tufts, Monson, Mass., and there fitted for Williams College, which institution I entered as a freshman in 1868. Upon my father's death, in 1869, I entered the sophomore class of Knox College, Galesburg, Ill., my guardian, John W. Burgess, now of Columbia College, being then a professor in that institution. But in 1870 I went to Columbia, Mo., and entered the State University there, and completed my junior year with my brother. In 1872 I visited Europe, spending six months and my patrimony in France, Italy, Ireland, and England. In May, 1873, I became a reporter on the St. Louis Evening Journal. In October of that year I married Miss Julia Sutherland Comstock (born in Chenango County, N.Y.), of St. Joseph, Mo., at that time a girl of sixteen. We have had eight children—three daughters and five sons.
Ill-health compelled me to visit Europe in 1889; there I remained fourteen months, that time being divided between England, Germany, Holland, and Belgium. My residence at present is in Buena Park, a north-shore suburb of Chicago.
My newspaper connections have been as follows: 1875-76, city editor of the St. Joseph (Mo.) Gazette; 1876-80, editorial writer on the St. Louis Journal and St. Louis Times-Journal; 1880-81, managing editor of the Kansas City Times; 1881-83, managing editor of the Denver Tribune. Since 1883 I have been a contributor to the Chicago Record (formerly Morning News).
I wrote and published my first bit of verse in 1879; it was entitled "Christmas Treasures" (see "Little Book of Western Verse"). Just ten years later I began suddenly to write verse very frequently; meanwhile (1883-89) I had labored diligently at writing short stories and tales. Most of these I revised half a dozen times. One, "The Were-Wolf," as yet unpublished, I have rewritten eight times during the last eight years.
My publications have been, chronologically, as follows:
1. "The Tribune Primer," Denver, 1882. (Out of print, very scarce.) ("The Model Primer," illustrated by Hoppin, Treadway, Brooklyn, 1882. A pirate edition.)
2. "Culture's Garland," Ticknor, Boston, 1887. (Out of print.) "A Little Book of Western Verse," Chicago, 1889. (Large paper, privately printed, and limited.) "A Little Book of Profitable Tales," Chicago, 1889. (Large paper, privately printed, and limited.)
3. "A Little Book of Western Verse," Scribners, New York, 1890.
4. "A Little Book of Profitable Tales," Scribners, New York, 1890.
5. "With Trumpet and Drum," Scribners, New York, 1892.
6. "Second Book of Verse," Scribners, New York, 1893.
7. "Echoes from the Sabine Farm" (translations of Horace), McClurg, Chicago, 1893. (In collaboration with my brother, Roswell Martin Field.)
8. Introduction to Stone's "First Editions of American Authors," Cambridge, 1893.
9. "The Holy Cross and Other Tales," Stone & Kimball, Cambridge, 1893.
I have a miscellaneous collection of books, numbering 3,500, and I am fond of the quaint and curious in every line. I am very fond of dogs, birds, and all small pets—a passion not approved by my wife.
My favorite flower is the carnation, and I adore dolls.
My favorite hymn is "Bounding Billows."
My favorites in fiction are Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter," "Don Quixote," and "Pilgrim's Progress."
I greatly love Hans Andersen's "Tales," and I am deeply interested in folk-lore and fairy-tales. I believe in ghosts, in witches, and in fairies.
I should like to own a big astronomical telescope and a twenty-four-tune music-box.
My heroes in history are Martin Luther, Mademoiselle Lamballe, Abraham Lincoln; my favorite poems are Körner's "Battle Prayer," Wordsworth's "We are Seven," Newman's "Lead, Kindly Light," Luther's "Hymn," Schiller's "The Diver," Horace's "Fons Bandusiae," and Burns's "Cotter's Saturday Night." I dislike Dante and Byron. I should like to have known Jeremiah, the prophet, old man Poggio, Walter Scott, Bonaparte, Hawthorne, Mademoiselle Sontag, Sir John Herschel, Hans Andersen.
My favorite actor is Henry Irving; actress, Mademoiselle Modjeska.
I dislike "politics," so called.
I should like to have the privilege of voting extended to women.
I favor a system of pensions for noble services in literature, art, science, etc. I approve of compulsory education.
If I had my way, I should make the abuse of horses, dogs, and cattle, a penal offence; I should abolish all dog laws and dog catchers, and I would punish severely everybody who caught and caged birds.
I dislike all exercise, and play all games indifferently.
I love to read in bed.
