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Theodore Roosevelt; An Intimate Biography
Chapter XVII. Roosevelt at Home
by Thayer, William Roscoe
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Although Theodore Roosevelt was personally known to more people
of the United States than any other President has been, and his
manners and quick responsive cordiality made multitudes feel,
after a brief sight of him, or after shaking his hand, that they
were old acquaintances, he maintained during his life a dignified
reticence regarding his home and family. But now that he is dead
and the world craves eagerly, but not irreverently, to know as
much as it can about his many sides, I feel that it is not
improper to say something about that intimate side which was in
some respects the most characteristic of all.
Early in the eighties he bought a country place at Oyster Bay,
Long Island, and on the top of a hill he built a spacious house.
There was a legend that in old times Indian Chiefs used to gather
there to hold their powwows; at any rate, the name, the
Sagamores' Hill, survived them, and this shortened to Sagamore
Hill he gave to his home. That part of Long Island on the north
coast overlooking the Sound is very attractive; it is a country
of hills and hollows, with groves of tall trees, and open fields
for farming, and lawns near the house. You look down on Oyster
Bay which seems to be a small lake shut in by the curving shore
at the farther end. From the house you see the Sound and the
hills of Connecticut along the horizon.
After the death of his first wife in January, 1884, Roosevelt
went West to the Bad Lands of North Dakota where he lived two
years at Medora, on a ranch which he owned, and there he endured
the hardships and excitements of ranch life at that time; acting
as cow-puncher, ranchman, deputy sheriff, or hunting big and
little game, or writing books and articles. In the autumn of
1886, however, having been urged to run as candidate for Mayor of
New York City, he came East again. He made a vigorous campaign,
but having two opponents against him he was beaten. Then he took
a trip to Europe where he married Miss Edith Kermit Carow, whom
he had known in New York since childhood, and on their return to
this country, they settled at Sagamore Hill. Two years later,
when President Harrison appointed Roosevelt a Civil Service
Commissioner, they moved to Washington. There they lived in a
rather small house at 1720 Jefferson Place--"modest," one might
call it, in comparison with the modern palaces which had begun to
spring up in the National Capital; but people go to a house for
the sake of its occupants and not for its size and upholstery.
So for almost six years pretty nearly everybody worth knowing
crossed the Roosevelts' threshold, and they themselves quickly
took their place in Washington society. Roosevelt's humor, his
charm, his intensity, his approachableness, attracted even those
who rejected his politics and his party. Bright sayings cannot be
stifled, and his added to the gayety of more than one group. He
was too discreet to give utterance to them all, but his private
letters at that time, and always, glistened with his remarks on
public characters. He said, for instance, of Senator X, whom he
knew in Washington: He "looks like Judas, but unlike that
gentleman, he has no capacity for remorse."
When the Roosevelts returned to New York, where he became Police
Commissioner in 1895, they made their home again at Oyster Bay.
This was thirty miles by rail from the city, near enough to be
easily accessible, but far enough away to deter the visits of
random, curious, undesired callers. Later, when automobiles came
in, Roosevelt motored to and from town. Mrs. Roosevelt looked
after the place itself; she supervised the farming, and the
flower gardens were her especial care. The children were now
growing up, and from the time when they could toddle they took
their place--a very large place--in the life of the home.
Roosevelt described the intense satisfaction he had in teaching
the boys what his father had taught him. As soon as they were
large enough, they rode their horses, they sailed on the Cove and
out into the Sound. They played boys' games, and through him they
learned very young to observe nature. In his college days he had
intended to be a naturalist, and natural history remained his
strong est avocation. And so he taught his children to know the
birds and animals, the trees, plants, and flowers of Oyster Bay
and its neighborhood. They had their pets--Kermit, one of the
boys, carried a pet rat in his pocket.
