MY earliest contact with the inner workings of politics was reading the dramatic story of the downfall of the infamous Tweed Ring.

Tweed had seemed a wonderful figure; we boys knew him only in his largest successful aspects as a dictator: the originator of Riverside Drive, the constructor of the lavish Court House, the arbiter of the City’s destinies. He had made John T. Hoffman, Governor of the State, and A. Oakey Hall, Mayor of the City.

I had come into personal touch with the picturesque Oakey Hall. I had to serve a summons on him in his official capacity and found him in his executive office wearing a red velvet coat.

“Young man,” he said, with all the patronage of an emperor addressing some messenger from a remote province of his domains—and with a splendid accentuation of his title—“you can now swear that you have served the Mayor of New York!”

Sometime thereafter I saw this same mayor act in “The Crucible,” a play written by himself, to prove his innocence under the Tweed rÉgime.

We law-students had looked with veneration to the Supreme Court. We conceived of its members as men of immaculate morality, constantly practising an even balance of the scales of Justice. Our deepest admiration was evoked by their confidence and self-possession and the awe-inspiring manner in which they exercised their powers. Many a time when I went before one of these judges to ask an adjournment, or to have an order signed, I marvelled at the rapidity with which he grasped the contents of the papers submitted to him, and it was a severe blow to my faith in our legal and political institutions when the impeachment of several of these judges, and the removal of some of them, showed that not a few had been tools in the hands of a corrupt boss.

Nor were we younger men alone in our disillusionment. Others had been deceived; the leading citizens of New York had associated themselves in business with the imposing dictator. I still have an advertisement of the New York (Viaduct) Railroad Company, and in the list of its directors the name of William M. Tweed appears between that of A. T. Stewart and August Belmont; Richard B. Connolly next to Joseph Seligman; John Jacob Astor has A. Oakey Hall on one side and Peter B. Sweeney on the other; immediately after Sweeney comes Levi P. Morton. The “Big Four” of Tammany were in good company.

How far the Ring might have extended its power, it is impossible to say. Tweed had promoted Hoffman from the mayoralty to the governorship and no doubt intended to present him as a presidential candidate in ’72. Amongst my clippings I find one which shows that the West was already considering Hoffman as a national figure. It is from a New York newspaper and quotes the Western press as announcing the following slate:

As it happened, Greeley became a presidential and Gratz Brown a vice-presidential candidate; Hancock subsequently ran for president, and Hendricks achieved the vice-presidency; but the serious and uncontradicted publication of that slate indicated the direction of Tweed’s ambitions at the time when Samuel J. Tilden wrought his downfall and relegated Hoffman into obscurity.

In the reaction from these disclosures, Tilden became the younger generation’s hero: he had rescued New York from corruption. I was so impressed with his services that, when my fellow law-student, Michael Sigerson, ran for the State Assembly, while Tilden sought the presidency, I made my first entry into politics—before I was even a voter—by giving several October nights, in 1876, to speech-making for Tilden and Sigerson in the latter’s district on the Lower East Side.

I am one of those who have always felt that Tilden was elected, and that the National Republican machine prevented him from taking his seat.

My observation of the machine system convinced me, through such happenings, that the gravest danger to democracy arose from within. I soon saw that, in such a city as New York, where the mass of the voters are unfamiliar with governmental functions and ignorant that a proper administration thereof is the safeguard of liberty, the control of the dominant party would frequently be secured by a character like Tweed. The more I saw of Tammany Hall, the deeper this conviction became.

Tammany was then as well organized as at any time in its history. The district leaders were generally selected by its boss and always responsible to him. They, in turn, had their precinct leaders dependent on them for preferment and continuance in office. The boss arranged his appointments so that he could absolutely depend on the servility of a majority of the district leaders. It was only now and then that one had the courage to assert his independence and fight the machine. Then he would either be summarily displaced, lose his own little organization by his inability to dispense patronage, or else he would be brought back into slavery by the gift of office.

This plan of organization has, with slight alterations, continued ever since. After Tweed’s displacement, John Kelly came into the leadership; his personal honesty was never doubted, but he had used the old system to obtain power and had to continue it to hold what he had gained. The story of his downfall, though not discreditable to him, is almost as dramatic as Tweed’s.

In his political capacity, Kelly was Comptroller of the City of New York, when a number of reformers determined to oust him; in his personal capacity, he was the owner of an influential newspaper, the Express. The loss of the comptrollership would, of course, involve the loss of his Tammany leadership; but the policy of his paper was an important factor in the fight.

William C. Whitney, then Corporation Counsel, headed the opposition; he had planned to remove Kelly by a vote of the Board of Aldermen. Two things were necessary: publicity in the press and votes in the Board.

James Gordon Bennett’s career was just then at its height. Not long before Whitney began his quiet campaign the owner of the Herald—a powerful six-footer—entering the old Delmonico’s restaurant at Chambers Street and Broadway, tried to brush aside a slim young man who was unconsciously crowding him at the bar. To Bennett’s amazement, the stranger offered resistance. Quick blows were exchanged, and before the newspaper proprietor knew what had happened, he had measured his length on the floor; his antagonist was the pugilist Edwards, lightweight champion of that period. Bennett exerted his influence on the newspapers to suppress all accounts of this occurrence, and everyone agreed except the Express. It published the story, and, in consequence, Whitney found the owner of the Herald perfectly willing to do his part toward the political downfall of the owner of the Express. Bennett turned all the guns of his paper on the Comptroller.

For action in the Board of Aldermen, however, some Republican votes were required. Whitney consulted Roscoe Conkling, then leader of his party in New York State and soon to win national fame for his all but successful attempt to secure Grant’s nomination to a third term in the White House. Conkling’s reply was what Whitney expected: the Republican state leader would not interfere in local matters, but had no objection to Whitney’s discussing them with his county lieutenants.

Whitney did. He went to the Republican county leaders, and they agreed to deliver the necessary votes in the Board of Aldermen. Just what deal was made, I, of course, do not know, but New York was soon surprised; the Aldermen displaced Kelly, breaking his power; the Mayor appointed Andrew H. Green in his stead, and two Republican leaders became police justices.

Richard Croker, Kelly’s successor, I knew personally and had unusual opportunities to study at close range, through my business dealings with the firm of Peter F. Meyer &. Company, auctioneers. In that combination Richard Croker was the “Company.”

Meyer’s career was colourful. Peter, as a mere lad, had a clerkship in the two rooms on the ground floor occupied by Adrian H. Muller & Son, one of the oldest and most reliable real estate auctioneers in New York. By sheer ability he gradually rose to be its head. Through Croker’s influence, the Supreme Court transferred the public auction rooms back to 111 Broadway, from whence they had been shifted to the Real Estate Exchange, 59 Liberty Street. Meyer, with gratitude for such past favours, and perhaps with a lively anticipation of favours yet to come, took Croker into partnership; the firm of Peter F. Meyer & Company resulted. Peter wanted the Tammany nomination for Mayor, was disappointed when he did not get it, and scornfully refused the post of Sheriff as a stepping-stone. That his new association profited him in other directions was, nevertheless, soon evident.

As I remained long one of the firm’s best customers I had the entrÉe to their inner office and so was in frequent contact with the silent partner. It was an instructive but not always an encouraging experience. Croker’s real estate office was also his political headquarters; in fact, as I saw him at work there, I realized that politics was far more his business than was the earning of the real estate commissions. It was as his business that he treated the Democratic Organization of the City of New York. Again and again I have seen this keen, forever busy man, economic with his words, but always speaking to the point, demonstrate that he felt he owned that organization just as much as any man controls a concern in which he has a substantial majority of the stock.

Generally as I passed through the outer room, there were district leaders waiting there, to report to their commanding-general and receive his orders. Beside them, and on much the same mission, there would frequently be sitting men of considerable importance in other affairs than those generally esteemed strictly political; but though these included certain lawyers who later graced—and many of whom still grace—the Supreme Court, I feel bound to add that Croker always respected the sanctity of the Courts.

In any case, I have rarely seen a leader of whatever sort held in such awe or so sought after for favours. Once, at a reception of the National Democratic Club, Croker asked me to sit next to him, and talked to me for a half-hour and more of real estate prospects and reminiscences; from the corner of my eye I could see the guests watching him with interest and me with envy; when I got up, several of my friends adroitly tried to learn from me what political position I had just been promised—they could not understand how anybody would be given thirty minutes of Richard Croker’s time unless asking for, or being offered, an important office! Many years later, I sat in Warsaw beside Pilsudski, dictator of the new Poland; the glances that I then received were exactly of the sort bestowed on me at that Fifth Avenue reception by the citizens of our own Republic.

