CHAPTER XIII
SECOND ADMINISTRATION OF THEODORE
ROOSEVELT
March 4, 1905, to March 4, 1909
ROOSEVELT’S inauguration on March 4, 1905, was more the inauguration of Theodore Roosevelt, the man, than the installation of a new President of the United States. No President since Abraham Lincoln had possessed such a unique personality. His national following was amply demonstrated by the unequalled vote of the electoral college and by the popular majority which exceeded 2,500,000, and it is the common belief that curiosity to a phenomenal degree drew the hosts of visitors to the city to witness the ceremonies and to see this man for themselves. The day dawned with the promise of fair weather, and the fluttering mass of flags and banners made the Avenue a brilliant pathway of gorgeous colour.
Rough Riders, Grand Army Veterans, and Spanish War Veterans formed the personal escort to the Capitol, led by Lieutenant General Chaffee, Grand Marshal of the parade, whose colour bearers attracted special interest. They were the sons and grandsons of men distinguished in the annals of American military and naval history. They were selected from West Point and Annapolis, and nearly all of them were descendants of army and navy officers who had won distinguished honours fighting for their country. Those from the West Point Military Academy were: Sherman Miles, son of General Miles; Adna R. Chaffee, son of Lieutenant General Chaffee; Calvin P. Titus, the first American soldier to scale the wall at the siege of Peking, China, appointed cadet-at-large by President McKinley, and Cadet Gatewood. Those representing Annapolis were: Midshipman Stephen Decatur, descendant of Commodore Decatur; Midshipman Beauregard, grandson of the Confederate General; Midshipman Davis, son of Rear Admiral Davis; Midshipman Early, son of the Confederate General, Jubal A. Early.
A vast array of civic and military organizations reinforced the escort. The whole length of the way was packed with crowds of cheering, applauding citizens eager to honour the new President.
After the last bills were signed, the President went to the Senate Chamber to attend the services for the installation of the Vice President, Charles Warren Fairbanks, and the swearing in of the new Senators. Here the scene was most impressive. The Senate Chamber was packed with spectators and legislators. A brilliant assemblage of diplomats from all quarters of the globe was present, most of whom appeared in full court costume, and the Supreme Court of the United States, solemn and awe-inspiring in their black silk gowns. The galleries were filled with invited guests, among them the families of the new President and Vice President and Cabinet and their friends. Upon the conclusion of the services here, the President, with Chief Justice Fuller by his side, led the procession through the corridors of the Capitol to the East Portico, where he renewed his oath and delivered his message containing the promises and the forecasts of a new administration. During this ceremony, he wore a ring given him by John Hay, which contained a lock of Lincoln’s hair.
After the return to the White House, the President and Mrs. Roosevelt entertained about two hundred persons at luncheon, including their new official family and intimate friends and relatives, and then the entire party walked to the reviewing stand in front of the White House facing the “Court of History.” There the President reviewed the largest pageant which had ever assembled in marching order for an inauguration. This parade was noteworthy because of its many unique features. Besides the Rough Riders, Philippine native scouts, Porto Ricans, and Carlisle Indians, there was a large number of cowboys in full regalia, led by Seth Bullock, the famous Sheriff of Deadwood, S. D., and a phalanx of 600 of the fellow citizens, friends, and neighbours of the Roosevelts from Oyster Bay, disproving the old saying that “a prophet is not without honour save in his own country.”
In addition to the Richmond Blues, in their handsome blue and white uniforms and waving plumes, which are always to be honoured as the oldest military organization in the country, and the Lincoln Club of Toledo whose royal purple broke the monotony of colour, there was also a body of miners from the anthracite coal region whose banner expressed their sentiments, “WE HONOUR THE MAN WHO SETTLED OUR STRIKE.”
Most interesting, at least to the juvenile portion of onlookers, were Buffalo Bill and the band of Indian chiefs led by Geronimo, including American Horse, Little Plume, Quanah Parker, Buckskin Charley, and Hollow Horn Bear. These braves were a startling reminder of the pioneer history of the country, in their vivid blankets of varied hues, their gaudy feather bonnets, and hideous war paint. Like Remington’s pictures, upon which a magic touch had bestowed life and motion, they majestically swung into view and then were gone—swallowed up in the surging maelstrom of humanity, a brilliant, flashing, terrible page out of the past, when their names were synonymous with massacre, reeking scalps, and murderous tomahawks. So vividly was this impression called to life that it was hard to realize that these old-time “bad Indians” had smoked the pipe of peace for all time and were riding along in loyal allegiance to the Great Father.
