ONE0444
The madly excited look of the man, his staring eyes, retreating forehead, and restless features made Layton suspect he was insane, and he would gladly have retired from an interview that promised so little success; but the other walked deliberately round, and, barring the passage to the door, stood with his arms crossed before him.
“You think I don't know you, but I do; I heerd of you eight weeks ago; I knew you was comin', but darm me all blue if you shall have it. Come out into the orchard; come out, I say, and let's see who's the best man.Youthink you 'll come here and make this like the Astor House, don't ye? and there 'll be five or six hundred every night pressing up to the bar for bitters and juleps, just because you have the place? But I say Dan Heron ain't a-goin' to quit; he stands here like old Hickory in the mud-fort, and says, try and turn me out.”
By the time the altercation had reached thus far, Layton saw that a crowd of some five-and-twenty or thirty persons had assembled outside the door, and were evidently enjoying the scene with no common zest. Indeed, their mutterings of “Dan 's a-givin' it to him,” “Dan 's full steam up,” and so on, showed where their sympathies inclined. Some, however, more kindly-minded, and moved by the unfriended position of the stranger, good-naturedly interposed, and, having obtained Layton's sincere and willing assurance that he never harbored a thought of becoming proprietor of the Temple, nor had he the very vaguest notion of settling down at Bunkumville in any capacity, peace was signed, and Mr. Heron consented to receive him as a guest.
Taking a key from a nail on the wall, Dan Heron preceded him to a small chamber, where a truckle-bed, a chair, and a basin on the floor formed the furniture; but he promised a table, and if the stay of the stranger warranted the trouble, some other “fixin's” in a day or two.
“You can come and eat a bit with me about sun-down,” said Dan, doggedly, as he withdrew, for he was not yet quite satisfied what projects the stranger nursed in his bosom.
Resolved to make the best of a situation not over-promising, to go with the humor of his host so far as he could, and even, where possible, try and derive some amusement from his eccentricities, Layton presented himself punctually at meal-time. The supper was laid out in a large kitchen, where an old negress officiated as cook. It was abundant and savory; there was every imaginable variety of bread, and the display of dishes was imposing. The circumstance was, however, explained by Heron's remarking that it was the supper of the officers of the detachment they were eating, a sudden call to the frontier having that same morning arrived, and to this lucky accident were they indebted for this abundance.
An apple-brandy “smash” of Mr. Heron's own devising wound up the meal, and the two lighted their cigars, and in all the luxurious ease of their rocking-chairs, enjoyed their post-prandial elysium.
“Them boots of yours is English make,” was Mr. Heron's first remark, after a long pause.
“Yes, London,” was the brief reply.
“I 've been there; I don't like it.”
Layton muttered some expression of regret at this sentiment; but the other not heeding went on:—
“I 've seen most parts of the world, but there ain't anything to compare with this.”
Layton was not certain whether it was the supremacy of America he asserted, or the city of Bunkumville in particular, but he refrained from inquiring, preferring to let the other continue; nor did he seem at all unwilling. He went on to give a half-connected account of a migratory adventurous sort of life at home and abroad. He had been a cook on shipboard, a gold-digger, an auctioneer, a showman, dealt in almost every article of commerce, smuggled opium into China and slaves into New Orleans, and with all his experiences had somehow or other not hit upon the right road to fortune. Not, indeed, that he distrusted his star,—far from it. He believed himself reserved for great things, and never felt more certain of being within their reach than at this moment.
“It was I made this city we 're in, sir,” said he, proudly. “I built all that mass yonder,—Briggs Block; I built the house we 're sitting in; I built that Apollonicon, the music-hall you saw as you came in, and I lectured there too; and if it were not for an old 'rough' that won't keep off his bitters early of a mornin', I 'd be this day as rich as John Jacob Astor: that's what's ruined me, sir. I brought him from New York with me down here, and there 's nothing from a bird-cage to a steam-boiler that fellow can't make you when he's sober,—ay, and describe it too. If you only heerd him talk! Well, he made a telegraph here, and set two saw-mills a-goin', and made a machine for getting the salt out of that lake yonder, and then took to manufacturing macaroni and gunpowder, and some dye-stuff out of oak bark; and what will you say, stranger, when I tell you that he sold each of these inventions for less than gave him a week's carouse? And now I have him here, under lock and key, waiting till he comes to hisself, which he's rather long about this time.”
“Is he ill?” asked Layton.
“Well, you can't say exactly he's all right; he gave hisself an ugly gash with a case-knife on the neck, and tried to blow hisself up arter with some combustible stuff, so that he's rather black about the complexion; and then he's always a-screechin' and yellin' for drink, but I go in at times with a heavy whip, and he ain't unreasonable then.”
“He's mad, in fact,” said Layton, gravely.