Croker’s withdrawal from the Tammany leadership was voluntary and due largely to his recognition of his own limitations. During his incumbency, political conditions gradually changed; they so shaped themselves that Tammany—which, ever since Tweed’s downfall, had been relegated to municipal affairs—would soon be called upon to play an active part in State matters. To protect his organization, the boss would have to control or check legislation at Albany affecting the City of New York, and also endeavour to influence the New York delegations to the National Conventions so as to secure federal patronage. To Croker, these were unexplored fields; he knew municipal organization politics as few men of his time, but he appreciated the proverb about teaching an old dog new tricks. Partly through his connection with Andrew Freedman of the Interborough System, and partly through that with Peter Meyer, he had become rich beyond all his early hopes; he had the good sense, unusual in champions, to quit the ring before losing his title to a younger man.

Perhaps with some lingering desire to retain some hold on the affairs of the organization which he had so long governed, Croker arranged to be succeeded by a triumvirate—Charles F. Murphy, Thomas F. McManus, and, to give the Bronx a voice, Louis F. Heins—but that arrangement did not last long. Murphy had the nominal leadership and soon made it real. He attached to himself a majority of the district leaders, fought the remainder, and replaced all who were irreconcilable by creatures of his own. He went further and accomplished what Croker had not dared to attempt: the Cleveland Democrats in the up-state organization had gradually lost their hold on that machine, and the many excellent men who later became devotees of the Wilsonic teaching lacked the propensities necessary to assuming control; they were men of affairs who devoted thought to politics only during a campaign, whereas, the professional element was “on the job” for three hundred and sixty-five days in the year; in that element Tammany found its own type, and converted these into its willing tools.

Within a comparatively short time, Murphy, who had begun as a humble leader in the Gas House District of Manhattan, was both the head of the City and State machine in New York. It has been most depressing for Independents to see him absolutely control the Empire State delegation in the last three National Democratic Conventions, casting the vote of the ninety-six delegates, the largest vote possessed by any state—“as though,” in Bryan’s phraseology, “he owned them.”

My personal experiences with him have been few, but they have served to confirm my first impressions. In 1910 there was to be an election for Borough President of the Bronx; Arthur D. Murphy, the Tammany leader of the district, but not related to Charles F. Murphy, aspired to the position. George F. and Frederick Johnson and I called on the Chief.

He is a large man, with a huge round face and heavy jowl. His eyes have not the piercing quality that Croker’s had; they are blue and kindly and his manner is altogether conciliatory. He knew our mission, but his reception was cordial.

We put our case frankly. We were among the largest investors in the Bronx. We wanted that section to be a desirable home-centre for the over-flow of New York’s population. We, therefore, felt justified in discussing with him the necessity of having a proper administration with a respected citizen at its head.

“We feel,” we said, “that Arthur Murphy is not the man for the place. We have no candidate of our own: we ask you to see that a man be selected who is fitted by experience and character to be the head of this growing borough. We want to tell you in advance that unless this is done, we will be forced to defeat Tammany’s candidate at the polls.”

The Boss listened attentively and without evincing either surprise or antagonism. When we were through, he said:

“I’ll try to prevent Arthur Murphy’s nomination.”

He sincerely did try. He sent his brother to represent him at the Convention, but failed to prevent Arthur Murphy from securing the place on the ticket.

A few days later the Tammany Chief sent for the Johnsons and myself.

“I did the best I could,” he said, “but I couldn’t stop this thing. I want you men to recognize my good faith and abide by the decision of the Convention.”

“Mr. Murphy,” I said, “I told you before that I never merely threaten. If I withdrew my opposition, in deference to your wishes, all that we said at our last visit would become mere bluff. Your unsuccessful efforts don’t change the status of Arthur Murphy. We mean to run a third candidate, and we will defeat your man.”

The manner of the Boss made me feel that far from being angry, he rather liked my consistency and sincerity. At any rate, we followed our plan, and Cyrus C. Miller, a Republican, who gave the Bronx an excellent administration, was elected.

Within the party, I had seen Tammany fought by the Young Democracy and then by the Irving Hall Democracy, but for a long time its best enemy—until that, too, fell before it—was the County Democracy, at the head of which was Police Judge Maurice J. Power, the discoverer of Grover Cleveland and incidentally a client of our firm.

Power was a bronze-founder when Cleveland was Mayor of Buffalo. The Mayor and the founder had some dealings about a statue that Power had cast for the city, and the latter observed and admired the Executive’s extraordinary ability. At the next state convention Dan Manning, Lamont, and the other leaders had intended to nominate either General Henry W. Slocum or Roswell P. Flower as Governor. They found it impossible. Power formed a combination with the delegates of Erie, Chemung, and Kings, and named Cleveland and Hill to head the ticket.

Power has told me the story. When he informed Cleveland that he was expected to name the chairman and secretary of the State Committee for his campaign, Cleveland asked him:

“Who have those positions now?”

“Manning and Lamont,” said Power.

“Are they good men?”

“They’re mighty capable men.”

“Well,” said Cleveland, “I have no personal friends that I want to put there. Why shouldn’t I keep Manning and Lamont?”

Cleveland had been an unknown quantity to these men

who opposed him in the Convention, and they were pleased by this sign of his good will and political acumen. They accepted the offer, and later became his warm friends for life.

After Cleveland’s second election as President, the newspapers announced Power as the next postmaster of New York, but he did not attend the inauguration. It was not until after that event that he went to Washington, where he met Croker.

“Judge,” said the Tammany Boss, “if you want to be postmaster, we won’t oppose you. We want you to have something that will satisfy you.”

Power went to the White House, where Lamont received him with the statement that the President had been asking for him a number of times and could not understand why he had been absent from the inaugural ceremonies. The caller was taken into the President’s executive office, where, although the month was March, Cleveland sat at his desk in shirt-sleeves. He came at once to the point.

“Look here,” he said, “I’ve been wanting to know whether you’d accept the New York postmastership. Will you? For old friendship’s sake, I should like yours to be the first appointment I make for New York.”

“I’m not strong in administrative work, as I don’t like details,” said Power. Then, jokingly, he added: “If you have some less exacting position which will not conflict with my attending to my foundry, I’d be glad to accept that.”

Cleveland said that he knew of no such position. However, at 10:30 that night, Power was again sent for.

“I’ve found the place for you,” said the President. “They tell me that the Shipping Commissionership in New York pays $5,000, and will require but little of your time.”

To that post Power was duly appointed.

My relations with him were always pleasant. He once told me that the lack of funds was about to result in the dissolution of the County Organization and said that I could have the chairmanship if I were willing to contribute $25,000 toward keeping it alive: I had no ambition in that direction, and Charles A. Jackson got the place. Again, in 1887, when Power was in the saddle, my partner, Lachman, wanted the nomination of Judge in the Sixth District Court, but because he has always been a very modest man, and because he had heard that Judge Kelly, then holding that office, was seeking renomination, he would not follow the usual custom of going personally to Power and urging his cause. One day within a month of election, as I crossed Park Place, I saw Power seated on a bootblack’s stand in front of his office at 235 Broadway. I immediately went to our office at 243 Broadway, and stormed Lachman into visiting that bootblack stand immediately.

“The queer thing is,” said Power, “that I should not have thought of you for the place long ago. Of course you shall have the place.”

He went through the form of offering renomination to Kelly, who declined it. I ran a fourteen-day campaign for Lachman, and he was elected. This was my only experience in managing a political campaign until I became chairman of the Democratic Finance Committee in the National Campaign of 1912.

In 1882, when the Sidney Webbs, husband and wife, the English publicists, were visiting America, they told Miss Lillian D. Wald that they would like to meet an American “boss,” and I arranged such a meeting with Power as the star. With considerable pride and absolute frankness, he explained in full detail how a boss came into being and how he remained in control. He laid great stress on the fact that he was a permanent substance, while the lesser leaders and the captors of mere popularity were but passing shadows on the political glass. He explained how the bosses named mayors and governors and sometimes even presidents—how they played the ambitions of one aspirant against those of another, and how they had a fatal advantage over opponents who gave only part time to the business of politics.

Webb, looking at his wife for agreement, said:

“Isn’t this remarkable? It’s exactly the method that the executive secretaries of the English labour unions use to maintain their positions.”

Before I had much to do with politics, I found out that neither New York City nor New York State stood alone in its political obloquy. Some of the greatest municipalities in the country, and many of the states, were, and are to-day, under control of machines like Tammany. As these bosses are of the same ilk, have the same aims and pursue the same methods, and as many of them have maintained themselves for several decades, a strong friendship has grown up amongst them, and they to-day practically control the national committees and the national machinery of both parties.

Thus, in 1920, Cox was nominated for the presidency by a combination of Democratic State bosses, who, fearing defeat, were determined at least to keep their control of the party organization. I know Judge Moore very well. He was the only member of the National Committee in 1916 who threatened to head an open revolt against President Wilson’s selection of Vance McCormick as chairman of the National Committee, because McCormick was not a member of that committee. Judge Hudspeth, of New Jersey, National Committeeman, came to me in great dismay at the St. Louis Convention, and told me so. We had a private telephone to the White House, and, at Hudspeth’s request, I called up the President, and stated the facts. The President answered that, as the campaign was to be run by his own friends, his choice of one of them would have to be ratified even if it displeased Judge Moore.

I was, therefore, much amused in 1920 to see how Judge Moore “beat the devil around the stump” when he wanted George White selected as chairman of the Democratic National Committee. Moore resigned his position as a member of that committee, and White was elected in his place a few hours before he was made chairman of the Democratic National Committee. It was Murphy of New York; Brennan of Chicago, who had taken Roger Sullivan’s place; Nugent of New Jersey; Taggart of Indiana; Moore of Ohio, and Marsh of Iowa—all outstanding bosses—who combined to control the nomination. McAdoo and Mitchell Palmer’s followers not agreeing to combine their forces against this solid phalanx, the latter prevailed and the Democratic National organization is temporarily in their hands.

This method of government is by no means confined to the Democratic Party. The Republicans are even greater offenders. The three Democrats that have been elected to the Presidency since the Civil War—Tilden, Cleveland, and Wilson—were all outstanding reformers, and were nominated in spite of the bosses or machines and not with their coÖperation. The Republicans, on the other hand, have perfected to a greater degree the machine control of their party, and for many years their senatorial oligarchy has controlled the party machinery.

At the convention that nominated McKinley this machinery worked perfectly, and Mark Hanna, afterward senator from Ohio, was at the throttle. When, however, McKinley died at the hand of an assassin, in Buffalo, the party leaders as well as the country’s leading business men were tremendously concerned lest Roosevelt should disregard their wishes. The man that the bosses had reluctantly named Vice-President had hurried down from the Adirondacks, but none of the oligarchs had been able to get a word with him. Leaving Buffalo, he got aboard a train for New York, en route to Washington; the leaders boarded the same train. A member of that group himself told me what followed.

The leaders agreed that Hanna should come to a personal understanding with the new President. They went to Roosevelt, who welcomed the idea of the interview.

“I should be de-lighted to have him lunch with me here,” said Roosevelt.

The table was laid in the drawing-room, and as Hanna entered Roosevelt held out both his hands.

“Now, old man,” he said, “let’s be friends.”

Hanna did not take the proffered hands.

“On two conditions,” he stipulated.

“State them,” said Roosevelt.

“First,” said the Senator, “we expect you to carry out McKinley’s policies for the rest of his unexpired term.”

Roosevelt nodded. “I’ll do that, of course. What is your other condition?”

“It’s this,” said the Senator, “never call me ‘old man’ again.”

Then he shook hands. He did more; on his part he promised that if Roosevelt kept his word, and if he retained McKinley’s cabinet and other appointments, he would have Hanna’s support at the next National Convention.

It was a compact that neither man forgot. Before many months were over rumour reported a conspiracy on Hanna’s part and Roosevelt unhesitatingly repeated this to him.

“You are carrying out your part of the bargain,” said the Senator, “as long as you continue to do so, I’ll carry out mine.”

When Hanna died, the machine that he had controlled fell for a time into disuse and Roosevelt, taking advantage of the temporary absence of a machine-bred leader, assumed leadership, not as the head of the old machine, but by virtue of his position as President. He did not recognize the machine leaders of the various states, nor did they stand behind him, but he used his power to name Taft as his successor.

