their names for six hours at a time. One of the regiments that I
visited last, which is wretchedly officered and composed of the
scum of our city, seemed for the first time even to recall their
families. We had an order from the General of Division, and the
Colonel sent his adjutant to carry out our desires. He came, dirty
and so drunk that he could not speak straight, and of course got
the orders wrong. All the officers seem to be _in_ with the sutler
while the private said he was an unmitigated thief. The delays
were so great that I stood out with one of these companies after
seven o’clock at night, with one soldier holding a candle while
I took down the names of those who desired to send money home.
The men looked as hard as I have often seen such men look in our
Mission neighborhood, but after a little talking and explaining
my object and reminding them of those they had left behind them,
one after another put down his name, and from this company alone,
they allotted, while I was there, $600.00. This would be increased
afterwards by the officers, if they were decent ones, and other
men absent on guard and through other reasons. I could not help
thinking what a subject for a painting it would make as I stood out
there in the dark night, surrounded by the men with one candle just
showing glimpses of their faces,--tents all around us in the woods.
One man, after putting down five dollars a month, said suddenly:
“My old woman has always been good to me, and if you please, change
it to ten.” In a moment, half a dozen others followed his example
and doubled their allotments.
I enclose a letter for Teedie [Theodore]. Do take care of yourself
and the dear little children while I am away, and remember to enjoy
yourself just as much as you can. [This sentence is so like my
father. Duty was always paramount, but joy walked hand in hand
with duty whenever it legitimately could.]
I do not want you not to miss me, but remember that I would never
have felt satisfied with myself after this war is over if I had
done nothing, and that I do feel now that I am only doing my duty.
I know you will not regret having me do what is right, and I do not
believe you will love me any the less for it.
Yours as ever,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
This particular letter is very characteristic of the father of
President Roosevelt--a man of the qualities which his country has grown
to associate with its beloved “Colonel.” In my brother’s case they
were the direct inheritance from the man who stood out knee-deep in
mud using his wonderful personality to make those hard-faced drafted
men remember their own people at home, and at the same time writes to
the lovely mother of his children to try and enjoy herself as much as
possible in his absence.
My mother’s answers to my father’s letters were very loving. Alone,
and delicate, she never dwells on loneliness or ill health, but tells
him the dear details of the home he loved so well. On January 8, 1862,
she writes: “Teedie came down stairs this morning looking rather sad,
and said ‘I feel badly--I have a tooth ache in my stomach.’--later he
asked if ‘Dod’ (God) was a fox?!--this after being shown a picture of
a very clever looking fox! He is the most affectionate and endearing
little creature in his ways.” One can well imagine how the lonely
father, doing his distant and gruelling duty, treasured the dainty
letters full of quaint stories of childish sayings. In another and
later missive there is a description of a birthday supper-party in
which “Teedie” is host to his cousins; it runs as follows: “Teedie, the
host, was too busy with his chicken and potatoes to converse much, but
as soon as he finished he made the sage remark that he ‘loved chicken,
roast beef and everything that was good better than salt water.’ This
speech occasioned a roar of laughter, and was evidently thought very
witty. Teedie, too, seemed to be under the false impression that it was
clever. He seemed to be inflated with vanity for some time afterwards!”
How gladly the tired man, after long days in the saddle, and evenings
of effort with sullen soldiers, must have turned to just such humorous
accounts of the small boy who always said or did something quaint,
which lost nothing in the picture drawn by the facile pen of his mother.
Theodore Roosevelt writes his wife again in January, 1862, a letter
interesting because of his attitude toward the German regiments. He
says:
“We are continually at work now, and to-day saw three regiments, but
even at this rate, it will be long before I see you again. They were
all Germans to-day--a motley crew, having few friends and frequently no
characters. We had been told that we ran the risk of our lives by going
to these regiments, and much more nonsense of the same kind, but the
only risk we ran has been from starvation. We were out talking to the
men until very late, and then found a German dinner which Dodge could
eat nothing of but the brown bread. He wanted to be polite, however,
and I was much amused with his statement that he would ride five miles
to get such bread, which was literally a fact, however, I have no
doubt, in his state of starvation.
