Montana, again came to my old stamping grounds and among my old
friends. I met all kinds of queer characters with whom I had hunted and
worked and slept and sometimes fought. From Helena, I went southward to
Butte, reaching that city in the afternoon of May 27th. By this time,
Seth Bullock had joined us, together with an old hunting friend, John
Willis, a Donatello of the Rocky Mountains,--wholly lacking, however,
in that morbid self-consciousness which made Hawthorne’s ‘faun’ go out
of his head because he had killed a man. Willis and I had been in Butte
some seventeen years before, at the end of a hunting trip in which we
got dead broke, so that when we struck Butte, we slept in an outhouse
and breakfasted heartily in a two-bit Chinese restaurant. Since then I
had gone through Butte in the campaign of 1900, the major part of the
inhabitants receiving me with frank hostility, and enthusiastic cheers
for Bryan.
“However, Butte is mercurial, and its feelings had changed. The wicked,
wealthy, hospitable, full-blooded, little city, welcomed me with wild
enthusiasm of a disorderly kind. The mayor, Pat Mullins, was a huge,
good-humored creature, wearing, for the first time in his life, a top
hat and a frock coat, the better to do honor to the President.
“National party lines counted very little in Butte where the fight
was Heinze and anti-Heinze, Ex-Senator Carter and Senator Clark being
in the opposition. Neither side was willing to let the other have
anything to do with the celebration, and they drove me wild with their
appeals, until I settled that the afternoon parade and speech was
to be managed by the Heinze group of people, and the evening speech
by the anti-Heinze people; and that the dinner should contain fifty
of each faction and should be presided over in his official capacity
by the mayor. The ordinary procession, in barouches, was rather more
exhilarating than usual, and reduced the faithful secret service men
very nearly to the condition of Bedlamites. The crowd was filled with
whooping enthusiasm and every kind of whiskey, and in their desire to
be sociable, broke the lines and jammed right up to the carriage....
Seth Bullock, riding close beside the rear wheel of my carriage, for
there were hosts of so-called ‘rednecks’ or ‘dynamiters’ in the crowd,
was such a splendid looking fellow with his size and supple strength,
his strangely marked aquiline face, with its big moustache, and the
broad brim of his soft dark hat drawn down over his dark eyes. However,
no one made a motion to attack me....
“My address was felt to be honor enough for one hotel, so the dinner
was given in the other. When the dinner was announced, the Mayor led
me in!--to speak more accurately, tucked me under one arm and lifted
me partially off the ground so that I felt as if I looked like one of
those limp dolls with dangling legs, carried around by small children,
like Mary Jane in the ‘Gollywogs,’ for instance. As soon as we got in
the banquet hall and sat at the end of the table, the Mayor hammered
lustily with the handle of his knife and announced, ‘Waiter, bring on
the feed.’ Then, in a spirit of pure kindliness, ‘Waiter, pull up the
curtains and let the people see the President eat’;--but to this, I
objected. The dinner was soon in full swing, and it was interesting in
many respects. Besides my own party, including Seth Bullock and Willis,
there were fifty men from each of the Butte factions.
“In Butte, every prominent man is a millionaire, a gambler, or a labor
leader, and generally he has been all three. Of the hundred men who
were my hosts, I suppose at least half had killed their man in private
war or had striven to compass the assassination of an enemy. They had
fought one another with reckless ferocity. They had been allies and
enemies in every kind of business scheme, and companions in brutal
revelry. As they drank great goblets of wine, the sweat glistened on
their hard, strong, crafty faces. They looked as if they had come out
of the pictures in Aubrey Beardsley’s Yellow Book. The millionaires had
been laboring men once, the labor leaders intended to be millionaires
in their turn, or else to pull down all who were. They had made money
in mines, had spent it on the races, in other mines or in gambling and
every form of vicious luxury, but they were strong men for all that.
They had worked, and striven, and pushed, and trampled, and had always
been ready, and were ready now, to fight to the death in many different
kinds of conflicts. They had built up their part of the West, they were
men with whom one had to reckon if thrown in contact with them.... But
though most of them hated each other, they were accustomed to take
their pleasure when they could get it, and they took it fast and hard
with the meats and wines.”
