eded toward the hall. They did not take me to that place; _I_ took
them, holding them fast all the way--the treasurer especially.

We arrived in good time, although we stopped once for light refreshment.
At eight punctually, I entered the hall, preceded by the president, and
followed by the members of the committee. The president introduced me in
a most queer, incoherent speech. I rose, and was vociferously cheered.
When silence was restored, I said in a calm, almost solemn manner:
"Ladies and Gentlemen." This was the signal for more cheering and
whistling. In France whistling means hissing, and I began to feel
uneasy, but soon I bore in mind that whistling, in the North of Great
Britain, was used to express the highest pitch of enthusiasm.

So I went on.

The audience laughed at everything I said, and even before I said it. I
had never addressed such keen people. They seemed so anxious to laugh
and cheer in the right place that they laughed and cheered all the
time--so much so that in an hour and twenty minutes, I had only got
through half my lecture, which I had to bring to a speedy conclusion.

The president rose and proposed a vote of thanks in another most queer
speech, which was a new occasion for cheering.

When we had retired in the committee room, I said to the secretary:
"What's the matter with the president? Is he quite right?" I added,
touching my forehead.

"Oh!" said the secretary, striking his chest as proudly as possible, "he
is drunk--and so am I."

[Illustration: "HE'S DRUNK, AND SO AM I."]

The explanation of the whole strange evening dawned upon me. Of course
they were drunk, and so was the audience.

That night, I believe I was the only sober person on the premises.

* * * * *

Yesterday, I had an interesting chat with a native of the State of Maine
on the subject of my lecture at Portsea.

"You are perfectly wrong," he said to me, "in supposing that your
lecture was not appreciated. I was present, and I can assure you that
the attentive silence in which they listened to you from beginning to
end is the proof that they appreciated you. You would also be wrong in
supposing that they do not appreciate humor. On the contrary, they are
very keen of it, and I believe that the old New Englander was the father
of American humor, through the solemn manner in which he told comic
things, and the comic manner in which he told the most serious ones.
Yes, they are kee