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 Institute, 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 Institute 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 "Saturday 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 Saturday 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. Fanny 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 "Saturday 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 Japan sent guests hither. 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.
[Illustration: 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 association,
called the "Brook Farm," near Roxbury, Massachusetts. 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 gods.
"No," answered Mr. Alcott, "we are not gods, but only godlings," 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
substituted 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 début, 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 "Saturday 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 impassioned 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
surpassed.
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
God 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 title 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 space forbid. The
queens of Parisian salons have been praised and idealized till
we are led to believe them unapproachable in their social
altitude. 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.
Through the kind suggestions of Mrs. Botta, I was asked to give talks
on literary matters at the house of one of New York's most influential
citizens. This I enjoyed immensely. Soon the large drawing-rooms were
too small for the numbers who came. Next we went to the Young Women's
Christian Association, to the library there, and later I decided to
engage the church parlours in Doctor Howard Crosby's Church, Fourth
Avenue and Twenty-second Street, New York. When I realized my
audacious venture, I was frightened. Ten lectures had been advertised
and some not written!
On the day for my first lecture the rain poured down, and I felt sure
of a failure. My sister went with me to the church. As we drew near I
noticed a string of carriages up and down the avenue. "There must be a
wedding or a funeral," I whispered, feeling more in the mood of the
latter, but never dreaming how much those carriages meant to me. As I
went timidly into the room I found nearly every seat full, and was
greeted with cordial applause. My sister took a seat beside me. My
subject was "Spinster Authors of England." My hands trembled so
visibly that I laid my manuscript on the table, but after getting in
magnetic touch with those before me, I did not mind.
The reading occupied only one hour, and afterwards I was surrounded by
New Hampshire women and New Yorkers who congratulated me warmly. There
were reporters sent from seven of the best daily papers, whom I
found sharpening their pencils expectantly. They gave correct and
complimentary notices, and my success was now assured.
Mr. James T. Fields not only advised his New York friends to hear me,
but came himself, bringing my father who was deeply gratified. Mr.
Fields told father that I had a remarkably choice audience, among the
best in the city. My father had felt very deeply, even to tears, the
sharp, narrow and adverse criticism of one of his associates who
considered that I unsexed myself by daring to speak in public, and who
advised strongly against encouraging me in such unwomanly behaviour.
I was a pioneer as a lecturer on literature quite unconsciously, for I
had gone along so gradually that I did not realize it--taken up and
set down in a new place with no planning on my part.
Invited by many of the citizens of Hanover, New Hampshire, my old
home, to go there and give my lecture on "Lady Morgan," the Irish
novelist, for the purpose of purchasing a new carpet for the
Congregational Church, I was surprised to feel again the same stern
opposition; I was not permitted to speak in the church, but
immediately was urged to accept the large recitation hall of the
Scientific School. It was crowded to the doors and the college boys
climbed up and swarmed about the windows. The carpet, a dark red
ingrain, was bought, put down, and wore well for years.
Now came a busy life. I was asked to lecture in many places near New
York, always in delightful homes. Had a class of married ladies at the
home of Dr. J.G. Holland, where I gave an idea of the newest books.
Doctor Holland gave me a department, "Bric-à-brac," in his
magazine--_Scribner's Magazine_; and I was honoured by a request from
the editors of the _Galaxy_ to take the "Club Room" from which Mark
Twain had just resigned. Meeting him soon after at a dinner, he said
with his characteristic drawl: "Awful solemn, ain't it, having to be
funny every month; worse than a funeral." I started a class in my own
apartment to save time for ladies who wanted to know about the most
interesting books as they were published, but whose constant
engagements made it impossible to read them entirely for themselves. I
suggested to the best publishers to send me copies of their
attractive publications which I would read, condense, and then talk
them over with these friends. All were glad to aid me. Their books
were piled on my piano and tables, and many were sold. I want to say
that such courtesy was a rare compliment. I used to go to various book
stores, asking permission to look over books at a special reading
table, and never met a refusal. I fear in these days of aiding the war
sufferers, and keeping our bodies limber and free from rheumatism by
daily dancing, this plan would not find patrons.
I was often "browsing," as they call it, at the Mercantile Library. At
first I would sit down and give the names of volumes desired. That
took too long. At last I was allowed to go where I liked and take what
I wanted. I sent a pair of handsome slippers at Christmas to the man
who had been my special servitor. He wrote me how he admired them and
wished he could wear them, but alas! his feet had both been worn to a
stub long ago from such continuous running and climbing to satisfy my
seldom-satisfied needs. He added that several of the errand boys had
become permanently crippled from over-exertion. I then understood why
he had married a famous woman doctor. It is hard to get the books
asked for in very large libraries. Once I was replying to an attack on
Miss Elizabeth Stuart Phelps's style by Miss Dodge, well known under
the pen name Gail Hamilton, and I gave this order: "Complete works of
Miss Abigail Dodge--and please hurry." After intolerable waiting, two
boys appeared looking very weary, bearing the many sermons and heavy
memoirs of the Reverend Narcissus Dodge.
In my special class at home I begged my friends to ask questions in an
off-hand way, and to comment upon my opinions. That was stimulating to
all. One morning my theme was "Genius and Talent." I said Genius was
something beyond--outside of--ourselves, which achieved great results
with small exertion. Not by any means was it a bit of shoemakers'
wax in the seat of one's chair (as Anthony Trollope put it). Talent
must work hard and constantly for development. I said: "Genius
is inspiration; Talent is perspiration." I had never heard that
definition and thought it was mine. Of late it has been widely quoted,
but with no acknowledgment, so I still think it is mine. Are there any
other claimants--and prior to 1880?
There were many questions and decided differences of opinion. At last
one lady said: "Please give us examples of men who possess genius
rather than talent." As she spoke, the door opened, and in walked
Mrs. Edmund Clarence Stedman, wife of the poet, and with her a most
distinguished-looking woman, Mrs. William Whitney. I was a little
embarrassed, but replied sweetly, "Sheets and Kelley," meaning "Keats
and Shelley." Then followed a wild laugh in which I joined.
Dr. John Lord once told me he had a similar shock. He spoke of
"Westford and Oxminster," instead of "Oxford and Westminster," and
never again could he get it correctly, try as he would. Neither his
twist nor mine was quite as bad as that of the speaker who said: "I
feel within me a half-warmed fish; I mean a half-formed wish."
All genius [continued Lady Henrietta], whether it is artistic,
or literary, or spiritual, is something given from outside. I
once heard genius described as knowing by intuition what other
people know by experience.
Something, or, I should say, somebody, for it involves
intelligence and knowledge, tells you these things, and you
just can't help expressing them in your own particular way,
with brush, or pen, or voice, whatever your individual
instrument may be.
From _Patricia_ by Hon. Mrs. ROBERT HAMILTON.
It was a pleasure to see that my theory of Genius was the same as Lady
Henrietta's in that charming book _Patricia_. I have enough collected
on that subject to give me shivers of amazement as I read the mass of
testimony. The mystery of Inspiration has always enthralled me.
I was invited to so many evenings "at home," dinners and luncheons,
that I decided to reciprocate and be surely at home on Tuesday
evenings. These affairs were very informal and exceedingly enjoyable.
There were many who gladly entertained us by their accomplishments.
Champney the artist, sent after blackboard and chalk, and did
wonderfully clever things. Some one described a stiff and stupid
reception where everyone seemed to have left themselves at home. Those
who came to me brought their best. Mrs. Barnard, wife of President
Barnard of Columbia College, urged me to give three lectures in her
parlour. I could not find the time, but her house was always open to
me. To know Mr. Barnard was a great privilege. When called to
Columbia, it was apparently dying from starvation for new ideas, and
stagnant from being too conservative and deep in set grooves. His
plans waked up the sleepers and brought constant improvements. Though
almost entirely deaf, he was never morose or depressed, but always
cheerful and courageous. I used to dine with them often. Tubes from
each guest extended into one through which he could hear quite well.
He delighted in discussion of current events, historical matters,
politics of the day, and was apparently well informed on every
question. Unlike Harriet Martineau, who always put down her trumpet
when anyone dared to disagree with her opinions, he delighted in a
friendly controversy with anyone worthy of his steel. He fought with
patience and persistence for the rights of women to have equal
education with men, and at last gained his point, but died before
Barnard College was in existence. Every student of Barnard ought to
realize her individual indebtedness to this great educator, regarding
him as the champion of women and their patron saint.
[Illustration: PRESIDENT BARNARD OF COLUMBIA COLLEGE]
He was blessed in his home life. Mrs. Barnard was his shield,
sunshine, and strength.
* * * * *
Studio, 1271 Broadway,
corner 32d Street.
April 8, 1887.
DEAR MISS SANBORN:
I send you "Ovis Montana" or Mountain Sheep, who never enjoyed
the daily papers or devoured a scrap of poetry. The only
civilized thing he ever did was to give his life for a piece of
cold lead and got swindled at that.
To be grafted in your Album is immortality.
Sincerely yours,
ALBERT BIERSTADT.
This gift was a big surprise to me. I was then corresponding with two
Boston papers and one in the West. I thought it discourteous in the
artists of the new Impressionist school, to sneer a little at
Bierstadt's great paintings, as if he could ever be set back as a
bye-gone or a has-been. And it gave me great pleasure to say so. I
sent several letters to him, and one day I received a card asking me
to call at his studio to look over some sketches. He said he wanted me
to help him to select a sketch out of quite a pile on the table, as he
wished to make a painting of one for a friend. I assured him I did not
know enough to do that, but he insisted he was so busy that I must
tell him which I thought would be most effective. I looked at every
one, feeling quite important, and at last selected the Mountain Sheep
poised on a high peak in a striking pose. A rare sight then.
At Christmas that splendid picture painted by Bierstadt was sent to
our apartment for me. Never before had I received such appreciation
for my amateur scribbling.
Ah, me! I was both complimented and proud. But my humiliation soon
came. When I called to thank the kind donor and speak of the fine
frame the mountain big-horn was now in, I was surprised to have Mr.
Bierstadt present to me a tall, distinguished-looking foreigner as
Munkacsy, the well-known Hungarian artist. He was most cordial, saying
in French that he was glad to meet an American woman who could
doubtless answer many questions he was anxious to ask. I could only
partially get his meaning, so Bierstadt translated it to me. And I,
who could read and translate French easily, had never found time to
learn to chat freely in any language but my own. I could have cried
right there; it was so mortifying, and I was losing such a pleasure. I
had the same pathetic experience with a Russian artist, Verestchagin,
whose immense picture, revealing the horrors of war, was then on
exhibition in New York.
Again and again I have felt like a dummy, if not an idiot, in such a
position. I therefore beg all young persons to determine to speak and
write at least one language beside their own.
Tom Hood wrote:
"Never go to France
Unless you know the lingo
If you do, like me,
You'll repent by jingo."
But it's even worse to be unable in your own country to greet and talk
with guests from other countries.
I should like to see the dead languages, as well as Saxon and
Sanscrit, made elective studies every where; also the higher
mathematics, mystic metaphysics, and studies of the conscious and
subconscious, the ego and non-ego, matters of such uncertain study.
When one stops to realize the tragic brevity of life on this earth,
and to learn from statistics what proportion of each generation dies
in infancy, in childhood, in early maturity, and how few reach
the Biblical limit of life, it seems unnecessary to regard a
brain-wearying "curriculum" as essential or even sensible. Taine gives
us in his work on English Literature a Saxon description of life: "A
bird flying from the dark, a moment in the light, then swiftly passing
out into the darkness beyond."
And really why do we study as if we were to rival the ante-diluvians
in age. Then wake up to the facts. I have been assured, by those who
know, that but a small proportion of college graduates are successful
or even heard of. They appear at commencement, sure that they are to
do great things, make big money, at least marry an heiress; they are
turned out like buttons, only to find out how hard it is to get
anything to do for good pay. One multi-millionaire of Boston, whose
first wages he told me were but four dollars a month, said there was
no one he so dreaded to see coming into his office as a college man
who must have help,--seldom able to write a legible hand, or to add
correctly a column of figures. There is solid food for thought.
* * * * *
Lowell said that "great men come in clusters." That is true, but it is
equally true that once in a great while, we are vouchsafed a royal
guest, a man who mingles freely with the ordinary throng, yet stands
far above them; a man who can wrest the primal secrets from nature's
closed hand, who makes astounding discoveries, only to gladly disclose
them to others.
Such an unusual genius was Professor Robert Ogden Doremus, whose
enthusiasm was only matched by his modesty. In studying what he
accomplished, I wonder whether he was not sent from the central yet
universal "powers that be" to give us answers to some of the riddles
of life; or had he visited so many planets further advanced than our
own--for as Jean Paul Richter wrote "There is no end"--that he had
learned that the supposedly impossible could be done. He assisted John
W. Draper in taking the first photograph of the human face ever made.
Science with him was never opposed to religion. His moving pictures
and spectral analysis were almost miracles at that time. He delighted
to show how the earth in forming was flattened at the poles, and he
would illustrate the growth of the rings of Saturn. As a lecturer he
was a star, the only chemist and scientist to offer experiments. His
lectures were always attended by crowds of admirers. As a toxicologist
he was marvellous in his accuracy; no poisoner could escape his exact
analysis. His compressed cartridges, made waterproof and coated with
collodion, were used in the blasting operations at the Mont Cenis
tunnel through eight miles of otherwise impenetrable stone, solid
Alpine rock, between France and Italy.
When the obelisk in Central Park showed signs of serious decay, he
saved the hieroglyphics by ironing it with melted parafine. He makes
us think of the juggler who can keep a dozen balls in the air as if it
were an easy trick, never dropping one.
[Illustration: PROFESSOR R. OGDEN DOREMUS]
But I forget to give my own memories of Dr. and Mrs. Doremus in their
delightful home on Fourth Avenue between 18th and 19th Streets,--a
home full of harmony, melody, peace, and love. Vincenzo Botta called
Dr. Doremus the "Mæcenas of New York," and his beautiful wife, the
ideal wife and mother, was named by her adoring husband the "queen
of women." Mrs. Doremus was prominent in New York's various societies
and charities, but the interests of her own family came first. One of
her sons said: "She never neglected her children; we were always loved
and well cared for." Both Dr. Doremus and his wife were devoted to
music, always of the best. He was the first president of the
Philharmonic Society who was not a musician by profession. All the
preceding presidents had been selected from the active musicians in
the society. One evening he was serenaded by the Philharmonic Society
under the leadership of Carl Bergman, the recently elected president
of the society. After the classic music had ceased, Dr. Doremus
appeared and thanked the society for the compliment. All were invited
into the house, where a bountiful collation was served and speeches
made. If you could see the photograph of the Philharmonic Society
serenading Dr. and Mrs. Doremus at their home, you would get a rare
insight into the old New York life, as compared with the present, in
which such a thing would be impossible. He said that his mother used
to take a cup of tea at the Battery afternoons with her sons.
He was a lifelong friend of Christine Nilsson whom he considered the
greatest vocal and dramatic genius of the age. He wrote: "Never did
mortal woman sing as she sang that simple song that begins:
'Angels, Angels, bright and fair,
Take, O take me to thy care!'"
I saw Nilsson and Parepa introduced there, who were to sail on the
same steamer in a few days. Nilsson made the banjo fashionable in New
York society, accompanying herself charmingly. All the famous opera
singers regarded the house of Dr. Doremus a place where they were
thoroughly at home, and always welcome. Ole Bull was for many years
his most devoted friend. Dr. Doremus writes:
I recall that once when I was dining with Ole Bull, at the
house of a friend, our host said: 'Doctor, I don't think much
of Ole Bull's fiddling; you know what I mean--I don't think
much of his fiddling as compared with his great heart.'
Mr. Edwin Booth, once walking with me, dropped my arm and exclaimed
with a dramatic gesture: "Ole Bull wasn't a man--he was a god!"
The last time I had the privilege of listening to Ole Bull's witchery
with his violin, he gave an hour to Norwegian folk-songs, his wife at
the piano. She played with finish, feeling, and restraint. She first
went through the air, then he joined in with his violin with
indescribable charm. Critics said he lacked technique. I am glad he
did: his music went straight to the heart. At the last he told us he
would give the tune always played after a wedding when the guests had
stayed long enough--usually three days--and their departure was
desired. We were to listen for one shrill note which was imperative.
No one would care or dare to remain after that.
Dr. Doremus showed me one evening a watch he was wearing, saying:
In Ole Bull's last illness when he no longer had strength to
wind his watch, he asked his wife to wind it for him, and then
send it to his best friend, saying: 'I want it to go ticking
from my heart to his.'
That watch magnetized by human love passing through it is now in the
possession of Arthur Lispenard Doremus, to whom it was left by his
father. It had to be wound by a key in the old fashion, and it ran in
perfect time for twenty-nine years. Then it became worn and was sent
to a watchmaker for repairs. It is still a reliable timekeeper, quite
a surprising story, as the greatest length of time before this was
twenty-four years for a watch to run.
I think of these rare souls, Ole Bull and Dr. Doremus, as reunited,
and with their loved ones advancing to greater heights, constantly
receiving new revelations of omnipotent power, which "it is not in the
heart of man to conceive."
LINES
Read at the Celebration of the Seventieth Birthday
of DOCTOR R. OGDEN DOREMUS, January
11th, 1894, at 241 Madison Avenue,
by LUTHER R. MARSH.
What shall be said for good Doctor Doremus?
To speak of him well, it well doth beseem us.
Not one single fault, through his seventy years,
Has ever been noticed by one of his peers.
How flawless a life, and how useful withal!
Fulfilling his duties at every call!
Come North or come South, come East or come West,
He ever is ready to work for the best.
In Chemics, the Doctor stands first on the list;
The nature, he knows, of all things that exist.
He lets loose the spirits of earth, rock or water,
And drives them through solids, cemented with mortar.
How deftly he handles the retort and decanter!
Makes lightning and thunder would scare Tam O'Shanter;
Makes feathers as heavy as lead, in a jar,
And eliminates spirits from coal and from tar.
By a touch of his finger he'll turn lead or tin
To invisible gas, and then back again;
He will set them aflame, as in the last day,
When all things are lit by the Sun's hottest ray.
With oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen,--all--
No gas can resist his imperative call--
He'll solidify, liquefy, or turn into ice;
Or all of them re-convert, back in a trice.
Amid oxides and alkalies, bromides and salts,
He makes them all dance in a chemical waltz;
And however much he with acids may play,
There's never a drop stains his pure mortal clay.
He well knows what things will affect one another;
What acts as an enemy, and what as a brother;
He feels quite at home with all chemic affinities,
And treats them respectfully, as mystic Divinities.
His wisdom is spread from far Texas to Maine;
For thousands on thousands have heard him explain
The secrets of Nature, and all her arcana,
From the youth of the Gulf, to the youth of Montana.
In Paris, Doremus may compress'd powder compound,
Or, at home, wrap the Obelisk with paraffine round;
Or may treat Toxicology ever anew,
To enrich the bright students of famous Bellevue.
He believes in the spirits of all physical things,
And can make them fly round as if they had wings;
But ask him to show you the Spirit of Man--
He hesitates slightly, saying, "See!--if you can."
Wherever he comes there always is cheer;
If absent, you miss him; you're glad when he's near;
His voice is a trumpet that stirreth the blood;
You feel that he's cheery, and you know that he's good.
No doors in the city have swung open so wide,
To artists at home, and to those o'er the tide;
As, to Mario, Sontag, Badiali, Marini,
To Nilsson and Phillips, Rachel and Salvini.
Much, much does he owe, for the grace of his life,
To the influence ever of his beautiful wife;
She, so grand and so stately, so true and so kind,
So lovely in person and so charming in mind!
I had the pleasure of being well acquainted with Mr. Charles H. Webb,
a truly funny "funny man," who had homes in New York and Nantucket.
His slight stutter only added to the effect of his humorous talk. His
letters to the New York _Tribune_ from Long Branch, Saratoga, etc.,
were widely read. He knew that he wrote absolute nonsense at times,
but nonsense is greatly needed in this world, and exquisitely droll
nonsensical nonsense is as uncommon as common sense. The titles of his
various books are inviting and informing, as _Seaweed and What We
Seed_. He wrote several parodies on sensational novels of his time.
_Griffith Gaunt_, he made fun of as "Liffith Lank"; _St. Elmo_, as
"St. Twelmo." _A Wicked Woman_ was another absurd tale. But I like
best a large volume, "_John Paul's Book_, moral and instructive,
travels, tales, poetry, and like fabrications, with several portraits
of the author and other spirited engravings." This book was dedicated,
"To the Bald-Headed, that noble and shining army of martyrs." When you
turn to look at his portrait, and the illuminated title page, you find
them not. The Frontispiece picture is upside down. The very
ridiculosity of his easy daring to do or say anything is taking. He
once wrote, in one of those trying books, with which we used to be
bored stiff, with questions such as "What is your favourite hour of
the day? He wrote dinner hour; what book not sacred would you part
with last? My pocket-book. Your favourite motto? When you must,--you
better." I especially liked the poem, "The Outside Dog in the Fight."
Here are two specimens of his prose:
The fish-hawk is not an eagle. Mountain heights and clouds he
never scales; fish are more in his way, he scales
them--possibly regarding them as scaly-wags. For my bird is
pious; a stern conservator is he of the public morals. Last
Sunday a frivolous fish was playing not far from the beach, and
Dr. Hawk went out and stopped him. 'Tis fun to watch him at
that sort of work--stopping play--though somehow it does not
seem to amuse the fish much. Up in the air he poises
pensively, hanging on hushed wings as though listening for
sounds--maybe a fish's. By and by he hears a herring--is he
hard of herring, think you? Then down he drops and soon has a
Herring Safe. (Send me something, manufacturers, immediately.)
Does he tear his prey from limb to limb? No, he merely sails
away through the blue ether--how happy can he be with
either!--till the limb whereon his own nest is built is
reached. Does the herring enjoy that sort of riding, think you?
Quite as much, I should say, as one does hack-driving. From my
point of view, the hawk is but the hackman of the air.
Sympathize with the fish? Not much. Nor would you if you heard
the pitiful cry the hawk sets up the moment he finds that his
claws are tangled in a fish's back. Home he flies to seek
domestic consolation, uttering the while the weeping cry of a
grieved child; there are tears in his voice, so you know the
fish must be hurting him. The idea that a hawk can't fly over
the water of an afternoon without some malicious fish jumping
up and trying to bite him!
If a fish wants to cross the water safely, let him take a
Fulton ferryboat for it. There he will find a sign reading:
"No Peddling or Hawking allowed in this cabin." Strange that
hawking should be so sternly prohibited on boats which are
mainly patronized by Brooklynites chronically afflicted with
catarrh!
Never shall it be said that I put my hand to the plow and
turned back. For that matter never shall it be said of me that
I put hand to a plow at all, unless a plow should chase me
upstairs and into the privacy of my bed-room, and then I should
only put hand to it for the purpose of throwing it out of the
window. The beauty of the farmer's life was never very clear to
me. As for its boasted "independence," in the part of the
country I came from, there was never a farm that was not
mortgaged for about all it was worth; never a farmer who was
not in debt up to his chin at "the store." Contented! When it
rains the farmer grumbles because he can't hoe or do something
else to his crops, and when it does not rain, he grumbles
because his crops do not grow. Hens are the only ones on a farm
that are not in a perpetual worry and ferment about "crops:"
they fill theirs with whatever comes along, whether it be an
angleworm, a kernel of corn, or a small cobblestone, and give
thanks just the same.
THE OUTSIDE DOG IN THE FIGHT
You may sing of your dog, your bottom dog,
Or of any dog that you please,
I go for the dog, the wise old dog,
That knowingly takes his ease,
And, wagging his tail outside the ring,
Keeping always his bone in sight,
Cares not a pin in his wise old head
For either dog in the fight.
Not his is the bone they are fighting for,
And why should my dog sail in,
With nothing to gain but a certain chance
To lose his own precious skin!
There may be a few, perhaps, who fail
To see it in quite this light,
But when the fur flies I had rather be
The outside dog in the fight.
I know there are dogs--most generous dogs
Who think it is quite the thing
To take the part of the bottom dog,
And go yelping into the ring.
I care not a pin what the world may say
In regard to the wrong or right;
My money goes as well as my song,
For the dog that keeps out of the fight!
Mr. Webb, like Charles Lamb and the late Mr. Travers, stammered just
enough to give piquancy to his conversation. To facilitate enunciation
he placed a "g" before the letters which it was hard for him to
pronounce. We were talking of the many sad and sudden deaths from
pneumonia, bronchitis, etc., during the recent spring season, and then
of the insincerity of poets who sighed for death and longed for a
summons to depart. He said in his deliciously slow and stumbling
manner: "I don't want the ger-pneu-m-mon-ia. I'm in no ger-hurry to
ger-go." Mrs. Webb's drawing-rooms were filled with valuable pictures
and bronzes, and her Thursday Evenings at home were a delight to many.
How little we sometimes know of the real spirit and the inner life of
some noble man or woman. Mrs. Hermann was a remarkable instance of
this. I thought I was well acquainted with Mrs. Esther Hermann, who,
in her home, 59 West fifty-sixth Street New York, was always
entertaining her many friends. Often three evenings a week were given
to doing something worth while for someone, or giving opportunity for
us to hear some famous man or woman speak, who was interested in some
great project. And her refreshments, after the hour of listening was
over, were of the most generous and delicious kind. Hers was a lavish
hospitality. It was all so easily and quietly done, that no one
realized that those delightful evenings were anything but play to her.
She became interested in me when I was almost a novice in the lecture
field, gave me two benefits, invited those whom she thought would
enjoy my talks, and might also be of service to me. There was never
the slightest stiffness; if one woman was there for the first time,
and a stranger, Mrs. Hermann and her daughters saw that there were
plenty of introductions and an escort engaged to take the lady to the
supper room. Mrs. Hermann in those early days, often took me to drive
in the park--a great treat. We chatted merrily together, and I still
fancied I knew her. But her own family did not know of her great
benefactions; her son only knew by looking over her check books, after
her death, how much she had given away. Far from blazoning it abroad,
she insisted on secrecy. She invited Mr. Henry Fairfield Osborn to
call, who was keenly interested in securing money to start a Natural
History Museum, he bringing a friend with him. After they had owned
that they found it impossible even to gain the first donation, she
handed Mr. Osborn, after expressing her interest, a check for ten
thousand dollars. At first he thought he would not open it in her
presence, but later did so. He was amazed and said very gratefully:
"Madam, I will have this recognized at once by the Society." She said:
"I want no recognition. If you insist, I shall take back the
envelope." Her daughter describes her enthusiasm one very stormy, cold
Sunday. Stephen S. Wise, the famous rabbi, was advertised to preach in
the morning at such a place. "Mother was there in a front seat early,
eager to get every word of wisdom that fell from his lips." Mr. Wise
spoke at the Free Synagogue Convention at three o'clock P.M. "Mother
was there promptly again, in front, her dark eyes glowing with intense
interest." At eight P.M. he spoke at another hall on the other side of
the city, "Mother was there." At the close, Mr. Wise stepped down from
the platform to shake hands with Mrs. Hermann, and said, "I am
surprised at seeing you at these three meetings, and in such bad
weather." She replied,
"Why should you be surprised; you were at all three, weren't you?"
She had a long life of perfect health and never paid the least
attention to the worst of weather if she had a duty to perform.
There was something of the fairy godmother in this large-hearted
woman, whose modesty equalled her generosity. She dropped gifts by the
way, always eager to help, and anxious to keep out of sight. Mrs.
Hermann was one of those women who sow the seeds of kindness with a
careless hand, and help to make waste places beautiful. She became
deeply interested in education early in life, and her faith was
evidenced by her work. She was one of the founders of Barnard College.
Her checks became very familiar to the treasurers of many educational
enterprises. She was one of the patrons of the American Association
for the Advancement of Sciences, and many years ago gave one thousand
dollars to aid the Association. Since then she has added ten thousand
dollars as a nucleus toward the erection of a building to be called
the Academy of Science. With the same generous spirit she contributed
ten thousand dollars to the Young Men's Hebrew Association for
educational purposes. It was for the purpose of giving teachers the
opportunity of studying botany from nature, that she gave ten
thousand dollars to the Botanical Garden in the Bronx.
Her knowledge of the great need for a technical school for Jewish boys
preyed on her mind at night so that she could not sleep, and she felt
it was wrong to be riding about the city when these boys could be
helped. She sold her carriages and horses, walked for three years
instead of riding, and sent a large check to start the school. It is
pleasant to recall that the boys educated there have turned out
wonderfully well, some of them very clever electricians.
I could continue indefinitely naming the acts of generosity of this
noble woman, but we have said enough to show why her many friends
desired to express their appreciation of her sterling virtues, and
their love for the gentle lady, whose kindness has given happiness to
countless numbers. To this end, some of her friends planned to give
her a a testimonial, and called together representatives from the
hundred and twenty-five different clubs and organizations of which she
was a member, to consider the project. This suggestion was received
with such enthusiasm that a committee was appointed who arranged a
fitting tribute worthy of the occasion.
The poem with which I close my tribute to my dear friend, Mrs.
Hermann, is especially fitting to her beautiful life. Her family, even
after they were all married and in happy homes of their own, were
expected by the mother every Sunday evening. These occasions were
inexpressibly dear to her warm heart, devoted to her children and
grandchildren. But owing to her reticence she was even to them really
unknown.
I had given at first many more instances of her almost daily
ministrations but later this seemed to be in direct opposition to her
oft-expressed wish for no recognition of her gifts. "We are spirits
clad in veils," but of Mrs. Hermann this was especially true and I
love her memory too well not to regard her wishes as sacred.
GNOSIS
Thought is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought;
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.
We are spirits clad in veils;
Man by man was never seen;
All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.
Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone
Of a temple once complete.
Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart, though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.
What is social company,
But the babbling summer stream?
What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream?
Only when the sun of love
Melts the scattered stars of thought,
Only when we live above
What the dim-eyed world hath taught,
Only when our souls are fed
By the fount which gave them birth,
And by inspiration led
Which they never drew from earth.
We, like parted drops of rain,
Swelling till they meet and run,
Shall be all absorbed again,
Melting, flowing into one.
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH (1813-1892).
Cranch's own title for this poem was "Enosis," not "Gnosis" as now
given; "Enosis" being a Greek word meaning "all in one," which is
illustrated by the last verse.
It was first published in the _Dial_ in 1844. "Stanzas" appeared at
the head, and at the end was his initial, "C."