part of all our hopes and joyousness, the sharers of all our ambitions
and our pleasures, whose mission has been fulfilled and who have left
us with the mile-stones of years still seeming to stretch out on the
path ahead. It is then that memory comes with its soothing influence,
telling us of the happiness that was ours and comforting us with the
ever recurring thought of the pleasures of that travelled road. For it
is happiness to walk and talk with a brother for forty years, and it is
happiness to know that the surety of that brother's affection, the
knowledge of the greatness of his heart and the nobility of his mind,
are not for one memory alone but may be publicly attested for
admiration and emulation. That it has fallen to me to speak to the
world of my brother as I knew him I rejoice. I do not fear that,
speaking as a brother, I shall crowd the laurel wreaths upon him, for
to this extent he lies in peace already honored; but if I can show him
to the world, not as a poet but as a man,--if I may lead men to see
more of that goodness, sweetness, and gentleness that were in him, I
shall the more bless the memory that has survived.
My brother was born in St. Louis in 1850. Whether the exact day was
September 2 or September 3 was a question over which he was given to
speculation, more particularly in later years, when he was accustomed to
discuss it frequently and with much earnest ness. In his youth the
anniversary was generally held to be September 2, perhaps the result of
a half-humorous remark by my father that Oliver Cromwell had died
September 3, and he could not reconcile this date to the thought that it
was an important anniversary to one of his children. Many years after,
when my uncle, Charles Kellogg Field, of Vermont, published the
genealogy of the Field family, the original date, September 3, was
restored, and from that time my brother accepted it, although with each
recurring anniversary the controversy was gravely renewed, much to the
amusement of the family and always to his own perplexity. In November,
1856, my mother died, and, at the breaking up of the family in St.
Louis, my brother and myself, the last of six children, were taken to
Amherst, Massachusetts, by our cousin, Miss Mary F. French, who took
upon herself the care and responsibility of our bringing up. How nobly
and self-sacrificingly she entered upon and discharged those duties my
brother gladly testified in the beautiful dedication of his first
published poems, "A Little Book of Western Verse," wherein he honored
the "gracious love" in which he grew, and bade her look as kindly on the
faults of his pen as she had always looked on his own. For a few years
my brother attended a private school for boys in Amherst; then, at the
age of fourteen, he was intrusted to the care of Rev. James Tufts, of
Monson, one of those noble instructors of the blessed old school who are
passing away from the arena of education in America. By Mr. Tufts he was
fitted for college, and from the enthusiasm of this old scholar he
caught perhaps the inspiration for the love of the classics which he
carried through life. In the fall of 1868 he entered Williams
College--the choice was largely accidental--and remained there one year.
My father died in the summer of 1869, and my brother chose as his
guardian Professor John William Burgess, now of Columbia University, New
York City. When Professor Burgess, later in the summer, accepted a call
to Knox College, Galesburg, Illinois, my brother accompanied him and
entered that institution, but the restlessness which was so
characteristic of him in youth asserted itself after another year and
he joined me, then in my junior year at the University of Missouri, at
Columbia. It was at this institution that he finished his education so
far as it related to prescribed study.
Shortly after attaining his majority he went to Europe, remaining six