“The men, as Germans always do, took time to consider, and we left
them to describe the allotment idea to other persons. However, after
due consideration, a fair number sent money home. These Germans were
generally of the lowest characters, and with the exception of one
regiment disappointed me, although I have no doubt they will fight
well. There are some 12,000 of them.
“This morning I saw that our efforts are noticed in _The World_ and
_The Tribune_. You have seen, I suppose, that we have been mentioned
several times in _The Times_. This is particularly satisfying as the
papers threatened once to be down on us, which would lose for us the
confidence of the soldiers.”
The letters all give vivid accounts of his experiences, differing
in interest. He speaks of General Wadsworth, the grandfather of our
present United States senator, and says that the general “helped to
make my bed when I spent one night with his division.”
In an interim of work, on February 7, he writes of his invitation to
Mrs. Lincoln’s ball, at which he says he had a delightful time.
“Mrs. Lincoln in giving the Ball, stated that she gave it as a piece
of economy in war time, and included those diplomats, senators,
congressmen and others, that it had been previously the habit to invite
at a number of formal dinners. No one lower in the army than the
Division General,--not even a Brigadier, had an invitation to the Ball,
and of course there was much grumbling and a proportionate amount of
envy. Some complained of the supper, but I have rarely seen a better,
and often a worse one. Terrapin, birds, ducks, and everything else in
great profusion when I was in the dining room, although some complained
of the delay in getting into the room, as we went in parties.
“I spent all of yesterday kicking my heels in the ante-room of the
Secretary of War, and in making out an order for him which he promised
to sign and afterwards refused. [How history repeats itself!] I was
with him about two hours, altogether, and received any number of the
highest kind of compliments, but I wanted a more important proof of
his good feeling which I did not get. I still hope that I may get it
through the President.”
On February 12, 1862, comes this description of the delightful visit to
Newport News and he says:
“All the officers received us in such a hospitable spirit and the
weather assisted in making our stay agreeable. I passed two of the
pleasantest days that I have enjoyed when away from home. General
Mansfield suggested some practice with the parrot gun, and one of those
sad accidents occurred, for a gun burst and two men were killed.
“We have been treated like princes here. The steamboat was put at our
disposal and when, through a misunderstanding, it left before we were
on board, another one was immediately sent with us. I enclose several
things to keep for me.”
Amongst the enclosures was a note which is sufficiently interesting to
give in facsimile.
EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON
MR. ROSEVALT.
_Dear Sir_:
I very much regretted that a severe headache confined me to my room
on yesterday, this morning I find we are expected to hold a noon
reception which will be over by three and a half o’clock at which
time I will be very happy to have you ride with us.
Very truly yours
MRS. A. LINCOLN.
This quaint missive reminds me of the fact of my father’s kindly
tolerance of “Mrs. A. Lincoln’s” little peculiarities. I remember how
he used to tell us, when occasionally he was invited, as this letter
says, to “ride” with her, that he would also be invited to stop at the
shop where she bought her bonnets, and give his advice on which bonnet
was especially becoming!
In an earlier letter, after referring to an interview with Secretary
Stanton, he speaks of his apparent decision of character. But he was
disappointed when he could not, in the beginning, make the secretary
take his point of view about the Allotment Commission. Later, however,
he received the full support of Secretary Stanton.
[Illustration: AN INVITATION FROM THE WIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN TO
THEODORE ROOSEVELT, SR.]
In a letter dated February 5 he speaks of “justified pleasure” as
follows:
“I find that only about six men under fifty [he himself was only
twenty-nine] are invited to the President’s to-night, and I have
determined to go for a short time, at least. There will be the largest
collection of notables there ever gathered in this country, and it
would probably be a sight worth remembering.”
Under date of Washington, February 14, he writes again:
“I have so many acquaintances here now that I could easily find a
temporary companion. Hay [John Hay] is going with me to Seward’s
to-night, and I am hoping to procure the pass for your mother. [My
grandmother was most anxious to get back to her own people in the
South]. In Baltimore I saw, or fancied I saw, on the faces of our
class of the inhabitants, their feelings in consequence of the news
just received of the taking of Roanoke Island. They looked very blue.
The sutlers here are serious obstacles in getting allotments. As
soon as _we_ see a Regiment and persuade the men to make allotments,
_they_ send around an agent to dissuade them from signing their names,
convincing them that it is a swindle because _they_ want the money to
be spent in Camp and go into their pockets instead of being sent home
to the poor families of the men, who are in such want.
“I enclose you a flower from the bouquet on the table of the Executive
Mansion. Also a piece of silk from an old-fashioned piano cover in
Arlington House.”
As I opened the letter, the flower fell to dust in my hands, but
the little piece of green silk, faded and worn, had evidently been
treasured by my mother as being a relic of Arlington House.
On February 27, 1862, his stay in Washington was drawing to a close,
and my father regretted, as so many have done, that he had not kept a
diary of his interesting experiences. He writes on September 27:
“All those whom I have seen here in Washington in social intercourse
day by day will be characters in history, and it would be pleasant to
look over a diary hereafter of my own impressions of them, and recall
their utterly different views upon the policy which should be pursued
by the Government. I have rarely been able to leave my room in the
evening, for it has been so filled with visitors, but I have not felt
the loss of liberty from the fact that those who were my guests I would
have taken a great deal of trouble to see, and never could have seen so
informally and pleasantly anywhere except in my own room.
“It has, of course, been more my duty to entertain those whose
hospitality I was daily receiving, in the camps, by invitations to drop
in during the evening; all of these are striving to make their marks as
statesmen, and some, I am sure, we will hear from hereafter.”
On March 1, 1862, he says:
We have all been in a state of excitement for some days past,
caused by movements in the Army foreshadowing a general battle.
The snow which is now falling fast, has cast a damper over all our
spirits.... Several of the Generals have stated to me their belief
that the war, as far as there was any necessity for so large an
army, would be closed by some time in May,--probably the first of
May. If so, my work will be all over when I return to New York, and
I can once more feel that I have a wife and children, and enjoy
them.
It is Sunday afternoon, and I have a peculiar longing to see you
all again, the quiet snow falling outside, my own feelings being
very sad and that of those around being in the same condition makes
me turn to my own quiet fireside for comfort. I wish we sympathized
together on this question of so vital moment to our country, but
I know you cannot understand my feelings, and of course I do not
expect it.
YOUR LOVING HUSBAND WHO WANTS
VERY MUCH TO SEE YOU.
One can well imagine the note of sadness in the strong young man who
had relinquished his urgent desire to bear arms because of the peculiar
situation in which he found himself, but who gave all his time and
thought and physical endurance to the work vitally needed, and which
he felt he could have handled better with the sympathy of his young
wife, whose anxiety about her mother and brothers was so poignant and
distressing. Never, however, in the many letters exchanged between the
parents of my brother, Theodore Roosevelt, was there one word which was
calculated to make less possible the close family love and the great
respect for each other’s feelings.
In the last letter quoted above, one feels again that history does
indeed repeat itself, when one thinks that it was written in March,
1862, and that those “generals” of whom my father speaks were expecting
that no large army would be needed after May 1 of that year, when in
reality the long agony of civil war was to rack our beloved country for
nearly three years more. This was proven shortly after to my father,
and in the following October he is writing again from Baltimore, and
this time in a less wistful mood:
Since I last wrote you I have enjoyed my pleasantest experiences
as Allotment Commissioner. The weather was lovely our horses good
and Major Dix accompanied us from the Fortress to Yorktown. It was
about twenty-five miles of historic ground passing over the same
country that General McClellan had taken his army along last spring.
First comes the ruins of the little town of Hampton, then through
Big Bethel where Schanck was whipped, to the approaches to
Yorktown. There ravines have been cut through miles of roads made,
and immense breastworks thrown up by our army.
Suydam was away but the rest of General Keyes’ staff received us
most hospitably, and after dinner furnished us with fresh horses to
visit the regiments, one of their number accompanying us.
I had practise for both my French and German in the Enfans Perdus,
Colonel Comfort’s regiment and it was quite late before our
return. As I had broken my eyeglasses I had to trust entirely
to my horse who jumped over the ditches in a most independent
manner. We all sat up together until about twelve except Bronson
who had seemed used up all day, and had not accompanied me to the
regiments. He seemed to feel the shock of the fall when the car ran
off the track, and not to recover from it so easily as myself.
Next morning we rode another twenty-five miles to Newport News to
see the Irish Brigade. General Corcoran was there, and accompanied
us to the regiments first suggesting Irish whiskey to strengthen
us. At dinner ale was the beverage and after dinner each Colonel
seemed to have his own particular tope. On our return they made
an Irish drink called “scal thun” and about one o’clock gave us
“devilled bones.” The servant was invited in to sing for us and
furnished with drinks at odd times by the General, who never
indulged, however, himself to excess. We then went the grand rounds
with the General at two in the morning, arrested two officers for
not being at their posts and returned at half past three, well
prepared to rest quietly after a very fatiguing day, and one of the
most thoroughly Irish nights that I ever passed.
Next morning (yesterday) we had a delightful ride over to Fortress
Monroe, and had lunch at General Dix’s before leaving in the boat.
A dozen of the officers were down at the boat, and we felt as we
bid goodbye to some of them, like leaving old friends....
Dearest: a few words more and I must close. Bronson has a very bad
cold and decides that he will leave me to-morrow. If well enough
he will undoubtedly call on you. Of course this makes me doubly
homesick but I must see it through.
Goodbye. Yours as ever,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
Again on October 18, having apparently been able to return for a brief
visit to his family, he writes from Niagara:
“I was able to get a top berth and retired for the 31st time in two
months to spend the night on the railroad. My three nights at home have
made it hard, rather than easier, to continue my journeys.
“All our party started from Albany to Fonda, and I had a hard day’s
work for the men had been deceived by the bounty and were suspicious
about everything regarding the Allotment Commission. The officers’
dinner was a good deal like pigs eating at a trough. When at night
three companies had not yet been visited, I determined to do it
wholesale. I had two tents pitched and occupied one already prepared,
placing a table, candles and allotment roll in each. I then had the
three companies formed into three sides of a square and used all my
eloquence. When I had finished they cheered me vociferously. I told
them I would be better able to judge who meant the cheers by seeing
which company made most allotments. [This sentence of my father’s makes
me think so much of my brother’s familiar “shoot; don’t shout!” when he
would receive vociferous cheers for any advice given.] I thus raised
the spirit of competition and those really were the best that I had
taken during the day. By eight o’clock we found our work done, dark as
pitch, and rain descending in torrents, but still the work was done.”
These letters give, I think, a vivid picture of my father’s persistence
and determined character, and the quality of “getting there,” which was
so manifestly the quality of his son as well, and at the same time the
power of enjoyment, the natural affiliation with his humankind, and
always the thoughtfulness and consideration for his young wife left
with her little charges at home.
[Illustration: Elliott Roosevelt, aged five and a half years, about
1865.]
[Illustration: Corinne Roosevelt, about four years old, 1865.]
[Illustration: Theodore Roosevelt, aged seven, 1865.]
In that same home the spirit of the war permeated through the barriers
of love raised around the little children of the nursery, and my aunt
writes of the attitude of the small, yellow-haired boy into whose
childish years came also the distant din of battle, arousing in him the
military spirit which even at four years of age had to take some
expression. She says: “Yesterday Teedie was really excited when I said
to him that I must fit his zouave suit. His little face flushed up and
he said, ‘Are me a soldier laddie too?’ and when I took his suggestion
and said, ‘Yes and I am the Captain,’ he was willing to stand for a
moment or two to be fitted.” Even then Theodore Roosevelt responded
to his country’s call, and equally to the discipline of the superior
officer!
