"the high expanded forehead, the smooth arched brow; the
brilliant dark eyes; the well defined nose; the full round
laughing lips; the tall graceful figure, the beautiful dark
hair; an open cheerful countenance--suffused with that deep,
rich Oriental tint which never seems to fade, all of which
made her the most beautiful and attractive woman of her
age."
She was a wife at sixteen, and at twenty-six a widow. Three years
after the death of her husband, she married St. George Tucker, of
Bermuda who proved to be a kind father to her children.
In the winter of 1781, Benedict Arnold, the traitor who had spread
ruin through his native state, was sent to Virginia on an expedition
of ravage. He landed at the mouth of the James, and advanced toward
Petersburg. Matoax, Randolph's home, was directly in the line of the
invading army, so the family set out on a cold January morning, and at
night entered the home of Benjamin Ward, Jr.
John Randolph was seven years old, and little Maria Ward had just
passed her fifth birthday. The two children played together happily,
and in the boy's heart was sown the seed of that grand passion which
dominated his life.
After a few days, the family went on to Bizarre, a large estate on
both sides of the Appomattox, and here Mrs. Tucker and her sons spent
the remainder of the year, while her husband joined General Greene's
army, and afterward, the force of Lafayette.
In 1788, John Randolph's mother died, and his first grief swept over
him in an overwhelming torrent. The boy of fifteen spent bitter
nights, his face buried in the grass, sobbing over his mother's grave.
Years afterward, he wrote to a friend, "I am a fatalist. I am all but
friendless. Only one human being ever knew me. _She_ only knew me."
He kept his mother's portrait always in his room, and enshrined her in
loving remembrance in his heart. He had never seen his father's face
to remember it distinctly, and for a long time he wore his miniature
in his bosom. In 1796, his brother Richard died, and the unexpected
blow crushed him to earth. More than thirty years afterward he wrote
to his half-brother, Henry St. George Tucker, the following note:
"DEAR HENRY
"Our poor brother Richard was born in 1770. He would have
been fifty-six years old the ninth of this month. I can no
more.
"J. R. OF R."
At some time in his early manhood he came into close relationship with
Maria Ward. She had been an attractive child, and had grown into a
woman so beautiful that Lafayette said her equal could not be found in
North America. Her hair was auburn, and hung in curls around her face;
her skin was exquisitely fair; her eyes were dark and eloquent. Her
mouth was well formed; she was slender, graceful, and coquettish,
well-educated, and in every way, charming.
To this woman, John Randolph's heart went out in passionate, adoring
love. He might be bitter and sarcastic with others, but with her he
was gentleness itself. Others might know him as a man of affairs, keen
and logical, but to her he was only a lover.
Timid and hesitating at first, afraid perhaps of his fiery wooing,
Miss Ward kept him for some time in suspense. All the treasures of his
mind and soul were laid before her; that deep, eloquent voice which
moved the multitude to tears at its master's will was pleading with a
woman for her love.
What wonder that she yielded at last and promised to marry him? Then
for a time everything else was forgotten. The world lay before him to
be conquered when he might choose. Nothing would be too great for him
to accomplish--nothing impossible to that eager joyous soul enthroned
at last upon the greatest heights of human happiness. And then--there
was a change. He rode to her home one day, tying his horse outside as
was his wont. A little later he strode out, shaking like an aspen,
his face white in agony. He drew his knife from his pocket, cut the
bridle of his horse, dug his spurs into the quivering sides, and was
off like the wind. What battle was fought out on that wild ride is
known only to John Randolph and his God. What torture that fiery soul
went through, no human being can ever know. When he came back at
night, he was so changed that no one dared to speak to him.
He threw himself into the political arena in order to save his reason.
Often at midnight, he would rise from his uneasy bed, buckle on his
pistols, and ride like mad over the country, returning only when his
horse was spent. He never saw Miss Ward again, and she married Peyton
Randolph, the son of Edmund Randolph, who was Secretary of State under
Washington.
The entire affair is shrouded in mystery. There is not a letter, nor a
single scrap of paper, nor a shred of evidence upon which to base even
a presumption. The separation was final and complete, and the
white-hot metal of the man's nature was gradually moulded into that
strange eccentric being whose foibles are so well known.