Three things Roosevelt required of them all; obedience,
manliness, and truthfulness. And I imagine that all these virtues
were taught by affection and example, rather than by constant
correction. For the family was wholly united, they did everything
together; the children had no better fun than to accompany their
father and mother, and there were a dozen or more young cousins
and neighbors who went out with them too, forming a large,
delighted family for whom "Uncle" or "Cousin Theodore " was
leader and idol. And just as formerly, in the long winter nights
on his ranch at Medora, he used to read aloud to the cowboys and
hunters of what was then the Western Wilderness, so at Sagamore
Hill, in the days of their childhood, he read or told stories to
the circle of boys and girls.
In 1901, Mr. Roosevelt became President, and for seven years and
a half his official residence was the White House, where he was
obliged to spend most of the year. But whenever he could steal
away for a few days he sought rest and recreation at Oyster Bay,
and there, during the summers, his family lived. So far as the
changed conditions permitted, he did not allow his official
duties to interfere with his family life. "One of the most
wearing things about being President," a President once said to
me, "is the incessant publicity of it. For four years you have
not a moment to yourself, not a moment of privacy." And yet
Roosevelt, masterful in so many other things, was masterful in
this also. Nothing interfered with the seclusion of the family
breakfast. There were no guests, only Mrs. Roosevelt and the
children, and the simplest of food. At Oyster Bay he would often
chop trees in the early morning, and sometimes, while he was
President, he would ride before breakfast, but the meal itself
was quiet, private, uninterrupted. Then each member of the family
would go about his or her work, for idleness had no place with
them. The President spent his morning in attending to his
correspondence and dictating letters, then in receiving persons
by appointment, and he always reserved time when any American,
rich or poor, young or old, could speak to him freely. He liked
to see them all and many were the odd experiences which he had.
He asked one old lady what he could do for her. She replied:
"Nothing; I came all the way from Jacksonville, Florida, just to
see what a live President looked like. I never saw one before."
"That's very kind of you," the President replied; "persons from
up here go all the way to Florida just to see a live
alligator"--and so he put the visitor at her ease.
Luncheon was a varied meal; sometimes there were only two or
three guests at it; at other times there might be a dozen. It
afforded the President an opportunity for talking informally with
visitors whom he wished to see, and not infrequently it brought
together round the table a strange, not to say a motley, company.
After luncheon followed more work in his office for the
President, looking over the letters he had dictated and signing
them, signing documents and holding interviews. Later in the
afternoon he always reserved two hours for a walk or drive with
Mrs. Roosevelt. Nothing interfered with that. In the season he
played tennis with some of the large group of companions whom he
gathered round him, officials high and low, foreign Ambassadors
and Cabinet Ministers and younger under-secretaries who were
popularly known as the "Tennis Cabinet." There were fifty or more
of them, and that so many should have kept their athletic vigor
into middle age, and even beyond it, spoke well for the physique
of the men of official Washington at that time.
At Oyster Bay Roosevelt had instituted "hiking." He and the young
people and such of the neighbors as chose would start from
Sagamore Hill and walk in a bee-line to a point four or five
miles off. The rule was that no natural impediment should cause
them to digress or to stop. So they went through the fields and
over the fences, across ditches and pools, and even clambered up
and down a haystack, if one happened to be in the way, or through
a barnyard. Of course they often reached home spattered with mud
or even drenched to the skin from a plunge into the water, but
with much fun, a livelier circulation, and a hearty appetite to
their credit.
In Washington the President continued this practice of hiking,
but in a somewhat modified form. His favorite resort was Rock
Creek, then a wild stream, with a good deal of water in it, and
here and there steep, rocky banks. To be invited by the President
to go on one of those hikes was regarded as a mark of special
favor. He indulged in them to test a man's bodily vigor and
endurance, and there were many amusing incidents and perhaps more
amusing stories about them. M. Tardieu, who at that time was
paying a short visit to this country and was connected with the
French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, told me that the dispatches
which the new French Ambassador, M. Jusserand, sent to Paris were
full of reports on President Roosevelt's personality. The
Europeans had no definite conception of him at that time, and so
the sympathetic and much-esteemed Ambassador, who still
represents France at Washington, tried to give his Government
information by which it could judge for itself what sort of a
person the President was. What must have been the surprise in the
French Foreign Office when it received the following dispatch: (I
give the substance, of course, because I have not seen the
original.):
'Yesterday,' wrote Ambassador Jusserand, 'President Roosevelt
invited me to take a promenade with him this afternoon at three.
