Wilson finally decided to publish Field's renditions
from Horace himself, so as to be sure of having copy No. 1. And yet he
had the almost unheard-of magnanimity to send that cherished copy to
Field, who returned it with a prettily worded note, in which he
acknowledged his obligation to Mr. Wilson and expressed the hope that
the latter would live forever, provided he, Field, could "live one day
longer to write his epitaph." Not until I came across the foregoing
letter have I understood why Wilson thwarted all Field's efforts to
present me with a copy of the precious edition of "The Sabine Farm."
They profited by my advice, however, and postponed publication for two
years, Field and his brother Roswell in the meantime working
assiduously in making new paraphrases of Horace and in polishing the
old ones.

The mutations of journalism which had sent Cowen scurrying over Europe
when Field had counted on having his companionship in London carried
the former back to Washington, where he joined with some other equally
sanguine writers in the attempt to float a literary and political
periodical named The Critic. On February 15th, 1890, Field wrote to
his friend from No. 20 Alfred Square:

MY DEAR COWEN: The improvement which you boys have made in the
Critic is very marked. If you can hold out long enough, you will
win--you are bound to. You have youth, experience, and ambition upon
your side, and they are potent factors. Of course you know that my
earnest sympathies are, and will be, with you.

I am feeling quite well now. I have secured the Gladstone axe, with
documents from the grand old man proving its identity. I also have
Charles Kean's Hamlet chair, but I can't prove it. Meanwhile I
bankrupt myself buying books, letters, and play-bills. Oh, for $200!
How rich I should feel. Did you give Hawkins his two night-shirts
and the tie? And did you send the sleeping-socks to Mrs. Ballantyne?
I must send some little souvenir to Buskett. Do tell him to write to
me and tell me how he happened to leave the mountains. By the way, I
wish you would secure for me from the Postmaster-General or his
assistant a set of proofs of government stamps. I have begun making
a collection, and he will provide that much, if properly approached.
The children are well. The boys dun me regularly. Pinny is more
artful about it than the rest. He makes all sorts of promises, calls
me "dearest papa," and sends me arit