Only once did Randolph lift even a corner of the veil. In a letter to
his dearest friend he spoke of her as:
"One I loved better than my own soul, or Him who created it.
My apathy is not natural, but superinduced. There was a
volcano under my ice, but it burnt out, and a face of
desolation has come on, not to be rectified in ages, could
my life be prolonged to patriarchal longevity.
"The necessity of loving and being loved was never felt by
the imaginary beings of Rousseau and Byron's creation, more
imperiously than by myself. My heart was offered with a
devotion that knew no reserve. Long an object of
proscription and treachery, I have at last, more mortifying
to the pride of man, become an object of utter
indifference."
The brilliant statesman would doubtless have had a large liberty of
choice among the many beautiful women of his circle, but he never
married, and there is no record of any entanglement. To the few women
he deemed worthy of his respect and admiration, he was deferential and
even gallant. In one of his letters to a young relative he said:
"Love to god-son Randolph and respectful compliments to Mrs.
R. She is indeed a fine woman, one for whom I have felt a
true regard, unmixed with the foible of another passion.
"Fortunately or unfortunately for me, when I knew her, I
bore a charmed heart. Nothing else could have preserved me
from the full force of her attractions."
For much of the time after his disappointment, he lived alone with
his servants, solaced as far as possible by those friends of all
mankind--books. When the spirit moved him, he would make visits to the
neighbouring plantations, sometimes dressed in white flannel trousers,
coat, and vest, and with white paper wrapped around his beaver hat!
When he presented himself in this manner, riding horseback, with his
dark eyes burning, he was said to have presented "a most ghostly
appearance!"
An old lady who lived for years on the banks of the Staunton, near
Randolph's solitary home, tells a pathetic story:
She was sitting alone in her room in the dead of winter, when a
beautiful woman, pale as a ghost, dressed entirely in white, suddenly
appeared before her, and began to talk about Mr. Randolph, saying he
was her lover and would marry her yet, as he had never proved false to
his plighted faith. She talked of him incessantly, like one deranged,
until a young gentleman came by the house, leading a horse with a
side-saddle on. She rushed out, and asked his permission to ride a few
miles. Greatly to his surprise, she mounted without assistance, and
sat astride like a man. He was much embarrassed, but had no choice
except to escort her to the end of her journey.
The old lady who tells of this strange experience says that the young
woman several times visited Mr. Randolph, always dressed in white and
usually in the dead of winter. He always put her on a horse and sent
her away with a servant to escort her.
In his life there were but two women--his mother and Maria Ward. While
his lips were closed on the subject of his love, he did not hesitate
to avow his misery. "I too am wretched," he would say with infinite
pathos; and after her death, he spoke of Maria Ward as his "angel."
In a letter written sometime after she died, he said, strangely
enough: "I loved, aye, and was loved again, not wisely, but too well."
His brilliant career was closed when he was sixty years old, and in
his last illness, during delirium, the name of Maria was frequently
heard by those who were anxiously watching with him. But, true to
himself and to her, even when his reason was dethroned, he said
nothing more.
He was buried on his own plantation, in the midst of "that boundless
contiguity of shade," with his secret locked forever in his tortured
breast. "John Randolph of Roanoke," was all the title he claimed; but
the history of those times teaches us that he was more than that--he
was John Randolph, of the Republic.
How President Jackson Won
His Wife
In October of 1788, a little company of immigrants arrived in
Tennessee. The star of empire, which is said to move westward, had not
yet illumined Nashville, and it was one of the dangerous points "on
the frontier."
The settlement was surrounded on all sides by hostile Indians. Men
worked in the fields, but dared not go out to their daily task without
being heavily armed. When two men met, and stopped for a moment to
talk, they often stood back to back, with their rifles cocked ready
for instant use. No one stooped to drink from a spring unless another
guarded him, and the women were always attended by an armed force.
Col. John Donelson had built for himself a blockhouse of unusual size
and strength, and furnished it comfortably; but while surveying a
piece of land near the village, he was killed by the savages, and his
widow left to support herself as best she could.
A married daughter and her husband lived with her, but it was
necessary for her to take other boarders. One day there was a vigorous
rap upon the stout door of the blockhouse, and a young man whose name
was Andrew Jackson was admitted. Shortly afterward, he took up his
abode as a regular boarder at the Widow Donelson's.
The future President was then twenty-one or twenty-two. He was tall
and slender, with every muscle developed to its utmost strength. He
had an attractive face, pleasing manners, and made himself agreeable
to every one in the house.
The dangers of the frontier were but minor incidents in his
estimation, for "desperate courage makes one a majority," and he had
courage. When he was but thirteen years of age, he had boldly defied a
British officer who had ordered him to clean some cavalry boots.
"Sir," said the boy, "I am a prisoner of war, and I claim to be
treated as such!"
With an oath the officer drew his sword, and struck at the child's
head. He parried the blow with his left arm, but received a severe
wound on his head and another on his arm, the scars of which he always
carried.
The protecting presence of such a man was welcome to those who dwelt
in the blockhouse--Mrs. Donelson, Mr. and Mrs. Robards, and another
boarder, John Overton. Mrs. Donelson was a good cook and a notable
housekeeper, while her daughter was said to be "the best story teller,
the best dancer, the sprightliest companion, and the most dashing
horsewoman in the western country."
Jackson, as the only licensed lawyer in that part of Tennessee, soon
had plenty of business on his hands, and his life in the blockhouse
was a happy one until he learned that the serpent of jealousy lurked
by that fireside.
Mrs. Robards was a comely brunette, and her dusky beauty carried with
it an irresistible appeal. Jackson soon learned that Captain Robards
was unreasonably and even insanely jealous of his wife, and he learned
from John Overton that before his arrival there had been a great deal
of unhappiness because of this.
At one time Captain Robards had written to Mrs. Donelson to take her
daughter home, as he did not wish to live with her any longer; but
through the efforts of Mr. Overton a reconciliation had been effected
between the pair, and they were still living together at Mrs.
Donelson's when Jackson went there to board.
In a short time, however, Robards became violently jealous of Jackson
and talked abusively to his wife, even in the presence of her mother
and amidst the tears of both. Once more Overton interfered, assured
Robards that his suspicions were groundless, and reproached him for
his unmanly conduct.
It was all in vain, however, and the family was in as unhappy a state
as before, when they were living with the Captain's mother who had
always taken the part of her daughter-in-law.
At length Overton spoke to Jackson about it, telling him it was better
not to remain where his presence made so much trouble, and offered to
go with him to another boarding-place. Jackson readily assented,
though neither of them knew where to go, and said that he would talk
to Captain Robards.
The men met near the orchard fence, and Jackson remonstrated with the
Captain who grew violently angry and threatened to strike him. Jackson
told him that he would not advise him to try to fight, but if he
insisted, he would try to give him satisfaction. Nothing came of the
discussion, however, as Robards seemed willing to take Jackson's
advice and did not dare to strike him. But the coward continued to
abuse his wife, and insulted Jackson at every opportunity. The result
was that the young lawyer left the house.
A few months later, the still raging husband left his wife and went to
Kentucky, which was then a part of Virginia. Soon afterward, Mrs.
Robards went to live with her sister, Mrs. Hay, and Overton returned
to Mrs. Donelson's.
In the following autumn there was a rumour that Captain Robards
intended to return to Tennessee and take his wife to Kentucky, at
which Mrs. Donelson and her daughter were greatly distressed. Mrs.
Robards wept bitterly, and said it was impossible for her to live
peaceably with her husband as she had tried it twice and failed. She
determined to go down the river to Natchez, to a friend, and thus
avoid her husband, who she said had threatened to haunt her.
When Jackson heard of this arrangement he was very much troubled, for
he felt that he had been the unwilling cause of the young wife's
unhappiness, although entirely innocent of any wrong intention. So
when Mrs. Robards had fully determined to undertake the journey to
Natchez, accompanied only by Colonel Stark and his family, he offered
to go with them as an additional protection against the Indians who
were then especially active, and his escort was very gladly accepted.
The trip was made in safety, and after seeing the lady settled with
her friends, he returned to Nashville and resumed his law practice.
At that time there was no divorce law in Virginia, and each separate
divorce required the passage of an act of the legislature before a
jury could consider the case. In the winter of 1791, Captain Robards
obtained the passage of such an act, authorising the court of Mercer
County to act upon his divorce. Mrs. Robards, hearing of this,
understood that the passage of the act was, in itself, divorce, and
that she was a free woman. Jackson also took the divorce for granted.
Every one in the country so understood the matter, and at Natchez, in
the following summer, the two were married.
They returned to Nashville, settled down, and Jackson began in earnest
the career that was to land him in the White House, the hero of the
nation.
In December of 1793, more than two years after their marriage, their
friend Overton learned that the legislature had not granted a divorce,
but had left it for the court to do so. Jackson was much chagrined
when he heard of this, and it was with great difficulty that he was
brought to believe it. In January of 1794, when the decree was finally
obtained, they were married again.
It is difficult to excuse Jackson for marrying the woman without
positive and absolute knowledge of her divorce. He was a lawyer, and
could have learned the facts of the case, even though there was no
established mail service. Each of them had been entirely innocent of
any intentional wrong-doing, and their long life together, their
great devotion to each other, and General Jackson's honourable career,
forever silenced the spiteful calumny of his rivals and enemies of
early life.
In his eyes his wife was the soul of honour and purity; he loved and
reverenced her as a man loves and reverences but one woman in his
lifetime, and for thirty-seven years he kept a pair of pistols loaded
for the man who should dare to breathe her name without respect.
The famous pistol duel with Dickinson was the result of a quarrel
which had its beginning in a remark reflecting upon Mrs. Jackson, and
Dickinson, though a crack shot, paid for it with his life.
Several of Dickinson's friends sent a memorial to the proprietors of
the _Impartial Review_, asking that the next number of the paper
appear in mourning, "out of respect for the memory, and regret for the
untimely death, of Mr. Charles Dickinson."
"Old Hickory" heard of this movement, and wrote to the proprietors,
asking that the names of the gentlemen making the request be published
in the memorial number of the paper. This also was agreed to, and it
is significant that twenty-six of the seventy-three men who had signed
the petition called and erased their names from the document.
"The Hermitage" at Nashville, which is still a very attractive spot
for visitors, was built solely to please Mrs. Jackson, and there she
dispensed gracious hospitality. Not merely a guest or two, but whole
families, came for weeks at a time, for the mistress of the mansion
was fond of entertaining, and proved herself a charming hostess. She
had a good memory, had passed through many and greatly varied
experiences, and above all she had that rare faculty which is called
tact.
Though her husband's love for her was evident to every one, yet, in
the presence of others, he always maintained a dignified reserve. He
never spoke of her as "Rachel," nor addressed her as "My Dear." It
was always "Mrs. Jackson," or "wife." She always called him "Mr.
Jackson," never "Andrew" nor "General."
Both of them greatly desired children, but this blessing was denied
them; so they adopted a boy, the child of Mrs. Jackson's brother,
naming him "Andrew Jackson," and bringing him up as their own child.
The lady's portrait shows her to have been wonderfully attractive. It
does not reveal the dusky Oriental tint of her skin, the ripe red of
her lips, nor the changing lights in her face, but it shows the high
forehead, the dark soft hair, the fine eyes, and the tempting mouth
which was smiling, yet serene. A lace head-dress is worn over the
waving hair, and the filmy folds fall softly over neck and bosom.
When Jackson was elected to the Presidency, the ladies of Nashville
organized themselves into sewing circles to prepare Mrs. Jackson's
wardrobe. It was a labour of love. On December 23, 1828, there was to
be a grand banquet in Jackson's honour, and the devoted women of their
home city had made a beautiful gown for his wife to wear at the
dinner. At sunrise the preparations began. The tables were set, the
dining-room decorated, and the officers and men of the troop that was
to escort the President-elect were preparing to go to the home and
attend him on the long ride into the city. Their horses were saddled
and in readiness at the place of meeting. As the bugle sounded the
summons to mount, a breathless messenger appeared on a horse flecked
with foam. Mrs. Jackson had died of heart disease the evening before.
The festival was changed to a funeral, and the trumpets and drums that
were to have sounded salute were muffled in black. All decorations
were taken down, and the church bells tolled mournfully. The grief of
the people was beyond speech. Each one felt a personal loss.
At the home the blow was terrible. The lover-husband would not leave
his wife. In those bitter hours the highest gift of his countrymen
was an empty triumph, for his soul was wrecked with the greatness of
his loss.
When she was buried at the foot of a slope in the garden of "The
Hermitage," his bereavement came home to him with crushing strength.
Back of the open grave stood a great throng of people, waiting in the
wintry wind. The sun shone brightly on the snow, but "The Hermitage"
was desolate, for its light and laughter and love were gone. The
casket was carried down the slope, and a long way behind it came the
General, slowly and almost helpless, between two of his friends.
The people of Nashville had made ready to greet him with the blare of
bugles, waving flags, the clash of cymbals, and resounding cheers. It
was for the President-elect--the hero of the war. The throng that
stood behind the open grave greeted him with sobs and tears--not the
President-elect, but the man bowed by his sixty years, bareheaded,
with his gray hair rumpled in the wind, staggering toward them in the
throes of his bitterest grief.
In that one night he had grown old. He looked like a man stricken
beyond all hope. When his old friends gathered around him with the
tears streaming down their cheeks, wringing his hand in silent
sympathy, he could make no response.
He was never the same again, though his strength of will and his
desperate courage fought with this infinite pain. For the rest of his
life he lived as she would have had him live--guided his actions by
the thought of what his wife, if living, would have had him do--loving
her still, with the love that passeth all understanding.
He declined the sarcophagus fit for an emperor, that he might be
buried like a simple citizen, in the garden by her side.
His last words were of her--his last look rested upon her portrait
that hung opposite his bed, and if there be dreaming in the dark, the
vision of her brought him peace at last.
The Bachelor President's Loyalty
to a Memory
The fifteenth President was remarkable among the men of his time
for his lifelong fidelity to one woman, for since the days of
knight-errantry such devotion has been as rare as it is beautiful. The
young lawyer came of Scotch-Irish parentage, and to this blending of
blood were probably in part due his deep love and steadfastness. There
was rather more of the Irish than of the Scotch in his face, and when
we read that his overflowing spirits were too much for the college in
which he had been placed, and that, for "reasons of public policy,"
the honours which he had earned were on commencement day given to
another, it is evident that he may sometimes have felt that he owed
allegiance primarily to the Emerald Isle.
Like others, who have been capable of deep and lasting passion, James
Buchanan loved his mother. Among his papers there was found a fragment
of an autobiography, which ended in 1816, when the writer was only
twenty-five years of age. He says his father was "a kind father, a
sincere friend, and an honest and religious man," but on the subject
of his mother he waxes eloquent:
"Considering her limited opportunities in early life [he
writes], my mother was a remarkable woman. The daughter of a
country farmer, engaged in household employment from early
life until after my father's death, she yet found time to
read much, and to reflect deeply on what she read.
"She had a great fondness for poetry, and could repeat with
ease all the passages in her favorite authors which struck
her fancy. These were Milton, Pope, Young, Cowper, and
Thompson.
"I do not think, at least until a late period in life, she
had ever read a criticism on any one of these authors, and
yet such was the correctness of her natural taste, that she
had selected for herself, and could repeat, every passage
in them which has been admired....
"For her sons, as they grew up successively, she was a
delightful and instructive companion.... She was a woman of
great firmness of character, and bore the afflictions of her
later life with Christian philosophy.... It was chiefly to
her influence, that her sons were indebted for a liberal
education. Under Providence I attribute any little
distinction which I may have acquired in the world to the
blessing which He conferred upon me in granting me such a
mother."
If Elizabeth Buchanan could have read these words, doubtless she would
have felt fully repaid for her many years of toil, self-sacrifice, and
devotion.
After the young man left the legislature and took up the practice of
law, with the intention of spending his life at the bar, he became
engaged to Anne Coleman, the daughter of Robert Coleman, of Lancaster.
She is said to have been an unusually beautiful girl, quiet, gentle,
modest, womanly, and extremely sensitive. The fine feelings of a
delicately organized nature may easily become either a blessing or a
curse, and on account of her sensitiveness there was a rupture for
which neither can be very greatly blamed.