II
GREEN FIELDS AND FOREIGN FARING
From the nursery in 20th Street my early memories turn with even
greater happiness to the country place which my parents rented at
Madison, N. J., called Loantaka, where we spent several summers. There
the joy of a sorrel Shetland pony became ours--(Pony Grant was his
name)--a patriotic effort to commemorate the name of the great general,
still on the lips of every one, whose indomitable will and military
acumen had at that very moment been the chief factor in bringing the
Civil War to a close. I, however, labored under the delusion that he,
the general, was named after the pony, which seemed to me at the time
much the more important of the two personalities. The four-legged Grant
was quite as determined and aggressive as his two-legged namesake, and
he never allowed any of us to be his master. When my father first had
him brought to the front door of the country home at Madison, I shall
never forget the thrill of excitement in the breasts of the three
little children of the nursery. “Who will jump on his back?” called out
my father gaily.
It has always been the pride of my life that, although I was only about
four years old, I begged for the privilege before the “boys” were quite
ready to decide whether to dare the ferocious glance in his dark eyes.
Owing to my temerity he was presented to me, and from that time on was
only a loan to my brothers. Each in turn, however, we would climb on
his back, and each in turn would be repeatedly thrown over his head,
but having shown his ability to eject, he would then, satisfied by
thus proving his superiority, become gentle as a really gentle lamb.
I qualify my reference to lambs, remembering well the singularly
_ungentle_ lamb which later became a pet also in the family.
In those country days before the advent of the motor, the woods and
lanes of New Jersey were safe haunts for happy childhood, and we were
given much liberty, and, accompanied by our two little cousins from
Savannah, John and Maud Elliott, who spent those two summers with us,
having suffered greatly from the devastating war, we roamed at will,
leading or riding our pony, playing endless games, or making believe
we were Indians--always responsive to some story of Theodore’s which
seemed to cast a glamour around our environment.
I can still feel the somewhat uncanny thrill with which I received
the suggestion that a large reddish stain on a rock in the woods near
by was the blood of a white girl, lately killed by the chief of the
Indian tribe, to which through many mysterious rites we were supposed
to belong. I remember enticing there in the twilight our very Hibernian
kitchen-maid, and taking delight in her shrieks of terror at the sight
of the so-called blood.
My brother always felt in later years, and carried the feeling into
practice with his own children, that liberty in the summer-time, for
a certain period at least, stimulated greatly the imagination of a
child. To rove unhampered, to people the surroundings with one’s own
creations, to watch the habits of the feathered or furry creatures,
and insensibly to react to the beauty of wood and wind and water--all
this leaves an indelible impression on the malleable nature of a young
child, and we five happy cousins, in spite of Theodore’s constant
delicacy, were allowed this wonderful freedom to assimilate what nature
had to give.
I never once remember that we came to the “grown people” with that
often-heard question “What shall we do next?” The days never seemed
long enough, the hours flew on golden wings. Often there would be
days of suffering for my brother, even in the soft summer weather,
but not as acute as in the winter-time, and though my father or my
aunt frequently had to take Theodore for change of air to one place or
another, and rarely, even at his best, could he sleep without being
propped up in bed or in a big chair, still his spirit was so strong
and so recuperative that when I think of my earliest country memories,
he seems always there, leading, suggesting, explaining, as all through
my life when the nursery was a thing of the past and the New Jersey
woodlands a faint though fair green memory, he was always beside me,
leading, suggesting, explaining still.
It was in those very woodlands that his more accurate interest
in natural history began. We others--normal and not particularly
intelligent little children--joyed in the delights of the country,
in our games and our liberty, but he was not only a leader for us in
everything, but he also led a life apart from us, seriously studying
the birds, their habits and their notes, so that years afterward the
result of those long hours of childish concentration took form in his
expert knowledge of bird life and lore--so expert a knowledge that even
Mr. John Burroughs, the great nature specialist, conceded him equality
of information with himself along those lines.
It was at Lowantaka, at the breakfast-table one day, after my father
had taken the train to New York--this was the second year of our
domicile there, and the sad war was over--that my mother received a
peculiar-looking letter. I remember her face of puzzled interest as she
opened it and the flush that came to her cheek as she turned to my aunt
and said: “Oh, Anna, this must be from Irvine!” and read aloud what
would now seem like a “personal” on a page of the New York _Herald_. It
was as follows: