Part 1

THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER _by Nan Britton_

_Published by_ _E_LIZABETH _A_NN _G_UILD INC.

_New York, U.S.A., 1927_----[Illustration]----

COPYRIGHT, 1927, _by_ ELIZABETH ANN GUILD, INC.

_All rights reserved_

Including Translations, Reproductions, Reprinting in Newspapers or Periodicals. Quotation from this book restricted to three hundred words except by special permission of the publishers

_Printed in the United States of America_

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

The engraving of the illustrations and the printing of this entire book were done by the Polygraphic Company of America, Inc., New York, who employed the CONTRASTO process of printing.

“There is no such thing as concealment”

--_Ralph Waldo Emerson in the Essay on Compensation_

“Only by frankness concerning the truth that hurts can we secure a sustained respect for the truth that helps”

--_Glenn Frank, President, University of Wisconsin_

HER EYES

By NAN BRITTON

Sometimes her eyes are blue as deep sea-blue, And calm as waters stilled at evenfall. I see not quite my child in these blue eyes, But him whose soul shines wondrously through her. Serene and unafraid he was, and knew How to dispel the fears in other hearts, Meeting an anxious gaze all tranquilly: These are her father’s eyes.

Sometimes her eyes are blue--the azure blue Of an October sky on mountain-tops. I do not see my child in these blue eyes; They are the eyes of him whose spirit glowed With happiness of soul alone which lies Far deeper than the depths of bluest eyes-- Whose smile a thing of joy it was to see: These eyes, this smile, are his.

Sometimes her eyes are of a tired gray-blue, Filled with the sadness of an age-old world. And then again my child’s not in these eyes; These are the eyes of one whom grief assailed, Whom disappointment crushed with its great weight. Around his head a halo memory casts, Reflecting that refiner’s fire which purged Him clean, and made him what he was.

Sometimes in child-amaze and wonder-blue Her baby eyes are lifted up to mine. These only are the eyes she brought with her. And so I fold her close within my arms And talk of dolls, and stars, and mother-love, For well I know that pitifully soon She will be grown, and then her eyes will hold Only the deeper lights--his own eyes knew!

_Reprinted by permission from_ THE NEW YORK TIMES

DEDICATION

this Book is dedicated with understanding and love to all unwedded mothers, and to their innocent children whose fathers are usually not known to the world....

_Nan Britton_

THE AUTHOR’S MOTIVE

If love is the only right warrant for bringing children into the world then many children born in wedlock are illegitimate and many born out of wedlock are legitimate.

In the author’s opinion wedlock as a word quite defines itself. Often a man and woman are locked at their wedding in a forced fellowship which soon proves to be loveless and during which the passions of the two express themselves in witless and unwanted progeny. And yet we wonder what is wrong with the world!

The story of my life-long love for Warren Gamaliel Harding and his love for me and our love for our child is told in these pages, together with the family, community, and political circumstances under which this relationship continued for the six and one-half years preceding the sudden passing of the President on August 2, 1923.

The author has had but one motive in writing for publication the story of her love-life with Mr. Harding. This motive is grounded in what seems to her to be _the need for legal and social recognition and protection of all children in these United States born out of wedlock_.

To the author, this cause warrants the unusual and conscious frankness with which she has written this book, and the apparent disregard for the so-called conventions, because she feels that _the issue is greater than all the personal sacrifices involved_.

Indeed, even like frankness on the part of thousands of mothers who could divulge similar life-tragedies might well be added to that of the author’s if such sacrifice would insure the aggressive agitation of a question involving one of the gravest wrongs existent today, with a view toward a legislative remedy.

Because of the political stature of the man-character involved, this fact-story would no doubt get to the public sooner or later, as news, or as court testimony in trials such as have recently involved men who are or have been national figures. In such case the story so sacred to the author would doubtless be garbled by news writers, or told only partially to serve some legal, personal or party interest. The author feels therefore that through her experiences she has been led to see the need for telling it herself, truly and completely, and in making it the basis for an appeal in behalf of the unfathered children of unwedded mothers, in the sincere hope that this book may result in happier conditions for childhood and motherhood throughout these United States of America.

Much consideration has been given by the author to all probable reactions resulting from the publication of this book. The fact that this narrative is bound up with the life of a man who has held the highest office in this land may mean that temporarily he may be misjudged. But the author, who has shrined him in reverent memory, feels in her heart that these revelations cannot but inspire added love for him after his trials and humanities are perceived and acknowledged.

