"Little of the sad travail of the historic poet has Mr. Fields known. Of the emaciated face, the seedy garment, the collapsed purse, the dog-eared and often rejected manuscript, he has never known, save from well-authenticated tradition. His muse was born in sunshine, and has only been sprinkled with the tears of affection. Every effort has been cheered to the echo, and it is impossible for so genial a fellow to fail of an ample and approving audience for whatever may fall from his lip or pen."
The following lines, from his second volume, will serve as a specimen of the "homely beauty" of Mr. Fields' muse, though it hardly sets forth all his powers:
She came among the gathering crowd
A maiden fair, without pretense,
And when they asked her humble name,
She whispered mildly, "Common Sense."
Her modest garb drew every eye,
Her ample cloak, her shoes of leather;
And when they sneered, she simply said,
"I dress according to the weather."
They argued long and reasoned loud,
In dubious Hindoo phrase mysterious;
While she, poor child, could not pine