“I only wish you and I was as sane, stranger,” said the other. “There ain't that place on the globe old Poll, as we call him, could n't make a livin' in; he's a man as could help a minister with his discourse, or teach a squaw how to work moccasins. I don't know whatyourtrade is, but I 'll be bound he knows something about ityounever heerd of.”
Mr. Heron went on to prove how universally gifted his friend was by mentioning how, on his first arrival, he gave a course of lectures on a plan which assuredly might have presented obstacles to many. It was only when the room was filled, and the public itself consulted, that the theme of the lecture was determined; so that the speaker was actually called upon, without a moment for preparation, to expatiate upon any given subject. Nor was the test less trying that the hearers were plain practical folk, who usually propounded questions in which they possessed some knowledge themselves. How to open a new clearing, what treatment to apply to the bite of the whipsnake, by what contrivance to economize water in mills, how to tan leather without oak bark,—such and such-like were the theses placed before him, matters on which the public could very sufficiently pronounce themselves. Old Poll, it would seem, had sustained every test, and come through every ordeal of demand victorious. While the host thus continued to expatiate on this man's marvellous gifts, Layton fell a-thinking whether this might not be the very spot he sought for, and this the audience before whom he could experiment on as a public speaker. It was quite evident that the verdict could confer little either of distinction or disparagement: success or failure were, as regarded the future, not important. If, however, he could succeed in interesting them at all,—if he could make the themes of which they had never so much as heard in any way amusing or engaging,—it would be a measure of what he might attain with more favorable hearers. He at once propounded his plan to Mr. Heron, not confessing, however, that he meditated a first attempt, but speaking as an old and practised lecturer.
“What can you give 'em, sir? They 're horny-handed and flat-footed folk down here, but they 'll not take an old hen for a Bucks county chicken, I tellyou!”
“I am a little in your friend Poll's line,” said Layton, good-humoredly. “I could talk to them about history, and long ago; what kind of men ruled amongst Greeks and Romans; what sort of wars they waged; how they colonized, and what they did with the conquered. If my hearers had patience for it, I could give them some account of their great orators and poets.”
Heron shook his head dissentingly, and said Poll told 'em all that, and nobody wanted it, till he came to them chaps they call the gladiators, and showed how they used to spar and hit out. “Was n't it grand to see him, with his great chest and strong old arms, describin' all their movements, and how much they trusted to activity, imitating all from the wild beast,—not like our boxers, who make fighting a reg'lar man's combat. You couldn't take up that, could you?”
“I fear not,” said Layton, despondingly.
“Well, tell 'em something of the old country in a time near their own. They 'd like to hear about their greatgrandfathers and grandmothers.”
“Would they listen to me if I made Ireland the subject,—Ireland just before she was incorporated with England, when, with a Parliament of her own, she had a resident gentry, separate institutions, and strong traits of individual nationality?”
“Tell 'em about fellows that had strong heads and stout hands, that, though they mightn't always be right in their opinions, was willing and ready to fight for 'em. Give 'em a touch of the way they talked in their House of Parliament; and if you can bring in a story or two, and make 'em laugh,—it ain't a'ways easy to do,—but if youcando it, you may travel from Cape Cod to the Gulf of Mexico and never change a dollar.”
“Here goes, then! I 'll try it!” said Layton, at once determined to risk the effort. “When can it be?”
“It must be at once, for there 's a number of 'em a-goin' West next week. Say to-morrow night, seven o'clock. Entrance, twelve cents; first chairs, five-and-twenty. No smokin' allowed, except between the acts.”
“Take all the arrangements on yourself, and give me what you think fair of our profits,” said Layton.
“That's reasonable; no man can say it ain't. What's your name, stranger?”
“My name is Alfred—But never mind my name; announce me as a Gentleman from England.”
“Who has lectured before the Queen and Napoleon Bonaparte.”
“Nay, that I have never done.”
“Well, but you might, you know; and if you didn't, the greater loss theirs.”
“Perhaps so; but I can't consent—”
“Just leave them things to me. And now, one hint for yourself: when you 're a-windin' up, dash it all with a little soft sawder, sayin' as how you 'd rather be addressin'themthan the Emperor of Roosia; that the sight of men as loves liberty, and knows how to keep it, is as good as Peat's vegetable balsam, that warms the heart without feverin' the blood; and that wherever you go the 'membrance of the city and its enlightened citizens will be the same as photographed on your heart; that there's men here ought to be in Congress, and women fit for queens! And if you throw in a bit of the star-spangled—you know what—it 'll do no harm.”
Layton only smiled at these counsels, offered, however, in a spirit far from jesting; and after a little further discussion of the plan, Heron said, “Oh, if we only could get old Poll bright enough to write the placards,—that's what he excels in; there ain't his equal for capitals anywhere.”