I believe in churches and schools; I hate wars, armies, soldiers, guns, and fireworks.
I like music (limited).
I have been a great theatre-goer.
I enjoy the society of doctors and clergymen.
My favorite color is red.
I do not care particularly for sculpture or for paintings; I try not to become interested in them, for the reason that if I were to cultivate a taste for them I should presently become hopelessly bankrupt.
I am extravagantly fond of perfumes.
I am a poor diner, and I drink no wine or spirits of any kind; I do not smoke tobacco.
I dislike crowds, and I abominate functions.
I am six feet in height, am of spare build, weigh 160 pounds, and have shocking taste in dress.
But I like to have well-dressed people about me.
My eyes are blue, my complexion pale, my face is shaven, and I incline to baldness.
It is only when I look and see how young, and fair, and sweet my wife is that I have a good opinion of myself.
I am fond of companionship of women, and I have no unconquerable prejudice against feminine beauty. I recall with pride that in twenty-two years of active journalism I have always written in reverential praise of womankind.
I favor early marriage.
I do not love all children.
I have tried to analyze my feelings toward children, and I think I discover that I love them, in so far as I can make pets of them.
I believe that, if I live, I shall do my best literary work when I am a grandfather.
So cleverly are truth and fiction dove-tailed together in this "Auto-Analysis" that it would puzzle a jury of his intimate friends to say where Field was attempting to state facts and where he was laughing in his sleeve. Even the enumeration of his publications is amazingly inaccurate for a bibliomaniac's reply to the inquiries of his own guild. Francis Wilson's sumptuous edition of "Echoes from the Sabine Farm" preceded that of McClurg, Chicago, 1893, by more than two years, and a limited edition of the "Second Book of Verse" was published privately by Melville E. Stone, Chicago, 1892, more than a year before it was published by the Scribners, as stated in Field's chronological order.
Under ordinary circumstances such lapses in a list of a writer's published works would be a venial fault, and not worth mentioning; but in the case of one who set such store on "special large paper limited editions," they would be inexplicable—if that writer had not been Eugene Field. With him they were simply a notification to his intimates that the whole thing was not to be taken as a serious bibliology of his works or index of his character.
So far as the cyclopedic narrative of his life is concerned, it is intended to be fairly accurate; but Field's notion that he suddenly began to write verse very frequently in 1889 runs contrary to the record in Denver and Chicago from 1881 to 1888, inclusive. The intentional waggery of misinformation masquerading as truth begins where Field leaves the recital of his life to give what purports to be an analysis of his character and sentiments. Here he lets his "winged fancy loose." He mingles fact with his fiction even as
The instruments of darkness tell us truths;Win us with honest trifles, to betray'sIn deepest consequence.
The instruments of darkness tell us truths;Win us with honest trifles, to betray'sIn deepest consequence.
The instruments of darkness tell us truths;
Win us with honest trifles, to betray's
In deepest consequence.
Not that Field had any deep design to betray anyone lurking behind the fictitious and facetious candor of this apparent self-revelation. This "Auto-Analysis" was written in response to the almost innumerable questions which, about that time, were being propounded in the newspapers and on the leaves of sentiment autograph albums. Hence the forms of Field's replies. For instance, to "What is your favorite flower?" he answered, "My favorite flower is the carnation;"—and with utter irrelevancy, added—"and I adore dolls!" Now Field was not particularly fond of flowers, and if he had a favorite, it was the rose, the pansy, or the violet.
Of his three favorites in fiction "Don Quixote" is the only one to which he gave a second thought, although early familiarity with "Pilgrim's Progress" undoubtedly left its impression on his retentive memory. A more truthful answer would have been "The New England Primer," "The Complete Angler," and Father Prout. To another inquirer he said, "My favorite authors of prose are Cervantes, Hawthorne, Andersen, Sir Thomas Mallory," a very much more accurate statement. His love for the fairy-tales of Andersen and Grimm survived from the knee of his little Mormon nurse to the last tale he wrote; but his belief in ghosts, witches, and fairies was all in his literary mind's eye. He took the same delight in employing them in his works as he did flim-flams, flub-dubs, and catamarans. They were a part of his stock in trade, just as wooden animals were of Caleb Plummer's toy-shop. I think Field cherished a genuine admiration for Abraham Lincoln, whose whole life, nature, personal appearance, unaffected greatness, manner of speech, and fate appealed to his idea of what "the first American" should be. But strike the names of Newman, Horace, old man Poggio, Walter Scott, and Hans Andersen from the list of his favorites that follow the name of Lincoln, and it gains in truth as it shrinks in length.
