The congressman said: “I am a poor man, but cannot understand how anybody can refuse to be member of the Cabinet of the President of the United States. If such an offer was made to me, and the conditions of our overruling Providence were that I and my family should live in want and poverty for the rest of our lives, I would accept without hesitation.”
I had met Benjamin Harrison as we passed through Indianapolis on business during the canvass, for the first time. I was much impressed with him, but his austerity appeared to those who called upon him while present upon official business. I found him one of the most genial and agreeable of men, and this impression was intensified when I met him at the White House. At his own table and family dinners he was one of the most charming of hosts. He had, unfortunately, a repellent manner and a harsh voice. In meeting those who came to him for official favors this made him one of the most unpopular presidents with senators and members of the House of Representatives.
On the platform as a public speaker he had few equals. He was most lucid and convincing, and had what few orators possess, which was of special use to him in campaigning and touring the country as president, the ability to make a fresh speech every day and each a good one. It was a talent of presenting questions from many angles, each of which illuminated his subject and captivated his audience. It was said of him by a senator who was his friend, and the remark is quoted by Senator Hoar, that if he spoke to an audience of ten thousand people, he would make every one of them his friend, but if he were introduced to each of them afterwards, each would depart his enemy. I think that his manner, which was so unfortunate, came from the fact that his career had been one of battle, from his early struggles to his triumphant success.
A short time before the national convention met in 1892 Senator Frank Hiscock came to me and said that President Harrison had requested him to ask me to lead his forces on the floor in the convention. I said to him that I was a loyal organization man and did not want to quarrel with our leader, Senator Platt. Then he told me that he had seen Platt, who remarked that no one could help Harrison, and that I would conduct the campaign in better spirit than any one, and so he had no objection to my accepting the position. There was one obstacle which I wished removed. I was devoted to Mr. Blaine and not only was one of his political supporters but very fond of him personally. Mr. Blaine happened to be in the city, and I immediately called upon him. His health was then very bad.
“Mr. Blaine,” I said to him, “if you are a candidate, you know I will support you with the greatest of pleasure, but if not, then I will accept the invitation of the president.”
Mr. Blaine was most cordial. He said that he had no objections whatever to my taking the commission, but he doubted if the president could be renominated, and that he could not be re-elected if nominated. Harrison had made an excellent president, but his manner of treating people who came to him had filled the country with bitter and powerful enemies, while his friends were very few.
Then he mentioned several other possible candidates, but evidently doubted the success of the Republican party in the election. In regard to himself he said: “If I should accept the nomination I could not endure the labors of the canvass and its excitements. It would kill me.” That diagnosis of his condition was correct and was demonstrated by the fact that he died soon after the election, but long before he could be inaugurated if elected.
All organization leaders of the party were united against the nomination of President Harrison. The leaders were Platt, Quay, and Clarkson, who was also chairman of the national committee. They were the greatest masters of organization and of its management we ever had in politics, especially Platt and Quay. Their methods were always secret, so I decided that the only hope of success for President Harrison was in the greatest publicity.
The position I had accepted soon became known, and I began to give the fullest interviews, each one an argument for the renomination of the president. I went to Chicago a few days in advance of the convention, was met there by correspondents of the press, some fifty of them, and gave them a talk in a body, which made a broadside in the morning papers, each correspondent treating it in his own way, as his own individual interview.
This statement or, rather, argument, was intended to be read and succeeded in being so by the delegates from everywhere who were on their way to the convention and had to pass through Chicago. The convention was held in Minneapolis. I received from that city an invitation to address a gathering of New Yorkers who had settled in the West to speak before two patriotic audiences, and to make the address at the dedication of the great hall where the convention was to meet.
It was evident that before these engagements had been concluded, every delegate would have attended some of these meetings, and, therefore, with the relationship between a speaker and his audience, I would be practically the only man in the convention who was personally known to every member. This relationship was an enormous benefit in conducting the canvass.
The great organization leaders were difficult of access and carried on their campaign through trusted members of each State delegation. My rooms were wide open for everybody. On account of the conflicting statements made by members of the State delegations, it was very difficult to make an accurate and detailed list of those who were for the president, and those who were for Mr. Blaine. It occurred to me that it would help to call a meeting of the Harrison delegates. Many thought it was hazardous, as it might develop a majority the other way.
The meeting was attended, however, by every delegate, those opposed coming out of curiosity. Taking the chair, I asked some member of each delegation to arise and state how many votes he believed could be relied upon from his State. Of course the statement of each delegate was often loudly challenged by others from his State who were present. When the result was announced it showed a majority of three for General Harrison. A veteran campaigner begged me to announce it as fifty, but I refused. “No,” I said, “the closeness of the vote when there is every opportunity for manipulation would carry conviction.”
An old gentleman who stood beside me had a gold-headed ebony cane. I seized it and rapped it on the table with such force that it broke in two and announced that the figures showed absolute certainty of President Harrison’s renomination. I doubt if there was a reliable majority, but the announcement of this result brought enough of those always anxious to get on the band-wagon to make it certain.
Soon after arriving home I received a letter from the owner of the cane. He wrote: “I was very angry when you broke my cane. It was a valued birthday present from my children. It is now in a glass case in my library, and on the case is this label: ‘This cane nominated a president of the United States.'”
Mr. McKinley, then Governor of Ohio, presided at the convention. I stood close beside him when I made my speech for Harrison’s renomination. While thoroughly prepared, the speech was in a way extemporaneous to meet calls or objections. In the midst of a sentence McKinley said to me in a loud voice: “You are making a remarkably fine speech.” The remark threw me off my balance as an opposition would never have done. I lost the continuity and came near breaking down, but happily the applause gave me time to get again upon the track.
Among my colleagues in the New York delegation was James W. Husted. General Husted was very ill and unable to leave his room during the convention. He sent for me one morning and said: “I have just had a call from Governor McKinley. He says that you have the power to nominate him, and that Harrison cannot be nominated. If you will direct the Harrison forces for him, he will be the next president.”
I told Husted I was enlisted for the war and, while having a great admiration for McKinley, it was impossible.
Soon after arriving home I received an invitation from the president to visit him at Washington. I took the night train, arriving there in the morning. My appointment was to lunch with him.
During the morning Stephen B. Elkins, then secretary of war, called and asked me to take a walk. While we were walking he told me that the president was going to offer me the secretaryship of state, in succession to Mr. Blaine, and that I ought to accept. He then led me to the State Department and pointed to the portraits on the walls of the different secretaries, commencing with Thomas Jefferson. Elkins said that to be in that list was a greater distinction than to be on the walls of the White House, because these men are of far greater eminence.
After luncheon the president invited me into the Blue Room, and with a great deal of emotion said: “You are the only man who has ever unselfishly befriended me. It was largely through your efforts that I became president, and I am greatly indebted to you for my renomination. I have tried my best to show my appreciation by asking you into my Cabinet and otherwise, but you have refused everything I have heretofore offered. I now want to give you the best I have, which is secretary of state. It is broken bread, because if I am not re-elected it will be only till the 4th of March, but if I am re-elected it will be for four years more. I personally want you in my Cabinet.”
I told the president it was impossible for me to accept; that even if I resigned my presidency of the railroad, coming directly from that position would bring the railroad question, which was very acute, into the canvass. He said he did not think there was anything in that, but I realized that if he was defeated his defeat would be charged to having made that mistake.
He then said: “Well, how about it if I am re-elected?” I told him that I would regard the appointment the greatest of honors, and the associations the most pleasurable of a lifetime.
“Very well,” he said; “I will appoint Mr. John W. Foster, who has been doing excellent service for the State Department, until next 4th of March, and you can prepare to come here upon that date.”
The most painful thing that was connected with the canvass at Minneapolis before the convention was the appearance of Mr. Blaine as a candidate. He had resigned from the Cabinet and yielded to the pressure of his friends to become a candidate.
Notwithstanding my interview and what he had said, he sent no word whatever to me, and personally I had no information and no notification that his candidacy was authorized by himself. What gave, however, much authority to the statement that he would accept the nomination was the appearance of his son, Emmons, among those who were endeavoring to bring it about.
There has never been a statesman in our public life, except Henry Clay, who had such devoted friends as Mr. Blaine. While Henry Clay never reached the presidency and was fairly defeated in his attempt, there is no doubt that Mr. Blaine was elected in 1884, and that notwithstanding the Burchard misfortune, he would still have been a victor except for transparent frauds in New York.
General Harrison was by far the ablest and profoundest lawyer among our presidents. None of them equalled him as an orator. His State papers were of a very high order. When history sums up the men who have held the great place of president of the United States, General Harrison will be among the foremost.
He retired from office, like many of our presidents, a comparatively poor man. After retirement he entered at once upon the practice of his profession of the law and almost immediately became recognized as one of the leaders of the American bar.
XII. JAMES G. BLAINE
I have spoken in every national canvass, beginning with 1856. It has been an interesting experience to be on the same platform as an associate speaker with nearly every man in the country who had a national reputation. Most of them had but one speech, which was very long, elaborately prepared, and so divided into sections, each complete in itself, that the orator was equipped for an address of any length, from fifteen minutes to four hours, by selection or consolidation of these sections. Few of them would trust themselves to extemporaneous speaking. The most versatile and capable of those who could was James G. Blaine. He was always ready, courted interruptions, and was brilliantly effective. In a few sentences he had captured his audience and held them enthralled. No public man in our country, except, perhaps, Henry Clay, had such devoted following.
Mr. Blaine had another extraordinary gift, which is said to belong only to kings; he never forgot any one. Years after an introduction he would recall where he had first met the stranger and remember his name. This compliment made that man Blaine’s devoted friend for life.
I had an interesting experience of his readiness and versatility when he ran for president in 1884. He asked me to introduce him at the different stations, where he was to deliver long or short addresses. After several of these occasions, he asked: “What’s the next station, Chauncey?” I answered: “Peekskill.” “Well,” he said, “what is there about Peekskill?” “I was born there,” I answered. “Well,” he said, rising, “I always thought that you were born at Poughkeepsie.” “No, Peekskill.” Just then we were running into the station, and, as the train stopped, I stepped forward to introduce him to the great crowd which had gathered there from a radius of fifty miles. He pushed me back in a very dramatic way, and shouted: “Fellow citizens, allow me to make the introduction here. As I have many times in the last quarter of a century travelled up and down your beautiful Hudson River, with its majestic scenery made famous by the genius of Washington Irving, and upon the floating palaces not equalled anywhere else in the world, or when the steamer has passed through this picturesque bay and opposite your village, I have had emotions of tenderness and loving memories, greater than those impressed by any other town, because I have said to myself: ‘There is the birthplace of one of my best friends, Chauncey Depew.'”
