METHOD OF WORK
Although Eugene Field was the most unconventional of writers, there
was a method in all his ways that made play of much of his work. No
greater mistake was ever made than in attributing his physical
break-down to exhaustion from his daily grind in a newspaper office.
No man ever made less of a grind than he in preparing copy for the
printer. He seldom arrived at the office before eleven o'clock and
never settled down to work before three o'clock. The interim was spent
in puttering over the exchanges, gossiping with visitors, of whom he
had a constant stream, quizzing every other member of the staff,
meddling here, chaffing there, and playing hob generally with the
orderly routine of affairs. He was a persistent, insistent,
irrepressible disturber of everything but the good-fellowship of the
office, to which he was the chief contributor. No interruption from
Field ever came or was taken amiss. From the hour he ambled
laboriously up the steep and narrow stairs, anathematizing them at
every step, in every tone of mockery and indignation, to the moment he
sat down to his daily column of "leaded agate, first line brevier," no
man among us knew what piece of fooling he would be up to next.
Something was wrong, Field was out of town, or some old crony from
Kansas City, St. Louis, or Denver was in Chicago, if about one o'clock
I was not interrupted by a summons from him that the hour for luncheon
had arrived. Although I was at work within sound of his voice, these
came nearly always in the form of a note, delivered with an unvarying
grin by the office-boy, who would drop any other errand, however
pressing, to do Field's antic bidding. These notes were generally
flung into the waste-paper basket, much to my present regret, for of
themselves they would have made a most remarkable exhibit. Sometimes
the summons would be in the form of a bar of music like this which I
preserved:
[Illustration: A BAR OF MUSIC.
_Written by Eugene Field._]
But more often it was a note in the old English manner, which for
years was affected between us, like this one:
PUISSANT AND TRIUMPHANT LORD:
By my halidom it doth mind me to hold discourse with thee. Come thou
privily to my castle beyond the moat, an' thou wilt.
In all fealty, my liege,
Thy gentle vassal,
[Illustration: The mark of The Good Knight.]
Or, going down to the counting-room, he would summon a messenger to
mount the stairs with a formal invitation like this:
SIR SLOSSON:
The Good but Impecunious Knight bides in the business office, and
there soothly will he tarry till you come anon. So speed thee, bearing
with thee ducats that in thy sweet company and by thy joyous courtesy
the Good Knight may be regaled with great and sumptuous cheer withal.
THE GOOD KNIGHT.
Then out we would sally to the German restaurant around the corner,
where the coffee was good, the sandwiches generous, and the pie
execrable. If there was a German cook in Chicago who could make good
pies we never had the good fortune to find him.
[Illustration: TWO GOOD KNIGHTS AT FEAST
drawing and legend:
With great and sumptous cheer and with
Joyous discourse, the good knight
Slosson regaleth the good knight
Eugene sans peur et sans monie.
_From a drawing by Eugene Field._]
Having regaled ourselves with this sumptuous cheer to "repletion," we
would walk three blocks to McClurg's book-store and replenish our
stock of English, sacred and profane, defiled and undefiled. I am
writing now of the days before Field made the old-book department
famous throughout the country as the browsing ground of the
bibliomaniacs. After loitering there long enough to digest our lunches
and to nibble a little literature, we would retrace our steps to the
office, where Field resumed his predatory actions until he was ready
to go to work. Then peace settled on the establishment for about three
hours. If any noisy visitor or obstreperous reporter in the local room
did anything to disturb the "literary atmosphere" that brooded around
the office, Field would bang on the tin gong hanging over his desk
until all other noises sank into dismayed silence. Then he would
resume "sawing wood" for his "Sharps and Flats."
If Field had not quite worked off his surplus stock of horse-play on
his associates, he would vent it upon the compositor in some such
apostrophe as the following:
_By my troth, I'll now begin ter
Cut a literary caper
On this pretty tab of paper
For the horney-handed printer;
I expect to hear him swearing
That these inks are very wearing
On his oculary squinter._
Or this:
We desire to announce that Mademoiselle Rhea, the gifted Flanders
maid, who has the finest wardrobe on the stage, will play a season
of bad brogue and flash dresses in this city very soon. This
announcement, however, will never see the dawn of November 13th,
and we kiss it a fond farewell as we cheerfully submit it as a sop
to Cerberus.
Field had a theory that Ballantyne, the managing editor, would not
consider that he was earning his salary, and that Mr. Stone would not
think that he was exercising the full authority of editorship, unless
something in his column was sacrificed to the blue pencil of a
watchful censorship. Coupled with this was the more or less cunning
belief that it was good tactics to write one or two outrageously
unprintable paragraphs to draw the fire, so to speak, of the blue
pencil, and so to divert attention from something, about which there
might be question, which he particularly wished to have printed.
Ballantyne, as I have said, was a very much more exacting censor than
Stone, for the reason that the humor of a story or paragraph often
missed his Scotch literalness, while Stone never failed to let
anything pass on that score.
By six o'clock Field's writing for the day was done, and he generally
went home for dinner. But that this was not always the case the
following notes testify:
GOOD AND GENTLE KNIGHT:
If so be ye pine and so hanker after me this night I pray you come
anon to the secret lair near the moat on the next floor, and there
you will eke descry me. There we will discourse on love and other
joyous matters, and until then I shall be, as I have ever been,
Your most courteous friend,
E. FIELD.
* * * * *
An' it please the good and gentle knight, Sir Slosson Thompson, his
friend in very sooth, the honest knight will arrive at his castle
this day at the 8th hour, being minded to partake of Sir Slosson's
cheer and regale him with the wealth of his joyous discourse.
THE GOOD KNIGHT.
Five nights out of the week Field spent some part of the evening at
one of the principal theatres of the town, of which at that time there
were five. He was generally accompanied by Mrs. Field and her sister,
Miss Comstock, who subsequently became Mrs. Ballantyne. When it was a
family party, Ballantyne and I would join it about the last act, and
there was invariably a late supper party, which broke up only in time
for the last north-bound car. When Field was a self-invited guest with
any of his intimates at dinner the party would adjourn for a round of
the theatres, ending at that one where the star or leading actor was
most likely to join in a symposium of steak and story at Billy Boyle's
English chop-house. This resort, on Calhoun Place, between Dearborn
and Clark Streets, was for many years the most famous all-night
eating-house in Chicago. For chops and steaks it had not its equal in
America, possibly not in the world. Long after we had ceased to
frequent Boyle's, so long that our patronage could not have been
charged with any share in the catastrophe, it went into the hands of
the sheriff. This afforded Field an opportunity to write the following
sympathetic and serio-whimsical reminiscence of a unique institution
in Chicago life:
It is unpleasant and it is hard to think of Billy Boyle's chop-house
as a thing of the past, for that resort has become so closely
identified with certain classes and with certain phases of life in
Chicago that it seems it must necessarily keep right on forever in
its delectable career. We much prefer to regard its troubles as
temporary, and to believe that presently its hospitable doors will be
thrown open again to the same hungry, appreciative patrons who for so
many years have partaken of its cheer.
When the sheriff asked Billy Boyle the other day where the key to the
door was, Billy seemed to feel hurt. What did Billy know about a key,
and what use had he ever found for one in that hospitable spot,
whither famished folk of every class gravitated naturally for the
flying succor of Billy's larder?
"The door never had a key," said Billy. "Only once in all the time I
have been here has the place been closed, and then it was but four
hours."
Down in New Orleans there is a famous old saloon called the Sazeraz.
For fifty-four years it stood open to the thirsty public. Then the
City Council passed a Sunday-closing ordinance, and with the
enforcement of this law came the discovery that through innocuous
desuetude the hinges of the doors to the Sazeraz had rusted off,
while the doors themselves had become so worm-eaten that they had to
be replaced by new ones. The sheriff who pounced down on Billy
Boyle's in his official capacity must have fancied he had struck a
second Sazeraz, for the lock upon the door was so rusty and rheumatic
through disuse that it absolutely refused to respond to the
persuasion of the keys produced for the performance of its functions.
We cannot help applauding the steadfastness with which this lock
resented the indignity which the official visit of the sheriff
implied.
If we were to attempt to make a roster of the names of those who have
made the old chop-house their Mecca in seasons of hunger and thirst,
we could easily fill a page. So, although you may have never visited
the place yourself, it is easy for you to understand that many are
the associations and reminiscences which attached to it. There was
never any attempt at style there; the rooms were unattractive, save
for the savory odors which hung about them; the floors were bare, and
the furniture was severe to the degree of rudeness. There was no
china in use upon the premises; crockery was good enough; men came
there to feed their stomachs, not their eyes.
Boyle's was a resort for politicians, journalists, artists, actors,
musicians, merchants, gamblers, professional men generally, and
sporting men specially. Boyle himself has always been a lover of the
horse and a patron of the turf; naturally, therefore, his restaurant
became the rendezvous of horsemen, so called. Upon the walls there
were colored prints, which confirmed any suspicion which a stranger
might have of the general character of the place, and the _mise en
scène_ differed in no essential feature from that presented in the
typical chop-house one meets in the narrow streets and by-ways of
"dear ol' Lunnon!"
It is likely that Boyle's has played in its quiet way a more
important part in the history of the town than you might suppose. It
was here that the lawyers consulted with their clients during the
noon luncheon hour; politicians came thither to confer one another
and to devise those schemes by which parties were to be humbugged. It
was here that the painter and the actor discussed their respective
arts; here, too, in the small hours of morning, the newspaper editor
and reporters gathered together to dismiss professional cares and
jealousies for the nonce, and to feed in the most amicable spirit
from the same trough. Jobs were put up, _coups_ planned,
reconciliations effected, schemes devised, combinations suggested,
news exploited and scandals disseminated, friendships strengthened,
acquaintances made--all this at Billy Boyle's--so you see it would
have been hard to find a better field in which to study human nature,
for hither came people of every class and kind with their ambitions,
hopes, purposes, and eccentricities.
The glory of the house of Boyle was the quality of viands served
there, and nowhere else in the world was it possible to find finer
steaks and chops. These substantials were served with a liberality
that would surely have astounded those who did not understand that
the patrons of Billy Boyle's were men blest with long appetites and
robust digestions. Spanish stew was one of the specialties; so were
baked potatoes, and so were Spanish roasted onions. It was the custom
to sit and smoke after the meal had been disposed of, and the quality
of the cigars sold in the place was the best; at night
particularly--say after the newspaper clans began to gather--Boyle's
wore the aspect of a smoke-talk in full blast. Harmony invariably
prevailed. If, perchance, any discordant note was sounded it was
speedily hushed. Charlie, the man behind the bar, had a way of his
own of preserving the peace. He was a gentleman of a few words, slow
to anger, but sure of wrath. Experience had taught him that the best
persuasive to respectful and reverential order was a spoke of a
wagon-wheel. One of these weapons lay within reach, and it never
failed to restore tranquillity when produced and wielded at the
proper moment by Charlie. The consequence was that Charlie inspired
all good men with respect and all evil men with terror, and the
result was harmony of the most enjoyable character. Perhaps if
Charlie had been on watch when that horrid sheriff arrived on his
meddlesome errand, Billy Boyle's might still be open to the rich and
the poor who now meet together in that historic alley and bemoan the
passing of their old point of rendezvous. Perhaps--but why indulge in
surmises? It is pleasanter to regard this whole disagreeable sheriff
business as an episode that is soon to pass away and to be forgotten,
if not forgiven.
Surely the clouds will roll by; surely you, Septimius, and you,
Tuliarchus mine, will presently gather with others of the old cronies
around the hospitable board of that genial host to renew once more
the delights of days and nights endeared to us in memory!
Billy Boyle's succumbed to his love for the race-track and the abuse
of his credit-check system. Field has mentioned gamblers as among the
patrons of the place. After midnight they were his most liberal
customers. Winning or losing, their appetites were always on edge and
their tastes epicurean. Nothing the house could afford was too good
for them, and, while Charlie was on deck, what the house could afford
was good enough for them, whether they thought so or not. During the
'80s Chicago was a gamblers' paradise. Everything was run "wide
open," as the saying is, under police regulation and protection, and
Billy Boyle's was in the very centre of the gambling district. If
Billy had been paid cash, and could have been kept away from the
race-tracks, he would have grown rich beyond the terrors of the
sheriff. While the gamblers were winning they supped like princes and
paid like goldsmiths. When they were losing their losses whetted
their appetites, they ate to keep their spirits up, and Billy's
spindles were not long enough to hold their waiters' checks. In flush
times a goodly percentage of these checks were redeemed, but the
reckoning of the bad ones at the bottom grew longer and dirtier and
more hopeless, until it brought the sheriff.
We of the Morning News--Field, Stone, Ballantyne, Reilly, and
I--frequented Boyle's until the war which the paper waged unceasingly
upon the league between the city administration and the gamblers
brought about a stricter surveillance of gaming, and we came to be
regarded by our fellow-guests as interlopers, if not spies, upon
their goings in and out. Neither Boyle nor the ever faithful Charlie
ever by word or sign intimated that we were _personæ non gratæ_, but
the atmosphere of the place became too chilly for the enjoyment of
late suppers.
I have devoted so much space to Billy Boyle's because for several
years Field found there the best opportunity of his life "to study
human nature" and observe the "ambitions, hopes, purposes, and
eccentricities" of his fellow-man.
After the "pernicious activity" of our newspaper work had "put the
shutters up" against us in Calhoun Place, we transferred our midnight
custom to the Boston Oyster House, on the corner of Clark and Madison
streets, which Field selected because of the suggestion of baked
beans, brown bread, and codfish in its name. Here we were assigned a
special table in the corner near the grill range, and here we were
welcomed along about twelve o'clock by the cheerful chirping of a
cricket in the chimney, which Field had a superstition was intended
solely for him. The Boston Oyster House had the advantage over Billy
Boyle's that here we could bring "our women folks" after the theatre
or concert. It was through a piece of doggerel, composed and recited
by Field with great gusto on one of these occasions, that we first
learned of the serious attentions of our managing editor to Mrs.
Field's youngest sister. One of these stanzas ran thus:
_A quart taken out of the ice-box,
A dozen broiled over the fire,
Then home from the show
With her long-legged beau,
What more can our sister desire?_
But the ladies were never invited to invade the cricket's corner,
where we were permitted to beguile the hours in gossip, song, and
story until the scrub-women had cleaned the rest of the big basement
and "the first low swash" of the suds and brush threatened the legs of
our chairs. Then, with a parting anathema on the business of slaves
that toiled when honest folk should be abed, we would ascend the
stairs and betake ourselves to our several homes. It was at the Boston
that Field varied his diet of pie and coffee with what he was pleased
to describe as "the staying qualities as well as the pleasing aspect
of a Welsh rabbit."
During the first years of his connection with the Morning News, Field
worked without intermission six days of the week, without a vacation
and, except when he transferred his scene of operations to the capitol
at Springfield, without leaving Chicago--with two noteworthy
exceptions. For some reason Field had taken what the Scotch call a
scunner to ex-President Hayes, whom he regarded as a political
Pecksniff. The refusal of Mr. Hayes while President to serve wine in
the White House Field regarded as a cheap affectation, and so when,
through his numerous sources of information, he learned that Mr. Hayes
derived a part of his income from saloon property in Omaha, nothing
would do Field but, accompanied by the staff artist, he must go to
Omaha and investigate himself the story for the News.
He went, found the facts were as represented, and returned with the
proofs and a photograph of himself sitting on a beer-keg in a saloon
owned by Rutherford B. Hayes. He also bought the keg, and out of its
staves had a frame made for the picture, which he presented to Mr.
Ballantyne.
His other notable absence from Chicago in those days was also
connected with ex-President Hayes. This time it involved a visit to
the latter's home at Fremont, O. In all his frequent references to Mr.
Hayes, Field had always spoken of Mrs. Hayes with sincere admiration
for her womanly qualities and convictions. So long as these were
confined to the ordering of her personal household he deemed them as
sacred as they were admirable. Nor did he blame her for attempting to
extend them to rule the actions of her husband in his public
relations. But it was for permitting this that Mr. Hayes earned the
scorn of Field. When President Hayes retired from the White House to
Fremont, instead of becoming another Cincinnatus at the plough he was
overshadowed by the stories of Mrs. Hayes's devotion to her
chicken-farm, and the incongruity of the occupation appealed so
strongly to Field's sense of the ridiculous that he prevailed on Mr.
Stone to let him go down to Fremont to take in its full absurdity with
his own eyes.
Before going to Omaha, Field had taken the precaution to write enough
"Sharps and Flats" to fill his column until he returned--a precaution
he omitted when he started for Fremont, on the understanding that his
associates on the editorial page would do his work for him. This was
our opportunity, and gladly we availed ourselves of it. The habit had
grown on Field of introducing his paragraphic skits with such "country
journalisms" as:
"We opine,"
"Anent the story,"
"We are free to admit,"
"We violate no confidence,"
"It is stated, though not authoritatively,"
"Our versatile friend,"
"We learn from a responsible source," and
"Our distinguished fellow-townsman."
This he accompanied with a lavish bestowal of titles that would have
done credit to the most courtly days of southern chivalry.
So when Field was safely off for Fremont we started to produce a
column that would be a travesty on his favorite expressions at the
expense of his titled friends. We opined and violated all the
confidences of which we were possessed in regard to Colonel Phocion
Howard, of the Batavia frog-farm, Major Moses P. Handy, the flaming
sword of the Philadelphia Press, Senator G. Frisbie Hoar, Major
Charles Hasbrook, Colonel William E. Curtis, Colonel John A. Joyce,
Colonel Fred W. Nye, Major E. Clarence Stedman, and Colonels Dana,
Watterson, and Halstead, and we exhausted the flowers of Field's
vocabulary in daring encomiums on Madame Modjeska, Lotta, Minnie
Maddern, and Marie Jansen. If any of Field's particular friends were
omitted from "favorable mention" in that column, it was because we
forgot or Mr. Stone's blue pencil came to the rescue of his absent
friend. Ballantyne was party to the conspiracy, because he had often
remonstrated against the rut of expression into which Field was in
danger of falling.
When Field returned that one column had driven all thoughts of Mrs.
Hayes's hens from his thoughts. There was a cold glitter in his pale
blue eyes and a hollow mock in the forced "ha, ha" with which he
greeted some of our "alleged efforts at wit." He said little, but a
few days later relieved his pent-up feelings by printing the
following:
_MAY THE 26th, 1885
As when the bright, the ever-glorious sun
In eastern slopes lifts up his flaming head,
And sees the harm the envious night has done
While he, the solar orb, has been abed--
Sees here a yawl wrecked on the slushy sea,
Or there a chestnut from its roost blown down,
Or last year's birds' nests scattered on the lea,
Or some stale scandal rampant in the town--
Sees everywhere the petty work of night,
Of sneaking winds and cunning, coward rats,
Of hooting owls, of bugaboo and sprite,
Of roaches, wolves, and serenading cats--
Beholds and smiles that bagatelles so small
Should seek to devastate the slumbering earth--
Then smiling still he pours on one and all
The warmth and sunshine of his grateful mirth;
So he who rules in humor's vast domain,
Borne far away by some Ohio train,
Returns again, like some recurring sun,
And shining, God-like, on the furrowed plain
Repairs the ills that envious hands have done._
But the daring violation of Field's confidence effected its purpose.
Never again did he employ the type-worn expressions of country
journalism, except with set prepense and self-evident satire. He
shunned them as he did an English solecism, which he never committed,
save as a decoy to draw the fire of the ever-watchful and hopeless
grammatical purist.