THE BRINGER OF CULTURE
In the lore of the Middle West brilliantly stands out the figure of Johnny Appleseed, who traveled westward distributing apple-seeds to the farmers and ranchers, from whence sprang up the great apple orchards that have blessed these regions.
It was service of a similar kind that Roosevelt performed when he went among these primitive people of the wilderness. Schools were scarce in those days and opportunity for culture was almost entirely lacking. But here had come among them a man who had graduated from one of the great Eastern colleges, and who had brought with him a choice library of books that contained characters and philosophy entirely comprehensible by these untutored minds when interpreted by such an enthusiastic and sympathetic expounder as young Roosevelt.
On the long winter evenings Roosevelt’s fireside became the rendezvous for the ranchers and their wives. Roosevelt would select a classic story and begin reading. The tale would be a familiar one to him, and yet the genius of the author would again cast its spell over him, and he would read with interest and expression that were magnetic. Swiftly the night passed, and when in the late hours his hearers went to their rest they lay awake remembering the poetry of “that chap Browning” or the Rosalind or Lear of “Mr. Shakespeare,” conning them over in their minds until they became part of their beings, to be transmitted later to the minds and lips of their children, and thus to become a part of the civilization of their section.
To the women, with their starved existence—so far as education was concerned—Roosevelt proved a benefactor indeed; but no less did he administer to the mental craving of his men comrades.
Monotonous and threadbare grew the conversation at a cow-camp. Seldom did the talk vary from such topics as these, described by him:
“A bunch of steers had been seen traveling over the buttes to the head of Elk Creek. A stray horse, with a blurred brand on the left hip, had just joined the saddle ponies. The red F. V. cow had been bitten by a wolf. The old mule, Sawback, was getting over the effects of the rattlesnake bite. The river was going down, but the fords were still bad, and the quicksand at the Caster Trail crossing had worked along so that wagons had to be taken over opposite the blasted cottonwood. Bronco Jim had tried to ride the big, bald-faced sorrel belonging to the Oregon horse outfit and had been bucked off and his face smashed in. It was agreed that Jim ‘wasn’t the sure-enough bronco-buster he thought himself,’ and he was compared very unfavorably to various heroes of the quirt and spurs who lived in Texas and Colorado.”
These topics having been exhausted, the rumor was discussed that the vigilantes had given notice to quit to two men who had just built a shack at the head of the Little Dry River, and whose horses included a suspiciously large number of different brands, most of them blurred. Then the talk became more personal. Roosevelt would be asked to write or post letters for the cow-punchers. Then his companions, growing friendly, would make him the confident of their love affairs, and make him listen for an hour to the charms of their sweethearts.
Here Roosevelt’s books stood both him and his companions in good stead. No matter what adverse conditions surrounded the young ranch-owner, favorite volumes were at hand, and out they came at the first opportunity.
On one occasion, while hunting on Beaver Creek for a lost horse, he met a cowboy and made friends with him. Caught in a heavy snowstorm, they lost themselves, and after eight or nine horns of drifting, finally came across an empty hut near Sentinel Butte. Making their horses comfortable in a sheltered nook with hay found in an old stack, the two cold and tired men sat down to spend the long winter evening together. Out of Roosevelt’s pocket came a small edition of Hamlet. His cowboy companion was greatly interested in the reading, and Roosevelt tells us that he commented very shrewdly on the parts he liked, especially Polonius’s advice to Laertes. His final comment was extremely gratifying to the man who had introduced to him the treasures of the world’s greatest dramatist, and would doubtless have given great pleasure to the immortal bard himself:
“Old Shakespeare saveyed human natur’ some!”
On another evening the men at the Roosevelt ranch began to discuss the English soldiers. Thereupon Roosevelt got down “Napier” and read them extracts from his descriptions of the fighting in the Spanish peninsula. He also told them about the fine appearance and splendid horses of the cavalry and hussars he had seen.
Thus when the East called Roosevelt home there was left behind in the minds of the sons and daughters of the great West not only the recollection of a tried and true comrade, but also the seeds of a culture whose fruitage is still springing forth from the lives he touched.
From a business standpoint Roosevelt’s ranching venture was a failure. The country was poorly adapted to cattle-raising. His reviving interest in politics and his engagement to Edith Carow came to draw him back to the fields where happiness and success waited. Sewall and Dow returned East with him.
The duty of a biographer is to record and not to speculate, yet as we look at Roosevelt’s later life in his unpretentious home at Sagamore Hill; when we think of the democratic sewing circle at Oyster Bay to which Mrs. Roosevelt goes regularly to sew garments for crippled children, and when we see the democratic simplicity with which Roosevelt mingled with his neighbors and shared their experiences and confidences; when we read of him or Captain Archie playing Santa Claus to the village children, we are led to pronounce this judgment, which we feel Roosevelt, if he were living, would heartily second—that while he gave to the men and women of the West the best that was in him, he also received from their kind hearts and frank and open natures a deepening and ripening of his sense of brotherhood that was equivalent in value to the finest gifts he gave these frontier folks.
V
Keeping Fit
It is a matter of conjecture how far the attitude of the doughboy is due to the training he got in the army, but the fact remains that boxing and wrestling have been recognized and practised by our army officers as valuable adjuncts to military training. Uncle Sam encouraged the science of fisticuffs on shipboard and in the training camps, under a committee headed by no other than the famous ex-champion, James J. Corbett, because the positions and motions used in boxing are almost the same as those used in bayonet practice. The development of gameness in the recruit is another important benefit derived from the sport.
One of the anecdotes that came out of the trenches has for its hero a short but stocky Yank who, in an encounter with a huge Prussian, dropped his rifle and went for his foe with his fists. He knocked the fight out of the surprised German and brought him in a prisoner. An officer who had watched his exploit thought it proper to caution him as to the danger that lay in this departure from the rules of attack.
“Danger!” spoke up the Yank, “there isn’t a Fritz alive that I can’t lick with just my fists!”
Theodore Roosevelt, had he realized his desire to serve with the colors during the world conflict, would undoubtedly have been an enthusiastic spectator at such of the army’s ring battles as were within reach of him. Indeed, had he been still occupant of the White House it would not have been surprising to have heard of his inviting champions from the various cantonments to test their skill under the White House roof. Mr. Roosevelt was first drawn to two naval chaplains, Fathers Chidwick and Rainey, through his discovery that each of them had bought sets of boxing gloves and encouraged their crews in boxing. While he was President fencing or boxing were Mr. Roosevelt’s favorite indoor exercises. He was also intensely interested in jiu-jitsu, the “muscleless art.” To perfect himself in this exercise he employed one of the best of the Japanese instructors, and took a course of twenty lessons.
After learning the various grips, the President would practise them upon his teacher. He soon mastered the science, and his enthusiasm over it led him to introduce jiu-jitsu instruction at Annapolis and West Point.
When Mr. Roosevelt entered upon his public career heavy burdens were laid upon him, and to keep in condition to meet the hard physical and mental strain he again turned to boxing and wrestling for exercise. When Governor of New York the champion middleweight wrestler of America came several evenings a week to wrestle with him. The news of the purchase of a wrestling mat for the Governor’s mansion at Albany created consternation on the part of the Controller, but was greeted with great enthusiasm by the red-blooded men to whom the Governor had become an idol. Many of these would have paid a great price to have been able to stand at the edge of the mat and cheer their champion in his strenuous amusement. To the middleweight champion the job was a hard one. Not because he experienced any difficulty in downing the Governor, but because he was so awed by the Governor’s position and responsibilities that he was always in dire anxiety lest the Governor should break an arm or crack a rib. This gingerly attitude of his opponent exasperated Roosevelt. He didn’t feel that it was fair for him to be straining like a tiger to get a half-Nelson hold on the champion while the latter seemed to feel that he must play the nurse to him. After repeated urgings he managed to get the champion to throw him about in real earnest—then he was satisfied.
Colonel Roosevelt relates in his reminiscences that, while he was in the Legislature, he had as a sparring partner a second-rate prizefighter who used to come to his rooms every morning and put on the gloves for a half hour. One morning he failed to arrive, but a few days later there came a letter from him. It developed that he was then in jail; that boxing had been simply an avocation with him, and that his principal business was that of a burglar.