Local committees who desire to use the candidate to help the party in their neighborhood and also their county tickets are invariably most unreasonable and merciless in their demands upon the time of the candidate. They know perfectly well that he has to speak many times a day; that there is a limit to his strength and to his vocal cords, and yet they will exact from him an effort which would prevent his filling other engagements, if they possibly can. This was notoriousIy the case during Mr. Blaine’s trip through the State of New York and afterwards through the country. The strain upon him was unprecedented, and, very naturally, he at times showed his irritation and some temper.
The local committees would do their best with the railroad company and with Blaine’s managers in New York to prolong his stay and speech at each station. He would be scheduled according to the importance of the place for five, ten, fifteen, twenty, or thirty minutes.
Before we reached Albany he asked me to accompany him to the end of our line at Buffalo, and make the introduction as usual at the stations. The committee would sometimes succeed in changing the programme and make the stays longer at their several places. Mr. Blaine’s arrangement with me was that after he had decided how long he would speak, I should fill up the time, whether it was longer or shorter. That would often enlarge my speech, but I was young and vigorous and had no responsibilities.
I remember one committee, where the train was scheduled for ten minutes, succeed in having it delayed an hour, and instead of a brief address from the platform of the car, carried the presidential party to a stand in the central square where many thousands had gathered. In the first place, this city was not on Mr. Blaine’s schedule, and as it was late in the afternoon, after a fatiguing day, he therefore told the committee peremptorily that ten minutes was his limit. Then he said to me: “Chauncey, you will have to fill out the hour.”
Mr. Blaine’s wonderful magnetism, the impression he made upon every one, and his tactful flattery of local pride, did a great deal to remove the prejudices against him, which were being fomented by a propaganda of a “mugwump” committee in New York. This propaganda, as is usually the case, assailed his personal integrity.
Notwithstanding the predictions made at the time, he was nominated, and it was subsequently repeated that he would not carry New York. From my own experience of many years with the people of the State and from the platform view-point, I felt confident that he would have a majority in the election.
It was a few days before the close of the canvass, when I was in the western part of the State, I received an urgent telegram from Mr. Blaine to join him on the train, which was to leave the Grand Central Station in New York early next morning for his tour of New England. Upon arrival I was met by a messenger, who took me at once to Mr. Blaine’s car, which started a few minutes afterwards.
There was an unusual excitement in the crowd, which was speedily explained. The best account Mr. Blaine gave me himself in saying: “I felt decidedly that everything was well in New York. It was against my judgment to return here. Our national committee, however, found that a large body of Protestant clergymen wanted to meet me and extend their support. They thought this would offset the charges made by the ‘mugwump’ committee. I did not believe that any such recognition was necessary. However, their demands for my return and to meet this body became so importunate that I yielded my own judgment.
“I was engaged in my room with the committee and other visitors when I was summoned to the lobby of the hotel to meet the clergymen. I had prepared no speech, in fact, had not thought up a reply. When their spokesman, Reverend Doctor Burchard, began to address me, my only hope was that he would continue long enough for me to prepare an appropriate response. I had a very definite idea of what he would say and so paid little attention to his speech. In the evening the reporters began rushing in and wanted my opinion of Doctor Burchard’s statement that the main issue of the campaign was ‘Rum, Romanism, and Rebellion.’ If I had heard him utter these words, I would have answered at once, and that would have been effective, but I am still in doubt as to what to say about it now. The situation is very difficult, and almost anything I say is likely to bitterly offend one side or the other. Now I want you to do all the introductions and be beside me to-day as far as possible. I have become doubtful about everybody and you are always sure-footed.” I have treasured that compliment ever since.
As we rode through the streets of New Haven the Democrats had placed men upon the tops of the houses on either side, and they threw out in the air thousands of leaflets, charging Blaine with having assented to the issue which Doctor Burchard had put out– “Rum, Romanism, and Rebellion.” They so filled the air that it seemed a shower, and littered the streets.
A distinguished Catholic prelate said to me: “We had to resent an insult like that, and I estimate that the remark has changed fifty thousand votes.” I know personally of about five thousand which were changed in our State, but still Blaine lost New York and the presidency by a majority against him of only one thousand one hundred and forty-nine votes.
Whenever I visited Washington I always called upon Mr. Blaine. The fascination of the statesman and his wonderful conversational power made every visit an event to be remembered. On one occasion he said to me: “Chauncey, I am in very low spirits to-day. I have read over the first volume of my ‘Twenty Years in Congress,’ which is just going to the printer, and destroyed it. I dictated the whole of it, but I find that accuracy and elegance can only be had at the end of a pen. I shall rewrite the memoirs in ink. In these days composition by the typewriter or through the stenographer is so common.” There will be many who differ with Mr. Blaine.
XIII. WILLIAM McKINLEY
In the canvass of 1896 the Republican organization of the State of New York decided, if possible, to have the national convention nominate Levi P. Morton for president. Mr. Morton won popular favor as vice-president, and the canvass for him looked hopeful. But a new man of extraordinary force and ability came into this campaign, and that man was Mark Hanna, of Ohio. Mr. Hanna was one of the most successful of our business men. He had a rare genius for organization, and possessed resourcefulness, courage, and audacity. He was most practical and at the same time had imagination and vision. While he had taken very little part in public affairs, he had rather suddenly determined to make his devoted friend, William McKinley, president of the United States.
In a little while every State in the Union felt the force of Mr. Hanna’s efforts. He applied to politics the methods by which he had so successfully advanced his large manufacturing interests. McKinley clubs and McKinley local organizations sprang up everywhere under the magic of Hanna’s management. When the convention met it was plain that McKinley’s nomination was assured.
The New York delegation, however, decided to present Morton’s name and submit his candidacy to a vote. I was selected to make a nominating speech. If there is any hope, an orator on such an occasion has inspiration. But if he knows he is beaten he cannot put into his effort the fire necessary to impress an audience. It is not possible to speak with force and effect unless you have faith in your cause.
After Mr. McKinley was nominated I moved that the nomination be made unanimous. The convention called for speech and platform so insistently that their call had to be obeyed. The following is an account from a newspaper of that date of my impromptu speech. The story which is mentioned in the speech was told to me as I was ascending the platform by Senator Proctor of Vermont.
“I am in the happy position now of making a speech for the man who is going to be elected. (Laughter and applause.) It is a great thing for an amateur, when his first nomination has failed, to come in and second the man who has succeeded. New York is here with no bitter feeling and with no disappointment. We recognize that the waves have submerged us, but we have bobbed up serenely. (Loud laughter.) It was a cannon from New York that sounded first the news of McKinley’s nomination. They said of Governor Morton’s father that he was a New England clergyman, who brought up a family of ten children on three hundred dollars a year, and was, notwithstanding, gifted in prayer. (Laughter.) It does not make any difference how poor he may be, how out of work, how ragged, how next door to a tramp anybody may be in the United States to-night, he will be ‘gifted in prayer’ at the result of this convention. (Cheers and laughter.)
“There is a principle dear to the American heart. It is the principle which moves American spindles, starts the industries, and makes the wage-earners sought for instead of seeking employment. That principle is embodied in McKinley. His personality explains the nomination to-day. And his personality will carry into the presidential chair the aspirations of the voters of America, of the families of America, of the homes of America, protection to American industry and America for Americans.” (Cheers.)
As every national convention, like every individual, has its characteristics, the peculiar distinction of the Republican convention of 1896 was its adoption of the gold standard of value. An amazing and illuminating part of our political literature of that time is the claim which various statesmen and publicists make to the authorship of the gold plank in the platform.
Senator Foraker, who was chairman of the committee on resolutions, devotes a considerable part of his interesting autobiography to the discussion of this question. He is very severe upon all those who claim to have originated the idea. I have been asked by several statesmen to enforce their claims to its authorship.
The silver craze had not yet subsided. Bimetallism had strong advocates and believers in our convention. I think even our candidate was not fully convinced at that time of the wisdom of the declaration. It went into the platform rather as a venture than an article of faith, but to the surprise of both the journalists and campaign orators, it turned out that the people had become converted to the gold standard, and it proved to be the strongest and most popular declaration of the convention.
When the campaign opened the genius of Mark Hanna soon became evident. He organized a campaign of education such as had never been dreamed of, much less attempted. Travelling publicity agents, with wagonloads of pamphlets, filled the highways and the byways, and no home was so isolated that it did not receive its share. Columns in the newspapers, especially the country papers, were filled with articles written by experts, and the platform was never so rich with public speakers.
Such a campaign is irresistible. Its influence is felt by everybody; its arguments become automatically and almost insensibly the common language of the people. But the expense is so terrific that it will never again be attempted. There was no corruption or purchase of votes in Mr. Hanna’s management. It was publicity and again publicity, but it cost nearly five millions of dollars. To reach the one hundred and ten million of people in the United States in such a way would involve a sum so vast that public opinion would never permit any approach to it.
Mr. McKinley’s front-porch campaign was a picturesque and captivating feature. The candidate was a handsome man and an eloquent speaker, with a cordial and sympathetic manner which won everybody. Delegations from all parts of the country and representing every phase of American life appeared at Mr. McKinley’s residence. His address to them was always appropriate and his reception made the visitors his fast friends.
I received a personal request to visit him, and on the occasion he said to me: “In certain large agricultural sections there is a very dangerous revolt in our party, owing to the bad conditions among the farmers. Wheat and corn are selling below the cost of production. I wish you would go down among them and make speeches explaining the economic conditions which have produced this result, and how we propose to and will remedy it.”
“Mr. McKinley,” I said, “my position as a railroad president, I am afraid, would antagonize them.”
“On the contrary, your very position will draw the largest audiences and receive the greater attention.”
The result proved that he was correct.