One of the innovations in the matter of street decoration was the “Court of History,” in the space along the Avenue facing the Treasury Building, the White House, and the State, War, and Navy Departments. This was one of the most elaborate and interesting features ever introduced into the decorative scheme for inaugural ceremonies. It was a matter of surprise that it should have been designed for temporary purposes only. In addition to stately columns, the Court included pieces of statuary representing personages prominent in the early history of the nation, colossal allegorical figures representing transportation by land and by sea, and victory, massive urns filled with palms, palmettoes, and vines of the southland, and tall bamboo poles from the Philippines flying the Stars and Stripes. There was not a feature but was full of significance to the American people. The statues, of which there were three carloads, brought from the World’s Fair, at St. Louis, represented Clark, La Salle, Chancellor Livingston, President Monroe, Andrew Jackson, Bienville, Mabois, Narvez, and Anthony Wayne.
A happy little ceremony in the Court had occurred at the moment the President took the oath. Upon a signal from a bugle, “Old Glory” burst to the breeze from forty-eight bamboo flagpoles.
The gown worn by Mrs. Roosevelt at the inaugural ball that night will long be remembered, for it was distinctive both as to fabric and colour, and was rich enough for an empress. Following the custom set by Martha Washington, who refused, after she became First Lady of the Land, to wear any garments of imported material, Mrs. Roosevelt had the silk for her dress woven in Paterson, New Jersey, and then, to avoid the inevitable copying of cloth and pattern, she had the pattern destroyed after the required number of yards had been turned off the loom. Thus she might, if she chose, preserve her gown with the comforting knowledge that no other dress would ever be just like it.
This gown was a gorgeous creation of robin’s-egg blue brocade, with raised gold design of large ostrich feathers, alternating with medallions of the gold. Family heirloom lace more than two hundred years old gave a delicate touch to the bodice. Though she rarely wore jewels, Mrs. Roosevelt, on this occasion, was literally ablaze with diamonds, but over and above every other feature of the magnificent costume was the elegant court train, three yards long. The weight of this gold-embroidered robe with its heavy underskirts of silk made it advisable to limit the Grand March to five minutes. The Committee desired to furnish Mrs. Roosevelt with two powdered youths to act as train bearers, but she declined. Mrs. Fairbanks’s rich white satin, with its gold embroidery and point lace, was a splendid foil for the gown worn by Mrs. Roosevelt. The freshness and elegance of the costumes worn by the six or seven thousand women with the display of jewels were a notable feature of the ball.
ALICE LONGWORTH IN HER WEDDING GOWN
One would suppose that the decorator’s art would be taxed to its limit in the beautifying of the Pension Office each fourth year for these historic functions, but each setting in turn seems far to surpass all of its predecessors. The artists always manage to find some new feature upon which to concentrate their skill, and lo!—the result is beautiful beyond description. There is no building in the Capital City so well adapted for the purpose of the ball or so susceptible of transformation into such a fairyland picture as the big Pension Office with its open court, tiers of balconies, tall columns, and ample floor space.
For the Roosevelt inaugural ball the room resembled a Venetian garden so lovely as to rival even a tropical moonlight scene. Some of the huge palms that were used reached forty feet from the floor.
Mrs. Roosevelt won golden opinions from the public during her seven years as First Lady of the Land; she gave more private entertainments of all kinds than any of her predecessors. Official mourning for President McKinley was observed at the beginning of her régime, and when that was concluded, the condition of the mansion limited social activities for a time. The floors, which were not safe, had been braced and shored up. But after the remodelling, so long deferred, the entertainments, official and private, followed each other with a frequency that delighted society. Mrs. Roosevelt gave more than two hundred teas, luncheons, musicales, receptions, and dinners, outside of the regular state affairs. In these, her own personal and semi-official functions for all sorts of people whom she considered interesting or to whom she felt White House courtesies due, she followed her husband’s example of touching all circles and classes.
While meeting admirably every official demand, Mrs. Roosevelt protected her private life with the same tactful cleverness by which she had early evaded the rigours of reception handshaking. The First Lady made it clearly understood that it was her husband who was President, and that his family did not belong to the public.
Mrs. Roosevelt kept no housekeeper, but gave personal supervision to the entire establishment. But she made immediately a much-needed and highly important addition to the White House staff, a social secretary for herself. For this position she chose Miss Belle Hagner, long a friend, who was so thoroughly identified through resident and family connections with Washington’s peculiar social etiquette and the much more intricate code of procedure that governs the White House that she quickly became invaluable.
Since the mail of the First Lady of the Land has come to rival that of her husband in the number and variety of demands and requests that besiege her, Mrs. Roosevelt had at once seen the necessity of organizing the handling of this volume of correspondence in a systematic way.
Mrs. Roosevelt shared her husband’s tastes and was a writer herself, even when her children were small, but she so planned her time as to be able to devote a part of it both to her husband and her children, and to her step-daughter during the time Alice spent with her father. Until the death of her maternal grandmother, Mrs. Lee, Alice spent the greater part of her time in the Boston home of her grandparents or in travelling with them.
The President’s wife always found great delight in horseback riding, and she and the President would drive to the outskirts of the city, where their riding horses would be awaiting them, and enjoy frequent rides through the country roads leading from the city. Thus they escaped the gaze of the curious. She was accomplished in many ways, even having trained herself as a nurse, a qualification of utmost value to the mother of such an active family.
Early in their establishment at the White House, luncheon became the important political function. Like the Hanna breakfasts in the “little White House” across Lafayette Square, where the chosen were invited to partake of country sausage and hot buckwheat cakes, maple syrup or honey, coffee, and a flow of political reason, for luncheons the White House pantry was always prepared to serve from one to a dozen or more additional guests. No one, least of all the President himself, knew how many he would invite to join him at lunch. Whoever the man might be that happened to engage his deep interest in a morning call, he was likely to be asked to stay. When a subject pressed its claims upon the President’s mind, a telephone call was sent to the best-informed individual to request him to come to supply the desired data.
It was in this manner that the President invited Booker Washington, the well-known Negro educator, to eat luncheon in the White House—an act that was severely criticized at the time. In speaking of the incident at a later period, Mr. Roosevelt said he was in the midst of an interesting discussion with Washington when the luncheon hour arrived, and without thinking of the man’s colour, asked him to the meal in order that they might continue the conversation.
Both the President and his wife sought to bring people together at this meal who would enjoy meeting, and they both did their best to draw their guests into informal frank discussion of the subjects uppermost in their interest. Delightful, natural, wholesome, with a spontaneous hospitality entirely devoid of ostentation, a luncheon at the White House in the Roosevelt régime was an education and an adventure. Helen Nicolay, in her recent book, has this to say of one of these luncheons:
“The luncheon yesterday at the White House was great fun. The party consisted of the President and Mrs. Roosevelt, Mrs. Hay, Mr. Von Briesen, a New York lawyer with a white beard, a strong accent, and eyes blue as a baby’s, Mr. Wilcox of Buffalo, likewise a lawyer and a good judge of horseflesh, I take it, Theodore, Jr., and yours truly.
“The whole lower floor of the White House is in a mess, undergoing alterations that will improve it immensely. There was a strong smell of turpentine everywhere, and we were relieved of our wraps while standing in the great vestibule, on one foot, so to speak, clutching our skirts to keep them out of the carpenters’ dust on the floor. Then we were ushered into the Red Parlour whose walls have been covered with deep red velvet, with results rather startling. At least to my mind, they combine the fascinations of a pall and a sleeping car. The room is at present furnished with a misfit collection of leather chairs and lounges. The real furniture is being made to order, we are told. It also is to be covered with leather, because the room is to be used for smoking on occasion, and the furniture must not be of a material to hold the smoke. Fancy—with those walls!
“In a few minutes Mr. Von Briesen was ushered in. Then Mrs. Roosevelt appeared, dressed in white wool. She has a wonderfully pleasant voice and a sweet face. A few minutes later Mr. Wilcox was announced. After that there was a long wait, during which conversation of a kindly gossipy nature was carried on, chiefly by the two matrons. When a little after two o’clock the door opened and the President came in—teeth and all—no time was lost in making for the dining room. He took out Mrs. Hay, the rest of us followed in a group. Mrs. Roosevelt stopped a moment at the door of the state dining room to point out some change, and the President, having seated his lady, came bouncing back, like a rubber ball, to see why we did not come on. The poor man was frankly hungry, having been on his feet since 9:20 A. M. seeing people, deciding questions all in a minute, and emphatically leading the strenuous life. He said he felt as though he had been galloping.
“He talked most entertainingly throughout the meal, and managed besides to dispose of a goodly amount of food. You will laugh when I give you the menu—bouillon, salt fish, chicken with rice, rolls, and baked beans. Of beans and the salt fish the President had a second helping. For dessert there was Bavarian cream, served with preserves and cakes. There was one kind of wine, which most of the party declined, and tea, poured by Mrs. Roosevelt, who made it for all the rest just as her husband liked his ‘and no questions asked.’ Cigars were passed after the meal, and lighted by the two lawyers. Mr. Roosevelt did not smoke.
“The china was miscellaneous; nice enough, but not extraordinary. I only remember some pretty Haviland, and that the bread and butter plates were in the form of flags of the different nations. The President had the Star-Spangled Banner, the rest of us got what was left. The German drew the tricolour; I the Union Jack. The waiters were two spry slim coloured youths, not in livery, and they were kept rather busy. My impression is that they were always moving toward the President.
“If my life depended on it I could not tell you about the centrepiece. There must have been one; but the truth is that Mr. Roosevelt was so rattlingly lively, yet so earnest and dignified, his wife so kind and unaffected, and the whole meal so informal in character, that what was on the table dwindled to minor importance. Theodore, Jr., appeared after we were all seated, shook hands all around, took part in the talk with the aplomb of young America, and excused himself before dessert to go riding with his small sister—having meanwhile extracted from his mother permission to use her horse.
“It was just a nice lively United States family entertaining with heartiness and pot-luck chance visitors of the hour. The only visible difference was that the President was served first, then Mrs. Roosevelt, and after them the guests. Oh, yes. Another detail not customary. U. S. was embroidered on the plate doilies. The President and Mrs. Roosevelt sat opposite each other at the sides, not the ends, of the oval table.
“The talk ranged over many subjects—importunate Senators; Colonel Hay’s Bavarian ancestors; the Negro problem; the impossibility of doing more than establish certain fixed principles in his own mind and live up to them regardless, and his feeling of the deep obligation he was under, as President, to do this; anecdotes of pet riding horses and a humorous account of a portrait recently painted of him, which was, he said, the only portrait of himself he had ever liked. He liked it because it did not resemble him in the least, but looked as he would like to look. It was the picture he wished to leave to his grandchildren, if he ever had any.
“In spite of his almost incessant talk, I was impressed with the care he took—the care of a generous, thoughtful host—to bring up topics that would interest and draw out the best from each one of his guests in turn. Von Briesen had worked with him in civic matters in New York, and his praise caused the German to turn shy and rosy as a girl.
“References to books and authors showed much reading the President managed to do, while the rapidity with which his mind worked kept us all on the jump. He seemed to follow the usual processes of reasoning, but to do so at twice or thrice the usual rate of speed, with the result of apparently leaping from conclusion to conclusion, while the rest of us hurried breathlessly after him. I was reminded of that rhyme in which strange animals ‘hilariously hopped from bough to bough.’
“But the impression above all others is of a man living with every fibre of his being, ardently as well as arduously, and having the best time of anybody who ever inhabited the White House.”
The most fascinating pictures of the Roosevelt régime were those made by the Roosevelt children, who were known most distinctively by their pets, the varied assortment of which enlivened the White House and its environs. Theodore, older and more serious-minded, concerned himself with much weightier matters than did his younger brothers, but he was the judge-advocate-general, ranking next to the parents when differences of opinion on the respective merits of the family menagerie had to be settled. Each child had his full complement of dogs, birds, ponies, rats, guinea pigs, or whatever pet he favoured. Upon each of the presidential tours the pet stock was increased. While the presidential train was pulling out of a Western town a little girl tossed a small furry bunch to the President, calling out, “His name is Josiah!” Josiah proved to be a young badger that had to be brought up on a bottle and lived to be a nuisance, nipping at heels and skirts.
A procession of puppies of every breed, colour, and size succeeded to the adoring ownership of these happy children. None who visited the President’s family during his eventful régime will ever forget Algonquin, the small calico pony from Iceland that was Archie’s proud possession and delight, and for a sight of which he longed so fervently during a spell of measles that somehow—nobody told just how—Algonquin got the message that his little master wanted to see him, and, lo!—one day it so happened. When the house was devoid of guests and the father and mother conveniently out driving, the pony was smuggled up on the elevator to the boy’s room for a few minutes’ visit, and convalescence was accelerated thereby.
An officious bull pup almost produced international complications by delaying the progress of an ambassador on his way to call on the President. A small black bear furnished endless amusement with its clumsy antics, while a funny black puppy learned to ride on Algonquin’s back and insisted upon being taken along when Archie took a ride.
Archie had a kangaroo rat that was always peeking out of his pocket and sociably accepting tidbits, indifferent to its high position.
Rabbits, squirrels, and chickens all had their day of popularity, and when they died they were formally and properly interred with all possible funeral pomp and ceremony, and with elaborately marked headstones placed above them in the pet cemetery.
Kermit, like his eldest brother, was also a naturalist as a little boy. He, too, roamed the woods and swamps of Oyster Bay and scoured the country around Washington in search of specimens.
Not even pets, however, rivalled the joy of a game or a romp of the children with their father, who was always a boy with his boys, and from the experiences of his own health-handicapped boyhood knew just how much sport meant to normal boys. It was a likable trait in him that his understanding of boys was not limited in its sympathy and expression to his own sons, as this little incident shows:
Among the callers on a Saturday morning, when important persons with missions and other important persons in want of missions were grouped in his private office, was a boy, a collegian of the athletic sort, who was very desirous of meeting the President. In spite of a bold front, such as is becoming in a dauntless sophomore, it was evident that he was nervous.
“Shall I say ‘His Excellency’?” he asked a few moments before his entrance.
“It’s just like a presentation at court, you know,” his eldest sister had remarked, with a view of putting the untrammelled football player into the mood of a mere human being; “you’ll have to bow low, of course.”
“I don’t believe Mr. Roosevelt is that kind of a man,” he answered with a sinking heart.
“Of course not,” said a more consoling voice; “you simply have to say ‘Mr. President,’ stand up while anybody else is standing, and go away when the President rises.”
Still, the lad was evidently very uncomfortable and uncertain when he reached the room adjoining the President’s office. It was evident, from the movement of his lips, that he was practising on “Mr. President,” as at least one safe hold on material for conversation.
The moment—the unexpected but fearful moment came. The President, on hearing the boy’s name, left the distinguished group with great promptness and made for his guest.
“Sit down, Jones,” he said, very cordially. “I want to talk about the races in which your college put up such a good fight. Oh, sit down!”
“I’m glad you think we put up a good fight, Mr. President,” said the boy, forgetting everything about the ceremony in the joy—as he afterward said—of talking to somebody who knew. “Some people thought we didn’t, but they were wrong.”
Then there followed a whirling talk, in which the President showed such a consummate knowledge of sports and such a sympathy with the boy’s point of view that the lad almost forgot that he was not talking with “another fellow.” But he steadied himself and found his bearings with one or two formal “Mr. Presidents,” and then the two plunged into jujutsu. The President showed the boy a scientific grip.
“You’ve got it—you’ve got it,” cried the boy, “you’ve got it! It’s great, but don’t you think that if a well-trained American swatted one of those Japs in the belly he’d do for him? Don’t you,” he added, with a sudden return to ceremony, “Mr. President?”
The onlookers turned aside—the one most interested in the lad showing some anxiety—but the President set the boy at ease with an anecdote of Theodore, Jr., and the jujutsu which made the boy laugh and say, “Theodore Roosevelt must have a good grip—Mr. President.”
The interview closed with a warm shake of the hand between the President and the boy. The President looked after him with a kindly gleam in his eye. It is a great thing to have a boy of one’s own; it gives a man sympathy with all manly boys.
As to the boy, he was radiant.
“The President’s boys are in luck,” he said. “As long as I live,” he added solemnly, “I don’t think I shall ever meet a finer man or one that knows more about the right things!”
One day, to the noon reception in his office came a delegation of schoolgirls from a small Southern college, stiff and stilted with embarrassment, but firmly resolved not to be enthusiastic over a Republican President. They were introduced by their chaperon—“Mr. President, here are some good Southern Democrats.” With that engaging smile he answered, as he put out his hand, “And all good Americans.” In an instant, he knew their college, their states, and when two discovered that he knew one father and a Senator grandfather, his conquest was complete—party lines were forgotten.
From attic to cellar, from East Room to stables, the live young Roosevelts roamed at will, monarchs of the home of the Chief Magistrate and its surroundings. But with all of this freedom, they were rarely in evidence in the state apartments during visiting hours. Only once in a while might visitors catch glimpses of small boys with chunks of gingerbread or cookies in their hands and some animal in tow, scurrying through the corridors or mounting the stairs. Upon one occasion a trail of small wet footprints, with little puddles here and there on the polished floor, led to a dripping youngster who had taken a swim in the White House fountain and, trailing shoes and stockings, was dodging the observation of the group of foreign guests calling upon his mother.
Ethel, too, had her share of pets, frolics, and playthings. Privileged more than any other girl in the White House before her, she grew up where her charming boudoir, with her piano, opened into her bedroom. Sundays found her teaching a Sunday-school class of coloured children at St. Mary’s Chapel. At Oyster Bay she played the organ in the little Sunday school, and on Saturdays and holidays in Washington she had great fun arranging picnics and outings for her little coloured protégês.
Alice Roosevelt had received an invitation to the coronation of King Edward, and it looked as though she might have the interesting experience of visiting the English Court. When negotiations were started, however, that provided for her reception as a royal princess, her sturdy American father rebelled, and the young lady’s trip was vetoed. Being fond and indulgent toward his children, however, her father promised her a trip to China, Japan, and the Philippines as an offset to her disappointment. In the Philippines she became associated with the Tafts, who made her visit delightful.
Surrounded constantly by suitors, the gossip of the Capital insisted that the “Princess Alice” merely wanted to get away to learn her own mind and make her decision as to where she would bestow her hand. If so, young Representative Nicholas Longworth, one of her most constant admirers, found it expedient to become one of the party so as to be on hand to help her in her mental research on this subject. That he did so, thoroughly and effectively, was demonstrated by the announcement of their betrothal upon her return, and their marriage in the East Room on February 17, 1906.