Upon the question of extending the right to vote to women, Field wasted no more thought than he did on "Politics," whether so called or not. This was a springe to catch the "wimmen folks, God bless them." He seldom took the trouble to vote himself, and ridiculed the idea of women demeaning themselves to enter the dirty strife for public office—as he regarded the beginning, middle, and end of all politics.
Field had the strongest possible aversion to violence or brutality of any kind. He considered capital punishment as barbarous. He was not opposed to it because he regarded it as inaffective as a punishment or a deterrent of crime, but simply because taking life, and especially human life, was abhorrent to him. Hence his "hatred" of wars, armies, soldiers, and guns.
Something more than a paragraph is needed to explain that word "limited" after Field's declaration "I like music." "Like" is a feeble word in this connection, and "limited" by his sense of the absurdity of reducing its enjoyment to an intellectual pursuit. He loved the music that appealed to the heart, the mind, the emotions through the ear. But for years he scoffed at and ridiculed the attempt to convey by the "harmony of sweet sounds" or alternating discords impressions or sentiments of things than can only be comprehended through the eye. He loved both vocal and instrumental music, and was a constant attendant on opera and concert.
I have a unique documentary proof of Eugene Field's taste in music. Written on the folded back of a sheet of foolscap, which, on its face, preserves his original manuscript of "A Noon Tide Hymn," are three suggestions for the "request programmes" with which Theodore Thomas used to vary his concerts in the old Exposition Building in Chicago. Field seldom missed these concerts, and he always made a point of forwarding his choice for the next "request night." This one was as follows:
The only limitation to a liking for music such as is revealed here is that it be good music. Mr. Thomas in those days scarcely ever made up a programme without including in it one of Field's favorites.
Referring to music recalls the fact that Field once seriously contemplated writing a comic opera; and he only failed to carry out his purpose because he could not get the dialogue to suit him; moreover, he realized that he had but a limited grasp of the dramatic action and situations necessary in such work. How completely he had this work mapped out may be judged from the following memoranda, the manuscript of which is before me:
THE BUCCANEERSFernando, the Begum—basso.Paquita, his daughter—soprano.Christopher, the buccaneer—baritone.Mercedes, his sister—contralto.Carlos, a Peruvian lieutenant—tenor.Gonzales, Begum of Ohnos.Buccaneers, maidens, ballet, servants, etc.Time of action—three days, 1860.Scenes: First and third acts, in garden adjoining Fernando's mansion, suburbs of Piura.Second act, on board the ship "Perdita," port of Payla.FIRST ACTFernando, the Begum, is about to give a moonlight fête in honor of his daughter's betrothal to Carlos. The young people are not particularly overjoyed at the prospect of their union, Carlos having given his heart, some years previously, to Mercedes, who is now married to a captain in the Chilian army, and Paquita having fallen desperately in love with a handsome young stranger whom she has, upon several occasions, met upon the sea-shore. This stranger is Christopher, who, for his participation in a petty revolt, has been declared an outlaw, and has taken to the life of a buccaneer, joined by numerous lively companions. Overcome by love of Paquita, Christopher manages to get himself and his band introduced at the fête, and in the midst of the festivities the young women are seized and carried aboard the buccaneers' ship.SECOND ACTCarlos, who has been taken prisoner with the girls, discovers that Mercedes, the buccaneer captain's sister, is his old fiancee, and is now a widow; explanations ensue and a reconciliation takes place. While debating how they shall advise Paquita of the truth, they overhear a conversation between Christopher and Paquita. Paquita declares that if Christopher reallylovesher, he will come and woo her as an honorable man should. Christopher is about to release the captives, when Mercedes suggests, that to ensure the safety of the buccaneers Carlos be detained as a hostage. Carlos indorses the suggestion. The young ladies are permitted to go ashore.THIRD ACTWhile Fernando storms over the retention of Carlos, Paquita sadly broods over her love for Christopher. As she soliloquizes at her window Christopher appears. He cannot remain away from the object of his love. A scene ensues between the two. In the meantime Carlos and Mercedes have secretly stolen from the ship and been married by the village priest. They appear while Paquita and Christopher are conversing. (Quartette.) Fernando hears the commotion. (Quintette.) Christopher is discovered and apprehended. The buccaneers appear to rescue their long-absent captain. Explanations. Fernando informs the buccaneers that under the amnesty act of the king they are no longer outlaws. Christopher's estates await him. Carlos and Mercedes appear. Fernando gives Paquita to Christopher.
