Night came on, and with it there gathered into the lecture room of the Orthodox Church, an audience of many bonnets and much respectability. Proverbially inquisitive, the people of the good old town of Barnstable were on tip-toe, to see the man of whose curious figure they had heard so much. And as if to gratify their curiosity, Giles Sheridan now rose, frisked the little black scroll about in his fingers, wiped the sweat nervously from his brow, and, in a faltering voice, gave an interesting sketch of the early life of his darling poet. This he continued for more than an hour, now warming into eloquence, now subsiding into a low, desponding voice. But his hearers sat unmoved, nor was one hand of applause raised to cheer his too misgiving heart. They wondered, and listened, and looked at one another, as was the custom of the country. The little deformed man, however, took it as a proof that he had failed to interest them; and this sorely taxed his sensitive nature. I ought also not to forget to mention that the speaker was twice interrupted by the major, who begged that he would state the exact quality of poetry written by his friend, the poet. The audience took this interruption very good naturedly, while the speaker gratified the major's curiosity by reciting a number of verses written by him. The major then said he was fully satisfied that this Mr. Crabbe must have been a great poet; but he thought if the 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.