<p><SPAN name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"></SPAN></p>
<h2> Chapter 34 </h2>
<p>New York was a crowded city, even then, but I never felt so lonely
anywhere outside a camp in the big woods, The last day of the first week
came, but no letter from Hope. To make an end of suspense I went that
Saturday morning to the home of the Fullers. The equation of my value had
dwindled sadly that week. Now a small fraction would have stood for it—nay,
even the square of it.</p>
<p>Hope and Mrs Fuller had gone to Saratoga, the butler told me. I came away
with some sense of injury. I must try to be done with Hope. There was no
help for it. I must go to work at something and cease to worry and lie
awake of nights. But I had nothing to do but read and walk and wait. No
word had come to me from the 'Tribune'—evidently it was not
languishing for my aid. That day my tale was returned to me with thanks
with nothing but thanks printed in black type on a slip of paper—cold,
formal, prompt, ready-made thanks. And I, myself, was in about the same
fix—rejected with thanks—politely, firmly, thankfully
rejected. For a moment I felt like a man falling. I began to see there was
no very clamourous demand for me in 'the great emporium', as Mr Greeley
called it. I began to see, or thought I did, why Hope had shied at my
offer and was now shunning me. I went to the Tribune office. Mr Greeley
had gone to Washington; Mr Ottarson was too busy to see me. I concluded
that I would be willing to take a place on one of the lesser journals. I
spent the day going from one office to another, but was rejected
everywhere with thanks. I came home and sat down to take account of stock.
First, I counted my money, of which there were about fifty dollars left.
As to my talents, there were none left. Like the pies at the Hillsborough
tavern, if a man came late to dinner—they were all out. I had some
fine clothes, but no more use for them than a goose for a peacock's
feathers. I decided to take anything honourable as an occupation, even
though it were not in one of the learned professions. I began to answer
advertisements and apply at business offices for something to give me a
living, but with no success. I began to feel the selfishness of men. God
pity the warm and tender heart of youth when it begins to harden and grow
chill, as mine did then; to put away its cheery confidence forever; to
make a new estimate of itself and others. Look out for that time, O ye
good people! that have sons and daughters.</p>
<p>I must say for myself that I had a mighty courage and no small capital of
cheerfulness. I went to try my luck with the newspapers of Philadelphia,
and there one of them kept me in suspense a week to no purpose. When I
came back reduced in cash and courage Hope had sailed.</p>
<p>There was a letter from Uncle Eb telling me when and by what steamer they
were to leave. 'She will reach there a Friday,' he wrote, 'and would like
to see you that evening at Fuller's'.</p>
<p>I had waited in Philadelphia, hoping I might have some word, to give her a
better thought of me, and, that night, after such a climax of ill luck,
well—I had need of prayer for a wayward tongue. I sent home a good
account of my prospects. I could not bring myself to report failure or
send for more money. I would sooner have gone to work in a scullery.</p>
<p>Meanwhile my friends at the chalet were enough to keep me in good cheer.
There were William McClingan, a Scotchman of a great gift of dignity and a
nickname inseparably connected with his fame. He wrote leaders for a big
weekly and was known as Waxy McClingan, to honour a pale ear of wax that
took the place of a member lost nobody could tell how. He drank deeply at
times, but never to the loss of his dignity or self possession. In his
cups the natural dignity of the man grew and expanded. One could tell the
extent of his indulgence by the degree of his dignity. Then his mood
became at once didactic and devotional. Indeed, I learned in good time of
the rumour that he had lost his ear in an argument about the Scriptures
over at Edinburgh.</p>
<p>I remember he came an evening, soon after my arrival at the chalet, when
dinner was late. His dignity was at the full. He sat awhile in grim
silence, while a sense of injury grew in his bosom.</p>
<p>'Mrs Opper,' said he, in a grandiose manner and voice that nicely trilled
the r's, 'in the fourth chapter and ninth verse of Lamentations you will
find these words—here he raised his voice a bit and began to tap the
palm of his left hand with the index finger of his right, continuing:
"They that be slain with the sword are better than they that be slain with
hunger. For these pine away stricken through want of the fruits of the
field." Upon my honour as a gentleman, Mrs Opper, I was never so hungry in
all my life.'</p>
