Two famous story-tellers of the old-fashioned type were Doctor Dixi Crosby of Hanover, and his son “Ben,” who made a great name for himself in New York City as a surgeon, and also as a brilliant after-dinner speaker.  Doctor Crosby’s preference was for the long-drawn-out style, as this example, which I heard him tell several times, shows: 

A man gave a lecture in a New England town which failed to elicit much applause and this troubled him.  As he left early next morning on the top of the stage-coach, he interviewed the driver, who seemed not anxious to talk.  “Did you hear much said about my lecture last night?  Do you think it pleased the audience?”

“Oh, I guess they were well enough satisfied; some were anyway.”

“Were there any who expressed dissatisfaction?”

“I would not pry into it, stranger; there wasn’t much said against it anyhow.”

“Now you have aroused my curiosity.  I must beg you to let me know.  Who criticized it, and what did they say?  It might help me to hear it.”

“Well, Squire Jones was the man; he does not say much one way or other.  But I’ll tell you he always gets the gist of it.”

“And what was his verdict?”

“If you must know, Squire Jones he said, said he, he thought ’twas—­awful shaller.”

Doctor Ben’s Goffstown Muster was a quicker tempo and had a better climax.  ’Twas the great occasion of the annual military reviews.  He graphically described boys driving colts hardly broken; mothers nursing babies, very squally; girls and their beaux sitting in the best wagon holding hands and staring about (as Warner said to me, “Young love in the country is a solemn thing"); the booths for sale of gingerbread, peanuts, cider, candies, and popcorn; the marshal of the day dashing here and there on his prancing steed.  All was excitement, great crowds, and the blare of the band.  Suddenly an aged pair, seemingly skeletons, so bony and wan were they, were seen tottering toward the fence, where they at last stopped.  They had come from the direction of the graveyard.  The marshal rushed forward calling out, “Go back, go back; this is not the general resurrection, it is only the Goffstown Muster.”

Doctor Ben Crosby was one of the most admirable mimics ever known and without a suspicion of ill-nature.  Sometimes he would call on us representing another acquaintance, who had just left, so perfectly that the gravest and stiffest were in danger of hysterics.  This power his daughter inherited.

John Lord, the historical lecturer, was always a “beacon light” (which was the name he gave his lectures when published) as he discussed the subjects and persons he took for themes before immense audiences everywhere.  His conversation was also intensely interesting.  He was a social lion and a favourite guest.  His lectures have still a large annual sale—­no one who once knew him or listened to his pyrotechnic climaxes could ever forget him or them.  It was