Early in the winter I had a visit from a beautiful young lady, an orphan daughter of a rear admiral of whom I had known in former days. She had found herself temporarily embarrassed, and had planned an afternoon of music and reading, was about to send out some cards, and wished me to be one of her patronesses. I gladly consented, and on the afternoon designated, went to her boarding-house near the Park, her landlady having kindly given her rooms for the entertainment. I was early, and as nobody appeared I pressed the negro boy at the door into my service, and placed some palms I found at hand, arranged the desk, and awaited the reader and her audience. Presently Bishop Potter entered, carrying the bag which held his robe, on his way, perhaps, to christen a baby. I knew him "by sight," and ventured to introduce myself, simply as "Mrs. Pryor," explaining my presence. He told me of his interest in the occasion and in the young lady who was to read, adding, "I know little of her qualification for her task, but I did know her father." Presently who should walk in, tall, grim, and unattended, but General Sherman! The bishop instantly presented me as Mrs. General Roger A. Pryor. I was so wrought upon, finding myself in this awful presence, that I exclaimed, "Oh, General 401Sherman! Never did I think I should find myself in the same boat with you!"
He looked at me gravely a moment, and said: "Now see here! I'm not as black as I am painted."—"And I," said the bishop, "am sorry, sorry, to find the wife of my good friend, the general, willing to remember things past and gone forever."
"Well," said General Sherman, "if she doesn't forbid me the house, I should like to call on General Pryor! I'm told they have the cosiest little home in New York."
He did call, and so did his charming daughter, Rachel, whom I liked, and hope I made my friend.
As to the "reading"—Mrs. Botta, Mrs. Bettner, the two great ones and my own small self were the major part of the audience,—fit though few,—but I must confess that no occasion could have been to me fraught with more interest, more significance. My thoughts rushed back to the time when the man before me had marched through an unhappy Southern state without even a wheelbarrow to intercept his way, when all laws of civilized warfare were sent to the winds, and the women and children, in a belt sixty miles wide, were plundered and driven from their homes; returning, after he had passed, to weep over the blackened plains he left behind him. In his official report of his operations in Georgia he said: "We consumed the corn and fodder in the region thirty miles on either side, from Atlanta to Savannah, also the sweet potatoes, hogs, sheep, and poultry, and carried off more than ten thousand horses and mules. I estimated the damage done to 402the state of Georgia at one hundred millions of dollars, at least twenty millions of which inured to our benefit, and the remainder was simply waste and destruction."[8] But the blame for this pillage must be placed higher than the shoulders of General Sherman.
On December 18, 1863, Major-general Halleck thus instructed him: "Should you capture Charleston, I hope by some accident the place may be destroyed, and if a little salt should be sown on the site, it might prevent the growth of future crops of nullification and treason."
Sherman replied December 24, 1863:—
"I will bear in mind your hint as to Charleston, and do not think 'salt' will be necessary. When I move, the Fifteenth Corps will be on the right of the right wing, and their position will naturally bring them to Charleston first,—and if you have watched the history of that corps, you will have remarked that they generally do their work pretty well. The truth is, the whole army is burning with an insatiable desire to wreak vengeance upon South Carolina. I almost tremble at her fate, but feel she deserves all that seems in store."
A solid wall of smoke by day, forty miles wide and from the horizon to the zenith, gave notice to the women and children of the fate that was moving on them. All day they watched it—all night it was lit up by forked tongues of flame lighting the lurid darkness. The next morning it reached them. Terror borne on the air, fleet as the furies spread out ahead, and murder, arson, rapine, enveloped them. 403
Mrs. Vincenzo Botta.
But why repeat the story? This was war, war that spares not the graybeard, childhood, aged women, holy nuns—nobody! Not upon one only does the responsibility for such crimes rest. Nor is it for us to desire, or mete out, an adequate punishment. The Great Judge "will repay"—unless, as I humbly pray, He has forgiven, as we have forgiven, and I trust been ourselves forgiven.
No Southerner, however, can wholly forget, as he stands before the splendid statue made by St. Gaudens, at what price the honors to this man were bought. The angel may bear, to some eyes, a palm of victory, and proclaim, "Fame, Honor, Immortality, to him whom I lead." To the eye of the Southerner the winged figure bears a rod, and the bronze lips a warning—"Beware!"
Our earliest and most faithful friends in our new home were Judge Edward Patterson (our first visitor) and his amiable and gifted family. Much of our happiness was due to their sympathetic attentions, at a time when we had few friends.
One of my early friends in New York was Mrs. Vincenzo Botta, whom I had met at the house of Mrs. Dix when we were negotiating with Colonel Mapleson, Patti, and Nicolini. She was then about sixty-nine years old. She died seven years after she first came to my little home in 33d Street, and a warm friendship grew to full maturity in those few years. Without beauty she had yet a charming presence, with no evidences of age, although the little black lace mantilla she wore over her curls was her own confession. She was the only woman who 404held at the time, or has held since, anything like a real salon. Nobody was ever known to decline an invitation to that house. It was one of the large, old-fashioned houses near Fifth Avenue, with San Domingo mahogany doors, wide staircase, and four spacious rooms on each floor. There were tapestries on the walls, a few good pictures, three busts,—one of Salvini, one of the hostess's husband, the other her maid,—wood fires, and fresh flowers every day. The gracious white-haired lady at the head of the house had a charm born of long experience in all the gentle ministrations of life; her mind was beautifully cultivated, the bluest blood filled her veins; but not from her lips did one learn anything of her distinguished antecedents, although she had been an author, a sculptor, and poet. She came nearer to the distinction of holding a salon than any one who has ever lived in New York. At her receptions might be found Salvini, Edwin Booth, Modjeska, Christine Nilsson, and every distinguished author and diplomat who visited the city. Nobody was ever hired to entertain her guests—they entertained each other. Sometimes a great singer would volunteer a song, or a poet or an actor give something of his art, of course never requested by the hostess. Sometimes the evening would close with a dance.