Mr. Coleman approved of the engagement, and the happy lover worked
hard to make a home for the idol of his heart. One day, out of the
blue sky a thunderbolt fell. He received a note from Miss Coleman
asking him to release her from her engagement.
There was no explanation forthcoming, and it was not until long
afterward that he discovered that busy-bodies and gossips had gone to
Miss Coleman with stories concerning him which had no foundation save
in their mischief-making imaginations, and which she would not repeat
to him. After all his efforts at re-establishing the old relations had
proved useless, he wrote to her that if it were her wish to be
released from her engagement he could but submit, as he had no desire
to hold her against her will.
The break came in the latter part of the summer of 1819, when he was
twenty-eight years old and she was in her twenty-third year. He threw
himself into his work with renewed energy, and later on she went to
visit friends in Philadelphia.
Though she was too proud to admit it, there was evidence that the
beautiful and high-spirited girl was suffering from heartache. On the
ninth of December, she died suddenly, and her body was brought home
just a week after she left Lancaster. The funeral took place the next
day, Sunday, and to the suffering father of the girl, the heart-broken
lover wrote a letter which in simple pathos stands almost alone. It is
the only document on this subject which remains, but in these few
lines is hidden a tragedy:
"LANCASTER, December 10, 1819.
"MY DEAR SIR:
"You have lost a child, a dear, dear child. I have lost the
only earthly object of my affections, without whom, life now
presents to me a dreary blank. My prospects are all cut off,
and I feel that my happiness will be buried with her in her
grave.
"It is now no time for explanation, but the time will come
when you will discover that she, as well as I, has been
greatly abused. God forgive the authors of it! My feelings
of resentment against them, whoever they may be, are buried
in the dust.
"I have now one request to make, and for the love of God,
and of your dear departed daughter, whom I loved infinitely
more than any human being could love, deny me not. Afford me
the melancholy pleasure of seeing her body before its
interment. I would not, for the world, be denied this
request.
"I might make another, but from the misrepresentations that
have been made to you, I am almost afraid. I would like to
follow her remains, to the grave as a mourner. I would like
to convince the world, I hope yet to convince you, that she
was infinitely dearer to me than life.
"I may sustain the shock of her death, but I feel that
happiness has fled from me forever. The prayer which I make
to God without ceasing is, that I yet may be able to show my
veneration for the memory of my dear, departed saint, by my
respect and attachment for her surviving friends.
"May Heaven bless you and enable you to bear the shock with
the fortitude of a Christian.
"I am forever, your sincere and grateful friend,
"JAMES BUCHANAN."
The father returned the letter unopened and without comment. Death had
only widened the breach. It would have been gratifying to know that
the two lovers were together for a moment at the end.
For such a meeting as that there are no words but Edwin Arnold's:
"But he--who loved her too well to dread
The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead--
He lit his lamp, and took the key,
And turn'd it!--alone again--he and she!"
For him there was not even a glimpse of her as she lay in her coffin,
nor a whisper that some day, like Evelyn Hope, she might "wake, and
remember and understand." With that love that asks only for the right
to serve, and feeling perhaps that no pen could do her justice, he
obtained permission to write a paragraph for a local paper, which was
published unsigned:
"Departed this life, on Thursday morning last, in the
twenty-third year of her age, while on a visit to friends in
the city of Philadelphia, Miss Anne C. Coleman, daughter of
Robert Coleman, Esquire of this city.
"It rarely falls to our lot to shed a tear over the remains
of one so much and so deservedly beloved as was the
deceased. She was everything which the fondest parent, or
the fondest friend could have wished her to be.
"Although she was young and beautiful and accomplished, and
the smiles of fortune shone upon her, yet her native modesty
and worth made her unconscious of her own attractions. Her
heart was the seat of all the softer virtues which ennoble
and dignify the character of woman.
"She has now gone to a world, where, in the bosom of her
God, she will be happy with congenial spirits. May the
memory of her virtues be ever green in the hearts of her
surviving friends. May her mild spirit, which on earth still
breathes peace and good will, be their guardian angel to
preserve them from the faults to which she was ever a
stranger.
