“What is the matter with this political campaign?”

An old man who can remember public events far back of the Civil War and beyond asked that question the other day. He said this campaign reminded him more of a Sunday school convention. Nobody was fighting, and very few such epithets as “liar” or “thief” or “rascal” were being used. In these days no one seems to care who is to be elected. We are all too busy trying to pay our bills. The old man bewailed the loss of power and interest in this generation. He thought this quiet indifference meant that as a nation we have lost our political vigor. Having been through some of those old-time battles, I cannot fully agree with him. It is true that few people seem interested, yet they will vote this year, and I think the quiet and thoughtful study most of them are making will prove as effective as the big noise and excitement we used to have. We are merely doing things differently now. Whether the great excitement of those old political days made us better citizens is a question which has long puzzled me. I know that in those nervous and high-strung days we did many foolish things as a part of “politics.” On the other hand, I wish sometimes that our people could get as thoroughly worked up over the tribute we are paying to the profiteers as we did in those old days over the tariff and the slavery issue.

I can well remember taking part in the campaign between Garfield and Hancock. The Democrats felt that they had been robbed of the Presidency in ’76, but as they failed to renominate Tilden the Republicans called them quitters. I had dropped out of college for awhile to work as hired man for a farmer in a Western State, and we certainly had a great time. This farmer was an old soldier; he was a good talker and thought well of his own exploits. When you found that combination 40 years ago you struck a red-hot partisan. The man’s wife was a Democrat, because her father had been. She was one of those small, black-eyed women who acquire the habit of dominating things in the schoolroom and then concentrate the habit when they take a school of one pupil in the home. Her brother lived on the next farm. He had turned Republican because he wanted to be elected county clerk. It was fully worth the price of admission to sit by the fire some stormy night and hear this woman put those two Republicans on the broiler of her tongue. They were big men, fully capable of holding their own in any ordinary argument, but this small woman cowed them as she formerly did her A B C pupils. It was enough to make any young man very thoughtful about marrying a successful teacher to see this small woman point a finger at her big husband and say:

“Now John Crandall, don’t you dare to say it isn’t the truth!”

And John didn’t dare, though from his political religion it might be a base fabrication. One day, after a particularly hard thrust, John and I were digging potatoes, and he unburdened his mind a little:

“I’ll tell you one thing: any man who marries a good school-marm takes his life in his hands—his political life, anyway!” and he pushed his fork into the ground as though he was spearing a Democrat! “And yet,” he added, as he threw out a fine hill of potatoes, “sometimes I kinder think it’s worth the risk.”

My great regret is that this lady did not live to celebrate the Nineteenth Amendment! With the ballot in her hand she would have stirred excitement even into this dull campaign!

We worked all day, and went around arguing most of the night during that hot campaign. The names we had for the Democrats would not bear repeating here. The other side went around with pieces of chalk, making the figures “321” on every fence and building or on stones. That represented the sum of money which General Garfield was said to have stolen. The Republicans marched around in processions carrying a pair of overalls tied to a pole, representing one of the Democratic candidates. Oh, it was a “campaign of education” without doubt! And then Maine voted! John and his brother-in-law had been playing Maine as their trump card.

“Wait till you hear from the old Pine Tree State. As Maine goes, so goes the Union!”

John felt so sure of it that even his wife was a little fearful. The day after the Maine election John and I were seeding wheat on a hill back from the road. There were no telephones in those days, and news traveled slowly—we were eight miles from town. In the late afternoon we heard a noise from the distant road. There was Peleg Leonard driving his old white horse up the road at full speed and roaring out an old campaign song:

The demand for prohibition in those days was confined to a few “wild-eyed fanatics,” and Peleg was not one of them, especially on those rare occasions when the Democrats got a chance to yell. We saw him stop in front of the house and wave his arms as he told the news to Sarah.

“Looks sorter bad. Can it be that Maine has gone back on us?” said John as he saw the celebrator go on his way.

We usually had a cold supper on such days, but now we saw the smoke pouring from the kitchen chimney, and the horn blew half an hour earlier than usual. John and I put up the horses, washed our faces at the pump and walked into the kitchen as only two dejected Republicans can travel. You see, it wasn’t so bad for the Democrats. They were used to being defeated, and had made no great claims. I was young then, and youth is intensely partisan. Since that day I have voted on four different party tickets, and glory in the fact that I am not “hide-bound.”

Sarah had on her best black silk and the white apron with lace edges. She had cooked some hot biscuit and dished up some of her famous plum preserve and actually skimmed a pan of milk to serve thick cream.

“Maine is gone Democratic!” she cried. “Hurrah for Hancock! Bread and water’s good enough for Republicans in this hour of triumph, but I know the fat of the land will taste like gall to both of you. Sit right down and feast, because the country’s safe!”

Physically that supper was perfect. There never were finer hot biscuits or better plum preserve or finer cold chicken! Spiritually it was the saddest and most depressing meal on record. We made a full meal. I can go back into the years and see that big farmer gnawing half a chicken under command of his wife. You remember “King Robert of Sicily” in Longfellow’s poem:

And so with poor John. That fine chicken tasted exactly like crow as Sarah sat by and “rubbed it in.” Oh, politics, where are the charms we formerly saw in thy face?

John and I surely dawdled over our chores that night. We had no great desire to go in and hear the news. Finally Sarah came to the door and called us.

“Say,” said John to me as we started for the house, “you go to college. Have you ever studied logic or what they call psychology?”

“While I am no expert at either subject, I know what they mean.”

“Well, now, suppose your wife got after you like that, how would you use those studies to keep her quiet? What’s the use of an education if it don’t help you keep peace in the family?”

So I unwisely told John that he ought to tell his wife that a woman by law obtained her citizenship from her husband. That citizenship was the essence of politics; therefore the wife should by law belong to her husband’s party. I am older now in years, and I know better than to give any man arguments in a debate with his wife. The Maine election, however, had made us desperate. So John marched in with a very confident step and elaborated my arguments. He was quite impressive when he assured her that the law declared that a woman acquired her political principles from her husband. It did not work, however.

“Don’t you tell me! I didn’t marry any principles at all when I married you. How is a man going to give any principles to his wife when he never had any to give? My father was a Democrat, and I take my politics from him. He was the best man that ever lived, and you know it. I inherit my politics, I do—I didn’t marry them!”

The truth is that Sarah’s father was an old war Democrat who came near being tarred and feathered by his neighbors, but one of the saving graces of modern civilization is the fact that a woman’s father is always an immortal—never needing any defense—his virtues being self-evident, while her husband is a de-mortal who can hardly hope to become a good citizen except through long years of patient service! His only hope lies in the future when he has a daughter of his own.

And Henry Wilkins, Sarah’s brother, was running for county clerk. We held a caucus at the blacksmith shop, where John and I and two farmers were elected delegates to the county convention. We all went to the county seat one Saturday afternoon to nominate a ticket. The last we heard from Sarah was:

“Now, Henry, if you get nominated on that renegade ticket, I know one man that won’t vote for you and that’s John Crandall. I won’t let him vote if he has to stay in bed all day!”

Contrary to what some of the “antis” say woman has always exercised political power.

When we got to town we found the “drug-store ring” in control. This was a little group of politicians led by Jacob Spaulding. It was the “Tammany Hall” of Oak County. This ring had decided to nominate an undertaker from the west side of the county for clerk. Most of the farmers were all ready to quit when Jake Spaulding said the word, for he usually handed out the little political jobs. I was young and inexperienced in politics and ready for a fight. It hurt me to see that great crowd of farmers ready to give up the fight when a big, fat brute like Jake Spaulding and a few of his creatures shook their heads. So I called our delegates together and proposed that we go right in where Jake was and “talk turkey” to him. Strange, but John Crandall was the only outspoken supporter I had. John was bossed at home until he was like a lamb, but get him out among men and the pent-up feelings in the lamb expanded that innocent animal into a lion. So we had our way, and about 25 of us marched down the street to the courthouse, where in the sheriff’s room the county committee was making up the ticket.

