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CHAPTER XXV

HIS DEATH

T is likely that if Theodore Roosevelt could have had his choice about the manner of his departure from this world he would have selected a place on the battlefield in France, counting it a privilege to die for his country, but Providence planned it otherwise. He died in his own home at Sagamore Hill early on the morning of Monday, January 6, 1919. He had had such a pleasant Sunday evening doing some literary work, with Mrs. Roosevelt by his side as they sat before the blazing logs in the fireplace, and he went upstairs to his room to have a good night's rest. James Amos, who had been a faithful colored servant in Washington and had been recently engaged at Sagamore Hill, sat at the foot of his bed. He said to the man, "Please turn out the light, James, I want to go to sleep." James turned out the light and he went to sleep and never awoke. Mrs. Roosevelt bade him good-night just before midnight and slipped into his room again at two o'clock in the morning and found that everything was well; but about four o'clock Amos noticed that Mr. Roosevelt was somewhat restless and breathing rather heavily. He turned on the light, went to his side and

touched him and found he was dead and notified Mrs. Roosevelt and a nurse who had been attending him for his rheumatism. He was lying on his side with his arms folded in a sweet sleep with the most peaceful expression. The great and beautiful spirit had left its expression in the clay after it had flown.

About a year ago he went to Roosevelt Hospital with trouble in his ear. They operated upon him two or three times, the last one leaving him very weak and disabled. He went back home and after a short rest went out through different parts of the country making speeches to stir up a more vigorous prosecution of the war. In the early winter he was taken down with what was called inflammatory rheumatism; his limb and arm swelled to almost twice their normal size and he suffered inexpressible anguish. He paid no attention to either the pain or the disability, but went on writing his editorials and sending out his messages to the people as though nothing in the world was the matter with him. They brought him back from the hospital on Christmas day, and he was able to walk a little with Mrs. Roosevelt about the grounds. He was unable to take the strenuous kind of exercise to which he had been accustomed. He had had the African fever twice during his hunting trip. In the Brazilian swamps he almost perished with the fever, from which he never recovered, and added to all this was the death of his son, which helped to break him down and, poisoned through and through, a clot of blood lodged in his lungs early that morning and stopped his breathing.

Relatives were summoned, and the sad news was sent out to the world with special cables to the boys in Europe. That Monday afternoon three aeroplanes flew over the home on Sagamore Hill and each

dropped a wreath of laurel close to the elm tree. They were in memory of the father and also of the son, their comrade and hero.

At noon on Wednesday a brief funeral service was held in the trophy room at Sagamore Hill, attended by the family and a few most intimate friends, and then the body was taken to Christ's Episcopal church in Oyster Bay. It was possibly the simplest funeral service ever held for a distinguished man. There was no firing of guns, beating of drums, blowing of bugles or bands of any kind; there were no honorary pall bearers nor distinguished ushers. New York City policemen, each over six feet high, rode on horseback upon either side of the auto hearse to the church, and other giant policemen from the metropolis kept guard about the building. Some of the most distinguished men of the nation were present, the Vice-president, senators, congressmen, governors of States, representatives of foreign nations and others. The church was small, holding only about four or five hundred, and perhaps five thousand others stood out in the snow around the church. Although there had been a request that no flowers be sent to the church, the chancel was covered with blossoms of exquisite beauty and sweet perfume. One of these was a wreath of pink and white carnations in accordance with a message from President Wilson in France. One wreath had a white ribbon which had United States Senate in letters of gold. A floral emblem, made of heather, pink roses and blue violets, was sent by a Japanese organization. The American Historical Association of Washington sent lilies, the Republican National Committee orchids, violets and peach blossoms. The American Academy of Arts and Letters, the Boone and Crockett Club, the American Defence Society, Campfire Club of Amer

ica, the National Institution of Arts and Letters, and other organizations beside numerous individuals sent floral pieces. The coffin was wrapped in the American flag and upon it rested a wreath and two banners, one the Regimental Standard of the Rough Riders and the other the National Standard of the Rough Riders. The wreath was a bronze laurel and acacia, the yellow being the cavalry color. This was from the Rough Riders, a delegation of which was present at the funeral.

At the front of the church the coffin of the world's hero preached an eloquent sermon; on the rear wall of the church there were two sheets of foolscap paper under glass which also preached eloquently. They had written upon them with pen and ink the names of ninety-eight members of the parish who had entered their country's service, the first four names being Roosevelts and the one name of the whole list distinguished by a gold star being that of Quentin Roosevelt. The rector, Rev. G. E. Talmage, D.D., a dear friend of Colonel Roosevelt, read the beautiful service of the Protestant Episcopal church. At the request of Mrs. Roosevelt he read the Colonel's favorite hymn, "How Firm a Foundation." After the service, which was short, the body was borne to Young's Memorial Cemetery, two-thirds of the way from the village to Sagamore Hill and on the same road. It is the nearest burying place to Sagamore Hill. It was the site Mr. Roosevelt had picked out for his last resting place. The grave is at the top of a steep hill. It is a beautiful spot indeed, simple in the highest degree. There is no sign of art or display, only the oaks and locust trees, and the cedars, and the forest just over the country fence and the beautiful bay in full view near by, and the rabbits