I arrived at the White House punctually, in afternoon dress and
silk hat, as if we were to stroll in the Tuileries Garden or in
the Champs Elysees. To my surprise, the President soon joined me
in a tramping suit, with knickerbockers and thick boots, and soft
felt hat, much worn. Two or three other gentlemen came, and we
started off at what seemed to me a breakneck pace, which soon
brought us out of the city. On reaching the country, the
President went pell-mell over the fields, following neither road
nor path, always on, on, straight ahead! I was much winded, but I
would not give in, nor ask him to slow up, because I had the
honor of La belle France in my heart. At last we came to the bank
of a stream, rather wide and too deep to be forded. I sighed
relief, because I thought that now we had reached our goal and
would rest a moment and catch our breath, before turning
homeward. But judge of my horror when I saw the President
unbutton his clothes and heard him say, "We had better strip, so
as not to wet our things in the Creek." Then I, too, for the
honor of France, removed my apparel, everything except my
lavender kid gloves. The President cast an inquiring look at
these as if they, too, must come off, but I quickly forestalled
any remark by saying, "With your permission, Mr. President, I
will keep these on, otherwise it would be embarrassing if we
should meet ladies." And so we jumped into the water and swam
across.'
M. Jusserand has a fine sense of humor and doubtless he has
laughed often over this episode, although he must have been
astonished and irritated when it occurred. But it gave Roosevelt
exactly what he wanted by showing him that the plucky little
French man was "game" for anything, and they remained firm
friends for life.
Occasionally, one of the guests invited on a hike relucted from
taking the plunge, and then he was allowed to go up stream or
down and find a crossing at a bridge; but I suspect that his host
and the habitual hikers instinctively felt a little less regard
for him after that. General Leonard Wood was one of Roosevelt's
boon companions on these excursions, and, speaking of him, I am
reminded of one of the President's orders which caused a great
flurry among Army officers in Washington.
The President learned that many of these officers had become
soft, physically, through their long residence in the city, where
an unmilitary life did not tend to keep their muscles hard. As a
consequence these great men of war became easy-going, indolent
even, better suited to loaf in the armchairs of the Metropolitan
Club and discuss campaigns and battles long ago than to lead
troops in the field. "Their condition," said Roosevelt, "would
have excited laughter, had it not been so serious, to think that
they belonged to the military arm of the Government. A cavalry
colonel proved unable to keep his horse at a sharp trot for even
half a mile when I visited his post; a major-general proved
afraid even to let his horse canter when he went on a ride with
us; and certain otherwise good men proved as unable to walk as if
they had been sedentary brokers." After consulting Generals Wood
and Bell, who were themselves real soldiers at the top of
condition, the President issued orders that the infantry should
march fifty miles, and the cavalry one hundred, in three days.
There was an outcry. The newspapers denounced Roosevelt as a
tyrant who followed his mere caprices. Some of the officers
intrigued with Congressmen to nullify the order. But when the
President himself, accompanied by Surgeon-General Rixey and two
officers, rode more than one hundred miles in a single day over
the frozen and rutty Virginia roads, the objectors could not keep
up open opposition. Roosevelt adds, ironically, that three naval
officers who walked the fifty miles in a day, were censured for
not obeying instructions, and were compelled to do the test over
again in three days.
Dinner in the White House was usually a formal affair, to which
most, if not all the guests, at least, were invited some time in
advance. There were, of course, the official dinners to the
foreign diplomats, to the justices of the Supreme Court, to the
members of the Cabinet; ordinarily, they might be described as
general. The President never forgot those who had been his
friends at any period of his life. It might happen that Bill
Sewall, his earliest guide from Maine, or a Dakota ranchman, or a
New York policeman, or one of his trusted enthusiasts in a hard-
fought political campaign, turned up at the White House. He was
sure to be asked to luncheon or to dinner, by the President. And
these former chums must have felt somewhat embarrassed, if they
were capable of feeling embarrassment, when they found themselves
seated beside some of the great ladies of Washington. Perhaps
Roosevelt himself felt a little trepidation as to how the
unmixables would mix. He is reported to have said to one Western
cowboy of whom he was fond: "Now, Jimmy, don't bring your gun
along to-night. The British Ambassador is going to dine too, and
it wouldn't do for you to pepper the floor round his feet with
bullets, in order to see a tenderfoot dance."
