EARLY POLITICAL EXPERIENCES
My earliest contact with the inner workings of politics was reading the
dramatic story of the downfall of the infamous Tweed Ring.
Tweed had seemed a wonderful figure; we boys knew him only in his
largest successful aspects as a dictator: the originator of Riverside
Drive, the constructor of the lavish Court House, the arbiter of the
City’s destinies. He had made John T. Hoffman, Governor of the State,
and A. Oakey Hall, Mayor of the City.
I had come into personal touch with the picturesque Oakey Hall. I had to
serve a summons on him in his official capacity and found him in his
executive office wearing a red velvet coat.
“Young man,” he said, with all the patronage of an emperor addressing
some messenger from a remote province of his domains--and with a
splendid accentuation of his title--“you can now swear that you have
served the _Mayor_ of New York!”
Sometime thereafter I saw this same mayor act in “The Crucible,” a play
written by himself, to prove his innocence under the Tweed régime.
We law-students had looked with veneration to the Supreme Court. We
conceived of its members as men of immaculate morality, constantly
practising an even balance of the scales of Justice. Our deepest
admiration was evoked by their confidence and self-possession and the
awe-inspiring manner in which they exercised their powers. Many a time
when I went before one of these judges to ask an adjournment, or to
have an order signed, I marvelled at the rapidity with which he grasped
the contents of the papers submitted to him, and it was a severe blow to
my faith in our legal and political institutions when the impeachment of
several of these judges, and the removal of some of them, showed that
not a few had been tools in the hands of a corrupt boss.
Nor were we younger men alone in our disillusionment. Others had been
deceived; the leading citizens of New York had associated themselves in
business with the imposing dictator. I still have an advertisement of
the New York (Viaduct) Railroad Company, and in the list of its
directors the name of William M. Tweed appears between that of A. T.
Stewart and August Belmont; Richard B. Connolly next to Joseph Seligman;
John Jacob Astor has A. Oakey Hall on one side and Peter B. Sweeney on
the other; immediately after Sweeney comes Levi P. Morton. The “Big
Four” of Tammany were in good company.
How far the Ring might have extended its power, it is impossible to say.
Tweed had promoted Hoffman from the mayoralty to the governorship and no
doubt intended to present him as a presidential candidate in ’72.
Amongst my clippings I find one which shows that the West was already
considering Hoffman as a national figure. It is from a New York
newspaper and quotes the Western press as announcing the following
slate:
R. Gratz Brown of Missouri, President;
John Quincy Adams of Massachusetts, Vice-President;
Governor Hoffman of New York, Secretary of State;
Lyman Trumbull of Illinois, Secretary of the Treasury;
General Hancock of Pennsylvania, Secretary of War;
Thomas A. Hendricks of Indiana, Secretary of the Interior;
Horace Greeley of New York, Postmaster-General;
George H. Pendleton of Ohio, Attorney-General.
As it happened, Greeley became a presidential and Gratz Brown a
vice-presidential candidate; Hancock subsequently ran for president, and
Hendricks achieved the vice-presidency; but the serious and
uncontradicted publication of that slate indicated the direction of
Tweed’s ambitions at the time when Samuel J. Tilden wrought his downfall
and relegated Hoffman into obscurity.
In the reaction from these disclosures, Tilden became the younger
generation’s hero: he had rescued New York from corruption. I was so
impressed with his services that, when my fellow law-student, Michael
Sigerson, ran for the State Assembly, while Tilden sought the
presidency, I made my first entry into politics--before I was even a
voter--by giving several October nights, in 1876, to speech-making for
Tilden and Sigerson in the latter’s district on the Lower East Side.
I am one of those who have always felt that Tilden was elected, and that
the National Republican machine prevented him from taking his seat.
My observation of the machine system convinced me, through such
happenings, that the gravest danger to democracy arose from within. I
soon saw that, in such a city as New York, where the mass of the voters
are unfamiliar with governmental functions and ignorant that a proper
administration thereof is the safeguard of liberty, the control of the
dominant party would frequently be secured by a character like Tweed.
The more I saw of Tammany Hall, the deeper this conviction became.
Tammany was then as well organized as at any time in its history. The
district leaders were generally selected by its boss and always
responsible to him. They, in turn, had their precinct leaders dependent
on them for preferment and continuance in office. The boss arranged his
appointments so that he could absolutely depend on the servility of a
majority of the district leaders. It was only now and then that one had
the courage to assert his independence and fight the machine. Then he
would either be summarily displaced, lose his own little organization by
his inability to dispense patronage, or else he would be brought back
into slavery by the gift of office.
This plan of organization has, with slight alterations, continued ever
since. After Tweed’s displacement, John Kelly came into the leadership;
his personal honesty was never doubted, but he had used the old system
to obtain power and had to continue it to hold what he had gained. The
story of his downfall, though not discreditable to him, is almost as
dramatic as Tweed’s.
In his political capacity, Kelly was Comptroller of the City of New
York, when a number of reformers determined to oust him; in his personal
capacity, he was the owner of an influential newspaper, the _Express_.
The loss of the comptrollership would, of course, involve the loss of
his Tammany leadership; but the policy of his paper was an important
factor in the fight.
William C. Whitney, then Corporation Counsel, headed the opposition; he
had planned to remove Kelly by a vote of the Board of Aldermen. Two
things were necessary: publicity in the press and votes in the Board.
James Gordon Bennett’s career was just then at its height. Not long
before Whitney began his quiet campaign the owner of the _Herald_--a
powerful six-footer--entering the old Delmonico’s restaurant at Chambers
Street and Broadway, tried to brush aside a slim young man who was
unconsciously crowding him at the bar. To Bennett’s amazement, the
stranger offered resistance. Quick blows were exchanged, and before the
newspaper proprietor knew what had happened, he had measured his length
on the floor; his antagonist was the pugilist Edwards, lightweight
champion of that period. Bennett exerted his influence on the newspapers
to suppress all accounts of this occurrence, and everyone agreed except
the _Express_. It published the story, and, in consequence, Whitney
found the owner of the _Herald_ perfectly willing to do his part toward
the political downfall of the owner of the _Express_. Bennett turned all
the guns of his paper on the Comptroller.
For action in the Board of Aldermen, however, some Republican votes were
required. Whitney consulted Roscoe Conkling, then leader of his party in
New York State and soon to win national fame for his all but successful
attempt to secure Grant’s nomination to a third term in the White House.
Conkling’s reply was what Whitney expected: the Republican state leader
would not interfere in local matters, but had no objection to Whitney’s
discussing them with his county lieutenants.
Whitney did. He went to the Republican county leaders, and they agreed
to deliver the necessary votes in the Board of Aldermen. Just what deal
was made, I, of course, do not know, but New York was soon surprised;
the Aldermen displaced Kelly, breaking his power; the Mayor appointed
Andrew H. Green in his stead, and two Republican leaders became police
justices.
Richard Croker, Kelly’s successor, I knew personally and had unusual
opportunities to study at close range, through my business dealings with
the firm of Peter F. Meyer &. Company, auctioneers. In that combination
Richard Croker was the “Company.”
Meyer’s career was colourful. Peter, as a mere lad, had a clerkship in
the two rooms on the ground floor occupied by Adrian H. Muller & Son,
one of the oldest and most reliable real estate auctioneers in New York.
By sheer ability he gradually rose to be its head. Through Croker’s
influence, the Supreme Court transferred the public auction rooms back
to 111 Broadway, from whence they had been shifted to the Real Estate
Exchange, 59 Liberty Street. Meyer, with gratitude for such past
favours, and perhaps with a lively anticipation of favours yet to come,
took Croker into partnership; the firm of Peter F. Meyer & Company
resulted. Peter wanted the Tammany nomination for Mayor, was
disappointed when he did not get it, and scornfully refused the post of
Sheriff as a stepping-stone. That his new association profited him in
other directions was, nevertheless, soon evident.
As I remained long one of the firm’s best customers I had the entrée to
their inner office and so was in frequent contact with the silent
partner. It was an instructive but not always an encouraging experience.
Croker’s real estate office was also his political headquarters; in
fact, as I saw him at work there, I realized that politics was far more
_his_ business than was the earning of the real estate commissions. It
was as his business that he treated the Democratic Organization of the
City of New York. Again and again I have seen this keen, forever busy
man, economic with his words, but always speaking to the point,
demonstrate that he felt he owned that organization just as much as any
man controls a concern in which he has a substantial majority of the
stock.
Generally as I passed through the outer room, there were district
leaders waiting there, to report to their commanding-general and receive
his orders. Beside them, and on much the same mission, there would
frequently be sitting men of considerable importance in other affairs
than those generally esteemed strictly political; but though these
included certain lawyers who later graced--and many of whom still
grace--the Supreme Court, I feel bound to add that Croker always
respected the sanctity of the Courts.
In any case, I have rarely seen a leader of whatever sort held in such
awe or so sought after for favours. Once, at a reception of the National
Democratic Club, Croker asked me to sit next to him, and talked to me
for a half-hour and more of real estate prospects and reminiscences;
from the corner of my eye I could see the guests watching him with
interest and me with envy; when I got up, several of my friends adroitly
tried to learn from me what political position I had just been
promised--they could not understand how anybody would be given thirty
minutes of Richard Croker’s time unless asking for, or being offered, an
important office! Many years later, I sat in Warsaw beside Pilsudski,
dictator of the new Poland; the glances that I then received were
exactly of the sort bestowed on me at that Fifth Avenue reception by the
citizens of our own Republic.
Croker’s withdrawal from the Tammany leadership was voluntary and due
largely to his recognition of his own limitations. During his
incumbency, political conditions gradually changed; they so shaped
themselves that Tammany--which, ever since Tweed’s downfall, had been
relegated to municipal affairs--would soon be called upon to play an
active part in State matters. To protect his organization, the boss
would have to control or check legislation at Albany affecting the City
of New York, and also endeavour to influence the New York delegations to
the National Conventions so as to secure federal patronage. To Croker,
these were unexplored fields; he knew municipal organization politics as
few men of his time, but he appreciated the proverb about teaching an
old dog new tricks. Partly through his connection with Andrew Freedman
of the Interborough System, and partly through that with Peter Meyer, he
had become rich beyond all his early hopes; he had the good sense,
unusual in champions, to quit the ring before losing his title to a
younger man.
Perhaps with some lingering desire to retain some hold on the affairs of
the organization which he had so long governed, Croker arranged to be
succeeded by a triumvirate--Charles F. Murphy, Thomas F. McManus, and,
to give the Bronx a voice, Louis F. Heins--but that arrangement did not
last long. Murphy had the nominal leadership and soon made it real. He
attached to himself a majority of the district leaders, fought the
remainder, and replaced all who were irreconcilable by creatures of his
own. He went further and accomplished what Croker had not dared to
attempt: the Cleveland Democrats in the up-state organization had
gradually lost their hold on that machine, and the many excellent men
who later became devotees of the Wilsonic teaching lacked the
propensities necessary to assuming control; they were men of affairs who
devoted thought to politics only during a campaign, whereas, the
professional element was “on the job” for three hundred and sixty-five
days in the year; in that element Tammany found its own type, and
converted these into its willing tools.
Within a comparatively short time, Murphy, who had begun as a humble
leader in the Gas House District of Manhattan, was both the head of the
City and State machine in New York. It has been most depressing for
Independents to see him absolutely control the Empire State delegation
in the last three National Democratic Conventions, casting the vote of
the ninety-six delegates, the largest vote possessed by any state--“as
though,” in Bryan’s phraseology, “he owned them.”
My personal experiences with him have been few, but they have served to
confirm my first impressions. In 1910 there was to be an election for
Borough President of the Bronx; Arthur D. Murphy, the Tammany leader of
the district, but not related to Charles F. Murphy, aspired to the
position. George F. and Frederick Johnson and I called on the Chief.
He is a large man, with a huge round face and heavy jowl. His eyes have
not the piercing quality that Croker’s had; they are blue and kindly and
his manner is altogether conciliatory. He knew our mission, but his
reception was cordial.
We put our case frankly. We were among the largest investors in the
Bronx. We wanted that section to be a desirable home-centre for the
over-flow of New York’s population. We, therefore, felt justified in
discussing with him the necessity of having a proper administration with
a respected citizen at its head.
“We feel,” we said, “that Arthur Murphy is not the man for the place. We
have no candidate of our own: we ask you to see that a man be selected
who is fitted by experience and character to be the head of this growing
borough. We want to tell you in advance that unless this is done, we
will be forced to defeat Tammany’s candidate at the polls.”
The Boss listened attentively and without evincing either surprise or
antagonism. When we were through, he said:
“I’ll try to prevent Arthur Murphy’s nomination.”
He sincerely did try. He sent his brother to represent him at the
Convention, but failed to prevent Arthur Murphy from securing the place
on the ticket.
A few days later the Tammany Chief sent for the Johnsons and myself.
“I did the best I could,” he said, “but I couldn’t stop this thing. I
want you men to recognize my good faith and abide by the decision of the
Convention.”
“Mr. Murphy,” I said, “I told you before that I never merely threaten.
If I withdrew my opposition, in deference to your wishes, all that we
said at our last visit would become mere bluff. Your unsuccessful
efforts don’t change the status of Arthur Murphy. We mean to run a third
candidate, and we will defeat your man.”
The manner of the Boss made me feel that far from being angry, he rather
liked my consistency and sincerity. At any rate, we followed our plan,
and Cyrus C. Miller, a Republican, who gave the Bronx an excellent
administration, was elected.
Within the party, I had seen Tammany fought by the Young Democracy and
then by the Irving Hall Democracy, but for a long time its best
enemy--until that, too, fell before it--was the County Democracy, at the
head of which was Police Judge Maurice J. Power, the discoverer of
Grover Cleveland and incidentally a client of our firm.
Power was a bronze-founder when Cleveland was Mayor of Buffalo. The
Mayor and the founder had some dealings about a statue that Power had
cast for the city, and the latter observed and admired the Executive’s
extraordinary ability. At the next state convention Dan Manning, Lamont,
and the other leaders had intended to nominate either General Henry W.
Slocum or Roswell P. Flower as Governor. They found it impossible. Power
formed a combination with the delegates of Erie, Chemung, and Kings, and
named Cleveland and Hill to head the ticket.
Power has told me the story. When he informed Cleveland that he was
expected to name the chairman and secretary of the State Committee for
his campaign, Cleveland asked him:
“Who have those positions now?”
“Manning and Lamont,” said Power.
“Are they good men?”
“They’re mighty capable men.”
“Well,” said Cleveland, “I have no personal friends that I want to put
there. Why shouldn’t I keep Manning and Lamont?”
Cleveland had been an unknown quantity to these men
[Illustration: © _Paul Thompson_
Mr. Morgenthau with Theodore Roosevelt, Charles E. Hughes, Oscar Straus,
and other distinguished citizens on the steps of the City Hall of New
York, urging Mayor Mitchel to accept a renomination.]
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.