Part 22

One quiet evening when we had had a specially lovely family dinner, I turned to him and said: “Theodore, I want to give you a _real_ present before you go away. What do you think you would like?” His eyes sparkled like a child who was about to receive a specially nice toy, and he said: “Do you really want to make me a _real_ present, Pussie? I think I should like a pigskin library.” “A pigskin library,” I said, in great astonishment. “What is a pigskin library?” He laughed, and said: “Of course, I must take a good many books; I couldn’t go anywhere, not even into jungles in Africa without a good many books. But also, of course, they are not very likely to last in ordinary bindings, and so I want to have them all bound in pigskin, and I would rather have that present than any other.” The next day he dictated a list of the books which he wished, and the following evening added in his own handwriting a few more. The list is as follows:

BOOKS IN THE PIGSKIN LIBRARY

Bible.

Apocrypha.

Borrow: Bible in Spain. Zingali. Lavengro. Wild Wales. The Romany Rye.

Shakespeare.

Spenser: Faerie Queene.

Marlowe.

Mahan: Sea Power.

Macaulay: History. Essays. Poems.

Homer: Iliad. Odyssey.

La Chanson de Roland.

Nibelungenlied.

Carlyle: Frederick the Great.

Shelley: Poems.

Bacon: Essays.

Lowell: Literary Essays. Biglow Papers.

Emerson: Poems.

Longfellow.

Tennyson.

Poe: Tales. Poems.

Keats.

Milton: Paradise Lost (Books I and II).

Dante: Inferno (Carlyle’s translation).

Holmes: Autocrat. Over the Teacups.

Bret Harte: Poems. Tales of the Argonauts. Luck of Roaring Camp.

Browning: Selections.

Crothers: Gentle Reader. Pardoner’s Wallet.

Mark Twain: Huckleberry Finn. Tom Sawyer.

The Federalist.

Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress.

Froissart.

Gregorovius: Rome.

Percy’s Reliques.

Euripides (Murray’s translation): Bacchæ. Hippolytus.

Scott: Legend of Montrose. Antiquary. Guy Mannering. Rob Roy. Waverley.

Cooper: Two Admirals. Pilot.

Dickens: Pickwick. Mutual Friend.

Thackeray: Vanity Fair. Pendennis.

The famous pigskin library, carried on the back of “burros,” followed him into the jungles of Africa, and was his constant companion at the end of long days during which he had slain the mighty beasts of the tangled forests.

Immediately after that happy week at the White House, I was stricken by a great sorrow, the death of my youngest son by an accident. My brother came to me at once, and sustained me as no one else could have done, and his one idea during those next weeks was to make me realize his constant thought and love, even in the midst of those thrilling last days at the White House, when among other events he welcomed home the great fleet which had completed its circle of the world.

A few days before the death of my boy, and immediately after that enchanting last visit to the house we had learned to regard as Theodore’s natural home, he wrote me the last letter I received from him dated from the White House. It was written February 19, 1909:

“Darling Corinne: Just a line to tell you what I have already told you, of how we shall always think of you and thank you when we draw on the ‘Pigskin Library’ in Africa. It was too dear of you to give it to me. That last night was the pleasantest function we had ever held at the White House, and I am so glad that you and Douglas were there. Tell Douglas he cannot imagine how I have enjoyed the rides with him.” The above was typewritten, but inserted in his own handwriting at the end of the note were the characteristic lines: “You blessèd person. I have revelled in having you down here. T. R.”

XIII

WALL STREET HOPES EVERY LION WILL DO ITS DUTY

THE LION THAT ROOSEVELT SHOT

Now in Elysian woods, at last foregathered, Comrades, we range together, sire and sire, We who on earth were kings, and nobly fathered, And, regally, wore each his earth attire. How proudly at his heel in dawn or gloaming, With him, the lion-hearted, I am roaming!

--Isabel Fiske Conant.

A great though quiet and personal demonstration came to Theodore Roosevelt just before he sailed for Africa. The heart of the people turned to him with overwhelming affection and he received, during the last week in his own country, between fifteen and twenty thousand farewell letters. Hundreds of mothers wrote him that they felt as if their own son were leaving them, and that their prayers would follow him in his wanderings; hundreds of others wrote that they would not feel that the country would be safe until he should return--but the “big business” men (not the “great” business men) of Wall Street, according to the “bon mot” of some wag, “hoped every lion would do its duty.”

As my brother was leaving Oyster Bay to set sail on his great adventure, he wrote me that he would spend one whole day with me, except for necessary business engagements, to which engagements I took him in my motor. And so my last memories of the time before he sailed are, as usual, of his unfailing devotion. On March 26 he writes again from the steamer: “Your dear little note was handed me as I sailed, and I loved it. It was so good to see you as I did the day before. Darling sister, I think of you all the time. I suppose your children told you of the wild whirl of confusion in which I said ‘Goodbye.’ I was very much touched by the number of acquaintances who came down to see me off. Indeed hundreds of them were not even acquaintances. They came in the shape of clubs, societies, delegations, and even more, by scores of what might be called real friends.”

