Woodrow Wilson as I Know Him

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WOODROW WILSON AS I KNOW HIM

BY

JOSEPH P. TUMULTY

To the memory of my dear mother Alicia Tumulty whose spirit of generosity, loyalty, and tolerance I trust will be found in the lines of this book

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

In preparing this volume I have made use of portions of the following books: "The War The World and Wilson" by George Creel; "What Wilson Did at Paris," by Ray Stannard Baker; "Woodrow Wilson and His Work" by William E. Dodd; "The Panama Canal Tolls Controversy" by Hugh Gordon Miller and Joseph C. Freehoff; "Woodrow Wilson the Man and His Work" by Henry Jones Ford; "The Real Colonel House" by Arthur D. Howden Smith; "The Foreign Policy of Woodrow Wilson" by Edgar E. Robinson and Victor J. West. In addition, I wish to make acknowledgment to the following books for incidental assistance: "My Four Years in Germany" by James W. Gerard; "Woodrow Wilson, An Interpretation" by A. Maurice Low; "A People Awakened" by Charles Reade Bacon; "Woodrow Wilson" by Hester E. Hosford; "What Really Happened at Paris," edited by Edward Mandell House and Charles Seymour, and above all, to the public addresses of Woodrow Wilson. I myself had furnished considerable data for various books on Woodrow Wilson and have felt at liberty to make liberal use of some portions of these sources as guide posts for my own narrative.

PREFACE

Woodrow Wilson prefers not to be written about. His enemies may, and of course will, say what they please, but he would like to have his friends hold their peace. He seems to think and feel that if he himself can keep silent while his foes are talking, his friends should be equally stoical. He made this plain in October, 1920, when he learned that I had slipped away from my office at the White House one night shortly before the election and made a speech about him in a little Maryland town, Bethesda. He did not read the speech, I am sure he has never read it, but the fact that I had made any sort of speech about him, displeased him. That was one of the few times in my long association with him that I found him distinctly cold. He said nothing, but his silence was vocal.

I suspect this book will share the fate of the Bethesda speech, will not be read by Mr. Wilson. If this seems strange to those who do not know him personally, I can only say that "Woodrow Wilson is made that way." He cannot dramatize himself and shrinks from attempts of others to dramatize him. "I will not write about myself," is his invariable retort to friends who urge him to publish his own story of the Paris Peace Conference. He craves the silence from others which he imposes upon himself. He is quite willing to leave the assessment and interpretation of himself to time and posterity. Knowing all this I have not consulted him about this book. Yet I have felt that the book should be written, because I am anxious that his contemporaries should know him as I have known him, not only as an individual but also as the advocate of a set of great ideas and as the leader of great movements. If I can picture him, even imperfectly, as I have found him to be, both in himself and in his relationship to important events, I must believe that the portrait will correct some curious misapprehensions about him.

For instance, there is a prevalent idea, an innocently ignorant opinion in some quarters, an all too sedulously cultivated report in other quarters, that he has been uniformly headstrong, impatient of advice, his mind hermetically closed to counsel from others. This book will expose the error of that opinion; will show how, in his own words, his mind was "open and to let," how he welcomed suggestions and criticism. Indeed I fear that unless the reader ponders carefully what I have written he may glean the opposite idea, that sometimes the President had to be prodded to action, and that I represent myself as the chief prodder.

The superficial reader may find countenance lent to this latter view in the many notes of information and advice which I addressed to the President and in the record of his subsequent actions which were more or less in accord with the counsel contained in some of these notes. If the reader deduces from this the conclusion that I was the instigator of some of the President's important policies, he will misinterpret the facts and the President's character and mental processes; if he concludes that I am trying to represent myself as the instigator he will misunderstand my motives in publishing these notes.

These motives are: first, to tell the story of my association with Mr. Wilson, and part of the record is contained in these notes; secondly, to show what liberty he allowed me to suggest and criticize; how, so far from being offended, he welcomed counsel. Having this privilege I exercised it. I conceived it as part of my duty as his secretary and friend to report to him my own interpretations of facts and public opinion as I gathered these from newspapers and conversations, and sometimes to suggest modes of action. These notes were memoranda for my chief's consideration.

The reader will see how frankly critical some of these notes are. The mere fact that the President permitted me to continue to write to him in a vein of candour that was frequently brusque and blunt, is the conclusive answer to the charge that he resented criticism.

Contrary to the misrepresentations, he had from time to time many advisers. In most instances, I do not possess written reports of what others said orally and in writing, and therefore in this record, which is essentially concerned with my own official and personal relations with him, I may seem to represent myself as a preponderating influence. This is neither the fact nor my intention. The public acts of Mr. Wilson were frequently mosaics, made up of his own ideas and those of others. My written notes were merely stones offered for the mosaic. Sometimes the stones were rejected, sometimes accepted and shaped by the master builder into the pattern.

It was a habit of Mr. Wilson's to meditate before taking action, to listen to advice without comment, frequently without indicating whether or not the idea broached by others had already occurred to him. We who knew him best knew that often the idea had occurred to him and had been thought out more lucidly than any adviser could state it. But he would test his own views by the touchstone of other minds' reactions to the situations and problems which he was facing and would get the "slant" of other minds.

He was always ahead of us all in his thinking. An admirer once said: "You could shut him up in an hermetically sealed room and trust him to reach the right decision," but as a matter of fact he did not work that way. He sought counsel and considered it and acted on it or dismissed it according to his best judgment, for the responsibility for the final action was his, and he was boldly prepared to accept that responsibility and conscientiously careful not to abuse it by acting rashly. While he would on occasion make momentous decisions quickly and decisively, the habitual character of his mind was deliberative. He wanted all the facts and so far as possible the contingencies. Younger men like myself could counsel immediate and drastic action, but even while we were advising we knew that he would, without haste and without waste, calmly calculate his course. What, coming from us, were merely words, would, coming from him, constitute acts and a nation's destiny. He regarded himself as the "trustee of the people," who should not act until he was sure he was right and should then act with the decision and finality of fate itself.

Of another misapprehension, namely, that Mr. Wilson lacks human warmth, I shall let the book speak without much prefatory comment. I have done my work ill indeed if there does not emerge from the pages a human-hearted man, a man whose passion it was to serve mankind. In his daily intercourse with individuals he showed uniform consideration, at times deep tenderness, though he did not have in his possession the little bag of tricks which some politicians use so effectively: he did not clap men on their backs, call them by their first names, and profess to each individual he met that of all the men in the world this was the man whom he most yearned to see. Perhaps he was too sincere for that; perhaps by nature too reserved; but I am convinced that he who reads this book will feel that he has met a man whose public career was governed not merely by a great brain, but also by a great heart. I did not invent this character. I observed him for eleven years.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

CHAPTER I. THE POLITICAL LABORATORY II. DOING THE POLITICAL CHORES III. MY FIRST MEETING WITH THE POLITICAL BOSS IV. COLONEL HARVEY ON THE SCENE V. THE NEW JERSEY SALIENT VI. SOMETHING NEW IN POLITICAL CAMPAIGNS VII. THE CRISIS OP THE CAMPAIGN VIII. THE END OP THE CAMPAIGN IX. A PARTY SPLIT X. EXIT THE OLD GUARD XI. EXECUTIVE LEADERSHIP XII. COLONEL HARVEY XIII. THE "COCKED HAT" INCIDENT XIV. WILSON AND THE OLD GUARD XV. MR. BRYAN ISSUES A CHALLENGE XVI. THE BALTIMORE CONVENTION XVII. FACING A SOLEMN RESPONSIBILITY XVIII. WILLIAM F. McCOMBS XIX. THE INAUGURATION OF 1913 XX. MEXICO XXI. PANAMA TOLLS XXII. REFORMING THE CURRENCY XXIII. RENOMINATED XXIV. THE ADAMSON LAW XXV. GERMAN PROPAGANDA XXVI. WILSON AND HUGHES XXVII. NEUTRALITY XXVIII. PREPAREDNESS XXIX. THE GREAT DECLARATION XXX. CARRYING ON XXXI. THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD XXXII. COLONEL ROOSEVELT AND GENERAL WOOD XXXIII. WILSON THE WARRIOR XXXIV. GERMANY CAPITULATES XXXV. APPEAL FOR A DEMOCRATIC CONGRESS XXXVI. THE GREAT ADVENTURE XXXVII. WILSON—THE LONE HAND XXXVIII. JAPAN—SHANTUNG XXXIX. IRELAND XL. PROHIBITION XLI. THE TREATY FIGHT XLII. THE WESTERN TRIP XLIII. RESERVATIONS XLIV. WILSON—THE HUMAN BEING XLV. THE SAN FRANCISCO CONVENTION XLVI. THE LAST DAY

APPENDIX

INDEX

WOODROW WILSON AS I KNOW HIM

CHAPTER I

THE POLITICAL LABORATORY

My introduction to politics was in the Fifth Ward of Jersey City, New Jersey, which for many years was the "Bloody Angle" of politics of the city in which I lived. Always Democratic, it had been for many years the heart and centre of what New Jersey Democrats were pleased to call the great Gibraltar of Democracy. The ward in which I lived was made up of the plainest sort of people, a veritable melting pot of all races, but with a predominance of Irish, Germans, and Italians, between whom it was, like ancient Gaul, divided into three parts.

My dear father, Philip Tumulty, a wounded soldier of the Civil War, after serving an apprenticeship as an iron moulder under a delightful, whole- souled Englishman, opened a little grocery store on Wayne Street, Jersey City, where were laid the foundation stones of his modest fortune and where, by his fine common sense, poise, and judgment, he soon established himself as the leader of a Democratic faction in that neighbourhood. This modest little place soon became a political laboratory for me. In the evening, around the plain, old-fashioned counters, seated upon barrels and boxes, the interesting characters of the neighbourhood gathered, representing as they did the leading active political forces in that quaint cosmopolitan community.

No matter how far back my memory turns, I cannot recall when I did not hear politics discussed—not ward politics only, but frequently the politics of the nation and the world. In that grocery store, from the lips of the plainest folk who came there, were carried on serious discussions of the tariff, the money question, our foreign relations, and all phases of the then famous Venezuelan question, which in those days threatened to set two continents on fire.

The make-up of the little "cabinet" or group which surrounded my father was most interesting. There was Mr. Alexander Hamill, the father of Congressman Hamill of Jersey City, a student of Queen's College in Ireland and who afterward taught in the National Schools of Ireland, a well-read, highly cultured, broad-minded man of affairs; and dear Uncle Jimmie Kelter, almost a centenarian, whose fine old gray hair gave him the appearance of a patriarch. Uncle Jimmie nightly revelled in the recital to those who were present as ready listeners, his experience when he was present at a session of the House of Parliament in London and heard the famous Irish statesman, Daniel O'Connell, denounce England's attitude of injustice toward Catholic emancipation. He loved to regale the little group that encircled him by reciting from memory the great speech of Robert Emmett from the dock, and excerpts from the classic speeches of the leading Irish orators like Curran, Sheridan, and Fox.

While these discussions in the little store wended their uneasy way along, a spark of humour was often injected into them by the delightful banter of a rollicking, good-natured Irishman, a big two-fisted fellow, generous- hearted and lovable, whom we affectionately called "Big Phil." I can see him now, standing like a great pyramid in the midst of the little group, every now and then throwing his head back in good-natured abandon, recounting wild and fantastic tales about the fairies and banshees of the Old Land from whence he had come. When his listeners would turn away, with skepticism written all over their countenances, he would turn to me, whose youthful enthusiasm made me an easy victim upon which to work his magic spell in the stories which he told of the wonders of the Old Land across the sea.

I loved these delightful little gatherings in whose deliberations my dear father played so notable a part. Those kind folk, now off the stage, never allowed the spirit of provincialism to guide their judgment or their attitude toward great public affairs. I recall with pleasure their tolerance, their largeness of view, and fine magnanimity which raised every question they discussed to a high level. They were a very simple folk, but independent in their political actions and views. Into that little group of free, independent political thinkers would often come a warning from the Democratic boss of the city that they must follow with undivided allegiance the organization's dictum in political matters and not seek to lead opinion in the community in which they lived. Supremely indifferent were these fine old chaps to those warnings, and unmindful of political consequences. They felt that they had left behind them a land of oppression and they would not submit to tyrannous dictation in this free land of ours, no matter who sought to exert it.

In this political laboratory I came in contact with the raw materials of political life that, as an older man, I was soon to see moulded into political action in a larger way in the years to come. I found in politics that the great policies of a nation are simply the policies and passions of the ward extended. In the little discussions that took place in that store, I was, even as a youth, looking on from the side-lines, struck by the fine, wholesome, generous spirit of my own father. Never would he permit, for instance, in the matter of the discussion of Ireland—so dear to his heart—a shade of resentment or bitterness toward England to influence his judgment in the least, for he believed that no man could be a just judge in any matter where his mind was filled with passion; and so in this matter, the subject of such fierce controversy, as in every other, he held a judgment free and far away from his passionate antagonisms. I found in the simple life of the community where I was brought up the same human things, in a small way, that I was subsequently to come in contact with in a larger way in the whirligig of political life in the Capitol of the Nation. I found the same relative bigness and the same relative smallness, the same petty jealousies and rivalries which manifest themselves in the larger fields of a great nation's life; the same good nature, and the same deep humanity expressing itself in the same way, only differently apparelled.

One of the most interesting places in the world for the study of human character is the country store or the city grocery. I was able as a boy standing behind the counter of the little grocery store to study people; and intimately to become acquainted with them and their daily lives and the lives of their women and children. I never came in contact with their daily routine, their joys and sorrows, their bitter actualities and deep tragedies, without feeling rise in me a desire to be of service. I remember many years ago, seated behind the counter of my father's grocery store, with what passionate resentment I read the vivid headlines of the metropolitan newspapers and the ghastly accounts of the now famous Homestead Strike of 1892. Of course, I came to realize in after years that the headlines of a newspaper are not always in agreement with the actual facts; but I do recall how intently I pored over every detail of this tragic story of industrial war and how, deep in my heart, I resented the efforts of a capitalistic system that would use its power in this unjust, inhuman way. Little did I realize as I pored over the story of this tragedy in that far-off day that some time, seated at my desk at the White House in the office of the secretary to the President of the United States, I would have the pleasure of meeting face to face the leading actor in this lurid drama, Mr. Andrew Carnegie himself, and of hearing from his own lips a human and intelligent recital of the events which formed the interesting background of the Homestead Strike.

CHAPTER II

DOING THE POLITICAL CHORES

For the young man who wishes to rise in the politics of a great city there is no royal road to preferment but only a plain path of modest service uncomplainingly rendered. Of course, there seem to be exceptions to this rule. At times it is possible for the scion of a great family to rise to temporary distinction in politics without a preliminary course in the school of local politics, for as a Democratic boss once said to me: "Great family names are fine window-dressers," but in my own experience I have seen the disappointing end of careers thus begun and have found that sometimes after a great name has been temporarily used to meet certain political emergencies, the would-be politician is quickly thrust aside to make way for the less pretentious but more capable man. There is nothing permanent or lasting about a place in politics gained in this adventitious way. Of course, there sometimes come to high office men from military careers, or men, like the distinguished subject of this book, from fields apparently remote from practical politics, but such successes are due to an appealing personal force, or to exceptional genius which the young aspirant had better not assume that he possesses. The general rule holds good that a political apprenticeship is as necessary and valuable as an industrial apprenticeship.

My first official connection with politics was as the financial secretary of the Fifth Ward Democratic Club of Jersey City. My father had told me that if I intended to play an active part in politics, it would be necessary to begin modestly at the bottom of the ladder, to do the political chores, as it were, which are a necessary part of ward organization work. I recall those days with singular pleasure, for my work gave me an unusual opportunity to meet the privates in the ranks and to make friendships that were permanent.

The meetings of the Club were held each week in a modest club house, with part of the meeting given over to addresses made by what were then considered the leading men in the Democratic party. It is queer how the average political worker favours the senator, or the ex-judge, or the ex-Congressman, as a speaker on these occasions. Ex-Congressman Gray, of Texas (I doubt whether there ever was a congressman by that name), would often be the headliner and he could be depended upon to draw a crowded and enthusiastic house. The knowledge and experience I gained at these inspirational meetings were mighty helpful to me in the political life I had carved out for myself. I found that when you had convinced these plain, everyday fellows that, although you were a college man, you were not necessarily a highbrow, they were willing to serve you to the end. It was a valuable course in a great university. It was not very long until I was given my first opportunity, in 1896, to make my first political speech in behalf of Mr. Bryan, then the Democratic candidate for President. I was not able at that time to disentangle the intricacies of the difficult money problems, but I endeavoured, imperfectly at least, in the speeches I made, to lay my finger on what I considered the great moral issue that lay behind the silver question in that memorable campaign—the attempt by eastern financial interests to dominate the Government of the United States.

After my apprenticeship, begun as secretary of the Fifth Ward Democratic Club, an incident happened which caused a sudden rise in my political stock. At a county convention I was given the opportunity of making the nominating speech for the Fifth Ward's candidate for street and water commissioner—a bricklayer and a fine fellow—who was opposing the machine candidate. It was a real effort on my part and caused me days and nights of worry and preparation. Indeed, it seemed to me to be the great moment of my life. I vividly recall the incidents of what to me was a memorable occasion. I distinctly remember that on the night of the Convention, with the delegates from my ward, I faced an unfriendly and hostile audience, our candidate having aroused the opposition of the boss and his satellites. While I felt that the attitude of the Convention was one of opposition to our candidate, there was no evidence of unfriendliness or hostility to myself as the humble spokesman of the Fifth Ward. When I stood up to speak I realized that I had to "play up" to the spirit of generosity which is always latent in a crowd such as I was addressing. I believe I won, although my candidate, unfortunately, lost. My Irish buoyancy and good nature brought me over the line. I felt that the audience in the gallery and the delegates on the floor were with me, but unfortunately for my cause, the boss, who was always the dominating influence of the Convention, was against me, and so we lost in the spirited fight we made. In this first skirmish of my political career I made up my mind to meet defeat with good grace and, if possible, smilingly, and no sore spot or resentment over our defeat ever showed itself in my attitude toward the men who saw fit to oppose us. Evidently, the boss and his friends appreciated this attitude, for it was reported to me shortly after the Convention that I was to be given recognition and by the boss's orders would soon be placed on the eligible list for future consideration in connection with a place on the legislative ticket.

One lesson I learned was not to be embittered by defeat. Since then I have seen too many cases of men so disgruntled at being worsted in their first battles that their political careers ended when they should have been just beginning.

CHAPTER III

MY FIRST MEETING WITH THE POLITICAL BOSS

After serving my apprenticeship as a ward worker, devoted friends from my home ward urged my name upon the Democratic leader, Mr. Robert Davis, for a place upon the Democratic legislative ticket for Hudson County. I had grown to have a deep regard and affection for this fine old fellow. While he was a boss in every sense, maintaining close relations with the Public Service Corporations of the state, he had an engaging human side. He never pretended nor deceived. With his friends he was open, frank, generous, and honourable in all his dealings, and especially kind to and considerate of the young men who became part of his working force. With his political enemies he was fair and decent. Many a time during a legislative session, when I was a member of the House of Assembly, word would come to us of the boss's desire that we should support this or that bill, behind which certain corporate interests lay. The orders, however, were clean and without a threat of any kind. He took no unfair advantage and made no reprisals when we failed to carry out his desires.

While a member of the New Jersey Legislature, the name of Woodrow Wilson began to be first discussed in the political world of New Jersey. It came about in this way: By reason of the normal Republican majority of the state the nomination by the Legislature in those days of a Democratic candidate for the United States senatorship was a mere compliment, a courtesy, a very meagre one indeed, and was generally paid to the old war horses of democracy like James E. Martine, of Plainfield, New Jersey; but the appearance of the doughty Colonel Harvey on the scene, at the 1907 session of the New Jersey Legislature, gave a new turn to this custom. A request was made by Colonel Harvey and diplomatically conveyed by his friends to the Democratic members of the Legislature, that the honorary nomination for the United States senatorship at this session of the Legislature should be given to President Wilson of Princeton. It may be added that I learned years afterward that Mr. Wilson was not a party to Colonel Harvey's plans; that once he even sent a friend as an emissary to explain to the Colonel that Mr. Wilson did not believe that the use of his name in connection with political office was a service to him or to Princeton University.

The suggestion that Woodrow Wilson be given the nomination was hotly resented by young men like myself in the Legislature. Frankly, I led the opposition to the man I was afterward to serve for eleven years in the capacity of private secretary. The basis of my opposition to Mr. Wilson for this empty honour was the rumour that had been industriously circulated in the state House and elsewhere, that there was, as Mr. Dooley says, "a plan afoot" by the big interests of New Jersey and New York to nominate Woodrow Wilson for the senatorship and then nominate him for governor of the state as a preliminary start for the Presidency. I remember now, with the deepest chagrin and regret, having bitterly assailed Woodrow Wilson's candidacy in a Democratic caucus which I attended and how I denounced him for his alleged opposition to labour. In view of my subsequent intimacy with Mr. Wilson and the knowledge gained of his great heart and his big vision in all matters affecting labour, I cannot now point with pride to the speech I then made attacking him. I am sure the dear doctor, away off in Princeton, never even heard of my opposition to him, although in my conceit I thought the state reverberated with the report of my unqualified and bitter opposition to him. In my poor vanity I thought that perhaps what I had said in my speech of opposition to him had reached the cloisters of Princeton. As a matter of fact, he never heard about me or my speech, and afterward in the years of our association he "joshed" me about my opposition to him and would often make me very uncomfortable by recounting to his friends at the White House how even his own secretary had opposed him when his name was first under consideration for the United States senatorship in New Jersey.

To me was given the honour of nominating at a joint session of the Senate and House Assembly the candidate opposed to Woodrow Wilson for the Senate, the Honourable Edwin E. Stevens. I recall the comparison I made between the claims of Colonel Stevens, the strict party man, and those of Woodrow Wilson, the Princeton professor. The speech nominating Woodrow Wilson at the joint session of the Legislature was the shortest on record. It was delivered by a big generous fellow, John Baader, one of the Smith-Nugent men from Essex County. When Essex County was called, he slowly rose to his feet and almost shamefacedly addressing the Speaker of the House, said, tremulously: "I nominate for the United States Senate Woodrow Wilson, of Princeton," and then, amid silence, sat down. No applause greeted the name of the man he nominated. It seemed as if the college professor had no friends in the Legislature except the man who had put his name forward for the nomination.

Colonel Stevens won the honorary nomination and Woodrow Wilson was defeated. Colonel Harvey, disgruntled but not discouraged, packed up his kit and left on the next train for New York.

CHAPTER IV

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!"

CHAPTER V

THE NEW JERSEY SALIENT

No campaign in New Jersey caused so great an interest as the gubernatorial campaign of 1910. The introduction of a Princeton professor into the political melee in New Jersey had given a novel touch to what ordinarily would have been a routine affair. The prologue to the great drama, the various scenes of which were now to unfold before the voters of the state, had been enacted at the Democratic Convention at Trenton under the masterly direction of the members of the Democratic Old Guard of the state. New Jersey had long been noted throughout the country as the "Mother of Trusts", and the nesting place of Privilege. Through their alliance and partnership with the political bosses of both parties the so- called corporate interests had been for many years successful, against the greatest pressure of public opinion, in blocking the passage of progressive legislation.

Liberal-minded men in the state had for many years been carrying on an agitation for the enactment into law of legislation that would make possible the following great needs:

1. The passage of a Direct Primary Act. 2. The passage of an Employers' Liability Act. 3. The regulation of Public Utilities. 4. The passage of a Corrupt Practices Act.

These were matters within the scope of state legislation, and to these was added an agitation for a fifth reform, which, of course, could be accomplished only through an amendment to the Constitution of the United States, the election of United States senators by vote of the people.

In the old days in New Jersey, now happily gone, the days when the granting of special corporation charters was the vogue, a sort of political suzerainty was set up by Railroad and Public Service interests. Every election was, in its last analysis, a solemn referendum upon the question as to which corporate interest should control legislation— whether the Pennsylvania Railroad, whose master mind was the Republican leader of the state, United States Senator Sewall, or the Public Service interests, whose votaries and friends were Senator Smith of New Jersey, and Milan Ross, Sr., of Middlesex County.

While these corporate interests fought among themselves over the matter of a United States senatorship or the governorship of a state, they were at one in their unrelenting, bitter, and highly organized opposition to the passage of what in this day we call by the highly dignified name of Social Welfare Legislation. The voices of those liberal-minded men and women of the state, who, year after year, fought for this legislation, were like voices crying in the wilderness. An illustration of corporate opposition was the unrelenting attitude of the Special Interest group of the state to the passage of the Employers' Liability Act. Every decent, progressive, humane man in the state felt that the old, barbaric, Fellow-Servant doctrine should be changed and that there should be substituted for it a more humane, wholesome, modern doctrine. Nearly every state in the Union had already recognized the injustice of the old rule, but the privileged interests in New Jersey could not be moved in their bitter and implacable opposition to it, and for over half a century they had succeeded in preventing its enactment into law. Progressives or New Idea Republicans, high in the councils of that party, had fought with their Democratic brethren to pass this legislation, but always without result. At last there came a revolt in the Republican party, brought about and led by sturdy Republicans like Everett Colby of Essex, and William P. Martin of the same county; George Record and Mark M. Fagan of my own county, Hudson. Out of this split came the establishment in the ranks of the Republican party itself of a faction which called itself the New Idea branch of the Republican party. The campaign for humane legislation within the ranks of the G.O.P. was at last begun in real fighting fashion. It was the irrepressible conflict between the old and the new, between those who believed human rights are superior to and take precedence over property rights. The conflict could not be stayed; its leaders could not be restrained. These men, Colby, Record, Martin, and Fagan, were the sowers of the Progressive seed which Woodrow Wilson, by his genius for leadership and constructive action along humane lines, was soon to harvest. His candidacy, therefore, admirably fitted into the interesting situation.

When the convention that nominated Woodrow Wilson had adjourned, a convention wholly dominated by reactionary bosses, it seemed as if progress and every fine thing for which the Progressives had worked had been put finally to sleep. Behind the selection of the Princetonian and his candidacy lay the Old Guard who thought the Professor could be used as a shield for their strategy. The Progressives, both Democratic and Republican, had witnessed the scenes enacted at the Democratic Convention at Trenton with breaking hearts. They were about to lose hope. They did not know that the candidate had at the outset served notice on the Old Guard that if he were nominated he must be a free man to do nobody's bidding, to serve no interests except those of the people of the state; but the Old Guard had not published this.

The Republican candidate, nominated at the time Woodrow Wilson was selected, was a most pleasant, kindly, genial man from Passaic, Mr. Vivian M. Lewis, who had just retired as banking commissioner for the state. By clever plays to the Progressives he had, at least temporarily, brought together the various progressive elements of the state. This movement apparently was aided by the Democratic candidate's reluctance in the early days of the campaign to speak out boldly against the domination of the Democratic party by the bosses or the Old Guard.

CHAPTER VI

SOMETHING NEW IN POLITICAL CAMPAIGNS

Woodrow Wilson opened his gubernatorial campaign with a speech in Jersey City, my home town. It was a distinct disappointment to those who attended the meeting. His speech in accepting the nomination had touched us deeply and had aroused in us great expectations, but after the Jersey City speech we were depressed in spirit, for it seemed to us that he was evading the real issues of the campaign. I was most anxious to meet the candidate and give him, if he invited it, my impressions of this speech. A dinner given to complete the ceremonies attendant upon the purchase of the Caldwell residence of Grover Cleveland gave me the first opportunity to meet the president of Princeton in an intimate way. Mr. Wilson's first wife, a most delightful woman, made the introduction possible. As I fondly look back upon this meeting, I vividly recall my impressions of the man who had just been nominated for the governorship of the state in a convention in which I had bitterly opposed him.

The democratic bearing of the man, his warmth of manner, charm, and kindly bearing were the first things that attracted me to him. There was no coldness or austerity about him, nor was he what the politicians would call "high-browish." He impressed me as a plain, unaffected, affable gentleman, who was most anxious to receive advice and suggestion from any quarter. He made us doubly welcome by saying that he had heard a great deal of favourable comment about the work of Judge Sullivan and myself in the Legislature. This made us feel perfectly at home, and this frank manner of dealing with us opened the way for the suggestions we desired to make to him as to the attitude we younger Democrats thought he should assume on what we believed were the vital, progressive issues of the campaign.

When he was informed that I was present at his first meeting a few nights before in Jersey City, he came over to me and in a most friendly way said: "What did you really think of my speech?" For a moment I was embarrassed, and yet the frankness of the man was compelling and so I said: "Doctor, do you really desire an honest opinion of that speech? I really want to serve you but I can do so only by speaking frankly." He replied: "That is what I most desire." "Well," I said, "your speech was most disappointing." I stopped suddenly, feeling that I had done enough damage to the Professor's feelings. But he urged: "Please tell me what your criticism is. What I most need is honesty and frankness. You cannot hurt my feelings by truthfully expressing your opinion. Don't forget that I am an amateur at this game and need advice and guidance." Encouraged by this suggestion, I proceeded to tell him what I considered the principal defects of his opening speech at Jersey City. I told him that there was a lack of definiteness in it which gave rise to the impression that he was trying to evade a discussion of the moral issues of the campaign, among them, of major importance, being the regulation of Public Utilities and the passage of an Employers' Liability Act. Briefly sketching for him our legislative situation, I gave him the facts with reference to those large measures of public interest; how, for many years, in face of constant agitation, the Old Guard had prevented the enactment of these measures into law, and how, therefore, his failure to discuss these matters in his first speech had caused a grave feeling of unrest in the progressive ranks of both parties in New Jersey.

[Illustration:

The White House
Washington

Cornish, N. H.,
July 3, 1915

My dear Tumulty:

I am heartily obliged to you for your telegrams. It is characteristic of you to keep my mind free by such messages. I am really having a most refreshing and rewarding time and am very thankful to get it. I hope that you are not having depressing weather in Washington and that you are finding it possible to make satisfactory arrangements for the family, so that we can have the pleasure of having you with us at the White House when I get back.

With warmest messages from us all,
Affectionately yours,

(signed)
Woodrow Wilson

Hon. Joseph P. Tumulty
Washington, D.C.

This letter reveals the warm personal relations between the President and his secretary.]

He listened with keen attention and then modestly remarked: "I value very highly this tip and you may rest assured I shall cover these matters in my next speech. I meant that speech to be general."

In my ignorance of things past I did not know that the candidate had himself written the platform adopted by the Trenton Convention, and in my ignorance of the future I did not then know that one of the boldest and most remarkable political campaigns in America was to be conducted on that platform, and that after the election and inauguration of the nominee the chief business of the legislation was destined to be the enactment into law of each of the planks of the platform, a complete and itemized fulfilment of preëlection promises, unusual in the history of American politics. At the time of my first conversation with the nominee I only knew that the Convention had been dominated by the reactionary elements in the party, that under this domination it had stolen the thunder of the progressive elements of the party and of the New Idea Republicans, and that the platform had been practically ignored by the candidate in his first campaign speech. In these circumstances, and smarting as I was under the recollection of recent defeat, it is not strange that I thought I detected the old political ruse of dressing the wolf in sheep's clothing, of using handsome pledges as a mask to deceive the gullible, and that I assumed that this scholarly amateur in politics was being used for their own purposes by masters and veterans in the old game of thimblerig.

The candidate soon struck his gait and astonished me and all New Jersey with the vigour, frankness, and lucidity of his speeches of exposition and appeal. No campaign in years in New Jersey had roused such universal interest. There was no mistaking the character and enthusiasm of the greeting the candidate received every place he spoke, nor the response his thrilling speeches evoked all over the state. Those who had gathered the idea that the head of the great university would appear pedantic and stand stiff-necked upon an academic pedestal from which he would talk over the heads of the common people were forced, by the fighting, aggressive attitude of the Doctor, to revise their old estimates. The campaign had only begun when the leading newspapers of the country, particularly the large dailies of New York, were taking an interest in the New Jersey fight.

Those of us who doubted Woodrow Wilson's sincerity and his sympathy for the great progressive measures for which we had been fighting in the New Jersey Legislature were soon put at ease by the developments of his campaign and his sympathetic attitude toward the things we had so much at heart.

No candidate for governor in New Jersey had ever made so striking and moving an appeal. Forgetting and ignoring the old slogans and shibboleths, he appealed to the hearts and consciences of the people of the state. His homely illustrations evoked expressions of delight, until it seemed as if this newcomer in the politics of our state had a better knowledge of the psychology of the ordinary crowd than the old stagers who had spent their lives in politics. His illustrations always went home.

For instance, speaking of progress, Doctor Wilson said that much depended upon the action of the one who is supposed to be progressive. "I can recall," he would say in trying to make his point, "the picture of a poor devil of a donkey on a treadmill. He keeps on tramping, tramping, tramping, but he never gets anywhere. But," he continued, "there is a certain elephant that's tramping, too, and how much progress is it making?" And then, again, he would grow solemn when he spoke of the average man. Turning aside from the humorous, he would strike a serious note like this one:

You know that communities are not distinguished by exceptional men. They are distinguished by the average of their citizenship. I often think of the poor man when he goes to vote: a moral unit in his lonely dignity.

The deepest conviction and passion of my heart is that the common people, by which I mean all of us, are to be absolutely trusted. The peculiarity of some representatives, particularly those of the Republican party, is that when they talk about the people, they obviously do not include themselves. Now if, when you think of the people, you are not thinking about yourself, then you do not belong in America.

When I look back at the processes of history, when I look back at the genesis of America, I see this written over every page, that the nations are renewed from the bottom, not from the top; that the genius which springs up from the ranks of unknown men is the genius which renews the youth and the energy of the people; and in every age of the world, where you stop the courses of the blood from the roots, you injure the great, useful structure to the extent that atrophy, death, and decay are sure to ensue. This is the reason that an hereditary monarchy does not work; that is the reason that an hereditary aristocracy does not work; that is the reason that everything of that sort is full of corruption and ready to decay.

So I say that our challenge of to-day is to include in the partnership all those great bodies of unnamed men who are going to produce our future leaders and renew the future energies of America. And as I confess that, as I confess my belief in the common man, I know what I am saying. The man who is swimming against the stream knows the strength of it. The man who is in the mêlée knows what blows are being struck and what blood is being drawn. The man who is on the make is a judge of what is happening in America, not the man who has made; not the man who has emerged from the flood, not the man who is standing on the bank, looking on, but the man who is struggling for his life and for the lives of those who are dearer to him than himself. That is the man whose judgment will tell you what is going on in America, and that is the man by whose judgment I for one wish to be guided—so that as the tasks multiply and the days come when all will seem confusion and dismay, we may lift up our eyes to the hills out of these dark valleys where the crags of special privilege overshadow and darken our path, to where the sun gleams through the great passage in the broken cliffs, the sun of God, the sun meant to regenerate men, the sun meant to liberate them from their passion and despair and to lift us to those uplands which are the promised land of every man who desires liberty and achievement.

Speaking for the necessity of corporate reform in business, he said:

I am not objecting to the size of these corporations. Nothing is big enough to scare me. What I am objecting to is that the Government should give them exceptional advantages, which enables them to succeed and does not put them on the same footing as other people. I think those great touring cars, for example, which are labelled "Seeing New York," are too big for the streets. You have almost to walk around the block to get away from them, and size has a great deal to do with the trouble if you are trying to get out of the way. But I have no objection on that account to the ordinary automobile properly handled by a man of conscience who is also a gentleman. I have no objection to the size, power, and beauty of an automobile. I am interested, however, in the size and conscience of the men who handle them, and what I object to is that some corporation men are taking "joy-rides" in their corporations.

Time and time again men were reminded of the great speeches of Lincoln and thought they saw his fine spirit breathing through sentences like these:

Gentlemen, we are not working for to-day, we are not working for our own interest, we are all going to pass away. But think of what is involved. Here are the tradition, and the fame, and the prosperity, and the purity, and the peace of a great nation involved. For the time being we are that nation, but the generations that are behind us are pointing us forward to the path and saying:

"Remember the great traditions of the American people," and all those unborn children that will constitute the generations that are ahead will look back to us, either at those who serve them or at those who betray them. Will any man in such circumstances think it worthy to stand and not try to do what is possible in so great a cause, to save a country, to purify a polity, to set up vast reforms which will increase the happiness of mankind? God forbid that I should either be daunted or turned away from a great task like this.

Speaking of the candidate who opposed him:

I have been informed that he has the best of me in looks. Now, it is not always the useful horse that is most beautiful. If I had a big load to be drawn some distance I should select one of those big, shaggy kinds of horses, not much for beauty but strong of pull.

On one occasion, when he had been talking about his and Mr. Lewis's different conceptions of the "constitutional governor", and telling his audience how he, if elected, would interpret the election as a mandate from the people to assist in and direct legislation in the interests of the people of New Jersey at large, he paused an instant and then in those incisive tones and with that compression of the lips which marked his more bellicose words, he said curtly: "If you don't want that kind of a governor, don't elect me."

Excerpts from the speeches cannot do justice to this remarkable campaign, which Woodrow Wilson himself, after he had been twice elected President of the United States, considered the most satisfying of his political campaigns, because the most systematic and basic. As Presidential candidate he had to cover a wide territory and touch only the high spots in the national issues, but in his gubernatorial campaign he spoke in every county of the state and in some counties several times, and his speeches grew out of each other and were connected with each other in a way that made them a popular treatise on self-government. He used no technical jargon and none of the stereotyped bombast of the usual political campaign. He had a theme which he wanted to expound to the people of New Jersey, which theme was the nature and character of free government, how it had been lost in New Jersey through the complicated involvements of invisible government, manipulated from behind the scenes by adroit representatives of the corporate interest working in conjunction with the old political machines; how under this clever manipulation legislators had ceased to represent the electorate and were, as he called them, only "errand boys" to do the bidding of the real rulers of New Jersey, many of whom were not even residents of the state, and how free government could be restored to New Jersey through responsible leadership. He was making an application to practical politics of the fundamental principles of responsible government which he had analyzed in his earlier writings, including the book on "Congressional Government." Beneath the concrete campaign issues in New Jersey he saw the fundamental principles of Magna Charta and the Bill of Rights and the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States. His trained habit of thinking through concrete facts to basic principles was serving him well in this campaign; his trained habit of clear exposition in the Princeton lecture hall was serving him well. People heard from him political speaking of a new kind; full of weighty instruction and yet so simply phrased and so aptly illustrated that the simplest minded could follow the train of reasoning; profound in political philosophy and yet at every step humanized by one who believed government the most human of things because concerned with the happiness and welfare of individuals; sometimes he spoke in parables, homely anecdotes so applied that all could understand; sometimes he was caustic when he commented on the excessive zeal of corporations for strict constitutionalism, meaning thereby only such legislation and judicial interpretations as would defend their property rights—how they had secured those rights being a question not discussed by these gentlemen; sometimes, though not frequently, there would be purple patches of eloquence, particularly when descanting on the long struggle of the inarticulate masses for political representation.

One of the surprises of the campaign to those who had known him as an orator of classic eloquence was the comparative infrequency of rhetorical periods. It was as if he were now too deeply engaged with actualities to chisel and polish his sentences. Of the many anecdotes which he told during the campaign one of his favourites was of the Irishman digging a cellar, who when asked what he was doing said: "I'm letting the darkness out." Woodrow Wilson told the people of New Jersey that he was "letting the darkness out" of the New Jersey political situation. "Pitiless publicity" was one of his many phrases coined in the campaign which quickly found currency, not only in New Jersey but throughout the country, for presently the United States at large began to realize that what was going on in New Jersey was symbolical of the situation throughout the country, a tremendous struggle to restore popular government to the people. Since the founders of the Republic expounded free institutions to the first electorates of this country there had probably been no political campaign which went so directly to the roots of free representative government and how to get it as that campaign which Woodrow Wilson conducted in New Jersey in the autumn of 1910.

CHAPTER VII

THE CRISIS OF THE CAMPAIGN

The crisis of the campaign came when George L. Record, Progressive leader in the ranks of the Republican party in Hudson County, uttered a ringing challenge to the Democratic candidate to debate the issues of the campaign with him. The challenge contained an alternative proposition that the Democratic candidate either meet Mr. Record in joint debate in various parts of the state or that he answer certain questions with reference to the control of the Democratic party by what Mr. Record called the "Old Guard." Mr. Record's letter and challenge created a profound sensation throughout the state and brought hope and comfort to the ranks of the Republican party.

Record emphasized the Old Guard's control of the convention at which Wilson was nominated, basing most of his questions upon this character of political control, and openly challenging Wilson, the Democratic candidate, to say whether the elements that were dominant at Trenton in the Convention would be permitted by him, in case of his election, to influence his action as governor.

For several days after the letter containing the challenge reached the Democratic candidate, there was a great deal of apprehension in the ranks of the Democratic party lest the candidate should decide to ignore the Record challenge, thus giving aid and comfort to the enemies of progressivism in the state, or, on the other hand, that he would accept it and thus give Mr. Record, who was a most resourceful public speaker and a leading exponent of liberalism in the state, a chance to outwit him in public debate. The latter practically demanded of the Democratic candidate that he repudiate not only the Old Guard but the active management of his campaign which had been taken over by James R. Nugent, one of the leaders of Essex County, who daily accompanied the Democratic candidate on his tour of the state. For a time it looked as if Doctor Wilson would ignore entirely the Record challenge. It was plainly evident from all sides that what appeared to be his reluctance to take a stand in the matter had turned support away at a time when the sentiment of the state was rapidly flowing his way.

I accompanied the candidate on an automobile tour of the state and in our little talks I sought to find out, in a diplomatic way, just how his mind was running on the Record challenge and how he intended to meet it. In the automobile with us on this tour was James R. Nugent, then the state chairman of the Democratic Committee. I ascertained that even he knew nothing about the Princetonian's attitude toward the Record challenge. A significant remark which the candidate dropped "between meetings" gave me the first intimation that the Democratic candidate was, to use a baseball expression, "on to the Record curve" and that he would answer him in so emphatic and overwhelming a fashion that the Republican campaign would never entirely recover from the blow.

One day while we were seated in the tonneau of the automobile discussing the Record challenge, Mr. Wilson pointed his finger at Jim Nugent and said, very significantly: "I intend to reply to Mr. Record, but I am sure that it will hurt the feelings of this fine fellow."

A few days later, without consulting any one, Mr. Wilson replied to Record's challenge. It was a definite, clean-cut, unequivocal repudiation of the Old Guard's control of the Democratic party, and a convincing answer to every question that had been put to him. It rang true. Old-line Republicans, after reading this conclusive reply, shook their heads and said, regretfully, "Damn Record; the campaign's over."

It was plainly evident that the crisis of the campaign had been safely passed and that Mr. Wilson was on his way to the governorship.

In his challenge Mr. Record had addressed to Doctor Wilson nineteen questions. Mr. Wilson's reply was in part as follows:

You wish to know what my relations would be with the Democrats whose power and influence you fear should I be elected governor, particularly in such important matters as appointments and the signing of bills, and I am very glad to tell you. If elected I shall not either in the matter of appointments to office, or assent to legislation, or in shaping any part of the policy of my administration, submit to the dictation of any person, or persons, "special interests," or organizations. I will always welcome advice and suggestions from any citizens, whether boss, leader, organization man, or plain citizen, and I shall confidently seek the advice of influential and disinterested men representative of the communities and disconnected from political organizations entirely; but all suggestions and all advice will be considered on its merits and no additional weight will be given to any man's advice because of his exercising, or supposing that he exercises, some sort of political influence or control. I should deem myself for ever disgraced should I, in even the slightest degree, coöperate in any such system. I regard myself as pledged to the regeneration of the Democratic party.

Mr. Record also inquired: "Do you admit that the boss system exists as I have described it?" "If so, how do you propose to abolish it?"

Mr. Wilson said:

Of course I admit it. Its existence is notorious. I have made it my business for many years to observe and understand that system, and I hate it as thoroughly as I understand it. You are quite right in saying that the system is bipartisan; that it constitutes "the most dangerous condition in the public life of our state and nation to- day"; and that it has virtually, for the time being, "destroyed representative government and in its place set up a government of privilege." I would propose to abolish it by the reforms suggested in the Democratic platform, by the election to office of men who will refuse to submit to it, and who will lend all their energies to break it up, and by pitiless publicity.

Still hoping to corner the Governor, Mr. Record named the bosses:

In referring to the Board of Guardians, do you mean such Republican leaders as Baird, Murphy, Kean, and Stokes? Wherein do the relations to the special interests of such leaders differ from the relation to the same interests of such Democratic leaders as Smith, Nugent, and Davis?

Mr. Wilson, answering this, said:

I refer to the men you name. They [meaning Baird, Murphy, Kean, Stokes] differ from the others in this, that they are in control of the government of the state while the others are not, and cannot be if the present Democratic ticket is elected.

In reply to Mr. Record's question: "Will you join me in denouncing the Democratic 'overlords' as parties to a political boss system?" Doctor Wilson replied: "Certainly I will join you in denouncing them—or any one of either party who attempts any outrages against the Government and public morality."

At this time I was in close touch with the managers of the Wilson campaign, including Smith, Nugent, and Davis. While they admired the fine strategy that lay back of the Democratic candidate's reply to Mr. Record, they looked upon it as a mere gesture upon the part of Mr. Wilson and scorned to believe that his reply to Mr. Record constituted a challenge to their leadership. They did not show any evidences of dismay or chagrin at the courageous attitude taken by Doctor Wilson. They simply smiled and shrugged their shoulders and said: "This is a great campaign play."

