Memoirs of Anne C.L. Botta,: written by her friends. With selections from her correspondence and from her writings in prose and poetry.

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Just by the large window, in a cozy arm-chair, sat an
aged lady, her silver-gray hair gleaming under the
sunlight and the folds of the daintiest of white lace
caps. She was reading; when we entered, she looked
up, uncertain at first, not knowing who I was; then
she greeted us with a smile that seemed in itself a
benediction, and the expression of sweet contentment that suffused her face gave one a sense of
pleasure something like that which a fresh and beautiful flower awakens. Never before did white head
seem so venerable as it then and there appeared,
bending, as I saw it, over the head of a daughter almost as gray, to fold her in her arms.
That evening I met for the first time her husband,
Mr. V. Botta, and, although to attempt to describe his
peculiar power and influence over his gifted wife
would be out of place in this brief sketch, nevertheless one could not fail to perceive that his style of
thought and expression, his accurate scientific reading, his thorough knowledge of the Latin and Italian
classics, and his profound insight into human nature,
were aids to her of which she spoke and wrote with
the deepest sense of appreciation. "He strengthened
her reasoning powers, touched her spirit, enlarged
her horizon by filling her with admiration for scientific thought, and, above and beyond all, by having
taught her to recognize the wonderful charm of that
highest and purest form of love,- as distinguished
from modern romantic love, passion, or platonic
friendship, —the creation of an Italian, the immortal
Dante." "Here is," she says in one of her letters,
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