There is nothing more interesting than to see the beginning of a
controversy which makes history. It is my good fortune to have
been either a spectator or a participant on several occasions.
William M. Tweed was at the height of his power. He was the master
of New York City, and controlled the legislature of the State.
The rapid growth and expansion of New York City had necessitated
a new charter, or very radical improvements in the existing one.
Tweed, as chairman of the Senate committee on cities, had staged
a large and spectacular hearing at the State Capitol at Albany.
It was attended by a large body of representative citizens from
the metropolis. Some spoke for civic and commercial bodies, and
there were also other prominent men who were interested. Everybody
interested in public affairs in Albany at the time attended. Not
only was there a large gathering of legislators, but there were
also in the audience judges, lawyers, and politicians from all
parts of the State.
After hearing from the Chamber of Commerce and various reform
organizations, Mr. Samuel J. Tilden came forward with a complete
charter. It was soon evident that he was better prepared and
informed on the subject than any one present. He knew intimately
the weaknesses of the present charter, and had thought out with
great care and wisdom what was needed in new legislation.
From the contemptuous way in which Senator Tweed treated Mr. Tilden,
scouted his plans, and ridiculed his propositions, it was evident
that the whole scheme had been staged as a State-wide spectacle
to humiliate and end the political career of Samuel J. Tilden.
In answer to Tilden's protest against this treatment, Tweed loudly
informed him that he represented no one but himself, that he had
neither influence nor standing in the city, that he was an
intermeddler with things that did not concern him, and a
general nuisance.
Mr. Tilden turned ashy white, and showed evidences of suppressed
rage and vindictiveness more intense than I ever saw in any one
before, and abruptly left the hearing.
I knew Mr. Tilden very well, and from contact with him in railroad
matters had formed a high opinion of his ability and acquirements.
He had a keen, analytic mind, tireless industry, and a faculty
for clarifying difficulties and untangling apparently impossible
problems to a degree that amounted to genius.
In reference to what had happened, I said to a friend: "Mr. Tweed
must be very confident of his position and of his record, for he
has deliberately defied and invited the attacks of a relentless
and merciless opponent by every insult which could wound the
pride and incite the hatred of the man so ridiculed and abused.
Mr. Tilden is a great lawyer. He has made a phenomenal success
financially, he has powerful associates in financial and business
circles, and is master of his time for any purpose to which he
chooses to apply it."
It was not long before one of the most remarkable and exhaustive
investigations ever conducted by an individual into public records,
books, ledgers, bank-accounts, and contracts, revealed to the
public the whole system of governing the city. This master mind
solved the problems so that they were plain to the average citizen
as the simplest sum in arithmetic, or that two and two make four.
The result was the destruction of the power of Tweed and his
associates, of their prosecution and conviction, and of the
elevation of Samuel J. Tilden to a State and national figure of
the first importance. He not only became in the public mind a
leader of reforms in government, municipal, State, and national,
but embodied in the popular imagination REFORM ITSELF.
Mr. Tilden carried this same indefatigable industry and power
of organization into a canvass for governor. His agencies reached
not only the counties and towns, but the election districts of the
State. He called into existence a new power in politics--the young
men. The old leaders were generally against him, but he discovered
in every locality ambitious, resourceful, and courageous youngsters
and made them his lieutenants. This unparalleled preparation made
him the master of his party and the governor of the State.
After the election he invited me to come and see him at the
Executive Mansion in Albany, and in the course of the conversation
he said: "In your speeches in the campaign against me you were
absolutely fair, and as a fair and open-minded opponent I want to
have a frank talk. I am governor of the State, elected upon an
issue which is purely local. The Democratic party is at present
without principles or any definite issue on which to appeal to
the public. If I am to continue in power we must find an issue.
The Erie Canal is not only a State affair, but a national one.
Its early construction opened the great Northwest, and it was for
years the only outlet to the seaboard. The public not only in
the State of New York, but in the West, believes that there has
been, and is, corruption in the construction and management of
the Canal. This great waterway requires continuing contracts for
continuing repairs, and the people believe that these contracts
are given to favorites, and that the work is either not performed
at all or is badly done. I believe that matter ought to be looked
into and the result will largely justify the suspicion prevalent
in the public mind. I want your judgment on the question and
what will be the effect upon me."
I then frankly answered him: "Governor, there is no doubt it will
be a popular movement, but you know that the Canal contractors
control the machinery of your party, and I cannot tell what the
effect of that may be upon what you desire, which is a second term."
"Those contractors," he said, "are good Democrats, and their
ability to secure the contracts depends upon Democratic supremacy.
A prosecution against them has been tried so often that they have
little fear of either civil or criminal actions, and I think they
will accept the issue as the only one which will keep their party
in power."
It is a part of the history of the time that he made the issue so
interesting that he became a national figure of the first importance
and afterwards the candidate of his party for President of the
United States. Not only that, but he so impressed the people
that popular judgment is still divided as to whether or not he was
rightfully elected president.
Once I was coming from the West after a tour of inspection, and
when we left Albany the conductor told me that Governor Tilden
was on the train. I immediately called and found him very
uncomfortable, because he said he was troubled with boils. I
invited him into the larger compartment which I had, and made
him as comfortable as possible. His conversation immediately
turned upon the second term and he asked what I, as a Republican,
thought of his prospects as the result of his administration. We
had hardly entered upon the subject when a very excited gentleman
burst into the compartment and said: "Governor, I have been
looking for you everywhere. I went to your office at the Capitol
and to the Executive Mansion, but learned you were here and barely
caught the train. You know who I am." (The governor knew he
was mayor of a city.) "I want to see you confidentially."
The governor said to him: "I have entire confidence in my
Republican friend here. You can trust him. Go on."
I knew the mayor very well, and under ordinary conditions he would
have insisted on the interview with the governor being private
and personal. But he was so excited and bursting with rage that
he went right on. The mayor fairly shouted: "It is the station
agent of the New York Central Railroad in our city of whom I
complain. He is active in politics and controls the Democratic
organization in our county. He is working to prevent myself and
my friends and even ex-Governor Seymour from being delegates
to the national convention. It is to the interest of our party,
in fact, I may say, the salvation of our party in our county that
this New York Central agent be either removed or silenced, and
I want you to see Mr. Vanderbilt on the subject."
The governor sympathized with the mayor and dismissed him. Then
in a quizzical way he asked me: "Do you know this agent?"
"Yes," I answered.
"What do you think of him?"
"I know nothing about his political activities," I answered, "but he
is one of the most efficient employees of the company in the State."
"Well," said the governor, "I am glad to hear you say so. He was
down to see me the other night; in fact, I sent for him, and I
formed a very high opinion of his judgment and ability."
As a matter of fact, the governor had selected him to accomplish
this very result which the mayor had said would ruin the party in
the county.
When the New York Democratic delegation left the city for the
Democratic national convention they had engaged a special train
to leave from the Grand Central Station. I went down to see that
the arrangements were perfected for its movement. It was a
hilarious crowd, and the sides of the cars were strung with Tilden
banners.
Mr. Tilden was there also to see them off. After bidding good-by
to the leaders, and with a whispered conference with each, the
mass of delegates and especially reporters, of whom there was a
crowd, wished to engage him in conversation. He spied me and
immediately hurried me into one of the alcoves, apparently for
a private conversation. The crowd, of course, gathered around,
anxious to know what it was all about. He asked me a few questions
about the health of my family and then added: "Don't leave me.
I want to avoid all these people, and we will talk until the train
is off and the crowd disperses."
Life was a burden for me the rest of the day and evening, made
so by the newspaper men and Democratic politicians trying to find
out what the mysterious chief had revealed to me in the alcove of
the Grand Central.
I was very much gratified when meeting him after the fierce battles
for the presidency were over, to have him grasp me by the hand
and say: "You were about the only one who treated me absolutely
fairly during the campaign."
I love little incidents about great men. Mr. Tilden was intensely
human and a great man.
Doctor Buckley, who was at the head of the Methodist Book Concern
in New York, and one of the most delightful of men, told me that
there came into his office one day a Methodist preacher from one
of the mining districts of Pennsylvania, who said to him: "My church
burned down. We had no insurance. We are poor people, and,
therefore, I have come to New York to raise money to rebuild it."
The doctor told him that New York was overrun from all parts of
the country with applicants for help, and that he thought he would
have great difficulty in his undertaking.
"Well," the preacher said, "I am going to see Mr. Tilden."
Doctor Buckley could not persuade him that his mission was next
to impossible, and so this rural clergyman started for Gramercy Park.
When he returned he told the doctor of his experience.
"I rang the bell," he said, "and when the door was opened I saw
Governor Tilden coming down the stairs. I rushed in and told him
hastily who I was before the man at the door could stop me, and
he invited me into his library. I stated my mission, and he said
he was so overwhelmed with applications that he did not think he
could do anything. 'But, governor,' I said, 'my case differs from
all others. My congregation is composed of miners, honest,
hardworking people. They have hitherto been Republicans on the
protection issue, but they were so impressed by you as a great
reformer that they all voted for you in the last election.' The
governor said: 'Tell that story again.' So I started again to
tell him about my church, but he interrupted me, saying: 'Not that,
but about the election.' So I told him again about their having,
on account of their admiration for him as a reformer, turned from
the Republican party and voted the Democratic ticket. Then the
governor said: 'Well, I think you have a most meritorious case,
and so I will give you all I have.'"
Doctor Buckley interrupted him hastily, saying: "Great heavens,
are you going to build a cathedral?"
"No," answered the clergyman; "all he had in his pocket was two
dollars and fifty cents."
Governor Tilden had many followers and friends whose admiration
for him amounted almost to adoration. They believed him capable
of everything, and they were among the most intelligent and able men
of the country.
John Bigelow, journalist, author, and diplomat, was always sounding
his greatness, both with tongue and pen. Abram S. Hewitt was an
equally enthusiastic friend and admirer. Both of these gentlemen,
the latter especially, were, I think, abler than Mr. Tilden, but
did not have his hypnotic power.
I was dining one night with Mr. Hewitt, whose dinners were always
events to be remembered, when Mr. Tilden became the subject of
discussion. After incidents illustrating his manifold distinctions
had been narrated, Mr. Hewitt said that Mr. Tilden was the only one
in America and outside of royalties in Europe who had some
blue-labelled Johannisberger. This famous wine from the vineyards
of Prince Metternich on the Rhine was at that time reported to be
absorbed by the royal families of Europe.
Our host said: "The bouquet of this wonderful beverage is unusually
penetrating and diffusing, and a proof is that one night at a dinner
in the summer, with the windows all open, the guests noticed this
peculiar aroma in the air. I said to them that Governor Tilden had
opened a bottle of his Johannisberger."
The governor's residence was on the other side of Gramercy Park
from Mr. Hewitt's. The matter was so extraordinary that everybody
at the table went across the park, and when they were admitted
they found the governor in his library enjoying his bottle of
blue-labelled Johannisberger.
When Mr. Tilden was elected governor, my friend, General Husted,
was speaker of the assembly, which was largely Republican. The
governor asked General Husted to come down in the evening, because
he wanted to consult him about the improvements and alterations
necessary for the Executive Mansion, and to have the speaker secure
the appropriation. During the discussion the governor placed
before the speaker a bottle of rare whiskey, with the usual
accompaniments. In front of the governor was a bottle of his
Johannisberger and a small liqueur glass, a little larger than
a thimble, from which the governor would from time to time taste
a drop of this rare and exquisite fluid. The general, after a
while, could not restrain his curiosity any longer and said:
"Governor, what is that you are drinking?"
The governor explained its value and the almost utter impossibility
of securing any.
"Well, governor," said Speaker Husted, "I never saw any before
and I think I will try it." He seized the bottle, emptied it in
his goblet and announced to the astonished executive that he was
quite right in his estimate of its excellence.
The governor lost a bottle of his most cherished treasure but
received from the Republican legislature all the appropriation
he desired for the Executive Mansion.
It has been my good fortune to know well the governors of our
State of New York, commencing with Edmund D. Morgan. With many
of them I was on terms of close intimacy. I have already spoken of
Governors Seymour, Fenton, Dix, Tilden, Cleveland, and Roosevelt.
It might be better to confine my memory to those who have joined
the majority.
Lucius Robinson was an excellent executive of the business type,
as also were Alonzo B. Cornell and Levi P. Morton. Frank S. Black
was in many ways original. He was an excellent governor, but
very different from the usual routine. In the Spanish-American War
he had a definite idea that the National Guard of our State should
not go into the service of the United States as regiments, but
as individual volunteers. The Seventh Regiment, which was the
crack organization of the Guard, was severely criticised because
they did not volunteer. They refused to go except as the Seventh
Regiment, and their enemies continued to assail them as tin soldiers.
General Louis Fitzgerald and Colonel Appleton came to me very
much disturbed by this condition. General Russell A. Alger,
secretary of war, was an intimate friend of mine, and I went to
Washington and saw him and the president on the acute condition
affecting the reputation of the Seventh Regiment.
General Alger said: "We are about to make a desperate assault
upon the fortifications of Havana. Of course there will be many
casualties and the fighting most severe. Will the Seventh join
that expedition?"
The answer of General Fitzgerald and Colonel Appleton was emphatic
that the Seventh would march with full ranks on the shortest possible
notice. Governor Black would not change his view of how the
National Guard should go, and so the Seventh was never called.
It seems only proper that I should make a record of this patriotic
proposition made by this organization.
Governor Black developed after he became governor, and especially
after he had retired from office, into a very effective orator.
He had a fine presence and an excellent delivery. He was fond
of preparing epigrams, and became a master in this sort of literature.
When he had occasion to deliver an address, it would be almost
wholly made up of these detached gems, each perfect in itself.
The only other of our American orators who cultivated successfully
this style of speech was Senator John J. Ingalls, of Kansas. It is
a style very difficult to attain or to make successful.
David B. Hill was an extraordinary man in many ways. He was
governor for three terms and United States senator for one. His
whole life was politics. He was a trained lawyer and an excellent
one, but his heart and soul was in party control, winning popular
elections, and the art of governing. He consolidated the rural
elements of his party so effectively that he compelled Tammany Hall
to submit to his leadership and to recognize him as its master.
For many years, and winning in every contest, Governor Hill
controlled the organization and the policies of the Democratic
party of the State of New York. In a plain way he was an effective
speaker, but in no sense an orator. He contested with Cleveland
for the presidency, but in that case ran against a stronger and
bigger personality than he had ever encountered, and lost. He
rose far above the average and made his mark upon the politics
of his State and upon the United States Senate while he was a member.
Levi P. Morton brought to the governorship business ability which
had made him one of the great merchants and foremost bankers.
As Governor of the State of New York, United States Minister to
France, Congressman, and Vice-President of the United States,
he filled every position with grace, dignity, and ability. A
lovable personality made him most popular.
Roswell P. Flower, after a successful career as a banker, developed
political ambitions. He had a faculty of making friends, and had
hosts of them. He was congressman and then governor. While
the Democratic organization was hostile to him, he was of the
Mark Hanna type and carried his successful business methods into
the canvass for the nomination and the campaign for the election
and was successful.
Passing through Albany while he was governor, I stopped over to
pay my respects. I was very fond of him personally. When I rang
the door-bell of the Executive Mansion and inquired for the
governor, the servant said: "The governor is very ill and can
see nobody." Then I asked him to tell the governor, when he was
able to receive a message, that Chauncey Depew called and expressed
his deep regret for his illness. Suddenly the governor popped
out from the parlor and seized me by the hand and said: "Chauncey,
come in. I was never so glad to see anybody in my life."
He told me the legislature had adjourned and left on his hands
several thousands of thirty-days bills--that is, bills on which
he had thirty days to sign or veto, or let them become laws by
not rejecting them. So he had to deny himself to everybody to
get the leisure to read them over and form decisions.
"Do you know, Chauncey," he said, "this is a new business to me.
Most of these bills are on subjects which I never have examined,
studied, or thought about. It is very difficult to form a wise
judgment, and I want to do in each case just what is right." For
the moment he became silent, seemingly absorbed by anxious thoughts
about these bills. Then suddenly he exclaimed: "By the way,
Chauncey, you've done a great deal of thinking in your life, and
I never have done any except on business. Does intense thinking
affect you as it does me, by upsetting your stomach and making
you throw up?"
"No, governor," I answered; "if it did I fear I would be in a
chronic state of indigestion."
While he was governor he canvassed the State in a private car
and made many speeches. In a plain, homely man-to-man talk he
was very effective on the platform. His train stopped at a station
in a Republican community where there were few Democrats, while
I was addressing a Republican meeting in the village. When I had
finished my speech I said to the crowd, which was a large one:
"Governor Flower is at the station, and as I passed he had very
few people listening to him. Let us all go over and give him
an audience."
The proposition was received with cheers. I went ahead, got in
at the other end of the governor's car from the one where he was
speaking from the platform. As this Republican crowd began to
pour in, it was evident as I stood behind him without his knowing
of my presence, that he was highly delighted. He shouted: "Fellow
citizens, I told you they were coming. They are coming from the
mountains, from the hills, and from the valleys. It is the
stampede from the Republican party and into our ranks and for
our ticket. This is the happiest evidence I have received of
the popularity of our cause and the success of our ticket."
Standing behind him, I made a signal for cheers, which was heartily
responded to, and the governor, turning around, saw the joke,
grasped me cordially by the hand, and the whole crowd, including
the veteran and hardened Democrats on the car, joined in the hilarity
of the occasion.
He came to me when he was running for the second time for Congress,
and said that some of the people of his district were anxious for
me to deliver an address for one of their pet charities, and that
the meeting would be held in Harlem, naming the evening. I told
him I would go. He came for me in his carriage, and I said:
"Governor, please do not talk to me on the way up. I was so busy
that I have had no time since I left my office this afternoon to
prepare this address, and I want every minute while we are riding
to the meeting."
The meeting was a large one. The governor took the chair and
introduced me in this original way: "Ladies and gentlemen," he
said, "I want to say about Chauncey Depew, whom I am now going
to introduce to you as the lecturer of the evening, that he is no
Demosthenes, because he can beat Demosthenes out of sight. He
prepared his speech in the carriage in which I was bringing him
up here, and he don't have, like the old Greek, to chew pebble-stones
in order to make a speech."
Governor Flower in a conservative way was a successful trader
in the stock market. When he felt he had a sure point he would
share it with a few friends. He took special delight in helping
in this way men who had little means and no knowledge of the art
of moneymaking. There were a great many benefited by his bounty.
I was dining one night with the Gridiron Club at Washington, and
before me was a plate of radishes. The newspaper man next to me
asked if I would object to having the radishes removed.
I said: "There is no odor or perfume from them. What is the
matter with the radishes?"
After they were taken away he told me his story. "Governor Flower,"
he said, "was very kind to me, as he invariably was to all newspaper
men. He asked me one day how much I had saved in my twenty years
in journalism. I told him ten thousand dollars. He said: 'That
is not enough for so long a period. Let me have the money.' So
I handed over to him my bank-account. In a few weeks he told me
that my ten thousand dollars had become twenty, and I could have
them if I wished. I said: 'No, you are doing far better than I
could. Keep it.' In about a month or more my account had grown
to thirty thousand dollars. Then the governor on a very hot day
went fishing somewhere off the Long Island coast. He was a very
large, heavy man, became overheated, and on his return drank a
lot of ice-water and ate a bunch of radishes. He died that
afternoon. There was a panic in the stocks which were his favorites
the next day, and they fell out of sight. The result was that I
lost my fortune of ten thousand dollars and also my profit of
twenty. Since then the sight of a radish makes me sick."