<p>The other boarder was a rather frail man with an easy cough and a
confidential manner, lie wrote the 'Obituaries of Distinguished Persons'
for one of the daily papers. Somebody had told him once, his head
resembled that of Washington. He had never forgotten it, as I have reason
to remember. His mind lived ever among the dead. His tongue was pickled in
maxims; his heart sunk in the brine of recollection; his humour not less
unconscious and familiar than that of an epitaph; his name was Lemuel
Framdin Force. To the public of his native city he had introduced Webster
one fourth of July—a perennial topic of his lighter moments.</p>
<p>I fell an easy victim to the obituary editor that first evening in the
chalet. We had risen from the table and he came and held me a moment by
the coat lapel. He released my collar, when he felt sure of me, and began
tapping my chest with his forefinger to drive home his point I stood for
quite an hour out of sheer politeness. By that time he had me forced to
the wall—a God's mercy, for there I got some sense of relief in the
legs. His gestures, in imitation of the great Webster, put my head in some
peril. Meanwhile he continued drumming upon my chest. I looked longingly
at the empty chairs. I tried to cut him off with applause that should be
condusive and satisfying, but with no success. It had only a stimulating
effect. I felt somehow like a cheap hired man badly overworked. I had lost
all connection. I looked, and smiled, and nodded, and exclaimed, and heard
nothing. I began to plan a method of escape. McClingan—the great and
good Waxy McClingan—came out of his room presently and saw my
plight.</p>
<p>'What is this?' he asked, interrupting, 'a serial stawry?</p>
<p>Getting no answer he called my name, and when Force had paused he came
near.</p>
<p>'In the sixth chapter and fifth verse of Proverbs,' said he, 'it is
written:</p>
<p>"Deliver thyself as a roe from the hand of the hunter and as a bird from
the hand of the fowler." Deliver thyself, Brower.</p>
<p>I did so, ducking under Force's arm and hastening to my chamber.</p>
<p>'Ye have a brawling, busy tongue, man,' I heard McClingan saying. 'By the
Lord! ye should know a dull tongue is sharper than a serpent's tooth.</p>
<p>'You are a meddlesome fellow,' said Force.</p>
<p>'If I were you,' said McClingan, 'I would go and get for myself the long
ear of an ass and empty my memory into it every day. Try it, man. Give it
your confidence exclusively. Believe me, my dear Force, you would win
golden opinions.</p>
<p>'It would be better than addressing an ear of wax,' said Force, hurriedly
withdrawing to his own room.</p>
<p>This answer made McClingan angry.</p>
<p>'Better an ear of wax than a brain of putty,' he called after him.
'Blessed is he that hath no ears when a fool's tongue is busy,' and then
strode up and down the floor, muttering ominously.</p>
<p>I came out of my room shortly, and then he motioned me aside.</p>
<p>'Pull your own trigger first, man,' he said to me in a low tone. 'When ye
see he's going to shoot pull your own trigger first. Go right up if him
and tap him on the chest quiddy and say, "My dear Force, I have a
glawrious stawry to tell you," and keep tapping him—his own trick,
you know, and he can't complain. Now he has a weak chest, and when he
begins to cough—man, you are saved.</p>
<p>Our host, Opper, entered presently, and in removing the tablecloth
inadvertently came between us. McClingan resented it promptly.</p>
<p>'Mr Opper,' said he, leering at the poor German, 'as a matter of personal
obligement, will you cease to interrupt us?</p>
<p>'All right! all right! gentlemens,' he replied, and then, fearing that he
had not quite squared himself, turned back, at the kitchen door, and
added, 'Oxcuse me.</p>
<p>McClingan looked at him with that leering superior smile of his, and gave
him just the slightest possible nod of his head.</p>
<p>McClingan came into my room with me awhile then. He had been everywhere,
it seemed to me, and knew everybody worth knowing. I was much interested
in his anecdotes of the great men of the time. Unlike the obituary editor
his ear was quite as ready as his tongue, though I said little save now
and then to answer a question that showed a kindly interest in me.</p>
<p>I went with him to his room at last, where he besought me to join him in
drinking 'confusion to the enemies of peace and order'. On my refusing, he
drank the toast alone and shortly proposed 'death to slavery'. This was
followed in quick succession by 'death to the arch traitor, Buchanan';
'peace to the soul of John Brown'; 'success to Honest Abe' and then came a
hearty 'here's to the protuberant abdomen of the Mayor'.</p>
<p>I left him at midnight standing in the middle of his room and singing 'The
Land o' the Leal' in a low tone savoured with vast dignity.</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />