verse of the prophet Micah: "To do justly and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God'; that, to me, is the essence of religion." And such it was, in his cool, calm moods. But in September, 1918, evidently amid the pangs of his heart over the death of his son Quentin, he wrote "The Great Adventure." And I know few pieces of writing, in the English tongue, which are loftier than this. There is in it the same intense white-heat of passion which we find in James Russell Lowell's "Commemoration Ode." It almost clothes itself in a garment of rhyme and rhythm.

"Only those are fit to live who do not fear to die. . . . Both life and death are parts of the same Great Adventure. Never yet was worthy adventure worthily carried through by the man who put his personal safety first. Never yet was a country worth living in unless its sons and daughters would die for it at need. ... In America all our people are summoned to service and sacrifice. All who give service or stand ready for sacrifice are the torch-bearers. We run, with the torches until we fall, content if we can then pass them to the hands of other runners. The torches whose flame is brightest are borne by the gallant men at the front, and by the gallant women whose husbands and lovers, whose sons and brothers, are at the front. These men are high of soul, as they

face their fate on the shell-shattered earth, or in the skies above, or in the waters beneath. And no less high of soul are the women with torn hearts and shining eyes, the girls whose boy-lovers have been struck down in their golden morning, and the mothers 'and wives to whom word has been brought that henceforth they must walk in the shadow. These are the torch-bearers. These are they who have dared the Great Adventure."

This is poetry of a high order. Lacking rigid conventional poetic form, it yet thrills with that exaltation of soul which marks the lines of the real poets. Indeed, what else is it but the mystical Faith of the great Apostle to the Gentiles?

The days and the months passed, the armies in Europe were close to the verge of exhaustion, but millions of fresh young warriors were hurrying to reach the battle line. And Germany sought an armistice, which was granted. And the greatest war of all human history practically was over.

Through it all Roosevelt had expended his energy bounteously, in all channels that were still open to him, the channel which he had most eagerly sought having been closed to him by the autocrat of the White House. He had not sulked in his tent, like Greek Achilles, bitter with disappointment. But after his rebuff by Wilson he strove indefatigably for human rights and national honor.

And, by his own pure, high spirit, as well as by contrast with selfish, sordid Wilson, he grew in popular favor rapidly, day by day. And had he lived, he would have been the successful presidential candidate of the whole American nation in 1920. From the crest of the wave-as he expressed it, in 1910- he had sunk into the hollow of the wave in 1912 and 1913. Then, with the greatest crisis of the world imminent, our greatest leader was summoned from the wave-hollow; and men who had voted for Wilson, men who had hurled harsh epithets at the Progressive Leader, now as one man looked toward him, admired him, praised him and almost worshiped him. The tide of popular favor, at full in 1910, ebbed to its lowest point in 1913. Then, in 1916, it began to rise; and it rose steadily until the day of our illustrious hero's death.

That death came on January 6, 1919, at his dearly loved home at Oyster Bay. He had spent some time at the Roosevelt Hospital a short time before, and, after seeming to be dangerously and hopelessly sick, had revived and had gone to Sagamore Hill. His faithful secretary, Miss Josephine Stricker, attended him closely during those days in the hospital. She has described to me some of the conditions and incidents of that illness. Two qualities in him came out into bold relief, she told

me.

One was his desire to cause as little trouble to doctors and nurses as possible. Even when stricken with discomfort and pain, he was unselfish, and often expressed sympathy for those who cared for him.

His other characteristic quality, which Miss Stricker set before me, was his insistence that the frequent bulletins which she prepared and gave out should express the exact facts of his case. Once or twice the doctors were inclined to modify or suppress some of the severest statements. For they knew that those bulletins were being telegraphed and cabled over the whole civilized world. And they did not like to arouse too much public excitement. When Roosevelt learned this, he protested; he insisted that the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth should go into those bulletins. And his wishes were heeded.

It is a custom among Harvard graduate-classes, when a member of the class dies, for the Class Secretary to send a notice of the death, with a few salient facts, to every other living member of the class. When Roosevelt's death came, on January 6, 1919, at Oyster Bay, our Class Secretary, John Woodbury, sent out the usual notice; but, instead of giving the customary facts about our classmate's career, he sent to us this citation from Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress":

"After this it was noised abroad that Valiant for Truth was taken with a summons, and had this for a token that the summons was true, that his pitcher was broken at the fountain. When he understood it, he called for his friends and told them of it. Then said he, 'I am going to my Father's. And though with great difficulty I have got hither, yet now I do not repent me of all my trouble. My sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him that can attain it. My marks and scars I carry with me, to be a witness for me, that I have fought His battles, who will be my rewarder.'

Thus came to Theodore Roosevelt the end of the earthly life. Our nation and the whole world felt a pang as the sad news went forth. From the lips and pens of longtime friends and even former foes-poured tributes of praise for this remarkable human being. For all felt, as they made full survey, standing amid the shadows, of Theodore Roosevelt's earnest, noble life, that he had proved himself a true man, a high, fine ideal of American citizenship.

For myself, although deeply mourning his death, and wondering at his inexhaustible courage and his unbroken fortitude, I am assured that his life was