after a week’s hunting in Iowa. Elliott revels in the change to
civilization--and epicurean pleasures. As soon as we got here
he took some ale to get the dust out of his throat; then a milk
punch because he was thirsty; a mint julep because it was hot;
a brandy mash “to keep the cold out of his stomach”; and then
sherry and bitters to give him an appetite. He took a very simple
dinner--soup, fish, salmi de grouse, sweetbread, mutton, venison,
corn, macaroni, various vegetables and some puddings and pies,
together with beer, later claret and in the evening, shandigaff. I
confined myself to roast beef and potatoes; when I took a second
help he marvelled at my appetite--and at bedtime, wondered why
in thunder _he_ felt “stuffy” and _I_ didn’t. The good living
also reached his brain, and he tried to lure me into a discussion
about the intellectual development of the Hindoos, coupled with
some rather discursive and scarcely logical digressions about the
Infinity of the Infinite, the Sunday school system, and the planet
Mars, together with some irrelevant remarks about Texan “Jack
Rabbits” which are apparently about as large as good-sized cows.
Elliott says that these remarks are incorrect and malevolent; but I
say they pay him off for his last letter about my eating manners!
We have had very good fun so far, in spite of a succession of
untoward accidents and delays. I broke both my guns, Elliott dented
his, and the shooting was not as good as we had expected; I got
bitten by a snake and chucked headforemost out of the wagon.
YOUR SEEDY BROTHER, THEO.
Nothing could better exemplify the intimate, comprehending relationship
of the two brothers than the above letter, in which, with exaggerated
fun, Theodore “pays Elliott off” for his criticisms of the future
President’s eating manners! All through their lives--alas! Elliott’s
life was to end prematurely at the age of thirty-three--the same
relationship endured between them. Each was full of rare charm, joy of
life, and unselfish interest in his fellow man, and thus they had much
in common always.
The hunting trip described so vividly in these two letters was, in a
sense, the climax of this period of my brother’s life. College days
were over, the happy summer following his graduation was also on the
wane, and within a brief six weeks from the time these letters were
written, Theodore Roosevelt, a married man, was to go forth on the
broader avenues of his life’s destiny.
V
THE YOUNG REFORMER
“Lift up thy praise to Life
That set thee in the strenuous ways,
And left thee not to drowse and rot
In some thick perfumed and luxurious plot.
“Strong, strong is Earth
With vigor for thy feet,
To make thy wayfaring
Tireless and fleet,
“And good is Earth,
But Earth not all thy good,
O thou with seeds of suns
And star-fire in thy blood.”
The early part of the year 1881 was spent by Theodore Roosevelt and
his young wife with my mother at 6 West 57th Street, and was devoted
largely to literary work and efforts to acquaint himself with the
political interests of the district in which we lived.
During the following summer, they travelled in Europe; he climbed Swiss
mountains and showed his usual capacity for surmounting obstacles. June
16, 1881, he writes from Paris in connection with artistic wanderings
in the Louvre. “I have not admired any of the French painters much
excepting Greuze. Rubens’ ‘Three Wives’ are reproduced in about fifty
different ways, which I think a mistake. No painter can make the same
face serve for Venus, the Virgin, and a Flemish lady.” And again on
August 24 from Brussels: “I know nothing at all, in reality, of art,
I regret to say, but I do know what pictures I like. I am not at all
fond of Rubens; he is mentally a fleshly, sensuous painter, and yet his
most famous pictures are those relating to the Divinity. Above all,
he fails in his female figures. Rubens’ women are handsome animals
except his pictures of rich Flemish house-wives, but they are either
ludicrous or ugly when meant to represent either the Virgin or a Saint.