But those dinners were mainly memorable occasions, and the guests
who attended them heard some of the best talk in America at that
time, and came away with increased wonder for the variety of
knowledge and interest, and for the unceasing charm and courtesy
of their host, the President. Contrary to the opinion of persons
who heard him only as a political speaker shouting in the open
air from the back platform of his train or in a public square,
Roosevelt was not only a speaker, he was also a most courteous
listener. I watched him at little dinners listen not only
patiently, but with an astonishing simulation of interest, to
very dull persons who usurped the conversation and imagined that
they were winning his admiration. Mr. John Morley, who was a
guest at the White House at election time in 1904, said: "The two
things in America which seem to me most extraordinary are Niagara
Falls and President Roosevelt."
Jacob Riis, the most devoted personal follower of Roosevelt,
gives this as the finest compliment he ever heard of him. A lady
said that she had always been looking for some living embodiment
of the high ideals she had as to what a hero ought to be. "I
always wanted to make Roosevelt out that," she declared, "but
somehow every time he did something that seemed really great it
turned out, upon looking at it closely, that it was only just the right thing to do." *
[ Riis, 268-69.]
But at home Roosevelt had affection, not compliments, whether
these were unintentional and sincere, like that of the lady just
quoted, or were thinly disguised flattery. And affection was what
he most craved from his family and nearest friends, and what he
gave to them without stint. As I have said, he allowed nothing to
interrupt the hours set apart for his wife and children while he
was at the White House; and at Oyster Bay there was always time
for them. A typical story is told of the boys coming in upon him
during a conference with some important visitor, and saying
reproachfully, "It's long after four o'clock, and you promised to
go with us at four." "So I did," said Roosevelt. And he quickly
finished his business with the visitor and went. When the
children were young, he usually saw them at supper and into bed,
and he talked of the famous pillow fights they had with him.
House guests at the White House some times unexpectedly caught
sight of him crawling in the entry near the children's rooms,
with two or three children riding on his back. Roosevelt's days
were seldom less than fifteen hours long, and we can guess how he
regarded the laboring men of today who clamor for eight and six,
and even fewer hours, as the normal period for a day's work. He
got up at half-past seven and always finished breakfast by nine,
when what many might call the real work of his day began.
The unimaginative laborer probably supposes that most of the
duties which fall to an industrious President are not strictly
work at all; but if any one had to meet for an hour and a half
every forenoon such Congressmen and Senators as chose to call on
him, he would understand that that was a job involving real work,
hard work. They came every day with a grievance, or an appeal, or
a suggestion, or a favor to ask, and he had to treat each one,
not only politely, but more or less deferently. Early in his
Administration I heard it said that he offended some Congressmen
by denying their requests in so loud a voice that others in the
room could hear him, and this seemed to some a humiliation.
President McKinley, on the other hand, they said, lowered his
voice, and spoke so softly and sweetly that even his refusal did
not jar on his visitor, and was not heard at all by the
bystanders. If this happened, I suspect it was because Roosevelt
spoke rather explosively and had a habit of emphasis, and not
because he wished in any way to send his petitioner's rebuff
through the room.
Nor was the hour which followed this, when he received general
callers, less wearing. As these persons came from all parts of
the Union, so they were of all sorts and temperaments. Here was a
worthy citizen from Colorado who, on the strength of having once
heard the President make a public speech in Denver, claimed
immediate friendship with him. Then might come an old lady from
Georgia, who remembered his mother's people there, or the lady
from Jacksonville, Florida, of whom I have already spoken. Once a
little boy, who was almost lost in the crush of grown-up
visitors, managed to reach the President. "What can I do for
you?" the President asked; and the boy told how his father had
died leaving his mother with a large family and no money, and how
he was selling typewriters to help support her. His mother, he
said, would be most grateful if the President would accept a
typewriter from her as a gift. So the President told the little
fellow to go and sit down until the other visitors had passed,
and then he would attend to him. No doubt, the boy left the White
House well contented--and richer.
