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 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 held 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 Lady 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, she 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:—

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 told 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 Encyclopædia 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 alone, 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 rôle is to remember names. If I am presented to Mr. Smith, and I meet him next day in Broadway, I think it was intended I should say ‘Good morning, Mr. Smith.’ Otherwise, why was I presented to him? If I have forgotten his name, I have forgotten my part, and lose the only opportunity that will ever be given me in this world of being polite to Mr. Smith.”

Mrs. Botta delighted in such incidents as this. I wish she could have laughed with me over an attempt my Gordon (Mrs. Henry Rice) made to introduce Mr. Bryant to a class of poor white boys she was teaching at a night-school in her home on a great tobacco plantation in Virginia. She had taught them to read and write, some arithmetic and geography, even some Latin; and was minded to awaken the aesthetic instincts which she believed must exist in the poor fellows. She read them Bryant's “Ode to a Waterfowl.” “Now, boys,” she said eagerly, “tell me how you would feel if you had seen this.” There was dead silence. Appealing to the most hopeful of her sons of toil, she received an enlightening response, “I wouldn't think nuthin'.” “What would you say?” she persisted. “Wall— I reckon I'd say, ‘Thar goes a duck!’ ”

Nobody was kinder to us than Edmund Clarence Stedman. On Tuesdays and Fridays one might always find a welcome—no cards were issued—and a small, choice company of literary men and women in his drawing-rooms. Mr. Stedman was the soul of kindness. His “friends from the Old Dominion” were just as welcome as if he had never written “Abraham Lincoln, give us a MAN” to crush out our “rebellion.” No man could have been more generous to authors, himself so polished and graceful a writer. I remember in my own first timid venture—I had written something for the Cosmopolitan Magazine—that he made haste to welcome me, to say my essay was “charmingly written,” and to add, “I have always observed that whatever a lady chooses to write has something, an air, that the rest of us can never attain,”—which goes to prove the chivalry, if not the perception, of dear Mr. Stedman.

In the eighties there were other houses where purely literary receptions were held weekly: notably at President Barnard's, also at Mrs. Barrow's, affectionately known by her own nom de plume, “Aunt Fanny,” and thus recorded to-day in encyclopædias of literature. Mrs. Andros B. Stone also gathered the elect in her drawing-rooms. There I saw again the gentle Madame Modjeska. There I met Henry M. Stanley, thronged with admirers, and with great drops of perspiration on his heated brow,—declining to say to me “nay” when I asked if this were not worse than the jungles of Africa!

What a life he had led, to be sure! We first heard of him as a soldier in the Confederate army; then in the Union navy. He represented “the Blue and the Gray”—he had worn them both. We all know of his search for Dr. Livingstone, of his subsequent marches through the Dark Continent; of his perils by land, perils by sea, courage and fortitude. And now here he was—quite like other people—in an evening coat with a gardenia in his button-hole, and with an English bride all in white and gold, and still young enough to fill the measure of his glory with more adventures.

I was early elected a member of the Wednesday Afternoon Club, proposed by Mrs. Botta, whose first able contribution—a review of Matthew Arnold's essay, “Civilization in the United States”—enlightened me as to what might be expected of me when my turn came to provide a paper for discussion. I think I disappointed Mrs. Botta by persistently “begging off” from this duty—implied by my consent to become a member of the club, which included Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, Mrs. R. W. Gilder, Mrs. Almon Goodwin, Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt, Miss Kate Field, Mrs. George Haven Putnam, and other literary women. Mrs. John Sherwood was one of our grande dames, altogether a very notable personage in her prime, a much-travelled lady, the friend of Lord Houghton, Daniel Webster, and other great lights. She could always gather a large and admiring audience at her literary conferences. She lived to an old age, and never ceased to be “a personage” —a very fine type of a high-born, high-bred, intellectual woman. These reunions, which led society in the eighties, afforded opportunity for the man or woman of versatile talent. Anybody can harangue or read an essay or exploit a special fad or hobby. Anybody can chatter, but how many of us can pass a thought “like a bit of flame” from one to another; or turn, like a many-faceted gem, a scintillating flash in every direction? This is possible! This made the charm of the French salon, and makes the charm to-day of more than one little drawing-room that I wot of, which has never been described in the society columns of the newspapers.

I must not dare put myself on record as enjoying only “high thinking.” The great Dr. Johnson liked gossip, so did Madame de Sévigné, so did Greville, and hundreds of other delightful people. So do I! But I draw a line at some modern gossip,—whether Mrs. Claggett's domestic unhappiness will reach the climax of a divorce, whether she will better herself in her next venture; whether Mrs. Billion will really have any difficulty in getting into society, or what on earth Lord Frederick could see in that pug-nosed Peggy Rustic, who hasn't even the saving grace of a little money. I am afraid of personalities, and yet we cannot always discuss politics and religion. Men have been burnt at the stake for talking politics and religion!

I have never sympathized in the wholesale abuse of New York society—and by this much-used word I mean the society defined by Noah Webster as “that class in any community which gives and receives entertainments.” Necessarily a city like New York must be made up of many contrasting elements —but I believe the true leaven of good society is always here, and will in the end inevitably prevail to the leavening of the whole. One cannot fail to observe in the modern novels that profess to expose it situations that could, under no circumstances, ever have occurred in decent society. The facility with which men and women of humble antecedents reach high position here is easily explained. Their early disadvantages have taught them enterprise, to look out for their own advantage and seize every opportunity. They have ambition. Hence they are “climbers.” The lowest rung in the ladder successfully reached, there is foothold for the next. They are not sensitive. “Snubbed?” said one. “Of course! Isn't everybody snubbed?” It is not wonderful that New York receives them. Their wits are sharpened. They are very agreeable, very supple, very adaptable. Au reste! Well, they learn. There are books on “Manners and Social Usages” to be had for a dime or two. There is one called “The Gentleman” which was popular in the nineties. To have read Mr. Howells on this book is to long to quote him. “We have lately seen how damaging Mr. McAllister could make himself to the best society of New York by his devout portrayal of it, and now another devotee of fashion is trying to play the iconoclast with the ideal of gentleman.

”Do read ‘Gentleman.’ It is the most delicious bit of ridiculous flunkyism that has appeared yet —always excepting the great success in that line. After instructing the proposed gentleman about his cravats and pocket-handkerchief, and not to cross his legs or wink or pick his teeth, the author concludes: ‘In making an offer of marriage, when the lady replies affrmatively, immediately clasp her in your arms’!”

But after all said and done against society, I have always liked it. I have not the least wish to turn reformer. It will work out its own salvation as to important characteristics, and we can afford to laugh at its ridiculous ways. We know it is “too bad for blessing,” but at the same time “it is too good for banning.”

“I overheard Jove,” said Silenus, “talking of destroying the earth; he said he had failed; they were all rogues and vixens, going from bad to worse. Minerva said she hoped not; they were only ridiculous little creatures with this odd circumstance: if you called them bad, they would appear bad; if good, they would appear so; and there was no one person among them who would not puzzle her owl—much more all Olympus—to know whether it was fundamentally good or bad.” It all depends upon the point of view, and in a difference of opinion between Jove and Minerva I do not hesitate.

But if I may be allowed one more word, I think the trouble about our New York society is that we have too much of it. We have no leisure to select. And then we seem to be always en representation—as Senior said of an American girl. We are consumed with a desire to make an impression, —that deadly foe to good manners,—or else we wrap ourselves in reserve like a garment. Of the two I think I prefer the former—anything but the icy dulness of the intense inane.

To tell the truth, we are heavy—we Americans. We cannot pass quickly, “like a bit of flame,” from one thing to another. We are rarely gracious enough to wish to please, but if we do, our compliments are not an ethereal touch, but flattery broadly laid on with spade and trowel. Chesterfield says, “Human nature is the same all over the world.” That is, doubtless, true,—we hear it quoted often enough,—but there is a great deal more of it in some places than in others. There is an enormous quantity of human nature in New York. After all, it is not as subtle as we imagine. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu declares that in all her life she had seen but two species of human beings— men and women! We cannot agree with her,—we have seen others,—but we have faith that all things are working together for good, and good only, in our social life, indications to the contrary, reports to the contrary, notwithstanding.

******

Our little house on 33d Street was the theatre of many pleasant events. There I found my friends on my Thursdays at home. There my daughter Lucy was married. Among her wedding presents was an interesting bit of embroidery from the wife of our Minister to Turkey, S. S. Cox. Mr. Cox had sent it with a letter, at the conclusion of which he explained,—remembering my supposed interest in Southern dialect,—“I am sorry to be so stupid, but the truth is I'm mighty tired! I have been toting Americans over Constantinople all day.”

I answered, requesting a key to the embroidery, and added, “I am sorry to find that the onerous duties of our Minister to the Ottoman Empire include the bearing upon his back or in his arms the bodies of visiting Americans, etc. (‘Tote,’ an old English word now obsolete, is still used by Southern negroes for bearing a burden, not for conducting or escorting.)” Here is Mr. Cox's reply:—