A Secret Life: The Lies and Scandals of President Grover Cleveland

by Charles Lachman

  13

  THE AFFIDAVIT

  IN MID-SEPTEMBER, CLEVELAND told Wilson Bissell, “The scandal business is about wound up. . . . I think the matter was managed in the best possible way.” Cleveland credited the turnaround to a “policy of not cringing.” It was a course of action, he said, which was “not only necessary but the only way.”

  With the worst days of the Halpin crisis behind him, Grover Cleveland was enormously relieved. Sometimes, though, he had to wonder whether his friend Horatio King had gone too far in telling the New York World that Maria Halpin was a harlot and that Oscar Folsom had fathered her illegitimate child. Coming to the realization that King’s vilification of Maria may have been excessive, and could have consequences, “King’s interview made me trouble,” Cleveland admitted to Bissell. The dirty politics, he told Charles Goodyear, was making him feel “very blue,” and sometimes he wished the presidential nomination were “on some other shoulders than mine.”

  Perhaps his political intuition was telling him that he had not heard the last of Maria Halpin.

  A few voices, not many, spoke out in defense of Maria Halpin.

  Judge was an upstart satirical magazine with nationwide circulation; it was modeled on Puck, its chief rival. Judge had been founded in 1881, and one of its contributing cartoonists was the gifted Frank Beard.

  Beard was born “deaf as a post,” as he put it, in Plainville, Ohio. The only way he could hear was through a black rubber tube, which he always wore coiled around his neck. When he wanted to carry on a conversation, Beard would unravel the hose, put one end to his ear, and hand the other end to the person he was speaking with. When Confederate batteries opened fire on Fort Sumter in 1861, triggering the Civil War, Beard was so eager to join the fight, he tried to con his way into the military by memorizing the order of the questions all volunteers were asked. An officer on the recruiting board, suspecting that Beard was deaf, switched things around. Beard had expected the first question to be, What is your name? The examination went like this:

  “How old are you?”

  “Frank Beard.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Eighteen years old.”

  The officer burst out laughing and told Beard to go home, but a captain with the Seventh Ohio Regiment figured that if Beard wanted to sign up that badly, he’d be willing to offer him a uniform, a musket, and a posting as a private—without pay. Beard signed on and served gallantly for the duration of the war. When peace came, he settled in New York, hoping to find work as a sketch artist. It was a struggle. Sometimes, when he couldn’t afford lodging, he had to walk the streets at night. He survived on crackers and cheese for years before he eventually became one of the best-known political cartoonists in America.

  Beard’s most famous work appeared on the cover of Judge’s issue of September 27, 1884. It was an unforgettable cartoon titled “Another Voice for Cleveland.” Depicted was a weeping Maria Halpin holding a baby, who, with his arms outstretched, was hysterically howling, “I want my Pa!” A rotund Grover Cleveland, so shocked that his tophat was flying off, completed the caricature of a politician caught with his pants down.

  Cleveland must have been mortified when he saw the Judge cover.

  Unsurprisingly, Republicans loved it—loved anything that kept the Halpin scandal alive and kicking. “I want my Pa!” became the Republican Party battle cry, and as Cleveland campaign rallies crisscrossed America, they drew GOP hecklers, chanting “Ma, Ma, where’s my Pa?” in a babylike falsetto.

  James G. Blaine made a campaign swing through Western New York, and at a rally in Buffalo, seven thousand enthusiastic supporters turned up. Cleveland’s hometown was now in play, and his staff told him that he had to go to Buffalo and shore up support. He still found it hard to believe that George Ball and so many other Buffalo clergymen had turned on him. The city that had made him great was causing him so much grief. Losing Buffalo would be a crushing blow.

  Preparations for Cleveland’s return to Buffalo got under way, and no one could predict whether it would end in triumph or embarrassment. It was his first outing on the campaign trail since his nomination. As usual, Charles McCune’s Courier went all out, instructing its readers that it was their patriotic duty to give Cleveland a warm welcome.

  “We trust the skies will smile upon our festival . . . and welcome the next president of the United States,” cooed the Courier.

  Cleveland left Albany on the Atlantic Express, with stopovers in Rochester and Syracuse to take on coal and water. It was twilight when the train pulled into the Exchange Street depot in Buffalo. The city Cleveland saw through the window was illuminated by skyrockets and fireworks—and when he stepped off the train, a steady drizzle that turned into a chilling downpour. He climbed into a carriage drawn by eight snow-white horses.

  The procession passed through streets that glowed with candlelight from Chinese paper lanterns that adorned the houses. At the sight of Cleveland’s carriage, cheers rang out from the crowds that gathered along the route. Cleveland’s friend from Albany, Erastus Corning, who was riding in the carriage with the candidate, was pleased with what he saw. “O hell! A man don’t decorate or illuminate his house unless he wants to,” Corning said.

  Four twisting miles later the march ended at the Genesee Hotel where a banner reading Man of Destiny graced the portico. After Cleveland dried off in his three-bedroom suite, he stepped out on the balcony. It was 11:25 p.m. Before him was a crowd of about fifteen thousand—soaking wet, and battling the pelting rainstorm and a bitter October wind off Lake Erie to cheer on their candidate. Above, a smoky haze hovered over the entire city, the consequence of pyrotechnics that had lit up the evening sky and bonfires that had blazed on many street corners. Cleveland, his head uncovered, looked robust; even the Republicans had to admit he seemed in fine vigor. And not one spectator dared sing out, “Ma, Ma, where’s my Pa?”

  “What I have seen and heard tonight has touched me deeply. It tells me that my neighbors are still my friends.” The spectators roared for their favorite son.

  The next morning, Cleveland took a late breakfast in his suite, and local power brokers like Charles McCune came to call. McCune was in high spirits. He thought the outpouring of adoration, and in such adverse weather conditions, was a “balm to the wounds of slander” and heralded the promise of victory in November. That fifteen thousand citizens had stood in a downpour for two hours to hear Cleveland speak also sent a compelling message to the whole country that the presidential candidate was still dearly loved in his hometown. There was more encouraging news on the home front: The Buffalo Times, up until then a reliable organ of the Republican Party, announced that it was endorsing Cleveland for president.

  That evening, Cleveland attended a private dinner held in his honor at the Delaware Avenue mansion of Mrs. Julia Cary. The widow of a Buffalo physician, Mrs. Cary was said to be a “lady of the highest social station and of the most rigid code of social and moral ethics.” The Cleveland organization made sure the word got out that Mrs. Carey would never have invited the candidate to set foot in her home unless he met the highest standards of decency.

  Around 11:00 p.m., Cleveland boarded a private sleeper car to make his way back to Albany. The governor went straight to the office and put in a good day’s work. Overall, he thought the Buffalo campaign swing had been successful “beyond anticipations.” To Wilson Bissell he said, “And now that the Buffalo rumpus is over, I want to tell you how fully I appreciate all that you and Charles (Goodyear) have done to make it a success and how grateful I am to all my friends in Buffalo who had management of the affair.”

  The Rink was the largest indoor arena in Brooklyn, usually used for professional bare-knuckle boxing matches. On the night of October 22, 1884, however, it was the place where a major political rally was being held, at which Henry Ward Beecher was to officially endorse Cleveland.

  On the evening of the rally, sheets of rain descended on Brooklyn. There were also rumors of an outb
reak of diphtheria. No one in his right mind would venture out on a night like this. Beecher must have thought the heavenly powers were conspiring against him. But at 7:00 p.m., when the colossal doors on Clermont Avenue swung open, the Rink quickly filled to capacity—five thousand—with the front rows reserved for Brooklyn’s “best families.” It was testament to how devoted the people of Brooklyn were to the great Beecher. One fellow, shaking off the rain, was overheard to say that nothing could have kept him from hearing Beecher’s speech, even if he’d had to swim there. Every seat was filled—and even the windowsills and the aisles were solidly packed with standing-room-only humanity.

