drama that I would be unwilling to make an affidavit as to the
absolute integrity of any one of them. But there are apt to be two or
even three completely honest members of these august bodies, and two
or three more who are pretty honest. A pretty honest Alderman is like
a pretty good egg. A pretty honest Alderman would be incapable of
touching an envelope containing one thousand dollars, or charging one
hundred in return for his support to a petition for a bay-window; but
if he were in the paint and oil business or the lumber trade, or
interested in hay and oats, it would be safe to assume that any
department of the City Government which did not give his firm directly
or indirectly a part of its trade would receive no aldermanic favors
at his hands. Then again, a pretty honest Alderman would allow a
friend to sell a spavined horse to the city.
To _A Political Optimist_. II.
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 every-day 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,
"Why did he come?"
"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
business-like 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 headquarters 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, some one 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
yearbook, 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.