“It suits me, and I’ll never deliver the nasty, nauseous ‘Reminiscences’ any more.”

But the Ward lecture was good for little more than a month, for on December 8th he wrote again: 

    Notify all hands that from this time I shall talk nothing but
    selections from my forthcoming book, ‘Roughing It’.  Tried it twice
    last night; suits me tiptop.

And somewhat later: 

Had a splendid time with a splendid audience in Indianapolis last night; a perfectly jammed house, just as I have all the time out here....  I don’t care now to have any appointments canceled.  I’ll even “fetch” those Dutch Pennsylvanians with this lecture.

    Have paid up $4,000 indebtedness.  You are the last on my list. 
    Shall begin to pay you in a few days, and then I shall be a free man
    again.

Undoubtedly he reveled in the triumphs of a platform tour, though at no time did he regard it as a pleasure excursion.  During those early weeks the proofs of his new book, chasing him from place to place, did not add to his comfort.  Still, with large, substantial rewards in hand and in prospect, one could endure much.

In the neighborhood of Boston there were other compensations.  He could spend a good part of his days at the Lyceum headquarters, in School Street, where there was always congenial fellowship—­Nasby, Josh Billings, and the rest of the peripatetic group that about the end of the year collected there.  Their lectures were never tried immediately in Boston, but in the outlying towns; tried and perfected—­or discarded.  When the provincial audiences were finally satisfied, then the final. test in the Boston Music Hall was made, and if this proved successful the rest of the season was safe.  Redpath’s lecturers put up at Young’s Hotel, and spent their days at the bureau, smoking and spinning yarns, or talking shop.  Early in the evening they scattered to the outlying towns, Lowell, Lexington, Concord, New Bedford.  There is no such a condition to-day:  lecturers are few, lecture bureaus obscure; there are no great reputations made on the platform.

Neither is there any such distinct group of humorists as the one just mentioned.  Humor has become universal since then.  Few writers of this age would confess to taking their work so seriously as to be at all times unsmiling in it; only about as many, in fact, as in that day would confess to taking their work so lightly that they could regard life’s sterner phases and philosophies with a smile.

Josh Billings was one of the gentlest and loveliest of our pioneers of laughter.  The present generation is not overfamiliar even with his name, but both the name and sayings of that quaint soul were on everybody’s lips at the time of which we are writing.  His true name was Henry W. Shaw, and he was a genuine, smiling philosopher, who might have built up a more permanent and serious reputation had he not been induced