Election Day, 1916, dawned with the apparent success of the Republican party at the polls, but it eventually proved that the slogan, “He kept us out of war,” had had its way, and that the Democrats were returned to power.

Needless to say, the disappointment both to the followers of Charles E. Hughes and of Theodore Roosevelt was keen beyond words. My brother, however, following his usual philosophy, set himself to work harder than ever to arouse his countrymen to the true appreciation of the fact that, with Europe aflame, America could hardly long remain out of the conflagration.

During the following winter, however, in spite of the great cloud that hung over the whole world, in spite of the intimate knowledge that we all shared that neither would we nor could we avoid the horror that was to come, occasionally there would be brief moments of old-time gaiety in our family life, little intervals of happy companionship, oases in the desert of an apprehension that was in itself prophetic. I remember saying to my brother one day: “Theodore, you know that I belong to the Poetry Society of America, and a great many of its members wish to meet you. I have really been very considerate of you, and although this wish has been frequently expressed for some years in the society, I have spared you heretofore, but the moment has come!” “Must I meet the poets, Pussie?” he said laughingly and rather deprecatingly. “Yes,” I replied firmly. “The poets have their rights quite as much as the politicians, and the time for the poets is at hand.” “All right—name your day,” he answered, and so a day was named, and I invited a number of my friends amongst the poets to take tea with me on a certain afternoon to meet Colonel Roosevelt. I remember I asked him to try to come from his office early enough for me to jog his memory about some of the work of my various poet friends, but a large number of verse writers had already gathered in my sitting-room before he arrived. I placed him by my side and asked a friend to bring up my various guests so that I might introduce them to him. I remember the care with which I tried to connect the name of the person whom I introduced with some one of his or her writings, and I also remember the surprise with which I realized how unnecessary was all such effort on my part, for, as I would say, “Theodore, this is Mr. So-and-So, who wrote such and such,” he would rapidly respond, “But you need not tell me that. I remember that poem very well, indeed,” and turning with that delightful smile of his to the flattered author, he would say, “I like the fifth line of the third verse of that poem of yours. It goes this way,” and with that, in a strong, ringing voice, he would repeat the line referred to. As each person turned away from the word or two with him, which evidently gave him almost as much pleasure as it gave them, I could hear them say to each other, “How did he know that poem of mine?” When I myself questioned him about his knowledge of modern American poetry, he answered quite simply: “But you know I like poetry and I try to keep up on that line of literature too.” He was very fond of some of Arthur Guiterman’s clever verse, and quoted with special pleasure a sarcastic squib which the latter had just published on the navy, apropos of Mr. Daniels’s attitude: “We are sitting with our knitting on the twelve-inch guns!”

Robert Frost, who was with us that afternoon, had shortly before published a remarkable poem called “Servant to Servants,” which had attracted my brother’s attention, and of which he spoke with keen interest to the author. Nothing distressed him more than the realization of the hard work performed by the farmer’s wife almost everywhere in our country, and in this poem of Mr. Frost’s that situation was painted with his forceful pen.

This remarkable memory of my brother’s was shown not only that afternoon amongst the poets, but shortly afterward by an incident in connection with an afternoon at the Three Arts Club, where he also generously consented to spend an hour amongst the young girls who had come from various places in our broad country to study one of the three arts—drama, music, or painting—in our great metropolis. My friend Mrs. John Henry Hammond, the able president of the Three Arts Club, was anxious that he should meet her protÉgÉes and mine, for I was a manager of the club. I remember we lined the girls up in a row and had them pass in front of him in single file—several hundred young girls. Each was to have a shake of the hand and a special word from the ex-President, but none was supposed to pause more than a moment, as his time was limited. About fifty or sixty girls had already passed in front of him and received a cordial greeting, when a very pretty student, having received her greeting, paused a little longer and, looking straight at him, said: “Colonel Roosevelt, don’t you remember me?” This half-laughingly—evidently having been dared to ask the question. Holding her hand and gazing earnestly at her, he paused a moment or two and then, with a brilliant flashing smile, said: “Of course I do. You were the little girl, seven years ago, on a white bucking pony at El Paso, Texas, where I went down to a reunion of my Rough Riders. I remember your little pony almost fell backward into the carriage when it reared at the noise of the band.” There never was a more surprised girl than the one in question, for seven years had made a big difference in the child of twelve, the rider of the bucking white pony, and it had really not occurred to her that he could possibly remember the incident, but remember it he did, and one very happy heart was carried away that day from the Three Arts Club.

As the winter of 1917 slipped by, there was evidence on all sides that the slogan on which the Democratic party had based its campaign efforts must soon be falsified; nothing could keep the American people longer from their paramount duty, and on April 2, 1917, President Wilson appeared before the united bodies of the House and the Senate in Washington, and asked that Congress should declare a state of war between Germany and ourselves. Colonel Roosevelt, always anxious to back up the President in any action in which he thought he was right, went to Washington, or rather stopped in Washington, for he was in the South at the time, to congratulate him on his decision and to offer his services to assist the President in any way that might be possible.

Within a few weeks of the actual declaration of war, Mr. Roosevelt was already begging that he might be allowed to raise a volunteer division, and urging that the administration Army Bill should be supplemented with legislation authorizing the raising of from one hundred to five hundred thousand volunteers to be sent to the firing-line in Europe at the earliest possible moment. In a letter to Senator George E. Chamberlain, of Oregon, Colonel Roosevelt writes as follows:

“I most earnestly and heartily support the administration bill for providing an army raised on the principle of universal obligatory military training and service, but meanwhile, let us use volunteer forces in connection with a portion of the Regular army, in order, at the earliest possible moment,—within a few months,—to put our flag on the firing line. We owe this to humanity; we owe it to the small nations who have suffered such dreadful wrong from Germany. Most of all, we owe it to ourselves; to our national honor and self-respect. For the sake of our own souls, for the sake of the memories of the great Americans of the past, we must show that we do not intend to make this merely a dollar war. Let us pay with our bodies for our souls’ desire. Let us, without one hour’s unnecessary delay, put the American flag at the battle-front in this great world war for Democracy and civilization, and for the reign of Justice and fair-dealing among the nations of mankind.

“My proposal is to use the volunteer system not in the smallest degree as a substitute for, but as the, at present, necessary supplement to the obligatory system. Certain of the volunteer organizations could be used very soon; they could be put into the fighting in four months.... I therefore propose that there should be added to the proposed law, a section based on Section 12 of the Army Act of March 2nd, 1899....”

At the same time Representative Caldwell made an open statement as follows: “The Army Bill suggested by Secretary Baker will, in all probability, be introduced in the House on Wednesday. There have been suggestions made that a clause be placed in the proposed bill which would give Colonel Roosevelt the power to take an army division to Europe. Colonel Roosevelt outlined his plans to me.... I am a Democrat and intend to abide by the wishes of President Wilson and told Colonel Roosevelt so. We agreed that there was no politics in this matter, and from my talk with Mr. Roosevelt, I believe him to be sincere in his purpose. He gave me the names of men throughout the country who signified their intention of joining his division. They include a number of men who served as officers with him in the Spanish War, many college students, former officers and members of the National Guard, all of whom are in the best of physical condition and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Colonel Roosevelt said that a large majority of the men whom he hoped to take with him are from the south and west.”

Already, at the first intimation that Colonel Roosevelt might lead a division into France, there had flocked to his standard thousands of men, just as had been the case in the old days of the Rough Riders. As immediate as was the rallying to his standard were also the attacks made upon him for having wished to dedicate himself to this patriotic enterprise, and one of the most acrimonious debates that ever occurred in the Senate of the United States was on the subject of the amendment to that Army Bill. The Democrats, led by Senator Stone, had much to say about the unfitness of the Colonel. They did not seem to realize how strong was the desire of France to have America’s best-known citizen go to her shores at the moment when her morale was at the ebb; nor did they realize, apparently, the promise for the future that there would be in the rapid arrival of a large body of ardent American soldiers, well equipped to tide over the period of waiting before a still larger force could come to the assistance of the Allies.

Senator Hiram Johnson, orator and patriot, made a glowing defense of Colonel Roosevelt in answering Senator Stone. It is interesting to realize at this moment, when former Senator Harding is the President of the United States, that it was he who offered the amendment to the Army Bill, making it possible for Colonel Roosevelt to lead that division into France. Senator Johnson said:

“... I listened with surprise—indeed, as a senator of the United States, with humiliation—to the remarks of the senior senator from Missouri as he excoriated Theodore Roosevelt and as he held up to scorn and contumely what he termed contemptuously ‘The Roosevelt Division.’ What is it that is asked for The Roosevelt Division? It is asked only by a man who is now really in the twilight of life that he may finally lay down his life for the country that is his. It is only that he asks that he may serve that country, may go forth to battle for his country’s rights, and may do all that may be done by a human being on behalf of his nation. My God! When was it that a nation denied to its sons the right to fight in its behalf? We have stood shoulder to shoulder both sides of this Chamber in this war. To say that Roosevelt desires, for personal ambition and political favor hereafter, to go to war is to deny the entire life of this patriot.... Our distinguished senator has said that Roosevelt has toured the land in the endeavor to do that which he desires. Aye, he has toured the land; he toured the land for preparedness two and a half years ago, and he was laughed at as hysterical. He toured the land two and a half years ago and continuously since for undiluted Americanism, and you said he was filled with jingoism. To-day you have adopted his preparedness plan; to-day his undiluted Americanism that he preached to many, to which but few listened, has become the slogan of the whole nation. He toured the land for patriotism!... After all, my friends, Roosevelt fought in the past and he fought for the United States of America; after all, he asks only that he be permitted to fight to-day for the United States of America. He is accused of a lack of experience.... There is one thing this man has—one thing that he has proven in the life he has lived in the open in this nation—he has red blood in his veins and he has the ability to fight and he has the tenacity to win when he fights, and that is the sort of an American that is needed and required in this war. I say to you, gentlemen of this particular assemblage, that if a man can raise a division, if he wishes to fight, die, if need be, for his country, it is a sad and an awful thing that his motive shall be questioned and his opinions assailed in the very act that is indeed the closing act of his career.

“Oh! for more Roosevelts in this nation; oh! for more men who will stand upon the hustings and go about the country preaching the undiluted Americanism that all of us claim to have! Oh! for more Roosevelts and more divisions of men who will follow Roosevelt! With more Roosevelts and more Roosevelt divisions, the flag of the United States will go forth in this great world conflict to the victory that every real American should desire and demand.”

Part of the afternoon just before the final vote on the above amendment to that Army Bill was spent by Theodore Roosevelt in my library in New York. Those were the days when Mr. Balfour, M. Viviani, and General Joffre were receiving the acclamation and the plaudits of the American people. At several of the great ovations given to them, Theodore Roosevelt was also on the platform, and it was frequently brought to my notice by others that the tribute to him when he entered or left the assemblage was equal in its enthusiasm to that for the distinguished guests. On the afternoon to which I have referred, the French ambassador came for a quiet cup of tea with me and my brother, and to his old friend and his sister the Colonel was willing to unbosom his heart. He spoke poignantly of his desire to lead his division into France. Over and over again he repeated: “The President need not fear me politically. No one need fear me politically. If I am allowed to go, I could not last; I am too old to last long under such circumstances. I should crack [he repeated frequently: “I should crack”] but [with a vivid gleam of his white teeth] I could arouse the belief that America was coming. I could show the Allies what was on the way, and then if I did crack, the President could use me to come back and arouse more enthusiasm here and take some more men over. That is what I am good for now, and what difference would it make if I cracked or not!”

The amendment was passed that made it possible for volunteers to go to France, but the beloved wish of his heart was denied by those in authority to that most eager of volunteers, Colonel Theodore Roosevelt.

In July my brother wrote an open letter of farewell, disbanding the division for which there had been tentatively so many volunteers. After a correspondence with the secretary of war, a correspondence which Theodore Roosevelt himself has given to the world, the definite decision was made that he would not be allowed to “give his body for his soul’s desire,” and shortly after that decision I sent him the following poem, which had been shown to me by one of his devoted admirers, the poet Marion Couthouy Smith. It ran as follows:

FAREWELLS

In acknowledging the poem on July 3, 1917, from Sagamore Hill, my brother writes:

“I loved your letter; and as for the little poem, I prize it more than anything that has been written about me; I shall keep it as the epitaph of the division and of me. We have just heard that Ted and Archie have landed in France. Lord Northcliffe wired me this morning that Lord Derby offered Kermit a position on the staff of the British army in Mesopotamia. [After hard fighting in Mesopotamia, Kermit was later transferred to the American forces in France.] I do not know when he will sail. Quentin has passed his examinations for the flying corps. He hopes to sail this month. Dick [Richard Derby, his son-in-law] is so anxious to go down to Camp Oglethorpe that Ethel is almost as anxious to have him go. Eleanor [young Theodore’s wife] sails for France on Saturday to do Y.M.C.A. work. I remain, as a slacker ‘malgrÉ lui!’ Give my love to Corinne and Joe and Helen and Teddy. I am immensely pleased about Dorothy’s baby. [Dorothy, my son Monroe’s wife.] Edith asked Fanny to come out on Friday with our delightful friend, Beebe the naturalist. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Beebe is a great friend of mine.”

The “slacker malgrÉ lui” accepted the gravest disappointment of his life as he did any other disappointment—eyes forward, shoulders squared, and head thrown back. It was hard for him, however, to busy himself, as he said, with what he considered “utterly pointless and fussy activities,” when his whole soul was in the great conflict on the far side of the water, from which one of his boys was not to return, and where two of the others were to be seriously wounded.

Writing on October 5, 1917, he says: “Of course I stood by Mitchel.” This refers to a hot campaign which was waging around the figure of the young mayor of New York City, John Purroy Mitchel, who had given New York City the best administration for many a long year and was up for re-election but, unfortunately, due to many surprising circumstances, was later defeated. My brother had the greatest admiration for the fearlessness and ability of the young mayor, and later, when that same gallant American entered the flying service and was killed in a trial flight, no one mourned him more sincerely than did the man who always recognized courage and determination and patriotism in Democrat or Republican alike.