"The spider's most attenuated thread
Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie
On earthly bliss--it breaks at every breeze."
How deeply he felt her death is shown by extracts from a letter
written to him by a friend in the latter part of December:
"I am writing, I know not why, and perhaps had better not. I
write only to speak of the awful visitation of Providence
that has fallen upon you, and how deeply I feel it.... I
trust to your philosophy and courage, and to the elasticity
of spirits natural to most young men....
"The sun will shine again, though a man enveloped in gloom
always thinks the darkness is to be eternal. Do you remember
the Spanish anecdote?
"A lady who had lost a favorite child remained for months
sunk in sullen sorrow and despair. Her confessor, one
morning visited her, and found her, as usual immersed in
gloom and grief. 'What,' said he, 'Have you not forgiven God
Almighty?'
"She rose, exerted herself, joined the world again, and
became useful to herself and her friends."
Time's kindly touch heals many wounds, but the years seemed to bring
to James Buchanan no surcease of sorrow. He was always under the
cloud of that misunderstanding, and during his long political career,
the incident frequently served as a butt for the calumnies of his
enemies. It was freely used in "campaign documents," perverted,
misrepresented, and twisted into every conceivable shape, though it is
difficult to conceive how any form of humanity could ever be so base.
Next to the loss of the girl he loved, this was the greatest grief of
his life. To see the name of his "dear, departed saint" dragged into
newspaper notoriety was absolute torture. Denial was useless, and
pleading had no effect. After he had retired to his home at Wheatland,
and when he was past seventy--when Anne Coleman's beautiful body had
gone back to the dust, there was a long article in a newspaper about
the affair, accompanied by the usual misrepresentations.
To a friend, he said, with deep emotion: "In my safety-deposit box in
New York there is a sealed package, containing papers and relics which
will explain everything. Sometime, when I am dead, the world will
know--and absolve."
But after his death, when his executors found the package, there was a
direction on the outside: "To be burned unopened at my death."
He chose silence rather than vindication at the risk of having Anne
Coleman's name again brought into publicity. In that little parcel
there was doubtless full exoneration, but at the end, as always, he
nobly bore the blame.
It happened that the letter he had written to her father was not in
this package, but among his papers at Wheatland--otherwise that
pathetic request would also have been burned.
Through all his life he remained true to Anne's memory. Under the
continual public attacks his grief became one that even his friends
forebore to speak of, and he had a chivalrous regard for all women,
because of his love for one. His social instincts were strong,
his nature affectionate and steadfast, yet it was owing to his
disappointment that he became President. At one time, when he was in
London, he said to an intimate friend: "I never intended to engage
in politics, but meant to follow my profession strictly. But my
prospects and plans were all changed by a most sad event, which
happened at Lancaster when I was a young man. As a distraction from my
grief, and because I saw that through a political following I could
secure the friends I then needed, I accepted a nomination."
A beautiful side of his character is shown in his devotion to his
niece, Harriet Lane. He was to her always a faithful father. When she
was away at school or otherwise separated from him, he wrote to her
regularly, never failing to assure her of his affection, and received
her love and confidence in return. In 1865, when she wrote to him of
her engagement, he replied, in part, as follows:
"I believe you say truly that nothing would have induced you
to leave me, in good or evil fortune, if I had wished you to
remain with me.
"Such a wish on my part would be very selfish. You have long
known my desire that you should marry whenever a suitor
worthy of you should offer. Indeed, it has been my strong
desire to see you settled in the world before my death. You
have now made your own unbiased choice; and from the
character of Mr. Johnston, I anticipate for you a happy
marriage, because I believe from your own good sense, you
will conform to your conductor, and make him a good and
loving wife."
The days passed in retirement at Wheatland were filled with quiet
content. The end came as peacefully as the night itself. He awoke from
a gentle sleep, murmured, "O Lord, God Almighty, as Thou wilt!" and
passed serenely into that other sleep, which knows not dreams.
The impenetrable veil between us and eternity permits no lifting of
its folds; there is no parting of its greyness, save for a passage,
but perhaps, in "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no
traveller returns" Anne Coleman and her lover have met once more, and
the long life of faithfulness at last has won her pardon.