Chapter 5

No better evidence of the effect of maternal influence on the careers of successful Americans need be adduced than that which is offered here.

In the lives of the Presidents of the United States, it is found that the nation owes much to American mothers.

George Washington was only eleven years old when his father died, leaving the widowed mother, Mary Washington, with five children to educate and direct. She used daily to gather her children around her and teach them the principles of religion and morality from a little manual in which she wrote all her maxims.

That manual was preserved by Washington as one of his most valued treasures, "and was consulted by me many times in after-life." A French general, on retiring from the presence of Mary Washington, remarked: "It is not surprising that America should produce great men, since she can boast of such mothers."

Andrew Jackson.

A few days previous to the birth of Andrew Jackson his father died, and the widow and her two little sons rode to the churchyard in the wagon with the coffin. The support of the family fell, then, entirely upon the mother. She went to the home of her brother-in-law and there engaged herself as housekeeper.

Until her sons were old enough to take care of themselves she toiled for them, clothed them, and educated them as best she could.

Many stories are told of Mrs. Jackson's benevolence, her thrift, her decision of character, and "a rigid honesty and pride of good name that went hand in hand with a quick and jealous self-respect which was not likely to be patient under any injustice."

When Andrew Jackson became President, he said of his mother:

"One of the last injunctions given me by her was never to institute a suit for assault and battery, or for defamation; never to wound the feelings of others, nor suffer my own to be outraged. These were her words of admonition to me. I remember them well, and have never failed to respect them."

Thomas Jefferson.

Thomas Jefferson's father died when the lad was fourteen, and then his mother became more than ever his companion and adviser. Thomas had, indeed, always lived more under the influence of his mother than of his busy father. She was a woman of unusual refinement of character, having the culture of the best society. Thus equipped, she assumed the training of Thomas. Upon the death of her husband she found herself her children's guardian, responsible for a vast entailed estate that was to go to the eldest son, Thomas.

John Quincy Adams.

John Quincy Adams's father was devoted to his family; but, engrossed in political activities, he was frequently absent from home for long periods. From the hour in which the boy learned to talk, his mental activities received an uncommon stimulus from his mother.

"Being taught by my mother to love my country," wrote John Quincy Adams, when he became President, "I did it literally by learning to love the actual hills and rocks and trees, and the very birds and animals." And he added elsewhere: "All that I am my mother made me."

It is an interesting coincidence that the three martyred Presidents should each have been peculiarly dominated by a mother's influence.

Abraham Lincoln.

That expression of habitual melancholy in Lincoln's face, for example, was really a reproduction of the features of Nancy Hanks Lincoln, his mother. For, through long drudgery and privation, in cabin after cabin, Mrs. Lincoln had lost all her comeliness, and became bent and care-worn and sad-faced while Abraham was still an impressionable youth.

How Lincoln reverenced that mother is told by all his biographers. She it was who, possessing the accomplishments of reading and writing, not common at that time among the poor people of Kentucky, taught Abraham his letters and gave him his first lessons in writing.

When Mrs. Lincoln died her son spent months roving the woods, vainly trying to recover from his grief. The mother was buried without any funeral service, there being no minister in the vicinity. But Abraham traversed the country for twenty miles in every direction till he found an itinerant preacher and induced him to come to his mother's grave and there preach a funeral sermon.

"Now," he said, "I have henceforth but one purpose in life: to live as she would have me live."

And in after years Lincoln was deeply and visibly affected whenever he heard of any incident involving the love of mother and son.

James A. Garfield.

What a contrast is this experience of Lincoln's to that of General Ulysses S. Grant, whose mother survived his Presidential career, and to that of Garfield, whose mother lived to stand by his side when he read his inaugural address on the steps of the Capitol and then to weep at his tomb! And to that of McKinley, upon whose venerable mother the eyes of the nation were turned with tender interest on March 4, 1897, when she was the first person to whom McKinley spoke as President of the United States!

"Eliza," said the father of James A. Garfield to his wife, on his dying-bed in a log cabin in the wilderness bordering the Ohio River, "I have brought you four young saplings into these woods. Take care of them."

The future President was then only two years old. His mother was left to fight the battle of life alone. She managed, by hard work, to run the little farm, and even found time to give her sons daily lessons in Bible-reading. Upon James in particular she impressed her personality, until her own high nature dominated him deeply.

When James was old enough he drove mules on the tow-path of the Ohio Canal. One pay-day his wages fell short of the proper amount.

"I want every cent for my mother," he said to his employer, insisting upon the few extra pennies.

Finally he earned enough to enable him to enter the seminary at Chester, ten miles from his home. While there, he spent a certain holiday, with his classmates, on a mountain. As darkness gathered about them--they were to remain overnight--Garfield took a Testament from his pocket and said:

"Boys, I read a chapter every night simultaneously with my mother. If you please, I will read it now."

And on the day of his inauguration, he turned to his mother, saying:

"It's all because of you, mother."

William McKinley.

At the outbreak of the Rebellion a "war meeting" was held in Poland, Ohio, in the Sparrow Tavern. There were speaking and beating of drums, and finally an appeal for volunteers to defend the flag. The first to step forth was William McKinley, Jr.

"No, my son," said the senior McKinley, laying a restraining hand upon his son's arm; "you are too young."

"No, he is not too young--none are too young to carry a light in this dark hour."

The speaker was William's mother.

"And thus, strange to say," wrote William McKinley, years afterward, "the usual order of things was in my case reversed: my father would have held me back from the mighty struggle that was to ensue, on the ground that I was only eighteen years old; and my mother was the one to say 'Go!' For she had, and still has, a strong and passionate patriotism. Next to God, she loves her country. She believed in freedom, and was ready to offer up even a woman's most priceless jewel--her child--to save her country's flag. She had convictions, and the intellectual powers to impress those around her--impressing most of all her son."

McKinley's mother was still living at Canton, Ohio, at the age of eighty-seven, at the time of her son's first inauguration as President. That day a seemingly trifling incident endeared the new President in the hearts of the mothers of the country. For William McKinley, as soon as he had taken the oath of office, went to his mother and kissed her.

Levi P. Morton.

Levi P. Morton once established a dry-goods house in New York, and failed. But to his creditors he gave all he possessed, settling for fifty cents on the dollar. Years afterward he made a great success as a banker, and then he again gave thought to those whom he had not paid in full as a merchant.

One day all his former creditors received invitations to a banquet. His guests took their seats at the table, and as each opened his napkin he found a check for the full amount of his claim, with interest.

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Morton, "the one who deserves the credit for the--shall we say favors of the evening?--is not your host, but the mother who, by her early influence, has guided him through life. My father's salary as the village parson was not sufficient for all the household expenses; so I went to clerking in the village store for a few dollars a month. When I brought my wages to my mother she said:

"'Levi, do you owe any of this money to anybody? Yes? Then go at once and pay it, if it takes every dollar. If you owe money, you are not a free boy.'

"My emancipation to-night, gentlemen, is the direct result of that mother's early counsel."

Rockefeller and Rogers.

"My mother," says John D. Rockefeller, "taught me to make everything count. When I became partner in a grocery, I got some barrels of beans--cheap, because there were many black ones among them. I expected to sell them cheap, too. But my mother said:

"'John, put in all your spare time, night and day, sorting those beans, and then they will be all extra quality and you can sell them at an extra price.'

"For weeks I worked, picking over those beans, by hand, throwing out all the black ones. It was a lesson I have never forgotten. Through me, my mother says to all young men:

"'Throw the worthless out of your life; make everything count.'"

Henry H. Rogers, of the Standard Oil Company, said recently:

"Up to a very few years ago I went to my mother with all my joys and all my woes, just as I did when a boy."

Once a week, in Fairhaven, the model Massachusetts town for which Mr. Rogers has done so much, he drives to the grave of that mother whom he loved.

In his mother's cottage while she lived (she would never consent to move into the great new castle her son built) Mr. Rogers put a long-distance telephone. Then, every morning in his New York office, at eleven o'clock precisely, in the very midst of the battle for millions, he would call a truce for a few minutes "to telephone my mother."

Stephen V. White.

Stephen V. White, "Deacon White," one of the most trusted men in Wall Street, has a long strip of canvas hanging on his office-wall on which are painted, in large letters, these lines:

I shall pass through this world but once; Any good thing which in passing I can do, Or any kindness I can show to any human being, Let me do it now; Let me not defer it, Nor neglect it, For I shall not pass this way again.

"That's my philosophy of life," says Mr. White, "as my mother taught it to me. Every young man should copy those lines and put the copy in the finest frame he can afford. For those lines I owe my mother much; it was she who made me repeat them over and over."

Edwin Markham, "The Man with the Hoe," says:

"It was the influence of my mother--my father having died--that dominated me. She was an extraordinary woman. She kept a general store in Oregon City, and conducted the business with remarkable energy. She was known as the 'Woman Poet of Oregon.'