I think they are not much better as heathen goddesses. I do not like
a chubby Minerva, a corpulent Venus, or a Diana who is so fat that
I know she could never overtake a cow, let alone a deer. Rembrandt
is by all odds my favorite. I am very much attracted by his strongly
contrasting coloring and I could sit for hours examining his heads;
they are so life-like and impressive. Van Helst I like for the sake of
the realism with which he presents to one, the bold, rich, turbulent
Dutchman of his time. Vandyke’s heads are wonderful; they are very
life-like and very powerful--but if the originals were like them, I
should hardly have admired one of them. Perhaps, the pictures I really
get most enjoyment out of are the landscapes, the homely little Dutch
and Flemish interiors, the faithful representations of how the people
of those times lived and made merry and died, which are given us by
Jan Steen, Van Ostade, Teniers, and Ruysdael. They bring out the life
of that period in a way no written history could do, and interest me
far more than pictures of Saints and Madonnas. I suppose this sounds
heretical but it is true. This time I have really _tried_ to like the
holy pictures but I cannot; even the Italian masters seem to me to
represent good men and insipid, good women, but rarely anything saintly
or divine. The only pictures I have seen with these attributes are
Gustav Doree’s! He alone represents the Christ so that your pity for
him is lost in intense admiration and reverence. Your loving brother.”
The above letter is one unusual in its type, because it was rare for
Theodore Roosevelt to write as much about art. He always loved certain
types of pictures, but his busy, active career had but small time for
the more æsthetic interests! All these criticisms by the young man
not yet twenty-three have their value because they show so distinctly
the character of the young man himself. One sees the interest which
he takes in his humankind as represented by certain types of Dutch
pictures, and also his love for spiritual beauty, when not belittled
by insipidity. Perhaps the last sentence of this letter is most
characteristic of all of his own vital spirit. He does not wish to pity
the Christ; he almost insists that pity must be lost in admiration and
reverence. Pity always seemed to Theodore Roosevelt an undesirable
quality; tenderest sympathy he gave and craved--but never pity.
After this brief artistic sojourn he plunged with great energy, on his
return, into the drudgery of political life in his own district. Many
were the criticisms of his friends and acquaintances at the thought
of his taking up city or state politics from a serious standpoint. At
that time, even more than now, “politics” was considered as something
far removed from the life of any one brought up to other spheres
than that of mud-slinging and corruption. All “politics” was more or
less regarded as inextricably intertwined with the above. Theodore
Roosevelt, however, realized from the very beginning of his life
that “armchair” criticism was ineffectual, and, because ineffectual,
undesirable. If one were to regard oneself in the light of a capable
critic, the actual criticism immediately obligated the person indulging
in it to _do_ something about the matter. He often used to quote the
old story of “Squeers” in “Nicholas Nickleby,” that admirable old novel
of Charles Dickens, in which “Do the Boys’ Hall” was so amusingly
described. Mr. Squeers, the master of the above school, would call up a
pupil and ask him to spell window. He pronounced it “winder,” and the
pupil in turn would spell it “w-i-n-d-e-r.” The spelling would not be
corrected but the boy would receive the injunction to “go and wash it,”
and my brother always said that while he did not approve of “Squeers’”
spelling--nor indeed of other methods practised by him--that the “go
and wash it” was an admirable method to follow in political life. The
very fact that, although by no means a wealthy man, he had a sufficient
competence to make it unnecessary for him to earn his own living,
made him feel that he must devote his life largely to public affairs.
He realized that unless the men of his type and caliber interested
themselves in American government, the city, state, and country in
which they lived would not have the benefit of educated minds and of
incorruptible characters. He therefore set himself to work to learn the
methods used in ordinary political life, and, by learning the methods,
to fit himself to fight intelligently whatever he found unworthy of
free American citizenship.
He has described this part of his life in his own autobiography.
He has told of how he met Joseph Murray, a force in the political
district, who became his devoted adherent, and how he decided himself
to become one of the “governing class.” This effort resulted in his
nomination for the New York State Assembly, and on January 1, 1882,
Theodore Roosevelt became outwardly, what inwardly he had always
been, a devoted public servant. That winter remains in my mind as
one of intense interest in all of his activities. We were all living
at my mother’s home in 57th Street, and he spent part of the week in
Albany, returning, as a rule, on Friday for the week-end. Many were
the long talks, many the humorous accounts given us of his adventures
as an assemblyman, and all the time we, his family, realized that an
influence unusual in that New York State Assembly was beginning to
be felt. Already, by the end of a month or so, he was known as “the
Young Reformer,” ardent and earnest, who pleaded for right thinking,
and definite practical interpretation of right thinking. His name was
on the lips of many before he had been three months an assemblyman,
and already his native city was beginning to take a more than amused
interest in his activities.
