After a great deal of discussion it was agreed between Layton and the Colonel that they should meet that day month at St. Louis. Layton was to employ the interval in seeing as much as he could of the country and the people, and preparing himself to appear before them at the first favorable opportunity. Indeed, though he did not confess it, he yielded to the separation the more willingly, because it offered him the occasion of putting into execution a plan he for some time had been ruminating over. In some measure from a natural diffidence, and in a great degree from a morbid dread of disappointing the high expectations Quackinboss had formed of the success he was to obtain, Layton had long felt that the presence of his friend would be almost certain to insure his failure. He could neither venture to essay the same flights before him, nor could he, if need were, support any coldness or disinclination of his audience were Quackinboss there to witness it. In fact, he wanted to disassociate his friend from any pain failure should occasion, and bear all alone the sorrows of defeat.

Besides this, he felt that, however personally painful the ordeal, he was bound to face it. He had accepted Quackinboss's assistance under the distinct pledge that he was to try this career. In its success was he to find the means of repaying his friend; and so confidently had the Colonel always talked of that success, it would seem mere wilfulness not to attempt it.

There is not, perhaps, a more painful position in life than to be obliged to essay a career to which all one's thoughts and instincts are opposed; to do something against which self-respect revolts, and yet meet no sympathy from others,—to be conscious that any backwardness will be construed into self-indulgence, and disinclination be set down as indolence. Now this was Alfred Layton's case. He must either risk a signal failure, or consent to be thought of as one who would rather be a burden to his friends than make an honorable effort for his own support. He was already heavily in the Colonel's debt; the thought of this weighed upon him almost insupportably. It never quitted him for an instant; and, worse than all, it obtruded through every effort he made to acquit himself of the obligation; and only they who have experienced it can know what pain brain labor becomes when it is followed amidst the cares and anxieties of precarious existence; when the student tries in vain to concentrate thoughts that will stray away to the miserable exigencies of his lot, or struggle hopelessly to forget himself and his condition in the interest of bygone events or unreal incidents. Let none begrudge him the few flitting moments of triumph he may win, for he has earned them by many a long hour of hardship!

The sense of his utter loneliness, often depressing and dispiriting, was now a sort of comfort to him. Looking to nothing but defeat, he was glad that there was none to share in his sorrows. Of all the world, he thought poor Clara alone would pity him. Her lot was like his own,—the same friendlessness, the self-same difficulty. Why should he not have her sympathy? She would give it freely and with her whole heart. It was but to tell her, “I am far away and unhappy. I chafe under dependence, and I know not how to assert my freedom. I would do something, and yet I know not what it is to be. I distrust myself, and yet there are times when I feel that one spoken word would give such courage to my heart that I could go on and hope.” Could she speak that word to him? was his ever present thought. He resolved to try, and accordingly wrote her a long, long letter. Full of the selfishness of one who loved, he told her the whole story of his journey, and the plan that led to it. “I have patience enough for slow toil,” said he, “but I do not seek for the success it brings. I wanted the quick prosperity that one great effort might secure, and time afterwards to enjoy the humble fortune thus acquired. With merely enough for life, Clara, I meant to ask you to share it. Who are as friendlessly alone as we are? Who are so bereft of what is called home? Say, have you a heart to give me,—when I can claim it,—and will you give it? I am low and wretched because I feel unloved. Tell me this is not so, and in the goal before me hope and energy will come back to me.” Broken and scarce coherent at times, his letter revealed one who loved her ardently, and who wanted but her pledge to feel himself happy. He pressed eagerly to know of her own life,—what it was, and whether she was contented. Had she learned anything of the mystery that surrounded her family, or could she give him the slightest clew by which he could aid her in the search? He entreated of her to write to him, even though her letter should not be the confirmation of all he wished and prayed for.

The very fact of his having written this to Clara seemed to rally his spirits. It was at least a pledge to his own heart. He had placed a goal before him, and a hope.

“I am glad to see you look cheerier,” said Quackinboss, as they sat talking over their plans. “The hardest load a man ever carried is a heavy heart, and it's as true as my name's Shaver, that one gets into the habit of repinin' and seein' all things black jest as one falls into any other evil habit. Old Grip Quackinboss said, one day, to Mr. Jefferson, 'Yes, sir,' says he, 'always hearty, sir,—always cheery. There 's an old lady as sweeps the crossin' in our street, and I give her a quarter-dollar to fret for me, for it's a thing I've sworn never to do for myself.'”

