The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac | Page 4

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 most important undertaking of my life, I recall the sense of abhorrence with which I have at different times read the confessions of men famed for their prowess in the realm of love. These boastings have always shocked me, for I reverence love as the noblest of the passions, and it is impossible for me to conceive how one who has truly fallen victim to its benign influence can ever thereafter speak flippantly of it.
Yet there have been, and there still are, many who take a