tiful island. After having been with them in the old palace for about a week, and having enjoyed beyond measure all the pleasures so graciously arranged for us, Governor Winthrop came to me and told me that he was much distressed at the behavior of a certain official; that he felt sure that the President would not wish the man to remain in office, did he know that he was actually a disgrace to the United States. "Mrs. Robinson," ," he said, "will you not go to the President on your return and tell him that I am quite sure he would not wish to retain this man in office? I know the President likes us to work with the tools which have been given us, and I dislike beyond measure to seem not to be able to do so, but I am convinced that this is no man to represent the United States in this island." "Have you your proofs of his inefficiency, Beekman?" I asked. "I should not be willing to approach my brother with any such criticism without accurate proofs.' "I most assuredly have them," he answered, and sure enough he did have them, and I shortly afterward sailed with them back to New York.

Immediately upon my arrival I telegraphed my brother as follows: "Would like to see you on Porto Rican business. When shall I come?" One of Theodore Roosevelt's most striking characteristics was the rapidity with which he answered letters or telegrams. One literally felt that one had not posted a letter or sent the telegram rushing along the wire before the rapid answer came winging back again, and the answer to this telegram was no exception to the rule. I rather hoped for a week in which to get settled after my trip to Porto Rico, but not so. The rapidfire answer read as follows: "Come tomorrow." Of course there was nothing for me to do but go "to-morrow." It was late in April, and as I drove up to the White House from the station I thought how lovely a city was Washington in the springtime. The yellow forsythias gave a golden glow to the squares, and the white and hanging petals of the fringe trees waved in the soft air. I never drove under the White House portecochère without a romantic feeling of excitement at the realization that it was my brother, lover of America, lover of Lincoln, who lived under that roof which

symbolized all that America meant. As I went up the White House steps he blew out of the door, dressed for his ride on horseback. His horse and that of a companion were waiting for him. He came smilingly toward me, welcomed me, and said, "Edie has had to go to Philadelphia for the night to visit a cousin, so we are all alone," and then he continued: “I have ordered dinner out on the back porch, for it is so warm and lovely and there is a full moon, and I thought we could be so quiet there. I have so much to tell you. All sorts of political things have happened during your absence, and besides that I have learned several new poems of Kipling and Swinburne, and I feel like reciting them to you in the moonlight." "How perfectly lovely!" I replied, "and when shall I see you about Porto Rico?" A slight frown came over his face and he said fiercely: "Certainly not to-night. You have your appointment at nine o'clock to-morrow morning in the office to discuss business matters." Then with a returning smile: "I will be back pretty soon. Good-by." And he jumped on his horse and clattered away toward Rock Creek.

It all came true, although it almost seemed like a fairy-tale. We had that lovely dinner on the portico at the back of the White House looking toward the Washington Monument-that portico which was so beautifully reproduced by Sargent's able (brush for Mrs. Roosevelt later-and under the great, soft moon, with the scent of shrub and flower in the air, he recited Kipling and Swinburne, and then, breaking into more serious happenings, gave me a vivid description of some difficulty he had had with Congress, the members of which had refused to receive a certain message which he had sent them, and during the interval between the sending of it and their final decision to receive it how he had shut himself up in his library, glad for a moment of unexpected leisure, and had written an essay which he had long desired to write on the Irish sagas!

The moon had waned and the stars were brighter and deeper before we left the portico. We never could go to bed when we were together, and I am so glad that we never did!

The next morning I knocked at his door

at eight, to go down to the early breakfast with the children, which was one of the features, quite as much as were the brilliant lunches, of home life in the White House. He came out of his dressing-room radiant and smiling, ready for the day's work, looking as if he had had eight hours of sleep instead of five, and rippling over with the laughter which he always infused into those family breakfasts. As we passed the table at the head of the staircase, at which later in the day my sisterin-law's secretary wrote her letters, the telephone-bell on the table rang, and with spontaneous simplicity-not ringing a bell for a menial to answer the telephone-call -he picked up the receiver himself as he passed by. His face assumed a listening look, and then a broad smile broke over his features. "No," he said. "No, I am not Archie, I am Archie's father." A minute passed and he laughed aloud and then said: "All right, I will tell him; I won't forget." Hanging up the receiver he turned to me half-sheepishly but very much amused. "That's a good joke on any President," he said. "You may have realized that there was a little boy on the other end of that wire, and he started the conversation by saying, 'Is that you, Archie?' and I replied, 'No, it is Archie's father.' Whereupon he answered with evident disgust: 'Well, you'll do. Be sure and tell Archie to come to supper. Don't forget.' 'How the creatures order one about!' he quoted from our favorite volume, "Alice in Wonderland," and proceeded to run at full speed down to the breakfast-room. There the children greeted us vociferously, and the usual jolly meal ensued. For that half-hour he always belonged to the children. Questions and answers about their school life, their occupations outside of school, etc., etc., followed in rapid succession, interspersed with various fascinating tales told by him for their special edification.

was his most vigorous moment of the day, that hour from 8.30 to 9. He had not yet met the puzzling defeats and compromises necessitated by the conflicting interests that surrounded him, and he was fresh and vivid, interested in the problems that were to be brought to him for solution that day, and observant of everything around him. I remember that morning as we walked around the circle he was discussing a very serious problem that had to be decided within a few hours, and he held his forefinger straight up and said: "You know my temperament always wants to get there" [putting his other forefinger on the apex of the first]. "I naturally wish to reach the goal of my desire, but would I not be very blind and stupid if, because I couldn't get there, I decided to stay here [changing his right forefinger to the base of the left] rather than get here"-finishing his simile by placing the right finger to the third notch of the finger on his other hand.

Just as he was finishing this sentence his eye caught sight of a tiny object on the pathway, so minute a little brown spot that I should never have noticed it; but he stooped, picked up the small object, and held it between his forefinger and thumb, looking at it eagerly, and then muttering somewhat below his breath: "Very early for a fox-sparrow." He threw the tiny piece of fluff again upon the path. "How do you know that that was a feather from a fox-sparrow, Theodore?" I said in my usual astonishment at his extraordinary observation and information. "I can understand how you might know it was a sparrow, but how know it belonged to the fox-sparrow rather than to any of the other innumerable little creatures of that species?" He was almost deprecatory in his manner as he said in reply: "Well, you see I have really made a great study of sparrows.' And then we were back at the entrance to the White House, and in a moment I leaned out of the dining-room window and watched him walk across the short space between that window and the office, his head thrown back, his shoulders squared to meet the difficulties of the day, and every bit of him alive, alert, and glowing with health and strength and power and mentality.

I myself went up-stairs, put on my

"best bib and tucker," and proceeded to go around the other way to the front door of the offices. As I rang the bell the dear old man who always opened the door greeted me warmly and said: "Yes, Mrs. Douglas Robinson, your appointment is at nine. You are just on time." I went into the outer hall, where a number of the appointees of 9.15, 9.30, etc., were already waiting, to be on hand for their appointments, and in a moment or two Mr. Loeb opened the door of the private office of the President and came out into the hall and said in a rather impersonal way, "Mrs. Douglas Robinson's appointment," and I was shown into the room. My brother was seated at a large table, and on it was every imaginable paper marked "Porto Rico." As I entered he was still reading one of these papers. Looking up, I almost felt a shock as I met what seemed to be a pair of perfectly opaque blue eyes. I could hardly believe they were the eyes of the brother with whom I had so lately parted, the eyes that had glistened as he recited the great poems of Kipling and Swinburne, the eyes that had almost closed to see better the tiny breast fluff of the fox-sparrow. These were rather cold eyes, the eyes of a just judge, eyes that were turned upon his sister as they would have been turned upon any other individual who came to him in connection with a cause to which he must give his most careful attention. He waved me to a chair, finished the paper he was reading, and then, turning to me, his eyes still stern and opaque, he said: "I believe you have come to see me on business connected with Porto Rico. Kindly be as condensed as possible." I decided to meet him on his own ground, and made my eyes as much like his as possible, and was as condensed as possible. Having listened carefully to my short story, he said: "Have you proof of this?"—still rather sternly. Again I decided to answer him with much of his own manner. So I replied: "I should not be here, wasting your time or mine, did I not have adequate proof." With that I handed him the notes made by the governor of Porto Rico, and proceeded to explain them. He became a little less severe after reading them but no less serious, and turning to me more gently, said: "This is a very serious matter. I

