Memories and Anecdotes Part 5

Shortly before the Civil War, I went with father to St. Louis, he to take a place in the Washington University, while I was offered a position in the Mary Inst.i.tute to teach cla.s.ses of girls. Chancellor Hoyt of the university had been lured from Exeter, New Hampshire. He was widely known in the educational world, and was one of the most brilliant men I ever knew, strong, wise, witty, critical, scholarly, with a scorn of anything superficial or insincere.

I had thought of omitting my experience in this city, to me so really tragic. Just before we were to leave Hanover, a guest brought five of us a gift of measles. I had the confluent-virulent-delirious-lose-all-your-hair variety. When convalescent, I found that my hair, which had been splendidly thick and long, was coming out alarmingly, and it was advised that my head be shaved, with a promise that the hair would surely be curly and just as good as before the illness. I felt pretty measly and "meachin" and submitted. The effect was indescribably awful. I saw my bald pate once, and almost fainted. I was provided with a fearsome wig, of coa.r.s.e, dark red hair, held in place by a black tape. Persons who had pitied me for having "such a big head and so much hair" now found reason for comment "on my small head with no hair." The most expensive head cover never deceived anyone, however simple, and I was obliged to make my debut in St. Louis in this piteous plight.

We then had our first taste of western-southern cordiality and demonstrativeness. It occurred to me that they showed more delight in welcoming us than our own home folks showed regret at our departure.

It was a liberal education to me. They all seemed to understand about the hideous wig, but never showed that they noticed it. One of our first callers was a popular, eloquent clergyman, who kissed me "as the daughter of my mother." He said, "I loved your mother and asked her to marry me, but I was refused." Several young men at once wanted to get up a weekly dancing cla.s.s for me, but I was timid, fearing my wig would fall off or get wildly askew. Whittier in one of his poems has this couplet, which suggests the reverse of my experience:

"She rose from her delicious sleep, And laid aside her soft-brown hair."

At bedtime my wig must come off and a nightcap take the place. In the morning that wig must go on, with never one look in the gla.s.s. Soon two persons called, both leaders in social life, one of them a physician, who had suddenly lost every spear of hair. I was invited by the unfortunate physician and his wife to dine with them. And, in his own home, I noticed in their parlour a portrait of him before his experience. He had been blessed with magnificently thick black hair, a handsome face, adorned with a full beard and moustache. It was an April evening and the weather was quite warm, and after dinner the doctor removed his wig, placing it on a plaster head. He was now used to his affliction. He told me, as he sat smoking, looking like a waxwork figure, how several years ago he awoke in the dead of the night to find something he could not understand on his pillow. He roused his wife, lit the gas, dashed cold water on his face to help him to realize what had happened and washed off all the rest of his hair, even to eyebrows and eyelashes. That was a depressing story to me. And I soon met a lady (the Mayor's wife) who had suffered exactly in the same way. She also was resigned, as indeed she had to be. I began to tremble lest my own hair should never return.

But I should be telling you about St. Louis. We were most cordially received by clergymen from three churches and all the professors at the university, and the trustees with their wives and daughters. Wyman Crow, a trustee, was the generous patron of Harriet Hosmer, whose _Zen.o.bia_ was at that time on exhibition there. The Mary Inst.i.tute was founded in remembrance of Rev. Dr. Eliot's daughter Mary, who while skating over one of the so-called "sink-holes," then existing about the city, broke the ice, fell in, and the body was never recovered.

These sink holes were generally supposed to be unfathomable.

Since I could not dance, I took to art, although I had no more capacity in that direction than a cow. I attempted a bunch of dahlias, but when I offered the result to a woman cleaning our rooms she looked at it queerly, held it at a distance, and then inquired: "Is the frame worth anything?"

I acknowledge a lifelong indebtedness to Chancellor Hoyt. He was suffering fearfully with old-fashioned consumption, but he used to send for me to read to him to distract his thoughts. He would also criticize my conversation, never letting one word pa.s.s that was ungrammatical or incorrectly p.r.o.nounced. If I said, "I am so glad," he would ask, "So glad that what? You don't give the correlative." He warned against reliance on the aid of alliteration. The books read to him were discussed and the authors praised or criticized.