You would have thought the destinies of the nation were at stake as we filed into that room. Half of our delegates were ready to quit when Jake Spaulding glared at us over his spectacles.

“What do you want?”

Dr. Walker was our spokesman, and Jake Spaulding had a mortgage on his house. You could see that mortgage peeking out from behind every sentence of the doctor’s speech. In effect he asked those politicians if they wouldn’t please nominate Henry Wilkins for county clerk. It didn’t take Jake long to put us where we belonged.

“No; the delegates to this convention are going to nominate Hiram Green. Nothing doing here. Just fall in and work for the grand old Republican party! And now, boys, good day; we’re busy.”

Several of our delegates started for the door. They were well-disciplined soldiers. I was not, and I did what most of them thought a very foolish thing. Before I well knew it I was up in front making a speech to Jake Spaulding. At that time no one had ever heard of the 35-cent dollar. The word “profiteer” was not in the language; but I think I did make it clear that these farmers were there to nominate Henry Wilkins or “bust” the convention. As I look back upon it now I think it was the most bold and palpable “bluff” ever attempted at a country convention. And John Crandall stood beside me and pounded his big hands together until the rest of the delegates forgot their fear and joined in. When I finished there was nothing to do for us but to file out of the courthouse.

Then they turned on me in sorrow and anger. Everyone would now be a marked man. They never could get any office from Jake Spaulding. Even Henry, the candidate, felt I had injured his chances, for if he kept quiet perhaps he might make a deal to get to be deputy clerk. But John Crandall stood by me.

“Good,” he said; “I’m a fighter. Get right up in convention and give ’em another. I’m going to vote for Henry till the last man is out.”

But these faint hearts did not know what was going on inside the sheriff’s room. When our delegation marched out the county committee sat and looked at each other.

“Boys,” said Jake Spaulding, “it looks like they mean business. We can’t let that spread. I guess we’ll have to take Henry on!”

There was a big crowd in the courthouse, and the convention went off like a well-oiled machine. They nominated sheriff and probate judge and then the chairman asked:

“Any nominations for county clerk?”

I had my throat all cleared and stood up with: “Mr. Chairman,”—but no one paid much attention to me. The chairman turned to the platform and said:

“I recognize Judge Spaulding,” and there was the big, fat boss on his feet.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “today our glorious country lives or dies! The grand old Republican party is on trial. Every patriot is needed in this great crisis. Ho! Israel, every man to his tent! I therefore take great pleasure in nominating that splendid farmer, that incomparable patriot, that popular citizen, Henry Wilkins of Adams township. I ask you in the name of our glorious citizenship to put him through with bells on!”

I stood there all through the speech too dazed to sit, until John Crandall pulled me down. Then I realized that for once a bluff had worked. And after the convention I met Jake Spaulding in front of the courthouse. “Young feller,” he said, “if you decide to settle down in this county, let me know. I’ll have a little job for you.”

We all rode home in the candidate’s wagon. Sarah was waiting for us at the gate.

“Well, how did you come out?”

“Nominated by acclamation,” said Henry. “John and the young feller here did it. They made Jake Spaulding come up!”

“John?”

If some actress could put into a single word the scorn and surprise which Sarah packed into her husband’s name her fortune would be made. And John and I stood there like a couple of truant schoolboys waiting for the verdict.

“That’s what I said. John was fine. Only for him I’d have been defeated.” And Henry drove on.

“Now you two lazy Republicans, get out and milk those cows.”

We went, but when we got back the kitchen stove was roaring, and Sarah was just taking out a pan of biscuits. There were ham and eggs on the stove.

“Now you sit right down and eat. If I’ve got to be sister to a county clerk I want to know all about it. Now, John, you tell me just how it happened.”

Ah, but those were the happy days of politics. Do you wonder that we old-timers consider the present campaign about like dishwater—in more ways than one?