Though Layton felt very little desire to have the individual referred to associated with him or his scheme, he trusted to the impossibility of the alliance, and gave himself no trouble to repudiate it; and after a while they parted, with a good-night and hope for the morrow.
“You would n't believe it,—no one would believe it,” said Mr. Heron, as he hastily broke in upon Layton the next morning, deep in preparations for the coming event “There 's old Poll all spry and right again; he asked for water to shave himself, an invariable sign with him that he was a-goin' to try a new course.”
Layton, not caring to open again what might bear upon this history, merely asked some casual question upon the arrangements for the evening; but Heron rejoined: “I told Poll to do it all. The news seemed to revive him; and far from, as I half dreaded, any jealousy about another taking his place, he said, 'This looks like a promise of better things down here. If our Bunkumville folk will only encourage lecturers to come amongst them, their tone of thinking and speaking will improve. They 'll do their daily work in a better spirit, and enjoy their leisure with a higher zest.'”
“Strange sentiments from one such as you pictured to me last night.”
“Lord love ye, that's his way. He beats all the Temperance 'Postles about condemning drink. He can tell more anecdotes of the mischief it works, explain better its evil on the health, and the injury it works in a man's natur', than all the talkers ever came out of the Mayne Convention.”
“Which scarcely says much for the force of his convictions,” said Layton, smiling.
“I only wish he heard you say so, Britisher; if he would n't chase you up a pretty high tree, callmea land crab! I remember well, one night, how he lectured on that very point and showed that what was vulgarly called hypocrisy was jest neither more nor less than a diseased and exaggerated love of approbation,—them's his words; I took 'em down and showed 'em to him next morning, and all he said was, 'I suppose I said it arter dinner.'”
“Am I to see your friend and make his acquaintance?” asked Layton.
“Well,” said the other, with some hesitation, “I rayther suspect not; he said as much that he did n't like meeting any one from the old country. It's my idea that he warn't over well treated there, somehow, though he won't say it.”
“But as one who has never seen him before, and in all likelihood is never to see him again—”
“No use; whenever he makes up his mind in that quiet way he never changes, and he said, 'I 'll do all you want, only don't bring me forward. I have my senses now, and shame is one of 'em!'”
“You increase my desire to see and know this poor fellow.”
“Mayhap you're a-thinkin', Britisher, whether, if you could wile him away from me, you could n't do a good stroke of work with him down South,—eh? wasn't that it?”
“No, on my word; nothing of the kind. My desire was simply to know if I could n't serve him where he was, and where he is probably to remain.”
“Where he is sartainly to remain, I 'd say, sir,—sartainly to remain! I 'd rayther give up the Temple, ay, and all the fixin's, than I 'd give up that man. There ain't one spot in creation he ain't fit for. Take him North, and he 'll beat all the Abolitionists ever talked; bring him down to the old South State, and hear him how he 'll make out that the Bible stands by slavery, and that Blacks are to Whites what children are to their elders,—a sort of folk to be fed, and nourished, and looked arter, and, maybe, cor-rected a little betimes. Fetch him up to Lowell, and he 'll teach the factory folk in their own mills; and as to the art of stump-raisin', rotation of crops in a new soil, fattenin' hogs, and curin' salmon, jest show me one to compare with him!”
“How sad that such a man should be lost!” said Layton, half to himself.
But the other overheard him, and rejoined: “It's always with some sentiment of that kind you Britishers work out something for your own benefit. You never conquer a new territory except to propagate trial by jury and habeas corpus. Now look out here, for I won't stand you 're steppin' in 'tweenmeand old Poll.”
It was not enough for Layton to protest that he harbored no such intentions. Mr. Heron's experiences of mankind had inspired very different lessons than those of trust and confidence, and he secretly determined that no opportunity should be given to carry out the treason he dreaded.
“When the lecturin'-room is a-clean swept out and dusted, the table placed, and the blackboard with a piece of chalk ahind it, and the bills a-posted, setting forth what you 're a-goin' to stump out, there ain't no need for more. Ifyou've got the stuff in you to amuse our folk, you 'll see the quarter dollars a-rollin' in, in no time! If they think, however, that you 're only come here to sell 'em grit for buckwheat, darm me considerable, but there's lads here would treat you to a cowhide!”
Layton did not hear this alternative with all the conscious security of success, not to say that it was a penalty on failure far more severe and practical than any his fears had ever anticipated. Coldness he was prepared for, disapprobation he might endure, but he was not ready to be treated as a cheat and impostor because he had not satisfied the expectancies of an audience.
“I half regret,” said he, “that I should not have learned something more of your public before making my appearance to them. It may not be, perhaps, too late.”
“Well, I suspect itistoo late,” said the other, dryly. “They won't stand folks a-postin' up bills, and then sayin' 'There ain't no performance.' You 're not in the Haymarket, sir, where you can come out with a flam about sudden indisposition, and a lie signed by a 'pottecary.”
