Posterity (7 page)

Your affectionate father
S P CHASE

After Kate engaged in a well-publicized affair with Senator Roscoe Conkling, her marriage to William Sprague ended. Her life went into a tailspin, and by the time of her death at fifty-eight years old, she had become a social recluse living in destitution.

A
LFRED
T
HAYER
M
AHAN TO
H
ELEN
E
VANS
M
AHAN

“Like yourself, I am naturally indifferent to others;
and for many years I thought it almost
something to be proud of.”

Adm. Alfred T. Mahan, naval officer and historian, was the world's greatest authority on sea power. His book
The Influence of Seapower Upon History
, published in 1890, revolutionized the way military and political leaders worldwide considered the importance of their navies. In it, Mahan convincingly demonstrated for the world that “command of the sea” determined the power of a nation.

Slender and erect with blue eyes, a bald head, and a carefully trimmed Vandyke beard, Alfred T. Mahan lectured his three children on everything from medical practices to which authors were acceptable to read. (William Shakespeare and Walter Scott were approved; Mark Twain was not.) Mahan's manner was shy and reserved, cold even, and he himself never successfully established close friendships. Yet he readily advised his daughters on the subject. Here he writes to his eldest child, seventeen-year-old Helen.

Newport
July 9, 1890

Do not read this
till you are quiet in
your own room.

My dear Helen:

Mamma has told me that you had asked her how you could make yourself care for persons whom you do not naturally love. The question shows a recognition, on your part, of a feature of your disposition which we have noticed for some time, and concerning which you need some advice.

In the first place, my dear child, you must not allow yourself to be worried about this trait of your character, which renders you indifferent to most persons, as though it were a
fault
, or a sin, for which you are originally responsible. It was born in you, without your will. But while it is not a fault, it is a very serious
defect
, against which you are bound as a Christian to strive, as earnestly as you would against any other natural defect, or weakness.

You will notice that indifference to other people, the failure to be moved by their happiness or sorrow, though not as bad as hatred, or ill-will, to them, is nevertheless as much opposed to that charity, or love, which our Lord and His apostles dwell upon as the great distinctive grace of the Christian character. It is well to note this. Like yourself, I am naturally indifferent to others; and for many years I thought it almost something to be proud of. I did not meddle with other people's business, which is undoubtedly a good thing; unfortunately, in me it was due to the fact that I did not care anything about their business, whether it went well or ill. It is only very lately that I have realized that it is not enough to refrain from, and keep under, bad or unkind feelings toward others; charity demands that we have toward them feelings of kindly interest; of sympathy; even of affection, in accordance with the relationship which they bear to us, as relatives, as friends, or as neighbors.

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.

W
ASHINGTON
A
.
R
OEBLING TO
J
OHN
R
OEBLING

“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]

T
HEODORE
R
OOSEVELT TO
Q
UENTIN
R
OOSEVELT

“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.