I recall one meeting in particular. There were thousands present, all farmers. In the midst of my speech one man arose and said: “Chauncey Depew, we appreciate your coming here, and we are very anxious to hear you. Your speech is very charming and interesting, but I want to put this to you personally. We here are suffering from market conditions for the products of our farms. The prices are so low that we have difficulty in meeting the interest on our mortgages and paying our taxes, no matter how seriously we economize. Now you are the president of one of the greatest railroads in the country. It is reported that you are receiving a salary of fifty thousand dollars a year. You are here in a private car. Don’t you think that the contrast between you and us makes it difficult for us poor farmers to give you the welcome which we would like?”
I saw at once I had lost my audience. I then ventured upon a statement of conditions which I have often tried and always successfully. I said: “My friend, what you say about me is true. Now, as to my career, I was born and brought up in a village similar to the one which is near you here. My father gave me my education and nothing else with which to begin life. As a young lawyer I was looking for clients and not for office. I made up my mind that there were no opportunities offered in the village, but that the chances of success were in the service of corporations. The result is that I have accomplished what you have described. Now, my friend, I believe that you have a promising boy. I also believe that to your pride and satisfaction he is going through the neighboring college here, and that you intend on account of his brightness and ability to make him a lawyer. When he is admitted to the bar, do you expect him to try to do what I have accomplished and make an independent position in life, or fail?”
The farmer shouted: “Chauncey, you are all right. Go ahead and keep it up.”
My arguments and presentation were no better than many another speaker’s, but, as Mr. McKinley predicted, they received an attention and aroused a discussion, because of what the old farmer had said, that no other campaigner could command.
Mr. McKinley sent for me again and said: “Sentiment is a wonderful force in politics. Mr. Bryan, my opponent, has made a remarkable speaking tour through our State. He started in the early morning from Cleveland with a speech. His train made many stops on the way to Cincinnati, where he arrived in the evening, and at each place he addressed large audiences, traversing the State from one side to the other. His endurance and versatility have made a great impression upon our people. To meet and overcome that impression, I have asked you to come here and repeat Bryan’s effort. You are so much older than he is–I think we may claim nearly twice his age–that if you can do it, and I hope you can, that sentiment will be dissipated.”
I traversed Mr. Bryan’s route, stopped at the same stations and delivered speeches to similar audiences of about the same length. On arriving in Cincinnati in the evening I was met by a committee, the chairman of which said: “We have followed you all along from Cleveland, where you started at seven o’clock this morning, and it is fine. Now Mr. Bryan, when he arrived here, had no meeting. We have seven thousand people in the Music Hall, and if you will go there and speak five minutes it will make your trip a phenomenal success.”
I went to the Music Hall, of course had a wonderful time and wild ovation, and spoke for an hour. The next day I was none the worse for this twelve hours’ experience.
President McKinley had spent most of his life in the House of Representatives. He loved the associations and life of Congress. The most erratic and uncertain of bodies is Congress to an executive who does not understand its temper and characteristics. McKinley was past master of this. Almost every president has been greatly relieved when Congress adjourned, but Mr. McKinley often expressed to me his wish that Congress would always be in session, as he never was so happy as when he could be in daily contact with it. His door was open at all times to a senator or a member of the House of Representatives. If either failed to see him at least once a week, the absentee usually received a message stating that the president desired him to call. He was very keen in discovering any irritation on the part of any senator or member about any disappointment or fancied slight, and always most tactfully managed to straighten the matter out. He was quite as attentive and as particular with the opposition as with members of his own party.
President McKinley had a wonderful way of dealing with office-seekers and with their friends and supporters. A phrase of his became part of the common language of the capital. It was: “My dear fellow, I am most anxious to oblige you, but I am so situated that I cannot give you what you want. I will, however, try to find you something equally as good.” The anxious caller for favors, if he or his congressman failed to get the office desired, always carried away a flower or a bouquet given by the president, with a complimentary remark to be remembered. It soon came to be understood among applicants for office that a desired consulship in England could not be granted, but one of equal rank in South Africa was possible.
There were many good stories in the Senate of his tact in dealing with the opposition. A Southern senator, who as a general had made a distinguished record in the Civil War on the Confederate side, was very resentful and would frequently remark to his friends “that our president unfortunately is not a gentleman, and in his ancestry is some very common blood.”
Mr. McKinley persuaded some of the senator’s Southern colleagues to bring him to the White House. He expressed his regret to the senator that he should have offended him in any way and asked what he had done. The senator replied: “You have appointed for the town where my sister lives a nigger, and a bad nigger at that, for postmaster, and my sister has to go to him for her letters and stamps.” The president arranged for the transfer of this postmaster and the appointment of a man recommended by the senator. The senator then went to his friends and said: “Have I remarked to you at any time that our president was not a gentleman and had somewhere in his ancestry very common blood? If I did I recall the statement and apologize. Mr. McKinley is a perfect gentleman.”
All the measures which the president wished passed, unless they were absolutely partisan, always received afterwards the support of the Southern senator.
I was in the Senate during a part of his term and nearly every day at the White House, where his reception was so cordial and his treatment of the matter presented so sympathetic that it was a delight to go there, instead of being, as usual, one of the most disagreeable tasks imposed upon a senator.
He had a way of inviting one to a private conference and with impressing you with its confidential character and the trust he reposed in your advice and judgment which was most flattering.
Entertainments at the White House were frequent, and he managed to make each dinner an event to be most pleasantly remembered. I think, while he was very courteous to everybody, he was more than usually so to me because of an incident prior to his inauguration.
A well-known journalist came to my office one day and said: “I am just from Canton, where I have been several days with the president. I discussed with him federal appointments–among others, the mission to England, in which I am interested because my father is an Englishman, and both my father and I are exceedingly anxious to have you take the post, and Mr. McKinley authorized me to ask you if you would accept the mission.”
The embassy to England presented peculiar attraction to me, because I knew personally the Prince of Wales and most of the leading English statesmen and public men. The journalist said that if I accepted he would sound the press. This he did, and the response was most flattering from journals of all political views.
About the time of the inauguration Vice-President Hobart, who was a cordial friend of mine, said to me: “There is something wrong about you with the president. It is very serious, and you can expect no recognition from the administration.” I was wholly at a loss to account for the matter and would not investigate any further. Not long afterwards the vice-president came to me and said: “I have found out the truth of that matter of yours and have explained it satisfactorily to the president, who deeply regrets that he was misled by a false report from a friend in whom he had confidence.” Soon after the president made me the offer of the mission to Germany. I did not understand the language and felt that I could be of little service there, and so declined.
When President McKinley was lying seriously wounded at Buffalo from the shot of the anarchist Czolgosz, I went there to see if anything could be done for his comfort. For some time there was hope he would recover, and that it would be better for him to go to Washington. I made every arrangement to take him to the capital if the doctors decided it could be done. But suddenly, as is always the case with wounds of that kind, a crisis arrived in which he died.
Vice-President Roosevelt was camping in the Adirondacks. A message reached him, and the next morning he arrived in Buffalo. The Cabinet of Mr. McKinley decided that the vice-president should be at once inaugurated as president. Colonel Roosevelt was a guest at the house of Mr. Ainsley Wilcox. He invited me to witness his inauguration, which occurred the same evening. It was a small company gathered in the parlor of Mr. Wilcox’s house. Elihu Root, secretary of state, choking with emotion and in a voice full of tears, made a speech which was a beautiful tribute to the dead president and a clear statement of the necessity of immediate action to avoid an interregnum in the government. John Raymond Hazel, United States district judge, administered the oath, and the new president delivered a brief and affecting answer to Mr. Root’s address.
This inauguration was in pathetic and simple contrast to that which had preceded at the Capitol at Washington. Among the few present was Senator Mark Hanna. He had been more instrumental than any one in the United States in the selection of Mr. McKinley for president and his triumphant election. Mr. McKinley put absolute trust in Hanna, and Hanna was the most powerful personality in the country. No two men in public life were ever so admirably fitted for each other as President McKinley and Senator Hanna. The day before the death of the president Hanna could look forward to four years of increasing power and usefulness with the president who had just been re-elected. But as he walked with me from Mr. Wilcox’s house that night, he felt keenly that he never could have any such relation with Colonel Roosevelt. He was personally exceedingly fond of Mr. McKinley, and to his grief at the death of his friend was added a full apprehension of his changed position in American public life.
XlV. THEODORE ROOSEVELT
The bullet of the assassin had ended fatally, and McKinley was no more. Theodore Roosevelt, vice-president, became president. Few recognized at the time there had come into the presidency of the United States one of the most remarkable, capable, and original men who ever occupied the White House.
During the following seven years President Roosevelt not only occupied but filled the stage of public affairs in the United States. Even now, two years or more after his death, with the exception of President Wilson, Roosevelt is the best known American in the world. It is difficult to predict the future because of the idealization which sometimes though rarely occurs in regard to public men, but Colonel Roosevelt is rapidly taking a position as third, with Washington and Lincoln as the other two.
My relations with Colonel Roosevelt were always most interesting. His father, who was a cordial friend of mine, was one of the foremost citizens of New York. In all civic duties and many philanthropies he occupied a first place. The public activities of the father had great influence in forming the character and directing the ambitions of his son.
Mr. Roosevelt entered public life very early and, as with everything with him, always in a dramatic way. One of the interesting characters of New York City was Frederick Gibbs, who was an active politician and a district leader. Gibbs afterwards became the national committeeman from New York on the Republican national committee. When he died he left a collection of pictures which, to the astonishment of everybody, showed that he was a liberal and discriminating patron of art.
Gibbs had a district difficult to manage, because, commencing in the slums it ran up to Fifth Avenue. It was normally Democratic, but he managed to keep his party alive and often to win, and so gained the reputation that he was in league with Tammany. He came to me one day and said: “Our organization has lost the confidence of the ‘highbrows.’ They have not a great many votes, but their names carry weight and their contributions are invaluable in campaigns. To regain their confidence we are thinking of nominating for member of the legislature young Theodore Roosevelt, who has just returned from Harvard. What do you think of it?”
Of course, I advocated it very warmly. “Well,” he said, “we will have a dinner at Delmonico’s. It will be composed entirely of ‘highbrows.’ We wish you to make the principal speech, introducing young Roosevelt, who, of course, will respond. I will not be at the dinner, but I will be in the pantry.”
