PRIVATE LIFE OF WILLIAM McKINLEY.
“Mother McKinley” often expressed the keynote of the case when she said:
“He was a good boy.”
She by no means meant that young William lacked virile and manly
qualities. On the contrary, she used to delight in telling of the
mischievous pranks which had made a part of his boyhood existence. But
there was a judgment and good sense about his escapades which absolutely
prevented them from partaking of the nature of cruelty and saved him at
all times from acts which might bring shame in their train of
consequences. He was a “good” boy, in the sense that he was not a “mean”
boy. And so, while he was always certain to command the respect of his
companions—of all that was best in boyhood—he was a loving and a dutiful
son. He was never afflicted with the silly theory that a boy need not
obey nor respect his parents. For this those parents doubtless deserve a
large measure of credit. Besides so measuring their lives as to deserve
his respect, they so ordered his life as to insure his obedience. And in
his whole life it is said that he never wounded either father or mother
with an insolent word.
He was kind to his brother and his sisters. The money he earned he was
always willing to share with them, and paid out many a dollar of his
hard-earned wages for their education or for little presents which could
add to their happiness.
Toward his mother he was always lovingly deferential. To the day of her
death he was solicitous about her, tenderly caring for her, unwaveringly
thoughtful. A very beautiful relation was that which existed between
them. And no mother was ever more proud of her son, or with more reason
declared that he had grown up to be precisely the sort of man she knew
from the beginning he would be. Toward his father there was always a
gentle deference, a filial respect and the fellowship which wise men can
cultivate in their sons. His father lived to see him honored by his
countrymen, and in the enjoyment of a happy home and a competence. And
the stern old man who had chosen his location with a view of his
children’s good always a little relaxed the grim lines of mouth and brow
when this son of his honest manhood was in his presence.
And so it was that when he grew to maturity and established a home
temple of his own, the habit of a lifetime was guaranty that he would
bring happiness and not sorrow with him.
There is a pretty story current in Canton to the effect that young Major
McKinley first met Ida Saxton shortly after locating in the little city,
and that he admired her greatly. But she was scarcely more than a school
girl at the time, the daughter of a banker, the granddaughter of an
editor, and a girl of such beauty that the young man, with nothing but
his profession and his hopes, with little practice and no property,
might well regard her hopeless. Besides, there was small opportunity for
them to be thrown together. The Saxtons were not attendants at the
Methodist church, and were rarely seen at its social functions. They
were persons of wealth and established position and much sought after.
Yet it could not escape him that the charmingly beautiful girl was his
ideal, the divinity about whom the dreams of an honorable young man may
be woven. She completed her studies at school, and went for a trip to
Europe in company with her mother. They were gone a year. When they
returned young Major McKinley had evidently advanced somewhat in worldly
estate. He had secured a number of fees, and was saving money. As he
lived at all times within his means, he had arrived at the honorable
distinction of a bank account. It is probable he selected the Saxton
bank solely because it was convenient of location, being near the
stairway which led to his modest office, and directly on his way as he
passed to and from the courthouse. And yet it must have been a matter of
agreeable surprise to him when he entered the bank one morning and found
Miss Ida Saxton occupying a place at the cashier’s window.
Of course they had met. It would scarcely have been possible for them to
escape that. But there had been small acquaintance between them. And
this new relation, which touched on the borders of both the business and
the social life, was a means of developing an attachment which it is
doubtful if any other course could have afforded.
Miss Saxton had taken a place in the bank because of an impulse, as
common as it is honorable, that she must “do something.” There was, of
course, no necessity for her to struggle to become self-supporting. But
there was, on the other hand, no purpose in her mind to be weakly
dependent.
There was the place of their better acquaintance. There he learned to
admire more and more the bright, happy young woman, as fair as the
morning, and as careful as the American daughter should be. And there
she learned to respect the strong, steady young lawyer, the masterful
man, the prudent and sagacious citizen. The fact was, he was fair to
look upon, strong, healthful of body, and that he still possessed
somewhat of the glow which military glory sheds upon those who had
honorable part in the great struggle.
Of their courtship it were both bold and unpardonable to speak. Whatever
detail of that interesting period might, with propriety, have been said
while both were living, is hushed in the shadow of the death chamber now
and becomes too sacred for discussion.
They were married January 25, 1871. William McKinley was at that time
twenty-eight years old and his bride was five years younger. It is a
significant fact in the life of this good woman that she almost
immediately united with the Methodist church, and joined her husband in
attendance upon its forms of worship.
In 1873 a girl baby was born to them, and the fond mother bestowed upon
it the name of Kate. It is said to have been a beautiful child, and was
adored by its parents, and by the grandparents on either side. For by
this time the father and mother of William McKinley had removed from
Poland and taken up their residence in Canton. The strong son had drawn
them from the place which had been home so long and established them in
the city that had given him so cordial a welcome.
When little Kate was nearly four years old Mrs. Saxton, mother of Mrs.
McKinley, died. The blow was a peculiarly severe one, for within a month
her second child, also a girl, was born—but to close her eyes on the
earth almost as soon as she had opened them. They named her Ida, the
father hoping in the brief days of the delicate little life that the
child would bring back vigor and interest in existence to the depressed
wife, whose grief at the death of her own mother was scarcely assuaged.
But in this gentle hope he was doomed to disappointment, for little Ida
faded from among them. And then the third great blow fell, for a few
weeks after the baby’s death little Kate sickened and died.
Ida Saxton had been a strong, healthy girl. She was not delicate of
physique; and while she was in no sense buxom or amazonian, she was far
from frail. Yet the accumulated shocks and sorrows of those sad days
completely unstrung her. And the woman who deserved and might have had a
world of happiness, a heaven of domestic joy on earth, never again was
blest with health.
No more children came to them, but their home has always catered to the
rippling laughter and the joyous songs of young life. Even to the end,
even on that last day at Buffalo, when horror leaped from the heart of
happiness, there were young people with them. But in that hour of his
wife’s great trial, when he could not share her suffering, nor take an
iota from the black pall of grief which enveloped her, William McKinley
began a life of devotion a thousand times more gentle and kind than the
intensest courtship of a lover. And through all the long years that have
followed—for twenty-four long years—he has never wavered night nor day
in the most assiduous care a husband can possibly bestow. No time has
been so hurried, no demand of politics so exacting, no weariness so
heavy that he has failed to remember her. If near her, he has gone to
her, and expressed by his presence the thoughtful love which he felt. If
she were absent he has always sent her a message. And, however brief,
however little he might have to say that would interest her, he has kept
strong and true that faith in her wifely heart that he would “love,
cherish and protect” her in an infinitely more tender way than any vow
could bind him.
For a while after the death of the little girls Mrs. McKinley concluded
she wanted to live near “Mother McKinley,” and they two took a couple of
rooms in the house of the elders. Her own mother was dead, and the
grief-stricken woman sorely needed the strong, steadfast hand and hearty
comfort of that fine old matron who had done so much in building the
character of a grand American.
But presently Major McKinley found a new interest with which he hoped to
distract his wife’s mind from the cloud of sorrows that would not lift.
He was building a house. He was establishing a home of their very own.
And in the occupation of watching the workmen her spirits came back
again. She could not regain her physical health, and never has. But the
clouds were dispelled, and the old cheerful, happy look came back to the
blue eyes, and the fair face again resumed its wonted roundness of
outline and sweetness of expression. And these have never again
departed.
Of course no man deserves praise or credit for kindness to his wife; and
when her illness renders attention the more necessary, there is still
less reason for indulging in adulatory phrases. But in the case of
William McKinley there is, even with the most undemonstrative, warrant
for expressing the admiration which every good man and true woman must
certainly feel.
In spite of a physical weakness which stubbornly clung to the little
woman, the home life of Major and Mrs. McKinley has always been
singularly happy. She loved children, as has been said, and always had
them around her. She loved music; and there has always been singing and
the best of instrumentalists at her home. She loved roses; and the house
has always been a bower of floral beauty and of perfume.
In time a larger house was builded, and into it the family removed. It
was really but an extending of the dwelling which had been their home in
the old days. And it is the house to which unnumbered thousands made
pilgrimages in 1896. It will be understood that Mrs. McKinley possessed
a fortune in her own right. Her father died late in the seventies,
following his wife’s demise; and the Saxton estate was divided between
three heirs—a sister, a brother, and Mrs. McKinley. But the man who
could attend her with all the solicitude of a mother was not the man to
use a dollar he had not earned. When financial disaster came upon him,
in 1893, his wife—for once opposing his will—turned over all her
property for the benefit of those creditors whom a security debt had
created. The good home went too. And the man who had done so much for
his country, who was so nearly a model of American manhood, began paying
rent as at the beginning. The debts were all wiped out, absolutely; and
Mrs. McKinley’s estate was released to her, and the old home became
again the property of the man who had earned it, and who so richly
deserved it. But even in that hour of a new tribulation, he never
faltered in his loving care for his wife, or the filial considerateness
he had always paid his mother.
When that mother fell ill and died, her son had reached the highest
honor the greatest nation can bestow. But he hurried from the
presidential mansion to her bedside at Canton, and sorrowfully followed
her to the grave.
It may seem by a reading of the domestic side of President McKinley’s
life that it is more sad and somber than is the lot of most men to
suffer. But this, a thousand friends will testify, is clearly an error.
The home life of the President has been uniformly happy. Never an unkind
word, never a frown, never a sorrow inflicted within the portals, and
always the music of song and laughter, the perfume of roses and the
blessing of loving words—there is no sadness in such a picture.