Roosevelt's official day ended at half-past nine or ten in the
evening, and then, after the family had gone to bed, he sat down
to read or write, and it was long after midnight, sometimes one
o'clock, some times much later, before he turned in himself. He
regarded the preservation of health as a duty; and well he might
so regard it, because in childhood he had been a sickly boy, with
apparently only a life of invalidism to look forward to. But by
sheer will, and by going through physical exercises with
indomitable perseverance, he had built up his body until he was
strong enough to engage in all sports and in the hardships of
Western life and hunting. After he became President, he allowed
nothing to interfere with his physical exercise. I have spoken of
his long hikes and of his vigorous games with members of the
Tennis Cabinet. On many afternoons he would ride for two hours or
more with Mrs. Roosevelt or some friend, and it is a sad
commentary on the perpetual publicity to which the American
people condemn their Presidents, that he sometimes was obliged to
ride off into the country with one of his Cabinet Ministers in
order to be able to discuss public matters in private with him.
Roosevelt took care to provide means for exercise indoors in very
stormy weather. He had a professional boxer and wrestler come to
him, and when jiu-jitsu, the Japanese system of physical
training, was in vogue, he learned some of its introductory
mysteries from one of its foremost professors.
It was in a boxing bout at the White House with his teacher that
he lost the sight of an eye from a blow which injured his
eyeball. But he kept this loss secret for many years. He had a
wide acquaintance among professional boxers and even
prize-fighters. Jeffries, who had been a blacksmith before he
entered the ring, hammered a penholder out of a horseshoe and
gave it to the President, a gift which Roosevelt greatly prized
and showed among his trophies at Oyster Bay. John L. Sullivan,
perhaps the most notorious of the champion prize-fighters of
America, held Roosevelt in such great esteem that when he died
his family invited the ex-President to be one of the
pall-bearers. But Mr. Roosevelt was then too sick himself to be
able to travel to Boston and serve.
At Oyster Bay in summer, the President found plenty of exercise
on the place. It contained some eighty acres, part of which was
woodland, and there were always trees to be chopped. Hay-making,
also, was an equally severe test of bodily strength, and to pitch
hay brought every muscle into use. There, too, he had water
sports, but he always preferred rowing to sailing, which was too
slow and inactive an exercise for him. In old times, rowing used
to be the penalty to which galley-slaves were condemned, but now
it is commended by athletes as the best of all forms of exercise
for developing the body and for furnishing stimulating
competition.
No President ever lived on better terms with the newspaper men
than Roosevelt did. He treated them all with perfect fairness,
according no special favors, no "beats," or "scoops to any one.
So they regarded him as "square"; and further they knew that he
was a man of his word, not to be trifled with. "It is generally
supposed," Roosevelt remarked, "that newspaper men have no sense
of honor, but that is not true. If you treat them fairly, they
will treat you fairly; and they will keep a secret if you impress
upon them that it must be kept."
The great paradox of Roosevelt's character was the contrast
between its fundamental simplicity and its apparent spectacular
quality. His acts seemed to be unusual, striking, and some
uncharitable critics thought that he aimed at effect; in truth,
however, he acted at the moment as the impulse or propriety of
the moment suggested. There was no premeditation, no swagger.
Dwellers in Berlin noticed that after William the Crown Prince
became the Kaiser William II, he thrust out his chest and adopted
a rather pompous walk, but there was nothing like this in
Roosevelt's manner or carriage. In his public speaking, he
gesticulated incessantly, and in the difficulty he had in pouring
out his words as rapidly as the thoughts came to him, he seemed
sometimes almost to grimace; but this was natural, not studied.