The dinner was a phenomenal success. About three hundred in dress suits, white vests, and white neckties were discussing the situation, saying: “Where did these stories and slanders originate in regard to our district , about its being an annex of Tammany and with Tammany affiliations? We are the district, and we all know each other.”
Young Roosevelt, when he rose to speak, looked about eighteen years old, though he was twenty-three. His speech was carefully prepared, and he read it from a manuscript. It was remarkable in the emphatic way in which he first stated the evils in the city, State, and national governments, and how he would correct them if he ever had the opportunity. It is a curious realization of youthful aspirations that every one of those opportunities came to him, and in each of them he made history and permanent fame.
The term of office of Frank Black, Governor of the State of New York, was about expiring. Black was a man of great ability and courage. The people had voted nine millions of dollars to improve the Erie Canal. There were persistent rumors of fraud in the work. Governor Black ordered an investigation through an able committee which he appointed. The committee discovered that about a million dollars had been wasted or stolen. Black at once took measures to recover the money if possible and to prosecute the guilty. The opposition took advantage of this to create the impression in the public mind of the corruption of the Republican administration. The acute question was: “Should Governor Black be renominated?”
Colonel Roosevelt had just returned from Cuba, where he had won great reputation in command of the Rough Riders, and he and his command were in camp on Long Island.
Senator Platt, the State leader, was accustomed to consult me, and his confidence in my judgment was the greater from the fact that he knew that I wanted nothing, while most of the people who surrounded the leader were recipients of his favor, and either the holders of offices or expecting some consideration. He asked me to come and see him at Manhattan Beach. As usual, he entered at once upon the question in hand by saying: “I am very much troubled about the governorship. Frank Black has made an excellent governor and did the right thing in ordering an investigation of the Canal frauds, but the result of the investigation has been that in discovering frauds the Democrats have been able to create a popular impression that the whole State administration is guilty. The political situation is very critical in any way. Benjamin Odell, the chairman of our State committee, urges the nomination of Colonel Roosevelt. As you know, Roosevelt is no friend of mine, and I don’t think very well of the suggestion. Now, what do you think?”
I instantly replied: “Mr. Platt, I always look at a public question from the view of the platform. I have been addressing audiences ever since I became a voter, and my judgment of public opinion and the views of the people are governed by how they take or will take and act upon the questions presented. Now, if you nominate Governor Black and I am addressing a large audience–and I certainly will–the heckler in the audience will arise and interrupt me, saying: ‘Chauncey, we agree with what you say about the Grand Old Party and all that, but how about the Canal steal?’ I have to explain that the amount stolen was only a million, and that would be fatal. If Colonel Roosevelt is nominated, I can say to the heckler with indignation and enthusiasm: ‘I am mighty glad you asked that question. We have nominated for governor a man who has demonstrated in public office and on the battlefield that he is a fighter for the right, and always victorious. If he is selected, you know and we all know from his demonstrated characteristics, courage and ability, that every thief will be caught and punished, and every dollar that can be found restored to the public treasury.’ Then I will follow the colonel leading his Rough Riders up San Juan Hill and ask the band to play the ‘Star-Spangled Banner.'”
Platt said very impulsively: “Roosevelt will be nominated.”
When the State convention met to nominate a State ticket, I was selected to present the name of Colonel Roosevelt as a candidate for governor. I have done that a great many times in conventions, but have never had such a response. As I went on reciting the achievements of Roosevelt, his career, his accomplishments, and his great promise, the convention went wild with enthusiasm. It was plain that no mistake had been made in selecting him as the candidate.
During the campaign he made one of the most picturesque canvasses the State has ever experienced. He was accompanied in his travels by a large staff of orators, but easily dominated the situation and carried the audience with him. He was greatly amused at a meeting where one of his Rough Riders, who was in the company, insisted upon making a speech. The Rough Rider said: “My friends and fellow citizens, my colonel was a great soldier. He will make a great governor. He always put us boys in battle where we would be killed if there was a chance, and that is what he will do with you.”
Roosevelt as governor was, as always, most original. New York was an organization State, with Mr. Platt as leader, and with county leaders of unusual ability and strength. Governors had been accustomed to rely upon the organization both for advice and support. Roosevelt could not bear any kind of control. He sought advice in every direction and then made up his mind. This brought him often in conflict with local leaders and sometimes with the general organization.
On one occasion the State chairman, who was always accustomed to be in Albany during the closing day of the legislature, to prevent in the haste and confusion, characteristic of legislation at this time, the passage of bad or unpopular measures, bade the governor good-by at midnight, as the legislature was to adjourn the following day with the understanding that lawmaking was practically over.
A large real-estate delegation arrived the next morning, with the usual desire to relieve real-estate from taxation by putting it somewhere else. They came with a proposition to place new burdens upon public utilities. It was too late to formulate and introduce a measure on a question so important, but there was a bill which had been in the legislature most of the session and never received serious consideration. The governor sent an emergency message to the legislature, which had remaining only one hour of life to pass that bill.
Next day the tremendous interest in public utilities was panic-stricken because the bill was so crude that it amounted to confiscation. The governor, when applied to, said: “Yes, I know that the bill is very crude and unfit to become a law, but legislation on this subject is absolutely necessary. I will do this: I have thirty days before I must make up my mind to sign the bill, or let it become a law without my signature. Within that thirty days I will call the legislature together again. Then you can prepare and submit to me a proper bill, and if we can agree upon it, I will present it to the legislature. If the legislature passes that measure I will sign it, but if it does not, I will let the present measure, bad as it is, become a law.”
The result of the threat was that a very good and timely act was presented in regard to the taxation of public utilities, a measure which largely increased municipal and State revenues. I know of no governor in my time who would have had the originality and the audacity to accomplish what he desired by such drastic operation.
Roosevelt’s administration was high-minded and patriotic. But by his exercise of independent judgment and frequently by doing things without consulting the leaders, State or local, he became exceedingly unpopular with the organization. It was evident that it would be very difficult to renominate him. It was also evident that on account of his popularity with the people, if he failed in the renomination, the party would be beaten. So it was unanimously decided to put him on the national ticket as vice-president.
The governor resisted this with all his passionate energy. He liked the governorship. He thought there were many things which he could do in another term, and he believed and so stated that the vice-presidency was a tomb. He thought that nobody could be resurrected when once buried in that sarcophagus.
The national Republican convention of 1900 was a ratification meeting. President McKinley’s administration had been exceedingly popular. The convention met practically to indorse McKinley’s public acts and renominate him for another term. The only doubtful question was the vice-presidency. There was a general accord of sentiment in favor of Governor Roosevelt, which was only blocked by his persistent refusal.
Roosevelt and I were both delegates at large, and that position gave him greater opportunity to emphasize his disinclination. A very intimate friend of his called upon me and begged that I would use all my influence to prevent the colonel’s nomination. This friend said to me: “The governor’s situation, officially and personally, makes it impossible for him to go to Washington. On the official side are his unfinished legislation and the new legislation greatly needed by the State, which will add enormously to his reputation and pave the way for his future. He has very little means. As governor his salary is ample. The Executive Mansion is free, with many contributory advantages, and the schools of Albany admirable for the education of his six children. While in Washington the salary of vice-president is wholly inadequate to support the dignity of the position, and it is the end of a young man of a most promising career.”
I knew what the friend did not know, and it was that Mr. Roosevelt could not be governor again. I was so warmly attached to him and so anxious for his future that I felt it was my duty to force his nomination if possible.
Governor Odell was chairman of the delegation for all convention purposes, but in the distribution of honors I was made the presiding officer at its meetings. The delegation met to consider the vice-presidency. Several very eloquent speeches were made in favor of Mr. Roosevelt, but in an emphatic address he declined the nomination. He then received a unanimous vote, but again declined. A delegate then arose and suggested that he reconsider his determination, and several others joined most earnestly in this request. Roosevelt was deeply affected, but, nevertheless, firmly declined.
I knew there was a member of the delegation who had canvassed it to secure the honor in case Roosevelt became impossible, and that the next motion would be the nomination of this aspirant. So I abruptly declared the meeting adjourned. I did this in the hope that during the night, with the pressure brought to bear upon him, the colonel would change his mind. In the morning Mr. Roosevelt surrendered his convictions and agreed to accept the nomination.
In every convention there is a large number of men prominent in their several delegations who wish to secure general attention and publicity. As there were no disputes as to either candidate or platform, these gentlemen all became anxious to make speeches favoring the candidates, McKinley and Roosevelt. There were so many of these speeches which, of course, were largely repetitions, that the convention became wearied and impatient. The last few were not heard at all on account of the confusion and impatience of the delegates. While one orator was droning away, a delegation from a Western State came over to me and said: “We in the extreme West have never heard you speak, and won’t you oblige us by taking the platform?”
I answered: “The audience will not stand another address.” Roosevelt, who sat right in front of me, then remarked: “Yes, they will from you. These speeches have pretty nearly killed the ticket, and if it keeps up, the election is over, and McKinley and I are dead.” He then seized me and almost threw me on the platform.
The novelty of the situation, which was grasped by the delegates, commanded attention. I recalled what Mr. Lincoln had once said to me, defending his frequent use of anecdotes, and this is what he said: “Plain people, take them as you find them, are more easily influenced through the medium of a broad and humorous illustration than in any other way.”
I had heard a new story, a rare thing, and began with the narration of it. Alongside the chairman sat Senator Thurston. He was a fine speaker, very ornate and highly rhetorical. He never indulged in humor or unbent his dignity and formality. I heard him say in a sepulchral voice to the chairman: “Great God, sir, the dignity and solemnity of this most important and historical occasion is to be ruined by a story.” Happily the story was a success and gave the wearied audience two opportunities to hear my speech. Their laughter was internal relief, and it was giving the external relief of changing their positions for new and more restful ones.
My friend, John M. Thurston, came to Philadelphia with a most elaborate and excellent oration. Sitting in the audience on three different occasions, I heard it with as much pleasure the last time as I had the first.
When Mr. Roosevelt as vice-president came to preside over the Senate, it was soon evident that he would not be a success. His talents were executive and administrative. The position of the presiding officer of the United States Senate is at once easy and difficult. The Senate desires impartiality, equable temper, and knowledge of parliamentary law from its presiding officer. But it will not submit to any attempt on the part of the presiding officer to direct or advise it, and will instantly resent any arbitrary ruling. Of course, Mr. Roosevelt presided only at a few meetings before the final adjournment. When Congress met again he was President of the United States.
