I declare, thought I, here’s nothing to spare.

But things were getting to a crisis.  I must ‘make a raise,’ somehow.  Borrow?  Ah, certainly—­where was the benevolent moneyed individual?  My credit had gone with my cash; both were sunk in the washing-machines.

I lighted my pipe, and surveyed my household goods once more.

There was the picture:  couldn’t I do without that?

Possibly.  But that picture I had had—­let me see—­fifteen, yes, sixteen years.  That picture was a third prize for excellence in declamation, presented me at the school exhibition in ——­ Street, when I was twelve years old.  That was in 1843, and here, on the first of December, 1859, I sat deliberately meditating its sale for paltry bread and butter!

No, no; I’d go hungry a little longer, before I’d part with that old relic—­remembrancer of the proudest day of my life.  What a pity I hadn’t permitted that day to give a direction to my life, instead of turning my attention to the paltry expedients for money-making followed by the common herd!  I might have been an accomplished orator by this time, capable of drawing crowds and pocketing a thousand a month, or so.  But my tastes had run in other channels since the day when I took that prize.

Still, when I thought of it deliberately, I made bold to believe there was that yet in me which could meet the expectant eyes of audiences nor quail before them.

A thought struck me!  Was not here an ‘opening’ for an enterprising young man?  Was not the lecture-season at hand?  Did not lecturers get from ten to two hundred dollars per night?  Couldn’t I talk off a lecture with the best of them, perhaps?  Well, perhaps I could, and perhaps not, but if I wouldn’t try it on, I hoped I might be blessed—­that—­was all.

I thought proper, after having reached this conclusion, to calculate my wealth in the way of preliminary requisites to success.  By preliminary requisites to success, I mean those which lead to the securing of invitations to lecture.  I flattered myself that all matters consequent to this point in my career would very readily turn themselves to my advantage.  The preliminary requisites were as follows:—­

1. Notoriety.  I could boast of nothing in this line.  I had no reputation whatever.  I had never written a line for publication.

When I had satisfied myself that I lacked this grand requisite, I turned my attention to the subject again only to find that No. 1 was quite alone in its glory.  It was the Alpha and Omega of the preliminary requisites.  I should never be able to get a solitary invitation.

Here I was for a moment disheartened; but, persevering in my newly-assumed part of literary philosopher, I proceeded to the consideration of the consequent requisites:—­

1. Literary ability.  To say the truth, my literary abilities had hitherto been kept in the background.  I was glad they were now going to come forward.  For present purposes, it was sufficient that the Astor Library was handy, and that I could string words together respectably.