who opposed him in the Convention, and they were pleased by this sign of his good will and political acumen. They accepted the offer, and later became his warm friends for life.

After Cleveland’s second election as President, the newspapers announced Power as the next postmaster of New York, but he did not attend the inauguration. It was not until after that event that he went to Washington, where he met Croker.

“Judge,” said the Tammany Boss, “if you want to be postmaster, we won’t oppose you. We want you to have something that will satisfy you.”

Power went to the White House, where Lamont received him with the statement that the President had been asking for him a number of times and could not understand why he had been absent from the inaugural ceremonies. The caller was taken into the President’s executive office, where, although the month was March, Cleveland sat at his desk in shirt-sleeves. He came at once to the point.

“Look here,” he said, “I’ve been wanting to know whether you’d accept the New York postmastership. Will you? For old friendship’s sake, I should like yours to be the first appointment I make for New York.”

“I’m not strong in administrative work, as I don’t like details,” said Power. Then, jokingly, he added: “If you have some less exacting position which will not conflict with my attending to my foundry, I’d be glad to accept that.”

Cleveland said that he knew of no such position. However, at 10:30 that night, Power was again sent for.

“I’ve found the place for you,” said the President. “They tell me that the Shipping Commissionership in New York pays $5,000, and will require but little of your time.”

To that post Power was duly appointed.

My relations with him were always pleasant. He once told me that the lack of funds was about to result in the dissolution of the County Organization and said that I could have the chairmanship if I were willing to contribute $25,000 toward keeping it alive: I had no ambition in that direction, and Charles A. Jackson got the place. Again, in 1887, when Power was in the saddle, my partner, Lachman, wanted the nomination of Judge in the Sixth District Court, but because he has always been a very modest man, and because he had heard that Judge Kelly, then holding that office, was seeking renomination, he would not follow the usual custom of going personally to Power and urging his cause. One day within a month of election, as I crossed Park Place, I saw Power seated on a bootblack’s stand in front of his office at 235 Broadway. I immediately went to our office at 243 Broadway, and stormed Lachman into visiting that bootblack stand immediately.

“The queer thing is,” said Power, “that I should not have thought of you for the place long ago. Of course you shall have the place.”

He went through the form of offering renomination to Kelly, who declined it. I ran a fourteen-day campaign for Lachman, and he was elected. This was my only experience in managing a political campaign until I became chairman of the Democratic Finance Committee in the National Campaign of 1912.

In 1882, when the Sidney Webbs, husband and wife, the English publicists, were visiting America, they told Miss Lillian D. Wald that they would like to meet an American “boss,” and I arranged such a meeting with Power as the star. With considerable pride and absolute frankness, he explained in full detail how a boss came into being and how he remained in control. He laid great stress on the fact that he was a permanent substance, while the lesser leaders and the captors of mere popularity were but passing shadows on the political glass. He explained how the bosses named mayors and governors and sometimes even presidents—how they played the ambitions of one aspirant against those of another, and how they had a fatal advantage over opponents who gave only part time to the business of politics.

Webb, looking at his wife for agreement, said:

“Isn’t this remarkable? It’s exactly the method that the executive secretaries of the English labour unions use to maintain their positions.”

Before I had much to do with politics, I found out that neither New York City nor New York State stood alone in its political obloquy. Some of the greatest municipalities in the country, and many of the states, were, and are to-day, under control of machines like Tammany. As these bosses are of the same ilk, have the same aims and pursue the same methods, and as many of them have maintained themselves for several decades, a strong friendship has grown up amongst them, and they to-day practically control the national committees and the national machinery of both parties.

Thus, in 1920, Cox was nominated for the presidency by a combination of Democratic State bosses, who, fearing defeat, were determined at least to keep their control of the party organization. I know Judge Moore very well. He was the only member of the National Committee in 1916 who threatened to head an open revolt against President Wilson’s selection of Vance McCormick as chairman of the National Committee, because McCormick was not a member of that committee. Judge Hudspeth, of New Jersey, National Committeeman, came to me in great dismay at the St. Louis Convention, and told me so. We had a private telephone to the White House, and, at Hudspeth’s request, I called up the President, and stated the facts. The President answered that, as the campaign was to be run by his own friends, his choice of one of them would have to be ratified even if it displeased Judge Moore.

I was, therefore, much amused in 1920 to see how Judge Moore “beat the devil around the stump” when he wanted George White selected as chairman of the Democratic National Committee. Moore resigned his position as a member of that committee, and White was elected in his place a few hours before he was made chairman of the Democratic National Committee. It was Murphy of New York; Brennan of Chicago, who had taken Roger Sullivan’s place; Nugent of New Jersey; Taggart of Indiana; Moore of Ohio, and Marsh of Iowa—all outstanding bosses—who combined to control the nomination. McAdoo and Mitchell Palmer’s followers not agreeing to combine their forces against this solid phalanx, the latter prevailed and the Democratic National organization is temporarily in their hands.

This method of government is by no means confined to the Democratic Party. The Republicans are even greater offenders. The three Democrats that have been elected to the Presidency since the Civil War—Tilden, Cleveland, and Wilson—were all outstanding reformers, and were nominated in spite of the bosses or machines and not with their coöperation. The Republicans, on the other hand, have perfected to a greater degree the machine control of their party, and for many years their senatorial oligarchy has controlled the party machinery.

At the convention that nominated McKinley this machinery worked perfectly, and Mark Hanna, afterward senator from Ohio, was at the throttle. When, however, McKinley died at the hand of an assassin, in Buffalo, the party leaders as well as the country’s leading business men were tremendously concerned lest Roosevelt should disregard their wishes. The man that the bosses had reluctantly named Vice-President had hurried down from the Adirondacks, but none of the oligarchs had been able to get a word with him. Leaving Buffalo, he got aboard a train for New York, en route to Washington; the leaders boarded the same train. A member of that group himself told me what followed.

The leaders agreed that Hanna should come to a personal understanding with the new President. They went to Roosevelt, who welcomed the idea of the interview.

“I should be de-lighted to have him lunch with me here,” said Roosevelt.

The table was laid in the drawing-room, and as Hanna entered Roosevelt held out both his hands.

“Now, old man,” he said, “let’s be friends.”

Hanna did not take the proffered hands.

“On two conditions,” he stipulated.

“State them,” said Roosevelt.

“First,” said the Senator, “we expect you to carry out McKinley’s policies for the rest of his unexpired term.”

Roosevelt nodded. “I’ll do that, of course. What is your other condition?”

“It’s this,” said the Senator, “never call me ‘old man’ again.”

Then he shook hands. He did more; on his part he promised that if Roosevelt kept his word, and if he retained McKinley’s cabinet and other appointments, he would have Hanna’s support at the next National Convention.

It was a compact that neither man forgot. Before many months were over rumour reported a conspiracy on Hanna’s part and Roosevelt unhesitatingly repeated this to him.

“You are carrying out your part of the bargain,” said the Senator, “as long as you continue to do so, I’ll carry out mine.”

When Hanna died, the machine that he had controlled fell for a time into disuse and Roosevelt, taking advantage of the temporary absence of a machine-bred leader, assumed leadership, not as the head of the old machine, but by virtue of his position as President. He did not recognize the machine leaders of the various states, nor did they stand behind him, but he used his power to name Taft as his successor.

Chief Justice Taft has himself described to me how Roosevelt coached him for the fight. When he called at the White House, the President asked him:

“Now, then, what are you doing about your campaign?”

“I’ve prepared some speeches,” Taft answered.

“What are they about?”

“Well, I’m just back from the Philippines. I understand them, and thought I’d talk mostly about them.”

Roosevelt threw up his hands. “What in the world are you thinking of? You cannot interest the American public at election-time in the Philippines.”

“If you don’t think they’ll want to hear about the Philippines, what do you suggest they would like to hear about?”

“My currency measures,” said the President. “Talk to them about my currency measures. That’s what they’re interested in.”

So the candidate disregarded what he had written and composed a new set of speeches expounding Roosevelt’s ideas on the currency.

Nevertheless, Taft, as history soon demonstrated, did not recognize the Colonel as his boss. He undoubtedly felt sincere friendship for Roosevelt and was grateful to him, but he had a still stronger appreciation of the responsibilities of his office. Consequently, there soon came about a conflict between Roosevelt’s adherents and Taft’s, in which the machine leaders, having got together the pieces of the broken Hanna oligarchy, aligned themselves with the new President.

What followed is still fresh in the memory of most of us. Senator Penrose, of Pennsylvania, gradually assumed leadership of the national machine; the Senate oligarchy was again in control of the Republican Party. Assured in 1912 that if Roosevelt reëntered the White House he would construct an organization that would be the death of theirs, they fought the most desperate of all fights—the fight for self-preservation. They triumphed; the Colonel resented his defeat and bolted the Party. It is one of the absolute principles of machine politics that the welfare of the machine comes before everything else. It is not necessary to be in office; a boss is often stronger when in opposition, with fewer followers discontented through failure to receive a portion of the spoils of victory; better keep the machine intact and court defeat than win a national election for a party candidate that the machine cannot control. These were the maxims that were applied by both of the rival organizations within the Republican fold—the “regular” Republicans and the Progressives—in 1912; together they polled over 7,600,000 as against the 6,293,000 Democratic ballots; but each considered its organization more important than its candidate. The world can, I think, be grateful: the result was Wilson.

From 1912 onward the Republican senatorial oligarchy mended its fences and repaired its machine. With Penrose for the directing mind, this group included Lodge, Knox, Brandegee, Frelinghuysen, Watson of Indiana, Moses, Spencer, Hale, and Wadsworth. Some of these were bosses in their own states; all were influential with their state bosses. Roosevelt they could not ignore, but, when he died, in 1919, they were left absolutely free-handed, and their National Chairman, Will H. Hays, originally a man of Progressive tendencies, had successfully employed his great talents as an organizer in healing the wounds of the internecine struggle of 1912. They nominated Senator Harding, and he was elected.

What has occurred since is important in this connection only as a side-light on my general contention. President Harding knew the senatorial ramifications from within; he understood the conflict of personal ambitions that, human nature being what it is, went on behind the general community of interest in the Senate group. His position was strengthened by the long illness and subsequent death of Penrose and he could, and did, manipulate these personal ambitions, playing one against the other until he secured a practical stalemate. By this evolution of events President Harding has been relieved of the odium of being controlled by a senatorial oligarchy.

If I have elaborated my observations at some length, it is to show why I am a foe to machine politics. This evil, which can reach as high as Washington, has its roots in the city election precinct. The district leader holds his power either through dispensing minor patronage or by influence with magistrates and political clubs, and, to do this, he must retain the favour of the city boss. This gives the latter a thoroughly organized army that includes even a quasi spy system, and at the same time confers a power unshakeable by anything short of an overt criminal act. Personal criticism of the boss, ostracizing him from the better sort of society, does not help matters, does not harm him. He is content with holding what he has won; the thing to be attacked is not the individual; it is the system, and, in combating that, the serious and practically unchangeable difficulty consists in the fact that very few, if any, self-respecting, high-class men will submit to being bossed. They will not take orders from Crokers or Penroses, Hannas or Murphys; therefore, they enter fields where the final arbiters, the men who have to decide upon their worth and promotion, are of a different calibre, and where the reward for their efforts and work is not dependent upon the whims and fancies of a political boss.

CHAPTER VIII

MY ENTRANCE INTO NATIONAL POLITICS

The answer was as simple to me as it was strange to them. My life had been an intense struggle between idealism and materialism. In youth I had burned with an enthusiasm for the ideal, which had fed alike upon the teachings of the Reverend Dr. Einhorn in my boyhood, the inspiring association which I had enjoyed with a saintly Quaker doctor in New York, the noble messages to which I had listened from Christian ministers, and the austere and lofty ethical philosophy of Dr. Felix Adler.

In early manhood, however, the temptation of materialism had beset me in a familiar form. Shortly after my marriage I had some financial disappointments; and I was compelled to devote more time than I had expected to providing for my family. My intention was to make their future modestly secure, and then to resume my idealistic avocation. I soon found, however, that I had a special gift for making money. By the time I had attained the competency which had been my ambition, I had become fascinated with money-making as a game. Before I realized it, I was immersed in a dozen enterprises, was obligated to a hundred business friends, and, like all my associates, was deeply absorbed in the chase for wealth.

Fortunately, in 1905, the prospect of disaster brought me to my senses. I foresaw the Panic of 1907; and, while others all around me plunged onward toward the brink, I paused and took stock of my future. I began to sever my financial connections. This process of slowing down my business pace gave me time for other introspection; and I realized, with astonishment and dismay, how far the swift tide of business had swept me from the course I had charted for my life in youth. I was ashamed to realize that I had neglected the nobler path of duty. I resolved to retire wholly from active business, and to devote the rest of my life to making good the better resolutions of my boyhood.

It took me some years to divest myself of my business obligations on one hand, and, on the other, to find a practical field for social service. During this period, in which I was “finding myself,” I was attracted to the career of Woodrow Wilson. I admired the courage with which he was fighting the battle of democracy at Princeton. And, in the early months of 1911, I was even more delighted to watch his progress as Governor of New Jersey: the splendid fight he was making there to overthrow the rule of the bosses, and to write into the statutes of the state those seven measures of practical reform which his enemies derisively dubbed the “Seven Sisters.”

