[1920]
THE talk on the veranda had been prolonged, and only my old friend
Smith, smoking in meditative silence, had refused to contribute to
our discussion of the men and the issues. Between campaigns Smith is
open-minded on all matters affecting the body politic. Not infrequently
his views are marked by a praiseworthy independence. Smith has brains;
Smith thinks. A Republican, he criticises his party with the utmost
freedom; and when sorely tried he renounces it with a superb gesture
of disdain. But on election day, in a mood of high consecration, he
unfailingly casts his ballot for the Republican nominee. A week earlier
he may have declared in the most convincing manner that he would not
support the ticket; and under extreme provocation I have known him to
threaten to leave the Republican fold for all time.
Party loyalty is one of the most powerful factors in the operation of
our democracy, and it has its special psychology, to which only a
Josiah Royce could do full justice. Smith really thinks that he will
bolt; but when it comes to the scratch an influence against which he
is powerless stays his hand when he is alone in the voting booth with
his conscience and his God. Later, when gently reminded of this mood
of disaffection, he snarls that, when it comes down to brass tacks,
any Republican is better than any Democrat, anyhow--a fragment of
philosophy that is the consolation of great numbers of Smiths.
Smith, as I was saying, had refrained from participating in our talk
on that August night where the saltless sea complained upon the beach
and the pines took counsel of the stars. Then, as the party broke up,
Smith flung his cigar into Lake Michigan and closed the discussion by
remarking with a despairing sigh--
“Well, either way, the people lose!”
I
Smith prides himself on his ability to get what he wants when he wants
it--in everything but politics. In all else that pertains to his
welfare Smith is informed, capable, and efficient. In his own affairs
he tells the other fellow where to get off, and if told he can’t do
a thing he proceeds at once to do it and to do it well. It is only
in politics that his efforts are futile and he takes what is “handed
him.” Under strong provocation he will, in the manner of a dog in the
highway, run barking after some vehicle that awakens his ire; but
finding himself unequal to the race, he meekly trots back to his own
front yard. If the steam roller runs over him and the self-respect is
all but mashed out of him, he picks himself up and retires to consider
it yet again. He has learned nothing, except that by interposing
himself before a machine of superior size and weight he is very likely
to get hurt; and this he knew before.
Smith and I are in the north woods thirty-five miles from a telegraph
instrument, where it is possible to ponder great questions with a
degree of detachment. Loafing with Smith is one of the most profitable
things I do; he is the best of fellows, and, as our lives have run
parallel from school-days with an unbroken intimacy, we are thoroughly
familiar with each other’s manner of thought. What I am setting down
here is really a condensed report of our talks. Just where Smith leaves
off and I begin doesn’t matter, for we speak the same language of the
Ancient Brotherhood of the Average Man. Smith is a Republican; I am a
Democrat. We have “gone to the mat” in many campaigns, each valiantly
defending his party and its heroes. But, chumming together in August,
1920, the punch had gone out of us. We talked of men and issues, but
not with our old fervor. At first we were both shy of present-day
matters, and disposed to “sidle up” to the immediate situation--to
reach it by reluctant, tangential approaches, as though we were
strangers, wary of wounding each other’s feelings.
We mean to keep smiling about this whole business. We Americans seem
destined to rock dizzily on the brink of many precipices without ever
quite toppling over. We have lived through wars and rumors of wars, and
have escaped pestilence and famine, and we are deeply grateful that the
present campaign lays so light a tax upon the emotions. The republic
isn’t going to perish, no matter who’s elected. One thing is certain,
however, and that is that this time we--that is, Smith and I--are not
going to be jostled or pushed.
The other day we interviewed an Indian--whether untaxed or enrolled
at the receipt of custom we didn’t ascertain. Smith asked him whether
he was for Cox or Harding, and the rightful heir to all the territory
in sight, interpreting our courteous inquiry in a restricted tribal
rather than a national spirit replied, “No whisk.” He thought we were
deputy sheriffs looking for boot-leggers. Even at that, Smith held “no
whisk” to be the most intelligent answer he had as yet received to his
question.
Smith nearly upset the canoe one morning as he turned suddenly to
demand fiercely: “What’s this campaign all about anyhow?” This was a
dismaying question, but it precipitated a fortnight of reminiscences
of the changing fortunes of parties and of battles long ago, with
the usual profitless palaver as to whether the giants of other days
were really bigger and nobler than those of the present. We decided,
of course, that they were, having arrived at that time of life when
pygmies loom large in the twilight shades of vanishing perspectives.
The recuperative power of parties kept us interested through several
evenings. It seemed a miracle that the Democratic party survived the
Civil War. We talked much of Cleveland, speaking of him wistfully, as
the habit now is--of his courage and bluff honesty.
In generous mood we agreed that Mr. Bryan had at times rendered
meritorious service to his country, and that it was a good thing to
encourage such evangelists occasionally to give the kettle a vigorous
stirring up. The brilliant qualities as well as the many irritating
characteristics of Colonel Roosevelt were dwelt upon, and we readily
and amiably concluded that many pages of American history would be dull
without him. He knew what America is all about, and that is something.
We lamented the disheartening circumstance that in the very nature
of our system of political management there must always be men of
first-rate capacity who can never hope to win the highest place--men,
for example, of indubitable wisdom, character, and genius, like George
F. Edmunds, Elihu Root, and Judge Gray of Delaware.
“When I’ve got a place to fill in my business,” said Smith, “I pick out
a man I’m dead sure can handle it; I can’t afford to experiment with
fakers and amateurs. But when it comes to choosing a mayor in my town
or a President of the United States, I’ve got to take what I can get.”
There is no justification for the party system, unless the
major parties are alert and honest in criticism and exercise a
restraining influence upon each other. It is perfectly legitimate
for the opposition to pick out all the weak spots in the record
of an administration and make the most of them. The rules of good
sportsmanship do not, unfortunately, apply in politics. With all
our insistence as a nation upon fair play, we don’t practise our
greatest game in that spirit. It was not, I should say, until after
Mr. Cleveland’s second election that the Civil War ceased to color
political discussion. Until I was well on toward manhood, I was
troubled not a little by a fear that the South would renew the war, so
continually was the great struggle of the sixties brought fearsomely
to the attention, even in local contests. In the criticism that has
been heaped upon Mr. Wilson’s administration we have been reminded
frequently that he has been far too responsive to Southern influence.
The violence of our partisanship is responsible for the intrusion of
all manner of extraneous matters into campaigns. It would seem that
some single striking issue that touches the pocketbook, like the tariff
or silver, is necessary, if the electorate is to be thoroughly aroused.
Human nature in a democracy is quite what it is under any other form of
government, and is thoroughly disposed to view all matters selfishly.
Shantung and Fiume are too remote to interest the great number of us
whose club is the corner grocery. Anything beyond Main Street is alien
to our interest. We’ll buy food for the starving in other lands, but
that’s missionary work, not politics. Politics is electing our township
ticket, even though Bill Jones does beat his wife and is bound to make
a poor constable.
We became slightly cynical at times, in the way of Americans who talk
politics heart-to-heart. The national convention, where there is a
thrill in the sonority of the very names of the far-flung commonwealths
as they are recited on roll-call, is, on the face of it, a glorious
expression of democracy at work. But in actual operation every one
knows that a national convention is only nominally representative.
The delegates in their appointed places are not free and independent
American citizens, assembled, as we would believe, to exercise their
best judgment as trustees of the “folks back home.” Most of them owe
their seats to the favor of a district or State boss; from the moment
the convention opens they are the playthings of the super-bosses, who
plan in advance every step in the proceedings.
Occasionally there are slips: the ringmaster cracks his whip, confident
that the show will proceed according to programme, only to be
embarrassed by some irresponsible performer who refuses to “take” the
hoops and hurdles in the prescribed order. In other terms, some absurd
person may throw a wrench into a perfectly functioning machine and
change the pattern it has been set to weave. Such sabotage calls for a
high degree of temerariousness, and cannot be recommended to ambitious
young patriots anxious to ingratiate themselves with the powers that
control. At Baltimore, in 1912, Mr. Bryan did the trick--the most
creditable act of his career; but in accepting for his reward the
premiership for which he was so conspicuously unfit he foolishly
spoiled his record and promptly fulfilled the worst predictions of his
enemies.
There is an oft-quoted saying that the Democratic party always may be
relied upon to do the wrong thing. Dating from 1876, when it so nearly
won the presidency, it has certainly been the victim of a great deal of
bad luck. However, remembering the blasting of many Republican hopes
and the swift passing of many Republican idols--the catastrophe that
befell the much-enduring Blaine, Mr. Taft’s melancholy adventures with
the presidency, the Progressive schism, and the manner in which Mr.
Hughes struck out with the bases full--it may hardly be said that the
gods of good-fortune have been markedly faithful to the Republicans.
Disappointments are inevitable; but even the Grant third-termers and
the followers of the Plumed Knight and the loyal Bryan phalanx outlived
their sorrows. The supporters of McAdoo and Palmer, of Wood and Lowden,
appear to be comfortably seated on the bandwagon.
Smith was an ardent supporter of General Wood’s candidacy, and we sat
together in the gallery of the convention hall at Chicago and observed
with awe and admiration the manner in which the general received the
lethal thrust. The noisy demonstrations, the oratory, the vociferous
whoops of the galleries touched us not at all, for we are not without
our sophistication in such exhibitions. We listened with pleasure to
the impromptus of those stanch veterans of many battles, Messrs. Depew
and Cannon. At other times, during lulls that invited oratory, we heard
insistent calls for Mr. Beveridge; but these did not reach the ear, or
failed to touch the heart, of the chairman. The former senator from
Indiana had been a Progressive, and was not to be trusted before a
convention that might, with a little stimulation, have trampled the
senatorial programme under foot.
We knew before the opening prayer was uttered that, when the delegates
chose a candidate, it would be only a _pro forma_ confirmation of a
selection made privately by half a dozen men, devout exponents of
that principle of party management which holds that the wisdom of the
few is superior to the silly clamor of the many. At that strategic
moment when it became hazardous to indulge the deadlock further, and
expediency called for an adjournment that the scene might be set for
the last act, the great lords quite shamelessly consulted in full view
of the spectators. Messrs. Lodge, Smoot, Watson, and Crane, hastily
reinforced by Mr. Herrick, who, aware that the spotlight was soon to be
turned upon Ohio, ran nimbly across the reporters’ seats to join the
conference, stood there in their majesty, like complacent Olympians
preparing to confer a boon upon mankind. It was a pretty bit of drama.
The curtain fell, as upon a second act where the developments of the
third are fully anticipated and interest is buoyed up only through the
intermission by a mild curiosity as to the manner in which the plot
will be worked out.
My heart warmed to the enterprising reporter who attached himself to
the sacred group for a magnificent moment. His forcible ejection only
emphasized the tensity of the situation and brought into clearer relief
the august figures of the pontiffs, who naturally resented so gross an
intrusion upon their privacy.