XVII.ABIGAIL FILLMORE.

MRS. ABIGAIL FILLMORE.

Abigail Powers, the youngest child of Lemuel Powers, a prominent Baptist clergyman of that day, was born in Stillwater, Saratoga county, New York, March, 1798.

Dr. Powers was of Massachusetts descent, being one of the nine thousand six hundred and twenty-four descendants of Henry Leland, of Sherburne, and a cousin and life-long friend of the eccentric and talented John Leland. Though not a wealthy man, he yet possessed a competence, and his profession was the most honored and respected of all pursuits.

Only a short decade from the martyr memories of New England, and not entirely removed from the influences of that severely religious section, he was yet without the sternness and rigor usual to individuals holding his high office.

He died while yet his daughter was in her infancy, leaving to the care of a watchful mother her education and training.

Soon afterward, Mrs. Powers, finding that her income would not justify her in liberality of expenditure, determined to remove with her brother and several families of relations and friends to a frontier settlement, andthus, at the early age of ten, we find our little heroine established in her new home in Cayuga county. Here began the stern lessons which ultimately educated the pioneer child, and from this point may be dated the foundation of her noble character, made strong through discipline and spiritualized through sorrow. She was studious and ambitious, and with her mother’s assistance, rapidly progressed in knowledge; her improvement must have been very rapid, for at an early age she assumed the duties of a teacher, and for many years continued her chosen avocation. Her mother, after the settlement of her father’s estate, being greatly reduced in outward circumstances, was compelled to use the most undeviating industry and economy; and she, feeling the necessity of relieving her of the burden of her education, began to teach, during the summer months, to pay her winter’s tuition. Thus, alternating between teaching and studying, between imparting and receiving instruction, she became a thorough scholar and remarkable woman. There are circumstances of poverty which throw an interest around those involved in them far greater than the noblest gifts of prosperous fortune could confer. The sight of a young, aspiring woman actuated by the loftiest, purest desire implanted by nature, overcoming obstacles, laughing to the winds the remonstrances of weak and timid natures, and mounting, by patient toil and unceasing labor, the rugged hill of wisdom—is calculated to dignify humanity and render homage to God.

Man may at once determine his calling and assert his place—woman has hers to seek, and however resolute she may appear, with all the dignity she may assume, there are hours of fearful despondency, and moments when, in the crowded avenues of trade, the craving for solitude and aloneness absorbs the energies of her nature, and stills the voice of ambition. Yet the example of this young life is proof that woman’s dependence is more the result of custom, than the fiat of nature, and the record of her trials and final success is a testimonial of virtue’s reward, and energy’s omnipotence.

Varied as were the experiences of Miss Powers’ life, they only served to develop all the latent strength of her body as well as mind; her singular embodiment of the physical was not less remarkable than the depth and research of the intellectual.

Commanding in person, for she was five feet six inches in height, of exceeding fairness of complexion and delicacy of features, hers was a harmonious blending of beauty and strength. But she did not possess that mere superficial beauty which cannot retain if it awakens admiration. Hers was no statue-like perfection of figure, nor classically symmetrical face. Genuine kindliness of heart beamed through her light, expressive eyes, and her brow was the throne of pure and lofty inspirations. Perhaps, if any one of her features was more universally admired than the others, it was her light luxuriant hair, which fell in flowing curls round her finely-shaped head.

Thus particular in describing her personal appearance, a circumstance never to be omitted in sketches of women, we but recognize these facts—that the face is the mirror of the soul, and that the law of unerring nature is, that the exterior is symbolical of the inner being.

In the backwoods of New York State, where the borders of the adjoining county were the limits of civilization, accustomed only to the society of the village people, Miss Powers passed the first twenty-eight years of her apparently uneventful life, but in reality, the intensity of her moral and affectional nature gave breadth and depth to her every-day existence, and in the quiet recesses of her heart she lived life over more than once.

Her occupation as a teacher was continued after her mother’s second marriage, which occurred about this time, and henceforth her home was in the family of a much loved relation. It was while in this home that she first met Mr. Fillmore, then a clothier’s apprentice, and during the winter months a teacher in the village school.

His father’s unwise choice of a trade for his son but added to his all-absorbing desire to become a lawyer. But he was not yet twenty, his time was his parents’, and his poverty compelled him to serve out his apprenticeship, and, even after he had commenced the study of law, to desire to return to his trade.

The assistance of a gentleman who became much interested in the ambitious youth, enabled him to buyhis time and devote himself to study. Thus he overcame the adverse circumstances which denied him freedom of action, and attained for himself leisure to lay the foundation of future usefulness.

His subsequent removal to Erie county deprived him of the society of Miss Powers—his now promised wife, and so limited were his means, that for three years he was unable to travel a distance of one hundred and fifty miles to see her.

In February, 1826, they were married at the residence of her brother, Judge Powers, in Moravia. Erie county was as much a wilderness to the young wife as Cayuga had been years before, but the obstacles to be overcome were not considered by the affectionate couple, and they started out in their married life buoyed by a confidence in their own strength, and a reliance on a higher power.

Into the small house built by the husband’s hands, the wife carried all the ambition and activity of other days, and at once resumed her avocation as a teacher, whilst performing the duties of maid of all work, housekeeper, and hostess.

Mr. Fillmore was thus enabled to practise his profession, relieved of all care and responsibility by his thoughtful wife, and so rapid was his progress that in less than two years he was elected a member of the State Legislature.

Mrs. Fillmore rendered her husband most efficient help in his struggle for eminence, and was the wings by which he soared so high. Instead of clogging his footstepsby her helplessness, she, with her intellectual strength, relieved and sustained his every effort. So enthusiastic and unchanging was her attachment to him, that no duty was burdensome, no privation sufficient to cloud her brow. The struggles those first years with poverty and increasing cares were trying, but her dignity never forsook her—her chosen path never became distasteful. Many are noble from choice, she was so from necessity. The greatness of soul and devotion to principle inherent in her nature left no other course.

A letter now old and worn, written in her neat style, has been placed in my hands by a member of that happy household in which she resided so long. It was addressed to one of the sisters, now dead, and cherished by another for the reminiscences it recalls of the beautiful attachment which existed through life between these two friends.

“Aurora,August 27th, 1826.

“Dear Maria:—Although I have been guilty of breaking my promise to you of writing, and treated you with neglect and indifference, still you are dear and near to me, still you are remembered with that affection which one must feel after being so long an inmate with so kind a girl, one who has bestowed upon me so many acts of kindness and friendship. No, Maria, I feel that I can never forget your family. My mind often reverts to the pleasant hours I have passed at your house. Many friendly conversations I have had with your mother after the family had retired to rest,—but those hours are gonenever to return, yet the remembrance of them is sweet. Oh, that I may again have the pleasure of spending a happy evening in your family with the little children sitting near me, asking a thousand interesting questions. Perhaps I may see that time next winter—I hope so.

“Would you like to know how I am pleased with the country? It does not appear to me as pleasant as Cayuga, but perhaps it may in time. I enjoy myself as well as I expected to; the inhabitants, as far as I am acquainted, appear friendly. I am not yet housekeeping, but am teaching school. But Mr. Dunning will give all these particulars more fully than I can write on this sheet of paper. You will have a pleasant visit with his sister Emily; I think her an amiable girl.

“Maria, if you can forgive me for not writing, I hope you will let me hear from you by the bearer of this. Write me all the news. You cannot imagine how any little circumstance concerning my friends interests me when absent so far from them. Ask Olive to write to me if she can find leisure. My best respects to your parents, and affectionate remembrance to your brothers and sisters, and believe me your sincere friend and cousin,

“Abigail Fillmore.

“Mr. Fillmore wished me to present his respects to yourself and parents.

“To MissMaria Fuller.”

In the spring of 1830, Mrs. Fillmore removed with herhusband to Buffalo. In the enjoyment of her children’s society, her husband’s prosperity, and the pleasure of entertaining her friends, she found great happiness, and as the years passed by they were noted only for the peace and contentment they brought her.

As her life previous to this time had been spent in comparative seclusion, so now it was a scene of gay society. The social element was very largely developed in her nature, and constant practice rendered it a marked characteristic. All the associations of her youth had been those of the country, and in its freshness and beauty, as well as its drearier garb, she had revelled. Now, in her city home she was the same artless, warm-hearted woman of other years, basking in the brightness about her and reflecting upon others her own quiet peace. Well balanced and self-reliant, affectionate and happy, there was wanting nothing to complete her character. The domestic harmony of her life can be partly appreciated from the remark made by her husband after her death. “For twenty-seven years, my entire married life,” he said, “I was always greeted with a happy smile.”

The result of such unusual evenness of disposition was owing, in a great measure, to the tender sympathy and ennobling affection of her husband, whose ambition was gratified only when he saw that she was content. With her there was no variation or change, no despondency or doubt as to his success in any avocation; she hovered round his pathway, a beacon, and the light never grewdim. True and faithful in all things, at all times, she ever was; but there was even more of ceaseless vigilance than mere faith implies, where he was concerned. To him who shielded her in her sensitiveness and overflowing affectional nature, and, by his gentleness and unremitting watchfulness, guarded every avenue of her heart from sorrow, she meted the wealth of her love and fondness—and existed in the sunshine of his presence. After her husband’s accession to the Presidency, she went to the White House; but the recent death of a sister kept her from entering into the gayety of the outer world. As much as possible she screened herself from public observation, and left to her daughter the duties devolving upon her. Her health had become impaired, and she rather shrank from the necessity of appearing before the world in the position in which she was more than competent to acquit herself. In such a formal routine of life she did not delight; hers was a confiding nature, and to her family she always turned for the happiness the world could not give.

Mr. Fillmore’s friends in New York, soon after he became President, presented her with a fine carriage and a costly pair of horses. This carriage was used by the family during their stay in the White House. After his wife’s death, Mr. Fillmore sold it and invested the proceeds in a set of plate, which he preferred to the elegant equipage and horses.

But only by the most exact details, by endless particularities, breathing out her whole life and giving evidence,by their nature, of the depths from which they spring; only by such means is it possible, in a degree, to give some perception of her remarkable life—the fountain can only be judged of by the channel through which it flows.

She died at Willard’s Hotel, Washington City, on the 30th of March, 1853.

In testimony of respect to the memory of the deceased, the public offices were closed, both houses of Congress adjourned, and other marks of respect were adopted. Her remains were conveyed to Buffalo, where, on the 2d of April, they were laid to rest.

The accompanying letter, written by a well-known lady of Buffalo, who was much of the time an inmate of the White House during Mrs. Fillmore’s stay there, is replete with interest, and gives us an insight into the home-life of this noble woman, we could in no other way obtain.

“The great interest I feel in your undertaking has outweighed my diffidence and decided me, in accordance with your request, to state briefly some of my recollections of the habits and social traits of my late friend, Mrs. Fillmore, with incidents of life at the White House.

“The retiring modesty of manner so inseparable from the idea of a perfect lady, was eminently characteristic of Mrs. Fillmore. Although well qualified and, when occasion required, ever ready to act her part in the position which Providence assigned her, she much preferred the quiet of domestic life. Her home was pleasant, andwhile she was a woman of strong common sense, her tastes were highly refined. Especially was she fond of music and of flowers. Her love for the former received great gratification from her daughter’s musical attainments, and her fondness for flowers amounted to a passion, and much of her time in her own home was devoted to their culture and care.

“Mrs. Fillmore read much and carefully, and being possessed of excellent powers of observation, was consequently a well-informed and cultivated woman. With qualities like these, it is superfluous to say that, when she was called to preside at the White House, she did it with dignity and propriety. She was not strong in health, and had suffered much from a sprained ankle, from which she never fully recovered. Fortunately for her, the etiquette of Washington did not require the President and his wife to return visits or to attend parties, though I believe the President did sometimes dine with a cabinet minister. All the claims of society were met and attended to by the daughter, and how well she, a young girl just from school, acquitted herself in this trying position, all will remember who were fortunate enough to come within the circle of her happy influence.

“When Mr. Fillmore entered the White House he found it entirely destitute of books. Mrs. Fillmore was in the habit of spending her leisure hours in reading, I might almost say in studying. She was accustomed to be surrounded with books of reference, maps, and all the other acquirements of a well-furnished library, andshe found it difficult to content herself in a house devoid of such attractions. To meet this want, Mr. Fillmore asked of Congress and received an appropriation, and selected a library, devoting to that purpose a large and pleasant room in the second story of the house. Here Mrs. Fillmore surrounded herself with her own little home comforts, here her daughter had her own piano, harp, and guitar, and here Mrs. Fillmore received the informal visits of the friends she loved, and for her the real pleasure and enjoyments of the White House were in this room. With strangers she was dignified, quiet, and rather reserved; but with her friends, she loved to throw aside all restraint and enjoy a good laugh and indulge in a little vein of humor, which lay quietly hidden under the calm exterior.

“Mrs. Fillmore was proud of her husband’s success in life, and desirous that no reasonable expectations of the public should be disappointed. She never absented herself from the public receptions, dinners, or levees when it was possible to be present; but her delicate health frequently rendered them not only irksome, but very painful, and she sometimes kept her bed all day to favor that weak ankle, that she might be able to endure the fatigue of the two hours she would be obliged to stand for the Friday evening levees.

“The President and Mrs. Fillmore received on Tuesday mornings, from twelve to two o’clock. The levees were on Friday evenings, from eight till ten, and at these there was generally a band of music, but no dancing.Every Thursday evening there was a large dinner party, and frequently another on Saturdays. Then there were often smaller dinners in the family dining-room, which were more sociable and agreeable, as the invitations were usually confined to the personal friends of the family.

“But what Mrs. Fillmore most enjoyed was to surround herself with a choice selection of congenial friends in her own favorite room—the library, where she could enjoy the music she so much loved, and the conversation of the cultivated society which Washington at that time certainly afforded. One of these evenings I remember with more than ordinary pleasure. Mr. Webster was there, and Mr. Corwin, and Mrs. A. H. H. Stuart, of Virginia, Judge Hall and his wife, and possibly some other members of the Cabinet; Mr. and Mrs. Brooks, of New York, Miss Derby, of Boston, then a guest at the White House, Mr. and Mrs. Carroll, and several others of the distinguished residents of Washington. Mrs. Brooks’ daughter, then quite too young to appear in general society, was there by special request of Mrs. Fillmore, who so enjoyed her wonderfully sweet singing, that she relied upon her as one of the attractions for this evening. Miss Fillmore played the piano with much skill and exquisite taste. Indeed, few ladies excelled her in this accomplishment; and this evening she was particularly successful in her efforts to please. Mrs. Brooks accompanied her upon the harp, which instrument she played with much grace. Altogether, themusic, the conversation, and the company made it an occasion long and pleasantly to be remembered.

“One of the events of Mr. Fillmore’s first winter in the Executive Mansion was a visit from his father. It was the first time any President had ever entertained his father in the White House, and Mrs. Fillmore was very anxious lest some unlooked-for event might prevent this anticipated pleasure. But he arrived in safety one Monday night. Tuesday was reception day. The morning papers announced that the venerable father of the President arrived in town the evening before. There was an unusual attendance at the reception that day, and it was interesting to watch each person, as they cast their eyes about the room, unable to light upon any one who answered to their idea of the ‘venerable father of the President,’ and when they were presented to him, as he stood before them, tall and perfectly erect, and with hair but little whiter than the President’s, there was a general expression of surprise. They had evidently expected to see an infirm old man, bent with years, and leaning upon a cane, and Mr. Nathaniel Fillmore, at the age of eighty, did not answer to that description. Senators and Judges, and Foreign Ministers came that morning, all anxious to pay their respects to the President’s father. One gentleman from New York, desirous of drawing him into conversation, said to him ‘Mr Fillmore, you have been so very successful in bringing up sons, I wish you would tell me how to raise my little boy.’ ‘Cradle him in a sap-trough, sir,’ said the oldgentleman, always ready with an answer. That was an interesting reception, to the President and to all, and when it was over, Mr. Fillmore the elder said to me, ‘If I had had the power to mark out the path of life for my son, it would never have led to this place, but I cannot help feeling a kind of pride in it now that he is here.’

“The routine of life at the White House which came under my observation, did not vary materially from week to week. The social habits of both Mr. and Mrs. Fillmore were simple and in accordance with those of well-bred people everywhere. Without ostentation or arrogance, they maintained the honor of the high position they were called to occupy, with quiet dignity and ease.

“I was not in Washington the winter Mrs. Fillmore died, and therefore know nothing, except from others, of her illness and death, but I know that she died lamented by all who knew her well, and leaving behind her many pleasant memories.

“Her death was a terrible blow to her family, and to none more than to her daughter, a young lady whose beautiful life and sad death, following so soon upon her return to her own home, made such an indelible impression upon her friends, and for whom all her native city so justly mourned.

“The reverence her son had for her memory proves her to have been a devoted mother, and how tenderly Mr. Fillmore cherished that memory is shown in the sacredness with which he treasures every memento ofher. I have heard him say that he has carefully preserved every line she ever wrote him, and that he could never destroy even the little notes she sent him on business to his office.

“Such affectionate regards from the living speak volumes for the dead.”

