“I am not very pleased with the way Taft’s campaign is being handled,” Roosevelt complained to his son-in-law, Nicholas Longworth, adding, “I do wish that Taft would put more energy and fight into the matter.” Constitutionally incapable of remaining on the sidelines, Roosevelt decided “to put a little vim into the campaign” with a series of public letters. The first of these missives challenged Bryan’s claim that he, rather than Taft, was the president’s “natural successor.” “The true friend of reform,” Roosevelt clarified, “is the man who steadily perseveres in righting wrongs, in warring against abuses, but whose character and training are such that he never promises what he cannot perform . . . and that, while steadily advancing, he never permits himself to be led into foolish excesses.” William Howard Taft “combines all of these qualities to a degree which no other man in our public life since the Civil War has surpassed,” he ardently insisted. “For the last ten years,” he added, “I have been thrown into the closest intimacy with him, and he and I have on every essential point stood in heartiest agreement, shoulder to shoulder.”
Bryan’s further assertion that Roosevelt’s views aligned more closely with the Democratic platform than with the agenda of his own Republican Party prompted a fiery exchange between the two men. “You say that your platform declares in favor of the vigorous enforcement of the law against guilty trust magnates and officials,” Roosevelt noted, “and that the platform upon which Mr. Taft stands makes no such declaration. It was not necessary. That platform approved the policies of this administration.” He pointed out that under Grover Cleveland, the last Democratic president, not a single anti-trust case was instituted—nor was action taken to stop rebates. Deeds, he argued in a further exchange, were far more important than words.
Roosevelt’s fiery declarations put Bryan on the defensive, and spurred the sluggish Republican campaign. Bryan “walked into a trap,” Taft gratefully told Roosevelt, “and that gave you an opportunity, at his instance, to hit him, two or three blows between the eyes.” Throughout the West, Taft added, Bryan’s “claim to be the heir of your policies is now the subject of laughter and ridicule rather than of serious weight.”
Ascribing “the revival in the Republican campaign” to his pugnacious friend, Taft overlooked his own winning impression made at every stop. The “Taft Special,” which carried him to twenty-one states in forty-one days, consisted of four cars: a private car for the nominee and his guests, a dining car, a sleeping car for the newspapermen, and a baggage car. Addressing friendly crowds at each city and town along the whistle-stop tour, Taft “proved to be a good deal more of a speaker than most of those present had counted on hearing.” While he was in no sense “a professional entertainer,” one reporter remarked, his words displayed such openness and were uttered with such conviction that “he strengthened himself in the hearts of his hearers.” Audiences invariably came away persuaded that Taft was “on the level,” that he told “the truth about himself,” and stated his thoughts without equivocation. “That man has a fine face,” one spectator enthused. “I would trust him anywhere.” As the crowds continued to grow, Taft became more confident in his oratory. “I have been in real touch with the people,” he proudly observed. “They have come to see me and hear me in numbers far beyond my anticipation, and what seems of even more importance, they have responded to what I have had to say in a way that I could feel their sympathy.”
“You are making such a success with your speeches,” Nellie wrote from New York where she was busy settling her children into their various schools. For weeks, she had been nettled by gossip that Roosevelt was disappointed by Taft’s inability to generate campaign momentum. Now, these sanguine reports of the whistle-stop tour left her “treading on air.” The president, she informed her husband, had requested a meeting with her: “I can’t imagine what Teddy wants,” she wrote, “but probably only to complain of some thing.” Nellie was mistaken. In fact, the president was growing more confident about Taft’s prospects in the general election. Recognizing that Taft’s speaking tour had invigorated the campaign, he simply wanted to share his enthusiasm with her. Nellie “had a most delightful time,” Will wrote afterward to Roosevelt. “You gave her courage and hope.”
Expressing a similar optimism to Kermit in late October, Roosevelt wrote that the political outlook had “changed materially for the better.” He was now certain, he told his son, that Taft would be elected. To everyone’s relief, the speaking tour had succeeded “tremendously,” an achievement for which Roosevelt did not hesitate to take credit—forgetting that Taft had done yeoman work in both his 1904 and 1906 campaigns. Archie Butt told of his amusement at the president’s skewed recounting of how he transformed Taft from a soporific lecturer into a popular draw: “I told him he simply had to stop saying what he had said in this or that decision,” for at that point people “promptly begin to nod. I told him that he must treat the political audience as one coming, not to see an etching, but a poster. He must, therefore, have streaks of blue, yellow, and red to catch the eye, and eliminate all fine lines and soft colours. I think Mr. Taft thought I was a barbarian and a mountebank at first, but I am pleased to say that he is at last catching the attention of the crowd.”
Such indiscretions invariably filtered into Taft’s camp, fueling resentment at the president’s condescending and potentially damaging self-aggrandizement. Taft’s supporters had long felt that Roosevelt “was keeping himself too much in the limelight,” creating the impression that Taft was incapable “of standing on his own feet.” Always gracious, Taft assured Roosevelt that he did not know who had spread rumors that his people were rankled by the president’s active role. Personally, he had been “very touched” by Roosevelt’s speechmaking advice and “delighted” by everything done to support him.