The above description by the pen of my brother is the most vivid that
could be given of a certain type of man of the West. The types were
many.... The Sylvane Ferrises and the Will Merrifields were as bold and
resourceful as these inhabitants of the city of Butte and its vicinity,
but for the former, life was an adventure in which the spirit of beauty
and kindness had its share in happy contrast to the aims and objects of
the men described by my brother in this extraordinary pen-picture. The
picture is so forcibly painted that it brings before one’s mind, almost
as though it were an actual stage-setting, this type of American, who
would appear to be a belated brother of the men of the barbaric period
of the Middle Ages in the Old World, in their case, however, rendered
even more formidable by a New World enterprise and acumen, strangely
unlike what has ever been produced before.
It was because of his knowledge of just such men, and of the fact that
they knew, although his aims were so different and his ideals so alien
to theirs, that the courage of his mental and physical equipment could
meet them on their own ground, that Theodore Roosevelt was respected
and admired, although sometimes hated, by this type of humanity so
opposed to the goals, actual and spiritual, for which he worked so
faithfully during his whole valiant existence. They knew him for what
he was, and feared him for the qualities which he possessed in common
with them, and even more for the traits that they did not understand,
and which, to them, made him inevitably and forever “The Mysterious
Stranger.”
VII
TWO RECREANT NEW YORK POLICEMEN
Who serves her truly, sometimes saves the state.
--Arthur Hugh Clough.
There is sprung up a light for the righteous; and joyful gladness
for such as are true-hearted.--97th Psalm.
The years between 1890 and 1896 were busy years, with devoted service
as Civil Service Commissioner, winters at Washington and happy summers
at Oyster Bay, when Theodore Roosevelt gave himself up to family joy
and the activities of the growing children. In 1893 he writes most
lovingly of my children and his--his never-failing sympathy in all the
minor illnesses of my little family, expressed in the most affectionate
terms, and the common sorrow which we both suffered in the loss of our
devoted aunt, Mrs. James Gracie, fills many pages during those years.
We met frequently during the summer-time, and when we met he shared
with me his many Washington experiences, but the letters are largely to
show me his loving interest in the many details of my family life.
In August, however, he goes a little more fully into some matters of
public interest, and writes: “For the last fortnight, I have virtually
been living with Cabot, for I take all my meals at his house, though I
sleep at my own. [Mrs. Roosevelt and the children were at Oyster Bay.]
After breakfast, an hour spent by Cabot and myself in gloomy discussion
over the folly of the Mug-wumps and the wickedness of the Democrats,
I go to the office and work until four or five o’clock, most of my
work taking the light but not always agreeable shape of a succession
of interviews of varying asperity with Congressmen; then I go to gruff
old Olney’s and play tennis with him and any other stray statesman,
diplomat or military personage whom he has captured for an hour or two.
Sometimes, Cabot and I dine alone; more often, we have in one or two of
our cronies such as Tom Reed or Senator Davis of Minnesota.... I think
the tariff deadlock will break in a day or two, when I shall be left
alone here with so much work on hand, however, that I fear I shall not
get away until the end of the month, when I shall go back to Sagamore
and Edith and the blessed bunnies.”
The intimacy with Senator Lodge, the charm of his library, where
tradition and intellect always held sway, were amongst the most
delightful associations that Washington gave to my brother during the
many years spent there, both before the days of the White House and
later under its roof.
Late in August of that year my brother Elliott died. My brother
Theodore came to me at once and we did together the things always so
hard to do connected with the death of those we love, and he writes
me afterward: “The sadness has been tempered by something very sweet
when I think of the way I was with you, my own darling sister.” The
quality of sharing, which, as I always say, was one of his most marked
attributes, never showed more unselfishly than in times of sorrow.
