speaker had known one Sergeant Milton, who wrote poetry in honor of the regiment he was major of during the Mexican war, he would not have set Mr. Crabbe on so high a horse.  Indeed, according to what the major said, this Sergeant Milton was the most wonderful poet that ever sung of the Mexican War; and in addition to the gift of being a versifier, he was celebrated for brewing an excellent whiskey punch, without which no poet could hope for prosperity in New York, where punch begat poetry, and foul linen seemed inseparable from poets.

The speaker smiled at the major’s quaint remarks concerning his friend, Sergeant Milton.  But such was the failure he fancied himself making, that he would gladly have given the fifteen dollars he was to receive in pay for his lectures, and said not a word about the victuals, to have got quietly out of town.  But in truth he had not a shilling in his pocket, and the money he was to receive of the committee constituted the forlorn hope of his future fortunes.  So, with a heart overburdened with despondency, and an eye made liquid with anxiety, he concluded in a faltering voice, and heaved a sigh.  And as no one came forward to congratulate him, and the very atmosphere seemed to partake of the frigidity of the audience, he watched his hearers disperse in silence, frisking his fingers, and wondering if he had made them any wiser on the life of one Crabbe.

But a silent tongue is no proof of what the heart feels; nor does the outward demonstration carry with it the stronger appreciation of merit.  And so it proved in this instance.  It being the custom of the country not to applaud on such occasions, the audience went home to unbosom its approval, which was of the heartiest kind.  On his way home, the little man was joined by an elder of the church, who, seeing his despondency, said unto him:  “Permit me to congratulate you, sir, for never was audience more interested in a lecture.  You did nobly, sir.”  The little man’s heart was touched.  He grasped the speaker by the hand firmly, and as his enthusiasm broke its bounds, he poured forth his gratitude in a rhapsody of thanks.  Indeed, so quickly did the word of consolation reinstate his confidence, that he became like an overjoyed child, and in the innocence of his heart invited the elder home with him, that they might enjoy a punch together.  In short, he not only convinced Barnstable that Mr. Crabbe was a great poet, but so enlisted sympathy for himself, that the benevolent ladies of the sewing circle, seeing the dilapidated state of his raiment, made him up a purse, and presented it with an intimation that Warren, the tailor, lived at the corner.  I should not forget to mention, that his second and third lectures proved more successful than the first, and that Major Roger Potter looked in at the “Independent Temperance” to compliment the little deformed man on the very learned character of his lecture, much of which (so he said) had so deeply interested him, that he had resolved to incorporate it into his next political speech, which he intended soon to make in opposition to that arch agitator, Thomas Benton, Esq., and which the state of the nation demanded should be done at no very distant day.  Having said this, he called me aside, and enjoining me to keep what he said a profound secret, whispered what will be related in the next chapter, and took his departure.