“Here,” I said to myself, “is a man who does not merely preach political righteousness; here is a practical reformer. This man has Roosevelt’s gift for the dramatic diagnosis of political diseases; he has Bryan’s moral enthusiasm for political righteousness. But he has qualities which these men lack: these are, the constructive faculty, the imagination to devise remedies, the courage to apply them, and the gift of leadership to put them into effective action.” I wished to know more of this new and promising character. I resolved to find an occasion for meeting him.

Such an opportunity came a few weeks later. As president of the Free Synagogue in New York City, I invited Governor Wilson to be a guest of honour at the dinner in celebration of the fourth anniversary of its foundation. As I presided at the dinner, and as the Governor was seated at my right, it gave me a chance to get acquainted. I found in him at once a congenial spirit, and in that one intense conversation I got more from him than I could have gotten from half a dozen casual meetings.

On my left was the other guest of honour, Senator Borah of Idaho. He and Wilson proved instantly antagonistic. The air was electrical with the clash of their dissimilar temperaments. How startled I would have been, that evening, could I have realized that this discordance of their natures, of which I was at that moment acutely conscious, had in it the seeds of a future battle—an epic struggle, with the White House and the Capitol for its headquarters; the world for its audience; and the destiny of the nations, following the greatest war in history, the prize that was staked on the issue.

I was then, in fact, aware only that I was seated between two men of strong and mutually unsympathetic natures; and that they seemed equally to feel this natural antagonism. Wilson revealed it by his request that he be allowed to speak last: he plainly wished to study his rival before he made his own oratorical appearance. Borah was even more palpably depressed by the presence, at the same table with him, of this strange, new, powerful personality, whose glittering intellect and polished manner were so strikingly contrasted with his own blunter, though, in their way, also powerful weapons and character. The Senator was so disturbed by this impact with Wilson’s personality that his own speech of the evening fell far below his usual high standard. He himself was so deeply impressed with this deficiency that twice afterward he recalled to me his comparative failure of that evening. These two men thus seemed predestined to a combat which with natures so intense and powerful could be nothing less than mortal. When, in 1920, Wilson lost (as I believe, only for the moment) his gallant campaign for the League of Nations, and fell truly a soldier stricken on the field of battle, partly because of blows that were dealt by Senator Borah, I could not but revert in memory to the vivid picture of that evening in New York in 1911, when the two men met and took each other’s measure.

They were not alone in this measuring of mettle. Governor Wilson’s speech of that evening was a revelation to all of us who listened. We saw in him a man of lofty idealism, and a knightly spirit; his convictions grounded on the secure foundation of a deep study of governmental institutions, and of the history of the human race; his political philosophy erected symmetrically upon these firm foundations; its façade adorned with a beautiful conception of democracy and justice as the ideals of political endeavour. I, for one, felt that here truly was an inspired leader behind whom all men like myself could range themselves and know that their efforts to advance his fortunes would be an effective participation in the highest form of public service.

My own acceptance of his leadership was instant and decisive. I asked him whether he was really a candidate for President of the United States, and told him that I had a definite object in asking him the question. I was delighted with his reply. Looking me squarely in the eye, he said: “I know a great deal more about the United States than I do about New Jersey.”

“Governor,” I said, “my object in asking you this question was to offer my unreserved moral and financial support of your candidacy.”

The enthusiastic impression I gained upon that evening was confirmed and strengthened two days later, when I attended the dinner of the National Democratic Club, at which the Governor was again a guest of honour. Here, again, he made a speech that was heartening to all who sought leadership in the struggle for the regeneration of America.

Let me remind my readers what the political situation was in 1911. That situation should be recalled in the light of the preceding fourteen years. In that period (which began with the election of William McKinley as President in 1896), the United States had passed through one of the most momentous epochs in its political history. The election of McKinley by the Republicans, under the leadership of Mark Hanna, marked the culmination of thirty years of materialistic growth in this country—three decades in which the energies of the people were absorbed in the conquest of the West, in the building of our gigantic railroad system, and in the magician-like creation of our stupendous manufacturing industries. Pittsburgh was almost the new capital of a new nation, with its marvellous development of iron and steel. It was followed closely by the great manufacturing centres that sprang up in New York, New England, the Middle West, and Alabama. Monstrous fortunes grew up over night from the exploitation of our natural resources, our boundless supplies of coal, iron, oil, zinc, and lead. Masters of industry, like Carnegie and Rockefeller, amassed gold beyond the wildest dreams of even gem-laden Oriental potentates. Masters of transportation like Commodore Vanderbilt and James J. Hill created new empires for the residence of man, and gathered to themselves princely fortunes. Masters of finance, like J. Pierpont Morgan, sat at the golden headwaters of national enterprise, directing the fertilizing streams of credit, and, by taking toll of them as they passed, accumulated an imperial revenue. Below these men were nameless thousands, of only less ability, aping the masters, and dipping with feverish hands into the golden flood. Mingled with these builders were pick-pockets of finance, pirates of promotion, and skulking jackals of commerce. But—all alike were money-mad. From the Morgans and Hills and Rockefellers and Carnegies, who wrought with far-seeing vision, down to the shopkeepers and smallest manufacturers, nine men in ten were absorbed in the game of riches.

Politics, too, had become infected. Public honours were no longer heaped upon patriots and statesmen: the proudest title of distinction was to be called “a captain of industry.” The best brains of the country had been drained out of the public service into business life. Men who, in other days, would have led great public causes, were now presidents of great corporations. Their intellects were taxed to the last limit in the fierce struggle of competition. Their characters were formed and hardened into the inflexible will and ruthless determination of commanders of vast competitive business armies. Men like Morgan, upon whose shoulders rested the responsibility for billions of invested capital, brooked no obstacle that threatened for an instant the security of these vast aggregations of money, nor anything that would stand in the way of their continuous return of profit.

Such gigantic financial operations inevitably affected those inter-relationships of the people which are expressed in law; and organized government soon confronted the danger of being swallowed by organized business. By the close of McKinley’s first administration, government, indeed, had become practically a vassal of business, little better than another instrument of power in the hands of the leaders of industry. Legislation was bought like merchandise; lawmakers and administrators of law were corrupted. Politics had become an almost disreputable profession. Lobbyists of the most odious type flaunted their trade publicly. To the high-minded elements of the community it seemed as if the nation were sliding down the declivity of destruction to share the fate of Rome.

I was myself fresh from this seething caldron of materialistic competition, and I knew personally the men and the methods of Big Business, so that I had occasion to appreciate more keenly than most people the reality of the danger which confronted the nation.

