I do not think it is quite fair to regard comedy as a curse or a yoke. Certainly Eugene Field never suffered under the blight of the one nor staggered under the burden of the other. If there is any curse in comedy, unadulterated by lying, malice, or envy, he never knew it. He knew-none better-that the author who would command the tears that purify and sweeten life must move the laughter that lightens it. What says our Shakespeare?-

Jog on, jog, on the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a, A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a.

Eugene Field trod the footpath way to popularity and fame with a buoyant and merry heart. If there was any abatement of his joyous spirits I never knew it, and I do not think that his writings disclose any sweeter strain, as his brother suggests, in the days when ill-health checked the ardor of his boyish exuberance, but could not dim the unextinguishable flame of his comedy. The two books that contain what to the last he considered his choicest work-a judgment confirmed by their continued popularity and sale, "A Little Book of Western Verse" and "A Little Book of Profitable Tales"-were compiled from the writings (1878-1887) that flowed from his pen when he worshipped most a.s.siduously at the shrine of the G.o.ddess of comedy and social intercourse.

I have been tempted into this digression in order that the reader may not be at a loss to reconcile the apparent frivolity of Field's life and the ma.s.s of his writings at this period with the winnowed product as it appeared in the two volumes just mentioned. Out of the comedy of his nature came the sweetness of his work, and out of his a.s.sociation with all conditions of his fellow-men came that insight into the springs of human pa.s.sion and action that leavens all that he wrote, from "The Robin and the Violet" (1884) down to "The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac" (1895).

The general character of Eugene Field's life and writing went through a gradual process of evolution from the time of his arrival in Chicago to the final chapters of "The Love Affairs," which were his last work. But it can be safely divided into two periods of six years each, with the turning point at the publication of his little books of verse and tales in the year 1889. Nearly all that he wrote previous to that year was marked by his a.s.sociation with his kind; that which he wrote subsequently was saturated with his closer a.s.sociation with books. About all the preparation he needed for his daily "wood-sawing" was a hurried glance through the local papers and his favorite exchanges, among which the New York Sun held first place, with the others unplaced. He insisted that the exchange editor should send to his desk daily a dozen or more small country sheets from the most out of the way places-papers that recorded the painting of John Doe's front fence or that Seth Smith laid an egg on the editor's table with a breezy "come again, Seth, the Lord loveth a cheerful liar." When Field had acc.u.mulated enough of these items to suit his humor, he would paraphrase them, and, subst.i.tuting the names of local or national celebrities, as the incongruity tickled his fancy, he would print them in his column under the heading of local, social, literary, or industrial notes, as the case might be. He seldom changed the form of these borrowed paragraphs materially, for he held most shrewdly that no humorist could improve upon the unconscious humor of the truly rural scribe. Field never outgrew the enjoyment and employment of this distinctively American appreciation of humor. As late as October 29th, 1895, "The Love Affairs" had to wait while he regaled the readers of the Chicago Record with his own brand of "Crop Reports from East Minonk," of which the following will serve as specimens:

All are working to get in the corn crop as if they never expected to raise another crop. The schools are almost deserted, and even the schoolm'ams may yet be drafted in as huskers. As the season advances the farmers begin to realize the immensity of the crop, and the dangers and difficulties of handling it. Owing to its c.u.mbersomeness the old-fashioned way of handling it becomes obsolete, and new methods will have to be adopted and hydraulic machinery procured. Many new uses can be made of the corn-stalks, such as flag-poles for school-houses, telegraph poles and sewer-pipes. By hollowing out a corn-stalk it will make the very best of windmill towers, as the plunger-rod can be placed inside, thus protecting it from the weather, and if desired, an excellent fountain can be obtained by perforating the joints with an awl.

A freight train on the Santa Fe railroad was delayed four hours last Sat.u.r.day by a corn-stalk in Jake Schlosser's field, which had been undermined by hogs, falling across the track. It was removed with a crane and considerable difficulty by the wrecking crew.

