Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country

by Irving Bacheller

  Chapter 34

  New York was a crowded city, even then, but I never felt so lonelyanywhere outside a camp in the big woods, The last day of the first weekcame, but no letter from Hope. To make an end of suspense I went thatSaturday morning to the home of the Fullers. The equation of my valuehad dwindled sadly that week. Now a small fraction would have stood forit--nay, even the square of it.

  Hope and Mrs Fuller had gone to Saratoga, the butler told me. I cameaway with some sense of injury. I must try to be done with Hope. Therewas no help for it. I must go to work at something and cease to worryand lie awake of nights. But I had nothing to do but read and walk andwait. No word had come to me from the 'Tribune'--evidently it was notlanguishing for my aid. That day my tale was returned to me with thankswith 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 samefix--rejected with thanks--politely, firmly, thankfully rejected. Fora moment I felt like a man falling. I began to see there was no veryclamourous demand for me in 'the great emporium', as Mr Greeley calledit. I began to see, or thought I did, why Hope had shied at my offer andwas now shunning me. I went to the Tribune office. Mr Greeley had goneto Washington; Mr Ottarson was too busy to see me. I concluded that Iwould be willing to take a place on one of the lesser journals. I spentthe day going from one office to another, but was rejected everywherewith thanks. I came home and sat down to take account of stock. First, Icounted my money, of which there were about fifty dollars left. As to mytalents, there were none left. Like the pies at the Hillsboroughtavern, if a man came late to dinner--they were all out. I had some fineclothes, but no more use for them than a goose for a peacock's feathers.I decided to take anything honourable as an occupation, even thoughit were not in one of the learned professions. I began to answeradvertisements and apply at business offices for something to give me aliving, 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 andgrow 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, Oye good people! that have sons and daughters.

  I must say for myself that I had a mighty courage and no smallcapital of cheerfulness. I went to try my luck with the newspapers ofPhiladelphia, and there one of them kept me in suspense a week to nopurpose. When I came back reduced in cash and courage Hope had sailed.

  There was a letter from Uncle Eb telling me when and by what steamerthey were to leave. 'She will reach there a Friday,' he wrote, 'andwould like to see you that evening at Fuller's'.

  I had waited in Philadelphia, hoping I might have some word, to giveher a better thought of me, and, that night, after such a climax of illluck, well--I had need of prayer for a wayward tongue. I sent home agood account of my prospects. I could not bring myself to report failureor send for more money. I would sooner have gone to work in a scullery.

  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 anda nickname inseparably connected with his fame. He wrote leaders for abig weekly and was known as Waxy McClingan, to honour a pale ear of waxthat took the place of a member lost nobody could tell how. Hedrank deeply at times, but never to the loss of his dignity or selfpossession. In his cups the natural dignity of the man grew andexpanded. One could tell the extent of his indulgence by the degreeof 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 inan argument about the Scriptures over at Edinburgh.

  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 grimsilence, while a sense of injury grew in his bosom.

  'Mrs Opper,' said he, in a grandiose manner and voice that nicelytrilled the r's, 'in the fourth chapter and ninth verse of Lamentationsyou will find these words--here he raised his voice a bit and beganto 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 thatbe slain with hunger. For these pine away stricken through want of thefruits of the field." Upon my honour as a gentleman, Mrs Opper, I wasnever so hungry in all my life.'

  The other boarder was a rather frail man with an easy cough and aconfidential manner, he wrote the 'Obituaries of Distinguished Persons'for one of the daily papers. Somebody had told him once, his headresembled that of Washington. He had never forgotten it, as I havereason to remember. His mind lived ever among the dead. His tongue waspickled in maxims; his heart sunk in the brine of recollection; hishumour not less unconscious and familiar than that of an epitaph; hisname was Lemuel Framdin Force. To the public of his native city he hadintroduced Webster one fourth of July--a perennial topic of his lightermoments.

  I fell an easy victim to the obituary editor that first evening in thechalet. We had risen from the table and he came and held me a momentby the coat lapel. He released my collar, when he felt sure of me, andbegan tapping my chest with his forefinger to drive home his point. Istood for quite an hour out of sheer politeness. By that time he had meforced to the wall--a God's mercy, for there I got some sense of reliefin the legs. His gestures, in imitation of the great Webster, put myhead in some peril. Meanwhile he continued drumming upon my chest.I looked longingly at the empty chairs. I tried to cut him off withapplause that should be condusive and satisfying, but with no success.It had only a stimulating effect. I felt somehow like a cheap hired manbadly overworked. I had lost all connection. I looked, and smiled, andnodded, and exclaimed, and heard nothing. I began to plan a method ofescape. McClingan--the great and good Waxy McClingan--came out of hisroom presently and saw my plight.

  'What is this?' he asked, interrupting, 'a serial stawry?

  Getting no answer he called my name, and when Force had paused he camenear.

  'In the sixth chapter and fifth verse of Proverbs,' said he, 'it iswritten:

  "Deliver thyself as a roe from the hand of the hunter and as a bird fromthe hand of the fowler." Deliver thyself, Brower.

  I did so, ducking under Force's arm and hastening to my chamber.

  'Ye have a brawling, busy tongue, man,' I heard McClingan saying. 'Bythe Lord! ye should know a dull tongue is sharper than a serpent'stooth.

  'You are a meddlesome fellow,' said Force.

  'If I were you,' said McClingan, 'I would go and get for myself the longear of an ass and empty my memory into it every day. Try it, man. Giveit your confidence exclusively. Believe me, my dear Force, you would wingolden opinions.

  'It would be better than addressing an ear of wax,' said Force,hurriedly withdrawing to his own room.

  This answer made McClingan angry.

  '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 thenstrode up and down the floor, muttering ominously.

  I came out of my room shortly, and then he motioned me aside.

  'Pull your own trigger first, man,' he said to me in a low tone. 'Whenye see he's going to shoot, pull your own trigger first. Go right up tohim and tap him on the chest quiddy and say, "My dear Force, I have aglawrious stawry to tell you," and keep tapping him--his own trick, youknow, and he can't complain. Now he has a weak chest, and when he beginsto cough--man, you are saved.

  Our host, Opper, entered presently, and in removing the tableclothinadvertently came between us. McClingan resented it promptly.

  'Mr Opper,' said he, leering at the poor German, 'as a matter ofpersonal obligement, will you cease to interrupt us?

  'All right! all right! gentlemens,' he replied, and then, fearing thathe had not quite squared himself, turned back, at the kitchen door, andadded, 'Oxcuse me.

  McClingan looked at him with that leering superior smile of his, andgave him just the slightest possible nod of his head.

  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 interestedin his anecdotes of the great men of the time. Unlike the obituaryeditor his ear was quite as ready as his tongue, though I said littlesave now and then to answer a question that showed a kindly interest inme.

  I went with him to his room at last, where he besought me to join him indrinking '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'.

  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.