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 debut, 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.