Nellie joined Taft in Buffalo on the last day of his speaking tour. In western New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, they were met by “monster” crowds brimming with enthusiasm. Reporters noted that Nellie “seemed to enjoy it immensely.” They reached Cincinnati at 8 a.m. on November 3, spending the day at Charley’s home before going to vote in the afternoon. In preparation for receiving the election returns, Charley had converted the veranda into a telegraph room with wires directly connected to the national Republican headquarters in New York, Western Union, the Associated Press, and the United Press.
The extended family and friends gathered in the large drawing room, surrounded by the exquisite art collection Charles and Annie had assembled during their sojourns in Europe. Newspapermen who had traveled with the candidate on the whistle-stop tour joined them. Gus Karger, the Cincinnati Times reporter who had served as Taft’s publicity agent during the campaign, read out the returns. Early reports from Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, and Maryland soon indicated a magnificent victory for William Howard Taft.
The excited candidate paced throughout the evening, “exhibiting the finest specimen of that smile which the campaign had made famous.” At 8:45 p.m., he finally agreed to make a statement: “Just say that everything looks favorable,” he directed modestly. Nellie was more forthcoming, exclaiming, “I was never so happy in my life.” Though Taft’s popular margin was only half the size of Roosevelt’s 1904 victory, he carried twenty-nine of the forty-six states, beating Bryan by over a million and a quarter votes. Later that night, Taft delivered a short speech with his distinctive, self-effacing sincerity: “I pledge myself to use all the energy and ability in me to make the next Administration a worthy successor to that of Theodore Roosevelt,” he said. “I could have no higher aim than that.”
At the White House, Archie Butt reported, Roosevelt “was simply radiant over Taft’s victory, and made no attempt to disguise it,” interpreting the victory as a vindication of his own policies. When the conversation turned to Taft’s struggle to lose weight through golf and horseback riding, the president offered pithy advice: “If I were Taft, I would not attempt to take much exercise. I would content myself with the record I was abl
e to make in the next four years or the next eight and then be content to die.”
Taft addressed his very first letter as president-elect to his friend and mentor Theodore Roosevelt. “My selection and election are chiefly your work,” he told him. “You and my brother Charley made that possible which in all probability would not have occurred otherwise.” In later years, Roosevelt would express resentment at being yoked with Taft’s brother as a joint benefactor, heedless that Charles’s decades of financial support had enabled Will to sustain a career in public service. At that moment, however, Roosevelt responded with unalloyed joy. “You have won a great personal victory as well as a great victory for the party,” the president wrote, “and all those who love you, who admire and believe in you, and are proud of your great and fine qualities, must feel a thrill of exultation.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“A Great Stricken Animal”
First Lady Nellie Taft, posed in formal attire at the White House, ca. 1909.
HENRY ADAMS, SCION OF TWO presidents and an acute student of American political life for nearly seven decades, called William Howard Taft “the best equipped man for the Presidency who had been suggested by either party during his lifetime.” A prominent New Yorker argued that Taft was “the greatest all around man” ever to reach the White House. As Congressman James E. Watson noted, “he had served with great success in every subordinate post he had occupied.”
From his early days as solicitor general to his governor generalship of the Philippines to his tenure as secretary of war, Taft had proved himself reliable, hardworking, and loyal. On those rare occasions when he disagreed with a superior, he kept his dissent private. Nor had he objected when credit for his achievements was extended to others. “The most difficult instrument to play in the orchestra is second fiddle,” a celebrated conductor once noted, yet for nearly two decades, Taft had performed with unfailing mastery.
Whether the skills of this exemplary subordinate were the requisite skills to lead a nation remained the only unanswered question. Ray Baker suggested that sometimes the second fiddler may be a more accomplished musician than the first, “but he could not fill the first fiddler’s place. He has not the audience-sense; he does not know how to handle men; he has not the ability to beat disharmonies into harmonies.” As leadership scholars observe: “Not everyone was meant to be No. 1.”
Within hours of his election triumph, Taft was already anguished that his nature was ill-suited to his new role. He “spoke like a man,” one insider noted, “whose job had got him down even before he tackled it.” In one of his first statements, Taft predicted that his friends and acquaintances would soon “shake their heads and say ‘poor Bill.’ ” Not long afterward, he responded to confident remarks on the prospects of his administration with “a trembling fear” that in four years’ time, he would “be like the man who went into office with a majority and went out with unanimity.”
Yet with each substantial step in his successful career, Taft had overcome similar waves of grave doubt and anxiety. As solicitor general, despite fearing in his first days that the demand for a one-sided argument would prove incompatible with his temperament, he had quickly developed into an effective advocate, winning a large majority of the government’s cases. When initially approached to govern the Philippines, he had protested that he was not the right man for the job. He left that position with an international reputation as a successful administrator. “Sitting on the lid” as acting president during Roosevelt’s two-month vacation, he had deftly defused a number of potentially explosive situations. And painfully aware of his deficiencies as a campaigner, he had nevertheless bested all rivals to win both the Republican nomination and the general election. Through all these challenges Taft had relied on the guidance of a superior; now, for the first time, he was truly on his own.
FACED WITH THE COMPLICATED TASK of shaping a cabinet, Taft sought escape. He traveled first to Hot Springs, Virginia, and then to Augusta, Georgia, where he stayed for six weeks in a comfortable cottage adjacent to the luxury Bon Air Hotel, widely celebrated for its “splendid 18 hole golf course and the handsomest clubhouse in the South.” While Nellie thought the location too remote to accurately gauge the tenor of Washington, Taft insisted on “getting away for a complete rest.” He defiantly proposed to spend his time sleeping and playing golf. Clearly, there was much preparatory work for the presidency, but Taft’s dilatory nature took hold and he refused to consider a single appointment until he was “good and ready.” In the interim, he would do his part “to make golf one of the popular outdoor exercises” in the country.
Each evening, groups of leading citizens vied to entertain the Tafts. A committee in Atlanta decorated the city with flags and bunting in preparation for the president-elect’s appearance at an elaborate “possum and taters” banquet. Newspapers described a specially constructed cage that housed each arriving batch of twenty possums until a hundred were gathered to feed six hundred guests. Featuring vaudeville acts, songs, and the release of doves, the gala evening was ranked the most brilliant event ever held in Atlanta, marking “a social epoch” in the history of the new South. A cartoon of Taft as Billy Possum prompted a toymaker to patent a new stuffed animal. But expectations that Billy Possum would rival the Teddy bear in popularity were swiftly dashed when the stuffed creature, resembling “a gigantic rat,” caused children to cry.
Taft’s sojourn at the Bon Air Hotel provided a happy respite, enabling him to enjoy “the honor without the responsibilities of the office.” For the first time in months, the entire family was together: Robert and Helen arrived from Yale and Bryn Mawr, and the families of Charles and Harry Taft stayed for several weeks, along with Taft’s good friend John Hays Hammond. Splendid weather afforded long hours on the golf links, daylong fishing excursions, and automobile rambles around the countryside. “He is so genial, so companionable, so gentlemanly,” a woman remarked, “that one is apt to forget that he is the President-elect.”
By postponing cabinet decisions, however, Taft inadvertently fueled speculation and rumor. Conventional wisdom suggested that after repeated pledges to support Roosevelt’s policies, the new president would retain most of his predecessor’s cabinet. Taft had even conveyed a message to Roosevelt for his cabinet colleagues: “Tell the boys I have been working with that I want to continue all of them. They are all fine fellows, and they have been mighty good to me. I want all them to stay just as they are.”
In the months that followed, Taft began to recognize the necessity of establishing an independent identity, particularly after the barrage of criticism that accompanied his “humiliating pilgrimage” to Oyster Bay to consult Roosevelt on his acceptance speech. Throughout the campaign, Taft had stressed the very different challenges that would confront his own prospective administration. Roosevelt, Taft repeatedly explained, had launched a successful crusade against the abuses of industry and “aroused the people to demand reform.” Now, Taft said, the time had come to perfect the necessary regulatory machinery and to craft amendments that would ensure proper enforcement. To accomplish these ends, a different sensibility and “different personnel” might be required.
Notwithstanding, the first man invited into Taft’s cabinet was Roosevelt’s trusted secretary of state, Elihu Root. In the cabinet’s premier post, Root would provide the anchor in Roosevelt’s absence. Looking back on his achievement in the Philippines, the president-elect attributed much of his success to the detailed instructions, goals, and framework Root had furnished. “I merely followed the way opened up by Root,” he insisted. Indeed, after his election, Taft went so far as to tell an audience that the administration was topsy-turvy: Root “ought to be Pres.-elect,” he insisted, “and I ought to be a prospective member of his Cabinet. Because I know how to serve under him.” Such sentiments cannot be simply construed as extravagant humility or an odd, self-disparaging humor. Rather, like his chronic procrastination, they connote tentativeness, a want of confidence arising from und
erlying insecurity. Root was sorely tempted to accept Taft’s offer. “I would rather stay here than do anything else,” he told a friend, but “between rheumatism and the climate and the incessant and wearisome pressure of social duties I am satisfied that it would mean a complete breakdown of Mrs. Root’s health.”
With Root out of the running, Taft turned next to another intimate of his predecessor, Henry Cabot Lodge. Though “touched and gratified,” Lodge nonetheless felt that he could be of greater service to the country by remaining in the Senate. After conferring with Roosevelt, Taft finally offered the post to former attorney general Philander Knox, then a Pennsylvania senator. “Knox called on me last night,” Roosevelt informed Taft several days later. “I had a long talk over his accepting the position of Secretary of State and I am confident that he will do so.” Five days later, Knox sent a telegram confirming his acceptance. Taft told Roosevelt he was planning to invite Knox to Augusta, hoping to secure guidance on his remaining choices. There, Knox would be joined by Taft’s campaign chair, Frank Hitchcock, slated to become postmaster general. “Ha ha!” Roosevelt jested. “You are making up your Cabinet. I in a lighthearted way have spent the morning testing the rifles for my African trip. Life has compensations!”
The Bully Pulpit: Theodore Roosevelt, William Howard Taft, and the Golden Age of Journalism Page 80