MY ENTRANCE INTO NATIONAL POLITICS
“Conscience doth make cowards of us all.” Not mine--mine made me a
politician. At fifty-five years of age, financially independent, and
rich in experience, and recently released from the toils of materialism,
it ceaselessly confronted me with my duty to pay back, in the form of
public service, the overdraft which I had been permitted to make upon
the opportunities of this country. Repayment in money alone would not
suffice: I must pay in the form of personal service, for which my
experience had equipped me. And I must pay now, or never.
It was a great surprise to my friends when, in 1912, I suddenly entered
politics, and threw myself heart and soul in the enterprise of securing
the Presidential nomination for Woodrow Wilson. “Why,” they asked me,
“should a man like yourself, whose whole active life has been spent in
the thick of the battle for wealth, embark on the untried sea of
politics? And why, if you are determined to take the risks of this
experiment, do you choose so forlorn a hope, as the cause of the least
likely of all the candidates, for the nomination of the party that has
elected only one President since the Civil War?”
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?”