Free Posterity by Dorie McCullough Lawson

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
    â€œWrite 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