President McKinley

by Robert W. Merry

  As the convention’s first day approached, the only anticipated drama centered on credentials, the vice presidential selection, and the response of Western silver men when the gold plank was ratified by delegates. Beyond that, the proceedings had the appearance of a coronation—hardly dramatic but satisfying to party men who liked the idea of a united GOP heading into the general election.

  This was apparent as the National Committee set about resolving credential disputes prior to the first gavel. By June 12 the committee had acted on seventy-two disputed delegates and settled sixty-two in McKinley’s favor. This stirred the irascible Platt to declare that, if the committee seated twelve anti-Platt delegates claiming convention slots from New York, he would bolt with his remaining delegates. “This is a riot of excess,” declared Platt, “and must be stopped.”

  Hanna, suspecting a bluff, laughed it off. “I cannot sacrifice old friends in order to conciliate old enemies,” he said. That response emboldened New York’s pro-McKinley forces to challenge Platt at a preconvention delegation meeting, where McKinley ended up with seventeen New York delegates to Morton’s fifty-five. The Credentials Committee signified its McKinley devotion by approving the credentialing actions of the National Committee, and Platt promptly announced that he wouldn’t bolt the convention after all.

  Throughout the morning of June 16, the great Convention Auditorium in downtown St. Louis came to life as delegates, party notables, and guests made their way into the hall and mingled as the convention’s noon starting time approached. Erected at a cost of $70,000 specifically for the convention, it was slated for demolition by October 1. Built of wood, its exterior covered with what one newspaper described as “a compound of dirty gray plaster,” the structure was designed to hold some 14,000 bent-cane chairs, including 924 for delegates directly in front of the speaker’s stand. The place was festooned with red, white, and blue bunting, and huge paintings of party luminaries graced the walls: Abraham Lincoln above the speaker’s platform and Civil War notables Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Farragut, and Meade situated prominently around the vast hall.

  At 12:20, after some difficulty getting silence, party chairman Thomas Carter gaveled the eleventh Republican National Convention to order and led it through routine business before introducing temporary chairman Charles Fairbanks of Indiana. Delivering the keynote address, Fairbanks lauded “honest currency laws,” castigated Democrats for lowering McKinley tariff levels during the Cleveland years, and warned of the “evil effects” of free silver coinage. His words were greeted warmly but without enthusiasm. Indeed the lack of buoyancy among delegates stirred Hanna to declare, “There will be enthusiasm in the convention tomorrow if I have to hire every ‘rooter’ in St. Louis.”

  The next day Hanna had reason for enthusiasm when a procedural vote tested McKinley’s convention strength against that of his opponents. The governor pulled 5681/2 votes to only 3391/2 for the combined opposition, which signified the governor likely would have a hundred delegates to spare on his way to the nomination two days hence.

  That same day a poignant scene unfolded in the Resolutions Committee after it approved the McKinley gold plank on a 40–11 vote. A collection of Western delegates rose to announce they couldn’t accept the policy and would leave the convention if the gold plank prevailed on the floor. They were led by Henry Teller of Colorado, a Republican since Lincoln’s day, a twenty-year Senate veteran, and a man of immense national stature. Joining him were young senator Fred Dubois of Idaho; senator Frank Cannon of Utah, known as the “Utah Maverick”; and representative Charles Hartman of Montana. They presented a series of resolutions that would be distilled into a substitute free-silver plank for convention-floor consideration.

  Senator Lodge spoke for many on the gold side when he praised the silver men in tender words, suggesting he felt something approaching personal bereavement at the possible loss of such valued party colleagues. But there wasn’t much the majority could do, insisted Lodge, except let their errant colleagues depart in peace and sympathy as the majority worked its will through the normal processes of deliberation.

