As I approached the Athenaeum I thought, “What a beautiful building!” It was stone and brick—­solid, subdued, complete and substantial.  The lower rooms were used for the Hebrew Club.  Upstairs stretched the splendid hall, as I could tell from the brilliantly lighted windows.

Inside, I noticed that the stairways were carpeted with Brussels.  Glancing through the wide doorways, I beheld an audience of more than two thousand people.  The great chandeliers sent out a dazzling glory from their crystal and gold.  At the sides, rich tapestries and hangings of velvet covered the windows.

“A beautiful building,” I said to my old-time friend, Maurice J. Pass, the Secretary of the Club.

He smiled in satisfaction and replied, “Well, we seldom let things go by default—­you have tonight as fine an audience as ever assembled in New Orleans.”

We passed down a side hallway and under the stage, preparatory to going on the platform.  In this room below the stage a single electric light shone.  The place was dark and dingy, in singular contrast to the beauty, light, cleanliness and order just beyond.  In the corner were tables piled high—­evidently used for banquets—­broken furniture and discarded boxes.

Several smart young men in full dress sat on the tables smoking cigarettes.  One young man said in explanation, “We were crowded out—­had to give up our seats to ladies—­so we are going to sit on the stage.”

The soft blue smoke from the cigarettes seemed to hug close about the lonely electric light.

I saw the smoke and thought that beside the odor of tobacco I detected the smell of smoldering pine.

“Isn’t it a trifle smoky here?” I said to the young man nearest me.

He laughed at this remark and handed me a cigarette.

The Secretary of the Club and I went up the narrow stairs to the stage.  As we stood there behind the curtain I looked at the pleasant-faced man.  “You didn’t detect the odor of burning wood down there, did you?” I asked.

“No; but you see the windows are open, and there are bonfires outside, I suppose.”

“I am a fool,” I thought; “and James Whitcomb Riley was right when he said that the speaker who is about to make his bow to an audience is always so keyed up that at the moment he is incapable of sane thinking.”

I excused myself and walked over to an open window at the back of the stage and looked down.

It must have been forty feet to the stony street beneath.

Then I went to a side window and threw up the sash.  This window looked out on a roof ten or twelve feet below.  I got a broken broom that stood in the corner and propped the window open.

The thought of fire was upon me and I was inwardly planning what I would do in case of a stampede.  I am always thinking about what I would do should this or that happen.  Nothing can surprise me—­not even death.  If any of my best helpers should leave me, I have it all planned exactly whom I will put in their places.  I have it arranged who will take my own place—­my will is made and my body is to be cremated.