Alice Roosevelt’s marriage, like that of Nellie Grant, was an event of national and international importance. The tenth White House bride, with her youth and unusual popularity, and the enormous prestige of her parents, drew the attention of the reading world. Gifts poured in hourly, and congratulations and expressions of good wishes came from thousands of her own countrymen, and from all over the world, from crowned heads, rulers of nations, and celebrities of every description.
Preparations for the wedding were most elaborate, every detail of which was planned by the young lady, the least perturbed of anyone concerned. Indeed, her serenity and casual acceptance of all of the excitement as part of the day’s work was a source of amazement to her girl friends. Easter lilies, pink and white rhododendrons, American Beauties, and bride roses in large vases, massed in great bowls, with palms, ferns, and festoons and garlands of smilax, transformed the lower floors of the White House into a beautiful bridal setting. A broad raised dais, with an improvised altar, was placed in front of the windows looking toward the Treasury Department.
Preceded by the ushers and the group of military aides in uniform at high noon, she entered on the arm of her father to the strains of “Lohengrin” played by the Marine Band. At the end of the ribboned aisle, Mr. Longworth stepped forward and led her to the altar, where Bishop Satterlee united them according to the service of the Episcopal Church in the presence of five hundred guests.
The bride wore a gown of white satin woven especially for the occasion, and trimmed with rare ancestral lace, with a train five yards long. The veil of silk tulle, which enveloped her slight figure in a misty cloud of white, that reached to the edge of the gown and was held in place by a wreath of orange blossoms. She wore a diamond brooch, which was a gift from her father, and a diamond necklace, the gift of the groom.
The wedding breakfast was served in both private and state dining rooms, the bridal party being served in the former, where, with characteristic family impetuosity, the new Mrs. Longworth borrowed Major McCawley’s sword to cut her cake, finding the knife provided inadequate.
Shortly afterward, the bridal couple left the house by the South Portico in an automobile and proceeded to “Friendship,” the suburban residence of John R. McLean, from where they started on their honeymoon.
Ten thousand people attended the reception. The value of the gifts represented a magnificent fortune. The accumulation filled several rooms of the White House and spilled out into the corridors, and included everything, such as most exquisite jewels, silver, art objects, massive furniture, household linen, kitchen equipment, someone facetiously including a laundry outfit and an assortment of live pets. What in the world the girl bride would do with such an embarrassment of riches was the popular, but unanswered, query.
Ethel’s dêbut on December 28, 1908, when she was seventeen, was an event to be remembered through life by all of the great host of young people who attended. President and Mrs. Roosevelt had kept their younger daughter’s activities confined to simple amusements until her school life was finished. In the coming-out party they made every possible effort for her pleasure. It has been called the grandest Christmas Party since the Civil War. The entire suite of state apartments was thrown open, and the hundreds of guest tripped up the grand stairway into the lobby, where the portraits of Presidents gazed across banks of Christmas greens and rows of huge vases holding whole trees of holly.
Like a fairy princess, the flaxen-haired dêbutante in her first ball gown—a lovely creation of white satin studded with crystals—stood beside her mother in the Blue Parlour, amid wagonloads of flowers sent by friends from far and near. The Marine Band, in scarlet coats, played merrily at the front end of the East Boom, in which great apartment of many memories the dazzling young diplomats in court dress, and young army and navy officers in full uniform, tripped the light fantastic with the débutantes of the season. At midnight, supper was served at little tables scattered through the corridor and dining rooms.
Two nights later, Miss Ethel was the guest of honour at a Christmas ball given by Mrs. Levi Leiter in the white and gold ballroom of her million-dollar palace. Here the two hundred and fifty young guests danced beneath scores of gold baskets filled with begonias and hung from pink satin ribbons, while the great mirrors on the wall reflected their forms as they glided across the floor to the music that sifted through a great screen of smilax and pink blossoms.
Theodore Roosevelt’s first American ancestor was Claes Martensen van Roosevelt, the sturdy Hollander who arrived on the continent two hundred and seventy-five years before his descendant became President. For seven generations these hard-working, sturdy landholders contributed to the development of the United States, fought in her wars, and served in her council chambers. His grandfather, Cornelius van Schaack Roosevelt, attained some local prominence in business. Of his father, the President had glowing memories, frequently remarking, “He was the best man I ever knew.”
His mother was from Georgia, and the men of her family cast their fortunes with the Confederacy in the Civil War. To this mixture in his make-up was due his broad, impersonal, national viewpoint.
Theodore was born in New York City, October 27, 1858, and was reared in the atmosphere of a cultured home of moderate affluence. Too delicate and anæmic to stand contact with the healthy average boys of a school, he received his education at home. As early as the age of nine, however, he resolved to be able to play and fight and be like other boys; so he mapped out for himself a schedule of exercise which he followed for many years, and which no doubt helped greatly toward the achievement of the physical perfection that came with manhood.
He entered Harvard when eighteen, and there, as in every other period of his life, his personality stood out. He fell in love with Miss Alice Lee, of Boston, and they were married a few months after his graduation in 1880. With the birth of a little daughter, Alice, Mrs. Roosevelt died. The young husband left his baby with her maternal grandparents, temporarily abandoned the study of law and his interest in politics, and went West, following the habit of childhood of seeking the solitude of field or forest when in distress or under great mental strain.
North Dakota attracted him, and he invested in a cattle ranch in the Bad Lands during 1884-1886. This was known as Elkhorn Ranch, Medora, N. D.
Soon the life of the cowboys lured him, and he learned their duties, their ways, and the best and worst sides of them. He spent a great deal of time hunting, it being claimed, not by him, however, that he had killed specimens of all of the game found on our prairies or in the mountains. Most of his hunting was done in search of first-hand information for his books, since he started authorship very early in his career, and no friends were more greatly cherished or more enjoyed than the little group of naturalists, John Burroughs among them, with whom he found congenial association. Practically all of his long hunting trips were those of exploration.
In his boyhood days at Oyster Bay, Theodore Roosevelt had made a pal of the young daughter of a neighbour of his parents, Edith Carew. Her tastes were much like his own, and in the gay parties, sleighing, skating, and dancing, he liked to have her for a partner. She also had known the girl he married, and though she had been living in England for some time when she heard of his wife’s death, she wrote him of her sympathy. This letter followed him out to Elkhorn Ranch. He answered; more letters followed, and soon other vistas of life more alluring than round-ups, branding cattle, shooting wildcats, and studying mountain lions, drew him back to the centres of civilization. A trip to London ensued, and a wedding in a little English chapel was solemnized December 2, 1886.
After a leisurely honeymoon about Europe, Roosevelt brought his wife back to New York. He entered the political field again.
President Harrison appointed him a member of the United States Civil Service Commission in 1889. President Cleveland continued him, but he resigned in 1895 to become Police Commissioner of New York City. In this capacity he instituted many reforms.
In 1897, President McKinley made him Assistant Secretary of the Navy. He had just begun to make his energy felt in the discharge of the duties of this position when war was declared with Spain.
Of his recruiting a regiment of hardy plainsmen, cowboys, miners, athletes—his own friends of the West, men who could ride, shoot, fight, and stand hardship, the Rough Riders—everyone knows. Dr. Wood was made Colonel and Roosevelt Lieutenant Colonel. They were commissioned, and the regiment speedily organized and ready for service in five weeks. They were sent to Cuba with the regulars, landing for the trouble around Santiago. They rendered valiant services from the beginning. Colonel Wood was promoted, and Roosevelt became the commander of the regiment. Their storming of Kettle Hill when almost a fifth of them were killed or wounded has been told again and again.
With the fighting over, Roosevelt came back to stir up interest in better care for the health of our soldiers, and he began his fight for an adequate army and navy—large enough for any sudden emergency.
His gallantry in the war carried him into office as Governor of New York in 1893, with a large majority, and his administration was conspicuous for its reform work. His nomination as the candidate of his party for President appeared to be a foregone conclusion as far back as 1902. Even at that early date, some of the States began to endorse him and pledged their support.
President Roosevelt’s action in the great coal strike of 1902 restored order and secured a return of the miners to their work, at the same time making the workingmen feel that their cause had not suffered from his counsel. The country applauded his work at this time, although some of the big corporations showed hostility. This was the most important internal question in his first administration—that is, it vitally affected more people than any other. There was no law by which he could interfere to end the strike, and he proceeded to use his great moral influence to bring the interested parties together. He brought about a resumption of work pending a settlement by a commission appointed by him. His counsel during this critical period was given while he was confined to his room owing to his wounded leg. In the same year and the next, he handled carefully the complications growing out of the Venezuelan trouble. He maintained the Monroe Doctrine in all negotiations with European powers interested, and was honoured by Venezuela in being named as an acceptable arbiter, which duty he gracefully avoided by proposing the Hague tribunal as the proper means for arriving at a peaceful solution.
In the matter of the uprising of Panama and the recognition of that country by the United States, the President was both applauded and criticized. The great majority of the people upheld his treaty with Panama, by which the territory of the Panama Canal passed into the hands of the United States, so that the beginning of work on that giant construction should not be longer delayed.
He established a reputation of getting things done. During his seven and a half years as President, the navy was nearly doubled in tonnage, the Russo-Japanese War was ended by the Treaty of Portsmouth, the battleship fleet was sent around the world, the Consular Service of the United States was reorganized, the National Irrigation Act and the Pure Food and Drug Act were passed, the Panama Canal was begun, the Department of Commerce and Labour was established. No President ever created so many new lines of public welfare, or so many projects of business for government functioning.
