Having hinted gently at the leading characteristics of the twelve
low comedians, I am ready now to make you acquainted with the twenty
leading villains. There is something grimly humorous in the spectacle
of a dozen genial, able-bodied, non-alcoholic ruffians levying tribute
on a community too self-absorbed or too easy-going or too indifferent
to rid itself of them. I find, on the other hand, something somewhat
pathetic in the spectacle of twenty otherwise reputable citizens and
capitalists driven to villainy by the force of circumstances. To be a
villain against one's will is an unnatural and pitiable situation.
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain!
Here is the list:
Thomas Barnstable, President of the People's Heat and Power Company.
William B. Wilcox, General Manager of the North Circuit Traction Company.
David J. Prendergast, Treasurer of the Underground Steam Company.
Porter King, President of the South Valley Railroad Company.
James Plugh, Treasurer of the Star Brewing Concern.
Ex-State Treasurer George Delaney Johnson, Manager of the United Gas
Company.
Willis O. Golightly, Treasurer of the Consolidated Electric Works.
Hon. Samuel Phipps, President of the Sparkling Reservoir Company.
P. Ashton Hall, President of the Rapid Despatch Company.
Ex-Congressman Henry B. Pullen, Manager of the Maguinnis Engine Works.
And so on. I will not weary you with a complete category. It would
contain the names of twelve other gentlemen no less prominent in
connection with quasi-public and large private business corporations.
With them should be associated one thousand easy-going second-class
villains, whose names are not requisite to my argument, but who
from one year to another are obliged, by the exigencies of business
or enterprise, to ask for licenses from the non-alcoholic, genial
comedians, for permission to build a stable, to erect a bay-window, to
peddle goods in the streets, to maintain a coal-hole, to drain into a
sewer, to lay wires underground; in short, to do one or another of the
many everyday things which can be done only by permission of the City
Government. And the pity of it is that they all would rather not be
villains.
(_Note._—At the suggestion of Josephine I here enter a caveat
for my and her protection. While I was enumerating the list
of low comedians she interrupted me to ask if I did not fear
lest one of them might sand-bag me some dark night on account
of wounded sensibilities. She laughed, but I saw she was a
little nervous.
"I have mentioned no real names," said I.
"That is true," she said, "but somehow I feel that the real
ones might be suspicious that they were meant."
I told her that this was their lookout, and that, besides,
they were much too secure in the successful performance
of their comedy to go out of their way to assassinate a
philosopher. "They would say, Josephine, that a philosopher
cuts no ice, which is true, and is moreover a serious stigma
to fasten on any patriotic man or woman." But now again
she has brought me to book on the score of the feelings
of the leading villains. She appreciates that we are on
terms of considerable friendliness with some Presidents
of corporations, and that though my list contains no real
names, I may give offence. Perhaps she fears a sort of
social boycott. Let me satisfy her scruples and do justice
at the same time by admitting that not every President of
a quasi-public corporation is a leading villain. Nor every
Alderman a low comedian. That will let out all my friends.
But, on the other hand, I ask the attention even of my friends
to the predicament of Thomas Barnstable, President of the
People's Heat and Power Company.)
Thomas Barnstable, the leading villain whose case I select for
detailed presentation, has none of the coarser proclivities of David
J. Prendergast, Treasurer of the Underground Steam Company. As regards
David J. Prendergast, I could almost retract my allegation of pity and
assert that he is a villain by premeditation and without compunction.
That is, his method of dealing with the twelve low comedians is, I
am told, conducted on a cold utilitarian basis without struggle of
conscience or effort at self-justification. He says to the modern
highwaymen, "Fix your price and let my bill pass. My time is valuable
and so is yours, and the quicker we come to terms, the better for us
both." What he says behind their backs is not fit for publication;
but he recognizes the existence of the tax just as he recognizes the
existence of the tariff, and he has no time to waste in considering the
effect of either on the higher destinies of the nation.
Thomas Barnstable belongs to another school. He is a successful business
man. In the ordinary meaning of the phrase, he is also a gentleman
and a scholar. His word in private and in business life is as good
as his bond; he respects the rights of the fatherless and the widow,
and he is known favorably in philanthropic and religious circles.
Having recognized the value of certain patents, he has become a large
owner of the stock of the People's Heat and Power Company, and is
the President of the corporation. Hitherto he has had plain sailing,
municipally speaking. That is, the original franchise of the company was
obtained from the city before he became President, and only this year
for the first time has the necessity of asking for further privileges
arisen. Moreover, he finds his corporation confronted by a rival, the
Underground Steam Company.
Now here is a portion of the dialogue which took place five weeks before
election between this highly respectable gentleman and his right-hand
man, Mr. John Dowling, the efficient practical manager of the People's
Company.
"Peter Lynch was here to-day," said Mr. Dowling.
"And who may Peter Lynch be?" was the dignified but unconcerned answer.
"Peter Lynch is Peter Lynch. Don't you know Peter? He's the Alderman
from the fifth district. He has been Alderman for ten years, and so far
as I can see, he is likely to continue to be Alderman for ten more."
"Ah."
"Peter was in good-humor. He was smiling all over."
Mr. Dowling paused, so his superior said, "Oh!" Then realizing that the
manager was still silent, as though expecting a question, he said, "What
did he come for?"
"He wishes us to help him mend his fences. Some of them need repairing.
The wear and tear of political life is severe."
"I see—I see," responded Mr. Barnstable, reflectively, putting his
finger-tips together. "What sort of a man is Peter?"
Mr. Dowling hesitated a moment, merely because he was uncertain how to
deal with such innocence. Having concluded that frankness was the most
businesslike course, he answered, bluffly, "He's an infernal thief. He's
out for the stuff."
"The stuff? I see—I see. Very bad, very bad. It's an outrage that
under our free form of government such men should get a foothold in our
cities. I hope, Dowling, you gave him the cold shoulder, and let him
understand that under no consideration whatever would we contribute one
dollar to his support."
"On the contrary, I gave him a cigar and pumped him."
"Pumped him?"
"I wanted to find out what he knows."
"Dear me. And—er—what does he know?"
"He knows all about our bill, and he says he'd like to support it."
This was a shock, for the bill was supposed to be a secret.
"How did he find out about it?"
"Dreamt it in his sleep, I guess."
"I don't care for his support, I won't have it," said Mr. Barnstable,
bringing his hand down forcibly on his desk to show his earnestness and
indignation. "I wish very much, Mr. Dowling, that you had told him to
leave the office and never show his impudent face here again."
There was a brief silence, during which Mr. Dowling fingered his
watch-chain; then he said, in a quiet tone, "He says that the
Underground Steam Company is going to move heaven and earth to elect
men who will vote to give them a location."
"I trust you let him know that the Underground Steam Company is a stock
jobbing, disreputable concern with no financial status."
"It wasn't necessary for me to tell him that. He knows it. He said he
would prefer to side with us and keep them out of the streets, which
meant of course that he knew we were able to pay the most if we chose.
It seems Prendergast has been at him already."
"Disgusting! They both ought to be in jail."
"Amen. He says he gave Prendergast an evasive answer, and is to see
him again next Tuesday. There's the situation, Mr. Barnstable. I tell
you frankly that Lynch is an important man to keep friendly to our
interests. He is very smart and well posted, and if we allow him to
oppose us, we shall have no end of trouble. He is ready to take the
ground that the streets ought not be dug up, and that a respectable
corporation like ours should not be interfered with. Only he expects to
be looked after in return. I deplore the condition of affairs as much
as you do, but I tell you frankly that he is certain to go over to the
other side and oppose us tooth and nail unless we show ourselves what
he calls friendly to his 'interests.'"
"Then we'll prevent his election. I would subscribe money toward that
myself."
The Manager coughed, by way perhaps of concealing a smile. "That would
not be easy," he said. "And if it could be done, how should we be better
off? Peter Lynch is only one of fifteen or twenty, many of whom are
worse than he. By worse I mean equally unscrupulous and less efficient.
Here, Mr. Barnstable, is a list of the candidates for Aldermen on
both sides. I have been carefully over it and checked off the names
of those most likely to be chosen, and I find that it comprises twelve
out-and-out thieves, five sneak-thieves, as I call them, because they
pilfer only in a small way and pass as pretty honest; four easy-going,
broken-winded incapables, and three perfectly honest men, one of them
thoroughly stupid. Now, if we have to deal with thieves, it is desirable
to deal with those most likely to be of real service. There are four men
on this list who can, if they choose, help us or hurt us materially.
If we get them, they will be able to swing enough votes to control
the situation; if they're against us, our bill will be side-tracked or
defeated and the Underground Steam Company will get its franchise. That
means, as you know, serious injury to our stockholders. There's the case
in a nut-shell."
"What are their names?" asked Mr. Barnstable, faintly.
"Peter Lynch, Jeremiah Dolan, William H. Bird, and John P. Driscoll,
popularly known in the inner circles of City Hall politics as 'the big
four.' And they are—four of the biggest thieves in the community."
"Dear me," said Mr. Barnstable. "And what is it you advise doing?"
"Like the coon in the tree, I should say, 'Don't shoot and I'll come
down.' It's best to have a clear understanding from the start."
"What I meant to ask was—er—what is it that this Peter Lynch wishes?"
"He uttered nothing but glittering generalities; that he desired to know
who his friends were, and whether, in case he were elected, he could be
of any service to our corporation. The English of that is, he expects in
the first place a liberal subscription for campaign expenses—and after
that retaining fees from time to time as our attorney or agent, which
will vary in size according to the value of the services rendered."
A faint gleam of cunning hope appeared in Mr. Barnstable's eyes.
"Then anything we—er—contributed could properly be charged to attorney's
fees?" he said by way of thinking aloud.
"Certainly—attorney's fees, services as agent, profit and loss,
extraordinary expenses, machinery account, bad debts—there are a dozen
ways of explaining the outlay. And no outlay may be necessary. A tip on
the stock will do just as well."
"Dear, dear," reiterated Mr. Barnstable. "It's a deplorable situation;
deplorable and very awkward."
"And the awkward part is, that we're a dead cock in the pit if we
incline to virtue's side."
Mr. Barnstable sighed deeply and drummed on his desk. Then he began to
walk up and down. After a few moments he stopped short and said:
"I shall have to lay it before my directors, Dowling."
"Certainly, sir. But in general terms, I hope. A single—er—impractical
man might block the situation until it was too late. Then the expense
of remedying the blunder might be much greater."
Mr. Barnstable inclined his head gravely. "I shall consult some of the
wisest heads on the Board, and if in their opinion it is advisable to
conciliate these blackmailers, a formal expression of approval will
scarcely be necessary."
A few days later the President sent for the Manager and waved him to
a chair. His expression was grave—almost sad, yet resolute. His manner
was dignified and cold.
"We have considered," said he, "the matter of which we were speaking
recently, and under the peculiar circumstances in which we are placed,
and in view of the fact that the success of our bill and the defeat of
the Underground Steam Company is necessary for the protection of the
best interests of the public and the facilitation of honest corporate
business enterprise, I am empowered to authorize you to take such steps,
Mr. Dowling, as seem to you desirable and requisite for the proper
protection of our interests."
"Very good, sir. That is all that is necessary."
There was a brief silence, during which Mr. Barnstable joined his
finger-tips together and looked at the fire. Then he rose augustly,
and putting out his hand with a repellant gesture said, "There is one
thing I insist on, which is that I shall know nothing of the details
of this disagreeable business. I leave the matter wholly in your hands,
Dowling."
"Oh, certainly, sir. And you may rely on my giving the cold shoulder to
the rascals wherever it is possible for me to do so."
That is a pitiful story, isn't it? Virtue assaulted almost in its very
temple, and given a black eye by sheer force of cruel, overwhelming
circumstances. Yet a true story, and the prototype in its general
features of a host of similar episodes occurring in the different
cities of this land of the free and the home of the brave. Each case,
of course, has its peculiar atmosphere. Not every leading villain has
the sensitive and combative conscience of Thomas Barnstable; nor every
general manager the bold, frank style of Mr. Dowling. There is every
phase of soul-struggle and method from unblushing, business-like bargain
and sale to sphinx-like and purposely unenlightened and ostrich-like
submission. In the piteous language of a defender of Thomas Barnstable
(not Josephine), what can one do but submit? If one meets a highwayman
on the road, is one to be turned back if a purse will secure a passage?
Surely not if the journey be of moment. Then is a corporate body (a
corporation has no soul) to be starved to death by delay and hostile
legislation if peace and plenty are to be had for an attorney's fee?
If so, only the rascals would thrive and honest corporations would bite
the dust. And so it happened that Mr. Dowling before election cast his
moral influence in favor of the big four, and a little bird flew from
head-quarters with a secret message, couched in sufficiently vague
language, to the effect that the management would be pleased if the
employees of the People's Heat and Power Company were to mark crosses
on their Australian ballots against the names of Peter Lynch, Jeremiah
Dolan, Hon. William H. Bird, and the Hon. John P. Driscoll.
Let us allow the curtain to descend to slow music, and after a brief
pause rise on some of our other characters. Behold now the fifty
thousand respectable, well-intentioned, tolerably ignorant citizens
who vote but are too busy with their own affairs to pay attention
to politics, and as a consequence generally vote the party ticket or
vote to please a friend. As a sample take Mr. John Baker, amiable and
well-meaning physician, a practical philanthropist and an intelligent
student of science by virtue of his active daily professional
labors. For a week before election he is apt to have a distressing,
soul-haunting consciousness that a City Government is shortly to be
chosen and that he must, as a free-born and virtue-loving citizen, vote
for somebody. He remembers that during the year there has been more
or less agitation in the newspapers concerning this or that individual
connected with the aldermanic office, but he has forgotten names and is
all at sea as to who is who or what is what. Two days before election
he receives and puts aside a circular containing a list of the most
desirable candidates, as indicated by the Reform Society, intending to
peruse it, but he is called from home on one evening by professional
demands, and on the other by tickets for the theatre, so election
morning arrives without his having looked at it. He forgets that it is
election day, and is reminded of the fact while on his way to visit
his patients by noticing that many of his acquaintances seem to be
walking in the wrong direction. He turns also, at the spur of memory,
and mournfully realizes that he has left the list at home. To return
would spoil his professional day, so he proceeds to the polls, and,
in the hope of wise enlightenment, joins the first sagacious friend he
encounters. It happens, perhaps, to be Dowling.
"Ah," says Dr. Baker, genially, "you're just the man to tell me whom to
vote for. One vote doesn't count for much, but I like to do my duty as
an American citizen."
"It's a pretty poor list," says Dowling, pathetically, drawing a paper
from his pocket. "I believe, however, in accomplishing the best possible
results under existing circumstances. If I thought the Reform candidates
could be elected, I would vote for them and for them only; but it's
equally important that the very worst men should be kept out. I am
going to vote for the Reform candidates and for Lynch, Dolan, Bird, and
Driscoll. They're capable and they have had experience. If they steal,
they'll steal judiciously, and that is something. Some of those other
fellows would steal the lamp-posts and hydrants if they got the chance."
"All right," says Dr. Baker. "I'll take your word for it. Let me write
those names down. I suppose that some day or other we shall get a decent
City Government. I admit that I don't give as much consideration to such
matters as I ought, but the days are only twenty-four hours long."
Then from the same company there is Mr. David Jones, hay and grain
dealer, honest and a diligent, reputable business man. He harbors the
amiable delusion that the free-born American citizen in the exercise
of the suffrage has intuitive knowledge as to whom to vote for, and
that in the long run the choice of the sovereign people is wise and
satisfactory. He is ready to admit that political considerations
should not control selection for municipal office, but he has a latent
distrust of reformers as aristocratic self-seekers or enemies of popular
government. For instance, the idea that he or any other American citizen
of ordinary education and good moral character is not fit to serve on
the school committee offends his patriotism.
"What's the matter with Lynch, anyway?" he asks on his way to the polls.
"I see some of his political enemies are attacking him in the press.
If he were crooked, someone would have found it out in ten years. I met
him once and he talked well. He has no frills round his neck."
"Nor wheels in his head," answers a fellow-patriot, who wishes to get
a street developed and has put his case in Lynch's hands.
"He shall have my vote," says the hay and grain dealer.
As for the twenty-five thousand hide-bound partisans, I will state
to begin with, my optimistic correspondent, that if this drama were
concerned with any election but a city election, their number would
be larger. But these make up in unswerving fixity of purpose for any
diminution of their forces due to municipal considerations. They are
content to have their thinking done for them in advance by a packed
caucus, and they go to the polls snorting like war-horses and eager to
vindicate by their ballots the party choice of candidates, or meekly
and reverently prepared to make a criss-cross after every R or D,
according to their faith, with the fatuous fealty of sheep. Bigotry and
suspicions, ignorance and easy-going willingness to be led, keep their
phalanx steady and a constant old guard for the protection of comedians
and villains.
In another corner of the stage stand the ten thousand superior,
self-centred souls who neglect to vote and despise politics—the
mixed corps of pessimists, impractical dreamers, careless idlers,
and hyper-cultured world-disdainers, who hold aloof, from one
motive or another, from contact with common life and a share in its
responsibilities—some on the plea that universal suffrage is a folly
or a failure, some that earth is but a vale of travail which concerns
little the wise or righteous thinker, some from sheer butterfly or
stupid idleness. Were they to vote they would help to offset that no
less large body of suffragists—the active enemies of order, the hoodlum,
tobacco-spitting, woman-insulting, rum-drinking ruffian brigade. There
are only left the ten thousand conscientious citizens, real patriots—a
corporal's guard, amid the general optimistic sweep toward the polls.
These mark their crosses with care against the names of the honest men
and perhaps some of the pretty honest, only to read in the newspapers
next morning that the big four have been returned to power and that
the confidence of the plain and sovereign people in the disinterested
conduct of their public servants has again been demonstrated.
"Ho, ho, ho," laugh the low comedians. "Mum's the word." The faces of
the big four are wreathed in self-congratulatory smiles. At the homes of
Peter Lynch and Jeremiah Dolan, those experienced individuals without
occupation, there are cakes and ale. It is a mistake to assume that
because a citizen is an Alderman he is not human and amiably domestic
in his tastes. Jeremiah loves the little Dolans and is no less fond of
riding his children on his leg than Thomas Barnstable, or any of the
leading villains. When their father looks happy in the late autumn, the
children know that their Christmas stockings will be full. Jeremiah
is at peace with all the world and is ready to sit with slicked hair
for his photograph, from which a steel (or is it steal?) engraving
will shortly be prepared for the new City Government year-book,
superscribed: "Jeremiah Dolan, Chairman of the Board of Aldermen." A
framed enlargement of this will hang on one side of the fire-place,
and an embroidered motto, "God Bless Our Home," on the other, and all
will be well with the Dolans for another twelve months. In his own home
Jeremiah is a man of few words on public matters. Not unnaturally his
children believe him to be of the salt of the earth, and he lets it
go at that, attending strictly to business without seeking to defend
himself in the bosom of his family from the diatribes of reformers.
Still, it is reasonable to assume that, under the fillip of the large
majority rolled up in his favor, he would be liable to give vent to
his sense of humor so far as to refer, in the presence of his wife and
children, to the young man who was willing to become an Alderman while
waiting to be Senator, as a T. Willy.
If you have read "The Hon. Peter Stirling," you will remember that
the hero rose to political stature largely by means of attending to
the needs of the district, befriending the poor and the helpless, and
having a friendly, encouraging word for his constituents, high or low.
The American public welcomed the book because it was glad to see the
boss vindicated by these human qualities, and to think that there was
a saving grace of unselfish service in the composition of the average
successful politician. It would be unjust to the big four were I not
to acknowledge that they have been shrewd or human enough to pursue
in some measure this affable policy, and that the neighborhood and the
district in which they live recognize them as hustlers to obtain office,
privileges, and jobs for the humble citizen wishing to be employed by
or to sell something to the City Government. To this constituency the
comparative small tax levied seems all in the day's work, a natural
incident of the principle that when a man does something, he ought to
be paid for it. To them the distinction that public service is a trust
which has no right to pecuniary profit beyond the salary attached, and a
reasonable amount of stationery, seems to savor of the millennium and to
suggest a lack of practical intelligence on the part of its advocates.
They pay the lawyer and the doctor; why not the Alderman?