34 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. 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 glamorous 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. Otterson 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.  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. There was a letter from Uncle Ebb 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 Fullers. 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. Meanwhile my friends at the chalet were enough to keep me in good cheer. There were William MacLingan, a scotchman of great gift of dignity, and a nickname inseparably connected with his fame. He wrote letters for a big weekly, and was known as Waxy MacLingan, to honor 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 rumor that he had lost his ear in an 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 a while in grim silence while a sense of injury grew in his bosom. "'Mrs. Opper,' said he, in a grandiose manner and voice that nicely trilled the ears. 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 the want of the fruits of the field. Upon my honor as a gentleman, Mrs. Opper, I was never so hungry in all my life. The other border was a rather frail man with an easy cough and a confidential manner. He 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 humor not less unconscious and familiar than that of an epitaph. His name was Lemuel Franklin Force. To the public of his native city he had introduced Webster one fourth of July, a perennial topic of his lighter moments. 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 and 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 conclusive and satisfying, but with no success. It had only a stimulating effect.  I had lost all connection. I looked and smiled and nodded and exclaimed and heard nothing. I began to plan a method of escape. MacLingan, the great and good waxy MacLingan, came out of his room presently and saw my plight. What is this? he asked, interrupting. A serial story? Getting no answer he called my name, and when force had paused he came near. In the sixth chapter and fifth verse of Proverbs, said he, it is written, deliver thyself as a row from the hand of the hunter and as a bird from the hand of the fowler. Deliver thyself, Brower. I did so, ducking under force's arm and hastening to my chamber. You have a brawling, busy tongue, man, I heard MacLingan saying.    Try it, man. Give it your confidence exclusively. Believe me, my dear force, you would win golden opinions. It would be better than addressing an ear of wax, said force, hurriedly withdrawing to his own room. This answer made MacLingan 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 then strode 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. When you see he's going to shoot, pull your own trigger first.  Now he has a weak chest, and when he begins to cough, man, you are saved. Our host, Opper, entered presently, and in removing the tablecloth inadvertently came between us. MacLingan resented it promptly. Mr. Opper, said he, leering at the poor German, as a matter of personable obligement, would you cease to interrupt us? All right, all right, gentlemen, he replied, and then, fearing that he had not quite squared himself, turned back at the kitchen door and added, excuse me! MacLingan looked at him with that leering superior smile of his and gave him just the slightest possible nod of his head. MacLingan came into my room with me a while 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. 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-trader Buchanan, peace to the soul of John Brown, success to honest Abe, and then came a hearty hears to the protuberant abdomen of the mayor. I left him at midnight standing in the middle of his room and singing, The Land of the Leal, in a low tone, savoured with vast dignity. A Tale of the North Country by Irving Batchelor Chapter 35 I was soon near out of money and at my wit's end, but my will was unconquered. In this plight I ran upon Fogarty, the policeman who had been the good angel of my one hopeful day in journalism. His manner invited my confidence. What luck, said he. Bad luck, I answered, only ten dollars in my pocket and nothing to do. He swung his stick thoughtfully. If I was you, said he, I'd take anything honest. Upon me word I'd rather pound rocks than lay idle.  I'll do anything that's honest. Aha! said he, rubbing his sandy chin whiskers. Don't seem like you'd been used to hard work. But I can do it, I said. He looked at me sternly and beckoned with his head. Come along, said he. He took me to a gang of Irishmen working in the street nearby. Boss McCormick, he shouted. A hearty voice answered, I, I, counselor. And McCormick came out of the crowd, using his shovel for a staff. A happy day of you, said Fogarty. Same of yous and many of them, said McCormick. You'll give me one if you do me a favor, said Fogarty. And what, said the other. A job for this lad. Will you do it? I will, said McCormick. And he did. I went to work early the next morning, with nothing on but my under-clothing and trousers, save a pair of gloves that excited the ridicule of my fellows. With this livery and the righteous determination of earning two dollars a day, I began the inelegant task of pounding rocks. No merry occupation, I assure you, for a hot summer's day on Manhattan Island. We were paving park-place, and we had to break stone and lay them and shovel dirt and dig with a pick and crowbar. My face and neck were burned crimson when we quit work at five, and I went home with a feeling of having been run over by the cars. I had a strong sense of soul and body, the latter dominated by a mighty appetite. McClingon viewed me at first with suspicion in which there was a faint flavor of envy. He invited me at once to his room and was amazed at seeing it was no lark. I told him frankly what I was doing and why and where. I would not mind the loaning of a few dollars, he said. As a matter of personal obligement, I would be most happy to do it, most happy, Brower. Indeed, I would. I thanked him cordially, but declined the favor, for at home they had always taught me the danger of borrowing, and I was bound to have it out with ill luck on my own resources. Greely is back, said he, and I shall see him to-morrow. I will put him in mind to you. I went away sore in the morning, but with no drooping spirit. In the middle of the afternoon I straightened up a moment to ease my back and look about me. There, at the edge of the gang, stood the great Horace Greely and Waxy McClingon. The latter beckoned me, as he caught my eye. I went aside to greet them. Mr. Greely gave me his hand. Do you mean to tell me that you'd rather work than beg or borrow? said he. That's about it, I answered. And ain't ashamed of it? Ashamed? Why? said I, not quite sure of his meaning. It had never occurred to me that one had any cause to be ashamed of working. He turned to McClingon and laughed. I guess he'll do for the Tribune, he said. Come and see me at twelve to-morrow. And then they went away. If I had been a knight of the garter, I could not have been treated with more distinguished courtesy by those hard-handed men the rest of the day. I bade them good-bye at night and got my order for four dollars. One Pat Devlin, a great-hearted Irishman who had shared my confidence and some of my donuts on the curb at lunch and time, I remember best of all. You'll never forget the time we worked together under Boss McCordermic, said he. And to this day, whenever I meet the good man, now Benton Gray, he says always, Good day, if you, Mr. Brower, do you mind the time we pounded the rock under Boss McCordermic? Mr. Greely gave me a place at once on the local staff and invited me to dine with him at his home that evening. Meanwhile he sent me to the headquarters of the Republican Central Campaign Committee on Broadway opposite the New York Hotel. Lincoln had been nominated in May, and the great political fight of 1860 was shaking the city with its thunders. I turned in my copy at the city desk in good season, and although the great editor had not yet left his room, I took a car at once to keep my appointment. A servant showed me to a seat in the big back parlor of Mr. Greely's home, where I spent a lonely hour before I heard his heavy footsteps in the hall. He immediately rushed upstairs two steps at a time, and in a moment I heard his high voice greeting the babies. He came down shortly with one of them clinging to his hand. Thunder, said he, I had forgotten all about you. Let's go right into dinner. He sat at the head of the table and I next to him. I remember how worried by the day's burden he sat lounging heavily in careless attitudes. He stirred his dinner into a hash of eggs, potatoes, squash and parsnips, and ate it leisurely with a spoon. His head braced off and with his left forearm its elbows resting on the table. It was a sort of letting go after the immense activity of the day, and a casual observer would have thought he affected the uncouth, which was not true of him. He asked me to tell him all about my father and his farm. At length I saw an absent look in his eye and stopped talking because I thought he had ceased to listen. Very well, very well, said he. I looked up at him, not knowing what he meant. Go on, tell me all about it, he added. I liked the country best, said he, when I had finished, because there I see more truth in things. Here the lie has many forms, unique, varied, ingenious. The ruse and powder on the ladies' cheek, they are lies, both of them.  The people who soak themselves in rum have nothing but lies in their heads. The multitude who live by their wits and the lack of them and others, they are all liars. The many who imagine a vain thing and pretend to be what they are not, liars, every one of them. It is bound to be so in the great cities, and it is a mark of decay. The skirts of Elagabulus, the wigs and rouge-pots of Madame Papadour, the crucifix of Machiavelli and the innocent smile of Fernando Wood stand for something horribly and vastly false in the people about them. For truth you've got to get back into the woods. You can find men there a good deal as God made them, genuine, strong, and simple. When those men cease to come here, you'll see grass growing in Broadway. I made no answer, and the great commoner stirred his copy a moment in silence. Vanity is the curse of cities, he continued, and flattery is its handmaiden. Vanity, flattery, and deceit are the three disgraces. I like a man to be what he is, out and out. If he's ashamed of himself, it won't be long before his friends will be ashamed of him. There's the trouble with this town. Many a fellow is pretending to be what he isn't. A man cannot be strong unless he is genuine.  He put his big arm around her, and that gentle, permanent smile of his broadened as he kissed her and patted her red cheek. Anything new in the South? Mrs. Greeley inquired. Worse and worse every day, he said, serious trouble coming. The Charleston dinner yesterday was a feast of treason and a flow of criminal rhetoric. The Union was the chief dish.  It was slaughtered, roasted, made into mincemeat, and devoured. One orator spoke of rolling back the tide of fanaticism that finds its roots in the conscience of the people. Their metaphors are as bad as their morals. He laughed heartily at this example of fervid eloquence, and then we rose from the table. He had to go to the office that evening, and I came away soon after dinner. I had nothing to do and went home reflecting upon all the great man had said. I began shortly to see the truth of what he had told me, men licking the hand of riches with the tongues of flattery, men so stricken with the itch of vanity that they groveled for the touch of praise, men even who would do perjury for applause. I do not say that most of the men I saw were of that ilk, but enough to show the tendency of life in a great town. I was filled with wonder at first by meeting so many who had been everywhere and seen everything, who had mastered all sciences and all philosophies, and endured many perils of land and sea. I had met liars before, it was no Eden there in the North country, and some of them had attained a good degree of efficiency, but they lacked the candor and finish of the metropolitan school. I confess they were all too much for me at first. They borrowed my cash, they shared my confidence, they taxed my credulity, and I saw the truth at last. Tom's breaking down, said a co-laborer on the staff one day. How is that, I inquired. Served me a mean trick. Indeed. Deceived me, said he sorrowfully. Lied, I suppose? No, he told the truth, as God's my witness. Tom had been absolutely reliable up to that time. End of Chapter 35 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 36 of Eben Holden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Eben Holden, A Tale of the North Country, by Irving Batchelor Chapter 36 Those were great days in mid-Autumn. The Republic was in grave peril of dissolution. Liberty that had himmed her birth in the last century now himmed her destiny in the voices of Bard and Orator. Crowds of men gathered in public squares at bulletin boards on street corners, arguing, gesticulating, exclaiming and cursing. Cheering multitudes went up and down the city by night with bands and torches, and there was such a howl of oratory and applause in the lower half of Manhattan Island that it gave the reporter no rest. William H. Seward, Charles Sumner, John A. Dix, Henry Ward Beecher and Charles O'Connor were the giants of the stump. There was more violence and religious fervor in the political feeling of that time than had been mangled since 1976. A sense of outrage was in the hearts of men. Honest Abe Lincoln stood, as they took it, for their homes and their country, for human liberty and even for their God. I remember coming into the counting room late one evening. Loud voices had halted me as I passed the door. Mr. Greeley stood back at the counter, a rather tall, wiry gray-headed man before it. Each was shaking a right fist under the other's nose. They were shouting loudly as they argued. The stranger was for war, Mr. Greeley, for waiting. The publisher of the Tribune stood beside the ladder, smoking a pipe. A small man leaned over the counter at the stranger's elbow, putting in a word here and there. Half a dozen people stood by, listening. Mr. Greeley turned to his publisher in a moment. Roads, said he, I wish you'd put these men out. They holler and yell so I can't hear myself think. Then there was a general laugh. I learned to my surprise when they had gone that the tall man was William H. Seward, the other John A. Dix. Then one of those fevered days came The Prince of Wales, a godsend to L.A. passion with curiosity. It was my duty to handle some of the latest news by Magnetic Telegraph and help to get the plans and progress of the campaign at headquarters. The printer, as they called Mr. Greeley, was at his desk when I came in at noon, never leaving the office but for dinner until past midnight those days. And he made the Tribune a mighty power in the state. His faith in its efficacy was sublime, and every line went under his eye before it went to his readers. I remember a night when he called me to his office about twelve o'clock. He was up to his knees in the rubbish of the day, newspapers that he had read and thrown upon the floor. His desk was littered with proofs. Go and see The Prince of Wales," he said. That interesting young man had arrived in the Harriet Lane that morning and ridden up Broadway between cheering hosts. I've got a sketch of him here and it's all twaddle. Tell us something new about him. If he's got a hole in his sock we ought to know it. Mr. Dana came in to see him while I was there. Look here, Dana," said the printer in a rasping humor. By the gods of war, here's two columns about that performance at the Academy and only two sticks of the speech of Seward at St. Paul. I'll have to get someone to go and burn that theater and send the bill to me. In the morning Mayor Wood introduced me to the Duke of New Castle, who in turn presented me to The Prince of Wales. Then a slim, blue-eyed youngster of nineteen, as gentle-mannered as any I have ever met. It was my unpleasant duty to keep as near as possible to the Royal Party in all the festivities of that week. The ball in The Prince's Honor at the Academy of Music was one of the great social events of the century. No fairer vanity in the western hemisphere ever quite equalled it. The fashions of the French court had taken the city, as had the Prince, by unconditional surrender. Not in the Palace of Versailles could one have seen a more generous exposure of the charms of fair women. None were admitted without a low-cut bodice, and many came that had not the proper accessories. But it was the most brilliant company New York had ever seen. Too many tickets had been distributed, and soon there was an elbow on every rib and a heel on every toe, as Mr. Greeley put it. Every miss and her mom a tiptoed for a view of the Prince and his party, who came in at ten, taking their seats on a dice at one side of the crowded floor. The Prince sat with his hands folded before him, like one in a reverie.  Suddenly the floor sank beneath the crowd of people who retired in some disorder. Such a compression of Colonelin was never seen as at that moment when periphery pressed upon periphery and held many a man captive in the cold embrace of steel and whale-bone. The royal party retired to its rooms again and carpenters came in with saws and hammers. The floor repaired, an area was roped off for dancing, as much as could be spared. The Prince opened the dance with Mrs. Governor Morgan, after which other ladies were honored with his gallantry. I saw Mrs. Fuller in one of the boxes and made haste to speak with her. She had just landed, having left hope to study a time in the Conservatory of Leipzig. Mrs. Livingstone is with her, said she, and they will return together in April. Mrs. Fuller, did she send any word to me? I inquired anxiously. Did she give you no message? None, she said coldly, except one to her mother and father which I have sent in a letter to them. I left her heavy-hearted, went to the reporters' table and wrote my story, very badly I must admit, for I was cut deep with sadness. Then I came away and walked for hours, not caring with her. A great homesickness had come over me. I felt as if a talk with Uncle Eb or Elizabeth Brower would have given me the comfort I needed. I walked rapidly through dark, deserted streets. A steeple-clock was striking, too, when I heard someone coming hurriedly on the walk beside me. I looked over my shoulder, but could not make him out in the darkness, and yet there was something familiar in the step. As he came near, I felt his hand upon my shoulder. Better go home, Brower, he said, as I recognized the voice of Trumbull. You've been out a long time. Passed you before to-night. Why didn't you speak? You were preoccupied. Not keeping good hours yourself, I said. Rather late, he answered, but I am a walker, and I love the night. It is so still in this part of the town. We were passing the five points. When do you sleep? I inquired. Never sleep at night, he said, unless uncommonly tired. Out every night, more or less. Sleep two hours in the morning and two in the afternoon. That's all I require. Seen the hands of that clock yonder on every hour of the night. He pointed to a lighted dial in a near tower. Stopping presently, he looked down at a little wave asleep in a doorway, a bundle of evening papers under his arm. He lifted him tenderly. Here, boy, he said, dropping coins in the pocket of the ragged little coat. I'll take those papers. You go home now. We walked to the river, passing few save members of the seahorse, who always gave trouble of cheery. Hello, cap! We passed wharves where the great seahorses lay stalled, with harnesses hung high above them, their noses nodding over our heads. We stood a while looking up at the looming masts, the lights of the river-craft. Guess I've done some good, said he, turning into peck slip. Saved two young women, took them off the streets. Fine women now, both of them, respectable, prosperous, and one is beautiful. Man who's got a mother or a sister can't help feeling sorry for such people. We came up Frankfurt to William Street, where we shook hands and parted, and I turned up Monkey Hill. I had made unexpected progress with trouble that night. He had never talked to me so freely before, and somehow he had let me come nearer to him than I had ever hoped to be. His company had lifted me out of the slew a little, and my mind was on a better footing as I neared the chalet. Riggs's shop was lighted, an unusual thing, at so late an hour. Peering through the window I saw Riggs sleeping at his desk. An old tin lantern sat near, its candle burning low, with a firing flame that threw a spray of light upon him as it rose and fell. Far back in the shop another light was burning dimly. I lifted the big iron latch and pushed the door open. Riggs did not move. I closed the door softly and went back into the gloom. The boy was also sound asleep in his chair. The lantern light flared and fell again as water leaps in a stopping fountain. As it dashed upon the face of Riggs I saw his eyes half open. I went close to his chair. As I did so the light went out and smoke rose above the lantern with a rank odor. Riggs, I called, but he sat motionless and made no answer. The moonlight came through the dusty window lighting his face and beard. I put my hand upon his brow and withdrew it quickly. I was in the presence of death. I opened the door and called the sleeping boy.    Riggs's dream was over. He had waked at last. I went to the port and I doubt not Annie and his mother were hailing him on the shore. For I knew now they had both died far back in that long dream of the old sailor. My story of Riggs was now complete. It soon found a publisher because it was true. All good things are true in literature," said the editor after he had read it. End of Truth always and you will be successful. End of Chapter 36. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 37 of Eben Holden. Eben Holden. A Tale of the North Country by Irving Bachelor. Chapter 37. As soon as Lincoln was elected the attitude of the South showed clearly that the irrepressible conflict of Mr. Seward's naming had only just begun. The Herald gave columns every day to the news of the coming revolution, as it was pleased to call it. There was loud talk of war at and after the Great Pine Street meeting of December 15. South Carolina seceded five days later and then we knew what was coming, albeit we saw only the dim shadow of that mighty struggle that was to shake the earth for nearly five years. The printer grew highly irritable those days and spoke of Buchanan and Davis and tombs in language so violent it could never have been confined in type. But while a bitter foe, none was more generous than he, and when the war was over his money went to bail the very man he had most roundly damned. I remember that one day, when he was sunk deep in composition, a negro came and began with grand airs to make a request as delegate from his campaign club. The printer sat still, his eyes close to the paper, his pen flying at high speed. The colored orator went on lifting his voice in a set petition. Mr. Greeley bent to his work as the man waxed eloquent. A nervous movement now and then betrayed the printer's irritation he looked up shortly his face kindling with anger. Help! For God's sake! he shrilled impatiently, his hands flying in the air. The printer seemed to be gasping for breath.  He turned to his writing, a thing dearer to him than a new bone to a hungry dog. Then you may come and tell me what you want! he added in a milder tone. Those were days when men said what they meant and their meaning had more fight in it than was really polite or necessary. Fight was in the air and before I knew it there was a wild, devastating spirit in my own bosom, in so much that I made haste to join a local regiment. It grew apace but not until I saw the first troops on their way to the war was I fully determined to go and give battle with my regiment. The town was afire with patriotism. Sumter had fallen. Lincoln had issued his first call. The sound of the fife and drum rang in the streets. Men gave up work to talk and listen or go into the sterner business of war. Then one night in April a regiment came out of New England on its way to the front. It lodged at the Aster House to leave at nine in the morning. Long before that hour the building was flanked and fronted with tens of thousands, crowding Broadway for three blocks, stuffing the wide mouth of Park Row and braced into VEASY and Bardet streets. My editor assigned me to this interesting event. I stood in the crowd that morning and saw what was really the beginning of the war in New York. There was no babble of voices, no impatient call, no sound of idle jeering such as one is apt to hear in a waiting crowd. It stood silent, each man busy with the rising current of his own emotions, solemnified by the faces all around him. The soldiers filed out upon the pavement, the police having kept away clear for them. Still there was silence in the crowd, save that near me I could hear a man sobbing. A trumpeter lifted his bugle and sounded a bar of the revelry. The clear notes clove the silent air, flooding every street about us with their silver sound. Suddenly the band began playing. The tune was Yankee Doodle. A wild, dismal, tremulous cry came out of a throat near me. It grew and spread to a mighty roar, and then such a shout went up to heaven as I had never heard, and as I know full well I shall never hear again. It was like the riving of thunderbolts above the roar of floods, elemental, prophetic, threatening, ungovernable. It did seem to me that the Holy Wrath of God Almighty was in that cry of the people. It was a signal. It declared that they were ready to give all that a man may give for that he loves his life and things far dearer to him than his life. After that they and their sons begged for a chance to throw themselves into the hideous ruin of war. I walked slowly back to the office and wrote my article. When the printer came in at twelve I went to his room before he had had time to begin work. Mr. Greeley, I said, here is my resignation. I am going to the war. His habitual smile gave way to a sober look as he turned to me, his big white coat on his arm. He pursed his lips and blew thoughtfully. Then he threw his coat in a chair and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.  I wish I could go too. End of Chapter 37 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 38 of Eben Holden Eben Holden, a tale of the North Country, by Irving Batchelor Chapter 38 I worked some weeks before my regiment was sent forward. I planned to be at home for a day but they needed me on the staff and I dreaded the pain of a parting, the gravity of which my return would serve only to accentuate. So I wrote them a cheerful letter and kept at work. It was my duty to interview some of the great men of that day as to the course of the government. I remember Commodore Vanderbilt came down to see me in shirt sleeves and slippers that afternoon, with a handkerchief tied about his neck in place of a collar, a blunt man of simple manners and a big heart, one who spoke his mind in good, plain talk, and, I suppose, he got along with as little profanity as possible, considering his many cares. He called me boy and spoke of a certain public man as a big sucker. I soon learned that to him a sucker was the lowest and meanest thing in the world. He sent me away with nothing but a great admiration of him. As a rule the giants of that day were plain men of the people with no frills upon them and with a way of hitting from the shoulder. They said what they meant and meant it hard.  John Trumbull invited MacLangan, of whom I had told him much, and myself to dine with him in evening that week. I went in my new dress suit, that mark of sinful extravagance for which fate had brought me down to the pounding of rocks under Boss McCormick. Trumbull's rooms were a feast for the eye, a glow with red roses. He introduced me to Margaret Hall and her mother, who were there to dine with us. She was a slight woman of thirty, then, with a face of no striking beauty but of singular sweetness. Her dark eyes had a mild and tender light in them, her voice a plaintive gentle tone, the like of which one may hear rarely, if ever. For years she had been a night-worker in the missions of the lower city, and many an unfortunate had been turned from the way of evil by her good offices. I sat beside her at the table, and she told me of her work and how often she had met Trumbull in his night walks. Found me a hopeless heathen, he remarked. To save him I had to consent to marry him, she said, laughing. Who hath found love is already in heaven, said MacLingan. I have not found it, and I am in. He hesitated, as if searching for a synonym. A boarding-house on William Street, he added. The remarkable thing about Margaret Hall was her simple faith. It looked to no glittering generality for its reward, such as the soul's highest good much talked of in the philosophy of that time. She believed that for every soul she saved one jewel would be added to her crown in heaven.  Her black costume was beautifully fitted to her fine form, but was almost severely plain. It occurred to me that she did not quite understand her own heart, and, for that matter, who does? But she had somewhat in her soul that passeth all understanding. I shall not try to say what, with so little knowledge of those high things, save that I know that it was of God. To what patience and un-worrying effort she had schooled herself I was soon to know. Can you not find anyone to love you? She said, turning to MacLingan. You know the Bible says it is not good for man to live alone. It does, madam, said he, but I have a mighty fear in me, remembering the twenty-fourth verse of the twenty-fifth chapter of Proverbs. It is better to dwell in the corner of the housetops than with a brawling woman in a wide house. We cannot all be so fortunate as our friend Trumbull, but I have felt the great passion. He smiled at her faintly as he spoke in a quiet manner, his Rs. coming off his tongue with a stately roll. His environment and the company had given him a fair degree of stimulation. There was a fine dignity in his deep voice, and his body bristled with it, from his stiff and heavy shock of blond hair, parted carefully on the left side, to his high-heeled boots. The few light hairs that stood in lonely abandonment on his upper lip, the rest of his lean visage always well shorn, had no small part in the grand effect of Maclingon. A love story, said Miss Hall. I do wish I had your confidence. I like a real true love story. A simple story it is, said Maclingon, and I am proud of my part in it. I shall be glad to tell the story if you were to hear it. We assured him of our interest. Well, said he, there was one Tom Douglas at Edinburgh, who was my friend and classmate. We were together a good bit of the time, and when we had come to the end of our course we both went to engage in journalism at Glasgow.  I would blow his horn and he would blow mine. We were not to lack appreciation. He was on one paper and I on another, and every time he wrote an article I went up and down the office praising him for a man a mighty skill, and he did the same for me. If anyone spoke of him in my hearing I said every word of flattery in my command. What, Tom Douglas, I would say, the man of the herald that's written those wonderful articles from the law court? A genius, sir, an absolute genius. Well, we were rapidly gaining reputation. One of those days I found myself in love with as comely alas as ever a man courted. Her mother had a proper curiosity as to my character. I referred them to Tom Douglas of the herald. He was the only man there who had known me well. The girl and her mother both went to him. Your friend was just here, said the young lady when I called again. He is a very handsome man. And a noble man, I said. And didn't I hear you say that he was a very skillful man, too? A genius, I answered, an absolute genius. MacLingan stopped and laughed heartily as he took a sip of water. What happened then, said Miss Hull? She took him on my recommendation, he answered. She said that while he had the hands on her face I had the more eloquent tongue, and they both won for him. And upon me honor as a gentleman it was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me, for she became a brawler and a scold. My mother says there is no the like of her in Scotland. I shall never forget how fondly Margaret Hull padded the brown cheek of trouble with her delicate white hand as we rose. We all have our love stories, said MacLingan. Mine is better than yours, she answered, but it shall never be told. Except one little part of it, said Trumbull as he put his hands upon her shoulders and looked down into her face. It is the only thing that has made my life worth living. Then she made us to know many odd things about her work for the children of misfortune, inviting us to come and see it for ourselves. We were to go the next evening. I finished my work at nine that night, and then we walked through noisome streets and alleys, New York was then far from being so clean a city as now, to the big Mission House. As we came in at the door we saw a group of women kneeling before the altar at the far end of the room, and heard the voice of Margaret Hull praying, a voice so sweet and tender that we bowed our heads at once, and listened while it quickened the life in us. She pleaded for the poor creatures about her to whom Christ gave always the most abundant pity, seeing they were more sinned against than sinning. There was not a word of cant in her petition. It was full of a simple unconscious eloquence, a higher feeling than I dare try to define. And when it was over she had won their love and confidence so that they clung to her hands and kissed them and wet them with their tears. She came and spoke to us presently in the same sweet manner that had charmed us the night before. There was no change in it. We offered to walk home with her, but she said trouble was coming at twelve. So that is the little mother of whom I have heard so often, said MacLingan as we came away. What do you think of her? I inquired. Wonderful woman! he said. I never heard such a voice. It gives me visions. Every other is as the crackling of thorns under a pot. I came back to the office and went into Mr. Greeley's room to bid him good-bye. He stood by the gas jet in a fine new suit of clothes, reading a paper, while a boy was blacking one of his boots. I sat down, awaiting a more favorable moment. A very young man had come into the room and stood timidly holding his hat. I wished to see Mr. Greeley, he said. There he is, I answered. Go and speak to him. Mr. Greeley said he. I have called to see if you can take me on the Tribune. The printer continued reading as if he were the only man in the room. The young man looked at him and then at me, with an expression that moved me to a fellow feeling. He was a country boy, more green and timid even than I had been. He did not hear you. Try again, I said. Mr. Greeley said he, louder than before. I have called to see if you can take me on the Tribune. The editors' eyes glanced off at the boy and returned to their reading. No, boy, I can't! he drawled, shifting his eyes to another article. And the boy, who was called to the service of the paper in time, but not until after his pen had made him famous, went away with a look of bitter disappointment. In his attire Mr. Greeley wore always the best material that soon took on a friendless and dejected look. The famous white overcoat had been bought for five dollars of a man who had come by chance to the office of the New Yorker years before, and who considered its purchase a great favour. That was a time when the price of a coat was a thing of no little importance to the printer. Tonight there was about him a great glow such as comes of fine tailoring and new linen. He was so preoccupied with his paper that I went out into the big room and sat down, awaiting a better time. The printer's going to Washington to talk with the president," said an editor. Just then Mr. Greeley went running hurriedly up the spiral stair on his way to the type room. Three or four compositors had gone up ahead of him. He had risen out of sight when we heard a tremendous uproar above stairs. I ran up two steps at a time while the high voice of Mr. Greeley came pouring down upon me like a flood. It had a wild, flearing tone. He stood near the landing, swinging his arms and swearing like a boy just learning how. In the middle of the once immaculate shirt bosom was a big yellow splash. Something had fallen on him and spattered as it struck. We stood well out of range, looking at it, undeniably the stain of nicotine.  In a moment he opened his waistcoat and surveyed the damage. Look at that! he went on, complainingly.   You'll have to get another shirt! said the pressman who stood near. You can't go to Washington with such a breastpin. I'd breastpin him if I knew who he was! said the editor. A number of us followed him downstairs and a young man went up the bowery for a new shirt. When it came the printer took off the soiled garment, flinging it into a corner, and I helped him to put himself in proper fetal again. This finished he ran away hurriedly with his carpet-bag, and I missed the opportunity I wanted for a brief talk with him. End of Chapter 38 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 39 of Eben Holden Eben Holden, a tale of the North Country, by Irving Bachelor Chapter 39 My regiment left New York by night in a flare of torch and rocket. The streets were lined with crowds, now hardened to the sound of fife and drum, and the pomp of military preparation. I had a very high and mighty feeling in me that wore away in the discomfort of travel. For hours after the train started we sang and told stories, and ate peanuts, and polled and halted each other in a cloud of tobacco smoke. The train was side-tracked here and there and dragged along at a slow pace. Young men, with no appreciation, as it seemed to me, of the sad business we were off upon, went roistering up and down the aisles, drinking out of bottles and chasing around the train as it halted. These revelers grew quiet as the night wore on.  Some lay in the aisle, their heads upon their knapsacks. The air grew chilly and soon I could hear them snoring all about me and the chatter of frogs in the near marshes. I closed my eyes and vainly courted sleep. A great sadness had lain hold of me. I had already given up my life for my country. I was only going away now to get as dear a price for it as possible in the hood of its enemies. When and where would it be taken, I wondered. The fear had mostly gone out of me in days and nights of solemn thinking. The feeling I had with its flavor of religion is what has made the volunteer the mighty soldier he has ever been, I take it, since Nazaby and Marston Moore. The soul is the great captain, and with a just quarrel it will warm its sword in the enemy, however he may be trained to thrust into parry. In my sacrifice there was but one reservation. I hoped I should not be horribly cut with a sword or a bayonet. I had written a long letter to Hope, who was yet at Leipzig. I wondered if she would care what became of me. I got a sense of comfort thinking I would show her that I was no coward with all my littleness. I had not been able to write to Uncle Eb or to my father or mother in any serious tone of my feeling in this enterprise. I had treated it as a kind of holiday from which I should return shortly to visit them. All about me seemed to be sleeping. Some of them were talking in their dreams. As it grew light one after another rose and stretched himself, rousing his seat companion. The train halted, a man shot a musket voice in at the car door. It was loaded with the many syllables of Annapolis Junction. We were pouring out of the train shortly to Bivouac for breakfast in the depot yard. So I began the life of a soldier, and how it ended with me many have read in better books than this. But my story of it is here and only here. We went into camp there on the lonely flats of East Maryland for a day or two, as we supposed, but really for quite two weeks. In the long delay that followed my way traversed the dead levels of routine. When southern sympathy had ceased to wreak its wrath upon the railroads about Baltimore we pushed on to Washington. There I got letters from Uncle Ebb and Elizabeth Brower, the former I have now in my box of treasures, a torn and faded remnant of that dark period. Dear sir, pen in hand to hat you know that we are all well. Also that we was sorry you could not come home. It took on terrible. Hope she wrote a letter. Said she had not heard from you. Also that somebody wrote to her you was going to be married. You had ought to write her a letter, Bill. Looks to me so you ain't used her right. She's a come home in July. So'd corn today in the garden. David is off buying cattle. Hope God'll take care of you, boy. So good-bye from yours truly, Ebb and Holden. I wrote immediately to Uncle Ebb and told him of the letters I had sent to Hope and of my effort to see her. Late in May after Virginia had seceded some thirty thousand of us were sent over to the south side of the Potomac where for weeks we tore the flowery fields lining the shore with long entrenchments. Meantime I wrote three letters to Mr. Greeley and had the satisfaction of seeing them in the Tribune. I took much interest in the camp drill and before we crossed the river I had been raised to the rank of first lieutenant. Every day we were looking for the big army of Beauregard, camping below Centerville some thirty miles south. Almost every night a nervous picket set the camp in uproar by challenging a phantom of his imagination. We were all impatient as hounds in leash. Since they would not come up and give us battle we wanted to be off and have it out with them, and the people were tired of delay. The cry of, "'Steaboy!' was ringing all over the north. They wanted to cut us loose and be through with dallying. Well, one night the order came. We were to go south in the morning, thirty thousand of us, and put an end to the war. We did not get away until afternoon. It was the sixteenth of July. When we were off, horse and foot, so that I could see miles of the blue column before and behind me, I felt sorry for the mistaken south. On the evening of the eighteenth our campfires on either side of the pike at Centerville glowed like the lights of a city. We knew the enemy was near and began to feel a tightening of the nerves. I wrote a letter to the folks at home for post-mortem delivery and put it into my trousers pocket. A friend in my company called me aside after mess. "'Feel of that,' he said, laying his hand on a full breast. "'Feathers,' he whispered significantly. "'Balls can't go through them, you know. Better than a steel breastplate. Want some?' "'Don't know, but I do,' said I. We went into his tent, where he had a little sack full, and put a good wad of them between my two shirts. "'I hate the idea of being hit in the heart,' he said. "'That's too awful.' I nodded my assent. "'Shouldn't like to have a ball in my lungs, either,' he added. "'Tain't necessary for a man to die if he can only breathe.  Taps sounded. We went to sleep with our boots on, but nothing happened. Three days and nights we waited. Some called it a farce, some swore, some talked of going home. I went about quietly, my bosom under its pad of feathers. The third day an order came from headquarters. We were to break camp at one-thirty in the morning and go down the pike after Beauregard. In the dead of the night the drum sounded. I rose half asleep and heard the long roll far and near. I shivered in the cold night air as I made ready. The boys about me buckled on knapsacks, shouldered their rifles, and fell into line. Muffled in darkness there was an odd silence in the great caravan forming rapidly and waiting for the word to move. At each command to move forward I could hear only the rub of leather, the click-click of rifle-rings, the stir of the stubble, the snorting of horses. When we had marched an hour or so I could hear the faintest rumble of wagons far in the rear. As I came high on a hill-top in the bending column the moonlight fell upon a league of bayonets shining above a cloud of dust in the valley, a splendid picture fading into darkness and mystery. At dawn we passed a bridge and halted some three minutes for a bite. After a little march we left the turnpike, with hunters' column bearing westward on a cross-road that led us into thick woods. As the sunlight sank in the high treetops the first great battle of the war began. Away to the left of us a cannon shook the earth hurling its boom into the still air. The sound rushed over us rattling in the timber like a fall of rocks. Something went quivering in me. It seemed as if my vitals had gone into a big lump of jelly that trembled every step I took. We quickened our pace, we fretted, we complained. The weariness went out of our legs. Some wanted to run. Before and behind us men were shouting hotly, Run boys, run! The cannon-roar was now continuous. We could feel the quake of it. When we came over a low ridge in the open we could see the smoke of battle in the valley. Flashes of fire and hoods of smoke leaped out of the far thickets left of us as cannon roared. Going a double quick we began loosening blankets and haversacks, tossing them into heaps along the line of march without halting. In half an hour we stood waiting in battalions, the left flank of the enemy in front. We were to charge at a run. Halfway across the valley we were to break into companies and advancing spread into platoons and squads. And at last into line of skirmishers lying down for cover between rushes. Forward was the order and we were off, cheering as we ran. Oh, it was a grand sight, our colors flying, our whole front moving like a blue wave on a green immeasurable sea. And it had a voice like that of many waters. Out of the woods ahead of us came a lightning flash, a ring of smoke reeled upward. Then came a deafening crash of funders, one upon another, and the scream of shells overhead. Something stabbed into our column right beside me. Many went headlong, crying out as they fell. Suddenly the colors seemed to halt and sway like a tree-top in wind. Then down they went, squads and colors, and we spread to pass them. At the order we halted and laid down and fired volley after volley at the gray coats in the edge of the thicket. A bullet struck in the grass ahead of me, throwing a bit of dirt into my eyes. Another brushed my hat off, and I heard a wailing death yell behind me. The Colonel rode up, waving a sword. Get up and charge! he shouted. On we went, cheering loudly, firing as we ran. Bullets went by me, hissing in my ears, and I kept trying to dodge them. We dropped again, flat on our faces. A squadron of black horse cavalry came rushing out of the woods at us, the riders yelling as they waved their swords. Fortunately we had not time to rise. A man near me tried to get up. Stay down! I shouted. In a moment I learned something new about horses. They went over us like a flash. I do not think a man was trampled. Our own cavalry kept them busy as soon as they had passed. Of the many who had started there was only a ragged remnant near me. We fired a dozen volleys lying there.  We shall all be killed! a man shouted. Where is the Colonel? Dead! said another. Better retreat! said a third. Charge! I shouted as loudly as ever I could, jumping to my feet and waving my saber as I rushed forward. Charge! It was the one thing needed. They followed me. In a moment we had hurled ourselves upon the gray line thrusting with sword and bayonet. They broke before us, some running, some fighting desperately. A man threw a long knife at me out of a sling. Instinctively I caught the weapon as if it had been a ball hot off the bat. In doing so I dropped my saber and was cut across the fingers. He came at me fiercely, clubbing his gun. A raw-boned, swarthy giant, brought as a barn door. I caught the barrel as it came down. He tried to wrench it away, but I held firmly. Then he began to push up to me. I let him come, and in a moment we were grappling, hip and thigh. He was a powerful man, but that was my kind of warfare. It gave me comfort when I felt the grip of his hands. I let him tug a jiffy, and then caught him with the old hip-lock, and he went under me so hard I could hear the crack of his bones. Our support came then. We made him prisoner with some two hundred other men. Reserves came also, and took away the captured guns. My comrades gathered about me, cheering, but I had no suspicion of what they meant. I thought it a tribute to my wrestling.  The red puddles about them were covered with flies. Ants were crawling over their faces. I felt a kind of sickness and turned away. What was left of my regiment formed in fours to join the advancing column. Horses were galloping riderless, rain and stirrup flying, some horribly wounded. One hobbled near me, a front leg gone at the knee. Shells were flying overhead. Cannonballs were ricocheting over the level valley, throwing turf in the air, tossing the dead and wounded that lay thick and helpless. Some were crumpled like a rag, as if the pain of death had withered them in their clothes. Some swollen to the girth of horses. Some bent backward, with arms outreaching like one trying an odd trick. Some lay as if listening eagerly, an ear close to the ground. Some, like a sleeper, their heads upon their arms.  Lord God Almighty, have mercy on me! I had come suddenly to a new world where the lives of men were cheaper than blind puppies. I was a new sort of creature and reckless of what came, careless of all I saw and heard. A staff officer stepped up to me as we joined the main body. You've been shot, young man," he said, pointing to my left hand. Before he could turn I felt a rush of air and saw him fly into pieces, some of which hit me as I fell backward. I did not know what had happened. I know not now more than that I have written. I remember feeling something under me like a stick of wood bearing hard upon my ribs. I tried to roll off it, but somehow it was tied to me and kept hurting. I put my hand over my hip and felt it there behind me, my own arm. The hand was like that of a dead man, cold and senseless. I pulled it from under me and it lay helpless. It could not lift itself.  I struggled to my feet, weak and trembling and sick with nausea.  The firing was now at a distance. The sun had gone half down in the sky. They were picking up the wounded in the near field. A man stood looking at me. Good God! he shouted, and then ran away like one afraid. There was a great mass of our men back of me, some twenty rods. I staggered toward them, my knees quivering. I can never get there, I heard myself whisper. I thought of my little flask of whiskey and pulling the cork with my teeth, drank the half of it. That steadied me and I made better headway. I could hear the soldiers talking as I neared them. Look a there! I heard many saying. See him come! My God! Look at him on the hill there! The words went quickly from mouth to mouth. In a moment I could hear the murmur of thousands. I turned to see what they were looking at. Across the valley there was a long ridge and back of it the main position of the Southern Army. A grey host was pouring over it thousand upon thousand in close order debouching into the valley. A big force of our men lay between us and them. As I looked I could see a mighty stirrer in it. Every man of them seemed to be jumping up in the air. From afar came the sound of bugles calling Retreat, the shouting of men, the rumbling of wagons. It grew louder. An officer rode by me hatless and halted, shading his eyes. Then he rode back hurriedly. Hell has broke loose! he shouted as he passed me. The blue-coated host was rushing towards us like a flood. Artillery, cavalry, infantry, wagon-trained. There was a mighty uproar in the men behind me, a quick stirrer of feet. Terror spread over them like the traveling of fire. It shook their tongues. The crowd began caving at the edge and jamming at the center. Then it spread like a swarm of bees shaken off a bush. Run! Run for your lives! was a cry that rose to heaven. Halt, you cowards! an officer shouted. It was now past three o'clock. The raw army had been on its feet since midnight. For hours it had been fighting hunger, a pain in the legs, a quivering sickness at the stomach, a stubborn foe. It had turned the flank of Beauregard. Victory was in sight. But lo! a new enemy was coming to the fray, innumerable, unwearyed, eager for battle. The long slope bristled with his bayonets. Our army looked and cursed and began letting go. The men near me were pausing on the brink of awful rout. In a moment they were off, pal-mel like a flock of sheep. The earth shook under them. Officers rode around them, cursing, gesticulating, threatening, but nothing could stop them. Half a dozen trees had stood in the center of the roaring mass. Now a few men clung to them, a remnant of the monster that had torn away. But the greater host was now coming. The thunder of its many feet was near me. A cloud of dust hung over it. A squadron of cavalry came rushing by and broken to the fleeing mass. Heavy horses, cut free from artillery, came galloping after them, straps flying over foamy flanks. Two riders clung to the back of each, lashing with whip and rain. The ruck of wagons came after them, wheels rattling, horses running, voices shrilling in a wild hoot of terror. It makes me tremble even now as I think of it, though it is muffled under the cover of nearly forty years. I saw they would go over me. Feeling as if drunk, I ran to save myself. Zigzagging over the field, I came upon a grey-bearded soldier lying in the grass and fell headlong. I struggled madly, but could not rise to my feet.  Save I be lost in hell, I shall never know again the bitter pang of that moment. With my country, I saw its splendid capital in ruins, its people surrendered to God's enemies. The rout of wagons had gone by. I could now hear the heavy tramp of thousands passing me, the shrill voices of terror. I worked to a sitting posture somehow. The effort nearly smothered me. A massive cavalry was bearing down upon me. They were coming so thick I saw they would trample me into jelly. In a flash I thought of what Uncle Ebb had told me once. I took my hat and covered my face quickly, and then uncovered it as they came near. They sheared away as I felt the foam of their nostrils. I had split them as a rock may split the torrent. The last of them went over me, their tails whipping my face. I shall not soon forget the look of their bellies or the smell of their wet flanks. They had no sooner passed than I fell back and rolled half over like a log. I could feel a warm flow of blood trickling down my left arm. A shell shot at the retreating army passed high above me, whining as it flew. Then my mind went free of its trouble. The rain brought me to as it came pelting down upon the side of my face. I wondered what it might be, for I knew not where I had come. I lifted my head and looked to see a new dawn, possibly the city of God itself. It was dark, so dark I felt as if I had no eyes. Away in the distance I could hear the beating of a drum. It rang in a great silence. I have never known the like of it. I could hear the fall and trickle of the rain, but it seemed only to deepen the silence. I felt the wet grass under my face and hands. Then I knew it was night and the battlefield where I had fallen. I was alive and might see another day. Thank God! I felt something move under my feet. I heard a whisper at my shoulder. Thought you were dead long ago, it said. No, no, I answered. I am alive. I know I am alive. This is the battlefield. Fred, I ain't going to live, he said. Got a terrible wound. Wish it was morning. Dark, long, I asked. For hours, he answered. Don't know how many. He began to groan and utter short prayers. Oh, my soul, waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning. I heard him cry in a loud, despairing voice. Then there was a bit of silence in which I could hear him whispering of his home and people. Presently he began to sing. Guide me, O thou great Jehovah. Pilgrim through this barren land I am weak, but thou art mighty. His voice broke and trembled and sank into silence. I had business of my own to look after. Perhaps I had no time to lose, and I went about it calmly. I had no strength to move and began to feel the nearing of my time. The rain was falling faster. It chilled me to the marrow as I felt it trickling over my back. I called to the man who lay beside me, again and again I called to him, but got no answer. Then I knew that he was dead, and I alone. Long after that in the far distance I heard a voice calling. It rang like a trumpet in the still air. It grew plainer as I listened. My own name, William Brower? It was certainly calling to me, and I answered with a feeble cry. In a moment I could hear the tramp of someone coming. He was sitting beside me presently, whoever it might be. I could not see him for the dark. His tongue went clucking as if he pitied me. Who are you? I remember asking, but got no answer. At first I was glad, then I began to feel a mighty horror of him. In a moment he had picked me up and was making off. The jolt of his step seemed to be breaking my arms at the shoulder. As I groaned he ran. I could see nothing in the darkness, but he went ahead, never stopping, save for a moment now and then to rest. I wondered where he was taking me and what it all meant. I called again. Who are you? But he seemed not to hear me. My God! I whispered to myself. This is no man. This is death severing the soul from my body. The voice was that of the good God. Then I heard a man hailing nearby. Help! Help! I shouted faintly. Where are you? came the answer, now further away. Can't see you! My mysterious bearer was now running. My heels were dragging upon the ground. My hands were brushing the grass-tops. I groaned with pain. Halt! Who comes there? a picket called. Then I could hear voices. Did you hear that noise? said one. Somebody passed me. So dark can't see my hand before me. Darker than hell! said another voice.  That was what I was thinking when I swooned. From then till I came to myself in the little church at Centerville I remembered nothing. Growning men lay all about me. Others stood between them with lanterns. A woman was bending over me. I felt the gentle touch of her hand upon my face and heard her speak to me so tenderly that I could not think of it even now without thanking God for good women. I clung to her hand, clung with the energy of one drowning while I suffered the merciful torture of the probe, the knife, and the needle. And when it was all over and the lantern-lights grew pale in the dawn I fell asleep. But enough of blood and horror. War is no holiday, my merry people, who know not the mighty blessing of peace. Counting the cost, let us have war if necessary, but peace, peace if possible. End of Chapter 39 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 40 of Eben Holden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Eben Holden, a tale of the North Country by Irving Batchelor Chapter 40 But now I have better things to write of, things that have some relish of good in them. I was very weak and low from loss of blood for days, and suddenly the tide turned. I had one recognition for distinguished gallantry, they told me, that day they took me to Washington. I lay three weeks there in the hospital. As soon as they heard of my misfortune at home, Uncle Ebb wrote he was coming to see me. I stopped him by a telegram, assuring him that I was nearly well and would be home shortly. My term of enlistment had expired when they let me out a fine day in mid-August. I was going home for a visit as sound as any man, but in the horse-talk of far away I had a little blemish on the left shoulder. Uncle Ebb was to meet me at the Jersey City Depot. Before going, I, with others who had been complimented for bravery, went to see the President. There were some twenty of us summoned to meet him that day. It was warm, and the great Lincoln sat in his shirt sleeves at a desk in the middle of his big office. He wore a pair of brown carpet slippers, the rolling collar and black stock now made so familiar in print. His hair was tumbled. He was writing hurriedly when we came in. He laid his pen away and turned to us without speaking. There was a care-worn look upon his solemn face. Mr. President! said the General who had come with us, here are some of the brave men of our army whom you wish to see. He came and shook hands with each and thanked us in the name of the Republic for the example of courage and patriotism we and many others had given to the army. He had a lean, tall, ungraceful figure, and he spoke his mind without any frill or flourish. He said only a few words of good plain talk and was done with us. Which is Brower! he inquired presently. I came forward more scared than ever I had been before. My son! he said, taking my hand in his. Why didn't you run? Didn't dare, I answered. I knew it was more dangerous to run away than to go forward. Reminds me of a story, said he, smiling. Years ago there was a bully in Sangamon County, Illinois, that had the reputation of running faster and fighting harder than any man there. Everybody thought he was a terrible fighter. He'd always get a man on the run. Then he'd catch up and give him a licking. One day he tatted a lame man.  Why didn't you run? somebody asked the victor. Didn't dast, said he, run once when he tackled me and I've been lame ever since.  Well, said he, I had to and I'd done it easy. That's the way it goes, said the immortal president. You do it easy if you have to. He reminded me in and out of Horace Greeley, although they looked no more alike than a hawk in a handsaw, but they had a like habit of forgetting themselves and of saying neither more nor less than they meant. They both had the strength of an ox and as little vanity. Mr. Greeley used to say that no man could amount to anything who worried much about the fit of his trousers. Neither of them ever encountered that obstacle. Early next morning I took a train for home. I was in soldier clothes and I had with me no others and all on the car came to talk with me about the now famous battle of Bull Run. The big platform at Jersey City was crowded with many people as we got off the train. There were other returning soldiers, some with crutches, some with empty sleeves. A band at the further end of the platform was playing and those near me were singing the familiar music. John Brown's body lies a moldering in the grave. Somebody shouted my name. Then there rose a cry of three cheers for Brower. It's some of the boys of the Tribune, I thought. I could see a number of them in the crowd. One brought me a basket of flowers. I thought they were trying to have fun with me. Thank you, said I, but what is the joke? No joke, he said, it's to honor a hero. Oh, you wish me to give it to somebody. I was warming with embarrassment. We wish you to keep it, he answered. In accounts of the battle I had seen some notice of my leading a charge, but my fame had gone farther, much farther indeed, than I knew. I stood a moment laughing, an odd sort of laugh it was that had in it the salt of tears and waving my hand to the many who were now calling my name. In the uproar of cheers and waving of handkerchiefs I could not find Uncle Ebb for a moment. When I saw him in the breaking crowd he was cheering lustily and waving his hat above his head. His enthusiasm increased when I stood before him. As I was greeting him I heard a lively rustle of skirts. Two dainty gloved hands laid hold of mine. A sweet voice spoke my name. There beside me stood the tall, erect figure of hope. Our eyes met and before there was any thinking of propriety I had her in my arms and was kissing her and she was kissing me. It thrilled me to see the splendor of her beauty that day. Her eyes wet with feelings as they looked up at me to feel again the trembling touch of her lips. In a moment I turned to Uncle Ebb. Boy! he said. I thought you! And then he stopped and began brushing his coat sleeve. Come on now! he added as he took my grip away from me. We're going to have a grand good time. I'll take you all to a splendid tavern somewheres and I ain't going to count the cost, neither. He was determined to carry my grip for me. Hope had a friend with her who was going north in the morning on our boat. We crossed the ferry and took a Broadway omnibus while Query followed Query. Makes me feel like a flapjack to ride in them things, said Uncle Ebb as we got out. He hired a parlor and two bedrooms for us all of the St. Nicholas. Pretty Midland steep, he said to me as we left the office. It is, certain, but I don't care, not a bit. When folks has to have a good time, they've got to have it. We were soon seated in our little parlor. There was a great glow of health and beauty in Hope's face. It was a bit fuller, but had nobler outlines and a coloring as delicate as ever. She wore a plain gray gown admirably fitted to her plump figure.  She was now the well-groomed young woman of society in the full glory of her youth.  A little spot of white showed a moment where his fingers had been. Then the pink flooded over it. Never see a girl such a smack as you did, he said, laughing. Well, said she, smiling, I guess I gave as good as I got. Served him right, he said. You kissed back good and hard. Grand sport, he added, turning to me. Best I ever had was my humble acknowledgement. Seldom never see a girl kissed so powerful, he said as he took Hope's hand in his. Now, if the Bible said when a body kissed you on one cheek, you must turn the other, I wouldn't find no fault. But there's a heap of difference between a whack and a smack. When we had come back from dinner, Uncle Ebb drew off his boots and sat comfortably in his stocking feet, while Hope told of her travels and eye of my soldiering. She had been at the conservatory nearly the whole period of her absence and hastened home when she learned of the battle and of my wound. She had landed two days before. Hope's friend and Uncle Ebb went away to their rooms in good season. Then I came and sat beside Hope on the sofa. Let's have a good talk, I said. There was an awkward bit of silence. Well, said she, her fan upon her lips. Tell me more about the war. Tired of war, I answered. Love is a better subject.  I thought I had never seen a woman who could carry her head so proudly. I don't think you are very familiar with it, said she presently. I ought to be, I answered, having loved you all these years.  When, where, I asked, in Mrs. Fuller's parlor. Hope, I said, you misunderstood me. I meant you. She came toward me, then, looking up into my eyes. I started to embrace her, but she caught my hands and held them apart and came close to me. Did you say that you meant me, she asked in a whisper. I did. Why did you not tell me that night? Because you would not listen to me, and we were interrupted. Well, if I loved a girl, she said, I'd make her listen. I would have done that, but Mrs. Fuller saved you. You might have written, she suggested, in a tone of injury. I did. And the letter never came, just as I feared. She looked very sober and thoughtful, then. You know our understanding that day in the garden, she added. If you did not ask me again, I was to know you. You did not love me any longer. That was long, long ago. I never loved any girl but you, I said. I love you now, Hope, and that is enough. I love you, so there is nothing else for me.  With the thought of you that made me brave in battle, I wish I could be as brave here. But I demand your surrender. I shall give you no quarter now. I wish I knew, she said, whether you really love me or not. Don't you believe me, Hope? Yes, I believe you, she said, but you might not know your own heart. It longs for you, I said. It keeps me thinking of you always. Once it was so easy to be happy. Since you have been away, it has seemed as if there were no longer any light in the world or any pleasure. It has made me a slave. I did not know that love was such a mighty thing. Love is no cupid, he is a giant, she said, her voice trembling with emotion as mine had trembled. I tried to forget and he crushed me under his feet as if to punish me.  God grant me I may never forget the look in her eyes that moment. She came closer to me. Our lips touched. My arms held her tightly. I have waited long for this, I said, the happiest moment of my life. I thought I had lost you.  I have loved you for years and years and you you could not see it, I believe now. She hesitated a moment, her eyes so close to my cheek I could feel the beat of their long lashes. That God made you for me, she added. Love is God's helper, I said. He made us for each other. I thank him for it. I do love you so, she whispered. The rest is the old, old story. They that have not lived it are to be pitied. When we sat down at length, she told me what I had long suspected that Mrs. Fuller wished her to marry young Livingston. But for Uncle Eb, she added, I think I should have done so, for I had given up all hope of you. Good old Uncle Eb, I said, let's go and tell him. He was sound asleep when we entered his room, but woke as I lit the gas. What's the matter, he whispered, lifting his head. Congratulate us, I said. We're engaged. Have you conquered her, he inquired, smiling. Love has conquered us both, I said. Well, I swan. Is that so, he answered. Guess I won't fool away any more time here in bed. If you children will go into the other room, I'll slip into my trousers, and then you'll hear me talk some conversation. Beech the world, he continued, coming in presently, buttoning his suspenders. I thought most likely you'd hitch up together some time. Tain't often you can find a pair so well matched. The same style and gated just about alike. When you're going to get married? She hasn't named the day, I said. Sooner or the better, said Uncle Eb as he drew on his coat and sat down. Used to be so when a young couple had set up and held each other's hands a few nights, they was ready for the minister. Wished you could fix it for about Christmas time by a jingle. There's other things going to happen then. Suppose you're happy now, you can stand a little bad news. I've got to tell you, David's been losing money. He never wrote you about it, not a word, because I didn't know how it was coming out. How did he lose it, I inquired. Well, you know that Al Barker runs a hardware store in Migglyville? He sold him a patent right. He retired and argued night and day for more than three weeks. It was a newfangled wash boiler. David, he thought he'd see a chance if he put out agents and make a great deal of money. It did look just as easy as sliding downhill. But when we come slide, well, we found out he was at the bottom of the hill, stood at the top, and it wasn't real good sliding. He paid five thousand dollars for the right of ten counties. Then by and by, Barker, he wanted him to go security for fifteen hundred boilers that he was having made. I told David he hadn't better go in deeper, but Barker, he promised big things and seemed to be such a nice man that finally David he up and done it. Well, he's had him to pay for it, and the fact is it costs so much to sell him it eats up all the profits. Looks like a swindle, I said indignantly. No, said Uncle Eb. Tain't no swindle. Barker thought he had a grand good thing. He got fooled, and the fool complained as very catchin'. Got at myself years ago, and I've been doctorin' for it ever since. The story of David's undoing hurt us sorely. He had gone the way of most men who left the farm late in life with unsatisfied ambition. They shall never want for anything so long as I have my health, I said. I have four hundred dollars in the bank, said Hope, and shall give them every cent of it. Tain't nothing to worry over, said Uncle Eb. If I don't never lose more than a little money, I shan't feel terrible bad. We're all young yet. Got more than a million dollars worth of good health right here in this room. So well, I'm shamed of it. Man's more decent if he's a little bit sickly. And that their girl, Bill's, agreed to marry ya. Why, d'rother, have her in this whole city in New York? So had I, was my answer. Well, you ain't no luckier than she is. Not a bit, he added. A good man's better in a gold mine every time. Who knows, said Hope, he may be president some day. There's one thing I hate, Uncle Eb continued. That's the idea having the woodshed and barn and garret full of them infernal wash boilers.  One of them tumbled down top of me to the other day. D'rother would have been a panther. Made me so mad I took a club and knocked that boiler into a cocked hat. Ain't right, I'm sick of the sight of them. They'll make a good bonfire some day, said Hope. Don't believe they'd burned, he answered sorrowfully. They're tin. Couldn't we bury them, I suggested. Be a pretty costly funeral, he answered thoughtfully. You'd have to dig a hole deeper in Tupper's Dingle. Would you give them away? I inquired. Wow, said he, helping himself to a chew of tobacco. We've tried that. Giving them to everybody we know, but there ain't folks enough there such a slew of them boilers. We could give one to every man, woman and child in far away and have enough left to fill an acre lot. Dan Perry drove into other day with a double buggy. He'd given him one for his own family. It was heavy to carry and he didn't seem to like the looks of it some way. Then I asked him if he wouldn't like one for his girl. She ain't married, says he. She will be some time, says I. Take it along. So he put in another. You've got a sister over on the turnpike, hasn't ya? Says I. Yes, says he. Well, I says, don't want to have her feel slighted. She won't know about my havin' em, says he, lookin' as if you'd had enough. Yes, she will, I says. She'll hear of it and maybe make a fuss. Then we piled in another. Look here, I says after that. There's your brother Bill up there above ya. Take one along for him. No, says he. I don't tell everybody, but Bill and I ain't on good terms. We ain't spoke for more than a year. Knew he was lyin', Uncle Eb added with a laugh. I'd seen him talkin' with Bill a day or two before. Who, he whistled as he looked at his big silver watch. I declare, it's most one o'clock. There's just one other piece of business to come before this meetin'. Double or single, want you both promise me to be home for Christmas. We promised. Now children, said he, it's time to go to bed. Believe you'd stand there swappin' kisses till you as knee sprung if I didn't tell you to quit. Hope came and put her arms about his neck fondly and kissed him goodnight.  Did very well, said she, smiling, for a man with a wooden leg. Uncle Eb sank into a chair, laughing heartily and pounding his knee. It seemed he had told her I was coming home with a wooden leg. That is the reason I held your arm, she said. I was expecting to hear it squeak every moment as we left the depot. But when I saw that you walked so naturally, I knew Uncle Eb had been trying to fool me. Pretty good sort of a lover, ain't he? said he, after we were done laughing. He wouldn't take no for an answer, she answered.  