“But if I leave the town?”
“I wouldn't say you mightn't, if you had a balloon,” said the other, laughing; “but as to any other way, I defy you!”
Layton was not altogether without the suspicion that Mr. Heron was trying to play upon his fears, and this was exactly the sort of outrage that a mind like his would least tolerate. It was, to be sure, a wild, out-of-the-world kind of place; the people were a rough, semi-civilized-looking set; public opinion in such a spotmighttake a rude form; what they deemed unequal to their expectations, theymightconstrue as a fraud upon their pockets; and if so, and that their judgment should take the form he hinted at—Still, he was reluctant to accept this version of the case, and stood deeply pondering what line to adopt.
“You don't like it, stranger; now that's a fact,” said Heron, as he scanned his features. “You 've been a-thinkin', 'Oh, any rubbish I like will be good enough for these bark-cutters. What should such fellows know, except about their corn crops and their saw-mills?Ineedn't trouble my head about what I talk to 'em.' But now, you see, it ain't so; you begin to perceive that Jonathan, with his sleeves rolled up for work, is a smart man, who keeps his brains oiled and his thoughts polished, like one of Platt's engines, and it won't do to ask him to make French rolls out of sawdust!”
Layton was still silent, partly employed in reviewing the difficulty of his position, but even more, perhaps, from chagrin at the tone of impertinence addressed to him.
“Yes, sir,” said Heron, continuing an imaginary dialogue with himself,—“yes, sir; that's a mistake more than one of your countrymen has fallen into. As Mr. Clay said, it 's so hard for an Englishman not to think of us as colonists.”
“I 've made up my mind,” said Layton, at last “I 'll not lecture.”
“Won't you? Then all I can say is, Britisher, look out for a busy arternoon. I told you what our people was. I warned you that if they struck work an hour earlier to listen to a preacher, it would fare ill with him if he wanted the mill to turn without water.”
“I repeat, I 'll not lecture, come what may of it,” said Layton, firmly.
“Well, it ain't so very hard to guess whatwillcome of it,” replied the other.
“This is all nonsense and folly, sir,” said Layton, angrily. “I have taken no man's money; I have deceived no one. Your people, when I shall have left this place, will be no worse than when I entered it.”
“If that 's your platform, stranger, come out and defend it; we 'll have a meetin' called, and I promise you a fair hearin'.”
“I have no account to render to any. I am not responsible for my conduct to one of you!” said Layton, angrily.
“You're a-beggin' the whole question, stranger; so jest keep these arguments for the meetin'.”
“Meeting! I will attend no meeting! Whatever be your local ways and habits, you have no right to impose them upon a stranger. I am not one of you; I will not be one of you.”
“That's more of the same sort of reasonin'; but you 'll be chastised, Britisher, see if you ain't!”
“Let me have some sort of conveyance, or, if need be, a horse. I will leave this at once. Any expenses I have incurred I am ready to pay. You hear me?”
“Yes, I hear you, but that ain't enough. You 're bound by them bills, as you 'll see stickin' up all through the town, to appear this evening and deliver a lecture before the people of this city—”
“One word for all, I 'll not do it.”
“And do you tell me, sir, that when our folk is a-gatherin' about the assembly rooms, that they 're to be told to go home ag'in; that the Britisher has changed his mind, and feels someways as if he didn't like it?”
“That may be as it can; my determination is fixed. You may lecture yourself; or you can, perhaps, induce your friend—I forget his name—to favor the company.”
“Well, sir, if old Poll's strength was equal to it, the public would n't have to regretyou. It ain't one ofyourstamp could replacehim, that I tell you.”
A sudden thought here flashed across Layton's mind, and he hastened to profit by it.
“Why not ask him to take my place? I am ready, most ready, to requite his services. Tell him, if you like, that I will pay all the expenses of the evening, and leave him the receipts. Or say, if he prefer, that I will give him thirty, forty, ay, fifty dollars, if he will relieve me from an engagement I have no mind for.”
“Well, that does sound a bit reasonable,” said the other, slowly; “though, mayhap, he 'll not think the terms so high. You would n't say eighty, or a hundred, would you? He 's proud, old Poll, and it's best not to offend him by a mean offer.”
Layton bit his lip impatiently, and walked up and down the room without speaking.
“Not to say,” resumed Heron, “that he's jest out of a sick-bed; the exertion might give him a relapse. The contingencies is to be calc'lated, as they say on the railroads.”
“If it be only a question between fifty and eighty—”
“That's it,—well spoken. Well, call it a hundred, and I'm off to see if it can't be done.” And without waiting for a reply, Heron hastened out of the room as he spoke.
Notwithstanding the irritation the incident caused him, Layton could not, as soon as he found himself alone, avoid laughing at the absurdity of his situation.
