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.
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.