And so I can easily understand what some one tells me who saw him
almost daily as President in the White House. "Roosevelt," he
said, "had an immense reverence for the Presidential office. He
did not feel cocky or conceited at being himself President; he
felt rather the responsibility for dignity which the office
carried with it, and he was humble. You might be as intimate with
him as possible, but there was a certain line which no one ever
crossed. That was the line which the office itself drew."
Roosevelt had that reverence for the great men of the past which
should stir every heart with a capacity for noble things. In the
White House he never forgot the Presidents who had dwelt there
before him. "I like to see in my mind's eye," he said to Mr.
Rhodes, the American historian, "the gaunt form of Lincoln
stalking through these halls." During a visit at the White House,
Mr. Rhodes watched the President at work throughout an entire day
and set down the points which chiefly struck him. Foremost among
these was the lack of leisure which we allow our Presidents. They
have work to do which is more important than that of a railroad
manager, or the president of the largest business corporation, or
of the leader of the American Bar. They are expected to know the
pros and cons of each bill brought before them to sign so that
they can sign it not only intelligently but justly, and yet
thanks to the constant intrusion which Americans deem it their
right to force on the President, he has no time for deliberation,
and, as I have said, Mr. Roosevelt was often obliged, when he
wished to have an undisturbed consultation with one of his
Cabinet Secretaries, to take him off on a long ride.
"I chanced to be in the President's room," Mr. Rhodes continues,
"when he dictated the rough draft of his famous dispatch to
General Chaffee respecting torture in the Philippines. While he
was dictating, two or three cards were brought in, also some
books with a request for the President's autograph, and there
were some other interruptions. While the dispatch as it went out
in its revised form could not be improved, a President cannot
expect to be always so happy in dictating dispatches in the midst
of distractions. Office work of far-reaching importance should be
done in the closet. Certainly no monarch or minister in Europe
does administrative work under such unfavorable conditions;
indeed, this public which exacts so much of the President's time
should in all fairness be considerate in its criticism." *
* Rhodes: Historical Essays, 238-39.
To cope in some measure with the vast amount of business thrust
upon him, Roosevelt had unique endowments. Other Presidents had
been indolent and let affairs drift; he cleared his desk every
day. Other Presidents felt that they had done their duty if they
merely dispatched the important business which came to them;
Roosevelt was always initiating, either new legislation or new
methods in matters which did not concern the Government. One
autumn, when there was unusual excitement, with recriminations in
disputes in the college football world, I was surprised to
receive a large four-page typewritten letter, giving his views as
to what ought to be done.
He reorganized the service in the White House, and not only that,
he had the Executive Mansion itself remodeled somewhat according
to the original plans so as to furnish adequate space for the
crowds who thronged the official receptions, and, at the other
end of the building, proper quarters for the stenographers,
typewriters, and telegraphers required to file and dispatch his
correspondence. Promptness was his watchword, and in cases where
it was expected, I never knew twenty-four hours to elapse before
he dictated his reply to a letter.
The orderliness which he introduced into the White House should
also be recorded. When I first went there in 1882 with a party of
Philadelphia junketers who had an appointment to shake hands with
President Arthur, as a preliminary to securing a fat
appropriation to the River and Harbor Bill of that year, the
White House was treated by the public very much as a common
resort. The country owned it: therefore, why shouldn't any
American make himself at home in it? I remember that on one of
the staircases, Dr. Mary Walker (recently dead), dressed in what
she was pleased to regard as a masculine costume, was haranguing
a group of five or six strangers, and here and there in the
corridors we met other random visitors. Mr. Roosevelt established
a strict but simple regimen. No one got past the Civil War
veteran who acted as doorkeeper without proper credentials; and
it was impossible to reach the President himself without first
encountering his Secretary, Mr. Loeb.
To the President some persons were, of course, privileged. If an
old pal from the West, or a Rough Rider came, the President did
not look at the clock, or speed him away. The story goes that one
morning Senator Cullom came on a matter of business and indeed
rather in a hurry. On asking who was "in there," and being told
that a Rough Rider had been with the President for a half-hour,
the Senator said, "Then there's no hope for me," took his hat,
and departed.