Chief Justice Taft has himself described to me how Roosevelt coached him for the fight. When he called at the White House, the President asked him:

“Now, then, what are you doing about your campaign?”

“I’ve prepared some speeches,” Taft answered.

“What are they about?”

“Well, I’m just back from the Philippines. I understand them, and thought I’d talk mostly about them.”

Roosevelt threw up his hands. “What in the world are you thinking of? You cannot interest the American public at election-time in the Philippines.”

“If you don’t think they’ll want to hear about the Philippines, what do you suggest they would like to hear about?”

“My currency measures,” said the President. “Talk to them about my currency measures. That’s what they’re interested in.”

So the candidate disregarded what he had written and composed a new set of speeches expounding Roosevelt’s ideas on the currency.

Nevertheless, Taft, as history soon demonstrated, did not recognize the Colonel as his boss. He undoubtedly felt sincere friendship for Roosevelt and was grateful to him, but he had a still stronger appreciation of the responsibilities of his office. Consequently, there soon came about a conflict between Roosevelt’s adherents and Taft’s, in which the machine leaders, having got together the pieces of the broken Hanna oligarchy, aligned themselves with the new President.

What followed is still fresh in the memory of most of us. Senator Penrose, of Pennsylvania, gradually assumed leadership of the national machine; the Senate oligarchy was again in control of the Republican Party. Assured in 1912 that if Roosevelt reËntered the White House he would construct an organization that would be the death of theirs, they fought the most desperate of all fights—the fight for self-preservation. They triumphed; the Colonel resented his defeat and bolted the Party. It is one of the absolute principles of machine politics that the welfare of the machine comes before everything else. It is not necessary to be in office; a boss is often stronger when in opposition, with fewer followers discontented through failure to receive a portion of the spoils of victory; better keep the machine intact and court defeat than win a national election for a party candidate that the machine cannot control. These were the maxims that were applied by both of the rival organizations within the Republican fold—the “regular” Republicans and the Progressives—in 1912; together they polled over 7,600,000 as against the 6,293,000 Democratic ballots; but each considered its organization more important than its candidate. The world can, I think, be grateful: the result was Wilson.

From 1912 onward the Republican senatorial oligarchy mended its fences and repaired its machine. With Penrose for the directing mind, this group included Lodge, Knox, Brandegee, Frelinghuysen, Watson of Indiana, Moses, Spencer, Hale, and Wadsworth. Some of these were bosses in their own states; all were influential with their state bosses. Roosevelt they could not ignore, but, when he died, in 1919, they were left absolutely free-handed, and their National Chairman, Will H. Hays, originally a man of Progressive tendencies, had successfully employed his great talents as an organizer in healing the wounds of the internecine struggle of 1912. They nominated Senator Harding, and he was elected.

What has occurred since is important in this connection only as a side-light on my general contention. President Harding knew the senatorial ramifications from within; he understood the conflict of personal ambitions that, human nature being what it is, went on behind the general community of interest in the Senate group. His position was strengthened by the long illness and subsequent death of Penrose and he could, and did, manipulate these personal ambitions, playing one against the other until he secured a practical stalemate. By this evolution of events President Harding has been relieved of the odium of being controlled by a senatorial oligarchy.

If I have elaborated my observations at some length, it is to show why I am a foe to machine politics. This evil, which can reach as high as Washington, has its roots in the city election precinct. The district leader holds his power either through dispensing minor patronage or by influence with magistrates and political clubs, and, to do this, he must retain the favour of the city boss. This gives the latter a thoroughly organized army that includes even a quasi spy system, and at the same time confers a power unshakeable by anything short of an overt criminal act. Personal criticism of the boss, ostracizing him from the better sort of society, does not help matters, does not harm him. He is content with holding what he has won; the thing to be attacked is not the individual; it is the system, and, in combating that, the serious and practically unchangeable difficulty consists in the fact that very few, if any, self-respecting, high-class men will submit to being bossed. They will not take orders from Crokers or Penroses, Hannas or Murphys; therefore, they enter fields where the final arbiters, the men who have to decide upon their worth and promotion, are of a different calibre, and where the reward for their efforts and work is not dependent upon the whims and fancies of a political boss.