DOLLY MADISON
1772-1836
Dolly Payne was a Virginian, though she was born while her parents
were on a visit in North Carolina. She lived on a great plantation
where she had wide fields to play in, and a devoted black mammy to look
after her. Both her mother and grandmother were noted belles and Dolly,
who was named for her second cousin, Mrs. Patrick Henry, evidently
inherited their beauty, for as a very little girl, going to school, she
wore a wide-brimmed sunbonnet and long mitts, to shield her face and
arms from the sun.
Dolly remembered how her father, in spite of the fact that they were
Quakers, had buckled on his sword and ridden away to be a captain in
the Revolutionary army, and how when the war was over, he came home
again to join in the neighborhood’s thanksgiving for America.
Soon after the war, when Dolly was fourteen years old, he freed his
slaves, sold the plantation, and moved north to the city of brotherly
love that he might be among Quakers. It was then the largest town in
the nation, with a reputation for being very rich and gay. But the
Paynes maintained a strict Quaker standard of simplicity.
Dorothy was a pretty girl, demure in her gray dress, but with bright
Irish-blue eyes, long lashes, curling black hair and soft warm-hued
skin. She had a particularly gay and joyous disposition, but was
forbidden such pleasures as dancing and music. She went to the
Friends’ meeting-house where the men and boys in their black coats and
broad-brimmed hats sat on one side of the room, the women and girls in
their mouse-colored bonnets and drab gowns on the other.
Dolly’s father had done very well on the southern plantation, but when
he went into business in Philadelphia he found many troubles. Living
cost much more than in Virginia, a good deal of his property had been
lost through the war and he failed, then ill health added its burden.
A rich young Quaker lawyer named John Todd helped and advised him. He
had fallen in love with Dolly, and though she meant never to marry, she
consented, to please her father who had only a few months more to live.
On two successive Sundays she went through the embarrassing Quaker
ceremony of rising in meeting and saying she proposed taking John Todd
in marriage; and standing up before the congregation, they were married
in the somber bare-walled meeting-house. Mistress Todd lived for three
years the life of a Quaker lady, and a devoted wife she was to her
young husband. She always wore a cap of tulle, a gray gown, with a lace
kerchief over her shoulders and a large brooch fastening it--no other
ornaments. Except for her beauty she was like a hundred other young
Quaker women in the city of brotherly love.
In August of 1793 an epidemic of yellow fever broke out in
Philadelphia. Todd sent his wife and their two little children to a
summer resort on the river, where many of their friends took refuge.
He stayed in the city to care for his father and mother but they died
of the plague. Already ill himself he joined his family, only to
give them the dread disease, he and the baby dying shortly after his
arrival. Dolly too was stricken with the fever, but recovered.
At first she was bowed down by her great loss. But Philadelphia was
gay and gradually Mistress Todd began going about again, far more
freely than in the days of her sober girlhood. She found herself really
enjoying society and all the pleasures of the city. From a shy girl she
developed into a most attractive woman. With her youth and her riches,
it is no wonder that she became the object of much attention. Gentlemen
would station themselves to see her pass, and her friends would say,
“Really, Dolly, thou must hide thy face. There are so many staring at
thee!”
Among her many admirers was Aaron Burr, then a United States senator.
For Philadelphia, you remember, was the capital of the newly organized
government, and the leading men of the time lived in the city. One day
he asked her if he might bring a friend to call, for the “great little
Madison,” as his colleagues called him, had requested the honor of
being presented. So the handsome Colonel Burr introduced Mr. James
Madison, a little man dressed all in black, except for his ruffled
shirt and silver buckles. Dolly wore a mulberry satin gown with silk
tulle about her neck and a dainty lace cap on her head, her curly hair
showing underneath. The scholarly Madison, who was twenty years older
than she, was captivated by the pretty widow, sparkling with fun and
wit, and soon offered himself as a husband, and was accepted.
The President and Mrs. Washington were much pleased when they heard of
the engagement. Sending for Dolly Mrs. Washington asked her if the news
was true.
“No, I think not,” said Mistress Todd.
“Be not ashamed to confess it, if it is so. He will make thee a good
husband and all the better for being so much older. We both approve
of it. The esteem and friendship existing between Mr. Madison and my
husband is very great, and we would wish you two to be happy.”
Happy they were, during the week’s journey when they drove down to
Virginia, to be married at the home of Dolly’s sister; and during the
merrymaking following the wedding which lavish southern hospitality,
with, a ball and feast after the ceremony, made quite different from
her first marriage. The quiet reserved Madison let the girls cut off
bits of his Mechlin lace ruffles as keepsakes. And happy they were
together for more than forty years.
They lived only a short time at Montpelier, Madison’s home in the Blue
Ridge country, for public affairs soon took them back to Philadelphia
and then to Washington. At her husband’s request Dolly laid aside her
Quaker dress, entered society and entertained frequently. Her sweet
manners, her tact and kindness of heart, made her friends everywhere.
At that time party spirit ran high and political differences caused
great bitterness, but all animosities seemed forgotten in Mrs.
Madison’s presence. She slighted no one, hurt no one’s feelings, and
often made foes into friends. Perhaps her influence had almost as much
to do with Madison’s prominence in national affairs as did his own
unquestioned ability; for her sound common sense and exceptionally
good judgment often helped him in deciding public questions.
When Jefferson was elected president he made Madison his secretary of
state. And since Jefferson was a widower and needed a lady to preside
at the White House, he often called upon Mrs. Madison for this service.
Then Madison succeeded Jefferson and Dolly became in name what she had
been in effect, the first lady of the land. Thus for sixteen years she
was hostess for the nation, and a famous hostess she was indeed.
“Every one loves Mrs. Madison,” said Henry Clay, voicing the common
sentiment.
“And Mrs. Madison loves everybody,” was her quick response.
The president used to say that when he was tired out from matters of
state a visit to her sitting-room, where he was sure of a bright story
and a hearty laugh, was as refreshing as a long walk in the open air.
But even with such a mistress of the White House the affairs of the
nation did not remain tranquil. Trouble with England, which had long
been brewing, came to a crisis and war was declared in 1812. As most
of the fighting was at sea, life at Washington went on undisturbed
until August of 1814, when the British landed five thousand men near
the capital and marched to attack it. The town was in a panic when the
messenger rode in at full speed, announcing fifty ships anchoring in
the Potomac.
“Have you the courage to stay here till I come back, to-morrow or next
day?” asked the president.
And Dolly Madison replied, “I am not afraid of anything, if only you
are not harmed and our army triumphs.”
“Good-by then, and if anything happens, look out for the state papers,”
said Madison, and rode away to the point where the citizen-soldiers
were gathering.
Many Washington people began carrying their property off to the
country, but the brave woman at the White House did not run away. At
last there came a penciled note from the president:
“Enemy stronger than we heard at first. They may reach the city and
destroy it. Be ready to leave at a moment’s warning.”
Most of Mrs. Madison’s friends were already gone, even the soldiers
who had been left to guard the executive mansion. Not a wagon could be
secured. “Bring me as many trunks as my carriage will hold,” ordered
Dolly Madison and set to work packing them with the nation’s most
valuable papers. Night came but the lady of the White House worked on.
At dawn she began searching through her spyglass, hoping to catch a
glimpse of her husband. All she could see was here and there a group of
soldiers wandering about, men sleeping in the fields, frightened women
and children hurrying to the bridge over the Potomac. She could hear
the roar of cannon, the battle was going on only six miles away; still
the president did not come.
One of the servants, French John, offered to spike the cannon at the
gate and lay a train of powder that would blow up the British if they
entered the house. But to this Mrs. Madison objected, though she could
not make John understand why in war every advantage might not be taken.
About three o’clock in the afternoon two men covered with dust
galloped up and cried, “Fly, fly! The house will be burned over your
head!”
Some good friends had succeeded in getting a wagon and Mrs. Madison
filled it with the White House silver.
“To the bank of Maryland,” she ordered, and added to herself, “or the
hands of the British--which will it be?”
Two friends came in to urge haste, reminding her that the English
admiral, Cockburn, had taken an oath that he would sit in her
drawing-room and that other officers had boasted they would take the
president and his wife both prisoner and carry them to London to make a
show of them. They were just ready to lift her into the carriage when
Dolly stopped.
“Not yet--the portrait of Washington--it shall never fall into the
hands of the enemy. That must be taken away before I leave the house.”
The famous painting by Gilbert Stuart was in a heavy frame, screwed to
the wall in the state dining-room, but in that frantic hurry there were
no tools at hand to remove it.
“Get an axe and break the frame,” commanded Dolly Madison. She watched
the canvas taken from the stretcher, saw it rolled up carefully, and
sent to a place of safety. Later it was returned to her, and to-day
hangs over the mantel in the red room of the White House.
One more delay--the Declaration of Independence was kept in a glass
case, separate from the other state papers. Notwithstanding all the
protests of her friends, Dolly Madison ran back into the house,
broke the glass, secured the Declaration with the autographs of the
signers, got into her carriage and drove rapidly away to a house beyond
Georgetown.
None too soon did she leave. The sound of approaching troops was heard.
The British were upon the city. They broke into the executive mansion,
ransacked it, had dinner there in the state dining-room, stole what
they could carry, and then set fire to the building.
Instead of sleeping that night, Dolly Madison, with thousands of
others, watched the fire destroying the capital, while the wind from an
approaching storm fanned the flames. Before daybreak she set out for a
little tavern, sixteen miles away, where her husband had arranged to
meet her. The roads were filled with frightened people, while fleeing
soldiers spread the wildest rumors of the enemy’s advance.
Arrived at the inn finally in the height of the storm, the woman in
charge refused to take her in, saying, “My man had to go to fight; your
husband brought on this war and his wife shall have no shelter in my
house!”
The tavern was thronged with women and children, refugees from the
city, who finally prevailed on the woman to let Mrs. Madison enter. The
president arrived later, but before he had rested an hour a messenger
came crying, “The British know you are here--fly!”
Dolly Madison begged him to go to a little hut in the woods where he
would be safe, and promised that she would leave in disguise and find
a refuge farther away. In the gray of the morning she started, but
soon came the good news that the English, hearing reinforcements were
coming, had gone back to their ships. At once she turned and drove
toward the city. The bridge over the Potomac was afire.
“Will you row me across?” she asked an American officer.
“No, we don’t let strange women into the city.”
In vain she pleaded. He was firm. “We have spies enough here. How do
I know but the British have sent you to burn what they have left? You
will not cross the river, that is sure.”
“But I am Mrs. Madison, the wife of your president,” she answered,
throwing off her disguise. Then he rowed her across the Potomac.
Through clouds of smoke, past heaps of still smoldering ruins, she made
her way to the home of her sister, and waited there for Mr. Madison to
return.
While the White House was being rebuilt the Madisons lived in
Pennsylvania Avenue, and a brilliant social life centered about them.
They revived the levees of Washington and Adams, gave handsome state
dinners and introduced music at their receptions.
When Madison’s second term was ended they went to live at Montpelier,
their beautiful Virginia home, where they entertained with true
southern hospitality the many friends and tourists who visited them.
Mr. Madison, for many years an invalid, busied himself with books and
writing.
Soon after his death in 1836 Dolly returned to Washington, to be near
her old friends. Her home again became a social center, for her tact
and beauty and grace made her always a favorite and a leader. She
entertained many distinguished guests, “looking every inch a queen,”
the British ambassador declared. Sometimes there were as many visitors
at her receptions as at those at the White House. All the homage of
former times was hers, and much consideration was shown her by public
officials, Congress voting her a seat on the floor of the House.
Brought up in strict Quaker ways, she adorned every station in life
in which she was placed. And in a crisis when the White House was in
danger, Dolly Madison was courageous enough to delay her departure
till she had saved the Stuart Washington and the Declaration of
Independence.