The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac | Page 4

the fulfilment of which he had been
so long preparing, should be, as he playfully expressed it, a monument
of apologetic compensation to a class of people he had so humorously
maligned, and those who knew him intimately will recognize in the
shortcomings of the bibliomaniac the humble confession of his own
weaknesses.
It is easy to understand from the very nature of the undertaking that it
was practically limitless; that a bibliomaniac of so many years'
experience could prattle on indefinitely concerning his ``love affairs,''
and at the same time be in no danger of repetition. Indeed my brother's
plans at the outset were not definitely formed. He would say, when
questioned or joked about these amours, that he was in the easy
position of Sam Weller when he indited his famous valentine, and
could ``pull up'' at any moment. One week he would contend that a
book-hunter ought to be good for a year at least, and the next week he
would argue as strongly that it was time to send the old man into winter
quarters and go to press. But though the approach of cold weather
increased his physical indisposition, he was not the less interested in his
prescribed hours of labor, howbeit his weakness warned him that he
should say to his book, as his much- loved Horace had written:
``Fuge quo descendere gestis: Non erit emisso reditis tibi.''
Was it strange that his heart should relent, and that he should write on,
unwilling to give the word of dismissal to the book whose preparation
had been a work of such love and solace?
During the afternoon of Saturday, November 2, the nineteenth
instalment of ``The Love Affairs'' was written. It was the conclusion of
his literary life. The verses supposably contributed by Judge Methuen's
friend, with which the chapter ends, were the last words written by
Eugene Field. He was at that time apparently quite as well as on any
day during the fall months, and neither he nor any member of his
family had the slightest premonition that death was hovering about the
household. The next day, though still feeling indisposed, he was at

times up and about, always cheerful and full of that sweetness and
sunshine which, in his last years, seem now to have been the
preparation for the life beyond. He spoke of the chapter he had written
the day before, and it was then that he outlined his plan of completing
the work. One chapter only remained to be written, and it was to
chronicle the death of the old bibliomaniac, but not until he had
unexpectedly fallen heir to a very rare and almost priceless copy of
Horace, which acquisition marked the pinnacle of the book-hunter's
conquest. True to his love for the Sabine singer, the western poet
characterized the immortal odes of twenty centuries gone the greatest
happiness of bibliomania.
In the early morning of November 4 the soul of Eugene Field passed
upward. On the table, folded and sealed, were the memoirs of the old
man upon whom the sentence of death had been pronounced. On the
bed in the corner of the room, with one arm thrown over his breast, and
the smile of peace and rest on his tranquil face, the poet lay. All around
him, on the shelves and in the cases, were the books he loved so well.
Ah, who shall say that on that morning his fancy was not verified, and
that as the gray light came reverently through the window, those
cherished volumes did not bestir themselves, awaiting the cheery voice:
``Good day to you, my sweet friends. How lovingly they beam upon
me, and how glad they are that my rest has been unbroken.''
Could they beam upon you less lovingly, great heart, in the chamber
warmed by your affection and now sanctified by death? Were they less
glad to know that the repose would be unbroken forevermore, since it
came the glorious reward, my brother, of the friend who went gladly to
it through his faith, having striven for it through his works?
ROSWELL MARTIN FIELD Buena Park, December, 1895.
The
Chapters
in this Book
MY FIRST LOVE THE BIRTH OF A NEW PASSION THE
LUXURY OF READING IN BED THE MANIA OF COLLECTING
SEIZES ME BALDNESS AND INTELLECTUALITY MY
ROMANCE WITH FIAMMETTA THE DELIGHTS OF
FENDER-FISHING BALLADS AND THEIR MAKERS

BOOKSELLERS AND PRINTERS, OLD AND NEW WHEN
FANCHONETTE BEWITCHED ME DIAGNOSIS OF THE
BACILLUS LIBRORUM THE PLEASURES OF
EXTRA-ILLUSTRATION ON THE ODORS WHICH MY BOOKS
EXHALE ELZEVIRS AND DIVERS OTHER MATTERS A BOOK
THAT BRINGS SOLACE AND CHEER THE MALADY CALLED
CATALOGITIS THE NAPOLEONIC RENAISSANCE MY
WORKSHOP AND OTHERS OUR DEBT TO MONKISH MEN

I
MY FIRST LOVE
At this moment, when I am about to begin the