CHAPTER VIII

THE END OF THE CAMPAIGN

The final meeting of the gubernatorial campaign was held in a large auditorium in Newark, New Jersey, where the last appeal was made by the Democratic candidate. It was a meeting filled with emotionalism such as I had never seen in a campaign before. The Democratic candidate, Woodrow Wilson, had covered every section of the state and it was easy for even the casual observer to note the rising tide in his favour. The campaign had, indeed, become a crusade; his eloquence and sledge-hammer blows at the opposition having cut our party lines asunder. I was present at the final meeting and took my place in the wings of the theatre or auditorium, alongside of Senator Smith, the Democratic chieftain who a few weeks before had, in a masterful fashion, manipulated the workings of the Convention at Trenton in such a way as to make the Doctor's nomination possible. Mr. Wilson's speech on this occasion was a profession of faith in the people, in the plain people, those "whose names never emerged into the headlines of newspapers." When he said in a delightful sort of banter to his audience, "I want you to take a sportsman's chance on me," there went up a shout of approval which could be heard as far as the hills of old Bergen.

The peroration of his final speech, spoken in a tone of voice that seemed not only to reach every ear but, in fact, to touch every heart, was as follows:

We have begun a fight that, it may be, will take many a generation to complete, the fight against privilege; but you know that men are not put into this world to go the path of ease. They are put into this world to go the path of pain and struggle. No man would wish to sit idly by and lose the opportunity to take part in such a struggle. All through the centuries there has been this slow, painful struggle forward, forward, up, up, a little at a time, along the entire incline, the interminable way which leads to the perfection of force, to the real seat of justice and honour.

There are men who have fallen by the way; blood without stint has been shed; men have sacrificed everything in this sometimes blind, but always instinctive and constant struggle, and America has undertaken to lead the way; America has undertaken to be the haven of hope, the opportunity for all men.

Don't look forward too much. Don't look at the road ahead of you in dismay. Look at the road behind you. Don't you see how far up the hill we have come? Don't you see what those low and damp miasmatic levels were from which we have slowly led the way? Don't you see the rows of men come, not upon the lower level, but upon the upper, like the rays of the rising sun? Don't you see the light starting and don't you see the light illuminating all nations?

Don't you know that you are coming more and more into the beauty of its radiance? Don't you know that the past is for ever behind us, that we have passed many kinds of evils no longer possible, that we have achieved great ends and have almost seen their fruition in free America? Don't forget the road that you have trod, but, remembering it and looking back for reassurance, look forward with confidence and charity to your fellow men one at a time as you pass them along the road, and see those who are willing to lead you, and say, "We do not believe you know the whole road. We know that you are no prophet, we know that you are no seer, but we believe that you know the direction and are leading us in that direction, though it costs you your life, provided it does not cost you your honour."

And then trust your guides, imperfect as they are, and some day, when we all are dead, men will come and point at the distant upland with a great shout of joy and triumph and thank God that there were men who undertook to lead in the struggle. What difference does it make if we ourselves do not reach the uplands? We have given our lives to the enterprise. The world is made happier and humankind better because we have lived.

At the end of this memorable and touching speech old Senator James Smith, seated alongside of me, pulled me by the coat and, in a voice just above a whisper and with tears in his eyes, said: "That is a great man, Mr. Tumulty. He is destined for great things."

It did not seem possible on this memorable night that within a few days these two Democratic chieftains would be challenging each other and engaging in a desperate struggle to decide the question of Democratic leadership in the state.

CHAPTER IX

A PARTY SPLIT

All the prophecies and predictions of the political seers and philosophers of New Jersey, many of them of course feeling their own partisan pulse, were annihilated and set adrift by the happenings in New Jersey on the first Tuesday in November, 1910. Woodrow Wilson, college professor, man of mystery, political recluse, the nominee of the most standpat Democratic convention of many years, had been chosen the leader of the people of the state by the unprecedented majority of 39,000, and was wearing the laurels of victory. The old bosses and leaders chuckled and smiled; they were soon to have a Roman holiday under the aegis of the Wilson Administration.

There were many surprises in the Wilson victory. The Democrats awoke on the day after the election to find that they had not only won the governorship of the state, but their joy was unbounded to find that they had captured the Lower House of the Legislature that would have the election, under the preferential primary system just adopted, of a United States senator. Therein lay the fly in the ointment. Never in their wildest dreams or vain imaginings did the leaders of the Democratic party believe that there was the slightest chance even under the most favourable circumstances of carrying a majority of the vote of the state for the Democratic choice, James E. Martine, of Plainfield.

The suggestion that it was possible to elect a Democrat to the United States Senate was considered a form of political heresy. The nomination for the Senate had been thrown about the state until torn and tattered almost beyond repair; it was finally taken up and salvaged by that sturdy old Democrat of Union County, Jim Martine. Even I had received the offer of the senatorial toga, but the one who brought the nomination to me was rudely cast out of my office. The question was: What would be the attitude of the new Democratic leader, Woodrow Wilson, toward the preferential choice, Martine? Would the vote at the election be considered as having the full virtue and vigour of a solemn referendum or was it to be considered as Senator Smith would have it, a sort of practical joke perpetrated upon the electors? Soon the opinion of the people of the state began to express itself in no uncertain way, demanding the carrying out of the "solemn covenant" of the election, only to be answered by the challenge of Senator Smith and his friends to enter the field against Martine, the choice at the election.

This business pitchforked the Governor-elect prematurely into the rough- and-tumble of "politics as she is," not always a dainty game. As I review in retrospect this famous chapter of state history, which, because of the subsequent supreme distinction of one of the parties to the contest, became a chapter in national history, I realize the almost pathetic situation of Mr. Wilson. He had called himself an amateur in politics, and such he was in the practical details and involutions of the great American game, though in his campaign he had shown himself a master of political debate. In the ordinary course of events he would have been allowed two months between his election and inauguration to begin an orderly adjustment to the new life, to make a gradual transition from the comely proprieties of an academic chair to the catch-as-catch-can methods of the political wrestling mat, to get acquainted with the men and problems of the new career. But the Smith-Martine affair gave birth prematurely to an immediate occasion for a fight.

As president of Princeton, Doctor Wilson had proved that he was not averse to a fight when a fight was necessary and when it was distinctly his affair, but he may well have paused to consider whether the Smith-Martine business was his affair. One of his favourite stories in later years was of the Irishman who entered a saloon and seeing two men in a tangle of fists and writhing legs and bloody heads on the floor at the rear of the saloon, turned to the barkeeper and asked: "Is this a private fight, or can anybody git into it?" A more politic man than Woodrow Wilson and one less sensitive to moral duty, might well have argued that this contest was the business of the Legislature, not of the Governor. Many a governor- elect would have avoided the issue on this unquestionably sound legal principle, and friends in Princeton were in fact advising Mr. Wilson to precisely this course, the course of neutrality. It would not be strange if neutrality, aloofness, had presented a rather attractive picture at times to Mr. Wilson's mind. Why should he gratuitously take a partisan position between the factions which would inevitably win for him the enmity of a strong element within the party? Which would also win for him the unpleasant reputation of ingratitude? For though he had at the first overtures from Senator Smith and his friends made it as clear as language can make anything that he could accept the nomination only with the explicit understanding that acceptance should establish no obligations of political favours to anybody, it would be impossible to make it appear that opposition to Smith's darling desire to become senator was not an ungracious return to the man who had led the forces which had nominated Wilson at Trenton.

On the other hand, there was his distinct pledge to the people during his campaign, that if they elected him governor he would make himself the leader of the party, would broadly and not with pettifogging legalism interpret his constitutional relationship to the Legislature, would undertake to assist in legislative action, and not wait supinely for the Legislature to do something, and then sign or veto the thing done. Moreover, he had insisted on the principle of the preferential primary as one means by which the people should participate in their own government and convey an expression of their will and purpose to the law-making body. The people had voted for Martine. The fact that Senator Smith had scorned to have his name placed on the ballot, the fact that human imagination could picture a stronger senator from New Jersey than genial "Jim" Martine did not affect the argument. A great majority had voted for Martine and for nobody else. Was the use of the preferential primary for the first time in the selection of a United States senator to be ignored, and all the arguments that Candidate Wilson and others had made in behalf of the system to be taken "in a Pickwickian sense," as not meaning anything?

There was a real dilemma doubtless much more acutely realized by the Governor-elect than by the hot-heads, including myself, who were clamorous for an immediate proclamation of support of Martine, on progressive principles, and for an ultimatum of war-to-the-knife against Smith and the old crowd.

It seemed as if Mr. Wilson were hesitating and holding off, reluctant to accept the gage of battle thrown down by the challenge of the Smith wing. The leading Democratic and Independent journals of the state were most insistent that immediate proof be given by Governor-elect Wilson of his leadership and control over the party and that a test should be made as to which influence, reactionary or progressive, was to control the destinies of our party in the state. Those of us who had followed the candidate throughout the campaign and who had been heartened by his progressive attitude were sorely disappointed at his failure immediately to act. It was painfully evident to us that behind the scenes at Princeton the new governor's friends, particularly Colonel Harvey, were urging upon him cautious and well-considered action and what mayhap might be called "a policy of watchful waiting," picturing to him the insurmountable difficulties that would lie in his path in case he exercised his leadership in the matter of Martine's selection to the United States Senate. They suggested that the vote for Martine had no binding force; that it was a mere perfunctory expression of preference in the matter of the United States senatorship which the Legislature was free to ignore. The only man, therefore, who could make the vote effective was the Governor-elect himself. What he would do in these circumstances was for days after the election a matter of perplexing doubt to his many friends. Disappointment and chagrin at the candidate's silence brooded over the ranks of the progressives of the state. In my law office in Jersey City I tried to convince those who came to confer with me regarding the matter that they must be patient; that, ultimately, everything would be all right and that Doctor Wilson would soon assert his leadership over the party and take his proper place at the head of those who worked to make the preferential vote an effective instrumentality. Frankly, though I did not give expression to my doubts, I was profoundly and deeply disappointed at the apparently hesitant, uncertain attitude of the Governor-elect. Feeling certain that popular opinion would be with him in case he decided to lead in this struggle, I was convinced that the delay in announcing his attitude toward the Smith-Nugent "defi" was dampening the ardour and enthusiasm of many of his friends.

The progressive Democrats of the state waited with patience the word of command and counsel from the Princeton professor to initiate the fight that would settle for all time in the state of New Jersey the question whether the referendum on the question of the election of United States senators should be treated as "a scrap of paper," or whether it was to be upheld and vindicated by the action of the Legislature. No direct word came to me of the Governor-elect's attitude on this vital question. Rumours of his position toward Senator Smith's candidacy filtered "through the lines" from Princeton; various stories and intimations that seemed to indicate that the Governor-elect would allow Martine's selection to go by default; that he would not interfere in any way to carry out the mandate of the election.

Things were in this unsatisfactory condition when to my surprise I received a call in my modest Jersey City law offices from the Governor- elect. Knowing him as I know him, I can see that in his deliberate fashion he was taking testimony from both sides and slowly arriving at his own decision. Having heard from the cautious who counselled neutrality, he was now seeking the arguments of the impetuous who demanded action and wanted it "hot off the bat." But at that time, not knowing him as I now know him, he seemed, in this interview, to be vacillating between two opinions, for he did what I have often known him to do subsequently: stated with lucidity the arguments of the other side, and with the air of one quite open-minded, without opinions of his own, seemed to seek my arguments in rebuttal. I was sorely disappointed by what then seemed to me his negative attitude, so unlike the militant debater whom I had come to admire in the campaign which had recently been brought to a brilliant and victorious close. In my youthful impetuosity I felt that we had been deceived in our man, a bold talker but timid in action. I simply did not then know the man and the mixed elements in him. Later, in close association, I was to see this phase of him not infrequently, the canny Scot, listening without comment and apparently with mind to let to conflicting arguments while his own mind was slowly moving to its own position, where it would stand fixed and immovable as Gibraltar.

Almost as if it were an academic question, with which he had no personal concern, he propounded the alternatives: Should he lead the fight against Senator Smith, or should he stand aloof and permit the Legislature to act without any suggestion from him? He summarized the arguments of his friends at Princeton who were advising him to steer clear of this fight and not permit himself to be drawn into it by young, impetuous people like myself. He said that certain overtures and suggestions of compromises had been made to him by Senator Smith's friends, to the effect that if he would not play a leading part in the fight and allow the Legislature to act without interference from him, Senator Smith and his friends in the state would agree not to oppose his legislative programme at the coming session. It was further suggested that Senator Smith had the necessary votes to elect himself and that it would be futile to attempt to elect Jim Martine; and that his intervention in this family quarrel would result in a bitter and humiliating defeat for him at the very outset of his administration. When the Governor-elect had concluded this preliminary statement, I was depressed and disappointed. I did not think there should be a moment's hesitation on his part in at once accepting the challenge so defiantly addressed to him by the Democratic bosses of the state.

Frankly, I laid the whole case before him in words to this effect: "My dear Doctor Wilson, there is no way I can better serve you than by frankly dealing with the question. Your friends away off in Princeton probably do not know how for years our party and its destinies have been in the hands of these very men, enemies of liberalism in New Jersey, who by your silence or indifference as to the United States senatorship are to be given a new lease on life. The issue involved in this fight is fundamental and goes far beyond the senatorship. The action you take will have a far- reaching effect upon our party's fortunes and no one can calculate the effect it will undoubtedly have on your own political future. In urging you not to take part in this fight your friends are acting unwisely. You cannot afford not to fight and not to have an immediate test of your leadership in this matter. The question of Mr. Martine's fitness, as your friends urge, is not an issue seriously to be considered. 47,454 votes in the state have decided that matter and you cannot reverse their verdict. Your friends have placed too much emphasis on Martine's alleged unfitness and too little on the duty you owe the party and the state as leader."

I called to his attention the fact that men like myself had been heartened and encouraged by his speeches in the campaign; how we felt that at last we had found in him a leader, bold and fearless, and that now, when the first real test of leadership came, it appeared that we were to be disappointed and that by his silence and inaction he would permit Senator Smith to win and allow Martine, the popular choice, to be defeated, thus setting aside the verdict of the election. He listened intently but without comment to all I had to say. Proceeding with my argument, I said: "The people of New Jersey accepted your word and, to employ your own phrase, 'took a sportsman's chance on you' and they must not be disappointed. Your failure to make this fight will mean that you have not only surrendered your leadership as governor in this matter, but by the same act you will have abdicated your leadership in favour of the Old Guard all along the line. They have set a trap for you, and I know you will not permit yourself to be caught in it." In conclusion I said: "They say they will support your reform programme. What assurance have you that, having defeated you in this your first big fight, they will not turn on you and defeat your whole legislative programme? As governor, you have the power to lead us to a great victory in this vital matter. Exercise it now, and opinion throughout the state will strongly and enthusiastically support you. You have but to announce your willingness to lead and the people of the state will rally to your standard. The fight, in any event, will be made and we wish you to lead it. This is really the first step to the Presidency. That is what is really involved. Not only the people of New Jersey but the people of America are interested in this fight. They are clamouring for leadership, and I am sure you are the man to lead, and that you will not fail."

When the Governor-elect rose to leave my office, he turned to me and asked, still in a non-committal manner, whether in my opinion we could win the fight in case he should decide to enter upon it. I at once assured him that while the various political machines of the state would oppose him at every turn, their so-called organizations were made of cardboard and that they would immediately disintegrate and fall the moment he assumed leadership and announced that the fight was on.

In his own time and by his own processes Mr. Wilson arrived at his decision. It was the first of my many experiences of his deliberative processes in making up his mind and of the fire and granite in him after he had made his decision. He informed me that he would support Martine and use all his force, official and personal, to have the Legislature accept the preferential primary as the people's mandate.

With prudence and caution, with a political sense that challenged the admiration of every practical politician in the state, the Princetonian began to set the stage for the preliminary test. There was nothing dramatic about these preliminaries. Quickly assuming the offensive, he went about the task of mobilizing his political forces in the most patient, practical way. No statement to the people of his purposes to accept the challenge of the Democratic bosses was made by him. Certain things in the way of accommodation were necessary to be done before this definite step was taken. It was decided that until the Governor-elect had conferred with the Democratic bosses in an effort to persuade them that the course they had adopted was wrong, it would be best not to make an immediate issue by the Governor-elect's announcement. We thought that by tactfully handling Smith and Davis we would be able by this method of conciliation to convince their friends, at least those in the party organization, that we were not ruthlessly bent upon leading a revolt, but that we were attempting peacefully a settlement that would prevent a split in our party ranks.

We were convinced that in the great body of organization Democrats there were many fine men who resented this attempt of the bosses to force Jim Smith again on the party and that there were many who silently wished us success, although they were not free to come to our side in open espousal. Thus we began patiently to build our back-fire in the ranks of the Democratic organization itself, to unhorse the Essex boss.

The first thing to carry out the programme was a visit paid to the sick room of the Democratic boss of the Hudson wing, Bob Davis, who lay dangerously ill in his modest home on Grove Street, Jersey City. The visit itself of the Governor-elect to the home of the stricken boss had a marked psychological effect in conciliating and winning over to our side the active party workers in the Davis machine. To many of the privates in the ranks the boss was a veritable hero and they witnessed with pleasure the personal visit of the new Governor-elect to the boss at his home and looked upon it as a genuine act of obeisance and deference to their stricken leader. They thought this a generous and a big thing to do, and so it naturally turned their sympathies to the Governor-elect. It gave further proof to them that the man elected Governor was not "high-browish" or inclined to fight unless he had previously laid all his cards on the table. We also realized that to have ignored the boss would have been to give strength and comfort to the enemy, and so we deliberately set out to cultivate his friends in a spirit of honourable and frank dealing. The visit to the boss was a part of this plan. The meeting between these two men—one, the Governor-elect and until recently the president of Princeton; the other, a Democratic boss, old and battle-scarred—in the little sick room of the humble home, was a most interesting affair and at times a most touching and pathetic one. Both men were frank in dealing with each other. There was no formality or coldness in the meeting. The Governor-elect quickly placed the whole situation before the boss, showing how the Democratic party had for many years advocated the very system—the election of United States senators by the people—that the Democratic bosses of the state were now attacking and repudiating. Briefly, he sketched the disastrous effects upon our party and its prestige in the state and the nation if a Democratic legislature should be the first, after advocating it, to cast it aside in order to satisfy the selfish ambition and vanity of one of the Old Guard. In a sincere manly fashion, so characteristic of him, Boss Davis then proceeded to state his case. Briefly, it was this: He had given his solemn promise and had entered into a gentleman's agreement with Smith to deliver to him the twelve legislative votes from Hudson. He would not violate his agreement. Laughingly, he said to the Governor-elect: "If the Pope of Rome, of whose Church I am a member, should come to this room to urge me to change my attitude, I would refuse to do so. I have given my promise and you would not have me break it, would you, Doctor?" With real feeling and a show of appreciation of the boss's frankness and loyalty to his friends, the Governor-elect quickly replied: "Of course, I would not have you break your promise, but you must not feel aggrieved if I shall find it necessary to fight you and Smith in the open for the Hudson votes." "Go on, Doctor," said the sick man, "I am a game sport and I am sure that with you there will be no hitting below the belt." And thus the first conference between the Governor-elect and the political boss ended.

Mr. Wilson's next visit was to Senator Smith himself at the Senator's home in Newark, a meeting entirely friendly in character and frank in expressions of the unalterable determination of the two men, of Senator Smith not to withdraw from the race, of Doctor Wilson to oppose his candidacy and place the issue before the people of the state. Senator Smith with engaging candour gave Mr. Wilson his strong personal reasons for wishing to return to the United States Senate: he said that he had left the Senate under a cloud due to the investigations of the Sugar Trust and that for the sake of his children he wanted to reinstate himself in the Senate. Mr. Wilson expressed his sympathy for this motive, more appealing than mere personal ambition, but declared that he could not permit his sympathy as an individual to interfere with his duty as he conceived it, as an official pledged by all his public utterances to support progressive principles, among which was the preferential primary system, and committed to a course of active leadership in matters which concerned the state at large, in which category the selection of a United States senator certainly fell. He made a personal appeal to the Senator for the sake of the party to forego his desire and by a noble act of renunciation to win the regard of all the citizens of the state, saying: "Why, Senator, you have it in your power to become instantly, the biggest man in the state." But the Senator was firm. And so, though the visit was conducted with the dignity and courtesy characteristic of both men, it ended with their frank acknowledgment to each other that from now on there existed between them a state of war.

Returning to Princeton from Newark, the formal announcement of the Governor's entrance into the fight was made and the contest for the senatorship and the leadership of the Democratic party was on. The announcement was as follows:

WOODROW WILSON'S CHALLENGE TO THE BOSSES
Friday Evening, Dec. 9,1910.

The question who should be chosen by the incoming legislature of the state to occupy the seat in the Senate of the United States which will presently be made vacant by the expiration of the term of Mr. Kean is of such vital importance to the people of the state, both as a question of political good faith and as a question of genuine representation in the Senate, that I feel constrained to express my own opinion with regard to it in terms which cannot be misunderstood. I had hoped that it would not be necessary for me to speak; but it is.

I realize the delicacy of taking any part in the discussion of the matter. As Governor of New Jersey I shall have no part in the choice of a Senator. Legally speaking, it is not my duty even to give advice with regard to the choice. But there are other duties besides legal duties. The recent campaign has put me in an unusual position. I offered, if elected, to be the political spokesman and adviser of the people. I even asked those who did not care to make their choice of governor upon that understanding not to vote for me. I believe that the choice was made upon that undertaking; and I cannot escape the responsibility involved. I have no desire to escape it. It is my duty to say, with a full sense of the peculiar responsibility of my position, what I deem it to be the obligation of the Legislature to do in this gravely important matter.

I know that the people of New Jersey do not desire Mr. James Smith, Jr., to be sent again to the Senate. If he should be, he will not go as their representative. The only means I have of knowing whom they do desire to represent them is the vote at the recent primaries, where 48,000 Democratic voters, a majority of the whole number who voted at the primaries, declared their preference for Mr. Martine, of Union County. For me that vote is conclusive. I think it should be for every member of the Legislature.

Absolute good faith in dealing with the people, an unhesitating fidelity to every principle avowed, is the highest law of political morality under a constitutional government. The Democratic party has been given a majority in the Legislature; the Democratic voters of the state have expressed their preference under a law advocated and supported by the opinion of their party, declared alike in platforms and in enacted law. It is clearly the duty of every Democratic legislator who would keep faith with the law of the state with the avowed principles of his party to vote for Mr. Martine. It is my duty to advocate his election—to urge it by every honourable means at my command.

Immediately the work of organizing our forces for the fight was set in motion. I had been designated by the Governor-elect to handle the fight in Hudson County, the Davis stronghold. Meetings were arranged for at what were considered the strategic points in the fight: Jersey City and Newark. The announcement of the Governor-elect's acceptance of the challenge had given a thrill to the whole state and immediately the reaction against the Old Guard's attempt to discredit the primary choice was evident. The bitterness in the ranks of the contesting factions began to express itself in charges and counter-charges that were made. Speeches for and against the candidates were addressed to the ears of the unwary voter. The state was soon up in arms. There was no doubt of the attitude of the people. This was made plain in so many ways that our task was to impress this opinion upon the members of the Legislature, whose vote, in the last analysis, would be the determining factor in this contest. While we were laying down a barrage in the way of organization work and making preparations for our meetings throughout the state, the Governor-elect was conferring nightly with members of the Legislature at the University Club in New York. From day to day could be observed the rising tide in favour of our cause, and slowly its effect upon the members of the Legislature was made manifest. The first meeting in the senatorial contest was held in Jersey City. As chairman of the committee, I had arranged the details for this first speech of the Governor-elect. I had adopted a plan in making the arrangements that I felt would remove from the minds of the organization workers, to whom we desired to appeal, the idea that this was a revolt or secessionist movement in the ranks of the Democratic party. The committee in charge of the meeting had selected the finest, cleanest men in our party's ranks to preside over and take part in the meeting.

There was never such an outpouring of people. Men and women from outside the state, and, particularly, men and women from New York and Connecticut, had come all the way to New Jersey to witness this first skirmish in the political upheaval that was soon to take place. The metropolitan dailies had sent their best men to write up the story and to give a "size-up" of the new Governor-elect in fighting action. They were not disappointed. He was in rare form. His speech was filled with epigrams that carried the fight home to those upon whom we were trying to make an impression. When he warned his friends not to be afraid of the machine which the bosses controlled he said, with biting irony: "We do not fear their fortresses [meaning the political machines] that frown and look down upon us from their shining heights." Smiling deprecatingly and waving his hand, he continued: "They are but made of paste-board and when you approach them they fall at your very touch."

Ridiculing and belittling the power of the bosses, he called them "warts upon the body politic." "It is not," said the new chief of Democracy, "a capital process to cut off a wart. You don't have to go to the hospital and take an anaesthetic. The thing can be done while you wait, and it is being done. The clinic is open, and every man can witness the operation."

The meeting was a triumph and strikingly demonstrated the power of brain and fine leadership over brawn and selfish politics.

The final appeal to the voters on the United States senatorship was made in the heart of the enemy's country, the stronghold of the Smith-Nugent faction at Newark, New Jersey. The same enthusiastic, whole-souled response that characterized the Jersey City meeting was repeated. The same defiant challenge to the Old Guard was uttered by the new Governor. Sarcasm, bitter irony, delightful humour, and good-natured flings at the Old Guard were found in this his final appeal. In a tone of voice that carried the deep emotion he felt, he said, as his final word:

Do you know what is true of the special interests at this moment! They have got all their baggage packed and they are ready to strike camp over night, provided they think it is profitable for them to come over to the Democratic party. They are waiting to come over bag and baggage and take possession of the Democratic party. Will they be welcome? Do you want them? I pray God we may never wake up some fine morning and find them encamped on our side.

The response was thrilling. The two meetings just held, one in Jersey City and the other in Newark, convinced those of us in charge of the Martine campaign that we had made the right impression in the state and, having deeply aroused the voters, all we had to do was to harvest the crop, the seed of which had been planted in the soil of public opinion by the speeches the new Governor had made. It was plain that the machine crowd was stunned and reeling from the frequent and telling blows that had been so vigorously delivered by him. Suggestions of compromise came from the enemy's ranks, but no armistice would be granted, except upon the basis of an absolute and unconditional surrender. Offers and suggested proposals from the Old Guard to the Governor-elect were thrust aside as valueless and not worthy his consideration. There was nothing to do but play for a "knock-out." Soon the full pressure of the opinion of the state began to be felt. Members of the Legislature from the various counties began to feel its influence upon them. Our ranks began to be strengthened by additions from the other side. The Governor's speeches and his nightly conferences were having their full effect. The bosses, now in panic, were each day borne down by the news brought to them of the innumerable defections in their quickly dwindling forces. However, the bosses showed a bold front and declared that their man had the votes. But their confidence waned as election day approached. Realizing the fact that we were dealing with the best-trained minds in the Democratic party, we gave no news to the outside world of the strength in number of our own ranks, knowing full well that if we did so imprudent a thing, the active men in the ranks of the enemy would pull every wire of influence and use every method of threats and coercion to wean the votes away from us. We "stood pat" and watched with interest every move made by the other side. In his final statement before the joint meeting of the Legislature Smith boldly announced his election to the Senate on the strength of the number of legislative votes pledged to him, but those of us who were in the midst of this political melee knew that he was licked and that he was only whistling to keep up his courage.

In the meantime, the Governor-elect had tendered to me the post of secretary to the Governor, and I accepted this office which brought me into more intimate association with him and his plans.

CHAPTER X

EXIT THE OLD GUARD

The conferences and meetings in preparation for the great senatorial fight having been concluded, the scene of activities was transferred to Trenton, where shortly after the Inauguration plans were laid for the final battle.

Immediately upon the conclusion of the Inaugural ceremonies, the hand-to- hand contests for the great prize and incidentally the leadership of the Democrats, was on in full swing. At the beginning of the fight the bosses counted upon the active support of the influential Democratic leaders throughout the state, like Robert S. Hudspeth of Hudson County, Johnston Cornish of Warren County, Edward E. Grosscup of Gloucester County, Barney Gannon and Peter Daley of Middlesex County, old Doctor Barber of Warren County, Otto Wittpenn of Hudson County, Billy French and Judge Westcott of Camden, Dave Crater of Monmouth, and minor bosses or leaders in south and middle Jersey. But in utter amazement they found that we had captured these fine pieces of heavy political artillery and that through them we had acquired and taken over some of the most valuable political salients in the state.

A little incident in the campaign is worth reciting. In managing the campaign I found that for some unaccountable reason the so-called Irish vote of the state was massed solidly behind ex-Senator Smith and in bitter opposition to Governor Wilson. We were constantly coming in contact with these currents of opposition, and how to overcome them and bring the Irish vote into our fold was the task that devolved upon me as the manager of Martine's campaign. Seated in my office one day I recalled that years before I had read in the Congressional Record an account of a speech delivered in the United States Senate by James Smith, upholding in terms of highest praise the famous Hay-Pauncefote Treaty. The speech in all its details, particularly the argument it contained calling for closer relations between the United States and Great Britain, was still fresh in my memory. Evidently Senator Smith and his Irish friends had forgotten it, for he was now trying to mobilize the Irish vote of the state in his favour. On re-reading this speech of the old Senator, I smiled with satisfaction, realizing the campaign use that could be made of it. After considering the matter carefully, I sent for a devoted friend of mine, a fine, clean-cut Irishman, who stood high in the ranks of the Clan-na-Gael and other Irish societies in our county. After he had read the speech, we discussed the method of using it, for we felt sure that our Irish friends, when they became acquainted with this speech upon reading it, would not find themselves in agreement with Smith's attitude toward England and the Treaty. My friend consented to write letters to the leading papers, particularly the Irish papers of the state, setting forth Smith's attitude toward the Treaty. The effect upon the Irish vote was immediate and soon resolutions began to be adopted by the various Irish societies throughout the state, denouncing Smith for having advocated the much-despised "Anglo- Saxon Alliance."

While I opposed Senator Smith in this contest there was nothing personally antagonistic in my attitude. We were, I hope, friends throughout the conflict, and many times since then we have discussed the events leading up to Martine's election to the United States Senate. It was only a few months ago, while seated at a table at the Shoreham Hotel in Washington, that the old Senator, genial and debonair as ever, was discussing the fights of the old days, and particularly the events leading up to his defeat for the United States senatorship. In discussing the New Jersey campaign, he told me of the use that had been made by "someone" in the Wilson ranks of his Senate speech on the Hay-Pauncefote Treaty. He said that his reason for making this speech was his sincere desire as an Irish- American to bring about more amicable relations between the United States and England, and as I listened to this frank recital I felt that, although the use I had made of his speech was legitimate in the circumstances, there was nothing to be proud of in having exploited the Senator's really fine speech for political purposes.

The State House at Trenton on the night previous to the balloting for the senatorship was a place of feverish activity. The Essex ex-Chieftain, Smith, kept "open house" in the then famous Room 100 of the Trenton House. The Governor-elect, calm and apparently undisturbed, but anxious and ready for a contest, quietly moved about the Executive offices attending to official matters.

We felt confident of the result of the vote if the members of the Legislature were left free, but we were certain that every kind of pressure would be put upon them to change the votes of the wobblers in our ranks. All night long and until four or five o'clock in the morning the Governor-elect and I remained in the Executive office, keeping in close contact with our friends both by telephone and personal conference. Senator Smith never knew it, but some of the men close to him and participating in his own conferences on this fateful night hourly brought to us information as to what would be the real line-up of his forces on the day set for balloting. We found a spy in our own ranks—a leading lawyer and politician from, my own county—who, while pretending to be our friend, was supplying the enemy with what he thought was useful information. We, however, were already aware of this gentleman's duplicity and, although he never suspected it, whenever he left the Executive office he was followed by a professional detective, who heard and reported to us every bit of information he had supplied to our political foes.

On the night before the election the Smith-Nugent leaders had gathered their forces and, headed by a band, paraded through the streets of Trenton, passing in review before Senator Smith who stood upon the steps of the Trenton House and greeted them in most generous fashion. The purpose of this demonstration was obvious to the Governor-elect and his friends. It was simply to give to the arriving legislators an impression of great strength behind the Smith-Nugent forces.

On the morning of the balloting the corridors and lobby of the State House were crowded with the henchmen of the Essex chieftain. The surface indications were that Smith had the necessary number of votes, but to those of us who were able accurately to analyze the situation it was apparent that the froth would soon pass away. The parade and the demonstration of the Nugent followers had deeply impressed some of the men in our ranks, particularly the editor of a Trenton newspaper, who came to the Executive offices and urged upon the Governor the publication of a statement which he had prepared, filled with grandiloquent phrase, warning the people of the state that the members of the Legislature were about to be coerced and threatened by the strong-arm methods of the Smith-Nugent organization.

Frankly, the suggestion which this Trenton editor made to the new Governor impressed him. The Governor made certain changes in the statement and then sent for me to read it, asking my advice upon it. The first test of my official connection with the Governor was at hand. Upon reading the editor's article I saw at once that its issuance would be most unwise, and I frankly said so. My practical and political objection to it, however, was that if published it would give to the people of the state the impression that our forces were in a panic and that we, were in grave fear of the result. I further argued that it was an attempt at executive coercion of the Legislature that would meet with bitter resentment. I felt that we had already won the fight; that the Legislature, which was the jury in the case, was inclined to favour us if we did not seek to influence its members by such foolish action as the Trenton editor advised. The statement was not published.

I found in this little argument with the new Governor that he was open- minded and anxious for advice and I thereafter felt free to discuss matters with him in the frankest way.

The first ballot showed Martine leading heavily. In the following ballots he gained strength at every count. The Legislature adjourned the first day without reaching a decision. As we surveyed the field after the first day's balloting it was clear to us that if we hoped to win the fight we would have to have Hudson County's legislative vote. The Democratic boss, Bob Davis, had died a few days previous, and had entrusted his affairs to the hands of a fine, clean-cut, wholesome Irish-American, James Hennessy, then chairman of the Hudson County Democratic Committee. He was one of the squarest men I ever met in politics and had been an intimate associate of my father in the old days in Jersey City. On the day of the final balloting we were sorely pressed. When it seemed as if we had reached the limit of our strength, it occurred to me that a final appeal to Hennessy by the Governor might have some effect. We decided to send for Hennessy to come to the Executive offices. It was clear from his attitude when he arrived that, while his sympathies lay with us, he was bound in honour to carry out the instructions of his chief and deliver the Hudson County vote to Smith. The Governor, getting very close to him and discussing the campaign in the most intimate way, told him that if Martine was rejected, the political effect on our party's fortunes would be disastrous; that we were sure we had the votes and that the next ballot would give proof of this, and that it was only a question, to use a campaign phrase, of "getting on the band wagon" and making Martine's nomination unanimous. When the Governor concluded his talk, I turned to Hennessy in the most familiar way, and spoke of the Governor's desire to elect Martine and of the unselfish purpose he had in mind and how he, Hennessy, was blocking the way. I said to him: "You have it in your power to do a big thing. You may never have the chance again." He finally stood up and said to me: "What do you want me to do?" I told him that we wanted him to go to the Hudson delegates and give word that the "jig" was up and that they must throw their support to Martine. Shortly after this meeting the Hudson delegation met in caucus and agreed to support Martine.

When Smith and Nugent heard of this message they practically surrendered. The balloting which began at ten o'clock was a mere formal affair for it was plainly evident from the changes in the early balloting that Martine's election was assured. Martine's election was a fact; and Woodrow Wilson was the victor in the first battle for the Presidency.

I have stated that I am not proud of the way I used Senator Smith's speech on the Hay-Pauncefote Treaty. We were fighting veterans in the political game, men who knew all the tricks and who did not scruple to play any of them. In the rough school of practical politics I had been taught that "you must fight the devil with fire" and that it is as legitimate in politics as in war to deceive the enemy about your resources. But we conducted politics on higher levels during the eight years in the White House, when my chief, no longer an amateur, taught me, by precept and example, that effective fighting can be conducted without resort to the tricks and duplicities of those who place political advantage above principle. Woodrow Wilson made new rules for the game, and they were the rules which men of honour adopt when conducting their private business on principles of good faith and truth-telling.

CHAPTER XI

EXECUTIVE LEADERSHIP

The election of Martine having been settled and the preferential vote having been validated through the courageous handling of a delicate situation, the new Governor was firmly in the saddle. His leadership had been tested and only the fragments of the Old Guard machine were left. The road was thus cleared of all obstacles in his own party that might be put in the way of his programme of constructive legislation.

Having delivered his first message, which contained a full and detailed discussion of his whole programme, he applied himself with great energy and industry to the task of preparing bills for introduction in the Senate and House. Not content with the mere delivery of his message, he put himself entirely at the disposal of the members of the Legislature and industriously applied himself to the task of preparation until the following measures: Regulation of Public Utilities, Corrupt Practices Act, Direct Primaries Act, and the Employers' Liability Act, were in shape to be introduced.

While his leadership was vindicated as a result of the Smith-Martine fight, the contest had undoubtedly left many bitter scars and enmities which soon manifested themselves in the unfriendly attitude of the Smith men in the Legislature toward the new Governor and particularly toward his programme of constructive legislation. For awhile after the election of Martine they seemed subdued and cheerfully resigned to defeat; but when the new Governor launched his legislative programme they began eagerly to attack it in many subtle ways. While there were some members of this group who honestly opposed the Governor's programme because of their conservative tendencies, the majority of the opposition were bent upon "putting it to sleep," because, forsooth, it bore the Wilson label. The new Governor quickly grasped the full significance of the situation and openly challenged the opposition. To accomplish his purpose, he did an unprecedented thing. He invited the Democratic members of the Legislature to meet him in the Supreme Court Room of the State House and there, face to face, he laid before them various items of his programme and challenged the opposition to lay their cards on the table. In the course of this conference one of the leaders of the Smith-Nugent faction expressed his dissatisfaction with the whole programme, challenging the new Governor's right to be present at the conference; even intimating that his presence was an unconstitutional act which might subject him to impeachment. The new Governor, undisturbed by this criticism, turned to the gentleman who had challenged his right to be present at the conference, and said:

You can turn aside from the measure if you choose; you can decline to follow me; you can deprive me of office and turn away from me, but you cannot deprive me of power so long as I steadfastly stand for what I believe to be the interests and legitimate demands of the people themselves. I beg you to remember, in this which promises to be an historic conference, you are settling the question of the power or impotence, the distinction or the ignominy of the party to which the people with singular generosity have offered the conduct of their affairs.

Some of the members of the Legislature came to my office after this conference and told me of the great speech the Governor had just delivered and how defiantly he had met the attack of his enemies. This caucus gave an emphatic endorsement of his legislative programme and in a few weeks the House of Assembly had acted upon it, and the various bills that constituted his entire programme were on their way to the Republican Senate. How to induce favourable action at the hands of the Republican Senate was a problem. There were very few members of the Senate whose ideals and purposes were in agreement with those of the Governor.

When the bills reached the Senate, the Governor began daily conferences with the Republican members of that body, discussing with them the items of his programme and urging speedy action upon them. As a part of the programme of inducing the Republicans to support him, a friend of mine who was on the inside of the Republican situation reported to me that it was the opinion in the Republican ranks that the new Governor was too much a professor and doctrinaire; that he was lacking in good-fellowship and companionship; that while the members of the Legislature who had conferred with him had found him open and frank, they thought there was a coldness and an austerity about him which held the Governor aloof and prevented that intimate contact that was so necessary in working out the programme we had outlined.

We finally decided that the fault lay in the lack of social intimacy between the new Governor and the members of the Legislature. In my social and official contact with Mr. Wilson I always found him most genial and agreeable. When we were at luncheon or dinner at the old Sterling Hotel in Trenton he would never burden our little talks by any weighty discussion of important matters that were pending before him. He entirely forgot all business and gave himself over to the telling of delightful stories. How to make the real good-fellowship of the man an asset in dealing with the members of the Senate was a problem. I very frankly told him one day at luncheon that many members of both legislative bodies felt that he was too stiff and academic and that they were anxious to find out for themselves if there was a more human side to him. In order to give him an opportunity to overcome this false impression we arranged a delightful dinner at the Trenton Country Club, to which we invited both Democratic and Republican members of the Senate. The evening was a delightful one. In the corner of the little room where the dinner was served sat three darky musicians who regaled the little group with fine old southern melodies. It was real fun to watch the new Governor's conduct in this environment. He was like a boy out of school. He was no longer the college professor or the cold man of affairs. He delighted the members of the Senate who sat about him with amusing stories, witty remarks, and delightful bits of sarcasm. At the close of the dinner, Senator Frelinghuysen walked over and challenged him to a Virginia Reel. He accepted this invitation and the crowd of men were soon delighted to see the Somerset senator lead the new Governor out on the floor and his long legs were soon moving in rhythm with the music.

[Illustration:

Telegram.

The White House
Washington

3 RN JM 75 Govt.
114pm

Windsor, Vermont, July 5, 1915

Hon. Jos. P. Tumulty,
The White House,
Washington, D.C.

—— is down and out in his newspaper work and desperately in need of employment. Says there is a vacancy as foreign trade adviser in the State Department and also one in the District Play Grounds department. Would be very much obliged if you would see if something can be done for him in either place. His address 221 A. Street, Northeast.

Woodrow Wilson.

* * * * *

Dear Tumulty,

I want to issue this statement to help Mr. Hoover and his Commission in the splendid work they are doing, and head off mischief-makers (or, rather, one particular mischief-maker who is a little out of his mind) on this side the water.

Will you not please read it to Lansing over the phone and, if he has no objection to offer, give it out?

A glimpse at the President's human side.]

After all, men are just boys, and this bringing together of these practical men on so happy and free an occasion did much to convince the members of the Senate that the new Governor after all was like themselves, a plain, simple man, modestly trying to serve the interests of a great state.

This affair broke the ice, and after that there was a close intimacy between the Governor and the members of the Legislature, both Democrats and Republicans, and this coöperation soon brought about the enactment of the whole Wilson programme. Never before had so comprehensive a programme been so expeditiously acted upon by a legislative body. The Legislature had convened in January and by the middle of April every campaign pledge that the Governor had made had been kept, although the Senate with which he had to deal was largely Republican.

As the legislative session progressed it appeared that certain Democratic senators were reluctant to follow his leadership. Indeed it was also apparent that the Republicans were alike unwilling to act favourably upon his legislative suggestions. In this situation he summoned the Democratic senators and reminded them of the party pledges in the platform and served notice that if they did not vote for these measures they would have to explain to their constituents. He then summoned the Republican senators and said to them, in effect, this: "The legislation proposed was promised in the Democratic platform. That is not your platform. Therefore, you are not pledged to this action. But if you obstruct the action I shall have to trouble you to go with me to your districts and discuss these matters with your constituents and tell them why you consider this bad legislation and why you resisted it."

The newspapers of the country soon began to discuss the achievements of the Wilson administration in New Jersey and immediately the name of the Governor began to be mentioned in connection with the Presidency.

One of the matters of national importance with which he was called upon to deal during this legislative session was the passage of railroad grade- crossing legislation. In response to the agitation that had long existed in New Jersey for the elimination of grade crossings, the Democrats had inserted a radical plank in their platform in reference to it, and, acting upon this, the Legislature had passed a grade-crossing bill, to which the railroads of the state strenuously objected. It was a matter of the greatest public interest and importance that for many years had been the subject of bitter controversies throughout the state. While the bill was before the Governor for consideration, the railroad attorneys had prepared long, comprehensive briefs attacking the bill as unjust to the railroads and as containing many features which in their essence were confiscatory. When the bill came before the Governor for final action no one considered for a moment the possibility of a veto, first, because of the traditional attitude of the Democratic party of New Jersey in the matter of grade crossings; and, secondly, because of the effect a veto would have upon the progressive thought of the country. I recall very well my discussion with him in regard to this most important bill. Realizing that he was at this time looming up as a national figure, and knowing that the Progressives of the country were awaiting with keen interest his action on the bill, I feared the effect upon his political fortunes that a veto of the bill would undoubtedly have.

The Baltimore Convention was only a few months away and it was clear to me that no matter how safe and sane were the grounds upon which he would veto this legislation, his enemies in the Democratic party would charge him with being influenced by the New Jersey railroad interests who were engaged in a most vigorous campaign against the passage of this legislation. In fact, when we came to discuss the matter, I frankly called this phase of it to his attention. I tried to make him see the effects such a veto would have upon his political fortunes, but he soon made it clear to me that he was unmindful of all such consequences. After thoroughly considering the matter, he finally decided to veto the bill. In discussing the matter with me, he said: "I realize the unjust and unfortunate inference that will be drawn by my political enemies from a veto of this bill, but the bill, as drawn, is unjust and unfair to the railroads and I ought not to be afraid to say so publicly. I cannot consider the effect of a veto upon my own political fortunes. If I should sign this bill it would mean practically a confiscation of railroad property and I would not be worthy of the trust of a single mail in the state or in the country were I afraid to do my duty and to protect private property by my act." His attitude toward the bill was clearly set forth in the veto, part of which is as follows:

I know the seriousness and great consequence of the question affected by this important measure. There is a demand, well grounded and imperative, throughout the state that some practicable legislation should be adopted whereby the grade crossings of railways which everywhere threaten life and interfere with the convenience of both city and rural communities should as rapidly as possible be abolished. But there is certainly not a demand in New Jersey for legislation which is unjust and impracticable.

* * * * *

The non-enactment of this bill into law will, of course, be a serious disappointment to the people of the state, but it will only concentrate their attention upon the just and equitable way of accomplishing the end in view. I do not believe that the people of the state are in such haste as to be willing to work a gross injustice, either to the railroads or to private owners of property, or to the several communities affected.

Of course his political enemies made free use of this veto in an effort to injure him throughout the country in every state campaign where his fortunes as candidate were involved. As a matter of fact, his veto of this bill did shock the people of the state, but when they seriously considered the matter in all its aspects, they felt that their governor had, at least, done an honourable and a courageous thing in refusing to approve it.

Discussion of him as a strong Presidential possibility was steadily growing. I had felt a delicacy about talking of this with him, but in a walk that we were accustomed to take along the banks of the Delaware and Raritan Canal between office hours, I, one day, made bold to open, the subject in this way: "It is evident from the newspapers, Governor, that you are being considered for the Presidency." I could plainly see from the way he met the suggestion that he did not resent my boldness in opening the discussion. I told him that we were receiving letters at the Executive offices from various parts of the country in praise of the programme he had just put through the legislature. As we discussed the possibilities of the Presidential situation, he turned to me in the most solemn way, and putting his hand to his mouth, as if to whisper something, said: "I do not know, Tumulty, that I would care to be President during the next four years." And then looking around as if he were afraid uninvited ears might be listening, he continued: "For the next President will have a war on his hands, and I am not sure that I would make a good war President." This reply greatly excited my curiosity and interest and I said: "With what nation do you think we will have a war?" Very cautiously he said: "I do not care to name the nation," and our little talk ended. This statement was made to me in April, 1911. Was it a prophecy of the war that was to burst upon the world in August, 1914?

CHAPTER XII

COLONEL HARVEY

Upon the completion of the legislative work of the first session of the New Jersey Legislature the name of Woodrow Wilson quickly forged to the front as a strong Presidential possibility. Intimate friends, including Walter Hines Page, afterward United States Ambassador to Great Britain; Cleveland H. Dodge and Robert Bridges, the two latter old friends and classmates of the Governor in the famous class of '79 at Princeton, set about by conferences to launch the Presidential boom of their friend, and selected for the task of the actual management of the campaign the young Princetonian, William F. McCombs, then an active and rising young lawyer of New York. These gentlemen, and other devoted friends and advisers of the Governor, made up the first Wilson contingent, and at once initiated a plan of publicity and organization throughout the country. They arranged to have the New Jersey Governor visit strategic points in the country to make addresses on a variety of public questions. Whether Colonel Harvey was behind the scenes as the adviser of this little group I have never ascertained, but Harper's Weekly, then edited by the Colonel, was his leading supporter in the magazine world, carrying the name of the Princetonian at its mast-head as a candidate for the Presidency. There were frequent conferences between the Colonel and the Governor at the Executive offices, and as a result of these conferences the Wilson boom soon became a thing to be reckoned with by the Old Guard in control of party affairs in the nation.

Wilson stock from the moment of the adjournment of the Legislature began to rise, and his candidacy spread with great rapidity, until in nearly every state in the Union "Wilson Clubs" were being established. The New Jersey primaries, where again he met and defeated the Smith forces; the Ohio primaries, where he split the delegates with the favourite son, Governor Harmon, a distinguished Democrat; and the Wisconsin primaries, at which he swept the state, gave a tremendous impetus to the already growing movement for the "Reform" Governor of New Jersey.

Everything was serenely moving in the Wilson camp, when like a thunderclap out of a clear sky broke the story of the disagreement between Colonel Harvey, Marse Henry Watterson, and the Governor of New Jersey. I recall my conversation with Governor Wilson on the day following the Harvey- Watterson conference at a New York club. As private secretary to the Governor, I always made it a rule to keep in close touch with every conference then being held regarding the political situation, and in this way I first learned about the Harvey-Watterson meeting which for a few weeks threatened to destroy all the lines of support that had been built up throughout the past months of diligent work and organization.

The Governor and I were seated in a trolley car on our way from the State Capitol to the railroad station in Trenton when he informed me, in the most casual way and without seeming to understand the possible damage he had done his own cause, of what followed the conference the previous day. It was like this: the conference had ended and they were leaving the room when Colonel Harvey put his hand on Woodrow Wilson's shoulder and said: "Governor, I want to ask you a frank question, and I want you to give me a frank answer. In your opinion is the support of Harper's Weekly helping or hurting you?" In telling me of it Woodrow Wilson said: "I was most embarrassed, and replied: 'Colonel, I wish you had not asked me that question.' 'Well, what is the answer?' Colonel Harvey insisted pleasantly. 'Why, Colonel, some of my friends tell me it is not helping me in the West.' Colonel Harvey said: I was afraid you might feel that way about it, and we shall have to soft-pedal a bit'." Mr. Wilson was so serenely unconscious that any offence had been taken that when informed by me a little later that his name had disappeared from the head of the editorial column of Harper's Weekly he did not connect this with the interview. "Was Colonel Harvey offended?" I asked. "He didn't seem to be," was the Governor's answer.

I immediately scented the danger of the situation and the possibilities of disaster to his political fortunes that lay in his reply, and I told him very frankly that I was afraid he had deeply wounded Colonel Harvey and that it might result in a serious break in their relations. The Governor seemed grieved at this and said that he hoped such was not the case; that even after he had expressed himself so freely, Colonel Harvey had been most kind and agreeable to him and that they had continued to discuss in the most friendly way the plans for the campaign and that the little conference had ended without apparent evidence that anything untoward had happened that might lead to a break in their relations. We then discussed at length the seriousness of the situation, and as a result of our talk the Governor wrote Colonel Harvey and endeavoured to make clear what he had in mind when he answered the question put to him by the Colonel at the club conference a few days before, not, indeed, by way of apology, but simply by way of explanation. This letter to the Colonel and a subsequent one went a long way toward softening the unfortunate impression that had been created by the publication of the Harvey-Watterson correspondence. The letters are as follows:

(Personal)

University Club
Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Fourth Street
December 21, 1911.

MY DEAR COLONEL:

Every day I am confirmed in the judgment that my mind is a one-track road and can run only one train of thought at a time! A long time after that interview with you and Marse Henry at the Manhattan Club it came over me that when (at the close of the interview) you asked me that question about the Weekly I answered it simply as a matter of fact and of business, and said never a word of my sincere gratitude to you for all your generous support, or of my hope that it might be continued. Forgive me, and forget my manners!

Faithfully, yours,
WOODROW WILSON.

To which letter Colonel Harvey sent the following reply:

(Personal)

Franklin Square
New York, January 4, 1912.

MY DEAR WILSON:

Replying to your note from the University Club, I think it should get without saying that no purely personal issue could arise between you and me. Whatever anybody else may surmise, you surely must know that in trying to arouse and further your political aspirations during the past few years I have been actuated solely by the belief that I was rendering a distinct public service.

The real point at the time of our interview was, as you aptly put it, one simply "of fact and of business," and when you stated the fact to be that my support was hurting your candidacy, and that you were experiencing difficulty in finding a way to counteract its harmful effect, the only thing possible for me to do, in simple fairness to you, no less than in consideration of my own self-respect, was to relieve you of your embarrassment so far as it lay within my power to do so, by ceasing to advocate your nomination. That, I think, was fully understood between us at the time, and, acting accordingly, I took down your name from the head of the Weekly's editorial page some days before your letter was written. That seems to be all there is to it. Whatever little hurt I may have felt as a consequence of the unexpected peremptoriness of your attitude toward me is, of course, wholly eliminated by your gracious words.

Very truly yours,
GEORGE HARVEY.

To Colonel Harvey's letter Governor Wilson replied as follows:

(Personal)

Hotel Astor
New York, January 11, 1912.

MY DEAR COL. HARVEY:

Generous and cordial as was your letter written in reply to my note from the University Club, it has left me uneasy, because, in its perfect frankness, it shows that I did hurt you by what I so tactlessly said at the Knickerbocker Club. I am very much ashamed of myself, for there is nothing I am more ashamed of than hurting a true friend, however unintentional the hurt may have been. I wanted very much to see you in Washington, but was absolutely captured by callers every minute I was in my rooms, and when I was not there was fulfilling public engagements. I saw you at the dinner but could not get at you, and after the dinner was surrounded and prevented from getting at you. I am in town to day, to speak this evening, and came in early in the hope of catching you at your office.

For I owe it to you and to my own thought and feeling to tell you how grateful I am for all your generous praise and support of me (no one has described me more nearly as I would like myself to be than you have); how I have admired you for the independence and unhesitating courage and individuality of your course; and how far I was from desiring that you should cease your support of me in the Weekly. You will think me very stupid—but I did not think of that as the result of my blunt answer to your question. I thought only of the means of convincing people of the real independence of the Weekly's position. You will remember that that was what we discussed. And now that I have unintentionally put you in a false and embarrassing position you heap coals of fire on my head by continuing to give out interviews favourable to my candidacy!

All that I can say is that you have proved yourself very big, and that
I wish I might have an early opportunity to tell you face to face how
I really feel about it all. With warm regard,

Cordially and faithfully, yours,
WOODROW WILSON.

For a while it seemed as if the old relations between the Colonel and the New Jersey Governor would be resumed, but some unfriendly influence, bent upon the Governor's undoing, thrust itself into the affair, and soon the story of the Manhattan Club incident broke about the Princetonian's head with a fury and bitterness that deeply distressed many of Mr. Wilson's friends throughout the country. The immediate effect upon his candidacy was almost disastrous. Charges of ingratitude to the "original Wilson man" flew thick and fast. Mr. Wilson's enemies throughout the country took up the charge of ingratitude and soon the stock of the New Jersey man began to fall, until his immediate friends almost lost heart. The bad effect of the publication of the Harvey-Watterson correspondence and the bitter attacks upon the sincerity of the New Jersey Governor were soon perceptible in the falling away of contributions so necessary to keep alive the campaign then being carried on throughout the country. The "band-wagon" crowd began to leave us and jump aboard the Clark, Underwood, and Harmon booms.

Suddenly, as if over night, a reaction in favour of Governor Wilson began to set in. The continued pounding and attacks of the reactionary press soon convinced the progressives in the ranks of the Democratic party that Wilson was being unjustly condemned, because he had courageously spoken what many believed to be the truth. At this critical stage of affairs a thing happened which, routed his enemies. One of the leading publicity men of the Wilson forces in Washington, realizing the damage that was being done his chief, inspired a story, through his Washington newspaper friends, that Wilson was being gibbeted because he refused to accept the support of Wall Street interests which Harvey and Watterson had offered him, and that his refusal to accept their offer was the real cause of the break. This new angle of the Harvey-Watterson episode worked a complete reversal of opinion.

The clever work of this publicity man in turning the light on what he conceived to be the real purpose of the Harvey-Watterson conference probably did injustice to these two gentlemen, but at all events it gave weight to the impression in the minds of many people throughout the country that the real reason for the break was Mr. Wilson's refusal to bow the knee to certain eastern financial interests that were understood to be behind Harper's Weekly. The tide quickly turned against Colonel Harvey and Marse Henry Watterson. Marse Henry, alone in his suite at the New Willard Hotel at Washington, and the Colonel away off in his tower at Deal, New Jersey, were busily engaged in explaining to the public and attempting, in heroic fashion, to extricate themselves from the unfortunate implications created by the story of the Wilson publicity man. What appeared at first blush to be a thing that would destroy the candidacy of the New Jersey Governor had been, by clever newspaper manipulation, turned to his advantage and aid.

When the bitterness and rancour caused by this unfortunate incident had happily passed away Colonel Watterson and I met at a delightful dinner at Harvey's Restaurant in Washington and discussed the "old fight." The young fellow who had inspired the story which so grievously distressed Marse Henry and Colonel Harvey was present at this dinner. Marse Henry was in fine spirits, and without showing the slightest trace of the old bitterness, rehearsed the details of this now-famous incident in a witty, sportsmanlike, and good-natured way, and at its conclusion he turned to my newspaper friend and laughingly said: "You damn rascal, you are the scoundrel who sent out the story that Harvey and I were trying to force Wall Street money on Wilson. However, old man, it did the trick. If it had not been for the clever use you made of this incident, Wilson never would have been President."

In a beautiful letter addressed to the President by Marse Henry on September 24, 1914, conveying his expressions of regret at the death of the President's first wife, appears the following statement with reference to the famous Harvey-Watterson controversy:

I hope that hereafter you and I will better understand one another; in any event that the single disagreeable episode will vanish and never be thought of more. In Paris last winter I went over the whole matter with Mr. McCombs and we quite settled and blotted out our end of it. I very much regret the use of any rude word—too much the characteristic of our rough-and-tumble political combats—and can truly say that I have not only earnestly wished the success of your administration but have sought to find points of agreement, not of disagreement.

I am writing as an old man—old enough to be your father—who has the claim upon your consideration that all his life he has pursued the ends you yourself have aimed at, if at times too zealously and exactingly, yet without self-seeking or rancor.

Your friend,
HENRY WATTERSON.

The President's acknowledgment of this letter is as follows:

September 28, 1914.

MY DEAR COLONEL WATTERSON:

Your kind letter has gratified me very deeply. You may be sure that any feeling I may have had has long since disappeared and that I feel only gratified that you should again and again have come to my support in the columns of the Courier-Journal. The whole thing was a great misunderstanding.

Sincerely yours,
WOODROW WILSON.

While the Harvey-Watterson episode ended as above related, there is no doubt that Woodrow Wilson deeply regretted the whole matter, and, so far as he was concerned, there was no feeling on his part of unfriendliness or bitterness toward Colonel Harvey. Indeed, he felt that Colonel Harvey had unselfishly devoted himself to his cause in the early and trying days of his candidacy, and that Harvey's support of him was untouched by selfish interests of any kind. In every way he tried to soften the unfortunate impression that had been made on the country by what many thought was an abrupt, ungracious way of treating a friend. An incident in connection with this matter is worth relating:

One day at the conclusion of the regular Tuesday cabinet meeting the President and I lingered at the table, as was our custom, and gossiped about the affairs of the Administration and the country. These discussions were intimate and frank in every way.

A note in the social column of one of the leading papers of Washington carried the story that Colonel Harvey's daughter, Miss Dorothy Harvey, was in town and was a guest at the home of Mrs. Champ Clark. I took occasion to mention this to the President, suggesting that it would be a gracious thing on his part and on the part of Mrs. Wilson to invite Miss Harvey to the Sayre-Wilson wedding which was scheduled to take place a few days later, hoping that in this way an opening might be made for the resumption of the old relationship between the Colonel and Mr. Wilson. The President appeared greatly interested in the suggestion, saying that he would take it up with Mrs. Wilson at once, assuring me that it could be arranged. When I saw how readily he acted upon this suggestion, I felt that this was an opening for a full, frank discussion of his relations with Colonel Harvey. I approached the subject in this way: "For a long time I have wanted to discuss Colonel Harvey with you. There is no doubt, Governor, that this unfortunate episode did not sit well on the stomachs of the American people. Whether you believe it or not, the country resented your attitude toward your old friend, and out of this incident an impression has grown which is becoming stronger with each day, that you pay little regard to friendship and the obligations that grow out of it. I have been hoping that in some way the old relationship could be resumed and that you would feel free at some time in a public way to attest your real feeling for Colonel Harvey, at least by way of reciprocation for the genuine way he stood by you in the old days in New Jersey." The President looked at me in the most serious way, apparently weighing every word I had uttered, and said: "You are right, Tumulty; unfortunate impressions have been created. What can I do for Colonel Harvey to attest in some public way my appreciation of what he did for me in the old days?" I asked why, inasmuch as McCombs had declined the French Ambassadorship, this post might not be offered to Colonel Harvey, adding that I believed he coveted and would appreciate such an appointment. The President said that this was an admirable suggestion and authorized me to get in touch with Colonel Harvey at once and make him the offer of the French post.

While my relations with Colonel Harvey were at no time strained, and, in fact, up to this day our friendship has been uninterrupted, I thought it would be more tactful if I should approach him through the junior senator from New York, James O'Gorman. Immediately upon leaving the President I went to the Army and Navy Club, where Senator O'Gorman was living, and told him of my conversation with the President in reference to Colonel Harvey. He was enthusiastic and immediately got in touch with Colonel Harvey at his home at Deal, New Jersey, told him of the President's offer, and asked for a conference. Then a thing happened which completely destroyed these plans for a reconciliation. The following Sunday an interview signed by Colonel Harvey, bitterly assailing the President, appeared in the New York Times. The fat was in the fire. Senator O'Gorman and I were silenced. When I approached the President on Monday morning to discuss further the matter with him, he said: "I greatly regret this interview of Colonel Harvey. How can I now with propriety offer him any post? Knowing Harvey as I do, he would be reluctant to take it, for the country might be of the opinion that he had yielded in his criticism of me by the offer of this appointment, and I could not in honour make the appointment now, for it might appear to the country that by this method I was trying to purchase the silence of the Colonel. I am very sorry, indeed, that the plan we discussed has fallen to the ground."

And thus the efforts of Mr. Wilson to bring about a reconciliation with his old friend ended in dismal failure.

CHAPTER XIII

THE "COCKED-HAT" INCIDENT

While Governor Wilson came out of this controversy with the two Colonels, Harvey and Watterson, with flying colours, he was by no means beyond the danger line. His enemies both within and without the party hotly contested his leadership, and the bitterness of the opposition grew in proportion as his candidacy gained daily advantages. Everything possible was done to block his progress and to make more difficult his road to the Presidency. Everything he had ever said or written, especially his "History of the American People," was carefully examined in the hope of finding some way to discredit him. All the guns of the opposition were turned upon him, but nothing seemed sufficient to block his progress. All the charges, intimations, insinuations, and slanders that were industriously circulated by his enemies were without effect, and the trained political minds in his own camp were apprehensive lest his candidacy had reached its climax too long before the convention. How to maintain the present advantage was the problem that perplexed them. They were hopefully looking forward to the benefits that would accrue to their candidate in the round-up of candidates at the famous Jackson Day dinner, scheduled for early January, 1912. This dinner was an annual affair and was eagerly looked forward to. It was expected that the leading lights of the Democratic party would attend this dinner, including Colonel W. J. Bryan, Champ Clark, Oscar Underwood, ex-Governor Folk of Missouri, Roger Sullivan of Illinois, and the New Jersey Governor's friends were confident that because of his ability as a public speaker he would make a strong and favourable impression. They were not disappointed.

We were awaiting the Jackson Day dinner with great expectations, and congratulating ourselves that we were now safely "out of the woods," and that things would move smoothly for our candidate, when like a bolt from, the blue came the publication of the famous Joline "cocked-hat" letter, which caused another panic in the ranks of the too-optimistic Wilson forces.

This letter was written by Mr. Wilson to Mr. Adrian Joline, a Princeton alumnus and prominent New York lawyer at the time of the split in the Democratic party over the silver question. The letter is as follows:

Princeton, New Jersey,
April 29, 1907.

MY DEAR MR. JOLINE:

Thank you very much for sending me your address at Parsons, Kan., before the board of directors of the Missouri, Kansas & Texas Railway Company. I have read it with relish and entire agreement. Would that we could do something, at once dignified and effective, to knock Mr. Bryan once for all into a cocked hat!

Cordially and sincerely yours,
WOODROW WILSON.

The publication of this letter came at a most inopportune time for the Wilson candidacy, and how to meet it was one of the most difficult problems that the Wilson forces had to face. Our enemies were jubilant. They felt that at last they had broken our lines and that we would not be able to "come back."

At this time I was at the State House at Trenton and I received a telegram from the Governor, requesting that I come at once to Washington, where he was conferring with the leaders of his forces in an effort to find some way to neutralize the bad effects of the Joline cocked-hat story in advance of the Jackson Day banquet, at which Mr. Bryan would be present. On my arrival in Washington I went to the Willard Hotel and found the Governor hi a conference with William F. McCombs, Tom Pence, Senator O'Gorman, and Dudley Field Malone. We discussed the situation fully and the character of reply the Governor should make by way of explanation of the Joline letter. Mr. Josephus Daniels, a friend and associate of Mr. Bryan, was sent to confer with Mr. Bryan in order that Mr. Wilson might have a close friend at hand who could interpret the motives which lay back of the Joline letter and impress upon Mr. Bryan the present favourable attitude of Mr. Wilson toward him. Mr. McCombs suggested that the Governor address an open letter to Mr. Bryan, voicing his regret over the publication of this letter and assuring him of his present kindly feelings toward him. I vigorously opposed Mr. McCombs' suggestion, arguing that no explanation of the Joline letter could be made to Mr. Bryan that would wear the appearance of sincerity, or be convincing, and that the letter having been written there was nothing to do to extenuate it in any way and that the wise thing was to make a virtue of necessity. I suggested that on the following night, when the Governor was to deliver his address at the Jackson Day dinner, he could, in the most generous and kindly way, pay a handsome tribute to Mr. Bryan for his unselfish service to the Democratic party throughout the dark years he had been its leader; that I felt that he would appreciate a tribute of this kind and that he would resent any explanation of this incident which would appear to be truckling or apologetic in character. This plan was finally agreed upon. In the very beginning of his speech, in the most tactful way, Governor Wilson paid a tribute to the Great Commoner by saying, as he turned to Mr. Bryan: "When others were faint-hearted, Colonel Bryan carried the Democratic standard. He kept the 'fires burning' which have heartened and encouraged the democracy of the country."

The speech at the Jackson Day dinner was a triumph for Woodrow Wilson. While it was a tempestuous voyage for him, with many dangerous eddies to be avoided, he emerged from the experience with his prestige enhanced and with his candidacy throughout the country strengthened. The Bryan-Joline crisis was safely passed. In the presence of the newspaper men at the banquet, Mr. Bryan put his arm around Mr. Wilson's shoulders in an affectionate way, and thus happily concluded the incident which for a time threatened to wreck a great enterprise.

On his return from Washington to Trenton, Governor Wilson told me that Mr. Bryan had bidden him not to worry about the publication of the Joline letter, saying: "I, of course, knew that you were not with me in my position on the currency," and Woodrow Wilson replied: "All I can say, Mr. Bryan, is that you are a great, big man."

CHAPTER XIV

WILSON AND THE OLD GUARD

Old line politicians, like Roger Sullivan of Illinois and Tom Taggart of Indiana, were turned to the Princetonian by his notable speech at the Jackson Day dinner and now gave sympathetic ear to the New Jersey Governor's claims for the nomination. An incident which happened at the conclusion of the banquet, as the Governor was on his way to make his train for New Jersey, illustrates the character of the victory he had won over difficulties which at the time seemed insurmountable. The old Illinois leader, Roger Sullivan, greeted the candidate in the most friendly way as he left the banquet hall, saying to him as he grasped his hand: "That was a great speech, Governor," and then, drawing closer to him, added: "I cannot say to you now just what the Illinois delegation will do, but you may rely upon it, I will be there when you need me," This remark did not seem of importance at the time, but when we discussed the incident the next day at the Capitol at Trenton we both felt that, at a critical moment of the convention Roger Sullivan could be relied upon to support us and to throw the vote of Illinois our way. Sullivan kept his promise in real, generous fashion. When it seemed as if the Baltimore Convention was at the point of deadlock, and after the Illinois delegation had voted many times for Champ Clark, Sullivan threw the full support of Illinois to the New Jersey Governor, and thus the tide was quickly turned in favour of Mr. Wilson's candidacy for the Presidency.

I had often wondered what influence beyond this Jackson Day banquet speech had induced this grizzly old political warrior to support Woodrow Wilson. Afterward I learned the real cause of it from men who kept in close touch with the Illinois delegation during the trying days of the Baltimore Convention.

Everyone who knew Roger Sullivan knew the great influence which both his fine wife and devoted son wielded over him. His son, Boetius, a Harvard graduate, had early become a Wilson devotee and supporter, and the correspondence between father, mother, and son, contained a spirited discussion of the availability of the New Jersey man for the Democratic nomination. The interest of Mrs. Sullivan and her son continued throughout the days of the Convention, which they both attended, and at the most critical moment in the proceedings of the Convention when a point was arrived at when the Illinois vote was decisive, the Illinois leader left a conference where he was being strongly urged by Mr. Wilson's friends to support the New Jersey Governor, to have a final conference with Mrs. Sullivan and their son before he would finally agree to throw his support to Wilson.

Everyone at Baltimore knows the result of this conference and how the inner councils of the Sullivan family prevailed. Illinois swung to Wilson and he was soon nominated. It was said, after the New Jersey man's nomination and election, that he showed base ingratitude to Roger Sullivan, the man who more than any other single individual in the Convention had brought about his nomination. Mr. Sullivan's devoted friends in Illinois were particularly bitter at the apparent coldness of Mr. Wilson toward their friend and idol. The President, as a matter of fact, was never unmindful of his obligation to Sullivan for the personally loyal way he had stood by him at Baltimore, and in every way while he was President he let those associated with him know that Sullivan and his friends, wherever it was possible, should be preferred in the matter of the distribution of patronage in Illinois.

The thing, however, which irritated Sullivan's friends and made many of them irreconcilable foes of Woodrow Wilson was his apparent unwillingness to say a good word for Sullivan when he announced his candidacy for the United States senatorship of Illinois. This presented an opportunity for President Wilson to pay the old debt and "even up" things with Roger. Realizing the delicacy of the situation and how deeply the progressive element in the Democratic party throughout the country might misunderstand and even resent his putting his "okeh" on the candidacy of the Illinois leader for the senatorship, nevertheless, upon considering the matter, he decided to do so and prepared a generous and wholehearted letter of endorsement of Sullivan. He felt that as a good sportsman he was bound in honour to do this for the man whose influence and support, thrown to him at the right moment of the Convention, had brought about his nomination for the Presidency. But there were other and deeper reasons urging him on to endorse his old friend. He knew how eagerly and earnestly Sullivan had fought for him at Baltimore and how in doing so he had won the enmity of the eastern wing of the Democratic party. The old bosses in the party, like Smith and Murphy, had often twitted Sullivan on his support of Wilson and threatened reprisals. Sullivan, however, stood like adamant against these influences and showed an allegiance to the New Jerseyman which earned the admiration and affection of every Wilsonite in the country. The President felt confident that should Roger Sullivan be elected to the Senate, he could count upon him to stand by and loyally support him and the Administration. At this very time the President was beginning to realize in the keenest way the necessity for real, loyal backing in the Senate. Many of the men whom he had personally supported for the Senate in the various senatorial fights throughout the country, especially those who were known as progressive senators, like Hardwick and Smith of Georgia, O'Gorman of New York, and Martine of New Jersey, had grown indifferent and were reluctant to follow his leadership in anything. The so-called Old Guard in the Senate, made up of men like Mark Smith of Arizona, Senators Martin and Swanson of Virginia, Ollie James of Kentucky, John Sharp Williams of Mississippi, Joe Robinson of Arkansas, Billy Hughes of New Jersey, Senator Culberson of Texas, Senator Simmons of North Carolina, and Senator Smith of Maryland, contrary to every prophecy and prediction made by their enemies, stood with the President through every fight in the finest and handsomest way, never deserting his leadership for a moment. Often he would say to me when we were discussing the senatorial situation: "My head is with the progressives in the Democratic party, but my heart, because of the way they stood by me, is with the so-called Old Guard in the Senate. They stand without hitching." He knew that, while Roger Sullivan was a conservative, he could be relied upon in every emergency to back him up even to the point of sacrifice. What President Wilson wanted more than anything else, as he often said, was a team that would work with him. Sullivan was just this type of man, and beyond everything else his loyalty had been tested and could be relied upon in every emergency.

In the light of these circumstances, the President decided finally to throw his hat in the ring in favour of the boss of Illinois for the United States senatorship. The letter advocating Sullivan's election was dictated and signed by the President, and is as follows:

THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON
October 12, 1914.

MY DEAR MR. RANEY:

I have read with the greatest interest the account you were kind enough to send me of the Illinois Democratic State Convention. It is full of fine promise for the party; for it shows all the elements of the party heartily drawing together for a successful campaign; and with this union success is sure to come.

You call my attention to the fact that some Democrats are urging voters to cast their ballots for the Progressive candidate for the Senate of the United States rather than for the nominee of the Democratic primaries. You ask me if I approve of this. I do not. I have held myself very strictly to the principle that as a party man I am bound by the free choice of the people at the polls. I have always stood by the result of the primaries; I shall always do so; and I think it the duty of every Democrat to do so who cares for the success and sincerity of his party. Mr. Sullivan has been selected in a fair primary, and therefore he is entitled to the support of his party.

Sincerely yours,
WOODROW WILSON.

HON. HENRY T. RAINEY,
House of Representatives.

This letter and the contents of it will be a matter of news to Sullivan's friends throughout the country. Many, doubtless, will inquire why it was not published at the time. The reason it failed to reach the stage of publication can in no way be attributed to Woodrow Wilson. He never recalled it and the original is in my files. This may be surprising news to the friends of the dead leader, Roger Sullivan, but it is only fair to Mr. Wilson to say that he never hesitated in rushing to the defence of his old friend in the most generous way. He wrote this letter with the full realization of just how much it might personally injure him with the progressive thought of the country. The letter, after being written and signed by the President, was held in reserve by me until Sullivan's friends in Chicago, those in close touch with his affairs there, felt free to advise its publication. I was directed by them to release it, but the order for its release was countermanded by one of the advisers close to Sullivan, who telephoned me that it was thought inadvisable to have the President come into the campaign in Sullivan's behalf, the reason being that the publication of Wilson's letter might arouse the passionate antagonism of Theodore Roosevelt, who was about to begin a tour of Illinois in behalf of Sullivan's opponent. I was advised later that the individual with whom I dealt in this matter and upon whose direction the letter was withheld from publication had no authority to act for Sullivan in the matter and that Sullivan and his friends were deeply disappointed at Mr. Wilson's apparent unwillingness to take up the cudgel for his old friend. Many times I tried to make clear to Sullivan's friends just what the attitude of the President was, but whether I succeeded I do not know. The President, secluded in the White House, away from the madding crowd, never realized the basis of Sullivan's disappointment, for he felt that he had "gone through" for his friend and had not forgotten for a moment Sullivan's advocacy of him at Baltimore, When the news of Sullivan's death was brought to him at a time when he, also, was seriously ill, his lips quivered, great tears stood in his eyes, and turning to Mrs. Wilson, who stood beside his bed, he said: "Roger Sullivan was a wonderful and devoted friend at Baltimore," and then, turning to me, he said: "Tumulty, I sincerely hope that you will personally go to Chicago and attend the funeral and tell Mrs. Sullivan how deeply I grieve over the death of my old friend."