Moreover, the author is obliged to introduce to a none-too-kindly world the daughter of her love-union with Mr. Harding and thus subject her to curious gaze and speculation. The author regrets this as any mother would, but feels that in no way can she effectively show her understanding love for all children except by baring her own experience, in the hope that the notability of the case itself may influence regard for the welfare of children and help to right an old and current wrong.

Nor, indeed, does the author herself hope to escape criticism unless her real motive is definitely apprehended and conceded. It has required no little heart-break on her part to relive the story of her love-life, but it had to be relived in memory that the story might be portrayed truthfully. Only by keeping before her the human cause which impelled the writing, and a constant hope that through her own suffering she might be instrumental in preventing the heartaches of thousands of potential mothers, has this been possible.

Knowing the real President Harding as she does, the author feels that if he could be brought back today to witness the futile struggle the mother of his only child has suffered, he himself would proclaim his own fatherhood, and seek to open eyes blinded by convention to a situation which is depriving thousands of innocent children of their natural birthright in denying them legal recognition before the world. In the author’s opinion, _there should be no so-called “illegitimates” in these United States_.

It is to be remembered that all children must be precious in the sight of our Father, otherwise he would not be a heavenly father, and that Jesus of Nazareth did _not_ say, “Suffer little children born in wedlock to come unto me for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Jesus loved and honored all little children and didn’t bother at all about who their parents were or about the manner of their birth. He himself was born in a manger which was most unconventional.

As a result of the author’s own personal experiences written in this book, and because of the thousands of prospective mothers who face unknowingly like tragic situations, she feels that an organized effort should be made to secure State and Federal legislation providing the following benefits for unwedded mothers and unfathered children:

_First_: That on the birth of a child the name of the father be _correctly_ registered in the public records, and that failure to do so shall constitute a criminal offense.

_Second_: That every child born in the United States of America be regarded as legitimate whether born within or without wedlock.

The enactment of these statutes would not, in the author’s opinion, detract from the dignity of the marriage-union which automatically legalizes children born therein, but would insure protection for those innocent children born of a love-union in which one or both parents are unmarried.

_Readers of this book who agree with the author that this entire situation constitutes a Cause, and who feel with her that members should be gathered into the Elizabeth Ann League to collectively urge the proposed legislation suggested above to provide social equality among children, are invited to write her a personal letter in care of the publishers {see title page}._

THE AUTHOR

FOREWORD

The author desires to express gratitude to the many public-spirited men and women who have shared her earnest in the cause sponsored by this book; also to those friends whose knowledge and review of the facts herein recorded have contributed to their chronological correctness.

The author early sought legal counsel regarding the use of the letters from which she has quoted in this book, and others unmentioned by her. She was advised that the copyright of these letters remains with those who wrote them and she has therefore been obliged by law to paraphrase them or quote only partially. The originals of all these letters from President Harding, Mrs. Ralph T. Lewis (Abigail Harding), Mr. Heber Herbert Votaw, Mrs. Heber Herbert Votaw (Carolyn Harding), Tim Slade (as he is called in this book), Hon. James M. Cox, Democratic nominee for President in 1920, Mr. C. E. Witt of the Picture Publicity Bureau of the Republican National Committee during the Harding Campaign, and others, are in the possession of her publishers and may be read by any persons whose request appears justified.

_The_ PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER

_1_

I was born in Claridon, Ohio, a very small village about ten miles east of Marion, Ohio, on November 9th, 1896. My father, a physician, was at that time practising under the supervision of his cousin, an older physician who had an established practice of long standing. My mother, who had received some of her high school training in Marion, where she had come from New Philadelphia, Ohio, to live with her maternal grandmother, was teaching a country school in Claridon when father met her. I was still a baby and my older sister Elizabeth about three when we moved to Marion, where we settled permanently.

Inasmuch as this book has much to do with President Harding and myself, I may sketch briefly the friendly relations which existed early between our families:

While my father was working up a practice in Claridon, Mr. Harding, then in his twenties, was struggling with Marion’s now well-known newspaper, _The Marion Daily Star_. Father, being himself somewhat of a writer, often wrote humorously to Mr. Harding of his experiences among the country-folk, and these letters were edited by Mr. Harding and published in his paper; I remember Mr. Harding’s telling me how delighted he always was to receive them.

My father always spoke of Mr. Harding with warmest affection, and, later on, was one of Mr. Harding’s strongest advocates despite the fact that my father was a Democrat. It is very likely that they developed mutual regard and affection for each other back in those days of ambitious editor and country doctor. Certainly no finer tributes could be paid any man than those which I have myself heard from Mr. Harding concerning my father.