A certain highbrow club called “The 19th Century Club,” whose president
was the editor of the _Evening Post_ (a paper neither then nor later
_always_ in accord with the ideals and methods of Theodore Roosevelt!),
invited the young assemblyman to make an address before its members.
He accepted the invitation, feeling, as he always did, that it was
well to give the type of message that _he_ wished to give to the type
of citizens of which that club was composed. Following my invariable
custom whenever it was possible for me to do so, I accompanied him to
the meeting. The method of procedure in “The 19th Century Club” was
as follows: The speaker of the evening was allowed to choose his own
subject, announced, of course, several weeks in advance, and he was
given a half-hour in which to develop his idea. A second speaker was
invited to rebut the first speaker. The speaker of the evening was then
allowed ten minutes to rebut the rebutter. It is, I think, of special
interest to remember that the young assemblyman, twenty-three years of
age, chose for his subject the same theme on which the man of sixty,
who was about to die, wrote his last message to his countrymen.
Theodore Roosevelt announced that he would speak to “The 19th Century
Club” on “Americanism.” A brilliant editor of an able newspaper was
asked to make the speech in answer to the address of “the Young
Reformer.” As I say, I went with my brother to the meeting and sat
directly under him in a front seat. It was the first time I had ever
heard him speak in public and I confess to having been extremely
nervous. He was never an orator, although later his speeches were
delivered with great charm of manner and diction, but at this
early stage of his career he had not the graces of an older and
more finished speaker. I can see him now as he came forward on the
platform and began with eager ardor his plea for Americanism. Every
fibre of my being responded to him and to his theme, but I seemed to
be alone in my response, for the somewhat chilly audience, full of
that same armchair criticism of which I have spoken, gave but little
response to the desire of the heart of Theodore Roosevelt, and when
he had finished his half-hour’s presentation of his plea, there was
very little applause, and he sat down looking somewhat nervous and
disappointed. Then the brilliant man, twice the age of Theodore
Roosevelt, who had been chosen to reply to him, rose, and with deft
oratorical manipulation rang the changes on every “ism” he could think
of, using as his fundamental argument the fact that all “isms” were
fads. He spoke of the superstition of spiritualism, the extravagance
of fanaticism, the hypocrisy of hypnotism, the plausibility of
socialism--and the highbrow members of “The 19th Century Club” were
with the brilliant orator from start to finish, and as he closed his
subtile argument, which left Americanism high and dry on the shores
of faddism, the audience felt that “the Young Reformer” had had his
lesson, and gave genuine applause to his opponent.
Half-way through that opponent’s address, I confess, on my own part,
to having experienced a great feeling of discouragement; not because I
agreed with what he said, but because of the effect produced upon the
listeners; but suddenly I saw my brother smile the same smile which
used to cross his face in later years when some heckler would try to
embarrass him from the back of a great hall, and he took a pencil and
wrote something on his cuff. The smile was transitory but it gave
me fresh hope, and I knew quite well that the audience would hear
something worth while, if not to their liking, in the last ten minutes
of the evening, when, as I said before, the speaker of the evening
was allowed to rebut the rebutter. The clever editor sat down amidst
interested applause, and “the Young Reformer” stepped once more forward
to the edge of the platform. He leaned far over from the platform,
so earnest, so eager was he, and this is what he said: “I believe
that I am allowed ten minutes in which to refute the arguments of my
opponent. I do not need ten minutes--I do not need five minutes--I
hardly need one minute--I shall ask you one question, and as you answer
that question, you will decide who has won this argument--myself or
the gentleman on the other side of this platform. My question is as
follows: If it is true that all isms are fads, I would ask you, Fellow
Citizens, what about _Patriotism_?” The audience rose to its feet;
even “The 19th Century Club” could not but acknowledge that patriotism
was a valuable attribute for American citizens to possess. That was
the first time that Theodore Roosevelt, in public, asked of his fellow
countrymen, “What about Patriotism?” but all his life long, from that
time on, it was the question forever on his lips, the question which
his own life most adequately answered.
In April of that same year, Theodore, an assemblyman not yet
twenty-four, had already made himself so conspicuous a figure that
mention of him and his attitudes was constantly in the New York press.
In an envelope, put away long ago, I find an excerpt from the New York
_Times_, April 5, 1882. It is yellow with age and brittle, but there
was something ineffaceable and prophetic in the faded words; I quote:
“He called from the table his resolution directing an investigation
by the Standing Judiciary Committee of the acts of Judge Westbrook
and Ex-Attorney General Ward in connection with the gigantic stock
jobbing scheme of the Manhattan Railroad Co. (Elevated). Ex-Governor
Alvord _tried_ to prevent resolution, but it was carried 48-22. As Mr.
Roosevelt rose to speak, the House, for almost the only time during the
Session, grew silent and listened to every word that he uttered.”
In the midst of a body of men somewhat inclined to a certain kind of
careless irreverence, it is of marked interest that “as Mr. Roosevelt
rose to speak, the House, for almost the only time during the Session,
grew silent and listened to every word that he uttered.” To how few
young men of twenty-three would “the House” accord such respect! As
I say, the attitude was prophetic, for the following forty years, no
matter how fiercely he was criticised, no matter what fury of invective
was launched against him, no matter how jealously and vindictively
he was occasionally opposed, there was never a place where Theodore
Roosevelt rose to speak that he was not listened to with great
attention.
In the _Sun_ of the same date the account of the incident runs as
follows: “Mr. Roosevelt’s speech was delivered with deliberation
and measured emphasis, and his charges were made with a boldness
that was almost startling.” Those first two years of his career as
an assemblyman showed, indeed, again, that the youth was father to
the man. The characteristics which marked his whole public life
never showed more dominantly than as a young assemblyman in Albany.
Uncompromising courage was combined with common sense, and the power
of practical though never unworthy compromise was as evident then as
later in his life. Those years have been fully dwelt upon in his own
autobiography.
The great tragedy of his young wife’s death at the birth of her first
child was an even greater tragedy because the death of our lovely
mother occurred twenty-four hours before her son’s wife passed away.
Our mother’s home at 57th Street had been the background of our young
married life, as it had been the foreground of our youth, and the
winter of 1884 had been spent by my husband and myself at 6 West
57th Street, and the consequence was that as Theodore also made his
headquarters there, we had been much together, and that very fact made
it even harder to break up the home which had been so long the centre
of our family life.
The next two years were almost the saddest of our happy lives. My
brother had, fortunately, already interested himself in a ranching
enterprise in North Dakota, and although he returned to the assembly
in February, 1884, and with his usual courage finished his year of
duty there, he turned gladly to the new life of the West, and became,
through his absolute comprehension of the pioneer type of the cowboy
and the ranchman, not only one of them from a physical standpoint, but
also one of them from the standpoint of understanding their mental
outlook.
In June, 1884, however, before starting for Dakota, he was to meet one
of the serious political decisions of his life. That spring, when it
came time to elect delegates to the Republican National Convention, he
was, with the hearty approval of the great mass of his party, chosen
as the chief of the four delegates-at-large from New York State. Mr.
Joseph Bucklin Bishop gives in his history of “Theodore Roosevelt and
His Time” a short account of that convention, of which I quote part:
“He went to the National Convention an avowed advocate of the
nomination of Senator John F. Edmunds of Vermont as Republican
Candidate for the Presidency in preference to James G. Blaine. The New
York _Times_ of June 4th, 1884, refers to him as the leader of the
Younger Republicans, and says, ‘when he spoke, it was not the voice of
a youth but the voice of a man, and a positive practical man.’”
Mr. Bishop describes Mr. Roosevelt’s efforts and the efforts of
Senator Henry Cabot Lodge to secure the nomination of their choice,
and then continues: “By the nomination of Mr. Blaine which followed
later, Roosevelt was confronted with what, in many respects, was one
of the most serious crises of his career. He had to decide which of
the two courses he should choose; he must separate himself completely
from his party and become an absolute Independent, or stay within his
party and support its regularly appointed candidate. The nomination of
Mr. Blaine had been fairly won. He was unquestionably the choice of
the Convention. There was no claim that the will of the majority had
been subverted either through the action of a committee on contested
seats or in any other way. The problem before him was thus a quite
different one from that presented to him twenty-eight years later in
the National Republican Convention of 1912. In opposing the nomination
of Mr. Blaine, he and his Republican Associates had been acting with a
considerable body of Professional Independents. These men were without
allegiance to either of the great political parties. Though he had
been, during his brief public career, an avowed Republican, seeking
to accomplish all his reforms through Republican aid and inside party
lines, his Independent associates, as soon as the Blaine nomination was
made, assumed that he would leave his party and join them in seeking to
accomplish Mr. Blaine’s defeat by supporting the Democratic candidate.
In fact, they not merely asked but demanded that he abandon the course
which he had followed since his entry into political life and upon
which he had built his public career. They were sincere in their belief
that he should do so. It seemed incredible to them that he could do
anything else. He gave them full credit for sincerity but declared that
the question was one that he must insist upon deciding for himself.
“He admitted frankly that he had worked hard for the nomination of
Edmunds but he declined to say at once what course he should pursue in
regard to the nomination of Mr. Blaine. Various devices were used to
force him to declare his intentions, some by Republican politicians
and others by leading Independents, but all in vain. He insisted upon
deciding the question for himself and in his own way and time. He went
direct from the Convention in Chicago to his ranch in Dakota, and
several weeks later put forth a formal statement in which he defined
his decision as follows: ‘I intend to vote the Republican Presidential
ticket. While at Chicago, I told Mr. Lodge that such was my intention
but before announcing it, I wished to have time to think the matter
over. A man cannot act both without and within the party; he can do
either, but he cannot possibly do both. Each course has its advantages
and each has its disadvantages, and one cannot take the advantages or
the disadvantages separately. I went in with my eyes open to do what
I could within the party. I did my best and got beaten, and I propose
to stand by the result. It is impossible to combine the functions of a
guerilla chief with those of a colonel in the regular army; one has a
greater independence of action, the other is able to make what action
he does take vastly more effective. In certain contingencies, the one
can do most good; in certain contingencies the other; but there is
no use in accepting a commission and then trying to play the game out
on a lone hand. I am by inheritance and by education a Republican.
Whatever good I have been able to accomplish in public life has been
accomplished through the Republican party. I have acted with it in
the past and wish to act with it in the future. I went as a regular
delegate to the Chicago Convention and intend to abide by the outcome
of that Convention. I am going back in a day or two to my Western ranch
as I do not intend to take any part in a campaign this Fall.’” [This
determination not to take part in the campaign he recalled later, for
reasons which were eminently characteristic.]
“‘When I started out to my ranch two months ago,’ he said in October,
‘I had no intention of taking any part whatever in the Presidential
canvass, and the decision I have now come to is the result of revolving
the matter in my mind during that time. It is altogether contrary to
my character to keep a neutral position in so important and exciting a
struggle, and besides any natural struggle to keep a position of some
kind, I made up my mind that it was clearly my duty to support the
ticket.’”
He faced the storm of disapproval and abuse calmly, and in reply to an
open letter of regret and remonstrance from an Independent, he wrote:
“I thank you for your good opinion of my past service. My power, if
I ever had any, may or may not be as utterly gone as you think, but
most certainly, it would deserve to go if I yield any more to the
pressure of the Independents at present, when I consider _them_ to be
wrong, than I yielded in the past to the pressure of the machine when
I thought _it_ wrong.” He declined a renomination for the assembly,
which he could have had without opposition, and two separate offers of
nominations for Congress, on the ground that his private interests,
which he had neglected during his service in the legislature, required
his attention.
His courageous attitude in connection with the disapproval of the
Independents was indeed characteristic. He was invariably willing to
run the risk of the disapproval of any faction when he had positively
made up his own mind as to the right or wrong of any question, and
he set his mind and heart upon those “private interests” of which he
speaks.