AMERICA is a vast country, likewise a vast subject to tackle. Everything there is vast, its mercantile projects, its successes, its catastrophes—but, above all, it possesses a vast wealth in the warm hearts of its kindly people. I have so many friends on the other side of the “herring pond,” that my memory lingers with pleasure and interest in the United States.
I wonder how many times since I returned from my last delightful visit in 1904 people have asked me what I thought of Roosevelt (Rosie-felt).
Those last weeks of the year had been spent in Mexico—my second visit to that remarkable and enchanting land—as the guest of President Diaz and his charming wife. Their great kindness, together with the interesting phase of life unfolded to me day by day, as I made notes for the Diaz Life, brought a desire to make the acquaintance of His Excellency’s neighbour-President of the United States—Mr. Roosevelt.
It was about as difficult to see Mr. Roosevelt as to see the King of England, perhaps even more so, for a good introduction would produce a presentation to our sovereign, whereas in America even a good introduction is looked upon with suspicion. President Roosevelt was surrounded by a perfect cordon of officials.
The White House is one of the best things in America. It is a low, rambling building, quite attractive in style, and like the homes of a great many noblemen in England. There is nothing of the palace about it; it does not seem big enough for the President of the United States, although standing on rising ground, amid beautiful surroundings. It is in a way more handsome externally—and decidedly more imposing—than Buckingham Palace, and a great deal cleaner. The decorations of the interior I thought appalling, but that may be my bad taste. They were so horribly new, and American.
The day on which I was received at the White House happened to be the eighteenth anniversary of the wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Roosevelt. They had been the recipients of congratulatory messages from all parts of the country, but the President was busy as ever. Except his annual recess, he knew no holiday.
I presented myself at the portico. Policemen were everywhere; at each corner was a blue coat.
“Pass on, if you please,” was the order of proceedings, until I arrived at a sort of conservatory door, where another policeman bade me enter. Horrors! a gaunt, square room with a small, empty writing-table in the middle, and chairs standing all round close against the four walls. It was enough to chill one’s enthusiasm. Worse than all! on nearly every chair sat a man who stared obtrusively at the entrance of a woman. Had I known the sort of ordeal to be passed through, in spite of my excellent introductions, I doubt if I should have ventured at all.
Not daring to run away, I sat on a chair like the rest, and felt that, instead of my best, my worst frock would have been the most appropriate for the occasion. One man was summoned to a particular door, and his neighbour to another, and then an old gentleman came forward to me and bowed.
“Mrs. Alec Tweedie, I believe? Would you please to step this way? The President will see you immediately.”