Mr. Harding’s father was a physician also, and this fact may have strengthened the bond of friendship which early grew to warm regard. As far back as I can remember Dr. Harding had his office in the old _Star_ Building, right across the hall from his editor-son. I believe it is only recently that he has discontinued active practice. I know he has passed his eighty-second birthday.

My mother’s attitude in the matter of my relationship to Mr. Harding has not been conducive to discussion with her about her own early acquaintance with the Harding family, but this I know: she must have been attending high school at the same time that _some_ of the Hardings were, because she is only a few years Abigail Harding’s senior.

There were, as Miss Abigail Harding has often told me, three “sets” of Harding children: first came Warren, the eldest, then Charity, these two forming the first set; then came “Deac” (Dr. George Tryon Harding III, only brother of Warren) and presumably Mary, the sister who was almost blind and who died about 1910, I think, soon after Warren Harding’s mother passed on; then came Abigail, known to everyone as “Daisy” Harding, and lastly Carolyn, the “baby” of the family. It seems to me there was a child who died very early, though I am not sure about this.

My mother had a sister Della who also lived a good part of the time with mother’s and her maternal grandmother, Mrs. Mary Richards, in Marion, and, I believe, went to school there also. Della Williams married a missionary to Burma, India, Howard E. Dudley. Some time after, Carolyn Harding also married a missionary to Burma, Heber Herbert Votaw. Up to that time “Carrie” and “Dell” had been friends, if not intimate at least upon the friendliest kind of terms.

However, their husbands were missionaries of decidedly different denominations. Carrie Harding married a Seventh Day Adventist and my Aunt Dell married a Baptist. So from then on their paths diverged. Diverged indeed so widely that my first recollection of hearing the Hardings discussed at any great length is identified with a heated argument between Aunt Dell and my older sister Elizabeth. I remember that Aunt Dell was almost ferocious in her condemnation of the Seventh Day Adventists and their religion which, to her certain knowledge, she said, was a detrimental influence upon the natives wherever it was promulgated.

At that time Mrs. Carrie Harding Votaw’s cause was warmly espoused by my older sister who, then in high school and in the English class of Miss Abigail Harding, had met and had developed a girlish “crush” upon her sister, the missionary. I cannot forget that argument, which resulted in more or less of a family quarrel (for even my parents’ loyalty was divided) and was responsible for my aunt’s sudden departure. She took occasion to denounce the Seventh Day Adventist religion before a group of her own denomination at a camp meeting and almost immediately flounced out of the city with her very picturesque family.

This must have been about 1908 or 1909. The following year, 1910, I entered high school and _my_ English teacher was Miss Abigail Victoria Harding. Curiously enough, I thought that I could see in this sister of the missionary mannerisms which were decidedly peculiar to my Aunt Dell, whom I had quite adored in spite of the family incident recited above. Up to this time I had remained neutral.

However, seeing Miss Harding day after day, and agreeing heartily with the general dictum that she was a very beautiful woman, I came to idolize her. And thereafter my respect for her sister’s religion was a matter of course. English became my favorite study--a study for which I would neglect if needs be all other assignments. As a matter of fact, Miss Harding inspired me with such pride in my ability to excel that during that year I was made exempt from all final examinations, having kept my grade standing 90 or above.

_2_

Nineteen-ten was an epochal year in my life. Ohio was electing a Governor, and the Republican candidate of that famous gubernatorial election was no other than the brother of my adored English teacher! I have often tried to remember how this knowledge was first conveyed to me; whether I had actually known that there was a Warren Gamaliel Harding from hearing conversations about him at home, whether I had been first introduced to his existence through talks with Miss Harding on one of the many “walks home” we used to have; whether I had heard of him through one whom I will call Mrs. Sinclair, whose husband, a judge and a prominent Democrat in Ohio, played cards with Mr. Harding very often; or whether I beheld his picture, ubiquitously displayed in almost every store window on Main and Center Streets, as I walked to and from high school. My early recollections are not so much concerned with actually seeing him as with the unforgettable sensations I experienced after I had once seen him and knew that he was for me my “ideal American.”

If I had ever childishly allied myself with my father’s political party, the Democrats, I withdrew instantly in favor of the party advocated by my mother’s family, and from then on I was a full-fledged Republican.

It must have kept me pretty busy to maintain a high average in school and at the same time become the self-appointed spokesman into which I developed during those stirring pre-election days. Warren Harding and Warren Harding’s future formed my life’s background, and whether or not anyone else credited me with the capacity for such a cumulative emotion as love, _I_ knew that I was in love with Warren Harding.