Almost immediately after the above letter, he encloses to me a clipping
from the newspaper of Abingdon, Va., about my brother Elliott, who
had lived there for some time in connection with the property of my
husband in the Virginia mountains. No one, not even my brother Theodore
himself, was ever more loved by those with whom he came in contact than
was the “Ellie” of the early days in 20th Street, and later wherever he
went he found rare and devoted friendship. _The Virginian_ (the name of
the Abingdon paper) says:
“The New York papers announce the death of Mr. Elliott Roosevelt. This
gentleman has been a member of this community for the past two years,
and although his stay was so brief, it was long enough for him to make
his impress as a whole-souled, genial gentleman, courteous and kind at
all times, with an ever ready cheer for the enterprising or help to the
weak. His name was a byword among the needy, and his charities were
always as abundant as they were unostentatious. He was public spirited
and generous, this much we can truthfully say. His influence and his
aid will be missed, and more frequently than is generally known among
those to whom it was a boon.”
After speaking of the enclosure, my brother continues: “My thoughts
keep hovering around you, my darling sister, for I know how you loved
Elliott; what a gallant, generous, manly boy he was. So many memories
come back to me.”
In 1895 he had been appointed police commissioner, and was already in
the thick of the hard fight to reform the Police Department. He writes
in August of that year: “Governor Hill and I have had two savage tilts.
I have not the slightest idea of the ultimate results of our move on
the excise question, but we have made a good fight against heavy odds.”
Perhaps, of all the pieces of work done by my brother, none stands
out more clearly than the splendid achievement of remaking the Police
Department into a fine working body, for which the whole city of New
York had the utmost respect, and on which it leaned for safety and
protection. I have but few letters from him during that period, for,
much to our delight, he was once more in our midst, and many and many
a time would I go down to the old Vienna bakery on the corner of 10th
Street and Broadway, and he would come from Mulberry Street, where his
office was, and together we would sit over the type of lunch he loved
so well: either bread and milk or a squab and _café au lait_. I can
still see Senator Lodge’s expression when he joined us on one of these
simple occasions, and asked in a somewhat saturnine manner whether any
one _could get_ a respectable lunch at the place we loved so well!
What talks we had there over all the extraordinary situations that
arose in the Police Department. There he described to me the delicious
humor of the parade inaugurated by the German brewer societies as a
protest against his enforcement of the law. They were parading to show
their disapproval of him, but at the last moment, as a wonderful piece
of sarcasm, they decided to invite him to review the parade, hardly
thinking that he would accept the invitation. Needless to say, he _did_
accept it, and leaning over from the platform where he had been invited
to sit, he saw the mass of marching men carrying banners with “Down
with Teddy,” and various other more unpleasant expletives. One company,
as it passed the reviewing-stand, called out: “Wo ist Teddy?” “Hier bin
ich,” called out the police commissioner, leaning over the railing and
flashing his white teeth good-humoredly at the protesting crowd, who,
unable to resist the sunshine of his personality, suddenly turned and,
putting aside the disapproving banners, cheered him to the echo.
It was during that same time, the story ran, that two recreant
policemen who left their beats at an inopportune moment were called to
the realization of their misdemeanor by coming face to face, in a glass
window-case, with a set of false teeth which, they explained, grinned
at them with a ferocity so reminiscent of the strong molars of the
police commissioner, that they almost fainted at the sight, and hastily
returned to their forsaken duties. Many and many a settlement-worker
told me in those days that they could go anywhere in the most dangerous
parts of the city, during the administration of Theodore Roosevelt,
and the police were always on hand, always ready to protect those who
needed their care.
At that time also I was amused one day when he told me the story
about his little Irish stenographer, a young girl whose knowledge of
orthography was less than her sympathetic interest in the affairs of
the police commissioner! He took a warm interest in the nice young
Irish girl, hard worker as she was, an important factor in the support
of a large family of younger children, and could not bear to dismiss
her from his service, in spite of her alarming mistakes in spelling.
He said he always had to look over her manuscript and correct it in
spite of his many other cares, and he laughingly remarked that it was
well he did, as having dictated the following sentence in connection
with a certain policeman, “I was obliged to restrain the virtuous ardor
of Sergeant Murphy, who, in his efforts to bring about a state of quiet
on the streets, would frequently commit some assault himself,” the
young Irish stenographer, listening to the rapid dictation, spelled
“some assault” “somersault,” and, as my brother remarked, one could not
but laugh at the thought of Sergeant Murphy performing somersaults like
a circus clown on Mulberry Street, and, fortunately, the word caught
the ever-watchful eye of the police commissioner before the report was
printed, and, even in spite of the inconvenience, he set himself to
work to improve the young stenographer’s mistaken orthographic efforts.
