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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
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THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC
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。
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THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC
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
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THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC
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。
I have always contended that one who is in love （and having once been
in love is to be always in love） has； actually； no confession to make。
Love is so guileless； so proper； so pure a passion as to involve none of
those things which require or which admit of confession。 He； therefore；
who surmises that in this exposition of my affaires du coeur there is to be
any betrayal of confidences； or any discussion； suggestion； or hint likely
either to shame love or its votaries or to bring a blush to the cheek of the
fastidioushe is grievously in error。
Nor am I going to boast； for I have made no conquests。 I am in no
sense a hero。 For many； very many years I have walked in a pleasant
garden； enjoying sweet odors and soothing spectacles； no predetermined
itinerary has controlled my course； I have wandered whither I pleased； and
very many times I have strayed so far into the tangle… wood and thickets as
almost to have lost my way。 And now it is my purpose to walk that
pleasant garden once more； inviting you to bear me company and to share
with me what satisfaction may accrue from an old man's return to old…time
places and old…time loves。
As a child I was serious…minded。 I cared little for those sports which