The Definitive FDR

by James Macgregor Burns

  Then came a blow. Chanler, it seemed, had no intention of giving up his assembly post. Elected lieutenant governor in 1906, and unsuccessful Democratic candidate for governor in 1908, he was not ready to quit the political arena. In vain Roosevelt took Chanler out to dinner and urged him to run for state senator. Embracing several agricultural counties, the senatorial district was traditionally Republican. Only once since 1856 had the Democrats won the district, and that occasion had been a three-cornered contest. Chanler would not take the risk.

  What was Roosevelt to do? His alternatives were to try for state senator himself or to back out altogether. He hesitated to take on what seemed a hopeless contest. On the other hand, his enthusiasm was now pushing him on. Even an unsuccessful campaign would be good political experience, and it might put him in line for the assembly seat whenever Chanler gave it up. The district, moreover, was not hopelessly Republican; Senator John F. Schlosser, the incumbent, had won in 1908 only by 18,366 to 16,294. The party leaders pressed him; they “told me it was my duty to accept,” Roosevelt said shortly afterward, “and thinking it over for twenty-four hours, I felt inclined to agree with them in as much as there was such a dearth of material.”

  Once Roosevelt had made up his mind, the party leaders managed things easily. They gave him formal standing in the party by appointing him a delegate to the senatorial district convention that was to nominate him. They steered his nomination through without difficulty. Roosevelt benefited from the ease with which the leadership could control the convention; if the state senatorial nominee had been chosen in party primaries in those days as he is today, some zealous young attorney looking for publicity or law business might have run against Roosevelt and damaged his chances in the election. But no one did.

  “As you know,” said Roosevelt in his acceptance speech, “I accept this nomination with absolute independence. I am pledged to no man; I am influenced by no special interests, and so I shall remain.” He pledged himself to the cause of good government and asked the aid of “independent thinking voters.”

  Then he struck a T.R. note. “We are going to have a very strenuous month,” he said.

  A strenuous month it was. More important, it was a highly successful one. By design or by chance Roosevelt fashioned precisely the correct strategy for his district in the light of the national and state situations.

  By late 1910 deep fissures were cleaving the Republican party. The stewing and simmering of the past decade, brought to a boil by muckrakers and rabble rousers, had aroused passions too strong for the easygoing man in the White House to subdue or divert. President Taft had signed a high tariff bill, had allowed most of Theodore Roosevelt’s cabinet to resign and had appointed more conservative men, and had generally lined up with the Republican Old Guard in Congress. Lost from sight was Taft’s progressive side, his sober trust busting, his conservation program. The people wanted a man who looked like a reformer. “There is no use trying to be William Howard Taft with Roosevelt’s ways …” the President said wistfully. T.R. was back from Africa, not yet fifty-two, and jobless. Republican insurgents in Congress had disarmed Speaker Joseph G. Cannon and were training their guns on the portly figure in the White House.

  The national situation was reflected in New York State. Farmers and dairymen were disturbed by the tariff, which seemed to raise the cost of overalls, gingham, and hardware but not the price they got for milk. The Old Guard in the state was led by a group of bosses whose reputation was little better than Tammany’s. In an open onslaught against the conservatives in his party, Theodore Roosevelt, still powerful in the state, picked Henry L. Stimson as the Republican candidate for governor; the issue, said T.R., was “bossism,” control of the party by Old Guard leaders. This situation played directly into Franklin Roosevelt’s hands. Ordinarily, an upstate Democratic candidate had to answer charges of Tammany control of his party. Now Roosevelt could point to bossism in the opposition party, and cite his Republican cousin to prove his case. Even better, young Roosevelt had a convenient target in his own district—a local Republican boss who had been called by the noted Republican leader Elihu Root “a stench in the nostrils of the people” of New York.

  Otherwise the district presented formidable difficulties. The farmers—dairymen, poultrymen, and fruit and vegetable raisers—were unhappy over bossism and corruption but at the same time they were orthodox Republicans. Most of the press was stoutly Republican. Senator Schlosser, a candidate for re-election, was a man of substance and reputation. Born in Poughkeepsie and a graduate of Union, he had opened a law office in Fishkill Landing and steadily climbed the political ladder. His extensive activity in local volunteer firemen’s associations had given him strategic contacts in every locality. But he had one crucial weak point. In his two terms in the senate he had generally lined up with the Old Guard.

  Faced with this situation, Roosevelt decided to make bossism versus clean government the issue. It was easy for him to do this; he was equipped to do little else. At Groton and Harvard, politics had been pictured for him as a battleground of good men against bad. Clean government rather than progressive government had been the battle cry of his father and other Cleveland Democrats. What could be more natural than to pitch his campaign on this note? To be sure, Roosevelt exploited the Republican cleavage between standpatters and progressives. But even though this was 1910, progressivism was not the issue on which the young politician based his campaign.

  Quite the contrary. Roosevelt’s essential strategy was to blur over the progressive-conservative split and to direct his appeals as much to Republicans and independents as to Democrats. This nonpartisan strategy took these forms:

  He denounced Democratic and Republican bosses with equal fervor.

  He talked in generalities, avoiding specifics that might leave him in a partisan posture.

  He virtually ignored the state Democratic ticket and party record.

  He played up his relationship with Uncle Ted. “I’m not Teddy,” he started off at one meeting. “A little shaver said to me the other day that he knew I wasn’t Teddy—I asked him ‘why’ and he replied: ‘Because you don’t show your teeth.’ ”

  He shunned national issues that might split the voters along party lines. “I have personally never been able to see that the National politics of a candidate for a State or local office makes very much difference,” he wrote later to a Republican.

  He allied himself with “good” Republicans. After Roosevelt had denounced Schlosser for blocking the reform measures of Charles Evans Hughes, Republican governor of New York at this time, Roosevelt was asked if he favored Hughes’s policies. “You bet I do,” he shot back.

  This strategy was pointless, however, unless Roosevelt solved the basic problem facing all campaigners—getting through to the people, establishing contact with them. He began with the handicap of not being well known even in his home town of Hyde Park. To cover his huge, 25,000-square-mile district by horse and buggy would be hopeless. He met the problem head on in Rooseveltian fashion. There was only one automobile in the area—a big red Maxwell, with shining brass lamps but lacking windshield or top. This Roosevelt hired and decorated with flags and bunting. Cars at the time were unpredictable and they scared farmers’ horses, but the Maxwell covered much of the area at twenty-five miles an hour and attracted a good deal of attention. So successful was this method that a charge by Representative Hamilton Fish (father of Roosevelt’s New Deal opponent) that Roosevelt was not even a bona fide resident of the district fell rather flat.

  Roosevelt was not yet an orator. “He spoke slowly,” his wife remembered later, “and every now and then there would be a long pause, and I would be worried for fear he would never go on.” But he quickly picked up political gimmicks. He remembered to speak a good word for the particular town he was in. He learned quickly to adapt his arguments to his audience. Like a good salesman he brought up his own candidacy only after establishing a bond between his audience and himself on other matters.
Already he was using the phrase “my friends.” Sometimes there were traces of the oratorical techniques to come, such as his use of the repetitive phrase when he said that he did not know whether Schlosser (Roosevelt had not yet learned the importance of ignoring his opponent’s name) represented the local boss or represented only Schlosser, but “I do know that he hasn’t represented me and I do know that he hasn’t represented you.” In general, however, his speeches were earnest and plain spoken rather than eloquent.

  Actually, not platform oratory but talking with people face to face was the main job in a local campaign. Talk Roosevelt did—to teamsters passing on the road, to men idling in stores, to farmers picking apples and husking corn. Roosevelt was on the road long hours every day. “I think I worked harder with him than I ever have in my life,” said a companion many years later. As he campaigned the quick smile and handshake became automatic. “Call me Franklin—I’m going to call you Tom,” he said to an astonished house painter. Touring with experienced Democratic politicians who knew voters by name in every locality helped Roosevelt considerably; despite his nonpartisanship he leaned heavily on his Democratic fellow candidates, who knew hundreds of voters in the district. It was no one-man campaign.