Although, as I have said, Roosevelt might be as intimate and
cordial as possible with any visitor, he never forgot the dignity
which belonged to his office. Nor did he forget that as President
he was socially as well as officially the first person in the
Republic. In speaking of these social affairs, I must not pass
over without mention the unfailing help which his two sisters
gave him at all times. The elder, the wife of Admiral William S.
Cowles, lived in Washington when Roosevelt was Civil Service
Commissioner, and her house was always in readiness for his use.
His younger sister, Mrs. Douglas Robinson, lived in New York
City, and first at No. 422 Madison Avenue and later at No. 9 East
Sixty-third Street, she dispensed hospitality for him and his
friends. Nothing could have been more convenient. If he were at
Oyster Bay, it was often impossible to make an appointment to
meet there persons whom he wished to see, but he had merely to
telephone to Mrs. Robinson, the appointment was made, and the
interview was held. It was at her house that many of the
breakfasts with Senator Platt--those meetings which caused so
much alarm and suspicion among over-righteous reformers--took
place while Roosevelt was Governor. Mr. Odell nearly always
accompanied the Senator, as if he felt afraid to trust the astute
Boss with the very persuasive young Governor. Having Mrs.
Robinson's house as a shelter, Theodore could screen himself from
the newspaper men. There he could hold private consultations
which, if they had been referred to in the papers, would have
caused wild guesses, surmises, and embarrassing remarks. His
sisters always rejoiced that, with his wonderful generosity of
nature, he took them often into his political confidence, and
listened with unfeigned respect to their point of view on
subjects on which they might even have a slight difference of
opinion.
Mr. Charles G. Washburn tells the following story to illustrate
Roosevelt's faculty of getting to the heart of every one whom he
knew. When he was hunting in Colorado, "he met a cowboy who had
been with him with the Rough Riders in Cuba. The man came up to
speak to Roosevelt, and said, 'Mr. President, I have been in jail
a year for killing a gentleman.' 'How did you do it?' asked the
President, meaning to inquire as to the circumstances.
'Thirty-eight on a forty-five frame,' replied the man, thinking
that the only interest the President had was that of a comrade
who wanted to know with what kind of a tool the trick was done.
Now, I will venture to say that to no other President, from
Washington down to and including Wilson, would the man-killer
have made that response." *
[ Washburn, 202-03.]
I think that all of us will agree with Mr. Washburn, who adds
another story of the same purport, and told by Roosevelt himself.
Another old comrade wrote him from jail in Arizona: "Dear
Colonel: I am in trouble. I shot a lady in the eye, but I did not
intend to hit the lady; I was shooting at my wife." Roosevelt had
large charity for sinners of this type, but he would not tolerate
deceit or lying. Thus, when a Congressman made charges to him
against one of the Wild Western appointees whom he accused of
drinking and of gambling, the President remarked that he had to
take into consideration the moral standards of the section, where
a man who gambled or who drank was not necessarily an evil
person. Then the Congressman pressed his charges and said that
the fellow had been in prison for a crime a good many years
before. This roused Roosevelt, who said, "He never told me about
that," and he immediately telegraphed the accused for an
explanation. The man replied that the charge was true, whereupon
the President at once dismissed him, not for gambling or for
drinking, but for trying to hide the fact that he had once been
in jail.
In these days of upheaval, when the most ancient institutions and
laws are put in question, and anarchists and Bolshevists, blind
like Samson, wish to throw down the very pillars on which
Civilization rests, the Family, the fundamental element of
civilized life, is also violently attacked. All the more
precious, therefore, will Theodore Roosevelt's example be, as an
upholder of the Family. He showed how essential it is for the
development of the individual and as a pattern for Society. Only
through the Family can come the deepest joys of life and can the
most intimate duties be transmuted into joys. As son, as husband,
as father, as brother, he fulfilled the ideals of each of those
relations, and, so strong was his family affection, that, while
still a comparatively young man, he drew to him as a patriarch
might, not only his own children, but his kindred in many
degrees. With utter truth he wrote, "I have had the happiest home
life of any man I have ever known." And that, as we who were his
friends understood, was to him the highest and dearest prize
which life could bestow.
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