“Well,” said Layton, gayly, “you 'll see I 've turned over a new leaf; and whatever other thoughts you shall find in me, causeless depression shall not be of the number.”

“All right, sir; that's my own platform. Now here's your instructions, for I 'm a-goin'. I start at seven-forty, by the cars for Buffalo. That spot down there is our meetin'-place,—St. Louis. It looks mighty insignificant on the map, there; but you 'll see it's a thrivin' location, and plenty of business in it. You 'll take your own time about being there, only be sure to arrive by this day month; and if I be the man I think myself, I 'll have news to tell you when you come. This crittur, Trover, knows all about that widow Morris, and the girl, too,—that Clara,—you was so fond of. If I have to tie him up to a tree, sir, I 'll have it out of him! There 's five hundred dollars in that bag. You 'll not need all of it, belike, if you keep clear of 'Poker' and Bully-brag; and I advise you to, sir,—I do,” said he, gravely. “It takes a man to know life, to guess some of the sharp 'uns in our river steamers. There's no other dangers to warn you of here, sir. Don't be riled about trifles, and you 'll find yourself very soon at home with us.”

These were his last words of counsel as he shook Layton's hand at parting. It was with a sad sense of loneliness Layton sat by his window after Quackinboss had gone. For many a month back he had had no other friend or companion: ever present to counsel, console, or direct him, the honest Yankee was still more ready with his purse than his precepts. Often as they had differed in their opinions, not a hasty word or disparaging sentiment had ever disturbed their intercourse; and even the Colonel's most susceptible spot—that which touched upon national characteristics—never was even casually wounded in the converse. In fact, each had learned to see with how very little forbearance in matters of no moment, and with how slight an exercise of deference for differences of object and situation, English and American could live together like brothers.

There was but one thought which embittered the relations between them, in Layton's estimation. It was the sense of that dependence which destroyed equality. He was satisfied to be deeply the debtor of his friend, but he could not struggle between what he felt to be a fitting gratitude, and that resolute determination to assert what he believed to be true at any cost. He suspected, too,—and the suspicion was a very painful one,—that the Colonel deemed him indolent and self-indulgent. The continued reluctance he had evinced to adventure on the scheme for which they came so far, favored this impression.

As day after day he travelled along, one thought alone occupied him. At each place he stopped came the questions, Will this suit? Is this the spot I am in search of? It was strange to mark by what slight and casual events his mind was influenced. The slightest accident that ruffled him as he arrived, an insignificant inconvenience, a passing word, the look of the place, the people, the very aspect of the weather, were each enough to assure him he had not yet discovered what he sought after. It was towards the close of his fifth day's ramble that he reached the small town of Bunkumville. It was a newly settled place, and, like all such, not over-remarkable for comfort or convenience. The spot had been originally laid out as the centre of certain lines of railroad, and intended to have been a place of consequence; but the engineers who had planned it had somehow incurred disgrace, the project was abandoned, and instead of a commercial town, rich, populous, and flourishing, it now presented the aspect of a spot hastily deserted, and left to linger out an existence of decline and neglect. There were marks enough to denote the grand projects which were once entertained for the place,—great areas measured off for squares, spacious streets staked off; here and there massive “blocks” of building; three or four hotels on a scale of vast proportion, and an assembly-room worthy of a second-rate city. With all this, the population was poor-looking and careworn. No stir of trade or business to be met with. A stray bullock-car stole drearily along through the deep-rutted streets, or a traveller significantly armed with rifle and revolver rode by on his own raw-boned horse; but of the sights and sounds of town life and habits there were none. Of the hotels, two were closed; the third was partially occupied as a barrack, by a party of cavalry despatched to repress some Indian outrages on the frontier. Even the soldiers had contracted some of the wild, out-of-the-world look of the place, and wore their belts over buckskin jackets, that smacked more of the prairie than the parade. The public conveyance which brought Layton to the spot only stopped long enough to bait the horses and refresh the travellers; and it was to the no small surprise of the driver that he saw the “Britisher” ask for his portmanteau, with the intention of halting there. “Well, you ain't a-goin' to injure your constitution with gayety and late hours, stranger,” said he, as he saw him descend; “that's a fact.”

