which had been received with rapturous applause， byaudiences in all the principal cities. This outrageous flourishof trumpets， be it known， was wholly unauthorized byme， who had merely made an engagement for a singleevening， without assuming any more celebrity than thelittle I possessed. As for the tale， it could hardly have beenapplauded by rapturous audiences， being as yet an unfilledplot； nor， even when I stepped upon the stage， was itdecided whether Mr. Higginbotham should live or die.
In two or three places， underneath the flaming billswhich announced the Story Teller， was pasted a smallslip of paper， giving notice， in tremulous characters， of areligious meeting， to be held at the school-house， where，with Divine permission， Eliakim Abbott would addresssinners on the welfare their immortal souls.
In the evening， after the commencement of the tragedyof Douglas， I took a ramble through the town， to quickenmy ideas by active motion. My spirits were good， witha certain glow of mind， which I had already learned todepend upon as the sure prognostic of success. Passing asmall and solitary school-house， where a light was burningdimly， and a few people were entering the door， I wentin with them， and saw my friend Eliakim at the desk. Hehad collected about fifteen hearers， mostly females. Justas I entered， he was beginning to pray， in accents so lowand interrupted， that he seemed to doubt the receptionof his efforts， both with God and man. There was roomfor distrust， in regard to the latter. At the conclusion ofthe prayer， several of the little audience went out， leavinghim to begin his discourse under such discouragingcircumstances， added to his natural and agonizingdiffidence. Knowing that my presence on these occasionsincreased his embarrassment， I had stationed myself in adusky place near the door， and now stole softly out.
On my return to the tavern， the tragedy was alreadyconcluded， and being a feeble one in itself， and indifferentlyperformed， it left so much the better chance for the StoryTeller. The bar was thronged with customers， the toddystickkeeping a continual tattoo， while in the hall therewas a broad， deep， buzzing sound， with an occasional pealof impatient thunder， all symptoms of an overflowinghouse and an eager audience. I drank a glass of wine andwater， and stood at the side-scene， conversing with ayoung person of doubtful sex. If a gentleman， how couldhe have performed the singing-girl， the night before， inNo Song No Supper？ Or if a lady， why did she enact YoungNorval， and now wear a green coat and white pantaloonsin the character of Little Pickle？ In either case， the dresswas pretty， and the wearer bewitching； so that， at theproper moment， I stepped forward， with a gay heart anda bold one； while the orchestra played a tune that hadresounded at many a country ball， and the curtain， as itrose， discovered something like a country bar-room. Sucha scene was well enough adapted to such a tale.
The orchestra of our little theatre consisted of twofiddles and a clarionet； but if the whole harmony ofthe Tremont had been there， it might have swelled invain， beneath the tumult of applause that greeted me.