The town of Hegler, on the Kankakee, Minonk and Western railroad, is invisible in a forest of corn. A search party under the direction of the road commissioners are looking for it.

These solemnly exaggerated crop notes were strung out to the extent of over half a column. Some will question the wit of such fantastic extravagance, but Field had early learned the truth of Puck's exclamation: "Lord, what fools these mortals be!" He knew that there was absolutely no bounds to the gullibility of mankind, and he felt it a part of his mission to cater to it to the top of its bent. One of his most successful impositions was international in its scope. On September 13th, 1886, the following paragraph, based on the current European news of the day, appeared in his column:

We do not see that Prince Alexander, the deposed Bulgarian monarch, is going to have very much difficulty in keeping the wolf away from the door. In addition to the income from a $2,000,000 legacy, he has a number of profitable investments in America which he can realize upon at any time. He owns considerable real estate in Chicago, Kansas City, Denver, and Omaha, and he is a part owner of one of the largest ranches in New Mexico. His American property is held in the name of Alexander Marie Wilhelm Ludwig Maraschkoff, and his interests in this country are looked after by Colonel J.S. Norton, the well-known attorney of this city. Colonel Norton tells us that he would not be surprised if Prince Alexander were to come to this country to live. In a letter to Colonel Norton last June the Prince said: "If ever it is in divine pleasure to release us from the hara.s.sing responsibilities which now rest upon us, it will be our choice to find a home in that great country beyond the Atlantic, where, removed from the intrigues of court and state, we may enjoy that quiet employment and peaceful meditation for which we have always yearned."

Now it must be confessed that this bears a sufficient air of verisimilitude to deceive the casual reader. It is as perfect a specimen of the pure invention which Field delighted to deck out in the form of truth with facts and the names of real personages as he ever wrote. In that year not only Englishmen, but other foreigners, were investing in American real estate. James S. Norton was indeed a well-known attorney of Chicago, as he deserved to be for his wit and professional ability. He was on such friendly terms with Field that the latter thought nothing of taking any liberty he pleased with his name whenever it served to lend credibility to an otherwise unconvincing narrative. In subsequent paragraphs Field answered fict.i.tious inquiries as to Mr. Norton's reality by giving his actual address, with the result that Mr. Norton was pestered with correspondence from all over the union offering opportunities to invest Prince Alexander's funds.

But the success of this hoax was not confined to the American side of the Atlantic, as the following paragraph from London Truth shortly after proves:

I gave some particulars a few weeks ago of the large amount of property which had been extracted from Bulgaria by Prince Alexander, who arrived at Sofia penniless, except for a sum of money which was advanced to him by the late Emperor of Russia. It is now a.s.serted by the American papers that Prince Alexander has made considerable purchases under an a.s.sumed name (Alexander Marie Wilhelm Ludwig Maraschkoff) of real estate in Chicago, Denver, Kansas City, and Omaha, and that he is part owner of one of the largest sheep ranches in New Mexico. The Prince's property in America is under the charge of Colonel Norton, a well-known attorney of Chicago. Prince Alexander must be possessed of a true Yankee cuteness if he managed to squeeze the "pile" for these investments out of Bulgaria in addition to the 70,000 to which I referred recently. The Russian papers have accused him of dabbling in stock exchange speculations, and if disposed for such business, his position must have given him some excellent opportunities of making highly profitable bargains.

Thus was Prince Alexander convicted of having burglarized Bulgaria upon an invention which should not have deceived Mr. Labouchere. How that ostentatiously manufactured alias ever imposed on Truth pa.s.ses comprehension. Is it any wonder that at one of our numerous mid-day lunches "Colonel" Norton fired the following rhyming retort at Field?-

TO EUGENE FIELD Forgive, dear youth, the forwardness Of her who blushing sends you this, Because she must her love confess, Alas! Alas! A la.s.s she is.

Long, long, so long, her timid heart Has held its joy in secrecy, Being by nature's cunning art So made, so made, so maidenly.

She knew you once, but as a pen In humor dipt in wisdom's pool, And gladly gave her homage then To one, to one, too wonderful; But having seen your face, so mild, So pale, so full of animus, She can but cry in accents wild, Eugene! Eugene! You genius!

The deep and abiding interest Field felt in the fortunes of Prince Alexander may be inferred from his exclamation, "When Stofsky meets Etrovitch, then comes the tug of Servo-Bulgarian war!"

He took no end of pleasure in starting discussions over the authorship of verses and sayings by wilfully attributing them to persons whose mere name in such connection conveyed the sense of humorous impossibility, and he thoroughly enjoyed such suggestions being taken seriously. Once having started the ball of doubt rolling he never let it stop for want of some neat strokes of his cunning pen. Several noteworthy instances of this form of literary diversion or perversion occur to me. There never was any occasion to doubt the authorship of "The Lost Sheep," which won for Sally Pratt McLean wide popular recognition a decade and a half ago. Its first stanza will recall it to the memory of all:

De ma.s.sa of de sheep fol'

Dat guard de sheep fol' bin, Look out in de gloomerin' meadows Whar de long night rain begin- So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd, "Is my sheep, is dey all come in?"

Oh, den says de hirelin' shepa'd, "Dey's some, dey's black and thin, And some, dey's po'ol' wedda's, But de res' dey's all brung in- But de res' dey's all brung in."

The very notoriety of the authorship of these lines merely served as an incentive for Field to print the following paragraph calling it in question:

Miss Sally McLean, author of "Cape Cod Folks," claims to have written the dialect poem, "Ma.s.sa of de Sheep Fold," which the New York Sun p.r.o.nounces a poetic masterpiece. We dislike to contradict Miss McLean, but candor compels us to say that we have reason to believe that she is not the author of the stanzas in question. According to the best of our recollection, this poem was dashed off in the wine-room of the Gault House, at Louisville, Ky., by Colonel John A. Joyce, from ten to twenty years ago. Joyce was in the midst of a party of convivial friends. After several cases of champagne had been tossed down, a member of the party said to Colonel Joyce, "Come, old fellow, give us an extempore poem." As Colonel Joyce had not utilized his muse for at least twenty minutes, he cordially a.s.sented to the proposition, and while the waiter was bringing a fresh supply of wine Colonel Joyce dashed off the dialect poem so highly praised by the New York Sun. We are amazed that he has laid no claim to its authorship since its revival. Unfortunately, all the gentlemen who were present at the time he dashed off the poem are dead, or there would be no trouble in substantiating his claims to its authorship. We distinctly remember he wrote it the same evening he dashed off the pretty poem so violently claimed by, and so generally accredited to, Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x.

This was written in February, 1885, and though it failed of its ostensible aim of discrediting Miss McLean's authorship of "The Lost Sheep," it succeeded in rekindling throughout the exchanges the smouldering fires of the dispute Field had himself started over that of Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x's "Solitude," the relevant verse of which runs:

Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone, For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth, But has troubles enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air, The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care.

From the day "Solitude" appeared in Miss Wheeler's "Poems of Pa.s.sion" in 1883, and so long as Field lived, he never ceased to fan this controversy into renewed life, more often than not by a.s.suming a tone of indignation that there should be any question over it, as in the following recurrence to the subject in July, 1885:

It is reported that Mrs. Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x is anxious to inst.i.tute against Colonel John A. Joyce such legal proceedings as will determine beyond all doubt that she, and not Colonel Joyce, was the author of the poem ent.i.tled "Love and Laughter," and beginning:

"Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone."

Mrs. Wilc.o.x is perhaps the most touchy person in American literature at the present time. For a number of years she has been contributing to the newspaper press of the country, and her verses have been subjected to the harshest sort of criticism. The paragraphists of the press have bastinadoed and gibbeted her in the most cruel manner; her poems have been burlesqued, parodied, and travestied heartlessly-in short, every variety of criticism has been heaped upon her work, which, even the most prejudiced will admit, has evinced remarkable boldness and an amazing facility of expression. Now we would suppose that all this shower of criticism had tanned the fair author's hide-we speak metaphorically-until it was impervious to every unkindly influence. But so far from being bomb-proof, Mrs. Wilc.o.x is even more sensitive than when she bestrode her Pegasus for the first time and soared into that dreamy realm where the lyric muse abides. There is not a quip nor a quillet from the slangy pen of the daily newspaper writers that she does not brood over and worry about as heartily as if it were an overdue mortgage on her pianoforte. We presume to say that the protests which she has made within the last two years against the utterances of the press would fill a tome. Now this Joyce affair is simply preposterous; we do not imagine that there is in America at the present time an ordinarily intelligent person who has ever believed for one moment that Colonel Joyce wrote the poem in question-the poem ent.i.tled "Love and Laughter." Colonel Joyce is an incorrigible practical joker, and his humor has been marvellously tickled by the prodigious worry his jest has cost the Wisconsin bard. The public understands the situation; there is no good reason why Mrs. Wilc.o.x should fume and fret and scurry around, all on account of that poem, like a fidgety hen with one chicken. Her claim is universally conceded; there is no shadow of doubt that she wrote the poem in question, and by becoming involved in any further complication on this subject she will simply make a laughing-stock of herself; we would be sorry to see her do that.

And yet whenever his stock of subjects for comment or raillery ran low he would write a letter to himself, asking the address of Colonel John A. Joyce, the author of "Love and Laughter," and manage in his answer to open up the whole controversy afresh. I suppose that to this day there are thousands of good people in the United States whose innocence has been abused by Field's superserviceable defence of Mrs. Wilc.o.x's t.i.tle to "Laugh and the World Laughs with You." It was delicious fooling to him and to those of us who were on the inside, but I question if Mrs. Wilc.o.x ever appreciated its humorous aspect.

Speaking of his practice of getting public attention for his own compositions through a letter of his own "To the Editor," the following affords a good example of his ingenious method, with his reply:

EVANSTON, ILL., Aug. 15, 1888.

To the Editor:

Several of us are very anxious to learn the authorship of the following poem, which is to be found in so many sc.r.a.p-books, and which ever and anon appears as a newspaper waif:

RESIGNATION I have a dear canary bird, That every morning sings The sweetest songs I ever heard, And flaps his yellow wings.

I love to sit the whole day long Beside the window-sill, And listen to the joyous song That warbler loves to trill.

My mother says that in a year The bird that I've adored Will maybe, lay some eggs and rear A callow, cooing horde.

But father says it's quite absurd To think that bird can lay, For though it is a wondrous bird, It isn't built that way.

Now whether mother tells me true Or father, bothers me; There's nothing else for me to do But just to wait and see.

Whate'er befalls this bird of mine, I am resolved 'twill please- Far be it from me to repine At what the Lord decrees.

Mr. Slason Thompson, compiler of "The Humbler Poets," could decide this matter for us if he were here now, but unhappily he is out of town just at present. We have a suspicion that the poem was originally written by Isaac Watts, but that suspicion is impaired somewhat by another suspicion that there were no such things as canary birds in Isaac Watts's time.

Yours truly,

MELISSA MAYFIELD.

We have shown this letter to Evanston's most distinguished citizen, the Hon. Andrew Shuman, and that sapient poet-critic tells us that as nearly as he can recollect the poem was written, not by Dr. Watts, but by an American girl. But whether that girl was Lucretia Davidson or Miss Ada C. Sweet he cannot recall.

Mr. Francis F. Browne, of The Dial, thinks it is one of Miss Wheeler's earlier poems, since it is imbued with that sweet innocence, that childish simplicity, and that meek piety which have ever characterized the work of the famous Wisconsin lyrist. But as we can learn nothing positive as to the authorship of the poem, we shall have to call upon the public at large to help us out.