Certain people, including Abigail and Carolyn Harding, speaking truthfully, could tell you of the spectacle I made of myself those months, and indeed in years that followed, for I talked about their brother incessantly; no, I did not talk, I _raved_. I was fourteen years old, or going on fourteen, an age when one would think a wife of a man Warren Harding’s age (he must have been about forty-five then and Mrs. Harding six or seven years his senior) would be entirely free from any feeling of jealousy regarding a mere child. But I remember well when Mrs. Sinclair telephoned my mother, and with friendly solicitude advised her to curb my girlish enthusiasm, or at least try to quiet me vocally, for my own sake! She said that at the most recent meeting of the Twigs (the most fashionable older ladies’ club in Marion), to which Mrs. Harding also belonged but who was absent on that occasion, “Nan Britton” had been almost the sole topic of conversation, and furthermore the ladies thought it quite scandalous that I should be so freely declaring my adoration for a married man. Of course mother did also, but apparently I didn’t!

My mother used to try to inspire me with antipathy for Mr. Harding and the thing she cited more than anything else was his fondness for tobacco. She would come home from downtown and say, “I saw Mr. Harding standing such-and-such a place, _chewing tobacco_!” But neither this information nor the withering disdain of mother’s grimace affected me in the least. I think he must have given up this habit later on; I know I never saw him in later years use tobacco in any form except cigars and cigarettes.

In order for my adoration to appear more “in form” I conceived the idea of affecting a crush on Mrs. Harding. She was not my “type” of heroine at all, but I used to pretend I was a great admirer of her anyway. I remember how I used to telephone the Harding residence when I thought Mr. Harding might be there and might answer the phone. I would shut myself up in our “back bedroom” which was away from the rest of the house and where the telephone hung on the wall, and then softly give central the number. I was always afraid mother might hear me. Often the maid answered the telephone. When this occurred I would ask for Mrs. Harding. Sometimes she herself would answer. Once, I remember, mother came in while I was calling and demanded to know to whom I was talking. When I said “Mrs. Harding,” she took the receiver and talked with her herself. It may have been that very time when Mrs. Harding informed mother that she could tell Nan that so far as “Warren” was concerned, “distance lends enchantment.” But there were those rare times when he himself answered the telephone, when he would say upon my telling him it was “Nan Britton,” “Well, how-do-you-do, Miss Britton; and how are you?” in that silvery voice I so loved, and I would immediately become so confused and tremble so I thought he must sense it all from the other end of the wire.

I knew the number of the Harding car by heart and could spot it blocks away. One time I had occasion to go to the Union Station to meet someone and when I reached there I saw the Harding Stevens-Duryea parked outside. The Harding dog then was a bull, rather a fearsome looking animal, and he was always in the car whenever it was out. I was so full of love for Mr. Harding that it extended to any possession of his, and when I observed that dignified creature sitting alert in the front seat alone, I walked over to the car to pet him. But he was “on his job” and snapped at me so fiercely that I backed off with all possible speed. Thereafter I confined my manifestations of affection to the Hardings themselves.

_3_

About this time we were asked in school by Miss Harding to write an essay on Sir Walter Scott’s _Ivanhoe_, the particular chapter we had to cover being “The Combat with the Templar.” I think we were given something like a week to complete the writing. I worked upon little else during that time--dreaming over it and sitting up with it into the “wee sma’ hours of the morning.” I prefaced my composition with “Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall,” a quotation I had heard my mother repeat. The fatal day arrived, and I handed in my composition with fear and trembling--albeit with sufficient confidence in its worth to make me wish I had kept a copy of it to read over to myself. I was not conscious that I was being discussed by the pupils in Miss Harding’s other classes until someone informed me that she had read my essay to all of her classes. And then she even read it before my own class! But what was most gloriously compensating for my labor was her statement to me in private that she had taken my essay over to “brother Warren’s” and had read it aloud to him and to Mrs. Harding as a sample of what her better pupils could do. Then my happiness knew no bounds.

Upon the sloping walls of my modest little bedroom hung three or four pictures of Mr. Harding, cut from the election posters and all the same except that I had varied the style of the frames in which they were set, which frames I had purchased with careful reference to size and suitability from Marion’s one and only five-and-ten-cent store! One of these pictures hung directly in front of my bed so that when I awoke in the morning I looked into the handsome face of him whom I loved, and saw his likeness the last thing before turning off my light.

One day father came home and said he had ridden some distance on the street car with Mr. Harding. I was immediately all aflutter and demanded to know just what had been said. Father said he had outlined for Mr. Harding my advancing campaign in his behalf--in short, they had discussed “this foolish talk” of mine. But evidently Mr. Harding’s verdict as to what should be done with me was not strictly condemnatory for his words were, “Bring her into my office sometime! Perhaps if she _sees_ me----”