have got to be sure of the correctness of these statements. A man's whole future hangs upon my decision." For a moment I felt like an executioner, but realizing as I did the shocking and disgraceful behavior of the official in question, I knew that no sentimentality on my part should be allowed to interfere with the important decision to be made, and I briefly backed up all that the governor had written. I can still hear the sound of the President's pen as he took out the paper on which the man's name was inscribed, and with one strong stroke effaced that name from official connection with Porto Rico forever. That was the way that Theodore Roosevelt did business with his sister.

That same year, 1905, the old Provençal poet Frédéric Mistral sent him his poem called "Mireille," and in acknowledging the book my brother seems to me to express more than in almost any other letter the spirit which permeated his whole life. I close this chapter with this letter, feeling that it shows indisputably that though he had reached the apex of his desires, that though he was now a great President by the free choice of the people of a great country-perhaps the most powerful ruler at the moment of any country-his ideals for that country, just as his ideals for himself and for his own beloved home life, were what they had always been before the sceptre of a ruler had been clasped in his outstretched hand:

"White House, Washington,
December 15, 1904.

MY DEAR M. MISTRAL:

"Mrs. Roosevelt and I were equally pleased with the book and the medal, and none the less because for nearly twenty years we have possessed a copy of Mireille. That copy we shall keep for old association's sake; though this new copy with the personal inscription by you must hereafter occupy the place of honour.

"All success to you and your associates! You are teaching the lesson that none need more to learn than we of the West, we of the eager, restless, wealthseeking nation; the lesson that after a certain not very high level of material well-being has been reached, then the things that really count in life are the things of the spirit. Factories and railways are good up to a certain point, but

THIRD kind of psychology goldbrick is character analysis. The forms which it has taken have been so numerous that discussion will be limited to character analysis through the study of physiognomy and phrenology.

Surprisingly enough, the sponsors of these schemes have left untouched the only workable approach-inferring traits of character from actions and from the traces left as results of actions. Consequently, any method of reading character from structural peculiarities is opposed by orthodox psychology.

For instance, we are quite justified in saying that one who is sunburned has been out of doors; that the one who has an upward tilt at the corners of the mouth has either inherited a family peculiarity or has developed that expression through his habit of smiling. This method of approach through actions and through their results is entirely justifiable and may be used with comparative safety. On the other hand, the endeavor to diagnose mental peculiarities as a result of structural

*See "The Mythology and Science of Character Analysis," by the same author in SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE for May.

signs, i. e., shape of the nose, size of the mouth, etc., has been attended by negligible success.

The hybrid mixture of phrenology and physiognomy appeared very early, an unverified statement places the earliest reference to them in a recently discovered Egyptian papyrus, which dates back to 2000 B. C. Early authentic instances are likewise contained in the Bible apropos of Gideon and his fight against the Midianites, and also in Homer, who is supposed to have written about 800 B. C. The following quotation from the "Iliad," as well as the story of Gideon, show, however, that the earliest examples are based definitely upon the activities of the individual rather than upon his static physical structures.

"For if a coward, his color keeps changing, nor does his spirit restrain him to sit quietly, but he shifts his knees and crouches upon both his feet, and in his breast his heart beats loudly, as he thinks on his doom, and there is a chatter of his teeth; but in the brave man the color changes not, nor is he sorely afraid, when once he sits down in an ambush of heroes, but he prays right quickly to win in the dread struggle."

Here the functional, rather than structural phase of physiognomy is obvious. Socrates and Aristotle, living in the