All through his various sea trips--these sea trips rather bored him--he writes as follows: “There are plenty of people with whom it is really pleasant to talk in English or in those variants of volapuk which with me pass for French and German.” He encloses me a photograph of Kermit and himself and Selous, the naturalist, which shows a merry moment on one of those same sea trips. In May of that year he writes from Juja Farm, Nairobi:

“Really, I have been so busy that I have had no time to myself, and even have not been regularly homesick; of course, down at bottom I am homesick the whole time, but it isn’t able to come to the surface, so to speak, because when I am not actually hunting, I am lying still because I am tired out.... This house is as pretty and comfortable as possible, and my host and hostess are the very kindest of the kind. I am sitting on a cool verandah with vines growing over the trellises, having just returned from a morning hunt in which I killed a python and an impala antelope. Yesterday I killed two antelopes, and the day before, a rhino and a hippo, and the day before that, Kermit killed a leopard which charged him viciously after mauling one of the beaters. I have also killed six lions,--four of them big ones. I am sunburned and healthy, and look like a burly and rather unkempt ruffian.

“Kermit has really done very well. He is very handy, both cool and daring, in fact, rather too daring sometimes.

“Darling sister, I think of you continually, and would so love to see you....”

Later, on his return to the same farm after an extended hunting trip, he says:

“I have worked very hard writing the articles about this trip, and have put my heart into them, for this trip has been to me one of absorbing interest; but of course, I haven’t any idea whether I have written anything worth reading.

“I am happy to say that I know nothing whatever of politics at home, and I hope to keep in the same blessed state of ignorance until I return next June. Then I shall take up political work again, but probably not in any direct partisan sense,--that is, I will go in with the _Outlook_ people on such matters as the conservation of natural resources, the control of big corporations, and how to deal with socialism, and the like.”

The above shows clearly how strong were his intentions not to interfere in any way with the administration then in power.

On June 21, in a letter headed “On Safari,” he writes:

“I am so busy writing my _Scribner_ articles that I have but little time to write family letters, except of course, the letters to Edith. I have had plenty to write about for _Scribner’s_, but it is not always easy to write in the field, and I do not really know how I have done it. Sometimes when I come in early from a hunt, I just point blank refuse to write at all, and spend an hour or two reading a book from the ‘Pigskin Library,’ which has been the utmost possible comfort and pleasure. Fond though I am of hunting and of wilderness life, I could not thoroughly enjoy either if I were not able, from time to time, to turn to my books. I am anxiously looking for news of your Helen and the baby that is to be.

“Kermit is a great pleasure to me. My trouble with him is that he is altogether too bold,--pushing, daring, almost to recklessness.”

Writing in October to my husband (there never was a more devoted friendship than existed between him and my husband), he says:

“You old trump, Douglas. I really do believe that you are about the best fellow and the staunchest friend alive. Your letter was really delightful. I am so glad Bridges told you that they liked the _Scribner_ articles. I only hope they guess right as far as the public is concerned.

“I hope the Robinson Minimus or Minima has arrived. [Referring to the expected baby in my eldest son’s family.] Of course, to go back to Henderson was terribly hard for you both at first, but it would have been the worst possible mistake to have avoided it or left it. The nettle had to be grasped.”

What a characteristic sentence! It _had_ been very hard to go back to our old home, but, as he said, “the nettle had to be grasped.” I don’t think in his whole life he failed to grasp any nettle that had to be grasped. In a letter of the same date to me he says, referring again to our sorrow: “As our lives draw toward the end, we are sure to meet bitter sorrow, and we must meet it undauntedly. I have just been writing Cabot and Nannie [they had lost their talented son, the young poet George Cabot Lodge] and again, there was nothing for me to say.... It has been a horrible wrench for me to leave Edith during this trip, but I am sure I have done the wise thing from every standpoint.”

On January 21, 1910, as he is nearing civilization once more, in a letter dated on the Upper Nile, he writes: “Certainly our trip has been a complete success. If we did not shoot another thing, it would still remain unique, for the great quantity of skins and other scientific specimens collected for the museum; and personally, I do not care if I do not fire off my rifle again. I have enjoyed the trip to the full and feel that it was well worth making. I am naturally overjoyed that I am to see Edith in less than eight weeks, and I shall never go away from her again if I can help it. The ‘Pigskin Library’ continues to be a wellspring of comfort. Darling sister, I love you very much. Your devoted brother.”

On March 10, 1910, in another letter dated Upper White Nile, he says:

“Darling sister mine: At Gondokoro I found your welcome letter; and on the steamer, descending the 1100 miles to Khartoum, bumping into sand banks, and doing various odd things, I send you this line of answer.

“Joe Alsop [my only daughter had just become engaged to Joseph Wright Alsop, of Connecticut] represents to me what I like to think of as the ideal American citizen--pretty strong praise, and I mean every word of it. I should be overjoyed if Ethel married a man like him. He is the big, brave, strong, _good_ man of sound common sense, who works hard _in the country_, who does his duty in politics, who would make a fine type of soldier in civil war. I have always put him in the same class with Bob Ferguson, and with Pinchot, Garfield, Cooley, and the rest of the ‘Tennis Cabinet.’”

His “Tennis Cabinet” shared the same warm corner of his heart in which his “Rough Riders” were firmly ensconced!

His last letter from the White Nile, March 14, 1910, has in it the foreboding of what was to come. “Ugh!” he writes, “tell Douglas that I hate the prospect of being dragged into politics at home. I don’t like the political outlook.” Even then, although regretting the probability, he realized the imminence of being “dragged into politics at home.”

His wonderful reception in Egypt and the admiring recognition shown him by kings and potentates when he emerged from his year of seclusion in the jungle are well known to the world. Emperors and monarchs and presidents vied with each other to do him honor, and never was there a more triumphant progress than that of Citizen Theodore Roosevelt through the great countries that had known him as President of the United States. His tales later of the various potentates were amusing to the last degree; everything he recounted was told in the most good-natured, although humorous, spirit, and in many cases he spoke with warm regard and even affection for the rulers who welcomed him so warmly to their homes and lives. He referred to the King of Italy as “a very intelligent and really good man.” He had never felt that the Emperor of Germany was a _great_ man, nor did he change his opinion, in spite of the many courtesies shown him by the Kaiser, although he enjoyed his experiences in Germany and was much interested when asked to review the great German army by the Emperor. Of all the reigning monarchs, he seemed to think with the most affection of the King of Norway, to whom he paid the characteristic compliment of saying that he “would enjoy having him settle down quietly near him at Oyster Bay,” and he also spoke with regard of Alfonso of Spain. He gave an especially interesting account of the funeral ceremonies of King Edward VII, to which ceremonies he was appointed special envoy; but most of all he wrote with keen delight of his “bird walk” through the New Forest and over the adjacent lowlands and uplands with that fellow bird-lover, the secretary for foreign affairs, then Sir Edward, now Earl, Grey. Nothing could have been more characteristic of Theodore Roosevelt than the way in which that walk had been arranged.

Before he left America to plunge into the African jungle, he wrote to Lord Bryce in England to the effect that on his return, practically a year and a quarter from the date on which he wrote, he would like some one versed in the bird-songs of England to walk with him for a day at least to acquaint him with the notes of the British feathered singers. He knew, he said, the appearance and habits of every English bird, but had never had the chance to match the bird to the song, and he was very anxious to do so. Lord Bryce happened to meet Sir Edward Grey, the secretary for foreign affairs, and laughingly mentioned the desire on the part of President Roosevelt to make this somewhat premature engagement, and expressed uncertainty as to whom he could choose for the President’s companion. Sir Edward immediately offered himself, saying that the knowledge of bird song and lore happened to be one of his assets, but even Sir Edward felt that the experiences with the mighty creatures of the jungle, the excitement of the political furor aroused by a certain speech of Theodore Roosevelt’s in Cairo, and the triumphal procession through other parts of Europe might, perhaps, have effaced from his memory his desire for a walk in English woodlands. But not at all. Sir Edward Grey himself told me, not long ago, that on the 1st of May, 1910, several weeks before he was expected in England, there came a note reminding the British secretary for foreign affairs that the ex-President of the United States wished to be his companion for twenty-four hours at least of remote enchantment “far from the madding crowd,” and so when the time came they started together and tramped through the New Forest, and later over lush meadows inundated by spring rains. Earl Grey told me that although he had often taken this particular walk, he had never encountered the slightest difficulty during the transit, but to be with Theodore Roosevelt was synonymous with adventure of some kind. While traversing a usually innocuous meadow, they suddenly came upon a piece of flooded lowland, in this particular case so flooded that unless they deflected or retraced their steps, it would mean walking breast-high in water for some distance. The secretary for foreign affairs referred the decision about the situation to the ex-President of the United States, and, needless to say, the man who was accustomed to swim the Potomac River in his stride, did _not_ deflect his course because of the flooded English meadow. Later, as they stood under a tree drying themselves in the afternoon sunshine, a very sweet, delicate song was heard. My brother’s keen ears caught the trickling notes, and turning with vivid interest to his companion, he said: “Of all the songs we have heard to-day, that is the only one which resembles in any degree an American-bird song,” and he listened eagerly as the obliging bird repeated its dainty music. “That,” said Earl Grey, “is the crested wren.” “It is a wren also that sings like that in America,” said my brother. Earl Grey was very much interested in this, and a few days afterward, meeting a great bird expert in the British Museum, he repeated the remark of my brother in connection with the fact that the crested wren’s song was the only one of any English bird resembling the song of an American bird, and the expert confirmed what my brother had said.

