The greatest moment of all that inspiring period of his life came late in October, at the end of the campaign, when Theodore Roosevelt, the bullet still in his breast, but miraculously restored to health and strength, came to the city of his birth to make the final speech of the Progressive campaign at Madison Square Garden. Not only was the spirit of the Crusade higher than ever, but the danger so lately experienced by their leader had given to his followers an exaltation never surpassed at any time in our political history. I have always been glad that for some unexplained reason the pass which had been given to me that night for my motor was not accepted by the policeman in charge, and I, my husband, my son Monroe, and our friend Mrs. Parsons were obliged to take our places in the cheering, laughing, singing crowd which formed in line many blocks below the Garden to walk up to the entrance-door. How it swayed and swung! how it throbbed with life and elation! how imbued it was with an earnest party ambition, and yet, with a deep and genuine religious fervor. Had I lived my whole life only for those fifteen minutes during which I marched toward the Garden already full to overflowing with my brother’s adoring followers, I should have been content to do so. We could hardly get into the building, and indeed had to climb up the fire-escape, which we were only allowed to do after making it well known that I was the sister of the “Colonel.” (There never was but one “Colonel” in American history!) The whole meeting was one of an ineffable and intense emotional quality. We could hear the singing and the cheers of the thousands outside on the street, as inside my brother came forward to the platform, and the vast audience rose to its feet to acclaim its hero. Such moments do not often occur in a lifetime, and when they do, they leave in their wake a wonderful sense of what the highest type of religion should mean--a religion selfless as the Christlike faith upon which all true religion is founded. A few days later, Woodrow Wilson, the Democratic though minority candidate, was elected President of the United States. XV WHISPERINGS OF WAR SAGAMORE HILL He is a moose, Scarred, battered from the hunters, thickets, stones: Some finest tips of antlers broken off, And eyes where images of ancient things Flit back and forth across them, keeping still A certain slumberous indifference, Or wisdom, it may be. --Edgar Lee Masters. Rightly to be great Is not to stir, without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When Honour’s at the stake. --Hamlet.