Posterity: Letters of Great Americans to Their Children

by Dorie Mccullough Lawson

  You have in your Aunt Rosie a very good example of what this charity should be—in her affection for her mother. You know how devoted it is. I have heard her say that it is no merit in her to do all she does for her mother because she loves her so; and in that she is quite right, it is no merit in her any more than your indifference is a fault in you; it is a natural trait. But do you not see what a lovely trait it is, and how far better we all would be if we by nature loved others as Rosie loves her mother; not so much, of course, in every case, but having for every one a degree of interest and love proportioned to their relationship to us. That we have not, is because our nature is fallen.

  Now as to the means of gaining this better nature, it is necessary to distinguish between your part and God's part. Your part is to give care and thought as to your loving duty to others, and then to try earnestly and carry it out. First of all in your home; next among your other relatives, then extending to others about you. For instance, at Bar Harbor, there is Grannie and Marraine. The former can go about but little, and though she has many friends who either from natural affection, or Christian kindness, go to see her, yet every little visit is an incident and a pleasure in her day. I know that she has shown such a very marked partiality for Lyle, that it is not to be wondered at she has lost the affection of her other grandchildren; but the evidence of her love for you is not the measure of your duty of kindness to her. Go to see her frequently, and not grudgingly or of necessity; remembering that God loves a cheerful giver. This is less hard than you may think; a moment of prayer and effort of the will will scatter all sense of inconvenience and reluctance.

  But doing this, and such like things, though necessary, will not of themselves give you the spirit of love which you desire. They are external acts, though good acts; and are of the nature of those “works,” of which St. Paul says they cannot save us. They are done against our nature, which seeks its own welfare or pleasure rather than that of another person; whereas that which we are to desire is that change of heart, or change of nature, through which we will naturally and without effort do right and kind things. By our present nature we seek self; by our new nature we shall seek the good of others. Here you may see the value of that instance which I have used, of Rosie's love to her mother. Rosie doubtless dislikes some people, and is indifferent to many; but in one particular she affords a very beautiful example of what our redeemed and new nature will be. She does her kindnesses to her mother, not because she ought to, but because she loves her by nature; her acts of kindness therefore are not “works,” but “fruits”; they spring naturally from what she is, and therefore, though not meritorious, they are evidence of a character that in this particular is lovely.

  Such a change of nature, from indifference to love like this, is beyond a man's power. Works we can do, but change our nature we cannot. This is God's part. He requires of us our will and wish, which if we have we will doubtless do works of love; but do what we will, He only can change the heart.

  Therefore, to become what you wish, to have kindly interest in and sympathy with others, you must: 1st do works of kindness, and 2d pray continually to God to change your nature in this respect and give you a loving heart. It will take time, but never despair of it. I believe you do try not to have unkind feelings toward others, but dont stop content with that; aim at having kind interest in them.

  Both your mother and I think of you, my dear child, among your present surroundings. Your friends seem to be very kind and fond of you; but we cannot be without some apprehension, believing that they are in their aims and principles entirely worldly—living that is for this world, and not for the next. It is not for me to judge them in this respect, but only to caution you to be careful, and not allow yourself to attach undue importance to, and care too much for, the comforts and pleasures of this world. We are all too apt to do this, but particularly when surrounded by them, as you now are. The “deceits of the world,” as the Litany calls them, are very pleasant, particularly in youth; but the deceit is there, for they are found on experience to be unsatisfying in the end. Yet the strange thing is that even those who have by experience found this hollowness, and even talk of their emptiness, still cling to them by force of habit. I trust you may escape their taking such hold upon you. Remember that life is not only uncertain, but that it is short. You may or may not have a life of average length; but even if you live long—at the longest, life is short; and long before its end pleasure ceases to please. And at the end, but one thing gives pleasure; and that is a nature which, having been renewed by God, brings forth those fruits which are pleasant here, love, joy, peace, and which endure beyond the grave.

  Lovingly

  A. T. M.

  WASHINGTON A. ROEBLING TO

  JOHN ROEBLING

  “It sounds queer to talk about my wedding; the wedding of an old man who ought to be thinking

  about his grave rather than the vanities of life.”

  Between the years 1870 and 1883, the Brooklyn Bridge took shape, spanning the East River and finally linking Manhattan to Brooklyn. During the last eleven of those fourteen years, the chief engineer, Washington A. Roebling, was never able to visit the construction site. He was suffering from “the bends,” or “caissons disease,” and a general collapse of the nervous system brought on from too rapid an ascent from the base of the Brooklyn Bridge towers under the East River. His body was riddled with pain so savage and excruciating, he found it difficult to write and speak. As well, his eyesight was failing. In building the bridge, Roebling was fulfilling his late father's vision and if he, too, were to falter, it was likely there would be no one to continue the work. In his pain and incapacitated state, communication with the world outside of Roebling's Brooklyn home was accomplished by his wife, Emily Warren Roebling. It was Mrs. Roebling who took his dictation and handled his correspondence, she who kept him abreast of the news and progress on the bridge, she who met in the living room with bridge officials and contractors, and she who delivered messages to the site where the massive bridge was being erected. It was a marriage like no other, he the invalid mastermind of the greatest engineering project of the day, and she the arms, legs, eyes, and voice connecting him with the world.

