The turbulence in Cripple Creek eventually subsided, though many of the deported miners never returned. In Telluride, the strike ended when the mine owners finally agreed to an eight-hour day. Governor Peabody was forced out of office, and the state legislature passed a state law limiting working hours for dangerous occupations, including work in mines, smelters, and reduction mills.
AS THE REPUBLICAN NATIONAL CONVENTION opened in Chicago on June 21, 1904, Roosevelt was confident that, “barring a cataclysm,” he would secure the nomination. The old bosses who still controlled the delegations might engage in “a great deal of sullen grumbling,” but their hope of mounting a successful opposition had died with Marcus Hanna. Rather than “the thunderous demonstration usually attendant upon political conventions,” newspapers described “a lifeless gathering,” a “sober and unhysterical” affair. An enormous portrait of Hanna had been positioned above the speaker’s platform and the first mention of the former chairman’s name provoked a wild outburst. Although the majority of the delegates would be voting for Roosevelt, they made it clear from the outset that they supported him “because they had to.” Had there been a “shadow of the chance” that any member of the conservative Old Guard could win the presidency, the majority would have “embraced it gladly.”
More than any other writer covering the convention, William Allen White perceived the significance of the Republicans’ peevish mood. Despite the empty seats, lack of enthusiasm, and “mechanical” twenty-minute cheer when Roosevelt’s name was put into nomination, White nevertheless concluded that the convention was the “most successful gathering” in more than a generation. He recognized that “the puppet show” in Chicago was not an accurate reflection of national sentiment: the American people were exerting their will—and the people wanted Roosevelt. “It makes little difference whether the politicians cheered for Roosevelt twenty-three minutes or twenty-four hours,” White insisted. Politicians and political machines were “dangerous” only if the people remained passive, but let a reformer like Roosevelt gain public confidence, and “the service of the politicians” would be at his command. “There is no boss so powerful that he can overcome the people.”
White believed that this spirit of rebellion, the push to realize “a better world,” was fueled by “a new element in political life”—the appearance of progressive newspapers and magazines urging the country to move forward. A decade earlier, men who called for a more equitable distribution of wealth were castigated as socialists or bomb-hurling anarchists. Now reformers were everywhere: small businessmen sought to regulate railroads, merchants demanded new laws to regulate the trusts, skilled laborers were striking for higher wages and shorter hours. All these agents of change, he concluded, now looked to Roosevelt “to speak and act for his times.”
The appointment of George Cortelyou to replace Mark Hanna as campaign manager and chairman of the Republican National Committee confirmed that the embattled party needed Roosevelt far “more than he needed the party.” A former newspaperman of modest background, Cortelyou had served as private secretary to Cleveland, McKinley, and Roosevelt before becoming head of the Department of Commerce and Labor. Roosevelt’s support for Cortelyou drew immediate opposition from “professional politicians,” who correctly sensed that they “were losing their grip of power.” With his reputation for honesty and dedication, Cortelyou represented a younger, forward-thinking generation that was “taking control of the party,” and conservatives “could not bear to abdicate without leaving a monumental growl behind them.” Roosevelt moved swiftly to quash the opposition. “People may as well understand that if I am to run for President then Cortelyou is to be Chairman,” he told a Massachusetts businessman and politician. “I will not have it any other way,” he stated with finality. “The choice of Cortelyou is irrevocable.” Delegates were left with no alternative but to ratify Roosevelt’s selection.
Roosevelt was less successful in dictating the Republican Party platform. While it largely mirrored the president’s public actions and statements on foreign policy, the Panama Canal, trusts, and labor, observers noted that it reflected a difference of opinion on the tariff. Roosevelt argued that failure to revise the tariff would put “a formidable weapon in the hands of our opponents,” yet the platform espoused the principle of protectionism as “a cardinal policy of the Republican party.” As Roosevelt predicted, the Democrats seized on the issue to proclaim that a Republican victory would herald “four years more of trust domination, of high prices to the consumer and of low prices to the producer.” Nevertheless, Roosevelt hesitated to push the issue, fearful that a tariff battle would pit westerners anxious for relief against the eastern industrial and financial establishment, thereby creating a disastrous schism in the party.
Nor did Roosevelt contest the selection of Indiana senator Charles Fairbanks as vice president. Although he far preferred Illinois congressman Robert Hitt, “of all men the pleasantest to work with,” he accepted the “cautious, slow, conservative” Fairbanks as a concession to the Old Guard. Since his own experience as vice president had convinced him that the office was essentially powerless, there was no need to take a stand. Paramount was winning his party’s presidential nomination.
Seated with his family on the south veranda of the White House, Roosevelt received news of his unanimous nomination. They had just finished lunch when his private secretary, William Loeb, brought the anticipated telegram. After “affectionate congratulations” from his wife and children, Roosevelt returned to his office, where members of the press, many of whom he considered “his personal friends,” had convened. The president was “in exceptionally good humor” as he handed out cigars, joking that the stern prohibitionist Carrie Nation would not approve. The AP reporter described the scene: “With genial raillery he chatted with one; exchanged comments on men or things with another; laughed heartily at a cartoon of himself to which his attention was drawn; sketched in a free-hand way incidents of the convention; recalled some interesting situations, personal and political; and in conclusion again thanked his friends for expressions of their congratulations.”
WHEN THE DEMOCRATS ASSEMBLED IN St. Louis two weeks later, the party’s conservative wing had clearly regained control. Though William Jennings Bryan remained the heartfelt choice of the rank and file, the professional politicians were starved for victory. After two consecutive defeats with Bryan, party leaders turned to a “gold Democrat,” Judge Alton B. Parker. Bryan’s repeated calls for using silver rather than gold as the standard unit of currency value had pleased western debtors who would benefit from inflation but had angered eastern creditors whose money would be devalued. Democratic bosses hoped Parker could both retain Bryan’s liberal base in the West and win back eastern conservatives who had broken with the party on the gold issue.
Covering the Democratic Convention for Collier’s, William Allen White portrayed Bryan as “the hero of the occasion, even though he did not triumph.” Though deafening yells and “epileptic spasms” greeted Bryan’s every appearance, the delegates had vowed not to let sentiment rule a third time. “They were like men who had been stark mad,” observed White, “and the fear of it coming back was in their hearts.” Bryan managed to keep the platform from endorsing gold, but the overwhelming vote for Parker’s nomination signaled that his “eight-year reign was over.” The platform roundly denounced trusts and protectionism as “robbery of the many to enrich the few,” demanded large reductions in public spending, decried executive usurpation of legislative functions, called for Philippine independence, and advocated direct election of U.S. senators.
The nomination voting was completed shortly before midnight on Friday, July 8. The reporters gathered in Parker’s hometown of Esopus, New York, were disappointed to learn that the judge had retired with orders that he not be awakened. As a result, the nominee was not apprised of his victory until returning from his regular morning swim in the Hudson River. Asked for a statement, Parker replied that he would wait until he
received official notification. The delay provided time for a shrewd strategic maneuver: at noon, he dictated a telegram to be read before the convention adjourned, informing delegates that he regarded “the gold standard as firmly and irrevocably established.” If his views on this issue “proved to be unsatisfactory to the majority,” he should feel it his duty “to decline the nomination.” The convention moved swiftly to adopt a resolution stating that the currency question did not appear in the platform simply because it was no longer “an issue at this time.” The gold standard would not be challenged, they assured Parker, leaving nothing to prevent him from accepting the nomination.
Parker’s move “was most adroit,” Roosevelt acknowledged. “He is entitled to hearty praise, from the standpoint of a clever politician,” the president observed, adding that the maneuver had gained for Parker “all of Cleveland’s strength without any of Cleveland’s weakness, and made him, on the whole, the most formidable man the Democrats could have nominated.” William Taft disagreed, predicting that the success of Parker’s machination would be short-lived, unlike the rift within the party it had perpetuated. He assured Roosevelt that Parker “was stronger the morning the telegram was published than he ever will be again.” Nevertheless, Roosevelt fretted that he now faced “a hard and uphill fight” in the general election.
According to his habit, Theodore Roosevelt sought to harness anxiety through action. He had begun crafting his acceptance speech immediately after his nomination, but now he turned to it with a vengeance, determined to sharpen its tone. “I always like to do my fighting in the adversary’s corner,” he told Lodge. The speech, delivered on July 27 from the sun-splashed veranda at Sagamore Hill, “was received with immense enthusiasm” by the assembled crowd. “It is just such a statement as we should expect Theodore Roosevelt to make,” the Minneapolis Journal editorialized: “terse, luminous, logical, convincing.” His defense of Republican policy, said another paper, was “characteristically forceful,” and his satirical commentary on the Democratic Party, noted Lodge, was “keen and polished as a Japanese sword blade.”
Parker’s acceptance speech had no such luster. Between bouts of heavy rain, the Democratic candidate held forth for forty minutes from the soaked lawn of his Esopus country home. Parker’s flat style and lack of oratorical experience were immediately apparent; he “used few gestures,” failed to distinguish his positions from Roosevelt’s, and mustered no “bugle call.” The most vigorous applause reportedly followed his closing declaration that, if elected, he would not run for a second term. Roosevelt was relieved that his rival’s “shifty and tricky” gambit had failed to “straddle” the factions within the Democratic Party. Perhaps, Roosevelt told Lodge, Taft’s assessment had been correct from the start.
Characteristically, Roosevelt began drafting his formal letter of acceptance weeks before its early September publication date, ensuring ample time for consultation with his advisers. Taft attended numerous breakfasts, lunches, and midnight discussions to dissect each section. “His opponents may attack the letter,” Taft told Nellie, “but they will not say it is lacking in snap or ginger.” Seeking a broad sounding board, Roosevelt also circulated drafts to Root, Lodge, Knox, Hay, Garfield, and the civil service reformer Lucius Swift—requesting merciless critiques. “I went at the letter hammer and tongs,” Swift told his wife, “and got in a good many points.”
Published on September 12, Roosevelt’s letter received widespread praise. “Remarkable,” the New York Times declared, “astonishingly able.” The Washington Post observed that he had constructed “a veritable keynote for the stump,” in which signal Republican objectives were championed with “enough spirit to arouse the partisan masses.” The letter’s strength, Taft told Roosevelt, was “the challenge contained in every line of it to the Democrats to be specific in their charges and to deal with facts.” He maintained that if Parker produced a letter of acceptance akin to his tepid speech it would be glaringly apparent just “how little real ammunition the Democrats have.”
The lackluster piece Taft anticipated from the Democratic candidate did not materialize. Parker’s 6,000-word letter presented a spirited attack against centralized government at home and imperialism abroad, along with a robust call for tariff reform and further trust regulation. Republicans frankly acknowledged that now “the issues of the campaign would be more squarely joined.” The New York Times deemed Parker’s letter “a great paper.” Though not designed to stir “the yells of crowds,” it would appeal “to men who think,” presenting “a first-rate test of the people.”
Roosevelt conceded that Parker had cleverly managed to engage disparate factions of his party, giving “heart to his supporters” and halting “the downward movement of his campaign.” At such moments, Roosevelt sorely longed to “take the offensive in person” and face his Democratic challenger on the stump. “I could cut him into ribbons if I could get at him in the open,” he wrote to Kermit. “But of course a President can’t go on the stump and can’t indulge in personalities.” His only option was to “sit still” and trust that his cabinet officials, traversing the country on his behalf, could make the case for his election.
GIVEN WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT’S MARKED aversion to preparing and delivering public speeches, he surprised even himself by emerging as the most sought-after speaker on the campaign trail. “It seems strange that with an effort to keep out of politics and with my real dislike for it, I should thus be pitched into the middle of it,” he told his close friend Howard Hollister. Yet, in letters to Nellie, he confided his irritation at the extent to which “mere political discussion” dominated cabinet meetings. “I suppose it is natural,” he lamented, “but it seems to me to be undignified.” Nevertheless, as the campaign heated up, he settled into his role as spokesman for the administration. “I rather think I am to do more work than any other member of the cabinet,” he noted with pride, “but I don’t object to that.”
Regardless of his engagement, Taft struggled with his inveterate tendency to procrastinate. Preparing for his first major speech during Harvard’s commencement, where he and former Democratic secretary of state Richard Olney would square off on the Philippine issue, he confessed to his brother Charley that he was “right down to almost the last day in the preparation, as is usual with me.” The night before departing for Cambridge, he reviewed the speech with the president and James Garfield. The president anticipated that the address would stand as “a great public document.” Garfield too rated it “a masterly argument,” recording in his diary that he considered Taft “a truly great man.”
William Taft presented his speech to the Harvard Law School alumni at Sanders Theatre, presided over by Chief Justice Melville Fuller and Harvard president Charles W. Eliot. For two hours in the morning, Taft simply but clearly recounted the history of America’s relationship with the Philippines, beginning with the war against Spain and the decision to exert sovereignty over the islands. He argued that American policy promoted “the Philippines for the Filipinos” and would eventually prepare the people to govern themselves. To promise independence before educating the populace, as many Democrats and independents urged, Taft believed would be a mistake.
Olney’s rebuttal openly acknowledged that Taft had rightly earned “the general admiration” of the islanders “by the justice and skillfulness of his rule, and by the tact, patience and humanity of his dealings” with the Filipino people. He insisted, however, that the United States must not “sacrifice American lives and American treasures indefinitely and without stint for the education and elevation of Filipinos.” The Constitution did not authorize the government to “turn itself into a missionary to the benighted tribes” or “to tax the toiling masses of this country for the benefit of motley groups of the brown people of the tropics.” Simply, continued occupation of the Philippines represented a departure from the traditions and interests of the United States.
Despite their opposing views, both speakers remained impeccably civil. “Their
differences,” the Cincinnati Enquirer observed, “were, of course, stated in terms that prevented any exhibition of acrimony. When such men as Taft and Olney meet, the public can expect enlightenment on high ground.” Olney’s presentation was “a good thing,” the Enquirer added, for it allowed “the young men of Harvard to have an opportunity to hear both sides of the question. Otherwise Secretary Taft might have hypnotized them, for they love him.”
Taft was emboldened when his first campaign appearance generated nothing but positive notices. “I fired my gun at Cambridge and was pleasantly disappointed to find how well received it was,” he drolly wrote to Roosevelt.
Will, Nellie, and the children soon departed Cambridge for their summer home on Murray Bay. Having spent the previous two summers in the Philippines, Taft was overjoyed at their return to this “magical place,” where his brothers and their families could readily gather for picnics, trout fishing, and daily rounds of golf. “The air is bracing and delightful,” Taft wrote to Roosevelt at Oyster Bay early in July. “I feel a boyish feeling—I’d like to jump up and down and shout.” Nellie and the children planned to remain in Murray Bay until late September, but campaign and cabinet duties required Will’s return to Washington at the end of July.
The Bully Pulpit: Theodore Roosevelt, William Howard Taft, and the Golden Age of Journalism Page 59