To us perplexed political idealists the country over, who looked on with apprehension at this death grapple between the soul of the people and the ugly octopus of Big Business, the appearance of Woodrow Wilson on the horizon seemed a very act of Providence. Here at last was the leader: the man who, thinking our thoughts, sharing our visions, brought to us the promise of a political personality under whose banner we could range ourselves, organize our enthusiasm, and take fresh hope for redemption.

True, the Democratic Party organization was no better than the Republican. Nevertheless, I recalled with faith the words of that valiant reformer, Carl Schurz, who years before had said:

“Between them [the old parties] stands an element which is not controlled by the discipline of the party organization, but acts upon its own judgment for the public interest. It is the Independent element which in its best sense and shape may be defined as consisting of men who consider it more important that the Government be well administered than that this or that set of men administer it. This Independent element is not very popular with party politicians in ordinary times; but it is very much in requisition when the day of voting comes. It can render inestimable service to the cause of good government by wielding the balance of power it holds with justice and wisdom.”

Here, I thought, in this great body of thoughtful independents of both parties, lies the hope of political regeneration. Woodrow Wilson is the only man in either party who stands out clearly for the things which all of us hold dear. If we can introduce him to these men, if we can lift him up upon a platform high enough to permit his ringing words to reach across the continent, they will rally to his banner as we have done.

It was from these motives, and in this splendid hope, that I threw myself whole-heartedly into what my friends had called a “hopeless cause.” Now was the opportunity to restore idealism to our government; to place man, as of old, above the dollar; to place law once more securely above the greed and personal ambition of the individual. America was very dear to me! I had come to her an alien by race and speech; she had thrown wide open the door of opportunity to me; I had been free to find satisfaction for every one of my ambitions. Surely, the utmost I could do in her service was little enough to repay the just debt I owed her.

Let me return now to the dinner of the National Democratic Club, which I have already mentioned. I sat at a table facing the guests of honour, and before they seated themselves I went up and spoke to Governor Wilson. On a sudden impulse, he exclaimed: “Come along with me, I want to introduce you to someone.” He led me to another table, and there I had my first meeting with Walter Hines Page, who was then editor of the World’s Work magazine, and who was destined later to play such a momentous part in the salvaging of civilization while acting as President Wilson’s Ambassador at the Court of St. James’s. Wilson and Page had been acquainted for many years and they addressed each other familiarly.

“This,” said the Governor, laying his hand on my shoulder, “is the Mr. Morgenthau I talked about to you this afternoon. Now you two get acquainted.” He then returned to the speakers’ table, and Page spoke to me and expressed his hearty satisfaction at welcoming “the latest recruit to the little band of Wilson adherents.” He invited me to call upon him at his place of business, at Garden City, Long Island, for a longer conference.

Two years later Page and I recalled this scene, under very altered circumstances. I stopped in London on my way to Constantinople. There I found Page installed in the American Embassy. When I entered his private office, Page had cleared his room, and we faced each other there alone—Page sitting forward on the edge of his chair, his elbow on the table, his head leaning against his hand, and with the most quizzical and expectant look upon his face. I said to him, “Ambassador, I know what you are thinking about.”

“Well, what?” he challenged.

“You are thinking,” I said, “of the day when the Governor of New Jersey introduced the retired financier to the magazine editor. That was only two years ago; and now what a difference! He is President of the United States; you are here as his Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s; and I am his Ambassador at the Sublime Porte. And you are thinking that it’s mighty funny.”

“No; you’re wrong,” said he.

“Then what are you thinking?”

Still giving me that quizzical look over the top of his glasses, and dropping his voice to the very bottom of his diaphragm, he rumbled, “I was thinking it’s blanked funny!”

Some time after our first meeting I called on Mr. Page at Garden City, and told him I was now ready to immerse myself completely in the campaign; and some months after this William G. McAdoo invited me to join him at a luncheon with William F. McCombs, who was then in full charge of Wilson’s campaign for the nomination. I then agreed to subscribe a substantial sum, and, also, to undertake raising money from others. They accepted both offers gladly. I found the first by far the easier to make good. To redeem the second was a very different matter: my friends in the business world looked upon me almost as one who had lost his reason. “Why,” they asked me, “should any one who has property be willing to entrust the management of the United States to the Democratic Party? How can a reasonable man hope for Wilson’s nomination against veterans like Bryan, Clark, and Underwood? And how can any Democrat hope for victory against the intrenched Republicans?”

It was the hardest proposition that I ever undertook to sell, but we managed somehow to meet our financial emergencies as we came to them.

Meanwhile, the other candidates were busy. William Jennings Bryan had been, for years, at once the prophet and the Nemesis of the Democratic Party. He controlled its national machinery. Thrice he had led it to defeat, and now, for the fourth time, he aspired to lead the charge. Party politicians, who knew that Bryan’s economic heresies were fatal to the party, did not dare call together the national committee, where his discipline ruled their actions. The only other place where party councils could be taken was in the National Capitol. For this reason, the cloakroom of the House of Representatives became the whispering gallery of other aspirants. The House developed two candidates for the nomination: Champ Clark, the genial Speaker; and Oscar Underwood, the popular and substantial floor leader of the majority.

Nevertheless, we adherents of Wilson were not dismayed. Our plan of action was to secure a few state delegations, and, for the rest, to concentrate our energies upon creating, through the press, a sentiment among the Democratic masses, which, we hoped, at the end would prove irresistible in the Convention.

The first great test of our success (and, what was more important, of Wilson’s capacity to grow to national stature) came on the occasion of the Jackson Day dinner at Washington on January 8, 1912. This classic festival of Democracy has, every quadrennium, a special and a solemn significance for candidates for the Presidency. It is somewhat like the opening day of the Kentucky Derby at Louisville, when the favourite horses are led out before the first race for the inspection of the spectators. A seat at this dinner is as much prized by Democratic politicians as a grandstand seat is at the races. The candidates and their managers are as much excited as are the horse owners and their trainers. Upon the showing made at this preliminary try-out depends much of the crystallization of the sentiment amongst the politicians in favour of one special candidate.

Our first experience with this dinner was a disappointment. We men who were active in Governor Wilson’s behalf had our headquarters at the New Willard Hotel; and we had gone there a day earlier to make arrangements for more than one hundred of the leading Democratic politicians and citizens of New Jersey who were coming on to Washington the next day, to back up Wilson’s aspirations. Imagine our dismay when we found that, of the sixty-five tickets for the dinner to which New Jersey was entitled, fifty had been given to Mr. Nugent instead of to Mr. Grosscup, the chairman of the state committee. Mr. Nugent was one of Governor Wilson’s bitterest opponents, and well enough we knew that we could not get back the tickets from him.

News of this blow came to me at 11 o’clock at night, just as I was turning out my light preparatory to retiring. My telephone rang. I heard the excited voice of Judge Hudspeth, the national committeeman from New Jersey, exclaiming: “Come right over to our room! We need you at once!” “But,” I protested, “I am just getting into bed for the night.” “Haven’t you learned yet,” he cried impatiently, “that politicians never sleep?”

Reluctantly, I got back into my clothes and went to his rooms. There I found McCombs, Congressman Hughes, Mr. Grosscup, Joe Tumulty, and others. They were angry at the miscarriage of the tickets, which they attributed to trickery; and gloomy at the thought of the poor showing we would make to our hundred and more friends from New Jersey who were coming down to the dinner, and who would charge us with lack of influence in the higher councils of the party.

I turned the situation over in my mind while they were giving vent to their indignation, and said:

“I think I see a way to turn this mishap into a victory. Let us arrange an overflow dinner for Mr. Wilson’s friends exclusively, and give him an opportunity to show his appreciation of their presence, and to get their inspiration.”

This idea of a separate dinner at the Shoreham Hotel was a happy thought, for at the main dinner at the Raleigh not more than fifteen diners were really friends of Wilson. It was a discouraging outlook for a man who faced the ordeal of trying to win an audience. The overflow meeting solved this difficulty. It gave him the encouragement of an enthusiastic greeting from a large body of his friends before he had to face the unsympathetic audience at the main gathering.

The morning of the day of the dinner Governor Wilson came to Washington and went into conference with Dudley Field Malone, Franklin P. Glass of Alabama, and myself at a luncheon in his room. He was confronted with a serious problem. The newspapers of that very day were full of the letter he had written to Adrian H. Joline, in which he had been guilty of that famous indiscretion of saying that “William Jennings Bryan should be knocked into a cocked hat.” As we sat at luncheon about twenty reporters were waiting outside for Mr. Wilson to give them an explanation of this letter. It might have the gravest political consequences. Bryan was still the most powerful politician in the party, and, though he was not able to gain the nomination for himself, he could easily keep any other man from getting it. Wilson was deeply concerned to find a way out of this difficulty; but though he was greatly worried, I can still recall with what keen appetite he attacked a big steak and plateful of vegetables, while he asked for our suggestions. He listened to us all, and then he said:

“Now, let me bare my mind to you. What did I really mean when I wrote that letter? I have always admired Mr. Bryan as a clean-thinking, progressive citizen. I have always admired his methods of diagnosing the troubles and difficulties of the country. But I have never admired, nor approved, his remedies. What I really meant, then, was that his remedies should be knocked into a cocked hat.”

We then discussed the means by which this explanation should be given to the public. We finally agreed that Wilson should not give it through the press, but should wait until the Jackson Day dinner, that evening, to make his explanation. Malone then went outside and told the reporters our decision.

In the meantime, we had heard that Bryan was not really much annoyed at Wilson, because he realized that the men who were trying to injure Wilson were trying to injure him also. Hence we sent an emissary to Bryan to ask whether he would be willing to speak at our overflow dinner, and though he declined the invitation, he did so graciously.

The main dinner that evening at the Raleigh was attended by more than seven hundred eager politicians from all parts of the country. It was an exciting occasion for everyone, and an occasion of special apprehension for us, because it was Wilson’s début in national politics.

About midway of that dinner Wilson slipped away from the speakers’ table, and drove over to the Shoreham. There, our happy gathering of a hundred had been kept entertained and enlivened by speeches from Tumulty, Dudley Malone, and others. When Wilson arrived, he found an audience eager to be charmed, and it put him upon his mettle. He gave a very happy speech; and when he left, to return to the Raleigh, there were cheers and felicitations ringing in his ears. It put him in fine feather for his masterly effort of the evening at the main dinner.

Here I had an opportunity to observe, at very close range, one of the most interesting spectacles of my whole experience. At the speakers’ table sat Senator O’Gorman, the toastmaster of the evening. At his right was William Jennings Bryan, the ever-hopeful leader of the Democrats, who was playing each of the important candidates against the other, in the hope of killing them all off, and securing the nomination himself. There sat also Underwood and Clark and Foss and Hearst and Marshall. Pomerene was there, as the representative of Governor Harmon of Ohio, and Judge Parker, happily forgetting his defeat. Each man knew that this moment was charged with fateful destiny. As each one made his speech, I could see the others taking his measure, and watching the crowd of diners to divine its reaction. Bryan, as the patriarch of the candidates, was to make the last address of the evening. It was to be his opportunity for a great oration that would restore to him the mastery of the party.

Wilson was the last speaker to precede him. When he arose, there was a brief applause of politeness, with an extra short outburst from the little handful of fifteen adherents. Every speaker who had gone before him had talked of party harmony. Wilson seized the opportunity of this text to clear up, with one masterly stroke, the dilemma of the “cocked hat” story. After a few happy remarks of acquiescence in the plea for harmony, Wilson turned to Mr. Bryan and, with a really Chesterfieldian gesture, said: “If any one has said anything about any of the other candidates, for which he is sorry, now is the time to apologize,” and made a smiling bow to the Commoner.

The audience broke into spontaneous and sincere applause at this stroke. They appreciated both its manliness and its cleverness; and they sat up with really expectant attention to hear the rest of his address.

Wilson rose to his opportunity. His speech revealed to these men a new power in the party. He made a splendid exposition of the issues before the country, and gave his vision of the remedies with beautiful eloquence and unanswerable logic. The audience progressed from rapt attention to enthusiasm.

All this time I was watching the face of Bryan. I have never seen a more interesting play of expression on the stage than the exhibition which he unconsciously gave. Here was the rising of a new political star, which he well knew meant the setting of his own. His face expressed in turn surprise, alarm, hesitation, doubt, gloom, despair. When Wilson took his seat amidst tremendous applause Bryan’s face was that of a man who had met his Waterloo. He rose like one who was dazed, and made a speech of abdication. He said that the time had come when a new man should be nominated, a man who was free from the asperities of the past, and that he was willing to march in the ranks of the party, and work with the rest of us to help on this victory, which he saw assured. He then started to sit down, but everyone applauded so vigorously, shouting “Go on! Go on!” that he became confused. For once, his political sagacity forsook him: he did not realize that he should stop. He regained his feet, and made a sad anti-climax by telling the diners stories of his observations in the Philippines and elsewhere. The evening was a Wilson triumph.

