In 1784, William made the first overture, writing to his father that he wished to “revive that affectionate intercourse and connexion which till the commencement of the late troubles had been the pride and happiness of my life.” He acknowledged that his actions during the war had disappointed his father, yet he did not explicitly apologize for remaining loyal to Great Britian. The following letter is Benjamin Franklin's reply, written from France where he was America's Minister Plenipotentiary.
Passy, Aug. 16, 1784.
Dear Son,
I received your Letter of the 22d past, and am glad to find that you desire to revive the affectionate Intercourse, that formerly existed between us. It will be very agreeable to me; indeed nothing has ever hurt me so much and affected me with such keen Sensations, as to find myself deserted in my old Age by my only Son; and not only deserted, but to find him taking up Arms against me, in a Cause, wherein my good Fame, Fortune and Life were all at Stake. You conceived, you say, that your Duty to your King and Regard for your Country requir'd this. I ought not to blame you for differing in Sentiment with me in Public Affairs. We are Men, all subject to Errors. Our Opinions are not in our own Power; they are form'd and govern'd much by Circumstances, that are often as inexplicable as they are irresistible. Your Situation was such that few would have censured your remaining Neuter, tho' there are Natural Duties which precede political ones, and cannot be extinguish'd by them.
This is a disagreable Subject. I drop it. And we will endeavour, as you propose mutually to forget what has happened relating to it, as well as we can. I send your Son over to pay his Duty to you. You will find him much improv'd. He is greatly esteem'd and belov'd in this Country, and will make his Way anywhere. It is my Desire, that he should study the Law, as a necessary Part of Knowledge for a public Man, and profitable if he should have occasion to practise it. I would have you therefore put into his hands those Law-books you have, viz. Blackstone, Coke, Bacon, Viner, & c. He will inform you, that he received the Letter sent him by Mr. Galloway, and the Paper it enclosed, safe.
On my leaving America, I deposited with that Friend for you, a Chest of Papers, among which was a Manuscript of nine or ten Volumes, relating to Manufactures, Agriculture, Commerce, Finance, etc., which cost me in England about 70 Guineas; eight Quire Books, containing the Rough Drafts of all my Letters while I liv'd in London. These are missing. I hope you have got them, if not, they are lost. Mr. Vaughan has publish'd in London a Volume of what he calls my Political Works. He proposes a second Edition; but, as the first was very incompleat, and you had many Things that were omitted, (for I used to send you sometimes the Rough Drafts, and sometimes the printed Pieces I wrote in London,) I have directed him to apply to you for what may be in your Power to furnish him with, or to delay his Publication till I can be at home again, if that may ever happen.
I did intend returning this year; but the Congress, instead of giving me Leave to do so, have sent me another Commission, which will keep me here at least a Year longer; and perhaps I may then be too old and feeble to bear the Voyage. I am here among a People that love and respect me, a most amiable Nation to live with; and perhaps I may conclude to die among them; for my Friends in America are dying off, one after another, and I have been so long abroad, that I should now be almost a Stranger in my own Country.
I shall be glad to see you when convenient, but would not have you come here at present. You may confide to your son the Family Affairs you wished to confer upon with me, for he is discreet. And I trust, that you will prudently avoid introducing him to Company, that it may be improper for him to be seen with. I shall hear from you by him and any letters to me afterward, will come safe under Cover directed to Mr. Ferdinand Grand, Banker at Paris. Wishing you Health, and more Happiness than it seems you have lately experienced, I remain your affectionate father,
B. Franklin.
HERMAN MELVILLE TO MALCOLM MELVILLE
“. . . the sailors who held the plank tipped it up, and immediately the body slipped into
the stormy ocean . . .”
In late May of 1860, in Boston Harbor, Herman Melville boarded the clipper ship Meteor bound for a trip around the world. His younger brother, Thomas, was the captain; and he himself a passenger, aboard to regain his health and improve his outlook. Fortune had not been good to Melville. He was the author of the once-popular autobiographical adventure books Typee and Omoo, but his epic novel, Moby-Dick, had not been given the attention it deserved, and his subsequent work was savagely reviewed. He was forty-one years old and it now seemed he was unable to make a living at all. Encouraged by his family and financially supported by his understanding and generous father-in-law, Lemuel Shaw, Melville, seasick at first, departed New England leaving behind his wife and four children.
He wrote that he was bringing along on the voyage “plenty of old periodicals—lazy reading for lazy latitudes,” but he also carried with him volumes of poetry for serious study. He had begun, two years earlier, writing poetry in secret and before he sailed, he left with his brother Allan poems and explicit instructions for getting them published. He expected that a fresh volume of Poems by Herman Melville would be waiting for him when he arrived in San Francisco.
On September 1, 1860, headed north through the Pacific, Melville wrote to his eldest child, eleven-year-old Malcolm. He had been at sea for ninety-five days.
Pacific Ocean
(Off the coast of South America
On the Tropic of Capricorn)
Saturday September 1st 1860
My Dear Malcolm:
It is now three months exactly since the ship “Meteor” sailed from Boston—a quarter of a year. During this long period, she has been continually moving, and has only seen land on two days. I suppose you have followed out on the map (or my globe were better—so you get Mama to clean it off for you) the route from Boston to San Francisco. The distance, by the straight track, is about 16000 miles; but the ship will have sailed before she gets there nearer 18 or 20000 miles. So you see it is further than from the apple-tree to the big rock. When we crossed the Line in the Atlantic Ocean it was very warm; & we had warm weather for some weeks; but as we kept getting to the Southward it began to grow less warm, and then coolish, and cold and colder, till at last it was winter. I wore two flannel shirts, and big mittens & overcoat, and a great Russia cap, a very thick leather cap, so called by sailors. At last we came in sight of land all covered with snow—uninhabited land, where no one ever lived, and no one ever will live—it is so barren, cold and desolate. This was Staten Land—an island. Near it, is the big island of Terra del Fuego. We passed through between these islands, and had a good view of both. There are some “wild people” living on Terra del Fuego; but it being the depth of winter there, I suppose they kept in their caves. At any rate we saw none of them. The next day we were off Cape Horn, the Southernmost point of all America. Now it was very bad weather, and was dark at about three o'clock in the afternoon. The wind blew terribly. We had hailstorms, and snow and sleet, and often the spray froze as it touched the deck. The ship rolled, and sometimes took in so much water on the deck as to wash people off their legs. Several sailors were washed along the deck this way, and came near getting washed overboard. And this reminds me of a very sad thing that happened on the very morning we were off the Cape—I mean the very pitch of the Cape. —It was just about day-light; it was blowing a gale of wind, and Uncle Tom ordered the topsails (big sails) to be furled. Whilst the sailors were aloft on one of the yards, the ship rolled and plunged terribly; and it blew with sleet and hail, and was very cold & biting. Well, all at once, Uncle Tom saw something falling through the air, and then heard a thump, and then,—looking before him, saw a poor sailor lying dead on the deck. He had fallen from the yard, and was killed instantly.—His shipmates picked him up, and carried him under cover. By and by, when time could be spared, the sailmaker sewed up the body in a piece of sail-cloth, putting some iron balls—cannon balls—at the foot of it. And, when all was ready,
the body was put on a plank and carried to the ship's side in the prescence of all hands. Then Uncle Tom, as Captain, read a prayer out of the prayer-book, and at a given word, the sailors who held the plank tipped it up, and immediately the body slipped into the stormy ocean, and we saw it no more.—Such is the way a poor sailor is buried at sea. This sailor's name was Ray. He had a friend among the crew; and they were both going to California, and thought of living there; but you see what happened.
We were in this stormy weather about forty or fifty days, dating from the beginning. But now at last we are in fine weather again, and the sun shines warm.
When he reached San Francisco, Melville discovered that his poems had been rejected for publication. Disappointed, he abandoned the voyage with Thomas and returned to his family in New York.
SAM HOUSTON TO SAM HOUSTON, JR.
“If Texas demands your services or your life,
in her cause, stand by her.”
Sam Houston never wanted his state to secede and in 1861, as the governor of Texas and a slaveholder, he stood alone as a Southern Unionist. Yet when the Texas legislature made it plain that secession was in fact the will of the people, Houston quietly relinquished the governor's office and told a supporter, “I have done all I could to keep her from seceding, and now if she won't go with me I'll have to turn and go with her.” He had fought for the independence of Texas, led her as nation, maneuvered her into the Union, and served as her senator and governor: Sam Houston's loyalty to Texas never wavered.
Here he writes to the eldest of his eight children, Sam Houston, Jr., who at eighteen years old was eager to join the Confederate Army. Sam, Jr., did enlist the following year, was wounded at Shiloh, taken as prisoner by northern forces, and returned to Texas before the war's end and before his father's death. Sam Houston died with his family at his side at home in Huntsville in 1863. He was never to know the outcome of the war nor the fate of his beloved Texas.
Cedar Point, 23rd July, 1861
My Dear Son:
Supposing that on last night you had a fine wet time of it, and the benefit of a pleasant today for drill, I write to you as I can send it by Mr. Armstrong, who wishes to take Tom some shoes.
I am happy to tell you that we are all well, except Willie, who has a chill, but I hope that it will be the last; and Sally has been ill of fever, but today she is much better. Will be well I hope soon. Had my friend Dr. Smith been at home, I would have sent for him. Now a days Esculapius is transformed to Mars.
I had hoped, my dear son, that in retirement my mind would be engrossed, so far as I am concerned with the affairs of the times, in the cares of my Domestic circle and matters concerning my family alone, and that I could live in peace. In the train of events now transpiring, I think I perceive disasters to Texas. The men and arms are all leaving this quarter of the theatre in the great Drama, which is playing, and is to be played. I know not how much statesmanship Lincoln may have, or Generalship at his command, and therefore I would not be wise to Prophesy. But looking at matters as they seem to me, his wise course, I would say is, that Texas is his great point in which to make a lodgment and thereby make a diversion from the seat of war. Texas in his possession, and the Gulf is his with Fort Pickens as a convenient Point. The assault upon Texas will require two armies & weaken the army of Eastern operations. If Texas is attacked she must be in her present isolated condition. She can look for no aid from the Confederacy, and must either succumb or defend herself. Are our means sufficient to do this? What is her situation as has been represented by the newspapers? Has she arms, men, ammunition, in an emergency to defend herself? Arkansas is crying for help. Our frontier is again assailed by the Indians, and she will be left alone in her straits without means. Missouri must yield to the pressure by which she is surrounded. The States of Illinois, Iowa, Indiana, Minnesota, Nebraska, and Kansas must soon silence her, and then Arkansas without means, as she says, must be overrun, and then Texas must be the Ultimate Point in the campaign of subjugation and spoil. Under these circumstances, it is wise for her to send, unasked and at the instigation of “Major Marshall,” her men and arms? That wretch has been a blotch on humanity and will be a scab on Texas. I am ready, as I have ever been, to die for my country, but to die without a hope of benefit by my death is not my wish. The well-being of my country is the salvation of my family; But to see it surrendered to Lincoln, as sheep in the shambles, is terrible to me.
I fear that within twenty days, or less, an assault will be made upon some part of our coast, and how are we prepared to repel it? Have we men? Will we have means? Our troops with leaders, have never been beaten, and with good ones, they will always be invincible. Will Major Marshall, McLeod, Sherman, or the gallant men made by the Convention, or the Committees of vigilance, save us in an hour of peril? Does anyone suppose that proclamations by a Clark will save the Country in the hour of her peril; yet no one else has power but those to whom I have referred! The fact that a park of flying artillery is on the vessel now in our harbor is proof that a landing is designed somewhere on the coast. The question arises: is it wise to send our men and arms at the instance of Major Marshall!
These matters, my son, I have written to you, and have to say in conclusion, if Texas did not require your services, and you wished to go elsewhere, why then all would be well, but as she will need your aid, your first allegiance is due to her and let nothing cause you in a moment of ardor to assume any obligation to any other power whatever, without my consent. If Texas demands your services or your life, in her cause, stand by her.
