CHAPTER III
Happy Days with Mrs. Botta—My Busy Life in New York—President Barnard of Columbia College—A Surprise from Bierstadt—Professor Doremus, a Universal Genius—Charles H. Webb, a truly funny "Funny Man"—Mrs. Esther Hermann, a Modest Giver.
I was obliged to give up my work at Packer 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.
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.
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.
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."