THE BUCCANEERS
Time of action—three days, 1860.
Scenes: First and third acts, in garden adjoining Fernando's mansion, suburbs of Piura.
Second act, on board the ship "Perdita," port of Payla.
FIRST ACT
Fernando, the Begum, is about to give a moonlight fête in honor of his daughter's betrothal to Carlos. The young people are not particularly overjoyed at the prospect of their union, Carlos having given his heart, some years previously, to Mercedes, who is now married to a captain in the Chilian army, and Paquita having fallen desperately in love with a handsome young stranger whom she has, upon several occasions, met upon the sea-shore. This stranger is Christopher, who, for his participation in a petty revolt, has been declared an outlaw, and has taken to the life of a buccaneer, joined by numerous lively companions. Overcome by love of Paquita, Christopher manages to get himself and his band introduced at the fête, and in the midst of the festivities the young women are seized and carried aboard the buccaneers' ship.
SECOND ACT
Carlos, who has been taken prisoner with the girls, discovers that Mercedes, the buccaneer captain's sister, is his old fiancee, and is now a widow; explanations ensue and a reconciliation takes place. While debating how they shall advise Paquita of the truth, they overhear a conversation between Christopher and Paquita. Paquita declares that if Christopher reallylovesher, he will come and woo her as an honorable man should. Christopher is about to release the captives, when Mercedes suggests, that to ensure the safety of the buccaneers Carlos be detained as a hostage. Carlos indorses the suggestion. The young ladies are permitted to go ashore.
THIRD ACT
While Fernando storms over the retention of Carlos, Paquita sadly broods over her love for Christopher. As she soliloquizes at her window Christopher appears. He cannot remain away from the object of his love. A scene ensues between the two. In the meantime Carlos and Mercedes have secretly stolen from the ship and been married by the village priest. They appear while Paquita and Christopher are conversing. (Quartette.) Fernando hears the commotion. (Quintette.) Christopher is discovered and apprehended. The buccaneers appear to rescue their long-absent captain. Explanations. Fernando informs the buccaneers that under the amnesty act of the king they are no longer outlaws. Christopher's estates await him. Carlos and Mercedes appear. Fernando gives Paquita to Christopher.
It will be perceived that the spirited action of this "argument," as Field styled it, practically ends with the first act, a fault which the veriest neophyte in the art of libretto writing knows is fatal. But the most interesting feature of this opera in embryo is the list of songs which Field had planned for it. They were:
SONGS"Begum of Piura.""The Crazy Quilt.""My Life is One Continuous Lie.""By Day Upon the Billowy Sea."Lullaby—"Do Not Wake the Baby.""The Good Old Way."Barcarolle—"I've Come Across the Water."TRIO"He Really Does Not Seem to Know."DUETS"My Love Was Fair.""To the Sea, O Love!""O Dearest Love, Through all the Years.""Into God's Hands."FEMALE CHORUS"Down the Forest Pathway."MALE CHORUS"From the Farms.""We are a Band of Gallant Tars."MIXED CHORUS"Hail, O Happy Nuptial Day!""Ah!""Where Turtle Doves are Cooing.""The Spanish Dance.""They're Delightful.""Oh, Can Such Wonders Be?""How Sweet to Fly.""He Really Must Be Ailing.""Adieu, Sweet Love."QUARTETTE"The Old Love.""The Parent's Voice."QUINTETTE"Oh, What Were Life."
SONGS
TRIO
DUETS
FEMALE CHORUS
MALE CHORUS
MIXED CHORUS
QUARTETTE
QUINTETTE
Field always insisted that Messrs. Smith and DeKoven got the title, if not some of the inspiration, for their opera "The Begum" from the argument of his "Buccaneer," the scheme of which he showed to Harry B. Smith, then a member of the Morning News staff. But the reason for his failure to carry out his operatic venture is obvious in the argument itself. It is intrinsically deficient in the elements of surprise, novel situations, and dramatic action necessary for stage effect. Field would have made it rich in lyrics, but as has been often proved, lyrics alone cannot make a successful opera. He quickly appreciated this and abandoned the work with "Oh, What Were Life?"
There never was any doubt of Field's "shocking taste in dress," and he never sought to cultivate or reform it. But what will those who knew him say of the statement, "I am a poor diner, and I drink no wine or spirits of any kind; I do not smoke tobacco." Field was, by the common verdict of those who had the pleasure of meeting him at any dinner company, the best diner-out they ever knew. He had a keen enjoyment of the pleasures of the table, and but for that wretched stomach would have been as much of an authority on eating as he came to be on collecting. He loved to discuss the art of dining, although he was forbidden to practise it heartily.
His favorite gift-books "appertained" to the art of cooking, in one of which (Hazlitt's "Old Cooking Books") I find inscribed to Mrs. Thompson:
Big bokes with nony love I sendTo those by whom I set no store—But see, I give to you, sweete friend,A lyttel boke and love gallore!E.F.
Big bokes with nony love I sendTo those by whom I set no store—But see, I give to you, sweete friend,A lyttel boke and love gallore!
Big bokes with nony love I send
To those by whom I set no store—
But see, I give to you, sweete friend,
A lyttel boke and love gallore!
E.F.
E.F.
Field gave up drinking wine and all kinds of alcoholic liquors, as has been related, before coming to Chicago. And yet I have seen him sniff the bouquet of some rare wine or liquor with the quivering nostril of a connoisseur, but—and this was the marvel to his associates—without "the ruby," as Dick Swiveller termed it, being the least temptation to his lips.
Eugene Field "not smoke tobacco"! He was one of the most inveterate smokers in America. If he had been given his choice between giving up pie or tobacco, I verily believe he would have thrown away the pie and stuck to the soothing weed out of which he sucked daily and hourly comfort. He had acquired the Yankee habit of ruminating with a small quid of tobacco in his cheek when a good cigar was not between his teeth. He consumed not only all the cigars that fell to his share in a profession where cigars are the invariable concomitants of every chance meeting, every social gathering, and every public function, but also those that in the usual round of our life fell to me. And I was not his only abetter in despoiling the Egyptians who thought to work the freedom of the press with a few passes of the narcotic weed. It is a curious fact that Field's pretended aversion to tobacco persists through all his writings, from the Denver Primer sketches down. In those we find him attributing the authorship of this warning to children to S.J. Tilden:
Oh, children, you Must never chewTobacco—it is Awful!The Juice will Quickly make you SickIf once you get your Maw Full.
Oh, children, you Must never chewTobacco—it is Awful!The Juice will Quickly make you SickIf once you get your Maw Full.
Oh, children, you Must never chew
Tobacco—it is Awful!
The Juice will Quickly make you Sick
If once you get your Maw Full.
He never ceased having discussions with himself over the wording or authorship of the famous lines attributed to "Little Robert Reed," as in the following:
Lo and behold! This is the way the St. Louis Republican mangles an old, quaint, beautiful, and popular poem:"I would not use tobacco," saidLittle Robert Reed."I would not use tobacco, for'Tis a nasty weed."We protest against this brutal mutilization of a grand old classic. The quatrain should read, as in the original, thus:"I'll never chew tobacco—no,It is a filthy weed;I'll never put it in my mouth,"Said little Robert Reed.By the way, who was the author of the poem of which the foregoing is the first stanza?
Lo and behold! This is the way the St. Louis Republican mangles an old, quaint, beautiful, and popular poem:
"I would not use tobacco," saidLittle Robert Reed."I would not use tobacco, for'Tis a nasty weed."
"I would not use tobacco," saidLittle Robert Reed."I would not use tobacco, for'Tis a nasty weed."
"I would not use tobacco," said
Little Robert Reed.
"I would not use tobacco, for
'Tis a nasty weed."
We protest against this brutal mutilization of a grand old classic. The quatrain should read, as in the original, thus:
"I'll never chew tobacco—no,It is a filthy weed;I'll never put it in my mouth,"Said little Robert Reed.
"I'll never chew tobacco—no,It is a filthy weed;I'll never put it in my mouth,"Said little Robert Reed.
"I'll never chew tobacco—no,
It is a filthy weed;
I'll never put it in my mouth,"
Said little Robert Reed.
By the way, who was the author of the poem of which the foregoing is the first stanza?
I need scarcely refer the reader to Field's confession in his letter of December 12th, 1891, to Mr. Gray of his struggle to give up the use of tobacco, and to the photograph of Field at work, to indicate that his "I do not smoke tobacco" was but one more of those harmless hoaxes he took such pains to carry through at the expense of an ever-credulous public.
Only one more point in regard to the "Auto-Analysis," and I am through with that whimsical concoction; and that is in reference to his attitude toward children. Knowing full well that his inquiring admirers expected him to rhapsodize upon his love for children, he deliberately set about disappointing them with: