I was a pioneer as a lecturer on literature quite unconsciously, for I had gone along so gradually that I did not realize it—taken up and set down in a new place with no planning on my part.
Invited by many of the citizens of Hanover, New Hampshire, my old home, to go there and give my lecture on "Lady Morgan," the Irish novelist, for the purpose of purchasing a new carpet for the Congregational Church, I was surprised to feel again the same stern opposition; I was not permitted to speak in the church, but immediately was urged to accept the large recitation hall of the Scientific School. It was crowded to the doors and the college boys climbed up and swarmed about the windows. The carpet, a dark red ingrain, was bought, put down, and wore well for years.
Now came a busy life. I was asked to lecture in many places near New York, always in delightful homes. Had a class of married ladies at the home of Dr. J.G. Holland, where I gave an idea of the newest books. Doctor Holland gave me a department, "Bric-à-brac," in his magazine—Scribner's Magazine; and I was honoured by a request from the editors of the Galaxy to take the "Club Room" from which Mark Twain had just resigned. Meeting him soon after at a dinner, he said with his characteristic drawl: "Awful solemn, ain't it, having to be funny every month; worse than a funeral." I started a class in my own apartment to save time for ladies who wanted to know about the most interesting books as they were published, but whose constant engagements made it impossible to read them entirely for themselves. I suggested to the best publishers to send me copies of their attractive publications which I would read, condense, and then talk them over with these friends. All were glad to aid me. Their books were piled on my piano and tables, and many were sold. I want to say that such courtesy was a rare compliment. I used to go to various book stores, asking permission to look over books at a special reading table, and never met a refusal. I fear in these days of aiding the war sufferers, and keeping our bodies limber and free from rheumatism by daily dancing, this plan would not find patrons.
I was often "browsing," as they call it, at the Mercantile Library. At first I would sit down and give the names of volumes desired. That took too long. At last I was allowed to go where I liked and take what I wanted. I sent a pair of handsome slippers at Christmas to the man who had been my special servitor. He wrote me how he admired them and wished he could wear them, but alas! his feet had both been worn to a stub long ago from such continuous running and climbing to satisfy my seldom-satisfied needs. He added that several of the errand boys had become permanently crippled from over-exertion. I then understood why he had married a famous woman doctor. It is hard to get the books asked for in very large libraries. Once I was replying to an attack on Miss Elizabeth Stuart Phelps's style by Miss Dodge, well known under the pen name Gail Hamilton, and I gave this order: "Complete works of Miss Abigail Dodge—and please hurry." After intolerable waiting, two boys appeared looking very weary, bearing the many sermons and heavy memoirs of the Reverend Narcissus Dodge.
In my special class at home I begged my friends to ask questions in an off-hand way, and to comment upon my opinions. That was stimulating to all. One morning my theme was "Genius and Talent." I said Genius was something beyond—outside of—ourselves, which achieved great results with small exertion. Not by any means was it a bit of shoemakers' wax in the seat of one's chair (as Anthony Trollope put it). Talent must work hard and constantly for development. I said: "Genius is inspiration; Talent is perspiration." I had never heard that definition and thought it was mine. Of late it has been widely quoted, but with no acknowledgment, so I still think it is mine. Are there any other claimants—and prior to 1880?
There were many questions and decided differences of opinion. At last one lady said: "Please give us examples of men who possess genius rather than talent." As she spoke, the door opened, and in walked Mrs. Edmund Clarence Stedman, wife of the poet, and with her a most distinguished-looking woman, Mrs. William Whitney. I was a little embarrassed, but replied sweetly, "Sheets and Kelley," meaning "Keats and Shelley." Then followed a wild laugh in which I joined.
Dr. John Lord once told me he had a similar shock. He spoke of "Westford and Oxminster," instead of "Oxford and Westminster," and never again could he get it correctly, try as he would. Neither his twist nor mine was quite as bad as that of the speaker who said: "I feel within me a half-warmed fish; I mean a half-formed wish."
All genius [continued Lady Henrietta], whether it is artistic, or literary, or spiritual, is something given from outside. I once heard genius described as knowing by intuition what other people know by experience.
Something, or, I should say, somebody, for it involves intelligence and knowledge, tells you these things, and you just can't help expressing them in your own particular way, with brush, or pen, or voice, whatever your individual instrument may be.
From Patricia by Hon. Mrs. ROBERT HAMILTON.