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 Sherman! _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 the 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.
[Illustration: 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 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:—
"When Phœbus 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 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 æsthetic 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 affirmatively, 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:—
"U. S. LEGATION, CONSTANTINOPLE,
"May 22, 1886.
"MY DEAR MRS. PRYOR:—
"If your daughter was half as much pleased with my wife's
little gift as your letter made me, then the _entente
cordiale_ between the Bosphorus and the Hudson is firmly
established. These little ministrations are very little; but—
"'To the God that maketh all
There is no great—there is no small.'
Some Brahmin said that! I think it is one of Emerson's petty
larcenies from the Orient; but it is ever so true. Now
"'On what a slender thread
Hang everlasting things,'
as the Methodists used to sing! Here, on my little word
'tote,' you hang a social and philological disquisition! I
will not discuss the word in its Africanese dialect; but I
take the noble red man—whose totem is his household god; and
in this sense, in this connection, let the doyley be revered,
as your husband would say, _totus atque rotundus_.
"The bit of Oriental work with its cabalistic characters bears
the Sultan's monogram. It has a story, too—this monogram. It
is said to be seen in blood in one of the temples of Stamboul,
St. Sophia, on a column so high up that a man of my size
can't see it. It is said that the blood came from the hand of
Mahomet II when he rode into the church. It is shaped like
a hand, you may see. Another tale not so harrowing: It is
that Amurath, when he made the first treaty with a Christian
power,—a small republic of Ragusa,—lost his temper and
dipped his five fingers in ink, and thus made his mark on the
parchment. This is the _tongbra_, or seal. The present Sultan
has added a flower to his handicraft.
"All this goes on the supposition that the embroidery sent
Miss Lucy has the cipher on it, but as Mrs. Cox is out
bazaaring,—or shopping,—I must guess at it.
"All I can add is to express my regards for your husband, who
is my _beau ideal_ in many ways. Doubtless he is your 'bold
idol,' as a young lady said. Tell him when the time comes, to
warm that place for me! I will go back to Congress
and die in harness. I don't want to die here,—in fact I don't want to
die at all as yet, for life has so much blessing and beauty—in spring!
"Mrs. Cox and I go this evening to dine at the palace of Zildez—the
pleasure-house of the Sultan. It is not mutual that I must take my
Only One to see him and I can't see any one of his ten thousand and
altogether lovely.
"Yours faithfully,
"S. S. COX."