Through the kind suggestions of Mrs. Botta, I was asked to give talks on literary matters at the house of one of New York’s most influential citizens.  This I enjoyed immensely.  Soon the large drawing-rooms were too small for the numbers who came.  Next we went to the Young Women’s Christian Association, to the library there, and later I decided to engage the church parlours in Doctor Howard Crosby’s Church, Fourth Avenue and Twenty-second Street, New York.  When I realized my audacious venture, I was frightened.  Ten lectures had been advertised and some not written!

On the day for my first lecture the rain poured down, and I felt sure of a failure.  My sister went with me to the church.  As we drew near I noticed a string of carriages up and down the avenue.  “There must be a wedding or a funeral,” I whispered, feeling more in the mood of the latter, but never dreaming how much those carriages meant to me.  As I went timidly into the room I found nearly every seat full, and was greeted with cordial applause.  My sister took a seat beside me.  My subject was “Spinster Authors of England.”  My hands trembled so visibly that I laid my manuscript on the table, but after getting in magnetic touch with those before me, I did not mind.

The reading occupied only one hour, and afterwards I was surrounded by New Hampshire women and New Yorkers who congratulated me warmly.  There were reporters sent from seven of the best daily papers, whom I found sharpening their pencils expectantly.  They gave correct and complimentary notices, and my success was now assured.

Mr. James T. Fields not only advised his New York friends to hear me, but came himself, bringing my father who was deeply gratified.  Mr. Fields told father that I had a remarkably choice audience, among the best in the city.  My father had felt very deeply, even to tears, the sharp, narrow and adverse criticism of one of his associates who considered that I unsexed myself by daring to speak in public, and who advised strongly against encouraging me in such unwomanly behaviour.

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.