speeding across southern Nebraska from east to west on a special train.
Every half or quarter hour stops were made at stations along the route,
and Mr. Bryan would hastily emerge from his car, make his way, generally
unassisted, to a nearby platform, and speak for from ten minutes to an
hour to the crowds assembled to hear him. It was most fatiguing work and
done by a thoroughly worn-out man. For Mr. Bryan had for two weeks been
constantly traveling by train and carriage, speaking from two to a dozen
times daily, eating at irregular intervals, and sleeping not more than
four or five hours out of each twenty-four. As a natural result his face
was drawn and haggard, his muscles frequently twitching, and under his
eyes were great black hollows. Yet at every stopping point, when he rose
to face his fellow Nebraskans, the worn look would give way, the
deep-set eyes would lighten with the fires of a holy zeal, and, in a
voice that rang out clear and strong and passionate he pleaded for the
preservation of the Republic and its ideals, inviolate and intact. The
train was running on schedule time, of course, and at each stopping
point it was necessary for the engineer to toot his whistle and ring his
bell, not once, but continuously, in order to tear Mr. Bryan away from
his audience when the alloted time had expired. Then the indefatigable
campaigner, shaking scores of outstretched hands as he ran, would hasten
to his car, and the train would speed along to the next stopping place.
Mr. Bryan would no sooner enter his car than he dropped his head on a
pillow and slept until a tap on the shoulder awoke him, and he rushed
out to make another speech, generally differing in form from any made
that day or any previous day, though the substance of all was, of
course, largely the same. Once, as the train was screaming along between
stations Mr. Bryan called the writer to his state-room, where he lay at
rest. He raised his head from the pillow as I entered, and started to
speak. What words of suggestion or advice were on his tongue I shall
never know, for, in the middle of his first sentence the tired head fell
back, the lustrous eyes were closed, and his heavy breathing alone told
that life remained in the man’s worn and exhausted frame as he lay there
fast asleep.
Late in the afternoon of that same day Mr. Bryan’s dinner was brought
him on the train, and he ate—as he slept—between stations. His traveling
companions, it may be observed, had eaten hearty meals at a town long
passed, dining in leisure while Mr. Bryan, standing with bared head on a
wind-swept platform, with a scorching sun beating down upon him,
addressed five thousand or more wildly cheering people. As he sat in his
little compartment, hastily munching his food, there were with him Mr.
Joseph A. Altsheler, of the New York _World_, and the writer,
representing the Omaha _World-Herald_. One of us chanced to mention some
interruption made at the last meeting, where a shrewd Republican
partisan had raised a point which Mr. Bryan’s ready repartee had
quickly, if not efficiently, disposed of. As soon as the matter was
mentioned Mr. Bryan turned from the tray on which were his fried
chicken, cold slaw, and coffee. And there, his eyes glowing like lakes
of molten metal, his expressive features all in play, in the voice of
one who addressed a multitude, he took up that Republican’s sophism and
analyzed it for the benefit of us twain. Such was the concentrated and
awful intensity of the man that it thrilled me to the core, and, under
that burning gaze and vibrant, moving voice, in such an unusual
entourage, I trembled with an emotion I could not name.
It was near midnight of that day when the train reached Benkelman, in
far western Nebraska, where the last speech was to be delivered. The
warm day had been succeeded by a night that was almost bitter cold, and,
as we alighted from the train, tired, sleepy, and hungry, the cold,
fierce wind from the mountains swooped down on us, and pierced us
through and through. At that late hour, and in that semi-arid, scantily
populated country, there were patiently waiting, wrapped in their great
coats, nearly fifteen hundred people, most of whom had driven from
twenty to one hundred miles “to hear Bryan speak.”
In the course of that day Mr. Bryan had already spoken sixteen times. To
do this he had risen before five o’clock in the morning and had traveled
over two hundred miles. At Benkelman, it was agreed, he should speak not
longer than fifteen minutes, and go to bed.
The speaker’s stand was at the principal street intersection of the
village. It was gaily decorated with flags and bunting, and lighted by
flaring gas jets. The piercing mountain wind swooped down on it like a
wolf on the fold. Up on this eminence the worn and wearied campaigner,
half dead from want of sleep and his constant exertions, was hurried.
Shrill volleys of cheers and yells rose to the heavens. There was a
moment’s silence. Then, on the cold air, there fell the deep, melodious,
serene voice of the orator, in words of earnest protest and warning, in
a magnificent plea for the Republic. For ten or twelve minutes we, who
were his traveling companions, remained; and though our eyes were heavy
and our senses dulled, though we shivered from the cold even as we
trembled with exhaustion, the splendid enthusiasm of that hardy little
band of frontiersmen warmed our hearts, and we cheered with them. But,
in a few minutes, tired nature called loud to us, and we plodded to the
hotel, a block and a half away. We sat for a half hour about the blazing
fire, absorbing the grateful warmth. Through the closed doors and
windows there came to us, ever and anon, the rich and powerful voice of
the orator down the street, punctuated by the wild yells of applause
that came from the delighted men of the sand-hills. Again we
retreated,—this time to our bed chambers. My teeth chattered like
castanets as I disrobed. And now I could plainly hear the orator’s
voice,—sometimes his very words,—words that thrilled and pulsated with
the life of an animate thing. I pulled the blankets and comforters close
about me, and fell into the sleep of utter exhaustion. The next morning
we learned that, for just one hour and three quarters Mr. Bryan had
stood in that bitter, piercing wind, under the inscrutable stars of
midnight on the prairie, and preached the gospel of democracy. Do you
gather, now, what I mean in saying that Mr. Bryan’s intensity is
something most difficult to describe? It is something that knows not
fear, nor hunger, nor exhaustion; that keeps him moving on,—ever and
steadily on toward the goal, unswerved and unhindered by those
hardships, trials, and obstacles that check the course of other men, or
cause them to turn into broader and easier paths.
It is this intensity of character and purpose that makes heroes and
martyrs. It also makes fanatics. But Mr. Bryan is no fanatic; his
stubborn determination and unyielding purpose is tempered with mental
equipoise, good judgment, and common sense.
The first impression one receives of Bryan as a man, and the last one to
fade, is that of his reckless sincerity. Right or wrong, he is honest;
he is of such a nature that he can not be otherwise; and all things for
good or evil, for success or defeat, must subordinate themselves to his
personal conception of duty. He possesses all those qualities common to
all great men, and some that but very few great men can claim. He has
few friends among the rich men of the nation, and is a stranger to
fashionable “society;” but he is loved and trusted by the millions who
follow him with a devotion such as no other American has won. At his
home or abroad, among his children or with his neighbors, or on his
well-kept farm, may be found a kindly, upright, debt-paying, unassuming
citizen, full of a gentle rollicking humor, a man without an impure
thought or act, a profoundly religious Presbyterian, a man who does not
smoke, yet who does not hesitate, on occasion, to offer cigars to his
friends; who will sit hour after hour in tobacco-laden air, sharing in
the conversation of those whose mouths are chimneys for the time. He
never drinks wine or liquor, yet he never flaunted a phylactery, or
called names when the clink of glasses was heard. In all things a
temperate and abstemious man, yet, such is his toleration that there is
nothing oppressive about his being better than most of us.
In personal appearance as well as mental gifts, Mr. Bryan is highly
favored. Before uttering a word, his magnetic influence wins for him the
favor of his audience. Simple is his delivery and bearing. “As he stands
before his listeners,” said Mr. R. L. Metcalfe, in a book published four
years ago: “he presents a bold and striking picture; intelligence is
stamped on every feature; he commences in the soft, pleasant tone,
instantly riveting your attention upon him. Your eyes are fastened upon
the orator. As he moves, you in spirit move with him; as he advances to
his climax his audience advances with him. In perfect harmony orator and
audience travel over the path of thought, until the climax is reached,
and then, as the last tone of the deep, rich, melodious voice of the
orator is uttered with a dramatic force, there breaks forth the full,
earnest applause that marks the approval of those who listen. The hand
of the orator is raised; instantly perfect silence follows. The sweet
tones of the marvelous voice are again heard within the enclosure, no
matter how vast.
“There is much in Mr. Bryan’s oratory that recalls to us many of our
noted speakers of long ago. Search his speeches through, whether in
Congress, before the convention, or on the stump, and you will find them
absolutely free from personalities. No audience ever sat within the
sound of his voice and caught a word that would appeal to the lower
passions of anger, hate, or revenge. He is always the master of
himself.”
The directness, simplicity, and purity of Mr. Bryan’s style as an orator
and the loftiness and beauty of his sentiment are well shown in the
appended excerpt from one of his Congressional speeches on “Money,” in
which occurs his famous apostrophe to Thomas Jefferson:
“There are wrongs to be righted; there are evils to be eradicated; there
is injustice to be removed; there is good to be secured for those who
toil and wait. In this fight for equal laws we can not fail, for right
is mighty and will in time triumph over all obstacles. Even if our eyes
do not behold success, we know that our labor is not in vain, and we can
lay down our weapons, happy in the promise given by Bryant to the
soldier:
‘Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who help thee flee in fear
Die full of hope and manly trust
Like those who fall in battle here.
Another hand by sword shall yield;
Another hand the standard wave;
Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o’er the grave.’
“Let us, then, with the courage of Andrew Jackson, apply to present
conditions the principles taught by Thomas Jefferson—Thomas Jefferson,
the greatest constructive statesman whom the world has ever known; the
greatest warrior who ever battled for human liberty. He quarried from
the mountain of eternal truth the four pillars upon whose strength all
popular government must rest. In the Declaration of American
Independence, he proclaimed the principles with which there is, without
which there can not be, ‘a government of the people, by the people, and
for the people.’ When he declared that ‘all men are created equal; that
they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights; that
among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that to
secure these rights governments are instituted among men, deriving their
just powers from the consent of the governed,’ he declared all that lies
between the alpha and omega of the Democracy.
“Alexander ‘wept for other worlds to conquer,’ after he had carried his
victorious banner throughout the then known world. Napoleon ‘rearranged
the map of Europe with his sword’ amid the lamentations of those by
whose blood he was exalted; but when these and other military heroes are
forgotten and their achievements disappear in the cycle’s sweep of
years, children will still lisp the name of Jefferson, and freedom will
ascribe due praise to him who filled the kneeling subject’s heart with
hope and bade him stand erect—a sovereign among his peers.”
In all of his rapid utterances and unpremeditated sentences one would
fail to detect the slightest lapse from good English; not only good, but
admirable. His talk is not that of a pedant,—far from it; but he does
speak like a cultivated, well-read man; like a polished man of letters,
but not so polished as to leave nothing but the gloss apparent. You may
search his numerous speeches, lectures, and addresses without finding
the slightest “_lapsus linguae_,” and all without sterility or banality.
In his speeches he shows a very remarkable versatility. “He will talk
along in a colloquial manner,” says Mr. Metcalfe, “making you laugh or
stirring your heartstrings with his pathos as he wills, and suddenly he
will throw forth his periods in language that makes one involuntarily
suspect of plagiarism from Milton or the prophets. Simplest words are
chosen, and they are formed in short, pithy sentences. No word is used
solely for its sound; the mere jingle of words has no place in the
mental workshop of our orator. To him words are the servants of thought,
and take their real beauty from the thought that blazes through them.
His style is as pure and captivating as that of Irving or Addison, and
not dissimilar to either. But style with him, as with those two great
masters, is valued not for itself, but because it conveys in the most
pleasing manner the thoughts which he would have others know.
“Mr. Bryan is not averse to the employment of the thoughts of others
wherever they add force and attractiveness to the argument in hand.
Accordingly, we find his speeches interspersed with quotations from some
of the best writers in both prose and poetry, but in each instance the
quotation has a natural fitness for the place in which it is found.
There are some productions which pass for oratory that are mere
mechanisms—the offspring of minds cold and plodding without a ray of
genius to illumine their path. The work of genius springs spontaneously
from the depths of the heart ruled by purity.”
In the preparation of his deliverances Mr. Bryan reads widely and
extensively, exhausting all the available sources of information. By
carefully and thoroughly acquainting himself with every possible phase
of his subject, by viewing it in all lights, he prepares himself not
only to prove the correctness of his own position, but to meet every
objection that may be offered against him.
In the diction of his speech the most acceptable language is chosen, and
so clear and simple do the most profound thoughts appear when they come
fresh-coined from his brain, that men have no difficulty in
comprehending them in all their force.
But it takes more than good English to make a great public man, though
good language is one of the most essential features of the part. An
instance that is told will illustrate one of his other qualifications.
On his arrival in a large city in the East, he had been taken for a
drive, and a number of people were waiting for him when he alighted on
his return. All the American people seem to consider it a duty to shake
hands with a public man, and these were there for that purpose. Among
them was a faded woman, apparently having worked out her hopes and
ambitions; while her face showed refinement and intellectuality, her
hands were gnarled by years of labor. As the candidate stepped from the
gay carriage, he was at once encircled by a throng of local dignitaries,
who successfully monopolized his attention, to the hopeless exclusion of
the woman, who was thoughtlessly jostled aside.
Mr. Bryan, glancing quickly about, saw her turning away, her
disappointment shown in her worn face, and, maneuvering about, he
delicately managed to bring himself in front of her, and, as he saw her
face light with pleasure, he extended his hands and murmured a few words
of pleasant meaning to her and passed on.
It is extremely doubtful if, among the public men of all time, there has
lived one more abounding in a superb vitality, or possessing so
magnificent a physique as Mr. Bryan. In his case, as in that of most men
of profound mentality, the powerful mind is found with powerful muscles
and a strong constitution to back it in its contests. His massively
moulded frame, capable of enduring the severest hardships and
nerve-racking strains, is the result of a clean, strong ancestry and
pure and temperate living in the life-giving atmosphere of the great
West.
Altogether Mr. Bryan is a good specimen of an American. He is, for
example, neat in his dress, but his apparel is the least obtrusive part
of him. He is frank, companionable, courteous without subserviency,
aggressive without boorish insistence, well poised, witty and yet
cleanly minded, learned without conceit. And he loves his family above
all else on earth. At one place a hasty departure from a hotel had to be
made to catch a train, and one of the party took Mr. Bryan’s coat by
mistake. The discovery was made as soon as the garment was put on, and
to ascertain to whom it belonged the wearer put his hands in the pocket
to see if any article might be found that would serve for
identification. There were only two things found, and those were
photographs of Mr. Bryan’s family. He had evidently put them where he
could find them most readily.
One can not help but remember the marvelous campaign Bryan made four
years ago. A terrible campaign for mind and body; no one who traveled
with him will ever forget it. As for Bryan himself—though, needless to
say, he worked harder, thought more, and shouldered an infinitely
heavier responsibility than all the newspaper reporters who kept
constantly in his wake—he was least fatigued of all. Hoarse and husky he
certainly did become toward the end—speaking from the rear end of a
train to open air crowds of thousands, a dozen times a day, and at the
top of his voice. But Bryan, upon a physique of the most vigorous and
massive kind, inspired by a stupendous vitality, which should keep him
in good condition for sixty years to come, had superimposed a brain of
the healthiest, keenest, and most capable sort. In addition he had a
colossal firmness, and an unmitigable will; he had thorough belief in
the goodness of his cause, and in himself as its champion; and finally
he understood the people, loved them, was in touch with them, and won
their confidence to an extent and to a degree of enthusiasm that can not
be paralleled in modern times. Had some of the qualities above named
been less in him, or more, he might have been a broader statesman; but
he would not have been so mighty and formidable a leader of men.
Other men are admired or feared, or can spend money, or swing a machine;
but Bryan is personally trusted as no other man is, and as he deserves
to be. “Bryan is a man standing plumb on his own feet, other candidates
have been propped on their feet by other persons. Which will last the
longer? No man can count on the ultimate triumph of his cause, or even
know how strong or how weak it is, unless he comes out flat-footed and
tells the people exactly what it contemplates and requires. He must show
the seamy side as well as the smooth one; else, when the seamy side
shows itself (as it is certain to do) the people will leap to the
conclusion that the fabric is seamy on both sides, and the reaction will
sweep it out of existence. McKinley, in laboring to make the people
believe that his policy is all sweetness, honor, and virtue, is
preventing himself from discovering how abhorrent it really is to the
desires and wishes of the people.”
Bryan’s method is just the opposite of President McKinley’s. The only
criticism to be passed on him is that he is too uncompromisingly
outspoken and sincere. He says things that make his own party friends
and managers shudder. He never strives for popularity except in so far
as it may be consistent with truth and right. He does not want to please
any one who can not be pleased with facts and realities. Bryan, in
short, from the standpoint of mere policy, always puts his ugly foot
forward, always turns his seamy side, always says “If you don’t have me
this way, I am not to be had at all.”
HOME LIFE
A very wholesome theory that a man’s home is his castle and that the
sanctuary of private life is one that must be respected has no
application in America to a public man. The fact that few public men
quarrel with the general idea upon this subject proves that it has its
basis in sound judgment and honest desire for greater intimacy rather
than in impertinent curiosity.
In the case of Mr. Bryan he has never quarreled with this widely held
theory. For ten years he has been in the glare of publicity. From the
night, a decade ago, when he discomfited the champion of Republican
politics in the opening debate of his first congressional campaign, a
light has been constantly turned upon him and from him to his home life.
That he has come out from under this strong scrutiny a more commanding
figure, viewed either from the standpoint of the wise statesman or the
typical head of an American family, is a statement that will meet with
no attempt at refutation.
[Illustration: THE BRYAN HOME]
On the first day of October next Mr. Bryan will have been married
sixteen years. The ceremony was the culmination of a courtship extending
over a period of four years, a wooing that had its inspiration in the
atmosphere of school life, and which was continued during the years when
he was a diligent student of the law and a struggling young attorney
with the unblighted courage and the indomitable energy that have come to
be such marked characteristics of the man. They first met at a reception
given in the parlors of the Presbyterian Academy at Jacksonville, Ill.,
to the young men of Illinois College. Mrs. Bryan, then Mary Baird, was a
student at the Academy, and Mr. Bryan was in attendance at the College.
There was little of romance attached to either their meeting or their
courtship. Both were young, he twenty, she nineteen. Some sentimentalist
has told that she was first attracted to him by hearing him recite some
school book classics. The fact is that some friend pointed her out to
Mr. Bryan as a girl he “ought to meet.” And mutual friends introduced
them.
Miss Baird was born at Perry, Ill., on the seventeenth day of June,
1861. Her father was a merchant, one of a firm that conducted a general
store in that town. His employment gave Mr. Baird, naturally a studious
man, much leisure, and this he improved by reading. His daughter
inherited his taste for literature and it has abided with her. The
invalidism of her mother prevented her from finishing the course she had
begun at Monticello Seminary, at Godfrey, Ill., but later she was able
to attend the academy at Jacksonville, from which she graduated with
first honors of her class.
The young couple began their married life in a little home of their own
in Jacksonville. With the prudent care that has always distinguished
both of them, they postponed their happiness until he had secured a
practice sufficient to support them and until they were able to have a
roof-tree of their own. Three years after their marriage Mr. Bryan came
west on a business trip for a client. At Lincoln he met an old friend
and classmate, A. R. Talbot. Talbot had made an excellent beginning in
the West, and he suggested to Bryan that he locate at Lincoln and join
his law firm. Mr. Bryan said little at the time. A few months after his
return, however, he wrote to Mr. Talbot and asked him if he was in
earnest in making the proposition. Mr. Talbot replied that he was, and
outlined the prospects in the West, then the center of a vast
speculation in lands and town lots. Mr. Bryan had been enchanted with
the city of Lincoln when he first saw it, and he had simply waited until
he could talk it over with his wife.