  The opposition at the beginning made the fatal mistake of discounting the twenty-eight-year-old candidate’s chances. A Republican newspaper doubted that Schlosser would be “greatly disturbed.” Too late the Republicans sensed the drift of affairs. At the last minute an opposition newspaper played up Roosevelt’s connection with a New York firm of lawyers “for some of the great trusts which are being prosecuted by President Taft’s administration.…” This was a clumsy move, for it simply strengthened Roosevelt’s position with Republicans as a Democrat not tainted with Bryanism.

  Roosevelt gave his final talk in Hyde Park. After paying tribute to his home town, he expressed his wish to follow in his father’s footsteps by keeping in close touch with Hyde Park affairs. He denounced Schlosser once more for being “a member of that little ring of Republican politicians who have done so much to prevent progress and good government.” The issues remained the same—honesty and economy in the state government.

  Election Day in November 1910 was cold and wet. The returns came in slowly, but the trend soon became clear. Roosevelt defeated Schlosser 15,708 to 14,568, a plurality of 1,140. He won Hyde Park by 406 to 258, Dutchess County by a margin of 850, Columbia County by 469, and lost Putnam County by 179. His victory was part of a national trend. Democrats won almost three-fifths of the seats in the national House of Representatives, the governorship and both houses of the legislature in New York. Woodrow Wilson won in New Jersey. Tally sheets across the nation showed the results of a decade of protest: a tidal wave against Taft, a trend toward the Democrats.

  Was Roosevelt merely a chip on this wave? Certainly to some extent. But his victory cannot be explained simply in terms of a lucky year. He ran in his district nearly 700 votes ahead of John A. Dix, the Democratic candidate for governor. To be sure, Dix’s opponent, Henry L. Stimson, was more formidable than Schlosser, but Roosevelt also ran generally ahead of the Democratic candidates for assembly in his district. An important reason for this margin was his nonpartisan strategy, which had clearly paid off. It seems likely that Roosevelt would have won by a thin majority in any “average” year.

  But the senator-elect probably spent little time on such speculation. It was enough that he had won. He rented a large, expensive house in Albany, conveniently near the capitol. At the end of the year 1910 he moved there with his wife and family. For a young man not yet twenty-nine, he had a large establishment. Following his first child, Anna, two sons had been born: James in December 1907 and Elliott in September 1910. There was the usual retinue of nurses and servants. Eleanor was still weighted down with family worries: James had a heart murmur and had to be carried up steps; she had a wet nurse for the infant Elliott, and she went through agonies of fear that the wet nurse’s own baby would suffer when the mother went with the Roosevelts to Albany. Her husband was sympathetic toward her difficulties, but he was mainly absorbed in the job that lay ahead. On the threshold of his political career, the state senator-elect looked forward to his new role with high hopes and excitement.

  THE COLLEGE KID AND THE TAMMANY BEAST

  There is a story, perhaps true, that Big Tim Sullivan, lounging in an Albany hotel with another Tammany boss early in January 1911, watched a tall young man stride across the lobby. To some at this time Roosevelt, with his spare figure and lean face, gold bowed spectacles and frock coat, looked like a student of divinity. Others noted his well-modeled features, lithe figure, and slightly curling hair—enough to “set the matinee girl’s heart throbbing with subtle and happy emotion,” one reporter said. But to Big Tim that day he looked like a cocky, bumptious “college kid,” still wet behind the ears.

  First published sketch of Roosevelt, Jan. 19, 1911, J. Norman Lynd, New York Herald, © New York Sun, Inc.

  So that was Roosevelt? “You know these Roosevelts,” Big Tim growled. “This fellow is still young. Wouldn’t it be safer to drown him before he grows up?”

  Within a few weeks Big Tim must have wished that he had followed his own advice. The young politician who had assailed boss-ism in his campaign was to seize a superb opportunity to lead a pitched fight against Tammany before he hardly had time to warm his senatorial chair.