St. Louis was to me altogether delightful, and I still am interested in that city, so enlarged and improved. I used to see boys riding astride razor-back hogs in the street, where now stately limousines glide over smooth pavements.

I have always had more cordiality towards strangers, homesick students at Dartmouth, and the audiences at my lectures, since learning a better habit. Frigidity and formality were driven away by the sunshine that brightened my stay at St. Louis.

I do not wish to intrude my private woes, but I returned from the West with a severe case of whooping-cough. I didn't get it at St. Louis, but in the sleeping-car between that city and Chicago. I advise children to see to it that both parents get through with all the vastly unpleasant epidemics of childhood at an early age. It is one of the duties of children to parents.

CHAPTER III

Happy Days with Mrs. Botta--My Busy Life in New York--President Barnard of Columbia College--A Surprise from Bierstadt--Professor Doremus, a Universal Genius--Charles H. Webb, a truly funny "Funny Man"--Mrs. Esther Hermann, a Modest Giver.

I was obliged to give up my work at Packer Inst.i.tute, when diphtheria attacked me, but a wonderful joy came to me after recovery.

Mrs. Vincenzo Botta invited me to her home in West Thirty-seventh Street for the winter and spring. Anne C. Lynch, many years before her marriage to Mr. Botta, had taught at the Packer Inst.i.tute herself, and at that time had a few rooms on West Ninth Street. She told me she used to take a hurried breakfast standing by the kitchen table; then saying good-bye to the mother to whom she was devoted, walked from Ninth Street to the Brooklyn ferry, then up Joralemon Street, as she was required to be present at morning prayers. Her means were limited at that time and carfare would take too much. But it was then that she started and maintained her "Sat.u.r.day Evenings," which became so attractive and famous that N.P. Willis wrote of them that no one of any distinction thought a visit to New York complete without spending a Sat.u.r.day evening with Miss Lynch. People went in such numbers that many were obliged to sit on the stairs, but all were happy. Her refreshments were of the simplest kind, lemonade and wafers or sandwiches. It has often been said that she established the only salon in this country, but why bring in that word so distinctively belonging to the French?

Miss Lynch was just "at home" and made all who came to her happy and at their best. Fredrika Bremer, the celebrated Norwegian writer, was her guest for several weeks at her home in Ninth Street. Catherine Sedgwick attended several of her receptions, wondering at the charm which drew so many. There Edgar Poe gave the first reading of "The Raven" before it was printed. Ole Bull, who knew her then, was a life-long friend to her. f.a.n.n.y Kemble, Bryant, Halleck, Willis were all devoted friends.

After her marriage to Professor Vincenzo Botta, nephew of the historian Botta, and their taking a house in Thirty-seventh Street, she gathered around her table the most interesting and distinguished men and women of the day, and the "Sat.u.r.day Evenings" were continued with increasing crowds. She had a most expressive face and beautiful blue eyes. Never one of the prodigious talkers, dressed most quietly, she was just herself, a sweet-faced, sincere woman, and was blessed with an atmosphere and charm that were felt by all.

At one of her breakfasts I recollect Emerson, who often visited there, Bryant, Bayard Taylor, and Grace Greenwood. At another, John Fiske, President Andrew D. White, and other men interested in their line of thought. I must mention a lady who in the midst of their inspiring conversation broke forth in a loud tone to Mrs. Botta: "I found a splendid receipt for macaroni; mix it, when boiled, with stewed tomatoes and sprinkle freely with parmesan cheese before baking."

One evening Whitelaw Reid brought John Hay. He beckoned to me to come to him, and presenting Mr. Hay said: "I want to make a prediction in regard to this young man. If you live long enough you will hear of him as the greatest statesman and diplomat our country has ever had." A few evenings after, at a Dramatic Club of great talent, I saw Mr. Hay figuring as Cupid in Mrs. Jarley's wax-work show. He looked and acted his part, turning gracefully on his toes to show his wings and quiver of arrows. And Mr. Reid, mounted on a step-ladder behind a draped clothes-horse, represented the distressed Lord Ullin whose daughter was seen eloping in a boat with her Highland chief, the tossing waves being sheets in full motion.

For years it seemed as if this were the one truly cosmopolitan drawing-room in the city, because it drew the best from all sources.