Roosevelt was fond of boxing with “Mike” Donovan, trainer at the New York Athletic Club, as well as with William Muldoon, the wrestler and trainer. His opponents testify that the Colonel was handicapped by his poor sight. He wanted to see his adversary’s eyes—to catch the gleam that comes before a blow. Roosevelt always maneuvered to see his opponent’s face, and he liked to “mix in” when boxing.
Hard and heavy was the Colonel’s method, and his opponents forced the colonel to adapt his plan of fighting to theirs. It did not matter to Roosevelt. It was the striving, not the result, that interested him.
An illustration of Roosevelt’s fondness for the Japanese art of wrestling is found in this extract from the diary of John Hay, Secretary of State:
“April 26—At the Cabinet meeting this morning the President talked of his Japanese wrestler, who is giving him lessons in jiu-jitsu. He says the muscles of his throat are so powerfully developed by training that it is impossible for any ordinary man to strangle him. If the President succeeds once in a while in getting the better of him he says, ‘Good! Lovely!’”
Lieutenant Fortescue, a distant relative of the Roosevelt family, sometimes put on the gloves with the Colonel. One day, feeling in fighting trim, Fortescue asked the Colonel to box with him. Finally the Colonel agreed to go four rounds. According to Joseph Grant, detective sergeant of the Washington Police Department, detailed to the White House to “guard” the President, it was the fastest bout he ever saw.
“The Colonel began to knock Lieutenant Fortescue right and left in the second round,” said the detective. “His right and left got to the army officer’s jaw time after time, and the bout was stopped in the third round to prevent the army man from getting knocked out. Then the Colonel turned to me and said: ‘I think I can do the same to you. Put on the gloves!’
“I drew them on reluctantly, and I put up the fight of my life. The best I could do was to prevent a decision and get a draw.”
It was a sporting rule of the Colonel’s not only to give as good a blow as he could, but also to take without squirming the hardest blow his opponent could deliver. The wrestler who hesitated to stand him on his head because he was Governor of New York exasperated him; nor would he have permitted a man to spar with him who held back his blows.
Nothing illustrates this rule better than an episode which the Colonel himself made public. In October, 1917, in the course of an interview with newspaper men, he told this story in explanation of his relinquishing the gloves:
“When I was President I used to box with one of my aids, a young captain in the artillery. One day he cross-countered me and broke a blood vessel in my left eye. I don’t know whether this is known, but I never have been able to see out of that eye since. I thought, as only one good eye was left me, I would not box any longer.”
This story was too promising for the newspaper men to let drop without endeavoring to have it amplified by the soldier who delivered the blow.
A few days later, in “The New York Times,” appeared this interview with Colonel Dan T. Moore, of the 310th Field Artillery Regiment, 79th Division, National Army:
“Colonel Dan T. Moore, of the 310th Field Artillery Regiment, 79th Division, National Army, admits he struck the blow that destroyed the sight of Colonel Roosevelt’s eye.
“‘I am sorry I struck the blow. I’m sorry the Colonel told about it, and I’m sorry my identity has been so quickly uncovered. I give you my word I never knew I had blinded the Colonel in one eye until I read his statement in the paper. I instantly knew, however, that I was the man referred to, because there was no other answering the description he gave who could have done it. I shall write the Colonel a letter in a few days, expressing my regrets at the serious results of the blow.
“‘I was a military aid at the White House in 1905. The boxers in the White House gym were the President, Kermit Roosevelt and myself. The President went further afield for his opponents in other sports, but when he wanted to don the boxing gloves he chose Kermit or myself.’
“‘Tell about the blow that blinded the President.’
“‘I might as well try to tell about the shell that killed any particular soldier in this war. When you put on gloves with President Roosevelt it was a case of fight all the way, and no man in the ring with him had a chance to keep track of particular blows. A good fast referee might have known, but nobody else. The Colonel wanted plenty of action, and he usually got it. He had no use for a quitter or one who gave ground, and nobody but a man willing to fight all the time and all the way had a chance with him. That’s my only excuse for the fact that I seriously injured him. There was no chance to be careful of the blows. He simply wouldn’t have stood for it.’”
