COLONEL HARVEY ON THE SCENE
Although the intrepid Colonel Harvey was defeated in the first skirmish to
advance the cause of Woodrow Wilson, he continued to pursue his purpose to
force his personal choice upon the New Jersey Democracy. The approaching
gubernatorial election in 1910 gave the Colonel his opportunity and he
took full advantage of it.
Rumours began to circulate that the machine run by Davis, Smith, and Ross,
the great Democratic triumvirate of the state, was determined to nominate
the Princeton president at any cost. Young men like Mark Sullivan, John
Treacy, and myself, all of Hudson County, representing the liberal wing of
our party, were bitterly opposed to this effort. We suspected that the
"Old Gang" was up to its old trick of foisting upon the Democrats of the
state a tool which they could use for their own advantage, who, under the
name of the Democratic party, would do the bidding of the corporate
interests which had, under both the "regular" organizations, Democratic
and Republican, found in New Jersey their most nutritious pastures. At a
meeting held at the Lawyers' Club in New York, younger Democrats, like
Judge Silzer of Middlesex and myself, "plighted our political troth" and
pledged our undying opposition to the candidacy of the Princeton
president. As a result of our conferences we set in motion the progressive
machinery of the state in an intensive effort to force the nomination of
Judge Silzer in opposition to that of Woodrow Wilson.
As soon as the Democratic boss of Hudson County, Bob Davis, one of the
leaders in the Wilson movement in North Jersey, was apprized of the
proposed action on our part, he set about to head it off, and as part of
his plan of opposition he sent for me in an effort to wean me away from
the Silzer candidacy. I refused to yield. Upon being interrogated by me as
to his interest in Woodrow Wilson, Boss Davis stated that if we nominated
Woodrow Wilson there would be a big campaign fund put up for him by Moses
Taylor Pyne, a trustee of Princeton University. Never before was the
ignorance of a boss made more manifest. As a matter of fact, at that very
time there was no more implacable foe of Woodrow Wilson in the state of
New Jersey than Moses Taylor Pyne, who headed the opposition to Mr. Wilson
in the Princeton fight.
Years after this incident the President and I often laughed at what must
have been the surprise and discomfiture of Boss Davis when he finally
learned the facts as to Moses Taylor Pyne's real feelings toward Woodrow
Wilson. Previous to the gubernatorial campaign I asked Boss Davis if he
thought Woodrow Wilson would make a good governor. His reply was
characteristic of the point of view of the boss in dealing with these
matters of moment to the people of the state. "How the hell do I know
whether he'll make a good governor?" he replied; "he will make a good
candidate, and that is the only thing that interests me."
Shortly after, those of us who banded together to oppose the bosses in
their efforts to force Doctor Wilson upon us began to the feel pressure of
the organization's influence. Many of our friends left us in despair and
in fear of the power of the machine. The movement toward Woodrow Wilson in
the state was soon in full swing. The Davis-Smith-Nugent-Ross machine was
in fine working order on the day and the night of the Convention.
I was not even a delegate to the Convention, but I was present and kept in
close touch by contact with my friends with every phase of the convention
fight. Colonel Harvey was again on the scene as the generalissimo of the
Wilson forces, quietly and stealthily moving about, lining up his forces
for the memorable battle of the morrow. There was bitter but unorganized
opposition to the favourite son of the state machine, Woodrow Wilson. The
Convention itself presented an unusual situation and demonstrated more
than anything I ever saw the power of the "Old Gang" to do the thing its
masters had in mind. As I look back upon the great event of this
convention, the nomination of Woodrow Wilson for the governorship of New
Jersey, I feel that destiny was inscrutably engaged there, working in
mysterious ways its wonders to perform, working perhaps through strange,
incongruous instrumentalities to bring the man of destiny into action, led
by those who were opposed to everything Woodrow Wilson stood for, opposed
by those who were yearning for and striving for just the dawn of political
liberalism that his advent in politics heralded. The conflict of the
Trenton Convention about to be enacted was an illustration of the poet's
line, "Where ignorant armies clash by night." The successful side of the
Convention was fighting for what they least wanted; the defeated against
what they most wanted. Here in this convention, in truth, were in
aggressive action the incongruities of politics and in full display were
witnessed the sardonic contrasts between the visible and the invisible
situations in politics. All the Old Guard moving with Prussian precision
to the nomination of the man who was to destroy for a time the machine
rule in New Jersey and inaugurate a new national era in political
liberalism while all the liberal elements of the state, including fine old
Judge Westcott of Camden and young men like myself were sullen, helpless.
Every progressive Democrat in the Convention was opposed to the nomination
of the Princetonian, and every standpatter and Old Guardsman was in favour
of Woodrow Wilson. On the convention floor, dominating the whole affair,
stood ex-Senator James Smith, Jr., of New Jersey, the spokesman of the
"highbrow" candidate for governor, controlling the delegates from south
and west Jersey. Handsome, cool, dignified, he rose from the floor of the
convention hall, and in rich, low tones, seconded the nomination of the
man "he had never met," the man he would not "presume" to claim
acquaintance with, the man whose life had lain in other fields than his.
Very close to him, "taking his orders," and acting upon every suggestion
that came to him, sat Jim Nugent, grim, big-jawed, the giant full-back of
Smith's invincible team, the rising star of machine politics in New
Jersey. Down the aisle sat the "Little Napoleon" of Hudson County, Bob
Davis, wearing a sardonic smile on his usually placid face, with his big
eyes riveted upon those in the Convention who were fighting desperately
and against great odds the effort of the state machine to nominate
President Wilson. Across the aisle from me sat "Plank-Shad" Thompson, of
Gloucester, big and debonair, a thoroughly fine fellow socially, but
always ready to act upon and carry out every tip that came to him from the
master minds in the Convention--Davis and Smith.
These were the leading actors in this political drama. Behind the lines,
in the "offing," was the Insurgent Group, young men like Mark Sullivan and
John Treacy of Hudson, stout defenders of the liberal wing in the
Convention, feeling sullen, beaten, and hopelessly impotent against the
mass attack of the machine forces. What a political medley was present in
this convention--plebeian and patrician, machine man and political
idealist--all gathered together and fighting as leading characters and
supernumeraries in the political drama about to be enacted.
Not three men outside of the leading actors in this great political drama
had ever seen the Princeton professor, although many had doubtless read
his speeches. I watched every move from the side-lines. The bosses, with
consummate precision, moved to the doing of the job in hand, working their
spell of threats and coercion upon a beaten, sullen, spiritless body of
delegates. One could easily discern that there was no heart in the
delegates for the job on hand. To them, the active forces in the
Convention, the Princeton president was, indeed, a man of mystery. Who
could solve the riddle of this political Sphinx? Who was this man Wilson?
What were his purposes? What his ideals? These questions were troubling
and perplexing the delegates. Colonel Harvey, the commander-in-chief of
the Wilson forces, when interrogated by us, refused to answer. How
masterfully the Old Guard staged every act of the drama, and thus brought
about the nomination of the Princeton president. The Convention is at an
end. Wilson has been nominated by a narrow margin; the delegates, bitter
and resentful, are about to withdraw; the curtain is about to roll down on
the last scene. The chairman, Mr. John R. Hardin, the distinguished lawyer
of Essex, is about to announce the final vote, when the clerk of the
Convention, in a tone of voice that reached every part of the hall,
announces in a most dramatic fashion: "We have just received word that Mr.
Wilson, the candidate for the governorship, _and the next President of the
United States_, has received word of his nomination; has left Princeton,
and is now on his way to the Convention." Excellent stage work. The voice
of the secretary making this dramatic statement was the voice of Jacob,
but the deft hand behind this clever move was that of Colonel Harvey. This
announcement literally sets the Convention on fire. Bedlam breaks loose.
The only sullen and indifferent ones in the hall are those of us who met
defeat a few hours before. For us, at least, the mystery is about to be
solved. The Princeton professor has left the shades of the University to
enter the Elysian Fields of politics.
At the time the secretary's announcement was made I was in the rear of the
convention hall, trying to become reconciled to our defeat. I then wended
my weary way to the stage and stood close to the band, which was busy
entertaining the crowd until the arrival of Mr. Wilson. I wanted to obtain
what newspaper men call a "close-up" of this man of mystery.