  But for all Washington Roebling's physical ailments, it was the sturdy Emily Roebling who was the first to die. After thirty-eight years of marriage, Washington Roebling was left alone. Alone for the next five years he was miserable and, as always, in pain. Then, at nearly seventy-one years old, to the surprise of most who knew him and to the delight of his only child, John, Washington Roebling announced that he was to marry again.

  More About the Proposed Marriage

  and the Bride-Elect

  W.A.R. to John.

  191 West State Street,

  Trenton, N.J., March

  21/08

  It sounds queer to talk about my wedding; the wedding of an old man who ought to be thinking about his grave rather than of the vanities of life.

  But these relationships are those of the heart, not governed by reason or judgement (fortunately so perhaps)—A second marriage late in life cannot be judged by the standard of the first because its motives are usually quite different, and if it should not prove happy, death soon remedies all troubles.

  I expect to be married about 15th to 20th of April—The wedding will take place at Dalton near Pittsfield, Mass. (provided my health don't break down)—The bride elect is Mrs. Cornelia Farrow, a widow of about 40, with one son of 16 or 17—Her winter home is in Charleston, S. C. where her mother lives—In summer she abides with her friends & protectors, the Cranes at Pittsfield—(The Cranes make all the bank notes of the U. S. Sen. Crane is one of them, so is Fred Crane.)

  Mrs. Farrow's grandfather was a Connecticut Yankee who came South after the war and entered business.

  She is thin, slender, brown-haired, of my height, with much personality and extremely amiable, speaking with a strong Southern accent. You will like her like a sister presently—

  As
regards our mutual relations you know that I am just and no wrong will come to you or yours—How these things come about is always a mystery, and I feel somewhat guilty in inflicting myself upon Cornelia.

  At any rate I invite you most cordially to come up and attend the simple ceremony—I am not strong and feel like breaking down without some support—I have no one to help me and must do everything myself—

  There are a number of your mother's photographs about, at your service. Her mobile face would never photograph well—the painted miniature on my table is mine, and stays there—

  [Washington A. Roebling]

  THEODORE ROOSEVELT TO

  QUENTIN ROOSEVELT

  “Write no matter how tired you are, no matter

  how inconvenient it is . . .”

  At a patriotic rally at the beginning of World War I, Theodore Roosevelt was faced with a heckler who demanded to know what he, the former president of the United States, was doing for the war effort. “What am I doing for my country in this war? I have sent my four boys for each of whose lives I care a thousand times more than I care for my own, if you can understand that . . .” The heckler and the entire audience were silenced.

  In fact, the four Roosevelt boys, with the encouragement and help of their father, began serving in World War I as quickly as they could. The older three, Ted, Kermit, and Archie, were already married when they went overseas and the youngest, Quentin, became engaged to Miss Flora Whitney just before he sailed for France. Here Theodore Roosevelt advises twenty-year-old Quentin about corresponding with his fiancée.

  Oyster Bay, December 24, 1917

  Dearest Quentin,

  Mother, the adamantine, has stopped writing to you because you have not written to her—or to any of us—for a long time. That will make no permanent difference to you; but I write about something that may make a permanent difference. Flora spoke to Ethel yesterday of the fact that you only wrote rarely to her. She made no complaint whatever. But she knows that some of her friends receive three or four letters a week from their lovers or husbands (Archie writes Gracie rather more often than this—exceedingly interesting letters).

  Now of course you may not keep Flora anyhow. But if you wish to lose her, continue to be an infrequent correspondent. If however you wish to keep her write her letters—interesting letters, and love letters—at least three times a week. Write no matter how tired you are, no matter how inconvenient it is; write if you're smashed up in a hospital; write when you are doing your most dangerous stunts; write when your work is most irksome and disheartening; write all the time! Write enough letters to allow for half being lost.

  Affectionately A hardened and wary old father

  [Theodore Roosevelt]

  “Why do'n't you write to Flora, and her father and

  mother, asking if she wo'n't come

  abroad and marry you?”

  Oyster Bay, March 17, 1918

  Dearest Quentin,

  In a Rochester paper appeared a note from one Whaley, a superintendent of a post office “somewhere in France,” who writes “Young Quentin Roosevelt is as modest as a school girl, but as game as they make 'em in aviation. Keep tabs on this game young chap.”

  Early in the week we were greatly depressed to learn that gallant young Tommy Hitchcock had been captured by the Germans; it is said that he was not hurt. Then came the excitement about Archie. The first news—whether true or not we do not know—was that he had been given the croix de guerre by a French General “under dramatic circumstances”; then the War Dept notified us that he was slightly wounded; then Ted cabled that he had been hit in the leg, and his arm broken, by shrapnel, but that he was in no danger, and that Eleanor would take care of him. Our pride and our anxiety are equal—as indeed they are about all of you.