Senators and members soon found that there was a change at the White House. No two men were ever so radically different in every respect as McKinley and Roosevelt. Roosevelt loved to see the people in a mass and rarely cared for private or confidential interviews. He was most hospitable and constantly bringing visitors to luncheon when the morning meetings in the executive offices had closed, and he had not had a full opportunity to hear or see them.
Senator Hanna was accustomed to have a few of his colleagues of the Senate dine with him frequently, in order to consult on more effective action upon pending measures. President Roosevelt, who knew everything that was going on, often burst into Hanna’s house after dinner and with the utmost frankness submitted the problems which had arisen at the White House, and upon which he wished advice or, if not advice, support–more frequently support.
Any one who attended the morning conferences, where he saw senators and members of the House, and the public, was quite sure to be entertained. I remember on one occasion I had been requested by several friends of his, men of influence and prominence in New York, to ask for the appointment of minister to a foreign government for a journalist of some eminence. When I entered the Cabinet room it was crowded, and the president knew that I was far from well, so he at once called my name, asked how I was and what I wanted. I told him that I had to leave Washington that day on the advice of my doctor for a rest, and what I wanted was to present the name of a gentleman for appointment as a minister, if I could see him for five minutes.
The president exclaimed: “We have no secrets here. Tell it right out.” I then stated the case. He asked who was behind the applicant. I told him. Then he said, “Yes, that’s all right,” to each one until I mentioned also the staff of the gentleman’s newspaper, which was one of the most prominent and powerful in the country but a merciless critic of the president. He shouted at once: “That settles it. Nothing which that paper wishes will receive any consideration from me.” Singularly enough, the paper subsequently became one of his ardent advocates and supporters.
On another occasion I was entering his private office as another senator was coming out of the Cabinet room, which was filled. He called out: “Senator Depew, do you know that man going out?” I answered: “Yes, he is a colleague of mine in the Senate.” “Well,” he shouted, “he is a crook.” His judgment subsequently proved correct.
Mr. Roosevelt and his wife were all their lives in the social life of the old families of New York who were admitted leaders. They carried to the White House the culture and conventions of what is called the best society of the great capitals of the world. This experience and education came to a couple who were most democratic in their views. They loved to see people and met and entertained every one with delightful hospitality.
Roosevelt was a marvel of many-sidedness. Besides being an executive as governor of a great State and administrator as civil-service commissioner and police commissioner of New York, he was an author of popular books and a field naturalist of rare acquirements. He was also a wonderful athlete. I often had occasion to see him upon urgent matters, and was summoned to his gymnasium, where he was having a boxing match with a well-known pugilist, and getting the better of his antagonist, or else launching at his fencing master. The athletics would cease, to be resumed as soon as he had in his quick and direct way disposed of what I presented.
Horseback riding was a favorite exercise with him, and his experience on his Western ranch and in the army had made him one of the best riders in the world. The foreign diplomats in Washington, with their education that their first duty was to be in close touch with the chief magistrate, whether czar, queen, king, or president, found their training unequal to keeping close to President Roosevelt, except one, and he told me with great pleasure that though a poor rider he joined the president in his horseback morning excursions. Sometimes, he said, when they came to a very steep, high, and rough hill the president would shout, “Let us climb to the top,” and the diplomat would struggle over the stones, the underbrush and gullies, and return to his horse with torn garments after sliding down the hill. At another time, when on the banks of the Potomac, where the waters were raging rapids the president said, “We will go to that island in the middle of the river,” and immediately plunge in. The diplomat followed and reached the island after wading and swimming, and with great difficulty returned with sufficient strength to reach home. He had an attack of pneumonia from this unusual exposure, but thereafter was the envy and admiration of his colleagues and increased the confidence of his own government by this intimacy with the president.
The president’s dinners and luncheons were unique because of his universal acquaintance with literary and scientific people. There were generally some of them present. His infectious enthusiasm and hearty cordiality drew out the best points of each guest. I was present at a large dinner one evening when an instance occurred which greatly amused him. There were some forty guests. When they were seated, the president noticed four vacant chairs. He sent one of his aides to ascertain the trouble. The aide discovered an elderly senator standing with his wife, and another senator and a lady looking very disconsolate. The aged senator refused to take out a lady as his card directed or leave his wife to a colleague. He said to the president’s aide, who told him that dinner was waiting and what he had to do: “When I eat I eat with my wife, or I don’t eat at all.” The old gentleman had his way.
The president had one story which he told often and with much glee. While he was on the ranch the neighbors had caught a horse thief and hung him. They soon discovered that they had made a mistake and hung the wrong man. The most diplomatic among the ranchers was selected to take the body home and break the news gently to his wife. The cowboy ambassador asked the wife: “Are you the wife of —–?” She answered “Yes.” “Well,” said the ambassador, “you are mistaken. You are his widow. I have his body in the wagon. You need not feel bad about it, because we hung him thinking he was the horse thief. We soon after found that he was innocent. The joke is on us.”
Mr. Roosevelt was intensely human and rarely tried to conceal his feelings. He was to address the New York State Fair at Syracuse. The management invited me as a United States Senator from New York to be present. There were at least twenty thousand on the fair ground, and Mr. Roosevelt read his speech, which he had elaborately prepared, detailing his scheme for harmonizing the relations between labor and capital. The speech was long and very able and intended for publication all over the country. But his audience, who were farmers, were not much interested in the subject. Besides, they had been wearied wandering around the grounds and doing the exhibits, waiting for the meeting to begin. I know of nothing so wearisome to mind and body as to spend hours going through the exhibits of a great fair. When the president finished, the audience began calling for me. I was known practically to every one of them from my long career on the platform.
Knowing Roosevelt as I did, I was determined not to speak, but the fair management and the audience would not be denied. I paid the proper compliments to the president, and then, knowing that humor was the only possible thing with such a tired crowd, I had a rollicking good time with them. They entered into the spirit of the fun and responded in a most uproarious way. I heard Roosevelt turn to the president of the fair and say very angrily: “You promised me, sir, that there would be no other speaker.”
When I met the president that evening at a large dinner given by Senator Frank Hiscock, he greeted me with the utmost cordiality. He was in fine form, and early in the dinner took entire charge of the discussion. For three hours he talked most interestingly, and no one else contributed a word. Nevertheless, we all enjoyed the evening, and not the least the president himself.
I used to wonder how he found time, with his great activities and engagements, to read so much. Publishers frequently send me new books. If I thought they would interest him I mentioned the work to him, but invariably he had already read it.
When my first term as senator expired and the question of my re-election was before the legislature, President Roosevelt gave me his most cordial and hearty support.
Events to his credit as president, which will be monuments in history, are extraordinary in number and importance. To mention only a few: He placed the Monroe Doctrine before European governments upon an impregnable basis by his defiance to the German Kaiser, when he refused to accept arbitration and was determined to make war on Venezuela. The president cabled: “Admiral Dewey with the Atlantic Fleet sails to-morrow.” And the Kaiser accepted arbitration. Raissuli, the Moroccan bandit, who had seized and held for ransom an American citizen named Perdicaris, gave up his captive on receipt of this cable: “Perdicaris alive or Raissuli dead.” He settled the war between Russia and Japan and won the Nobel prize for peace.
Roosevelt built the Panama Canal when other efforts had failed for five hundred years. As senator from his own State, I was in constant consultation with him while he was urging legislation necessary to secure the concession for the construction of the canal. The difficulties to be overcome in both Houses seemed insurmountable, and would have been so except for the marvellous resourcefulness and power of the president.
When the Republican convention met in 1908, I was again delegate at large. It was a Roosevelt convention and crazy to have him renominated. It believed that he could overcome the popular feeling against a third term. Roosevelt did not think so. He believed that in order to make a third term palatable there must be an interval of another and different administration. When the convention found that his decision was unalterably not to accept the nomination himself, it was prepared to accept any one he might advise. He selected his secretary of war and most intimate friend, William Howard Taft. Taft had a delightful personality, and won distinction upon the bench, and had proved an admirable administrator as governor of the Philippine Islands. After Mr. Taft’s election the president, in order that the new president and his administration might not be embarrassed by his presence and prestige, went on a two years’ trip abroad.
During that trip he was more in the popular mind at home and abroad than almost any one in the world. If he reviewed the German army with the Kaiser, the press was full of the common characteristics and differences between the two men and of the unprecedented event of the guest giving advice to the Kaiser.
When he visited England he told in a public speech of his experience in Egypt, and recommended to the English Government that, if they expected to continue to govern Egypt, to begin to govern it.
All France was aghast and then hilarious when, in an address before the faculties of Sorbonne, he struck at once at the weak point of the future and power of France, and that was race suicide.
XV. UNITED STATES SENATE
My twelve years in the Senate were among the happiest of my life. The Senate has long enjoyed the reputation of being the best club in the world, but it is more than that. My old friend, Senator Bacon, of Georgia, often said that he preferred the position of senator to that of either President or Chief Justice of the United States. There is independence in a term of six years which is of enormous value to the legislative work of the senator. The member of the House, who is compelled to go before his district every two years, must spend most of his time looking after his re-election. Then the Senate, being a smaller body, the associations are very close and intimate. I do not intend to go into discussion of the measures which occupied the attention of the Senate during my time. They are a part of the history of the world. The value of a work of this kind, if it has any value, is in personal incidents.
One of the most delightful associations of a lifetime personally and politically, was that with Vice-President James S. Sherman. During the twenty-two years he was in the House of Representatives he rarely was in the City of New York without coming to see me. He became the best parliamentarian in Congress, and was generally called to the chair when the House met in committee of the whole. He was intimately familiar with every political movement in Washington, and he had a rare talent for discriminatory description, both of events and analysis of the leading characters in the Washington drama. He was one of the wisest of the advisers of the organization of his party, both national and State.
