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.