Italy and England, France and Germany, Spain, Russia, Norway and Hungary, Siam, China, India, and j.a.pan sent guests. .h.i.ther. Liberals and Conservatives, peers and revolutionists, holders of the most ancient traditions, and advocates of the most modern theories--all found their welcome, if they deserved it, and each took away a new respect for the position of his opponent.

Madame Ristori, Salvini, Fechter, Campanini, and Madame Gerster were honoured with special receptions. Special receptions were also given in honour of George P. Marsh, on the occasion of his appointment as Minister to Turin in 1861, and to the officers of the Royal Navy of Italy when they came to this country to take possession of two frigates built by an American ship-builder for the Italian Government.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MRS. ANNE C. LYNCH BOTTA]

Emerson appreciated Mrs. Botta as a hostess. He enjoyed being in her home, saying it "rested him." "I wish that I could believe that in your miles of palaces were many houses and house-keepers as excellent as I know at 25 West 37th Street, your house with the expanding doors." He speaks of her invitation as "one of the happiest rainbows."

"Your hospitality has an Arabian memory, to keep its kind purpose through such a long time. You were born under Hatem Yayi's own star, and like him, are the genius of hospitality." (Haten Yayi was a celebrated Oriental whose house had sixteen doors.)

And Mrs. Botta was greatly cheered by Emerson. She wrote:

I always wish I had had my photograph taken when Mr. Emerson was staying in my house. Everyone felt his influence, even the servants who would hardly leave the dining-room. I looked like a different being, and was so happy I forgot to see that he had enough to eat.

Early in her time some of her friends--such as Ripley, Curtis, and Cranch--had joined a small agricultural and educational a.s.sociation, called the "Brook Farm," near Roxbury, Ma.s.sachusetts. She visited them once or twice, and saw Mr. Curtis engaged in washing dishes which had been used by "The Community." She remarked to him that perhaps he could be better employed for the progress of his fellow-men than in wasting his energy on something more easily done by others.

At one time she invited Bronson Alcott, one of the leaders of a similar movement, to preside over some _conversazioni_ in her parlours, where he could elucidate his favourite subject. On one occasion, a lady in the audience, impressed by some sentiments uttered by the lecturer, inquired of him if his opinion was that we were G.o.ds.

"No," answered Mr. Alcott, "we are not G.o.ds, but only G.o.dlings," an explanation which much amused Mrs. Botta, who was always quick in perceiving the funny side of a remark. (I timidly suggest that _s_ be subst.i.tuted for _d_.)

Mrs. Botta having promised to see Mr. Greeley, and urge him to give a favourable notice in the _Tribune_ of the concert where a young singer was to make her debut, went down to his office to plead for a lenient criticism. But not one word appeared. So down she went to inquire the reason. She was ushered into the Editor's Sanctum, where he was busily writing and hardly looked up. She asked why he was so silent; it was such a disappointment. No reply. She spoke once more. Then came the verdict in shrill tones: "She can't sing. She can't sing. She can't sing."

New Year's calls were then the custom, and more than three hundred men paid their respects to Mr. and Mrs. Botta on the New Year's Day I spent with them. And everyone looked, as Theodore Hook said, as if he were somebody in particular. At one of these "Sat.u.r.day Evenings," a stranger walked through her rooms, with hands crossed under his coat and humming execrably as he wandered along. The gentle hostess went to him with her winning smile and inquired, "Do you play also?" That proves her capacity for sarcasm and criticism which she seldom employed. She conversed remarkably well, but after all it was what she did not say that proved her greatness and self-control.

Mrs. Botta had talent in various directions. She made portrait busts in plaster that really were like the subjects, with occasionally an inspired success, and that without any teaching. She showed genius in this work. When a bust of her modelling was sent to Rome to be put into marble, the foremost of Italian sculptors, not knowing the maker, declared that nothing would be beyond the reach of the artist if _he_ would come to Rome and study technique for a year. Mrs. Botta asked me to let her try to get my face. That was delightful. To be with her in her own studio and watch her interest! Later some discouragement, and then enthusiasm as at last the likeness came. She said she took the humorous side of my face. The other side she found sad. My friends not only recognized my face, but they saw my mother's face inwrought.

