Who serves her truly, sometimes saves the state.
—Arthur Hugh Clough.

There is sprung up a light for the righteous; and joyful gladness for such as are true-hearted.—97th Psalm.

The years between 1890 and 1896 were busy years, with devoted service as Civil Service Commissioner, winters at Washington and happy summers at Oyster Bay, when Theodore Roosevelt gave himself up to family joy and the activities of the growing children. In 1893 he writes most lovingly of my children and his—his never-failing sympathy in all the minor illnesses of my little family, expressed in the most affectionate terms, and the common sorrow which we both suffered in the loss of our devoted aunt, Mrs. James Gracie, fills many pages during those years. We met frequently during the summer-time, and when we met he shared with me his many Washington experiences, but the letters are largely to show me his loving interest in the many details of my family life.

In August, however, he goes a little more fully into some matters of public interest, and writes: “For the last fortnight, I have virtually been living with Cabot, for I take all my meals at his house, though I sleep at my own. [Mrs. Roosevelt and the children were at Oyster Bay.] After breakfast, an hour spent by Cabot and myself in gloomy discussion over the folly of the Mug-wumps and the wickedness of the Democrats, I go to the office and work until four or five o’clock, most of my work taking the light but not always agreeable shape of a succession of interviews of varying asperity with Congressmen; then I go to gruff old Olney’s and play tennis with him and any other stray statesman, diplomat or military personage whom he has captured for an hour or two. Sometimes, Cabot and I dine alone; more often, we have in one or two of our cronies such as Tom Reed or Senator Davis of Minnesota.... I think the tariff deadlock will break in a day or two, when I shall be left alone here with so much work on hand, however, that I fear I shall not get away until the end of the month, when I shall go back to Sagamore and Edith and the blessed bunnies.”

The intimacy with Senator Lodge, the charm of his library, where tradition and intellect always held sway, were amongst the most delightful associations that Washington gave to my brother during the many years spent there, both before the days of the White House and later under its roof.

Late in August of that year my brother Elliott died. My brother Theodore came to me at once and we did together the things always so hard to do connected with the death of those we love, and he writes me afterward: “The sadness has been tempered by something very sweet when I think of the way I was with you, my own darling sister.” The quality of sharing, which, as I always say, was one of his most marked attributes, never showed more unselfishly than in times of sorrow. Almost immediately after the above letter, he encloses to me a clipping from the newspaper of Abingdon, Va., about my brother Elliott, who had lived there for some time in connection with the property of my husband in the Virginia mountains. No one, not even my brother Theodore himself, was ever more loved by those with whom he came in contact than was the “Ellie” of the early days in 20th Street, and later wherever he went he found rare and devoted friendship. The Virginian (the name of the Abingdon paper) says:

“The New York papers announce the death of Mr. Elliott Roosevelt. This gentleman has been a member of this community for the past two years, and although his stay was so brief, it was long enough for him to make his impress as a whole-souled, genial gentleman, courteous and kind at all times, with an ever ready cheer for the enterprising or help to the weak. His name was a byword among the needy, and his charities were always as abundant as they were unostentatious. He was public spirited and generous, this much we can truthfully say. His influence and his aid will be missed, and more frequently than is generally known among those to whom it was a boon.”

After speaking of the enclosure, my brother continues: “My thoughts keep hovering around you, my darling sister, for I know how you loved Elliott; what a gallant, generous, manly boy he was. So many memories come back to me.”

In 1895 he had been appointed police commissioner, and was already in the thick of the hard fight to reform the Police Department. He writes in August of that year: “Governor Hill and I have had two savage tilts. I have not the slightest idea of the ultimate results of our move on the excise question, but we have made a good fight against heavy odds.” Perhaps, of all the pieces of work done by my brother, none stands out more clearly than the splendid achievement of remaking the Police Department into a fine working body, for which the whole city of New York had the utmost respect, and on which it leaned for safety and protection. I have but few letters from him during that period, for, much to our delight, he was once more in our midst, and many and many a time would I go down to the old Vienna bakery on the corner of 10th Street and Broadway, and he would come from Mulberry Street, where his office was, and together we would sit over the type of lunch he loved so well: either bread and milk or a squab and cafÉ au lait. I can still see Senator Lodge’s expression when he joined us on one of these simple occasions, and asked in a somewhat saturnine manner whether any one could get a respectable lunch at the place we loved so well! What talks we had there over all the extraordinary situations that arose in the Police Department. There he described to me the delicious humor of the parade inaugurated by the German brewer societies as a protest against his enforcement of the law. They were parading to show their disapproval of him, but at the last moment, as a wonderful piece of sarcasm, they decided to invite him to review the parade, hardly thinking that he would accept the invitation. Needless to say, he did accept it, and leaning over from the platform where he had been invited to sit, he saw the mass of marching men carrying banners with “Down with Teddy,” and various other more unpleasant expletives. One company, as it passed the reviewing-stand, called out: “Wo ist Teddy?” “Hier bin ich,” called out the police commissioner, leaning over the railing and flashing his white teeth good-humoredly at the protesting crowd, who, unable to resist the sunshine of his personality, suddenly turned and, putting aside the disapproving banners, cheered him to the echo.

It was during that same time, the story ran, that two recreant policemen who left their beats at an inopportune moment were called to the realization of their misdemeanor by coming face to face, in a glass window-case, with a set of false teeth which, they explained, grinned at them with a ferocity so reminiscent of the strong molars of the police commissioner, that they almost fainted at the sight, and hastily returned to their forsaken duties. Many and many a settlement-worker told me in those days that they could go anywhere in the most dangerous parts of the city, during the administration of Theodore Roosevelt, and the police were always on hand, always ready to protect those who needed their care.

At that time also I was amused one day when he told me the story about his little Irish stenographer, a young girl whose knowledge of orthography was less than her sympathetic interest in the affairs of the police commissioner! He took a warm interest in the nice young Irish girl, hard worker as she was, an important factor in the support of a large family of younger children, and could not bear to dismiss her from his service, in spite of her alarming mistakes in spelling. He said he always had to look over her manuscript and correct it in spite of his many other cares, and he laughingly remarked that it was well he did, as having dictated the following sentence in connection with a certain policeman, “I was obliged to restrain the virtuous ardor of Sergeant Murphy, who, in his efforts to bring about a state of quiet on the streets, would frequently commit some assault himself,” the young Irish stenographer, listening to the rapid dictation, spelled “some assault” “somersault,” and, as my brother remarked, one could not but laugh at the thought of Sergeant Murphy performing somersaults like a circus clown on Mulberry Street, and, fortunately, the word caught the ever-watchful eye of the police commissioner before the report was printed, and, even in spite of the inconvenience, he set himself to work to improve the young stenographer’s mistaken orthographic efforts.

In spite of his busy days and busy nights, he had time, as usual, to write to me when he thought that I needed his care or interest. I was far from well at the time, but was obstinately determined to go up to visit my boys at St. Paul’s School, and he writes me: “Won’t you let Douglas and me go up to St. Paul’s, and you stay at home? If you will do this, I shall positively go for anniversary on June 2nd. I believe you should not go on these trips whether for pleasure or duty, and should take more care of yourself. Your loving and anxious brother.”

He himself has given in his autobiography many incidents connected with his police commissionership.

The force were devoted to him, as were his Rough Riders later, largely on account of the justice with which he treated them, and the friendly attitude which he always maintained toward them. Otto Raphael, a young Jew, and a young Irishman called Burke were two of the men whom he promoted because of unusual bravery, and their loyalty and admiration followed him unswervingly. On the sad day when he was carried to the little cemetery at Oyster Bay, Burke—now Captain Burke—had been put in charge of the police arrangements for the funeral. As he stood by the grave, the captain turned to me, the tears streaming down his face but with a smile in his blue Irish eyes, and said: “Do you remember the fun of him, Mrs. Robinson? It was not only that he was a great man, but oh, there was such fun in being led by him. I remember one day when he was governor, and I was in charge of him, and I was riding by the side of his carriage down Madison Avenue, and he suddenly stuck his head out of the window and, ‘Burke’ said he, ‘we are just going to pass my sister’s house. I want to get out and say “how do you do” to my sister.’ ‘I don’t think you have time, governor’ I said, ‘I am afraid you are late now.’ ‘Oh, now, Burke, I want you to meet my sister. Get somebody to hold your horse,’ he said; ‘it won’t take a minute.’ And with that he leaped out of his carriage and was ringing the front door-bell in a flash. I followed him and I heard him call out to you, Mrs. Robinson, that he had his friend Lieut. Burke with him, and could he bring him up-stairs to shake hands, and sure enough he did, and when I went down-stairs again I heard him telling you some story, and the two of you were laughing fit to kill. When I got back that night to my wife, I said: ‘Susan, if you are ever downhearted, all you have to do is to go up to 422 Madison Avenue when the governor stops to see his sister, and hear them laugh.’”

The commissionership was a big job well done, and the city of New York could not but feel a sense of great regret when President McKinley promoted the active young commissioner to be assistant secretary of the navy in 1897. It was his pride and one of his greatest satisfactions in later years to feel that he was instrumental in preparing our navy for the war with Spain. For many years he had been convinced that the Spanish rule in Cuba should not continue; and the condition in Cuba, he felt, was too intertwined with the affairs of the United States to be differentiated from them. In the days of President Cleveland, my brother had felt that action should be taken, and in the same way he was convinced that Mr. McKinley was only putting off the evil day by not facing the situation earlier in his incumbency. As was the case in almost every crisis which arose, either national or international, during my brother’s life, he seemed to have a prescience of the future, and, therefore, he almost invariably—sometimes before other public men were awake to the contingency—sensed the need of taking steps to avert or meet difficulties which he felt sure would soon have to be faced.

The young assistant secretary of the navy was not very popular with the administration on account of the views which he felt it his duty honestly to express. On March 6, 1898, he writes to my husband: “Neither I nor anyone else, not even the President can do more than guess. We are certainly drifting towards and not away from war, but the President will not make war, and will keep out of it if he possibly can. Nevertheless, with so much loose powder around, a coal may hop into it at any moment. In a week or two, I believe, we shall get that report. If it says the explosion was due to outside work, it will be very hard to hold the country. [He refers to the blowing up of the battleship Maine in Havana harbor.] But the President undoubtedly will try peaceful means even then, at least, at first.”

At the time of the writing of that letter, Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt had been very ill and was still very delicate, and my brother had not only the many worries of the department in which he was working, as he himself puts it, “like a fiend, for we have serious matters ahead,” but he also had the great anxiety of her condition on his heart. On the 28th of March: “I have been working up to the handle here, and have about all I can do on hand now. I have very strong convictions on this crisis, convictions which, I fear, do not commend themselves to my official superiors.” And again on April 2, 1898, he writes in full to my husband, who was always one of his most welcome advisers:

Navy Department, April 2, 1898.

Dear Old Man:

In one way I was very much pleased at receiving your letter, for it shows the thoughtfulness and affection you always feel for me. In another way your letter makes it very hard for me. All my friends have written me as you have, and yet I am convinced that you are all wrong. Do not misunderstand me. It may well be that I can’t get down with an Expeditionary force even if, as I think unlikely, an Expeditionary force is started before next fall. Indeed I think I shall probably have to stay here, and I should certainly stay here until we got a successor broken in. But if I get a fair chance to go, or could make a fair chance, I conscientiously feel that I ought to go. My usefulness in my present position is mainly a usefulness in time of peace, because in time of peace the naval officers cannot speak freely to the Secretary and I can and do, both to the Secretary and President, even at the cost of jeopardizing my place. But in time of war the naval officers will take their proper positions as military advisers, and my usefulness would be at an end. I should simply be one of a number of unimportant bureau chiefs. If I went I shouldn’t expect to win any military glory, or at the utmost to do more than feel I had respectably performed my duty; but I think I would be quite as useful in the Army as here, and it does not seem to me that it would be honorable for a man who has consistently advocated a warlike policy not to be willing himself to bear the brunt of carrying out that policy. I have a horror of the people who bark but don’t bite. If I am ever to accomplish anything worth doing in politics, or ever have accomplished it, it is because I act up to what I preach, and it does not seem to me that I would have the right in a big crisis not to act up to what I preach. At least I want you to believe that I am doing this conscientiously and not from merely selfish reasons, or from an impulse of levity.

I shall answer Corinne in a day or two. April 13th I was to have been in Boston, but if we have trouble, I, of course, can’t get away. I hope Corinne will stay over the following Sunday, so I may have a good chance to see her.

Faithfully yours.

The above is a most characteristic letter. Those who were nearest to him, like myself and my husband, and even Senator Lodge, were doubtful of his wisdom in leaving his important position (I mean important for the affairs of the country, not for himself) as assistant secretary of the navy to take active part in the war, should war come, but he himself knew quite well that being made of the fibre that he was, he must act up to what he had preached. Nothing is more absolutely Theodore Roosevelt, was ever more thoroughly Theodore Roosevelt, than that sentence. “I have a horror of the people who bark but don’t bite. If I am ever to accomplish anything worth doing in politics, or ever have accomplished it, it is because I act up to what I preach, and it does not seem to me that I would have the right in a big crisis not to act up to what I preach. At least I want you to believe that I am doing this conscientiously and not from merely selfish reasons or from an impulse of levity.” No sentence ever written by my brother more fitly expressed his attitude toward conviction and acting up to conviction.