You'd ought to be mighty happy, and you will, too. Ain't no doubt of it, not a bit. Trouble with most young folks is they want to fly too high these days. If they'd only fly close enough to the ground so they could always touch one foot, they'd be all right. Glad ye ain't that kind. We were off early on the boat, as fine a summer morning is ever dawned. What with the grandeur of the scenery and the sublimity of our happiness, it was a delightful journey we had that day. I felt the peace and beauty of the fields, the majesty of the mirrored cliffs and mountains, but the fair face of her I loved was enough for me. Most of the day Uncle Eb sat near us, and I remember a woman evangelist came in and took a seat beside him a while, talking voluably of the scene. My friend, said she presently, are you a Christian? For I answer, I'll have to tell you a story, said Uncle Eb. I recollect a man by the name of Ranny over in Vermont. He was a pious man.  Ranny turned to the other side, and then to the other, and the fellow kept a slap and hot and heavy. It was just like strapping a razor for half a minute.  I declare, says another man, after it was all over, I thought you was a Christian. I am, up to a certain point, says he. Can't go too far, not in these parts. Men are too powerful. It won't do unless you want to die sudden. When he'd begun pounding on me, I see I wasn't exactly prepared. Freight is a good deal that way with most of us. We're Christians, up to a certain point. For one thing, I think if a man stands still and see himself knocked into the next world, he's a little too good for this. The good lady began to preach and argue. For an hour Uncle Eb sat listening, unable to get in a word. When at last she left him, he came to us a look of relief in his face.  Why not, I inquired. Never have had a chance, Uncle Eb added. We were two weeks at home with Mother and Father and Uncle Eb. It was a delightful season of rest in which Hope and I went over the sloping roads of far away and walked in the fields and saw the harvesting. She had appointed Christmas Day for our wedding, and I was not to go again to the war, for now my first duty was to my own people. If God prospered me, they were all to come to live with us in town, and though slow to promise, I could see it gave them comfort to know we were to be for them ever a staff and refuge. And the evening before we came back to town, Jed Fury was with us, and Uncle Eb played his flute and sang the songs that had been the delight of our childhood. The old poet read these lines, written in memory of old times in far away and of Hope's girlhood. The red was in the clover, and the blue was in the sky. There was music in the meadow, there was dancing in the rye. And I heard a voice a-callin' to the flocks of far away, and its echo in the wooded hills. Good day, good day, good day! O fair was she my lady love, and lithe is the willow tree. And I, my heart remembers well her parting words to me. And I was sad as a beggar man, but she was blithe and gay. And I think of her as I call the flocks, good day, good day, good day! Her cheeks they stole the dover's red, her lips the ordered air, and the glow of the morning sunlight she took away in her hair. Her voice had the meadow music, her form in her laughing eye, have taken the blue of the heavens and the grace of the winding rye. My love has robbed the summer day, the field, the sky, the dell. She has taken their treasures with her, she has taken my heart as well. And if ever in the further fields her feet should go astray, may she hear the good God calling her. Good day, good day, good day! End of Chapter 40. Recording by Roger Maline.


Hi guys and welcome back to my YouTube channel. This is Daniel Rossell and you can find videos here about life in Israel. I've done quite a lot of travelling in the past year and this has sort of rekindled my interest in aviation. I spent a decent part of my free time in Ireland growing up, sitting on the edge of Cork airport with my friend Chris, watching airplanes land and take off. I did a couple of flight lessons too and finishing a PPL remains one of my major life aspirations. For those who haven't heard about it, this hobby of sitting on the edge of airports is called plane spotting and it's what people fascinated by planes who can't afford to actually become amateur pilots too in their spare time. These days I live in Israel so I've been doing some plane spotting at Ben-Gurion airport near Tel Aviv lately. In this video I want to share a few tips for plane spotting at this particular airfield without getting on the wrong side of security and of course finding a good spot. Firstly, here's a simplified aerodrome chart for Ben-Gurion or Lima Lima Bravo Golf. As you can see there are three runways. Runway 0826 is the longest at over 13,000 feet. Runway 2103 is about a 9,000 feet strip and runway 1230 which intersects with the two other runways is roughly 10,000 feet in length. Runway 26 is the most common departure runway which puts departing aircraft out over the Mediterranean on a westerly course. For arrivals it of course depends on prevailing winds. Landings generally alternate between runway 30 and runway 21. Seasoned plane spotters are accustomed to bringing along a VHF radio scanner in order to tune into ATC comms and the ATIS frequency but in Israel this is a very bad idea because listening to VHF frequencies at airports is prohibited by law and can result in jail time and you also won't find any ATC feeds for LLBG online. Therefore your best bet is to download and use an app called Flightradar24. This should make it immediately obvious which landing runway is in use and there are of course no legal restrictions around using it. Now let's talk about places to do the plane spotting. For capturing departures coming off runway 26 the Israel airport authority has set up a sort of official flight spotting deck. Be aware that this is somewhat far removed from the runway so if you're planning on taking photos and videos of what you're spotting you're going to need a pretty decent telephoto lens. The designated plane spotting location isn't marked on the map but I'll put a google map link in the description of this video to help you find it. Basically you enter the airport through the main entrance and then you can use google maps or ways to find the actual viewing platform. It's located in a part of the airport that's used for airfield operations and it butts up basically on the perimeter fence. Security patrols do regularly stop by the platform to make sure everything's okay but of course if you're not doing anything illegal you shouldn't have any problems. I spot it here somewhat frequently with a tripod and camera setup and so far I haven't faced any problems whatsoever. You'll also encounter there a pretty eclectic community of plane spotters.  I can't blame them as a wise man called Da Vinci once said once you have tasted flight you'll forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward. For watching arrivals onto runway 21 the best place to spot is located next to the big shopping complex in Yehude which is located in the nearby village of Lehude which literally butts onto the airfield. I recommend simply putting big yehude into your GPS tool like ways or google maps and parking your car there. After parking you can walk through a few grass fields to find the ideal angle to capture the incoming arrivals. This spot is located immediately next to a pretty busy road the 461 so it's not really the most pleasant place to plane spot but you should have success. The rooftops of any offices in the shopping complex should also afford pretty great views of arrivals although I haven't tried that out yet. For arrivals onto runway 30 you can try finding somewhere to set up your camera and tripod near the gas station marked here located just off of road 40. Again I recommend saving these locations into google maps before setting out as it will simplify the time spent fumbling around with navigation and after a while finding these spots will become second nature. Again you can use flight radar 24 to see pretty easily whether a particular inbound of interest is going to land on runway 30 or 21 or you can just look up the wind conditions at the airport and take a pretty good guess as to what the landing runway is. I hope this video has been helpful to get you started. Although security at Ben Gurion is extremely tight airport security seems pretty tolerant of plane spotters at the designated location they've set up. Note that there are some military installations in close proximity to Ben Gurion airfield therefore it's important to pay attention to any signs indicating that photography is forbidden and of course it's also a good idea not to go snooping around any place that's clearly not looking for visitors. Happy plane spotting!


I send my greetings to participants in the 2020 Peace Memorial Ceremony in the city of Hiroshima. The thoughts of all of us at the International Atomic Energy Agency are with you. As you mark the 75th anniversary of the tragic events of August 6, 1945. The IAA helps to make it less likely that nuclear weapons will ever be used again by verifying that nuclear materials are not being diverted from peaceful purposes. This is our unique contribution to international peace and security in the 21st century. Our inspectors are on the road every day visiting nuclear facilities throughout the world and providing detailed objective reports on countries' nuclear activities. In this way, the IAA brings the Treaty on the Nonproliferation of Nuclear Weapons, the NPT, to life. We make the NPT a concrete reality rather than just letters on a page. Thanks to the impartiality of the agency's reports, countries can have confidence that other nations are not secretly building nuclear weapons. This makes it possible for countries to work together without suspicion. They do not have to rely on mere expressions of goodwill from each other. The existence of nuclear material inevitably draws malevolent interest from terrorists and other criminals. We help our 171 member states to guard against the risk of nuclear terrorism by ensuring that nuclear and other radioactive materials and the associated facilities are properly protected. Our work is vital for ensuring that the world can enjoy the benefits of peaceful nuclear science and technology to generate electricity, treat cancer, grow more food and fight pandemics such as COVID-19 and in many other areas. Those benefits are truly enormous and they continue to grow. Today, we remember with great sadness the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but we look forward with confidence and hope to a future in which nuclear science and technology are used exclusively to improve the well-being and prosperity of the people of the world.