Jacob A. Riis (1849–1914). Theodore Roosevelt, the Citizen. 1904.
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papers brought against him. It published one of his letters in facsimile and asked scornfully if this man could pass an examination in penmanship for the desk of a third-rate clerk in his own office; yet he sat in judgment on the handwriting of aspirants. Now, I have always thought Mr. Roosevelt’s handwriting fine. It is n’t ornate. Indeed, it might be called very plain, extra plain, if you like. But his character is all over it: a child could read it. There can never be any doubt as to what he means, and that, it seems to me, is what you want of a man’s writing. Here is a line of it now which I quoted before, still lying on my table. Squeezed in between lines of typewriting it is not a fair sample, but take it as it is: I haven’t heard a word about it from my superior officers, who have the complete say-so. |
| However, Roosevelt made no bones about it. He owned up that he could n’t pass for a clerk-ship, which was well, he said, for he would have made but a poor clerk, while he thought he |