Some of the policies recommended by Roosevelt were the Inheritance Tax, the Income Tax, the Parcel Post Service, and the increase of the army and navy forces. His most noteworthy achievement, in the estimation of many of his fellow citizens, was the fact that he “changed the attitude of government toward property, and gave the Republic a new ideal of the duties and responsibilities of citizenship.”
Visitors of all descriptions made the White House their mecca; perhaps the most picturesque was Ezra Meeker, with his long white hair, who called on November 29, 1907, in his prairie schooner of the period of 1849, drawn by its team of oxen. This quaint vehicle, reminder of another vivid page of our national history, contained an elderly man and woman and a collie. It drew up by the doors near the Executive Office, and the nimble trail blazer went in to pay his respects to the President. A few minutes later, Mr. Roosevelt accompanied his caller to the wagon, where his appreciative comment included due attention to the collie.
Another day, the President left an important group in order to greet Eli Smith, who had travelled all of the way from Nome, Alaska, on his sled on low wheels drawn by six dogs. He had been a year on the journey.
When Mr. Roosevelt’s carriage arrived at the entrance to the President’s room at the Union Station, after the inauguration of President Taft, there were gathered fully three thousand of his admirers waiting to bid him farewell. He had to pass between two rows of people, fully a dozen deep, and had to respond to the greetings of the crowd. He and Mrs. Roosevelt were accompanied by Secretary William Loeb and a large group of close personal friends. As his train pulled out he called out, “Good-bye, good-bye, good luck!”
Thus Theodore Roosevelt bade adieu to Washington after seven years of strenuous service through one of the most remarkable administrations the country has yet known.
At the time he laid down the sceptre of leadership, there was considerable agitation in the public press on the problem of how to employ ex-Presidents, brought to a focus by Mr. Roosevelt’s own dominant, vigorous physical and mental fitness for participation in almost any line of constructive activity in economic or political development. But Mr. Roosevelt solved this problem for himself, at least for the time, as he had already planned to devote a year or so to the exploration of Central Africa. Shortly, he was entirely out of touch with all political associations, returning to America about a year later with a large collection of specimens and valuable contributions to science. En route he visited Egypt, Italy, France, Germany, Norway, and England, receiving in all these places an ovation similar to that given to General Grant. On this part of the trip, he was accompanied by Mrs. Roosevelt, and together they repeated their honeymoon journey, with the exception that his honeymoon had not been interrupted with speeches, as was the case on this tour. When he was in Christiania, he received the Nobel Prize for his work in bringing about peace in the Russo-Japanese conflict. England showed her appreciation through the degree conferred upon him at Oxford. By the time he reached New York, his popularity had attained a degree where the welcome extended him seemed to be the universal expression of the nation.
In 1912, a Republican schism wrecked the party, with Taft and Roosevelt as the central figures of the most furiously waged row that ever split an American political party wide open. The underlying cause was the super-strong personality of Roosevelt with a countless host of ardent followers unalterably opposed to accept anyone else as a leader.
The contest during the election was spirited and bitter, and the split in the party resulted in its defeat, giving a victory to the Democrats. Following the exhausting efforts of this campaign, Colonel Roosevelt again made a trip of rest and exploration, going to South America. This was the first expedition in all his experience that proved disastrous, as he contracted a tropical fever which all but cost him his life, and from which he never entirely recovered. By this time, Colonel Roosevelt had lost the sight of one eye, but that in no wise retarded his activities. The great grief of his life came to him with the opening of the World War, which called him to active service with every fibre of his being, and in which participation was denied him through political partisanship. However, he had the great satisfaction of seeing all four of his sons enter the war, saying, as he bade them god-speed, “I would go with you if I could. I would go as a corporal if I could obtain the consent of the administration.” His enforced aloofness was particularly bitter when both France and England clamoured for his presence.
While he was addressing an audience in Milwaukee, an assassin’s bullet caused a painful wound, and though he recovered temporarily, its presence in his system, combined with the devastating effects of the tropical fever, hastened his death; but he lived to mourn the death of his youngest child while exulting in the pride of the boy’s heroic service in the defense of American ideals, and he lived to see the utter collapse of the despotism that plunged the world into the frightful World War. His death, suddenly, painlessly, came in the midst of his activities on January 6, 1919. He sleeps at Oyster Bay, and his grave is year by year becoming a shrine that draws throngs in increasing numbers to pay tribute to the man who most of all typified the spirit of America.
At the present writing, Mrs. Roosevelt is a world traveller. Her living boys have become noted explorers. Her baby sleeps in France. Her daughters are both married and all of her children have promising families, to which Paulina Longworth is the latest addition.