Lines on the death of Mrs. Millard Fillmore, by Miss Matilda Stuart, on the occasion of her burial at Forest Lawn, April 2d, 1853.

Give room, give room, a friend is here,She comes to tarry with us now—And though no greeting on her lips,No light of gladness on her brow,Yet this is home—that hallowed placeWhere she had fondly longed to rest.Here were her earlier, fresher joys,Here was the hearth-stone love had blest.Though she had moved ‘mid stranger scenes,To share the honor and the strifeOf him whose life was dearer farThan friend or kindred, home or life—Though she had tasted pleasure’s cup,While it was sparkling to the fill,And seen what few may ever see,Hope’s brightest dreams grow brighter still;Yet there were places in her heartWhere love could rest and friendship live.There was a light within her soulWhich earth could neither take nor give,And there were accents for her ear,More winning than the notes of fame,Where household voices softly breathedThe sweetness of a mother’s name.And when she heard the other voiceThat comes but once, yet comes to all,Alike to him who longs to go,And him who dreads to hear the call;She looked toward her brighter home,And left life’s garments frail and worn,As calmly as she laid asideThe robes of honor she had borne.Now she has come to sleep in peaceWithin our grand old forest shades,And fresher than the spring-time leavesAre those sweet memories that have comeTo steal the bitter tear away,And bid us look, as she had done,Beyond the pomp of Time’s brief day.Around her loved and honored graveThe severed “household band” may come,And seem to hear those blessed tonesThat made the music of their home.The faded form, the silent shroud,These, these were all they gave the tomb;She watches o’er them, while she wearsThe freshness of immortal bloom.

Give room, give room, a friend is here,

She comes to tarry with us now—

And though no greeting on her lips,

No light of gladness on her brow,

Yet this is home—that hallowed place

Where she had fondly longed to rest.

Here were her earlier, fresher joys,

Here was the hearth-stone love had blest.

Though she had moved ‘mid stranger scenes,To share the honor and the strifeOf him whose life was dearer farThan friend or kindred, home or life—Though she had tasted pleasure’s cup,While it was sparkling to the fill,And seen what few may ever see,Hope’s brightest dreams grow brighter still;

Though she had moved ‘mid stranger scenes,

To share the honor and the strife

Of him whose life was dearer far

Than friend or kindred, home or life—

Though she had tasted pleasure’s cup,

While it was sparkling to the fill,

And seen what few may ever see,

Hope’s brightest dreams grow brighter still;

Yet there were places in her heartWhere love could rest and friendship live.There was a light within her soulWhich earth could neither take nor give,And there were accents for her ear,More winning than the notes of fame,Where household voices softly breathedThe sweetness of a mother’s name.

Yet there were places in her heart

Where love could rest and friendship live.

There was a light within her soul

Which earth could neither take nor give,

And there were accents for her ear,

More winning than the notes of fame,

Where household voices softly breathed

The sweetness of a mother’s name.

And when she heard the other voiceThat comes but once, yet comes to all,Alike to him who longs to go,And him who dreads to hear the call;She looked toward her brighter home,And left life’s garments frail and worn,As calmly as she laid asideThe robes of honor she had borne.

And when she heard the other voice

That comes but once, yet comes to all,

Alike to him who longs to go,

And him who dreads to hear the call;

She looked toward her brighter home,

And left life’s garments frail and worn,

As calmly as she laid aside

The robes of honor she had borne.

Now she has come to sleep in peaceWithin our grand old forest shades,And fresher than the spring-time leavesAre those sweet memories that have comeTo steal the bitter tear away,And bid us look, as she had done,Beyond the pomp of Time’s brief day.

Now she has come to sleep in peace

Within our grand old forest shades,

And fresher than the spring-time leaves

Are those sweet memories that have come

To steal the bitter tear away,

And bid us look, as she had done,

Beyond the pomp of Time’s brief day.

Around her loved and honored graveThe severed “household band” may come,And seem to hear those blessed tonesThat made the music of their home.The faded form, the silent shroud,These, these were all they gave the tomb;She watches o’er them, while she wearsThe freshness of immortal bloom.

Around her loved and honored grave

The severed “household band” may come,

And seem to hear those blessed tones

That made the music of their home.

The faded form, the silent shroud,

These, these were all they gave the tomb;

She watches o’er them, while she wears

The freshness of immortal bloom.

Note.—President Fillmore died at his residence in Buffalo, March 8th, 1874.

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