When President Roosevelt had selected Mr. Taft as his successor he made no indication as to the vice-presidency. Of course, the nomination of Mr. Taft under such conditions was a foregone conclusion, and when the convention met it was practically unanimous for Roosevelt’s choice. Who was the best man to nominate for vice-president in order to strengthen the ticket embarassed the managers of the Taft campaign. The Republican congressmen who were at the convention were practically unanimous for Sherman, and their leader was Uncle Joe Cannon. We from New York found the Taft managers discussing candidates from every doubtful State. We finally convinced them that New York was the most important, but they had gone so far with State candidates that it became a serious question how to get rid of them without offending their States.
The method adopted by one of the leading managers was both adroit and hazardous. He would call up a candidate on the telephone and say to him: “The friends of Mr. Taft are very favorable to you for vice-president. Will you accept the nomination?” The candidate would hesitate and begin to explain his ambitions, his career and its possibilities, and the matter which he would have to consider. Before the prospective candidate had finished, the manager would say, “Very sorry, deeply regret,” and put up the telephone.
When the nomination was made these gentlemen who might have succeeded would come around to the manager and say impatiently and indignantly: “I was all right. Why did you cut me off?” However, those gentlemen have had their compensation. Whenever you meet one of them he will say to you: “I was offered the vice-presidency with Taft but was so situated that I could not accept.”
One evening during the convention a wind and rain storm drove everybody indoors. The great lobby of Congress Hall was crowded, and most of them were delegates. Suddenly there was a loud call for a speech, and some husky and athletic citizen seized and lifted me on to a chair. After a story and a joke, which put the crowd into a receptive mood, I made what was practically a nominating speech for Sherman. The response was intense and unanimous. When I came down from a high flight as to the ability and popularity to the human qualities of “Sunny Jim,” I found “Sunny Jim” such a taking characterization, and it was echoed and re-echoed. I do not claim that speech nominated Sherman, only that nearly everybody who was present became a most vociferous advocate for Sherman for vice-president.
The position of vice-president is one of the most difficult in our government. Unless the president requests his advice or assistance, he has no public function except presiding over the Senate. No president ever called the vice-president into his councils. McKinley came nearest to it during his administration, with Hobart, but did not keep it up.
President Harding has made a precedent for the future by inviting Vice-President Coolidge to attend all Cabinet meetings. The vice-president has accepted and meets regularly with the Cabinet.
Sherman had one advantage over other vice-presidents in having been for nearly a quarter of a century a leader in Congress. Few, if any, who ever held that office have been so popular with the Senate and so tactful and influential when they undertook the very difficult task of influencing the action of a Senate, very jealous of its prerogatives and easily made resentful and hostile.
Among my colleagues in the Senate were several remarkable men. They had great ability, extraordinary capacity for legislation, and, though not great orators, possessed the rare faculty of pressing their points home in short and effective speeches. Among them was Senator Frye, of Maine. He was for many years chairman of the great committee on commerce. Whatever we had of a merchant marine was largely due to his persistent efforts. He saved the government scores of millions in that most difficult task of pruning the River and Harbor Bill. He possessed the absolute confidence of both parties, and was the only senator who could generally carry the Senate with him for or against a measure. While wise and the possessor of the largest measure of common sense, yet he was one of the most simple-minded of men. I mean by this that he had no guile and suspected none in others. Whatever was uppermost in his mind came out. These characteristics made him one of the most delightful of companions and one of the most harmonious men to work with on a committee.
Clement A. Griscom, the most prominent American ship owner and director, was very fond of Senator Frye. Griscom entertained delightfully at his country home near Philadelphia. He told me that at one time Senator Frye was his guest over a week-end. To meet the senator at dinner on Saturday evening, he had invited great bankers, lawyers, and captains of industry of Philadelphia. Their conversation ran from enterprises and combinations involving successful industries and exploitations to individual fortunes and how they were accumulated. The atmosphere was heavy with millions and billions. Suddenly Griscom turned to Senator Frye and said: “I know that our successful friends here would not only be glad to hear but would learn much if you would tell us of your career.” “It is not much to tell,” said Senator Frye, “especially after these stories which are like chapters from the ‘Arabian Nights.’ I was very successful as a young lawyer and rising to a leading practice and head of the bar of my State when I was offered an election to the House of Representatives. I felt that it would be a permanent career and that there was no money in it. I consulted my wife and told her that it meant giving up all prospects of accumulating a fortune or independence even, but it was my ambition, and I believed I could perform valuable service to the public, and that as a career its general usefulness would far surpass any success at the bar. My wife agreed with me cordially and said that she would economize on her part to any extent required.
“So,” the senator continued, “I have been nearly thirty years in Congress, part of this time in the House and the rest in the Senate. I have been able on my salary to meet our modest requirements and educate our children. I have never been in debt but once. Of course, we had to calculate closely and set aside sufficient to meet our extra expenses in Washington and our ordinary one at home. We came out a little ahead every year but one. That year the president very unexpectedly called an extra session, and for the first time in twenty years I was in debt to our landlord in Washington.”
Griscom told me that this simple narrative of a statesman of national reputation seemed to make the monumental achievements of his millionaire guests of little account.
Senator Frye’s genial personality and vivid conversation made him a welcome guest at all entertainments in Washington. There was a lady at the capital at that time who entertained a great deal and was very popular on her own account, but she always began the conversation with the gentleman who took her out by narrating how she won her husband. I said one day to Senator Frye: “There will be a notable gathering at So-and-So’s dinner to-night. Are you going?” He answered: “Yes, I will be there; but it has been my lot to escort to dinner this lady”–naming her–“thirteen times this winter. She has told me thirteen times the story of her courtship. If it is my luck to be assigned to her to-night, and she starts that story, I shall leave the table and the house and go home.”
Senator Aldrich, of Rhode Island, was once called by Senator Quay the schoolmaster of the Senate. As the head of the finance committee he had commanding influence, and with his skill in legislation and intimate knowledge of the rules he was the leader whenever he chose to lead. This he always did when the policy he desired or the measure he was promoting had a majority, and the opposition resorted to obstructive tactics. As there is no restriction on debate in the Senate, or was none at my time, the only way the minority could defeat the majority was by talking the bill to death. I never knew this method to be used successfully but once, because in the trial of endurance the greater number wins. The only successful talk against time was by Senator Carter, of Montana. Carter was a capital debater. He was invaluable at periods when the discussion had become very bitter and personal. Then in his most suave way he would soothe the angry elements and bring the Senate back to a calm consideration of the question. When he arose on such occasions, the usual remark among those who still kept their heads was: “Carter will now bring out his oil can and pour oil upon the troubled waters”–and it usually proved effective.
Senator George F. Hoar, of Massachusetts, seemed to be a revival of what we pictured in imagination as the statesmen who framed the Constitution of the United States, or the senators who sat with Webster, Clay, and Calhoun. He was a man of lofty ideals and devotion to public service. He gave to each subject on which he spoke an elevation and dignity that lifted it out of ordinary senatorial discussions. He had met and knew intimately most of the historical characters in our public life for fifty years, and was one of the most entertaining and instructive conversationalists whom I ever met.
On the other hand, Senator Benjamin Tillman, of South Carolina, who was an ardent admirer of Senator Hoar, was his opposite in every way. Tillman and I became very good friends, though at first he was exceedingly hostile. He hated everything which I represented. With all his roughness, and at the beginning his brutality, he had a singular streak of sentiment.
I addressed the first dinner of the Gridiron Club at its organization and have been their guest many times since. The Gridiron Club is an association of the newspaper correspondents at Washington, and their dinners several times a year are looked forward to with the utmost interest and enjoyed by everybody privileged to attend.
The Gridiron Club planned an excursion to Charleston, S. C., that city having extended to them an invitation. They invited me to go with them and also Senator Tillman. Tillman refused to be introduced to me because I was chairman of the board of directors of the New York Central Railroad, and he hated my associations and associates. We had a wonderful welcome from the most hospitable of cities, the most beautifully located City of Charleston. On the many excursions, luncheons, and gatherings, I was put forward to do the speaking, which amounted to several efforts a day during our three days’ visit. The Gridiron stunt for Charleston was very audacious. There were many speakers, of course, including Senator Tillman, who hated Charleston and the Charlestonians, because he regarded them as aristocrats and told them so. There were many invited to speak who left their dinners untasted while they devoted themselves to looking over their manuscripts, and whose names were read in the list at the end of the dinner, but their speeches were never called for.
On our way home we stopped for luncheon at a place outside of Charleston. During the luncheon an earthquake shook the table and rattled the plates. I was called upon to make the farewell address for the Gridiron Club to the State of South Carolina. Of course the earthquake and its possibilities gave an opportunity for pathos as well as humor, and Tillman was deeply affected. When we were on the train he came to me and with great emotion grasped my hand and said: “Chauncey Depew, I was mistaken about you. You are a damn good fellow.” And we were good friends until he died.
I asked Tillman to what he owed his phenomenal rise and strength in the conservative State of South Carolina. He answered: “We in our State were governed by a class during the colonial period and afterwards until the end of the Civil War. They owned large plantations, hundreds of thousands of negroes, were educated for public life, represented our State admirably, and did great service to the country. They were aristocrats and paid little attention to us poor farmers, who constituted the majority of the people. The only difference between us was that they had been colonels or generals in the Revolutionary War, or delegates to the Continental Congress or the Constitutional Convention, while we had been privates, corporals, or sergeants. They generally owned a thousand slaves, and we had from ten to thirty. I made up my mind that we should have a share of the honors, and they laughed at me. I organized the majority and put the old families out of business, and we became and are the rulers of the State.”
Among the most brilliant debaters of any legislative body were Senators Joseph W. Bailey, of Texas, and John C. Spooner, of Wisconsin. They would have adorned and given distinction to any legislative body in the world. Senator Albert J. Beveridge, of Indiana, and Senator Joseph B. Foraker, of Ohio, were speakers of a very high type. The Senate still has the statesmanship, eloquence, scholarship, vision, and culture of Senator Lodge, of Massachusetts.
One of the wonders of the Senate was Senator W. M. Crane, of Massachusetts. He never made a speech. I do not remember that he ever made a motion. Yet he was the most influential member of that body. His wisdom, tact, sound judgment, encyclopaedic knowledge of public affairs and of public men made him an authority.
Senator Hanna, who was a business man pure and simple, and wholly unfamiliar with legislative ways, developed into a speaker of remarkable force and influence. At the same time, on the social side, with his frequent entertainments, he did more for the measures in which he was interested. They were mainly, of course, of a financial and economic character.