The effect upon Wilson’s fortune was instantaneous. The next morning our little headquarters was the Mecca of the politicians. Congressmen and Senators and members of the National Committee streamed to our rooms at the Willard. Some came to pledge us their support of Wilson; others to take the measure of his managers. Of the latter class, Senator Stone of Missouri was the most interesting. We saw then how he had earned his title, “Gum Shoe Bill.” He dropped in, so he said, for just a minute’s conversation, as Mrs. Stone was waiting for him in the lobby, where he had promised to rejoin her in a few minutes. He stayed for more than half an hour. He spent that time telling us a very humorous story, which would be worth retelling on its merits if it were printable. It dealt with several whimsical characters in a little town in the Ozarks, and he told it with all the rich embroidery of characterization and dialogue with which the best Southern story tellers elaborate their narratives. It was really a little masterpiece of the raconteur’s art, but it had no pertinence to our serious business. I soon became aware, however, that Stone himself had a serious purpose. All the while he was spinning his story out, to make it longer, his eyes were stealing from one face to another of his auditors, shrewdly appraising their reactions, studying each of them to learn what he could of their characters and foibles. When he finally drew the story to its close, sprung the “nub,” and got a round of laughter, he left, as I felt sure at the moment, with a pretty definite estimate of each of us in his head.

The extraordinary success of Wilson’s Jackson Day speech had its evil effects as well. It made other candidates realize that the man each of them had to beat was Wilson. Thus, all the politicians centred their attacks on him. They ceased their efforts to take delegates away from one another, and allotted to each candidate an undisputed field in the territory where he could help to make a showing. Their plan was to prevent Wilson from coming to the Convention with a large pledged vote.

In the meantime, we devoted our efforts to making Wilson popular among the Democratic press and masses, building up, throughout the country, a sentiment which made him the second choice in nearly every section where a favourite son got a preference with the delegates. Our greatest fear was that one of the two strongest candidates might yield his strength to the other in the hope of defeating Wilson.

Fortunately for us, the logic of the situation made our strategy also the best strategy for Bryan. He and his brother, with their keen political sense, were playing exactly the same game as we were. The result was that every candidate came to the Convention with his full strength, and a determination to use it.

We had other troubles. Repeatedly we faced financial difficulties, and many times the few men of means among us had to go down into their own pockets to make up the deficiency. I had to do so myself, and I leaned heavily on devoted friends of Wilson, like Cleveland H. Dodge, Charles R. Crane, and Abram I. Elkus. Then, too, there were personal differences. I shall never forget when Dudley Field Malone, with his high-powered temperament and his high-flown oratory, burst into my office, exclaiming, “I come with a message from a King to a King!”

“Come to earth, talk English,” I responded.

“Well,” he said, “the Governor has sent me to ask you to investigate the row between McCombs and Byron Newton. He wants you to settle the matter without his intervention.”

I sent for Newton first, to get his version of the trouble; and when he called, he was so unbridled in his language and so sweeping and illogical in his accusations against McCombs—he gave me an ultimatum that either he or McCombs must be instantly displaced—that I did not wait to hear the other side of the story, but promptly decided in McCombs’s favour. I concluded at once that Governor Wilson could not afford, at that critical moment, to expose himself to the charge of being ungrateful toward McCombs, who, notwithstanding his shortcomings, had rendered him invaluable services.

At last came the great days of the Convention. We went to Baltimore with less than half enough pledged delegates to secure the nomination. Our hopes lay in the splendid impression that Wilson had made upon the country, and in the generalship we should exercise upon the floor of the Convention. The odds were all in favour of Champ Clark. He had better than a hundred more pledged delegates than Wilson, and the ground swell of the politicians in his favour. Still, we were not daunted.

There were elements in our favour. The Baltimore Sun, chiefly through the enthusiasm of Charles H. Grasty, created an atmosphere of Wilson optimism in the city that had an undoubted effect upon the delegates. And a determining influence with many delegates and the public at large was a wonderful editorial, written by Frank I. Cobb and published in the New York World at the psychological moment.

The supreme opportunity for all of us to use our best talents in behalf of Wilson came at the dramatic climax of the Convention when, on the third day and with the tenth ballot, Champ Clark received a majority vote of the delegates. Though two thirds were necessary to get the nomination, Clark’s adherents thought that the achievement of a majority marked the turn of the tide and the assurance of victory. They had sound historical warrant for this faith: for only once before had a Democratic candidate who received a majority of the votes failed to get the nomination.

If Clark’s managers had been able to capitalize that critical moment, their candidate might have gone to the White House eight months later.

When this tenth ballot was announced, the Convention greeted the Clark majority with wild enthusiasm. What his managers should have done was to have pressed this advantage to an immediate conclusion. A few more quick ballots taken under the emotion of that moment would doubtless have carried him over the line to victory. Instead, they wasted the opportunity, and the Missouri delegation organized a snake dance around the hall, and spent the next fifty-five minutes frittering away the precious enthusiasm of the Convention by cheering themselves hoarse in celebration of an assumed victory. They stimulated the joy of Clark’s adherents by bringing in his young daughter, wrapped in an American flag, and placing her beside the chairman. This pretty picture provoked a fresh outburst of triumphant cheering.

Those fifty-five minutes cost Clark the nomination. McCombs, Palmer, McAdoo, and the rest of us had a hurried consultation on the platform, not ten feet away from Ollie James, the impartial chairman, who did nothing to discourage the wild demonstration. We agreed on a plan of campaign, and, as lieutenants, all scurried about the hall, consulting with the leaders of the other delegates. We got the Underwood forces to agree to stand fast for their candidate on the next few ballots, and made the same arrangement with the Marshall and Foss delegates, pledging ourselves, in turn, to hold our people fast for Wilson.

In three quarters of an hour we had corralled our delegates safely out of the path of the Clark stampede. They sat immovable in the face of the frenzy of the crowd. When the Clark demonstration had subsided, and the next ballot was taken, the Clark managers had a rude awakening: the result was practically unchanged. Then, with a stroke of political genius, Mitchell Palmer arose, and claimed recognition from the Chair. Tall, massive, and extremely handsome, Palmer was at the height of youthful grace and vigour. The Chairman recognized him, and Palmer moved an immediate adjournment to the following morning. Before the Clark delegates grasped the meaning of this manœuvre the motion had been put and carried. This respite gave Clark’s enemies a full day in which to make fresh alliances against him, and every one of the succeeding thirty-five ballots cut down his vote in the Convention.

The tide had turned. Wilson’s strength grew steadily, because as soon as a delegate realized that his own candidate’s cause was hopeless, his thoughts turned from his personal preference to the welfare of the party, and, in almost every case, he realized that Wilson was the one man to lead it on to victory. They realized, too, that a solemn duty rested on them. The Roosevelt defection from the Republican Party had ruined its chances, so that these Democratic delegates knew they were not merely nominating a candidate—they were actually electing a President.

After the nomination, the preliminary notification followed at Sea Girt a few days later. Here again was an opportunity to study human nature. Most of the defeated competitors for the nomination came and tendered their hearty congratulations. But Clark came like one who was attending the funeral of his hopes. He could not master his disappointment, nor conceal it. His depression lay upon the gathering like a cloud. It was so palpable that Tumulty saw that something must be done to lift it, else the proper spirit of the occasion would be destroyed. Tumulty then came to me, and suggested that Clark be taken for a ride. I approached Clark, and invited him to use my car. He accepted and asked if he might go anywhere he wished, and, of course, my reply was, “Certainly.” He then explained that his daughter was visiting in the neighbourhood, and he would like to see her. Filling the car with his friends, they drove away, with my son, Henry Morgenthau, Jr., at the wheel.

When my son came back, he had a broad smile on his countenance. “Where do you suppose,” he exclaimed, “Clark asked me to take him? His daughter is staying with George Harvey’s daughter!”

The “George Harvey” to whom my son referred was, of course, Mr. Wilson’s former supporter with whom he had recently had a much-advertised disagreement, and who is now Mr. Harding’s much-discussed Ambassador in London.

Here was a dilemma! I had already told Governor Wilson that Clark had gone to visit his daughter, and that she was staying with friends in the neighbourhood, and he had said: “I shall see that my daughters call on her.” Now, I had to tell him who “the friends in the neighbourhood” were. When I did so, he only smiled, and said: “That’s rather awkward, isn’t it?”

CHAPTER IX

THE CAMPAIGN OF 1912

I really felt that my own connection with the campaign was at an end. With the Presidency thus secure by reason of the Republicans’ internecine quarrel, we Democrats were in the position of a plaintiff who had simply to go through the formality of entering judgment by default and take possession of the Government on behalf of the people.

I had never participated in the active work of a national campaign, and it did not appeal to me to do so. The offer made me by McCombs to become chairman of the Finance Committee I had promptly declined, as I thought that if I had anything to do with the finances of the National Democratic Committee, I should be treasurer. So I prepared to spend the summer in the Adirondacks. But the day that I was to take my family to the mountains I motored down to Sea Girt to bid Governor Wilson good-bye. The Governor had not yet come down to breakfast, and, as I had to take an early train to make my connection for the mountains, I was about to leave when word came down from him requesting me to wait a few minutes longer, as he was anxious to see me. Shortly afterward he came down the steps, as sprightly and active as a man of thirty, full of energy and determination. When I told him I had come to say good-bye to him, he was surprised and concerned.

“This is a great disappointment to me,” said Governor Wilson. “I had hoped that you would accept the position of chairman of the Finance Committee. This is a new position which I have asked the National Committee to create especially for you, and I had relied upon your willingness to accept it and render me a great service.”

I told the Governor that I was disinclined to be merely a money collector, and unless I was appointed treasurer, or a member of the Campaign Committee, I should not care to participate in the campaign. The Governor answered:

“Of course I expect you to be a member of the Campaign Committee, and I still hope that I can persuade you to accept the chairmanship of the Finance Committee. My idea is that in this campaign the chairman of the Finance Committee will have to perform the functions of the president of a bank, directing the large financial policies and protecting me against mistakes of accepting moneys from improper sources. The treasurer should correspond to the cashier. He should be the custodian of the funds and have charge of the clerical and bookkeeping details.

“I shall insist that no contributions whatever be even indirectly accepted from any corporation. I want especial attention paid to the small contributors. And I want great care exercised over the way the money is spent. These duties will call for an unusual degree of ingenuity and resourcefulness. I would not ask you to undertake this task if I didn’t think you had the imagination to accomplish it; and I would not expect you to accept it if I did not think it would be interesting to a man of your experience and ability.”

The Governor seemed so genuinely concerned and showed so clearly that he dreaded facing another financial canvass after the frequent worries he had endured from this source in his pre-nomination fight, that I could no longer resist. I accepted, and added:

“I shall take a few days to settle my family in the Adirondacks; then I shall return and get to work. And now, Governor, having accepted the responsibility, I want to assure you that you may dismiss all thoughts of finance from your mind from now until election.”

The Governor took my hand and held it while he said:

“You do not realize what a load you are lifting from my shoulders. I can now devote myself entirely to campaigning and to my duties as Governor.”

I considered the discussion closed and was about to leave, when the Governor detained me.

“One thing more,” he said. “There are three rich men in the Democratic Party whose political affiliations are so unworthy that I shall depend on you personally to see that none of their money is used in my campaign!”

I gave him my assurance, and he gave me their names. This was the only occasion on which I discussed finances with Mr. Wilson from that day to this. I made good my promise that he should have no cause to think again of finances. And when he went into the White House he went without obligations, expressed or implied, to any man for any money that had been contributed during the campaign.

The principal reason I was able to make good my promise to the Governor was that I instituted, for the first time in American political history, a budget system both for collecting the funds and expending them. I called to my assistance Mr. Raymond B. Fosdick, a budget expert; and in consultation with the members of the Democratic National Committee, we worked out an allotment of the amounts we expected from the various states. We then worked out the kinds of legitimate expenditures which we would encounter, weighed their relative values, and allotted to each its corresponding proportion of the money we expected to raise. With minor exceptions, we adhered to this budget throughout the campaign; and we had the great pleasure of paying every bill in full before the first of the following January, and of having $25,000 cash balance to the credit of the National Committee in bank.

My financial work in the National Committee was novel to me only in the sense that it was managing the use of money in a new field. But my work with the Committee on its human and political sides was an entirely new experience, and a very fascinating one.

On the human side, I found the same play of personal ambitions—of jealousy and other evil passions—aroused by the prospect of advantage in politics, that I had seen aroused by the prospect of material reward in business. But, on the whole, the human picture in politics was as pleasant as it was interesting. Our headquarters was, to be sure, the scene of the ill-humoured rivalries of McCombs and McAdoo and their adherents; but, on the other hand, it was the scene also of the touching fraternal devotion of “Joe” Wilson, whom the Governor affectionately called “my kid brother,” who gladly did all the tasks that came to hand out of sheer regard for the Governor. The delightful friendships that I formed with Rollo Wells, Josephus Daniels, Joseph E. Davies, Senator O’Gorman, Hugh C. Wallace, Homer S. Cummings, and others, were a source of enduring pleasure. We all soon fell into the genial habit of calling one another by our first names—this is indeed a custom of the National Committee. McCombs, who felt somewhat my greater age, began calling me “Uncle Henry,” a name which has since stuck to me in the familiar conversation of most of my close political friends.

As it ultimately turned out, the headquarters was a proving ground for coming Cabinet members, senators, and diplomats. Josephus Daniels had for the moment abandoned his paper in North Carolina and come to New York to take charge of the national publicity. McAdoo dropped his business temporarily to become vice-chairman of the National Committee and forward the Wilson fortunes. Congressman Redfield, discarded by the local Democratic organization in Brooklyn, found an opportunity for usefulness which led to his later appointment as Secretary of Commerce. At the Chicago branch of National Headquarters, Albert S. Burleson of Texas was a field-marshal of our growing army. Colonel House did not take an active part in the direction of the campaign; he was then only in process of attracting Wilson’s confidence in him as a man above the wish for personal advancement.

But on its political side I found my work a real revelation. Perhaps, indeed, the biggest single lesson I ever got in politics I got through the contact I then experienced with William Sulzer, who was Democratic candidate for Governor of New York. This experience added so much to my knowledge of the invisible government which stands behind government, and was besides so picturesque and dramatic, that I think it worth while recounting it at some length.

One morning as I sat at my desk at the headquarters in New York, an odd though familiar figure was ushered into my office. I had known William Sulzer for perhaps twenty years. His greatest pride was his resemblance in face and figure to the immortal Henry Clay. This physical resemblance was not fanciful. Sulzer had his high forehead, large mouth, and deep-set eyes—he bore, indeed, altogether a quite remarkable likeness to the Sage of Ashland. He had, too, the same long, slender, and loose-jointed figure. This resemblance, with which Nature had endowed him, Sulzer had cultivated with assiduous care. He had grown a long forelock, and had trained it to fall over the forehead after the Clay style. And he had cultivated a gift for ready speech into as near an approach to the eloquence of Clay as his limitations of mind permitted.

But as I looked up at him that morning in 1912, I saw Sulzer garbed in a strange departure from the elegance with which Clay, who was something of a dandy, was used to adorn his person. Sulzer was made up—it is fair to use this theatrical expression because Sulzer was evidently seeking a theatrical effect—made up to portray the part of “a statesman of the people.” His coat was of one pattern, and his vest of another. His baggy trousers were of a third. The gray sombrero which he always affected was rather dingy; his linen just a trifle soiled. Familiar as I was with Sulzer’s political poses, through our acquaintance, I mentally noted the skill of the morning’s costume in dressing the part of “a friend of the people.”

Sulzer’s career had been of a sort possible only in America. A native of New Jersey, the son of a Presbyterian minister, a graduate of Columbia University, a man of good family, good mind, and good education, he had taken up his residence on the lower East Side of New York City, had joined the Tammany organization, and had struck out boldly for a great political career in those untoward surroundings. Despite his religious heritage, he had been greatly impressed, as a young man, with the prophecy of a clairvoyant who had told him he should be Speaker of the New York State Assembly, Governor of New York, and President of the United States.

Sulzer had, indeed, made considerable progress on this path of political advancement. Elected to the State Assembly as a young man in his early twenties, he quickly rose to prominence, and at thirty he was chosen Speaker—the youngest man, I believe, ever to hold that office. From the State Assembly he was sent by Tammany to Congress, and now, in 1912, had represented his district in Washington for seventeen years. He constantly “played up” to the Jewish element. The ingratiating manner which he carefully cultivated appealed to a people, proud, sensitive, and accustomed to a lack of consideration from officers of Government. In Congress he was indefatigable in the interest of his constituents; and, on the whole, his attitude on public questions was satisfactory. From the public viewpoint Sulzer was one of the most respectable of the Tammany adherents. From the Tammany viewpoint he was “safe.”

The nomination of Governor Wilson and the assurances of Democratic Party success in the national campaign gave Sulzer his great opportunity. From the Tammany leaders came covert intimations to us members of the Democratic National Committee, that we would be permitted to suggest the Democratic candidate for Governor of New York. Fortunately we realized the implications of this offer and declined it. It meant, in substance, that Tammany, by permitting us to name the candidate for Governor, thereby became fully affiliated with the national campaign and would be in a position to demand, after election, special consideration in the distribution of Federal patronage. We made a reply which did not offend Tammany but which, on the other hand, left us entirely free of the Tammany entanglement. We said that we were not interested in taking a hand in the state situation; that we endorsed the then widespread public demand for an “open convention” to nominate the Governor. We suggested that Tammany refrain from dictating the nomination, so that the Independents of New York would support the national as well as the state Democratic ticket.

The Tammany leaders professed to accept this decision. The state convention, when held, had the air of an open convention. They cast about for a candidate, and settled on Sulzer. Without inconveniencing Tammany, he had been able to make something of a reputation as a political progressive. He had professed a great attachment for social reforms, the kind which Roosevelt in Washington and Wilson in New Jersey had made popular. He had built up a reputation as a friend of the common man, and in New York he was still “strong with the East Side.” Tammany manipulated the “open convention” at Syracuse, and Sulzer was nominated for Governor.

I had followed Sulzer’s career with a good deal of interest. Though I did not approve of his capitalizing politically his friendship for a racial element, I felt, nevertheless, that he had been a useful public servant; and he had been successful with me, as he had been with many other political independents, in making me believe that he was sincerely interested in the cause of civic reform. Consequently, I greeted him cordially.

Sulzer began the conversation by thanking me for “what I had done in helping him and bringing about his nomination.” This was a polite generality as, of course, I had had no hand in that enterprise, except that I had been a party to the “hands-off” policy of the National Committee, and also, that I had shared in the request of the Committee to McAdoo not to accept this nomination which some of his friends were trying, with some hope of success, to secure for him. We had felt that it was his duty to stay in the national campaign, as McCombs was still incapacitated by illness.

Sulzer then went on to express the wish that I would be of use to him after he was elected. He spoke in glowing terms of the reputation Governor Wilson had made by his reforms in New Jersey, and expressed an ambition to make a similar record as Governor of New York. He confided to me the clairvoyant’s prophecy of his future and declared that he believed that the path to the Presidency lay in championing “the cause of the people.”

He wanted my coöperation, after he should be elected Governor, in formulating plans to make his administration a success. As everyone knows who is experienced either in business or politics, there are “subtleties of approach” that suggest a man’s real meaning without his even remotely mentioning the true subject in conversation. Sulzer’s remarks were of this nature. I saw plainly that he was directing my thoughts to a point where it would be possible for him without embarrassment to solicit a subscription to his campaign fund. I wanted to save the future Governor of New York from soliciting a subscription, and consequently, I forestalled his intention by voluntarily handing him my check for $1,000. His response to this action was in keeping with the amenities of the situation. He said: “I did not expect that from you. I don’t want it, because you are doing so much for the National Committee.” But the check disappeared into a pocket of his dingy coat.