Mrs. Botta had talent in various directions. She published a large book, _The Hand Book of Universal Literature_, once used at Harvard and other colleges, and hoped to prepare one of similar style on _Universal History_. She also wrote a small volume of poems, but her days were given to the needs of others. Only a few mornings were we able to work on her _Universal History_. There were too many calls for advice, sympathy, or aid; the door-bell rang too often. I heard a young girl once say of her: "She is great enough to have been an inspired prophetess of olden times, and tender enough to have been the mother of our Dear Saviour." Such were the words of impa.s.sioned praise that fell from the lips of a young, motherless, Roman Catholic girl, one of the many whom Mrs. Botta had taught and befriended. Once, when reading to Mrs. Botta in connection with her "History," a man called to see her about getting material for her biography. To my surprise, she waved her hand to me saying, "This young lady is to be my biographer." As I felt entirely unable to attempt such a work I told her it should be made up of letters from a host of friends who had known her so well and so long. This pleased her, and after her death her husband wrote me urging me to edit such a composite picture, but knowing his superior fitness for the work, I thanked him for the compliment, but declined. What a delightful result was accomplished by his good judgment, literary skill, and the biographical notes gladly given by her intimate friends. I will give a few quotations from the tributes:

To me--as to others--her conversation was singularly inspiring; it suggested to a man his best trains of thought; it developed in him the best he had; it made him think better of himself and of mankind; it sent him away stronger for all good work.

She seemed to me capable of worshipping in equal fervour with Roman Catholics or with Unitarians--in a cathedral or in a hovel; and this religious spirit of hers shone out in her life and in her countenance. Very pleasant was her optimism; she looked about her in this world without distrust, and beyond her into the next world without fear.

She had a delightful sense of humour--so sweet, so delicate, so vivid. She had a gift of appreciation which I have never seen surpa.s.sed.

If Mrs. Botta found more in society than most persons do, it was because she carried more there.

Horace Greeley once said to me, "Anne Lynch is the best woman that G.o.d ever made."

Few women known to me have had greater grace or ease in the entertainment of strangers, while in her more private intercourse, her frank, intelligent, courteous ways won her the warmest and most desirable friendships.

The position of the Bottas in the literary and artistic world enabled them to draw together not only the best-known people of this country, but to a degree greater than any, as far as I know, the most distinguished visitors from abroad, beyond the ranks of mere t.i.tle or fashion. No home, I think, in all the land compared with theirs in the number and character of its foreign visitors.

I should like to introduce you to her home as it was--the hall, with its interesting pictures and fragrant with fresh flowers; the dining-room, the drawing-rooms, with their magnetized atmosphere of the past (you can almost feel the presence of those who have loved to linger there); her own sanctum, where a chosen few were admitted; but the limits of s.p.a.ce forbid. The queens of Parisian salons have been praised and idealized till we are led to believe them unapproachable in their social alt.i.tude. But I am not afraid to place beside them an American woman, uncrowned by extravagant adulation, but fully their equal--the artist, poet, conversationist, Anne C. L. Botta.

She was absolutely free from egotism or conceit, always avoiding allusion to what she had accomplished, or her unfulfilled longings.

But she once told me:

Sandy (short for old, red sand stone), I would rather have had a child than to have made the most perfect statue or the finest painting ever produced. [She also said]: If I could only stop longing and aspiring for that which is not in my power to attain, but is only just near enough to keep me always running after it, like the donkey that followed an ear of corn which was tied fast to a stick.

Mrs. Botta came of a Celtic father, gay, humorous, full of impulsive chivalry and intense Irish patriotism, and of a practical New England mother, herself of Revolutionary stock, clear of judgment, careful of the household economy, upright, exemplary, and "facultied." In the daughter these inherited qualities blended in a most harmonious whole. Grant Allen, the scientific writer, novelist, and student of spiritualistic phenomena, thinks that racial differences often combine to produce a genius.

I often think of that rarely endowed friend in full faith that she now has the joys denied her here, and that her many-sided nature is allowed progress, full and free and far, in many directions. I am also sure that Heaven could not be Heaven to Mrs. Botta if she were not able to take soul flights and use wireless telegraphy to still help those she left behind, and hope that she can return to greet and guide us as we reach the unknown land.