Houston is not, nor will be a favorite name in the Confederacy! Thus, you had best keep your duty and your hopes together, and when the Drill is over, come home. Your Dear Ma and all of us send best love to you and Martin. Give my regards to General Rogers, Colonel Daly, & Dr. Smith. When will you be home my son! Thy Devoted Father,
Sam Houston
RICHARD E. BYRD TO RICHARD E. BYRD
“I have named a big new land after mommie . . .”
In September 1928, Richard E. Byrd was preparing to depart on his immense exploratory expedition to Antarctica. He spent his last days at home in Boston filling his mind with impressions of his wife and four children, “snatching them like a glutton,” he wrote. As he began his journey, filled with “heart-sinking doubt,” he asked himself, “Why are you doing this?” His answer was found in a quotation from the Norwegian explorer Fridtjof Nansen, “Man wants to know and when he does not want to know he ceases to be a man.”
Plans for the expedition had been in the works for years. It was an enormous undertaking, privately funded with more than $500,000, and included four ships, sixty-five men, four airplanes, and 178 dogs. In the end, after nearly two years in the polar freeze, the expedition had made the first flight over the South Pole, photographed some 150,000 square miles of Antarctica, discovered two mountain ranges and a ten-thousand-foot peak, and claimed for the United States a vast new area that had never been seen before, Marie Byrd Land, named for the admiral's wife.
Here forty-year-old Byrd writes from Antarctica to eight-year-old “Dickie.”
[February 22, 1929]
Dear Dickie—
I have named a big new land after mommie because mommie is the sweetest finest and nicest and best person in the world. Take good care of her and be awfully sweet to her while I'm away.
I love you my dear boy.
Daddy
Little America
Antarctica
LINCOLN STEFFENS TO PETE STEFFENS
“. . . horses, pigs and sheep were frightened by us . . . while farmers looked up at us and automobiles
halted to watch us as we zoomed along.”
In 1931, journalist and reformer Lincoln Steffens was enjoying a renewed success at age sixty-five. He published his autobiography that year—during the hard times of the Great Depression—and it had become a major best seller. Delighted, Steffens wrote to his sister, “My humble lecture tour is developing into a triumph. Everybo
dy seems to have read (and bought) my book and . . . most of them have an emotional sense of it.”
Here, on tour for The Autobiography of Lincoln Steffens, during the very early years of commercial aviation, the author writes with exhilaration and wonder to seven-year-old Pete, at home in Carmel, California.
Plaza Hotel
San Antonio, Texas,
Dec. 9, 1931
Dear Pete,
I flew yesterday in one of those big passenger planes from Louisville to Memphis and I meant to fly farther to near here, but the rain and fog stopped all flights that day, so I came on by train. I'll tell you about it.
The plane I was to take was coming from Cincinnati, so I took a taxi and went to the airport in Louisville to meet it. There were some clouds out there but the weather man said we could fly, and when the big plane came swooping in and the other passengers got out, we were told to “all aboard.” I ducked low to get in and took a seat on the right side, buckled the strap around me and settled down comfortably. My bag had been checked like on a train. I had a window to myself and there were eight other passengers. The pilots were two young men, about 20–24, who looked strong, confident, very competent. Both went up to their station, which is closed off, apart; they had the motors going already. With one glance around at us, one of them started us across the field; he paused, started the motors flying so fast you could not see them and we raced around the field, took off,—we were flying. The ground sank away as we lifted and turned to take our direction, and what surprised me was they did not seem to go fast. You could see by the way we passed trains and autos that we were going at great speed, but it did not seem fast. That is because, up there, you can see so far ahead objects, like hills, rivers and towns, that you seem to approach them slowly. We sailed along making a great, regular noise (the motors) but we moved evenly, steadily, and swung around heights very smoothly, bending way over. We were going fast, to Memphis, I thought. There was nothing to do for a long while. Some passengers read papers. I watched the country,—all marked up in farms,—blow by under us for perhaps two hours.
Posterity: Letters of Great Americans to Their Children Page 22