  Resolutions Committee chairman Foraker presented the platform to the convention the next morning and received a raucous ovation when he came to the gold plank. Upon completion of his presentation, all eyes turned to Teller, a gaunt figure with a long face accentuated by a high forehead and white beard. As the clerk read the substitute plank, he stood dispassionately, his hair the color of the metal he cherished, the weight of his sixty-six years visible in his stooped shoulders. Then he stepped to the podium amid hearty cheers of respect even from those who vehemently disagreed with him. He drew a long, deep breath, stood silent for a moment, then spoke in a halting voice, almost whispering. Slowly his intonation gained timbre as he ascended to a passionate delivery that lasted nearly forty minutes. There was hardly a fidget among the 12,000 or so attendees.

  He could not depart the party he had loved so well, said Teller, “without heart burnings and a feeling that no man can appreciate who has not endured it. And yet I cannot, before my country and my God, agree to that provision that shall put upon this country a gold standard.” Tears were seen in the eyes of some Western delegates as Teller added that he and his silver colleagues “take this step, not in anger, not in pique, not because we dislike the nominee . . . but because our consciences require as honest men that we should make this sacrifice.”

  Teller then watched as delegates voted on his substitute plank—and downed it 1051/2 to 8181/2. When Utah’s wavy-haired Senator Cannon later addressed the assemblage, he made the mistake of attacking Republicans as “once the redeemer of the people, but now about to become their oppressor.” Instantly the kindliness of the crowd evaporated. Hisses and cries of “Go! Go!” swept the floor. Sufficient order was restored for Cannon to finish, and then with a heavy countenance Teller led his flock out of the hall and the Republican Party, some twenty-five men walking single-file like a procession of ducks, including the entire Colorado, Nevada, and Idaho delegations. Tears welled up in many eyes, including Teller’s. It was all high drama but not particularly significant in political terms. As the Washington Post opined, “Had it not been for the personality and prominence of Senator Teller, it is doubtful whether the occurrence of the much-advertised bolt would have produced more than a minimum sensation.”

  Back in Canton, McKinley was awakened by an early-morning phone call from Hanna, who delivered a forecast of the day’s events and plenty of optimism. McKinley quickly shaved and dressed, then descended the stairs to his office, humming the Scottish air “Bannockburn.” He displayed a buoyant mood throughout the day as streams of relatives, neighbors, and reporters passed through the house, to be flooded with the governor’s favorite stories from past conventions. He delivered a brief tutorial to his nieces on the nomination process, and when his mother arrived with sisters Helen and Sarah, he jumped up from his front-porch seat to greet them enthusiastically.

  Lunch was served around two, and Ida sat next to the Cincinnati newspaperman and close family friend Murat Halstead, who detected a certain “pensive” element in her mood. After listening to her digressions, Halstead concluded she was ambivalent about “the Presidential business,” as he wrote later. “Of course, she wants her husband to win now, but she would rather he had not been drawn into the stream of events that is bearing him on to higher destinies, for the tendency of the great office will be to absorb the Major’s attention, so that she can hardly, however great his devotion, have all the time in his society she would fondly claim.”

  When a congratulatory telegram arrived that made reference to two passages of Scripture, one of the luncheon guests suggested a Bible be brought in so they could scrutinize the citation. When one gentleman at the table suggested jocularly that the Major likely didn’t have time to acquaint himself with the book’s inside, Ida flashed her displeasure: “He does, indeed, know the inside of his Bible—no man better, I assure you, and I speak that which I do know.”
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  It was thought that the nominating speeches and roll calls would begin late and go into the night, but shortly after lunch word arrived via long-distance telephone and wire services that the nominating speeches were about to begin. The Major seated himself in a heavy armchair next to his desk, pad and pen in hand, and took up the telephone receiver that an assistant had dialed in to the convention hall. From that location he followed every word and vote for the next several hours.

  Across the hall, Ida and a number of other women, friends and relatives, awaited news from the governor’s study. At one point McKinley left his post, walked across to the parlor, and asked in a jocular tone, “Are you young ladies getting anxious about this affair?” When they said yes, the Major assured them all would be well, then returned to his big chair. At 3:21, when Foraker pronounced the name of William McKinley during his nominating speech, the auditorium erupted in a “veritable Niagara” of wild cheers and yells that lasted nearly half an hour. Listening on McKinley’s office telephone, it “was like a storm at sea, with wild, fitful shrieks of wind,” Halstead recalled later. When order finally was restored, the deft orator Foraker said with a sly tone, “You seem to have heard of him before.” That rekindled the torrent of applause.

