In his old age, at seventy-three, Vanderbilt married his second wife, a beautiful Southern widow who had just turned her thirtieth year, and the appearance of the two, sitting side by side in one of the Commodore's smartest turnouts, driving recklessly behind a pair of the fastest trotters of the day, was a common sight in Central Park.

Nor did Vanderbilt look incongruous in this brilliant setting.

His tall and powerful frame was still erect, and his large, defiant head, ruddy cheeks, sparkling, deep-set black eyes, and snowy white hair and whiskers, made him look every inch the Commodore.

These public appearances lent a pleasanter and more sentimental aspect to Vanderbilt's life than his intimates always perceived.

For his manners were harsh and uncouth; he was totally without education and could write hardly half a dozen lines without outraging the spelling-book.