The good people of the town， knowing that the worldcontained innumerable persons of celebrity， undreamt ofby them， took it for granted that I was one， and that theirroar of welcome was but a feeble echo of those whichhad thundered around me， in lofty theatres. Such anenthusiastic uproar was never heard； each person seemeda Briareus， clapping a hundred hands， besides keepinghis feet and several cudgels in play， with stamping andthumping on the floor； while the ladies flourished theirwhite cambric handkerchiefs， intermixed with yellow，and red bandanna， like the flags of different nations.
After such a salutation， the celebrated Story Teller feltalmost ashamed to produce so humble an affair as Mr.
Higginbotham’s Catastrophe.
This story was originally more dramatic， than as therepresented， and afforded good scope for mimicry andbuffoonry； neither of which， to my shame， did I spare. Inever knew the “magic of a name，” till I used that of Mr.
Higginbotham； often as I repeated it， there were louderbursts of merriment， than those which responded to what，in my opinion， were more legitimate strokes of humor.
The success of the piece was incalculably heightenedby a stiff queue of horse-hair， which Little Pickle， in thespirit of that mischief-loving character， had fastened tomy collar， where， unknown to me， it kept making thequeerest gestures of its own， in correspondence with allmine. The audience， supposing that some enormous jokewas appended to this long tail behind， were ineffablydelighted， and gave way to such a tumult of approbation，that， just as the story closed， the benches broke beneaththem， and left one whole row of my admirers on the floor.
Even in that predicament， they continued their applause.
In after times， when I had grown a bitter moralizer， I tookthis scene for an example， how much of fame is humbug；how much the meed of what our better nature blushes at；how much an accident； how much bestowed on mistakenprinciples； and how small and poor the remnant. Frompit and boxes there was now a universal call for the StoryTeller.
That celebrated personage came not， when they didcall to him. As I left the stage， the landlord， being alsothe postmaster， had given me a letter， with the postmarkof my native village， and directed to my assumed name，in the stiff old hand-writing of Parson Thumpcushion.
Doubtless， he had heard of the rising renown of the StoryTeller， and conjectured at once， that such a nondescriptluminary could be no other than his lost ward. Hisepistle， though I never read it， affected me most painfully.
I seemed to see the puritanic figure of my guardian，standing among the fripperies of the theatre， and pointingto the players， —the fantastic and effeminate men， thepainted women， the giddy girl in boy’s clothes， merrierthan modest， —pointing to these with solemn ridicule，and eyeing me with stern rebuke. His image was a type ofthe austere duty， and they of the vanities of life.
I hastened with the letter to my chamber， and held itunopened in my hand， while the applause of my buffoonryyet sounded through the theatre. Another train of thoughtcame over me. The stern old man appeared again， but nowwith the gentleness of sorrow， softening his authority withlove， as a father might， and even bending his venerablehead， as if to say， that my errors had an apology in his ownmistaken discipline. I strode twice across the chamber，then held the letter in the flame of the candle， and beheldit consume， unread. It is fixed in my mind， and was so atthe time， that he had addressed me in a style of paternalwisdom， and love， and reconciliation， which I could nothave resisted， had I but risked the trial. The thoughtstill haunts me， that then I made my irrevocable choicebetween good and evil fate.
Meanwhile， as this occurrence had disturbed mymind， and indisposed me to the present exercise of myprofession， I left the town， in spite of a laudatory critiquein the newspaper， and untempted by the liberal offers ofthe manager. As we walked onward， following the sameroad， on two such different errands， Eliakim groaned inspirit， and labored， with tears， to convince me of the guiltand madness of my life.