Nor was the sentiment one that Layton could dispute, as, still standing beside his luggage in the open street, he watched the stage till it disappeared in the distant pine forest. Two or three lounging, lazy-looking inhabitants had, meanwhile, come up, and stood looking with curiosity at the new arrival.

“You ain't a valuator, are you?” asked one, after a long and careful inspection of him.

“No,” said Layton, dryly.

“You 're a-lookin' for a saw-mill, I expect,” said another, with a keen glance as he spoke.

“Nor that, either,” was the answer.

“I have it,” broke in a third; “you 've got 'notions' in that box, there, but it won't do down here; we 've got too much bark to hew off before we come to such fixin's.”

“I suspect you are not nearer the mark than your friends, sir,” said Layton, still repressing the slightest show of impatience.

“What'll you lay, stranger, I don't hit it?” cried a tall, thin, bold-looking fellow, with long hair falling over his neck. “You're a preacher, ain't you? You're from the New England States, I 'll be bound. Say I 'm right, sir, for you know I am.”

“I must give it against you, sir, also,” said Layton, preserving his gravity with an effort that was not without difficulty. “I do not follow any one of the avocations you mention; but, in return for your five questions, may I make bold to ask one? Which is the hotel here?”

“It's yonder,” said the tall man, pointing to a large house, handsomely pillared, and overgrown with the luxuriant foliage of the red acanthus; “there it is. That's the Temple of Epicurus, as you see it a-written up. You ain't for speculatin' in that sort, are you?”

“No,” said Layton, quietly; “I was merely asking for a house of entertainment.”

“You 're a Britisher, I reckon,” said one of the former speakers; “that 's one of their words for meat and drink.”

Without waiting for any further discussion of himself, his country, or his projects, Layton walked towards the hotel. From the two upper tiers of windows certain portions of military attire, hung out to air or to dry, undeniably announced a soldierly occupation; cross-belts, overalls, and great-coats hung gracefully suspended on all sides. Lower down, there was little evidence of habitation; most of the windows were closely shuttered, and through such as were open Layton saw large and lofty rooms, totally destitute of furniture and in part unfinished. The hall-door opened upon a spacious apartment, at one side of which a bar had been projected, but the plan had gone no further than a long counter and some shelves, on which now a few bottles stood in company with three or four brass candlesticks, a plaster bust, wanting a nose, and some cooking-utensils. On the counter itself was stretched at full length, and fast asleep, a short, somewhat robust man, in shirt and trousers, his deep snoring awaking a sort of moaning echo in the vaulted room. Not exactly choosing to disturb his slumbers, if avoidable, Layton pushed his explorations a little further; but though he found a number of rooms, all open, they were alike empty and unfinished, nor was there a creature to be met with throughout. There was, then, nothing for it but to awaken the sleeper, which he proceeded to, at first by gentle, but, as these failed, by more vigorous means.

“Don't! I say,” growled out the man, without opening his eyes, but seeming bent on continuing his sleep; “I 'll not have it; let me be,—that's all.”

“Are you the landlord of this hotel?” said Layton, with a stout shake by the shoulder.

“Well, then, here's for it, if you will!” cried the other, springing up, and throwing himself in an instant into a boxing attitude, while his eyes glared with a vivid wildness, and his whole face denoted passion.

“I came here for food and lodging, and not for a boxing-match, my friend,” said Layton, mildly.

“And who said I was your friend?” said the other, fiercely: “who told you that we was raised in the same diggins? and what do you mean, sir, by disturbin' a gentleman in his bed?”

“You'll scarcely call that bench a bed, I think?” said Layton, in an accent meant to deprecate all warmth.

“And why not, sir? If you choose to dress yourself like a checker-board, I 'm not going to dispute whether you have a coat on. It's my bed, and I like it. And now what next?”

“I 'm very sorry to have disturbed you; and if you can only tell me if there be any other hotel in this place—”

“There ain't; and there never will be, that's more. Elsmore's is shut up; Chute Melchin 's a-blown his brains out; and so would you if you 'd have come here. Don't laugh, or by the everlastin' rattlesnake, I 'll bowie you!”

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. You think 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 what your trade is, but I 'll be bound he knows something about it you never 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 tell you!”

“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 you can do 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' them than 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.