In spite of his busy days and busy nights, he had time, as usual, to
write to me when he thought that I needed his care or interest. I was
far from well at the time, but was obstinately determined to go up to
visit my boys at St. Paul’s School, and he writes me: “Won’t you let
Douglas and me go up to St. Paul’s, and you stay at home? If you will
do this, I shall positively go for anniversary on June 2nd. I believe
you should not go on these trips whether for pleasure or duty, and
should take more care of yourself. Your loving and anxious brother.”
He himself has given in his autobiography many incidents connected with
his police commissionership.
The force were devoted to him, as were his Rough Riders later, largely
on account of the justice with which he treated them, and the friendly
attitude which he always maintained toward them. Otto Raphael, a young
Jew, and a young Irishman called Burke were two of the men whom he
promoted because of unusual bravery, and their loyalty and admiration
followed him unswervingly. On the sad day when he was carried to the
little cemetery at Oyster Bay, Burke--now Captain Burke--had been put
in charge of the police arrangements for the funeral. As he stood by
the grave, the captain turned to me, the tears streaming down his face
but with a smile in his blue Irish eyes, and said: “Do you remember
the fun of him, Mrs. Robinson? It was not only that he was a great
man, but oh, there was such fun in being led by him. I remember one
day when he was governor, and I was in charge of him, and I was riding
by the side of his carriage down Madison Avenue, and he suddenly stuck
his head out of the window and, ‘Burke’ said he, ‘we are just going to
pass my sister’s house. I want to get out and say “how do you do” to my
sister.’ ‘I don’t think you have time, governor’ I said, ‘I am afraid
you are late now.’ ‘Oh, now, Burke, I want you to meet my sister. Get
somebody to hold your horse,’ he said; ‘it won’t take a minute.’ And
with that he leaped out of his carriage and was ringing the front
door-bell in a flash. I followed him and I heard him call out to you,
Mrs. Robinson, that he had his friend Lieut. Burke with him, and could
he bring him up-stairs to shake hands, and sure enough he did, and when
I went down-stairs again I heard him telling you some story, and the
two of you were laughing fit to kill. When I got back that night to my
wife, I said: ‘Susan, if you are ever downhearted, all you have to do
is to go up to 422 Madison Avenue when the governor stops to see his
sister, and hear them laugh.’”
The commissionership was a big job well done, and the city of New York
could not but feel a sense of great regret when President McKinley
promoted the active young commissioner to be assistant secretary of the
navy in 1897. It was his pride and one of his greatest satisfactions
in later years to feel that he was instrumental in preparing our navy
for the war with Spain. For many years he had been convinced that the
Spanish rule in Cuba should not continue; and the condition in Cuba,
he felt, was too intertwined with the affairs of the United States to
be differentiated from them. In the days of President Cleveland, my
brother had felt that action should be taken, and in the same way he
was convinced that Mr. McKinley was only putting off the evil day by
not facing the situation earlier in his incumbency. As was the case
in almost every crisis which arose, either national or international,
during my brother’s life, he seemed to have a prescience of the future,
and, therefore, he almost invariably--sometimes before other public men
were awake to the contingency--sensed the need of taking steps to avert
or meet difficulties which he felt sure would soon have to be faced.
The young assistant secretary of the navy was not very popular with
the administration on account of the views which he felt it his duty
honestly to express. On March 6, 1898, he writes to my husband:
“Neither I nor anyone else, not even the President can do more than
guess. We are certainly drifting towards and not away from war, but the
President will not make war, and will keep out of it if he possibly
can. Nevertheless, with so much loose powder around, a coal may hop
into it at any moment. In a week or two, I believe, we shall get that
report. If it says the explosion was due to outside work, it will be
very hard to hold the country. [He refers to the blowing up of the
battleship _Maine_ in Havana harbor.] But the President undoubtedly
will try peaceful means even then, at least, at first.”