"It was from her that I got my poetical bent. Her poems were full of feeling and of the earnestness of a strong religious spirit. They were published only in newspapers--and to-day my scrap book containing poems written by my mother is my most precious possession."

John Wanamaker.

"When you marry," said John Wanamaker, to a young men's Bible class, "remember that your mother-in-law is your wife's mother. Never allow a so-called 'mother-in-law joke' to make you forget that you are reading a reflection on some one's mother. My own mother I reverenced. Her maxims taught me forbearance, tolerance, and the homely lesson of live and let live."

The mother of Henry O. Havemeyer, the "Sugar King," urged her son to don overalls and go to work in his father's refinery--though the family was even then very rich.

"So my mother taught me," says Mr. Havemeyer, "to know the joy of work at a time when I might have slipped into a life of idleness."

The Rev. Dr. Charles H. Parkhurst, the well-known New York clergyman, says:

"My father was a farmer, and my mother, with four children on her hands, and no servant, did all the work of a farmer's wife. Her days were long, for she also devoted herself to her children, to their character and education, declining to farm us out to the supervision of nurses or school-teachers. My mother had the old-fashioned notion that children were born of mothers in order that they might have mothers to bring them up."

David Starr Jordan, president of Leland Stanford University, was asked what great man or woman most influenced him as a boy.

He replied, in writing:

"I was far more influenced by my mother than by any other person I ever knew or heard of."

Fulton, Franklin, and Astor.

Robert Fulton was only three years old when his father died. "So that," he said, "I grew up under the care of my blessed mother. She developed my early talent for drawing and encouraged me in my visits to the machine-shops of the town."

Robert was a dull pupil at school, however, and the teacher complained to his mother. Whereupon Mrs. Fulton replied proudly:

"My boy's head, sir, is so full of original notions that there is no vacant chamber in which to store the contents of your musty books."

"I was only ten years old at that time," said Fulton, "and my mother seemed to be the only human being who understood my natural bent for mechanics."

The fact that Fulton's mother let the boy have his own way in his "original notions" had its direct result later in the building of the first steamboat.

Benjamin Franklin many times, in his own story of his life, mentions the powerful influence which his mother had over him, referring to her always with peculiar affection.

"My son," said that mother, "is endowed with more than ordinary talent, and he shall enter one of the professions, perhaps the ministry."

The family was then very poor, the elder Franklin having no ambition beyond that of making a bare competence as a ship-chandler. Encouraged by his mother, however, young Benjamin "took to books" with such ardor that before he was ten years old his mother spoke of him as "our little professor," and added:

"He shall serve either humanity or his country; the one as a minister of the Gospel, the other as a diplomat."

The first John Jacob Astor said: "Whatever I have accomplished through thrift is due to the teachings of my mother. She trained me to the habit of early rising; she made me devote the first waking hours to reading the Bible. Those habits have continued through my life, and have been to me a source of unfailing comfort. Her death was the greatest grief of my existence."

WHEN THACKERAY WENT ON STRIKE.

In a Letter Written to the Publisher of an English Magazine, the Famous Novelist Demanded as Good Pay as That of the "Monthly Nurse."

There are authors' clubs and authors' societies in nearly every national literary center in the world, but up to the present time the trade of authorship has not been formally affiliated with that of any kind of trade-unionism. For this very reason, authors are compelled to make their demands individually.

This was the situation that confronted William Makepeace Thackeray at a time when his writings were first beginning to win popularity in England. It was in 1837, the year after his marriage to Isabella Shawe--a chronological sequence which perhaps accounts for his increased need of money. He was contributing "The Yellowplush Papers" to the successive issues of _Fraser's Magazine_, and he had made up his mind that his work ought to yield him a more satisfactory financial return. The result was he went on strike, as may be seen by the following letter which he wrote to James Fraser, the proprietor of the magazine:

Boulogne, Monday, February.

MY DEAR FRASER:

I have seen the doctor, who has given me commands about the hundredth number. I shall send him my share from Paris in a day or two, and hope I shall do a good deal in the diligence to-morrow. He reiterates his determination to write monthly for you and deliver over the proceeds to me. Will you, therefore, have the goodness to give the bearer a check (in my wife's name) for the amount of his contributions for the last two months? Mrs. Thackeray will give you a receipt for the same. You have already Maginn's authority.

Now comes another and not a very pleasant point on which I must speak. I hereby give notice that I shall strike for wages. You pay more to others, I find, than to me, and so I intend to make some fresh conditions about Yellowplush. I shall write no more of that gentleman's remarks except at the rate of twelve guineas a sheet and with a drawing for each number in which his story appears--the drawing two guineas.

Pray do not be angry at this decision on my part; it is simply a bargain which it is my duty to make. Bad as he is, Mr. Yellowplush is the most popular contributor to your magazine, and ought to be paid accordingly; if he does not deserve more than the Monthly Nurse or the Blue Friars, I am a Dutchman. I have been at work upon his adventures to-day, and will send them to you or not, as you like; but in common regard for myself I won't work under prices.

Well, I dare say you will be very indignant, and swear I am the most mercenary of individuals. Not so. But I am a better workman than most of your crew, and desire a better price. You must not, I repeat, be angry or, because we differ as tradesmen, break off our connection as friends.

Believe me that, whether I write for you or not, I shall always be glad of your friendship, and anxious to have your good opinion. I am, ever, my dear Fraser (independent of £ s. d.), very truly yours,

W.M. THACKERAY.

MY LADY ON PARADE.

Verses, Old and New, Dealing With Various Phases of That Highly Important Subject, the Philosophy of Feminine Costume.

WHAT THE CHOIR SANG.

By Harriette Hammond.

A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet, With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it. And that the other maidens of the little town might know it, She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday just to show it.

But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime, The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time; So when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing, And when she came to meeting, sure enough, the folks were singing.

So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door; And as she shook her ruffles out behind, and smoothed them down before. "Hallelujah! hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head-- "Hardly knew you! hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said.

This made the little maiden feel so very, _very_ cross, That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss; For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet, With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it.

And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer, But pattered down the silent street and hurried up the stair, Till she reached her little bureau, and in a bandbox on it Had hidden, safe from critic's eye, her foolish little bonnet.

Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind; And that the little head that's filled with silly little airs Will never get a blessing from sermons or from prayers.

AN OMAR FOR LADIES.

By Josephine Dodge Daskam.

One for her Club and her own Latch-key fights, Another wastes in Study her good Nights. Ah, take the Clothes and let the Culture go, Nor heed the grumble of the Women's Rights!

And she who saved her coin for Flannels red, And she who caught Pneumonia instead, Will both be Underground in Fifty Years, And Prudence pays no Premium to the dead.

Th' exclusive Style you set your heart upon Gets to the Bargain counters--and anon Like monograms on a Saleslady's tie Cheers but a moment--soon for you 'tis gone.

They say Sixth Avenue and the Bowery keep The _dernier cri_ that once was far from cheap; Green Veils, one season chic--Department stores Mark down in vain--no profits shall they reap.

_Exchange._

SHE FELT OF HER BELT.

I saw her go shopping in stylish attire, And she felt Of her belt At the back. Her walk was as free as a springy steel wire, And many a rubberneck turned to admire As she felt Of her belt At the back. She wondered if all the contraptions back there Were fastened just right--'twas an unceasing care, So she felt Of her belt At the back.

I saw her at church as she entered her pew; And she felt Of her belt At the back. She had on a skirt that was rustly and new, And didn't quite know what the fastenings might do, So she felt Of her belt At the back. She fidgeted round while the first prayer was said, She fumbled about while the first hymn was read-- Oh she felt Of her belt At the back.

Jack told her one night that he loved her like mad; And she felt For her belt At the back. She didn't look sorry, she didn't look glad-- She looked like she thought, "Well, that wasn't so bad." And she felt For her belt At the back. But--well, I don't think 'twas a great deal of harm, For what should the maiden have found but an arm When she felt For her belt At the back?

_Los Angeles Herald._

REGRETS.

By Carolyn Wells.

I cannot wear the old gowns I wore a year ago, The styles are so eccentric, And fashion changes so; These bygone gowns are out of date; (There must be nine or ten!) I cannot wear the old gowns, Nor don those frocks again.

I cannot wear the old gowns, The skirts are far too tight; They do not flare correctly, and The trimming isn't right. The Spanish flounce is fagoted, The plaits are box, not knife; I cannot wear the old gowns-- I'd look like Noah's wife.

I cannot wear the old gowns, The sleeves are so absurd; They're tightly fitted at the top, And at the wrist they're shirred! The shoulder seams are far too long, The collars too high-necked; I cannot wear my old gowns And keep my self-respect!

_Saturday Evening Post._

MY AUNT.

By Oliver Wendell Holmes.

My aunt! My dear unmarried aunt! Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her--though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span.

My aunt, my poor deluded aunt! Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a springlike way? How can she lay her glasses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell?

Her father--grandpa! Forgive This erring lip its smiles-- Vowed she would make the finest girl Within a hundred miles. He sent her to a stylish school; 'Twas in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon."