There had been a strange prophecy put forth by some one, and it had made
its way into the daily journals, and had been laughingly or seriously
commented upon, according to the political tone of the paper, or the
passing humor of the writer, that the 4th of March, 1897, would never
dawn upon the American people. There was something very curious and
uncanny about the prediction, and what actually happened was not
qualified to loosen the fearful tension of public anxiety, for the day
literally and truly never dawned upon the City of Washington, and well
deserves its historical name, the “Dawnless Day.” At six o’clock, the
hour of daybreak, such an impenetrable pall of clouds overhung the city
that there came no signs of day. The gathering crowds could plainly hear
the plaintive cries and lamentations put up in the negro quarters of the
city. Not until nearly nine o’clock did the light cease to “shine in
darkness” and the darkness begin to comprehend it.
But although it was a cheerless gray day, even at high noon, its
heaviness set no weight upon the spirits of the jubilant tens of
thousands which completely filled the city and its public parks, and ran
over into camps and hastily improvised shelters outside the city limits.
Not until the day previous had the President announced the names of
those selected for his Cabinet. The South and Far West were fairly
beside themselves with joy, for there had been from their standpoint
ugly rumors abroad for several days. It had even been hinted that Bryan
had surrendered to the “money-changers,” and that the selection of his
constitutional advisers would prove him recreant to the glorious cause
of popular government, and that the Reign of the Common People would
remain but a dream of the “struggling masses.”
But these apprehensions were short lived. The young President stood firm
and fast on the platform of the parties which had raised him to his
proud eminence. And what better proof of his thorough belief in himself
and in his mission could he have given than the following:
Secretary of State—William M. Stewart, of Nevada.
Secretary of Treasury—Richard P. Bland, of Missouri.
Secretary of War—John P. Altgeld, of Illinois.
Attorney General—Roger Q. Mills, of Texas.
Postmaster General—Henry George, of New York.
Secretary Navy—John Gary Evans, of South Carolina.
Secretary Interior—William A. Peffer, of Kansas.
Secretary Agriculture—Lafe Pence, of Colorado.
The first thing that flashed across the minds of many upon glancing over
this list of names was the omission therefrom of Tillman’s. What did it
mean? Could the young President have quarreled with his best friend, his
most powerful coadjutor? But the wiser ones only shook their heads and
made answer that it was Tillman’s hand that filled the blank for
Secretary of the Navy, left there by the new ruler after the people’s
own heart. Evans was but a creation of this great Commoner of the South,
an image graven with his hands.
The inaugural address was not a disappointment to those who had come to
hear it. It was like the man who delivered it—bold, outspoken,
unmistakable in its terms, promising much, impatient of precedent,
reckless of result; a double confirmation that this was to be the Reign
of the Common People, that much should be unmade and much made over, and
no matter how the rich man might cry out in anger or amazement, the
nation must march on to the fulfillment of a higher and nobler mission
than the impoverishment and degradation of the millions for the
enrichment and elevation of the few.
Scarcely had the young President—his large eyes filled with a strange
light, and his smooth, hairless visage radiant as a cloudless sky, his
wife’s arm twined around his, and their hands linked in those of their
children—passed within the lofty portal of the White House, than he
threw himself into a chair, and seizing a sheet of official paper penned
the following order, and directed its immediate promulgation:
EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON, D. C., March 4th, 1897.
Executive Order No. 1.
In order that there may be immediate relief in the terrible financial
depression now weighing upon our beloved country, consequent upon and
resulting from the unlawful combination of capitalists and money-lenders
both in this Republic and in England, and that the ruinous and
inevitable progress toward a universal gold standard may be stayed, the
President orders and directs the immediate abandonment of the so-called
“gold reserve,” and that on and after the promulgation of this order,
the gold and silver standard of the Constitution be resumed and strictly
maintained in all the business transactions of the Government.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon when news of this now world-famous
Executive Order was flashed into the great banking centres of the
country. Its effect in Wall street beggars description. On the floor of
the Stock Exchange men yelled and shrieked like painted savages, and, in
their mad struggles, tore and trampled each other. Many dropped in
fainting fits, or fell exhausted from their wild and senseless efforts
to say what none would listen to. Ashen pallor crept over the faces of
some, while the blood threatened to burst the swollen arteries that
spread in purple network over the brows of others. When silence came at
last, it was a silence broken by sobs and groans. Some wept, while
others stood dumb-stricken as if it was all a bad dream, and they were
awaiting the return of their poor distraught senses to set them right
again. Ambulances were hastily summoned and fainting and exhausted forms
were borne through hushed and whispering masses wedged into Wall street,
to be whirled away uptown to their residences, there to come into full
possession of their senses only to cry out in their anguish that ruin,
black ruin, stared them in the face if this news from Washington should
prove true.