If he never went the full length of believing in the hazardous consequences Mr. Heron predicted, he at least saw that he must be prepared for any mark of public disfavor his disappointment might excite; and it was just possible such censure might assume a very unpleasant shape. The edicts of Judge Lynch are not always in accordance with the dignity of the accused, and though this consideration first forced him to laugh, his second thoughts were far graver. Nor were these thoughts unmixed with doubts as to what Quackinboss would say of the matter. Would he condemn the rashness of his first pledge, or the timidity of his retreat; or would he indignantly blame him for submission to a menace? In the midst of these considerations, Heron reentered the room.
“There, sir; it's all signed and sealed. Old Poll's to do the work, and you 're to be too ill to appear. That will require your stayin' here till nightfall; but when the folks is at the hall, you can slip through the town and make for New Lebanon.”
“And I am to pay—how much did you say?”
“What you proposed yourself, sir. A hundred dollars.”
“At eight o'clock, then, let me have a wagon ready,” said Layton, too much irritated with his own conduct to be moved by anything in that of his host. He therefore paid little attention to Mr. Heron's account of all the ingenuity and address it had cost him to induce old Poll to become his substitute, nor would he listen to one word of the conversation reported to have passed on that memorable occasion. What cared he to hear how old Poll looked ten years younger since the bargain? He was to be dressed like a gentleman; he was to be in full black; he was to resume all the dignity of the station he had once held; while he gave the public what he had hitherto resolutely refused,—some account of himself and his own life. Layton turned away impatiently at these details; they were all associated with too much that pained to interest or to please him.
“The matter is concluded now, and let me hear no more of it,” said he, peevishly. “I start at eight.” And with this he turned away, leaving no excuse to his host to remain, or resume an unpalatable subject.
“Your wagon shall be here at the hour, and a smart pair of horses to bowl you along, sir,” said Heron, too well satisfied on the whole to be annoyed by a passing coldness.
Alfred Layton's day dragged drearily along, watching and waiting for the hour of departure. Close prisoner as he was, the time hung heavily on his hands, without a book or any sort of companionship to beguile its weariness. He tried various ways to pass the hours; he pondered over a faintly colored and scarce traceable map on the walls. It represented America, with all the great western annexations, in that condition of vague obscurity in which geographers were wont to depict the Arctic regions. He essayed to journalize his experiences on the road; but he lost patience in recording the little incidents which composed them. He endeavored to take counsel with himself about his future; but he lost heart in the inquiry, as he bethought him how little direction he had ever given hitherto to his life, and how completely he had been the sport of accident.
He was vexed and angry with himself. It was the first time he had been called upon to act by his own guidance for months back, and he had made innumerable mistakes in the attempt. Had Quackinboss been with him, he well knew all these blunders had been avoided. This reflection pained him, just as it has pained many a gifted and accomplished man to think that life and the world are often more difficult than book-learning.
He was too much out of temper with the town to interest himself in what went on beneath his windows, and only longed for night, that he might leave it never to return. At last the day began to wane, the shadows fell longer across the empty street, some cawing rooks swept over the tree-tops to their homes in the tall pines, and an occasional wagon rolled heavily by, with field implements in it,—sign all that the hours of labor had drawn to a close. “I shall soon be off,” muttered he; “soon hastening away from a spot whose memory will be a nightmare to me.” In the gray half-light he sat, thinking the thought which has found its way into so many hearts. What meaning have these little episodes of loneliness? What are the lessons they are meant to teach? Are they intended to attach us more closely to those we love, by showing how wearily life drags on in absence from them; or are they meant as seasons of repose, in which we may gain strength for fresh efforts?
Mr. Heron broke in upon these musings. He came to say that crowds were hurrying to the lecture-room, and in a few minutes more Layton might steal away, and, reaching the outskirts of the town, gain the wagon that was to convey him to Lebanon.
“You 'll not forget this place, I reckon,” said he, as he assisted Layton to close and fasten up his carpet-bag. “You'll be proud, one of these days, to say, 'I was there some five-and-twenty, or maybe thirty, years back. There was only one what you 'd call a first-rate hotel in the town; it was kept by a certain Dan Heron, the man that made Bunkumville, who built Briggs Block and the Apollonicon. I knew him.' Yes, sir, I think I hear you sayin' it.”
“I half suspect you are mistaken, my friend,” said Layton, peevishly. “I live in the hope never to hear the name of this place again, as assuredly I am determined never to speak of it.”
“Well, you Britishers can't help envy, that's a fact,” said Heron, with a sigh that showed how deeply he felt this unhappy infirmity. “Take a glass of something to warm you, and let's be movin'. I'll see you safe through the town.”