  The event was scheduled for 8:00 p.m., but by seven thirty, everyone who could get in had done so. Waiting in a room off stage, Beecher announced that there was no point in dithering; the speech would begin at once.

  With the instincts of a born showman, Beecher strutted out just as the Twenty-third Regiment Band came to the end of “The Star Spangled Banner.” The preacher’s long silver-grey hair was brushed back behind his ears, and he wore a simple broadcloth suit. His face was still ruddy from a fresh shave.

  “Three cheers for Henry Ward Beecher!” somebody shouted. “Hip! Hip!”

  “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” The Rink shook. Men waved their hats and stomped their feet. Women signaled their support by delicately waving their handkerchiefs or politely applauding with gloved hands. The elderly pounded their canes. They cheered and yelled for ten minutes while Beecher looked on indifferently, a sphinx.

  When the crowd finally quieted down, Beecher said, “I hope you feel better now?”

  Everyone roared with laughter.

  When it got quiet, forty reporters had pens poised to take down every word Beecher said.

  Beecher began by laying down his credentials as a faithful Republican.

  “Before many of you were born, I was rocking the cradle of the Republican Party. I fought its early battles when it was in an apparently hopeless minority. I advocated it, speaking day and night, at the risk of my health and my life itself. When the war broke out, I sent the only boy I had big enough to hold a musket, and greatly grieved was my oldest child, a daughter, that she was not a boy.” The audience guffawed.

  “And yet I am now opposing the party whose cradle I rocked. I am a personal friend of Mr. Blaine.” More laughter “And for more than ten years I have been afraid of the man—the man that needed a congressional committee to investigate whether he was honest or not.

  “Our country needed a sterling, honest man, and Cleveland is the man.” At this point, the cheers were so loud that Beecher scolded the audience. “Don’t occupy so much of my time. Let me go on and I will imagine you are clapping all the time, only let me go on.” They quieted down. Then Beecher came to the Halpin scandal.

  “In all the history of politics, we don’t believe that lies so cruel, so base, so malign have ever been set in motion. The air is murky with stories of Mr. Cleveland’s private life. We find that they are circulated in many cases by rash and credulous clergymen. They could not go to Cleveland with honest inquiry, so they opened their ears to the harlot and the drunkard.”

  Now Beecher came around to his own troubles, to the time nine years before when he had been brought to trial for adultery.

  “I know the bitterness of venomous lies. I will stand against infamous lies that seek to sting to death a man. Men counsel me to ponder lest I stir again my own griefs. No! I will not be prudent. I will imitate the noble example set me by Plymouth Church in the day of my calamity. They stood by me with God-inspired loyalty. It was a heroic deed. I will imitate their example, and as long as I have breath, I will not see a man followed by hounds, serpents, or venomous stinging insects and not, if I believe him innocent, stand with him and for him and against all comers.”

  With that, he was done. He was seventy-one but had delivered his speech with the vigor of a lion.

  “Will there be any more speaking?” somebody wondered.

  “Of course not” came the reply. “Who could follow that speech?”

  The Rink started clearing out.

  Beecher, reported the Brooklyn Eagle, was simply grand. The words tumbled off of his lips like that of a great swordsman. It was the “grandest oration” ever heard in the city—“an oration such as a man is fortunate to hear once in a long lifetime.”

  The speech by Henry Ward Beecher left Maria Halpin confounded. It seemed to her that the great preacher had actually had the temerity to call her a harlot. She had to wonder how Grover Cleveland came to be the injured party. The scandal had somehow been twisted into a badge of honor for Cleveland.

  When she told her uncle James Seacord that she thought it was time to speak out about her relationship with Cleveland, he warned her that if she did, he would kick her out of the house. He was “immovably opposed” to her going public.

  But Maria could not shake off the things Horatio King had said about her in his New York World interview—that she had been intimate with as many as four men besides Cleveland, and that Cleveland had assumed responsibility for Baby Oscar because he was the only unmarried man among her numerous lovers. For Maria, Beecher’s speech was confirmation that the American people had totally bought into these falsehoods. But her honor was at stake, and she may have come to the conclusion that she had nothing left to lose. She sent for Charles Banks, the Westchester lawyer and owner of the New Rochelle Pioneer, and informed him that she was finally ready to confront the scandal head-on. With his assistance, she wrote out an affidavit.

  State of New York, County of Westchester:

  Maria Halpin, being duly sworn, says: I reside at New Rochelle, in the County of Westchester, State aforesaid. I am the person whose name has been published in connection with that of Grover Cleveland as the mother of his son. I have been induced to remain silent while the disgrace and sufferings brought upon me by Grover Cleveland have been discussed and criticized by the public and the press, and I would most gladly remain silent even now but for the duty which I owe to my aged and afflicted father, my children, and my sisters, to whom my troubles were unknown until made public by publication a few months ago. My duty to those relatives and to those friends who knew me before my acquaintance with Grover Cleveland, whose kind assurances of love, and sympathy, and confidence have reached me, compels me to make a public statement and denial of many of the statements which have been made public concerning me and my character and actions while in Buffalo.

  I would gladly avoid further publicity of this terrible misfortune if I could do so without appearing to admit the foul and false statements concerning my character and habits, especially those made by Mr. Horatio C. King and published with the alleged approval of Grover Cleveland himself.

  I deny that there was anything in my actions or against my character at any time or place up to the hour I formed the acquaintance of Grover Cleveland on account of which he or any other person can cast the slightest suspicion over me up to that hour. My life was as pure and spotless as that of any lady in the City of Buffalo—a fact which Grover Cleveland should be man enough and just enough to admit, and I defy him or any of his friends to state a single fact or give a single incident or action of mine to which any one could take exception. I always felt that I had the confidence and esteem of my employers . . . and this I could not maintain if I had been the vile wretch his friends would have the world believe. He sought my acquaintance and obtained an introduction to me from a person in whom I have every confidence, and he paid me very marked attention. His character, so far as I knew, was good, and his intentions I believed were pure and honorable.

  The circumstances under which my ruin was accomplished are too revolting on the part of Grover Cleveland to be made public. I did not see Grover Cleveland for five or six weeks after my ruin, and I was obliged to send for him, he being the proper person to whom I could tell my trouble. I will not at this time detail my subsequent sufferings and the birth of our boy Sept. 14, 1874. But I will say that the
statement published in the Buffalo Telegraph in the main is true. There is not and never was a doubt as to the paternity of our child, and the attempt of Grover Cleveland or his friends to couple the name of Oscar Folsom or any one else with that of the boy, for that purpose, is simply infamous and false.

  The affidavit was sworn to and signed Maria B. Halpin on October 28, 1884. It was notarized by Charles Banks and witnessed by Maria’s son Frederick and two men who worked for Banks.

  Frederick Halpin also submitted his own affidavit:

  Frederick T. Halpin, being duly sworn, says that he is the son of Maria B. Halpin; that about a month or a little more ago he received a telegram from William C. Hudson from Albany, requesting deponent to meet him at the Hoffman House, in the City of New York; that in pursuance of said telegram he met the said William C. Hudson at Room 210 in said Hoffman House, and conversed with him in relation to the affair of Grover Cleveland and my mother; that said Hudson then and there and in my presence prepared a statement which, as the friend of Grover Cleveland and one interested in his election, he requested me to have my mother sign; that said statement so written by said Hudson in my presence, and then and there delivered to me as aforesaid, was delivered by me to my mother at New Rochelle, N. Y., and is annexed to the statement made by my mother, Maria B. Halpin, this day . . . that my mother refused to sign the said paper, giving as her reason that the statements therein contained were not true.

  Maria and Frederick’s affidavits were published to great fanfare in the Republican papers—and completely ignored or dismissed as forgeries in the Democratic publications. After a day of thinking things through, Maria decided that the affidavit did not go far enough. She sent a message to Charles Banks requesting that he come to her house once again. When Banks arrived, he was surprised to see that Maria had written out a supplemental affidavit that gave more chilling details about the night she says Cleveland raped her. It contained perhaps the most graphic accusations ever to be leveled against an American presidential candidate of a major party: