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 I MY FIRST LOVE II THE BIRTH OF A NEW PASSION III THE LUXURY OF READING IN BED IV THE MANIA OF COLLECTING SEIZES ME V BALDNESS AND INTELLECTUALITY VI MY ROMANCE WITH FIAMMETTA VII THE DELIGHTS OF FENDER-FISHING VIII BALLADS AND THEIR MAKERS IX BOOKSELLERS AND PRINTERS, OLD AND NEW X WHEN FANCHONETTE BEWITCHED ME XI DIAGNOSIS OF THE BACILLUS LIBRORUM XII THE PLEASURES OF EXTRA-ILLUSTRATION XIII ON THE ODORS WHICH MY BOOKS EXHALE XIV ELZEVIRS AND DIVERS OTHER MATTERS XV A BOOK THAT BRINGS SOLACE AND CHEER XVI THE MALADY CALLED CATALOGITIS XVII THE NAPOLEONIC RENAISSANCE XVIII MY WORKSHOP AND OTHERS XIX 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 seeming delight in telling you how many conquests they have made, and they not infrequently have the bad taste to explain with wearisome prolixity the ways and the means whereby those conquests were wrought; as, forsooth, an unfeeling huntsman is forever boasting of the game he has slaughtered and is forever dilating upon the repulsive details of his butcheries.