It is needless to say that the public at large could throw no light on the composition of this imitation of Dr. Watts with which Field was not already possessed, since both poem and "Melissa Mayfield" were creations of Field's fancy.

One of the most characteristic examples of the pains he would take to palm off a composition of his own upon some innocent and unsuspecting public man appeared in the Morning News on January 22d, 1887. It was nothing short of an attempt to father upon the late Judge Thomas M. Cooley the authorship of half a dozen bits of verse of varying styles and degrees of excellence. He professed to have received from Jasper Eastman, a prominent citizen of Adrian, Mich., twenty-eight poems written by Judge Cooley, "the venerable and learned jurist, recently appointed receiver of the Wabash Railroad." These were said to have appeared in the Ann Arbor Daily News when it was conducted by the judge's most intimate friend, between the years 1853 and 1861. Field antic.i.p.ated public incredulity by saying that "people who knew him to be a severe moralist and a profound scholar will laugh you to scorn if you try to make them believe Cooley ever condescended to express his fancies in verse." Then he went on to describe the judge, at the time of writing the verse, as "a long, awkward boy, with big features, moony eyes, a shock of coa.r.s.e hair, and the merest shadow of a mustache," in proof of which description he presented a picture of the young man, declared to be from a daguerrotype in the possession of Mr. Eastman. The first "specimen gem" was said to be a paraphrase from Theocritus, ent.i.tled "Mortality":

O Nicias, not for us alone Was laughing Eros born, Nor shines for us alone the moon, Nor burns the ruddy morn.

Alas! to-morrow lies not in the ken Of us who are, O Nicias, mortal men.

Next followed a bit, "in lighter vein, from the Simonides of Amorgas," ent.i.tled "A Fickle Woman":

Her nature is the sea's, that smiles to-night A radiant maiden in the moon's soft light; The unsuspecting seaman sets his sails, Forgetful of the fury of her gales; To-morrow, mad with storms, the ocean roars, And o'er his hapless wreck her flood she pours.

Field then went on to describe Judge Cooley as equally felicitous in Latin verse, presenting in proof thereof the following, "sung at the junior cla.s.s supper at Ann Arbor, May 14th, 1854":

Nicyllam bellis oculis- (Videre est amare), Carminibus et poculis, Tra la la, tra la la, Me placet propinare: Tra la la, tra la la,- Me placet propinare!

Beside such grotesque literary horse-play as this, with a gravity startling in its unexpected daring, Field proceeded to attribute to the venerable jurist one of the simplest and purest lullabies that ever came from his own pen, opening with:

I hear Thy voice, dear Lord; I hear it by the stormy sea When winter nights are bleak and wild, And when, affright, I call to Thee; It calms my fears and whispers me, "Sleep well, my child."

Then follows "The Vision of the Holy Grail," one of those exercises in archaic English in which Field took infinite pains as well as delight, and to which, as a production of Judge Cooley's, he paid the pa.s.sing tribute of saying that it was "a graceful imitation of old English." As an example of the judge's humorous vein Field printed the conclusion of his lines "To a Blue Jay":

When I had shooed the bird away And plucked the plums-a quart or more- I noted that the saucy jay, Albeit he had naught to say, Appeared much bluer than before.

After crediting the judge with a purposely awful parody on "Dixie," in which "banner" is made to rhyme with "Savannah," and "holy" with "Pensacola," Field concluded the whimsical fabrication with the serious comment: "It seems a pity that such poetic talent as Judge Cooley evinced was not suffered to develop. His increasing professional duties and his political employments put a quietus to those finer intellectual indulgences with which his earlier years were fruitful."

Having launched this piece of literary drollery, over which he had studied and we had talked for a week or more, Field proceeded to clinch the verse-making on Judge Cooley by a series of letters to himself, one or two of which will indicate the fertile cleverness and humor he employed to cram his bald fabrication down the public gullet. The first appeared on January 24th, in the following letter "to the Editor":