Roosevelt to his last days remained keenly interested in ring champions. He numbered among his prizefighting friends John L. Sullivan, Bob Fitzsimmons, Battling Nelson and many another man whose fame was won by strength and skill in the ring. Among his treasures is the pen-holder Bob Fitzsimmons made for him out of a horse-shoe, and the gold-mounted rabbit’s foot which John L. Sullivan gave to him for a talisman when he went on his African trip.
He championed the cause of prizefighters on many occasions, though never hesitating to denounce the crookedness that has attended the commercializing of the ring. He held that powerful, vigorous men of strong animal development must have some way in which their spirits can find vent. His acts while Police Commissioner of New York show clearly how he distinguished between the art of boxing itself and the men who are trying to make money out of it. On one hand, he promoted the establishment of boxing clubs in bad neighborhoods in order to draw the attention of street gangs from knifing and gun-fighting. On the other hand, finding that the prize ring had become hopelessly debased and run for the benefit of low hangers-on, who permitted brutality in order to make money out of it, he aided, as Governor, in the passage of a bill putting a stop to professional boxing for money.
VI
Roosevelt’s “Cops”
The New York Police Department needed a cleaning up. The force at that time was under a heavy cloud. There had been a Mayorality election. Tammany had made a hard fight but the Republican candidate, Strong, had been elected. The vote meant that the citizens thought the time had come for a New York police reform. Mayor Strong asked Roosevelt, then serving on the national Civil Service Commission, to be Police Commissioner.
Roosevelt’s friends thought that he was too big a man to take such a position. He saw a work that needed to be done.
Proctor, a friend and fellow worker, tried to persuade him not to undertake the job. Roosevelt had given the matter earnest thought. He believed himself capable of bringing about the necessary reforms. He knew that such a work would be of great benefit to his fellow citizens.
“Proctor,” he said, “it is my duty. I am going.”
“Go then!” said Proctor. “You must always have your own way. Yet I believe you are right. Clean up the city thoroughly!”
Roosevelt faced a bigger job than he knew. The metropolitan police system was in the hands of corrupt politicians. The Tammany ring exercised a tyranny over the policemen. Incompetency, immorality and dishonesty honeycombed the department. Many of the policemen, instead of being a protection to the people, were a menace.
Promotions went by favor and money. The man who wanted to become a policeman could get the job for from $200 to $300. A police lieutenant could buy his appointment for from $10,000 up. The men who secured positions in this way paid the money with the expectation of getting it back through graft. They had free rope so long as they delivered to the political leaders half of their spoils.
If a saloonkeeper wanted to obey the law and tried to get along without paying tribute to the policemen of his district, he found that a rival saloonkeeper was being accorded extraordinary privileges in order that he himself might be either ruined or forced to “come across.” Gambling dens, saloons and disorderly houses were free from punishment so long as they paid toll. Vice flaunted itself in the face of the law-abiding element of the city.
The very coming of Roosevelt to Mulberry Street was a challenge to the disorderly and corrupt elements of the metropolis. His friends warned him that other commissioners, with good intentions, had tried to do what he was about to attempt, but had found the police force so full of jealousy, favoritism and blackmail that little progress could be made.
“Tom” Byrnes, a detective of national fame, was the head of the New York police at that time. Roosevelt decided that reform should begin at the top. He dismissed Byrnes. The latter hurled at him this challenge:
“The system will break your opposition. You will give in, for you are only human, after all.”
Roosevelt kept on. No one was allowed anything to say concerning his appointments and promotions. Those who were physically and morally weak he banished from the service. Those who showed merit and faithfulness he promoted.
He started in at once to acquire an intimate knowledge of the men who worked under him. He accomplished this by making personal tours at night through the various police districts. Francis E. Leupp, whose previously-mentioned book, “The Man Roosevelt,” will always be a fruitful source to Roosevelt’s biographers, gives this description of such an expedition: