Chapter 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
clamourous demand for me in 'the great emporium', as Mr Greeley
called it. I began to see, or thought I did, why Hope had shied at
my offer and was now shunning me. I went to the Tribune office.
Mr Greeley had gone to Washington; Mr Ottarson was too busy to
see me. I concluded that I would be willing to take a place on one
of the lesser journals. I spent the day going from one office to
another, but was rejected everywhere with thanks. I came home
and sat down to take account of stock. First, I counted my money,
of which there were about fifty dollars left. As to my talents, there
were none left. Like the pies at the Hillsborough tavern, if a man
came late to dinner - they were all out. I had some fine clothes, but
no more use for them than a goose for a peacock's feathers. I
decided to take anything honourable as an occupation,
even though it were not in one of the learned professions. I began
to answer advertisements and apply at business offices for
something to give me a living, but with no success. I began to feel
the selfishness of men. God pity the warm and tender heart of
youth when it begins to harden and grow chill, as mine did then; to
put away its cheery confidence forever; to make a new estimate of
itself and others. Look out for that time, O ye good people! that
have sons and daughters.

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 Eb