About the same time, in speaking of General Franklin Bell, who was in charge of Camp Upton, he says: “The latter is keenly eager to go abroad. He says that if he is not sent, he will retire and go abroad as a volunteer.” By a strange chance, a snapshot was taken of the first division of drafted men sent to Camp Upton just as they were passing the reviewing-stand, on which stood together Franklin Bell, John Purroy Mitchel, and Theodore Roosevelt. The expression on my brother’s face was one so spiritual, so exalted in aspect, that I am reproducing the picture.

All through that autumn he gave himself unstintedly to war work of all kinds, and amongst other things came, at my request, to a “Fatherless Children of France” booth at the great Allied Bazaar. The excitement in front of the booth as he stood there was intense, and as usual the admirers who struggled to shake his hand were of the most varied character. We decided to charge fifty cents for a hand-shake, and we laughed immoderately at the numbers of repeaters. One man, however, having apparently approached the booth from curiosity, said “it wasn’t worth it.” The indignation of the crowd was so great that immediately there were volunteers to pay for three and four extra hand-shakes to shame the delinquent!

Shortly before that, a friend of Colonel John W. Vrooman’s wrote to him about a certain meeting at the Union League Club called to witness a send-off to some of the soldiers. The writer says:

“The moment Colonel Roosevelt appeared on the reviewing stand he was recognized and the vicinity of the Club was in an uproar. Later on when visiting a party in the private dining room, he had only been in the room about three minutes when he was recognized by the girls and boys who were looking at the review from a building on the opposite side of the street. Just to show you how he reaches the heart of the people, they cheered and waved at him until his attention was attracted and he had to go to the window and salute them. Although he was an hour and a half in conversation in the club, he did not forget his little friends across the way but on leaving, went to the window and waved goodbye to them. Every youngster present will relate this incident, I am sure, for a long time to come. In leaving the Club house, he was set upon, it seemed to me, by the youngsters of the East Side so that he had to beg his way through the crowd that had been waiting in the rain three hours just to see him, and in getting into the automobile, they appeared to an on-looker to be clambering all over him, and I would not be surprised if he carried a few of them away in his pockets as he carried most of their little hearts with him.”

In the midst of all the excitement, we occasionally snatched a moment for a quiet luncheon. “Fine!” he writes me on November 5. “Yes,—Thursday,—the Langdon at 1:30. It will be fine to see Patty Selmes.” How he did enjoy seeing our mutual friend Patty Selmes that day! As “Patty Flandrau” of Kentucky she had married Tilden Selmes just about the time that Theodore Roosevelt had taken up his residence in the Bad Lands of Dakota, where the young married couple had also migrated. Nothing was ever more entertaining than to start the “don’t you remember” conversations between my brother and his old friend Mrs. Selmes. Each would cap some wild Western story of the other with one equally wild and amusing, and the tales of their adventures with the Marquis de MorÉs would have shamed Dumas himself!

Another little note came to me shortly after the above, suggesting that he should spend the night and have one of the old-time breakfasts that he loved. “Breakfast is really the meal for long and intimate conversation.” He writes the postscript which he adds he knew would please my heart, for one of my sons, owing to a slight defect in one eye, had had difficulty in being accepted in the army, but through strong determination had finally achieved a captaincy in the ammunition train of the 77th Division. My brother says in the postscript: “I genuinely admire and respect Monroe.” About New Year’s eve a letter came to my husband from him in answer to a congratulatory letter on the fine actions of my brother’s boys. “Of course, we are very proud of Archie, and General Duncan has just written us about Ted in terms that make our hearts glow. Well, there is no telling what the New Year has in store. The hand of Fate may be heavy upon us, but we can all be sure that it will not take away our pride in our boys. [My son Monroe was expecting to be sent soon to France in the 77th Division, and my eldest son, who had broken his leg, was hoping to get into a camp when the leg had recovered its power.] I cannot tell you, my dear Douglas, how much you and Corinne have done for us and have meant to us during the last six months. Ever yours, T.R.”

In the “Life and Letters of George Eliot” she dwells upon the fact that so many people lose the great opportunity of giving to others the outward expression of their love and appreciation, and as I re-read my brother’s treasured letters, I realize fully what the authoress meant, and how much the giver of such honest and loving expression wins in return from those to whom the happiness of appreciation has been rendered.

The year 1917 was over; the American people once more could look with level eyes in the faces of their allies in the great world effort for righteousness. In the midst of thoughts of war, in the midst of clamor of all sorts, in the midst of grave anxiety for the sons of his heart, wearing a service pin with five stars upon it—for he regarded his gallant son-in-law Doctor Richard Derby as one of his own flesh and blood—Theodore Roosevelt still had time to speak and write on certain subjects close in another way than war to the hearts and minds of the people. Writing for the Ladies’ Home Journal an article called “Shall We Do Away with the Church?” he says certain things of permanent import to the nation.

“In the pioneer days of the West, we found it an unfailing rule that after a community had existed for a certain length of time, either a church was built or else the community began to go downhill. In these old communities of the Eastern States which have gone backward, it is noticeable that the retrogression has been both marked and accentuated by a rapid decline in church membership and work, the two facts being so interrelated that each stands to the other partly as a cause and partly as an effect.” After reviewing the self-indulgent Sunday in contradistinction to the church-going Sunday, he says:

“I doubt whether the frank protest of nothing but amusement has really brought as much happiness as if it had been alloyed with and supplemented by some minimum meeting of obligation toward others. Therefore, on Sunday go to church. Yes,—I know all the excuses; I know that one can worship the Creator and dedicate oneself to good living in a grove of trees or by a running brook or in one’s own house just as well as in a church, but I also know that as a matter of cold fact, the average man does not thus worship or thus dedicate himself. If he stays away from church he does not spend his time in good works or in lofty meditation.... He may not hear a good sermon at church but unless he is very unfortunate he will hear a sermon by a good man who, with his good wife, is engaged all the week long in a series of wearing and hum-drum and important tasks for making hard lives a little easier; and both this man and this wife are, in the vast majority of cases, showing much self-denial, and doing much for humble folks of whom few others think, and they are keeping up a brave show on narrow means. Surely, the average man ought to sympathize with the work done by such a couple and ought to help them, and he cannot help them unless he is a reasonably regular church attendant. Besides, even if he does not hear a good sermon, the probabilities are that he will listen to and take part in reading some beautiful passages from the Bible, and if he is not familiar with the Bible, he has suffered a loss which he had better make all possible haste to correct. He will meet and nod to or speak to good, quiet neighbors. If he doesn’t think about himself too much, he will benefit himself very much, especially as he begins to think chiefly of others....

“I advocate a man’s joining in church work for the sake of showing his faith by his works; I leave to professional theologians the settlement of the question, whether he is to achieve his salvation by his works or by faith which is only genuine if it expresses itself in works. Micah’s insistence upon love and mercy, and doing justice and walking humbly with the Lord’s will, should suffice if lived up to.... Let the man not think overmuch of saving his own soul. That will come of itself, if he tries in good earnest to look after his neighbor both in soul and in body—remembering always that he had better leave his neighbor alone rather than show arrogance and lack of tactfulness in the effort to help him. The church on the other hand must fit itself for the practical betterment of mankind if it is to attract and retain the fealty of the men best worth holding and using.”

Space forbids my quoting further from this, to me, exceptionally interesting article which closes with this sentence: “The man who does not in some way, active or not, connect himself with some active working church, misses many opportunities for helping his neighbors and therefore, incidentally, for helping himself.”

And again, in an address at the old historic church of Johnstown in Pennsylvania, he makes a great plea for the church of the new democracy, and lays stress upon the fact that unless individuals can honestly believe in their hearts that their country would be better off without any churches, these same individuals must acknowledge the fact that it is their duty to uphold, by their presence in them, the churches which they know to be indispensable to the vigor and stability of the nation.

In the first week of February, 1918, he had arranged to come to me for a cup of tea to meet one or two literary friends, and the message came that he was not well and was going to the hospital instead. The malignant Brazilian fever, always lurking, ready to spring at his vitality, had shown itself in a peculiarly painful way, and an operation was considered necessary. As his own sons were far away, my son Monroe, who was soon to sail for France, was able to assist in taking him to Roosevelt Hospital, and there the operation was successfully performed; but within twenty-four hours, an unexpected danger connected with the ears had arisen, and for one terrible night the doctors feared for his life, as the trouble threatened the base of the brain. The rumor spread that he was dying, and on February 8th the New York Tribune printed at the head of its editorial page this short and touching sentence: “Theodore Roosevelt—listen! You must be up and well again; we cannot have it otherwise; we could not run this world without you.” At the time these words were printed, I was told by my sister-in-law and by the doctor that he wanted to speak to me (I had been in the hospital waiting anxiously near his room) and that they felt that it would trouble him if he did not have his wish; they cautioned me to put my ear close down to his lips, for even a slight movement of the head might bring about a fatal result. My readers must remember what was happening on the other side of the ocean as Theodore Roosevelt lay sick unto death in the city of his birth. The most critical period of the Great War was at hand. Very soon the terrible “March offensive” was to begin. Very soon we were to hear that solemn call from General Haig that his “back was against the wall.” We were all keyed up to the highest extent; all of my brother’s sons were at the front, my own son was about to sail, and at this most critical moment the man to whom the youth of America looked for leadership was stricken and laid low.

As I entered the sick-room, all this was in my mind. Controlling myself to all outward appearance, I put my ear close to his lips, and these were the words which Theodore Roosevelt said to his sister, words which he fully believed would be the last he could ever say to her. Thank God he did speak to me many times again, and we had eleven months more of close and intimate communion, but at that moment he was facing the valley of the shadow. As I leaned over him, in a hoarse whisper he said: “I am so glad that it is not one of my boys who is dying here, for they can die for their country.”

As he gradually convalesced from that serious illness, many were our intimate hours of conversation. The hospital was besieged by adoring multitudes of inquirers. I remember taking a taxicab myself one day to go there, and when I said to the Italian driver, “Go to the Roosevelt Hospital,” the quick response came: “You go see Roosevelt—they all go see Roosevelt—they all go ask how Roosevelt is—he my friend, too—you tell him get well for me.” Every sort of individual, as he grew stronger, waited in the corridor for a chance to consult him on this or that subject. Of course few were allowed to do so, but it was more than ever evident by the throng of men, distinguished in the public affairs of the country, who begged admittance even for a few moments that the “Colonel” was still the Mecca toward which the trend of political hope was turning! After a brief rest at Oyster Bay he insisted upon keeping the appointments to speak in various states, appointments the breaking of which his illness had necessitated. His great ovation in Maine showed beyond dispute how the heart of the Republican party was turning to its old-time leader, and every war work, needless to say, clamored for a speech from him. One of his most characteristic notes was in connection with my plea that he should speak at Carnegie Hall for the Red Cross on a certain May afternoon. Josef Hofmann had promised to come all the way from Aiken to play for the benefit if Theodore Roosevelt were to be the speaker of the occasion, and in writing him on the subject, I laid stress on the sacrifice of time and energy of the great pianist, and in my zeal apparently gave the impression that my brother was to do a great favor to Josef Hofmann rather than the Red Cross, and he answers me humorously: “Darling Corinne:—All right!—A ten-minute speech for the pianist. That goes!” He always considered it a great joke that it was necessary for Josef Hofmann to have him speak.

That same May one lovely afternoon stands out most clearly. John Masefield, the great English poet, had been several times in the country. My brother knew his work well but had not met him, and I had had that privilege. I wished to take him to Oyster Bay, and the invitation was gladly forthcoming. It proved fair and beautiful, and Mr. Masefield and I motored out to luncheon. On the veranda at Sagamore Hill were my brother and Mrs. Roosevelt, their daughter Mrs. Derby and her lovely children, and later John Masefield took little Richard on his lap and wove for him a tale to which we grown people listened, my brother resting his eyes gladly on the little boy’s head as he leaned against the poet. After the story was told, we wandered off to a distant summer-house overlooking both sides of the bay, and there Theodore Roosevelt and John Masefield spoke intimately together of many things. It was a day of sunlight in early spring, and the air was full “of a summer to be,” but under the outward calm and beauty of the sun and sea lay a poignant sadness for our sons who were in a distant land, for the moment had come when the American troops were to show their valor in a great cause.

The day after the Carnegie Hall speech for the Red Cross, one of his most flaming addresses, in which he pictured the young men of America as Galahads of modern days, I wrote to him of my gratitude and emotion, and he answers at once (how did he ever find the time to answer so immediately so many letters which came to him):

“Darling Corinne:—That is a very dear letter of yours; your sons and my sons were before my eyes as I spoke. I am leaving tomorrow for the West until May 31st. I leave again on June 6th, returning on the 13th, and on Saturday, the 15th, must go to a Trinity College function and stay with Bye. [Referring to my sister, Mrs. Cowles.] Will you take me out in your motor to Oyster Bay for dinner when I return?” Already he had plunged into what he considered his active duty and was overtaxing his strength—that strength only so lately restored, and not entirely restored—in the service of his country.

It was at Indiana University in June of that year that he made one of his most significant pronouncements, a pronouncement especially significant in the light of the so-called Sinn Fein activities during the last two years in this country. He was very fond of the Irish, and fond of many of the Irish-born citizens of America, and always loved to refer to his own Irish blood, but he had no sympathy whatsoever with certain attitudes taken by certain Irish-born or naturalized Americans under the name, falsely used, of patriotism, and he speaks his mind courageously and clearly at Indiana University.

“Friends, it is unpatriotic and un-American to damage America because you love another country, but there is one thing worse and that is to damage America because you hate another country. The Sinn Feiner who acts against America because he hates England is a worse creature than the member of the German-American Alliance who has acted against America because he loves Germany. I want to point out this bit of etymological information: Sinn Fein means ‘Us, Ourselves.’ It means that those who adopt that name are fighting for themselves, for a certain division of people across the sea. What right have they to come to America? Their very name shows that they are not American; that they are for themselves against America.”

In July, when I had been threatened with rather serious trouble in my eyes, he again writes with his usual unfailing sympathy: “I think of you all the time. I so hate to have you threatened by trouble with your eyes or any other trouble. Edgar Lee Masters spent a couple of hours here yesterday. Ethel and her two blessed bunnies have gone. I miss Pitty Pat and Tippy Toe frightfully.” Little “Edie,” his youngest granddaughter, was a special pet, and rarely did one visit Sagamore at that time without finding the lovely rosy baby in his arms. He could hardly pass her baby-carriage when she slept without stopping to look at her, for which nefarious action he was sometimes severely chastised by the stern young mother. But the burning heart of Theodore Roosevelt could hardly ever be assuaged even by the sweet unconsciousness of the little children who knew not of the dangers faced so gallantly by their father and their mother’s brothers.

America had been over fourteen months in the Great War when an editorial appeared in one of the important newspapers called “The Impatience of Theodore Roosevelt.” It ran as follows:

“There is a certain disposition to criticise Theodore Roosevelt for what is termed his ultra views regarding the war. It is not all captious criticism. Some people honestly feel that he has been impatient and fault-finding. Much of the picture is true. He has been impatient; he has taken what may be called an ultra position; he has found fault, but we should like to point out one very distinct fact. Theodore Roosevelt from the first day we entered the war has stood unswervingly and whole-heartedly for throwing the complete strength of the nation into the war. For that matter, he held this position, preached this doctrine long before we entered the war. He preached the draft, he preached preparation, he preached the sending of the largest possible army to France,—from the beginning. Now the fact we wish to point out is that the country is not growing away from Theodore Roosevelt’s position,—it is growing toward it. It has been actually moving toward it of late very rapidly. This is true not merely of the great mass of people, but of their representatives at Washington, ... and perhaps even some members of the Cabinet and the President himself. Practically the whole nation now is unreservedly for throwing the whole strength of the nation to the side of the allies. This was not true a year ago today, although we had then been officially at war with Germany for more than two months. Today the whole nation stands where Theodore Roosevelt stood one year ago, and two years ago, and three years ago.—In point of fact, ever since the day when by the sinking of the Lusitania, Germany declared itself an outlaw to the name of civilization. We do not mean to say that Theodore Roosevelt was the nation’s sole leader, but we do wish to say that he was very distinctly a leader, and later, in the highest and best sense,—a man who saw, far ahead of many others, what ought to be and what must be, and then threw his whole heart and soul into bringing the nation and many reluctant minds to his point of view. We write: He may have been impatient; he may have found fault, but we think that most Americans of whatever party color, if they now have any regrets, have these regrets because we could not earlier have come nearer to the ideal set up a year, or two years, or three years ago by Theodore Roosevelt. If this is not one of the highest standards of leadership, we do not understand the meaning of the term.”

Events were moving rapidly. Our American soldiers were already playing a gallant part in the terrible drama enacted on the fields and forests of France and in the fastnesses of the Italian hills. News had come of “Archie’s” wounds and of “Ted’s” wounds, and Quentin had already made his trial flights, while Kermit had been transferred from the British army to his own flag.

Political events in America were also marching rapidly forward. Already, wherever one lent a listening ear, the growing murmur rose louder and louder that Theodore Roosevelt was the only candidate to be nominated by the Republican party in 1920. The men who had parted from him in 1912, the men who had not rallied around him in 1916, were all eagerly ranging themselves on the side of this importunate rumor. A culminating moment was approaching. It was the middle of July, and the informal convention of the Republican party in New York State was about to take place at Saratoga. My eldest son, State Senator Theodore Douglas Robinson, led a number of men in the opposition of the then incumbent of the gubernatorial chair, Charles S. Whitman. The hearts of many were strong with desire that my brother himself should be the Republican nominee for the next governor of New York State. No one knew his attitude on the subject, but he had promised to make the address of the occasion, my son having been appointed to make the request that he should do so. My husband and I had arranged to meet him in Saratoga, my son having preceded us to Albany to make all the formal arrangements. The day before the convention was to take place the terrible news came that Quentin was killed. Of course there was a forlorn hope that this information might not be true, that the gallant boy might perhaps have reached the earth alive and might already be a prisoner in a German camp, but there seemed but little doubt of the truth of the terrible fact. My son telephoned me the news from Albany before the morning paper could arrive at my country home, and at the same time said to me that he did not feel justified in asking his Uncle Theodore whether he still would come to Saratoga, but that he wanted me to get this information for him if possible. My country home in the Mohawk Hills of New York State is many miles from Sagamore Hill on Long Island, and it was difficult to get telephone connection. My heart was unspeakably sore and heavy at the thought of the terrible sorrow that had come to my sister-in-law and my brother, and I shrank from asking any question concerning any matter except the sad news of the death of Quentin, or imminent danger to him. My brother himself came to the telephone; the sound of his voice was as if steel had entered into the tone. As years before he had written me from South Africa in my own great sorrow, he had “grasped the nettle.” I asked him whether he would like me to come down at once to Oyster Bay, and his answer was almost harsh in its rapidity: “Of course not—I will meet you in Saratoga as arranged. It is more than ever my duty to be there. You can come down to New York after the convention.” The very tone of his voice made me realize the agony in his heart, but duty was paramount. The affairs of his State, the affairs of the nation, needed his counsel, needed his self-control. His boy had paid the final price of duty; was he, the father who had taught that boy the ideal of service and sacrifice, to shrink in cowardly fashion at the crucial moment?

The next day I met him in Albany and motored him to Saratoga. His face was set and grave, but he welcomed my sympathy generously. Meanwhile, the night before there had been great excitement in Saratoga. A number of delegates were in favor of renominating Governor Charles S. Whitman on the Republican ticket, but a large and important group of men, in fact, the largest and most important group in the Republican party of New York State, were extremely anxious that Colonel Roosevelt should allow his name to be brought forward as a candidate for governor. Elihu Root, William Howard Taft, and many of the weighty “bosses” of the various counties lent all their efforts toward this achievement. Colonel Roosevelt, on his arrival in Saratoga, took a quiet luncheon with my family, Mrs. Parsons, and myself, after which we adjourned to the large hall in which the convention was to be held. I remember before we left him that Mrs. Parsons suggested the insertion of a sentence in the speech which he was about to make, and his immediate and grateful response to the suggestion. No one had a more open mind to the helpful suggestion of others.

The great hall was already filled to overflowing when we arrived, and it was difficult for us to find our seats, even although they had been carefully reserved for us. The atmosphere of the crowd in the great building was different from that of any concourse of people who had hitherto waited the coming of Theodore Roosevelt. At other times, in other crowds, when their favorite leader was expected, there had always been a quality of hilarity and gay familiarity showing itself in songs and demonstrations in which the oft-repeated “We want Teddy—we want Teddy” almost always was heard, but in this great assemblage there was a hushed silence and solicitude for their beloved friend, a personal outflowing of silent sympathy for the man whose youngest, whose “Benjamin,” had so lately paid the final price, and even a few minutes later, when to the strains of the “Star-Spangled-Banner,” Colonel Roosevelt was escorted up the aisle by my son, Senator Robinson, and Congressman Cox, from his own Nassau County, the many faces turned eagerly to watch him showed in strained eyes and set though quivering lips their efforts at self-control. As he began his speech, we realized fully that he was holding himself firmly together, but as he poured out his message of Americanism, as he pleaded for the finer and truer patriotism to be brought more closely and definitely into political action, he lost the sense of the great bereavement that had come to him, in his dedication anew to the effort to arouse in his countrymen the selfless desire for service, with which he had always fronted the problems of his own life. Toward the end of the speech, though he never referred to his sorrow, the realization of it again gripped him with its inevitable torture, and again the people who sat in breathless silence—listening to one to whom they had always listened—followed in their hearts the hard path that he was bravely treading.

The convention adjourned, and he asked the leaders to wait until the following day, at least, for his answer to the Round-Robin request which had been sent to him, but he did not give much hope that he would look favorably upon their desire that he should allow his name to be put in nomination as candidate for governor. I motored him back to Albany and took the train with him for New York. In recalling the hours of intercourse that afternoon and early evening, the great impression made upon my mind by his attitude was one of ineffable gentleness. Never was he more loving in his interest about me and mine; never was he less thoughtful of self. I realized that he needed quiet, and when I found that my seat was in a different car from his, although several people offered to change their seats with me, I felt that after our drive together, it would do him more good to be alone and read than to try to talk to me. I told him I would order our dinner and would come back for him when it was time for the meal, and I left him with his usual book in his hand. When I came back, however, I stood behind him for a moment or two before making myself known to him again, and I could see that he was not reading, that his sombre eyes were fixed on the swiftly passing woodlands and the river, and that the book had not the power of distracting him from the all-embracing grief which enveloped him. When I spoke, however, he turned with a responsive smile, and during our whole meal gave me, as ever, the benefit of his delightful knowledge of all the affairs of the world.

Only once during our talk did he speak of the Round-Robin, and especially of my son’s desire that he should be the nominee for governor. He used an expression in discussing the matter which gave me at once a sense of almost physical apprehension. Looking at me gravely, he said: “Corinne, I have only one fight left in me, and I think I should reserve my strength in case I am needed in 1920.” The contraction of my heart was swift and painful, and I said: “Theodore, you don’t feel really ill, do you?” “No,” he said; “but I am not what I was and there is only one fight left in me.” I suggested that that fight would probably be made easier by this premonitory battle, but he shook his head and I could see that there was but little chance of his undertaking the factional warfare of a state campaign, nor did he seem to feel, as did some others, that to win the election for governor of New York State would be of distinct advantage in connection with the great fight to come in 1920. The following week Theodore Roosevelt definitely refused to let his name be put before the people as a candidate for the governorship of the Empire State.

That evening on arriving late in New York, he would not let me go to the Langdon Hotel with him, but insisted on taking me to my own house. The next morning I went early to the Langdon, hoping for better news, and saw my sister-in-law, whose wonderful self-control was a lesson to all those who have had to meet the ultimate pain of life. I could see that she had but little hope, but for my brother’s sake, until the actual confirmation of Quentin’s death, she bravely hoped for hope. Later, Colonel Roosevelt made a statement from Oyster Bay in connection with the many telegrams and cables of sympathy which they received. He said: “These messages were not meant for publication but to express sympathy with Quentin’s father and mother, and sorrow for a gallant boy who had been doing his duty like hundreds of thousands of young Americans. Many of them indeed, I think, were really an expression of sympathy from the mothers and fathers who have gladly and proudly, and yet with sorrow, seen the sons they love go forth to battle for their country and the right. These telegrams, cables, and letters show the spirit of our whole people.”

The noble attitude of my brother and sister-in-law roused deep admiration, and I have always felt that their influence was never more felt than when with aching hearts they continued quietly to go about their daily duties. On August 3d a letter came to me from Dark Harbor, Maine, where Colonel and Mrs. Roosevelt had gone to visit their daughter Mrs. Derby. “Darling Corinne:—Indeed it would be the greatest pleasure—I mean that exactly,—to have you bring little Douglas to Sagamore in the holidays. [He refers to my grandson, the son of Theodore Douglas Robinson.] All the people here are most considerate and the children a comfort. Little Edie is as pretty as a picture and a little darling; she has been very much of a chimney swallow this morning, clinging to whoever will take her up and cuddle her.” In the latter part of the letter he refers to my own great loss nine years before of my youngest son in his twentieth year, and says: “Your burden was even harder to bear than ours, for Stewart’s life was even shorter than Quentin’s and he had less chance to give shape to what there was in him, but, after all, when the young die at the crest of their life, in their golden morning, the degrees of difference are merely degrees in bitterness; and yet, there is nothing more cowardly than to be beaten down by sorrows which nothing we can do will change. Love to Douglas, Helen and Teddy, and to Fanny if she is with you.” The sentence of this brave letter in which my brother speaks of its being “cowardly to be beaten down by sorrows which nothing we do can change” is typical of the attitude which he had preserved through his whole life. Theodore Roosevelt was a great sharer and a great lover, but above all else he was essentially the courageous man who faced squarely whatever came, and by so facing conquered.

A few days later, again a dear letter came from Dark Harbor, and once more he dwells upon the baby girl who comforted him with her sweet, unconscious merriment. He says: “She is such a pretty little baby and with such cunning little ways. I fear I am not an unprejudiced witness. The little, curly-headed rascal is at this moment, crawling actively around my feet in her usual, absurd garb of blue overalls, drawn over her dainty dresses, because otherwise, she would ruin every garment she has on and skin her little bare knees. I heartily congratulate Teddy on going to camp. Give Corinne and Helen my dearest love and to all the others too.” The congratulations sent to my eldest son were indeed deserved, for the serious break to his leg having at last fully recovered, and a new camp near Louisville, Ky., having been started for men above the draft age, my son with real sacrifice resigned from his position in the Senate (having just been nominated for a second term), and started for Camp Taylor, where later he received his commission. My brother was very proud of the fact that, with hardly an exception, each son, nephew, or cousin of the Roosevelt and Robinson family was actively enrolled in the country’s service.

On August 18, having returned to Sagamore Hill, a little line comes to me of appreciation of a poem that I had written called “Italy.” “I am particularly glad you wrote it,” he says, and referring to my son-in-law, he continues: “Joe and Corinne lunched here yesterday; they were dear,—I admire them both so much.” He never failed, as I have said before, in giving me the joy of knowing when he admired those most dear to me. The following day, August 19, Mr. Colgate Hoyt, a generous neighbor, wrote to Colonel Roosevelt making the suggestion that a monument should be erected in honor of Quentin in some permanent place in the village of Oyster Bay, as Mr. Hoyt thought it would have an educational influence and value, as Quentin was the first resident of Oyster Bay (and the first officer) to make the supreme sacrifice in giving his life for his country. Mr. Hoyt wished to start this movement, but Colonel Roosevelt sent the following reply, a copy of which Mr. Hoyt gave me:

“My dear Mr. Hoyt:—That is a very nice letter of yours, but I do not think it would be advisable to try to put up a monument for Quentin. Of course, individually, our loss is irreparable but to the country he is simply one among many gallant boys who gave their lives for the great Cause. With very hearty thanks, Faithfully yours.”

The above letter and his statement that he and Quentin’s mother would prefer that their boy should lie where he fell were but what would have naturally been expected of Colonel and Mrs. Roosevelt.

In September, 1918, Theodore Roosevelt made an address on Lafayette Day, part of which ran as follows:

“Lafayette Day commemorates the service rendered to America in the Revolution by France. I wish to insist with all possible emphasis that in the present war, France, England, and Italy and the other Allies have rendered us similar services.... They have been fighting for us when they were fighting for themselves. [My brother was only repeating in 1918 what he had stanchly declared from the autumn of 1914.] Our army on the other side is now repaying in part our debt. It is now time and it is long behind time for America to bear her full share of the common burden.... It is sometimes announced that part of the Peace Agreement must be a League of Nations which will avert all war for the future and put a stop to the need of this nation preparing its own strength for its own defense. In deciding upon proposals of this nature, it behooves our people to remember that competitive rhetoric is a poor substitute for the habit of resolutely looking facts in the face. Patriotism stands in national matters as love of family does in private life. Nationalism corresponds to the love a man bears for his wife and children. Internationalism corresponds to the feeling he has for his neighbors generally. The sound nationalism is the only type of really helpful internationalism, precisely as in private relations, it is the man who is most devoted to his own wife and children who is apt in the long run to be the most satisfactory neighbor. The professional pacifist and the professional internationalist are equally undesirable citizens. The American pacifist has in the actual fact shown himself to be the ally of the German militarist. We Americans should abhor all wrong-doing to other nations. We ought always to act fairly and generously by other nations, but, we must remember that our first duty is to be loyal and patriotic citizens of our own nation. Any such League of Nations would have to depend for its success upon the adhesion of nine other nations which are actually or potentially the most powerful military nations; and these nine nations include Germany, Austria, Turkey, and Russia. The first three have recently and repeatedly violated and are now actively and continuously violating not only every treaty but every rule of civilized warfare and of international good faith. During the last year, Russia under the dominance of the Bolshevist has betrayed her Allies, has become the tool of the German autocracy and has shown such utter disregard of her national honor and plighted word and her international duties that she is now in external affairs the passive tool and ally of her brutal conqueror, Germany.

“What earthly use is it to pretend that the safety of the world would be secured by a League in which these four nations would be among the nine leading partners? Long years must pass before we can again trust in promises these four nations make. Therefore, unless our folly is such that it will not depart from us until we are brayed in a mortar, let us remember that any such treaty will be worthless unless our own prepared strength renders it unsafe to break it.... Let us support any reasonable plan whether in the form of a League of Nations or in any other shape which bids fair to lessen the probable number of future wars and to limit their scope, but let us laugh at all or any assertions that any such plan will guaranty Peace and Safety to the foolish, weak, or timid characters who have not the will and the power to prepare for their own defense. Support any such plan which is honest and reasonable, but support it as a condition to and never as a substitute for the policy of preparing our own strength for our own defense.

“I believe that this preparation should be, by the introduction in this country of the principle of universal training and universal service, as practised in Switzerland, and modified, of course, along the lines enacted in Australia, and in accordance with our needs. There will be no taint of Prussian militarism in such a system. It will merely mean to fit ourselves for self-defense and a great democracy in which order, law, and liberty are to prevail.”

I have quoted this speech because I am under the impression that it was his first actual declaration of any attitude toward a proposed League of Nations. In the early autumn of 1914 Theodore Roosevelt himself had written an article for the New York Times syndicate in which he suggested the possibility of a League of Nations, and the fact that he did make that suggestion was frequently used after his death—and, I think, in an unjustifiable manner—by the adherents of the Wilsonian League of Nations, with the desire to make the American public feel that my brother would have been in favor of Mr. Wilson’s league. In every pronouncement in connection with a tentative or possible league, my brother invariably laid stress upon an absolutely Americanized type of association. I asked him once about his article written in 1914, and he told me that while still hoping that some good might come from a league or association of nations, his serious study of world situations during the Great War had made him less optimistic as to the possibility of reaching effective results through such a possible league or association.

In another speech at about the same time, he said, in characteristic fashion: “I frequently meet one of those nice gentry in whom softness of heart has spread to the head, who say: ‘How can we guaranty that everybody will love one another at the end of the war?’ The first step in guarantying it is to knock Germany out!”

On September 12 my husband, Douglas Robinson, the unfailing friend and devoted brother of Theodore Roosevelt, died very suddenly, and my brother and sister-in-law hurried to the old home on the Mohawk Hills which my husband had loved so well. Putting themselves and their own grief for Mr. Robinson and their own late personal sorrow entirely aside, they did all that could be done by those we love to help me in every way. My brother had always cared for Henderson House, its traditions and its customs, and even in the midst of the sorrow which now hung over the old place, he constantly spoke to me of his appreciation of its atmosphere. At the time of my husband’s death my eldest son came quickly back for two days from the camp where he was training, to his own home adjoining mine, and his children were with us constantly during those days, as were the children of my nephew and niece, Hall and Margaret Roosevelt, who occupied a little cottage on my place. I remember with what tender thoughtfulness my brother withdrew himself on the Sunday afternoon after the funeral and wrote a long letter to my second son, Monroe, a captain in the 77th Division, then in the Argonne Forest in France. Just as he had found comfort in his own little grandchildren during those hard days at Dark Harbor, Maine, so, while facing the great loss of his lifelong and devoted friend and brother-in-law, he turned to an affectionate intercourse with the little ones of the youngest generation of the family, and on September 19, when he had left me and gone to Oyster Bay, he writes: “I think of you with tenderest love and sympathy all the time. I cannot get over my delight in Helen and Teddy’s darling children; and I loved Margaret’s brace of little strappers also. Archie and Gracie have hired a little apartment in town.” His son Captain Archibald Roosevelt had returned from France sorely wounded in both arm and leg, wounds and disabilities which he bore with undaunted patience and courage.

On October 13, in response to a letter of mine in which I told him that a Monsieur Goblet had wished the honor of dedicating to him a poem, and at the same time had also asked the privilege of translating my verses “To France” into the French language, he writes to me:

“I have written to M. Goblet as you suggested; I feel that you have every right to be really pleased with what he says about your poem—a noble little poem.

“How admirably Monroe has done. It is astonishing how many men I meet who speak of Douglas [my husband] not only with deep affectionate regard but with a keen sense of the loss of an exceptionally vigorous and powerful personality. Tell Helen that I am really counting on that visit from her delightful children. Their attitude touched me very much. I am much concerned at what you tell me about gallant Bye’s health. Give her my dearest love.”

My sister, Mrs. Cowles, was even more delicate than usual that autumn, and I was with her at the time he wrote me the above letter. His admiration for our older sister was unbounded, and her splendid dauntless attitude toward the physical pain she suffered, and her unbroken patience through suffering, never failed to awake in him a responsive appreciation.

About that time President Wilson entered into a correspondence with Germany of which my brother disapproved. On October 13 he dictated the following statement at his home on Sagamore Hill:

“I regret greatly that President Wilson has entered into these negotiations, and I trust they will be stopped. We have announced that we will not submit to a negotiated Peace, and under such conditions, to begin negotiations is bad faith with ourselves and our Allies.”

Again on October 25, in an open letter to his intimate friend Senator Henry Cabot Lodge, “Let us,” he says, “amongst other things, dictate Peace by the hammering of guns, and not talk about Peace to the accompaniment of the clicking of typewriters.”

Although the extracts which follow were written and published several weeks later than the above quotations, I prefer to give them in this connection, for Colonel Roosevelt’s attitude toward “Peace without victory” and a probable League of Nations has been so often misrepresented. The Kansas City Star, the newspaper with which Colonel Roosevelt had actual connection during the last year of his life, published an editorial after his death in answer to a remark made by Senator Hitchcock, chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee, in which he expressed the opinion that if Colonel Roosevelt were alive, “he would be found supporting the League of Nations as ardently as President Wilson.”

The Star denied this assertion, and said:

“From the beginning of the discussion of the proposed League, The Star has been anxious to find practical features which it could support as a real defense toward lasting peace. In the last weeks of 1918, the matter was taken up with Colonel Roosevelt who proved to be of the same mind. He recognized the war weariness of the world,—a weariness in which he shared to the full—and was anxious to further any practical step in international organization. The difficulty was to find the practical basis. After his first editorial approving certain principles of a League, a member of The Star staff discussed the matter with him late in December at the Roosevelt Hospital. The suggestion was made that in a contribution he might point out certain things which a loosely organized League might accomplish. He replied that he could see so little that it might accomplish, in comparison with the rosy pictures that had been painted of its possibilities, that he hesitated to write on that line.

“In the course of correspondence, he wrote under date of December 28th, 1918: ‘In substance, or as our friends the diplomats say, in number, I am in hearty accord with you.... But remember that you are freer to write unsigned editorials than I am when I use my signature. If you propose a little more than can be carried out, no harm comes, but if I do so, it may hamper me for years. However, I will do my best to write you such an article as you suggest and then, probably, one on what I regard as infinitely more important, viz., our business to prepare for our own self-defense.’ A few days later, almost on the eve of his death, he wrote the following article printed in The Star on January 13th. It was dictated at his home in Oyster Bay on January 3rd, the Friday before his death, and his secretary expected to take the typed copy to him for correction the following Monday, the very Monday of his death. The following then, his final article, represents his matured judgment based on protracted discussion and correspondence. It is of peculiar importance as the last message of a man who, above every other American of his generation, combined high patriotism, practical sense and a positive genius for international relations.”

By Theodore Roosevelt

“It is, of course, a serious misfortune that our people are not getting a clear idea of what is happening on the other side. For the moment, the point as to which we are foggy is the League of Nations. We all of us earnestly desire such a league, only we wish to be sure that it will help and not hinder the cause of world peace and justice. There is not a young man in this country who has fought, or an old man who has seen those dear to him fight, who does not wish to minimize the chance of future war. But there is not a man of sense who does not know that in any such movement if too much is attempted the result is either failure or worse than failure.

* * * * *

“Would it not be well to begin with the league which we actually have in existence, the league of the Allies who have fought through this great war? Let us at the peace table see that real justice is done as among these Allies, and that while the sternest reparation is demanded from our foes for such horrors as those committed in Belgium, northern France, Armenia, and the sinking of the Lusitania, nothing should be done in the spirit of mere vengeance. Then let us agree to extend the privileges of the league as rapidly as their conduct warrants it to other nations, doubtless discriminating between those who would have a guiding part in the league and the weak nations who would be entitled to the privileges of membership, but who would not be entitled to a guiding voice in the councils. Let each nation reserve to itself and for its own decision, and let it clearly set forth questions which are non-justiciable. Let nothing be done that will interfere with our preparing for our own defense by introducing a system of universal obligatory military training modelled on the Swiss plan.

“Finally make it perfectly clear that we do not intend to take a position of an international Meddlesome Matty. The American people do not wish to go into an overseas war unless for a very great cause and where the issue is absolutely plain. Therefore, we do not wish to undertake the responsibility of sending our gallant young men to die in obscure fights in the Balkans or in Central Europe, or in a war we do not approve of. Moreover, the American people do not intend to give up the Monroe Doctrine. Let civilized Europe and Asia enforce some kind of police system in the weak and disorderly countries at their thresholds. But let the United States treat Mexico as our Balkan peninsula and refuse to allow European or Asiatic powers to interfere on this continent in any way that implies permanent or semi-permanent possession. Every one of our Allies will with delight grant this request if President Wilson chooses to make it, and it will be a great misfortune if it is not made.

“I believe that such an effort made moderately and sanely but sincerely and with utter scorn for words that are not made good by deeds, will be productive of real and lasting international good.”

No one has the right to declare what Theodore Roosevelt would or would not have done or said in connection with international problems as they arose, after his death, but every one has the right to quote his own words, written under his own signature, and no words could be stronger than those in which he made his plea for America First and for sound nationalism. But I have voluntarily gone far afield from my actual narrative.

Events continued to move with astounding rapidity in that autumn of 1918. My heart, like the heart of many another mother, was wrung by the news of the terrible fighting in the Argonne Forest, and again wrung by alternate hopes and fears as the October days drew to a close. On the 27th day of October my brother celebrated his sixtieth birthday under the quiet portal of his beloved home. As usual, I had sent to him my yearly message, in which I always told him what that day meant to me—the day when into this world, this confused, strange world that we human beings find so difficult to understand, there came his clarifying spirit, his magnetic personality, his great heart, ready always to help the weak and lift the unfortunate who were trying to lift themselves. I used to tell him that as long as he lived, no matter what my own personal sorrows were, life would retain not only happiness but also glamour for me.

In answer to my birthday letter, an answer written on his very birthday in his own handwriting, he sends me the following message. Intimate as it is, I give it in full, for in these few short lines there seems to breathe the whole spirit of my brother—the unswerving affection, the immediate response to my affection, and the wish to encourage me to face sorrows that were hard to bear by reminding me of the rare joys which I had also tasted. The manner in which he joined his own sorrows and joys to mine, the sweet compliment of the words which infer that for him I still had youthfulness, and at the end the type of humor which brought always a savor into his own life and into the lives of those whom he closely touched, all were part of that spirit.

Sagamore Hill, October 27, 1918.

Darling Pussie:—

It was dear of you to remember my birthday. Darling, after all, you and I have known long years of happiness, and you are as young as I am old.

Ever yours,
Methusaleh’s Understudy.