What were my own feelings as I saw the candidate quietly walk to the
speakers' stand? I was now to see almost face to face for the first time
the man I had openly and bitterly denounced only a few hours before. What
reaction of regret or pleasure did I experience as I beheld the vigorous,
clean-cut, plainly garbed man, who now stood before me, cool and smiling?
My first reaction of regret came when he uttered these words:
I feel the responsibility of the occasion. Responsibility is
proportionate to opportunity. It is a great opportunity to serve the
State and Nation. I did not seek this nomination, I have made no
pledge and have given no promises. If elected, I am left absolutely
free to serve you with all singleness of purpose. It is a new era when
these things can be said, and in connection with this I feel that the
dominant idea of the moment is the responsibility of deserving. I will
have to serve the state very well in order to deserve the honour of
being at its head.... Did you ever experience the elation of a great
hope, that you desire to do right because it is right and without
thought of doing it for your own interest? At that period your hopes
are unselfish. This in particular is a day of unselfish purpose for
Democracy. The country has been universally misled and the people have
begun to believe that there is something radically wrong. And now we
should make this era of hope one of realization through the Democratic
party.
I had another reaction of regret when he said:
"Government is not a warfare of interests. We shall not gain our ends by
heat and bitterness." How simple the man, how modest, how cultured!
Attempting none of the cheap "plays" of the old campaign orator, he
impressively proceeded with his thrilling speech, carrying his audience
with him under the spell of his eloquent words. How tense the moment! His
words, spoken in tones so soft, so fine, in voice so well modulated, so
heart-stirring. Only a few sentences are uttered and our souls are stirred
to their very depths. It was not only what he said, but the simple heart-
stirring way in which he said it. The great climax came when he uttered
these moving words: "The future is not for parties 'playing politics' but
for measures conceived in the largest spirit, pushed by parties whose
leaders are statesmen, not demagogues, who love not their offices but
their duty and their opportunity for service. We are witnessing a
renaissance of public spirit, a reawakening of sober public opinion, a
revival of the power of the people, the beginning of an age of thoughtful
reconstruction that makes our thoughts hark back to the age in which
democracy was set up in America. With the new age we shall show a new
spirit. We shall serve justice and candour and all things that make, for
the right. Is not our own party disciplined and made ready for this great
task? Shall we not forget ourselves in making it the instrument of
righteousness for the state and for the nation?"
After this climax there was a short pause. "Go on, go on," eagerly cried
the crowd. The personal magnetism of the man, his winning smile, so frank
and so sincere, the light of his gray eyes, the fine poise of his well-
shaped head, the beautiful rhythm of his vigorous sentences, held the men
in the Convention breathless under their mystic spell. Men all about me
cried in a frenzy: "Thank God, at last, a leader has come!"
Then, the great ending. Turning to the flag that hung over the speakers'
stand, he said, in words so impressive as to bring almost a sob from his
hearers:
When I think of the flag which our ships carry, the only touch of
colour about them, the only thing that moves as if it had a settled
spirit in it--in their solid structure, it seems to me I see alternate
strips of parchment upon which are written the rights of liberty and
justice and strips of blood spilled to vindicate those rights and
then--in the corner--a prediction of the blue serene into which every
nation may swim which stands for these great things.
The speech is over. Around me there is a swirling mass of men whose hearts
had been touched by the great speech which is just at an end. Men stood
about me with tears streaming from their eyes. Realizing that they had
just stood in the presence of greatness, it seemed as if they had been
lifted out of the selfish miasma of politics, and, in the spirit of the
Crusaders, were ready to dedicate themselves to the cause of liberating
their state from the bondage of special interests.
As I turned to leave the convention hall there stood at my side old John
Crandall, of Atlantic City, like myself a bitter, implacable foe of
Woodrow Wilson, in the Convention. I watched him intently to see what
effect the speech had had upon him. For a minute he was silent, as if in a
dream, and then, drawing himself up to his full height, with a cynical
smile on his face, waving his hat and cane in the air, and at the same
time shaking his head in a self-accusing way, yelled at the top of his
voice, "I am sixty-five years old, and still a damn fool!"