0237
0237f
Autobiography of Theodore Roosevelt
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY BY THEODORE ROOSEVELT
By Theodore Roosevelt
PREPARER'S NOTE
This Etext was prepared from a 1920 edition,
published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
The book was first published in 1913.
CONTENTS
Forward
Boyhood and Youth
The Vigor of Life
Practical Politics
In Cowboy Land
Applied Idealism
The New York Police
The War of America the Unready
The New York Governorship
Outdoors and Indoors
The Presidency; Making an Old Party Progressive
The Natural Resources of the Nation
The Big Stick and the Square Deal
Social and Industrial Justice
The Monroe Doctrine and the Panama Canal
The Peace of Righteousness
FOREWORD
Naturally, there are chapters of my autobiography which cannot now be
written.
It seems to me that, for the nation as for the individual, what is most
important is to insist on the vital need of combining certain sets
of qualities, which separately are common enough, and, alas, useless
enough. Practical efficiency is common, and lofty idealism not uncommon;
it is the combination which is necessary, and the combination is rare.
Love of peace is common among weak, short-sighted, timid, and lazy
persons; and on the other hand courage is found among many men of evil
temper and bad character. Neither quality shall by itself avail. Justice
among the nations of mankind, and the uplifting of humanity, can be
brought about only by those strong and daring men who with wisdom love
peace, but who love righteousness more than peace. Facing the immense
complexity of modern social and industrial conditions, there is need to
use freely and unhesitatingly the collective power of all of us; and
yet no exercise of collective power will ever avail if the average
individual does not keep his or her sense of personal duty, initiative,
and responsibility. There is need to develop all the virtues that have
the state for their sphere of action; but these virtues are as dust in a
windy street unless back of them lie the strong and tender virtues of
a family life based on the love of the one man for the one woman and on
their joyous and fearless acceptance of their common obligation to the
children that are theirs. There must be the keenest sense of duty, and
with it must go the joy of living; there must be shame at the thought of
shirking the hard work of the world, and at the same time delight in
the many-sided beauty of life. With soul of flame and temper of steel we
must act as our coolest judgment bids us. We must exercise the largest
charity towards the wrong-doer that is compatible with relentless war
against the wrong-doing. We must be just to others, generous to others,
and yet we must realize that it is a shameful and a wicked thing not to
withstand oppression with high heart and ready hand. With gentleness and
tenderness there must go dauntless bravery and grim acceptance of labor
and hardship and peril. All for each, and each for all, is a good motto;
but only on condition that each works with might and main to so maintain
himself as not to be a burden to others.
We of the great modern democracies must strive unceasingly to make our
several countries lands in which a poor man who works hard can
live comfortably and honestly, and in which a rich man cannot live
dishonestly nor in slothful avoidance of duty; and yet we must judge
rich man and poor man alike by a standard which rests on conduct and not
on caste, and we must frown with the same stern severity on the mean and
vicious envy which hates and would plunder a man because he is well off
and on the brutal and selfish arrogance which looks down on and exploits
the man with whom life has gone hard.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
SAGAMORE HILL, October 1, 1913.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
CHAPTER I
BOYHOOD AND YOUTH
My grandfather on my father's side was of almost purely Dutch blood.
When he was young he still spoke some Dutch, and Dutch was last used
in the services of the Dutch Reformed Church in New York while he was a
small boy.
About 1644 his ancestor Klaes Martensen van Roosevelt came to New
Amsterdam as a "settler"--the euphemistic name for an immigrant who
came over in the steerage of a sailing ship in the seventeenth century
instead of the steerage of a steamer in the nineteenth century. From
that time for the next seven generations from father to son every one of
us was born on Manhattan Island.
My father's paternal ancestors were of Holland stock; except that there
was one named Waldron, a wheelwright, who was one of the Pilgrims who
remained in Holland when the others came over to found Massachusetts,
and who then accompanied the Dutch adventurers to New Amsterdam.
My father's mother was a Pennsylvanian. Her forebears had come to
Pennsylvania with William Penn, some in the same ship with him; they
were of the usual type of the immigration of that particular place and
time. They included Welsh and English Quakers, an Irishman,--with a
Celtic name, and apparently not a Quaker,--and peace-loving Germans,
who were among the founders of Germantown, having been driven from their
Rhineland homes when the armies of Louis the Fourteenth ravaged
the Palatinate; and, in addition, representatives of a by-no-means
altogether peaceful people, the Scotch Irish, who came to Pennsylvania
a little later, early in the eighteenth century. My grandmother was a
woman of singular sweetness and strength, the keystone of the arch in
her relations with her husband and sons. Although she was not herself
Dutch, it was she who taught me the only Dutch I ever knew, a baby
song of which the first line ran, "Trippe troppa tronjes." I always
remembered this, and when I was in East Africa it proved a bond of union
between me and the Boer settlers, not a few of whom knew it, although at
first they always had difficulty in understanding my pronunciation--at
which I do not wonder. It was interesting to meet these men whose
ancestors had gone to the Cape about the time that mine went to America
two centuries and a half previously, and to find that the descendants
of the two streams of emigrants still crooned to their children some at
least of the same nursery songs.
Of my great-grandfather Roosevelt and his family life a century and over
ago I know little beyond what is implied in some of his books that have
come down to me--the Letters of Junius, a biography of John Paul Jones,
Chief Justice Marshall's "Life of Washington." They seem to indicate
that his library was less interesting than that of my wife's
great-grandfather at the same time, which certainly included such
volumes as the original _Edinburgh Review_, for we have them now on our
own book-shelves. Of my grandfather Roosevelt my most vivid childish
reminiscence is not something I saw, but a tale that was told me
concerning him. In _his_ boyhood Sunday was as dismal a day for small
Calvinistic children of Dutch descent as if they had been of Puritan or
Scotch Covenanting or French Huguenot descent--and I speak as one proud
of his Holland, Huguenot, and Covenanting ancestors, and proud that the
blood of that stark Puritan divine Jonathan Edwards flows in the veins
of his children. One summer afternoon, after listening to an unusually
long Dutch Reformed sermon for the second time that day, my grandfather,
a small boy, running home before the congregation had dispersed, ran
into a party of pigs, which then wandered free in New York's streets. He
promptly mounted a big boar, which no less promptly bolted and carried
him at full speed through the midst of the outraged congregation.
By the way, one of the Roosevelt documents which came down to me
illustrates the change that has come over certain aspects of public life
since the time which pessimists term "the earlier and better days of
the Republic." Old Isaac Roosevelt was a member of an Auditing Committee
which shortly after the close of the Revolution approved the following
bill:
The State of New York, to John Cape Dr.
To a Dinner Given by His Excellency the Governor
and Council to their Excellencies the Minnister of
France and General Washington & Co.
1783
December
To 120 dinners at 48: 0:0
To 135 Bottles Madira 54: 0:0
" 36 ditto Port 10:16:0
" 60 ditto English Beer 9: 0:0
" 30 Bouls Punch 9: 0:0
" 8 dinners for Musick 1:12:0
" 10 ditto for Sarvts 2: 0:0
" 60 Wine Glasses Broken 4:10:0
" 8 Cutt decanters Broken 3: 0:0
" Coffee for 8 Gentlemen 1:12:0
" Music fees &ca 8: 0:0
" Fruit & Nuts 5: 0:0
156:10:0
By Cash . . . 100:16:0
55:14:0
WE a Committee of Council having examined
the above account do certify it (amounting to
one hundred and fifty-six Pounds ten Shillings)
to be just.
December 17th 1783.
ISAAC ROOSEVELT
JAS. DUANE
EGBT. BENSON
FRED. JAY
Received the above Contents in full
New York 17th December 1783
JOHN CAPE
Think of the Governor of New York now submitting such a bill for such an
entertainment of the French Ambassador and the President of the United
States! Falstaff's views of the proper proportion between sack and bread
are borne out by the proportion between the number of bowls of punch and
bottles of port, Madeira, and beer consumed, and the "coffee for eight
gentlemen"--apparently the only ones who lasted through to that stage
of the dinner. Especially admirable is the nonchalant manner in which,
obviously as a result of the drinking of said bottles of wine and
bowls of punch, it is recorded that eight cut-glass decanters and sixty
wine-glasses were broken.
During the Revolution some of my forefathers, North and South, served
respectably, but without distinction, in the army, and others rendered
similar service in the Continental Congress or in various local
legislatures. By that time those who dwelt in the North were for the
most part merchants, and those who dwelt in the South, planters.
My mother's people were predominantly of Scotch, but also of Huguenot
and English, descent. She was a Georgian, her people having come to
Georgia from South Carolina before the Revolution. The original Bulloch
was a lad from near Glasgow, who came hither a couple of centuries ago,
just as hundreds of thousands of needy, enterprising Scotchmen have gone
to the four quarters of the globe in the intervening two hundred
years. My mother's great-grandfather, Archibald Bulloch, was the first
Revolutionary "President" of Georgia. My grandfather, her father, spent
the winters in Savannah and the summers at Roswell, in the Georgia
uplands near Atlanta, finally making Roswell his permanent home. He
used to travel thither with his family and their belongings in his own
carriage, followed by a baggage wagon. I never saw Roswell until I was
President, but my mother told me so much about the place that when I did
see it I felt as if I already knew every nook and corner of it, and as
if it were haunted by the ghosts of all the men and women who had lived
there. I do not mean merely my own family, I mean the slaves. My mother
and her sister, my aunt, used to tell us children all kinds of stories
about the slaves. One of the most fascinating referred to a very old
darky called Bear Bob, because in the early days of settlement he had
been partially scalped by a black bear. Then there was Mom' Grace, who
was for a time my mother's nurse, and whom I had supposed to be dead,
but who greeted me when I did come to Roswell, very respectable, and
apparently with years of life before her. The two chief personages of
the drama that used to be repeated to us were Daddy Luke, the Negro
overseer, and his wife, Mom' Charlotte. I never saw either Daddy Luke
or Mom' Charlotte, but I inherited the care of them when my mother died.
After the close of the war they resolutely refused to be emancipated
or leave the place. The only demand they made upon us was enough money
annually to get a new "critter," that is, a mule. With a certain lack of
ingenuity the mule was reported each Christmas as having passed away,
or at least as having become so infirm as to necessitate a successor--a
solemn fiction which neither deceived nor was intended to deceive, but
which furnished a gauge for the size of the Christmas gift.
My maternal grandfather's house was on the line of Sherman's march to
the sea, and pretty much everything in it that was portable was taken by
the boys in blue, including most of the books in the library. When I
was President the facts about my ancestry were published, and a
former soldier in Sherman's army sent me back one of the books with
my grandfather's name in it. It was a little copy of the poems of "Mr.
Gray"--an eighteenth-century edition printed in Glasgow.
On October 27, 1858, I was born at No. 28 East Twentieth Street, New
York City, in the house in which we lived during the time that my two
sisters and my brother and I were small children. It was furnished
in the canonical taste of the New York which George William Curtis
described in the _Potiphar Papers_. The black haircloth furniture in the
dining-room scratched the bare legs of the children when they sat on
it. The middle room was a library, with tables, chairs, and bookcases of
gloomy respectability. It was without windows, and so was available only
at night. The front room, the parlor, seemed to us children to be a room
of much splendor, but was open for general use only on Sunday evening
or on rare occasions when there were parties. The Sunday evening family
gathering was the redeeming feature in a day which otherwise we children
did not enjoy--chiefly because we were all of us made to wear clean
clothes and keep neat. The ornaments of that parlor I remember now,
including the gas chandelier decorated with a great quantity of
cut-glass prisms. These prisms struck me as possessing peculiar
magnificence. One of them fell off one day, and I hastily grabbed it and
stowed it away, passing several days of furtive delight in the treasure,
a delight always alloyed with fear that I would be found out and
convicted of larceny. There was a Swiss wood-carving representing a very
big hunter on one side of an exceedingly small mountain, and a herd
of chamois, disproportionately small for the hunter and large for the
mountain, just across the ridge. This always fascinated us; but there
was a small chamois kid for which we felt agonies lest the hunter might
come on it and kill it. There was also a Russian moujik drawing a gilt
sledge on a piece of malachite. Some one mentioned in my hearing that
malachite was a valuable marble. This fixed in my mind that it was
valuable exactly as diamonds are valuable. I accepted that moujik as
a priceless work of art, and it was not until I was well in middle age
that it occurred to me that I was mistaken.
Now and then we children were taken round to our grandfather's house;
a big house for the New York of those days, on the corner of Fourteenth
Street and Broadway, fronting Union Square. Inside there was a large
hall running up to the roof; there was a tessellated black-and-white
marble floor, and a circular staircase round the sides of the hall, from
the top floor down. We children much admired both the tessellated floor
and the circular staircase. I think we were right about the latter, but
I am not so sure as to the tessellated floor.
The summers we spent in the country, now at one place, now at another.
We children, of course, loved the country beyond anything. We disliked
the city. We were always wildly eager to get to the country when spring
came, and very sad when in the late fall the family moved back to town.
In the country we of course had all kinds of pets--cats, dogs, rabbits,
a coon, and a sorrel Shetland pony named General Grant. When my younger
sister first heard of the real General Grant, by the way, she was much
struck by the coincidence that some one should have given him the same
name as the pony. (Thirty years later my own children had _their_ pony
Grant.) In the country we children ran barefoot much of the time,
and the seasons went by in a round of uninterrupted and enthralling
pleasures--supervising the haying and harvesting, picking apples,
hunting frogs successfully and woodchucks unsuccessfully, gathering
hickory-nuts and chestnuts for sale to patient parents, building wigwams
in the woods, and sometimes playing Indians in too realistic manner by
staining ourselves (and incidentally our clothes) in liberal fashion
with poke-cherry juice. Thanksgiving was an appreciated festival, but it
in no way came up to Christmas. Christmas was an occasion of literally
delirious joy. In the evening we hung up our stockings--or rather the
biggest stockings we could borrow from the grown-ups--and before dawn we
trooped in to open them while sitting on father's and mother's bed;
and the bigger presents were arranged, those for each child on its own
table, in the drawing-room, the doors to which were thrown open after
breakfast. I never knew any one else have what seemed to me such
attractive Christmases, and in the next generation I tried to reproduce
them exactly for my own children.
My father, Theodore Roosevelt, was the best man I ever knew. He
combined strength and courage with gentleness, tenderness, and great
unselfishness. He would not tolerate in us children selfishness or
cruelty, idleness, cowardice, or untruthfulness. As we grew older he
made us understand that the same standard of clean living was demanded
for the boys as for the girls; that what was wrong in a woman could
not be right in a man. With great love and patience, and the most
understanding sympathy and consideration, he combined insistence on
discipline. He never physically punished me but once, but he was the
only man of whom I was ever really afraid. I do not mean that it was
a wrong fear, for he was entirely just, and we children adored him. We
used to wait in the library in the evening until we could hear his key
rattling in the latch of the front hall, and then rush out to greet him;
and we would troop into his room while he was dressing, to stay there as
long as we were permitted, eagerly examining anything which came out
of his pockets which could be regarded as an attractive novelty. Every
child has fixed in his memory various details which strike it as of
grave importance. The trinkets he used to keep in a little box on his
dressing-table we children always used to speak of as "treasures."
The word, and some of the trinkets themselves, passed on to the next
generation. My own children, when small, used to troop into my room
while I was dressing, and the gradually accumulating trinkets in the
"ditty-box"--the gift of an enlisted man in the navy--always excited
rapturous joy. On occasions of solemn festivity each child would receive
a trinket for his or her "very own." My children, by the way, enjoyed
one pleasure I do not remember enjoying myself. When I came back from
riding, the child who brought the bootjack would itself promptly get
into the boots, and clump up and down the room with a delightful feeling
of kinship with Jack of the seven-league strides.
The punishing incident I have referred to happened when I was four years
old. I bit my elder sister's arm. I do not remember biting her arm, but
I do remember running down to the yard, perfectly conscious that I had
committed a crime. From the yard I went into the kitchen, got some dough
from the cook, and crawled under the kitchen table. In a minute or two
my father entered from the yard and asked where I was. The warm-hearted
Irish cook had a characteristic contempt for "informers," but although
she said nothing she compromised between informing and her conscience
by casting a look under the table. My father immediately dropped on all
fours and darted for me. I feebly heaved the dough at him, and, having
the advantage of him because I could stand up under the table, got
a fair start for the stairs, but was caught halfway up them. The
punishment that ensued fitted the crime, and I hope--and believe--that
it did me good.
I never knew any one who got greater joy out of living than did my
father, or any one who more whole-heartedly performed every duty; and no
one whom I have ever met approached his combination of enjoyment of life
and performance of duty. He and my mother were given to a hospitality
that at that time was associated more commonly with southern than
northern households; and, especially in their later years when they
had moved up town, in the neighborhood of Central Park, they kept a
charming, open house.
My father worked hard at his business, for he died when he was
forty-six, too early to have retired. He was interested in every social
reform movement, and he did an immense amount of practical charitable
work himself. He was a big, powerful man, with a leonine face, and his
heart filled with gentleness for those who needed help or protection,
and with the possibility of much wrath against a bully or an oppressor.
He was very fond of riding both on the road and across the country, and
was also a great whip. He usually drove four-in-hand, or else a spike
team, that is, a pair with a third horse in the lead. I do not suppose
that such a team exists now. The trap that he drove we always called the
high phaeton. The wheels turned under in front. I have it yet. He drove
long-tailed horses, harnessed loose in light American harness, so that
the whole rig had no possible resemblance to anything that would be seen
now. My father always excelled in improving every spare half-hour or
three-quarters of an hour, whether for work or enjoyment. Much of his
four-in-hand driving was done in the summer afternoons when he would
come out on the train from his business in New York. My mother and one
or perhaps two of us children might meet him at the station. I can see
him now getting out of the car in his linen duster, jumping into
the wagon, and instantly driving off at a rattling pace, the duster
sometimes bagging like a balloon. The four-in-hand, as can be gathered
from the above description, did not in any way in his eyes represent
possible pageantry. He drove it because he liked it. He was always
preaching caution to his boys, but in this respect he did not practice
his preaching overmuch himself; and, being an excellent whip, he liked
to take chances. Generally they came out all right. Occasionally they
did not; but he was even better at getting out of a scrape than into
it. Once when we were driving into New York late at night the leaders
stopped. He flicked them, and the next moment we could dimly make out
that they had jumped. It then appeared that the street was closed and
that a board had been placed across it, resting on two barrels, but
without a lantern. Over this board the leaders had jumped, and there was
considerable excitement before we got the board taken off the barrels
and resumed our way. When in the city on Thanksgiving or Christmas, my
father was very apt to drive my mother and a couple of friends up to the
racing park to take lunch. But he was always back in time to go to the
dinner at the Newsboys' Lodging-House, and not infrequently also to
Miss Sattery's Night School for little Italians. At a very early age we
children were taken with him and were required to help. He was a staunch
friend of Charles Loring Brace, and was particularly interested in the
Newsboys' Lodging-House and in the night schools and in getting the
children off the streets and out on farms in the West. When I was
President, the Governor of Alaska under me, Governor Brady, was one of
these ex-newsboys who had been sent from New York out West by Mr. Brace
and my father. My father was greatly interested in the societies to
prevent cruelty to children and cruelty to animals. On Sundays he had
a mission class. On his way to it he used to drop us children at our
Sunday-school in Dr. Adams's Presbyterian Church on Madison Square; I
remember hearing my aunt, my mother's sister, saying that when he walked
along with us children he always reminded her of Greatheart in Bunyan.
Under the spur of his example I taught a mission class myself for three
years before going to college and for all four years that I was in
college. I do not think I made much of a success of it. But the other
day on getting out of a taxi in New York the chauffeur spoke to me and
told me that he was one of my old Sunday-school pupils. I remembered him
well, and was much pleased to find that he was an ardent Bull Mooser!
My mother, Martha Bulloch, was a sweet, gracious, beautiful Southern
woman, a delightful companion and beloved by everybody. She was entirely
"unreconstructed" to the day of her death. Her mother, my grandmother,
one of the dearest of old ladies, lived with us, and was distinctly
overindulgent to us children, being quite unable to harden her heart
towards us even when the occasion demanded it. Towards the close of the
Civil War, although a very small boy, I grew to have a partial but alert
understanding of the fact that the family were not one in their views
about that conflict, my father being a strong Lincoln Republican; and
once, when I felt that I had been wronged by maternal discipline during
the day, I attempted a partial vengeance by praying with loud fervor
for the success of the Union arms, when we all came to say our prayers
before my mother in the evening. She was not only a most devoted mother,
but was also blessed with a strong sense of humor, and she was too much
amused to punish me; but I was warned not to repeat the offense, under
penalty of my father's being informed--he being the dispenser of serious
punishment. Morning prayers were with my father. We used to stand at the
foot of the stairs, and when father came down we called out, "I speak
for you and the cubby-hole too!" There were three of us young children,
and we used to sit with father on the sofa while he conducted morning
prayers. The place between father and the arm of the sofa we called the
"cubby-hole." The child who got that place we regarded as especially
favored both in comfort and somehow or other in rank and title. The two
who were left to sit on the much wider expanse of sofa on the other side
of father were outsiders for the time being.
My aunt Anna, my mother's sister, lived with us. She was as devoted to
us children as was my mother herself, and we were equally devoted to her
in return. She taught us our lessons while we were little. She and
my mother used to entertain us by the hour with tales of life on
the Georgia plantations; of hunting fox, deer, and wildcat; of the
long-tailed driving horses, Boone and Crockett, and of the riding
horses, one of which was named Buena Vista in a fit of patriotic
exaltation during the Mexican War; and of the queer goings-on in the
Negro quarters. She knew all the "Br'er Rabbit" stories, and I was
brought up on them. One of my uncles, Robert Roosevelt, was much struck
with them, and took them down from her dictation, publishing them in
_Harper's_, where they fell flat. This was a good many years before a
genius arose who in "Uncle Remus" made the stories immortal.
My mother's two brothers, James Dunwoodie Bulloch and Irvine Bulloch,
came to visit us shortly after the close of the war. Both came under
assumed names, as they were among the Confederates who were at that time
exempted from the amnesty. "Uncle Jimmy" Bulloch was a dear old retired
sea-captain, utterly unable to "get on" in the worldly sense of that
phrase, as valiant and simple and upright a soul as ever lived, a
veritable Colonel Newcome. He was an Admiral in the Confederate navy,
and was the builder of the famous Confederate war vessel Alabama. My
uncle Irvine Bulloch was a midshipman on the _Alabama_, and fired
the last gun discharged from her batteries in the fight with the
_Kearsarge_. Both of these uncles lived in Liverpool after the war.
My uncle Jimmy Bulloch was forgiving and just in reference to the
Union forces, and could discuss all phases of the Civil War with entire
fairness and generosity. But in English politics he promptly became a
Tory of the most ultra-conservative school. Lincoln and Grant he could
admire, but he would not listen to anything in favor of Mr. Gladstone.
The only occasions on which I ever shook his faith in me were when I
would venture meekly to suggest that some of the manifestly preposterous
falsehoods about Mr. Gladstone could not be true. My uncle was one of
the best men I have ever known, and when I have sometimes been tempted
to wonder how good people can believe of me the unjust and impossible
things they do believe, I have consoled myself by thinking of Uncle
Jimmy Bulloch's perfectly sincere conviction that Gladstone was a man of
quite exceptional and nameless infamy in both public and private life.
I was a sickly, delicate boy, suffered much from asthma, and frequently
had to be taken away on trips to find a place where I could breathe. One
of my memories is of my father walking up and down the room with me in
his arms at night when I was a very small person, and of sitting up in
bed gasping, with my father and mother trying to help me. I went very
little to school. I never went to the public schools, as my own children
later did, both at the "Cove School" at Oyster Bay and at the "Ford
School" in Washington. For a few months I attended Professor McMullen's
school in Twentieth Street near the house where I was born, but most of
the time I had tutors. As I have already said, my aunt taught me when
I was small. At one time we had a French governess, a loved and valued
"mam'selle," in the household.
When I was ten years old I made my first journey to Europe. My birthday
was spent in Cologne, and in order to give me a thoroughly "party"
feeling I remember that my mother put on full dress for my birthday
dinner. I do not think I gained anything from this particular trip
abroad. I cordially hated it, as did my younger brother and sister.
Practically all the enjoyment we had was in exploring any ruins or
mountains when we could get away from our elders, and in playing in
the different hotels. Our one desire was to get back to America, and
we regarded Europe with the most ignorant chauvinism and contempt. Four
years later, however, I made another journey to Europe, and was old
enough to enjoy it thoroughly and profit by it.
While still a small boy I began to take an interest in natural history.
I remember distinctly the first day that I started on my career as
zoologist. I was walking up Broadway, and as I passed the market to
which I used sometimes to be sent before breakfast to get strawberries I
suddenly saw a dead seal laid out on a slab of wood. That seal filled me
with every possible feeling of romance and adventure. I asked where it
was killed, and was informed in the harbor. I had already begun to read
some of Mayne Reid's books and other boys' books of adventure, and I
felt that this seal brought all these adventures in realistic
fashion before me. As long as that seal remained there I haunted the
neighborhood of the market day after day. I measured it, and I recall
that, not having a tape measure, I had to do my best to get its girth
with a folding pocket foot-rule, a difficult undertaking. I carefully
made a record of the utterly useless measurements, and at once began to
write a natural history of my own, on the strength of that seal. This,
and subsequent natural histories, were written down in blank books in
simplified spelling, wholly unpremeditated and unscientific. I had vague
aspirations of in some way or another owning and preserving that seal,
but they never got beyond the purely formless stage. I think, however,
I did get the seal's skull, and with two of my cousins promptly started
what we ambitiously called the "Roosevelt Museum of Natural History."
The collections were at first kept in my room, until a rebellion on the
part of the chambermaid received the approval of the higher authorities
of the household and the collection was moved up to a kind of bookcase
in the back hall upstairs. It was the ordinary small boy's collection
of curios, quite incongruous and entirely valueless except from the
standpoint of the boy himself. My father and mother encouraged me warmly
in this, as they always did in anything that could give me wholesome
pleasure or help to develop me.
The adventure of the seal and the novels of Mayne Reid together
strengthened my instinctive interest in natural history. I was too young
to understand much of Mayne Reid, excepting the adventure part and the
natural history part--these enthralled me. But of course my reading was
not wholly confined to natural history. There was very little effort
made to compel me to read books, my father and mother having the good
sense not to try to get me to read anything I did not like, unless it
was in the way of study. I was given the chance to read books that they
thought I ought to read, but if I did not like them I was then given
some other good book that I did like. There were certain books that were
taboo. For instance, I was not allowed to read dime novels. I obtained
some surreptitiously and did read them, but I do not think that the
enjoyment compensated for the feeling of guilt. I was also forbidden to
read the only one of Ouida's books which I wished to read--"Under Two
Flags." I did read it, nevertheless, with greedy and fierce hope of
coming on something unhealthy; but as a matter of fact all the parts
that might have seemed unhealthy to an older person made no impression
on me whatever. I simply enjoyed in a rather confused way the general
adventures.
I think there ought to be children's books. I think that the child will
like grown-up books also, and I do not believe a child's book is really
good unless grown-ups get something out of it. For instance, there is a
book I did not have when I was a child because it was not written. It is
Laura E. Richard's "Nursery Rhymes." My own children loved them dearly,
and their mother and I loved them almost equally; the delightfully
light-hearted "Man from New Mexico who Lost his Grandmother out in the
Snow," the adventures of "The Owl, the Eel, and the Warming-Pan," and
the extraordinary genealogy of the kangaroo whose "father was a whale
with a feather in his tail who lived in the Greenland sea," while "his
mother was a shark who kept very dark in the Gulf of Caribee."
As a small boy I had _Our Young Folks_, which I then firmly believed
to be the very best magazine in the world--a belief, I may add, which I
have kept to this day unchanged, for I seriously doubt if any magazine
for old or young has ever surpassed it. Both my wife and I have the
bound volumes of _Our Young Folks_ which we preserved from our youth. I
have tried to read again the Mayne Reid books which I so dearly loved as
a boy, only to find, alas! that it is impossible. But I really believe
that I enjoy going over _Our Young Folks_ now nearly as much as ever.
"Cast Away in the Cold," "Grandfather's Struggle for a Homestead," "The
William Henry Letters," and a dozen others like them were first-class,
good healthy stories, interesting in the first place, and in the next
place teaching manliness, decency, and good conduct. At the cost of
being deemed effeminate, I will add that I greatly liked the girls'
stories--"Pussy Willow" and "A Summer in Leslie Goldthwaite's
Life," just as I worshiped "Little Men" and "Little Women" and "An
Old-Fashioned Girl."
This enjoyment of the gentler side of life did not prevent my reveling
in such tales of adventure as Ballantyne's stories, or Marryat's
"Midshipman Easy." I suppose everybody has kinks in him, and even as
a child there were books which I ought to have liked and did not. For
instance, I never cared at all for the first part of "Robinson Crusoe"
(and although it is unquestionably the best part, I do not care for it
now); whereas the second part, containing the adventures of Robinson
Crusoe, with the wolves in the Pyrenees, and out in the Far East, simply
fascinated me. What I did like in the first part were the adventures
before Crusoe finally reached his island, the fight with the Sallee
Rover, and the allusion to the strange beasts at night taking their
improbable bath in the ocean. Thanks to being already an embryo
zoologist, I disliked the "Swiss Family Robinson" because of the wholly
impossible collection of animals met by that worthy family as they
ambled inland from the wreck. Even in poetry it was the relation of
adventures that most appealed to me as a boy. At a pretty early age I
began to read certain books of poetry, notably Longfellow's poem,
"The Saga of King Olaf," which absorbed me. This introduced me to
Scandinavian literature; and I have never lost my interest in and
affection for it.
Among my first books was a volume of a hopelessly unscientific kind by
Mayne Reid, about mammals, illustrated with pictures no more artistic
than but quite as thrilling as those in the typical school geography.
When my father found how deeply interested I was in this not very
accurate volume, he gave me a little book by J. G. Wood, the English
writer of popular books on natural history, and then a larger one of his
called "Homes Without Hands." Both of these were cherished possessions.
They were studied eagerly; and they finally descended to my children.
The "Homes Without Hands," by the way, grew to have an added association
in connection with a pedagogical failure on my part. In accordance
with what I believed was some kind of modern theory of making education
interesting and not letting it become a task, I endeavored to teach my
eldest small boy one or two of his letters from the title-page. As the
letter "H" appeared in the title an unusual number of times, I selected
that to begin on, my effort being to keep the small boy interested, not
to let him realize that he was learning a lesson, and to convince him
that he was merely having a good time. Whether it was the theory or my
method of applying it that was defective I do not know, but I certainly
absolutely eradicated from his brain any ability to learn what "H" was;
and long after he had learned all the other letters of the alphabet in
the old-fashioned way, he proved wholly unable to remember "H" under any
circumstances.
Quite unknown to myself, I was, while a boy, under a hopeless
disadvantage in studying nature. I was very near-sighted, so that the
only things I could study were those I ran against or stumbled over.
When I was about thirteen I was allowed to take lessons in taxidermy
from a Mr. Bell, a tall, clean-shaven, white-haired old gentleman, as
straight as an Indian, who had been a companion of Audubon's. He had
a musty little shop, somewhat on the order of Mr. Venus's shop in "Our
Mutual Friend," a little shop in which he had done very valuable work
for science. This "vocational study," as I suppose it would be called
by modern educators, spurred and directed my interest in collecting
specimens for mounting and preservation. It was this summer that I got
my first gun, and it puzzled me to find that my companions seemed to see
things to shoot at which I could not see at all. One day they read aloud
an advertisement in huge letters on a distant billboard, and I then
realized that something was the matter, for not only was I unable to
read the sign but I could not even see the letters. I spoke of this to
my father, and soon afterwards got my first pair of spectacles,
which literally opened an entirely new world to me. I had no idea how
beautiful the world was until I got those spectacles. I had been a
clumsy and awkward little boy, and while much of my clumsiness and
awkwardness was doubtless due to general characteristics, a good deal of
it was due to the fact that I could not see and yet was wholly ignorant
that I was not seeing. The recollection of this experience gives me
a keen sympathy with those who are trying in our public schools and
elsewhere to remove the physical causes of deficiency in children,
who are often unjustly blamed for being obstinate or unambitious, or
mentally stupid.
This same summer, too, I obtained various new books on mammals and
birds, including the publications of Spencer Baird, for instance, and
made an industrious book-study of the subject. I did not accomplish
much in outdoor study because I did not get spectacles until late in the
fall, a short time before I started with the rest of the family for a
second trip to Europe. We were living at Dobbs Ferry, on the Hudson. My
gun was a breech-loading, pin-fire double-barrel, of French manufacture.
It was an excellent gun for a clumsy and often absent-minded boy. There
was no spring to open it, and if the mechanism became rusty it could be
opened with a brick without serious damage. When the cartridges stuck
they could be removed in the same fashion. If they were loaded, however,
the result was not always happy, and I tattooed myself with partially
unburned grains of powder more than once.
When I was fourteen years old, in the winter of '72 and '73, I visited
Europe for the second time, and this trip formed a really useful part of
my education. We went to Egypt, journeyed up the Nile, traveled through
the Holy Land and part of Syria, visited Greece and Constantinople;
and then we children spent the summer in a German family in Dresden. My
first real collecting as a student of natural history was done in Egypt
during this journey. By this time I had a good working knowledge of
American bird life from the superficially scientific standpoint. I had
no knowledge of the ornithology of Egypt, but I picked up in Cairo
a book by an English clergyman, whose name I have now forgotten, who
described a trip up the Nile, and in an appendix to his volume gave an
account of his bird collection. I wish I could remember the name of the
author now, for I owe that book very much. Without it I should have been
collecting entirely in the dark, whereas with its aid I could generally
find out what the birds were. My first knowledge of Latin was obtained
by learning the scientific names of the birds and mammals which I
collected and classified by the aid of such books as this one.
The birds I obtained up the Nile and in Palestine represented merely the
usual boy's collection. Some years afterward I gave them, together with
the other ornithological specimens I had gathered, to the Smithsonian
Institution in Washington, and I think some of them also to the American
Museum of Natural History in New York. I am told that the skins are to
be found yet in both places and in other public collections. I doubt
whether they have my original labels on them. With great pride the
directors of the "Roosevelt Museum," consisting of myself and the two
cousins aforesaid, had printed a set of Roosevelt Museum labels in pink
ink preliminary to what was regarded as my adventurous trip to Egypt.
This bird-collecting gave what was really the chief zest to my Nile
journey. I was old enough and had read enough to enjoy the temples and
the desert scenery and the general feeling of romance; but this in time
would have palled if I had not also had the serious work of collecting
and preparing my specimens. Doubtless the family had their moments of
suffering--especially on one occasion when a well-meaning maid extracted
from my taxidermist's outfit the old tooth-brush with which I put on
the skins the arsenical soap necessary for their preservation, partially
washed it, and left it with the rest of my wash kit for my own personal
use. I suppose that all growing boys tend to be grubby; but the
ornithological small boy, or indeed the boy with the taste for natural
history of any kind, is generally the very grubbiest of all. An added
element in my case was the fact that while in Egypt I suddenly started
to grow. As there were no tailors up the Nile, when I got back to Cairo
I needed a new outfit. But there was one suit of clothes too good to
throw away, which we kept for a "change," and which was known as my
"Smike suit," because it left my wrists and ankles as bare as those of
poor Smike himself.
When we reached Dresden we younger children were left to spend the
summer in the house of Herr Minckwitz, a member of either the Municipal
or the Saxon Government--I have forgotten which. It was hoped that in
this way we would acquire some knowledge of the German language and
literature. They were the very kindest family imaginable. I shall never
forget the unwearied patience of the two daughters. The father and
mother, and a shy, thin, student cousin who was living in the flat,
were no less kind. Whenever I could get out into the country I collected
specimens industriously and enlivened the household with hedge-hogs
and other small beasts and reptiles which persisted in escaping from
partially closed bureau drawers. The two sons were fascinating students
from the University of Leipsic, both of them belonging to dueling corps,
and much scarred in consequence. One, a famous swordsman, was called
_Der Rothe Herzog_ (the Red Duke), and the other was nicknamed _Herr
Nasehorn_ (Sir Rhinoceros) because the tip of his nose had been cut off
in a duel and sewn on again. I learned a good deal of German here,
in spite of myself, and above all I became fascinated with the
Nibelungenlied. German prose never became really easy to me in the sense
that French prose did, but for German poetry I cared as much as for
English poetry. Above all, I gained an impression of the German people
which I never got over. From that time to this it would have been quite
impossible to make me feel that the Germans were really foreigners.
The affection, the _Gemuthlichkeit_ (a quality which cannot be exactly
expressed by any single English word), the capacity for hard work, the
sense of duty, the delight in studying literature and science, the pride
in the new Germany, the more than kind and friendly interest in three
strange children--all these manifestations of the German character and
of German family life made a subconscious impression upon me which I did
not in the least define at the time, but which is very vivid still forty
years later.
When I got back to America, at the age of fifteen, I began serious study
to enter Harvard under Mr. Arthur Cutler, who later founded the Cutler
School in New York. I could not go to school because I knew so much less
than most boys of my age in some subjects and so much more in others. In
science and history and geography and in unexpected parts of German
and French I was strong, but lamentably weak in Latin and Greek and
mathematics. My grandfather had made his summer home in Oyster Bay a
number of years before, and my father now made Oyster Bay the summer
home of his family also. Along with my college preparatory studies I
carried on the work of a practical student of natural history. I worked
with greater industry than either intelligence or success, and made very
few additions to the sum of human knowledge; but to this day certain
obscure ornithological publications may be found in which are recorded
such items as, for instance, that on one occasion a fish-crow, and on
another an Ipswich sparrow, were obtained by one Theodore Roosevelt,
Jr., at Oyster Bay, on the shore of Long Island Sound.
In the fall of 1876 I entered Harvard, graduating in 1880. I thoroughly
enjoyed Harvard, and I am sure it did me good, but only in the general
effect, for there was very little in my actual studies which helped me
in after life. More than one of my own sons have already profited by
their friendship with certain of their masters in school or college. I
certainly profited by my friendship with one of my tutors, Mr. Cutler;
and in Harvard I owed much to the professor of English, Mr. A. S. Hill.
Doubtless through my own fault, I saw almost nothing of President Eliot
and very little of the professors. I ought to have gained much more than
I did gain from writing the themes and forensics. My failure to do
so may have been partly due to my taking no interest in the subjects.
Before I left Harvard I was already writing one or two chapters of a
book I afterwards published on the Naval War of 1812. Those chapters
were so dry that they would have made a dictionary seem light reading by
comparison. Still, they represented purpose and serious interest on
my part, not the perfunctory effort to do well enough to get a certain
mark; and corrections of them by a skilled older man would have
impressed me and have commanded my respectful attention. But I was not
sufficiently developed to make myself take an intelligent interest in
some of the subjects assigned me--the character of the Gracchi, for
instance. A very clever and studious lad would no doubt have done so,
but I personally did not grow up to this particular subject until a good
many years later. The frigate and sloop actions between the American
and British sea-tigers of 1812 were much more within my grasp. I
worked drearily at the Gracchi because I had to; my conscientious
and much-to-be-pitied professor dragging me through the theme by main
strength, with my feet firmly planted in dull and totally idea-proof
resistance.
I had at the time no idea of going into public life, and I never studied
elocution or practiced debating. This was a loss to me in one way. In
another way it was not. Personally I have not the slightest sympathy
with debating contests in which each side is arbitrarily assigned a
given proposition and told to maintain it without the least reference to
whether those maintaining it believe in it or not. I know that under our
system this is necessary for lawyers, but I emphatically disbelieve in
it as regards general discussion of political, social, and industrial
matters. What we need is to turn out of our colleges young men with
ardent convictions on the side of the right; not young men who can make
a good argument for either right or wrong as their interest bids them.
The present method of carrying on debates on such subjects as "Our
Colonial Policy," or "The Need of a Navy," or "The Proper Position of
the Courts in Constitutional Questions," encourages precisely the
wrong attitude among those who take part in them. There is no effort to
instill sincerity and intensity of conviction. On the contrary, the
net result is to make the contestants feel that their convictions have
nothing to do with their arguments. I am sorry I did not study elocution
in college; but I am exceedingly glad that I did not take part in the
type of debate in which stress is laid, not upon getting a speaker to
think rightly, but on getting him to talk glibly on the side to which
he is assigned, without regard either to what his convictions are or to
what they ought to be.
I was a reasonably good student in college, standing just within the
first tenth of my class, if I remember rightly; although I am not sure
whether this means the tenth of the whole number that entered or of
those that graduated. I was given a Phi Beta Kappa "key." My chief
interests were scientific. When I entered college, I was devoted to
out-of-doors natural history, and my ambition was to be a scientific
man of the Audubon, or Wilson, or Baird, or Coues type--a man like Hart
Merriam, or Frank Chapman, or Hornaday, to-day. My father had from the
earliest days instilled into me the knowledge that I was to work and to
make my own way in the world, and I had always supposed that this meant
that I must enter business. But in my freshman year (he died when I was
a sophomore) he told me that if I wished to become a scientific man I
could do so. He explained that I must be sure that I really intensely
desired to do scientific work, because if I went into it I must make it
a serious career; that he had made enough money to enable me to take up
such a career and do non-remunerative work of value _if I intended to do
the very best work there was in me_; but that I must not dream of taking
it up as a dilettante. He also gave me a piece of advice that I have
always remembered, namely, that, if I was not going to earn money, I
must even things up by not spending it. As he expressed it, I had
to keep the fraction constant, and if I was not able to increase the
numerator, then I must reduce the denominator. In other words, if I went
into a scientific career, I must definitely abandon all thought of the
enjoyment that could accompany a money-making career, and must find my
pleasures elsewhere.
After this conversation I fully intended to make science my life-work. I
did not, for the simple reason that at that time Harvard, and I suppose
our other colleges, utterly ignored the possibilities of the faunal
naturalist, the outdoor naturalist and observer of nature. They treated
biology as purely a science of the laboratory and the microscope, a
science whose adherents were to spend their time in the study of minute
forms of marine life, or else in section-cutting and the study of the
tissues of the higher organisms under the microscope. This attitude was,
no doubt, in part due to the fact that in most colleges then there was
a not always intelligent copying of what was done in the great German
universities. The sound revolt against superficiality of study had been
carried to an extreme; thoroughness in minutiae as the only end of study
had been erected into a fetish. There was a total failure to understand
the great variety of kinds of work that could be done by naturalists,
including what could be done by outdoor naturalists--the kind of work
which Hart Merriam and his assistants in the Biological Survey have
carried to such a high degree of perfection as regards North American
mammals. In the entirely proper desire to be thorough and to avoid
slipshod methods, the tendency was to treat as not serious, as
unscientific, any kind of work that was not carried on with laborious
minuteness in the laboratory. My taste was specialized in a totally
different direction, and I had no more desire or ability to be a
microscopist and section-cutter than to be a mathematician. Accordingly
I abandoned all thought of becoming a scientist. Doubtless this meant
that I really did not have the intense devotion to science which I
thought I had; for, if I had possessed such devotion, I would
have carved out a career for myself somehow without regard to
discouragements.
As regards political economy, I was of course while in college taught
the _laissez-faire_ doctrines--one of them being free trade--then
accepted as canonical. Most American boys of my age were taught both by
their surroundings and by their studies certain principles which were
very valuable from the standpoint of National interest, and certain
others which were very much the reverse. The political economists were
not especially to blame for this; it was the general attitude of the
writers who wrote for us of that generation. Take my beloved _Our Young
Folks_, the magazine of which I have already spoken, and which taught
me much more than any of my text-books. Everything in this magazine
instilled the individual virtues, and the necessity of character as the
chief factor in any man's success--a teaching in which I now believe as
sincerely as ever, for all the laws that the wit of man can devise will
never make a man a worthy citizen unless he has within himself the
right stuff, unless he has self-reliance, energy, courage, the power of
insisting on his own rights and the sympathy that makes him regardful of
the rights of others. All this individual morality I was taught by the
books I read at home and the books I studied at Harvard. But there was
almost no teaching of the need for collective action, and of the fact
that in addition to, not as a substitute for, individual responsibility,
there is a collective responsibility. Books such as Herbert Croly's
"Promise of American Life" and Walter E. Weyl's "New Democracy" would
generally at that time have been treated either as unintelligible or
else as pure heresy.
The teaching which I received was genuinely democratic in one way. It
was not so democratic in another. I grew into manhood thoroughly imbued
with the feeling that a man must be respected for what he made of
himself. But I had also, consciously or unconsciously, been taught that
socially and industrially pretty much the whole duty of the man lay
in thus making the best of himself; that he should be honest in his
dealings with others and charitable in the old-fashioned way to the
unfortunate; but that it was no part of his business to join with others
in trying to make things better for the many by curbing the abnormal and
excessive development of individualism in a few. Now I do not mean that
this training was by any means all bad. On the contrary, the insistence
upon individual responsibility was, and is, and always will be, a prime
necessity. Teaching of the kind I absorbed from both my text-books and
my surroundings is a healthy anti-scorbutic to the sentimentality which
by complacently excusing the individual for all his shortcomings would
finally hopelessly weaken the spring of moral purpose. It also keeps
alive that virile vigor for the lack of which in the average individual
no possible perfection of law or of community action can ever atone. But
such teaching, if not corrected by other teaching, means acquiescence
in a riot of lawless business individualism which would be quite as
destructive to real civilization as the lawless military individualism
of the Dark Ages. I left college and entered the big world owing more
than I can express to the training I had received, especially in my own
home; but with much else also to learn if I were to become really fitted
to do my part in the work that lay ahead for the generation of Americans
to which I belonged.
CHAPTER II
THE VIGOR OF LIFE
Looking back, a man really has a more objective feeling about himself
as a child than he has about his father or mother. He feels as if that
child were not the present he, individually, but an ancestor; just as
much an ancestor as either of his parents. The saying that the child is
the father to the man may be taken in a sense almost the reverse of that
usually given to it. The child is father to the man in the sense that
his individuality is separate from the individuality of the grown-up
into which he turns. This is perhaps one reason why a man can speak of
his childhood and early youth with a sense of detachment.
Having been a sickly boy, with no natural bodily prowess, and having
lived much at home, I was at first quite unable to hold my own when
thrown into contact with other boys of rougher antecedents. I was
nervous and timid. Yet from reading of the people I admired--ranging
from the soldiers of Valley Forge, and Morgan's riflemen, to the heroes
of my favorite stories--and from hearing of the feats performed by my
Southern forefathers and kinsfolk, and from knowing my father, I felt a
great admiration for men who were fearless and who could hold their
own in the world, and I had a great desire to be like them. Until I
was nearly fourteen I let this desire take no more definite shape than
day-dreams. Then an incident happened that did me real good. Having an
attack of asthma, I was sent off by myself to Moosehead Lake. On the
stage-coach ride thither I encountered a couple of other boys who
were about my own age, but very much more competent and also much more
mischievous. I have no doubt they were good-hearted boys, but they were
boys! They found that I was a foreordained and predestined victim, and
industriously proceeded to make life miserable for me. The worst feature
was that when I finally tried to fight them I discovered that either one
singly could not only handle me with easy contempt, but handle me so as
not to hurt me much and yet to prevent my doing any damage whatever in
return.
The experience taught me what probably no amount of good advice could
have taught me. I made up my mind that I must try to learn so that I
would not again be put in such a helpless position; and having become
quickly and bitterly conscious that I did not have the natural prowess
to hold my own, I decided that I would try to supply its place by
training. Accordingly, with my father's hearty approval, I started to
learn to box. I was a painfully slow and awkward pupil, and certainly
worked two or three years before I made any perceptible improvement
whatever. My first boxing-master was John Long, an ex-prize-fighter. I
can see his rooms now, with colored pictures of the fights between Tom
Hyer and Yankee Sullivan, and Heenan and Sayers, and other great events
in the annals of the squared circle. On one occasion, to excite interest
among his patrons, he held a series of "championship" matches for the
different weights, the prizes being, at least in my own class, pewter
mugs of a value, I should suppose, approximating fifty cents. Neither
he nor I had any idea that I could do anything, but I was entered in
the lightweight contest, in which it happened that I was pitted in
succession against a couple of reedy striplings who were even worse than
I was. Equally to their surprise and to my own, and to John Long's, I
won, and the pewter mug became one of my most prized possessions. I
kept it, and alluded to it, and I fear bragged about it, for a number
of years, and I only wish I knew where it was now. Years later I read
an account of a little man who once in a fifth-rate handicap race won
a worthless pewter medal and joyed in it ever after. Well, as soon as I
read that story I felt that that little man and I were brothers.
This was, as far as I remember, the only one of my exceedingly rare
athletic triumphs which would be worth relating. I did a good deal of
boxing and wrestling in Harvard, but never attained to the first rank in
either, even at my own weight. Once, in the big contests in the Gym,
I got either into the finals or semi-finals, I forget which; but aside
from this the chief part I played was to act as trial horse for some
friend or classmate who did have a chance of distinguishing himself in
the championship contests.
I was fond of horseback-riding, but I took to it slowly and with
difficulty, exactly as with boxing. It was a long time before I became
even a respectable rider, and I never got much higher. I mean by this
that I never became a first-flight man in the hunting field, and never
even approached the bronco-busting class in the West. Any man, if
he chooses, can gradually school himself to the requisite nerve, and
gradually learn the requisite seat and hands, that will enable him to do
respectably across country, or to perform the average work on a ranch.
Of my ranch experiences I shall speak later. At intervals after leaving
college I hunted on Long Island with the Meadowbrook hounds. Almost the
only experience I ever had in this connection that was of any interest
was on one occasion when I broke my arm. My purse did not permit me to
own expensive horses. On this occasion I was riding an animal, a buggy
horse originally, which its owner sold because now and then it insisted
on thoughtfully lying down when in harness. It never did this under the
saddle; and when he turned it out to grass it would solemnly hop over
the fence and get somewhere where it did not belong. The last trait
was what converted it into a hunter. It was a natural jumper, although
without any speed. On the hunt in question I got along very well until
the pace winded my ex-buggy horse, and it turned a somersault over a
fence. When I got on it after the fall I found I could not use my left
arm. I supposed it was merely a strain. The buggy horse was a sedate
animal which I rode with a snaffle. So we pounded along at the tail of
the hunt, and I did not appreciate that my arm was broken for three or
four fences. Then we came to a big drop, and the jar made the bones slip
past one another so as to throw the hand out of position. It did not
hurt me at all, and as the horse was as easy to sit as a rocking-chair,
I got in at the death.
I think August Belmont was master of the hunt when the above incident
occurred. I know he was master on another occasion on which I met with
a mild adventure. On one of the hunts when I was out a man was thrown,
dragged by one stirrup, and killed. In consequence I bought a pair of
safety stirrups, which I used the next time I went out. Within five
minutes after the run began I found that the stirrups were so very
"safe" that they would not stay in at all. First one went off at one
jump, and then the other at another jump--with a fall for me on each
occasion. I hated to give up the fun so early, and accordingly finished
the run without any stirrups. My horse never went as fast as on that
run. Doubtless a first-class horseman can ride as well without stirrups
as with them. But I was not a first-class horseman. When anything
unexpected happened, I was apt to clasp the solemn buggy horse firmly
with my spurred heels, and the result was that he laid himself out to do
his best in the way of galloping. He speedily found that, thanks to the
snaffle bit, I could not pull him in, so when we came to a down grade he
would usually put on steam. Then if there was a fence at the bottom and
he checked at all, I was apt to shoot forward, and in such event we went
over the fence in a way that reminded me of Leech's picture, in _Punch_,
of Mr. Tom Noddy and his mare jumping a fence in the following order:
Mr. Tom Noddy, I; his mare, II. However, I got in at the death this time
also.
I was fond of walking and climbing. As a lad I used to go to the north
woods, in Maine, both in fall and winter. There I made life friends
of two men, Will Dow and Bill Sewall: I canoed with them, and tramped
through the woods with them, visiting the winter logging camps on
snow-shoes. Afterward they were with me in the West. Will Dow is dead.
Bill Sewall was collector of customs under me, on the Aroostook border.
Except when hunting I never did any mountaineering save for a couple of
conventional trips up the Matterhorn and the Jungfrau on one occasion
when I was in Switzerland.
I never did much with the shotgun, but I practiced a good deal with the
rifle. I had a rifle-range at Sagamore Hill, where I often took friends
to shoot. Once or twice when I was visited by parties of released Boer
prisoners, after the close of the South African War, they and I held
shooting matches together. The best man with both pistol and rifle who
ever shot there was Stewart Edward White. Among the many other good
men was a stanch friend, Baron Speck von Sternberg, afterwards German
Ambassador at Washington during my Presidency. He was a capital shot,
rider, and walker, a devoted and most efficient servant of Germany, who
had fought with distinction in the Franco-German War when barely more
than a boy; he was the hero of the story of "the pig dog" in Archibald
Forbes's volume of reminiscences. It was he who first talked over with
me the raising of a regiment of horse riflemen from among the ranchmen
and cowboys of the plains. When Ambassador, the poor, gallant,
tender-hearted fellow was dying of a slow and painful disease, so that
he could not play with the rest of us, but the agony of his mortal
illness never in the slightest degree interfered with his work.
Among the other men who shot and rode and walked with me was Cecil
Spring-Rice, who has just been appointed British Ambassador to the
United States. He was my groomsman, my best man, when I was married--at
St. George's, Hanover Square, which made me feel as if I were living in
one of Thackeray's novels.
My own experience as regards marksmanship was much the same as my
experience as regards horsemanship. There are men whose eye and hand are
so quick and so sure that they achieve a perfection of marksmanship to
which no practice will enable ordinary men to attain. There are other
men who cannot learn to shoot with any accuracy at all. In between come
the mass of men of ordinary abilities who, if they choose resolutely to
practice, can by sheer industry and judgment make themselves fair rifle
shots. The men who show this requisite industry and judgment can without
special difficulty raise themselves to the second class of respectable
rifle shots; and it is to this class that I belong. But to have reached
this point of marksmanship with the rifle at a target by no means
implies ability to hit game in the field, especially dangerous game. All
kinds of other qualities, moral and physical, enter into being a good
hunter, and especially a good hunter after dangerous game, just as all
kinds of other qualities in addition to skill with the rifle enter
into being a good soldier. With dangerous game, after a fair degree of
efficiency with the rifle has been attained, the prime requisites are
cool judgment and that kind of nerve which consists in avoiding being
rattled. Any beginner is apt to have "buck fever," and therefore no
beginner should go at dangerous game.
Buck fever means a state of intense nervous excitement which may be
entirely divorced from timidity. It may affect a man the first time he
has to speak to a large audience just as it affects him the first time
he sees a buck or goes into battle. What such a man needs is not courage
but nerve control, cool-headedness. This he can get only by actual
practice. He must, by custom and repeated exercise of self-mastery, get
his nerves thoroughly under control. This is largely a matter of habit,
in the sense of repeated effort and repeated exercise of will power. If
the man has the right stuff in him, his will grows stronger and stronger
with each exercise of it--and if he has not the right stuff in him he
had better keep clear of dangerous game hunting, or indeed of any other
form of sport or work in which there is bodily peril.
After he has achieved the ability to exercise wariness and judgment and
the control over his nerves _which will make him shoot as well at the
game as at a target_, he can begin his essays at dangerous game hunting,
and he will then find that it does not demand such abnormal prowess as
the outsider is apt to imagine. A man who can hit a soda-water bottle at
the distance of a few yards can brain a lion or a bear or an elephant at
that distance, and if he cannot brain it when it charges he can at least
bring it to a standstill. All he has to do is to shoot as accurately as
he would at a soda-water bottle; and to do this requires nerve, at least
as much as it does physical address. Having reached this point, the
hunter must not imagine that he is warranted in taking desperate
chances. There are degrees in proficiency; and what is a warrantable and
legitimate risk for a man to take when he has reached a certain grade of
efficiency may be a foolish risk for him to take before he has reached
that grade. A man who has reached the degree of proficiency indicated
above is quite warranted in walking in at a lion at bay, in an open
plain, to, say, within a hundred yards. If the lion has not charged, the
man ought at that distance to knock him over and prevent his charging;
and if the lion is already charging, the man ought at that distance to
be able to stop him. But the amount of prowess which warrants a man
in relying on his ability to perform this feat does not by any means
justify him in thinking that, for instance, he can crawl after a wounded
lion into thick cover. I have known men of indifferent prowess to
perform this latter feat successfully, but at least as often they have
been unsuccessful, and in these cases the result has been unpleasant.
The man who habitually follows wounded lions into thick cover must be
a hunter of the highest skill, or he can count with certainty on an
ultimate mauling.
The first two or three bucks I ever saw gave me buck fever badly, but
after I had gained experience with ordinary game I never had buck fever
at all with dangerous game. In my case the overcoming of buck fever
was the result of conscious effort and a deliberate determination
to overcome it. More happily constituted men never have to make this
determined effort at all--which may perhaps show that the average
man can profit more from my experiences than he can from those of the
exceptional man.
I have shot only five kinds of animals which can fairly be called
dangerous game--that is, the lion, elephant, rhinoceros, and buffalo
in Africa, and the big grizzly bear a quarter of a century ago in the
Rockies. Taking into account not only my own personal experience, but
the experiences of many veteran hunters, I regard all the four African
animals, but especially the lion, elephant, and buffalo, as much more
dangerous than the grizzly. As it happened, however, the only narrow
escape I personally ever had was from a grizzly, and in Africa the
animal killed closest to me as it was charging was a rhinoceros--all of
which goes to show that a man must not generalize too broadly from
his own personal experiences. On the whole, I think the lion the most
dangerous of all these five animals; that is, I think that, if fairly
hunted, there is a larger percentage of hunters killed or mauled for a
given number of lions killed than for a given number of any one of the
other animals. Yet I personally had no difficulties with lions. I twice
killed lions which were at bay and just starting to charge, and I killed
a heavy-maned male while it was in full charge. But in each instance I
had plenty of leeway, the animal being so far off that even if my bullet
had not been fatal I should have had time for a couple more shots. The
African buffalo is undoubtedly a dangerous beast, but it happened that
the few that I shot did not charge. A bull elephant, a vicious "rogue,"
which had been killing people in the native villages, did charge before
being shot at. My son Kermit and I stopped it at forty yards. Another
bull elephant, also unwounded, which charged, nearly got me, as I
had just fired both cartridges from my heavy double-barreled rifle in
killing the bull I was after--the first wild elephant I had ever seen.
The second bull came through the thick brush to my left like a steam
plow through a light snowdrift, everything snapping before his rush, and
was so near that he could have hit me with his trunk. I slipped past
him behind a tree. People have asked me how I felt on this occasion.
My answer has always been that I suppose I felt as most men of like
experience feel on such occasions. At such a moment a hunter is so
very busy that he has no time to get frightened. He wants to get in his
cartridges and try another shot.
Rhinoceros are truculent, blustering beasts, much the most stupid of
all the dangerous game I know. Generally their attitude is one of mere
stupidity and bluff. But on occasions they do charge wickedly, both when
wounded and when entirely unprovoked. The first I ever shot I mortally
wounded at a few rods' distance, and it charged with the utmost
determination, whereat I and my companion both fired, and more by good
luck than anything else brought it to the ground just thirteen paces
from where we stood. Another rhinoceros may or may not have been meaning
to charge me; I have never been certain which. It heard us and came at
us through rather thick brush, snorting and tossing its head. I am by
no means sure that it had fixedly hostile intentions, and indeed with
my present experience I think it likely that if I had not fired it would
have flinched at the last moment and either retreated or gone by me.
But I am not a rhinoceros mind reader, and its actions were such as to
warrant my regarding it as a suspicious character. I stopped it with a
couple of bullets, and then followed it up and killed it. The skins
of all these animals which I thus killed are in the National Museum at
Washington.
But, as I said above, the only narrow escape I met with was not from
one of these dangerous African animals, but from a grizzly bear. It was
about twenty-four years ago. I had wounded the bear just at sunset, in a
wood of lodge-pole pines, and, following him, I wounded him again, as he
stood on the other side of a thicket. He then charged through the brush,
coming with such speed and with such an irregular gait that, try as I
would, I was not able to get the sight of my rifle on the brain-pan,
though I hit him very hard with both the remaining barrels of my
magazine Winchester. It was in the days of black powder, and the smoke
hung. After my last shot, the first thing I saw was the bear's left paw
as he struck at me, so close that I made a quick movement to one side.
He was, however, practically already dead, and after another jump, and
while in the very act of trying to turn to come at me, he collapsed like
a shot rabbit.
By the way, I had a most exasperating time trying to bring in his skin.
I was alone, traveling on foot with one very docile little mountain mare
for a pack pony. The little mare cared nothing for bears or anything
else, so there was no difficulty in packing her. But the man without
experience can hardly realize the work it was to get that bearskin off
the carcass and then to pack it, wet, slippery, and heavy, so that it
would ride evenly on the pony. I was at the time fairly well versed in
packing with a "diamond hitch," the standby of Rocky Mountain packers in
my day; but the diamond hitch is a two-man job; and even working with
a "squaw hitch," I got into endless trouble with that wet and slippery
bearskin. With infinite labor I would get the skin on the pony and run
the ropes over it until to all seeming it was fastened properly. Then
off we would start, and after going about a hundred yards I would notice
the hide beginning to bulge through between two ropes. I would shift one
of them, and then the hide would bulge somewhere else. I would shift the
rope again; and still the hide would flow slowly out as if it was lava.
The first thing I knew it would come down on one side, and the little
mare, with her feet planted resolutely, would wait for me to perform my
part by getting that bearskin back in its proper place on the McClellan
saddle which I was using as a makeshift pack saddle. The feat of killing
the bear the previous day sank into nothing compared with the feat of
making the bearskin ride properly as a pack on the following three days.
The reason why I was alone in the mountains on this occasion was
because, for the only time in all my experience, I had a difficulty with
my guide. He was a crippled old mountain man, with a profound contempt
for "tenderfeet," a contempt that in my case was accentuated by the
fact that I wore spectacles--which at that day and in that region were
usually held to indicate a defective moral character in the wearer. He
had never previously acted as guide, or, as he expressed it, "trundled
a tenderfoot," and though a good hunter, who showed me much game, our
experience together was not happy. He was very rheumatic and liked to
lie abed late, so that I usually had to get breakfast, and, in fact, do
most of the work around camp. Finally one day he declined to go out with
me, saying that he had a pain. When, that afternoon, I got back to
camp, I speedily found what the "pain" was. We were traveling very light
indeed, I having practically nothing but my buffalo sleeping-bag, my
wash kit, and a pair of socks. I had also taken a flask of whisky for
emergencies--although, as I found that the emergencies never arose
and that tea was better than whisky when a man was cold or done out, I
abandoned the practice of taking whisky on hunting trips twenty years
ago. When I got back to camp the old fellow was sitting on a tree-trunk,
very erect, with his rifle across his knees, and in response to my nod
of greeting he merely leered at me. I leaned my rifle against a tree,
walked over to where my bed was lying, and, happening to rummage in it
for something, I found the whisky flask was empty. I turned on him at
once and accused him of having drunk it, to which he merely responded by
asking what I was going to do about it. There did not seem much to do,
so I said that we would part company--we were only four or five days
from a settlement--and I would go in alone, taking one of the horses. He
responded by cocking his rifle and saying that I could go alone and be
damned to me, but I could not take any horse. I answered "all right,"
that if I could not I could not, and began to move around to get some
flour and salt pork. He was misled by my quietness and by the fact that
I had not in any way resented either his actions or his language during
the days we had been together, and did not watch me as closely as he
ought to have done. He was sitting with the cocked rifle across his
knees, the muzzle to the left. My rifle was leaning against a tree near
the cooking things to his right. Managing to get near it, I whipped it
up and threw the bead on him, calling, "Hands up!" He of course put
up his hands, and then said, "Oh, come, I was only joking"; to which I
answered, "Well, I am not. Now straighten your legs and let your rifle
go to the ground." He remonstrated, saying the rifle would go off, and
I told him to let it go off. However, he straightened his legs in such
fashion that it came to the ground without a jar. I then made him move
back, and picked up the rifle. By this time he was quite sober, and
really did not seem angry, looking at me quizzically. He told me that if
I would give him back his rifle, he would call it quits and we could go
on together. I did not think it best to trust him, so I told him that
our hunt was pretty well through, anyway, and that I would go home.
There was a blasted pine on the trail, in plain view of the camp, about
a mile off, and I told him that I would leave his rifle at that blasted
pine if I could see him in camp, but that he must not come after me,
for if he did I should assume that it was with hostile intent and would
shoot. He said he had no intention of coming after me; and as he was
very much crippled with rheumatism, I did not believe he would do so.
Accordingly I took the little mare, with nothing but some flour, bacon,
and tea, and my bed-roll, and started off. At the blasted pine I looked
round, and as I could see him in camp, I left his rifle there. I then
traveled till dark, and that night, for the only time in my experience,
I used in camping a trick of the old-time trappers in the Indian days. I
did not believe I would be followed, but still it was not possible to be
sure, so, after getting supper, while my pony fed round, I left the fire
burning, repacked the mare and pushed ahead until it literally became so
dark that I could not see. Then I picketed the mare, slept where I was
without a fire until the first streak of dawn, and then pushed on for a
couple of hours before halting to take breakfast and to let the little
mare have a good feed. No plainsman needs to be told that a man should
not lie near a fire if there is danger of an enemy creeping up on him,
and that above all a man should not put himself in a position where he
can be ambushed at dawn. On this second day I lost the trail, and toward
nightfall gave up the effort to find it, camped where I was, and went
out to shoot a grouse for supper. It was while hunting in vain for a
grouse that I came on the bear and killed it as above described.
When I reached the settlement and went into the store, the storekeeper
identified me by remarking: "You're the tenderfoot that old Hank was
trundling, ain't you?" I admitted that I was. A good many years later,
after I had been elected Vice-President, I went on a cougar hunt in
northwestern Colorado with Johnny Goff, a famous hunter and mountain
man. It was midwinter. I was rather proud of my achievements, and
pictured myself as being known to the few settlers in the neighborhood
as a successful mountain-lion hunter. I could not help grinning
when I found out that they did not even allude to me as the
Vice-President-elect, let alone as a hunter, but merely as "Johnny
Goff's tourist."
Of course during the years when I was most busy at serious work I could
do no hunting, and even my riding was of a decorous kind. But a man
whose business is sedentary should get some kind of exercise if he
wishes to keep himself in as good physical trim as his brethren who do
manual labor. When I worked on a ranch, I needed no form of exercise
except my work, but when I worked in an office the case was different.
A couple of summers I played polo with some of my neighbors. I shall
always believe we played polo in just the right way for middle-aged men
with stables of the general utility order. Of course it was polo which
was chiefly of interest to ourselves, the only onlookers being the
members of our faithful families. My two ponies were the only occupants
of my stable except a cart-horse. My wife and I rode and drove them, and
they were used for household errands and for the children, and for two
afternoons a week they served me as polo ponies. Polo is a good game,
infinitely better for vigorous men than tennis or golf or anything of
that kind. There is all the fun of football, with the horse thrown in;
and if only people would be willing to play it in simple fashion it
would be almost as much within their reach as golf. But at Oyster Bay
our great and permanent amusements were rowing and sailing; I do not
care for the latter, and am fond of the former. I suppose it sounds
archaic, but I cannot help thinking that the people with motor boats
miss a great deal. If they would only keep to rowboats or canoes, and
use oar or paddle themselves, they would get infinitely more benefit
than by having their work done for them by gasoline. But I rarely took
exercise merely as exercise. Primarily I took it because I liked it.
Play should never be allowed to interfere with work; and a life devoted
merely to play is, of all forms of existence, the most dismal. But the
joy of life is a very good thing, and while work is the essential in it,
play also has its place.
When obliged to live in cities, I for a long time found that boxing and
wrestling enabled me to get a good deal of exercise in condensed and
attractive form. I was reluctantly obliged to abandon both as I grew
older. I dropped the wrestling earliest. When I became Governor, the
champion middleweight wrestler of America happened to be in Albany, and
I got him to come round three or four afternoons a week. Incidentally
I may mention that his presence caused me a difficulty with the
Comptroller, who refused to audit a bill I put in for a wrestling-mat,
explaining that I could have a billiard-table, billiards being
recognized as a proper Gubernatorial amusement, but that a wrestling-mat
symbolized something unusual and unheard of and could not be permitted.
The middleweight champion was of course so much better than I was that
he could not only take care of himself but of me too and see that I was
not hurt--for wrestling is a much more violent amusement than boxing.
But after a couple of months he had to go away, and he left as a
substitute a good-humored, stalwart professional oarsman. The oarsman
turned out to know very little about wrestling. He could not even take
care of himself, not to speak of me. By the end of our second afternoon
one of his long ribs had been caved in and two of my short ribs badly
damaged, and my left shoulder-blade so nearly shoved out of place that
it creaked. He was nearly as pleased as I was when I told him I thought
we would "vote the war a failure" and abandon wrestling. After that I
took up boxing again. While President I used to box with some of the
aides, as well as play single-stick with General Wood. After a few years
I had to abandon boxing as well as wrestling, for in one bout a young
captain of artillery cross-countered me on the eye, and the blow smashed
the little blood-vessels. Fortunately it was my left eye, but the sight
has been dim ever since, and if it had been the right eye I should
have been entirely unable to shoot. Accordingly I thought it better
to acknowledge that I had become an elderly man and would have to stop
boxing. I then took up jiu-jitsu for a year or two.
When I was in the Legislature and was working very hard, with little
chance of getting out of doors, all the exercise I got was boxing and
wrestling. A young fellow turned up who was a second-rate prize-fighter,
the son of one of my old boxing teachers. For several weeks I had him
come round to my rooms in the morning to put on the gloves with me for
half an hour. Then he suddenly stopped, and some days later I received a
letter of woe from him from the jail. I found that he was by profession
a burglar, and merely followed boxing as the amusement of his lighter
moments, or when business was slack.
Naturally, being fond of boxing, I grew to know a good many
prize-fighters, and to most of those I knew I grew genuinely attached.
I have never been able to sympathize with the outcry against
prize-fighters. The only objection I have to the prize ring is the
crookedness that has attended its commercial development. Outside of
this I regard boxing, whether professional or amateur, as a first-class
sport, and I do not regard it as brutalizing. Of course matches can be
conducted under conditions that make them brutalizing. But this is true
of football games and of most other rough and vigorous sports. Most
certainly prize-fighting is not half as brutalizing or demoralizing
as many forms of big business and of the legal work carried on in
connection with big business. Powerful, vigorous men of strong animal
development must have some way in which their animal spirits can find
vent. When I was Police Commissioner I found (and Jacob Riis will
back me up in this) that the establishment of a boxing club in a tough
neighborhood always tended to do away with knifing and gun-fighting
among the young fellows who would otherwise have been in murderous
gangs. Many of these young fellows were not naturally criminals at all,
but they had to have some outlet for their activities. In the same way
I have always regarded boxing as a first-class sport to encourage in the
Young Men's Christian Association. I do not like to see young Christians
with shoulders that slope like a champagne bottle. Of course boxing
should be encouraged in the army and navy. I was first drawn to two
naval chaplains, Fathers Chidwick and Rainey, by finding that each of
them had bought half a dozen sets of boxing-gloves and encouraged their
crews in boxing.
When I was Police Commissioner, I heartily approved the effort to
get boxing clubs started in New York on a clean basis. Later I was
reluctantly obliged to come to the conclusion that the prize ring had
become hopelessly debased and demoralized, and as Governor I aided in
the passage of and signed the bill putting a stop to professional boxing
for money. This was because some of the prize-fighters themselves were
crooked, while the crowd of hangers-on who attended and made up and
profited by the matches had placed the whole business on a basis
of commercialism and brutality that was intolerable. I shall always
maintain that boxing contests themselves make good, healthy sport. It
is idle to compare them with bull-fighting; the torture and death of the
wretched horses in bull-fighting is enough of itself to blast the sport,
no matter how great the skill and prowess shown by the bull-fighters.
Any sport in which the death and torture of animals is made to furnish
pleasure to the spectators is debasing. There should always be the
opportunity provided in a glove fight or bare-fist fight to stop it when
one competitor is hopelessly outclassed or too badly hammered. But the
men who take part in these fights are hard as nails, and it is not worth
while to feel sentimental about their receiving punishment which as a
matter of fact they do not mind. Of course the men who look on ought to
be able to stand up with the gloves, or without them, themselves; I have
scant use for the type of sportsmanship which consists merely in looking
on at the feats of some one else.
Some as good citizens as I know are or were prize-fighters. Take Mike
Donovan, of New York. He and his family represent a type of American
citizenship of which we have a right to be proud. Mike is a devoted
temperance man, and can be relied upon for every movement in the
interest of good citizenship. I was first intimately thrown with him
when I was Police Commissioner. One evening he and I--both in dress
suits--attended a temperance meeting of Catholic societies. It
culminated in a lively set-to between myself and a Tammany Senator who
was a very good fellow, but whose ideas of temperance differed radically
from mine, and, as the event proved, from those of the majority of the
meeting. Mike evidently regarded himself as my backer--he was sitting on
the platform beside me--and I think felt as pleased and interested as if
the set-to had been physical instead of merely verbal. Afterward I grew
to know him well both while I was Governor and while I was President,
and many a time he came on and boxed with me.
Battling Nelson was another stanch friend, and he and I think alike
on most questions of political and industrial life; although he once
expressed to me some commiseration because, as President, I did not get
anything like the money return for my services that he aggregated during
the same term of years in the ring. Bob Fitzsimmons was another good
friend of mine. He has never forgotten his early skill as a blacksmith,
and among the things that I value and always keep in use is a penholder
made by Bob out of a horseshoe, with an inscription saying that it is
"Made for and presented to President Theodore Roosevelt by his friend
and admirer, Robert Fitzsimmons." I have for a long time had the
friendship of John L. Sullivan, than whom in his prime no better man
ever stepped into the ring. He is now a Massachusetts farmer. John used
occasionally to visit me at the White House, his advent always causing a
distinct flutter among the waiting Senators and Congressmen. When I went
to Africa he presented me with a gold-mounted rabbit's foot for luck. I
carried it through my African trip; and I certainly had good luck.
On one occasion one of my prize-fighting friends called on me at the
White House on business. He explained that he wished to see me alone,
sat down opposite me, and put a very expensive cigar on the desk,
saying, "Have a cigar." I thanked him and said I did not smoke, to which
he responded, "Put it in your pocket." He then added, "Take another; put
both in your pocket." This I accordingly did. Having thus shown at the
outset the necessary formal courtesy, my visitor, an old and valued
friend, proceeded to explain that a nephew of his had enlisted in the
Marine Corps, but had been absent without leave, and was threatened with
dishonorable discharge on the ground of desertion. My visitor, a good
citizen and a patriotic American, was stung to the quick at the thought
of such an incident occurring in his family, and he explained to me that
it must not occur, that there must not be the disgrace to the family,
although he would be delighted to have the offender "handled rough" to
teach him a needed lesson; he added that he wished I would take him and
handle him myself, for he knew that I would see that he "got all that
was coming to him." Then a look of pathos came into his eyes, and
he explained: "That boy I just cannot understand. He was my sister's
favorite son, and I always took a special interest in him myself. I
did my best to bring him up the way he ought to go. But there was just
nothing to be done with him. His tastes were naturally low. He took
to music!" What form this debasing taste for music assumed I did not
inquire; and I was able to grant my friend's wish.
While in the White House I always tried to get a couple of hours'
exercise in the afternoons--sometimes tennis, more often riding, or else
a rough cross-country walk, perhaps down Rock Creek, which was then as
wild as a stream in the White Mountains, or on the Virginia side along
the Potomac. My companions at tennis or on these rides and walks we
gradually grew to style the Tennis Cabinet; and then we extended the
term to take in many of my old-time Western friends such as Ben Daniels,
Seth Bullock, Luther Kelly, and others who had taken part with me in
more serious outdoor adventures than walking and riding for pleasure.
Most of the men who were oftenest with me on these trips--men like
Major-General Leonard Wood; or Major-General Thomas Henry Barry; or
Presley Marion Rixey, Surgeon-General of the Navy; or Robert Bacon, who
was afterwards Secretary of State; or James Garfield, who was Secretary
of the Interior; or Gifford Pinchot, who was chief of the Forest
Service--were better men physically than I was; but I could ride and
walk well enough for us all thoroughly to enjoy it. Often, especially
in the winters and early springs, we would arrange for a point to point
walk, not turning aside for anything--for instance, swimming Rock
Creek or even the Potomac if it came in our way. Of course under such
circumstances we had to arrange that our return to Washington should
be when it was dark, so that our appearance might scandalize no one. On
several occasions we thus swam Rock Creek in the early spring when the
ice was floating thick upon it. If we swam the Potomac, we usually
took off our clothes. I remember one such occasion when the French
Ambassador, Jusserand, who was a member of the Tennis Cabinet, was
along, and, just as we were about to get in to swim, somebody said, "Mr.
Ambassador, Mr. Ambassador, you haven't taken off your gloves," to which
he promptly responded, "I think I will leave them on; we might meet
ladies!"
We liked Rock Creek for these walks because we could do so much
scrambling and climbing along the cliffs; there was almost as much
climbing when we walked down the Potomac to Washington from the Virginia
end of the Chain Bridge. I would occasionally take some big-game friend
from abroad, Selous or St. George Littledale or Captain Radclyffe
or Paul Niedicke, on these walks. Once I invited an entire class of
officers who were attending lectures at the War College to come on one
of these walks; I chose a route which gave us the hardest climbing along
the rocks and the deepest crossings of the creek; and my army friends
enjoyed it hugely--being the right sort, to a man.
On March 1, 1909, three days before leaving the Presidency, various
members of the Tennis Cabinet lunched with me at the White House.
"Tennis Cabinet" was an elastic term, and of course many who ought
to have been at the lunch were, for one reason or another, away from
Washington; but, to make up for this, a goodly number of out-of-town
honorary members, so to speak, were present--for instance, Seth Bullock;
Luther Kelly, better known as Yellowstone Kelly in the days when he was
an army scout against the Sioux; and Abernathy, the wolf-hunter. At the
end of the lunch Seth Bullock suddenly reached forward, swept aside a
mass of flowers which made a centerpiece on the table, and revealed
a bronze cougar by Proctor, which was a parting gift to me. The lunch
party and the cougar were then photographed on the lawn.
Some of the younger officers who were my constant companions on these
walks and rides pointed out to me the condition of utter physical
worthlessness into which certain of the elder ones had permitted
themselves to lapse, and the very bad effect this would certainly have
if ever the army were called into service. I then looked into the matter
for myself, and was really shocked at what I found. Many of the older
officers were so unfit physically that their condition would have
excited laughter, had it not been so serious, to think that they
belonged to the military arm of the Government. A cavalry colonel proved
unable to keep his horse at a smart trot for even half a mile, when I
visited his post; a Major-General proved afraid even to let his horse
canter, when he went on a ride with us; and certain otherwise good
men proved as unable to walk as if they had been sedentary brokers.
I consulted with men like Major-Generals Wood and Bell, who were
themselves of fine physique, with bodies fit to meet any demand. It
was late in my administration; and we deemed it best only to make a
beginning--experience teaches the most inveterate reformer how hard it
is to get a totally non-military nation to accept seriously any military
improvement. Accordingly, I merely issued directions that each officer
should prove his ability to walk fifty miles, or ride one hundred, in
three days.
This is, of course, a test which many a healthy middle-aged woman would
be able to meet. But a large portion of the press adopted the view that
it was a bit of capricious tyranny on my part; and a considerable number
of elderly officers, with desk rather than field experience, intrigued
with their friends in Congress to have the order annulled. So one day I
took a ride of a little over one hundred miles myself, in company with
Surgeon-General Rixey and two other officers. The Virginia roads were
frozen and in ruts, and in the afternoon and evening there was a storm
of snow and sleet; and when it had been thus experimentally shown, under
unfavorable conditions, how easy it was to do in one day the task for
which the army officers were allowed three days, all open objection
ceased. But some bureau chiefs still did as much underhanded work
against the order as they dared, and it was often difficult to reach
them. In the Marine Corps Captain Leonard, who had lost an arm at
Tientsin, with two of his lieutenants did the fifty miles in one day;
for they were vigorous young men, who laughed at the idea of treating a
fifty-mile walk as over-fatiguing. Well, the Navy Department officials
rebuked them, and made them take the walk over again in three days,
on the ground that taking it in one day did not comply with the
regulations! This seems unbelievable; but Leonard assures me it is true.
He did not inform me at the time, being afraid to "get in wrong" with
his permanent superiors. If I had known of the order, short work would
have been made of the bureaucrat who issued it.[*]
[*] One of our best naval officers sent me the following
letter, after the above had appeared:--
"I note in your Autobiography now being published in the
Outlook that you refer to the reasons which led you to
establish a physical test for the Army, and to the action
you took (your 100-mile ride) to prevent the test being
abolished. Doubtless you did not know the following facts:
"1. The first annual navy test of 50 miles in three days was
subsequently reduced to 25 miles in two days in each
quarter.
"2. This was further reduced to 10 miles each month, which
is the present 'test,' and there is danger lest even this
utterly insufficient test be abolished.
"I enclose a copy of a recent letter to the Surgeon General
which will show our present deplorable condition and the
worse condition into which we are slipping back.
"The original test of 50 miles in three days did a very
great deal of good. It decreased by thousands of dollars the
money expended on street car fare, and by a much greater sum
the amount expended over the bar. It eliminated a number of
the wholly unfit; it taught officers to walk; it forced them
to learn the care of their feet and that of their men; and
it improved their general health and was rapidly forming a
taste for physical exercise."
The enclosed letter ran in part as follows:--
"I am returning under separate cover 'The Soldiers' Foot and
the Military Shoe.'
"The book contains knowledge of a practical character that
is valuable for the men who HAVE TO MARCH, WHO HAVE SUFFERED
FROM FOOT TROUBLES, AND WHO MUST AVOID THEM IN ORDER TO
ATTAIN EFFICIENCY.
"The words in capitals express, according to my idea, the
gist of the whole matter as regards military men.
"The army officer whose men break down on test gets a black
eye. The one whose men show efficiency in this respect gets
a bouquet.
"To such men the book is invaluable. There is no danger that
they will neglect it. They will actually learn it, for
exactly the same reasons that our fellows learn the gunnery
instructions--or did learn them before they were withdrawn
and burned.
"B U T, I have not been able to interest a single naval
officer in this fine book. They will look at the pictures
and say it is a good book, but they won't read it. The
marine officers, on the contrary, are very much interested,
because they have to teach their men to care for their feet
and they must know how to care for their own. But the naval
officers feel no such necessity, simply because their men do
not have to demonstrate their efficiency by practice
marches, and they themselves do not have to do a stunt that
will show up their own ignorance and inefficiency in the
matter.
"For example, some time ago I was talking with some chaps
about shoes--the necessity of having them long enough and
wide enough, etc., and one of them said: 'I have no use for
such shoes, as I never walk except when I have to, and any
old shoes do for the 10-mile-a-month stunt,' so there you
are!
"When the first test was ordered, Edmonston (Washington shoe
man) told me that he sold more real walking shoes to naval
officers in three months than he had in the three preceding
years. I know three officers who lost both big-toe nails
after the first test, and another who walked nine miles in
practice with a pair of heavy walking shoes that were too
small and was laid up for three days--could not come to the
office. I know plenty of men who after the first test had to
borrow shoes from larger men until their feet 'went down' to
their normal size.
"This test may have been a bit too strenuous for old hearts
(of men who had never taken any exercise), but it was
excellent as a matter of instruction and training of
handling feet--and in an emergency (such as we soon may have
in Mexico) sound hearts are not much good if the feet won't
stand.
"However, the 25-mile test in two days each quarter answered
the same purpose, for the reason that 12.5 miles will
produce sore feet with bad shoes, and sore feet and lame
muscles even with good shoes, if there has been no practice
marching.
"It was the necessity of doing 12.5 MORE MILES ON THE SECOND
DAY WITH SORE FEET AND LAME MUSCLES that made 'em sit up and
take notice--made 'em practice walking, made 'em avoid
street cars, buy proper shoes, show some curiosity about sox
and the care of the feet in general.
"All this passed out with the introduction of the last test
of 10 miles a month. As one fellow said: 'I can do that in
sneakers'--but he couldn't if the second day involved a
tramp on the sore feet.
"The point is that whereas formerly officers had to practice
walking a bit and give some attention to proper footgear,
now they don't have to, and the natural consequence is that
they don't do it.
"There are plenty of officers who do not walk any more than
is necessary to reach a street car that will carry them from
their residences to their offices. Some who have motors do
not do so much. They take no exercise. They take cocktails
instead and are getting beefy and 'ponchy,' and something
should be done to remedy this state of affairs.
"It would not be necessary if service opinion required
officers so to order their lives that it would be common
knowledge that they were 'hard,' in order to avoid the
danger of being selected out.
"We have no such service opinion, and it is not in process
of formation. On the contrary, it is known that the
'Principal Dignitaries' unanimously advised the Secretary to
abandon all physical tests. He, a civilian, was wise enough
not to take the advice.
"I would like to see a test established that would oblige
officers to take sufficient exercise to pass it without
inconvenience. For the reasons given above, 20 miles in two
days every other month would do the business, while 10 miles
each month does not touch it, simply because nobody has to
walk on 'next day' feet. As for the proposed test of so many
hours 'exercise' a week, the flat foots of the pendulous
belly muscles are delighted. They are looking into the
question of pedometers, and will hang one of these on their
wheezy chests and let it count every shuffling step they
take out of doors.
"If we had an adequate test throughout 20 years, there would
at the end of that time be few if any sacks of blubber at
the upper end of the list; and service opinion against that
sort of thing would be established."
These tests were kept during my administration. They were afterwards
abandoned; not through perversity or viciousness; but through weakness,
and inability to understand the need of preparedness in advance, if the
emergencies of war are to be properly met, when, or if, they arrive.
In no country with an army worth calling such is there a chance for
a man physically unfit to stay in the service. Our countrymen should
understand that every army officer--and every marine officer--ought to
be summarily removed from the service unless he is able to undergo far
severer tests than those which, as a beginning, I imposed. To follow any
other course is to put a premium on slothful incapacity, and to do the
gravest wrong to the Nation.
I have mentioned all these experiences, and I could mention scores of
others, because out of them grew my philosophy--perhaps they were in
part caused by my philosophy--of bodily vigor as a method of getting
that vigor of soul without which vigor of the body counts for nothing.
The dweller in cities has less chance than the dweller in the country to
keep his body sound and vigorous. But he can do so, if only he will take
the trouble. Any young lawyer, shopkeeper, or clerk, or shop-assistant
can keep himself in good condition if he tries. Some of the best men who
have ever served under me in the National Guard and in my regiment were
former clerks or floor-walkers. Why, Johnny Hayes, the Marathon victor,
and at one time world champion, one of my valued friends and supporters,
was a floor-walker in Bloomingdale's big department store. Surely with
Johnny Hayes as an example, any young man in a city can hope to make his
body all that a vigorous man's body should be.
I once made a speech to which I gave the title "The Strenuous Life."
Afterwards I published a volume of essays with this for a title. There
were two translations of it which always especially pleased me. One was
by a Japanese officer who knew English well, and who had carried the
essay all through the Manchurian campaign, and later translated it for
the benefit of his countrymen. The other was by an Italian lady, whose
brother, an officer in the Italian army who had died on duty in a
foreign land, had also greatly liked the article and carried it round
with him. In translating the title the lady rendered it in Italian as
_Vigor di Vita_. I thought this translation a great improvement on the
original, and have always wished that I had myself used "The Vigor of
Life" as a heading to indicate what I was trying to preach, instead of
the heading I actually did use.
There are two kinds of success, or rather two kinds of ability displayed
in the achievement of success. There is, first, the success either in
big things or small things which comes to the man who has in him the
natural power to do what no one else can do, and what no amount of
training, no perseverance or will power, will enable any ordinary man to
do. This success, of course, like every other kind of success, may be
on a very big scale or on a small scale. The quality which the man
possesses may be that which enables him to run a hundred yards in nine
and three-fifths seconds, or to play ten separate games of chess at the
same time blindfolded, or to add five columns of figures at once without
effort, or to write the "Ode to a Grecian Urn," or to deliver the
Gettysburg speech, or to show the ability of Frederick at Leuthen or
Nelson at Trafalgar. No amount of training of body or mind would enable
any good ordinary man to perform any one of these feats. Of course the
proper performance of each implies much previous study or training,
but in no one of them is success to be attained save by the altogether
exceptional man who has in him the something additional which the
ordinary man does not have.
This is the most striking kind of success, and it can be attained only
by the man who has in him the quality which separates him in kind no
less than in degree from his fellows. But much the commoner type of
success in every walk of life and in every species of effort is that
which comes to the man who differs from his fellows not by the kind of
quality which he possesses but by the degree of development which he has
given that quality. This kind of success is open to a large number of
persons, if only they seriously determine to achieve it. It is the kind
of success which is open to the average man of sound body and fair mind,
who has no remarkable mental or physical attributes, but who gets just
as much as possible in the way of work out of the aptitudes that he does
possess. It is the only kind of success that is open to most of us. Yet
some of the greatest successes in history have been those of this second
class--when I call it second class I am not running it down in the
least, I am merely pointing out that it differs in kind from the first
class. To the average man it is probably more useful to study this
second type of success than to study the first. From the study of the
first he can learn inspiration, he can get uplift and lofty enthusiasm.
From the study of the second he can, if he chooses, find out how to win
a similar success himself.
I need hardly say that all the successes I have ever won have been
of the second type. I never won anything without hard labor and the
exercise of my best judgment and careful planning and working long in
advance. Having been a rather sickly and awkward boy, I was as a young
man at first both nervous and distrustful of my own prowess. I had to
train myself painfully and laboriously not merely as regards my body but
as regards my soul and spirit.
When a boy I read a passage in one of Marryat's books which always
impressed me. In this passage the captain of some small British
man-of-war is explaining to the hero how to acquire the quality of
fearlessness. He says that at the outset almost every man is frightened
when he goes into action, but that the course to follow is for the man
to keep such a grip on himself that he can act just as if he was not
frightened. After this is kept up long enough it changes from pretense
to reality, and the man does in very fact become fearless by sheer dint
of practicing fearlessness when he does not feel it. (I am using my own
language, not Marryat's.) This was the theory upon which I went. There
were all kinds of things of which I was afraid at first, ranging from
grizzly bears to "mean" horses and gun-fighters; but by acting as if I
was not afraid I gradually ceased to be afraid. Most men can have the
same experience if they choose. They will first learn to bear themselves
well in trials which they anticipate and which they school themselves
in advance to meet. After a while the habit will grow on them, and they
will behave well in sudden and unexpected emergencies which come upon
them unawares.
It is of course much pleasanter if one is naturally fearless, and I envy
and respect the men who are naturally fearless. But it is a good
thing to remember that the man who does not enjoy this advantage can
nevertheless stand beside the man who does, and can do his duty with the
like efficiency, if he chooses to. Of course he must not let his
desire take the form merely of a day-dream. Let him dream about being
a fearless man, and the more he dreams the better he will be, always
provided he does his best to realize the dream in practice. He can do
his part honorably and well provided only he sets fearlessness before
himself as an ideal, schools himself to think of danger merely as
something to be faced and overcome, and regards life itself as he should
regard it, not as something to be thrown away, but as a pawn to be
promptly hazarded whenever the hazard is warranted by the larger
interests of the great game in which we are all engaged.
CHAPTER III
PRACTICAL POLITICS
When I left Harvard, I took up the study of law. If I had been
sufficiently fortunate to come under Professor Thayer, of the Harvard
Law School, it may well be that I would have realized that the lawyer
can do a great work for justice and against legalism.
But, doubtless chiefly through my own fault, some of the teaching of the
law books and of the classroom seemed to me to be against justice.
The _caveat emptor_ side of the law, like the _caveat emptor_ side
of business, seemed to me repellent; it did not make for social fair
dealing. The "let the buyer beware" maxim, when translated into actual
practice, whether in law or business, tends to translate itself further
into the seller making his profit at the expense of the buyer, instead
of by a bargain which shall be to the profit of both. It did not seem
to me that the law was framed to discourage as it should sharp practice,
and all other kinds of bargains except those which are fair and of
benefit to both sides. I was young; there was much in the judgment which
I then formed on this matter which I should now revise; but, then as
now, many of the big corporation lawyers, to whom the ordinary members
of the bar then as now looked up, held certain standards which were
difficult to recognize as compatible with the idealism I suppose every
high-minded young man is apt to feel. If I had been obliged to earn
every cent I spent, I should have gone whole-heartedly into the business
of making both ends meet, and should have taken up the law or any other
respectable occupation--for I then held, and now hold, the belief that
a man's first duty is to pull his own weight and to take care of those
dependent upon him; and I then believed, and now believe, that the
greatest privilege and greatest duty for any man is to be happily
married, and that no other form of success or service, for either man
or woman, can be wisely accepted as a substitute or alternative. But it
happened that I had been left enough money by my father not to make
it necessary for me to think solely of earning bread for myself and my
family. I had enough to get bread. What I had to do, if I wanted butter
and jam, was to provide the butter and jam, but to count their cost
as compared with other things. In other words, I made up my mind that,
while I must earn money, I could afford to make earning money the
secondary instead of the primary object of my career. If I had had
no money at all, then my first duty would have been to earn it in any
honest fashion. As I had some money I felt that my need for more money
was to be treated as a secondary need, and that while it was my business
to make more money where I legitimately and properly could, yet that it
was also my business to treat other kinds of work as more important than
money-making.
Almost immediately after leaving Harvard in 1880 I began to take an
interest in politics. I did not then believe, and I do not now believe,
that any man should ever attempt to make politics his only career. It
is a dreadful misfortune for a man to grow to feel that his whole
livelihood and whole happiness depend upon his staying in office. Such
a feeling prevents him from being of real service to the people while
in office, and always puts him under the heaviest strain of pressure to
barter his convictions for the sake of holding office. A man should have
some other occupation--I had several other occupations--to which he can
resort if at any time he is thrown out of office, or if at any time he
finds it necessary to choose a course which will probably result in
his being thrown out, unless he is willing to stay in at cost to his
conscience.
At that day, in 1880, a young man of my bringing up and convictions
could join only the Republican party, and join it I accordingly did.
It was no simple thing to join it then. That was long before the era of
ballot reform and the control of primaries; long before the era when we
realized that the Government must take official notice of the deeds and
acts of party organizations. The party was still treated as a private
corporation, and in each district the organization formed a kind of
social and political club. A man had to be regularly proposed for and
elected into this club, just as into any other club. As a friend of mine
picturesquely phrased it, I "had to break into the organization with a
jimmy."
Under these circumstances there was some difficulty in joining the local
organization, and considerable amusement and excitement to be obtained
out of it after I had joined.
It was over thirty-three years ago that I thus became a member of the
Twenty-first District Republican Association in the city of New York.
The men I knew best were the men in the clubs of social pretension
and the men of cultivated taste and easy life. When I began to make
inquiries as to the whereabouts of the local Republican Association and
the means of joining it, these men--and the big business men and lawyers
also--laughed at me, and told me that politics were "low"; that the
organizations were not controlled by "gentlemen"; that I would find them
run by saloon-keepers, horse-car conductors, and the like, and not by
men with any of whom I would come in contact outside; and, moreover,
they assured me that the men I met would be rough and brutal and
unpleasant to deal with. I answered that if this were so it merely meant
that the people I knew did not belong to the governing class, and that
the other people did--and that I intended to be one of the governing
class; that if they proved too hard-bit for me I supposed I would have
to quit, but that I certainly would not quit until I had made the effort
and found out whether I really was too weak to hold my own in the rough
and tumble.
The Republican Association of which I became a member held its meetings
in Morton Hall, a large, barn-like room over a saloon. Its furniture was
of the canonical kind: dingy benches, spittoons, a dais at one end with
a table and chair and a stout pitcher for iced water, and on the walls
pictures of General Grant, and of Levi P. Morton, to whose generosity
we owed the room. We had regular meetings once or twice a month, and
between times the place was treated, at least on certain nights, as a
kind of club-room. I went around there often enough to have the men get
accustomed to me and to have me get accustomed to them, so that we began
to speak the same language, and so that each could begin to live down in
the other's mind what Bret Harte has called "the defective moral quality
of being a stranger." It is not often that a man can make opportunities
for himself. But he can put himself in such shape that when or if the
opportunities come he is ready to take advantage of them. This was what
happened to me in connection with my experiences in Morton Hall. I soon
became on good terms with a number of the ordinary "heelers" and even
some of the minor leaders. The big leader was Jake Hess, who treated
me with rather distant affability. There were prominent lawyers and
business men who belonged, but they took little part in the actual
meetings. What they did was done elsewhere. The running of the machine
was left to Jake Hess and his captains of tens and of hundreds.
Among these lesser captains I soon struck up a friendship with Joe
Murray, a friendship which is as strong now as it was thirty-three years
ago. He had been born in Ireland, but brought to New York by his parents
when he was three or four years old, and, as he expressed it, "raised as
a barefooted boy on First Avenue." When not eighteen he had enlisted in
the Army of the Potomac and taken part in the campaign that closed the
Civil War. Then he came back to First Avenue, and, being a fearless,
powerful, energetic young fellow, careless and reckless, speedily grew
to some prominence as leader of a gang. In that district, and at that
time, politics was a rough business, and Tammany Hall held unquestioned
sway. The district was overwhelmingly Democratic, and Joe and his
friends were Democrats who on election day performed the usual gang
work for the local Democratic leader, whose business it was to favor and
reward them in return. This same local leader, like many other greater
leaders, became puffed up by prosperity, and forgot the instruments
through which he had achieved prosperity. After one election he showed a
callous indifference to the hard work of the gang and complete disregard
of his before-election promises. He counted upon the resentment wearing
itself out, as usual, in threats and bluster.
But Joe Murray was not a man who forgot. He explained to his gang his
purposes and the necessity of being quiet. Accordingly they waited for
their revenge until the next election day. They then, as Joe expressed
it, decided "to vote furdest away from the leader"--I am using the
language of Joe's youth--and the best way to do this was to vote
the Republican ticket. In those days each party had a booth near the
polling-place in each election district, where the party representative
dispensed the party ballots. This had been a district in which, as a
rule, very early in the day the Republican election leader had his
hat knocked over his eyes and his booth kicked over and his ballots
scattered; and then the size of the Democratic majority depended on an
elastic appreciation of exactly how much was demanded from headquarters.
But on this day things went differently. The gang, with a Roman sense
of duty, took an active interest in seeing that the Republican was given
his full rights. Moreover, they made the most energetic reprisals on
their opponents, and as they were distinctly the tough and fighting
element, justice came to her own with a whoop. Would-be repeaters were
thrown out on their heads. Every person who could be cajoled or, I fear,
intimidated, was given the Republican ticket, and the upshot was that at
the end of the day a district which had never hitherto polled more than
two or three per cent of its vote Republican broke about even between
the two parties.
To Joe it had been merely an act of retribution in so far as it was not
simply a spree. But the leaders at the Republican headquarters did not
know this, and when they got over their paralyzed astonishment at the
returns, they investigated to find out what it meant. Somebody told
them that it represented the work of a young man named Joseph Murray.
Accordingly they sent for him. The room in which they received him was
doubtless some place like Morton Hall, and the men who received him were
akin to those who had leadership in Morton Hall; but in Joe's eyes
they stood for a higher civilization, for opportunity, for generous
recognition of successful effort--in short, for all the things that an
eager young man desires. He was received and patted on the back by a man
who was a great man to the world in which he lived. He was introduced
to the audience as a young man whose achievement was such as to
promise much for the future, and moreover he was given a place in the
post-office--as I have said, this was long before the day of Civil
Service Reform.
Now, to the wrong kind of man all this might have meant nothing at
all. But in Joe Murray's case it meant everything. He was by nature as
straight a man, as fearless and as stanchly loyal, as any one whom I
have ever met, a man to be trusted in any position demanding courage,
integrity, and good faith. He did his duty in the public service, and
became devotedly attached to the organization which he felt had given
him his chance in life. When I knew him he was already making his
way up; one of the proofs and evidences of which was that he owned a
first-class racing trotter--"Alice Lane"--behind which he gave me more
than one spin. During this first winter I grew to like Joe and his
particular cronies. But I had no idea that they especially returned the
liking, and in the first row we had in the organization (which arose
over a movement, that I backed, to stand by a non-partisan method of
street-cleaning) Joe and all his friends stood stiffly with the machine,
and my side, the reform side, was left with only some half-dozen votes
out of three or four hundred. I had expected no other outcome and took
it good-humoredly, but without changing my attitude.
Next fall, as the elections drew near, Joe thought he would like to make
a drive at Jake Hess, and after considerable planning decided that his
best chance lay in the fight for the nomination to the Assembly, the
lower house of the Legislature. He picked me as the candidate with whom
he would be most likely to win; and win he did. It was not my fight, it
was Joe's; and it was to him that I owe my entry into politics. I had
at that time neither the reputation nor the ability to have won the
nomination for myself, and indeed never would have thought of trying for
it.
Jake Hess was entirely good-humored about it. In spite of my being
anti-machine, my relations with him had been friendly and human, and
when he was beaten he turned in to help Joe elect me. At first they
thought they would take me on a personal canvass through the saloons
along Sixth Avenue. The canvass, however, did not last beyond the first
saloon. I was introduced with proper solemnity to the saloon-keeper--a
very important personage, for this was before the days when
saloon-keepers became merely the mortgaged chattels of the brewers--and
he began to cross-examine me, a little too much in the tone of one who
was dealing with a suppliant for his favor. He said he expected that I
would of course treat the liquor business fairly; to which I answered,
none too cordially, that I hoped I should treat all interests fairly.
He then said that he regarded the licenses as too high; to which I
responded that I believed they were really not high enough, and that
I should try to have them made higher. The conversation threatened to
become stormy. Messrs. Murray and Hess, on some hastily improvised plea,
took me out into the street, and then Joe explained to me that it was
not worth my while staying in Sixth Avenue any longer, that I had better
go right back to Fifth Avenue and attend to my friends there, and that
he would look after my interests on Sixth Avenue. I was triumphantly
elected.
Once before Joe had interfered in similar fashion and secured the
nomination of an Assemblyman; and shortly after election he had grown
to feel toward this Assemblyman that he must have fed on the meat which
rendered Caesar proud, as he became inaccessible to the ordinary mortals
whose place of resort was Morton Hall. He eyed me warily for a
short time to see if I was likely in this respect to follow in my
predecessor's footsteps. Finding that I did not, he and all my other
friends and supporters assumed toward me the very pleasantest attitude
that it was possible to assume. They did not ask me for a thing. They
accepted as a matter of course the view that I was absolutely straight
and was trying to do the best I could in the Legislature. They desired
nothing except that I should make a success, and they supported me with
hearty enthusiasm. I am a little at a loss to know quite how to express
the quality in my relationship with Joe Murray and my other friends of
this period which rendered that relationship so beneficial to me. When I
went into politics at this time I was not conscious of going in with
the set purpose to benefit other people, but of getting for myself a
privilege to which I was entitled in common with other people. So it was
in my relationship with these men. If there had lurked in the innermost
recesses of my mind anywhere the thought that I was in some way a
patron or a benefactor, or was doing something noble by taking part
in politics, or that I expected the smallest consideration save what
I could earn on my own merits, I am certain that somehow or other the
existence of that feeling would have been known and resented. As a
matter of fact, there was not the slightest temptation on my part to
have any such feeling or any one of such feelings. I no more expected
special consideration in politics than I would have expected it in the
boxing ring. I wished to act squarely to others, and I wished to be able
to show that I could hold my own as against others. The attitude of my
new friends toward me was first one of polite reserve, and then that of
friendly alliance. Afterwards I became admitted to comradeship, and then
to leadership. I need hardly say how earnestly I believe that men should
have a keen and lively sense of their obligations in politics, of their
duty to help forward great causes, and to struggle for the betterment of
conditions that are unjust to their fellows, the men and women who are
less fortunate in life. But in addition to this feeling there must be a
feeling of real fellowship with the other men and women engaged in the
same task, fellowship of work, with fun to vary the work; for unless
there is this feeling of fellowship, of common effort on an equal plane
for a common end, it will be difficult to keep the relations wholesome
and natural. To be patronized is as offensive as to be insulted. No one
of us cares permanently to have some one else conscientiously striving
to do him good; what we want is to work with that some one else for the
good of both of us--any man will speedily find that other people can
benefit him just as much as he can benefit them.
Neither Joe Murray nor I nor any of our associates at that time were
alive to social and industrial needs which we now all of us recognize.
But we then had very clearly before our minds the need of practically
applying certain elemental virtues, the virtues of honesty and
efficiency in politics, the virtue of efficiency side by side with
honesty in private and public life alike, the virtues of consideration
and fair dealing in business as between man and man, and especially as
between the man who is an employer and the man who is an employee.
On all fundamental questions Joe Murray and I thought alike. We never
parted company excepting on the question of Civil Service Reform, where
he sincerely felt that I showed doctrinaire affinities, that I sided
with the pharisees. We got back again into close relations as soon as
I became Police Commissioner under Mayor Strong, for Joe was then made
Excise Commissioner, and was, I believe, the best Excise Commissioner
the city of New York ever had. He is now a farmer, his boys have been
through Columbia College, and he and I look at the questions, political,
social, and industrial, which confront us in 1913 from practically the
same standpoint, just as we once looked at the questions that confronted
us in 1881.
There are many debts that I owe Joe Murray, and some for which he was
only unconsciously responsible. I do not think that a man is fit to do
good work in our American democracy unless he is able to have a
genuine fellow-feeling for, understanding of, and sympathy with his
fellow-Americans, whatever their creed or their birthplace, the section
in which they live, or the work which they do, provided they possess
the only kind of Americanism that really counts, the Americanism of the
spirit. It was no small help to me, in the effort to make myself a good
citizen and good American, that the political associate with whom I was
on closest and most intimate terms during my early years was a man born
in Ireland, by creed a Catholic, with Joe Murray's upbringing; just
as it helped me greatly at a later period to work for certain vitally
necessary public needs with Arthur von Briesen, in whom the spirit of
the "Acht-und-Vierziger" idealists was embodied; just as my whole life
was influenced by my long association with Jacob Riis, whom I am tempted
to call the best American I ever knew, although he was already a young
man when he came hither from Denmark.
I was elected to the Legislature in the fall of 1881, and found myself
the youngest man in that body. I was reelected the two following
years. Like all young men and inexperienced members, I had considerable
difficulty in teaching myself to speak. I profited much by the advice
of a hard-headed old countryman--who was unconsciously paraphrasing
the Duke of Wellington, who was himself doubtless paraphrasing somebody
else. The advice ran: "Don't speak until you are sure you have something
to say, and know just what it is; then say it, and sit down."
My first days in the Legislature were much like those of a boy in a
strange school. My fellow-legislators and I eyed one another with mutual
distrust. Each of us chose his seat, each began by following the lead of
some veteran in the first routine matters, and then, in a week or two,
we began to drift into groups according to our several affinities. The
Legislature was Democratic. I was a Republican from the "silk stocking"
district, the wealthiest district in New York, and I was put, as one
of the minority members, on the Committee of Cities. It was a coveted
position. I did not make any effort to get on, and, as far as I know,
was put there merely because it was felt to be in accordance with the
fitness of things.
A very short experience showed me that, as the Legislature was then
constituted, the so-called party contests had no interest whatever for
me. There was no real party division on most of the things that were of
concern in State politics, both Republicans and Democrats being for and
against them. My friendships were made, not with regard to party
lines, but because I found, and my friends found, that we had the same
convictions on questions of principle and questions of policy. The only
difference was that there was a larger proportion of these men among the
Republicans than among the Democrats, and that it was easier for me at
the outset to scrape acquaintance, among the men who felt as I did, with
the Republicans. They were for the most part from the country districts.
My closest friend for the three years I was there was Billy O'Neill,
from the Adirondacks. He kept a small crossroads store. He was a young
man, although a few years older than I was, and, like myself, had won
his position without regard to the machine. He had thought he would
like to be Assemblyman, so he had taken his buggy and had driven around
Franklin County visiting everybody, had upset the local ring, and came
to the Legislature as his own master. There is surely something in
American traditions that does tend toward real democracy in spite of our
faults and shortcomings. In most other countries two men of as different
antecedents, ancestry, and surroundings as Billy O'Neill and I would
have had far more difficulty in coming together. I came from the biggest
city in America and from the wealthiest ward of that city, and he from
a backwoods county where he kept a store at a crossroads. In all the
unimportant things we seemed far apart. But in all the important things
we were close together. We looked at all questions from substantially
the same view-point, and we stood shoulder to shoulder in every
legislative fight during those three years. He abhorred demagogy just
as he abhorred corruption. He had thought much on political problems; he
admired Alexander Hamilton as much as I did, being a strong believer
in a powerful National government; and we both of us differed from
Alexander Hamilton in being stout adherents of Abraham Lincoln's views
wherever the rights of the people were concerned. Any man who has met
with success, if he will be frank with himself, must admit that there
has been a big element of fortune in the success. Fortune favored me,
whereas her hand was heavy against Billy O'Neill. All his life he had to
strive hard to wring his bread from harsh surroundings and a reluctant
fate; if fate had been but a little kinder, I believe he would have had
a great political career; and he would have done good service for the
country in any position in which he might have been put.
There were other Republicans, like Isaac Hunt and Jonas van Duzer and
Walter Howe and Henry Sprague, who were among my close friends and
allies; and a gigantic one-eyed veteran of the Civil War, a gallant
General, Curtis from St. Lawrence County; and a capital fellow, whom
afterwards, when Governor, I put on the bench, Kruse, from Cattaraugus
County. Kruse was a German by birth; as far as I know, the only German
from Cattaraugus County at that time; and, besides being a German, he
was also a Prohibitionist. Among the Democrats were Hamden Robb and
Thomas Newbold, and Tom Welch of Niagara, who did a great service in
getting the State to set aside Niagara Falls Park--after a discouraging
experience with the first Governor before whom we brought the bill, who
listened with austere patience to our arguments in favor of the State
establishing a park, and then conclusively answered us by the question,
"But, gentlemen, why should we spend the people's money when just as
much water will run over the Falls without a park as with it?" Then
there were a couple of members from New York and Brooklyn, Mike Costello
and Pete Kelly.
Mike Costello had been elected as a Tammany man. He was as fearless as
he was honest. He came from Ireland, and had accepted the Tammany Fourth
of July orations as indicating the real attitude of that organization
towards the rights of the people. A month or two in Albany converted him
to a profound distrust of applied Tammany methods. He and I worked
hand in hand with equal indifference to our local machines. His machine
leaders warned him fairly that they would throw him out at the next
election, which they did; but he possessed a seasoned-hickory toughness
of ability to contend with adverse circumstances, and kept his head well
above water. A better citizen does not exist; and our friendship has
never faltered.
Peter Kelly's fate was a tragedy. He was a bright, well-educated young
fellow, an ardent believer in Henry George. At the beginning he and I
failed to understand each other or to get on together, for our theories
of government were radically opposed. After a couple of months spent in
active contests with men whose theories had nothing whatever to do with
their practices, Kelly and I found in our turn that it really did not
make much difference what our abstract theories were on questions that
were not before the Legislature, in view of the fact that on the actual
matters before the Legislature, the most important of which involved
questions of elementary morality, we were heartily at one. We began to
vote together and act together, and by the end of the session found that
in all practical matters that were up for action we thought together.
Indeed, each of us was beginning to change his theories, so that even
in theory we were coming closer together. He was ardent and generous; he
was a young lawyer, with a wife and children, whose ambition had tempted
him into politics, and who had been befriended by the local bosses
under the belief that they could count upon him for anything they really
wished. Unfortunately, what they really wished was often corrupt. Kelly
defied them, fought the battles of the people with ardor and good faith,
and when the bosses refused him a renomination, he appealed from them
to the people. When we both came up for reelection, I won easily in my
district, where circumstances conspired to favor me; and Kelly, with
exactly the same record that I had, except that it was more creditable
because he took his stand against greater odds, was beaten in his
district. Defeat to me would have meant merely chagrin; to Kelly it
meant terrible material disaster. He had no money. Like every rigidly
honest man, he had found that going into politics was expensive and that
his salary as Assemblyman did not cover the financial outgo. He had lost
his practice and he had incurred the ill will of the powerful, so that
it was impossible at the moment to pick up his practice again; and
the worry and disappointment affected him so much that shortly after
election he was struck down by sickness. Just before Christmas some of
us were informed that Kelly was in such financial straits that he and
his family would be put out into the street before New Year. This was
prevented by the action of some of his friends who had served with him
in the Legislature, and he recovered, at least to a degree, and took
up the practice of his profession. But he was a broken man. In the
Legislature in which he served one of his fellow-Democrats from
Brooklyn was the Speaker--Alfred C. Chapin, the leader and the foremost
representative of the reform Democracy, whom Kelly zealously supported.
A few years later Chapin, a very able man, was elected Mayor of Brooklyn
on a reform Democratic ticket. Shortly after his election I was asked
to speak at a meeting in a Brooklyn club at which various prominent
citizens, including the Mayor, were present. I spoke on civic decency,
and toward the close of my speech I sketched Kelly's career for my
audience, told them how he had stood up for the rights of the people of
Brooklyn, and how the people had failed to stand up for him, and the way
he had been punished, precisely because he had been a good citizen who
acted as a good citizen should act. I ended by saying that the reform
Democracy had now come into power, that Mr. Chapin was Mayor, and that I
very earnestly hoped recognition would at last be given to Kelly for the
fight he had waged at such bitter cost to himself. My words created some
impression, and Mayor Chapin at once said that he would take care of
Kelly and see that justice was done him. I went home that evening much
pleased. In the morning, at breakfast, I received a brief note from
Chapin in these words: "It was nine last evening when you finished
speaking of what Kelly had done, and when I said that I would take care
of him. At ten last night Kelly died." He had been dying while I was
making my speech, and he never knew that at last there was to be a
tardy recognition of what he had done, a tardy justification for the
sacrifices he had made. The man had fought, at heavy cost to himself and
with entire disinterestedness, for popular rights; but no recognition
for what he had done had come to him from the people, whose interest he
had so manfully upheld.
Where there is no chance of statistical or mathematical measurement, it
is very hard to tell just the degree to which conditions change from one
period to another. This is peculiarly hard to do when we deal with such
a matter as corruption. Personally I am inclined to think that in public
life we are on the whole a little better and not a little worse than we
were thirty years ago, when I was serving in the New York Legislature.
I think the conditions are a little better in National, in State, and in
municipal politics. Doubtless there are points in which they are worse,
and there is an enormous amount that needs reformation. But it does seem
to me as if, on the whole, things had slightly improved.
When I went into politics, New York City was under the control of
Tammany, which was from time to time opposed by some other--and
evanescent--city Democratic organization. The up-country Democrats had
not yet fallen under Tammany sway, and were on the point of developing a
big country political boss in the shape of David B. Hill. The Republican
party was split into the Stalwart and Half-Breed factions. Accordingly
neither party had one dominant boss, or one dominant machine, each being
controlled by jarring and warring bosses and machines. The corruption
was not what it had been in the days of Tweed, when outside individuals
controlled the legislators like puppets. Nor was there any such
centralization of the boss system as occurred later. Many of the members
were under the control of local bosses or local machines. But the
corrupt work was usually done through the members directly.
Of course I never had anything in the nature of legal proof of
corruption, and the figures I am about to give are merely approximate.
But three years' experience convinced me, in the first place, that there
were a great many thoroughly corrupt men in the Legislature, perhaps a
third of the whole number; and, in the next place, that the honest men
outnumbered the corrupt men, and that, if it were ever possible to get
an issue of right and wrong put vividly and unmistakably before them
in a way that would arrest their attention and that would arrest the
attention of their constituents, we could count on the triumph of the
right. The trouble was that in most cases the issue was confused. To
read some kinds of literature one would come to the conclusion that the
only corruption in legislative circles was in the form of bribery by
corporations, and that the line was sharp between the honest man who was
always voting against corporations and the dishonest man who was always
bribed to vote for them. My experience was the direct contrary of
this. For every one bill introduced (not passed) corruptly to favor a
corporation, there were at least ten introduced (not passed, and in this
case not intended to be passed) to blackmail corporations. The majority
of the corrupt members would be found voting for the blackmailing bills
if they were not paid, and would also be found voting in the interests
of the corporation if they were paid. The blackmailing, or, as they were
always called, the "strike" bills, could themselves be roughly divided
into two categories: bills which it would have been proper to pass,
and those that it would not have been proper to pass. Some of the bills
aimed at corporations were utterly wild and improper; and of these a
proportion might be introduced by honest and foolish zealots, whereas
most of them were introduced by men who had not the slightest intention
of passing them, but who wished to be paid not to pass them. The most
profitable type of bill to the accomplished blackmailer, however, was a
bill aimed at a real corporate abuse which the corporation, either from
wickedness or folly, was unwilling to remedy. Of the measures introduced
in the interest of corporations there were also some that were proper
and some that were improper. The corrupt legislators, the "black horse
cavalry," as they were termed, would demand payment to vote as the
corporations wished, no matter whether the bill was proper or improper.
Sometimes, if the bill was a proper one, the corporation would have the
virtue or the strength of mind to refuse to pay for its passage, and
sometimes it would not.
A very slight consideration of the above state of affairs will show
how difficult it was at times to keep the issue clear, for honest and
dishonest men were continually found side by side voting now against and
now for a corporation measure, the one set from proper and the other set
from grossly improper motives. Of course part of the fault lay in the
attitudes of outsiders. It was very early borne in upon me that almost
equal harm was done by indiscriminate defense of, and indiscriminate
attack on, corporations. It was hard to say whether the man who prided
himself upon always antagonizing the corporations, or the man who, on
the plea that he was a good conservative, always stood up for them, was
the more mischievous agent of corruption and demoralization.
In one fight in the House over a bill as to which there was a bitter
contest between two New York City street railway organizations, I saw
lobbyists come down on the floor itself and draw venal men out into the
lobbies with almost no pretense of concealing what they were doing.
In another case in which the elevated railway corporations of New York
City, against the protest of the Mayor and the other local authorities,
rushed through a bill remitting over half their taxes, some of the
members who voted for the measure probably thought it was right; but
every corrupt man in the House voted with them; and the man must
indeed have been stupid who thought that these votes were given
disinterestedly.
The effective fight against this bill for the revision of the elevated
railway taxes--perhaps the most openly crooked measure which during my
time was pushed at Albany--was waged by Mike Costello and myself. We
used to spend a good deal of time in industrious research into the
various bills introduced, so as to find out what their authors really
had in mind; this research, by the way, being highly unappreciated and
much resented by the authors. In the course of his researches Mike
had been puzzled by an unimportant bill, seemingly related to a
Constitutional amendment, introduced by a local saloon-keeper, whose
interests, as far as we knew, were wholly remote from the Constitution,
or from any form of abstract legal betterment. However, the measure
seemed harmless; we did not interfere; and it passed the House. Mike,
however, followed its career in the Senate, and at the last moment,
almost by accident, discovered that it had been "amended" by the
simple process of striking out everything after the enacting clause and
unobtrusively substituting the proposal to remit the elevated railway
taxes! The authors of the change wished to avoid unseemly publicity;
their hope was to slip the measure through the Legislature and have
it instantly signed by the Governor, before any public attention was
excited. In the Senate their plan worked to perfection. There was in
the Senate no fighting leadership of the forces of decency; and for such
leadership of the non-fighting type the representatives of corruption
cared absolutely nothing. By bold and adroit management the substitution
in the Senate was effected without opposition or comment. The bill (in
reality, of course, an absolutely new and undebated bill) then came back
to the House nominally as a merely amended measure, which, under the
rules, was not open to debate unless the amendment was first by vote
rejected. This was the great bill of the session for the lobby; and
the lobby was keenly alive to the need of quick, wise action. No public
attention whatever had so far been excited. Every measure was taken
to secure immediate and silent action. A powerful leader, whom the
beneficiaries of the bill trusted, a fearless and unscrupulous man,
of much force and great knowledge of parliamentary law, was put in the
chair. Costello and I were watched; and when for a moment we were out
of the House, the bill was brought over from the Senate, and the clerk
began to read it, all the black horse cavalry, in expectant mood, being
in their seats. But Mike Costello, who was in the clerk's room, happened
to catch a few words of what was being read. In he rushed, despatched a
messenger for me, and began a single-handed filibuster. The Speaker
pro tem called him to order. Mike continued to speak and protest;
the Speaker hammered him down; Mike continued his protests; the
sergeant-at-arms was sent to arrest and remove him; and then I bounced
in, and continued the protest, and refused to sit down or be silent.
Amid wild confusion the amendment was declared adopted, and the bill
was ordered engrossed and sent to the Governor. But we had carried our
point. The next morning the whole press rang with what had happened;
every detail of the bill, and every detail of the way it had been
slipped through the Legislature, were made public. All the slow and
cautious men in the House, who had been afraid of taking sides, now came
forward in support of us. Another debate was held on the proposal to
rescind the vote; the city authorities waked up to protest; the
Governor refused to sign the bill. Two or three years later, after much
litigation, the taxes were paid; in the newspapers it was stated that
the amount was over $1,500,000. It was Mike Costello to whom primarily
was due the fact that this sum was saved the public, and that the forces
of corruption received a stinging rebuff. He did not expect recognition
or reward for his services; and he got none. The public, if it knew of
what he had done, promptly forgot it. The machine did not forget it, and
turned him down at the next election.
One of the stand-by "strikes" was a bill for reducing the elevated
railway fare, which at that time was ten cents, to five cents. In
one Legislature the men responsible for the introduction of the bill
suffered such an extraordinary change of heart that when the bill
came up--being pushed by zealous radicals who really were honest--the
introducers actually voted against it! A number of us who had been very
doubtful about the principle of the bill voted for it simply because
we were convinced that money was being used to stop it, and we hated to
seem to side with the corruptionists. Then there came a wave of popular
feeling in its favor, the bill was reintroduced at the next session,
the railways very wisely decided that they would simply fight it on its
merits, and the entire black horse cavalry contingent, together with all
the former friends of the measure, voted against it. Some of us, who in
our anger at the methods formerly resorted to for killing the bill had
voted for it the previous year, with much heart-searching again voted
for it, as I now think unwisely; and the bill was vetoed by the then
Governor, Grover Cleveland. I believe the veto was proper, and those
who felt as I did supported the veto; for although it was entirely right
that the fare should be reduced to five cents, which was soon afterwards
done, the method was unwise, and would have set a mischievous precedent.
An instance of an opposite kind occurred in connection with a great
railway corporation which wished to increase its terminal facilities in
one of our great cities. The representatives of the railway brought
the bill to me and asked me to look into it, saying that they were well
aware that it was the kind of bill that lent itself to blackmail, and
that they wished to get it through on its merits, and invited the
most careful examination. I looked carefully into it, found that the
municipal authorities and the property-owners whose property was to be
taken favored it, and also found that it was an absolute necessity
from the standpoint of the city no less than from the standpoint of the
railway. So I said I would take charge of it if I had guarantees that no
money should be used and nothing improper done in order to push it. This
was agreed to. I was then acting as chairman of the committee before
which the bill went.
A very brief experience proved what I had already been practically sure
of, that there was a secret combination of the majority of the committee
on a crooked basis. On one pretext or another the crooked members of the
committee held the bill up, refusing to report it either favorably or
unfavorably. There were one or two members of the committee who were
pretty rough characters, and when I decided to force matters I was not
sure that we would not have trouble. There was a broken chair in the
room, and I got a leg of it loose and put it down beside me where it
was not visible, but where I might get at it in a hurry if necessary. I
moved that the bill be reported favorably. This was voted down without
debate by the "combine," some of whom kept a wooden stolidity of look,
while others leered at me with sneering insolence. I then moved that it
be reported unfavorably, and again the motion was voted down by the same
majority and in the same fashion. I then put the bill in my pocket and
announced that I would report it anyhow. This almost precipitated a
riot, especially when I explained, in answer to statements that my
conduct would be exposed on the floor of the Legislature, that in that
case I should give the Legislature the reasons why I suspected that the
men holding up all report of the bill were holding it up for purposes
of blackmail. The riot did not come off; partly, I think, because the
opportune production of the chair-leg had a sedative effect, and partly
owing to wise counsels from one or two of my opponents.
Accordingly I got the bill reported to the Legislature and put on the
calendar. But here it came to a dead halt. I think this was chiefly
because most of the newspapers which noticed the matter at all treated
it in such a cynical spirit as to encourage the men who wished to
blackmail. These papers reported the introduction of the bill, and said
that "all the hungry legislators were clamoring for their share of the
pie"; and they accepted as certain the fact that there was going to be a
division of "pie." This succeeded in frightening honest men, and also in
relieving the rogues; the former were afraid they would be suspected of
receiving money if they voted for the bill, and the latter were given a
shield behind which to stand until they were paid. I was wholly
unable to move the bill forward in the Legislature, and finally a
representative of the railway told me that he thought he would like
to take the bill out of my hands, that I did not seem able to get it
through, and that perhaps some "older and more experienced" leader could
be more successful. I was pretty certain what this meant, but of course
I had no kind of proof, and moreover I was not in a position to say that
I could promise success. Accordingly, the bill was given into the charge
of a veteran, whom I believe to have been a personally honest man, but
who was not inquisitive about the motives influencing his colleagues.
This gentleman, who went by a nickname which I shall incorrectly call
"the bald eagle of Weehawken," was efficient and knew his job. After a
couple of weeks a motion to put the bill through was made by "the
bald eagle"; the "black horse cavalry," whose feelings had undergone a
complete change in the intervening time, voted unanimously for it, in
company with all the decent members; and that was the end. Now here was
a bit of work in the interest of a corporation and in the interest of
a community, which the corporation at first tried honestly to have put
through on its merits. The blame for the failure lay primarily in the
supine indifference of the community to legislative wrong-doing, so long
as only the corporations were blackmailed.
Except as above mentioned, I was not brought in contact with big
business, save in the effort to impeach a certain judge. This judge
had been used as an instrument in their business by certain of the men
connected with the elevated railways and other great corporations at
that time. We got hold of his correspondence with one of these men, and
it showed a shocking willingness to use the judicial office in any way
that one of the kings of finance of that day desired. He had actually
held court in one of that financier's rooms. One expression in one of
the judge's letters to this financier I shall always remember: "I am
willing to go to the very verge of judicial discretion to serve your
vast interests." The curious thing was that I was by no means certain
that the judge himself was corrupt. He may have been; but I am inclined
to think that, aside from his being a man of coarse moral fiber, the
trouble lay chiefly in the fact that he had a genuine--if I had not
so often seen it, I would say a wholly inexplicable--reverence for
the possessor of a great fortune as such. He sincerely believed that
business was the end of existence, and that judge and legislator
alike should do whatever was necessary to favor it; and the bigger the
business the more he desired to favor it. Big business of the kind that
is allied with politics thoroughly appreciated the usefulness of such a
judge, and every effort was strained to protect him. We fought hard--by
"we" I mean some thirty or forty legislators, both Republicans and
Democrats--but the "black horse cavalry," and the timid good men, and
the dull conservative men, were all against us; and the vote in the
Legislature was heavily against impeachment. The minority of the
committee that investigated him, with Chapin at its head, recommended
impeachment; the argument for impeachment before the committee was made
by Francis Lynde Stetson.
It was my first experience of the kind. Various men whom I had known
well socially and had been taught to look up to, prominent business men
and lawyers, acted in a way which not only astounded me, but which I
was quite unable to reconcile with the theories I had formed as to their
high standing--I was little more than a year out of college at the time.
Generally, as has been always the case since, they were careful to avoid
any direct conversation with me on a concrete case of what we now
call "privilege" in business and in politics, that is, of the alliance
between business and politics which represents improper favors rendered
to some men in return for improper conduct on the part of others being
ignored or permitted.
One member of a prominent law firm, an old family friend, did, however,
take me out to lunch one day, evidently for the purpose of seeing just
what it was that I wished and intended to do. I believe he had a
genuine personal liking for me. He explained that I had done well in the
Legislature; that it was a good thing to have made the "reform play,"
that I had shown that I possessed ability such as would make me useful
in the right kind of law office or business concern; but that I must not
overplay my hand; that I had gone far enough, and that now was the time
to leave politics and identify myself with the right kind of people, the
people who would always in the long run control others and obtain the
real rewards which were worth having. I asked him if that meant that I
was to yield to the ring in politics. He answered somewhat impatiently
that I was entirely mistaken (as in fact I was) about there being merely
a political ring, of the kind of which the papers were fond of talking;
that the "ring," if it could be called such--that is, the inner
circle--included certain big business men, and the politicians, lawyers,
and judges who were in alliance with and to a certain extent dependent
upon them, and that the successful man had to win his success by the
backing of the same forces, whether in law, business, or politics.
This conversation not only interested me, but made such an impression
that I always remembered it, for it was the first glimpse I had of that
combination between business and politics which I was in after years so
often to oppose. In the America of that day, and especially among
the people whom I knew, the successful business man was regarded by
everybody as preeminently the good citizen. The orthodox books on
political economy, not only in America but in England, were written
for his especial glorification. The tangible rewards came to him, the
admiration of his fellow-citizens of the respectable type was apt to
be his, and the severe newspaper moralists who were never tired of
denouncing politicians and political methods were wont to hold up
"business methods" as the ideal which we were to strive to introduce
into political life. Herbert Croly, in "The Promise of American Life,"
has set forth the reasons why our individualistic democracy--which
taught that each man was to rely exclusively on himself, was in no way
to be interfered with by others, and was to devote himself to his own
personal welfare--necessarily produced the type of business man
who sincerely believed, as did the rest of the community, that the
individual who amassed a big fortune was the man who was the best and
most typical American.
In the Legislature the problems with which I dealt were mainly problems
of honesty and decency and of legislative and administrative efficiency.
They represented the effort, the wise, the vitally necessary effort, to
get efficient and honest government. But as yet I understood little of
the effort which was already beginning, for the most part under very bad
leadership, to secure a more genuine social and industrial justice. Nor
was I especially to blame for this. The good citizens I then knew best,
even when themselves men of limited means--men like my colleague Billy
O'Neill, and my backwoods friends Sewall and Dow--were no more awake
than I was to the changing needs the changing times were bringing.
Their outlook was as narrow as my own, and, within its limits, as
fundamentally sound.
I wish to dwell on the soundness of our outlook on life, even though as
yet it was not broad enough. We were no respecters of persons. Where our
vision was developed to a degree that enabled us to see crookedness, we
opposed it whether in great or small. As a matter of fact, we found that
it needed much more courage to stand up openly against labor men when
they were wrong than against capitalists when they were wrong. The
sins against labor are usually committed, and the improper services to
capitalists are usually rendered, behind closed doors. Very often the
man with the moral courage to speak in the open against labor when it is
wrong is the only man anxious to do effective work for labor when labor
is right.
The only kinds of courage and honesty which are permanently useful to
good institutions anywhere are those shown by men who decide all cases
with impartial justice on grounds of conduct and not on grounds of
class. We found that in the long run the men who in public blatantly
insisted that labor was never wrong were the very men who in private
could not be trusted to stand for labor when it was right. We grew
heartily to distrust the reformer who never denounced wickedness unless
it was embodied in a rich man. Human nature does not change; and that
type of "reformer" is as noxious now as he ever was. The loud-mouthed
upholder of popular rights who attacks wickedness only when it is allied
with wealth, and who never publicly assails any misdeed, no matter how
flagrant, if committed nominally in the interest of labor, has either a
warped mind or a tainted soul, and should be trusted by no honest man.
It was largely the indignant and contemptuous dislike aroused in our
minds by the demagogues of this class which then prevented those of us
whose instincts at bottom were sound from going as far as we ought to
have gone along the lines of governmental control of corporations and
governmental interference on behalf of labor.
I did, however, have one exceedingly useful experience. A bill was
introduced by the Cigar-Makers' Union to prohibit the manufacture of
cigars in tenement-houses. I was appointed one of a committee of three
to investigate conditions in the tenement-houses and see if legislation
should be had. Of my two colleagues on the committee, one took no
interest in the measure and privately said he did not think it was
right, but that he had to vote for it because the labor unions were
strong in his district and he was pledged to support the bill. The
other, a sporting Tammany man who afterwards abandoned politics for the
race-track, was a very good fellow. He told me frankly that he had to be
against the bill because certain interests which were all-powerful and
with which he had dealings required him to be against it, but that I
was a free agent, and that if I would look into the matter he believed I
would favor the legislation. As a matter of fact, I had supposed I would
be against the legislation, and I rather think that I was put on the
committee with that idea, for the respectable people I knew were against
it; it was contrary to the principles of political economy of the
_laissez-faire_ kind; and the business men who spoke to me about it
shook their heads and said that it was designed to prevent a man doing
as he wished and as he had a right to do with what was his own.
However, my first visits to the tenement-house districts in question
made me feel that, whatever the theories might be, as a matter of
practical common sense I could not conscientiously vote for the
continuance of the conditions which I saw. These conditions rendered
it impossible for the families of the tenement-house workers to live
so that the children might grow up fitted for the exacting duties
of American citizenship. I visited the tenement-houses once with
my colleagues of the committee, once with some of the labor union
representatives, and once or twice by myself. In a few of the
tenement-houses there were suites of rooms ample in number where the
work on the tobacco was done in rooms not occupied for cooking or
sleeping or living. In the overwhelming majority of cases, however,
there were one, two, or three room apartments, and the work of
manufacturing the tobacco by men, women, and children went on day and
night in the eating, living, and sleeping rooms--sometimes in one room.
I have always remembered one room in which two families were living. On
my inquiry as to who the third adult male was I was told that he was
a boarder with one of the families. There were several children,
three men, and two women in this room. The tobacco was stowed about
everywhere, alongside the foul bedding, and in a corner where there were
scraps of food. The men, women, and children in this room worked by day
and far on into the evening, and they slept and ate there. They were
Bohemians, unable to speak English, except that one of the children knew
enough to act as interpreter.
Instead of opposing the bill I ardently championed it. It was a poorly
drawn measure, and the Governor, Grover Cleveland, was at first doubtful
about signing it. The Cigar-makers' Union then asked me to appear before
the Governor and argue for it. I accordingly did so, acting as spokesman
for the battered, undersized foreigners who represented the Union
and the workers. The Governor signed the bill. Afterwards this
tenement-house cigar legislation was declared invalid by the Court
of Appeals in the Jacobs decision. Jacobs was one of the rare
tenement-house manufacturers of cigars who occupied quite a suite
of rooms, so that in his case the living conditions were altogether
exceptional. What the reason was which influenced those bringing the
suit to select the exceptional instead of the average worker I do not
know; of course such action was precisely the action which those most
interested in having the law broken down were anxious to see taken.
The Court of Appeals declared the law unconstitutional, and in their
decision the judges reprobated the law as an assault upon the "hallowed"
influences of "home." It was this case which first waked me to a dim and
partial understanding of the fact that the courts were not necessarily
the best judges of what should be done to better social and industrial
conditions. The judges who rendered this decision were well-meaning
men. They knew nothing whatever of tenement-house conditions; they
knew nothing whatever of the needs, or of the life and labor, of
three-fourths of their fellow-citizens in great cities. They knew
legalism, but not life. Their choice of the words "hallowed" and "home,"
as applicable to the revolting conditions attending the manufacture of
cigars in tenement-houses, showed that they had no idea what it was
that they were deciding. Imagine the "hallowed" associations of a "home"
consisting of one room where two families, one of them with a boarder,
live, eat, and work! This decision completely blocked tenement-house
reform legislation in New York for a score of years, and hampers it to
this day. It was one of the most serious setbacks which the cause of
industrial and social progress and reform ever received.
I had been brought up to hold the courts in especial reverence. The
people with whom I was most intimate were apt to praise the courts for
just such decisions as this, and to speak of them as bulwarks against
disorder and barriers against demagogic legislation. These were the same
people with whom the judges who rendered these decisions were apt
to foregather at social clubs, or dinners, or in private life. Very
naturally they all tended to look at things from the same standpoint. Of
course it took more than one experience such as this Tenement Cigar Case
to shake me out of the attitude in which I was brought up. But various
decisions, not only of the New York court but of certain other State
courts and even of the United States Supreme Court, during the quarter
of a century following the passage of this tenement-house legislation,
did at last thoroughly wake me to the actual fact. I grew to realize
that all that Abraham Lincoln had said about the Dred Scott decision
could be said with equal truth and justice about the numerous decisions
which in our own day were erected as bars across the path of social
reform, and which brought to naught so much of the effort to secure
justice and fair dealing for workingmen and workingwomen, and for plain
citizens generally.
Some of the wickedness and inefficiency in public life was then
displayed in simpler fashion than would probably now be the case. Once
or twice I was a member of committees which looked into gross and widely
ramifying governmental abuses. On the whole, the most important part I
played was in the third Legislature in which I served, when I acted as
chairman of a committee which investigated various phases of New York
City official life.
The most important of the reform measures our committee recommended was
the bill taking away from the Aldermen their power of confirmation over
the Mayor's appointments. We found that it was possible to get citizens
interested in the character and capacity of the head of the city, so
that they would exercise some intelligent interest in his conduct and
qualifications. But we found that as a matter of fact it was impossible
to get them interested in the Aldermen and other subordinate officers.
In actual practice the Aldermen were merely the creatures of the local
ward bosses or of the big municipal bosses, and where they controlled
the appointments the citizens at large had no chance whatever to make
their will felt. Accordingly we fought for the principle, which I
believe to be of universal application, that what is needed in our
popular government is to give plenty of power to a few officials, and to
make these few officials genuinely and readily responsible to the people
for the exercise of that power. Taking away the confirming power of the
Board of Aldermen did not give the citizens of New York good government.
We knew that if they chose to elect the wrong kind of Mayor they would
have bad government, no matter what the form of the law was. But we did
secure to them the chance to get good government if they desired, and
this was impossible as long as the old system remained. The change was
fought in the way in which all similar changes always are fought. The
corrupt and interested politicians were against it, and the battle-cries
they used, which rallied to them most of the unthinking conservatives,
were that we were changing the old constitutional system, that we were
defacing the monuments of the wisdom of the founders of the government,
that we were destroying that distinction between legislative and
executive power which was the bulwark of our liberties, and that we were
violent and unscrupulous radicals with no reverence for the past.
Of course the investigations, disclosures, and proceedings of the
investigating committee of which I was chairman brought me into
bitter personal conflict with very powerful financiers, very powerful
politicians, and with certain newspapers which these financiers and
politicians controlled. A number of able and unscrupulous men were
fighting, some for their financial lives, and others to keep out of
unpleasantly close neighborhood to State's prison. This meant that there
were blows to be taken as well as given. In such political struggles,
those who went in for the kind of thing that I did speedily excited
animosities among strong and cunning men who would stop at little to
gratify their animosity. Any man engaged in this particular type of
militant and practical reform movement was soon made to feel that he had
better not undertake to push matters home unless his own character was
unassailable. On one of the investigating committees on which I served
there was a countryman, a very able man, who, when he reached New York
City, felt as certain Americans do when they go to Paris--that the moral
restraints of his native place no longer applied. With all his ability,
he was not shrewd enough to realize that the Police Department was
having him as well as the rest of us carefully shadowed. He was caught
red-handed by a plain-clothes man doing what he had no business to do;
and from that time on he dared not act save as those who held his secret
permitted him to act. Thenceforth those officials who stood behind the
Police Department had one man on the committee on whom they could count.
I never saw terror more ghastly on a strong man's face than on the face
of this man on one or two occasions when he feared that events in the
committee might take such a course as to force him into a position where
his colleagues would expose him even if the city officials did not.
However, he escaped, for we were never able to get the kind of proof
which would warrant our asking for the action in which this man could
not have joined.
Traps were set for more than one of us, and if we had walked into these
traps our public careers would have ended, at least so far as following
them under the conditions which alone make it worth while to be in
public life at all. A man can of course hold public office, and many a
man does hold public office, and lead a public career of a sort, even if
there are other men who possess secrets about him which he cannot afford
to have divulged. But no man can lead a public career really worth
leading, no man can act with rugged independence in serious crises, nor
strike at great abuses, nor afford to make powerful and unscrupulous
foes, if he is himself vulnerable in his private character. Nor will
clean conduct by itself enable a man to render good service. I have
always been fond of Josh Billings's remark that "it is much easier to
be a harmless dove than a wise serpent." There are plenty of decent
legislators, and plenty of able legislators; but the blamelessness and
the fighting edge are not always combined. Both qualities are necessary
for the man who is to wage active battle against the powers that prey.
He must be clean of life, so that he can laugh when his public or his
private record is searched; and yet being clean of life will not
avail him if he is either foolish or timid. He must walk warily and
fearlessly, and while he should never brawl if he can avoid it, he must
be ready to hit hard if the need arises. Let him remember, by the way,
that the unforgivable crime is soft hitting. Do not hit at all if it can
be avoided; but never hit softly.
Like most young men in politics, I went through various oscillations
of feeling before I "found myself." At one period I became so impressed
with the virtue of complete independence that I proceeded to act on each
case purely as I personally viewed it, without paying any heed to the
principles and prejudices of others. The result was that I speedily
and deservedly lost all power of accomplishing anything at all; and I
thereby learned the invaluable lesson that in the practical activities
of life no man can render the highest service unless he can act
in combination with his fellows, which means a certain amount of
give-and-take between him and them. Again, I at one period began to
believe that I had a future before me, and that it behooved me to be
very far-sighted and scan each action carefully with a view to its
possible effect on that future. This speedily made me useless to the
public and an object of aversion to myself; and I then made up my mind
that I would try not to think of the future at all, but would proceed on
the assumption that each office I held would be the last I ever should
hold, and that I would confine myself to trying to do my work as well as
possible while I held that office. I found that for me personally this
was the only way in which I could either enjoy myself or render good
service to the country, and I never afterwards deviated from this plan.
As regards political advancement the bosses could of course do a good
deal. At that time the warring Stalwart and Half-Breed factions of
the Republican party were supporting respectively President Arthur
and Senator Miller. Neither side cared for me. The first year in the
Legislature I rose to a position of leadership, so that in the second
year, when the Republicans were in a minority, I received the minority
nomination for Speaker, although I was still the youngest man in the
House, being twenty-four years old. The third year the Republicans
carried the Legislature, and the bosses at once took a hand in the
Speakership contest. I made a stout fight for the nomination, but the
bosses of the two factions, the Stalwarts and the Half-Breeds, combined
and I was beaten. I was much chagrined for the moment. But the fact that
I had fought hard and efficiently, even though defeated, and that I had
made the fight single-handed, with no machine back of me, assured my
standing as floor leader. My defeat in the end materially strengthened
my position, and enabled me to accomplish far more than I could have
accomplished as Speaker. As so often, I found that the titular
position was of no consequence; what counted was the combination of the
opportunity with the ability to accomplish results. The achievement was
the all-important thing; the position, whether titularly high or
low, was of consequence only in so far as it widened the chance for
achievement. After the session closed four of us who looked at politics
from the same standpoint and were known as Independent or Anti-Machine
Republicans were sent by the State Convention as delegates-at-large
to the Republican National Convention of 1884, where I advocated, as
vigorously as I knew how, the nomination of Senator George F. Edmunds.
Mr. Edmunds was defeated and Mr. Blaine nominated. Mr. Blaine was
clearly the choice of the rank and file of the party; his nomination
was won in fair and aboveboard fashion, because the rank and file of the
party stood back of him; and I supported him to the best of my ability
in the ensuing campaign.
The Speakership contest enlightened me as regards more things than the
attitude of the bosses. I had already had some exasperating experiences
with the "silk stocking" reformer type, as Abraham Lincoln called it,
the gentlemen who were very nice, very refined, who shook their heads
over political corruption and discussed it in drawing-rooms and parlors,
but who were wholly unable to grapple with real men in real life. They
were apt vociferously to demand "reform" as if it were some concrete
substance, like cake, which could be handed out at will, in tangible
masses, if only the demand were urgent enough. These parlor reformers
made up for inefficiency in action by zeal in criticising; and they
delighted in criticising the men who really were doing the things which
they said ought to be done, but which they lacked the sinewy power to
do. They often upheld ideals which were not merely impossible but highly
undesirable, and thereby played into the hands of the very politicians
to whom they professed to be most hostile. Moreover, if they believed
that their own interests, individually or as a class, were jeoparded,
they were apt to show no higher standards than did the men they usually
denounced.
One of their shibboleths was that the office should seek the man and not
the man the office. This is entirely true of certain offices at certain
times. It is entirely untrue when the circumstances are different.
It would have been unnecessary and undesirable for Washington to
have sought the Presidency. But if Abraham Lincoln had not sought the
Presidency he never would have been nominated. The objection in such a
case as this lies not to seeking the office, but to seeking it in any
but an honorable and proper manner. The effect of the shibboleth in
question is usually merely to put a premium on hypocrisy, and therefore
to favor the creature who is willing to rise by hypocrisy. When I ran
for Speaker, the whole body of machine politicians was against me, and
my only chance lay in arousing the people in the different districts. To
do this I had to visit the districts, put the case fairly before the men
whom I saw, and make them understand that I was really making a fight
and would stay in the fight to the end. Yet there were reformers who
shook their heads and deplored my "activity" in the canvass. Of course
the one thing which corrupt machine politicians most desire is to have
decent men frown on the activity, that is, on the efficiency, of the
honest man who genuinely wishes to reform politics.
If efficiency is left solely to bad men, and if virtue is confined
solely to inefficient men, the result cannot be happy. When I entered
politics there were, as there always had been--and as there always will
be--any number of bad men in politics who were thoroughly efficient,
and any number of good men who would like to have done lofty things in
politics but who were thoroughly inefficient. If I wished to accomplish
anything for the country, my business was to combine decency and
efficiency; to be a thoroughly practical man of high ideals who did his
best to reduce those ideals to actual practice. This was my ideal, and
to the best of my ability I strove to live up to it.
To a young man, life in the New York Legislature was always interesting
and often entertaining. There was always a struggle of some kind on
hand. Sometimes it was on a naked question of right and wrong. Sometimes
it was on a question of real constructive statesmanship. Moreover, there
were all kinds of humorous incidents, the humor being usually of the
unconscious kind. In one session of the Legislature the New York City
Democratic representatives were split into two camps, and there were
two rivals for leadership. One of these was a thoroughly good-hearted,
happy-go-lucky person who was afterwards for several years in Congress.
He had been a local magistrate and was called Judge. Generally he and I
were friendly, but occasionally I did something that irritated him. He
was always willing to vote for any other member's bill himself, and he
regarded it as narrow-minded for any one to oppose one of his
bills, especially if the opposition was upon the ground that it was
unconstitutional--for his views of the Constitution were so excessively
liberal as to make even me feel as if I belonged to the straitest sect
of strict constructionists. On one occasion he had a bill to appropriate
money, with obvious impropriety, for the relief of some miscreant whom
he styled "one of the honest yeomanry of the State." When I explained to
him that it was clearly unconstitutional, he answered, "Me friend, the
Constitution don't touch little things like that," and then added, with
an ingratiating smile, "Anyhow, I'd never allow the Constitution to
come between friends." At the time I was looking over the proofs of Mr.
Bryce's "American Commonwealth," and I told him the incident. He put it
into the first edition of the "Commonwealth"; whether it is in the last
edition or not, I cannot say.
On another occasion the same gentleman came to an issue with me in
a debate, and wound up his speech by explaining that I occupied what
"lawyers would call a quasi position on the bill." His rival was a man
of totally different type, a man of great natural dignity, also born in
Ireland. He had served with gallantry in the Civil War. After the close
of the war he organized an expedition to conquer Canada. The expedition,
however, got so drunk before reaching Albany that it was there
incarcerated in jail, whereupon its leader abandoned it and went into
New York politics instead. He was a man of influence, and later occupied
in the Police Department the same position as Commissioner which I
myself at one time occupied. He felt that his rival had gained too much
glory at my expense, and, walking over with ceremonious solemnity to
where the said rival was sitting close beside me, he said to him: "I
would like you to know, Mr. Cameron [Cameron, of course, was not the
real name], that Mr. Roosevelt knows more law in a wake than you do in a
month; and, more than that, Michael Cameron, what do you mane by quoting
Latin on the floor of this House when you don't know the alpha and
omayga of the language?"
There was in the Legislature, during the deadlock above mentioned, a man
whom I will call Brogan. He looked like a serious elderly frog. I
never heard him speak more than once. It was before the Legislature was
organized, or had adopted any rules; and each day the only business was
for the clerk to call the roll. One day Brogan suddenly rose, and the
following dialogue occurred:
Brogan. Misther Clu-r-r-k!
The Clerk. The gentleman from New York.
Brogan. I rise to a point of ordher under the rules!
The Clerk. There are no rules.
Brogan. Thin I object to them!
The Clerk. There are no rules to object to.
Brogan. Oh! [nonplussed; but immediately recovering himself].
Thin I move that they be amended until there ar-r-re!
The deadlock was tedious; and we hailed with joy such enlivening
incidents as the above.
During my three years' service in the Legislature I worked on a very
simple philosophy of government. It was that personal character and
initiative are the prime requisites in political and social life. It
was not only a good but an absolutely indispensable theory as far as it
went; but it was defective in that it did not sufficiently allow for
the need of collective action. I shall never forget the men with whom
I worked hand in hand in these legislative struggles, not only my
fellow-legislators, but some of the newspaper reporters, such as Spinney
and Cunningham; and then in addition the men in the various districts
who helped us. We had made up our minds that we must not fight fire with
fire, that on the contrary the way to win out was to equal our foes in
practical efficiency and yet to stand at the opposite plane from them in
applied morality.
It was not always easy to keep the just middle, especially when
it happened that on one side there were corrupt and unscrupulous
demagogues, and on the other side corrupt and unscrupulous
reactionaries. Our effort was to hold the scales even between both. We
tried to stand with the cause of righteousness even though its advocates
were anything but righteous. We endeavored to cut out the abuses of
property, even though good men of property were misled into upholding
those abuses. We refused to be frightened into sanctioning improper
assaults upon property, although we knew that the champions of property
themselves did things that were wicked and corrupt. We were as yet by
no means as thoroughly awake as we ought to have been to the need of
controlling big business and to the damage done by the combination of
politics with big business. In this matter I was not behind the rest
of my friends; indeed, I was ahead of them, for no serious leader in
political life then appreciated the prime need of grappling with these
questions. One partial reason--not an excuse or a justification, but a
partial reason--for my slowness in grasping the importance of action in
these matters was the corrupt and unattractive nature of so many of the
men who championed popular reforms, their insincerity, and the folly
of so many of the actions which they advocated. Even at that date I had
neither sympathy with nor admiration for the man who was merely a money
king, and I did not regard the "money touch," when divorced from other
qualities, as entitling a man to either respect or consideration. As
recited above, we did on more than one occasion fight battles, in
which we neither took nor gave quarter, against the most prominent and
powerful financiers and financial interests of the day. But most of the
fights in which we were engaged were for pure honesty and decency, and
they were more apt to be against that form of corruption which found
its expression in demagogy than against that form of corruption which
defended or advocated privilege. Fundamentally, our fight was part of
the eternal war against the Powers that Prey; and we cared not a whit in
what rank of life these powers were found.
To play the demagogue for purposes of self-interest is a cardinal sin
against the people in a democracy, exactly as to play the courtier for
such purposes is a cardinal sin against the people under other forms of
government. A man who stays long in our American political life, if he
has in his soul the generous desire to do effective service for great
causes, inevitably grows to regard himself merely as one of many
instruments, all of which it may be necessary to use, one at one time,
one at another, in achieving the triumph of those causes; and whenever
the usefulness of any one has been exhausted, it is to be thrown aside.
If such a man is wise, he will gladly do the thing that is next, when
the time and the need come together, without asking what the future
holds for him. Let the half-god play his part well and manfully, and
then be content to draw aside when the god appears. Nor should he feel
vain regrets that to another it is given to render greater services and
reap a greater reward. Let it be enough for him that he too has served,
and that by doing well he has prepared the way for the other man who can
do better.
CHAPTER IV
IN COWBOY LAND
Though I had previously made a trip into the then Territory of Dakota,
beyond the Red River, it was not until 1883 that I went to the Little
Missouri, and there took hold of two cattle ranches, the Chimney Butte
and the Elkhorn.
It was still the Wild West in those days, the Far West, the West of
Owen Wister's stories and Frederic Remington's drawings, the West of
the Indian and the buffalo-hunter, the soldier and the cow-puncher. That
land of the West has gone now, "gone, gone with lost Atlantis," gone to
the isle of ghosts and of strange dead memories. It was a land of vast
silent spaces, of lonely rivers, and of plains where the wild game
stared at the passing horseman. It was a land of scattered ranches, of
herds of long-horned cattle, and of reckless riders who unmoved looked
in the eyes of life or of death. In that land we led a free and hardy
life, with horse and with rifle. We worked under the scorching midsummer
sun, when the wide plains shimmered and wavered in the heat; and we knew
the freezing misery of riding night guard round the cattle in the late
fall round-up. In the soft springtime the stars were glorious in our
eyes each night before we fell asleep; and in the winter we rode through
blinding blizzards, when the driven snow-dust burned our faces. There
were monotonous days, as we guided the trail cattle or the beef herds,
hour after hour, at the slowest of walks; and minutes or hours teeming
with excitement as we stopped stampedes or swam the herds across rivers
treacherous with quicksands or brimmed with running ice. We knew toil
and hardship and hunger and thirst; and we saw men die violent deaths
as they worked among the horses and cattle, or fought in evil feuds with
one another; but we felt the beat of hardy life in our veins, and ours
was the glory of work and the joy of living.
It was right and necessary that this life should pass, for the safety of
our country lies in its being made the country of the small home-maker.
The great unfenced ranches, in the days of "free grass," necessarily
represented a temporary stage in our history. The large migratory flocks
of sheep, each guarded by the hired shepherds of absentee owners, were
the first enemies of the cattlemen; and owing to the way they ate out
the grass and destroyed all other vegetation, these roving sheep
bands represented little of permanent good to the country. But the
homesteaders, the permanent settlers, the men who took up each his own
farm on which he lived and brought up his family, these represented from
the National standpoint the most desirable of all possible users of,
and dwellers on, the soil. Their advent meant the breaking up of the big
ranches; and the change was a National gain, although to some of us an
individual loss.
I first reached the Little Missouri on a Northern Pacific train about
three in the morning of a cool September day in 1883. Aside from the
station, the only building was a ramshackle structure called the Pyramid
Park Hotel. I dragged my duffle-bag thither, and hammered at the door
until the frowsy proprietor appeared, muttering oaths. He ushered me
upstairs, where I was given one of the fourteen beds in the room which
by itself constituted the entire upper floor. Next day I walked over
to the abandoned army post, and, after some hours among the gray log
shacks, a ranchman who had driven into the station agreed to take me
out to his ranch, the Chimney Butte ranch, where he was living with his
brother and their partner.
The ranch was a log structure with a dirt roof, a corral for the horses
near by, and a chicken-house jabbed against the rear of the ranch house.
Inside there was only one room, with a table, three or four chairs, a
cooking-stove, and three bunks. The owners were Sylvane and Joe Ferris
and William J. Merrifield. Later all three of them held my commissions
while I was President. Merrifield was Marshal of Montana, and as
Presidential elector cast the vote of that State for me in 1904; Sylvane
Ferris was Land Officer in North Dakota, and Joe Ferris Postmaster at
Medora. There was a fourth man, George Meyer, who also worked for me
later. That evening we all played old sledge round the table, and at one
period the game was interrupted by a frightful squawking outside which
told us that a bobcat had made a raid on the chicken-house.
After a buffalo hunt with my original friend, Joe Ferris, I entered into
partnership with Merrifield and Sylvane Ferris, and we started a cow
ranch, with the maltese cross brand--always known as "maltee cross," by
the way, as the general impression along the Little Missouri was that
"maltese" must be a plural. Twenty-nine years later my four friends of
that night were delegates to the First Progressive National Convention
at Chicago. They were among my most constant companions for the few
years next succeeding the evening when the bobcat interrupted the game
of old sledge. I lived and worked with them on the ranch, and with them
and many others like them on the round-up; and I brought out from
Maine, in order to start the Elkhorn ranch lower down the river, my two
backwoods friends Sewall and Dow. My brands for the lower ranch were the
elkhorn and triangle.
I do not believe there ever was any life more attractive to a vigorous
young fellow than life on a cattle ranch in those days. It was a fine,
healthy life, too; it taught a man self-reliance, hardihood, and the
value of instant decision--in short, the virtues that ought to come
from life in the open country. I enjoyed the life to the full. After the
first year I built on the Elkhorn ranch a long, low ranch house of
hewn logs, with a veranda, and with, in addition to the other rooms, a
bedroom for myself, and a sitting-room with a big fire-place. I got out
a rocking-chair--I am very fond of rocking-chairs--and enough books to
fill two or three shelves, and a rubber bathtub so that I could get
a bath. And then I do not see how any one could have lived more
comfortably. We had buffalo robes and bearskins of our own killing. We
always kept the house clean--using the word in a rather large sense.
There were at least two rooms that were always warm, even in the
bitterest weather; and we had plenty to eat. Commonly the mainstay
of every meal was game of our own killing, usually antelope or deer,
sometimes grouse or ducks, and occasionally, in the earlier days,
buffalo or elk. We also had flour and bacon, sugar, salt, and canned
tomatoes. And later, when some of the men married and brought out their
wives, we had all kinds of good things, such as jams and jellies made
from the wild plums and the buffalo berries, and potatoes from the
forlorn little garden patch. Moreover, we had milk. Most ranchmen at
that time never had milk. I knew more than one ranch with ten thousand
head of cattle where there was not a cow that could be milked. We made
up our minds that we would be more enterprising. Accordingly, we started
to domesticate some of the cows. Our first effort was not successful,
chiefly because we did not devote the needed time and patience to the
matter. And we found that to race a cow two miles at full speed on
horseback, then rope her, throw her, and turn her upside down to milk
her, while exhilarating as a pastime, was not productive of results.
Gradually we accumulated tame cows, and, after we had thinned out the
bobcats and coyotes, more chickens.
The ranch house stood on the brink of a low bluff overlooking the broad,
shallow bed of the Little Missouri, through which at most seasons there
ran only a trickle of water, while in times of freshet it was filled
brimful with the boiling, foaming, muddy torrent. There was no neighbor
for ten or fifteen miles on either side of me. The river twisted down
in long curves between narrow bottoms bordered by sheer cliff walls,
for the Bad Lands, a chaos of peaks, plateaus, and ridges, rose abruptly
from the edges of the level, tree-clad, or grassy, alluvial meadows.
In front of the ranch-house veranda was a row of cottonwood trees with
gray-green leaves which quivered all day long if there was a breath of
air. From these trees came the far-away, melancholy cooing of mourning
doves, and little owls perched in them and called tremulously at night.
In the long summer afternoons we would sometimes sit on the piazza, when
there was no work to be done, for an hour or two at a time, watching the
cattle on the sand-bars, and the sharply channeled and strangely carved
amphitheater of cliffs across the bottom opposite; while the vultures
wheeled overhead, their black shadows gliding across the glaring white
of the dry river-bed. Sometimes from the ranch we saw deer, and once
when we needed meat I shot one across the river as I stood on the
piazza. In the winter, in the days of iron cold, when everything was
white under the snow, the river lay in its bed fixed and immovable as a
bar of bent steel, and then at night wolves and lynxes traveled up and
down it as if it had been a highway passing in front of the ranch house.
Often in the late fall or early winter, after a hard day's hunting, or
when returning from one of the winter line camps, we did not reach the
ranch until hours after sunset; and after the weary tramping in the
cold it was keen pleasure to catch the first red gleam of the fire-lit
windows across the snowy wastes.
The Elkhorn ranch house was built mainly by Sewall and Dow, who, like
most men from the Maine woods, were mighty with the ax. I could chop
fairly well for an amateur, but I could not do one-third the work they
could. One day when we were cutting down the cottonwood trees, to begin
our building operations, I heard some one ask Dow what the total cut had
been, and Dow not realizing that I was within hearing, answered: "Well,
Bill cut down fifty-three, I cut forty-nine, and the boss he beavered
down seventeen." Those who have seen the stump of a tree which has
been gnawed down by a beaver will understand the exact force of the
comparison.
In those days on a cow ranch the men were apt to be away on the various
round-ups at least half the time. It was interesting and exciting work,
and except for the lack of sleep on the spring and summer round-ups
it was not exhausting work; compared to lumbering or mining or
blacksmithing, to sit in the saddle is an easy form of labor. The ponies
were of course grass-fed and unshod. Each man had his own string of
nine or ten. One pony would be used for the morning work, one for the
afternoon, and neither would again be used for the next three days. A
separate pony was kept for night riding.
The spring and early summer round-ups were especially for the branding
of calves. There was much hard work and some risk on a round-up, but
also much fun. The meeting-place was appointed weeks beforehand, and all
the ranchmen of the territory to be covered by the round-up sent their
representatives. There were no fences in the West that I knew, and their
place was taken by the cowboy and the branding-iron. The cattle wandered
free. Each calf was branded with the brand of the cow it was following.
Sometimes in winter there was what we called line riding; that is, camps
were established and the line riders traveled a definite beat across the
desolate wastes of snow, to and fro from one camp to another, to prevent
the cattle from drifting. But as a rule nothing was done to keep the
cattle in any one place. In the spring there was a general round-up in
each locality. Each outfit took part in its own round-up, and all the
outfits of a given region combined to send representatives to the two or
three round-ups that covered the neighborhoods near by into which their
cattle might drift. For example, our Little Missouri round-up generally
worked down the river from a distance of some fifty or sixty miles above
my ranch toward the Kildeer Mountains, about the same distance below.
In addition we would usually send representatives to the Yellowstone
round-up, and to the round-up along the upper Little Missouri; and,
moreover, if we heard that cattle had drifted, perhaps toward the Indian
reservation southeast of us, we would send a wagon and rider after them.
At the meeting-point, which might be in the valley of a half-dry stream,
or in some broad bottom of the river itself, or perchance by a couple of
ponds under some queerly shaped butte that was a landmark for the region
round about, we would all gather on the appointed day. The chuck-wagons,
containing the bedding and food, each drawn by four horses and driven
by the teamster cook, would come jolting and rattling over the
uneven sward. Accompanying each wagon were eight or ten riders, the
cow-punchers, while their horses, a band of a hundred or so, were driven
by the two herders, one of whom was known as the day wrangler and one
as the night wrangler. The men were lean, sinewy fellows, accustomed
to riding half-broken horses at any speed over any country by day or by
night. They wore flannel shirts, with loose handkerchiefs knotted round
their necks, broad hats, high-heeled boots with jingling spurs, and
sometimes leather shaps, although often they merely had their trousers
tucked into the tops of their high boots. There was a good deal of rough
horse-play, and, as with any other gathering of men or boys of high
animal spirits, the horse-play sometimes became very rough indeed; and
as the men usually carried revolvers, and as there were occasionally one
or two noted gun-fighters among them, there was now and then a shooting
affray. A man who was a coward or who shirked his work had a bad time,
of course; a man could not afford to let himself be bullied or treated
as a butt; and, on the other hand, if he was "looking for a fight," he
was certain to find it. But my own experience was that if a man did not
talk until his associates knew him well and liked him, and if he did
his work, he never had any difficulty in getting on. In my own round-up
district I speedily grew to be friends with most of the men. When I went
among strangers I always had to spend twenty-four hours in living
down the fact that I wore spectacles, remaining as long as I could
judiciously deaf to any side remarks about "four eyes," unless it became
evident that my being quiet was misconstrued and that it was better to
bring matters to a head at once.
If, for instance, I was sent off to represent the Little Missouri brands
on some neighboring round-up, such as the Yellowstone, I usually showed
that kind of diplomacy which consists in not uttering one word that
can be avoided. I would probably have a couple of days' solitary ride,
mounted on one horse and driving eight or ten others before me, one of
them carrying my bedding. Loose horses drive best at a trot, or canter,
and if a man is traveling alone in this fashion it is a good thing to
have them reach the camp ground sufficiently late to make them desire
to feed and sleep where they are until morning. In consequence I never
spent more than two days on the journey from whatever the point was at
which I left the Little Missouri, sleeping the one night for as limited
a number of hours as possible.
As soon as I reached the meeting-place I would find out the wagon
to which I was assigned. Riding to it, I turned my horses into the
saddle-band and reported to the wagon boss, or, in his absence, to the
cook--always a privileged character, who was allowed and expected to
order men around. He would usually grumble savagely and profanely about
my having been put with his wagon, but this was merely conventional on
his part; and if I sat down and said nothing he would probably soon ask
me if I wanted anything to eat, to which the correct answer was that I
was not hungry and would wait until meal-time. The bedding rolls of
the riders would be strewn round the grass, and I would put mine down a
little outside the ring, where I would not be in any one's way, with my
six or eight branding-irons beside it. The men would ride in, laughing
and talking with one another, and perhaps nodding to me. One of their
number, usually the wagon foreman, might put some question to me as to
what brands I represented, but no other word would be addressed to me,
nor would I be expected to volunteer any conversation. Supper would
consist of bacon, Dutch oven bread, and possibly beef; once I won
the good graces of my companions at the outset by appearing with two
antelope which I had shot. After supper I would roll up in my bedding as
soon as possible, and the others would follow suit at their pleasure.
At three in the morning or thereabouts, at a yell from the cook, all
hands would turn hurriedly out. Dressing was a simple affair. Then each
man rolled and corded his bedding--if he did not, the cook would leave
it behind and he would go without any for the rest of the trip--and came
to the fire, where he picked out a tin cup, tin plate, and knife and
fork, helped himself to coffee and to whatever food there was, and ate
it standing or squatting as best suited him. Dawn was probably breaking
by this time, and the trampling of unshod hoofs showed that the night
wrangler was bringing in the pony herd. Two of the men would then run
ropes from the wagon at right angles to one another, and into this as
a corral the horses would be driven. Each man might rope one of his own
horses, or more often point it out to the most skillful roper of the
outfit, who would rope it for him--for if the man was an unskillful
roper and roped the wrong horse or roped the horse in the wrong place
there was a chance of the whole herd stampeding. Each man then saddled
and bridled his horse. This was usually followed by some resolute
bucking on the part of two or three of the horses, especially in
the early days of each round-up. The bucking was always a source of
amusement to all the men whose horses did not buck, and these fortunate
ones would gather round giving ironical advice, and especially adjuring
the rider not to "go to leather"--that is, not to steady himself in the
saddle by catching hold of the saddle-horn.
As soon as the men had mounted, the whole outfit started on the long
circle, the morning circle. Usually the ranch foreman who bossed a given
wagon was put in charge of the men of one group by the round-up foreman;
he might keep his men together until they had gone some ten or fifteen
miles from camp, and then drop them in couples at different points. Each
couple made its way toward the wagon, gathering all the cattle it could
find. The morning's ride might last six or eight hours, and it was still
longer before some of the men got in. Singly and in twos and threes they
appeared from every quarter of the horizon, the dust rising from the
hoofs of the steers and bulls, the cows and calves, they had collected.
Two or three of the men were left to take care of the herd while the
others changed horses, ate a hasty dinner, and then came out to the
afternoon work. This consisted of each man in succession being sent into
the herd, usually with a companion, to cut out the cows of his brand or
brands which were followed by unbranded calves, and also to cut out any
mavericks or unbranded yearlings. We worked each animal gently out to
the edge of the herd, and then with a sudden dash took it off at a run.
It was always desperately anxious to break back and rejoin the herd.
There was much breakneck galloping and twisting and turning before its
desire was thwarted and it was driven to join the rest of the cut--that
is, the other animals which had been cut out, and which were being held
by one or two other men. Cattle hate being alone, and it was no easy
matter to hold the first one or two that were cut out; but soon they
got a little herd of their own, and then they were contented. When
the cutting out had all been done, the calves were branded, and all
misadventures of the "calf wrestlers," the men who seized, threw, and
held each calf when roped by the mounted roper, were hailed with yelling
laughter. Then the animals which for one reason or another it was
desired to drive along with the round-up were put into one herd and left
in charge of a couple of night guards, and the rest of us would loaf
back to the wagon for supper and bed.
By this time I would have been accepted as one of the rest of the
outfit, and all strangeness would have passed off, the attitude of my
fellow cow-punchers being one of friendly forgiveness even toward my
spectacles. Night guards for the cattle herd were then assigned by the
captain of the wagon, or perhaps by the round-up foreman, according to
the needs of the case, the guards standing for two hours at a time
from eight in the evening till four in the morning. The first and last
watches were preferable, because sleep was not broken as in both of
the other two. If things went well, the cattle would soon bed down and
nothing further would occur until morning, when there was a repetition
of the work, the wagon moving each day eight or ten miles to some
appointed camping-place.
Each man would picket his night horse near the wagon, usually choosing
the quietest animal in his string for that purpose, because to saddle
and mount a "mean" horse at night is not pleasant. When utterly
tired, it was hard to have to get up for one's trick at night herd.
Nevertheless, on ordinary nights the two hours round the cattle in the
still darkness were pleasant. The loneliness, under the vast empty sky,
and the silence, in which the breathing of the cattle sounded loud, and
the alert readiness to meet any emergency which might suddenly arise
out of the formless night, all combined to give one a sense of subdued
interest. Then, one soon got to know the cattle of marked individuality,
the ones that led the others into mischief; and one also grew to
recognize the traits they all possessed in common, and the impulses
which, for instance, made a whole herd get up towards midnight, each
beast turning round and then lying down again. But by the end of the
watch each rider had studied the cattle until it grew monotonous, and
heartily welcomed his relief guard. A newcomer, of course, had any
amount to learn, and sometimes the simplest things were those which
brought him to grief.
One night early in my career I failed satisfactorily to identify the
direction in which I was to go in order to reach the night herd. It was
a pitch-dark night. I managed to get started wrong, and I never found
either the herd or the wagon again until sunrise, when I was greeted
with withering scorn by the injured cow-puncher, who had been obliged to
stand double guard because I failed to relieve him.
There were other misadventures that I met with where the excuse was
greater. The punchers on night guard usually rode round the cattle in
reverse directions; calling and singing to them if the beasts seemed
restless, to keep them quiet. On rare occasions something happened that
made the cattle stampede, and then the duty of the riders was to keep
with them as long as possible and try gradually to get control of them.
One night there was a heavy storm, and all of us who were at the wagons
were obliged to turn out hastily to help the night herders. After a
while there was a terrific peal of thunder, the lightning struck right
by the herd, and away all the beasts went, heads and horns and tails in
the air. For a minute or two I could make out nothing except the dark
forms of the beasts running on every side of me, and I should have been
very sorry if my horse had stumbled, for those behind would have trodden
me down. Then the herd split, part going to one side, while the other
part seemingly kept straight ahead, and I galloped as hard as ever
beside them. I was trying to reach the point--the leading animals--in
order to turn them, when suddenly there was a tremendous splashing in
front. I could dimly make out that the cattle immediately ahead and to
one side of me were disappearing, and the next moment the horse and I
went off a cut bank into the Little Missouri. I bent away back in the
saddle, and though the horse almost went down he just recovered himself,
and, plunging and struggling through water and quicksand, we made the
other side. Here I discovered that there was another cowboy with
the same part of the herd that I was with; but almost immediately we
separated. I galloped hard through a bottom covered with big cottonwood
trees, and stopped the part of the herd that I was with, but very soon
they broke on me again, and repeated this twice. Finally toward morning
the few I had left came to a halt.
It had been raining hard for some time. I got off my horse and leaned
against a tree, but before long the infernal cattle started on again,
and I had to ride after them. Dawn came soon after this, and I was
able to make out where I was and head the cattle back, collecting other
little bunches as I went. After a while I came on a cowboy on foot
carrying his saddle on his head. He was my companion of the previous
night. His horse had gone full speed into a tree and killed itself, the
man, however, not being hurt. I could not help him, as I had all I could
do to handle the cattle. When I got them to the wagon, most of the other
men had already come in and the riders were just starting on the long
circle. One of the men changed my horse for me while I ate a hasty
breakfast, and then we were off for the day's work.
As only about half of the night herd had been brought back, the circle
riding was particularly heavy, and it was ten hours before we were back
at the wagon. We then changed horses again and worked the whole herd
until after sunset, finishing just as it grew too dark to do anything
more. By this time I had been nearly forty hours in the saddle, changing
horses five times, and my clothes had thoroughly dried on me, and I fell
asleep as soon as I touched the bedding. Fortunately some men who had
gotten in late in the morning had had their sleep during the daytime, so
that the rest of us escaped night guard and were not called until four
next morning. Nobody ever gets enough sleep on a round-up.
The above was the longest number of consecutive hours I ever had to be
in the saddle. But, as I have said, I changed horses five times, and it
is a great lightening of labor for a rider to have a fresh horse. Once
when with Sylvane Ferris I spent about sixteen hours on one horse,
riding seventy or eighty miles. The round-up had reached a place called
the ox-bow of the Little Missouri, and we had to ride there, do some
work around the cattle, and ride back.
Another time I was twenty-four hours on horseback in company with
Merrifield without changing horses. On this occasion we did not travel
fast. We had been coming back with the wagon from a hunting trip in
the Big Horn Mountains. The team was fagged out, and we were tired of
walking at a snail's pace beside it. When we reached country that the
driver thoroughly knew, we thought it safe to leave him, and we loped in
one night across a distance which it took the wagon the three following
days to cover. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the ride was
delightful. All day long we had plodded at a walk, weary and hot. At
supper time we had rested two or three hours, and the tough little
riding horses seemed as fresh as ever. It was in September. As we rode
out of the circle of the firelight, the air was cool in our faces.
Under the bright moonlight, and then under the starlight, we loped
and cantered mile after mile over the high prairie. We passed bands of
antelope and herds of long-horn Texas cattle, and at last, just as the
first red beams of the sun flamed over the bluffs in front of us, we
rode down into the valley of the Little Missouri, where our ranch house
stood.
I never became a good roper, nor more than an average rider, according
to ranch standards. Of course a man on a ranch has to ride a good many
bad horses, and is bound to encounter a certain number of accidents,
and of these I had my share, at one time cracking a rib, and on another
occasion the point of my shoulder. We were hundreds of miles from a
doctor, and each time, as I was on the round-up, I had to get through my
work for the next few weeks as best I could, until the injury healed
of itself. When I had the opportunity I broke my own horses, doing it
gently and gradually and spending much time over it, and choosing the
horses that seemed gentle to begin with. With these horses I never had
any difficulty. But frequently there was neither time nor opportunity
to handle our mounts so elaborately. We might get a band of horses, each
having been bridled and saddled two or three times, but none of them
having been broken beyond the extent implied in this bridling and
saddling. Then each of us in succession would choose a horse (for his
string), I as owner of the ranch being given the first choice on each
round, so to speak. The first time I was ever on a round-up Sylvane
Ferris, Merrifield, Meyer, and I each chose his string in this fashion.
Three or four of the animals I got were not easy to ride. The effort
both to ride them and to look as if I enjoyed doing so, on some cool
morning when my grinning cowboy friends had gathered round "to see
whether the high-headed bay could buck the boss off," doubtless was of
benefit to me, but lacked much of being enjoyable. The time I smashed
my rib I was bucked off on a stone. The time I hurt the point of my
shoulder I was riding a big, sulky horse named Ben Butler, which went
over backwards with me. When we got up it still refused to go anywhere;
so, while I sat it, Sylvane Ferris and George Meyer got their ropes on
its neck and dragged it a few hundred yards, choking but stubborn, all
four feet firmly planted and plowing the ground. When they released
the ropes it lay down and wouldn't get up. The round-up had started; so
Sylvane gave me his horse, Baldy, which sometimes bucked but never
went over backwards, and he got on the now rearisen Ben Butler. To my
discomfiture Ben started quietly beside us, while Sylvane remarked,
"Why, there's nothing the matter with this horse; he's a plumb gentle
horse." Then Ben fell slightly behind and I heard Sylvane again, "That's
all right! Come along! Here, you! Go on, you! Hi, hi, fellows, help me
out! he's lying on me!" Sure enough, he was; and when we dragged Sylvane
from under him the first thing the rescued Sylvane did was to execute
a war-dance, spurs and all, on the iniquitous Ben. We could do nothing
with him that day; subsequently we got him so that we could ride him;
but he never became a nice saddle-horse.
As with all other forms of work, so on the round-up, a man of ordinary
power, who nevertheless does not shirk things merely because they are
disagreeable or irksome, soon earns his place. There were crack riders
and ropers who, just because they felt such overweening pride in their
own prowess, were not really very valuable men. Continually on the
circles a cow or a calf would get into some thick patch of bulberry bush
and refuse to come out; or when it was getting late we would pass some
bad lands that would probably not contain cattle, but might; or a steer
would turn fighting mad, or a calf grow tired and want to lie down.
If in such a case the man steadily persists in doing the unattractive
thing, and after two hours of exasperation and harassment does finally
get the cow out, and keep her out, of the bulberry bushes, and drives
her to the wagon, or finds some animals that have been passed by in the
fourth or fifth patch of bad lands he hunts through, or gets the calf
up on his saddle and takes it in anyhow, the foreman soon grows to treat
him as having his uses and as being an asset of worth in the round-up,
even though neither a fancy roper nor a fancy rider.
When at the Progressive Convention last August, I met George Meyer for
the first time in many years, and he recalled to me an incident on one
round-up where we happened to be thrown together while driving some cows
and calves to camp. When the camp was only just across the river, two of
the calves positively refused to go any further. He took one of them
in his arms, and after some hazardous maneuvering managed to get on
his horse, in spite of the objections of the latter, and rode into the
river. My calf was too big for such treatment, so in despair I roped
it, intending to drag it over. However, as soon as I roped it, the calf
started bouncing and bleating, and, owing to some lack of dexterity on
my part, suddenly swung round the rear of the horse, bringing the rope
under his tail. Down went the tail tight, and the horse "went into
figures," as the cow-puncher phrase of that day was. There was a cut
bank about four feet high on the hither side of the river, and over this
the horse bucked. We went into the water with a splash. With a "pluck"
the calf followed, described a parabola in the air, and landed beside
us. Fortunately, this took the rope out from under the horse's tail,
but left him thoroughly frightened. He could not do much bucking in the
stream, for there were one or two places where we had to swim, and the
shallows were either sandy or muddy; but across we went, at speed, and
the calf made a wake like Pharaoh's army in the Red Sea.
On several occasions we had to fight fire. In the geography books of my
youth prairie fires were always portrayed as taking place in long grass,
and all living things ran before them. On the Northern cattle plains the
grass was never long enough to be a source of danger to man or beast.
The fires were nothing like the forest fires in the Northern woods. But
they destroyed large quantities of feed, and we had to stop them where
possible. The process we usually followed was to kill a steer, split it
in two lengthwise, and then have two riders drag each half-steer, the
rope of one running from his saddle-horn to the front leg, and that of
the other to the hind leg. One of the men would spur his horse over or
through the line of fire, and the two would then ride forward, dragging
the steer bloody side downward along the line of flame, men following
on foot with slickers or wet horse-blankets, to beat out any flickering
blaze that was still left. It was exciting work, for the fire and the
twitching and plucking of the ox carcass over the uneven ground maddened
the fierce little horses so that it was necessary to do some riding
in order to keep them to their work. After a while it also became very
exhausting, the thirst and fatigue being great, as, with parched lips
and blackened from head to foot, we toiled at our task.
In those years the Stockman's Association of Montana was a powerful
body. I was the delegate to it from the Little Missouri. The meetings
that I attended were held in Miles City, at that time a typical cow
town. Stockmen of all kinds attended, including the biggest men in the
stock business, men like old Conrad Kohrs, who was and is the finest
type of pioneer in all the Rocky Mountain country; and Granville
Stewart, who was afterwards appointed Minister by Cleveland, I think
to the Argentine; and "Hashknife" Simpson, a Texan who had brought his
cattle, the Hashknife brand, up the trail into our country. He and
I grew to be great friends. I can see him now the first time we met,
grinning at me as, none too comfortable, I sat a half-broken horse at
the edge of a cattle herd we were working. His son Sloan Simpson went to
Harvard, was one of the first-class men in my regiment, and afterwards
held my commission as Postmaster at Dallas.
At the stockmen's meeting in Miles City, in addition to the big
stockmen, there were always hundreds of cowboys galloping up and down
the wide dusty streets at every hour of the day and night. It was a
picturesque sight during the three days the meetings lasted. There was
always at least one big dance at the hotel. There were few dress suits,
but there was perfect decorum at the dance, and in the square dances
most of the men knew the figures far better than I did. With such a
crowd in town, sleeping accommodations of any sort were at a premium,
and in the hotel there were two men in every bed. On one occasion I had
a roommate whom I never saw, because he always went to bed much later
than I did and I always got up much earlier than he did. On the last
day, however, he rose at the same time and I saw that he was a man I
knew named Carter, and nicknamed "Modesty" Carter. He was a stalwart,
good-looking fellow, and I was sorry when later I heard that he had been
killed in a shooting row.
When I went West, the last great Indian wars had just come to an end,
but there were still sporadic outbreaks here and there, and occasionally
bands of marauding young braves were a menace to outlying and lonely
settlements. Many of the white men were themselves lawless and brutal,
and prone to commit outrages on the Indians. Unfortunately, each race
tended to hold all the members of the other race responsible for the
misdeeds of a few, so that the crime of the miscreant, red or white,
who committed the original outrage too often invited retaliation upon
entirely innocent people, and this action would in its turn arouse
bitter feeling which found vent in still more indiscriminate
retaliation. The first year I was on the Little Missouri some Sioux
bucks ran off all the horses of a buffalo-hunter's outfit. One of the
buffalo-hunters tried to get even by stealing the horses of a Cheyenne
hunting party, and when pursued made for a cow camp, with, as a result,
a long-range skirmish between the cowboys and the Cheyennes. One of the
latter was wounded; but this particular wounded man seemed to have
more sense than the other participants in the chain of wrong-doing, and
discriminated among the whites. He came into our camp and had his wound
dressed.
A year later I was at a desolate little mud road ranch on the Deadwood
trail. It was kept by a very capable and very forceful woman, with sound
ideas of justice and abundantly well able to hold her own. Her husband
was a worthless devil, who finally got drunk on some whisky he obtained
from an outfit of Missouri bull-whackers--that is, freighters, driving
ox wagons. Under the stimulus of the whisky he picked a quarrel with his
wife and attempted to beat her. She knocked him down with a stove-lid
lifter, and the admiring bull-whackers bore him off, leaving the lady
in full possession of the ranch. When I visited her she had a man named
Crow Joe working for her, a slab-sided, shifty-eyed person who later,
as I heard my foreman explain, "skipped the country with a bunch of
horses." The mistress of the ranch made first-class buckskin shirts of
great durability. The one she made for me, and which I used for years,
was used by one of my sons in Arizona a couple of winters ago. I had
ridden down into the country after some lost horses, and visited the
ranch to get her to make me the buckskin shirt in question. There
were, at the moment, three Indians there, Sioux, well behaved and
self-respecting, and she explained to me that they had been resting
there waiting for dinner, and that a white man had come along and tried
to run off their horses. The Indians were on the lookout, however, and,
running out, they caught the man; but, after retaking their horses and
depriving him of his gun, they let him go. "I don't see why they let him
go," exclaimed my hostess. "I don't believe in stealing Indians' horses
any more than white folks'; so I told 'em they could go along and hang
him--I'd never cheep. Anyhow, I won't charge them anything for their
dinner," concluded my hostess. She was in advance of the usual morality
of the time and place, which drew a sharp line between stealing
citizens' horses and stealing horses from the Government or the Indians.
A fairly decent citizen, Jap Hunt, who long ago met a violent death,
exemplified this attitude towards Indians in some remarks I once heard
him make. He had started a horse ranch, and had quite honestly purchased
a number of broken-down horses of different brands, with the view of
doctoring them and selling them again. About this time there had been
much horse-stealing and cattle-killing in our Territory and in Montana,
and under the direction of some of the big cattle-growers a committee
of vigilantes had been organized to take action against the rustlers,
as the horse thieves and cattle thieves were called. The vigilantes, or
stranglers, as they were locally known, did their work thoroughly; but,
as always happens with bodies of the kind, toward the end they grew
reckless in their actions, paid off private grudges, and hung men on
slight provocation. Riding into Jap Hunt's ranch, they nearly hung him
because he had so many horses of different brands. He was finally let
off. He was much upset by the incident, and explained again and again,
"The idea of saying that I was a horse thief! Why, I never stole a horse
in my life--leastways from a white man. I don't count Indians nor the
Government, of course." Jap had been reared among men still in the stage
of tribal morality, and while they recognized their obligations to one
another, both the Government and the Indians seemed alien bodies, in
regard to which the laws of morality did not apply.
On the other hand, parties of savage young bucks would treat lonely
settlers just as badly, and in addition sometimes murder them. Such a
party was generally composed of young fellows burning to distinguish
themselves. Some one of their number would have obtained a pass from
the Indian Agent allowing him to travel off the reservation, which pass
would be flourished whenever their action was questioned by bodies of
whites of equal strength. I once had a trifling encounter with such a
band. I was making my way along the edge of the bad lands, northward
from my lower ranch, and was just crossing a plateau when five Indians
rode up over the further rim. The instant they saw me they whipped
out their guns and raced full speed at me, yelling and flogging their
horses. I was on a favorite horse, Manitou, who was a wise old fellow,
with nerves not to be shaken by anything. I at once leaped off him and
stood with my rifle ready.
It was possible that the Indians were merely making a bluff and intended
no mischief. But I did not like their actions, and I thought it likely
that if I allowed them to get hold of me they would at least take my
horse and rifle, and possibly kill me. So I waited until they were a
hundred yards off and then drew a bead on the first. Indians--and, for
the matter of that, white men--do not like to ride in on a man who is
cool and means shooting, and in a twinkling every man was lying over the
side of his horse, and all five had turned and were galloping backwards,
having altered their course as quickly as so many teal ducks.
After this one of them made the peace sign, with his blanket first, and
then, as he rode toward me, with his open hand. I halted him at a fair
distance and asked him what he wanted. He exclaimed, "How! Me good
Injun, me good Injun," and tried to show me the dirty piece of paper on
which his agency pass was written. I told him with sincerity that I was
glad that he was a good Indian, but that he must not come any closer. He
then asked for sugar and tobacco. I told him I had none. Another Indian
began slowly drifting toward me in spite of my calling out to keep back,
so I once more aimed with my rifle, whereupon both Indians slipped to
the other side of their horses and galloped off, with oaths that did
credit to at least one side of their acquaintance with English. I now
mounted and pushed over the plateau on to the open prairie. In those
days an Indian, although not as good a shot as a white man, was
infinitely better at crawling under and taking advantage of cover; and
the worst thing a white man could do was to get into cover, whereas out
in the open if he kept his head he had a good chance of standing off
even half a dozen assailants. The Indians accompanied me for a couple of
miles. Then I reached the open prairie, and resumed my northward ride,
not being further molested.
In the old days in the ranch country we depended upon game for fresh
meat. Nobody liked to kill a beef, and although now and then a maverick
yearling might be killed on the round-up, most of us looked askance at
the deed, because if the practice of beef-killing was ever allowed to
start, the rustlers--the horse thieves and cattle thieves--would be sure
to seize on it as an excuse for general slaughter. Getting meat for the
ranch usually devolved upon me. I almost always carried a rifle when I
rode, either in a scabbard under my thigh, or across the pommel. Often
I would pick up a deer or antelope while about my regular work, when
visiting a line camp or riding after the cattle. At other times I would
make a day's trip after them. In the fall we sometimes took a wagon
and made a week's hunt, returning with eight or ten deer carcasses, and
perhaps an elk or a mountain sheep as well. I never became more than a
fair hunter, and at times I had most exasperating experiences, either
failing to see game which I ought to have seen, or committing some
blunder in the stalk, or failing to kill when I fired. Looking back,
I am inclined to say that if I had any good quality as a hunter it was
that of perseverance. "It is dogged that does it" in hunting as in many
other things. Unless in wholly exceptional cases, when we were very
hungry, I never killed anything but bucks.
Occasionally I made long trips away from the ranch and among the Rocky
Mountains with my ranch foreman Merrifield; or in later years with
Tazewell Woody, John Willis, or John Goff. We hunted bears, both the
black and the grizzly, cougars and wolves, and moose, wapiti, and white
goat. On one of these trips I killed a bison bull, and I also killed a
bison bull on the Little Missouri some fifty miles south of my ranch on
a trip which Joe Ferris and I took together. It was rather a rough trip.
Each of us carried only his slicker behind him on the saddle, with some
flour and bacon done up in it. We met with all kinds of misadventures.
Finally one night, when we were sleeping by a slimy little prairie pool
where there was not a stick of wood, we had to tie the horses to the
horns of our saddles; and then we went to sleep with our heads on the
saddles. In the middle of the night something stampeded the horses, and
away they went, with the saddles after them. As we jumped to our feet
Joe eyed me with an evident suspicion that I was the Jonah of the party,
and said: "O Lord! I've never done anything to deserve this. Did you
ever do anything to deserve this?"
In addition to my private duties, I sometimes served as deputy sheriff
for the northern end of our county. The sheriff and I crisscrossed in
our public and private relations. He often worked for me as a hired hand
at the same time that I was his deputy. His name, or at least the
name he went by, was Bill Jones, and as there were in the neighborhood
several Bill Joneses--Three Seven Bill Jones, Texas Bill Jones, and
the like--the sheriff was known as Hell Roaring Bill Jones. He was a
thorough frontiersman, excellent in all kinds of emergencies, and a
very game man. I became much attached to him. He was a thoroughly good
citizen when sober, but he was a little wild when drunk. Unfortunately,
toward the end of his life he got to drinking very heavily. When, in
1905, John Burroughs and I visited the Yellowstone Park, poor Bill
Jones, very much down in the world, was driving a team in Gardiner
outside the park. I had looked forward to seeing him, and he was equally
anxious to see me. He kept telling his cronies of our intimacy and of
what we were going to do together, and then got drinking; and the result
was that by the time I reached Gardiner he had to be carried out and
left in the sage-brush. When I came out of the park, I sent on in
advance to tell them to be sure to keep him sober, and they did so. But
it was a rather sad interview. The old fellow had gone to pieces, and
soon after I left he got lost in a blizzard and was dead when they found
him.
Bill Jones was a gun-fighter and also a good man with his fists. On one
occasion there was an election in town. There had been many threats that
the party of disorder would import section hands from the neighboring
railway stations to down our side. I did not reach Medora, the forlorn
little cattle town which was our county seat, until the election was
well under way. I then asked one of my friends if there had been any
disorder. Bill Jones was standing by. "Disorder hell!" said my friend.
"Bill Jones just stood there with one hand on his gun and the other
pointing over toward the new jail whenever any man who didn't have a
right to vote came near the polls. There was only one of them tried to
vote, and Bill knocked him down. Lord!" added my friend, meditatively,
"the way that man fell!" "Well," struck in Bill Jones, "if he hadn't
fell I'd have walked round behind him to see what was propping him up!"
In the days when I lived on the ranch I usually spent most of the
winter in the East, and when I returned in the early spring I was always
interested in finding out what had happened since my departure. On one
occasion I was met by Bill Jones and Sylvane Ferris, and in the course
of our conversation they mentioned "the lunatic." This led to a question
on my part, and Sylvane Ferris began the story: "Well, you see, he was
on a train and he shot the newsboy. At first they weren't going to do
anything to him, for they thought he just had it in for the newsboy. But
then somebody said, 'Why, he's plumb crazy, and he's liable to shoot any
of us!' and then they threw him off the train. It was here at Medora,
and they asked if anybody would take care of him, and Bill Jones said he
would, because he was the sheriff and the jail had two rooms, and he was
living in one and would put the lunatic in the other." Here Bill Jones
interrupted: "Yes, and more fool me! I wouldn't take charge of another
lunatic if the whole county asked me. Why" (with the air of a man
announcing an astounding discovery), "that lunatic didn't have his right
senses! He wouldn't eat, till me and Snyder got him down on the shavings
and made him eat." Snyder was a huge, happy-go-lucky, kind-hearted
Pennsylvania Dutchman, and was Bill Jones's chief deputy. Bill
continued: "You know, Snyder's soft-hearted, he is. Well, he'd think
that lunatic looked peaked, and he'd take him out for an airing. Then
the boys would get joshing him as to how much start he could give him
over the prairie and catch him again." Apparently the amount of the
start given the lunatic depended upon the amount of the bet to which the
joshing led up. I asked Bill what he would have done if Snyder hadn't
caught the lunatic. This was evidently a new idea, and he responded that
Snyder always did catch him. "Well, but suppose he hadn't caught him?"
"Well," said Bill Jones, "if Snyder hadn't caught the lunatic, I'd have
whaled hell out of Snyder!"
Under these circumstances Snyder ran his best and always did catch the
patient. It must not be gathered from this that the lunatic was badly
treated. He was well treated. He become greatly attached to both Bill
Jones and Snyder, and he objected strongly when, after the frontier
theory of treatment of the insane had received a full trial, he was
finally sent off to the territorial capital. It was merely that all the
relations of life in that place and day were so managed as to give ample
opportunity for the expression of individuality, whether in sheriff or
ranchman. The local practical joker once attempted to have some fun at
the expense of the lunatic, and Bill Jones described the result. "You
know Bixby, don't you? Well," with deep disapproval, "Bixby thinks he
is funny, he does. He'd come and he'd wake that lunatic up at night, and
I'd have to get up and soothe him. I fixed Bixby all right, though. I
fastened a rope on the latch, and next time Bixby came I let the lunatic
out on him. He 'most bit Bixby's nose off. I learned Bixby!"
Bill Jones had been unconventional in other relations besides that of
sheriff. He once casually mentioned to me that he had served on the
police force of Bismarck, but he had left because he "beat the Mayor
over the head with his gun one day." He added: "The Mayor, he didn't
mind it, but the Superintendent of Police said he guessed I'd better
resign." His feeling, obviously, was that the Superintendent of Police
was a martinet, unfit to take large views of life.
It was while with Bill Jones that I first made acquaintance with Seth
Bullock. Seth was at that time sheriff in the Black Hills district, and
a man he had wanted--a horse thief--I finally got, I being at the time
deputy sheriff two or three hundred miles to the north. The man went by
a nickname which I will call "Crazy Steve"; a year or two afterwards
I received a letter asking about him from his uncle, a thoroughly
respectable man in a Western State; and later this uncle and I met at
Washington when I was President and he a United States Senator. It
was some time after "Steve's" capture that I went down to Deadwood on
business, Sylvane Ferris and I on horseback, while Bill Jones drove the
wagon. At a little town, Spearfish, I think, after crossing the last
eighty or ninety miles of gumbo prairies, we met Seth Bullock. We had
had rather a rough trip, and had lain out for a fortnight, so I suppose
we looked somewhat unkempt. Seth received us with rather distant
courtesy at first, but unbent when he found out who we were, remarking,
"You see, by your looks I thought you were some kind of a tin-horn
gambling outfit, and that I might have to keep an eye on you!" He then
inquired after the capture of "Steve"--with a little of the air of
one sportsman when another has shot a quail that either might have
claimed--"My bird, I believe?" Later Seth Bullock became, and has ever
since remained, one of my stanchest and most valued friends. He served
as Marshal for South Dakota under me as President. When, after the close
of my term, I went to Africa, on getting back to Europe I cabled Seth
Bullock to bring over Mrs. Bullock and meet me in London, which he did;
by that time I felt that I just had to meet my own people, who spoke my
neighborhood dialect.
When serving as deputy sheriff I was impressed with the advantage the
officer of the law has over ordinary wrong-doers, provided he thoroughly
knows his own mind. There are exceptional outlaws, men with a price on
their heads and of remarkable prowess, who are utterly indifferent to
taking life, and whose warfare against society is as open as that of a
savage on the war-path. The law officer has no advantage whatever over
these men save what his own prowess may--or may not--give him. Such a
man was Billy the Kid, the notorious man-killer and desperado of New
Mexico, who was himself finally slain by a friend of mine, Pat Garrett,
whom, when I was President, I made collector of customs at El Paso.
But the ordinary criminal, even when murderously inclined, feels just a
moment's hesitation as to whether he cares to kill an officer of the
law engaged in his duty. I took in more than one man who was probably a
better man than I was with both rifle and revolver; but in each case I
knew just what I wanted to do, and, like David Harum, I "did it first,"
whereas the fraction of a second that the other man hesitated put him in
a position where it was useless for him to resist.
I owe more than I can ever express to the West, which of course means to
the men and women I met in the West. There were a few people of bad type
in my neighborhood--that would be true of every group of men, even in a
theological seminary--but I could not speak with too great affection and
respect of the great majority of my friends, the hard-working men and
women who dwelt for a space of perhaps a hundred and fifty miles along
the Little Missouri. I was always as welcome at their houses as they
were at mine. Everybody worked, everybody was willing to help everybody
else, and yet nobody asked any favors. The same thing was true of the
people whom I got to know fifty miles east and fifty miles west of my
own range, and of the men I met on the round-ups. They soon accepted me
as a friend and fellow-worker who stood on an equal footing with them,
and I believe the most of them have kept their feeling for me ever
since. No guests were ever more welcome at the White House than these
old friends of the cattle ranches and the cow camps--the men with whom
I had ridden the long circle and eaten at the tail-board of a
chuck-wagon--whenever they turned up at Washington during my Presidency.
I remember one of them who appeared at Washington one day just before
lunch, a huge, powerful man who, when I knew him, had been distinctly a
fighting character. It happened that on that day another old friend,
the British Ambassador, Mr. Bryce, was among those coming to lunch. Just
before we went in I turned to my cow-puncher friend and said to him with
great solemnity, "Remember, Jim, that if you shot at the feet of the
British Ambassador to make him dance, it would be likely to cause
international complications"; to which Jim responded with unaffected
horror, "Why, Colonel, I shouldn't think of it, I shouldn't think of
it!"
Not only did the men and women whom I met in the cow country quite
unconsciously help me, by the insight which working and living with them
enabled me to get into the mind and soul of the average American of the
right type, but they helped me in another way. I made up my mind that
the men were of just the kind whom it would be well to have with me if
ever it became necessary to go to war. When the Spanish War came, I gave
this thought practical realization.
Fortunately, Wister and Remington, with pen and pencil, have made these
men live as long as our literature lives. I have sometimes been asked
if Wister's "Virginian" is not overdrawn; why, one of the men I have
mentioned in this chapter was in all essentials the Virginian in real
life, not only in his force but in his charm. Half of the men I worked
with or played with and half of the men who soldiered with me afterwards
in my regiment might have walked out of Wister's stories or Remington's
pictures.
There were bad characters in the Western country at that time, of
course, and under the conditions of life they were probably more
dangerous than they would have been elsewhere. I hardly ever had any
difficulty, however. I never went into a saloon, and in the little
hotels I kept out of the bar-room unless, as sometimes happened, the
bar-room was the only room on the lower floor except the dining-room. I
always endeavored to keep out of a quarrel until self-respect forbade
my making any further effort to avoid it, and I very rarely had even the
semblance of trouble.
Of course amusing incidents occurred now and then. Usually these took
place when I was hunting lost horses, for in hunting lost horses I was
ordinarily alone, and occasionally had to travel a hundred or a hundred
and fifty miles away from my own country. On one such occasion I
reached a little cow town long after dark, stabled my horse in an empty
outbuilding, and when I reached the hotel was informed in response to my
request for a bed that I could have the last one left, as there was only
one other man in it. The room to which I was shown contained two double
beds; one contained two men fast asleep, and the other only one man,
also asleep. This man proved to be a friend, one of the Bill Joneses
whom I have previously mentioned. I undressed according to the fashion
of the day and place, that is, I put my trousers, boots, shaps, and
gun down beside the bed, and turned in. A couple of hours later I was
awakened by the door being thrown open and a lantern flashed in my face,
the light gleaming on the muzzle of a cocked .45. Another man said to
the lantern-bearer, "It ain't him"; the next moment my bedfellow was
covered with two guns, and addressed, "Now, Bill, don't make a fuss,
but come along quiet." "I'm not thinking of making a fuss," said Bill.
"That's right," was the answer; "we're your friends; we don't want to
hurt you; we just want you to come along, you know why." And Bill pulled
on his trousers and boots and walked out with them. Up to this
time there had not been a sound from the other bed. Now a match was
scratched, a candle lit, and one of the men in the other bed looked
round the room. At this point I committed the breach of etiquette of
asking questions. "I wonder why they took Bill," I said. There was no
answer, and I repeated, "I wonder why they took Bill." "Well," said the
man with the candle, dryly, "I reckon they wanted him," and with that
he blew out the candle and conversation ceased. Later I discovered that
Bill in a fit of playfulness had held up the Northern Pacific train at
a near-by station by shooting at the feet of the conductor to make him
dance. This was purely a joke on Bill's part, but the Northern Pacific
people possessed a less robust sense of humor, and on their complaint
the United States Marshal was sent after Bill, on the ground that by
delaying the train he had interfered with the mails.
The only time I ever had serious trouble was at an even more primitive
little hotel than the one in question. It was also on an occasion when
I was out after lost horses. Below the hotel had merely a bar-room, a
dining-room, and a lean-to kitchen; above was a loft with fifteen or
twenty beds in it. It was late in the evening when I reached the place.
I heard one or two shots in the bar-room as I came up, and I disliked
going in. But there was nowhere else to go, and it was a cold night.
Inside the room were several men, who, including the bartender, were
wearing the kind of smile worn by men who are making believe to like
what they don't like. A shabby individual in a broad hat with a cocked
gun in each hand was walking up and down the floor talking with strident
profanity. He had evidently been shooting at the clock, which had two or
three holes in its face.
He was not a "bad man" of the really dangerous type, the true man-killer
type, but he was an objectionable creature, a would-be bad man, a bully
who for the moment was having things all his own way. As soon as he saw
me he hailed me as "Four eyes," in reference to my spectacles, and said,
"Four eyes is going to treat." I joined in the laugh and got behind the
stove and sat down, thinking to escape notice. He followed me, however,
and though I tried to pass it off as a jest this merely made him more
offensive, and he stood leaning over me, a gun in each hand, using very
foul language. He was foolish to stand so near, and, moreover, his heels
were close together, so that his position was unstable. Accordingly, in
response to his reiterated command that I should set up the drinks, I
said, "Well, if I've got to, I've got to," and rose, looking past him.
As I rose, I struck quick and hard with my right just to one side of the
point of his jaw, hitting with my left as I straightened out, and then
again with my right. He fired the guns, but I do not know whether this
was merely a convulsive action of his hands or whether he was trying to
shoot at me. When he went down he struck the corner of the bar with his
head. It was not a case in which one could afford to take chances, and
if he had moved I was about to drop on his ribs with my knees; but he
was senseless. I took away his guns, and the other people in the room,
who were now loud in their denunciation of him, hustled him out and put
him in a shed. I got dinner as soon as possible, sitting in a corner
of the dining-room away from the windows, and then went upstairs to bed
where it was dark so that there would be no chance of any one shooting
at me from the outside. However, nothing happened. When my assailant
came to, he went down to the station and left on a freight.
As I have said, most of the men of my regiment were just such men as
those I knew in the ranch country; indeed, some of my ranch friends were
in the regiment--Fred Herrig, the forest ranger, for instance, in whose
company I shot my biggest mountain ram. After the regiment was disbanded
the careers of certain of the men were diversified by odd incidents. Our
relations were of the friendliest, and, as they explained, they felt
"as if I was a father" to them. The manifestations of this feeling were
sometimes less attractive than the phrase sounded, as it was chiefly
used by the few who were behaving like very bad children indeed. The
great majority of the men when the regiment disbanded took up the
business of their lives where they had dropped it a few months
previously, and these men merely tried to help me or help one another
as the occasion arose; no man ever had more cause to be proud of his
regiment than I had of mine, both in war and in peace. But there was
a minority among them who in certain ways were unsuited for a life of
peaceful regularity, although often enough they had been first-class
soldiers.
It was from these men that letters came with a stereotyped opening which
always caused my heart to sink--"Dear Colonel: I write you because I am
in trouble." The trouble might take almost any form. One correspondent
continued: "I did not take the horse, but they say I did." Another
complained that his mother-in-law had put him in jail for bigamy. In
the case of another the incident was more markworthy. I will call him
Gritto. He wrote me a letter beginning: "Dear Colonel: I write you
because I am in trouble. I have shot a lady in the eye. But, Colonel,
I was not shooting at the lady. I was shooting at my wife," which he
apparently regarded as a sufficient excuse as between men of the world.
I answered that I drew the line at shooting at ladies, and did not hear
any more of the incident for several years.
Then, while I was President, a member of the regiment, Major Llewellyn,
who was Federal District Attorney under me in New Mexico, wrote me a
letter filled, as his letters usually were, with bits of interesting
gossip about the comrades. It ran in part as follows: "Since I last
wrote you Comrade Ritchie has killed a man in Colorado. I understand
that the comrade was playing a poker game, and the man sat into the game
and used such language that Comrade Ritchie had to shoot. Comrade Webb
has killed two men in Beaver, Arizona. Comrade Webb is in the Forest
Service, and the killing was in the line of professional duty. I was out
at the penitentiary the other day and saw Comrade Gritto, who, you may
remember, was put there for shooting his sister-in-law [this was the
first information I had had as to the identity of the lady who was shot
in the eye]. Since he was in there Comrade Boyne has run off to old
Mexico with his (Gritto's) wife, and the people of Grant County think he
ought to be let out." Evidently the sporting instincts of the people of
Grant County had been roused, and they felt that, as Comrade Boyne had
had a fair start, the other comrade should be let out in order to see
what would happen.
The men of the regiment always enthusiastically helped me when I was
running for office. On one occasion Buck Taylor, of Texas, accompanied
me on a trip and made a speech for me. The crowd took to his speech from
the beginning and so did I, until the peroration, which ran as follows:
"My fellow-citizens, vote for my Colonel! vote for my Colonel! _and he
will lead you, as he led us, like sheep to the slaughter_!" This hardly
seemed a tribute to my military skill; but it delighted the crowd, and
as far as I could tell did me nothing but good.
On another tour, when I was running for Vice-President, a member of
the regiment who was along on the train got into a discussion with
a Populist editor who had expressed an unfavorable estimate of my
character, and in the course of the discussion shot the editor--not
fatally. We had to leave him to be tried, and as he had no money I
left him $150 to hire counsel--having borrowed the money from Senator
Wolcott, of Colorado, who was also with me. After election I received
from my friend a letter running: "Dear Colonel: I find I will not have
to use that $150 you lent me, as we have elected our candidate for
District Attorney. So I have used it to settle a horse transaction in
which I unfortunately became involved." A few weeks later, however, I
received a heartbroken letter setting forth the fact that the District
Attorney--whom he evidently felt to be a cold-blooded formalist--had
put him in jail. Then the affair dropped out of sight until two or three
years later, when as President I visited a town in another State,
and the leaders of the delegation which received me included both my
correspondent and the editor, now fast friends, and both of them ardent
supporters of mine.
At one of the regimental reunions a man, who had been an excellent
soldier, in greeting me mentioned how glad he was that the judge had let
him out in time to get to the reunion. I asked what was the matter, and
he replied with some surprise: "Why, Colonel, don't you know I had
a difficulty with a gentleman, and . . . er . . . well, I killed the
gentleman. But you can see that the judge thought it was all right or he
wouldn't have let me go." Waiving the latter point, I said: "How did it
happen? How did you do it?" Misinterpreting my question as showing
an interest only in the technique of the performance, the ex-puncher
replied: "With a .38 on a .45 frame, Colonel." I chuckled over the
answer, and it became proverbial with my family and some of my friends,
including Seth Bullock. When I was shot at Milwaukee, Seth Bullock wired
an inquiry to which I responded that it was all right, that the weapon
was merely "a .38 on a .45 frame." The telegram in some way became
public, and puzzled outsiders. By the way, both the men of my regiment
and the friends I had made in the old days in the West were themselves a
little puzzled at the interest shown in my making my speech after being
shot. This was what they expected, what they accepted as the right thing
for a man to do under the circumstances, a thing the non-performance of
which would have been discreditable rather than the performance being
creditable. They would not have expected a man to leave a battle, for
instance, because of being wounded in such fashion; and they saw no
reason why he should abandon a less important and less risky duty.
One of the best soldiers of my regiment was a huge man whom I made
marshal of a Rocky Mountain State. He had spent his hot and lusty youth
on the frontier during its viking age, and at that time had naturally
taken part in incidents which seemed queer to men "accustomed to die
decently of zymotic diseases." I told him that an effort would doubtless
be made to prevent his confirmation by the Senate, and therefore that
I wanted to know all the facts in his case. Had he played faro? He had;
but it was when everybody played faro, and he had never played a brace
game. Had he killed anybody? Yes, but it was in Dodge City on occasions
when he was deputy marshal or town marshal, at a time when Dodge City,
now the most peaceful of communities, was the toughest town on the
continent, and crowded with man-killing outlaws and road agents; and he
produced telegrams from judges of high character testifying to the need
of the actions he had taken. Finally I said: "Now, Ben, how did you
lose that half of your ear?" To which, looking rather shy, he responded:
"Well, Colonel, it was bit off." "How did it happen, Ben?" "Well, you
see, I was sent to arrest a gentleman, and him and me mixed it up, and
he bit off my ear." "What did you do to the gentleman, Ben?" And Ben,
looking more coy than ever, responded: "Well, Colonel, we broke about
even!" I forebore to inquire what variety of mayhem he had committed on
the "gentleman." After considerable struggle I got him confirmed by
the Senate, and he made one of the best marshals in the entire service,
exactly as he had already made one of the best soldiers in the regiment;
and I never wish to see a better citizen, nor a man in whom I would more
implicitly trust in every way.
When, in 1900, I was nominated for Vice-President, I was sent by the
National Committee on a trip into the States of the high plains and the
Rocky Mountains. These had all gone overwhelmingly for Mr. Bryan on
the free-silver issue four years previously, and it was thought that I,
because of my knowledge of and acquaintanceship with the people, might
accomplish something towards bringing them back into line. It was
an interesting trip, and the monotony usually attendant upon such a
campaign of political speaking was diversified in vivid fashion by
occasional hostile audiences. One or two of the meetings ended in riots.
One meeting was finally broken up by a mob; everybody fought so that the
speaking had to stop. Soon after this we reached another town where we
were told there might be trouble. Here the local committee included an
old and valued friend, a "two-gun" man of repute, who was not in the
least quarrelsome, but who always kept his word. We marched round to
the local opera-house, which was packed with a mass of men, many of them
rather rough-looking. My friend the two-gun man sat immediately behind
me, a gun on each hip, his arms folded, looking at the audience; fixing
his gaze with instant intentness on any section of the house from which
there came so much as a whisper. The audience listened to me with
rapt attention. At the end, with a pride in my rhetorical powers which
proceeded from a misunderstanding of the situation, I remarked to the
chairman: "I held that audience well; there wasn't an interruption." To
which the chairman replied: "Interruption? Well, I guess not! Seth had
sent round word that if any son of a gun peeped he'd kill him!"
There was one bit of frontier philosophy which I should like to see
imitated in more advanced communities. Certain crimes of revolting
baseness and cruelty were never forgiven. But in the case of ordinary
offenses, the man who had served his term and who then tried to make
good was given a fair chance; and of course this was equally true of
the women. Every one who has studied the subject at all is only too
well aware that the world offsets the readiness with which it condones
a crime for which a man escapes punishment, by its unforgiving
relentlessness to the often far less guilty man who _is_ punished,
and who therefore has made his atonement. On the frontier, if the man
honestly tried to behave himself there was generally a disposition to
give him fair play and a decent show. Several of the men I knew and whom
I particularly liked came in this class. There was one such man in my
regiment, a man who had served a term for robbery under arms, and who
had atoned for it by many years of fine performance of duty. I put him
in a high official position, and no man under me rendered better service
to the State, nor was there any man whom, as soldier, as civil officer,
as citizen, and as friend, I valued and respected--and now value and
respect--more.
Now I suppose some good people will gather from this that I favor men
who commit crimes. I certainly do not favor them. I have not a
particle of sympathy with the sentimentality--as I deem it, the
mawkishness--which overflows with foolish pity for the criminal and
cares not at all for the victim of the criminal. I am glad to see
wrong-doers punished. The punishment is an absolute necessity from the
standpoint of society; and I put the reformation of the criminal second
to the welfare of society. But I do desire to see the man or woman
who has paid the penalty and who wishes to reform given a helping
hand--surely every one of us who knows his own heart must know that he
too may stumble, and should be anxious to help his brother or sister who
has stumbled. When the criminal has been punished, if he then shows a
sincere desire to lead a decent and upright life, he should be given the
chance, he should be helped and not hindered; and if he makes good, he
should receive that respect from others which so often aids in creating
self-respect--the most invaluable of all possessions.
CHAPTER V
APPLIED IDEALISM
In the spring of 1899 I was appointed by President Harrison Civil
Service Commissioner. For nearly five years I had not been very
active in political life; although I had done some routine work in the
organization and had made campaign speeches, and in 1886 had run for
Mayor of New York against Abram S. Hewitt, Democrat, and Henry George,
Independent, and had been defeated.
I served six years as Civil Service Commissioner--four years under
President Harrison and then two years under President Cleveland. I
was treated by both Presidents with the utmost consideration. Among my
fellow-Commissioners there was at one time ex-Governor Hugh Thompson, of
South Carolina, and at another time John R. Proctor, of Kentucky. They
were Democrats and ex-Confederate soldiers. I became deeply attached to
both, and we stood shoulder to shoulder in every contest in which the
Commission was forced to take part.
Civil Service Reform had two sides. There was, first, the effort to
secure a more efficient administration of the public service, and,
second, the even more important effort to withdraw the administrative
offices of the Government from the domain of spoils politics, and
thereby cut out of American political life a fruitful source of
corruption and degradation. The spoils theory of politics is that
public office is so much plunder which the victorious political party is
entitled to appropriate to the use of its adherents. Under this system
the work of the Government was often done well even in those days, when
Civil Service Reform was only an experiment, because the man running an
office if himself an able and far-sighted man, knew that inefficiency
in administration would be visited on his head in the long run, and
therefore insisted upon most of his subordinates doing good work; and,
moreover, the men appointed under the spoils system were necessarily
men of a certain initiative and power, because those who lacked these
qualities were not able to shoulder themselves to the front. Yet there
were many flagrant instances of inefficiency, where a powerful chief
quartered friend, adherent, or kinsman upon the Government. Moreover,
the necessarily haphazard nature of the employment, the need of
obtaining and holding the office by service wholly unconnected with
official duty, inevitably tended to lower the standard of public
morality, alike among the office-holders and among the politicians who
rendered party service with the hope of reward in office. Indeed, the
doctrine that "To the victor belong the spoils," the cynical battle-cry
of the spoils politician in America for the sixty years preceding my own
entrance into public life, is so nakedly vicious that few right-thinking
men of trained mind defend it. To appoint, promote, reduce, and
expel from the public service, letter-carriers, stenographers, women
typewriters, clerks, because of the politics of themselves or their
friends, without regard to their own service, is, from the standpoint of
the people at large, as foolish and degrading as it is wicked.
Such being the case, it would seem at first sight extraordinary that
it should be so difficult to uproot the system. Unfortunately, it was
permitted to become habitual and traditional in American life, so that
the conception of public office as something to be used primarily for
the good of the dominant political party became ingrained in the mind
of the average American, and he grew so accustomed to the whole process
that it seemed part of the order of nature. Not merely the politicians
but the bulk of the people accepted this in a matter-of-course way as
the only proper attitude. There were plenty of communities where the
citizens themselves did not think it natural, or indeed proper, that
the Post-Office should be held by a man belonging to the defeated
party. Moreover, unless both sides were forbidden to use the offices for
purposes of political reward, the side that did use them possessed
such an advantage over the other that in the long run it was out of the
question for the other not to follow the bad example that had been set.
Each party profited by the offices when in power, and when in opposition
each party insincerely denounced its opponents for doing exactly what it
itself had done and intended again to do.
It was necessary, in order to remedy the evil, both gradually to change
the average citizen's mental attitude toward the question, and also to
secure proper laws and proper administration of the laws. The work is
far from finished even yet. There are still masses of office-holders
who can be used by an unscrupulous Administration to debauch political
conventions and fraudulently overcome public sentiment, especially in
the "rotten borough" districts--those where the party is not strong,
and where the office-holders in consequence have a disproportionate
influence. This was done by the Republican Administration in 1912, to
the ruin of the Republican party. Moreover, there are numbers of States
and municipalities where very little has as yet been done to do away
with the spoils system. But in the National Government scores of
thousands of offices have been put under the merit system, chiefly
through the action of the National Civil Service Commission.
The use of Government offices as patronage is a handicap difficult
to overestimate from the standpoint of those who strive to get good
government. Any effort for reform of any sort, National, State, or
municipal, results in the reformers immediately finding themselves face
to face with an organized band of drilled mercenaries who are paid out
of the public chest to train themselves with such skill that ordinary
good citizens when they meet them at the polls are in much the position
of militia matched against regular troops. Yet these citizens themselves
support and pay their opponents in such a way that they are drilled
to overthrow the very men who support them. Civil Service Reform is
designed primarily to give the average American citizen a fair chance in
politics, to give to this citizen the same weight in politics that the
"ward heeler" has.
Patronage does not really help a party. It helps the bosses to get
control of the machinery of the party--as in 1912 was true of the
Republican party--but it does not help the party. On the average, the
most sweeping party victories in our history have been won when the
patronage was against the victors. All that the patronage does is
to help the worst element in the party retain control of the party
organization. Two of the evil elements in our Government against which
good citizens have to contend are, 1, the lack of continuous activity
on the part of these good citizens themselves, and, 2, the ever-present
activity of those who have only an evil self-interest in political
life. It is difficult to interest the average citizen in any particular
movement to the degree of getting him to take an efficient part in it.
He wishes the movement well, but he will not, or often cannot, take
the time and the trouble to serve it efficiently; and this whether
he happens to be a mechanic or a banker, a telegraph operator or a
storekeeper. He has his own interests, his own business, and it is
difficult for him to spare the time to go around to the primaries, to
see to the organization, to see to getting out the vote--in short, to
attend to all the thousand details of political management.
On the other hand, the spoils system breeds a class of men whose
financial interest it is to take this necessary time and trouble. They
are paid for so doing, and they are paid out of the public chest.
Under the spoils system a man is appointed to an ordinary clerical or
ministerial position in the municipal, Federal, or State government, not
primarily because he is expected to be a good servant, but because he
has rendered help to some big boss or to the henchman of some big boss.
His stay in office depends not upon how he performs service, but upon
how he retains his influence in the party. This necessarily means that
his attention to the interests of the public at large, even though real,
is secondary to his devotion to his organization, or to the interest of
the ward leader who put him in his place. So he and his fellows attend
to politics, not once a year, not two or three times a year, like the
average citizen, but every day in the year. It is the one thing that
they talk of, for it is their bread and butter. They plan about it and
they scheme about it. They do it because it is their business. I do not
blame them in the least. I blame us, the people, for we ought to make
it clear as a bell that the business of serving the people in one of the
ordinary ministerial Government positions, which have nothing to do
with deciding the policy of the Government, should have no necessary
connection with the management of primaries, of caucuses, and
of nominating conventions. As a result of our wrong thinking and
supineness, we American citizens tend to breed a mass of men whose
interests in governmental matters are often adverse to ours, who are
thoroughly drilled, thoroughly organized, who make their livelihood
out of politics, and who frequently make their livelihood out of
bad politics. They know every little twist and turn, no matter how
intricate, in the politics of their several wards, and when election
day comes the ordinary citizen who has merely the interest that all good
men, all decent citizens, should have in political life, finds himself
as helpless before these men as if he were a solitary volunteer in the
presence of a band of drilled mercenaries on a field of battle. There
are a couple of hundred thousand Federal offices, not to speak of State
and municipal offices. The men who fill these offices, and the men who
wish to fill them, within and without the dominant party for the time
being, make a regular army, whose interest it is that the system
of bread-and-butter politics shall continue. Against their concrete
interest we have merely the generally unorganized sentiment of the
community in favor of putting things on a decent basis. The large number
of men who believe vaguely in good are pitted against the smaller but
still larger number of men whose interest it often becomes to act
very concretely and actively for evil; and it is small wonder that the
struggle is doubtful.
During my six years' service as Commissioner the field of the merit
system was extended at the expense of the spoils system so as to include
several times the number of offices that had originally been included.
Generally this was done by the introduction of competitive entrance
examinations; sometimes, as in the Navy-Yards, by a system of
registration. This of itself was good work.
Even better work was making the law efficient and genuine where it
applied. As was inevitable in the introduction of such a system, there
was at first only partial success in its application. For instance,
it applied to the ordinary employees in the big custom-houses and
post-offices, but not to the heads of these offices. A number of the
heads of the offices were slippery politicians of a low moral grade,
themselves appointed under the spoils system, and anxious, directly
or indirectly, to break down the merit system and to pay their own
political debts by appointing their henchmen and supporters to the
positions under them. Occasionally these men acted with open and naked
brutality. Ordinarily they sought by cunning to evade the law. The Civil
Service Reformers, on the other hand, were in most cases not much used
to practical politics, and were often well-nigh helpless when pitted
against veteran professional politicians. In consequence I found at the
beginning of my experiences that there were many offices in which the
execution of the law was a sham. This was very damaging, because it
encouraged the politicians to assault the law everywhere, and, on the
other hand, made good people feel that the law was not worth while
defending.
The first effort of myself and my colleagues was to secure the genuine
enforcement of the law. In this we succeeded after a number of lively
fights. But of course in these fights we were obliged to strike a large
number of influential politicians, some of them in Congress, some of
them the supporters and backers of men who were in Congress. Accordingly
we soon found ourselves engaged in a series of contests with prominent
Senators and Congressmen. There were a number of Senators and
Congressmen--men like Congressman (afterwards Senator) H. C. Lodge, of
Massachusetts; Senator Cushman K. Davis, of Minnesota; Senator Orville
H. Platt, of Connecticut; Senator Cockrell, of Missouri; Congressman
(afterwards President) McKinley, of Ohio, and Congressman Dargan,
of South Carolina--who abhorred the business of the spoilsman, who
efficiently and resolutely championed the reform at every turn, and
without whom the whole reform would certainly have failed. But there
were plenty of other Senators and Congressmen who hated the whole reform
and everything concerned with it and everybody who championed it;
and sometimes, to use a legal phrase, their hatred was for cause,
and sometimes it was peremptory--that is, sometimes the Commission
interfered with their most efficient, and incidentally most corrupt and
unscrupulous, supporters, and at other times, where there was no such
interference, a man nevertheless had an innate dislike of anything
that tended to decency in government. These men were always waging war
against us, and they usually had the more or less open support of a
certain number of Government officials, from Cabinet officers down. The
Senators and Congressmen in question opposed us in many different ways.
Sometimes, for instance, they had committees appointed to investigate
us--during my public career without and within office I grew accustomed
to accept appearances before investigating committees as part of
the natural order of things. Sometimes they tried to cut off the
appropriation for the Commission.
Occasionally we would bring to terms these Senators or Congressmen
who fought the Commission by the simple expedient of not holding
examinations in their districts. This always brought frantic appeals
from their constituents, and we would explain that unfortunately the
appropriations had been cut, so that we could not hold examinations in
every district, and that obviously we could not neglect the districts
of those Congressmen who believed in the reform and therefore in the
examinations. The constituents then turned their attention to the
Congressman, and the result was that in the long run we obtained
sufficient money to enable us to do our work. On the whole, the
most prominent leaders favored us. Any man who is the head of a big
department, if he has any fitness at all, wishes to see that department
run well; and a very little practical experience shows him that
it cannot be run well if he must make his appointments to please
spoilsmongering politicians. As with almost every reform that I have
ever undertaken, most of the opposition took the guise of shrewd
slander. Our opponents relied chiefly on downright misrepresentation of
what it was that we were trying to accomplish, and of our methods, acts,
and personalities. I had more than one lively encounter with the authors
and sponsors of these misrepresentations, which at the time were full of
interest to me. But it would be a dreary thing now to go over the record
of exploded mendacity, or to expose the meanness and malice shown by
some men of high official position. A favorite argument was to call
the reform Chinese, because the Chinese had constructed an inefficient
governmental system based in part on the theory of written competitive
examinations. The argument was simple. There had been written
examinations in China; it was proposed to establish written examinations
in the United States; therefore the proposed system was Chinese. The
argument might have been applied still further. For instance, the
Chinese had used gunpowder for centuries; gunpowder is used in
Springfield rifles; therefore Springfield rifles were Chinese. One
argument is quite as logical as the other. It was impossible to answer
every falsehood about the system. But it was possible to answer certain
falsehoods, especially when uttered by some Senator or Congressman of
note. Usually these false statements took the form of assertions that
we had asked preposterous questions of applicants. At times they also
included the assertion that we credited people to districts where they
did not live; this simply meaning that these persons were not known to
the active ward politicians of those districts.
One opponent with whom we had a rather lively tilt was a Republican
Congressman from Ohio, Mr. Grosvenor, one of the floor leaders. Mr.
Grosvenor made his attack in the House, and enumerated our sins in
picturesque rather than accurate fashion. There was a Congressional
committee investigating us at the time, and on my next appearance before
them I asked that Mr. Grosvenor be requested to meet me before the
committee. Mr. Grosvenor did not take up the challenge for several
weeks, until it was announced that I was leaving for my ranch in Dakota;
whereupon, deeming it safe, he wrote me a letter expressing his ardent
wish that I should appear before the committee to meet him. I promptly
canceled my ticket, waited, and met him. He proved to be a person of
happily treacherous memory, so that the simple expedient of arranging
his statements in pairs was sufficient to reduce him to confusion. For
instance, he had been trapped into making the unwary remark, "I do not
want to repeal the Civil Service Law, and I never said so." I produced
the following extract from one of his speeches: "I will vote not only to
strike out this provision, but I will vote to repeal the whole law." To
this he merely replied that there was "no inconsistency between those
two statements." He asserted that "Rufus P. Putnam, fraudulently
credited to Washington County, Ohio, never lived in Washington County,
Ohio, or in my Congressional district, or in Ohio as far as I know."
We produced a letter which, thanks to a beneficent Providence, he had
himself written about Mr. Rufus P. Putnam, in which he said: "Mr. Rufus
P. Putnam is a legal resident of my district and has relatives living
there now." He explained, first, that he had not written the letter;
second, that he had forgotten he had written the letter; and, third,
that he was grossly deceived when he wrote it. He said: "I have not
been informed of one applicant who has found a place in the classified
service from my district." We confronted him with the names of eight. He
looked them over and said, "Yes, the eight men are living in my district
as now constituted," but added that his district had been gerrymandered
so that he could no longer tell who did and who didn't live in it. When
I started further to question him, he accused me of a lack of humor in
not appreciating that his statements were made "in a jesting way," and
then announced that "a Congressman making a speech on the floor of the
House of Representatives was perhaps in a little different position
from a witness on the witness stand"--a frank admission that he did not
consider exactitude of statement necessary when he was speaking as a
Congressman. Finally he rose with great dignity and said that it was his
"constitutional right" not to be questioned elsewhere as to what he said
on the floor of the House of Representatives; and accordingly he left
the delighted committee to pursue its investigations without further aid
from him.
A more important opponent was the then Democratic leader of the Senate,
Mr. Gorman. In a speech attacking the Commission Mr. Gorman described
with moving pathos how a friend of his, "a bright young man from
Baltimore," a Sunday-school scholar, well recommended by his pastor,
wished to be a letter-carrier; and how he went before us to be examined.
The first question we asked him, said Mr. Gorman, was the shortest route
from Baltimore to China, to which the "bright young man" responded that
he didn't want to go to China, and had never studied up that route.
Thereupon, said Mr. Gorman, we asked him all about the steamship lines
from the United States to Europe, then branched him off into geology,
tried him in chemistry, and finally turned him down.
Apparently Mr. Gorman did not know that we kept full records of our
examinations. I at once wrote to him stating that I had carefully looked
through all our examination papers and had not been able to find one
question even remotely resembling any of these questions which he
alleged had been asked, and that I would be greatly obliged if he would
give me the name of the "bright young man" who had deceived him.
However, that "bright young man" remained permanently without a name.
I also asked Mr. Gorman, if he did not wish to give us the name of
his informant, to give us the date of the examination in which he was
supposed to have taken part; and I offered, if he would send down a
representative to look through our files, to give him all the aid we
could in his effort to discover any such questions. But Mr. Gorman, not
hitherto known as a sensitive soul, expressed himself as so shocked
at the thought that the veracity of the "bright young man" should be
doubted that he could not bring himself to answer my letter. So I made
a public statement to the effect that no such questions had ever been
asked. Mr. Gorman brooded over this; and during the next session of
Congress he rose and complained that he had received a very "impudent"
letter from me (my letter was a respectful note calling attention to
the fact that, if he wished, he could by personal examination satisfy
himself that his statements had no foundation in fact). He further
stated that he had been "cruelly" called to account by me because he
had been endeavoring to right a "great wrong" that the Civil Service
Commission had committed; but he never, then or afterwards, furnished
any clue to the identity of that child of his fondest fancy, the bright
young man without a name.[*]
[*] This is a condensation of a speech I at the time made to
the St. Louis Civil Service Reform Association. Senator
Gorman was then the Senate leader of the party that had just
been victorious in the Congressional elections.
The incident is of note chiefly as shedding light on the mental make-up
of the man who at the time was one of the two or three most influential
leaders of the Democratic party. Mr. Gorman had been Mr. Cleveland's
party manager in the Presidential campaign, and was the Democratic
leader in Congress. It seemed extraordinary that he should be so
reckless as to make statements with no foundation in fact, which he
might have known that I would not permit to pass unchallenged. Then,
as now, the ordinary newspaper, in New York and elsewhere, was quite as
reckless in its misstatements of fact about public men and measures; but
for a man in Mr. Gorman's position of responsible leadership such action
seemed hardly worth while. However, it is at least to be said for
Mr. Gorman that he was not trying by falsehood to take away any man's
character. It would be well for writers and speakers to bear in mind
the remark of Pudd'nhead Wilson to the effect that while there are nine
hundred and ninety-nine kinds of falsehood, the only kind specifically
condemned in Scripture, just as murder, theft, and adultery are
condemned, is bearing false witness against one's neighbor.
One of the worst features of the old spoils system was the ruthless
cruelty and brutality it so often bred in the treatment of faithful
public servants without political influence. Life is hard enough and
cruel enough at best, and this is as true of public service as of
private service. Under no system will it be possible to do away with all
favoritism and brutality and meanness and malice. But at least we can
try to minimize the exhibition of these qualities. I once came across
a case in Washington which very keenly excited my sympathy. Under an
Administration prior to the one with which I was connected a lady had
been ousted from a Government position. She came to me to see if she
could be reinstated. (This was not possible, but by active work I did
get her put back in a somewhat lower position, and this only by an
appeal to the sympathy of a certain official.) She was so pallid and so
careworn that she excited my sympathy and I made inquiries about
her. She was a poor woman with two children, a widow. She and her two
children were in actual want. She could barely keep the two children
decently clad, and she could not give them the food growing children
need. Three years before she had been employed in a bureau in a
department of Washington, doing her work faithfully, at a salary of
about $800. It was enough to keep her and her two children in clothing,
food, and shelter. One day the chief of the bureau called her up and
told her he was very sorry that he had to dismiss her. In great
distress she asked him why; she thought that she had been doing her work
satisfactorily. He answered her that she had been doing well, and that
he wished very much that he could keep her, that he would do so if he
possibly could, but that he could not; for a certain Senator, giving his
name, a very influential member of the Senate, had demanded her place
for a friend of his who had influence. The woman told the bureau chief
that it meant turning her out to starve. She had been thirteen or
fourteen years in the public service; she had lost all touch with her
friends in her native State; dismissal meant absolute want for her and
her children. On this the chief, who was a kind man, said he would not
have her turned out, and sent her back to her work.
But three weeks afterwards he called her up again and told her he could
not say how sorry he was, but the thing had to be done. The Senator had
been around in person to know why the change had not been made, and had
told the chief that he would be himself removed if the place were not
given him. The Senator was an extremely influential man. His wants had
to be attended to, and the woman had to go. And go she did, and turned
out she was, to suffer with her children and to starve outright, or to
live in semi-starvation, just as might befall. I do not blame the bureau
chief, who hated to do what he did, although he lacked the courage to
refuse; I do not even very much blame the Senator, who did not know
the hardship that he was causing, and who had been calloused by long
training in the spoils system; but this system, a system which permits
and encourages such deeds, is a system of brutal iniquity.
Any man accustomed to dealing with practical politics can with
difficulty keep a straight face when he reads or listens to some of the
arguments advanced against Civil Service Reform. One of these arguments,
a favorite with machine politicians, takes the form of an appeal to
"party loyalty" in filling minor offices. Why, again and again these
very same machine politicians take just as good care of henchmen of
the opposite party as of those of their own party. In the underworld of
politics the closest ties are sometimes those which knit together the
active professional workers of opposite political parties. A friend
of mine in the New York Legislature--the hero of the alpha and omega
incident--once remarked to me: "When you have been in public life a
little longer, Mr. Roosevelt, you will understand that there are no
politics in politics." In the politics to which he was referring this
remark could be taken literally.
Another illustration of this truth was incidentally given me, at about
the same time, by an acquaintance, a Tammany man named Costigan, a good
fellow according to his lights. I had been speaking to him of a fight in
one of the New York downtown districts, a Democratic district in which
the Republican party was in a hopeless minority, and, moreover,
was split into the Half-Breed and Stalwart factions. It had been an
interesting fight in more than one way. For instance, the Republican
party, at the general election, polled something like five hundred
and fifty votes, and yet at the primary the two factions polled
seven hundred and twenty-five all told. The sum of the parts was thus
considerably greater than the whole. There had been other little details
that made the contest worthy of note. The hall in which the primary was
held had been hired by the Stalwarts from a conscientious gentleman. To
him the Half-Breeds applied to know whether they could not hire the hall
away from their opponents, and offered him a substantial money advance.
The conscientious gentleman replied that his word was as good as his
bond, that he had hired the hall to the Stalwarts, and that it must
be theirs. But he added that he was willing to hire the doorway to
the Half-Breeds if they paid him the additional sum of money they had
mentioned. The bargain was struck, and the meeting of the hostile hosts
was spirited, when the men who had rented the doorway sought to bar the
path of the men who had rented the hall. I was asking my friend Costigan
about the details of the struggle, as he seemed thoroughly acquainted
with them, and he smiled good-naturedly over my surprise at there having
been more votes cast than there were members of the party in the whole
district. Said I, "Mr. Costigan, you seem to have a great deal of
knowledge about this; how did it happen?" To which he replied, "Come
now, Mr. Roosevelt, you know it's the same gang that votes in all the
primaries."
So much for most of the opposition to the reform. There was, however,
some honest and at least partially justifiable opposition both to
certain of the methods advocated by Civil Service Reformers and to
certain of the Civil Service Reformers themselves. The pet shibboleths
of the opponents of the reform were that the system we proposed to
introduce would give rise to mere red-tape bureaucracy, and that the
reformers were pharisees. Neither statement was true. Each statement
contained some truth.
If men are not to be appointed by favoritism, wise or unwise, honest or
dishonest, they must be appointed in some automatic way, which generally
means by competitive examination. The easiest kind of competitive
examination is an examination in writing. This is entirely appropriate
for certain classes of work, for lawyers, stenographers, typewriters,
clerks, mathematicians, and assistants in an astronomical observatory,
for instance. It is utterly inappropriate for carpenters, detectives,
and mounted cattle inspectors along the Rio Grande--to instance
three types of employment as to which I had to do battle to prevent
well-meaning bureaucrats from insisting on written competitive entrance
examinations. It would be quite possible to hold a very good competitive
examination for mounted cattle inspectors by means of practical tests
in brand reading and shooting with rifle and revolver, in riding
"mean" horses and in roping and throwing steers. I did my best to have
examinations of this kind instituted, but my proposal was of precisely
the type which most shocks the routine official mind, and I was never
able to get it put into practical effect.
The important point, and the point most often forgotten by zealous
Civil Service Reformers, was to remember that the routine competitive
examination was merely a means to an end. It did not always produce
ideal results. But it was normally better than a system of appointments
for spoils purposes; it sometimes worked out very well indeed; and in
most big governmental offices it not only gave satisfactory results,
but was the only system under which good results could be obtained. For
instance, when I was Police Commissioner we appointed some two thousand
policemen at one time. It was utterly impossible for the Commissioners
each to examine personally the six or eight thousand applicants.
Therefore they had to be appointed either on the recommendation of
outsiders or else by written competitive examination. The latter
method--the one we adopted--was infinitely preferable. We held a rigid
physical and moral pass examination, and then, among those who passed,
we held a written competitive examination, requiring only the knowledge
that any good primary common school education would meet--that is, a
test of ordinary intelligence and simple mental training. Occasionally
a man who would have been a good officer failed, and occasionally a man
who turned out to be a bad officer passed; but, as a rule, the men with
intelligence sufficient to enable them to answer the questions were of a
type very distinctly above that of those who failed.
The answers returned to some of the questions gave an illuminating idea
of the intelligence of those answering them. For instance, one of our
questions in a given examination was a request to name five of the New
England States. One competitor, obviously of foreign birth, answered:
"England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and Cork." His neighbor, who
had probably looked over his shoulder but who had North of Ireland
prejudices, made the same answer except that he substituted Belfast
for Cork. A request for a statement as to the life of Abraham Lincoln
elicited, among other less startling pieces of information, the fact
that many of the applicants thought that he was a general in the Civil
War; several thought that he was President of the Confederate States;
three thought he had been assassinated by Jefferson Davis, one by Thomas
Jefferson, one by Garfield, several by Guiteau, and one by Ballington
Booth--the last representing a memory of the fact that he had been shot
by a man named Booth, to whose surname the writer added the name with
which he was most familiar in connection therewith. A request to name
five of the States that seceded in 1861 received answers that included
almost every State in the Union. It happened to be at the time of the
silver agitation in the West, and the Rocky Mountain States accordingly
figured in a large percentage of the answers. Some of the men thought
that Chicago was on the Pacific Ocean. Others, in answer to a query as
to who was the head of the United States Government, wavered between
myself and Recorder Goff; one brilliant genius, for inscrutable reasons,
placed the leadership in the New York Fire Department. Now of course
some of the men who answered these questions wrong were nevertheless
quite capable of making good policemen; but it is fair to assume that
on the average the candidate who has a rudimentary knowledge of the
government, geography, and history of his country is a little better
fitted, in point of intelligence, to be a policeman than the one who has
not.
Therefore I felt convinced, after full experience, that as regards very
large classes of public servants by far the best way to choose the men
for appointment was by means of written competitive examination. But
I absolutely split off from the bulk of my professional Civil Service
Reform friends when they advocated written competitive examinations for
promotion. In the Police Department I found these examinations a serious
handicap in the way of getting the best men promoted, and never in any
office did I find that the written competitive promotion examination did
any good. The reason for a written competitive entrance examination is
that it is impossible for the head of the office, or the candidate's
prospective immediate superior, himself to know the average candidate
or to test his ability. But when once in office the best way to test any
man's ability is by long experience in seeing him actually at work.
His promotion should depend upon the judgment formed of him by his
superiors.
So much for the objections to the examinations. Now for the objections
to the men who advocated the reform. As a rule these men were
high-minded and disinterested. Certain of them, men like the leaders
in the Maryland and Indiana Reform Associations, for instances,
Messrs. Bonaparte and Rose, Foulke and Swift, added common sense, broad
sympathy, and practical efficiency to their high-mindedness. But in New
York, Philadelphia, and Boston there really was a certain mental and
moral thinness among very many of the leaders in the Civil Service
Reform movement. It was this quality which made them so profoundly
antipathetic to vigorous and intensely human people of the stamp of
my friend Joe Murray--who, as I have said, always felt that my Civil
Service Reform affiliations formed the one blot on an otherwise
excellent public record. The Civil Service Reform movement was one from
above downwards, and the men who took the lead in it were not men who as
a rule possessed a very profound sympathy with or understanding of the
ways of thought and life of their average fellow-citizen. They were not
men who themselves desired to be letter-carriers or clerks or policemen,
or to have their friends appointed to these positions. Having no
temptation themselves in this direction, they were eagerly anxious to
prevent other people getting such appointments as a reward for political
services. In this they were quite right. It would be impossible to run
any big public office to advantage save along the lines of the strictest
application of Civil Service Reform principles; and the system should be
extended throughout our governmental service far more widely than is now
the case.
But there are other and more vital reforms than this. Too many Civil
Service Reformers, when the trial came, proved tepidly indifferent
or actively hostile to reforms that were of profound and far-reaching
social and industrial consequence. Many of them were at best lukewarm
about movements for the improvement of the conditions of toil and
life among men and women who labor under hard surroundings, and were
positively hostile to movements which curbed the power of the great
corporation magnates and directed into useful instead of pernicious
channels the activities of the great corporation lawyers who advised
them.
Most of the newspapers which regarded themselves as the especial
champions of Civil Service Reform and as the highest exponents of civic
virtue, and which distrusted the average citizen and shuddered over the
"coarseness" of the professional politicians, were, nevertheless, given
to vices even more contemptible than, although not so gross as, those
they denounced and derided. Their editors were refined men of cultivated
tastes, whose pet temptations were backbiting, mean slander, and
the snobbish worship of anything clothed in wealth and the outward
appearances of conventional respectability. They were not robust or
powerful men; they felt ill at ease in the company of rough, strong
men; often they had in them a vein of physical timidity. They avenged
themselves to themselves for an uneasy subconsciousness of their
own shortcomings by sitting in cloistered--or, rather, pleasantly
upholstered--seclusion, and sneering at and lying about men who made
them feel uncomfortable. Sometimes these were bad men, who made them
feel uncomfortable by the exhibition of coarse and repellent vice; and
sometimes they were men of high character, who held ideals of courage
and of service to others, and who looked down and warred against the
shortcomings of swollen wealth, and the effortless, easy lives of those
whose horizon is bounded by a sheltered and timid respectability.
These newspapers, owned and edited by these men, although free from the
repulsive vulgarity of the yellow press, were susceptible to influence
by the privileged interests, and were almost or quite as hostile to
manliness as they were to unrefined vice--and were much more hostile
to it than to the typical shortcomings of wealth and refinement. They
favored Civil Service Reform; they favored copyright laws, and the
removal of the tariff on works of art; they favored all the proper (and
even more strongly all the improper) movements for international peace
and arbitration; in short, they favored all good, and many goody-goody,
measures so long as they did not cut deep into social wrong or make
demands on National and individual virility. They opposed, or were
lukewarm about, efforts to build up the army and the navy, for they were
not sensitive concerning National honor; and, above all, they opposed
every non-milk-and-water effort, however sane, to change our social and
economic system in such a fashion as to substitute the ideal of justice
towards all for the ideal of kindly charity from the favored few to the
possibly grateful many.
Some of the men foremost in the struggle for Civil Service Reform have
taken a position of honorable leadership in the battle for those other
and more vital reforms. But many of them promptly abandoned the field of
effort for decency when the battle took the form, not of a fight against
the petty grafting of small bosses and small politicians--a vitally
necessary battle, be it remembered--but of a fight against the great
intrenched powers of privilege, a fight to secure justice through the
law for ordinary men and women, instead of leaving them to suffer cruel
injustice either because the law failed to protect them or because it
was twisted from its legitimate purposes into a means for oppressing
them.
One of the reasons why the boss so often keeps his hold, especially in
municipal matters, is, or at least has been in the past, because so
many of the men who claim to be reformers have been blind to the need
of working in human fashion for social and industrial betterment. Such
words as "boss" and "machine" now imply evil, but both the implication
the words carry and the definition of the words themselves are somewhat
vague. A leader is necessary; but his opponents always call him a boss.
An organization is necessary; but the men in opposition always call it a
machine. Nevertheless, there is a real and deep distinction between the
leader and the boss, between organizations and machines. A political
leader who fights openly for principles, and who keeps his position of
leadership by stirring the consciences and convincing the intellects of
his followers, so that they have confidence in him and will follow him
because they can achieve greater results under him than under any one
else, is doing work which is indispensable in a democracy. The boss, on
the other hand, is a man who does not gain his power by open means, but
by secret means, and usually by corrupt means. Some of the worst and
most powerful bosses in our political history either held no public
office or else some unimportant public office. They made no appeal
either to intellect or conscience. Their work was done behind closed
doors, and consisted chiefly in the use of that greed which gives in
order that in return it may get. A boss of this kind can pull wires in
conventions, can manipulate members of the Legislature, can control
the giving or withholding of office, and serves as the intermediary for
bringing together the powers of corrupt politics and corrupt business.
If he is at one end of the social scale, he may through his agents
traffic in the most brutal forms of vice and give protection to the
purveyors of shame and sin in return for money bribes. If at the other
end of the scale, he may be the means of securing favors from high
public officials, legislative or executive, to great industrial
interests; the transaction being sometimes a naked matter of bargain and
sale, and sometimes being carried on in such manner that both parties
thereto can more or less successfully disguise it to their consciences
as in the public interest. The machine is simply another name for the
kind of organization which is certain to grow up in a party or section
of a party controlled by such bosses as these and by their henchmen,
whereas, of course, an effective organization of decent men is essential
in order to secure decent politics.
If these bosses were responsible for nothing but pure wickedness, they
would probably last but a short time in any community. And, in any
event, if the men who are horrified by their wickedness were themselves
as practical and as thoroughly in touch with human nature, the bosses
would have a short shrift. The trouble is that the boss does understand
human nature, and that he fills a place which the reformer cannot fill
unless he likewise understands human nature. Sometimes the boss is a man
who cares for political power purely for its own sake, as he might care
for any other hobby; more often he has in view some definitely selfish
object such as political or financial advancement. He can rarely
accomplish much unless he has another side to him. A successful boss is
very apt to be a man who, in addition to committing wickedness in his
own interest, also does look after the interests of others, even if not
from good motives. There are some communities so fortunate that there
are very few men who have private interests to be served, and in
these the power of the boss is at a minimum. There are many country
communities of this type. But in communities where there is poverty and
ignorance, the conditions are ripe for the growth of a boss. Moreover,
wherever big business interests are liable either to be improperly
favored or improperly discriminated against and blackmailed by public
officials--and the result is just as vicious in one case as in the
other--the boss is almost certain to develop. The best way of getting at
this type of boss is by keeping the public conscience aroused and alert,
so that it will tolerate neither improper attack upon, nor improper
favoritism towards, these corporations, and will quickly punish any
public servant guilty of either.
There is often much good in the type of boss, especially common in big
cities, who fulfills towards the people of his district in rough
and ready fashion the position of friend and protector. He uses his
influence to get jobs for young men who need them. He goes into court
for a wild young fellow who has gotten into trouble. He helps out with
cash or credit the widow who is in straits, or the breadwinner who is
crippled or for some other cause temporarily out of work. He organizes
clambakes and chowder parties and picnics, and is consulted by the
local labor leaders when a cut in wages is threatened. For some of
his constituents he does proper favors, and for others wholly improper
favors; but he preserves human relations with all. He may be a very bad
and very corrupt man, a man whose action in blackmailing and protecting
vice is of far-reaching damage to his constituents. But these
constituents are for the most part men and women who struggle hard
against poverty and with whom the problem of living is very real and
very close. They would prefer clean and honest government, if this
clean and honest government is accompanied by human sympathy, human
understanding. But an appeal made to them for virtue in the abstract, an
appeal made by good men who do not really understand their needs, will
often pass quite unheeded, if on the other side stands the boss, the
friend and benefactor, who may have been guilty of much wrong-doing in
things that they are hardly aware concern them, but who appeals to them,
not only for the sake of favors to come, but in the name of gratitude
and loyalty, and above all of understanding and fellow-feeling. They
have a feeling of clan-loyalty to him; his and their relations may be
substantially those which are right and proper among primitive people
still in the clan stage of moral development. The successful fight
against this type of vicious boss, and the type of vicious politics
which produces it, can be made only by men who have a genuine
fellow-feeling for and understanding of the people for and with whom
they are to work, and who in practical fashion seek their social and
industrial benefit.
There are communities of poor men, whose lives are hard, in which the
boss, though he would be out of place in a more advanced community, if
fundamentally an honest man, meets a real need which would otherwise not
be met. Because of his limitations in other than purely local matters
it may be our duty to fight such a boss; but it may also be our duty
to recognize, within his limitations, both his sincerity and his
usefulness.
Yet again even the boss who really is evil, like the business man who
really is evil, may on certain points be sound, and be doing good work.
It may be the highest duty of the patriotic public servant to work with
the big boss or the big business man on these points, while refusing
to work with him on others. In the same way there are many self-styled
reformers whose conduct is such as to warrant Tom Reed's bitter remark,
that when Dr. Johnson defined patriotism as the last refuge of a
scoundrel he was ignorant of the infinite possibilities contained in the
word reform. Yet, none the less, it is our duty to work for the
reforms these men champion, without regard to the misconduct of the men
themselves on other points. I have known in my life many big business
men and many big political bosses who often or even generally did evil,
but who on some occasions and on certain issues were right. I never
hesitated to do battle against these men when they were wrong; and, on
the other hand, as long as they were going my way I was glad to have
them do so. To have repudiated their aid when they were right and were
striving for a right end, and for what was of benefit to the people--no
matter what their motives may have been--would have been childish, and
moreover would have itself been misconduct against the people.
My duty was to stand with every one while he was right, and to stand
against him when he went wrong; and this I have tried to do as regards
individuals and as regards groups of individuals. When a business man or
labor leader, politician or reformer, is right, I support him; when
he goes wrong, I leave him. When Mr. Lorimer upheld the war for the
liberation of Cuba, I supported him; when he became United States
Senator by improper methods, I opposed him. The principles or methods
which the Socialists advocate and which I believe to be in the interest
of the people I support, and those which I believe to be against the
interest of the people I oppose. Moreover, when a man has done evil, but
changes, and works for decency and righteousness, and when, as far as
I can see, the change is real and the man's conduct sincere, then I
welcome him and work heartily with him, as an equal with an equal.
For thirty years after the Civil War the creed of mere materialism was
rampant in both American politics and American business, and many, many
strong men, in accordance with the prevailing commercial and political
morality, did things for which they deserve blame and condemnation; but
if they now sincerely change, and strive for better things, it is unwise
and unjust to bar them from fellowship. So long as they work for evil,
smite them with the sword of the Lord and of Gideon! When they change
and show their faith by their works, remember the words of Ezekiel: "If
the wicked will turn from all the sins he has committed, and keep all my
statutes, and do that which is lawful and right, he shall surely live,
he shall not die. All his transgressions that he hath committed, they
shall not be mentioned unto him: in his righteousness that he hath done
he shall live. Have I any pleasure at all that the wicked should die?
saith the Lord God; and not that he should return from his ways and
live?"
Every man who has been in practical politics grows to realize that
politicians, big and little, are no more all of them bad than they are
all of them good. Many of these men are very bad men indeed, but there
are others among them--and some among those held up to special obloquy,
too--who, even although they may have done much that is evil, also show
traits of sterling worth which many of their critics wholly lack. There
are few men for whom I have ever felt a more cordial and contemptuous
dislike than for some of the bosses and big professional politicians
with whom I have been brought into contact. On the other hand, in
the case of some political leaders who were most bitterly attacked as
bosses, I grew to know certain sides of their characters which inspired
in me a very genuine regard and respect.
To read much of the assault on Senator Hanna, one would have thought
that he was a man incapable of patriotism or of far-sighted devotion to
the country's good. I was brought into intimate contact with him only
during the two and a half years immediately preceding his death. I was
then President, and perforce watched all his actions at close range.
During that time he showed himself to be a man of rugged sincerity of
purpose, of great courage and loyalty, and of unswerving devotion to the
interests of the Nation and the people as he saw those interests. He was
as sincerely desirous of helping laboring men as of helping capitalists.
His ideals were in many ways not my ideals, and there were points where
both by temperament and by conviction we were far apart. Before this
time he had always been unfriendly to me; and I do not think he ever
grew to like me, at any rate not until the very end of his life.
Moreover, I came to the Presidency under circumstances which, if he
had been a smaller man, would inevitably have thrown him into violent
antagonism to me. He was the close and intimate friend of President
McKinley. He was McKinley's devoted ally and follower, and his trusted
adviser, who was in complete sympathy with him. Partly because of this
friendship, his position in the Senate and in the country was unique.
With McKinley's sudden death Senator Hanna found himself bereft of his
dearest friend, while I, who had just come to the Presidency, was in his
view an untried man, whose trustworthiness on many public questions
was at least doubtful. Ordinarily, as has been shown, not only in
our history, but in the history of all other countries, in countless
instances, over and over again, this situation would have meant
suspicion, ill will, and, at the last, open and violent antagonism. Such
was not the result, in this case, primarily because Senator Hanna had in
him the quality that enabled him to meet a serious crisis with dignity,
with power, and with disinterested desire to work for the common good.
Within a few days of my accession he called on me, and with entire
friendliness and obvious sincerity, but also with entire self-respect,
explained that he mourned McKinley as probably no other man did; that he
had not been especially my friend, but that he wished me to understand
that thenceforward, on every question where he could conscientiously
support me, I could count upon his giving me as loyal aid as it was
in his power to render. He added that this must not be understood as
committing him to favor me for nomination and election, because that
matter must be left to take care of itself as events should decide; but
that, aside from this, what he said was to be taken literally; in other
words, he would do his best to make my Administration a success by
supporting me heartily on every point on which he conscientiously could,
and that this I could count upon. He kept his word absolutely. He never
became especially favorable to my nomination; and most of his close
friends became bitterly opposed to me and used every effort to persuade
him to try to bring about my downfall. Most men in his position would
have been tempted to try to make capital at my expense by antagonizing
me and discrediting me so as to make my policies fail, just for the
sake of making them fail. Senator Hanna, on the contrary, did everything
possible to make them succeed. He kept his word in the letter and the
spirit, and on every point on which he felt conscientiously able to
support me he gave me the heartiest and most effective support, and did
all in his power to make my Administration a success; and this with
no hope of any reward for himself, of any gratitude from me, or of any
appreciation by the public at large, but solely because he deemed such
action necessary for the well-being of the country as a whole.
My experience with Senator Quay was similar. I had no personal relations
with him before I was President, and knew nothing of him save by
hearsay. Soon after I became President, Senator Quay called upon me,
told me he had known me very slightly, that he thought most men who
claimed to be reformers were hypocrites, but that he deemed me sincere,
that he thought conditions had become such that aggressive courage
and honesty were necessary in order to remedy them, that he believed I
intended to be a good and efficient President, and that to the best
of his ability he would support me in it making my Administration a
success. He kept his word with absolute good faith. He had been in the
Civil War, and was a medal of honor man; and I think my having been in
the Spanish War gave him at the outset a kindly feeling toward me.
He was also a very well-read man--I owe to him, for instance, my
acquaintance with the writings of the Finnish novelist Topelius. Not
only did he support me on almost every public question in which I was
most interested--including, I am convinced, every one on which he felt
he conscientiously could do so--but he also at the time of his death
gave a striking proof of his disinterested desire to render a service to
certain poor people, and this under conditions in which not only would
he never know if the service were rendered but in which he had no reason
to expect that his part in it would ever be made known to any other man.
Quay was descended from a French voyageur who had some Indian blood in
him. He was proud of this Indian blood, took an especial interest in
Indians, and whenever Indians came to Washington they always called on
him. Once during my Administration a delegation of Iroquois came over
from Canada to call on me at the White House. Their visit had in it
something that was pathetic as well as amusing. They represented the
descendants of the Six Nations, who fled to Canada after Sullivan
harried their towns in the Revolutionary War. Now, a century and a
quarter later, their people thought that they would like to come back
into the United States; and these representatives had called upon me
with the dim hope that perhaps I could give their tribes land on which
they could settle. As soon as they reached Washington they asked Quay to
bring them to call on me, which he did, telling me that of course their
errand was hopeless and that he had explained as much to them, but that
they would like me to extend the courtesy of an interview. At the close
of the interview, which had been conducted with all the solemnities of
calumet and wampum, the Indians filed out. Quay, before following them,
turned to me with his usual emotionless face and said, "Good-by, Mr.
President; this reminds one of the Flight of a Tartar Tribe, doesn't
it?" I answered, "So you're fond of De Quincey, Senator?" to which Quay
responded, "Yes; always liked De Quincey; good-by." And away he went
with the tribesmen, who seemed to have walked out of a remote past.
Quay had become particularly concerned about the Delawares in the Indian
Territory. He felt that the Interior Department did not do them justice.
He also felt that his colleagues of the Senate took no interest in them.
When in the spring of 1904 he lay in his house mortally sick, he sent
me word that he had something important to say to me, and would have
himself carried round to see me. I sent back word not to think of doing
so, and that on my way back from church next Sunday I would stop in
and call on him. This I accordingly did. He was lying in his bed, death
written on his face. He thanked me for coming, and then explained
that, as he was on the point of death and knew he would never return to
Washington--it was late spring and he was about to leave--he wished to
see me to get my personal promise that, after he died, I would myself
look after the interests of the Delaware Indians. He added that he did
not trust the Interior Department--although he knew that I did not share
his views on this point--and that still less did he believe that any of
his colleagues in the Senate would exert themselves in the interests of
the Delawares, and that therefore he wished my personal assurance that I
would personally see that no injustice was done them. I told him I would
do so, and then added, in rather perfunctory fashion, that he must not
take such a gloomy view of himself, that when he got away for the summer
I hoped he would recover and be back all right when Congress opened. A
gleam came into the old fighter's eyes and he answered: "No, I am dying,
and you know it. I don't mind dying; but I do wish it were possible for
me to get off into the great north woods and crawl out on a rock in the
sun and die like a wolf!"
I never saw him again. When he died I sent a telegram of sympathy to his
wife. A paper which constantly preached reform, and which kept up its
circulation by the no less constant practice of slander, a paper which
in theory condemned all public men who violated the eighth commandment,
and in practice subsisted by incessant violation of the ninth, assailed
me for sending my message to the dead man's wife. I knew the editors of
this paper, and the editor who was their predecessor. They had led
lives of bodily ease and the avoidance of bodily risk; they earned their
livelihood by the practice of mendacity for profit; and they delivered
malignant judgment on a dead man who, whatever his faults, had in his
youth freely risked his life for a great ideal, and who when death was
already clutching his breast had spent almost his last breath on behalf
of humble and friendless people whom he had served with disinterested
loyalty.
There is no greater duty than to war on the corrupt and unprincipled
boss, and on the corrupt and unprincipled business man; and for the
matter of that, on the corrupt and unprincipled labor leader also,
and on the corrupt and unprincipled editor, and on any one else who is
corrupt and unprincipled. But where the conditions are such, whether in
politics or in business, that the great majority of men have behaved in
a way which is gradually seen to be improper, but which at one time did
not conflict with the generally accepted morality, then the warfare on
the system should not include warfare on the men themselves, unless
they decline to amend their ways and to dissociate themselves from the
system. There are many good, unimaginative citizens who in politics
or in business act in accordance with accepted standards, in a
matter-of-course way, without questioning these standards; until
something happens which sharply arouses them to the situation, whereupon
they try to work for better things. The proper course in such event is
to let bygones be bygones, and if the men prove by their actions the
sincerity of their conversion, heartily to work with them for the
betterment of business and political conditions.
By the time that I was ending my career as Civil Service Commissioner
I was already growing to understand that mere improvement in political
conditions by itself was not enough. I dimly realized that an even
greater fight must be waged to improve economic conditions, and to
secure social and industrial justice, justice as between individuals
and justice as between classes. I began to see that political effort was
largely valuable as it found expression and resulted in such social and
industrial betterment. I was gradually puzzling out, or trying to puzzle
out, the answers to various questions--some as yet unsolvable to any of
us, but for the solution of which it is the bounden duty of all of us to
work. I had grown to realize very keenly that the duty of the Government
to protect women and children must be extended to include the protection
of all the crushable elements of labor. I saw that it was the affair of
all our people to see that justice obtained between the big corporation
and its employees, and between the big corporation and its smaller
rivals, as well as its customers and the general public. I saw that it
was the affair of all of us, and not only of the employer, if dividends
went up and wages went down; that it was to the interest of all of us
that a full share of the benefit of improved machinery should go to the
workman who used the machinery; and also that it was to the interest of
all of us that each man, whether brain worker or hand worker, should
do the best work of which he was capable, and that there should be
some correspondence between the value of the work and the value of the
reward. It is these and many similar questions which in their sum
make up the great social and industrial problems of to-day, the most
interesting and important of the problems with which our public life
must deal.
In handling these problems I believe that much can be done by the
Government. Furthermore, I believe that, after all that the Government
can do has been done, there will remain as the most vital of all factors
the individual character of the average man and the average woman.
No governmental action can do more than supplement individual action.
Moreover, there must be collective action of kinds distinct from
governmental action. A body of public opinion must be formed, must
make itself felt, and in the end transform, and be transformed by, the
gradual raising of individual standards of conduct.
It is curious to see how difficult it is to make some men understand
that insistence upon one factor does not and must not mean failure fully
to recognize other factors. The selfish individual needs to be taught
that we must now shackle cunning by law exactly as a few centuries back
we shackled force by law. Unrestricted individualism spells ruin to
the individual himself. But so does the elimination of individualism,
whether by law or custom. It is a capital error to fail to recognize the
vital need of good laws. It is also a capital error to believe that good
laws will accomplish anything unless the average man has the right stuff
in him. The toiler, the manual laborer, has received less than justice,
and he must be protected, both by law, by custom, and by the exercise
of his right to increase his wage; and yet to decrease the quantity and
quality of his work will work only evil. There must be a far greater
meed of respect and reward for the hand worker than we now give him, if
our society is to be put on a sound basis; and this respect and reward
cannot be given him unless he is as ambitious to do the best possible
work as is the highest type of brain worker, whether doctor or writer or
artist. There must be a raising of standards, and not a leveling down to
the standard of the poorest and most inefficient. There is urgent need
of intelligent governmental action to assist in making the life of the
man who tills the soil all that it should be, and to see that the manual
worker gets his full share of the reward for what he helps produce; but
if either farmer, mechanic, or day laborer is shiftless or lazy, if he
shirks downright hard work, if he is stupid or self-indulgent, then no
law can save him, and he must give way to a better type.
I suppose that some good people will misunderstand what I say, and
will insist on taking only half of it as representing the whole. Let
me repeat. When I say, that, even after we have all the good laws
necessary, the chief factor in any given man's success or failure must
be that man's own character, it must not be inferred that I am in the
least minimizing the importance of these laws, the real and vital need
for them. The struggle for individual advancement and development can be
brought to naught, or indefinitely retarded, by the absence of law or by
bad law. It can be immeasurably aided by organized effort on the part
of the State. Collective action and individual action, public law and
private character, are both necessary. It is only by a slow and patient
inward transformation such as these laws aid in bringing about that men
are really helped upward in their struggle for a higher and a fuller
life. Recognition of individual character as the most important of all
factors does not mean failure fully to recognize that we must have good
laws, and that we must have our best men in office to enforce these
laws. The Nation collectively will in this way be able to be of real and
genuine service to each of us individually; and, on the other hand,
the wisdom of the collective action will mainly depend on the high
individual average of citizenship.
The relationship of man and woman is the fundamental relationship that
stands at the base of the whole social structure. Much can be done by
law towards putting women on a footing of complete and entire equal
rights with man--including the right to vote, the right to hold and use
property, and the right to enter any profession she desires on the same
terms as a man. Yet when this has been done it will amount to little
unless on the one hand the man himself realizes his duty to the woman,
and unless on the other hand the woman realizes that she has no claim to
rights unless she performs the duties that go with those rights and that
alone justify her in appealing to them. A cruel, selfish, or licentious
man is an abhorrent member of the community; but, after all, his actions
are no worse in the long run than those of the woman who is content to
be a parasite on others, who is cold, selfish, caring for nothing but
frivolous pleasure and ignoble ease. The law of worthy effort, the
law of service for a worthy end, without regard to whether it brings
pleasure or pain, is the only right law of life, whether for man or for
woman. The man must not be selfish; nor, if the woman is wise, will she
let the man grow selfish, and this not only for her own sake but for
his. One of the prime needs is to remember that almost every duty is
composed of two seemingly conflicting elements, and that over-insistence
on one, to the exclusion of the other, may defeat its own end. Any man
who studies the statistics of the birth-rate among the native Americans
of New England, or among the native French of France, needs not to be
told that when prudence and forethought are carried to the point of cold
selfishness and self-indulgence, the race is bound to disappear. Taking
into account the women who for good reasons do not marry, or who when
married are childless or are able to have but one or two children, it is
evident that the married woman able to have children must on an average
have four or the race will not perpetuate itself. This is the mere
statement of a self-evident truth. Yet foolish and self-indulgent
people often resent this statement as if it were in some way possible
by denunciation to reverse the facts of nature; and, on the other hand,
improvident and shiftless people, inconsiderate and brutal people, treat
the statement as if it justified heads of families in having enormous
numbers of badly nourished, badly brought up, and badly cared for
children for whom they make no effort to provide. A man must think
well before he marries. He must be a tender and considerate husband and
realize that there is no other human being to whom he owes so much of
love and regard and consideration as he does to the woman who with pain
bears and with labor rears the children that are his. No words can paint
the scorn and contempt which must be felt by all right-thinking men, not
only for the brutal husband, but for the husband who fails to show full
loyalty and consideration to his wife. Moreover, he must work, he must
do his part in the world. On the other hand, the woman must realize that
she has no more right to shirk the business of wifehood and motherhood
than the man has to shirk his business as breadwinner for the household.
Women should have free access to every field of labor which they care to
enter, and when their work is as valuable as that of a man it should be
paid as highly. Yet normally for the man and the woman whose welfare
is more important than the welfare of any other human beings, the woman
must remain the housemother, the homekeeper, and the man must remain the
breadwinner, the provider for the wife who bears his children and for
the children she brings into the world. No other work is as valuable or
as exacting for either man or woman; it must always, in every healthy
society, be for both man and woman the prime work, the most important
work; normally all other work is of secondary importance, and must
come as an addition to, not a substitute for, this primary work. The
partnership should be one of equal rights, one of love, of self-respect,
and unselfishness, above all a partnership for the performance of the
most vitally important of all duties. The performance of duty, and not
an indulgence in vapid ease and vapid pleasure, is all that makes life
worth while.
Suffrage for women should be looked on from this standpoint. Personally
I feel that it is exactly as much a "right" of women as of men to vote.
But the important point with both men and women is to treat the
exercise of the suffrage as a duty, which, in the long run, must be
well performed to be of the slightest value. I always favored woman's
suffrage, but only tepidly, until my association with women like Jane
Addams and Frances Kellor, who desired it as one means of enabling them
to render better and more efficient service, changed me into a zealous
instead of a lukewarm adherent of the cause--in spite of the fact that
a few of the best women of the same type, women like Mary Antin, did not
favor the movement. A vote is like a rifle: its usefulness depends upon
the character of the user. The mere possession of the vote will no more
benefit men and women not sufficiently developed to use it than the
possession of rifles will turn untrained Egyptian fellaheen into
soldiers. This is as true of woman as of man--and no more true.
Universal suffrage in Hayti has not made the Haytians able to govern
themselves in any true sense; and woman suffrage in Utah in no shape or
way affected the problem of polygamy. I believe in suffrage for women
in America, because I think they are fit for it. I believe for women,
as for men, more in the duty of fitting one's self to do well and wisely
with the ballot than in the naked right to cast the ballot.
I wish that people would read books like the novels and stories, at once
strong and charming, of Henry Bordeaux, books like Kathleen Norris's
"Mother," and Cornelia Comer's "Preliminaries," and would use these,
and other such books, as tracts, now and then! Perhaps the following
correspondence will give a better idea than I can otherwise give of the
problems that in everyday life come before men and women, and of the
need that the man shall show himself unselfish and considerate, and do
his full share of the joint duty:
January 3, 1913.
_Colonel Theodore Roosevelt_:
Dear Sir--I suppose you are willing to stand sponsor for the assertion
that the women of the country are not doing their duty unless they have
large families. I wonder if you know the real reason, after all. Society
and clubs are held largely to blame, but society really takes in so few
people, after all. I thought, when I got married at twenty, that it was
the proper thing to have a family, and, as we had very little of this
world's goods, also thought it the thing to do all the necessary work
for them. I have had nine children, did all my own work, including
washing, ironing, house-cleaning, and the care of the little ones as
they came along, which was about every two years; also sewed everything
they wore, including trousers for the boys and caps and jackets for the
girls while little. I also helped them all in their school work, and
started them in music, etc. But as they grew older I got behind the
times. I never belonged to a club or a society or lodge, nor went to any
one's house scarcely; there wasn't time. In consequence, I knew nothing
that was going on in the town, much less the events of the country, and
at the same time my husband kept growing in wisdom and knowledge,
from mixing with men and hearing topics of the times discussed. At the
beginning of our married life I had just as quick a mind to grasp things
as he did, and had more school education, having graduated from a three
years' high school. My husband more and more declined to discuss things
with me; as he said, "I didn't know anything about it." When I'd ask
he'd say, "Oh, you wouldn't understand if I'd tell you." So here I am,
at forty-five years, hopelessly dull and uninteresting, while he can
mix with the brightest minds in the country as an equal. He's a strong
Progressive man, took very active part in the late campaign, etc. I
am also Progressive, and tried my best, after so many years of shut-in
life, to grasp the ideas you stood for, and read everything I could find
during the summer and fall. But I've been out of touch with people too
long now, and my husband would much rather go and talk to some woman who
hasn't had any children, because she knows things (I am not specifying
any particular woman). I simply bore him to death because I'm not
interesting. Now, tell me, how was it my fault? I was only doing what
I thought was my duty. No woman can keep up with things who never talks
with any one but young children. As soon as my children grew up they
took the same attitude as their father, and frequently say, "Oh, mother
doesn't know." They look up to and admire their father because he's a
man of the world and knows how to act when he goes out. How can I urge
my daughters now to go and raise large families? It means by the time
you have lost your figure and charm for them they are all ashamed of
you. Now, as a believer in woman's rights, do a little talking to the
men as to their duties to their wives, or else refrain from urging
us women to have children. I am only one of thousands of middle-class
respectable women who give their lives to raise a nice family, and then
who become bitter from the injustice done us. Don't let this go into the
waste-basket, but think it over.
Yours respectfully,
---- ----.
New York, January 11, 1913.
_My Dear Mrs. ----_:
Most certainly your letter will not go into the waste-paper basket. I
shall think it over and show it to Mrs. Roosevelt. Will you let me
say, in the first place, that a woman who can write such a letter is
certainly not "hopelessly dull and uninteresting"! If the facts are as
you state, then I do not wonder that you feel bitterly and that you
feel that the gravest kind of injustice has been done you. I have always
tried to insist to men that they should do their duty to the women even
more than the women to them. Now I hardly like to write specifically
about your husband, because you might not like it yourself. It seems to
me almost incredible that any man who is the husband of a woman who has
borne him nine children should not feel that they and he are lastingly
her debtors. You say that you have had nine children, that you did all
your own work, including washing, ironing, house-cleaning, and the care
of the little ones as they came along; that you sewed everything they
wore, including trousers for the boys and caps and jackets for the girls
while little; that you helped them all in their school work and started
them in music; but that as they grew older you got behind the times,
that you never belonged to a club or society or lodge, nor went to any
one's house, as you hardly had time to do so; and that in consequence
your husband outgrew you, and that your children look up to him and not
to you and feel that they have outgrown you. If these facts are so, you
have done a great and wonderful work, and the only explanation I can
possibly give of the attitude you describe on the part of your husband
and children is that they do not understand what it is that you have
done. I emphatically believe in unselfishness, but I also believe that
it is a mistake to let other people grow selfish, even when the other
people are husband and children.
Now, I suggest that you take your letter to me, of which I send you back
a copy, and this letter, and then select out of your family the one with
whom you feel most sympathy, whether it is your husband or one of your
children. Show the two letters to him or her, and then have a frank talk
about the matter. If any man, as you say, becomes ashamed of his wife
because she has lost her figure in bearing his children, then that man
is a hound and has every cause to be ashamed of himself. I am sending
you a little book called "Mother," by Kathleen Norris, which will give
you my views on the matter. Of course there are base and selfish men,
just as there are, although I believe in smaller number, base and
selfish women. Man and woman alike should profit by the teachings in
such a story as this of "Mother."
Sincerely yours,
THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
January 21, 1913.
_Colonel Theodore Roosevelt_:
My dear Sir--Your letter came as a surprise, for I wasn't expecting
an answer. The next day the book came, and I thank you for your ready
sympathy and understanding. I feel as though you and Mrs. Roosevelt
would think I was hardly loyal to my husband and children; but knowing
of no other way to bring the idea which was so strong in my mind to your
notice, I told my personal story. If it will, in a small measure, be the
means of helping some one else by molding public opinion, through you, I
shall be content. You have helped me more than you know. Just having you
interested is as good as a tonic, and braces me up till I feel as though
I shall refuse to be "laid on the shelf." . . . To think that you'd
bother to send me a book. I shall always treasure it both for the text
of the book and the sender. I read it with absorbing interest. The
mother was so splendid. She was ideal. The situations are so startlingly
real, just like what happens here every day with variations.
---- ----.
A narrative of facts is often more convincing than a homily; and these
two letters of my correspondent carry their own lesson.
Parenthetically, let me remark that whenever a man thinks that he
has outgrown the woman who is his mate, he will do well carefully to
consider whether his growth has not been downward instead of upward,
whether the facts are not merely that he has fallen away from his wife's
standard of refinement and of duty.
CHAPTER VI
THE NEW YORK POLICE
In the spring of 1895 I was appointed by Mayor Strong Police
Commissioner, and I served as President of the Police Commission of New
York for the two following years. Mayor Strong had been elected Mayor
the preceding fall, when the general anti-Democratic wave of that year
coincided with one of the city's occasional insurrections of virtue and
consequent turning out of Tammany from municipal control. He had been
elected on a non-partisan ticket--usually (although not always) the
right kind of ticket in municipal affairs, provided it represents not
a bargain among factions but genuine non-partisanship with the genuine
purpose to get the right men in control of the city government on a
platform which deals with the needs of the average men and women, the
men and women who work hard and who too often live hard. I was appointed
with the distinct understanding that I was to administer the Police
Department with entire disregard of partisan politics, and only from the
standpoint of a good citizen interested in promoting the welfare of all
good citizens. My task, therefore, was really simple. Mayor Strong had
already offered me the Street-Cleaning Department. For this work I did
not feel that I had any especial fitness. I resolutely refused to accept
the position, and the Mayor ultimately got a far better man for his
purpose in Colonel George F. Waring. The work of the Police Department,
however, was in my line, and I was glad to undertake it.
The man who was closest to me throughout my two years in the Police
Department was Jacob Riis. By this time, as I have said, I was
getting our social, industrial, and political needs into pretty fair
perspective. I was still ignorant of the extent to which big men of
great wealth played a mischievous part in our industrial and social
life, but I was well awake to the need of making ours in good faith
both an economic and an industrial as well as a political democracy. I
already knew Jake Riis, because his book "How the Other Half Lives" had
been to me both an enlightenment and an inspiration for which I felt I
could never be too grateful. Soon after it was written I had called at
his office to tell him how deeply impressed I was by the book, and that
I wished to help him in any practical way to try to make things a little
better. I have always had a horror of words that are not translated
into deeds, of speech that does not result in action--in other words,
I believe in realizable ideals and in realizing them, in preaching what
can be practiced and then in practicing it. Jacob Riis had drawn an
indictment of the things that were wrong, pitifully and dreadfully
wrong, with the tenement homes and the tenement lives of our
wage-workers. In his book he had pointed out how the city government,
and especially those connected with the departments of police and
health, could aid in remedying some of the wrongs.
As President of the Police Board I was also a member of the Health
Board. In both positions I felt that with Jacob Riis's guidance I would
be able to put a goodly number of his principles into actual effect.
He and I looked at life and its problems from substantially the same
standpoint. Our ideals and principles and purposes, and our beliefs as
to the methods necessary to realize them, were alike. After the election
in 1894 I had written him a letter which ran in part as follows:
It is very important to the city to have a business man's Mayor, but it
is more important to have a workingman's Mayor; and I want Mr. Strong to
be that also. . . . It is an excellent thing to have rapid transit, but
it is a good deal more important, if you look at matters with a proper
perspective, to have ample playgrounds in the poorer quarters of the
city, and to take the children off the streets so as to prevent them
growing up toughs. In the same way it is an admirable thing to have
clean streets; indeed, it is an essential thing to have them; but it
would be a better thing to have our schools large enough to give ample
accommodation to all who should be pupils and to provide them with
proper playgrounds.
And I added, while expressing my regret that I had not been able to
accept the street-cleaning commissionership, that "I would have
been delighted to smash up the corrupt contractors and put the
street-cleaning force absolutely out of the domain of politics."
This was nineteen years ago, but it makes a pretty good platform in
municipal politics even to-day--smash corruption, take the municipal
service out of the domain of politics, insist upon having a Mayor who
shall be a workingman's Mayor even more than a business man's Mayor, and
devote all attention possible to the welfare of the children.
Therefore, as I viewed it, there were two sides to the work: first, the
actual handling of the Police Department; second, using my position to
help in making the city a better place in which to live and work for
those to whom the conditions of life and labor were hardest. The two
problems were closely connected; for one thing never to be forgotten in
striving to better the conditions of the New York police force is the
connection between the standard of morals and behavior in that force and
the general standard of morals and behavior in the city at large. The
form of government of the Police Department at that time was such as
to make it a matter of extreme difficulty to get good results. It
represented that device of old-school American political thought, the
desire to establish checks and balances so elaborate that no man shall
have power enough to do anything very bad. In practice this always means
that no man has power enough to do anything good, and that what is bad
is done anyhow.
In most positions the "division of powers" theory works unmitigated
mischief. The only way to get good service is to give somebody power to
render it, facing the fact that power which will enable a man to do
a job well will also necessarily enable him to do it ill if he is the
wrong kind of man. What is normally needed is the concentration in the
hands of one man, or of a very small body of men, of ample power to
enable him or them to do the work that is necessary; and then the
devising of means to hold these men fully responsible for the exercise
of that power by the people. This of course means that, if the people
are willing to see power misused, it will be misused. But it also means
that if, as we hold, the people are fit for self-government--if, in
other words, our talk and our institutions are not shams--we will get
good government. I do not contend that my theory will automatically
bring good government. I do contend that it will enable us to get as
good government as we deserve, and that the other way will not.
The then government of the Police Department was so devised as to render
it most difficult to accomplish anything good, while the field for
intrigue and conspiracy was limitless. There were four Commissioners,
two supposed to belong to one party and two to the other, although, as
a matter of fact, they never divided on party lines. There was a Chief,
appointed by the Commissioners, but whom they could not remove without a
regular trial subject to review by the courts of law. This Chief and
any one Commissioner had power to hold up most of the acts of the other
three Commissioners. It was made easy for the four Commissioners to come
to a deadlock among themselves; and if this danger was avoided, it was
easy for one Commissioner, by intriguing with the Chief, to bring the
other three to a standstill. The Commissioners were appointed by the
Mayor, but he could not remove them without the assent of the Governor,
who was usually politically opposed to him. In the same way the
Commissioners could appoint the patrolmen, but they could not remove
them, save after a trial which went up for review to the courts.
As was inevitable under our system of law procedure, this meant that the
action of the court was apt to be determined by legal technicalities.
It was possible to dismiss a man from the service for quite insufficient
reasons, and to provide against the reversal of the sentence, if the
technicalities of procedure were observed. But the worst criminals
were apt to be adroit men, against whom it was impossible to get legal
evidence which a court could properly consider in a criminal trial
(and the mood of the court might be to treat the case as if it were a
criminal trial), although it was easy to get evidence which would render
it not merely justifiable but necessary for a man to remove them from
his private employ--and surely the public should be as well treated as
a private employer. Accordingly, most of the worst men put out were
reinstated by the courts; and when the Mayor attempted to remove one of
my colleagues who made it his business to try to nullify the work done
by the rest of us, the Governor sided with the recalcitrant Commissioner
and refused to permit his removal.
Nevertheless, an astounding quantity of work was done in reforming the
force. We had a good deal of power, anyhow; we exercised it to the full;
and we accomplished some things by assuming the appearance of a power
which we did not really possess.
The first fight I made was to keep politics absolutely out of the force;
and not only politics, but every kind of improper favoritism. Doubtless
in making thousands of appointments and hundreds of promotions there
were men who contrived to use influence of which I was ignorant. But
these cases must have been few and far between. As far as was humanly
possible, the appointments and promotions were made without regard to
any question except the fitness of the man and the needs of the
service. As Civil Service Commissioner I had been instructing heads
of departments and bureaus how to get men appointed without regard to
politics, and assuring them that by following our methods they
would obtain first-class results. As Police Commissioner I was able
practically to apply my own teachings.
The appointments to the police force were made as I have described
in the last chapter. We paid not the slightest attention to a man's
politics or creed, or where he was born, so long as he was an American
citizen; and on an average we obtained far and away the best men
that had ever come into the Police Department. It was of course very
difficult at first to convince both the politicians and the people that
we really meant what we said, and that every one really would have a
fair trial. There had been in previous years the most widespread
and gross corruption in connection with every activity in the Police
Department, and there had been a regular tariff for appointments
and promotions. Many powerful politicians and many corrupt outsiders
believed that in some way or other it would still be possible to secure
appointments by corrupt and improper methods, and many good citizens
felt the same conviction. I endeavored to remove the impression from the
minds of both sets of people by giving the widest publicity to what we
were doing and how we were doing it, by making the whole process open
and aboveboard, and by making it evident that we would probe to the
bottom every charge of corruption.
For instance, I received visits at one time from a Catholic priest, and
at another time from a Methodist clergyman, who had parishioners who
wished to enter the police force, but who did not believe they could
get in save by the payment of money or through political pressure. The
priest was running a temperance lyceum in connection with his church,
and he wished to know if there would be a chance for some of the young
men who belonged to that lyceum. The Methodist clergyman came from a
little patch of old native America which by a recent extension had been
taken within the limits of the huge, polyglot, pleasure-loving city. His
was a small church, most of the members being shipwrights, mechanics,
and sailormen from the local coasters. In each case I assured my visitor
that we wanted on the force men of the exact type which he said he could
furnish. I also told him that I was as anxious as he was to find out
if there was any improper work being done in connection with the
examinations, and that I would like him to get four or five of his men
to take the examinations without letting me know their names. Then,
whether the men failed or succeeded, he and I would take their papers
and follow them through every stage so that we could tell at once
whether they had been either improperly favored or improperly
discriminated against. This was accordingly done, and in each case my
visitor turned up a few weeks later, his face wreathed in smiles, to
say that his candidates had passed and that everything was evidently all
straight. During my two years as President of the Commission I think
I appointed a dozen or fifteen members of that little Methodist
congregation, and certainly twice that number of men from the temperance
lyceum of the Catholic church in question. They were all men of the
very type I most wished to see on the force--men of strong physique and
resolute temper, sober, self-respecting, self-reliant, with a strong
wish to improve themselves.
Occasionally I would myself pick out a man and tell him to take the
examination. Thus one evening I went down to speak in the Bowery at
the Young Men's Institute, a branch of the Young Men's Christian
Association, at the request of Mr. Cleveland H. Dodge. While there
he told me he wished to show me a young Jew who had recently, by an
exhibition of marked pluck and bodily prowess, saved some women and
children from a burning building. The young Jew, whose name was
Otto Raphael, was brought up to see me; a powerful fellow, with a
good-humored, intelligent face. I asked him about his education, and
told him to try the examination. He did, passed, was appointed, and
made an admirable officer; and he and all his family, wherever they may
dwell, have been close friends of mine ever since. Otto Raphael was a
genuine East Sider. He and I were both "straight New York," to use the
vernacular of our native city. To show our community of feeling and our
grasp of the facts of life, I may mention that we were almost the only
men in the Police Department who picked Fitzsimmons as a winner against
Corbett. Otto's parents had come over from Russia, and not only in
social standing but in pay a policeman's position meant everything to
him. It enabled Otto to educate his little brothers and sisters who had
been born in this country, and to bring over from Russia two or three
kinsfolk who had perforce been left behind.
Rather curiously, it was by no means as easy to keep politics and
corruption out of the promotions as out of the entrance examinations.
This was because I could take complete charge of the entrance
examinations myself; and, moreover, they were largely automatic. In
promotions, on the other hand, the prime element was the record and
capacity of the officer, and for this we had largely to rely upon the
judgment of the man's immediate superiors. This doubtless meant that in
certain cases that judgment was given for improper reasons.
However, there were cases where I could act on personal knowledge. One
thing that we did was to endeavor to recognize gallantry. We did not
have to work a revolution in the force as to courage in the way that
we had to work a revolution in honesty. They had always been brave
in dealing with riotous and violent criminals. But they had gradually
become very corrupt. Our great work, therefore, was the stamping out of
dishonesty, and this work we did thoroughly, so far as the ridiculous
bi-partisan law under which the Department was administered would
permit. But we were anxious that, while stamping out what was evil in
the force, we should keep and improve what was good. While warring
on dishonesty, we made every effort to increase efficiency. It has
unfortunately been shown by sad experience that at times a police
organization which is free from the taint of corruption may yet show
itself weak in some great crisis or unable to deal with the more
dangerous kinds of criminals. This we were determined to prevent.
Our efforts were crowned with entire success. The improvement in the
efficiency of the force went hand in hand with the improvement in
its honesty. The men in uniform and the men in plain clothes--the
detectives--did better work than ever before. The aggregate of crimes
where punishment followed the commission of the crime increased, while
the aggregate of crimes where the criminal escaped punishment decreased.
Every discredited politician, every sensational newspaper, and every
timid fool who could be scared by clamor was against us. All three
classes strove by every means in their power to show that in making the
force honest we had impaired its efficiency; and by their utterances
they tended to bring about the very condition of things against which
they professed to protest. But we went steadily along the path we
had marked out. The fight was hard, and there was plenty of worry and
anxiety, but we won. I was appointed in May, 1895. In February, 1897,
three months before I resigned to become Assistant Secretary of the
Navy, the Judge who charged the Grand Jury of New York County was able
to congratulate them on the phenomenal decrease in crime, especially
of the violent sort. This decrease was steady during the two years.
The police, after the reform policy was thoroughly tried, proved more
successful than ever before in protecting life and property and in
putting down crime and criminal vice.
The part played by the recognition and reward of actual personal prowess
among the members of the police force in producing this state of affairs
was appreciable, though there were many other factors that combined to
bring about the betterment. The immense improvement in discipline
by punishing all offenders without mercy, no matter how great their
political or personal influence; the resolute warfare against every kind
of criminal who had hitherto been able corruptly to purchase protection;
the prompt recognition of ability even where it was entirely unconnected
with personal prowess--all these were elements which had enormous weight
in producing the change. Mere courage and daring, and the rewarding of
courage and daring, cannot supply the lack of discipline, of ability,
of honesty. But they are of vital consequence, nevertheless. No police
force is worth anything if its members are not intelligent and honest;
but neither is it worth anything unless its members are brave, hardy,
and well disciplined.
We showed recognition of daring and of personal prowess in two ways:
first, by awarding a medal or a certificate in remembrance of the deed;
and, second, by giving it weight in making any promotion, especially to
the lower grades. In the higher grades--in all promotions above that of
sergeant, for instance--resolute and daring courage cannot normally
be considered as a factor of determining weight in making promotions;
rather is it a quality the lack of which unfits a man for promotion. For
in the higher places we must assume the existence of such a quality in
any fit candidate, and must make the promotion with a view to the man's
energy, executive capacity, and power of command. In the lower grades,
however, marked gallantry should always be taken into account in
deciding among different candidates for any given place.
During our two years' service we found it necessary over a hundred times
to single out men for special mention because of some feat of heroism.
The heroism usually took one of four forms: saving somebody from
drowning, saving somebody from a burning building, stopping a
runaway team, or arresting some violent lawbreaker under exceptional
circumstances. To illustrate our method of action, I will take two of
the first promotions made after I became Commissioner. One case was
that of an old fellow, a veteran of the Civil War, who was at the time
a roundsman. I happened to notice one day that he had saved a woman from
drowning, and had him summoned so that I might look into the matter.
The old fellow brought up his record before me, and showed not a little
nervousness and agitation; for it appeared that he had grown gray in the
service, had performed feat after feat of heroism, but had no political
backing of any account. No heed had ever been paid him. He was one of
the quiet men who attend solely to duty, and although a Grand Army
man, he had never sought to use influence of any kind. Now, at last, he
thought there was a chance for him. He had been twenty-two years on
the force, and during that time had saved some twenty-five persons from
death by drowning, varying the performance two or three times by
saving persons from burning buildings. Twice Congress had passed laws
especially to empower the then Secretary of the Treasury, John Sherman,
to give him a medal for distinguished gallantry in saving life. The
Life-Saving Society had also given him its medal, and so had the Police
Department. There was not a complaint in all his record against him
for any infraction of duty, and he was sober and trustworthy. He was
entitled to his promotion; and he got it, there and then. It may be
worth mentioning that he kept on saving life after he was given his
sergeantcy. On October 21, 1896, he again rescued a man from drowning.
It was at night, nobody else was in the neighborhood, and the dock from
which he jumped was in absolute darkness, and he was ten minutes in the
water, which was very cold. He was fifty-five years old when he saved
this man. It was the twenty-ninth person whose life he had saved during
his twenty-three years' service in the Department.
The other man was a patrolman whom we promoted to roundsman for activity
in catching a burglar under rather peculiar circumstances. I happened to
note his getting a burglar one week. Apparently he had fallen into the
habit, for he got another next week. In the latter case the burglar
escaped from the house soon after midnight, and ran away toward Park
Avenue, with the policeman in hot chase. The New York Central Railroad
runs under Park Avenue, and there is a succession of openings in the
top of the tunnel. Finding that the policeman was gaining on him, the
burglar took a desperate chance and leaped down one of these openings,
at the risk of breaking his neck. Now the burglar was running for his
liberty, and it was the part of wisdom for him to imperil life or limb;
but the policeman was merely doing his duty, and nobody could have
blamed him for not taking the jump. However, he jumped; and in this
particular case the hand of the Lord was heavy upon the unrighteous. The
burglar had the breath knocked out of him, and the "cop" didn't.
When his victim could walk, the officer trotted him around to the
station-house; and a week after I had the officer up and promoted him,
for he was sober, trustworthy, and strictly attentive to duty.
Now I think that any decent man of reasonable intelligence will agree
that we were quite right in promoting men in cases like these, and quite
right in excluding politics from promotions. Yet it was because of our
consistently acting in this manner, resolutely warring on dishonesty
and on that peculiar form of baseness which masquerades as "practical"
politics, and steadily refusing to pay heed to any consideration
except the good of the service and the city, and the merits of the men
themselves, that we drew down upon our heads the bitter and malignant
animosity of the bread-and-butter spoils politicians. They secured the
repeal of the Civil Service Law by the State Legislature. They attempted
and almost succeeded in the effort to legislate us out of office. They
joined with the baser portion of the sensational press in every species
of foul, indecent falsehood and slander as to what we were doing. They
attempted to seduce or frighten us by every species of intrigue and
cajolery, of promise of political reward and threat of political
punishment. They failed in their purpose. I believe in political
organizations, and I believe in practical politics. If a man is
not practical, he is of no use anywhere. But when politicians treat
practical politics as foul politics, and when they turn what ought to
be a necessary and useful political organization into a machine run by
professional spoilsmen of low morality in their own interest, then it
is time to drive the politician from public life, and either to mend or
destroy the machine, according as the necessity may determine.
We promoted to roundsman a patrolman, with an already excellent record,
for gallantry shown in a fray which resulted in the death of his
antagonist. He was after a gang of toughs who had just waylaid, robbed,
and beaten a man. They scattered and he pursued the ringleader. Running
hard, he gained on his man, whereupon the latter suddenly turned and
fired full in his face. The officer already had his revolver drawn,
and the two shots rang out almost together. The policeman was within
a fraction of death, for the bullet from his opponent's pistol went
through his helmet and just broke the skin of his head. His own aim was
truer, and the man he was after fell dead, shot through the heart. I
may explain that I have not the slightest sympathy with any policy which
tends to put the policeman at the mercy of a tough, or which deprives
him of efficient weapons. While Police Commissioner we punished any
brutality by the police with such immediate severity that all cases of
brutality practically came to an end. No decent citizen had anything
to fear from the police during the two years of my service. But we
consistently encouraged the police to prove that the violent criminal
who endeavored to molest them or to resist arrest, or to interfere with
them in the discharge of their duty, was himself in grave jeopardy; and
we had every "gang" broken up and the members punished with whatever
severity was necessary. Of course where possible the officer merely
crippled the criminal who was violent.
One of the things that we did while in office was to train the men in
the use of the pistol. A school of pistol practice was established,
and the marksmanship of the force was wonderfully improved. The man
in charge of the school was a roundsman, Petty, whom we promoted to
sergeant. He was one of the champion revolver shots of the country,
and could hit just about where he aimed. Twice he was forced to fire at
criminals who resisted arrest, and in each case he hit his man in the
arm or leg, simply stopping him without danger to his life.
In May, 1896, a number of burglaries occurred far uptown, in the
neighborhood of One Hundred and Fifty-sixth Street and Union Avenue.
Two officers were sent out each night to patrol the streets in plain
clothes. About two o'clock on the morning of May 8 they caught a glimpse
of two men loitering about a large corner house, and determined to
make them explain their actions. In order to cut off their escape, one
officer went down one street and one the other. The first officer, whose
name was Ryan, found the two men at the gateway of the side entrance of
the house, and hailed to know what they were doing. Without answering,
they turned and ran toward Prospect Avenue, with Ryan in close pursuit.
After running about one hundred feet, one of them turned and fired three
shots at Ryan, but failed to hit him. The two then separated, and the
man who had done the shooting escaped. The other man, whose name proved
to be O'Connor, again took to his heels, with Ryan still after him;
they turned the corner and met the other officer, whose name was Reid,
running as hard as he could toward the shooting. When O'Connor saw
himself cut off by Reid, he fired at his new foe, the bullet cutting
Reid's overcoat on the left shoulder. Reid promptly fired in return,
his bullet going into O'Connor's neck and causing him to turn a complete
somersault. The two officers then cared for their prisoner until the
ambulance arrived, when he was taken to the hospital and pronounced
mortally wounded. His companion was afterward caught, and they turned
out to be the very burglars for whom Reid and Ryan had been on the
lookout.
In December, 1896, one of our officers was shot. A row occurred in a
restaurant, which ended in two young toughs drawing their revolvers
and literally running amuck, shooting two or three men. A policeman,
attracted by the noise, ran up and seized one of them, whereupon the
other shot him in the mouth, wounding him badly. Nevertheless, the
officer kept his prisoner and carried him to the station-house. The
tough who had done the shooting ran out and was seized by another
officer. The tough fired at him, the bullet passing through the
officer's overcoat, but he was promptly knocked down, disarmed, and
brought to the station-house. In this case neither policeman used his
revolver, and each brought in his man, although the latter was armed and
resisted arrest, one of the officers taking in his prisoner after having
been himself severely wounded. A lamentable feature of the case was that
this same officer was a man who, though capable of great gallantry, was
also given to shirking his work, and we were finally obliged to dismiss
him from the force, after passing over two or three glaring misdeeds in
view of his record for courage.
We promoted another man on account of finding out accidentally that he
had performed a notable feat, which he had forborne even to mention,
so that his name never came on the roll of honor. Late at night, while
patrolling a lonely part of his post, he came upon three young toughs
who had turned highwaymen and were robbing a peddler. He ran in at once
with his night-stick, whereupon the toughs showed fight, and one of
them struck at him with a bludgeon, breaking his left hand. The officer,
however, made such good use of his night-stick that he knocked down two
of his assailants, whereupon the third ran away, and he brought both of
his prisoners to the station-house. Then he went round to the hospital,
had his broken hand set in plaster, and actually reported for duty at
the next tour, without losing one hour. He was a quiet fellow, with a
record free from complaints, and we made him roundsman.
The mounted squad have, of course, many opportunities to distinguish
themselves in stopping runaways. In May, 1895, a mounted policeman
named Heyer succeeded in stopping a runaway at Kingsbridge under rather
noteworthy circumstances. Two men were driving in a buggy, when the
horse stumbled, and in recovering himself broke the head-stall, so that
the bridle fell off. The horse was a spirited trotter, and at once ran
away at full speed. Heyer saw the occurrence, and followed at a run.
When he got alongside the runaway he seized him by the forelock, guided
him dexterously over the bridge, preventing him from running into the
numerous wagons that were on the road, and finally forced him up a hill
and into a wagon-shed. Three months later this same officer saved a man
from drowning.
The members of the bicycle squad, which was established shortly after we
took office, soon grew to show not only extraordinary proficiency on
the wheel, but extraordinary daring. They frequently stopped runaways,
wheeling alongside of them, and grasping the horses while going at full
speed; and, what was even more remarkable, they managed not only to
overtake but to jump into the vehicle and capture, on two or three
different occasions, men who were guilty of reckless driving, and who
fought violently in resisting arrest. They were picked men, being young
and active, and any feat of daring which could be accomplished on the
wheel they were certain to accomplish.
Three of the best riders of the bicycle squad, whose names and records
happen to occur to me, were men of the three ethnic strains most
strongly represented in the New York police force, being respectively of
native American, German, and Irish parentage.
The German was a man of enormous power, and he was able to stop each
of the many runaways he tackled without losing his wheel. Choosing his
time, he would get alongside the horse and seize the bit in his left
hand, keeping his right on the crossbar of the wheel. By degrees he then
got the animal under control. He never failed to stop it, and he
never lost his wheel. He also never failed to overtake any "scorcher,"
although many of these were professional riders who deliberately
violated the law to see if they could not get away from him; for the
wheelmen soon get to know the officers whose beats they cross.
The Yankee, though a tall, powerful man and a very good rider, scarcely
came up to the German in either respect; he possessed exceptional
ability, however, as well as exceptional nerve and coolness, and he also
won his promotion. He stopped about as many runaways; but when the
horse was really panic-stricken he usually had to turn his wheel loose,
getting a firm grip on the horse's reins and then kicking his wheel
so that it would fall out of the way of injury from the wagon. On one
occasion he had a fight with a drunken and reckless driver who was
urging to top speed a spirited horse. He first got hold of the horse,
whereupon the driver lashed both him and the beast, and the animal,
already mad with terror, could not be stopped. The officer had of course
kicked away his wheel at the beginning, and after being dragged along
for some distance he let go the beast and made a grab at the wagon.
The driver hit him with his whip, but he managed to get in, and after
a vigorous tussle overcame his man, and disposed of him by getting him
down and sitting on him. This left his hands free for the reins. By
degrees he got the horse under control, and drove the wagon round to the
station-house, still sitting on his victim. "I jounced up and down
on him to keep him quiet when he turned ugly," he remarked to me
parenthetically. Having disposed of the wagon, he took the man round to
the court, and on the way the prisoner suddenly sprang on him and tried
to throttle him. Convinced at last that patience had ceased to be a
virtue, he quieted his assailant with a smash on the head that took all
the fight out of him until he was brought before the judge and fined.
Like the other "bicycle cops," this officer made a number of arrests of
criminals, such as thieves, highwaymen, and the like, in addition to his
natural prey--scorchers, runaways, and reckless drivers.
The third member of the trio, a tall, sinewy man with flaming red hair,
which rather added to the terror he inspired in evil-doers, was usually
stationed in a tough part of the city, where there was a tendency to
crimes of violence, and incidentally an occasional desire to harass
wheelmen. The officer was as good off his wheel as on it, and he
speedily established perfect order on his beat, being always willing to
"take chances" in getting his man. He was no respecter of persons,
and when it became his duty to arrest a wealthy man for persistently
refusing to have his carriage lamps lighted after nightfall, he brought
him in with the same indifference that he displayed in arresting a
street-corner tough who had thrown a brick at a wheelman.
Occasionally a policeman would perform work which ordinarily comes
within the domain of the fireman. In November, 1896, an officer who had
previously saved a man from death by drowning added to his record by
saving five persons from burning. He was at the time asleep, when he was
aroused by a fire in a house a few doors away. Running over the roofs
of the adjoining houses until he reached the burning building, he
found that on the fourth floor the flames had cut off all exit from an
apartment in which there were four women, two of them over fifty, and
one of the others with a six-months-old baby. The officer ran down to
the adjoining house, broke open the door of the apartment on the same
floor--the fourth--and crept out on the coping, less than three inches
wide, that ran from one house to the other. Being a large and very
powerful and active man, he managed to keep hold of the casing of the
window with one hand, and with the other to reach to the window of the
apartment where the women and child were. The firemen appeared, and
stretched a net underneath. The crowd that was looking on suddenly
became motionless and silent. Then, one by one, he drew the women out of
their window, and, holding them tight against the wall, passed them into
the other window. The exertion in such an attitude was great, and he
strained himself badly; but he possessed a practical mind, and as soon
as the women were saved he began a prompt investigation of the cause
of the fire, and arrested two men whose carelessness, as was afterward
proved, caused it.
Now and then a man, though a brave man, proved to be slack or stupid or
vicious, and we could make nothing out of him; but hardihood and courage
were qualities upon which we insisted and which we rewarded. Whenever
I see the police force attacked and vilified, I always remember my
association with it. The cases I have given above are merely instances
chosen almost at random among hundreds of others. Men such as those
I have mentioned have the right stuff in them! If they go wrong, the
trouble is with the system, and therefore with us, the citizens, for
permitting the system to go unchanged. The conditions of New York life
are such as to make the police problem therein more difficult than in
any other of the world's great capitals. I am often asked if policemen
are honest. I believe that the great majority of them want to be honest
and will be honest whenever they are given the chance. The New York
police force is a body thoroughly representative of the great city
itself. As I have said above, the predominant ethnic strains in it are,
first, the men of Irish birth or parentage, and, following these, the
native Americans, usually from the country districts, and the men of
German birth or parentage. There are also Jews, Scandinavians, Italians,
Slavs, and men of other nationalities. All soon become welded into one
body. They are physically a fine lot. Moreover, their instincts are
right; they are game, they are alert and self-reliant, they prefer to
act squarely if they are allowed so to act. All that they need is to be
given the chance to prove themselves honest, brave, and self-respecting.
The law at present is much better than in our day, so far as governing
the force is concerned. There is now a single Commissioner, and the
Mayor has complete power over him. The Mayor, through his Commissioner,
now has power to keep the police force on a good level of conduct if
with resolution and common sense he insists on absolute honesty within
the force and at the same time heartily supports it against the criminal
classes. To weaken the force in its dealings with gangs and toughs
and criminals generally is as damaging as to permit dishonesty, and,
moreover, works towards dishonesty. But while under the present law very
much improvement can be worked, there is need of change of the law which
will make the Police Commissioner a permanent, non-partisan official,
holding office so long as he proves thoroughly fit for the job,
completely independent of the politicians and privileged interests, and
with complete power over the force. This means that there must be the
right law, and the right public opinion back of the law.
The many-sided ethnic character of the force now and then gives rise to,
or affords opportunity for, queer happenings. Occasionally it enables
one to meet emergencies in the best possible fashion. While I was Police
Commissioner an anti-Semitic preacher from Berlin, Rector Ahlwardt, came
over to New York to preach a crusade against the Jews. Many of the New
York Jews were much excited and asked me to prevent him from speaking
and not to give him police protection. This, I told them, was
impossible; and if possible would have been undesirable because it
would have made him a martyr. The proper thing to do was to make him
ridiculous. Accordingly I detailed for his protection a Jew sergeant and
a score or two of Jew policemen. He made his harangue against the Jews
under the active protection of some forty policemen, every one of them a
Jew! It was the most effective possible answer; and incidentally it was
an object-lesson to our people, whose greatest need it is to learn that
there must be no division by class hatred, whether this hatred be that
of creed against creed, nationality against nationality, section against
section, or men of one social or industrial condition against men
of another social and industrial condition. We must ever judge each
individual on his own conduct and merits, and not on his membership
in any class, whether that class be based on theological, social, or
industrial considerations.
Among my political opponents when I was Police Commissioner was the
head of a very influential local Democratic organization. He was a
State Senator usually known as Big Tim Sullivan. Big Tim represented
the morals of another era; that is, his principles and actions were very
much those of a Norman noble in the years immediately succeeding the
Battle of Hastings. (This will seem flattery only to those who are not
acquainted with the real histories and antecedents of the Norman nobles
of the epoch in question.) His application of these eleventh-century
theories to our nineteenth-century municipal democratic conditions
brought him into sharp contact with me, and with one of my right-hand
men in the Department, Inspector John McCullough. Under the old
dispensation this would have meant that his friends and kinsfolk were
under the ban.
Now it happened that in the Department at that time there was a
nephew or cousin of his, Jerry D. Sullivan. I found that Jerry was an
uncommonly good man, a conscientious, capable officer, and I promoted
him. I do not know whether Jerry or Jerry's cousin (Senator Sullivan)
was more astonished. The Senator called upon me to express what I am
sure was a very genuine feeling of appreciation. Poor Jerry died, I
think of consumption, a year or two after I left the Department. He was
promoted again after I left, and he then showed that he possessed the
very rare quality of gratitude, for he sent me a telegram dated January
15, 1898, running as follows: "Was made sergeant to-day. I thank you for
all in my first advancement." And in a letter written to me he said: "In
the future, as in the past, I will endeavor at all times to perform my
duty honestly and fearlessly, and never cause you to feel that you were
mistaken in me, so that you will be justly proud of my record." The
Senator, though politically opposed to me, always kept a feeling of
friendship for me after this incident. He served in Congress while I was
President.
The police can be used to help all kinds of good purposes. When I was
Police Commissioner much difficulty had been encountered in locating
illegal and fraudulent practitioners of medicine. Dr. Maurice Lewi
called on me, with a letter from James Russell Parsons, the Secretary of
the Board of Regents at Albany, and asked me if I could not help.
After questioning him I found that the local authorities were eager to
prosecute these men, but could not locate them; and I made up my mind
I would try my hand at it. Accordingly, a sealed order was sent to the
commanding officer of each police precinct in New York, not to be opened
until just before the morning roll call, previous to the police squad
going on duty. This order required that, immediately upon reaching post,
each patrolman should go over his beat and enter upon a sheet of paper,
provided for that purpose, the full name and address of every doctor
sign there appearing. Immediately upon securing this information, the
patrolman was instructed to return the sheet to the officer in charge of
the precinct. The latter in turn was instructed to collect and place
in one large envelope and to return to Police Headquarters all the
data thus received. As a result of this procedure, within two hours the
prosecuting officials of the city of New York were in possession of the
name and address of every person in New York who announced himself as
a physician; and scores of pretended physicians were brought to book or
driven from the city.
One of the perennially serious and difficult problems, and one of the
chief reasons for police blackmail and corruption, is to be found in the
excise situation in New York. When I was Police Commissioner, New York
was a city with twelve or fifteen thousand saloons, with a State law
which said they should be closed on Sundays, and with a local sentiment
which put a premium on violating the law by making Sunday the most
profitable day in the week to the saloon-keeper who was willing to take
chances. It was this willingness to take chances that furnished to the
corrupt politician and the corrupt police officer their opportunities.
There was in New York City a strong sentiment in favor of honesty in
politics; there was also a strong sentiment in favor of opening the
saloons on Sundays; and, finally, there was a strong sentiment in favor
of keeping the saloons closed on Sunday. Unfortunately, many of the men
who favored honest government nevertheless preferred keeping the saloons
open to having honest government; and many others among the men who
favored honest government put it second to keeping the saloons closed.
Moreover, among the people who wished the law obeyed and the saloons
closed there were plenty who objected strongly to every step necessary
to accomplish the result, although they also insisted that the result
should be accomplished.
Meanwhile the politicians found an incredible profit in using the law as
a club to keep the saloons in line; all except the biggest, the owners
of which, or the owners of the breweries back of which, sat in the inner
councils of Tammany, or controlled Tammany's allies in the Republican
organization. The police used the partial and spasmodic enforcement
of the law as a means of collecting blackmail. The result was that the
officers of the law, the politicians, and the saloon-keepers became
inextricably tangled in a network of crime and connivance at crime. The
most powerful saloon-keepers controlled the politicians and the police,
while the latter in turn terrorized and blackmailed all the other
saloon-keepers. It was not a case of non-enforcement of the law. The
law was very actively enforced, but it was enforced with corrupt
discrimination.
It is difficult for men who have not been brought into contact with that
side of political life which deals with the underworld to understand the
brazen openness with which this blackmailing of lawbreakers was carried
out. A further very dark fact was that many of the men responsible for
putting the law on the statute-books in order to please one element of
their constituents, also connived at or even profited by the corrupt
and partial non-enforcement of the law in order to please another set of
their constituents, or to secure profit for themselves. The organ of the
liquor-sellers at that time was the Wine and Spirit Gazette. The editor
of this paper believed in selling liquor on Sunday, and felt that it was
an outrage to forbid it. But he also felt that corruption and blackmail
made too big a price to pay for the partial non-enforcement of the law.
He made in his paper a statement, the correctness of which was never
questioned, which offers a startling commentary on New York politics of
that period. In this statement he recited the fact that the system of
blackmail had been brought to such a state of perfection, and had become
so oppressive to the liquor dealers themselves, that they communicated
at length on the subject with Governor Hill (the State Democratic boss)
and then with Mr. Croker (the city Democratic boss). Finally the matter
was formally taken up by a committee of the Central Association of
Liquor Dealers in an interview they held with Mr. Martin, my Tammany
predecessor as President of the police force. In matter-of-course way
the editor's statement continues: "An agreement was made between the
leaders of Tammany Hall and the liquor dealers according to which the
monthly blackmail paid to the force should be discontinued in return for
political support." Not only did the big bosses, State and local, treat
this agreement, and the corruption to which it was due, as normal and
proper, but they never even took the trouble to deny what had been done
when it was made public. Tammany and the police, however, did not fully
live up to the agreement; and much discrimination of a very corrupt
kind, and of a very exasperating kind to liquor-sellers who wished to be
honest, continued in connection with the enforcing of the law.
In short, the agreement was kept only with those who had "pull." These
men with "pull" were benefited when their rivals were bullied and
blackmailed by the police. The police, meanwhile, who had bought
appointment or promotion, and the politicians back of them, extended the
blackmailing to include about everything from the pushcart peddler and
the big or small merchant who wished to use the sidewalk illegally for
his goods, up to the keepers of the brothel, the gambling-house, and the
policy-shop. The total blackmail ran into millions of dollars. New York
was a wide-open town. The big bosses rolled in wealth, and the corrupt
policemen who ran the force lost all sense of decency and justice.
Nevertheless, I wish to insist on the fact that the honest men on the
patrol posts, "the men with the night-sticks," remained desirous to see
honesty obtain, although they were losing courage and hope.
This was the situation that confronted me when I came to Mulberry
Street. The saloon was the chief source of mischief. It was with the
saloon that I had to deal, and there was only one way to deal with
it. That was to enforce the law. The howl that rose was deafening. The
professional politicians raved. The yellow press surpassed themselves
in clamor and mendacity. A favorite assertion was that I was enforcing
a "blue" law, an obsolete law that had never before been enforced. As
a matter of fact, I was only enforcing honestly a law that had hitherto
been enforced dishonestly. There was very little increase in the number
of arrests made for violating the Sunday law. Indeed, there were weeks
when the number of arrests went down. The only difference was that
there was no protected class. Everybody was arrested alike, and I took
especial pains to see that there was no discrimination, and that the
big men and the men with political influence were treated like every one
else. The immediate effect was wholly good. I had been told that it
was not possible to close the saloons on Sunday and that I could
not succeed. However, I did succeed. The warden of Bellevue Hospital
reported, two or three weeks after we had begun, that for the first time
in its existence there had not been a case due to a drunken brawl in the
hospital all Monday. The police courts gave the same testimony, while
savings banks recorded increased deposits and pawnshops hard times.
The most touching of all things was the fact that we received letters,
literally by the hundred, from mothers in tenement-houses who had never
been allowed to take their children to the country in the wide-open
days, and who now found their husbands willing to take them and their
families for an outing on Sunday. Jake Riis and I spent one Sunday from
morning till night in the tenement districts, seeing for ourselves what
had happened.
During the two years that we were in office things never slipped back
to anything like what they had been before. But we did not succeed
in keeping them quite as highly keyed as during these first weeks. As
regards the Sunday-closing law, this was partly because public sentiment
was not really with us. The people who had demanded honesty, but who
did not like to pay for it by the loss of illegal pleasure, joined the
openly dishonest in attacking us. Moreover, all kinds of ways of evading
the law were tried, and some of them were successful. The statute, for
instance, permitted any man to take liquor with meals. After two
or three months a magistrate was found who decided judicially that
seventeen beers and one pretzel made a meal--after which decision joy
again became unconfined in at least some of the saloons, and the yellow
press gleefully announced that my "tyranny" had been curbed. But my
prime object, that of stopping blackmail, was largely attained.
All kinds of incidents occurred in connection with this crusade. One of
them introduced me to a friend who remains a friend yet. His name was
Edward J. Bourke. He was one of the men who entered the police force
through our examinations shortly after I took office. I had summoned
twenty or thirty of the successful applicants to let me look over them;
and as I walked into the hall, one of them, a well-set-up man, called
out sharply to the others, "Gangway," making them move to one side.
I found he had served in the United States navy. The incident was
sufficient to make me keep him in mind. A month later I was notified by
a police reporter, a very good fellow, that Bourke was in difficulties,
and that he thought I had better look into the matter myself, as Bourke
was being accused by certain very influential men of grave misconduct in
an arrest he had made the night before. Accordingly, I took the matter
up personally. I found that on the new patrolman's beat the preceding
night--a new beat--there was a big saloon run by a man of great
influence in political circles known as "King" Calahan. After midnight
the saloon was still running in full blast, and Bourke, stepping inside,
told Calahan to close up. It was at the time filled with "friends of
personal liberty," as Governor Hill used at that time, in moments of
pathos, to term everybody who regarded as tyranny any restriction on the
sale of liquor. Calahan's saloon had never before in its history been
closed, and to have a green cop tell him to close it seemed to him so
incredible that he regarded it merely as a bad jest. On his next round
Bourke stepped in and repeated the order. Calahan felt that the jest
had gone too far, and by way of protest knocked Bourke down. This was
an error of judgment on his part, for when Bourke arose he knocked down
Calahan. The two then grappled and fell on the floor, while the "friends
of personal liberty" danced around the fight and endeavored to stamp on
everything they thought wasn't Calahan. However, Bourke, though pretty
roughly handled, got his man and shut the saloon. When he appeared
against the lawbreaker in court next day, he found the court-room
crowded with influential Tammany Hall politicians, backed by one or
two Republican leaders of the same type; for Calahan was a baron of
the underworld, and both his feudal superiors and his feudal inferiors
gathered to the rescue. His backers in court included a Congressman and
a State Senator, and so deep-rooted was the police belief in "pull"
that his own superiors had turned against Bourke and were preparing to
sacrifice him. Just at this time I acted on the information given me by
my newspaper friend by starting in person for the court. The knowledge
that I knew what was going on, that I meant what I said, and that I
intended to make the affair personal, was all that was necessary. Before
I reached the court all effort to defend Calahan had promptly ceased,
and Bourke had come forth triumphant. I immediately promoted him to
roundsman. He is a captain now. He has been on the force ever since,
save that when the Spanish War came he obtained a holiday without pay
for six months and reentered the navy, serving as gun captain in one of
the gunboats, and doing his work, as was to be expected, in first-rate
fashion, especially when under fire.
Let me again say that when men tell me that the police are irredeemably
bad I remember scores and hundreds of cases like this of Bourke, like
the case I have already mentioned of Raphael, like the other cases I
have given above.
It is useless to tell me that these men are bad. They are naturally
first-rate men. There are no better men anywhere than the men of the
New York police force; and when they go bad it is because the system
is wrong, and because they are not given the chance to do the good work
they can do and would rather do. I never coddled these men. I punished
them severely whenever I thought their conduct required it. All I did
was to try to be just; to reward them when they did well; in short, to
act squarely by them. I believe that, as a whole, they liked me. When,
in 1912, I ran for President on the Progressive ticket, I received a
number of unsigned letters inclosing sums of money for the campaign. One
of these inclosed twenty dollars. The writer, who did not give his
name, said that he was a policeman, that I had once had him before me on
charges, and had fined him twenty dollars; that, as a matter of fact,
he had not committed the offense for which I fined him, but that the
evidence was such that he did not wonder that I had been misled, and
never blamed me for it, because I had acted squarely and had given
honest and decent men a chance in the Police Department; and that now he
inclosed a twenty-dollar bill, the amount of the fine inflicted on him
so many years before. I have always wished I knew who the man was.
The disciplinary courts were very interesting. But it was
extraordinarily difficult to get at the facts in the more complicated
cases--as must always be true under similar circumstances; for
ordinarily it is necessary to back up the superior officer who makes
the charge, and yet it is always possible that this superior officer is
consciously or unconsciously biased against his subordinate.
In the courts the charges were sometimes brought by police officers and
sometimes by private citizens. In the latter case we would get queer
insights into twilight phases of New York life. It was necessary to be
always on our guard. Often an accusation would be brought against the
policeman because he had been guilty of misconduct. Much more often the
accusation merely meant that the officer had incurred animosity by doing
his duty. I remember one amusing case where the officer was wholly to
blame but had acted in entire good faith.
One of the favorite and most demoralizing forms of gambling in New York
was policy-playing. The policy slips consisted of papers with three rows
of figures written on them. The officer in question was a huge pithecoid
lout of a creature, with a wooden face and a receding forehead, and his
accuser whom he had arrested the preceding evening was a little grig
of a red-headed man, obviously respectable, and almost incoherent with
rage. The anger of the little red-headed man was but natural, for he had
just come out from a night in the station-house. He had been arrested
late in the evening on suspicion that he was a policy-player, because of
the rows of figures on a piece of paper which he had held in his hand,
and because at the time of his arrest he had just stepped into the
entrance of the hall of a tenement-house in order to read by lamplight.
The paper was produced in evidence. There were the three rows of figures
all right, but, as the accused explained, hopping up and down with rage
and excitement, they were all of them the numbers of hymns. He was the
superintendent of a small Sunday-school. He had written down the hymns
for several future services, one under the other, and on the way home
was stopping to look at them, under convenient lamp-posts, and finally
by the light of the lamp in a tenement-house hallway; and it was this
conduct which struck the sagacious man in uniform as "suspicious."
One of the saddest features of police work is dealing with the social
evil, with prostitutes and houses of ill fame. In so far as the law gave
me power, I always treated the men taken in any raid on these houses
precisely as the women were treated. My experience brought me to the
very strong conviction that there ought not to be any toleration by law
of the vice. I do not know of any method which will put a complete
stop to the evil, but I do know certain things that ought to be done to
minimize it. One of these is treating men and women on an exact equality
for the same act. Another is the establishment of night courts and of
special commissions to deal with this special class of cases. Another
is that suggested by the Rev. Charles Stelzle, of the Labor Temple--to
publish conspicuously the name of the owner of any property used for
immoral purposes, after said owner had been notified of the use and has
failed to prevent it. Another is to prosecute the keepers and backers of
brothels, men and women, as relentlessly and punish them as severely as
pickpockets and common thieves. They should never be fined; they should
be imprisoned. As for the girls, the very young ones and first
offenders should be put in the charge of probation officers or sent to
reformatories, and the large percentage of feeble-minded girls and of
incorrigible girls and women should be sent to institutions created for
them. We would thus remove from this hideous commerce the articles
of commerce. Moreover, the Federal Government must in ever-increasing
measure proceed against the degraded promoters of this commercialism,
for their activities are inter-State and the Nation can often deal with
them more effectively than the States; although, as public sentiment
becomes aroused, Nation, State, and municipality will all cooperate
towards the same end of rooting out the traffic. But the prime need is
to raise the level of individual morality; and, moreover, to encourage
early marriages, the single standard of sex-morality, and a strict sense
of reciprocal conjugal obligation. The women who preach late marriages
are by just so much making it difficult to better the standard of
chastity.
As regards the white slave traffic, the men engaged in it, and the women
too, are far worse criminals than any ordinary murderers can be. For
them there is need of such a law as that recently adopted in England
through the efforts of Arthur Lee, M.P., a law which includes whipping
for the male offenders. There are brutes so low, so infamous, so
degraded and bestial in their cruelty and brutality, that the only way
to get at them is through their skins. Sentimentality on behalf of such
men is really almost as unhealthy and wicked as the criminality of the
men themselves. My experience is that there should be no toleration of
any "tenderloin" or "red light" district, and that, above all, there
should be the most relentless war on commercialized vice. The men who
profit and make their living by the depravity and the awful misery
of other human beings stand far below any ordinary criminals, and no
measures taken against them can be too severe.
As for the wretched girls who follow the dreadful trade in question, a
good deal can be done by a change in economic conditions. This ought
to be done. When girls are paid wages inadequate to keep them from
starvation, or to permit them to live decently, a certain proportion are
forced by their economic misery into lives of vice. The employers and
all others responsible for these conditions stand on a moral level not
far above the white slavers themselves. But it is a mistake to suppose
that either the correction of these economic conditions or the abolition
of the white slave trade will wholly correct the evil or will even reach
the major part of it. The economic factor is very far from being the
chief factor in inducing girls to go into this dreadful life. As with so
many other problems, while there must be governmental action, there must
also be strengthening of the average individual character in order to
achieve the desired end. Even where economic conditions are bad, girls
who are both strong and pure will remain unaffected by temptations to
which girls of weak character or lax standards readily yield. Any man
who knows the wide variation in the proportions of the different races
and nationalities engaged in prostitution must come to the conclusion
that it is out of the question to treat economic conditions as the sole
conditions or even as the chief conditions that determine this question.
There are certain races--the Irish are honorably conspicuous among
them--which, no matter what the economic pressure, furnish relatively
few inmates of houses of ill fame. I do not believe that the differences
are due to permanent race characteristics; this is shown by the
fact that the best settlement houses find that practically all their
"long-term graduates," so to speak, all the girls that come for a long
period under their influence, no matter what their race or national
origin, remain pure. In every race there are some naturally vicious
individuals and some weak individuals who readily succumb under economic
pressure. A girl who is lazy and hates hard work, a girl whose mind is
rather feeble, and who is of "subnormal intelligence," as the phrase now
goes, or a girl who craves cheap finery and vapid pleasure, is always
in danger. A high ideal of personal purity is essential. Where the same
pressure under the same economic conditions has tenfold the effect
on one set of people that it has on another, it is evident that the
question of moral standards is even more important than the question
of economic standards, very important though this question is. It is
important for us to remember that the girl ought to have the chance, not
only for the necessaries of life, but for innocent pleasure; and that
even more than the man she must not be broken by overwork, by excessive
toil. Moreover, public opinion and the law should combine to hunt
down the "flagrant man swine" who himself hunts down poor or silly or
unprotected girls. But we must not, in foolish sentimentality, excuse
the girl from her duty to keep herself pure. Our duty to achieve the
same moral level for the two sexes must be performed by raising the
level for the man, not by lowering it for the woman; and the fact that
society must recognize its duty in no shape or way relieves, not even
to the smallest degree, the individual from doing his or her duty.
Sentimentality which grows maudlin on behalf of the willful prostitute
is a curse; to confound her with the entrapped or coerced girl, the real
white slave, is both foolish and wicked. There are evil women just as
there are evil men, naturally depraved girls just as there are naturally
depraved young men; and the right and wise thing, the just thing, to
them, and the generous thing to innocent girls and decent men, is to
wage stern war against the evil creatures of both sexes.
In company with Jacob Riis, I did much work that was not connected with
the actual discipline of the force or indeed with the actual work of
the force. There was one thing which he and I abolished--police
lodging-houses, which were simply tramp lodging-houses, and a fruitful
encouragement to vagrancy. Those who read Mr. Riis's story of his own
life will remember the incidents that gave him from actual personal
experience his horror of these tramp lodging-houses. As member of the
Health Board I was brought into very close relations with the conditions
of life in the tenement-house districts. Here again I used to visit the
different tenement-house regions, usually in company with Riis, to
see for myself what the conditions were. It was largely this personal
experience that enabled me while on the Health Board to struggle not
only zealously, but with reasonable efficiency and success, to improve
conditions. We did our share in making forward strides in the matter of
housing the working people of the city with some regard to decency and
comfort.
The midnight trips that Riis and I took enabled me to see what the
Police Department was doing, and also gave me personal insight into some
of the problems of city life. It is one thing to listen in perfunctory
fashion to tales of overcrowded tenements, and it is quite another
actually to see what that overcrowding means, some hot summer night, by
even a single inspection during the hours of darkness. There was a very
hot spell one midsummer while I was Police Commissioner, and most of
each night I spent walking through the tenement-house districts and
visiting police stations to see what was being done. It was a tragic
week. We did everything possible to alleviate the suffering. Much of it
was heartbreaking, especially the gasping misery of the little children
and of the worn-out mothers. Every resource of the Health Department, of
the Police Department, and even the Fire Department (which flooded the
hot streets) was taxed in the effort to render service. The heat killed
such multitudes of horses that the means at our disposal for removing
the poor dead beasts proved quite inadequate, although every nerve was
strained to the limit. In consequence we received scores of complaints
from persons before whose doors dead horses had remained, festering
in the heat, for two or three days. One irascible man sent us furious
denunciations, until we were at last able to send a big dray to drag
away the horse that lay dead before his shop door. The huge dray already
contained eleven other dead horses, and when it reached this particular
door it broke down, and it was hours before it could be moved. The
unfortunate man who had thus been cursed with a granted wish closed
his doors in despair and wrote us a final pathetic letter in which he
requested us to remove either the horses or his shop, he didn't care
which.
I have spoken before of my experience with the tenement-house cigar
factory law which the highest court of New York State declared
unconstitutional. My experience in the Police Department taught me
that not a few of the worst tenement-houses were owned by wealthy
individuals, who hired the best and most expensive lawyers to persuade
the courts that it was "unconstitutional" to insist on the betterment of
conditions. These business men and lawyers were very adroit in using
a word with fine and noble associations to cloak their opposition to
vitally necessary movements for industrial fair play and decency. They
made it evident that they valued the Constitution, not as a help
to righteousness, but as a means for thwarting movements against
unrighteousness. After my experience with them I became more set than
ever in my distrust of those men, whether business men or lawyers,
judges, legislators, or executive officers, who seek to make of the
Constitution a fetich for the prevention of the work of social reform,
for the prevention of work in the interest of those men, women, and
children on whose behalf we should be at liberty to employ freely every
governmental agency.
Occasionally during the two years we had to put a stop to riotous
violence, and now and then on these occasions some of the labor union
leaders protested against the actions of the police. By this time I was
becoming a strong believer in labor unions, a strong believer in the
rights of labor. For that very reason I was all the more bound to see
that lawlessness and disorder were put down, and that no rioter was
permitted to masquerade under the guise of being a friend of labor or a
sympathizer with labor. I was scrupulous to see that the labor men had
fair play; that, for instance, they were allowed to picket just so far
as under the law picketing could be permitted, so that the strikers had
ample opportunity peacefully to persuade other labor men not to take
their places. But I made it clearly and definitely understood that under
no circumstances would I permit violence or fail to insist upon the
keeping of order. If there were wrongs, I would join with a full heart
in striving to have them corrected. But where there was violence
all other questions had to drop until order was restored. This is a
democracy, and the people have the power, if they choose to exercise
it, to make conditions as they ought to be made, and to do this strictly
within the law; and therefore the first duty of the true democrat, of
the man really loyal to the principles of popular government, is to see
that law is enforced and order upheld. It was a peculiar gratification
to me that so many of the labor leaders with whom I was thrown in
contact grew cordially to accept this view. When I left the Department,
several called upon me to say how sorry they were that I was not to
continue in office. One, the Secretary of the Journeyman Bakers' and
Confectioners' International Union, Henry Weismann, wrote me expressing
his regret that I was going, and his appreciation as a citizen of what
I had done as Police Commissioner; he added: "I am particularly
grateful for your liberal attitude toward organized labor, your cordial
championship of those speaking in behalf of the toilers, and your
evident desire to do the right thing as you saw it at whatever cost."
Some of the letters I received on leaving the Department were from
unexpected sources. Mr. E. L. Godkin, an editor who in international
matters was not a patriotic man, wrote protesting against my taking the
Assistant-Secretaryship of the Navy, and adding: "I have a concern, as
the Quakers say, to put on record my earnest belief that in New York you
are doing the greatest work of which any American to-day is capable,
and exhibiting to the young men of the country the spectacle of a very
important office administered by a man of high character in the most
efficient way amid a thousand difficulties. As a lesson in politics I
cannot think of anything more instructive."
About the same time I had a letter from Mr. (afterwards Ambassador)
James Bryce, also expressing regret that I was leaving the Police
Department, but naturally with much more appreciation of the work that
was to be done in the Navy Department. This letter I quote, with his
permission, because it conveys a lesson to those who are inclined always
to think that the conditions of the present time are very bad. It was
written July 7, 1897. Mr. Bryce spoke of the possibility of coming to
America in a month or so, and continued: "I hope I may have a chance
of seeing you if I do get over, and of drawing some comfort from you
as regards your political phenomena, which, so far as I can gather
from those of your countrymen I have lately seen, furnish some good
opportunities for a persistent optimist like myself to show that he is
not to be lightly discouraged. Don't suppose that things are specially
'nice,' as a lady would say, in Europe either. They are not." Mr. Bryce
was a very friendly and extraordinary competent observer of things
American; and there was this distinct note of discouragement about our
future in the intimate letter he was thus sending. Yet this was at the
very time when the United States was entering on a dozen years during
which our people accomplished more good, and came nearer realizing the
possibilities of a great, free, and conscientious democracy, than during
any other dozen years in our history, save only the years of Lincoln's
Presidency and the period during which the Nation was founded.
CHAPTER VII
THE WAR OF AMERICA THE UNREADY
I suppose the United States will always be unready for war, and
in consequence will always be exposed to great expense, and to the
possibility of the gravest calamity, when the Nation goes to war. This
is no new thing. Americans learn only from catastrophes and not from
experience.
There would have been no war in 1812 if, in the previous decade,
America, instead of announcing that "peace was her passion," instead of
acting on the theory that unpreparedness averts war, had been willing to
go to the expense of providing a fleet of a score of ships of the line.
However, in that case, doubtless the very men who in the actual
event deplored the loss of life and waste of capital which their own
supineness had brought about would have loudly inveighed against the
"excessive and improper cost of armaments"; so it all came to about the
same thing in the end.
There is no more thoroughgoing international Mrs. Gummidge, and no
more utterly useless and often utterly mischievous citizen, than the
peace-at-any-price, universal-arbitration type of being, who is always
complaining either about war or else about the cost of the armaments
which act as the insurance against war. There is every reason why
we should try to limit the cost of armaments, as these tend to grow
excessive, but there is also every reason to remember that in the
present stage of civilization a proper armament is the surest guarantee
of peace--and is the only guarantee that war, if it does come, will not
mean irreparable and overwhelming disaster.
In the spring of 1897 President McKinley appointed me Assistant
Secretary of the Navy. I owed the appointment chiefly to the efforts of
Senator H. C. Lodge of Massachusetts, who doubtless was actuated mainly
by his long and close friendship for me, but also--I like to believe--by
his keen interest in the navy. The first book I had ever published,
fifteen years previously, was "The History of the Naval War of 1812";
and I have always taken the interest in the navy which every good
American ought to take. At the time I wrote the book, in the early
eighties, the navy had reached its nadir, and we were then utterly
incompetent to fight Spain or any other power that had a navy at all.
Shortly afterwards we began timidly and hesitatingly to build up
a fleet. It is amusing to recall the roundabout steps we took to
accomplish our purpose. In the reaction after the colossal struggle of
the Civil War our strongest and most capable men had thrown their whole
energy into business, into money-making, into the development, and above
all the exploitation and exhaustion at the most rapid rate possible, of
our natural resources--mines, forests, soil, and rivers. These men were
not weak men, but they permitted themselves to grow shortsighted
and selfish; and while many of them down at the bottom possessed the
fundamental virtues, including the fighting virtues, others were purely
of the glorified huckster or glorified pawnbroker type--which when
developed to the exclusion of everything else makes about as poor a
national type as the world has seen. This unadulterated huckster or
pawnbroker type is rarely keenly sympathetic in matters of social and
industrial justice, and is usually physically timid and likes to cover
an unworthy fear of the most just war under high-sounding names.
It was reinforced by the large mollycoddle vote--the people who are soft
physically and morally, or who have a twist in them which makes them
acidly cantankerous and unpleasant as long as they can be so with
safety to their bodies. In addition there are the good people with no
imagination and no foresight, who think war will not come, but that if
it does come armies and navies can be improvised--a very large element,
typified by a Senator I knew personally who, in a public speech, in
answer to a question as to what we would do if America were suddenly
assailed by a first-class military power, answered that "we would build
a battle-ship in every creek." Then, among the wise and high-minded
people who in self-respecting and genuine fashion strive earnestly
for peace, there are the foolish fanatics always to be found in such a
movement and always discrediting it--the men who form the lunatic fringe
in all reform movements.
All these elements taken together made a body of public opinion so
important during the decades immediately succeeding the Civil War as to
put a stop to any serious effort to keep the Nation in a condition of
reasonable military preparedness. The representatives of this opinion
then voted just as they now do when they vote against battle-ships or
against fortifying the Panama Canal. It would have been bad enough if
we had been content to be weak, and, in view of our weakness, not to
bluster. But we were not content with such a policy. We wished to enjoy
the incompatible luxuries of an unbridled tongue and an unready hand.
There was a very large element which was ignorant of our military
weakness, or, naturally enough, unable to understand it; and another
large element which liked to please its own vanity by listening to
offensive talk about foreign nations. Accordingly, too many of our
politicians, especially in Congress, found that the cheap and easy thing
to do was to please the foolish peace people by keeping us weak, and to
please the foolish violent people by passing denunciatory resolutions
about international matters--resolutions which would have been
improper even if we had been strong. Their idea was to please both the
mollycoddle vote and the vote of the international tail-twisters by
upholding, with pretended ardor and mean intelligence, a National policy
of peace with insult.
I abhor unjust war. I abhor injustice and bullying by the strong at
the expense of the weak, whether among nations or individuals. I abhor
violence and bloodshed. I believe that war should never be resorted to
when, or so long as, it is honorably possible to avoid it. I respect all
men and women who from high motives and with sanity and self-respect do
all they can to avert war. I advocate preparation for war in order
to avert war; and I should never advocate war unless it were the only
alternative to dishonor. I describe the folly of which so many of our
people were formerly guilty, in order that we may in our own day be on
our guard against similar folly.
We did not at the time of which I write take our foreign duties
seriously, and as we combined bluster in speech with refusal to make
any preparation whatsoever for action, we were not taken seriously in
return. Gradually a slight change for the better occurred, the writings
of Captain Mahan playing no small part therein. We built some modern
cruisers to start with; the people who felt that battle-ships were
wicked compromising with their misguided consciences by saying that the
cruisers could be used "to protect our commerce"--which they could not
be, unless they had battle-ships to back them. Then we attempted to
build more powerful fighting vessels, and as there was a section of
the public which regarded battle-ships as possessing a name immorally
suggestive of violence, we compromised by calling the new ships armored
cruisers, and making them combine with exquisite nicety all the defects
and none of the virtues of both types. Then we got to the point of
building battle-ships. But there still remained a public opinion, as old
as the time of Jefferson, which thought that in the event of war all
our problem ought to be one of coast defense, that we should do
nothing except repel attack; an attitude about as sensible as that of a
prize-fighter who expected to win by merely parrying instead of hitting.
To meet the susceptibilities of this large class of well-meaning people,
we provided for the battle-ships under the name of "coast defense
battle-ships"; meaning thereby that we did not make them quite as
seaworthy as they ought to have been, or with quite as much coal
capacity as they ought to have had. Then we decided to build real
battle-ships. But there still remained a lingering remnant of public
opinion that clung to the coast defense theory, and we met this
in beautiful fashion by providing for "sea-going coast defense
battle-ships"--the fact that the name was a contradiction in terms being
of very small consequence compared to the fact that we did thereby get
real battle-ships.
Our men had to be trained to handle the ships singly and in fleet
formation, and they had to be trained to use the new weapons of
precision with which the ships were armed. Not a few of the older
officers, kept in the service under our foolish rule of pure seniority
promotion, were not competent for the task; but a proportion of the
older officers were excellent, and this was true of almost all the
younger officers. They were naturally first-class men, trained in the
admirable naval school at Annapolis. They were overjoyed that at last
they were given proper instruments to work with, and they speedily grew
to handle these ships individually in the best fashion. They were fast
learning to handle them in squadron and fleet formation; but when the
war with Spain broke out, they had as yet hardly grasped the principles
of modern scientific naval gunnery.
Soon after I began work as Assistant Secretary of the Navy I became
convinced that the war would come. The revolt in Cuba had dragged its
weary length until conditions in the island had become so dreadful as to
be a standing disgrace to us for permitting them to exist. There is much
that I sincerely admire about the Spanish character; and there are few
men for whom I have felt greater respect than for certain gentlemen of
Spain whom I have known. But Spain attempted to govern her colonies on
archaic principles which rendered her control of them incompatible with
the advance of humanity and intolerable to the conscience of mankind.
In 1898 the so-called war in Cuba had dragged along for years with
unspeakable horror, degradation, and misery. It was not "war" at all,
but murderous oppression. Cuba was devastated.
During those years, while we continued at "peace," several hundred times
as many lives were lost, lives of men, women, and children, as were lost
during the three months' "war" which put an end to this slaughter and
opened a career of peaceful progress to the Cubans. Yet there were
misguided professional philanthropists who cared so much more for names
than for facts that they preferred a "peace" of continuous murder to
a "war" which stopped the murder and brought real peace. Spain's
humiliation was certain, anyhow; indeed, it was more certain without
war than with it, for she could not permanently keep the island, and she
minded yielding to the Cubans more than yielding to us. Our own direct
interests were great, because of the Cuban tobacco and sugar, and
especially because of Cuba's relation to the projected Isthmian Canal.
But even greater were our interests from the standpoint of humanity.
Cuba was at our very doors. It was a dreadful thing for us to sit
supinely and watch her death agony. It was our duty, even more from
the standpoint of National honor than from the standpoint of National
interest, to stop the devastation and destruction. Because of these
considerations I favored war; and to-day, when in retrospect it is
easier to see things clearly, there are few humane and honorable men who
do not believe that the war was both just and necessary.
The big financiers and the men generally who were susceptible to touch
on the money nerve, and who cared nothing for National honor if it
conflicted even temporarily with business prosperity, were against
the war. The more fatuous type of philanthropist agreed with them. The
newspapers controlled by, or run in the interests of, these two classes
deprecated war, and did everything in their power to prevent any
preparation for war. As a whole the people in Congress were at that time
(and are now) a shortsighted set as regards international matters. There
were a few men, Senators Cushman K. Davis,[*] for instance, and John
Morgan, who did look ahead; and Senator H. C. Lodge, who throughout his
quarter of a century of service in the Senate and House has ever stood
foremost among those who uphold with farsighted fearlessness and strict
justice to others our national honor and interest; but most of the
Congressmen were content to follow the worst of all possible courses,
that is, to pass resolutions which made war more likely, and yet to
decline to take measures which would enable us to meet the war if it did
come.
[*] In a letter written me just before I became Assistant
Secretary, Senator Davis unburdened his mind about one of
the foolish "peace" proposals of that period; his letter
running in part: "I left the Senate Chamber about three
o'clock this afternoon when there was going on a deal of
mowing and chattering over the treaty by which the United
States is to be bound to arbitrate its sovereign
functions--for policies are matters of sovereignty. . . .
The
aberrations of the social movement are neither progress nor
retrogression. They represent merely a local and temporary
sagging of the line of the great orbit. Tennyson knew this
when he wrote that fine and noble 'Maud.' I often read it,
for to do so does me good." After quoting one of Poe's
stories the letter continues: "The world will come out all
right. Let him who believes in the decline of the military
spirit observe the boys of a common school during the recess
or the noon hour. Of course when American patriotism speaks
out from its rank and file and demands action or expression,
and when, thereupon, the 'business man,' so called, places
his hand on his stack of reds as if he feared a policeman
were about to disturb the game, and protests until American
patriotism ceases to continue to speak as it had started to
do--why, you and I get mad, and I swear. I hope you will be
with us here after March 4. We can then pass judgment
together on the things we don't like, and together indulge
in hopes that I believe are prophetic."
However, in the Navy Department we were able to do a good deal, thanks
to the energy and ability of some of the bureau chiefs, and to the
general good tone of the service. I soon found my natural friends and
allies in such men as Evans, Taylor, Sampson, Wainwright, Brownson,
Schroeder, Bradford, Cowles, Cameron, Winslow, O'Neil, and others like
them. I used all the power there was in my office to aid these men in
getting the material ready. I also tried to gather from every source
information as to who the best men were to occupy the fighting
positions.
Sound naval opinion was overwhelmingly in favor of Dewey to command
one squadron. I was already watching him, for I had been struck by an
incident in his past career. It was at a time when there was threat of
trouble with Chile. Dewey was off the Argentine, and was told to get
ready to move to the other coast of South America. If the move became
necessary, he would have to have coal, and yet if he did not make the
move, the coal would not be needed. In such a case a man afraid of
responsibility always acts rigidly by the regulations and communicates
with the Department at home to get authority for everything he does;
and therefore he usually accomplishes nothing whatever, but is able to
satisfy all individuals with red-tape minds by triumphantly pointing out
his compliance with the regulations. In a crisis, the man worth his
salt is the man who meets the needs of the situation in whatever way
is necessary. Dewey purchased the coal and was ready to move at once if
need arose. The affair blew over; the need to move did not occur; and
for some time there seemed to be a chance that Dewey would get into
trouble over having purchased the coal, for our people are like
almost all other peoples in requiring responsible officers under such
conditions to decide at their own personal peril, no matter which course
they follow. However, the people higher up ultimately stood by Dewey.
The incident made me feel that here was a man who could be relied upon
to prepare in advance, and to act promptly, fearlessly, and on his own
responsibility when the emergency arose. Accordingly I did my best to
get him put in command of the Asiatic fleet, the fleet where it was most
essential to have a man who would act without referring things back
to the home authorities. An officer senior to him, of the respectable
commonplace type, was being pushed by certain politicians who I knew had
influence with the Navy Department and with the President. I would have
preferred to see Dewey get the appointment without appealing to any
politician at all. But while this was my preference, the essential thing
was to get him the appointment. For a naval officer to bring pressure to
get himself a soft and easy place is unpardonable; but a large leniency
should be observed toward the man who uses influence only to get himself
a place in the picture near the flashing of the guns. There was a
Senator, Proctor of Vermont, who I knew was close to McKinley, and who
was very ardent for the war, and desirous to have it fought in the
most efficient fashion. I suggested to Dewey that he should enlist the
services of Senator Proctor, which was accordingly done. In a fortunate
hour for the Nation, Dewey was given command of the Asiatic squadron.
When the Maine was blown up in Havana Harbor, war became inevitable.
A number of the peace-at-any-price men of course promptly assumed the
position that she had blown herself up; but investigation showed that
the explosion was from outside. And, in any event, it would have been
impossible to prevent war. The enlisted men of the navy, who often grew
bored to the point of desertion in peace, became keyed up to a high
pitch of efficiency, and crowds of fine young fellows, from the interior
as well as from the seacoast, thronged to enlist. The navy officers
showed alert ability and unwearied industry in getting things ready.
There was one deficiency, however, which there was no time to remedy,
and of the very existence of which, strange to say, most of our best men
were ignorant. Our navy had no idea how low our standard of marksmanship
was. We had not realized that the modern battle-ship had become such
a complicated piece of mechanism that the old methods of training in
marksmanship were as obsolete as the old muzzle-loading broadside guns
themselves. Almost the only man in the navy who fully realized this
was our naval attache at Paris, Lieutenant Sims. He wrote letter after
letter pointing out how frightfully backward we were in marksmanship.
I was much impressed by his letters; but Wainwright was about the only
other man who was. And as Sims proved to be mistaken in his belief that
the French had taught the Spaniards how to shoot, and as the Spaniards
proved to be much worse even than we were, in the service generally Sims
was treated as an alarmist. But although I at first partly acquiesced in
this view, I grew uneasy when I studied the small proportion of hits to
shots made by our vessels in battle. When I was President I took up the
matter, and speedily became convinced that we needed to revolutionize
our whole training in marksmanship. Sims was given the lead in
organizing and introducing the new system; and to him more than to any
other one man was due the astonishing progress made by our fleet in this
respect, a progress which made the fleet, gun for gun, at least three
times as effective, in point of fighting efficiency, in 1908, as it was
in 1902. The shots that hit are the shots that count!
Like the people, the Government was for a long time unwilling to prepare
for war, because so many honest but misguided men believed that the
preparation itself tended to bring on the war. I did not in the least
share this feeling, and whenever I was left as Acting Secretary I did
everything in my power to put us in readiness. I knew that in the event
of war Dewey could be slipped like a wolf-hound from a leash; I was sure
that if he were given half a chance he would strike instantly and with
telling effect; and I made up my mind that all I could do to give him
that half-chance should be done. I was in the closest touch with Senator
Lodge throughout this period, and either consulted him about or notified
him of all the moves I was taking. By the end of February I felt it was
vital to send Dewey (as well as each of our other commanders who
were not in home waters) instructions that would enable him to be in
readiness for immediate action. On the afternoon of Saturday, February
25, when I was Acting Secretary, Lodge called on me just as I was
preparing the order, which (as it was addressed to a man of the right
stamp) was of much importance to the subsequent operations. Admiral
Dewey speaks of the incident as follows, in his autobiography:
"The first real step [as regards active naval preparations] was taken
on February 25, when telegraphic instructions were sent to the Asiatic,
European, and South Atlantic squadrons to rendezvous at certain
convenient points where, should war break out, they would be most
available.
"The message to the Asiatic squadron bore the signature of that
Assistant Secretary who had seized the opportunity while Acting
Secretary to hasten preparations for a conflict which was inevitable. As
Mr. Roosevelt reasoned, precautions for readiness would cost little in
time of peace, and yet would be invaluable in case of war. His cablegram
was as follows:
"'Washington, February 25, '98.
"'_Dewey, Hong Kong_:
"'Order the squadron, except the Monocacy, to Hong Kong. Keep full of
coal. In the event of declaration of war Spain, your duty will be to
see that the Spanish squadron does not leave the Asiatic coast, and then
offensive operations in Philippine Islands. Keep Olympia until further
orders.
"'ROOSEVELT.'
"(The reference to keeping the Olympia until further orders was due to
the fact that I had been notified that she would soon be recalled to the
United States.)"
All that was needed with Dewey was to give him the chance to get ready,
and then to strike, without being hampered by orders from those not on
the ground. Success in war depends very largely upon choosing a man fit
to exercise such powers, and then giving him the powers.
It would be instructive to remember, if only we were willing to do so,
the fairly comic panic which swept in waves over our seacoast, first
when it became evident that war was about to be declared, and then when
it was declared. The public waked up to the sufficiently obvious fact
that the Government was in its usual state--perennial unreadiness for
war. Thereupon the people of the seaboard district passed at one bound
from unreasoning confidence that war never could come to unreasoning
fear as to what might happen now that it had come. That acute
philosopher Mr. Dooley proclaimed that in the Spanish War we were in a
dream, but that the Spaniards were in a trance. This just about summed
up the facts. Our people had for decades scoffed at the thought of
making ready for possible war. Now, when it was too late, they not
only backed every measure, wise and unwise, that offered a chance of
supplying a need that ought to have been met before, but they also fell
into a condition of panic apprehension as to what the foe might do.
For years we had been saying, just as any number of our people now say,
that no nation would venture to attack us. Then when we did go to war
with an exceedingly feeble nation, we, for the time being, rushed to the
other extreme of feeling, and attributed to this feeble nation plans of
offensive warfare which it never dreamed of making, and which, if
made, it would have been wholly unable to execute. Some of my readers
doubtless remember the sinister intentions and unlimited potentialities
for destruction with which the fertile imagination of the yellow press
endowed the armored cruiser Viscaya when she appeared in American waters
just before war was declared. The state of nervousness along much of
the seacoast was funny in view of the lack of foundation for it; but
it offered food for serious thought as to what would happen if we ever
became engaged with a serious foe.
The Governor of one State actually announced that he would not permit
the National Guard of that State to leave its borders, the idea being to
retain it against a possible Spanish invasion. So many of the business
men of the city of Boston took their securities inland to Worcester that
the safe deposit companies of Worcester proved unable to take care of
them. In my own neighborhood on Long Island clauses were gravely put
into leases to the effect that if the property were destroyed by the
Spaniards the lease should lapse. As Assistant Secretary of the Navy I
had every conceivable impossible request made to me. Members of Congress
who had actively opposed building any navy came clamorously around to
ask each for a ship for some special purpose of protection connected
with his district. It seems incredible, but it is true, that not only
these Congressmen but the Chambers of Commerce and Boards of Trade of
different coast cities all lost their heads for the time being, and
raised a deafening clamor and brought every species of pressure to bear
on the Administration to get it to adopt the one most fatal course--that
is, to distribute the navy, ship by ship, at all kinds of points and in
all kinds of ports with the idea of protecting everything everywhere,
and thereby rendering it absolutely certain that even the Spanish fleet,
poor though it was, would be able to pick up our own navy ship by ship
in detail. One Congressman besought me for a ship to protect Jekyll
Island, off the coast of Georgia, an island which derived its
sole consequence because it contained the winter homes of certain
millionaires. A lady whose husband occupied a very influential position,
and who was normally a most admirable and sensible woman, came to insist
that a ship should be anchored off a huge seaside hotel because she had
a house in the neighborhood.
There were many such instances. One stood out above the others. A
certain seaboard State contained in its Congressional delegation one of
the most influential men in the Senate, and one of the most influential
men in the lower house. These two men had been worse than lukewarm about
building up the navy, and had scoffed at the idea of there ever being
any danger from any foreign power. With the advent of war the feelings
of their constituents, and therefore their own feelings, suffered an
immediate change, and they demanded that a ship be anchored in the
harbor of their city as a protection. Getting no comfort from me, they
went "higher up," and became a kind of permanent committee in attendance
upon the President. They were very influential men in the Houses, with
whom it was important for the Administration to keep on good terms; and,
moreover, they possessed a pertinacity as great as the widow who won her
case from the unjust judge. Finally the President gave in and notified
me to see that a ship was sent to the city in question. I was bound
that, as long as a ship had to be sent, it should not be a ship worth
anything. Accordingly a Civil War Monitor, with one smooth-bore gun,
managed by a crew of about twenty-one naval militia, was sent to the
city in question, under convoy of a tug. It was a hazardous trip for the
unfortunate naval militiamen, but it was safely accomplished; and joy
and peace descended upon the Senator and the Congressman, and upon the
President whom they had jointly harassed. Incidentally, the fact that
the protecting war-vessel would not have been a formidable foe to
any antagonists of much more modern construction than the galleys of
Alcibiades seemed to disturb nobody.
This was one side of the picture. The other side was that the crisis at
once brought to the front any amount of latent fighting strength. There
were plenty of Congressmen who showed cool-headed wisdom and resolution.
The plain people, the men and women back of the persons who lost their
heads, set seriously to work to see that we did whatever was necessary,
and made the job a thorough one. The young men swarmed to enlist. In
time of peace it had been difficult to fill the scanty regular army and
navy, and there were innumerable desertions; now the ships and regiments
were over-enlisted, and so many deserters returned in order to fight
that it became difficult to decide what to do with them. England, and
to a less degree Japan, were friendly. The great powers of Continental
Europe were all unfriendly. They jeered at our ships and men, and with
fatuous partisanship insisted that the Spaniards would prove too much
for our "mercenaries" because we were a commercial people of low ideals
who could not fight, while the men whom we attempted to hire for that
purpose were certain to run on the day of battle.
Among my friends was the then Army Surgeon Leonard Wood. He was a
surgeon. Not having an income, he had to earn his own living. He had
gone through the Harvard Medical School, and had then joined the army
in the Southwest as a contract doctor. He had every physical, moral,
and mental quality which fitted him for a soldier's life and for
the exercise of command. In the inconceivably wearing and harassing
campaigns against the Apaches he had served nominally as a surgeon,
really in command of troops, on more than one expedition. He was as
anxious as I was that if there were war we should both have our part in
it. I had always felt that if there were a serious war I wished to be in
a position to explain to my children why I did take part in it, and not
why I did not take part in it. Moreover, I had very deeply felt that it
was our duty to free Cuba, and I had publicly expressed this feeling;
and when a man takes such a position, he ought to be willing to make his
words good by his deeds unless there is some very strong reason to the
contrary. He should pay with his body.
As soon as war was upon us, Wood and I began to try for a chance to
go to the front. Congress had authorized the raising of three National
Volunteer Cavalry regiments, wholly apart from the State contingents.
Secretary Alger of the War Department was fond of me personally, and
Wood was his family doctor. Alger had been a gallant soldier in the
Civil War, and was almost the only member of the Administration who felt
all along that we would have to go to war with Spain over Cuba. He liked
my attitude in the matter, and because of his remembrance of his
own experiences he sympathized with my desire to go to the front.
Accordingly he offered me the command of one of the regiments. I told
him that after six weeks' service in the field I would feel competent to
handle the regiment, but that I would not know how to equip it or how
to get it into the first action; but that Wood was entirely competent
at once to take command, and that if he would make Wood colonel I would
accept the lieutenant-colonelcy. General Alger thought this an act of
foolish self-abnegation on my part--instead of its being, what it
was, the wisest act I could have performed. He told me to accept the
colonelcy, and that he would make Wood lieutenant-colonel, and that Wood
would do the work anyway; but I answered that I did not wish to rise on
any man's shoulders; that I hoped to be given every chance that my deeds
and abilities warranted; but that I did not wish what I did not earn,
and that above all I did not wish to hold any position where any one
else did the work. He laughed at me a little and said I was foolish, but
I do not think he really minded, and he promised to do as I wished. True
to his word, he secured the appointment of Wood as colonel and of myself
as lieutenant-colonel of the First United States Volunteer Cavalry. This
was soon nicknamed, both by the public and by the rest of the army,
the Rough Riders, doubtless because the bulk of the men were from the
Southwestern ranch country and were skilled in the wild horsemanship of
the great plains.
Wood instantly began the work of raising the regiment. He first
assembled several old non-commissioned officers of experience, put them
in office, and gave them blanks for requisitions for the full equipment
of a cavalry regiment. He selected San Antonio as the gathering-place,
as it was in a good horse country, near the Gulf from some port on which
we would have to embark, and near an old arsenal and an old army
post from which we got a good deal of stuff--some of it practically
condemned, but which we found serviceable at a pinch, and much better
than nothing. He organized a horse board in Texas, and began purchasing
all horses that were not too big and were sound. A day or two after he
was commissioned he wrote out in the office of the Secretary of War,
under his authority, telegrams to the Governors of Arizona, New Mexico,
Oklahoma, and Indian Territory, in substance as follows:
The President desires to raise --- volunteers in your Territory to form
part of a regiment of mounted riflemen to be commanded by Leonard Wood,
Colonel; Theodore Roosevelt, Lieutenant-Colonel. He desires that the men
selected should be young, sound, good shots and good riders, and that
you expedite by all means in your power the enrollment of these men.
(Signed) R. A. ALGER, Secretary of War.
As soon as he had attended to a few more odds and ends he left
Washington, and the day after his arrival in San Antonio the troops
began to arrive.
For several weeks before I joined the regiment, to which Wood went ahead
of me, I continued as Assistant Secretary of the Navy, trying to
get some coherence of plan between the War Department and the Navy
Department; and also being used by Wood to finish getting the equipment
for the regiment. As regards finding out what the plans of the War
Department were, the task was simple. They had no plans. Even during the
final months before the outbreak of hostilities very little was done in
the way of efficient preparation. On one occasion, when every one knew
that the declaration of war was sure to come in a few days, I went on
military business to the office of one of the highest line generals of
the army, a man who at that moment ought to have been working eighteen
hours out of the twenty-four on the vital problems ahead of him. What he
was actually doing was trying on a new type of smart-looking uniform
on certain enlisted men; and he called me in to ask my advice as to the
position of the pockets in the blouse, with a view to making it look
attractive. An aide of this general--funnily enough a good fighting man
in actual service--when I consulted him as to what my uniform for the
campaign should be, laid special stress upon my purchasing a pair of
black top boots for full dress, explaining that they were very effective
on hotel piazzas and in parlors. I did not intend to be in any hotel
if it could possibly be avoided; and as things turned out, I had no
full-dress uniform, nothing but my service uniform, during my brief
experience in the army.
I suppose that war always does bring out what is highest and lowest in
human nature. The contractors who furnish poor materials to the army or
the navy in time of war stand on a level of infamy only one degree above
that of the participants in the white slave traffic themselves. But
there is conduct far short of this which yet seems inexplicable to any
man who has in him any spirit of disinterested patriotism combined
with any power of imagination. Respectable men, who I suppose lack the
imagination thoroughly to realize what they are doing, try to make money
out of the Nation's necessities in war at the very time that other men
are making every sacrifice, financial and personal, for the cause. In
the closing weeks of my service as Assistant Secretary of the Navy we
were collecting ships for auxiliary purposes. Some men, at cost to their
own purses, helped us freely and with efficiency; others treated the
affair as an ordinary business transaction; and yet others endeavored,
at some given crisis when our need was great, to sell us inferior
vessels at exorbitant prices, and used every pressure, through Senators
and Congressmen, to accomplish their ends. In one or two cases they did
accomplish them too, until we got a really first-class board established
to superintend such purchases. A more curious experience was in
connection with the point chosen for the starting of the expedition
against Cuba. I had not supposed that any human being could consider
this matter save from the standpoint of military need. But one morning
a very wealthy and influential man, a respectable and upright man
according to his own lights, called on me to protest against our choice
of Tampa, and to put in a plea for a certain other port, on the ground
that his railroad was entitled to its share of the profit for hauling
the army and equipment! I happened to know that at this time this
very man had kinsfolk with the army, who served gallantly, and the
circumstances of his coming to me were such as to show that he was not
acting secretly, and had no idea that there was anything out of the way
in his proposal. I think the facts were merely that he had been trained
to regard business as the sole object in life, and that he lacked the
imagination to enable him to understand the real nature of the request
that he was making; and, moreover, he had good reason to believe that
one of his business competitors had been unduly favored.
The War Department was in far worse shape than the Navy Department. The
young officers turned out from West Point are precisely as good as the
young officers turned out from Annapolis, and this always has been true.
But at that time (something has been done to remedy the worst conditions
since), and ever since the close of the Civil War, the conditions were
such that after a few years the army officer stagnated so far as his
profession was concerned. When the Spanish War broke out the navy really
was largely on a war footing, as any navy which is even respectably
cared for in time of peace must be. The admirals, captains, and
lieutenants were continually practicing their profession in almost
precisely the way that it has to be practiced in time of war. Except
actually shooting at a foe, most of the men on board ship went through
in time of peace practically all that they would have to go through in
time of war. The heads of bureaus in the Navy Department were for the
most part men who had seen sea service, who expected to return to sea
service, and who were preparing for needs which they themselves knew by
experience. Moreover, the civilian head of the navy had to provide for
keeping the ships in a state of reasonable efficiency, and Congress
could not hopelessly misbehave itself about the navy without the fact at
once becoming evident.
All this was changed so far as the army was concerned. Not only was it
possible to decrease the efficiency of the army without being called
to account for it, but the only way in which the Secretary of War could
gain credit for himself or the Administration was by economy, and the
easiest way to economize was in connection with something that would not
be felt unless war should arise. The people took no interest whatever in
the army; demagogues clamored against it, and, inadequate though it
was in size, insisted that it should be still further reduced. Popular
orators always appealed to the volunteers; the regulars had no votes and
there was no point in politicians thinking of them. The chief activity
shown by Congressmen about the army was in getting special army posts
built in places where there was no need for them. Even the work of the
army in its campaigns against the Indians was of such a character that
it was generally performed by small bodies of fifty or a hundred
men. Until a man ceased being a lieutenant he usually had plenty of
professional work to attend to and was employed in the field, and, in
short, had the same kind of practice that his brother in the navy had,
and he did his work as well. But once past this stage he had almost
no opportunity to perform any work corresponding to his rank, and but
little opportunity to do any military work whatsoever. The very best
men, men like Lawton, Young, Chaffee, Hawkins, and Sumner, to mention
only men under or beside whom I served, remained good soldiers, soldiers
of the best stamp, in spite of the disheartening conditions. But it
was not to be expected that the average man could continue to grow
when every influence was against him. Accordingly, when the Spanish War
suddenly burst upon us, a number of inert elderly captains and field
officers were, much against their own wishes, suddenly pitchforked into
the command of regiments, brigades, and even divisions and army corps.
Often these men failed painfully. This was not their fault; it was the
fault of the Nation, that is, the fault of all of us, of you, my reader,
and of myself, and of those like us, because we had permitted conditions
to be such as to render these men unfit for command. Take a stout
captain of an out-of-the-way two-company post, where nothing in the
world ever occurred even resembling military action, and where the only
military problem that really convulsed the post to its foundations was
the quarrel between the captain and the quartermaster as to how high a
mule's tail ought to be shaved (I am speaking of an actual incident).
What could be expected of such a man, even though thirty-five years
before he had been a gallant second lieutenant in the Civil War, if,
after this intervening do-nothing period, he was suddenly put in command
of raw troops in a midsummer campaign in the tropics?
The bureau chiefs were for the most part elderly incompetents, whose
idea was to do their routine duties in such way as to escape the
censure of routine bureaucratic superiors and to avoid a Congressional
investigation. They had not the slightest conception of preparing
the army for war. It was impossible that they could have any such
conception. The people and the Congress did not wish the army prepared
for war; and those editors and philanthropists and peace advocates who
felt vaguely that if the army were incompetent their principles were
safe, always inveighed against any proposal to make it efficient, on the
ground that this showed a natural bloodthirstiness in the proposer. When
such were the conditions, it was absolutely impossible that either the
War Department or the army could do well in the event of war. Secretary
Alger happened to be Secretary when war broke out, and all the
responsibility for the shortcomings of the Department were visited
upon his devoted head. He was made the scapegoat for our National
shortcomings. The fault was not his; the fault and responsibility
lay with us, the people, who for thirty-three years had permitted our
representatives in Congress and in National executive office to bear
themselves so that it was absolutely impossible to avoid the great bulk
of all the trouble that occurred, and of all the shortcomings of which
our people complained, during the Spanish War. The chief immediate cause
was the conditions of red-tape bureaucracy which existed in the War
Department at Washington, which had prevented any good organization
or the preparation of any good plan of operation for using our men and
supplies. The recurrence of these conditions, even though in somewhat
less aggravated form, in any future emergency is as certain as sunrise
unless we bring about the principle of a four years' detail in the staff
corps--a principle which Congress has now for years stubbornly refused
to grant.
There are nations who only need to have peaceful ideals inculcated, and
to whom militarism is a curse and a misfortune. There are other nations,
like our own, so happily situated that the thought of war is never
present to their minds. They are wholly free from any tendency
improperly to exalt or to practice militarism. These nations should
never forget that there must be military ideals no less than peaceful
ideals. The exaltation of Nogi's career, set forth so strikingly in
Stanley Washburn's little volume on the great Japanese warrior, contains
much that is especially needed for us of America, prone as we are to
regard the exigencies of a purely commercial and industrial civilization
as excusing us from the need of admiring and practicing the heroic and
warlike virtues.
Our people are not military. We need normally only a small standing
army; but there should be behind it a reserve of instructed men big
enough to fill it up to full war strength, which is over twice the peace
strength. Moreover, the young men of the country should realize that it
is the duty of every one of them to prepare himself so that in time of
need he may speedily become an efficient soldier--a duty now generally
forgotten, but which should be recognized as one of the vitally
essential parts of every man's training.
In endeavoring to get the "Rough Riders" equipped I met with some
experiences which were both odd and instructive. There were not enough
arms and other necessaries to go round, and there was keen rivalry among
the intelligent and zealous commanders of the volunteer organizations as
to who should get first choice. Wood's experience was what enabled us to
equip ourselves in short order. There was another cavalry organization
whose commander was at the War Department about this time, and we had
been eyeing him with much alertness as a rival. One day I asked him
what his plans were about arming and drilling his troops, who were of
precisely the type of our own men. He answered that he expected "to give
each of the boys two revolvers and a lariat, and then just turn them
loose." I reported the conversation to Wood, with the remark that we
might feel ourselves safe from rivalry in that quarter; and safe we
were.
In trying to get the equipment I met with checks and rebuffs, and in
return was the cause of worry and concern to various bureau chiefs
who were unquestionably estimable men in their private and domestic
relations, and who doubtless had been good officers thirty years
before, but who were as unfit for modern war as if they were so many
smooth-bores. One fine old fellow did his best to persuade us to take
black powder rifles, explaining with paternal indulgence that no one yet
really knew just what smokeless powder might do, and that there was a
good deal to be said in favor of having smoke to conceal us from the
enemy. I saw this pleasing theory actually worked out in practice later
on, for the National Guard regiments with us at Santiago had black
powder muskets, and the regular artillery black powder guns, and they
really might almost as well have replaced these weapons by crossbows
and mangonels. We succeeded, thanks to Wood, in getting the same cavalry
carbines that were used by the regulars. We were determined to do this,
not only because the weapons were good, but because this would in all
probability mean that we were brigaded with the regular cavalry, which
it was certain would be sent immediately to the front for the fighting.
There was one worthy bureau chief who was continually refusing
applications of mine as irregular. In each case I would appeal to
Secretary Alger--who helped me in every way--and get an order from him
countenancing the irregularity. For instance, I found out that as we
were nearer the July date than the January date for the issuance of
clothing, and as it had long been customary to issue the winter clothing
in July, so as to give ample leisure for getting it to all the various
posts, it was therefore solemnly proposed to issue this same winter
clothing to us who were about to start for a summer campaign in the
tropics. This would seem incredible to those who have never dealt with
an inert officialdom, a red-tape bureaucracy, but such is the fact. I
rectified this and got an order for khaki clothing. We were then told we
would have to advertise thirty days for horses. This meant that we would
have missed the Santiago expedition. So I made another successful appeal
to the Secretary. Other difficulties came up about wagons, and various
articles, and in each case the same result followed. On the last
occasion, when I came up in triumph with the needed order, the worried
office head, who bore me no animosity, but who did feel that fate had
been very unkind, threw himself back in his chair and exclaimed with a
sigh: "Oh, dear! I had this office running in such good shape--and then
along came the war and upset everything!" His feeling was that war was
an illegitimate interruption to the work of the War Department.
There were of course department heads and bureau chiefs and assistants
who, in spite of the worthlessness of the system, and of the paralyzing
conditions that had prevailed, remained first-class men. An example
of these was Commissary-General Weston. His energy, activity,
administrative efficiency, and common sense were supplemented by an
eager desire to help everybody do the best that could be done. Both in
Washington and again down at Santiago we owed him very much. When I was
President, it was my good fortune to repay him in part our debt,
which means the debt of the people of the country, by making him a
major-general.
The regiment assembled at San Antonio. When I reached there, the men,
rifles, and horses, which were the essentials, were coming in fast, and
the saddles, blankets, and the like were also accumulating. Thanks to
Wood's exertions, when we reached Tampa we were rather better equipped
than most of the regular regiments. We adhered strictly to field
equipment, allowing no luxuries or anything else unnecessary, and so
we were able to move off the field when ordered, with our own
transportation, leaving nothing behind.
I suppose every man tends to brag about his regiment; but it does seem
to me that there never was a regiment better worth bragging about
than ours. Wood was an exceptional commander, of great power, with a
remarkable gift for organization. The rank and file were as fine natural
fighting men as ever carried a rifle or rode a horse in any country or
any age. We had a number of first-class young fellows from the East,
most of them from colleges like Harvard, Yale, and Princeton; but
the great majority of the men were Southwesterners, from the then
territories of Oklahoma, Indian Territory, Arizona, and New Mexico. They
were accustomed to the use of firearms, accustomed to taking care of
themselves in the open; they were intelligent and self-reliant; they
possessed hardihood and endurance and physical prowess; and, above all,
they had the fighting edge, the cool and resolute fighting temper. They
went into the war with full knowledge, having deliberately counted the
cost. In the great majority of cases each man was chiefly anxious to
find out what he should do to make the regiment a success. They bought,
first and last, about 800 copies of the cavalry drill regulations and
studied them industriously. Such men were practically soldiers to
start with, in all the essentials. It is small wonder that with them as
material to work upon the regiment was raised, armed, equipped, drilled,
sent on trains to Tampa, embarked, disembarked, and put through two
victorious offensive--not defensive--fights in which a third of the
officers and one-fifth of the men were killed or wounded, all within
sixty days. It is a good record, and it speaks well for the men of the
regiment; and it speaks well for Wood.[*]
[*] To counterbalance the newspapers which ignorantly and
indiscriminately praised all the volunteers there were
others whose blame was of the same intelligent quality. The
New York _Evening Post_, on June 18, gave expression to the
following gloomy foreboding: "Competent observers have
remarked that nothing more extraordinary has been done than
the sending to Cuba of the First United States Volunteer
Cavalry, known as the 'rough riders.' Organized but four
weeks, barely given their full complement of officers, and
only a week of regular drill, these men have been sent to
the front before they have learned the first elements of
soldiering and discipline, or have even become acquainted
with their officers. In addition to all this, like the
regular cavalry, they have been sent with only their
carbines and revolvers to meet an enemy armed with long-range
rifles. There have been few cases of such military
cruelty in our military annals." A week or so after this not
wholly happy prophecy was promulgated, the "cruelty" was
consummated, first at Las Guasimas and then in the San Juan
fighting.
Wood was so busy getting the regiment ready that when I reached San
Antonio he turned most of the drilling of it over to me. This was a
piece of great good fortune for me, and I drilled the men industriously,
mounted and unmounted. I had plenty to learn, and the men and the
officers even more; but we went at our work with the heartiest good
will. We speedily made it evident that there was no room and no mercy
for any man who shirked any duty, and we accomplished good results.
The fact is that the essentials of drill and work for a cavalry or an
infantry regiment are easy to learn, which of course is not true for the
artillery or the engineers or for the navy. The reason why it takes
so long to turn the average civilized man into a good infantryman
or cavalryman is because it takes a long while to teach the average
untrained man how to shoot, to ride, to march, to take care of himself
in the open, to be alert, resourceful, cool, daring, and resolute, to
obey quickly, as well as to be willing, and to fit himself, to act on
his own responsibility. If he already possesses these qualities, there
is very little difficulty in making him a soldier; all the drill that is
necessary to enable him to march and to fight is of a simple character.
Parade ground and barrack square maneuvers are of no earthly consequence
in real war. When men can readily change from line to column, and column
to line, can form front in any direction, and assemble and scatter, and
can do these things with speed and precision, they have a fairly good
grasp of the essentials. When our regiment reached Tampa it could
already be handled creditably at fast gaits, and both in mass and
extended formations, mounted and dismounted.
I had served three years in the New York National Guard, finally
becoming a captain. This experience was invaluable to me. It enabled me
at once to train the men in the simple drill without which they would
have been a mob; for although the drill requirements are simple,
they are also absolutely indispensable. But if I had believed that my
experience in the National Guard had taught me all that there was to
teach about a soldier's career, it would have been better for me not to
have been in it at all. There were in the regiment a number of men who
had served in the National Guard, and a number of others who had served
in the Regular Army. Some of these latter had served in the field in
the West under campaign conditions, and were accustomed to long marches,
privation, risk, and unexpected emergencies. These men were of the
utmost benefit to the regiment. They already knew their profession, and
could teach and help the others. But if the man had merely served in
a National Guard regiment, or in the Regular Army at some post in a
civilized country where he learned nothing except what could be picked
up on the parade ground, in the barracks, and in practice marches of a
few miles along good roads, then it depended purely upon his own good
sense whether he had been helped or hurt by the experience. If he
realized that he had learned only five per cent of his profession, that
there remained ninety-five per cent to accomplish before he would be a
good soldier, why, he had profited immensely.
To start with five per cent handicap was a very great advantage; and if
the man was really a good man, he could not be overtaken. But if the
man thought that he had learned all about the profession of a soldier
because he had been in the National Guard or in the Regular Army under
the conditions I have described, then he was actually of less use than
if he had never had any military experience at all. Such a man was
apt to think that nicety of alignment, precision in wheeling, and
correctness in the manual of arms were the ends of training and the
guarantees of good soldiership, and that from guard mounting to sentry
duty everything in war was to be done in accordance with what he had
learned in peace. As a matter of fact, most of what he had learned was
never used at all, and some of it had to be unlearned. The one thing,
for instance, that a sentry ought never to do in an actual campaign is
to walk up and down a line where he will be conspicuous. His business
is to lie down somewhere off a ridge crest where he can see any one
approaching, but where a man approaching cannot see him. As for the
ceremonies, during the really hard part of a campaign only the barest
essentials are kept.
Almost all of the junior regular officers, and many of the senior
regular officers, were fine men. But, through no fault of their own, had
been forced to lead lives that fairly paralyzed their efficiency when
the strain of modern war came on them. The routine elderly regular
officer who knew nothing whatever of modern war was in most respects
nearly as worthless as a raw recruit. The positions and commands
prescribed in the text-books were made into fetishes by some of these
men, and treated as if they were the ends, instead of the not always
important means by which the ends were to be achieved. In the Cuban
fighting, for instance, it would have been folly for me to have taken my
place in the rear of the regiment, the canonical text-book position. My
business was to be where I could keep most command over the regiment,
and, in a rough-and-tumble, scrambling fight in thick jungle, this had
to depend upon the course of events, and usually meant that I had to be
at the front. I saw in that fighting more than one elderly regimental
commander who unwittingly rendered the only service he could render to
his regiment by taking up his proper position several hundred yards in
the rear when the fighting began; for then the regiment disappeared in
the jungle, and for its good fortune the commanding officer never saw it
again until long after the fight was over.
After one Cuban fight a lieutenant-colonel of the regulars, in command
of a regiment, who had met with just such an experience and had rejoined
us at the front several hours after the close of the fighting, asked me
what my men were doing when the fight began. I answered that they were
following in trace in column of twos, and that the instant the shooting
began I deployed them as skirmishers on both sides of the trail. He
answered triumphantly, "You can't deploy men as skirmishers from column
formation"; to which I responded, "Well, I did, and, what is more, if
any captain had made any difficulty about it, I would have sent him
to the rear." My critic was quite correct from the parade ground
standpoint. The prescribed orders at that time were to deploy the column
first into a line of squads at correct intervals, and then to give an
order which, if my memory serves correctly, ran: "As skirmishers, by the
right and left flanks, at six yards, take intervals, march." The order I
really gave ran more like this: "Scatter out to the right there, quick,
you! scatter to the left! look alive, look alive!" And they looked
alive, and they scattered, and each took advantage of cover, and forward
went the line.
Now I do not wish what I have said to be misunderstood. If ever we have
a great war, the bulk of our soldiers will not be men who have had any
opportunity to train soul and mind and body so as to meet the iron needs
of an actual campaign. Long continued and faithful drill will alone put
these men in shape to begin to do their duty, and failure to recognize
this on the part of the average man will mean laziness and folly and
not the possession of efficiency. Moreover, if men have been trained
to believe, for instance, that they can "arbitrate questions of
vital interest and national honor," if they have been brought up with
flabbiness of moral fiber as well as flabbiness of physique, then there
will be need of long and laborious and faithful work to give the needed
tone to mind and body. But if the men have in them the right stuff, it
is not so very difficult.
At San Antonio we entrained for Tampa. In various sociological books
by authors of Continental Europe, there are jeremiads as to the way
in which service in the great European armies, with their minute and
machine-like efficiency and regularity, tends to dwarf the capacity
for individual initiative among the officers and men. There is no such
danger for any officer or man of a volunteer organization in America
when our country, with playful light-heartedness, has pranced into war
without making any preparation for it. I know no larger or finer field
for the display of an advanced individualism than that which opened
before us as we went from San Antonio to Tampa, camped there, and
embarked on a transport for Cuba. Nobody ever had any definite
information to give us, and whatever information we unearthed on our
own account was usually wrong. Each of us had to show an alert and
not overscrupulous self-reliance in order to obtain food for his men,
provender for his horses, or transportation of any kind for any object.
One lesson early impressed on me was that if I wanted anything to eat it
was wise to carry it with me; and if any new war should arise, I would
earnestly advise the men of every volunteer organization always to
proceed upon the belief that their supplies will not turn up, and to
take every opportunity of getting food for themselves.
Tampa was a scene of the wildest confusion. There were miles of tracks
loaded with cars of the contents of which nobody seemed to have any
definite knowledge. General Miles, who was supposed to have supervision
over everything, and General Shafter, who had charge of the expedition,
were both there. But, thanks to the fact that nobody had had any
experience in handling even such a small force as ours--about 17,000
men--there was no semblance of order. Wood and I were bound that we
should not be left behind when the expedition started. When we were
finally informed that it was to leave next morning, we were ordered to
go to a certain track to meet a train. We went to the track, but the
train never came. Then we were sent to another track to meet another
train. Again it never came. However, we found a coal train, of which we
took possession, and the conductor, partly under duress and partly in a
spirit of friendly helpfulness, took us down to the quay.
All kinds of other organizations, infantry and cavalry, regular and
volunteer, were arriving at the quay and wandering around it, and there
was no place where we could get any specific information as to what
transport we were to have. Finally Wood was told to "get any ship you
can get which is not already assigned." He borrowed without leave a
small motor boat, and commandeered the transport Yucatan. When asked by
the captain what his authority was, he reported that he was acting "by
orders of General Shafter," and directed the ship to be brought to
the dock. He had already sent me word to be ready, as soon as the ship
touched the pier, to put the regiment aboard her. I found that she had
already been assigned to a regular regiment, and to another volunteer
regiment, and as it was evident that not more than half of the men
assigned to her could possibly get on, I was determined that we
should not be among the men left off. The volunteer regiment offered
a comparatively easy problem. I simply marched my men past them to the
allotted place and held the gangway. With the regulars I had to be a
little more diplomatic, because their commander, a lieutenant-colonel,
was my superior in rank, and also doubtless knew his rights. He sent
word to me to make way, to draw my regiment off to one side, and let his
take possession of the gangway. I could see the transport coming in,
and could dimly make out Wood's figure thereon. Accordingly I played for
time. I sent respectful requests through his officers to the commander
of the regulars, entered into parleys, and made protestations, until the
transport got near enough so that by yelling at the top of my voice I
was able to get into a--highly constructive--communication with Wood.
What he was saying I had no idea, but he was evidently speaking, and
on my own responsibility I translated it into directions to hold the
gangway, and so informed the regulars that I was under the orders of
my superior and of a ranking officer, and--to my great regret, etc.,
etc.--could not give way as they desired. As soon as the transport was
fast we put our men aboard at the double. Half of the regular regiment
got on, and the other half and the other volunteer regiment went
somewhere else.
We were kept several days on the transport, which was jammed with men,
so that it was hard to move about on the deck. Then the fleet got
under way, and we steamed slowly down to Santiago. Here we disembarked,
higgledy-piggledy, just as we had embarked. Different parts of different
outfits were jumbled together, and it was no light labor afterwards to
assemble the various batteries. For instance, one transport had guns,
and another the locks for the guns; the two not getting together for
several days after one of them had been landed. Soldiers went here,
provisions there; and who got ashore first largely depended upon
individual activity. Fortunately for us, my former naval aide, when I
had been Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Lieutenant-Commander Sharp, a
first-class fellow, was there in command of a little ship to which I had
succeeded in getting him appointed before I left the Navy Department. He
gave us a black pilot, who took our transport right in shore, the others
following like a flock of sheep; and we disembarked with our rifles,
ammunition belts, and not much else. In theory it was out of our turn,
but if we had not disembarked then, Heaven only knows when our turn
would have come, and we did not intend to be out of the fighting if we
could help it. I carried some food in my pockets, and a light waterproof
coat, which was my sole camp equipment for the next two or three days.
Twenty-four hours after getting ashore we marched from Daiquiri, where
we had landed, to Siboney, also on the coast, reaching it during a
terrific downpour of rain. When this was over, we built a fire, dried
our clothes, and ate whatever we had brought with us.
We were brigaded with the First and Tenth Regular Cavalry, under
Brigadier-General Sam Young. He was a fine type of the American regular.
Like General Chaffee, another of the same type, he had entered the army
in the Civil War as a private. Later, when I was President, it was my
good fortune to make each of them in succession Lieutenant-General of
the army of the United States. When General Young retired and General
Chaffee was to take his place, the former sent to the latter his three
stars to wear on his first official presentation, with a note that they
were from "Private Young to Private Chaffee." The two fine old fellows
had served in the ranks, one in the cavalry, one in the infantry, in
their golden youth, in the days of the great war nearly half a century
before; each had grown gray in a lifetime of honorable service under the
flag, and each closed his active career in command of the army. General
Young was one of the few men who had given and taken wounds with the
saber. He was an old friend of mine, and when in Washington before
starting for the front he told me that if we got in his brigade he would
put us into the fighting all right. He kept his word.
General Young had actively superintended getting his two regular
regiments, or at least a squadron of each, off the transports, and late
that night he sent us word that he had received permission to move at
dawn and strike the Spanish advance position. He directed us to move
along a ridge trail with our two squadrons (one squadron having been
left at Tampa), while with the two squadrons of regulars, one of the
First and one of the Tenth, under his personal supervision, he marched
up the valley trail. Accordingly Wood took us along the hill trail early
next morning, till we struck the Spaniards, and began our fight just as
the regulars began the fight in the valley trail.
It was a mountainous country covered with thick jungle, a most confusing
country, and I had an awful time trying to get into the fight and trying
to do what was right when in it; and all the while I was thinking that
I was the only man who did not know what I was about, and that all the
others did--whereas, as I found out later, pretty much everybody else
was as much in the dark as I was. There was no surprise; we struck the
Spaniards exactly where we had expected; then Wood halted us and put
us into the fight deliberately and in order. He ordered us to deploy
alternately by troops to the right and left of the trail, giving our
senior major, Brodie, a West Pointer and as good a soldier as ever wore
a uniform, the left wing, while I took the right wing. I was told if
possible to connect with the regulars who were on the right. In theory
this was excellent, but as the jungle was very dense the first troop
that deployed to the right vanished forthwith, and I never saw it again
until the fight was over--having a frightful feeling meanwhile that I
might be court-martialed for losing it. The next troop deployed to the
left under Brodie. Then the third came along, and I started to deploy it
to the right as before.
By the time the first platoon had gotten into the jungle I realized that
it likewise would disappear unless I kept hold of it. I managed to
keep possession of the last platoon. One learns fast in a fight, and I
marched this platoon and my next two troops in column through the jungle
without any attempt to deploy until we got on the firing line. This
sounds simple. But it was not. I did not know when I had gotten on the
firing line! I could hear a good deal of firing, some over to my right
at a good distance, and the rest to the left and ahead. I pushed on,
expecting to strike the enemy somewhere between.
Soon we came to the brink of a deep valley. There was a good deal of
cracking of rifles way off in front of us, but as they used smokeless
powder we had no idea as to exactly where they were, or who they were
shooting at. Then it dawned on us that we were the target. The bullets
began to come overhead, making a sound like the ripping of a silk dress,
with sometimes a kind of pop; a few of my men fell, and I deployed the
rest, making them lie down and get behind trees. Richard Harding Davis
was with us, and as we scanned the landscape with our glasses it was
he who first pointed out to us some Spaniards in a trench some
three-quarters of a mile off. It was difficult to make them out. There
were not many of them. However, we finally did make them out, and
we could see their conical hats, for the trench was a poor one. We
advanced, firing at them, and drove them off.
What to do then I had not an idea. The country in front fell away into
a very difficult jungle-filled valley. There was nothing but jungle all
around, and if I advanced I was afraid I might get out of touch with
everybody and not be going in the right direction. Moreover, as far as
I could see, there was now nobody in front who was shooting at us,
although some of the men on my left insisted that our own men had fired
into us--an allegation which I soon found was almost always made in such
a fight, and which in this case was not true. At this moment some of the
regulars appeared across the ravine on our right. The first thing they
did was to fire a volley at us, but one of our first sergeants went up a
tree and waved a guidon at them and they stopped. Firing was still going
on to our left, however, and I was never more puzzled to know what to
do. I did not wish to take my men out of their position without orders,
for fear that I might thereby be leaving a gap if there was a Spanish
force which meditated an offensive return. On the other hand, it did
not seem to me that I had been doing enough fighting to justify my
existence, and there was obviously fighting going on to the left. I
remember that I kept thinking of the refrain of the fox-hunting song,
"Here's to every friend who struggled to the end"; in the hunting field
I had always acted on this theory, and, no matter how discouraging
appearances might be, had never stopped trying to get in at the death
until the hunt was actually over; and now that there was work, and not
play, on hand, I intended to struggle as hard as I knew how not to
be left out of any fighting into which I could, with any possible
propriety, get.
So I left my men where they were and started off at a trot toward where
the firing was, with a couple of orderlies to send back for the men in
case that proved advisable. Like most tyros, I was wearing my sword,
which in thick jungle now and then got between my legs--from that day on
it always went corded in the baggage. I struck the trail, and began to
pass occasional dead men. Pretty soon I reached Wood and found, much to
my pleasure, that I had done the right thing, for as I came up word was
brought to him that Brodie had been shot, and he at once sent me to take
charge of the left wing. It was more open country here, and at least I
was able to get a glimpse of my own men and exercise some control over
them. There was much firing going on, but for the life of me I could not
see any Spaniards, and neither could any one else. Finally we made up
our minds that they were shooting at us from a set of red-tiled ranch
buildings a good way in front, and these I assaulted, finally charging
them. Before we came anywhere near, the Spaniards, who, as it proved,
really were inside and around them, abandoned them, leaving a few dead
men.
By the time I had taken possession of these buildings all firing had
ceased everywhere. I had not the faintest idea what had happened:
whether the fight was over; or whether this was merely a lull in the
fight; or where the Spaniards were; or whether we might be attacked
again; or whether we ought ourselves to attack somebody somewhere else.
I got my men in order and sent out small parties to explore the ground
in front, who returned without finding any foe. (By this time, as a
matter of fact, the Spaniards were in full retreat.) Meanwhile I was
extending my line so as to get into touch with our people on the right.
Word was brought to me that Wood had been shot--which fortunately proved
not to be true--and as, if this were so, it meant that I must take
charge of the regiment, I moved over personally to inquire. Soon I
learned that he was all right, that the Spaniards had retreated along
the main road, and that Colonel Wood and two or three other officers
were a short distance away. Before I reached them I encountered a
captain of the Ninth Cavalry, very glum because his troopers had not
been up in time to take part in the fight, and he congratulated me--with
visible effort!--upon my share in our first victory. I thanked him
cordially, not confiding in him that till that moment I myself knew
exceeding little about the victory; and proceeded to where Generals
Wheeler, Lawton, and Chaffee, who had just come up, in company with
Wood, were seated on a bank. They expressed appreciation of the way that
I had handled my troops, first on the right wing and then on the left!
As I was quite prepared to find I had committed some awful sin, I did my
best to accept this in a nonchalant manner, and not to look as relieved
as I felt. As throughout the morning I had preserved a specious aspect
of wisdom, and had commanded first one and then the other wing, the
fight was really a capital thing for me, for practically all the men
had served under my actual command, and thenceforth felt an enthusiastic
belief that I would lead them aright.
It was a week after this skirmish before the army made the advance on
Santiago. Just before this occurred General Young was stricken down with
fever. General Wheeler, who had commanded the Cavalry Division, was put
in general charge of the left wing of the army, which fought before the
city itself. Brigadier-General Sam Sumner, an excellent officer, who had
the second cavalry brigade, took command of the cavalry division, and
Wood took command of our brigade, while, to my intense delight, I got
my regiment. I therefore had command of the regiment before the stiffest
fighting occurred. Later, when Wood was put in command in Santiago, I
became the brigade commander.
Late in the evening we camped at El Poso. There were two regular
officers, the brigade commander's aides, Lieutenants A. L. Mills and W.
E. Shipp, who were camped by our regiment. Each of my men had food in
his haversack, but I had none, and I would have gone supperless to bed
if Mills and Shipp had not given me out of their scanty stores a big
sandwich, which I shared with my orderly, who also had nothing. Next
morning my body servant Marshall, an ex-soldier of the Ninth (Colored)
Cavalry, a fine and faithful fellow, had turned up and I was able in my
turn to ask Mills and Shipp, who had eaten all their food the preceding
evening, to take breakfast with me. A few hours later gallant Shipp was
dead, and Mills, an exceptionally able officer, had been shot through
the head from side to side, just back of the eyes; yet he lived,
although one eye was blinded, and before I left the Presidency I gave
him his commission as Brigadier-General.
Early in the morning our artillery began firing from the hill-crest
immediately in front of where our men were camped. Several of the
regiment were killed and wounded by the shrapnel of the return fire of
the Spaniards. One of the shrapnel bullets fell on my wrist and raised
a bump as big as a hickory nut, but did not even break the skin. Then
we were marched down from the hill on a muddy road through thick jungle
towards Santiago. The heat was great, and we strolled into the fight
with no definite idea on the part of any one as to what we were to do
or what would happen. There was no plan that our left wing was to make
a serious fight that day; and as there were no plans, it was naturally
exceedingly hard to get orders, and each of us had to act largely on his
own responsibility.
Lawton's infantry division attacked the little village of El Caney, some
miles to the right. Kent's infantry division and Sumner's dismounted
cavalry division were supposed to detain the Spanish army in Santiago
until Lawton had captured El Caney. Spanish towns and villages, however,
with their massive buildings, are natural fortifications, as the French
found in the Peninsular War, and as both the French and our people found
in Mexico. The Spanish troops in El Caney fought very bravely, as did
the Spanish troops in front of us, and it was late in the afternoon
before Lawton accomplished his task.
Meanwhile we of the left wing had by degrees become involved in a fight
which toward the end became not even a colonel's fight, but a squad
leader's fight. The cavalry division was put at the head of the line.
We were told to march forward, cross a little river in front, and then,
turning to the right, march up alongside the stream until we connected
with Lawton. Incidentally, this movement would not have brought us
into touch with Lawton in any event. But we speedily had to abandon any
thought of carrying it out. The maneuver brought us within fair range
of the Spanish intrenchments along the line of hills which we called the
San Juan Hills, because on one of them was the San Juan blockhouse. On
that day my regiment had the lead of the second brigade, and we marched
down the trail following in trace behind the first brigade. Apparently
the Spaniards could not make up their minds what to do as the three
regular regiments of the first brigade crossed and defiled along the
other bank of the stream, but when our regiment was crossing they began
to fire at us.
Under this flank fire it soon became impossible to continue the march.
The first brigade halted, deployed, and finally began to fire back. Then
our brigade was halted. From time to time some of our men would fall,
and I sent repeated word to the rear to try to get authority to attack
the hills in front. Finally General Sumner, who was fighting the
division in fine shape, sent word to advance. The word was brought to
me by Mills, who said that my orders were to support the regulars in
the assault on the hills, and that my objective would be the red-tiled
ranch-house in front, on a hill which we afterwards christened Kettle
Hill. I mention Mills saying this because it was exactly the kind of
definite order the giving of which does so much to insure success in a
fight, as it prevents all obscurity as to what is to be done. The order
to attack did not reach the first brigade until after we ourselves
reached it, so that at first there was doubt on the part of their
officers whether they were at liberty to join in the advance.
I had not enjoyed the Guasimas fight at all, because I had been so
uncertain as to what I ought to do. But the San Juan fight was entirely
different. The Spaniards had a hard position to attack, it is true,
but we could see them, and I knew exactly how to proceed. I kept on
horseback, merely because I found it difficult to convey orders along
the line, as the men were lying down; and it is always hard to get men
to start when they cannot see whether their comrades are also going.
So I rode up and down the lines, keeping them straightened out, and
gradually worked through line after line until I found myself at
the head of the regiment. By the time I had reached the lines of the
regulars of the first brigade I had come to the conclusion that it was
silly to stay in the valley firing at the hills, because that was really
where we were most exposed, and that the thing to do was to try to
rush the intrenchments. Where I struck the regulars there was no one
of superior rank to mine, and after asking why they did not charge, and
being answered that they had no orders, I said I would give the order.
There was naturally a little reluctance shown by the elderly officer in
command to accept my order, so I said, "Then let my men through, sir,"
and I marched through, followed by my grinning men. The younger officers
and the enlisted men of the regulars jumped up and joined us. I waved
my hat, and we went up the hill with a rush. Having taken it, we looked
across at the Spaniards in the trenches under the San Juan blockhouse to
our left, which Hawkins's brigade was assaulting. I ordered our men to
open fire on the Spaniards in the trenches.
Memory plays funny tricks in such a fight, where things happen quickly,
and all kinds of mental images succeed one another in a detached kind
of way, while the work goes on. As I gave the order in question there
slipped through my mind Mahan's account of Nelson's orders that each
ship as it sailed forward, if it saw another ship engaged with an
enemy's ship, should rake the latter as it passed. When Hawkins's
soldiers captured the blockhouse, I, very much elated, ordered a charge
on my own hook to a line of hills still farther on. Hardly anybody heard
this order, however; only four men started with me, three of whom were
shot. I gave one of them, who was only wounded, my canteen of water, and
ran back, much irritated that I had not been followed--which was quite
unjustifiable, because I found that nobody had heard my orders. General
Sumner had come up by this time, and I asked his permission to lead the
charge. He ordered me to do so, and this time away we went, and stormed
the Spanish intrenchments. There was some close fighting, and we took
a few prisoners. We also captured the Spanish provisions, and ate them
that night with great relish. One of the items was salted flying-fish,
by the way. There were also bottles of wine, and jugs of fiery spirit,
and as soon as possible I had these broken, although not before one
or two of my men had taken too much liquor. Lieutenant Howze, of the
regulars, an aide of General Sumner's, brought me an order to halt where
I was; he could not make up his mind to return until he had spent an
hour or two with us under fire. The Spaniards attempted a counter-attack
in the middle of the afternoon, but were driven back without effort, our
men laughing and cheering as they rose to fire; because hitherto they
had been assaulting breastworks, or lying still under artillery fire,
and they were glad to get a chance to shoot at the Spaniards in the
open. We lay on our arms that night and as we were drenched with sweat,
and had no blankets save a few we took from the dead Spaniards, we found
even the tropic night chilly before morning came.
During the afternoon's fighting, while I was the highest officer at our
immediate part of the front, Captains Boughton and Morton of the regular
cavalry, two as fine officers as any man could wish to have beside him
in battle, came along the firing line to tell me that they had heard
a rumor that we might fall back, and that they wished to record their
emphatic protest against any such course. I did not believe there was
any truth in the rumor, for the Spaniards were utterly incapable of any
effective counter-attack. However, late in the evening, after the fight,
General Wheeler visited us at the front, and he told me to keep myself
in readiness, as at any moment it might be decided to fall back. Jack
Greenway was beside me when General Wheeler was speaking. I answered,
"Well, General, I really don't know whether we would obey an order to
fall back. We can take that city by a rush, and if we have to move
out of here at all I should be inclined to make the rush in the right
direction." Greenway nodded an eager assent. The old General, after a
moment's pause, expressed his hearty agreement, and said that he would
see that there was no falling back. He had been very sick for a couple
of days, but, sick as he was, he managed to get into the fight. He was a
gamecock if ever there was one, but he was in very bad physical shape
on the day of the fight. If there had been any one in high command to
supervise and press the attack that afternoon, we would have gone
right into Santiago. In my part of the line the advance was halted only
because we received orders not to move forward, but to stay on the crest
of the captured hill and hold it.
We are always told that three-o'clock-in-the-morning courage is the most
desirable kind. Well, my men and the regulars of the cavalry had just
that brand of courage. At about three o'clock on the morning after the
first fight, shooting began in our front and there was an alarm of a
Spanish advance. I was never more pleased than to see the way in which
the hungry, tired, shabby men all jumped up and ran forward to the
hill-crest, so as to be ready for the attack; which, however, did not
come. As soon as the sun rose the Spaniards again opened upon us with
artillery. A shell burst between Dave Goodrich and myself, blacking us
with powder, and killing and wounding several of the men immediately
behind us.
Next day the fight turned into a siege; there were some stirring
incidents; but for the most part it was trench work. A fortnight later
Santiago surrendered. Wood won his brigadier-generalship by the capital
way in which he handled his brigade in the fight, and in the following
siege. He was put in command of the captured city; and in a few days I
succeeded to the command of the brigade.
The health of the troops was not good, and speedily became very bad.
There was some dysentery, and a little yellow fever; but most of
the trouble was from a severe form of malarial fever. The Washington
authorities had behaved better than those in actual command of the
expedition at one crisis. Immediately after the first day's fighting
around Santiago the latter had hinted by cable to Washington that they
might like to withdraw, and Washington had emphatically vetoed the
proposal. I record this all the more gladly because there were not
too many gleams of good sense shown in the home management of the war;
although I wish to repeat that the real blame for this rested primarily
with us ourselves, the people of the United States, who had for years
pursued in military matters a policy that rendered it certain that there
would be ineptitude and failure in high places if ever a crisis came.
After the siege the people in Washington showed no knowledge whatever
of the conditions around Santiago, and proposed to keep the army there.
This would have meant that at least three-fourths of the men would
either have died or have been permanently invalided, as a virulent form
of malaria was widespread, and there was a steady growth of dysentery
and other complaints. No object of any kind was to be gained by keeping
the army in or near the captured city. General Shafter tried his best to
get the Washington authorities to order the army home. As he failed to
accomplish anything, he called a council of the division and brigade
commanders and the chief medical officers to consult over the situation.
Although I had command of a brigade, I was only a colonel, and so I
did not intend to attend, but the General informed me that I was
particularly wanted, and accordingly I went. At the council General
Shafter asked the medical authorities as to conditions, and they united
in informing him that they were very bad, and were certain to grow
much worse; and that in order to avoid frightful ravages from disease,
chiefly due to malaria, the army should be sent back at once to some
part of the northern United States. The General then explained that he
could not get the War Department to understand the situation; that he
could not get the attention of the public; and that he felt that there
should be some authoritative publication which would make the War
Department take action before it was too late to avert the ruin of the
army. All who were in the room expressed their agreement.
Then the reason for my being present came out. It was explained to me
by General Shafter, and by others, that as I was a volunteer officer
and intended immediately to return to civil life, I could afford to take
risks which the regular army men could not afford to take and ought
not to be expected to take, and that therefore I ought to make the
publication in question; because to incur the hostility of the War
Department would not make any difference to me, whereas it would be
destructive to the men in the regular army, or to those who hoped to
get into the regular army. I thought this true, and said I would write
a letter or make a statement which could then be published.
Brigadier-General Ames, who was in the same position that I was, also
announced that he would make a statement.
When I left the meeting it was understood that I was to make my
statement as an interview in the press; but Wood, who was by that time
Brigadier-General commanding the city of Santiago, gave me a quiet hint
to put my statement in the form of a letter to General Shafter, and this
I accordingly did. When I had written my letter, the correspondent
of the Associated Press, who had been informed by others of what had
occurred, accompanied me to General Shafter. I presented the letter to
General Shafter, who waved it away and said: "I don't want to take it;
do whatever you wish with it." I, however, insisted on handing it to
him, whereupon he shoved it toward the correspondent of the Associated
Press, who took hold of it, and I released my hold. General Ames made
a statement direct to the correspondent, and also sent a cable to the
Assistant Secretary of the Navy at Washington, a copy of which he
gave to the correspondent. By this time the other division and brigade
commanders who were present felt that they had better take action
themselves. They united in a round robin to General Shafter, which
General Wood dictated, and which was signed by Generals Kent, Gates,
Chaffee, Sumner, Ludlow, Ames, and Wood, and by myself. General Wood
handed this to General Shafter, and it was made public by General
Shafter precisely as mine was made public.[*] Later I was much amused
when General Shafter stated that he could not imagine how my letter and
the round robin got out! When I saw this statement, I appreciated how
wise Wood had been in hinting to me not to act on the suggestion of the
General that I should make a statement to the newspapers, but to put
my statement in the form of a letter to him as my superior officer, a
letter which I delivered to him. Both the letter and the round robin
were written at General Shafter's wish, and at the unanimous suggestion
of all the commanding and medical officers of the Fifth Army Corps, and
both were published by General Shafter.
[*] General Wood writes me: "The representative of the
Associated Press was very anxious to get a copy of this
despatch or see it, and I told him it was impossible for him
to have it or see it. I then went in to General Shafter and
stated the case to him, handing him the despatch, saying,
'The matter is now in your hands.' He, General Shafter, then
said, 'I don't care whether this gentleman has it or not,'
and I left then. When I went back the General told me he had
given the Press representative a copy of the despatch, and
that he had gone to the office with it."
In a regiment the prime need is to have fighting men; the prime virtue
is to be able and eager to fight with the utmost effectiveness. I have
never believed that this was incompatible with other virtues. On the
contrary, while there are of course exceptions, I believe that on the
average the best fighting men are also the best citizens. I do not
believe that a finer set of natural soldiers than the men of my regiment
could have been found anywhere, and they were first-class citizens in
civil life also. One fact may perhaps be worthy of note. Whenever we
were in camp and so fixed that we could have regular meals, we used to
have a general officers' mess, over which I of course presided. During
our entire service there was never a foul or indecent word uttered at
the officers' mess--I mean this literally; and there was very little
swearing--although now and then in the fighting, if there was a moment
when swearing seemed to be the best method of reaching the heart of the
matter, it was resorted to.
The men I cared for most in the regiment were the men who did the best
work; and therefore my liking for them was obliged to take the shape of
exposing them to the most fatigue and hardship, of demanding from them
the greatest service, and of making them incur the greatest risk. Once
I kept Greenway and Goodrich at work for forty-eight hours, without
sleeping, and with very little food, fighting and digging trenches. I
freely sent the men for whom I cared most, to where death might smite
them; and death often smote them--as it did the two best officers in my
regiment, Allyn Capron and Bucky O'Neil. My men would not have respected
me had I acted otherwise. Their creed was my creed. The life even of the
most useful man, of the best citizen, is not to be hoarded if there be
need to spend it. I felt, and feel, this about others; and of course
also about myself. This is one reason why I have always felt impatient
contempt for the effort to abolish the death penalty on account of
sympathy with criminals. I am willing to listen to arguments in favor of
abolishing the death penalty so far as they are based purely on grounds
of public expediency, although these arguments have never convinced me.
But inasmuch as, without hesitation, in the performance of duty, I have
again and again sent good and gallant and upright men to die, it seems
to me the height of a folly both mischievous and mawkish to contend
that criminals who have deserved death should nevertheless be allowed
to shirk it. No brave and good man can properly shirk death; and no
criminal who has earned death should be allowed to shirk it.
One of the best men with our regiment was the British military attache,
Captain Arthur Lee, an old friend. The other military attaches were
herded together at headquarters and saw little. Captain Lee, who had
known me in Washington, escaped and stayed with the regiment. We grew to
feel that he was one of us, and made him an honorary member. There were
two other honorary members. One was Richard Harding Davis, who was with
us continually and who performed valuable service on the fighting line.
The other was a regular officer, Lieutenant Parker, who had a battery
of gatlings. We were with this battery throughout the San Juan fighting,
and we grew to have the strongest admiration for Parker as a soldier and
the strongest liking for him as a man. During our brief campaign we were
closely and intimately thrown with various regular officers of the type
of Mills, Howze, and Parker. We felt not merely fondness for them as
officers and gentlemen, but pride in them as Americans. It is a
fine thing to feel that we have in the army and in the navy modest,
efficient, gallant gentlemen of this type, doing such disinterested work
for the honor of the flag and of the Nation. No American can overpay the
debt of gratitude we all of us owe to the officers and enlisted men of
the army and of the navy.
Of course with a regiment of our type there was much to learn both among
the officers and the men. There were all kinds of funny incidents. One
of my men, an ex-cow-puncher and former round-up cook, a very good
shot and rider, got into trouble on the way down on the transport.
He understood entirely that he had to obey the officers of his own
regiment, but, like so many volunteers, or at least like so many
volunteers of my regiment, he did not understand that this obligation
extended to officers of other regiments. One of the regular officers on
the transport ordered him to do something which he declined to do. When
the officer told him to consider himself under arrest, he responded
by offering to fight him for a trifling consideration. He was brought
before a court martial which sentenced him to a year's imprisonment at
hard labor with dishonorable discharge, and the major-general commanding
the division approved the sentence.
We were on the transport. There was no hard labor to do; and the prison
consisted of another cow-puncher who kept guard over him with his
carbine, evidently divided in his feelings as to whether he would like
most to shoot him or to let him go. When we landed, somebody told the
prisoner that I intended to punish him by keeping him with the baggage.
He at once came to me in great agitation, saying: "Colonel, they say
you're going to leave me with the baggage when the fight is on. Colonel,
if you do that, I will never show my face in Arizona again. Colonel, if
you will let me go to the front, I promise I will obey any one you say;
any one you say, Colonel," with the evident feeling that, after this
concession, I could not, as a gentleman, refuse his request. Accordingly
I answered: "Shields, there is no one in this regiment more entitled to
be shot than you are, and you shall go to the front." His gratitude was
great, and he kept repeating, "I'll never forget this, Colonel, never."
Nor did he. When we got very hard up, he would now and then manage to
get hold of some flour and sugar, and would cook a doughnut and bring it
round to me, and watch me with a delighted smile as I ate it. He behaved
extremely well in both fights, and after the second one I had him
formally before me and remitted his sentence--something which of course
I had not the slightest power to do, although at the time it seemed
natural and proper to me.
When we came to be mustered out, the regular officer who was doing the
mustering, after all the men had been discharged, finally asked me where
the prisoner was. I said, "What prisoner?" He said, "The prisoner,
the man who was sentenced to a year's imprisonment with hard labor
and dishonorable discharge." I said, "Oh! I pardoned him"; to which he
responded, "I beg your pardon; you did what?" This made me grasp the
fact that I had exceeded authority, and I could only answer, "Well, I
did pardon him, anyhow, and he has gone with the rest"; whereupon the
mustering-out officer sank back in his chair and remarked, "He was
sentenced by a court martial, and the sentence was approved by the
major-general commanding the division. You were a lieutenant-colonel,
and you pardoned him. Well, it was nervy, that's all I'll say."
The simple fact was that under the circumstances it was necessary for me
to enforce discipline and control the regiment, and therefore to reward
and punish individuals in whatever way the exigencies demanded. I often
explained to the men what the reasons for an order were, the first time
it was issued, if there was any trouble on their part in understanding
what they were required to do. They were very intelligent and very eager
to do their duty, and I hardly ever had any difficulty the second time
with them. If, however, there was the slightest willful shirking of duty
or insubordination, I punished instantly and mercilessly, and the whole
regiment cordially backed me up. To have punished men for faults and
shortcomings which they had no opportunity to know were such would have
been as unwise as to have permitted any of the occasional bad characters
to exercise the slightest license. It was a regiment which was sensitive
about its dignity and was very keenly alive to justice and to courtesy,
but which cordially approved absence of mollycoddling, insistence upon
the performance of duty, and summary punishment of wrong-doing.
In the final fighting at San Juan, when we captured one of the trenches,
Jack Greenway had seized a Spaniard, and shortly afterwards I found Jack
leading his captive round with a string. I told him to turn him over to
a man who had two or three other captives, so that they should all be
taken to the rear. It was the only time I ever saw Jack look aggrieved.
"Why, Colonel, can't I keep him for myself?" he asked, plaintively. I
think he had an idea that as a trophy of his bow and spear the Spaniard
would make a fine body servant.
One reason that we never had the slightest trouble in the regiment was
because, when we got down to hard pan, officers and men shared exactly
alike. It is all right to have differences in food and the like in times
of peace and plenty, when everybody is comfortable. But in really hard
times officers and men must share alike if the best work is to be done.
As long as I had nothing but two hardtacks, which was the allowance to
each man on the morning after the San Juan fight, no one could complain;
but if I had had any private little luxuries the men would very
naturally have realized keenly their own shortages.
Soon after the Guasimas fight we were put on short commons; and as I
knew that a good deal of food had been landed and was on the beach at
Siboney, I marched thirty or forty of the men down to see if I could not
get some and bring it up. I finally found a commissary officer, and he
asked me what I wanted, and I answered, anything he had. So he told me
to look about for myself. I found a number of sacks of beans, I think
about eleven hundred pounds, on the beach; and told the officer that
I wanted eleven hundred pounds of beans. He produced a book of
regulations, and showed me the appropriate section and subdivision which
announced that beans were issued only for the officers' mess. This did
me no good, and I told him so. He said he was sorry, and I answered that
he was not as sorry as I was. I then "studied on it," as Br'r Rabbit
would say, and came back with a request for eleven hundred pounds of
beans for the officers' mess. He said, "Why, Colonel, your officers
can't eat eleven hundred pounds of beans," to which I responded, "You
don't know what appetites my officers have." He then said he would send
the requisition to Washington. I told him I was quite willing, so long
as he gave me the beans. He was a good fellow, so we finally effected a
working compromise--he got the requisition and I got the beans, although
he warned me that the price would probably be deducted from my salary.
Under some regulation or other only the regular supply trains were
allowed to act, and we were supposed not to have any horses or mules in
the regiment itself. This was very pretty in theory; but, as a matter of
fact, the supply trains were not numerous enough. My men had a natural
genius for acquiring horseflesh in odd ways, and I continually found
that they had staked out in the brush various captured Spanish cavalry
horses and Cuban ponies and abandoned commissary mules. Putting these
together, I would organize a small pack train and work it industriously
for a day or two, until they learned about it at headquarters and
confiscated it. Then I would have to wait for a week or so until my
men had accumulated some more ponies, horses, and mules, the regiment
meanwhile living in plenty on what we had got before the train was
confiscated.
All of our men were good at accumulating horses, but within our own
ranks I think we were inclined to award the palm to our chaplain. There
was not a better man in the regiment than the chaplain, and there could
not have been a better chaplain for our men. He took care of the sick
and the wounded, he never spared himself, and he did every duty. In
addition, he had a natural aptitude for acquiring mules, which made some
admirer, when the regiment was disbanded, propose that we should have a
special medal struck for him, with, on the obverse, "A Mule passant and
Chaplain regardant." After the surrender of Santiago, a Philadelphia
clergyman whom I knew came down to General Wheeler's headquarters,
and after visiting him announced that he intended to call on the Rough
Riders, because he knew their colonel. One of General Wheeler's aides,
Lieutenant Steele, who liked us both individually and as a regiment,
and who appreciated some of our ways, asked the clergyman, after he
had announced that he knew Colonel Roosevelt, "But do you know Colonel
Roosevelt's regiment?" "No," said the clergyman. "Very well, then, let
me give you a piece of advice. When you go down to see the Colonel,
don't let your horse out of your sight; and if the chaplain is there,
don't get off the horse!"
We came back to Montauk Point and soon after were disbanded. We had been
in the service only a little over four months. There are no four months
of my life to which I look back with more pride and satisfaction. I
believe most earnestly and sincerely in peace, but as things are yet in
this world the nation that cannot fight, the people that have lost the
fighting edge, that have lost the virile virtues, occupy a position as
dangerous as it is ignoble. The future greatness of America in no small
degree depends upon the possession by the average American citizen of
the qualities which my men showed when they served under me at Santiago.
Moreover, there is one thing in connection with this war which it is
well that our people should remember, our people who genuinely love the
peace of righteousness, the peace of justice--and I would be ashamed to
be other than a lover of the peace of righteousness and of justice. The
true preachers of peace, who strive earnestly to bring nearer the
day when peace shall obtain among all peoples, and who really do help
forward the cause, are men who never hesitate to choose righteous war
when it is the only alternative to unrighteous peace. These are the men
who, like Dr. Lyman Abbott, have backed every genuine movement for peace
in this country, and who nevertheless recognized our clear duty to war
for the freedom of Cuba.
But there are other men who put peace ahead of righteousness, and who
care so little for facts that they treat fantastic declarations
for immediate universal arbitration as being valuable, instead of
detrimental, to the cause they profess to champion, and who seek to make
the United States impotent for international good under the pretense of
making us impotent for international evil. All the men of this kind, and
all of the organizations they have controlled, since we began our career
as a nation, all put together, have not accomplished one hundredth part
as much for both peace and righteousness, have not done one hundredth
part as much either for ourselves or for other peoples, as was
accomplished by the people of the United States when they fought the war
with Spain and with resolute good faith and common sense worked out the
solution of the problems which sprang from the war.
Our army and navy, and above all our people, learned some lessons from
the Spanish War, and applied them to our own uses. During the following
decade the improvement in our navy and army was very great; not in
material only, but also in personnel, and, above all, in the ability to
handle our forces in good-sized units. By 1908, when our battle fleet
steamed round the world, the navy had become in every respect as fit
a fighting instrument as any other navy in the world, fleet for fleet.
Even in size there was but one nation, England, which was completely
out of our class; and in view of our relations with England and all the
English-speaking peoples, this was of no consequence. Of our army,
of course, as much could not be said. Nevertheless the improvement in
efficiency was marked. Our artillery was still very inferior in training
and practice to the artillery arm of any one of the great Powers such
as Germany, France, or Japan--a condition which we only then began
to remedy. But the workmanlike speed and efficiency with which the
expedition of some 6000 troops of all arms was mobilized and transported
to Cuba during the revolution of 1908 showed that, as regards our
cavalry and infantry, we had at least reached the point where we could
assemble and handle in first-rate fashion expeditionary forces. This is
mighty little to boast of, for a Nation of our wealth and population;
it is not pleasant to compare it with the extraordinary feats of
contemporary Japan and the Balkan peoples; but, such as it is, it
represents a long stride in advance over conditions as they were in
1898.
APPENDIX A
A MANLY LETTER
There was a sequel to the "round robin" incident which caused a little
stir at the moment; Secretary Alger had asked me to write him freely
from time to time. Accordingly, after the surrender of Santiago, I wrote
him begging that the cavalry division might be put into the Porto Rican
fighting, preparatory to what we supposed would be the big campaign
against Havana in the fall. In the letter I extolled the merits of the
Rough Riders and of the Regulars, announcing with much complacency that
each of our regiments was worth "three of the National Guard regiments,
armed with their archaic black powder rifles."[*] Secretary Alger
believed, mistakenly, that I had made public the round robin, and
was naturally irritated, and I suddenly received from him a published
telegram, not alluding to the round robin incident, but quoting my
reference to the comparative merits of the cavalry regiments and the
National Guard regiments and rebuking me for it. The publication of the
extract from my letter was not calculated to help me secure the votes of
the National Guard if I ever became a candidate for office. However, I
did not mind the matter much, for I had at the time no idea of being
a candidate for anything--while in the campaign I ate and drank and
thought and dreamed regiment and nothing but regiment, until I got the
brigade, and then I devoted all my thoughts to handling the brigade.
Anyhow, there was nothing I could do about the matter.
[*] I quote this sentence from memory; it is substantially
correct.
When our transport reached Montauk Point, an army officer came aboard
and before doing anything else handed me a sealed letter from the
Secretary of War which ran as follows:--
WAR DEPARTMENT,
WASHINGTON,
August 10, 1898.
DEAR COL. ROOSEVELT:
You have been a most gallant officer and in the battle before Santiago
showed superb soldierly qualities. I would rather add to, than detract
from, the honors you have so fairly won, and I wish you all good things.
In a moment of aggravation under great stress of feeling, first because
I thought you spoke in a disparaging manner of the volunteers (probably
without intent, but because of your great enthusiasm for your own men)
and second that I believed your published letter would embarrass the
Department I sent you a telegram which with an extract from a private
letter of yours I gave to the press. I would gladly recall both if I
could, but unable to do that I write you this letter which I hope you
will receive in the same friendly spirit in which I send it. Come and
see me at a very early day. No one will welcome you more heartily than
I.
Yours very truly, (Signed) R. A. ALGER.
I thought this a manly letter, and paid no more heed to the incident;
and when I was President, and General Alger was Senator from Michigan,
he was my stanch friend and on most matters my supporter.
APPENDIX B
THE SAN JUAN FIGHT
The San Juan fight took its name from the San Juan Hill or hills--I do
not know whether the name properly belonged to a line of hills or to
only one hill.
To compare small things with large things, this was precisely as the
Battle of Gettysburg took its name from the village of Gettysburg, where
only a small part of the fighting was done; and the battle of Waterloo
from the village of Waterloo, where none of the fighting was done.
When it became the political interest of certain people to endeavor to
minimize my part in the Santiago fighting (which was merely like that of
various other squadron, battalion and regimental commanders) some of my
opponents laid great stress on the alleged fact that the cavalry did not
charge up San Juan Hill. We certainly charged some hills; but I did not
ask their names before charging them. To say that the Rough Riders and
the cavalry division, and among other people myself, were not in the
San Juan fight is precisely like saying that the men who made Pickett's
Charge, or the men who fought at Little Round Top and Culps Hill, were
not at Gettysburg; or that Picton and the Scotch Greys and the French
and English guards were not at Waterloo. The present Vice-President of
the United States in the campaign last year was reported in the press
as repeatedly saying that I was not in the San Juan fight. The documents
following herewith have been printed for many years, and were accessible
to him had he cared to know or to tell the truth.
These documents speak for themselves. The first is the official report
issued by the War Department. From this it will be seen that there
were in the Santiago fighting thirty infantry and cavalry regiments
represented. Six of these were volunteer, of which one was the Rough
Riders. The other twenty-four were regular regiments. The percentage of
loss of our regiment was about seven times as great as that of the
other five volunteer regiments. Of the twenty-four regular regiments,
twenty-two suffered a smaller percentage of loss than we suffered.
Two, the Sixth United States Infantry and the Thirteenth United States
Infantry, suffered a slightly greater percentage of loss--twenty-six per
cent and twenty-three per cent as against twenty-two per cent.
NOMINATIONS BY THE PRESIDENT
To be Colonel by Brevet
Lieutenant-Colonel Theodore Roosevelt, First Volunteer Cavalry, for
gallantry in battle, Las Guasima, Cuba, June 24, 1898.
To be Brigadier-General by Brevet
Lieutenant-Colonel Theodore Roosevelt, First Volunteer Cavalry, for
gallantry in battle, Santiago de Cuba, July 1, 1898. (Nominated for
brevet colonel, to rank from June 24, 1898.)
FORT SAN JUAN, CUBA, July 17, 1898.
THE ADJUTANT-GENERAL UNITED STATES ARMY, Washington, D. C. (Through
military channels)
SIR: I have the honor to invite attention to the following list of
officers and enlisted men who specially distinguished themselves in the
action at Las Guasimas, Cuba, June 24, 1898.
These officers and men have been recommended for favorable consideration
by their immediate commanding officers in their respective reports, and
I would respectfully urge that favorable action be taken.
OFFICERS
. . . . .
In First United States Volunteer Cavalry--Colonel Leonard Wood,
Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt.
Respectfully, JOSEPH WHEELER, Major-General United States Volunteers,
Commanding.
HEADQUARTERS SECOND CAVALRY BRIGADE, CAMP NEAR SANTIAGO DE CUBA, CUBA,
June 29, 1898.
THE ADJUTANT-GENERAL CAVALRY DIVISION.
SIR: By direction of the major-general commanding the Cavalry Division,
I have the honor to submit the following report of the engagement of
a part of this brigade with the enemy at Guasimas, Cuba, on June 24th,
accompanied by detailed reports from the regimental and other commanders
engaged, and a list of the killed and wounded:
. . . . .
I cannot speak too highly of the efficient manner in which Colonel Wood
handled his regiment, and of his magnificent behavior on the field. The
conduct of Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt, as reported to me by my
two aides, deserves my highest commendation. Both Colonel Wood and
Lieutenant-Colonel Roosevelt disdained to take advantage of shelter or
cover from the enemy's fire while any of their men remained exposed to
it--an error of judgment, but happily on the heroic side.
. . . . .
Very respectfully, S. B. M. YOUNG, Brigadier General United States
Volunteers, Commanding.
HEADQUARTERS FIRST DIVISION SECOND ARMY CORPS CAMP MACKENZIE, GA.,
December 30, 1898.
ADJUTANT-GENERAL, Washington, D. C.
SIR: I have the honor to recommend Hon. Theodore Roosevelt, late Colonel
First United States Volunteer Cavalry, for a medal of honor, as a reward
for conspicuous gallantry at the battle of San Juan, Cuba, on July 1,
1898.
Colonel Roosevelt by his example and fearlessness inspired his men, and
both at Kettle Hill and the ridge known as San Juan he led his command
in person. I was an eye-witness of Colonel Roosevelt's action.
As Colonel Roosevelt has left the service, a Brevet Commission is of no
particular value in his case.
Very respectfully, SAMUEL S. SUMNER, Major-General United States
Volunteers.
WEST POINT, N. Y., December 17, 1898.
MY DEAR COLONEL: I saw you lead the line up the first hill--you were
certainly the first officer to reach the top--and through your efforts,
and your personally jumping to the front, a line more or less thin, but
strong enough to take it, was led by you to the San Juan or first hill.
In this your life was placed in extreme jeopardy, as you may recall,
and as it proved by the number of dead left in that vicinity. Captain
Stevens, then of the Ninth Cavalry, now of the Second Cavalry, was
with you, and I am sure he recalls your gallant conduct. After the line
started on the advance from the first hill, I did not see you until our
line was halted, under a most galling fire, at the extreme front, where
you afterwards entrenched. I spoke to you there and gave instructions
from General Sumner that the position was to be held and that there
would be no further advance till further orders. You were the senior
officer there, took charge of the line, scolded me for having my horse
so high upon the ridge; at the same time you were exposing yourself most
conspicuously, while adjusting the line, for the example was necessary,
as was proved when several colored soldiers--about eight or ten,
Twenty-fourth Infantry, I think--started at a run to the rear to assist
a wounded colored soldier, and you drew your revolver and put a short
and effective stop to such apparent stampede--it quieted them. That
position was hot, and now I marvel at your escaping there. . . . Very
sincerely yours, ROBERT L. HOWZE.
WEST POINT, N. Y., December 17, 1898.
I hereby certify that on July 1, 1898, Colonel (then Lieutenant-Colonel)
Theodore Roosevelt, First Volunteer Cavalry, distinguished himself
through the action, and on two occasions during the battle when I was an
eye-witness, his conduct was most conspicuous and clearly distinguished
above other men, as follows:
1. At the base of San Juan, or first hill, there was a strong wire
fence, or entanglement, at which the line hesitated under a galling
fire, and where the losses were severe. Colonel Roosevelt jumped through
the fence and by his enthusiasm, his example and courage succeeded in
leading to the crest of the hill a line sufficiently strong to capture
it. In this charge the Cavalry Brigade suffered its greatest loss,
and the Colonel's life was placed in extreme jeopardy, owing to the
conspicuous position he took in leading the line, and being the first
to reach the crest of that hill, while under heavy fire of the enemy at
close range.
2. At the extreme advanced position occupied by our lines, Colonel
Roosevelt found himself the senior, and under his instructions from
General Sumner to hold that position. He displayed the greatest bravery
and placed his life in extreme jeopardy by unavoidable exposure to
severe fire while adjusting and strengthening the line, placing the men
in positions which afforded best protection, etc., etc. His conduct
and example steadied the men, and on one occasion by severe but not
unnecessary measures prevented a small detachment from stampeding to the
rear. He displayed the most conspicuous gallantry, courage and coolness,
in performing extraordinarily hazardous duty.
ROBERT L. HOWZE, Captain A. A. G., U. S. V. (First Lieutenant Sixth
United States Cavalry.)
TO THE ADJUTANT-GENERAL UNITED STATES ARMY, Washington, D. C.
HEADQUARTERS UNITED STATES MILITARY ACADEMY, WEST POINT, N. Y., April 5,
1899.
LIEUTENANT-COLONEL W. H. CARTER, Assistant Adjutant-General United
States Army, Washington, D. C.
SIR: In compliance with the request, contained in your letter of April
30th, of the Board convened to consider the awarding of brevets, medals
of honor, etc., for the Santiago Campaign, that I state any facts,
within my knowledge as Adjutant-General of the Brigade in which
Colonel Theodore Roosevelt served, to aid the Board in determining, in
connection with Colonel Roosevelt's application for a medal of honor,
whether his conduct at Santiago was such as to distinguish him above
others, I have the honor to submit the following:
My duties on July 1, 1898, brought me in constant observation of and
contact with Colonel Roosevelt from early morning until shortly before
the climax of the assault of the Cavalry Division on the San Juan
Hill--the so-called Kettle Hill. During this time, while under the
enemy's artillery fire at El Poso, and while on the march from El Poso
by the San Juan ford to the point from which his regiment moved to the
assault--about two miles, the greater part under fire--Colonel Roosevelt
was conspicuous above any others I observed in his regiment in the
zealous performance of duty, in total disregard of his personal danger
and in his eagerness to meet the enemy. At El Poso, when the enemy
opened on that place with artillery fire, a shrapnel bullet grazed and
bruised one of Colonel Roosevelt's wrists. The incident did not lessen
his hazardous exposure, but he continued so exposed until he had placed
his command under cover. In moving to the assault of San Juan Hill,
Colonel Roosevelt was most conspicuously brave, gallant and indifferent
to his own safety. He, in the open, led his regiment; no officer
could have set a more striking example to his men or displayed greater
intrepidity.
Very respectfully, Your obedient servant, A. L. MILLS, Colonel United
States Army, Superintendent.
HEADQUARTERS DEPARTMENT OF SANTIAGO DE CUBA, SANTIAGO DE CUBA, December
30, 1898.
TO THE ADJUTANT-GENERAL, UNITED STATES ARMY, Washington, D. C.
SIR: I have the honor to make the following statement relative to
the conduct of Colonel Theodore Roosevelt, late First United States
Volunteer Cavalry, during the assault upon San Juan Hill, July 1, 1898.
I have already recommended this officer for a medal of honor, which I
understand has been denied him, upon the ground that my previous letter
was too indefinite. I based my recommendation upon the fact that Colonel
Roosevelt, accompanied only by four or five men, led a very desperate
and extremely gallant charge on San Juan Hill, thereby setting a
splendid example to the troops and encouraging them to pass over the
open country intervening between their position and the trenches of the
enemy. In leading this charge, he started off first, as he supposed,
with quite a following of men, but soon discovered that he was alone. He
then returned and gathered up a few men and led them to the charge, as
above stated. The charge in itself was an extremely gallant one, and the
example set a most inspiring one to the troops in that part of the line,
and while it is perfectly true that everybody finally went up the hill
in good style, yet there is no doubt that the magnificent example set by
Colonel Roosevelt had a very encouraging effect and had great weight in
bringing up the troops behind him. During the assault, Colonel Roosevelt
was the first to reach the trenches in his part of the line and killed
one of the enemy with his own hand.
I earnestly recommend that the medal be conferred upon Colonel
Roosevelt, for I believe that he in every way deserves it, and that
his services on the day in question were of great value and of a most
distinguished character.
Very respectfully, LEONARD WOOD, Major-General, United States
Volunteers. Commanding Department of Santiago de Cuba.
HUNTSVILLE, ALA., January 4, 1899.
THE ADJUTANT-GENERAL, UNITED STATES ARMY, Washington, D. C.
SIR: I have the honor to recommend that a "Congressional Medal of Honor"
be given to Theodore Roosevelt (late Colonel First Volunteer Cavalry),
for distinguished conduct and conspicuous bravery in command of his
regiment in the charge on San Juan Hill, Cuba, July 1, 1898.
In compliance with G. O. 135, A. G. O. 1898, I enclose my certificate
showing my personal knowledge of Colonel Roosevelt's conduct.
Very respectfully, C. J. STEVENS, Captain Second Cavalry.
I hereby certify that on July 1, 1898, at the battle of San Juan, Cuba,
I witnessed Colonel (then Lieutenant-Colonel) Roosevelt, First Volunteer
Cavalry, United States of America, mounted, leading his regiment in
the charge on San Juan. By his gallantry and strong personality he
contributed most materially to the success of the charge of the Cavalry
Division up San Juan Hill.
Colonel Roosevelt was among the first to reach the crest of the hill,
and his dashing example, his absolute fearlessness and gallant leading
rendered his conduct conspicuous and clearl distinguished above other
men.
C. J. STEVENS, Captain Second Cavalry. (Late First Lieutenant Ninth
Cavalry.)
YOUNG'S ISLAND, S. C., December 28, 1898.
TO THE ADJUTANT-GENERAL, UNITED STATES ARMY. Washington, D. C.
SIR: Believing that information relating to superior conduct on the part
of any of the higher officers who participated in the Spanish-American
War (and which information may not have been given) would be appreciated
by the Department over which you preside, I have the honor to call your
attention to the part borne by Colonel Theodore Roosevelt, of the late
First United States Volunteer Cavalry, in the battle of July 1st last.
I do this not only because I think you ought to know, but because his
regiment as a whole were very proud of his splendid actions that day
and believe they call for that most coveted distinction of the American
officer, the Medal of Honor. Held in support, he brought his regiment,
at exactly the right time, not only up to the line of regulars, but went
through them and headed, on horseback, the charge on Kettle Hill; this
being done on his own initiative, the regulars as well as his own men
following. He then headed the charge on the next hill, both regulars and
the First United States Volunteer Cavalry following. He was so near
the intrenchments on the second hill, that he shot and killed with a
revolver one of the enemy before they broke completely. He then led the
cavalry on the chain of hills overlooking Santiago, where he remained in
charge of all the cavalry that was at the extreme front for the rest of
that day and night. His unhesitating gallantry in taking the initiative
against intrenchments lined by men armed with rapid fire guns certainly
won him the highest consideration and admiration of all who witnessed
his conduct throughout that day.
What I here write I can bear witness to from personally having seen.
Very respectfully, M. J. JENKINS, Major Late First United States
Cavalry.
PRESCOTT, A. T., December 25, 1898.
I was Colonel Roosevelt's orderly at the battle of San Juan Hill, and
from that time on until our return to Montauk Point. I was with him all
through the fighting, and believe I was the only man who was always with
him, though during part of the time Lieutenants Ferguson and Greenwald
were also close to him. He led our regiment forward on horseback until
he came to the men of the Ninth Cavalry lying down. He led us through
these and they got up and joined us. He gave the order to charge on
Kettle Hill, and led us on horseback up the hill, both Rough Riders and
the Ninth Cavalry. He was the first on the hill, I being very nearly
alongside of him. Some Spanish riflemen were coming out of the
intrenchments and he killed one with his revolver. He took the men on
to the crest of the hill and bade them begin firing on the blockhouse on
the hill to our left, the one the infantry were attacking. When he
took it, he gave the order to charge, and led the troops on Kettle Hill
forward against the blockhouse on our front. He then had charge of all
the cavalry on the hills overlooking Santiago, where we afterwards dug
our trenches. He had command that afternoon and night, and for the rest
of the time commanded our regiment at this point.
Yours very truly, H. P. BARDSHAR.
CAMBRIDGE, MD., March 27, 1902.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT, President of the United States. Washington, D. C.
DEAR SIR: At your request, I send you the following extracts from my
diary, and from notes taken on the day of the assault on San Juan. I
kept in my pocket a small pad on which incidents were noted daily from
the landing until the surrender. On the day of the fight notes were
taken just before Grimes fired his first gun, just after the third reply
from the enemy--when we were massed in the road about seventy paces
from Grimes' guns, and when I was beginning to get scared and to think
I would be killed--at the halt just before you advanced, and under the
shelter of the hills in the evening. Each time that notes were taken,
the page was put in an envelope addressed to my wife. At the first
chance they were mailed to her, and on my arrival in the United States
the story of the fight, taken from these notes, was entered in the diary
I keep in a book. I make this lengthy explanation that you may see that
everything put down was fresh in my memory.
I quote from my diary: "The tension on the men was great. Suddenly a
line of men appeared coming from our right. They were advancing through
the long grass, deployed as skirmishers and were under fire. At
their head, or rather in front of them and leading them, rode Colonel
Roosevelt. He was very conspicuous, mounted as he was. The men were the
'Rough Riders,' so-called. I heard some one calling to them not to fire
into us, and seeing Colonel Carrol, reported to him, and was told to go
out and meet them, and caution them as to our position, we being between
them and the enemy. I did so, speaking to Colonel Roosevelt. I also
told him we were under orders not to advance, and asked him if he had
received any orders. He replied that he was going to charge the Spanish
trenches. I told this to Colonel Carrol, and to Captain Dimmick, our
squadron commander. A few moments after the word passed down that our
left (Captain Taylor) was about to charge. Captain McBlain called out,
'we must go in with those troops; we must support Taylor.' I called this
to Captain Dimmick, and he gave the order to assault."
"The cheer was taken up and taken up again, on the left, and in the
distance it rolled on and on. And so we started. Colonel Roosevelt, of
the Rough Riders, started the whole movement on the left, which was the
first advance of the assault."
The following is taken from my notes and was hastily jotted down on the
field: "The Rough Riders came in line--Colonel Roosevelt said he would
assault--Taylor joined them with his troop--McBlain called to Dimmick,
'let us go, we must go to support them.' Dimmick said all right--and so,
with no orders, we went in."
I find many of my notes are illegible from perspiration. My authority
for saying Taylor went in with you, "joined with his troop" was the word
passed to me and repeated to Captain Dimmick that Taylor was about to
charge with you. I could not see his troop. I have not put it in my
diary, but in another place I have noted that Colonel Carrol, who was
acting as brigade commander, told me to ask you if you had any orders.
I have the honor to be, Very respectfully, Your obedient servant,
HENRY ANSON BARBER, Captain Twenty-Eighth Infantry, (formerly of Ninth
Cavalry.)
HEADQUARTERS PACIFIC DIVISION, SAN FRANCISCO, CAL., May 11, 1905.
DEAR MR. PRESIDENT: As some discussion has arisen in the public prints
regarding the battle of San Juan, Cuba, July 1, 1898, and your personal
movements during that day have been the subject of comment, it may not
be amiss in me to state some facts coming under my personal observation
as Commanding General of the Cavalry Division of which your regiment
formed a part. It will, perhaps, be advisable to show first how I came
to be in command, in order that my statement may have due weight as an
authoritative statement of facts: I was placed in command of the
Cavalry Division on the afternoon of June 30th by General Shafter; the
assignment was made owing to the severe illness of General Wheeler, who
was the permanent commander of said Division. Brigadier General Young,
who commanded the Second Cavalry Brigade, of which your regiment--the
First Volunteer Cavalry--formed a part, was also very ill, and I found
it necessary to relieve him from command and place Colonel Wood, of
the Rough Riders, in command of the Brigade; this change placed you in
command of your regiment.
The Division moved from its camp on the evening of June 30th, and
bivouacked at and about El Poso. I saw you personally in the vicinity
of El Poso, about 8 A.M., July 1st. I saw you again on the road leading
from El Poso to the San Juan River; you were at the head of your
regiment, which was leading the Second Brigade, and immediately behind
the rear regiment of the First Brigade. My orders were to turn to the
right at San Juan River and take up a line along that stream and try and
connect with General Lawton, who was to engage the enemy at El Caney. On
reaching the river we came under the fire of the Spanish forces posted
on San Juan Ridge and Kettle Hill. The First Brigade was faced to the
front in line as soon as it had cleared the road, and the Second Brigade
was ordered to pass in rear of the first and face to the front when
clear of the First Brigade. This movement was very difficult, owing to
the heavy undergrowth, and the regiments became more or less tangled up,
but eventually the formation was accomplished, and the Division stood
in an irregular line along the San Juan River, the Second Brigade on
the right. We were subjected to a heavy fire from the forces on San
Juan Ridge and Kettle Hill; our position was untenable, and it became
necessary to assault the enemy or fall back. Kettle Hill was immediately
in front of the Cavalry, and it was determined to assault that hill. The
First Brigade was ordered forward, and the Second Brigade was ordered
to support the attack; personally, I accompanied a portion of the Tenth
Cavalry, Second Brigade, and the Rough Riders were to the right. This
brought your regiment to the right of the house which was at the summit
of the hill. Shortly after I reached the crest of the hill you came
to me, accompanied, I think, by Captain C. J. Stevens, of the Ninth
Cavalry. We were then in a position to see the line of intrenchments
along San Juan Ridge, and could see Kent's Infantry Division engaged on
our left, and Hawkins' assault against Fort San Juan. You asked me for
permission to move forward and assault San Juan Ridge. I gave you the
order in person to move forward, and I saw you move forward and assault
San Juan Ridge with your regiment and portions of the First and Tenth
Cavalry belonging to your Brigade. I held a portion of the Second
Brigade as a reserve on Kettle Hill, not knowing what force the enemy
might have in reserve behind the ridge. The First Brigade also moved
forward and assaulted the ridge to the right of Fort San Juan. There
was a small lake between Kettle Hill and San Juan Ridge, and in moving
forward your command passed to the right of this lake. This brought
you opposite a house on San Juan Ridge--not Fort San Juan proper, but a
frame house surrounded by an earthwork. The enemy lost a number of men
at this point, whose bodies lay in the trenches. Later in the day I rode
along the line, and, as I recall it, a portion of the Tenth Cavalry was
immediately about this house, and your regiment occupied an irregular
semi-circular position along the ridge and immediately to the right of
the house. You had pickets out to your front; and several hundred yards
to your front the Spaniards had a heavy outpost occupying a house, with
rifle pits surrounding it. Later in the day, and during the following
day, the various regiments forming the Division were rearranged and
brought into tactical formation, the First Brigade on the left and
immediately to the right of Fort San Juan, and the Second Brigade on the
right of the First.
This was the position occupied by the Cavalry Division until the final
surrender of the Spanish forces, on July 17, 1898.
In conclusion allow me to say, that I saw you, personally, at about 8
A.M., at El Poso; later, on the road to San Juan River; later, on the
summit of Kettle Hill, immediately after its capture by the Cavalry
Division. I saw you move forward with your command to assault San Juan
Ridge, and I saw you on San Juan Ridge, where we visited your line
together, and you explained to me the disposition of your command.
I am, sir, with much respect, Your obedient servant, SAMUEL S. SUMNER,
Major-General United States Army.
CHAPTER VIII
THE NEW YORK GOVERNORSHIP
In September, 1898, the First Volunteer Cavalry, in company with most
of the rest of the Fifth Army Corps, was disembarked at Montauk Point.
Shortly after it was disbanded, and a few days later, I was nominated
for Governor of New York by the Republican party. Timothy L. Woodruff
was nominated for Lieutenant-Governor. He was my stanch friend
throughout the term of our joint service.
The previous year, the machine or standpat Republicans, who were under
the domination of Senator Platt, had come to a complete break with the
anti-machine element over the New York mayoralty. This had brought
the Republican party to a smash, not only in New York City, but in the
State, where the Democratic candidate for Chief Judge of the Court
of Appeals, Alton B. Parker, was elected by sixty or eighty thousand
majority. Mr. Parker was an able man, a lieutenant of Mr. Hill's,
standing close to the conservative Democrats of the Wall Street type.
These conservative Democrats were planning how to wrest the Democratic
party from the control of Mr. Bryan. They hailed Judge Parker's victory
as a godsend. The Judge at once loomed up as a Presidential possibility,
and was carefully groomed for the position by the New York Democratic
machine, and its financial allies in the New York business world.
The Republicans realized that the chances were very much against them.
Accordingly the leaders were in a chastened mood and ready to nominate
any candidate with whom they thought there was a chance of winning. I
was the only possibility, and, accordingly, under pressure from certain
of the leaders who recognized this fact, and who responded to popular
pressure, Senator Platt picked me for the nomination. He was entirely
frank in the matter. He made no pretense that he liked me personally;
but he deferred to the judgment of those who insisted that I was the
only man who could be elected, and that therefore I had to be nominated.
Foremost among the leaders who pressed me on Mr. Platt (who "pestered"
him about me, to use his own words) were Mr. Quigg, Mr. Odell--then
State Chairman of the Republican organization, and afterwards
Governor--and Mr. Hazel, now United States Judge. Judge Hazel did not
know me personally, but felt that the sentiment in his city, Buffalo,
demanded my nomination, and that the then Republican Governor, Mr.
Black, could not be reelected. Mr. Odell, who hardly knew me personally,
felt the same way about Mr. Black's chances, and, as he had just taken
the State Chairmanship, he was very anxious to win a victory. Mr. Quigg
knew me quite well personally; he had been in touch with me for years,
while he was a reporter on the _Tribune_, and also when he edited a
paper in Montana; he had been on good terms with me while he was in
Congress and I was Civil Service Commissioner, meeting me often in
company with my especial cronies in Congress--men like Lodge, Speaker
Tom Reed, Greenhalge, Butterworth, and Dolliver--and he had urged my
appointment as Police Commissioner on Mayor Strong.
It was Mr. Quigg who called on me at Montauk Point to sound me about the
Governorship; Mr. Platt being by no means enthusiastic over Mr. Quigg's
mission, largely because he disapproved of the Spanish War and of my
part in bringing it about. Mr. Quigg saw me in my tent, in which he
spent a couple of hours with me, my brother-in-law, Douglas Robinson,
being also present. Quigg spoke very frankly to me, stating that he
earnestly desired to see me nominated and believed that the great body
of Republican voters in the State so desired, but that the organization
and the State Convention would finally do what Senator Platt desired. He
said that county leaders were already coming to Senator Platt, hinting
at a close election, expressing doubt of Governor Black's availability
for reelection, and asking why it would not be a good thing to nominate
me; that now that I had returned to the United States this would go on
more and more all the time, and that he (Quigg) did not wish that
these men should be discouraged and be sent back to their localities to
suppress a rising sentiment in my favor. For this reason he said that
he wanted from me a plain statement as to whether or not I wanted the
nomination, and as to what would be my attitude toward the organization
in the event of my nomination and election, whether or not I would "make
war" on Mr. Platt and his friends, or whether I would confer with them
and with the organization leaders generally, and give fair consideration
to their point of view as to party policy and public interest. He said
he had not come to make me any offer of the nomination, and had no
authority to do so, nor to get any pledges or promises. He simply wanted
a frank definition of my attitude towards existing party conditions.
To this I replied that I should like to be nominated, and if nominated
would promise to throw myself into the campaign with all possible
energy. I said that I should not make war on Mr. Platt or anybody else
if war could be avoided; that what I wanted was to be Governor and not a
faction leader; that I certainly would confer with the organization
men, as with everybody else who seemed to me to have knowledge of
and interest in public affairs, and that as to Mr. Platt and the
organization leaders, I would do so in the sincere hope that there might
always result harmony of opinion and purpose; but that while I would try
to get on well with the organization, the organization must with equal
sincerity strive to do what I regarded as essential for the public good;
and that in every case, after full consideration of what everybody had
to say who might possess real knowledge of the matter, I should have to
act finally as my own judgment and conscience dictated and administer
the State government as I thought it ought to be administered. Quigg
said that this was precisely what he supposed I would say, that it was
all anybody could expect, and that he would state it to Senator Platt
precisely as I had put it to him, which he accordingly did; and,
throughout my term as Governor, Quigg lived loyally up to our
understanding.[*]
[*] In a letter to me Mr. Quigg states, what I had
forgotten, that I told him to tell the Senator that I would
talk freely with him, and had no intention of becoming a
factional leader with a personal organization, yet that I
must have direct personal relations with everybody, and get
their views at first hand whenever I so desired, because I
could not have one man speaking for all.
After being nominated, I made a hard and aggressive campaign through the
State. My opponent was a respectable man, a judge, behind whom stood
Mr. Croker, the boss of Tammany Hall. My object was to make the people
understand that it was Croker, and not the nominal candidate, who was my
real opponent; that the choice lay between Crokerism and myself. Croker
was a powerful and truculent man, the autocrat of his organization, and
of a domineering nature. For his own reasons he insisted upon Tammany's
turning down an excellent Democratic judge who was a candidate for
reelection. This gave me my chance. Under my attack, Croker, who was a
stalwart fighting man and who would not take an attack tamely, himself
came to the front. I was able to fix the contest in the public mind as
one between himself and myself; and, against all probabilities, I won by
the rather narrow margin of eighteen thousand plurality.
As I have already said, there is a lunatic fringe to every reform
movement. At least nine-tenths of all the sincere reformers supported
me; but the ultra-pacifists, the so-called anti-imperialists, or
anti-militarists, or peace-at-any-price men, preferred Croker to me;
and another knot of extremists who had at first ardently insisted that
I must be "forced" on Platt, as soon as Platt supported me themselves
opposed me _because_ he supported me. After election John Hay wrote me
as follows: "While you are Governor, I believe the party can be
made solid as never before. You have already shown that a man may be
absolutely honest and yet practical; a reformer by instinct and a wise
politician; brave, bold, and uncompromising, and yet not a wild ass
of the desert. The exhibition made by the professional independents in
voting against you for no reason on earth except that somebody else was
voting for you, is a lesson that is worth its cost."
At that time boss rule was at its very zenith. Mr. Bryan's candidacy in
1896 on a free silver platform had threatened such frightful business
disaster as to make the business men, the wage-workers, and the
professional classes generally, turn eagerly to the Republican party.
East of the Mississippi the Republican vote for Mr. McKinley was larger
by far than it had been for Abraham Lincoln in the days when the life of
the Nation was at stake. Mr. Bryan championed many sorely needed reforms
in the interest of the plain people; but many of his platform proposals,
economic and otherwise, were of such a character that to have put them
into practice would have meant to plunge all our people into conditions
far worse than any of those for which he sought a remedy. The free
silver advocates included sincere and upright men who were able to make
a strong case for their position; but with them and dominating them were
all the believers in the complete or partial repudiation of National,
State, and private debts; and not only the business men but the
workingmen grew to feel that under these circumstances too heavy a price
could not be paid to avert the Democratic triumph. The fear of Mr. Bryan
threw almost all the leading men of all classes into the arms of whoever
opposed him.
The Republican bosses, who were already very powerful, and who were
already in fairly close alliance with the privileged interests, now
found everything working to their advantage. Good and high-minded men
of conservative temperament in their panic played into the hands of the
ultra-reactionaries of business and politics. The alliance between the
two kinds of privilege, political and financial, was closely cemented;
and wherever there was any attempt to break it up, the cry was at once
raised that this merely represented another phase of the assault on
National honesty and individual and mercantile integrity. As so often
happens, the excesses and threats of an unwise and extreme radicalism
had resulted in immensely strengthening the position of the
beneficiaries of reaction. This was the era when the Standard Oil
Company achieved a mastery of Pennsylvania politics so far-reaching
and so corrupt that it is difficult to describe it without seeming to
exaggerate.
In New York State, United States Senator Platt was the absolute boss of
the Republican party. "Big business" was back of him; yet at the time
this, the most important element in his strength, was only imperfectly
understood. It was not until I was elected Governor that I myself came
to understand it. We were still accustomed to talking of the "machine"
as if it were something merely political, with which business had
nothing to do. Senator Platt did not use his political position to
advance his private fortunes--therein differing absolutely from many
other political bosses. He lived in hotels and had few extravagant
tastes. Indeed, I could not find that he had any tastes at all except
for politics, and on rare occasions for a very dry theology wholly
divorced from moral implications. But big business men contributed
to him large sums of money, which enabled him to keep his grip on
the machine and secured for them the help of the machine if they were
threatened with adverse legislation. The contributions were given in the
guise of contributions for campaign purposes, of money for the good
of the party; when the money was contributed there was rarely talk of
specific favors in return.[*] It was simply put into Mr. Platt's hands
and treated by him as in the campaign chest. Then he distributed it
in the districts where it was most needed by the candidates and
organization leaders. Ordinarily no pledge was required from the latter
to the bosses, any more than it was required by the business men
from Mr. Platt or his lieutenants. No pledge was needed. It was all a
"gentlemen's understanding." As the Senator once said to me, if a man's
character was such that it was necessary to get a promise from him, it
was clear proof that his character was such that the promise would not
be worth anything after it was made.
[*] Each nation has its own pet sins to which it is merciful
and also sins which it treats as most abhorrent. In America
we are peculiarly sensitive about big money contributions
for which the donors expect any reward. In England, where in
some ways the standard is higher than here, such
contributions are accepted as a matter of course, nay, as
one of the methods by which wealthy men obtain peerages. It
would be well-nigh an impossibility for a man to secure a
seat in the United States Senate by mere campaign
contributions, in the way that seats in the British House of
Lords have often been secured without any scandal being
caused thereby.
It must not be forgotten that some of the worst practices of the machine
in dealings of this kind represented merely virtues in the wrong place,
virtues wrenched out of proper relation to their surroundings. A man in
a doubtful district might win only because of the help Mr. Platt gave
him; he might be a decent young fellow without money enough to finance
his own campaign, who was able to finance it only because Platt of his
own accord found out or was apprised of his need and advanced the money.
Such a man felt grateful, and, because of his good qualities, joined
with the purely sordid and corrupt heelers and crooked politicians to
become part of the Platt machine. In his turn Mr. Platt was recognized
by the business men, the big contributors, as an honorable man; not only
a man of his word, but a man who, whenever he received a favor, could be
trusted to do his best to repay it on any occasion that arose. I believe
that usually the contributors, and the recipient, sincerely felt that
the transaction was proper and subserved the cause of good politics
and good business; and, indeed, as regards the major part of the
contributions, it is probable that this was the fact, and that the only
criticism that could properly be made about the contributions was that
they were not made with publicity--and at that time neither the parties
nor the public had any realization that publicity was necessary, or any
adequate understanding of the dangers of the "invisible empire"
which throve by what was done in secrecy. Many, probably most, of the
contributors of this type never wished anything personal in exchange for
their contributions, and made them with sincere patriotism, desiring in
return only that the Government should be conducted on a proper basis.
Unfortunately, it was, in practice, exceedingly difficult to distinguish
these men from the others who contributed big sums to the various party
bosses with the expectation of gaining concrete and personal advantages
(in which the bosses shared) at the expense of the general public. It
was very hard to draw the line between these two types of contributions.
There was but one kind of money contributions as to which it seemed to
me absolutely impossible for either the contributor or the recipient to
disguise to themselves the evil meaning of the contribution. This was
where a big corporation contributed to both political parties. I knew of
one such case where in a State campaign a big corporation which had many
dealings with public officials frankly contributed in the neighborhood
of a hundred thousand dollars to one campaign fund and fifty thousand
dollars to the campaign fund of the other side--and, I believe, made
some further substantial contributions in the same ratio of two dollars
to one side for every one dollar given to the other. The contributors
were Democrats, and the big contributions went to the Democratic
managers. The Republican was elected, and after his election, when
a matter came up affecting the company, in which its interests were
hostile to those of the general public, the successful candidate, then
holding a high State office, was approached by his campaign managers
and the situation put frankly before him. He was less disturbed than
astonished, and remarked, "Why, I thought So-and-so and his associates
were Democrats and subscribed to the Democratic campaign fund." "So they
did," was the answer; "they subscribed to them twice as much as they
subscribed to us, but if they had had any idea that you intended doing
what you now say you will do, they would have subscribed it all to the
other side, and more too." The State official in his turn answered that
he was very sorry if any one had subscribed under a misapprehension,
that it was no fault of his, for he had stated definitely and clearly
his position, that he of course had no money wherewith himself to return
what without his knowledge had been contributed, and that all he could
say was that any man who had subscribed to his campaign fund under the
impression that the receipt of the subscription would be a bar to the
performance of public duty was sadly mistaken.
The control by Mr. Platt and his lieutenants over the organization was
well-nigh complete. There were splits among the bosses, and insurgent
movements now and then, but the ordinary citizens had no control over
the political machinery except in a very few districts. There were,
however, plenty of good men in politics, men who either came from
districts where there was popular control, or who represented a genuine
aspiration towards good citizenship on the part of some boss or group of
bosses, or else who had been nominated frankly for reasons of expediency
by bosses whose attitude towards good citizenship was at best one of
Gallio-like indifference. At the time when I was nominated for Governor,
as later when Mr. Hughes was nominated and renominated for Governor,
there was no possibility of securing the nomination unless the bosses
permitted it. In each case the bosses, the machine leaders, took a man
for whom they did not care, because he was the only man with whom they
could win. In the case of Mr. Hughes there was of course also the fact
of pressure from the National Administration. But the bosses were never
overcome in a fair fight, when they had made up their minds to fight,
until the Saratoga Convention in 1910, when Mr. Stimson was nominated
for Governor.
Senator Platt had the same inborn capacity for the kind of politics
which he liked that many big Wall Street men have shown for not wholly
dissimilar types of finance. It was his chief interest, and he
applied himself to it unremittingly. He handled his private business
successfully; but it was politics in which he was absorbed, and he
concerned himself therewith every day in the year. He had built up an
excellent system of organization, and the necessary funds came from
corporations and men of wealth who contributed as I have described
above. The majority of the men with a natural capacity for organization
leadership of the type which has generally been prevalent in New York
politics turned to Senator Platt as their natural chief and helped build
up the organization, until under his leadership it became more powerful
and in a position of greater control than any other Republican machine
in the country, excepting in Pennsylvania. The Democratic machines
in some of the big cities, as in New York and Boston, and the country
Democratic machine of New York under David B. Hill, were probably
even more efficient, representing an even more complete mastery by
the bosses, and an even greater degree of drilled obedience among the
henchmen. It would be an entire mistake to suppose that Mr. Platt's
lieutenants were either all bad men or all influenced by unworthy
motives. He was constantly doing favors for men. He had won the
gratitude of many good men. In the country districts especially, there
were many places where his machine included the majority of the best
citizens, the leading and substantial citizens, among the inhabitants.
Some of his strongest and most efficient lieutenants were disinterested
men of high character.
There had always been a good deal of opposition to Mr. Platt and the
machine, but the leadership of this opposition was apt to be found only
among those whom Abraham Lincoln called the "silk stockings," and much
of it excited almost as much derision among the plain people as the
machine itself excited anger or dislike. Very many of Mr. Platt's
opponents really disliked him and his methods, for aesthetic rather than
for moral reasons, and the bulk of the people half-consciously felt this
and refused to submit to their leadership. The men who opposed him in
this manner were good citizens according to their lights, prominent in
the social clubs and in philanthropic circles, men of means and often
men of business standing. They disliked coarse and vulgar politicians,
and they sincerely reprobated all the shortcomings that were recognized
by, and were offensive to, people of their own caste. They had not the
slightest understanding of the needs, interests, ways of thought, and
convictions of the average small man; and the small man felt this,
although he could not express it, and sensed that they were really not
concerned with his welfare, and that they did not offer him anything
materially better from his point of view than the machine.
When reformers of this type attempted to oppose Mr. Platt, they usually
put up either some rather inefficient, well-meaning person, who
bathed every day, and didn't steal, but whose only good point was
"respectability," and who knew nothing of the great fundamental
questions looming before us; or else they put up some big business man
or corporation lawyer who was wedded to the gross wrong and injustice
of our economic system, and who neither by personality nor by programme
gave the ordinary plain people any belief that there was promise of
vital good to them in the change. The correctness of their view was
proved by the fact that as soon as fundamental economic and social
reforms were at stake the aesthetic, as distinguished from the genuinely
moral, reformers, for the most part sided with the bosses against the
people.
When I became Governor, the conscience of the people was in no way or
shape aroused, as it has since become roused. The people accepted and
practiced in a matter-of-course way as quite proper things which they
would not now tolerate. They had no definite and clearly outlined
conception of what they wished in the way of reform. They on the whole
tolerated, and indeed approved of, the machine; and there had been no
development on any considerable scale of reformers with the vision to
see what the needs of the people were, and the high purpose sanely to
achieve what was necessary in order to meet these needs. I knew both the
machine and the silk-stocking reformers fairly well, from many years'
close association with them. The machine as such had no ideals at all,
although many of the men composing it did have. On the other hand, the
ideals of very many of the silk-stocking reformers did not relate to
the questions of real and vital interest to our people; and, singularly
enough, in international matters, these same silk-stockings were no more
to be trusted than the average ignorant demagogue or shortsighted spoils
politicians. I felt that these men would be broken reeds to which to
trust in any vital contest for betterment of social and industrial
conditions.
I had neither the training nor the capacity that would have enabled me
to match Mr. Platt and his machine people on their own ground. Nor did
I believe that the effort to build up a machine of my own under the then
existing conditions would meet the needs of the situation so far as the
people were concerned. I therefore made no effort to create a machine of
my own, and consistently adopted the plan of going over the heads of the
men holding public office and of the men in control of the organization,
and appealing directly to the people behind them. The machine, for
instance, had a more or less strong control over the great bulk of the
members of the State Legislature; but in the last resort the people
behind these legislators had a still greater control over them. I made
up my mind that the only way I could beat the bosses whenever the need
to do so arose (and unless there was such need I did not wish to try)
was, not by attempting to manipulate the machinery, and not by trusting
merely to the professional reformers, but by making my appeal as
directly and as emphatically as I knew how to the mass of voters
themselves, to the people, to the men who if waked up would be able to
impose their will on their representatives. My success depended upon
getting the people in the different districts to look at matters in my
way, and getting them to take such an active interest in affairs as to
enable them to exercise control over their representatives.
There were a few of the Senators and Assemblymen whom I could reach by
seeing them personally and putting before them my arguments; but most of
them were too much under the control of the machine for me to shake
them loose unless they knew that the people were actively behind me. In
making my appeal to the people as a whole I was dealing with an entirely
different constituency from that which, especially in the big cities,
liked to think of itself as the "better element," the particular
exponent of reform and good citizenship. I was dealing with shrewd,
hard-headed, kindly men and women, chiefly concerned with the absorbing
work of earning their own living, and impatient of fads, who had grown
to feel that the associations with the word "reformer" were not much
better than the associations with the word "politician." I had to
convince these men and women of my good faith, and, moreover, of my
common sense and efficiency. They were most of them strong partisans,
and an outrage had to be very real and very great to shake them even
partially loose from their party affiliations. Moreover, they took
little interest in any fight of mere personalities. They were not
influenced in the least by the silk-stocking reform view of Mr. Platt.
I knew that if they were persuaded that I was engaged in a mere faction
fight against him, that it was a mere issue between his ambition and
mine, they would at once become indifferent, and my fight would be lost.
But I felt that I could count on their support wherever I could show
them that the fight was not made just for the sake of the row, that it
was not made merely as a factional contest against Senator Platt and the
organization, but was waged from a sense of duty for real and tangible
causes such as the promotion of governmental efficiency and honesty,
and forcing powerful moneyed men to take the proper attitude toward the
community at large. They stood by me when I insisted upon having the
canal department, the insurance department, and the various departments
of the State Government run with efficiency and honesty; they stood by
me when I insisted upon making wealthy men who owned franchises pay
the State what they properly ought to pay; they stood by me when, in
connection with the strikes on the Croton Aqueduct and in Buffalo, I
promptly used the military power of the State to put a stop to rioting
and violence.
In the latter case my chief opponents and critics were local politicians
who were truckling to the labor vote; but in all cases coming under the
first two categories I had serious trouble with the State leaders of the
machine. I always did my best, in good faith, to get Mr. Platt and the
other heads of the machine to accept my views, and to convince them,
by repeated private conversations, that I was right. I never wantonly
antagonized or humiliated them. I did not wish to humiliate them or to
seem victorious over them; what I wished was to secure the things that
I thought it essential to the men and women of the State to secure. If I
could finally persuade them to support me, well and good; in such case I
continued to work with them in the friendliest manner.
If after repeated and persistent effort I failed to get them to support
me, then I made a fair fight in the open, and in a majority of cases I
carried my point and succeeded in getting through the legislation which
I wished. In theory the Executive has nothing to do with legislation. In
practice, as things now are, the Executive is or ought to be peculiarly
representative of the people as a whole. As often as not the action
of the Executive offers the only means by which the people can get the
legislation they demand and ought to have. Therefore a good executive
under the present conditions of American political life must take a very
active interest in getting the right kind of legislation, in addition
to performing his executive duties with an eye single to the public
welfare. More than half of my work as Governor was in the direction of
getting needed and important legislation. I accomplished this only by
arousing the people, and riveting their attention on what was done.
Gradually the people began to wake up more and more to the fact that the
machine politicians were not giving them the kind of government which
they wished. As this waking up grew more general, not merely in New York
or any other one State, but throughout most of the Nation, the power
of the bosses waned. Then a curious thing happened. The professional
reformers who had most loudly criticized these bosses began to change
toward them. Newspaper editors, college presidents, corporation lawyers,
and big business men, all alike, had denounced the bosses and had taken
part in reform movements against them so long as these reforms dealt
only with things that were superficial, or with fundamental things that
did not affect themselves and their associates. But the majority
of these men turned to the support of the bosses when the great new
movement began clearly to make itself evident as one against privilege
in business no less than against privilege in politics, as one for
social and industrial no less than for political righteousness and fair
dealing. The big corporation lawyer who had antagonized the boss in
matters which he regarded as purely political stood shoulder to shoulder
with the boss when the movement for betterment took shape in direct
attack on the combination of business with politics and with the
judiciary which has done so much to enthrone privilege in the economic
world.
The reformers who denounced political corruption and fraud when shown
at the expense of their own candidates by machine ward heelers of a low
type hysterically applauded similar corrupt trickery when practiced by
these same politicians against men with whose political and industrial
programme the reformers were not in sympathy. I had always been
instinctively and by nature a democrat, but if I had needed conversion
to the democratic ideal here in America the stimulus would have been
supplied by what I saw of the attitude, not merely of the bulk of the
men of greatest wealth, but of the bulk of the men who most prided
themselves upon their education and culture, when we began in good faith
to grapple with the wrong and injustice of our social and industrial
system, and to hit at the men responsible for the wrong, no matter how
high they stood in business or in politics, at the bar or on the bench.
It was while I was Governor, and especially in connection with the
franchise tax legislation, that I first became thoroughly aware of the
real causes of this attitude among the men of great wealth and among the
men who took their tone from the men of great wealth.
Very soon after my victory in the race for Governor I had one or two
experiences with Senator Platt which showed in amusing fashion how
absolute the rule of the boss was in the politics of that day. Senator
Platt, who was always most kind and friendly in his personal relations
with me, asked me in one day to talk over what was to be done at Albany.
He had the two or three nominal heads of the organization with him. They
were his lieutenants, who counseled and influenced him, whose advice he
often followed, but who, when he had finally made up his mind, merely
registered and carried out his decrees. After a little conversation the
Senator asked if I had any member of the Assembly whom I wished to
have put on any committee, explaining that the committees were being
arranged. I answered no, and expressed my surprise at what he had said,
because I had not understood the Speaker who appointed the committees
had himself been agreed upon by the members-elect. "Oh!" responded the
Senator, with a tolerant smile, "He has not been chosen yet, but of
course whoever we choose as Speaker will agree beforehand to make the
appointments we wish." I made a mental note to the effect that if they
attempted the same process with the Governor-elect they would find
themselves mistaken.
In a few days the opportunity to prove this arrived. Under the preceding
Administration there had been grave scandals about the Erie Canal, the
trans-State Canal, and these scandals had been one of the chief issues
in the campaign for the Governorship. The construction of this work was
under the control of the Superintendent of Public Works. In the actual
state of affairs his office was by far the most important office under
me, and I intended to appoint to it some man of high character and
capacity who could be trusted to do the work not merely honestly and
efficiently, but without regard to politics. A week or so after the
Speakership incident Senator Platt asked me to come and see him (he was
an old and physically feeble man, able to move about only with extreme
difficulty).
On arrival I found the Lieutenant-Governor elect, Mr. Woodruff, who had
also been asked to come. The Senator informed me that he was glad to
say that I would have a most admirable man as Superintendent of Public
Works, as he had just received a telegram from a certain gentleman, whom
he named, saying that he would accept the position! He handed me the
telegram. The man in question was a man I liked; later I appointed him
to an important office in which he did well. But he came from a city
along the line of the canal, so that I did not think it best that he
should be appointed anyhow; and, moreover, what was far more important,
it was necessary to have it understood at the very outset that the
Administration was my Administration and was no one else's but mine. So
I told the Senator very politely that I was sorry, but that I could not
appoint his man. This produced an explosion, but I declined to lose my
temper, merely repeating that I must decline to accept any man chosen
for me, and that I must choose the man myself. Although I was very
polite, I was also very firm, and Mr. Platt and his friends finally
abandoned their position.
I appointed an engineer from Brooklyn, a veteran of the Civil War,
Colonel Partridge, who had served in Mayor Low's administration. He was
an excellent man in every way. He chose as his assistant, actively to
superintend the work, a Cornell graduate named Elon Hooker, a man with
no political backing at all, picked simply because he was the best
equipped man for the place. The office, the most important office under
me, was run in admirable fashion throughout my Administration; I
doubt if there ever was an important department of the New York State
Government run with a higher standard of efficiency and integrity.
But this was not all that had to be done about the canals. Evidently
the whole policy hitherto pursued had been foolish and inadequate. I
appointed a first-class non-partisan commission of business men and
expert engineers who went into the matter exhaustively, and their report
served as the basis upon which our entire present canal system is based.
There remained the question of determining whether the canal officials
who were in office before I became Governor, and whom I had declined to
reappoint, had been guilty of any action because of which it would be
possible to proceed against them criminally or otherwise under the law.
Such criminal action had been freely charged against them during the
campaign by the Democratic (including the so-called mugwump) press. To
determine this matter I appointed two Democratic lawyers, Messrs. Fox
and MacFarlane (the latter Federal District Attorney for New York under
President Cleveland), and put the whole investigation in their hands.
These gentlemen made an exhaustive investigation lasting several months.
They reported that there had been grave delinquency in the prosecution
of the work, delinquency which justified public condemnation of those
responsible for it (who were out of office), but that there was
no ground for criminal prosecution. I laid their report before the
Legislature with a message in which I said: "There is probably no lawyer
of high standing in the State who, after studying the report of counsel
in this case and the testimony taken by the investigating commission,
would disagree with them as to the impracticability of a successful
prosecution. Under such circumstances the one remedy was a thorough
change in the methods and management. This change has been made."
When my successor in the Governorship took office, Colonel Partridge
retired, and Elon Hooker, finding that he could no longer act with
entire disregard of politics and with an eye single to the efficiency of
the work, also left. A dozen years later--having in the meantime made
a marked success in a business career--he became the Treasurer of the
National Progressive party.
My action in regard to the canals, and the management of his office,
the most important office under me, by Colonel Partridge, established
my relations with Mr. Platt from the outset on pretty nearly the right
basis. But, besides various small difficulties, we had one or two
serious bits of trouble before my duties as Governor ceased. It must be
remembered that Mr. Platt was to all intents and purposes a large part
of, and sometimes a majority of, the Legislature. There were a few
entirely independent men such as Nathaniel Elsberg, Regis Post, and
Alford Cooley, in each of the two houses; the remainder were under the
control of the Republican and Democratic bosses, but could also be more
or less influenced by an aroused public opinion. The two machines were
apt to make common cause if their vital interests were touched. It was
my business to devise methods by which either the two machines could be
kept apart or else overthrown if they came together.
My desire was to achieve results, and not merely to issue manifestoes
of virtue. It is very easy to be efficient if the efficiency is based
on unscrupulousness, and it is still easier to be virtuous if one is
content with the purely negative virtue which consists in not doing
anything wrong, but being wholly unable to accomplish anything positive
for good. My favorite quotation from Josh Billings again applies: It is
so much easier to be a harmless dove than a wise serpent. My duty was to
combine both idealism and efficiency. At that time the public conscience
was still dormant as regards many species of political and business
misconduct, as to which during the next decade it became sensitive. I
had to work with the tools at hand and to take into account the feeling
of the people, which I have already described. My aim was persistently
to refuse to be put in a position where what I did would seem to be a
mere faction struggle against Senator Platt. My aim was to make a fight
only when I could so manage it that there could be no question in the
minds of honest men that my prime purpose was not to attack Mr. Platt
or any one else except as a necessary incident to securing clean and
efficient government.
In each case I did my best to persuade Mr. Platt not to oppose me. I
endeavored to make it clear to him that I was not trying to wrest the
organization from him; and I always gave him in detail the reasons why I
felt I had to take the position I intended to adopt. It was only after I
had exhausted all the resources of my patience that I would finally, if
he still proved obstinate, tell him that I intended to make the fight
anyhow. As I have said, the Senator was an old and feeble man in
physique, and it was possible for him to go about very little. Until
Friday evening he would be kept at his duties at Washington, while I was
in Albany. If I wished to see him it generally had to be at his hotel
in New York on Saturday, and usually I would go there to breakfast with
him. The one thing I would not permit was anything in the nature of a
secret or clandestine meeting. I always insisted on going openly. Solemn
reformers of the tom-fool variety, who, according to their custom, paid
attention to the name and not the thing, were much exercised over my
"breakfasting with Platt." Whenever I breakfasted with him they became
sure that the fact carried with it some sinister significance. The
worthy creatures never took the trouble to follow the sequence of facts
and events for themselves. If they had done so they would have seen that
any series of breakfasts with Platt always meant that I was going to
do something he did not like, and that I was trying, courteously and
frankly, to reconcile him to it. My object was to make it as easy as
possible for him to come with me. As long as there was no clash between
us there was no object in my seeing him; it was only when the clash came
or was imminent that I had to see him. A series of breakfasts was always
the prelude to some active warfare.[*] In every instance I substantially
carried my point, although in some cases not in exactly the way in which
I had originally hoped.
[*] To illustrate my meaning I quote from a letter of mine
to Senator Platt of December 13, 1899. He had been trying to
get me to promote a certain Judge X over the head of another
Judge Y. I wrote: "There is a strong feeling among the
judges and the leading members of the bar that Judge Y ought
not to have Judge X jumped over his head, and I do not see
my way clear to doing it. I am inclined to think that the
solution I mentioned to you is the solution I shall have to
adopt. Remember the breakfast at Douglas Robinson's at
8:30."
There were various measures to which he gave a grudging and querulous
assent without any break being threatened. I secured the reenactment
of the Civil Service Law, which under my predecessor had very foolishly
been repealed. I secured a mass of labor legislation, including the
enactment of laws to increase the number of factory inspectors, to
create a Tenement House Commission (whose findings resulted in further
and excellent legislation to improve housing conditions), to regulate
and improve sweatshop labor, to make the eight-hour and prevailing rate
of wages law effective, to secure the genuine enforcement of the act
relating to the hours of railway workers, to compel railways to equip
freight trains with air-brakes, to regulate the working hours of women
and protect both women and children from dangerous machinery, to enforce
good scaffolding provisions for workmen on buildings, to provide seats
for the use of waitresses in hotels and restaurants, to reduce the
hours of labor for drug-store clerks, to provide for the registration of
laborers for municipal employment. I tried hard but failed to secure an
employers' liability law and the state control of employment offices.
There was hard fighting over some of these bills, and, what was much
more serious, there was effort to get round the law by trickery and by
securing its inefficient enforcement. I was continually helped by men
with whom I had gotten in touch while in the Police Department; men such
as James Bronson Reynolds, through whom I first became interested in
settlement work on the East Side. Once or twice I went suddenly down to
New York City without warning any one and traversed the tenement-house
quarters, visiting various sweat-shops picked at random. Jake Riis
accompanied me; and as a result of our inspection we got not only
an improvement in the law but a still more marked improvement in its
administration. Thanks chiefly to the activity and good sense of Dr.
John H. Pryor, of Buffalo, and by the use of every pound of pressure
which as Governor I could bring to bear in legitimate fashion--including
a special emergency message--we succeeded in getting through a bill
providing for the first State hospital for incipient tuberculosis. We
got valuable laws for the farmer; laws preventing the adulteration of
food products (which laws were equally valuable to the consumer), and
laws helping the dairyman. In addition to labor legislation I was able
to do a good deal for forest preservation and the protection of our
wild life. All that later I strove for in the Nation in connection with
Conservation was foreshadowed by what I strove to obtain for New York
State when I was Governor; and I was already working in connection with
Gifford Pinchot and Newell. I secured better administration, and some
improvement in the laws themselves. The improvement in administration,
and in the character of the game and forest wardens, was secured partly
as the result of a conference in the executive chamber which I held with
forty of the best guides and woodsmen of the Adirondacks.
As regards most legislation, even that affecting labor and the forests,
I got on fairly well with the machine. But on the two issues in which
"big business" and the kind of politics which is allied to big business
were most involved we clashed hard--and clashing with Senator Platt
meant clashing with the entire Republican organization, and with the
organized majority in each house of the Legislature. One clash was in
connection with the Superintendent of Insurance, a man whose office made
him a factor of immense importance in the big business circles of New
York. The then incumbent of the office was an efficient man, the boss
of an up-State county, a veteran politician and one of Mr. Platt's
right-hand men. Certain investigations which I made--in the course of
the fight--showed that this Superintendent of Insurance had been engaged
in large business operations in New York City. These operations had
thrown him into a peculiarly intimate business contact of one sort and
another with various financiers with whom I did not deem it expedient
that the Superintendent of Insurance, while such, should have any
intimate and secret money-making relations. Moreover, the gentleman
in question represented the straitest sect of the old-time spoils
politicians. I therefore determined not to reappoint him. Unless I could
get his successor confirmed, however, he would stay in under the law,
and the Republican machine, with the assistance of Tammany, expected to
control far more than a majority of all the Senators.
Mr. Platt issued an ultimatum to me that the incumbent must be
reappointed or else that he would fight, and that if he chose to fight
the man would stay in anyhow because I could not oust him--for under the
New York Constitution the assent of the Senate was necessary not only
to appoint a man to office but to remove him from office. As always with
Mr. Platt, I persistently refused to lose my temper, no matter what
he said--he was much too old and physically feeble for there to be any
point of honor in taking up any of his remarks--and I merely explained
good-humoredly that I had made up my mind and that the gentleman
in question would not be retained. As for not being able to get his
successor confirmed, I pointed out that as soon as the Legislature
adjourned I could and would appoint another man temporarily. Mr.
Platt then said that the incumbent would be put back as soon as the
Legislature reconvened; I admitted that this was possible, but
added cheerfully that I would remove him again just as soon as that
Legislature adjourned, and that even though I had an uncomfortable time
myself, I would guarantee to make my opponents more uncomfortable still.
We parted without any sign of reaching an agreement.
There remained some weeks before final action could be taken, and the
Senator was confident that I would have to yield. His most efficient
allies were the pretended reformers, most of them my open or covert
enemies, who loudly insisted that I must make an open fight on the
Senator himself and on the Republican organization. This was what he
wished, for at that time there was no way of upsetting him within the
Republican party; and, as I have said, if I had permitted the contest
to assume the shape of a mere faction fight between the Governor and the
United States Senator, I would have insured the victory of the
machine. So I blandly refused to let the thing become a personal fight,
explaining again and again that I was perfectly willing to appoint an
organization man, and naming two or three whom I was willing to appoint,
but also explaining that I would not retain the incumbent, and would not
appoint any man of his type. Meanwhile pressure on behalf of the said
incumbent began to come from the business men of New York.
The Superintendent of Insurance was not a man whose ill will the big
life insurance companies cared to incur, and company after company
passed resolutions asking me to reappoint him, although in private some
of the men who signed these resolutions nervously explained that they
did not mean what they had written, and hoped I would remove the man. A
citizen prominent in reform circles, marked by the Cato-like austerity
of his reform professions, had a son who was a counsel for one of the
insurance companies. The father was engaged in writing letters to the
papers demanding in the name of uncompromising virtue that I should not
only get rid of the Superintendent of Insurance, but in his place should
appoint somebody or other personally offensive to Senator Platt--which
last proposition, if adopted, would have meant that the Superintendent
of Insurance would have stayed in, for the reasons I have already given.
Meanwhile the son came to see me on behalf of the insurance company he
represented and told me that the company was anxious that there should
be a change in the superintendency; that if I really meant to fight,
they thought they had influence with four of the State Senators,
Democrats and Republicans, whom they could get to vote to confirm
the man I nominated, but that they wished to be sure that I would not
abandon the fight, because it would be a very bad thing for them if I
started the fight and then backed down. I told my visitor that he need
be under no apprehensions, that I would certainly see the fight through.
A man who has much to do with that kind of politics which concerns both
New York politicians and New York business men and lawyers is not easily
surprised, and therefore I felt no other emotion than a rather sardonic
amusement when thirty-six hours later I read in the morning paper
an open letter from the officials of the very company who had been
communicating with me in which they enthusiastically advocated the
renomination of the Superintendent. Shortly afterwards my visitor,
the young lawyer, called me up on the telephone and explained that the
officials did not mean what they had said in this letter, that they had
been obliged to write it for fear of the Superintendent, but that if
they got the chance they intended to help me get rid of him. I thanked
him and said I thought I could manage the fight by myself. I did not
hear from him again, though his father continued to write public demands
that I should practice pure virtue, undefiled and offensive.
Meanwhile Senator Platt declined to yield. I had picked out a man,
a friend of his, who I believed would make an honest and competent
official, and whose position in the organization was such that I did not
believe the Senate would venture to reject him. However, up to the
day before the appointment was to go to the Senate, Mr. Platt remained
unyielding. I saw him that afternoon and tried to get him to yield, but
he said No, that if I insisted, it would be war to the knife, and my
destruction, and perhaps the destruction of the party. I said I was
very sorry, that I could not yield, and if the war came it would have
to come, and that next morning I should send in the name of the
Superintendent's successor. We parted, and soon afterwards I received
from the man who was at the moment Mr. Platt's right-hand lieutenant
a request to know where he could see me that evening. I appointed the
Union League Club. My visitor went over the old ground, explained that
the Senator would under no circumstances yield, that he was certain to
win in the fight, that my reputation would be destroyed, and that he
wished to save me from such a lamentable smash-up as an ending to my
career. I could only repeat what I had already said, and after half an
hour of futile argument I rose and said that nothing was to be gained by
further talk and that I might as well go. My visitor repeated that I
had this last chance, and that ruin was ahead of me if I refused it;
whereas, if I accepted, everything would be made easy. I shook my head
and answered, "There is nothing to add to what I have already said." He
responded, "You have made up your mind?" and I said, "I have." He then
said, "You know it means your ruin?" and I answered, "Well, we will see
about that," and walked toward the door. He said, "You understand, the
fight will begin to-morrow and will be carried on to the bitter end."
I said, "Yes," and added, as I reached the door, "Good night." Then, as
the door opened, my opponent, or visitor, whichever one chooses to call
him, whose face was as impassive and as inscrutable as that of Mr. John
Hamlin in a poker game, said: "Hold on! We accept. Send in So-and-so
[the man I had named]. The Senator is very sorry, but he will make no
further opposition!" I never saw a bluff carried more resolutely
through to the final limit. My success in the affair, coupled with the
appointment of Messrs. Partridge and Hooker, secured me against further
effort to interfere with my handling of the executive departments.
It was in connection with the insurance business that I first met Mr.
George W. Perkins. He came to me with a letter of introduction from the
then Speaker of the National House of Representatives, Tom Reed,
which ran: "Mr. Perkins is a personal friend of mine, whose
straightforwardness and intelligence will commend to you whatever he has
to say. If you will give him proper opportunity to explain his business,
I have no doubt that what he will say will be worthy of your attention."
Mr. Perkins wished to see me with reference to a bill that had just been
introduced in the Legislature, which aimed to limit the aggregate volume
of insurance that any New York State company could assume. There
were then three big insurance companies in New York--the Mutual Life,
Equitable, and New York Life. Mr. Perkins was a Vice-President of
the New York Life Insurance Company and Mr. John A. McCall was its
President. I had just finished my fight against the Superintendent of
Insurance, whom I refused to continue in office. Mr. McCall had written
me a very strong letter urging that he be retained, and had done
everything he could to aid Senator Platt in securing his retention. The
Mutual Life and Equitable people had openly followed the same course,
but in private had hedged. They were both backing the proposed bill. Mr.
McCall was opposed to it; he was in California, and just before starting
thither he had been told by the Mutual Life and Equitable that the
Limitation Bill was favored by me and would be put through if such a
thing were possible. Mr. McCall did not know me, and on leaving for
California told Mr. Perkins that from all he could learn he was sure I
was bent on putting this bill through, and that nothing he could say
to me would change my view; in fact, because he had fought so hard
to retain the old Insurance Superintendent, he felt that I would be
particularly opposed to anything he might wish done.
