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-a-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?