At the time of the writing of that letter, Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt
had been very ill and was still very delicate, and my brother had not
only the many worries of the department in which he was working, as he
himself puts it, “like a fiend, for we have serious matters ahead,” but
he also had the great anxiety of her condition on his heart. On the
28th of March: “I have been working up to the handle here, and have
about all I can do on hand now. I have very strong convictions on this
crisis, convictions which, I fear, do not commend themselves to my
official superiors.” And again on April 2, 1898, he writes in full to
my husband, who was always one of his most welcome advisers:
Navy Department, April 2, 1898.
DEAR OLD MAN:
In one way I was very much pleased at receiving your letter, for it
shows the thoughtfulness and affection you always feel for me. In
another way your letter makes it very hard for me. All my friends
have written me as you have, and yet I am convinced that you are
all wrong. Do not misunderstand me. It may well be that I can’t
get down with an Expeditionary force even if, as I think unlikely,
an Expeditionary force is started before next fall. Indeed I
think I shall probably have to stay here, and I should certainly
stay here until we got a successor broken in. But if I get a fair
chance to go, or could make a fair chance, I conscientiously
feel that I ought to go. My usefulness in my present position is
mainly a usefulness in time of peace, because in time of peace
the naval officers cannot speak freely to the Secretary and I can
and do, both to the Secretary and President, even at the cost
of jeopardizing my place. But in time of war the naval officers
will take their proper positions as military advisers, and my
usefulness would be at an end. I should simply be one of a number
of unimportant bureau chiefs. If I went I shouldn’t expect to
win any military glory, or at the utmost to do more than feel I
had respectably performed my duty; but I think I would be quite
as useful in the Army as here, and it does not seem to me that
it would be honorable for a man who has consistently advocated
a warlike policy not to be willing himself to bear the brunt of
carrying out that policy. I have a horror of the people who bark
but don’t bite. If I am ever to accomplish anything worth doing in
politics, or ever have accomplished it, it is because I act up to
what I preach, and it does not seem to me that I would have the
right in a big crisis not to act up to what I preach. At least I
want you to believe that I am doing this conscientiously and not
from merely selfish reasons, or from an impulse of levity.
I shall answer Corinne in a day or two. April 13th I was to have
been in Boston, but if we have trouble, I, of course, can’t get
away. I hope Corinne will stay over the following Sunday, so I may
have a good chance to see her.
Faithfully yours.
The above is a most characteristic letter. Those who were nearest to
him, like myself and my husband, and even Senator Lodge, were doubtful
of his wisdom in leaving his important position (I mean important for
the affairs of the country, not for himself) as assistant secretary
of the navy to take active part in the war, should war come, but he
himself knew quite well that being made of the fibre that he was,
he must act up to what he had preached. Nothing is more absolutely
Theodore Roosevelt, was ever more thoroughly Theodore Roosevelt, than
that sentence. “I have a horror of the people who bark but don’t bite.
If I am ever to accomplish anything worth doing in politics, or ever
have accomplished it, it is because I act up to what I preach, and it
does not seem to me that I would have the right in a big crisis not to
act up to what I preach. At least I want you to believe that I am doing
this conscientiously and not from merely selfish reasons or from an
impulse of levity.” No sentence ever written by my brother more fitly
expressed his attitude toward conviction and acting up to conviction.
VIII
COWBOY AND CLUBMAN
A RHYME OF THE ROUGH RIDERS
The ways of fate they had trod were as wide
As the sea from the shouting sea,
But when they had ranged them side by side,
Strenuous, eager, and ardent-eyed,
They were brothers in pluck, they were brothers in pride,
As the veriest brethren be.
They heard no bugle-peal to thrill
As they crouched in the tangled grass,
But the sound of bullets whirring shrill
From hidden hollow and shrouded hill;
And they fought as only the valiant will
In the glades of Guasimas.
Aye, they fought, let their blood attest!--
The blood of their comrades gone;
Fought their bravest and fought their best,
As when, like a wave, in their zealous zest
They swept and surged o’er the sanguine crest
Of the heights of San Juan.