Layton thankfully accepted his guidance, and, each taking a share of the luggage, they set forth into the street. Night was now fast falling, and they could move along without any danger of detection; but, besides this, there were few abroad, the unaccustomed attraction of the lecture-room having drawn nearly all in that direction. Little heeding the remarks by which Heron beguiled the way, Layton moved on, only occupied with the thought of how soon he would be miles away from this unloved spot, when his companion suddenly arrested his attention by grasping his arm, as he said, “There; did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” asked Layton, impatiently.
“The cheerin', the shoutin'! That's for old Poll. It's the joy of our folk to see the old boy once more about. It would be well for some of our public men if they were half as popular in their own States as he is with the people down here. There it is again!”
Layton was not exactly in the fit humor to sympathize with this success, and neither the lecturer nor his audience engaged any large share of his good-will; he, therefore, merely muttered an impatient wish to get along, while he quickened his own pace in example.
“Well, I never heerd greater applause than that. They 're at it again!”
A wild burst of uproarious enthusiasm at the same moment burst forth and filled the air.
“There ain't no mockery there, stranger,” said Heron; “that ain't like the cheer the slaves in the Old World greet their kings with, while the police stands by to make a note of the men as has n't yelled loud enough.” This taunt was wrung from him by the insufferable apathy of Layton's manner; but even the bitterness of the sneer failed to excite retort.
“Is this our shortest road?” was all the reply he made.
“No; this will save us something,” said Heron, with the quickness of one inspired by a sudden thought; and at the same instant he turned into a narrow street on his left.
They walked briskly along for a few minutes without speaking, when, suddenly turning the angle of the way, they found themselves directly in front of the assembly-room, from whose three great doors the light streamed boldly out across the great square before it. The place seemed densely thronged, and even on the pillars outside persons were grouped, anxious at this cheap expedient to participate in the pleasure of the lecture. By this time all was hushed and quiet, and it was evident by the rapt attention of the audience that all were eagerly bent on listening to the words of the speaker.
“Why have we come this way?” asked Layton, peevishly.
“Jest that you might see that sight yonder, sir,” said Heron, calmly; “that you might carry away with you the recollection of a set of hard-worked, horny-handed men, laborin' like Turks for a livin', and yet ready and willin' to give out of their hard earnin's to listen to one able to instruct or improve 'em. That's why you come this way, stranger. Ain't the reason a good one?”
Layton did not reply, but stood watching with deep interest the scene of silent, rapt attention in the crowded room, from which now not the slightest sound proceeded. Drawn by an attraction he could not explain, he slowly mounted the steps and gained a place near the door, but from which he was unable to catch sight of the lecturer. He was speaking; but, partly from the distance, and in part from the low tones of his voice, Layton could not hear his words. Eager to learn by what sort of appeal an audience like this could be addressed,—curious to mark the tone by which success was achieved,—he pushed vigorously onward till he reached one of the columns that supported the roof of the hall, and which, acting as a conductor, conveyed every syllable to his ears. The lecturer's voice, artificially raised to reach the limits of the room, was yet full, strong, and sonorous, and it was managed with all the skill of a practised speaker. He had opened his address by mentioning the circumstances which had then brought him before them. He explained that but from an adverse incident—a passing indisposition—they were on that night to have heard one of those accomplished speakers who had won fame and honor in the old country. There was a reserve and delicacy in the mention of the circumstances by which he became the substitute for this person that struck Layton forcibly; he was neither prepared for the sentiment nor the style of the orator; but, besides, there was in the utterance of certain words, and in an occasional cadence, something that made his heart beat quicker, and sent a strange thrill through him.
The explanation over, there was a pause,—a pause of silence so perfect that as the speaker laid down the glass of water he had been drinking, the sound was heard throughout the room. He now began, his voice low, his words measured, his manner subdued. Layton could not follow him throughout, but only catch enough to perceive that he was giving a short sketch of the relative conditions of England and Ireland antecedent to the Union. He pictured the one, great, rich, powerful, and intolerant, with all the conscious pride of its own strength, and the immeasurable contempt for whatever differed from it; the other, bold, daring, and defiant, not at all aware of its inability to cope with its more powerful neighbor in mere force, but reposing an unbounded trust in its superior quickness, its readiness of resource, its fertility of invention. He dwelt considerably on those Celtic traits by which he claimed for Irishmen a superiority in all those casualties of life which demand promptitude and ready-wittedness.
“The gentleman who was to have occupied this chair tonight,” said he, raising his voice, so as to be heard throughout the room, “would, I doubt not, have given you a very different portrait, and delivered a very different judgment. You would at this moment have been listening to a description of that great old country we are all so proud of, endeavoring, with all the wise prudence of a careful mother, to train up a wayward and capricious child in the paths of virtue and obedience. But you will bear more patiently with me; you will lend me a more favorable hearing and a kindlier sympathy, for America, too, was a runaway daughter, and though it was only a Gretna Green match you first made with Freedom, you have lived to see the marriage solemnized in all form, and acknowledged by the whole world.”
When the cheer which greeted these words had subsided, he went on to glance at what might possibly have been the theme of the other lecturer: “I am told,” said he,—“for I never saw him,—that he was a young, a very young man. But to speak of the scenes to which I am coming, it is not enough to have read, studied, and reflected. A man should have done more; he ought to have seen, heard, and acted. These confessions are bought dearly, for it is at the price of old age I can make them; but is it not worth old age to have heard Burke in all the majestic grandeur of his great powers,—to have listened to the scathing whirlwind of Grattan's passion,—to have sat beneath the gallery when Flood denounced him, and that terrible duel of intellect took place, far more moving than the pistol encounter that followed it? Ay, I knew them all! I have jested with Parsons, laughed with Toler, laughed and wept both with poor Curran. You may find it difficult to believe that he who now addresses you should ever have moved in the class to which such men pertained. You here, whose course of life, sustained by untiring toil and animated by a spirit of resolute courage, moves ever upward, who are better to-day than yesterday, and will to-morrow be farther on the road than to-day, who labor the soil of which your grandchildren will be the proud possessors, may have some difficulty in tracing a career of continued descent, and will be slow to imagine how a man could fall from a station of respectability and regard, and be—such as I am!”
Just as the speaker had uttered these words, a cry, so wild and piercing as to thrill through every heart, resounded through the building; the great mass of men seemed to heave and swell like the sea in a storm. It was one of those marvellous moments in which human emotions seem whispered from breast to breast, and men are moved by a strange flood of sympathy; and now the crowd opened, like a cleft wave, to give passage to a young man, who with a strength that seemed supernatural forced his way to the front. There was that in his wild, excited look that almost bespoke insanity, while he struggled to effect his passage.
Astonished by the scene of commotion in front of him, and unable to divine its cause, the lecturer haughtily asked, “Who comes here to disturb the order of this meeting?” The answer was quickly rendered, as, springing over the rail that fenced the stage, Alfred cried out, “My father! my father!” and, throwing his arms around him, pressed him to his heart. As for the old man, he stood stunned and speechless for a moment, and then burst into tears.
Were we at the outset instead of the close of our journey, we could not help dwelling on the scene the lecture-room presented as the discovery became whispered throughout the crowd. Our goal is, however, now almost in sight, and we must not tarry. We will but record one thought, as we say that they who were accustomed to associate the idea of fine sympathies with fine clothes and elegance of manner, would have been astonished at the instinctive delicacy and good breeding of that dense mass of men. Many were disappointed at the abrupt conclusion of a great enjoyment, nearly all were moved by intense curiosity to know the history of those so strangely brought together again, and yet not one murmured a complaint, not one obtruded a question; but with a few words of kindly greeting, a good wish, or a blessing, they stole quietly away and left the spot.
Seated side by side in a room of the inn, old Layton and his son remained till nigh daybreak. How much had they to ask and answer of each other! Amidst the flood of questions poured forth, anything like narrative made but sorry progress; but at length Alfred came to hear how his father had been duped by a pretended friend, cheated out of his discovery, robbed of his hard-won success, and then denounced as an impostor.
“This made me violent, and then they called me mad. A little more of such persecution and their words might have come true.
“I scarcely yet know to what I am indebted for my liberation. I was a patient in Swift's Hospital, when one day came the Viceroy to visit it, and with him came a man I had met before in society, but not over amicably, nor with such memories as could gratify. 'Who is this?' cried he, as he saw me at work in the garden. 'I think I remember his face.' The keeper whispered something, and he replied, 'Ah! indeed!' while he drew near where I was digging. 'What do you grow here?' asked he of me, in a half-careless tone. 'Madder,' shouted I, with a yell that made him start; and then, recovering himself, he hastened off to report the answer to the Viceroy.
“They both came soon after to where I was. The Viceroy, with that incaution which makes some people talk before the insane as though they were deaf, said, in my hearing, 'And so you tell me he was once a Fellow of Trinity?' 'Yes, my Lord,' said I, assuming the reply, 'a Regius Professor and a Medallist, now a Madman and a Pauper. The converse is the gentleman at your side.Hebegan as a fool, and has ended as a Poor Law Commissioner!' They both turned away, but I cried out, 'Mr. Ogden, one word with you before you go.' He came back. 'I have been placed here,' said I, 'at the instance of a man who has robbed me. I am not mad, but I am friendless. The name of my persecutor is Holmes. He writes himself Captain Nicholas Holmes—'
“He would not hear another word, but hurried away without answering me. I know no more than that I was released ten days after,—that I was turned out in the streets to starve or rob. My first thought was to find out this man Holmes. To meet and charge him with his conduct towards me, in some public place, would have been a high vengeance; but I sought him for weeks in vain, and at last learned he had gone abroad.
“How I lived all that time I cannot tell you; it is all to me now like a long and terrible dream. I was constantly in the hands of the police, and rarely a day passed that I had not some angry altercation with the authorities. I was in one of these one morning, when, half stupefied with cold and want, I refused to answer further. The magistrate asked, 'Has he any friends? Is there no one who takes any interest in him?' The constable answered, 'None, your worship; and it is all the better, he would only heap disgrace on them!'
“It was then, for the first moment of my life, the full measure of all I had become stood plainly before me. In those few words lay the sentence passed upon my character. From that hour forth I determined never to utter my name again. I kept this pledge faithfully, nor was it difficult; few questioned, none cared for me. I lived—if that be the word for it—in various ways. I compounded drugs for chemists, corrected the press for printers, hawked tracts, made auction catalogues, and at last turned pyrotechnist to a kind of Vauxhall, all the while writing letters home with small remittances to your mother, who had died when I was in the madhouse. In a brief interval of leisure I went down to the North, to learn what I might of her last moments, and to see where they had laid her. There was a clergyman there who had been kind and hospitable towards me in better days, and it was to his house I repaired.”
He paused, and for some minutes was silent. At length he said,—
“It is strange, but there are certain passages in my life, not very remarkable in themselves, that remain distinct and marked out, just as one sees certain portions of landscape by the glare of lightning flashes in a thunderstorm, and never forgets them after. Such was my meeting with this Mr. Millar. He was distributing bread to the poor, with the assistance of his clerk, on the morning that I came to his door. The act, charitable and good in itself, he endeavored to render more profitable by some timely words of caution and advice; he counselled gratitude towards those who bestowed these bounties, and thrift in their use. Like all men who have never known want themselves, he denied that it ever came save through improvidence. He seemed to like the theme, and dwelt on it with pleasure, the more as the poor sycophants who received his alms eagerly echoed back concurrence in all that he spoke disparagingly of themselves. I waited eagerly till he came to a pause, and then I spoke.
“'Now,' said I, 'let us reverse this medal, and read it on the other side. Though as poor and wretched as any of those about, I have not partaken of your bounty, and I have the right to tell you that your words are untrue, your teaching unsound, and your theory a falsehood. To men like us, houseless, homeless, and friendless, you may as well preach good breeding and decorous manners, as talk of providence and thrift. Want is a disease; it attacks the poor, whose constitutions are exposed to it; and to lecture us against its inroads is like cautioning us against cold, by saying “Take care to wear strong boots,—mind that you take your greatcoat,—be sure that you do not expose yourself to the night air.” You would be shocked, would you not, to address such sarcastic counsels to such poor, barefoot, ragged creatures as we are? And yet you are not shocked by enjoining things fifty times more absurd, five hundred times more difficult. Thrift is the inhabitant of warm homesteads, where the abundant meal is spread upon the board and the fire blazes on the hearth. It never lives in the hovel, where the snowdrift lodges in the chimney and the rain beats upon the bed of straw!'
“'Who is this fellow?' cried the Rector, outraged at being thus replied to. 'Where did he come from?'
“'From a life of struggle and hardship,' said I, 'that ifyouhad been exposed to and confronted with, you had died of starvation, despite all your wise saws on thrift and providence.'
“'Gracious mercy!' muttered he, 'can this be—' and then he stopped; and beckoning me to follow him into an inner room, he retired.
“'Do I speak to Dr. Layton?' asked he, curtly, when we were alone.
“'I was that man,' said I. 'I am nothing now.'
“'By what unhappy causes have you come to this?'
“'The lack of that same thrift you were so eloquent about, perhaps. I was one of those who could write, speak, invent, and discover; but I was never admitted a brother of the guild of those who save. The world, however, has always its compensations, and I met thrifty men. Some of them stole my writings, and some filched my discoveries. They have prospered, and live to illustrate your pleasant theory. But I have not come here to make my confessions; I would learn of you certain things about what was once my home.'
“He was most kind,—he would have been more than kind to me had I let him; but I would accept of nothing. 'I did not even break bread under his roof, though I had fasted for a day and a half. He had a few objects left with him to give me, which I took,—the old pocket-book one of them,—and then I went away.”
The old man's narrative was henceforth one long series of struggles with fortune. He concealed none of those faults by which he had so often wrecked his better life. Hating and despising the companionship to which his reduced condition had brought him, he professed to believe there was less degradation in drunkenness than in such association. Through all he said, in fact, there was the old defiant spirit of early days, a scornful rejection of all assistance, and even, in failure and misery, a self-reliance that seemed invincible. He had come to America by the invitation of a theatrical manager, who had failed, leaving him in the direst necessity and want.
The dawn of day found him still telling of his wayward life, its sorrows, its struggles, and defeats.