One of the characters of the Senate, and one of the upheavals of the Populist movement was Senator Jeff. Davis, of Arkansas. Davis was loudly, vociferously, and clamorously a friend of the people. Precisely what he did to benefit the people was never very clear, but if we must take his word for it, he was the only friend the people had. Among his efforts to help the people was to denounce big business of all kinds and anything which gave large employment or had great capital. I think that in his own mind the ideal state would have been made of small landowners and an occasional lawyer. He himself was a lawyer.
One day he attacked me, as I was sitting there listening to him, in a most vicious way, as the representative of big corporations, especially railroads, and one of the leading men in the worst city in the world, New York, and as the associate of bankers and capitalists. When he finished Senator Crane went over to his seat and told him that he had made a great mistake, warned him that he had gone so far that I might be dangerous to him personally, but in addition to that, with my ridicule and humor, I would make him the laughing-stock of the Senate and of the country. Jeff, greatly alarmed, waddled over to my seat and said: “Senator Depew, I hope you did not take seriously what I said. I did not mean anything against you. I won’t do it again, but I thought that you would not care, because it won’t hurt you, and it does help me out in Arkansas.” I replied: “Jeff, old man, if it helps you, do it as often as you like.” Needless to say, he did not repeat.
I have always been deeply interested in the preservation of the forests and a warm advocate of forest preservers. I made a study of the situation of the Appalachian Mountains, where the lumberman was doing his worst, and millions of acres of fertile soil from the denuded hills were being swept by the floods into the ocean every year. I made a report from my committee for the purchase of this preserve, affecting, as it did, eight States, and supported it in a speech. Senator Eugene HaIe, a Senate leader of controlling influence, had been generally opposed to this legislation. He became interested, and, when I had finished my speech, came over to me and said: “I never gave much attention to this subject. You have convinced me and this bill should be passed at once, and I will make the motion.” Several senators from the States affected asked for delay in order that they might deliver speeches for local consumption. The psychological moment passed and that legislation could not be revived until ten years afterwards, and then in a seriously modified form.
I worked very hard for the American mercantile marine. A subsidy of four million dollars a year in mail contracts would have been sufficient, in addition to the earnings of the ships, to have given us lines to South and Central America, Australia, and Asia.
Shakespeare’s famous statement that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet has exceptions. In the psychology of the American mind the word subsidy is fatal to any measure. After the most careful investigation, while I was in the Senate, I verified this statement, that a mail subsidy of four millions a year would give to the United States a mercantile marine which would open new trade routes for our commerce. This contribution would enable the ship-owners to meet the losses which made it impossible for them to compete with the ships of other countries, some having subsidies and all under cheaper expenses of operation. It would not all be a contribution because part of it was a legitimate charge for carrying the mails. The word subsidy, however, could be relied upon to start a flood of fiery oratory, charging that the people of the United States were to be taxed to pour money into the pockets of speculators in New York and financial crooks in Wall Street.
We have now created a mercantile marine through the Shipping Board which is the wonder and amazement of the world. It has cost about five hundred millions. Part of it is junk already, and a part available is run at immense loss, owing to discriminatory laws. Recently a bill was presented to Congress for something like sixty millions of dollars to make up the losses in the operations of our mercantile marine for the year. While a subsidy of four millions under private management would have been a success but was vetoed as a crime, the sixty millions are hailed as a patriotic contribution to public necessity.
A river and harbor bill of from thirty to fifty millions of dollars was eagerly anticipated and enthusiastically supported. It was known to be a give and take, a swap and exchange, where a few indispensable improvements had to carry a large number of dredgings of streams, creeks, and bayous, which never could be made navigable. Many millions a year were thrown away in these river and harbor bills, but four millions a year to restore the American mercantile marine aroused a flood of indignant eloquence, fierce protest, and wild denunciation of capitalists, who would build and own ships, and it was always fatal to the mercantile marine.
Happily the war has, among its benefits, demonstrated to the interior and mountain States that a merchant marine is as necessary to the United States as its navy, and that we cannot hope to expand and retain our trade unless we have the ships.
I remember one year when the river and harbor bill came up for passage on the day before final adjournment. The hour had been fixed by both Houses, and, therefore, could not be extended by one House. The administration was afraid of the bill because of the many indefensible extravagances there were in it. At the same time, it had so many political possibilities that the president was afraid to veto it. Senator Carter was always a loyal administration man, and so he was put forward to talk the bill to death. He kept it up without yielding the floor for thirteen hours, and until the hour of adjournment made action upon the measure impossible.
I sat there all night long, watching this remarkable effort. The usual obstructor soon uses up all his own material and then sends pages of irrelevant matter to the desk for the clerk to read, or he reads himself from the pages of the Record, or from books, but Carter stuck to his text. He was a man of wit and humor. Many items in the river and harbor bill furnished him with an opportunity of showing how creeks and trout streams were to be turned by the magic of the money of the Treasury into navigable rivers, and inaccessible ponds were to be dredged into harbors to float the navies of the world.
The speech was very rich in anecdotes and delightful in its success by an adroit attack of tempting a supporter of the measure into aiding the filibuster by indignantly denying the charge which Carter had made against him. By this method Carter would get a rest by the folly of his opponent. The Senate was full and the galleries were crowded during the whole night, and when the gavel of the vice-president announced that no further debate was admissible and the time for adjournment had arrived, and began to make his farewell speech, Carter took his seat amidst the wreck of millions and the hopes of the exploiters, and the Treasury of the United States had been saved by an unexpected champion.
The country does not appreciate the tremendous power of the committees, as legislative business constantly increases with almost geometrical progression. The legislation of the country is handled almost entirely in committees. It requires a possible revolution to overcome the hostility of a committee, even if the House and the country are otherwise minded. Some men whose names do not appear at all in the Congressional Record, and seldom in the newspapers, have a certain talent for drudgery and detail which is very rare, and when added to shrewdness and knowledge of human nature makes such a senator or representative a force to be reckoned with on committees. Such a man is able to hold up almost anything.
I found during my Washington life the enormous importance of its social side. Here are several hundred men in the two Houses of Congress, far above the average in intelligence, force of character, and ability to accomplish things. Otherwise they would not have been elected. They are very isolated and enjoy far beyond those who have the opportunity of club life, social attentions. At dinner the real character of the guest comes out, and he is most responsive to these attentions. Mrs. Depew and I gave a great many dinners, to our intense enjoyment and, I might say, education. By this method I learned to know in a way more intimate than otherwise would have been possible many of the most interesting characters I have ever met.
Something must be done, and that speedily, to bridge the widening chasm between the Executive and the Congress. Our experience with President Wilson has demonstrated this. As a self-centred autocrat, confident of himself and suspicious of others, hostile to advice or discussion, he became the absolute master of the Congress while his party was in the majority.
The Congress, instead of being a co-ordinate branch, was really in session only to accept, adopt, and put into laws the imperious will of the president. When, however, the majority changed, there being no confidence between the executive and the legislative branch of the government, the necessary procedure was almost paralyzed. The president was unyielding and the Congress insisted upon the recognition of its constitutional rights. Even if the president is, as McKinley was, in close and frequent touch with the Senate and the House of Representatives, the relation is temporary and unequal, and not what it ought to be, automatic.
Happily we have started a budget system; but the Cabinet should have seats on the floor of the Houses, and authority to answer questions and participate in debates. Unless our system was radically changed, we could not adopt the English plan of selecting the members of the Cabinet entirely from the Senate and the House. But we could have an administration always in close touch with the Congress if the Cabinet members were in attendance when matters affecting their several departments were under discussion and action.
I heard Senator Nelson W. Aldrich, who was one of the shrewdest and ablest legislators of our generation, say that if business methods were applied to the business of the government in a way in which he could do it, there would be a saving of three hundred millions of dollars a year. We are, since the Great War, facing appropriations of five or six billions of dollars a year. I think the saving of three hundred millions suggested by Senator Aldrich could be increased in proportion to the vast increase in appropriations.
There has been much discussion about restricting unlimited debates in the Senate and adopting a rigid closure rule. My own recollection is that during my twelve years unlimited discussion defeated no good measure, but talked many bad ones to death. There is a curious feature in legislative discussion, and that is the way in which senators who have accustomed themselves to speak every day on each question apparently increase their vocabulary as their ideas evaporate. Two senators in my time, who could be relied upon to talk smoothly as the placid waters of a running brook for an hour or more every day, had the singular faculty of apparently saying much of importance while really developing no ideas. In order to understand them, while the Senate would become empty by its members going to their committee rooms, I would be a patient listener. I finally gave that up because, though endowed with reasonable intelligence and an intense desire for knowledge, I never could grasp what they were driving at.
XVI. AMBASSADORS AND MINISTERS
The United States has always been admirably represented at the Court of St. James. I consider it as a rare privilege and a delightful memory that I have known well these distinguished ambassadors and ministers who served during my time. I was not in England while Charles Francis Adams was a minister, but his work during the Civil War created intense interest in America. It is admitted that he prevented Great Britain from taking such action as would have prolonged the war and endangered the purpose which Mr. Lincoln was trying to accomplish, namely, the preservation of the Union. His curt answer to Lord John Russell, “This means war,” changed the policy of the British Government.
James Russell Lowell met every requirement of the position, but, more than that, his works had been read and admired in England before his appointment. Literary England welcomed him with open arms, and official England soon became impressed with his diplomatic ability. He was one of the finest after-dinner speakers, and that brought him in contact with the best of English public life. He told me an amusing instance. As soon as he was appointed, everybody who expected to meet him sent to the book stores and purchased his works. Among them, of course, was the “Biglow Papers.” One lady asked him if he had brought Mrs. Biglow with him.
The secretary of the embassy, William J. Hoppin, was a very accomplished gentleman. He had been president of the Union League Club, and I knew him very well. I called one day at the embassy with an American living in Europe to ask for a favor for this fellow countryman. The embassy was overwhelmed with Americans asking favors, so Hoppin, without looking at me or waiting for the request, at once brought out his formula for sliding his visitors on an inclined plane into the street. He said: “Every American–and there are thousands of them–who comes to London visits the embassy. They all want to be invited to Buckingham Palace or to have cards to the House of Lords or the House of Commons. Our privileges in that respect are very few, so few that we can satisfy hardly anybody. Why Americans, when there is so much to see in this old country from which our ancestry came, and with whose literature we are so familiar, should want to try to get into Buckingham Palace or the Houses of Parliament is incomprehensible. There is a very admirable cattle show at Reading. I have a few tickets and will give them to you, gentlemen, gladly. You will find the show exceedingly interesting.”
I took the tickets, but if there is anything of which I am not a qualified judge, it is prize cattle. That night, at a large dinner given by a well-known English host, my friend Hoppin was present, and at once greeted me with warm cordiality. Of course, he had no recollections of the morning meeting. Our host, as usual when a new American is present, wanted to know if I had any fresh American stories, and I told with some exaggeration and embroidery the story of the Reading cattle show. Dear old Hoppin was considerably embarrassed at the chafing he received, but took it in good part, and thereafter the embassy was entirely at my service.
Mr. Edward J. Phelps was an extraordinary success. He was a great lawyer, and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States told me that there was no one who appeared before that Court whose arguments were more satisfactory and convincing than those of Mr. Phelps. He had the rare distinction of being a frequent guest at the Benchers’ dinners in London. One of the English judges told me that at a Benchers’ dinner the judges were discussing a novel point which had arisen in one of the cases recently before them. He said that in the discussion in which Mr. Phelps was asked to participate, the view which the United States minister presented was so forcible that the decision, which had been practically agreed upon, was changed to meet Mr. Phelps’s view. I was at several of Mr. Phelps’s dinners. They were remarkable gatherings of the best in almost every department of English life.
At one of his dinners I had a delightful talk with Browning, the poet. Browning told me that as a young man he was several times a guest at the famous breakfasts of the poet and banker, Samuel Rogers. Rogers, he said, was most arbitrary at these breakfasts with his guests, and rebuked him severely for venturing beyond the limits within which he thought a young poet should be confined.
Mr. Browning said that nothing gratified him so much as the popularity of his works in the United States. He was especially pleased and also embarrassed by our Browning societies, of which there seemed to be a great many over here. They sent him papers which were read by members of the societies, interpreting his poems. These American friends discovered meanings which had never occurred to him, and were to him an entirely novel view of his own productions. He also mentioned that every one sent him presents and souvenirs, all of them as appreciations and some as suggestions and help. Among these were several cases of American wine. He appreciated the purpose of the gifts, but the fluid did not appeal to him.
He told me he was a guest at one time at the dinners given to the Shah of Persia. This monarch was a barbarian, but the British Foreign Office had asked and extended to him every possible courtesy, because of the struggle then going on as to whether Great Britain or France or Russia should have the better part of Persia. France and Russia had entertained him with lavish military displays and other governmental functions, which a democratic country like Great Britain could not duplicate. So the Foreign Office asked all who had great houses in London or in the country, and were lavish entertainers, to do everything they could for the Shah.
Browning was present at a great dinner given for the Shah at Stafford House, the home of the Duke of Sutherland, and the finest palace in London. Every guest was asked, in order to impress the Shah, to come in all the decorations to which they were entitled. The result was that the peers came in their robes, which they otherwise would not have thought of wearing on such an occasion, and all others in the costumes of honor significant of their rank. Browning said he had received a degree at Oxford and that entitled him to a scarlet cloak. He was so outranked, because the guests were placed according to rank, that he sat at the foot of the table. The Shah said to his host: “Who is that distinguished gentleman in the scarlet cloak at the other end of the table?” The host answered: “That is one of our greatest poets.” “That is no place for a poet,” remarked the Shah; “bring him up here and let him sit next to me.” So at the royal command the poet took the seat of honor. The Shah said to Browning: “I am mighty glad to have you near me, for I am a poet myself.”
It was at this dinner that Browning heard the Shah say to the Prince of Wales, who sat at the right of the Shah: “This is a wonderful palace. Is it royal?” The Prince answered: “No, it belongs to one of our great noblemen, the Duke of Sutherland.” “Well,” said the Shah, “let me give you a point. When one of my noblemen or subjects gets rich enough to own a palace like this, I cut off his head and take his fortune.”
A very beautiful English lady told me that she was at Ferdinand Rothschild’s, where the Shah was being entertained. In order to minimize his acquisitive talents, the wonderful treasures of Mr. Rothschild’s house had been hidden. The Shah asked for an introduction to this lady and said to her: “You are the most beautiful woman I have seen since I have been in England. I must take you home with me.” “But,” she said, “Your Majesty, I am married.” “Well,” he replied, “bring your husband along. When we get to Teheran, my capital, I will take care of him.”
Mr. Phelps’s talent as a speaker was quite unknown to his countrymen before he went abroad. While he was a minister he made several notable addresses, which aroused a great deal of interest and admiration in Great Britain. He was equally happy in formal orations and in the field of after-dinner speeches. Mrs. Phelps had such a phenomenal success socially that, when her husband was recalled and they left England, the ladies of both the great parties united, and through Lady Rosebery, the leader of the Liberal, and Lady Salisbury, of the Conservative, women, paid her a very unusual and complimentary tribute.
During John Hay’s term as United States minister to Great Britain my visits to England were very delightful. Hay was one of the most charming men in public life of his period. He had won great success in journalism, as an author, and in public service. At his house in London one would meet almost everybody worth while in English literary, public, and social life.
In the hours of conversation with him, when I was posting him on the latest developments in America, his comments upon the leading characters of the time were most racy and witty. Many of them would have embalmed a statesman, if the epigram had been preserved, like a fly in amber. He had officially a very difficult task during the Spanish War. The sympathies of all European governments were with Spain. This was especially true of the Kaiser and the German Government. It was Mr. Hay’s task to keep Great Britain neutral and prevent her joining the general alliance to help Spain, which some of the continental governments were fomenting.
Happily, Mr. Balfour, the British foreign minister, was cordially and openly our friend. He prevented this combination against the United States.
During part of my term as a senator John Hay was secretary of state. To visit his office and have a discussion on current affairs was an event to be remembered. He made a prediction, which was the result of his own difficulties with the Senate, that on account of the two-thirds majority necessary for the ratification of a treaty, no important treaty sent to the Senate by the president would ever again be ratified. Happily this gloomy view has not turned out to be entirely correct.
Mr. Hay saved China, in the settlement of the indemnities arising out of the Boxer trouble, from the greed of the great powers of Europe. One of his greatest achievements was in proclaiming the open door for China and securing the acquiescence of the great powers. It was a bluff on his part, because he never could have had the active support of the United States, but he made his proposition with a confidence which carried the belief that he had no doubt on that subject. He was fortunately dealing with governments who did not understand the United States and do not now. With them, when a foreign minister makes a serious statement of policy, it is understood that he has behind him the whole military, naval, and financial support of his government. But with us it is a long road and a very rocky one, before action so serious, with consequences so great, can receive the approval of the war-making power in Congress.
I called on Hay one morning just as Cassini, the Russian ambassador, was leaving. Cassini was one of the shrewdest and ablest of diplomats in the Russian service. It was said that for twelve years he had got the better of all the delegations at Pekin and controlled that extraordinary ruler of China, the dowager queen. Cassini told me that from his intimate associations with her he had formed the opinion that she was quite equal to Catherine of Russia, whom he regarded as the greatest woman sovereign who ever lived.
Hay said to me: “I have just had a very long and very remarkable discussion with Cassini. He is a revelation in the way of secret diplomacy. He brought to me the voluminous instructions to him of his government on our open-door policy. After we had gone over them carefully, he closed his portfolio and, pushing it aside, said: ‘Now, Mr. Secretary, listen to Cassini.’ He immediately presented an exactly opposite policy from the one in the instructions, and a policy entirely favorable to us, and said: ‘That is what my government will do.'” It was a great loss to Russian diplomacy when he died so early.
As senator I did all in my power to bring about the appointment of Whitelaw Reid as ambassador to Great Britain. He and I had been friends ever since his beginning in journalism in New York many years before. Reid was then the owner and editor of the New York Tribune, and one of the most brilliant journalists in the country. He was also an excellent public speaker. His long and intimate contact with public affairs and intimacy with public men ideally fitted him for the appointment. He had already served with great credit as ambassador to France.
The compensation of our representatives abroad always has been and still is entirely inadequate to enable them to maintain, in comparison with the representatives of other governments, the dignity of their own country. All the other great powers at the principal capitals maintain fine residences for their ambassadors, which also is the embassy. Our Congress, except within the last few years, has always refused to make this provision. The salary which we pay is scarcely ever more than one-third the amount paid by European governments in similar service.
I worked hard while in the Senate to improve this situation because of my intimate knowledge of the question. When I first began the effort I found there was very strong belief that the whole foreign service was an unnecessary expense. When Mr. Roosevelt first became president, and I had to see him frequently about diplomatic appointments, I learned that this was his view. He said to me: “This foreign business of the government, now that the cable is perfected, can be carried on between our State Department and the chancellery of any government in the world. Nevertheless, I am in favor of keeping up the diplomatic service. All the old nations have various methods of rewarding distinguished public servants. The only one we have is the diplomatic service. So when I appoint a man ambassador or minister, I believe that I am giving him a decoration, and the reason I change ambassadors and ministers is that I want as many as possible to possess it.”
The longer Mr. Roosevelt remained president, and the closer he came to our foreign relations, the more he appreciated the value of the personal contact and intimate knowledge on the spot of an American ambassador or minister.
Mr. Reid entertained more lavishly and hospitably than any ambassador in England ever had, both at his London house and at his estate in the country. He appreciated the growing necessity to the peace of the world and the progress of civilization of closer union of English-speaking peoples. At his beautiful and delightful entertainments Americans came in contact with Englishmen under conditions most favorable for the appreciation by each of the other. The charm of Mr. and Mrs. Whitelaw Reid’s hospitality was so genuine, so cordial, and so universal, that to be their guest was an event for Americans visiting England. There is no capital in the world where hospitality counts for so much as in London, and no country where the house-party brings people together under such favorable conditions. Both the city and the country homes of Mr. and Mrs. Reid were universities of international good-feeling. Mr. Reid, on the official side, admirably represented his country and had the most intimate relations with the governing powers of Great Britain.
I recall with the keenest pleasure how much my old friend, Joseph H. Choate, did to make each one of my visits to London