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, wh