Mr. John Burroughs used to say, although he had given his whole life to ornithology, that Theodore Roosevelt, to whom in later years it became only a recreation, was almost as well informed on the subject as he was.

In June, 1910, he returned from Europe, and never in the annals of American history has such a reception been accorded to a private citizen. Frankly, I do not think that Theodore Roosevelt was ever regarded as a _private_ citizen; he was always a public possession! What a day it was! We went to meet him in a special launch, and from the moment of his landing until he finally reached his beloved home at Oyster Bay there was nothing but one great call of delight from his fellow citizens to the man who still stood to them for the whole of America. His triumphs, the adulation which he had received from foreign countries, epitomized to them the regard and respect poured out to the United States by those other countries of the world. The great crowds of his waving, cheering fellow citizens lined the avenue of his triumphant progress, but when he finally joined us at the house at which the family were assembled as a vantage-point, he seemed just the same sweet, simple, joyous, and unostentatious comrade as of yore.

That very first day he gave us the most amusing accounts of some of his European experiences, humorously describing informal lunches in Buckingham Palace, when the children of King George and Queen Mary behaved very much as “young America” is accustomed to behave. He also gave us what our family has always been pleased to term a “personal charade” of certain events, especially one moment when the Kaiser behaved rather like an arrogant schoolboy to one of the other royalties. He laughingly referred to a message from the Kaiser during his stay in London, when the above potentate sent him word that he, William, would be glad to give him (ex-President Roosevelt) three-quarters of an hour the next day of his precious time! And ex-President Roosevelt in return sent him a rapid message saying that _he_ would be delighted to see William, but he regretted that he could only give him twenty-five minutes! He regaled us for a long while with many such amusing stories, and then went home to his beloved Sagamore Hill.

The following day an incident occurred which had a certain prophetic quality about it. A great dinner was to be given to him by Robert Collier, and as usual with his loving thought of me (I had just returned from a trip around the world and was in very ill health) he wished to come to my house to spend the night so as to see me. He arranged to be with me at five o’clock in the afternoon, thus to have a long, quiet talk before the dinner. I came in from the country and had afternoon tea waiting for him in my library. A half-hour passed, and then another half-hour, and I began to get distinctly nervous, because he was the most prompt of individuals. At a little after six he arrived looking jaded and worried, and as he took his cup of tea, he turned to me and said: “A very unpleasant thing happened which made me late. As you see, I am dressed perfectly inconspicuously, and I slipped into Scribners [his publishers] a little before five to say a word or two about my ‘African Game Trails.’ [Scribners at that time was situated at 22d Street and Fifth Avenue.] When I went in there was no crowd at all, but somebody must have seen me enter the bookstore, and when I came out a short while afterward, a huge crowd had assembled, and literally would not let me pass. They wanted to carry me on their shoulders; they wanted to do utterly impossible and objectionable things; and I realized at once that this was not the friendly reception of yesterday, but that it represented a certain hysterical quality which boded ill for my future. _That type_ of crowd, feeling _that_ kind of way, means that within a very short time they will be throwing rotten eggs at me. I may be on the crest of the wave now, but mark my words, the attitude of that crowd means that they will soon try to help me into the trough of the wave.” He was so impressed by this incident that that night at the Collier dinner he repeated and enlarged upon the theme of the crest and the trough of the wave.

Yet, in looking back over my brother’s life, I do not think it can be said that in the true sense of the word he ever experienced the trough of the wave. The great movement which resulted in the Progressive party, instigated by internal dissensions in the Republican party, brought Democratic rule into our country, but, although he was defeated for public office, it did not throw him into the trough of the wave, for in reality he emerged from that great movement the leader of the majority of the Republican party, as was shown on Election day in November, 1912, when the vote for Theodore Roosevelt was infinitely larger than that cast for the “regular” Republican candidate, William Howard Taft.

XIV

THE GREAT DENIAL

Who would not be A baffled Moses with the eyes to see The far fruition of the Promised Land!

--C. R. R.

How can we manage with our Brother gone, We smaller folk who looked to him to voice our voicelessness?

* * * * *

We do not call him to come back from that free plane where now he moves untrammeled-- Un-beset by littleness, by envy of his power to read our hearts, And blazon forth the message that he found there, So that those in highest place among us needs must hear And heed the will of us--the silent ones-- Who work, and think, and feel, And are America.

--Gene Stanton Baker.