  At this time United States senators from New York were chosen not directly by the voters but by the state assembly and senate meeting in joint session. The Democrats had won control of both houses in the 1910 election; if they stuck together they could name the next senator. When Roosevelt first arrived in Albany the field seemed open and a number of candidates were lining up support in the legislature. Suddenly the whole situation changed. Charles F. Murphy, boss of Tammany, passed the word down that the Democrats’ man would be William F. Sheehan. “Blue-eyed Billy,” as he was called, did not represent the worst of Tammany, but not the best either. Originally a Buffalo politician, he had savagely fought the rising Grover Cleveland. Later he had won riches and influence in New York City as a traction and utilities magnate. Now he yearned for a place in the Senate—the “most exclusive club in the world”—to bring his career to a grand finale.

  Everything about the case—Sheehan’s early opposition to Cleveland, his later record, Boss Murphy’s easy assumption that the Democrats would fall in line, Tammany’s influence in general—was calculated to goad the young senator into action. Besides, an excellent “honest government” candidate was available in Edward M. Shepard of Brooklyn, counsel for the Pennsylvania Railroad and a civic leader. “Shepard is without question the most competent to fill the position,” Roosevelt wrote in his diary on January 1, “but the Tammany crowd seems unable to forgive him his occasional independence and Sheehan looks like their choice at this stage of the game. May the result prove that I am wrong! There is no question in my mind that the Democratic party is on trial, and having been given control of the government chiefly through up-State votes, cannot afford to surrender its control to the organization in New York City.”

  Tammany showed its power at the first Democratic caucus that Roosevelt attended. Senator Tom Grady, leader of the Democrats in the senate, was occasionally given to independence and to alcohol. In the caucus Murphy easily deposed him. Roosevelt was pleased with the development. Grady’s ability was unquestioned, he noted loftily in his diary, but “not so his habits or his character.” Indeed, if Tammany had not ditched Grady, Roosevelt might have bolted the party then and there. Robert F. Wagner, a steady young senator from Manhattan’s upper East Side, took Grady’s place. Alfred E. Smith, another young Tammanyite, who in seven terms of office had shown himself a dexterous, trigger-swift legislator, became majority leader in the assembly. The method of party control was simple. The Democrats commanded a majority in each chamber. Tammany commanded a majority of the Democrats. Thus, if all went according to party custom, a minority of Tammanyites could
control the whole legislature, including the election of a United States senator.

  During early January rumblings of opposition to Sheehan reached Murphy’s ears. His response was in character: no patronage or committee appointments would be given out until the Democrats toed the line. This was too much for a small group of assemblymen led by Edmund R. Terry of Brooklyn. They decided to boycott the caucus in order not to be bound by the caucus decision; by joining with the Republicans they could deny Tammany the necessary votes for Sheehan’s election.

  Roosevelt got wind of this development and immediately joined the rebel group. On the night of January 16, while most of the Democrats went to their caucus to choose Sheehan, Roosevelt and Terry met in their headquarters. Both were nervous. Murphy was bringing pressure on the rebels, and Governor Dix was standing by the Tammany boss. Slowly the rest of the Insurgents, as they were called, arrived, and it became clear that the Democratic caucus could not command enough votes to put Sheehan over. Hopefully the rebels waited for a truce offer from Tammany, but none came. Murphy had only begun to fight.

  Schooled in the politics of the Gas House district of New York City, Murphy had fought his way up through the Tammany hierarchy with his fists and wits. A big, glum, taciturn man who liked to receive his satraps at Delmonico’s, he was used to rebellions and he knew how to handle them. His moves against the Insurgents were ingenious and ruthless. From Boss William Barnes, who was delighted at the rupture in Democratic ranks, he got a promise that the Republicans would stand firm for their own man, incumbent Senator Chauncey M. Depew, until Murphy could overcome the rebels. He lined up state committeemen in the Insurgents’ districts to exert pressure on their most vulnerable flank: the next election. Insurgents’ appointees in government jobs were fired, their law firms boycotted, and other reprisals were threatened. Finally—and most harassing of all—Tammany whispered that the attack on Sheehan was simply an attack on Catholics and Irishmen. “Every conceivable form of pressure” had been brought to bear on the group, Roosevelt told the press with some exaggeration.