  Why do'n't you write to Flora, and to her father and mother, asking if she wo'n't come abroad and marry you? As for your getting killed, or ordinarily crippled afterwards, why she would a thousand times rather have married you than not have married you under those conditions; and as for the extraordinary kinds of crippling, they are rare, and anyway we have to take certain chances in life. You and she have now passed your period of probation; you have been tried; you are absolutely sure of yourselves; and I would most heartily approve of your getting married at the earliest possible moment.

  Mr. Beebe is out here, he has just come from France; on the French front he was allowed to do some flying and bombing—not fighting the German war-planes.

  Your loving father,

  Theodore Roosevelt

  On July 14, 1918, Quentin Roosevelt was shot in the head and killed by the Germans at Chemery, France. He was not yet twenty-one years old.

  RICHARD E. BYRD TO

  RICHARD E. BYRD, JR.

  “My last words to you my boy are to beg you to

  concentrate on your life to two things . . .”

  On April 28, 1926, Commander Richard E. Byrd sat down in his cabin to write his six-year-old son. His ship, the S.S. Chantier, amidst ice fields and snow squalls, was steaming for Spitzbergen, Norway. In “a rough following sea” they had endured hard work and seasickness for days. The commander was about to attempt the first flight ever over the North Pole. He knew of the dangers of flying over ice, and in high winds, and through polar fog. He knew the greatest dangers were in the unknown, and he knew, too, that he might not survive. Here, in an unsteady hand, across six pages, Commander Byrd writes to his son.

  En route Spitzbergen

  April 28, 1926

  My Precious Boy—

  This letter is to be read twice by you on your eighth birthday then again on your fourteenth birthday, your sixteenth and once more every four years after that.

  I want to tell you about your mother I am writing at sea in my cabin. The sea is very rough and icy winds are blowing from the ice fields of the polar sea. We arrive at Kings Bay tomorrow and from there I am to take a hazardous airplane flight over the Polar sea which is a cold and frozen ocean.

  If by hard luck I do not get back this is my farewell to you my dear boy—which I know you will take very seriously and all your life I hope you will try to follow what I ask you to do.

  When you reach manhood I will be only a vague memory to you—like a dream it will be. But now I am a very real factor in your life. Your sweet mother can tell you how I adore you. But even she does not realize the depth of my affection for you. You are everything a son should be—devoted, unselfish, thoughtful, generous and honorable with an unusual sense of justice. You have I am very thankful to say many of your mothers traits.

  Your mother has been perfect to you absolutely devoted, unselfish and untiring where you are concerned. She has sacrificed herself for you ever since you were born and what I like most about you is that you appreciate her and love her above everything. You call her “sweet mommie” and every day when you return from playing outside you bring her something. When you walk with her you walk outside—nearest the street—to protect her from automobiles. You help her across the street and warn her not to stumble over stones, etc. Those little things my boy show that you are made of the right stuff. It is infinitely gratifying to me that you have sense enough and character enough to appreciate your mother. You have made her very happy. She may not need your help now but if I do not come back home she will need your help—you will have to take my place as much as you can.

  I have loved your mother since we were little children and I have never known her to do an unkind or unjust thing. She is the sweetest, purest human being I have ever known or have ever heard of. She is an angel—too good I am afraid for this world. My boy I worship her. She is the kind who never hesitates to sacrifice herself for those she loves and then think nothing of it nor look for credit.

  Youth is cruel and thoughtless and has little consideration for age, but I believe you will be an exception to this rule. I believe that you will always try to help your mother over the rough places just as you would like to do even now as a child. She is
very, very proud of you and so don't let shadow or stain ever darken your name. Anything dishonorable that you would do would break her heart.

  Whatever comes up you will find her the best sport you have ever known. I have never met a man whose sense of fair play and sportsmanship equaled hers. She is a thoroughbred—every inch of her.

  My last words to you my boy are to beg you to concentrate on your life to two things—first to understand, cherish and protect you mother—and secondly to emulate her in all matters. model yourself as much as you can after her for she is the finest person in the world.

  Don't forget the small attentions. Don't stop bringing her things when you go away and come back to her. If you marry for Gods sake dont select a woman who will not like your mother or who might come in between you and her. Women are jealous of each other—specially a wife of a mother. Do not marry too hastily.

  Your mother has an extraordinarily logical mind so you cannot go wrong if you will always take her advise. I have done so as a rule and she has never made a mistake.

  Dickie old boy do what your mother wants you to do. She is the only one in the world who will advise you with only your own good in view. But don't let her be too unselfish with you as she has with me.

  And so my boy I will end where I began—follow your mothers advise and try to make yourself as much as possible like her with her great sense of honor. She is the very soul of honor.

  Remember always that whatever she does is right. She can do no wrong. You and I want her happiness more than anything else in the world. Therefore whatever she may do to make her happy you must back up whole heartedly.

  Always put honor and your mother first. Goodbye my darling boy.

  Your devoted father