One often wondered at the ease with which Mrs. Botta could gather around her musicians, artists, actors, authors, men and women of fashion, men conspicuous in political life,—every one who had in himself some element of originality or genius. Her salon was not inaptly termed a reproduction of 405Lady Blessington's or the Duchess of Sutherland's. A card to her conversazione, as she preferred to term it, was, as I have said, eagerly sought, and never declined. Her afternoon teas were famous; but her dinners! I do not mean the terrapin and wines—the table-talk in this mansion was the attraction. Everybody came away not only charmed, but encouraged; thinking better of himself, and by consequence better of his fellow-creatures.
Dinners like these are constantly given to-day all over the country. Perhaps our best and highest people—those that constitute the honor and pride of our social life, and redeem our manners from the criticism to which they are subjected—are the people who manage never to appear in the papers. They give dinners of great taste and beauty that are never described. At their tables are gathered the wit and wisdom of many lands, and whatever accessories can be commanded by taste and wealth. These stars of the social firmament revolve in a sphere of their own,—around no wealthy or titled sun,—but around each other. Vitalized by one powerful magnet, they at once, like iron filings, attract each other.
I had known nothing of Mrs. Botta's prestige nor of her friendship with Emerson, Carlyle, Froude, Fanny Kemble, Frederika Brémer, Daniel Webster, Charles O'Connor, Fitz-Greene Halleck, even Louis Kossuth, when she first visited me, introducing herself; nor did she ever allude to any one or anything (as so many do!) to impress me with her claims to my consideration. A most fascinating talker herself, 406she proceeded simply to draw me on gently to talk of myself,—and no magnet can draw like human sympathy. I once found myself telling her something of my experience in time of war, encouraged by her splendid eyes fixed upon me in rapt attention.
Presently their light was veiled in tears, and rising from her seat she took me in outstretched arms and kissed me. No wonder that the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David from that hour.
She could even sympathize with so small a matter as my dolors anent the hot summer I had passed—"Yes, yes," she said, "I know all about it." She had written a dismal catalogue of the miseries of the dog-days, of which I remember the concluding lines:—
"When Ph?bus and Fahrenheit start a rampage
Then there's heat, no thoughts of a blizzard assuage;
And when 'General Humidity' joins in the tilt
Like plucked flowers of the field the poor mortal must wilt,
Till he cries like the wit, in disconsolate tones,
To take off his flesh and sit in his bones!
But for all that, my dear, to make myself clear,
Give me New York for nine months of the year—
With all its shortcomings there's no place so dear!
With its life and its rush, what it does and has done,
There's no city like it under the sun."
In which I have come to agree with her.
In her drawing-rooms, beautiful by specimens of her own work,—for she was a sculptor and exquisite needlewoman as well as poet and graceful hostess,—I met many of the literary lights of the day, as well as society women of New York. "I shall give a reception to Miss Murfree," she once 407told me. "Why?" I asked. "Is she one of your great people?" "Do you remember," said Mrs. Botta, with a twinkling eye, "'Dorinda Cayce'?" I remembered Dorinda Cayce in the "Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountain," who had gone through storms of snow and tempest to win pardon for her lover in prison, only to discover at the end he was but an ordinary, selfish mortal. There was nothing so remarkable about that, I submitted. "Ah! but don't you remember how she explained the wonderful fact that, with all his faults, she had loved him and had been ready to die for him? 'No—no—' said Dorinda, 'I never loved you! I loved what I thunk you was.' Then and there," said Mrs. Botta, "she reached deep down into the mysteries of a woman's heart. We love what we think they are! I shall give her a reception."
I had met William Cullen Bryant five or six years before, not long before he died (I have seen so many setting suns!), and Mrs. Botta, who had known him well, was interested in my account of an interview with him. We had come over from Brooklyn to attend a reception which the publisher of Johnson's Encyclop?dia gave to his contributors. One of his articles had been written by my husband. At this reception I also met Bayard Taylor, Clarence Stedman, and others, with whose talents in invective against the South I was familiar. But I bore them no malice. I was especially anxious to speak with the old poet, and sought an introduction to him. When the crowd passed on to the refreshment rooms, I observed him standing 408alone, leaning upon the grand piano, and I ventured to join him. Supper versus William Cullen Bryant! There could be but one conclusion. I made bold to hope he was well, as I stood almost spellbound before his fine gray head. I found myself hoping something more. I was willing he should hate treason with all his heart—but I did wish he could ever so little like the traitor!
"Oh, yes," he replied to my question, "I am perfectly well. But I find I am growing old."
"I warrant," said I, "you could struggle for your oysters with the best of them."
"True," he replied, "but that is not the trouble. I forget people's names."
"A poet can afford to forget. Only politicians need be careful."
"Nobody can afford to be unkind," answered the old poet.
"Names are small matters," I suggested. "If you remember faces, you are all right."
"Oh, no," said he, "you must remember names. I did not arrange this drama in which we are all acting, but I know a part of my r?le is to remember names. If I am pr............