When I think back about the experience, it seems pretty crazy, but
at the time I was filled with a kind of evangelistic zeal. I thought
if I was going to try to sell books I might as well have some fun
out of it. Most of the old ladies were squatting about in the
parlour, knitting or reading or playing cards. In the smoking-room I
could see two dried-up men. Mrs. Hominy, the manager of the place,
was sitting at her desk behind a brass railing, going over accounts
with a quill pen. I thought that the house probably hadn't had a
shock since Walt Whitman wrote "Leaves of Grass." In a kind of
do-or-die spirit I determined to give them a rouse.

In the dining-room I had noticed a huge dinner bell that stood
behind the door. I stepped in there, and got it. Standing in the
big hall I began ringing it as hard as I could shake my arm.

You might have thought it was a fire alarm. Mrs. Hominy dropped her
pen in horror. The colonial dames in the parlour came to life and
ran into the hall like cockroaches. In a minute I had gathered quite
a respectable audience. It was up to me to do the spellbinding.

"Friends," I said (unconsciously imitating the Professor's tricks
of the trade, I guess), "this bell which generally summons you to
the groaning board now calls you to a literary repast. With the
permission of the management, and with apologies for disturbing your
tranquillity, I will deliver a few remarks on the value of good
books. I see that several of you are fond of reading, so perhaps the
topic will be congenial?"

They gazed at me about as warmly as a round of walnut sundaes.