The other boarder 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 humour not less unconscious and familiar than that of an epitaph; his name was Lemuel Framdin Force. To the public of his native city he had introduced Webster one fourth of July--a perennial topic of his lighter moments. I fell an easy victim to the obituary editor that first evening in the chalet. We had risen from the table and he came and held me a moment by the coat lapel. He released my collar, when he felt sure of me, and began tapping my chest with his forefinger to drive home his point. I stood for quite an hour out of sheer politeness. By that time he had me forced to the wall--a God's mercy, for there I got some sense of relief in the legs. His gestures, in imitation of the great Webster, put my head in some peril. Meanwhile he continued drumming upon my chest. I looked longingly at the empty chairs. I tried to cut him off with applause that should be condusive and satisfying, but with no success. It had only a stimulating effect. I felt somehow like a cheap hired man badly overworked. I had lost all connection. I looked, and smiled, and nodded, and exclaimed, and heard nothing. I began to plan a method of escape. McClingan--the great and good Waxy McClingan--came out of his room presently and saw my plight. 'What is this?' he asked, interrupting, 'a serial stawry? 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 roe 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. 'Ye have a brawling, busy tongue, man,' I heard McClingan saying. 'By the Lord! ye should know a dull tongue is sharper than a serpent's tooth. 'You are a meddlesome fellow,' said Force. 'If I were you,' said McClingan, 'I would go and get for myself the long ear of an ass and empty my memory into it every day. Try it, man. Give it your confidence exclusively. Believe me, my dear Force, you would win golden opinions. 'It would be better than addressing an ear of wax,' said Force, hurriedly withdrawing to his own room. This answer made McClingan angry. 'Better an ear of wax than a brain of putty,' he called after him. 'Blessed is he that hath no ears when a fool's tongue is busy,' and then strode up and down the floor, muttering ominously. I came out of my room shortly, and then he motioned me aside.