  Later, when someone sought a reading on how long the Quay demonstration lasted in comparison to McKinley’s, the always even-handed governor cut him off. “No, no!” he said. “Do not ask that question.”

  The room fell silent when the roll call began, the only sound some low, absent-minded humming and whistling on the part of the Major. Then were heard the words “Alabama, eighteen for McKinley.” As the process continued, it took on a herky-jerky quality as vote challenges followed some roll-call responses, delaying the proceedings. But the Major sat patiently, with hardly a change in countenance, and recorded results on his pad as the votes came in. When Ohio’s forty-six votes were recorded for McKinley, he passed beyond the needed 447, and the nomination was his. He got up from his chair, walked across the hall to the waiting ladies, and informed them of the result. Bending down to his seated wife and mother, he kissed each in turn as the younger woman beamed her pleasure and the older one whispered a motherly sentiment in his ear.

  Immediately the whole of Canton went “stark, gloriously mad,” as Halstead put it. The big alarm gong at city hall rang out the news, and some 15,000 happy citizens formed up in front of the courthouse for the prearranged parade, led by three companies of militia. With bands playing and drums sounding, the throng marched up North Market Street toward the McKinley home. Even before it could get there, the streets became a panorama of flags, festoons, and decorations of all kinds. The parade group, joined by thousands of others, made its way to the McKinley front lawn, eager for a speech. To thunderous cheers, the governor stepped to the porch and expressed his feelings with his usual subdued graciousness. “There is nothing more gratifying or honorable to any man than to have the regard and esteem of his fellow-townsmen,” he said, “and in this I have been peculiarly blessed.”

  Back in St. Louis, the balloting continued, with McKinley getting a final total of 6611/2 votes, to 841/2 for Reed, 611/2 for Quay, and 58 for Morton. Then weary delegates faced the task of selecting a vice presidential running mate who could balance the ticket and give it added luster. It seemed that those who wanted the job weren’t entirely acceptable to the McKinley camp, while those considered acceptable didn’t want it. The obvious candidate was Reed, who had emerged as a national force and a master politician, if perhaps a bit cynical for some. But Reed absolutely disavowed any interest. “Under no circumstances,” his man, Joseph Manley, told reporters. “You cannot make that too emphatic.” Kentucky’s governor Bradley, yearning for the nod, didn’t pass muster at McKinley headquarters, and Hanna certainly wouldn’t reward Platt by accepting New York’s Morton. Besides, that would slam the anti-Platt forces who had clustered so faithfully around McKinley.

  An unlikely choice, but McKinley’s, was Garret Hobart of New Jersey, longtime state legislator, party official at both the state and national levels, and successful businessman in banking and railroads. McKinley genuinely liked the man, but he liked also that Hobart could represent the crucial Northeast without being involved in any internecine party squabbles such as those that festered in New York and Pennsylvania. Given that he hadn’t risen to the upper levels of politics, his emergence was a surprise to some convention people. But it wasn’t a surprise to Hobart. “I knew from the first,” he told reporters shortly after the convention, “that my nomination was certain.” Once again McKinley and Hanna got what they wanted.

  — 9 —

  The Victor

  SOUND MONEY, PROTECTIONISM, AND PATRIOTISM

  By the time McKinley captured the Republican nomination, young Charles Dawes felt certain he knew who would become the Democrats’ standard bearer. The governor’s opponent, he told McKinley and Hanna, would be Nebraska’s William Jennings Bryan, the “boy orator of the Platte,” as he was known, just thirty-six years old, a former two-term congressman and now a $30-a-week political commentator for the Omaha World Herald. But there was a proviso: Dawes’s prediction would hold, he said, only if the silver-tongued Bryan could get himself to the rostrum for a major speech at the Democrats’ Chicago convention in July. Even with the proviso, it was an audacious prediction.

