I hear you have left Lancaster, and have not heard where you have gone to; but I take it for granted the absence will be short. I am writing, I know not why, and perhaps had better not. I write only to speak of the awful visitation of Providence that has fallen upon you, and how deeply I feel it. The thought of your situation has scarcely been absent from my mind ten days. I trust your restoration to your philosophy and courage, and to the elasticity of spirits natural to most young men. Yet time, the sovereign cure of all these, must intervene before much good can be done. The sun will shine again—though a man enveloped in gloom always thinks the darkness is to be eternal. Do you remember the Spanish anecdote? A lady, who had lost a favorite child, remained for months sunk in sullen sorrow and despair. Her confessor, one morning, visited her, and found her, as usual, immersed in gloom and grief. “What!” says he; “have you not forgiven God Almighty?” She rose, exerted herself, joined the world again, and became useful to herself and friends.
Might I venture to hint advice? It would be to give full scope (contrary to common advice on similar occasions), I say to give full vent and unrestrained license to the feelings and thoughts natural in the case for a time—which time may be a week, two weeks, three weeks, as nature dictates—without scarcely a small effort during that time to rise above the misfortune; then, when this time is past, to rouse, to banish depressing thoughts, as far as possible, and engage most industriously in business. My opinion is that too early an effort to shake off a very heavy affliction is often, if not always, dangerous. An early effort is futile, and worse—an unavailing struggle renders the mind cowardly, and sinks the spirits deeper in gloom. The true way to conquer is to run away at first. The storm which uproots the firmest oak passes harmlessly over the willow.
Forgive all this talk; it opens in my own bosom a wound which a dozen years have not cicatrized, and brings to my recollection a dark period of my own days, the remembrance of which yet chills me with horror.
Two of your cases here may be tried. If they are, I will endeavor to assist your colleague, Mr. Elder, for you, and for your benefit. This is our court week for the civil list......
Mrs. E—— talks much of you, and if she knew I was writing, would have me add her kindest message—indicative of the interest she feels. Farewell.
Amos Ellmaker.
In the course of Mr. Buchanan’s long subsequent political career, this incident in his early life was often alluded to in partisan newspapers, and in that species of literature called “campaign documents,” accompanied by many perversions and misrepresentations. These publications are each and all unworthy of notice. On one occasion, after he had retired to Wheatland, and when he had passed the age of seventy, he was shown by a friend a newspaper article, misrepresenting, as usual, the details of this affair. He then said, with deep emotion, that there were papers and relics which he had religiously preserved, then in a sealed package in a place of deposit in the city of New York, which would explain the trivial origin of this separation.[[4]] His executors found these papers inclosed and sealed separately from all others, and with a direction upon them in his handwriting, that they were to be destroyed without being read. They obeyed the injunction, and burnt the package without breaking the seal. It happened, however, that the original of the letter addressed by Mr. Buchanan to the young lady’s father, before her funeral, was not contained in this package. It was found in his private depositaries at Wheatland; and it came there in consequence of the fact that it was returned by the father unread and unopened.
It is now known that the separation of the lovers originated in a misunderstanding, on the part of the lady, of a very small matter, exaggerated by giddy and indiscreet tongues, working on a peculiarly sensitive nature. Such a separation, the commonest of occurrences, would have ended, in the ordinary course, in reconciliation, when the parties met, if death had not suddenly snatched away one of the sufferers, and left the other to a life-long grief. But under the circumstances, I feel bound to be governed by the spirit of Mr. Buchanan’s written instruction to his executors, and not to go into the details of a story which show that the whole occurrence was chargeable on the folly of others, and not on either of the two whose interests were involved.
Among the few survivors of the circle to which this young lady belonged, the remembrance of her sudden death is still fresh in aged hearts. The estrangement of the lovers was but one of those common occurrences that are perpetually verifying the saying, hackneyed by everlasting repetition, that “the course of true love never did run smooth.”
But it ran, in this case, pure and unbroken in the heart of the survivor, through a long and varied life. It became a grief that could not be spoken of; to which only the most distant allusion could be made; a sacred, unceasing sorrow, buried deep in the breast of a man who was formed for domestic joys; hidden beneath manners that were most engaging, beneath strong social tendencies, and a chivalrous old-fashioned deference to women of all ages and all claims. His peculiar and reverential demeanor towards the sex, never varied by rank, or station, or individual attractions, was doubtless in a large degree caused by the tender memory of what he had found, or fancied, in her whom he had lost in his early days by such a cruel fate. If her death had not prevented their marriage, it is probable that a purely professional and domestic life would have filled up the measure alike of his happiness and his ambition. It is certain that this occurrence prevented him from ever marrying, and impelled him again into public life, after he had once resolved to quit it. Soon after this catastrophe, he was offered a nomination to a seat in Congress. He did not suppose that he could be elected, and did not much desire to be. But he was strongly urged to accept the candidacy, and finally consented, chiefly because he needed an innocent excitement that would sometimes distract him from the grief that was destined never to leave him.[[5]] Great and uninterrupted, however, as was his political and social success, he lived and died a widowed and a childless man. Fortunately for him, a sister’s child, left an orphan at an early age, whom he educated with the wisest care, filled to him the place of a daughter as nearly and tenderly as such a relative could supply that want, adorning with womanly accomplishments and virtues the high public stations to which he was eventually called.