  To McKinley and Hanna, wizened veterans of political wars, it was more than audacious. It was so preposterous as to become a running joke among the three congenial friends.

  “It will be Dick Bland,” growled Hanna whenever Dawes ventured his prediction. McKinley, who considered Richard Parks Bland of Missouri a personal friend, agreed the likely winner would be the ten-term House veteran who had lost his seat two years earlier in the Democratic debacle. A serious-minded farmer widely appreciated for his quiet but immutable convictions, Bland was known affectionately as “Silver Dick” in honor of his lifelong fealty to free silver.

  There was a certain logic in the Bland prediction because it reflected a judgment that the Democratic Party was about to be conquered by the free-silver fervor sweeping the South and West. Many leading “Gold Democrats,” including President Cleveland, believed it was still possible for their party’s “stable currency” elements to prevail over the silver agitators at the Chicago convention. But McKinley, Hanna, and Dawes knew otherwise.

  Nothing captured this reality more starkly than the fate of John Carlisle, Cleveland’s distinguished-looking Treasury secretary, when he announced his candidacy for the Democratic nomination as a “sound money” man backed by Cleveland and his cabinet. Carlisle’s name went forward on March 16. Two days later the press quoted numerous political professionals saying Carlisle couldn’t carry a single Southern delegation, much less the convention. A prominent Northern party man said the Treasury secretary “would be the weakest nominee whom the Democrats could name.” On April 5, Carlisle quietly departed the race.

  But Bland faced opposition from other silver advocates, including former Iowa governor Horace Boies, a handsome, white-haired populist and ex-Republican. Former Massachusetts governor William Eustis Russell wanted the nod, although his party’s state convention in Boston hadn’t demonstrated much enthusiasm for him. Ohio Democrats put forth John R. McLean, owner and publisher of the Cincinnati Enquirer, a fiery free-silver paper. Some Democrats even suggested the party should turn to Colorado’s senator Henry Teller, now that he had bolted the GOP in St. Louis. Here and there could be heard a lonely voice for Bryan, though few considered him presidential timber. Clearly Bland seemed to have the most unobstructed path.

  But Dawes knew the full depth of Bryan’s oratorical flair. The two men had enjoyed a cordial friendship during their years together as young lawyers in Lincoln, Nebraska. They had gone to the same church, lived on the same street, worked in the same downtown building. They competed in the courtroom and at a discussion society called the Round Table. Bryan’s intemperance of thought struck Dawes as hopelessly naïve, even
dangerous, but he appreciated Bryan’s force of personality and soaring eloquence. If he could get to that podium, Dawes was convinced, Bryan would sweep the convention. He was no ordinary politician.

  The son of a Methodist father and a Baptist mother, the precocious Bryan rejected the religions of both parents at age fourteen and got himself baptized as a Presbyterian, thus demonstrating a streak of independence that would become familiar to the country. Reared in Illinois, where his father was a state circuit judge, he was home-schooled until age ten, weaned on the Bible and McGuffey’s Readers. He was graduated as valedictorian from Illinois College and earned a law degree at Chicago’s Union Law College. After his two House terms, he made an unsuccessful bid for the U.S. Senate from Nebraska, then accepted a position as a columnist for the free-silver Omaha World Herald in order to keep his name before Nebraska voters—and perhaps gain some national notice with his fiery commentary.

  At the Democrats’ Chicago convention, it didn’t take long for the party to sweep away the old establishment by embracing a platform that respectable Republicans, and even some Democrats, considered radical. It demanded the free and unlimited coinage of silver and gold at the ratio of 16 to 1, denounced the protective tariff, advocated governmental regulation of trusts and railroads, called for enlarged powers for the Interstate Commerce Commission, and blasted the Supreme Court’s ruling that a federal income tax was unconstitutional. The aroused delegates even rejected a motion to commend the presidential service of Grover Cleveland, the only Democratic president since James Buchanan’s pre–Civil War tenure.